Chapter 10: Mechanical Hearts - Part 2
POV: Alec Morgan
Days blended together in a rhythm I was learning to navigate—mornings working with Raven on radio improvements, afternoons hunting with Bellamy's scouting parties, evenings maintaining equipment and planning for disasters only I knew were coming. The dual responsibilities pulled me between different aspects of survival, each requiring different versions of myself and different levels of careful deception.
"I think we're close," Raven announced during our third day of intensive work, gesturing at the modified transmitter array we'd cobbled together from dropship components and creative engineering. "Signal strength is good, frequency's stable, but something's limiting our transmission range."
I studied the setup, my technical knowledge automatically identifying the bottleneck even as I struggled with how much insight to reveal. The antenna configuration was theoretically sound but practically insufficient—we needed more surface area and better electromagnetic coupling to punch through atmospheric interference.
"What if we used wire from the dropship's inner hull?" I suggested, trying to make it sound like random brainstorming rather than precise technical assessment. "Like, as an antenna extension? I saw something similar in old tech manuals."
Raven's eyes sharpened with the kind of focus that meant she was simultaneously solving a problem and cataloging another impossibility about my knowledge base. "What kind of tech manuals covered antenna theory for someone in agricultural training?"
"Really boring ones," I said with my practiced self-deprecating grin. "You'd hate them. Lots of dry theoretical stuff about electromagnetic wave propagation and impedance matching."
The technical terminology slipped out before I could stop it, far too specific for someone claiming casual exposure to engineering concepts. Raven caught it immediately, her expression shifting to that particular blend of triumph and suspicion I was learning to fear.
"Electromagnetic wave propagation," she repeated slowly. "Impedance matching. Those aren't concepts you pick up from casual reading, Farm Boy."
"Shit. Stop using vocabulary that proves you know more than you should."
"Lucky retention of big science words?" I offered weakly.
She stared at me for a long moment, then shook her head with what might have been amused exasperation. "Let's try your idea about the hull wiring. But we're definitely having a conversation about your educational background later."
We spent the next hour carefully removing copper wire from the dropship's non-essential systems, stringing it into a more extensive antenna array that followed principles I knew by heart but had to pretend to discover through trial and error. The work was delicate, requiring coordination between her technical expertise and my "intuitive" suggestions about optimal configurations.
When we finally powered up the improved system, the radio crackled to life with clear signal strength and the unmistakable voice of Ark communications.
"—seeking any survivors of the dropship mission. Please respond on emergency frequencies. Repeat, this is Ark Station seeking—"
"It works," Raven breathed, her face lighting up with triumph and relief. "We did it."
She threw her arms around me in spontaneous celebration, and for a moment I forgot about secrets and deception and the constant fear of exposure. There was just her excitement, her brilliance, the pride in her eyes as she looked at what we'd accomplished together.
"We should tell the others," I said when the hug lasted long enough to become something more than casual celebration.
"In a minute," she replied, not stepping back immediately. "First I want to know what manuals taught you about impedance matching and antenna theory."
"Really boring ones?" I tried again, but my heart wasn't in the deflection anymore.
"Alec." Her voice was gentle but insistent. "I'm not going to stop asking. I'm not going to stop noticing. So you can keep lying and make this harder for both of us, or you can trust me with whatever truth you're hiding."
"She's giving me a choice. Trust her with partial truth, or keep lying until she figures it out anyway."
Before I could answer, Bellamy appeared at the edge of our workspace. "Ready for hunting patrol?" he asked, noting our proximity and the radio equipment with tactical assessment rather than personal interest.
"Give me five minutes," I said, grateful for the interruption even as I regretted the timing.
"I'll gather the others," Bellamy agreed, but his eyes lingered on me with the kind of attention that suggested he was cataloging this interaction along with all the others.
POV: Bellamy
An hour into the hunting expedition, Bellamy was starting to understand why Alec made him uneasy. It wasn't just the unexplained technical knowledge or the impossible healing—it was the way the kid moved through dangerous territory like he could see threats that hadn't manifested yet.
"Trail splits here," Miller observed, pointing at diverging game paths through the underbrush. "Which direction?"
Alec studied both options with the kind of systematic assessment that should have taken years of wilderness experience to develop. His eyes tracked terrain features, vegetation patterns, signs of animal activity that most people would miss entirely.
"Left path feels wrong," he said after a moment's consideration. "Ground's too disturbed. And those branches—they're positioned like someone arranged them deliberately."
Bellamy examined the area Alec had indicated, noting details that became obvious only after they were pointed out. Broken twigs at specific heights. Soil compression that suggested deliberate foot placement. Natural camouflage that was just slightly too perfect.
"Grounder traps?" Miller asked.
"Or hunting blind," Bellamy confirmed, impressed despite his suspicions about Alec's capabilities. "Good catch."
They took the right path instead, moving deeper into forest that showed no signs of human manipulation. But twenty minutes later, Alec stopped again, his head tilted like he was listening to something the rest of them couldn't hear.
"Bad feeling about that clearing ahead," he said, pointing through the trees to an open space that looked perfectly normal.
"Why?" Bellamy challenged, testing the kid's reasoning.
"Ground cover's wrong. Too uniform. And there's a smell—earth that's been disturbed recently, plants that are growing in places they shouldn't be."
Bellamy couldn't detect any of the signs Alec described, but his tactical instincts had learned to trust the kid's warnings. They circled the clearing instead of crossing it, and found evidence of a concealed pit trap that would have injured or killed anyone who stepped in the wrong place.
"How do you do that?" Miller asked as they continued hunting. "See things the rest of us miss?"
"Pattern recognition," Alec replied, his standard deflection for questions about abilities he couldn't fully explain. "Disturbed earth, unnatural arrangements. It's just... observation."
But observation didn't explain the way he moved through hostile territory with confidence that bordered on prescience. Didn't explain why his "bad feelings" about specific locations proved accurate with suspicious consistency. Didn't explain how someone with agricultural training had developed survival instincts that rivaled professional scouts.
"Your sister," Bellamy said during a rest break, probing for personal information that might explain the contradictions. "On Farm Station. What happened to her?"
Alec's expression shifted, grief and guilt flashing across his features before he could mask them. "Respiratory infection. Medicine was rationed, priority went to essential personnel. She didn't qualify."
"That's why you stole medical supplies?"
"Tried to." His voice carried real pain, real regret. "Got caught before I could get them to her. By the time I was released from detention, she was gone."
The emotion was genuine, even if Bellamy suspected other aspects of the story were fabricated. Whatever Alec was hiding, it was built around real loss, real protective instincts, real desire to save people who mattered to him.
"She teach you about survival techniques?" Bellamy pressed.
"Some. Mostly she just... she believed I could figure things out when I needed to." Alec met his eyes, and Bellamy saw something raw and honest in his expression. "Said I noticed things others didn't. Patterns. Connections. Ways to keep people safe."
"That why you take point positions during dangerous work? Why you volunteer for the most dangerous assignments?"
"Someone has to," Alec replied simply. "And I'm harder to kill than most people."
The casual admission of unusual durability was another piece of evidence in Bellamy's growing file of Alec Morgan impossibilities. But it was delivered without boasting, without expectation of admiration. Just a practical assessment of capabilities applied to group survival.
"You ever going to tell me what you really are?" Bellamy asked directly.
Alec was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant as he considered the question. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of secrets too large for easy sharing.
"Someone who wants to keep you and Octavia and everyone else alive," he said. "Someone who's willing to take risks others can't take to make that happen. Everything else is just... complications."
"Complications that could get people killed if we don't understand them?"
"Complications that will definitely get people killed if the wrong people understand them," Alec corrected.
The distinction was important, Bellamy realized. Not fear of exposure for personal reasons, but fear of consequences for people he was trying to protect. It suggested loyalties that ran deeper than self-preservation, protective instincts that overrode personal safety concerns.
"I'm not going anywhere," Bellamy said finally. "Whatever you are, whatever you're hiding, you fight for us. You take hits for us. That counts for more than explanations."
"Thank you," Alec said, and the relief in his voice suggested how much that acceptance meant.
"Don't thank me yet," Bellamy warned. "Because I'm still watching, and if I think you're a threat to my people, we're going to have problems."
"Understood."
They made their way back to camp as afternoon shadows lengthened, their hunt successful enough to contribute meaningfully to group nutrition. But as they approached the dropship, excited voices carried through the trees—Raven's triumph, Clarke's relief, other voices raised in celebration.
"Sounds like the radio worked," Bellamy observed.
"Sounds like everything's about to change," Alec replied, and there was something in his tone that made Bellamy look at him more closely.
The kid was staring at the camp with an expression that mixed hope with dread, like he was anticipating both salvation and disaster in equal measure. Another contradiction to file away, another piece of evidence that Alec Morgan knew more about their situation than he was admitting.
As they emerged from the forest to find Raven surrounded by cheering delinquents, her radio crackling with voices from home, Bellamy caught Alec's whispered words: "And here comes the cavalry. God help us all."
The prayer was delivered with the tone of someone who knew exactly what was coming, and feared it would be worse than what they'd already survived.
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