Chapter One

A Shot in the Dark

The soft glow breaking through the trees strikes Clarke with a sense of hope she hasn't felt in a long time.

Not since she was a child and didn't know any better. Since before she knew the truth about the Ark… before that truth took away her father and locked her alone in a bright, quiet hole.

Not since that truth soured her relationship with everyone important to her.

There had been brief sketches of that feeling since arriving the drop ship landed, but they learned quickly that problems feel faster than raindrops on the ground.

Drop ship landed: Great! But all the equipment is blown, two kids are dead, you're in the wrong spot, and everyone is acting like assholes.

There is living fauna: Cool! It is definitely mutated and that might be a problem.

Crossed that first big hurdle: And Jasper has a spear in his chest.

The first day alone proved that every silver lining was defined by an accompanying dark cloud. The longer they were on the ground, the darker that cloud grew. But, for the first time, Clarke feels hope dawning, even as the sun sets.

And just when it seemed like her fight was over.

She had been all alone. The only people that knew she was alive (the only people she knew were alive) were trapped (happily) in Mt. Weather, and there was no proof that the Ark had any survivors. There was no sign of Finn and Bellamy, stuck outside the drop ship as she gave the order for slaughter.

There was just her.

Clarke tries to be honest with herself. She knew was pretty. She knew she was smarter than she was pretty. She knew she wanted to help people and had a bit of a defiant streak. She knew she was fun. But, on the ground, she was learning so much about herself… much of it she really didn't want to know. Wanted to ignore and hide away from.

She was smart, but she was also manipulative and ruthless. Her brain moved quickly and easily spotted solutions that her heart wanted to ignore. When there was time, Clarke could explore other options, better options, first. In the middle of a fight…she acted as soon as the dots connected.

She had reached out and used Anya's weak spot, where Mt. Weather had left its mark, against her. And then she hit her until it was clear Anya was done. And then she hit her some more.

She just couldn't stop. Tired. Defeated. Angry. So angry. She could rationalize it all she wanted, but Clarke had wanted to hurt Anya. Clarke had wanted to kill her.

It was certainly her darkest moment.

But somehow, in that mad moment, her attention was caught and pulled away by something, some sort of balloon, floating in the sky. Something that definitely didn't belong. And if it didn't belong on the ground, it had to be her people.

Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it had appeared with faint sounds of gunshot echoing in the distance. But it had pulled Clarke back from the precipice, stopped her from striking Anya down permanently.

Now, after a long night trudging through dark, unfamiliar woods with grounder stumbling at her heels, Clarke feels a faint hope blossoming at the sight of the crashed remains of the Ark.

She hadn't been crazy or wrong or desperate. Mt. Weather was bad. Her people were alive and here. The adults were here.

She could finally shuck of the reigns of responsibility.

As much as she had tried to rise to the occasion, it felt like every move she made ended in failure. She had never wanted to be a leader or make decisions; she just wanted to help.

She had been telling the truth, that first day on the ground. She didn't care who was in charge. She had never chaffed under others' authority and had never ached to one day surpass them. If anything, she had believed and trusted in them too much.

But she had learned. She couldn't trust those in power. Not easily and definitely not blindly. Her eyes would remain open and she would always question, always search deeper. She had grown too much to ever be the girl she once was...

But she could release herself from having to make the hard choices. With the Ark on the ground, it wasn't even a matter of choice. Whatever façade of leadership she held would be stripped away from her, if she wasn't so anxious to throw it away. She wasn't like Bellamy. For him, it would burn, having adults passing judgment and orders.

For her, it will be a weight lifted to no longer be the one deciding life and death. Maybe it was a childish thought, but Clarke wasn't quite 18… probably.

It was hard, sometimes, to keep track.

The last time she'd really believed that everything would be okay… well, it was before her Dad had gotten floated for sure.

But now, looking at the mess of metal and lights that would one day turn into a city, she thinks that maybe it just might be. Despite all the odds, they had finally made it to the ground. They finally had a chance; they just had to work for it.

Glancing over her should at the sullen but strangely docile grounder she had dragged along, Clarke thinks she has time for one more life and death decision before she's free.

Maybe Clarke shouldn't make a decision like this after the night she'd had. The adrenaline that had given her strength had long faded, and the comforts (and food) of Mt. Weather felt like another lifetime. She's tired and aching, and every footstep is a marathon. Every movement pulls at the dried mud (and blood) clinging to her, pulls her open wounds desperately waiting to be treated. She figures it's probably too late to avoid infection.

And that was going to be fun.

But, with the Ark in front of her, she knows that she can get treated. That she will survive and be welcomed back.

She has to make her decision now, because her suffering is nothing compared to Anya's, who had been a tortured prisoner rather than beloved guest. Anya, who Clarke had saved and been saved by…who Clarke had bloodied and been bloodied by.

Anya, who had taken Clarke prisoner and was now hers.

She had planned to take Clarke back to her people as some sort of consolation prize, and Clarke could very easily do the same. Anya, if broken, could be a fountain of information of the people they no doubt were heading to war against.

But her heart remembers Lincoln, chained and beaten for information he refused to give. Her people (her included) could be just as cruel as Mt. Weather. The cold, logical side of her whispers that they can't fight two wars – and would the people of the Ark choose to fight for themselves or fight for those in the mountain.

And, despite everything, her instincts, the same ones that had recoiled at the affable leaders of Mt. Weather, tell her an alliance was still possible.

Every part of her agrees that she needs to make this last choice before she could head back to her people.

So Clarke turns around, turning her back on the Ark, and walks to Anya, who stiffens at her approach.

Good. Anya had been beaten, but Clarke needs her to be strong. Anya was probably hoping for a warrior's death, but prepared for a cage. Clarke wasn't planning to offer her either.

She grips the blade, ignoring the way Anya tenses. The grounder does not move away or struggle as Clarke pulls her bound hands close, only glaring with a sullen defeat. And, as Clarke begins cutting at the bindings, that changes to suspicion.

"I'm letting you go," Clarke says, even if it is a bit obvious at this point. She keeps her face neutral and strong, needing her words to be understood. "I'm not weak, but I'm not like you. Our only chance against mount weather is if we fight together. To beat them, we'll need our technology and your knowledge of this world. I know my people will help… the question is, will yours?"

Anya hesitates, obviously debating with herself if she was willing to take that first step… if her people would listen even if she did.

Good.

Anya had, so far, proven to be blunt and honest, if generally disagreeable. It meant much more for her to think about it then to just answer spit out an answer in return for freedom.

"The commander was my second, I can get an audience." Anya says slowly, without her normal arrogant confidence. Clarke knows this isn't a promise of an alliance… but it's a start.

Clarke takes a breath in startled relief, still feeling that lightness of hope, barely containing a smile. She reaches out her hand, and this time Anya meets her halfway.

They grip each other at the forearm, different then the Ark, but the meaning is clear. Then they release and Anya quickly turns, staggering slightly as she marches away.

For whatever reason, Clarke feels obligated to watch her go. There's an uneasy churning in her gut she can't quite shake. Clarke likes to make the logical, smart choices. She listens, pays attention, and thinks things through. She's always had a natural inclination towards impulsiveness, but she learned the importance of patience, planning, and foresight on the Ark.

That year in solitude really hammered in that lesson…

Sometimes, though, she just can't help but follow her instincts. Like on Mount Weather. Every bit of evidence pointed towards it being a sort of Garden of Eden for what was left of her hundred. But she couldn't settle herself, couldn't ignore her screaming gut.

And it turned out their little slice of heaven had been built on top of hell.

Those instincts stir as she watches Anya walk away. She doesn't believe Anya will turn back around and attack her. She doesn't think watching will even give her a general direction of any nearby grounders. Logically, she should follow Anya's lead and head towards the fallen Ark.

But Clarke can't bring herself to turn away.

So when a little dot dances unsteadily on Anya's back, she notices. Her instincts flinch, and Clarke moves before she even understands that she has a choice to make.

"Anya!"

The call rips out of her mouth, and Anya tenses and turns. Clarke barrels into her just as she hears the loud crack of gunfire.

White-hot pain burns through her shoulder – distantly, she imagines it would've been Anya's gut – and they're both on the ground with only light foliage for cover. Clarke grunts as she pushes herself up, mind already quickly putting pieces together.

She'd been shot – this close to the remains of the Ark, it was obviously them. She'd been shot because she'd jumped into Anya, so they'd been aiming for Anya.

She didn't have time to stop the bleeding. She had to apply pressure and stop the bleeding, but she didn't have time. She had to make sure they didn't shoot Anya. She had to keep the treaty alive. Had to save her friends. She had to check if it was a clean shot or if she'd have to get the bullet out.

She remembers Anya digging out the tracking beacon with her teeth.

Why are they shooting? They had no weapons. Anya wasn't walking towards the structure. She wasn't hiding in the trees, spying or searching. Anya wasn't even facing the remains of the Ark.

Why are they shooting?

They have to get out of the line of fire. Clarke has to get them to stop shooting. Has to explain. Has to get to the trees and better cover.

Has to do something.

But she is already beginning to feel weak and light-headed, and Anya pushes her away, fire once again in her eyes and Clarke staggers backwards, falling to the ground. It is clear that betrayal springs quickly to Anya's mind.

Clarke's people are shooting at Anya – unprovoked at an unarmed, unknown grounder. Clarke has nothing to do with it, couldn't have anything to do with it, but she will always bear a certain amount of responsibility towards her people.

Clarke leaping at Anya just before the shot probably doesn't help.

Clarke swallows roughly, gritting her teeth against the pain, and uses her hand to push against the bullet wound. Has to stop the bleeding. Anya's eyes follow the motion – she's ruthless and arrogant, but she's not dumb – and there is a flash of understanding.

Good.

Clarke knows she should say something, has to keep the possibility of an alliance alive, but her mind is coming up blank.

She's not gifted with the ability to convince and inspire with words alone (not like Bellamy or Finn). It has always required action – proving that she was right, proving that she could and would – to get things done. The blood loss certainly isn't helping.

Already, she is shifting away from burning pain to an uncomfortable numbness, and her mind is beginning to feel foggy.

It's getting hard to think, and she gives up on the idea of finding some magic words to soothe the insult of being shot at. Instead, she staggers to her feet, fighting to stay get upright. Anya makes no move to help her, stays half-crouched in the grass. Covered in mud and blood, low to the ground, and in the hiding from the moonlight in the shadows of the trees, Clarke decides Anya is probably safe from the scopes of the guns.

Hopefully.

So Clarke turns in the direction of the camp.

She wants to raise her hands in surrender, but she has to stop the blood and her other arm won't move.

It's just hanging limply, dripping with blood.

She takes a hesitant step toward the camp when another shot whistles through the air, and the ground explodes close to her. She flinches from the shot, feet running backwards.

Her feet catch on something, and the only thing that stops her from meeting the ground face first is a rough grip on her uninjured arm.

"Come on," Anya hisses, as she roughly pulls her away from the open land and towards the trees. Clarke stumbles along, willing to be lead.

Her people shot at her. She wasn't a grounder and they shot at her. They must of thought she was a grounder so they shot at her.

It made sense, considering how covered in blood and mud she was, but it still shocked her.

She was probably in shock.

Still, if she hadn't been covered in all the muck, they probably wouldn't have missed the second shot. In the dark night, and out of reach of the camps floodlights, her appearance must have made great camouflage. Her slight movement must have given her away and they shot before they were sure.

Sloppy. And a waste of bullets.

Anya jerks her through the tree line, their movements hindered by their beaten bodies and Clarke's inability to just focus. And, of course, that's when Clarke's body decides to call it quits.

One second she is stumbling along, barely managing to avoid running into trees even at their slow crawl, and the next she is kissing rocks. She can't even figure out if she tripped or collapsed or even lost consciousness.

Anya wasn't holding her arm anymore, must've let go to avoid being pulled down with her, but is quickly by her side.

"Gyon op!" Anya snarls, frantically pulling at her sleeve. Clarke fuzzily wonders why she cares, why she doesn't just leave, but tries to obey. She can't get any strength into her injured arm, so she uses her other arm, slick with blood, forgetting that she was supposed to hold it to wound.

She rises to her knees, before falling back into grass, the world swimming around her. The last thing Clarke sees before darkness takes her is Anya angrily glaring down at her.

Notes: I hope everyone enjoys the story. I don't have betas and do only a perfunctory editing job, so let me know if you spot any issues or anything that bothers you.

I am trying to stick to canon as much as possible, but small things are bound to slip through. Considering this takes place before Clarke meets up with Camp Jaha and everyone shares their stories, the biggest issue will probably be figuring out what Clarke knows and doesn't know.

This is being crossposted with AO3. Chapter 2 is already up there, and will be up here after a second glance. Hopefully after that it will be simultaneous updates.

Hope everyone enjoys!