The first rays of dawn crept over the towering stone walls of the Glade, streaking the sky in orange and pink like some dramatic oil painting. I groaned as I stretched, hammock creaking under me, my back already questioning every decision that brought me here. Sleeping in a net of rope? Not exactly five-star living.
But hey—at least I wasn't in the Maze.
Yet.
I rolled my shoulders and dropped into a set of push-ups, ignoring the dull ache in my arms. It was a routine. Something normal. Something mine. By the time I hit fifty, sweat was already trailing down my jaw, and my breathing had settled into a steady rhythm. Felt good. Felt real.
"Alright," I muttered, rising to my feet. "Let's see if yesterday's slot machine spin actually gave me anything useful."
The Gacha pull—yes, the literal gamble-based reward system that somehow came with my multiverse babysitting gig—had handed me Enhanced Reflexes (Level 1). Not flashy. No laser eyes or super punches. But still…
I grabbed a stick off the ground and started swinging. Fast. Tight. The motion felt natural, precise. I could feel the difference.
A beetle zipped past me on the ground.
I snatched it out of the air like Mr. Miyagi on a caffeine high.
I grinned. "Not bad, System. Not bad at all."
"Oi, Greenie," a voice called out. "You gonna keep dancing with bugs all morning, or actually do something useful?"
I turned to see Gally standing there, arms crossed, face set in a smirk that just screamed punch me. He looked like he'd been up for hours already, probably bench-pressing logs or headbutting boulders.
"Just warming up," I said. "Speaking of which—how about a quick spar?"
His eyebrows lifted. "You're askin' for a beating this early in the day?"
"Call it cardio. You know… for you."
He snorted and cracked his knuckles. "You're dead, shank."
Perfect. A little friendly violence to start the morning.
A crowd formed almost instantly—because of course they did. Nothing screams teen entertainment like two guys beating each other up before breakfast.
"No holds barred?" I asked, twirling my stick like I was born with it.
"The only way to fight," Gally replied, already stepping in.
He lunged.
His fist aimed straight for my face, but my body moved before I even thought about it. I ducked under the punch, sidestepped, and swept his legs with the stick. He hit the dirt hard.
The crowd hooted.
"Lucky shot," he growled, scrambling to his feet.
"Keep telling yourself that."
This time, he charged. Classic Gally—brute force over finesse. I dodged again, but he twisted, grabbed my arm mid-movement, and yanked me into a tight grapple.
Okay, not bad.
But he was still all muscle, no balance. I shifted my hips, redirected his weight, and sent him sprawling again—face-first into the dirt.
Silence.
Then laughter. A few of the Builders whistled and clapped.
I offered him a hand. "Good match."
He slapped it away and got up, muttering, "Piss off," before flipping me off over his shoulder and stalking away.
"Aw," I called after him. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me!"
A voice chuckled behind me. "You made quite the impression."
I turned to see Newt leaning on a post, arms folded, grin playing on his lips.
"Guess Gally just found out I'm not as squishy as I look," I said, brushing dirt off my shirt.
"Most Greenies can't even walk straight their first week. You're out here suplexing Gally before breakfast."
"I have a unique skill set."
"Reckon I ought to show you around then. Proper like."
We started with the Homestead—nothing fancy, just planks, nails, and a few too many splinters. After that, we moved toward the gardens.
Zart and a few others were already knee-deep in soil, tending crops with all the enthusiasm of grumpy dads mowing lawns.
"That's Zart," Newt said. "Greenie before you nearly set the cornfield on fire."
"I'll try to keep the flames to a minimum," I said.
Zart glanced up. "You any good with plants?"
"Do they scream when neglected?"
"…No?"
"Then yeah, I'm a pro."
Newt was already chuckling as we moved on.
Next stop: the Blood House.
The stench hit me like a hammer—blood, iron, sweat. I wrinkled my nose as we approached the butchering hut.
"We raise chickens and pigs," Newt explained. "Used to have a cow, but—"
"Maze got it?"
"Maze got it."
Lovely.
The Map Room was more my speed. A small, dimly lit building packed with sketches, notes, and what looked like years of obsession scrawled across every surface.
"This is where we log the Maze patterns," Newt said. "Runners go out every day, come back before sunset. We try to find something consistent in how it shifts."
"Any luck?"
"Define luck."
"That's a no."
He didn't reply, but the tight set of his jaw said enough.
We continued—Med-jack hut, the forge, supply sheds. Each corner of the Glade had its own vibe. Controlled chaos. A society built by scared kids who refused to stay scared.
"You're like the Glade's unofficial mayor," I said, nodding at the way people gave Newt small nods or hellos as we passed.
He shrugged. "Alby's the leader. I'm just… the one who makes sure everything doesn't go to shit."
"Modesty looks good on you."
He elbowed me lightly. "You talk a lot, Greenie."
"I'm charming. You'll learn to love it."
By midday, sweat glued my shirt to my back. We passed the Builders hauling timber like they were auditioning for Survivor: Teen Edition.
One of them—massive dude with arms the size of tree trunks—grinned at me. "Hey, Greenie. Wanna help out?"
"I've got a strict 'no lifting things bigger than my self-worth' policy."
He burst out laughing. "Fair."
Newt shook his head. "Come on. Lunch."
The kitchen was beautiful chaos. Frypan ruled it with an iron ladle, barking at underlings as they tried not to burn anything too important.
"You call this edible?" Frypan barked at a kid holding a tray of very burnt biscuits.
"I call it avant-garde," the kid snapped back.
"Avant-garbage, maybe."
I leaned in. "Gotta say, this place has major weird summer camp vibes."
Newt snorted. "If summer camp had walls that closed in and murder-bots roaming the woods."
Lunch was… stew. I think. Mystery meat, lumpy vegetables, and a dash of regret. But hunger is a powerful motivator.
"So," Newt said between mouthfuls, "you're not like most Greenies."
"Oh?"
"Most wake up screaming. Or crying. Or both. You… started cracking jokes."
I shrugged. "Laughter's cheaper than therapy."
"Or you're completely mental."
"Could be both."
He smiled. "Well, keep doing whatever you're doing. You're fitting in faster than anyone I've seen."
"Gally disagrees."
"Gally hates everyone. You'll grow on him."
"I'm like a fungus that way."
After lunch, we hit the river.
"You bathe here?" I asked, eyeing the water.
"Unless you want to go full swamp creature."
Some Gladers were already in—splashing, wrestling, yelling. Modesty clearly wasn't a big deal out here.
Newt shrugged off his shirt and waded in like it was nothing. "C'mon."
I followed. Screw it. Freezing cold or not, I could use a wash.
The second I went under, it was like my brain short-circuited—shockingly cold, but… refreshing. I surfaced, slicking my hair back, and let out a laugh. Not fake. Not forced.
Just… real.
Newt grinned. "Welcome to the Glade, Greenie."
Three months until canon.
Three months to get stronger. To train. To survive.
And apparently, three months of freezing baths and trash stew.
Lucky me.
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