Title: a beacon, curing
Summary: Throwing a bunch of teenagers at the ground is not the most foolproof plan ever invented. Especially since they're teenagers.
Written for the smoke fan_flashworks challenge.
I'll admit, this is somewhat similar to another of my 100 fics, but I am just a little hung up on how they were meant to survive on the ground, intended proximity to supplies notwithstanding.
Unfamiliar insects, strange, living things whirred in the growing quiet as the Dropship camp settles into to the evening. Wells could almost enjoy it, if not for the looming unknown beyond their sloppy walls and -
"Hey, Wells, I - I don't think the wood is dry enough."
And that. The fire. The fire that still isn't convinced it wants to be a fire rather than a soggy pile of sticks.
So maybe he snaps, just a little. "Oh don't you start on me, Princ -"
(A scoff, as current bane of his existence walks past; "If you want dry wood for the fire you can go get it yourself."
Wells bites back, as much as he can, angry enough to spit ember hotter than the ones he tends - "I told you to shut up, Murphy.")
"Relax. It'll cook just as well. And the smoke will keep bugs away." Clarke shrugs. "It's not like anyone will see it anyway."
She's right, but ... "The Ark might." Even if they've probably already given them all up for dead.
"Only if we burn down the forest."
"That's an idea." The forest just has to be made up of flammable wood first. What's that joke about the people who used to work with money? Assume a spherical chicken? On second thought, that might have been Plato.
Clarke tilts her head to the side, like she's trying to hone in on the ping of damaged circuitry on edge of hearing. She's got that glint in her eye that says she means mischief. "Only if you want to piss Bellamy off."
"You're telling me you don't?"
That startles a laugh out of her. Bellamy, as most of the delinquents can attest, is a grade aleph prick. "I didn't say that."