Chapter 27: Ring of Fire - Part 2
POV: Alec Morgan
The thirty-minute lull between assault waves felt like borrowed time, precious moments to regroup before the Grounders regrouped for their next coordinated attack. Around me, fighters checked weapons and tended wounds with the desperate efficiency of people who knew survival depended on preparation they didn't have time to complete properly.
My side burned with fire that spoke of deep tissue damage and possible internal bleeding. The Grounder blade had caught me between ribs, sliding past reinforced leather to part flesh that hadn't yet adapted to this level of catastrophic injury. But even as I pressed my hand against the wound to slow bleeding, I could feel my regeneration working overtime to repair damage that should have required immediate surgery.
"Too many people watching. Too much exposure. But I can't hide this anymore—the wound's too severe, the healing too obvious, the witnesses too numerous to deflect with jokes about good genetics."
"Alec!" Clarke's voice cut through the battlefield noise as she approached with medical supplies and the focused determination that had kept everyone alive through impossible circumstances. "Let me see that wound."
I tried to wave her off, knowing what she'd discover if she examined the injury closely. "It's not that bad. Just a scratch that looks worse than it is."
"Bullshit," she said with medical authority that brooked no argument. "You're bleeding through your shirt, which means deep penetration and possible organ damage. Let me work."
POV: Clarke
Clarke knelt beside Alec with surgical precision, her medical training taking over as she assessed what looked like a potentially fatal injury. The blood soaking through his shirt spoke of severe trauma requiring immediate intervention to prevent death from internal bleeding or organ failure.
"This is going to hurt," she warned, cutting away fabric to expose the wound site.
But when she peeled back the bloodstained cloth, she froze in medical shock.
The wound was healing. Not slowly, not gradually, but visibly—tissue knitting together in real-time as she watched, edges drawing closed with precision that defied every principle of human biology she'd ever learned. The bleeding had already slowed from arterial spurting to steady oozing, and the depth that should have exposed bone was closing layer by layer like time-lapse photography of biological impossibility.
"This isn't possible. People don't heal like this. Tissue regeneration doesn't happen in minutes—it takes days, weeks for wounds this severe. What is he?"
"What are you?" she breathed, staring at flesh that was repairing itself while she watched.
Alec met her eyes with expression that mixed exhaustion, pain, and desperate vulnerability. "Someone who heals," he said quietly, his voice rough with admission that felt like confession. "I've always healed. Faster than normal, faster than possible. I'm sorry I didn't tell you—I was afraid of becoming a lab experiment."
The honesty in his voice cut through her medical shock, revealing the fear that had driven weeks of deflection and careful concealment. He wasn't hiding superhuman abilities out of malicious intent—he was protecting himself from people who would see his differences as resources to be exploited rather than aspects of a person to be accepted.
"He's been hiding this alone. Carrying the knowledge that he's biologically different while pretending to be normal because he was terrified of what we'd do if we knew. And he was probably right to be terrified."
Her mind raced through implications and possibilities, cataloguing medical questions that could wait until after immediate survival had been secured. Right now, with the second assault wave approaching and their tactical coordinator bleeding from wounds that were healing impossibly fast, only one question mattered.
"Can you keep fighting?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied without hesitation.
"Then fight," Clarke decided, making a battlefield calculation that prioritized group survival over scientific curiosity. "We'll deal with explanations later."
POV: Alec Morgan
Relief flooded through me so intensely I nearly broke down entirely. Clarke had seen the impossible healing, had witnessed capabilities that violated every assumption about human biology, and had chosen pragmatic acceptance over fear or exploitation. The medical professional who could have dissected my abilities with scientific methodology had instead made a command decision that my tactical value outweighed my biological mystery.
"Thank you," I managed, meaning it with every fiber of whatever I was.
"Thank me by keeping us alive," she replied, then moved on to treat fighters whose wounds required conventional medical intervention.
Before I could process the magnitude of her acceptance, Raven's voice crackled through my earpiece with panic that made my chest tight with protective instincts.
"Alec! Clarke's voice on the radio—what happened? How bad are you hurt?"
"I'm okay," I said into the communication device, but even as I spoke, I could see her abandoning her remote coordination position and running toward my location through the battlefield debris.
She reached me as I was testing my range of motion, the healed wound already reduced to pink scar tissue that looked weeks old rather than minutes. Her eyes found the unmarked skin where moments ago there had been potentially fatal damage, and I braced for questions I couldn't answer or rejection I couldn't survive.
"I already knew, remember?" she said instead, settling beside me with fierce protectiveness that made my throat tight with emotion. "I'm just glad you're okay."
The acceptance in her voice was everything I'd hoped for and never dared expect. No interrogation about biological impossibilities, no demands for scientific explanation, just relief that I'd survived and gratitude that my strangeness meant she didn't have to lose someone she'd grown to love.
"She knew. She's been watching my healing for weeks, documenting the impossibilities, and she chose to stay anyway. Chose to trust me despite evidence that I'm something other than human."
Relief overwhelmed me so completely I nearly collapsed, emotional weight finally finding release after weeks of desperate concealment. She held me briefly, anchoring me to the present moment rather than the spiral of fear and isolation that had defined my existence since revealing my first supernatural capability.
"We finish this fight, then you explain everything to everyone," she said when we separated, her voice carrying gentle firmness that acknowledged the magnitude of secrets still hidden. "No more deflecting, no more jokes about good genetics. Real explanations for the people who've earned the right to know what you are. Deal?"
"Deal," I agreed, because she was right and because I no longer had any choice in the matter.
My secret was out, exposed by battlefield necessity and witnessed by people whose acceptance or rejection would determine whether I remained part of this found family or became something to be studied and contained.
"Good," Raven said, then kissed my forehead with tenderness that spoke of love transcending biological impossibility. "Now let's finish this war so we can have that conversation."
As she returned to her coordination position, Bellamy approached with unreadable expression that made my stomach clench with anticipation of judgment and potential rejection. He'd witnessed the healing, had seen evidence that I was something fundamentally different from the baseline human he'd assumed me to be.
"Can you keep fighting at this level through another wave?" he asked without preamble.
The question was tactical rather than accusatory, focused on capability rather than explanation. He wasn't demanding scientific justification for biological impossibility—he was assessing whether I remained an asset or had become a liability through revelation of supernatural abilities.
"Yes," I confirmed, meeting his steady gaze with honesty that felt like stepping off a cliff.
"Good," Bellamy nodded once, his expression resolving into something that looked like brotherhood rather than suspicion. "Then you're our strategic center. I don't care what you are—you're ours, and we're keeping you."
The simple acceptance, pragmatic and absolute, nearly undid me completely. No demands for explanation, no fear of difference, just acknowledgment that my value to the group transcended whatever biological mysteries defined my existence.
"They're choosing me. Despite knowing I'm not what I claimed to be, despite evidence that I'm something other than human, they're choosing to keep me as family rather than cast me out as monster."
"After this," Bellamy continued quietly, "you tell us everything. Not because we don't trust you, but because family doesn't keep secrets that big from each other. But right now, I need you to help me keep our people alive."
"I will," I promised, meaning it with every capability I possessed.
"I know," he said, then clapped my shoulder with rough affection that spoke of bonds forged through shared danger and mutual protection.
As war horns sounded in the distance, announcing the approach of the second assault wave, I stood with renewed purpose that transcended personal survival. My regeneration was exposed, my combat abilities revealed, my secrets laid bare for examination by people who'd chosen acceptance over fear.
But somehow, surrounded by family who'd seen what I was and decided to keep me anyway, the approaching battle felt less like desperate survival and more like fighting for something precious enough to justify any revelation.
The second wave was coming, larger and angrier than the first, adapted to our tactics and determined to overwhelm our defenses through superior numbers and professional coordination. But we'd proven something important in the initial exchange: even impossible odds could be survived when people fought for connections that made existence worthwhile.
No more hiding. No more deflecting. Just fighting for the found family that had chosen to love someone who wasn't quite human, and using every capability I possessed to make sure they survived to see another dawn.
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