"MURPHY!"
Bellamy's voice bellowed across camp. He didn't care if everybody could hear him. It wasn't his problem. Murphy, on the other hand, most definitely was.
"Where the hell are you?" he shouted as people glanced at him warily, backing away and diverting eye contact. Word had already spread about him killing the chancellor and even if he had bared the brunt of the responsibility for the prisoners on the ground, the Ark members only knew what he was rumored to be capable of. He was unpredictable.
"MURPHY!" Bellamy shouted again, this time entering the food containment area, where he usually hung out. It was empty, except for a woman piling bread into countable stacks. Bellamy stopped his stomping for a moment and ran his tongue over the line of his teeth. His thumb came up to brush the bridge of his nose. Something wasn't right.
He had to find somebody who might have seen him. Walking back towards the tent area, he scanned the camp for possible witnesses.
"Hey!" he yelled, spotting a guard standing close to the gate. He glanced back at Bellamy's voice, eyes raised. Bellamy may have been feared, but he was also respected. Even the guards seemed to follow his lead.
He made his way over, trying not to break eye contact.
"Have you seen Murphy?" he questioned, brown eyes searching his for an answer. The guard's brows furrowed. "Murphy?"
Bellamy sighed. "Yes. Tall guy, about my height, brown, slick-backed hair. Probably psychotic-looking," Bellamy tacked on blandly. "He might have came out of there," Bellamy pointed towards his tent where he'd left Clarke fast asleep.
The guard's eyes seemed to brighten. "Oh yeah, must have been about twenty minutes ago. Headed in that direction," he replied, nodding towards the medical center.
"Thanks," Bellamy said as he headed in the direction of his extended finger. His heart was already beginning to pound.
Glancing around quickly with mouth slightly open, Bellamy squinted through the sunlight, hoping to catch a glimpse of Murphy's slinking figure. He'd better look as damn guilty as Bellamy thought he deserved.
Suddenly his eyes fell upon slicked hair and a malicious grin.
There.
"Murphy!" Bellamy's voice came out dangerous and low, like the bark of a dog. The boy's head whipped around and when his line of vision connected with Bellamy's, the smile disappeared from his face.
He knew.
There was a frozen pause between them and for a moment Bellamy thought he was going to run away. But instead, Murphy forced a grin back onto his lips—although it didn't reach his eyes—and got up slowly, walking towards Bellamy as if approaching a wild animal.
Bellamy could tell he was trying to play dumb and with every step he took, Bellamy's eyes darkened a shade. Now they stood a mere foot away
"Hey-" Murphy tried to say, but in the next second, Bellamy was whipping a fist across his face, almost as if trying to permanently wipe that stupid smile off of his mouth.
Murphy stumbled and brought a hand to his jaw, looking up at Bellamy under downturned eyebrows. He shook his head, the right corner of his mouth twitching, egging Bellamy on.
"Ha." he sputtered out. "Wrapped around her finger, huh?"
Bellamy sent another blow to his stomach and this time he was on the ground.
"We have rules here, Murphy," he said evenly, without regret. "And I don't care if they aren't written in stone. All I care is that they are followed. Got it?"
Murphy seemed to wince in pain, but the smirk was still on his face. "Oh, like no killing people? Guess princess isn't innocent either."
Bellamy could feel the urge to deliver another blow to Murphy's face, but instead he fisted his hands under his shoulders and crouched down.
"I don't know what's going through your sick, twisted mind, but there is a difference between a choice and an obligation. Finn was going to die either way. Charlotte and the two other boys you killed could have been spared."
Murphy's eyes took on a vengeful expression. "A death is a death as long as it's done for a good reason. And I didn't kill Charlotte. She killed herself."
Bellamy stood, shaking his head, almost looking sorry. "You're messed up, Murphy."
Sighing, he turned to walk away, before stopping himself to say one last thing. "Do anything to her again, and I will kill you."
He didn't stay to hear what Murphy's response was, but he could have cared less. _
"Clarke?" The soft sound of a female voice woke Clarke from her sleep. She lifted her head from her pillow to look over her shoulder.
"Mom?"
"Yeah, it's me. How are you feeling?" she responded, fully entering the tent and bending to sit next to Clarke.
Her daughter stared back at her with blank eyes. "I'm not ready to talk about it yet," she said in a firm voice.
Abigail sighed. "Clarke...I know that, but I just want you to know that I understand and that if you need somebody—"
"STOP SAYING THAT!" Clarke shouted, moving to sit up and glaring at her mother. "I'm not you! I can't be. Stop."
"Clarke, that's not what I was talking about," Abigail said, brown eyes widening. "Not about your dad."
"Then what? It makes sense," Clarke said, head dropping into the palms of her hands. "You think that because we've both had to kill people we love, that makes us the same. But it's doesn't. It still doesn't mean I'm going to forgive you."
Abigail sighed and reached out to stroke Clarke's hair.
"I know Clarke, that's not what I'm asking, I just meant that, as a kid, I had to deal with some pretty bad stuff too—"
Clarke pulled away abruptly, standing up. "I am NOT a kid anymore. The girl you knew on the Ark is not the same one that you're looking at now. I grew up the first day we landed here; the first day I had to watch my friend get speared in the chest and kill another because poisonous fog had made it so painful, that he didn't even want to live. I'm not Ark-Clarke. I'm Ground-Clarke and a lot has changed. Don't talk to me like I don't know what I've become."
Abigail stood startled. Clarke had never spoken out so brashly before.
"Clarke, I didn't mean it like that, I just...I want to be here for you," she said softly. "I wan't you to know that I'll listen."
She expected Clarke to smile and agree, but instead her eyes filled up with tears. "Yeah just like you were here for me when I was sent to my death."
Abigail shook her head feverently, but Clarke was already making to leave. She was halfway out the door.
"Why him?" her mother called abruptly, panicked. Clarke glanced back to see a broken look on her mother's face as she pointed to the tent around her. "I don't get it." Tears brimmed in her eyes.
Clarke shook her head slowly. "Because he's the only one who makes me feel like I don't always have to act so strong."
And it was true. _
She needed to do something with her hands—and her mind, for that matter. Clarke needed something to keep her busy—to force that lingering sensation of stabbing someone from overtaking her mind. She had considered taking a medical shift for a couple hours, but the minute she walked in the room, somebody was shooing her out.
They wouldn't allow her in and Clarke knew it was either because they were scared of what she was capable of, or didn't understand how somebody so injured would be able to help anybody. Her fingers fidgeted and shook as she looked around frantically.
There.
His name was Brandon—or something like that, she didn't quite know. Her mother had once authorized to float his sister. She couldn't remember what it was for, but somehow the decision of his sister's life had required an extra council member to break the tie of whether or not she would be killed. Abigail voted in favor and now, as Clarke approached him, she realized that maybe that decision had earned her something in return—perhaps a respectable seat of heirarchey on the Ark. A week later, she was sitting next to the Chancellor at meetings.
Either way, Brandon hated anyone who was mildly close with Abby. And Clarke was more than enough. He was a guard now—in his thirties maybe—and strong. Better yet, he was also off duty.
"Hey," Clarke said as she approached him. "Brandon, right?"
He looked up from his cup of water to stare at her for a minute, before standing up. "Go away," he spat, recognizing her quickly.
"Wait!" Clarke called, as he started to walk away. "I just wanted to ask you something."
Clarke could see his shoulders roll in a huff before he turned around to look at her.
"What?" he asked, glaring.
She took a breath. "Will you teach me how to fight?"
He looked a bit taken a back. "You want me to teach you how to fight?"
Clarke nodded.
"Why would I ever do something for you?" he asked angrily. "I don't owe you anything."
"What, it wouldn't satisfy you to beat me up for a while?" she asked.
He eyed her warily. "Would this have anything to do with what happened last night?"
Clarke shrugged. "Does it matter?"
He huffed through his teeth and glanced around. "Not really...no."
"Allright. When's your next shift?"
"A couple of hours," he replied.
"Great. Meet me in fifteen minutes just outside the gate. I'm sure you can get us through."
And as Clarked walked away, she was fully cognicent of the fact that the only thing she was going to be taught was a lesson—and she couldn't help but feel like maybe she deserved it.