Hazy Haylo

nice to meet you :D

[hazy-haylo]

| Welcome!! |

| I’m Hayes! | 18 | She/He |

| Chronic Multishipper |

@haylo-haze is where i repost/post my head-canons or my fics if you’re interested

@the-haziest-haylo is where i post my art/ ocs if you’re interested

If i reblogged ur fic and tagged it haylospeaks, that is just me bookmarking it bc it was so good!!

I like a lot of things, heres an incomplete list!

DC

-Batman

-Any Robin

-Superman (wooo july 2025!!)

-Wonder Woman

-Hawk Girl

-Martian Man Hunter

-Lex Luthor

-Superboy (i heart kon)

Marvel

-Venom/Eddie

-X-Men (all of them.)

-Moon Knight!!!

-GWENPOOL. (SHE IS ME.) (i cosplay her :3)

-Jeff the Land Shark

-Deadpool

-Spider Noir

TV Shows

-Criminal Minds

-Creature Commandos

-Bones

-Moon Knight

-Peacemaker

-The Boys

-Gen V

-Human Resources (yes the bigmouth spin off..)

-Invincible

-Smurfs

Video Games

-Lolipop Chainsaw

-Fortnite

-Marvel Rivals

-TF2

-Astro Bot

-Anything Wii/DS related, I collect!

Movies

-The Hunger Games

-House of Wax (2005)

Thats not all but this list is long enough, love you byeee!!!

Thanks for taking a look! Heres some other accounts of mine!

@/haylo on ArtFight

@/haylos.art.lol on instagram

@/haylo on marvel rivals

@/haylowo on fortnite

@/.haylo. on discord

[tlockish]

Happy gay month to Brenda

[gladii0lus]

twin… make more minho art… twin do you read me twin…

Ask and you shall receive twin 😫🤭 I have another one coming in btw AYO

I posted this on my art account on instagram with this song LALALA

IMMA LICK MY SCREEN LIKE GUYS HEA SO FINE

[battraction]

The Wanderer

The Walking Dead x Modern!Reader

Prologue Ch01

Synopsis: Waking up in one of your favorite shows is a dream come true— even if there are zombies everywhere. Hey, at least they don’t seem to notice you AND you found an old Walkman with a ton of tapes!

WC: 4.0k

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By the time the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, you had developed a reluctant rhythm.

The herd moved.

You followed.

Part of it was practical. The walkers moved with surprising consistency, and keeping track of them was easier when you weren’t constantly lagging behind. The other part was something that you were considerably less eager to acknowledge.

Curiosity.

You were terrified of the walkers— that much hadn’t changed.

Every instinct still recoiled at the sight of them. Years of consuming zombie-based media and basic common sense had thoroughly convinced you that standing anywhere near the undead was a bad idea.

However, the longer they ignored you, the more difficult it became to sustain that fear at its original intensity.

Only a few hours ago, you had been convinced that getting within twenty feet of a walker meant death. Now you found yourself walking close enough to distinguish individual faces.

It was a little concerning just how quickly you’d adapted to this… condition of yours.

You kept expecting your courage to fail. Every time you drifted a little nearer to the herd, your body tensed in anticipation of disaster. Yet the disaster never came.

The walkers just kept moving forward.

Eventually, you found yourself matching pace with one of them.

The corpse was an older man, or at least it had been at one point. Wisps of white hair still clung stubbornly to his scalp. A faded plaid shirt hung loosely from his frame, stained with dirt and other things you didn’t want to think too hard on. One sleeve had been torn away completely, revealing a skeletal arm mottled with decay.

You couldn’t stop staring.

On television, walkers always seemed interchangeable. Up close, individual details emerged.

This man had once chosen that shirt.

Someone had probably bought it for him— a wife or a child, maybe.

Someone had known his name.

The thought settled like a stone in your chest.

Your gaze drifted to another walker nearby. This one appeared much younger. A woman in what looked like a nurse’s uniform shuffled through the grass some yards away. The fabric was soiled beyond recognition, but fragments of a hospital logo remained visible near the collar.

You wondered if she had worked during the outbreak, whether she’d stayed behind trying to help people.

Whether she had family somewhere.

The questions came too easily and none of them had answers.

For the first time since arriving in this world, you found yourself studying the walkers for reasons unrelated to survival.

One limped badly on a ruined leg.

Another dragged a foot behind him.

A little girl wandered near the center of the herd clutching a filthy stuffed rabbit against her chest.

You looked away immediately.

All the knowledge in the world couldn’t have prepared you for this. These weren’t props covered in makeup, or people excited to be in the background of their favorite show.

They were the remains of human beings whose lives had ended in one of the worst ways imaginable.

As the herd reached the outskirts of a neighborhood, the sun had reached its final destination.

The light had softened considerably since the brutal heat of midday, painting the landscape in warm shades of gold and amber. Long shadows stretched across the ground, weaving between the walkers as they continued their steady march forward.

You found yourself paralleling them without consciously meaning to.

At some point, the herd had stopped feeling like an immediate threat and started feeling like a strange sort of constant. They were still unsettling to look at, and the smell lingered in the air whenever the wind shifted. Every now and then, you would catch sight of an especially gruesome injury and have to force yourself not to stare.

And yet…

There was something oddly reassuring in their proximity.

There was no arguing, or demands made, or questions asked.

They simply moved.

Hour after hour, they shuffled onward with the same mindless determination, and after spending most of the day among them, you had begun adjusting to their presence.

It was something that probably should have alarmed you more than it did.

You walked alongside a woman who had likely been in her forties before her death. Most of her dark hair had fallen out, leaving uneven patches across her scalp, and the floral pattern on her dress had long since faded beneath layers of dirt and weathering.

She didn’t acknowledge you.

You wondered if that would ever stop feeling strange.

Your gaze drifted ahead as the neighborhood came into view.

Rows of houses emerged beyond the trees, their rooftops visible above overgrown hedges and neglected lawns. Even from a distance, the place carried the familiar appearance of suburban America. Mailboxes stood beside cracked sidewalks, driveways stretched toward garages, tall trees lined the streets.

The sight stirred something unexpectedly painful in your chest.

They reminded you of home.

Not because they looked exactly like your own neighborhood, but because they belonged to the same world. The same civilization. The same life that had existed before everything fell apart.

The herd drifted into the neighborhood without hesitation.

Walkers spilled across the streets and sidewalks like a slow-moving river, weaving around abandoned vehicles and overgrown yards. A rusted bicycle lay forgotten near a driveway. One house still displayed the remnants of holiday decorations that had somehow survived months of exposure to the elements.

Your stomach growled.

The sound startled you enough that you glanced downward.

Right, food.

You hadn’t eaten since arriving in this world, and your body was beginning to remind you of that fact with increasing urgency. Your throat remained dry and your muscles still ached from earlier. The initial surge of panic and adrenaline had faded hours ago, leaving behind a very tired, very hungry human being.

The houses surrounding you suddenly seemed far more interesting.

Some had broken windows while others appeared untouched. A few still had vehicles parked neatly in their driveways, as though the owners might return at any moment.

The sight sparked a thought.

If the herd had been moving through this area regularly— or even if large groups of walkers simply wandered nearby— then many survivors would likely avoid the neighborhood entirely.

The risk just wouldn’t be worth it.

Clearing a house was one thing— clearing a house while multiple walkers roamed the surrounding streets was something else entirely.

For the first time all day, genuine hope lightened your frame.

If you were right, there might still be supplies here. Food, medicine, water. The possibilities seemed almost too good to believe.

Your steps slowed as the herd continued onward.

Immediately, a surprising feeling tugged at your heart.

Reluctance.

The emotion caught you completely off guard. Objectively speaking, you should have been thrilled to leave.

You had spent damn near the entire day surrounded by flesh-eating monsters! Normal people did not become attached to zombie herds!

Yet as you watched them continue down the street, you felt a faint sense of unease.

The herd had become familiar— safe.

At least, as safe as anything in this world could be.

Leaving meant stepping back into uncertainty. Leaving meant being alone again.

You paused before laughing softly.

Nope, you weren’t going to think about it. If you didn’t acknowledge the sinking feeling in your gut, it didn’t exist.

Food first, mental breakdown later.

Drawing in a steadying breath, you stepped away from the herd and crossed the street.

The neighborhood lacked the obvious signs of repeated scavenging. There were no doors hanging from hinges, no smashed-in walls— no evidence that desperate survivors had stripped the houses bare.

Hope fluttered in your chest again.

Carefully, you made your way up the driveway of the nearest home.

The house itself was modest but charming. It was painted a soft shade of blue that reminded you of the sky on a sunny day. Flower beds bordered the front walkway, now overgrown with weeds and wild grass. A wooden rocking chair sat abandoned on the porch.

You lightly trailed your hand against the armrest of the chair, swallowing thickly as you did so.

Someone had once considered this place home.

You forced yourself to keep moving. You reached the front door and grabbed the bronze doorknob with a shaky grip.

The front door stood unlocked.

That fact alone told a story.

You couldn’t imagine leaving your house unlocked under normal circumstances. Whatever had happened here had happened quickly. The owners had likely rushed out with only the things they could carry, fully expecting to return once the emergency ended.

Nobody had returned.

The interior was quiet as you crossed the threshold of the house. Not eerie, exactly. Just empty.

Dust coated the interior in a thin gray layer. Sunlight filtered through the windows, illuminating tiny particles that drifted lazily through the air. Family photographs decorated the walls of the hallway, smiling faces frozen in moments of happiness that felt impossibly distant now.

The pictures made this harder.

It was easier to think of abandoned houses as resources.

It was much harder when confronted with evidence that real people had once lived inside them.

The kitchen became your first target.

Mostly because food was your immediate priority, but also because focusing on a practical task prevented you from dwelling on everything else.

You gently pried the door to the pantry open and froze, your mouth falling open in shock.

The shelves were still stocked.

Rows of canned vegetables sat neatly arranged beside boxed pasta and bags of rice. Soup cans occupied an entire shelf. Crackers, peanut butter, oatmeal, and various other non-perishables remained untouched.

A smile stretched across your face before you could stop it.

“Oh my god.”

Relief washed over you so suddenly that your knees nearly gave out.

You had prepared yourself to find scraps, a few overlooked items. Maybe enough food to survive a day or two if you were lucky.

Instead, you were looking at enough supplies to last for weeks.

‘No sane survivor would willingly search houses surrounded by walker herds.’

For the first time all day, you found yourself genuinely appreciating your absurd decision.

Following the herd had actually worked.

You quickly began removing items from the pantry, placing them in neat piles across the kitchen counter. Cans went together. Boxes went together. Anything remotely useful was carefully sorted into groups.

It wasn’t until you’d accumulated an impressive mountain of supplies that a new problem occurred to you.

You had absolutely no way of carrying any of it.

You stared at the collection.

The collection stared back.

A loud groan reverberated from the back of your throat. You dragged a hand down your face, your eyebrows pinching together in frustration.

Of course it couldn’t be that easy.

Leaving the food behind felt physically painful, but there was little point gathering supplies if you couldn’t transport them.

You stepped away from the kitchen and began searching the house.

The living room yielded little beyond dusty furniture and more reminders that people had once lived here. A blanket remained draped over the arm of a recliner. A few books rested on a side table beside a pair of reading glasses.

You hurried past both.

The hallways led to four rooms. You chose the first one and stepped in.

The bed remained neatly made. Family photographs occupied the dresser. Sunlight spilled across the carpet through partially opened curtains.

For a moment, you just stood there.

There was something uniquely unsettling about bedrooms. More than every other room in a house, they felt personal. You pushed the discomfort aside and began checking the room.

It didn’t take long for you to find what you were looking for.

Tucked near the back of the closet sat a large duffel bag.

The bag looked sturdy enough to carry a significant amount of weight. It was larger than anything you could have hoped to find.

You unzipped it and discovered a collection of colorful envelopes, folded paper decorations, and greeting cards stacked neatly inside.

For a moment, confusion replaced your excitement.

Then understanding followed.

Birthday cards.

Years worth of them, judging by the quantity.

You could have read them but you quickly squashed down the thought. Taking the bag already felt uncomfortable enough. Reading the cards would be crossing a line.

Carefully, you removed the contents and placed them in a tidy stack on a nearby shelf. You avoided looking too closely at the writing. A few colorful envelopes slipped loose during the process, revealing fragments of cheerful handwriting and cute stickers.

You ignored them.

Some things weren’t yours.

The cards remained where you left them as a monument to people you would never know.

Once the bag was finally empty, you slung it over your shoulder and headed back toward the kitchen.

As you began carefully packing the cans and boxes into the duffel, a reluctant thought surfaced.

Maybe following the herd hadn’t been the worst decision you’d ever made.

————————————————

Your shoulder was beginning to ache from the weight of the duffel bag.

The discomfort was worth it, though.

The bag was stuffed with canned food, bottled water, batteries, flashlights, spare clothes, and enough miscellaneous supplies to make you feel almost optimistic. Considering you’d arrived in this world with absolutely nothing, the transformation felt borderline miraculous.

You’d already searched most of the houses.

The first had been terrifying.

The second had been awkward.

By the third, you’d accidentally started developing a system.

Kitchen first, medicine second, anything useful afterward.

Somewhere around house number five, you had also realized you’d begun talking to yourself.

Quite a lot, actually.

The discovery had been prompted by a walker wearing a wedding ring.

You’d spotted it while crossing a driveway and spent nearly ten minutes wondering about the person’s life before abruptly catching yourself speaking your theories out loud.

The walker hadn’t cared.

At one point, you’d even found yourself walking alongside a woman in a tattered yellow cardigan while discussing the merits of canned ravioli.

She didn’t respond, obviously, but you’d like to think she agreed with you.

The house at the end of the street finally drew your attention away from your silent walking companion. You bid a quick farewell, to which she only groaned. Rude.

The house sat slightly apart from the others, partially hidden behind a collection of mature oak trees whose branches stretched over the roof like protective arms. The yard was overgrown, but less so than some of the neighboring properties. Ivy climbed one side of the house, softening the structures edges and making it feel oddly secluded.

Something about the place tugged at your memory. For a few seconds, you stood in the driveway trying to place it.

Then you shrugged.

You’d spent years watching The Walking Dead. You were beginning to suspect that half the state of Georgia felt familiar now.

The front door was locked.

The discovery should not have been surprising, yet it frustrated you all the same.

You rattled the knob one last time before stepping back with a sigh. The windows proved no more cooperative. Whoever had lived here had made damn sure the place was locked tight before they left.

Alright then.

Improv has always been one of your strong suits.

Your gaze drifted toward one of the decorative rocks lining the porch, already weighing whether it was worth sacrificing a window, when something else caught your eye.

A squat little stone frog sat beside the front steps, grinning at you with the vacant optimism only lawn ornaments seem capable of.

Well… it couldn’t hurt to try.

You crouched and lifted the statue.

Sure enough, tucked neatly beneath its stony ass sat a small brass key.

Thank god for cliches!

Sliding the frog aside, you snatched up the key and returned to the front door. It slipped into the lock with an almost disappointingly soft ‘click’.

And just like that, you’re in.

The door creaked open as you peeked your head inside.

Two walkers occupy the foyer. Neither seemed particularly interested in you. They barely spared you a glance before returning to… whatever it was walkers did when they weren’t trying to eat somebody.

Fine by you.

You let them to whatever depressing hobby occupied the undead and headed straight for the kitchen.

Throwing open the pantry door, you fully expected to find shelves lined with canned food like the rest of the neighborhood.

Instead, a pair of spiders and several enthusiastic dust bunnies greet you.

The spiders scattered as you stared into the empty pantry, thoroughly betrayed.

“Guess I got too cocky…”

With a sigh, you shut the pantry and started opening cupboards instead. No matter, surely there had to be—

A single can of dog food on the shelf.

It somehow managed to look smug.

Huh.

Alright, so the kitchen is a bust. Go figure.

You trudged back through the foyer, brushing past the walkers with an exaggerated groan when one of them happened to turn its head in your direction.

“Oh, don’t start!”

Couldn’t they see you were in the middle of a crisis?! Who knew when you’d stumble across another neighborhood this untouched?

Your footsteps echoed through the house as your search continued, each room somehow more disappointing than the last. By the time you climbed the stairs, your patience had all but vanished.

The second floor wasn’t any better than the first!

Bedroom, bathroom, closet— all useless!

Finally, you stopped in the doorway of what looked like a teenagers bedroom, your foot tapping impatiently against the hardwood floor.

Band posters plastered nearly every inch of the walls. Some you vaguely recognized, but most you didn’t.

None of them held your attention for long.

No…

What caught your eye was the bulky old computer sitting on the desk beneath the window.

Your eyes lit up.

The thing was practically a museum exhibit! It still had the giant monitor box and everything!

You wandered over, looking it over with open curiosity. A tape-recorder sat precariously on the edge of the desk, while the keyboard was surrounded by multiple cassette tapes. A few had handwritten labels, but most were left blank.

You picked one up.

Across the faded strip of masking tape, someone had scribbled:

‘Pops Mix :P’

A smile tugged at your lips.

Your dad used to ramble for ages about how much of a pain making mixtapes had been back in the day. Sitting by the radio for hours, finger hovering over the record button, praying the DJ wouldn’t start talking halfway through the song…

So for some moody teenager to make one for their dad…

They must’ve been close.

Carefully, you set the cassette back on the desk before sifting through the others. The labeled tapes followed much the same pattern— Mom’s Road Trip Mix, Summer Songs, a few dedicated entirely to individual bands.

A whistle pushed past your pursed lips as you took it all in. This kid had been obsessed with music.

Then something else caught your eye.

Nestled innocently among the chaos sat a Walkman

A delighted squeal escaped before you could stop it.

You knew what a Walkman was, of course, but only because your dad had brought his old one out for you to gawk at. They’d gone out of style before you were even born!

You snatched it up like you’d just discovered buried treasure.

A pair of worn headphones was already plugged into it. You settled them over your ears, then spent the next minute squinting at the buttons with growing determination.

“C’mon…”

The thing couldn’t be that complicated!

Eventually, stubbornness won out and you pressed Play.

For one long, agonizing moment… nothing.

Then the cassette whirred to life and the blessed sound of music flooded your ears.

Your eyes widened when the song was something you knew.

“… The Wanderer?”

You’d know that song anywhere!

Sure, it was decades older than you were, but after sinking an embarrassing number of hours into Fallout 4, hearing it felt strangely… comforting.

The familiar tune washes over you, filling a silence you hadn’t noticed until now. Ever since you found yourself stranded in this nightmare of a universe, there had been no music.

Just groaning walkers.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed it.

By the time the chorus rolled around, there was an undeniable spring in your step.

You gathered up the remaining cassettes, carefully slipping every labeled one into your duffel bag.

Your hand hovered over ‘Pops Mix :P’.

Would taking that one be crossing a line? You didn’t take the letters from the other house, why should this be any different?

You stared at it for a few quiet seconds before sighing and picking it up anyway. These tapes had been made with love. Leaving them here to gather dust— or worse, rot away with the house— felt like the greater tragedy.

Once the cassettes were safely tucked away, you turned your attention to the rest of the room.

The closet was stocked with graphic tees and faded band shirts, but one in particular caught your eye.

A nearly pristine Transformers T-shirt.

You couldn’t help but grin.

The Walking Dead never nailed down an exact year for the outbreak, but most fans agreed it kicked off sometime around 2010. If that theory held true…

The first couple of Michael Bay’s Transformers movies would have already been out.

Across the black cotton, Bumblebee posed triumphantly in bright yellow. Childlike glee fills your form as you grab the shirt. Little you would have killed for a shirt like this!

“I’m just gonna… take this.”

Your voice filled the empty room, but it’s not like you were expecting an answer. Still, your next words come out all the same.

“Thank you.”

It felt silly talking to an empty house, even sillier thanking people who were almost certainly dead.

Still…

You hopes they would’ve understood.

Setting your duffel bag onto the floor, you peeled off your sweat-soaked shirt with a grimace. It clung stubbornly to your skin before finally coming free.

You send a silent ‘thank you’ to every god that you can think of that you decided to wear a sports bra instead of going commando.

The clean shirt slipped over your head a moment later, and you practically sighed in relief as fresh cotton settled against your skin. It wasn’t just cleaner, it felt… normal.

For a few precious seconds, you could almost pretend you weren’t scavenging through the apocalypse.

You clipped the Walkman onto the waistband of your jeans, settled the headphones over your ears once more, and slung your duffel bag back across your shoulder.

One room left.

You nudged open the door— and immediately stumbled back with a startled yelp.

A massive owl stared back at you, its golden eyes never blinking.

“Oh.”

Your heartbeat slowly drifted back down from your throat.

The owl remained perfectly still, save for a slight puff of its feathers that managed to convey mild irritation.

“…sorry.”

You couldn’t help yourself.

Owls had been one of your favorite animals ever since third grade. You still remembered sitting cross-legged on the classroom carpet while your teacher explained how silently they could fly. Eight-year-old you had been completely obsessed.

Standing only a few feet away from one now felt…

Weirdly familiar.

Like there was something important sitting just beyond the edge of your memory. A frown tugged at your lips.

Slowly, you raised your hands in a placating gesture and crouched a little lower, trying to make yourself appear as unthreatening as possible.

“Hey, buddy…”

The owl regarded you with all the enthusiasm of an exhausted customer service worker, but it didn’t fly away.

Small victories.

Music continued humming softly through your headphones as you closed the remaining distance one careful step at a time.

When you were finally close enough, you hesitated before slowly reaching out.

Your fingertips brushed impossibly soft feathers and you smiled.

The moment lasted exactly two heartbeats.

Something hard pressed into the center of your back.

Every muscle in your body locked and your breath caught in your throat.

Not a walker.

The ones downstairs would’ve been moaning long before they reached you, and if they’d somehow wandered up here, the bird would’ve caught their attention first.

This…

This was a person.

Before you could react, the headphones were ripped from your head. The music died, and a rough, gravel-worn voice spoke directly behind you.

“Stay still.”

Cold metal dug harder between your shoulder blades.

“Move…”

A beat of silence.

“And I kill you.”

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Finally bringing the main cast into play! I was going to start with Reader finding Hershel’s farm, but I got lazy and decided to just jump headfirst into season 3 😭

Hope y’all enjoyed!

taglist: @berriesandcreampie @futuristicdragonprincess @justmare @mythicalmaelstrom

[sephoutlet]

"Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine." —  Song of Solomon 1:2

Newt x Fem!Reader Series 𑣲 Chapter 21 𑣲 WC: 3,307 A/N: I wrote this in chunks over a span of three weeks and I didn't proofread it. The fanfic writer/A03 curse lowkey got to me

The vent is more dreadful on the way back. It's probably because you're no longer crawling towards mystery you feel nothing about, but away from an answer that feeds the embers of a rage you'd nearly forgotten.

The metal rings beneath your palms as you shove yourself forward after Aris and Thomas, the confined space pressing in on every side in a way that feels irritating.

Your knee brace catches against a seam in the ductwork that rustles a twinge of pain through your thigh. You barely notice it beneath the frantic rhythm of your heart in your ears.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you aren't empty. A wildfire surges through your veins and cascades across every hollow corner grief carved out of your body.

You're angry, not because you're trapped in some shiny white facility full of people who want you dead, but because you were meant to have escaped this: You fought for freedom. You bled for it. You watched people die for it.

Chuck died for this.

Somehow, after everything, after surviving the Maze and the Grievers and impossible odds stacked against you, you ended up right back inside another cage.

The people who put Chuck in that Maze are here: Still breathing and making decisions from behind clean glass windows and locked doors. They don't deserve to be alive.

You should tear this entire place to shreds. You should set every disgustingly sterile hallway on fire and watch this entire place collapse into rubble.

Let it burn.

Let it all burn.

The image won't leave your head: The rows of motionless bodies hooked to machines and harvested like crops. As if these 'resources' were never people to begin with.

The Maze never ended. You're still there. Every door simply opens into another cage. If it were to simply be dumped into another illusion of freedom, why is Chuck not here with you?

It's not your fault.

This is what they wanted. You played right into their hand. They wanted you to fester with guilt for what happened to Chuck, but it was never your fault.

It's theirs.

Let them all burn.

Thomas kicks the vent grate loose and it crashes onto the floor. He practically tumbles out before immediately spinning around to face the others.

"We gotta go!" Thomas shouts. You're just about to push yourself out of the vent when he grabs your forearm, hauling you the rest of the way out. "We gotta go! We gotta go right now!"

His voice ricochets around the dorm, and the moment your feet are steady on the ground, he's already moving. Everyone in the room stiffens upright.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Minho snaps.

"What do you mean 'We gotta go'?" Frypan demands.

Thomas ignores them. So do you. You search the room for something heavy enough to slow a person down: A mattress, or maybe a bunk? Thomas reaches the same conclusion at the same time.

Without a word of discussion, you both grab one side of a metal bunk and drag. The legs screech painfully against the floor, and the others erupt in a series of groans.

"We gotta go!" Thomas shouts again. "We gotta go! They're coming for us!"

"What happened?" Winston asks.

"Paige is alive—"

"Aris, what happened?" Frypan cuts through Thomas frantic babbling.

"Can you just calm down and talk to us?" Minho huffs.

Nobody calms down. Thomas grabs a bedsheet and throws it to you. You catch it automatically and begin wrapping it around the bunk and door handle.

"She's still alive."

"Who?" Newt finally speaks. "Teresa?"

"Ava!"

"Ava?" Minho' sface scrunches. "Who's Ava?"

"Just talk to us!"

The panic continues to build, and Thomas is entirely at a loss for coherent words. That idiot. The room shrinks as you look the sheets and tie another knot.

Chuck's face flashes in your mind. Do you remember how warm his blood was? Do you remember how slick it felt coating your palms? He's gone.

WICKED took him from you. Now, these Slintheads are stumbling around a room, not even aware of how far their heads are shoved up their own asses.

"It's WICKED!" You shout. You've had enough of the relentless questioning. You rotate back on the door. Thomas is already dragging a mattress across the floor for further reinforcement. "It's still WICKED. It's always been WICKED."

"Hey," Strong hands grab your shoulders and you spin back around. Newt's eyes lock onto yours with the kind of intensity that used to make you furious. "What did you see?"

"Newt," Your hands grab his shoulders right back. You've never needed him to listen more than you do right now. "I need you to shut up and just do what I tell you. We need to go."

His eyebrows shoot up, and he clearly doesn't appreciate your tone, as if that's something important to be regarding while your life is on the line.

For a second, you almost think the stupid Shank is going to argue. He always has something to say to you, after all. Instead, his gaze flickers to Thomas. Then, back to you.

"Bloody hell." He mutters under his breath. Then, he nods. The same kind of reluctantly approving nod he gave you before you entered the vents in the first place. "Alright. Alright. Everybody move."

The metal in the tunnels seems ten times hotter now that there's a whole squad of teenage boys crawling through with you. The air is stale and someone's shoe keeps hitting your elbow.

Your knee aches.

Your head aches.

Everything fucking aches.

Your thoughts are a scrambled mess, like someone's dumped every feeling you've ever had into a blender and mixed it into a very unappetizing smoothie.

Eventually, the vent opens up into a fresh hallway, and everyone funnels out, spilling one after another. Aris spins around as soon as Winston comes out behind him.

"Where are you going?" Thomas demands.

"There's something I have to do."

"What?"

"I'll go with him." Winston offers.

Not a soul has the time or energy left to stop Aris from doing whatever the hell he's trying to do. You simply stick among the group, trying to breathe without vomiting.

When did you become so weak?

Which version of you stands here now?

Are you still the same girl who charged into the Maze and survived a night being chased down by a Griever, or are you the hollow thing that's spent days staring at the ceiling, wishing she were dead?

Does it matter which version you are? Ultimately, you're still here, right now, escaping a high security facility with no plans and too much adrenaline. Save the identity crisis for later.

You round a corner, and almost immediately collide with a beautiful woman in a pristine, white lab coat. She freezes. Everyone freezes. The woman blinks at the bunch of teenagers who've poured into the hallway.

"...What are you kids doing out?" The question barely leaves her mouth before red lights suddenly flash overhead. Alarms begin screaming through the facility.

You look at Thomas.

Thomas looks at you.

You look at Newt.

Newt looks at you.

Then, Thomas launches himself at her.

He tackles her around the waist, and the woman lets out a startled shriek. Within a moment, she's restrained with makeshift handcuffs and being dragged along with the rest of the group.

Hallways blur. Alarms blare overhead. As you run, your eyes keep drifting toward Newt. Towards his limp, and every uneven step that leaves him a hitch behind.

You still remember him before: Before the shattered leg. When he was a Runner. He was so fast and fearless. Someone you could never reach from miles beneath his pedestal.

You almost lost him the day he jumped. His clothes were soaked in his own blood, and the angle of his leg was sickening. Chuck is gone. That hasn't changed, and it never will, but there are still people you have left to lose.

Thomas is one of them. He's not just another Glader. He feels like a twin separated at birth. Like you're two idiots sharing the same braincell. Half the time, you don't even need to exchange words anymore. You just know what he's thinking.

Frypan too. He's the same guy who used to yell at you for burning breakfast, but you miss those mornings more than you'd ever like to admit.

There's also Minho. His respect is monumental. He doesn't just hand out admiration. He makes people earn it. Yet, somehow, you of all people earned it, and you don't want to lose it.

Then there's Newt. Of everyone, he's most likely to pull you aside and yell at you for doing something stupid. He's the biggest pain in the ass you've ever encountered, but the world without him would cease to turn.

Gross.

That sounds romantic.

"Freeze!"

A shout echoes down the hallway and everyone jerks to a halt. A guard stands at the far end, large, black shotgun-looking weapon raised with terrifying clarity.

Newt reacts quicker than you do, yanking you backward just as a sound crackles through the air. A blue, electrical projectile zips past where your head had been.

"Back!" Newt shoves you around the corner as another shot slams into the wall and sparks fly. Minho still stands just beyond the corner, eyes flickering with a bad idea. "Minho! What the hell are you doing?"

The guard fires again, and Minho runs: Not away, but toward him. A gasp leaves your lips before you can compose yourself. Minho sprints full speed, then jumps.

His knee drives into the guard's chest. The sound of the impact is nauseating as they both slam into the wall. The guard crumples, out cold.

"Holy Shuck." You stare, dumbfounded. Minho straightens and brushes imaginary dust off his shoulder, fully aware of how cool it was to launch himself through the air and knock a fully grown man unconscious. A laugh of admiration and disbelief escapes you.

It was kind of hot.

"Shit, Minho." Newt murmurs, equally in awe.

Thomas crosses the hallway, stooping to retrieve the strange weapon from where it'd clattered across the floor. He turns it over with uncertain hands before pressing the barrel firmly between the shoulder blades of the scientist you've been dragging along ever since she made the unfortunate mistake of standing in the wrong hallway at the wrong time.

Poor woman. She just had to witness some insane teenage escapee launch himself knee first into one of her coworkers like a human cannonball.

Corridors bleed together until it begins to feel like you're running along the same hallway over and over again. Eventually, the scientist throws open a pair of medical doors.

Doctors spin around and nurses shriek. Rows upon rows of medical cots stretch across the room beneath harsh white lights. Your eyes dart from face to face, weaving between curtain hidden beds as quickly as your knee will allow.

"Teresa?" You call.

You find nothing. Another cot, another stranger. Another unfamiliar face. Guilt curls in your lungs. You've been so consumed in your own grief that you'd nearly forgotten she was somewhere in this place too.

It's all horribly unfair. She'd sat beside you after the showers, and spoke so gently to you when you could barely look anyone in the eyes. She offered patience, only to receive nothing in return.

"Found her!" Thomas' voice slices through the room, and relief floods your veins. You barely have time to look her over before instinct drags your attention elsewhere.

There's movement in the window. You step toward it and peer through the narrow pane of reinforced glass. Down the hall strides Janson, followed by half a dozen guards.

"Guys!" You stumble back slightly, searching the room for another exit. "They're coming— Newt!" You point. "The table!" His eyes flick to the heavy table near the wall.

He moves with understanding. The table screeches loudly against the floor before he heaves it onto its side with a grunt. You barely throw yourself backward before the steel slab slams into the doorway. The impact shakes the walls.

You can scold him for that later.

"Everyone back! Get back! Get back!" Minho barks. Everyone stumbles backward. Minho plants his feet squarely between the barricaded door and the rest of you, stolen weapon aimed unwaveringly at the door as the metal table groans against impact. "We really gotta get out of here!"

A loud bang echoes through the room as a guard tests the door again, and the barricade shudders. You're backing away when an arm hooks around your waist.

Newt pulls you against his chest, one hand firm against your ribs as he guides you backward with the rest of the group. The gesture is so natural, it's almost startling.

Another slam shakes the room. Your eyes dart wildly for another exit. The doors are blocked. The walls are solid. The glass of the observation window—

Glass.

You wrench yourself free from Newt's protective grasp before he can ask what you're doing, snatching up the nearest steel chair. Your knee protests as you plant your feet and swing with everything you've got. The chair rattles against the glass, producing nothing. Not even a crack.

"Shuck! Help me with this!" You yell. Thomas grabs a chair of his own. Together, you both swing, and a spiderweb fractures across the window. With one more synchronized hit, the entire pane bursts in a glittering avalanche of shards cascading into the room beyond.

"Go! Go! Go!"

Thomas climbs through first, helping Teresa over the broken frame. Cute. Frypan follows. Then Minho motions Newt through. He lands lightly on the opposite side while you attempt to vault the window, knee sending an ache through your thigh before you can follow through.

Newt turns immediately, catching a struggle you'd rather die than admit. He doesn't shout, scold, or rush. Instead, he opens his arms to you.

You make another attempt to climb through, your brace catching against the remnants of sharp shards. Your balance disappears. Fortunately, there's a pair of arms to catch you before you meet the floor.

He caught you.

You'll soon come to find that Newt will always catch you.

He steadies you, waiting until you're both firm on your feet to let go. Your eyes snap back toward the other room. Minho hasn't moved, weapon still trained on the door.

"Minho!" You shout, and he glances over. "Toss!" Without much hesitation, he hurls the gun through the shattered window. You catch it awkwardly against your shoulder, fumbling a moment before your fingers find grip. The table barricade finally gives way and the door flies inward as guards charge through. "Thomas, move!"

Thomas dives aside, and you squeeze the trigger. Blue light erupts from the barrel and a guard stiffens mid-step before collapsing in a heap on the floor.

You blink and lower the weapon slowly. Your aim was surprisingly perfect. When you look to the side, Newt is watching you with furrowed brows and parted lips. Seemingly, he's surprised too.

"Come on!" Thomas shouts. "Let's move!"

You run.

Hallway after hallway twists into another until the facility begins to resemble the Maze. Except, at least the Maze had sunlight and ivy. This place is too sterile for how dirty it truly is.

The corridor suddenly expands into something comparable to a wide garage door. Just beyond is the hangar where you'd first arrived a lifetime ago.

Thomas sprints ahead, digging the stolen keycard from his pocket. He swipes. The reader flashes red. He swipes again. Once again, a bright red refuses him.

"Thomas!" Janson's voice echoes through the cavernous room. You turn to find him walking toward you with confidence and an entire squad of guards fanning out behind him.

"Open this door, Janson!" Thomas grits as he snatches the shotgun from your hands and raises it toward Janson's chest. The man doesn't flinch.

"You really don't want me to."

"Open the damn door!"

While Thomas keeps every eye fixed on him, as he somehow always manages to do, you rush to the control panel. There has to be something. Anything.

You swipe the keycard again. You mash a series of buttons. Your trembling fingers fumble across the keypad, trying any combination your mind can conjure.

"Listen to me." Janson's voice is eerily calm. "I'm trying to save your life." You keep pushing buttons. "The Maze is one thing, but you kids wouldn't last one day out in the Scorch. If the elements won't kill you, the Cranks will." Another combination, another denial. "Thomas, you have to believe me. I only want what's best for you."

"Yeah, let me guess, WICKED is good?"

Janson pauses.

"...You're not getting through that door, Thomas."

As if serving a big 'fuck you' from the universe, the keypad suddenly flashes green. The lock releases and the heavy door raises open to reveal Aris and Winston standing on the other side.

"Come on!" Frypan shouts, the first one to step through the threshold. You sprint through the doorway before immediately spinning around, because Thomas is still inside.

Blue light flashes through the hangar until the weapon clicks with an empty sound. He drops it and runs just as the blast door begins slowly closing.

"Thomas!" You scream. "Hurry!"

Everyone joins in, shouting as the distance between Thomas and the group closes in tandem with the door and the ground. He dives and slides beneath the narrowing gap. The door slams shut barely a second after his head clears.

Holy fuck.

His head almost got squashed like a watermelon in a hydrolic press.

Your eyes land on a heavy battery sitting atop a nearby maintenance shelf. You limp to it, grabbing it with both hands. It's weighty enough to make your arms shake.

With one swing, the battery smashes into the control panel and sparks explode against shattered plastic. The keypad dies, and hopefully, it's enough to keep them busy.

Through a horizontal window, that piece-of-shit Janson stares, frustration written plainly on his face. You lift your hand and extend a single finger.

You hear a scoff, and turn to see that Thomas is in the exact same position, flipping off Janson as well. You both lower your hands in perfect unison.

"You pair are bloody uncanny." Newt shakes his head. He pats your shoulder as he passes. "C'mon. Let's get out of here."

The massive hangar doors whine as they begin sliding apart. Sunlight doesn't greet you. Neither does freedom. A wall of sand roars outside, swallowing the world whole.

You stop.

You've never seen anything like this. Where will you go? Will you simply wander aimlessly in the howling desert? The old you would've crossed into the open world without hesitation.

Do you still have what it takes?

A warm hand slips into yours. You look, and beside you, stands Newt, facing the sands. His fingers thread carefully between yours. He doesn't even glance your way.

Ew.

Ew?

His palm is rough and comforting at the same time. It's the softest thing you've felt since that awful heat of Chuck's blood soaking through your hands.

Not ew.

Not ew?

You don't let go. You follow him, and it feels different than following Thomas. Thomas runs towards the impossible because you share the same reckless heart. You understand each other's hope before either of you speaks it aloud.

Following Newt feels nothing like that. It feels less like chasing something and more like trusting that, somehow, this violent world won't tear you from your feet,

But you hate him.

Yeah.

You still hate him.

You hate him and his stupid hand, which leads you through the cold, foreign desert night, putting more and more distance between you and the doubt that's plagued you in this haunting place.

[gladii0lus]

ATTENTION BY CHARLIE PUTH, I FEEL LIKE ITS SOUNDS SIMILAR TO MINHO'S VOICE I LITERALLY HEAR HIM SINGING THIS AND THIS PUT A SCENE INTO MY HEAD OK SO BEAR WITH ME

IMAGINE. OK IMAGINE READER (SO ITS EXCLUSIVE TO ALL WHO WANTS TO IMAGINE THEMSELVES) AND MINHO (HE DOESNT KNOW R LIKES HIM AND LETS SAY TMR GANG AS WELL LIKE TOMMY NEWT FRYPAN GALLY AT A JAZZ OR WHATEVER BAR AND THIS GIRL TRIES TO HIT ON MINHO AND MINHO SORTA IS AMUSED BUT SORTA NOTICES READER STIFFEN BUT NOT OUTRIGHT SAYING ANYTHING AND MINHO'S LIKE ILL BE BACK AND HE TAKES THE STAGE AND BRO SINGS THIS SONG MEANT FIR THE GIRL TO BACK OFF BUT ALSO WINKS AT READER OFTEN AND THE GIRL WALKS OFF AND R IS LIKE HAAHAH BACK OFF THATS RIGHT THATS MY MAN, OH SHIH HE DOESNT KNWO DOES HE? AND MINHO MAINTAINS EYE CONTACT EXPECIALLY DURING THE 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME' OART SJFGHJEWGBEH IM GOING CRAZY - gonna call myself anon 1 HAHA

HI ANON 1!!!

STOP THE WAY I LOCKED IN WHEN YOU SAID ATTENTION BY CHARLIE PUTHHHH I LOVEEEEE DAYDREAMING WITH SONGSSSS

I LOVE THAT IDEAAAAAA and also minho would totally find it amusing that the girl is hitting on him UGHHHHHH HE PLAYING TOO MUCHHHHHHHH I love this HEHEHEHE MORE IDEAS NOWWWW

[cancatsbecowboys]

more minho art PLEASEEEEEEEEEE 🫣✌️😗 (sliding into your asks since it says drawing request and i crave minho LMAO)

newt you gotta MOVE

[mellarkslovergirl]

Don’t bring up Glenn around me because I will cry

[gladii0lus]

minho walking into the medhut to decompress after a run but lowkey has a cut on his arm and medjack!reader sees it and complains about it but he’s like i didnt even notice… but says if you wanna fix it then go ahead. I WROTE A LITTLE DOWN BELOW

Your fingers brushed the small gash on his arm, he winced slightly, a small movement of his muscles that betrayed the pain he'd been ignoring all day. He watched you, his gaze dropping to where your fingers were working near the wound before looking back at you. He didn't pull his arm away. In fact, he leaned into your touch.

"It's nothing," he murmured, though his eyes never left yours. "Just a little souvenir from running around in Sector Seven. Probably won't even need a bandage."

He watched you, his expression unreadable for a moment, before he spoke again, his voice dropping low and intimate that made the air feel thick.

“But if you want to fix it..." He paused, a slow, lopsided smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "By all means, Med jack. Work your magic. I'm all yours."

He stayed perfectly still, his gaze locked onto yours, waiting to see what you would do next, the tension between you pulling tighter with every passing second.

FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

and then when youre done he says

"So," he murmured, his eyes searching yours, "are you done with me? Or are you going to find another reason to keep your hands on me for a few more minutes?"

LIKE SHUT UP FUCKKKKK HE WOULD SO FUCKING SAY THAT STOP

[hazy-haylo]

OBLIGATORY ARTFIGHT POST!!! I’m team comedy this year AND I AM SO EXCITED!!! I’ve gotten so much better at art in the last year and I’m just so excited to find new ocs to attack omggg hehe

[gladii0lus]

hoodie by hey violet but medjack!reader x minho guys hear me out

[232677]

Oh wow this guy is so cute, I hope he doesn’t die or get severely injured ever

I was then shot 57 times

[valrvne]

i can see some variants (mohawk) being so ferally excited about fem!Helion and then so butthurt when he finds out fem!Helion is wlw exclusively and gets his ass kicked by butchvincible

[gladii0lus]

THE WAY I PICKED 7 LMAOAOAOAO HELPPPP

OVERLY FREAKED OUT

cred: amomazerunnerr

[gladii0lus]

TS IS FRYING MEEEEEEEEEE

[gladii0lus]

ki hong lee and his YEARNING EYES OH WOWWWWWWWWW

(watched wish upon and guys this movie was jank af but ki hong made it better but also i needed more scenes of him HELLO)

[lowkeyrobin]

Hiii this is a req for a tmr newt x reader

Also im a huge fan and have been for atl a few years wtf

But essentially reader gets flare how brenda did and they fall unconscious (okay readers basically in place of what Brenda went thru) and when they wake up in the cot newts like sitting next to them and fallen asleep and we can see like dried tear tracks/eyebags/et and he shoots up from our mvmnt

and there's like angst bc reader doesn't want to infect newt so theyre like i can't go w you newt and newts angry and desperate for obvious reasons

So a lot of crying i suppose, or some newt not knowing really how to handle this so he says some things that come out wrong/bitter (he makes us cry..?)

but ends w fluff..or a more content end...

:) huge fan ur such a good writer 🫶

-bazinga 🤡

oooo wait this is cool!! i can totally try thid for you!! ; also holy crap youve been here for a damn while then omg 😭😭 i think i remember seeing you follow me back in my prime LMAOOOO ; and tysm!! i try my best hehe ; tysm for requesting, hope you enjoy!! ; post writing me, i did alter this a little bit but i like it much more now than what i had going before, i lowk didnt like it and having it written like this makes me much happier lol, the way i wrote how your req wanted it was just coming out corny and wasnt my best writing (which is why this took so long) but i hope its okay!!

NEWT ; crank out

summary ; you get infected on the way to the right arm, and it comes back to bite you in the ass

warnings ; language, illness, slight gore / injury, death, guns, suicide

disclaimers ; reader basically takes newts and brendas places regarding the flare (two separate instances combined, youll see), lots of angst and sadness, this drifted verg far from the request so im rlly sorrybdnsnd

word count ; 3.7k

masterlist

You finally reached the Right Arm.

It's blazing hot in the Scorch. You're hungry, dehydrated, covered in wounds and dirt, and sweat. You're drenched in pain. You can't stand here any longer while Thomas yaps to these adults. You can't take it. You need to lie down and sleep. You need food and water, and a damn shower, at least a soak in any body of water.

You feel dizzy, lightheaded.

And then you collapse.

Newt reaches for you in an instant, Minho right at his side. Sonya rushes over, wishing to help. Vince only raises his gun when he sees the anklet around your pants lift up, revealing a swollen, inflamed spot of skin. Black ooze seeps from it, and around it, bloodshot looking black veins.

The blonde pulls you close to him, shielding you with his body. If Vince wishes to shoot you, he'll have to shoot Newt, too. Thomas raises his hands and places himself between you, Minho, and Newt on the ground and Vince. Sonya backs away, confirming the wound on your leg is that of a Crank bite.

"We aren't letting a Crank in!"

"They haven't turned yet!"

"Get away from them!"

"We've sacrificed too much to get here! We're not bringing Cranks to the Safe Haven!"

"They're not a Crank!"

"They need help, please!"

The teens (and Vince) grow silent. Vince gives the woman, a nurse who used to work for WCKD, a stern look. He seems to disapprove of her mentioning this, let alone willing to give it to some random kid. The teens, though, hope glimmers in their eyes, for a brief second, they feel like you may be okay after all.

"Stop!" a voice rings out from among the chaos. "We have a temporary cure."

They'd all known about your bite. They sped up the trip in hopes they could get you to help in time. They couldn't, wouldn't, let you die like Winston did. They thought they may have more time, explained it when they had to, and possibly found a permanent cure.

"Bring them to my tent."

You don't talk about it afterward, not after they took Minho, Sonya, and Aris. Not after Teresa betrayed you all, so hellbent on helping those rich yuppies find a cure.

The only words spoken were about what Teresa said when you were knocked out. She said something about wanting to find a cure for you, asking if your friends wanted to help you. Newt yelled at her, threatening her, telling her to keep your name out of her mouth. They would've taken him too, if he were immune.

Then that was that. You never spoke of it again. The tension pulled too tight.

Nearly a year has passed. Your last dose of the temporary cure has come and gone. You only have weeks left at this rate. You just hope Thomas' plan will work. All you want is to spend your last weeks, or days, depending if Vince says it's okay to stay until you turn, with your best friends.

You can't go to the Safe Haven, no matter what, not without a cure. If there's one, any exceptions, then there'll be more. It'll grow, it'll infect the Safe Haven, and it won't be safe anymore. It's hard to come to terms with, in all honesty, it horrifies you, but you try to not dwell on it.

Each night you spend time playing card games and talking to your friends. Each day, you make new memories. Each day you write in a small journal you keep in your cargo pants pockets, making sure you'll remember your loved ones until you can't read anymore. You know, at some point, you won't be able to read anymore, you won't be able to be human. You'll discard it somewhere in the Scorch, maybe leaving it for someone who can read, who could share your story.

It hurts every time you think about it. The more you do, the more it aches.

You'll have to leave Newt to deal with his mind all alone. He has Minho and Thomas, but you fear they don't know how to really help him or how to read him. You'll have to leave Minho and his selflessness, Frypan and his crafty recipes, Thomas and his quick thinking and deep tied friendship. You'll have to leave Brenda and her warm hugs, Aris and his compassion, Teresa (as much as you hate her for betraying you) and her dedication. You'll have to leave Sonya and her talent for art, Harriet and her creative thinking, Jorge, and all the kindness he's shown you.

Sometimes, you just sit at the seaside, sand crawling between your fingers, and watch the sunrise or sunset, in total silence, only you and your thoughts. You're not sure how much longer you'll be able to see Mother Nature this beautiful, even after her destruction years ago. She gives and gives for nothing in return.

You just want to enjoy every last thing you can. In all these months, you've learned one thing, to never take a single second for granted. If you're not making memories, taking strolls on the beach, and helping people out, you're trying to take another step towards rescuing Minho, Aris, and Sonya. You want to make sure they're safe and free before you're gone.

"Vince," Thomas shakes his head, glancing in your direction, "We have to do this. It's our only opportunity-"

"It's our only opportunity while I'm still here," you exhale, leaning against the table, drafts and maps and plans spread across the surface, "I want to make sure they're here, safe, before I go. That's all I want, my dying wish."

Vince glances between you and Thomas. Newt nervously looks away. He doesn't want to think about you leaving him right now. Brenda and Frypan look between Vince and Jorge, seeing what the adults in charge will say. They know Jorge won't object, but Vince might. Harriet seems like she's down to do this as soon as possible, wishing to save her friends.

"Please," you press, "I'm not sure how much longer I have. We don't have time to wait around. If they're going to The Last City, they probably won't ever leave. It's only a matter of time before they're dead. WCKD doesn't hold back."

Newt speaks up from beside you, "We'll be nowhere near here. Once we get them, we can leave before WCKD ever sends a Berg out to find us."

Vince looks to Jorge for backup he'll never get. He's outnumbered.

"Fine," the man sighs.

You give a soft smile, looking over to Newt once the weight falls from your shoulders. He shares a warm smile with you, grateful you can experience an adrenaline fueled train jacking with him, even if you'll be on the sidelines with him. You'll still be there, that's what matters.

"We'll meet back here tomorrow, here me?" Vince speaks up.

"Loud and clear," Frypan nods.

You nod along.

Your plan to rescue Minho failed.

You set out to the Last City with Thomas, Newt, and Fry in the nighttime, escaping in the dark so Vince wouldn't be able to stop you. No way in hell was anything stopping you from bringing Minho home. Eventually, Jorge and Brenda caught up with you, bringing some extra hands for help.

Then, you found Gally, alive. Weird, but sorta nice. You caught up with him while Thomas was talking to his boss and got him to meet Brenda and Jorge (properly), which was nice.

You explored the outskirts of the city with him and Newt, as Thomas wasn't allowed to go in, per a deal with Gally's boss. The moonlight illuminated the sky, but the flashy technology and lights cleared the streets. It was sort of... surreal. Otherworldly, in a way. This is how the privileged live. How... comfortably uncomfortable. You're so used to fighting for your life that sometimes you forget comfort and peace exists, even if only for those who can afford it.

You set up a plan to break in, steal some uniforms of WCKD guards, grab Minho, and get out. Some of you were interested in grabbing Teresa, but other's not so much, but it turns out she'd be useful either way. You lured her away and essentially held her hostage until your microchips were taken out of your necks. WCKD can't track you on their turf now.

But when all's said and done, you could feel yourself growing weaker. You trembled under the weight of carrying Newt to bed. You could barely keep your eyes open even after a twelve hour sleep. You had to hide the black ooze trailing up your leg, spreading across your torso, trailing across your shoulders and down your arms.

It was happening a lot faster than you thought it would. You may not make it until tomorrow, to see the day where Minho is safe, the day where your friends escape and wave goodbye to you on the back bow of a giant ship, taking them to paradise. You can only hope.

Hiding in the stairwell now, you doubt you'll be able to make it through. You sit on the floor, perpendicular to the stairs going downwards. You pull the mask off your face, practically heaving, struggling to breathe. Newt takes note. He takes note of everything. He's too smart for his own good.

Teresa can see it all too well. She can see it trailing up your neck, slowly infecting you, turning you into a shell of yourself, into a monster.

"You alright?" Newt questions, leaning on the railing above you, hearing you cough over heavy gasps for air, "You need a minute?"

You shake your head, trying to wipe the black gunk you just spit up off of the inner pit of your elbow. "I'm good."

You can tell, even from behind you, he doesn't believe you. He knows your illness is rapidly spreading, filling you with dread and sickness. He shares a look with Teresa, like he's silently begging her to pull a cure out of her ass for your sake.

"Alright," she mutters, "They're good."

Newt reaches for his walkie to inform the others that secure doors have been manually unlocked. You manage to stand up, legs shaking and trembling as you hold a firm grip on the stairway railing behind you. You slide the mask back on and follow Newt and Teresa out towards the top floor where Minho is being held, where you also meet back up with Thomas.

Upon finding him, Newt and Thomas slam him into a hug while you watch from afar, keeping an eye out for Janson and Paige, or any other guards looking to fuck with your escape plan. Teresa had separated long ago, her duties fulfilled, and life no longer in danger. She was talking about being so close to a cure, that she wanted to try something. Apparently, you were her guinea pig now.

You don't remember much between Janson spotting you and jumping out of a window into a massive pool. You remember brief images of memories, but not the full thing. Maybe your adrenaline was pumping so much your mind was blocking it out? Either way, you jumped from a twenty-third story window into a pool, and you could feel your skin tingling. Excitement, adventure, joy. It glows so radiant on you.

You sort of awoke from some sort of trance while hiding in some half destroyed diner, heat pressing against your skin so close it burned, an orange glow illuminating the streets, sounds echoing so loud they felt like they'd deafen you. You could use context clues to understand what happened. Gally's group was going to destroy the whole city, not just WCKD. Gunshots and bombs echo off buildings, causing your ears to ring.

You had to act fast, save those kids, get Minho on the Berg, and go home.

Newt stands over you, worry painting his face. Minho stands beside him, Thomas and Gally seem to be trying to figure out a plan.

"Oh, klunk."

"Y/n, stay with us!"

You feel some sort of hot ooze spill from your lips, trailing down your chin and onto your neck. You stare up at them, reaching your hands towards them. Newt takes your hands, squeezing them so tight so you're sure he's really there. Minho looks like he's going to be sick.

"Newt-" you choke, feeling yourself slipping. It's so hot in this uniform, so hot baking in this fire, so dangerous sitting around in a warzone. You can't feel your limbs much, but you can just barely feel his hands in yours, "Take Minho home."

He shakes his head, tears welling in his eyes. He thought he'd have a few more days at least before this happened. He refuses to let you go, not now. "I'm not leaving you here, we're going home."

You shake your head again, drifting in and out of consciousness. You're assuming being under heavy stress makes the illness spread faster, makes it hurt worse, cause that's what it feels like. You're trying to be calm, but you just can't.

"Take Minho home," you smile, "Show him paradise."

Minho shakes his head, "Hey, no, Y/n, we're gonna go home together-"

Thomas speaks up from the quiet, "Guys! Teresa found Brenda and gave her a temp cure, she's at the Berg!"

A spark of hope, a glimmer of faith, shines through Newt's desperate eyes.

The blonde turns to his friend, "Will you be able to make it?"

Minho looks to Thomas and Gally, wondering how far away she and Fry are. The two give him an optimistic nod. He turns back to Newt with a sure nod.

"I can do it." he turns to you, "I'll be back."

"Go home," you repeat in a stern tone, "Go home."

Minho snags one last look before running off with Thomas and Gally. Newt helps you to your restless feet, wishing to take you somewhere where you're less likely to get shot in the head or burn to a crisp.

You find yourself in a cold, dimly lit alley. It's wet, like it just rained, but it hasn't rained since you were in the Glade, at least not that you've ever seen or felt. It's just some midnight dew on the concrete. Compared to how burning hot you feel, the cold, wet concrete must feel so good.

You stop, slumped into Newt's side. You pull the heavy red and black top off of yourself, then the boots, a pair of heavy, black cargo pants, exposing the pair of cargos you'd been wearing underneath, then the second shirt, leaving you in a comfortable tank top. You fall to the ground, pressing your exposed skin onto the cold concrete. It feels so good, like you may actually live.

Newt rushes to your aid but realizes you're entirely fine. You seem to be at peace, dying on the cold ground.

"Hey, love," he exhales nervously, "We have to keep going. We have to get to Minho."

You shake your head, "I'm fine here. Go without me."

"I'm not leaving you alone, shank," he grumbles, "Not after all'is." he wraps his arms around your stomach, attempting to pick your limp body back up, "Come on. We have a fancy Berg with a cure to catch."

You allow Newt to pick you up, leaving your stray layers to burn in the warzone. You trudge forward, limping on your wounded ankle. It's much more swollen, practically pulsing. It hurts to look at, it looks like a fucking parasite dug into your skin.

"Almost there," the blonde assures.

You slip from his grasp again, falling onto the ground. Newt hears a crack and quickly rushes to help you in fear you'd been seriously hurt. When he flips you to your side, he realizes what the crack was. Your eyes. They'd grown a solid black, almost alien. Acidic, black ooze drips from your mouth and nose.

He scoots back, horrified at the creature he looks at. Tears fall from his eyes, tear tracks staining his pale face. He knows. But he's so desperate, he can't. He can't let go.

"Come on, love," he cries, attempting to pick you back up.

The moment he touches you, you snap. You find control of your body again, inhumanly crawling away from him, placing distance between yourself and him. He places a hand over his mouth, terrified.

"Go home!" you shout.

"I won't leave without you!" he shouts back, acting like he's asserting dominance with a bear. "Come home, please!"

"I can't!" you scream, beads of sweat falling from your forehead, pieces of hair in your front hairline stuck to your face. "Go! Leave me here."

"I can't leave you here!" he cries, "Y/n, please, please!"

You sit on the wet ground, rummaging through your pockets in search of a weapon. Instead, you find your small journal. You stare at it in your hands for a moment, trying to read the leather bound cover where your name is engraved. You can't.

You throw it at him. It lands at his feet.

He lets his guard down, using his right hand to grab it. His hands shake, his lip quivers.

When he looks back up, you're holding a gun to your head. Without even thinking, he throws the journal right back at you, managing to make you lose your grip on the gun. It falls onto the ground, and so does the journal. He lunges towards you, fighting to keep you away from the gun.

"Y/n, stop!" he shouts, "Klunk, please!"

You're halfway feral at this point. You're trying to make this stop while you can. You can't explain the pain. It just hurts. It hurts so fucking bad. It hurts all over. It's like watching tour life from inside your own head and you can only watch as you maul anything and everything in sight. You can't control your body.

"Go home!" you shriek, "Go home, go home, go home!"

Newt manages to kick away the gun, straddling you and pinning your hands down with his. "Love, please, please, just wait," he cries, "They're almost here."

You snarl at him and manage to wriggle your hand away from his just enough to reach the journal. You press it to his chest, firm, silent. He stares down, using his free hand to grab it from you. He looks back down at you, silently wondering why.

"Just remember me." you whisper, voice cracking as you choke on ooze, "Remember."

Tears pour from his eyes, "I can't do this."

"Yes you can." you press, "Kill me."

Newt shakes his head with a desperate cry. "Please, Y/n, no. I can't do this."

"Then let me do it!" you growl.

The sounds, they scare him. Your eyes, they aren't yours. He thought maybe for one last moment, he'd be able to stare at your eyes, shining with adventure, glowing while you laugh. He can't. All of what is you... is gone. You're a shell of yourself, fighting the parasite inside of you that's rapidly taking over your body, invading your brain. You're fighting, you're fighting so hard to tell him what you want, and he just can't let go. There's still a chance.

He shakes his head, "No. They're- they're almost here. Just hang on, love."

You stare at him, a single tear sliding down your cheek. "Newt. Please."

He shakes his head, lip quivering. He looks like a sad puppy. He can't handle this. He's not a man. He's just a boy. He's a teenage boy. Hes a child who shouldn't have to be doing this, deciding whether he'll kill his lover or if he'll let them do it themselves. This is such a sick game.

"Just let me do it," you choke out, "Give me the gun."

"No." he shakes his head again, "We're gonna make you better. Teresa thinks Thomas' blood might be the cure. They're gonna give you the temp, then the cure when they get here, okay?"

You solemnly shake your head. That's not gonna be how this works. You're gonna be long gone before they're back. You don't want to risk hurting Newt.

"I don't want to hurt you!" you exclaim, "I don't want to hurt any of them, or-or the kids. I don't want to scare them."

You spot a pocketknife in his pocket. It's bright red with black details. Vince gave it to him months ago after he spent days eyeing it in the garage. You're tempted to just grab it and do what you need to do.

"Please, just hang on," he cries, feeling your every twitch and tremble as the virus takes more and more control over you, leaving him with nothing but a shell of his lover, "Just please hang on. You can do it."

You can't hang on anymore.

"Kill me." you squeeze out one final time. He can barely hear you, your voice ruined by all the gunk in your throat. All he had left, your beautiful voice, gone. It shatters his heart into a million pieces.

He never moves for the gun.

You have to do it.

You're slipping.

You grab the knife from his chest pocket, flick it open with your thumb, and plunge it into your chest. One smooth, concurrent move.

You stare up at him. He's silent, but there's more tears. All you want is to die staring at him. All you want.

He just... watches. He can't stop it, he knows.

He just stares. He watches every piece of you leave him. Your hands fall limp, then your shoulders relax. You stop twitching and trembling. Your lips part, like a light snore in the middle of the night.

Your eyes, though. They never leave him.

Not until they're glossed over, fading from pitch black to milky white.

And then he just cries and cries. He moves around, grabbing the journal and sliding down. He presses the journal against your stomach, and then he lays on top of you. He rests his head in the crook of your neck, opposite the side of your heart, and hides himself from reality.

For a moment, the world is so quiet. It's just him lying with you. He can't think, can't speak, can't cry, can't feel.

He's just hiding in your comfort, drenching his hair in your sweat. Even as buildings explode around him and fall to the ground, he lies there with you, waiting for the others to find him.

He'll remember you. He promises.