15

                                    

                                          
Hell broke loose in the Homestead. Everyone started talking and shouting, and two or three asked Minho whether his night in the Maze had driven him nuts. There were only eleven Keepers and a Glader in the room, but judging by the noise, there could've been fifty or sixty. Thomas held his head, desperate, and wondered if things could gone any worse.
                          
"That's ridiculous!" Gally yelled, his cheeks bright red. The rest of the boys shutted up, and looked at him. He jumped to his feet, and pointed a finger at Minho, facing Newt. "He should be kicked off the Council for saying such a stupid thing."
                          
Thomas winked, and any remote pity he had felt for Gally completely vanished.
                          
The Gathering had divided into two. Some Keepers seemed to approve Minho's recommendation, —such as Frypan, who tried to shut Gally clapping—, but some others didn't. They were still arguing and discussing between them, and Thomas could've sworn that the walls were actually shaking.
                          
He was shaking as well. Why had Minho said that? It had to be a joke. Newt told him that it took ages to become a Runner, leave apart the Keeper. Talking about Newt. The Chair was the only one, appart from Thomas, who wasn't screaming his lungs out at some other Keeper. He was busy sketching some lines on a blank page.
                          


                          
A few seconds after, Newt put his notepad down and stepped out from the semicircle, screaming at everyone to shut up. At first, no one seemed to hear or notice him at all, and Thomas felt like punching them all —even Frypan, despite his strong support— right in the face, just like the blond had hit him. He knew that it was a powerful shutter, but he was also aware that it would earn him plenty of hatred, at least. 
                          
Gradually, though, Newt managed to restore the order. "Shuck it," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I've never seen so many shanks acting like teat-suckin' babies. We may not look it, but around these parts we're adults. Act like it, or we'll disband this bloody Council and start from scratch." He walked around the curved row of sitting Keepers, looking each of them in the eye as he spoke. "Are we clear?" 

                          
Surprisingly, everyone nodded their consent —not even Gally dared to outburst again. The room was dead silent now.
                          
"Good that." Newt walked back to his chair and sat down, massaging his forehead. He wrote something on the paper, and then looked up at Minho. "That's some pretty serious klunk, brother. Sorry, but you need to talk it up to move it forward."
                          
Thomas had agogly waited to hear that. He let his body free all the tension he had accumulated —which was much more than expected. His shoulders sunk over three centimeters when he relaxed.
                          
The Keeper of the Runners looked exhausted, but started defending his proposal. "It's sure easy for you shanks to sit here and talk about something you're stupid on. I'm the only Runner in this group, and the only other one here who's even been out in the Maze is Newt."
                          
Thomas frowned, and glanced at the Chair, who suddenly found the floor rather amazing. Did that have anything to do with the hobble? He somehow knew that the Maze was an important piece in the Newt puzzle, one that he would have to find and put in place if he wanted to truly know him. And he did. So badly.
                          
"Not if you count the time I—" Gally interjected. Thomas didn't feel like punching him now —he needed it.
                          
"I don't!" Minho shouted, apparently just as tired of Gally's incessant —and unnecessary— interruptions as Thomas. "And believe me, you or nobody else has the slightest clue what it's like to be out there. The only reason you were stung is because you broke the same rule you're blaming Thomas for. That's called hypocrisy, you shuck-faced piece of—"