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(Yes, humans use long dash too(—), I just started reading THE best Novel on WebNovel, Shadow Slave, and the author commonly used long dash. After reading the first few chapters, I realized how easy it is to write with it. Nowadays, it's been stigmatized as an indicator of AI usage, so I'll try using it in this chapter. Let me know if it makes the flow better.)
(The Dropship Camp - Night)
The 100's camp was full of panic and fear. The rescue party had returned through the perimeter, dragging the wounded along with them. The camp saw this and understood. This was no longer a game; there were things in the forest desperate to kill them, and if they keep messing around, they will be the next victim.
Jasper's pained cries echoed off the metal hull of the ship. Bellamy had ordered a group to carry the boy inside, while he, along with a few more, worked on creating a perimeter around the camp — a futile task, given their limited resources and the exhaustion gripping the camp.
Meanwhile, Wells lay near the dropship's door, his breathing shallow. The makeshift bandage on his thigh, applied by Clarke in the woods, was flooding with his blood. Unlike Jasper, Wells was unnervingly silent, the sweat on his brow the only indicator of his pain.
Clarke was fully immersed in her role as the doctor. She used every single thing she knew to try to stabilize Jasper.
Finn, still reeling from the guilt of shooting someone, approached her while she prepared a makeshift suture kit. "Clarke," his voice thick with regret. "I just... I want to say..."
She didn't look up, the lamp casting shadow on her determined face.
"Save it, Finn," she said, her tone devoid of warmth. "I don't have time for your existential guilt right now. If you want to help, boil water. Everything is contaminated, including your hands."
Finn flinched as if he'd been hit in his balls. The emotional chasm between them had widened a lot. Thinking with every brain cell he had, he backed away, leaving her to work in peace.
After patching Jasper as best she could, she finally went to treat Wells.
She found him calmly sitting near the door, as if he had never been shot.
She knelt beside him, her brow furrowed with concern. She pulled away the makeshift bandage. The wound was looking bad and had already begun to produce yellowish fluid. The skin around the gunshot hole was burning hot.
"Wells," her voice cracking slightly. "It's bad. The blood loss is a lot, and the infection is already setting in. We don't have any antibiotics on the ship." Her mind flashed through everything she knew, trying to find a way to heal Well's wound. But alas, without proper medication, a gunshot wound in this environment was almost a death sentence.
Wells opened his eyes, a faint smile touching his lips. He lifted his hand slightly and gestured weakly toward the breast pocket of his coat.
"Clarke," he wheezed, his voice dry. "I saw something."
"What are you talking about?"
"The plant," he managed, taking a heavy breath. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a damp, crumpled sheet of paper. It was a page torn from a biology text. "Remember that old class... before the Lock-up? They told us about the coastal seaweed. The one with potent anti-microbial properties? The natural antibiotic?"
Clarke stared at the page, then back at Wells, her mouth wide open. A jolt of hope shot through her exhaustion. "The Seaweed Antibiotic!!" she exclaimed, the name for the plant snapping into her memory. "It was rumored to be stronger than anything the Ark could synthesize! But it's theoretical... we don't know if it survived the radiation!"
"I saw it," Wells confirmed, a proud, weak grin spreading across his face. "When you were dragged, Jasper and me... I saw a thick patch of that dark, reddish-green seaweed. I managed to pull a single leaf, just to be sure." He explained as he pulled out the leaf.
Clarke grabbed it and gave it a sniff.
"Yes! Yes, this can work! This could stop the infection!"
She looked at him with gratitude and excitement. "Where did you find the main patch? Tell me exactly how to get back there!"
Wells gave her directions — a path near the river's estuary, where the woods slowly change to a brackish swamp.
"Thank you, Wells," Clarke whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
"I'll be back as fast as I can."
However, just as she was about to run away, Wells called her.
"Clarke,"
She turned back. Wells's face was etched with pain, but beneath the physical agony, a deeper sorrow could be seen in his eyes.
"Before you go," his gaze fixed on hers. "There is something I need to tell you. About your father."
Clarke's sudden good mood evaporated. Her face instantly reverted to the familiar, cold stone look she gave him.
"Don't," she warned, taking a step back. "I will never forgive you for what you did, Wells. I promised myself that."
She turned to leave.
"IT WASN'T ME!"
The words ripped through the dropship, stopping Clarke completely.
She froze and turned back to him. "What?"
Wells lowered his head, the weight of the secret weighing him down. "It was your mother," he admitted. "Abigail. She... she reported it to my father. She told him about your father's plan to reveal the Ark's failing oxygen system."
A suffocating silence fell around them. Clarke's breath hitched in her throat. Her body began to tremble.
"No," she breathed, shaking her head. "You're lying. You have to be. You're just trying to clear your name."
Wells met her gaze, his eyes pooling with tears — not just from the wound, but from the unbearable weight of the lie he had carried. "Look at me, Clarke. I would never lie to you about something like this!"
Clarke collapsed onto her knees beside him, the frustration and agony overwhelming her. It wasn't him. It had never been him. It was her mother, the person she believed in, the person she had hated Wells for protecting.
Her initial denial changed into despair. She started to cry. Silent sobs that shook her entire frame.
Wells used all the strength he had left to move his arm and lay a hand on her shoulder.
"Why?" she asked. "Why are you telling me this now?"
Wells managed a weak smile, the kind reserved for final goodbyes. "Look at the condition I'm in right now, Clarke. The infection is running wild. I know I might die. So, I wanted to get this off my chest before that happens. I would rather have you not hating a dead man." He even attempted a tiny, joking wink, which cost him a grimace of pain.
Clarke let out a sobbing giggle and hugged him hard, her arms careful to avoid his injured leg. The realization of his sacrifice hit her like a physical blow.
"Then why, you idiot," she cried, pulling back to look at his pale face, "why did you take the blame?"
"Because I didn't want you to hate your mother."
That answer shattered the last shard of her anger. Wells had been arrested, thrown into solitary confinement, exiled to a decaying Earth, and hated by the only girl he did all this for — all to protect her relationship with her mother. He sacrificed everything so that Clarke could maintain her idealized view of Abigail.
Not anymore.
The promise solidified in her mind. Not only was he not dying, but she would never push him away again. She would make up for every cruel word, every cold look she gave him.
She pulled away, wiping her eyes. "You listen to me, Wells Jaha," she commanded, her voice suddenly strong and decisive. "You are not dying. I am going to save you. And when I get back, we are going to fix this. All of it."
She grabbed the single leaf and disappeared into the night, fueled by a renewed sense of purpose and a desperate love that had finally been unburied.
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