THE 100

I let out a shit eating grin. 

They fell for it.

I shiver in the night breeze, feeling my pockets as I stand in fake confusion. My bag stands a few feet away, and when I trudge to get it up from the ground, I feel it.

I'll give them credit, the grounder had the instincts of a wolf, vicious and nimble. But they'd forgotten one simple detail. 

The dark meant that I couldn't see them. And they couldn't see me.

The figure lunges, a flash of their blade arcing down, and it embeds in the sand just inches from my fingers. I leap back, the movement sharp, feeling my heartbeat in my chest. My fingers tighten around my makeshift knife, steadying my breath. I focus, letting sound and smell guide me, drowning out everything but the beat of our silent clash.

A fist slashes past my face, a sting cutting across my cheek like a razor's edge. But instinct kicks in, a strength I didn't know I had taking over, and I catch their arm, twisting it until their hand and weapon slam into the freezing water of the river. The figure stumbles, thrown off balance, and the water betrays them, splashing with each misstep as they recover.

They rise again, facing me, a feral growl breaking the silence. This time, they drive their knife forward, straight into my chest. I feel the sharp edge pressing in... but not against flesh. Their knife digs into the sand-stuffed sack strapped across my torso.

The attacker pauses, expecting to hear my scream. But there's only silence. In their moment of hesitation, I strike,pulling their feet from right uder them. Their scream tears through the night as the fall, propelled by gravity. I feel power surging through me and I lock their wrist in a grip of steel, twisting their arm until they fall forward, and I push them face-first into the river's cold embrace.

They thrash, water splashing as they kick and fight against my hold, muffled gurgles filling the air. I press harder, submerging their head, ignoring the kicks and wild punches that glance off my ribs. I don't let up, forcing them deeper into the water, until the lake returns to its eerie stillness, and there's no sound but the quiet rush of the river.

My breathing is erratic, hands shaking from both the cold and the gravity of my actions. They're not dead. At least not yet. I drag the body up from the eater, feeling the cold lifeless weight of the grounder as we reach the sandline. The shore is eerily quiet, not another life for a dozen more miles. 

My plan was reckless, hell i could hear my dad screaming at me even now, years of being cooped up under the arizona sun had instilled that instinct in me, but it had been years since i'd spent a summer with my now estranged father.

I wonder what he would say, when they don't find my body.

I shake my head, water droplets still clinging to my light brown hair, the strands had grown longer somehow.

I pat the grounder down, feeling up their legs and up their body in search of any clues. But when my hands feel the mounds on their chest, I blush, retracting my hands in embarrassment. I just fought a girl. I sigh, finally spotting the sack hidden discreetly under their fur coat, it smells of fermented goat and a combination of herbs, I choke down a gag. Inside of the satchel is a notebook, dried jerky of some animal, and vials of strange liquids scratched in the inner pockets. 

The darkness shields much of the contents, so I empty the sand out of my own satchel, replacing it for the grounders' better replica. I eye the grounder, my hands moving towards the pulse on her neck. There's faint heartbeats, and the rising of her chest tells me she wont wake anytime soon. 

I move her limp arms over my shoulders, bracing against her weight, and lift her up. I need shelter. Somewhere warm, somewhere hidden, with maybe even a chance of a fire.

The grounder's body is lighter than I expected, making the trek through the dense woods almost manageable. My real objective was the bunker, tucked somewhere out here, the only hope of giving us an edge against them. But I'm not about to lead an enemy straight to it, so I settle for the next best option: an abandoned car, half-buried under tangled branches and clumps of rotten berries, just visible enough to make out its rusted frame.

Dropping her beside me, I grip the handle buried in moss and grime. It feels like I'm trying to open an ancient vault, and after a few grunts, it finally gives with a reluctant creak. The musty smell inside is overwhelming—old leather and stale air mixed with years of decay. 

With a grunt, I haul the grounder down through the narrow entrance, maneuvering us both into the cramped confines of the car. The moonlight filters in through cracks and shattered glass, illuminating just enough for me to work. I pull her limp form into the passenger seat, hacking at the frayed seat belts and tying them around her wrists and ankles. I'd seen enough tonight; I'm not risking being murdered in my sleep.

I slide into the driver's seat, sagging into the cracked vinyl. The night air is cold against my damp clothes, and exhaustion presses heavy on my shoulders. I fight back a yawn, letting the adrenaline drain from my system as I close my eyes, feeling the chill of the night settle over us.

-

A distant melody drifts in, low and muffled, yet familiar. It's the kind of music that fills the room but somehow makes everything feel too quiet. A dim light flickers, and I can almost feel the bass thrumming through my chest, though everything around me is foggy, indistinct.

People are laughing, voices overlapping like waves. A glass is pressed into my hand, and I feel its cold condensation trickling down my fingers. Someone's leaning close, laughing, whispering something I can't quite catch, and I'm laughing back, loud and reckless. The drink hits my throat, burning its way down.

My chest tightens, vision blurring, drowning, fading, until all I feel is a sharp, sinking cold—

I wake up gasping, my body jerking upright as a strangled scream tears from my throat. The silence is back, deep and smothering. The only sound is my rapid breathing, my heartbeat pounding wildly in the empty darkness of the car.

When my eyes finally adjust to the soft light filtering through the dense trees, a shaky breath escapes me. Morning's here, warm and silent, and I take in the sight gratefully. I lift a hand to my forehead, fingers brushing the scabbed-over wound. It's sore but thankfully not infected. I'm stiff from the cramped seats and musty air, muscles protesting as I push myself upright.

But the relief doesn't last.

My heart plummets as I glance beside me and see nothing but torn seatbelts. The grounder is gone.

Panic surges through me, hot and fast. She must have slipped out while I was still asleep, the only sign of her escape those frayed, twisted straps lying useless on the seat. I shoot up, practically tripping over myself as I lurch toward the door. She couldn't have gotten far.

I burst through the door, nearly tripping in my rush, but I stop just in time to catch the faint, nimble movements of a figure darting through the trees. She's moving quickly but not with the speed of someone at full strength—good.

Around me, the forest hums with morning sounds, birds singing in the trees and the faint rustling of leaves. I reach down for my satchel—or rather, her satchel, stuffed beneath my own bag. I grip it tightly, fingers brushing over the rough leather. She must've been too drained to take it with her, too weak to reclaim the precious items inside.

I take a steadying breath and scan the woods, listening. I can hear soft footsteps trailing northward, accompanied by the faintest mutterings.

Good, let her think she's free. I'll let her run, let her believe I'm still slumped in that old car, unaware of her escape. She'll lead me straight to wherever she calls home—straight to her people, her hidden supplies.

A shaky breath escapes me as i follow, my pace catching up wit her own. In the light, her hood is pulled back, revealing a mne of red hair swishing in the breeze. She moves like part of the forest itself, slipping between trees with a grace that's both mesmerizing and deadly. 

What I know of the grounders sits like a broken compass in my mind—some memories have blurred, with details decayed by time, but others are sharper than any knife. They were a civilization we couldnt compete against, not with clarke and bellamys leadership and definitely not with the arks support.

I press a hand to the bracelet on my wrist, feeling it dig into my skin as I stay just out of sight, each step carefully measured. I'm a shadow, blending with the underbrush as I follow her deeper into enemy territory. My lungs strain to keep my breath steady, quiet, so I don't disturb the hum of the forest around me.

They would wage war on us soon, kill us off one by one until the mountain men finished us off. Right now, survival trumps everything. If the grounders could somehow be that key, if I could learn their strengths and weaknesses, I could live. But first, I need intel, knowledge to barter my way out of this nightmare.

The girl finally breaks into a clearing where a curl of smoke rises, twisting into the sky from a fire half-hidden by the trees. I linger at the forest's edge, watching as she moves toward the figures waiting for her. Two men stand by the fire, dressed in coats of thick wool, light enough to be agile but weathered from wear. Their skin is inked with strange tattoos that ripple as they shift.  Spears are slung across their backs, tipped with blades gleaming with something more than rusty metal—these are forged weapons, weapons of someone who knows how to fight.

The girl collapses at their feet, her body spent. The two men react instantly, their guard up, eyes filled with a fierce worry. They speak, their voices low, words slipping out in a language that sounds like an old, twisted form of Latin. At first, it's a jumble, an ancient dialect my ears can barely latch onto.

But some words rise above the rest, fragments that come through just clear enough. I silently thank my ninth-grade self for taking latin freshman year.

"Vulneratus... hostis...," one of them mutters, words that trickle together in my mind, each syllable almost painfully familiar.

"Injured... enemy." thats what the girl says through labored breath and then like a switch, the start speaking english. 

The taller of the two men narrows his eyes at the girl, crouching down beside her with one hand on her shoulder. His voice is deep,"You're hurt. What happened?" he asks, his eyes flicking over the scratches on her arms and the bruise darkening her cheek.

She winces, her breath still ragged. "Ran into… one of them. The sky people."

The second man, shorter but broader, stiffens, his hand tightening on the shaft of his spear. "A Sky person? Here?" He glances around the clearing, eyes scanning the shadows, clearly unsettled. "Why were you out that late?" 

The girl hesitates, glancing back the way she came, her brow furrowing in worry. "I-i was trying to bring one back, to see... I tried to lose him in the trees."

The taller man's gaze hardens. "And do what exactly? You know the commander forbade it.." He stands, pulling her up with him, his voice low but tense. "You know what happens if they find this place. We can't risk it."

The girl's chin lifts defiantly despite her exhaustion. "I handled it. He was… slower than me." She swallows, seeming to relive the struggle. "I don't think he'll be a problem."

The broader man scoffs, shaking his head. "That's what you said about the last one." He jerks his head toward the camp behind him. "We should tell the others. They'll want to be prepared."

She glares at him but finally nods. "Fine. But he didn't seem dangerous. Not like the others." Her voice softens, a flicker of uncertainty creeping in. "He looked… lost."

The taller man's face twists, barely concealing his disdain. "Lost or not, he's still an enemy." He turns back to the camp, muttering under his breath, "And we don't leave enemies standing."

The three of them retreat toward the fire, voices trailing off as they continue their hushed conversation.

I lower myself beside the tree, no longer being able to see them beyond the edge. But I'm shaking underneath. I needed to get to that bunker. Now.

-

I dont know how long it is. Or what hour im nearing to. Only that i stink of grass, and my teeth are gnawing at the jerky in my sack of supplies. I fiddle with th enotebook in my hands, flipping through pages of drawings, reaching an entire page dedicate to the landscape of the place wed landed in. other pages are filled with doodles, of butterflies and birds, and then theres a page that makes me pause in my trek.

Tally marks fills one half and a vivid drawing of the dropship fills th either.

I tighten the old pencil in my grasp, flipping back to the map, marking beside the river and stop at the view in front of me. Theres a collieul reuin up ahead, next to a small hill covered with =vgetation and skeletal trees. This was where the bunker should be. 

My legs are numb by this point, exhaustion creeping up at me. All i want to do is crawl back into a hole and sleep, my nightmares clawing my mind. But I push myself forward, forcing my eyes to focus, my legs to move, ignoring the ache that tugs at every muscle. There, just visible through the roots and earth, is a dark, worn handle sticking out of the ground like an invitation to the underworld.

I grit my teeth, grasp the cold, rusted handle, and pull. The latch groans as it opens, the smell of stale air escaping from below. A thrill of relief shoots through me, 'lets just hope its still there' i think. 

Reaching next to me, I fumble for anything dry—my fingers close around a brittle twig, rough and snapped at the edges. I crouch, holding it against a dry patch of stone, striking the edge with the jagged rock until sparks flicker. With a final scrape, a tiny flame catches, crawling hungrily along the wood, casting long shadows across the bunker entrance.

The weak flame illuminates only a sliver of the descent, but it's enough. My pulse quickens as I lower myself through the opening, the walls of the bunker looming close on either side. Each footstep echoes, swallowed by the darkness. I hold the makeshift torch in front of me, the glow flickering, revealing the rusty metal stairs that spiral down into the unknown.

The light catches on something, glinting off metal—rows of crates, stacked in the corner, their surfaces dulled with age. Inside the bunker are dozens of barrels, hatches, and locks. I turn the flame closer, letting it illuminate the first barrel. Forcing it open with my knife, I catch a glimpse of thick, orange sheets. Not quite a bed, but it'll do. I smile, a faint flicker of relief.

Moving further, I reach a set of shelves lined with expired rations. The cold cans are dusty, stamped with a manufacturing date: 2047. A past distant enough to feel like another world. I leave them where they are, arms already heavy from exhaustion, and keep going.

At the end, hidden in a barrel, I find it. Forcing the lid open, I freeze as the flame reveals an M4A1 rifle, packed carefully in the cylindrical tube. I lift it, the weight familiar, a small smile spreading across my face as I examine the contours in the dim light.

"Now this is what I'm talking about", I whisper to myself.

I secure the rest of the barrels, counting around three hundred stashed in the bunker. The itch to fire the rifle surges in me, but I resist, knowing that noise could draw unwanted attention. Instead, I let myself linger a moment longer, feeling the weight of the weapon, before making my way back to camp.

It's nearly nightfall by the time I return, the dim surroundings lit by the flickering campfire. Relief floods me as I think about settling into my makeshift bed with the new blanket from the bunker, maybe even getting a night of decent sleep. But, as always, peace is short-lived.

Near the edge of camp, just outside the firelight's reach, I spot two figures sitting on a log. Wells, unmistakable by his posture, leans in close, while a smaller figure—no older than twelve, by the looks of her—glances around nervously. My stomach sinks as she pulls something from her sleeve, movements quick and deliberate.

I wasnt a hero by any means, i didnt save people just for the hell of it. But i wasn't evil, not here anyways. So I do the only thing I can think of, stupidity be damned.

I raise the rifle, steadying it against my shoulder, and let a burst of shots ring through the quiet of camp, muzzle flashing against the dark.