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(The Dropship Camp - One Week Later)
The clearing where the 100 had crashed was no longer a crash site. It was a settlement.
In the seven days since the fall of Mount Weather, the landscape of their survival had shifted as fast as the hopes of the Ferrari F1 fans. The chaotic, muddy pit of teenagers struggling to boil water had been upgraded.
In its place stood the foundation of a village.
The Trikru work crews, sent by Mike, had not been gentle, but they had been effective. They had cleared the dense treeline back by another fifty yards, creating a proper firebreak and a clear line of sight. The felled timber hadn't been wasted. Under the guidance of seasoned Grounder builders, the logs had been stripped, treated with a dark, resinous sap to prevent rot, and erected into structures that kept the weather out.
There was a designated kitchen area now, covered by a heavy tarp, where smokehouses cured the meat of the deer the warriors brought in daily.
There were latrines dug far downstream, and sanitation protocols enforced with the threat of physical discipline. There was a clothing house where furs and leathers were being stitched to replace the rotting fabric of their Ark uniforms.
And in the center, rising like a metal totem of their past, was the dropship. It was no longer a shelter; it was a secure storage for the technology and medical supplies.
The integration had been rough at first. The delinquents were stubborn, and the Grounders were harsh teachers. But hunger and cold were persuasive arguments. When the Trikru showed them how to identify fresh water springs that didn't require boiling, or how to skin a two-headed deer without rupturing the glands and ruining the meat, the resistance crumbled.
The 100 realized that for the first time since landing, they weren't just dying slowly. They were living. This wasn't a prison camp; it was an upgrade. Compared to the damp, cold nights of their first week, this was a five-star hotel. They were warm. They were fed. And most importantly, they were safe.
***
Clarke Griffin sat near the newly constructed medical tent, watching the camp hum with activity. Beside her sat Wells Jaha.
Wells looked better. His color had returned, the grey pallor of infection replaced by a healthy flush. His leg was still bandaged, stiff, and healing, but he was walking without a crutch.
"I never thought I'd see the day," Wells said, watching Murphy's old cronies helping a Trikru warrior lift a heavy ridge beam. "They're actually working. No fighting. No knives."
"They're not scared anymore," Clarke replied, tearing a piece of dried meat. "Or rather, they're scared of the right person now. Mike gave them structure."
She looked at Wells, a genuine softness in her eyes that hadn't been there on the Ark. Since the day she learned the truth about her mother, her entire world had realigned. Wells wasn't the villain of her story; he was the only person who had ever truly protected her. They spent their days together, organizing the medical supplies, talking about nothing and everything. It was a start. A solid, foundational start to rebuilding a friendship that had been the bedrock of her childhood.
"I'm glad you're okay, Wells," she whispered, bumping his shoulder with hers.
"I'm glad you're not trying to stab me anymore," he joked, though his smile was warm.
But not everyone was happy with this new life.
Fifty yards away, sitting alone on a stump near the perimeter wall, Finn watched them.
He looked miserable. His hair was greasy, his clothes torn and dirty.
He had thought that after the rescue, after the adrenaline of the mountain faded, things would go back to normal. He thought he could charm his way back into the group dynamic. He was the Spacewalker, after all. He was the guy who found the bunker.
He was wrong.
News traveled fast in a camp of forty-seven people. Clarke and Raven hadn't made a public announcement, but they hadn't kept secrets either. They told Bellamy. They told Wells. And from there, the truth about the bunker — the confession of love, the cheating — had spread like a virus.
Finn wasn't the hero. He was the liability. He was the guy who cheated on the girl who flew a spaceship to save him. He was the guy who almost got them killed by shooting at the man who saved their lives.
No one sat with him. No one shared their extra rations with him. When he tried to join a work detail, they ignored him until he walked away. He was a ghost in his own camp.
He looked toward the dropship, where Raven Reyes was working on the antenna array. His heart ached with a mix of regret and self-pity. He stood up, dusting off his pants, and walked toward her.
"Raven," he called out, trying to keep his voice casual. "Hey. Do you need a hand with the wiring? I remember the schematics for the — "
Raven didn't even look up from her console. "I'm busy, Finn."
"I just want to help," he pleaded, stepping closer. "Come on, Rae. We need to talk. You can't ignore me forever."
Raven spun around, her eyes blazing with fury that stopped him in his tracks. She held a heavy wrench in her hand, and for a second, Finn thought she might swing it.
"Watch me," she snapped. "I don't need your help. I don't need your excuses. And I definitely don't need you. Fuck off, Finn."
She turned her back on him, returning to her work.
Finn stood there for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He looked around. Several people were watching, smirking. The humiliation burned his throat. He turned and walked back to his stump, alone.
(The Dropship - Upper Level)
Raven took a deep breath, steadying her hands. She put the wrench down and adjusted the headset she was wearing. She flipped a switch on the console she had rebuilt from the wreckage.
"Ark Station. Do you copy? Over."
Static hissed in her ear, followed by a voice that sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
"This is Chancellor Jaha. We copy, Raven. Report."
Raven sat down, staring out the porthole at the bustling camp. Abby Griffin was on the line as well, listening from the detention block where she was still technically a prisoner, though allowed to consult on the exodus.
"We're secure, Chancellor," Raven said. "The camp is fortified. The 100 are accounted for, minus the casualties from the landing."
She proceeded to fill them in on the last week. She told them about the Mountain Men. She told them about the harvest chamber, the drilling, and the rescue. She told them about the alliance.
"So," Jaha's voice came back, heavy with authority. "Let me clarify. You have surrendered sovereignty of the landing site to this... 'Coalition'? You agreed to be a vassal state?"
"We didn't have a choice, sir," Raven said sharply. "We were captured. The Mountain Men had us. We were dead. The Grounder General... he got us out."
"And the weapons?" Jaha asked, his voice hardening. "The rifles from the military depot. You secured them?"
Raven hesitated. "No, sir. The Trikru took them. They stripped the depot. We have no firearms."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. When Jaha spoke again, his tone was grim.
"Raven, this is unacceptable. You have handed over our only leverage to a group of primitives. When the Ark lands in seven days, we cannot be subject to their laws. We are the governing body of humanity."
"With all due respect, Chancellor," Raven cut in, her patience evaporating. "You aren't listening. They aren't primitives. They have an army. They have a hierarchy."
"We will have the numbers," Jaha insisted. "We will have the technology. We can negotiate from a position of strength once we are on the ground. We will not be ruled by savages."
Raven rubbed her temples. He didn't get it. He was still thinking like a man in a tower, looking down at the world.
"Jaha," Raven said, her voice dropping to a deadly serious whisper. "Do not try anything stupid. Do not land thinking you're in charge."
"Raven — "
"Listen to me!" she snapped. "The man who leads their military... the Strat-Heda... his name is Mike. He walked into Mount Weather alone. He bypassed their security. He executed three hundred and eighty-four people in under an hour to save our kids. He wiped out a bunker that had survived for a century."
She paused, letting the static fill the silence.
"I saw him, Jaha. I saw him cut a bullet out of the air with a sword. I saw him terrify an entire room of people without raising his voice. He is not a savage. He is a monster. And if you land here and try to flex your authority, if you try to take back the guns or start a war... he will kill every single one of us. And he won't even break a sweat."
On the Ark, Jaha and Abby exchanged a look of shock. They couldn't conceive of a human being capable of what Raven was describing. It sounded like a myth.
"Keep us posted, Raven," Jaha said finally, his voice subdued. "We initiate re-entry protocols in six days. Jaha out."
The line went dead.
Raven pulled the headset off and sighed, leaning back in her chair. "They're going to get us all killed," she muttered to the empty room.
Just then, a commotion rose from outside. The rhythm of the camp changed. The hammering stopped. The chatter died down.
Raven stood up and moved to the open hatch of the dropship.
The massive wooden gates of the perimeter wall were groaning open.
The 100 had stopped their work.
Through the gates, a black horse stepped onto the packed earth.
Mike rode into the camp.
He looked every inch the Warlord. He wore his full combat armor, the black leather scuffed from travel, the dual swords crossing his back. He sat easily in the saddle, his presence dominating the entire clearing.
But it wasn't just him that shocked the crowd.
Riding behind him, on two smaller horses, were two figures the camp had thought were dead or lost forever.
Murphy and Charlotte.
A collective gasp went through the 100.
Murphy didn't look like the ragged, desperate boy they had almost hanged. He was clean. His hair was cut short. He was wearing a fitted set of Trikru leather armor, dark and oiled. On his back, strapped securely, was a long, iron-tipped spear. He sat tall, his eyes scanning the crowd not with fear, but with a cold, practiced arrogance.
And Charlotte... the little girl who had nightmares. She was dressed in a miniature version of the same armor. A short sword was belted at her waist, and a recurve bow was slung over her shoulder.
They weren't prisoners. They were recruits.
Mike rode to the center of the camp, near the dropship. He reined in his horse, the animal stamping its hoof in the dust. He looked around, his golden eyes taking in the improvements, the discipline, the order. He nodded, seemingly satisfied.
Then, his gaze drifted up.
He saw Raven standing in the open hatch of the dropship.
A spread across his face. It was the same friendly, disarming smile he had used in the jail cell, which somehow made him even more terrifying.
He raised his hand and gave her a cheerful, casual wave.
Raven's breath hitched in her throat. Her eyes went wide.
What does he need? she thought, her heart hammering against her ribs. He didn't come here just to say hi, did he?
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