Aphonic {TMR;Newt}

[16%]

For someone at first who had a quiet introduction of a few words, Thomas had an overwhelming presence of curiosity and avidity about him. It wasn't difficult to catch a sight of him throughout the day since his pure demeanor vaunted as he walked. It messed up my mind on how a singular boy would have such a boasting of self. It got me wondering who this boy was and why he stuck out like a sore thumb about the rest.

I guess, in the current case, it was just because he was the new arrival. Everyone's attention and conversations drifted about him and his stunt of a 'graceful' face plant for his introduction. Some tried to talk to him, but he wasn't much of a talker unless it was questioning; oh how many of those questions were for me.

"What's out there?"

"How long have you lived here?"

"So how come you're the only girl in this place?" Was the most asked, common and re-phrased slogan.

I started to think since I was the only girl here he thought I would be easier to pump out answers. Then again, I was the only one going easy on him in the first place. A Glade full of teenage guys can be a little harsh on newbies I will admit to that. But my patience with the poor boy was thinning, and the irritated thought on how he slipped past Newt or Alby's eyes ticked in the back of my head. I know for a fact it wasn't my job to watch over him.

"How come the guys here don-"

I slammed my journal onto the hard surface of a barrel top, slipping out my pencil from my back pocket to fiercely scribble down my answer. One simple, unsatisfactory, not expecting answer.

"Will you just please shut up and carry this." I ripped it the paper from the book, only under the circumstance I made sure to write this on the last page. I pushed the sheet into his chest, him fumbling to grab it.

"S-Sorry...I um...." He cleared his throat, clearly now embarrassed from the realization of his bantering. "Carry- Carry what?"

I pointed to the barrel I had just written on. A rusty, cyan blue barrel the size of a stout tree stump that came from this haul of supplies. I was asked to roll it over to Fry's kitchen for his use, but I figure since Thomas has the time to burble out questions to make my head hurt, he can lift it over there. It'll give this kid something to do.

I don't think he had much of a choice to reject. So he obeyed, bending down to his knees and heaving the barrel up into his chest. After an awkward moment of him getting a firm grip, he waited for my orders. I whipped a finger along with me as I headed towards Fry's kitchen. Thomas, a little cautious now, hesitated on asking questions.

I motioned him to set it down outside the entrance to the cook's easy access. Like a begging puppy, his eyes lingered on my face to silently plead. Sighing grievously, I nodded my head to now allow him to ask questions. He was easy to pounce on the opportunity.

"How long have you lived here?" He sprung, following after me as I decided to occupy an empty lunch table. He was patient as I wrote down my answer. I thought he went over this with Newt last night at the bonfires. Why is he even asking?

"I've only been here a month," I wrote. "The boys have lived here for three years."

"Don't you find it strange that they haven't found anything at all?" I guess Newt had already told him most of the firstlings power points of Glade 101. I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't necessarily have an opinion on that matter.

"I trust Minho and the other runners." Was my answer.

"I still can't believe that..." He spoke gravely, his yearning locked onto the open doors. I watched him curiously, amazed at how much his brain power ran on it. I couldn't tell if it was stupidity or something we lackluster.