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

- MASKED MEN -

The drive is longer than expected. Roads stretching ahead of us, winding down out of the mountains and into the scorched remains of what used to be civilization.

But surprisingly... our time is not quiet.

We talk. Maybe because the silence would feel too heavy now. Maybe because we all know it might be the last time we get to hear each other laugh. The conversation bounces from Frypan's latest snoring incident to Brenda reminiscing on Jorge's "heroic" driving, to Newt casually roasting Thomas for always looking like he's one step from brooding into the void. It's everything and nothing. Pointless, but warm. Like a shared blanket in a storm.

But no one says the truth.

That Brenda and Jorge - by showing up when they did, by pulling us out of that tunnel - might have just doomed themselves for us.

Their actions hang unspoken in the air, but it's not ignored. Every look, every half-smile we pass between us says thank you louder than any words could.

Thomas sits near the front, leaned against the side panel of the truck bed, his eyes trained out at the passing terrain. His jaw's tight. Quiet. Reflective. I think Newt's comment about Teresa is still lodged somewhere in the back of his mind.

It's lodged in mine, too.

I've thought about her more times than I care to admit. Whether she's happy now. Whether she's still with WICKED. Whether she's with Minho. Whether she regrets what she did. If she even remembers what it felt like to be one of us. Or if she ever really was.

We hit city outskirts by nightfall, but we don't risk entering it blind.

The truck comes to a stop in an abandoned lot, sheltered between two old collapsed shipping containers and the skeleton of a gas station. We sleep in the back, limbs tangled, packs under heads, weapons close.

The night is cold, but not as cold as the eerie stillness.

When dawn rises, we're already moving.

~~~

The outside of the wall city is alive.

Barely.

The streets are choked with people - too many of them, all moving in different directions. Dirty, ragged, desperate. The chaos is palpable. No lines, no order, just bodies squeezing through alleys and avenues, trying to get somewhere. Trying to get away from something.

We push through the crowd in a tight formation - Jorge and Thomas in front, clearing the path. Newt and I in the middle, close enough that our shoulders touch. Brenda and Frypan bring up the rear, always scanning. Always ready.

Our boots scuff against cracked pavement. Rubble lines the sides of buildings. Makeshift tents and shanties stretch like a sea of decay between fire-gutted storefronts. Faces flash past - blank, hollow, sick. People huddle around barrel fires. Mothers clutch children too thin to cry.

"This place has really gone through hell," Jorge mutters, scanning the skyline. I look up too. Even the sky looks sick. Smog hangs in the air like a bruise.

"We've just gotta stay together," Thomas says, calm but firm. His eyes never stop moving. I nod, even though he can't see it from where he is. I stay close to Newt. The moment I fall even a step behind, I feel the city trying to swallow me up.

But then something cuts through the noise - a megaphone crackling with static and fury. "We are the voice of the voiceless!" I try to ignore it. I keep my eyes down, on Newt's shoes, on his pace next to my own. But Thomas stops. And when Thomas stops, we all have to. The crowd shifts. Everyone's turning toward the sound. On top of a rusted-out supply truck, a man stands with a speaker in one hand and rage in his eyes. "They hide behind their walls!" He bellows. "Thinking they can keep the cure for themselves while they watch the rest of us wither and rot!" More people are gathering now. The crowd parts, just enough for the vehicle to move through, slow and deliberate, like a parade of warning.