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

- EASE OF FRIENDSHIP -

The clothes are simple, but warm - thick thermals, a worn wool-lined jacket, a scarf that still smells faintly like smoke and cedar. I pull the sleeves down over my hands as the chill bites at my fingers. The air on this side of the mountain is different. Sharper. Like even the wind is waiting for something.

There's no sun out here anymore, just a pale stretch of grey sky and the muted silhouette of the cliffs, broken only by distant shadows moving through the mist. The camp sits quiet in a shallow basin between the rocks, like a secret the earth is trying to keep.

Thomas had slipped into the med tent while I changed. I caught a glimpse of him as I came out - his posture bent, cautious, shoulders heavy with guilt as he stepped quietly to Brenda's side. Jorge was already inside with her again, face drawn tight with worry. I didn't follow. It didn't feel like my place.

Instead, I went to grab something to eat.

Teresa found me inside, where a pot of something warm simmered over an open flame. She had a bowl already in her hands, untouched, cradled more like a question than a meal. She nodded toward the empty bench beside her.

I sat.

For a long while, we said nothing. Just let the breeze talk around us, and the camp bustle faintly in the background - footsteps crunching on dirt, hushed conversations, the occasional clatter of a weapon being checked or packed away. People preparing for something. A future. A fight. Maybe both.

"There are millions of people suffering out there, (Y/n)," Teresa says finally, her voice low but unwavering. "We can't turn our backs on them."

I look over at her. There's something about the way she says it. Not angry. Not desperate. Just... certain. Like she's already made her choice and she's just waiting for the rest of us to catch up. "You should talk to my mother about the biology - behind the process to slow the virus," I say, my voice softer, unsure.

But Teresa doesn't hesitate. "That's not a cure," she snaps, like she's been holding that sentence back for too long. Like she already knew such a thing.

"I know," I admit. I don't want to argue - not with her. Not right now. "I don't know, Teresa... but we can still try. That's what my mother wants to do."

She shakes her head, looking away, jaw tightening. "But it's not enough." The words hang there between us, like frost in the air. She shifts on the bench, finally turning to look at me. "I genuinely think WICKED had it right."

It's like someone pulled the ground out from beneath me. I stare at her, and I can't keep the hurt from bleeding into my voice. "Torturing kids?" I utter.

For a second, I think she'll fight back. Defend it. Justify it. But no words come. She just presses her lips together and stares at the empty bowl in her hands. That silence says more than anything she could have. "I'm gonna get some air," she mumbles, already standing.

"Alright," I say, even though it doesn't feel alright.

She walks away, her footsteps light but quick, retreating like she's trying to outrun her own thoughts. I watch her veer toward a narrow trail that climbs one of the cliffs - alone. The scarf she wraps around her neck flutters behind her like a white flag.

And then I'm alone again.

I pull my jacket tighter and stand, wandering away from the bench. The camp feels bigger when you're not with anyone. Like every tent, every shadowed figure, every glowing lantern is a stranger's home. People move past me with quiet purpose, carrying crates, cleaning weapons, tending to vehicles and fires.

They barely look at me, and I don't blame them.

I'm not sure what I am here.

A survivor. A witness. A daughter. A friend?