Murphy doesn't give a damn about most things.

With all the shit that's gone down in his life so far, he really doesn't have any more room in his wretched heart for worry.

Getting hanged after being wrongfully accused of murdering Wells? That was sick.

Getting banished from this new Lord of the Flies-esque society formed by the rest of his delinquent peers? That was excessive.

Getting dragged blindly across a perpetual desert by the demented Jaha and his equally mindless Apostles? That was ridiculous.

Getting trapped in a nuclear war-proof bunker for 86 days with an endless music collection, bountiful food and drink supply, countless TV channels and recorded programmes, and clean furniture to sleep and sit on? That… was pretty nice for a while, not gonna lie.

Getting himself captured by Grounders while posing as bait in the middle of a trail, only to be taken to a bald man dressed in what looks like a wrinkled potato sack, and getting beat, tortured, and interrogated by said potato sack man? Now that was Fucked. Up.

The only good thing to emerge from this shitfest was meeting Emori.

And where was she, anyway? Probably dead in a ditch somewhere. It was just Murphy's Law: anything and anyone that you love can and will be destroyed.

This is probably why Murphy doesn't give a damn about most things, unless… these things directly affect his chances at survival.

And this instinct brings him back full circle to Clarke Griffin, whom he is currently very concerned about, if only for his own selfish reasons.

Clarke has been unresponsive for the past hour and a half. At least, he estimates that's how long it's been, not like he has a clock drilled into his ass or something.

Clarke Griffin, who succeeded in getting close to one hundred juvenile delinquents to fall in line under her leadership.

Clarke Griffin, who pioneered early attempts at peace between the Grounders and the Sky People.

Clarke Griffin, who trail blazed alongside the Commander and Grounder leadership the ingenious plans to defeat the radiation-susceptible people of Mt. Weather.

Clarke Griffin, who executed an entire race of people as a tragic consequence of the choice to favor the freedom of her own people.

Clarke Griffin, who led and later fled the same people for whom she sacrificed so much of herself for.

But always, Clarke Griffin, who somehow, some way, survived.

After the bald man, Titus, carried the Commander's chilling corpse dripping black blood out the exit of the room, he locked them inside the chamber. Clarke had remained still by the bedside where she witnessed the Commander end her fight, and after several minutes of gravely staring at the coagulating splotch of dark substance at the surface of the fur sheets, she finally moved, albeit with a sway, to rigidly march herself to the spot right by the window sill, where she has been blankly looking down on Polis ever since.

Murphy is not a complete dick, though.

He heard that talking things through usually helped a person that's been through a traumatic experience, so he tried to lend an ear.

"Yo, wanna try shooting some words my way?"

Clarke stared at him with a hollow look of incredulity.

"Too soon? My bad."

He had also heard humor helped cheer people up, but clearly tried and true methods never work out for him.

Following the awkward attempt at conversation, the two of them stayed silent ever since.

Murphy had taken repose beside the Commander's deathbed, but now he was growing impatient. No word has been sent from Titus since he left the room and locked them in, and he's beginning to feel claustrophobic stuck in a space between a mute heroine and the ghost of a commander.

He would have been okay if Clarke had at least filled the empty vacuum with her sobs and cries of despair, but the girl has been eerily taciturn since the Commander's body was removed.

It only serves to exacerbate Murphy's nerves.

You see, he's no dimwit.

For the short time he was privy to the interactions between Clarke and the Commander—well, only Lexa now, since that title is about to be handed to some sad clown with fortune more miserable than his—even a good-for-nothing like him was forced to look twice at the relationship between those two.

When he looked around and saw no one thinking twice about the developments associated with Clarke and Lexa, though, he almost scoffed at the absurdity of it:

For someone that doesn't give a damn about most things, he's aggravatingly perceptive.

He was almost even thinking he imagined their whole thing, until he saw how desperately Clarke fought to keep Lexa alive—that, and well, the parting kiss was very telling.

This is why, again, Murphy is rather unnerved at Clarke's detached disposition.

It's not that he cares about Clarke's mental state, but it has historically been Clarke that has hauled everyone's asses out of deeper shit before, and now the mastermind in question broods unresponsively out the window.

This hour and a half should have been about planning their next move. How would they escape? Who could help them? What would they do after? Where will the—?

The sound of a horn reverberates in the distance.

"The conclave must be starting."

Murphy snaps his head up. This is the first thing that Clarke has said since "What is that?" at the sighting of the A.I.

Murphy opens his mouth to respond but the doors to the chamber open before he gets the chance to.

Titus strides in donning his potato sack.

"Wanheda," Titus immediately addresses Clarke. "The arrangements have been finalized for you to depart from Polis and return to stand with your people on the other side of the line."

\~∞~/

Clarke's back remains facing Titus.

She takes a breath that initially start out as shaky but eventually firms.

She swiftly spins to lock gazes with him and marches steadily towards him, none of the sway of dismay present in her gait.

"I'm not going anywhere," Clarke announces resolutely.

Titus' nostrils widen as he contains his irritation at Clarke's stubbornness.

"The Commander" —he stops himself abruptly, seeing but unseeing into Clarke's eyes— "Lexa asked that I swear I ensure no harm comes to you, Clarke."

"She asked that you swear you don't ever harm me again, Titus," Clarke corrected stiffly.

Titus stared stonily at Clarke. Murphy silently watched the exchange from his position, now stood beside Lexa's deathbed rather than lying on it.

"I promise this action is only intended with your best interests in mind," Titus responded, trying to placate the blonde's fury.

"You also thought you had Lexa's best interest in mind when you plotted to kill me not that long ago," Clarke retorted bitterly. "We've all seen how that turned out for her."

Titus tensed up, and swallowed in discomfort.

"So forgive me, Titus, if I don't feel safe with you," Clarke bit back, spitting his name out. "Or any plan you concoct, for that matter."

Murphy felt like whistling at the burns, but he felt that was probably inappropriate given the gravity of the situation.

Titus fell back on his original argument. "Once again, I swore—"

"You swore an oath to protect your Commander, for however long your stint as flamekeeper lasted," Clarke countered, unapologetic at her interruption. "And look at what happened to her, under your protection."

Titus finally let the veneer of calm shatter from his person and snapped at the girl, "I only sought to aid her!"

"YOU KILLED HER!"

And the dam breaks.

Titus is left gaping at Clarke, his mouth twitching in an attempt to form a response to the most direct verbal assault Clarke has thrown at him since he stepped foot in the chamber.

"You, Titus… you… killed her," Clarke chokes out in between gasps that seems to stab at the back of her throat as she strains to communicate her words.

And Clarke breaks along with the dam.

Ah, there it is, Murphy thinks with a stoic expression as he watches Clarke struggle to keep her stance firm in the face of Titus' quietly pained expression. The belated reaction.

As Murphy continues to observe the exchange between Titus and Clarke, he thinks that he better understands Clarke's mind-boggling non-reaction following Lexa's death.

The direct connection to the cause of her grief was absent.

When her father died, Clarke blamed Wells; despite their friendship and childhood history, she shunned Wells.

When she found out the truth behind her father's death, Clarke blamed Abby; against her best interests for survival in the ground, she ignored Abby.

When Finn died, she blamed Lexa; coupled with the betrayal, she resented Lexa.

When Mt. Weather was eliminated, she blamed herself; contrary to people celebrating her as a hero, she hated herself.

And now…

Lexa is dead, and she blames Titus.

She didn't say a word to Murphy, or to herself, when it was just the two of them in the room. Clarke had no use to lash out at Murphy. He had only been collateral in a feud that involved three other key players. Clarke had quietly seethed and analyzed the situation over and over in her head before she homed in on a target at whom to shoot with her pent-up anger and mentally accumulating diatribe.

Pun intended, Murphy thought as he laughed at his dark humor. He kept these thoughts to himself, though, because he didn't think the other two occupants of the room would appreciate his remarks.

Titus hangs his head in acknowledgment of Clarke's accusation.

"I recognize your animosity towards me," Titus began with a more subdued timbre of his voice. "However, I will assure you, Clarke, that no one, not even you, can slug me with more shame, sorrow, vitriol, and compunction than I have already punished myself with, and will continue to do so for time unimaginable, for the circumstances of Lexa's death."

Clarke continued to breathe shallowly as she tried to forcefully hold down her sobs. Tears had already started their trek down her reddening cheeks, and she didn't want to crumble any more than she already had in front of the flamekeeper. She tried parting her lips to give a response, but only a strangled cry erupted, which she immediately tried to contain by shutting her mouth and biting her lip, brow furrowing in despair.

"I once told Lexa that she was special," Titus continued, looking away from Clarke to afford her some semblance of privacy in her manifesting grief, and directing his gaze to the window the blonde was absent-mindedly gazing from before Titus walked in. "Mind you, this was right after she told me that she thought you were special." Titus spared a glance at Clarke, who was staring intently at him as she cried, before returning it to the window. "But I meant that she was quite different than other commanders I had served before her. All commanders wanted peace for their people, but war and strife was the only means by which to achieve settlements, and the commanders themselves seemed to thrive on the thrill of battle, the glory of victory, and the adulation and respect of their people."

Clarke's sobs quietened to sniffs, and her tears dropped in frequency.

Titus continued, "Lexa was not that way. Like the commanders before her, she engaged in combat, doled out justice to criminals, punished traitors and defectors, and declared wars on uncooperative factions, but she never seemed to take any form of pleasure in it—not even when her counselors and people approved whole-heartedly of her actions. I felt that Lexa went through the motions in her role as Commander, carrying out her duties in as faithful a fashion to her predecessors, never wanting to stray from their goals, and devoting her life to accomplishing what they had originally set out to do during their lifetimes."

Murphy listened closely, and Clarke had now stopped sniffing, and her tears had gone, leaving behind only wet trails to be dried by the air.

"It wasn't until she met you that I felt her truly take command of her position, saw her willing to deviate from the predetermined path left behind by her predecessors. I had observed Lexa from when she was a young Nightblood, training for the possibility to be Commander, and I knew her to harbor radical thoughts, ideas for ruling our society that no Commander had ever expressed interest in pursuing. When she became leader of our clans, I feared terribly for her term; I felt that her revolutionary thinking would cause her people to think her too eccentric and revolt against her, but she never acted upon her thoughts, and I was thankful for her discretion… but then you appeared, and she began to second-guess all my teachings."

Clarke swallowed thickly as she began to replay all her interactions with Lexa, and exactly how impactful she might have been in the young Grounder leader's short life.

"I believe she found in you a like-minded spirit and, seeing how her unorthodox vision lined up with yours, that gave her the courage to begin enacting the various plans, laws, and orders that you have seen her dole out since your first encounter. I have had a lot of time to ruminate over Lexa's, your, and my actions since the Trikru and the Skaikru made contact, and I have come to the conclusion that while a part of me certainly will always stand fast to the belief that your meeting, however indirectly, precipitated Lexa's demise, it also freed her from her own, self-imposed restraints. I believe I have you to thank for allowing Lexa to lead a Commander term that was honest to her style of leadership, and that imprinted onto our people the idea of a lifestyle that could be much different than we have heretofore been accustomed to."

Clarke pursed her lips as she pondered over Titus' words, nodding slightly to herself. "Lexa was special." She stopped to gather her thoughts before wording her next sentence. "I think… I think she would have eventually become that sort of leader, regardless of my existence. I don't presume to know her, not as well as you probably did, but judging from what she allowed me to see of her, I think she had a will that was more than strong enough to challenge her culture's lifestyle. It was just a matter of biding her time."

Murphy glanced from Clarke to Titus, but the blonde continued speaking.

"I don't care, Titus, if you blame me for speeding up Lexa's death; fair enough, I blame you for causing it," Clarke bluntly spoke. "But neither of us could have protected her in the long run, because her revolutionary mind would have endangered her at some point down the line. Don't tell me I was the reason she suddenly mustered up the courage to break free of the shackles that thwarted her leadership, because if what you tell me is true, she had always been trying to do just that, but your counsel always discouraged her to continue otherwise."

Titus remained silent, hands clasped behind his back as he absorbed Clarke's words.

"If you want to give me all this credit, then maybe I was more of a catalyst that incidentally happened to enter her life and show her that there is always an alternative," Clarke conceded. "But your counsel against my ideas, she juggled them both as best as she could, to make any transition from one to another as smooth as possible. Any form of change will always disgruntle people, so yes, she endangered herself, but you killed her, Titus, and now… now we'll never know how far we could have gone with her vision, will we?"

Titus flexed his jaw, in parts wanting to retaliate and in others accepting the consequences of his actions.

"So… uh, don't mean interrupt this heart-to-heart session we're holding over here, but hasn't that conclave battle royale thing started already?" Murphy piped up from the side.

Clarke turned to glance at Murphy, and then directed her firm gaze back at Titus. She searched him with her eyes. "I want to see Aden."

Titus stood his ground. "The Nightblood novitiates are not to see anyone outside of the fallen commander and those involved in the proceedings of the sacred ritual."

"Add me to the social circle, then," Clarke pushed.

"I reiterate, the sacred ritual does not allow outsiders to—"

"Fine, if you won't take me, I'll go to him myself," Clarke stubbornly announced before side-stepping Titus and walking past him and out the now unlocked exit.

Titus remained rooted in his position, staring forward in disgruntlement at the blonde's audacity to intervene a sacred ritual.

Murphy approached him in his laidback way and, before also walking past him to the door, said, "For a bouncer, you're not doing a very good job, just saying."

\~∞~/

When Lexa had first introduced Aden to Clarke, the blonde had thought the boy to be too scrawny and unkempt to be fit to be a leader. He would need far more time before he was able to carry himself with the same aura of authority that Lexa seemingly effortlessly exuded.

But that time of development had slipped from his hands.

One look at his face and Clarke could tell, as Aiden stiffly gazed at a concrete monument in the Commander's throne room, that the boy's worst nightmares were about to come true.

During the conclave, it was kill or be killed—and the price for winning is a fate far heavier than death.

Clarke had abruptly made her entrance into the quiet throne room of the Commander; everyone was somber, and the Nightbloods were stoic.

She approaches Aden as he prays over a white, silk blanket, and stops when she makes out the shape of a body bulging through the cloth.

"Is that…?" Clarke begins, trailing off when she feels a sting in her heart.

Aden slowly turns to her and carefully nods, then looks back at the body. "Would you like a moment with her?"

A moment?

That was all Clarke could now have with Lexa – one final, singular moment.

What about all the moments that they had yet to experience together? What about the revolutionary future of peace and prosperity that they had promised to their people and to each other? What about all the conversations and interactions that for a long time hung heavy between them and neither acknowledged to voice?

A moment is not enough.

A moment could never be enough to communicate to Lexa all the things she missed the opportunity to tell her when she was alive and receptive. There is no use in talking to Lexa's vessel, because what made her the person that Clarke loved is gone.

The Grounders may have their beliefs, in reincarnation, rebirth, cycles, and past and future lives, but it has been Clarke's experience, and human experience in general, that the dead do not come back.

Lexa has slipped from Clarke in this lifetime, and the crude reality of it is that Clarke must learn to live without her, like she did with her father, Wells, and Finn.

All the things that Clarke needs to say must be told to a Lexa whose spirit has not escaped this world; there is no point in a one-sided delivery to an empty vessel. It may be therapeutic to some, but Clarke never took comfort in such coping mechanisms.

Clarke shakes her head in a sputtered motion, looking down at her feet before raising her eyes to meet Aden's again. "I'll have my moment with her later."

Aden had noted Clarke's hesitation to approach Lexa's remains. "Is it too painful?"

Clarke blinked, then shook her head again. "No, it's just… too hollow."

Aden pursed his lips and nodded stiffly. He paused before remarking, "You loved her."

Clarke swallowed thickly and felt her eyes glisten with moisture. She blinked repeatedly in order to vanquish the forming tears. "Yes."

Aden nodded again.

Clarke felt uncomfortable having a child looking at her with stoic sympathy. She felt now was a good time to broach another pressing matter, particularly if it would steer the attention away from her currently vulnerable state.

"Aden, I have to know, do you still plan to honor that pledge you made to the 13th Clan?" Clarke questioned urgently.

"Of course," Aden responded immediately.

Clarke nodded, glancing back down at the floor as she pondered over the next important step—how to ensure Aden wins.

"We all will," Aden continued.

Clarke glanced up, startled. "What?"

"Heda Lexa made us promise," Aden elaborated, looking to his fellow Nightbloods. "She made us swear loyalty to the 13th clan should any of us become the next Heda."

All the Nightblood children stood when Aden finished his announcement, and they gazed at Clarke with solemn determination in their pledge.

Oh, God, this is…

Too much.

She had made them promise to stand by Clarke and her people, no matter what happened to her.

Brave, wise, strong, and compassionate Lexa.

That poor, young warrior was so undeserving of her fate.

You deserved so much better…

Clarke panned her vision left and right, observing the young Nightbloods as they tried to look confident and self-important, despite knowing only one of them would come out alive from the conclave.

Clarke looked back to Lexa's body, then at the children. "Thank you."

At that moment, the doors swung open aggressively, hitting the walls of the Commander's throne room with a loud, reverberating smack.

Ontari had arrived.

Trailing behind her was King Roan, and the Azgeda people.

Ontari instantly locked eyes with Clarke.

"You!" she hissed with contempt, and then launched herself at the ambassador.

She managed to throw and pin Clarke to the ground before the Nightbloods and King Roan forced her to release the blonde.

"Stand down, Ontari!" King Roan ordered. "If you are to become the next commander, you must exercise restraint."

"That bitch tried to kill your mother!"

Roan and Clarke exchanged a charged look.

"My mother wronged a great amount of people," King Roan spoke firmly. "That would have been far from the first attempt on her life. You would know, Ontari, it is why she had made you her bodyguard."

Ontari huffed, though it sounded more like a contained growl.

"Ontari!" Titus called, attracting the oldest Nightblood's attention.

How long had Titus been there?

But more importantly…

Sheesh, thanks for the help, Clarke thought sourly, would have appreciated it more when she body-slammed me to the floor.

"King Roan is correct," Titus continued authoritatively. "You must restrain yourself. You may showcase your battle skills once we enter the combat phase of the conclave."

Ontari seemed to tremble with barely contained rage before she shook off King Roan's hold and stomped over to Clarke. She glared at her and sneered, "I've been training my whole life for this moment. What's a couple more hours? Once I become Heda, I will wipe our land free of your kind. Starting with you."

On that note, she spun on her heel and marched out of the Commander's throne room.

"Ontari, stay where you are, you need to be anointed like the rest of the Nightbloods before proceeding with the conclave," Titus shouted after the girl as he crossed out of the room.

Clarke gulped, clenching her fists. She glanced around and noticed people were gauging her state of mind.

Bottle it up and don't let them see you flinch.

She was the only link that Skaikru had with the Grounders, and they couldn't see her wavering and lose their respect for her. She locked eyes with Murphy in the crowd, who at some point must have walked in during the scuffle.

She looked back at the Nightbloods, and noticed that they were still standing firm in what must be a conclave ritualistic formation, but she could see slight tremors coursing through their small, light frames. Even Aden, the oldest in the group, couldn't be more than 12 or 13 years old.

Not to be xenophobic, but what kind of savage culture considers putting children in a battle to the death a rite of passage? Clarke thinks in genuine incredulity.

'You think our ways are harsh, but it's how we survive.'

'You were right, Clarke… life is about more than just surviving.'

What would Lexa think of this now? Would she eventually have become revolutionary enough to challenge the conclave itself and the bloody path to ascension as Commander?

She noticed subtle movement in the crowd. She saw Murphy cocking his head sideways, signaling the door.

'Let's get out of here.'

Clarke gave one final glance to the Nightblood children, nodding her head in acknowledgment of their bravery and sacrifice.

So long as Ontari was a contender, none of them were anything but walking dead.

\~∞~/

"We have to leave, Clarke," Murphy said as they strode through the hallways. "Now."

"We can't leave," Clarke disagreed fervently. "Ontari will kill all those kids, become Commander, and lay waste to Arkadia. We don't accomplish anything by running away."

"She said she'd get started with you," Murphy reminded. "Don't make it easier on her by being a sitting duck."

"Okay, so what's your suggestion? We go back to Arkadia and then what? Warn them? Okay, say we do that, but after that, what? Prepare for battle? They have twelve clans, Murphy, and one clan alone probably has three times the number of people Arkadia does," Clarke argued. "We would just be delaying the inevitable. So, no, slipping away doesn't solve our problem."

Murphy paused in his speech for a moment. That really was going to be his suggestion, but Clarke just dissected it until nothing but a useless skeleton of a failed plan remained behind. They arrived at the Commander's chambers and carried on with their conversation within it.

"Alright, then, Great Wanheda," Murphy said in a lazy, sarcastic drawl. "What's your idea?"

Clarke stared meaningfully at Murphy. "We have to eradicate the problem at the root."

Murphy waited, lifting his eyebrow with interest. "So… kill Ontari?"

"No."

"Then… kill Titus?"

"… No."

"Okay, then, kill the ambassadors?"

"No! We're not killing anyone, Murphy!"

"C'mon, we don't have time to play 21 questions here, what's the right answer?"

"We get rid of the flame," Clarke states, gazing at the boy solemnly.

"… Right, well, while it may be a nice prank to cause a mass blackout in the Grounder capitol, I don't think blowing out candles is what Lexa would have wanted us to do to preserve her legacy," Murphy responded blandly.

"She might have thrown a fit, actually," Clarke muttered to herself.

"What?"

"Stay focused," Clarke said, both to Murphy and herself. "I meant the A.I. We need to find it, grab it, and take it far away from here. The Grounders respect their rituals, and if the A.I. is missing, I don't think they would officially instate Ontari as the new Commander."

"And what would we do then?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, once we have the chip, will we just be out on the run for the rest of our lives?" Murphy elaborated. "You know they'll send hunters after us. Their kind are relentless. If they really are as clingy to their religion as you say, then you can count on it that they'll never stop chasing us. I don't want any part of that."

"I haven't had time to think that far ahead," Clarke admitted grudgingly. "I only just pieced this plan together in the hallway, not much time to hash a detailed plan during our 5-minute trek from the throne room to the bedroom, don't you think?"

Murphy folded his arms and sighed, looking around the room, his eyes locking on a particular corner of the room. "Well, either way, while your plan could have turned out great, it's already flopped."

Clarke furrowed her brow. "Why do you say that?"

Murphy points to aforementioned corner of the room. "Because he overheard everything."

Clarke snaps her head to the side and notices Titus hidden in a crevice of the room, servicing the flame.

Ugh, I swear, this could only happen to me, Clarke thought miserably, mentally slapping herself. I must've gotten too caught up in the conversation; I didn't even see him there.

"So, how much didja hear?" Murphy questioned, flicking his head in Titus' direction in acknowledgment of his presence.

"Starting from the line of thought to blow out candles, I believe," Titus coolly informed, continuing to dip the chip into a basin containing pristine water.

"Just so we're clear, that was Murphy's misinterpretation of my idea," Clarke defended, and Murphy raised a bored eyebrow at her.

"She might have rather enjoyed it, actually," Titus murmured to himself, pulling out the chip and drying it with a clean rag.

"What?"

Titus finally turned to meet the eyes of the other two occupants in the room. "The arrangements I prepared for your departure are still awaiting you, Clarke. I would suggest you heed your companion's sound counsel and take off from Polis while there is still time."

"Don't try to fling this 'flee while you're free' nonsense at me again," Clarke confronted, taking heavy and intimidating steps towards Titus. "You're not actually going to allow Ontari a chance to fight for the position of Commander, are you?"

"She is a Nightblood," Titus stated firmly. "It is her birthright."

"This is insane." Clarke shook her head in grave disbelief. "There are no candidates to make a decent Commander in the whole lot of Nightbloods we have put up for this bloodbath. Those children are too young to be leading anybody, and Ontari will only bring chaos and violence to the coalition. The Grounders are stuck between having a scared kid or a psychopathic teenager as their ruler."

"Then our people can only hope that the outcome favors the lesser of the two evils," Titus simply stated, pulling the chip out and letting it air dry as he shakes it, almost daringly, in front of the blonde ambassador.

Clarke felt like tearing her braids apart in frustration. Seriously, she will shower if someone makes this guy see some sense.

Murphy sighed in subdued exasperation. "Clarke, we're being given an easy out right now. Let's take it. That chip's nothing but bad news, anyhow. Jaha had something similar to that. Tried to force feed it to me, actually, but I wasn't about to swallow some foreign piece of kush, so I tossed it along with the rest of his stock into a lake before I hightailed it out of there."

"Wait, you did what?" Clarke inquired, brow furrowing and turning to face Murphy.

"I just wasn't about that life, y'know?" Murphy explained with a shrug.

"No, not that, you said you hightailed it out of there," Clarke said. "Where is there exactly?"

"The City of Light," Murphy replied, in just as flat a tone as ever. "What? Did I never tell you about it?"

Clarke pursed her lips and shook her head, humming. "Hmm, no, nope, you conveniently never mentioned anything about it."

"I forget who I talk to about what anymore," Murphy says with a shrug. "Getting beaten in a crypt by a bald man doesn't help jog my memory."

"Be serious for a minute here," Clarke chastised, approaching Murphy. "What does the Commander's chip have to do with this City of Light?"

Murphy bit the side of his cheek before replying, "Look, all I know is that Jaha was handing out some huge-ass capsules— which, how does anyone get that down their throat? —to the party that was traveling back to Arkadia with us, but everyone he fed that to went loopy, started spouting spiritual drivel, and eventually got killed somehow, but Jaha was all, 'There is no death in the city of light, Bruh.' Okay, he didn't say the Bruh part, but paraphrasing is supposed to capture the underlying feeling. Anyway, I didn't want none, so I left him, his happy pills, and the woman that looked like she belonged more in the Red Light District rather than the City of Light."

"Woman? What woman?" Clarke further questioned, trying to keep the boy on track.

"Becca"—Murphy frowned—"No, A.L.I.E was her name. She was this intelligent hologram that we met at the City of Light"— Murphy scrunched his brow and his face darkened— "She was the one that launched the missiles that ended the world."

Clarke's eyes widened; she blinked repeatedly, mouth agape, trying to formulate her next question, but then—

"Becca," Titus voice boomed from behind Clarke. "Where did you learn that name?"

"It was the name of a woman in the recording I watched while stuck in a bunker in the City of Light," Murphy responded, heading over to Lexa's bed and plopping down on it before widening his legs and leaning forward. "Apparently, A.L.I.E was created by this Becca woman."

Titus exhaled noisily, looking down at the floor in contemplation. "Becca was the name of the first Commander. Only the chosen Commanders and select leadership are privy to the knowledge of the Commander lineage, including the names of the Commanders of yore."

Clarke glanced backwards at Titus, then back at the unexpectedly informed delinquent. "Murphy, you have to tell us everything you know."

"That's all I know," Murphy said, sounding aggravated. "Weren't you listening? I left before I got any deeper into that mess."

Clarke eyes him searchingly, alert to any signs of dishonesty in his countenance. She found none.

She spun to face Titus. "We're taking that chip."

Titus stared solemnly at Clarke. "You are not the flamekeeper, Clarke."

"Now's not the time, Titus," Clarke firmly spoke, projecting her voice. "That chip… that… that thing you're holding is somehow linked to the chain of events that managed to obliterate an entire planet and the majority of civilization. There's no way in hell I'm letting that fall into Ontari's vicious hands."

"Technically, the nape of her neck—"

"Murphy!"

The boy raised his hands in casual surrender.

Titus stared defiantly at Clarke. "Ontari is not guara—"

"Don't even try to pull something you hardly believe over me," Clarke warned. "You know Ontari is going to win this thing, and this whole society is going to fall apart once she does. If we take the flame, we at least delay the selection of the Commander, and allow those Nightblood children to live to see another day while we try and figure out what to do about this mess."

Titus fit the A.I. snugly into the cloth he was using to dry it with, and folded the chip carefully within the cloth. He folded his hands behind him. "Is this your resolution, Clarke of the Sky People? There is nothing I can do to convince you to do otherwise?"

"Not if we want to see Lexa's vision realized," Clarke spoke defiantly, clenching her fists and standing her ground.

Titus nodded, a light bobbing of the head.

He lifted his gaze to meet Clarke's determined one.

"Then it's time to set you on your way," Titus finally stated.

The doors to the entrance of the chamber slammed open and in strode two Grounder guards.

They forcibly grabbed a hold of both Clarke and Murphy, expertly tying their hands together in steel chains.

"W-what are you doing!?" Clarke exclaimed, alarmed. "Let. Me. GO! You can't do this to us, Titus! You're deranged if you actually let Ontari become Commander—Oomphh!"

One of the guards punched Clarke in stomach, and the blonde almost lost consciousness from the pain of the impact.

Clarke stopped flailing, too sore to move without vomiting. She could make out from her blurry vision, glistening with tears of pain and frustration, that Murphy was trying to fight off the guard securing him.

Clarke faded in and out of consciousness as she was dragged through the hallways of Lexa's tower, right past the crowd of Nightbloods, Ontari included, and ambassadors that were gathering to move on to the next phase of the ritualistic Conclave. Her head hung in aggravation and humiliation at having suffered the first defeat.

After a couple of more near blackouts, she found herself unceremoniously tossed into a wooden floor, along with Murphy.

Clarke coughed and spat out some blood, having bust her lip at some point in the struggle to wrangle herself free from the hold of the guard, but she couldn't recall when in between blackouts.

"You can… knock me out… all you want, Titus," slurred Clarke, making sure to spit out the man's name with disdain. "But I… I won't everrr… let Ontari… become Commander…"

Clarke grimaced with the effort it took to formulate that sentence, what with trying to endure the excruciating pain in her abdomen.

"Neither will I."

Clarke felt her limp hand lifted, flipped palm up, and then the touch of something solid hit her skin.

She blearily opened her eyes and saw the cloth with a bulge that most certainly indicated the presence of the chip on her hand.

She snapped her head upwards to meet Titus' eyes, shock overriding the pain.

Titus touched his fingertips to her forehead, let them rest there for a few moments while he concentrated on her.

Clarke blinked repeatedly, and opened her mouth to speak. "What—?"

"There were 9 novitiates at the last conclave," Titus began hurriedly. "One of them, Luna, fled her responsibilities before the ritual began, and as a consequence of her cowardice, was banished from our land. The final time I heard of her, she had become the leader of the boat people. They do not live on land; they live in the vast oceans, and due to their nomadic ways, no one can be sure of their location."

Clarke continue to stare at Titus in disbelief.

Titus turned his head back, checking behind him, but the guards, seemingly accomplices, were keeping watch for him. Titus turned back to her.

"Find Luna, tell her what's happened, convince her to return and become the leader I know she can be—that she currently is. Once you do that, take her with you to the City of Light, discover the truth behind the Commander's lineage, the roots of our folklore. If the Commander's spirit is truly a destructive entity, our people deserve to know what it is that we have worshipped and prayed to for as long as we have lived, as well as prevent any disaster that may result from its existence."

Clarke knew she didn't have time to be puzzled; Titus was clearly acting out of line, and time was running short.

"How do I find the City of Light?" she asked.

Titus side-eyes Murphy. "The boy was there once; he can find his way back."

Murphy was groaning from his position lying sideways on the wooden floor. "That whole journey was hit and miss. And even if I did know, what makes you think I'll help? I want no part of this."

"It is to my understanding that your own people have rejected you," Titus states coldly. "What leads you to think that they would be any more receptive to your return at this time?"

Murphy glared at Titus, then sighed.

"You got yourself a GPS, Clarke," Murphy muttered, hitting his head lightly back on the wooden floor. "I've no clue where we're going but… searching for satellites…"

"What will you do?" Clarke asked Titus.

"I will delay the conclave for as long as I can," Titus explained. "I will no doubt be discovered to be missing the flame at some point down the line, but my forced removal of the two of you should hopefully spare me from suspicion for a good while as you both make your way out of Polis."

Clarke looked around her surroundings, all wooden floor and walls. "Where are we?"

"You are on The Abigail," Titus stated. "It is the ship that the first commander utilized to explore the oceans during her time as ruler. No Commander has used it since; it is considered a sacred monument."

"My mom's name…" Clarke murmured, then chuckled weakly to herself. "Well, that… should lend some guidance…"

"We're out of time," Titus declared, standing up and getting ready to close the pull-down door on Clarke. "Do your job, Flamekeeper."

And with that, Titus slammed the door down, shrouding Clarke and Murphy in darkness, and embarking them on a search for Luna and the City of Light, on board The Abigail.