Amery is not supposed to be on the dropship.
She isn't one of the hundred delinquents being sent down to a radiation-soaked planet. She's just a Zero-G mechanic making some last-minute adjustments to a project nobody will tell her anything about.
I...
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✧】iii. forest horse-lookin' things【✧
[ earth skills ]
THE SOUND OF heavy footsteps pulls Amery's attention to the entrance of the dropship, the sound almost reluctant against the chill of the metal floors. Wells tosses a black jacket in her direction and she catches it silently with one hand, raising a brow in question.
"You needed better clothes," he states by way of explanation, making himself at home on the floor. Amery slides down the wall next to him and tilts her head as he dumps a pair of cargo pants and an extra shirt in her lap. She places the lantern in her other hand down beside her, today's project being the rehabilitation of the dropship into something useful. "They're probably too big, but looks like you're surrounded by solutions." His eyes flicker across the mass of red seatbelts littering the floor, and Amery smirks.
"Where'd you get these?" she asks, holding the jacket to her chest and shooting Wells a look of gratitude.
Wells grimaces, and the realization shocks Amery as she lets the jacket slip to the floor. "Oh, god," she gulps, taking in the dirt smearing Wells' face and shoes. "These are..."
The clothes of the two dead space-walking kids. Thanks to Finn, a voice in the back of her mind says, but she shakes it off. No use dwelling on what she can't change.
Then again, that's never stopped her before.
"I know," Wells says softly, "but they're still resources. And you need better clothes." Amery smiles softly, realizing that she's gone right from her bed to the dropship to Earth completely unprepared. The pants are dirty and wrought with holes, but they're better than the flimsy pair she'd slipped on to go work on the communications systems only a few nights before.
She surveys Wells' solemn expression, noting the sweat and dirt coating his skin and the sorrow creasing his brows. When she looks at him, she doesn't see the face of Thelonius Jaha. She sees a boy bearing the weight of his father's reputation on his shoulders, desperately trying to prove himself in a camp of delinquents cursing his last name.
She recalls the way he'd stood up to Bellamy last night, the way he'd gathered rainwater in buckets without complaint, the way his shoulders had tensed when he approached the etched FIRST SON, FIRST TO DYE on the side of the dropship's gray paneling.
Amery might hate the Chancellor, but the Chancellor is not his son.
"Thank you," Amery says sincerely, trying to shake off the concept of wearing a dead man's clothes. Wells is right. There's no use in wasting resources. The boy nods, and Amery's gaze flickers to his bare wrist. "Wells–"
"Blake and Murphy," he mutters, leaning his head against the wall, and Amery snorts. Wells raises a brow in question and Amery grimaces at the memory of earlier that morning.
