• •

CHAPTER TEN;

WHERE DOES THE GOOD GO?

[ content warning: mention of suicide ]

• •

"PEOPLE LIVE AND PEOPLE DIE, BUG. THAT'S JUST THE WAY IT IS."

In the quiet sanctuary of Factory Station's library, Haven found her refuge, tucked into a corner with a stack of novels enveloping her. The Sunday evening unfolded in the same way it always had: dejectedly watching her mother's every move. Dahlia fussed as her fingers traced the well-worn pages of an aged encyclopedia on her desk. Last week, it was Sun-Earth Interactions; this week, the focus shifted to Biodiversity.

        "Boooo." Haven mockingly stuck her tongue out, followed by a deep, theatrical sigh. "I get that– kinda. I just don't understand why though. The story would've been perfect if they both didn't die at the end." With a deliberate gesture, she pushed her copy of Romeo and Juliet far, far, away, as if warding off a curse. "How am I ever supposed to sleep well again after finishing that? My heart just like, ate itself."

        "Nonsense. The story is only good because they both died," Dahlia asserted, tucking a long braid behind her ear while continuing to scour the page before her. "I don't expect you to understand that yet—my girl is still too young."

        Haven, at fourteen, skillfully concealed an eye roll, holding onto the weight of unspoken knowledge. She understood far more than she should. For example– she knew there would be no dinner tonight, the Mess Hall on Mecha closed approximately thirty-five minutes ago. Yet, Dahlia remained steadfast in her desire to stay on Factory, engrossed in the pages of her chapter.

It wasn't the first night she'd gone hungry; it certainly wouldn't be the last. Haven clung to the hope that Raven or Finn might spare her a dinner roll, at least. And knowing her mother– Haven also understood that they'd be here for well over another hour. Might as well make the most of it.

"What is good about death? About killing yourself in the name of somebody else?" Haven's brows furrowed in the same way they always did. It wasn't an argumentative inquiry; rather, she sought understanding. "Isn't that damaging to, y'know, read?"

"Some may look at it that way. You've never been the romantic type though." Dahlia licked her thumb before flipping through another page. Not once had she lifted her gaze to meet her daughter's imploring eyes. "I think it's rather honorable to die for true love. Whether it's a person, a place, a dream. What better way to go down than to go down fighting for what you love most?"

"How is killing yourself the same as fighting?"

Dahlia shrugged, as if her response required little to no thought. "To love is to go mad. In that scenario, it was less of a fight, and moreso a surrender; the two go hand in hand. Either way, it consumes you."

Haven recoiled from the notion of being consumed by whatever the hell that meant. Still, an unsettling demand of questions unfurled within her. Why would love hurt? Why would it lead someone to teeter on the brink of their own mortality, their own hand guiding them to the edge?

        Love should guide.

        But it should not swallow.

        "Well, what if you don't die for love... or whatever." Haven shook her head. "What then?"

       "I think that's what you'd call a tragedy."

        Dahlia was cold as stone upon answering her daughter's final question. Her words were delivered with a distant, flat demeanor, a mechanical quality that betrayed a mind seemingly light years away from her own body.

        Haven knew it was time to go.

"Alright. I'm gonna head back early." As if they hadn't already been late. Rising from her nook, she gathered the next stack of novels into her bookbag. "If Sinclair's on duty when I change stations, I'll tell him you need more time."

        Sinclair was Chief of Engineering aboard the Ark. Haven never learned his first name, only his last. He held a legendary status among the community of Mecha—an individual with an unparalleled ability to resurrect the broken and improve upon the functional. His prowess was not merely fixing; it was a transformative art, elevating machinery to new heights. Raven gushed on and on about her dreams of interning beneath his wing one day.

        Engineering headquarters, directly adjacent to Mecha's entrance, provided Sinclair with a frequent view of the Smith women returning later than usual. It began with Dahlia, then Dahlia accompanied by Haven, and as of late... just Haven. Dahlia often returned well past curfew, sometimes not at all, yet Sinclair, with a silent understanding, would always wave off the guards on duty at the time. To let either of the women pass without consequence.

        "See you later, Mom."

        Dahlia didn't so much as look in Haven's direction as she started toward the library exit. Her brown eyes were rimmed with red, glued to the expanse of knowledge printed beneath her fingertips. For a fleeting heartbeat, Haven understood.

        Maybe that's what it meant to be consumed.

        Somewhere in the distance, a voice called out to her. The words were elusive, as if emerging from underwater depths. "Helllooo! Earth to Haven!"

"Don't bother," A second voice grunted, a touch more distinct and oddly familiar. "She's in dimension number three-hundred-forty right now. Give her a sec."

"Didn't ask for your input, Blakey boy."

The scent of pine and the scratchiness of a scoff sounded from her right side. If only she could lean into it's warmth, maybe she could snap out of–

        "You wouldn't need my input if you'd stop clapping your hands in front of her face like a lunatic."

"Are you calling me crazy?"

"Yes." A beat passed. "Watch this."

There was a fleeting sensation of softness at the back of Haven's neck, followed by a distinct jolt of pressure that snapped her eyes wide open. Blinking, she returned to her physical body, swiftly scanning her surroundings to reorient herself among the rest of camp. No longer on the Ark, no longer with her mother– just back in the bittersweet embrace of planet fucking Earth.

Shit.

"Told you." Bellamy stood to Haven's right, retracting his hand with a self-satisfied grin before she had the wits to swat it away. His curls formed an onyx crown atop his head, the bomber jacket he wore adding a touch of rugged coolness. He turned to face Orion, stationed at her left. "Pressure point always does the trick."

"O-kay, whatever." Orion shook her head, visibly unimpressed, before turning her attention back to Haven. Her expression softened ever so slightly as she spoke. "You really do live in your head, girl."

        "Unfortunately." Haven murmured. Orion did have a point– Haven's dissociative tendencies had reached a record high this week. She zoned out more often than zoned in. "How long were you guys standing there?"

        "Well, I saw you kind of staring into nothingness and figured it'd be smart to walk over. I was trying to get your attention but you were pretty much... gone? Blake just got here." Orion paused, her eyes tracking Bellamy's now distant figure. "Annnd now he's gone too. Probably headed to make some more weapons."

        Right. Because that's what they'd been doing right before Haven slipped into zombie-mode.

Her eyes followed Orion's and paused as it settled upon Bellamy. He had just finished tasking Murphy with an order, the weight of his authoritative presence still palpable even from across camp. She delicately observed as leaned down into a conversation with Charlotte. He was... smiling, which in the grand scheme of things, must've been a good omen.

One week had passed since the death of Wells Jaha.

        Correction: the murder of Wells Jaha. Haven and Orion had found him at the camp's perimeter with his throat slit in two long lacerations, along with the gruesome detail of two missing fingers. Wells was long gone by the time Haven futilely sought a pulse on what was left of his neck tissue. Yet, the blood still flowed, salting the earth beneath him in fresh crimson rivulets.

Chaos ensued in the moments that followed. Orion's scream served as a hard-to-miss distress signal; Bellamy was the first to arrive, quickly flanked by Miller, and then the remains of camp. Together, members of the hundred gathered around the girls and stared in utter silence. They were not united by grief; they were united by a visceral, bone-melting fear.

Then, the silence morphed into distress, and distress spiraled into mayhem. The unanswered questions loomed large— who the fuck committed this abhorrent act? When would the next tragedy strike? And perhaps the worst thought of all: who was next?

Regardless of however the delinquents felt about Wells, not a single person anticipated his fate would be death, especially not in such a grotesque manner. The tenuous threads of trust, already strained amidst the unforgiving wilderness, now lay slashed, thrusting the camp even further into an abyss of uncertainty.

It was Bellamy they looked to.

It was Bellamy who guided them.

Grief, raw and unmasked, flickered in his eyes as he beheld the lifeless form of the Jaha boy. His jaw ticked once, twice; his fingers clenched and unclenched into fists at his sides, like tempest-tossed waves seeking solace. He was so damn pale that for a moment, Haven swore he might've run– right there, right then.

But then her teary eyes met his.

        There she remained– immobile beside another life lost. Fingers stained with unfamiliar blood. Heart forced to beat, to persevere despite being cleaved in two again.

Bellamy's shoulders had squared at last.

There was a resolute command in the way he seized the group's attention. Unlike the disaster in the forest with Atom, he allowed himself no room for personal grievances. He chalked up the murder as a Grounder attack, a stark warning. Every waking minute, he insisted, must be devoted to completing the wall that Wells had started. Bellamy rallied them to work together, emphasizing the insignificance of their internal differences, for the Grounders held no regard for their animosities. In the eyes of their common enemy– they would all meet the same fate.

So they worked. And worked. And worked.

To Haven's surprise, things went well. The past week had been dedicated to fortifying the wall with additional tree logs and spare parts from the dropship. Camp itself began to resemble a real camp and much less of a free-for-all; more tents had been assembled, each marked with a sense of order. They'd even arranged designated stations for food and water supply, complemented by the creation of makeshift benches and tables– a thoughtful addition from Jasper.

        It wasn't until put to work that Haven realized the profound need among the delinquents for a task that could unify them. Perhaps it only served as a distraction, but that felt far less important in the grand scheme of things. Slowly but surely, things were coming together.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, MURPHY?"

Slowly indeed.

Haven and Orion whipped their heads in the direction of the condemning shout. Their gazes landed upon a visibly enraged Connor, erupting from his position in the dirt. Fists soared with ferocious intent toward a rather amused Murphy, who stood, seemingly unfazed, in the midst of the brewing confrontation.

        "Here we go." Haven sighed, the sound resonating with nothing short of resignation. Bellamy was nowhere to be seen; somebody needed to keep the peace. She methodically cracked her knuckles and shook out her hands before storming toward the heat of the argument. "Here we fuckin' go."

        "I'll kill you!" Connor repeatedly lunged for Murphy's neck, seemingly undeterred as the girls materialized at his sides and attempted to seize his shoulders. "I'll kill you!"

        "Breathe, Connor! Come on!" Haven interjected, managing to loop half of her arm around the boy's torso; Orion quick to impede the other half.  Together, they exerted enough strength to restrain him, forcing him backward. "What the hell is going on?"

        Orion inhaled before scrunching her nose in disgust. "And why does it smell like piss over here?"

        Storm clouds rolled across Connor's face, his chest still rising and falling with unreleased rage as he struggled to catch his breath. In a decisive gesture of accusation, he pointed a finger towards the boy with a shit-eating grin.

        Murphy simply shrugged. "He wanted a water break."

        Haven's jaw fell slack. "You did not."

        One second passed. Two. Then Orion gagged with sudden realization. "Ew, ew, ew, ew! There's no way you peed on the poor kid." She hastily backpedaled far away from Connor, bumping into Haven's sore shoulder in the process. "There's literally no way."

        "You wanna be next?" Murphy's advance towards Orion radiated a venomous confidence, his movements reminiscent of a serpent closing in on its prey. "Let's find out if little Vincetta's got a piss kink. I think I could spring another leak–"

"Back the fuck off."

        Haven was on the move before Orion could even open her mouth in response; her movements entirely devoid of her usual grace. There was no time, no willingness to calculate her best method of descalation; instead, an innate drive to shield overtook her. She stepped in front of her friend and swiftly retrieved the blade from beneath her shirt, pointing it toward Murphy in a steely warning. "You've got about two seconds to cut the shit and apologize."

        Murphy cocked his head to the side. "You're insane if you think–"

         "Blah, blah, blah. Just you're sorry, dickhead. To both of them." Haven gestured back to Orion and Connor with her free hand, utilizing her other to wield the blade closer to his abdomen. The amusement in Murphy's eyes gave Haven the opening she needed; with fearless precision, she cut a slash through the fabric of his shirt. Not as a warning, but as a threat. "Now!"

         "Alright, alright– fine! Jesus fucking Christ!" Murphy stumbled back from the tip of the knife, his hands raised defensively in surrender. Despite the outward compliance, there was a distinct lack of sincerity as he turned to Orion and Connor. "Sorry."

        "You're lucky she stepped up and not me." Orion approached Murphy with an unwavering calm, her steps deliberate and measured. With a certain nonchalance, she patted the exposed skin of his stomach– courtesy of Haven's knife– twice. "I would've gut you like a fish."

        Haven knew she meant it.

With that, Orion spun on her heels and headed toward the dropship, shooting Haven a silent nod of acknowledgment before fully disappearing. It was only when Haven returned the nod that she became acutely aware of the hushed atmosphere around them. The once-bustling crowd had frozen in their tasks, drawn to the drama that had disrupted their new routine.

"The hell is everyone staring at?" Murphy, evidently aware of the onlookers, let out a vexing shout directed at the curious eyes surrounding them. "GET BACK TO WORK!"

        And so they did.

        "Should've let you finish him." Once Murphy immersed himself in the crowd, Haven stepped closer to Connor. His jacket lay abandoned on the forest floor, and despite the chill, he was still in the process of removing his shirt. "There's extra clothes in the dropship. Find Orion and she'll show you. Stay warm."

Connor met her faltering smile with one of his own, his eyes holding a gentle warmth that almost thawed hers. "You too. And... thanks. Didn't know Vampira was cool like that."

        Haven didn't entirely know how to answer that. Dying five times apparently made people believe her heart was made of ash. So, instead of conjuring some feeble defense of herself– she'd let her actions supersede her reputation and departed with a friendly nod.

"Pssst! Haven!"

Octavia Blake and Jasper lingered near a section of the wall where construction was still in progress, her arm casually looped through Jasper's as they awaited Haven's approach. Once she caught sight of them, Octavia beckoned her over with a subtle tilt of her head.

"What's up?" Haven kept her voice low to match Octavia's discreet tone. She was quick to connect the dots, however, as Octavia deftly led them through a crevice in the wall. "We're going for a walk?"

        "Yep. Trying to get this guy back on his feet." Octavia explained. With a grin, she gestured to Jasper by raising their intertwined fingers up in the air. His grip was so tight that Haven could visibly see Octavia's skin reddening due to poor circulation.

Did he want to be back on his feet?

Jasper's eyes darted across their surroundings nervously, and a subtle quiver in his breath betrayed the fear of stepping beyond the safety of the wall. Yet, despite the trepidation, there was a determined effort in his stance, an attempt to be brave despite the inner turmoil.

"Look, we're already there. We've got Haven with us now too. Just a few steps, okay?" Octavia casually released Jasper's hand, stepping out into the expansive wilderness. The crunch of her boots on the dirt echoed as she took a few deliberate, exaggerated strides. "One foot in front of the other."

Haven smacked into Jasper's back with an abrupt thud as the boy stopped moving entirely.

"Hey." Octavia quickly realized his absence from behind her. "What's wrong?"

        "Hmm?" Jasper's voice teetered on a squeak as he turned to face Octavia. His hand hesitated, dropping from its protective position over his chest – the very spot where he had been speared during his last trip beyond the camp's walls. "Oh, nothing. I'm good."

        Haven's exhale held an unspoken weight, a release of tension she hadn't consciously acknowledged. She understood that this moment with Jasper, confronting his fears, was an inevitable step in his recovery. Though she desperately yearned to slow the process, to grant him more time to navigate his emotions, the reality of Wells's death lingered—a poignant reminder that time was a luxury they couldn't afford. The delinquents needed to be ready for the worst; their very survival depended on it.

        Her gaze then shifted to blame the Ark above. The conflict within mirrored in her eyes, torn between encouraging and resenting the demanding path they walked in the harsh world below. She wasn't sure of much. But she was certain that if the Council ever did reach Earth– she'd beat them black and fucking blue for forcing Jasper through this.

        For forcing herself to encourage it.

        "I haven't been out here in a week either." Haven whispered to him–truthfully. Not since she found Wells. "We got this. And I've got your back, the same way you better have mine."

        "Yeah," Jasper wore a ghost of a smile. "Yeah, okay."

        "Jasper, it's been a week, okay?" Octavia's words carried a blunt edge, unknowingly mirroring her brother's raw honesty. She turned her back to the pair and strode deeper into the sprawling forest. "You've been given a second chance. You gotta use it!"

Without warning, a strangled scream cut through the air. Octavia was no longer standing in the dirt before them; she vanished behind a massive tree stump– viciously snatched by something, or someone.

        Jasper's once rigid frame crumbled into an unforgiving tremor. Every gasp he took seemed to be his last as he frantically scanned their surroundings, eyes wide with fear, searching for any sign of looming danger. "Octavia? Octavia!"

        "Octavia!" Haven's desperate shout for the now-missing girl reverberated in the wind, panic sinking it's teeth into the tissue beneath her ribs. The jaws clamped shut as the only response was the muffled sounds of Octavia's cries. "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck–"

        "O-Octavia? Octavia–are you okay?"

        Haven was already on the move by the time Jasper dared to open his mouth again, freeing herself from death grip he held on her forearm. Her footsteps pounded the Earth with nothing less than sheer terror. For the second time today, she shed any semblance of skill or strategy, navigating the forest with a wild determination born from the fear that now gripped them all.

What the fuck was happening to her?

She berated herself for not approaching the bushes more quietly, for not advising Jasper to lower his voice, for not keeping her own mouth shut. The weight of responsibility was heavy, so heavy that her knees nearly buckled as she feared for the Blake girl's safety. If anything happened to her, under Haven's watch... she didn't know if she carried the strength to withstand it. Not another death. Not her. And Bellamy, fuck, Bellamy would–

        "Hey, JERK!" Octavia's voice sliced through the foliage just as Haven rounded the corner, causing her to stumble backwards into... Jasper? Octavia swore, forcefully pushing off the restraint from her captor—a fellow delinquent. "Get the hell out of here!"

The boy erupted in an explosion of childlike laughter, evidently pleased with himself for executing such a twisted joke. His stunt successfully instilled fear in all three of them, prompting his departure with a sense of accomplishment. Haven, too stunned to follow, ensured that she memorized his stupid, asshole-ish face.

She would deal with him later.

For now, her priorities were set on Octavia. She raised her brows as she turned to face her, scanning the girl's face for any signs of lingering distress. "You alright?"

Octavia nodded, a faint sign of exertion in her breath, yet an undeniable resilience in her demeanor. She remained unfazed and seemingly unbothered. Instead, her gaze lingered on Jasper, who, in stark contrast, stomped toward the camp's gates with a disheartening stride.

There was a certain kindness in Jasper Jordan that Haven always admired, an intrinsic sense of goodness woven into his very DNA. Despite being speared, despite the trauma oozing from him like a raw wound... he had willed himself to move. The boy could not do it for himself, certainly not on his own accord– he did it for his friends. Haven hadn't even noticed he had followed behind her in pursuit of Octavia until she bumped into him.

He did it for his friends.

Together, the girls trailed after him.

        "Jasper, come on!" Octavia called out, grasping at mere straws to convince the boy to turn around. "There's nothing to be afraid of!"

        Earth seemed to harbor a strangely ironic sense of humor, perfectly timed to mock Jasper's resolve. He tripped over a moss-covered tree root and tumbled to the ground with an audible groan. Haven winced at the sight, watching as he landed flat on his stomach, his face pressed into the dirt. A beat passed, and he hesitated to lift his head, presumably due to sheer embarrassment. But when he finally mustered the courage to raise his face, he froze.

        Haven and Octavia were at his side at once, both of the girls digging their knees into the dirt as they crouched down beside him. While Haven focused on trying to force him to stand—a task that required considerable effort–she almost missed Octavia freezing beside her, staring off into the same patch of greenery that Jasper had.

        And then, she saw it.

        Two fingers, severed, bloodied, and mangled at the ends– pointing toward the trio as if condemning them to certain death.

• •

        "BELLAMY."

        It took Haven only a matter of seconds to pinpoint the Blake boy amidst the heat of the crowd, as if her ears could discern his presence simply from the beat of his damn heart. There he was, crouched beside Charlotte near a table, actively engaged in handing her twigs and branches to sharpen with his—her—blade.

        At the sound of his name, Bellamy stood, a fluid motion that conveyed both readiness and surprise. Haven approached him discreetly, navigating through the delinquents at work around them. Despite her efforts to avoid drawing attention, the urgency in her tone was unmistakable.

        "We need to talk. Now."

        Bellamy's lips curled into a smirk as he glanced down at her. "Voluntarily?"

        There was no time for banter, no luxury to decipher whatever the hell he meant by that. Haven, fueled by urgency, seized him by the bicep with a determined grip. With swift efficiency, she dragged him away from Charlotte and guided him into the confines of his tent nearby. The fabric rustled as they entered, cocooning their conversation within and shielding them from the prying eyes and ears of the camp.

        "Woah, woah, woah. Total privacy, huh?" Bellamy teased, arching a brow as they halted at the helm of his makeshift desk. He appeared surprisingly lighter than he had been throughout the rest of the week; Haven pitifully tried to stomach the upswing of guilt she felt, knowing she was the one about to ruin it. "What's the occasion?"

        She exhaled, accepting the necessity of ripping off the bandaid sooner or later, a responsibility she despised. There was no delicate way to approach something like this. Wordlessly, she raised her palm, unveiling the missing fingers of Wells Jaha arranged atop a torn piece of cloth.

        Bellamy's smile plummeted into an abyss.

        Excruciating silence swallowed them whole, a heavy precursor to the conversation that would inevitably follow. The sequence of events—finding Wells dead, finding his severed fingers, and now carrying his fingers—had already been overwhelming enough. But having to burden another with that? Haven averted Bellamy's eyes at all costs, fearful of the turmoil she had brought that now lay there.

        "Where did..." Bellamy's voice trailed off. Concern manifested in the subtle crease of his brow, the same place it always had. He stared at Haven with poorly restrained intensity and fought the subconscious urge to shift closer. "Are you alright?"

         Before Haven had the chance to reply, the fabric walls of Bellamy's tent rippled once more. Jasper, Octavia, and Clarke entered with a demeanor of unease, heads held high but eyes downcast. Jasper took his place on Haven's right, next to Clarke, while Octavia settled on her left, next to Bellamy. The stillness of it all felt eerily suffocating, up until Clarke cleared her throat.

"The knife was made of metal from the dropship."

Clarke studied the blade the group found alongside the missing fingers; Octavia opted for concealing the murder weapon while they split up to find Clarke and Bellamy. The Griffin girl's brows knit, jaw slackening with utter devastation as she rotated the knife this way and that.

It was Clarke who had taken Wells's death the hardest. The day he was found, Haven had assisted her in burying Wells's body in the graveyard—the very same one he had started. He'd done it for the floaters. For Atom. The earth yielded to their hands as they created his final resting place, and now– all that remained of him was the fourth hole of dirt.

A tragedy indeed.

Jasper stiffened. "What do you mean?"

        "Who else knows about this?"  Bellamy crossed her arms over his chest, the muscle in his jaw feathering as pieced together the implications of Clarke's assessment.

        "No one." Octavia shook her head. "We brought it straight here."

        Jasper's voice was barely audible, a mere whisper amongst the deafening silence that settled among them. "Clarke–"

        "It means the Grounders didn't kill Wells." Haven delicately placed the cloth in her hand on the desk in front of them, using her voice when Clarke couldn't muster the courage to find hers. She exchanged a fleeting glance with Bellamy, who nodded in painful confirmation. The words almost rotted in her mouth. "It was one of us."

There was a weighty pause.

        "So... there's a murderer in the camp?" Jasper swallowed, as if it were somehow possible to gulp down the panic writhing up his throat.

Regret surged through Haven's blood at the sight of her friend. She suddenly wished that she had taken charge, to force Jasper out of the tent before the conversation started in the first place. To shield him from his own anxiety while the others sorted out the rest. Yet, a sobering truth remained – the others, too, were just kids. 

All of them were just kids.

        "There's more than one murderer in this camp." With a heavy sigh, Bellamy planted his hands on his hips, a gesture of resolve. His head shook with an air of finality, as if the decision had been made long before. "This isn't news. We need to keep it quiet."

        Haven considered for a moment. Bellamy did have a point– the entirety of camp, minus him, carried the label of a criminal. Each of them bore the stain of imprisonment for something at the end of the day, just or unjust. Unleashing the revelation of their own Red Scare would surely erupt in pandemonium – but hiding it from the delinquents didn't necessarily keep them any safer, either.

Something foreign flickered in Clarke's eyes as she continued to examine the knife. Then, without warning, she marched toward the exit.

Bellamy was quick to impede her. "Don't."

"Get out of my way, Bellamy." Clarke spat the words with unrestrained fury, her agitation palpable. She teetered back and forth, attempting to navigate around the imposing stone wall of his body.

"Clarke, be smart about this." To just about everybody's surprise, Bellamy maintained a steely composure. Every conversation he'd had with the Griffin girl upon landing always ended in hellfire. But now, his words carried no bite – just logic. "Look at what we've achieved... the wall, the patrols. Like it or not, thinking the Grounders killed Wells is good for us."

Ouch.

Clarke's scoff was incredulous. "Oh, good for you, you mean!" She narrowed her eyes into slits, utterly appalled by his choice of words. "What... keep people afraid and they'll work for you? Is that it?"

"Yeah. That's it." Bellamy held her stare with one that rivaled the intensity of her own. "But it's good for all of us." He paused, gesturing to the remainder of the group in the tent. "Fear of the Grounders is building that wall." Another fair point made. Haven wondered why the hell this logic hadn't surfaced during the wristbands-for-food shitshow. "And besides, what are you gonna do... just walk out there and ask the killer to step forward? You don't even know whose knife that is."

        "Oh, really? J.M." Clarke raised the knife in the air, tilting it's handle to ensure Bellamy could clearly read the initials scribbled within the helm. It was then that Haven noticed the absence of her wristband. "John Murphy." 

        Bellamy paled.

Clarke was bounding through the exit before anybody found the strength to stop her. "The people have a right to know."

        An unsettling twist coiled within Haven's gut, a strange feeling she couldn't quite place as she absorbed the revelation. Murphy was a lot of things, most of which started in an expletive of profanities– but had the little boy she once knew really become a cold-blooded killer? Had she unknowingly subjected herself to his wrath– just earlier today?

        Had she been the only one who could force him to back down?

        There was no time to consider further as they spilled out of the tent after Clarke. Bellamy reluctantly assumed the lead, Haven trailing close behind. Octavia and Jasper stumbled out behind them in a blur, as if trying to rid themselves of the shock that threatened to swallow them.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

Clarke's furious accusation reverberated in the air, an unbridled expression of anger. She surged toward Murphy in a storm; her features, once composed, now betrayed a deep well of grief. With all of her might, Clarke pushed through the individuals surrounding Murphy, delivering a forceful shove that sent him staggering backward.

Murphy laughed. "What's your problem?"

        "Recognize this?" Clarke huffed, almost as though she had to force the words out. With a fluid flick of her wrist, she raised the knife into the air, the gleaming blade catching the light.

        "It's my knife," Murphy retorted, his response equally as rhetorical as Clarke's question. As his hand extended to reclaim it, Clarke yanked it out of his reach. "Where'd you find it?"

"Where you dropped it, after you killed Wells!"

The only way Haven knew a crowd had formed was due to the collective gasp that followed Clarke's accusation. She'd been so tuned into the argument that she hardly even heard them, hardly even realized she'd stumbled backwards to the space between Bellamy and Octavia. Murmurs surged through the growing crowd of delinquents, drawing them closer like moths to a damn flame, each eager to glean more details from the confrontation.

"Where I what?" Murphy's initial amusement immediately dissolved into disbelief. He dared another step closer to the blonde before him. "The Grounders killed Wells, not me."

        "I know what you did," Clarke declared, shaking her head as she matched his step with one of her own. "And now, you're gonna pay for it."

        "Really?"  Murphy's tone remained unbelievably flat, displaying a clear lack of intimidation. Instead, he shifted his attention elsewhere. "Bellamy, you really believe this crap?"

        Bellamy stiffened beside Haven, arms crossed over his chest again, jaw set into a line of unyielding persistence. Murphy's attempt to seek validation was useless in the face of Bellamy's resolve. Although Clarke's method of confrontation wasn't his idea of a smart plan – things were already too far gone. Bellamy chose his side, he would stick with it.

        "You threatened to kill him!" Clarke continued. "We all heard you. You hated Wells!"

        "Didn't she hate him too?"

        Orion's voice, a curious interjection, breathed life into Haven's inner thoughts. She materialized just behind her shoulder, Monty following suit and positioning himself beside Jasper. Guess the dropship caught wind of the truth bomb, too.

"Plenty of people hated Wells." Murphy deadpanned, leveling a fair point into the charged atmosphere. The reminder hung heavy – none of the delinquents present had clean hands when it came to their treatment of the Jaha boy. "His father was the Chancellor that locked us up–"

"Yeah, but you're the only one who got in a knife fight with him!"

        "Yeah – I didn't kill him then, either."

        Haven's heart sped as the argument persisted. Clarke's points resonated with an unbelievable sense truth, that much was clear. And much as Haven despised to admit it (truthfully, the concept made her nauseous), Murphy's points were valid as well. He was cunning, evil, a plethora of fucked up things– but not once, was he sloppy. The boy was all bark, no bite. Would he have really been stupid enough to leave behind a murder weapon?

       "Tried to kill Jasper, too!" Octavia chimed in, earning a swift glare from her older brother.

"Come on. This is ridiculous." Murphy dismissed Clarke with a shake of his head, losing the battle with his rising agitation. The circle of delinquents tightened around them like a flock of hawks; he felt cornered. "I don't have to answer to you!" He brushed past Clarke and focused his sights on the crowd at large. "I don't have to answer to anyone!"

Bellamy tilted his head. "Come again?"

"Bellamy..." Murphy approached the Blake boy in final act of desperation, a crack appearing in his armor. It was subtle, fleeting, imperceptible to most–but not to Haven. She saw it with utmost clarity. "Look, I'm telling you, man. I didn't do this."

        Haven's blood ran cold.

        He was telling the truth.

        Bellamy pressed on, unaware of the girl gone rigid beside him. "They found his fingers on the ground with your knife."

        At the sound of Clarke's voice, Murphy spun on his heels, his dejection palpable after Bellamy's refusal to believe him. The blonde then harnessed every ounce of her strength, channeling it into the power of her words as she pivoted to address the crowd. "Is this the kind of society that we want?"

        Haven discreetly turned to Bellamy beside her, her movements cautious to avoid drawing attention. Her hands trembled with pure dread as she leaned in, whispering, "Murphy didn't do it."

        The echo of Clarke's speech rallied on. "You say there should be no rules. Does that mean that we can kill each other without... without punishment?"

        Something like terror flashed across Bellamy's eyes as he met Haven's stare. Just as quickly as it came, he masked it, turning his attention back toward the center to uphold a neutral facade. "What the hell are you talking about?"

        "I–I don't know." Haven was stumbling over her words. How could she realistically prove Murphy's innocence without concrete evidence? She hated him; he hated her. Yet, despite the animosity–she believed him. Panic swelled in her chest, things were spiraling too far in a disastrous direction. "He's telling the truth. I know it."

        "I already told you." Murphy resumed his combative stride toward Clarke. "I didn't kill anyone!"

Connor stepped forward, emerging from the crowd with his lips curled into a bloodthirsty sneer. "I say we float him!"

        To the core group's horror, the remainder of the delinquents cheered in agreement, their excitement escalating into a rabid fervor. Orion muttered a plethora of curses beneath her breath, Bellamy clenched his fists, and Haven's fingers itched to grab the knife concealed beneath her shirt. For the first time since they'd landed, more than two of them seemed to agree on something: things were about to get bad – fast.

        Clarke was still as death. "That's not what I'm saying–"

        "Why not?" Connor raised his brows, crumbling Clarke's resolve within mere seconds. "He deserves to float! It's justice!"

"In what fucking world does that make sense?" Haven lunged forward now, unable to bite her tongue. The impending chaos didn't deter her any longer; instead, she opted to face it head-on; might as well go down swinging. "Look at you! ALL of you!" Her gaze swept across the pack of delinquents with bewilderment. "How does this–" She pointed a damning finger toward the clouds. "–make us any better than them?"

"Revenge isn't justice!" Clarke's vigorous nod conveyed agreement, yet beneath the surface, her hypocrisy remained. The irreversible narrative of revenge already had taken root, initiated the moment she stepped out of Bellamy's tent.

"It's justice!" Connor roared. "FLOAT HIM!"

       "No–"

        "FLOAT HIM! FLOAT HIM! FLOAT HIM!"

        All at once, the final tether snapped–propelling the group straight into the depths of pure and unbridled chaos. A surge of collective fury hurtled the delinquents forward, their insatiable hands reaching and clawing out for Murphy. The air was hot, twisted with the echo of the very chant that had once been wielded as a weapon against them– now transformed into a vengeful chorus booming from their own damn lips.

        Murphy sprinted, a frantic bid to for escape, only to trip over the outstretched leg of another delinquent. The muddy ground greeted him abruptly, but there was no mercy in the pursuit closing in on him. Like a pack of predators, they flanked him, creating a nightmarish circle of retribution. Each delinquent took their turn delivering merciless kicks and landing brutal blows to his defenseless body.

They worked best when united for a cause.

Even if that cause was murder.

"Stop!"

Haven's plea was essentially useless as she attempted to shove her way through the unruly crowd. Howls filled her ears, disorienting her entirely, and elbows met resistance at her shoulders. Her chest bore the rhythmic assault of the pressing bodies– undoubtedly slowing her progress. Her heart hammered beneath her ribs as she caught a haunting glimpse of blood seeping into the dirt beneath Murphy.

"Get away from him!"

"You can't do this!" Somewhere in the distance, Clarke shrieked. "Get off of me! NO!"

In the split second spent searching for Clarke, Haven was unforgivingly shoved to the ground. The impact targeted her already injured shoulder, a sharp cry escaping her lips as she fell. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Through the white-hot inferno clouding her vision, she desperately blinked, trying to regain focus.

Boots trudged past her in the muddy turmoil, some even callously stepping on the back of her sprawled legs. Each additional weight only intensified the agony. With tear-blurred vision, she shifted amidst the chaos, the cold mud beneath her hands providing a stark contrast to the searing pain. Frantically, she struggled to rise from the ground, a solitary figure in the midst of the turbulent mob.

"MOVE, YOU CUNT!"

Another body hit the mud beside Haven.

There was no time to process who it was, no time to breathe as Orion's steady arms dragged Haven to her feet. In one swift movement, she swung Haven's good arm over her shoulders, allowing her to lean against her body for support. In a wordless pact, they began to navigate the chaos, each step a delicate dance through the crowd.

        Eventually, they reached a clearing at the crest of a ditch. The crowd hadn't vanished; instead, it had tactically shifted, flanking backward with greedy anticipation for a clearer view of the boy with a noose around his neck.

        Murphy.

"STOP IT!" Haven screamed at the top of her lungs, horror clinging to every fiber of her being as Murphy was cruelly hoisted further into the air. His face was smeared with blood, so much blood, rendering him almost unrecognizable. A makeshift gag silenced any potential cries, forcibly jammed into his mouth, while his hands remained bound behind his back.

        The only thing saving him from death was the wooden crate beneath his feet.

As Haven tore her eyes away, it didn't take long to settle upon Bellamy–a statue of despair amidst the mayhem. His brown eyes were fixed onto Murphy with an unmistakable sense of doom. The weight of responsibility bore down on him, an oppressive force that even Bellamy, accustomed to command, found impossible to shake. Things had spiraled too far, too fast, too engulfed in rage–not even he could harness control over it.

Whatever the hell we want, right?

"You can stop this!" Clarke materialized from the crowd, pounded her fists unrelentingly into Bellamy's chest. "They'll listen to you!"

Haven, gripped by the undeniable truth in Clarke's words, strained against the paralysis suffocating her. She could not speak. She could not move. The same surge of panic that had seized her in the cave last week now trapped her in an even more suffocating grip. Only ten feet separated them, yet any attempt to make a sound seemed futile against the deafening uproar.

"Murphy. He didn't–" Haven's words emerged in strained wheezes, the urgency in her voice rivaling the pain tearing her shoulder to shreds. She turned to Orion in a daze. "It wasn't–"

"I know!" Orion had to shout for her voice to be heard. She stared at Haven through wide eyes, adrenaline coursing through her at an inhuman speed. "I-I believe you! It wasn't him! I think it was–"

        "Bellamy!"

Connor abruptly left the group of henchmen surrounding Murphy, pivoting to face the Blake boy with a sickening smile. His eyes gleamed with malevolence as he gestured toward the crate below Murphy's feet.

"You should do it."

Haven's heart sputtered.

The delinquents who overheard Connor were swift to embrace his barbaric suggestion, their voices merging into a thunderous chant.

"BEL-LA-MY! BEL-LA-MY!"

At that, Haven threw herself into motion. Down the hill she went, swallowing her panic and elbowing aside anybody who stood in her way. Hardly breathing, hardly seeing, she propelled herself through the sea of tumultuous teenagers; her movements were swift, purposeful, an unstoppable force amidst the chaos. The murderous roar of noise blurred into the background when she reached Bellamy at last.

"BEL-LA-MY! BEL-LA-MY!"

        "I saw you in the woods with Atom!" Clarke pleaded, unbeknownst to Haven's presence. Fresh tears cascaded her frail skin and watered the earth below. "I know you're not a killer!"

Bellamy absorbed Clarke's words as if they meant nothing, Standing detached, he appeared to see her, watch her mouth move–yet no sound reached his ears. Mechanically, he turned away, donning his facade once more and marching toward the crate.

A familiar hand stopped him in his tracks.

        There was no need for him to turn; he recognized those fingers as if they were his own. The touch, a silent plea, lingered in the charged air as he stood at the edge of an irrevocable choice.

        "Don't," Haven's voice was raw, weakened from the exertion of screaming. She clutched his forearm as if she held the power to rearrange the stars, to rewrite the fate that loomed ahead. This was a line he couldn't uncross. A mistake he would never forgive himself for. "You're more than this."

        Bellamy stood resolute, miserably afraid of the turmoil her gaze might unleash. His very  cells screeched in protest against the magnetic tug to face her. "I wish you were right."

        Murphy shook his head. Once. Twice.

        "NO–BELLAMY!"

        Then, the crate soared from beneath him.

Haven's mouth gaped as Murphy's full weight collapsed into the grip of the noose. Oxygen ceased to exist. The stars darkened. He clutched desperately at his throat, fingers convulsing against the coarse rope, his body writhing in a nightmarish jerks as he fought against the tightening noose. Once defiant eyes were dimmed by the inevitable. Once pallid skin was now strained to a sickly shade of purple. He was dying. He was dying. Another death she could not stop unfolded right before her very eyes– again, again, again.

Time moved apocalyptically slow. Clarke and Bellamy exploded into an argument to her left, Finn spawned out of nowhere, engaged in a dispute with Connor to her right; both of the boys' blades poised perilously close to each other's throats amid their shouting. Jasper, Monty, Orion, and Octavia had vanished from sight. Murphy continued to dangle like live fucking bait. Yet, despite the little circle of hell consuming her, despite enduring it alone–none of it sobered Haven in the slightest.

        Saltwater flowed freely from her lashes, tracing a melancholic path down her mud-stained collarbones. The world itself seemed poised on the brink of collapse; every feat, every hard-earned success of the week crumbled within a matter of minutes. Nothing was worth it after this.

Then, amidst the tears, she found Orion.

        Dragging Charlotte by her hair.

Haven's knees quivered in disbelief, a deluge of questions immediately overwhelming her. Nothing made sense. Nothing felt real. She fumbled for words, her mouth opening and closing in futile attempts to articulate the confusion she felt. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't, because Bellamy beat her to it. He abandoned his argument with Clarke within seconds of spotting Charlotte, stomping toward Orion in a fiery rage. His eyes were wild, pupils blown.

        "What the fuck–"

"Go on!" Orion huffed, releasing the hold on Charlotte's braid with a callous indifference. She shoved her toward the center of the tumult, her stumbling form a stark contrast to the surrounding motion. "TELL THEM!"

"Murphy didn't kill Wells!"

Charlotte's voice trembled beneath the weight of raw admission. Her chest rose and fell in labored gasps, a symphony of anguish echoing through the air as all eyes fixated solely on her. Then, in a wrenching climax, she declared,

"I did!"

• •

HOLLLLLLLLLLLYY FUCK HI!!!!

almost 7.9k words!! if this is too long, i apologize. but i really liked the themes spread throughout the chapter that connect back to the flashback in the beginning. i wanted to have it all together! along with chapter 7 (target practice) i think this is the proudest i have felt about a chapter thus far :,))  i love to write action and chaos. it is literally my favorite thing EVER. i hope nothing feels to shoved together or messy

and live love orion, per usual. she said FUCK THAT BITCH AND FUCK HER PIGTAILS YOU WILL FEEL MY WRATH!!!!!!!

do not hesitate to vote and comment your thoughts, they fuel me! hence why i cranked this one out so fast.

love u always!