Chapter 2: Useful Idiot
POV: Alec Morgan
Morning brought hangovers and the harsh reality that freedom came with responsibilities. I woke before most of the others, my body clock still calibrated to the Ark's artificial day cycle, and found myself staring up at real clouds drifting across a blue sky that shouldn't exist.
The camp was a disaster. Teenagers drunk on moonshine and freedom had made predictably poor decisions about fire safety, waste disposal, and basic security. Someone had let the main fire burn down to embers. Food scraps attracted insects. Three people were passed out in positions that would leave them with permanent back problems.
And everyone was starting to realize we needed more than enthusiasm to survive.
"We need to assign teams," Clarke was saying to Wells by the dropship entrance, her voice carrying the authority she'd inherited from her mother. "Water, food, shelter, security. We can't just hope everything works out."
"Good luck with that," Bellamy Blake said, descending from the upper level with his trademark swagger. He'd been absent from last night's festivities, probably planning. "In case you forgot, we're not in school anymore. Nobody has to listen to princess."
I watched from my position by the dead fire, pretending to work on reviving the coals while cataloging the power dynamic forming. Bellamy versus Clarke. Authority versus rebellion. It would define their first weeks here and cost lives on both sides.
But I had a more immediate problem. My stomach was growling with the kind of hunger that went beyond normal teenage appetite. The regeneration from yesterday had burned through my stored energy, and my body was demanding fuel with an intensity that bordered on panic.
Time to make myself useful.
I stood and stretched, making sure my movements looked casual, then wandered toward the tree line while the leadership argument continued. My downloaded knowledge painted the forest in terms of calories and nutrition—which trees had edible bark, which roots could be safely harvested, which berries were worth the effort to process.
The arguing faded behind me as I moved deeper into the woods. Here, away from teenage politics, I could think clearly. The survival knowledge felt like someone else's memories, perfectly clear but lacking the muscle memory that came with practice. I knew intellectually that the small red berries on the thorny bush were safe to eat, but my hands were clumsy as I picked them, accumulating scratches that healed almost as fast as I earned them.
White oak acorns. Dandelion greens. Wild onions. Rose hips. My mental database categorized each find with nutritional information and preparation methods. Some could be eaten raw. Others needed processing to remove toxins or improve digestibility.
I was reaching for a cluster of elderberries when voices carried through the trees.
"—not about leadership, it's about survival," Clarke was saying, closer now.
"And you think you know better than everyone else?" That was Octavia, defending her brother as always.
I retreated deeper into the undergrowth, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire, and nearly stumbled into a patch of wild garlic. The smell hit me immediately—sharp, pungent, unmistakable. My botanical knowledge confirmed what my nose already knew. Edible, nutritious, and a natural antibiotic.
By the time I returned to camp with my improvised gathering bag (my shirt, tied at the bottom), the leadership debate had expanded to include half the delinquents. Bellamy held court near the fire while Clarke tried to organize work details. The division was already forming.
"Where did you go?" Monty asked as I approached. He was one of the few people not taking sides, his engineering mind more interested in practical problems.
"Breakfast," I said, dumping my harvest on a relatively clean patch of ground. The berries were a mixture of colors—red, purple, dark blue. The greens looked like weeds to most people. The garlic bulbs were small and dirty.
"You found food?" Jasper appeared at my shoulder, attracted by the word like a magnet. Half the camp was nursing hangovers and empty stomachs.
"Some of it," I said, falling into my nervous-kid persona. "My mom taught me a little about plants before she—" I let my voice catch slightly, selling the emotion. "Before the culling. But I'm not sure about some of these. Maybe someone should test them first?"
Clarke materialized beside us with the focused intensity she brought to medical problems. "What do you know about toxicology?"
"Not much," I lied smoothly. "Just what she told me about being careful. Look for certain warning signs, start with small amounts, that kind of thing."
I watched her examine the berries, noting the way she sorted them by type and color. Her medical training was solid, but it was Ark medicine—sterile environments and controlled substances. Earth botany was different, messier, with more variables and margin for error.
"These look like elderberries," she said, holding up one of the purple clusters.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," I agreed, carefully not mentioning that I knew their exact nutritional profile and three different preparation methods. "My mom always said they were safe if they were dark purple like that."
Clarke nodded slowly, making mental notes. "And the greens?"
"Dandelions, mostly. And some other stuff that looked similar." I shrugged apologetically. "I know it's not much, but I figured something was better than nothing."
"It's a good start," she said, and I heard the subtle approval in her voice. "We should test small amounts first, like you said. Wait a few hours, see if anyone gets sick."
While Clarke organized a careful tasting protocol, I retreated to work on the fire. The coals had died to ash overnight, and starting a new fire gave me something to do with my hands while I planned my next moves.
The survival knowledge provided multiple fire-starting techniques, but I needed to appear like I was learning rather than already knowing. I gathered tinder and kindling with slightly more skill than random guessing would allow, but made sure to fumble enough to seem inexperienced.
"Need help?" Finn Collins appeared beside me, that easy smile in place.
"Just trying to remember what my mom taught me," I said, accepting his presence while internally cataloging everything I knew about his character arc. Charming now, but it would curdle into something darker when the pressure mounted. "Something about friction and dry wood."
Finn nodded like he understood, though his city-station background had probably included even less practical knowledge than he was claiming. "My foster dad was maintenance crew. He showed me a few tricks."
We worked together to build a fire foundation, and I let him take the lead on the actual ignition. It gave me a chance to observe him—the way he preened under attention, how he glanced repeatedly toward Clarke to see if she was watching. The ego that would eventually drive him to massacre a village was already there, hidden under layers of manufactured charm.
The fire caught, and a small cheer went up from the watching delinquents. Success bred confidence, and I could see some of them starting to believe this might actually work.
"Nice job, space walker," Octavia said, punching Finn's arm playfully. She was still all energy and wonder, completely unaware that in a few years she'd be leading an army of cannibals.
I stood and brushed off my hands, then caught sight of movement in the trees beyond the clearing. Just a flash of color that didn't belong, gone too quickly to identify. But my combat instincts—still developing, still uncertain—prickled with warning.
We were being watched.
The knowledge hit me like ice water. The Grounders had found us, were probably assessing our threat level and numbers. In the show, they'd make contact through violence—Jasper's spearing at the river crossing. But that was still a day or two away, depending on how quickly the group decided to move toward Mount Weather.
"Did you see that?" I asked Finn quietly, nodding toward the trees.
He followed my gaze, squinting against the morning light. "See what?"
"Thought I saw something moving. Probably just an animal." I kept my voice casual, but internally I was calculating. If I called attention to Grounder scouts now, it would change the timeline in unpredictable ways. But if I said nothing and someone got hurt because of my inaction...
"There's lots of wildlife," Finn agreed, apparently unconcerned. "We should probably set up some kind of perimeter watch anyway."
"Good thinking." I nodded like the idea hadn't occurred to me, while my mind raced through implications. Every conversation, every suggestion, every choice I made rippled outward in ways I couldn't predict. How much could I change before I lost track of what was supposed to happen?
"Breakfast is ready," Clarke called from across the camp.
The berry testing had gone well. No one had gotten sick from the small portions, and the collective mood had improved with food in their stomachs. I accepted my share of the harvest and ate slowly, savoring the sweetness while my enhanced healing burned through the calories.
"Where did you learn about plants?" Wells asked, settling beside me on a fallen log.
"Farm Station," I said automatically. "My mom was agricultural specialist. She used to quiz me on edible species during food shortage drills."
"Your mother died in the culling?" His voice was gentle, probing without being pushy.
"Yeah." I let real emotion color my voice—someone's mother had died, even if she wasn't technically mine. "She volunteered. Said the younger people had better survival chances." The lie felt true enough to sell convincingly.
Wells nodded solemnly. He understood sacrifice for the greater good, had been raised on those principles. In a few hours, Charlotte would drive a knife into his throat and everything he believed about justice would die with him.
Unless I changed it.
The thought struck me like a physical blow. I could save Wells. I knew exactly when and how he would die. All I had to do was make sure Charlotte never got the chance, or intercept the attack, or warn someone in authority.
But saving Wells might butterfly-effect into other deaths. Maybe Charlotte would kill someone else instead. Maybe the group dynamics would shift in ways that got more people killed later. How could I weigh one life against others I couldn't predict?
"You alright?" Wells asked, noting my expression.
"Just thinking about what comes next," I said truthfully.
"We should head for Mount Weather," Clarke said, approaching with a roughly drawn map. "According to this, it's about a day's walk through the forest. Government depot, probably has medical supplies and communications equipment."
I stared at the map, knowing it was leading them into a trap that would cost months of freedom and dozens of lives. But Mount Weather was also where they'd eventually find critical supplies and forge the alliances that would keep humanity alive through the coming disasters.
"Sounds like a plan," I said, hating myself for the lie.
The group began organizing for travel—deciding who would stay with the dropship, who would make the trek, what supplies to bring. I watched the familiar faces making their choices, knowing which ones would come back and which wouldn't.
But as I shouldered my makeshift pack and prepared to follow them toward their doom, I caught another glimpse of movement in the trees. A figure, watching from the shadows with predatory stillness.
The Grounders were definitely tracking us now. Which meant Jasper's spearing was coming sooner than expected.
And I still hadn't decided whether to save him or let canon run its course.
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