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.*･｡. FLARES! .*･｡.
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005.
REMEMBER ME,
REMEMBER ME NOT.

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    "Not bad for a greenie, huh?"

Greenie was right.

It wasn't bad for a greenie, at all. He was doing better than they had expected him to. Most greenies lasted three seconds, and this kid looked like a stick compared to their Gally. The scene was like David and Goliath — somehow, using his smarts, greenie was the one prevailing. He was defying the odds, against him.

She didn't get to watch the whole fight.

   Kennedy felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to face who that tapper was, finding Alby stood behind her. He had a knowing grin on his lips, and she wondered how much moonshine he'd digested.

"Ya ready, she-bean?"

For a moment, she was confused, too swept up in the fight for it to make sense. But then a chill ran through her body, from the top of her head and right down to her toes, and then back again in the opposite direction. She grinned, widely. Kennedy nodded in sheer delight, and bit down on her bottom lip. Now that she knew what it was he was talking about, she forgot about the fight completely. He watched her excitement build physically, heart going soft. Alby did have a soft spot for Kennedy — most of them did, really. How was it possible, to not?

Alby's words echoed in her head; ya ready, she-bean?

She was born ready, for this moment.

She was excited, but also anxious for how it would all turn out. What if it went wrong? What would the girl do, then— other than drown in disappointment, that is. She had been planning this day for months.

Sleepless nights, endless days.

Her genius idea had faced more than a couple of challenges to start out with, what with the boys worrying about anything and everything that could potentially go wrong; how it would work, if it would work. Although Kennedy was determined to see it through, they still were concerned about it. It sounded crazy. But, with a lot of begging, Alby eventually swayed and saw the excellence within her plan — a pretty face, she had, but an even smarter was within that head of hers. Alby had his doubts about the project, but deep down, he had always loved when Kennedy proved him wrong. And she did so, rather often. More than he was happy to admit. They'd always be moments that he to kept to his chest, a secret for himself and Kennedy, and the rest of the glade would never know that the girl was his favourite other than Newt. Well, they wouldn't know — had they not already known.

    "It's go time, she-bean."

    "It is?"

    "Yeah, are you—"

   Not even waiting for him to finish, Kennedy span around as she rushed her way towards the kitchens, giving Minho a very rushed farewell. Her frame slipped between the crowd of gladers who sat lr stood watching the fight proceed, pushing past the boys stood in her way, ignoring their eye rolls. In her ventures she passed Chuck, and the boy was already sporting his dashing grin; like he knew her excitement revolved around what was was starting.

    "Ken!"

    "C'mon, Chuckie!" She hollered.

"Is it happening?" He yelled over the noise, his fist clutching the material of her shirt as they weaved in and out of the masses of teenagers. "Oh, my klunk— it's happening, isn't it? It's happening!"

   No response. Kennedy just kept on moving.

   Finally reaching the emptier patch of glade, situated behind the kitchens, Kennedy and Chuck found Frypan. The latter stood with an eager grin. He had been one of her biggest supporters, right on the first day she had pitched the idea, and she had gotten her good friend involved with the project as much as possible. Fry wanted an opportunity see it succeed.

He looked at her, "Ya know— it might just work, she-bean."

"That's the plan, Fry."

   Kennedy glanced over each and every contraption that laid on the grass before them, inspecting them with scrutinising eyes. The builders had done a fantastic job, she had to admit — they looked almost exactly how she had pictured.

   Every catapult sat neatly, a flaming torch in their holders. It had been a long process: physically making the idea come to life hadn't been a walk in the park. It had been in her mind shortly after that day she arrived in the glade. When she finally got her idea into the head of Newt, he helped her persuade Alby, and the builders were next to accept. And, they spent months of their time modelling and re-modelling, designing, creating a thousand devices until they had found the perfect one for what they wanted. Kennedy hadn't made it an easier task, seeing as she judged each testing; making changes and alterations; until they got to a result that they had struggled an awful lot to achieve. Every time they tested a prototype, corrections were made, mostly according to height and distance. They had to get high enough that it would make it's way into the sky, and it had to be able to make it out of the glade — without crashing down, and engulfing everything they had made in flames.

   Setting fire to the place certainly wouldn't please Alby.

   It came to her, in a dream.

   A memory.

   She had seen these bright lights, fireworks, and she pondered the chances of recreating something like that. Someone had to see the lights, right?

   Like a flare.

   Convincing them had taken over a year, and the past year and a half had been filled with dedication and hard work — and, lots of determination. Blood, sweat and tears had gone into this project, and that was all about to pay off. Kennedy couldn't quite believe that it was happening, still. Even if it was real life and sat right in front of her. The boys always asked how she had even come up with such a crazy idea, and where it had come from.

   Kennedy didn't know. It could have been a memory, or just one of those dreams that could never be answered. Regardless, she just wanted to get them out of the four walls they were trapped in. She wanted her boys to be happy, to be safe. This was their only chance of getting out, of alerting someone of the bunch of kids trapped in the maze walls. Even if they were comfortable, even if they spent a long time making this their home; deep down, they all knew that it wasn't where they belonged. Not really. Someone needed to know; someone needed to see they were there, and then maybe they would find some help. Maybe then, they could all go home.

    "Is it ready?"

    "Good to go," Frypan nodded.

    "Wow," Kennedy sucked in a breath.

"It'll work," he reassured.

"I hope so..." she smiled softly, "I really hope so, Siggy."

"Well, then— what are we waiting for?" He clapped his hands and grinned. He laughed merrily, "Let's get the lil' babies, flyin'!"

    "Yeah!"

    "Greenie!"

    "Welcome home!"

    "Whoo!"

   Cheers in the distance, boyish yells filling the night sky, had the trio turning back to the pit across the green. Each kid chanted and hollered, hovering around a boy with a mop of brown hair, and an awful and quickly growing headache. Gladers poured into the pit in large quantities, slapping palms on palms back and handing him a mason jar of drink. It was obvious they were celebrating, and Alby gave away why — he rarely smiled that big, Kennedy had been in the glade long enough to know he only smiled like that, once every month. It was the smile he had given everyone, including her, their first few days in the glade. She remembered it well, when the name Kennedy spilled past her lips within the first ten minutes— Alby was surprised with her speed, but had smiled nonetheless. She liked the smile; he looked better, like that.

   Greenie finally remembered his name?

   What was it?

"Chuckie, head to the boys!" Kennedy instructed, brushing the desire to know his name off, as she shoved the sleeves of her plaid shirt to her elbows. "Go tell Alby and Newt that we're gonna start, yeah?" Chuck nodded, "Good that, my lil' greenie."

   Kennedy assumed he was too excited to moan about the names she still called him. He rushed off promptly, giving her a salute on his way. While the young shank did as instructed, she grinned wide at the slightly older boy whom stood before her. Fry returned it, an astoundingly similar expression upon his face, and wiggled both of his shoulders playfully.

"Wanna give 'em more to cheer about, Fry?"

Frypan grinned.

    "Ya read my mind!"

————

Woah.

He nearly stumbled, but waved his arms to keep steady. Now on his fifth drink, the greenie was most definitely merry. Greenie— not his name, anymore. He thought about his name, his real name, the one he remembered, mulling it over in his mind and spelling it out orthographically, and phonetically, and anyway it sounded.

THOMAS

T H O M A S

TOM—AS

   His name was Thomas, he knew that now — and, that shank was freakin' buzzed about it! Who would have known that remembering your name could be the best day, of your life?

Maybe no one understood.

No one in the world knew that feeling, no one. Not other than the gladers around him, who had felt it exactly as profoundly, as he did.

It was a feeling like no other, and one he wouldn't forget.

How could he?

Thomas felt fantastic. It was a buzz that warmed his from head to toe, and burst little firework-like shivers over his skin. Recalling his name was much like a drug, Thomas! Thomas! Thomas! Knowing it was so addicting, and he craved to hear everyone say it, just so the boy could respond to something that wasn't greenie— something so him, that belonged to him, that made him him. He had a name; his name was Thomas, and that was who he was. It was satisfying. The fact he knew his name had made his day, perhaps his year, and that was a reason to celebrate.

   He tipped back another drink that elicited cheers from the boys around him. It made hime smile, widely and tiredly, and he wiped the sweat from his brow. Thomas was starting to understand all of the fun in these bonfires they threw, as well as the hype around the drink Gally made. It tasted terrible, but the effects were good. The drink made him feel great; invincible, almost.

Woah.

   He felt his body hum.

It was a warm tingle, despite the cold night air tickling away at his limbs, and Thomas vaguely wondered what it was that actually lurked around in Gally's secret recipe. Perhaps the liquid was making him quite so warm, or the heat from the blazing fire — half-lidded eyes peered into the jar, brows furrowed as he inspected the murky, yellow liquid. It was on the thicker side of life, and had a very off-putting colour, yet no one else seemed to mind. The smell was just as pungent as the taste, sour to his tongue on initial sip, but he had stopped noticing it after around two cups in; only his vibrating skin remained, and the sheen on his forehead. The more he drank it, the less he tasted, and thus the more he liked it. It was weird. Thomas wasn't even sure where he had gotten another drink from; this had been empty, hadn't it? Or, had it? Thomas didn't know. Perhaps the boy was hallucinating. It definitely seemed that way.

In fact, the boy from the box knew he was at the troubling point of hallucinations, when he looked up and saw the fire in the skies.

Woah.

"Hell yeah!"

"Go, she-bean!"

"Yeah!"

"Awesome!"

"I'll drink to that one!"

"Me too!"

   As the crowd of boys cheered around him, once more, yelling a symphony of praises that merged together, Thomas couldn't quite resist throwing his free arm into the air, too.

He wasn't sure why. He didn't know what they were shouting at, either. It was hard to tell above the fire pit's crackle, and the blood rushing to his ears, and the smell of alcohol. Each of those gladers hollered. Again, and again. They were celebrating something that was more than the new greenie, now. Something he yearned to be apart of. They were yelling a name, one name in particular, and the same name each time. It was a name blended in a fifty-toned type of symphony, and loud voices, a sporadic range of volumes; and it rung as one, big slur in Thomas' ears. What was it? Who were they cheering for? It certainly wasn't for himself, anymore. Thomas had no idea, now.

   Thomas failed to decipher their cheers, completely. He blinked and rang his ears out with his finger, but it made little difference to his hearing. He wanted to hear what they were saying, to get it, but he proved too distracted by the fire he had seen in the sky. Perhaps he wasn't hallucinating; that fire looked incredibly real.

   Wait— he paused, it was real.

Woah.

   Entranced, Thomas continued to watch the orange blaze travel through the air. Each stream lit the night sky and dissipated, sparse time before the next one followed in suit and topped it's ferocity. It was mesmerising — it looked as if it had set the stars on fire, as the constellations seemed to shine brighter now than they had done an hour before. Thomas saw them glowing.

"She did it..." Newt muttered, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

   Unlike the rest, he wasn't shouting. Thomas had quickly learned that Newt was the calmer and more rational type, not one to often show much excitement, even in fantastic events. Yet, somehow, the boys couldn't quite hide the grin on his lips. It showed all his teeth.

    "Newt—?"

   Said boy looked up, barking a laugh at the state of a stumbling Thomas coming towards him.

    "You look like klunk!"

"I do...?"

"Yeah—" he told the newbie, "Had a bit much?"

    "It's good..." Thomas mumbled, turning back to look in his jar, which was suddenly empty again. What kinda magic—? He let out a hum under his breath, "Is there any more?"

"You've had enough," Newt smiled.

"No!"

"Yeah!

"No! I haven't had enough—"

    "You've had more than enough, shank."

"I have?"

"You have."

   Thomas pouted his bottom lip, the pink pillow jutting out with his chin. What even qualified as enough? He was ready to go and complain again, but his argument faltered when he looked up and saw the fire in the sky, again. He blinked to see if clearing his eyes would make it go away. They were pretty, but they were distracting too — he was trying to talk to Newt, after all. If they could let him speak and stop stealing his attention, it would have been much help to him. He grumbled, lowly.

    "Wh— what are those lights?" His were messy,. Thomas was a easily confused, shank. Curious, too. "Why is everyone cheer—?"

"Thomas?"

"Hm...?"

"Alrighty, mate." He supported his form, "Here,"

Newt glanced him over, up and down. It was easy to tell that he was close to passing out; what, with that way his lean body swayed slightly, as though he were stood on his toes. And, as amusing as it was to watch, and as unlikely as it was for Thomas to remember if he'd had this conversation come morning, Newt knew he deserved to know what was happening. Thomas hadn't been around, when the plan had finally been condoned and put into motion— not like Chuck had been. Poor greenie! He had no idea why there was fire, in the sky. The very least Newt could do was shed some light on the situation, even if Thomas was none the wiser all over again, by the same time (probably earlier!) tomorrow.

   Taking his wrist in hand, careful to not let him fall, Newt guided his new friend to sit on the log that they had occupied prior to that fight with Gally. Thomas nearly fell off, and Newt snickered.

    "Careful, shank!"

"I am!"

"Clearly," Newt placed a hand on his back.

    "Thanks," Thomas muttered.

When he was situated, balancing himself the best that he could in his state, Newt nodded once. He then pointed up at the sky and started to explain it simply; "Those, Tommy, are what ya call flares."

In the moment, he didn't really feel the need to question the new nickname. His brain was a kaleidoscope of the scenes laid in front of him: all bright lights, and grubby boys around the fire. Thomas' mind was in no fit state to query the term of endearment. And not only that, but he discovered a warmth from inside when Newt had called him that. Tommy.

   He liked it, it felt right coming from his lips.

   It sounded like friendship.

    "Flares...?" the newbie questioned, brows cinched. While Gally's drink alcohol still laced his system, the conversation was starting to slowly bring him to his senses, "What're they for?"

"They're gonna get us out of here; they signals that someone's in need of help." Newt explained shortly. He leaned forward, his elbows upon his bony knees. Folding his hands together, he found another way to explain it. "Y'know— someone needs to be saved."

Thomas nodded his head slowly, mindful of the sloshing liquid in his stomach. He was fearful that moving much too quickly may be probable cause to let him see it again. When he gulped it back, the boy spoke up with more burning questions; "That's smart." He acknowledged, "Whose idea was it?"

"Do you ever stop asking?"

"No," Thomas said.

"Had me fooled," Newt rolled his eyes.

He didn't mind, not really. Newt was as keen of Thomas as the newbie was of him.

"Look," Newt sighed, pointing over towards a head of brunette hair that waved like a river in the wind. "It was Kennedy. Ya know Kennedy, remember that?"

"Yeah," he squinted. "I remember."

"Good, that."

   It was clear to Thomas that Newt spoke fondly of the girl — a lot of the people here did that, he'd noticed — and for a second, a split second, he thought that his new friend might have had a thing for the only girl of the glade. That thought passed when Newt had spoken again, distracting Thomas, although his heart dropped in a strange plunge of dismay. It fell to the very bottom of his stomach, a foreign feeling he didn't recognise, and he hoped he wasn't about to vomit. Dinner and alcohol wouldn't taste as good coming back up as it had going down. It already burned near the back of his throat, and Thomas didn't like the feeling very much. It pulled him to the water coming up when he was in the box; choking on it, gasping in need of air. Thomas tried to distract himself with Newt's invitingly soft voice.

    "Kinda crazy," he said, "But Ken is crazy, honestly." Newt shot him a sidewards glance, "Don't tell her I called her that, Tommy."

   Unsure as to why he would have told Kennedy anyway, seeing as he had hardly spoken to her since he was in the slammer, Thomas' choice was to mumble an agreement and listen closely, pushing the ounces of concentration on Newt, as he continued to speak of that girl glader, instead. Kennedy.

    "She's crazy, but she's also really determined— to get us out of here, I mean..." he smiled softly, eyes watching the girl with a soft, sweetness that Thomas couldn't quite describe. Again, his stomach lurched and his heart jolted painfully and his tummy twisted. Newt didn't notice the growing grimace; though, he did pat Thomas the slightest bit, on his back. "It's one of the best things about her; she's a firecracker, Ken is. She wants to save us,"

"She sounds pretty great," Thomas hummed.

   What else was he to say? Kennedy sounded amazing, she really did. It was a little intimidating, actually. Made him quiver right in his boots. Kennedy was more threatening than Newt, more than even Alby — she had been kind when she had spoken to him, and if he were honest, he hadn't appreciated it enough. She had made an effort to be painfully kind when the rest had been brash toward him. But not only was she kind— she was smart, too? Crazy? And, determined? Thoughtful? This girl sounded like the whole package! It was obvious to him, that the gladers thought highly of her. That had Thomas jittery and antsy, nervous to really get to know her if he got the chance. He also felt a bit remorseful. Thomas had been a total asshole, in front of her.

God!

   Kennedy was well respected, and Thomas had probably already disappointed her!

   Other than that, the greenie didn't really know what else to say to him. Kennedy did sound great. Brilliant, in fact, and instead of speaking, Thomas glanced towards the sky as the last of the flares soared across the deep abyss of night sky.

With certainty in his voice, Newt nodded.

    "She is. You'll like her."

Thomas cinched his eyebrows together and thought back to the brief times that he had spoken with the female. To him, she had been nice, easy going — albeit oddly familiar. Something about her was recognisable in the faintest of ways, but the feeling was small, and he couldn't tell whether it had been real, or not. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe his heart was dying to find something that felt familiar, and wanted to latch onto it for a sense of comfort. Most of the gladers seemed attached to Kennedy, and it was likely because she was the only girl: another curious thing he couldn't quite make sense of, in his hazy head. Strange.

Truth be told, he hadn't made the best of impressions to the girl.

He couldn't stop thinking about it.

Dammit.

There wasn't much of an excuse, but Thomas could try: with his brain in overdrive from the situation he had been thrown into, the boy had found it hard to not lash out. Thomas hadn't the chance to understand what was going on, or who these people were, before it was to the slammer for him.

   Thomas had been harsh and irritating, and all she had been was kind. She hadn't been against him, at all. Just like the rest of them, Kennedy had only tried to help — she had easily been the best at it as well. Straight away, off the bat, Kennedy had cared. It was nice.

Thomas gnawed his lip.

"I will?"

Newt nodded; "You really will, Tommy."

Woah.

————

Later that evening, when the hustle and bustle had started to die down, and the bonfire began to fade out, Kennedy'd found herself laying on the grass, her drunken head safely in Newt's lap. It was a nice moment, with the greenery cool beneath her hot skin, and his thigh made rather comfortable pillow.

   Newt always did.

   It wasn't the first time she had her had on his lap, because it was common for Kennedy to do it.

   She slept better, with Newt around. Something about him was a tool to soothe her; he calmed her, and rid the nightmares simply in being there. The way he ran his hands through her hair, and made little patterns on her temples, with his forefingers. He was relaxing.

   Often Newt would end up in her room in the homestead. Not in a weird way. Only because, when Kennedy couldn't sleep, the low breaths and rise and fall of his chest made her sleepy, and if Newt being there alone didn't work, he was a great storyteller. She swore not to tell anyone about that, because it made his cheeks go pink in embarrassment, and he had threatened to never tell her a story ever again, if she let it slip. Kennedy wasn't willing to lose that privilege anytime soon, so she never said a word. Newt would tell her stories about what he thought the real world was like, and who he thought he was before all of this, and what things they would do when they got out of the maze. It gave her something to look foreword to, the hope she needed. With those stories, Kennedy could sleep, even on sleepless nights.

   She loved his stories, as much as she loved him.

   And Minho, of course.

Kennedy let out a lazy yawn. Seeing as the flares had all gone to plan — putting on a damn good show that could potentially get the gladers out of there — Kennedy decided it was time to celebrate it and get into the spirit of things. It had sounded like a great idea at the time, but would definitely be a bad one by morning time. A few cups too many, some would say; although, in that moment, current Kennedy would say it was just the right amount. Perfect, even.

Future Kennedy?

   She would hate herself, for it.

   Oh, well!

Newt played with her hair, and the feeling was amazing on her sore head. He nimbly braided the strands between his fingers. He had always been good at that— braiding her hair, that was. Upon arriving in the glade, he had been the only person to know how to do it, other than Kennedy, herself — they assumed he might have had a sister, or a close female friend during his past life. Perhaps it was Kennedy, or maybe it wasn't. But, either way, it proved useful. Braiding had been like muscle memory to Newt; it was difficult to forget, it hadn't taken long for him to get back into the swing of it. Kennedy loved the way his fingertips skimmed across her scalp, as softly as his voice when he told her silly stories, caressing her hairs frontline as he braided some small sections.

It was time like these, when he braided her hair and scratched her head, that Kennedy realised how lucky she was to have a boy who adored her, so.

Just as much as she adored him.

   Maybe all of this love for Newt had come as a result of drinking too much moonshine, because Ken would never admit it otherwise.

After a while of drinking, Newt had managed to coax her away from the jars of juice and the pair had been sitting in silence since then. She needed some time apart from the rest of the gladers, the last standers continuing to party like children at a birthday, to take a moment to breathe. As much as she failed to realise it, Kennedy was exhausted. The good kind.

   Where your muscles were sore but you never wanted to stop, and your cheeks hurt from all of those smiling. When your day had so good that you wished tomorrow you be just the same day played a second time, and the same for every day after that.

However, he had succeeded in getting her to sit. The bags under her eyes were deep and purple, and she had begun to limp lightly when she walked. If she hadn't noticed it, Newt had. So, when he got her to stay still for monger than twenty seconds, he had felt an incredible pride — the same pride he had felt after getting Thomas into his hammock, following a ten minute chase, to which the boy had fallen on his face (the drunk one, not Newt). Kennedy went the easiest way down; fooled by his promise to tell her a story and plait her hair. She had fallen for it and Newt kept up his end of the deal they made, and behind a log was there situated spot. That was just as secluded as things could get in the glade, and it gave the duo an air of peace to contemplate what would happen next — what could happen next, if someone had seen their flares. Newt had told her a few stories about it.

    "I'm proud of you— y'know."

Kennedy hummed softly, "I know."

"I mean it," Newt's accent sliced through the quiet like a knife through butter, his voice remaining comforting and low. She loved Newt's accent — most of the time she tended to forget that Newt's voice was any different, having known him for so long, but it really shone in the silence of night. That was one of the many things that made Newt unique, when compared to the rest of the gladers. No one else had that accent; it like it had been made specially for him, and for Kennedy's stories. "You did really good, shank."

A smile appeared on her lips. She cracked one eye open to look up at him, "I tried."

"You deserve a life outside of this shithole, Ken." Newt let out a sigh through his nose. His thumb brushed her temple, and Newt allowed himself to get wrapped up in her beauty. She was his best friend — no more, no less — yet he couldn't help but admire her.

Kennedy was beautiful; ethereal, even.

   Nobody compared.

"As do you," she said, honestly. "You deserve it more than any of us, Newt. Given we're not many— but you really, really do." A small silence, "Other than King Chuckie, of course."

   Newt snickered.

    "Of course."

   They giggled together, lowly.

In a way, Kennedy envied Thomas. He was around their ages, and despite not knowing what life they used to live outside of the glade, he had gotten more of a life than Newt and Kennedy ever had. His old life had ended recently, where as their old lives ended when they were children. They had been theown into their glade and woken up in that box young, much younger than some of the gladers — they had been there for almost three years, and it meant that they (as well as a couple others) had lost three years more than most others. Thomas included.

Who knew how much of their old life they must have lost, even before the glade? None of them recalled life before they had been sent there, and Kennedy wondered what else they had endured. It was a morbid thought, but it was painfully present. If they had all woken up in that box, they had been sent their purposefully. What were the creators doing to them, before that? Why were they sent in there, so young? What were they doing to the other children? Those that would come up next month, and the month after that, and the months following — one by one, like clockwork. Right now, what'd been happened to those kids? How were they living? What came in the time before this? Kennedy wasn't sure if they wanted to know; not really.

   How was it fair?

   Poor Chuck was the youngest to have ever been sent up! He was so small, so innocent. The creators must have been monsters to rip the lives away from children like Chuck.

He was a child, and he needed his family.

They all needed their family — but, for now, each other did all of them just as well.

"Do ya think about life, out there?" Newt asked, his voice a bit quieter than it had been. She listened to him attentively, and kept silent until he finished his words and waited for her response. "As in, really? Not just in stories? What it was like? I do, sometimes... I can't ever find a version that I like, though. It's all sour."

"Me too," she said, "I dream about it, most nights."

"What's it like?"

"It's nice," Kennedy told him, "Safe, warm. I have a family, but I never see their faces, or nothin'. They're just moving bodies, and when I hug them, I feel nothing."

Newt nodded; his were much the same.

   That was what made it sour.

Kennedy continued, "It's alright, but it's not the same. Doesn't give me the comfort that I get here. It's not the way that you hug me, and they don't tease me the way Minho does, and no one has as good a death stare as Alby!" Both of them let out a light laugh, "In those dreams, you guys aren't there, and it's not right. I mean, what kinda family is that? I don't wanna family, if you guys aren't in it— ya know?"

"Ain't family, at all." He agreed, feeling warm inside. Trust her to always make him feel all tingly, and special. "Ain't family, at all."

And then, it was back to comfortable silence.

For a moment, Kennedy thought she might have fallen asleep in their silence. But she then realised that, despite the stretch of black across her vision, she had never really dreamt of stars, before. She was just looking at the sky, and the fire had burnt out.

   A thought.

    "Hey, Newt?"

    "Hm?"

    "Greenie remembered his name, right?"

    "Yeah. Hit his head fighting Gally, daft shank!" He chuckled.

    "He did?"

    "Yup!"

    "Daft shank," she agreed.

Kennedy let out giggles, still intoxicated and finding it funnier than she usually would. Of course it had been Gally who'd quite literally knocked sense into the greenie — so much, the shank had remembered his name! She was too gone to worry if he had been seriously injured, or not.

"Stood up, muttering that his name was Thomas, and that he was seventeen years old." Newt added on, "Lucky; remembering his age, like that."

He failed to notice Kennedy suck in a sharp breath.

    "Weird," Newt murmured. "Kinda like you..." he then shrugged his shoulders, "Your trick must've worked!"

   Kennedy felt faint.

   Wait...

    "Yeah," she said. "Yeah— must've."

I'm Kennedy, you're Thomas, and we're fifteen years old.

━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━

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