Now Thomas, Minho, Frypan, Gally and Newt had arrived at safe haven, the beach separating survivors from the flare, cranks and WICKED—Newt had never been so happy to live. He was still struggling on his past, in inner turmoil of jumping off a wall only to snap his leg rather than die. He kept scars and battle wounds from WICKED, but was still the same loveable British boy he always could be.

Newt sat on a makeshift beach chair as he watched Thomas, Minho, Gally and Frypan splash about in the ocean water while he watched with a sore leg. A leg that would never heal. He sighed, running a hand through his messy dirty blonde hair as he mumbled. “who would ever love a guy with a limp?” “Why did it have to be me?” “Why did I do this to myself?” He only got more disappointed with him self in the minute. Until- a drunken boy wobbled over to him.

Newt almost jumped out of his chair as a drunken boy fell onto him, his head resting in Newts lap, his body slumped over Newts legs onto the floor. Newt watched, about to scream at the shank and tell him to get off before he noticed how attractive this guy was.

maybe the universe was paying him a favour for once?