royalty (minewt au)

again

And that was what happened after every time the two of them were on the same floor. They would go out to the same diner and order the same things. The only factor that changed in the routine were their discussion topics.

Since last month, Minho did not make any real advancements which hinted at anything permanent, slightly disappointing Newt. So he distracted himself by drilling more information and song lyrics into his brain. It wasn't working, so Newt was still stuck thinking about Minho.

Tonight, Newt was supposed to have a night off. He was in his room with a blanket draped around him. He was sitting on his bed with his laptop on his legs, and was casually scrolling through his dashboard on tumblr. He was mindlessly eating spoonfuls of peanut butter and liking a piece of fan art from one of his fandoms, when a text popped up on his phone. It was Minho.

Minhoe (Last week, Newt was inputting Minho's name into his contacts and his finger slipped. He didn't bother to correct the name): Sam's out sick tonight. You're working with Kurt on the Cure.

Newt: Okie.

Minhoe: see you there.

Newt checked his phone and saw that he had already missed more than sixty percent of rehearsal time, time that he often used to prepare himself for the crowd. Even after a month, Newt had not completely adapted to their catcalling or sexual comments.

He rushed up and quickly ran into the shower, washed his hair, brushed his teeth, washed his face, and pulled on a pair of jeans, a grey shirt, and a navy jacket, and his pair of Converse, all while warming his voice up.

He grabbed the white suit out of the closet and his black dress shoes, all before running out the door in a worried fashion. It was at that moment that he remembered that Thomas had taken the car for his shift. Newt looked frantically around the floor before recalling that Thomas kept a motorcycle in the parking structure to show off to the guys or girls he brought home so that they would think he was "dangerous" and "sexy" convincing them to sleep with him. Ironically, Thomas didn't know how to drive. Whenever one of his visitors asked Thomas to take them on a joyride, he would just say that the transmission wasn't working, or that there was some other technical problem with the motorcycle,

Last year, so that he could maintain the efficiency of the bike, Newt learned how to ride a motorcycle. He thought that that knowledge would be entirely useless. He thanked God that he was wrong.

Newt climbed onto the bike, folded the garment bag neatly into the basket, placed the shoes on top of it, placed the helmet on top of his head, and then started the bike's engine. He soon rode out of the parking structure and into the main road. Sure, Newt was completely terrified, because he knew that he had a much higher risk of dying on a motorcycle, than on a bike. He navigated through the dimly lit streets. Through his haze of fear, there was a sudden rush of adrenaline flowing through Newt's veins. He found the experience exciting and addicting. Maybe now, he wouldn't have to ride with Thomas to WCKD.

While he was savoring the new sensation he was experiencing, Newt did not notice that he had arrived at the club. Somehow, he was able to arrive at the building within thirty minutes, in only seventy percent of the average time it took him and Thomas to arrive, giving Newt another reason to ride the motorcycle. He parked it across the street, in front of Thomas's car, grabbed the shoes and the suit from the basket, and ran inside. Newt pressed the up button for the elevator, repeatedly. The doors opened, and Newt climbed inside.

During the whole trip up, cheesy elevator music was playing. He had noticed it on the first day working, but didn't really think about it until now, because it was currently giving the elevator an eerie atmosphere. When the elevator dinged to signal his arrival on the Cure, Newt instantly popped out of the elevator. On the Cure, unlike the Scorch and the rest of the floors, the doors instantly opened backstage. Newt instantly ran to put on his suit.

He was stuck in his little bubble, but did not pay attention to his surroundings. When he looked up after tying his tie, Newt noticed that the usual murmuring of people outside was not heard, and that there were no people backstage with him. Yet, through the curtain, he could see the bright white fluorescent lights shining within the room. Newt was slightly paranoid. He ran around backstage, until he found a gun in a cabinet.

He walked out onto the stage out of curiosity with a gun out, pointing it around the room. Then he froze.

There in front of him was a man. He was tall, with skin that looked sickly in the lighting. He had salt and pepper hair that seemed to occur as a result of stress, not old age. Newt could not actually identify the man's age. He had an odd aura of agelessness, but was somewhere between his late forties and his mid-fifties. He was wearing a white suit, much like Newt's. He stood calmly behind one of the chairs of the glass tables.

"Hello, Isaac. My name is A.D. Janson. But you can call me Janson. As you should know, I am the owner of WCKD. Please," he said, in a calm, steady voice, motioning towards the chair in front of him, "take a seat."

The way he said may have been out of courtesy, but it was obvious to Newt, through the tone that was used, that it was a demand.

So Newt out the gun down and did as the man said. Mentally, he knew that that was not what he was going to call "Janson" because internally he was screaming one thing to himself.

RATMAN.

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so, the chapters are going to be a little bit shorter, but i think that will help with the rate of my updates.

so yeah.

i hope you had a nice day.

poor newt is dying on the inside.

:) (for you guys. not newt's internal struggle. that would just be mean.)