The reference included at the bottom was inspired by another fanfic I read. I thought it was too good an opportunity to not incorporate it.

***

The whole universe seems to hold its breath. It appears to Bellamy as though the light from outside the windows has gone dim, like the stars themselves wish to keep their distance. The only sounds are the echo of his own breathing. The pound of his heart. The clips of hushed voices shared between Emori and Murphy, Monty and Harper. They've clustered around the bridge, sitting with their backs to the metal wall, waiting.

Bellamy's hands strangle the blanket over his knees. He's so tired of waiting.

"How long?" he asks Raven quietly. She sits beside him, head rested back, eyes closed. He knows her well enough to tell that she isn't really asleep; the crease between her brows is still there.

Without opening her eyes, she says, "We'll check again in a few hours."

He thinks about the question he wants to ask, but doesn't know if he wants the answer to. But it's as though Raven reads his mind from behind closed lids, because she answers it.

"Clarke's feed . . . it will act as a warning from now on."

Bellamy grits his teeth. He wonders what she would think if she knew that her talk about travels in the Rover and what she's found to survive on today are now alarms of another enemy.

She wouldn't be happy, that much he's certain.

"Do you think Murphy was right?" Bellamy asks quietly, he almost isn't sure if he's really asked the question aloud. He looks at Raven. "If the bunker hasn't been opened . . . Do you really think someone else is down there with her?"

Raven opens her eyes and looks at him. He's adjusted to the dark enough to see her somewhat clearly, the light emanating from outside the windows still allowing them to make sense of one another. "We thought we were the last people in space, but we're not. Is it really fair to make the same assumption about the ground?"

Bellamy swallows and nods, relief flooding him. It's almost a happy thought, that Clarke's found someone. He replays in his head what broken words he'd manage to hear from her feed. She didn't sound hopeless. She sounded . . . normal. Wistful. Almost content.

"And the prison ship?" he asks. "We need to make a plan for that. We can't just sit back for another year."

Raven sighs, the sound filling up the space. "I don't know yet."

"Do you think trying to get in contact with them might be possible?"

His words are not hard to be heard by everyone, and Bellamy can sense the air go taut with tension.

"We didn't come this far to survive just to throw it away by trying to make friends with space criminals," Murphy says, an audible edge in his voice. "It's a prison ship, Bellamy. On what level does that sound like a good idea to you?"

"You think it's anymore unrealistic than thinking we can keep this up for another year?" Bellamy asks. "How is Monty going to keep the algae farm going if we have to go dark every few hours? How is Raven going to work on the radio if she has no live feed to work with?" he shakes his head. "For all we know, they've already seen us. These are precautionary measures at best. This isn't a solution."

"Then what's the plan?" Murphy asks, goading. "Fix the radio and give them a call? Bond over our experiences of unjust imprisonment?"

"And what if that is their story?" he asks. "We weren't sent to the ground; we were sentenced." Not that Bellamy is eager to risk their lives on such a hope. He knows it's a fleeting one.

"Correction number one," Murphy says, lifting a finger. "The rest of us were. Me, Monty, Harper, and Clarke. Correction number two," he lifts a second finger, "You were technically the only one who actually did what he was charged for."

"Murphy," Raven snaps.

"What?" he asks. "I don't mean to push old buttons, but it's true. The rest of us were delinquents on the Ark. You guys got your criminal badge only after you came to the ground."

Bellamy looks at his friend, sitting a few yards away, his arm wrapped around Emori. There is a fire in his eyes, a restlessness he feels in his own soul. "What's your point, Murphy?"

"My point is that I highly doubt our story is a popular phenomenon in space. We were thrown off the Ark because we were running out of air. But that prison ship was built for criminals, whose crimes not only put them in orbit, but also on ice. Doesn't exactly scream 'misunderstood juvenile convicts' to me."

Bellamy pulls in a deep breath, looking past Murphy to the window beyond. He sees nothing but darkness with pinpricks of light, black ink spilling down a canvas. "All right," he says. "Do we have any other ideas?"

"Take them by surprise," Murphy proffers.

"Weren't you just saying how we weren't prepared?" Monty pipes in for the first time. "Or are my wrenches and screwdrivers suddenly looking a lot more like weapons now?"

Murphy shrugs, raising a hand palm up in dismissal. "That was before I found us all sitting in the dark waiting to be ambushed. I don't want to be caught off-guard when they've thawed."

"Are you suggesting we attack the ship?" asks Echo.

"Why not?" he challenges. "An hour ago, Bellamy was about ready to launch the whole Ring back to the ground himself."

"Well for one, we don't even know its location," Echo points out, looking as tired as Bellamy feels.

"You'd have to power everything back up to fall on the ship's radar," Raven says.

"Is it possible we already have?" Bellamy asks, an unsettling feeling unfurling like marbles in his chest.

Raven runs a hand across the crown of her head. "Maybe. We can't know for sure."

"Until they appear one day at our door," finishes Murphy. "I'd rather not wait around for that." He makes a sound of annoyance. "We were unprepared when we first got to the ground because we didn't know what we were dealing with. But here . . . space . . ." he looks at each of them, gaze settling on Bellamy. "This is what most of us know."

"And they don't?" murmurs Harper. She's quiet; she always has been. But Harper Mcintyre is not timid. There's a bold streak in her that doesn't need to be loud to be heard.

"Not if they've been popsicles for most of it. If they're from Becca's time, they've been here for, what, hundreds of years? But they haven't been awake for them. They have no idea what's happened." He shrugs a shoulder, as though it is obvious. "We have the upper hand."

"We think we have the upper hand," says Raven. "We don't know what kind of supplies they have. If there are weapons-"

"Yeah, about that. Why would they put weapons on a prison ship with only prisoners?" he fires at her.

"All of that is a guess," Bellamy interjects, trying to smother the rising tension he feels growing on the air. "First we'd have to get on the ship, and if we did, we'd be going in blind."

"What if they have a way to get down to the ground sooner?" says Monty, "Including the nightblood equation. Becca must've implemented a deactivation time that was set for after the death wave." He leans forward. "What was the point of ever sending them into space if there was no intention of ever having them land? It doesn't make any sense."

He's right. It doesn't.

Bellamy leans his weight against the wall, too many thoughts running haphazardly through his mind. It's been years since he's been so on edge, his attention locking on every movement, every sound. Old habits of strategies run their course in his head, but it just feels like a child's game. He knows there is no smart plan. Has there ever been one?

He clenches and unclenches his hands, trying not to picture Clarke watching a ship that's not theirs land on the ground. He tries not to imagine what might follow.

"What should we do, Bellamy?" asks Monty, after a long moment of united silence.

Bellamy lifts his head to find them all looking at him. Expectant. Waiting. There is no chancellor on this ring; Bellamy is not the only leader here. But he's found himself in this position more than once, with people looking to him to tell them what to do. It reminds him of when he last found himself in this position, a lifetime ago, and with the same absence of a friend he feels now. He remembers what those choices cost him. The lives they cost others.

Four years haven't changed that. The rest of his life will never change that.

Bellamy runs over their limited options, trying to gauge the risk on the equally-limited information they have. He meets each of their gazes in turn. "Raven and Echo are right; making a plan of offense without having a clear idea of what it is we're even up against is a dumb idea. We'll keep this up for a few more days. Get as much information as we can. We'll each take watch. Raven, can you set up some sort of alarm system to warn us if anything comes within a certain radius?"

Raven raises a brow, as if insulted by the question. "Give me an hour."

He nods.

"So we're just going with the waiting plan." says Murphy. It's not a question.

Sudden tiredness hangs like weights from Bellamy's shoulders, but he won't rest. Not yet. He is wide awake with worries.

He doesn't know how he could've once believed that there was safety in space. As if the stars don't hold their own secrets. Disaster has followed them everywhere, from the nebulous above to the tortured ground below. This is no different.

A part of him wonders if it ever will be.

"We know one thing," he says, returning his focus to the problem at hand. "There's six of us. Everyone aboard that ship could be out of cryo sleep, and if they are, I'm not about to try and take them on. It's reasonable to assume that someone must be awake if they're only now emitting a frequency." Bellamy grimaces at the lack of promise his words seem to hold. "We'll take it one thing at a time."

Murphy wears his disapproval openly, like the disgruntled teenager he had once been. "Great," he muses, his sarcasm cloying the small space. "Maybe after everything is over we'll all head to the ground and sing Kumbaya together."

***

"It's day one-thousand-four-hundred-and-eighty-one, and-"

"Eighty," Madi amends from her spot on the floor.

Clarke casts her a look and smirks. Madi is working knots in thick chords of fur for a blanket, sitting cross-legged in their small home. The open windows carry in a cool breeze. Too soon it will be much colder. Already does the wind hold in it the promise of winter, maybe the first real winter since the death wave.

For some reason, the idea makes Clarke grow cold on the inside, too.

She tightens her hand over the radio. "Right. Day one-thousand-four-hundred-and-eighty. Thank you, Madi." Clarke doesn't have to look to know the young girl is smiling. "Nothing has changed in the last 24-hours. We're getting some things ready for the colder months ahead. Irradiated snow. Now that ought to be interesting." She tries to make it light, but there is a heaviness in her. It's been there for weeks. Perhaps even years. "I'd imagine you're all over Monty's algae by now. Can't say I blame you. And here I thought what we were living on was impressive."

She lifts her finger from the button and lets the silence fill up the room. There is only the hush of fur on wood behind the battle of Clarke's own thoughts. She won't speak the words out loud, but she is scared.

Scared, because five years have almost passed.

Scared, because she might soon see her friends again.

Scared, because perhaps she has come this far only to learn that they never made it to begin with.

"Less than a year to go."

Clarke pulls in a shaky breath, trying to keep her thoughts from turning down starless tunnels. They're alive, she tells herself.

She still has hope, because she is still breathing.