Experiment of Fate ~ A Bellamy Blake story

2 - Lincoln

Weeks later, the tension inside the drop ship had become unbearable, thick with the weight of countless decisions, consequences, and silent suffering. The dim lighting flickered and buzzed, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch like the unspoken words between them. The walls, rusted and worn from years of neglect, creaked under the pressure of their emotions. The sound of metal chains rattling was deafening as Lincoln, still bound, strained against his restraints. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his face pale from the agony that seemed to radiate from him. Every movement of his body was a reminder of the battle he had already lost—or was losing.

Bellamy was pacing in front of him, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed like it might shatter. His fists gripped a bloodied knife, the blade reflecting the dim light in a sickly gleam. Every step he took was purposeful, a warning to both himself and Lincoln. Every breath he took was one of barely contained rage, each one a promise of more pain to come.

Octavia was on her knees, her voice raw, hoarse from pleading, her eyes wide with fear and desperation. "Bellamy, please stop! This isn't right! He's saved me!" She reached out to him, her hand trembling in the space between them, trying to bridge the growing chasm. Her eyes locked onto his, desperate to make him see reason, to make him remember the man she had come to know, to make him remember who they were, what they were fighting for. But Bellamy's eyes remained fixed on Lincoln, his anger clouding his judgment.

"He stabbed Finn, Octavia!" Bellamy's voice was a low growl, his fists trembling with the force of his fury. His eyes, filled with unspoken rage, flicked from Lincoln to his sister. "He might've killed him!"

"I don't care!" Octavia cried, her voice breaking. She moved closer to Lincoln, her arms outstretched, a shield between him and the violence she feared was coming. Her body shook with emotion, but her voice remained strong. "Hurting him won't change anything! It won't bring Finn back, and it won't undo what's happened. You're better than this."

But Bellamy wasn't listening. He was too lost in his pain, in his anger. His grip tightened on the knife, his eyes narrowing. "You don't get it, Octavia. He's not innocent! Not after what he did!"

The ship's door swung open with a screech that echoed through the silence, and Clarke stormed inside, her eyes blazing with a fire born of fear and determination. The weight of the decision she had to make pressed on her chest like a boulder, and yet, she wore the mask of leadership, of someone who had to do what was necessary. In her hand, she clutched the knife that Lincoln had used on Finn, the weapon stained red. Her voice rang out, sharp and commanding, demanding the truth that no one else seemed able to face.

"What's on the knife?" she asked, her gaze locked onto Bellamy's. "I need to know what's on it. He was going to die no matter what we did! What's on the knife, Bellamy?"

Bellamy turned to face her, his eyes wild, his emotions swirling like a storm. His jaw worked as if he were struggling to control himself. "I'm going to make him talk," he muttered, his voice guttural, tinged with desperation.

Clarke's eyes flickered to Finn, lying motionless on the makeshift cot downstairs, pale and struggling against the poison coursing through his veins, a life slipping away with each agonizing breath. A cold wave of panic washed over her, and her heart twisted with fear. She couldn't lose him—not like this, not to something she couldn't stop. "Do what you need to do," she said, her voice breaking slightly, but her resolve firm. "Just make it stop. We need to save Finn."

Octavia's face twisted in horror. She couldn't look at Lincoln, couldn't stand the idea of seeing him hurt anymore. She stood, her knees weak from the weight of it all, and moved between Clarke and the bound man. Her body trembled, and her voice came out as a plea, raw and full of heartbreak. "Clarke, no! Think of Isla! Think of your sister! She wouldn't want this!"

Clarke froze, her breath catching in her throat at the mention of Isla's name. The words hit her like a physical blow, a wound that she hadn't realized was still so fresh, so deep. For a moment, everything around her seemed to stop—time, the noise, the world. She closed her eyes, the memories of Isla flashing in her mind's eye, a mixture of love, loss, and regret. But before she could say anything, a voice broke through the silence.

"Isla," Lincoln whispered, his voice hoarse, barely audible. The name was like a gasp, a gasp for air, as though the very act of speaking it caused him pain. His head lifted, his eyes wide with shock, as though seeing Clarke for the first time, really seeing her. His breath caught in his throat, and for the briefest of moments, the anger, the violence, the man chained before them seemed to vanish. What replaced it was something else—something older, something unspoken.

Clarke and Octavia turned toward him, confusion and uncertainty clouding their expressions. Bellamy took a step back, sneering. "So you do speak English," he muttered, his voice dripping with venom.

But no one was listening to him.

"Isla," Lincoln repeated, louder this time, his voice filled with raw, agonized recognition. "Your sister?"

Clarke blinked, her heart stuttering in her chest. The word "sister" clung to the air around her like an echo, filling her with a strange, painful hope. She glanced at Octavia, who was just as stunned, and then back at Lincoln, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

"How do you know who Isla is?" Clarke asked, her voice sharp, laced with suspicion. She felt the ground shift beneath her, but she needed answers—needed them now.

Lincoln's eyes filled with sorrow, a kind of deep, unbearable grief. "Isla... she was my sister, too," he said, his voice breaking, every word weighted with the burden of a shared loss. "She came from the sky, in a pod. She told me her father sent her to save her. I rescued her, we grew up together... She spoke of her family, of space, of a twin sister she had left behind. I never imagined..." He looked at Clarke, really looked at her for the first time, his face pale, his expression one of dawning horror. "You're her. You're Isla's twin."

Clarke's breath hitched in her throat, the world tilting as the realization hit her like a storm. Her sister—her twin—had been out there, had been with Lincoln. The loss she had buried for so long, the hole in her heart that had never quite healed, now felt like it might swallow her whole.

Bellamy stepped forward, the knife still gripped tightly in his hand, his jaw tight with frustration. "What does this change, Clarke? He's still hiding something."

But Clarke's gaze was locked on Lincoln, her heart pounding in her chest as she searched his eyes, hoping for some kind of truth, some answer to the questions she had carried for so many years. "Isla... what happened to her?" she asked, her voice trembling, almost pleading.

Lincoln's face twisted in pain, his eyes distant as memories of Isla seemed to wash over him. "She's gone," he said, his voice breaking, thick with sorrow. "The Mountain Men took her from me, five years ago. I never saw her again."

Clarke's chest tightened with a grief she couldn't explain. Isla had always been the ghost in her life, a sister who had vanished when they were children, leaving behind only the faintest of memories. To hear that she was truly gone, to know that the sister she had never stopped looking for was lost forever—it was almost too much. It felt like the earth had fallen away beneath her feet.

Octavia reached out to her, her hand warm and reassuring on Clarke's arm, offering a quiet kind of comfort in the midst of the chaos. "Clarke, this isn't what Isla would want," she whispered. "She wouldn't want us to torture him. She wouldn't want us to become the people we're trying to fight."

For a moment, Clarke faltered, the knife slipping from her grip, her heart torn between two worlds. She looked down at the blade, still slick with blood, and then at Finn, lying unconscious below, fighting for his life. And then her gaze shifted back to Lincoln, to the man who had been with Isla, who had loved her in ways Clarke couldn't even understand. They were both victims in a war they hadn't chosen.

"We will never know what Isla would've wanted," Clarke said, her voice thick with pain. She turned toward Finn, knowing what had to be done. They had to save him—he was all that mattered now. She couldn't let him die.

But Octavia stepped forward, her voice soft but firm. "Clarke... please. Let him go."

And so, they stood, caught in the tangled web of grief and loss, each of them battling their own demons, their own desires, their own futures. The past was gone, but the present was still within their grasp, and the war was far from over.