Subject A33: The Constant

i hate it i hate it i hate it

            “At least there’s decent bloody water pressure here. If you haven’t tried the showers yet, I highly recommend ‘em. But for now, let’s just not try and imagine somethin’ awful happenin’, yeah? I’m gonna go see if there’s any more pizza left in the common room or if all these fat shanks scarfed it down.”

He hasn’t tried the showers. Nor has he undressed at all, although his clothes are covered with goop from the Grievers. But he’s happy to take the distraction. “Save me a piece? I need to get cleaned up.”

      “Sorry,” he finally said, seeming to soften somewhat. “For actin’ like an unappreciative slinthead. I’m just – not really in the right mindset, ya know? Bein’ locked down in a bloody bed all day does that to ya, I guess.” His stare wandered to his propped ankle as if silently resenting and blaming his new injury for his state of arrest and medical ‘lock down.’

“I know,” he mumbled. “I mean, I figured you’d be upset about it. That’s why I wanted to give you those. So you’d--you know, have something to eat besides whatever soup and whatnot Frypan’s sending.”

        “Thanks,” he said after a pause, eyes flitting down to the offering.

“It’s, um. Your favorite. I mean--not like I watch--I know everyone’s favorite is all.”

                                                 "’S good.“ He says before plucking off                                                  another small bit and repeating the                                                  process. "I don’t think I’ve ever had                                                  snickerdoodle cookies before. All I can                                                  remember, well, what they've let me                                                  remember, is some kind of flat bread                                                  thing all covered in sugar.”

“Like a buñuelo? Or a sopapilla? Was it fried?” He’s so entranced by his thoughts he's lost the nerves that cause his stammer. It’s like he’s talking to himself ra- ther than to someone else.

                                                       "Thanks! What’s todays batch? Sugar?                                                        Chocolate chip?“ he asks before taking                                                        a bite out of the small ball. 

“Sn--snickerdoodle,” he says, breaking off another ball of dough and putting it on the tray. He works quickly now, arranging the cookie dough in three rows on the sheet tray. The oven is hot, so all he needs to do is sprinkle cinnamon sugar over the cookies and slide them in.

                                   Unsurprisingly, Luis has been hanging around the kitchen. He                                    technically knows he’s not supposed to, and that if Frypan catches                                    him, he’ll most likely get into a heap of trouble, but it was kind of                                    hard to stay away. He loved the smell of cooking food and baking                                    goods, and most of the boys who worked in there were pretty good                                    to talk to when he wanted someone to be chatty with. Even if it                                    meant being the only one talking, which happened to be the case                                    here. 

Ronnie makes a noise of agreement and pinches off a ball of cookie dough. He rolls it between his fingers and drops it on the sheet tray. The next one he passes word- lessly to Luis. He knows the kid has a sweet tooth. Ron- nie knows everyone’s personal taste in sweets.

                       ”Good that. Tell Frypan that I said you                        could work in the kitchen tomorrow. If he                        has a probably with it, just come find me.”

He smiled, for real, when Newt said that. "Thanks," he said, before duck- ing his head again.

Well—he had a point there. However, Newt just snorted in response, folding his arms across his torso. “—don’t’ think we should really care w’at the bloody rat says anyways.”           There’s a small pause & Newt finds his          face falling when he failed to smile back.           That really didn’t make him feel much          better. “—we’ll manage, a’right?” his tone          indicated that the discussion was finished          —he wasn’t going to allow another protest.

He nodded, twisting his hands together. He'd managed to keep his apron in the escape, but their "rescuers" had taken it when they gave the boys new clothes. It left him with nothing to fidget with except his own hands. "What--what d'you think the names mean?" he asks, trying to change the subject. "Minho's is easy but yours, or mine..."

"Oh, bloody cinnamon rolls ––––– those are my favorite.” He returned the smile and finished sterilizing the needle. “Listen, I’m going to have to stitch that, which is going to hurt, uh, a little bit, alright?”

"The bloody ones are getting thrown out, don't worry." He nodded, swallowing from nerves when Nico mentioned stitches. "Okay," he said, looking up at the ceiling.

Newt sighed—he wasn’t annoyed, he was just used to the same questions. The other Gladers were asking similar things and Newt really didn’t have an answer for him. “—well, whenever we see ‘em again, you can ask them yourself, a’right?”            He leaned in and nudged the boy gently, a smile            on his lips. “Besides, you wouldn’t want me as            your shuck leader. If I were, we’d never rest.” He            knew that wasn’t true, but he needed him to stop            thinking that he would be a better leader—because            Newt felt like he wouldn’t.

He tried to smile back, but it didn't really stick. "Well, we only have two weeks. Maybe not resting would be a good thing." Although he knew perfectly well that Newt wouldn't even be able to run for two weeks without rest, not with his leg.

                                    “This paper will no doubt be found interesting                                             by those who take an interest in it.”                                                                                        ~John Dalton                                                             Indie TMR OC                                                      Keeper of the Sloppers.                                                        home | about | rules

She shrugs, letting a breath of air out of her cheeks. “Go for it, man. Keep your friends.”

He nods, looking down at his hands, twisting them together. "Okay. Thanks."

     ❝just  c h e c k i n ‘  up on      you.  that a crime?❞

"Oh. No--I'm just surprised is all."