Beyond the Ark: Oliver Nash

Chapter II: Part III: Failure

Oliver's voice shook as he spoke, reminiscent of the howling winds he'd seen in movies countless times before. His palms were sweaty, and each breath seemed to take an eternity. He had envisioned this meeting the night before in his cell, picturing himself as cool, calm, and collected, swiftly relaying everything he knew to Bellamy. Yet now, his body trembled at the sight before him.

His eyes locked onto the rigid, pained brown eyes of his friend, Bellamy, as his own dirty blonde hair clung to his sweaty forehead. For a moment that felt like years, Oliver stared into Bellamy's eyes, and the pounding of his heart grew to a painful thud in his chest. A coarse sob threatened to escape, lodged deep in his throat, bringing to the surface everything he had endured.

Everything they had endured.

A shiver traced its icy path up Bellamy's spine, the chill contrasting sharply with the warmth of his grip on the worn handle of his mop. His knuckles whitened against the rough texture as he anchored himself in the disorienting reality that unfolded before him. His eyes widened, caught between disbelief and a desperate need for this to actually be real.

His mouth fell open slightly, a rush of breath escaping in a quiet gasp. A subtle tremor passed through his throat. He shook his head, a slow, almost imperceptible movement, as if to dispel the impossibility of it all.

Finally, barely audible against the backdrop of echoing silence, a faint whisper escaped his lips. Laden with raw urgency that pulsed in his chest like a relentless drumbeat, the need for answers burned fiercely within him.

"Octavia... is she okay?"

A small, closed-lip smile grew across Oliver's features at the mention of her name. He opened his mouth to speak, ready to tell him she was okay-a hope he held onto despite not truly knowing.

"She's-" Oliver began, but a sharp, electric pain surged up his spine, silencing him mid-sentence. He crumpled to the ground, gasping, as two armed guards descended on him. Their knees dug into his back, forcing his face into the cold, hard floor. He felt the rough grip of their hands as they wrenched his arms behind him and snapped on the handcuffs.

Bellamy's eyes grew wide upon the sight of the man who had shocked Oliver, his solemn expression seemed to be pained as he put his weapon away, his weight was up on one leg, and a gash was apparent upon his right temple. "Mr. Miller-" Bellamy croaked, as he dropped his mop letting it fall to the floor, rushing to Oliver's aid, only to be held back swiftly by a guard, whilst the other along with David Miller dragged Oliver to his feet.

"He'll wake up soon." Miller spoke, running a hand down his face and letting out a sigh. "Stay out of trouble, Blake." He added before helping carry Oliver away.

Bellamy stood there watching, angered etched upon his features, his mind desperately wanted to move, consequences be damned. His body just... wouldn't.

Oliver awoke in his cell, sitting up from his bed with a groan, as he put his hand to his left cheekbone which throbbed in pain. He placed a hand to it and felt how it had swollen, feeling a painful stretch in his shoulder as he moved his arm.

He slowly stood to his feet, banging his forehead hard against the wall in anger. The frustration of his failure, compounded by the raging headache he had just inflicted on himself, grew his anger to a boiling point.

It all came over him like a tidal wave from the deep blue sea. Heat burned in his core, feeling as if he'd been thrust into the center of one of those diamonds in the sky. His fists clenched at his sides as his breath grew forced. The cold, metallic taste of blood seeped into his mouth as he bit down on his lip, the pain a distraction from the turmoil within.