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

- MASKED MEN -

Thomas stares.

I follow his gaze.

The truck rolls past us. It's armored, welded together from old parts and broken dreams. On the back, masked men hang from the sides, gripping railings, rifles slung over their backs. I can't see their eyes. Just black fabric and the glint of metal. But I feel one man, buzz cut and all, staring at me through his mask. He doesn't look away. "There are more of us," the speaker growls. "Than there are of them!" The crowd roars, fists raised. "And I say we rise up and take back what is ours! Let's bring back a victory!"Another explosion of cheers.

The vehicle keeps moving, swallowed again by the city, by the crowd, by the weight of something bigger than any of us. I exchange a glance with Newt. His expression mirrors my own. A storm is brewing here. A storm we're walking straight into.

A slow heat rises from the back of my neck, prickling under my skin like the beat of a distant drum. I reach back, my fingers brushing against the smoothness of my tattoo - that unfamiliar mark, etched against any of our consents. The sudden connection sends a chill down my spine, making the hair on my arms stand on end. I lift my eyes.

Above us, sleek, black drones hover silently in the gray sky, their mechanical bodies cutting through the dust and noise like predators circling prey. Their lenses gleam cold and unblinking, tracking every movement below. "Hey guys," I say, voice barely above a whisper, "do you feel that?"

Newt nods, eyes flicking upward. "Like a heartbeat in my neck? Yeah, I feel it."

Fry's brow furrows, the tension in his stance sharp. "That can't be good."

Thomas glances up at the drone but doesn't stop moving. "Let's keep going. Stick together." We weave through the crowd, stepping over cracked pavement and discarded trash as we move. The throng's noise swells, a cacophony of angry voices, pounding fists, and chants drowning out everything else. We slip sideways, ducking beneath an old, crumbling archway of a forgotten building; its brickwork chipped and vines creeping through the cracks. The shade cools us briefly before we emerge on the other side. "That's it," Thomas breathes, eyes locked on the horizon. "That's our way in."

Ahead, hundreds of desperate souls press against towering cement walls that loom like ancient sentinels. The walls stretch far and high, stained by years of grime and weather, their surfaces marred with graffiti and protest slogans. Between two massive pillars, a rusted gate sits sealed shut, barely visible beneath the crushing weight of the crowd pressing against it. It looks like it hasn't moved in months.

The cries for justice, for freedom, for the cure, rise up as a tidal wave of sound. Men and women, young and old, raise their voices, fists pounding the walls and gates as if sheer will might shatter the concrete. I can only wonder how much of their days is spent doing this.

Thomas move forward without hesitation. I glance around. "What happened to stick together?" I ask, voice tight with worry.

Jorge catches up to Thomas, his expression grim. They disappear into the crowd, swallowed by the masses pushing toward the gates. I'm still with Newt, Fry, and Brenda, but the throng feels like a living thing - restless and unpredictable.

Suddenly, a man bumps into me. It's not accidental; his elbow digs into my side with a sharpness that leaves me off balance. I stumble slightly. Newt's steady hand finds my arm instantly. Fry's eyes narrow as he looks ahead. "What the hell did we get ourselves into?" He mutters under his breath.

I swallow hard, the weight of the moment settling in my chest like a stone. Around us, the noise grows louder, a relentless roar of voices demanding to be heard.

Ahead, I spot Thomas and Jorge pushing through to the front barrier, their silhouettes barely visible through the mass of bodies. The barrier feels impossibly far away, like some last fragile thread holding us all together.