Ooh, baby girl, you know we're gonna be legends

I'm the king and you're the queen and we will stumble through heaven

If there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes

I know you wanna go to heaven but you're human tonight

-Halsey, "Young God"

Raven follows Wells towards a street lined with handsome, yet modest, homes. She walks quickly with her head down, recognizing this must be a wealthier Head neighborhood. But Wells walks with the confidence of being the Chancellor's son, and if Octavia's nervous, it doesn't show. Soon, they turn to a grove of bushes and slip through, walking behind a long line of hedges at the back of several properties.

After a minute, Wells stops. He sticks his hand through the hedges and fumbles along the fence on the other side, feeling around… He sighs in relief and Raven sees a panel of fencing crack open: the panel's had one side of nails removed. Someone prepared for this.

Wells slips through first, then beckons for Raven. Octavia follows last. They enter a small backyard, messy with overgrown bushes and trees. Whoever lives here clearly doesn't spend a lot of time outside. Thankfully, the wild branches overhead seem to cover their path to the back door from any prying neighbor eyes. Raven follows Wells and holds her breath while he knocks in a pattern.

The door opens and a middle-aged man stands on the other side, with gray-streaked curly hair and wrinkles around his friendly eyes. He's cautious, but not threatening. Raven recognizes him from guest lectures back in school – on engineering, one of her favorite subjects.

Jacapo Sinclair addresses Wells, speaking quietly. "Did you attract any attention?"

"I don't think so," Wells says. "We were careful."

Sinclair nods once. His eyes finally land on Raven. She's not surprised he remembers her fondly – she knew her work impressed him – but she's honored he'd be willing to risk himself to help her.

"Nice mess you've gotten yourself into, Reyes." His words are laced with his dry humor. "Let's get you inside."

Clarke sleeps too late. She feels it immediately when her eyes open to slivers of daylight on the other side of the ferns shielding the hollow. It's bright enough to let her know they're several hours into the morning.

She rouses herself quickly, sitting up and feeling a heavy arm slide off her stomach – Bellamy's. Bellamy. She flips around to look at him. With the better light, she notices the scratches and scrapes along his freckled face – she likely wears some herself after their dash through the forest last night. His face is calm for a moment, and she knows it's cliché, but she can't help but think he looks younger like this. It's silly.

Trying to remain analytical, Clarke focuses on the color of his cheeks – not frighteningly pale or flushed with heat – and the absence of sweat: no clear signs of a fever. She glances down at the bandage wrapped to his left flank. It's stained dark red, but thankfully not soaked through. Still, she'll have to change it, and fairly soon.

Gently, she nudges his shoulder. "Bellamy."

He's awake in an instant, his dark eyes blinking rapidly to clear the sleep. She hadn't noticed how long his lashes were before; they were the kind a girl might envy. Dear god, keep it together. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got shot last night," he answers groggily.

"You were grazed," she clarifies. Pressing the back of her hand to his forehead, she feels for a fever. "Do you feel warm? Any chills?"

"Nothing unusual after sleeping out here." He is right – last night, sleeping outside in wet clothing was miserable. After several hours, Clarke's clothes are finally starting to dry, but in a gross, damp way that's still uncomfortable. She'd love to get out in the sun to speed it up, but she's not sure they can risk going out yet. And there's still Bellamy's injury to contend with.

Carefully, she unwinds the bandage around his torso, trying to keep her attention trained on the wound and not his muscled abdomen. She really shouldn't have slept next to him like that, curled intimately against him, since now it's got her mind all muddled. Peeling back the gauze, she sees a deep red stain and puckered skin under her stitches, but no signs of infection. They're not in the clear yet, but it could be a lot worse.

"No fever, no infection," she says, hope creeping into her voice. "I'll replace the gauze and we'll keep checking it throughout the day. How does it feel to move?"

He shifts onto his back, and she can see the pain splashed across his face. "Not great," he says with a grimace.

"Then rest for now, and we'll try sitting up later. I don't want to risk you ripping a stitch." He makes a face. "Yes?"

"I'm a sitting duck here. I can't run or hide if I can't even move."

"You can stay hidden if you don't move." She tears a new square of gauze to replace the stained one. "We'll wait until you're strong enough to walk, then we keep going."

"Clarke –"

She can hear it in his tone of voice, so she cuts him off. "I'm not leaving you behind. I'd appreciate the extra set of eyes and ears when we're on the move again, and I don't mind waiting for you. There's no rush now that we're outside."

He grumbles something about slowing her down, but she's not interested in listening. Instead, she focuses on cleaning the wound – using more of her precious disinfecting alcohol in these crucial days of heightened infection risk – then padding it with fresh gauze and rewrapping the bandage around his torso. It's impossible to ignore his body now. In the better light, she sees his skin here is just as tanned as the rest of him, deep and natural, but less freckled. Instead, there's the lightest dusting of dark hair extending below his navel and traveling downwards, towards…

Clarke tugs too tightly on the bandage, jostling the gauze, and Bellamy flinches. "Sorry," she mutters quickly, embarrassed.

She doesn't want to leave him, but she's got to get out of this little hollow.

"You okay?" he asks.

She nods, then says, "We'll need more water, since there's two of us and your body is healing. I should go look."

His hand reaches for her arm, grabbing lightly, weakly. "By yourself?"

"I don't have a choice. Moving you right now would be flat-out dangerous. We'll run out of water sooner between the both of us, and dehydration won't help you heal."

Thankfully, he doesn't fight her on this, because he must see that there's no other good option. Instead he says, "Do you have anything to defend yourself with? Just in case."

Clarke returns to her pack and pulls out the best weapon she could come up with: a kitchen knife stolen from home. It's not very large, but it's the biggest one Arkadia issues domestically, and it'll have to do. Wrapped in a makeshift plastic sheath, it fits tightly inside her boot. "Good enough, I suppose."

"I should've kept the gun," Bellamy mutters, and Clarke notices how his face has crumbled back into that distant stare and self-loathing shadow. "They must've retrieved his body by now, right?"

"I'm sure they have," Clarke says quietly.

"I'm officially a murderer."

"You're a survivor. There's a difference." There has to be.

His eyes finally meet hers, and they're a swirl of pain and exhaustion and regret. But he smiles dryly, unconvincingly, and says, "No turning back now, right?"

She nods. "I'll be as quick as I can. I won't go near the reservoir, and I'll try to stay close." With the hills nearby and mountains not far off, she's guessing there must be some runoff streams cutting through the lush forest. "If something's wrong, if you need me…" Her voice drifts off. She doesn't know what he should do.

He answers darkly, "I guess you'll hear me either way."

Clarke passes him the canteen, letting him drink before she finishes off the rest. Then, stretching her legs and peering through the ferns, she checks for any signs of guards or otherwise before slipping out from the hollow. Her back aches as she stands up, but at least she stands alone at the bottom of the ravine. Sunlight filters in through the leafy canopy overhead, and beyond she sees a blue sky. For the middle of the day, the forest is calm. There's the distant chirp of birds and squirrels running along branches, but no signs of danger. Yet.

The coast clear, Clarke scans the ravine's walls for the best way out, before deciding against it and instead following the curve of the ditch deeper into the forest. It's just one more barrier protecting her from those guards on bikes. She moves carefully through the undergrowth, trying to place her footsteps on quiet ground. Every twenty steps or so, she pauses and listens.

It's still dawning on her that she's outside. Even in the forested edges of Arkadia, where she used to climb trees with her friends along the wall, it never felt as wild and free as this. She's fearful, yes – she's in a wide world full of unknowns, and they're likely still being hunted – but there's something undeniably exciting about it all.

Clarke pauses again, listening to the soft fuzzy silence of the forest – a "silence" blurred with the rustling of leaves in the breeze, one bird calling to another, some distant creature scurrying down a trunk and bugs flitting around. But another sound: a hushed gurgling of running water.

She pinpoints it on her left and crosses to the ravine wall. It's a little shallower here, with wide stones and protruding roots that should work well enough for footholds. Taking a minute, Clarke mentally captures her surroundings, noting the trees and rocks and memorable features. She needs to remember her way back. Then, she climbs.

At the top, she lands in a thick patch of bushes and shoulders her way through, still following that water sound. It's only been a few minutes when she spots the jagged line of rocks and dirt, with a streak of trickling silver water slicing through.

Trying to balance her eagerness with caution, Clarke skids down to the stream. She stumbles once and her hand shoots out to the nearest bush to grab. Instead, she feels a sting and stifles a yelp. Pulling back, Clarke sees the purplish stain of… a squashed berry. A blackberry.

Sure enough, the bush is full of those onyx berries, hanging heavy on the branches. Clarke's stomach groans at the sight. She hasn't touched any of the rations she packed yet, knowing she'd have to share them with Bellamy and hope they could stretch. Now, she doesn't waste any time in picking blackberries and stuffing them into her jacket pockets. Hungry, she pops one in her mouth. Thankfully, they're safe to eat.

Pockets full, Clarke uncaps the canteen and bends by the stream. The water runs clear over the smooth stones of the creekbed, and she fills her canteen until it overflows. She takes a swig. It's not the filtered water of Arkadia, but it's clean and cold and there's plenty of it. Clarke drinks half the canteen before refilling it again for Bellamy. She splashes some of the water onto her face and neck, then scrubs her hands thoroughly. There's dried blood still under her fingers – Bellamy's. She's so grateful last night is over with.

Clarke turns to leave with her canteen and berries when she spots a familiar dusting of yellow – dandelions growing in a little clearing several paces away. Her mind flips back to school, to some dense reading about plants and different special uses. Dandelions are edible. Feeling especially lucky, she doesn't return to the ravine until she's pulled up two large handfuls of the flowers.

She wants to venture further, to gain some sense of their current location, but she'd promised Bellamy. She moves quickly across the ravine bottom, steps light and eyes roving. She hears something moving through a bush at the top of the wall and her blood freezes, but it's only a deer. It disappears before Clarke can even get a good look at it.

Soon, the tree trunks grow massively wide and things look familiar. Clarke spots the enormous fern at the base of their tree and brushes aside the leaves. "Bellamy?"

"Here," is his muffled answer from inside the hollow. As she climbs inside, she almost crashes right into him. Her eyes need a minute to adjust to the shadow, but Bellamy has shifted closer to the mouth of the hollow, leaning on his side against the interior.

"I thought we said no moving?" She notices his clenched fists and how he's bleeding through the bandage she just applied. "Bellamy!"

"I heard something moving and I wanted to get a better look," he says, clearly in pain but not wanting it to show.

"Well, brilliant decision. You've clearly ripped a stitch." Upon closer examination, she realizes he's ripped two. She shrugs off her jacket, pockets still full, and gently sits it in a corner with the canteen. Then it's back to sewing him up again. This time, at least they're both used to it.

Reapplying a new bandage, Clarke tries to keep the growl out of her voice as she says, "We're burning through this gauze too quickly. If we run out, then we're cutting up your shirt first."

"If you insist, princess." There's something mocking in his voice – he's really joking with her right now? – and she wonders if he noticed her staring at his body earlier. She keeps silent. After a moment, he asks, "Did you find water?"

She nods, "There's a little creek not far from here. The water seems clean and safe to drink. Plus I found a bunch of blackberries and dandelions, so more food." They could save the preserved rations for now.

"A forest feast." Bellamy eases back against the side of the hollow, testing the new stitches as Clarke thoroughly wipes her hands clean. She notices a little more of the old Bellamy back in his face, some more clarity in his eyes. Clarke fetches her jacket and dumps the berries and dandelions out on the lining.

Neither cares about looking too hungry as they dig in, popping berries like they haven't eaten in weeks. Even the dandelions, though they're unusual to eat and have an unfamiliar taste, are ripe enough to still be edible. Clarke chews on a dandelion leaf, adjusting to the texture, and watches Bellamy eat berries one at a time, making them last. His fingertips quickly stain pink.

"What's your favorite food?" She finally asks, not sure why she says it.

He looks up. "Odd question."

"I'm in a questions kind of mood."

He thinks for a moment. "I don't know if I have a favorite." He continues, expecting her to protest. "I know, it's lame. But… since we've lived in Arkadia – and since before then, really – we haven't exactly been able to be picky about food. Rations were always stretched at home." He pauses, lost in thought, then says, "Does coffee count?"

"That's not exactly food." Clarke would know, she'd drink several cups a day working long hours at the clinic.

"Then maybe…" His voice trails off, and she realizes he's caught in some memory. "Before Arkadia, when Mom and Octavia and I were outside and roaming, we lived for a few weeks at this small settlement off a river. There was an old woman there who'd pieced together a real oven for herself, something made from scraps but it worked fine. She made this bread – I don't know where she even found the ingredients for it, real ingredients like flour and sugar. But it was sweet and fluffy and warm, and when I was little, I thought it was the best thing in the world. So maybe that."

Clarke gets the sense there's more to the story. "Did you stay with her long?"

"No." His face falls. "There was a raid in the middle of the night, and they came to loot the settlement and destroy what they didn't want. I don't remember much – Mom got the three of us out and we ran hard – but I remember they didn't want the oven, or the old woman."

"I'm sorry."

But he shakes it off. "My turn: how did you learn to swim?"

The corner of her mouth pulls up in a little grin. "So we're playing a game now?"

"I suppose. Answer the question."

"My dad taught me, actually. He thought it was very important that I learned at some point, so we went to an old pond out along the outskirts of the agricultural district. A friend of his owned the property. We spent a whole afternoon together, in the summer, and then we went back twice after so I could practice." The thought makes her smile, a bit sadly. "How about you?"

"Similar story – it was Mom. But more out of self-preservation than anything, it was well before Arkadia."

"Do you remember a lot about your life before Arkadia?"

"Honestly, a lot of it has grown fuzzier the older I get. Some parts I'd gladly forget, but there are others – good memories, even just a few – that I don't want to lose." There's a guarded finality in his voice. "My turn—"

"Wait, that wasn't a real question, that didn't count!"

"Of course it counts. You took your turn."

Clarke throws a berry at him, but he catches it. It stains his palm as it squashes between his fingers. "Attacking an invalid. Real nice, Clarke."

"Just ask your question."

"Why did you kiss me at the administration center?"

Clarke's stomach drops to her feet. Something's shifted in his teasing face. His eyes feel too intense on her face. She tries to keep her expression blank, but her mouth squirms. What the hell is he doing?

"You know perfectly well."

"Yeah, but I want to hear you say it."

This is it. This is that fine line they keep dancing around, somehow more than friends but always coming up just short of something else. Suddenly, Clarke's interactions with Bellamy burn in her mind like a branding iron. Their shared whispers and the intimacy of his gaze. The night spent shivering in the barn. The ferocity with which he fought Emerson, then that naked fear in his eyes during the fallout. Their emotions too plain to see, too out in the open.

The way she'd been so scared of losing him last night, and the way she fell asleep curled into him, his arm both guarding her and pulling her closer.

Clarke wants to let it all tumble out of her mouth right then and there. But admitting he means something to her, something more, means she has just so much more to lose. Now's not the time. Not when there's still so much risk, so much danger.

"As an excuse." Her voice is small and strained. "So the guard wouldn't question why we were there."

He swallows. "That's all there is to it, then."

She sits perfectly still, but she can't breathe. It's like they're both hanging on some precipice, waiting for something to break. Waiting for the fall.

"Yes," she lies.

She searches his face for some reaction, but he only reaches for the water canteen and takes a long swig. By the time he sets it back down, his face is unreadable. A handsome stone mask.

"Your turn."

"Why did you ask about the kiss?" She nearly cuts him off with her question.

There aren't many places to look inside their hollow, so Bellamy's gaze settles on a patch of bark somewhere to the side before it rolls back around to Clarke. His words are nonchalant. "To make sure we're both on the same page."

"And are we?"

He cracks a smirk. "Two questions back to back."

"Oh shut up," she groans at him. She's about to chew him out more when she notices he's staring at her leg. There's an enormous beetle crawling up it, black and glossy. Clarke flails in surprise, kicking up dirt and old bark and sending the beetle flying into the air.

Bellamy just laughs at her.

They spend most of the day in the hollow, and every so often Clarke rechecks Bellamy's wound for any bad signs. He's careful with his torso, making sure he doesn't stretch or shift the wrong way and tear something open again. He wants them to get moving as soon as possible, but honestly he's not sure he could stand up yet, let alone walk.

Not that Clarke would let him. She frets over him with the experience of a doctor and the concern of a close friend. It's a combination that's a bit smothering, but Bellamy won't lie to himself – he likes being at the center of her attention.

It's that little selfish part of him that asked about the kiss. There is still that lingering thought – that teasing, torturous thought – that maybe the kiss was more than just a distraction for her. That maybe, he is just as important to her as she's become to him.

There are moments when he notices her watching him, and not necessarily in an assessing-an-invalid way. There isn't much to do in their hollow, besides sleep or talk quietly. He doesn't mind getting as much rest as possible, and it is nice talking to Clarke. They review Becca's journal, revisiting the coded parts for any chance at unlocking something new. It is still as dizzyingly confusing as before. Clarke does, however, point out some of the margin drawings, little scribbled sketches and doodles that bordered on abstract. Her trained eye sees things he missed.

"No, look," she'd say, rotating the journal sideways. "I think she's marking a weird tree. Notice the hatching along here, it almost looks like tree bark."

They comb the handwritten scrawl and drawings, Clarke folding over the pages with potential "clues" that stand out. It's not a lot, but at least he can feel like they're making some progress while he keeps them stuck in hiding. For the hundredth time, he mentally curses himself for getting shot.

They finish off the berries and dandelions, and – understanding they need to consume some protein – Clarke digs into her rations stash and pulls out two strips of dried jerky meat. It's tough and tastes like smoky leather, but it's protein.

Eventually they return to the question game, this time keeping things lighter. Bellamy understands it – they'll keep dancing around it as long as they can. Maybe now's not the time to address any deep feelings.

They bounce off questions of favorite colors, hobbies, types of days and weird habits. Bit by bit, a clearer picture of Clarke comes into view. A Clarke that's more than the stone-cold Head he once took her to be – a Clarke who loves sage green, thick sweaters, and sitting by a window on a rainy day. And art: Clarke loves art. Almost looking embarrassed, she digs to the bottom of her pack and pulls out a slender tin with eight colored pencils, a luxury in Arkadia and her prized possession. He's completely intrigued by this side of her.

It shines through even more when he asks her, point blank, "If you could be anything, what would you be?"

She sits hugging her knees, leaning against the bark. Her hair, now dry, hangs in loose waves around her face, catching the light slipping between the ferns and shining gold. "I think the 'right' answer would be a full-time clinic doctor, since that's practically what I've been raised to want. But honestly, if I could make a living off of it… I think I would be an artist. I don't know how I'd do it, but the thought of waking up every morning to make something new just sounds exciting." She smiles to herself, a little tentative grin. "I suppose now that I'm beyond Arkadia, maybe somehow I can actually find a way."

He doesn't care if it's blind hope on her face, because it's a good look for her.

"How about you?" she asks back. "What would you be?"

Bellamy answers without much thought. "Safe. Happy." Not alone.

She gives him a look, "That's not what I mean. Don't give a lame answer."

"There's nothing lame about that, Clarke."

"I guess so." She watches the ferns gently sway in the breeze, shifting the shadows cast into the hollow. "Maybe that's all we can hope for, wherever we're going. If we find Kane. Just hope that we'll be safe, and then maybe later, we can be happy."

He tries not to think about the people he's leaving behind, and he can guess she's doing the same.

They spend another night in that hollow, and Bellamy forces Clarke to try and sleep. He's been resting all day, he tells her, so he's more than capable to take the first watch. It's no use trying to argue with him about this, even though she's worried he'll just let her sleep through the whole night and never wake her to switch.

By now, he's propped himself up to sit against the inside of the hollow, and his stitches seem to be holding. It gives him a better view of the entrance for watching. Clarke scoots along the dirt ground until she's sidled up next to him, leaning against the old wood. Her head comes up several inches below his, and she's reminded of how much taller he is than her – something she's basically forgotten during their time crouched and sitting beneath the tree.

There's more color in his face now, and the inside of his lips are stained dark red from the blackberries they'd shared.

"Try to sleep a little," he says in a quiet voice, everything around her softened by the darkness outside. She figures if the scouting guards haven't found them by now, then they'll be safe for the night until they start moving again. With any luck, that will be in the morning.

Clarke leans back, eyes closed and exhaling. In an instant, she feels so heavy. It was another day of nerves and adrenaline pumping through her, with the risk of hiding out in the woods. And now, closing a curtain on the day and finally settling down for rest, exhaustion washes over her. Her head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and without thinking much about it, she lets it fall to her left, onto Bellamy's shoulder.

He leaves it there.

And when some of her hair drifts into her face, fluttering gently with her breathing but her arms feel like they're made of lead, he softly pushes the strands out of her face and keeps brushing them back slowly… slowly… until the rhythm of the silent gesture sends her drifting to sleep.

"Bellamy!"

He wakes immediately to her whisper, hearing alarm in her hushed voice. Clarke's forward in a crouch, that kitchen knife in her left hand ready for pounce. All the color has drained from her cheeks, and in the dim light from outside, he sees her eyes and wide and panicked. She mouths the words just as he hears the footsteps: someone's out there.

He hears slow, steady crunching on the rocky ground beyond the fern. Through the leaves, he sees something shift as a figure walks in front of the bush, someone wearing dark clothing and heavy boots. They pause, looking at something, then – judging by the sounds – come closer.

Clarke's head is nearly at the top of the hollow, but she waits in that crouch, rocking on the balls of her feet. He feels completely useless. Clarke's going up against a guard – who knows how many others there are? – with a kitchen knife and he can't do anything about it.

Then it all happens too fast. Someone brushes aside the ferns and Clarke lunges, aiming the knife at the boot that enters the hollow. But then she seems to stumble and miss her target, clipping the boot and stabbing the ground, as the barrel of a gun swings down, stopping an inch from her nose.

Then a face appears, one not covered by a guard's helmet, but streaked with mud. There's a dirty headband pulled across the forehead, and long hair that's tucked back into a braid. It's a woman not much younger than him.

And she's still got a massive rifle trained at Clarke.

"Put the knife down," she says in a steady voice, like she's rehearsed this, "or I shoot."

Clarke, still crouched with the blade in her hand, stares daggers into the stranger. No one moves, no one breathes.

"Put it down." The woman says again, but there's something in her tone that's almost exasperated, like she'd hate to actually pull the trigger.

"So you can just kill us and raid our bodies anyways?" Clarke asks in a deadpan.

"If I wanted to kill you, it would've happened already." From what he can see of the woman, her dark pants and jacket are mottled with mud, mostly likely to keep her camouflaged. The garments look old, but not like the hoarded random clothing of the nomadic wanderers he remembered from his childhood. This is more organized, more calculated – a uniform. From under that headband, her eyes dart down to the knife in Clarke's hand again.

"You're Arkadian." She must've noticed the tattoo.

Clarke's hand recoils slightly, but she doesn't lower the knife. Bellamy wishes he was able to defend himself, but he honestly doesn't know what he would do – there's something in this woman's face that says she doesn't want to hurt them if she can avoid it.

"Put the knife down," she speaks slowly. "And come out from there unarmed. You'll do it quickly and quietly. If you make any move to attack me, my friend out there—" she jerks her head over her shoulder, "—won't hesitate to pull his trigger. Clear?"

"Crystal," Bellamy answers for them in a low growl, and Clarke's head wheels around. He sees the question in her eyes and just answers it by starting to pull himself into a crawling position. He makes it halfway onto his knees when he feels the searing pain in his side. He grimaces.

"He's hurt," Clarke tells the woman, almost begging in her voice. But she doesn't falter, keeping her rifle trained on them and backing up slightly, leaving a space for them to leave the hollow. Clarke finally drops the knife onto the ground and moves to Bellamy's side, steadying him as they crawl out of the hollow.

They stand slowly, and Bellamy feels several joints pop as he rises to full height. By the time he's up, stars dance in the frame of his vision and his side feels like it's on fire. But at least now, once he's standing, he's not moving it much. He spots the second gunner across the ravine and halfway up the side, perched between bushes and dressed in similar camouflage. It's impossible to gauge how old he is, since all Bellamy can really see of him is floppy brown hair and grimy goggles.

After nodding at her companion, the woman ducks back under the tree for Clarke's backpack and starts rifling through. Next to him, Clarke tenses.

"You're running away." The woman poses it as a fact, not a question. "You would never have made it very far, you know. Not with the both of you and barely enough supplies for one person."

Bellamy speaks to keep the seething Clarke quiet. "Last minute change of plans."

The woman nods slowly. "So you're running from something then. From what?"

"Arkadia isn't safe anymore."

"Ha! Arkadia's never been safe. They love to talk for hours about security but that's all bullshit." She reaches in and pulls out Becca's journal, curiosity on her face.

Clarke takes an instinctive step forward, "Don't touch that!"

"She said don't move!" The voice comes from the second gunner, a man's voice that's unexpectedly young. He's ready to shoot.

"Jasper!" The woman holds a hand up to stop him, then turns back to Clarke. "What is this?"

"I can't tell you," Clarke pants, "until I know who you both are."

"Not going to happen."

"I know you're from Arkadia," Clarke begins. "And I'm guessing your friend is too, judging by those goggles. You were both runaways at some point, weren't you?" No answer, so she continues. "In Arkadia they'd talk about children who would go missing, or some accident would happen but they'd never find a body. But they weren't dead, they'd escaped. You escaped."

There's silence all around, and Bellamy can hear his own pulse pounding in his ears, giving rhythm to Clarke's words.

"That journal is important because we need to find someone, and I think it might hold the key."

"Who?"

Blood roaring in his ears, almost dizzy from the pain of standing, Bellamy takes a leap of faith. "Kane."

The flicker in the woman's eyes gives it away: she knows exactly who Bellamy's talking about, and maybe even knows where he is. He goes on, "And you can take us to him."

"Why the hell should we do that?" The second gunner – Jasper – calls out.

"Because we're two runaways from Arkadia looking for shelter and a chance at a fresh start. Because we see things that are very wrong in Arkadia and if there's any sort of a resistance that exists, then we want to be a part of it." He looks down at Clarke, who watches him with wide eyes. "Because she's the daughter of Jake Griffin and she carries the journal of Becca Pramheda, and I'm willing to bet my own life that those two names mean something to your Kane."

Finally, the woman looks down at the journal in her hands and cracks it open, rifling through the pages and skimming. In a voice that's much quieter now, she says, "You might even be telling the truth."

"You can't be serious, Harper." Jasper leaves his post and comes closer, gun still raised.

"I can't read all of this journal, but just flipping through I've already seen Kane's name several times." She turns to Clarke and Bellamy. "What's this coded part say?"

"We don't know," Clarke answers. "But we're hoping that if we take it to Kane, maybe he might help us crack it."

A tense, thick silence hangs between the four of them before Harper shoves the journal back into Clarke's backpack, still refusing to hand anything over. "Alright. You're not cleared yet, but we'll put your story to the test and see if it checks out. If you're truly who you say you are, and not spies, then we'll take you to Kane. If we find anything that even suggests you're lying, you're dead meat. Understood?"

Bellamy swallows dryly and nods. Clarke does the same.

"Perfect." Harper seals up the backpack and pulls it onto her own shoulders. She nudges Bellamy's arm with the butt of her rifle. "Start walking."

.

.

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Author's Note:

Thank you all for your patience as I got this chapter together – just moved into a new apartment and wanted to get this published before my university classes start up again.

This chapter I really wanted to focus on the Bellamy and Clarke dynamic and slowing things down a little, so I hope you've enjoyed it. We're going to meet a lot of characters very quickly in the next few chapters – if you've got a favorite character from the show and we've haven't seen them here yet, they're probably coming up ;)

Let me know what you thought of this chapter! As always, I'm forever grateful for your reviews and support.

-K.T.