The strange, empty, longing feeling returned once more after ALLIE was shut down for good. With no way of feeling the same sense of belonging you once found in the City of Light, a gaping, nagging hole was left in its wake. But, some part of you, a part you thought had long since left you, felt relieved. While everyone else tried getting some sense of normality back, with Azgeda taking over Polis with Roan as King, and Clarke trying to find a way of saving everybody, once again, all you could do was stare at your hands. Although they were no longer coated in thick, warm, fresh blood, they still left behind the memory you had of killing innocent people. The ones who weren't chipped. The ones who wanted nothing more than to save you and the others from the dangers of ALLIE and the City of Light. The villagers still cried and mourned their people, moving them away to be buried or burned—had they been Trikru.

You sat at an empty table, a cup of... something was still in front of you. Whatever it had been, it had been strong, although not nearly as strong as you wanted it to be. It couldn't help you forget, it couldn't help you feel something, or even nothing, other than the guilt that ate away at you—almost corrosively. Slowly, you blinked, watching as spots of red blood began to form on your skin. Drop by drop until you were completely stained red. The sleeves of your shirt darkened as the blood seeped in, even the bottom of your shirt, from what you could see, was also much darker than before.

With a sharp shake of your head, closing your eyes tightly before opening them once more, you reached out for the cup, bringing it up to your lips before you knocked it back, slamming the cup on the table again. The burning liquid that travelled down your throat reminded you that you were, in fact, still human. Not the indestructible war machine Earth had carved you out to be after you were forced to journey down for crimes you couldn't even remember committing—thanks to the uncountable crimes you had committed since landing. Not the invincible lion heart of the delinquents, fighting alongside them during the Grounder war. Not the paladin people sort you out to be at Mount Weather, sacrificing yourself for your friends before you were slaughtering them mercilessly after taking the chip months later. Nothing was ever going to be the same. How could it have been? Humanity was at a loss—and you were partially to blame.

One of the villagers, who had been working in the small alley you were seated in, walked over to you, pouring some more liquid into the cup, moving a step back to look at you. She paused for a moment before filling your cup to the rim instead of the small centimetre deep pool she had poured before. The woman gave you a small smile—even though she knew you hadn't been looking at her, but rather the chipping red wood of the table—and walked back to her stall, getting back to her business as usual, despite the gloomy atmosphere Polis had obtained.

Eagerly, once you managed to bring yourself back to the abysmal reality you had been left in, you reached for your cup. The strong smell had reached your nose long before you brought it to your lips again. The aroma was harsh. A deep chuckle caught your attention. After barely turning your head to the side, staring at the ground, not bothering to actually check who it was, a pair of boots walked into your line of vision. You didn't have time—or at least you didn't want to make time—to introduce yourself and talk through the technicalities of becoming acquaintances. All you wanted to do was drink until you slept, then when you woke, drink again. It wasn't that much to ask for, but maybe you should have made it clear that you wanted all of that and silence too.

"I didn't picture you for the hard stuff," he spoke, still standing near the table.

You moved the cup slightly, watching the liquid swish. "Yeah... well..." It was a quiet reply, but enough for him to take it as an invitation to sit at the table with you, on your left.

He pulled the chair out, sitting himself down before he placed his own cup on the table. It wasn't the same drink, but it still smelled potent enough for you to know that it was also strong. After taking a small taste of your own drink, you closed your eyes, sighing. "You're Skaikru." He stared at the wall of crates and pieces of fabric wrapped around welded frames in front of him, to your right. The rain had caused the fabrics to hang, dripping with water and blood, stained in a darker shade than usual.

"Perceptive." It was a habit you couldn't shake, but, you rolled your eyes once you opened them.

"Snarky too."

"Stop talking," you demanded in a hushed voice.

Instead of commenting, he nodded, picking up his drink, lifting it to his mouth, taking a swig. You revelled in the silence he allowed you, even if it wasn't for long. After he placed his cup down, he slammed his other hand down on the table, moving it away slowly to reveal one of the chips, the thing that used to be a symbol of hope and the one way of escaping the life you had. "Skaikru made me murder my entire family. I have no one left." He wasn't the only one.

In the same cold, dead voice, you replied, "Tell that sob story to anyone else?" With the raise of an eyebrow, you took another sip of your drink.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you?" He asked, taking a knife out from behind his back, pointing it out you.

"If I didn't give you one, would you do it?" You lowered the cup from your mouth, resting it on the arm of the chair while your finger circled the rim.

He didn't reply. Instead, he gripped the handle of the knife tightly, forcing a harsh chuckle out, placing the knife back in its holder. Your eyes landed on the chip, the fingers on your left hand twitched. If you could, you would take it again, just to make the pain go away. But you knew that there was nowhere to go if you did. That place was gone. It slipped through your fingers like grains of sand, blowing away with the gentle breeze of the frigid wind. Polis wasn't the same, not after everything it had been through. Every clan was on edge. Just looking for a sign to take to point blame at someone—most likely Skaikru—to be able to take revenge, and to avenge the fallen.

"You didn't answer my question."

He looked at you, expecting a different reaction. "Maybe."

"If I asked you to, would you?"

He scoffed. "You don't deserve to die. You deserve to suffer like the rest of us. Forced to look your mistake in the eyes. Just like the rest of us."

"I deserve to suffer more than the rest of you."

Again, he wasn't expecting that, but rather a different reaction. "I'll drink to that," he told you, picking up his cup, holding it out to you.

A low laugh rumbled from the back of your throat. "You have a dark sense of humour." You clinked your cup against his gently, pulling it back to down the rest of the drink.

"Is there any other type of humour anymore?"

"I suppose not."

He hummed, nodding his head with a slight tilt, placing his cup down as his mouth was still filled with the alcoholic drink. The burning sensation returned as you swallowed and you closed your eyes, tilting your head back as the rain began to fall once more in Polis. A sigh left your bloodied, cracked, and bruised lips while you rested your tilted head against the back of the chair. Whoever it was, that joined you to wallow in pain, swallowed his drink, sitting back himself, looking up at the rain before his eyes fell back to your face. The falling rain was sharp and painful against your skin as small hail stones dropped down, it hurt, but you didn't move your face from facing the sky.

"I'm Ilian," he spoke.

Moving your head back down an inch, you opened your left eye, catching his hand motion of lifting his cup up, signalling the woman at the stall for another drink. "What clan?"

"Trishanakru."

You nodded, lowering your head back down, opening both eyes as you watched more alcohol get poured into his cup and your own. "Bright forest," you mumbled.

"You know Trigedasleng?"

"Bits and pieces. I only picked up a few things from the people who tried to kill me, them and Lincoln, who was a good man. He didn't deserve to die that way, or at all."

Ilian nodded again, taking a sip of his drink. "You feel sadness for his death?"

"Remorse... Guilt..."

"Why?" He asked quietly.

"There was probably something I could have done to save him, but..." With the raise of your cup, you spoke quietly, "I guess I can't save anyone."

"Not necessarily true," he disagreed.

After placing your cup back down you asked, "Meaning?"

"You could always save yourself."

A scoff left your lips. "Why would I do that?"

"Do it and find out." Ilian sent you a small smirk before he downed the rest of his drink, pushing his chair back as he stood up. "I guess I'll see you around." His smirk grew as he walked away, leaving you to watch him leave u till he was out of sight. Your eyes drew back to the cup. After reaching for it and drinking it back, you slammed it back down, wiping your mouth with the sleeve of your shirt, and stood up, hearing his voice echo in the back of your mind as you turned your head towards the sky. You pulled the hood up on your jacket over your head, turning your gaze back in the direction of your next journey.