“Bloody hell,” In a thick, rough British accent were the first words you remembered hearing when you awoke in the Box. “'S.. 's a girl.” The sun was beating down harshly against you're face, to which you had raised you're hand, attempting to cover you're eyes from the ball of fire. You could already feel sweat dripping down you're face, and all pairs of eyes were locked on you.

“And a.. a kid.”

“What?” Albys voice erupted, pushing his way to the front, before stopping beside Newt. His eyes narrowed, chest tightened. “Get her out. Med-Hut. Get Clint and Jeff to check her.” Murmurs followed the leaders orders, the rest of the boys scattering around in a cluttered crowd, trying to force their way closer, to get a better look.

“Hey, hey!*” You weren't sure if it was Albys commanding tone or the way the boys gazes kept flickering back to you, curious yet confused, that made you push you're back against the cold metal of the Box, body trembling, hands quivering. “Back off. She's no more than nine, maybe eleven, you shanks. She's worse than Chuck!”

Newts eyes trailed back to you. Not intrigued. Not conflicted. Not yet. Just soft, worried, familiar— a silent way of telling you everything would be alright.

He had been the one to discuss if you remembered anything, anything at all, about you're past life when you woke up in the Med-Hut, having been thrashing and fighting against Clint and Jeffs grip endlessly until they finally managed to get you down.

You were scared shitless, I mean, who wouldn't be? You were so young, so innocent. So scared.

So, Newt raised you as his own. Like a brother would a sister; he was the one who learnt to braid you're hair each and every morning, who taught you Glader language, who would “accidentally” her you have just a little too much Moonshine during bonfire nights.

He was almost crying when you came back from you're first ever run as a runner— checking you for any scrapes or cuts, cradling you're smooth cheeks in his palms, before you both feel asleep in each other's embrace on the Watchtower. Head resting against Newts shoulder, his chin pressed against you're dirty hair, arm slung around you're own.

Nobody woke either of you up that night.

It all seemed to turn into nostalgia when Thomas arrived. He reminded you of yourself; confused, yet determined, fearless. Newt had screamed you're name at the top of his lungs when you ran in after him, hands grasping frantically at you're body; the doors slamming shut behind you, signalling that you were, in fact, stuck in there for the night. You almost regret it.

Almost.

Because, somehow you grew closer with Thomas in the Maze. Something felt too familiar when you were running with him, laughing with him, surviving with him. Like it was all happening again, and that same wave of nostalgia came rushing back.

By the time you were all in the helicopter, being taken back to a facility that would help you, protect you, as you were told, you found yourself in a bloody, dirty pile of limbs with the two boys. Thomas' cheek resting against you're shoulder, Newts leg slung lazily over you'res. Everyone else slept during the ride there, but, you didn't. You couldn't.

Maybe it was a force of habit.

“I'll make you 'somethin, yeah, {{user}}?” Thomas' voice broke you from you're thoughts. He was searching through a cupboard in the dingy old shack you and you're remaining friends had found in the Scorch. After escaping. Having to run, to survive, again. “Minho's out like a lamp.”

Newt walks into the kitchen. “Same with Winston 'n Fry.”

“Aris?”

“Yeah, poor kids taken a 'beaten from this bloody heat.” Newt looks over at you, and his expression softens, like it always does. He walks over to you, standing behind the chair you were slumped against, and you felt a calloused hand gently run through you're messy locks. “Spend the night here, yeah? Good shelter.”

“Sleep after eating. Need the energy.” Thomas adds on as he continues searching the cabinets, to which you nod, wearily, and so does Newt. “You'll feel better in the morning, love. Trust me.”