THE 100 IMAGINES

[IKT] Drink To That.

     The strange, empty, longing feeling returned once more after ALLIE was shut down for good. With no way of feeling the same sense of belonging you once found in the City of Light, a gaping, nagging hole was left in its wake. But, some part of you, a part you thought had long since left you, felt relieved. While everyone else tried getting some sense of normality back, with Azgeda taking over Polis with Roan as King, and Clarke trying to find a way of saving everybody, once again, all you could do was stare at your hands. Although they were no longer coated in thick, warm, fresh blood, they still left behind the memory you had of killing innocent people. The ones who weren't chipped. The ones who wanted nothing more than to save you and the others from the dangers of ALLIE and the City of Light. The villagers still cried and mourned their people, moving them away to be buried or burned—had they been Trikru.

You sat at an empty table, a cup of... something was still in front of you. Whatever it had been, it had been strong, although not nearly as strong as you wanted it to be. It couldn't help you forget, it couldn't help you feel something, or even nothing, other than the guilt that ate away at you—almost corrosively. Slowly, you blinked, watching as spots of red blood began to form on your skin. Drop by drop until you were completely stained red. The sleeves of your shirt darkened as the blood seeped in, even the bottom of your shirt, from what you could see, was also much darker than before.

With a sharp shake of your head, closing your eyes tightly before opening them once more, you reached out for the cup, bringing it up to your lips before you knocked it back, slamming the cup on the table again. The burning liquid that travelled down your throat reminded you that you were, in fact, still human. Not the indestructible war machine Earth had carved you out to be after you were forced to journey down for crimes you couldn't even remember committing—thanks to the uncountable crimes you had committed since landing. Not the invincible lion heart of the delinquents, fighting alongside them during the Grounder war. Not the paladin people sort you out to be at Mount Weather, sacrificing yourself for your friends before you were slaughtering them mercilessly after taking the chip months later. Nothing was ever going to be the same. How could it have been? Humanity was at a loss—and you were partially to blame.

One of the villagers, who had been working in the small alley you were seated in, walked over to you, pouring some more liquid into the cup, moving a step back to look at you. She paused for a moment before filling your cup to the rim instead of the small centimetre deep pool she had poured before. The woman gave you a small smile—even though she knew you hadn't been looking at her, but rather the chipping red wood of the table—and walked back to her stall, getting back to her business as usual, despite the gloomy atmosphere Polis had obtained.

Eagerly, once you managed to bring yourself back to the abysmal reality you had been left in, you reached for your cup. The strong smell had reached your nose long before you brought it to your lips again. The aroma was harsh. A deep chuckle caught your attention. After barely turning your head to the side, staring at the ground, not bothering to actually check who it was, a pair of boots walked into your line of vision. You didn't have time—or at least you didn't want to make time—to introduce yourself and talk through the technicalities of becoming acquaintances. All you wanted to do was drink until you slept, then when you woke, drink again. It wasn't that much to ask for, but maybe you should have made it clear that you wanted all of that and silence too.

"I didn't picture you for the hard stuff," he spoke, still standing near the table.

You moved the cup slightly, watching the liquid swish. "Yeah... well..." It was a quiet reply, but enough for him to take it as an invitation to sit at the table with you, on your left.