IT STARTED WITH A MAZE - Newt x Reader (F)

- A BONFIRE -

Clint and Jeff wander off with casual retorts thrown at Newt. I take a bite of bread and glance at the boy staying near me. "How many of you are there?" I question.

"About forty," Newt replies. "Give or take. Alby would know exactly. He's the one who keeps us organized." I look around. It's hard to believe forty boys live here - created all of this. The gardens. The buildings. A community.

"That's a lot," I murmur.

Newt nods toward a group adding more logs to the bonfire. "Alby's been here the longest. First group arrived around three years ago. No one before that," he states.

I turn fully to him. "Can you explain everything to me a bit more?" I ask. "Please?"

Newt nods, still chewing his bread. "Alright. Over there you've got the Builders. Strong lads, good with their hands... not exactly philosophers, but they get things done." I follow his gaze - several broad-shouldered boys are drinking from metal cups, laughing loudly and smacking each other on the back. "Winston's our Keeper of the Slicers," Newt continues. "They handle livestock. Not the cleanest job, but someone's gotta do it." My brows crease at the mention of livestock. I hadn't even thought about where the meat came from. Or how. "You've met the Med-Jacks," Newt adds, gesturing toward Clint and Jeff. "They're busy most days stitching back together the Slicers."

He keeps going, pointing out different boys and offering quick summaries - Billy, Dave, Frankie, Hank, Leo, Nick, Stan, Jack, Stephen, Tim, Aiden. I try to memorize their names, their faces, but my mind blurs them all together. How can I remember them when I can't even remember myself?

The sky dims further, purple sliding into indigo. Then someone throws more logs upon the fire. With a sudden roar, the bonfire comes to life.

Flames leap into the air, casting everything in wild shadows. The heat pulses outward, drawing the boys closer in a loose circle. Cheers erupt. Someone has drums - makeshift ones, probably pieced together from barrels and rubber - but they pound a beat into the night that makes the fire seem alive.

Dinner plates are discarded. Bottles come out-clanking, popping open. The mood changes, loose and joyful. It is a celebration, yes, but also something else. Ritual. Like they need this to survive, not just physically, but mentally.

A boy I haven't been introduced to, only told about - Mikey - drags over a boxy radio and cranks a knob. A burst of static cuts through the music. Then: a crackly guitar riff. I stare. "You have a radio?"

Newt smirks. "We do now. Came up with Chuck last week. Twelve channels," he clarifies.

I tilt my head, curious. "And what's this?"

"Channel One," Newt says. "It shuffles through songs from every decade - bit of a wacky lineup. But beats Channels Two through Twelve which we figured out are each stuck on singular songs."

I blink. "Why?" In hindsight, the question is useless. The radio - like me - is new. I'm sure Newt doesn't have many answers regarding it.

"No clue," he confirms. "It's like the Maze. Weird is kind of its thing."

I lean in as the song changes - something old, hiphop, fun. Fitting, in a way.

I let myself tap my foot with the music, my plate now empty, the fire warm at my back. I still don't know who I am. Still don't understand this place. But for now, I'm not alone.

The boys laugh around me. The beat of their homemade drums mixed with the crackle of the fire and the rhythm of the music. Everything is wild and loud and overwhelming - but I'm not afraid.

"Before we had it, it was just the Maze we heard," Newt says.

I tilt my head, watching the way his gaze drifts off past the firelight, toward the stone walls like he can see through them. "What do you mean?" I ask.