With a fair share of fresh game stuffed in his bag, beneath the weight of his gun, Murphy mock-saluted Octavia and started at a jog up the hill; she had dropped him a short walk from the camp. He immediately felt an intense need to get inside, and he was aware, somewhere in the very forefront of his mind that he could be shot at any second. By the time he’d gone twenty feet, his neck bubbled with sweat.
Camp Jaha sat like a collapsed lung at the top of the knoll. Its winking lights were like a dozen angry eyes. You have been seen. Murphy’s gut twisted, and he moved quicker. His pack felt suddenly insubstantial, and the reality of his actions finally sunk in. He’d left camp. Fuck, he didn’t even wait a day before leaving the safe confides and seeking out Mbege’s stupid, stupid, stupid memorial stone. Bellamy had trusted him (I believed in you) and Murphy had left camp and encountered Grounders and trekked his sorry, sore ass to a foreign village in the middle of nowhere, and now he’d have to deal with the repercussions.
It came as a surprise to Murphy that Bellamy didn’t greet him at the gates with his usual scolding: Murphy was able to slink right up to the camp without so much as a glimpse of him. However, there were armed guards waiting behind the barrier, though thankfully none of them thought to shoot him. Yet.
He was begrudgingly dragged inside and subjected to a through look-over. He smirked, sweat drying, as they checked his eyes for disease: like he was a fucking weapon all over again. Some childish part of him still wanted to turn around and run to the end of the earth and over the edge into oblivion or whatever awaited the soul of a foolish asshole like himself – if only to avoid the inevitable confrontation with Bellamy.
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