He hadn't thought his legs worked anymore, but they somehow managed to carry him across the Earth. He'd run to the first place he could think of, the only place he could think of, and the one place he could never go. It wasn't safe, but at the time, camp seemed better than the cage. As it turned out, better didn't exist in this world.

Closed into the metal drop ship and surrounded by trigger-happy guards, Murphy decided this was not better. They stared at him as if he was an animal, some grotesque creature they had captured for dinner, and it was too late that he realized he had only traded one cage for another.

The prison was quiet for now, only the occasional shuffle of a guard's boot against the scuffed floor to interrupt his thoughts. His executioners had left an hour ago in an angry huff, unable to determine what to do with their latest problem.

"Once he's better, we find out what he knows, and then he's out of here, okay?"

"And what if he refuses to leave? What do we with him then?"

"Then we kill him."

Murphy wondered what better meant; he didn't think it was something he was capable of being. Better didn't exist in this world. Looking at the guards leering overhead, he wondered if it mattered. Bellamy had told him to wait until morning, to let Goggle boy moan through the night, but he hadn't. Why should they?

So he stayed silent, curled tight into himself to escape their hostile gaze, to escape the bullet waiting down the barrel of each gun. He hadn't moved from the spot since they dropped him there last night, yet he couldn't stop moving. His body shook uncontrollably, from cold, from pain, from fear— he didn't know. He'd long since grown numb to the feeling, and in his mind, it was the rest of the world that trembled around him.

When Clarke returned, she did so silently. A forced calm masked her rigid demeanor and the only sound that came from her arrival was the light echo of liquid sloshing around in the bucket by her side. She set her meager tools down beside her patient, ignoring the way the metal clang made him jump as she placed the bucket. Instead, she continued her preparations, soaking a ratty cloth in moonshine to sterilize it and hiding behind routine as if it could disconnect her from the reality of the situation.

Murphy instinctively flinched when she reached out to clean his wounds. He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him without ill intent. A hailstorm of boots, a rope cutting his wrists, a sudden drop: those were the memories that stayed imprinted on his skin. The few happy ones that survived had been clouded out in a haze of violence, the Grounders had made sure of that. Thanks to their handiwork, even good intentions burned.

The cloth against his skin felt like fire; his whole body was an open wound and the alcohol coursed through it like electricity, lighting up buried memories of pain. He shuddered at the touch, but the reaction was imperceptible, swallowed up by the continuous tremors that ran through him. But Clarke's hands remained steady, pushing back his matted hair to uncover the scars beneath.

"What're you doing?" His voice sounded raspy and unused but the question retained its sincerity. Uncertain eyes scanned hers for an answer, but she refused to meet his gaze, engrossed in the laceration above his brow instead. Then we kill him. The words floated through his mind, unable to disconnect from the face in front of him. Then we kill him, she'd promised. So why polish trash you were planning to take out in the morning?

"These are going to get infected, it's a miracle they haven't already," she stated in a matter-of-fact tone that dismissed the question without ever answering it.

"I guess they wanted to keep me alive, too," he responded. There was an accusation wrapped in his explanation, but Clarke chose not to acknowledge it, no matter how eery the parallel.

"You and the Grounders should compare notes."

"Did they say anything? Did you see anything?" she asked, his mention of the Grounders rekindling the urgency of their battle. Murphy couldn't decide if it was the alcohol or the irony that made him cringe this time, but the urge to vomit was almost overwhelming.

"Did I see anything?" he repeated slowly, almost baffled by the question. Doctor switched seamlessly to interrogator with impressive speed; she had only just begun to clean his wounds from his last deadly game of questions before beginning her own. Her audacity to play both roles was sickening, but his stomach had long since been empty.

"I saw a few things," he started cautiously and an encouraging nod prodded him to continue. "I saw this contraption, a thin metal strip about this big. They would slide it under your skin to peel it clean off the muscle. And I saw the irons they had just for burning through your flesh. And I saw the rusted scissors they used for your knuckles. And the wire they used for my legs. And the whip for my back and the-"

"Alright, that's enough," Clarke cut him off abruptly as his voice escalated with manic fervor. The interruption silenced him instantly, but Murphy's eyes hadn't quite focused back to reality. The damp cloth against his skin continued to wash away the blood, but the stains ran too deep to let him feel clean again.

"Not the information you wanted?" he asked, giving his caretaker an apologetic smile that was laced in bitterness. "Well I've still got a few toenails left to pull," he offered, and the joke halted Clarke in her tracks because, honestly, she wasn't sure if he was joking. There was a look of utter defeat in his eyes that was as unrecognizable as he was.

"Murphy I'm not going to hurt you," she insisted, finally meeting his gaze. Fortunately his ruined throat turned his sardonic laugh into a ragged cough so Clarke couldn't see how thoroughly unconvinced he was. Then we kill him. Her infallible self-perception was as remarkable as it was disturbing, and Murphy could hardly believe she had actually deluded herself into thinking she was still the hero of this story. But two could play at that game.

"I'm sorry but that's all I know," he amended, "There was a cage and a...room. That was all I saw," he explained and it seemed to satisfy Clarke, but she made no comment. It was apparent the conversation had rattled her, and so she busied herself wringing out the blood-stained rag and replacing it with a new one. Murphy let his head drop back against the support beam as she turned her attention to his arms. He didn't fight her, but his muscles did. It took a patient effort to ease his clenched limbs out enough to examine the damage, but she managed it.

"Honestly, I found out more about you than them," he said, breaking the silence that had descended on them.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Guns." The answer was punctuated by a pointed look at the offending objects, still held firmly in the grips of his two keepers. The guards had lowered their weapons when Clarke entered, but it hadn't lowered his adrenaline.

"It's how I lost these," he continued, gingerly flexing the tips of his fingers to illustrate his point. "Kept saying you only had one and it was all out of ammo. By the second hand I figured it out," he concluded.

"The bridge," Clarke thought out loud, remembering the disastrous peace attempt and realizing how far reaching the repercussions were. The mangled, red fingers rested in her palm like a token of her mistakes, one that wouldn't wash away as quickly as the others.

"I need to soak these," she decided, pulling the bucket closer as she gently guided his hand over the rim. "Just ten seconds." The reaction was instantaneous as his exposed skin was dipped in the moonshine, releasing small bubbles across its surface and a small gasp from his lips.

"Figures," Murphy managed between gritted teeth, trying to talk over the fire in his fingertips. "Spent my whole life lying to get out of trouble and the one time I tell the truth I get this." It was a mistake he would never make again; the agony in his hand served only to reinforce the lesson he had learned. The truth and people's relentless quest for it would only bring him pain; deception was the last shield he had left.

Finally, she nudged his hand back out of the liquid, and he quickly curled the tender digits back against his chest. Convincing his body to repeat the task proved difficult, and the moment Clarke coaxed his left hand into the alcohol, he recoiled, forcing her to keep hold of his wrist. Her fingers fit neatly into the groove carved out by the shackles, and the realization almost made her gag. She released him after only a few seconds, unable to bring herself to cause him any more torment today. Disinfecting could wait until tomorrow; perhaps some rest would serve him better.

"You didn't deserve this." Her voice is almost apologetic, but he can't hear her over the bellow that resounds through the darkened woods- through the darkened memories.

"He deserves to die!"

Bellamy's voice echoed in his mind, repeating endlessly on his nights alone in the forest, and on the nights he wishes he was alone.

"He deserves to float; it's justice!"

The crowd jeered, surrounding him in a cacophony of sound, in a mass of fists and feet. He drowned in the sound of their cheers, gasping for air that wouldn't reach his lungs.

"Then we kill him"

The voice wouldn't disconnect from her face, the one that searched his eyes for a response. No amount of fake compassion could bring him to say it's not your fault. There were some lies even he couldn't tell.

"Not everyone gets what they deserve," he replied, a forgiving statement for Clarke and a promise for him. Not everyone got what they deserved, but those who wronged him certainly would. If mother nature couldn't sort out karma, then Murphy would do it for her. After all, in a world that offered him nothing but death, it seemed only fair to return the favor.

"I guess not," she agreed, setting aside her supplies for later use. For now, it felt as though her healing hands were dong more harm than good so she decided to leave the banished guest to sit in peace. Or as much peace as she could provide.

"Colin, put the gun down, would you?" she commanded, walking over to the guard with an exasperated look.

"Bellamy said to guard him," he replied, holding his ground with naive authority.

"Yes, guard him, not accidentally kill him," she retorted sharply.

"Have to be ready, in case he tries anything," he returned.

"Does he look like a threat to you?" she replied, raising a skeptical eyebrow as she turned her attention to the scrawny, battered figure behind her. Hunched over himself in the corner, Murphy could barely keep his swollen eyes open, let alone stand. The sight gave Colin reason to pause, and eventually he lowered his weapon.

Clarke looked back once more and Murphy gave her an appreciative nod, before resting his head back and closing his eyes. His body had finally stopped shaking, but the world still trembled before him.

Author's Notes:

Disclaimer (because writing villains is hard): This fic is written from Murphy's perspective and is therefore skewed in that direction. I am in no way attempting to justify Murphy's actions in this fic. My intent is to examine where and why things went wrong. In my opinion, Murphy was a power-hungry bully before he was banished, but he wasn't evil. This is an attempt to explain the transformation, NOT to condone it. That is all, hope you enjoy.

Thanks for reading :) As always, comments are adored. I'm open to prompts as well if you'd like to see something else with this kid. I find him fascinating!