✧】vi. jasper doesn't have game【✧

[ murphy's law ]

AMERY AND MONTY fall into a comfortable rhythm attempting to keep the wristbands alive long enough to contact the Ark. He seems to anticipate her needs even before she voices them, placing a screwdriver or wristband in her outstretched hand before she can even find the parts she needs herself. Amery does her best to return to the favor, keeping close watch on Monty's ever-moving gaze and nudging the pile of metal scraps in his direction when he seems to need them. Each time, he rewards her with his trademark tight-lipped smile, and a small ball of warmth swirls in Amery's chest.

On the Ark, she'd only had Raven, Kyle, and Sinclair after Keaton's arrest. She kept her circle small and her routine consistent, spending every waking moment working to avoid the toxicity of her rapid-fire thoughts.

On the Ground, she's finally gotten Keaton back, but she also has more friends than she'd ever had in the sky. Cash. Monty. Harper. Zoe. Wells. Jasper. Maybe even Octavia, Amery thinks. It's a nice feeling, having all these people around her, even if it's taking some getting used to. She's known for a long time that family isn't defined by blood, but this newfound companionship only strengthens that belief.

They take breaks for their rations— nuts or berries or meat on skewers. Small, but enough. Amery can't help but realize that there's more food to go around as the kids are picked off. She shudders at the thought that so many have already died.

The kids on the Ground are a diverse crowd of talent, but the mechanically inclined seem to be limited to Amery, Monty, and Keaton. The latter bounces between work in the dropship and active duty on the walls as a Gunner alongside Cash and Kip.

"Hey," Amery says as Monty passes her another wristband. "What are we gonna do when we run out of these things?" Monty sighs, abandoning his screwdriver on the metal floor and leaning back on his palms.

"Get high," he says flatly, and Amery barks out a laugh.

"You have a weed farm down here that I don't know about?" Amery's never actually seen Monty under the influence of anything– at least, as far as she knows– but it wouldn't necessarily surprise her.

Monty grins as he tilts his head in her direction. "You wish."

Amery hums in acknowledgement as she spins a wristband between her fingers. It's dead, just like all the others.

"I don't know," Monty says with a sigh. "We really don't have many left. And we have to give the Ark some reason to believe we're still alive, so it's not like we can sacrifice all of them."

Amery groans, burying her head in her hands and letting her curtain of red hair hide her face. "This is hopeless," she announces, and Monty elbows her playfully, the fabric of his maroon jacket making a soft rustling sound as it brushes against her denim.

"This isn't hopeless," he counters. "What's hopeless is Jasper's infatuation with Octavia Blake." Amery grins at Monty, looking up through her hair.

"I don't know, Green," she says in a sing-song voice, tilting her head to the side. "Octavia seems to kind of be into the whole fallen hero thing."

"Jasper doesn't have game," Monty argues.

"And you do?" Amery asks, dodging Monty's elbow this time.

"Hey! Watch it, Red," he warns, but his tone is light.

"I think you're just jealous," Amery taunts, tossing the wristband at Monty. He catches it, shoulders shaking with laughter as strands of his dark hair fall into one of his eyes.

"I am most definitely not vying for Octavia's attention," Monty says as he throws the wristband back. "And I do have game, thank you very much."

"What kind of game? Chess?" Amery snorts. Monty makes an offended noise as he shoves Amery away.

As a flustered smile graces Monty's features, as laughter from the kids outside drifts through the vents, as an odd sort of community begins to form from the initial mess of anger and confusion and juvenile delinquents, Amery is starting to think that maybe– just maybe– life down here won't be so bad.

Naturally, the universe chooses this moment to prove her wildly wrong.

"Amery!" Cash's urgent voice rings through the dropship hatch, tearing the redhead's attention from the dead wristband in her hand.

"Cash?" she calls back hesitantly, voice bouncing off the walls in a questioning echo.

"Amery! Get down here!" Cash shouts, and her blood runs cold at the seriousness of his tone paired with the fact that he didn't call her Ginger Ale. Something is wrong.

She glances at Monty, who gives her an encouraging smile and nudges her shoulder, a silent go.

"I'll be back," she mutters before dropping the wristband in the growing pile and darting down the ladder. Cash grabs her hand without prelude and drags her out of the dropship, where the sound of wailing and commotion envelops her. The cries sound familiar, turning her insides to mush as her heart fills with dread. "Cash, what–"

He drags her through the gates as she stumbles after him, insisting he tell her what the hell is going on, and then runs right into his back as he abruptly stops a few feet outside the wall. His eyes are wild with a combination of rancid fear and shock, and she follows his gaze to where Keaton is shuddering on the ground.

He's on his knees sobbing, his shoulders shaking as he murmurs something that sounds like, "no, no, no."

It takes Amery a moment to register that he's kneeling over a body. Keaton shouts, a wordless, guttural cry, and pounds his fist into the dirt. She has never seen him lose control like this before.

"I– I didn't know what to do," Cash whispers, but Amery barely hears it as he releases her hand and she takes a cautious step in Keaton's direction. She sees dark hair, dark skin, an all-too-familiar jacket–

"No," she whispers, Keaton's anguished sobs fading into the background as she stumbles back, Cash catching her with a hand on the small of her back. "No," she says again, more forcefully, making herself approach the body and falling next to Keaton on the ground.

Her voice catches in her throat, tears wetting the dirt beneath her as she wonders why they had to hurt another person, why it had to be him, why nobody was there.

"Wells."

✧✧✧

It feels like ages that Amery and Keaton sit crying in each others' arms, blinking tears from their vision and hoping that the scene before them will change, that Wells won't be on the ground, eyes closed, not breathing. It feels like ages that Amery can't tell which tears are hers and which are Keaton's, can't taste anything but salt in her mouth, can't feel anything but anguish and shock and fear and anger and then numb.

It's Zoe who brings her back to reality with a hesitant hand on her shoulder, forcing Amery to blink hot tears out of her eyes as she gasps for breath.

"Amery," Zoe says quietly, and the mechanic looks up to find Zoe's tanned face peering down at her, dark brows knit together in concern, blurred by the tears still clouding Amery's vision. She sniffs and realizes Wells' body is gone. Someone must have taken him away, and she hadn't even noticed.

He's been taken from her again.

Cash rubs small circles on Keaton's back next to her, murmuring something in his ear as he cries and nods reluctantly.

"C'mon. Let's get back behind the gates, okay?" Zoe whispers, standing and offering Amery a hand. She takes it, rubbing her eyes as the world tilts unsteadily around her. How long have they been sitting there, crying over the loss of an innocent soul?

"Keaton," she murmurs as Zoe pushes her back toward camp, but Zoe doesn't relent.

"Cash's got him. Worry about you," Zoe urges, directing Amery back to the tent, its orange canvas flaps parting to reveal a worried Harper.

"Oh, Amery," she whispers, enveloping the girl in a tight hug as soon as she's within range. As soon as she sits down on the pile of dirty blankets, the floodgates open again and Amery just loses it.

Why Wells? Wells, who sacrificed his relationship with his best friend just so she wouldn't lose the love she had for her mother. Wells, who thought of Amery and her unfit clothing while working through his own grief. Wells, who dealt with Murphy and Bellamy and their fights and threats without ever losing his cool. Wells, who had wormed his way into Keaton's heart and hers. Wells, who was her friend.

Harper presses against Amery's left side, Zoe sitting cross-legged in front of her on the sleeping bag. The former wraps an arm around the shaking girl and whispers, "It's gonna be okay. I'm so sorry." All Amery can think is that no, it's not going to be okay, but she can't bring herself to speak.

Zoe suddenly stands and disappears through the tent flaps, but Amery barely notices. Her shoulders shake violently as her tears wet the fabric of her cargo pants, tiny, dark lakes on a landscape of beige fabric.

"H-he was... he didn't... why?" Amery manages through staggered breaths, looking at Harper desperately as if her sympathetic face will hold some sort of answer. Images of Wells flash behind her eyelids every time she blinks: his expression as he confronted Bellamy in front of the fire, drops running down his face as he collected rainwater in a metal bucket, the pain in his eyes as he looked at Clarke from across the camp. Amery presses the heels of her hands into her eyes desperately, willing the memories to stop.

"I don't know," Harper whispers truthfully, squeezing Amery's shoulder reassuringly. "I– I don't know. But we won't forget Wells, okay? We're going to honor him. We're going to make him proud. I promise."

"I just... he was so..." Amery doesn't know how to voice the feelings wrapping tight around her heart, squeezing like a python until she feels like she can't handle it anymore. She's never been good with vocalizing what's going on in her heart– just her head. But Wells isn't a broken machine, a faulty communications system that she can work on day after day until he comes back to life. Wells is dead. Wells is gone. That just doesn't compute.

Zoe returns moments later with a tin cup of water, reclaiming her spot on the ground and offering the vessel to Amery.

"Drink. We can't let you get dehydrated," she says softly, and Amery wraps her fingers around the cool metal gratefully. Harper is an empathetic, emotional comfort, a person to embrace her feelings and talk them through, while Zoe is a tactical and serious one, calculating what Amery needs and retrieving it without questioning. Amery understands this language, the one that follows paths of logic and not feeling. She understands Zoe, and she appreciates her.

"Thank you," Amery croaks, pressing the cup to her lips and letting the liquid trickle down her throat.

If only she could wash away the sorrow like the dry feeling in her throat.

The thin streak of sunlight across the ground widens as someone else pushes the tent flaps apart, stopping hesitantly as if asking for permission to enter. "Amery?"

"Monty?" Amery sniffs, her voice cracking as she wipes her eyes on the back of her hand. "What's– what are you...?"

"You, uh, never came back," Monty shrugs sheepishly, eyes darting from Amery to her tentmates and back in evident concern. "I heard what happened. Are you, uh... stupid question. Can I...?"

Harper stands and gestures to her previous spot next to Amery, earning a grateful smile from Monty. Zoe instead looks to Amery with a raised brow, asking for permission: do you want us to go?

Amery gives her a small nod and a weak smile. Zoe takes Harper's outstretched hand and allows the other girl to pull her up, and the pair disappears, leaving Amery alone with Monty.

"I know you were friends," he says after an awkward moment of silence, his eyes on the ground as he traces shapes in the dirt with his index finger. It takes Amery a moment to realize that he's created the image of a small flower. "I'm... I'm really sorry, Amery. I can't imagine. If Jasper hadn't made it through, I would've..." He trails off, finally looking at Amery. His deep brown eyes pool with worry, and her heart picks up just a little bit. He's so close, and she finds his presence comforting, familiar.

"I guess I'm saying that you're handling this a lot better than I would," Monty finishes, offering her a small, hesitant smile. "Do you, uh... do you want to talk about it?"

No, Amery immediately thinks, an autopilot response, but something in Monty's imploring gaze gives Amery the impression that he's more affected by this than he's letting on, that talking about it would help him, too. So she clears her throat, fighting the urge to drop her gaze to the ground.

"It doesn't feel real," she admits quietly. "We just talked. He was... he was fine. I don't understand." Monty doesn't say anything, letting the comfortable silence sit between them. "I'm... I'm mad, Monty. I'm angry. I don't know how... how anyone could do this to him," her voice cracks off into a whisper, more tears stinging at her eyes. "And Keaton..."

Monty pulls her into a hug without warning, whispering into her hair. "I know," he agrees quietly, letting his warmth transfer to her. "Wells deserved better."

After a hesitant second, Amery wraps her arms around the other boy and buries her face in his shoulders.

This is safe. Monty is safe.

She lets herself cry.

✧✧✧

Amery doesn't know when she fell asleep, but she wakes up to a blanket bunched under her head as a makeshift pillow, a sad replacement for Monty's reassuring presence.

A small twig is abandoned on the ground, sitting next to a message carved in the dirt.

in the dropship

hope you're okay

come get me if you need anything

The message is punctuated with a small, green leaf in lieu of a signature. Amery smiles, picking it up and twirling it between her fingers. She knows it's the same leaf she'd found her first day on the Ground. Monty didn't lose it.

For one happy, fleeting moment, she forgets what happened. Just for a second, she rubs her eyes and takes in her surroundings, wondering why her eyes are so puffy and red, why Monty's message says hope you're okay.

It hits her like a truck.

Wells.

The flower Monty had traced in the dirt has been smudged out, leaving a smear of dirt and a loop that looks like a backward C.

Another beautiful thing dead.

God, snap out of it, Amery reprimands herself. Nothing is going to get done if you just sit here and cry about it. Her fingers drum against the fabric of her pants, anxious to do something, to build something, to take her mind off this problem and focus on one she can actually fix.

She wonders where Keaton is, how he's doing.

The commotion outside doesn't allow her to dwell on it for long.

"You son of a bitch!" Clarke's voice is jaded and lined with barbs, aiming for blood. Amery shoots to her feet and pushes through the flaps of her tent to find the blonde glowering at a defensive Murphy, a crowd already gathering around them.

"What's your problem?" Murphy laughs, taking a step back. He looks down at a furious Clarke, seemingly amused. Clarke stands half a head shorter than him on the uneven ground, but the determination in her voice tells Amery she is not a person to be messed with right now.

"Recognize this?" the blonde seethes, holding up a knife of dropship metal as if it holds the answers to the universe. Amery's eyes flicker across the crowd, searching for a familiar face. Keaton. Monty. Cash. Anyone. Her gaze lands on Zoe, and she shuffles over to the girl as Murphy replies.

"It's my knife," he says dryly, unimpressed. "Where'd you find it?" He reaches out to take it from Clarke's hand, but she pulls it back with a harsh glare.

"Where you dropped it after you killed Wells," she spits.

Amery stops in her track, her heart stuttering. She stumbles into Zoe, muttering an absent "sorry" as the information races around her mind like an electric charge. Clarke's accusation seems to bounce around in the hollow recesses of Amery's eardrums, growing in volume and becoming distorted as red floods her vision.

After you killed Wells.

You killed Wells.

Murphy killed Wells.

It makes sense. FIRST SON, FIRST TO DYE. The words had been carved into the side of the dropship in jagged strokes, the misspelled word taking the punch out of the threat. That paired with the nonsensical claim of "first son" had made her scoff. Of course Wells was Jaha's first son. Nobody on the Ark ever had more than one kid– well, aside from Bellamy's mom.

FIRST SON, FIRST TO DYE.

Amery curses herself for dismissing it so quickly. Murphy warned them.

That asshole.

"Where I what?" Murphy repeats incredulously, taking a step back. "The Grounders killed Wells, not me."

"I know what you did, and you're gonna pay for it," Clarke seethes. She's right up in his face, making Amery's heart pound even faster. If Murphy killed Wells, what's stopping him from hurting Clarke, too?

When the hell had Amery started worrying about Clarke?

"Really," Murphy says lowly, not a question, just a mildly amused statement. He glances over the Griffin girl's shoulder to where Bellamy stands next to his sister, arms crossed. "Bellamy, you really believe this crap?" Bellamy doesn't respond, his flat expression betraying nothing.

"You threatened to kill him! We all heard you," Clarke cries, a desperate sort of anger seeping into her usually calm and commanding voice. "You hated Wells."

"Plenty of people hated Wells," Murphy hisses, and Amery digs her fingernails into her palm. Plenty of people hate you, she thinks angrily, but you're still here.

"His father was the Chancellor that locked us up!" Murphy's gaze pans across the crowd, searching for agreement, for support. He's trying to take the camp's shared hatred of Jaha and focus it, use it as a defensive shield. Nobody responds to Murphy's declaration, and Amery feels a brief pang of satisfaction. Nobody's behind you now, she thinks.

"You're the only one who got in a knife fight with him!" Clarke shouts, barely allowing Murphy to finish his sentence.

"Yeah, I–" Murphy tries to speak, but Amery won't have any of it. Anger washes over her like a frothing wave of sea salt and icy water, and she finds herself storming toward Murphy with a glare that could pulverize him. All of her exhaustion, fatigue, intense sorrow, and disbelief has hardened into a molten rock of rage, and she's ready to throw it right in John Murphy's face.

She needed someone to blame, and now she's found him.

"Wells was not his father!" she shouts, heat pulsing from her voice. "What the hell is wrong with you? You think you can go around murdering people in the only place in this shithole that's supposed to be safe? You think you had a right?" She pushes right past Clarke and finds herself in Murphy's face, a finger jabbed into his chest. He just blinks at her in apparent disbelief, glancing at Bellamy in confusion.

Not even a reaction from the man who murdered her friend.

"Fuck you, John," Amery spits, then shoves him to the side and storms in the direction of the dropship, furious. The crowd parts for her like a sea, apparently not wanting to be on the receiving end of her wrath. Murphy's protests become muffled behind her.

She tunes him out. She tunes everyone out, vision tunneling as she navigates her way up the dropship ramp, eager to shut out the noise. Until Murphy breaks through the tunnel with a shout.

"I don't have to answer to anyone!" he roars, and Amery stops at the top of the ramp and turns to take in the scene. She knows that declaration won't sit well with a certain someone. Murphy has pushed past Clarke and started making his way to the edge of the crowd, but Bellamy clears his throat with a raised brow, silence falling around him.

"Come again?"

Amery is in awe of the way every head turns toward him, the two simple words holding more weight than Murphy's arguments and Clarke's accusations combined. Bellamy has made himself a leader without anyone's approval. Nobody is going to question him.

"Bellamy. Look, I'm telling you, man, I didn't do this," Murphy pleads as he approaches the boy, who stands protectively next to a glowering Octavia. The murderer's voice is growing desperate now, pleading, looking at Bellamy with pained eyes.

"They found his fingers on the ground with your knife," Bellamy reasons, tone lifting ever so slightly at the end of his sentence in a silent question, a what do you want me to do? Bellamy's eyes are narrowed, but his gaze lacks the jagged edges that Clarke's has, as if he wants someone to give him a better option, one that doesn't involve his right-hand man murdering the Chancellor's son.

"Is this the kind of society that we want?" Clarke cries, turning in a slow circle and addressing the crowd just as much as she is Bellamy. "You say there should be no rules. Does that mean that we can kill each other without... without punishment?"

"I already told you," Murphy says sharply, his attention swiveling back to Clarke. "I didn't kill anyone."

Bullshit, Amery thinks. She wouldn't be surprised if Murphy was arrested for murder in the first place. She doesn't remember ever seeing him around the Ark. How young was he when he became a criminal?

"I say we float him," someone calls out. Float? Amery thinks. How can you float someone on the Ground?

"Yeah!" A chorus of delinquents starts to encourage the idea as Clarke grows anxious, looking to Bellamy in alarm. Amery finds herself caught in the center of two opposing magnetic pulls, every part of her being stretched to the brink of snapping.

She wants Murphy to hurt. But how does that make her any better than him? Maybe she's not. Maybe, on the Ground, she can't afford to be.

Keaton stumbles out of the dropship, nearly tipping Amery over as he bursts from the makeshift curtains.

"Keaton!"

"What? I– sorry— what the hell is going on out here?" he asks, bewildered, his gaze flickering from Murphy to Clarke to Bellamy and back again. Amery doesn't miss the way his eyes are rimmed in red, bloodshot from sobbing over the death of his friend.

Friend.

Amery opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Her attention is pulled back to the increasingly rowdy, angry crowd pushing toward Murphy.

"That's not what I'm saying," Clarke protests, struggling to be heard over the cacophony.

"Why not?" a dark-skinned boy in a denim jacket protests. "He deserves to float. It's justice." The boy's jaw clenches, a taut muscle pulsing under his skin as he silently dares Clarke to argue. She does.

"Revenge isn't justice!" she shouts in the boy's face, any trace of her cool and collected mask shattered, fallen to the ground to be crumpled under the soles of criminals.

"It's justice. Float him!" the boy shouts, starting a chant that spreads across the crowd like wildfire. "Float him! Float him!"

Amery's stomach twists at the cheers, reminiscent of the fans in the films of association football games she used to watch with Keaton on the Ark, but much darker. Murphy's punishment is just another game to these people.

How many kids in this camp are convicted murderers? What would it take for them to turn on her, on Keaton, on any one of them, and sentence them to the same fate as Murphy? It's a terrifying, sobering thought, and Amery inches closer to Keaton absently.

"Keaton!" a voice sounds from behind Amery as Cash bursts out of the dropship, breathing hard. "Jesus, man, you can't just– holy shit." He freezes as he processes the scene before him. "Uh, okay. That's not good. Pretty sure that's not good."

Murphy's face shuts down, trapping any emotions or thoughts inside. His eyes narrow and he surges toward the boy in denim, but someone sticks a leg out and he trips over it, sprawling into the dirt. The action seems to break the invisible barrier between Murphy and everybody else. He's suddenly swarmed with kids, tackling him to the earth and punching him until all Amery can see of his face is sticky and red.

"No! Get off him! Get off of him!" Clarke screams, trying to push her way through the crowd and pull people away from Murphy by the back of their jackets, but to no avail. Amery stumbles into Keaton as the noise escalates, everyone screaming and shouting and pummeling the offender into the ground.

Keaton is suddenly sprinting down the ramp, and Cash shouts his name as he runs after him.

"Keaton! Hey, wait! What are you– Keaton!?"

Amery doesn't realize her feet are moving until she's down the ramp and in the crowd. A group of boys is hauling Murphy to the forest, a bright red gag in his mouth, the crowd acting as a cage around him as he thrashes and struggles. Keaton disappears into the mix within seconds, leaving Amery lost in the sea of anger and aggression. She tries to push to the front, darting under arms and between fists as she searches desperately for Keaton.

"Keaton? Cash!" she shouts. Someone elbows her sharply in the ribs and she stumbles forward, coughing and pressing a hand to her torso.

"Woah," someone says, two hands gripping Amery's shoulders and preventing her from crashing into the dirt. "Steady. You okay?"

Monty's concerned face peers down at her, pulling her into him and away from the chaos.

"Monty," she breathes, glancing between him and Jasper anxiously. She hadn't seen him exit the dropship. How much of the argument did he see? "What do we– what do we do?" Monty's eyes dart from Amery to Jasper to Murphy and back again, frantically taking in the scene.

"I– I don't know," he mutters, pulling Amery and Jasper by the arms to a spot further from the angry crowd.

The boys holding Murphy toss him down a hill, blood marring the boy's face. Amery isn't sure whether it's from the fall or the punching. Maybe both.

A rope is thrown over the high branch of a tree, the other end wrapped around Murphy's neck until a crate is the only thing barely supporting his weight. The boy in denim seems to be orchestrating the whole thing, grinning like a maniac as Murphy struggles against his bonds.

"They're hanging him," Amery realizes in horror. She finally glimpses Keaton at the edge of the clearing and studies him, hoping he'll know what to do, how to stop this, but his face is stony and unrevealing. He watches the scene unfold like a statue with a fixed line of vision. It's so unlike him that Amery has to blink furiously and rub her eyes to make sure it's really Keaton.

Does she stop them? Can she stop them?

Murphy murdered her friend in cold blood. An eye for an eye?

No, Amery tells herself. This is wrong. You know this is wrong.

Amery notices that Jasper is shaking, his eyes wide and panicked as he takes a step back. He almost died just days ago, taken hostage by the enemy and used as live bait. He's had his share of violence for a lifetime. He shouldn't be out here.

"Jasper," she says softly, anxious to escape the chaos and shelter the boy from witnessing another death. "Jasper. Hey, come here." Jasper doesn't react, completely frozen in shock and fear. "Jasper–"

"My fault," he mutters, taking another step backward. "I– this is–"

"Your– no, Jasper. No. This is not your fault. Let's get you out of here," Amery urges, making eye contact with Monty, who nods in silent agreement.

"You don't understand," Jasper mumbles, still not looking at Amery. "I– I found the knife. It's my fault. This is my fault."

A thousand arguments spring to Amery's mind. It's Denim Jacket Boy's fault for suggesting execution. It's Clarke's fault for making a public scene. It's Bellamy's fault for not stopping it. But there's one truth that floats to the surface and stays there, the undeniable fact of the matter.

It's Murphy's fault for murdering Wells.

"Jasper, buddy," Monty says, his voice level and calm despite the panic in his eyes. "This isn't on you. Promise. Let's go." He puts a hand on Jasper's shoulder and turns him away from the commotion, forcing the boy's terrified eyes to focus on him.

"You can stop this!" Clarke screams at Bellamy, whose face is closed down, no emotion seeping through the cracks. "They'll listen to you!" Clarke's voice is high and strained, pleading, begging.

"Bellamy! You should do it," says Denim Jacket Boy, pointing at the taller of the two. Amery's breath catches in her throat.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Cash's voice rings out as he shoves his way toward Bellamy. "Bellamy, man, come on. This isn't right. Bellamy," he pleads, placing himself between the man and where Murphy stands precariously on the crate.

"Get out of my way," Bellamy threatens lowly, avoiding Cash's eyes. His face pales as he realizes there's no convincing the camp's self-proclaimed leader.

"Bellamy," Cash says emphatically, and then Denim Jacket Boy is on top of him, tackling him to the ground. "Connor, wait, hey! Hey! I don't want to hurt–"

The boy– Connor– shuts him up with a fist to his jaw, and Clarke shouts as she tries to pull the two boys apart. Cash spits blood from his mouth as he thrashes underneath Connor's weight. "I'm not fighting you!" he shouts, but Connor either doesn't hear or doesn't care.

"Cash!" Amery cries, but Monty's arm is across her chest as soon as she takes a step forward, his expression begging her not to engage. She doesn't move, unable to tear her gaze from the sight of Cash being beaten on the ground. She's disgusted at all the people just standing there, letting it happen.

Then Keaton crosses the clearing in a few long strides, throwing himself into Connor and forcing the boy away from Cash.

"Keep your hands to yourself!" he shouts at Connor as he pins him to the dirt, the boy jerking his arms out of Keaton's grasp dangerously close to Murphy's crate. A blade surfaces from nowhere, and Cash pulls Keaton back by his shirt as Connor points the end of the knife threateningly at his chest. As Cash pulls Keaton into the safety of the crowd, Connor pockets the blade and turns once again to Bellamy.

"Bellamy," he says again, making direct eye contact. Without tearing his gaze from the taller boy, he begins chanting his name, his fist pounding the air with every syllable like a gavel on a table. "Bel-la-my!" The shout ripples through the crowd, ringing in Amery's ears like an alarm. "Bellamy! Bellamy!"

"I saw you in the woods with Atom," Clarke pleads. "I know you're not a killer. Bellamy, don't do this. Don't... Don't. Bellamy. You can't do this, Bellamy!"

Amery wants to find Keaton and Cash, but first she needs to get Jasper away from the violence. She and Monty each grip one of the shivering boy's arms and push him away from the scene, gentling easing him back toward the dropship. Amery is glad for the distraction. She can't bring herself to watch.

A dull thud signals that Bellamy has kicked the crate. Amery's heart falls at the same time Murphy does.

"No! Bellamy, no! How could you?!" Clarke screams, voice raw, and Amery feels a pang of sympathy for the girl. She's lost too many people already.

"This is on you, princess!" Bellamy shouts back, the accusation gruff and angry. "You should've kept your mouth shut!" Jasper whimpers at Amery's side and she pulls him closer, guiding him toward the camp gates.

"C'mon," Amery murmurs to Jasper, glimpsing the gates of the camp through a path of trees and bushes. "Almost there. Don't listen, Jas. It's okay."

"What the hell are you doing?" Finn's voice breaks through the clearing, and Amery swivels to find him looking aghast and disgusted at the scene. "Cut him down! Charlotte, get out of here now!"

Charlotte? What the hell is a little kid doing here? If Jasper shouldn't be watching this, neither should she.

"Cut him down! Get out of my way," Finn growls as he pushes through the crowd toward Murphy, and Amery realizes with horror that he's still alive, thrashing in the air desperately, eyes bulging. She feels sick.

Connor pulls his knife on Finn as he approaches Murphy, threatening him with wild eyes to stay back.

"Oh my god," Monty whispers, his voice almost lost in the shouting.

"Stop! Okay?" Charlotte shouts, her small, high voice piercing the air of the clearing like a needle. "Murphy didn't kill Wells!"

Everything comes to a grinding halt as every head in the clearing swivels toward Charlotte in disbelief. The girl stands panting at the head of the crowd, eyes wide with fright.

Amery's lips part as if to say something, but nothing comes out. She isn't sure what she could say right now that would manage to channel all of her confusion and disbelief. How could Charlotte possibly know that Murphy is innocent?

"I did!"

Oh.

"Oh my God," Clarke whimpers, pulling an axe from Bellamy's belt and thrusting it into the tree Murphy is hanging from. He falls unceremoniously to the ground. Nobody moves toward Charlotte, who stands shaking at the center of attention, dirt smeared across her face as she looks desperately at Bellamy, who stares at her in shock.

Amery really hates kids.

✧✧✧

a/n:

uh. sorry

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