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

- THE LAST CITY -

Thomas doesn't even sit down.

Before I can process what Aris has said, before the ache in my chest can settle or the tea in my hands can cool, Thomas whips out the map. The old, sun-bleached one - creased and curling at the edges, smeared with ink, dirt, and what might be blood from some day in the past. He spreads it flat across the warped wooden table with the urgency of someone handling a medical emergency - because that's exactly what this is.

A crisis of time. Of distance. Of lives slipping just out of reach.

"We missed him by one car," Thomas mutters, his voice low, tight. "So we don't miss him again."

It's like a current runs through the room. Newt steps up to his right, I move to his left, and Brenda pulls over one of the mismatched chairs to join us. Harriet leans in across the table, arms folded, her eyes sharp. Sonya and Aris sit just behind us, still bruised and pale, watching in silence.

We stand around that battered old map for hours. Long past sunset. Long past the moment my legs start to ache. The lantern above the table buzzes and flickers, casting golden light that dances across the terrain. Mountains. Dry gulches. Forgotten access roads. Our world, laid bare.

One red inked line cuts across the map like a wound - our best guess at where WICKED might be keeping Minho. Our best chance.

"You think they're somewhere northeast through the canyon pass?" Brenda asks, dragging her finger along a thin ridge near Sector Eleven.

"They have to be," Thomas replies. "The rails stop just past here."

"And if you're wrong?" Harriet asks.

"Then we keep going," I say, before Thomas can. My hand is still pressed to the paper. My voice is steady, but my chest is burning. We fall into silence. The wind creeps in through the crumbling walls. The lantern ticks, loud as a clock. Time running out. "This is it, isn't it?" I ask, scanning all their faces.

Thomas meets my eyes. "Yeah. It is."

I look around - Newt, Brenda, Harriet, Thomas. Aris and Sonya in the background, listening quietly. We've all lost too much to stop here. And somehow, in this broken house, with a flickering light and a dusty map, it feels like the moment something begins again. "We're going after him," I say. "Minho. We find him."

Thomas nods. "We will."

But first - we have to take it to Vince.

And he isn't exactly thrilled to hear about another mission when we're this close to his precious boat launch.

"It's a few hundred miles," I say, the words scraping against my throat as I lean over the table. My finger hovers above the map, tracing the faint route we've sketched and revised over the last few hours.

We've gathered in one of the base's central rooms, once a conference hall and now barely more than a shell. The sea wind pushes through the broken windowpanes behind Vince, swaying the moth-eaten curtains like ghosts.

"Based on everything - rail direction, supply lines, WICKED's old activity - that's where they're headed," Thomas says. He stands next to me, both of us facing Vince across the war-stained table. Off to the side, Newt holds onto that old chipped mug again. I don't know what's in it now - more tea, probably - but I ache to have a sip, to wrap my fingers around something warm. Something steady. Brenda is just behind him, watching with narrowed eyes. Frypan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Thomas nods toward the map. "It's where they're taking Minho."

I swallow before I add, "We're sure of it." My voice is quieter, more deliberate. I watch Vince closely as I speak - because if there's any crack in his armor, it's for me. And I'm not above using it if it means getting Minho back.