❛ the ground. that's the dream. ❜
On the list 𝘓𝘺𝘳𝘢 𝘑𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘛𝘰𝘱 𝘛𝘦𝘯 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘔𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘖𝘧 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘛𝘪𝘮𝘦, getting arrested is definitely up there. But, hey! At least there's a silver lining ━━ getting shoved into a drops...
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[ read this w/ ur led room lights on red, and by that, i mean be prepared for some ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ]
NOTHING HAPPENS FOR TWO DAYS; it's an excruciatingly mundane forty-eight hours. Most people spend it on edge. Well. By most people, Lyra means pretty much everyone except her.
With everyone else convinced that the war is inevitable and the Grounders are coming, Bellamy and Clarke and Wells have barely let anyone sleep with a team of Gunners operating round-the-clock and switching out hourly, constant weapon-making, and. . . well and whatever else you need for a war. Lyra wouldn't know. She's excused herself from all of that, choosing to keep her naïve faith that the Grounders were scared off by the bridge and aren't coming at all. It's the only thing keeping her from becoming filled with the same anxious energy that everyone else has and she skips between the communications tent and the dropship without a care in the world.
Bellamy hates it. The waiting. Lyra knows because he won't leave her alone. It started off with him constantly on Octavia's case, as if his little sister was six instead of sixteen and needed her hand held to cross camp. It didn't last long, though. Octavia got so pissed off at him that he's more or less steered clear of her. Which means now he gets to bother Lyra. Yay!
By now, he's now woken her up three times by checking on her, and this infuriated Octavia so much that she started throwing whatever she could at him. Every time Lyra tells him again that nothings wrong, but this only seems to encourage his frustrations. Which makes sense. Bellamy is not a very patient person. Spending his time like a sitting duck, waiting for the war to come to him, is clearly pissing him off. Lyra gets it. She just wishes he would, like, take a chill pill or something.
It's starting to stress her out, and Lyra doesn't like being stressed. She doesn't want to turn into a wrinkly old wart.
(Not so yay!)
But, anyways.
Blanket wrapped around her hunched shoulders, Lyra takes the radio apart for probably the millionth time in the past two days. She's alone in her tent. After the thirteenth time she'd started babbling a new theory about the power supply and filter choke, Raven had kicked her out of the communications tent and promptly renamed it the ammo tent. Whatever. Lyra can work on the radio by herself. She can.
