• •

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR;

EXIT WOUNDS.

• •

JOHN MURPHY HAD A FLAIR FOR DRAMATIC EXITS. After Haven mercifully spared his life, he snatched up the last of the gunpowder, sealed the third-floor hatch, and blasted a gaping hole straight through the dropship's wall to make his getaway. As always, he didn't bother with subtlety. His preference for dramatic, high-impact maneuvers made him as notorious as he was destructive—always leaving behind a trail of smoldering debris for somebody else to stomp out.

For Haven, there was simply no respite—no time to recover from the day's avalanche of traumas. Although she'd rather face death than abandon the sanctuary of Bellamy's soothing embrace—the reality looming ahead of them was inevitable. Life on the ground surged ahead at breakneck speed, with events shifting so rapidly that she felt perpetually off-kilter. Sometimes, it seemed that the relentless emotional whiplash inflicted more punishment than the actual tragedies that caused it.

"All gunners! We got movement outside the south wall!"

Duty called—endlessly, relentlessly.

Amidst the murmur of radio chatter, Haven found herself mechanically descending the dropship's ladder, with Bellamy just a few steps ahead. Once he reached the bottom, he lifted her from the remaining rungs, instinctively entwining her hand in his as soon as her feet touched the floor. Soundlessly, he led them through the blood washed corridor and out into the open air, each step echoing with the ghosts of lingering conflict.

Frigid, sputtering raindrops caressed their skin as the duo stepped into the heart of camp. In another life, the afternoon breeze would have served as a gentle balm to Haven's frayed nerves, but now—the mere concept of relief felt like relic from a distant past, lost to the shadows of time.

Camp itself seemingly remained in ruins, anxiety creeping among the sea of teenagers like an unseen plague, winding its way through the ranks. Half the teenagers openly gaped at Haven and Bellamy; their eyes were magnetically drawn to the glaring red imprint encircling Bellamy's neck, a cruel souvenir from the noose, and the dried blood that streaked Haven's cheeks, marred her clothes, and stained her fingernails. The other half were the remaining gunners, under Miller's command, racing up to the gate's summit to survey the horizon for any sign of the impending threat.

        "Someone's coming! Get ready!"

        "Stay together!"

        Bellamy's stride was swift and deliberate as he wove through the crowd, raindrops clinging to his curls and succumbing to gravity with every sway of his head. As they drew closer to the gate, he gently guided Haven further behind him, his broad back an iron barrier against the tumultuous press of bodies. Normally, she would have bristled at being led, too outrageously stubborn to fall in line behind anyone. But the day's horrors clung to her like a second skin, each grim memory stiffening her limbs and robbing her of the strength to resist.

So—she followed, allowing his frame to shield her, all traces of her usual defiance snuffed out by the burden of her own existence.

"Wait—hold your fire!" Miller thundered, peering away from his lookout post and waving his arm in a sweeping motion to signal the gatekeepers. "It's Clarke and Finn! Open the gate!"

        Haven could feel her heart forcibly constrict as she absorbed the reality of Miller's announcement. Gasps spread among the crowd like wildfire, each sharp intake of breath fueling the blaze of anticipation. A surge of bodies pressed toward the massive gate, their eager hands grappling with the metallic, rusted mechanisms. Then, with a final heave, the stubborn metal finally relented—heralding the long awaited return of Clarke and Finn.

They looked like hell.

        "Hey—we heard an explosion." Clarke came to a decisive halt before Haven and Bellamy, her blonde hair frizzed and whipped by the wind, a streak of fresh blood visible on her cut lip and across her forehead. "What happened?"

Bellamy's voice was unbelievably hoarse. "Murphy happened."

True to her nature, Clarke's eyes instinctively swept over the duo standing in front of her, scouring their frames for any sign of visible injuries. Her pupils widened upon noticing Bellamy's neck, then went pitch black as she observed the severity of Haven's condition. It was impossible to distinguish where one bloodstain ended and another began, or whose blood was whose. Amid the mayhem of the past few hours, her jacket had come partially undone—exposing the raw, parallel scorch marks left from the resuscitation attempt.

"Haven..." Clarke breathed. "Are you..."

"Cheated death again—twice," Haven answered, a faint, tired smile tugging at her lips as she stepped further out of Bellamy's formidable shadow. "Just another day."

        Despite her usual detachment to the prospect of dying—the Smith girl's stomach was tangled into a thousand dreadful knots. It was easy to shove aside the unease surrounding her latest waltz on mortality's tightrope, especially when the cruel hellscape surrounding her demanded constant vigilance. But the more she tried to avoid the lingering anxiety, the more it clawed its way back, scratching at the corners of her mind, whispering inescapable truths about the fragility of her existence.

If Abby had successfully repaired Haven's mutilated heart valve, restoring it back to its original condition—why did her body still seem to betray her?

        Granted, majority of her chest pain stemmed from minor flare-ups, ones that typically resolved themselves without intervention. However, that didn't necessarily account for this episode—the one that had been garnering strength long before Finn collided with her on that fateful day. It raised a sinister question that Haven fought desperately to deny, one that, if answered, could overturn everything she thought she knew about her body—yet again.

        Even if Finn's shove hadn't triggered the effects of commotio cordis...could she have dropped dead anyway?

        Perhaps Finn's actions had merely been the final catalyst in a sequence already set in motion. Perhaps the extent of Abby's experiments and mutilation had left Haven's heart too compromised, too damaged to ever fully recover. Perhaps the physical trauma was so profound, so deeply embedded, that no amount of medical intervention could truly mend it. Perhaps living on borrowed time had taken on an entirely new meaning.

Every beat of her heart was a countdown.

       And as she felt Bellamy's hand reflexively tighten around her own—she knew he feared the same.

        Blinking, Haven felt a sudden and uncomfortable awareness of Finn's eyes on her. The intensity of his stare was unsettling, almost horrific, a wordless betrayal of remorse so profound that it seemed to tear at him from within. It was evident that every glance he cast in her direction was an act of self-punishment, as if he was forcing himself to acknowledge the damage he'd played a part in causing.

Still, despite the depths Finn's regret—the evidence of his own trauma was glaringly obvious. His lower lip was split, the jagged wound yet to fully heal, seeping scarlet every time his mouth twitched. His nose bore the deep discoloration of bruising, swollen and tender to the touch. The skin encompassing his right eye was ringed with a vicious shade of violet, an ugly testament to the annihilation he'd endured from Haven just days earlier.

        Another life she had scarred.

        Another wound she had inflicted.

"Haven? Blake—?"

Orion skidded to an abrupt halt at the helm of the nearby crowd, the momentum nearly toppling her as she hastily set one end of the canteen cart onto the dirt, Octavia steadying the other. The Vincetta girl cast a long, scrutinizing glance at the two figures standing before her, absorbing the cruel remnants of violence they'd weathered with wide eyes—bloodied cuts, dark bruises, ireful abrasions. Slowly, she tred forward, her chin trembling with the weight of all things she couldn't fathom articulating.

Then, she flung herself into their arms.

One of Orion's arms coiled tightly around Haven's shoulder, her chin nestling into the curve of her neck, while her other arm snaked fiercely around Bellamy's torso. The jarring force of her embrace twisted them into a tangled knot of limbs; Haven's arm wedged awkwardly between Bellamy and Orion's chests, while Bellamy's hand floated hesitantly in midair, unsure where to land. But soon enough, the tension ebbed, all traces of discomfort liquefying into plasmic warmth as they found solace in each other's presence—their bodies melding together seamlessly, wholly. 

As abruptly as it began, it stopped.

"That never happened," Orion sniffled, futilely wiping at her eyes as she disentangled herself from the hug. To bury the tenderness that had crept in, she aggressively swatted at Bellamy's chest. "Don't look at me like that, Blake—I mean it," she huffed. "Both of you need to stop dying, or I'll kill you myself."

As Haven's eyes flickered towards Bellamy's, she couldn't help but notice the subtle twitch of his lips as he registered Orion's threat. It was a mere ghost of a smile, a soft shadow of mirth. But in that fleeting moment, it was enough—a ephemeral glimpse of softness that seemed to suture the torn edges of her heart, an errant piece that had finally aligned back into place.

        "Thank god!"

         Jasper was the next to emerge from the crowd, barreling towards the small group gathered at the forefront, immediately wrapping Clarke in a tight hug. "Where have you been?" he pressed, wild eyes darting rapidly between Clarke and Finn as he drew back. "Where's Monty?"

        Clarke paled. "Monty's gone?"

        At that, Haven's stomach twisted in morbid realization. "Wait," she breathed, her voice barely audible as her eyes darted around the perimeter, searching for a familiar face that was glaringly absent. "He's not with you guys?"

        Shivering with dread, Clarke hauntingly shook her head. "I—"

        "Clarke, we need to leave—now." Finn's interjection was laden with an unnerving finality. He wiped at the glistening sweat on his brow, his breathing harsh and ragged as he glanced at the rest of the group. "All of us do."

        Orion, as if only now noticing Finn's presence, shot him a death glare that could freeze the sun. "I've got a better idea, Spacewalker," she began icily, "Clarke stays, but you get thrown outside the wall and stay there—forever, and ever, and ever, and EVER—!""

        Haven shook her head in a cautionary warning. "Orion—"

        "What?" Orion's voice carried a thin veneer of innocence, though every word that followed was steeped in venomous spite. "The Grounders should've killed you when they had the chance—twice," she spat, daring a step forward, unconsciously mirroring Bellamy's protective stance. "Just to even the score."

Finn clenched his jaw. "I'm not the only one on their hit list," he retorted, abruptly cutting Orion off before she could slap the shit out of him. "There's an army of Grounders, unlike anything we've ever seen, coming for us—right now. We need to pack what we can and run."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Like hell we do," Bellamy objected, cautiously untwining his fingers from Haven's as he stepped forward. Despite his valiant attempt to assert his authority, the damage from the noose left his voice abhorrently raw, each word a battle that grated through his bruised vocal cords. "We knew this was coming."

        Octavia shook her head. "Bell, we're not prepared."

        "And they're not here yet!" Bellamy flashed his sister an incredulous glare before shifting his focus to encircling crowd. "We still have time to get ready. Besides—where would we go?" He gestured broadly at the camp's barriers, an improvised defense of rusted scrap metal and twisted rebar, all painstakingly welded and reinforced through sweat and sacrifice. "Where would we be safer than behind these walls?"

"There's an ocean to the east," Finn answered. "People there will help us."

        All at once, Octavia's eyes widened, recognition flickering within their cerulean depths before darkening once more. "You saw Lincoln."

        Finn nodded shakily.

        Meanwhile, Haven could hardly even begin to process the rapid succession of their circumstances. The camp, once on the cusp of stability, was shattered by the sudden disappearance of Clarke, Finn, and Monty. Consequently, the delinquents were sent into an immediate tailspin, but before they could even catch their breath—Murphy's treachery had sealed Jasper and Haven in the dropship. It was Bellamy's ultimate sacrifice that secured their release, trading his life for theirs, leaving the others in a frantic race against time to save him from certain death—feverishly awaiting the next shoe to drop.

It always did.

Even as they stumbled into the open air, the threatening clouds of war were amassing, swelling larger and darker with every passing moment. The enemy was advancing, and the teenagers were more vulnerable than they'd ever been before—weakened, battered, broken. Every decision seemed to carry catastrophic consequences, while every misstep felt like it could be their last. Again, and again, and again—they were ensnared in a loop of perpetual crisis, each new disaster piling on the last, smothering any semblance of hope and dragging them deeper into the vortex of their own misery.

        Some seemed ready to abandon ship, to cut their losses and run.

Bellamy fucking refused.

       "This is our home now!" he bellowed, his voice echoing across the camp like rolling thunder. It took every last shred of his energy to project the force and conviction he needed to rally the crowd, his intensity gripping them in a matter of seconds. "We built this from nothing with our bare hands! Our dead are buried behind that wall in this ground!" He gestured to the graveyard looming just behind the dropship with shaking hands. "Our ground!"

       The crowd's formation around Bellamy was organic, fluid, as if they were leaves caught in a current, swirling around him as they inevitably succumbed to his magnetism. Even in their weariness, the delinquents felt the compelling force beneath his words down to their very skeletons—the same force that made the girl standing beside him choose to stay.

       No longer was Bellamy Blake crowned with his usual bravado. His unassailable confidence, once carved from granite, had eroded—no longer the most striking trait about him. Rather than donning the familiar armor of feigned strengths, he funneled every ounce of his withering resolve into the community around him—the eighty-two teenagers who had become his family, who had ignited in him a firestorm of fear, rage, and hope unlike anything he'd ever known. Every fissure in his impenetrable facade had split open, exposing the raw, jagged edges of a man willing to hold onto the fragile home they had built—even if it tore his hands to shreds.

        He would not let them fall.

Not while he had breath in his lungs, fire in his heart, and the indomitable will to fight.

"The Grounders think they can take that away!" Bellamy moved deliberately as he spoke, locking eyes with every single teenager in the crowd, ensuring his words hit home. "They think that because we came from the sky, we don't belong here—but they're yet to realize one very important fact!" He sucked in a ragged breath, then slammed his boots into the earth with the force of a war drum. "We are on the ground now—and that means WE! ARE! GROUNDERS!"

All at once, the crowd erupted into a fearless roar.

United by the primal drive for survival, poised to become teenage veterans—or die trying—the delinquents thrust their fists into the air, their voices exploding in a crescendo of applause that vibrated the very earth beneath their feet. It was a unity unlike anything they'd ever experienced before, one born not of greed, fear, or vengeance, but of an undying will to stand together.

They wanted to live, not merely for their own sake—but for each other.

        For Bellamy.

The king of Haven's heart. The ruler of every atomic particle of her being. The sovereign that halted landslides with a smile and summoned empires with a mere flick of his hand. He was everything, everywhere, all at once—breathing life into the most barren, desolate corners of her soul, forcing her to stand tall even when her mind screamed for the cold embrace of death.

She loved him.

She loved him so fiercely, so wholly—her ribcage felt as though it would shatter from the relentless expansion of her own heart.

"Yeah!" Jones shouted. "Grounders with guns!"

Bellamy's lips curved into a faint grin. "Damn right! I say let 'em come!"

        "Never thought his speeches would make me feel anything other than the urge to puke," Orion remarked, her words just loud enough for Haven to catch. "But...fuck it. I'm in."

        As Haven cast a glance in her direction, she was stunned to find Orion observing Bellamy with the faintest hint of pride. Known for her skepticism of grand proclamations and outright loathing of authority, Orion typically rolled her eyes at the theatrics of leaders. But Bellamy's passion was different—capable of penetrating even the most hardened, jaded hearts. Despite Orion's efforts to remain stubbornly aloof, the edges of an inspired grin tugged at her lips—betraying her facade.

        But...Bellamy wasn't the only leader among them, and he certainly wasn't the only one the delinquents would sacrifice their lives for.

        Clarke stomped out the crowd's enthusiasm just as swiftly as it had ignited. "Bellamy's right. If we leave—we may never find a place as safe as this," she began tentatively, her voice clear yet cautious, seeking to temper the teenagers' fervor. "And God knows, in this world, we could be faced with something even worse tomorrow. But that doesn't change the simple fact that if we stay here, we will die—tonight!"

        A sobering stretch of silence ensued. All traces of the fiery adrenaline Bellamy had evoked from the mob vanished in mere seconds, unnervingly replaced by the familiar weight of dread.

"So pack your things!" Clarke's command cut through the silence with a finality that brooked no argument. "Just take what you can carry—now!"

Stunned into compliance, the teenagers scattered, their initial hesitance morphing into rushed urgency. Clarke's words had abruptly jolted them from the stupor of uncertainty, underscoring the critical need to move, move, move. Backpacks were hastily stuffed with personal belongings. Tents were yanked from the ground and folded with clumsy, trembling hands. Food supplies were tossed into crates without care for organization. The campsite had rapidly become a swirling vortex of movement, each action a reminder that reinforced their reality: they had to leave, and they had to leave fast.

        Bellamy stood immobile.

        His wide eyes instinctively flashed towards Haven, seeking the familiar hum of her gravity, but even her presence couldn't soften the enormity of his despair. Utterly defeated, his lips parted and closed, straining to form words that eluded him with every shuddering breath.

"Well—shit," Orion muttered, observing the whirlwind of activity unfolding around them with a sigh of resignation. Then, she tightened her grip on her sword's strap. "I can still kill the Grounders on the way there...right?"

Haven finally summoned the strength to speak, though every word felt like swallowing sandpaper. "Let's hope we don't have to," she groaned, sweeping a distraught hand across her face before willing herself to inhale. "Go get a head start on the packing the walkies. I'll catch up in a sec."

Before she had the chance to pivot towards Bellamy–a familiar, agonized plea ruptured the air.

"Help me!"

A surge of blinding, deafening fear erupted in the pit of Haven's stomach, annihilating her senses with a force so intense it threatened to shatter her tenuous grip on reality. Instinctively, she spun toward the source of the anguished cry, her legs set into motion while her thoughts scrambled to keep up. She didn't need to think about who it might be—her body recognized the scream as though it were her own.

Raven.

The mechanic staggered into view, stumbling from behind the dropship's rear with blood seeping through her fingers, pressed tightly against her abdomen. Her face was ashen, a ghastly white sheen replacing her usual vitality, her features twisted in unforgiving agony. With one hand, she tried to steady herself against the dropship's metal hull, her knees threatening to buckle, while the other hand clutched the blooming stain of scarlet on her shirt.

"Birdy!" Haven shouted, grinding to a halt in the dirt beside her best friend. She carefully hoisted Raven's arm over her shoulders, nearly collapsing beneath the pressure as Raven leaned her full weight into her. "Birdy—I'm right here, okay? Right here," she panted. "What the hell happened—?"

Soon, the remainder of the core group converged on the staggering duo, their eyes haloed with horror as they absorbed the severity of Raven's injury. Bellamy and Octavia froze to their left, their brows taut with worry, while Finn and Jasper flanked their right. Meanwhile, Clarke dashed ahead, deftly carving a decisive path to the dropship.

       Finn's face was bloodless. "Raven..."

       "MOVE IT—CHEATER!"

        Before Finn could swoop in, coaxing Raven's limp body into his arms—Orion ruthlessly shouldered him aside, bearing the full weight of the wounded girl herself.

        "Murphy shot her," Jasper breathed.

Devastatingly aware of the void where Raven's body should have been, Haven's lips parted in a sudden gasp—all vestiges of oxygen ripped from her lungs as the truth settled in. It was as if the veil obscuring her vision since entering the dropship had finally been torn away. Memories from before she had turned its interior into a bloodbath ricocheted beneath her skull—the door circuit, the staccato burst of gunfire, the scream that had lurked on the fringes of her consciousness, but never fully registered until now.

She left Raven alone.

She left Raven—alone—beneath the floorboards, utterly defenseless against the onslaught of Murphy's bullets.

She left her. She left her. She left her.

"Get her into the dropship!" Clarke demanded, diving headfirst into barking orders, agitatedly shooing aside a flock of clustered delinquents near the entrance. "C'mon! Move!"

        Just as Clarke was about to vanish behind the curtain after Orion and the others, Bellamy's hand shot out, gripping her forearm with an urgency that bordered on panic. "Clarke, leaving here is a mistake."

        Clarke barely acknowledged him. "The decision's been made."

        "Crowds make bad decisions—just ask Murphy," Bellamy persisted, the muscle in his jaw tightening against the strain of holding himself together. "Leaders do what they think is right."

"I am."

With her lips pressed into a taut line, Clarke decisively edged past the enormity of Bellamy's frame, marching up the dropship's ramp before doubt could sink its teeth into her throat.

Bellamy defeatedly held his head in his hands, fingers coiling through his sodden crown of curls as he paced towards the rear of the dropship. It had become his sanctuary over the past few weeks, his reprieve from the camp's constant noise and chaos, a place where the burdens of leadership seemed less oppressive. But even here—his lungs felt tainted by rage, every breath smothered by the weight of despair. As the pressure mounted, he unleashed a stream of violent curses, yanking his fingers from his hair and slamming his bruised fist against the metal wall.

        The sting wasn't enough.

        He struck again, then once more, each blow a futile attempt to expel the fury coursing through his veins, to pummel himself out of his own skin. But when he wound up for the third strike—his forearm was caught mid-air.

Haven.

The name barely scratched the surface of what Bellamy felt every time their eyes met. A tender glance of familiarity ebbed between them, a whisper of reassurance, an unspoken language that belonged entirely to them alone. But it was the devastating exhaustion in her eyes that almost broke him, nearly doubling over in mere seconds. The depth of her weariness forced him to confront his own fatigue, slowing him down, softening his rage as she lowered his forearm to his side.

        Her hands shook almost as violently as his own.

"What are we doing?" Bellamy panted, his breath emerging in tortured, ragged gasps as he pressed his back against the steel wall. "What the hell are we doing?"

"I wish I knew," Haven whispered. "I—"

        "This is everything we've worked for." Bellamy shook his head, gripping his knees as he hunched over in anguish. If his eyes could scorch the earth—everything in sight would've been fucking incinerated. "Everything."

        Haven cautiously drew her lip between her teeth. "You're right," she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper, its softness betraying her own uncertainty. "But all of it is meaningless without each other—no matter where we go."

Bellamy scowled. "We can't just run away."

"We're not." Haven dared a step closer, halting just beside his torso, keenly aware of the tremors wracking through every fiber of his being. She desperately sought his eyes, but he kept them glued to the dirt, his head bowed in sorrow. "It's a strategic retreat. We'll come back when the dust settles—alive." Her chin wobbled as she forced out her next words. "For Monty. For all of them."

Bellamy's eyes instinctively flitted towards the graveyard that loomed in the distance. Eighteen graves were alive with ghosts, effigies of those they had lost, cruel reminders of how much they still stood to lose. Abandoning their final resting place to march into yet another battlefield felt like a morbid betrayal, an abhorrent erasure of their memory. If he was destined to join their fallen friends, to lay with his own blood salting the earth—why couldn't he just stay and die beside them?

        "I can't leave," Bellamy rasped, "I can't—"

His heart sputtered as a hand squeezed his.

        "Bellamy...you can."

As his eyes finally succumbed to gravity, irresistibly drawn into the throes of her silvery orbit—Bellamy found himself staggeringly reminded of his true purpose, his reason for being, his strongest tether to the dark and sinister world among them.

Haven stared at him with the force of a thousand galaxies. "You can," she whispered, repeating the words as if they were a solemn oath. "You owe yourself the chance to try."

For a fleeting moment, Bellamy caught the faintest glimmer of his reflection in her eyes—older, wearier, the remnants of the boy he'd once been. It felt like a lifetime ago since he'd first met Haven, back when Earth was merely a distant dream. Not the scorched, forsaken wasteland it had become. Her eyes seemed to cradle the memory of that seventeen-year old boy, the one who hadn't yet seen his friends fall in battle, who hadn't felt the cold vice of loss. As he stared more intently, he could almost see the ghost of his former self staring back at him—the shadow of a boy who knew laughter without the taste of ash, and dreams untainted by death.

The graves behind Bellamy whispered promises of eternal rest, their siren song a soft, beguiling melody that invited him to lay down his burdens and embrace the quiet oblivion of death. It would be so simple to let go, to succumb to their icy allure, to stop warring against the storm surge of his grief. But as his eyes met Haven's again, he felt it—the fragile thread connecting him to something real, living, breathing, the hope that enticed him to dream again.

        Even if darkness tugged at his leash, even if the graves beckoned, he knew he couldn't follow—not while she was still here.

        Not while he still had a reason to fight.

• •

THE FORCE OF RAVEN'S SCREAMS WAS VOLCANIC, her voice erupting with such ferocity that it seemed to ignite the very air around them. In the shadowed recesses of the dropship, she lay sprawled across a table, her body writhing violently as Clarke cauterized her bullet wound. One of the mechanic's hands clasped Haven's, threatening to crush bone, while the other hand dug deep into the fabric of her jeans, twisting the material into tight knots.

Haven could hardly maintain her footing as Clarke tended to Raven's wound. It was as if the phantom sting of the red-hot knife seeped into her own flesh, prompting her knees to buckle and her stomach to churn. With every ounce of willpower, she dug her heels into the floor, refusing to let go of Raven's hand, uncaring of the waning strength in her fingers.

        Yet, even as she fought to remain upright, a sinister voice—a venomous whisper—slithered into her mind, hissing that it should have been her on that table, not Raven. The truth of it all was cruelly unbearable: if things had gone differently, if she had only just listened to her head instead of her stupid, bleeding heart—it would have been her with a bullet buried in her abdomen.

         It should have been.

"That should stop the external bleeding."

At the sound of Clarke's voice, Haven had to forcibly tear her eyes from the gruesome wound on Raven's torso. It felt surreal to see the blonde again; Clarke's movements were mechanical, almost robotic, as if she were unaffected by the sight of blood and merely going through the motions. After discarding the searing knife, she met Haven's eyes with a hollow stare, offering a subtle nod before resuming her place beside Finn.

According to Finn, their capture by the Grounders had thrown them into a savage fight for survival—a stark deviation from Haven's expectation of encountering the Mountain Men. He glossed over majority of the details, visibly shaken by the recollection of it all, though the resolve etched into his features was hard as stone.

But even the firmest stone can crack.

And as Finn found himself insidiously pinned beneath the intensity of Bellamy's death glare—it was the closest he came to shattering completely.

Swallowing thickly, Finn released an elongated breath, his features contorting into a mask of forced composure as he faced Bellamy's scrutiny. "I don't understand," he huffed, "How did Murphy get a gun?"

        Orion's retort was lethal, instinctive, carried on the wings of her undying disdain. "How did your asshole get rewired to your fucklet of a face?" she spat venomously. "Every word out of your mouth is horse shit."

        Finn fought against the urge to grimace. He had fully anticipated the inevitable hostility upon his return, though nothing could adequately prepare him to face the formidable pair flanking Haven. If looks could kill, Bellamy's glare alone would have been enough to slaughter him. Paradoxically, Orion's eyes promised a swift resurrection, only to pummel him into submission all over again.

        "Long story," Bellamy muttered.
       
        "We got lucky," Raven wheezed, her breaths ragged as she miserably attempted to choke down her agony. "If Murphy hit the fuel tank instead of me, we'd all be dead."

Haven shook her head. "I wouldn't call that lucky," she murmured. Guided by the tendrils of remorse, her fingertips curled inward, each nail gouging mercilessly into her already wounded palms. "I should've—"

The tempest within her subsided as Bellamy discreetly slipped his hand into her own. It started with a gentle touch, almost imperceptible beneath their sleeves, his fingers intertwining with hers so delicately that Haven hardly even noticed her nails sinking into his flesh, too. If he felt the biting sting, he certainly didn't show it; his gaze remained stoically ahead, absorbing the imprint of her unrest until she finally snapped out of it.

His fingers were unfathomably soft as he tapped her knuckles once, twice—three times.

"Wait..." Clarke's brows furrowed in deep thought, her lip caught between her teeth as she pondered Raven's words. "There's rocket fuel down there? Enough to build a bomb?"

        "Enough to build 100 bombs..." Raven sucked in another shaky inhale, adjusting her position on the table to alleviate her discomfort. "...if we had any gunpowder left."

"I hope Murphy dies," Orion scoffed, "Like, super violently."

"I should've killed him."

Five pairs of eyes instinctively flashed towards Haven as she concluded her earlier sentence. Luckily for her, no one pressed for an explanation regarding why she was adorned in two shades of blood, or why the ladder and second floor were practically drenched in scarlet. Not even Orion asked when she had gently wiped away the ruby remnants from Haven's cheeks. Perhaps they deemed it too early to pry into the horrors that unfolded within the metal tomb—or perhaps they already grasped the grim truth all too well.

        One beat passed. Another.

        And then . . .

        "Get in line," Orion huffed, "I call dibs."

        Bellamy cleared his throat, smoothly steering the group's focus far away from Haven, ensuring she wasn't subject to further scrutiny. "Let's get back to the Repears," he proposed, lifting Lincoln's journal further into the dim light. "Maybe they'll help us. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?"

Right. Reapers.

Haven resisted the urge to wince as she glimpsed the drawing laid out before them. By some inexplicable stroke of luck, Octavia had lent the cherished journal to the group—though it did little to alleviate their frayed nerves. The weathered pages unveiled a myriad of sketches depicting tattooed warriors, clad in attire distinct from both Grounders and Mountain Men, yet somehow a thousand times more menacing.

Clarke's lips were bloodless. "Not this enemy."

"We saw them," Finn added lowly, his eyes dark and haunted, shrouded beneath the veil of their recent trauma. "Trust me, it's not an option."

Meanwhile, the gears in Haven's mind spun at a frantic pace, each cog churning with urgency. "Wait. Bellamy's right," she started, a pensive furrow forming between her brows as she assessed the situation further. "If we can somehow...recruit them, it might not be the worst idea."

"Are you concussed?" Finn retorted.

        Bellamy menacingly tilted his head. "Do you want to be?"

        An unspoken duel brewed between the men, scorching the air with its intensity and forcing the group into silence. Driven by instinct, Bellamy took a deliberate step forward, the edge of the table edging biting his hips as he leaned in, ready to breach the divide and throttle his adversary head-on. Across from him, Finn marshaled every shred of his resolve into a scathing glare—but its potency wavered the moment Bellamy tightened his jaw in warning.

        Haven blew out an exasperated breath. "Look, all I'm saying is that we need to be prepared for the worst. We have no backup plan if this goes south," she reasoned, her weary gaze sweeping across the group in search of understanding. "Lincoln is an ally. If he can help us again—distracting the Grounders with the Repears would buy us more time to run." Her voice softened as she glanced to Raven's prone form below her. "Less casualties."

"We don't have time, Hav." Finn solemnly shook his head before pivoting to Raven once more. For a fleeting moment, it appeared as though he might touch her, but she subconsciously recoiled before he could act. "Can she walk or not?"

        Clarke frowned. "No. We have to carry her."

        "The hell you will!" Raven's objection was swift and vehement, wincing in agony as she attempted to sit herself upright—her pride refusing to concede to the notion of being coddled. "I'm good to go."

Haven instinctively reached for Raven's hand again. "Birdy..."

"No!" Raven's protest echoed across the room like atomic thunder. "No, this is fucking stupid—!"

         "Hey—listen to me," Clarke interjected, her commanding presence softened by a trace of worry as she gently guided Raven back to the table. "That bullet is still inside you. If by some miracle, there's no internal bleeding, it might hold until we get somewhere safe. But you are not walking there." She raised an unyielding brow. "Is that clear?"

Raven nodded. Defeatedly.

Acknowledging Raven's compliance with a solemn glance, Finn wasted no time darting towards the exit. "I'll get the stretcher."

"Can't run away fast enough, huh?"

Finn's strides propelled him merely four feet in the opposite direction before Bellamy's taunt snarled through the air. Agitated, the Collins boy spun on his heels, only to find himself confronted by Bellamy—who had already closed the gap with unnerving swiftness. Each of the men stood poised to snap, storm clouds coalescing within the narrow space between them, their gazes locked in a silent clash of wills.

"Real brave," Bellamy hissed.

"Dying in a fight you can't win isn't brave, Bellamy," Finn fumed. "It's stupid."

"Spoken like every coward who's ever run from a fight and every pussy who can't apologize for starting it."

Something within Haven shifted as she unearthed the true essence of Bellamy's rage. It became painfully evident that his wrath wasn't merely a result of the men's divergent views on war tactics—it was rooted in Finn's complicity surrounding her death.

In Bellamy's mind, the nuances of the situation were eclipsed by a blinding truth: Haven had died—twice—and Finn stood as the most convenient and deserving target of blame. Although Finn hadn't thrown the first punch, he irreversibly sealed his fate the moment he left Raven to die on the bridge, forcing Haven to intervene and save her. The subsequent beating she'd given him afterwards was undoubtedly warranted, and the reckoning he'd yet to receive at Bellamy's hands was imminent. Whether Finn's actions had intentionally led to Haven's demise or not, whether his remorse was genuine or merely a masterful facade...none of it mattered in the slightest.

        The fact that Finn had dared to lay a finger on her was damning enough.

"Alright—that's enough!" Clarke's voice pierced the escalating tension, her restraint barely masking the impulse to yank both of them by the ears and force them into compliance. "It's time to go."

        Reluctantly, Bellamy tore his eyes away from Finn, though his remained clenched with poorly restrained rage. "If they follow?" he asked lowly. "It's a one-hundred and twenty mile walk to the ocean."

        "Look, we're wasting time. If he wants to stay—he can stay." Finn declared, shooting Bellamy a final, wretched glare before redirecting his attention to the girl looming behind his shoulder. "Hav, help me with the stretcher."

        Haven went rigid.

        "Oh, fuck no." Orion interjected, defiantly crossing her arms and twisting her lips into a scornful sneer. "Why, Finn? Got somethin' you wanna say to her that you can't share with the group?"

Undoubtedly exasperated, Finn shook his head, dismissing Orion's vehement distrust with a firm swivel on his heels—prompting her to covertly shoot him two middle fingers. Just before vanishing behind the exit's curtain, Finn paused, casting a lingering to Haven glance over his shoulder.

Well—shit.

As desperately as Haven longed to avoid their inevitable conversation, she also couldn't deny its importance. Despite this, she still found herself grappling with her own readiness to contribute, because really—what the fuck could she even say? Finn could articulate his thoughts freely, and she would listen, but she held no illusions about a resolution emerging from their exchange.

Perhaps it would serve as the final severance to their bond, a bitter acknowledgment of the irreconcilable differences that had driven them apart. Perhaps, against the odds, they could find some semblance of common ground. Or perhaps, more accurately—the damage he'd inflicted was miserably, utterly, fucking irreparable.

But...she'd give it a shot.

        Sensing the familiar warmth of his stare brushing against her temples, Haven glanced to Bellamy. His eyes were narrowed into slits, though there was no trace of disdain that lurked beneath his veil of lashes. Rather, they held a quiet acceptance, as if he had already glimpsed the trajectory of her decision and now silently awaited her confirmation.

She offered him a soundless nod.

Then, he squared his jaw.

"I'll be here," Bellamy called out, the steel timbre in his tone mirroring the lethal grip on his rifle. As the duo slipped through the exit, he deliberately raised his voice, ensuring the threat beneath his words was unmistakable. "You know—just holding my GUN!"

        Orion's voice fervently erupted into a distant shout of her own. "Yeah! I'll be polishing Michonne!" she thundered. "Just in case I need to twist somebody's organs into chips and salsa—!"

         As Haven trailed behind Finn, descending the dropship's ramp, the wind's ferocious howl swallowed the tail end of Orion's threat, but its barbed intensity lingered, prickling at the nape of her neck. Despite Finn's stoic facade—eyes fixed on the ground, hands buried in his pockets—a palpable tension lingered in the air between them. Together, they moved towards one of the remaining supply tents, each step weighed down by the burden of unspoken words.

        Camp itself was still in the throes of disassembly. More tents had been dismantled, their skeletal frames casting elongated shadows across the dirt. A pile of miscellaneous weapons lay heaped nearby, while blankets scattered haphazardly in the wind. Nearby delinquents glanced at the duo with strange curiosity, their eyes lingering longer than usual, clearly startled to see them together; Miller seemed willing to pounce if necessary, while Jasper scrunched his brows in bewilderment. Yet, despite the outward scrutiny—the excruciating silence that ebbed between them remained impenetrable.

        Until . . .
 
        Finn released a weighted breath. "Look..."

        "We don't have to talk about it," Haven interjected dismissively, her attention already diverted as they entered the supply tent. With casual indifference, she stepped ahead of him, solely focused on locating the stretcher. "I don't want to. I...I don't have the energy for it. Not today."

Finn cautiously trailed behind the Smith girl, his movements slow and deliberate, as if navigating a treacherous minefield. "We could die today," he confessed quietly. "I don't want to die knowing that you hate me. I don't want you to die thinking that I hate you."

        Haven's words landed with an astounding flatness, entirely devoid of emotion, reaching out for the stretcher perched upon a high shelf. "I don't hate you, Finn."

"You should."

"It's not your fault that I died." Haven gritted her teeth in frustration, stretching up on her tallest tiptoes, her fingers tantalizingly close to the stupid object of reach. "If that's what you're concerned about—I don't blame you for it. Your conscience can be absolved, and we can move the fuck on."

        Finn sighed, daring a thoughtful step closer, a silent offer of assistance. "That's not..." He shook his head, his voice strained as he wrestled to articulate his thoughts. Fluidly, he lowered the stretcher to the ground, acutely aware of Haven averting her eyes. "That's not all that I have to apologize for."

        "Go take your apology to Raven," Haven huffed coldly. "Not me."

"Would it kill you to just look at me?"

"That's an awful choice of words."

        Finn instinctively slammed a palm across his forehead. "Shit," he cursed, the enormity of his self-reproach almost palpable. After a moment, he gathered himself, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. "Look, when the Grounders kidnapped me and Clarke, I had to...defend us, too." He swallowed hard. "I had to make a decision that I didn't want to."

At that, Haven finally summoned the strength to face him. Despite observing the Collins boy earlier in the day, this moment felt distinctly...strange. As if she were finally transcending the tangled web of their turbulent past to glimpse the true essence of Finn—an essence unblemished by the scars of her animosity. Lost in the throes of her own emotions, she had barely registered the additional wounds adorning his pallid skin—wounds not of her making, with blood staining his fingers that wasn't his own.

        "What I'm trying to say is...I'm sorry," Finn confessed, fearlessly meeting the intensity of her stare, refusing to cower beneath its judgement. "I'm sorry for what I said to you about Dax. I'm sorry for condescending you about it. I-I get it now." He offered her a slow nod of understanding. "You did what you had to do."

        A trace of humanity flickered in the dismal space between them.

        As Haven digested Finn's apology, she couldn't dismiss the morbid weight of its implications—it hinted at a reality she hadn't fully grasped before. It meant that Finn, too, had likely taken a life; whether for himself or for Clarke, Haven wasn't sure. Yet, as he met her eyes, one fact remained abundantly clear—Finn's carefully crafted persona as the peaceful, nonviolent pacifist was nowhere to be found.

        Those qualities abandoned him the moment he had cheated on his longtime girlfriend. Now, he stood as a shadow of a man, burdened by the weight of his betrayal and the vile tailspin of events that followed. With fresh blood staining his hands and scars marring his heart, he desperately sought redemption through apology, striving to mend what he had broken. It was as though he had finally shed the mask of pretense, exposing his rawest self to the harsh realities of his actions—a bitter pill to swallow, met with either a forceful kick to his teeth or a begrudging acceptance.

        Haven could respect that.

        At least it was something real.

        With her lip ensnared between her teeth, Haven confronted Finn's admission with a probing question of her own. "Would you do it again? Kill somebody?"

        Finn studied her for a moment.

       "Yeah," he confessed. "Yeah. I would."

There was no trace of dishonesty lurking within the depths of Finn's eyes. From childhood, she had learned to decipher his honesty, recognizing the telltale scratch at the nape of his neck when falsehoods danced on his lips. But their reality had twisted into something far grimmer since those innocent days of squabbles over dinner rolls. Now, their conversations revolved around matters of life and death, the stakes higher, the consequences irreversibly permanent.

        Within Finn's admission, Haven unearthed a morbid sense of solace, an understanding forged within the shared burden of their fatal choices. The distinction between right and wrong blurred into murky shades of necessity, amplified by the grim echos of Dax's demise and Murphy's slaughter. If fate demanded it, if the threat of the impending war sought after the lives of everybody who held close—Haven knew she would wield that burden again.

Unflinchingly.

        "Also, I...um, found this."

With a subtle rustle, Finn delved into the depths of his cargo pants, emerging with a delicate object cradled between his fingers. Its presence seemed to carry a weight of its own as he extended it towards Haven, his movements cautious, as if handling a fragile relic from another time.

It was her locket.

Adorned in crimson and onyx smears of blood, the dainty piece of jewlery lay flat within her trembling palms, its delicate features now obscured by the grim aftermath of violence. Yet, amid its ruination, there still remained a fragile semblance of beauty—a glimmer that defied the darkness, capturing the ethereal dance of sunlight that filtered through the tent's fabric walls.

        Tears eclipsed Haven's irises in seconds.

       "It was tangled around the first-floor hatch," Finn continued cautiously. "Thought you might be missing it."

Haven nodded, her voice barely above a whisper as she fought to contain the cruel onslaught of grief surging within her. "Yeah," she murmured, acutely aware of her throat constricting. "Yeah, just...give me a sec. I'll catch up in a minute."

        For a fleeting moment, Finn seemed on the brink of voicing something more, his lips parting and closing in silent contemplation. Yet, no words escaped him. Instead, he conveyed his unspoken sentiments with a nod of understanding, then slipped through the fabric with the stretcher in hand.

Alone within the confines of the tent, Haven felt herself fracture—the cracks of her meticulously crafted facade widened until she wholly, irreparably shattered.

Silent sobs wracked her body as she sunk to the ground, her back finding support against a nearby storage case to keep herself upright. Through tear blurred vision, she futilely wiped at the blood staining the surface of the locket, each swipe a desperate plea to undo the damage inflicted upon it. Vainly, she beseeched the cosmos above, clinging to a fragile hope that perhaps, if she wiped hard enough, she could restore it to its former state.

By some cruel twist of fate, the lock to open the necklace remained intact, its metal yielding reluctantly to her touch and revealing its contents with a faint, mocking creak.

Her mother's smiling face stared back at her.

Stained with Murphy's blood.

        But there was no time for Haven to further lose herself in the depths of her anguish, to surrender her being to the grief that pulsed within her like a second heartbeat. As she studied the image further, her sights traced the contours of the locket, lingering on the newly formed dent at the corner of its frame. It was a stark reminder of the violence that had intruded upon this cherished keepsake, damning evidence of the metal being mercilessly stomped on.

        Then, a slip of paper caught her eye.

        Beneath the edge of the battered metal, its white hue jutted out like a cruel taunt amidst the surrounding darkness, beckoning with an almost eerie allure. For a moment, Haven wondered it she had truly gone fucking insane; she had scoured the locket relentlessly during her time in the Sky Box, desperately seeking any shred of connection or solace from her late mother. Yet, as she inspected the dent further, an icy realization dawned upon her—the paper had been cunningly welded beneath the locket's perimeter.

        Almost as if Dahlia had intended for it to be found, but to uncover its secrets—the barrier of metal would need to be broken.

        At least Murphy was good for something.

Undeterred by the tears that continued to bleed down her cheeks, Haven clasped the paper between her fingers, her touch imbued with a sense of frantic urgency. Gently, she maneuvered its corner, coaxing it out from its position beneath the metal's unforgiving grip. The further she tugged, the more the paper seemed to unfurl.

       And then, in a sudden moment of liberation, the entire scrap came free, succumbing to her touch as if acknowledging its destined release. Nestled within the sanctuary of her palms, it became apparent that the paper had been meticulously folded into a miniature square, its corners crisp and precise, barely larger than a thumbnail on each side.

It was a note.

With trembling hands, Haven delicately unfurled the scrap of parchment, revealing the first words that lay hidden within.

        BUG, I HOPE YOU'LL UNDERSTAND.

        She squeezed her eyes shut.

        For years, Haven had pleaded with the universe for answers, yearning to unravel the enigma shrouding her mother's descent into madness, the same madness that ultimately led to her execution. It was an eternal quest for understanding, a desperate longing to comprehend the incomprehensible.

And yet, now that the answers lay within her grasp, Haven found herself paralyzed by fear. The truth, she realized, was a double-edged sword—a revelation that could either bring solace, or inflict irreparable wounds upon her bleeding, mortal heart. Perhaps the conclusions she had drawn in her mind, the half-truths and comforting illusions, offered a shield from the agonizing reality awaited her.

Perhaps she was better off not knowing.

        But the note's enigmatic allure was impossible to resist. Deep down, Haven knew that avoiding its truth would only prolong her torment, trapping her further into the cycle of perpetual uncertainty. And so, with an iron heart and trembling resolve, she steeled herself to unfold the secrets that lay hidden within the cryptic message, fully aware that once the truth emerged—there would be no turning back.

        "Dearest Selene. . ."

        What the fuck?
      
        Oh—right. Grandma Selene.

"Dearest Selene. . .

I compose this missive with a heavy heart, laden with sentiments I wish I could convey in person. Yet, the stars dictate otherwise.

Know that you are loved and cherished beyond the human capacity of words. Your mother and I harbor no intent of forsaking you willingly. Circumstance has cornered us. Polaris, our home, faces coercion into an alliance with other space stations. Refusal entails annihilation by missile. As you read this, we shall have already departed.

        Understand, dear one, it was never our volition. Your mother's occupation has ensnared us. Should we acquiesce, her technological innovations risk infecting other stations, imperiling not just us but countless lives. Such a gamble is untenable.

Hence, a plan was conceived.

I shall transport you to safety. You will find refuge aboard the American space station, your best chance at survival. How I long to witness your growth, but I shall have perished ere you read this.

        Your mother, however, will endure.

        By now, you may have noticed your unique physiology—your blood runs black. Guard this secret zealously. Through her brilliance, your mother devised a serum granting you resilience against chemical radiation.

        This brings us to Earth.

        An emergency pod will carry your mother there. You know of it from history books, a planet teeming with radiation. Yet, the serum renders it hospitable to you both.

Your sole objective is to reunite with her.

You inherit the ingenuity of two remarkable individuals. Trust your instincts, for I am certain you will achieve greatness. Your mother will rejoice in your triumphs.

Carry our legacy proudly. Generations of talented women precede you. Should you falter, they shall continue the lineage.

Earth beckons not as a dream, but as your destiny.

Seize it by any means necessary.

With love,

Silas Smith & Becca Franko. "

        As soon as Haven's eyes reached the bottom of the page, she instinctively flipped it over, seeking any trace of her mother's handwriting to further unravel the letter's mysteries—any words that were meant for her, her daughter—only to be met with the stark, unforgiving emptiness of blank space.

All that lingered on the parchment was the haunting echo of her great-grandfather's words, each stroke of ink a cruel reminder of the legacy that preceded her. Silas's letter to his beloved Selene, Haven's grandmother, unfolded the same narrative that Dahlia had solemnly recounted during Unity Day celebrations. Yet, rather than illuminating her mother's choices, it merely cast a shadow of despair, further widening the gaping void Dahlia's absence had left behind.

        It wasn't Silas's words that Haven craved.

        It was her mother's.

        In a way, Silas's letter did offer a glimpse into the familial legacy of relentless pursuit, hinting that perhaps Dahlia's fervent quest to reach Earth echoed her own mother's restless exploration. Yet, this revelation did little to soothe the profound wreckage that festered within Haven's soul. Time and time again, Dahlia had prioritized her own obsessive passions over her daughter's livelihood—stooping as low as to deliberately conceal the letter, waiting until the locket fractured, until Haven reached her breaking point, to unveil its contents.

        But even then, Dahlia's own words remained elusive, leaving Haven to confront the agonizing reality of her mother's abandonment—alone—all over again.

BUG, I HOPE YOU'LL UNDERSTAND.

As Haven reread the final trace of her mother's existence, the last words ever shared with her daughter...she understood; she understood everything with a harrowing clarity. This was simply her mother's way, her modus operabdi—teasing morsels of affection, only to be met with a stinging slap to the face. Navigating labyrinthine mazes strewn with cut glass, yearning for a glimpse of approval, only to be met with scorn, demanding more sacrifice, more blood.

        Despite the brilliance that flowed through their lineage, it all fizzled into insignificance with Haven's birth—a truth Dahlia relentlessly hammered into her daughter's psyche. In her mother's eyes, Haven was not a cherished legacy but a tragic blemish—a blight in the bloodline, a failed vessel of creation.

        An exit wound for eternity.

• •

9.3k words!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS UP!!

becca franko is indeed mother yall (great grandmother) confirmed 😗 ✌️ for faceclaim purposes & accuracy to haven's ethnicity im most likely gonna recast her ! but i'm not sure who yet. we dont have to worry about that until s3 🫡 & in case anyone forgot silas & polaris were mentioned in the unity day chapterr

this chapter was actually like the hardest to write ever. everything ive been writing recently has been sooo long and putting me so behind schedule with editing, plus i had the WORST writers block ever ever 😭 haven isn't too involved in this, she is mostly observant & trying not to off herself 😌 i was editing and im like damn shes going through it... and then i think well wait... does ANYBODY actually want to live in this book??? 😭😭 the answer is no!!

anyway i say all this to say this is kinddd of filler for the finale chapters but still important!! next chapter is better i promise u will be kicking ur feet!!!

how does everyone feel about finn???

and how are the girlies with mommy issues😎😎😎😎

I LOVE YOU<3