Minho just stares at Newt, because he can't honestly believe the words that are coming out of his own mouth. "Yeah, but Newt, they lie. The only thing they've ever done consistently is lie to us." Sure, most of the supplies had WICKED branded all over it, and even they did now thanks to the tattoos on their backs—which reminds him that he's not happy about more mysterious ink appearing on his arm while he was out of it.

"Maybe nobody's tried to kill us because they're stepping up their game. Rat Face said this Trial would be different, more difficult. Could be they're tryin' to make us feel safe. Wouldn't be the first time they'd watch us sweat." Like when the first of them had arrived in the Glade with no idea what was going on and no one to give them answers. All they'd had was each other and the instinct to survive. Unfortunately that same instinct had driven them into the Maze and, for some of them, to their deaths.

He groans, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. His fingers itch to scratch the skin he knows has been branded by the same bastards who ruined their lives. Throwing his hand back down to his side, he sighs and follows the gesture. "Where's your fight, dude? A few minutes ago you were ready to get out from under their thumb."