The 100 imagines and preferences

Bellamy Blake Imagine

"This one next."

Those simple words were the ones that selected your fate. Your mental restraints were unlocked, but the grip of the burly doctor was infinitely tighter. No, not doctor, an agent of torture. You thrashed against him and the assistant, screams ripping from your lungs, but it was no use. Within seconds you were strapped onto the table, the leather straps digging into your skin.

The room was a mix of putrid smells; blood, sweat and searing electricity, all mixed with the shouting that bounced off the rough interior walls of the mountain. This was to be your death and these faces, cold and cruel with greed worked into the lines of their mouths, were to be the last ones you saw.

Your senses were overwhelmed with the pain. The drill boring into your hip, blinding you with red hot vision, its cruel vibrations the only sound that carried through you and the smell of your owm blood the only one left.

Death could not come soon enough, but it wasn't your death that came. At the same time a sharp crack bounced off the cave walls, the drill bit fell from your skin, and the body holding it slumped to the ground with a hard thud.

A dulled pain washed over you and your head lolled to the side, the edges of your vision black but otherwise restored. Bellamy stood in the entryway, his fingers firmly wrapped around his gun. Three more sharp cracks and the gun clattered to the ground. His shaking hands cupped your cheeks, his thumb gently stroking your face.

"Stay with me." He pleaded, but you had faded into unconsciousness by the time he voiced the last syllable.