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

- THE RIGHT ARM -

The cliffs rise and fall around us, their edges sharp like broken glass. The air is still, heavy with dust and silence, the kind that sinks into your skin. The sky's a flat grey, the kind that makes it hard to tell what time of day it is. No birds. No movement. Just us and the road.

The further we go, the more it feels like we're driving into the edge of the world.

Then, finally, the truck slows.

"We're close," Harriet says from the front. I lean forward in my seat as we crest a slight hill, and suddenly it's there - sprawled out across a wide plateau, nestled between cliffs like a secret: the Right Arm's camp. "They've been planning this for over a year now," Harriet tells us as we climb out and begin walking across the dirt.

The camp doesn't look like much at first. Not in the traditional sense. But the longer I look, the more I see.

Camouflage netting stretches across rows of vehicles and supplies, blending into the earth. Canvas tents - large, reinforced - are pinned down in tight formations, interspersed with crates, gear, weapons laid out in neat rows. Watchtowers made of salvaged metal and scaffolding perch at the corners, manned with guards scanning the horizon. There's an order to it all. A rhythm. Like everyone here has a job, and they're damn well doing it. Somewhere, water sloshes in large tanks. It's a temporary setup, but efficient. A mobile war zone disguised as a refugee camp.

"You guys are lucky you found us when you did," Sonya says, falling into step beside us. "We're moving out at first light." That catches all of us off guard. We stop walking.

Minho exhales. "Moving out? For what?" Neither of them answers. Not yet.

Around us, people pause to look. Just for a second. Curious. Guarded. But they keep working - rolling barrels, stringing cables, loading weapons. There's no wasted movement. This isn't a group of survivors. This is a group getting ready for something big.

"Where's Vince?" Sonya calls out to a man walking past with a tablet and headset.

The man glances over. "Somewhere over there," he says, pointing toward the far side of the camp - where the land slopes up toward a command tent, larger than the rest, with solar panels leaned against the back.

Sonya nods and waves us forward. "Come on."

People continue to glance at us - some wary, some just curious. We're outsiders. Strangers, even to the ones who were once in a Maze. The air feels heavier here, like everything's building toward something. I can feel it pressing at the back of my skull. "Who's Vince?" I ask as we walk.

Harriet throws a glance over her shoulder. "He's the one who decides if you get to stay." I look ahead, toward the command tent. The wind picks up, carrying dust and the sharp scent of oil and metal.

We keep walking, the gravel crunching beneath our boots. "I thought the Right Arm was supposed to be an army," Minho mutters beside me, surveying the camp like he's trying to piece it all together.

Harriet doesn't answer.

"Yeah, we were," a voice says, gravel-laced and tired. A man steps forward from the shadows of the command tent, worn fatigue jacket hanging loose over his broad shoulders. He's older than the rest, shaggy dark hair falling into his storm-grey eyes. A goatee lines his jaw, flecked with gray. His boots crunch the gravel as he approaches. "This is all that's left of us." He comes to a stop in front of us, hands settling on his hips. Sunlight cuts across his face, revealing the weight of someone who's lost too much. "Lot of good people died getting us this far." His gaze shifts, sharp now, appraising each of us like he's peeling us open. "Who are they?" He asks Harriet, voice clipped.

"They're immunes," Harriet replies evenly. "And I know this guy - Aris. I trust him," she says.

The man - Vince - squints, skeptical. "Well I don't." He jerks his chin to someone behind him. "Check 'em."

Boots scuff behind us. Tension ripples like a wave. I flinch when I hear the sound of someone's rifle clink against their vest. "Hey, boss," one of the men starts to say -

And then Brenda gasps. The sound is thin and broken. She stumbles, a soft thud as she crumples to the ground beside us. "Brenda!" Jorge cries, dropping beside her. "Brenda, hey! Stay with me- talk to me."

"What's going on?" Vince demands, stepping closer and crouching next to them.

"I don't know!" Jorge's voice trembles, frantic. "She was fine- she said she was fin-" Then Vince grabs her pant leg and yanks it up - and we all see it.

The wound.

The bite.

It's dark and bruising at the edges now, angry and infected, the skin stretched tight and fever-warm. Her body twitches slightly, like a shock just ran through her spine. Vince jerks back like he's been burned, hand flying to his sidearm. "We've got a Crank!"

Chaos erupts in half a second. Guns are drawn. A man grabs Jorge and rips him away from Brenda. He fights, screaming, but there are too many. "No! Let me go! Don't you touch her!"

"Step back, kid!" Vince barks as Thomas lunges forward.

Thomas throws an arm out in front of Brenda's shaking form nonetheless. "Wait, wait- stop! This just happened. She's not dangerous yet!" His voice is ragged, desperate. What does he mean it just happened? "You can see that, right? She's not gone. Not yet."

Vince glares at him like he's out of his mind. "You shouldn't have brought her here! We let Cranks in now, the safe haven doesn't last a week!"

"I know," Thomas says, chest heaving. "I know, but please- I told her the Right Arm could help. There's gotta be something you can do." I exchange quick glances with Minho and Newt, questioning why Thomas is throwing himself into the fray like this again. I shouldn't expect anything less.

Vince's face hardens. He lifts the gun. "Yeah. There is." The click of his weapon is deafening. "I can put her out of her misery."

"NO- NO!!" Jorge cries out, struggling against the grip of the guards. I start forward- but metal meets my ribs. A rifle, cold and deliberate. I take the hint.

"Please," Thomas whispers. "Please, don't." Everything hangs in that moment. The dust, the heat, the silent dread crashing down on all of us.

"Vince, that's enough!" A woman's voice slices through the tension like a blade. Everyone stops. "Let him go!" She steps forward out of the crowd. Her hair is dark, loose and free. Her eyes - sharp, rich green - scan the scene with a force that pulls the air from the atmosphere. She walks with the kind of authority no one questions. Not here. "Let him go," she says again, firm.

The guards release Jorge. He scrambles back to Brenda's side, eyes wet. "She's infected, Doc," Vince says, barely holstering his gun. "There's nothing we can do."

The woman doesn't look at him. She's staring at Brenda. Then her gaze lifts - first to Thomas. And something shifts in her. Recognition. Pieces clicking into place. Her eyes sweep the group. Minho. Newt. Frypan. Teresa. Aris. Then-

Me.

She stops breathing. Her whole body goes still. Her lips part, disbelieving. "(Y/n)?" she whispers. My heart stops. Because I know that voice.

And I never thought I'd hear it again.

~