In her bemused yet earnest coverage of Supergirl’s final season, Caroline Siede wrote that the purpose of a final season is to pinpoint or affirm the core message of the series. Because Supergirl has always been a story of hope and self-discovery, its final season (amid pandemic production woes and the star’s maternity leave) has been highlighting the supporting cast, showing how they have grown into their roles as protectors, healers, and super friends-turned-family.
The 100, meanwhile, has always been a show to make us, and the multi-apocalypse-surviving characters, question morality and humanity: What will we sacrifice to survive, and how do we live with the consequences of those actions? What makes us who we are? Can we separate our actions from our identities?
I previously wrote about the classic line “we are who we need to be to survive,” and all the angst and plot points that weave through it. The show, and my analysis, seemed to suggest that humans’ capacity for love was our saving grace, even if it sometimes drove us do horrible things. So what could be a more perfect end—a final affirmation of The 100‘s core message—than to challenge that assumption? To kick its feet out from under it and recast this “selfless” motivation as a selfish instinct, one borne of should-be vestigial savagery?
That is exactly what this season, with the addition of prophet Cadogan and his Disciples on planet Bardo, does.
Raised with the belief that humans must prepare together for a final battle that will decide the fate of “all mankind,” the Disciples decry our protagonists’ survival methods, saying that emotional bonds make them “selfish,” since they prioritize (and take vengeance for) their family to the detriment of others. Love for one person or group necessitates hate for the “other,” so the Disciples have substituted a sort of communal support for the excesses of love. The Judge says as much to Clarke in the finale, summarizing, “You suffer and inflict suffering on others. Pain begets pain. That's not justice, Clarke. You say you do these things to protect your people, but you're all one... people. That much Cadogan had right.” To the Disciples, using violence to protect another person is an excuse rather than a justification, and harming another person for any reason, much less for the sake of vengeance, has absolutely no place in society—seeing as every person is needed to win the “final war.” (But don’t get me wrong, Cadogan’s belief system really works in Clarke’s favor, seeing how many Disciples she and her people flat-out killed along their way, only to be met with forgiveness… and some jail time.)
I must say, I was relieved when the Disciples’ belief system didn’t devolve into the classic science fiction tropes of “emotions are a weakness…or are they our greatest strength?” or the related “being completely ruled by logic is no better than being ruled by emotions,” but rather was used to undermine the enduring “love as redeeming force” trope that The 100 already had going for it. Because what is most interesting is how this “selfish love” idea makes us question our characters’ moral aptitudes all over again. If we are judged by what we do, but ignore why we did it, no one could look upon us favorably—and that’s exactly what happens this season.
Previous seasons have always brought hope of an elusive peace, one that will appear if two groups can work out their differences (or more likely, if one group decides that by taking out the competition, their civilization will flourish), but it only ever lasts until the next clash. As Bellamy tells his new Disciple bestie during his limited screen time this season, "Our people have been to war more times than you can know, and let me tell you, it doesn't bring peace, just death and pain, and if you're lucky enough to survive—another war."
To be sure, the ideal throughout six seasons of our characters’ hard-won survival has been for all people to “get along” and stop fighting. Since season five in particular, our characters have been calling each other out for turning to violence, and have collectively, if futilely, pledged to “do better” (aka stop killing people as a first resort) in order to save or recoup the humanity they’ve been peeling away over the years. With the exception of season seven’s Sheidheda and his “kneel or die” philosophy, very few characters have ever worn their bloodlust on their sleeves (Blodreina notwithstanding). The only times we really see other characters commit acts of violence with any level of gusto is when they are avenging the death of a loved one.
And therein lies this season’s moral quandary: are those bonds, those human-to-human attachments—that warp us to acts of vengeance, that pain us when relationships are in turmoil, that exploit our attention, emotions, or loyalty such that we prioritize the life of one person or group over another—worth (literally) fighting for? Or, as the Disciples would say, is it selfish to maintain bonds that cause us to harm those we consider strangers? We've seen that choice play out time and time again on this show, even to the point of genocide—not to mention over and over again this season, as our main cast passed the “I'll help you only if you spare my friends” baton each time a failed rescue or escape mission resulted in another person being taken prisoner on Bardo.
To answer that question, this season pits our characters against their most far-reaching philosophical dilemma yet. Facing armageddon every season would seemingly make it impossible to save the “biggest bad” for last, but the stakes of this season are, in fact, raised. For though the Disciples were wrong about the fate of mankind being determined by a “war to end all wars,” they were right about an impending final reckoning—one that would determine whether we ascend to beings of light and peace or whether, well, our species’ fight is over.
So while this season may have retreaded much of its thematic territory, I can appreciate that it came at our characters’ psyches from a new angle, making them question their tribalistic tendencies and filling in some backstory gaps from the first apocalypse, 400 years prior to the events in the series premiere.
When it came to affirming either that “love is our saving grace” or “love is our downfall,” however, the finale—from the judgment to the final scene—tries to have it both ways. Clarke’s love-and-loss-fueled vengeance initially dooms humanity (and does doom her), but Raven and Octavia’s pleas for second chances and peace, respectively, tip the scales in humans’ favor. From this, I can really only surmise that the writers wanted to say that our emotions—and love in particular—bring out the best and the worst in us, and it’s up to us to let the forgiving and joyous side win while curbing our darker instincts.
This season is all about pairing humanity’s worst and best acts. For starters, an initially sanctimonious Raven has a mesmerizing fall from her moral high ground when she recruits some Eligius mechanics to what only she knows will be a fatal if world-saving mission; though Raven is wracked with guilt for the remainder of the season, she sort of takes solace in the fact that though the head mechanic realized her deception in his final moments, he chose to complete the radioactive-pipe-fixing mission anyway, placing his family’s safety above petty vengeance. Duplicitousness, meet selflessness. (Because, smart as she is, Raven hasn’t realized that the moral high ground on this show is really more of a moral high wire, and as soon as you start flouting your moral superiority, the weight of your crown quickly sends you plunging from your perch.)
In the ever-familiar “you killed my best friend/family member, and now I’m killing your entire civilization” department, we see Echo nearly poison the Disciples’ air supply to avenge a believed-to-be-dead Bellamy, only to be talked out of it by her “do better” friends… immediately followed by Hope attempting the same act of bio-warfare, only to be sabotaged by her mother, who sacrifices herself so that her daughter won’t have to live with the weight of anger-fueled mass murder, like she did. In both cases, much like most of the Disciples’ deliberations, the level-headed peacekeepers won out, which stands in stark contrast to the ultimate flame-stoker, Sheidheda, who revels in violence and power—believing, like all villains, that mercy is weakness and fear is preferable to respect. He is quite literally the embodiment of the worst that humanity has to offer.
Speaking of which, the writers also bring back the bunker as a setting this season, a place that, if its walls could talk, would still be screaming about the many bloody deaths they witnessed in season five’s makeshift gladiatorial fighting pit. Truly, the isolated and resource-scarce bunker showed us the worst humanity could become, and certainly the lowest depths to which Octavia’s empathy could be buried without being lost for good. Even Earth, a symbol of the death that humans seemingly can’t help but bring upon themselves and everything they touch, made a comeback this season. Both the bunker and its planet of residence were primed to be reclaimed—as places that could host life and hope, not death and misery—while they were simultaneously given more relevance as the birthplace of the Disciples (and Grounders) and the discovery of the wormhole-opening orbs.
Another best/worst pairing worth mentioning is that of foil characters Levitt and Bellamy, each individually swayed to the opposite side, willing to turn against their long-held beliefs and loyalties. Levitt, coming from a loveless Disciple upbringing, is entranced by the depth of emotion in Octavia’s memories, not the least discouraged by love’s uglier side; he is pretty much Octavia’s lapdog after that, helping her and her friends in key moments, including a little thing called saving all of humanity from extermination. Bellamy, meanwhile, is converted to the Disciples’ faith during a mountainous sojourn that culminates in a heavenly vision and a promise that “all the violence and chaos and death wasn't meaningless”; after betraying his friends’ trust and pledging himself to prophet Cadogan, Bellamy becomes a shocking if rather pointless casualty of war when his actions threaten Madi’s wellbeing, leading Clarke to shoot her once-bff.
Then, of course, we arrive at the series finale, where this “humans at their best and worst” dichotomy is kicked up a notch. Right off the bat, Madi sacrifices her life for the safety of her friends, only for her mother figure Clarke to kill Cadogan in what can only be described as a John Wickian rage—right in front of humanity’s Judge. This leads to what I would call the quote of the season: “So your need for revenge is more important than the fate of the entire human race?” Clarke’s defense started out well, with her pointing out the hypocrisy in these “higher beings” exterminating species that don’t live up to their ideals, but then slightly undercuts herself by screaming, “Did love make me do this? You’re damn right it did!” And yet, I can’t fault the heartbreaking scene that ensues, when, in what she believes are her final moments of existence, Clarke does not revel in her vengeance but returns to her daughter’s side, cradling her in a piteous embrace. Then, just when you think humanity is doomed, Raven, ever the problem-solver, steps in with one last plea: “Let us keep trying to do better. We have. We will.” And just like that, she effortlessly maneuvers the one-person exam into a group test.
This takes us to the battlefield, where the 300ish humans left in existence must decide whether they must win a final war, pass a final test, or pass a test by not starting a war, to achieve transcendence. (Hint: it’s the last one.) Naturally, our remaining protagonists must insert themselves, and the love/pain juxtapositions run rampant. Levitt gets shot trying to stop the war, Octavia runs into battle to save Levitt, and Echo runs into battle to save Octavia. “If we keep killing each other, there won’t be anyone left to save,” the once-Blodreina yells to both armies. “If we fight this war… we don’t deserve to survive… The only way to win is not to fight.” After a paradoxically satisfying vaporization of devil-on-your-shoulder-incarnate Sheidheda, Octavia’s speech hits home, and incredibly, the last surviving humans defy the Judge’s expectations and lay down their weapons, proving we are more than a gun-toting mob. And so it is that our self-loathing yet persistent protagonists, the ones who have learned from years of warfare and violence, prove worthy of Raven’s plea and are responsible for bringing about an everlasting peace.
Oddly more heartwarming than the ceasefire that determined the fate of all mankind—not to mention more demonstrative of humans’ potential for improvement—was a much more intimate moment, one between Murphy and Emori. Having failed to save his beloved from her injuries, Murphy inserts Emori’s mind drive into his own head, ensuring both their demise but also ensuring their final moments will be spent together. If this season was meant to challenge the assumption that our capacity for love was our saving grace, it failed. For it cannot be said what a huge leap forward, what a shining symbol of redeemability it is when epitome of selfishness John “cockroach” Murphy tells his better half, “Without you, I’d just be surviving. I wouldn’t be living.”
This sentiment comes full circle in The 100’s final moments, when Clarke’s self-pitying lamentations are cut short by the Judge’s reappearance, and the news that though, yes, Clarke has been made to bear the sins of mankind (let’s be honest), her friends rescinded their immortality so she wouldn’t have to bear it alone. Clarke, Raven, Murphy, Octavia, Indra, and all the other main cast members who only survived to this point because of one another—through acts of love, sacrifice, violence, and all—will spend the rest of their lives together on the planet that itself was reborn after the sins of man seemed to damage it beyond repair. All of this underlines what The 100 has demonstrated throughout its run: emotional attachments may get us into trouble, but they also get us out. Characters sacrifice themselves only to be rescued by the very people they gave themselves up to protect; they make bad decisions only to be consoled by their friends and family, and encouraged to do better next time; they fall down, physically or emotionally or morally, only to get picked back up. With six seasons of misery and rage and loss under their belts, our protagonists had every reason to have forsaken their souls and walled off their emotions. But they did the opposite, persistently seeking to right their wrongs, which is all any of us can ever do. In essence, no human would have passed the Judge’s test alone, because no human achieves their best alone.
So yes, even though every identity-questioning sci-fi story worth its salt is themed with “emotions make us suffer, but they also bring us our greatest joys,” I still like hearing it. When I think back to the years our characters spent fighting, scheming, betraying, sacrificing, suffering, struggling, regretting, yet hoping to survive, I can’t help but smile at the family they made of each other along the way, and the desperately sought peace they’ve finally managed to secure. Yes, it took their small group being the last humans in the known universe to get here, but finally—finally—they can live out the rest of their lives without the threat of war or homicidal AIs or nuclear apocalypses, and all the pain and angst those bring. They can live, and not just survive. And they’ll do it together.
Stray observations:
Transcendence to a pain-free, peaceful realm is a massively oversized reward for not killing each other this one time, right? And did the Judge even take into account that they only stopped fighting because they were promised said eternal peace? For goodness' sake, why not just ask them the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow and be done with it?
Wouldn’t you be so pissed if you died in that gunfight, like one minute before transcending?
I thought I was upset when Clarke got left behind, but then I saw the dog had been denied transcendence, too, and I nearly flipped the table.
Am I the only one who was fine with everyone instantly forgiving Clarke for killing Bellamy, on account of how annoying he was being by trying to save them? Though I must say, if I have to go out, I hope I do so like Bellamy—with a beyond-the-grave “I told you so.”
For all the elite training they do, the Disciples sure can be taken down by just about anyone.
Why are they even wasting time with M-cap? Just threaten the lives of their friends and they'll tell you whatever you want to know. If the Disciples knew anything about emotions, they’d have figured out how to manipulate Clarke’s cohorts way faster.
I don’t know how purposeful this was on the writers’ part, but it is interesting to note that the Disciples are an amalgam of all the threats Clarke and Co have faced before: they excommunicate their criminals to other planets like the original 100 and the Eligius crew, they are primed for warfare like (if more restrained than) the Grounders, they are devoted to a self-proclaimed god/prophet like planet Beta’s Primes, they are more or less isolated on an otherwise-uninhabitable planet like the Mountain Men and season five’s bunker dwellers, and critically, they separate themselves from emotions like ALIE and want everyone to ascend to a… city of light.
Lexaaaaaaa!
Kudos to Jordan for pointing out the obvious flaw in the Disciples’ beliefs by saying, “Ridiculous. We evolve to a higher level through our lowest behavior? The answer to all this violence isn't just... more violence.” But how did no one criticize the Disciples for believing that killing to ensure the survival of one’s family is selfish but killing to ensure the survival of one’s species is totally selfless? How about we hold all life in high regard, folks? I also take issue with the hypocrisy of valuing the life of their Prophet and their precious level 12s over all others’, but I digress.
This final episode has to be one of the best examples of why we shouldn’t grade groups as a whole.
So I’ll just stay here and wait for the Adventures of Murphy and Raven spin-off, then?