DAY 12
Prisoner 319.
That's all she is now. A criminal, one of the last of humankind, reduced to nothing but a number, a cell all that she has to call home. And as she paces back and forth, as she counts out the steps from one side of her cell to the other she thinks she feels the steady drumming of her heart as it beats lonesome in her chest. Her feet take her as far as they can before her nose brushes against the cool of the metal wall and as she pauses, as she presses into it and as her eyes close, if only for a moment, she imagines that the chill of the wall isn't so cold, but is warm, is comfortable and safe. She imagines that the steady, constant thrumming of the recycled air that breathes through the cell is instead a gentle, warming beat, a quiet tune that can lull her mind into a restful slumber and she imagines that the arms she holds around herself aren't her own, frail and cold but her fathers.
And maybe she's surprised when a wet trail creeps down her cheek, maybe she's surprised when she opens her eyes only to find the grey of an uncaring world facing her. And maybe she's surprised that her life only has 353 days left.
But maybe she's not.
Isn't she a criminal?
Isn't she a traitor?
Isn't she just a girl?
DAY 27
The food sucks. It's a grey paste. A green goop and a slimy soup of nutrients. Enough to keep the human body going. But it leaves her in a constant state of hunger, her stomach a constant grumbling to keep her company. And maybe, if only because all she has is the space in her mind, all she can do is lay down or walk and pace, she imagines it a creature, a monster that growls and roars and speaks to her and keeps her company throughout the days that pass.
She finds that the air breathes through her cell on a cycle, every 237 beats of her heart and then she feels the rush, she feels the soft caress of air that will grant her another 237 beats of less stale, less musty oxygen. And she laughs when she realises, when she counts three times, just to make sure, if only because she has nothing else to do. But she laughs at the realisation that now, as prisoner 319, she isn't worth a constant supply of fresh air.
And isn't that ironic?
DAY 89
She isn't sure who exactly has smuggled in the chalk. But she has an idea. And so she cries, she laughs and sobs and breaks down in the middle of her cell. And she curses and swears out and wails when she crushes the first piece accidentally, by gripping too hard in her pain, in her lonely relief.
And so she uses her daily supply of water. She mixes it with the broken pieces and makes a paste, a watery paint that could cling just enough to the surface of her cell and so she painted, she smiles and lets her imagination take hold. She brushes her fingers over the walls and the floor and she imagines a world of colour. A world of greens, living, breathing and swaying in the gentle hold of the earth, of soft yellows mixing with the vibrancy of the sun as it crests the earth and she paints with the explosion of reds and pinks as the sun kisses the morning grass. She paints the water as it swims and lives and breathes through the rivers in all its calming beauty.
And she cries.
DAY 239
She is sure her muscles have atrophied, have wilted and have wasted away. And as she pulls her shirt over her head, as she looks down at her stomach she thinks the dips and curves are just a bit less, just a bit too thin, too absent, all that shows is the faint outline of ribs, of hip bones that protrude just a bit too far.
And as she strips the remainder of her clothes, as she tucks them into the corner of her cell she waits. She counts down slowly. And she braces herself for just a moment before the spray of the water falls, as the chill of the too cold stream freezes her limbs and soaks her face. She scrubs her fingers through her hair, 30 seconds all she will be given, and she rakes her nails over her skin, anything to wash away the week of sweat and filth that accumulates. She's halfway through scrubbing her leg when the water stops, when it cuts out and leaves her a shivering, naked mess in her cell.
And she hates it.
DAY 361
She wakes to a realisation, a thought. A broken truth. And all she can do, all she can manage is to roll over, to tuck her face into her arm and cry. Her fingers dig painfully into her palm, her shoulders shake and her breath comes ragged and desperate.
And she knows. She knows all she has is four days. All she has is four meals. All she has is one more too cold shower.
It will all be over soon.
DAY 365
She lies awake for hours, her mind unable to rest, her body unable to sleep. And so she memorises the trees that surround her. She memorises the birds that perch and sing and fly through the branches and she smiles at the lives they have lived. She traces the river as it winds and twists and curves around her cell and maybe, just for a moment, she imagines the way the sun would feel kissing her face, the way the water would feel as it rushed through her fingers. And she laughs quietly at the squirrel that hangs too precariously from a branch, too eager in its attempt to get to another tree. And she smiles, just a bit, at the sun as it shines down on the land she has made.
And maybe she cries just a bit, for just a moment when she hears the footsteps that approach.
And maybe she closes her eyes.
Maybe she tries not to imagine the air that is forced from her lungs.
Maybe she tries not to imagine what it must feel like to float, helpless, and spinning through a nothingness for the rest of her life.
And maybe she tries not to imagine what death must feel like.
It will all be over soon.
They tell her to face the wall, they tell her to put her arms behind her back and to lean her forehead against the cool of the cell. She winces quietly as the bite of the shackles sting into her wrists, and she grimaces at the pinches she feels digging into her flesh. And she's pushed out the cell, her feet a stumbling, unsure mess beneath her and her breathing a steady, calming thing that grounds her, that surprises her in the moment. But she is sure that panic will set in, that desperation and a will to survive will rear its ugly head. Only when it's too late.
And so she's pushed forward, told to follow the guard in front of her and so she moves, her eyes downcast, her vision beginning to blur and a wet trail beginning to form despite her wishes.
It will all be over soon.
She knows where she will be floated. She knows that when she gets to the end of the passageway she will turn right, will be walked further until she comes to an airlock. And she knows her mother will be allowed to see her just once more. And maybe she smiles for a moment, and maybe she cries just a bit harder, a sob coming just a bit louder when she realises she won't see her again. Won't feel a loving embrace again past the next 20 minutes.
It's only a few more paces, just a few body lengths, and she knows she'll turn right. She knows she'll see more guards, lest she make a run for it, lest she try and break free. If only because it happens, if only because others who are to be floated sometimes find the courage. Or the desperation to flee, to stave off death for just a few more minutes.
But she's tired of waiting.
She's already waited long enough.
It will all be over soon.
To her surprise, to her confusion, the guards turns her left. They walk for just a few steps before pausing. And as she stops behind the one before her, he turns, his eyes curious, his expression careful.
"Wait here," is all he says before stepping back, before turning from her.
And it's strange, it's an odd feeling and it's frightening.
"What's happening?" she asks, her voice quiet, her mind buzzing with a dread and a confusion.
"Be quiet," is all she's given, the guard behind her prodding her forcefully in the back.
She isn't sure how long she waits. And maybe it's minutes, maybe it's hours, but she hears it quietly. She hears footsteps approaching and so she peers past the guard before her. And as her eyes fall on the figures that approach, she thinks her eyes water, she thinks her lips tremble and she knows she cries when Abby rushes to her, when she's engulfed in warmth and when she's held close in a mother's embrace.
And so Clarke reaches out, her fingers digging painfully into her mothers arms as she holds her as tight as she can.
"I love you," she sobs quietly, painfully and brokenly into her mothers chest.
She feels Abby's hand rub soothingly across her back, a gentle circle that quiets her mind. Just for a moment.
"It's ok, Clarke," and she knows it isn't, she knows the words to be a falsehood, to be the whispered words of calm that a parent would whisper, should whisper at a time like this. But still, perhaps she can find a comfort and a solace, if only for a short while.
She doesn't realise that they move, that she is being walked and carried and dragged until she stumbles, until Abby's arms tighten around her shoulders. And so she looks up in confusion, her vision a blurred mess of tears.
"Where are we going?" she whispers it out.
"You aren't being floated, Clarke," and the words stun her, they dig painfully and cruelly and tauntingly into her mind. And she is sure she heard wrong, she is sure she will wake, back in her cell. And so she shakes her head, a refusal and a denial burying themselves into her mind.
"No."
"You're being sent to the ground, Clarke."
"No."
"It's the only way I can keep you alive."
"No."
"It will be ok."
"No."
"Clarke, listen to me," Abby stops walking, the guards forming a tight circle around them both. "Jaha agreed to send you to the ground. You're going to see if it's survivable."
"What?" Clarke is sure she hears wrong.
""Those earth skills classes, with Pike," Abby squeezes her arms tightly, "they were to teach you how to survive."
"What?"
"You were chosen, Clarke. You're going to save us."
It starts with a gentle scratch, a quiet thrumming of her head. And maybe she isn't quite sure how long it takes, but maybe, if only be the careful whistling that wriggles into her ears and the steady pressure on her chest, Clarke thinks herself alive. It continues with a careful dripping, a slow pained throb that winds its way through her mind and into the fibres of her flesh and muscle. And maybe, if only because it hurts, if only because it burns, Clarke thinks herself still breathing. It ends with a painful stabbing pressure that slices into her body, that bruises and crushes against the lungfuls of air she tries to breathe.
Clarke knows she is alive.
Consciousness greets Clarke in a cold embrace, a lonely hold, an agonising hug that steals her breath, and as she opens her eyes, as her vision swims and blurs she thinks she hates gravity. And she knows she hates the burn and the ache of her body.
She finds her hair falling away from her face, her body hanging, trapped and dangling in her seat, her legs and arms falling down in front of her towards the ground. And it's a whimpered, broken, whispered groan of pain that escapes her lips when she tries to move, tries to pull herself upright. But, perhaps dangling almost upside down, perhaps having been punched through the atmosphere and crushed against the earth is something that her body resents.
Her fingers fumble and grasp at the buckles that hold her in the seat, that keep her from rushing to the ground. And she think she smells the tang of blood, the faint echoes of smoke and burnt earth that lingers close.
It takes a moment before she can wriggle her finger beneath the buckle, before she can fully grip the lever that releases her. And she falls. She falls with a thud, with a crunch and a bruising of her body. And so she lies there, her cheek pressed into the ground, her hair twisted and mangled falling across her face and her thoughts, her worries and her mind a lost, dazed thing.
Clarke turns then, rolls to her back and looks up at the drop pod that hangs, lodged between the branches of a tree, the bark burnt and blackened, the limbs gnarled and weathered from the raging of what she thinks must be the wind, must be the elements that still exist on the ground.
And as her eyes trace the tree, as her vision blurs just a little less, as she wipes the blood that drips from her mouth she sees the blue of the sky, she sees the clouds as they sail before her eyes.
And she laughs. She laughs and coughs and splutters a pathetic, adrenaline fuelled wheeze.
I'm not dead.
She feels the crunch beneath her, she feels the cold touch of the earth and the jagged of the rocks she must lie on. And she smiles, it's a broad thing, a happy thing. And she knows she's alive, she knows the air won't burn her flesh, won't charr her throat and won't melt her eyes and so she struggles to her knees, she struggles through the throbbing of her head and she screams out, her head thrown back and her arms thrown in the air.
And she smiles.
I'm not dead.
The tears come next. They flow heavy and steady down her face, mixing with the blood and soot and grime that till clings to her cheeks. And Clarke realises, in this moment, as she kneels on the ground, as her sobs echo against the trees that surround her, that she is alone.
It takes her a short while, just enough for her to steady the pained heaving of her chest and the ragged expansion of her lungs but she wipes her hand across her face, shakes her head to clear the fog that stills clings to her mind. And as she stands Clarke finds that her legs feel heavy, they feel just a bit less sure and firm underneath her. And she smiles as her hand reaches out to steady herself against the trunk of the tree.
It takes her a second of staring around herself, at casting her eyes to the ground. It takes her the time it takes to raise her face to the drop pod to realise all her supplies, all she will need to live off the ground is strapped into the drop pod.
Fuck.
She whispers it quietly, her breath coming out in a soft cloud.
She flops back down then, her back to the tree, her face turned up to the drop pod. And she stares for a long while, and she is sure her thoughts are still jumbled, still clouded by the experience of falling to the ground.
And perhaps it was the adrenaline, perhaps it was the pumping of her blood and her too hot entry to earth, but only now, as she relaxes just a bit, she realises the cold bite of the wind that clings to her body. And as her eyes scan the ground she finds it covered in faint wisps of white that shines carefully as the sun touches it through the clouds that hang overhead. And she smiles for a second at the realisation that she looks upon snow, and so she reaches out, lets her fingers drag through it and maybe, just for a quiet moment Clarke thinks the ground beautiful.
And she is sure her tears must be falling, her shoulders must be shaking.
And she is sure she feels the fear, the terror and the panic begin to creep in, begin to latch on and dig its way into her mind.
"Clarke, listen to me," Abby clutches her face carefully, wiping a strand of hair away, "All you'll need is in the drop pod, ok?" and so Clarke nods, her head feeling too numbed, too dazed and lost in the moment.
"How will you know it's safe?" she asks, her voice quiet, her heart raging in her chest.
"We'll monitor your vital signs," Abby says, lifting Clarke's wrist to indicate the bracelet that pinches into her skin, "and you have a radio to contact us when you get down," Abby pauses for a moment, a finger brushing against her eyes, "and you have supplies, enough to last weeks. Enough to last until the Ark comes down, ok?"
"Ok," what else can Clarke say in this moment? What else can she do? She's an experiment, a lab rat, a test. A gamble. But it's a chance, it's a fool's errand, but its a chance at life.
"Remember. You need to get to Mount Weather, you need to see if it's still there. Be strong," it comes out a whisper, a quiet plea, "be safe. Don't take risks. May we meet again."
And as Abby hugs Clarke once more, as she clutches her tightly in a fearful embrace Clarke feels the press of a small object into her hands, feels the brush of lips against her forehead.
And she feels afraid.
She's not sure how long she sits by the tree. But as she looks back to the sky she thinks the sun has moved just a bit lower in the sky, casting shadows that linger just a bit longer than before and she shivers, the chill of the wind slowly creeping into her battered body and so she stands, stretches her legs and winces at the biting ache that still clings to her.
She looks back to the drop pod that hangs above her, and she curses her luck, curses the tree that still holds it in a steady embrace keeping it far out of reach. And as she looks up at the drop pod there's only two options she thinks are available. The first is to walk away, to leave her supplies and radio. But she needs them, she needs the supplies that will keep her alive, will keep her breathing long enough for her to radio the Ark, to tell them the ground is survivable, long enough for her to make it to Mount Weather. Wherever it is. She could try and climb the tree, scale the limbs and branches to reach the drop pod, but as her eyes follow the haphazard branches, as she eyes them swaying slightly in the wind she thinks her chances of success low and her chances of falling to the ground high. And as she listens to the aching of her body she thinks she's had enough falling to the ground to last her a lifetime. But what else can she do?
It takes her even longer to muster the courage, to build a resolve, but as she reaches for the first branch, as her fingers close around the weathered limb she pulls. She scrambles and winces and curses her body but she is able to swing her leg up, she is able to hook her heel onto the branch. But she hangs, precarious and desperate for a moment, and then she rises. She rises cautiously, she rises slowly and she rises with a curse and a prayer and a hope falling from her lips. Her legs tremble, her arms ache before she reaches the fourth branch and she rages at her time locked in a cell. She rages at the body that she is left with. And she knows all it will take, all it will need is a careful slip and she will fall. And so she hugs the branch tightly, holds herself close. And she reaches out.
She is sure it takes her an age, her breaths coming in ragged and desperate, her arms burning from the strain, but she inches forward, her body pressed against a branch, her fingers digging painfully into the bark. And she knows it's only an arm's reach, only a gentle push and she will reach the drop pod.
And she's terrified.
And, maybe in moments later she will think herself foolish, but she looks down, if only to see how far she has to go and the distance makes her head swim, makes her stomach drop and her heart clench painfully in her chest. And so she gasps, curses her stupidity and closes her eyes as tight as she can.
I can do it.
Her fingers dig painfully into the bark and she pushes forward just a bit with her feet.
Don't fall.
Her hand reaches out slowly, her eyes still firmly shut.
I can make it.
She feels the gentle touch of metal against her finger tips, the rough edges where the flames had licked at the drop pod. And she smiles, she thinks she laughs for a quiet moment. And so her eyes open and she eyes the drop pod carefully, thoughts of it crashing and falling to the ground, thoughts of it taking her with it coming into her mind. And as she eyes the way it sits in the branches she thinks it will be fine, she thinks it will hold steady. She hopes it won't fall. And so she reaches forward, takes a hold of the door that hangs open and she pulls herself in with a careful, fearful scramble.
Her chest heaves as she rests for a moment, but she cries out in surprise, the sound echoing around her as it sags, as it groans and trembles around her. And she knows she must hurry.
It's a quick fumble in the dark of the drop pod, her hand searching under the seat for the bag, and as her fingers snag it, as she gives a careful tug she smiles for just a moment before pulling her arms through the straps, before securing it tightly to her back. And it's one last scan of the interior, one last careful check to make sure she has everything, and then she's crawling out, she's hugging the tree and she's descending, weighed down by the supplies, weighed down by the aching of her legs and the trembling of her arms.
And she falls, her finger slipping from a branch and her body plummeting to the ground. She lands with a heavy thud, her head clouded in pain and her body aching once more. But she made it, she's alive and she thinks she hasn't broken anything. Right? And so she laughs, she laughs freely, the sound coming out ragged and wheezed once more.
And she thinks herself a fool, she thinks herself on a suicidal errand. But at least she lives.
What more could she wish for?
A lot. Probably.
To her relief she finds a weather proof jacket in her bag, she finds a map, a compass and a torch. But she knows all good things must come to an end, and so as she continues to rummage through the bag she finds the green nutrient paste the only thing for her to eat. And she knows her weeks spent on the ground will suck, will cause her to suffer. But at least she's free. At least she's on the ground. And so she spreads the map out before her, her eyes finding Mount Weather marked with a circle, and so she casts her gaze around her, tries to spot the mountain in the distance, tries to identify a landmark. And she is sure she looks for too long, for long enough to know that the dread and the fear that begins to creep back is not just because she is alone. And as the land around her remains unrecognisable, landmarks not where they should be, she thinks she knows the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
And she knows.
She knows.
And perhaps it's the emotional whiplash, it's the time spent plummeting to the earth, it's the time spent lying dazed and confused on the ground and its the time spent scaling a tree with a too weak body. But she laughs, she laughs harder than she has in the moments she has spent on the ground.
Idiots.
She knows she is lost, she knows she is not where she was supposed to land. She knows the Ark sent her to the wrong coordinates.
Float me.
She knows she needs to move, needs to find shelter, a place to stay.
I'm fucked.
She knows survival is a fool's errand.
Clarke thinks, she prays, that she has guessed that she landed further north than intended, and as she begins moving south, as her eyes follow the needle that guides her forward, she can't help but to stare amazed at the land that surrounds her, at the trees that glow faintly in the sun, at the snow that clings to the branches and that blankets the ground in a light dust. And maybe, if only because it is real, if only because it is the ground, she loves the cool chill, she loves the gentle fog that breathes out with each exhale of her lungs. She kicks a branch she passes, her lips curling into a smile, her eyes following it as it rolls and tumbles through the snow. She must only walk for half an hour, for just a short while, but her legs begin to burn once more, her body tiring from the ache and the constant forced travel and so she stops by a fallen tree.
She takes a moment to cast her gaze around her, if only to check for no obvious signs of danger, for no obvious signs of wildlife that might have survived. And she thinks she'd rather not come face to face with a mutated bear, a too large wolf or any other kind of creature. And so, as Clarke sits, her back to a moss covered tree trunk, the weight of her dilemma comes crashing into her, comes screaming into her mind.
"What am I supposed to do?" it comes out a whisper, her eyes gazing up into the branches overhead, her mind a broken, tired and desperate thing that screams out to her.
She pulls her jacket around herself just a bit tighter, the cold of the afternoon stinging a little bit stronger, a little bit harsher.
"What do I do?" it's a broken prayer that falls from her lips.
She wipes a hand across her eyes, the tears that form smearing across her cheeks and freezing against her lashes.
What do I do?
Her fingers brush against the buttons of the radio, her hands rapidly cooling, her limbs numbing in the cold. She presses the power button, turns the dial and she waits. She waits for the crackle, she waits for a sign to tell her the radio works, that she can talk to the Ark. That she isn't alone. But as she stares at the broken plastic and metal in her hands she knows that no sound will come, that no calming reassurances will be received from the Ark. And she knows it won't work.
And maybe it's funny, maybe it's a cruel joke and a taunting laugh. But as she stares at the broken radio, as her eyes trace the twisted and cracked lifeline she had, she thinks her lips curl into a quiet grimace. And she thinks that at least she will die on the ground, that at least she won't feel the cold embrace of space as the air in her lungs rushes from her mouth.
Maybe dying so far from home isn't so bad.
Won't it all be over soon?
She finds herself curled into a small ball, her knees tucked into her chest, her back pressed against the hard bite of the fallen tree. She knows her eyes feel heavier, more heavy than just from a need for sleep, and she knows she should try and wake, try and move, try and fight the cold that seeps into her body, that blankets her in a warm layer of snow that slowly steadies the beating of her heart. But as the sun dips below the horizon, as light slowly fades and snow begins to fall gently over the ground, she thinks she feels the slowing of her breaths, she thinks she feels the tired pull of her mind and she knows she feels the tears that freeze against her cheek. And as her eyes close for the last time, as her vision fades and her body stills, she thinks she traces the edges of her fathers watch that rests comfortably against her wrist.
It will all be over soon.
I'll see you again, dad.
It's a strange, odd feeling to think herself swaying, to think she feels the warm press of a body against her back and the lurching of muscles beneath her. But she thinks herself too tired, too weak to open her eyes, so she leans back into the warmth, leans back into the dream she is sure her dying mind must be conjuring. And perhaps she imagines her father, perhaps she imagines his warm embrace guiding her to a place that isn't so cold, that isn't so harsh and lonely.
And maybe Clarke smiles for a moment, maybe her lips twitch gently as her mind fades, as she falls steadily into a quiet sleep.
And maybe she doesn't notice the horse she rides on.
Maybe she doesn't notice her hands bound behind her.
Maybe she doesn't notice the leather strapped warrior that holds her firmly in place, whose face is scarred, weathered, painted a deathly white.
And maybe it would be better to have died.