From The Ashes | The 100 S5 [Bellarke]

|10| The Needs Of The Few

6 years and 8 days after Praimfaya

It was past noon when Clarke was brought into the stranger's camp.

The plastic cuffs around her wrists were tight and constrictive, her fingers cold from a lack of circulation. Her head throbbed where she'd been hit, a low, steady ache that radiated down into her jaw with each heartbeat. At least their pace had been slower than she was used to – the strangers walked like the Earth was their enemy, each footstep wary – so she wasn't tired, just pissed.

But Clarke couldn't bring herself to hate the strangers. Not yet. They were acting on whatever knowledge they had about the ground, and she was obviously an unexpected factor. She had been just like them when she first came to the ground, and her encounter with unexpected survivors had been worse.

It had been hard to think about peace with those who had speared one of your own . . . but they had found it, and so she was still hopeful. Even though that hope was mingled with frustration at her current state.

Her appearance as she and her captors walked through the camp generated a hum of curiosity that followed them like magnets, whispers and glances thrown at her from every direction. Clarke kept her own glances subtle as she noted the security measures and guards, seeing if there was a chance at escape.

There wasn't.

The one who had knocked her unconscious, Icarus she'd heard him called, walked next to her. He was a mystery to Clarke, more so than his companions. Their intentions she could read – she was a threat and they were handling her as such. But this one . . . she didn't know what his intentions were. First, he had protected Madi, but then he had captured Clarke. True, she had been the one threatening his companions, but things still didn't add up.

As they continued deeper into the camp, obviously still under construction as others milled about, organizing supplies and taking metal parts out of their ship to further build and reinforce the wall they'd erected around their camp, Clarke's hope flickered with doubt.

She wanted to believe that these people could find peace with their fellow survivors, but with each new glimpse into their lives, she wondered if they could accept any path other than the one they'd been raised to walk. For they seemed like an army – uniformed and armed, their hair and clothes indifferent of gender, and all of them moving with the same kind of organized purpose.

The sight reminded her of Alie's chipped slaves with the way they seemed to work as if of one mind, the opportunity for chaos erased completely.

"You act like you're at war," Clarke said quietly to Icarus, who glanced over at her with mild surprise at the break in her previous silence.

"We always expect and prepare for the worst," he replied after a moment of hesitation. He cast a doubtful glance at their leader, the one Clarke had first attacked, as if he was afraid of being discovered speaking with their captive. "It's what's us alive."

"I was the same way once," she murmured, not caring if he heard her or not.

The worst part about seeing the camp and its rigid uniformitarianism was that she didn't see the joy of coming to Earth, only focus on whatever was their current task. There was the odd few who stopped now and then to either glance at distant forested ridges of the valley or the cloud-brushed sky with a glint of awe in their eyes, but it was only for a moment before they hurried on with their respective duties.

"No one looks happy," Clarke said, frowning. Even when they had landed, their reactions had been of caution and inspection, not relief. "What's wrong with you people?"