children of the apocalypse (3)
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Clarke spends the next couple of days tending to Wells and Jasper and dealing with minor cuts and scratches the other teenagers get around camp. Bellamy’s ban on weapons seems to be working somehow, for everyone is a little more peaceful with each other as routine settles in. Teams are created for hunting, building of tents and a wall, and other chores around the dropship. It’s not perfect, and fights break out more often than not, but it is definitely an improvement on the chaos of their first moments on Earth.
She’s cleaning Jasper’s wound – now relocated to the ground floor with the rest of them so he and Monty can chat away while Monty works on their comm system – when Finn enters the dropship. He makes his way toward Wells, and the two of them lean over the table to look at something.
Clarke frowns.
“I think that’s enough, Clarke,” Jasper tells her.
She looks down at his wound, realises she’s been rubbing it a bit too forcefully – the redness of his skin less about the fever now, and definitely about her lack of bedside manners. She mumbles an apology before she grabs another piece of cloth that she wraps around his torso.
She pats his arm without really looking, before she stands up and moves toward the other two boys.
“Whatcha talking about?” she asks cheerily, startling them both.
They offer her twin looks of surprise, too focused on their discussion to notice her coming. That’s when Clarke sees what they were discussing, the old map she had used on their very first day to find her way to Mount Weather. Only now a bunch more scribbles are added to the paper. She frowns.
“Nothing much…” Finn starts, leaning back with his hands in his pockets.
Wells is not that slick. “Looking for a better place to settle.”
Clarke blinks at him. “What do you mean?”
He points to the map, the big dot that represents the dropship, the slithering lines that make up the newly formed rivers, the most dangerous parts of the forest. She knew Finn had made a habit of sneaking out of camp already, but now it makes sense – they were updating the map, one landmark at a time.
“Our location isn’t exactly the best in the long run,” Wells explains. “If we want to build a proper settlement, the ground here is too uneven. We’re too far from fresh water too, which would be bad for agriculture, according to Monty. And we want some clearing, so we can establish a proper… town, I guess? Village?”
Clarke looks down at the map again, frowning slightly. She hadn’t thought that far, but of course Wells did. And it does make sense. They’re only sticking to the dropship because it’s easier than moving a whole bunch of rowdy teenagers to a new place and starting from scratch.
Wells takes her silence as an invitation to continue, “We think closer to the river, to the south, would be better. The ground is more even there, so better for the foundations of buildings.”
“Monroe’s dad works in Factory Station,” Finn chimes in. “She says she can help with basic architectural foundations.”
Wells points at him in agreement, and adds, “If we can get even basic cabins, that will help us with weather conditions. Climate is okay for now, but once winter comes, who knows what to expect. No to mention storage, cooking, or even just protection from those acid fogs.”
They both look at her expectantly, as if waiting for her approval. But Clarke is dumbfounded, blinking between Wells and the map in front of her. While she was trying her hardest to keep them all alive, they planned an entire exodus, buildings, and even fields? Together?
Is she that oblivious of the world around her?
“Who’s to say the Grounders won’t shoot us on sight if we move?” comes from behind her.
Clarke is startled by Bellamy’s proximity, only a few inches behind her as he looks at the map over her shoulder. She didn’t even hear him coming and yet here he is, so close she can smell the smoke of the fire and the sap of trees on him. He stands with hands on his hips, leather jacket discarded for once. The gun pokes out from under his shirt, a not-so-friendly reminder.
“They shot Jasper the moment he crossed some kind of border, yeah?” he asks. When Finn simply nods, he adds, “So how do you know this isn’t their territory too?”
“Well, hm,” is all Finn replies.
Clarke hates that Bellamy has a point, if only because he doesn’t need to be smug about yet another thing. But he does have a point – the Grounders are nothing more than shadows and tales in the dark at this point, and who’s to say they will not attack again if the opportunity comes? Maybe they just got lucky with their landing spot, some No Man’s Land they now get to claim as their own.
“Bellamy’s right,” she admits. Wells immediately shoots her a look of what can only be described as betrayal. “We’re safe here for now. Moving could be more dangerous than it’s worth it.”
“Maybe we can send Charlotte as our scout,” Finn replies, voice dripping in sarcasm. He raises his hands in defence when the three of them immediately glare at him and voice their discontent. “Joking, guys… Even though I’m sure she’d enjoy the change of pace.”
Three days she’s been locked upstairs, three days of Bellamy feeding her breakfast and dinner and not allowing anyone else to see her. Three days that must feel like an eternity up there, and yet Clarke cannot find even half an ounce of sympathy for her. Back on the Ark, she would have been floated on sight, minor or not.
“We stay here and that’s final,” Bellamy states.
Even if Wells or Finn wanted to argue, it would be a lost cause. Those delinquents outside only answer to Bellamy, and even barely. They would never follow them to a different location without his approval, even if it made sense.
Still, never put it past Wells to try and win an argument, and he’s halfway through a reply when a whooping sound gets their attention. All four of them turn toward Monty’s corner of the dropship to find him doing a mini dance, before he stops and stares back at them.
“Oh please do keep fighting. I only just managed to repair the comms, if any of you are interested.”
Clarke shares a quick glance with Wells before the two of them hurry to Monty’s side, Bellamy and Finn following close. Monty shows them the different cables connecting various pieces of the dropship’s tech and Clarke’s old wristband.
“Once we connect this cable to the cuff, we should be able to communicate with them. Morse code, one way only.”
“Better than nothing,” Clarke replies, with a pat on his shoulder.
He’s been working relentlessly on this for the past few days, only taking breaks for food and short cat naps. The bags under his eyes are so dark they turn purple in the low lights of the dropship. He deserves at least a whole week of sleep for the effort he’s put into this.
He shows Jasper how to connect one cable to the wristband, so he can do them the honours.
It doesn’t exactly go as planned.
Bellamy disappears back outside without a word.
…
The first real fight breaks out at dusk, about four days later than Clarke expected. It starts as a low rumble of voices, and turns into cheers and screams and chants within seconds. Clarke shares a glance with Wells, the two of them moving as one to make their way outside.
Unsurprisingly, Murphy is in the middle of the fight, with a dark-skinned boy twice as large. The other boy is very obviously smoking Murphy, punch after punch hitting his jaw and the side of his face, as the other teenagers cheer them on and yell words of encouragement.
“Someone needs to stop them,” Clarke tells Wells.
And she has no doubt Wells would do exactly that, were it not for the stitches on his neck Octavia had to fix twice already. He would put himself between them, take a few hits of his own maybe, but he would stop them. Only he can’t.
Bellamy is nowhere to be seen. Of course.
Another guy from Murphy’s gang grabs the dark-skinned boy from behind, holding his arms to his side and giving Murphy the perfect opportunity to punch back without taking a hit. He goes for the nose with a loud crunch of bones against bones, then for the ribs, and a kick to the side. The other boy grunts in pain, struggling to escape and fight back.
Wells grabs Monroe and pulls her toward them. “What’s happening?”
She looks a little wild-eyed, her tight braid coming undone, her clothes a mess. Her eyes travel between Wells and the fight, like she really wants to explain but also doesn’t want to miss the fight. She winces when the boy finally escapes and punches Murphy right back in the cheek.
“Murphy’s been bullying everyone at camp,” Monroe explains, then stops to cheer on the boy – Connor, apparently – before she glances back at Wells. “Ration water for no reason, force people to work, just straight up dickhead. Was only a matter of time before someone lashes back.” She cheers for Connor to kick Murphy in the dick. “Murphy took a piss on Connor after Connor asked for water so, ya know…”
“Yeah, this needs to stop.”
By the time Clarke actually manages to push her way through the crowd and toward the two boys, the fight has gone much, much worse. Three other teenagers are holding Murphy, pinning him so he can’t move, as Connor punches him relentlessly.
One girl yells “Float him!” and it immediately becomes a chant, louder and louder and louder, drowning out everything else. They push and pull and kick Murphy out of camp, Clarke following as she yells helplessly for them to stop, to listen, to not, please don’t, what are you doing, stop, stop.
Bellamy shoves past her, in time to stop a boy from slipping a nose around Murphy’s neck.
“What the fuck are you all doing?” he screams, and it’s enough to stop them all in their tracks, enough for all of them to fall silent and turn toward him. Enough for Connor to let go of Murphy, who spits blood and saliva on the ground.
“Right on time,” Murphy grins.
“Shut the fuck up.” Bellamy glares at the other boys, the only thing he needs to do for them to step away from Murphy, who slumps against the nearest tree. Bellamy ignores him as he turns toward the crowd. “If we kill him, we’re no better than the Ark. Is that what you want? To become your oppressors?”
The same teenagers who, only moments ago, were screaming for murder and blood, now all grumble in agreement with Bellamy. Eyes cast down, neck in shoulders, as if being scolded by a father figure. Clarke looks at each and everyone of them, the way they avoid his eyes and stand still, listening to his every word.
Only Connor is brave, or perhaps foolish, enough to reply. “So what do you propose we do? He’s been bullying half the camp for days now!”
Bellamy glares at him, for a second too long, before his eyes find herself in the crowd. Incertitude flashes through his eyes before he smooths his features again, but Clarke knows. She understands the silent cry for help. She steps forward.
“We banish him,” she states, loud enough to be heard by all. “If he refuses to be part of our society, then he’s gone. Simple as that.”
Murphy stands up, one hand on the trunk of the tree, and wipes the blood off his mouth. “And who put her in charge?”
Bellamy pushes him back, hard, and Murphy falls back against the tree. “I did,” he says, with the kind of confidence that only Bellamy can muster. He turns back toward the others. “Anyone has a problem with Clarke, they have a problem with me.”
Clarke blinks at him, unable to find words to express the way she feels at the moment. Wells is at her side, fingers against her elbow, but she can’t find it in her to look at him when she’s so puzzled by Bellamy in front of her. Not after what he said, not after he looked at her for – was it guidance? She can’t even tell. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Bellamy doesn’t make sense.
She watches, troubled by her own thoughts, as Murphy is given a knife and a warning, as he’s pushed away from camp, as teenagers scatter back to their duties with hushed whispers and hurried steps. She watches, as Bellamy ensures Murphy is gone, before he turns back and walks toward her and Wells.
“What was that?” Wells asks for both of them.
Bellamy ignores him, only has eyes for Clarke. “My sister trusts you. Believes in you. Don’t make me regret it.”
Clarke frowns, before she swallows back a few chosen words for him. Instead, she says, “People will start asking about Charlotte. They’ll think it’s not fair.”
“Let me worry about Charlotte,” Bellamy replies. “And help me keep everyone else alive.”
“Since when are you a team player?”
He smiles – his first real smile, not the usual smirk and scoff – at her, looking at her through his long lashes. A lopsided smile that Clarke pretends is perfectly normal and not – yeah, perfectly normal. “Don’t pretend like you don’t want to be in charge, princess.”
And then he’s gone, strutting his way back to camp without even a glance back at her. Clarke watches him go, watches him disappear behind the fence, before she looks back at Wells. She doesn’t know if she wants to be relieved or concerned that he looks as lost as she feels right now.
“I think he likes you,” Wells says flatly.
Clarke shoves his good shoulder away. “Shut up. Not Bellamy Blake.”
But Wells gives her that look, the one that says he definitely knows better and she’s being clueless, and Clarke huffs, annoyed. Her best friend knows better than to poke at it. Instead, he says, “Maybe you can convince him to move…”
“Not now. Not when we don’t know what’s out there.” She pauses, and sighs. “Anything else, though, I’ll need your help with.”
Wells grabs her hand, squeezes her fingers. “Always.”
