"Quinn look; it's a carrot!"
"Looks more like a blob if you ask me."
She tries her best to cling to the memories, only to have them skitter away underneath her grasp. Blinking her eyes open she registers a ravine, one relatively close to camp if her memory is correct, and the shroud of fog hanging over everything in sight. Despite that, she registers strong pulls at her body, drawing her out of delirium, and everything slots in place quickly. Instinct takes hold, and she launches a knee, an elbow, a kick, anything she can at the person carrying her in warm arms. She's somewhat crazed, still trying to shake the feel of unintentional sleep and the ache in her skull, when whoever has her in their grasp lets out the quietest curse.
"Dammit, Quinn. It's me; it's Wells."
It takes a second for the voice to sink in, the fact that it does sound remarkably like Wells, before she ceases in her attack, falling slack. She briefly realizes she's being carried, bridal style, through the underbrush towards where the faint sounds of the encampment are echoing from. Immediately she tries to wrangle out of his grip, more gently this time. His arms are like iron.
"Quinn, you got knocked in the head. They took your wristband. You've gotten injured too many times today; I'm not letting you try and walk on your own."
Only after Wells' words does the dull ache in her wrist join alongside every other injury on her body. She glances at it briefly, the pale, freckled skin now marred with red lines. Somehow the loss of her wristband is heavier than when the metal was attached to it. She takes a fragmented, deep breath, holding back any emotion.
"And you?" She asks, her voice shaky. Wells takes a few seconds before responding.
"The same."
She pushes down the despair in her chest, noting that Wells is giving a decently wide berth to the encampment as he circles around it. Where they both come to rest isn't far out of the invisible border, but it's nowhere near close enough to gain any attention. She makes herself comfortable underneath a tree, this time spine stiffened with anxiety as Wells looks over the bruise that's no doubt forming on her temple. He takes a cursory glance over the other wounds, jaw clenching as he looks over the blood soaked into the ties around her thigh. A hand runs over his sweat-slicked forehead, massaging his eyes.
"I told Monty I'd keep you safe." There's regret in his voice, and Quinn can tell that for all the stoic, rough attitude he's sporting now it's a front for the guilt swelling to the surface.
"I'm fine," She replies. "I'm just glad they didn't kill us. I should've known something would happen."
It's obvious who dragged the both of them to the river. Bellamy and Murphy, and whoever else was stupid enough to follow in their lead. She doesn't have to ask if Clarke and the others are back yet; Clarke would never allow something like this to happen, and she knows damn well Jasper would get himself punched silly over the whole ordeal. Sighing heavily she leans back against the tree, Wells next to her. They both sport the same look in their eyes.
"My dad's going to think I'm dead."
His voice doesn't break, but it's clear that he's torn up about the fact. For all intents and purposes, the ones without wristbands would be presumed dead to the Ark.
Quinn wonders briefly if her father has seen her terminated transmission. She wonders whether he collapsed in shock, or even cared at all. It's only ever one or the other with Marcus; emotion in its entirety or nothing at all, and when she thinks about her time spent in the Skybox she knows it's the second option. He stopped caring once her mother fell ill.
"They'll come down, if we can manage to keep Clarke's wristband on, and the others," Quinn says, trying to inject as much confidence in her voice as she can. She doesn't look over. "Abby would never abandon her."
Wells turns to her, their gazes meeting, and in his eyes she can see something under the surface. It's impossible to decipher, and rather than trying to do just that she crosses her arms.
"Get some sleep. You deserve to after tonight."
Wells lets out a snort. "You should be the one sleeping. Since we've arrived all you've gotten is the hell kicked out of you. Let me take watch."
It's somewhat of a comfort that his thinking is on par with hers, because there was no way she was letting both of them succumb to sleep when any threat lurked in the shadows, despite how far they were from camp. There's no doubt a bruise blossoming on her temple, matched with the outline of Murphy's hands on her neck. Add the deep gashes on her thigh and wrist, she's a fucking disaster. Still, Quinn nudges Wells gently with her elbow.
"I slept for like, the last hour, didn't I? Your turn."
"I'm not in the mood for jokes," He says seriously, cutting through her lighthearted tone. Before he can extrapolate further Quinn continues, a sigh escaping her lips.
"I can't sleep even if I wanted to." A half lie; her entire body is begging for sleep, but her brain won't allow it. "I'll wake you in a few hours and we can switch then."
After a pause she blurts out her next words, shame causing color to spread on her cheeks.
"I can't sleep knowing they're still out there…"
It's silent as Wells takes his time processing what she says, his eyes darting out into the darkness around them. It's hard to make out the foliage, the only light offered out this far coming from the moon.
"They'll come back."
In this moment he is an echo of his father; words as confident and sure as any time Thelonious Jaha speaks before the throngs of the working class. They're meant to be reassuring, but the hollowness in his eyes offsets what he's saying, again a mirror. Instead of commenting on it Quinn tries to take his words to heart, bringing her undamaged leg upright and close to her chest.
"Yeah…"
"Tomorrow morning I'm going to dig graves for the two who died on the dropship."
"I'd say I'll help but I'm sure you won't let me."
"Damn right."
There's no more talk for the rest of the time Wells is awake, and after he slips into dreamland Quinn begins taking inventory on their surroundings. Every tree, every bush, every major rock in her vision. It pays to make note of her surroundings, she knows. Marcus instilled it in her from a young age, along with her combat lessons. Guilt once more fills in her chest as she realizes despite his thoroughness Wells was still made a victim. Security's daughter, and she's a failure in every way so far.
The stars are pretty from down here, she thinks. Just specks in her vision, though more appealing now that she's inhaling rich oxygen and running her hands over dirt. Monty had mentioned the theory of alternate universes; somewhere out there, there was a version of her that had been rocketed out into that vast emptiness she was staring at now. Suppressing a shudder she's hesitantly relieved it's not her.
After around four hours, give or take, she nudges Wells awake. Twice now her eyes had fallen and her chin had met her chest. She let the boy sleep for longer than they had agreed upon, and intended on continuing that, but her body was at her limit.
The next time she opens her eyes, sunlight is streaming through the trees and Wells is in front of her, a makeshift shovel in his hands.
Quinn sits upright, wincing at the stiff muscle of her neck, and within seconds Wells notices her movements. He slams the blade of the shovel into the ground, breathing heavily. Near the mounds is a small mountain of clothing, no doubt taken from the dead. Her respect for him grows in that small observation; he's resourceful.
"Well, clearly you don't need my help."
Wells' mouth tugs into a half-smile before stepping over to reclaim his jacket. He winds it over his shoulders and casts glances between the three of them; the graves, the clothing, and Quinn. She doesn't have to hear any words to know the unasked question caught in his throat.
Everything hurts like hell, worse after a night of fitful sleep and less than stellar bedding, but she powers through it as she stands on two shaky feet. A few deep inhales, and she's ready to face the tumultuous bullshit of the day, aware that Clarke and the others aren't back yet. Wells would have woken her up if that were the case, she's certain.
Silently she begins gathering as much of the clothing as she can carry, Wells barely hesitating before following behind her, and the pair traipse their way through the brush towards the still-exuberant sounds of the dropship. They barely hesitate upon seeing two people making out passionately in the ferns, and Quinn rolls her eyes before pushing past the scene.
Everyone is acting like absolute morons, a gigantic gaggle of people chasing and taunting at someone as Wells and Quinn skirt past, and her teeth clench uncomfortably in her mouth. Without leadership things were bound to go to hell. She doesn't blame Wells for not taking up the reigns. They're not their parents, he said it himself, and she can't imagine the weight on his shoulders as he stands before a crowd of misfits. Uncomfortable in his own skin with the unofficial title, despite knowing what it takes to uphold it.
There's a select group of people slamming their palms on makeshift drums, and Quinn's gaze turns to them, distracted enough that the person addressing has the advantage. The group has good rhythm, and she enjoys listening to it.
"Hey, where'd you get the clothes?"
"Buried the two kids who died during landing," Wells replies, all muscles tense as he stares back at Atom's face.
"Smart. You know, I'll take it from here. There's always a market for-"
Quinn comes forward before Wells can react, putting her body between the two. It's a stupid move, because she's beat to heavens, but it's her first instinct and damn if she's letting these dipshits take whatever small semblance of a plan Wells is clinging onto.
She needs any type of leadership at this point, aside from Bellamy, though she's too ashamed to admit it.
"You want to just take shit, you have to go through me."
Atom snorts derisively, his brows raising. "You kidding me? Do you even know what you look like right now?" His words are enough to make her pause before he continues. "If you were at your best maybe I'd back down, but seeing you all busted up is not as intimidating as you think it is, believe me. Even if you are Kane's daughter."
It's hard to note, but there is a semblance of warning in his words. It's a mercy in and of itself, but Quinn keeps her gaze steeled as she focuses on Atom, a small amount of respect burgeoning in her chest.
"We share based on need, just like back at home," Wells offers, stepping alongside Quinn.
"You still don't get it, do you Chancellor?"
The barbed, callous voice can only be matched to one person, and despite her want to smack everyone into some sense most of the energy leaves her as Bellamy joins the fray. The numerous times he's exerted his authority leave nothing to the imagination; no matter what the two say to justify their words right now everyone in view is more content to follow his whims than rational thinking.
There's a woman walking out of his tent, and she presses a kiss to his lips before leaving. Bellamy's shirtless, a gun lodged in the waistband of his pants, and Quinn can't help but let out an amused chuckle at the sight.
"Something funny, Kane?"
She meets Bellamy's gaze easily, eyes darting to the weapon.
"Something funny about you accidentally blowing off your dick. I hope the safety's on, though I'm not hoping too hard."
Bellamy scoffs before advancing on them once more, his gait lazy like a tiger's.
"I'm not so careless. Bold words coming from the most injured person here."
She's trying so hard to ignore the pain coursing through her body from the many injuries, but his words bring them up before she can stem them under adrenaline. Quinn clenches her jaw, standing stoically beside Wells and choosing to try and push the pain into the furthest recesses of her mind. Pain is just a bodily response, after all, and it's just that her mind knows she's injured. There are more pressing things happening now.
"This is home now," Bellamy begins. "Your father's rules no longer apply."
He struts forward, tearing the garments from Wells' hands, but Atom presses a palm to Quinn's shoulderblade to hold her back. She had darted forward at the intrusion, and she glares at him now, smacking away the appendage.
"Atom, actually, hold up. He wants it back? He can take it." Bellamy's gaze is dark. "I dare you. And without your knight's help." A crooked smirk and brown eyes meets her own. "Though I doubt she'd be able to do much, considering."
The sheer anger coursing through her veins is enough to overpower the pain singing from every bruise and cut, but it's cut off after a moment of silence, when Wells' hand clasps over her wrist and the two are torn from the grouping. Wells drops the heap of fabric to the ground, casting one last glance at Bellamy. Immediately throngs of people come up like vultures, grabbing for the clothing.
"Is this what you want? Chaos?
"What's wrong with a little chaos?"
A scream interrupts the impending smackdown, and Bellamy tugs a shirt over his chiseled form as Quinn and Wells follow his lead, albeit reluctantly. There had been moans and screams of pleasure eliciting from the camp since they all landed, and Quinn had tuned them out faithfully. This scream, however, causes her stomach to twist in knots.
The sight to which they all ascend upon is not was they expect, to say the least.
Murphy holds a girl by the shoulder and nape, using all of his strength to push her closer to the fire that's still burning steadily. She responds in turn, using every ounce of her muscle to fight against the force.
"Bellamy," Murphy calls, looking beside himself with pride. It churns Quinn's stomach. "Check it out, we want the Ark to think that the ground is killing us, right? Figure it'll look better if we suffer a bit first."
There's more than one person standing in Murphy's proximity, and before Quinn can dart forward and launch a full assault Wells is there, knocking Murphy to the ground with a grunt.
"Let her go!"
Quinn means to dart forward, aid him in his valiant actions, but a tanned, muscled arm stops her from doing just that. She looks up, glaring daggers at the sight of Bellamy holding her back.
"Ah ah," He chastises, a mask over his features. "He made his bed, now he has to lie in it."
"You can stop this," Wells says desperately, and it somewhat breaks Quinn's heart that he's admitting the impact of leadership Bellamy has over everyone.
"Stop this?" Bellamy responds lightly. "I'm just getting started."
Before Wells can respond a fist is coming up to meet the curvature of his jaw, and he slumps backwards. Immediately Quinn tries to press forward, but Bellamy's arm is keeping her locked in place, as is the other arm being used to drag her back to the outskirts by her forearm. The crowd begins chanting, eager for a fight, and she presses against the restraint of Bellamy's hands, a choked sob catching in her throat as she watches the encounter press on. This is fucked, monumentally fucked, and she's damn sure Bellamy knows it. Still, the amused glint in his eyes only makes her more enraged, and she can tell despite her injuries it's keeping his all to keep her on the outskirts.
Fists are pounding, the roar of the crowd no more than white noise in her ears, and Quinn falters in her attempts to gain access as Wells pushes Murphy to the ground.
It's the most violent she's ever seen him, and at the sight something breaks inside of her. He doesn't want to do this, she knows, but anger is an overpowering emotion, and one she's been left seated with too many times to count. Even she wants to pummel Murphy's face in, Bellamy's too if time were allowed. Still, she lets out a curse, lamenting the weight that's somewhat sagged onto Bellamy as he keeps her in check. Her injuries are doing little.
"Don't you see you can't control this?" Wells calls, eyes furious and alive as he stares at the older boy.
The glint of metal is all Quinn sees before she's pressing at Bellamy's arms with amazing adrenaline, desperate calls crying from her lips. Despite the hiss of her limbs and injuries.
"Wells watch out! Murphy has-"
Her cries are cut off by someone clamping a large hand around her mouth, the stale taste of sex and sweat enough that she wants to gag. She hates this, doesn't want to taste the salt on her tongue, and Bellamy's eyes are dark as he pulls her further back from the onslaught.
"You've helped him enough," He says firmly, and Quinn's reply is a powerful bite to the palm of his skin.
"Fuck!" He curses, dropping her to the soil below as he shoots one last glare before stepping towards Wells and Murphy. He takes another homemade shiv from his pockets before throwing it down on the forest floor, lips set in a thin line as he addresses Wells.
"A fair fight," He says, voice rough, and the bewilderment Wells has on his face is enough to make Quinn try and stand up once more. There's no way; he can't take a life. Her advance is halted by a pair of hands, softer, albeit barely, as he keeps the distance from the fight. Atom.
"You're not going out there."
Quinn struggles, all efforts futile, as Wells picks up the blade and steels himself for battle. The two are darting at each other immediately, Murphy more emotional, his movements easy to predict and easy to dodge. Thankfully Wells has a clear head, seemingly, and that's the only relief she gets despite what's happening for her, until-
"Wells!"
Clarke's voice sounds like the best song she's ever heard, and after a moment of allowing her weight to shift in Atom's hands Quinn is upright, determined to prove herself as capable as ever. Or at least, give off the illusion that she is.
"Let him go!"
It's an order for the both of them; Wells has Murphy in somewhat of a headlock, the other a hand clasped around the hollow of Wells' throat. A strangled gasp lets itself from Murphy's throat before he's on his feet once more, trying to carve a path towards Wells, and before anyone can so much as move Bellamy is there, grasping his shoulders and keeping him in check.
"Woah. Enough, Murphy. Octavia," He begins, nearly sprinting towards his sister. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah."
Quinn meets gazes with Clarke, a pool of dread forming in her stomach from the expression the blonde gives, but someone else is there in seconds to steal her attention. Soft, warm hands trail over the skin on her face, gentle despite the discoloration. She looks up to meet Monty's eyes and falters at the look in them, the rage and concern barely hidden as he looks over the rest of her body. There's more blood soaked into the clothing than not, and she knows there's bruising mottled across her skin.
"What happened?"
Monty's breath ghosts over her skin, his fingertips barely touching her. Still, she shrinks back, crossing her arms to hide the marks on her wrist from view. She hadn't done enough, and she's not ready to face the consequences.
"I'm fine," She manages, looking away at what her words elicit from his expression.
His eyes linger on the bruising of her throat, but he acquiesces, taking place next to her. The motion causes a sense of unease, because there should be another person standing alongside them, and he's not here. A strangled sound emits from her throat, and Quinn casts her eyes around, wild. Finally she settles back on Monty, tears springing to the corners of her eyes before she can even stop them.
"Jasper?" She asks breathlessly. He's the only one not in the return party, and the hesitance Monty shows is enough to know something's happened. Her fingers are coiling in her hair before she can stop them, copper locks twisted as she grips at them harshly.
"Oh god," She breathes, and Monty takes one of her hands in his own, trying to steer her back to reality. Her brother, gone, and she's done nothing to stop it. She's done nothing to stop anything happening around her; Wells the biggest testament to the fact. He's hardly injured, but she couldn't stop such a stupid event from occurring in any case.
She's so stricken with worry she doesn't notice the grief or regret in Monty's eyes as he grips her hand tightly, pressing her to his side like she truly belongs there.
"I'm sorry," He whispers. "He's alive, he's out there. I couldn't- I'm sorry. We'll get him back."
"We were attacked." Clarke's urgent words bring Quinn back to reality, and though she doesn't let go of Monty's grip on her hand she stands upright, urgent and seemingly at the ready. There's no time to be wallowing in griefs or what-if's, and a desperate part of her wants to know what's happened to Jasper, if there's any hope of saving him at all.
"Attacked? By what?" Wells' words are on the same level as her thoughts; remorseful, regretful. If they both were there maybe nothing would have ever happened.
The same thoughts running through Quinn's mind.
"Not what, who," Finn emphasizes from his seat on a rock. ""It turns out that when the last man from the ground died on the Ark he wasn't the last grounder."
Bellamy clasps onto Octavia's shoulder as she stares at him, honesty and fear in her gaze. At the same time Quinn lets out a breath, barely registering the light squeezes Monty gives her hand. Four long squeezes, one short, then another long. OK. She's shit at morse code but the two have repeated this action over the span of countless years, Jasper included.
"It's true," Clarke calls desperately, eyes seeking some sort of purchase, "Everything we thought we knew about the ground is wrong. There are people here. Survivors. The good news is," She begins, a resolve coming to her eyes. "That means we can survive. Radiation won't kill us."
"Yeah, the bad news is the grounders will," Finn says softly, his gentle tone in complete juxtaposition with his words and the way his body tenses.
Wells looks between everyone, the weight of the news heavy on his brow. He's worried, and yet he's trying so hard to be upright and fine, that much Quinn knows. She's doing the same.
"Where's the kid with the goggles?" He asks, and immediately Monty's arm pulls Quinn ever closer to him. She tries to block out the warmth of his body, the familiar scent of sage and earth. She fails spectacularly. Quinn's lip wobbles before she bites down on it, hard, shame welling up in her chest.
She should have been there.
"Jasper was hit," Clarke says, a dart of sympathy directed towards her. Quinn's legs feel like jelly; she can barely support herself. By some miracle she does, though it's due to years of conditioning from her father. "They took him."
Wells glances down before Clarke is gripping his wrist, brows curved as she looks over the empty space between where the bracelet should lie and his flesh. There's a moment of pause while Wells extricates himself from her grip, before glaring at where Bellamy is standing next to his sister.
"Ask him." Wells nods at his direction.
Bellamy looks hesitant, the same swallow Quinn saw at the bonfire making its way now, his adam's apple barely bobbing as he ignores Octavia's questioning gaze. She doesn't have to wonder before Clarke casts her gaze on him, as dreadful as a cemetery.
"How many?"
It's not Bellamy that answers, rather, Murphy, and it's only the controlled press of Monty's hand that keeps Quinn in check as she tries to launch forward at him. Monty's dark eyes look over the marred skin of her wrist, the one attached to the hand he's gripping so tightly, and it takes less than a moment for him to take in the undercurrents of what has happened since she's gone. He has a good idea of which injuries have been inflicted after their departure, but it fills him with dread and guilt all the same. She's a colorful display of violence, and he loathes it.
"24 and counting."
Clarke barely shakes her head. "You idiots," She breathes. "Life support on the Ark is failing. That's why they brought us down here. They need to know the ground is survivable again, and we need their help against whoever is out there. If you take off your wristbands you're not just killing them; you're killing us!"
There's a somber silence that hovers over everyone, many people shuffling uncomfortably before Bellamy responds, the same stupid face she's seen so much at this point painted across it. Quinn hates it.
"We're stronger than you think," He begins. "Don't listen to her. She's one of the privileged. If they come down, she'll have it good. How many of you can say the same? We can take care of ourselves. That wristband on your arm? That makes you a prisoner. We are not prisoners anymore!"
Quinn lets out something between a derisive snort and a choke, extricating from Monty before weaving between the throngs of idiots and the forest floor near them. She doesn't make it far before someone else grips her wrist, and as blond hair enters her vision Quinn relaxes.
"Now we go after Jasper," Clarke says, and her heart soars. Before she can even comprehend what the hell is going on the blonde is darting out towards the treeline, Monty immediately taking place at Quinn's side. She steals his warmth for a final time, repeatedly squeezing her hand around his before steeling herself and marching off towards the outskirts of camp.
OK
There are loud arguments being made on the second level of the dropship. And Quinn wants nothing more than to be done with all this melodrama happening. She feels for Wells, she truly does, but she's not one to get involved in others' intimate affairs.
Quinn leans against the steel wall, letting out a deep-seated sigh. Her only distraction comes in the form of Monty pressing his fingertips against her throat, and she tries to angle them away in silent protest.
His gaze is soft, but there's still a hint of anger behind his eyes, Quinn freezes.
"Who?" He asks, simply. But it's never simple when it comes to Monty and she looks away towards the wall.
"It's nothing. Don't worry about it."
She's too busy trying to cast attention to other parts of the room, but she does feel his breath on her when he lets out an extravagant sigh. His hand pulls away, though his warmth is directly beside her as he makes a place for himself.
"I don't care that you're not injured," Clarke says, climbing down the ladder in front of the two. "You're not coming."
"You came back for reinforcements, I'm gonna help," Wells argues, trying to match her pace. Monty and Quinn share a look before the boy at her side calls out.
"Clarke, he's right. We need him. So far I haven't seen anyone else volunteer."
The blonde's expression turns consolatory. "I'm sorry Monty, but you're not going either. And neither is Quinn."
The pair immediately stride over towards her, eyes alight with indignation.
"Like hell we're not," Monty says hotly. "Jasper's my best friend, and Quinn's too."
"You're too important, Monty. You were raised on Farm station and recruited by Engineering; food and communication. And Quinn…" Blue eyes trail over the numerous injuries. "You look like hell, and your apprenticeship on Farm makes you important, too. What's in those brains is gonna save us all."
Quinn shakes her head. "I was raised by Marcus Kane. I know how to fight and defend myself, and I won't slow you down. Clarke, you need me out there with you, and…" Her voice gets softer. "Jasper's practically my brother. I'll follow you even if you leave without me. I'm not going to be left behind when I can try and help him."
There's a tense silence while Clarke grapples with the decision, and after a heavy sigh through her nose she relents, muttering out a 'fine', only pausing when Quinn sends a meaningful look Wells' way.
"We need every able body we can get, and honestly Wells is safer going along than staying here."
Her subtle words bring to light the source of her injuries, and Wells' eyes look away in shame as Monty's turn on him, Clarke's softening minutely as she once again acknowledges the bruise on her temple, the ones around her throat. Movement breaks the moment, and Finn enters the room hesitantly.
"Hey, you ready?"
"I'm not going anywhere," He says, an incredulous expression on his face as he looks at Clarke. "And neither should any of you. That spear was thrown with pinpoint accuracy from three hundred feet."
"So what," Monty says hotly. "We let Jasper die?"
Clark adopts a reassuring, authoritative tone. "That's not gonna happen." She turns back towards Finn. "Spacewalker? What a joke. You think you're such an adventurer but you're really just a coward."
"It's not an adventure, Clarke. It's a suicide mission."
Quinn steps forward, anger running hot and fast in her veins as she uses every fiber of self control to not punch Finn in the face. "It's fine, Clarke. I know Earth tracking, too, and I'll be more of a help than him."
The girl gives her a small smile before heading for the exit, Wells shooting a glare at the Spacewalker as he gives him quiet instruction. Quinn uses the moment to look over at Monty, who seems just as enraged as she is, and she clasps a hand around his arm.
"If there's anyone that can find a way to reverse engineer the bracelets, it's you. I'll bring Jasper home."
There's conflict in his eyes, and tension in his shoulders, but all the same he nods stiffly.
"Get back safe." He's thankful the desperation isn't overtly obvious. "When I step out of this dropship I want to see the both of you in one piece."
She doesn't say 'may we meet again', because she knows they will, and knows that she'll use everything in her power to bring back the gangly doofus that's out in the trees. Instead she squeezes against his bicep, the same sporadic bursts he silently gave her back in the clearing. His lips twitch upwards, and Quinn is somewhat filled with resolve as she stalks out into the sunlight.
Clarke and Wells are making their way towards where Bellamy and Octavia are locked in an intense conversation, and she marches over. The sheer adrenaline from the day's events and Finn's idiotic words are blocking out most of the pain, but even without that she can tell that at least everything will be tolerable during the trek. Her head doesn't hurt anymore, and the pain in her leg is a dull throb as opposed to a constant ache.
"You guys leaving?" Octavia asks, arms crossed. "I'm coming too."
"No, no," Bellamy interrupts, one arm holding her back. "No way, not again. O, you could have died out there."
"Yeah, I could've! Jasper and Quinn were the ones who saved me!"
Bellamy looks over at the ginger, something unspoken in his face as he stares at the bloodied rags adorning her thigh. Then, resolve paints his features, but Clarke interrupts before he can let out another tirade of worry for his sister.
"I'm here for you."
"Clarke, what are you doing?" Wells asks, disbelieving.
She ignores him easily. "I hear you have a gun. Follow me."
Bellamy rolls his shoulders in irritation. "And why would I do that?"
"Because you want them to follow you, and right now they're thinking only one of us is scared."
Clarke walks away, further into the foliage, and both Quinn and Wells immediately fall in place behind her. She ignores the look Bellamy sends her as he begins to address the lackeys around him, instead getting caught up in the reproach coming out of Wells' mouth. They're barely out of earshot, but he's wasting no time.
"Clarke, those aren't just bullies; they're dangerous criminals."
"She made the right call," Quinn says, and she doesn't flinch back from the accusatory look he sends her. "Someone shot Jasper with a spear, apparently, unprovoked. If we're going to be in enemy territory then I'd rather have someone along with us not afraid to get their hands dirty."
Wells clenches his fists. "How can you say that when they did that?" He nods at the bruise on her temple. "When they took our wristbands? When Murphy almost strangled you?"
Clarke falters in her step for barely a second, glancing back at the other girl with concern. Quinn ignores it, doing her best to take in the area and note anything that remotely resembles a landmark.
"Look at it this way," She deflects easily. "If Bellamy isn't at camp then he can't cause a commotion. The others get a chance to simmer down, and we can keep an eye on him. I don't really care who comes with, as long as we get Jasper back." After a moment's pause, where Wells says nothing, she adds: "He took our bracelets, it only makes sense he'd want Clarke's, too."
There's minutes of silence that drag on as the three continue making their way through the brush, Bellamy and Murphy lagging at their heels. It's heavy, and Quinn wonders whether she said the right thing when Clarke looks back at her one more time.
"Thanks," She says, a genuine smile gracing her lips.
"Of course," Quinn replies.
Clarke is her friend, and someone she can put her whole trust in as a leader with confidence...but anything…
Anything for those two boys.