Chapter Text
Clarke hides in the bushes, observing.
The ship’s doors have opened with a loud hydraulic hiss and out have stepped a dozen men and seven women in dark overalls. They’ve set four lookouts while the rest unload the spacecraft, placing considerable crates in a perimeter of over a hundred feet around their ship. They work silent and efficiently, supervised by a young man in clearer overalls with three golden stripes sewn on his shoulders.
Clarke’s heart hammers against her ribs in a nervous tat-to she hasn’t felt in over three years. She recognizes it: it’s the same way her heart raced when she first set foot on Earth when she found out about the Grounders when she woke up in Mount Weather when she found Madi. It’s excitement.
In a world where pretty much everything is dead, it’s difficult to be excited about much. The last time Clarke was this excited was when she found Madi. Clarke doesn’t know what she would have done without her.
The girl is probably the only reason why Clarke hasn’t gone up to these strangers, the risks be damned. She can’t be reckless anymore. Not when she has to make sure Madi isn’t left all alone again.
So she stays were she is, watching, studying… Just like the Grounders did when she and the delinquents came down all those years ago.
The man in charge calls two of the women unloading the ship over to where he stands in the dimly lit entrance of the ship. He speaks for a moment, and they disappear inside, only to come out a few minutes later dressed in tactical gear, camouflage helmets, automatic guns strapped to their backs. Clarke freezes as she sees them walk past their perimeter and towards the patch of trees where Madi is hiding with the rover.
And they could just pass the cave without noticing – god knows the delinquents were pretty oblivious when they first got to the ground – but… They might not.
Clarke feels cold sweat beading on her hairline, her heart is at her throat, and her mind seems unable to form a coherent thought, settling instead to uselessly repeat ‘Madi, Madi, Madi,’ over and over again.
This is the first time since she found her beautiful natblida that their lives have been at risk. Yes living on a desolate planet with only limited supplies and way too many rubble heaps is dangerous, and yes there was that time with the panther and the crazy flesh-eating birds. But Madi shot the panther – got a beautiful new cloak from its skin for her bravery- and the birds were not that difficult to dissuade – and after a while, they managed to capture a few, and now they have a crazy flesh-eating flock of what she’s calling hens.
But these strangers have guns, and they’re new here, and she has no clue what their intentions are. Do they know there are people on the ground? Do they care? What have they come for? Are they here to stay? Where have they been for the last two Apocalypses?
Her hands shake so much she wouldn’t be able to make a kill shot, even if she tried. And Madi’s alone in the cave and probably freaked out because Clarke hasn’t gone back yet.
She licks her lips. She understands Bellamy now: the primal fear that nags at her whenever Madi’s out of site is something she’s learned to live with over the last few years. But now it has reared its ugly head, and this is not just the possibility that her girl could be attacked by some feral beast or that she could fall into a hole and brake something. This is the possibility that people with guns decide she’s a hostile and slaughter her like… Like the mountain did. Like Clarke, herself has done.
Her heart decides before her mind has had time to talk it out of it. She stands up, slinging her rifle at her back, forces a non-threatening smile on her lips and waves her arms.
“Hey!” Clarke calls stepping purposefully closer to the ship.
The reaction is immediate: the two women in tactical gear return to the perimeter at a run and join the other four guards, pointing their weapons at her. There’s shouting, and a general commotion as the other thirteen run around picking up random weapons like axes and the crowbars they’ve been using to open the crates. The man in clearer overalls and golden stripes steps closer. He’s young, like the rest of his Kru – not as young as the delinquents were -, and much like them wears his hair closely cropped and walks with long strides.
“It’s so good seeing new people!” Clarke calls, feigning cheerfulness when the only thing she wants is to do is puke her guts out. The strangers mutter among themselves, but she’s too far away to make much sense of what they’re saying.
She walks closer, slowly, her hands still raised over her head, palms open.
“She’s carrying a rifle!” shouts one of the lookouts, a man with a crooked nose and round cheeks. They all look pretty well fed for space-people.
“Appears to be alone!” informs another with a protruding jaw.
“That’s close enough!” decides Golden Stripes. Clarke stops, trying to keep her smile on her face. It feels weird, smiling at total strangers.
The fact that they are strangers feels weird. For most of her life she’s not been around strangers: on the Ark, you sort of new everyone, maybe not by name, but their faces were familiar. Then she came to earth, and for a while, there were new people. But after the second Praimfaya, the only other person on the planet seems to be Madi. So, Clarke forgot the feeling. It’s weird; she hasn’t decided if it’s good weird or bad weird yet.
“Who are you?”
I should be the one asking questions, whispers a voice in her brain. You’re on my territory.
Clarke feels herself arching an eyebrow in their direction. “That is an excellent question. I’d like to know who you are myself.”
Golden Stripes barks a laugh, looking around at his people. “I am Sergeant Zeke Shaw of the Eligius Corporation; I am in command of the Gagarin transport station.” He makes a gesture with his broad hand in Clarke’s direction.
“Can I put my hands down now?”
“I don’t think so, no,” says Sergeant Zeke Shaw.
Clarke snorts, resting her forearms on the crown of her head. No one shoots or barks at her to put them higher, so she guesses it’s okay. “I am Clarke Griffin kom Skaikru” she raises her chin and, just to be petty, decides to enumerate her own titles: “Ambassador of Skaikru, Mountain Slayer, Wanheda.”
Nice one, Princess, whispers mockingly that tiny voice in her head that sounds just like Bellamy. Not sure they’ll understand half of that.
‘It’s the intention that matters’ she thinks brusquely at him. ‘Shut up.’
“That’s quite a mouthful” the Sergeant crosses his arms across his impressively broad chest.
Now that she’s closer, she can see their clothes are mended and threadbare; the color of the overalls might have been dark blue at some point, but now it’s a murky gray. A handful has tied the top half of them around their waist revealing yellowish tank-tops that might have been white once. Their skins are sort of greyish; just like the arekers’ skins were after a lifetime without sunshine; their hair listless and dull. Is this how Bellamy and Raven and the rest will look when they make it back to her?
Their skins are unmarked by kill-scars or tattoos; not a clan mark on them except for the small nametags sewn to the front pocket of their overalls and… are those dog tags around their necks? She hasn’t seen those outside of vids, and she never was very interested in action vids, so Clarke isn’t sure.
“I guess you have come to talk, Ambassador of Skaikru?” The mocking tone in his voice isn’t lost on her, but she bites her tongue and nods her head. She needs information, and they seem willing to talk.
‘It could be a trap’ Bellamy points out unhelpfully in her brain.
‘I know that.’
‘I am not here covering your back, Princess.’
‘And whose fault is that? Now quit pointing out the obvious and help me get the information out of these space-dudes.’ Bellamy’s voice sulks angrily in the back of her brain.
“You mind if we take your gun?”, asks Zeke Shaw.
“I am outnumbered.” Yes, she minds very much.
“You could have backup up there” he points at the pitiful patch of trees that passes for a forest these days. If they only knew!
Clarke shifts her shoulders, feeling her handgun safely tucked away beneath her jacket. And slowly, very slowly, goes to unsling her rifle from her shoulder.
Zeke Shaw comes closer and takes it, studying it with a small frown: taking in the duck taped parts that don’t belong to this rifle, but that are substituting pieces that broke off. He runs his fingers over the names Clarke has carved all over the wooden handguard, strap, and buttstock. The blond feels the hair at the back of her neck standing on end. Other than her and Madi, no one has touched her rifle. No one has seen those names or…
“Quite a collection you have” the man comments, looking at her through his long lashes. “What are these?”
She forces a smile on her lips but says nothing. Let him think whatever he wants.
They measure each other for a moment and then the Sergeant tips his head in her direction, and one of the women steps forward.
Her skin is golden. Or will probably turn golden as soon as she’s had a bit of sun.
The woman’s hands land on her shoulders and Clarke doesn’t notice she’s moved until she’s kneeling on the woman’s back, her knee on her lower back and her arm twisted in Clarke’s hands.
It takes her a moment to notice the screams and a little bit more to recognize they’re shouting at her, all the weapons aimed at her head.
Clarke lets go of the woman, stumbling back.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” she tries clearing her throat. The woman hurries back; she’s bleeding from the nose where Clarke must have hit her. No one lowers their guns.
The Sergeant clicks his tongue, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Now, now, I thought we were all friends here.”
There’s something dangerous in his voice, and every instinct in Clarke’s body is telling her to run: dive back into the forest; take the rover and run as far as she possibly can. Then again… this is the only habitable place on the ground. And it’s her home.
“She grabbed me” her voice comes – thankfully – a lot stronger than she’s feeling right now.
“To see if you’re armed. We can’t have a possibly hostile come armed into our camp now, can we?”
“If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done so already.”
“You seem pretty sure of that.”
“I have a lot of experience.” She looks around, trying to get her confidence back. What’s wrong with her? She’s dealt with more dangerous and powerful people than this guy before.
“So do we.”
Clarke arches an eyebrow at him.
“Ok,” decides the man giving her rifle to one of the weaponless men. “This is starting to become ridiculous.” And to his Kru, he barks. “Ease up, boys and girls! Let’s talk like civilized people.” He nods towards his ship. “Come on.”
Clarke is intensely aware of the eyes following her as she steps into their perimeter and follows the Sergeant up through the ramp and into the dark ship.
It hits her like a ton of bricks, how similar it looks to the ark. How familiar the metallic floors, the white fluorescent lights, the octagonal corridors, the hum of machinery and the thickness of recycled air are.
She’s guided through a small corridor flanked by closed doors, past a control station with monitors set up showing different parts of their ship: what looks like a mess, the cargo hold, a group of occupied cells; and into a conference room fitted with a wide metallic desk bolted to the floor, surrounded by a dozen stainless steel chairs.
Zeke Shaw points at a chair across from him and waits until Clarke has seated herself before settling down.
“So. Let's talk.”
There’s a camera up in the corner and probably someone watching on the other side.
She feels a pang of shame because this is how their first interaction with Lincoln and the rest of the grounders should have gone: diplomatically, both parties sitting down at a table to discuss their situation.
Instead, she and Bellamy strung Lincoln to the wall and tortured him. All for nothing because they weren’t able to prevent the war and it was Octavia who ended up getting through to him. Saving Finn.
Clarke pushes those memories back. There’s no use in thinking about that.
“Why have you come? Where have you come from?”
“We come from the Mars mining colonies. The Eligius Corp is financing the Re-Population program. We are the advance party, here to find the best inhabitable terrain and prepare for the civilians.”
Clarke frowns at that. “I don’t understand. What mining colonies?”
The Sergeant chuckles lowly, his eyes roving over her. “No, I guess you wouldn’t understand. A hundred years ago, well, a little over a hundred years ago, there was this Great War. There were tech and greedy people and they… Killed the world. That’s why everything is dead outside.”
‘Is this dude for real?’ grumbles Bellamy, still cross in the back of her mind.
‘Play it smart, Griffin’ she tells herself.
“You mean Praimfaya.” Obviously, the man doesn’t understand the concept. “The Great Fire.”
“Yes, I guess you would call it that. Anyway before the end of the world, before primfaia, there were problems. The earth was sick and wasn’t producing enough to sustain all the population. We needed fuel and… other things. They could be found on Mars…” he trails off looking skeptically at her and now Clarke understands why Lincoln didn’t talk at first.
Better have them think you’re a crude barbarian, better have your enemies think you’re stupid and underestimate you. That way they won’t expect much from you. They’ll get comfortable on their high horse and sloppy.
“You have no clue what I am talking about.” He decides after a moment and rubs his hands over his face. “Fuck” he sighs dragging the F. “Ok. So… You know the earth is like a planet, yeah?”
In her mind, Bellamy gapes at the man, completely at a loss for words. She remembers his righteous indignation when she assumed he didn’t know who Oppenheimer was. Clarke makes a noncommittal movement with her head.
Let him underestimate you. Think you’re crude and stupid.
“Well… Mars is… Another planet. Up, past the sky.” He points at the roof and just to be contrary Clarke looks up, like she could see the sky from here.
“Does this make sense to you?”
“So it’s like a star?” she offers because she is skaikru. Not these people.
“Yes! A star. But, it doesn’t glow in the night. A dark star. Does that make sense?”
Clarke hums again. “So you were from the ground and then left to the star Mars, and now you want to come back?”
Zeke Shaw nods his head. “Exactly.”
“Why?”
The Sergeant splutters. “What do you mean why? Earth is our home.”
“Shouldn’t it be Mars? You’ve been gone since before Praimfaya, why come back?”
“It was never supposed to be permanent.”
She can understand that. The Ark wasn’t supposed to be permanent either.
“How many?”
“Beg pardon?”
“How many Marskru are coming?”
He chuckles again at the name, but Clarke is not having another kru become skaikru. That’s her kru tagon. “I don’t get that kind of intel. Maybe a few million?”
Clarke gapes at him. “Yeah, it’s a big number. How many people are in your clan?”
Twelve hundred and nine. Against a few million. On a planet with only a small inhabitable patch of trees.
“How long until they come down here?” asks Clarke and even she can hear the slight note of distress in her voice. She can only hope he doesn’t.
“Well, it depends on so many variables.” He doesn’t say you wouldn’t understand, but it’s implied.
“Are they on their way now? On ships like this one?”
He narrows his eyes at her. “Some are, yeah.” The Sergeant licks his lips. “Now it’s the moment where this becomes a trade. You do understand trade, yes?”
“It’s not a foreign concept to me, no.”
Again, he chuckles. “So. You have information on this land. What is and what isn’t poisonous. That sort of things.”
“I can offer some information on plants.”
“Cool. What sort of crops does your clan grow? Or…” he looks her up and down, taking her in with narrowed eyes. “Does your clan grow anything?”
“We have hens. And… We grow algae.” Clarke isn’t sure what the people in the bunker grow, but on the Ark, Bellamy and the rest are growing algae, and they are her kru, so it’s technically accurate.
The man furrows his nose. “Algae? First time I hear of that. What else? I guess you… hunt?”
“Yes, we do hunt. We’re waiting for the reproductive season; there are not many animals. You should be careful when you hunt.”
He nods, humming lowly. “Ok. Yes, that’s… That’s good information. What else can you tell me? You said you are ambassador to skaikru? Does that mean there are other clans? Are they hostile?”
“They’re not hostile. We have a mighty coalition.”
“To whom do they answer?”
‘I don’t know because the bunker won’t answer me.’
“They answer to Octavia Blake kom Skaikru, Skairipa, Heda kom Oso Kru-de.”
“Lucky us, having met the ambassador of the leader-chick of all the tribes. Does everyone speak English? Or do they speak the other…” he makes a vague gesture in Clarke’s general direction “…thing?”
“English is the language of the warriors.” She smirks. “There are many warriors.” Or at least there used to be. “The other thing is trigedasleng. All kru speak trig.”
“Nice. We’ll need an…”
They’re interrupted by a bout of shouting and feet running. The door slams open and a square-jawed woman steps in. “Sir.”
“Not now, Sedgwick.”
“It’s… The girl she’s vanished again.”
He curses, standing brusquely up. “Have you checked the vents?”
“We’re going to flush her out with some KOG.”
The Sergeant nods. “Sorry about that. We have some rebels in custody right now. They’re proving more troublesome than they’re worth. Do you mind if we continue our little chat at a future date?”
“It’s agreeable.”
She follows Sergeant Zeke Shaw out of the conference room. She catches a movement out of the corner of her eye. When she turns, she finds herself staring at the row of monitors in their control center. Most of the screens show people in overalls running around long corridors. But there are a few on the bottom corner showing what must be the holding area. Six prisoners.
She would recognize those shoulder anywhere.
“You never saw a screen before?” asks Zeke Shaw. Clarke can’t answer, her tongue tied in knots. He’s grinning when he puts a hand on her lower back. “Come, I’ll show you.”
If she were capable of forming a coherent thought, she would probably think that this guy is way too trusting. But her brain is completely shut down.
Now that she’s closer she can see their faces: there’s Emori with her massive tattoo on her face; Murphy, calmly lying on his back, tossing a small ball in the air; Echo, pacing up and down the small space; Monty biting his nails – when did he start doing that -; Raven, twirling a screwdriver in frustration; and Bellamy, staring angrily at the camera. He looks just like he did six years ago.
Clarke is only dimly aware of the Sergeant explaining to her how cameras and screens work, but she can’t tear her eyes away from Bellamy’s face.
“We have to get going.” He pulls her away. “I’ll show more tech next time, if you like?”
Her eyes dart around the room. She needs a chart of the ship, needs to locate the cells and how to open them, because there’s no way in hell she’s leaving Bellamy and the rest in there. “I would love that.”
When she steps out of the ship, the sun is setting. Her hands shake when the Sergeant hands her the rifle back. He’s smiling down at her by the perimeter. “If you could be our guide through the territory, maybe show us your village. We need to chart the ground.”
Clarke nods her head. “I’ll be back tomorrow?” she offers, and even she hears how small her voice is. She hopes he’ll just attribute it to being overwhelmed by the tech.
“Perfect. I am looking forward to it.”
She walks away from the ship and when she’s sure no one’s following her, makes her way back to Madi. She needs to think, to plan, and to act quickly before they decide to kill them off.
Why haven’t they? Where did they pick them up? Why did they capture them in the first place? And what do these strangers know of the ground? Have they interrogated them? Have they talked? Is the Sergeant messing with her? Does he know about her? Does he know that she’s the only one out here?
Clarke doesn’t sleep that night, and by dawn, she’s itchy with nerves and restless.
This is the first time in six years she doesn’t radio the Ark.