❝ Hell isn't where you go when you die.
It's what you become when everything you love has been taken away. ❞
[ sequel to 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 ]
[ the 100 / season two ]
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A Good Explosion;
𝐂love and Bellamy half-jog down the corridors, side by side until they reach a construction-looking site. The girl passes through the door first, the weapon held calculatingly in her hold, ready to strike at any immediate threat.
She gawks up at the tall constructions and walls going several levels up. The repeater is now slung across her back, securely so, arms moving at her sides as she walks along the concrete. The blonde reaches the door in question first, bringing her stolen key card up to the reader.
Red light. She frowns.
"What's wrong?"
"Try yours," she gestures to the door, watching Bellamy as he proceeds to copy her actions.
The card reader follows up with a disapproving beep, accompanied by that red light. He narrows his eyes and holds the card against the box again. Beep. Red.
"Guys, come in."
Clove taps her earpiece, taking the task of responding as Bellamy concentrates on the door. "Yeah... A little busy here, Raven," she responds, eyes scanning their surroundings.
Bellamy nods at her to follow him.
"You missed check-in. Did you find the source of the acid fog yet?"
"Making our way there now," she settles. "It's taking a bit longer than we thought."
Upon reaching another door, she watches warily as Bellamy goes to swipe his card again.
"I don't know enough to crack it on this end. You gotta give me something."
Beep, red. Beep, red.
Clove grumbles under her breath. As Bellamy responds to Raven, she shifts past him, giving her card a try. Nothing. "Come on," she urges, features crumbling.
"The key cards aren't working," Bellamy informs Raven.
Their eyes lock for a short moment, sharing the growing uneasiness at the unpredictable hinder.
"That's not good."
"We need to find another way in. Call you back."
Clove turns the main switch on the walkie, killing off the communication with the Ark. But as they plan to retreat the way they'd come, the awfully familiar click-ingof guns being loaded seizes their attention.
"Stay right there!" Two guards have their pistols aimed at them. "Hands in the air!"
Clove shares a wide-eyed, yet reserved stare with the man at her side. No words are spoken, yet they know. Run.
Being chased brings out a primal instinct; that kind that brings out every ounce of a person, that empties the reserve tank of the reserve tank.
The hammering in both ears, the stinging in the muscles, the lack of oxygen to the lungs, the adrenaline.
