The muse spoke and it spoke loudly. Who was I to argue? I've seen a few of these type of fics before but never this blend. Hopefully it is entertaining, thought-provoking, and all the other things good fiction should be.
Updates will be semi-regular, as I am able, but know that this is unfinished and I am writing as I update so bear with me. Real life is frustratingly demanding. And now, on to the show!
Chapter 1
Clarke remembers every detail of the moment they touched down on earth.
She remembers panic, exhilaration, sweat, aching in her fingers from holding chair, and the pull of the belts across her lap and chest. She remembers taking that first breath of unfiltered, non-recycled air. She remembers drawing in deep, closing her eyes, and feeling an immense sense of freedom spread like a fire through her form…
That sense was fleeting apparently because she feels none of it now. Yes, the air is sweet and crisp, smelling of earth, damp, and leaves, and she breathes deeply of it but she also feels the churning weight of frustration coiling in her belly.
She only received her task a few moments ago but already she feels flushed and angry because, while her relationship with her mother had never been good, she had never felt so trapped. The earth beneath her standard issue boots is littered with branches and pine needles and they snap under her weight, bowing into the soft, dark soil.
Perhaps, it was the remnants of a childhood long expired but she had thought her mother would loosen her grip once the Ark came down. Reality was very different.
Two weeks had passed and nothing had changed. Clarke was relegated to the medbay and her mother's close and watchful eye. They had patched the wounds received by the impact of the Ark landing and the occasional poisoning from an adventurous soul trying a new and apparently dangerous food. The hours were long and hard, filled with back breaking work and training.
From her brief lunches sitting in the pale sunlight away from the smell of sanitizer, the glare of white sheets, and the immense pressure of her mother, she knew that a rough wall had been constructed around the wreckage of the Ark—electrified by a few days' work on the part of Wick and Raven—and some semblance of order had been set up. Chancellor Jaha was still lost to them, presumably dead, and Marcus Kane had taken his place, the only other occurrence that thinned her mother's lips other than Clarke's own behavior.
Ahead of her glowed the lights of the Ark in the fading light. Her long day still held one more task and she would see it done. She stepped into the shadows of the Ark and made her way down the main hallway.
Shouting and sounds of weight being thrown about echoed down the deserted corridor. The entry to the makeshift detention area was unguarded and the doors were accessed so Clarke passed on. The keycard in her palm misted with sweat. What exactly had she gotten herself into? Several of the Guard should have been on duty to check her ID and confirm her assignment.
Even still this was preferable to her mother's company at the moment. With that in mind, she stepped carefully into the cell and found herself in the chaos.
Three guards were huddled in the corner holding down a bucking, writhing form. They were struggling and their foreheads were shiny with sweat. "Get him down!" One yelled and, on impulse, Clarke found herself moving forward until they caught sight of her.
"Miss Griffin, please step back." One stepped to her, panic and shock in his expression. She recognized him from Station 3. He had let her watch the moonrise with him one evening after a particularly vicious fight with her mother, sharing his battered thermos of tea.
Another guard shouted over his shoulder. "Edmund, what is she doing here? Get her out now! He's not contained."
She held up the unused key card. "I was sent here by my mother." Not entirely a lie but certainly far from the truth. Her mother had wanted her as far as possible from this assignment and Clarke had wanted to be as far as possible from her mother. So she had swiped the key card while her mother watched, tight-lipped, threw a medkit over her shoulder, and stalked out of the medbay. Now she stood here, wondering at the wisdom of her actions but too proud to step away.
"There! Hold him! Hold him there!"
Her excuse seemed to be enough for Edmund and he threw himself back into the fray. The bucking seemed to lessen with his return, though she could still hear and see the ongoing struggle.
She tried to see what was happening but only the thrashing of a tattered pair of boots was visible amongst the guard uniforms. There was sound of pain as one of those boots made contact with Edmund's stomach and she heard the crackle of the baton.
"We're live!"
A snap and then the smell of burnt flesh filled her nose. The struggling ceased and seconds later the guards were stepping away, wiping at their foreheads and breathing hard.
Their quarry was left sitting behind, bound by each wrist to the grate above his head and feet tied together and fastened to a bolt in the floor, all with corded steel ties. His chest was heaving and even across the room Clarke could see the glassiness to his eyes. He looked like a wild thing, with unkempt hair and covered with mud, but he wore the same standard issue boots, though more worn than hers, and dark, nondescript clothing of the Ark. He moaned softly, hands twitching and writhing as he recovered from the burst of electricity.
For a moment, she was confused. She had no psych experience. They should have called in a behavioral health tech for this, not medical. Then she saw the blood. It spread up his left side, darkening his shirt dangerously near his heart, and pooled on the floor around him in a macabre painting.
The fear snapped out of her with a blink. This was her patient and he needed care. "What happened to him?"
"We aren't sure. We think a stray bullet must have caught him. We thought he was a grounder at first."
She paused in rifling through her kit and knelt on the floor, a few safe feet away, to set out her things and to put on a pair of gloves. "What is he then?"
"Came down with the delinquents, the 100."
Clarke wondered at the poison in Edmund's voice but had no time to inquire after it. She located a pair of scissors and gauze and scooted forward.
He was young, her patient, slightly older than her with shaggy dark hair that fell across his forehead and freckles dappled across his cheek bones. In the dim electric light, it was difficult see anything else. "I need more light," she called and heard movement behind her.
She touched her patient's shoulder lightly and waited for a reaction. When she received none, she moved in. She wasn't an idiot, three guards had struggled to control him. She didn't particularly want to end her day in the infirmary herself. Another light clicked on behind her head and her patient was illuminated.
His respiration appeared to be shallow but was regular. Pupils were dilated but symmetrical so head trauma was unlikely. Pulse was fast and thready. Temperature was elevated, though whether that was from his struggles or from infection it was difficult to say without inspecting the wounds. Bruises and scrapes in various stages of healing littered his arms and legs, particularly prevalent on his knuckles and hands. It seemed then that the wound on his side was her primary concern.
Preliminary inspection done, Clarke cut open his shirt around the wound and began her work. She was just reaching for another pad of gauze to staunch the blood loss when suddenly he lurched forward.
The guards also moved in close, batons brandished and crackling.
"No!" Clarke threw up a hand behind her. She wasn't sure how his body would react to another blow. "No! It's alright! We're alright! He's just afraid!"
He met her gaze, half-lidded and watery.
"Aren't you? You're just afraid." She held up her hands, revealing the gauze. "We haven't been introduced. My name is Clarke. You've got a wound to your side and I would like to tend to it. Would that be alright?"
She waited tensely as he blinked sluggishly at her. Then his eyes slid closed and he went limp.
Clarke spent over an hour tending to her patient. He had indeed been shot in the side, a deep gorge across his ribs, but she didn't believe it would be life threatening, given rest and time. She created puddles of muddy water where she tried to wipe away the dirt and it took several gauze pads to stem the blood. When that was accomplished, she administered a healthy dose of antibiotic, a vitamin injection for good measure, and bandaged the wound thoroughly.
The job was dismal by comparison to the pristine medbay but it was all she could do for now. She would have to talk to her mother about future trips. He would need tending if he was to recover properly. Infection and fever were a serious risk.
Edmund waited for her by the door, just inside the room. He looked uncomfortable now that the excitement was over, but his eyes darted to her patient every few moments and his gaze darkened with every look.
"I'll need to return in the morning to check on him." Clarke said, gathering her things. "He's stable for now though."
Edmund nodded, but it did not seem as though he heard her.
She waited a moment, weighing her words. "I would go easy on those," she gestured to the baton at his side. "He's too weak for any more trauma."
"I'm not sure he'll get that luxury. He's lucky they didn't shoot him dead on sight." Wells looked as though he wanted to finish the job and the stare made Clarke's blood run cold.
"What do you mean?"
He looked confused. "Don't you know who this is?"
Clarke threw her bag over her shoulder and joined him by the door, shaking her head. "No, should I?" She cast one last glance back at her patient, head drooped against his chest and the white of the bandages. He seemed innocent enough but a twist of apprehension filled her as Edmund stood beside her.
His eyes were dark and serious as he answered, "Clarke, he's the one the shot the chancellor. That's Bellamy Blake."