THE 100

I twirl the knife in my grasp, the cold steel gleaming under the dim light. The blade spins smoothly, its hilt engraved with cryptic runes and intricate designs that seem ancient, beyond anything I could ever imagine creating. On the floor of the dropship lies the map—a square parchment whose purpose remains a mystery. I've turned it over countless times, but it refuses to reveal its secrets.

Beside me, Monty clanks around, his hands submerged in some odd light-green liquid. He's like a witch brewing a potion, focused and muttering to himself. The pungent smell of sulfur and bleach fills the dropship, making my nose crinkle.

"Are you trying to poison us all?" I mutter sarcastically, but Monty doesn't even glance up, too absorbed in whatever chemical formula he's concocting. His words blur into an indecipherable hum.

I twist the knife once more before letting it fall with a clatter to the ground. Frustrated, I reach for the parchment, flipping it again and again. If that girl carried it with her, it had to mean something. Twice, the grounders had been patrolling that area and yet, they had never once even acknowledged the bunker, which meant they were looking for something else.

A small cockroach scurries under my boots, along with a string of ants. I brush the oddish red liquid beneath my foot, trying to erase the memory of yesterday.

A groan echoes from the upper level, followed by the soft thud of the trapdoor closing. Clarke's boots sound on the ladder, her steps measured. When she appears, she's wearing a cloth over her face, her eyes sharp and filled with concern.

"I've never seen anything like it," she mutters, pulling the cloth from her face. She glances at Monty, who is still engrossed in his work. "It's gotten a bit better, but still…" She trails off, worry evident in her expression.

I stand, meeting her gaze. "Biological warfare. I'm guessing the grounders aren't big on sending polite letters."

She grimaces. "If it spreads, I don't know how we'll deal with it."

"Simple—we don't let it." I shift the conversation, holding up the parchment.

"You'd probably know this better than me," I say, pointing to the jagged lines running across the map. "Any idea what these mean?"

Clarke steps closer, her eyes narrowing as she studies the parchment. She traces a finger over one of the lines, her brow furrowing in concentration. "It's... not a map in the traditional sense. These lines... they're not roads or paths."

Monty finally looks up from his concoction, his hands covered in the strange green liquid. "What are you two whispering about?" he asks, curiosity piqued.

"We're trying to figure out what this map leads to," I reply, glancing at him. "Or if it's even a map."

Monty wipes his hands on a rag, walking over. He peers over Clarke's shoulder, sniffing once before wrinkling his nose. Clarke ignores him, focused entirely on the parchment. "These symbols..." She points to a cluster of markings near the top of the map. "They look familiar. I've seen something like this in one of the old Ark manuals."

Monty's eyebrows shoot up. "Wait, you think this is Ark-related?"

I twist the parchment in my hands once more, my gaze locking onto the top of the ink-covered page. There, etched in black, is an infinity symbol. At first, I thought it was just the number eight, but now I see it clearly. My eyes widen as realization clicks into place. 

"Why would the grounders have something from the Ark?" I mutter under my breath.

Monty's head snaps up, his eyes bulging in disbelief. "Grounders?" he whispers, his voice laced with incredulity. "Are you serious?"

I wave him off, shoving the map into my pocket. "Relax, Monty. Go back to your booze. The others are getting antsy without their precious moonshine."

Monty hesitates a moment longer, his eyes flicking between me and the map as if he's trying to piece something together. But eventually, he sighs and returns to his concoction, hands sinking into the green liquid. "Ratios… fermentation... need more calcium," he mumbles, lost in his own world again.

Clarke crosses her arms, rolling her eyes. "Well, I'm going to relax. Feels like I've aged ten years down here." She stretches, her muscles visibly tense as she arches her back. She pauses in the doorway, glancing back over her shoulder.

"Oh, and one more thing. The horse is getting too antsy. You should probably bring it inside the camp before it bolts."

I raise an eyebrow. "Horse?"

"Yeah. Someone thought it'd be a good idea to keep it tied up outside the perimeter. Bellamy's orders." She shrugs. "Your problem now."

Before I can respond, she's gone, her boots echoing softly as she disappears down the ladder. I sigh, running a hand through my hair. 

I pocket the knife, the cold hilt pressing against my thigh, and head outside. The cool night air greets me, carrying with it the hum of the camp—faint laughter, the crackling of the fire, and the distant murmur of voices. The forest looms at the edges of our fortified perimeter, its shadows stretching longer under the moonlight.

The horse is tethered near the fence, its restlessness evident as it paws at the ground. Its ears twitch at every distant rustle, eyes wide with a nervous energy. I approach slowly, murmuring softly to calm it. "Easy, girl. Just me. Nothing to worry about."

The horse snorts, its breath visible in the chill, but it settles slightly as I reach for the rope. As I untie it, my gaze drifts to the dark treeline beyond the fence. The shadows feel...thicker. A low breeze rustles the leaves, and for a moment, the night feels too quiet, too still.

Shaking the thought from my head, I led the horse toward the gate. "Let's get you inside," I mutter, glancing back over my shoulder. Just the forest. Nothing else. 

Inside the camp, the other delinquents glance at the horse with thinly veiled hunger, their eyes flicking between it and the meager scraps roasting over the fire. The smoky scent of roasted rabbit hangs heavy in the air, enough to sustain us for another week, maybe. But down here, where hunger gnaws at our bones and desperation clouds our judgment, even a horse starts to look appetizing.

Miller leans against a post with a gun slung across his chest, his arms crossed, watching me with a raised brow. "You sure about keeping it alive? Could feed the camp for days."

I meet his gaze, my tone sharper than intended. "We're not that desperate. Yet."

He shrugs, but I see the doubt in his eyes. "Suit yourself. Just saying." he rubs his belly dramatically.

I give the horse a reassuring pat on the neck, forcing a smile. "Don't worry, buddy. I'm not going to eat you."

The horse snorts, almost like it understands me, and then, with a swift flick of its hoof, it kicks up a spray of mud right into my face. I freeze, blinking through the splatter.

"Thanks for that," I mutter, wiping the grime from my cheek. The horse gives an innocent shake of its mane, as if it didn't just add insult to injury.

A few chuckles ripple from the group near the fire. Miller smirks, raising a hand in mock salute. "Looks like even the horse thinks you're full of it."

I roll my eyes, wiping the mud off my face with the sleeve of my jacket. "Yeah, hilarious," I mutter dryly. "Get back to your post, Miller."

Miller just grins and gives me a thumbs up before wandering off. Meanwhile, I finally manage to guide the horse—a beast I still haven't gotten around to naming—closer to the dropship. I tie her securely to the posts, the rope creaking under her weight.

Just as I finish, Wells suddenly tumbles down the ladder from the top of the dropship, landing with a slight thud. He jumps back in surprise when he sees the horse, his eyes widening in genuine fascination. "Wow, that's huge," he says, taking a moment to admire the creature.

I chuckle under my breath as I finish tying the horse's reins. "Yeah, she's a handful."

Wells dusts off his pants and straightens up, wiping the sweat from his brow. His brown skin gleams slightly in the dim light, he pulls his jacket closer to his chest, the weather chillier since the sun went down.

"Still not done?" I ask, my voice laced with a bit of frustration. He shakes his head.

"Try telling anything to Raven," he says, a hint of a smile in his voice. "She'll blow your head off if you ask her again."

I laugh dryly, shaking my head. "Plus, it's too damn dark in here to see anything anyway."

"Enjoy the party, It's Unity Day, right?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

Wells looks at me with a wry smile. "Yeah, not a big fan of holidays. They may not hate me like they did before, but I'm sure they wouldn't be downing drinks with the son of the guy who got their parents killed."

It's only now that I realize the only people he really hangs around are Clarke or me. I give him a quick pat on the back. "Sulking won't fix anything, Jaha. Show them you can have a little fun too."

He gives me a tight-lipped smile, but it's clear the weight of the past still hangs heavy on him. "Yeah, maybe you're right," he says, though his voice carries an undercurrent of doubt. "But for now, I think I'll pass."

I shrug, not pressing the issue. "Alright, suit yourself."

I eye wells nervous expression, and an idea pops into my mind.

"Actually if you're not busy," i trail, "how would you like to put in a little exercise?"

He frowns, furrowing his brow. "Exercise? What kind of exercise?"

I grin, crossing my arms. "Sparring. A little hand-to-hand combat. It'll keep your mind sharp."

His expression tightens, and I can see the hesitation in his eyes. "Sparring? Why me"

I raise an eyebrow. "You managed to handle yourself pretty well with murphy, I think even Bellamy was surprised."

He glances at me, trying to read my face, clearly unsure whether I'm serious or messing with him. But after a moment, he sighs, resigned. "Fine. I'll bite. But don't expect me to go easy on you."

I adjust my stance, clenching my fists. I'd only defeated that Grounder back there with a mix of luck and the element of surprise. If I wanted to survive in this world, I'd have to face a thousand more dangers, cross a thousand more forests, and be ready for anything. Sparring wasn't just practice—it was survival.

Wells steps forward, his eyes calculating. He rolls back his shoulder, eyebrows still raised. He thinks i'm kidding.

He throws a quick jab at my shoulder. I deflect it, but the force is enough to make me stumble back. He presses his advantage, following with a cross aimed at my jaw. I duck, countering with an uppercut that grazes his ribs.

He grunts, adjusting his footing. "You've got better reflexes than I remember," he says, circling me.

"You're slower than I remember," I fire back, a smirk tugging at my lips.

He laughs dryly, feinting a left hook before driving a hard right into my side. Pain blossoms across my ribs, but I ignore it, grabbing his arm and twisting him off balance. Wells hits the ground with a grunt, but rolls away before I can pin him.

Wells grins, the corner of his mouth twitching as he wipes blood from his lip. "You're tougher than you look," he says, his voice raspy but determined.

I shift my weight, preparing for the next round, but he doesn't charge immediately. Instead, he throws a few weak punches and then suddenly drops low, sweeping his leg out in a smooth, controlled motion. My legs fly out from under me, and before I can react, Wells twists with the move, using his momentum to send me crashing to the ground with a thud.

I grunt, the impact rattling my bones, but I quickly roll away, trying to regain my bearings. Wells stands over me for a moment, watching me with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

"That's how it's done," he says, breathing heavily but with a confident grin.

I push myself up, wiping dirt from my face, glaring at him. "Nice one," I admit, my voice tinged with respect. "But it's gonna take more than that to take me down."

He comes at me again, this time more measured. His punches are precise, and he's quick, but I manage to block most of them, only catching a glancing blow to my shoulder. My knuckles connect with his jaw in retaliation, and he stumbles back, shaking his head to clear it.

Wells spits into the dirt and resets his stance. "You're tougher than you look."

"And you're slower than you sound," I retort, charging forward. I aim for his midsection, but he sidesteps, catching me with an elbow to my back. I grunt, twisting around to face him, determined not to give him any ground.

We trade blows, each hit more calculated than the last. His strength meets my determination, and neither of us is willing to back down. Finally, I see an opening—a split second where his guard drops—and I sweep his legs out from under him. He crashes to the ground, gasping for air as I pin his shoulders down.

"Give up?" I pant, my breath ragged.

Wells struggles beneath me, his chest heaving. For a moment, it looks like he's about to fight back, but then he relaxes, letting his head drop into the dirt. "Yeah," he breathes, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You win."

He sits up, still breathing hard, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Guess now I know why Bellamy keeps you around, huh?"

I smirk,. "More like he can't afford not to."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Right. His personal insurance policy."

I take a look around the camp, the festivities shrouding the mood of the past weeks. The graveyard keeps getting bigger, Dax's body laying in a fresh new pot of soil. I owed no one anything, but in the short span of time I'd spent here, I find it harder to walk away.

The grounder issue needed to be solved, that and the Ark's ongoing crisis. I look at Wells, seeing the quiet weight of it in his eyes too. "Bellamy may be an ass, but he's willing to shoot the trigger when we need to". I shoot out my hand to help him up and he takes it without hesitation.

"I just hope him and clarke dont fuck that up either." 

Before Wells can respond, a faint clank echoes from the dropship behind us. We both pause, our heads turning toward the noise. It's distant, almost imperceptible, but distinct enough to raise a brow.

Wells exhales, waving a hand dismissively. "Probably just the panels shifting. That thing's been falling apart since day one."

I nod, forcing myself to relax. "Yeah, or a gust of wind knocking something loose. It's a miracle it's still standing."

Another soft creak follows, and this time it feels heavier, like something—or someone—moving inside. I glance at Wells, who shrugs.

"Raven's always tinkering with something. She's probably messing with the wiring again," he says, though there's a flicker of doubt in his voice.

"Yeah, maybe," I mutter, trying to shake the unease creeping up my spine.

We sit in silence for a moment, listening, but nothing follows. Wells eventually brushes it off, standing and stretching. "I should get back. Don't want Clarke thinking I bailed on her again, shes been asking where i disappear off to." 

And then he hesitates as he steps closer, "I get keeping the whole mount weather thing under wraps but shouldn't you at least tell clarke."

I scan the trees, meeting his eyes, "you said it last time right, she doesn't trust me to do anything." I swallow, "the less she knows the better."

His brown eyes just scan my face, he sighs, "okay i get it, i'll see you out there then."

"Yeah, I'll check on Monty. He's probably knee-deep in moonshine experiments," I reply, dusting off my pants. Wells gives me a quick nod and heads toward camp, his footsteps fading into the distance.

I walk toward the dropship, pushing aside the unsettling feeling. Theres no way a grounder would get inside the camp, otherwise there'd be a dozen bodies littering our backyard, so I shake the anxiety coursing through me. The panels rattle again, louder this time, but I grit my teeth and chalk it up to my imagination. I step inside, the air thick with the sharp scent of sulfur and bleach, remnants of Monty's earlier concoctions.

"Monty?" I call out again, my voice cutting through the heavy silence.

The dropship feels unnervingly still. The usual hum of Monty muttering to himself or the clank of makeshift tools is absent. My boots thud against the metal floor as I move deeper inside, the sulfur and bleach smell biting at my nose.

I glance around, my gaze flicking from the makeshift workbench to the scattered supplies. Everything seems untouched, yet something feels off. My foot catches on something slick. I stop, looking down.

Blood.

My breath hitches as my eyes follow the trail leading to Monty, crumpled on the ground. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths, and blood trickles from a gash on his forehead, pooling beneath him.

"Monty!" I drop to my knees, shaking him gently. His skin is clammy, and there's no response beyond his labored breathing. My pulse pounds in my ears. He's alive, but barely.

I reach for my knife, but before my fingers can touch it, something cold presses against the back of my neck—a gun barrel.

"Don't even think about it," a voice snarls.

I freeze. The voice is familiar, but it's harsher, laced with pure venom.

"Murphy," I whisper, my throat tightening.

"Miss me?" His tone is mockingly casual, but the tension in the air is suffocating. "I sure didn't miss you."

I slowly raise my hands, my pulse racing. "Murphy... whatever you think happened, we can—"

"Shut up!" he snaps, pressing the barrel harder into my skin. "You left me to die. You knew what they'd do to me, and you walked away."

I swallow, the weight of his rage palpable. "Murphy, I didn't—"

"Save it," he cuts me off, his breath ragged. "You left me for the grounders. Now you're gonna feel what it's like to be helpless."

I grit my teeth, my mind racing for a way out. Monty groans softly behind me, and I know time is running out—for both of us.