I totally wrote this chapter in pieces. Or backwards. I'm so eager to get to one scene I have been so excited to write. But I can't tell you what is because of spoilers and all that. But I think it will be cool. And I believe it's, like, three chapters away. Please review!
Clarke put as much distance the room would allow between herself and the stranger. He seemed to do the same, content with lying down in the corner farthest from her. A quietness fell over them like a blanket, but it was as hard and gelid as the floor they rested on.
Clarke didn't know when she'd manage to fall asleep, she just knew that she had when she was awoken some time later by a groaning noise. She sat up, looking across at the man who was still asleep, sweat jeweled on his forehead. He tossed, turning his head back and forth in sleep.A flurry of discombobulated words came from his chapped lips.
Slowly, Clarke crossed the room. He didn't stir at her presence, too absorbed in whatever nightmare plagued him, and she stretched out a hand and pressed it to his forehead.
The moment she touched him, the man lurched forward, his lids snapping back. Desperate eyes found hers and he grabbed her wrist, so tightly Clarke felt his nails pierce her skin. She cried out in pain, and his grip suddenly disappeared, as if he'd been burned.
"What were you doing?" he hissed, voice thick and rough with sleep.
Clarke rubbed her wrist, gauging his expression carefully. The question that had been circling through her mind before she'd fallen asleep resurfaced. Who was this man? Clarke knew he was a convict, a criminal, a killer, but those were just words. And she knew how unjustly they could be dictated to someone.
"I was-I was just checking on you." At the sound of the fear in her voice she cleared her throat. "It's time for your second dose."
He glared up at her, eyes red and weary, but fiery all the same. Clarke wondered just what he'd gone through in his life, to have a fire like that. Not one that just burned, but one that consumed. He was anger. Just sweat and blood and anger that simmered like coals in those eyes.
"Do me a favor and don't touch me when I don't know it," he admonished.
Clarke ground her teeth but pulled out the second round of Amoxicillin. "I didn't realize I needed your permission to keep you alive. Next time I'll be sure to shout across the room instead."
"Just don't surprise me," the man said, taking the pills and popping them in his mouth."I wouldn't want to accidentally kill you."
"You grabbed my wrist," she replied. "Not my throat."
His tone turned brusque. "This time, maybe. But I can't afford your life, because it will cost me mine. So I'll tell you again. Don't surprise me."
Clarke pursed her lips but didn't respond to him. Instead, she just retrieved the bandages, and tapped his shoulder, reaching over to tug at the material.
"What did I just say?" he asked, voice full of scorn.
But Clarke just shrugged. "You're lucid. Unless this is your way of suggesting you might still kill me."
He raised his eyebrows at her. "You're clearly not a big advocate of self-preservation."
"I'm an advocate of keeping myself alive for the purpose of doing what I stayed behind to do," she said. "It's why I'm bothering with this in the first place. With you."
He leaned his back against the wall, watching her with an almost bemused look on his face. "And to think, if you weren't using me for your own gain, I might have been left to rot in storage locker. You know, until some poor kid came along and found my decomposing body."
"You're doing the same thing as I am," Clarke said, as she unwound the bandages again and waited as he took off his shirt. The bullet wound didn't look much better, but it also didn't look any worse. She discarded the used bandaged, splotched with blood, and began wrapping again.
"I wasn't accusing you," he replied, almost snidely.
"I wouldn't care if you were."
"Is the Princess mad because I added another condition to our little agreement?"
Clarke tied off the bandage and met his eyes. "Time's up," she told him, pulling herself to her feet. "We have to get to Alpha. And to answer your question," she tossed the bandages in his lap, "Maybe it was a good thing you added your condition. At least now I have actual insurance I can trust, rather than just your word."
He smirked. "And you don't trust my word?"
"Not even a little bit."
The rotations were getting easier to maneuver around. It became a system; pausing at corridors, waiting, moving to the next one, and doing it all again. Clarke remembered this game she once played, on an ancient machine that involved a small yellow creature having to avoid being caught by one of its pursuers. It was just like that, except that if they were caught, the repercussions would be greater than just a low score.
Fortunately for them both, the only Station that had been sealed was Sci Gov, and whatever guards she'd been concerned with coming after her, was evidently a marginal number. They were too hungry for the impostor, the assassin, and Clarke would've felt reassured if the very man responsible for it all wasn't just a few feet ahead of her.
When Jaha's door came into view, Clarke felt a shock of fear shoot through her. She swallowed it back.
"We have four minutes," the man said. "Can you do it in that amount of time?"
Clarke didn't hesitate. "I'm going to have to."
She approached the door and her hand started gliding over the entry code. Despite her efforts, Clarke heard Wells's voice, murmuring the numbers to her, so close she could almost feel the ghost of his breath.
There was a click as the lock came undone and Clarke stepped inside.
The familiarity of the apartment sent a wave of deja vu over her. It all looked the same, eerily undisturbed. She didn't know why, but Clarke almost expected there to be some indication of the Chancellor's current condition here; a drop of blood, a shirt stained ruby red. But there was nothing. As far as appearances went, it seemed like both Jaha and Wells would soon be back, as if one wasn't on the ground. As if the other wasn't already dead.
The moment Jaha's quarters were cleared, the man walked to the water dispenser and began guzzling it down with a cupped hand. Her own throat suddenly seemed to turn into sandpaper and Clarke allowed herself a glass, reminding herself that she wouldn't be able to help her people if she were died of dehydration.
But a moment later, she was moving towards the office, and the holographic computer embellished in the heavy desk. Clarke had only ever been in here once, with Wells in secret. It hadn't been a secret for long, though, as Jaha had caught them. But Jaha wasn't here now, and the only persons she had to worry about were clad in black and armed.
She pulled up the screen, and an authorization code materialized on its face. This didn't require that much security and Clarke followed her gut, typing in Wells's date of birth.
There was a flash of green and the code vanished. Clarke let out a small breath of relief.
She was about to look up what she'd come here for, when a hand dropped to her shoulder stopping her. It wasn't a gesture of reassurance from the man. Clarke knew that just by the pressure of it, and the force he used to hold on to her.
"No, you're going to pull up the record I want first," he demanded.
Clarke didn't have time to argue with him, but her voice turned cold. "Name?"
"Octavia Blake."
Clarke mulled over the name. Blake. It didn't sound familiar; clearly, it didn't belong to someone from her Station. She punched it in, fingers skimming over the computer's pellucid surface.
A second later, the picture of a girl came up, dark hair framing bright eyes.
Clarke looked over at the man. "Is this her?"
He nodded. "Delete it."
It took a moment to find the actions that would do as he asked, and then the image of the girl disappeared, replaced by an empty folder. Record not found.
"Now mine."
Clarke glared back at him, feeling something almost like panic expand inside her. "No, I need-"
"I don't care what you need," he snapped. "Delete my file or I alert the guards."
Anger rippled through her and Clarke momentarily entertained the idea of him doing exactly that. But she couldn't afford to be caught. Not when the truth hovered just beneath her fingertips.
She returned her gaze back to the screen. "I'm going to need to know your name then," she said, voice
A breath.
"Bellamy Blake."
Clarke paused. There was that last name again, but she knew the girl couldn't possibly be the man's mother. Which left only one possible answer. Clarke's thoughts evaporated and her eyes went to him again. "But...that would make you-"
"Octavia's brother. Now delete it."
Brother. Sister. Those words were rare on the Ark. Impossible. Dangerous. Over the span of ninety seven years, they had become a fairy tale. What would it be like, Clarke wondered, to be so close to someone? To have a friendship that ran as deep as blood?
Clarke shook the thought away and pulled up his file, somewhat taken aback when she found his eyes, staring back at her from the screen. He was all hard features and hard lines, as if his expression had been carved from stone. But there was an echo of a smile engraved around his mouth, revealing to Clarke that regardless of his circumstance, he'd still found a reason to laugh.
It only took two actions to erase it completely.
With that out of the way, Clarke felt her eagerness pique as she typed in what she wanted to know. What had killed her father to know. Information on the air supply.
But a beeping sounded. flashing a warning that required a password to bypass. Clarke felt her heart jump and she tried whatever access code Jaha may have had. The date of his wife's death? Wells's full name? But those were too obvious and Clarke's desperation and fear transformed into unbridled anger. She was this close.
"Hurry up," the man-Bellamy-said. She had to remind herself that he had a name now.
Clarke knew she was running out of time, so instead, he turned to the last thing she wanted. Details on her father's conviction. She typed in his name, feeling the weight of each letter fall heavier than the last. It took a second for the report to appear and when it did, the image of her dad made something twist inside her.
Though he wasn't smiling, she could see the laugh lines under his eyes, that familiar light inside them. How had she forgotten that? It had been only six months. Would there come a day when the memory of him seemed faded? Would the sound of his voice disappear in time? But then Clarke remembered that she might not have that time and for a second, she was grateful for it. At least there was no forgetfulness in death.
She started skimming the report, very aware of the man beside her, exchanging cursory glances between her and the door. Clarke blocked it out.
Jake Griffin, she read, Found guilty...Arrested for treason...Executed October 8th...
She went down further, trying to push away the flashbacks as she continued.
...Floated at 06:00...Abby Griffin...
Clarke froze. very joint in her iced over, cutting so deep until even the blood chilled in her veins. She leaned forward, stopping just inches from the screen, and read the report again. She re-read it. A third. But Clarke couldn't make sense of it, no matter how hard she tried. She couldn't even see it clearly anymore; the ice had spread to her eyes, misting over her vision.
Treason. Brought to the attention by Abby Griffin...
No.
Distantly, Clarke became aware of someone calling to her, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, except for her mother's name, typed too closely to Jaha's with the word "informed" fitting neatly between them.
Abby Griffin informed Chancellor Jaha.
Brought to the attention by Abby Griffin.
Jake Griffin arrested for treason.
Jake Griffin floated at 06:00.
Abby Griffin turned him in.
Abby Griffin turned him in.
"Hey!"
Numbly, she turned her head and focused her eyes on the man,-Bellamy. Alarm rang in his voice and he was urging her to get up, to leave, but Clarke couldn't move. If she tried, the ice would break and she would shatter.
But he was already haling her to her feet, shoving her away from the screen, the report, those terrible words that whispered such dark things to her.
My mother turned him in. My mother killed my father.
"Move!" Bellamy pushed her roughly and Clarke's mind suddenly went on autopilot, her body walking across the room and towards the exit. Her steps felt robotic as she slipped through the door and down the corridor, all the while those whispers echoing, repeating, screaming in her ears;
My mother killed my father. He's dead because of her.