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chapter two!
ANARCHY
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ARES DOESN'T STOP WALKING until the dropship is out of sight. The sound of twigs snapping and leaves crunching underneath his boots drowns out the distant shouts from the freed delinquents, keeping him tethered to a strange sense of calm. He inhales deeply through his nose and exhales through his mouth. Will he ever get used to the feeling of this new oxygen? All of the scents are so strong. The pine needles have to be his favorite, but he detects an undertone of soil that he doesn't mind.

He hopes he never starts to take this planet for granted. Looking around at the large trees that tower over him, stretching their branches above so he's half-hidden under the cool shade, he regains that same awestruck feeling from before. His life has been a seemingly endless cycle of the same washed-out walls and bleak colors. These ones are so vibrant that they almost hurt his eyes. He welcomes the pain with open arms.

If anyone was around, they'd probably mistake him for a lunatic. Ares is standing utterly alone, staring into space with a small grin pulling up his lips at the corners. He wants to drink in the muted sounds of the forest before something inevitably fucks it up.

Moving to the right, he extends a cautious hand toward one of the towering beasts as if it's an animal and he's afraid it will run away. The touch he places on the bark is gentle. It's rough under his calloused fingertips, caused by years of picking fights. Practically everything on the Ark was smooth and polished. He's never felt something so unabashedly rugged before.

Ares catches the sound of enraged shouts from the direction of their landing site, then puffs a sigh. He could keep walking and never return to that place. He'd be alone for the rest of his life, just how he'd prefer it. But as he brushes his fingertips along the metal wristband clamped on his left wrist, he realizes that it was probably put there for a reason. They might be able to track him. And, besides, he hadn't paid enough attention in Earth Skills to make it on his own. For now, he needs those other people to survive.

So he stalks back to the camp and pushes his way through a ring of onlookers to discover a brawl occurring between Wells and John Murphy, one hell of a spitfire and not the kind of person you'd want to get in a fight with. He'd gotten beaten by their Earth Skills teacher a month ago. It's made him harder, quicker to attack than before. His mousey brown hair is hanging in his eyes, a cruel smirk pulling up his lips as he wipes a drop of blood from his hooked nose. In doing so, he reveals the knife in his hand.

How the hell did Murphy manage to get a knife already? Wells definitely isn't Ares' favorite person, but this isn't even a fair battle. He wouldn't care if the Chancellor's son also had a weapon to defend himself with. This is more than just playing dirty— it's attempted murder.

Wells is lying on the ground, propped up only by his elbows. Not immediately getting back to his feet means something is wrong. Murphy doesn't care. Just as the kid pounces forward to strike at Wells, Ares lunges faster than he's ever moved and curls his fist around the collar of Murphy's jacket. He gives it a good ol' yank and causes the boy to choke as he's tossed backward. The kid stumbles before a few of his cronies help him stand upright.

"It's not even a fair fight," Ares says with a curled lip, fully aware that everyone's eyes are on him now that he'd broken up the dispute. "Or are you gonna fight with no honor?"

Murphy sneers at Ares but wisely keeps his distance, likely calculating the calm death in the taller boy's gaze that promises he could beat the shit out of him, weaponless and all.

Octavia takes a confident step forward with a smirk on her face. She gives him a once-over, green eyes looking up at him through her lashes. "Hey, Ortega. Rescue me next."

It's obvious she isn't aware of his reputation, because most of the delinquents give out low "ooooohhh's" that make his blood boil. One kid shouts out, "You don't wanna tango with the psycho!" and has his jaw ticking. Well aware of Blake's cutthroat gaze on him, Ares merely shoots Octavia a look of incredulity before turning around and walking back to the edge of the crowd. Some people move out of his way too quickly.

Ares quickly realizes that, although he stands among real murderers, that doesn't diminish his own reputation. The Council on the Ark doesn't conduct tests to see if a convicted criminal has mental health issues. Because of this, some had interpreted his plea of innocence as proof of his insanity. And thus, the nickname psycho was born. Good to know a few people haven't forgotten it.

He shouldn't have come back. Hell, he should have minded his own business and ran away into the forest, never to be seen again. These people have made their minds up about him. Is it really worth it to survive if nobody gives a damn about him anyway?

Maybe he'll start surviving out of spite. Just so he can flip Jaha off when he comes down to Earth in a few miserable months.

There's a small gathering around Clarke and where a now-immobile Wells sits with his back against the rusted metal of the dropship. Finn, the Goggle kid, his Asian friend, Octavia, and Blake are clustered nearby in a seemingly heated discussion about something he'd clearly missed while he went on his little walk. Clarke's fair face is pinched in frustration and annoyance, blonde hair already having fallen out of the single braid down her back. Has the Privileged Princess finally let her hair down— literally?

He feels shock slap him across the face when the group of five begin heading into the shrubbery — Wells can't leave and Blake seems to claim some sort of leadership over the group of teenagers.

"Hey," he calls to Clarke as she passes, surprising the both of them. She turns to him with her eyebrows raised. Her mouth is pulled into a line as if she's bracing herself for a scalding comment. But all he asks is, "Where are you guys going?"

"Mount Weather to get supplies," Octavia intervenes, cutting a potential answer off from Clarke. The brunette girl gives him a wide grin. "You could come if you want."

Christ, can the girl take a hint?

Clarke's eyebrows shoot further up her forehead at the young girl's invitation, clearly hesitant to let him tag along with them. It's obvious that their excursion isn't welcome to people like him. Luckily for her, he doesn't have a shred of desire to come along with them.

"I think I'll pass," Ares replies without a hint of amusement or flirtation in his voice. "Have fun."

He turns and walks toward the dropship just as Octavia's face begins to fall in disappointment. Why can't she just give up trying to impress him? He hasn't displayed any interest in her, and she's just going to end up hurt. Because that's what he does best. Even without trying, he always seems to cause everything he touches some amount of damage.

Ares leans against the rough exterior wall of the ship and crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes scan over their landing site with curiosity. How will they manage to establish some sort of functional society here? They were given practically nothing. Unless...

A plan hatches in his mind. It doesn't look like anyone has thought to dig through the inside of the dropship for supplies yet. Whatever he finds, he can claim for himself, and the rest of the people can deal with it.

"Ares," a cautious voice says from his right, causing him to jerk his head in surprise. He doesn't know the last time anyone had called him by his full first name. It seems fitting that the one to say it is Wells Jaha, who's still slumped against the ship in a sitting position. "About the fight—"

"I'm going to stop you there," Ares interrupts as he returns his gaze to the rambunctious teenagers milling around. "The whole 'friendship' thing isn't really my strong suit."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wells' mouth twist to the side in a frown. "I was going to say thank you, but I guess the words 'you're' and 'welcome' put together aren't in your vocabulary."

Truth be told, even Ares himself doesn't know why he fucks up every social interaction he has. It's like the instant someone speaks to him, his body recoils and forces him to sound like a dick to get them to go away. He doesn't mean to do it half of the time, but it's almost become a reflex by now— hurt others before they can hurt you. Maybe he should try to get better at that if he's going to be surrounded by a hundred or so people from now on.

Since apologizing isn't really his forte either, he grabs onto one of the rusted handles near the collapsible door and hauls himself onto the metal ramp. The inside of the dropship is completely void of another human soul. It's darker than the blinding sunlight outside, so it takes his eyes a few moments to adjust to the lack of lighting. He decides to move to the left first. His feet move sluggishly on the floor due to the change in gravity that he supposes he won't be used to for a while, cursing when he almost trips.

At first, nothing looks promising until he discovers a series of drawers built into one of the walls. Unlike the rest of the ship, they look like they've been touched fairly recently. Ninety-seven years' worth of grime and rust should have glued them shut, but they open with minimal effort and a sharp squealing sound that makes him wince. He peers inside and discovers a bit of canvas material that's rough against his fingers when he grazes them across it. Taking it out of the drawer, he shakes it out and discovers with glee that it appears to be a tent. Score.

"Ortega?" a deep voice calls from the opening of the dropship. "You in here?"

God, can't he have ten minutes to himself? Despite his annoyance, Ares replies with a hint of dismay, "Yeah."

A series of heavy footsteps follows the sound of his voice until Bellamy Blake appears around the corner. He's still wearing his guard jacket, which almost makes Ares scoff at the sight of it. It's like he's trying so hard to maintain even a shred of credibility and authority down here and is trying to intimidate people by wearing it. But Ares isn't fooled— he doesn't act like a guard. And he won't let some wannabe scare him.

"Find anything useful?" Blake questions as he eyes the unfolded tent in Ares' hands.

"Some tents," the younger boy replies, gripping tighter onto the one he's holding. "Finders, keepers, though. This one's mine."

Truth be told, he doesn't remember the last time he had something to himself.

Blake actually quirks a grin, causing Ares' scarred eyebrow to shoot up his forehead. Bellamy Blake, showing any emotion other than extreme annoyance or rage? It's time to throw a celebration.

"I wasn't going to take it," he promises, walking closer to the set of drawers. Ares eyes him warily as the older man grips the handle of one of the unopened ones, yanking it open with gritted teeth and a jerk of his muscled arm. It's stuffed to the brim with some sort of cotton material that's puffy enough to pop out slightly. Blake examines it for a moment before deciding, "Cots. Looks like we've got ourselves some housing situations. Want to help me set them up?"

Ares squints and examines his companion's bronze, freckled face for any glimmer of falsehood. He doesn't find any. Still, nothing makes sense.

"Cut the shit, Blake," he commands unceremoniously, folding the tent over his arm protectively and straightening his spine so he can look the man right in the face. "An hour ago, you were threatening to rip my guts out because your sister asked me a question. Why do you wanna be all buddy-buddy with me all of a sudden?"

Blake releases a huff out of the corner of his mouth before glancing toward the doorway as if to check if anyone's listening. Ares hadn't succeeded in wiping the amused look off of his face, but it does appear that he's about to get answers.

"I see potential in you, Ortega," he replies in a patient tone that contrasts Ares' sour one. "I know what they call you— psycho, murderer, whatever. Do you think those names are going to just disappear when the others come down here? Because they're going to follow us if you keep that wristband on and report that everything is fine."

Ares had known all of that already— that people will always be cautious around him because of his reputation, but hearing it being spoken with such conviction from another person is a different story. It hurts more, pinching his heart in just the right place. His right hand absentmindedly drifts to his left wrist, nails scraping along the smooth metal wristband. So he had been right: they transmit vital signs to the Ark.

"What do I have to do?" he questions, eyes drifting back to Blake's.

Blake seems satisfied with this response. "How would you like to help me and a few others lead this place? We can get those wristbands off of everyone within a couple of hours if we play our cards right."

Ares considers this. Does he want to be a leader? Will people even listen to him? He can see it now: him giving orders and then someone laughing at him, chanting, Psycho! Psycho! Psycho!

No, Blake is right. That nickname will never go away— not even within this little community. He can't lead. And he doesn't give enough of a shit about anyone to do a decent job.

"I'll help you get the wristbands off, but that's where our alliance ends," Ares says as he ticks his left hand against his leg. "I'm not into the whole leadership thing."

A serpentine grin pulls up Blake's lips at his decision. "Whatever the hell you want."

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Ares admits that he thrives off of a certain amount of chaos. There's something about an adrenaline rush that he loves, the thrumming of his pulse against his neck, the weight of his limbs, the strange sensation of something like gasoline flowing through his veins.

He supposes that's why he always got into fights when he was younger. In fact, that's how he'd gotten the scar that slashes through his right eyebrow and continues on his cheek, narrowly missing his eye. He's lucky that the kid hadn't blinded him with that piece of scrap metal he'd shaped to form a knife.

Contrary to the Council's belief, they weren't doing a very incredible job of catching all of the illegal activities on the Ark. Ares learned about the Underground when he was nine years old. It was a hidden fight club down in Factory Station where anyone could come and battle as long as you were branded, a symbol that you wouldn't rat them out to the Council. Ares joined when he was ten. The owners didn't care about your age— they believed that anyone could become a fighter.

So he did, and he still has the angry red swirl on his right shoulder blade to prove it, among many other scars that lacerate his chest and back from countless sparring sessions. He'd been taught to fight dirty but fair; that was the only other rule in the club aside from secrecy: all battles had to be an even match. If you cheated, you were punished. Ares had seen enough broken noses and bruised ribs to know to keep his mouth shut.

So, yeah, Ares is a bit of an adrenaline junkie and always has been. Maybe that's why he doesn't care that he's barely a foot away from a massive, crackling bonfire that a few kids had managed to start from their knowledge in Earth Skills. It crackles loudly as the thick logs are eaten by the flames, dousing the darkness of twilight in an orange glow. He'd had to shed his jacket and hoodie after five minutes, exposing his arms to the mixture of cool night air and the scalding heat of the embers.

He's also willingly teaming up with John Murphy to help people remove their wristbands with a crowbar they'd found in a toolbox from the dropship. They don't speak to each other, however. Their sole job is to wrench those goddamn monstrosities off of people's arms. Then they never have to work together again.

Ares' own left wrist is still slightly bleeding from the needles being ripped out of his skin. There are six tiny puncture wounds from the aggressive removal, conducted by Blake himself as the first example for the other kids. Murphy had followed shortly after, eager to please Blake. And then the snowball kept rolling.

So far, they've removed twelve other wristbands and chucked them into the fire. Unfortunately, they haven't started melting yet. Ares doesn't even know if they will. So, for now, he finds pleasure in watching the flames dance across them without rhyme or rhythm, as unpredictable as himself.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Ares looks up to see that Wells has discovered their little campsite— not that it had ever been a secret, because everyone cheers once another wristband is removed. There isn't even alcohol involved and some kids are already howling at the moon just because they can. It's totally unsupervised. And it's amazing.

Blake stops a boy named John Mbege, one of the other cronies aside from Ares and Murphy that he'd recruited, from taking a hostile step toward the Chancellor's son. He turns toward Wells with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "We're liberating ourselves. What does it look like?"

"It looks like you're trying to get us all killed," Wells retorts as he limps closer to the older man. Addressing the crowd that's now watching, him, he adds, "The communication system is dead. These wristbands are all we've got. Take them off, and the Ark will think we're dying, that it's not safe for them to follow."

"That's the point, Chancellor." Blake spits out the last word like it's acid on his tongue. There's an assholish smirk pulling up one side of his mouth, shoulders back and his aura oozing complete confidence. If Ares makes himself look like that, no wonder everyone wants to punch him in the face. "We can take care of ourselves, can't we?"

A chorus of "Yeah!" rises up from the crowd in response. Ares, calculating the tension between the two potential leaders of their group of delinquents, straightens up. It's clear that Blake is winning this battle. Using people's insecurities and fears to coerce them into getting what he wants is incredibly clever.

Ares has his own reasons for wanting to remove his wristband. So what are Blake's motives?

"You think this is a game?" Wells questions incredulously. "Those aren't just our friends and parents up there. They're our farmers, our doctors, our engineers. I don't care what he tells you. We won't survive here on our own. And besides, if it really is safe, how could you not want the rest of our people to come down?"

This is where the true divide becomes clear as day. Wells has never been hungry a day in his life. There was never a time where he wondered if he'd have enough rations to make it through the week, or if his dad would impulsively use them all while he was in class. He never had to spend days saving up for a single shower.

Wells hasn't directly let the gap between the Privileged and working class grow like his dad did, but he still didn't do anything about it. And this question proves that it never even occurred to him how bad the situation truly got. Because why would he consider the fact that the reason he got such large portions was that they were taking some away from Factory Station?

"My people are already down," Blake responds with a gesture to the rest of the kids behind him. "Those people locked my people up. Those people killed my mother for the crime of having a second child. Your father did that."

Wells swallows thickly. "My father didn't write the laws."

Blake shakes his head, taking a step toward the boy. "No, he enforced them, but not anymore. Not here. Here, there are no laws. Here, we do whatever the hell we want whenever the hell we want!" He pauses when several kids aggressively shout their agreement. "Now, you don't have to like it, Wells. You can even try to change it, stop it, kill me. You know why? Whatever the hell we want."

Murphy repeats at the top of his lungs, "WHATEVER THE HELL WE WANT!"

The surrounding teenagers join in on the chant. Ares watches mutely, smirking not at the fact that they have been granted absolute freedom to wreak havoc, but because he knows that anarchy is surely a recipe for disaster. And he'll be thrilled to watch the chaos ensue.

Almost as if the heavens have sensed the impending doom, it begins to downpour. Ares jumps when he feels the first few raindrops splatter on his too-warm skin. Then they begin to multiply so rapidly that the fire sputters out and his t-shirt is soaked through, sticking to his skin like a second layer. He at least has the good sense to pick his jacket and hoodie up from the ground before they become ruined with mud. But rather than put them on and keep himself at least a little bit dry, he relishes in the water that rolls down his cheeks and arms in thick drops.

Whatever the hell we want. Little does he know, by presenting Ares with such an inviting challenge, Blake has just sealed his own coffin.

_____

a/n:

ares right now:

for real, i love my chaotic son and his inability to handle the simplest of social interactions. throughout the story, i'll start to peel back his layers and explain more of why he's the way he is. he's kind of like a jigsaw puzzle in the sense that he takes quite a bit of thought to figure him out.

writing this reminds me how much i miss season one and the delinquents ): throwback to when everyone was alive (except those 2 kids who died right away) and less traumatized

also, if you guys want to learn a bit more about ares, please check out my oc's book titled "sunshine"! he's #12 so it'll take some scrolling in the table of contents, but it's worth it, i promise.

—kristyn

( word count: 3.9k )