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

- HARSH REALITY -

A fool's hope.

"Never thought I'd say it," Frypan mutters, eyes on the fire. "But I miss the Glade."

No one replies. A single tear slips down his cheek, catching the firelight before it falls. It glistens for a moment - brief, beautiful - then disappears into the dirt.

The silence stretches into the night.

I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them like it'll hold me together. My thoughts churn beneath my calm exterior, biting and cold. Winston's gone. The Flare is real. We're not invincible. None of this is fair.

I hate how quickly death has become normal.

I hate how little time we gave him.

I hate how quiet it is when someone disappears.

The fire has burned down to nothing but dim coals, a few orange flickers twitching under a shell of gray ash. It's late - or early - I can't tell anymore. The kind of hour where the world feels fragile. Everyone else is asleep. Or trying to be.

Teresa's curled in on herself, one arm tucked beneath her head. Frypan breathes deep beside the wall. Aris and Jack are a mess of limbs against stone. Minho's barely moved in an hour.

But I'm awake. And I know I'm not alone in that.

Newt sits a few feet away, arms resting loosely over his knees. His eyes are open, flickering in the low light. I can tell from the way his chest rises - slow but not even - that his mind is turning. Thomas shifts beside me, his back rising slightly as he moves. The edge of his shirt snags and lifts, just enough to catch the moonlight.

There - bold, clinical, black. An A2.

"Hey, Newt," I whisper, not really thinking, just needing to say it.

"Yeah?" he replies softly, gaze flicking toward me.

I hesitate for a second, then lean in a little. "Did you know that some of you have markings on the back of your neck?" I say.

His hand goes up immediately, fingers brushing behind his ear, sliding down over the ridge of his neck. "Yeah," he says, slowly, like he's admitting something he never thought would matter. "Mine is A Five. Hell if I know what it means."

"Minho has one too," I add, watching the light shift on Newt's face.

Newt's expression darkens slightly. "I know that Chuck did as well," he murmurs, like the name itself hurts to say. "And I think Frypan does..." He glances sideways at the others, lowering his voice.

I keep my tone steady. "Thomas does as well," I mumble.

Thomas stirs at the sound of his name, his hand lifting to the back of his neck almost instinctively. He blinks awake slowly, eyes cloudy with confusion. "What do I have?" He mutters.

"A tattoo," I tell him. "It says A Two," I tell him.

Thomas frowns. "Why?" The word hangs there, small and cold.

"I don't know," I say. "It was just something I noticed."

There's a silence between us, taut and uncertain. I feel like we're each standing at the edge of something, waiting for the ground to fall out. "Did all the boys in the Glade have one?" Thomas asks, voice low.

Newt shakes his head. "Not that I know of," he says, but his tone is strange - like he's starting to connect dots he doesn't want to see.

I exhale slowly, fingers curling into the dirt. "There were thirty-six of us when Teresa arrived," I say. It feels like a memory someone else lived.

"And now there are eight," Newt says. His voice is flat, but I hear the ache underneath.

My mouth is dry, but I ask the next question anyway. "Do I have one?"

I shift, pulling my collar down and tilting forward slightly so Newt can see. The air feels colder on my skin, and then his fingers brush my neck. The contact is soft - barely pressure - but it jolts something in me. I feel every ridge of his fingertip, the heat of his hand despite the chill. It's careful, almost reverent. Like he's afraid of what he might find there. "A Three," he murmurs. I can feel his breath close to my shoulder. "You sure you don't remember anything about what they mean?"

"I wish I did," I say, and it's the most honest thing I've said all day.

He lingers a moment longer, then I feel the fabric of my shirt fall back into place. But his hand doesn't quite leave yet. It pauses. "There's more," he says.

My heart kicks. "What do you mean?"

"Under the letter and number, there's a sort of... title," Newt tells me.

I turn to him quickly, breath catching. "Well what does it say?" I wonder and twist again so he can read the unknown marking.

Newt's voice barely makes it out. "The Cure."

It lands like a weight in my chest. I sit up straighter, suddenly very awake. "Let me see yours," I practically demand. Thomas is already on his feet, moving quietly around the others. I turn back to Newt, his back tense but willing. I brush his collar gently aside and squint in the low light. "Yours says... The Glue," I murmur. Behind me, Thomas freezes. "Thomas," I prompt.

He comes closer. I reach for him gently, my fingers lifting the collar of his shirt. I read the ink slowly, the words sinking into my brain like ice. Thomas shifts uncomfortably. "Well, what is it?" he whispers.

I don't answer right away. My eyes flick to Newt, whose face has gone very still. He leans in to read it too, squinting. "To be killed by Group B," Newt says.

The silence after that is raw. Open. A scab torn wide. Thomas blinks, his mouth parting like he's about to speak but can't find the words. "They gave us labels?" I whisper. But Thomas is already moving on - discovering more of our unfolding situation.

"Frypan is A Eight. The Sidekick," Thomas mutters, now crouched low, his hands shaking just slightly as he checks the next. "Jack doesn't have one. Aris isn't even an A - he has a B," he says and pauses.

Our eyes meet across the firelight, something sharp and wordless passing between us. "Group B?" I ask.

"His says The Partner," Thomas replies. I try to swallow, but my throat's too tight. "Minho is A Seven," Thomas adds, "and titled The Leader." We're not just numbers. We're roles. Assignments. Pieces on some board we never agreed to play.

Newt exhales slowly. "Should we be waking them up?"

"Probably-" I begin, but Thomas's voice cuts through.

"Guys," he says, low and grim. He's frozen behind Teresa now, his face unreadable. "She's A One." He looks at me. His mouth moves once before he says it aloud. "And hers says... The Betrayer."

None of us move. None of us speak.

The fire finally dies.

~