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

- A DODGY TUNNEL -

Everyone went to bed.

The scattered areas of the compound are quiet, draped in heavy shadows. There's a strange stillness in the air that reminds me of the moments right before a storm - when everything holds its breath, waiting. Most of the others think we've made our decision to stay, to wait it out, to follow Vince's plan. They've retreated to their cots and corners, clutching blankets, curling into sleep they desperately need.

But not us.

And definitely not Thomas.

We know him too well by now - his habits, his logic, the way he thinks when no one's looking. We know he won't leave through the front gate. He won't pack in the middle of the day. And he certainly won't say goodbye. Not to us. Not if he thinks we'll try to stop him.

So Newt and I wait for him.

We position ourselves just outside the storeroom on the second floor, the one where they keep the gear crates, vehicles and ammo shelves. There's an old, overhead bulb above us, swaying slightly from a cracked chain as the desert wind sneaks through a broken windowpane. The room smells like rust and oil and dust - like preparation and leaving. Frypan's waiting, too. No way we he was letting us leave him behind. He's already in the truck, sitting patiently in the driver's seat.

Newt leans against the table beside me, arms crossed over his chest, one boot tapping quietly against the concrete. His eyes are half-lidded but alert - his body relaxed in that strange, effortless way. Neither of us speaks for a while. There's nothing to say. We're just waiting.

And then we hear him.

Footsteps.

Soft at first, then growing louder on the stairs. Heavy but careful. There's a metallic jangle of zippers and buckles, the faint creak of fabric as a duffel bag swings at his side. And then Thomas appears. He walks into the room, head down, adjusting the straps on his bag. His hair's messy, sticking up in the back, and his clothes are layered and ready - dark hoodie, reinforced boots, sleeves rolled up like he always does before a fight.

He doesn't see us. Not until Newt speaks. "Where do you think you're going, then?"

Thomas freezes.

I flick the light switch behind us. The bulb overhead stutters to life, casting a weak cone of yellow over all three of us. Thomas looks up - guilty, wide-eyed - caught mid-step like a kid sneaking out past curfew. His mouth opens but no words come out at first. "Newt... (Y/n)..." It's barely a murmur. Like he was hoping we weren't real.

"Seriously, Tommy?" I ask, stepping forward. There's no anger in my voice. Just disbelief. A sharp kind of sadness.

He blinks, like he's trying to think of the right thing to say. But he doesn't get the chance. Newt pushes off the wall and crosses the space between them, reaching out and grabbing the strap of Thomas's bag before he can pull away. "No," Newt says, firm. "Don't be a twat about this, because we're already in."

Thomas's jaw tightens. He pulls back slightly, but doesn't yank hard. "No, you guys. No. Not this time." He looks between us. There's fire in his eyes, but it's layered under something deeper - something brittle. "Even if we find Minho... there's no guarantee we make it back from this." He swallows. "It might be suicide."

I glance at Newt who shows no true flicker of his past. "Then we'll need all the help we can get," I digress simply. I move past him to the waiting truck - engine dead, headlights off. It's coated in dust, scratched along both sides, one of the side mirrors barely hanging on. It's one of the last functional vehicles we've got. Then I throw open the driver's door.

Frypan sits behind the wheel, his eyes catching the light just enough to shine. He grins at us. "We started this together," Fry says. "We might as well end it that way too."