Disclaimer: Do not own Marvel, DC or The 100

Warnings for child neglect, child abuse, talk of racism and misogyny, gaslighting and murder.

Limited Freedom: Her saviors or her jailers?

Chapter one-Imprisonment

The white clad staff members carried Clarke Griffin through the halls of the mental hospital. Clarke barely had the energy to resist. Her head was bowed, the despair throughout her mind was too strong to resist.

Her mother had sent her here, of all people. Her mother, who had chosen both of her boyfriends over her daughter.

Kane and Blake, Markus Kane and Bellamy Blake. Abby had chosen those two horrible men over her daughter. Over the daughter who she had given birth to and had raised for years with her ex-husband.

After Clarke's father, Jake Griffin, had been sent to prison six years ago, for the murder of one of his friends, Charles Pike, Abby had been more than happy to ignore Clarke.

It was bad enough for Clarke. She had refused to believe that her daddy would ever commit murder. She still believed that he was framed. He had to be framed. Charles Pike had been murdered and her daddy had been arrested for it. Her mother had never been that attentive to Clarke before. But after her daddy had been arrested, her mother had been nothing but neglectful.

She had been thirteen at the time of her daddy's arrest. Six years she had experienced her mother's neglect. And she had been willing to go after anyone who might love her. Despite knowing that it might be dangerous for her.

And two and a half years, she and her best friend, Wells? They had started having sex together, desperate to feel something, commiserating in their shared neglected experiences. Wells had been neglected by his father, Thelonius Jaha, for years. Clarke had been neglected by her mother for years. They had just been drawn to each other, in hopes of feeling something.

And teenagers? They did stupid things. She had been sixteen and a half, and Wells had been seventeen. And they had sex and it hadn't been protected sex.

Now there was a child out in the world, born out of wedlock. Daniella Griffin Jaha. Their daughter. And it had just been fuel for Abby to want to lock Clarke away so that she didn't have to deal with the responsibility of having a child anymore.

That was why, despite Clarke being an adult now, being almost nineteen now, Abby had staged an accident to make it look like Clarke was mentally unstable and needed to be put away in the mental hospital.

One of her boyfriends, Bellamy Blake, constantly gaslighting her? Didn't help.

He had told her that she was imagining the things she had seen him, Kane and Abby do to her and say to her. Would shift things around throughout the house, telling her she did it.

Clarke might be more disoriented than before, but she was sure that Bellamy had done it and not her.

She was sure of it.

Which made it hurt all the more that she was being put away and her mother, Kane and Bellamy weren't being punished in any way.

She could feel herself being pulled through the hall of the institute, staring down at the stainless, white floor.

She hated how sterile this place was.

It made it feel empty somehow. There were so many people locked up here. But this place felt empty. Empty of life. empty of soul.

She didn't know if she believed in the soul. But if such a thing existed, this place was barren of it.

Even without the belief of soul, this place felt cold and hollow.

She closed her eyes as she was dragged, trying to fight the tears but couldn't. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to be with her mother or anywhere near her sociopaths of boyfriends, but she didn't want to be here either.

She wanted to be with Wells. She didn't love him in the way that someone loved their boyfriend, but he was still family to her. And they shared a child. She wanted her daughter.

As the officers had taken her away, being told by her therapist who Clarke was sure was being paid by Abby to do this, that she was going to have to be put in a mental health facility for her protection, Wells had run up to her and had hugged her and had whispered into her ear that he would keep their daughter from being found by Abby, Kane and Bellamy.

If there was anyone that Clarke trusted to keep their daughter secret, it was Wells.

Her and Wells having a child together out of wedlock was public knowledge, but no one knew where her daughter was. As soon as Clarke had been dragged off to a mental hospital, Wells had run off and had grabbed his and Clarke's child and had hidden her somewhere.

At least, that was what Clarke hoped had happened.

She sniffled, her sister, Rose and her daughter, Daniella's face flashing in her mind. The little, round face of her precious baby, with trusting light brown eyes looking up at her. And those trusting bright blue eyes of her young sister, Rose. Daniella was almost sixteen months old and had just begun saying her first words. She knew how to say "dada." And she always had looked at Wells when she had begun to say it, which meant, she knew what she was saying.

It had only been a few weeks before this, when Daniella had begun to look at Clarke and say, "mama."

It had almost made Clarke cry when she had heard Daniella first call her that.

Now she feared that she would never hear Daniella call her that again.

Or ever see Daniella again.

But if the price of keeping Rose and Daniella safe from Abby, Kane and Bellamy meant that she would never see her little sister or her little girl again, then she'd pay it. As long as Wells kept their daughter safe. That was the highest priority.

She was hauled through the building, till she was pulled through the doorway of the doctor's office, dropped down harshly onto the seat, causing her to open her eyes and look across from her at the doctor on the other side of the table.

He was elderly looking, with almost white hair and genteel expression on his face. He smiled at her softly and said, "Hello, Ms. Griffin. I am Dr. Dante Wallace. I am sorry for any inconvenience that you may have experienced coming here. But I assure you, we're here to help."

Clarke glared at the man. She felt a distrust for this man that she couldn't exactly put her finger on. Maybe it was because she had been told her whole life to trust authority figures, only to have them stab her in the back. Maybe it was because she had been dragged here for bullshit reasons and had been gaslighted and verbally abused now for years, but she said briskly, feeling no regret for her words, "Firstly, Wallace, I didn't 'come' here. I was dragged. If you're going to condescend me, be accurate. Secondly, there were many inconveniences that I suffered having to be brought here. But I doubt you care, unless you're able to look like the benevolent caretaker. Thirdly, if you're a doctor, then you know the details about why I was brought in. So you know that you're not helping me in any way by keeping me from my real family."

Despite the guards around Clarke glaring at her for her words, Dante said softly, not looking offended by Clarke's words, "Your real family? And who might I ask are they? Not your mother, Abby? Or your father, Jake?"

Clarke scowled. "My dad, Jake," she said, "Is my family. But I couldn't be with him anyway. But if you know as much about me as I think you do, since I doubt Abby cares at all about discretion when it comes to me, then you know about my best friend, Wells and what happened between us."

Dante nodded. "Ah," he said, "Your daughter."

Clarke's jaw clenched. Yes. They knew about her daughter. They hadn't said her name yet, which made Clarke hopeful that that information hadn't yet been discovered by her mother and her mother's boyfriends.

Dante said, "I notice that you claim your father, Jake Griffin, as your family and not your mother, Abby Griffin. May I ask why? From what I understand, your father was arrested for murder, wasn't he?"

Clarke scowled. "My father was framed," she snapped, "You can go ahead and call me 'crazy' all you want for saying that. But it's the truth. My father was framed. He's a good man and nothing anyone says or will say will change that."

Dante looked sorry for Clarke and that just made Clarke want to punch him, but didn't. If she wanted any chance of getting out of here? She had to unfortunately, play by these peoples' rules.

As much as it sickened her to do.

But still, she couldn't stop herself from asking the next question, "You've been in contact with my therapist, right?"

Clarke almost sneered the word, 'therapist,' when she asked the question.

Her therapist, sadly enough, had been Thelonius Jaha, her best friend, Wells's father.

That had been how she and Wells had met. Wells had made it clear that he loved his father, but he didn't believe anything good had come from anyone being a patient of his father's "care."

Wells's skepticism had been one of the reasons why Clarke had clung to him.

"Yes," Dante said, "I have had to speak with Mr. Jaha over the past few days, to give me an idea of the care you need."

Clarke would have laughed at Dante's words, had she not been so furious.

"I bet you have had to," she said in disgust, "Well, since you are, I want to ask you something. Did Thelonius Jaha tell you how much my mother is paying him to make sure I was locked away?"

She hadn't thought that the pity on Dante's face could look deeper, but somehow, it did. His face became deeply sad. "Oh, I am so sorry you believe that," he said, "I promise you we'll get you the help you need."

Clarke didn't know when it clicked, but it did. As soon as she looked at Dante's almost gentle eyes, she knew the truth. She knew that if she said what she knew, she would just be called even more insane than people already believed her to be.

But she knew the truth when she met Dante's eyes. Dante knew she wasn't mentally ill. He knew. But he was working with Abby, Kane, Bellamy and Thelonius Jaha to keep her here.

What Dante got out of it? She had no idea. But he was definitely helping everyone that wanted to keep her locked up here.

Clarke decided that if he was helping to keep her captive here, then what was the point of trusting this motherfucker?

She glared at Dante still as she snapped, "You can believe whatever you want, Wallace. But I'll say the same thing that I said to Thelonius Jaha. Go eat shit."

Dante smiled sadly, looking resigned. "Well," he said, "I suppose that's all the introduction we need right now. I think we can show you to your room. If you'd like, and if you're able to be calm afterwards, we can give you the tour of the facility and the things you can do to keep yourself preoccupied."

"Oh, fun," Clarke sneered, "Almost like a weekend getaway, except I have no choice about whether or not to be here."

Dante actually chuckled at that, "Yes, almost like a weekend getaway. And no, you don't have a choice about being here. But you do have a choice of things you can do to enjoy your time here. And you can choose to get better."

Clarke would have laughed back, but didn't. She knew this guy was full of shit. She didn't know why he was helping keeping her here, when she knew that he knew she wasn't mentally ill, but she knew he was full of shit and likely wasn't ever going to let her out till she signed over all her rights as a human being to her mother.

And heaven forbid anyone besides Wells ever take her side over her mother's.

"Fine," She sneered, "I'll go to my room like a good little girl. And maybe I'll get cookies and milk afterwards. Oh, wait, I probably don't even get those here."

Dante smiled. "Actually," he said, "We've improved our food options immensely over the decades. You might find that the food is actually enjoyable. I still wouldn't suggest the meatloaf. Or the tapioca. But aside from that? Well, we're on our way to looking almost like a four-star hotel. With restrictions."

Finally Clarke laughed a little. She hated to say it, but she actually liked this guy. She knew that he was scum and was helping her mother. But she liked him. Which made this harder.

"Fine," she said, "I'll go to my room. Am I going to get any of my things from my room?"

She suddenly very much wanted her stuffed alligator, Jake.

She and Wells had gotten their daughter all the stuffed animals and toys a baby could ask for, had they had the words for it, but Clarke had had a stuffed alligator that her father had given her when she had been six, and she had held onto it since.

It meant so much to her.

She had used to call it "Scaly," because she was just bad at names. But after her father had been arrested, she had changed the alligator's name to "Jake," desperate to hold onto something that reminded her of her father. She knew it had infuriated her mother, but she hadn't cared. She still didn't.

Dante said quietly, "We're looking over the things in your room at your home. And we'll see what can be brought to you that doesn't pose a possible threat."

Clarke wanted to snap that that house that she and her mother lived in was not her home. But the alligator took higher priority. "Well, okay," she said, "But if you can? There's a dark green stuffed alligator that's in my room. It should be on my bed. But if it's not then it has to be somewhere in my room or in the house. If it doesn't have anything dangerous about it, could I please have it?"

It made Clarke's skin crawl that she had to ask permission for the right to have something as simple as a stuffed animal, but if she was going to stay in this prison, she wanted to make it as bearable as possible.

Dante said in a soft tone, "We'll see. I don't think there's any reason not to bring you the stuffed alligator. If that's what you want. Just be patient."

Clarke quietly thanked him, despite not trusting him even a little. And she walked ahead of the guards and she felt them behind her as she walked.

She hated this, but she might as well make the most of it.

She was shown to her room, which to her surprise, wasn't half bad. It was big and wide. There was a comfortable looking bed and across from it, there was a window. It had bars on it, as she expected. No surprise there. But there was a desk, a chair, a bookcase right next to the bathroom. A bookcase where someone could put their belongings on if they desired to.

"Huh," Clarke said, sounding impressed as she looked over at the guards behind her, "I guess you guys improved on the cells you keep the prisoners."

"You're not a-" one of the prisoners started, but Clarke cut him off.

"Oh, please," she snapped, "Give me a fucking break. Let's be honest about what's going on here. I'm being kept here against my will. So shut up. Unless there's anything else you need me to do? Then please leave. I might as well try to enjoy some time alone before the doctorly interrogations start."

The guards both looked slightly affronted, but did as she ordered them to do and began to leave.

"Bye," she sneered, "Let me know when your gestapo leader says it's time for me to talk with him."

The guards glared at her, but left, closing the door and locking it.

Clarke glared at the surrounding room and grumbled, "And here's the first day. Great. She didn't even have anything that she could use to mark her first day of confinement. No crayon or wax pencil. She knew that anything like pens, pencils and stuff would be confiscated. But she couldn't even be spared some crayons or wax pencils? Pathetic. She had no idea that such delicate, stupid people were running this joint. But that was to be expected when there were institutions designed to make sane people feel insane.

It wasn't that she didn't believe that there were plenty of mentally ill people at this facility. And that they needed to be here and were getting the help they needed. She believe that they were mentally ill and needed help and that the people running this place were helping them as much as the patients needed help.

The problem was that if her interaction with Dante had told her anything? It was that the people that ran this place could be bought. Or whatever it was that was getting Dante to help her mother.

She wondered if she was the only person here who wasn't mentally ill and who was being held here against her will because someone else had paid for that person to be locked away.

In the old days, she knew that young women and girls got locked away in places like this all the time. Even if they weren't a little mentally ill, they were put away either by their husbands or fathers.

For refusing to marry. For refusing to have more children. For refusing to have sex with their husbands. For refusing to cook. If a woman didn't do exactly what she was told to do by the standards of the 1800s to mid 1900s, some man in their life could send them off to a mental hospital saying that that woman or girl was mentally ill and needed to stay confined and held there until she did what she was told.

Clarke's mother had never been what she might call progressive. Her mother had been happy to take advantage of the rights she had in the modern day and age, but she wasn't interested in her daughter having those same rights.

Clarke sat down on the bed, wondering if she'd be able to ask for some charcoal or chalk or something.

She knew her mother hadn't locked her away because she had had sex with Wells. It wasn't that. Clarke supposed she could give Abby the one benefit of the doubt that her mother wasn't racist. Or if she was, she had never given voice to her racism before. So no, Clarke, having sex with a young black man and having a biracial child with him, probably hadn't been the issue. It just had been a means to an end for Abby, learning that Clarke hadn't used protection and was willing to use it against Clarke to get her locked away.

But race probably hadn't had anything to do with Abby's decision. Probably.

At least, as far as Clarke could see, it hadn't. Because Abby always had been happy to tell Clarke that she would choose other people over Clarke, and that had included her boyfriend, Bellamy Blake, who was biracial himself. He was half white, half Filipino. And one of the women who Abby had outright told Clarke that she would prefer to have as her daughter instead of Clarke was young woman named Raven Reyes. Raven was half black, half Latina.

And yes, one of the people that Abby had told Clarke she'd prefer as her daughter over Clarke.

Not just Raven. Bellamy's little sister, a complete psycho, named Octavia.

There were two boys also that Abby favored over Clarke. Jasper Jordan and Nathan Miller.

These people all lived in the neighborhood where Abby lived and where unfortunately, as much as she hated it, Clarke too, had lived.

It would be hard for Clarke to convey just how much she hated her mother, Kane, Bellamy, Raven, Jasper, Miller and Octavia.

It was hard to convey. But she hated them. So fucking much.

But if nothing else, she could be grateful that she was here, instead of there with them.

She figured, she might as well be happy about that. She got up from her bed and went into the bathroom, looking around. She needed something to help her mark the days, until she got her hands on some charcoal or some chalk.

She went to her bed and looked around, finding nothing. She growled angrily. Fine. She'd just have to remember. She had been brought in today, the 18th of July. It was easy to remember because it had only been ten days after her mother's birthday. Clarke laughed harshly, "I guess this must be her birthday present," she grinned and she suspected that anyone that saw her, might truly believe that she belonged in this place, "Her birthday present is me being out of her fucking life, I guess."

You know, even if her dad actually had killed Charles Pike? Which she'd never believe he had, but if he had? She still would choose him over her mother.

Because it didn't make any sense. Her father had lived his whole life not ever having hurt anyone, for years, and then one day, at the age of thirty-five, he had killed someone? That made no sense. Unless there were multiple other bodies hidden somewhere that he had been responsible for the deaths of? Then what had suddenly made him wake up one day and say, "oh, I think I'll go kill someone," was that it?

That idea was somehow even more insane than the people in this place. That was why Clarke would never believe that her dad had killed Charles Pike or if he had? He had to have had a reason. But he hadn't killed Pike. She wouldn't believe that for a second. She knew that if she said things like, "he had a reason to kill Pike," she wouldn't have just sounded crazy, she probably would have sounded racist. Pike had been black. But she also knew about Pike's history.

Pike had been known for…being a part of fanatic and fascist groups. He had given money to anti-immigrant groups and anti-abortion groups. The same groups that her mother, Kane, Bellamy, Raven, Octavia, Jasper and Miller gave money to.

They were a bunch of fascists. And she had no pity for them. So she wasn't sure she had any pity for Pike either, despite him having had his throat slit.

But she couldn't say anything like that, could she? No, saying the wrong thing could get her locked away for much longer. Then she'd never see Wells, her sister, Rose, or her and Wells's baby again.

Funny, wasn't it, that in this country, you were allowed free speech, but only to a point.

Hate speech for some reason was tolerated, but whenever someone said something that offended men in some way or other, even when the person that talked was being completely reasonable, it ended up with someone being shamed, shunned or thrown into places like this.

She got settled in, noticing that there weren't any clocks around. She was sure there would be some bullshit fed to her about clocks were not allowed in patients' rooms for safety reasons, but she doubted it.

After her mother and Bellamy had started to gaslight her, she had done her research. Making sure someone didn't know what day it was or what time it was, was a way of breaking down someone mentally, so that they'd be susceptible to suggestion.

The less power a person had, the more easy they were to manipulate.

There were no clocks in the room, so as to keep a patient so helpless, that they didn't even know what day or time it was.

She wouldn't tell them she knew that. But she did.

Eventually, the guards came back, asking if she needed anything.

She had asked if she could have chalk or charcoal to draw. She added that she wanted to draw on her walls, and didn't need paper.

Besides, it was unlikely that patients could have paper, anyway.

To her surprise, the guards said that they'd bring her paper, as well as charcoal and chalk.

After the drawing supplies had been brought to her room, she was escorted out and brought to different parts of the facility, allowing her to look around at the different activities offered.

She was surprised again when she found that there were actually a lot of activities that might be considered "fun."

There were boardgames, painting groups, sculpture classes, cards to play, and making Clarke even more surprised, there were photography classes and gardening sessions, as well.

She half thought about asking how the patients were allowed to look after the gardens, when that most likely would need things like clippers, or some mowing thing of some type, so how was a mental patient allowed anywhere near anything that sharp or dangerous?

But she didn't ask that. Better not to indicate that she was thinking in any way about sharp, dangerous items.

She had to get out, if she wanted to ever see Wells or her baby ever again.

Some of her belongings came in a few days later. Including her dark green stuffed alligator. So that was nice.

She had used her stick of charcoal to mark off the number of days she had been here, doing it in a hidden place in her room. In the left-hand corner of the room, just under the window, out of eyesight, behind the desk provided to her. She had been here for five days so far.

She knew that she was going to stay here much longer, unfortunately. So she knew she'd need to mark off the days more and more, so as not to lose track like the doctors wanted her to so that they could convince her that she was mentally ill.

She didn't doubt that some of these doctors actually wanted to help her, unlike Dante Wallace, but she also knew that they didn't believe that she wasn't mentally ill. She didn't belong here? Well, according to a lot of other mentally ill people, they didn't belong here either. Despite a good number of them likely did belong here and needed to be here for their mental health.

So for the doctors that actually wanted to help Clarke? They believed that the best thing they could do for her, was putting on the same restrictions they put on every single other patient.

She was half tempted to call them sheep, but she knew that that wouldn't help them, despite the fact that very honestly, the other doctors were in fact sheep.

Still, she did what was instructed of her every second. She had drawn some things all over her walls, despite being given paper.

She had used her paper too.

She had been allowed a few books. Paperbacks. Nothing that heavy. She had never been given anything like belts or even strings.

Days went by. Then weeks went by. Then months went by. And finally, years went by. Clarke had long since suspected that she'd never see Wells, her sister or her little daughter ever again. And as she did, she became bitter and angry. Vicious, even.

She had marked the corner and wall near the desk. And she knew how long she had been in the facility. Two and a half years by now.

Her daughter would be very nearly four by now.

It had been enough to make her say totally hurtful things to every guard and staff member, every chance she got. And yes, she enjoyed saying those things to. Because why not?

She would never see her precious little daughter, Daniella, ever again, or her sister, Rose again. So then, why shouldn't she be angry?

But she had never released her daughter's name. She hadn't let anyone ever know what her daughter's name was.

Here she was now, looking out the window at the garden, not caring about how she looked.

She heard the laughter and talking all around her in the main room where other patients were gabbing or playing or playing out their delusions. Clarke knew that she didn't have to worry about one patient, John Murphy, a cruel asshole of a mental patient. He was too busy harassing one person or another, starting a fight.

She had learned to steer clear of him. According to the doctors? He had some personality disorder. And maybe he did, but from what she had seen over time? There were a lot of people here and in the outside world with personality disorders. And almost none of them were violent sacks of shit.

It sounded like Murphy belonged in an actual jail, rather than a mental health facility. But hey, she knew that speaking honestly wouldn't help her. She had learned that much over the years.

She heard the sounds of a crowd of people coming through the hallway. She turned around to look down the hallway, slightly curious, despite her now jaded view of things around here.

There was a crowd of people walking through the hall, getting closer, all dressed in the same sterile white lab coats that all the doctors here wore.

She hated how sterile this place was. But she took in the sight of these people coming closer. They were a very mixed group. Made up of men and women. Made up of white people and some black people, some other not white people; she didn't want to assume their ethnicity, but they were not white.

She noticed how unique they all looked. Not just how mixed their group was, but aspects about them. Everything about them looked vibrant. She wasn't sure she could explain why she felt that, exactly.

Maybe the doctors' tricks for the past few years had gotten to her and she was actually beginning to go insane.

The doctor in front of the crowd of doctors that had come in, one doctor that Clarke had seen every day since being here, Dr. Stephen Strange, announced, boredom in his voice, "As I'm sure you all know, we were told that we would be getting transfers in from a different facility. So we have new doctors here. I suppose it couldn't come at a better time. I'm sorry to tell everyone, but Dr. Wallace and his family have recently died."

Clarke almost dropped out of her chair, her eyes widening. Wait, what the fuck? Wallace and his family were dead?

How?

She knew that it probably wasn't a good idea to ask anyone on staff. They did not like spreading information about how people died whenever there was a death at the facility or a death of a staff member. Because they didn't want any of the patients to get any ideas.

Clarke decided that she would listen in on some of the staff when they talked in their office, because she knew where the staff's office was by heart and knew that there was a space where someone could listen in on the staff talking without being detected. She'd listen in on the staff people later.

But for now, she was paying perfect attention to this group of doctors that had entered the facility.

Dr. Stephen Strange kept talking, "These are our new doctors." He introduced every last one of them.

Dr. Steve Rogers. Dr. Bruce Banner. Dr. Maria Hill. Dr. Wanda Maximoff. Dr. Thor Odinson. Dr. Melina Vostokoff. Dr. Mari McCabe. Dr. Diana Prince. Dr. Beatriz da Costa. Dr. Tony Stark. Dr. Loki Laufeyson. Dr. Tora Olafsdotter. Dr. Sigrid Nansen. Dr. Niylah White. Dr. Clint Barton. Dr. Carol Danvers. Dr. Brunnhilde North. Dr. Felicia Hardy. Dr. Pepper Potts. Dr. Hela Odinsdotter. And Dr. Natasha Romanoff.

All of them were stunning in various ways. But the last two of these individuals, Hela Odinsdotter and Natasha Romanoff made Clarke's throat go dry. They were gorgeous. Unimaginably gorgeous. She didn't need to ask anyone to know what it was she was feeling when she felt drawn to these people, especially to Hela and Natasha.

She knew what it was.

Despite her life being controlled by her sociopathic mother and her sociopathic boyfriends, she had experienced enough in her life, having relationships with both men and women to know that she was bisexual.

So she knew what she was feeling. Desire.

Not for one of these doctors, despite him being interesting looking. Dr. Clint Barton. She wasn't sure what she felt about him. He was interesting. But she didn't find herself being attracted to him.

And Dr. Stephen Strange, while she respected him, she had never felt any draw to him, in any capacity.

She did, however, feel drawn to Dr. Clint Barton, but in a way she couldn't quite place.

But with the other doctors? It was clear. She sexually was attracted to them.

Great.

One more complication in her life that she really, really didn't need.

The doctors all greeted the patients, then almost as one, they looked in Clarke's direction.

Clarke gasped, drawing back into her chair as they stared at her.

The twenty-one doctors all stared at her, looking interested, and a smile crossed a few of their faces.

Hela, with black hair that went several inches past her shoulders, pale in complexion, and with icy blue eyes and Natasha, with creamy skin, emerald eyes and shiny red, shoulder length hair, both gave Clarke smiles that could only be called predatory.

Clarke tried not to gulp. Was she finally losing it? Or not?

Stephen Strange's back was turned to the new doctors, so he hadn't seen whatever the new doctors may or may not have done.

The doctors began to move down the hall, going past the patients, including Clarke, but as they walked, they never pulled their eyes from Clarke, not even for a second.

Clarke tried not to feel like her skin was crawling. She knew that what she was about to think might prove that she indeed did belong here, but why did she get the feeling that these people had come here for one specific reason? To do something to her?