The strange aching fatigue happens again, about a month later, and this time what Nia's been waiting and watching her for so intently happens. Clarke aches, grows hot then chills. What she wouldn't give for a blanket to curl up and wallow in self pity in with camomile tea and Mr. Queen, her old stuffed lion. And her pills. And some painkillers too.
It grows till she can think of nothing else, endless but never, ever static enough to let her rest. If it had been her legs she could have concentrated on her hands. If it had just been her teeth she could dig her fingers into her thighs till the bright pricks of pain drowned out the rest.
But it isn't in any one part of her. It's everywhere, and she can't escape.
They aren't nearly so attentive this time. Stay with her longer than they usually do after bringing her food, but also leave her in her own company afterwards. Clarke's not sure what to make of that. Doesn't have much mental energy to divert to wondering. Pain is distracting, and the symptoms of whatever it is that she's got sap energy much quicker than even her sedentary lifestyle can recuperate it.
When she falls asleep, she doesn't so much drift off as her consciousness is drowned by the constant ringing awareness.
When she notices the change that's happened to her, she's too overwhelmed by the richness of the world around her and the lack of pain to notice the grey tinge that's taken over her vision. Scraps of clouds are intermittently covering the moon outside, throwing room into shadow, but for once she doesn't need her eyes. Everything feels too natural to draw her attention, even if the number of feet she has does dimly catch at the edges of her awareness. She forgets it as quickly as it appeared, lost in the sensation of simply feeling good.
She's taking her shaky first steps in a room that is much narrower, and taller, than it should be when the door slides open behind her. Her ear flicks up and back at the sound. And that's another thing - the sound. She'd thought the rail it ran on was nearly silent, but now the whir of metal on metal is clearly audible.
Her hindmost legs catch on each other as she turns to face the movement.
NIa and Ontari step through. They don't – quite - grin at the sight of her. But it sure feels like they do. Clarke slowly shuffles backwards, buying time while she works out what's going on. She'd been ill. That much was a fact. Almost as bad as the last time. And now she isn't. She feels better than she has in all the time she's been here.
So she's recovered, and they've come here, to her room, in the middle of the night ... to check up on her? No, that can't be it. How would they even know?
The two of them stand still. If they weren't breathing, she'd think they were statues. Crap. This isn't a weeping angel situation, is it? Because Clarke has never been good at the whole not blinking game. Or Sci-Fi in general. Raven's been trying to change that since they were six.
They seem much, much taller than they usually do. Which is saying something, with Nia the height she is. The door is still standing wide open behind them, and they make no move to close it. They're not even standing close enough to block it. It's too obvious a mistake to be a mistake, but ...
She can't feel the cuff.
She feels strong, fast, better than she has since ... since forever. And she can't feel the cuff. Maybe, maybe, this time, when she runs, she can run –
Clarke begins to angle her way forward. If she's fast enough, and makes herself small enough, and keeps low, then maybe she -
She's not even halfway through building momentum - is extending to catch her second stride - when she's bowled right off her feet with an involuntary yip of surprise. Rolls to a stop and staggers to her feet, turning back to them. Nothing could prepare her for the sight that greets her.
They're wolves. She should be incredulous, but it feels almost inevitable. Like taking a step in a dream and falling into the abyss. Both stand taller than her, broader at the shoulder and solid in a way that makes even thinking of pushing past a fantasy. One pale, one dark. There's a cloud of that something around them, so thick its almost visable – not smell, or sight, but sort of a halfway combination of the two, interpreted the best she can as taste. Something clicks into place in her mind, like tumblers in a lock. Dangerous.
They – was this – how are -
Ah. That would be the incredulity kicking in then.
They stand still - as if they were statues carved from stone instead of living, breathing wolves - and do nothing but watch her watching them, until she twitches. Then they pounce, and she gets knocked off her feet again, and again. They take turns until she gives up, unused to her body, used to rolling over and following orders, no matter how reluctantly her pride might protest. Getting hurt hurts.
Once she's still, Nia steps forward as elegantly as a dancer and nudges her till she's flat on her black.
A renewed urge to struggle hits her as Nia's teeth latch onto her throat, and the sight-taste-smell goes from a disquieting oddity at edge of her awareness to a crushing, drowning force. Clarke barely has breath to whimper, let alone put up a struggle. Her limbs go as limp as an overcooked noodle. She's no threat. After an eternity, Ontari is allowed a turn. She nips at her skin – my what big teeth you have - before settling her weight over Clarke. What little breath she has left is forced out in a rush.
Clarke wakes on the floor of her cell. Human. Naked.
She feels lethargic to her bones, like she's somehow turned herself into a wolf and back. Like that something that actually happens. That's the sort of thing that's got to take calories, right? Even if it is physically impossible. Especially if it's physically impossible. The metabolic cost of the bone restructuring alone would be astronomical. Except that didn't - doesn't happen. So what did? Some sort of flash fever, hallucinatory drugs, or did her mind snap sometime last night and decide that now was the time for it to unsnap, just like that?
Clarke doesn't hear the door, or footsteps, or anything but the tumbling of her thoughts, so she doesn't know how long Nia has been standing there, watching her. Apprising her.
Clarke does not squeak when she notices her presence.
Her move to cover herself is more instinctual than anything else. She has no clothes, she is being looked at, so she hides. She barely manages to lift a hand before she is hit by the same crushing sensation that turned her dream into a nightmare, like wet sand in all her muscles, only it's like breathing syrup, only -
It ends, after an age, and Nia is there to drag her heavy head up by the hair. Clarke can't meet her eyes.
"You will learn your place."
Clarke stays silent. Her gasping breaths are loud enough for a roomful of elephants.
Nia lets her drop to the floor. Leaves her lying there without a backwards glance.
Echo enters with food and a slip minutes, maybe hours, later. A soft, meaty broth and fluffy rolls that melt like candyfloss on her tongue. She is almost gentle, feeding it to her bite by bite.
It feels like it would be a good time for her to cry, but no tears come. She'd cried the first night, alone in the shower, but since then there's been a disturbing absence of anything but a cold, dull ache in her chest.
Echo leaves, and things go back to normal, like nothing's changed at all. Clarke is in her room all alone and her guards are outside – not Tapper today – and doesn't know what to do, so she does what she always does, lying on her bed, tapping distal phalanx - middle phalanx - proximal phalanx finger by finger and thinking of nothing. At least she's done with the fever.
Ontari arrives to escort her to the showers. She's quieter than usual. More intent. She doesn't leave the room afterwards.
Echo finds them there. Clarke on her knees, the pressure of Ontari above and behind her keeping her forcefully pinned against the slick tiles of the shower wall. Ontari behind her, nosing under her chin, swarthing her neck with her tongue.
The still flowing water has long since gone cold, sticking the leather of Ontari's jacket to the skin of her back like a clammy second skin. It's almost as uncomfortable as the hand twisting her hair. It's starting to tear, ripping from her skull follicle by follicle.
Echo reaches down and hauls Ontari up and away from her in one singularly abrupt movement.
The sudden movement drags handful of hair with her, ripping pain that jerks her back to some sliver of coherency. Clarke takes the opportunity to scramble free as attention is diverted away from her, makes herself small as physically possible in the corner. She doesn't know what's going on, or what to do and she can barely think with her head feeling so echo-y.
It almost covers her surprise at hearing Echo speak. She doesn't understand what they're talking about, but that's almost familiar enough to be comforting.
"You're going into rut. Use the other one."
"You don't tell me what to do."
"Your mother gave orders –"
"Hah!" Her teeth flash. Clarke hadn't thought to be afraid of getting bitten before
Echo is quieter – she always is, Clarke doesn't know what she'd do with an Echo that raises her voice – but doesn't back down.
"She is a pup."
Ontari calms. Clarke doesn't make the mistake of relaxing. That is not a good sign. It means she's considering her next move, not giving up on anything that she's planned. Clarke made that mistake once.
"Not for long."
Clarke risks another glance up at them through the shield of her eyelashes. The two seem to have forgotten her, too busy being in each others faces to see anything else. Ontari is, at least. Echo's more not backing down from her posturing than infringing on her personal space.
Holding Echo's gaze far beyond what can be comfortable, Ontari steps around her and walks out, wet clothes squeaking with every movement she makes. Echo turns to keep her in sight. Looks down at Clarke.
Clarke flinches back into the corner.
She lets out a disgusted huff, grabs arm, and pulls her up wordlessly. It's nice to know not everything is changing.
Ontari, it appears, is no longer allowed to be alone with her after the ... incident. She always has either Echo or Roan with her when she reappears after her absence. Sometimes both. They're watching her as much as they're watching Clarke. It does nothing to help her nerves. Their presence does nothing for the death threats, so what worse is there to be wary of? She is vaguely surprised that her nightmares don't provide any answers to that question. Maybe even they are tired.
Ontari is the only one who has minders, so Clarke assumes the change has to do with the shower. Roan and Echo continue to visit separately as they always have. Is it because they're more trusted than she is now? Or is it something to do with the way that their taste-sent is different from hers?
She's not entirely sure what they're there for.
For all that she greets their presence as a major buzzkill, they do nothing to stop her having fun. Not that they have to - Ontari never does more than make her day a little less comfortable. It's never anything more than stinging jolts - she stopped the knives weeks ago now. They pay more attention when she uses the force choke, but even then they don't interfere. She thinks they don't, but after a while it's hard to tell because of how her world narrows to nothing but adrenalinised feeling.
Her routine breaks further still the week after that. She's allowed out the room after her morning bathroom trip. Taken out of it, to be more precise, by two of the guards that spend their days just out of sight of her door. Not that anyone tells her that that's what's going on, of course.
Not that she should be - is expecting them to. Each and every one of them has made a point of telling her nothing – except Roan. But Roan doesn't actually tell her anything either. He just uses a whole lot of words to describe the whale of a time he had picking her lettuce.
(He's still her favourite.)
They leave the door open for long enough that the sun moves her shadow across the wall – an hour? Maybe two? Not the eternity her panic feels like - and all the while she's frozen in a corner because she's learned this lesson, why are they trying to make her try it again - then come in and escort her out. They look familiar, in a vague kind of way. Tall, and strong, with scarred arms.
They say nothing as they approach her. She stays silent as she always does, even if they have never come in before. She'd never seen wolves before either, or felt a real force choke. The best policy is not to make a fuss.
They take her down the hall, the directions that leads away from the bathroom, round a corner and through a door she hasn't had the chance to see before. It opens onto another hallway, which opens onto another, and if Clarke didn't already know she was lost she'd think they were trying to confuse her. A left turn, and Ontari finds them. She joins there little procession, falling in behind the three with a smirk and soft word. The back of Clarke's neck crawls.
The Guards come to a halt in front of a large, ornate doorway. Clarke stops with them, suddenly uncertain. There's an air of expectation, but for what Clarke doesn't know. Ontari steps forward, grabs her arm and pulls her through as they swing the doors open.
The two of them end in another room, but it might as well be another world. It's much bigger than hers, more of a hall than anything else. Dark wood floor and walls, with darker beams breaking up the monotony of the paneling. Directly opposite the door is another doorway, smaller than the one they came in, and simpler. It's closed.
The hall is much, much larger than her room, but less airy. It feels more ... lived in.
Brown leather beanbags are scattered around a low wooden coffee table and edge of a faded carpet crumpled in a corner looks soft. The whole place looks softer. The windows along the wall to her left are as high as the one in her room, but unbarred. The sunlight they let in is golden and warm. It falls across blankets and cushions, bits of fabric with not discernible purpose.
And Costia.
Clarke learns her name from Ontari. It's the only word she picks up from whatever language she addresses her in. She finds listening to tone works better, in the long run, and right now Ontari is mocking and smug. Only the fact that it isn't directed at her keeps Clarke from spiraling into worst case scenarios. Clarke hasn't spoken in what feels like years, has been actively encouraged not to even when there was someone to speak to, but Costia is silent as she stands and approaches from the far corner to stand where she can see Ontari. If she didn't have a shadow Clarke would think she was a ghost.
When Ontari has finished her one-sided conversation, released her grip on Clarke's upper arm – it probably won't bruise, she thinks, but for now it's tender - and left, the door closes behind her jailers, leaving Clarke alone with her. A sharp word, and the guards fall in with her. The lock slides home with a smooth click. Well maintained. Clarke hasn't heard a single hinge squeak since she got here. Kind of funny, that.
Both of them stay still, watching the closed door until three sets of footsteps have faded away.
Costia moves first. She approaches Clarke slow, like she's a skittish cat. Clarke lets her. It's partly repeated exposure to what happens when she doesn't – sometimes physical, sometimes, inexplicably, terrifyingly, not – and partly because Costia feels safe. There's something more to her, a sensation that she is layered in a way the others aren't. But it's not, Clarke feels, like layers that are hiding anything. It's more a sense of realness, like Costia is a person just as much as Clarke is. Clarke doesn't have the words to make it make sense, even in her thoughts.
She barely has a voice, now she doesn't have the words. How long before she has nothing left?
Costia reaches for her jaw, gently tilts it upwards till Clarke is looking directly at her face. Softly taps her fingertips when she blinks her confusion. After a moment of consideration Clarke figures out what she wants and opens her mouth. Action is rewarded with upward tilt of Costia's lips, little more than a flicker, and fingertips that trace along her jawline. It's surprisingly nice. Clarke can't remember the last time she'd been casually touched for no reason other than to be touched. Costia huffs at what she sees. She sounds almost relieved. Why would she be relieved? Sure, Clarke's just brushed her teeth, but -
She shows Clarke her own mouth in turn. She has nice teeth. Very white against her skin. Clarke has a moment to wonder – is this one of the weird things they do here or – oh. Oh. Her tongue. She doesn't have a tongue.
Costia reaches up and pats her hair ... soothingly? Pityingly? Clarke isn't sure of the exact motivation, but she knows that its a reaction to her distress. Why does she care? It's a trick. Has to be. Like when Ontari talks.
... It doesn't feel like a trick.
Soothing managed, Costia takes her hand and leads her to the beanbag, where they curl up with blankets and don't quite snuggle. There is something utterly soothing in being able to cover herself. Clarke, she whispers, low enough that her voice doesn't break, my name is Clarke, and is rewarded with fingers cording through her hair like ... like when her dad had stayed home when she was off sick from school and looked after her and made chicken soup and they watched March of the Penguins.
She finds herself comfortable enough in the presence of this weirdly familiar stranger – they've never met, but still, there is something there, like a warm hug and safety net – that even with the sun still high in the sky, Clarke falls fast asleep.