• •

CHAPTER NINETEEN;

WHO ARE YOU, REALLY?

• •

RETURNING FROM THE CLUTCHES OF DEATH ALWAYS FELT ODDLY INVIGORATING. The ritual of that first breath post-flatline was a well-known dance for Haven: her silent heart would thunder back to life, each beat echoing a triumphant return. Her lungs would greedily fill with oxygen, and in that rush–she could feel the thrum of life, the pulse of vitality coursing through her veins.

It felt good to forget the world.

It felt worse to remember it.

Despite this–she awoke from her poison-induced daze with a revitalized sense of purpose. The sun's gentle rays proved to be a healing touch; the subtle warmth offered solace to her aching bones and granted reprieve to her weary eyes. It intricately wove life back into the spaces within her that had been stripped away, a meticulous resurrection of what was once lost.

The remainder of the camp felt the same.

In the wake of the hurricane's aftermath, the hundred swiftly mobilized to address the havoc it wreaked. Tents lay disassembled, scattered in disarray; every station meticulously set up now required reconstruction, fortified with a sturdier foundation. The colossal challenge of removing the tree that had collided with the dropship demanded the efforts of thirty-two teenagers, and that was just to remove the first branch.

        Things were undeniably exhausting, but a prevailing sense of happiness persisted. They had grappled with the inevitability of their demise, confronted the overwhelming odds stacked against them, yet chose to persevere. A newfound motivation, a profound drive to succeed, now anchored them.

        Their families.

        For the first twenty-four hours after her seizures, Haven begrudgingly found herself confined to bed rest and fitted with a makeshift sling for her shoulder—both of which drove her fucking nuts. The moment the mandated day had elapsed, she swiftly sprang into action, joining forces with Raven to rewire the radio, connecting it to a communication screen salvaged from the pod.

Now equipped with the setup, the teenagers could engage in face-to-face communication with their families. Granted, the video connection was somewhat janky, but Haven embraced it with pride nonetheless. It wasn't a physically demanding task to complete, but mentally? She nearly ripped out her hair trying to rewire the antenna coil. Yet, witnessing the unbridled joy on the delinquents' faces after connecting with their families made every ounce of frustration worthwhile.

        Not all of it was joyous, though.

        Miller bore the solemn duty of delivering the news to the parents of those who had been slaughtered–Mbege, Diggs, Roma. Recognizing the weight of his responsibility and his dual role in enforcing her bedrest, Haven extended a genuine offer to sit with him. But, he forcefully rejected the idea.

Literally.

He had to throw her over his shoulder and haul her out of the comms tent.

The Smith girl had fought against it, but eventually relented, which led her to where she stood now–shoulder to shoulder with Jasper and Monty, meticulously packing rations of nuts. Despite their concentrated efforts to block out the wails emanating from the adjacent tent, the sounds of the grieving parents persisted, creating an ever-present and unnerving echo.

        Midway through the task of cracking a shell between his palms, Jasper asked, "What do you think they're gonna do with the Grounder?"

        Monty sighed. "I'd rather not think about it."

        "Ditto," Haven mumbled, channeling her focus into tying a knot around a completed ration pack. The rhythmic movement of her hands provided a welcome distraction; without this task, she feared she might lose herself in the turmoil beneath her skull.

       "Well, it's been days since Bellamy captured him," Jasper's eyes briefly flicked toward the silhouette of the dropship before warily returning to his friends. "How long til his friends come looking?"

Haven's gut twisted at the question. It was a valid concern, one that she had plenty of time to mull over while on bedrest. Since then, she deliberately shoved the thought aside, attempting to savor the fleeting feeling of, y'know–not dying. Objectively, it might not have been the healthiest decision, but it did provide a brief respite.

At least, until now.

Contending with the horrors committed on the third floor proved to be a formidable challenge for Haven. Even more so was understanding that the violent acts had been orchestrated to secure her and Finn's survival. Despite her unconscious state during it all, an indomitable sense of guilt lingered. She felt astoundingly disgusting, utterly unworthy.

        Yet, armed with newfound clarity from her near-death experience–Haven also understood that it was too late to change it. Whatever happened, happened. Acknowledging this truth didn't render it right or acceptable; in fact, it made her fucking sick. But, she knew that dwelling on it served no purpose. All that could be done now was to move forward, do better, and brace for the inevitable worst.

        Meanwhile, Octavia had been stubbornly adamant about releasing the Grounder from imprisonment. To the surprise of absolutely nobody–the idea was vehemently shot down by her brother and Clarke. But for some reason–the Blake girl proceeded to come to Haven about it, as if she would be able to magically convince the others that freeing him was their best option.

        Truthfully, Haven didn't know if it was.

        It was an awful thought. The gravity of their situation had undergone a seismic shift since Haven last contemplated the decision, before her seizures. However, Octavia remained resolute in her belief that they could trust the Grounder. And honestly? Haven found Octavia's trust in the man far more reassuring than the alternative of keeping him captive, awaiting a potential sneak attack from his murder besties.

"Hav?"

The echo of her name jolted Haven from her thoughts, and she blinked, eyes slowly readjusting to the reality around her. Jasper and Monty stared at her expectantly, prompting her to reply with an immediate, "What?"

"The knot." Monty answered.

"The knot?"

Jasper's eyes softened as he observed the sight of his friend. With a gentle motion, he gestured towards her left hand. "You tied it around your fingers."

As expected, when Haven lowered her gaze to her fingers, she discovered them intricately entangled in the knot securing the ration pack. She groaned, swiftly working to untangle the thread with her free hand. "Shit. This is exactly why I need an off-switch for my brain."

"Technically–that's not possible," Monty noted, eyes glinting with a mischievous spark as he pondered the idea. "I mean...unless you wanted me to program one?"

"Count me in," Jasper huffed, abandoning his spot near the work table to lend a hand to Haven, aiding in the final unraveling of the thread. "Thoughts–be gone. From here on out, I rebuke thinking in all shapes and forms."

        "Cheer up, guys," Monty urged, extending an arm to nudge both Haven and Jasper on the chest. "By the time we figure out the rest, we'll all by dead by hypothermia," he teased, injecting a touch of morbid humor into their fateful reality. Stepping back, he gestured to toss one of the nuts he had cracked into Jasper's mouth. "Go long!"

        Jasper's face lit up with an infectious grin, his mouth stretching wide as he shuffled backward to snag the airborne kernel. The moment it landed on his tongue, a burst of childlike euphoria painted the boys' faces.

"Now that's what I'm talking about!" Monty beamed, seamlessly high-fiving the air alongside Jasper—a well-practiced ritual since their childhood. "Precision, baby. Precision!"

Beside herself, Haven smiled. "Oh, please," she jested, relishing the release of pressure within her chest as her friends continued to snicker. "I could do that blindfolded and backwards."

"Really?" Monty raised a brow. "Prove it."

Call it stupid confidence, as Monty often did, or chalk it up to her stubborn desire to win. Either way–Haven couldn't suppress the smirk tugging at her lips. "Prepare to eat your words, Greenie."

In a seamless motion, Haven snagged a nut from the table, effortlessly tossing it into the air over her shoulder. Swiftly, she executed a backward spin, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, her senses heightened. The boys held their breath as she relied on the subtle whistle of wind to guide her. Haven had no choice but to catch it; the girl could survive being poisoned, but she certainly couldn't survive embarrassment.

In a moment of relief, the kernel soared through the wind and expertly found its mark, landing upon her tongue with ease.

Monty groaned. "What the hell!"

"Told ya," Haven gloated, twirling back toward the boys with an aura of foolish confidence. "Precision, baby!"

Jasper offered Monty a sympathetic pat on the back. "Shoulda' known better, my friend," he sighed, bursting into laughter as Monty swatted his arm away in mock annoyance. "She's like, superhuman. Call her the nut muncher."

       "Ain't that the tru–" Haven paused. "Wait."

        "Haven," Clarke announced, weaving her way from the comms tent to join the trio. Despite her usual air of stress, the blonde's features softened as she observed the joy radiating from the group. Haven turned to face her, and Clarke, tilting her head, gestured back toward the tent. "You're up."

        The Smith girl blinked. "Uh–"

        "It's my mom," Clarke clarified, immediately working to rectify any confusion. "Just finished my meeting with her and the Council. I thought it would be nice for you to catch up with someone, too," she explained, wringing her fingers together as she gauged Haven's reaction. "Unless you don't want to."

        Freeing herself from her initial surprise, Haven fought for her mouth to move. "No, no. I do. Really," she insisted, her reassuring nod mirroring the genuine interest in her voice. As Clarke's unusual fidgeting settled, Haven leaned in, lowering her voice. "But, um, are you..." her brows furrowed, probing softly. "Are you alright?"

        Clarke considered for a moment. "I will be. Talking with my mom is just...hard," she admitted, "Long story short, she's not who I thought she was, but I don't have the time to mope about it." She mustered a broken smile. "The world keeps spinning, right?"

        Haven nodded in somber understanding. "Indeed it does."

        With that, Haven bid farewell to the Farm station boys behind her. As she passed Clarke, she offered a squeeze to the blonde's forearm–a silent exchange laden with understanding. Then, she navigated toward the comms tent with a leaden heart, realizing that even the Princess of Alpha station wasn't exempt from the gripes of motherly drama.

Ducking beneath the scarlet tarp, the air inside the tent embraced Haven with an eerie chill. While the weather outside was gradually cooling, the atmosphere within seemed to carry an extra weight, perhaps heightened by the irrefutable black hole of grief.

It felt like a different world in here.

Haven wasted no time donning the headset, vehemently shoving aside her unease as she settled into the chair in front of the monitor. There must've been an entire line of parents waiting to connect with their children–now certainly wasn't the time for nerves. Her eyes softened as she studied the screen.

"Abby?"

"Haven?" Abby's voice cut through the distorted connection, her face maintaining a surprising clarity on the screen, bathed in the soft glow of the monitor. "Haven? Can you see me alright?"

"Yeah," Haven breathed, a warm smile gracing her face as she took in the familiarity of Abby's features. The doctor's chestnut hair was meticulously braided, maintaining its usual neatness, and her eyes, wide and observant as ever, held a depth that transcended the digital connection. "Yeah, I can see you."

"Great," Abby sighed, undoubtedly relieved. "I'm sorry Jackson couldn't make it. He's busy with kids in the sick-bay, we've got a lot more than usual," she admitted, gently tugging her lip between her teeth before continuing. "I'm pleased to see you're alive and well. How have you been feeling, dear?"

"Since we landed?" Haven pondered her words with a touch of bitterness, acutely aware that her follow-up question was simply unavoidable. "Or over the course of the last year?"

Static roared between them.

"Both, Haven."

"Not dying has been kinda nice," Haven confessed, a certain wryness in her tone. "Y'know, aside from having a literal dead body dropped on me, being poisoned, getting chased by radioactive fog..." The words felt like acid on her tongue as she recounted the memories. "Oh! And being hunted by people who want to kill us."

Abby's face wore a cloak of glumness. "So I've heard. Earth has proven to be quite different from what we anticipated for you kids," she expressed, oblivious to the way Haven shrank beneath the word kids. "There are multiple things I would've approached differently had I known."

At that moment, Haven felt a sliver of understanding for Clarke's frustration towards her mother. While Abby excelled as a doctor, her emotional intelligence was kind of...inept. Whether she acknowledged it or not, Dr. Griffin was a part of the leadership that sent the delinquents down to perish. And now, with the audacity to speak of what she wished she could do differently–the irony was glaringly insidious.

It was far too late.

Drawing in a deep breath, the Smith girl exhaled with a firm resolve. "Yeah, well–hopefully, the Council has the graciousness to do right by us now that you do know. Whatever the hell you guys were expecting, this clearly isn't it."

"I agree completely. I-I tried to explain that to Clarke, but she seems to limit communication to the bare necessities." A deeper shadow cast across Abby's features. "To be truthful, I'm surprised that you would like to speak with me, either."

Haven raised her brows. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I'm the reason you're down here, Haven."

"I mean, yeah. You're a part of the Council. It's not like you personally handpicked which prisoners got sent to the ground, though." Haven remarked with a scoff, only to suddenly stiffen. A hint of doubt crept in. "...Right?"

Abby sighed, the pixelation of the monitor unable to mask her remorse. "Not necessarily. Do you remember when we altered the data in your citizen profile?"

        "So I wouldn't be executed at eighteen," Haven recalled, her shoulders tense, fingers delicately tracing the edges of her locket. The twist in her gut intensified in Abby's presence, her gaze briefly flickering away. Opting against her usual habit of cracking knuckles, she let the locket absorb the uneasy energy, subtly tapping against it. "You gave me two more years."

        "The Ark's oxygen levels have been declining for quite some time, as I'm sure you all know by now. The plan to send the hundred to the ground was set in motion long before the crisis escalated." Abby started, her usually curt tone undeniably strained. "It was just whispers, back then. Fragments of a plan. But it was enough to make me believe that the mission was real, that it was happening,"

        Haven paled.

        "So, I told Jackson to edit your birth year in the system. I-I wanted to give you a chance. A real opportunity to live. The same goes for Clarke." Abby admitted, her voice carrying the iron weight of confession. She paused, sweeping a clammy hand across the weathered lines of her forehead, as if seeking refuge in the gesture. "I wanted you girls to be the first to see Earth."

A foreign sensation tightened within Haven's throat, an amalgamation of emotions—betrayal, perhaps, or even worse, understanding. If Haven were still fifteen, the opportunity to descend to Earth would have been irresistible. But she wasn't fifteen anymore. Now, she knew better, and by extension, Abby must have known too. Nobody in their right mind would willingly send children to an inhabitable planet. So, while Abby might have delayed her execution–the inevitable specter of death remained.

How critical were the oxygen levels for Abby to believe that this was her only hope?

"I appreciate the sentiment, Abby," Haven began, her heart pounding wildly as she grappled with the harsh reality. "But with all due respect–you sent us down here to die."

Abby could hardly bear to look at her. "I know that now. I do, and I cannot put into words how deeply apologetic I am," she groveled, her eyes brimming with the weight of unshed tears. "If I had known... I-I'm incredibly sorry, Haven."

For the first time in her life, Haven Grey Smith found herself at a miserable loss for words.

"Aside from...that," Abby promptly resumed speaking, aiming to fill the awkward silence between them. "I take it your stenosis has improved since we last saw you?"

        Haven stared at the monitor, her gaze withering. The lethal grip she held on her locket softened as her fingers started to tremble. Eventually, she released it, clenching her fists in her lap instead. "Seems like it," she answered, her tone guarded. "Where did you go, anyway?"

        "There was a...complication during your last resuscitation," Abby began, feeling the weight of Haven's perceptive gaze even from the vastness of space. "We ended up operating on your heart as a result, but you already know that."

        Frustration surged deeper within Haven the longer that Abby spoke. "I knew there was a setback, but I never knew the specifics. It's not like I could ask, either. When I woke up, everyone..." she drew in a sharp breath, the names of those absent resonating with devastating significance–Jackson, Abby, Bellamy. "Everyone was gone. You left me with a new team of doctors that I didn't know if I could trust or not."

        "Allow me to clarify then, okay?" With a tentative brow raise, Abby sought Haven's approval before delving deeper. "To summarize–your aortic valve was too weak to function properly following the resuscitation. We had no choice but to operate, so we replaced the valve with tissue from your lung. It saved your life," she explained, "Things took longer than anticipated, so we had to extend our emergency booking of the OR without prior authorization. Another guard noticed," Abby averted her eyes as she relayed the next part, as if smothered in an insurmountable degree of shame. "I managed to spin Jaha away from asking too many questions. As a precaution, we distanced ourselves."

Haven sank further into her chair, the tension in her bones gradually unwinding as she processed Abby's explanation. It felt odd to finally have some clarity about that day, even though Bellamy's disappearance still remained a mystery. Regardless, it offered far more insight than she had gained in the past year–which primarily consisted of a whole-lotta-nothing.

"Right," the Smith girl started, her fists still clenched in her lap. "But what about the new doctors? How did they not catch on to...y'know, everything?"

"We made sure to prepare in case something like this were to happen. Since we deliberately avoided computer usage, Jackson was able to conceal the written medical notes and upload only the essential parts to your profile. There was no mention of your blood type, Haven. To the new doctors, you were completely cured," Abby explained. For the first time since the video chat began, a smile touched her lips. "And from what you've told me, that appears to be true. The valve replacement successfully eliminated your symptoms, just as we hoped it would."

"I'm..." Haven whispered. "I'm cured?"

Abby nodded.

All at once, everything clicked into place. The past year had unfolded blissfully devoid of pain, a stark departure from her usual state of suffering. Her body, for the first time in five years, felt like her own again. Tears welled in her eyes at the joyous realization, but deepened as she delved further into the implications. The Medical team had saved her life, but the unspoken question lingered: at what cost?

"I–Why?" Haven asked, entirely robbed of breath as she processed the team's drastic measures to protect her. "Why would you do that for me? You could've... you should've just let me die, Abby. It would've saved you so much stress. You risked your career, you risked everything."

"Like I said. I wanted to give you a chance."

Rivulets of saltwater spilled down Haven's cheeks without restraint. "All of you went through so much work to protect me, to save my life. I dont–I don't think I could ever thank you enough for that. Really." With the sleeve of the jacket Jasper had given her, she harshly wiped away the evidence of her emotions. Then, she laughed. "I mean, you did such a good job of covering everything–they never even asked to draw blood."

"That's because they didn't need it," Abby answered. "Dozens of vials of donor blood were put into the cryogenic chamber with your name plastered on the labels. If testing were required–it was already at their disposal." There was a sparkle in her eye that defied the screen that separated them. "You can thank Bellamy for that."

"Bellamy?" Haven breathed. "Why?"

"He was the donor."

Something indiscernible fluttered within Haven's chest, stirring her insides and warming her until she was certain she was more molten than solid. In vain, she attempted to move her mouth, but each time she parted her lips, silence prevailed.

"Anyway, I believe our time is up. But before I go, please indulge in a bit of pride, Haven," Abby's words were earnest, laden with an intensity that rivaled the chaos beneath Haven's ribs. "You're a survivor, stronger than any patient I've treated in over two decades. Your resilience played a crucial role in the progress made this past year."

A beat passed.

"Progress?"

"Yes, the improvements to your condition," Abby clarified. "Your survival paved the way for the surgery that ultimately cured you. Look at where you stand today–it's a journey to be cherished."

Haven blinked. "Right," she agreed, leaning into the fleeting warmth of relief once more, a momentary respite that threatened to swallow her whole. "Well, I literally could not have survived without you guys. So, thanks. Tell Jackson I miss him."

      "I will," Abby offered another gentle smile before shifting her eyes toward the movement behind the camera. Although Haven couldn't see it, she could hear the metallic swing of a door, followed by the deliberate approach of footsteps. "There's our time, dear. Somebody else would like to speak with you now."

        The Smith girl's brows pinched in bewilderment, though there was no time to fathom the incoming presence. In the blink that followed, Abby had already risen the chair, making way for a familiar figure poised to seamlessly take her place.

Jaha.

       "Hello, Miss Smith," the Chancellor greeted with a nod, his stern features momentarily softened by the pixelation on the monitor. "It's truly a pleasure to finally put a face behind the name."

        Every fiber of Haven's being resisted the urge for her jaw to unhinge, internally combusting as she grappled with Jaha's sudden interest–because, what the fuck? Each breath felt like a searing flame as she strove to maintain composure, a mask of passiveness concealing the swirling chaos within. With a nod, she acknowledged him, but her eyes remained cold and narrowed.

       "I'm sure you're curious about the reason behind our conversation. Rest assured–there is nothing wrong," Jaha started, though it did little to soothe the stirring in her gut. "I merely wish to commend you for your honesty on the radio, regarding the circumstances on the ground. Frankly, it's inspiring," he remarked, lips curving into a practiced smile. "Not many have the audacity to speak to their Chancellor with such...fervor."

        What the hell kind of backhanded compliment was that?

        "Not many Chancellors have the audacity to deem one hundred children as expendable," Haven countered, her icy composure effortlessly mirroring the man before her. While Jaha's facade remained polished, Haven's edges were jagged, carrying the weight of firsthand experience and a defiance untempered by political finesse. "But thanks."

        Jaha cleared his throat. "After my discussion with Clarke, I also feel compelled to extend my gratitude for your compassion regarding my son," he continued, "She shared that you and Miss Vincetta were the individuals who found him. She also shared that you tried..." his voice trailed off, a subtle tremor betraying the emotions he fought to contain. "That you tried to save him."

        Haven could still feel his blood on her fingers.

"We did," she admitted, swallowing hard against the sudden upswing of grief. "I apologize for your loss, Chancellor. Camp wouldn't be what it is now without him," Haven shifted her hands, delicately toying with a loose thread on her jeans. "He would've been a wonderful leader."

The Chancellor held her stare for what felt like an immeasurable amount of time. "I believe so too," he agreed, a fleeting smile crossing his face before it was promptly extinguished. "Continuing on, I'll aim to keep this next part brief. After speaking with Clarke further, she informed me that with winter's approach, you all will freeze before you starve."

"Sounds about right."

"According to civil defense plans from before the war, there's an old emergency aid depot not far from the landing site," Jaha continued with a composed demeanor, "In addition to supplies, it could provide shelter for the hundred and for the citizens coming down from the Ark."

Now, Haven was utterly dumbfounded. Rolling her lower lip beneath her teeth, she asked, "What does that have to do with me?"

"I'd like for you and a person of your choosing to travel there and retrieve the supplies. My first choice was Clarke, but she denied it. She believes her abilities are best suited here, to tend to Mr. Collin's recovery," Jaha raised a knowing brow. "She spoke very highly of you, however. From what I've gathered, you seem to be incredibly useful–a quality necessary for a task like this."

        Shoving aside the second backhanded compliment of the hour, Haven's muscles tightened with sudden realization. Clarke Griffin, the literal epitome of responsibility–had suggested Haven as the best choice in her absence–but not Bellamy? He was Clarke's unspoken co-leader, not her. Suddenly, the unexpected weight of responsibility sent a seismic shock through her, her head spinning torturously.

        "You said you needed help, am I correct?"

        Shakily, Haven nodded.

        "This is it. Here are the coordinates."

        As a set of numbers flashed across the screen, Haven abruptly hurtled back to reality. With swift and deliberate movements, she jotted them down using an expo marker on the fabric of her jeans against her thigh. Then, she glanced back toward the monitor. "You think it's intact?"

"It was designed to withstand nuclear warfare, Miss Smith. Let's hope so," Jaha's tone was so effortlessly condescending that Haven almost didn't notice it. "Anyway, I believe we're finished here. I strongly encourage that you leave as soon as possible. Promptly report back upon your return."

        Standing up, Haven nodded. "I will."

        "One last thing," Jaha interjected, his authoritative voice piercing through before Haven could fully remove the headset. Pausing, he continued, "Please send the next prisoner in the queue, Dax. His mother is waiting for him."

• •

"BELLAMY."

Bellamy Blake stood on the first floor of the dropship, his back turned, casting a commanding silhouette against the cold metal beneath him. He pivoted at the sound of his name, jaw clenched, arms crossed sternly over his chest. Stoic as ever, something fleeting flashed across his eyes–a subtle shift in the facade–as he took in the presence of the girl before him.

        Haven ventured deeper into the dropship, a palpable reluctance in her every step. Little had changed in the past few days: Octavia clung to a chair on her left, eagerly plotting a stealthy ascent towards the Grounder. Bellamy, a vigilant guardian, stood on her right, determined to thwart any such attempts with an irritated resolve.

        Today, the metal tomb felt more oppressive than ever, the air thick with an unspoken heaviness that seemed to intensify with each return. Shivering, Haven pulled the cuffs of Jasper's jacket further over her hands, coming to an uneasy stop before the siblings.

       "Haven," Bellamy echoed back. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

        Octavia's words cut through the tension like a blade. "Who the hell said she's here for you?" she spat, fixing her brother with a measured glare before turning her attention back to Haven. "Look–she's holding my rations."

        "You're half right," Haven quipped, tossing Octavia a stick of food retrieved from the meat station where Dax worked. With a subtle glance at Bellamy, she added, "I'm kinda here for him, too."

        Bellamy's gaze held a lingering charge as he observed her, his eyes assessing her with the same intensity he always had. To nobody's surprise–Haven matched the weight of his stare just as easily. Since her recovery from being poisoned, their interactions had been sparse. It felt as though he was avoiding her, more than she avoided him. While Haven immersed herself in constructing the comms tent, Bellamy seemed to spend every waking minute evading it.

        Neither of them addressed their fight.

        Neither of them wanted to.

        "If this is about Jaha–"

        "No," Haven interrupted, a recognition in her eyes that the Chancellor was the last topic Bellamy wanted to discuss. With comms now operational, the reckoning for his actions loomed closer and closer by the hour. "You'll have to face him eventually, but that's not what this is about. I just got off the radio. The Ark found some old records that show a supply depot not too far from here."

        Bellamy waited. "And–?"

        "And they asked me to check it out," Haven finished, suppressing an eye roll in response to his perpetual grumpiness. "They think there could be supplies inside that could give us a chance to survive the winter."

        Again, Bellamy's eyes drilled into hers. Of course, they had entrusted Haven with the task—she was perfectly suited for it. Intuitive. Strong. Brave. His stomach twisted at the thought of her conversing with the Council at all, but he knew she could navigate their manipulations. If she accepted the mission, it meant she trusted its prospect.

        With that being said–why the hell didn't he want her to go?

        "They also said I should to choose somebody to help scope it out," Haven pressed on, her shoulders straightening subtly as she fought to articulate her words. "So–you're coming with me."

        Bellamy raised a brow. "I am?"

Haven heaved an exasperated sigh. "You're the second best fighter in camp," she stated, readying herself to dismiss the protest forming on Bellamy's lips. "I'm the first. I don't trust anyone else to take care of themselves, not like you do."

Trust is a finicky thing.

Bellamy wasn't sure how he felt about the entire situation. The Council's intentions remained a murky territory; for all they knew, they could've been walking Haven into a death trap. Yet, her trust in them and his trust in her judgment prevailed—for the most part. Regardless of the Council's motivations, he was ready to take the plunge.

"I'll grab my stuff," Bellamy nodded, cutting off any further contemplation. "Meet you in ten."

With that, he left, carrying away every ounce of warmth that had clung to the cold room with him.

        Once she was certain Bellamy was out of earshot, Haven turned toward Octavia, sharing a knowing glance. Octavia initially stared back twice as hard, bewildered by the peculiar look, until Haven's eyes slyly shifted toward the unguarded hatch above.

        Then, it clicked.

"You–" Octavia stuttered, "You're serious?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Haven answered, her tone masterfully innocent, already backpedaling toward the dropship's exit. "All I know is that your brother will be out of your hair for the next few hours." As she continued her retreat, Octavia's eyes gleamed with understanding, breaking into the widest of smiles. "Do what you must. Whatever that is...don't let me hear about it."

"Wait!"

Octavia burst from her chair, swift as an arrow, and stopped Haven by snatching the sleeve of her jacket. The Smith girl turned, brows furrowed in surprise, then stumbled backward as Octavia enveloped her in a sudden and tight embrace.

"Wha–?"

"Thank you," Octavia whispered, pulling away from the hug, her hands clasped atop Haven's shoulders. Scarlet scabs marked the porcelain skin of her face, yet she never appeared more radiant. "For believing me."

All Octavia Blake ever wanted in life was to be seen–quite literally. Living beneath the floorboards had fostered an irrefutable desire to break free, to exist openly alongside everyone else. Yet, on Earth, she swiftly discovered that being seen went beyond merely standing face to face with a loved one. To be known was a far grander achievement, a battle she fought limb and tooth for. Now, finally basking in the sweetness of recognition–she was so overcome with emotion that she could hardly even hold herself upright.

        Haven held her stare with an unwavering resolve. "Prove me right."

        The farewell between the girls was sealed with a final nod before they went their separate ways. Haven, full of newfound vivacity, leaped out of the dropship to retrieve her pack from the tent.

        A whirlwind of goodbyes ensued, starting with Raven, who remained steadfast at Finn's bedside. The Reyes girl's advice echoed with sincerity—be smart, don't die. Meanwhile, Orion seamlessly joined Jasper and Monty in their nut-tossing game, transforming it into a lively competition with a handful of other teenagers. With a death grip on her unstitched forearm, Orion's farewell to Haven was issued in the form of–if you die, I'm literally going to kill you.

        Haven couldn't blame them.

        Leaving camp becaming increasingly harder by the day. There was a certain fear that came with not knowing if you'd return unscathed; it had gotten to the point where Haven couldn't help but anticipate her own demise everytime she stepped beyond the camp's walls. The prospect of getting slaughtered by a Grounder wasn't the true source of her unease; she was still rolling off her high of surviving an attempted poisoning. In all honesty–she'd like to see the Grounders try.

Rather, it was the profound fear that each departure might have been the last time she'd ever see her friends again.

        That was a fate Haven couldn't stomach.

        She refused.

        Amidst the bustling crowd of teenagers, Haven's eyes intuitively homed in on Bellamy's distinctive crown of curls. She had long accepted the unavoidable nature of his presence by the time she approached him. Granted, she didn't necessarily have to ask Bellamy to join her, but really–who the hell else would she feel confident dragging along?

        After all, he was the one who trained her.

        "Jasper and Monty are gonna be real pissed," Haven drawled, her observation keen on the borderline excessive stash of nuts in his pack. "That's a lot of rations."

        Bellamy regarded her coldly, hardly even pivoting to face her presence as he slung the pack over his shoulders. "A lot can happen in a day."

"So brooding," Haven teased, her words attempting to thaw his unusually detached and icy demeanor. Yet, despite her efforts, Bellamy remained a stoic figure, seemingly impervious to the warmth of banter. "Relax. If we die–they can't blame us for taking too much."

At that, Bellamy finally met her gaze. Something like amusement flickered across his dark eyes, accompanied by a subtle crease between his brows. "Why the hell are you smiling when you say that?"

"Can't a girl be happy for once?" Haven retorted, delving into his ration of nuts and casually popping one into her mouth. "It's not everyday you survive getting poisoned."

Bellamy was suddenly gripped by a subtle sense of foolishness, though his stony facade betrayed none of it. Silently, his gaze descended to the delicate curve of her mouth, then ascended to the crinkles near her brown eyes. Her happiness, even if fueled by spite, held a peculiar charm–maybe because it was such a rarity these days. With a swift intake of breath, he tried to commit the moment to memory.

"Cute," He remarked, though his tone was eerily devoid of his usual smugness. "Let's move out."

The Smith girl's watchful eyes lingered on Bellamy a moment longer, capturing the intensity of his final glance over her shoulder. His gaze swept over the remnants of the camp one last time before finally settling on his little sister emerging from the dropship. There was a silent exchange between the siblings, their stares meshing for a heartbeat too long. Then, with swift precision, he turned on his heels, exiting through the wall's gate.

Haven trailed behind him without a word, matching his longer strides after a brief jog to catch up. The breeze brought a welcome relief to her senses, and before long, she effortlessly took the lead. Surprisingly, Bellamy didn't voice his usual objection, allowing the unspoken shift. It was odd for him, but neither of them seemed to mind.

        Together, their focus was centered entirely on the journey ahead–blissfully unaware of the danger looming behind their every footfall.

• •

HI BESTIESSS

looots of information in this chapter! i wanted to clear up some questions that i felt i would have as a reader regarding the secrecy of haven's blood/her relationship to the medical team/their disappearance. so hopefully that was accomplished! if you're still confused–good! 🫣

writing haven happy was actually like difficult as fuck bc im soooo used to being in her constantly stressed out of her freakin mind😭😭

not entirely sure how im gonna break it up yet but the next 2 chapters....buckle tf up. next chapter im literally already giggling and kicking my feet liiike SOOOOO HARD!!!! all imma say is this.... if anybody has any doubts about haven being the best fighter in camp–JUST U WAIT!

LOVE YOU!!!!