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OFF TO THE RACES
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"WE'VE GOT TWENTY-FIVE rifles with twenty rounds each, five or take. Roughly five-hundred rounds of ammo. While you three were gone, we made some improvements. Thanks to Raven, the gully is mined."
Raven gives a vague, irritated nod. "Partially mined. Thanks to Murphy."
Five of them are gathered around a small metal table on the first level of the dropship; Bellamy, Wells, Clarke, Finn, Raven. Oh. Wait ━━ and Lyra. That makes six.
Placed neatly across the table are bits of scrap metal that have been fashioned into pieces. It's a sort of war-board that Lyra set up, a map of the camp and the soon-to-be battlefield. Pipes from the dropship's insides are used to set up the almost hexagonal wall, small brassy connectors used to show display the Gunners. There's a small smattering of scraps in the west woods, where the gully is mined. But the east side of the table is painfully empty. It's their most vulnerable flank.
"Still. It's the main route in," says Bellamy, arms braided across his chest as he observes the pieces on the game-board. "If the Grounders use it, we'll know. She also built grenades."
Reaching into a tin, he flashes them a small, silvery cylinder.
Clarke bites the inside of her cheek. "It's not many."
"Again, thank you, Murphy," drawls Raven, slumped in the corner. There's a rusty red rag pressed to her chest.
"We'll make them count," Bellamy assures them. "If the Grounders make it through the front gate, guns and grenades should force them back."
"And then?" Clarke asks.
Raven answers. "Then we close the door and pray."
"And pray what? That the ship keeps them out? Because it won't."
"She's right," Lyra speaks up, already regretting her decision when everyone looks at her. She doesn't like this, feeling like people are depending on her. "The walls might be built to withstand heat of the atmosphere, but they've taken a lot of damage since we launched. Not to mention the hole on the third level... "
"Have I thanked Murphy yet?" Raven asks dryly.
"Then let's not let them get through the gate," says Bellamy determinedly.
He raises the walkie to his mouth, which means he's about to start using what Lyra's decided is his Leader Voice. Usually it's accompanied by one of his motivational speeches ━━ which, by the way, how does he even come up with those? Does he have them written down somewhere? Or is he just making them up as he goes along?
But, anyways.
"All foxholes, listen up," he announces. "Keep your eyes and ears open. Inflict casualties, as many as possible. You can hold them off long enough to make them turn back. That's the plan."
Inflict casualties, as many as possible. . . very different from the boy who almost killed Lincoln during the hurricane. . . but now is not exactly the time to be going through Bellamy's character arc.
"The east woods are still vulnerable," says Lyra, glaring a little at their makeshift camp model, as if that will fix it.
"OK, how do we fix that?" Bellamy asks her.
"We can't mine them and we can't send Gunners there... " Her fingers twist around the sleeves of her Nasa jacket frustratedly. Then, suddenly, her eyes light up.
Across the table, Wells groans.
Bellamy looks between them. "What? What is it?"
"That's her idea face," says the dark-skinned boy, face in his hands. "And she has the worst ideas."
"My ideas are great," says Lyra haughtily. "We haven't been killed, maimed, or horribly injured by a single one."
"Yet."
"Oh, ye of little faith." She turns away from him pointedly. "We could set up traps in the east to slow them down. Trip wires, snares, stuff like that."
Bellamy stares at her. "Booby traps. That's your master plan."
"Bingo!" Lyra exclaims gleefully. "They'll booby right into them!"
"That is a terrible idea."
"Go ahead, pretend your not blown away by my ingenious," she says in a sing-song voice, grabbing someone's discarded pack from the floor. "Meanwhile, I'm going to make sure we don't all, y'know, die tonight. You have fun sitting inside these walls, though."
He makes a face. "C'mon, you don't think I'm letting you go out there without a Gunner, do you? You're the one who gave me that whole Together speech."
"Bellamy, wait," says Clarke, reaching out and grabbing him by the sleeve before he can follow Lyra. "You can't leave camp."
"Like hell I can't - "
"These kids listen to you. They need you," the blonde tells him, lifting her shoulders. "We aren't going to win this war without you. We can't send her out there without a Gunner, you're right, but it can't be you."
His jaw hardens and, for a moment, Lyra thinks he might argue. Then, at last, "Miller, then - "
"Hang on," says Lyra. "Miller's our best shot."
"Monroe, then," he snaps at her and Clarke. With his hand clenched tightly around the walkie, he jams a finger into the button and remains unmoving, glaring at both girls, as he starts speaking into it. "Monroe, fall back from your position and report to the east foxhole immediately."
Lyra beams. "See you guys later... or not!"
Cackling, she runs out of the dropship.
͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ ✩ *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ ✩ *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙
AS THE LAST snarling scarlet tendrils of sun begin to dip beneath the heavens, Lyra's fingers scrabble against the rough bark of a sycamore. The pack on her shoulders was once heavy with rope and wire, but now it feels featherweight. She kicks her legs up agains the trunk for a foothold before reaching her arms for one of the branches. Swinging over it, she straddles the heavy branch, leaves rustling wildly. Her quick fingers begin knotting a loop in the thick rope.
Below her, Monroe is in a defensive stance, scanning the forest around them. "S'that the ninth snare?"
"Ninth and the last," answers Lyra in a hushed voice, not knowing who could be watching them in the dark. "We're out of tripwires, too."
"We better get back to camp."
"Copy that."
Pushing herself off of the branch, Lyra grabs the trunk of the tree again. In what starts off as a controlled descent, her foot snags in a hollow, and then she's plummeting to the ground. Rolling over again and again until she stops just at Monroe's feet, Lyra looks up and gives the girl a sheepish smile.
"At least you didn't break any branches this time," says Monroe at last.
"Hey," says Lyra, trying to fix her ponytail then groaning when the hair tie snaps. "That happened once - "
"Key word, it happened."
Brushing the dirt off of her and shaking the dull ringing in the back of her ears, Lyra stands up. She hasn't ever had much of a chance to talk to Monroe, just snatched off conversation here and there, and their journey through the woods tonight has been. . . interesting, to say the least. In a good way, of course.
Monroe is the type girl that doesn't waste time with frilly words. She gives no explanation, needs no introduction. She just does, existing with freedom intertwining into the battle scars along her pale skin. Girls like Zoe Monroe have grenades for hearts, are clever as the devil, with scorching fire in their veins. Girls like Monroe do what they please when they please, unafraid of the world around them, braving everything life throws at them without a second thought because they know they'll survive.
"Sure this'll work?" Monroe asks doubtfully.
"Would I be doing this if I thought it wouldn't?"
"It's nice that we finally get to talk," remarks Monroe as Lyra zips up her pack. "Of course, I've heard a lot about you from our fearless King."
"All terrible things, I'm sure."
Monroe snorts. "Funny. He never shuts up about - "
Then, abruptly, she falls silent.
"About what?" Lyra asks, straightening as she swings the pack around her shoulders. "C'mon, I like drama."
Completely pale, Monroe violently gestures for her to shut up.
Frowning, Lyra does. Falling back, she moves to stand beside Monroe, squinting in the same line of sight and into the trees. Then she almost goes into shock.
About three hundred yards away from them stand about two dozen Grounders. Barely visible in the dark shadows, a few torches scattering firelight that creeps upon their faces. Thick tattoos line their features, skull masks covering a few of them. In their arms are enormous spears, bows, and swords. They loom menacingly in the dark and one of them bares his teeth at them in a snarl.
"Fuck," Monroe whispers. "Why aren't they attacking?"
"Maybe we're so still they don't see us!"
"I don't think that's how that works... " Monroe drives her elbow into Lyra's ribs, starting to push her backwards. "We need to get out of here."
Monroe starts to back away, not turning her back on the Grounders, slowly and carefully.
But Lyra has other ideas.
"That's what I thought!" She shouts, thrusting both her arms forward in a mock-attack. "You and whose army?"
Behind her, a small noise of shock escapes Monroe.
A low horn bellows through the darkness.
Well. That can't be good.
War drums thunder through the trees and then, with a vicious war cry, the Grounders charge.
"I think... I think we need to get back to camp," says Lyra lamely.
"Yeah?" Monroe cries out, not wasting bullets on gunfire and instead throwing her entire body mass into Lyra, shoving her back towards the camp. "Copy that!"
Screaming in terror in response to their war cry, Lyra takes off. Converse slamming over and over into the earth with a dull thud. Heart beating perfectly in synch with the war drums roaring behind her, Lyra yelps again as she sprints through the trees. Dodging tree roots, narrowly making it over a boulder. Darkness blurs in her eyes and smears her powdery hands as Monroe sprints right beside her. An arrow embeds itself into the tree trunk right in front of her face with a sickening shink! and Lyra screams louder, like a headless chicken, almost stumbling. Monroe's quick to grab her by the shoulders, forcing her down a new path.
Somewhere behind them, there's a terrified shout and the sound of a branch creaking. The first snare has worked.
"Watch out for the parachute!" Lyra calls out to Monroe as she splits off to the side.
Monroe nods jerkily, the two parting ways as they run on opposite sides of the trees. Between them is a semi-clearing where the grass is smothered by a tarp stained with smoke and fuel. Monroe goes to keep running when Lyra skids to a messy halt as they regroup at the edge of the tarp, then, upon seeing Lyra stop, falls back and tugs urgently at her shoulders.
"We need to run!"
"Wait!"
Armored silhouettes drive forwards with firelight at their backs and glittering in their eyes; the Grounders are still following them. From across the clearing, Lyra watches as the two dozen lunge through the trees, the gravelly earth trampled beneath their feet. A gigantic sword clings to the back of the one closest to her like a dragon claw.
Yet as they crash through the parachute, they're suddenly swept upwards into the tarp.
A number of shouts in a gawky language Lyra can't understand erupt from their cloth cage. They wriggle there, suspended in the air, but they can't escape. The thick ropes tied between two enormous oaks go rigid with tension and still the parachute does not give way.
Whooping, Lyra beams. "Yes! can't believe that actually worked!"
Beside her, Monroe pales. "You said you were sure!"
"Technically that was a question!"
Lyra's about to let out another whoop of joy when there's motion in her peripheral. About a hundred feet ahead id a smear of filthy darkness that sneaks forward. A Grounder. His sword flashes terrifyingly as it arcs through the firelight of the torch in his other hand.
"Not so brave now without all your toys, eh?" He leers, creeping towards her.
A gunshot cracks through the forest, knocking straight into his chest. A startled cry escapes his mouth and blood gurgles over his lips before he crashes to the ground and slumps over. His sword clatters from his hands.
Lyra turns jerkily to Monroe. The girl grips her rifle in completely still hands, knuckles smeared with grime.
"Nice shot."
"Nice traps," responds the Gunner, gesturing to the tarp swarming with desperate Grounders. "Hair tie?"
"Ooh, yes, please."
Grabbing one, Lyra makes quick work of her hair, sweeping it up into a high ponytail so tight that it actually makes her head throb. They begin to jog away from the carnage, hyper aware that another swarm of Grounders could ambush them at any time. Lyra rolls her shoulders as they trot through the labyrinth of colorless trees and echoey shadows, ripping a walkie free from her pack and getting ready to radio Bellamy and report what had happened. She clenches the walkie-talkie in her bloodless knuckles.
"Lyra!" Finn's panicked voice cuts through walkie-talkie static. "Can you fire up the rocket?"
Lyra's eyes widen. "Um, yeah, but - "
"Raven wanted to draw the Grounders in and then set off a ring of fire, but the bullet's in her spine and she's bleeding internally. I'm about to go for Lincoln's cave to get a coagulant to slow it - "
In a heartbeat, Lyra knows what she's going to do.
"I'm closer to Lincoln's cave then I am to the dropship. I'll go."
"But - "
His argument is feeble, listless, and Lyra ignores it. She knows Finn wants Raven to survive just as much as she does. Without giving him another moment to argue, she stuffs the walkie-talkie inside of her pocket so that anything he says is muffled. She turns to face Monroe, who stares back apprehensively.
"You should head back to camp," says Lyra. "I'll have a better chance of avoiding Grounders if I'm on my own."
Monroe nods uneasily. Then, "May we meet again."
"May we meet again."
And then Lyra is on her own.
Taking off in the direction opposite of the camp, Lyra lingers in the safety of the shadows as she runs. The walkie-talkie buzzes relentlessly in her jacket pocket and as she staggers down a particularly steep slope, distant gunshots begin to ring out. The war is beginning.
She grits her teeth. She has to hurry.
When she nears Lincoln's cave, she throws herself against the earth, sliding across the dirt and slipping into the tunnel. Anxiety churns in her belly as she hits the rock and staggers to her feet with a huff. She begins to pick at her nails, her leg bouncing up and down in an erratic rut. This crevice of rock beneath the earth is smaller than drunk-Lyra remembers it, darkness clogging every sandstone pore.
Raven is dying, she reminds herself. Save her.
But. . . what if the walls start closing in on her? A blink and she's back in solitary, confined in the metal cage as she waits to die -
Suddenly, she is thrown off balance. Before Lyra can blink, someone has grabbed her roughly by the shirt and slammed her against the gritty rock. Her spine seethes, bones groaning in disdain as a fist curls around her throat while the other drags a knife across her jawline, though it does not press hard enough to break her skin. Thrashing wildly, Lyra gasps for air as her assailant's deranged, abject gaze pierces her own frantic eyes.
The Grounder removes his skull-mask. "Lyra?"
"Lincoln!"
Lincoln's fist uncurls and Lyra drops to the ground like a stone, massaging her neck as she tries to recover.
"I told your people to leave," he snaps.
"Trust me, I do not want to be fighting this war. We had no other choice," she responds, rather hoarsely. She climbs unsteadily to her feet. "I'm really, really sorry for, like, breaking into your cave. . . house? Is this your house? Uh, whatever it is, it's a lovely home, and I'm sorry for intruding."
He stares at her.
Bellamy's shout breaks through the air. "Sterling, I'm out of ammo!"
Lincoln's narrowed eyes flash to the walkie-talkie as Lyra grabs it from her pocket. "What is that?"
"A walkie-talkie," she answers, rather proudly. "It's a radio that uses the transmission and reception of electromagnetic waves of radio frequency, carrying sound messages. It uses a frequency of 452.5625 megahertz, but the long-range communication is pretty shit."
She hands him the walkie-talkie.
He exhales sharply. "Octavia was right. You do talk a lot."
"Requesting backup, now!" Bellamy barks through the radio. "Sterling - Sterling, do you copy?"
"Yeah, we're kinda low on time," says Lyra nervously, well aware of the fact that Lincoln is a Grounder that can kill her at any time. "So could we hurry this up?"
"Why are you not there?" He demands.
"Raven was shot. We need medicine to slow the bleeding."
Lincoln takes a threatening step forwards, and his snarl startles her. "You came here to save one life?"
"Without Raven, we'd all have died, like, a hundred times by now," she says scoffingly and then pales when he fixes her with an infuriated glare. "Do you have the medicine?"
He shakes his head darkly. "I have it."
Stalking into the corner of the cave, there's a clattering noise as he snatches something from an alcove. He still seems profoundly irritated at the fact that Lyra had risked all this for Raven and he throws a bag of rough canvas so hard at her that she goes oof. Scrabbling to keep hold of it, she can hear the jostling of a number of tiny glass vials clacking against one another.
"Fall back, fall back!" Miller shouts in terror.
"I see them. I saw. . . " Bellamy's words are cut off by the static and Lyra feels her heart drop. Then it returns with a new authority; "No, stand your ground. If they take the gate, we're all dead!"
"I need to go," says Lyra anxiously. "Please."
His mouth draws into a thin line. "I'm coming with you. Let's go."
He starts to jostle around the cave, grabbing some sort of weapon from the wall. Startled for a moment, Lyra decides it's better not to question him and is about to give him a thumbs up and say The more the merrier! but then she trips over something on the sandy ground. It's a piece of paper clearly torn from the journal he'd given Octavia, and she picks it up, glancing at the charcoal sketch.
"Is this a Reaper?"
"Yeah," he says sharply, briefly pivoting to look at what she's referring to. "I thought you said you were low on time."
She starts to grin.
"That was before I had my idea," she begins while he looks at her like she's insane. "And before I tell you my plan, you should know that my plans are very, very good. I have the best plans."
And she launches into a detailed description of her plan.
When she finishes, he stares at her in disbelief, slowly shaking his head. "Lyra kom Skaikru, yu laik tokik."
Briefly forgetting the fact that they're in a literal war, Lyra's eyes widen. "You guys have your own language? Oh my god - you have to teach me how to speak it!"
"If this plan doesn't kill us, I give you my word."
Lyra goes, "Yes!"
Lincoln smiles grimly. "Fortunately, this plan of yours is probably going to kill us, Lyra kom Skaikru."
͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ ✩ *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ ✩ *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙
SO. . . Lincoln might've been right about the whole This plan is going to kill us thing.
Because, like, Lyra kinda thinks she might die.
Lungs on fire, Lyra hurtles through the forest as fast as her legs can carry her. Each breath is white hot. Insane, animalistic shrieks tear through her eardrums and are louder than even her own heartbeat as she runs for her life. A hoard of Reapers swarms behind her and Lincoln, an absolutely terrifying mass of mentally deranged psychopaths. They sound like they've had one too many sips of Monty's moonshine and yet somehow manage to tear after them with lethal bloodlust.
The dropship site explodes into view. It's horrific.
The ground is littered with the dead. Bloodcurdling screams and gunfire ricochets through the night air. A horrifically large number of the one-hundred are twisted against the ground. Breath snares in her throat. Her fingers start to pick at one another until blood is streaming down her thumb. She's torn half of the nail right off. Bodies litter the earth like fallen stars.
They're just kids. They're just kids.
Kids aren't supposed to be soldiers. Kids aren't supposed to be on the frontlines of the battlefield with rifles in their leading knuckles, eyes bleak and hard like bullets. Kids aren't supposed to know what death looks like, to hear a person take their last breaths, to watch the light drain from someone's eyes and then be forced to just get up and walk it off. Kids aren't meant to die when they've barely even had the chance to live.
They're just kids.
Something ensnares her foot. Lyra crashes to the ground and blood salts her mouth as she struggles to lift her head from the hard-packed dirt. Blinking in disconcertment, she struggles to regain her bearings and then she screams.
Right beside her stares the dead eyes of a girl named Lila. Horror flickers across her irises. Staining them forever. A sword has gutted her stomach, cleaving it straight into two. Lyra can see waxen flesh and the drenched red insides and she thinks she might scream again hysterically.
Lincoln's arms are wrapping around her shivering frame, hauling her to her feet. "Get up!"
"I - I can't - " Lyra half-sobs. Her mouth tastes like rot and decay. "I can't - !"
The Reapers roar behind them. Fear raw and black as thunder crawls across Lincoln's face and then his war-damaged hand, the one still scarred from the spoke Bellamy had stabbed into his palm when he was tortured, is curling around her shoulders. He hoists her into his arms and starts to run.
"Ge smak daun, gyon op nodotaim!"
There's a deafening boom! that rips through the sound-barrier. As a sob claws it's way into her throat, Lyra winces in Lincoln's arms and her hands instinctively fly to her ears as her eyes screw shut - this is it, this is it, this is it - but no attack comes and Lincoln's chest heaves against her body as he continues to sprint. Slowly but surely, she lifts her eyes to the starless heavens.
Something blue bolts across the sky.
Her heart leaps chaotically in her chest. Random spurts of painful memories flash through her mind and she can't push through them. Memories of her moms old lullaby swirl through her head like stars.
"When you wish upon a star, Makes no difference who you are." She whispers, almost laughing in shock.
Anything your heart desires will come to you.
"That's not a shooting star!" Lincoln shouts, his breath ragged. "Is that not your Ark?"
Holy shit. He's right.
The entire Ark is hurtling towards the Earth in what looks like slow motion. As it bursts through the atmosphere, it shatters, as if a fork of white hot lightning as struck it. The jagged edges of the spacecraft burst into flames. Blinding reds and oranges swirl against the inky black sky as it burns through the atmosphere.
The Grounder army finally sees them.
At once, they begin to vault backwards. There's a shout strangled with terror:
"REAPERS!"
Lincoln ducks behind the thick trunk of a tree, depositing Lyra to the ground. She staggers and nearly falls, only to be straightened by. . . Bellamy?
"Octavia!"
"Lincoln!"
Blade all but abandoned in his hands, Lincoln drops like a scorching stone at his side. His hands are on her at once, roaming her body for any injury.
"So. . . " Lyra's chest is heaving as she looks into Bellamy's incredulous, blood-splattered face. "This all pretty shit."
His brow contorts. "You two did this?"
"Yeah." Lyra struggles to catch her breath. "Lincoln saved my life."
The Grounders doesn't seem to be listening in on their conversation, instead he is focused on Octavia. Lyra turns to watch his fingers graze the jagged edges of an arrow impaling her thigh. His eyes blaze. Meanwhile, Lyra's jaw drops in horror.
"Fuck," she blurts. Octavia's skin is slick with sweat, streaked with blood and dirt, feverishly hot. "Fuck, Octavia, I told you not to die!"
"I'm not dead yet!" Octavia manages, but she winces with a yelp as her wounded leg jerks.
"It's deep," Bellamy informs them.
Someone darts past Lyra and her head jerks up. "Jones!"
He is covered in blood. An arrow is sticking out of his shoulder.
She shoves the bag into his hands quickly. "Get this medicine to Raven!"
Lincoln's head snaps up briefly as he surveys the battle going on all around them, half-enshrouded by the night. Octavia's blood stains his fingers. "I can help you, but you have to come with me now."
"Go," says Bellamy at once. There is no hesitation in his tone. "Let him help."
"No way," grunts Octavia furiously. "I have to see this through."
Swallowing with great difficulty, Bellamy can't seem to look her in the eyes. "You can't walk and we can't get you back to the dropship."
"Besides," says Lyra, poking Octavia near her wound. "Dead people can't see."
Octavia glares at her through the agony misting her eyes, her cheeks as insipid as candle wax. Desperation furls over her, even as the arrow impales deep into the flesh of her thigh, and her bloodless lips are cramped tightly.
"They're right," says Lincoln, regarding her gently. "This fight is over for you."
"O... O, listen to me." Bellamy curls his fingers softly around his little sisters face. "I told you my life ended the day you were born. The truth is... it didn't start until then. Go with him. I need you to live. Besides... I got this."
Her breathing frayed, Octavia manages a quivering smile. "I love you, big brother."
He ducks his eyes. "May we meet again."
"May we meet again." Octavia's lips are pallid as chalk as she manages to shift her inky sapphire eyes upon Lyra. "You're staying here?"
"Someone's gotta save our skins," she whispers and Octavia lets out a wheezy laugh. "You know what they say... when on the ground, do as the Grounders do."
Octavia holds out a quivering fist. "Grounder bitches for life."
Though despair clogs her throat, Lyra manages to bump Octavia's fist and sniffle. "Grounder bitches for life."
As her head begins to loll as if her neck is too fragile, Octavia staggers. Lincoln catches her at once, gently grabbing her by her midsection and swinging her into his arms like she is breakable as glass.
"Keep her safe," Bellamy whispers.
Lincoln nods once and then he and Octavia are gone.
War screaming all around them, Lyra feels Bellamy grasp her hand, feels his glacial fingers like a flash of freezing fire as they curl around her wrist. His shoulders are trembling. Trying to distract him from the dying girl that has become his little sister, Lyra holds his hand tightly in hers and tries to tease him.
"Aww, you love her."
"Of course I do," Bellamy says gruffly but his eyes glitter and she can see that it worked. "I'll always love her. My sister, my responsibility."
Though it's the first time Lyra's ever heard those words, they fall from his lips easily, as if he's said them one thousand times over. Maybe he has.
"NOW TO THE WALL!"
The Grounder's voice explodes through the air as the gates fall. Horror is sharp and keen as a steel blade as it impales her. Gnawing her down straight through her bones and razing her very soul. Their last line of defense ━━ gone. Just like that.
Somewhere near the gates, grenades explode viciously. Flashing blindingly. Tearing at the earth. The stench of charred flesh is grotesque as a handful of Grounders collapse. Mindless brutality.
Venomous tears sting at Lyra's eyes as the camp is smothered with smoke. Her and Bellamy manage to stumble through one of the foxholes and into the dirt as soot swells deep in her lungs. A Grounder slams his fist into her face and her entire world is thrown sideways as she staggers back. Before he can plunge his knife into her heart, Bellamy is at his throat, forcing him backwards. She doesn't possess the energy to scream.
Instead she stands there stupidly for a minute. Her whole body is molten with ruination. Bodies litter the ground. Death is not a new phenomenon for the star-girl, but this is insane.
"Lyra!" Wells' voice is a caterwaul above the havoc. "Get to the dropship!"
Nothing makes sense anymore. Disjointed screams bleed together as death swallows the Earth whole. She watches as a girl is cut down by a sword, her head taken clean off. Her death feels like collateral damage because the Grounder doesn't even pause to breathe. Only kicks her body aside and marches through the opal smoke as he makes for the dropship.
They're just kids. They're just kids.
Bellamy is fighting a losing battle. The Grounders thrusts his knee into his chest twice and Bellamy stumbles backwards. His face, cut from bronze as if he is a dying god, is marred with sweat, blood, and dirt. When his head lolls back and he catches sight of Lyra, his jaw clenches with such ire that she's nearly afraid of him.
A broken sound of pain rips thunders through his bloody lips. "GO!" He screams at her.
Her voice breaks. "I CAN'T!"
Fear, raw and bleak crawls across her face like thunder as the Grounder slams Bellamy's head into the ground again and again. Without thinking it through, Lyra thrusts her leg out, slamming her foot into his chest. The Grounders lets out an animalistic cry as he hails her into the air by her ankle, and then slams her straight into the ground.
Out of breath and shaking quite a bit, Lyra hardly manages to lift her head up from the ground.
Dirt crumbles into her mouth, mixing with the salty heat of dull crimson. Pain courses through her body, pumping through her veins, slamming against her in synch with her heartbeat. Her trembling white fingers somehow managed to press themselves against her nose. It feels lumpy and misshapen. When they crawl down her face and lift in front of her eyes, she sees that they're plagued with hideous scarlet.
The Grounders stalks direfully across the earth towards her, unconcerned and still imposing all at once, rippling with strength and cold bloodlust. He is monstrous, there is no mistaking that, even in Lyra's. . . otherwise occupied state. Dead eyed and deranged, he hauls upward yet again with ceaseless strength. Her heart leaps chaotically as she writhes in his grasp, twisting her elbow backwards, trying to use her own weight to drive him backwards. It's in vain. He manages to thwart her every attack with frightening negligence. His calloused hand wraps around her mouth to muffle her screams as he arcs his sword through the air and then ━━
And then Lyra bites him. Sinking her teeth into his scarred flesh and this time, the dirty fighting method had not been anticipated. With a fierce cry, he lurches backwards. Then, before she can even blink, he grabs her roughly by the collar of her Nasa jacket and hurls her off of him ━━ straight into the metal of the dropship.
The pain in her side bursts into near-blinding agony and yet, these days, that sort of pain is all too familiar.
Stars dip beneath her.
A heartbeat. Then another.
"Lyra!" A voice deeper than galaxies calls her.
She opens her eyes. When had she closed them? She doesn't remember. They flutter shut again and all the fire and the chaos and the noise start to fade.
And then. . . And then. . .
"LYRA!" Bellamy's shout explodes like one-thousand dying stars. "TAKE MY HAND!"
And the star-girl hurtles through time and space.
Lavender skies devour her. Dimensions swirling all around her. Universes colliding into one another. Galaxies weeping. Supernovas surging to life and burning hotter than ten thousand suns, molten against obsidian darkness. Explosive with energy. And then all too soon they collapse in on themselves. Withering, fading, dying. The blood of stars trickles into her veins and seeps luminary into her bones.
This universe is only one of an infinite number, worlds without end soaring past her like thunder. Some benevolent and life giving, others filled with malice and hunger. Dark places where powers older than time lie ravenously, waiting. The shadows have eyes. They glare from nothingness hungrily.
At the root of existence, mind and matter meet.
A vortex of violet stars blur into a standstill. She is hung in the vastness of the cosmos and when she blinks, her mom surges into view.
"LYRA - TAKE MY HAND!"
And this time, Lyra reaches her.
Bellamy's hand collided against hers and his touch is electric. His features are creased, his teeth grit, breath shuddering through him. Harshly he drags her away from the dropship. His eyes are black as tar, void like the sky, sunless, obsidian fires blazing. He grabs her by the hand and reality crashes down all around her as Bellamy grounds her to the Earth.
Together they flash across the earth like twin supernovae bolting across an obsidian galaxy. Bellamy seizes her and together they hurtle towards one of the foxholes. In defiant refusal to die, Bellamy throws himself into the foxhole and pulls Lyra against him. There's hardly any room for them to fit side-by-side and instead she's practically thrust into his lap, huddling herself into his chest.
And behind them, the camp explodes into flames, the sky raw demolition as fire writhes. The world becomes a raging furnace half starved for ruination. A dying inferno annihilating the darkness as devils cackle with mirth somewhere deep beneath the rot. Every bone in her body is aflame.
And when the hellfire shrivels away into bitter grey ash, she isn't sure what will be left.
͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ ✩ *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ ✩ *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙
one more chapter and then we're onto the next act!
this chapter was hard as fuck to write and i hate writing action, but this isnt complete shit? probably? hopefully? it's not a hot pile of garbage anyway, so yay 😛
originally i had lyra killing someone here, but actually she will commit her first actual murder during vol. ii of this book - so get ready for science baby to become a murder baby! itll definitely fuck her up 🤪🤪🤪
(I am gonna credit her w/ the destruction of the village and the one girl that died at the bridge, tho. I don't believe there's a given number of ppl that died in the village, so imma say it was 53 because I can. Add in that Grounder girl and so far Lyra's kill count is 54 - it doesn't really affect her tho because she doesn't really understand since she wasn't present when anyone died. She also s doesn't know the extent of what she's done.)
I wanna keep a list of her kill count throughout the book because I liked seeing Clarke and Bellamy's at the end of the show (I believe it was like 905 and 1015 respectively? Or something close, anyway) so -
Lyra's Kill Count: 54
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