The chaos inside the dropship slowly burned itself out, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating air of defeat. The delinquents dispersed into the dark, mourning the loss of their only connection to their families.
But Aleksander didn't let the leadership scatter.
With a sharp tilt of his head, he signaled Bellamy, Clarke, Octavia, and Monty to follow him to the upper level of the dropship, away from the prying eyes and ears of the terrified camp.
Once they were gathered in the dim glow of a single salvaged lantern, Aleksander didn't mince words. He laid out exactly what he had deduced from the catastrophic failure of the communication array.
"Monty's math was flawless," Aleksander stated, his low voice carrying a grim certainty. "The electrical loop shouldn't have surged back unless it hit an impenetrable, localized wall of resistance. An electromagnetic jamming field."
Bellamy crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. "You're saying someone bounced the signal back on purpose?"
Aleksander turned his gaze toward the dented metal wall, in the exact direction of the heavily irradiated mountain range miles to their west. "It is highly probable that Mount Weather isn't a tomb. It's occupied. And whoever is inside has advanced, functioning technology, and they are actively making sure we cannot call home."
A chill ran through the small group.
Clarke stepped forward, her brow furrowed in deep concern. "If Mount Weather is occupied... and they're hostile enough to jam our distress signals, what do we do?"
"We stay the hell away from them, that's what," Monty muttered, rubbing his soot-stained hands nervously. "If they have tech strong enough to bounce a signal into orbit and fry a hundred wristbands simultaneously, they have tech strong enough to wipe us out without breaking a sweat."
" They haven't made a move against us So we focus on the immediate threat," Aleksander cut in smoothly. "The Grounders. We need weapons that level the playing field."
Aleksander reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded, laminated topographical map of the region. He spread it out over a metal crate. The map was dotted with various colored nodes.
Bellamy's eyes narrowed instantly as he recognized the layout. "You've had this the whole time? A map of the Ark's pre-war bunkers?" A flash of annoyance crossed Bellamy's face—a stark reminder that Aleksander had been keeping massive tactical advantages close to his chest.
But Bellamy took a slow breath and let it go. They hadn't exactly been allies when they first landed, and after tonight, he couldn't blame the Alpha Station prodigy for playing his cards close to the vest.
"The green and blue nodes are Forestry and Civilian," Aleksander explained, tapping the map. Then, his finger slid to a cluster of bright yellow nodes. "These are National Guard bunkers. They were designed to hold military-grade weapons, tactical gear, and ammunition."
He looked up, meeting Bellamy's eyes. "But here is the catch. The military bunkers are situated directly under pre-war population centers. Cities. Which means they are deep inside hostile territory, heavily surrounded by Grounder settlements."
Bellamy slammed his hand against the metal crate, his frustration boiling over. "Shit! We have all the firepower we need to actually defend this camp, we know the exact location, but we can't even take it without walking into a slaughterhouse!"
"It's suicide," Monty agreed, his eyes wide as he looked at the map. "We barely survived one Grounder in the woods. If we walk into an entire army of them in a ruined city, we're dead."
"There has to be a way to sneak in," Octavia argued, crossing her arms stubbornly. "We can't fight a war with sharpened sticks and a couple of salvaged metal knives."
As they argued the logistics, Aleksander fell silent, watching them. His tactical mind was running a thousand miles a minute. Octavia was right; sharpened sticks wouldn't save them. But a few assault rifles wouldn't be enough either against an enemy that knew the terrain and had numbers.
If a full-scale war with the Grounders was coming, Aleksander knew he couldn't keep holding himself back. He needed to fight at full force. He needed to use his magic, and he needed his wings.
But revealing his true nature to the entire camp at once was still a recipe for disaster. He decided he would talk to Octavia about it first thing in the morning. As the only person who knew the truth, she needed her thoughts too.
Clarke rubbed her temples, the sheer exhaustion of the day finally catching up to her. "We're not solving this tonight," she sighed, her voice heavy. "Everyone is exhausted. Get some rest. We'll figure out a scouting plan for the bunkers tomorrow."
Monty and Octavia nodded, both too tired to argue. They filed down the ladder, with Clarke right behind them, leaving only Bellamy and Aleksander in the dim light of the upper deck.
Bellamy lingered by the map. He looked up at Aleksander, his expression sobering.
"I get it, you know," Bellamy said quietly, gesturing to the bunker map. "Why you didn't tell me about the weapons right away. You can't trust everyone with that kind of intel."
Aleksander carefully folded the map and slipped it back into his enchanted pocket. He shook his head, his dark eyes locking onto Bellamy's.
"It wasn't about trusting you with the intel, Bellamy," Aleksander corrected, his voice dropping to a low, serious register. "It was about not arming them. You saw what this camp devolved into tonight over a single hunting knife. If I handed that bloodthirsty mob military-grade assault rifles, they wouldn't just kill each other—they would have slaughtered half the camp before morning."
Bellamy swallowed hard, knowing Aleksander was absolutely right.
"But there is another reason," Aleksander continued, stepping slightly closer. His Fey senses were perfectly attuned to the subtle, shifting dynamics of the camp, and his political mind had already connected the dots of Bellamy's crime. "I have a strong feeling that someone among the hundred is waiting for the right moment to put a bullet in your back."
Bellamy's brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "What? Why? I'm the one keeping them alive."
"Think logically about what you did on the Ark," Aleksander commanded, his tone sharp and analytical. "You are a janitor, Bellamy. You didn't wake up one morning with the security clearance, the weapon, and the access codes required to assassinate the Chancellor of the Ark on your own. Someone handed those to you."
Bellamy froze, his blood running cold as Aleksander perfectly diagnosed the conspiracy.
"You were a pawn," Aleksander explained ruthlessly. "Used in a political assassination by a Council member who wanted Jaha dead so they could take his seat. But If Jaha survived. And If you survived."
Aleksander let the heavy silence hang in the air for a second before delivering the final, chilling truth.
"The mastermind behind the coup cannot afford for you to ever talk to the Ark again," Aleksander warned. "To them, you are a massive liability. A loose end. And powerful men do not leave loose ends breathing. If they sent you down here, it is highly probable they sent someone down with you to make sure you never tell anyone who gave you that gun."
Bellamy's breath hitched. The reality of his situation crashed down on him. He wasn't just hiding from the Ark's justice system; he was actively being hunted by the very people who had armed him.
He looked at Aleksander, a dark, understanding resolve settling in his eyes. He was a target. And the enemy was already inside the walls.
In the Mecha Station, The Ark
The harsh, fluorescent lights of Mecha Station flickered as Raven Reyes frantically wrestled with the heavy, scavenged pressure regulator. Her hands were bruised and coated in grease, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps.
"Come on, come on..." she muttered, jamming the metal coupling into the escape pod's rusted life-support mainframe. She twisted the locking wrench, waiting for the green pressure-seal light to illuminate.
Instead, the console gave a flat, dull beep. The light flashed yellow, then dead red.
Raven's stomach dropped. She pulled back, staring at the fractured internal valve of the regulator. It was broken. The decades-old piece of junk was completely fried. Without it, the pod couldn't hold an internal atmosphere during the violent, fiery descent through Earth's atmosphere.
"Dammit!" Raven slammed her wrench against the hull.
Out in the sterile, steel-paneled hallway leading to the launch bay, time had officially run out.
Dr. Abby Griffin heard the heavy, synchronized thud of boots echoing down the corridor. She turned, her heart hammering against her ribs, as Councilman Marcus Kane rounded the corner, flanked by two heavily armed Ark guards. Kane's face was a mask of cold, uncompromising authority. He had figured it out.
Knowing Raven needed every possible second to launch the pod, Abby stepped squarely into the center of the hallway, physically blocking the doors to the launch bay. She stood tall, raising her chin in absolute defiance.
Kane halted a few feet away, his eyes narrowing as he took in her defensive posture. "Abigail," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "Step aside."
"I can't do that, Marcus," Abby replied, her voice trembling but resolute. "I did it for my daughter. I know she's down there. I still believe they are alive."
Kane looked at her, his tactical mind rapidly piecing together the stolen inventory reports and the sudden medical quarantine in Sector 4. "The missing pressure regulator," Kane deduced, stepping closer, his eyes searching her face. "Was there even a strep infection at all?"
Inside the bay, Raven heard the muffled, tense voices through the heavy doors. She looked at the broken regulator, and then up at the emergency locker containing a standard EVA spacesuit.
If the pod wouldn't hold pressure, she would just have to bring her own.
Moving with frantic, adrenaline-fueled speed, Raven stripped off her heavy jacket and climbed into the bulky white spacesuit. She locked the heavy helmet into place with a sharp *hiss* of compressed oxygen, strapping herself violently into the pilot's seat. Her thick, gloved fingers flew across the launch sequence console, bypassing the failed safety checks and manually initiating the thruster protocols.
Out in the hallway, Kane's patience evaporated. He gave a sharp nod to the guards.
"Dr. Griffin, you are under arrest for treason against the Ark," Kane declared, as the guards stepped forward and roughly grabbed Abby's arms, wrenching them behind her back.
"You're making a mistake, Marcus!" Abby shouted, struggling against their grip. "We are running out of time! We have to know if Earth is survivable!"
"Secure the doors," Kane ordered, completely ignoring her pleas. "Stop whatever is in that bay."
The guards surged past Abby, overriding the keypad and throwing open the heavy launch bay doors.
But they were exactly three seconds too late.
KABOOM.
A massive, deafening roar violently shook the entire deck. The launch clamps detached with an explosive, ear-splitting crack. Through the viewport, Kane and Abby watched as the rusted, century-old escape pod blasted out of the Ark's underbelly, leaving behind a blinding trail of blue-white exhaust.
The guards stumbled back from the shockwave, shielding their eyes.
Kane stood frozen, staring out into the black void of space as the tiny pod accelerated rapidly, plummeting down toward the swirling clouds of Earth.
Abby sagged against the grip of the guards, a mixture of profound relief and sheer terror washing over her. Her career was over, and her life was entirely forfeit, but she had won. Raven was on her way.
[Authors Note:Someone pointed out about writing a 100 fanfic, which is strictly Technology and stuff( Maybe Psychic abilities). I have thoughts about it, please comment here.]