Chapter 6: Bridge Politics - Part 1
POV: Alec Morgan
The message came at dawn, delivered by a Grounder scout who melted back into the forest before anyone could properly react. A simple proposal written on bark in crude English: "Meet at bridge. Noon. Talk peace."
My blood turned to ice water as Clarke read the message aloud to the gathered group. I knew this trap, had watched it play out on screen dozens of times. Lincoln's test, designed to gauge our intentions and capabilities. The explosion that would shatter any hope of easy peace and drive the conflict toward its inevitable bloody conclusion.
"It could be legitimate," Wells said, ever the diplomat. "An attempt at communication."
"Or it's a trap," I said immediately, my voice sharper than intended. "Exposed position, no cover, perfect ambush point. If I were setting a trap, that's exactly how I'd do it."
Clarke studied the message again, her medical mind weighing variables. "The bridge gives them tactical advantages, but it also gives us clear sight lines. We'd see an ambush coming."
"No, you wouldn't. That's the point."
"Would we?" I pressed, feeling desperation creep into my voice. "What if they've got explosives under the bridge? What if the meeting request is just to get us clustered in one place? What if—"
"What if you're paranoid?" Finn interrupted. "We've been here a week and the only contact we've had is that spear through Jasper and some thrown knives. Maybe they want to talk."
"Since when do you care about tactical assessment?" I shot back, then immediately regretted the aggression. Defensive anger would only make them more suspicious of my motives.
Bellamy was watching me with that calculating expression I'd learned to fear. "You seem pretty certain it's a trap, farm boy. Got experience with Grounder tactics we should know about?"
"I've got experience with basic strategic thinking," I replied, forcing my voice level. "Isolated location, enemy choosing the ground, no backup or escape routes. It's textbook ambush setup."
"Textbook according to what?" Clarke asked. "You keep talking about tactical principles and strategic thinking. Where did a Farm Station kid learn military analysis?"
"Shit. Stop talking. Stop giving them reasons to question you."
"Common sense," I said weakly. "Plus some of the older guys on Farm Station were former guard. They talked about security procedures, threat assessment."
Another convenient backstory detail to explain away suspicious knowledge. But I could see the explanations wearing thin, see the pattern of questions becoming more pointed and persistent.
Raven looked up from the communication equipment she'd been working on all morning. "What's your gut telling you, Alec?"
The question was simple, but her tone carried weight. She was asking for my honest assessment, not another deflection or joke. The problem was, my honest assessment would reveal exactly how much I knew about what was coming.
"My gut says people don't usually request peace talks at locations that give them overwhelming tactical advantages unless they're planning to use those advantages," I said carefully. "But that's just paranoia talking."
"Paranoia keeps you alive," Bellamy observed.
"So does taking calculated risks for potential allies," Clarke countered. "We need to make contact with the local population eventually. This could be our chance."
I watched the argument develop along predictable lines—Clarke pushing for diplomatic engagement, Bellamy advocating caution, Finn supporting whatever made him look heroic. None of them understood the stakes, the cascade of violence this single meeting would trigger.
"I'm going," Clarke decided. "Small team, basic precautions, but we're going."
"Then I'm going too," I said immediately.
Bellamy's eyes narrowed. "Why? You just spent ten minutes explaining why it's a trap."
"Because you're all going anyway," I said, then heard the words that slipped out before I could stop them: "And I heal fast from stupid decisions."
The admission hung in the air like a gunshot echo. Raven's head snapped up from her work, Clarke frowned, and Bellamy's expression shifted from suspicious to openly calculating.
"You heal fast?" Clarke repeated slowly.
"Fuck. Fuck, you idiotic—"
"Figure of speech," I said quickly. "Bounce back from mistakes. Learn from experience. That kind of thing."
But the damage was done. Another slip, another crack in my carefully constructed facade. I could see them filing away the phrase, adding it to their growing collections of Alec Morgan contradictions and impossibilities.
"Right," Bellamy said, not believing a word of it. "Figure of speech."
An hour later, we were walking through the forest toward the bridge, and my combat instincts were screaming warnings so loud I could barely think straight. Every sense felt hypertuned, every shadow potentially hiding threats. The developing sixth sense that warned of danger was going haywire, flooding me with adrenaline and fight-or-flight responses.
I positioned myself carefully as we moved, staying between Octavia and what I knew would be the blast center. The explosion would come from underneath the bridge structure, timed for maximum casualties when our group was clustered in the center span. If I could absorb some of the impact, shield the others from the worst of the shrapnel...
"You okay?" Raven asked quietly, dropping back to walk beside me. "You look like you're about to jump out of your skin."
"Just nervous," I said, which was absolutely true. "Bad feeling about this whole thing."
"Your bad feelings seem to have good track records," she observed. "The knife throwing, the plant identification, the technical assessments. You notice things others miss."
"Lucky guesses."
"Right." Her tone suggested exactly what she thought of that explanation. "And I'm sure this bad feeling is just another lucky guess."
I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. "Just really hope I'm wrong this time."
But I knew I wasn't wrong. My combat prediction was painting trajectory paths across my vision, showing me exactly where the explosion would originate, exactly how the shrapnel would spread, exactly which positions offered the best chances of survival. Information I shouldn't have, delivered by capabilities I couldn't explain.
We reached the bridge as the sun hit its zenith, shadows sharp and precise beneath the wooden spans. The structure was old but solid, heavy timber construction over a fast-moving stream. Perfect for the kind of hidden explosive device that would turn a peace meeting into a massacre.
Lincoln emerged from the trees on the far side, moving with the fluid grace that marked him as something more than an ordinary warrior. Tall, powerful, with intelligent eyes that assessed our group for threat levels and tactical capabilities. In the show, this moment had been the beginning of an alliance that would save both their peoples. In reality, it was about to become the spark that ignited open war.
"You came," he said in accented but clear English.
"We came to talk," Clarke replied, stepping forward with the diplomatic authority she'd inherited from her mother.
I hung back, my hands shaking slightly as the combat predictions intensified. Twelve seconds until the explosion. Time enough for a few words, a moment of hope, then fire and blood and the end of any chance for easy peace.
"Tell them," my conscience screamed. "Warn them. Stop this."
But warning them meant explaining how I knew. Meant revealing capabilities that would mark me as something other than human. Meant trading my secret for their lives and hoping the mathematics of that exchange worked out in everyone's favor.
Eleven seconds.
Ten.
Nine.
The choice was coming, rushing toward me like a freight train, and I still hadn't decided whether to jump onto the tracks or watch the world burn.