Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or The Maze Runner. Please don't sue me. I am but a humble fanfiction writer.

Author's note: Whew, this was a harder one. I modified a few lines and am already working on shifting the outcome, but man, it's slow work.

This took longer than it usually does, I know, but I'm just glad to have this scene over and done with.

How would you guys feel about a time skip? Not the whole book, but long enough that I can start getting into the more important plot points. The parts of the story set in the Scorch Trials serve mostly to allow Hermione and the surviving Gladers to become friends, and for her to begin to understand this world. The major changes will take place in the Death Cure, and I'm just so excited to get to that.

In any case, here's chapter six!

Chapter Six: Jorge

A rush of heat swept over her, filling her head with fog. Next to her, she felt Newt stiffen, his shoulders tensing.

"You people forget how to talk?" Jorge asked, a slow smile sliding across his face. "Or you just scared of the Cranks? Scared we'll pull you to the ground and eat your eyeballs out? Mmm, tasty. I love a good eyeball when the grub's runnin' short. Tastes like undercooked eggs."

Minho crossed his arms, doing an amazing job of masking his pain. "You admit you're a Crank? That you're freaking crazy?"

Hermione took a step forward. "Shut up," she heard herself say to Minho. "Let's just… let's just hear him out."

Jorge's hand twitched as he cupped it against his chin. "Tu amiga es inteligente," he said. "Got more brains than you, anyway."

"How many of you are here?" Newt asked suddenly.

"How many?" Jorge laughed, his eyes lighting up with mirth. "How many Cranks? We're all Cranks around here, hermano."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Newt retorted.

Jorge began to pace about the room, his steps long and even. "Lot of things you people need to understand about how things work in this city. About the Cranks and WICKED, about the government, about why they left us here to rot in our disease, go completely and utterly insane. About how there's different levels of the Flare. About how it's too late for you— the ill is gonna catch ya if it hasn't already."

Minho scoffed. "We've all got it. That's why we're here."

Jorge inhaled sharply. "I wouldn't take that tone. You're- you're making me angry, and I don't think your friends would want for me to be angry."

Hermione shook her head emphatically at Minho. Drop it, she tried to mouth. He clearly didn't see.

"Why? Unless that lightning storm fried my retinas, I'd say that there's eleven of us and one of you. You should be worried about making us mad, buddy."

"You didn't just say that to me, did you? Please tell me you didn't just speak to me like a dog. You have ten seconds to apologize."

Minho looked up at Jorge, his mouth twisted into a defiant smirk.

"One. Two," Jorge counted, his hand twitching into a fist. "Three. Four. Five."

"Do it!" Thomas yelled out of the blue, panic displayed across his face.

"Six. Seven." Jorge's voice began to swell in volume, and any remaining arrogance slid from Minho's face. "Eight. Nine."

"I'm sorry," Minho said in a monotonous voice, void of emotion.

"I don't think you meant that." Jorge lunged across the room, swiftly kicking the boy in the leg. A cry of pain escaped Minho as he fell to the ground— Jorge must have caught him in a burnt spot. "Say it with meaning, hermano." When no response came, Jorge reared back and struck Minho twice more. "Say it with meaning!" the Crank screamed, his face laced with rage.

"I'm sorry," the boy choked between heavy breaths. Jorge smiled, pleased with the humiliation he'd inflicted.

Hermione caught a glimpse of Minho as he leapt from the floor and slammed his fist into the Crank's stomach. A stream of foul language Hermione had never heard before escaped his mouth as he trapped Jorge beneath him and began to punch.

"Minho, stop!" Thomas yelled, scrambling to pull him off Jorge. "There's more of them up there! You have to stop! They'll kill you! They'll kill all of us!"

Jorge rose unsteadily to his feet. "Right you are, boy." Ropes dropped from above them, allowing a mass of people to slide down them to the floor.

Minho shook himself free from Thomas' grip. "Holy shuckin' klunk."

"You buggin' said it," Newt added, biting his nail.

"Should've listened to your friend," Jorge said with a smirk. He spread his arms, as though demonstrating to them the sheer size of his army.

Behind him stood fifteen or so Cranks, each tattered and filthy. People of all ages clutched dirty-looking weapons from the pockets of their ruined clothes. Curved, rusty knives. Machetes. Fragments of glass that shone scarlet. A young girl, only ten or so, held a splintered shovel, its metal scoop snapped and sharpened into jagged teeth.

"Listen," Thomas began, desperation already flooding his voice. "There's something about us. We're not just random shanks who showed up on your doorstep. We're valuable. Alive, not dead."

The anger glinting on Jorge's face melted away, revealing a spark of curiosity. "What's a shank?"

A stifled laugh shoved from between Thomas' lips, the sound so hysterical and chilling that Hermione longed to curl into a ball and sob until it had finished. "You and me," the boy continued. "Ten minutes. Alone. That's all I ask. Bring all the weapons you want."

Jorge snorted, his mouth twisting. "Ten minutes. That's all. The rest of you, stay here. If I give the word, let the Death games begin." Holding out a hand to Thomas, he pushed through a door and slid into the shadowed hall.

"Ten minutes," Thomas repeated, slipping inside behind him.

Hermione sincerely hoped that Thomas knew what he was doing.