THE 100

The girl thithers to the ground with a last, rattling breath, her body crumpling into an unnatural stillness. And yet, I can't look away.

Monroe is dead.

Her final words hang in the silence like a curse, heavy and sharp. No one moves. It's as if the entire camp is holding its breath, unwilling to acknowledge the truth that she's gone. The weight of what she said—it sinks in slowly, like the sting of a blade piercing deep.

The Grounders didn't just kill her. They used her. They left her alive just long enough to deliver their warning.

And Murphy... I pray I never have to see what happens to him.

A chill creeps down my spine as I realize what Wells meant. I could run, hightail it across the open woods and never look back. But no matter how far I ran, I'd remain a coward.

So, I take his advice.

Lincoln is exactly where we left him, chained like an animal to the support beam. He doesn't lift his head when I enter, but I know he heard Monroe's scream. I can feel it in the way his shoulders tense, the way his breathing sharpens ever so slightly.

Clarke looks like she's about to collapse, her face pale and drawn. No doubt she's been running herself ragged trying to save everyone. I half-expect her to stop me when I approach the table, but she's too exhausted to argue.

The map sits there, flat and untouched, its red lines etched like scars across the surface. A marker lies uncapped to the side, waiting.

I snatch it up and unroll the map at Lincoln's feet, pressing the thick parchment down so he can see exactly what I'm about to do. He shifts, his dark eyes narrowing as they flicker over me.

I draw two lines heading north. One marks the village I saw a Grounder enter. The other... well, I can only hope my memory is accurate enough to make it clear.

Clarke's interest piques, and she finally stirs, moving to kneel beside me. I can feel her gaze burning into the side of my face as I work. When I mark Mount Weather, her eyebrows shoot up, her confusion palpable.

"What are you doing?" she finally asks, her voice thin and wavering.

I press a hand up, silencing her, and give her a look that keeps her quiet.

Turning my attention back to Lincoln, I steady myself. My voice comes out firm, confident—despite the tremor I feel deep in my chest.

"North of here," I begin, my words deliberate, "there sits a statue of a man."

Lincoln doesn't react.

"The Americans were big on monuments. I'm sure you'd recognize it."

Still nothing.

"They built it in their capital, Washington D.C.," I press on. His eyes twitch now, just the faintest flicker of recognition. "For the 16th President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln."

Clarke looks at me like I've lost my mind, as though I'm giving him a history lecture at the worst possible time. But I don't stop. I smudge the fading red ink on the map, my movements deliberate.

"Has Raven fixed the radio yet?" I ask, my gaze snapping to Clarke.

"She said it'd be another hour," Clarke replies hesitantly, glancing between me and the map. "She and Monty have been tweaking it since last night."

"Good."

I lower my eyes to meet Lincoln's, cold and unyielding.

"Give them a message for me," I say evenly. Clarke frowns, the tension thickening between us. "Tell the chancellor to land here."

Her sharp blue eyes dart down to the map just as I swirl the marker in a large, definitive "X" over the chosen spot.

It's the reaction I was waiting for.

Lincoln thrashes in his chains, his restrained fury boiling over. He twists and pulls at the metal like a caged animal, a raw, guttural growl tearing from his throat.

"What did you say?" Clarke asks.

I don't flinch.

"They sent their messenger," I say, standing tall, meeting his rage head-on.

"Now we send ours."

-

Raven fumbles with the electrical wiring when I reach the upper floor of the dropship. Despite her injuries, she's hunched over the damaged machine like it's the only thing tethering her to sanity.

She's so immersed in her work that I don't think she notices me at first. I take a seat beside her, letting my head fall back against the cold metal wall with a dull thud. Her focus doesn't break until she sets the tweezers down with an audible clank, irritation already creeping into her expression.

"Clarke send you?" she asks, her voice sharp, bitterness laced in every syllable.

I can't help the small smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. "Since when does checking up on you mean it's an order?"

Her eyebrows lift in brief surprise before suspicion narrows her eyes. "Well, if you're looking for the radio, I'm not done yet."

She turns back to her work like I'm not even there. I glance across the room, spotting Bellamy slumped unconscious on a makeshift table. His face is pale under the dim lighting, and his chest rises in shallow, uneven breaths.

"Has he woken up yet?" I ask, jerking my chin in his direction.

Raven doesn't bother looking up. "I sure hope he doesn't. I'm over here killing myself because of him."

She pauses, her hands hesitating over a bundle of frayed wires. Her voice softens, almost too quiet to hear. "Thanks."

"Huh?" I blink, confused.

She glances at me briefly before returning to her work, her hands moving with mechanical precision. "For the medicine," she says, then adds with a ghost of a grin, "and for punching that bastard in the face."

I chuckle, relieved she's not as angry as I thought. "He deserved it. But, to be fair, I think he was just trying to save his own skin after... everything. Can't say the same for Clarke, though."

Raven lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Tell me about it."

The memory of Finn and Clarke flashes in my mind—the way he'd clung to her in the forest, and the look of guilt when he'd held ravens hand from her injuries. 

My voice lowers. "Did she tell you?"

The clank of her tweezers hitting the table jolts me. Her sharp brown eyes meet mine. "She didn't have to," she says coolly. "We took a little trip to their bunker."

I shift uncomfortably, fighting the urge to defend Clarke despite everything she's done. "She didn't know," I say, choosing my words carefully. "It's Finn you've gotta talk to."

Raven shakes her head, jaw tight as if trying to lock away the memory. "Whatever," she mutters, diving back into her project with renewed vigor.

There's a long pause before she speaks again. "How'd you know I wanted to build a rocket?" Her voice is softer now, curious.

I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees. "Because there's less than 24 hours before they float a hundred people up there. If you can't get the radio working, you'd find another way. You always do."

A flicker of pride flashes in her eyes before she scowls, her hands stilling over the half-repaired panel. "Then why not let me build one? It'd be faster than this."

I stand, stretching my legs. "Basic physics," I say with a shrug. "Everything that goes up must come down."

Her brow furrows as the realization hits her. "If I shoot those rockets... they'll think it's a burning star."

"Exactly," I say, crossing my arms. "And when they come down, it won't be pretty."

Her eyes widen, the pieces falling into place. "They'll crash."

"Right on top of us if you're not careful."

She stares at me, her hands frozen mid-motion. "So, what are you planning to do, exactly? Bellamy's unconscious, and Clarke looks like she's barely holding it together. You think they're just gonna wait for the Ark to save us?"

I smile faintly. "I wish you'd come down here earlier"

Her cheeks flush faintly, the pink barely noticeable under the harsh lighting. "And you?" she snaps, her voice tinged with annoyance.

"I'm not planning on doing anything," I say simply, watching the confusion deepen in her expression.

She stops completely now, the wires forgotten in her hands. "What?" Her voice is sharp, cutting through the mechanical hum of the dropship. "You're just going to let that grounder rot down there?"

I shake my head, a faint smirk playing on my lips. "Why wait for the enemy to come to you when you can just go to them?"

Raven's hair clings to her damp forehead as she turns to me, her face flushed with both heat and frustration. "So I'm building the radio for nothing?" she snaps, her voice heavy with exasperation.

"Nah," I say, leaning casually against the cold wall. "We're gonna need your radio for this plan. Trust me."

Her narrowed eyes flicker with suspicion. "And what about the grounder? What, you just let him go?"

I meet her gaze evenly, my voice steady. "Exactly."

The room falls silent, save for the faint buzz of the equipment and Bellamy's labored breathing in the background. Raven stares at me like I've just lost my mind, her fingers curling into fists against the table.

"You're insane," she mutters, shaking her head. "You're telling me you want to waltz into enemy territory, no plan, no backup, and let the one person who might give us leverage just go?"

I shrug, my smirk deepening. "Sometimes, letting go is the plan."

Her eyes blaze with disbelief. "They'll kill us before we even get close."

"Maybe," I say with a calmness that even surprises me. "But we've already seen what happens when we sit here and wait. Monroe's dead. Murphy's next. If we keep waiting, it'll be all of us. This way... we take control."

Raven's jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think she's going to argue again. But instead, she exhales sharply, running a hand through her tangled hair.

"You're insane," she says again, softer this time.

"Maybe," I echo, pushing off the wall. "But you're still building that radio."

Her lips twitch, and I catch the faintest ghost of a grin before she turns back to her work. "Fine," she mutters. "But if this gets me killed, I'm haunting your ass."

"Deal."

-

Octavia touches her lips, her fingers trembling slightly as her gaze locks with Lincoln's. There's something in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or something deeper—and it mirrors the unnameable feeling welling in her chest.

She was helping him escape. Aiding the enemy who had poisoned her brother and left him on the brink of death. She braces herself for fear or guilt to take root, but there's nothing. Not even the faintest trace of regret.

So she stands at the edge of the camp, watching as Lincoln—dressed in a dead boy's clothes— prepares to disappear into the shadows.

But his escape is short-lived.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The voice slices through the stillness like a blade, cold and biting.

Octavia spins, her breath catching. A foot away, Maddox leans against a tree, his figure half-shrouded in darkness. His green eyes glint under the faint moonlight, sharp and unforgiving.

Her cheeks flush, but anger quickly rises to the surface, and she steps closer to Lincoln, shielding him with her body. "I'm not letting him die," she says, her voice shaking but firm.

Maddox pushes off the tree, the crunch of dry leaves under his boots the only sound between them. "Bellamy will kill him for what he did," he says, cocking his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he sizes her up.

Octavia's fingers curl into fists at her sides. "Not if he leaves. Not if he never comes back."

For a moment, she thinks Maddox smiles, but it's fleeting, so quick she can't be sure. "His people will," he says cryptically, stepping into the light. The gleam of a rifle slung over his shoulder sends a chill through her.

"No," she whispers, her voice cracking. "Please, just... let him live."

Maddox doesn't respond right away. His green eyes drift to Lincoln's borrowed clothes, and his jaw tightens. She holds her breath, waiting for his judgment.

"Be careful," he says finally, his words soft and almost lost in the cool night air.

Octavia blinks in confusion, the tension in her shoulders not quite easing. Maddox was always hard to read. Everything about him felt calculated, as if every move was part of some desperate strategy to survive. Shed seen it when he went out in the forest and brought back those guns, and shed felt it when Clarke and Bellamy lead him to his death. He knew something none of them knew. And now he was letting her go?

"That's it?" she mutters, disbelief laced in her tone. "You're not going to tell Bellamy?"

He turns his back to her, the faintest shake of his head visible in the dim light. "I owe your brother nothing," he says simply, starting to walk away. But then he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. His voice drops, quieter, more personal. "But I do owe you."

Octavia watches him go, her chest tight with confusion and something else she can't quite place.

Lincoln's voice breaks the silence, low and rough. "Did you tell him my name?"

She turns back to him, frowning. "No. I haven't spoken to him since you came. Why?"

Fear flashes in Lincoln's eyes and it roots Octavia to the spot. She has never seen him like this, not even in the face of death.

"I didn't understand it at first," he murmurs, his voice strained. "But then he started talking about the statue."

"What statue?"

Lincoln hesitates, his gaze darting to the treeline as though expecting an ambush. "The entrance to my clan's territory is marked by a statue of a man. That boy—I hadn't even known it had a name, and yet it wa like he was trying to tell me something."

Octavia's heart skips a beat. "It's not just that," Lincoln continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "He knew the location, knew what the clan was called."

"What's he trying to say?" she asks, dread curling in her stomach.

Lincoln's expression hardens, his fear tempered by a grim resolve. "It's a warning," he says. "An eye for an eye. If my people don't stop, he's going to send your ship straight into the heart of our territory."