~Newt~

He could barely get up on his feet, and his wobbly legs struggled to hold his weight as he staggered toward her.

Bloody heck... What have they done to you?

The whole sight of her was beyond terrifying.

She was in a sitting position, but she looked more like a rag doll being forced into that position. Her back was against a tree trunk, legs slightly spread apart, arms dangling, and head hanging low. Deep cuts and blackish purple bruises covered almost every inch of visible skin on her. Even more due to her torn clothes. She was bleeding profusely, the thick crimson liquid—almost black from the dark aura of the place—was still dripping from her injuries.

The sound of the blood drops as they fell to the ground, making contact with the dead leaves and twigs, resonated in Newt's ears like an amplified sound of death.

She looked like a human sacrifice—the whole scene resembling some ancient curse or something. Her arms were suspended perpendicularly and outwards from her body. It was like a crucifix, except her arms hung from a rope tied firmly on each of her wrists. The dry texture and sandy color of the rope turned into a soaked string of red, right where the rope made contact with the skin.

"Med-jacks!" someone hollered before Newt could even form the words. He was rendered speechless, completely appalled by the horrific scene. His mouth, agape, made up-and-down quivering movements.

He wanted to touch her, check for a pulse, see if she was still breathing—anything that indicated signs of life. But he wasn't a Med-jack, and he didn't want to hurt her. Maybe it was best to let the Med-jacks handle it.

Shuck it.

Reaching over, his trembling hands inched their way toward her neck. He started panicking as he couldn't find a pulse.

After that moment of pure distress, he sighed with relief. It was faint, but it was there.

She's alive.

For how much longer though? It seemed like she'd been in that state for a while. At least two hours since she went missing from the kitchen, according to Frypan.

As Newt retrieved his hand, he sensed moisture on it. He felt it when he touched her hair too. At first, he thought it was just sweat, but the stickiness and the new dark shade on his palm revealed otherwise. There was blood everywhere. 

Newt immediately pulled off his shirt to wrap around her torso, where her worst wound was located. There was no time to waste.

Shuck, shuck, shuck! She's gonna bleed to death if she hasn't by now. Where the shuck are the Med-jacks!?

Everyone that crowded around had to move out of the way to let Clint and Jeff through as they came rushing toward the scene, carrying a wooden stretcher.

"She's... she's alive. I checked her pulse, but it's weak," Newt nervously informed them.

Minho and Alby physically had to support Newt as he could barely keep himself together.

"Well, then, that's our first good news so far," Jeff replied hurriedly as he inspected her worst injuries. They even brought a torch with them since it was too dark to see, especially in that corner of the deadheads. Jeff handed the torch to Minho before he tended to the girl, and Minho silently illuminated the scene.

As the glow of the flame illuminated her being, Newt wanted to break down and cry. She was still as beautiful as ever, but awfully mangled. It was too much to handle.

"I can barely see anything—we need to stop the bleeding now." Newt could sense the nervousness in Jeff's voice.

"Newt, your shirt's soaked! It doesn't stop!" Clint shrieked, making Newt's panic rise to dangerous levels.

He wanted to help free her and carry her over to the Med-hut, but Alby advised him otherwise. In his distraught state, Newt didn't have the calm nor mental capacity to help out. He'd only be in the way.

Therefore, he painfully watched as Minho swiftly pulled his knife from his harness and carefully cut the ropes to free her, and then she was cautiously lifted onto the stretcher and rushed to the hut. Newt and the others all followed the Med-jacks right at their heels.

As soon as she was transferred onto one of the beds, the Med-jacks seemed reluctant to remove Newt's shirt at first, knowing how much blood she'd already lost.

"Newt—you guys—I need you to please get out. We'll take it from here," said Jeff, trying to usher everyone out.

But Newt refused.

The limited time left to save her didn't leave much room for the Med-jacks to kick him out. Everyone else except Minho was practically pushed to the exit, forced to leave.

Newt could hear Clint rushing his words. "She's gonna need stitches. At least in two places: abdominal right, and left shoulder."

Her wounds were ugly; horrendous. 

As expected, when the Med-jacks removed Newt's now-crimson-soaked shirt from around her torso and lift her shirt up, more blood kept gushing out. They immediately took care of it, cleaning the wound, and preparing to start stitching. They were trying anything in their power to save her life, and Newt knew that; he just couldn't stand having to wait for results.

"Well?" he asked, impatiently waiting for them to tell him whether she could be saved, or that they'd have a funeral the next day.

"I'm sorry, Newt. Things don't look too great, I'll be honest with ya." Upon seeing Newt's look of terror at his words, Jeff quickly tried to fix it. "But... but she's gonna be fine, you'll see. We just can't provide a full analysis at the moment—we need to close those wounds before we can examine what other injuries she has."

She was basically left to die. Who would do something like that?

As the tears—those Newt couldn't allow the others to see except for Alby and Minho—were rolling down his cheeks, he couldn't help but keep his eyes fixed on her face. She could look like she was only in a deep sleep, but the sight of her battered body just made her look dead.

Newt needed her to live. He needed her to fight death and beat it. She wasn't ready for death yet—at least he hoped—until many years into the future.

Hope had become irrelevant to him during his time in the Glade, but it was the last thing left to cling to. The only thing.

Alby and Minho approached Newt, bidding him to step aside to discuss what might've actually happened.

"Who do you think did it?" Alby asked Minho, as if expecting him to know.

"I don't freaking know," Minho snapped. "I'm a Runner, not a shuck detective. Last time I checked, we never needed those."

"Great help you are," Alby gave him a dull response. "We need a Gathering right now. I don't care if it's nighttime."

The anger boiled up inside of Newt once again. "Would the both of you bloody shut it? We'll worry about who did it later. First, I make sure she's okay. I'm not gonna go sit at a Gathering to discuss this klunk until I'm one-hundred percent certain I'll see her leave this bed."

"Newt, listen, man!" Minho shouted, taking hold of Newt's shoulders. "She's gonna shucking live. We all want her to, just as much as you do, but we gotta come up with something before the Gathering starts. Can't let those shucks who did this have the slightest chance to waltz out of this mess unharmed."

Alby spoke up once again. "Just take a look at the facts, Newt. Obviously, someone who hates her had to do it." Minho raised an eyebrow, staring at him boringly for stating the obvious. Alby continued. "So, why don't we just gather all of those who hate her, and pressure them until someone speaks up?"

"Good idea!" Newt suddenly turned on him. "Greatest bloody thing you've said all day, given that—oh, I don't know—everyone in this buggin' place hates her!"

Minho held his hand in front of Newt's chest. "Hey, hey, he's just trying to help. Slim it." Then, he turned back to face Alby. "Yeah, shuck-face, how do you plan on finding the culprit among fifty shanks at the least?"

"Well—"

"No, Alby. Later," Newt interrupted him. "I'm staying with her until I know she's stable, and that's final. We'll have the Gathering tomorrow."

"Alright, yeah," Minho tried to ease Newt's nerves. "No one's telling you to leave her side. Me and Alby are gonna give you some space, but while you're at it, go put on a shirt, Newt. Take a breather. You're really worked up, man." Newt looked down at his bare torso. He'd forgotten he was shirtless in the middle of the whole mess. "Then, come back in here, and stay with her. Med-jacks are doing what they can," Minho reassured before he and Alby both started walking out.

"Yeah, just rest," Alby added. "The Gathering is tomorrow then." He gave Newt an apologetic glance before closing the door and leaving.

It was best to take their advice. He had all the reason to be on edge because of what happened to Sara, but his attitude wasn't doing either of them any good.

He quickly walked over to the Homestead, rummaged through his things next to his hammock, and pulled out a beige, three-quarter-sleeved t-shirt. Thankfully, he wasn't wearing his usual hoodie earlier, or it would've been gone forever despite a portion of it having had aided Sara when Newt stopped her bleeding the first time they met.

The only good thing the creators ever did for them was sending them decent supplies, so they always had various outfits to wear at least. It was strange, however, to realize that the Gladers' attachment issues were so fragile that everyone still wore the same outfit almost every single day unless accidental spills happened and things like that.

But in moments like these, Newt was grateful that the creators thought about those details.

Or maybe it's just prolonged uncertainty, and the inevitable fact that we're all better off dead...