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chapter four!
SHARK BAIT
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WITH JASPER GONE, the camp is even more on edge than usual. Ares feels the tension even before he steps back out into the sunlight. It's a tangible, living thing, snaking around the ninety-nine delinquents at the camp and gnawing at them until they begin to fidget. Even Ares finds himself restless at this new threat.

Lightly prodding his newly-patched nose and wincing, he stumbles out of the dropship while Clarke gathers supplies on the second level. Monty is busy fixing one of the broken light structures on the side of the wall— something that intrigues Ares, but not enough for him to ask for a tutorial on how to do. For now, his concern lies in recovering the weapon he'd lost during his fight with Murphy.

Every step sends a burst of dull pain up into his skull, but it's not as terrible as the initial blow had been. Ares, hands in his pockets, pretends not to notice the eyes that drift to him when he emerges. Always act careless. That had been his first coping mechanism during his first interaction with his peers after being incarcerated; the Ares Ortega who had entered that impromptu Earth Skills class a few weeks ago had not been the same one who'd been arrested. This one gets stares wherever he goes. This one has a reputation that had spread around the Ark like wildfire.

Step two: make them fear you a little. Ares doesn't let it be known that his face is currently pulsing with pain. Instead, he allows a little smirk to lift up the corner of his lips. Not a smirk of kindness, but one of danger. Of chaos. Hinting at the uncontrollable fire coursing through his veins.

He catches the eye of one girl approximately seventeen with her ebony hair pulled back in two thick braids. Ares winks. The girl scowls at him even as a blush tints her bronze cheeks pink, which she tries to disguise as being from the cold once people's incredulous eyes drift to her.

Ares is snapped out of his stupor by someone's fist hitting him in the arm. "If I didn't know any better, I'd have thought you were a masochist."

He turns to see Nate beside him, adjusting his gray hat over his short, black hair. His lips are pursed in a frown. At what, Ares isn't completely sure, but the way his former cellmate's brown eyes are skittering around the camp doesn't make him feel any calmer.

"Who says I'm not?"

Nate turns and lifts a brow at him. "Me." He grabs hold of Ares' hand and slaps something into his palm, startling the latter boy enough that he jolts. "Here— I think this is yours."

Ares uncurls his fingers to find his knife resting in his hand. It's the one he'd kept in his pocket until he'd lost it while tumbling down that short cliff, the familiar pattern of twine around the handle marking it as his. Somehow, Nate had managed to grab it before someone else had.

His gaze flickers back to the dark-skinned boy, quickly scanning him for any signs of a struggle. He'd emerged unscathed if one had occurred. "Thanks."

Nate lurches back, placing a hand to his heart. "Ares Ortega? Saying 'thanks'? I must be in a parallel universe. Maybe Murphy hit you too hard. Do you have a concussion? Are you feeling okay?"

Ares rolls his eyes, fighting off a smirk by rolling his tongue over his teeth. He shoves the knife back into the pocket of his coat and jerks his head asshole-ishly. "You're right, it's probably the radiation talking. Who knows? We could be slowly dying from it and we'd never know. Maybe the first symptom is being delusional."

He makes a fake wheezing gasp, acting like he's choking on toxic air, clawing at his throat and turning his gaze heavenward. Now it's Nate's turn to roll his eyes. He playfully shoves Ares to the side, causing the former to chuckle as he easily regains his balance.

Laughter? Maybe he really is losing his mind.

At that moment, Clarke bursts out of the dropship with Wells in tow. Ares' eyebrow quirks upward at the sight. He'd thought the rift between them was too solid for them to team up for anything, but maybe this whole ordeal with Jasper is calling for some desperate measures.

"Ortega."

He blinks in surprise when she addresses him. Clarke stops a few feet away, backpack slung over one shoulder and her weight shifted onto a single foot. She may be a decent bit shorter than him, but she sure is intimidating, anyway. Her ice-blue eyes are hard as she stares him in the eye.

"I wanted to know if you were willing to come with us to get Jasper," she says. Factual. No emotion. No sign of the obvious worry she'd let show while she'd patched him up.

Ares stores this information away in his mind. This is how she wants the rest of the camp to see her— unfazed, always in control of her emotions. But if she's desperate enough to come to him for help...

"Are you insane?" Wells bellows from behind her, clearly stating his thoughts on the matter. It also surprises Ares that she obviously hadn't informed him of her plan to recruit him first.

Clarke pays her former best friend no heed. She merely continues to stare at Ares expectantly, blue eyes piercing into his brown ones. Her jaw is set. He wonders if it's to prevent her lower lip from trembling in fear.

Ares tilts his head to the side. "What's in it for me?"

She has her masks. So does he.

Clarke's eyelids flutter in annoyance, shaking her head at his question. "If — when — we rescue Jasper, everyone will know that you helped save him. As far as I know, you've got a pretty damning reputation." She lowers her voice, leaning forward a bit to add, "And, if I'm being honest, I think you have more eyes on you than you'd expect."

She subtly jerks her head to the left. Ares smoothly follows her gaze to see the bronze-skinned girl with the braids watching him carefully. Assessing his every move. Her strong facial structure gives her a fierce look, suggesting that her blush from earlier had merely been out of surprise, and now she's willing to act on his wink.

Ares shifts his weight and turns back toward a half-smirking Clarke. Shit. He hadn't meant to actually make an impression on that girl— he'd just been messing around. But Clarke is completely right and she knows it. Backing out will make him seem cowardly.

Ares Ortega is not a coward.

"Fine," he agrees, causing Wells to huff through his nose. "I'll come. But if anything happens, it's every man for themselves. I'm not going to take a spear to the chest for anyone."

"Fair enough," Clarke concurs, already beginning to brush past him and Nate. Another attempt at acting like she's not desperate. "We leave in three minutes. Be ready."

The blonde and Wells march off toward the edge of their camp. Ares hopes they're going to try to round up more troops. A quest to save Jasper with only three people is not something to look forward to— especially with that hellish grudge between them. Ares would rather cut off his own hand than be forced to spend time with the two of them at once.

"Okay, now you've lost it," Nate says to him once they're alone again. "Since when did you get a soul? What deal did you make with the devil?"

"You're coming with me," Ares replies flatly.

Nate scrunches his eyebrows, frowning. "Uh, no I'm not. Like you said, I'm not taking a spear to the chest. At all. You're on your own, man."

Thanks for the backup, Ares grumbles mentally. Then again, it isn't really fair to think so. Would he have had the same reaction if the roles were reversed? Probably. Self-sacrifice isn't really his thing. Lending a helping hand, even less so.

Ares skims his hands over all of his hidden weapons to conduct a mental count. Pocket. Waistband of jeans. Boot. Hidden pocket within his coat. Other boot. Everything seems to be accounted for— they're the only things he has to his name. Aside from...

"At least look over my tent while I'm gone," Ares half-begs, feeling a sudden stab of fear at what it would mean if it was taken from him. He has to make sure nobody steals it as easily as he'd taken Blake's.

"Aye-aye." Nate gives him a mock salute and pounds his back once before walking off. "Don't die on that trip, ya hear?"

And then he's gone. Somehow, Ares feels more comforted despite Nate's brutal honesty.

He runs a hand along his skinned knuckles and glances at a pair of black fingerless gloves someone had left on a nearby log. After looking for a possible owner for approximately three seconds, he heads toward them and snatches them from the wood. They're severely distressed like every article of clothing from the Ark, but somehow it makes them more comfortable as he pulls them onto his hands. At least now he'll have some warmth while still being able to get a grip on something.

Ares turns in the direction Clarke and Wells had gone, jolting in surprise when he sees them near Blake. Clarke says something he can't catch from so far away. In silent response, Blake pulls up the hem of his shirt, revealing a handgun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, though he might also be trying to intimidate her by showing off his tanned skin. Ares scoffs and shoves his hands into his pockets as he stalks toward them.

"Murphy, you're coming with me," he hears Blake order.

Great. This is not what he'd meant by hoping she'd recruit more troops.

Clarke must truly be off her rocker if she's seeking out the three least likely people in the world to work together. The five of them are surely going to kill each other before they have a chance of finding Jasper.

He curls a protective hand around his knife just in case Murphy gets any ideas. Shoving past him and Blake, Ares ignores the pulse of pain that shoots through his back as it smacks into Blake's arm.

"Face not too broken to tag along, Ortega?" Blake snarkily calls after him. In reply, Ares raises his free hand and unceremoniously gives him an obscene gesture.

And he saunters into the forest. It takes him a moment to locate the two other members of their cadre, discovering them mainly because of Wells' towering height. Clarke's blond head follows beside him. He's surprised that the girl isn't distancing herself as much as he'd thought she would. Then again, maybe it's because she doesn't trust him, Blake, or Murphy, and she still subconsciously places enough trust in Wells to have her back if things go south.

Which they will. This was a stupid idea. Clarke didn't invite anyone along to act as any sort of mediator between them in the event of a fight— all of them dislike each other for one reason or another. This group is a powder keg waiting to explode, needing only the slightest bit of ammunition in order to create devastation.

His long legs prevent him from falling too far behind. Even so, he wishes the two of them would slow their pace a bit; he hadn't gone this far during his previous adventure into the woods and wants a chance to soak it in. There's so much more green than he expected. He finds it in the countless bushes that sneak between the trunks of gigantic trees, on the layers of moss coating every branch, and in the leaves he crunches under his feet. Part of him feels guilty for it. Here they are, having been on Earth for two days, and they're already destroying it again.

He's content to do absolutely nothing but walk in silence for the entire way back to wherever they'd last seen Jasper, and that seems to be the plan until Blake abruptly breaks it.

"What's the rush?" he questions, cutting through a passage with Murphy that leads them closer to Ares. The boy dutifully takes a few steps to the left to distance himself from them. Blake has the handgun in his hand almost carelessly, holding it up in a shrug as he asks, "You don't survive a spear through the heart."

Ares feels somewhat inclined to agree. How do they know they aren't on a mission to find a dead man?

"Put the gun away, Bellamy," Wells commands evenly.

Murphy immediately pounces forward and shoves him backward with a sneer. "Well, why don't you do something about it, huh?"

Ares, jaw ticking, steps closer as Wells shakes himself away. "Ever Blake's faithful lapdog."

The mousey-haired kid sends Ares a glare that could cut through steel. Clarke, sensing the rising tension and the time bomb seconds away from exploding, intervenes by answering Blake's initial question. "Jasper screamed when they moved him. If the spear struck his heart, he'd have died instantly. It doesn't mean we have time to waste."

She turns to start moving again, only to have Blake dart forward and grab hold of her wrist. The smirk on his face makes it look like he's asking to be punched. "As soon as you take this wristband off, we can go."

Ares stealthily snakes his hand in his pocket and grips back onto the knife. He has his motives for coming— of course Blake would have his own. The wristband. Having Clarke's would mean the Ark's precious Privileged children are presumed dead, leading to a lesser chance of the others following.

Smart. Blake may be an absolute dick, but he's incredibly smart.

Clarke yanks her arm away and steps closer, blue eyes glittering with rage. "The only way the Ark is going to think I'm dead is if I'm dead, got it?"

Blake only seems amused by her retort. "Brave princess."

"Hey, why don't you find your own nickname?"

Ares turns to see Collins stalking toward them from the way they came. He must have not been far behind the entire time— how did none of them notice?

"You call this a rescue party?" he questions, brown eyes darting to each member of the group in a silent assessment of the situation. "Got to split up, cover more ground. Clarke, come with me."

Ares glances at the blonde to see her biting back her smirk, not hesitating to flash Blake a dirty look before following after Collins. He's more surprised to see Blake's reaction. Instead of being angry that his opportunity had been squandered, he's still smirking in amusement.

Ares shakes his head. Blake is so goddamn weird. Just when he thinks he's closer to figuring him out, another round of smoke and mirrors rises up in his face.

On they move. He follows silently at a leisurely pace, not trusting his companions enough to split off in pairs like Clarke and Collins had. Murphy would probably stab him in the back the second he turned around. He wouldn't put it past Blake to do the same if he could gain something out of it. And Wells... He might be the only one not out to kill him.

Their idea of "splitting up" is taking a lower path in the same direction while Clarke and Collins travel on higher ground. Their forms are barely visible through the thicket of bushes separating them. Ares pretends he doesn't notice the yearning wafting off of Wells like a too-strong cologne, shoving his feelings down the throats of anyone close enough.

It takes Blake ten minutes to comment on it. "Guess we got more in common than meets the eye, right?"

Ares keeps his gaze forward, acting like he's not totally listening in on everything they're saying.

"We have nothing in common," Wells fires back.

"No?" Blake asks. "We both came down here to protect someone we love." A pause in which the other boy doesn't deny what he's insinuating. "Your secret's safe with me."

Ares' lips tug at the corners. Secret? Blake is talking loud enough for both him and Murphy to hear. Not that he's going to go around camp spilling gossip about Wells' love life, mostly because he doesn't particularly give a shit. But Murphy... he'd probably use it as blackmail.

"'Course, for you, it's worse," Blake continues, any ounce of sincerity vanishing from his voice. Instead, it's replaced by the usual condescending tone Ares has learned to attribute with him. "With Finn around, Clarke doesn't even see you. It's like you're not even here."

He walks so quickly away from Wells that he passes Ares. The younger boy flickers his eyes to the back of his curly head of ebony hair, scowling. Asshole. He is such an asshole.

It takes a long time for the path that Finn and Clarke are on diverges from the others'. Ares doesn't notice until he suddenly realizes that he can't see Clarke's signature golden head above them anymore, then stops in his tracks.

"Where'd they go?" he asks, effectively causing Blake and Murphy to stop and turn toward him. Both of them seem surprised by his question. It's like they've all been on autopilot, walking through the forest without really seeing anything at all.

"Our paths split twenty minutes ago," Wells replies as he continues walking past Ares. At least one of them had been paying attention. Ares had been too busy watching Blake and Murphy like a hawk to remember what they're supposed to be doing out here. "Luckily, I've cut a piece of bark off of every fifth tree we've passed in case we need to go back. You're welcome."

Ares, thoroughly impressed, continues after him. "Turns out the Privileged can be some use to us, after all."

Wells eyes him warily as they fall into step together. "Why do you hate us so much?"

"Is that even a question?" he asks through a huff of sardonic laughter. When Wells shoots him an unamused look, he sighs. "The fact that you even have to ask that question is why I hate the class system on the Ark. You don't get it, Wells— you and all the other Privileged in Alpha? I bet you've never gone hungry a day in your life. Never had to limit showers to once a week because you need to spend your rations on food, which, for some reason, is not seen as a basic human right that's offered to anyone regardless of income. I hate the system because the alcoholism rates are through the roof in Walden because Moonshine is more accessible than water sometimes. And yeah, your father didn't make the rules, but he didn't try to change them, either. And neither did you."

The Chancellor's son is silent. Ares could rant for several more minutes about the unfairness of living situations on the Ark, but his face is already flushed with anger and he doesn't want to pop a blood vessel or something. So instead, he lets Wells soak in all he'd thrown at him and tries to calm his simmering rage.

How many times had he blanched at the reek of alcohol before he'd even opened the door to his living quarters? How young had he been when he'd taken his first sip, because the alternative had been dehydration? When did it become normal for him to walk through the corridors of Alpha and feel all of the Privileged kids counting every speck of dirt on his cheeks?

"I'm sorry, Ares," Wells says quietly, rupturing his internal rant. "I didn't know."

Ares shakes his head, not surprised. "How could you know?"

You were never taught to look.

The four of them halt at the sound of a distant shout. It takes a moment, but soon Ares is able to distinguish that it's Clarke and Finn calling out for them from where their paths had split in two.

Bellamy's eyes shoot to the two of them. "You think they found something?"

"Only one way to find out," Wells sighs in reply. He pivots on his heel and starts moving as fast as he can back in that direction, limping on his injured ankle from yesterday. "We're over here!"

He pushes himself to a steady sprint and they meet up with the other two fairly quickly. Collins looks disappointed but not surprised at the fact they hadn't split up even further as he'd suggested, but also seems too frazzled to care.

"We found a trail of Jasper's blood over by a waterfall about half a mile down that way." Collins points to his left. "It's fresh, so if we hurry, we might be able to catch up. We're close to wherever he is."

"Or was," Ares corrects. When Collins glares at him for his pessimism, he shrugs. "What? Who says they'll stop moving him? Maybe this is all one big scheme to wear us out and then pick us off one-by-one."

Clarke shakes her head. "Not helping."

They lead the four of them in the direction of the waterfall, which Ares can hear before he can see. Although he's never seen a real waterfall before, he knows what the sound of a shower sounds like, and this one just sounds similar. Just a lot more peaceful and powerful.

Ares tried to conceal the fact that his breath catches in his lungs when they reach the water. It spills from the top of the precariously-positioned rocks and splashes into a small stream below seemingly endlessly, gallon after gallon falling without the intention of stopping. Finn unceremoniously wades through the water with Clarke close behind. It takes Ares a moment to realize that their clothes are already damp. Since the water only goes up to their thighs at most, it's safe to assume that they had gone for a swim.

There's no room for hesitation as Ares steps off of the flat rocks on the ride of the stream and plants one foot in the water. This close to the edge, it's barely deep enough to cover the sole of his boot, but it's still mesmerizing. No Arkadian has ever floated in the water— in space, it's too precious, so the only option is a shower. The prospect of wading through water for even a few seconds is enough to make Ares' heart pound in anticipation.

The water is cold, sending shivers down his spine and legs as his jeans begin to stick to his calves the deeper he goes. It becomes increasingly more difficult to trudge through the stream. The natural current caused by the waterfall drags him slightly to the side, making him hold his arms out for balance. He glances to his left and notices Blake doing the same thing. If any Grounders are looking at them right now, they'll probably think this dumb group of kids is drunk off their asses.

All of that awe shoots down the drain when Ares notices the trail of blood Collins had mentioned. For some reason, the phrase "trail of blood" had made him think that a few droplets had been leading the way for them. He doesn't expect to raise his head and see boulders covered in still-wet crimson. There are puddles of it, even a handprint smeared onto one of the beige-colored rocks. It's impossible to tell if it had come from Jasper trying to leave them clues or if his attacker's hand had blood on it from carrying him. Either way, it doesn't look like he went easily.

This time he only feels a slight lurch of his stomach before he's able to tear his gaze away. Blood doesn't always affect him as badly as it had after the fight with Murphy. It's mostly when it's on him that it causes a problem. He hates the feel of it— sticky, warm, and the coppery smell is enough to have his senses in overdrive. Plus, it's a pain in the ass to wash off. Ares knows this because the guards had wanted him clean for his Council hearing. It had taken three showers to fully rid his skin of Merritt Santiago's blood, which had stained it until he'd practically had to scrub off a layer.

The trail leads them downstream. The usually comforting breeze now makes him shiver due to his black jeans that are soaked until just above his knee. Ares takes a bit of joy in seeing Murphy grumble under his breath at the discomfort it brings.

But, soon, that grumbling becomes more audible as Murphy wonders aloud, "How do we even know we're going the right way?"

"We don't," Blake answers matter-of-factly. "Spacewalker thinks he's a tracker."

"It's called 'cutting sign,'" Wells corrects dryly, annoyed with Blake's bullshit, as is everyone else. "Fourth-year Earth Skills. He's good."

"At least one of us paid attention in school," Ares comments, trailing a hand along the prickly edges of a dying plant.

Clarke turns around and raises a brow at him. "Weren't you top of the physics class? Right behind Monty?"

Ah, Monty Green— his sixteen-year-old self's arch nemesis. He'd only known the kid ahead of him's surname, mostly because he hadn't bothered to figure his first one out and he'd never actually seen him in person. He had tried so hard to gain that number one spot in the class and secure himself an apprenticeship in Go-Sci, but alas, someone framed him for murder.

He casts Clarke a warning glance but has no argument. She gives him a smirk as if to say, Checkmate.

"You wanna keep it down, or should I paint a target on your backs?" Collins inquires from the front of the group.

Approaching a seemingly nondescript bush, he ghosts his fingers over a spindly branch that's barely hanging on by a thread. Clarke follows him curiously. In sync, they crouch down to examine whatever clue is there; Ares can't tell what it is because they're in the way.

"See?" Blake says to Wells with a mockingly sympathetic grin. "You're invisible."

A distant groan cuts across the otherwise quiet terrain, causing all of their heads to snap up toward the sound.

"What the hell was that?" Murphy asks loudly.

"A rabbit, Murphy," Ares replies sarcastically with an incredulous twitch of his eye at the question. "What the fuck do you think it was?"

Ignoring their bickering, Clarke jerks her head toward Blake. "Now would be a good time to take out that gun."

They take off as quietly as they can in the direction of Jasper's voice. Ares can't help but feel something gnaw at his gut as they get closer to the edge of the tree line, like something is off about this situation. It causes that familiar weight to settle into his bones, filling his veins with fire. Adrenaline. Maybe even fear for what's waiting for them along with Jasper— if it's even him.

Clarke and Collins burst through the clearing first. The blonde gasps, a small choking sound coming out of her at whatever she sees.

Ares comes up behind them and peers around them to see what had caused the reaction. What's there makes even his gut roil. It's Jasper, all right, but definitely not the same happy, go-lucky kid who had left camp with them. He's been stripped of his shirt and jacket and tied to the naked branches of a single tree in the clearing. His chest is littered with various bleeding wounds. The position he's in must be putting a lot of strain on his core and legs— they'd tied him around his thighs, waist, and secured his hands on the branch above his head. They're the only thing keeping him from plummeting downward. The Grounders hadn't even taken enough care to set him on a single branch.

"Oh my God," Clarke whispers, taking a step forward into the clearing. "Jasper!"

Blake follows her with his eyes on the boy in the tree. "What the hell is this?"

Ares is just about to agree with him when Clarke screams. His head whips around to face her, discovering her dangling above a hidden pit filled with wooden spikes. Blake had caught her at the last second. However, instead of pulling her up, he seems to be flickering his gaze between her pale face and the wristband now in his hand.

"Pull her up! Pull her up!"

Collins' demanding tone snaps Blake out of whatever bloodthirsty daze he'd been in. Wells rushes over next, then Ares, and even Murphy, the four boys heaving the girl out.

Wait, Ares realizes. This makes no sense.

They're all grabbing onto Blake like a bunch of dumbasses, when they should be helping Clarke so her arm doesn't get ripped out of its socket. Taking this into consideration, Ares releases his completely unnecessary hold and reaches down to grab her free arm. She seems a bit bewildered to see his hand extending toward hers. Nevertheless, she accepts it because the alternative is falling to a very unfortunate death.

Why is he helping her? This is unlike him. Maybe seeing Blake waver had stirred something inside of him-- something that reminds him that losing Clarke would be bad for everyone. She's the yin to Blake's yang. If they lose her, they'll lose one more voice of reason. Even if she can be immensely uptight at times.

Collins steadies her on her feet once she's on solid ground. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Clarke replies through labored breathing, casting Blake a wary glance. Had she noticed the hesitation, too? "We need to get him down."

Right. Jasper in the tree.

"I'll climb up there and cut the vines," Collins offers.

Wells nods as if he's desperate for something to prove himself after failing to protect Clarke. "Yeah, yeah, I'm with you."

"No." The longer-haired boy turns to look over his shoulder at him. "Stay with Clarke. And watch him." He sends Blake a distrusting glance. "Murphy, let's go."

"I have, like, five knives," Ares reminds them as they head toward the tree. "I could probably get the job done a lot faster."

Collins ignores him and starts to climb up the trunk. Ares rolls his eyes, catching sight of a few medium-sized rocks as he does so. He scoops them up in one arm and turns one over in his hand, brushing the pad of his thumb along its rough surface. It makes tiny scratches on his skin.

His first time holding a rock. Strange, all of these firsts he's had on the Ground already and how many more he'll have in the future.

"What are you doing?" Wells asks him.

"Nobody else needs to fall into one of those," Ares replies with a jerk of his head toward the pit of spikes. "This was bait, right? They lead us here. So there are bound to be more traps."

He experimentally chucks one of the stones a few feet away from the one Clarke had nearly fallen into. It lands solidly. Repeating this several times, making sure to use considerable force in order to trigger a trap, he only manages to uncover one other pit before an inhuman growl causes him to freeze just before he releases another rock.

"What the hell was that?" Murphy asks from where he and Collins have been busy cutting Jasper out of the vines.

Is that the only question he's capable of asking?

"Grounders?" Blake wonders.

The growl comes again, raising the hair on the back of Ares' neck. His eyes dart along the long blades of grass to find the source of the noise. Slowly, a dark animal slinks out from behind a cluster of bushes, snarling at them and revealing a pearly white incisor in the process. Ares only knows what it is because he's seen it in books— a black panther.

The animal would be majestic if it wasn't about to attack them. Its sleek coat shines in the pale lighting of the overcast sky, yellow eyes pinning them under a calculating stare. Ares' limbs lock on instinct— somehow, he feels like if he makes any sudden movements, he'll be the beast's next meal.

But it doesn't appear to be waiting for them to make the first move. The panther charges at them, bounding across the soil at an alarming speed.

"Bellamy, gun!" Clarke cries, voice rising in time with her fear.

Blake pats the waistband of his jeans. Ares' chest turns to ice as his palms ghost over nothing. Christ. He must have dropped the gun at some point.

The rock in his hand turns heavy, reminding him of its presence. His jaw clenches in sheer determination as he adjusts his grip on the object. Stepping forward, he rears his arm back and keeps his gaze locked on the beast before hurling the stone at it with all his strength.

The rock misses the panther by at least a meter.

Shit. Well, at least he'd tried.

His thoughts are cut off at the sound of gunfire from behind him. Ares whirls around, shocked to see Wells with Blake's gun in hand, firing repeatedly at the animal. It gives a roar of pain as one of the bullets hits home. Ares loses sight of the beast after that. He can hear its quiet whimpers and barely see the bushes beside him quivering as it moves.

As fast as light, Ares has two knives in his hands. He crouches into a ready position and blows air slowly from his mouth to calm his racing heartbeat and sweating palms. He rakes his gaze across the bushes, but he can't see anything.

And then it goes as quiet as death.

Ares pauses, one arm in front of his face with the knife angled outward. The small group exchanges questioning glances. Had the thing died from its bullet wound?

His question is answered as soon as the thought crosses his mind. One second, he's considering relaxing. The next, the panther roars and leaps out of its hiding place to their left, jaws open wide to sink its teeth into Blake's head.

Ares launches a knife the instant before Wells fires the gun.The bullet strikes first, but the blade embeds itself into the animal's chest a millisecond later. There's a sickening thunk as it pierces the flesh and the thing drops to the ground.

He stares down at the dying animal, feeling half-guilty about harming it even though it had been about to kill them. He can just see the blood leaking onto the forest floor from the knife wound.

The sound of clicking fills the air; Ares realizes that Wells is trying to land the final blow to kill the panther, but he's out of bullets. He lowers his arm and drops the gun as if just now realizing what he'd done. Why he'd taken the gun from Blake in the first place, Ares isn't sure. But he'd surely grabbed it while they were pulling Clarke out of that pit.

Blake, panting hard, jerks his head at Wells. "Now she sees you."

He's right. Clarke is staring at him in astonishment, blue eyes the size of saucers and eyebrows pinched. It's like she's seeing Wells — truly seeing him — for the first time since they'd landed.

Ares is the first to move, breaking the spell. He bends down and wrenches his knife away from the panther's chest. It doesn't move or make a sound of anguish, yellow eyes staring at nothing. He flickers his gaze away and wipes the blood from the blade onto the grass.

He doesn't know why the thought enters his head. It's stupid, really— it's just a panther. But Ares finds himself mentally reciting the old mantra they'd had on the Ark, which they said in times of death. In peace, may you leave the shore.

The rest of the words die in his brain. The last person he'd said the entire quote to was Merritt Santiago's corpse. After he'd finished screaming, after a janitor had discovered him and called the Guard, he'd frantically spat out the words through his sobs as he was dragged away.

In love, may you find the next.

"We should find something to wrap it in," Finn suggests, but Ares barely hears him. "It's meat— our first real meal."

Safe passage on your travels until our final journey to the ground.

"We can use the tent." Clarke unzips her backpack and pulls out a circular sheet of canvas.

May we meet again.

It's just a stupid panther, he reminds himself. But it's still the first time he's ever killed anything. It's the first life he's taken. And if the Ark's citizens didn't already think he was a so-called psycho, they sure would now, the others staring at him as he looks at the animal with an unreadable expression.

"Well? What are we waiting for?" he asks, addressing the others who are seemingly waiting for him. He's lucky that his voice doesn't waver. "Wrap it up. We need to get back by dusk if we want Jasper to live."

Clarke moves first, approaching with the tent as Blake and Ares pick the extremely heavy animal off of the ground and roll it onto the material. Finn and Murphy are busy getting the injured boy down from the tree. His pained groans rattle Ares' ears, haunting him already.

They take turns carrying Jasper and the panther. Ares is on animal duty first, lugging it along with Murphy, of all people. Part of him thinks Blake purposely neglected to volunteer just so he could see what would happen between them. The energy separating the two delinquents crackles with dangerous tension, hatred simmering off of them. Ares clenches his jaw so tightly that it begins to ache. His only consolation lies in the fact that the kid is sporting one hell of a bruise directly over his right eye.

By the time they arrive back at camp, he's back to carrying the panther — this time with Blake — and the world has gone dark from the setting of the sun. Campfires are crackling as they approach the dropship and dump the dead animal onto the forest floor in a heap. Ares stretches his arms, wincing at the deep ache within his muscles from exerting so much continuous force.

Blake and Murphy pull the canvas back and reveal the panther. Kids crowd around it to get a better look as Blake shouts, "Who's hungry?"

He's met with a rally of cheers, some people chanting his name in appreciation for the gift he's given them. Ares narrows his eyes at the man's victorious smirk. He didn't do shit to get that panther— in fact, if it wasn't for Wells and Ares, his skull would be crushed between the jaws of the animal at his feet. But he plays the part of the brave hero who'd succeeded in getting food for his people, and it makes Ares' eye twitch in annoyance.

The night goes on similarly to the last. Clarke and Finn are probably helping Jasper in the dropship, for they'd certainly throw a fit if they saw what's going on. Blake, Murphy, and John Mbege are exchanging food for wristbands. Remove them and you get a stick of meat. Choose to keep yours on, and starve.

Ares finds this to be a little ironic— it's clear that Blake is trying to become a leader here. But in a society with no rules, there can't be a leader because there aren't any laws to enforce. Nobody has to listen to anyone.

To demonstrate this, Ares waltzes up to the sticks of meat positioned near one of the campfires. Murphy is holding a boy near the embers and wrenching his wristband off with a crowbar. Blake watches intently, a pleased smirk on his face, turned orange by the glow of the fire.

He takes one of the sticks. Blake pays him no heed, so he doesn't let himself think before taking another. This time, Blake's gaze flickers to his and turns dangerous. "Only one per person, Ortega."

"I know." He scrambles for a reason to take two sticks. "This one's for someone else."

"Does that someone still have their wristband?"

Ares thinks back to Nate. Yes, he still has his wristband— even though he likes to put on a tough front and act like nothing bothers him, Ares knows he wouldn't want his father to think he's dead. He'd keep the metal prison on until someone forced it off of him.

But Ares doesn't confirm or deny this fact, instead tilting his head to the side. "Does it matter? Whatever the hell we want, right?"

His eyes gleam menacingly as Blake blinks in response. He pointedly yanks the second stick out of the ground and tosses it a few inches in the air, catching it in his hand with a smirk. Blake's scowl is dark enough to act as a warning. Somehow, Ares knows it isn't just anger about the food— he knows about the stolen tent.

"Keep it up, Ortega, and you'll regret it," he threatens lowly. The darkness seems to deep into his skin, cutting his facial structure until he's all sharp lines and a scowling mouth. His black hair doesn't make it any better; it only makes him look more at one with the darkness.

But Ares is the darkness' old friend. He leans forward and raises his eyebrows, unfazed. "You're the one who said there are no rules."

Without a second glance, he spins on his heel and walks away, taking a bite out of the panther meat as he does so. Flavor explodes in his mouth. All the food in space had been bland and mostly tasteless, so this is enough to make his mouth water as he chews. It's smoky from the campfire they'd cooked it with and tender enough that he wonders what he's been missing from nearly eighteen years in space.

From behind, he hears the distinct sound of someone getting punched. Maybe Blake or Murphy attacking someone else who'd tried to grab their share of food without taking their wristband off. However, he doesn't turn around, because they're technically allowed to react that way. Whatever the hell they want.

The camp gets darker the further he walks from the light of the various fires scattered throughout camp. Shadows elongate on the forest floor, reaching out to him like talons. He's not afraid of them. He'd learned not to be afraid of the dark a long time ago, mostly because he knows that there are more important things in life than waiting for something imaginary to eat you. Things like the ever-present rumbling of his stomach or the newest bruise on his ribs from fighting.

He approaches Nate's tent to find it empty. Confused, Ares walks toward his own and shoves the flap aside. He's surprised to find Nate passed out on his cot, curled onto his side and knees tucked up toward his chest. The pieces of Blake's tent are gone— maybe one of his cronies had retrieved them during his fight with Murphy.

Ares uses the toe of his boot to nudge the sleeping boy. "Nate. Hey, Nate."

He jolts awake. In an instant, he's sitting up, knife extended toward Ares and words spilling out of his mouth before he's fully conscious. "This is Ares' tent!"

Ares raises his hands in mock surrender as the sleep fully clears from Nate's eyes. His posture relaxes when he recognizes his neighbor, shoving the knife he'd been given back into his pocket. "Oh, hey, Res. Did you find the kid?"

"Yeah, he's alive, but probably not for long." The poultice on his chest wound, as Clarke had called it, would help, but only temporarily. He'd be surprised if the boy made it through the night. "We also got dinner. Here."

He holds out the other slab of meat. Nate flickers his gaze from the food to him, a smirk growing on his face.

Ares' face falls into a scowl. "What?"

"Nothing." Nate tries and fails to hide his growing grin, which only makes the other boy's frown deepen. "It's just that you're being unusually... nice lately."

"Hey," Ares pretends to jab him with his own stick. "I am not nice."

"Hmm, your recent actions say otherwise."

Miller has a mischievous glint in his eyes that makes Ares roll his own. He and nice do not belong in the same sentence. He'd simply grabbed the other stick of meat when he'd seen the opportunity to rile Blake, not because he wanted to do Nate a favor.

But as his eyes flicker down toward the metal wristband still clasping Nate's wrist, he suddenly isn't so sure.

_____

a/n:

this chapter is a lot longer than the others, but i really wanted to include as much detail as i could, as well as several key interactions between ares and the other characters. his internal monologue is a huge part of the story (seeing as he often acts the opposite way he feels) so i hope chapters like this aren't boring.

fun fact: some of ares' concerns about the working class actually come from the first the 100 book itself— i believe it's clarke who takes note of the "walden kids who only have enough rations to shower once a week" or something. it's been a while since i read it but it really stuck out to me because ??? let those kids shower??? what the heck??

be sure to check out the trailer if you haven't already! i uploaded it to my youtube channel (link in bio) and put a separate chapter for before the prologue. i'm really proud of it!

+ another self-promo: in my meet my oc's book, i've been adding a lot of bits about ares, including information about him in general, memes, and manips. it'd mean a lot if you'd take a look because i work really hard on those edits, lmao. (he's oc #12 so his chapters are toward the end!) you can also find him in the "extra" chapters with all of my other oc's. i made a vine chapter, a john mulaney quotes chapter, and more!

—kristyn

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