Rupture | Bellamy Blake ² [Discontinued]

❉| chapter sixteen

❝i hate war. not just for the death and awfulness, but what it does to us. these decisions.❞

-morrigan, a court of wings and ruin

♛

AS I'M LED TO lockup, many eyes are on me. Probably because my expression stays smug even as I'm being taken away by the very guards I'm supposed to be in charge of. Jail time doesn't matter to me. After all, the most they'll keep me in is half a day.

Newman, who's probably my least favorite coworker in all of Alpha Station, is the one to swipe his key card into the gate and swing it open. Another guard ushers me inside. Then, seconds later, the metal shuts with a clang and locks me in.

My eyes sweep around carefully. All of the people in here are Grounders— from various clans, I realize, judging by the differing tattoos on their faces or peeking out from their shirt collars. A few are sickly-looking, pale faces or papery skin. Coughs muddle the air. One man is cradling his arm in his other. I recognize some of them; they'd been in Medical just days ago. I'd assumed Abby had discharged them, but by the looks of it, that hadn't been the case.

Dread weighs my veins. I can only assume who'd been responsible for this.

"Fallon?" I turn to see Lincoln among the familiar faces. His face is wrinkled in confusion. I hadn't seen him since our training session outside of the walls, which seems like forever ago. "Hakom yu kamp raun hir?"

"I punched Jaha in the face," I answer simply, using English because I don't know the Trigedasleng translation. "It was worth it. What about you?"

"Pike ordered these people into lockup," he informs me with a curl to his lip. "He said they're a liability. But they're sick— they need medical attention, and this will only make them worse. They could die."

He doesn't have to explain further. I know that even though Lincoln has proved himself to be one of us, his heart will always stay with the innocent and he'll do his best to help anyone. He must have shown his discontent in a manner Pike didn't like. Judging by the slight scabs on his knuckles, it was by using violence. He's usually an advocate for peace. I can only imagine what must have transpired for him to resort to such a thing.

"Good thing you have me," I mutter, turning my back to the guards and shoving my hand into my jacket pocket. I rummage around and produce a handful of pills meant to cure an everyday ailment such as a cough, sneeze, or slight fever. There are also some bandages and gauze in another pocket. It's not anything groundbreaking, but it has to help someone.

I approach a younger Grounder who's maybe about sixteen. She has a scar across her right temple from an old wound that either cut deeply or didn't heal properly. Her black hair is pulled back in intricate braids that frame her square face like a crown. As I come closer, her dark brown eyes narrow to slits in distrust.