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CHAPTER TWENTY;

FLUCTUATE.

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        "ARE YOU SURE WE'RE GOING THE RIGHT WAY?"

        Three hours had slipped away since the duo set out on their trek toward the supply depot. The warmth of the late afternoon sunshine had dissipated, yielding to an eerie grey sky overhead. Despite the fading light, Haven persisted at the forefront, with Bellamy silently following behind. Occasionally, he would step forward–only to ensure tree branches didn't obstruct Haven's path or graze her face.

        "We're close," Haven answered, assuredly navigating through the winding forest. Sensing Bellamy's doubt, she turned to face him, treading backward to meet his stormy gaze. With a smirk, she gestured toward her thigh. "Don't believe me? Read my thigh."

       Beside himself, Bellamy's eyes couldn't help but wander, tracing the numbers scrawled across Haven's jeans with a delicate curiosity. His gaze lingered on the curve of her hip as it led up to her waist, a momentary distraction from their task. Blinking, he refocused, acknowledging that the coordinates were indeed accurate to their map. Yet, finding the underground depot remained a formidable challenge.

       Especially when she was looking like that.

He couldn't remember the last time he saw Haven this...at ease. Like the very world wasn't falling out from under their feet. The weight of responsibility bore down on Bellamy like a relentless force, each step heavier than the last. Yet, as he observed Haven, he couldn't help but marvel at how she seemed to navigate through it all with such grace. Her movements were fluid and seemingly unhindered by the burdens that plagued him. Perhaps she didn't feel them at all, or maybe she had mastered the art of integrating their responsibilities into her being–allowing her to move through the journey with a lightness that he could only envy.

        Either way, he lost count of the private glances he'd stolen in her direction.

        "Oh, shit."

        Breaking free from his trance-like state, Bellamy snapped back to reality, his senses suddenly alive to their surroundings. They stood atop a rugged ridge, overlooking a clearing that unveiled the remains of ancient Earthen ruins. Partially submerged in murky waters, the dilapidated structures exuded an air of mystery. A swirling mist enveloped the scene, lending it an ethereal quality as it danced across the water's surface and clung to the twisted branches of the surrounding trees, whispering tales of forgotten times.

        "Stay close," Bellamy commanded, his hand tightening around the axe at his waist. He closed the distance between them, allowing Haven to lead while remaining closer behind. "There's gotta be a door here somewhere."

        Haven nodded, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the devastation sprawled out before them. It must have been breathtaking before the bombs ravaged it. A selfish part of her longed to explore further, but she knew time was of the essence. With determined steps, she forged ahead, her gaze fixed on the ground, searching intently for any sign of the elusive door.

        They continued their search in silence, the quiet stretching on for what felt like an eternity.

        Truthfully, they had been quiet for the majority of the past three hours. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't exactly normal either. Haven felt a gnawing frustration; there were so many things left unsaid, so many questions left unanswered. While she wasn't ready to broach the heavier topics just yet, she decided to start with something simple.

        "I talked to Abby on the radio."

        Bellamy's voice was mechanically flat. "Did you?"

        "Yeah. She filled me in on a lot," Haven continued, sidestepping over a fallen log. Her heart skyrocketed as she posed the first question. "When Jackson altered my birth year in the system, did you..." She trailed off momentarily, gathering her courage before pressing on. "Did you know why?"

        Bellamy shook his head. "Not a clue," he admitted, sensing Haven's deliberate choice to walk beside him. The accidental brush of her hand against his sent a surge of awareness through him. "Abby said extending your treatment would help you live longer...so I agreed to keep quiet."

        "She lied to both of us then," Haven's demeanor sagged under the weight of realization, but amidst the disappointment, a deeper sense of relief prevailed. At least she wasn't the only one in the dark. "Well, maybe not a complete lie. I did live longer, but only so she could send me to the ground," she mumbled, "Said she wanted me and Clarke to be the first to see it."

        Bellamy remained quiet. Not that he wasn't listening, rather–the magnitude of the situation left him at a loss for words. Even if he did manage to find the right thing to say, he feared it would emerge distorted and jagged, tainted by the intensity of his own disdain.

        "I don't really how I feel about it. Like, I guess she had my best interests in mind, but it's still kinda fucked," Haven rambled, her gaze tracing the intricate patterns of moss beneath her boots. "Guess it doesn't matter now. We're already stuck with the consequences."

        Again, Bellamy was silent.

        Haven found his detachment increasingly infuriating. If he didn't have an opinion on the situation–fine. If he wanted to act pissy and stomp his feet the entire way toward the depot–whatever. One thing he couldn't avoid was a truth of his own, though. Despite the foreign heat churning within her chest, she dropped the admission with a subdued nonchalance.

        "She also told me about the blood."

        Bellamy hardly even looked at her. "The blood?"

        "Your blood," Haven corrected, her eyes flicking to him to catch his reaction, noticing the subtle tensing of his posture. Usually, she would have relished possessing the upper hand, but this revelation felt intimate, almost invasive. "She said you donated it for testing in case of an emergency."

        "What–do you want me to apologize for that now, too?" Bellamy hissed, his voice laden with weariness and a hint of resignation. All of his usual edge was gone, replaced by something darker, something fiercer. "Because I won't," he rasped, "It was the right thing to do."

        "Why would I ask you to apologize?" Haven asked, dumbstruck. Her brows knit together in bewilderment as she observed him. However, he remained impassive, his profile angled away from her. "You were a guard, Bellamy. What you did was some next level illegal shit. I don't want an apology, I just–I wanted to thank–"

        "Everything we were doing was illegal," Bellamy interjected, his words weighted with the gravity of his illicit deeds. Drawing in a firm breath, he clenched his jaw, his gaze reluctantly drifting upward, as if feeling the phantom weight of a gun pressed against his skull—the very same gun he had once wielded against the Chancellor. "Wouldn't be the first time."

        At once, Haven remembered the root of Bellamy's current predicament. The magnitude of it all had never truly escaped her; it hovered in the background, a constant presence in her thoughts. But in that moment, as the reality of their circumstances unfolded before her, she grasped the depth of it all with startling clarity.

        "You know, running from Jaha isn't gonna do you any favors," Haven remarked, folding her arms across her chest as they approached the enveloping chill of the fog. "You just look a thousand times more guilty."

        Bellamy's jaw ticked. "I am guilty, Haven. I shot the man."

        "But he lived," Haven countered, her voice garnering strength with each word. "Some of the kids around here are locked up for actual murder, for crimes far more dangerous than being manipulated into an assassination attempt. He pardoned their crimes. Maybe if you come clean about who cut the deal–"

        "What would it change?" Bellamy's retort came sharp, still evading Haven's gaze. "I tried to kill him; he's not just gonna forgive and forget. Besides, even if I were to snitch, I doubt he'd even believe me," he muttered, a bitter taste coating his next words. "The guards' unit is tight."

        Haven paled. "It was a guard?"

        No sound escaped Bellamy's lips at the magnitude of the revelation. He hadn't intended for the truth to slip out, but now that it had, he felt a sense of resignation settling over him. In the end, it didn't matter; his fate was sealed, and it was only a matter of time before he met his demise.

        Meanwhile, Haven's words stumbled out in a frantic rush, her mind spinning as she grappled with the implications. "Another officer... cornered you?" Her voice trembled, her heart hammering against her chest like a trapped bird. "That's an outrageous abuse of power. I-It's a conspiracy. Bell, you have to tell him–"

        "Why do you care, Haven?"

        For the first time during their conversation, their eyes locked. Time ceased to exist as they became engulfed in each other's gaze. Bellamy's entire being seemed to be held in suspension, rigid with desperation, while Haven's heart thundered beneath her ribs, the sound drowning out all else. Words were rendered utterly meaningless, pathetically useless–slipping between their fingers like elusive as wisps of smoke.

        Bellamy found his voice when she couldn't.

        "I-I don't want to talk about Jaha, or Abby, or anybody else up there," Bellamy rasped, his words strained and gravelly. With a visible effort, he tore his gaze away from hers, directing his attention to the expanse of greenery beneath their feet. "We've gotta find that door. Let's just split up, cover more ground. Stay within shouting distance."

        With that, he stomped away, unwilling to hear her response.

        Haven screwed her face up into a scorn before striding decisively in the opposite direction from Bellamy. With each step, she could feel the devastation of her emotions pressing down on her, making her breathing uneven and erratic. It took longer than she cared to admit for her heart to slow its frantic pace. Yet, Bellamy's question still remained, demanding to be felt.

She shouldn't care.

But inexplicably, she did.

        Diving into the search for the door proved to be a comforting diversion for Haven, providing a temporary reprieve from the hellscape beneath her skull. That was what she needed to focus on, after all–surviving the winter. Despite the coordinates on her thigh leading them in the right direction, the depot remained frustratingly hidden. There were no signs of anything beneath her feet, no telltale rectangular contours concealed amidst the tangled undergrowth.

        Suddenly, a twig snapped from behind her.

        The Smith girl swung around with a heightened sense of awareness, senses primed for any sign of danger. Yet, as she surveyed the area behind her, only the familiar sight of fallen logs and withering bushes greeted her. Though her fists clenched instinctively, she soon relaxed, recognizing the likelihood of the disturbance being nothing more than a squirrel.

        At least, she hoped it was.

        Continuing her search, Haven had barely taken a couple of steps when her boot unexpectedly snagged onto something unseen. With a startled yelp, she stumbled forward, her knees sinking into the soil as she caught herself with her palms. "Fuck," she breathed, wincing as the pressure on her forearms sent a sharp, burning sensation through her stitches. Hastily, she scrambled to free her foot from the mysterious obstacle, only to discover it was lodged within the handle of a door.

Bingo!

"Bellamy!" She shouted, swiftly extracting her foot from the metal and immediately tugging on the handle. "Bell! I think I found it!"

        Emerging from the ridge of a nearby hill, Bellamy raced towards Haven, his obsidian curls stirred by the ghastly breeze. Settling beside her in the dirt, their knees brushed against each other, a fleeting touch lost in the intensity of their shared focus. With determined grit, Bellamy reached for the handle, straining against its resistance in an effort to unveil the depot below. Of course, things are never that simple; the latch refused to budge, humorously mocking their resolve.

"The lock's rusted shut," he observed.

"No shit."

        The Blake boy refrained from rolling his eyes. "Move," he ordered tersely, waiting for Haven to comply before attacking the rusted metal with his hatchet. He struck it once, twice, then shot Haven a glance over his shoulder. "You wanna give me a hand here?"

At once, Haven scrambled forward. Their hands interlocked atop the handle, fingers intertwining as they pooled their strength to wrest open the massive metal door. Each sinew strained against the unexpected weight, Haven's shoulder practically wailed in agony, but she knew it would be worth it; the promise of accessing the depot far outweighed any discomfort.

        Upon finally wrenching it open, the duo peered down at the wide set of stairs unveiled beneath them. The darkness shrouded everything, revealing only a few cobwebs in the dim light. Wordlessly, their eyes met, conveying a shared sense of dread.

"Fuck it," Haven declared, wiping her hands on her jeans before boldly taking the first step into the underworld. "Here goes nothing."

Descending the staircase in unison, Haven took the lead, her movements deliberate, with Bellamy shadowing close behind. He ducked slightly to avoid the low ceiling, the darkness pressing in around them like a heavy shroud. "Really think this place hasn't been touched since the war?"

"No clue," Haven answered. "Let's hope so."

Before she could venture any further, Bellamy abruptly halted her with a firm tug on her backpack. Irritated, she glanced back at him, only to have a flashlight thrust into her hands. Without a word, he strode ahead, taking the lead into the unknown depths.

        She scrunched her nose. "Hey–"

        "I'm done playing follow the leader," Bellamy asserted, his voice echoing in the cavernous space as he tapped his own flashlight to life. "Not down here. Stay behind me."

        Releasing the heaviest of annoyed sighs, Haven reluctantly fell into step behind him, her footsteps echoing against the bunker's walls. Though she had initially enjoyed leading, the oppressive atmosphere of the underground space made her grateful for their switch in roles. As they ventured further, her eyes darted nervously, catching glimpses of the decaying skeleton resting at the foot of the stairs. But it wasn't just the sight of death that unsettled her; it was the fucking spiderwebs, glistening ominously at every corner they turned.

        "Hell of a place to die," Bellamy muttered, his flashlight casting a brief beam on the skeleton as he skillfully navigated around it.

Haven was inclined to agree. Stale and musty, the space was filled with the odor of decay, exacerbated by the putrid water seeping from cracks in the ceiling. Boxes lay scattered, their contents obscured by thick layers of dust and mold. It was a grim scene, far from the refuge she had envisioned, shattering her hopes for the mission entirely.

        "This is awful," She groaned, her distress mounting at the lack of daylight and the stifling air in the room. As Bellamy split off to the right, she hesitantly began exploring the remains on the left. "I thought my cell was bad. Somehow, this is exponentially worse."

Bellamy resorted to prying open a large metal box, his desperation evident as he sought anything salvageable. Disheartened by that, he delved into his pack, producing glowsticks to illuminate the dismal gloom. "Anything down here is ruined," he grunted, tossing a glowstick near Haven's boot.

        Carefully sidestepping the filth-covered floors, Haven stooped to retrieve the light source, her fingers curling around the glowstick's plastic casing. Then, she shifted to a crate at her right. The surface was aged and coated in dust, the wood so weathered that it seemed ready to crumble at any moment. With cautious fingers, she removed the protective tarp beneath the lid, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she uncovered what lay inside.

        "Holy fuck."

"What–?" Bellamy asked, instinctively crossing the threshold of the room and settling just behind Haven's back. Peering over her shoulder, he smoothly held the crate lid open, allowing her both hands to delve into its contents. The warmth of his breath tickled the nape of her neck as he spoke. "Excited about a couple of blankets?"

Haven scoffed. "If it keeps the others from freezing to death–yes," she answered, as if the answer were glaringly obvious. While blankets were undoubtedly useful, they weren't her primary focus. Retrieving the object tucked away at the back of the crate, she turned to Bellamy with a triumphant smile. "Look!"

In her hands was a sword.

Its antiquity was unmistakable; the worn leather of the handle hinted at a history that predated the nuclear age. With deliberate care, she eased the sheath away, her breath catching as the glowstick's faint light revealed the gleaming silver blade beneath. The metal stretched at least two feet long, complete with a strap for shoulder carrying.

"Easy now," Bellamy warned, stepping back with his arms raised. Part of it was to prevent being stabbed, but the other half was to admire the sight from a slightly safer distance. Though his tone remained dark, the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "What the hell are we gonna do with a sword?"

        "We aren't gonna do anything," Haven corrected, her voice steady as she carefully sheathed the blade once more. Carefully, she shifted the strap over her head, allowing it to fall snug against her chest, the weight of the blade resting comfortably against her spine. "It's for Orion. She'll like it."

        Which, was true–Orion had carried a sword she made herself throughout their trek to find Octavia. It was rough-hewn, crafted from metal salvaged from the dropship and repurposed leather from unused boots for the handle. Despite its humble origins, she treasured it as though it were a priceless relic. Now, she wore it by her side almost constantly, a testament to its significance in her eyes.

        "Touching," Bellamy remarked, tone tinged with bitterness as the weight of their reality settled over him once more. He retreated with heavy steps, the sound echoing off the concrete floor as he rummaged through more boxes. "Too bad we're still screwed."

Haven frowned. "We'll keep trying."

"Trying? What are we trying for, exactly?" Bellamy's frustration simmered, his features twisted in the warm tangerine glow. Flustered, he slammed the lids closed on the crates he had rifled through, his movements agitated as he stalked towards a metal barrel across the room. "Let's arm a hundred kids with blankets and a sword. How about a canteen, or a med kit? Or a decent fucking tent?"

"Bell–"

        With the force of a detonating bomb, Bellamy's tightly restrained emotions erupted into full-blown fury. A primal shout tore from his throat as he unleashed his pent-up anger, delivering a powerful kick that sent the barrel tumbling to the ground. His chest heaved with the intensity of his rage as he watched the contents spill out, black grease splattering across the air before coating the cold concrete floor in a slick, oily mess.

        Haven blinked, startled by the rapid unraveling of his demeanor. "What the hell was that for?"

        "Oh my god."

Instinctively, Haven hastened across the room, paying little attention to the foul liquid that smeared beneath her boots. She came to an abrupt halt just behind Bellamy, her heart sputtering in her chest as she took in the sight before her.

Bellamy remained crouched on the ground, his figure illuminated by the soft beam of the flashlight he wielded in one hand, while the other steadied the barrel of a gun. But it wasn't the weapon that left Haven breathless, nor the looming shadows that danced around them. No, it was the unexpected curve of Bellamy's smile that stole the air from her lungs, leaving her knees trembling and fingers grasping for support against the edge of a nearby crate.

In that fleeting moment, the worry lines etched on his face dissolved, giving way to a rare glimmer of warmth that suffused the dim bunker with a soft, ethereal glow. It was the first genuine smile Haven had glimpsed since their arrival on Earth—one untouched by anger, arrogance, or malice.

"This changes everything!" Bellamy declared, shooting up from his place on the floor. His eyes gleamed like stars, alight with a renewed sense of purpose as he swiftly retrieved a blanket from the nearby crate. With boyish determination, he strung it up at the end of the hallway, transforming it into a makeshift target. "No more running from spears," He shot her a wink. "Now, it's the Grounders who'll be running from you."

        Haven grounded herself, blinking away the momentary paralysis that had gripped her. As she refocused her gaze, she made a startling discovery: the container didn't just hold the singular gun Bellamy had found—it contained dozens more.

"Clarke's gonna have an aneurysm," The Smith girl breathed, painfully aware that she might have one, too. A wave of skittish warmth washed over her, prickling her skin as Bellamy swiftly marked an X across the blanket. With a shaky exhale, she tried to steady herself, feeling the bunker's air grow oppressively hot. "Arming kids with rifles is risky business."

A knowing grin lingered on Bellamy's face as he strode back from the end of the hallway. "We're lucky they were packed in grease. The fact that they survived means we're not sitting ducks anymore." Shifting his eyes between Haven's rigid body and the untouched rifles beside her, his shoulders squared. "You need to learn how to do this."

Haven gulped. "Me?"

Unwavering, Bellamy nodded.

"No, I-I don't..." Nerves wracked over every fiber of Haven's being beneath his heavy stare. "I don't think I can."

Guns were something she had never been quite fond of. Unlike the reassuring heft and familiarity of a blade, firearms emanated a different kind of menace—one she struggled to reconcile with. She vividly recalled the memory of Bellamy's offer back on the Ark, extending his pistol to her during one of their impromptu training sessions. Despite his reassurance that it was unloaded, she couldn't muster the courage to accept it. The mere thought of grasping such a weapon made her stomach lurch; they were well beyond the realm of her expertise with blades.

Bellamy recognized it, too. "Says the girl who beat death to a pulp... six times now?" he remarked, his tone laced with reverence as he took a purposeful step closer. "You can. Come on, angel." Another step. "Let's see what you've got."

"Bellamy–"

"Haven." He interrupted her with a swift but gentle interjection, his eyes locked onto hers with an unwavering intensity, peering out from beneath the curls that framed his forehead. "You need to do this," he insisted, "It's not as scary as you think it is. Promise."

        Sweeping a clammy hand across her features, Haven groaned in frustration. She knew Bellamy was right, really–she did. Avoiding a tool necessary to protect themselves was a futile waste of time that they certainly didn't have. Yet, despite the soundness of his logic, panic coiled around her like a noose, constricting her chest and making her head spin with dizzying intensity.

       "If you need some incentive, I've been meaning to give this back."

       As Bellamy reached beneath his waistband, Haven's focus was reignited. The hem of his shirt lifted, revealing a strip of skin and presenting her with a familiar sight: her blade—the very one she had used to defend him against the Grounder in the cave. Amidst the chaos of recent days, the memory had almost slipped from her mind. But now, as he held it up, the glint of the blade catching the light–Haven's eyes widened.

        "That's what I thought," Bellamy smirked, tucking the weapon back against his skin. "Shoot it once, and l'll give it back. Then, I won't ask again."

        Haven glared at him with the might of a thousand galaxies. "Fine," she conceded, her voice edged with reluctance as she pulled her locs back into a tight ponytail. With a shaky breath, she wrung her hands. "Fine."

The weight of the rifle was far heavier than anticipated. Though it settled against her good shoulder somewhat comfortably, the gravity of it all was unfathomably horrifying. Trembling, she shifted her gaze downward, attempting to align her vision through the scope. But, as she adjusted her grip–the end of the barrel slipped.

        "Fuck," She hissed, "Is this how you even hold the damn thing? I feel dumb."

        Bellamy shook his head. "You're not dumb," he corrected, inching closer until they were mere centimeters apart. With a reassuring touch, he steadied Haven with a hand on her upper back, his warmth seeping into her skin, while his other hand delicately guided hers to adjust the rifle. "Just tilt it up a little higher that way. Right there..."

As Haven deftly adjusted the weapon, a newfound sense of precision infused her movements, casting her in an aura of quiet determination. Bellamy couldn't tear his gaze away as he watched her, ensnared by the way she delicately tugged her lip between her teeth, her narrowed eyes shimmering with unwavering focus. In that moment, she seemed to transcend ordinary existence, embodying a portrait of formidable grace so potent that he half expected the skeleton they'd found to stir in awe of her presence.

She looked good, holding a gun.

He tore his hand away as if he had been scorched by the stars themselves.

"Yeah, that's good," Bellamy murmured, his voice tinged with uncertainty as he blinked rapidly, adjusting to the sudden change in the atmosphere. He shifted to reach for a rifle of his own. "Uh, watch and learn."

Releasing a relieved sigh, Haven lowered her rifle and left it amidst the pile of countless others. Just the sight of it felt insidious; the phantom weight still clung to her back, a constant reminder of its burden.

        Meanwhile, Bellamy effortlessly strapped on his rifle, its weight familiar against his shoulder. He adjusted the barrel, aligning it with precision as he peered through the scope, his fingers instinctively finding the trigger. Yet, when he attempted to fire, the silence within the bunker remained unbroken, devoid of the expected echoing blast or the sound of bullets in flight. Instead, all that followed were a few ominous clicks.

He reloaded the chamber and tried again.

Nothing.

"I'm gonna take a seat," Haven teased, her tone light as she shifted backward, seeking support against another crate. Despite her playful jab, the crate offered a welcome reprieve for her spinning head. "Y'know, to get comfortable. Seems like we're gonna be here for a while."

"My bullets are duds," Bellamy huffed.

        "Sure, hot shot."

        Abandoning his rifle to the floor, he quickly retrieved Haven's instead. Again, he steadied the weapon against his body, taking a moment to inhale and allow his senses to sharpen. With a steady hand, he pulled the trigger, feeling the recoil as a solitary bullet erupted from the chamber. Time seemed to slow as the bullet cut through the air, its trajectory perfectly aligned with the X he had drawn in the dead center of the  blanket.

Bellamy flashed her a grin. "Your turn."

"Not happening," Haven fired back, arms crossed defiantly as Bellamy pretended to pout. "Now that we know they actually work, we should finish things up and head back to camp. Someone's gotta help us transport them."

Something darkened across Bellamy's features. "Ask Miller," he urged, his voice tinged with a hint of resignation. Despite his earlier enthusiasm, the spark that had once ignited his freckled face seemed to have been extinguished. "He's a good guy. The others listen to him." Almost lowly, he added, "You should keep him close."

Haven's brows knit. "Keep him close? Why?"

If there was one thing about Haven that blew Bellamy out of his fucking mind–it was her intrinsic ability to unearth any truth from within him. Well–most truths. Just a single leveled glare from her was all it took to strip away any semblance of deceit. Lying to her felt pointless, perilous, as if she held within her the power to unravel kingdoms with nothing more than a blink. To humble the mightiest with the twitch of her brow. Undeniably exposed under her scrutiny, he fidgeted, his fingers betraying his apprehension.

"I'm leaving."

        Disbelief flooded Haven's lungs. "What?"

        "I'm leaving," Bellamy repeated, unable to withstand the lethality of her gaze any longer. He shifted uncomfortably, forcing himself to lock eyes with something—anything—else. "I don't have a choice. The Ark will be here soon."

        All at once, everything strange that had occurred today finally clicked into place. Haven's chest tightened as she grappled with the understanding. The extra rations he had taken, his insistence on firing the gun, the fleeting but longing look he had cast over his shoulder before they left camp—every detail now made perfect sense, illuminating the situation with devastating clarity.

        "You can't–you can't just leave," she stammered, her heart thrashing against her ribs as shock rewired every fiber of her being. "What about Octavia? You'd really be okay with leaving your sister?"

         King of the Earth stared off glumly into the distance. "Don't know if you noticed, but Octavia hates me. She'll be fine."

         Haven could hardly comprehend the absurdity spewing from his lips. "What are you talking about?" she exclaimed, her breath hitching as she frantically sought his cold eyes for a glimmer of understanding. "Octavia doesn't hate–"

"I shot the Chancellor!" Bellamy countered, despair clutching to his every word. "They're gonna kill me, Haven. Best-case scenario, they lock me up with the Grounder for the rest of my life, and there's no way in hell I'm giving Jaha the satisfaction."

        "We'll figure something–"

        "We can't," his voice shattered, a mere whisper of its former strength. "I need some air."

        Before Haven could voice any further objection, Bellamy had already begun his retreat down the hallway, tangling his fingers through his curls as he brushed past the curtain and vanished from sight. She stood there, paralyzed by an inexplicable sense of horror, her organs constricting with the onslaught of anticipatory grief.

Then, she was running after him.

       With a velocity that could rival the bullet Bellamy had discharged just moments before, she dashed through the curtain, bounding up the metal staircase that had brought them to this desolate wasteland in the first place. The dizziness that disoriented her seemed inconsequential, as did the way her vision began to warp. Her stride faltered to a mere stagger–but she simply didn't care; the need to find him was bone-deep, visceral.

        Gasping for air, Haven stumbled to a halt just outside the bunker's entrance. Collapsing onto the grass, she gripped the dirt, her eyes squeezed shut against the kaleidoscopic colors assaulting her senses. Drawing in a steadying breath through her nose, she braced herself for the exhale. But when she reopened her eyes, it wasn't the verdant greenery of the forest that greeted her.

It was her mother.

Haven's breath caught in her throat as shock held her in a chokehold. She blinked rapidly, desperate trying to reconcile the surreal sight before her. Yet, with each blink, the world around her grew warped and distorted. The lush grass beneath her feet gave way to a cold tile floor, the towering trees vanished, replaced by the sterile walls of the Ark. And as she looked down, she saw that even her clothing had changed, leaving her clad in a crumpled, blood-stained hospital gown.

Haven choked out the word like a prayer.

"Mom?"

Dahlia Smith stood tall in her spacesuit, every inch of her form encased in protective gear except for her unadorned head, which revealed her stern features with excruciating clarity. Yet, as Haven knelt on the tile, her mother's response was devoid of any semblance of tenderness. There was no softening of her gaze, no flicker of concern in her eyes. Instead, she regarded her daughter with an unsettling detachment, as if regarding a beaten dog rather than her own flesh and blood.

"Hi, Bug."

"What are you..." Haven's voice faltered, her attempt to rise thwarted by an unseen force pinning her to the cold floor. "How am I–how are you here?"

Dahlia's response came swift and clipped. "I've always been with you, even when you are too blind to see it," she stated matter-of-factly, tone tinged with a familiar edge of disappointment. "You should know that by now."

Tears scorched Haven's eyes. "I–"

"I thought I raised you to be smarter than this, my girl," Dahlia drawled, daring a step closer to her daughter. Towering over Haven, she refused to stoop down to her level on the floor, maintaining her imposing stance. "You are not a fool. You are a Smith. And yet, here you are–mingling with the enemy, flirting with death. Preparing for a war you know nothing of."

Her mother's condescending nature was unmistakable, a familiar weight that Haven had learned to bear. Despite her familiarity with Dahlia's scrutiny, each encounter still cut menacingly deep. Anxiously avoiding her narrowed eyes, Haven's gaze flitted between the cold tile at her knees and the imposing walls around them. It didn't take long for her to realize their location—they were in the scrap deck on Mecha, the very site where Dahlia had attempted to launch the escape pod.

Then, Haven remembered her mother's words. Chest heaving, she sputtered, "The enemy?"

"You've put your faith into the wrong person," Dahlia shook her head disapprovingly. "But then again, that's always been your greatest flaw—the one thing that sets you apart from me." Her voice plummeted to a disdainful whisper, icy with contempt as she lowered her eyes to Haven's chest. "Your pathetic, trusting heart."

"No. No," Haven cried, a desperate attempt to shield her fragile heart from the shattering impact of Dahlia's cruelty. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. She blinked again, but her vision only grew hazier. "You're not real. You're dead. Just...stop, please."

"Do I look dead, Bug?"

It was at that moment that Haven forced herself to take in the sight of her mother. Dahlia's mouth was contorted into its customary scorn, her hair twisted in its usual fashion. However, when their eyes met, Haven discerned something unusual: Dahlia was shedding tears, but they weren't tears of sorrow. Instead, they were thick rivulets of blood—black as night—trickling down her brown skin like war paint.

"Look around you. I am everywhere."

"Stop! Stop scaring me!" Haven's voice cracked as she dissolved further into sobs, her own fear consuming her. She screwed her eyes shut and shouted, her words desperate and raw, echoing like the cries of a frightened child. "Please, Mom."

Dahlia tilted her head. "I'm scaring you?" she sneered, dark brows arched incredulously. "Of all the death you have seen–I am what scares you?" Then, she laughed, the sound swelling through the air like thunder. "You are hopeless, Haven. I've known it from the moment you could cry. You are unbelievably weak, a disastrous stain to our bloodline."

Death would be better than enduring this heartache.

"I-I'm trying!" Haven managed to choke out. She stared up at her mother with her heart laid bare, every ache and wound exposed for scrutiny. "I'm trying to be strong–like you taught me! I promise you!"

"Try harder." Dahlia declared, flatly. "Think harder. There is no strength in emotion, in weakness. You must be smarter than this, my girl. Knowledge is power." Slowly, she lowered herself to the cold tile in front of Haven, her movements deliberate and controlled. With a chilling touch, she ran her hand over Haven's hair, her cheek, her locket, her shoulder. "Everything you will ever need to know is already with you," she whispered, "What a shame you have put none of it to use."

"Then help me understand! I-I don't know what you're talking about, Mom. Help me," The Smith girl trembled violently as she leaned into the familiarity of her mother's hand against her cheek. Dahlia's fingers moved with precision, gently wiping away Haven's tears, yet their steady motion only served to intensify her daughter's sobs. "Please–I need you."

Dahlia withdrew her hand. A beat passed.

Then, she slapped Haven across the face.

There is a certain hollowness that accompanies a mother's love. Nothing about it had ever been unconditional between the Smith women. Haven would crawl over cut glass a thousand times over just to gain her mother's acknowledgment, while Dahlia would cross her legs and watch. Their relationship was twisted—Haven's only knew her mother's affection through the sharp sting of her blows, whether on her cheek, her back, her neck. It was a desolate void, an insurmountable chasm that loomed between them.

Yet, in the warmth of fresh wounds, they found solace in the familiarity of pain. A cruel reminder that they were still capable of feeling something–even if it was agony.

"I needed you. I needed you to keep me sane," Dahlia whispered, though her tone was sinisterly cold. "But, you failed. Your existence was never enough to deter me from my dreams. My true purpose was never to be a mother," She rose from the floor and sighed. "And you were never meant to be a daughter."

"I know," Haven whimpered, "I'm sorry."

Dahlia clicked her tongue. "Your apologies are useless," she retorted, moving towards the far end of the scrap deck to retrieve her helmet. Then–she smiled. "But, I suppose I should thank you."

"Thank me?"

Before Dahlia could part her lips to answer, a second figure materialized behind her, swift as a shadow. The attacker's arm snaked around Dahlia's throat like a vice, pinning her back against his lanky frame, while his other hand brandished a familiar blade against her neck.

        "You're really listening to this crazy bitch?"

Recognition dawned on Haven's face as she beheld his bloodied visage. Surely–she had to be dreaming, now. Her voice trembled with disbelief as she uttered his name, the shock thickening in her throat. "Murphy?"

        "In the flesh," Murphy sneered, exasperated and clearly annoyed that whatever fucking simulation they were in had spiraled this far out of control. With a careless flick, he dangled the blade closer to Dahlia's throat. "Come on, Hav. Time to wake up!"

        Haven could hardly hear him over the deafening rush of blood in her ears. "Get your hands off of her!" She shouted, summoning every ounce of strength to rise and lurch towards his menacing figure. There was no time to make sense of the madness unfolding before her—she had to save her mother. "Murphy–STOP!"

        "I am trying to help you!" Murphy spat, his brows furrowing in frustration as he effortlessly pivoted Dahlia out of Haven's reach. "You know, I'm not even supposed to be here–but someone decided to tap into their looney bin brain again." He shifted again as Haven lunged for his shoulder. "Stop trying to kill me and wake the fuck up!"

        "I am awake!" Haven shrieked.

        Murphy scoffed. "You're an idiot. Fucking hell," he groaned, taking a sharp inhale as if to contain his frustration. "Just do us both a favor and get out of your own damn head. Then, I can go back to my world, and you can go back to Earth. Easy!"

        Earth.

        All at once, memories surged through Haven's consciousness. The dropship's descent. The frantic escape from Grounders. The sight of Jasper impaled by a spear. Orion's uproarious laughter. Raven's reassuring grin. Freckled skin kissed by the sunlight. Rain-soaked nights. Fragrant wildflowers. Crackling fire pits. Blood staining the ground. Blood staining her hands. The crackle of radios.

        Chasing after Bellamy.

       Every experience Haven had weathered on the blue and green planet crashed through awareness with excruciating intensity. That was home now—not here, not this. Life on Mecha felt foreign and distant, like wisps of a dream slipping away at dawn.

        But then she met Dahlia's stare once more, and the tether between the past and the present tugged. Endlessly. Relentlessly. Black blood still adorned her cheeks. Despite Murphy's tight grip and the blade poised threateningly at her throat, she remained unnervingly composed. Her demeanor betrayed a striking indifference to both life and death–a detachment so profound that not even the presence of her daughter could disrupt it.

        "I can't leave her," Haven croaked. "I can't."

        "You'll see her again. Pinky swear," Murphy assured, theatrically waving his finger in the air. "We'll be back before ya' know it!"

With a final wave–he sent his foot soaring into Haven's chest.

Catapulted backward by the powerful blow, the Smith girl didn't merely collide with the cold tile beneath her. Instead, she was thrust into a tumultuous hurtle through the fabric of existence itself. Her body was airborne and weightless amidst an infinite amount of timelines. With her eyes screwed shut, she screamed into the chaos, feeling as though she were a tiny speck engulfed by the vastness of the universe.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, it stopped.

Breathless, she opened her eyes. All around her, the metallic environment of the scrap deck dissolved, giving way to the familiar beauty of the emerald forest. Night had fallen, cloaking the sky in swirling indigo hues, punctuated by shimmering silver stars. Yet, where Murphy had stood only moments before, there was now emptiness. He was gone.

So was her mother.

The thud of footsteps jolted Haven from her daze. Disoriented, she scrambled to her feet, her pulse quickening as she grappled with the realization that she remained at the entrance of the bunker; she never left to begin with. As she swung her head in the opposite direction, her chest expanded with an unfathomable rush of relief.

Bellamy.

He hadn't run off yet.

"Oh my god," Haven breathed, her voice barely above a whisper as she stumbled towards the approaching figure, fresh tears pooling in her eyes. Bellamy's determined stride cut through the darkness, his features partially concealed in shadows but his urgency unmistakable. As they drew closer, Haven reached out, her fingers grazing his arm. "Bellamy, you won't believe–"

        Mechanically, he shoved her to the dirt.

        "Bell–!"

        Haven slammed against the ground with a jolting thud, the force stealing her breath. Stunned, she fought to rise, but before she could gather herself, she was viciously thrust down again. Gasping for air, she looked up to find Bellamy kneeling over her, his soft eyes consumed by an abyss of fury. His hands closed around her throat like a vice, crushing, suffocating.

        Killing.

• •

HOLY FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!

i absolutely LOVED writing this chapter. so many moments in it are so tender to me and i just :,)) this one is going up with my favorites. target practice, where does the good go?,  death x3 and  now THIS. and next chapter is only gonna be craaaazzieeeeer!!! i sincerely hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i loved writing it

the title is based off of one of my favorite songs, fluctuate by catfish and the bottlemen. specifically because of these lyrics!! theres sooo many songs from them i associate with this book. Tyrants is literally the heart and soul of this book in a song if you feel compelled to give it a listen !

bellamy and haven (hellamy? baven???? bellaven?? hell?(lol??) getting high off jobi nuts and realizing the other is kinda fine...🫣😉 forced proximity is a wild thing.. or is it

i also had to include murphy again i feel like having him appear in her subconscious is such an interesting dynamic especially when he doesn't even wanna be there lmfaaao.

also bitches with mommy issues how we feeling tonight !!!!! dahlia is a major  **** do with that what you will

givin this to u a day early in honor of vday<3 LOVE YOU FOREVER! MWAH