DAY 010

I hit the ground level with a thud, the sound drawing every pair of eyes in the camp. The silence from above hangs heavy in the air, but no one approaches me. Maybe it's the gun slung at my side, or maybe it's the scene I caused earlier. Either way, the kids keep their distance.

Wells is leaning near the exit with Monty, both of them pouring over the cloth-covered radio in their grasp. Even from here, I can see it's wrecked beyond hope. Raven wasn't exaggerating, it would take a miracle to get that thing working again.

Wells straightens when he spots

 me, his gaze narrowing as it lands on the satchel strapped across my chest. He raises his chin. "C'mon, Maddox. You're not serious?"

Monty glances up from the radio, frowning. "What happened up there?"

I gesture toward the radio with a tired hand. "Raven says we need an adapter. You've been poking around this place since we landed—tell me there's something we can use."

Monty nods slowly, his expression grim. "Yeah, but we've got to be realistic. Most of the parts here are fried beyond saving."

Wells crosses his arms. "If you're trying to rebuild the radio, it's going to take days. We need the Ark to know the ground is survivable now."

A headache is already forming at the back of my skull. I press my fingers to my temples, sighing. "I'm sick of this," I mutter. "We'll move out in the morning. No one's wandering around out there in the dark."

Monty and Wells exchange a look, and I catch it instantly.

"What?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intended.

Monty hesitates before answering. "I counted the numbers earlier. We're missing three people."

I frown. "Yeah, Murphy and Monroe were with me before. They still haven't come back. Who's the third?"

Wells looks uneasy as he glances toward the woods. "Octavia. No one's seen her since we spotted that meteor in the sky."

"What did you say about my sister?" Bellamy's voice booms as he barrels down the ladder, his tone fierce and demanding.

I place my hands on my hips, exhaustion weighing me down like a lead blanket. I reek of sweat and adrenaline, and I'm too tired for his theatrics.

"She's probably out there chasing butterflies," I say flatly, holding up a hand to stop him from closing the distance. "But right now, no one goes out until it's light."

Bellmay tilts his head like i'm insane. He curls his lips, "I don't take orders from you maddox, i'm going after my sister."

I raise a brow. He was right, the forest was infested with grounders and acid fog, and to him that was enough of a threat to his baby sister. Octavia was like that, wild and carefree in the earlier seasons, until her brother let the love of her life get shot in the head.

I had no doubt that Lincoln was with her right now, and I had no right to deny Bellamy from searching for her.

I nod, letting the tension dissipate. "Go ahead."

He doesn't acknowledge my approval, right now I was the guy who got in his way and I had a feeling Bellamy hated anyone other than him having reign over this camp. 

"Miller, Jasper, get your stuff." he barks at the two boys near the ladder.

Jasper looks healthier, like he hadn't been impaled by the spear in the first place, but there's a hint of fear as he looks outside. The trauma is still bound to his body. Him and Miller gear up and Bellamy swings his gun over his shoulder, the one he'd taken from me. 

He doesn't spare us a glance as he thunders outside, current flapping in the dark. 

I rub my eyes with crusty fingers, the weight of exhaustion pulling at me. Sleep was already trying to claim me, my body aching from the day's chaos.

Wells steps closer, his voice low but steady. "What do you want to do now?"

I glance at him, my vision blurring for a second before I blink it clear. His posture is straight, his expression calm, but there's an edge of tension in his voice—like he's bracing for the next disaster.

"Nothing," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "I'm going to sleep."

Wells raises an eyebrow. "With everything going on? You're just going to sleep?"

I nod, already turning toward the dropship exit. "Yeah. Bellamy's off chasing ghosts, and we're not going to find an adapter or fix that radio in the middle of the night. Right now, the best thing I can do is not drop dead from exhaustion."

He doesn't respond right away, just watches me as I slump towards the exitI can feel his disapproval, but I don't have the energy to care.

"If something happens…" Wells starts, but I cut him off.

"Then wake me up." My words come out muffled, half swallowed by the blanket I drape over my shoulders. "Until then, let me have five minutes without the world falling apart."

-

Off the coast of New Jersey, 671 miles east of Long Island. An ocean stretches across an empty plane.

An island, forged from a volcanic eruption sits undisturbed by the shadows of radiation. An unnatural green illuminating the well maintained forestry, ivorys and peony's sprouting from beneath rich soil.

And perhaps the most fascinating stood the house on the hill. 

An architectural design befitting a time before the war, a glorious mansion sits untouched, lights undimmed.

The only sign of life is the flickering in the window, where a laboratory illuminated by bright fluorescent lights stands in one of the many room.

A large flat inch screen roars to life as the pixels flash, powered by an unlimited energy source. It sparks black before just as quickly it flashes a bright red. 

WARNING: MANUAL OVERIDE

-

It hasn't been five hours when I'm shaken awake. The motion jolts me out of my slumber, and my eyes snap open in panic. For a moment, I think I'm back in my dorm room,  But the cold reality of solid ground reminds me I'm still in this damn place.

"Get up," Wells says firmly, jamming my jacket into my side.

I groan, blinking groggily at him. "I told you I'm not—"

"Yeah, well, something happened," he cuts me off, his voice tight. There's something in his expression that has me sitting up faster than I want to. He hesitates, glancing over his shoulder before ducking out of the tent.

The flap of the tent swings open, and sunlight streams in, far too bright. The camp is buzzing with activity, the sounds of hammering coming from the fortified wall made of scavenged material rags like a silent warning.

I rub my face and step outside. My steps are sluggish, my mind still fuzzy, As I near thedropship, the air shifts. It's heavier somehow, thick with tension. The smell hits me before I see it—the sharp, acrid tang of blood. My stomach twists, and I feel like my empty stomach will retch out my own intestines. 

When I step inside, the sight stops me in my tracks.

Lincoln is chained to the central support beam of the dropship, his arms bound above his head. His chest is bare, streaked with blood and dirt, his face battered but still defiant. The stench of iron and sweat clings to the room, making my empty stomach churn.

Wells is beside me, his jaw tight as he watches the scene unfold. "He's been at it for an hour," he mutters, his voice low. He looks at me, "The guy won't talk."

Miller and the other guys sit off to the side, their expressions stuck in an awkward grimace but there's no rejections from what Bellamy is doing. 

And then there's Octavia.

She's standing a few feet away, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She far from a damsel in distress. She looks furious.

"Bellamy, stop!" she shouts, her voice sharp and unwavering.

Bellamy stands over the grounder, his knife in hand. His knuckles are white from gripping it so tightly. He doesn't even flinch at Octavia's words.

"Why were you defending him?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

Octavia steps closer, her eyes blazing. "Because he saved my life!" she snaps, her voice cracking with anger. "That spear that hit Roma—it was meant for me!"

Bellamy freezes, his face contorting as he processes her words. For a moment, it looks like he might back down.

But then his expression hardens.

"No," he says firmly, shaking his head. "You're wrong. I saved your life. For all you know, he was keeping you alive to use you as bait for one of their traps."

His words are cold and cutting, Octavia's lips tremble, but she holds her ground.

"No," she whispers, her voice barely audible now.

Clarke tumbles down from the ladder, the scene unfolding making her face contort into a grimace, she turns to wells, 

"What the hell is going on here?" she snaps, her voice slicing through the thick tension.

Wells, who's been standing to the side with his arms crossed, shifts uneasily under her sharp gaze. "He's refused to talk, maybe they really dont speak English," he explains quickly, gesturing toward the bound grounder.

"And you?" Clarke's eyes narrow as they dart toward me.

I scrunch up my brows, "What makes you think I have anything to do with this?"

Clarks blonde hair is frizzy from the static, and her eyes are straing daggers at me. "How many have we lost?"

The question is directed at Bellamy, who doesn't look away from the chained grounder, "four, maybe five, I don't know."

"This isn't something we can fight anymore, Bellamy." Her shoulder tighten like she might hit something. "We need the ark now more than ever."

"Raven said she could get a signal up there," she follows, "if we can let them know-"

Bellamy doesn't respond, twitching with unleashed fury as he paces the small level.

I back of the wall I'm leaning on, "How about we try a different approach."

"A different approach?" Clarke's voice rises, the disbelief clear. "This isn't an interrogation; it's torture."

Bellamy stops pacing and steps toward her, his jaw tight. "And what would you suggest, Princess? Invite him to tea? They killed one of ours, and now you're defending him?"

Clarke doesn't back down, meeting Bellamy's glare head-on. "I'm saying this isn't who we are. We're supposed to be better than this."

"Better than what?" Bellamy fires back. "Better than surviving?" He gestures to the grounder. "He'd kill us all in a heartbeat if the roles were reversed."

"That doesn't mean we stoop to their level," Clarke retorts, her voice firm but tinged with frustration.

"Has he said anything yet?" She tentatively asks, looking over the scarred man. Despite the torture Lincoln face is void of emotion, no tell tale sign of cracking.

Bellamy ruffles a hand through his hair, and it's only then I notice the blood dripping from his arm.

I pause, "Blake." He looks up, "did he do that to you."

Bellamy scoffs, "what you think a little scratch is enough to stop me."

My back tenses, Finn was supposed to go with them. But he's upstairs with an injured raven.

Shit.

Clarke grows concerned, her voice sharpening. "What do you mean?"

Bellamy's bloodshot eyes lock on mine, a faint yellowish hue creeping into them. His confusion is laced with defiance as he grits out, "He stabbed me, yeah. With a knife. Why?"

I glance at Lincoln, searching for any hint of guilt or intent in his stoic expression. But there's nothing—just that unnerving calm.

"He poisoned it," I mutter, my voice low but firm.

Clarke stiffens beside me, her face paling. "But he doesn't look—"

Her words cut off abruptly when Bellamy's knife slips from his fingers, the clang echoing like a death knell. He sways, held upright for a moment by sheer willpower before gravity wins. His body crumples, collapsing to the ground with a dull thud.

"Bellamy?" He lays in the dropship floor unconscious and I can't tell if it's from exhaustion of looking for his sister last night or the poison laced in Lincoln's knife got to him first

"What's wrong with him." Octavia hisses.

Clarke fumbles through the bare supplies we have, "I-i don't-"

Wells jumps up, "if the grounder poisoned the knife he should have the antidote with him"

Clarke shakes her head, "he hasn't spoken he's not going to anytime soon.

Miller takes the jump. His face pulled into a nasty snarl. "Then we make him speak."

Octavia barrels from her place beside Bellamy, "no," and then she looks up at Lincoln. "Please, I'm begging you."

But Lincoln doesn't budge, I think I see warmth in his eyes but it disappears just as fast. 

Clarke get beside Bellamy, pushing back his head and lifting his limp eyeball. It's only a matter of time. Before he's dead.

Bellamy was a pain in the ass sure, and there were more than a dozen times I wished he'd bashed his head into the concrete. But I don't want him dead. Not when we're at war.

But I don't move.

Octavia does it for me, she snatches Lincoln's discarded knife, tears streaming down her face. "He's my brother, please," she whispers and then slices the cold steel into her warm blood, flesh opening in a sea of red as if pool at her wrist.

I flinch just as Lincoln's shackles rattle, pain a quick flash in his stoic expression. Lincoln's satchel of supplies sit a foot away and Octavia pulls out his sack with weakness that mimics her desperation. 

Her trembling hands pull out a small yellow bottle. She looks up at Lincoln, pleading silently. He doesn't move, but the slightest nod is all she needs.

Relief floods her face as she presses the bottle into Clarke's hands. "Save him," she whispers, her voice breaking. "Please."

Clarke hesitates only for a second before unscrewing the cap and pouring the antidote into Bellamy's mouth.

I don't have to wait any longer to see if he'll survive, because I'm bounding across the dropship floor and out the billowing curtains.

My feet move one after the other until I'm back in my tent, stuffing whatever I can into a small satchel. Blood rushes in my ears as I calculate everything in my head. I changed nothing. What was the use of knowing the future if I couldn't even win a stupid war?

I'm furious as I carry what little I have. Seeing death on a TV screen meant nothing, but seeing it in front of you—so close it could almost tear you apart—was another thing entirely. The 100 was a dangerous world, and I didn't intend to die in it, not when I didn't even know if I was alive in my own.

A twig snaps behind me, and I reach for my rifle in quick succession. Wells' head pops through the tent flap, and he looks like he's debating running too.

"So, you're going to run?" he asks, sounding resigned to the idea.

A bitter laugh breaks from my throat. "You make it seem like I'm a coward."

I stuff the orange blanket into the little space left in the satchel and sling it over my shoulder, but when Wells doesn't move, I raise my brow.

"You paid your debt, Wells," I say, the boy clinging to something I couldn't give. "Now move."

He doesn't budge, and his dark skin gleams with sweat. "You are a coward, Marbles."

I almost feel offended, but I'm only doing what he can't afford to do: leaving this hell so I don't have to fight whatever's in those woods. "I can see why you and Clarke are such great friends," I mock. "You're both afraid of what I can do."

He shakes his head. "When you said I didn't have to atone for my father's mistakes, I believed you. But that doesn't mean I don't have to pay for my own."

"Clarke," he gulps. "She thinks the only way we can survive is if the Ark gets to us."

I raise a brow. "I thought you were ten steps behind her, Jaha."

"No. There's not much they can do for us from up there." He looks conflicted. "They started this war. Let us end it."

I roll my eyes. "Clarke won't let that pass."

And then he looks at me, frowning. "Who said anything about Clarke?"

Wells Jaha is insane if he thinks I'm going to march into that forest with a bunch of rogue criminals as my army. Now I'm second-guessing why I let him live.

Before I can ask him what he means, a scream shatters the uneasy quiet.

"GROUNDERS!" someone yells from one of the patrols near the blockade. The sound sends shockwaves through the camp, and we rush out, tripping over the stampede of kids scrambling toward the entrance.

There's a murmur rippling through the crowd as one of the guards stares into the trees, his face pale. A figure lies motionless at the edge of the forest, just beyond the blockade.

When they drag the body to the center of camp, the air grows heavy with horror. The person is barely recognizable—blood matted with hair in grotesque directions, face marred beyond recognition. Their body curls into a ball as if shielding themselves from the world.

But then they lift their head, and my heart thunders so loud I can feel it in my ears.

"Monroe."

The girl lies broken on the ground, unrecognizable from the cheerful spirit she had been just days ago. She scratches at the dirt with trembling hands, her fingernails bloody and cracked like jagged vines of thorny rose stems.

Her voice, raw and splintered, cuts through the oppressive silence. "They have him," she whispers, her words barely audible.

One of the boys kneels beside her, desperation thick in his voice as he asks, "Who?"

Her eyes are lifeless, hollowed by terror. She sucks in a shallow, shuddering breath before releasing it like a ghostly sigh.

"Murphy."