Survivor ; 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘥

005. ꕥ Pulled Into War

"Good, good." I muttered, feeling reassurance that Ethan was alright and not harmed by the chaos of what had happened, but I couldn't help but feel dismayed that he had been witnessing a fight today.

"Are you okay?" Callan whispered, his eyes darting to his left where Bellamy and Clarke stood, both watching our interaction. The latter, however, turned her gaze down when Callan's blue eyes looked between the two people but on the other hand, Bellamy stood there, watching us — even if I wasn't looking at him, I could feel his drilling gaze.

I tried to nod reassuringly, but I knew Callan could tell it didn't hold the truth, and he definitely knew when I spoke in what wasn't at all a confident tone. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good."

If Callan wanted to push further on the matter, he couldn't as two more figures descended from the gaping hole in the rotunda ceiling. Mine and Callan's bodies turned so we were each facing the two people being repelled down by a cable, and I was slightly in front of him as we both observed the two.

A part inside me profoundly wished it would be my brother grappling down next, maybe with Emori by his side. If Clarke and Bellamy were here, it had to mean that John was alive too. The most challenging part of the past six years was being without someone who has been by my side essentially all my life, and as I had told John the day of Praimfaya, six years was the longest we had ever been separated. It was a long hard six years because I didn't have my twin by my side, and now, I couldn't wait to reunite with him.

But it seemed I would have to wait a little longer as the two people who had finally reached the ground and come into the light were undoubtedly not anyone I knew.

They looked older than anyone here and had at least five or six years on me. There was a man who had half of his head shaved, and the rest of his hair slicked to one side, sinister eyes scouring his surroundings. One was a woman with her light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, the stray pieces lining her face — I didn't miss the prominent scar on her neck. I wondered how it got there, and it had my hand wanting to reach up to the scar that lined my forehead instinctively. But I fought the urge, reaching back to grip Callan's forearm tightly before sliding to grasp his hand. He looked at my hand, concerned, but I kept my eyes on the two strangers who were both, mind you, heavily armed. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I caught Bellamy's eyes trailing down to my hand.

When the two unhooked the line that allowed them down safely, it quickly repelled upwards, disappearing as they peered around their surroundings warily. I suppose that to any outsider, the blood staining the floor and the chain link fence covered in weapons wrapping around the rotunda may seem outlandish and intimidating.

"Who are they?" Octavia quizzed, looking to her brother for an answer.

But it was the woman who spoke up. "We're here to rescue you."

"Why are you armed?" The Blake girl took a defensive step forward.

Bellamy followed her and spoke for the first time since I showed up. "O, O. It's okay. We have an understanding."

His voice, it sounded the same, yet so different. It sounded more mature than it did six years ago, more authoritative, but somehow it was exactly how it was when he had left. The same voice that promised me he'd never leave me again, the same voice that told me everything was going to be okay. The same voice that had said the words 'my family, my responsibility.' His words traveling from his lips to my ears were like razor blades; nonetheless, it was unvaried all the same.

"Before we get to that, where's my Mom?" Clarke asked, my eyes moving across to the blond. She, along with many, had changed over the six years. Her blond hair was now cut so it was shoulder length with a few light pink streaks running through it. That, along with the way Clarke seemed happier, healthier, more alive, were the vast changes I noticed first.