THE 100

The star crashes, blazing across the sky before slamming into the ground. Smoke billows, threading through the trees in thick, twisting clouds.

"It's the Ark," Clarke whispers, her voice trailing off as she watches the smoke surge in front of us.

Bellamy freezes as he deciphers her gaze, "stay here," he pushes the notebook to Clarkes chest, "and get to that damn bunker." He glares at me.

Clarkes eyebrows crease in confusion, then anger, "if the ark is here I need to get to them first, they could have a radio or a-"

I cut her off, "that's why he's going." I laugh despite my situation, chained like an animal waiting to be sacrificed for the good of the people.

Bellamy doesn't meet my eyes, "there's no reason the ark would send down that small of a ship, we need to know if it's safe."

Clarke doesn't stand down, and that side of her I've seen before, is back in full force, "there's no way I'm staying here when there's clear communication, there could be survivors waiting to be treated."

Bellamy doesn't answer, he looks back to Murphy, "get to that bunker."

Clarke takes it as an answer, and she sprints off, ready to get her hands on that pod.

And when they disappear, Murphy flashes me a gummy grin, "looks like it's just you and me marbles."

I let my eyes roll back, tired, exhausted and so damn mad I can't think straight.

He drags my sagging body, the girl taking the gun from his grasp, "I've never held one of these before," she smiles clicking with the ammo.

Murphy's follows the tree line as he leads me further away from the dropship.

He starts talking, face held in that same slimy grin of his. "What I wanna know is how an nobody suddenly turns into a good ol' hero."

I don't say anything, mouth dry.

Him and the girl share a look, "well it's not like you won't turn insane soon enough, I bet the grounders will have a field day with you."

The girl frowns, "Bellamy said-"

"I know what Bellamy said," he looks over to me, "doesn't mean we can't bend the rules a bit."

But my mind is working in overdrive, it's all I've been doing.

Thinking. Instead of doing.

Why was Raven so early, sure I could only vaguely remember my sense of time in this world, but she was supposed to be here tonight.

Right after they'd banished Murphy-.

Right. Maybe i should have let wells die.

Murphy's sense of direction is horrible. So his voice and babbling is all I hear for an hour trek to the bunker. The familiar colossal ruins are in front of us, but the bunker is hidden, lying dormant under grassy vegetation.

Murphy's sour breath hits my face as he spits out a question. "Where is it?" He grits his teeth, the girl tightening her grip on the gun.

I cock my head. "Thought I was too loony to know, Murphy."I ask innocently. And I pay for my sarcasm in blood.

His fist slams into my jaw, and blood floods my mouth.

Again.

The girl stiffens, glancing from him to me. He hauls me by the collar, teeth clenched. "Where. Is. It?"

I turn my head to the side, directing his gaze to the handle poking out from under a tangle of weeds and dandelions.

Murphy releases me, and I collapse, coughing up metallic-tasting blood. He pries the bunker open, waving dust from his face.

"Monroe," he orders, "stay here and guard him. Make sure he doesn't move."

She nods curtly, flicking a dark, uneasy glance at me. Her gaze falls on my blood-streaked cheek, but she quickly looks away, scanning the tree line.

I calculate. Punching out minutes. I had time.

I grin at her, and she grimaces again. I must look charming, blood soaking my teeth, bruised eyes already turning purple. And I stand.

Her finger twitches on the trigger, ready to fire, but her eyes dart nervously toward the bunker, like she's ready to bolt.

Then we both hear it. A faint rustling in the undergrowth.

"Do you know which animal's hardest to hunt?" I ask, watching her.

Monroe flinches, torn between me and the trees, practically shaking. "Get down," she says, voice wavering. When I don't move, she yells, aiming the gun at me. "NOW!"

But I don't move. I let the breeze cool my blood-slicked skin. "It's hard to shoot," I say quietly, "because it's fast. Nimble."

The rustling grows closer, but she's too focused to notice how close I am.

She aims her gun at the clearing, her hands trembling. And before she can fire, I snap, instincts flaring. My hands lock around her neck, pushing her backward as her breath falters, legs buckling.

The gun drops with a thud. A rabbit hops from the bushes, oblivious, nibbling on a patch of grass.

I wipe the blood from my mouth, grinning.I should make choking out girls a living at this point. 

There's only minutes to spare, and my heart withers nonetheless. I grab the gun, scoffing.

She hadn't even released the safety.

I choke down a sigh, how the hell had i been so stupid, so reckless to believe that just because I was one of them, they would treat me like it.

I'm so lost in my own misery that I almost don't hear the real enemy.

The grounders are ugly things, like nightmares pulled from a kid's fevered imagination. Big, burly men covered in chaotic ink and heavy, matted fur cloaks. If the girl from before was a tracker, these guys are the real deal. Killers.

There are three of them, moving like pythons stalking a nest. My instincts scream at me to run, but I can't. Not this time. If they find the bunker, we're as good as dead.

Grounders with spears are bad enough. Grounders with guns? That's an apocalypse waiting to happen.

They haven't seen me yet, but it's only a matter of time. Damn it.

I edge toward the bunker, my legs carrying me toward the open latch. My thoughts spiral. I have to kill them. The idea sends ice through my veins.

No. I'm not a killer.

I squeeze my brain for something, anything. The fog in my mind clears. I kick Monroe's limp body, rolling it into the bushes, hiding her from view.

Then I do something reckless. Something stupid. Something that will probably get me impaled by a six-foot spear.

I dive into the bunker, muscles burning as I swing the latch shut behind me. My feet hit the rungs of the ladder wrong, and I stumble down into the dim space.

Murphy's face twists in anger as he turns toward me. "What the hell—"

"Shh!" I snap, my eyes wide. "They're here."

"The grounders?" His voice rises, but I cut him off.

"Three of them." I move toward the supply bins, but he grabs my arm.

"Where's Monroe?" His face darkens, furious. "What did you do to her?"

"She's not dead," I snap back, yanking free. "Just unconscious. They won't bother her if we stay quiet."

I rifle through the bins, pulling out a rifle and stuffing a dozen bullets into my pockets. I won't make the same mistake twice.

Murphy paces behind me, biting his fingers. "Did they see you?"

"No. Now shut up and use the damn gun." I shove a rifle toward him. He drops the cans of rations he's holding and fumbles with it, trembling.

I watch him, and a bitter thought crosses my mind. I'd liked Murphy once. The John Murphy from TV—a cockroach of a man, stubborn, clawing his way toward redemption. I'd grown to respect that Murphy.

But this one? I hated him right now.

We wait in tense silence, guns ready, until the murmurs and heavy footsteps fade into the distance. But I don't lower my weapon.

Eventually, Murphy's restlessness wins. He stomps up the ladder, boots loud against the rungs, grunting as he pushes the hatch open.

I close my eyes. I'm going to murder him.

But when I climb out after him, the grassy clearing is bare. The only movement is a rabbit nibbling on Monroe's hair.

"Shit, you did this," Murphy sneers, his face twisted with blame as he glances over his shoulder at me.

I flinch instinctively, lifting my rifle.

He laughs, a sharp, mocking sound. "Did you forget I've got one too, asshole?"

I don't lower my aim. I climb out of the bunker with slow, deliberate steps, advancing toward him.

Panic flashes across his face. "What are you trying to do?" 

He fumbles with his gun, his fingers jittery as he pulls the trigger.

Click.

The sound is deafening in the quiet.

Murphy's face freezes, his confidence crumbling.

Click.

I let a smile curl across my face, sharp and humorless. "Click, click, John."

Then I swing, the butt of my rifle cracking into his face with a sickening thud. He collapses, crumpling to the ground next to Monroe.

I stand there, breathing hard, staring at the two of them sprawled out in the dirt.

I'm so sick of this. Two nights in, and I'm already smashing skulls.

But I persist, stepping over their bodies, eyes locked on the thinning trail of smoke weaving into the sky. The ship. She'd have supplies. Maybe a radio.

If Bellamy doesn't get to her first.

The thought tightens my chest, frustration bubbling under the surface. Clarke's sense of justice would undoubtedly prevail, especially when it gave her the power to decide who lived or died. My jaw clenches harder, the metallic tang of blood thick on my cracked tongue.

I needed my satchel. It had medicine, my notebook. And more than that, I needed to put a fist through Bellamy's smug, self-righteous face.

I bolt, legs burning as I weave through the trees. My ears sharpen, catching every crunch of leaves, every snap of a twig, even the whisper of the wind through the canopy.

The forest grows denser, the air colder. My breaths are shallow, my pulse hammering against my ribs. But then, in the shifting dapple of shadows ahead, I see something—or someone—moving.

I slow, heart thundering. My eyes narrow, adjusting to the gloom.

"Wells?" I whisper, barely audible over the sound of my pounding heartbeat.

The figure steps closer, and the unmistakable shape of Wells Jaha emerges from between the trees, his face worn but alert. His dark eyes scan the woods, his hand gripping a makeshift spear tightly.

"Wells," I repeat, louder this time, relief and confusion tangled together.

He turns sharply, eyes narrowing as he spots me. His grip on the spear loosens slightly but doesn't drop. "You're alive."

"Barely," I mutter, gesturing toward my bruised face and bloodied shirt. "What the hell are you doing out here? You should be back at the camp."

Wells's face hardens. "I owe you a debt, —" He shakes his head. "I never managed to thank you back there.

"Yeah well i didnt do it for you" I let out a sharp, humorless laugh, brushing past him. "You're the one wandering out here with nothing but a stick. There are grounders nearby, Wells. Real ones."

He falls into step beside me, his expression grim. "I know. I saw their tracks. That's why I came this way."

Something about his tone makes my stomach churn. "Tracks? How many?"

"Three, maybe four," he says, glancing over his shoulder. "Heading toward the crash site."

My chest tightens. "We have to get there before they do."

Wells hesitates for a moment but nods, falling silent as we pick up the pace.

The smoke grows thicker as we push through the undergrowth, the acrid scent clawing at my throat. My legs ache, every muscle screaming, but I don't slow down. Wells keeps up, his breath steady, his spear held at the ready.

"You think it's the Ark?" he asks after a long stretch of silence, his voice low.

"I know it is," I reply, forcing myself to keep moving. "And if we don't hurry, it won't matter. If those grounders find the wreck, they'll turn it into a bloodbath."

Wells nods grimly, his eyes scanning the shadows ahead. "Look, i dont know why clarke did what she did." he starts, "but i know that she wouldn't just let you die out ere."

I don't pause. "She was ready to leave me with psycho Murphy," I say, meeting his eyes. "I wouldn't give her too much credit."

Wells looks conflicted, like he wants to argue but can't quite articulate why he still believes in her. It's obvious: he's in love with Clarke, his judgment clouded by feelings he doesn't know how to contain. "Octavia thinks it's Bellamy" he mutters.

I force my head to him, "Octavia?" I'm stuttering in surprise.

He nods,"She told me you'd be here, said her brother was trying to cook up another scheme that would get us killed."

She must've been in the dropship, and I think of the girl beneath the floorboards. Alone.

"I'm not going there to torture Clarke, or whatever sick fantasy you think I'm concocting ," I say, cutting through the tension. "If that's what you think, you're wrong. Once I get my pack, I'm out of here."

He looks startled. "You wanna stay out here? In a grounder-infested forest? Alone?" Wells asks, like I've completely lost my mind.

I let out a sharp grin. "Alone beats babysitting the lot of you."

Wells doesn't reply, but the disbelief in his expression is clear as we push forward, the dense undergrowth thinning.

We break through the forest line and come to an abrupt stop at the edge of a small lake.

The pod lies half-submerged in the water, its hull cracked and scorched, jagged metal jutting out like broken bones. Smoke still rises from the wreck, dissipating into the air. The whole thing is beyond salvageable.

I let out a breath, scanning the scene. "Well, that's just perfect," I mutter, already searching for signs of raven. Wells steps forward cautiously, his spear held tightly. "Do you see anyone?"

I scan the surroundings, and peek into the machine. Nothing, no radio, no raven, and no grounders.

The frustration bubbles over, and I kick a loose stone, sending it skittering into the lake. A sigh rips from me as I tangle my fingers into my hair.

"Maybe they already left?" Wells offers tentatively from beside me, his tone laced with hope—or desperation.

I bend down, resting my hands on my knees, trying to steady my ragged breath. "Yeah, maybe. But we've got minutes before the sun sets, We're burning daylight out here."

He hesitates but eventually nods. "Then we should head back to the dropship. If they left, they might have gone there."

I straighten, wiping the sweat from my brow, and start back toward the forest. "Let's move. No point standing around."