AUTHOR'S NOTES: I have spent considerable time in the woods as a child, so it is a pleasure to write about nature and wildlife. I have also tried to imagine and expand on the conditions in which the Delinquents are detained on the Ark, and assumed Abby knows what she is doing.

As usual kudos and comments are much appreciated. A big thank you to all that are reading. Hope you enjoy!

LANDFALL

-2-

Review

Survival of the Fittest

"Life is not always a matter of holding good cards,

but sometimes, playing a poor hand well."

- Jack London

Clarke shifts with a sigh, trying to find a more comfortable position on the cold, hard floor. It would be nice to have the luxury of an extra pillow or two, but she guesses she is lucky the Guard allows her mother to supply her with charcoals, even though she is not allowed to talk neither to her nor Jackson, when they come to her cell for the monthly physical. She knows every last one of the Delinquents goes through the same rigorous tests, but they are taken to the Medical Wing. She is never allowed to leave or interact with any of them, although she hears them yell sometimes, even through the thick steel of the door.

She cannot fathom why they bother to keep them in good health, as the dreaded suspicion they will all get floated anyway never leaves her.

She lifts her gaze, the soft scratch of the charcoal on metal stopping for a moment and looks to the far side of the room. The lights are off most of the time in her cell, but she can make out the portrait of Abby she has sketched, what feels like an age ago now. It had been the first drawing after she was put in lockup. She had been terrified they would float her any minute and scared that memories of her mother would fade, like those of her father had already done. His face had been muddled by grief first, then his mannerism, then the events of her childhood had coalesced into one big lump, separate memories merging into one long flash of longing.

The same kind of longing that squeezes her heart now, as she thinks of how she misses her mom, the long hours spent in the infirmary, learning how humans work and how to fix them when they don't. She misses the knowledge, the exhaustion after a long day assisting Abby or Jackson as they go through the never ending queue of patients. Her whole self is adrift and as more and more days go by, she becomes less connected with the reality of the station. She thinks it would be easy to lose herself completely, so she treasures every moment she can recall of her life before her innocence was stripped away, the moment she listened in on her father recording his fateful message.

The lights turn on suddenly and she practically jumps to her feet, throwing an arm across her eyes to protect them from the glare searing her retinas. When she can look again, through a haze of tears, two Guards are stepping inside the cell.

The tallest gestures with his shock baton.

"Prisoner 319, face the wall."

Clarke's stomach churns and bile bites at the back of her throat as she pleadingly lifts her hands. She has known this moment would come, since she turned eighteen a few weeks back, and has tried to prepare for the call to review. She isn't ready by a long shot. Shock and fear race through her in equal measure and she takes an involuntary step back.

"Wait… is it time?" Clarke realizes she is babbling, words falling onto one another in haste. She bites the inside of her cheek with force and breathes deeply through her nose, failing to tame the hammering in her chest.

"Face the wall, NOW!" the Guardsman presses forward and electricity courses along the slender baton with a hum that makes her teeth ache.

"Stop!" Abby's commanding tones halt the man in his tracks and she strides to Clarke purposefully, followed by Jackson who is carrying a medical kit.

"Mom? What's going on?" Clarke blurts it out without thought and her mother's slight shake of the head is a clear message to keep silent. The Guardsman shoots her a hard look.

"Quiet, prisoner," he growls. Clarke notices he has deactivated the shock stick, but not folded it away. Abby sighs and motions Jackson to place the supplies on Clarke's cot. As she takes out various empty test tubes and syringes, she spares the Guard a look.

"I am sure my daughter will comply, if you give her some space, Guardsman," Clarke has many questions, but she holds them close as she plays along and lowers her head meekly as she sits down on the small bed. Her mother's work is hard enough without her complicating things, and she needs to gather as much goodwill as possible if she wishes her review to have a positive outcome.

"Jackson, will you take a sample from the water supply? And get a reading of the air quality as well please," Abby motions for Clarke to roll up one of her sleeves as she readies a syringe. With economic motions she ties a tourniquet around her bicep and Clarke wonders why her hands feel clammy against her skin. Her mother's fingers tremble slightly. Maybe she is as unnerved by the Guards practically hovering a few paces away as Clarke feels. Maybe there is something Abby is not telling her. She sucks a breath in sharply as the needle tunnels into her flesh and resists the urge to jerk away from her mother's hold. Clarke watches as Abby fills vial after vial with her blood and her mother meets her questioning look. Clarke shifts and she a flash of warning in Abby's eyes.

Curiosity is eating at her; she had her physical only the week before and she can see how both her mother and Jackson seem to be on the brink of exhaustion, as if they are overworked.

While she is trying to figure out a way to ask what is going on without getting in trouble again, Jackson breaks the silence.

"The air seems clean, Abby." The Guard who has threatened Clarke, scoffs derisively. "I told you ma'am. She is in isolation and…" an immediate stab of loneliness hits Clarke as Abby lets go of her arm.

"She is breathing the same air as the kids that got sick on this block, Guardsman. And she may be in isolation, but you still bring her two meals a day. One of you could be asymptomatic." The man raises a hand to stop her tirade, looking abashed and she relents, but Clarke notices the tension barely hidden under the professional façade.

"Just let me do my job, ok?" Abby shoots her one last look as she packs the vials away and Clarke supposes they will be tested for traces of whatever bacteria or virus that is making people sick. She understands the risks of an Ark-wide epidemic: their medical supplies are rationed as it is, since they cannot manufacture enough to keep up with the demand and a spread of whatever disease this is, would put additional pressure on resources already stretched as thin as they can possibly be.

Abby stands with a sigh and turns to Jackson.

"Give her the boost shot while I run this to the bio lab, then meet me in medical. We need to go over the notes before we brief the Council."

One of the Guards steps out with Abby, while the second leans against the wall next to Clarke's cot and nods towards Jackson.

"Make it quick. I've got rounds to make before lights out."

Jackson sketches a mock salute and the Guard smirks. He seems more at ease now that her mother has left, and Clarke wonders if he was trying to impress her because she sits on the Council or was just nervous about having to control so many people. She realizes she is frowning at the man only when Jackson taps her on the shoulder, motioning for her to take her arm out of the sleeve of her shirt.

"This will sting a bit," he says as he presses the shot dispenser to her skin. The Guard leans forward.

"What's in it?"

Clarke feels the inoculated fluid spread into her muscle, a sensation like sunburn on the skin, that lessens as the liquid penetrates tissue.

"A boost for the immune system," Jackson explains, while putting his instruments away, "vitamins mostly, some antibacterial agents. Anyone in this wing that may have been exposed to contagion is getting a shot." Clarke is half listening as sudden goosebumps race down her arms and she shivers, hastily slipping back into her shirt.

The two men withdraw to the door, still talking.

"...see me after you shift..." Jackson's voice is cut off abruptly as the door bangs shut and Clarke lets out a long breath, as the tension leaves her body. Her shoulders sag and she feels a twinge in her neck as taut muscles struggle to relax. She doubts she could stand, even if there was somewhere she could go. She was so sure they had come to take her to her review, that now she feels like laughing hysterically, dancing, crying, maybe all at once. Instead she sits on her cot, staring at nothing, wrapping her arms around herself as abrupt chills tickle her spine.

An hour or so later, terrible cramps violently bend her over, irradiating pain from her abdomen to every inch of her body.

The screams follow soon after.

The scream rips out of her throat and Clarke jerkily pushes upright. Memory comes rushing back and, as she takes in the dead console and the battered insides of the pod she realizes that everything has been real. The voice calling her name, the heat, the terrible impact.

She shakes her shoulders experimentally and groans as every bruise on her body makes itself known. With unsteady hands she disengages the helmet from the rest of the suit and takes it off, with a hiss of escaped air. Quickly she runs her hands along her upper limbs and gingerly presses along her ribs. She will have to take off the bulky space suit to make sure, but she can tell her ribs are bruised, if not broken and every movement brings fresh sweat on her brow, despite her caution.

When she looks down, she swears loudly, as her gaze travels along her thigh. Something has torn the suit wide open and her pants underneath and she can glimpse a cut breaking her skin. She flexes her muscles and agony strikes her flesh, like the stab of a hot knife. Clarke moans and thinks that, before she can try to put any weight on that leg, she needs to assess the wound better. She cannot stay inside the pod forever and having seen the tear in her suit, she assumes that Earth is survivable. But who has sent her down and why?

The ghastly pain of the cramps that crippled her in her cell is still vivid, if more feeble and surpassed by the more pressing aches of her cuts and bruises. She remembers the Guards rushing inside at her screams, the taste of blood and vomit, hot in her mouth as she lay on the floor writhing and her mother's voice barking orders. But no matter how hard she tries to focus, how she got from there to inside a drop-pod remains a mystery.

She shoves speculation aside for a later time and helping herself with her teeth, peels her gloves off, tossing them aside. One of them is badly burned and useless anyway. She tears more of the suit away from her leg and grimaces, when dried blood flakes off the cut and fresh one seeps out and soaks her pants. With careful fingers she widens the gash and probes it and takes a better look. There is enough light, coming through the half torn pod door that she can see what she is doing, despite the motes of dust and grit that make the air hazy and coat the back of the throat when she breathes.

The wound seems straight and clean, easy to stitch with the proper tools and not as deep as she feared, but Clarke knows it can kill her yet if she doesn't care for it properly. The first thing she needs to do is wash it, so infection does not settle in, but for now she tears a good strip of cloth from the innermost layer of the suit and winds it tightly around her thigh. Then, leaning her weight against the side of the pod, she stands slowly and carefully shifts more weight onto her injured leg.

It throbs, but doesn't buckle and Clarke reckons she can stand and walk, although she hopes she will not need to run anytime soon. She proceeds to remove the rest of the suit, and it takes longer that she would like, as she has to halt several times and wait for the waves of lingering dizziness to pass. Whatever has caused her to be sick, has weakened her, a headache is building behind her eyes and she recognizes one of the first signs of dehydration.

She is about to let the suit fall to the ground when her fingers find a piece of crumpled paper tucked inside an inner pocket. She pries it out carefully. It is soaked with her sweat and when she unfolds it, part of it sticks together and tears when she forces it apart. Whatever had been hastily scribbled on it, is lost, the ink splotched and diluted by the heat of her body, but she does not need to see the words to know who it comes from. Paper is a rare commodity on the Ark as she knows well. Her mom had to drive a hard bargain to get her sketchbooks and Clarke herself would sometimes trade her rations to acquire more, and then fill every last scrap of them with her drawings.

This particular piece of paper has been torn from a book. Clarke runs her fingers lovingly along the creases on the page. The stamped frontispiece, worked out in antique lettering reads "Call of the Wild" by Jack London. It has always been her favorite and she has read it so many times that the tome from which the page comes is practically falling apart.

"Mom…" Clarke wonders how her mother could have sent her down. Certainly she must have had help. Did Abby know she would fail her review? Had Chancellor Jaha already decided to float her before hearing her out? Was there even to be a review for Clarke?

The pain in her leg intensifies and Clarke is forcefully brought back to the present and necessities she cannot wait on. She hobbles around the close confines of the pod, looking for the supply pack she knows will be there. Her mother would not have sent her down with nothing more than the clothes on her back. After devising such an elaborate plan.

She spots it, tucked in a small storage space behind her seat, but her relieved sigh turns into a half sob as she picks it up. They must have packed some water for her but the bottle has ruptured in the landing and the contents have soaked everything through. Clarke frenziedly rummages through it, then lets it fall in sullen desperation. Only the vacuum sealed rations are salvageable and they won't last her more than a few days at best. The medical powders and vials have been smashed around and form an unidentifiable sludge at the bottom of the bag. There is also a broad-bladed knife sheathed under the rations, of the kind the Guard learns to fight with during training.

She picks the rations out and sets them aside, secures the knife at her belt then makes her way to the pod's blast door. Clarke considers how lucky she is to be alive and mostly unscathed as she surveys the damage. One of the door's hinges has been completely torn away in the impact, the steel bent outwards almost at a ninety degree angle and the metal slab's own weight has warped the other so that the door hangs open, but not enough for her to squeeze through.

As she steps to the opening and gives it a tentative push, the alluring scent of the outside wafts through to her. She feels a light breeze make its way into the pod and ruffle her hair. She has never felt wind before and she thinks she would revel in the sensation if it weren't for the soreness that pervades her bones.

Clarke leans more of her weight into the metal and after a few minutes of struggle, it gives way with a groan, allowing her to step outside.

Her heart quickens as her feet touch the ground. It's soft, mossy dirt and fallen leaves and it gives off a rich and earthly scent when she walks on it. Fallen twigs snap under her boots and as she looks upward she feels the vastness of the sky engulf her. Her breaths come shorter and faster and she starts to feel lightheaded, but try as she might, she cannot control herself. For someone that has not known the sky, save for a man-made one of unchanging metal, pipes and wires there is so much emotion that it borders dangerously close to blind panic.

Clarke resists the urge to rush back inside, to the confines of the world she knows and lets curiosity take her hand and guide her forwards. She is enthralled by the multitude of the forest's hues that surround her, the greens ranging from the pale whitish of newly sprouted leaves to the deep, almost black tones of the moss carpeting the woods' floor. Green, gold, fiery red, subdued browns and the stark gray of rocks. It's a riot of color that sends her creativity reeling, one that she could have never have hoped to transfer to her drawings based on mere description. Clarke doesn't find it hard to believe that she could stand there for hours, just taking it all in, but again it is her struggling body that reminds her of the task at hand.

She concentrates and hears, entwined with all the other sounds she cannot yet put a name to, the unmistakable one of running water. Her mouth fills instantly with saliva and she licks her fissured lips eagerly. She starts walking, even if every step sends spasm up her leg to her lower back.

Soon enough she is rewarded with the twinkling of sun on water amid the foliage and she comes to a stop at the edge of a narrow yet deep creek. Water rushes quickly downhill from where she stands and, even if the sun is almost at its zenith, Clarke catches flashes of silver under the shimmering surface. She will not lack for food at least, if she can catch any of it.

She drops to her knees with a pained grunt and unceremoniously dunks her head under the water. It's icy cold and she re-emerges with a gasp, the gold of her hair muted, spraying droplets everywhere. She shakes her head around like she has seen dogs do in old movies and laughs, forgetting her pain for a moment in the face of unabated joy. At being alive, at being... home.

Slower now, more composed she cups her hands and pushes them in the water, shivering. She gulps the liquid down eagerly and she has never tasted something so sweet. It sings on her tongue, of wild things and resin and the smell of pine on a summer evening, and she has to force herself to stop before she has too much of it and it makes her retch.

Clarke uses the knife to cut a strip at the bottom of her shirt and sets it on a nearby rock. Then she unfastens the makeshift bandage around her thigh, and gently tugs it away from the cut grimacing. In the sunlight the wound is red and glistening, but she feels reassured at the lack of pus or smell. Before she can move and gather some water to clean it she hears a rustling in between the bushes behind her.

Her body freezes for a moment, then Clarke's instincts take over and her hand darts out and grabs the knife she had left bare-bladed on the ground next to her. Her eyes try without success to pierce the greenery, but she glimpses a fleeting shadow, ephemeral like a wisp of smoke, long gone before her gaze can focus on a shape. Everything fall quiet again, but she remains tense, noting that all sound has stopped.

A low growl is all the warning she has before the wolf explodes in a leap from the undergrowth. She tries to push back and her injured leg gives way beneath her and she collapses on her back as the beast, all fangs and yellow eyes closes in on her throat.

Clarke screams in terror and, as the wolf's shadow hides the sun, she brings the knife up.

Its jaws snap shut with a wet crunch.