Chapter Text

Chapter One — The Quiet After

Picasso woke first.

He lifted his head from where he’d been curled near the edge of the fire pit, ears twitching once, then freezing. His body didn’t tense all at once—no sudden alarm, no bark or growl. Just a slow, deliberate stillness, like he was listening to something that hadn’t arrived yet.

The camp was quiet.

Morning fog hung low over the ground, clinging to boots and bedrolls and the half-built shelters they’d never quite finished improving. The air smelled like damp earth and ash from last night’s fire. Somewhere beyond the trees, water moved steadily, patient and indifferent.

Picasso stood.

He took two steps forward, then stopped, staring toward the tree line. His tail hung low, unmoving.

Clarke noticed because she was already awake.

She lay on her back inside her shelter, eyes open, staring at the canvas ceiling as pale light seeped through the seams. Sleep had become something she visited briefly, never something she trusted. She’d learned to wake at the slightest shift in sound—or silence.

Picasso’s movement was enough.

She sat up slowly and stepped outside, boots crunching softly against the dirt. The fog curled around her calves as she crossed the camp, stopping beside him.

“What is it?” she murmured.

Picasso didn’t look at her. He stayed fixed on the trees, head slightly lowered, breathing shallow and quick. Clarke crouched and rested a hand on his neck, feeling the warmth there, the steady pulse beneath fur.

The forest looked the same as it always did.

Tall trees. Thick undergrowth. No movement. No sound beyond the usual early-morning quiet.

It should have felt peaceful.

It didn’t.

Clarke straightened and forced herself to breathe out slowly. She’d learned not to trust instinct too much—it had saved her life, but it had also led her into choices she could never undo.

“Probably nothing,” she said quietly, more for herself than for him.

Picasso didn’t relax.

The camp woke gradually, like it always did now. No alarms. No urgency. Just people emerging from shelters, stretching sore muscles, starting tasks they’d agreed—loosely—needed doing.

They’d been here for months.

Long enough for routine to settle in.

Long enough for the adrenaline of survival to burn off and leave behind something heavier.

This was what came after the final choice. After the light. After the universe decided it was done with them and they decided they weren’t.

Fourteen people.

One dog.

That was all that remained of humanity.

Raven was already kneeling near the worktable she’d built from salvaged metal and scrap wood, hands blackened with grease as she dismantled a device Clarke couldn’t have named even if she tried. It looked functional enough already, but Raven never trusted “functional” when it came to technology.

Jackson sat a few feet away, laying out medical supplies with careful precision. He checked labels that no longer meant much, reorganized kits that had already been organized, then did it again.

“Morning,” Clarke said quietly.

Jackson looked up and smiled, a tired but genuine expression. “Morning. You sleep?”

“Some.”

He nodded like that was enough.

Nearby, Miller and Niylah worked together reinforcing one of the shelters. They didn’t talk much, but their movements were synchronized in a way that came from long familiarity—passing tools, tightening supports, adjusting without needing to ask.

Murphy sat on a log with Emori, arguing softly over breakfast rations.

“I’m just saying,” Murphy muttered, holding up a piece of dried protein like it had personally offended him, “if this is the future of the human race, maybe we aim a little higher.”

Emori rolled her eyes. “You’ll eat it.”

“I will,” Murphy agreed. “But I won’t be happy about it.”

“Tragedy.”

Murphy smirked. “For you, maybe.”

Octavia crossed the camp carrying two full containers of water, posture steady, movements efficient. She didn’t look like someone waiting for the next fight anymore. She looked like someone who had already survived it.

Echo walked beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally. They weren’t talking. They didn’t need to. Whatever passed between them now was quiet, solid, earned.

Indra stood near the fire pit, arms crossed, surveying the camp with the practiced gaze of someone who’d led people through worse than this. Leadership hadn’t left her when the war ended—it had just stopped being loud.

Gaia sat a little apart, fingers absently tracing shapes in the dirt before she caught herself and brushed them away. No Flame. No doctrine. No future she’d been trained for.

Hope and Jordan sparred near the tree line, wooden staffs clacking together in uneven rhythm. Jordan laughed when Hope knocked him off balance, the sound a little too loud, too quick—like he was afraid of what would happen if he stopped smiling.

Picasso trotted over briefly, tail wagging, circling them once before stopping short. His attention snapped back toward the forest, ears pricked.

Levitt lingered near the perimeter, observing everything like he was still waiting for instructions that would never come. He’d been raised inside systems. This—open space, choice, silence—still unsettled him.

Clarke counted them without meaning to.

She always did.

She didn’t count Bellamy.

His absence was a shape she no longer tried to define. It lived between moments, in the places where his voice should have been. In decisions that felt heavier without someone to argue them through.

She didn’t think his name.

Not today.

The morning passed slowly.

They worked. They ate. They argued over small things that didn’t matter and avoided the ones that did. Clarke helped Miller finish reinforcing the shelter, then checked the perimeter with Indra—not because they expected trouble, but because old habits died hard.

The world felt… normal.

That was the problem.

Raven wiped her hands on a rag and glanced up at Clarke. “You’ve been staring into the trees all morning.”

Clarke blinked. “Have I?”

“Yeah,” Raven said. “It’s the ‘I’m about to make a terrible decision’ stare.”

Clarke huffed softly. “I’m just thinking.”

“That’s never a good sign,” Murphy called from across the camp.

She ignored him.

Picasso followed her wherever she went, staying close but not clingy. When she stopped, he stopped. When she moved, he matched her pace. Every so often, he paused and looked toward the same stretch of forest.

Clarke noticed.

She just didn’t know what to do with it.

By midday, the fog had burned off, leaving the air warm and still. Too still.

They sat together for lunch, passing food hand to hand. Conversation drifted toward practical things—repairs, hunting routes, whether they should move camp closer to the water before winter.

“Winter,” Murphy muttered. “Never thought I’d be worried about winter again.”

“Normal people worry about winter,” Miller said.

Murphy snorted. “Normal people didn’t survive multiple apocalypses.”

Clarke listened without leading. She’d learned—slowly—that peace didn’t need a commander.

That was when the feeling hit.

It wasn’t sound.

It wasn’t light.

It was pressure.

Like the air thickened just enough to notice. Like the world hesitated.

Picasso stood abruptly, hackles lifting.

Raven froze mid-sentence. “Did anyone else—”

“Yes,” Octavia said at the same time.

Indra was already on her feet, instinct more than fear. “Hold.”

Clarke felt it then—a faint static sensation at the base of her skull. Not pain. Not dizziness. Just… wrong. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs.

“What is that?” Jordan asked quietly.

Raven frowned, glancing at her equipment. “Nothing’s registering. But something’s off.”

The pressure lingered, stretching seconds longer than they should have. Picasso whined softly, pacing a few steps before stopping again, eyes locked on the trees. He refused to move closer.

Then—slowly—it eased.

The air felt normal again. The forest didn’t change. No light. No sound. No sign that anything had happened at all.

“That’s it?” Murphy said. “We just… felt weird?”

“For now,” Indra said.

Clarke swallowed. The lack of explanation unsettled her more than any visible threat.

“Everyone stays close tonight,” she said. “No one wanders.”

No one argued.

Night came quietly.

Too quietly.

The fire burned low as they ate dinner, conversation subdued. Even Murphy didn’t push for jokes. One by one, they drifted toward their shelters.

Picasso made his rounds, checking on everyone like it was his responsibility. He paused longest near Hope and Jordan before curling up beside them, tail thumping softly when Hope scratched behind his ears.

Clarke lay awake long after the camp fell silent, staring at the dark canvas above her.

She thought of Madi—carefully, gently. Love without the sharp edge of guilt.

She did not think of Bellamy.

The earth was quiet.

Too quiet.

Somewhere beyond their senses, something had shifted—not waking, not attacking—

just misaligned.

And whatever it was, Clarke knew one thing with absolute certainty:

This peace was not going to last.