Bellamy is staring off where the vast display of stars linger, the full view obscured only by the steel walls and metal pipes of the room above. Unreachable. He couldn't have known when he lived on the Ark that being cast in a sea of endless space was as freeing as being buried in the earth.

He knows now.

He clenches his teeth, hard.

Even if they do somehow manage to get back to the ground, he has no idea of what he will find there. If the bunker will still be intact. If Clarke will still be waiting for them, radio in hand. He imagines her familiar form, standing a distance off as the ship settles on that small island of green. Waiting for them.

It is an image that's been as constant as it has been painful.

The comms have been down since they went dark, the silence once filled with her calls now lingering like lead in his chest. Once, Bellamy wondered if going without them would be easier. If it would make his own waiting a little more bearable. A little less sharp.

But the answer is no. Hearing something-anything-is better than this uninterrupted stream of quiet, where his questions do not stop and are left instead to orbit like this ship--endlessly--in his mind. If he has to wait for one more thing, he's sure the impatience will kill him long before this plan of theirs gets the chance to.

"You really think he's going to be comfortable opening his eyes to a bunch of strangers surrounding him?" Harper's soft voice breaks the cold quiet. She stares at the face beneath the ice, questions collecting in the line between her brows. Her eyes lift to Raven's. "If we want him to talk, to help, it might be best if we don't start with scaring him."

Murphy doesn't try to mask his disgust. "Scare him? We're waking him up to land the ship, not join our astronomy club. You're not going to get that by making him comfortable."

"Or maybe fear will just shut him down," Harper says, in a tone that surprises Bellamy. She is actually concerned about him, he realizes. The thought makes him grimace.

But then she stops, and sparks collect in her eyes. "Wait. What if Monty was right, and he doesn't know any of the prisoners personally?" she shrugs, as if the rest of the idea paints itself. "Maybe we can make him think we're on the same side before we resort to threatening his life."

Bellamy finds himself looking back to the frozen man, as if just by seeing his face, he can know what he needs to know about him. But all Bellamy can find there is a fragile plan with odds that favor the less--than-promising side of the scale. 

Still, it is something. And like everyone else, Bellamy is willing to risk it all for something.

Murphy's sigh echoes around the room. "So we lie to get him comfy, is that it?" he asks. His lips lift in a cynical smile. "And who says chivalry is dead?"

*********

She is staring up at the night sky as if she can physically see her message meet the exosphere. Even to her own ears, her words had sounded empty. Going through the motions. But some habits are hard to break, and talking to friends that have never answered her has proven to be one of the hardest.

Clarke shuts her eyes for a moment. It's not over yet, she reminds herself. She has to remind herself at least a dozen times before she feels a modicum of peace, the words like breath to a dying fire. Then she stands up, hand clenched around a radio that never seems to warm no matter how many years she's held it.

Perhaps tonight will be the last night she keeps it at the edge of her cot. Perhaps tomorrow will be the last morning she wakes to find it somehow back in her hand. Then Clarke will start keeping it on the floor.

It is the only habit she can bring herself to break today.

******* 

It is the first time in a very long time that Bellamy has felt vulnerable.

In fact, he almost missed the feeling for what it was, his hands empty, with no way of defending himself against an enemy. In this room it is just him, Harper, and Raven floating around the chilled room like planets. The others are stationed around the corner with electric rods, but the idea is of little comfort. It doesn't make Bellamy feel any less exposed. And it doesn't keep him from clenching his fingers around a weapon that isn't there.

"It's getting close," Raven murmurs.

"Maybe we should move back some," Harper suggests, glancing at Bellamy. "Having him wake up with all of us leaning over him is probably not the best way to start off."

With-still clenched hands, Bellamy withdraws, returning to his place against the wall. He closes his eyes for a minute, trying not to wonder what Octavia might be doing right now. Trying not to wonder what Clarke might be doing. He is definitely trying not to wonder what will happen if this fails, because that much, at least, he knows.

They will die. Octavia will die. And Clarke will never know.

It's the change in the hum that alerts them all.

First it sputters before it stops, replaced by a beeping sound. In the next moment, Bellamy is shoving off the wall and sliding up beside the frozen prisoner, who is not frozen anymore. So much for staying back. The others in the room draw closer, too, with Raven positioned once again by the screen, an anxious line cutting between her brows.

"He's waking up."

For the sake of credibility, Bellamy had found it in their best interest to leave the pilot unrestrained, if they really wanted him to buy the lies they were preparing to feed him. But at this moment, staring into a face he doesn't know, Bellamy wonders if that is really such a good idea after all. That old ache in his hands tells him it wasn't.

"Is Shaw his first name?" asks Harper.

"No."

It is rare for Harper to give sharp looks, and she gives Raven one now. "Well, then what is?"

Raven tosses her a curious look. "He's a pilot. He'd be addressed by his last name."

"Last names are formal," says Harper. "First names are . . . different. They actually mean something."

Bellamy isn't sure why, but the question stirs memories of Clarke, the version of her before the war, when the only blood that covered her hands was from the wounds she tried to fix. It's easy to spot a soldier; just look for a weapon. It is also easy to spot a doctor; just listen for empathy.

"Miles," says Raven on an exhale.

Miles Shaw's eyelids twitch, as if recognizing the sound of his name. A moment later those eyelids fly back, revealing dark eyes. He blinks rapidly, taking in the scene around him, alarm quickly replacing his disorientation. His attention settles on Raven. "Are you . . . ?"

His hands curl beneath him, as if ready to spring from the defrosted slab. Once more, Bellamy regrets having not restrained him.

"Miles Shaw," repeats Raven, smoothing the wrinkles from her tone. "US Navy pilot with a few tours to boot. Nice to officially meet you." She doesn't extend her hand. "How're you feeling?"

Shaw's eyes flicker back across the others. They rest the longest on Bellamy, and Bellamy can detect the scrutiny in his gaze, assessing him from head to foot. If he is as smart as Raven, this ploy will likely backfire.

"Confused," says Miles, choosing the word carefully. "Where's Diyoza?"

There is a beat of hesitation. Bellamy watches Raven as she mentally extracts the woman's file from her memory, and spills out a litany of details that neither implicates them or identifies them personally. "Charmaine Diyoza is still in chryo. She wasn't authorized to be activated before you. I mean, you are the pilot, after all."

Shaw turns his studious eyes on her. "And you were? Activated, I mean. Why? What branch are you?"

Raven brushes off the thread of accusation tethering his questions together in bulk. "Hate to break it to you, but you're not the only pilot aboard," she says with a shrug. "Seems they need both of us to land this star bird."

Does he buy it? Bellamy analyzes his features as discreetly as he can. This man must be military, because his expression gives nothing away, all his alarm and confusion now patched up neatly behind a wall.

"You're a pilot?" he asks, dubious.

Raven smiles. "Born and raised for the sky."

Bellamy buries his grimace. If only this pilot knew the full extent of that truth.

The man tilts is head and raises his chin. A challenge. His dark eyes appraise her, searching for any discrepancy, any disparity that could give her away. "Then why haven't I met you before?"

Silence descends, as thick as a curtain of clouds promising a storm. The breath in Bellamy's lungs squeezes off. He glances at the end of the room, where around the corner waits the others, rods at the ready.

Raven turns her attention to the screen, as if his words are of little interest and she is only half-listening. "We were a little late to the show. Docked after you were already in chryo. Seems you and your crew of mutiny got a little carried away with some things." Her eyebrows arch knowingly.

Shaw is not fast enough to conceal the flash of surprise. "You know about that?"

"It's Eligius' job to know. But," she draws out a lengthy sigh, "there might still be a bit of hope for you. That is if you're willing to cooperate with us. Can't promise the same for the rest of your . . ." comrades? crew? Friends? Bellamy can supply the correct term no more than Raven can and after a moment, she stops trying to.

"I'm sure the Corporation had a lot to say about us," the pilot says, his words themselves harmless. But it is the way he says them that has the worry in Bellamy clenching its fists. He detects something is out of the ordinary, breaking the protocol of their plan.

"Oh, I'm sure it did," mumbles Raven, still feigning that half-interest. "I guess it's a good thing for the both of us that we're not technically with the Corporation anymore."

Shaw is not predictable, proven by the smile that crosses his lips. "I get it," he says, his voice unnervingly even. "This is a body snatching." He shakes his head, as if this is that punchline Bellamy has been waiting on since this morning. "You're trying to steal the ship."

Alarms sound in Bellamy's mind, painting his thoughts in red.

There is no reason to pretend anymore.

Miles Shaw knows.