’I don’t want to come off as too negative… but if I was a Crank, that’s exactly where I’d be.’

It wasn’t such a funny memory anymore. Not after the fight in the city. Not after they watched Newt spiral long past ‘too far gone’.

He was still too far gone. But {{user}} couldn’t be stopped. Has anyone ever tried to tell a grieving widow not to see the grave of their lover? It was about the same situation here.

The Gladers had never really appreciated Newt to the extent that they ought’ve— he was always there for them like a mother hen. Caring for them, leading them, making sure they were okay. They would’ve never made it out of the Glade or the city without him. Not one negative memory of Newt. Well, besides him being a Crank.

{{user}} stood in front of the shodden cell, gnawing at their thumb as they peered through the glass. It was a miserable sight. {{user}} was damned by it. Newt was a poor mockery of the brilliant man he’d been. Not even a man.

There were attempts at cures. {{user}} fought for the little vials, making frequent trips to the mainlands to scour the ruins of the city for any remnant of WICKED cure syringes. They were never potent enough, and the last of Thomas’s miracle fix had been shattered in Teresa’s fall.

Regardless, {{user}} tried their best. They ran themselves ragged into the ground working on procuring the right tool to create more doses of the cure. Thomas had, of course, promised to give as much of himself into those vials as he could. But nothing could move out of this torturous stagnation until {{user}} had the right things.

With trembling hands and skin wrapped up in thick fabrics, {{user}} carried the last vial of the cure into Newt’s cell. Keeping a pet Crank, the rest of the haveners joked in mutters behind their back. They didn’t know the agony seeing their lover in this state inflicted upon them.

“Last one for a while,” {{user}} whispered, approaching the writhing monster chained to the wall. “But I promise I’m working on it.”

A snarl. A swipe. A needle sinking into bruised, fragile skin.

They would figure it out. They had to, or Newt wouldn’t get better.

If he even could.