The recycled air clung to me like yesterday's protein bar, stale and suffocating. Sixteen. It had been a whole two weeks since I choked down that sad little birthday ration – the only birthday thing they even let you have here in this metal sardine can. Sixteen meant dick here. You were just a cog in the machine, a replaceable part, and at sixteen, I was a slightly less rusty one. Here, in solitary, I was even less than that – a broken gear tossed into the recycling chute.
Two years. Two lousy years until I hit eighteen, the magic number that shipped you off on a one-way ticket to who-knows-where. For me, those two years stretched on like a bad hangover. Eight steps. That's all my world had been for the past three years. Eight agonizing paces, one unforgiving wall to the other. My prison felt like a giant hand constantly squeezing my lungs, making it hard to breathe. Back then, they'd strapped me down in a damn straitjacket – the only "present" I got since they locked me up.
Now? Now, the claustrophobia was just a dull ache, a lousy bunkmate that never left. My days were spent counting ceiling tiles and the goddamn seconds ticking by until I turned eighteen, until I could finally escape this metal purgatory.
Solitary wasn't that much different from regular life on the Ark, really. Every breath felt measured, every move watched. Act up, get punished. Just a smaller cage inside the bigger one. Except, here, the silence was kind of comforting in a weird way.
Until today.
The groaning cell door screeched open, shattering the silence like a dropped mess tin. A flicker of morbid hope flickered to life. Had the council finally realized how pointless and sadistic this whole thing was? Early exit, maybe? The thought made a choked sob escape my throat, a weird mix of terror and messed-up relief. At least it would be over.
The flicker died faster than a gnat hitting the fly swatter. They weren't just after me; they were clearing out the whole damn floor. The guard's barked order to "move it" was more of a mumble than actual words. My gut clenched into a nasty knot. They were moving us. Probably to another metal box. Another prison.
Panic surged through me, cold and sharp. Not this again. I'd choose oblivion over another cage. Not today. Not ever again.
I fought against the leather straps, the jacket thankfully looser from my previous attempts at escape, giving me a little wiggle room. Fury and desperation fueled me as I lunged at the nearest guard, my shoulder slamming into his gut with a sickening thud. He doubled over, groaning like someone kicked him in the family jewels.
The momentum carried me past him, but the stupid straps snagged on his boot. I landed face-first on the metallic floor, grazing my jaw against the floor. Before I could scramble up, another guard was on top of me, his knee digging into my chest. Pain shot through my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs.
But I wasn't done. Fueled by the need to be free and a whole lot of rage, I bucked and twisted, using his weight against him. My forehead connected with his jaw with a sickening crack and he roared in pain, momentarily loosening his grip. That's all I needed.
Adrenaline pumping, I head-butted him right on the nose. The sickening crunch was all the confirmation I needed – nailed it. He shrieked like a banshee, blood blooming across his face for everyone to see. For a freaking awesome, terrifying moment, I was in charge.
The zap was enough to turn my legs to jelly and send me sprawling onto the cold floor. The fight, the anger, everything just fizzled out, replaced by a dull ache that made me want to curl up and disappear. Then came the prick of a dart. Tranquilizers, thank whatever gods were listening. The world went from crappy resolution to even crappier resolution, voices turning into muffled mush. The last thing I registered was the guards freaking out and the buzz of the dropped taser before everything went black.
The world swam back into focus slowly, with a headache that felt like someone was using my skull as a drum and a mouthful of something unpleasant that felt permanently attached. Disoriented, I tried to mumble for help, but a thick leather muzzle shut that idea down real quick. Panic started to bubble up in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I was strapped to a metal chair, surrounded by murmuring and shuffling. Through blurry vision, I saw other kids, all delinquents like me, looking just as confused and terrified as I felt.
The gag tightened, making my stomach churn. I was about to let out a strangled scream (well, as close as this stupid thing would let me) when the whole metal box – dropship, if I remembered my engineering lessons – lurched violently. Screens flickered on, bathing the room in an eerie glow.
"Prisoners of the Ark, hear me now." boomed a voice that was impossible to miss. The face on the screen was even more unmistakable – Thelonius Jaha, Chancellor Dickhead himself. Even after three years, his smug mug was burned into my memory. "You have been given a second chance. And as your Chancellor, it is my hope that you see this as not just a chance for you, but a chance for all of us. For mankind itself."
"We have no idea what is waiting for you down there," the recording continued. "If the odds of survival were better, we would have sent others. Frankly, we're sending you because your crimes have made you expendable." The man certainly didn't mince his words.
A laugh cut through the recording, someone yelling, "Your dad's a dick, Wells!" A chorus of snickers followed.
Wells? As in Wells Jaha? I craned my neck, the straps digging into my skin, searching the rows of faces until I spotted him. Dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes – basically a younger, less punchable version of the Chancellor's. No doubt about it, the Chancellor's kid.
And next to him was another face I recognized. Blonde hair, blue eyes, flawless skin – Clarke Griffin. Dr. Abby Griffin's daughter. She'd definitely changed from the girl I knew of before solitary, but she was still undeniably pretty.
What in the actual apocalypse was going on? A world where the Chancellor's kid and the CMO's daughter were criminals? How did that even happen?
"–the drop site has been carefully chosen," aha droned on, yanking me back to reality. As much as I hated listening to his self-important speeches, this seemed important. "Before the war, Mount Weather was a giant military base built inside a mountain. Apparently, it's stocked with enough food to last three hundred people for two years."
Jaha could've been dropping the knowledge bomb of the century, but who cared right? A freaking cheer erupted, stealing my attention from the stupid screen. I whipped my head around to see what the heck was going on, and for a second, I literally couldn't speak.
A boy about a year older than me had somehow wriggled free from his restraints and was now floating in the middle of the pod, his body parallel to the ceiling. It wasn't the act itself that stunned me – the zero-g thing was practically nursery rhyme stuff for Ark kids. It was the sheer nerve of it all. Floating in space.
Well, most of us were destined to be floated in space eventually, myself included. Not exactly the "fun" kind of floating, though. Despite living our entire lives among the stars, hardly anyone outside the zero-g mechanics in engineering ever experienced true weightlessness, the feeling of flight. The Ark's artificial gravity ensured that. A necessary evil, some might say, once again sacrificing perhaps the only perk of being in space for survival.
But here was this kid, practically flying. And if I wasn't practically mummified in these restraints, I'd be right there beside him. Instead, I squeezed my eyes shut and fought against the seat straps, pushing myself up as far as the confines would allow. Just a hint, a sliver of weightlessness, and finally, my butt lifted off the seat a fraction. It was, for lack of a better word, awesome.
"Check it out," the boy called out, his voice laced with amusement. "Your dad floated me after all."
I snorted, the sound muffled by the leather muzzle, as the joke echoed my own thoughts. No need to peek to guess who he was addressing.
"Strap in before the chutes deploy," Wells replied, his voice strained but steady.
Sound advice, even if it came from the Chancellor's son, but I was already trussed up like a turkey. A few moments of weightlessness wasn't going to kill me.
"Hey! You two, stay put if you want to live!" Clarke's voice cut through the air, sharp and laced with urgency. Her warning fell on deaf ears as two other boys, emboldened by Finn (apparently that was his name), mirrored his actions, unbuckling their restraints and launching themselves into the brief zero-g experience. Just in time for a not-so-joyful landing.
The moment Clarke's warning left her lips, the dropship lurched violently, the sudden deployment of the parachutes sending a jolt through the entire structure. My brief moment of euphoria evaporated as I was slammed back into the unforgiving reality – that I was still trapped in a metal death machine. The muzzled sound of my own panicked screams was lost in the cacophony of terror around me.
Even after the engines kicked in, slowing our descent, I remained glued to my seat, eyes squeezed shut. It wasn't until the others started unbuckling and gathering near the door that I dared to open mine. Alive. Against all odds, I was still alive.
"Exit door's on the lower level!" Someone yelled. And I wanted nothing more than to make a beeline for the door and never see the insides of this metal monstrosity again. Freedom. Actual, unconfined freedom was just a flight of stairs away. Literally.
Unfortunately, my seatbelt remained stubbornly buckled, alongside the unwelcome companion of the straitjacket I'd grown intimately familiar with over the past three years. Together, they kept me firmly planted in my chair, a prisoner even after the promise of release. The others were a blur of frantic movement, scrambling out of the ship oblivious to my plight.
Frustration coiled tight in my gut. Think. I had to get out of this chair, out of this metal coffin. Just then, a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye snagged my attention. A girl, skinny with a mess of brown hair, was pushing her way through the crowd of delinquents, her gaze locked on me.
"Need a hand?" Her voice, surprisingly calm for the chaos, held a hint of worry. I bobbed my head like a jerky puppet, the damn restraints limiting everything. Just as her hand reached for the buckle, a big dude with a shaved head shoved in, his beady eyes narrowing at me with suspicion. Didn't recognize him, but the girl did.
"What are you doing? He could be dangerous," he growled, trying too hard to sound tough.
"Everyone here's dangerous," she countered, her voice surprisingly steady as she shoved his hand off. "We're all criminals, remember?"
"Yeah? Well even the murderers are walking free," he scoffed. "What do you think this freak did to get himself in a straitjacket, huh? My advice, leave him alone before he bites your head off." With a sneer that would make milk curdle, he disappeared down the hatch. Jerk.
The girl hesitated, her eyes flitting between me and the open hatch. The seed of doubt the guy had planted sprouted into fear in her eyes.
"Sorry," she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper. "Don't want any trouble. I-I'll just leave you alone, okay?"
"No!" The word ripped from my throat, a strangled plea swallowed by the stupid muzzle. But it was too late. The girl gave me one last scared glance before turning and following the others.
No. NO! Come back. PLEASE!
A primal scream, a wordless torrent of frustration and despair, clawed its way up my throat, muffled by the leather but no less powerful. Alone. Abandoned. The weight of my situation crashed down on me, suffocating. Was this it? Was I going to be left behind to rot in this metal tomb while the others got their shot at freedom? I was so close. So damn close.
Anger, white-hot and all-consuming, slammed into me, momentarily pushing back the despair. I thrashed against the restraints, the leather groaning in protest. Years of confinement had left my muscles weak, screaming in complaint at the sudden exertion. But I pushed on, fueled by a desperate need to break free, to somehow reach the surface, to feel the wind on my face, even if it was the last thing I ever felt.
In a frenzy, I twisted and bucked, ignoring the searing pain that flared in my back with every contortion. With a satisfying snap, one of the seatbelt buckles gave way. The metal buckle sprung back, whipping against the wall with a loud clang. The momentum sent me sprawling forward, and I landed on the cold, hard floor with a sickening thud.
The fight bled out of me with a hiss. Every muscle screamed in protest, replaced by a chilling calm worse than the initial panic. Silence pressed against the dropship walls, a stark contrast to the joyous shouts that echoed faintly from outside.
A dark fury simmered within me. They were celebrating. Celebrating their freedom while leaving me a prisoner in this metal coffin. These criminals, these rejects, were getting a fresh start. Me? I hadn't even committed a real crime, and yet here I was. The unfairness of it all gnawed at my sanity.
A sound, a hesitant scrape against the metal floor, shattered the silence. My head lolled towards the noise, vision blurry. A scrawny girl, barely more than a kid herself, stood framed against the open hatch. Her dark blonde hair was swallowed by the weak light, and her wide, blue eyes scanned me with suspicion and something else – maybe a flicker of pity?
I tried to shoot her a glare, but it fizzled out when she didn't even flinch. Instead, she knelt beside me, her movements tentative as her hands, delicate and unblemished compared to the calloused grip of the guards, fumbled with the buckles of the straitjacket. The leather yielded with a hiss, each strap peeling away like a dead snake's skin.
With the last buckle undone, she gently removed the muzzle, revealing angry red welts where it had dug into my skin. Tentatively, she reached out and wiped away a stray tear that trickled down my cheek. The touch was like a feather against raw flesh, a flicker that sent a forgotten warmth sparking in my chest. I found myself leaning into it without thinking.
"You hurt?" she whispered, barely audible. I shook my head, barely there.
For the first time in forever, I spoke. My voice was a rusty rasp, barely a whisper even to my own ears. "Who are you?" I croaked.
I stared at her, the simple question a lifeline thrown into the abyss. I tested the name on my tongue, speaking it in my head until it felt right. "Cyrus," I finally managed.
A small smile, fragile as a butterfly's wing, bloomed on her face. "Welcome to Earth, Cyrus," she whispered.
The urge to scramble up, to feel the open sky against my skin, was still there. It was overwhelming, in fact. Yet, something held me back. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe it was the strangeness of someone returning for me. I needed to know first.
Charlotte, still kneeling, held my gaze with a quiet worry that tightened the knot in my gut. "Why?" The question ripped from my throat, raw and ragged. "Why'd you come back? I thought nobody even noticed I was still here."
Shame flickered across Charlotte's face as she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper, "I heard you scream. And then... I just couldn't leave you here." Her eyes darted towards the crumpled forms a short distance away, then back to me, glistening with unshed tears. "I wanted to help them too. They shouldn't have left their seats."
The weight of her words hit me. I followed her line of sight, landing on the two figures sprawled motionless on the metal floor. A wave of nausea washed over me, pushing back the earlier simmering resentment as I recognized them as the same dudes who'd recklessly followed Finn out of their seats during the landing. "Are they...?"
Charlotte nodded, a single tear escaping and tracing a shimmering path down her cheek. She sniffed, wiping it away with the back of hand. There was a fierceness in her eyes, a desire to appear strong that mirrored a feeling I knew all too well.
"Hey," I said softly, my voice hoarse. "It's okay. Two people died today. It's okay to cry."
Charlotte hesitated, then let out a shaky breath. "I know, I just... I don't want to be scared anymore. Not again." The vulnerability in her voice cracked through the walls I'd built.
"Me neither," I admitted, the words heavy on my tongue. "But we're on Earth now. It's a new world, and chances are for all the hype, it might be worse than the Ark. But maybe..." I took a deep breath, searching for optimism in the bleakness. "Maybe it can also be better. We lost two, doesn't mean we have to lose any more."
Silence descended again, broken only by the distant murmur of the others outside. Charlotte sat beside me, her shoulders slumped in defeat. Then, with a flicker of determination, she straightened. "We need to bury them, we should," she said, her voice firm. "Help me, please."
It was a grim task, no doubt, but a necessary one. I also owed it to her to help her out with this, so I nodded, pushing myself up despite the tremors in my legs.
We stumbled out of the dropship, and the world hit me like a sensory overload. The endless blue stretched above, a canvas splashed with cotton-ball clouds. The air, thick and muggy compared to the Ark's sterile stuff, carried the scent of something wild and alive. In the distance, trees swayed in the breeze, their leaves shimmering green under a golden sun.
This was Earth. Untamed, real, and beautiful. A choked laugh escaped my lips, tears welling up in a mix of relief, awe, and something unfamiliar – hope. For the first time, I felt uncaged. Like a bird that finally figured out how to use its wings. As I took my first shaky step onto the red soil, a grin stretched across my face. It was a wild, dizzying feeling. I turned to Charlotte, about to suggest we go find a quiet spot for the dead guys, when a harsh voice shattered the peace.
"What the hell, pipsqueak?"
I whipped my head around to find the shaved-head jerk from before stomping towards us, his face twisted in a mix of anger and disgust. Charlotte flinched back, her eyes wide with fear.
"You let this psycho out?" he roared, gesturing at me with a jerk of his head. "Are you nuts?"
My jaw locked so hard I thought it might break. Psycho? This arrogant jerk with a shaved head and a vocabulary from a bad holovid had no clue what psycho meant.
"Leave her alone," I growled, my voice rusty and raw, surprising even me. My body, weak from years of that tiny cell, protested the movement, but I pushed myself in front of Charlotte, a shaky barrier against the looming brute.
He stopped short, his sneer replaced by surprise. He towered over me, his muscles bulging beneath his worn clothes, but a flicker of fear danced in his eyes. "Get back in your damn restraints before I make you, freak!" he snarled, shoving me with more force than I expected. I stumbled back, catching myself before I hit the ground.
On some level, I could get his reaction. Here I was, a stranger, skinny and probably looking a little wild-eyed. The fact that I'd been strapped to a chair like a rabid animal wouldn't exactly inspire confidence. There was a reason for his aggression, a fear fueled by a misunderstanding.
But understanding didn't mean I had to take his crap. The anger that had simmered when the other girl left me flared hot, fueled by his rough treatment of Charlotte and his continued insults.
"I'm not going anywhere," I hissed, my fist clenching tight. The dude's words had poked an old wound. He might have just been a typical bully, but the way he spoke mirrored the Council's pronouncements all too well – the cold, emotionless dismissal of my humanity.
The tension between us hung heavy in the air. He puffed out his chest, a challenge in his eyes. I met his gaze head-on, my anger a coiled viper ready to strike.
Before I could think better of it, I lunged at him. My fist, fueled by rage and a desperate need to prove something, connected with his jaw with a satisfying crunch. He stumbled back, a surprised grunt escaping his lips. The look on his face was a mix of pain and fury.
"You're dead!" He yelled, launching himself at me. I was ready for him, though. We grappled on the red dirt, a mess of limbs and grunts. Even though I surprised him at first, it seems I had overestimated my fighting skills. He overpowered me way too easily, pinning me to the ground with his knee on my chest, eerily similar to what the guard had done. Punches rained down on my face, chest, everywhere.
Air whooshed out of my lungs, replaced by a burning pressure. And the guy on top of me seemed ready to turn my face into mashed potatoes. But then, a voice, sharp and in-charge, cut through the haze.
"Stand down, both of you!" A man who looked to be slightly older than the delinquents here marched towards us. He wore a guard's uniform and he glared at us both through his dark brown eyes. "What's the problem here?"
The jerk whose name I should probably learn, just to hate him better, scrambled up and pointed at me, spitting out blood. "The deal is that this little blondie over here set psycho boy free. You saw how he was strapped up, Bellamy, you know he's dangerous."
The accusation burned in my ears.
"I'm not... dangerous," I managed, my voice hoarse and ragged.
This Bellamy guy's gaze flickered between me and the other dude, a sharp glint in his eyes. "Clearly," he said, and before the other dude could argue, Bellamy cut him off. "Enough! The council locked you both up for a reason. But down here, on the ground, there's no council. This is our second chance! Whatever happened on the Ark, stays on the Ark. Here, we're all supposedly free!"
Bellamy's speech had turned into a lecture for the crowd of delinquents who had gathered to watch our little brawl. They seemed to be lapping it up, and if I was being honest, so was I, in a weird way.
"Besides," Bellamy continued, a smirk spreading across his face, "if he hurts anyone, you can just wail on him again."
The big dude seemed to consider this, staring at me still sprawled on the ground. Maybe deciding I wasn't as much of a threat as he first thought, he nodded at Bellamy before stomping off.
"Here, let me help you up," Bellamy offered, extending a hand towards me. I took it, surprised by the unexpected kindness. As he pulled me to my feet, Bellamy leaned in, his voice dropping to a low growl. "But listen up," he said. "My sister's down here. Her name's Octavia. If you even think about hurting her, or even look at her wrong, then you won't need to worry about Shaw, I'll take you out myself."
He punctuated his point by revealing a shiny gun tucked in his waistband. The friendly act had vanished, replaced by a cold, hard glint in his eyes.
"You got that?" he pressed.
My earlier flicker of gratitude evaporated in an instant. This Bellamy was a dick, just like the rest of them.
"Yeah," I muttered through gritted teeth, "I got it."
Seemingly satisfied, Bellamy turned and walked away. The weight of his glare lingered long after he disappeared. My muscles tensed, fists clenching involuntarily. It was one thing to be treated with suspicion, another entirely to be threatened with a gun. Anger simmered inside me, but I shoved it down. Picking fights wouldn't exactly make me BFFs with these people, especially after I just got my butt kicked.
Charlotte shuffled over to me and brushed some dirt off my pants leg. "You okay?" she asked quietly.
I nodded, forcing a weak smile. "Yeah, I'm great."
Now that the fight was over, most of the crowd had scattered. But few stragglers lingered, though, their stares like a bunch of bugs crawling under my skin. I needed to get out of there, clear my head.
Without a word, I pushed off in a random direction, heading deeper into the trees. Charlotte hesitated for a beat, then trotted after me. Silence stretched between us, broken only by the leaves crunching under our feet and the chirping of birds I couldn't see.
After a few minutes of wandering without a plan, my brain finally started to settle down. The hostility from those delinquents didn't feel so personal anymore. I mean, I was a total nobody to them. They at least knew each other, from before or during their time in the Skybox. Me? I was just some random guy who showed up out of nowhere. It was no wonder they were suspicious.
Then a memory flickered on, sparked by Bellamy's threat. A sister. "Bellamy mentioned… a sister," I mumbled, confused, a weird feeling welling up at the word.
"Yeah Octavia, she's Bellamy's little sister." Charlotte supplied.
Sh didn't seem to know all that much about it, but at least it was more than I did. Apparently, Bellamy's mom broke the rules by having a second kid, a girl named Octavia, which went against their whole population control policy. So, they hid Octavia, keeping her under the floorboards for years. Smart, but also pretty grim. When they finally got caught, Bellamy's mom got floated. Octavia, on the other hand, got locked up and sent down here with the rest of us.
The story hit a little too close to home for comfort. I shouldn't have let it get to me, but it did. This Octavia girl, forced to hide and then got locked up for just existing. Part of me, the tiny curious part I tried to keep locked away, wondered what she was like. Was she anything like her jackass of a brother? Probably, a cynical voice in my head chimed in. Even if Bellamy's not-so-veiled threat hadn't scared me off, her life wasn't exactly my business. But I still wondered, how did it feel, growing up with a sibling? Being a real older brother?
Pushing those thoughts aside, I focused on the immediate problem – burying the dead. We hadn't wandered too far from the dropship when a clearing caught my eye. A small patch of dirt with no trees – a decent spot for them to rest in peace.
"This looks alright," I said, pointing towards the clearing.
Charlotte nodded. "Yeah, that could work. I remember seeing some shovels and stuff back on the ship. We should probably head back and get those."
Relief washed over me. At least I wouldn't have to dig a grave with my bare hands. "Alright, then."
"Dibs on the pointy one," Charlotte suddenly declared, as soon as we reached the dropship. I stared at her surprised, before she explained. "It's lighter."
"Fine," I conceded. "Pointy baby shovel for you, and I get the strong one for the actual digging."
Charlotte stuck her tongue out at me before clambering into the dropship back into the metal coffin. I followed a beat behind, a shiver running down my spine at the familiar cold. It took a moment to adjust to the dim light, but I finally spotted the tools Charlotte mentioned, laying in a corner against the wall.
"Got it!" she exclaimed grabbing a shovel with more enthusiasm than it probably deserved. Despite being the lighter one – in her own words – the thing looked heavier than she was, and I couldn't help but smile a little at the determined set of her jaw as she wrestled it out.
"Here, let me help you with that," I offered, taking the shovel from her grasp. It had some heft to it, more than I expected, but I could still manage without too much trouble.
"Thanks," Charlotte said, before handing me the other shovel as well with a bit more effort.
The walk back to the clearing was a slog. The damn shovels felt heavier with every step, and I had to stop a couple of times to catch my breath. Charlotte offered to take one, but I just grunted and pushed on. Pride is a pain sometimes.
By the time we reached the peaceful clearing, relief washed over me like a wave. "Alright, let's do this," I said, dropping the shovels with a clang and rolling up my sleeves. "How deep do you think we should go?"
Charlotte, who looked like she was wrestling with the small shovel, stopped to think for a second. "Um, maybe like, an arm-length?" she offered, stretching her arms out in front of her to measure in a mock measurement.
I almost snorted. An arm-length seemed like a shallow grave for, well, anyone. But then again, burying people wasn't exactly on my resume. Back on the Ark, they just shot you out an airlock. "Maybe a little more than that," I suggested carefully. "Don't want any animals digging them up, you know?"
Charlotte's cheeks flushed a faint pink. "Oh, right. Duh," she mumbled, scratching the back of her head with the free hand that wasn't gripping the shovel like a lifeline. "How deep do you think?"
I considered it for a moment. "Hmm, I'm not sure. Maybe four feet or so?"
Charlotte's eyes widened again. "Four feet? That seems like a lot."
"Maybe a little," I admitted with a grin. "But better safe than sorry, right? Wouldn't want to be lazy and have to do this twice."
Charlotte's worried expression softened into a hesitant smile. "True. Okay, four feet it is. But you're digging first."
"Fine, fine," I said, taking a few steps back and surveying the clearing. "How about we dig two graves, side-by-side, right there?" I pointed to a spot near the center of the clearing.
"Sounds good," Charlotte agreed.
Charlotte agreed. We spent the next hour in a comfortable silence, the rhythmic scrape of the shovels against the dirt a weird but calming sound. Every few minutes, we'd stop to catch our breath and chat a little. Slowly but surely, the graves took shape, each scoop of dirt getting us closer to being done.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the clearing, we were finally finished. The graves were deep enough for the dead guys to rest in peace, looking dark and serious in the fading light.
"We did it," Charlotte said, wiping sweat off her forehead with her arm.
"Yeah. Now for the part of carrying the bodies over here," I replied, my voice raspy from all the work.
"I'm so tired." She whined, flopping down dramatically against a nearby tree.
"We'll probably need some of the others to help carry them," I agreed, wiping the sweat stinging my eyes.
"Yeah, me too." I wiped the sweat stinging my eyes. "We'll probably need some help from the others."
Exhausted and covered in a layer of dirt that felt like a second skin, we trudged back towards the dropship. The once-empty clearing was now a beehive of activity. Tents, cobbled together from scraps of fabric and leftover dropship parts, had sprouted everywhere. Groups of delinquents huddled around crackling fires, their faces lit up by the dancing flames.
There he was – the jerk who turned my face into a punching bag earlier. Charlotte called him Shaw. He was hunched over a small fire, poking at it with a stick like a bored camper. Taking a deep breath, I psyched myself up and walked towards him.
"Hey, Shaw," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. He looked up, surprise flickering across his face before morphing back into a scowl.
"What do you want?" he grunted, not even trying to hide his hostility.
Swallowing hard, I forced a fake smile. "We need some help getting the bodies out of the ship. Don't exactly want them… rotting in there, you know? Me and Charlotte already dug the holes, but... well, you get it."
His scowl deepened. "Not my problem," he spat, turning back to his fire.
Frustration bubbled up, but I shoved it down. "Look," I said, keeping my voice low and level, "if we don't move them soon, they'll start to stink, attract scavengers, maybe even spread diseases. Not exactly the best welcome present for everyone here, right?"
Shaw thought about it for a moment, his scowl even worse. Finally, he sighed, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "dumbasses." But to my surprise, he stood up.
"Fine," he grumbled. "But let's get this over with."
Relief washed over me. "Thanks, Shaw. We appreciate it."
"Just get the other one," he barked, jerking his chin towards Charlotte, who was leaning against the dropship, catching her breath.
We still needed one more person, and the delinquents milling around offered no real hope. Most seemed more interested in ignoring us, or worse, snickering at our situation.
Just when I was about to suggest we figure out something else, a voice piped up from behind us.
"I'll help."
We all turned around to see Wells approaching, a hesitant look on his face. I raised an eyebrow, surprised. This wasn't exactly what I expected.
"You sure?" I asked, unsure of his motives for volunteering.
He held up a hand in appeasement. "I was going to try and bury them myself," he explained. "But... well, nobody else seemed interested in lending me a hand."
Shaw scoffed. "Who'd want to help you? Your dad's a murderer." His words hung heavy in the air, darkening Wells' expression.
I ignored Shaw's comment. "Actually," I said, "we were just about to look for someone else. The more the merrier, right Charlotte?"
Charlotte, who had been watching our exchange with wide eyes, finally spoke up. "Yeah, right," she said, her voice trembling slightly, as she pointedly avoided meeting Wells' eyes.
Ignoring the tension, I turned to Shaw. "Alright, let's do this. You and I take one body, Wells and Charlotte can take the other."
We cobbled together a makeshift stretcher from branches and scraps of fabric, a grim parody of a funeral bier. Wells and I carefully lifted one of the bodies, the only sound the leaves rustling under our feet. Shaw, grumbling under his breath, followed behind with Charlotte and the other body.
The walk to the clearing was slow and somber. Charlotte, despite her earlier bravado, was struggling with the weight. I could see the strain on her face, the sweat beading on her forehead.
"Hey," I murmured, "We can take a break for a sec?"
She looked at me, surprise flickering in her eyes before she nodded gratefully. "Thanks," she whispered, her voice hoarse.
As we lowered the bodies into their respective graves, a heavy silence descended upon the group. The last rays of sunlight cast long, skeletal shadows across the clearing, adding to the somber mood. Charlotte sniffled quietly, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. Even Shaw seemed subdued, his usual bluster replaced by a thoughtful frown. Wells, for his part, remained emotionless, his face an unreadable mask.
Once the graves were filled, I grabbed a handful of dirt and tossed it onto the mound with a quiet mutter. "May we meet again." It was a small gesture, a meager attempt to offer some kind of peace. The others followed suit, the quiet clinking of dirt a mournful echo in the gathering darkness.
Finally, it was done. Exhausted and emotionally drained, we turned to head back towards the dropship camp for hopefully the last time tonight.