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

- WELCOME TO THE SCORCH -

"Everything stings these days," he replies - an attempt at humour.

I smile - barely - and dab at the cut. The silence between us isn't sharp, just cautious. Tired. But not angry. There is a type of tension that lingers, yes, but it isn't from lies. It's the fact that we so quickly overcame the discomfort.

When I finish, I offer him a quiet nod. He smiles, and his eyes soften, and that's enough.

Eventually, we're just waiting on Thomas. He's the last to wake. His face is drawn with exhaustion when he sits up, dark circles heavy under his eyes. "How long was I out?"

"Long enough," Minho says. "But not long enough for any of us to feel human again."

Thomas shakes himself awake and stands, stretching with a groan. "We should move." And just like that, it's time again.

We pack our things - what little we have left. One water canteen each. A bit of food. Some spare bandages. We check weapons, tighten boots, sling bags over shoulders. No one says much. There's no energy for talk.

Winston limps, leaning on Frypan and Minho, but he insists on walking. I want to tell him to rest, to let us carry him, but the determination in his eyes silences me. He won't be pitied. Not yet.

We head up the dune, scaling the jagged slope of sand and stone that leads us out of the ruined mall. The ground crunches beneath our feet, the sun rising steadily behind us. Its heat is already seeping into our bones. When we crest the ridge, the world opens up. And it's... devastation.

The Scorch.

Before us sprawls a horizon that defies logic - an endless wasteland of sunburnt earth and fractured city skeletons. Cracked buildings rise like tombstones in the distance, their tops sheared off, windows shattered, iron beams bent into broken ribs. The sand stretches between them like an ocean, rippling with wind, burying old streets and strangling forgotten vehicles that poke out like rusted bones.

The sky is a pale, washed-out blue, stained yellow near the horizon. The sun blazes down with no mercy. No clouds. No shade. Just open exposure. "Holy hell," Teresa whispers.

No one moves for a long moment. We all just stand there, staring.

It feels like we're looking out at the end of the world.

The wind picks up, hot and dry, whipping sand into our clothes and hair. I squint through it, feeling the grit in my teeth. Somewhere in that crumbled city, something is waiting for us. Something worse than what we just faced.

I don't know what we're walking into.

But I know we have to walk.

"Come on," Thomas says quietly. And we do. One by one, we step over the ridge and descend into the endless desert. No words. Just the crunch of sand, the wind howling in our ears, and the weight of survival pressing us forward.

We keep walking. The city sprawls out before us - a graveyard of crumbling skyscrapers and shattered glass, swallowed in dunes of shifting sand. Rusted cars half-buried in the gritty earth, broken street signs dangling on twisted poles, and abandoned storefronts with shattered windows whispering stories of a world long lost. The wind whistles through empty alleyways, carrying with it the faint scent of decay and dust.

The nine of us - Thomas, Newt, Minho, Teresa, Frypan, Winston, Aris, Jack, and I - press forward, boots sinking into the gritty mixture of sand and rubble. Each step feels heavier, the weight of exhaustion and worry settling deeper in our bones.

Suddenly, Thomas freezes, his voice slicing through the quiet. "Wait, guys. Do you hear that?"

We all halt. I glance around, scanning the ruined skyline, then raise a hand. "Hide," I whisper sharply. Without hesitation, we duck beneath a collapsed awning, wedging ourselves under debris piled from a fallen building. Dust coats our skin as we press flat against the cracked concrete, barely daring to breathe. Overhead, the distant hum of aircraft grows louder, mechanical shadows passing against the dim sky, hunting relentlessly.

"They won't stop looking for us," Newt murmurs, eyes dark with worry.

Seconds drag on like minutes. Then, as the aircraft fade away, we slip silently from our hiding place, boots crunching softly over fractured pavement and sand-blasted bricks. The city's skeletal remains loom around us - walls scarred with scorch marks, graffiti faded into illegibility, and streets littered with the detritus of destruction.

We keep moving throughout the day, following a path carved through the wreckage until the urban decay thins and we reach another dune. Together, we climb the steep slope, sand slipping beneath our feet. At the summit, the world opens before us - an expanse of desolation stretching far beyond.

"Those are our mountains," I say quietly, pointing to jagged peaks etched against the horizon, standing like silent sentinels beyond the wasteland.

The city has been swallowed by the desert, once vibrant streets now veins of sand weaving between shattered towers. The ruins stretch endlessly, swallowed slowly by nature's reclamation - sand dunes swallowing concrete, glass glinting faintly under the weak sunlight.

"They're a long way off," Newt comments, his voice low.

"Then we better get moving," I reply, eyes flicking back to Winston, who's struggling behind us. He slowly removes his pack, exhaustion weighing heavy in his movements. "Winston, you alright?" I ask, concern sharp in my voice.

His legs falter, vision blurring, and without warning, he collapses onto the sand. "Winston!" The urgency in all our voices is immediate.

We rush to his side, crouching close, faces etched with fear and tension. His breathing is shallow, labored; his ribs heave painfully beneath torn clothing streaked with dried blood and grime. The claw marks from earlier stand out starkly, deep and ragged.

Frypan checks for a pulse, and I gently cradle Winston's head, feeling the faintness in his skin. We all exchange looks - this is worse than we thought. "We can't leave him like this," Minho says grimly.

Without hesitation, we gather pieces of broken wood and torn fabric, fashioning a makeshift stretcher. With careful teamwork, we lift Winston, the weight of his body reminding us all of how fragile hope feels right now.

Our pace slows, every step measured and deliberate. But there's determination too - because no matter how battered or broken, we're not leaving one of our own behind.

We press forward, carrying Winston through the wasteland, eyes set on the distant mountains - and on survival.

~