What do I do when I have writer's block for my other stories? Read the Death Cure, of course. What do I do when I still have writer's block for my other stories? Write this. I needed some Newt-angst. It's actually not as good as I hoped it would be, but I couldn't seem to fix it. Title is lame, yet powerful in some way that my mind won't let me say otherwise. I'm happy about how it turned out, just...Gosh, why can't I write? Physics, get out of my brain!

Enjoy. And review. And review. Yeah, I said it twice.

Title: Limp

Summary: 'There is a difference between paying someone a favor and prolonging the end. All he wanted was for it to come quickly. They couldn't have that. No, they could not.' How Newt gained his limp, and how nothing happened the way it was supposed to. Death Cure spoilers.

Fate has a way of favoring some. Newt was not one of them. No, he was not.

It was here. This was the day.

It was time.

Newt gripped his backpack by the strap, his breath staggering. This was it. There was going to be no more of this scientific bullshit, no more of this hell he called life. He was going to go out there, end it all, and no one would be the wiser.

No one would care.

He couldn't take it anymore; he wanted to scream. But there were no sound-proof rooms for him to unleash his frustration, no mothers to hug, no little sisters to be comforted by. He was alone. So utterly, completely, shucking alone. It was decided. He'd scream as he fell. Then he wouldn't be complete Griever fodder, but they might believe one strayed out during the day and got him. He wouldn't mind that. Better be remembered as some courageous shuck than some wimp who tried to off himself. Newt took a hasty swig from his water bottle, laughing darkly and sickly as he realized that the klunk he took the night before was going to be his last.

The mindset of the suicidal was a mysterious place.

Newt opened the door to his room in the Homestead, his breath nervous and ragged. He fingered his dagger and walked along the dirt floor, careful not to scuff his shoes. No one was up yet; far too early. It wasn't even dawn yet. In fact, the sun hadn't even risen. He'd go and grab something to eat, pack his bag, and then by the time the gates opened he'd be gone. And they wouldn't find him for hours after, until he was dead and gone.

It was time to end this crap. All of it, the Glade, the Maze; it was driving him insane. He'd decided that he'd rather die than see one more Griever, one more Greenie come up in the Box to this hell. It wasn't worth it. It just wasn't worth it.

Newt choked back a sob, something he'd been doing a lot recently, and exited the Homestead, making his way to the kitchens. Frypan wasn't even up yet, and that in itself was unusual. The guy woke up an hour before they ate breakfast and went to sleep five minutes after they ate dinner. Newt walked casually into the kitchen, grabbing an apple and stuffing it into his mouth, chewing noisily and without any care. He made himself three of his favorite sandwiches and put them in his pack. Then he went to Frypan's secret drawer and pulled out one of their only delicacies, used usually only after someone died; a candy bar. Newt broke off half of it and put that in his pack as well. Shuck it, if this was his last day living, he was going to eat some damn chocolate.

Next he made his way toward the Map room. The speck of orange that suggested dawn was beginning to appear, which told him that he had to hurry. People were going to be getting up soon, and more importantly, the gates would open any minute. He climbed the stairs and opened the door, sighing as he made his way over to the table. He grabbed a note pad and a pencil before setting them both down again, his hands trembling.

"What're you doing?"

Newt jumped at least three feet in the air in shock before fumbling for his knife. He whirled around and then calmed a bit when he saw Minho standing in the doorway, his thin frame leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed and eyebrows raised. Newt's hands still trembled, and Minho raised his hands in mock surrender, sauntering into the room.

"N-Nothing." Newt stammered, and then cursed himself in his head. "W-What are you doing?"

Minho smirked, walking farther into the Map room. He flung his pack to the ground and twirled a pencil in his fingers. "Nothing," he mocked, and then stopped. "You're up early, man."

"So are you."

Minho scoffed. "Couldn't sleep. Ever since Neil-"

"I get it." Newt cut him off stiffly. Another one gone to the godforsaken place; torn apart by the Grievers. It wasn't fair. He was a good kid...It just wasn't fair.

"Sorry, dude." Minho took a step back. He swept up his pack again, grabbing a knife off of the counter. "Didn't know you were sensitive about Neil."

"Everybody's sensitive about Neil." Newt growled.

Minho looked at him pointedly. "What're you doing here, Newt?"

Newt set his jaw and sighed. "I wanted an early start. Got a problem?"

"Nah, nah." Minho shrugged, leaning up against the wall. "I've had to run it out before. Go ahead."

"Good that." Newt sent Minho a sideways glance as he left the room, breathing deeply through his nose. He had to get out of the Glade. It was suffocating him. It was all suffocating him. He had to end it.

"Oh, hey, Newt!" Minho called after him. Newt stopped and let out another strangled breath. "Alby's looking for you. Said he something to say."

"Yeah, well, I'll be in the Maze." He bit back his scream. "If he wants to come find me, he can."

As soon as he went outside he knew the gates were opening; the noise was enough. Newt walked briskly toward the west gate and slipped through immediately, taking off into a crazed sprint as soon as he was inside the Maze. This time, he didn't take track of his turns, how many dead ends there were, whether there was a brand on the wall or not. He just ran. It was almost...nice.

Newt laughed at the thought. It was hollow.

He stopped as he ran into a dead end, looking hatefully up at the stretching wall. He dropped his pack, panting, and then forced himself to calm down. He sat and took out his food, at first stuffing his face, and then taking it in more slowly. It was delicious. Newt was glad for that; his last meal had better be good. He saved the chocolate for last, savoring each small bite and sighing at the end.

Then he stood, and began to climb.

The ivy was rougher than he first thought, but it didn't matter. Newt wasn't about to let some plant stop him, albeit the plant was as evil as the rest of the shucking place. Before he even processed it completely he was almost halfway up the wall he loathed so much. The anger had built steadily with every yard he climbed. It was almost intolerable. Newt stole a horrible glance down and decided he was high enough.

It was time. This was it. Newt tried to console himself like he had the whole sleepless night before. The pain would be quick, much kinder than the terrible ache his life was now. The end would be kind, it would all end. Finally, it would end.

This was it.

"You won, okay?" Newt cried out loud, squeezing his eyes shut tight. "You shucks, W.I.C.K.E.D., whoever the hell you are, you've bloody won! I can't take it anymore!" His voice reduced to a whisper. "Goodbye, Alby. Bye, Minho. Everyone. I'm sorry. I'm done."

Newt gulped once and then let go of the ivy he had had a death-grip on. His scream rose in volume as he let out all the feeling in his body, overcome by the falling feeling. It was finally here.

Then it went to hell.

Newt's shoe caught a vine as he fell, and suddenly the boy found himself flipping. Before he could right himself pain exploded throughout his entire calf and thigh, spreading like fire throughout his whole body. His knee hit the stone first, and then Newt's head slammed into the ground, sending shocks throughout his whole body. For a while he just laid there, neither conscious nor unconscious. Then suddenly the pain skyrocketed through him like a bullet, leaving the boy trembling and sweating on the ground. His screams were of pain now. His head felt like klunk, and his leg was on fire. It was being burned off. That had to be it. That was what was happening. It had to be.

The whole of the situation suddenly overtook Newt, and he began to sob, letting the choked cries wheeze out of his body pathetically as he shuddered and writhed. It hadn't worked. It hadn't ended. He was still alive.

"No," Newt sobbed, and then let the word be shrieked furiously, his body completely immobile. "NO!"

It was their fault. Newt pounded absentmindedly on the stone, tears streaming down his face with no attempt to stop them. Those W.I.C.K.E.D. shuck-faces had done this to him. They sent his life he knew nothing about to hell, made him resent himself and hate everything so that he would go and do this, and then not serve him mercy, instead condemning him to life.

It just wasn't fair.

"Why?" Newt wept, trying to move but then stopping as agony flashed through both his head and his leg. "Why?"

His blurred vision led his eyes to his pack, which was lying a good fifteen feet away. Beside it was his dagger. He had to end this. He had wanted it done quickly, but now any way was better than no way. Newt screamed as he began to crawl, but he did not stop. It had to end. Had to end. Had to end now. He collapsed ten feet away from the dagger, wheezing and shaking.

Time ceased to have meaning after that.

Newt had no idea how long it was before a strong hand touched his shoulder, and there was a sharp intake of breath. All he knew was the pain that came when the hand rolled him over, and the pounding in his head that reverberated throughout his whole body when fingers pressed under his neck. It hurt so badly. All Newt ever wanted was for the pain to go away.

"Newt, man." A deep voice met his throbbing eardrums. "Newt, are you awake? Oh, man..."

Newt fluttered his eyes and then cracked them open painfully, wincing at the burning in his leg. The sky above was a nice blue, morphing into a slight orange of sunset. Newt darted his eyes around before they rested on the boy above him.

"Alby." The word came out more like a garble, but Alby seemed to take it as a sign of success.

"That's right, shuck-face." He replied gruffly, and then got behind Newt, taking his shoulders and lifting them, along with his torso, up into the air. Newt cried out at the pain in his leg, but Alby shushed him.

"Don't want to go luring the Grievers out before dark, dude." Alby warned him. "Though I don't see how you didn't already, with all your screaming. Took me forever to find you, though, you shuck."

"No," Newt swallowed thickly, tasting blood. "It was the Griever-"

"Shut up, Newt." Alby snapped, and continued to drag him along. Newt winced with every bump, and with every word. "Don't even try to sell me that klunk. I know very well what the hell you tried to pull, Newt, and I'd kill you myself if you weren't nearly there already."

"I don't," Newt stuttered, dread filling him. "I don't know what you're-"

"You tried to off yourself, didn't you, you jerk?" Alby's voice was grave. They were moving quickly, and even in his haze of pain Newt knew that they were coming close to the Glade, close to the place he loathed. "You climbed that wall and jumped off, but you broke your shucking leg to pieces instead. I can tell." He paused. "The blood spot."

Newt fell silent, wanting to erupt in another torrent of tears. All he wanted was for it to end, and they sent it back at him full-force. Alby took his silence as a sign that he was right, and continued to drag his injured friend through the Maze. Newt clocked out a bit, the pain almost becoming too much for him to endure.

"I'm sorry." Newt rasped, his bottom lip trembling. Alby grunted, called for Clint outside the Glade.

"Because 'sorry' makes up for it all, doesn't it?" Alby scoffed. "How could you do that, Newt? Couldn't you have wrapped your shuck mind around the fact that this place needs you for one minute? If you left, everything would fall apart." Now his voice softened. "I just don't know how you could be so selfish."

Tears were welling up in Newt's eyes, but he didn't let them fall. His foot hit a rock and he cried out in pain, leaving Alby to yell for help. Two figures ran forward, and Newt's breathing began to grow irregular, using all his energy not to scream at the top of his lungs.

"What the..." Minho came running up with an urgent gait. Alby did not slow. Clint, the Med-jack, was running toward them, much slower than Minho. "Newt, jeez...What the hell happened?"

Alby paused for a minute, his voice catching. "Griever." He said seriously, clenching his jaw. "A Griever got him."

Newt would have been shell-shocked if he didn't feel some sort of darkness wrapping around his body menacingly. The bumps of the ground were beginning to hurt less, the pounding in his head growing louder. It made him want to take a nap, as if he could ever do that. His eyes fluttered closed, and Alby sighed.

"Does he need the serum?"

"No." Alby replied gruffly. "He had a dagger. Scared it away, I guess. It got his leg."

"Holy..." Clint swore, and Newt felt himself being lifted up, his lanky body held awkwardly before eventually being placed gently onto a bed. It was hard and stiff. He didn't want to feel the bed. He wanted to feel nothing. It would not come. "Alby, take this. He's gonna pass out, but I need you and Minho to hold 'im down. Fixing this isn't gonna be easy."

"Hear that, shuck-face?" Alby growled, and Newt knew he was talking to him, though he couldn't bother to open his eyes. "We're not making this easy for you."

Damn.

"Sorry, Newt." Clint muttered. "This is gonna hurt."

You only had to look once to know that Newt would never Run again, let alone leave the Glade. It would take years for him to even have a chance at running at a normal pace, to keep up with anyone. Of course, that's the only thing Newt could have desired. If he couldn't die, he just didn't want to be left behind. He wanted to tell Alby this, to tell him that he really was sorry, that he should have known that he couldn't die on his own terms. He couldn't find the words, couldn't open his mouth to say them. It was done. He whimpered as he lost grips again, sinking into something he longed to have; nothingness.

Fate has a way of favoring some and punishing others. People can only guess why that is. Yet in a monitored, man-made world, there comes the question of whether fate truly exists. Perhaps there is just evil, there to conquer the good? There is a difference between paying someone a favor and prolonging the end. All he wanted was for it to come quickly, but they couldn't have that. No, they could not. When there is a way for one to weasel out of his responsibility, the only solution is to trap him. They've done nothing horrible to him, they believe. In truth, though, there is nothing worse that could have been done. They've tethered him to a world he never wanted to be a part of, tied him to his future where he was to die a horrible death. They've left him behind.

For as the runners come into the new world, it is the one with the limp that falls.