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

- THE FIRST CLUE -

"(Y/n)?"

Thomas's voice carries through the hush of the woods, tentative but somehow certain I'd show up. He's already there, leaning against a trunk, his figure barely hidden due to the afternoon sun.

I cross the space toward him, rolling my eyes. "What? You think I wouldn't come?" I tease, brushing past the tension in my chest with a smirk I barely feel. Then I inhale slowly. The air is humid and heavy with pine. "It was messed up, what we went through in there," I admit, softer now. "And I'm still sore. But it's only going to get worse. So... we might as well get ahead of it."

He nods, expression tight. We're both still haunted, still wrung out. I can see it in the way he doesn't quite meet my eyes. Before either of us can say more, branches shift behind us. Minho steps out from between the trees, his body a steady rhythm of motion. Zart trails him with quiet resolve, Winston more jittery, and Fry brings up the rear. They all have white-knuckled grips around different objects I wouldn't wholly classify as weapons. "This enough?" Minho asks, his tone casual, but I know better. He's already mapped out five ways this could go wrong.

I nod once. "Brave enough," I say, meeting each of their eyes. The others don't speak - just exchange glances. No one here's a trained soldier. But we're all Gladers - Thomas as I own that now just as much as them. We've bled in this place. Played our part.

We head to the Maze entrance as stealthily as we can, the thick stone walls yawning open just wide enough to invite disaster. The ivy shivers as we pass. I wonder if the Maze remembers us.

Thomas and Minho lead - heads forward, feet sure. Not sprinting this time. Just a jog, fast enough to make my legs ache, slow enough to conserve the edge of panic in our lungs. I fall into rhythm beside Zart. Our feet slap the stone in unison, echoing off the empty corridors. The boys behind us don't speak. The Maze is always watching, and none of us want to give it a reason to listen.

Minho gestures to the left, and we veer off down a new path. Thomas doesn't hesitate. He remembers. He remembers the way to where the Griever's body is - what's left of it, at least.

My breath picks up. Not from exertion. But from anticipation. We're going back to the scene of the crime. And maybe, if we're lucky, we'll come out with more answers than scars.

~~~

The smell hits first - sickly and metallic, with the sharp sting of oil mixed with the rancid rot of spoiled flesh. The Griever is slumped awkwardly in the stone corner of the Maze, a dark puddle congealed beneath it. In the light of day, it looks less like a monster and more like a mechanical carcass again - its thick rubbery skin torn open in places, wires coiled like veins poking out of lacerated flesh. Bits of metal gleam, half-submerged in a jelly-like sludge that oozes from its core.

We slow down as we reach it. Everyone's breath hitches. I can hear the beat of my own heart, fast but steady. At least now we know it's definitely dead. "That's disgusting," Zart says, covering his mouth.

"There's something in there," Thomas says, stepping slightly forward. His voice isn't curious - it's certain.

"You mean besides a Griever pancake?" Fry mutters. A laugh wants to slip from my mouth, but it gets caught in my throat. We all just keep staring.

Minho narrows his eyes and steps closer, boots squelching as they sink slightly into the dark fluid. "Hey," I call, instinctively moving closer to him. He doesn't hesitate - he reaches in. The moment his hand disappears into the body, one of the legs spasms violently.

All of us jolt back. "I thought you said it was dead!" Winston yells, eyes wide.

"Was it a reflex?" Zart asks quickly, voice tight.