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

- VALUABLES -

We follow her through winding corridors on the upper level until she opens a heavy steel door. We enter a large, cavernous room that feels nothing like the tunnels or labs we've seen. No harsh fluorescents illuminate this place - just table lamps casting golden pools of light. The space stretches wide under a vaulted ceiling; salvaged furniture, mismatched couches and wooden chairs are scattered between workbenches lined with radios, circuitry, and old, patched-up maps. A dozen or more people mill about, whispering ideas and tinkering with gadgets as though this is just another evening hangout.

It's a jarring contrast. People are in here, but the energy is calmer, almost civilized. "Keep up," the girl cautions as we lag at the threshold. "Jorge wants to meet you."

"Who's Jorge?" Thomas asks, leading with Teresa, their steps quiet but purposeful.

"You'll see. No one's come out of the Scorch for a long time," she tells him, voice attempting to be neutral, yet it's tinged with caution as she guides us deeper.

I step closer to Newt. We ascend another flight of creaking wooden steps. "How's your leg?" I ask softly - as softly as I'm capable now, far too exhausted to overthink.

He shoots me a sideways glance - something raw and honest flickers in his gaze. "It's all right," he answers bluntly. I can hear the fatigue in his tone. A tall man with razor-thin facial hair steps close behind us, boots clicking on wood. I glance over and notice a few others flanking the group - guards. I feel watched, framed by anxious eyes in this dimly lit sanctuary. "Are you getting a bad feeling about this place?" Newt murmurs, hand on my backpack strap.

"At least we're out of that lightning," I say quietly. But I already know this new place carries its own storm.

Up we go, another flight. The girl stops at a landing and announces, "Jorge, they're here." Then she steps away and perches on a battered leather sofa.

We stand in a circle in the center of the room, our friends behind us, guards at the perimeter. The atmosphere tightens. Sparks of conversation hush as a man shifts forward under a swinging amber lamp, his silhouette etched against a dusty, cracked window. He's hunched over a table littered with archaic radios and scribbled papers, muttering to himself. "Damn it," he curses lowly. Then he straightens, steps forward, and stands tall. We all tuck together. Newt's shoulder touches mine. "Do you ever get the feeling the whole world's against you?" The man - Jorge - asks rhetorically, hands on hips. The window behind him flashes with the residue of the storm outside. He narrows his gaze at us, pacing slowly. "Three questions. One: Where did you come from?" He slips to a side table, grabs a dusty glass, and fills it from an old crystal pitcher that looks way too fancy for this ragtag base. "Two: Where are you going?" He asks, his voice smooth but steely. He stands, silent, eyes scanning us intently. "Three: How can I profit?" His last words make a grimace of dread settle over all of us. "Don't all answer at once," Jorge adds, raising the glass to his lips.

Our minds race. I swallow, trying to speak. Jorge's gaze flicks to Thomas and Teresa at my back. "We're looking for the Right Arm," I say firmly. "We were headed to the mountains."

He snorts. "You're looking for ghosts," he retorts, downing the rest. He sets the glass down with authority. Then, cold as steel, he picks up the pitcher's empty silhouette and turns back to us. "Back to question one."

There's a tense pause as each guard lurks closer. I glance at Newt. At Thomas. Their eyes are taut, ready for anything. Minho steps forward, voice steady. "That's our business."

Suddenly, the guards surge forward, grabbing each of us - rough and efficient. Whatever control I was holding onto dissolves into panic. Hands clamp around our wrists. I try to steady my breathing, but guards press me down. My knee strikes the ground, and I give a strangled gasp as my face is pressed to Jorge's unpolished floors. The girl from earlier approaches. She holds something tight in her right hand - maybe a gun. I slam my eyes shut, heart pounding: This is it. The end. I feel her shadow pass over me, hear her exhale deeply.