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(Mount Weather - The Dormitory)
The air in the dormitory was suffocating under the weight of the horror they all had just witnessed.
The 100 were breaking.
The sight of Eric's torture — the mechanical whine of the drill, the spray of blood, the silence that followed — had shattered their resolve. They were no longer the brave explorers who had faced the ground; they were children who had woken up in a slaughterhouse.
Harper was curled into a ball on her bunk, her hands over her ears, rocking back and forth as she sobbed. Miller was pulling against his chains, his wrists bleeding. He was trying to find a weak point in the steel that simply didn't exist. Monty sat frozen, staring at the blank screen where his friend had just been harvested, his face a mask of catatonic shock.
"We have to do something," Octavia hissed, pulling at her restraints until the metal bit into her bone. "We can't just sit here and wait for them to drill into us."
"Do what, O?" Miller snapped, his voice cracking. "Look at this place. It's a fortress. We're chained to the floor. We're done."
The hopelessness was a physical weight, pressing down on their chests. They were trapped in a white tomb, waiting for their turn to be processed into medicine for these monsters.
FUSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
The heavy hydraulic hiss of the main door cut through the silence.
Cage Wallace walked in.
He was alone this time, save for a single, heavily armed guard who trailed him like a shadow. Cage looked immaculate in his grey suit, his hair perfectly coiffed, a stark contrast to the filth and sweat of his prisoners. But it was his smile that turned their blood to ice.
"Good afternoon," Cage said, his voice smooth and echoing in the large room. He walked to the center of the aisle, clasping his hands behind his back. "I thought you would like an update. The extraction on the first subject — Eric, I believe his name was — was a complete success. The marrow yield was higher than anticipated."
A collective gasp of horror rippled through the room. "Success" meant Eric was dead, or as good as.
"You killed him!" someone screamed from the back.
"Is he alive?" Monty choked out, looking up with red-rimmed eyes.
Cage glanced at Monty, his expression dismissive. "He served his purpose. His contribution will be used to heal our people. You should be proud."
The dormitory exploded into a frenzy of rage and grief. They yelled at him, cursed him, spat in his direction. They strained against their chains, the metal clanking violently.
"Murderer!"
"Let us go!"
"Release me and fight me, you bitch!!!"
Cage just stood there, letting the wave of noise wash over him, untouched. He looked bored. To him, this was nothing more than the bleating of sheep before the slaughter.
"Fuck you, you coward bitch!"
This time Cage paused. His smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second. He turned his head slowly, locking eyes with Octavia Blake. Her face twisted in pure hate, as tears streamed down her cheeks.
The word hung in the air. Coward.
For Cage, it wasn't just an insult. It was a trigger. It flashed him back to a grainy video feed from five months ago. It brought back the memory of a synthesized, electronic voice growling through the speakers of his control room.
I will hunt you. I will drag you into the light.
Prey.
The memory of the Blad-de-Trikru — the monster who had pinned his people to crosses — surfaced. The fear he had buried deep beneath his arrogance clawed its way up his throat. He hated that fear. And looking at this girl, this savage little space-rat calling him a coward.
Cage's face twisted into a snarl. The businessman vanished, replaced by the sadist.
He strode over to Octavia's bunk. Without a word, he reached out and grabbed a fistful of her dark hair, yanking her head back violently.
Octavia gasped in pain, but she didn't look away. She stared right into his eyes.
"Coward, huh?" Cage whispered, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. He leaned in close, his breath hot on her face. "You think you're brave? Let's see how brave you are when I strap you to that table. Let's see how much defiance you have left when I personally drill the bone marrow out of your hips while you're still screaming."
"Get off her!" Monty yelled. "Leave her alone!"
Cage ignored him. He twisted his grip tighter, enjoying the grimace of pain on Octavia's face. "I'm going to save you for last," he hissed. "I'm going to make sure you watch every single one of your friends die before I start on you."
He stood up, releasing her hair, and turned to the door.
"Guard!" Cage barked. "Get a team in here. Take her and the boy next to her. We start the next round now."
The single guard by the door nodded and stepped forward to open the comms channel.
The heavy door hissed open again.
Octavia looked up, dazed, expecting a squad of torturers. She braced herself for the end.
THWACK.
Cage spun around.
The guard was standing rigid. In the center of his forehead, directly between his eyes, was the hilt of a heavy combat knife. His eyes stared at the steel, completely devoid of life.
The guard's knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.
Silence swallowed the room. The 100 stopped breathing. Cage froze, his mouth half-open.
A figure stepped through the open door.
He was wearing the standard black tactical uniform of the Mount Weather security forces, complete with the heavy vest and the cap pulled low.
The man reached up and slowly removed his cap, tossing it onto the dead guard's chest.
It was Roan.
The Prince of Azgeda looked terrifying. His face has faint scars tracing his jawline, his eyes dark and burning with fury. He wasn't the broken prisoner from the Harvest Chamber anymore. He was a king in waiting, and he was holding a suppressed pistol with a steady hand, just as Blade-De-Kru had thought him.
"What..." Cage stammered, his brain failing to process the sight. "What did you do? Who the fuck are you?!"
Roan didn't blink. He raised the pistol, leveling it directly at Cage's face.
"Hands off the kid," Roan commanded. His voice was raspy, damaged from the chemical torture, but it carried the weight of absolute authority.
Cage, realizing he was staring down the barrel of a gun, slowly raised his hands.
"Walk to me," Roan said.
Cage hesitated.
"Walk," Roan barked, shifting his aim to Cage's kneecap. "Or crawl."
Cage walked. He moved stiffly down the aisle, past the shocked faces of the prisoners he had just threatened. He reached the door, standing mere inches from the Azgeda prince.
"Do you know who I am?" Cage whispered, trying to summon some shred of power. "I am the President's son. You cannot-"
CRACK.
Roan didn't let him finish. He pistol-whipped Cage across the face.
"FUCKKKKKKKKK!!!!"
Cage screamed, clutching his face. Blood poured through his fingers, dripping onto his pristine grey suit.
"You talk too much," Roan grunted. He reached out, grabbed Cage by the collar of his expensive jacket, and slammed him against the wall next to the large monitor screen.
"Eyes on the TV," Roan ordered, jamming the barrel of the gun into Cage's temple. "The Blad-de-Trikru has a present for you."
The name hit Cage like a physical blow.
Blad-de-Trikru.
Chills went down his spine, a cold sensation that settled deep in his gut. He knew the name. Everyone in the mountain knew the name of the savage who haunted the woods. But seeing this Grounder here, armed and free, meant the perimeter was breached.
And if the Blade was here...
Cage's mind raced back to the old, classified archives his father kept. The files from before the bombs. The files on the military assets that had gone missing in the chaos of the end of the world.
They had matched the fighting style. They had matched the tactical profile. And after days, they found a match. In the high-security briefings, they whispered another name.
Deathstroke.
He was the world's most dangerous, expensive, and efficient hitman. A supersoldier created in a government experiment. A ghost. He wasn't known to the common population of the old world, but to the high-end elite — the people who built the bunkers, the generals, the senators — he was a legend. The images match, those swords, that armor, those blades.... everything matched.
"Watch," Roan hissed.
The massive screen on the wall flickered. The feed changed.
It wasn't the operating theater anymore. It was the Main Control Room.
The nerve center of Mount Weather. The most secure room in the entire complex.
Cage's eyes widened in horror.
The room on the screen was a slaughterhouse.
The camera was focused on the main console, but the background told the story. The unbreakable glass partition that separated the command deck from the server room was shattered. The body of a female security officer was embedded in the glass, her head cracked through the pane, blood streaming down the transparent wall like a gruesome curtain.
On the far wall, the security chief — a man Cage knew, a man who had served for twenty years — was pinned to the metal bulkhead. A combat knife had been driven through his skull, nailing him to the wall like a butterfly in a display case.
The 100 watched in stunned silence. They had seen violence, but this was different. But this? This was insanity.
A figure sat in the President's chair, swiveling slowly to face the camera.
He was wearing the black and orange mask. He sat with his legs crossed, relaxed, as if he owned the mountain.
"Hello there, Cage," the synthesized voice rumbled through the dormitory speakers. "And hello to my fellow citizens of Mount Weather."
Cage looked around wildly. He realized with dawning horror that this wasn't a private feed. The intercom lights were active.
"That's right," the voice continued, mocking him. "It's not just your room. The cafeteria. The barracks. The nursery. Every single screen in this mountain is watching this."
On the screen, the figure leaned forward.
"You have lived in a hole for years," the voice said. "You have convinced yourselves that you are the last of mankind, the saviors of culture. But you are just rats. Rats that feed on the blood of others to survive."
The figure reached up. The hiss of the seals disengaging echoed through the speakers.
He pulled the mask off.
Mike's face was calm. There was no sweat. No sign of exertion. He looked into the camera lens with golden eyes.
"Now, you might not know who I am," Mike said. "You call me a savage. You call me a threat, which I am."
He stood up, walking over to the main console, his hand resting near the ventilation controls.
"I am the Blad-de-Trikru," he declared. "And I am here to finish something I should have done a long time ago."
He looked directly at Cage through the screen.
"I am here to clear the board."
---XXXX---
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