Before | A Newt Fanfiction

Recording 6. Location - Crank Palace

A/N: This is the last chapter of this fic, hope you guys enjoy it.

The supposedly former mall now called the "Crank Palace" is a shuck hell-hole on earth. The moment inside, the scorched sky is visible above the broken ceiling, rocks and rubbles used as pillows where seemingly dead but sleeping bodies are laid. Fire in rusty barrels used as the only source of light and warmth, torn clothes hung on strings as walls, foul smell as air, and the people—bloody hell, the people are doing no better than this god-forsaken place. The crazed look in their eyes staring back at you when you walk by, the absolute filth over their faces and clothes, their babbles of insanity, random fights and brawls breaking out in every possible place. Is this what the Flare do to the bloody brain? How could the government, WICKED, anyone let this happen to these people? Would I become like that? Maybe in just a night of sleep, the next blink of an eye, or am I long gone already?

The Red Shirts spoke with the immune guards working there. Who, from what I heard, earn an unbelievable amount of money and goods, had taken me to the bowling alley that looks nothing like one. Bodies and blankets scattered across the aisles as if a massacre just happened, and looked like if a fire had burned up the whole place million years ago. Really made me wonder if they—whoever "they" are—just dump any of what's left of the fortunes in this world straight in to the pockets of immune guards instead on using it on things that needed saving.

They settled me with some ratty blankets. Spending my first night here was as close as sleeping in the middle of the woods with packs of hyenas stalking and preying on their next victim, ready to make a jump at you anytime. Every time I turn in my spot, I always catch a pair of crazed eyes on me. But disappearing quickly in to their heap of blankets when I caught them. Or sometimes just keep preying until I avert my own eyes away.

This is no place for humans to live—no matter what bloody condition they are in.

***

I woke up to a big man with long, greasy hair with bunch of other shucked-in-the-head loons staring down at me the next morning. He greeted me and asked questions like my name, where I came, what do I remember, where are my own group of friends, but of all, I could only tell them my name and where I came from. I didn't protest though. I am tired.

The man kept licking his lips hungrily like some wild animal ready for a feast—as for some of the shanks with him did the same as well—after hearing that I belong to WICKED. He said that subjects from WICKED are very valuable, and accused me for lying saying it is impossible for them to dump a perfectly fine boy like me in here. But before he could speak any further, I got up and tackled him to the floor, and I clawed at his face until there were scratch marks carved on the side of his head, face, cheeks. The people around us were making all sorts of noises. They wailed, gasped, and cheered as I clawed and clawed and clawed; the same adrenaline rushed through my body. Then someone peeled me off him, stopping me only when my back crashed to the ground.

He doesn't know anything about me, he doesn't know what we have been through, he doesn't know what I have been through, he doesn't have the bloody right to judge or accuse me for anything. How can he even let those bloody words come out of his filthy mouth?

A guard gained on me and pointed his Launcher, he shouted so loud down at me, everyone around us that were screaming bloody murder halt to silence. He threatened if he sees the same thing happened again even in the mornings, he would shoot anyone who tries to start another brawl again, and not give a buggin' dime if I just arrived or not. My mind and body was once filled with fury again—wanting to fight back—but before I could do anything, multiple guards came in with crates and delivered the canned foods—the food I have been eating now from day to night.