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(Trikru Territory)
The agreement hung in the air. Clarke had spoken the words, sealing the fate of her people in exchange for their lives. We are with you.
Hearing this, the tension in the small wooden cell broke. The three of them immediately thought they had shifted from captives to soldiers.
"Okay," Clarke said, her voice taking on the sharp, commanding tone she used during crises. She looked at Mike, expecting the next phase of the operation to begin immediately. "We need a map of the mountain's intake tunnels. Raven can bypass electronic locks if we get her close enough to a terminal. Finn and I can help with triage once we get the prisoners out. When do we leave?"
Raven was already patting down her pockets, checking for any tools she might have secreted away, her mind racing through engineering schematics. "I'll need my pack back. And if you have any copper wire-"
They stopped.
Mike hadn't moved. He was standing in the open doorway, leaning casually against the rough-hewn timber frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He wasn't reaching for a weapon. He wasn't issuing orders to his new 'warriors'. He was just watching them with an expression full of amusement.
"Where do you think you guys are going?" Mike asked, his voice calm.
The three froze. Finn looked confused. "To... to the mountain? You said we had a deal. We help you, you save our people."
"I said I would save your people," Mike corrected gently. "I didn't say anything about taking three noisy and untrained 'warriors' into a fortified military bunker."
Raven stepped forward. "Hey! I'm not useless. I can help. You need someone who knows tech-"
Mike pushed himself off the doorframe and took a single step toward her.
He towered over the girl. But instead of intimidation, he did something that completely short-circuited her anger.
He reached out and patted her head.
It wasn't a rough gesture, nor was it particularly gentle. He ruffled her hair slightly, a dismissive yet oddly affectionate action.
"You guys aren't needed to do anything," Mike said, a dry laugh rumbling in his chest. "You've had a long couple of days. You're tired, you're hungry, and frankly, you'd get in my way. Just chill here. Relax. Eat some food."
Raven stood there, blinking, then she blushed hard. The gesture, combined with the sheer casual power radiating off the man, left her completely flustered. She opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out.
"I will deal with it," Mike finished, his tone leaving zero room for argument.
He turned on his heel and walked out, signaling the guards to close the heavy wooden door.
"Wait!" Clarke yelled, rushing to the bars. "Mike!"
The door slammed shut, plunging them back into the semi-darkness.
Outside, the amusement vanished from Mike's face instantly. The friendly demeanor he had worn evaporated like mist in strong sunlight, replaced with cold focus. He walked through the Trikru camp, thinking about his next action.
He looked toward the peak of Mount Weather.
90-something kids, he thought, his mind tallying the numbers. Plus Roan. Plus the hundred Azgeda warriors.
His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword.
I hope the Mountain Men don't give me a reason to wipe their whole population, he mused, the thought cold and clinical. Because if need be... I will fucking do it.
(Mount Weather - The Dormitory - Two Days Later)
Consciousness returned to the 100 slowly, fighting through layers of chemical fog.
Octavia Blake gasped, her eyes snapping open. Her head felt like it had been split open with a rock. The last thing she remembered was the wall, the construction, and then... the sweet, metallic smell of the mist.
She tried to sit up, but her body refused to obey. A sharp, metallic clink echoed through the room.
She looked down. Her wrists were bound in heavy steel cuffs, chained to the frame of a metal bunk bed.
"Bellamy?" she croaked, her throat dry as sandpaper.
There was no answer. She looked around. She was in a massive room. It was terrifyingly clean. The walls were stark white, the lights humming with a fluorescent buzzing that drilled into her brain. Rows upon rows of bunks filled the space, and in them, her friends were waking up.
Monty was in the bunk next to her, groaning as he pulled against his own chains. Miller, Monroe, Harper — they were all here.
Panic set in instantly.
"Where are we?!" someone screamed.
"Let us go!"
"Help!"
The room erupted into chaos, a wave of terrified shouting and the rattling of chains. They pulled and kicked, but the restraints were bolted into the concrete floor.
Just then, the heavy steel doors at the far end of the dormitory hissed open.
Silence swept through the room like a wave.
A group of men marched in. They wore clean, black uniforms with high-tech weaponry slung across their chests.
Behind them walked a man. He wore a crisp, grey suit that looked like it belonged in a museum. His hair was slicked back, his face smooth and unbothered. He looked like a businessman walking into a boardroom, not a jailer entering a prison.
Cage Wallace surveyed the room, a small, polite smile fixed on his face.
"Good morning," Cage said. His voice was calm. "I apologize for the restraints. And for the headache. The gas can be... potent."
"Who are you?" Octavia yelled, straining against her cuffs. "Where is my brother?!"
Cage's eyes flicked to her, cool and disinterested. "I am Cage Wallace. You are in Mount Weather. And you are safe."
"Safe?" Monty sputtered. "We're in chains!"
"Necessary precautions," Cage said, clasping his hands behind his back.
"You are valuable. Extremely valuable."
He began to walk down the center aisle, inspecting them like livestock at an auction.
"You see," Cage began, his tone almost conversational, "we have a problem here in the mountain. We survived the bombs, yes. We preserved the art, the music, the culture of the human race. But we are prisoners. Our bodies... they cannot handle the radiation on the surface. We have no natural defenses. If we step outside, we burn. We die."
"For fifty years, we have looked for a cure," Cage continued. "We used the locals, the Grounders. We developed a dialysis treatment. We filter their blood through our systems. It helps us heal. It keeps us alive. But it is temporary. A stopgap."
He turned back to the room, his smile widening.
"But you... you are different. You were born in space. You grew up bathing in solar radiation. Your bodies have evolved to process it. Your blood is not just a treatment... it is a cure."
The screen mounted on the wall behind him suddenly flared to life.
The room gasped.
The video feed showed a sterile operating theater. In the center, strapped to a table, was a boy. It was Eric. He was awake. He was screaming, but the sound was muted on the video.
"What are you doing to him?!" Miller roared, pulling at his chains until his wrists bled.
Cage picked up a remote. "The blood is good," he explained, ignoring the outburst. "But the resistance... the genetic immunity... it lives in the marrow."
On the screen, a doctor in a blue surgical gown stepped forward. He held a large, industrial-looking drill. The bit whirred to life, spinning with a high-pitched whine that the video audio captured perfectly.
"NO!" Octavia screamed.
"Watch," Cage commanded.
The doctor positioned the drill over Eric's hip bone. Without hesitation, he bore down.
WHIRRRRRRRR-CRUNCH.
The sound of metal grinding through bone filled the dormitory. On screen, Eric arched his back, his mouth open in a silent, agonizing shriek. The drill sank deep, extracting the red, life-giving marrow from his pelvis.
The 100 watched in absolute horror. Some vomited. Others sobbed. Most just stared, paralyzed by the sheer, industrial cruelty of it.
"NO! STOP IT! STOP IT!" Monty yelled, tears streaming down his face.
"YOU'RE KILLING HIM!"
"YOU MONSTERS!!!"
"We are saving ourselves," Cage corrected, his voice devoid of empathy. "If we can harvest your bone marrow, we can finally be resistant to radiation. We can leave this mountain. We can reclaim the Earth."
He looked around the room, his gaze lingering on Octavia.
"It will take all of you," Cage said simply. "It is a fatal procedure, of course. Once the marrow is gone, you cannot survive. But take comfort... your sacrifice will be remembered. You are the keys to the future."
He signaled the guards. "Prepare the next batch. Start with the ones with the highest cell counts."
Cage turned and walked out, the screams of the 100 echoing behind him as the heavy doors sealed them in their tomb.
(The Harvest Chamber - Lower Levels)
Deep in the bowels of the mountain, far below the dormitory, the air smelled of bleach and chemical burns. This was the Harvest Chamber—the place where the blood of grounders was harvested.
Roan, the Prince of Azgeda, was hung upside down.
His ankles were shackled to a ceiling track, his muscular body stripped bare.
A technician, also known as The Washer, stood before him, holding a high-pressure hose. He wore a heavy rubber apron and a face shield.
"Ice Nation trash," the Washer sneered, spraying a jet of acidic decontamination solution directly onto Roan's chest.
Roan gritted his teeth, his muscles seizing as the chemicals ate into his raw skin. The pain was blinding, a white-hot fire that encompassed his entire torso. But Roan did not scream. He was Azgeda. He was the son of Nia. He would not give this soft, mountain rat the satisfaction.
The Washer cut the spray, chuckling. "Tough guy, huh? You Grounders are all the same. Dirty. Animals. You think you're strong? You're just meat."
Roan spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, the red glob landing near the Washer's pristine white boots. He lifted his head, despite the rush of blood to his brain, and grinned.
"Is that all you have?" Roan rasped, his voice rough but mocking. "My little sister hits harder than you, Mountain Man. The children in my clan play games more painful than this."
He laughed, a wet, hacking sound that echoed in the tiled room.
The Washer's face turned purple. His ego, fragile and inflated by the safety of the mountain, cracked. "You filthy savage," he hissed. "I'll show you real pain."
He dropped the hose and reached for a heavy, electric cattle prod hanging on the wall. He thumbed the switch, the tip crackling with blue voltage.
"Let's see you laugh when I burn your eyes," the Washer growled, stepping forward, raising the weapon to strike Roan's face.
SLICE.
There was no sound of footsteps. No warning. Just a wet, soft noise, like a knife cutting through a melon.
The Washer paused. He blinked, confused. He tried to swing the cattle prod, but his arm felt strangely light.
He looked down.
His right hand was lying on the wet tile floor. A fountain of bright red blood was erupting from the stump of his wrist.
The Washer opened his mouth to scream, his eyes bulging in shock.
But before he could, a gloved hand clamped over his mouth instantly, sealing the scream in his throat.
"Shhhhh," a voice whispered. It wasn't human. It was a terrifying electronic growl, right in his ear. "Quiet now. We don't want to alert your friends outside, do we?"
The Washer struggled, his heels slipping on the wet floor, but the grip on his face was ironclad. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't scream. He could only stare at his own severed hand.
Behind him, a figure materialized from the shadows — a towering nightmare in black and orange armor. Mike held the Washer effortlessly with one hand, his other hand empty, the blade already resheathed.
Roan, hanging upside down, watched with wide, stunned eyes. He saw the Ghost. The Blad-de-Trikru.
Mike leaned in close to the Washer's ear. "Goodnight, kid."
He didn't wait for a response. With a sharp, practiced jerk, Mike twisted his neck.
CRACK.
The sound of the neck snapping was loud in the quiet room. The Washer went limp instantly. Mike let him drop, the body splashing onto the chemical-soaked floor next to the severed hand.
Mike stepped over the corpse, looking up at the inverted Prince. He reached up and unsealed his mask. The faceplate hissed and retracted, revealing Mike's face.
Roan stared at him, blood rushing to his head, shock overriding his pain. "You..." he wheezed. "The Ghost."
Mike tilted his head, a dry, humorless laugh escaping his lips.
"Hello there, son," Mike said, pulling a knife to cut the ankle restraints. "Looks like you got yourself caught in a bad situation."
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