The Girl Called Owen - Newt x Owen (OC)

The Maze was alive with chaos. The sound of grinding metal, clicking legs, and mechanical growls echoed through the stone walls. Owen's breath came in ragged gasps as she ran, her boots pounding against the uneven ground. Her heartbeat was a drum in her ears, drowning out everything except the primal need to survive.

"Keep moving!" Minho's voice shouted from somewhere ahead, but the sound was distant, fading as Owen stumbled around a corner.

A deafening roar erupted behind her. She turned, her eyes wide, and there it was—a Griever. The monstrous creature's slick, black body glistened in the moonlight, its pincers snapping menacingly. Its mechanical limbs clattered as it advanced, every movement sending a shiver down her spine.

Her instincts screamed at her to run, but there was nowhere to go. She was cornered.

Owen tightened her grip on the jagged metal pole she had found earlier, her knuckles white. Her chest heaved, fear gripping her, but deep inside, something stronger ignited—a defiant will to fight.

"Alright, you ugly bastard," she muttered under her breath, raising the makeshift weapon. "Let's do this."

The Griever lunged, its pincers slashing through the air. Owen rolled to the side just in time, the tip of a claw grazing her arm. She hissed in pain but didn't stop moving, swinging her pole with all her strength.

The metal struck the Griever's side, producing a hollow clang. It staggered briefly but quickly regained its balance, letting out another guttural roar.

Owen circled it, her mind racing. "Aim for the weak spot," she remembered Newt saying during their training. "The eye or the underbelly—anything soft."

The Griever lunged again, but this time Owen was ready. She sidestepped, bringing the pole down hard on one of its mechanical legs. The limb buckled, sparks flying as it collapsed to the ground.

"Gotcha," she muttered, adrenaline surging through her veins.

The creature screeched, its movements erratic as it flailed, trying to regain its footing. Seizing the opportunity, Owen aimed for the glowing green orb embedded in its head—its eye.

She charged, driving the pole forward with all her might. The makeshift weapon pierced the Griever's eye, a sickening crunch accompanying the motion. The creature let out a deafening wail, its body convulsing violently.

Owen held on, using every ounce of strength to keep the pole steady as the Griever thrashed. Finally, with one last shudder, the beast collapsed, its mechanical limbs falling limp.

She staggered back, her chest heaving, her hands trembling as she stared at the lifeless form.

"Owen!"

She turned to see Newt and Minho sprinting toward her, their faces pale with worry.

Newt reached her first, his hands gripping her shoulders. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice frantic as his eyes scanned her for injuries.

Owen nodded, though her knees felt like they might give out at any moment. "I'm fine," she managed, her voice hoarse. "It's dead."

Minho whistled, looking down at the Griever's motionless body. "Damn, Greenie. You actually killed it."

Newt pulled her into a tight hug, his relief palpable. "You bloody scared me," he murmured. "Don't ever do that again."

Owen pulled back, offering a shaky smile. "No promises."

As the three of them made their way back to the Glade, Owen glanced over her shoulder at the fallen Griever. For the first time since arriving in the Maze, she felt a flicker of hope. She wasn't just a survivor—she was a fighter.