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

- THE WRONG PIECE -

The rest of the train car stretches ahead of me.

There's a walkway down the center, narrow and cluttered with gear. On both sides of it, in rows of threes, are the kids.

At least sixty of them. Maybe more.

Some sit upright, backs pressed hard to their seats, heads high. Some are more drained, leaning forward with the weight of exhaustion pressing down on them. The air is thick with whispers, murmurs of names, and cries of recognition. Harriet's already down at the second row, hugging her friends so tightly it looks like she might never let go.

Behind me, Thomas and Newt step in. The silence between us sharpens, then thins out into threads of awe and disbelief. But I barely hear anything anymore.

All the sounds blur into a soft hum as I begin to walk.

My boots echo on the metal floor as I pass each face. I look into every set of eyes I can find - blue, brown, green, red-rimmed, terrified, vacant. Some recognize me from that first 'safe' place in the Scorch. Some don't. It doesn't matter.

I keep going.

One row, then another. Then another.

I don't see him.

I check every shadow. Every corner. Every folded over figure I'm hoping isn't unconscious or worse. The faces begin to blur together, my heart hammering faster now with every step.

And then I reach the end.

I stop.

I don't need to say anything. But I do. "He's not here," I murmur, my voice barely audible, though it cuts through the car like a scalpel.

Thomas stops beside me. Newt too.

I don't turn around. I just keep staring at the last row. At the space that's empty.

At the absence that weighs more than the whole train.

~~~

The kids are out now.

The train car's doors stay open as people swarm in - medics first, followed by people with stretchers, blankets, hot water, and whatever food we could scrounge up. Most of the kids are able to walk, if slowly. Some need to be carried. Every face wears the aftermath of survival: pale skin, trembling lips, wild eyes that haven't seen real daylight in who knows how long.

It's hard to tell if they're relieved or just stunned. Probably both.

Some are given first aid on the spot - bandages wrapped around infected cuts, water offered to parched mouths, coats draped over shaking shoulders. Others stand there in the open air, arms tight around their own ribs, trying to remember how to feel the sun again.

Vince steps forward to meet them.

He waits until the crowd settles, until the chaos softens into an exhausted stillness, and then he begins to speak. He doesn't shout. His voice is low, clear, steady. "I know what you've been through," he starts. "I know you don't feel safe yet. I know some of you don't even feel real yet. But you're here. You're free." No one claps. No one cheers. And he doesn't expect them to. "But I need to tell you something," he continues. "WICKED isn't gone. They're hurting - We've put dents in their systems. But they're still coming. Still desperate. And they still think you- each one of you- are pawns." He steps closer to them. His expression is unreadable. Not cold. Not soft. Just tired, like all of us. "They told you that you're immune. And it's true. You are. You're the rarest people on the planet. But to WICKED, you're experiments. Sacrifices. They never planned to save you. Only study you. Then bleed you dry." Some of the kids begin to shift where they stand. You can feel the words sinking in like weight pressing down across the entire camp. "But that ends now," Vince says. "We're preparing something. Something final. In two days, we launch it." He turns around and points to the closest boat - also the one least destroyed as they've been patching it up for three months. "In two days she'll be seaworthy and then you all have the chance to come with us, to the Safe Haven."