As Bellamy paced one of the Ark's main corridors, he couldn't help but feel that something was off. The usual mechanical hum that he'd learned to ignore was absent, and the air was still, no draft coming from the large vent system. He placed a hand on his gun – a comforting gesture, if anything – and tried to shake the feeling.

It was always a little eerie at midnight. The ship being made of metal caused echoes to travel a mile a minute, forming repetitive whispers that scared many of the younger children. He smiled at the thought of Octavia as a kid, scurrying to and from the washroom to her hiding place, terrified of the 'ghosts' that lived on the ship. It'd taken him years to explain that what she thought were ghosts were just noises made from sound vibrating off the walls.

Always trying to protect his little sister.

A sudden crash startled him. Bellamy yanked the gun from his holster and raised it, snapping the safety off and placing a finger on the trigger. The sound had come from a near-empty storage room to his left, filled with a few filtration parts and water circulation equipment. Anyone lurking in the shadows at night was definitely not supposed to be in there.

"Hey!" Bellamy hissed, stepping in front of the metal doors and flashing his card. The panel lit up with a green light and the doors opened, revealing a – surprisingly – empty room. He took a careful step inside and scanned his surroundings, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

The doors closed behind him with a loud whoosh.

Bellamy whirled around and froze with fear. He was face to face with the Chancellor. That is, what was left of the man's rotting corpse. His mouth was agape in an unsettling way, blue, cracked lips parting to reveal broken teeth and a swollen, bloody tongue. His skin had began to decompose, curling upwards as if someone has gone at his face will a potato peeler. It was dry and flaky but moist underneath, oozing with a muddy green pus that rolled down his cheeks. And his eyes. Christ, his eyes. The sockets had been cleaned out, leaving nothing but gaping, black holes. Bellamy could see the flesh sagging at the back, clinging to bits of bloody flesh and stringy, veiny matter that had once been attached to his eyeballs. Thick, gelatinous blood pooled in the bottom of the hollows, leaking in a way that made it look like he was weeping.

The Chancellor wrapped his bony fingers around Bellamy's wrist and dug his nails into the boy's skin, twisting so that he dropped his gun with a clang.

Bellamy tasted bile as the rotting stench of pus and decay filled his nostrils."You're dead." He choked, struggling. 'You're fucking dead! I killed you!'

The Chancellor's lips parted in a feral grin, and his yellow teeth glinted beneath the Ark's dim lighting. He raised his hand to reveal a large abdominal wound; right where Bellamy had shot him. "Are you sure about that?" He purred, voice low and guttural. "Are you sure about that, Bellamy Blake?"

Bellamy ripped free and stumbled backwards, gagging. The man's breath smelled like waste and feces, with a sickening sweet undertone. He tried to stand but his legs felt like lead; no matter how much he willed them, they wouldn't move. He pushed himself backwards and frantically fumbled for his gun, eventually feeling cold metal beneath his fingertips.

"Does your sister know what you did, Bellamy?" The Chancellor hissed, swaying towards Bellamy with his arms dangling limp at his sides. Clots dislodged themselves from his mangled skin and splattered against the floor, filled with little white, wriggling bits. Maggots. "Do you think she wants a KILLER watching over her? How can you protect her, when you can't even protect yourself?"

"I can protect her!" Bellamy shouted, anger joining horror and fear in an adrenaline fueled trio. His heart was beating like rapidfire. "That's all I care about – protecting her!"

The Chancellor cocked his neck to the side. "Are you sure about that?"

"Pretty sure."

Bellamy raised his gun and shot the man in the head.

And with that, Bellamy woke up.

He sat upright, momentarily confused. It took him a few seconds for the memories to come flooding back – the one hundred teens sent to Earth, the crash, the camp they set up. The grounders. His sister. Clarke. The Chancellor. Everything.

His clothes were drenched in sweat and his hair was plastered across his forehead. He waited for the relief to come as it usually did upon realizing that his nightmares weren't real, but his heart continued to beat erratically. It seemed to be speeding up, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. It felt like his lungs were constricting. He sprang to his feet and grabbed his shoes, pushing his way out from the tent and into the cool, night air. Stumbling awkwardly, he managed to deek out of the camp and into the forest unnoticed. He checked behind him as he ran, unsure of where he was going but knowing that he couldn't stay.

Bellamy ran until his lungs burned. He reached for a nearby tree and collapsed against it, feeling skin scrape the rough bark as his knees gave out and he sank to the ground, panting. The whole forest was layered with a damp carpet of moss that seeped into his pants, moist and muddy. His chest rose and fell as he struggled to catch his breath, a pressure building inside his ribs that threatened to break free. It felt like it would tear open his body and claw its way out into open air.

His throat felt ready to rip open. His muscles ached and his stomach cramped; he suddenly lurched to the side and vomited, dry heaves racking his body as nothing came out. He coughed and wiped his lips, feeling dizzy, then sank back to the cold, wet ground. He expected to feel a calm wash over him as it usually did after the adrenaline rush, but it only worsened. He felt like he was going to explode.

Or cry.

He pressed his gloved fist to his mouth, digging his fingers into his cheeks as pressure built behind his eyes. Get a hold of yourself. He hissed, angry and frantic. Stop it. Stop it! He grit his teeth together and clenched his hands so tightly his nails bit into skin. Nothing killed him more than the throbbing that pulsed through his entire body, telling him there was only one way to relieve the pain. He fought the pressure as best he could... but it was inevitable. He was going to break down.

He crouched behind the tree, face pressed to his knees and hand clamped firmly over his mouth, screaming silently as sobs began to rack his body. They were out of his control, rolling through him like waves. He punched at the ground in desperation. He was weak, pathetic. What kind of man broke down like this? He hated the emotions running through him and burning his veins like fire.

Anger at the council, for sending Octavia someplace so dangerous, for forcing her into hiding, for killing their mother. Anger at Clarke and Finn and Jasper and all the idiots hellbent on honor and righteousness and fighting Bellamy every step of the way. Anger at Charlotte, for choosing death above life. Anger at himself, for everything he'd done and everyone he'd failed. And shame. Shame lay on top of everything, like a layer of acid burning a hole straight through his chest.

"Bellamy?"

He froze at Clarke's voice, eyes widening. His heart rate accelerated. She couldn't have seen him sneak out of camp, no way in hell. And she definitely couldn't see him now, crouched in the shadows. If he stayed where he was and stayed silent, she'd walk past him and move along with whatever she was doing.

She called your name, idiot. His inner voice argued. She knows you're here.

He held his breath as she came closer. He'd rather have confronted death at that moment. There was no way she wouldn't notice his trembling, and it would destroy him. He couldn't let her see him cowering like a little baby.

A twig snapped a few feet away. Fuck.

Bellamy took a deep breath and stood.

Sure enough, there stood Clarke, only slightly visible beneath the dark canopy. She had a flashlight in hand and her chest rose and fell a little faster than normal, indicating that she'd been running. Her blonde curls were scattered wildly around her face and her eyes were wide with surprise. He met her gaze and she was confronted by a sharp glare, complete with set jaw and narrowed brows. "What do you want?"

"Bellamy, what are you doing out here?"

He frowned. "I could ask you the same question, princess," He said, glaring. His hands still shook and he wasn't sure he could handle her. She had a talent for asking the kind of questions that hit just the right nerve, and on any other day, he'd be right on par with her snippy remarks and sarcasm. But he was tired. "Isn't it a little late for you to be out of your comfy little bed?"

"Cut the crap, Bellamy," She shot back, taking a step towards him. Her arms were crossed against her chest in a defensive position. "I saw you leave camp and take off running."

"So what?" He asked. "I can go as I please, in case you forgot. We can ALL go as we please. There may be some new rules on the ground, but we're free to come and go."

Bellamy heard her sigh. "I'm not challenging your freedom, idiot." She ran a hand through her hair and sighed again, looking annoyed. "Is that all you ever think about? Whether I'm gonna knock you down from the throne you've made for yourself?" She took another step forward, and this time, he took a step back. "You may be fooling everyone else, you may even be fooling yourself. But you're not fooling me, Bellamy. I know you're scared. You're just as scared as all of us. You just won't admit it."

He felt anger fill his veins. "Why did you follow me, Clarke?" He growled. His voice shook but he couldn't tell if it was from rage or something else. "To lecture me? You place yourself in everyone's business and think you have the right to demand answers? What did you expect to find? A meeting? A rebellion? A sacrifice? Or do you just like following people at all hours of the night?"

"Bellamy," She interrupted, reaching for his shoulder. "I-"

"Don't touch me." He snapped, recoiling. His lips curled over his teeth and he lowered his voice to a hiss. "Why did you follow me, Clarke?"

She stilled and raised her head, eyes blazing. They were bright blue beneath the moonlight. "I was worried about you." She said simply. "But I guess I was wrong."

And with that, she turned and left.

The beads of sweat on his forehead were cold in the night air and he shivered, tensing into himself. He listened to his pounding heartbeat and waited until she was gone before sinking back to the ground, closing his eyes, and succumbing to the cold. The feeling of shock and shame were overwhelmed by fatigue, and he felt himself falling asleep.

Clarke pretended to walk off, but instead, she doubled back as quietly as possible. She didn't know why she was bothering to waste her energy on Bellamy, of all people. He didn't even want her help. It was damp and rainy and she'd been nice and cozy in her tent. There were few things in the world that would've made her leave such comfy, relaxing burrow of warmth. But she'd caught a glimpse of his face before he stepped beyond the fence, and it had contained such raw desperation that she'd felt her feet moving before her mind had decided to follow him.

She watched from her position in the brush and saw Bellamy kick the dirt in frustration, then sink to the ground, shaking with anger. No, not anger. He was... oh my god, he was trembling. He wasn't crying, but it looked like it was taking every bit of strength not to. And it was taking every bit of hers not to go and confront him once more. She knew how he'd take it. He'd get mad, he'd yell, he might even punch her. She didn't want to wake everyone up. She was probably wrong. He wasn't upset - he was just cold. Cold and pissed off. Because of her.

You're lying to yourself, her inner voice sheered. You know he's hiding something, something that's making him upset. You're just trying to deny that it's making you upset, too.

Clarke silenced it. She didn't feel sorry for Bellamy - he deserved every bit of pain he dished out. He was the reason Wells had been killed in the first place. He'd created Murphy and the rest of the Lost Boy troupe that everyone seemed to follow. He'd wanted control, and maybe losing the reigns a little was what was making him falter. Why should she care? He'd made her look like a fool and her efforts to keep them all alive even more difficult.

But deep down, she knew that she was lying to herself. She didn't know how she felt about him, but he was still a human being, and she had trouble watching any human in pain, no matter the reason.

Rubbing her forehead, she finally retreated back to camp, not bothering to turn the flashlight back on. She could walk the forest with both eyes closed; it felt like it'd been forever since they landed. She wondered how her mom was doing - if she was mourning over her daughter's death or if she'd moved on like every other council member who'd decided that throwing one hundred kids to their death was a reasonable decision.

It was thoughts of death and destruction that lulled her to sleep that night. They were becoming more familiar than anything else on earth.

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