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thirty nine . . . choices you make ( march 13, 2150 — arkadia )
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SHE CRINGED AS Luna vomited, again. It had been happening continuously since Abby returned to tell Cullen that Raven had denied them the anti radiation medicine, the Griffin woman conclusively deciding to withhold the devastating news from the remaining members of Floukru. Cullen had agreed with Abby's decision, seeing that telling them would only make their inevitable deaths more dauntingly painful.
"Are you ok?" Cullen asked Luna once that session of vomiting had ended.
"Yeah." Was all that Luna could say, moving the bucket to the floor and curling further underneath the heat insulating blanket Jackson had handed out. Cullen watched over her a minute longer before turning and walking away, heading towards where Abby sat at the front of the room, her head in her hands.
Cullen quietly dragged away a chair from beside the nearest bed, placing it beside Abby's before sitting down and circling a hand around the woman's knee. "We're doing everything we can to help them, Abby. You can't beat yourself up for not being able to do more."
"I could be doing more." Abby replied, lifting her head from her hands. Her eyes, which were the exact same shade of blue as Clarke's, looked more tired and pained than ever, glancing back at Cullen through ultimate guilt. "I could have gotten them that medicine."
"Raven wouldn't have allowed it. She's head of rationing, there's nothing more you could have done." Cullen reasoned, a frown twitching onto her lips as Abby returned to her previously defeated state, resulting in Cullen removing her hand from her knee. These were the kind of helpless situations Cullen detested — the ones where there was a resolution, they just weren't able to deliver it.
The sound of approaching footsteps and pills rattling inside a bottle made Cullen turn, eyes settling on John Murphy. Him being in Arkadia had Cullen straightening up, eyebrows furrowing together as she noticed she had been too busy to realize Murphy hadn't come back with them after they left Polis. Yet, there he stood, a backpack hooked over his shoulder, a bottle of medicine in his hand.
