Hey guys! So this is an idea for a Bellamy and Clarke story that involves Bellamy being apart of a rebellion in AU and Clarke afterwards joining. This is just a short introduction to the story, and if I get enough positive feedback, I will continue on the story! Let me know and I hope you enjoy it! :) xoxo

UPDATE: hey guys! Loved the feedback, just to let you know I'm almost done the first part of this extended one shot, although fan fiction is down and won't let me save my work. Will have it up as soon as I can!


Nowhere Found

They practised for hours.

Hours upon hours of boxing stances, of upper cuts and right crosses, of jabs and hooks. Her father kept insisting she'd become stronger if she continued to push herself, but she felt weak and tired. She felt like having her mother's carrot soup and watching the sunset like they used to. But her father was persistent.

It was warmer in the living room then she expected, even with the windows open, and her shirt was beginning to stain with the inner release of her body, her arms trembling as she struggled to maintain them in a defensive position. Clarke clenched her hands, waiting, always waiting, for what her father was about to instruct her to do.

"Make sure you don't tuck your thumb in your fingers," her father told her. He reached forward, his hands overlapping hers as he guided her fists in the correct position. "There. Like that. Now swing."

She did.

Her father shook her head. "Again."

Clarke sighed. She dropped her hands, ignoring the way her father's lips curved, a pure indication that he was about to tell her to be strong, to never give up. She spoke before he got the chance to lecture her. "Why do I need to learn this anyway, Dad?"

Her father straightened his posture. He's been trying to avoid this conversation since he's been teaching her defence moves for the past few months. She didn't understand. There are Guards here, officers, people who can protect them from the horrors of what the war created that live outside the gates.

They're safe inside these walls, inside The Ark, that's what he always told her. That's what she was raised to believe.

"Come here." Her father crouched down, his hands extending towards her. Clarke took them and allowed him to pull her forward. He rested his grip on her shoulders. "When you get older, you are going to learn that some things aren't how they should be, that things should be better."

Clarke worried her eyebrows. "Why?"

Her father squeezed her shoulders. "Don't you worry yourself on that just yet, okay?" When she nodded, he managed a small smile. The feature looked strained on his face. "Remember this for me. Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in."

His eyes are big and red, and Clarke has never seen her father without his familiar look of mischievousness. She rested her hands on his and intertwined their fingers. Her voice was unwavering.

"I won't."

Her father grinned. "That's my girl," he murmured. He leaned forward to press his lips softly against her cheek before standing up, resuming to their previous positions. He nodded at her hands, clenching in fists. "Now twenty more minutes, your mom will have dinner ready soon."

Clarke rose her chin, curved her muscles, and swung and swung until her body ached and her mouth grew dry. She was panting by the end of the few final minutes, but her father was happy, and it made her smile, made it worth it.


- SEVEN YEARS LATER -

Sometimes she wonders if what's outside the gates is better than what's inside.

It's something that all citizens of the Ark have wondered, have dreamed, have painted and drew and sold for additional rations. There are stories, campfire discussions that tell the tales of the bandits who scavenge the woods and murder those who are not protected by the security of a refugee base.

But neither of them has ever stepped a foot outside of the camp.

Clarke presses her face against the glass of the window, her eyes peering at the various colours that extend past the walls. The trees are beginning to brighten in the approaching autumn, a season where the Ark is busy with trades and rations in preparation for winter. A winter that comes every year, yet manages to kill the same amount of people.

It's a system, trading food for supplies, trading supplies for food. That's how the citizens of the Ark live. That's how the Exodus War left them, with the remaining survivors of the losing side being held in refugee bases located across the country. This is all they know. All Clarke remembers. Just living in a box and performing in monthly trades in order to receive enough food to see the next one.

Her father used to tell her that the way they lived was punishment for being on the wrong side of the war. He said, and evidently so, that the base guards only protected the more privileged side of camp and harmed the less privileged side.

She's heard of the incidents of course, of the one incident where Roma Rae was raped and then executed for falsely accusing a Guard. Only there were seven witnesses supporting her case, claiming she was telling the truth.

Chancellor Jaha disagreed.

"Clarke?"

Clarke blinks, her eyes tearing from the landscape in front of her to look at her mother, standing beside the kitchen table. Abby places her clasped hands in front of her, wringing her fingers. "The Trade is starting soon, darling," she informs her.

Clarke nods. "Do you have everything?"

Abby manages a sad smile, her eyes shifting to the surface of the table beside her. Medicine and health supplies they are able to create for extra rations lies in a pile on the wood. It looks smaller than last time, and Clarke can notice the bags under her eyes, indicating the hours she spent making them. Clarke knows, she has them, too.

"It's not much. Should be enough to receive an amount of rations to last us until next month," Abby mumbles, her tone yearning.

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. They haven't been able to make as much since her father died, each month being especially cruel with Abby's increasing shifts at the medical bay and Clarke's increasing amount of work at school. They struggle, but they get by. They have to.

Clarke takes the few steps towards her mother in two strides. She places her hand on her shoulder, her fingers wrapping gratefully around the material of her shirt. "It'll be enough, Mom," she reassures.

Abby smiles. It'll be enough.

There's a breaking of silence as The Trade horn sounds, informing the Ark citizens to begin meeting in the camp square and stand at their scheduled booths. They have the same booth every year, in the area with the least protection and the most theft. Not that the Guard does much protecting anyways.

Abby exhales deeply. "Ready?"

Clarke reaches forward, gathering the pile of medicine in a basket and covering it with a cloth. Her eyes shift to meet her mother's, brown and yielding. She takes her hand in hers, squeezing her palm.

"Ready."


Clarke's feet begin to ache by the late afternoon.

The square is crowded as expected for the month of October, members of the camp surrounding the booths that offer their favourite or needed items, items that include supplies for baking, or games for the backyard, or health care packages. There's a murmur of hurried voices as people attempt to bargain for special deals, as they beg to pay with one ration pack instead of two.

It's no use. The seller needs as much to survive as the buyer does.

Guards line the perimeter of the square, eyes shifting between passing citizens, hands wrapping instinctively around their weapons. Their bodies are pressed together as if to create a cage around them. No way in, no way out. Clarke smirks. A cage, that's what the Ark is.

Clarke glances at the remaining pile of medicine that rests on the booth, bottles and caps with names that their customers can barely pronounce. They've been able to sell a steady amount for six packs of rations, enough to last them almost two weeks. With the half mark of the Trade approaching, it's also enough to worry her into thinking they'll have to skip meals. Again.

Fortunately for them, the prince of the camp, Wells Jaha, spends every Trade at their booth, giving double the rations that they expect him to. This Trade, he gave them triple, given him and Clarke's previous relationship and him wanting to resume it.

It's understandable that she doesn't since his father got her father killed. It's a typical issue for him and his prior girlfriends.

"Clarke."

Her mother's elbow connects with Clarke's waist sharply. Clarke sighs, turning her body to her mother questioningly. Abby meets her gaze momentarily before she can speak, jerking her head towards the man who walks toward them, chin high and three guards accompanying.

The crowd parts a path for them, most of them glaring in surprise. The higher end of the population rarely bother to waste their time buying trades from this part of camp. More commonly, the more privileged citizens (those who aren't raped and starving and suffering) are those who's ancestor's were on the winning side of the Exodus War. The heroes.

Like her father said, life in the Ark is a punishment.

"Ms. Griffin," Chancellor Jaha greets as he approaches them, ordering the guards to the side with a swift of his hand. He turns back to them and nods in acknowledgement, eyes settling on Clarke. "Clarke, how is school?"

She swallows. Fuck you. "It's fine, sir," she tells him. She even manages a damn smile.

Jaha hums in satisfaction with her response. It makes her want to shove a ration down his throat. "That's good to hear. Do you mind if I speak to your mother for a few minutes?"

Clarke purses her lip, not liking the feeling of anxiety in her stomach. She blinks, glancing sideways at her mother, who nods in encouragement. Abby's frame is rigid as she taps a reassuring hand on her daughter's shoulder, her eyes never leaving Jaha.

"Of course, sir," Clarke agrees. He'd also have her permission to hang himself in the mean time.

Jaha smiles, graciously almost, at her before turning his attention to her mother. Abby acts instantly, stepping away from the booth, the place where she stood beside Clarke already cold and desperate to be returned to.

She grins tightly at her behind her shoulder. "Keep the booth under control."

Clarke nods. She exhales deeply, watching as her mother follows in step with Jaha, her face downcast in an attempt to shield her expression from her. The pair of them walk with their back towards her, the guards shortly behind. The crowd parts again at their exit.

She stares angrily at the outline of their frame. Jaha has never expressed any interest in how Clarke and her mother have lived their life, other than the occasional execution of a family member. She feels her body tense at the thought. If he even fucking touches -

"Miss. Griffin?"

Clarke flinches at the sound of her name. Her vision tears from the disappearing figures, tilting her face to the source of the deep voice that called her. Her gaze rests on a man in front of her, eyebrows quirked and hands shoved in his front pockets. The curls of his hair fall against his forehead, just above his dark eyes.

She blinks. "Sorry."

He offers a small grin, and she knows him, of course she knows him. Bellamy Blake. He's been coming to the booth every Trade for the past few months, trading the limited rations he has for medicine she knows he barely recognizes. He's almost ashamed when he asks for it, as if he's afraid of revealing the reason why he needs the medication.

Even though, by now, everyone in the East end knows.

It's hard not to hear the screams eliciting from Aurora Blake in the residence on the corner of Clarke's street. Clarke has even tended to her before after his younger sister, who's in her grade, Octavia, begged her for weeks to help their dying mother. Doctors and nurses are accustomed at a high cost, even those who work in the East end.

It's against the law, could very much get her killed, but she couldn't do nothing. Her father wouldn't do nothing.

Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in.

Bellamy glances behind his shoulder, eyebrows knitting together when he turns back to her. "Not usual seeing the chancellor in this part of town," he voices. His tone is deeper than she remembers, stronger. He crosses his arms over his chest. His arms are stronger, too.

Clarke pursues her lips, her eyes hardening. "I'm sure he doesn't like it either."

He hums in agreement, and there's a look in his eyes that suggests he holds the same disgust for Jaha such as hers. His gaze falls from hers, glare narrowing as he analyzes the pile of medicine in front of him. She watches as he mouths the name of the pills on his lips. Of course he knows the words. He's seen enough death and sickness by now.

"How is she?"

His eyes lift to hers, looking away momentarily, and she follows his line of vision to observe Octavia standing at a booth a couple yards away. Clarke sighs, they both have people to worry about protecting.

His voice is low when he talks. "Octavia doesn't seem to realize it's almost time," he tells her. He turns back to her, gaze returning. "I just need something to help minimize the pain."

Clarke nods in understanding. She reaches towards the pile of medicine and grabs a bottle of herbs her mother cooks for the patients who are slowly giving in to their sickness. She extends it towards him, and he takes it from her grasp, his skin brushing hers. He turns the bottle in his hand, eyes searching.

"She shouldn't be able to feel anything by the time . . . "

She doesn't finish her sentence, and he doesn't ask her to. He places the bottle on the table in satisfaction and reaches into the pocket of his pants. After a moment of silent searching, he pulls one ration pack from his jeans and places it in her palm. "It's not much," he tells her, tone cursing the circumstances, "but I hope it's enough."

The figures of Jaha and her mother reappear in her line of vision behind Bellamy's shoulder as they begin to return to the booth. Clarke looks at Bellamy, the bags under his eyes, the dirt and exhaustion on his face. She grins sympathetically, grins and thinks of her father as she leans forward to grab another bottle of herbs from the booth and tosses it towards him.

Bellamy catches it in his hands.

"It's enough."

He shakes his head. "Miss. Griffin - "

Clarke looks at him, and this is what humanity feels like. This is how it feels to be human. She jerks her chin towards the approaching images of Abby and Jaha who are gaining closer to where they're standing. "You better hurry, my mom isn't as a lenient," she warns him. There's a pause, and they're both silent and staring. "And it's Clarke," she decides to add.

There's a glint of gratitude in Bellamy's eyes that he seems incapable to speak on. He swallows thickly, frozen, not moving until he glances at his sister one more time, allows her appearance encourage him.

He looks at her then, his eyes dark and bold in contrast to her blue ones. Brooding and calm. His gaze doesn't leave hers as he takes the second bottle, doesn't leave hers as he begins to back away from the booth. "Clarke," he mumbles, in parting, in appreciation.

She nods at him, gestures for him to go, closes her eyes softly when he's out of sight.

Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in.


Okay so this is a short snippet of an idea I have for a Bellamy and Clarke story! If you want me to continue, please let me know because I am genuinely not sure if I will but I will if you guys want me to :)

Let me know in the review section! Have a great day guys! XOXOXO 3

Happy Bellarking,