• •

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE;

THE BOY WHO BLOCKED HIS OWN SHOT.

• •

        WHAT EXISTED AT THE END OF THE GODDAMN WORLD? Gilded ivory gates, beckoning souls into heaven's tender embrace? A scorching staircase, descending into the abyssal depths of hell? Or . . . was there a realm untouched by the hands of divine decree? Perhaps there existed a third place, a desolate expanse where lost souls roam. A realm twisted and torn at its very edges, an eerie limbo suspended between the ethereal glow of paradise and the infernal depths of damnation.

        Perhaps it was worse than either of them.

        For as long as Bellamy Blake could remember—it had always been himself, his sister, and their mother, a trinity bound by blood and undying devotion. He never asked for anything more, never dared to dream of a life beyond their tight-knit existence. The oath he'd taken to protect Octavia from the Ark's corrupt government was ingrained in his very being from the age of five. A life before her was a distant, irrelevant memory, one he never sought to recall—he didn't need to. Every sacrifice he made for her was worth it, each one justified by the simple assurance of witnessing her smile.

        Until, one day, it was no longer just them.

        On his first official day as a Cadet, a violent, thrashing fifteen-year-old was thrust into Bellamy's scrawny arms. She clawed at his forearms viciously, spewing curses and threats as he escorted her to her cell, each word a cruel dagger piercing his shaky resolve. In a desperate bid to mend the chasm between them, he offered a flimsy locket salvaged from her living quarters—an emblem of peace. Yet, as she beheld the token, her once-fiery gaze fractured, watery eyes reflecting the collapse of a thousand dying stars.

        He had been assigned as her guard that day because he was the only one who had managed to quell her thrashing.

For months, she continued to wield her silence like a weapon, an excruciating wall of indifference that stung far more than her earlier assaults. He dutifully escorted her to her doctor's appointments, a silent sentinel by her side, his hand always offered in quiet solidarity—only to be met with a dismissive flick every time she endured the sting of the needles.

       Until, one day . . . she reached for it first.

It was a silent truce.

        A subconscious surrender.

Just as Bellamy's couldn't pinpoint the moment his little sister became his entire world . . . he also couldn't pinpoint Haven's ascendance to the throne of his fucking universe. The genesis of his love for her eluded definition—it wasn't a singular event, but a continuous, ineffable force that had always coursed through his veins, intertwining with the very fibers of his being.
       
It was . . . beautiful.

        Until it wasn't.

        Until desperation drove him to hold a gun to a doctor's temple, a frantic bid to save Haven's life, only to be shattered by the cataclysmic truth that she had died anyway. Until the sequence of his choices irreparably compromised his sister's safety, leading to her arrest, and sealed his mother's fate for eternity.

        He had lost all of them.

        All at once.

       Bellamy already knew what hell felt like. Its presence loomed over him well before he was dragged to death's doorstep, left to await his inevitable condemnation. He had stomached the bitter taste of grief, felt it claw at his soul with every lifeless stare of a fallen friend, and every bone-shattering decision that weighed heavily upon his weary shoulders. The year of separation from his sister, the agonizing void in place of his mother, the irrevocable loss of the girl he loved . . . the trauma of it all had seared itself into his DNA, distorting him beyond recognition.

        He wasn't merely a man, not anymore; he was a vessel of torment, consumed by the relentless flames of despair, his existence a twisted monument to suffering.

       In spite of this, Bellamy clung fiercely to the belief that heaven must exist, because he had basked in the beauty of her existence.

        Heaven was warm. Touchable. Real. Alive.

        He had cradled Haven delicately, a fortress of shelter, his chest swelling with the enormity of his devotion until it felt as though every atom of his heart was composed solely for her. The desolate hollow between his ribs had long ceased its solitary rhythm, no longer beating for his own sake; it hadn't for years. Instead—it pulsed in resonance with the eternity he glimpsed within her eyes, her laughter, her fury, her smile.

He loved her.

He loved her with a depth and intensity that eclipsed the boundaries of mortal comprehension. It was a love so profound, so all-encompassing, that he had been willing to lay down his life above her—summoning the last reserves of his strength to shield her from her own demise.

But now . . . she was gone.

Again.

And as Bellamy clawed his way from the depths of unconsciousness, his hand instinctively reaching for her warmth, only to grasp at cold, barren dirt–he knew he had descended into the third realm.

There was heaven. There was hell.

Then, there was this.

It was a place far more desolate and incendiary than the depths of hell, lightyears further than the reaches of heaven. Here, time held its breath, and existence itself was woven from the jagged threads of longing, despair, and the haunting echoes of all he stood to lose.

        He wasn't dead.

        But fuck—he felt like it.

        Memories obliterated every iota of his consciousness as Bellamy fought to pry open his eyes. Every inch of him throbbed with agony. He couldn't distinguish whether the ringing in his ears was from the multitude of concussions he'd suffered or the sheer calamity of his thoughts. He felt like he was decomposing, his skin tinged permanently scarlet, his bones surely bruised and fractured. Weakly, he tried to raise his head, only to recoil in pain as stars exploded across his vision.

        Whatever.

        He had to get up. He had to.

        Bellamy certainly hadn't imagined that his demise would come at the hands of a fucking Grounder. Surely, there were far more dignified ways to slip into the edge of extinction. Yet, here he was—his body a canvas of agony, each bruise and laceration a testament to the brutal onslaught he'd endured. Refusing to stay immobile, he rallied whatever remnants of vitality remained within him, lifting his battered spine from the dirt and propping himself onto his elbows.

        Where was Haven?

        . . . And why the fuck was he in a foxhole?

        Bellamy peered deeper into the shroud of darkness, blinking rapidly, straining to discern any semblance of clarity in his surroundings. If memory served him correctly, he had collapsed on the outskirts of the camp, his body intertwined with hers—certainly not tucked within the confines of a foxhole. Yet, as he surveyed the landscape more clearly, the contours of the north alcove gradually emerged from the shadows, confirming his suspicions. It was a terrain he knew well, not far from where they had succumbed to exhaustion.

       Maybe Haven had awakened before him, dragged his prone form to a less exposed spot, then ventured off in search of other survivors.

        That's exactly what she would do.

        Still . . . the horror in his chest remained insatiable.

        "Haven?" he rasped hoarsely, "Haven!"

        Nothing.

        Grunting through gritted teeth, Bellamy defied the protests of his aching body, his muscles protesting vehemently as he dragged himself off the harsh ground. His vision blurred and tripled as he finally managed to stand upright, but the disorientation failed to deter him from launching into a full-fledged sprint. Dismissing his vertigo, he scoured every inch of the foxhole, delving into its shadowy depths in search of any sign of Haven's familiar presence, only for his efforts to yield nothing—yet again.

        What the hell was going on here?

        Panic coiled like a vise around every one of Bellamy's internal organs, tightening them into taut, serpentine knots as he pressed on with his frantic search. At last, he emerged from the confines of the foxhole, pausing at the fern-infested mouth of the makeshift shelter. With a wary eye, he scrutinized his surroundings, searching for any lurking threats among the desolate expanse of the north field. Once a battleground teeming with life and fervor, now reduced to a graveyard of shattered dreams and stolen lives.

All that remained were the bodies of the fallen . . . friend and foe alike.
      
        Death was everywhere.

        "Haven!" he shouted, far louder than he did the first time, wholly uncaring of the potential risk of exposing himself. "Haven!"

Bellamy couldn't afford to halt and mourn—not now, not even as his body pleaded to surrender and die alongside them. If he allowed himself to dwell on the fallen children he had once led into battle, he feared his resolve would crumble irreparably, and he couldn't afford that—not when Haven's whereabouts remained unknown.

And so, with despair clogging his lungs, he wrenched a lone spear from the grasp of a nearby skeleton, then plunged into the winding foliage ahead.

His body moved as if it knew no bounds.

Eyes peeled in every possible direction, Bellamy hounded through the murky wilderness, clutching the spear with a force that threatened to splinter it. There was simply no telling how far Haven had ventured beyond the dropship during his unconsciousness. Instinct urged him to track the perimeter of the north field, ensuring no stragglers remained at its borders, but he knew Haven would defy such conventional logic. She was a force of nature, willing to traverse unfathomable distances or bear the weight of five bodies upon her shoulders if it meant fulfilling her mission.

All because her heart was too damn big for own her body.

A sudden rustle jolted his attention to the left.

Spear clutched tightly in his palm, Bellamy cautiously extended his free hand to part the nearby foliage, his senses honed for the imminent conflict. But, in the split second it took for him to react—a forceful boot rocketed into his chest, hurling him back into the unforgiving dirt, the air rushing from his lungs in a violent gasp.

        His skull bore the brunt of the impact.

        Again.

        A dizzying blur of motion flashed across his vision as he scrambled to sit upright. Clutching his spear, Bellamy thrust it forward in a desperate, near-blind attempt to defend himself. Yet, as the clash of metal rang out, he found himself face-to-face with a figure framed by a cascade of familiar curls, the gleam of the sword in their hand casting an unmistakable glow of recognition.

       Bellamy blinked in astonishment.

        "Orion?"

        "Blake—?"

        Orion Vincetta's wide, frantic eyes cleaved into the Blake boy as she pinned him to the ground, her boot a merciless weight on his chest, the tip of her sword a breath away from his throat. Blood and dirt stained her clothing, streaking her forehead and tangling her hair into wild, matted locks. Though the chaos of battle clung to her, she was unnaturally still, her gaze locked onto his with a terrifying intensity. For a moment, Bellamy was certain she would skewer him with her sword, the cold steel mere inches from his flesh.

        Then, she collapsed into sobs.

As Orion abruptly crumpled into the dirt at his feet, Bellamy reacted at once. Blinking away his disorientation, he propelled himself upright, hoisting her limp form into his arms and swiftly retreating into the sheltering embrace of nearby foliage. Once he set Orion down, he crouched beside her, ensuring they remained undetected by any lurking Grounders, before refocusing his attention on the distraught figure before him.

"Hey," Bellamy began shakily, extending a tentative hand towards her quivering form, only to have it abruptly swatted away. "Are you hurt? What's—"

        Orion's chest tightened as she strained to inhale oxygen amidst her ceaseless sobbing. "I'm fine," she snarled, her voice almost feral as she pinned him with a scathing glare. "It's just...it's...y-you're alive." Saltwater streamed unchecked down her bloodied cheeks. "You're alive."

Bellamy grimaced. "Is that a good thing?"

"You're such...you're such an IDIOT!" Orion sputtered, vigorously wiping at the moisture pooling in her eyes before swatting at his chest in annoyance. For a fleeting moment, her tears ceased, but as she locked eyes with him, they erupted into another fresh torrent of sobs. "Of course it's a good thing!"

        Bellamy audibly winced at the impact of her knuckles against his bruised ribcage. Knitting his brows together, he studied the Vincetta girl further, attempting to untangle the labyrinth of her emotions. Orion had always been a confounding enigma. Despite her outward display of vehement rage at his presence, tears cascaded down her cheeks in . . . relief? No. Perhaps she was weeping from the trauma of the literal war they had just fought, and he was merely the first familiar face she'd encountered in the aftermath.

How the fuck was he supposed to navigate this?

Bellamy parted his lips. "I—"

"I am, like, so happy to see you—really," Orion cut in, somehow managing to draw in her first steady inhale before delivering another smack to his chest. "But I am so freakin' mad that you almost died! How could...how could you do that?! How could you be so stupid?!"

        The Blake boy wasn't sure if her words were meant as a veiled compliment or a deliberate insult.

Either way—Orion remained inconsolable, and he couldn't just sit beside her and do nothing. Given his vast experience of navigating the emotional minefield known as his sister, and the barbed intensity he'd once endured from Haven . . . he sorta, kinda had an incredibly vague idea of how to approach the situation.

First, Bellamy vowed to proceed with utmost caution, keenly aware of the volatile repercussions of advising Orion to calm down, a lesson etched into his consciousness through Octavia's explosive reactions. His baby sister was a time bomb; he'd grant her the necessary space to prevent himself from being engulfed in the fallout...occasionally. From a distance, he'd always remain vigilant, attuned to the subtle cues indicating when she craved a comforting embrace, even if her words suggested otherwise.

        Haven existed in a realm entirely her own.

        While Octavia would defiantly work through her own shit, rejoicing in her independence . . . Haven would allow her emotions to fester until she'd explode into hysteric self-condemnation, or debilitating panic attacks. He'd often bore the brunt of it as her Guard, witnessing the raw, unfiltered aspects of her humanity since their earliest days together. He knew when Haven would rather rip her skin off than be touched. When mirth acted as a healing salve for her inner wounds. When the catharsis of an impromptu self-defense lesson provided her with a sense of control. When she needed to cry, to breathe . . . to nestle her ear against his chest and listen to the steady thump of his heartbeat.

His chest splintered at the thought.

        They needed to get moving. Now.

        Here goes nothing.

        "Look, I'm sorry for being an..." Bellamy drew in a sharp breath, almost spitting out the insult she'd hurled at him through clenched teeth. "...idiot." Tentatively, he extended a hand toward her shoulder, attempting to draw Orion into a hug. "We'll figure this—"

        "Do not touch me, Blake!"

Orion shoved his forearm away with a swift, decisive motion, then drove her elbow into his gut—the impact wrenching yet another pained grunt from his chapped lips.

Fuck.

He had forgotten rule number two.

Never touch them without warning—not unless you're fully prepared to shoulder the consequences, including the risk of getting your
head chewed off.

"I told you—I am never hugging you again!" Orion fumed. "Not without..."

Her lips were bloodless.

Not without Haven.

The duo stared at each other in silence. The absence of the Smith girl thundered into an echoing void, carving itself deep into their hearts, a wound shared only by them. Orion's once fiery eyes, now dimmed by anguish, implored Bellamy's for answers, her tears frozen in time, suspended in the heavy air. Any lingering irritation toward him vanished, replaced by a raw, wordless ache.

Bellamy's words emerged choked and brittle, as if they were specks of ash clinging to his tongue. "You haven't seen her?"

        "No. I-I ran off with..:" Orion nearly gagged in distaste. "...Finn, right before the rockets fired. We got split up along the way. I've been hiding here since."

Panic seized Bellamy at once. "Fuck," he hissed lowly, sweeping a distraught hand across his bloodied features—then impulsively slamming fist against the tree trunk beside them. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

"I thought she was with you!" Orion's eyes widened with dread as she grappled with the severity of their circumstances. "Finn said he saw her ditch the dropship just before the ramp closed. He tried to go after you guys, but the rockets..."

"She was with me." Bellamy rasped hoarsely, his voice thick with self-condemnation, as if he were a stranger inhabiting his own skin. "We passed out at the edge of camp, but I woke up in a foxhole a few minutes ago. Hidden. Alone." A shadow of uncertainty crossed his stormy eyes. "She could've dragged me into it before splitting after the others."

        "Wishful thinking." Orion shook her head in dismay. "You're a giant."

        "You underestimate her."

       Orion's scowl was instinctive, primitive. "Don't forget who you're talking to here," she spat harshly, her eyes narrowing as she reached for her sword, positioned just a few feet beyond their hiding spot. "Finn also said she got stabbed. How the hell could she have dragged you with a stab wound?"

His blood ran cold.

An onslaught of vivid memories clawed themselves to the forefront of Bellamy's consciousness, roaring into life and demanding to be felt. He remembered watching as Haven slit the throats of three warriors to reach his side, entirely oblivious to the Grounder lurking just beyond her shoulder. He remembered the sickening twist in his gut, the moment the Grounder's shadow enveloped her, his blade sinking deep into Haven's flesh, a serpent's strike finally finding its mark. He remembered the raw, searing agony of his screams, the desperate crawl to reach her, as if his voice alone could rend the heavens asunder and compel fate itself to yield.

The blood. The blood. The blood.

Traces of its swirling darkness clung to his jacket, evidence of his body selfishly betraying him, collapsing atop hers right before he passed out.

He failed her.

He had fucking failed her.

Haven was meant to find refuge within the sanctity of the dropship, safe, shielded like the rest of the teenagers. Miller had faithfully upheld his part of the deal, ensuring her safe passage there. She had been so close, so fucking close—until she abandoned her sanctuary to die by Bellamy's side. And he . . . he blacked out. He failed to hold onto her, to protect her. Now, if she was stuck, abandoned, bleeding out somewhere. . .

Bellamy shoved the thought aside with vehement intensity.

       Squaring his shoulders, the Blake boy rose from his crouch beneath the dense foliage, his eyes narrowing as they swept across the seemingly endless expanse of greenery stretching before him. He would find her. He would find her. No distance was too great, no obstacle too daunting. Even if it meant traversing to the ends of the goddamn earth, crawling through fields of jagged shrapnel and the deafening chaos of volatile grenades once more—he would do it.

Nothing would stand in his way.

"Get up. You're sticking with me from now on," Bellamy commanded, reclaiming his grip on the abandoned spear before pivoting towards Orion. His voice carried the iron-forged certainty of promise. "We'll find her."

Orion sniffled as she rose to her feet beside him. "You don't have to tell me twice."

Swift as parallel specters, they glided through the wilderness they had grown to call home, a world now maimed with the echoes of their past. Bellamy led the charge, his presence a beacon of relentless determination, while Orion trailed in his wake, a shadowy figure dancing on the edge of perception. Together, they wove the dense foliage, their eyes sharp as honed blades, feverishly seeking any trace of Haven, any whisper of life.

By some divine grace bestowed from the stars above, they persisted, defying the relentless assault on their already weary bodies. Bellamy's stride wasn't the only one affected by the war's aftershocks—Orion felt it too. Aches gnawed at their bones in unfamiliar places, while life continued to ebb from wounds yet uncovered. Yet, amidst the agony, it was the terror coiling around their hearts that fueled their resolve, surpassing even the excruciating pain coursing through their violet veins.

        "Psst!"

Bellamy jerked to a sudden stop at the familiar whisper echoing from their right, grimacing as Orion collided into his spine. She erupted into a stream of whispered profanities, while he tightened his grip on his spear, using his free hand to push aside a thicket of ferns and peer into the shrub's depths.

Two familiar sets of eyes stared back at him.

"Bellamy?" Monroe's voice, barely above a whisper, swelled with disbelief as she scrambled to her feet. She gaped at the duo before her as if they were ghosts. "Orion?"

        Bellamy's command was a terse whisper. "Get back down!"

        On instinct, Monroe swiftly ducked, retreating behind the cover of the fallen tree beside them. As Bellamy vigilantly scanned the perimeter for any lingering threats, his spear poised for defense, Orion followed suit, crouching low behind the trunk and yanking Sterling by the collar to join her in the safety of their makeshift refuge.

Sterling blinked repeatedly, his eyes widening in astonishment as he beheld the sight of their leader, struggling to fathom that the Blake boy had actually survived. "You were followed?"

        "Quiet!" Bellamy hissed, his eyes refusing to stray from the terrain ahead until he was certain they were safe from detection. Retreating behind the trunk, he leveled a steely glare at the others, though the undercurrent of panic in his voice was unmistakable. "Have either of you seen Haven?"

Monroe blinked. "Haven's alive?"

"What the hell do you mean, she's alive?" Bellamy retorted sharply, berating himself internally for allowing his voice to rise. "Of course she is—she was right beneath me. How'd you guys get out?"

"We...we saw the Ark come down," Sterling explained shakily. "After Clarke got everyone into the ship, we thought we'd come get help. Piece of it came down this way. Monroe thinks it's Mecha, but personally, I think—"

        Voices in the distance robbed him of his breath.

        "Well, shit." Orion whispered, peering over the log and examining the perimeter nearby. Catching the familiar glint of a warrior's garb in the shadows, she released a resigned exhale. "We're cooked."

Bellamy shot her an irritated glare before decisively rising to his feet, abandoning the refuge behind the log and beckoning the others to follow suit. "Follow me," he ordered quietly, the weight of his authority irrefutable. "Stay low, stay quiet, and stay close."

With unshakable confidence in his companions, Bellamy leaped over the trunk without a backward glance, his fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft of his spear as he surged forward into the dense foliage. Every muscle in his body coiled with tension as he prowled through the treeline, his senses on high alert, scouring every shadow and rustle for the slightest hint of the disturbance.

        If Haven was out there . . .

        Clenching his jaw, Bellamy urged his body to move faster, commanding every sinew and muscle to propel him through the shadows while maintaining an elusive presence beneath the dense canopy. Despite the relentless pace he set, a fleeting doubt gnawed at his core as he glanced back at the weary trio behind him, their forms laboring to match his relentless stride. It was evident while their resolve burned as fiercely as a raging fire, the relentless fatigue from the battle had pummeled them into submission, threatening to extinguish even the brightest flame.

Reluctantly, Bellamy came to a halt beside the sheltering embrace of an ancient oak tree. It wasn't a choice born of preference, but of necessity; he understood that to push forward risked the others tripping over their own fatigue or his body succumbing to further betrayal.

The concussions beneath his skull were seething with incendiary, bone-melting rage.

With every blink, Bellamy's vision was tainted by a disorienting blur of disfigurement. The distant sunrise cast a vivid primrose hue that forced him to squint against its piercing intensity, each ray a searing lance of agony assaulting his senses. Beads of sweat glistened above his furrowed brow, his skin clammy and flushed with exertion as he fought to draw in a ragged breath. Yet, even the simple act of inhaling was a battle—each gasp threatening to upheave the nausea that churned relentlessly in his gut.

        Whatever. Whatever.

As he peered beyond the dense foliage, pressing his chest against the rugged bark for stability, Bellamy fought tirelessly against the urge to succumb to his injuries. Through the tangle of leaves, he managed to discern three shadowy figures in a sunlit clearing, accompanied by the hushed whispers of voices and the rhythmic slowing of horse hoofbeats. Among them, the largest silhouette bore a striking resemblance to Tristan—the very Grounder who had nearly killed him. And amidst the captives, he spotted Reem, one of the younger delinquents, and then . . .

        Finn.

Although Bellamy remained too distant to decipher the words exchanged, the fury emanating from Tristan was blistering, saturating the atmosphere even from afar. Reem and Finn trailed behind the man's horse, hands bound by thick ropes, their exhaustion etched into every line of their slouched posture and faltering steps. In a moment of weakness, Reem mumbled something incomprehensible before collapsing face-first into the dirt, the harsh impact muffled by the soft earth. Despite Finn's frantic attempts to lift him upright, his efforts proved futile.

Because by the time Finn managed to haul Reed to his feet, Tristan had already dismounted his horse, lugging Reed toward him with an aggressive yank on the rope that bound his wrists together.

One heartbeat passed. Another.

Then, with a swift, merciless motion, Tristan unsheathed his sword—the glint of cold steel reflecting the sunlight as he unflinchingly slit Reem's throat.

"NO!"

Bellamy couldn't register the devastation within Finn's scream as the younger delinquent collapsed into the earth—lifeless. His body recoiled as if he had been struck, the phantom pain of the sword cruelly re-aggravating the lingering bite of the rope burn around his own neck. For a moment, time seemed to suspend. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. His mind was irreparably numbed by the enormity of loss, unable to comprehend the magnitude of the tragedy unfolding before him. It wasn't disbelief that seized him; it was a familiar, suffocating surrender to grief.

Another dead. Another. Another.

"That was one!" Tristan thundered furiously, the only words audible amidst the howling in Bellamy's eardrums. "I lost three hundred!"

The Blake boy's jaw clenched with a violent snap, a storm of fury raging within him, ripping through the suffocating darkness of despair. The Grounders had torn apart everything the delinquents held dear, ignited the flames of war with their own hands, and now . . . now Tristan dared to whine about his casualties? To bitch about losing?

         Good fucking riddance.

         Bellamy knew he could single-handedly escalate the Grounder's death count to three-hundred-and-one within approximately . . . thirty seconds. Under normal circumstances, he would have already barreled into the clearing, heedless of any danger, driven solely by his thirst for vengeance.

        But this time, the stakes were higher.

        If Bellamy charged in now, Finn's life hung in the balance, rendering him as yet another senseless casualty. Despite his seething animosity towards the Collins boy—a fury he simply didn't know he was capable of—Bellamy reserved his deepest hatred for Tristan. He refused to grant Tristan the sick pleasure of claiming Finn's life, not before he had the chance to do it first, not before Finn had the opportunity to make amends with Haven—the right way.

"Don't even think about it, Blake."

Bellamy's aggravated gaze swept over his shoulder, landing on Monroe, Sterling, and Orion, who stared back at him with varying degrees of intensity. Monroe and Sterling seemed to hang on his every word, their eyes pleading for direction, desperate for a semblance of a plan. However, it was Orion's glacial stare that chilled him to the bone—as if she could see straight through to his every thought and intention.

"Nuh-uh." Orion declared, her voice laced with adamant refusal as she shook her head, vehemently rejecting the unspoken course of action. "I am not risking my ass to save him. You're on your own."

"Not exactly my favorite idea either," Bellamy admitted agitatedly. "But it's worth it."

Orion audibly scoffed. "You think the Grounders gave you brain damage or some shit? This is his karma!"

"We need all the people we can get if we want to find Haven and the others," Bellamy asserted wearily, his words laden with the weight of exhaustion. Despite his efforts, his attempt at a glare failed to materialize, lacking its usual intensity. "Finn's a tracker, remember?"

        As Orion huffed in frustration, she folded her arms across her chest, pinning Bellamy with a weary glare that echoed the weight of their burden. Meanwhile, Monroe and Sterling stood still as stone, caught in the grip of uncertainty. They stared blankly into the clearing ahead of them, lips parted in fear, wild eyes tracing Finn's fading silhouette as Tristan mounted his steed once more.

"Look, I know you're scared...but we are warriors." Bellamy declared lowly, imbuing every vestige of his waning strength into his words as he turned to face them. "We can do this."

        Orion's features twisted into a sickly grimace as she instinctively clutched her torso. "Oh, god—I think I'm gonna hurl."

        "Do it over there," Bellamy hissed, gesturing sharply towards a small shrub in the distance. "And be quiet about it."

Weakly, Orion extended a trembling hand to the bark beside Bellamy, leaning heavily against its rough stability as she battled the nausea. "Appreciate the concern, dick," she managed to hiss, her voice laced with bitterness and strained effort. "But it's not because I'm scared. Your speeches just make me super nauseous."

Bellamy hardly refrained from rolling his eyes to the back of his fucking skull. "Listen, we can do this," he reiterated, brushing off Orion's theatrics and fixing his gaze on the others. "We have to."

        Monroe blinked apprehensively. "How?"

        A beat passed.

        Well . . .

        "We attack as a team," Bellamy declared with conviction, his nod reaffirming his resolve as he laid out the impromptu plan. "When Tristan goes for me, Monroe goes for Finn. Once he's free, it's five on one."

"Right..." Sterling drawled shakily, his throat dry as he swallowed hard, horror evident in his wide eyes. "But what do we do?"

        "Try not to die."

"At least you're honest," Orion's agreement emerged as a resigned murmur, peeling her fatigued form away from the gnarled bark. As she met Bellamy's wary stare, she nodded, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword. "Let's get this over with."

Bellamy resolutely squared his shoulders.

"Ready? One . . . two . . . three!"

         With a ferocity that defied the very laws of nature, Bellamy erupted from the veil of evergreens, a whirlwind of motion that blurred the lines between man and suicidal beast. His spear, clutched with white-knuckled resolve, seemed an extension of his very will. He crashed through the underbrush, each step a thunderclap of reckless abandon, until he burst into the clearing with a force that seemed to shake the earth itself.

        "HEY!"

His dramatic entrance snagged the attention of both Finn and the Grounder. Finn stared at Bellamy through wide eyes, unable to fathom the sheer stupidity of his reckless charge. Tristan, on the other hand, seemed almost . . . amused? No. Rageful. Murderous. As he shifted the reins of his horse, casually urging the creature to pivot toward Bellamy, seemingly unthreatened—the realization struck him like a lightning bolt.

Bellamy was entirely alone.

Where the fuck were the others?

"BELLAMY! GET OUT OF HERE!"

Tugging forcefully on the reins, Tristan whipped his horse into a dizzying three-sixty spin, transforming the beast into a streaking comet hurtling directly towards Bellamy. Finn was flung to the dirt, left defenseless and bound, dragged limply behind them. The horse thundered towards Bellamy with such blistering speed and savage ferocity that it seemed to warp the air around it, prompting Bellamy's breath to catch in his throat.

Inhale. Breathe. Exhale.

Utilizing every ounce of his strength, Bellamy lunged forward, spear extended—launching the weapon through the air in a desperate attempt to impale Tristan, or the massive beast hurtling towards him.

        The spear slammed into the dirt with a hollow thud.

He missed. He fucking missed.

        Before Bellamy could even blink, or register the shattering blow to his pride—Tristan had already bridged the distance between them. With a fluid adjustment of his grip on the curved blade, he delivered a savage strike directly to Bellamy's chest.

        . . . Oh, fuck.

Bellamy's descent into agony was a whirlwind of torture, his limbs flailing wildly as he plummeted towards the unforgiving ground. Once more, his skull met the earth with a sickening thud, his neck twisting at a torturous angle, unleashing bolts of white-hot pain through his already battered spine. In the brief moment it took to draw breath, another blow struck, a merciless assault that pulverized his ribcage and sent him careening further into the dirt.

        Tristan loomed over him like a wraith.

        And then . . .

        Again, and again, and again—the Grounder's fists pummeled into Bellamy's face. Blood erupted in his mouth as he involuntarily gnashed his teeth against his own flesh. There was no time to process the searing agony of each impact, nor the scarlet flood that shrouded his vision, because he was hardly clinging to consciousness. He couldn't see the fist hammering into his skull, nor feel its impact, though it surely wrought irreparable brain damage by now. All he could perceive was the deafening ring in his ears as his body became nothing but a helpless punching bag—subjected to the merciless onslaught of his assailant.

        "GET AWAY FROM HIM—YOU DEGENERATE SACK OF SHIT!"

         Between blinks of bloodwashed vision, Bellamy faintly managed to discern Orion's silhouette barreling into her clearing. With a primal roar, she lunged towards Tristan, her sword slicing through the skin of his forearm in a spray of crimson defiance. But her valor was met with merciless retribution as Tristan's horse reared back, its thundering hooves delivering a brutal kick that sent her catapulting into the dirt beside Bellamy.

At that . . . Bellamy finally summoned the strength to retaliate.

Capitalizing on Tristan's momentary distraction, Bellamy lunged, his fingers blindly gripping the collar of Tristan's warrior garb, desperate to drag him down into the dirt. But Tristan moved with ruthless efficiency, his hand clamping onto Bellamy's wrist like a vice. In an instant, ropes lashed around Bellamy's left hand, then coiled tightly around his right,
binding him inescapably.

No. Fucking. Way.

Bellamy Blake refused to be ensnared in the clutches of whatever twisted Grounder torture awaited him in the wilderness. Gritting his teeth, he waged a futile battle against his restraints, each strained muscle a silent protest against his captivity. As he was forcibly lifted to his feet and thrust alongside Finn, his vision blurred tenfold, the very ground seeming to dip and sway beneath him. His knees trembled, threatening to collapse under the weight of his disorientation—yet it was Orion's presence at his side that steadied him.

        All three of them had their hands bound.

        Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

        "You have to stand on your feet," Finn murmured weakly. "He'll kill you if you don't."

        Orion agitatedly blew away a stray curl that clung to her bloodied lips. "I'm gonna kill myself before he does that."

        Bellamy stared at her incredulously.

        "What? His horse just bitched me!"

        Bellamy's words escaped him in a breathless rasp, the taste metallic taste of crimson coating his tongue, prompting his stomach to lurch with renewed anguish. "You're more dramatic than my sister."

Finn's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as Tristan neared his horse. "Octavia? Have you seen her?"

        "Don't ask," Bellamy muttered.

As if he could banish the haunting void left by his little sister's absence with a simple denial. As if a piece of his very essence hadn't been violently torn from him and left to wander aimlessly alongside her, wherever she may be. As if he could purge the searing image of her blood staining his trembling hands, a crimson testament to his failed protection. As if their final hug before Lincoln whisked her away to safety hadn't singed itself into his memory—each heartbeat echoing the devastating realization that it might have been their last.

         His sister. His responsibility.

        . . . And he failed her.

        Distant roars of defiance reverberated from the nearby shrubbery, their echoes intertwining with the ominous thud of thunderous footsteps. Before Bellamy had a chance to decipher whether the disturbance heralded danger or salvation, Monroe and Sterling burst into the clearing with righteous fury, wielding makeshift weapons and hurtling straight towards Tristan.

        Tristan's demeanor betrayed far more irritation than fear, his exhale carrying a tone of exasperation as he withdrew his sword once more. With a sinister flourish, he swung the weapon in a menacing arc, fully prepared to cleave into the scrawny teenagers barreling toward him.

All at once . . . gunshots snarled through the air.

Bellamy, lost in a haze of delirium, momentarily questioned the reality of the sound, only to be violently jolted back to the present as Orion yanked him into the dirt beside her. With a surge of desperate instinct, he managed to twist his body mid-fall, mercifully sparing his skull from the cruel kiss of the ground. His entire being shuddered as a third bullet whistled through the air, his wild eyes frantically scanning for the source of the shot—only to witness it embedding itself into Tristan's skull.

        The Grounder mechanically sank to his knees, his essence seemingly refusing to acknowledge the fatal wound that had pierced his brain. As if suspended in a macabre trance, he lingered, a fleeting echo of life frantically clinging to existence—before his body finally slumped to the earth below.

        Dead.

"No way," Orion whispered shakily, scrambling upright with a fervor that threatened to betray her stability all over again. "No fucking way."

Bellamy slowly peeled himself off his shoulder, a low hiss escaping clenched teeth as agony lanced through his body. Propping himself up on trembling forearms, he traced the trajectory of Orion's gaze towards the ominous foliage, his senses heightened to a fever pitch. As his eyes penetrated the verdant depths, his could physically feel his heart plummet.

Marcus Kane.

The very embodiment of tyranny from the Ark's Council, the man whose hands were stained with the blood of Bellamy's mother, now lurked like a shadow behind the gnarled embrace of a tree trunk. In a twisted revelation, it became clear that the same man responsible for their suffering had, in a moment of unexpected mercy . . . saved their lives.
  
        "We're here now," Kane declared, his voice carrying an assurance that belied the shadows of his past, a faint hint of warmth softening his aged features. "Everything's gonna be okay."

        What the fuck?

        Soon enough, Bellamy felt himself being hauled upright, Orion and Finn lending their strength to assist him. As he rose, the world around him seemed to twist and convulse, a nightmarish panorama of agony and disorientation. The very act of standing seemed an insurmountable challenge, every moment an eternity of suffering. Seeing straight was not just a distant dream; it was an unfathomable torment, a cruel mockery of the excruciating head traumas he'd endured.

        Was this how Haven felt?

        Was this how Haven felt . . . every time her own body brought her to the brink of death? Existing with chronic pain for eternity?

        He'd lost count of the times she'd managed to cheat death, to defy the restraints of bed-rest and plunge headlong into the next perilous endeavor. If she could endure such trials, if she could defy death itself with each breath she took, then surely Bellamy could summon the strength to weather a stupid concussion—or twenty.

        Pivoting towards the treeline, Bellamy blinked away the haze clouding his vision, his gaze fixating on the unfolding spectacle before him. To his astonishment, Alpha station had somehow managed to touch down on Earth unscathed. Members of the Guard surged through the dense foliage behind Kane, their weapons at the ready as they moved tactically, scouring the perimeter for any lurking threats.

It felt surreal to see so many of them alive and well. Amidst the mob of faces—a particularly familiar doctor traversed their ranks, treading among them like a harbinger of sins left unburied, wounds left unhealed.

Wait.

Bellamy forced himself to blink.

. . . Abby?

        No longer content with mere blinking, Bellamy screwed his eyes shut, willing the nightmare before him to dissolve into oblivion. He opened and closed them with a violent urgency, as if trying to banish the horrific insanity unfolding before him with each distrusting blink.

This couldn't be real.

Abby was supposed to be dead—lost in the fiery demise of the Exodus ship launch. Yet, here she stood, a ghastly apparition defying the laws of mortality . . . striding straight towards him.

        She was supposed to be dead.

        She fucking deserved to be dead.

        Upon her approach, Abby's hand landed audaciously on Bellamy's shoulder, its touch a stark contradiction to the memories it invoked. As if those very hands hadn't been forged into instrumentals of surgical destruction—as if they hadn't been used to inflict irreparable cruelty to an innocent fifteen-year-old's heart.

        "You shouldn't be standing."

        "Get your hands off me."

Bellamy's instincts surged with a primal fury as he recoiled from Abby's touch, his body lurching so abruptly that he nearly crashed into Finn's unsuspecting torso. Every sinew of his being thrummed with blinding, soul-scorching rage as he locked eyes with the devil herself. In that moment, the agony of his injuries became insignificant, eclipsed by the seething storm of hatred that churned within his soul. He couldn't feel their sting anymore. He was numbing out, fueled entirely by the bitter betrayal of the monster who dared to stand before him, a false beacon of innocence amidst the ruin she had wrought.

Abby swallowed. "You're hurt."

        "You're about to be," Bellamy countered lowly. "Get out of my face."

        "You're bleeding out of your ears—"

        "Get out of my face before I take that gun and blow your fucking skull open."

        Abby recoiled as if his words had physically struck her, a reaction not far from what Bellamy intended if she dared to combat his warning. His voice, though kept to a lethal whisper to avoid alerting the nearby swarm of guards, thrummed with a murderous intensity. It was as if the very air around them warped with the enormity of his rage, his threat looming heavily like a guillotine blade poised to fall.

He would kill her.

And he wouldn't feel a shred of remorse.

While the guards remained oblivious to Bellamy's confrontation with Abby—the teenagers lurking behind him weren't so easily fooled. Finn's brow furrowed deeply, his initial bewilderment swiftly morphing into alarm as he bore witness to the volatile exchange unfolding before him. Orion, though ignorant of their shared past, sensed the dangerous undercurrents and balled her hands into fists, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at the unfamiliar woman.

        Abby shook her head. "Bellamy..."

        "Thie isn't a warning. Go. Or end up like he did," Bellamy's words dripped with disdain as he gestured to the gruesome scene before them, where Tristan's lifeless body lay amidst a pool of blood and carnage. Shaking with righteous fury, he sharply pivoted away from Abby, fixing his gaze on Orion and Finn. "We need to get to the dropship."

        Finn merely blinked. "Uh, yeah. But..."

        "One more thing."

        Bellamy's jaw clenched with such force that he could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. With an agitated pivot, he faced Abby once more, his entire being seething with an unholy fire that threatened to swallow him whole. As he towered over her, her pallid lips trembled, voice reduced to a mere whisper as she struggled to form her next words.

        "Where's Clarke? I-Is she all right?" she asked shakily. "What about H—"

        In a maelstrom of unbridled rage, Bellamy abandoned the remnants of his self-restraint, his bound hands morphing into instruments of merciless retribution as he shoved the doctor backward.

        "Don't you dare say her name," he seethed.

"Bellamy," Finn reproached in a hushed tone, emerging from his position behind the Blake boy and guiding the doctor away from the tree trunk she had inadvertently collided with—as if she were the one in need of protection. "Clarke was fine when we left. We'll take you to her."

        But Bellamy was far from done.

        "Why should we?" he spat icily. "She sends all of you down here to die—and now she wants to pretend to give a damn about her daughter? About any of us?" His gaze morphed into twin abysses of death, radiating an ominous pledge of ruin and inescapable devastation as he glared into the depths of her soul. "You're full of shit, Abby. A shit mother. A shit doctor. A shit human being. Grounders have more humanity than you ever—"

        "Ohhh!" Orion interjected, as if the fragments of the unfolding spectacle had finally aligned. "You're Clarke's mom."

        Abby grimaced.

        "Hmm." Orion sauntered forward, her steps measured and deliberate, as if she were circling her prey in a calculated dance of dominance. "Y'know what? I don't like you either, lady. I know a FED when I smell one."

        Finn promptly blew out an exasperated exhale. "Let's just keep it moving," he grumbled, gesturing towards the path that led to camp with a subtle head tilt. "This way."

"Wait," Kane cut in. "Slow down."

As if the day couldn't deteriorate any further, Bellamy, Finn, and Orion were abruptly brought to a halt by Kane, his forearm serving as an immovable blockade across their path. Orion bristled with frustration, and if Bellamy's vision weren't currently distorted by three kaleidoscopic images of Kane—he would have flung him into the trunk of the nearest tree alongside Abby.

        "Sinclair—we're splitting up," Kane declared, his voice resonating with authority as he raised its pitch to ensure his words reached the distant figure. "One guard detail comes with me to the dropship. Everyone else here goes with you to Alpha Station. You have the coordinates. We'll follow as soon as we can."

Sinclair . . . where had Bellamy heard that name before?

"Okay—you six, with me." Kane directed with a sweeping gesture, singling out a cluster of guards who had gathered around Tristan's fallen form. Then, he refocused his attention on the ragtag trio beside him. "You three, lead the way."

        Bellamy's gaze sharpened into daggers as he observed Abby's movements. She discreetly aligned herself with one of the guards, evading his lethal glare with practiced ease. It was almost laughable how seamlessly she portrayed herself as the frightened victim—the calculating Councilwoman masquerading as the trembling prey of the very adolescents she had condemned to Earth in the first place.

        As much as he desired to throttle her, he understood that causing a scene would only draw unwanted attention, potentially endangering both himself and Haven. If whispers began to circulate about his animosity towards Abby, if his connection to Haven drew unwanted scrutiny, if they dared to ask too many questions . . . Bellamy wasn't certain what the repercussions would entail.

The camp was no stranger to the enigma of Haven's blood, and even the wary eyes of the fucking Grounders seemed to acknowledge its darkness. But what about the Ark's government? Would they turn a blind eye? Did they already know? Had they been complicit in Abby's sinister experiments from the very beginning?

        Bellamy had no clue.

        All the Blake boy could be certain of was that Abby would inevitably face the consequences of her actions, meted out by his own hands. So, for now—he gifted the woman a scornful sneer, a silent vow of retribution burning in his eyes, before deliberately stomping ahead of her.

        As they journeyed towards the camp, distinguishing between voices became a daunting task. Everything melded into an indistinguishable blur within Bellamy's mind, especially when Kane attempted to interject or engage with any of the trio. Each utterance from the man's lips seemed to dissolve into meaningless noise, emerging as nothing more than blah, blah, blah. He refused to even glance Kane's way, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground, a desperate effort to quell the rising storm of violence within him.

From a few feet behind Bellamy, Finn's words emerged as a cautious whisper, quietly piercing through the wreckage in his mind.

        "Why does he look like he wants to kill Clarke's mom?"

        Orion's retort was swift and cutting. "Why do you think you can breathe the same air as me?" she hissed back, punctuated by the sound of a soft thud—likely a jab to Finn's gut. "I dunno. But whatever it is, it's good enough for me."

At that, Bellamy slowed his pace, decisively aligning himself beside them. "I do want to kill her," he whispered, his eyes momentarily flashing towards the monster in question before returning to the ground beneath him. "And she'd fuckin' deserve it."

Orion eyed him warily. "I mean, it's like, really, really screwed up to send her own kid down here," she began. "But you seem..."

"Murderous?" Finn added.

"Bingo."

Murderous was an understatement.

Bellamy had never taken pleasure in the deaths he'd inflicted upon the Grounders. Killing to protect his people was a grim necessity, devoid of satisfaction but executed without hesitation. He derived no enjoyment from watching life drain from their eyes. He would rather tear his own flesh than be forced to stain his hands with foreign blood again. But with Abby . . . it was different. He craved her death with a ferocity that terrified even himself. He wanted to press the barrel of his rifle to her temple and watch her skull explode. Killing her would be a final act of justice, a means to end her malevolent reign and ensure she could never harm Haven, or anyone else, ever again.

        He should've done it when he had the chance.

        "She's an abuser," Bellamy muttered lowly. "Let's just leave it at that."

        Orion's brows catapulted to the furthest reaches of her forehead. "She hit Clarke?"

        "No."

        "Oh my god. Did she—?"

        "No," Bellamy snapped, his tone sharper than intended. He exhaled heavily, unaware of the tension he'd been holding, grappling with words that failed to fully capture the depth of the darkness he couldn't articulate. "I...I just...it's not my place to say. Haven can tell you herself."

        Orion stopped dead in her tracks.

        "Haven?"

        Bellamy met her watery-eyed stare and nodded in grave confirmation. A thousand unsaid words coalesced in the space between them, each laden with the enormity of their devotion to the Smith girl. Amidst this silent exchange, they also recognized the dual beasts that dwelled within—the fierce guardians, poised to unleash their protective fury at the faintest whisper of harm to her.

Orion didn't need to know the specifics, and she wouldn't ask—the knowledge of Haven's suffering stood as a damning indictment in itself.

        And as Finn observed the unspoken exchange unfolding beside him, eyes flitting between Bellamy's tightly clenched fists and Abby's oblivious figure lingering in the background . . . even his jaw tightened with poorly restrained rage.

        They needed to find Haven.

        They needed her.

Finally—the trio steered the group towards the north field, mirroring Bellamy's frantic sprint through the terrain upon his awakening in the foxhole. They advanced with caution, their bodies hunched low, vigilant for lurking threats concealed within the shadows. Silently, they reached a solitary tree log and came to a halt, their senses keenly attuned to the treacherous landscape surrounding them.

Above the fallen titan of the woods, a teenager hung suspended, skewered upon a gnarled spear.

His name was Malcolm.

        He liked green apples . . . and thought that caterpillars were the coolest thing upon this godforsaken, radioactive shithole.

Now that Bellamy wasn't operating solely on adrenaline, he could feel his devastation corroding him from the inside out. Every direction they turned was littered with black ash and bodies of dead children. Limbs twisted in unnatural angles, blood still seeping from wounds on bodies long gone cold. It was abhorrent, paralyzing, but amidst the carnage—one unsettling truth loomed larger than all.

"It's too quiet," he rasped.

Just as he poised himself to lunge towards the foxhole that would lead to the dropship, Kane intercepted him, thrusting out his forearm as an impassable barrier, denying him access to the camp—his camp—once again.

        "We'll take it from here," Kane ordered sharply, rising from his crouch amidst the dust and trudging towards the fallen gate. "Banks, Scanlon, you stay with them. We'll signal once we're sure it's safe."

Before long, Kane forged through the dense underbrush, leading the charge into the heart of the camp, a formidable presence flanked by a cadre of vigilant guards . . . and Abby.

Fucking hell. 

        Bellamy wasn't particularly fond of being barked at, particularly by newcomers who had been on Earth for approximately . . . less than a goddamn day. This camp was theirs, painstakingly carved from the unforgiving wilderness, belonging to members of the hundred alone. Yet, here marched the guards, their heavy steps desecrating their battlegrounds, callously traversing their graveyard, as though they held dominion over the very soil they tread upon.

"Who the hell do they think they are?" Orion hissed through clenched teeth, her voice a low snarl of disbelief, thick brows knitting together into a tight furrow. "No. Really. What kind of horse shit..."

"We need a stretcher!"

. . . Stretcher?

Bellamy wasted no time and lunged to his feet, dirt clouds billowing in his wake, an action instinctively mirrored by Orion and Finn. Together, they surged towards the underbrush, driven by a primal instinct to protect their own. But their charge was met with a jarring halt as firm arms, unyielding as granite, slammed against their chests.

"Hey!" Scanlon, one of the guards, shoved Bellamy backwards in a feeble attempt at intimidation. "Hold it right here!"

Fuck this. Fuck him. Fuck everybody.

If by some miraculous twist of fate, Haven had managed find her way back to the dropship . . . if she lay there, wounded and bleeding out, while he was forcibly restrained . . . if Abby had reached her before he could . . .

Bellamy clenched his jaw.

        To hell with compliance.

        A tense, wordless exchange swept through the trio like wildfire, fury radiating from every line of their battered faces. Tilting his head towards the north foxhole, Bellamy orchestrated their next move without a single word, his gesture discreet yet potent enough for Finn and Orion to grasp the message.

Then, they bolted.

Bellamy slammed through the underbrush like a tempest unleashed, barreling into the foxhole with a speed that bordered on supernatural. Ashes clogged his inflamed lungs with every ragged inhale. Death tainted the tip of his tongue. Warm blood surged from his eardrums and trickled down his jaw. His brain throbbed, shrieked, thrashed in unbridled agony, a symphony of torment orchestrated by the merciless demands of his exertion—though none of it registered in the slightest. He couldn't feel it. All that remained within him was the gargantuan, insatiable monster that refused to rest until he knew that the girl he loved was safe.

And as they finally burst into the heart of camp . . .

It was empty.

        Corpses, charred and lifeless, littered the ground beneath Bellamy's feet, their silent forms a grim testament to the devastation that had swept through their home. Rows upon rows of lifeless husks lay scattered around the dropship, their vacant stares fixed upon the scorching sunlight.

        Amidst the stillness, the only sound that pierced the air was rabid rhythm of Bellamy's thunderous heart, accompanied by the trembling exhales of the companions flanking his left and right. Desperately, he swiveled his head to the north, then south, his frantic gaze scanning the barren horizon for any sign of life, any trace of blood—any familiar tug of the gravity that tethered him to Haven's presence.

        He couldn't feel it.

        He couldn't . . . he couldn't feel her.

        "Where is everyone?" Bellamy asked breathlessly, utterly defenseless against his mounting dread as he forged deeper into the desolate ruins of their home. "Haven? Haven!"

"It was awful." A repugnant, devastatingly familiar voice seeped from somewhere amidst the shadows. "There was hundreds of them. And if it wasn't for Raven...I-I don't know what would've happened."

Bellamy's blood ran cold with recognition.

Limping down the dropship's ramp, John fucking Murphy emerged, barely clinging to consciousness as Kane struggled to support his battered frame. Every inch of his serpentine face was marred by blood. His hair, matted and singed from grenade aftershocks, clung to his scalp in grimy tufts. Even from afar, Bellamy could see the shredded remnants of his pant legs, his sleeves, the back of his jacket—tattered rags clinging to a body riddled with swollen, pus-infused stab wounds.

Bellamy never asked Haven what had transpired in the moments before he found her  in the dropship that fateful day—mere minutes after Murphy's treachery had nearly claimed his life. She had been cloaked in foreign blood, her entire being trembling, shivering, shaking from the tendrils of her hair to the worn soles of her boots. The wounds she had inflicted upon Murphy's skin spoke of a righteous fury unleashed, yet as he studied the lacerations more closely . . . Bellamy found them undoubtedly merciful.

At least Haven had offered Murphy a fleeting opportunity to escape.

        Bellamy wasn't that kind.

Because as Murphy pivoted towards the Blake boy, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, almost choking upon the recognition of the inevitable fate that awaited him . . . Bellamy's mind was already made up.

It had been determined from the very moment he kicked the crate out from beneath the bastard's feet. There existed no path of retreat, no avenue of redemption. The die had been cast, the lines etched in the stark contrast of blood and rope—binding them to a fate intertwined with vengeance and retribution.

Murphy was a dead man walking.

        "Bellamy..." Murphy's voice teetered on the precipice of a squeak, his words trailing off as his posture preemptively slumped in defeat. "You're...uh...you're alive—!"

        "YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"

Before Bellamy could seize Murphy by the collar of his jacket and slam him into the unforgiving metal of the dropship ramp below, an imperceptible blur of righteous fury beat him to it—her presence marked only by the familiar whirlwind of her curls.

Orion.

        As though her breath had drawn in the very flames of hell, exhaling an inferno's wrath, the Vincetta girl surged into Murphy's frame, wrenching him from Kane's grip with a cataclysmic force. His neck bore the brunt of the fall, jerking harshly against charred ground, his vulnerability laid helplessly bare. With the ferocity of a bloodthirsty beast, she unceasingly descended upon him, her blows raining down with savage intensity.

        "YOU'RE WORTHLESS, SERPENT!" Orion's shriek pierced the air, dripping with venomous contempt as she yanked him upwards by the collar of his jacket, only to slam him into the dirt once more. "YOU'RE NOTHING! YOU SHOULD BE DEAD, NOT THEM!"

        Each word was a hammer blow, each hit a thunderclap of righteous fury against his nose, shattering bone and spirit alike. Three. Four. Five. Ten. Orion's fury only burned brighter with every strike, her relentless assault a symphony of anguish and retribution, echoing through the desolate wasteland like a war cry.

        "IT SHOULD'VE BEEN YOU!"

        "Get...off..." Murphy wheezed, "...me!"

Bellamy was almost reveling in the spectacle of Murphy receiving his ass beating without the need to dirty his own hands. Truthfully, it was the highlight of his day, watching the universe deliver justice in its own merciless way. However, any semblance of amusement vanished the moment that Murphy exerted enough force to shove Orion off him. The smaller girl involuntarily careened backwards, her skull colliding with the cold metal ramp with a sickening thud.

        One blink.

        One blink was all it had taken before Bellamy's world had thoughtlessly shifted, his vision obscured by a familiar veil of seething wrath. As wrathful as an ancient war god, he surged forward, seized Murphy by the throat, and hurled him back into the dirt. Then, his fists wailed into him, murderously, unceasingly—pummeling the traitorous snake skin beneath his knuckles with twice the force as Orion had wielded.

        "YOU MURDERING SON OF A BITCH!"

        Wrath had already devoured Bellamy whole by the time Murphy's body collided with the scorched earth. The fury within him was a voracious beast, tearing at the very fabric of his being, a cyclone of rage that threatened to obliterate him. Again, and again, and again, his fists descended upon Murphy's bloodied face, each strike an echo of his unraveling sanity. Lost amidst the crimson mist of his bloodlust, Bellamy's perception blurred, unable to discern whether it was Murphy's features beneath his knuckles . . . or a warped reflection of himself.

        No. No. No.

        Murphy was the vile perpetrator who had attempted to kill a twelve-year-old, forcing Charlotte to leap headfirst into the abyss of death. Not Bellamy . . . even though he tried to save her, and failed. It was Murphy who betrayed their sanctuary to the Grounders, seeding their camp with the venomous strain of a bloodthirsty virus. Not Bellamy . . . even though he tried to prevent the spread of contagion as much as he could, and failed. Murphy's hands were stained with the blood of Connor and Myles. Not Bellamy's . . . even though the two youths had unwittingly followed his lead in the first place, even though he tried his best to protect them, and failed.

        "Bellamy!"

        Murphy's treacherous hands were the ones that locked Jasper and Haven in the dropship, binding their wrists until blood spilled, until tears bled down their faces, until Haven was forced into a labyrinth of cruel hallucinations and claustrophobia-induced nightmares. Not Bellamy—even though he had urged Haven to remain in the dropship to begin with. Even though he had fought tirelessly to keep her safe, to protect her, to shield her from onslaught of the rockets . . . he tried, he tried, tried, tried . . .

       "Bellamy! C'mon! Stop it!"

       . . . He tried, he tried, he tried . . .

        "BELLAMY!"

        He tried . . . and yet, he failed.

        "Stop! It's...I'm okay! STOP!"

He couldn't. He couldn't.

        Suddenly, a surge of searing electricity tore through Bellamy's spine, wrenching him violently from the abyss of his own torment. His body contorted in agonizing spasms, nearly convulsing as he was forcibly flung from Murphy's blood-soaked form, crashing into the scorched earth with a resounding thud.

        Shock baton.

Despite the cruel numbness creeping through his limbs, Bellamy's fingertips writhed involuntarily, a familiar sensation he could identify anywhere—the paralyzing shock of torture, a haunting echo of his Cadet training's brutality.

        A guard had fucking electrocuted him.
  
       "Place him under arrest," Kane's order slithered vaguely through Bellamy's tumultuous mind, its resonance warped by his disorientation. "Her too."

        . . . Arrest?

        "I'm already a criminal, you freakin' dimwit!" Orion's thunderous protest reverberated from somewhere in the distance. "You can't arrest me twice!"

        "Watch me."

        "NO! NO! BACK OFF!"

        Bellamy instinctively stirred at the violent sounds of commotion. "Hey..." he wheezed defiantly, his voice raw and ragged from the strain of relentless screaming. Miserably, he lifted his head from the ground, terror seizing his widened eyes as he watched three male guards cornering Orion. "Don't...touch...her...!"

        "No! No! N-Not them!" Orion's pleaded frantically, her movements erratic as she scrambled backward against the ramp's incline. Collapsing onto her knees, her hands shook uncontrollably as the men advanced, brandishing handcuffs and shock batons. "Let her do it instead!"

        As Bellamy witnessed Orion's frantic gestures, tears overflowing, begging manically to be taken into custody by a woman instead of the encroaching men . . . a seismic revelation shook him to his core. Orion's distaste for physical contact became a visceral, tangible force. He should've noticed it sooner. She shrank from any touch not initiated by herself, aside from Haven's, or wielded in the heat of combat. And as the men closed in, her cries for arrest only intensified, morphing from defiance into a primal fear—rooted in the depths of unfathomable trauma.

        Orion's aversion to the touch of men was so profound that she was willing to surrender to arrest if it meant being handled by a woman instead.

        She was just a kid.

        She was just a kid.

        And she was fucking petrified.

"No!" Orion sputtered, her instinct driving her to nearly crawl into the depths of the dropship, seeking refuge from the swarm of male guards ahead of her. "Please!"

        "HEY!"

        Summoning every iota of strength, Bellamy defied the numbing grasp of the ground, raising his torso from the dirt, supported by trembling elbows as the lingering electricity slowly waned. In that charged moment, all eyes pivoted to him, drawn by the thunderous resonance of his defiant cry—effortlessly capturing the attention of the swarm of imbecile guards.

        Bellamy clenched his jaw. "You want to be in charge here? Follow your own damn rules!" he spat viciously, dark eyes ablaze with an inferno of disdain. "If you don't abide by Section 3B of the Guard's Code—she has the right to resist!"

They stared at him. Blankly.

"You're useless—all of you!" Bellamy hurled the insult as a scornful dagger, shaking his head as he surveyed the Ark's finest vessels of incompetence. "3B states she has the right to ask for a female officer, you fucking assholes!"

        All heads swiveled towards Kane, as though seeking absolution through his verdict rather than Bellamy's outcry. Kane's gaze honed in on the Blake boy, his scrutiny measured and deliberate, weighing his words almost . . . thoughtfully. After a moment, he offered a terse nod of agreement, signaling for the male guards to disperse and allowing the female officer to handcuff Orion instead.

Through the blur of bodies, Orion's frantic eyes locked onto Bellamy's. From the top of the ramp, she offered him a fleeting nod, one laden with unspoken appreciation—a silent exchange of gratitude.

Then, the guard went for him.

        Bellamy instinctively lunged backwards.

       "Wait!" Finn's voice pierced the air, his breathless plea directed at Kane in a frantic bid for reason. "You don't understand. Murphy murdered two of our people. He shot another one. He tried to hang Bellamy!"

        Kane curtly shook his head. "I don't care."

        "Of course you don't," Orion shot back, her words icy with contempt as she spat at the tips of the Councilman's boots. Even as the guard escorted her down the ramp, her hands bound tightly behind her back—her defiance stood unshakable. "Eat shit, Kane."

"You are not animals," Kane declared coldly. "There are rules. Laws."

As a second guard advanced towards Bellamy's recoiling figure, intent on arresting him, urgency pulsed through his veins like wildfire.

There was no time for this bullshit.

Not when Haven could be laying dead in the dropship.

Utilizing his hands, Bellamy propelled himself backward, desperation lending power to his movements as he scrambled towards the ramp. Despite the guards' relentless pursuit, he eluded their grasp with lightning reflexes—rising to his feet with a grace born of necessity and slipping through their reach like a shadow in the night.

"Hey! Get back here!" Kane's voice boomed, a fissure in his facade of stoicism unveiling the smoldering fury beneath. "You are not in control here anymore!"

Bellamy saluted him with a middle finger.

        Kane audibly gasped. "Excuse you—"

        "Arrest me! See how much I care!"

        Bellamy's pulse raced violently, drowning out all sound save for the thunderous beat of his own miserable heart. With the cattle of guards hot on his heels, he bolted into the dropship, every muscle in his body shrieking with urgency. As he reached the ramp's lever, his fingers seized it in mere seconds, yanking it down with a decisive pull.

        The guards atop the ramp recoiled in a frantic scramble, their voices lost in the chaos as the lever locked into place with a resounding clang—sealing off any hope of pursuit.

        Idiots.

        But there was no moment of reprieve for the Blake boy. As he pivoted, desperate to catch sight of familiar faces amid the murky depths of the first level, he was greeted only by desolation. Fresh blood coated the floor in lingering whispers of violence. Abandoned weapons littered the ground, scattered in disarray as if discarded by reluctant hands. Amidst the oppressive stillness, nothing stirred except for his own erratic breathing . . . because nothing was there at all.

        The dropship was barren.

        Haven. Haven. Haven.

Just find Haven.

        "Haven?" Bellamy's frantic voice echoed dully through the emptiness, urging his legs into an urgent rhythm as he tore through every forsaken corner of the first floor—scouring the shadows for any glimmer of hope. "Haven!"

        Amidst the wreckage of scattered objects and abandoned weapons, Bellamy's touch wrought chaos upon the ransacked space, each futile search twisting the dagger of despair deeper into his heart—repeatedly, relentlessly, rending him anew with every waning heartbeat. Swallowing against the lump that threatened to suffocate him, he lunged towards the ladder and bolted, his movements driven by a primal need to reclaim what was lost, to defy the cruel whims of fate.

        He had to find her. He had to. He had —

        Emerging through the hatch, Bellamy's weary form collapsed onto the second floor, his eyes scorching with unshed tears as he surveyed the expanse before him—scouring their depths for even the faintest trace of the girl he loved.

Desolation welcomed him with a familiar ache.

       "No, no, no..." Bellamy whispered, miserably hauling himself to his feet once more. Each syllable clawed its way out of his ravaged throat, a gut-wrenching lament echoing through the stale air. "Haven?! Hav!"

        As Bellamy fervently tore through the contents of the second floor, the once orderly space morphed into a tumultuous mirror of the level below. Papers and tools from Monty's work station were hurled aside in reckless abandon. Toy soldiers, once proudly standing guard, now lay strewn across overturned blankets and cots, their silent sentry broken. Not a single centimeter of the level escaped Bellamy's trembling grasp, his anxious hands leaving no stone unturned.

        Haven was nowhere to be found.

        "COME ON!" he cried out, "Hav...please!"

        With blood thundering in his ears and despair incinerating his soul, Bellamy's world spun wildly out of control, permanently off-kilter. His gaze, hollow and haunted, fixated on the hatch to the third floor—a portal to further torment. It loomed above him like a mocking omen, its siren call a cruel invitation that urged him to delve deeper into the abyss, to confront the inevitable emptiness that awaited him within its depths.
  
        If she wasn't up there . . .

        Apocalyptically, Bellamy grasped the rungs of the ladder, defying the relentless tug of defeat as he propelled his body upward. Every cell within him pleaded to lay down and die, yet he stubbornly pressed on—for her, her, her. Emerging through the hatch, he hoisted himself upright, his movements weighted with torment as he surveyed the rear of the room first, clinging to the echoes of his final moments before embracing irreversible ruin.

        With a deliberate slowness, he pivoted—confronting the remnants of the room with watery eyes.

        All that remained upon the third floor was a pair of Jasper's boots, bathed in the amber glow of sunlight cascading through the jagged tear in the wall—evidence of Murphy's passage to freedom.

He couldn't see Haven. Anywhere.

        He couldn't feel her.

        And then . . . Bellamy shattered.

        "HAVEN!"

        A mournful wail tore itself from the depths of Bellamy's soul, shattering the stillness, reverberating through the void like a funeral bell. He screamed her name in a desperate incantation, as if the sheer force of his voice could conjure her back into existence. As if every thud of his heart served only as wretched plea to reclaim her, to feel her, to bind himself to her for eternity.

        Staggering against the unforgiving steel of the wall, he descended into an unrelenting torrent of tears, unable to think, to breathe. By the time the Blake boy finally collapsed on the floor, clutching his head in his hands—he was shaking, crying, shivering so uncontrollably that he could hardly distinguish whether he was composed of saltwater or blood.

Every failure of the past month seemed inconsequential compared to the ruthless devastation annihilating him from within. He had traversed this desolate path before, waded through its barren trenches for an entire year—and it had nearly killed him.

Perhaps, this time, it would.

        Maybe Bellamy was destined to finally succumb to his missteps. There was no trace of a path left for him to follow, its golden trail disintegrating into ash before he could even glimpse it. Perhaps he didn't merit the privilege of continuing, not in the haunting absence of his sister and the love of his life—once more torn from his grasp, all over again. Perhaps he was never meant to live a life without them. Perhaps he was condemned to endure the ceaseless, relentless ache of their absence, their loss serving as the eternal penance for every moment he had failed to protect them.

        Who was Bellamy Blake without the people he loved most?

        He was . . . nothing.

        Nothing.

• •

...HEY.

siri play once more to see you by mitski and i need my girl by the national 🫨

welcome to act 2!!! here is the chapter that put me 2 weeks behind editing 😗 sorry if this made you question your will to live because girl it really did for me!!! holy crap😀😀😀😀😀

bellamy's pov makes me more depressed than haven's sometimes, but this chapter is so so special to me! in the way that haven kind of had her moment in the Vampira chapter dedicated to her, her trauma, who she is at her core...i wanted bellamy to have a chapter like that too, so here it is!! what better way than to do it when hes at his absolute lowest and bleeding out of his freakin ears due to head trauma 😏😀 plus we wont be hearing his pov for a little while soooooooooooooooooooooooooo...had to give it my all.

also...the parallel between the first chapter "the girl who cheated death" & now starting act 2 with this <333 if you havent already listened to the song The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot by brand new....congrats i guess?? spare yourself the agony?? or you can listen to it and think of this book/bellamy and cry and be insane in the head like me

next chapter we back in mount weather and with far less of a word count lol! im not gonna lie its also NOT happy but angst is what i live for. TRUST THE PROCESS! i promise things will get better!! i just finished writing the CUTEST happiest chapter for later in s2 (and also the smuttiest😭) so trust!!! THEY WILL BE HAPPY AGAIN EVENTUALLY!! i tried to keep the smut minimal but what can i say. they just match each other's freak i fear 🤭

that being said... i know smut is not for everybody!! me? IMMA EAT IT UP butttt thats why i'll always label it with a content warning. the chapter that it pops up in literally is plot irrelevant so everybody who prefers to skip past it can do so without fear of missing anything drastically important <33

ANYWAY! orion & bellamy bestie era?? oh yeah. we doing a bestie SWAP. miller and haven are about to be like dis 🤞 i also i literally cant wait for yall to read whats to come because this bellamy and abby fued is gonna be NUCLEAR

as always...i love you. thank you for everything FOREVERRRRRRR!!! MWAH!!!

12.4k words (NEVER AGAIN... unless?)