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CHAPTER FOURTY;

SCAR TISSUE.

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TO FEEL THE WORLD TILT ON ITS AXIS WAS A PECULIAR TORMENT—ONE HAVEN HAD ENDURED FOUR TIMES IN HER LIFE. It always began with the ground slipping away beneath her feet, crumbling into a void of swirling dust, prompting her knees to buckle and her spine to snap rigid in a desperate bid for balance. Then, just as she would reach the brink of collapse, disorientation would seize her—reality fractured and bent, twisting into a savage kaleidoscope of tumultuous hues, each shade more violent than the last.

        The first time she had weathered such blinding, atomic vertigo was the day her mother had died. Overwhelmed by denial, grief, and rage, she had succumbed to numbness—her emotions and senses so fiercely incandescent that they metamorphosed into a void of nothingness. In a fit of manic anguish, she assaulted the guard who had delivered the devastating news of Dahlia's death, her fists flailing relentlessly against the only visible target in sight.

        The second time was the day that Earth led her back to Bellamy Blake. 

        Thrust onto an entirely alien planet and consumed by her own righteous fury, Haven had been poised to lunge at John Murphy, driven by the innate desire to shut him up. But before she could irreparably unleash her wrath—Bellamy had exploded into the clearing like a beacon, disarming Murphy with a bone-jarring punch to the jaw.

       His presence had nearly brought her to her knees.

       And when their eyes finally locked after a year's separation . . . it was as if every buried part of herself, every dormant corner of her soul that only he could revive, catastrophically surged back into existence. It was a reunion of spirits, an ignition of forgotten flames, each gaze stitching together the shards of her fractured self, resurrecting Haven in ways that defied mortal comprehension—yet in the same breath, shredding her apart.

        The third occurrence unfolded just mere hours ago, moments after he'd been dragged to death's doorstep right before her very eyes . . . just before she prepared to lay down and die beside him.
        
        As for the fourth?

        It was happening right now.

        Reality quivered and tore at its seams, the vastness of the universe itself seeming to hold its breath . . . as Haven stared into the familiar, contemptuous eyes of her mother.

       Dahlia Smith stood before Haven with her chin held high, hands firmly planted on her hips, her sharp gaze narrowing with a scrutiny that age had not dulled. What were once familiar black locs had transformed into icy tendrils of grey, intricately twisted in the same fashion as her daughter's—the style Haven had so desperately tried to emulate as a child. She was clad in matching beige garments, presumably a uniform, accessorized with a key-card and a pristine walkie-talkie fastened to her belt, their utilitarian gleam a stark contrast to the richness of her presence.

        Most notably, intricate tattoos snaked from the frays of her sleeves, weaving a tapestry of stories and struggles, each line and curve a testament to her resilience and fortitude. As her fingers tapped irritably at her hips, the tattoos seemed to stir with a life of their own—writhing with a silent ferocity that echoed the battles she had fought and the strength she carried within.

        With each breath, Dahlia's chest rose and fell, the flush on her cheeks a testament to her undeniable vitality.

        Her mom was . . . alive.

        Alive. Real. Scornful. Disappointed.

Haven's breath seized in her throat as she beheld the haunting apparition before her. The very blood in her veins seemed to crystallize, freezing in recognition of her mother while simultaneously bracing for her inevitable judgment. She stood immobilized, shell-shocked, unable to blink or draw breath. Every muscle in her body locked in a vise of utter disbelief. A lesser part of herself ached to fling herself into her mother's arms, to seek the solace she had craved for so long—but a wiser, more cynical part of her shrank back, dreading the inevitable sting of rejection.

        "I didn't raise you to be violent," Dahlia tsked, her voice a sharp, disappointed whisper. She removed her left hand from her hip with a flick of impatience, extending it toward the three-foot chasm that separated them. Her fingers, long and commanding, stretched out expectantly. "Give me the glass."

. . . Glass?

Somehow, Haven summoned enough presence of mind to blink—startled to find her mother still standing there, a specter of authority and fury. Fragments and tatters of memories stirred within her mind until, abruptly, she remembered where the fuck she was. Cage slouched against a bookshelf opposite her, his hand falling limply from her forearm to press against his temple, crimson smearing his fingers from the book she had used as a weapon. Meanwhile, Dahlia stood slightly to his left, eyes alight with ire, her gaze searing into the shard of glass embedded in Haven's palm.

"Drop it," Dahlia ordered tersely.

        Almost involuntarily, Haven felt her fingers loosen their death grip on the shard, as if compelled by an unseen force. She flinched as it slipped from her grasp, shattering into a thousand fractured pieces against the floor—though her gaze remained hypnotically transfixed by her mother's glare.

Dahlia released a huff of exasperation. "Another mess," she murmured under her breath, shaking her head in dismay as she surveyed the remnants of Haven's defiance strewn before her. The rug beneath their feet bore the cruel aftermath of confrontation—specks of black blood, shards of shattered glass, and a book now adorned with scarlet. "Lovely."

        Haven felt something within her fracture.

        It was bewildering to stand before her estranged, once-presumed-dead mother and realize they were adrift on separate currents of understanding. Was Haven not Dahlia's own flesh and blood, standing right before her? Had Dahlia not agonized over her daughter during the past five years of her mysterious absence—just as Haven had mourned for her? Did she truly desire nothing more than to . . . chastise her?

        Still, Haven fought desperately to wrestle words from her constricted throat, to command her mouth to move in sync with the tempest of thoughts raging beneath her skull. Each effort to articulate herself ended in frustration; the words slipped through her grasp, their significance evading her, her gaze unswervingly fixed on the tangible presence of the living, breathing woman standing mere feet away.

"You..." Haven whispered. "How..."

"How am I alive?" Dahlia finished dryly, a ghost of amusement flickering across her lips as she watched Haven's faltering attempts to speak. "We'll discuss that back in Medical."

        Haven shook her head vehemently, a futile attempt to summon words from the depths of her shock. The grip of paralysis tightened further around her tongue, rendering her voiceless in the face of her mother's command. But she couldn't defy it, she couldn't—not when she was breathlessly ensnared by the strange tattoos adorning her mother's features. The ink wound from the corners of her sharp eyes to the contours of her cheekbones, marking her in ways cryptic and unfamiliar.

"Lori needs to clean that hand up." Dahlia's voice held a hint of detachment, tinged with something resembling pity as she observed blood seeping uncontrollably from Haven's palm. "I should let it bleed as a consequence for being so rash—but I don't want blood on my carpet."

        Some things never change.

        Cage, seemingly regaining his composure, fixed Dahlia with a pointed, apprehensive look—as if dreading that Haven might unleash the same fury upon her mother as she had on him. "Do you need me to join you?"

"That's alright," Dahlia waved off his proposal with casual indifference. "Tell Maya to escort us there. She'll take Haven to her friends once we finish."

Then, she pivoted towards the exit, not daring to spare her daughter a backward glance as her heels clicked sharply against the floor.

        Haven stood rooted in place.

        She couldn't move. She couldn't move.
       
        Watching her mother's form retreat with such effortless grace after their jarring reunion unearthed a deep, familiar wound within her. It was stupid—she was stupid—for anticipating anything different. Dahlia had always marched ahead with callous confidence, never glancing over her shoulder—knowing that Haven would trail behind like a shadow, a clinging child, a wounded creature yearning for the very hand that had struck it.

        A gentle hand rested against her shoulder.

        Haven instinctively recoiled from the sheer frigidity of the touch alone. Startled, she turned to confront its owner—a girl hardly older than seventeen, alarmingly pale, with soft, shifting eyes set in a sharp nose and square jawline.  There was an unsettling fragility about her, an almost . . . sickly pallor that drained the life from her lips and rendered her skin ghostly, mirroring Cage's complexion with uncanny similarity. Despite her frail appearance, there was an undeniable, haunting beauty in her features.

        Even with the cautious placement of her hand upon Haven's shoulder, the girl exuded an air of trepidation, as if she secretly anticipated a sharp rebuke lurking beneath the surface. Still—she persisted with a shaky resolve to be brave, to softly extend a gesture of . . . kindness.

       "I-I'm sorry for scaring you," the girl began quietly, her anxious eyes flitting between Cage's figure retreating down the aisle and the imposing silhouette of Dahlia. "I know this is all really strange. I'm Maya."

Maya.

Somehow, amidst the swirling fog of shock, Haven pieced together fragmented memories of the conversation that unfolded. Maya, she recalled, appeared to be another figure within the labyrinthine hierarchy beneath Cage, or possibly even her mother. What struck Haven most notably was the keycard clipped to Maya's dress—a gleaming emblem of authority in this cryptic facility, hinting at her role and access within its shadowed confines.

Haven stared at her blankly.

Maya gently attempted to fill the excruciating silence. "You're Haven," she concluded, offering her a timid, hesitant smile. "The girl who cheated death—according to your friends. I've, um, I've heard a lot about you these past few years."

. . . Years?

"Girls?"

        Maya reflexively straightened.

        The imposing silhouette of Dahlia lingered in the distance, fingers tapping restlessly against the metal doorframe, halting near the exit like a statue carved from shadow. Her piercing eyes bore into the the girls impatiently, an expression of faint disbelief tainting her features—as though she expected them to have obediently followed her by now.

        Miraculously, Haven mustered the strength to move, refusing to endure her mother's scrutinizing gaze a moment longer than necessary. Stepping cautiously over glass scattered on the rug, her bare feet found their way toward the exit. Maya strode beside her with a measured distance of a yard, a respectful margin that neither suffocated nor abandoned. Her presence offered unspoken reassurance to Haven, a reminder that she wasn't entirely alone—an ambiguous blessing and curse all at once.

        The elevator ascent to Medical was devastatingly quiet.

Haven found herself slouched against the wall of the decrepit lift, Maya lingering awkwardly at her right. Her eyes drilled into her mother's turned back with an intensity that could pierce steel. She waited, and waited, and waited—vainly clinging to the impossible belief that Dahlia finally might turn and acknowledge her. Every twitch of Dahlia's arms, every unconscious crack of her knuckles at her sides—each subtle movement was a relentless torment, a silent testament to the unbridgeable chasm between them. Haven absorbed the silent habits with painstaking intensity, scanning for the behavioral cues that would dictate the nature of their day ahead.

Dahlia radiated annoyance.

        Her countenance was a cold mask of indifference, untouched by relief or joy, as if the five years of separation had left her utterly unaffected. Her eyes were devoid of warmth, her lips refusing even the faintest hint of a smile. It was as though time had stopped, retaining her irritation like a specimen preserved in amber. She simply seemed . . . bothered.

        Eventually, the elevator ground to a halt, its descent to Level Three marked by the doors parting with a rusty, protesting creak. Dahlia emerged first, her footsteps echoing down the corridor with a disquieting assurance, as though she were intimately familiar with every sterile twist and turn of its clinical expanse.

        Perhaps she was.

Haven could feel her sanity slipping once more as they traversed Medical's hallways. Hospital rooms loomed around every bend, their pristine arrangement reminiscent of the Quarantine Ward. The air was suffused with an unnerving brightness, the harsh, clinical lighting reflecting off spotless surfaces that seemed to gleam with an almost otherworldly purity. Every room they passed was meticulously organized, each bed neatly made as if awaiting its next occupant. Yet, despite the sterile perfection, there was an unsettling emptiness that pervaded the atmosphere.

        It was as though the relentless scrubbing had not only eradicated dirt and germs, but also any lingering trace of human presence—at all.

        Her heart roared like a tempest.

        Abby wasn't here.

        Abby couldn't possibly be here.

        Judging by Clarke's solemn demeanor on the day of the Exodus crash, Haven had presumed that Abby perished amidst the fiery mountain rubble. It offered a twisted solace, a fragile sense of justice to believe the doctor who had so callously mutilated her heart, and subjected her to unspeakable medical abuse, had met her ultimate end.

At least she couldn't hurt her anymore.

"Look who's arrived!"

Haven barely noticed her mother guiding them into the expansive, cylindrical room until an unfamiliar voice rang out warmly across its chambers. The space revealed itself as a public Med-Bay, its walls stretching outward to meet in an imposing arch overhead. Rows of circular lights adorned the walls, cunningly mimicking windows, while around fifteen hospital beds stood in meticulous formation beneath the artificial glow. They lay empty and forbidding, devoid of any trace of warmth or personal touch. Above each bed, intricate medical machinery hummed softly, its presence looming like silent sentries, poised to intervene at a moment's notice.

        Amidst the disturbingly white environment of Medical, the Med-Bay stood as a rare anomaly—its walls seemingly untouched by the bleach that dominated elsewhere.

        At the epicenter of the room, a petite woman commanded attention with each stride, her high heels punctuating the chamber's quietude with precise echoes. She was clad in a pristine blue button-up shirt that accentuated her tan skin, complemented by a striking white lab coat that billowed in tandem with her footfalls. A wide, infectious grin lit up her slender face, framed by a mane of voluminous black curls cascading around her shoulders like a halo.

"Haven—it is an absolute pleasure to meet you," the stranger conveyed warmly, her smile luminous as she halted a few paces in front of them. Extending her hand graciously, she offered Haven a gesture of goodwill. "I'm Dr. Lorelei Tsing."

Haven stared at her blankly.

        Tsing's lip twitched downwards, though she restored it just as swiftly as it had fallen. "Shock is to be expected after such a unique...situation. Mother and daughter reunited at last!" Her tone was piercingly cheerful, almost effervescent. "How remarkable."

Beside herself, Haven instinctively glanced toward her mother, longing for a fleeting whisper of reassurance—only to find Dahlia's profile stoically unmoved.

        "Please, sit!" Tsing's voice carried a gentle urgency as she gestured towards the hospital bed to Haven's right, attempting to will normalcy into the palpably fraught atmosphere. "Take all the time you need to adjust."

Haven eyed the doctor with a scrutiny that could splinter glass itself. Asking how the hell Tsing knew the two were mother and daughter felt pointless—even more unsettling was the doctor's inexplicable, almost unnerving joy upon seeing her. Nothing in this goddamn mountain made any fraction of sense. The longer Haven contemplated it . . . the more she entertained the notion that perhaps this liminal space was her destined haunt, a twilight zone ensnaring her between the worlds of the living and the afterlife.

Swift as a shadow, Haven sank onto the edge of the bed, her arms instinctively encircling her chest.

"What brings you here today?" Tsing inquired, her gaze meticulously sweeping over Haven's form with the familiar, clinical precision of a doctor. "Is it your shoulder? How's your mobility been?"

        "It's her hand," Dahlia cut in, sinking onto the cot adjacent to her daughter's and tersely crossing her legs. She gestured towards Haven's bloodied palm, the very one she was futilely attempting to conceal against her torso. "She got into an altercation with Cage."

As if the dickhead wasn't begging for it.

As if he didn't fucking deserve it.

Tsing's lips curled into an amused grin. "Cage? I don't blame you," she offered earnestly. "That man is far too old to be starting fights with young girls."

A traitorous, bleeding fragment of Haven's heart reluctantly softened, a vulnerable crack appearing in her otherwise impenetrable facade. Her eyes, usually guarded and sharp, now held a glimmer of weary contemplation as she stared ahead, wrestling with layers of doubt and seething betrayal. Tsing's apparent moral compass carried little weight in the labyrinth of Haven's mistrust. Once upon a time—she wholeheartedly believed Abby to be a saint, too.

        Look where the hell that got her.

"I hope you put him in his place," Tsing continued, braving a cautious step closer to the bed. Her keen eyes were drawn like magnets to Haven's wounded hand, still defiantly cradled against her hospital gown. "May I take a look?"

        Haven hesitated.

        Dahlia shook her head. "Show her, Bug."

Again, Haven yielded to her mother's command, though every fiber of her being shrieked in protest. Slowly, reluctantly, her hand emerged from the protective shelter of her gown. The fabric bore the imprint of a smeared, obsidian handprint, its inky darkness a stark contrast against the pale hospital fabric. Black blood seeped from the fresh cut, reawakening the fiery sting of older wounds on her palm—a testament to her violent clash with Murphy.

Tsing's eyes twinkled as she accepted Haven's outstretched hand, gently turning her palm to assess the severity of the laceration. "You are going to be more scar tissue than skin, my dear," she remarked almost . . . pitifully. "Let's try to be more gentle with ourselves, alright? I'll go get the thread."

        With that, the doctor spun on her heels and strode purposefully toward the far end of the chamber, her silhouette vanishing into the dim recesses of a supply closet.

For the first time in five harrowing years—the Smith women found themselves alive, face-to-face, and utterly alone.

Well . . . except for Maya.

The frail teenager seemed to instinctively sense the unspoken tension festering between them. Swallowing thickly, she cleared her throat, retreating to a distant filing cabinet and rummaging through its contents with exaggerated focus—desperately attempting to make herself invisible.

Meanwhile, Dahlia remained poised and statuesque across from Haven—crushingly observant, lethally still. With a fluid, almost regal motion, she recrossed her legs and clasped her hands atop her knees. Her eyes, steady and expectant, bore into her daughter, silently commanding her to speak first.

        Speaking felt like spitting out glass.

       "How?"

        "So you're not mute." Dahlia's shoulders eased marginally, a near huff of exasperation accompanying Haven's voice. "Good to know."

Haven fought miserably against the instinct to swallow her own tongue and shrink into the shadows of shame. Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper, as she asked, "How...how are you alive?"

        Dahlia coldly tilted her head. "You really didn't put it together?"

        "I was busy. You know—grieving you," Haven managed to bite out, though her words lacked the fiery strength she intended, emerging as little more than a brittle murmur. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Snippy, aren't we? She finds her voice and suddenly forgets who the hell she's talking to," Dahlia mused icily, her words laced with a familiar hint of condescension. She drew out a long, measured breath, punctuating the charged atmosphere between them. "Let's just start by telling me what you know. Then, I'll dissect whatever propaganda they've spoon-fed you."

Haven hardly even flinched at her contempt.

        . . . Propaganda?

       "You tried to launch one of the escape pods from K-Deck to the ground," Haven began lowly, her eyes focused vacantly on the metal floor, unearthing the rendition of the events with devastating clarity. "The thrusters failed to fire properly. There was an electrical fire. The smoke alarms went off. Once the guards found you..."

"...I was executed?"

Haven nodded.

At that revelation, Dahlia audibly scoffed. "Marcus is annoyingly predictable," she muttered beneath her breath, shaking her head in vehement irritation before fixing Haven with a glare. "Did he even show you the pod as proof?"

        "I-I didn't ask." Haven's self-reproach echoed sharply in her mind, frustration simmering beneath the surface as her words pathetically stumbled out. The mere mention of the Ark's tyrannical Councilman sent her thoughts catapulting into disarray. "I didn't even know it was Kane—"

        "Bug..." Dahlia cut in, her tattooed hand sweeping irritably across her taut features, expelling yet another weary sigh. "You need to be smarter than this if you want to make it down here."

        "What?" Haven breathed. "I didn't—"

        "That should've been the first question out of your mouth."

        "I thought—"

        "Spare me the excuses," Dahlia interjected flatly. "If you would've bothered to think about it for more than two minutes at a time—you could've saved yourself the misery. You could've looked for answers. You..." A trace of disappointment shadowed her piercing stare. "All these years...you've created your own suffering."
       
Haven felt her chin wobble.

Beneath the thin veneer of courage, trembling beneath her mother's judgement, she could feel already wavering resolve ebb away once more. Dahlia's words struck a nerve. She should have . . . she should have probed harder, questioned more persistently, delved into the intricacies of the story instead of passively accepting its deceptive surface.

Truth be told, Haven had never questioned the absolute certainty of Dahlia's death. In the months preceding her alleged demise, Dahlia's descent into madness plumbed unfathomable depths. She relinquished all basic needs—food, sleep, or even acknowledging the existence of the fifteen-year-old daughter she was supposed to care for—a role she had long since abandoned. So, when Haven learned of Dahlia's desperate bid to launch an escape pod towards the celestial sphere she had spent a lifetime studying—it became an indelible truth, etched upon Haven's heart without a whisper of skepticism.

       It made sense.

       At least, up until now.

       If she had tried harder . . .

        "You're right," Haven admitted softly, her fingers curling into a taut fist on her lap, each nail etching crescents into her skin. "But I don't know what more I could've done. I've been in the Sky Box for the past five years. I-I thought you were dead, and I..." Tears welled in her eyes, though she denied herself their fiery release. "I assaulted the guard who told me."

         "Of course you did." Dahlia's lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line, her expression betraying no surprise. "Always so driven by your heart. Never leading with your head. But...your timeline doesn't make sense," she pondered aloud, skepticism knitting her brows together. "How are you still alive? You should've been floated at eighteen."

Haven's words were astoundingly firm.

"Looks like we're both staring at ghosts."

Dahlia arched a brow. "Maybe so," she mused, momentarily caught off guard by the unintended strength in her daughter's tone. "But that's besides the point. They lied to you, Bug. I did manage to launch the pod—clearly—and I landed not far from here." She swept her hand around them, as though the facility were a place of wonder rather than an underground crypt. "My research pinpointed Mount Weather's coordinates almost perfectly."

"You seem to have forgotten your days running with the savages."

Tsing's voice reverberated through the Med-Bay once more, the sharp click of her heels signaling her approach like a foreboding drumbeat. By the time she reached the Smith women, her hands were laden with a needle, surgical thread, milky-white gauze, disinfectant—and a grin that held a disturbingly intimate knowledge, as if privy to dark secrets.

"Your mother used to be a wild one."

Dahlia merely rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the reminder, Lori."

Savages . . .

Wait.

Haven's focus sharpened on the disquieting repetition of the term among Mount Weather's personnel, particularly in relation to who the hundred knew as the Grounders. And as she scrutinized the labyrinthine network of intricate, unfamiliar tribal tattoos winding across her mother's skin, interlacing with the intensity of her gaze . . . everything snapped into place with dizzying clarity.

"You were..." Haven could hardly believe the words abandoning her throat. "...you were with the Grounders?"

        Dahlia's jaw slackened with incredulity. "That's what you kids call those...animals?"

        "Personally—I think it's rather inventive. It's far more creative than our own labels," Tsing chimed in, daring a cautious step closer and motioning towards Haven's bleeding palm. "I'll need to stitch this up. Please, keep chatting. Pretend I'm not even here."

        As if.

       Reluctantly, the Smith girl offered Tsing her hand, keen eyes attuned to every shift and nuance in the doctor's features—searching for even the slightest crack in the facade of professional detachment. Tsing's reaction to the intricacies of Haven's blood type lingered in the shadows—a veil of indifference draped carefully, masking potential intrigue as Cage had insinuated, or perhaps genuine disinterest.

After all . . . Haven wasn't the only person in the room with blood as black as night.

        Dahlia decisively cleared her throat. "Although my coordinates were correct, I passed out during reentry. The impact locked up my neck and spine," she explained, her eyes briefly flickering towards the gauze in Tsing's hand as she tended to Haven's wound. "When I woke up, one of the...Grounders...had taken me back to his village. He helped me recover."

        Recognition stirred within Haven's mind.

        "Do you remember his name?"

        "Lincoln." A fleeting, imperceptible smile broke through Dahlia's typically scornful demeanor. "He was one of the kind ones."

Lincoln.

Memories surged within Haven's consciousness like a sudden cataclysm, fragments of buried knowledge erupting amidst the tumult of their life on Earth. From the moment Haven first glimpsed Lincoln bound in the dropship, his penetrating gaze had seared her with an inscrutable scrutiny, an electric sense of familiarity. Now, the reason for his intense scrutiny became glaringly obvious—Lincoln had glimpsed echoes of Haven's mother in her features . . . a poignant revelation that tied their destinies together across the twisted expanse of time.

He must have known who Haven was from the very beginning.

Haven carefully sculpted her expression into an impenetrable veil of calm, ensuring her eyes revealed nothing—no flicker of surprise, no shadow of recognition—as her mother's gaze bore into her. The hundred's ties with Lincoln had been an unruly storm of discord and defiance—yet, he had repeatedly braved infernos for their survival, betraying even his own people to shield a band of alien youths. His relentless sacrifices had carved paths through hellish realms, his allegiance as unwavering as it was fierce.

       The least she could do was offer him the same.

        "I spent a lot of time with him while recovering," Dahlia continued, her faint smile quickly morphing into a tumultuous frown as she delved into the next part of her explanation. "Once I was able to use my motor skills again, he brought me to meet their Commander."

Haven scarcely noticed Tsing's needle as it glided through the laceration in her palm, the thread pulling through her skin with a precision so flawless it rendered the pain imperceptible. Or perhaps she was too absorbed in the conversation with her mother to recognize the needle's familiar bite, her focus completely overtaken by the intensity of their exchange.

        Commander . . .

        "Anya," she concluded.

        "What—?" Dahlia blinked in bewilderment. "Definitely not...her."

        What. The. Hell.

        Truth be told, Haven couldn't fathom why she even attempted to decipher the convoluted hierarchy of the Grounders. She had been certain Anya was the Big Bad Warrior, only to have that belief obliterated by the emergence of a bald man who bellowed commands across the battlefield and had tried to kill Bellamy. Yet, again, her assumptions were ruthlessly dismantled. If Anya and the bald man weren't the ones tugging on the reins . . .

       . . . then who the fuck was?
        
"In short—the Commander refused to let me leave. I was an alien to them, a sky person. Too big of a mystery to let loose." Dahlia muttered, her words bleak and vacantly monotone, as if recalling the past was a tedious chore. "Still, Lincoln continued to show me kindness. I immersed myself in their culture. Tattooed my skin. Learned how to fight. Walked among them like I was one of their own."

Her lips curled into a twisted grin.

"Then, I fought my way out. To reach here."

More memories roiled violently beneath Haven's skull as she digested her mother's words. Lincoln had issued grave warnings to Octavia about the Mountain Men, his voice thick with vehement distrust and a visceral fear that nearly prompted him to flee altogether. And now, Haven and the other survivors found themselves confined within it's murky, labyrinthine depths, taken against their will . . . accompanied by Haven's own mother.

The very same woman who had cunningly manipulated Lincoln's kindness, exploiting it to defect and align herself with their enemy.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

. . . Right?

"So, you were a...hostage?" Haven asked tentatively. "For how long?"

"Something like that," Dahlia huffed, the words almost escaping as a near growl through her gritted teeth. "I spent two years among their kind. But this...this is where I belong now. It's my destiny, Bug. I'm the government's lead Researcher. I own the library. I hold knowledge of everything—long before most even come to me with their questions."

        Her mother's smile blossomed slowly, a look of sublime revelation illuminating her features as she gazed upward, awestruck by the tapestry of her journey.

        "Every trial and mistake in my fifty-five years has led me to this. My life...it finally has meaning."

        Haven felt herself shatter.
   
        Life wielded a cruel sense of humor, a twisted irony so darkly absurd it felt like a fucking illusion. Haven had spent years sculpting herself into the most unobtrusive child, an archetype of invisibility, swallowing her words and retreating into the shadows to spare her mother any burden—clinging to the hope that her mere existence could keep Dahlia tethered to sanity.

If she was docile enough . . . surely Dahlia wouldn't abandon her, wouldn't hurl herself aboard a decrepit escape pod destined toward a radioactive wasteland. Surely, she couldn't have survived. Surely, she wouldn't have allied with an army hell-bent on exterminating Haven and her friends. Surely, she wouldn't have deserted that enemy—only to align herself with another sinister faction that currently held her daughter and her friends captive.

Yet, Earth seemed perpetually bent on mocking Haven's delicate convictions—its laughter a relentless, sneering echo that reverberated through her very soul.

She had never been enough to keep her mother sane.

She would never be enough.

Because even now, after five years of separation, as Haven stared into the eyes of her mother's ghost . . . Dahlia's dominion of her daughter's existence remained unbroken, capable of tearing her asunder with the faintest, most fleeting blink.

        Haven coerced her mouth in a smile.

        "I'm happy for you."

        Dahlia nodded with prideful acknowledgment. "Now, imagine my astonishment when I found out my daughter had come to join me," she mused, her smile broad yet failing to reach her eyes this time. "You can participate in the magic here too, Bug. Of course, it'll take time. You'll have to work your way up, but...you are a Franko, after all."

Haven blinked.

Franko . . . where had she heard that name before?

"Don't tell me you've forgotten your great-grandmother's last name." Tsing's interjection was punctuated by the sudden sting of the suture needle catching on stray threads, prompting Haven to wince. "We know all about her due to your mother's tales. And fortunately, our database holds billions of encrypted files on the civilians who existed before the bombs. Becca Franko was truly a remarkable woman."

Haven suddenly became devastatingly aware of her locket's absence all over again. Within its depths lay her mother's sealed note, an heirloom of whispers and secrets passed down through generations—first entrusted to Grandma Selene by Silas and Becca, then to Dahlia, and ultimately reaching Haven. She could still feel the ghostly imprint of its words, revealing that Becca was not just a genius—but a dangerously brilliant force, a tempest of intellect and peril intertwined.

        If memory served her right, the note revealed a grim truth—Polaris couldn't join the alliance with the remaining space stations because Becca's technology posed an insurmountable threat . . . whatever the hell that meant. Faced with the inevitable destruction of their station, Becca took drastic measures. She concocted a serum to grant immunity against Earth's deadly radiation, administering it to herself and Selene, her newborn daughter. In a desperate bid for survival, she fled to Earth, leaving behind the haunting note with her husband, tasked to shepherd Selene to the Ark before Polaris met its fiery end in the cosmos.

       This act forged the indomitable mission for the Smith bloodline through the eons ahead: to return to Earth, and reunite with the ancestors who had journeyed before them.

       Still, Haven had always been known as a Smith, never once as a . . . Franko.

Tsing fixed Haven with a brilliant smile. "Perhaps the ingenuity runs in the bloodline."

"That remains to be seen," Dahlia appraised, unfurling her legs and firmly bracing her elbows atop her knees, drawing nearer to her daughter with a resolute stare. "But with enough effort, perhaps you can work your way up to a position beside mine."

Haven knitted her brows. "A position?"

"A job. An opportunity for greatness," Dahlia elaborated, her pupils dilating with a fervor so intense that Haven couldn't discern if it was genuine passion or the familiar glimmer of mania. "We help people here, Bug. Our government, our doctors, our society...we're the trailblazers that the world needed ninety-seven years ago."

Fanfuckingtastic.

She was surrounded by an army of narcissists—individuals who extolled their own greatness and heroics, yet stood idly by as children fought a literal war, refusing to intervene until half of them lay dead.

        "Speaking of which..." Tsing swiftly discarded the bloodstained gauze and her surgical gloves into a nearby waste bin, finishing Haven's stitches with precise efficiency and a sly grin. "Have you ever considered becoming a doctor?"

        Haven gaped. "What—?"

"Fox Bennett mentioned you exhibited extraordinary medical instincts when your camp was struck by disease." Tsing continued, shifting gracefully from her standing position to sit beside Dahlia. "You helped to slow your friends' seizures, cleared the blood from their airways with your own fingers. From what I've heard—your compassion and bedside manner were nothing short of exemplary."

        Fox.

        Another one of her friends was alive.

       "I...I think you're confusing me with Clarke," Haven stammered, her voice trembling as she nearly stumbled over her own words, straining to grasp the enormity of Tsing's unspoken suggestion. "I was just following her lead."

Tsing shook her head warmly. "I'm not confused, Haven. All of your friends have had nothing but glowing, remarkable praise for you."

. . . They did?

"Perhaps your genius has manifested in ways uniquely distinct from your mother's," Tsing observed, her lips curling into a smile so full of admiration it seemed poised to fracture under its own intensity. "You are a fighter—an avid protector. Those skills and instincts can be invaluable in other crucial roles beyond just the frontlines."

        Haven shook her head. "No. I don't think you understand. I'm...I'm not a genius," she countered, dismissing the label as if it were a flimsy veil of false praise. "I was just trying to keep us alive. Everybody in that camp has fought nail and tooth to survive down here, just like me. I'm not—"

"They weren't doing it while simultaneously battling a chronic cardiac condition."

Fuck.

Haven knew all too well what would follow. The anticipated softening of Tsing's features unfurled like clockwork—the initial glow of admiration dimming into a profound sorrow. Her brows arched in concern, her lower lip protruding slightly in a tender, almost imperceptible pout. Tsing's eyes, now gentle and probing, regarded Haven with the same caution that everybody adopted upon learning her body's cruel secret, its relentless march toward the grave. They looked at her with pity, as if she were made of glass—delicate, fragile, a vessel of unfulfilled strength teetering on the edge of breaking.

"Your friends mentioned that you have a..." Tsing paused, sucking in a firm, measured inhale before continuing. "...sickness."

Beside her, Dahlia's brow arched, her eyes widening with a trace of something almost resembling . . . surprise.

       "According to Monty Green, your condition was referred to as aortic stenosis. He seems to be the only one who could recall its name." Tsing's attempt to deliver the words with warmth backfired miserably, the intended comfort dissolving into a feeble whisper. "You've died... seven times?"

Clearly, Haven stood entirely alone in her distrustful assessment of the Mountain Men. She had fiercely clung to her friends' names, guarding them like sacred relics until she could be sure these strangers were worthy of such truths. Yet, here her friends were—unwrapping her secrets and parading them before their captors' ravenous eyes and salivating mouths. Monty's intentions, she knew, were sincere; he must have believed these people could heal her—but the sting of her health being discussed without her knowledge clung to her like a harsh, biting frost.

        She clenched her jaw. "You can say that."

        "My deepest condolences. I-I can't imagine what that must feel like," Tsing offered sympathetically. "If you're open to it, I'd love to offer you a Medical internship. You'd be working directly beneath me."

        Haven was growing increasingly annoyed with the way her face seemed to perpetually stiffen in bewilderment. "What—?"

"Our technology completes full body CAT scans during the decontamination process." Tsing's demeanor underwent a seismic shift, the effervescent warmth she exuded giving way to a frigid, clinical stoicism. "I have a lot of concerns about your condition, Haven. Or rather...the destruction that caused your condition."

        Haven paled.

        She knew.

        She fucking knew.

        How profound was the wreckage wrought by Abby's sinister manipulations? How savagely had she carved into Haven's tender flesh, mutilating her heart into a battlefield, for the scars to cry out so starkly from the CAT scan? How catastrophic must it have been for Tsing to instantly recognize the condition, not as a cruel twist of fate–but as the gruesome result of deliberate, merciless medical abuse?

       Dahlia reflexively crossed her arms, fixing Tsing with a stern, piercing glare that carried a silent plea for truth. "I don't remember hearing about this during her briefing—"

"We don't have to discuss it if you're not ready," Tsing continued, silencing Dahlia's interjection and deliberately maintaining eye contact with her daughter. "But the internship would revolve entirely around healing—for yourself, and potentially for others. I want to help your heart recover from the barbarity it's survived."

Haven swallowed thickly.

"Think of it like this." Tsing released an elongated exhale before delving into her explanation. "I can show you my medical research, you can assist me with it. Your firsthand experience is simply invaluable. Together, we might be able to reverse the affects of the damage done to your valve."

. . . Reverse?

       Tsing's prying eyes knowingly sought Haven's for any flicker of acceptance. "Full disclosure—our work would definitely be considered a Medical Trial," she admitted. "But, if we were to succeed...its opens up a thousand more doors for other citizens dealing with various conditions, especially those with cardiac issues. Your friends included."

"My friends?"

        For a brief, unguarded moment, Tsing's stoic facade lifted—and a faint, hopeful smile blossomed beneath the surface.

"Haven...we could heal people."

        Haven refused to entertain this stupid delusion for even a moment. There was no way, medically or humanly possible, to simply just reverse the damage done to her heart. Abby had tried to repair the valve with tissue from her lung, courtesy of Bellamy's gun, but failed. The pain had subsided, and her symptoms had shifted from chronic to sporadic...yet her heart had still betrayed her, ceasing its beat—twice within forty-eight hours. The notion of undoing such profound devastation was a cruel fucking fantasy, a tantalizing illusion that only deepened the sting of her reality.

        But, if she could somehow help others . . .

        "How—?" Haven managed to spit out. "What's wrong with my friends? How would this be able to—"

        "I have a few theories in mind. We can discuss it further if you choose to accept," Tsing replied, her tone maintaining an air of calm while her eyes betrayed a deepening intensity, as if harboring foreboding news. "While you're thinking it over—we still have much more to discuss regarding your health anyway."

       Haven rejected the idea with far more conviction than she intended. "No, I'm...I'm fine," she asserted adamantly, shifting her gaze away from the women before her to seek out Maya in the distance. "I need to see my friends."

        "Haven...your shoulder demands extensive physical therapy if you wish to preserve its mobility." Tsing's mouth tightened into a subtle frown, concern shrouding her wide eyes as Haven abruptly rose, signaling an end to the conversation. "Where are you going?"

        Panic, a coiling serpent, tightened mercilessly in Haven's gut, each second drawing it closer to suffocation as she locked eyes with Maya across the room. Despite the pretense of privacy Maya had given, the subtle tension in her posture betrayed that she had absorbed every harrowing word exchanged. Haven's gaze bore into the girl's with a desperate intensity, an unspoken plea echoing through the Med-Bay's sterile air, demanding immediate escape—now—before her terror managed to swallow her whole.

         The walls began to tilt.

        "Away," Haven offered meekly, striving to reach Maya at the chamber's far end, only to be intercepted by Tsing and her mother, rising like twin sentinels. "I-I need my friends."

Tsing knitted her brows. "You can't—"

"Watch me."

Dahlia decisively stepped in front of her daughter just as she shifted to evade Tsing. "Bug."

But Haven couldn't hear her. At least, not entirely. Her lungs sucked in far more oxygen that necessary, as if suffocating, writhing, and drowning—all at once. She needed to see her friends with her own eyes, to reject the hollow assurances of the Mountain Men. She needed to confirm they were alive, safe, and not in dire need of the mysterious healing Tsing had alluded to. Her fingertips trembled violently, each failed attempt to dodge Tsing and Dahlia only heightening her distress. They moved in perfect, synchronized unison, blocking her every frantic escape.

"You can't just leave." Tsing's words were soft, but the hypocrisy in her tone was unmistakable, a thin veneer over her unyielding determination to impede Haven's path. "I know this is very overwhelming, but it is critical to understand exactly what's at stake here. Your head CT revealed alarming abnormalities. I'm deeply concerned that your brain is suffering from a condition called HIBI, rapidly accelerating towards neuronal cell death—"

"I-I don't care," Haven rasped breathlessly. "I need my–"

"We need to discuss its lethal implications to your life expectancy."

Silence darkened the air between them.

And then . . .

"Life expectancy?"

Although it was her mother's voice that shattered the disturbing quietude, it was Haven's heart that pounded torturously within her eardrums. Her ears rang with a piercing, maddening pitch, warped by the terror flooding her veins, while her breath caught in her throat, suspended entirely. She stood petrified, a statue of despair, lips parted in mute dismay, while the trembling in her fingers stilled into a state of horrified, utter paralysis. Every muscle was locked rigidly into place, the stillness more deafening than the silence had ever been.

Most shockingly of all . . . Dahlia's posture radiated the same, visceral panic as her daughter's—perhaps even more intensely.

        Tsing released an excruciating sigh.

        "Yes, life expectancy," she began cautiously. "Haven, I'm afraid to say...you only have approximately—"

"No!" Haven cut in, the word exploding from her throat in a fervent, anguished shout that reverberated through the metallic chambers of the Med-Bay. "No. I-I don't...I don't want to hear this. I don't want to hear any of this. I can't." Molten tears welled in her eyes as she fought to stand beneath the crushing weight of their stares. "Look, I appreciate all of...this. But I can't stay here. I need to see my friends. I need to go home. I need to find—"

"Haven," Dahlia scolded firmly, her voice a low tremor, as if shaking off the last vestiges of her own paralysis to reclaim her familiar mantle of reproach. "Show some respect. This is your life she's talking about."

        Tsing's eyes softened as they landed upon Haven once more. "That's quite alright. I keep forgetting the trauma you kids have endured," she admitted. "I apologize if I made you feel overwhelmed. These things take time to register. I don't blame you for wanting to flee."

         Still reeling from the barrage of cruel revelations, Haven clamped down on her lower lip, her fingers twitching anxiously at her sides as she fought to regulate her breathing. She couldn't think about . . . this, she couldn't think another any of this—at least, not now. Tsing's dire warnings about her health could wait. What mattered most was reaching the familiar faces she so desperately needed, the lifelines that could tether her back to her body amidst the swirling vortex of panic.

"Anyway—it appears that we're done here. I think seeing your friends will do wonders for your wellbeing," Tsing declared, tightly clasping her hands together in a deliberate, conclusive gesture before shifting to depart. As she brushed past Haven, she laid a reassuring touch on her injured shoulder, inadvertently prompting Haven to flinch. "...I hope to see you soon, Haven. Come find me once you've made a decision."

Then, she was off, striding down the Med-Bay's central aisle and vanishing into the labyrinthine depths of its corridors.

        Haven exhaled sharply, the breath escaping her in a tumultuous rush as Tsing's unsettling presence finally dissolved into the ether. The doctor's absence crashed over her with such force that she nearly buckled under its weight. A thousand conflicting thoughts surged beneath her skull, each one a jagged edge threatening to shred her composure. But then, amidst the tumult—the rhythmic click of another set of footsteps echoed ominously, fading into the distance, instinctively seizing her attention.

        Tsing wasn't the only one abandoning the chamber.

Her mother was, too.

"Wait!"

Haven abruptly surged after Dahlia, her heart pounding like a sledgehammer in her chest, wild eyes drilling twin holes into the back of her mother's icy locs—aching to be seen, to be heard, to be acknowledged.

        "I have to get back to the library." Dahlia's voice was a cold, hollow echo as she strode away, her gaze fixed forward, denying Haven even the briefest parting glance. "Try not to start any more fights."

        "What?" Haven gasped, her voice thin with disbelief as she darted forward, intercepting Dahlia's brisk exit. She planted herself squarely in front of her mother, eyes wide, shimmering with the onset of incendiary tears. "That...that's it?"

        Dahlia slowed to an abrupt halt.

        "What more do you want from me?"

        Miserably, Haven fought to summon her voice, to unleash the torrent of unspoken questions and long-held grievances that had haunted her heart for the past five years. She ached to express so much, to unearth hidden truths, to soak in some semblance of understanding, but her words withered the moment she was pinned beneath the incredulous glare of her mother—as if she were nothing more than a stupid, naive child . . . unworthy of seeking anything more than this barren, dismissive reunion.

"I..." Haven whispered, "I-I want..."

"You want what?"

. . . I want you.

Dahlia's gaze lingered on Haven for only a heartbeat longer, narrowing her tattooed eyes, as if she could pry the words from her daughter's reticent tongue through sheer force of will. Upon being met with Haven's agonizingly predictable silence—she squared her shoulders, and kept walking.

"Tell the President you want to volunteer in the library." Dahlia uttered the words almost inaudibly as she brushed past Haven. "I can see you more then. "

Haven's heart sputtered.

"President?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Dahlia murmured tersely, striding through the exit before finally confronting the shadow of a girl that lingered behind her every footfall. A fleeting, inscrutable emotion flickered across her face as she willed herself to exhale. "I'll...I'll see you at dinner."

        Then, she shifted to leave.

        Haven impulsively reached for her forearm.

       "Mom..."

        Dahlia went rigid as stone.

        The word escaped Haven's lips with a tender cadence, an ancient melody of longing and connection that felt both intrinsically primal and devastatingly foreign. Though her voice barely rose above a whisper, its resonance carried the weight to sway the winds of destiny, to halt avalanches mid-descent, and to crumble even the most formidable bastions of marble into dust.

       "Mom," she repeated quietly. "Please, I..."

        "God—you are not helpless, Haven." Just as abruptly as she had stilled, Dahlia's customary scorn ignited anew, dispelling the momentary paralysis that had seized her limbs and dulled the blistering intensity of her stare. "Pull yourself together. I'm alive, aren't I?"

        Her next words emerged as a strained whisper, drifting forlornly in the turbulent chasm between them before plunging, sinking, twisting into the deliciate tissue beneath Haven's ribcage.

        "Isn't that enough for you?"

One heartbeat passed. Another.

        And then . . .

        Dahlia was gone.

        Haven watched numbly as her mother's silhouette dissolved into the shadows of the corridor. No effort of will could halt the silent flood of tears that traced bitter paths down her cheeks. Again, and again, and again—Dahlia had mercilessly rent her apart, eviscerated her spirit, peered into the deepest caverns of her bleeding heart, and callously sprinkled salt upon every raw, maternal wound Haven had carried for as long as memory could reach.

Dahlia was right.

        The excruciating sting in Haven's wounds stood as a harsh, undeniable proof of her mother's existence. Each throbbing ache, each raw emotion stripped bare, served as visceral testament to Dahlia's enduring vitality. The agony of her presence, though lacerating deep into the fabric of Haven's being, was a preferable torment to the vast, echoing void of her absence. At least this pain was tangible—a cruel reminder that she was not left to wander the shadows entirely alone.

        At least it was something.

And for Haven, thrust into an entirely new, foreign world, grappling with the shards of her shattered expectations . . . it was enough.

It had to be.

"Let's get you changed."

The warmth of Maya's voice resonated gently from just beyond Haven's shoulder, a lifeline in the midst of her turmoil, delicately coaxing her back from the formidable depths of sorrow.

        Maya offered her a timid smile.

"I'll take you to your friends."

• •

ANNNND WE'RE BACK TO HAVENS POV

how does everyone feel about mommy dearest😔

yall the excruciating writers block i get when switching between haven and bells pov is INSANE. this took me ages to edit because my brain was soo rewired to thinking like bellamy and his emotions from the last chapter. plus, writing haven as a literal shell of who she truly is...its DEPRESSING. she is NOT herself around dahlia. she is NOT herself in an underground bunker that reminds her of the place that traumatized her on the ark. she is NOT herself when isolated from her friends & bellamy. it hurts to write :/

that being said, this chapter isnt the most ~eventful~ per se and ik theres LOTS of information to absorb...but its laying some of the plot groundwork and background info needed for whats to come in act 2. i am so unprepared for the trauma!!!!!! this season is going to be heavy in so many areas. we gonna see the full extent of damage to haven's physical and mental health and it is notttt pretty. unfortunately your body cannot die 7 times and function normally again 😄💔 ABBY IM BASHING YOUR HEAD INTO A WALL!!!!!!!!!!

AND LINCOLN?? HE HASS BEEEEEEN KNOOWWWINGGG

      "The Smith girl dared a glance toward the Grounder's dark stare. Their eyes locked; his to hers, hers to his. Something indiscernible flashed across his features as he observed her for the first time–but she averted her gaze too quickly to catch it." ...chapter 17!

"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." ...chapter 26🤭

anywaaay! my authors notes progressively get longer and longer every update and perhaps im talking to an echo chanber but idc!! im so petrified for whats ahead but so so so excited. next chapter is so special to me <3

AND LAST THING PLEASE IF YOU DONT LIKE THE NEW COLORING OF THE NEW COVER LMKKKKKKKK im still so torn between the red and the purple

heres the old vs new for reference

AND FINALLYYYY- I LOVE YOU. THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH FOR NEARLY 35K READS AND FOR THE LOVELY COMMENTS!! yall have me fangirling in my bed <33333333