Rain. Until recently it was only something Clarke had heard about. Her parents would weave it into stories about the ground, this mystical idea that water just fell out of the sky. It had spoken to Clarke about the easiness of earth, the intrinsic system of cycles that somehow worked naturally in harmony to sustain the planet. She had always thought there was something beautiful about the sincerity of it. In comparison, the forcedness of the constant maintenance and repairs to the ark seemed unnatural. She remembered lying on her cot, listening the steady mechanical thrum and imagining what it might be like to be a part of something so organic.

Now she heard nothing. It was quiet, unfamiliarly so. A few seconds ago the rain had been pelting her makeshift tent with such voracity that she could have sworn the sky was throwing itself at her. Water, she mused, made more noise than she could ever have imagined. Her fingers trailed off the edge of the waterproof material she was using as a bed and touched the damp earth. It was cold, and she pressed her palm into it, feeling the moisture seep out from the compressed dirt. All that water, which had been so loud as it came down, now sat silently in the earth.

It was the opposite of people.

People had evolved here, from beings that were supposed to be their intellectual inferiors. Was it intelligence, Clarke wondered, that had lead to the nuclear war that scorched the earth? Maybe human beings were capable of abstract thought, but that thought had done more damage to the planet than any supposedly less intelligent species could ever threaten. They had evolved until they thought themselves gods, and then like gods they had destroyed themselves with that hubris. After laying waste to the land that had given them rise they had died, and the few that survived would never see their home again. Until now.

Clarke dug her fingers into the ground, holding it as though afraid she might fall away. It was still amazing to have something so solid between her fingers, beneath her body, her feet. In the ark, she had been raised not to fear the isolation of their vessel. The fragility of the system that sustained life for the entire population of their species was all she had ever known, and so she had not been afraid. Then one day she had overheard a conversation between her parents, and it had changed everything. Everything that she knew, every comfort she had taken for granted had been ripped away and she had found herself facing the most blanket terror imaginable. They were going to die. Their lifestyle, their home, it had never been meant to last. And so suddenly the only barrier separating Clarke from the vacuum of space had seemed suffocating.

Here, on the ground, they could survive. They could breathe without stealing breath from their children. They could expand, raise families. They would have the space, and the resources to detain and hold criminals without the threat of certain execution. They could live. But only if they knew. And right now, Raven's slim chance of fixing a radio with their very limited resources was the only hope the group on the ground had of contacting the ark. If they failed, everyone on the ark would die. The oxygen would run out, and slowly but surely every last member of the human race would fall into a sleep from which they would never wake.

There was a sudden crack of lightning and Clarke jolted upright. There were so many phenomena in space. Some of them were accompanied by light, or fire, some more subtle and yet not any less beautiful. But they didn't have thunderstorms. Clarke counted, like her mother had once told her the grounders had done before the war. Twenty-seven, and then the thunder came. She marveled at it.

Her community, the band of delinquents sent down as a test to gauge the radiation, was the first group of humans to hear thunder in centuries. She wondered if anyone else was awake, listening in awe rather than fear. There was so much to be afraid of here. And somehow the thunder was like a sign, ominous and looming but more of a warning than a danger.

Suddenly, there was a noise outside Clarke's tent. It didn't sound like any of the animals she had come to be familiar with. She tensed, holding her breath as her ears strained to catch something else. There were a few soft thuds, almost like footsteps. The noise was steady, but it was also growing steadily quieter, like it was moving away. Frowning, she pushed herself to her feet. She grabbed her jacket, which had been hung off a stick poked into the ground to keep it dry. As she pulled it around herself, Clarke shivered, glad the rain had stopped. After a few days, the novelty of constantly being wet had worn off, and she didn't relish the idea of hiding naked in her tent while her clothes dried above the fire. She stepped out into the cold night, and paused as her eyes searched the darkness.

At first she couldn't see a thing but the vague silhouette of the trees cast from the dying embers of the fire. Then, slowly, her eyes adjusted to the near complete lack of light, and she saw a flicker of movement beyond the wall. Her heart gave a little lurch. They had just gotten Octavia back from the grounders, was it possible that they had been followed back to camp?

She bit her lip, making a decision. She couldn't wake the whole camp and send them into a panic, not without knowing for sure that there was a threat. She had learned her lesson after watching Charlotte step backwards into that cavern. She still saw it, more nights than not, when she closed her eyes. It was strange, but she remembered reaching for Bellamy, her hand groping pointlessly in the air. She hadn't meant to. She hadn't even realized she was doing it until her hand found his sleeve, and clenched. The look he had given her had been equally strange. There was something mixed in with the shock, the grief. Something a little kinder.

Taking a deep breath, Clarke started towards the wall. The voice in her head was screaming that this was a bad idea, that she should turn back, but she ignored it. This was her camp. Bellamy would never admit it, but she was as responsible for what happened to these people as he was. Although, knowing Bellamy, he would simply brush her off and make a passing remark about how it was every man for himself. She had to protect them. As she neared the wall, Clarke could feel herself being watched. She could sense an unnatural stillness, like she wasn't the only one holding her breath. There was a noise to her right and she spun around, only to be knocked forcefully onto her ass.

Laying there, winded, she fought against the pounding of her heart. She needed to stay calm. Suddenly, a face appeared directly above hers. She bit back the scream that built in her throat as she tried to press herself deeper into the ground. She had nowhere to go, but she couldn't help trying to put distance between herself and the mask that only vaguely resembled a human face. Eyes, huge and mostly black in the dark, were the only human feature Clarke could see. They weren't covered by the mask, which resembled the tangled roots of a dying tree. Black and twisting, they covered her assailants face. But his eyes stared out at her.

As though coming to her senses, Clarke kicked at his ankle, sending him sprawling sideways. As he struggled to get to his feet, Clarke leaped to hers, and turned, running towards the section of the wall they called the gate. Before she could reach it, a hand snared around her ankle, and she slammed into the ground. Something pressed on her stomach, sending searing pain along her side. Reaching behind her, she struck out. As her hand came into contact with something solid, the attacker swore, and Clarke froze. She knew that voice.

"Murphy?" She twisted herself around, and grabbed at the mask. It fell away, exposing the face of the exiled criminal. He sneered at her, but she was too distracted by the long scar running the side of his face to be riled by it.

"Hey princess. Hasn't anyone told you it's dangerous to walk these woods at night?" His voice was hoarse and uneven, as though it hadn't been used in days. Clarke tried to sort through the chaos of her mind for a coherent thought. Her eyes drifted towards the shiv he had made for himself at camp, the blunt end bent into a handle. His hand was clenched around it, something dark dripping from the blade.

"What the hell are you doing?" Her voice came out louder than intended, but it was steady. She silently thanked a higher power that it didn't betray the fear. She scurried backwards, out from underneath the cage of Murphy's arms. He didn't stop her.

"Sometimes the kids on watch aren't paying attention." Murphy's eyes began to roam Clarke's body in a way that made her skin crawl. He was right. Where was the patrol now? Was anyone even awake? "I can sneak in and take what I need to survive." He moved closer.

Clarke continued to back up, slowly, hoping he wouldn't chase after her again.

"You were banished from camp. You shouldn't be here." Her hands clenched into fists as Murphy kept pace with Clarke, refusing to allow her to put any more distance between them.

"I'm not in camp. You built this great wall here. I'm pretty sure it marks the edge of your territory." He smirked, the still bloody scar puckering. "And it looks like you're in my territory tonight."

"That was you outside my tent." Clarke's eyes narrowed. "You were stealing from us." She couldn't sense how close she was to the wall without turning her back to Murphy, and she didn't trust him not to throw a knife into it.

"Well, now that I know that's your tent, maybe I'll pay you a visit next time." Murphy, who had been steadily inching his way towards her, suddenly stopped. "Stay inside the wall, princess. Next time you won't get off so easy." He turned, before Clarke could process what had happened, and sprinted into the trees. Clarke watched, even after the sounds of his footsteps had faded away. She stepped backwards and discovered that she had been closer to the wall than she thought. Her back hit the wall with a dull thud, and she closed her eyes with an exhale of relief. As the adrenaline ebbed away, she became aware of a persistent pain, somewhere along her ribcage.

Clarke lifted her shirt and inspected the gash running up the side of her abdomen. It was deep, if she had been with her mother she was sure there would have been stitches. As it was, the pain wasn't unbearable, so she dropped her shirt and hurried inside the wall, pushing the gate back into place. The movement seemed to pull at her wound, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Once the gate was closed, Clarke found herself lost. She needed to wash and clean her cut, but its placement would make it difficult to do without hurting herself further. She didn't have many friends in this camp. Allies she had in abundance. But they weren't really people that she could wake up in the middle of the night and get half naked in front of.

Finn's face popped into her thoughts, and she pushed it away. She couldn't get involved with him, he had a girlfriend. The idea of walking into his tent and seeing him with Raven was less appealing than taking her shirt off in front of a stranger. She was sure Octavia would be alone, there was no way Bellamy would let anyone bunk with his sister, but Clarke wasn't sure how useful she would be in this situation. More than likely her hands would shake, and just thinking about the sloppy stitches made Clarke wince. It seemed she had only one option, and she really wasn't looking forward to it.

She made her way to the tent, already regretting her decision, and paused outside. He was rarely alone, and she had a feeling tonight would be no exception. At least she couldn't hear any movement coming from inside, so however many people were inside were probably asleep. She gritted her teeth and ducked inside.

The pain in her side had been growing steadily ever since she closed the gate, and bending over to step inside the tent made her breath hitch in her chest. She took a moment, doubled over, and when she straightened she was face to face with the inhabitant of the makeshift tent.

"Clarke?" His voice was low, but she could feel the tension radiating off of him. She glanced behind him and was surprised to see his bed empty. "What are you doing here?" His eyes followed her movement as she hunched over again, panting through the pain.

"I need your help." Her voice was directed at the ground, and she struggled to straighten up again. When she did, she thought she caught a trace of concern on his face, but then it was gone. "I was attacked." Bellamy stiffened.

"Inside the wall? Who would-"

"No. Outside the wall. It was Murphy." Clarke staggered a little, and put her hand out for balance. To her surprise, Bellamy caught it. He jerked forwards to catch her, his hand grabbing her side directly over her injury. Clarke let out a moan of pain and Bellamy stepped back, confused.

"What-" He glanced down at his hand, which was covered in her blood. "Clarke what happened?" She stared at him for a moment before answering, starting to feel a little light headed.

"I-uh, heard a noise. Outside my tent. I went outside to see what it was, and the gate was open." The pain was starting to seep into her mind, muddling her thoughts. She fought against it. "I thought it might be grounders but I didn't want to wake the camp before I was sure." She didn't meet Bellamy's eyes, but she knew he, like her, was thinking of Charlotte.

"But it wasn't grounders. It was Murphy?" Bellamy frowned. He had been staring at Clarke intently for the past few minutes. She didn't know why, but it was unsettling. "Look, would you sit down before you pass out? I don't need your blood all over my blankets." He nodded towards a piece of scrap metal from the interior of the ship that had been bent into a sort of stool. Clarke sat.

"Yeah, he was wearing a mask. I was barely outside of the wall when he jumped me from behind. I didn't even realize he had cut me until after he was gone." Her words were starting to slur. Clarke could hear it, but she was suddenly too tired to care. She wanted to sleep. "Bellamy…" The effort of keeping her head upright was enormous. It started to tilt forwards.

"Clarke, hey no. You have to stay awake." Bellamy crouched in front of her, giving her shoulder a rough shove. The pain jolted her awake.

"Ow." She glared at him. He rolled his eyes.

"Toughen up princess." His voice was mocking, but there was something in his face that suggested he was worried. Maybe he was human after all. "Did Murphy say anything else?" He turned his back to Clarke. She frowned as the memory came back to her.

"Yeah. He's been stealing. Look, I need your help cleaning this." Clarke shifted uncomfortably in her blood soaked clothes. She was freezing. The shivering set in and her teeth chattered, the jarring movements sending little frissons of pain through her. "I can tell you what he said while you help me." She unzipped her jacket and shrugged it off. Swiveling so her back was to Bellamy, Clarke slowly pulled one of her arms back through the sleeve of her shirt. She winced, but managed to get the other arm through as well. She pulled the shirt off just as Bellamy turned back towards her.

"Woah, what are you doing?" He sounded weird, but Clarke couldn't see his face so she ignored it.

"I need you to clean this, so it doesn't get infected. There was a suture kit in with the supplies I used on Jasper." Bellamy didn't answer, but Clarke kept going. "Do you think you could put in a few stiches without butchering it?"

"Yeah." Bellamy's voice drifted over to Clarke, and she nodded.

"Good."

"Where-"

"In the backpack hanging just inside the pod they sent us down in. There should be some antiseptic and a suture kit." She waited for a response, but none came. Craning her neck, she realized Bellamy was gone. She sighed. He was a murderer, or an attempted one. He was also selfish, cold and angry. He was an asshole, without a doubt. But here she was, in the middle of the night, topless and waiting for him to sew her back together. She didn't like him much, but she did trust him. If his interests weren't opposing hers, she was coming to realize he wasn't as selfish as she had originally thought.

As Clarke lifted her arm, which was beginning to stick to her side due to the blood, she realized her bra was completely soaked. She looked down at it in frustration. It was the only one she had, and it was completely disgusting. Not that anyone was going to see it. Finn had, once. Now Bellamy, she realized, not that he would care. Clarke highly doubted she was his type, seeing as how she didn't follow him around and throw herself at him. Bellamy had his pick of the girls in the camp, he wouldn't burden himself by being interested in the one who wasn't swooning over him.

Plucking at the sticky material, Clarke gave in with a sigh. It was too uncomfortable to leave on. Besides, it would need to be washed. She unclasped it, holding her breath to keep from screaming with pain. When it sprang open she slid it off and folded it in her lap. The only entrance to Bellamy's tent was the way he'd left, and her back was to it. He wouldn't see anything, not in the near void of the darkness.

Clarke jumped when he came back in, her hands flying to cover her chest, even though she knew he couldn't see.

"Jumpy?" His voice was easy, a drastic change from before he'd left. Clarke decided not to mention it.

"I think I might have earned the right to be a little jumpy when I got stabbed." She sighed. "Do you have a flashlight?" The tent flooded with light in answer to her question. She suddenly felt exposed.

"So what am I doing here?" Clarke resisted the impulse to turn around and inspect what he had brought with him. He didn't need to see any more of her than he already was.

"Do you have a bottle labeled isopropanol?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, I need you to pour that onto the cut." She winced in anticipation, knowing firsthand the pain that was coming her way. "If I um, scream, just keep going."

"I've heard that before." It was muttered under his breath, but Clarke still heard it. Whether it was from the blood loss, or just the strangeness of the situation she would never know, but Clarke couldn't hold back her laughter. It burbled out and she sighed, a smile resting on her face for the first time in a few days.

"You're an idiot." She bit her lip, waiting for an insulting retort, but Bellamy just sighed.

"Do you really want to be insulting me when I'm about to go sticking things into you?" Clark opened her mouth to respond, but was momentarily at a loss. The innuendo seemed to be lost on Bellamy, which she imagined was a first.

Then, he was pouring alcohol onto her wound and there was no room in her mind for anything else. She cried out, stuffing her fist in her mouth to try and muffle the sound. She tasted blood on her hand, whether it was fresh or from her injury she didn't know, but it distracted her a little. The searing pain slowly subsided, and she pulled her hand from her mouth, gasping.

"Thank you." It seemed absurd, in that moment, that she was essentially thanking Bellamy for torturing her, and another laugh escaped from her throat.

"Anytime." She imagined he was smiling. Something touched her back, and Clarke started. "I'm just wiping some of this blood off. Don't worry, I soaked it in the alcohol first." It stung, but there was something oddly comforting about having someone stroking her back. Even if it was someone you hated. The rhythm of it reminded her of when her father used to rub her back as she lay in bed, and her eyes began to droop.

"You're not-" Her sentence cut off as she fell off the stool. She heard Bellamy swear behind her, then felt his arms around her.

"Damnit! Clarke, wake up!" She tried to open her eyes, struggling against the feeling that gravity was suddenly overwhelming. She tried. But the feeling of someone's arms around her, and the exhaustion of the night's events smothered her, and she finally succumbed to the dark.