Chapter Text
Clarke winced as the sound of metal scraping against metal pierced her ears, shooting through her head and adding to the already significant headache. Pushing the food around her plate listlessly she sighed, offering it up to Octavia who, after an initial reluctance, crammed it down as if she had no idea when food would next be available to her. Clarke didn’t blame her, she felt the same way half the time. Drowning in uncertainty.
Next week would be the ten year anniversary of her fathers death. In everyday life, the Griffins, Clarke in particular, tried not to think about it. Remembering the injustice of it all left a coppery taste in her mouth, not disimilar to the blood the guards had forced her and O to wipe off the floor. It had been years, but she swore to herself that if she had ever returned to the old apartment it would still be there, engrained into the cracks between the steel panels, the only tomb Jake Griffin would ever know.
She hissed under her breath as Octavia nudged her, elbows sharp, muttering “Blake” as she did. What must have been at least a hundred pairs of narrowed eyes followed the men walking into the mess hall, a tall floppy haired boy who stepped as if trying to avoid touching the metal beneath him, and a statuesque, broad shouldered boy, whose eyes flicked across the room in a calculated manner, assessing the environment for danger as the room fell silent.
Floppy had the manners to look uncomfortable at least. Freckles face was almost worse than emotionless. It was uncaring. As if no one in the room was worthy of a passing thought. Before Wells had died, another tragic death in a series of accidental air flow malfunctions - which seemed to be limited to Walden, Clarke had been an avid watcher of the nature documentaries they showed the kindergarden phoenix kids. Wells had traded in a week’s worth of rations to buy a duplicate security card off Jasper so they could sneak onto the balcony, like the birds they watched, silent, absorbed but precautious. Clarke theorised that if Octavia was like the cat on the documentary, the one with remarkably similar eyes, her hackles would be raised at the presence of a Blake. She stifled a chuckle as she imagined O spitting hairballs, absentmindedly wondering what had happened to the key card.
O nudged Clarke again, pulling her back out of her haze. O’s hair was pulled back particularly tight today, the harsh fluorescent light doing little to soften her features, the planes of her face only broken by angular cheekbones and shadows. Clarke had always thought that O looked almost full to bursting with life, too large for the tin can she was trapped in. Almost as if, if she really wanted to, she could burst out of her small apartment and into the velvety darkness that enveloped them. O’s hands were making small, pointed movements, translating her thoughts into the language they had created way back when they were little and had to be silent.
Blake. He’s not here on vacation.
Clarke snorted at the thought of the bratty Phoenix kid in a multicoloured sombrero. The Blake turned slightly almost as if he had heard before swinging back around and speaking in hushed tones to Collins. She had often swore at the shampoo rationing, but just looking at his hair made her wonder how there was any left at all. She switched her attention back to O, moving her fingers in swift, complicated patterns.
I wish he’d take one. Then maybe he’d stop being such a stuck up, self absorbed dick like the rest of his station.
O rolled her eyes before making a quick slicing movement - language - and investing her attention in the intruders, who had started to speak.
The Blake spoke slowly and condescendingly, as if he was addressing a group of toddlers. He listed products that were to be newly rationed, and indicated that electricity was to be cut off in Walden at random times in order to ‘save energy’. A middle aged man towards the back of the hall shouted something along the lines of “does Phoenix have any rationing in place”, and Clarke felt the atmosphere in the hall darken as Collins explained, apparently with a trained political speech that it was much more necessary for Pheonixians to maintain electricity and food as, and this was the cutter, ‘their work required it’. Clarke visualised O and herself stitching late into the night without light, and wondered why it was so important for those who spent their days immobile to have that last piece of cake when the combined work of her mother, herself, and O was not enough to ensure that they would receive two meals a day, let alone three.
The mood of the room had grown increasingly tense, something the intruders were clearly unaware of as Blake waxed on about the necessity of sticking to these rules for the benefit of the greater population. The room was silent as the pair asked for questions, and Blake’s lips lifted in a smug, self serving smile.
Blake’s smile dropped as he made eye contact with Clarke, who realised her arm was raised. The hundreds of pairs of eyes that had perviously been directed at the pair were focused on Clarke, although admittedly now with an aura of support.
“You say that this is for the benefit of all, but how do you justify cutting off electricity and even water to the Walden medical centre when only last month you contracted ten Walden labourers - who are still unpaid by the way - to convert the apartment next to yours into a swimming pool for your corridor?”
Blake’s cheeks tightened and Collins blushed - this was clearly something that they hadn’t wanted to get out. His eyes stood steady on Clarke as the angry whispers started up, and she had the sense that not only was he losing control, she’d started something that could quickly escalate.
Still the boys remained silent. Octavia cocked her head, her voice ringing clear and loud, cutting through the background nose that was rapidly rising.
“You gonna answer that, pretty boy?”
Blakes nostrils flared, and it seemed as if his restraint had snapped.
“There’s a reason none of you are in positions of power.”
His eyes flickered around the room, scanning the furniture, battered through years of continuous use, and attire of the citizens, dressed in thin and worn clothing, that was always tinged slightly grey no matter the amount of scrubbing.
“You can’t even take care of yourselves and your surroundings. You live like animals.”
He almost barked the last words, and Clarke wondered whether he was aware of the massive mistake he had made. He was surrounded by Waldenites on all sides, many of whom had suffered personally due to restrictions he had enforced, and many of whom who would have easily progressed on advanced courses such as physics and medicine had they been given the opportunity to do so. It was a room full of hungry people who had been trodden on their entire lives by those in Pheonix and he’d not only provoked them, but openly antagonised them. The Waldenites may not live like animals, but they were a pack. And a pack protects its own.
———
It was a week after the mob that had sent thirty Waldenites to the medical centre after the guards with their electric shock batons stepped in, and Clarke was concerned by how quiet it was. Not a whisper against the Phoenicians had been heard in days. Something big was coming. By the way Abby was pacing around the room, stitching into a frayed pair of pyjamas with pent up aggression, she wasn’t the only one to think so. Abby muttered under her breath the danger of such things, and Clarke couldn’t help but ask if a ‘revolution’ as such would be so bad. Abby gains a haunted look in her eyes and stares determinedly at the floor, fingers twitching.
“You weren’t there for the last one”.
Clarke wonders whether Abby had been truly broken by the events because she knows that despite her mother’s comment, she had been present the last time the station had been plunged into civil war. She knows this because that is the day she had gained a sister.
Jake had parroted the story repeatedly when they were little, waiting until Abby had gone to ensure she didn’t try to “sanitize” the truth. Clarke knows very little about the politics and events of that year, only of the way that baby Doe became Octavia Griffin.
It had been a particularly rough month, rebellers if caught were often floated, and even whispers against the council could land you in front of a judge. Jake’s unit had been mobilised the night before, and the head of the squad, Terry Doe, had been floated that morning after he had been caught rifling though council papers. Jake had walked down Terry’s corridor to collect his belongings, only to hear a muffled snuffling sound. After prying up the floorboards and carrying the wriggling bundle to Abby - to whom he presented her with the reverence of a boy who had done something naughty that he couldn’t help but be proud of - Abby had cooed. Post explanation, Abby had developed a somewhat stubborn look and rocked Octavia, asking her what her name was. Her mouth puckered in the shape of an O as if she was trying to speak, and the Griffins had promptly named her Octavia.
It wasn’t quite that easy to make O an official part of the family though. O was not only unregistered, but she was likely the daughter of an executed rebel leader. The Griffins had dreaded to think what could happen to her should the Council find out. Fortunately, Walden was rarely inspected, left to its own devices, and so the couple decided to “informally adopt” O, within five minutes of making her acquaintance. This was fortunate because approximately six minutes after O first appeared, Abby went into labour and Clarke was born. They grew up as blood, because they were. O was loved as if she was born as Clarke was, and she loved in return, as did all of Walden who knew who she was and still vowed to protect her - to such an extent that until O’s seventh birthday she was unknown to the council. The security had undone them in the end. Griffins O and C had been playing in the corridor when a Phoenician had been scaring kids by requesting spot checks. Years of secrets and safety were undone in under a minute. Jake had been killed upon apprehension, and Abby had sworn that Jake had had an affair with a woman long since floated years ago, producing Octavia. She had raised O as her own, feigning ignorance at the fact O was not registered. The council had decided that due to the death of Jake, Octavia required no punishment and she was finally, officially recognised as a registered Griffin. The promise of no punishment didn’t stop the Griffins being evicted from their clean, tidy apartment for ‘space reasons’ and being transferred into a dank and unused flat.
Clarke unpicks her last three stitches, pulling the thread tighter this time, watching it fray under force applied, thread taut between her fingertips. The door slams behind Octavia as she wanders in, and Clarke’s hand slips, tugging too hard. The thread snaps and Clarke watches her work unravel.
———
Green light washes over Clarke’s face as she makes her biweekly trip to Mecha Station. Echoes follow her footsteps down the key carded corridor that separates the two stations. Clarke likes the Mechians. In general, they’re more privileged than the Waldenites, with less rationing and higher education, but they’re friendly - willing to share both food and knowledge with their little sibling station. In fact, this is where Jasper, the key card duplicator, lives with his roommate Monty. Jasper had become infatuated with O during her first party on Mecha and despite the sickening gooey eyes Jas had perfected , the four became fast friends, later initiating Wells into their circle, as well as a sarcastic but incredibly loyal asshole named Murphy, a badass mechanic named Raven, and upon occasion, Miller, Harper and even Fox.
Clarke’s walking into Harpers room to collect laundry - she is often reminded of an old comedy show called friends, as none of them ever lock their doors - to find a hulking figure standing by the bed. Blake. Reversing out the room her escape route is cut off by Blake gesturing her closer and reaching over her shoulder to close the door behind her. Her mouth sets in a grim line as he speaks, sealing any emotions inside.
Blake starts talking.
“Clarke, I believe we need to discuss your behaviour last week. Harper won’t be back for a while. I personally hoped to throw you in the skybox and toss the metaphorical key out of the air lock, but luckily for you, Kane thinks that doing so would only serve to further rile up Walden.”
He says the name like it’s a dirty word, curling his lip around it in disgust. It’s clear he means to be threatening Clarke’s face remains blank.
“Griffin.”
Blake pauses, shock colouring his face. This is perhaps the first time someone has not reacted to his threats.
“Excuse me?”
Clarke swallows thickly before steadying her voice.
“My friends call me Clarke. Call me Griffin.”
What looks like it could be a hint of embarrassment slides over Blakes face, but it’s gone as soon as it appears, the pink dots on his cheeks attributed to anger rather than shame or embarrassment. Blake pushes his way past Clarke, disappearing down the hall so rapidly that if wasn’t for the faint impressions of a figure on the bed, Clarke’s not sure she would have registered his visit at all.
It’s dinnertime when his name comes up again, Octavia talking while inexplicably somehow still chewing her carrot substitute.
“Monty said he saw Blake storming out of Mecha today. I’m pretty sure he’s never been in there once, always avoided it. Something big must be going down if he’s made his way there.”
Clarke feels slightly nauseous.
O slips in and out of sign language, chewing too vigorously now to be understandable.
It’s just strange Clarke. He’s either there for a girl, and if he’s going to those lengths she must be pretty special. Or, war is coming.
Clarke doesn’t appreciate either option. It is however perhaps concerning that out of those two options, war is infinitely preferable.