❝ 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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Home;
𝐀 dull sciatic ache has settled into Clove's leg, striking burning pain from the healing wound to every surrounding tendon and muscle.
The adrenaline has passed. She staggers blindly through the corridor with a limp, her knee giving out a second after her right foot bears the weight. And she jolts with every harsh tug of her bounded arms, staggers, then regains balance.
Wheezing coughs tense her chest as the aftermath of the cruelness of the guard's taser. She feels so weak. Everything is weak. And her head is whirling within itself, making her physically light-headed.
The screeching sound of drilling burst from muffled to clear, but as far as vision goes, she's left with the tiny holes between each fabric in the hood; close to nothing.
Her kneecaps scream upon forceful impact with the floor, and her vision is restored, eyes blinking heavily at greeting the bright light. Every strand of messy locks strays its own path, the ones assaulting her face shuddering with every fierce exhale.
And then her bewildered eyes find them.
Her people. All aligned by the wall, hands cuffed above their heads, despairing expressions watching her. Disappointed to find she hadn't gotten away, after all, in spite of what they initially thought.
She identifies those from the chamber. Those who didn't make it there in time. Bellamy is not here. Neither is Monty. Or Maya, or Jasper.
But there are so many others.
Abby. Kane. Miller's father. Adults among teenagers and children, all helplessly strung up against the walls.
Her jaw slackens, preparing for a scream that never comes. Realization strikes her like an iron fist to the face; their forces outside the mountain have also crumbled.
Her eyes widen in alarm. Because they have now landed upon a table in the middle. Perhaps, not a table in its right form. But a horizontally placed chair, with restricting belts materialized into every area where one's limbs would've been. An examination table.
And on the examination table, a gruesomely familiar head of brown hair.
Raven.
The drilling had stopped upon her arrival, but only for a short moment. Now, the ear-deafening drilling sound once again cuts through her, shrilling her to the core. And Raven's screams. Terrifyingly raw, guttural.
A man's legs flood her vision, and he raises a palm, indicating the drilling to stop. Then, he crouches down, using his thumb and pointer finger to move her chin from side to side. Examining her. A cold smile tugs his lips. His chuckle lacks humor.
"Not what I expected."
She stares at him. Because everything is weak. And her leg is shooting waves of pain with every little movement. And the cuts and bruises littering her skin, from times she can't even recall, are stinging and aching without mercy. And she's tired.
