We are going to die.

The thought burrows deep inside him, the way cold winter winds used to, catching in his bloodstream and dancing down his spine.

How many times has he had that thought before now? Thirty? Forty? A hundred? He shakes the chill of it off, ignoring how it takes a little more effort today.

That's understandable, considering the plan that Miles Shaw has just set before them, parts of it incomplete, full of holes like they are assembling pieces of a puzzle without the cover as a guide, and missing pieces to boot. Just once he would like to have the full picture from the start.

But this is not one of those times.

Bellamy's eyes find Shaw's. "And you've manually landed a ship before?" he asks. His words don't come out gently; he's too distracted by the image of fire raining from the sky. Scraps of what used to be a bedroom, a living room, a community, burning out in the atmosphere.

Their new pilot peruses the numbers before him, the reflection of a graph striking a red line through his eyes. After his joints had thawed enough for him to walk, Shaw had been led to the bridge, where the seven of them now stand, clustered around the control panels. The pilot had been very good at keeping his expression in check when the others were introduced to him. Bellamy had been worried that it would've upset whatever marginal peace they'd achieved between one another, because no matter how inscrutable of a man Miles Shaw was, he couldn't have been pleased to find out he was even more outnumbered than he originally thought.

But no. The man is still here. And he is still willing to bring them to the ground.

In one piece, hopefully.

Shaw casts him a cursory glance before returning his attention to the information before him. "No. But it's not like we can pick our favorite option here. There's really only one choice."

"One choice. Also an oxymoron."

Bellamy grits his teeth against the memory that hits him as unsuspecting as a riptide. There are parts of him that must not understand that Clarke is not dead, otherwise her words would not haunt him like they do.

"I mean, it's not the worst idea we've had," mutters Harper, her tone gentle, hopeful. All things kind.

They slam into the contrast of Murphy's dry humor. "Like that's ever been a high standard." He says it offhandedly, but Bellamy doesn't miss the glint of suspicion crouching in the corners of his eyes. It is there every time he looks at the pilot. The man makes him uneasy, and he's not the only one.

Bellamy doesn't have to look to know Echo's attention is fixed in the same place as well. She's too skilled to be obvious about it, but everything in her is tuned to each movement of Miles Shaw. Watching him even when she is not looking at him.

Even Emori's expression is less than enthused.

"Well, we're still alive," Monty points out with a small shrug. "Aren't we?"

A sound of derision scrapes against Murphy's throat as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Please. I can think of a place a bit more deserving for that credit to go than our exemplary planning skills."

A hush fills the room. Monty stares at Murphy for another moment before looking away, eyes pinning to the floor as if he is seeing straight through the metal grating to a burnt earth below.

That earlier chill sweeps into Bellamy again and he tightens his hands into fists, an involuntary response against yet another echo. Another memory. Another reminder that makes him feel like the walls are closing in on him because he is just that desperate to get out.

He tries to carve all traces of that from his voice as he says, "No one here needs to be reminded of why we're here. Or the cost of it." He exchanges a look between Murphy and Monty. "The point is we're here, and now we have a chance to get back, as small and unlikely as it is. As far as I'm concerned, the only other question left to ask is, 'what now'?" He turns to Shaw. Waiting.

A glimmer of something sparks in the pilot's eyes, but Bellamy can't place it before he blinks, and it is gone. "Guess we should put our plan to action, then," their pilot says around a smirk.

Bellamy shoves past the sudden lightness that has begun to expand in his chest, the closest thing he's come to sunlight in over five years, because it feels too much like hope.

And even though he is still breathing, he can't forget what happened last time, and he isn't about to hope prematurely.

*********

She's starting to forget.

It's been happening for a while. Details slipping through the cracks. Features smudging like charcoal. And it has gotten worse, or else the drawing beneath her fingertips would look like a memory and less like a stranger.

Clarke tears the page and crumbles it in her hands. She shoves it deep in the pocket of her jacket and retrieves the radio off her small bedside table. With one glance towards Madi's sleeping form, she heads outside.

Early evening still carries with it the aftertaste of winter, but Clarke doesn't notice it as she makes her way to the cliff-face their small village banks against. Once, when the ground was alive, the sight would have taken her breath away. Now the cliff overlooks a carbonized world in angry red. On good days, Clarke can almost pretend it's beautiful, in its own, broken way. But today is not one of those days.

With a sigh, she takes her usual spot on a small rock, fingers tight over the radio. She takes a moment to brace herself before turning it on.

The sound of static fills the valley, endless and undisturbed.

She presses the receiver to make it stop. "Day two-thousand-one-hundred-and-fifty." Those words linger in the air before her, cold and heavy and true. The right words are hard to find that she settles for any. "We've started this year's crops. The garden is already starting to sprout again." Exhaustion pulls at her, the deep kind that travels past the muscles and perches on the soul. She rests her forehead against the back of her hand. The ache inside of her is something else today, like it wants to crack her wide open.

"I'm sure anything other than Monty's algae would sound good to you by now." She tries to make her voice sound light, but it falls back like a stone, slamming into her, rocking her back to earth. "I wish I could tell you that I'm getting more and more patient, but I'm not." She lifts her shoulders, like anyone is there to see it. "I'm trying, but sometimes . . . it's hard. I want to believe that you are close. I know Raven's working on whatever problem you guys have run into." Because I know there was a problem. If there wasn't, they would be here.

She swallows, her gaze turning skyward. Already the stars have begun to come out, blooming across a darkening sky. "I'm trying not to think about the Ring's oxygen reserves and fuel and . . . it's just starting to make me wonder what's really going on up there." She takes her thumb off the receiver, like her next words are a confession and she'd rather the stars not overhear.

"And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't starting to think that you guys really aren't coming home."