THE 100 FANFICTION

(Set for 1x12: Clarke and Finn are still missing, and it's the day after Bellamy's and Ravens… rumpus. WARNING: Bellarke feelings forthcoming.)

CHAPTER ONE

Clarke lay motionless on the ground, too exhausted to try and defend her body from the grounders relentless beatings. When they'd caught her trying to escape, caught in one of their snares, there had been abuse, but when they discovered the grounders dead body, there had been torture. She hadn't slept, she hadn't eaten, nor had she drank anything, and she found the little hope that she clung to was fading fast. She willed Bellamy to come crashing through the dense undergrowth, guns in hand, and a rescue team on hand. She knew, she knew this was selfish, but could she not be rescued? Just this once, could someone not save her?

She heard the crunch of leaves beneath solid boots, and for half a second, she thought that this may be Bellamy, Jasper, Monty, Raven and Octavia, faithfully coming to her rescue as she had once done for them.

But no, it wasn't them, but the grounder princess, Anya, her features curled into a vicious snarl, and a tanned fist painfully clutching at her golden curls. Clarke winced, and a slight whimper slipped through her bloodied lips, seemingly satisfying Anya's need to hurt, as her lips turned up in a savage smirk. Bringing her lips to Clarke's ear, she began to whisper,

"You're weak. A weak, pathetic girl. They won't come for you, you know. They wouldn't risk themselves for you- you're nothing."

Clarke inhaled sharply, every breath screaming against her lungs. She stifled a sob, unwilling to give Anya the satisfaction of breaking Clarke, even more so than she already had. With the physical abuse Anya would administer, she would spit out words of poison, throwing them like knives, at Clarke's crumbling defences. But Clarke would never give Anya the pleasure of seeing how much she was hurting, and instead fixed on a permanent detached state, refusing to scream, to sob, to beg her, beg her to stop, as she knew Anya would so love her to do. Sure, she would fight the beatings at first, but as they became more frequent, her resolve broke, and she learned they were over quicker if she didn't fight against her hand.

Was this, Clarke Griffin, giving up? Entering into a state of icy coldness that she wouldn't be able to drag herself out of, not this time. Did she really want to? What was left of her, but a cracked shell? Her mother was dead, her father long gone, Wells had left her, and Finn.. Finn was someone she'd let in, one of the few she allowed to truly see her, and that had all gone to flames. She wasn't wanted, not really. The camp viewed her as a tight-ass, they didn't really like her, and Bellamy…

Aah, Bellamy Blake, their rebel leader, risen from the despair of loss and betrayal to lead the 100 to their victory, their freedom on earth. She mentally snorted, yeah, right.

It was then she realised, that beaten and broken, she could still bring herself back, away from the edge just a little bit, to insult Bellamy Blake.

Leave him in charge of the camp? Alone?

So that wasn't happening.

Clarke pushed away the self-pity, and for the first time in what felt like days, (though only perhaps, a day and a half) found the burning determination flickering deep inside her. Reaching towards that, finding this unknown strength within her, she glared harshly at Anya, and, though the movement sent waves of pain bouncing throughout her, jerked backwards away from her clawing fingers. Anya gasped slightly, taken aback by the sudden movement in the girl, and felt her hair slip through her fingers as she released her vice-like grip on Clarke in shock.

Clarke smiled the tiniest triumphant smile, just a ghost of it, hovering above her lips, and was met with a harsh backhand from Anya in retaliation. Clarke gritted her teeth, pushing down the scream of frustration, more than pain, which wanted to surface so badly.

Clarke pulled herself up slowly, her muscles in a permanent sense of overwhelming ache, and though she knew she shouldn't, turned Anya's own words against her, her voice throaty and rough.

"You're weak. A weak, pathetic child. You're-"

Her words were cut off as Anya lashed out at her again in pure fury, and Clarke knew it really wasn't the right thing to do- but damn if she didn't feel smug.

Clarke feigned unconsciousness to save her more beatings, but Anya wasn't quite done yet, and after several punches, kicks, slaps, and scratches made at the points of immense anger, she kicked Clarke away as if she disgusted her, and ordered a guard to watch her.

Clarke was sore, but thought she had gotten of fairly easy compared to what Anya could have done. Clarke shuddered slightly.

"Hey, girly." Came the voice of the greasy grounder that seemed to have picked up a particular interest in Clarke. Trying not to cringe, she kept her eyes glued shut.

Then his breath was fanning over her face, putrid and disgustingly warm.

"I know you're up, girly. Open your eyes so we can play." He whispered to her in what he must have thought as seductive.

Aha, no.

Clarke remained completely still under his heated gaze, refusing to obey his commands. Sighing, he pulled away from her, and she heard the familiar sound of crunching leaves as he departed. She felt the spark of hope ignite in her once more, though this time; she didn't fight to keep it down. She dared peek one eye open, and then slowly raised her head, checking her surroundings. Seeing no-one, she attempted to shift her position, though it was difficult as her hands and feet were bound tightly together in rope. Groaning quietly, she looked around, hoping to spot something that may assist her, but her mental search was interrupted at the sound of approaching footsteps.

She shoved her head back into the ground so quickly she got whiplash. Super-duper pain-fucking-ful whiplash.

She kept her eyes closed, but she knew the greasy grounder hovered above her, his scent lingered close in the air, and it was all she could do to stop herself from dry-heaving.

And then suddenly, something cold and wet was splashed over her face, and her eyes flew open, groaning in pain as the salt water soaked into the open wounds on her face.

"Oh, good, you're awake." The grounder said smiling, staring down at her lustfully.

She was about to very literally gag, but she saw the sharp arrowhead glinting in the sun, and she saw her chance.

Smiling flirtatiously at the grounder, (she hoped it was flirty, but it probably didn't have as much of an effect with her bloody and bruised beyond repair) she purred a greeting.

He responded immediately, roughly pulling her body into a sitting position, his hands remaining firmly around her waist. (G-A-G)

She covered her repulsion with another grin, and she brought her lips towards his ear,

"So you want to play?" She whispered seductively, his body shaking in anticipation as he nodded vigorously.

She gestured behind her, where her hands were wrapped tightly in rope. "You'll have to untie me then." She continued purring, and it seemed for a moment, he regained some sense, as he grinned slyly and shook his head no.

"You're a prisoner, I could get in trouble.." She frowned lightly, and really turning it up now, pouted her lips at him. His resolve slipped slightly.

"But if you don't untie me, then I won't be able to use my hands, they won't be able to wonder…" He groaned, slipping further. Determined, Clarke added,

"And they're very skilled." In the huskiest tone she could muster, and with that, he was gone. He pulled a knife away from his belt, made sure no-one was watching, and immediately began sawing away at the rope that bound her hands together.

She grinned at him as her hands came loose, and he looked at her fervently, his lips seeking out hers.

Yeah, nope.

She brought her finger to his lips, "Aah, aah, ah." She whispered and instead reached a hand towards his weapons belt, under the impression of reaching for his trousers.

"Close your eyes." She soothed, resting a hand on his cheek, and gagging silently as he complied.

Her hands shook slightly as she pulled the arrowhead away, though still she did it quickly and with smooth ease. Bringing up the sharpened point, she slit his throat, as his eyes widened in horror.

She brought her hand to his mouth to muffle screams and yells for help, though he was fading fast.

As she stared into his eyes slowly glazing over, she was reminded of something Bellamy had once told her.

"Who we are, and who need to be to survive are two very different things."

Were they though? This was who she, Clarke Griffin was, and she was a murderer.

She didn't have time to philosophise on her (surely) dammed soul though, as the grounder slipped away silently. She dug around for the discarded blade, finding it under a pile of leaves, and sawed through the ropes that hugged her feet together, throwing the rope away quickly.

Though her lungs still burned, and her whole body ached like hell, if she was going to survive, she knew she had to run. Only this time, she would try to be more cautious.

She tore through the trees as fast as she could, half limping on an injured leg. She was pumped on only by the rush of adrenaline that raged through her veins, and the burning desire to get back to the 100.

Rescuers.

Who needs them?

(BELLARKE FEELINGS FORTHCOMING, AS IN NEXT CHAPTER SUUUCKERS!

MUHAHAHAHAHA.

There will be many Bellarke feels next chapter though, I just wanted to establish how awesome Clarke is as a character. Yup, so bye!)