100 One Shots #10

Disclaimer: I do not own The 100 nor do I own anything on CW.

A/N: Thank you to my beta, and all the people that favorite and follow and reviewed!

Lost and Found

I drop to my knees, raising my face to the clear blue sky above and shut my eyes tight. My skin is red and blistering from the sun beating down mercilessly, glaring on the sand and making it hot to the touch. My lips are cracked and dry, just like the landscape that stretches out for miles in every direction.

All I want in this moment is to scream and wail at the injustice of my predicament, but my throat's too dry. I manage a croaking whimper, fisting my hands in the ratty fabric of my t-shirt wishing for a cool drink of water. What is left in my canteen is tepid and stale, and must be rationed because I don't know how much longer I'll have to walk in order to find more.

I'm tired and hot, my mind wandering to the coolness of my cell in prison- the prison I'd just escaped from four days ago. It had been awful, but it had been cool and right now I think I'd trade freedom for the feeling of cold cement beneath my feet.

I shake my head, knowing that these thoughts come from days in the scorching sun and the lack of food and water. I slide the straps of my backpack off my shoulders and unclip the canteen. There's not much left, probably only enough to get me over the next few sand dunes, but I'm too thirsty to care.

I frown down at the bottle in my hands, cursing my misfortune. When the bottle is empty, that will be it and I'll be as good as dead. However, at the moment I'm thirsty and I know that I need a little to keep me going.

I remove the cap, lifting the canteen to my chapped lips. The water is hot as it slides down my throat, churning my stomach, but offering much needed relief. I lick the moisture from my lips before the dry wind can steal it away, and replace the cap.

The wind starts to pick up, pulling at my hair, causing it to stick to the sweat and dirt covering my face. I hate the heat, the arid wind feeling like fire mixed with bits of sand as it stung my face and neck.

Sand pelted my cheeks as I grabbed my backpack and rose to my feet. I gaze out over the endless sea of golden brown, my feet moving of their own accord as I begin to walk further up the hill. Something tells me I should take cover, but I need to find out why the winds picked up.

As I crested the hill, I finally discovered why the wind had had begun to blow with such force… A sand storm was coming. I have little protection, and the swirling cyclone of heat and sandy grit is headed right for me.

I sit down, pulling my faded green backpack into my lap as I rifle through its contents. I quickly find a pair of goggles and a tightly rolled blanket I'd originally thought I'd have no use for. I slip on the goggles to protect my eyes, and sling my pack back onto my shoulders.

"Stupid desert, stupid sand storms," I mutter, covering myself with the blanket. It's going to be a while I think as I bury my face inside my jacket and close my eyes.

O-O-O

About an hour or so later the storm has passed, leaving me to dig myself out of my shallow, sandy grave. I shake myself off, roll up the blanket, and stuff it back in my backpack. I wet my lips with some of the water from my canteen, needing the moisture but not wanting to use any more than is absolutely necessary, and begin walking over the dune.

I didn't expect to find anyone, so I was surprised when an armored truck surrounded by people came into view. The figures milled about, filling the tank, doing repairs, or going through the cargo stowed in the back.

I dropped to the burning sand, landing flat on my stomach, and watched the people just below me. I squinted when I saw someone getting out of the driver's side, my heart beginning to race when I realized who this person was.

I shot to my feet, my head spinning from lack of water causing me to fall to my knees. My strength was waning, my parched throat preventing me from crying out. I took my time, slowly staggering to my feet before making my way down.

I slipped many times in the loose sand, but I knew I had to hurry when I saw the people beginning to ready themselves to leave. They were done refueling, and packing their truck when I called out- my voice raspy and strangled.

Only the person closest to the back of the truck looked up, reaching for the gun strapped to her side. I skidded to a stop, the sand at my feet giving way causing me to slide further down the hill. I fall to the ground, my hands held up in surrender as I croak out a plea for the dark haired woman to lower her weapon.

"Who are you," she shouts menacingly, stepping closer.

"Please, I just want to speak to-," I'm cut off when another shout echoes to my right.

"Clarke?"

"Octavia," I say, relief flooding my veins.

"Raven, put the gun down! I know her," Octavia says.

The girl I now know as Raven drops her hands to her sides as Octavia hurries over and helps me to my feet.

"Are you ok," she asks worriedly.

I shake my head, my strength ebbing away in the heat as I lean heavily against her. "Water," I practically beg with my scratchy voice.

Octavia quickly hands me an old metal canteen, the contents of which I chug down greedily. Water pours forth, wetting my lips and dribbling down my chin. It feels so good that I can't resist pouring some on my face to wash away the dust.

"Clarke what happened to you," Octavia asks as I try to pull myself together.

"The mission in Ton DC went south. I was captured and placed in lockup in the sky box," I reply, taking a deep breath as I stand and hand back the canteen.

Just as I was about to continue with my tale, shots rang out and the loud hum of an engine roared in the distance. It was coming from the direction of the prison, and we all knew who it was.

The Grounders, a crazed army led by an even crazier commander, riding in their heavily armored trucks and tanks. The only reason they ventured into the desert was to chase an escaped prisoner, and right now that was me.

They want me dead because I know too much. They can't risk the things I know about Ton DC getting back to the rebels in the wasteland villages. So they've come to eliminate the threat.

Octavia's orders ring out loud and clear, telling the rebels to man the guns and return to the safety of the truck. She tugs on my arm, and I look at her with fear shining bright in my eyes. I know what could happen, and I can't let it. I want to resist, tell her to take her people and leave, but I find myself following her instead.

"I need to keep you alive," she says seriously, "Come on."

I allow her to drag me to the truck, pushing me inside. I settle next to a dark haired girl with pale skin. She looks much too innocent to be mixed up in this, too fragile to withstand the things I know she must.

"I'm Maya," she says, extending her hand with a smile.

"Clarke," I reply.

"Are you a good shot," Maya asks causing my thoughts to drift to the many hours of training I received from the one person who'd always been patient with me, even when he snapped and growled at everyone else.

"Decent," I reply, hopping into the back as Octavia and the others jumped in and we took off.

"What a perfect day," a lanky boy with goggles exclaims with a smile, pointing is gun out the window and shooting at the vehicles that follow us.

Bullets whiz by as the Grounders return fire, yelling fiercely as the soldiers race to catch up with us. Octavia's faster though, for which I'm eternally grateful. I get off a few dozen shots, finally hitting the driver of the lead truck- watching as the tank behind it runs it over and crushes it into the sand.

"Shoot the tires," Raven yells, opening the hatch, "Hit those and they'll be forced to stop!"

Maya and I continue to fire our guns, aiming for the tires and the driver's side window. Unfortunately the soft sand makes driving difficult, Octavia cursing loudly as the tires skid and sink. Loud pings ring throughout the truck as bullets hit the metal exterior.

Finally Raven shoots the right front tire of the leading truck, causing it to veer off before flipping end over end.

"I'm awesome," she cries triumphantly, ducking back into the truck with a smile, "Now let's get back to camp!"

A few hours of silence ensues along with the endless journey across the desert before we finally arrive at the grungy camp.

"Jasper, help me with Clarke," Octavia orders, gripping one of my arms to stabilize me.

"No, I'm fine," I insist, shoving her hands away before slowly climbing out of the truck.

I lean back against the cooling metal, waiting for the rest to disembark. I turn when I hear my name being called, straightening at the sound of the voice that was so familiar it felt like home. I smiled as he ran towards me, his dark curls brushing the collar of his shirt.

"Clarke," he yells when he finally sees me, his smile making my heart flutter.

"Bellamy," I shout, my voice scratchy and throat sore.

I rush forward, crashing into him. His arms wrap tightly around me, and for the first time in months I relax. He's still the same, all hard muscle and warmth. He smells of leather and gunpowder, his t-shirt soft against my cheek.

"You're home," he whispers against my ear, holding me tighter.

His arms are confining, but not in the way my cell was. Bellamy has always offered freedom, comfort, and security. He's home, and it felt so good to be back in his arms after fearing I would die without ever seeing him again.

"Yeah, I'm home," I whisper back, yielding my lips to his kiss.

-Lin