There's perhaps two things Clarke hates the most in the world. The first being the too cold bite of the recycled air that breathes through the hallways of the Ark. The second is the fact that she's used to the cold and its constant and familiar embrace. But she think that she's found a new enemy, a new foe that she can hate the most, a new thing to replace the constant chill that seeps into her bones, and as she's buffeted sharply, hitting her elbow hard into the arm rest she thinks she really, really hates gravity.

She feels it then, the terrible shaking and the terrifying clanging around her.

I'm going to die.

She feels the chair give a painful lurch, her shin colliding with the roll bar beneath her feet, a curse falling from her bloodied mouth.

I'm going to die.

She feels her muscles stretch and pull and twist from her body as gravity takes hold and spins her around and around and around.

I'm going to die.

She feels the thudding as she punches through the atmosphere and the burning heat and the crushing weight on her chest as she slams into something.

I'm going to fucking die.

It's a mantra that she is sure she'd be voicing, be screaming if her vision wasn't fading, if her limbs weren't weighed down and her head wasn't burning out in agony.

And as the last of her vision fades, as the last of her strength is ripped from her bruised body she thinks she sees the green and the blue and the white of long lost dreams through the cracked and charred window.

And as consciousness drains from her tired body she thinks she sees the rushing of the ground as it comes to greet her in an all too unwelcome and sudden embrace.

Oh…

Float me.