THE 100

When you shoot an animal, you're taught to give it a quick death. Aim at the vitals, stomach, lungs, heart, the head. Don't let it suffer, that's the only mercy the hunter grants the prey.

I let her bleed,

The ancient gun stutters underneath my grip from the lack of use, before the Bullet shoots out, not at her stomach, but several inches above where rusted steel meets the beating organ behind her chest.

The grounder girl's eyes widened in shock, brown eyes staring back at me in disbelief. The blood spreads her shirt, crimson flooding the once brown garment.

The other grounder, Rik, doesn't need any orders to do what he does next.

He lunges at me with a ferocity that promises death, the rifle is useless at this range so I ditch the weapon. Knife slipping from my pockets with ease as I dodge the first swing, aiming at his stomach.

He's quick and nimble despite his heavy frame, the matted fur coat draped across his shoulders sways with every step. Unlike the girl, he shows no mercy. His blade, forged of a metal that can't keep up with my own, slices across my chest, deep enough to tear the thin cotton covering my skin. I block one swing, then another, the sharp clang of steel meeting steel ringing in my ears. I see my reflection in his crude blade.

It's kill or be killed. And I'll be damned if I die here.

I'd never used a knife for anything other than cutting apples, skinning the hide of a deer's back. But I surprise myself with the sheer strength bubbling within me. Knife cutting the air with a dance of blades

The biological makeup meant despite the grounders trained instincts, I could keep up with the monster.

The rest I made up with strategy.

I step back eyes trained on the ground beneath his feet, 

Closer.

Closer.

Until his damp moccasins step into the shallow puddle.

I lunge low, sweeping my leg across his ankles. He staggers, teetering as his footing falters, arms flailing to regain balance.

For a heartbeat, I think he'll recover. His size, his strength—it feels insurmountable. But the slick mud beneath his feet betrays him. He tumbles forward, his weight crashing down, and I don't hesitate.

His hands go to cover his chest, where he thinks my blade is aimed at. Instead I go for the center of mobility in his arms, the shoulder.

My knife shatters the flesh of his skin, deep untainted metal plunging in his shoulder blades. The sound almost makes me vomit, but the blood on my own hands fuels me with anger. His body thrashes beneath me, and I grip the hilt tighter, trying to hold him down. His free hand claws at the ground, searching for leverage, and then he twists violently, his elbow catching me in the ribs.

The blow sends me reeling, the knife wrenching free of his shoulder with a slick, wet sound. My stomach churns at the spray of warm blood that splatters across my arm, but there's no time to falter. My knees hit the slushy mud and I fumble breath the ground as he regains his balance, fury now the only thing separating him form insanity.

My fingers go to the ground, a handful of mud clenched within my palm. When he lunges again, weakened by the wound, I spray the substance into his face. The mud collects at his eyes and he viciously tries to rub it off, leaving his only good arm exposed.

There's no hesitation as I plunge the crude blade into his stomach, twisting in turning so the organ has no chance to recover. His arm goes limp.

The fight leaves him, his movements slowing until he's sprawled in the mud, blood pooling beneath him.

I stagger back, my chest heaving, hands slick with his blood. My stomach churns, threatening to rebel, but the fury burning inside me keeps me upright.

I don't want to know if he's dead.

Clarke kneels beside the girl, her hands trembling as they press against the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. Her wide eyes dart to mine, the fog of confusion clearing as panic takes over.

"I-I don't—" Clarke stammers, her voice cracking.

The grounder girl isn't screaming or crying. Her face isn't contorted with pain. Instead, it's twisted with unfiltered hatred. Her dirt-streaked features are tight with determination, her teeth clenched as she glares at me.

A sniper rifle would've done the job. Shot the bullet straight through her heart, but the distance makes her life stretch for minutes.

Even in death, she refuses to stay down. Her hands shove at Clarke's, trying to push her away. With a grimace, she starts to scoot backward, inching toward her blade.

Her fingers brush the hilt, but before she can grab it, I step forward and plant my boot firmly on the weapon, pinning it to the ground.

Green eyes meet brown, her gaze sharp and defiant despite the blood staining her heaving chest. My chest tightens at the venom in her stare, but I don't waver.

She laughs. "Kill me you bastard."

My hands still hold the blood soaked knife, I slam it into the ground centimeters from her face. She doesn't flinch. I peel the sack from my chest, and let it drop on her chest. 

"Who sent you?" I ask, my voice comes out barely over a whisper. Her eyes are muddy brown, lined by kohl that makes them a shade lighter. Around her neck is a tattoo, Some kind of abstract line that runs jaggedly across blistered skin. 

The girl looks from the sack and to the air behind us. Before I can look back, the sound of a gunshot reverberates through the clearing, sharp and jarring.

Rik, the grounder I thought was down for good, jerks violently before collapsing back onto the dirt. Blood pours from a fresh wound in his chest, and this time, there's no mistaking it—he's not getting back up.

I whip around, my heart hammering in my chest, to see Bellamy standing at the edge of the bunker, rifle raised and smoke curling from the barrel. His eyes are wild, his face pale.

"You're welcome," he says, his voice tight as he lowers the gun.

"I heard the gunshot," Bellamy interrupts, stepping closer, his gaze darting between the bodies, the blood, and me. "Figured you might need backup." His eyes narrow when they settle on me. "Looks like I was right."

I exhale sharply, the tension in my chest easing slightly, though not entirely. "Took your sweet time, didn't you?"

"Yeah, well," he mutters, glancing at the carnage, "those berries had a real kick to them." 

The grounder girl's laughter draws both our attention. It's low and bitter, bubbling up despite the pain she's clearly in. "You're all the same," she hisses, her voice weak but still laced with contempt. "Killing is the only thing you sky people know how to do."

The grounder girl's laughter stutters but doesn't stop. It's almost maddening, mixing with the tension hanging heavy in the air. "You drew first blood," I say coldly, cocking my head to the side. "It never had to be this way."

Her bloodshot eyes lock onto mine, fury blazing beneath the pain. "And yet, here we are," she spits, her voice dripping with venom. "You trespass. You destroy. And then you act surprised when we fight back."

I clench my jaw, the weight of her accusation digging into me. "We didn't come here to fight you."

"No," she snaps, her lips curling into a bitter smile. "You came here to take."

"Enough," Bellamy's voice cuts in sharply. He steps forward, rifle slung low but ready, his eyes hard. "You're lucky you're still breathing. Don't push it."

Her laughter finally dies, replaced by a heavy, simmering silence. Clarke shifts beside me, her hand trembling as she presses it to her temple, trying to clear her head.

I can see the girl shiver as if holding back a sob, her face cracks with the hint of emotion. I can't watch. 

"Let's go," Bellamy mutters, glancing nervously at the treeline. "We're burning daylight, and who knows how many more of them are out there."

I nod and stand, sparing her one last glance before turning away. Clarke stumbles slightly as Bellamy helps her up, and I tighten my grip on the sack slung over my shoulder, Murphy's unconscious form a dead weight.

As we retreat, the grounders' voice rings out, hoarse and out of breath. "You can't run forever, sky people. You'll pay for what you've done."

I don't look back, but her words stick with me, sinking into my thoughts like thorns. I should bury her body beneath the grass. A proper burial. I should feel relief. Victory. Anything. But all I feel is the weight of the blood on my hands, heavier than any weapon I've ever held.

Clarke looks like she's about to vomit, skin matching her pale blonde hair, choke marks still around her neck.

As for Bellamy, his rifle shakes aggressively in his palms, he'd killed back there, to save us. The guy was stupid sometimes, impulsive and too brash but his loyalty lay in the 100, grudge be damned.

Meters away, I spot Dax's still body, sprawled awkwardly on the forest floor. The wound in his throat seeps dark red, pooling beneath him like spilled ink. The sight is grim, but it's not what holds my attention.

Next to him, tethered to a low-hanging branch, stands a horse.

The animal is massive, it's dark coat gleaming in the dim light filtering through the trees. Its breath puffs in white clouds in the chilly air, ears flicking nervously as it shifts its weight from one hoof to another.

Bellamy steps up beside me, rifle raised slightly, his expression a mix of confusion and caution. "A horse?" he mutters, as if saying it aloud will make it make sense.

"They'd probably left it here to rest" I reply, my voice low. My eyes flick to the saddle strapped securely to the animal's back. It's crude but functional, made of leather and rough stitching. "Doesn't look like it was running wild." I glance at the saddlebag slung over the horse's side. It looks full, bulging with whatever's inside. 

I approach cautiously, my hands raised slightly to show the horse I'm not a threat. Its ears swivel toward me, but it doesn't shy away. Carefully, I reach for the saddlebag, unbuckling it with slow, deliberate movements.

"What's in it?" Bellamy asks, his voice tense.

I pull the bag open, the smell of dried meat and herbs hitting me first. But as I dig deeper, my fingers brush against something cold and metallic. I pull it out—a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

Unwrapping it reveals a dagger with intricate carvings along the blade, clearly grounder-made. Next to it is a rolled-up piece of parchment.

Clarke steps closer, her curiosity overtaking her unease. "What's that?"

I unroll the parchment, the symbols and markings scrawled across it unfamiliar but unmistakably intentional. A map, perhaps, or a set of instructions.

Clarke leans in, her eyes narrowing at the parchment. "Directions ," she mutters, her voice tinged with frustration. "But I can't make sense of it."

Bellamy snorts, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder. "Great. Another puzzle piece we don't have time for." His tone is bitter, but his eyes linger on the map longer than he'd admit.

The horse nickers softly, shifting again, its ears flicking toward the treeline. My gut tightens at the sound—a reminder we're still in enemy territory. "Let's take it with us," I say, folding the parchment and slipping it into my jacket. "Whatever it is, it was important enough for them to carry."

Bellamy raises a brow. "And the horse?"

I glance at the animal, its dark eyes watching us warily but without aggression. "We take her too. She's faster than we are on foot. If more of them come after us, we'll need the speed."

"That's her horse," Clarke says, her voice low. Her gaze flicks back to the clearing where we left the girl. There's a hint of conflict in her expression, but she doesn't argue further. 

"Not anymore," Bellamy mutters, tightening the strap on his rifle. "Let's move."

I give the reins a gentle tug, and the horse steps forward hesitantly, its hooves crunching softly against the forest floor. Clarke walks beside me, her hand brushing her side as if grounding herself. Bellamy takes the rear, his eyes darting between the shadows of the trees, ever watchful.

As we make our way deeper into the forest, the silence is heavy, broken only by the steady thud of the horse's steps and Clarke's ragged breaths. My mind drifts back to the grounders words, her bitter accusations still ringing in my ears.

Clarke finally speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. "You knew her," her stark blues eyes snap to me. I nod, shaking the chill seeping my mind. "Barely. She was the grounder I'd seen when I first went to the bunker, except that time she didn't have company."

Clarke looks down, "She's not wrong, you know. About us."

I glance at her, my jaw tightening. "They attacked first."

"But why?" she presses, her tone almost desperate. "Do we ever stop to think about that? About what we're doing to survive?"

Bellamy snorts from behind us. "This isn't the time for a moral debate, Clarke. You want to stay alive, right? Then stop second-guessing everything."

She doesn't respond, but her shoulders hunch slightly, the weight of his words—or maybe her own thoughts—pressing down on her.

"If she's right," I mutter, "then we did all of that for nothing."

The grounders had lived here for centuries, coexisting with each other in a clash of war and conflict, even amongst themselves. Us? We were just another pawn in their political game. 

The horse lets out a low whinny, its ears swiveling toward the horizon. I pause, scanning the treeline ahead. A faint rustling reaches my ears, too faint to pinpoint but enough to put me on edge.

"Keep moving," I say, my voice hushed but firm. Bellamy tightens his grip on his rifle, his expression hardening.

-

We reach camp by midnight, the only light guiding us coming from the faint glow of the smoke rising from the meat house. The scent of burning wood and charred meat lingers in the air, mingling with the cool night breeze.

The camp is quiet, most of the others asleep or keeping to themselves. Bellamy and Clarke don't say a word as we cross the clearing, exhaustion pulling at every step.

The fire crackles inside the meat house, casting a flickering orange hue against the surrounding tents. For a moment, the familiar scene feels almost normal—like we haven't just walked out of a battlefield. But the tension in my chest, the dried blood on my hands, and the weight of Murphy's body over my shoulder remind me otherwise.

"We need to get him inside," Clarke says, her voice hoarse.

"Not so fast," I grunt, letting Murphy's body drop heavily to the ground. The horse beside us snorts, its breath misting in the cool night air.

Clarke and Bellamy both turn to me, their eyes wide with confusion.

I crouch down, pulling back the bloodied cloth covering Murphy. His face is pale, dirt smeared across his skin, but it's the dark, sticky blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth that catches my attention. 

"They wouldn't just give us a present," I mutter, my mind racing.

Bellamy's brows knit together. "What are you talking about?"

I glance up at him, my jaw tight. "She said this was a present. But I'm thinking it's more than that. It's a Trojan horse."

"A Trojan horse?" Clarke echoes, her voice strained.

"They didn't leave Murphy alive out of kindness," I say, standing up, the realization settling in like a weight in my chest. "They want him back here for a reason."

Bellamy's eyes darken, and he steps closer, his jaw clenched. "You're saying they did something to him?"

I nod, "why else would they give him back? Out of the goodness of their heart."

Clarke hesitates for a fraction of a second before dropping to her knees beside Murphy. Her fingers move swiftly, searching over his body, peeling back layers of dirt and blood.

Bellamy watches, his grip tightening on his rifle. "If they've done something to him, we're not letting it spread to the camp."

"We'll deal with it," I reply, my voice hard. "For now, we need all hands on deck."

I don't know if its because we faced death together, killed for the other, but Bellamy doesn't protest when I start giving him orders. "These are reserved for a select few," I nod to the guns, "we need patrols and guards surrounding the perimeter of the camp."

Bellamy nods, his jaw tight, the tension evident in every line of his body. "Fine. But we keep this quiet for now. Last thing we need is panic spreading through camp."

Clarke steps forward, brushing a hand over Murphy's clammy forehead, her lips pressed into a thin line. "We need to isolate him," she says. "If he's infected, we can't risk this turning into a camp-wide outbreak."

I glance at Murphy's pale face, his shallow breaths rugged and uneven. Despite everything, I can't just let him die. "We'll put him in the dropship," I suggest. "Quarantine him there until we figure out what we're dealing with."

"Good idea," Bellamy says, already moving toward the others gathered around the fire. "I'll get a few of the others to help. You take Clarke and Murphy to the dropship."

I sling Murphy's arm over my shoulder, supporting most of his weight as Clarke leads the way. We reach the dropship, the cold metal shell looming in the darkness. Clarke opens the door, and I drag Murphy inside, easing him onto a makeshift cot. He groans, his eyes fluttering open for a moment before he falls unconscious again.

Clarke kneels beside him, checking his pulse. "His fever's spiking," she mutters. "We'll need water, cloth, anything to keep him cool."

I nod, glancing out into the night where Bellamy is organizing the patrols. "I'll get what we need. You stay here and keep an eye on him."

"We did what we had to do, Maddox," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. There's a rawness to it—an edge sharpened by guilt and necessity. She looks like she's trying to convince both of us, as if repeating it will make the weight bearable.

Before I can respond, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me. The hug is unexpected, her warmth seeping into me, grounding me. For a second, I just stand there, my arms hanging awkwardly at my sides. She clings tighter, as if I'm the only thing keeping her from crumbling.

Her voice is muffled against my shoulder, but I hear it clearly: "Thank you."

It's soft, barely audible, but filled with more emotion than I've ever heard from her. My throat tightens, and I force a grin, though it feels brittle and fake. "Yeah... we've made it this far."

And then she leaves, her figure billowing behind the passing curtains. I stand there for a few seconds before i turn around, my mind already made up.

I pass through the makeshift camps, heading straight for Raven's tent. As I approach, I hear her voice raised in argument, and Finn's quick, sharp replies. When I step inside, the tension between them crackles. They both freeze, eyes flicking toward me. I avoid looking at Finn, my gaze moving directly to Raven.

"I need you outside," I say, my tone direct, no room for questions.

Raven's eyes narrow, but she nods. "Got it. Give me a minute to finish up here."

It looks like Finn's about to protest, but instead, he asks, "Is Clarke okay?" His voice is filled with concern.

I see Raven stiffen, her eyes flashing dangerously. "She's in the dropship," I answer curtly, cutting off any further discussion. Before either of us can say anything more, Finn storms off, leaving us in a thick silence.

Raven is already pulling on her jacket, her face hardening, though I can see the strain of pain beneath her expression. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I'm about to get an earful for Finn's outburst. "How's your wound?" I ask carefully.

She doesn't meet my gaze, her voice low. "Fine," she mutters, dismissing it.

I don't press her, waiting in silence until she's fully focused on me. When she finally looks up, I get straight to the point. "What do you know about Mount Weather?"