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

- WASTELAND OF A CITY -

We move in a loose cluster - Minho, Newt, Frypan, Aris, Teresa, Jorge, and I - our bodies tired but tense, every step echoing through the crumbling remnants of the city.

"The mountains are vast and dangerous," Jorge had said when we first started moving. "The city, though risky, offers a chance to find people who've heard of the Right Arm or know where exactly they're hiding."

That was all we needed. We didn't have another lead. And with WICKED crawling the desert behind us, staying still wasn't an option.

The ruins of what once must've been towering skyscrapers now jut into the sky like broken ribs. Twisted steel coils around shattered glass. Entire floors have collapsed into each other, leaving buildings leaning against one another in precarious angles. Fire-blackened walls gape with holes that look like mouths frozen mid-scream. The wind snakes through every alley and fracture, whispering a mournful hum as it passes. It smells like mildew and ash and metal - and deeper beneath it all, the lingering rot of things that once lived and no longer do.

We're walking carefully, weapons tight in our hands. Well, the makeshift ones we've managed to scrape together: a bent metal rod, a jagged piece of pipe, a half-splintered bat.

"This way," Jorge mutters, ducking under a collapsed doorway that used to be part of a storefront. The sign above reads something I can't decipher. Half the letters are gone. "Stay low. We've got a connection in the city. His name's Marcus. If he's still alive, he might be able to help us find the Right Arm."

Minho is beside me, his eyes narrowed, sweeping the surrounding alleys. Frypan lags a step behind, rubbing his shoulder. Aris sticks to Teresa, his eyes darting at every sound. And Newt - he's close. Like always. The curve of his body gently brushing mine when we weave tight corners or when I slow down.

We pause at the edge of a crumbled intersection where the old road dips down into a sinkhole swallowed by water and black sludge. We hear something in the distance - a low, guttural shriek, barely human. Our breaths catch.

Jorge doesn't flinch. He simply mutters, "Keep movin'. Cranks travel in packs at night. But there's still some scattered in the day. Half rotted, half rabid. And if you think the Flare doesn't make 'em fast - think again," he says. I don't tell him that we already know of the Crank's speed.

We cross through the ruins like rats in a maze, sticking to shadows, using gutted buses and overturned cars as cover. Every so often, Jorge puts a finger to his lips and holds up a hand, forcing us into stillness. Once, we see a small WICKED patrol - three men in dull gray gear, their rifles slung lazily. They walk with the arrogance of people who've been unchallenged too long. We huddle behind the crumbled remains of an old piazza, half of a something protruding from the rubble like a broken ribcage.

After they pass, we keep moving, ducking under a collapsed bridge and weaving through the skeleton of a once-grand hotel. It's quiet here, eerily so. Dust sifts through the light filtering down from holes in the ceiling. But then something unexpected happens.

We see people.

They're tucked away in hidden crevices - narrow alleyways blocked by shopping carts, stairwells covered by hanging tarps, makeshift doors of corrugated metal and blankets. Families. Kids. Elderly people with hoods drawn and hollow eyes. Not infected. Not yet. Just... surviving. Barely.

Some crouch around fire barrels, shielding the flames from view. Others barter with what little they have: half-used water bottles, canned food long expired, battered coats. A child - no older than seven - sits beside an older woman, scratching something into the dirt with a stick. Their clothes are threadbare. Their expressions are empty. It's not fear on their faces anymore. It's what comes after fear... numbness.