Ethan Beckett craves fun and chaos over the nuisance of rules and demands. But when disagreements begin on the ground, he's surprised to say he sides with the people who don't want chaos to be all they are.
Chaos is a drug. But death is something y...
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An hour in and seven have died.
Ethan isn't sick. But his stomach does summersaults every time someone new is carried outside that door, limp and pale, limbs swaying like the swing they'd once put together for the sake of having fun. It lay forgotten, unseen by the eyes in the dropship, desperately wishing now that they could be out there, feeling the freedom that came with being in the air.
One of the sick was only fifteen. His name was Zack, and he wasn't much younger than Ethan.
He was the life of the party to the younger kids, always coming up with the newest games to play on breaks and pranks to pull when people were trying to sleep. He was the same kid that initiated a game of tag on the second day. Those eyes that glittered in excitement -
- are now empty.
Lifeless.
All Ethan can see is Zack's unmoving mouth, once having shouted freely. Screaming about a game of tag, sharing the best-concealed places for hide-and-seek. Hands that had done hard work, building swings outside the gates, just for them. For the youth.
Before the threat of the grounders was too real.
Ethan remembers.
He remembers Zack pulling him towards the trees just past the gates. There was a square bit of wood, planks held together perfectly, rope tied through each corner but hanging limply on the dirt.
"The only branch I can reach is too thin." Zack was bouncing on the balls of his feet. He pointed further up, to show Ethan where he wanted to tie the swing. "I've seen Finn climb, but he said he was busy, and that's totally okay! Then he said that you'd done something similar back when you were saving Jasper and-"
The first thing Ethan did was grin. There was no hesitation. He didn't care about anything else, just finishing that damn swing.
Now, Ethan is squeezing a hand that can't squeeze back.
It feels like there's an anvil on his chest when he reaches out and closes the kid's eyes.
He has trouble letting go when the helpers come over to haul his body out of the dropship. It's only until Clarke sets her hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently, that he lets the limp hand slip from his.
Swiping a hand across his wet nose, Ethan blinks back the tears and looks up at her.
She smiles gently, despite the bags under her eyes and the dried blood tracks that stem from her nostrils. Brushing a hand over his hair - Ethan tenses, before melting into it, a shiver going down his spine - to pat him twice, Clarke tries to convince him to join the others not showing symptoms in the second level.
But Ethan can't. Not now.
He has to help.
Standing up, he claps a hand against Clarke's shoulder. "Can't let you do all this by yourself, princess."
