GROUNDER - The 100, B.B

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ⋅ᡣ𐭩 ་༘࿐ 012 - biological warfare

Sylva

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ⋅ᡣ𐭩 ་༘࿐

Harper had excused herself to go speak with Jasper, leaving me alone by the campfire with the others. I watched her walk away, feeling a sudden pang of guilt gnawing at me. I wanted to apologize to Jasper, to somehow make amends for what I had done to him. But how could I ever confess that it was me who shot him? The weight of that secret pressed down on me, but I knew I had to at least say something to ease the guilt that had taken root in my heart.

I stood up slowly, murmuring an excuse to the others as I left the warmth of the fire behind. My footsteps were heavy with dread as I made my way into the dropship. The moment I pushed aside the tarp, my eyes landed on Murphy, still huddled in the corner. His condition had worsened; his skin had taken on a ghostly pallor, and the slight trembling in his limbs had become more pronounced. The sight of him in such a state sent a shiver down my spine.

His gaze flicked up to meet mine as I approached, a flicker of distrust flashing in his eyes. I could see the wariness there, the deep-seated suspicion that no doubt had festered after everything he'd been through. I didn't blame him. How could I?

"You're all alone in here," I said softly, taking a seat beside him. "I figured you might need some company."

Murphy's response was sharp, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. "I don't need you to keep me company, grounder," he snapped, his eyes narrowing at me.

I remained where I was, unbothered by his hostility. "Okay," I replied simply, making no move to leave. I just sat there, the silence between us growing, unspoken tension lingering in the air.

Murphy's glare eventually softened, and he leaned back against the wall, though his eyes never left me. "You're something else," he muttered, as if puzzled by my persistence.

I allowed myself a small grin as I glanced sideways at him. We sat together in silence for a few minutes, the stillness only broken by the distant sounds of the camp outside. I could feel the words bubbling up within me, and before I could stop myself, I spoke.

"I'm sorry for what they did to you," I said quietly, the sincerity in my voice surprising even me. The apology had slipped out, almost without my control, but it felt right.

Murphy turned his head to look at me, a question in his eyes. "Who?" he asked, his voice laden with bitterness. "The grounders or the hundred?"

I hesitated, my gaze drifting upward as I considered his question. "Both, I guess," I answered truthfully, my voice steady. I could feel his eyes on me, studying my expression, but I kept my focus on the ceiling, lost in thought.

The silence returned, this time more contemplative. I found myself pondering the mission I was on, the role I was supposed to play. I wasn't a spy—I had been trained as a warrior, someone who fought with weapons, not with deception.

The more I thought about it, the more I questioned why Anya had chosen me for this. Surely, there were others more suited for the task. My mind was a whirlwind of doubt, and I was so lost in my thoughts that I almost missed the sound of Murphy's labored breathing.

When I turned to look at him, horror gripped me. Murphy had shifted to his hands and knees, his body convulsing as he coughed violently. Blood spattered the floor beneath him, and the sight of it made my stomach churn. I instinctively placed a hand on his back, trying to offer some small comfort, though I had no idea what was wrong with him.

Before I could process what was happening, Clarke rushed into the dropship, her skin under her eyes streaked with dried blood. Her expression was one of urgency, her movements quick and focused. "Murphy, hey," she called out, trying to get his attention, but his coughing only intensified, more blood pouring from his mouth.