*****As a heads up, this chapter may be intense for some readers: I had a hard time writing it. Once again, my life experience does not include any military service, and this is purely a work of fiction, so I took some liberties on a POW situation. All the italics in this chapter are a flashback to the grisly stuff, so skip that if you want. Use your judgement*****
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She was staring at blank paper. Her entire morning had been unproductive, unless you counted trying to perfect the pen/finger roll- her hand was starting to cramp. She'd heard Wells come in (Raven and Wells getting along was not something she'd mentally prepared for, but they both seemed happy so she didn't really care) earlier but hadn't moved from her bed. She didn't even feel like sketching Lexa, the words her mother had said still echoing in her head three days later.
"I'm not sorry you survived and he didn't. I wish you never signed up in the first place, you know that. But I refuse to be sorry that you're here."
Clarke had reacted, but had been thinking about the words since her mother had spit them out. She understood where Abby was coming from, even understood why she'd said such harsh truths. It was just terrible timing, as usual. Nothing ever synced up with her mother-they'd been battling each other for years for no reason. Even before her father died, they had huge differences (the biggest was Clarke's choice of nursing school rather than medical school). Clarke was just tired of it. She loved her mother: was proud of everything Abby had accomplished, and everything she did to help people (Raven in particular), but fighting her was exhausting, and Clarke was ready to be done.
She was snapped out of her musings by a loud bang from the TV outside her door. She ran out of her room, instantly alert and saw Raven and Wells sprawled on the couch watching Sunday morning cartoons. They didn't notice the slight panic that she quickly quelled (mostly because they were glued to the television). Clarke swallowed.
"I'm going for a run. Food when I get back?" They both turned at her tone: Raven waved her hand in a vague gesture and turned back to the screen, but Wells frowned at her slightly. Clarke was thankful that he didn't say anything as she fled back to her room.
She shakily got into her running gear, glad that the weather was colder so she didn't look quite so ridiculous in her long sleeves and pants. She grabbed her iPod and had her earbuds in before she headed out the door. She glanced at Lexa's apartment as she walked past to the stairwell. She started jogging down the stairs as music started pounding through her ears, and waved vaguely to Miller. Hitting the street, she turned toward the nearby park and picked up her pace steadily until she was lost in the trees. It was a weird time of day, so even though it was Sunday she didn't see a lot of other runners.
Clarke still found it ironic that running brought her so much clarity: in High School she'd detested most forms of physical activity. She hadn't considered herself a runner until it became part of her daily PT in the Marines, and when she'd discovered the cathartic effects it could create. Running was meditative to her; it erased difficult thoughts temporarily, or at least long enough to gain new perspective. Today she concentrated on her breath going in and out and lost herself to the air and the sky and the trees, slowly letting go of the scenes that had popped into her mind when a cartoon had needed a stupid sound effect.
C.G.C.G.C.G.
Clarke was initially kept apart from her squad when they were captured, until they realized that she was the one in charge. She couldn't figure out where she was: they'd kept the whole squad in the dark as they'd traveled to their destination, and covered their heads as they led them one by one to holding cells. Clarke knew the basics of the language, and there were two voices arguing as she was separated from her squad. They were surprised that she was a woman: one man wanted to show her mercy, and one wanted the opposite. The man arguing for mercy won the initial argument, and she was shoved into a cell with three captured journalists. The first few days she was treated almost as a guest: she was fed and generally left alone.
She got to know the three ladies: one Canadian and two Brits that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. One of the Brits, Cece Cartwig, had been held for over a year at the same place, and knew most of the captors by face. The few days they were together, Cece provided a wealth of information about which individuals to really look out for, and which could perhaps be considered kind. This information ended up being imperative to Clarke.
Clarke had been in the cell with the three women when one of the one's Cece told her to watch ordered some others to drag her away. He started yelling at the remaining women in the cell, so Clarke made a scene. His attention turned to her and she was promptly beaten and shoved in a tiny cell for two days, unable to do anything but stand and starve.
She'd almost expected to be left there to die when the same captor came back, dragging her to a different part of the facility. She named him Fuckface along the way.
Turns out that one of the captors knew military insignia, and realized that she was more than just a woman on the squad. They started trying to get information out of her the old fashioned way: she'd been trained in torture techniques, but had never undergone some so rigorous. When waterboarding didn't work, they tried burns all over her legs. When she refused to scream, Fuckface got angry and went to town with a belt. Or was it just a whip? Clarke was barely conscious when they stopped because Mercy Guy arrived and began yelling.
They threw her in the squad cell then, and Lincoln was able to at least stop the bleeding. She'd never seen Murphy speechless, and quipped out something that made him scoff and Finn smile weakly. The other guys all laughed uneasily.
Really, putting them all in a cell together ended up being a terrible idea. Clarke drew a map of what she'd seen being dragged all over, and the others all added to it as they could. Lincoln had been perceived as the biggest threat initially, so he'd been taken within the first few hours. One by one, and by different interrogators, they'd been dragged to all corners of the building. Idiots.
They'd been mostly left alone since they'd all taken their turn. Because they were in a remote part of the county, with it's own regional dialect, most of the squad had no clue what their captors were after. As Clarke talked with Atom, who was the most fluent, about the questions that they'd asked her, they figured that they were after a weapons cache as well as wanting information about their base layout and strategic holdings.
Clarke was taken out of the cell alone twice more by Fuckface. Despite stripping her to nearly nothing when he 'played knives', he never touched her sexually. After the second time Mercy Guy interrupted his sessions, the captors switched tactics and started going after the men. They took a different person each day, becoming visibly more frustrated.
Clarke lost track of time: they all did. It was an endless cycle of 'thank God, not me today', pain, and no relief. Clarke learned later that they'd been held nearly three months. They all became thinner-they were hardly fed, and the physical and emotional toll wore them down. After a while they brought Clarke out to watch what they did to her fellow soldiers. She learned that the reason Fuckface never touched her was because he prefered men- specifically Myles, who was the youngest of them by far and barely out of basic training when they were all captured. That was the worst day.
Despite everything, all the Marines were kept together. They were able to give and take as needed. They kept one another sane (to what extent they could-Myles didn't talk again) and leaned on whoever felt strong that day.
Clarke didn't allow herself to fall apart, and that drove her captors crazy. As the sole woman, they'd figured she would be the easiest to break. Mercy Guy even got annoyed and allowed Fuckface to carve her up again. It was a miracle that they were all still alive when Clarke finally got a chance.
It was ironically because of the blood flowing down her arms that Clarke was able to twist out of her restraints when Fuckface was the only one in the room. He had his back turned, which was his last mistake. Despite being eight inches shorter and nearly emaciated, she locked her arm around his neck and squeezed. After a struggle he passed out and she finished the job, stole some clothes, and loaded up on every weapon she could find, including a set of keys.
That particular day (seriously, it was all luck) she was in more remote part of the building. She staggered her way through corridors, dispatching two more guards and hiding the bodies until she reached the cell where the journalists were being held. Unbelievably, they were now set up with a few books and bedding. Clarke felt rage and incredulity build up, but quickly squashed both as they noticed her standing in the open doorway. Miracle of miracles, they didn't cry out when they saw her. In fact, when yelling down the corridor started alerting the building that she was loose, Cece drew her into the room, shoved her under the bedding and relocked the door.
What followed was the most agonizing five minutes of the entire ordeal. The room was checked once-the Canadian pretended to be sleeping on the bedding Clarke was hiding in, and the Brits lounged with books in what must've been the most convincing manner possible, as the cell was completely written off.
Clarke began speaking quietly to the three women, knowing that time was of the essence. They collaborated information once more and made an educated guess (a damn good one, as it turned out) that the whole building was held by seven armed men. Clarke had no idea if they'd discovered that three out of seven were dead- they'd clearly discovered at least one if they were looking for her.
Clarke knew she had to move if anyone had a chance, so she slipped back out of the cell after ensuring that the women would stay there and continued along the corridors. She made her way to the upper floor of the building and surprised one guard, but as she finished him off another came around the corner and brought up his gun. Clarke dove out of the way shooting back, and managed to hit him, but the game was up.
She refocused herself and began a methodical sweep. Clearing the second floor, she descended the stairs and started to sweep the ground floor. As she drew closer to the squad cell, she heard yelling and sped up.
The last two captors- Mercy Guy and one they'd named Cowshit- had pulled Finn out of the cell and had him in front of them. Cowshit didn't have a weapon on him, but was trying to talk into a radio. Mercy Guy had a knife to Finn's throat. Clarke gripped her gun tightly and caught Finn's eye as they backed him up to the corner.
"Drop gun!" Mercy Guy was yelling. Cowshit turned the corner, still muttering into the radio. Mercy Guy put pressure on the knife, and Finn began to bleed. Clarke made the motion of putting the gun down as Mercy Guy dragged Finn into the next corridor. Clarke rushed the corner just as a strangled sound came from beyond it, still holding her gun. She saw Finn struggling with Mercy Guy. Clarke didn't hesitate to shoot Cowshit, and the two men turned to her. Clarke saw Finn's neck and knew. No coming back from a wound like that, even if they had been in the middle of a trauma center. He looked her in the eye again and tapped his chest as Mercy Guy pulled Finn in front of him.
Clarke fired, and they both dropped for good.
The next two hours whipped by. Clarke released her squad, and they swept the whole facility in pairs. Atom took control of the radio, and finagled the frequency to call out to base. Clarke set the journalists free after the squad was sure the building was secure. Finn's body was carried to the courtyard. They were picked up by an air division and flown back to base, and then to Germany. Clarke lost track of time again. She talked to Majors, Commanders, Lieutenants, and everyone else they told her to talk to. She answered the same questions thousands of times. She tracked where each of her squad ended up- they all showed up at her hearing after the investigation. She knew it was only a formality, but it was still agonizing.
Finn's service overlapped with the verdict date. Clarke sent money to his father and sister so they could set up a scholarship in his name. She got a thank you card back. Myles was committed to a psych facility after none of them could get through to him. They shared their burdens. Murphy would always have a limp from where Fuckface had smashed his foot to shit. Lincoln started spewing peace and signed up to be a motivational speaker. They all gave him crap about it, but secretly they were proud of him. They all found something to keep them going, and shared their burden as if they were still in a cell. Clarke tracked all of their progress, but she herself ran away the second her papers were in order.
She ran by hopping trucks across the country: sleeping with the homeless when she could (a lot of them- too many- were fellow vets that were only too happy to share space), sleeping in the forest when she ended up somewhere she was alone. She saw the country through a haze: a country she fought for, nearly died for. She saw people her age so carefree that it both sickened her and made her green with envy. She avoided her mother-threw away her phone after day two, and only called Lincoln and Murphy sporadically. And Myles: even though he still didn't talk, she made him listen to stories about her travels.
Her haze was slowly lessening when she realized how close she was to Raven. Murphy had mentioned Raven's location in passing (who knew he kept up with her, or that they were even friends), and Clarke realized that she needed to stop and figure things out.
So she did. The city was too full of noise, but she forced herself to stay. Raven was messy, and she couldn't cook, but she didn't push (except to drag her to Thanksgiving). And then she met Lexa, and started focusing herself on something other than memories. Was this how the others felt? When Lincoln had a speech to read; when Atom had a fire to respond to? Could one person be the way out of the swirling darkness of her psyche? Was it even fair to expect one person to drag her to the surface when she had so much trying to drown her?
Clarke decided, on a long run three days after Thanksgiving, that it didn't matter. If Lexa stuck around, only good would come. If she couldn't deal with all of Clarke's shit? Well, Clarke had been through worse.
C.G.C.G.C.G.
Clarke knew Raven was thrown when she got back from work on Wednesday. As Raven came in the door, the silence was filled with her pause: her stare, her thoughts. Clarke was painting again -a crazy, twisty, dark piece-, but had decided to forgo long sleeves in the sweltering apartment.
Wearing only a tank top and splattered sweatpants, she dropped her brush and turned to face Raven fully, arms on full display. She noted Raven's eyes darting all over the place, picking up details of Clarke's imprisonment.
"My body became a canvas." Clarke shrugged as Raven continued to be silent. Raven at least stepped inside and closed the door before walking over to stand a few feet from Clarke. She swallowed.
"I hate when people pity me, do you?" Clarke heard the words and relaxed immediately. Clarke could hide her imperfections -such that they were. Murphy could not. Raven could not. Her skin may be marked, but her body was whole, and her soul was mending back together again. Clarke stepped closer and pulled Raven into a hug. She felt Raven shiver, but neither said anything. Clarke hadn't been this exposed since the last check-up in Germany, when her entire body had been photographed for the investigation. Her doctor there was the only person other than her own squad and a handful of base medics to see her scars.
But Raven knew what it was like to come back broken. Despite not being on good terms with her mother, Clarke had read all of Raven's medical reports. The Raven standing before her today was tougher; stronger in mind because of what she'd endured. Her body may never fully heal, but her spirit had mended.
They separated after a while, and Clarke saw Raven wipe a single tear before turning toward the kitchen, throwing her gym bag in the direction of her room (she missed, as usual).
"I know you want to finish your damn painting, Griffin. I'll order in." Clarke turned back to the darkness now on the canvass instead of inside of her and picked up her brush.
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***phew! Glad that part of the story is over with. Once again, I apologize if I upset you. Happiness for the majority of the rest of the story, I swear. ****
