Murphy felt sick to the stomach as Clarke gathered the citizens of Camp Jaha and informed them of the proposed truce. Stageda, it was called, and took the form of a traitorous ultimatum. Most of the crowd were quiet and entranced, though careful not to say anything. Some clapped or cheered on the leaders who stood at the head of the sombre procession, and still others looked upon them with utter disgust. A nearby Arker spat upon the ground and muttered something cynical.
Murphy, on the other hand, was furious. It was so fucking unfair. Murphy had tried so hard to be good. Immediately after being permitted back into camp – following an invaluable lesson – Murphy had signed up for the job roster, and climbed his way through shitty tasks like a drowning man, gulping for air and recognition. And now – well, here he was, surrounded by cowards. He wanted to pull a Finn and shoot everything in sight.
Oh, but that wasn’t the end of it – of course not. Worse still was the news of Bellamy’s proposed trial – at Grounder hands. Murphy held his tongue for two whole days, until finally the burden of it was too much to bare. He pushed his way into Bellamy’s tent just as the sun had begun its slow descent behind the Ark’s skeleton: it would be dark soon, and no one would disturb them.
“This is bullshit,” Murphy spat in lieu of a greeting. The ire that now gripped him made coherent thought impossible. “You can’t seriously agree with this.”