Archive of Our Own ^beta

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#Date Year 3, Month 10. 

28/35 Gladers.

*Clink.*

The small sound echoed off the walls as Newt worked, tossing bits of scrap metal onto the counter in a rhythm that matched the restless tapping of his foot. His fingers moved with a kind of absent-minded precision, twisting and testing pieces like guess work.

“No more Gladers goin’ through the changin’—” he muttered, his words trailing off when he noticed Thomas’s eyes on him.

Not just on his hands though. Nor the mess of tools sprawled before him, but really looking at him. Like he had found some strange, unspoken mystery etched across Newt’s face and was trying to work it out.

“Is there somethin’ on my face?” Newt asked sharply, his accent slicing through the air as he paused mid-motion, his fingers still gripping a bent gear.

Thomas blinked, startled, and quickly turned his gaze away. “No, no. Just... zoning out,” he mumbled, scratching at his arm like the counter beside him had suddenly become unbearably interesting.

Newt didn’t buy it for a second. “Right.” His voice was dry as he returned to his work, the crescent blade under his belt glinting faintly under the light. Whatever was going on in Thomas’s head, it could stay there for now. 

Noticing Newt’s noticing, Thomas turned his gaze away, “uh, do you need a hand?” He blurted, the words tumbling out before he could rein them in. Because little did Newt know, the way his veins stood out against his skin, exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of Alby’s jumper as he reached for a stubborn piece of scrap, made Thomas feel like he was seeing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“I’m good for now,” Newt replied, his voice just a pitch too high, as if trying to hide the nervousness that had suddenly crawled up his neck. He didn’t look up from his work, but the way he busied himself with the tools suggested otherwise. 

“Uh okay,” Thomas said, nodding, though the uncertainty lingered. He leaned against the counter, watching Newt’s hands move. Silence stretched, filled only by the clinking of metal.

What’s up with him?

“Why’re you staring?” Newt asked, glancing over his shoulder, a teasing grin tugging at his lips. 

“Not staring,” Thomas shot back, heat creeping up his neck. “Watching.”

Newt raised an eyebrow, “you like watching me work?”

Thomas rubbed the back of his neck, his lips curving into a smile. 

Newt’s ears tingled, feeling uncomfortably hot, and he hoped to hell it didn’t show.

Perfect time to turn into a bloody tomato.

He dragged his gaze down, hoping it’d help, but that only made things worse. Thomas was licking his fingers, trying to clean up some small scrapes he’d gotten from the pine scales.

“Tommy, that's gross.” He quickly turned to a short cupboard, awkwardly bent his knees slightly to reach the back of the drawer, and grabbed a packet of band-aids, tossing it over without a second thought.

“They’re just small cuts,” Thomas mumbled, fumbling with the band-aids as he struggled to peel the backing off with his one good hand. It was almost embarrassing how clumsy he was being. The other day, he could’ve sworn Newt’s thumb had a deeper cut, but now here he was, awkwardly trying to patch up his own little nicks.

Newt leaned against the counter, mimicking Thomas’ posture, arms crossed, a blend of amusement and exasperation playing across his features. The sight of Tommy wrestling with the packaging made him want to laugh and cringe at the same time. Detective Fierce, the tough guy who faced Grievers without flinching, was now battling a band-aid with all the grace of a newborn lamb.

“I can handle it,” Thomas insisted, but even he could hear the uncertainty in his voice as his fingers slipped again, failing to pull the band-aid apart.

Newt smiled, shaking his head, “here, let me.”

Thomas opened his mouth to protest but found himself nodding instead. Without waiting for permission, Newt gently took the band-aid from his fumbling fingers, their hands brushing ever so briefly. Tommy tried, unsuccessfully, not to think about how cold Newt’s fingers were. But Second in Command’s full attention was on him now, brow furrowed in focus as he peeled the backing off the band-aid in one smooth motion—and Thomas was beginning to enjoy being fussed over.

“There,” Newt murmured, a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he pressed the band-aid over. His fingers lingered just a second too long against Thomas’s skin, not that either of them was complaining. “Not so hard, is it?”

Thomas swallowed hard, feeling the warmth in his face creep down his neck as he met Newt’s eyes. “Yeah well… I loosened it up for you.”

“Sure.” Newt cleared his throat, breaking the silence with the most random observation. “You’re right-handed,” he blurted, his voice quieter, like he wasn’t even sure why he was saying it.

I’ll have to adjust the handle on that sword.

Thomas blinked, momentarily confused. “Uh… yeah?” He tilted his head slightly, those eyes probably sparkling.

Newt, realising how strange his comment sounded, quickly turned his focus back to applying the next bandage. But his fingers brushed tanned skin again, and his eyes caught on the jagged scar running down the arm. 

There was something about the way Thomas acted like the scar didn’t bother him at all that kept his focus lingering. And he was standing so close—close enough for Newt to catch a whiff of something different. 

It wasn’t the usual mix of dirt and sweat that clung to everyone in the Glade. No, Thomas smelled... gingery. 

The Glade did have soap stored away, but most Gladers barely touched it. Only Keepers got the nicer, scented stuff. Maybe Minho had let Thomas borrow some, because the gingery scent, surprisingly, was oddly soothing —almost easing the nausea that usually came with it. 

Newt thought he hated ginger. It always reminded him of awful places—the Medbay, the Keeper's lodge, Jeff’s soup, places where the smell had a way of making everything feel worse. But here, in the scraps shed, it was weirdly different.

“Nothing,” Newt mumbled, his voice quieter than he intended. He forced his gaze to the grind, begging the heat creeping up his neck to disappear. He really needed to stop thinking about tracing that scar with his fingers. Or worse—asking Thomas how the hell he managed to smell better than Minho.

Why Newt even knew what Minho smelled like was a whole other issue.

“Uh okay,” Thomas said, grinning like an idiot. There was a brief pause as he tilted his head, his eyes lingering just a moment too long before he spoke again. He glanced down before looking back at Newt, who was still just a little too close for comfort. “So… uh, can I help with anything now?”

Newt paused, stuttering for a moment. “Yeah—sure um…” He fumbled for something, anything to say, before pointing vaguely at a random metal piece in a nearby box. “Grab that metal thing over there, and, uh… hold it steady while I… attach the needle?” His voice wobbled slightly, and as Thomas crouched down and reached for oddly shaped metal tongs strangely labelled ‘I.N’ , and then Newt's eyes wandered—entirely against his own will—right back to that scar. 

“Does it hurt?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. His voice came out a touch too high, and he immediately regretted it.

Thomas glanced up, his lips twitching into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not really. Just from a tree root.” Newt saw him hesitate. Thomas had a habit of biting his bottom lip when he was holding back, his teeth pressing down just enough to give away the war happening in his head. “Did you see Minho?—” Their eyes locked again, Thomas’s half-smile lingered, and Newt’s heart betrayed him with a flutter so strong it felt like a punch. 

Newt swallowed a mint leaf. He dropped his gaze quickly, focusing on the metal in his hands like it held the secret to forgetting how to feel.

Just talk like a normal person.

His attention flickered back and forth between the gear in his hands and the long scar running down Thomas’ arm. Each time he glanced at him, Newt was acutely aware of how close they were—how big his tanned hands looked compared to his own pale ones as they both manoeuvred the metal pieces. And the heat radiating off Thomas made it hard to concentrate; like standing too close to a bonfire. 

And don’t say anything stupid.

“His neck, yeah?” Newt said, desperate to regain some semblance of normalcy, even as his heart raced like it was about to run through the Maze. 

“Yeah, he got burned by the sap when I set it on fire—d’you want me to hold it like this?” Thomas cut himself off, stepping in closer to steady the metal piece, his movements casual, his presence anything but.

And then Newt felt it—a subtle pull.

It was insistent, threading itself through his chest and down to his fingertips. It wasn’t anything like the other pulls he’d felt before, the kind that left him hollow or grasping for escape. This one had weight, a quiet certainty, like the way water bends toward gravity. Inevitable and steady.

This wasn’t scary either. No, this time it was thrilling? Like electricity flowing through his veins. Like light stuttery shocks were humming through his blood, or perhaps poking at his skin. All because Tommy’s arms were stretching over his, brushing excitedly against the sleeves of Alby’s jumper—which to Newt suddenly felt too tight against his skin.

“Like this?” Thomas asked again, his hands firm, steadying the metal piece with care. His eyes were focused on his hands—or perhaps the pale hands which hovered just above his own knuckles.

Fabric was sticking to Newt’s skin now. Why was he sweating? 

Ignoring how overstimulated he felt, Newt managed a nod. He was now exceedingly aware of every tiny movement Thomas made in his peripheral vision. Like the way his breath seemed to quicken as he leaned in, their faces dangerously close. 

Then, Thomas knuckles brushed against Newt’s palm. 

The contact lingered just long enough for both of them to notice the other wasn’t going to move. It was accidental—probably. But it lingered just long enough to set Newt’s nerves on fire. His fingers twitched, and he yanked them back too quickly, too abrupt, nearly dropping the wrench.

“Sorry,” Thomas murmured, glancing up with wide eyes, his eyes searching. For what, Newt wasn’t sure.

“It’s fine,” Newt managed, though his voice wobbled dangerously close to breaking. He turned back to the task at hand, willing himself to focus on the work instead of the heat radiating from Thomas’s skin, or the way his laughter seemed to stick in the air between them. 

But fate, cruel as always, wasn’t done with him yet. Because as he shifted to adjust a different piece, his knee abruptly jerked, brushing against Thomas’s calf. The touch was stupidly brief, barely noticeable, but Newt flinched as if he’d set the whole contraption on fire.

Newt winced, muttering a quick, “sorry,” and glanced down, hoping the ground might just open up and swallow him whole. 

Thomas noticed the faint blush creeping up Newt’s neck but kept his focus on something else. His gaze flickered down, catching the familiar sight of Newt’s rolled-up pants—revealing just a bit too much leg for no apparent reason. It wasn’t even raining, yet there they were, revealing Newt’s leg. Which Thomas discovered, looked slightly different from the right.

Marked with a thick unevenness, was a faint but noticeable line.

“What happened there?” Thomas asked, his voice softer now, curious but cautious. He nodded toward the wobbly scar with his chin, his hands still steadying the metal.

Newt froze for a fraction of a second, his grip tightening on the tool in his hand. A flicker of discomfort passed over his face, so brief that someone less observant might’ve missed it. “Nothing,” he said, too quickly, turning away from Thomas and back to the gear. “It’s nothing.” He said again.

“Just… careful with that piece, yeah? Don’t want it slippin’,” he added, his tone clipped, the words coming out like a metal shield.

Sparkly eyes lingered on that knee for a moment, noticing the slight unevenness. But that wasn’t the only thing drawing Tommy’s attention. The way Second in Command absentmindedly licked his lips before talking sometimes. 

Newt had a habit of working his jaw, his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth as though the motion could lock the words inside. It was an unconscious gesture—one that had him captivated without even realising it. Then there was the slight crease in Newt’s brow, a concentration line that deepened when he was busy. And for some reason, that tiny detail—*Click* There it was.

A flicker of a grin tugging at Newt’s lips as he clinked the final pieces together. It was fleeting, but it sent an odd tingle through Thomas’s fingertips. He bit his bottom lip, trying to focus, but every time Newt moved, his attention followed.

Thomas felt like he needed to keep an eye on him. Like he should be watching him. He didn’t question it—he just did it, a habit now, though he wasn’t sure when it started.

Even when he’d first climbed out of the Box, disoriented and confused, that strange instinct had already been there. The first thing he’d done was search—not just for answers, but for someone. His eyes had swept over the Glade, scanning unfamiliar faces, though he hadn’t known what—or who—he was looking for. Not consciously, at least. But then he’d spotted Him, and something inside him had clicked into place, as if seeing him made everything feel just a little less terrifying.

That urge to watch him, to keep an eye on him, had only grown stronger in the days since. Thomas couldn’t explain why—it was just something he felt he had to do. Maybe it was a Greenie thing, like how ducklings instinctively latch onto the first thing they see, unable to help themselves.

Now, as he stood beside Newt, watching him tinker with the stinger, a flicker of recognition stirred. That need—it felt too ingrained, too familiar to have started in the Glade. It was older, deeper, rooted in something buried within his fractured memories. A hazy image brushed the edges of Thomas’ head—a blurred window, or maybe a glass panel—*Click* 

Newt grabbed a piece of wood and angled the stinger’s needle, his pale fingers moving with precision. Thomas couldn’t help but focus on them—small and slender, yet deft and sure, handling the delicate mechanism as if it were an extension of himself. There was something almost mesmerising in the way Newt worked, his movements fluid and efficient, like he’d done this a hundred times before. Like Thomas had watched him do this a thousand times before.

“Alright, step back,” Newt muttered, his voice low but laced with a nervous edge. Thomas caught the faint tremor in his breath and felt the air between them grow heavier, thick with anticipation. He didn’t move far, couldn’t; instead, he hovered just behind Newt’s shoulder, close enough to see more.  

And with a sharp exhale, Newt pressed the lever.  

*Scchtk-ck.*  

The stinger’s needle shot forward with a mechanical snap, piercing the wood. Thomas’ eyes widened as the surface began to change, the pale grain darkening and bleeding into a deep, inky purple. The transformation was instant and hypnotic, the colours swirling like some secret alchemy.  

“Whoa,” Thomas breathed, the word slipping out unbidden. His awe wasn’t just for the stinger’s reaction—it was for the quiet excited energy radiating off Newt.

Newt turned slightly, his lips twitching into a small, self-satisfied grin. “Not bad, eh?” 

“Yeah,” Thomas said, his voice softer than he intended, eyes still locked on the swirling purple stain. “Not bad at all.”  

Newt couldn’t help but smile at the sight, but the warmth radiating from Thomas was still there, making it difficult to think straight. "Just—don’t stand in front of it," he said, his voice a little too quick, his focus stubbornly fixed on the task in front of him. But he couldn’t ignore how close Thomas had stepped, moving past the red line that was painted as a safety boundary—now useless with Tommy leaning over his shoulder.

“And don’t touch that,” Newt added as he spotted Thomas reaching to touch the small metal screws. His voice came out more sharply than he intended, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he snatched the wooden piece with the tongs lying on the workbench, his movements swift, and dropped it into the bucket behind the red line. 

Thomas didn’t seem fazed by the warning, still lingering too close, his curiosity clearly outweighing any sense of caution. 

“Now for the real test,” Newt muttered, trying to concentrate on the intricate contraption in front of him. But his focus kept slipping, drawn to the short, messy brunette hair that hovered in the dim light of the single hanging light bulb, casting shadows over his workspace. 

Tommy’s hair was thick enough to partially block the bulb’s glow, frustratingly in the way.

Newt huffed softly, squinting at the half-lit contraption before reaching out, fingers curling around the back of a brunette head. He tugged the strands back firmly, tilting Tommy’s head just enough to clear the light and illuminate the space again.

“Ack!” Thomas jerked, surprised by the sudden touch. His lips parted as if to say something, but then he caught himself. Instead, he bit his bottom lip, mild embarrassment visible as a faint flush crept into his cheeks. 

Tommy swallowed hard, unsure if he should make a comment or just let it pass, opting for silence as Newt, unfazed, oblivious—or maybe just pretending to be—resumed his work, now with a clearer view.

Adjusting the screws, pale fingers aligned the wooden piece at the end of the stinger’s needle. Newt could feel Tommy’s presence, hear the quiet way his breathing changed when he bit his lip. And his heart was beating faster than it should, his hands a little less steady. He wasn’t sure if it was from the pressure of the test or the smell of ginger-soap. 

“See if this works.” Newt bit his bottom lip, focusing all his energy on the gears in his hands.

He flicked the lever, and the needle shot forward, stopping just as he clamped the metal pieces around the springs. The contraption held, the mechanism locked, and the wood remained unchanged. 

“It… works!” Newt turned to Thomas, grinning wide. “The venom doesn’t seep through! See, Tom–my… .. ?”

Words faltered.

Thomas was smirking and Newt’s world tilted, his heart screwing over itself. He could see every detail—the gold flecks in those eyes shimmering like pieces of trapped sunlight, dark velvet and warm skin, glowing even in the dim light of the workspace. Newt’s gaze dropped to His jawline—sharp, strong, perfect—and then darted back up, only to get lost in sparkling eyes. 

What was I doing?

Something important... gears, stingers—oh, right, not staring at Thomas like a slack-jawed idiot. Newt blinked hard, trying to reset his brain, but all he managed to do was hyper-focus on the fact that Thomas’s skin was unfairly smooth. Rich. Like blended—

“So...” Thomas’s voice dragged him back to reality, though not gently. “This thing stops Grievers from poisoning us, right? Or are you just building something to poke people for fun?”

Newt’s thoughts scrambled further. It felt like someone had grabbed his brain and given it a good shake. Grievers? Poison? No, he was supposed to be thinking about the stinger—except all he could think about was how Thomas’s lashes were ridiculously long. Why was he standing so close?

Thomas tilted his head, the movement slow, deliberate, annoyingly curious, and Newt swore a gear in his heart physically jammed in his chest. Great. Now he was malfunctioning and not only losing his grip on the wrench, but on common sense too.

“Oi, Newt.” Thomas waved a hand in front of his face. 

Newt snapped back, blinking rapidly. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” He forced himself to sound normal, though his voice cracked just slightly on the second “yeah.” 

Smooth. Very convincing.

Thomas’s pupils widened, revealing that swirling mix of molten brown and black, and Newt found himself drowning in it. He swallowed a hard, no minty flavour with it, the air around him suddenly too thin. Why was Thomas standing so close? He was supposed to be focused on the device, not on how flawless Thomas’ skin looked, or how his lips curved into that smirk that made his knees feel weak. 

God, he’s—

“You sure? You’ve been staring at me like I’ve got something stuck to my face.” 

Newt blinked, his face flushing as if caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. 

Shuck. 

The clutter of the shed came rushing back into focus, but Thomas’s eyes remained in the back of his mind. A rush of warmth flooded his cheeks, creeping to the tips of his ears as he registered just how long he had been staring—again. 

Heat rushed to Newt’s ears as he turned abruptly to the workbench, opening a nearby cupboard with far more force than necessary. “It works. That’s all that matters.” But the words came out quieter than he’d intended, his voice a touch breathless as he turned his head to face the workbench, desperately trying to regain his composure. “And, I’m good.” He quickly snatched the dangerous Griever stinger from Tommy’s hands—without thinking, he moved toward the cupboard, eager to store it away.

Thomas followed, undeterred, leaning casually against the cupboard as if he didn’t notice—or maybe enjoyed—the pink in Newt’s ears.

“Come on,” Thomas pressed, leaning in way too close again. “Admit it—this thing’s a bit impractical, isn’t it? Bet Minho would say the same.”  He was reusing Newt’s own words against him.

Newt let out a long-suffering sigh. “Bet Minho would also say you talk too much, but here we are.”

Thomas laughed, the sound warm and far too distracting. Newt tried to focus on the tools in front of him, but the faint scent of ginger soap drifted over again, and he knew he was doomed. “How’d you even—”

“Yeah.” 

“What?”

“Yep.” Newt tossed a wrench into the toolbox. He cursed himself, trying to put as much distance between them as possible, but Tommy seemed intent on closing that gap.

“How do you even come up with this stuff?” Thomas asked, leaning in just a bit closer as he reached for a stray tool. 

Silently, Newt thanked the heavens for his height; otherwise, he was sure Thomas would feel the heat radiating off his ears. “Just… trial and error,” he managed, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

“Trial and error, huh?” Thomas replied, “Looks like you’re doing a lot of the first and not much of the second.”

Newt shot him a look, aiming for annoyed but landing somewhere in mildly exasperated fondness. “Yeah, well, you should try it sometime. Might help with your—” He paused, his eyes flickering to Thomas’s face, which was annoyingly glowy in the dim light of the shed. What was it with that soft, golden halo thing? Was it the lighting, or was Thomas just smugly blessed by some higher power? “—your skills,” he finished, a bit too sharply.

“Oh, I have skills,” Thomas shot back, his voice smooth enough to knock Newt’s brain out of alignment. “I’m just better at… certain things.”

“Like what? Running headfirst into trouble?” Newt countered, narrowing his eyes as he shoved tools into a box with entirely too much force. “Killin’ Grievers?”

“Maybe.” Thomas chuckled, that low, infuriating laugh that sounded like he knew he was winning. “Or maybe I’m just better at getting under your skin.”

Newt huffed, though it came out more like a startled wheeze. “Not likely,” he muttered, but his hands betrayed him, fumbling with the wrench he was holding. He tried to shove a screwdriver into the box and missed entirely, sending it clattering to the floor like his dignity.

“Here, let me help,” Thomas said, reaching for a hammer at the exact moment Newt grabbed for it.

And that’s when it happened.

It was nothing, really. Just two hands, existing in the same space for a fraction of a second. But to Newt, it felt like someone had fired a bloody Griever stinger straight into his chest. His heart launched into a full-on sprint, faster than even Minho could manage, and why the hell isn’t Tommy pulling his hand away?

Newt jerked back like the hammer had suddenly turned molten. “Thomas—” His voice cracked, and he coughed, trying to cover it with a laugh that sounded like it came from a dying chicken. “Just, uh... hold that.” He thrust the hammer at Thomas, who accepted it with a raised eyebrow and an amused smirk that made Newt want to throw himself out the nearest window.

“You feeling alright?” Thomas asked, leaning closer—too close—and then actually placed a hand on Newt’s forehead.

Oh.

“Oh,” Thomas said after a beat. “You’re burning up. We should get you to Jeff before you pass out or something.”

Newt blinked, his brain rebooting just enough to remember how to speak. “I’m fine,” he said, which was a blatant lie because he could barely remember what domain would open tomorrow. “Really. No need for Jeff. Or anyone.”

Thomas didn’t look convinced. In fact, he stepped even closer, invading Newt’s personal space like it was some sort of game. “Alby told you to rest earlier. You know, you should actually listen for once.”

Why did he have to sound so earnest? And why did his eyes have to do that thing where they sparkled like the stars Minho claimed to see every time he hit his head? Newt’s gaze darted to Thomas’s lips, soft and way too close, and oh God, why was he still looking?

Stop looking, Newt. STOP LOOKING.

*SLAM.*

The shed door burst open with all the subtlety of a Griever attack, and Newt leapt back like he’d been caught committing a crime.

“FUCK—Gally!” he yelped, his voice an octave too high.

Freckles stomped in, boots crunching ominously over a pile of crushed pine cone bits. His scowl was in full force, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as Minho’s dramatic entrance behind him.

“Ah hell!” Minho hissed, holding up one foot like he’d stepped on a spike. “Newt,” he started, his voice sharp with disapproval, still shaking his shoe off, “what are you still doing up?”

Gally sighed, glancing between Newt and Thomas, eyes narrowing.

“Alby told us to fetch you,” Minho continued, sounding both exasperated and concerned. “Said you needed to rest. Somethin’ about you staying up late making… making..” Minho eyed the workbench like it was some over complicated puzzle. “..whatever it is you’re making.”

Newt opened his mouth to protest, but Gally cut him off with a deep sigh. Without warning, he was grabbed by the back of his hoodie—the one Alby had lent him—and practically dragged towards the door, clutching the gear he had painstakingly crafted. He held it tightly, the cool metal felt reassuring in his palm, embodying his hope that this could be the breakthrough they needed. 

“Hey what—Gally, let go!” Newt protested, wriggling like a trapped squirrel as he struggled to free himself. It was infuriating how his genius had just reached its peak, only to be interrupted. His fingers twitched to tinker more with the gear he’d crafted. With a huff, he added, “you’re ruining my brilliant moment here!” 

But Gally wasn’t having it. 

“You shouldn’t even be up,” he grumbled, snatching the scrap of metal from Newt’s hands and passing it to Minho, who squinted at it like it was a puzzling piece of art. “Do you know how late it is?” With a sigh, he thought to himself that Newt had undoubtedly added another item to his ‘Oops, I Did It Again’ collection. 

Meanwhile, Gally—despite being shorter than Newt—effortlessly dragged his lighter frame toward the Homestead, his thick, muscular arms flexing with every movement. The definition in his biceps and forearms was impossible to miss, veins snaking beneath the taut skin as he hauled Newt along. “You’re shuckin’ useless if you don’t sleep.”

Behind them, Thomas hesitated, taking a step forward as if to follow. His eyes were filled with concern, but before he could say anything, Gally glanced back, rolling his eyes with a grunt. “Go to bed.”

His voice carried a rough authority, his muscles rippling as he adjusted Newt’s weight without even breaking a sweat. Thomas stopped in his tracks, looking to Minho for help. 

Minho’s expression softened, but he shook his head at Thomas. Gally smirked. The smugness on his face was unbearable, and Thomas hated how fat that grin looked on him. He clenched his jaw, watching them walk away. His feet itched to follow, though Minho had already made it clear that wasn’t an option.

>>><<<

Enter - Homestead (North East)

Rummaging through a pile of supplies stacked haphazardly in the corner of the homestead, Jeff’s movements were quick but somewhat panicked. “Alright, genius, let’s get this leg of yours rigged up before you manage to injure something else.”

Clint leaned back against a cushioned log crate with a theatrical groan. “Don’t rush on my account. I’m perfectly fine lounging here.” Casually pointing a stick he had picked up towards a fraying rope hanging on the wall, he continued. “That’ll do. Just tie me up and hoist me like one of Fry’s fancy roast chickens.”

Jeff paused, narrowing his eyes. “That’s a rope, Doc, not a sling. Unless you want me to dangle you from the rafters and call it a day?”

Clint smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Kinky.”

Jeff ignored him, pulling out a worn fabric sling from a crate and holding it up with triumph. “This should do.”

Clint took one look at the sling and grimaced. 

“Unless you want me to improvise with duct tape and a prayer, you’re taking this.” Jeff marched back over, holding the sling like it was a royal decree.

Clint grumbled as Jeff knelt again, carefully wrapping the sling around his injured leg with all the gentleness of a mother hen. “You’re fussier than Newt with Alby, you know that?”

“You’ll thank me when this doesn’t fall apart in ten minutes.” Jeff tightened the knots with precision, ignoring Clint’s exaggerated winces.

Winston, who had been silently watching and snuggling under his own sheets finally spoke up, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Hey I want a personal nurse too!”

Jeff didn’t even look up.

Winston held up his hands in surrender, shooting Clint a smug glance. “Looks like you’re in good hands, Captain Broken Calf.”

Clint rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t be jealous, Winston. There’s plenty of Jeff’s tender loving care to go around.”

Jeff stood up, brushing off his hands. “You’re all set. Try not to do anything stupid for the next—oh, I don’t know—hour.”

“Not making any promises,” Clint quipped, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

Winston smirked as he headed for the door. “I give him ten minutes.”

Jeff shot Clint a pointed glare. “Don’t make me regret saving your sorry ass.”

“Never.” Clint grinned, waving him off. “You’d miss me too much.” 

>>><<<

Enter - Cookin’ Cabin (North West)

Frypan (18) leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes scanning the Gladers as they shoveled down their breakfast. He knew their habits better than anyone, and if you watched closely, you could tell a lot about someone the way they ate. 

Minho (17)—wearing his Runner’s chestplate was devouring his meal like he hadn’t seen food in weeks, eyes darting around the Glade as if the Maze itself was waiting to pounce. Near him Thomas and Newt seemed to be hunched over, looking at something he was tinkering with.

Across a put out bonfire, Josh (14) and Michael (15), two younger Gladers, were locked in a playful tug-of-war over the last piece of crispy bacon, laughter bubbling between them. Meanwhile, Gally (17) sat nearby, munching on corn with a self-satisfied grin, only to be met with Zart, bandages all over, with an unimpressed stare. Billy (18) and Jackson (17) stifled their laughter, sharing glances that only heightened Zart’s annoyance. He still had bruises covered with yellow paste all over his skin (making him look like a yellow kumquat), though the Arnica’s seemed to be doing their job.

At another log, Zack (14) was the centre of attention, enduring good-natured teasing from Diego (15), who was poking his bandaged legs, drawing what looked to be stars with mud rocks. Leo, the mischievous 13-year-old, took advantage of the distraction, swiping one of Zack’s flatbreads with a cheeky grin. Neither of the older boys even noticed, so he tore it in half, handing a piece to his giggling accomplice, Adam (13), who burst into laughter at the theft.

Frankie (17) was a tornado of motion. He crammed half a loaf of bread into his mouth as he darted away from Tim, who stood like an angry statue, arms crossed, a vein popping in his forehead. "You set it on fire and didn’t bother to tell me?!"

Between hurried chews and a wide grin full of crumbs, Frankie shrugged. "That’s what you get for making me look for you for hours." His words came out quiet and muffled.

Tim's face went crimson, his voice climbing an octave with pure exasperation. "What the-fuck Frankie!"

From the sidelines, Frypan leaned against the counter, watching with amused detachment, while Winston, completely unfazed by the chaos, sauntered past and—without so much as breaking stride—smacked the back of Tim’s head. "Language," he scolded, deadpan.

Tim whipped around, looking even more flustered as he rubbed the spot where Winston’s hand had landed, but the frustration bubbling in his chest didn’t stop him from shouting after Frankie, “you’re dead!! You hear me!”

Frankie let out a low, unexpected chuckle as he darted behind the line of Gladers still waiting for their food. The sound was so rare—most of them, especially the younger ones, had never even heard him speak—that it sent a ripple of startled reactions through the group, a few jumping scared as though they’d been caught off guard. Frypan snorted, shaking his head. "Next time, Frankie, just hide in the Slammer. He never looks there." He called out after them. 

Speaking of the Slammer, Dylan (14) and Mark (14), on the other hand, were notably absent, still serving time there. And, as Gally had ominously reminded everyone that morning—no breakfast for them today.

“Y’know,” Frypan began, voice cutting through the clatter of plates and chatter, “people’s eatin’ habits tell you more than they think.” His gaze shifted to First in Command, who, unlike the others, pushed around the last bits of meat with a slow, deliberate hand. Alby seemed lost in thought, probably stressed with sending out more Runners into the Maze than usual.

Jim (15) snorted, pausing mid-bite, but Frypan didn’t break stride. He gestured toward Thomas (17) with his spatula. “Look at Detective Fierce over there, swallowin’ like he’s gotta fight for his last meal. Always on edge. Could be he’s used to fightin’ for survival, not living, or maybe he picked it up from Minho after those Maze runs or whatever.”

Jim blinked, thrown by the insight. Anything related to Minho rubbed him the wrong way, especially with how the annoyingly big muscly Asian guy was digging into his second plate this morning without even bothering to line up for it again. He opened his mouth to complain again, but Frypan’s attention had already drifted to Second in Command.

Thomas was leaning over his shoulder now, listening intently as Newt rambled on about the gear in his hands. With each word pronounced by a thick accent, he would nod along, biting into his bread with focused concentration. It had become almost a rhythm—Thomas took a bite, and then Newt, as if following an unspoken agreement, would do the same. They seemed to take turns, synchronising their eating with every technical explanation, though Newt’s words grew softer the more they chewed while his blonde hair fluffed up in the air.

Every so often, when he switched to another piece of equipment or inspected a Griever device, Thomas would rip off a chunk of his own bread and wordlessly offer it to him. And without breaking his flow, Newt’s jaw would accept it, barely glancing away from his work.

Winston, standing next to Fry blinked, chewing on a piece of meat slightly slower than before when he started to stare at Thomas too. 

The weird thing was, Newt usually ate smaller portions. And his eyes were usually distant and detached as he chewed—like Alby. But recently, there was this new energy in the way he ate. It wasn’t just the fact that he was eating more. It was how he was doing it, taking bigger bites, finishing his portions with an intent that felt oddly out of character. 

Maybe it was because Alby wasn’t sitting next to him this time, his usual position at Newt's side vacant. The absence of their leader’s ever-present watchful eye seemed to have an impact on him, freeing him up in ways none of them expected. Or maybe it was something else entirely. The pressures of leadership hadn’t just weighed on Alby, after all—Newt had been Alby's right hand, his go-to. 

Furthermore, it wasn’t just his appetite that seemed different. The way he sat, the way his posture had subtly slacked, the way he seemed to be... present. Maybe it was puberty finally catching up, stirring not just his physical growth but his emotional and mental maturity. Or maybe it was something to do with the ever-growing sense of survival among the Gladers, pushing them all to adapt in ways they couldn’t fully understand yet.

Jim, who was still glaring daggers at Minho’s overstuffed plate, muttered under his breath, “didn’t that shank eat enough last night?”

Minho, ever the opportunist when it came to food, didn’t bother to respond, simply shovelling more into his mouth with a smug grin. But Jim wasn’t just angry about the food. Both Frypan and Winston knew it. 

There was a shift happening among them, something unspoken but undeniable. The discovery of Maze patterns, and now killing Grievers had become the norm. And clearly, Second in Command’s sudden increase in appetite was just one piece of a much larger puzzle.

The recent battles against the Grievers had shifted their reality; each time the Runners returned with a ‘key,’ the conversations ignited like sparks in a bonfire. 

Frypan thought carefully, his mind lingering on the quiet shifts in their behaviour. He was obviously the only one who had noticed Minho giving away a portion of his stew last night, which explained his excessive hunger this morning. 

“Funny how eatin’ changes with comfort.” He mused, glancing around the bustling kitchen. “You can tell a lot about someone by how they eat when they’re around certain people,” he continued.

“What the hell are you on about?” Jim raised an eyebrow, scepticism written all over his face. “Minho hasn’t changed one bit.”

Frypan smirked. Tastes change, and maybe so do people. But who knows? It could just be those changes that come with growin’ up.

“Food never lies, shank,” Frypan added, turning back to his stove to switch it off. “You just have to know how to listen to it.”

“Ughh, I can’t breathe,” Alec (15) groaned dramatically, clutching his stomach.

Kristen (16) nearly choked on his drink, eyes wide. “Everythin’ okay?”

“There’s no room with—Dan’s EGO!” Alec exclaimed, voice strained. “Because of your awful log-choppin’ skills the whole stack fell! Gally said we’ll have to chop more properly ‘cos those can’t be used for building!”

In an instant, Dan (15) dropped his plate, lunging at Alec in an almost feral reaction, tackling him to the dirt. Kristen sprang into action, swiping their plates and cups out of the way to prevent a breakfast disaster.

“Someone’s stealin’ your bread, by the way,” Jim said nonchalantly, his hands busy holding a bowl of cut fruit for Teresa (17), who had opted to eat in the Torch Tower rather than with the rest of the Gladers.

“What?” Just then, Frypan heard a light giggle behind the counter. He turned to see a small pale chubby hand reach out, swiping one of his flatbreads. The tousled hair peeking over the counter looked all too familiar—like Chuck’s. “HEY!”

>>><<<

Clint (18) huffed as he struggled to pack Jeff’s (17) harness, his hands fumbling slightly as he shoved a handful of.. freakish oblong yellow fruits into one of the leather pouches. “Here,” he muttered, his voice gruff. “Just take these with you, in case you need a snack or somethin’.”

Jeff blinked, glancing at the bright yellow fruits now crowding his harness. “...really?”

“Take ‘em or leave ‘em, Jeff,” Clint grumbled, rolling his eyes as he shifted uncomfortably, his bandaged leg still throbbing. He hated ku–those damn fruits—always had. He couldn’t understand why the Glade even had them in the first place. Nor why his medjack insisted they tasted any good.

Before Jeff could respond, Winston (18) couldn’t contain his laugh. Behind him, a short Jim had a mischievous grin on his face. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day Clint willingly held Cummers.” he snorted.

Winston rolled his eyes, “don’t call them that,” nudging Jim’s arm as he packed one of Frypan’s designs of a ‘lunch-bag’ onto the back of Jeff’s harness. “Better savour those.” 

Frypan, wiping his hands on his apron, walked by just in time to overhear the exchange. “Clint, in the kitchen and handing out kumquats?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. “What’s next? You gonna start cookin’ too?” His laugh rumbled out, causing Winston and Jim to crack up as they walked away.

Clint groaned, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hilarious,” he deadpanned, trying to keep his cool as the others laughed. He shifted his weight again, grimacing as his bandaged leg ached beneath him. Jeff had wrapped it tight—probably too tight—but Clint didn’t say anything. He figured he had just been trying to help, even if it was overdone.

“You hate them,” Jeff remarked, flexing his arms as he swung the pack around his shoulders and looking Clint over. “What’s got you so generous today?”

“I’ve seen you sneak plenty of stuff before, like the tools Newt took from us—but never kumquats.” Winston added, now shaking his head.

Clint shrugged, avoiding their gaze. “Dunno, maybe you’ll need ‘em.” He waved it off.

“Uh-huh, sure,” Frypan said with a knowing smile, watching Clint wince as he tried to adjust his stance. 

Jeff smirked, catching the underlying meaning, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he just gave a slight nod. “I’ll save ‘em,” he said, adjusting his harness tighter.

“Whatever, man. You’re welcome,” Clint said, rolling his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. “Just don’t let Minho catch you droppin’ them.”

“Oi, Clint!” Jeff called over his shoulder, his grin as bright as a midday sun. He jogged off, yellow balls bouncing in his hands. “Try not to trip over your mood swings!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint snorted, holding a bench for support. 

Winston, laughing, sidestepped as Jeff’s juggling act nearly turned disastrous, the fruit slipping precariously between his hands. “C’mon man, you’re gonna waste them,” Winston said, shaking his head as he reached out to steady him.

“Waste?” Jeff exclaimed with mock offense, tossing a fruit into the air and catching it with his mouth that wasn’t entirely smooth but good enough. 

“Just don’t get lost.” Clint muttered under his breath, though his tone was more grumble than venom. “Be back soon, shuckface!” he added louder, waving them off with an exaggerated flick of his wrist.

Jeff turned back briefly, a mock salute accompanying his cheeky grin. “You’ll miss me!”

Clint rolled his eyes again, but he didn’t stop watching them until they disappeared over the hill.

>>><<<

Enter - Bush Bonfire (North)

Alby (19) stood tall, the sun catching on his sharp jawline as he cleared his throat, commanding the attention of the assembled Runners. “Alright, listen up! We’ve got a lot to cover today.” His voice cut through the air like the blade of a machete. Behind him, Minho leaned against a log, looking equal parts bored and amused, one hand fidgeting dangerously close to scratching his neck.  

Newt hovered just behind Alby, his attention ostensibly on the group, but his gaze kept drifting. Alby’s shirt, worn thin from countless days in the Glade, clung to his back, outlining the ripple of muscles beneath. The fabric shifted slightly as Alby gestured towards Jackson and Billy, and Newt’s fingers twitched like they wanted to inappropriately trace those lines. 

“Jackson, Billy,” Alby barked, pointing with authority, “you’re heading into Domain 1. Check the buckets—we can’t afford to run low on water.”  

Jackson gave a quick nod, excitement flickering in his expression as Billy grinned. “Got it! We’ll be quick,” he replied, his voice edging on overeager.  

Minho, ever the philosopher, smirked and added, “Just don’t dawdle, or I’ll have to drag your sorry butts out of there.”  

Billy chuckled, clapping Jackson on the shoulder as they hurried off, the sound of their voices fading into the distance.  

Meanwhile, Gally, standing just to Newt’s side, nudged him hard with an elbow. “Oi,” he muttered, his voice low and teasing.  

“What?” Newt snapped back, his face heating as he instinctively straightened up, trying to look like he’d been paying attention.  

“Focus,” Gally shot back, smirking as he elbowed Newt again for good measure.  

Oblivious to Newt’s distraction, Alby gestured towards Jeff and another Glader. “You two, Domain 5. Minho’s checked part of it already. Roots are a rot, but see if the tree’s still there—and report anything weird.”  

Jeff popped something small and yellow into his mouth, grinning like he had all the time in the world. Minho squinted at him. “Careful with those kumquats,” He drawled.  

“Better than dealing with your laundry,” Jeff shot back with a wink, earning a muffled laugh from a few nearby Gladers as they headed out. Instantly, Winston’s grip to his leather harness dragged Jeff out of Minho’s dangerous vicinity.

Alby, ignoring Glader shenanigans with a sigh, moved on, his focus shifting to Thomas and Frankie, helping to tighten straps on Frankie’s harness. “You two, Domain 7. Look for changes—anything out of the ordinary. And watch the blades. Last thing we need is another close call.”  

Thomas, standing straighter than usual, gave a quick nod. “Got it. We’ll keep our heads down.” He adjusted his own harness with a sharp pull, the metal buckles catching the sunlight in brief, blinding flashes.  

The gleam danced across his tanned skin, and Newt’s gaze wandered again, analytical. His eyes flickered between Thomas’s shoulders, the way the muscles flexed hidden under his harness, and Alby’s neck, glowing bronze under the Glade’s golden light. It was like watching the sun catch on moving rivers—Gally nudged him again. Harder this time. 

“Piss off,” Newt hissed, flicking his gaze down to his hands where he busied himself, pretending to adjust his sling-bag over his own harness. 

Gally slouched his shoulders, dipping his head close to Newt’s ear. “Then stop staring.”

A honeyed voice broke through again, sharp and commanding, grounding Newt just enough to focus—if only until the next time his thoughts started to wander. 

Beside Tommy, Frankie nodded, though his fingers drummed a restless beat against his leg. He shot a nervous glance toward Tim, who watched from behind a disorganised stack of logs, his tiny glare aiming to give off sharp and unsettling vibes.

“And while they’re off playing explorers,” Minho chimed in, he threw a backwards thumb pointed towards a tuft of blonde hair that was obstructing Newt’s face. “We’ll wrap up our route through Domain 2. Wait for you before headin’ in.”

“Just make sure you’re ready when they get back,” Gally interjected. He looked to his right where Newt was once again zoning out, his eyes fixed on Alby’s calves now. Without warning, he double-tapped his back—two sharp but subtle taps with his knuckles, just enough to snap Newt out of his daze. 

Newt flinched slightly, blinking as the imaginary disco lights faded. Gally’s lips twitched into a smirk, but before he could move away, Minho’s eyes narrowed at him. The asian boy stood with his arms crossed, watching the interaction closely. 

He didn’t say a word, but his stance was firm, his gaze trained on him with an intensity that made Freckles raise a brow before stepping back. Picking up on the tension, Gally eyed him with a look that said ‘fuck off.’ 

Minho wasn’t one to back down, his sharp gaze locking onto Gally, eyebrows lifting in that signature, mocking challenge of his. The air crackled with unspoken tension, the silent standoff broken only by the rhythmic *clink, clink* of Newt’s fiddling. 

“Can’t afford to waste time,” Gally muttered, finally breaking eye contact with an irritated sigh. His arms crossed over his chest as if that could shield him from Minho’s unwavering stare. “If there’s something new out there, we need to be the first to know.”  

“Yup! We’ll be quick,” Thomas called out, already running towards the opened walls of Domain 7 with Frankie.

“Cya Tommy,” Newt replied absentmindedly, his tone distracted. He was too busy with his harness (and not looking at Alby’s legs), the faint metallic sound of a Griever gear bouncing inside his sling. His fingers worked deftly, twisting and adjusting with the ease of someone who could assemble and disassemble a Maze Runner harness in his sleep.

The small, worn piece of machinery caught the sunlight as he shifted it between his hands. It glinted like a hidden secret, its edges clicking softly against the sling's fabric as Newt tucked it back in place. His concentration was so sharp, it was as though the entire world faded away when he tinkered. *clink*

Minho’s brows knit together as he finally tore his sharp gaze away from Gally to glance at Newt. “What are you adding to your collection now?” he asked, his tone carrying a mix of curiosity and mild exasperation.

Newt didn’t bother looking up immediately. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as his hands moved with practiced precision, tightening a stubborn strap. “Somebody’s gotta keep us from fallin’ apart,” he replied, his voice steeped in dry humor. The sunlight filtered through the trees above, glinting off the buckle he worked on, and the soft jingle of metal against leather punctuated the quiet tension in the air.

Gally’s sharp exhale cut through the moment, his impatience practically radiating off him. “While you’re saving the day with your bloody arts and crafts, the rest of us have a job to do.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Newt shot back without missing a beat. His tone was casual, almost dismissive, but the faint gleam in his eyes betrayed his amusement. With one final, satisfying *snap*, he slung the harness over his shoulder in a smooth, practiced motion. Only then did he look up, locking eyes with Minho, who was already smirking. 

“Ready when you are, Runner boy,” Newt quipped, the smirk widening into something more mischievous.

Minho let out a chuckle before he could stop himself, “Okay, first off, you do not get to call me that.”

Newt raised an eyebrow, clearly reveling in Minho’s reaction. “What, too personal? Would you prefer Speedy Pants?”

“Ew,” Gally muttered from his spot nearby, walking away.

“Newt.” Minho threw his hands up in mock desperation. “I’m begging you to stop.”

Newt feigned a look of consideration, tilting his head.

Minho groaned, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “You’re lucky I’ve got places to be, or you’d regret saying that.”

“Lucky?” Newt echoed, his grin turning downright cheeky as he fell into step behind Minho. “I’m the one carrying the emotional weight of your existence.”

Minho’s hand twitched as if considering throwing something, but Newt was already out of reach, darting ahead with a burst of laughter.

From the sidelines, Alby shook his head. Gally, meanwhile, was mid-rant, gesturing wildly as he complained about something involving Jim and Teresa. Alby nodded along, clearly only half-listening, his gaze occasionally drifting to the horizon where Minho and Newt had disappeared.

>>><<<

Enter - 2’s Maze Entrance

Newt stood at the edge of the Glade, the sun casting long shadows over the rough blueprint spread out before him. He had just finalised his newest design—a gear modification. It was small but powerful, much like the hope they all clung to. His fingers, long and deft, moved over the intricate mechanisms as he tried to drown out the distractions around him.

Chuck bounced over, practically vibrating with excitement, a canteen of water in one hand and something small and wooden in the other. “Thomas! Look, look! I made them just like the blueprint!” he exclaimed, holding up a handful of wooden toy models.

Thomas’s grin was wide and infectious as he patted Chuck on the head, taking one of the toys from his small hands. “Good job, Chuck,” he said, handing the toy over to Newt, who barely glanced up from his work.

Newt nodded in his direction, but his eyes lingered, tracing down the lines of his chestplate before catching sight of the long scar peeking from beneath his sweaty rolled-up sleeves.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s coming together,” he murmured, trying to sound focused as his fingers fiddled with the toy's gears, ensuring they aligned just right. But his mind was half elsewhere, caught up in the sight of—

“Where’s Alby? He’s s’pposed to see us off.”

On the grass, squishing some Arnicas beneath him, Minho stretched his long legs sprawled out against the ground in preparation to run. Newt couldn't help but glance at the way his pants rolled up slightly and how tight the harness was practically sticking to his skin. "You gonna show me how that thing works, or are you just gonna keep messin’ with it all day?" Minho teased, standing up and reaching into his pocket to grab a snack—an apple he'd saved from breakfast. He bit into it with a loud crunch, seemingly oblivious to the way Newt was staring at him, supposedly unimpressed.

“Bye Chuck,” Thomas chuckled, flipping the second wooden toy he’d obtained from him in his hand he stepped closer to Newt, placing a hand over his shoulder as he slid past. Chuck waved them goodbye, running off through the Glade’s grass. “Let’s head in,” Thomas said, before placing the toys into the blonde’s sling. He had been watching the quirky way Newt moved about. It was a little uneven, jittery like he was constantly ready to dash off somewhere.

"Hm?” Newt, entirely focused on the gears, barely registered the touch, his brow furrowed as he inspected the tiny mechanical workings. “I’ll be right behind you." 

“Alright.” Thomas grinned, amused by Newt's obliviousness, and rested his hand a little more firmly, down Newt’s neck to face him forward as they started to walk behind Minho, who was now munching his apple mid-jog. 

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Newt caught a glimpse of Minho in his peripheral vision. “Didn’t Clint tell you not to scratch your neck?” 

Minho bit into his apple loudly in response, narrowing his eyes as he made his way, clearly unfazed by the reminder.

“Was the Griever carcass still there?” 

Meanwhile, Frankie who had just returned from domain 7 was being dragged away by an excited Tim, pestering him with questions. “Or did it burn entirely?”

Frankie groaned. “The metal parts were left behind,” he replied, trying to sound annoyed, but his voice wavered slightly. Tim's hair was still a messy mop of curls from the morning, and how short he was compared to everyone else, had his mind spiralling in a completely different direction. He was the only one who seemed to have the uncanny ability to draw Frankie out of his shell, making him feel both exposed and strangely exhilarated.

Tim gasped, his eyes widening in delight as he clung to Frankie’s arm, tugging insistently at his sleeve. “You should take one of the legs back for me next time!”

At that moment, Frankie realised that maybe it was futile to try to keep quiet. Because somehow, in Tim's company, he found himself wanting to share everything. “Maybe.”

“Pleeeease.” Tim begged, tugging on Frankie’s shirt. 

>>><<<

Newt’s fingers danced over the shiny gear in his hands, completely oblivious to the world around him as he tinkered with his new invention. They were halfway through Domain 2, Minho navigating up ahead, but Newt was lost in thought. His focus narrowed on the delicate modifications he was making to the gadget—a tool that, once perfected, could prevent them from ever getting stung again. 

Thomas, however, wasn’t nearly as distracted by the Maze or the gadget. His eyes kept drifting toward Newt, who, despite the mess of Maze life, looked... good. The morning light hit his hair just right, making it seem like it was glowing, all golden and soft. He shook his head, trying to focus on Minho’s path, but his gaze kept slipping back to Newt’s messy, yet somehow perfect, curls.

"You’re gonna run into a wall." Minho muttered. He took another bite of his apple—because of course he was snacking while running through the Maze—and squinted at Thomas with mild suspicion as the boy stared at Newt’s hair.

"Slim it, Minho," Newt shot back.

Thomas tore his eyes away from Newt long enough to give Minho a shove. "You’re the one eating while we’re running. Who does that?"

"Some of us have enough brainpower to multitask.” Minho grinned, undeterred. He turned back just in time to see Newt drifting off-course, completely absorbed in his shiny new toy. Without hesitation, Thomas lunged forward, grabbing his harness and yanking him back before he could walk straight into the Maze wall.

“Oi!” Newt blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “What was that for?”

Thomas didn’t let go of Newt’s harness right away. “Saving your genius arse, that’s what. You were about to walk right into a wall.”

Newt glanced up, “oh” eyes a little dazed from his intense concentration. “Thanks, Tommy,” he mumbled, but his hands were already back on the gear, twisting and turning it like nothing had happened. 

Before Thomas could make a joke, Minho, sensing an opportunity for mischief, darted over and snatched the shiny gadget right out of Newt’s hands. “What’s this thing anyway?” he asked, holding it up like a prize.

“Hey!” Newt yelled, exasperation clear in his voice. He reached up to grab it, but Minho held it high above his head, grinning like a kid who’d just stolen someone’s candy. “Give it back Minho.”

“Looks weird,” Minho commented, flipping it around to inspect it. “This another one of your ‘whoopsie’ collections? What’s it even supposed to do?”

“It’s to stop us from getting stung,” Thomas answered, his voice full of amusement as he watched Newt grow increasingly frustrated.

 “Huh,” Minho’s eyebrows shot up, impressed despite himself. “Maybe you actually make useful stuff.”

Newt groaned again, stepping forward to snatch it back, but Minho easily dodged him, jogging ahead. “C’mon, Newt! We’ve got to get to those statues anyway. Don’t lose your precious little toys!”

“Minho, I swear—” Newt started, breaking into a run to chase after him, but there was a smile tugging at his lips despite the irritation. He looked back at Thomas for just a moment, their eyes meeting in a shared glance. 

Thomas gave him a knowing grin.

Newt shook his head, but there was a flash of excitement in his eyes now, the same glint that had been missing for days. He sprinted ahead, and Thomas followed close behind, his gaze flickering back to Newt’s glowing hair as it bounced with every step.

Minho, completely unfazed by the chaos he’d caused, led the way deeper into the Maze, navigating with his usual ease. “You done playin’, Newt?” he called over his shoulder, still holding the gear up high. “I thought you had more stamina than me. Some of us are actually tryna’ navigate here, you know.” 

Newt ignored his words, determined to get his invention back. Thomas, however, couldn’t help but laugh as he chased after them. 

>>><<<

Enter - 1’s Maze Walls

"Hey, Jackson, what did the corn say when it got a compliment?" Billy asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Jackson sighed, already bracing himself. “I don’t know, Billy. What did the corn say?”

They had trudged back from Domain 1, each carrying a heavy bucket of water. The buckets sloshed with each uneven step, the heat of the Maze sun baking their skin. Despite the exhaustion, Billy couldn’t resist doing what he did best—making bad jokes.

"It said, 'Aw, shucks!'" Billy grinned, waiting for the groan he knew was coming.

Jackson didn’t disappoint, rolling his eyes as he adjusted his grip on the bucket. "You’re so corny."

"Corny," Billy shot back, his grin widening as he wiggled his eyebrows.

"Stop," Jackson begged, though there was a hint of a smile on his face. "You’ve been at it the whole way back, and I swear if I hear one more corn joke—"

Billy interrupted with a new one, barely containing his laughter. "Okay, okay, last one. What does a farmer say after a great harvest?"

Jackson paused mid-step, narrowing his eyes. "I’m almost scared to ask."

"‘That was amaize-ing!’" Billy burst out laughing at his own joke, nearly spilling the water.

Jackson let out a tired sigh, but his lips twitched upward despite himself. 

Billy snickered. "Well, you know what they say—when life gives you corn, make popcorn."

"That’s... not a saying." Jackson shook his head, amused despite his best efforts. But his laughter quickly died down when they neared the Glade Garden and spotted Zart.

The boy was standing just at the edge of the field, staring out at the burnt corn crops with an expression of pure misery. The rows of blackened stalks stretched out before him like a graveyard, the once-lively fields now reduced to ash and charred remains. Zart, usually so sturdy and strong, looked defeated.

Billy and Jackson exchanged a glance. Billy, never one to let silence settle too long, approached Zart slowly, trying to lighten the mood. "Hey, Zart, what did one cornfield say to the other?"

Zart didn’t move. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes fixed on the destruction in front of him. "Don’t, Billy. Not now," he muttered.

Billy hesitated, the grin fading from his face. He glanced at Jackson, who gave him a small shake of the head. "It’s bad, huh?" Billy asked, his voice softer now.

Zart let out a long, slow breath. "Everything’s gone. All of it. We won’t be harvesting anything for weeks. Maybe longer." He clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "And for what? We’re just stuck here. Nothing we do matters. We grow, we work, and then... this."

Billy and Jackson stood in silence for a moment. The Maze took and took, never giving back. And now, the one thing that offered them any sense of normalcy—the crops Zart worked so hard on—was gone.

Jackson stepped forward, resting a hand on Zart’s shoulder. "We’ll figure it out, man. We always do."

Zart shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Watching everything burn.."

Billy, for once, didn’t have a joke to crack. Instead, he just stood there, staring out at the wreckage. The laughter that had carried him through the walk back felt hollow now, swallowed up by the bleakness of the scorched earth before them.

"Hey, Zart," Billy said after a long pause, his tone more serious than usual. "I know it looks bad. But we’re still here, yeah? We’re still fighting. The Maze can throw all it wants at us, but we’re still standing." He forced a grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "And I’m still gonna keep telling terrible jokes until you can’t stand it anymore."

Zart didn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth twitched just a little. "Maybe that’s the worst part."

Jackson gave a small chuckle, stepping beside Zart as the three of them stood shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the ruined crops. "We’ll rebuild," he said firmly. "It won’t be easy, but we will."

Billy picked up one of the buckets again, slinging it over his shoulder. 

Zart finally nodded, his gaze still fixed on the blackened fields. "Yeah. I guess we don’t have much of a choice."

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Enter - 2’s Maze Walls

As he caught up with Minho, Newt finally reached out for his gear, still pretending to be annoyed but unable to hold back his laughter. "MINHO!!" 

"Fine, fine," Minho grinned, tossing the gadget back with a teasing flick of his wrist. "Just don’t lose it. I’m not runnin’ back for your toys."

Newt caught it mid-air, and then it happened. That smile—the one neither Minho nor Thomas were ready for. 

The sun hit his face at just the right angle, illuminating his teeth. Then Newt’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and suddenly the whole world felt brighter. 

Minho, who had just taken a bite out of a half-eaten apple, froze for a second too long. He chewed down hard, accidentally biting his tongue. “Ow—” he muttered, immediately scowling at himself. But he couldn’t stop staring at Newt, who was still laughing, the sound echoing against the maze walls.

But for Thomas, it was different. He felt it—an instinct in his gut to watch him. Something from the pit of his memories, the ones still hazy and fragmented. He couldn’t shake the sensation that he’d seen Newt like this before—watched him from a distance. That pure, infectious laugh drew an unstoppable grin from Thomas’ lips, and for a moment, everything else—the danger, the fear, the impossible odds—faded away.

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Enter - Bush Bonfire (North)

Clint trudged through tall grass, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth as he observed the bustling activity around him. Gladers darted about, energy buzzing like a swarm of bees, while some of the younger ones sported mischievous grins as they stashed not-so-hidden pinesparks in their pockets. The sounds of laughter and excitement wrapped around him, deepening his grumpiness; he wasn’t in the mood for their games.

His gaze drifted toward the garden, where he spotted Teresa and Jim. She was laughing, the sound light and smooth, like a stream gliding over stones, while Jim stood a little too close, his face flushed a deep shade of red. Clint felt a flicker of annoyance but quickly suppressed it. Why was everyone so cheerful when there were Gladers out there risking their lives in the Maze? 

Clint watched silently, feeling like a solitary tree in a bustling forest. When Teresa caught his eye, her smile brightened as she waved at him. Clint pursed his lips. He nodded curtly and turned away, a strange and unfamiliar tug of confusion pooling in his stomach.

It was weird. As a Medjack, he prided himself on knowing the signs of sickness, the subtle shifts in a person’s mood that hinted at something more troubling beneath the surface. But today, nothing made sense. His stomach twisted and turned, performing backflips that he couldn’t quite diagnose. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, but they kept overlapping themselves like the bandages Jeff had wrapped around his leg.

The familiarity of his medical knowledge clashed with this new, chaotic feeling. Was he sick? He should know better. For now, he continued his walk, trying to brush off the warmth of the sun that felt like a taunt against his mood—gone sour like a kumquat.

#Date Year 3, Month 10. 

28/35 Gladers.

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