the songbird ; b.blake

twenty-three; trigger points

I skidded to a halt, heart slamming against my ribs. My pulse roared in my ears as I turned toward the sound. The trees parted ahead, a clearing dimly lit by fractured sunlight.

Bellamy was on his knees. He clutched at his chest like something inside him was ripping free. His curls hung in damp strands around his face, and his entire body shook like he was being exorcised.

I inched forward, crouching low in the brush, my stomach pressed to the ground. The terrain was uneven here— roots jutting from the soil, thorns catching on my jacket. I had to move slowly, carefully, or risk giving myself away.

He wasn't looking at me. He wasn't even aware I was there. His eyes were wild— fixed on something that wasn't real. His mouth moved again.

"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered.

And then Dax stepped out from behind the trees. Real. Solid. A rifle in his hands.

He paused at the edge of the clearing, his head tilted slightly as he took in the scene in front of him. Bellamy, crumpled on his knees, talking to ghosts. Pleading with air.

Dax's brow furrowed. "...You losing it?" he muttered to himself. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and moved forward, slow and deliberate.

Bellamy didn't notice. His breathing was rapid, shallow. His lips moved again, barely audible.

"Live. Breathe. Suffer."

And then Dax hit him. A brutal punch to the ribs.

Bellamy cried out, folding sideways with a hoarse, "Agh! Agh..." He hit the ground hard, dirt puffing up around him. But he didn't react like a man being ambushed— he didn't even look at Dax.

He was still in the hallucination. Still seeing Jaha.

Dax crouched and grabbed a fistful of Bellamy's jacket, hauling him upright, then slammed him back down. Another punch. Another grunt of pain.

I flinched, gripping the rifle so hard my knuckles ached. My pulse was a scream behind my eyes. My line of sight was still too narrow. I needed to get closer.

Bellamy gasped for air, his hands weakly pushing back at something that wasn't there. He looked dazed. Like he thought he was being punished by someone else. Like he deserved it.

He reached out toward the dirt again, trying to grab something— anything— but his fingers closed around nothing.

Dax stood over him, breath steady, eyes cold. He wiped his mouth like this was just another job. Just another target.

He reached down, slung the rifle off his shoulder.

"Nobody cares what you deserve, Blake," he said, loud now. "You were a problem. Now you're gonna get it."

That's when he leveled the rifle at Bellamy's head. And that's when the hallucination shattered.

Bellamy froze. His eyes locked on the barrel in front of him— really locked, like for the first time, he was seeing it.

The air around him cracked, the illusion ripping apart. He staggered back onto his knees, blinking like someone waking up mid-nightmare.

Confusion. Terror. Recognition. And Dax?

He didn't notice the shift. He just tightened his grip and began to squeeze the trigger.

The shot never came. Dax's rifle jammed, a dry snap of failure.

Bellamy blinked like he'd been sucker punched by the silence, then scrambled backward, fingers clawing through the dirt for anything he could use.

But Dax was faster. Cold-blooded. Efficient. He cursed under his breath, cleared the chamber, and had the gun reloaded in two seconds flat.