• •

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX;

NIGHTCRAWLER.

• •

        HAVEN OFTEN FOUND HERSELF CAUGHT IN THE INTRICATE WEB OF DESTINY AND CURSE, struggling to discern where one ended and the other began. The two seemed indistinguishable at times, both carrying an oppressive weight of finality and inescapable certainty. If she were fated for death, logic dictated she should remain in its grasp. Yet, time and again—she defied its embrace, resurrected by a stubborn heartbeat that refused succumb to its demands.

Perhaps Murphy's words held a kernel of truth—Haven wasn't destined to die, but to become the living embodiment of death itself. A spectral figure, cursed to wander the realms of the living, her presence casting a looming shadow over all she held dear. Every breath she drew felt like an exhalation of doom; everything around her seemed to wither and perish, her touch a silent promise of inevitable decay.

But as she glanced at the weary faces of her friends surrounding her, absorbed the distant hum of activity permeating the dropship's walls, a somber realization settled over her. Fate, she understood, held no sway over the bleak reality they inhabited. The grim specters of war, violence, bloodshed, and death—the very antithesis of innocence—was never meant to be the destiny of teenagers, of children.

They were just kids.

Kids were not meant to be forged into instruments of destruction, their spirits sharpened into knives, their dreams pulverized into gunpowder and forcibly jammed into cobalt bullets. Kids were not meant to decide who lives and who dies—whose breath would continue to grace the air, and whose would be extinguished forever. Kids were not meant to greet the dawn with the expectation of death instead of the rising sun.

       They were supposed to be happy. Safe.

       Earth held other plans.

        "We've got twenty-five rifles with twenty rounds each, give or take."

Bellamy's voice shattered the noise rioting beneath because Haven's skull, wrenching her from her reverie and compelling her to sit a little taller. Finn and Clarke stood across from him, their faces taut with stress, leaning over a large table strewn with a detailed layout of the camp. Toy soldiers meticulously marked positions and strategies, their plastic forms a grim representation of the real lives at stake. Raven slumped against a stool, pressing a rag against the seeping wound on her stomach, while Haven sat huddled on the floor beside her.

"Roughly five-hundred rounds of ammo," Bellamy continued, eyes black as night, his arms folded across his chest in his familiar, authoritative stance. "While you two were gone, we made some improvements. Thanks to Raven..." He paused, pointing to the shallow trench of earth carved into the layout before them. "The gully is mined."

        Raven, despite her pallor and the obvious discomfort etched into her features, managed a faint nod, her contribution to their survival embedded into the dirt like a defiant signature. "Partially mined," she grunted, "Thanks to Murphy."

        Right. Murphy.

The fucker who had shattered their fragile semblance of peace, callously shot Haven's best friend in the stomach, and had nearly taken the life of the boy she loved. Murphy, whose reckless escape had left them reeling and undoubtedly vulnerable—a gaping hole torn into the side of their only solid sanctuary, the last of their precious gunpowder sacrificed in his desperate bid for freedom.

"Still, it's the main route in. If the Grounders use it—we'll know." Bellamy offered Raven a firm dip of his head, a silent acknowledgment of her invaluable prowess. Then, he gestured towards a small, silver box, cautiously lifting a metal vial into his palms. "She also built grenades."

        Clarke frowned. "It's not many."

        "Again..." Raven blew out an exasperated sigh. "Thank you, Murphy."

"We'll make them count," Bellamy declared assertively, imbuing his words with an impenetrable strength, as if willing their truth into existence. "If the Grounders make it through the front gate, guns and grenades should force them back."

        Somehow, Clarke's frown intensified even further, accompanied by an incredulous lift of her brows. "And then?"

        "Then we close the door and pray." Raven finished.

        Silence roared—apocalyptically.

        Even Haven couldn't overlook the flaws in their backup plan; the notion of retreating within the battered shell of the dropship and simply hoping for the best felt as futile as wishing upon a distant satellite. Each repair was a testament to the barrier's resilience, yet every fresh rupture served as a stark reminder of its fragility. The teenagers had barely managed to patch up the chasm torn by the hurricane, only to have Murphy's explosive escape rend it open all over again. Its structural integrity hung by the thinnest of threads, vulnerable to the elements and the relentless onslaught of their enemies.

It was not a question of if, but rather when the Grounders would exploit the breach, or worse—penetrate the main door.

But, then again...what the fuck else were they supposed to do?

"And pray what?" Clarke echoed, wild eyes flashing with alarm as she pivoted between Bellamy and Raven, desperately seeking some semblance of logic amidst their dire circumstances. "That the ship keeps them out? Because it won't."

        Bellamy set his jaw. "Then let's not let them get through the gate."

A sudden cataclysm tore through Haven's chest as she beheld Bellamy's solemn ritual: the squared shoulders, the breath drawn from the abyss, and the resolute lift of the walkie to his lips. Each movement felt like a seismic shift in their fate, a harbinger of another impending decision whose repercussions would echo through eternity. Despite the practiced fluidity of his gestures, a subtle tremor betrayed the facade of his composure—unnoticed by all but her knowing eyes.

"All foxholes, listen up," Bellamy began roughly. "Keep your eyes and ears open. Inflict casualties—as many as possible. You can hold them off long enough to make them turn back." His eyes instinctively flickered towards Haven before concluding his directive. "That's the plan."

Finn's complaint was agonizingly predictable. "That's always your plan, just like the bomb at the bridge."

        "Actually, that was your plan, Finn—the same one that you couldn't even finish." Haven cut in, summoning the strength of her voice for the first time since their impromptu meeting began. Shooting him a withering glare from her position on the floor, she defiantly rose to her feet. "You come up with anything better yet?"

        Finn merely clenched his jaw.

        Haven shook her head as she strode towards the group at the table, decisively planting herself between Clarke and Bellamy. "Thought so." Dick. "I think the Reapers are still worth a shot."

        Biting the inside of her cheek, Clarke expelled a heavy sigh through her nose, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly. "That's a death wish, Haven."

        "Look at who you're talking to." Haven deadpanned. "Distracting the Grounders with their weird...fued...it could be good for us. Letting them kill each other saves us ammo and lives." A resolute gleam illuminated her eyes as she mulled over the idea. "If I can somehow get to Lincoln..."

        Clarke vehemently shook her head. "I—"

        "Haven's right," Bellamy cut in, his unexpected agreement drawing twin looks of astonishment from the pair opposite them. Even Haven's eyes widened momentarily, but Bellamy's next words quickly dispelled any lingering surprise. "It's so stupid that it's smart. But even if we did go that route, it'd be a last ditch effort..." His eyes knowingly locked with hers. "...and you wouldn't be the one doing it."

A reflexive protest seared the tip of Haven's tongue. "But—!"

"Not happening." Bellamy's declaration was unyielding, solid as iron, striking with a finality that nearly compelled her to stomp her foot in frustration. "Besides, we need you at the barrier—remember?"

        Right.

        Haven was starting to regret her decision to lead the defensive barrier at the wall's vulnerable points. With Orion by her side, she marshaled every available teenager not assigned to firearms duty, deploying them strategically along the perimeter. Most of the volunteers were individuals whom Haven had personally trained in self-defense following her emergence from the bunker. Armed with knives, swords, hatchets, and grenades—weapons that demanded skill and precision rather than relying on precious ammunition—they were prepared for the ultimate onslaught. Their mandate was crystallized, sharp as a whip: bolster the Gunners and, if the line broke, meet the Grounders with unyielding ferocity.

It wasn't that Haven didn't want to lead the barrier; rather, the weight of responsibility constrained her usual penchant for recklessness, offering her fewer opportunities to succumb to impulse.

Bellamy, on the other hand, was the plan's most fervent advocate—practically bursting with relief upon realizing she'd be positioned behind the Gunners, rather than spearheading the frontlines. It wasn't a matter of doubting her abilities; Haven undoubtedly possessed the skill to decimate a significant portion of the enemy forces if she so desired. But knowing she'd be somewhat safer than he was...it brought him a fleeting semblance of solace, even amidst the severity of their current hellscape.

Still, tension was tenfold.

"It can't be that simple..." Clarke murmured, her gaze fixed intently on the camp's layout, scouring for hidden complexities. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, she pivoted toward Raven. "You said there's fuel in those rockets, right? Enough to build a hundred bombs?"

Raven knitted her brows, a silent indication for the blonde to elaborate further. "I also said we've got no gunpowder left."

"I don't want to build a bomb." Clarke's lips involuntarily twitched upwards. "I want to blast off."

In her nineteen years of life, Raven Reyes had never tasted the bitter sting of being outsmarted—yet no hint of resentment brewed within the mechanical corridors of her mind. Instead, Clarke's words swept through her like a tempest, igniting a whirlwind of thought that set the gears of her intellect spinning with newfound fervor. As if roused from a slumber, Raven straightened against the stool, her posture a testament to the relentless pursuit of innovation kindled by Clarke's revelation.

        "Draw them in close..." Raven drawled, a saccharine smile gracing her lips despite the visible strain of straightening up. "...Fire the rockets..."

        Haven caught on at once.

        "A ring of fire."

        Now this . . . this was a fucking plan—one that she could wholeheartedly get behind. It was a daring gamble, to say the least, working with the dormant hydrazine tanks beneath their very feet. The line between salvation and annihilation seemed thinner than ever. Yet, Haven found herself infused with a newfound sense of confidence, knowing that if Raven could manipulate a door circuit with a bullet lodged in her torso, taming the volatile rocket fuel would be child's play.

        The task ahead was clear: while Raven worked her magic with the thrusters, the remainder of the camp would stand as the last line of defense against the encroaching army.

All they had to do was buy her enough time.

Bellamy's mouth curled into an amused smirk. "Barbecued Grounders, I like it."

Meanwhile, Finn cast a wary glance towards the mechanic on the stool, his brows knitting with apprehension. "Will it work?"

"The wiring's a mess down there—but yeah." Raven offered the group a slow, deliberate nod of her head, her wild eyes alight with a newfound sense of drive that seemed to illuminate the sticky shadows around them. "You give me enough time...I'll cook 'em real good."

"That's it, then. Finn, Clarke—do whatever the hell it takes to help her get it done," Bellamy commanded, pinning Finn with a reflexive, almost involuntary glare before shifting towards the girl beside him. "We'll be on patrol."

        Just as Bellamy sought the familiar gravity of Haven's hand, he discovered himself grasping at nothing but a gaping void, her reassuring presence now conspicuously absent from his side. Instead, he watched as the Smith girl unyieldingly strode in the opposite direction, swiftly crossing the expanse before coming to a deliberate halt. With a fluid motion, she lowered herself into a crouch before her best friend, a gesture imbued with silent solidarity.

        "Hey," she whispered, "You got this."

        Raven smirked. "Hey—I know."

        In the silvery expanse of timeless communion, the childhood friends found themselves enveloped in a sacred silence, where the depths of their connection surpassed the limits of language. Here, amidst the quietude of their shared history, there existed no necessity for further exchange between the girls, no sentiments that could eclipse the profound understanding already shared. The love between them transcended mere introduction; it was a force as ancient and boundless as the universe itself.

They knew this wasn't goodbye.

Yet, it felt so . . . final.

Reluctant to aggravate Raven's bullet wound with the intensity of an embrace, Haven opted for a gentle touch, her hand tenderly finding its place atop Raven's knee. Despite the unspoken torment that lingered in the air, Haven managed a fragile smile—just as Raven extended her hand in the hopeful gesture of a clenched fist.

        "Boom?"

         Haven lightly bumped her fist against her best friend's. "Boom."

Dismissing the hollow ache rattling beneath her ribs, she rose from her place on the floor, surrendering to Bellamy's gentle guidance down the ramp and into the enfolding embrace of twilight.

        Aside from the assembly of timid teenagers in formation near the wall, silently awaiting Haven's leading presence—camp was barren. Gunners lurked like phantoms in the shadows, concealed in foxholes and hidden within alcoves, bruised fingers poised on triggers, ready to unleash a barrage of death at the slightest provocation. Every teenager within the vicinity was a picture of walking arsenal, some wielding the weight of multiple weapons, the steel glint of hatchets nearly eclipsing their slender frames. Dread permeated the air, thick and oppressive, as though the very atmosphere conspired to crush the spirits of those who dared to breathe it in.

        And yet, amidst the palpable tension, it was the deafening silence that screamed loudest of all—a foreboding omen of the violence poised to erupt at any moment.

        Bellamy quietly led Haven to the familiar sanctuary they had stumbled upon earlier in the day—a secluded stretch of grass near the dropship's rear, where the looming presence of the graveyard cast a somber shadow just a few yards away. As they came to a halt, Haven leaned wearily against the cold metal for support, while Bellamy halted a mere two feet in front of her, their eyes intrinsically melding in an soundless exchange of agony.

        For a while, silence reigned between them, a delicate truce neither dared to break. The air was thick with unspoken words, each one a fragile shard that, once disturbed, would pierce through the tenuous veil of the present, revealing the inevitable truth that loomed ahead—an inexorable pull of duty and fate.

       They were separating.

Bellamy was the first to break the silence—he was always the first to break the silence. With an unsteady intake of breath, his gaze briefly sought solace in the earth below, only to yield once more to the irresistible lure of her gravity. "I..."

"I'll be fine," Haven interjected, though her voice emerged as far more strained than she'd anticipated. "Orion will too. We've got about thirty volunteers so far."

        Bellamy nodded. "I'll send Miller with."

        "No—Miller and the lead Gunners need to be with you at the front gate." Haven's voice quivered with the weight of her insistence, her words a desperate plea veiled in resolve. As she observed Bellamy's lips curl into a faint frown, a cold knot tightened in her chest. "You know that's where we're most vulnerable. The barrier's only backup, remember?"

        The Blake boy's frown deepened even further. "You need backup too."

        "I'll be fine."

        "Are you sure you can't just stay with Raven in the dropship? I'm sure she'll need help with wires...or something." Bellamy asked tentatively, fully aware that he had no fucking idea how the mechanical aspect of their plan would pan out. Still, his every word hung heavy in the air, an earnest plea to fate—a desperate attempt to shield her from the impending danger. "Not this."

Haven shook her head, a faint, rueful smile tugging at her mouth. "I'm awful at splicing—my hands shake too much," she admitted, a shadow of vulnerability crossing her features as she bit down on her bottom lip. "Finn's always been better at it than I am."

        "You could always just sit in the dropship and do nothing for once." Bellamy suggested, futilely attempting to disguise his plea as a joke.
As his hand gently brushed aside a stray loc of hair from her forehead, his touch lingered, the tremble in his fingertips betraying his underlying desperation. "Y'know...offer moral support, or whatever."

        Haven offered him a blank stare. "Moral support."

        "Yeah," Bellamy persisted, "I don't think it's the worst idea I've had. All you have to do is sit there, hold Raven's hand..."

        "Bellamy."

        "...And maybe you can finally stop stressing out that pretty brain of yours. Obviously, you can still move around, keep your hands busy, but..."

        "Bell."

        As the weight of Haven's interruption settled upon him, Bellamy found himself miserably stumbling over his words, each syllable a clumsy attempt to salvage his faltering suggestion. His lips trembled, opening and closing in vain, frantically searching for some elusive thread to divert them from the inevitable path ahead.

        It wasn't that Bellamy lacked faith in Haven's leadership. Rather, it was the addition of rocket fuel that injected yet another volatile element into their already precarious plan. It meant the Gunners would be stretched thin, holding the line for far longer than anticipated while Raven raced to ignite the thrusters. Buying the mechanic more time meant expelling more bullets, inevitably draining their ammunition in the battle against the encroaching Grounders. And if they ran out of ammo, retreat would become their only recourse, thrusting Haven and every other teenager into the frontlines—their lives hanging by a thread.

All they had to do was endure long enough to reach the safety of dropship, long before Raven's ignition unleashed a cataclysm of fiery annihilation upon them—reducing the camp to smoldering ruins.

        Bellamy knew they could do it.

        Still . . . he was fucking terrified.

        Exhaling the weight of the world, Bellamy closed the gap between them, drawing Haven closer until their breaths mingled in the space between. With a tender touch, he lowered his forehead to hers, shutting his eyes tightly as he sought to immerse himself in her presence, to feel her warmth, and to quiet the relentless wardrum of his heart.

"I hate this," he muttered, "I hate this."

Eyed closed, Haven reached out, her fingers instinctively seeking out the nape of Bellamy's neck, intertwining with a familiarity born of countless shared moments. As she held him closer, she focused on the rhythm of her own breath, each inhalation a deliberate act of grounding. Whether for him or for herself, she quite couldn't discern, but she persisted—her steady exhalations a whispered reassurance against the tumultuous reality of uncertainty. Gradually, she felt the tension in his breaths ease, melding seamlessly with her own until their rhythms converged as one.

        It almost felt . . . peaceful.

        Almost.

        Haven's voice broke the tender silence, a hesitant whisper amidst the shared stillness. With a fleeting glance upwards, she found Bellamy's eyes still closed, his forehead pressed gently against hers. "You taught me well, remember?" she ventured, her words a fragile offering of reassurance. "I can do this."

"That's exactly what worries me," Bellamy grumbled lowly. "Putting everybody else's weight on your back. Saving them over yourself."

Her next words were quiet. "Don't you do the same?"

For a fleeting moment, Bellamy's breath hitched, his entire body tensing as he prepared to justify his role in safeguarding the lives of the camp, a duty he felt was solely his own—certainly not hers. But before he could voice his protest, Haven tightened her grip, drawing him closer with the gentle caress of her fingers against his neck, melting the edges of his rebuttal with her touch.

"We can do this." The Smith girl's repetition of the sentiment was soft, yet it carried the impenetrable scorch of the cosmos, its resolve unyielding. "We just have to make it back to the dropship in time."

At that, Bellamy finally opened his eyes, only to be met with Haven already gazing up at him. "Consider it done."

Another stretch of silence ensued.

The duo stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. It always felt this way for them—time seemed to bow to their will, warping and bending, a mere heartbeat expanding into lifetime, minutes blurring into hours. No amount of time spent together could ever feel adequate enough in the face of their impending separation. But the shadows of the night encroached, their silhouettes melding further into the darkness, drawing them closer, closer, closer, threatening to rip them apart altogether—they knew they'd have to face the truth eventually.

War had already descended upon them.

Not just in the battlefield, but seeping into the riotous chasm that cleaved their hearts apart—beckoning, taunting, daring them to see who would be the first to walk away.

Just as Haven parted her lips to speak, Bellamy was already drawing her into the shelter of his embrace. Lifting his brow from hers, he bestowed a tender kiss to the crown of her head, coiling his arms around her back and clinging to her as though bound by cosmic glue. Resting his chin atop her head, he manically clutched her tighter—torn between the dread of squeezing her to death and the anguish of relinquishing her to the merciless whims of fate.

As Bellamy's voice drifted through the ebony strands of Haven's locs, it seemed to echo from a distant galaxy, far removed from the present moment. "Did I already say that I hate this?"

Haven felt something within her fracture.

"Twice," she whispered.

With an almost unbearable yearning, Bellamy clutched her even closer, longing to pry himself from the confines of his own flesh and seek refuge within hers. Intentionally committing every detail to memory, he traced the delicate rise and fall of her chest, anchoring himself to the violent staccato of her heartbeat thundering against his ribcage. In that fleeting moment, he refused to entertain the notion of an end, clinging to the belief with a fervor that bordered on obsession.

This wasn't the end.

This wasn't her end.

With each repetition, he etched the truth deeper into his consciousness, a relentless mantra that reverberated through the corridors of Bellamy's mind until it felt as though the very essence of his being throbbed with its echoes.

"I love you, Haven," he breathed, "I love you so, so much."

By the time Haven summoned the strength to peer up at Bellamy, she could hardly discern his familiar features through the thick, impenetrable veil of tears clouding her vision. She refused to let them fall, allowing her eyes to burn irreparably, searing themselves with the image of the boy she loved into the depths of her very soul. Through the shimmering haze, she could faintly catch his own tears glistening, tracing silent paths down his cheeks—a reflection of the unbridled agony that mirrored her own.

        The words roared across the air like an oath.

        "I love you most."

        Then, Haven was ripping herself away from him.

        Nothing in life was ever meant to stay—a cycle of perpetual impermanence, a cruel reality she'd come to accept. Every farewell Haven had ever endured was maimed with the indelible traces of her claw marks. She wouldn't dare to subject Bellamy to the same torture, not any further than she already had; she wouldn't allow him to beg, to plead for her to change her mind, to contort himself into a thousand different directions just to hold onto her. She knew he wouldn't be the first to walk away, especially in the face of such dire circumstances—it was a choice too grave, too unspeakable to fully comprehend.

        So, she carried it.

        For him.

       Mechanically, Haven dredged one foot in front of the other, dismissing the nauseating force of desolation that threatened to swallow her in his absence. Forcing her silhouette further into the distance, she vanished amidst the obsidian shadows—devastatingly aware of the eyes drilling twin holes into her spine.

• •

"DO YOU THINK THE GROUNDERS EVER SLEEP?"

The defensive barrier loomed in a silence so impenetrable it seemed to smother even the whisper of the wind. It stood like a monolith, as motionless as the grave, disrupted only by the sharp crack of Haven's knuckles or the venomous curses Orion spat at the fireflies that dared to flit too close. The two girls stood resolute, side by side, anchoring the ground beneath the south Gunner's post, their eyes flickering with wild intensity toward the alcove above them. Del skulked within its shadowed perch, still nursing the shattered remnants of the nose Haven had broken in a moment of righteous fury. Below, Jones stood with rifle in hand, a silent enforcer of Bellamy's commands.

        As the minutes stretched into an interminable hour, the Grounders remained elusive, hidden within the shroud of darkness that enveloped the night. Every moment was spent in vigilant observation, eyes straining to penetrate the veil of shadows and discern any sign of their impending attackers. If the warriors were hiding, they were doing a damn good job of it. But if they were approaching—it was only a matter of time before all hell broke loose.

Haven could physically feel what little remained of her patience evading her. It wasn't that she wanted the chaos of battle, but if the Grounders were hell-bent on waging war against a group of teenagers—why the fuck couldn't they just get it over with already? The excruciating wait felt like a calculated tactic, a psychological torment designed to erode their sanity and dissolve their resolve. Driving the teenagers insane would unravel them long before any enemy's blade could strike. But still, the harrowing truth remained—war loomed at their very doorstep, and death stood ominously near.

The clash between the two forces would undoubtedly result in casualties, though the term seemed inadequate to capture the gravity of the loss. More accurately, it would be a slaughter—a ruthless onslaught orchestrated by vengeful adults, their years of experience and ancestral brilliance honed to a deadly edge, unleashed upon a group of fucking children.

        Haven had no interest in dissecting the complexities of war or entertaining lofty ideals of peaceful resolution. Such notions seemed futile, if not downright naive, in the face of the imminent bloodshed. In a perfect world, perhaps the warring factions could find common ground and coexist harmoniously. But she certainly wasn't about to stick her neck out to make it happen—not now, not anymore.

She was done clinging to the part of herself that pleaded to stay clean of foreign blood.

        If the Grounders were determined to spill the blood of her friends, her family...then so be it. She harbored no illusions about the inherent cruelty of humanity, nor did she waste time mourning the loss of those who would willingly wield violence against the innocent.

        Good fucking riddance to them all.

Jones was the first to answer Orion's question, his voice a low grumble tinged with exhaustion, eyes still rimmed red from the emotional turmoil of the past few hours. "Unfortunately, they're still human," he muttered, the words heavy with resignation. "I mean, they have to sleep... eventually."

        Orion emitted a frustrated groan, her hand raking through her windswept curls in annoyance before resuming her grip on her sword's sheath. "I don't think I've slept in over a week."

"Me either," Haven admitted.

At that, Orion's eyes narrowed. "Um...you were unconscious for like, two days." Although her retort carried a familiar trace of levity, her discomfort at the memory was unmistakable. "So, I'd say I'm way more tired than you are."

Fuck.

        It was moments like this where Haven became excruciatingly aware of her own mortality. She was intimately acquainted with the fragility of her own existence, having grown accustomed to the cyclical dance of death and rebirth, a familiar limbo she seemed destined to inhabit for eternity. But on Earth...the reality of her livelihood took on a starkly different hue. No longer was she confined to a hospital bed on Go-Sci or collapsing alone in the desolation of the Sky Box.

She had died in front of her friends.

Repeatedly.

Here, in the company of those Haven cherished and those who cherished her in return, each encounter with mortality took on a deeper resonance. Usually, her customary penchant for humor in the face of death might have elicited a laugh in the past—now, it only seemed to ring hollow, the vitality fading far faster than ever before.

        While she might have survived . . . the trauma she inadvertently inflicted upon her loved ones was irreversible.

She could feel the tremor in Bellamy's fingertips everytime he cradled her face within his palms. She could sense Jasper's avoidance of prolonged eye contact ever since he'd witnessed her heart stop. She could see the uneasy furrow between Raven's brows with every glance in her direction. She could feel Orion's undying wrath towards Finn festering through her veins as though it were her own.

Haven had traumatized them.

        All of them.

        "Fair," she admitted quietly, expelling a weighted exhale before peering through the cracks in the wall. "Hopefully the trek here will wear them down. We can use their exhaustion to our advantage—they'll feel it in their calves and their lungs." Her fingers instinctively itched for the blade tucked beneath her shirt. "Strike there first."

Orion screwed her lips into a scorn. "I'll strike wherever the hell will kill them."

"Ditto," Jones chimed in, his voice carrying a steely resolve as he adjusted his grip on the rifle. He brought the scope to his eye, the cold metal biting against his cheek. "Well...I'll shoot, I mean."

        Orion knowingly tilted her head. "Headshot?"

        Jones nodded in lethal confirmation.

        "For Drew."

An ungodly surge of agony lanced through Haven's chest as she recalled the boy who'd saved her life. She simply couldn't fathom what she'd done to merit such a permanent sacrifice. Perhaps Drew hadn't meant to intercept the blade when he thrust her to safety; maybe he had hoped they'd both evade harm together. Yet, even if it was an impulsive act, he couldn't have made the choice without some awareness of the lethal consequences if he failed.

What the boy had done wasn't a heroic act of selflessness, it was a tragic, impulsive mistake—one forged in the merciless crucible of warfare.

Haven felt vehemently undeserving.

        "I'm sorry, Jones," she murmured glumly, the weight of her words steeped in the bitter essence of death and decay. "I'm sorry that sorry isn't enough. He...he saved my life."

        Jones casually deflected her apology with a gentle nudge of his elbow against hers. "That's just who he was—kind," he answered, his voice a bittersweet lament tinged with the echoes of cherished memories. As he lowered his rifle to his side, his gaze turned inward, as if searching for solace in the vast expanse of the night sky. "Stupidly kind. Too good for the rest of us scumbags."

Before Haven had a chance to answer, the familiar crackle of Clarke's voice pierced through the silence, emanating from the walkie-talkie clipped to her belt loop.

"South post—do you copy?"

        Haven retrieved the walkie at once, smoothly lifting the device to her lips and jamming her thumb over the talk button. "We're here. What's wrong?"

        An agonizing beat passed.

        "...It's Raven."

Every iota of oxygen was violently torn from Haven's lungs at the mere mention of her best friend's name. Panic shredded through her being on instinct, coalescing in her throat before ruthlessly expanding into every atomic fiber of her being. Her fingers quaked viciously as she fought to maintain her grip on the radio, threatened to relinquish control altogether, until Clarke's voice shattered through the static once more.

"The bullet's in her spine, Haven. She's...she's bleeding internally." Clarke confessed solemnly. "Finn said Lincoln that has medicine in his cave to slow it—coagulant. It should be in the same satchel that we found the vials in. Finn can get it, but..."

Haven was already on the move.

        "I'll do it."

        "Not happening." Bellamy's voice snarled through the airwaves like gunfire. "Why the hell isn't Finn doing it?"

        "I'm closer to the woods." Disregarding Bellamy's anticipated protest, Haven seized the pack of extra weapons from atop her shoulder blades, rummaging through its contents until she secured an additional two daggers. "And faster."

        Bellamy seethed with disbelief. "Oh, for fuck's sake—"

"There's no time for this. If Raven dies..." The Smith girl's voice was a fragile echo in the tumultuous night. With a shaky inhale, she swiftly tucked the daggers into her waistband, the cold metal a silent promise against the looming threat. Despite the crushing weight of her dread, she refused to surrender to its depths, her spirit a bastion of defiance amidst the encroaching shadows. "...we all die."

        Silence roared.

        And then . . .

        "Fu...god...dam...fuck...shit...!"

        Amidst the distorted warble of radio chatter, Haven strained to discern the fragments of Bellamy's violent stream of curses. The feeble connection seemed to warp his words, twisting them into disjointed echoes that struggled to pierce through the veil of interference. Yet, she couldn't shake the suspicion that it wasn't the integrity of the transmission at fault—but rather the sheer volume of Bellamy's fury that rendered his swearing unintelligible.

        "Holy shit," Orion snickered. "I think you broke him."

        Haven shot her a look.

        "Just...keep your walkie on, alright?" Bellamy rasped hoarsely, his words scraping against the speakers like rough gravel. "Take Jones with you too. If you're not back in an hour—I'm coming after you."

        Haven's nod was more for herself than anyone else, a silent affirmation of her commitment to the mission. "Copy that, my King," she radioed back. "Tell Finn to cover my post with Orion instead. I'm heading out."

        At the mere mention of the Finn's name, Orion's jaw practically unhinged itself from the remainder of her skull. "Hav, what the fuck—?!"

        "I can't have this argument right now," Haven interjected, ensuring her finger was poised far away from the talk button as she delivered her next words with a commanding finality. "And Jones—you're staying here."

        Jones grimaced. "Dude...Bellamy's gonna shoot me."

"I'm about to shoot her." Orion's words were carried on the wings of a vicious scowl. Just as Haven shifted to depart, the Vincetta girl abruptly snatched her by the forearm, halting her in place. "No way. No freakin' way. I'll come with you then—"

Haven miserably shook her head. "You can't."

"Like hell I can't!" Orion's wrath swept through the air like a tempest, her grasp on Haven's forearm an ironclad embrace as she strained against it. Her words were fervent, strained with desperation, teetering on the edge of imminent hysteria. "You can't just go...alone. You can't just leave me with Finn! You can't—!"

"Orion..." Haven murmured softly. "I have to do this."

"You can't!"

"I—"

"You can't just leave me!"

        Any semblance of protest poised on the tip of Haven's tongue withered into nothingness, disintegrating into wisps of rotten ash. She stared at the girl before her through wide eyes, unable to blink, unable to draw breath, unable to feel anything other than the colossal blow of devastation slamming into her gut.

Orion was shaking. "I just...I just got you back," she admitted breathlessly, her words choked with tears as her chest heaved with the effort to speak. "I-I can't do this on my own!"

        Swallowing the jagged lump knotting in her throat, Haven placed a firm hand atop Orion's, seeking to quell her shaking. "You are not on your own," she assured, gesturing to the line of delinquents forming the barrier alongside them with a head tilt. "You have an entire group of people right here."

"But they're not you!" Orion's voice shattered, teetering on the precipice of a panicked wail, a thousand tumultuous emotions ripping through her trembling form as she frantically shook her head. "I'm just following your lead half of the time and hoping I'll figure out the rest. I don't know what to do by myself." Molten tears, hot and relentless, bled shamelessly down her cheeks. "I-I can't. I can't. Not without you."

Despair claimed Haven in seconds.

Orion Vincetta—the seventeen-year old girl etched in the annals of survival, a phoenix born from the ashes of betrayal, her innocence maimed at the hands of somebody meant to protect her. Orion Vincetta—the girl with a grenade for a heart and a tongue as cunning as a switchblade. Orion Vincetta—the girl who left scorch marks beneath the very earth she walked, who marched violently to the beat of her own drum, who would sooner tear herself asunder than bow to the chains of conformity. Orion Vincetta—the girl who understood she was a firestorm incarnate, who knew that trying to command her was as futile as courting chaos itself.

Orion Vincetta—the unsung sister cradled beneath the enormity of Haven's bleeding heart, the girl who would rather die than be forced to be left alone.

        "You can. You've done it before." Haven's voice splintered, her eyes misting with tears held back by sheer force of will. Her chin quivered, teeth gritted in a frantic attempt to anchor her resolve. "Your instincts will keep you safe, but you have to trust yourself, Ori."

A broken smile tugged at the corners of Orion's lips, her labored breaths abruptly hitching in her throat.

"That's what my mom used to call me."

"Then make her proud. Do it for her. Do it for everybody here. Do it for yourself." Haven was disintegrating, her very essence fracturing into a thousand irreparable fragments as she beheld the trauma reflecting within Orion's glassy eyes—the same eyes that sought out hers for guidance, for support, for strength. "I...I love you, okay? You can do this."

        Then, Orion surged forward, enveloping Haven in an embrace so tight it felt like they might dissolve into one another. The taller girl's head rested against the side of Haven's temple, their cheeks melding together, tears mingling in a fiery cascade until their identities blurred into one. They clung to each other desperately, as though clinging to the edge of a precipice, unwilling to confront the abyss that loomed ahead.

Orion's voice emerged as a muffled whisper. "Why does this feel like the last time I'm gonna see you?"

        Haven couldn't answer that.

        "It isn't," she rebuked, her voice a defiant declaration, as if by uttering the words, she could command the universe itself to comply. "It isn't. I'll be back before you know it. Don't die..."

        "...Or you'll kill me yourself." Orion managed a broken laugh as she concluded the Smith girl's sentence, her voice carrying the familiar ghost of her own words—the same ones she had so often aimed at Haven. "Got it."

        Once more, Haven found herself the initiator of their separation, reluctantly extricating herself from another loved one. As she withdrew, her hands remained poised upon both of Orion's shoulders, imprinting the image of her tear-stained face and tousled curls into her mind's eye. Their excruciating departure became yet another burden, another shard of her shattered heart willingly sacrificed—a perpetual reminder of the ache that would accompany her every step until she could return, whole once more.

Haven knowingly dipped her head.

"May we meet again."

Then, she was gone.

• •

        BY SOME TWIST OF DIVINE FORTUNE, Haven arrived at Lincoln's cave unscathed, a ghost in the shadows, evading the vigilant eyes of the hidden Grounders with a stealth born of sheer desperation. If they caught even a glimpse of her, they chose to turn a blind eye, either deeming her insignificant enough her to ignore—or recognizing her as a force too formidable to challenge.

        The cave loomed before her, a cavernous abyss shrouded in darkness and desolation, just as Haven remembered. Tearing through the tunnel the led to its shadowed depths, she skillfully hugged the walls, blade clenched tightly within her scabbed and shredded palms. Eventually, she reached the heart of the cave, its center a haunting tableau of Lincoln's absence. Weapons lurked on the walls like silent sentinels, their cold metal glinting in the dim light, a grim reminder of the time she'd been stabbed. A solitary fur cot lay sprawled across the unforgiving ground, a crude refuge amidst the unforgiving terrain—with Lincoln's satchel lying just beside it.

        Bingo!

        At once, Haven sunk to her knees, frantically tearing through its contents in attempt to locate the elusive vials. Papers flew haphazardly at her fingertips, fluttering chaotically in the eerie teal light, their frantic motion a stark contrast to the stillness of the cave. It felt intrusive, rifling through belongings that were not hers, but with Raven's life hanging in the balance, she couldn't summon a shred of remorse.

If she couldn't find the coagulant . . .

A sudden rustle set her instincts on fire.

Just as Haven glanced over her shoulder, she found herself viciously yanked upward by the collar of her jacket, then slammed against the jagged cave walls. Agony exploded through her skull as her head bore the full brunt of the impact, a kaleidoscopic splay of stars shooting across her vision in violent specks of silver and gold. Yet, fueled by an unyielding will to survive, primal urgency surged within her, vehemently overriding the shock.

        Before her assailant could fully pin their arm against her throat, Haven's instincts roared to life, propelling her into action with a ferocious intensity. With a fluid, almost visceral grace, she thrust her arm forward, the tip of her blade pressing mercilessly against the tender flesh of their throat–daring them to test their luck.

        Lincoln's eyes widened as they met her own.

        In an instant, his entire being seemed to seize with sudden recognition, as if time itself had come to a standstill. His gaze bore into Haven's with a piercing intensity, staring as her features as if he had seen her a thousand times before, scrutinizing every line and curve until she felt nakedly stripped, laid bare to the raw bones of her being.

Then, as swiftly as it had come, the tension in his body dissipated, releasing his arm from Haven's throat with a forceful jerk.

"You," he exhaled lowly, "What are you doing here?"

With a ragged exhale, Haven allowed herself to sag against the unforgiving stone, the cool surface offering a fleeting sense of respite amidst the disorientation. She closed her eyes for a moment, centering herself, before summoning the strength to meet Lincoln's gaze once more.

"Long story," Haven panted, straightening ever so slightly as she lifted her spine from the rugged stone. "I...I need medicine. Coagulant."

Lincoln shook his head. "Why hasn't your camp run already? I told Clarke to flee."

"We tried." Haven deadpanned, uselessly attempting to bite back the frustration coiling in her throat. It felt surreal to navigate such a crucial discussion with a stranger, especially one who seemed to know everything about their circumstances, while remaining a mystery himself. "Look, I know I don't know you, but Clarke trusted me to do this. This is really, really important—"

"I'm out of ammo—requesting backup, now!"

Bellamy's urgent shout exploded through the walkie-talkie strapped to her belt, its sudden intrusion stirring Haven's stomach with dread and elicting an odd look from Lincoln. He stared at the device as though it were a relic of ancient sorcery, uncertain whether to regard its technology as a marvel or a curse. In a futile attempt at a peace offering, Haven snatched the radio from her belt, then soundlessly extended it to Lincoln's awaiting palms.

"Sterling...Sterling! Do you copy?"

Lincoln's jaw ticked. "How many of your people need this medicine?"

"One," Haven answered shakily. "My...my best friend."

At that, Lincoln's brows shot to the apex of his forehead, his incredulous shout ricocheting off the cavernous walls in disbelief. "You came to save one life?"

        "I'm not here to be yelled at." Haven spat, a flicker of defiance smoldering in her wide eyes as she fought to maintain composure. "I don't have time to explain. If she dies, Octavia dies—all of us die. Please tell me you have it." Despite her ironclad resolve, a delicate shroud of vulnerability draped across her features, her plea a whispered prayer to the fates. "Please."

       Lincoln regarded her with a newfound intensity, a glimmer of warmth momentarily softening the edges of his blistering gaze. "I have it."
      
        Relief swelled within Haven's frail lungs as she observed Lincoln's silhouette fade into a dimmer corner of the cave. With determined urgency, he rummaged through a hidden assortment of belongings, their contents spilling haphazardly across the floor in his relentless pursuit of the vials. For a fleeting moment, her racing heart threatened to still, and her frantic breaths began to ease—but the sudden, jarring screech of the walkie-talkie shattered the fragile calm, plunging her back into a vortex of terror, its intensity lethal in its grip.

        "Fall back!" Miller shouted. "Fall back!"

        A beat passed.

        "No! Stand your ground!" Bellamy's command was the next to thunder through the static, sharp and forceful as a whip crack. "If they take the gate—we're all dead!"

        The gate. The gate. The gate.

        Realization slammed into Haven with the force of a battering ram. If the Grounders had breached the gate, if Miller was urgently calling for a retreat, banking solely on the defensive barrier to repel the enemy onslaught, then the war had inevitably begun...and they were already teetering on the precipice of defeat.

"Please," Haven urged, her voice raw with desperation, the words abandoning her in a fragmented whisper. "Please. I-I need to hurry."

In one, fluid motion, Lincoln flung a small satchel in her direction, prompting her to practically flail in attempt to catch it. Once the cloth was secured in her grasp, she eagerly delved inside, revealing a familiar assortment of vials—the vital elixir essential to save Raven's life, to preserve the fragile thread of their collective existence.

Lincoln dipped his head in acknowledgment, his gaze sweeping over the arsenal of weapons adorning the wall before deftly selecting a dagger. "I'm going with you. Let's go."

        Haven wasted no time trailing after him. Frantically, she darted across the threshold toward the escape tunnel, only to grind to an abrupt halt as her boot snagged upon a strewn scrap of paper. She blinked, then squinted closer, swiftly recognizing it as one of the drawings she had absentmindedly sifted through earlier. Time seemed to momentarily suspend as she bent to retrieve it, the cacophony of chaos around her drowned out by the deafening echo of a haunting memory.

"Wait," she breathed, "I...who is this?"

Lincoln spun on his heels, a flicker of irritation glinting in his dark eyes as he inspected the drawing in her grasp. "A Reaper," he answered bluntly. "They chased me all the way back here. I'm sure Clarke has already briefed you."

The gears beneath Haven's skull whirred at a rapidly alarming pace as she beheld the sinister portrait, threatening to wrench from their moorings and cease their cycle altogether. The inky eyes of the Reaper seared into hers even from the depths of the parchment. His ominous glare seemed to pierced through the very fabric of reality—a haunting invitation, a menacing challenge, taunting her to embrace the perilous gamble that could either seal her fate...or become the camp's last hope.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

        "...What do I have to do to piss them off?"

        Lincoln stared at Haven as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head. "Not much..." he murmured, narrowing his eyes into suspecting slits. "What are you getting at here? I thought you said we don't have time."

        "We don't." Haven's words were quiet, barely audible, though the fire beneath them could rival the blaze of a thousand deadly suns. "But if we lead them back to camp...if they go after the army..."

        Lincoln caught on at once.

        "It buys us more time for your people instead," the warrior concluded, setting his jaw in grim determination. Yet, as he cast another glance at the girl by his side, something within the depths of his eyes softened. "But you...you seem to have a death wish, Haven kom Skaikru."

        Haven's lips curled into a wicked grin.

        "Death wishes it could catch me."

• •

GUYSJDHEHEKEOSWI

PART 2 OF THE FINALE IS NEXT WEEK😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 the main portion of it. Im going to have a part 3 thats going to serve a a prelude-ish into act 2... you'll see why. but the main action?? oh girl its COMING IN HOT. the action to dialogue ratio is insane

i actually could not pull myself together writing the scene between orion and haven. it genuinely hurt more me more than the "goodbye" between bellamy and haven. i cried during the confessional chapters and vampira...but THIS... this was different. orion is my heart and soul, i take so much of her inspo from my own baby sister and i just :) OW!!!!

....anywhooo songs for the next chapter are i know the end by phoebe bridgers and as the world caves in by matt maltese!

AS ALWAYS I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU THANK YOU FOR ALL OF THE LOVE, THANK YOU FOR BRINGING ME SO MUCH JOY, wattpad commenters yall make the WORLD SPIN <333

SEE YOU NEXT WEEK 😈