[Behind his veils and scarves, Murphy smiles, sharp and incredulous, stopping to look back at him. A fight. Like they'd ever have a chance.]
(We were sent down here to probably die. They don't have any other options. This, every "mission" we've been sent on, is one last ditch effort after another. We're one hundred disposable kids on the dropship, every time.)
[And it had been going on for years. Lifetimes. Cathaway's age alone could answer that, but then there was what Rhan had said, in the very memory Bellamy had shown him. How many other hosts had they already seen wake up, fall asleep? Die? They weren't going to see the end of this war. None of them were, and the impossibility of it rips through him, through the centre of the storm in his head. Grief, open, unfiltered, guilt and self-hatred and sheer helpless frustration. He could scream with it, but he can't. All he can do is churn and rage with it, fists clenched tight, anger sharp behind his teeth.]
(That's what I want you to do, Bellamy.) [Stepping back into his space, chin lifted, thinking how much easier this was when he could say he didn't want anything from Bellamy at all.] (I want you to remember when no one gave a crap about who we were, what we wanted, or who we cared about. Because they don't. They can't. Even when they've soaked up every little bit of our brains. They never will.)
[But then he's smiling again, stepping back, derision rising vicious and easy.]
(But you've got Clarke now, right? Nothing left back home to worry about.)
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[Behind his veils and scarves, Murphy smiles, sharp and incredulous, stopping to look back at him. A fight. Like they'd ever have a chance.]
( We were sent down here to probably die. They don't have any other options. This, every "mission" we've been sent on, is one last ditch effort after another. We're one hundred disposable kids on the dropship, every time. )
[And it had been going on for years. Lifetimes. Cathaway's age alone could answer that, but then there was what Rhan had said, in the very memory Bellamy had shown him. How many other hosts had they already seen wake up, fall asleep? Die? They weren't going to see the end of this war. None of them were, and the impossibility of it rips through him, through the centre of the storm in his head. Grief, open, unfiltered, guilt and self-hatred and sheer helpless frustration. He could scream with it, but he can't. All he can do is churn and rage with it, fists clenched tight, anger sharp behind his teeth.]
( That's what I want you to do, Bellamy. ) [Stepping back into his space, chin lifted, thinking how much easier this was when he could say he didn't want anything from Bellamy at all.] ( I want you to remember when no one gave a crap about who we were, what we wanted, or who we cared about. Because they don't. They can't. Even when they've soaked up every little bit of our brains. They never will. )
[But then he's smiling again, stepping back, derision rising vicious and easy.]
( But you've got Clarke now, right? Nothing left back home to worry about. )