THE 100

Bluemont, Virginia, United States, Earth

38°03′45″N 77°53′24″W

"Systems control, sir."

The cold, lifeless air hummed to life overhead. The room reeked faintly, a sour staleness mixed with the lingering scent of medical equipment clinging to his suit jacket.

Cage Wallace absentmindedly brushed at the dried blood on the inside of his wrist, the permanent mark left by years of IVs. The scent, both familiar and sickening, refused to fade. His nose crinkled as the smell lingered, no matter how many times he tried to scrub it away.

He placed his hands—adorned with a watch passed down from his father—onto the cold control panel in front of him. Above, six identical cameras monitored the outside world. The screens displayed a Grounder village, showing the latest batch they had extracted.

Then, the view shifted.

A new feed flashed onto the screen. It had been doctored only days ago, cleared after extensive approval from his father. The lone panel now showed a makeshift camp, hastily fortified with scrap metal. Cage scoffed at the sight, shaking his head. What a joke.

"Sir?" The voice beside him broke his focus. The man glanced up, waiting for his direction.

Cage snapped out of his reverie, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. "Initiate the protocol," he ordered, his tone sharp and deliberate. "I want numbers."

His command set the room into motion, the monitors flickering to life. With a final, dismissive glance at the stationary image, he turned to leave.

Suddenly, an alarm blared, its shrill sound piercing the quiet of the control room. A yellow warning sign flashed across the monitors, the words cutting through the tension like a blade.

Incoming trajectory. Unclassified manifest.

The room spun into panic, his personnel rushing over the monitors in urgency. "What the hell is that?!" he spins, seizing a tablet from a young officer. 

"It's another one." One of the senior administrators clicks something on his own device, turning around in his swivel chair, and fingers on his headset.

The screens shift to display a satellite image form the closest atmospheric vision of Earth. A large oversized ship had been launched into the atmosphere, and the destination was clear.

Earth. 

The rage simmering beneath his calm exterior bubbled closer to the surface. Despite the sterile security of his confinement, a deep resentment gnawed at him—resentment at human biology, at the genetic curse he'd inherited. A weakness his father and grandfather had refused to accept.

Ninety-seven years of solitude. Ninety-seven years trapped in a decaying legacy.

"Sir," a technician called out, breaking his dark train of thought. "We've got a direct signal from the entity. It's coming in too fast."

Cage's jaw tightened. "Where's it headed?"

The frantic clicking of keys filled the room as the tech scanned through data.

"Straight into Grounder territory," he replied, his voice uneasy. "What should we do?"

Cage's eyes narrowed. "Intercept the channel."

"What?" The technician blinked, momentarily stunned.

"You heard me. You did it with the first ship. Disrupt their sensors."

The man hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Sir… that's risky. If they notice—"

"They won't," Cage snapped. His voice cut through the air like a blade. "Do it."

The technician swallowed hard, then returned to his task, fingers dancing over the keys. The hum of the room deepened as systems engaged, a low pulse vibrating beneath their feet.

Seconds passed, each one stretched by the weight of anticipation. Finally, the tech muttered, "i cant."

Seconds stretched into a suffocating silence, each breath in the room held hostage by anticipation. Finally, the technician muttered, "I can't."

Cage's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. "What do you mean, you can't?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the tension.

The technician wiped his forehead, visibly uneasy. "It's not just the ship... there's interference blocking our launch code. Another signal."

Cage abandoned the pen, stepping forward with deliberate precision. "Another signal? Where?"

"I don't know yet," the technician stammered, fingers flying over the keyboard. "But it's strong—almost as if it's designed to scramble our systems. It's not coming from the ship.

He gulps, "It's coming from the ground."

A surge of frustration flared in Cage. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the console. "Are you telling me the grounders suddenly have tech capable of jamming us?"

The technician hesitated, then shook his head. "No, sir. This is more advanced. Way more advanced."

Cage stared at the flickering data on the screen, his mind racing. "Run a trace. I want to know exactly where this signal is coming from."

The technician nodded and worked frantically. Meanwhile, another console lit up with warning signals. "Sir, the ship's trajectory hasn't changed. It's still heading straight for the grounder territory, but now this interference—it's spreading across multiple frequencies."

Cage clenched his teeth, his rage simmering beneath the surface. "This isn't random. Someone is trying to disrupt us."

He turned to the room, his gaze cold and commanding. "Double the surveillance on every channel. I want every shred of information on that signal. And find me the source. Now."

As the technicians scrambled to obey, Cage stepped back, fists clenched. His carefully controlled world was unraveling, and he knew this wasn't just a coincidence. Someone—or something—was playing a much bigger game. And for the first time in years, he felt the cold edge of uncertainty.

-

7 HOURS EARLIER

"...12 stations turned into one." Finn's voice trails past the hoots and cheers of the celebration outside, "they say the thirteenth was blown with a missile, so the other stations came together under the context of peace."

The chancellor's voice, so eerily similar to that day he'd spoken on the dropship as they'd descended to earth, carried a heroic monologue. Unity day. A story passed down 97 years, this was the first time they'd spend it on the ground.

Finn looks at me suspiciously, eyes narrowing, "how did you forget that story?" he asks, "it's practically been ingrained in everyone's memory since childhood."

I bounce on the heels of my boots, butt uncomfortably imprinted onto a wooden log, covered in grime and something distinctly red. I brush them into the dirt, meeting his gaze, shrugging, "you seemed to be the only one not enjoying the celebration, figured id here out your conspiracy theory."

He rolls his eyes. "It's not a conspiracy if it's true. I'm just saying... violence isn't always the answer for peace." His voice softens as he glances into the distance. "There has to be another way."

He turns back to me, his dark brown eyes scanning my blistered face, still healing from the last fight. My fingers unconsciously scratch at the tear in my shirt where a grounder's knife cut through it. "You and Clarke are perfect for each other," I mutter under my breath.

He hears it, his head dipping in guilt. "Did... did she say anything?" he asks, fidgeting. "You guys seemed to be talking about something important."

I raise an eyebrow. "Who? Your girlfriend or—" He cuts me off, scratching his neck awkwardly. "Raven," he mumbles.

I almost laugh. He makes it sound like we were in there braiding each other's hair. 

Jasper bursts onto the scene, holding jugs of some suspiciously green liquid.

"Whoo! Yeah!" Jasper shouts, goggles perched crookedly on his head. "Monty strikes again! This batch is Unity Juice! Who's thirsty?"

Finn doesn't even flinch. His whole body is tense from stress. I sigh, almost rolling my eyes. "No," I say flatly. "She didn't say anything."

I'm handed a small cup of the questionable drink. My stomach churns, but I take a sip, the fiery liquid burning its way down my throat. "But, Finn," I say, setting the cup down, "you know the saying—When in Rome, do as the Romans do. If peace is only achieved through violence, then violence is our only option."

He stares at me, unconvinced, and I know there's no point in telling him what really happened last night. He wouldn't believe me anyway.

"Well," I sigh, brushing the foreign twigs from my lap, "enjoy the party. I've got some work to do."

Jahas voice reaches a pitching end, and I count down the minutes.

Finn stands abruptly, his movements tense. "Might as well join you," he says, shrugging like it's no big deal.

I raise an eyebrow, mildly annoyed. "You don't have to. I'm just checking on something."

His eyes narrow slightly, as if sensing there's more to it. Before he can press further, Clarke walks over, her calm demeanor undermined by the worry in her eyes. Her gaze shifts between us, an awkward glance passing from her eyes.

"Have either of you seen Wells?" she asks, her voice steady but tight. "I'm swamped, and I need his help with the ark. Raven said she's too busy."

I frown, glancing around. "Wells? I saw him this morning. He's probably in the dropship."

Clarke shakes her head, her fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of her jacket. "No one's in the dropship except Murphy. I already checked."

Her gaze shifts to Finn, and for a moment, there's an unspoken tension between them. Finn straightens, his body language shifting from casual to focused. "I'll help you track him down."

Clarke exhales, visibly relieved. "Thanks. Let's start near the perimeter. Maybe he's checking on patrols."

They walk off together, disappearing into the crowd. I let out a quiet breath, grateful for the interruption. I swish the unity juice in my cup, letting it down my throat in a single gulp. It tastes like vodka– sour, yeasty vodka. My throat burns, but the heat spreading through my chest is strangely comforting.

Wasn't that what I'd been drinking…?

Before I can finish the thought, a sharp pain cleaves through my skull, sudden and unforgiving. I stagger slightly, clutching my head. It's worse than any cut or bruise from the fight. My pulse pounds in my ears, each throb intensifying the ache.

What was it about that night?

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. Dwelling on it won't get me anywhere. The pain dulls to a low throb as I stand, brushing the dirt from my clothes. Plans and routes map themselves out in my mind—each step calculated, every escape route accounted for. I've run through this scenario a hundred times.

All I need to do now is wait for the Ark to come down. Once it does, I'll be on my way. 

My fingers curl into fists, determination steadying my breath. If time travel—or something like it—is possible here, then there's a way to make it to the end. To survive. Whether it's through sheer force of will or something far more dangerous, I'll find a way.

Like clockwork, the Ark's channel cuts off, the screen flickering into static where Jaha's face had been moments ago. I stare at the blank panel, frustration gnawing at me. Down here, there's nothing left to do but wait. I can only hope Raven manages to pull off what I asked of her.

"Why the long face?" Bellamy's voice cuts through my thoughts. He staggers up beside me, the pungent scent of alcohol and sweat rolling off him. His hand lands heavily on my shoulder.

I crinkle my nose, brushing his hand off. "You probably shouldn't sneak up on me like that."

He laughs, a deep, easy sound that reeks of bravado. "Chill, Maddox. You're always so serious. Have a little fun, will ya?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "What do you want, Bellamy?"

He sways slightly but smirks. "You know," he says, pointing a finger at me like he's about to share some grand revelation, "I thought you were kinda stupid at first. Always droning on about some cryptic message, talking in circles. Made no sense."

I cross my arms, not bothering to hide my irritation. "And now?"

Bellamy's grin fades, replaced by a more serious expression. His eyes flick through the crowd, his voice dropping low. "I need to talk to you about Murphy."

My stomach tightens. I glance toward the dropship, dread pooling in my gut. "What about Murphy?" I hadn't checked on him since last night, but I can only imagine what the grounders might have done to him.

Bellamy bites his lip, hesitating before motioning for me to follow. He leads me around to the outer wall of the dropship, away from prying eyes and ears. His shoulders are tense, his voice hushed but urgent. "He won't say anything," he says, shaking his head. "I mean, he's just... staring at the walls. Like he's lost it."

I frown, leaning in closer. "And he hasn't said anything? At all?"

Bellamy's eyes dart around, as if checking to make sure no one's listening. "Nothing. Clarke thinks he's got some kind of fever, but that's not what's making him like this."

My chest tightens further. "You think the grounders did something to him?"

Bellamy exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's not just the fever. His fingers... they're stripped raw. And his feet—" He grimaces, the memory of it clearly unsettling him. "His feet are torn up, worse than anything I've seen. It's like he walked through hell and back, and he's still stuck there."

The thing gnawing at me wasn't just Murphy's condition. It was the fact that this situation felt wrong. This had happened on the show, sure—but not like this. Murphy wasn't supposed to be this bad off. And most importantly, he hadn't come back to camp for safety—he'd come back for revenge. But the whole mess with Charlotte hadn't happened here. None of it. So maybe... just maybe, this was something else. PTSD, trauma, something that made sense in this twisted reality.

I force myself to stay calm, even as the uncertainty whispers at the back of my mind. "Okay," I say slowly, "does anyone else know about this?"

Bellamy shakes his head. "No. But Maddox... if the grounders did that to him, they're gonna do a whole lot worse to the rest of us."

I give him a pointed look, trying to project a confidence I don't entirely feel. "You told me to chill, right? Go have fun? Murphy's tough. He'll snap out of it."

Bellamy's eyes narrow, skepticism etched across his face. "Are you sure?"

"We've got the camp fortified," I say, shifting my tone to something more resolute. "They're not gonna try anything this early. We've got time."

He nods, but I can tell he doesn't believe me. I don't think many people here do. Trust isn't exactly in abundance, and who could blame them? We're living on borrowed time, But for now, Bellamy takes my advice. He steps back, his jaw clenched, giving me one last look before walking off toward the festivities.

I exhale slowly, trying to shake off the tension. The weight of everything is pressing down harder than ever—Murphy's condition, the grounders, the whispers of Mount Weather... all of it. There's no way to be sure we're safe. Fortified or not, this camp feels more like a house of cards waiting for a gust of wind.

My gaze shifts toward the dropship, where Raven and Wells are still working on the makeshift satellite. Their figures are hunched over the equipment, focused and determined. Maybe intercepting Mount Weather's signal will give us the edge we need. Or maybe it'll just bring more problems. Either way, I need answers.

I head toward them, my steps heavy but purposeful. As I approach, Raven glances up, wiping her hands on a rag. "Back already? Thought you were taking Bellamy's advice and chilling."

I hesitate for a second too long. The words Murphy's losing it sit on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them down. "Nothing," I say, shaking my head. "Just... the Ark's signal got cut off."

Wells immediately straightens, his hands dropping from the wires. "When? Right now?"

"Yeah," I nod, glancing at Raven. "Static took over mid-broadcast. Jaha's speech cut off."

Raven frowns, pulling off her work gloves. "That's not normal. They wouldn't cut the feed unless something big happened."

Wells steps closer, urgency in his voice. "Do you think something's wrong up there?"

"Could be," I say carefully, "or it could just be interference. Either way that's not our focus right now, how's mount weather looking?"

Raven exchanges a worried glance with Wells, then heads over to the radio equipment, her fingers already flipping switches. "You gave me an impossible mission, don't expect it to be done in a day."

Wells crosses his arms, his gaze unwavering. "Look, as much as I'm trying to understand why you want to contact an abandoned military base, I'm gonna need a bit more than just a 'gut feeling.'" His tone is calm but firm, his skepticism impossible to miss.

I cringe slightly. "It's a guess," I admit, my voice lower than I intended. My mind flashes back to last night, when I convinced Raven to help. She didn't push too hard for answers, but I could tell my suspicion had put her on edge. She always handled pressure well, but this was different. I could see it in the way her hands hovered a second too long over the controls, in the way her eyes darted to the sky, as if she was expecting something—or someone.

Wells doesn't look convinced. He's waiting for more.

"But," I add, meeting his gaze, "it doesn't hurt to try and get a closer look at the big picture. We're down here, cut off from the Ark, dealing with grounders, and now—maybe—something else. We can't just assume everything's fine because it's been quiet. That's exactly when things go wrong."

Raven, still fiddling with the radio, glances over her shoulder. "He's right. If there's something out there, Mount Weather is our best shot at figuring out what. We're not gonna sit around and wait for trouble to find us."

Wells exhales, his posture softening just a bit. "Fine. But if this goes sideways, I'm not gonna be the one explaining it to Clarke."

I smirk, trying to lighten the tension. "Oh, don't worry. I'm used to getting yelled at."

Raven chuckles under her breath, but the tension in the air remains. Wells shakes his head, muttering, "You're both crazy," before returning to his task, albeit with a hint less resistance.