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

- THE RIGHT ARM -

Bertha turns out to be a car.

Well, she's more than that. Bertha isn't just a truck, either. She's a beast.

The moment Jorge pulls back the rusted tarp covering the depot entrance and we lay eyes on her, the name suddenly makes a lot more sense.

She's massive - some sort of military-grade transport vehicle, sun-bleached and battered from years of exposure, but intact. A boxy, tank-like frame built for strength, not speed, with thick, all-terrain tires that look like they could flatten a building. Her paint is patchy, olive green swallowed by rust, but someone once cared enough to give her personality. There's a giant, twisted pair of horns welded to the front - curving between the headlights like some wild animal from another world.

"That's Bertha?" Minho asks, practically bouncing. "She's beautiful."

"You've got a weird taste, shuck-face," Frypan mutters, but he's grinning.

Jorge runs a hand along the metal like he's greeting an old friend. "She's heavy. Slow to start. Drinks fuel like water. But she'll get us there."

"She better," I mumble, but even I can't deny the small flicker of relief warming in my chest.

We pile in. Jorge at the wheel. Minho calls shotgun so fast nobody bothers arguing. I haven't seen him smile like that in a long time - not since the Glade, maybe. There's something boyish in the way he slaps the dashboard and declares, "Let's ride, baby!"

The rest of us squeeze into the back half of the truck's reinforced cab, packed like cargo. I end up crammed in the middle row between Newt and Brenda, with Fry wedged on her other side. Brenda doesn't say much. Her face is pale, and there's something dark in her eyes. I ask her if she's alright - twice - and both times, she nods without meeting my gaze.

Behind us, Thomas sits in the far back, hunched near the window with Teresa beside him. Aris sits with them, fiddling silently with the clasp on his jacket. No one's really talking back there.

The engine rumbles to life like an angry bear waking up. We jolt forward and Bertha starts moving, slow at first, then picking up speed as Jorge steers her through the cracked roads and broken skeletons of buildings. Dust curls in spirals behind us.

For the first hour, there's a strange calm in the truck.

The steady hum of tires against earth. The creak of metal. The occasional cough from Frypan, or the soft rattle of something loose in the back.

We drive.

Through remnants of old towns - empty homes with collapsed roofs, roads swallowed by sand. Through winding stretches of desert scrub, where wind cuts sharp and carries the ghosts of a world that forgot itself.

Time stretches.

The air feels more desolate out here. Rocks grow jagged. Every so often, I glance out the cracked side window. The horizon keeps changing. Civilization falls away behind us. The road grows more wide, more wild.

We drive for what feels like forever.

Hours blur into each other. My back aches. My legs are numb from the cramped seat. But none of us complain.

We know what's waiting.

I must doze off at some point, because when I blink, the light outside has shifted - pale gray clouds stretching across a blue sky, casting long shadows over the mountains we've finally reached. Then, Bertha slows. The engine grumbles, low and guttural, as Jorge pulls us to a stop.

"What's wrong?" Minho asks from the front.

"There," Jorge says, pointing.

I lean forward to look past Brenda and Frypan.