Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sometimes it’s easier to live in vagaries. To dream of tomorrow, withering away today without focusing on the details of reality. To talk about the getaway, the Promised Land, however rash or faraway it may be. And it just so happened that this holy stretch of beach and broken glass was it.

To most people the Island was a vacation, a tourist trap with poorly made mixed drinks and parties vaguely reminiscent of luaus.

But to a brother and sister it was vaguely reminiscent of home. To a troubled delinquent it was almost hope. To a lonely thief it was all there was. To a stoner and his dealer it was the smoke spot of all smoke spots.

It was an escapist’s fantasy. And escaping was an art Clarke had mastered a long time ago.

Being a politician’s daughter made it harder, but all the more necessary. Even dire now that death was on her heels, biting at all the grief filled songs in her throat. She could barely remember the last time she sang.

So with a mixture of remorse, heartbreak and trust-fund confidence, Clarke Griffin found herself pulling into Kilueua Campgrounds, Kauai, with some indie electronica beat reverberating from the speakers of her brand new truck. She (the truck) accelerated like a dream, chrome shined and painted in red like the fires of hell itself. No wonder Clarke named her Phoenix.

With a joint held between her teeth, Clarke let her lips give way to a nostalgic smile as she took in the resilient patches of grass, tents and trees. And the waves, the sea.

Lighter flicking and smile unwavering, Clarke made her way to the water, which was cerulean, clear, and begging her to swim.

She stripped out of her grievances like she stripped out of her t-shirt, and dove right in.

_____________________________

“I’m fucking starving,” whined a childish voice, belonging to a far from childish Octavia Blake who was splayed out on her surfboard in a dark bikini.

Bellamy glared down at his sister, who he’d rather have wearing a shirt, or pants, or better yet, a nun uniform, whatever they were called.

“Doesn’t Jasper have food?” He asked, throwing a frisbee down the beach where it hit Murphy in the back of the head.

“Watch it, Blake!”

“Jasper gets food from me!” Octavia groaned, returning his glare with even more intensity (and annoyance) as she pulled herself off the ground.

“What about Monty?”

“Yeah, Monty has weed brownies and shrooms,” Octavia snapped, “I’m sure that’ll make a balanced breakfast.”

“I hate teenagers,” Bellamy sighed, catching the frisbee as it appeared out of nowhere and sending it into the waves towards Miller.

“Teenagers hate you too,” Octavia huffed.

“Oh don’t be like that O,” Bellamy put a hand on her head to rub her already messy hair, “If you really want something ask the neighbors,” he added with a hint of deviance, “I’m sure the asshole driving that red truck won’t mind sharing.”

Ask.

The smirk in Bellamy’s eyes made it obvious that asking wasn’t part of the plan.

“Sure thing big brother,” Octavia smirked back at him before stalking off towards Jaspers hammock.

If there was one thing Octavia loved about Kauai it was how easy everything was here. No one cared about their unlocked cars or open tents when there was sunshine and good waves. Well, no one besides Octavia and her friends.

How long had it been? Three weeks? Four? Time didn’t really work on the Island the way it did on the mainland. Instead of days of the week it was today and tomorrow. Instead of minutes and hours it was surfing or drinking, laughing or sleeping.

Jasper was curled up in a hammock with his goggles on, making two crab shells kiss.

“You’re not even high are you?” Octavia laughed.

“Unfortunately not,” Jasper smiled, pushing the goggles up to his forehead.

“Come on,” Octavia smiled dangerously before walking towards the dusty parking lot, “We’re getting food.”

“Who’s the lucky victim?” Jasper grinned on her heels, a crab shell still in his hand.

“Hot, rich girl,” Octavia replied a devilish brow taking over her tan feautures, “With an even hotter truck.”

Chapter Text

The majority of Clarke’s days were spent tanning on her surfboard, swilling in existential dread, and walking the endless tides. The waves were nonexistent, but so were her responsibilities, and to Clarke it was a fair trade. She could drive the South Shore in search of waves. She could drive to Waimea or walk the Ne Pali. She could. But she wouldn’t. Clarke was rather content with her cloister of sunshine and anonymity.

One afternoon in particular was roasting Clarke more than usual (and she already had quite a sunburn) so she made her way back to the thin beach separating the campgrounds from the sea.

She carried her board over head, dodging herds of playing children, smoking drifters and running chickens (Yes, chickens. Who would’ve thought the two main mammals of Kauai, Hawaii would be asshole chickens and feral cats).

She noticed some oddities as she approached the Phoenix: the back ledge open, her bags a mess, some crab shells by the rear tire, and were those… people in her truck?

“Hey!” She shouted, dropping her board and yanking open the passenger door. Her hands red, her eyes furious.

“Get out,” Clarke pulled a guy and his scuba mask out of her truck with more than a hint of violence in her voice. Another boy followed in suit, and both met her gaze looking equally guilty and panicked.

The driver side door slammed and Clarke looked around for the third culprit, but no one appeared.

“Don’t try to hide,” Clarke huffed, “Just put whatever you took back and…” she added in a lighter voice, “I won’t call the police.”

A girl, a bit younger than Clarke, emerged from the other side of the truck, hair and eyes as wild as the cats that roamed the midnight beaches. But something in her strong jaw and honey-brown gaze ached with innocence (and some sort other longing Clarke couldn’t quite describe).

When the girl reluctantly tossed bags of lychees, chips and hot dogs back into the truck it was clear to see what that indescribable emotion was. Hunger.

Clarke stared at the girl while Goggle Boy and Associate stared at Clarke.

“You guys know there’s a gas station, like, two miles down the road, right? If you guys really wanted food…”

The three delinquents stared at her vacantly. Clarke sighed, her anger dissipating as quickly as it came, “Oh…”

“You know what,” said Clarke, voice suddenly singing with that Hawaiian cheer, “Take it, I was getting more anyway.”

“Really?” Asked the smaller guy in disbelief.

“Sweet!” Goggles grinned as he reached for the pack of hot dogs.

“No, Jasper,” the girl chimed in, sending Clarke a cold glare that seemed to mature all of her features with a single, batting eyelash.

“We don’t need her help.”

“So you’d rather steal?” Clarke bargained while shoving a bag of chips in Goggles/Jasper’s hands, “When’s the last time you ate?”

Octavia’s glare softened.

“She has a point,” the smaller guy piped in, “This is better than what we usually do… And sorry,” he said towards Clarke, “For what we usually do.”

Clarke held out a bag of chips to the girl who was now by Jasper’s side and looking rather tall despite being about a foot shorter than her partners in crime.

“Come on Octavia,” Jasper nudged her, “Take it!”

And she did, reluctantly, after delivering another perfectly cold glare towards Jasper.

“Octavia… that’s a pretty name,” Clarke said.

She couldn’t help but pity these kids. They may have been close to her age but she still felt a mature obligation to help them as they stood helpless and hungry by the back of her truck.

“I’m Clarke.”

“Now that’s a cool name,” Octavia said, looking up with an unfamiliar smile, “This dumbass is Jasper, and that’s Monty.”

The introductions and thank yous proceeded as normally as they could for a couple of kids making acquaintance with the girl they just tried to steal from.

Come on Clarke, you were supposed to keep to yourself, not talk to anyone… but they’re just kids. Harmless, right?

“So I’ll give you guys a choice,” Clarke wagered, crossing her arms, “Either take the food and go, or we can cookout right here, right now.”

So with only three bags of chips, a pack of hotdogs and old can of Coke, Clarke had managed to adopt the three hungriest, and most entertaining, delinquents to camp the beaches of Kauai.

Whereas Clarke was ankle deep, they were drowning in the chaotic euphoria of youth. All three of them had been to juvi at least once, and they talked about it like it was a Disneyland. They were all laughs and grins and smashing beer cans despite all the shit the world had given them. Everything about them was contagious. After one night with Octavia, Jasper and Monty, Clarke was seeing stars in the clouds and music in her heartbeat.

So naturally she invited them back, and Clarke was happy to say that she had three kids. She looked at her Dad’s old guitar in the back of her pick-up and for the first time in a long time she saw hope. She had yet to master Sweet Child O’ Mine or Seven Nation Army, but maybe, soon, she would.

________

Bellamy was walking back from a typical night of tropical debauchery. And by typical, he meant crashing some Hawaiin family reunion and charming the hell out of the hostess while simultaneously stuffing his face with roasted pork and free booze (and grabbing extra pineapple for O because she didn’t like meat anyway). It was easy enough since every Islander kick-back took place on the public beaches. And also easy if you could push back your curls and smirk like Bellamy Blake could.

Even Miller had his own set of dry-wit and charm. Murphy, on the other hand, had to be kept on a leash so no unassuming bystander got set on fire.

Octavia was already in her tent when Bellamy stumbled by, and she gave him am unusually joyful smile that could’ve only meant she was up to something. But Bellamy chose to ignore it as he threw her a bag of Hawaiian rolls and a pineapple.

“It’s all right Big Brother, I’m full,” she said before burrowing back into her sleeping bag.

“Really?” Bellamy said to the lump that was once his sister. She had gone full cocoon now, and Bellamy realized that the only person who would get her food was Lincoln. So he chose to ignore that too.

The next day Bellamy was out on a reclaimed paddle board while Miller and Murphy free dove in a pair of reclaimed fins. (Murphy had the left, Miller had the right, and obviously they couldn’t get very far).

It could’ve been lunchtime, but it also could’ve been dinner depending on what angle you looked at the sun. Suddenly, his board rocked and a pair of wild eyes emerged from the water.

“O, you shark,” he said as greeting, “If you think you’re getting on this board you’re dead wrong.”

“I don’t think. I know,” she narrowed her eyes as she pushed the board through the water, sending Bellamy head first into the waves... and Murphy.

“Belllamy!” Murphy hissed despite looking rather docile in his scuba mask.

“Anyone ever tell you, you look damn good in goggles?” Bellamy grinned at his friend.

Murphy responded with a tsunami of curses before diving back towards the reef.

“What I really came out here for,” Octavia said from where she knelt on Bellamy’s/the actual owner’s board, “Was to ask if you wanted to cookout with us tonight. We met this really cool girl from D.C. She’s rich and smart. You’d like her.”

“What kind of food?” Bellamy inquired while wiping some salt from his eyes.

“Food!?” Miller appeared from the depths as if the word alone had summoned him.

“Hot dogs, burgers, what ever you want.”

“Beer?” asked Murphy, who had also shot out of the water upon the subject of dinner.

“If you want,” Octavia shrugged.

“We’ll be there,” Bellamy assured, “After we stop by the Gas Station for some necessities,” he added with a wink towards his boys.

“I’m already regretting this,” Octavia huffed, then splashed her brother before paddling away on his reclaimed board.

Bellamy laid back in the water. Murphy readjusted his goggles. Miller dove under the waves.

They were gonna party tonight.

Chapter Text

Bellamy and Murphy walked the couple miles to the Gas Station/Convenience Store in search of their “dire necessities” (Cigarettes, cheetos and tequila). It was the kind of place that, at night, was lit only by street lights and sickly fluorescents. It was the kind of place that didn’t ask for I.D and only sold knock of brands of junk food.

Their pockets were empty, but their hands most certainly were not.

Suddenly a red giant pulled into the vacant parking lot, roaring and humming over its massive wheels. It was the biggest and most pristine truck Bellamy had ever seen. And just the sight of it made him boil. The tinted windows, the shining chrome, whoever drove that thing probably had a couple of vintage Ford’s in their garage worth more than Bellamy could ever make in his life.

Then a small blonde angel emerged from the driver’s side, all sunglasses and designer flip flops. Bellamy hated angels. Especially rich angels. Whoever that girl was, she embodied everything Bellamy was not and everything Bellamy could never have.

He almost popped the bag of cheetos in his fist.

“Alright,” he whispered towards Murphy behind the candy aisle, “Let’s get to work.”

Bellamy tried to ignore the girl (with her hair piled on her head and her overlarge sunglasses and shit was that a Rollex on her wrist?) as he approached the counter. Murphy continued prowling the distant aisles like a snake.

“Two Tequila’s and a Marlboro,” he sighed, adding with a hint of indifference, “Reds.”

“27.30,” the attendant replied without looking up.

The girl appeared behind him, holding a case of cheap beer twice her size.

Bellamy slid a silver credit card, the attendant slid the goods.

When the machine beeped rejection, Bellamy ran a hand through his curls and smiled, “Nice day isn’t it?”

The cashier stared at him vacantly, “It’s Kauai.”

“And your card was denied.”

“But not as much rain as usual,” Bellamy replied before sending Murphy a suspicious glance.

Clarke was just about done with this guy, who was clearly stalling because he didn’t have money. She found herself, a little more than subconsciously, tapping her flip-flops in agitation.

“Leg cramp?” Bellamy raised his eyebrows in her direction.

“Sure,” Clarke rolled her eyes around the aisles of junk food and back to this guy’s conceded glare.

“Have a little patience, Princess,” he smirked, “You’ll be speeding away in your Daddy’s rental car soon enough-“

There was a crash. Then a laugh. Then a bang.

Murphy had tipped over an entire rack of chips.

“Hey!” The attendant shouted, but Bellamy was already out the door with his plastic bag of vices.

The attendant sighed, watching from the door as the two drifters ran down the street.

“Assholes,” Clarke shook her head, leaning her pack of beer on the counter, “I’ll pay.”

____

Clarke drove by the two low lives on her way back to camp. They flipped her off (and also called her a bitch, but she couldn’t hear over the roar of her speakers). She was okay with helping her fellow lost souls like Octavia, Jasper and Monty, who stole out of need, hunger, and were at least good at heart. These guys made her regret saving their asses by paying their bill at the Gas Station/Convenience Store.

Her newly adopted friends were waiting for her by their designated picnic table, the one at the very edge of the campgrounds, unseen and nestled in the trees. Clarke dropped the beer down with a huff.

“Tavia, you won’t believe what just happened at the Gas Station.”

“Oh! Did you meet some hot surfers?” Monty guessed.

“No, I bet it was something bad. Were there cops involved?” Jasper wagered from on the top of the table-goggles on his head and a conch shell in his hand.

“Close, but not exactly,” Clarke sighed as she pushed back her sunglasses. Her sunburn had finally faded and she was beginning to look more like the average surfer everyday. Her smile wider, hair wavier, cares nonexistent.

“These two guys walked in and completely ransacked the place! They caused a scene so they could steal alcohol or whatever. And no the attendant lady didn’t call the police because I paid for what they took… But what kind of assholes just go into a peaceful store like that and destroy it?”

The three of them shared a look across the picnic table. Clarke furrowed her brows above the mini grill.

“What?”

“Was tequila or Marlboro reds involved in this heist?” Asked Octavia.

“Yeah…” Clarke’s eyebrows furrowed doubly, “Wait, how did you know that?”

Octavia put her face in her hands in reply.

“Bellamy and Murphy,” Jasper laughed, shaking his head.

“Speak of the devils,” Monty rolled his eyes at the sound of venomous laughter erupting through the trees.

Clarke wasn’t one for dramatics, but her jaw nearly dropped.

It was the Convenience store asshole, aka the thief, aka Octavia’s brother. The pale, snaky looking guy lingered behind him, along with another guy Clarke had never seen. They were the type of boys who only came out at night, the kind you crossed the street to get away from. How could someone as sweet as Octavia be sister to that? Well, sweet and strong willed. Now that Clarke thought about it, it almost made sense.

Clarke was having some trouble keeping all the foul words in her mouth. Bellamy on the other hand, was having difficulty picking which one to use.

“Well shit,” laughed the pale one. His face was sharp and his laugh invoked no sense of merriment, “It’s the Gas Station Queen.”

“Princess, actually,” Bellamy corrected, sending a wicked glare towards Clarke, “Didn’t know people like you associated with people outside of their tax bracket? What are you trying to do? Adopt my sister for charity to ease some of your white guilt?”

At this point, even Octavia’s jaw was dropping.

“Excuse me?” Clarke spat.

The tension in the air was almost tangible. Bellamy stood silent, returning Clarke’s relentless glare with remarkably indifferent passion. The hotdogs were burning.

“Hey, I’ll take over the grill,” Monty said, grabbing the tongs and thoroughly avoiding conflict.

The other guy, all dark skin and big smiles, broke into that same venomous laughter from earlier. Clarke was seething.

“Bellamy you can’t just talk to Clarke like that,” Octavia stood, “You don’t even know her!”

“Yeah man, she did buy us beer.”

“Miller,” Bellamy growled.

“I’m sorry Clarke,” Octavia said with haunting disappointment (that made Bellamy question his actions, but only momentarily), “I knew my brother was a dick but I didn’t expect him to do… well… whatever the hell this is.”

“Octavia,” Bellamy said, finally sounding like a big brother instead of some wasted youth character from a 90’s movie, “If I had known you were hanging out with her-“

“You know you should really be thanking me right now!” Clarke interrupted. The sky was sanguine and orange and eerily tainted by all the rage Clarke was feeling. If it weren’t for the asshole standing in front of her she would have thought it was a beautiful night.

“I paid for all of your shit so they wouldn’t called the police! And speaking of…” Clarke continued as she marched toward Miller and Murphy who were watching the conflict from the edge of the picnic table, “I’m gonna have a drink right now.”

Clarke grabbed the Tequila from Murphy, who let it go with a shrug, pulled of the cap and downed a shot with one swift movement. She then chased it down with an unclaimed beer and glared down the bottleneck at Bellamy, waiting for some sign of gratitude.

He just rolled his eyes.

“Well then I think that’s settled,” Murphy mediated, walking between the two to grab a beer, “We owe you one Princess.”

“Don’t call me Princess,” Clarke spat.

“Hand me a beer, Murphy,” Bellamy said.

“Me too,” Jasper chimed. Then there was a me three and a me four.

Clarke sat in the sand by Octavia, the warm after-affects of tequila already settling in her stomach. With her back to Bellamy and his crew of criminals Clarke could almost pretend she was having a good time.

“Monty, hook me up with a hot dog-No, make that two,” Clarke added, looking towards Octavia, “It’s gonna be a long night.”

And a long night it was. Because by 7, Miller had poured everyone two shots (minus Octavia, who had her drinking privileges revoked after one beer) and by 8 they were on their 5th round. Clarke stayed between Jasper and Monty and laughed with Octavia (and maybe glanced at Bellamy to make sure he was watching). By 9 she didn’t care about the boys’ insults anymore and by 10 they got bored of spitting them. By 10:30 all seven of the equally drunk and lost delinquents were dancing on the beach to no music at all besides their laughter and the roaring waves of the sea.

Who knew an impromptu barbecue with teenage convicts could be so genuinely enjoyable.

Clarke was singing and then she was spinning. Laughter knocked her to the ground and a hand pulled her up towards the stars. Another twirled her and she felt like joy. Even though the pillars of her life were crumbling she still had her youth. She still had happiness.

Even if it was only for a moment.

By now it could’ve been 11, but it also could’ve been 2. Miller, Monty and Jasper were swimming in the dark waves. Bellamy and Murphy were laughing over a cigarette. Clarke and Octavia laid side by side with their eyes on the sky, making constellations with stories of their past. Only good ones like Clarke’s first kiss (platonically with Wells) and Octavia’s first crush on her roommate (and when she first realized she was bi).

But then Octavia’s voice lowered, her lips biting at a secret.

“Did I ever tell you I have a boyfriend?” She whispered.

“What!?” Clarke exclaimed, sitting up so fast it made her dizzy, “Please tell me you didn’t leave him to come out here.”

“Well it’s kinda the opposite,” she grinned, “His name is Lincoln.”

“So is he here, on Kauai!?”

“He’s from here,” Octavia smiled inwardly. The kinda smile someone makes when they’re thinking of funny memories or people they love. “I met him back home and he promised me a place if we ever came out here. And here we are,” she smiled towards Clarke now, gesturing towards the beach and the sky and the sea.

Clarke laid her head back down beside Octavia’s, “Does Bellamy know?”

“Of course. Lincoln is the sort of secret everyone knows, but no one talks about.”

It sounded bitter but Octavia smiled on.

“Seventeen and in love?” Clarke reflected, “That’s pretty dangerous.”

“Tell me about it,” O grinned, “But also pretty lucky. I mean he’s the one who got us our camping permits, and tents, and food at first. But he’s not much better off than we are.”

“And once Bellamy figured out we were together he… well, let’s just say he deterred Lincoln a little bit. So hungry I am. Man sometimes I hate my brother’s pride.”

“Tell me about it,” Clarke laughed, “Why would Bellamy be mad though, if Lincoln was helping you guys out?”

“Because Bellamy’s protective, and,” Octavia added with a hint of reluctance, “Lincolns 22.”

“WHAT!” Clarke screamed playfully.

“Goddamnit Clarke!” Octavia laughed, “Calm down!”

“He’s 22 and you’re 17!! You could’ve mentioned that sooner!”

Octavia buried her face in her hands (she had a blush to match Clarke’s, except hers was from embarrassment rather than alcohol).

“I’m sure he’s an amazing guy,” Clarke slurred.

And with a sudden shout, their drunken heart to heart came to an end. What used to be lighthearted voices was now shouting curses, and what once was starlight had now turned into harsh flashlight beams. Octavia and Clarke sat up to see a pair of cops screaming at none other than Bellamy Blake.

“Octavia, run,” Clarke’s voice dropped, “Go start the truck.”

Another shout broke through the sound of rushing waves and Octavia was in a full sprint at the sight of her brother face to face with a police officer.

Fuck.

“It’s a misdemeanor to be drinking on this campground,” spat the cop, “And worse to be drinking underage.”

“I’m 21,” Bellamy said, taking a menacing step closer to the cop, “I can drink where I want.”

“Can she?” The police officer asked, pointing to little Octavia who was now by her brother’s side.

“Octavia,” Bellamy pleaded, “Stay out of this.”

“I want to know what’s going on!”

“What’s going on is these assholes over here think that just because they’re in uniform they can take away our rights!” Murphy shouted, only slurring his words a little, but the sway in his stance made his state of intoxication more than clear to see.

“The hell did you just call me? I’m going to need to see your permits kid.”

“Not only do they take away our rights.” Bellamy exclaimed, voice full of unrelenting pride, “but they think they can control everything! This is public beach, this is for the people!”

“Unfortunately, this beach is not for disrespectful drunks, you’re going to need to leave.”

“Girl how old are you?” The other cop asked Octavia.

“Were not leaving.”

“I haven’t been drinking so it’s none of your damn business.”

“I don’t want to have to use force.”

“I am a police officer and I asked you a question!”

“Well if you want us to leave, you better make us.”

It was a storm. An explosion of hands and curses and sand. One cop had Octavia’s wrist. The other, Bellamy’s hair.

Octavia was screaming and Bellamy was punching and when he went down Murphy and Miller took his place. They brought the cop to his knees in seconds and Clarke turned away before things got too brutal.

“Jasper, Monty!” Clarke yelled, “Get to the truck, now!”

Then she too was a storm.

“Get your hands off of her!” Clarke screamed, her heart raging as she pushed the cop away from Octavia. He was strong, but she was quick, even in her drunken state. And against her better lack of judgment Clarke drew her hand into a fist and punched the cop square in the jaw. But her rage didn’t stop, she punched him in the throat, kneed him in the chest. It was against everything Clarke stood for, but what did she have to stand for anymore?

But then he was on top of her, and Clarke couldn’t tell which stars were real and which were only her mind as he punched her not once, but twice. Blood fought its way down her cheek, down her throat, and in a drunken comparison of what her life was and what it had become Clarke found herself laughing at her very state of existence.

Then the cop was gone. No, not gone, but tackled to the ground by Bellamy.

“The tazer!” Clarke managed to scream.

There was a spark, and then there was silence.

Then there was the wailing of a distant police car.

Clarke, Bellamy, Miller and Murphy were paralyzed, for one breathless moment, looking down at the unconscious cops. At least Clarke hoped they were unconscious.

“Get their guns,” Clarke nodded at Miller and Murphy.

“I guess were even now,” Bellamy said towards Clarke. His eyes met hers, still wild from the adrenaline of the fight. He had a bloody lip to match her nose.

Clarke nodded (she didn’t really know what else to do).

“Now get your things and run.”

___

They managed to make it out before back up arrived. The whole night had turned into some psychotic fever dream, full of smoke and laughter and blood.

Murphy was asleep against the backseat window. Miller was beside him looking stone and cold at nothing in particular. Monty sat somewhere between Jasper and Miller’s lap and was trying not to act as uncomfortable as he felt.

“Where are we going,” Bellamy said through the shirt he was using to treat his lip. He had finally asked the million dollar question. Octavia really did look small as she peered over the steering wheel, the road seeming ominous and wild in the wake of the night’s events.

“Good question,” Clarke said who was sitting between the Blakes and also using a towel to remedy her bloody nose.

Octavia took a right turn into nowhere. In fact, she had driven straight of the road and into the trees.

“Were going somewhere safe,” Octavia said after a minute, “Lincoln showed it to me.”

Both Clarke and Bellamy were to bruised and tired, and quite frankly, drunk, too care. By the time Octavia pulled into the clearing, even Clarke was asleep. Her head slumped to one side with bloodstains still on her chin. Octavia laid her head against the steering wheel and sighed.

The world had always worked spinelessly against them, but these kids knew how to fight back. And when they fought, they fought with a vengeance. So if the world wouldn’t take them as they were, then Clarke and her band of delinquents were damn well going to make a world of their own.

Chapter Text

Murphy awoke in the backseat of Princess’s truck, his face on the window, blood on his lips, and Miller on his shoulder.

“Bro,” he said. Which loosely translated to: hey man, stop sleeping on my shoulder #nohomo.

“Bruh,” Miller replied which also translated to: sorry bro it was an accident and #yeshomo. Miller immediately leaned to the other side of the truck and was back asleep in a matter of seconds, if he even was awake at all. Monty and Jasper were gone, Octavia was passed out on the steering wheel and Princess was curled in a ball on the passenger side.

Murphy climbed out of the truck and what he saw was unexpected, but not entirely surprising. They were parked in the middle of a clearing surrounded by thick trees, flowering and dense enough to almost blocked out the tropical sun. There was no road and no sign of a trail, but Murphy chose to ignore the enigma of how he and his… friends?... wound up wherever the hell they were.

Jasper and Monty were not gone but rather sharing a sleeping bag in the dirt by the truck (and Murphy had to resist the urge to kick them or pee on them or something worse).

Bellamy was leaning on the back of the truck, staring out to where the trees diverged into a vast yellow beach. He looked grungy sitting there with a stranger’s blood still staining his shirt, his hair in a giant knot and a cigarette between his teeth. What a mess they all were.

Murphy took his place beside Bellamy, relaxing in the silence that often fell between them. Their bond was unspoken, something of a fearless leader and a doubtless follower. Murphy owed Bellamy everything for taking him in a month ago, even if it was just to get into more trouble.

Murphy had nothing when he came to Kauai, but Bellamy had offered him a place by his side, a can of beer and something reminiscent of camaraderie. It was more than anyone had offered Murphy in his life.

“I thought we agreed only to smoke when we drink,” Murphy finally said, looking off towards the crystalline waves.

Bellamy shrugged, rattling the unseen beer bottle in his left hand.

Bastard, Murphy thought.

“You’re probably wondering where we are,” Bellamy rightfully said, “Because I am too.”

Bellamy passed the cigarette and Murphy did everyone a favor by throwing it into a bush. Not to start a fire though (he wasn’t that much of a pyro).

“Octavia drove us here last night, she said something about Lincoln showing her this place.”

Murphy finally caught a glimpse of the bruises splattering his knuckles. Memories of the night before flooded him, worse than a storm or a tsunami. He was attacking a cop. There was blood on his fists, a curse on his lips. He was taking the cop’s tazer and then his gun. Out of Murphy’s entire criminal record, may have been one of the worst. Well top 5, probably.

“Fuck,” Murphy spat. It was the only word he could muster to define their night.

“Yeah,” Bellamy grimaced through a busted lip, “We’re gonna have to lay low for awhile.”

“Ya think?” Murphy laughed bitterly, “We fucking assaulted two cops and stole their guns. That’s a felony, Blake. I can’t afford to go back to jail, it’ll be worse now that I’m 18.”

Bellamy looked towards his bare feet and nodded.

“Better get comfortable then,” Murphy said, taking of his shirt, “We’re gonna be here awhile.”

Murphy walked out of the trees, away from Bellamy and all the shit that had gone down the night before. Where they were, Murphy realized, was an uninhabited cove. Bright blue waves broke on the shore, melodious and perfect for surfing. Volcanic rocks lay haphazardly on the beach as if they had just fallen from the sky. There was what looked like the remains of a public bathroom and a decrepit looking picnic table, but in the Hawaiian sunlight they were vivid, inexplicably bursting with life. The cove was something of a childhood fantasy, something Murphy couldn’t believe as he dove into the waves wearing only a smirk and his plaid boxers.

It was his favorite feeling. Better than being blackout drunk or stupid high. It was the unfathomable calm of diving into another world. The soft yet all encompassing sound of the ocean in his ears and the cool water wrapping around his skin. Murphy didn’t mind being penniless and hungry if it meant he got to feel like this everyday.

He emerged like a shark, or a dream, or like a teenager who saw the ocean for the first time only a month ago. He wore a placid smile to match the cool, placid beat of his heart. He ran a hand through his hair and looked back at the golden shore. There were rocks, broken picnic tables, the clearing where the truck was shaded, and then there was something quite peculiar. It looked almost like a tent, except crumpled and fallen in on it self. Hopefully it was just a trick of the eyes. Would it be crazy to think they he just saw a girl disappear into the trees?

Back on the beach Bellamy was finishing his breakfast beer and unloading his shit from the truck. Everything was a tangled mess: partially constructed tents, bikinis in a guitar, a bra remarkably caught on a sweatshirt, a pillow, and a shoe. Murphy was grateful for his quaint backpack of personal belongings in that moment (probably the only moment where it was better to have nothing). He laughed dryly, grabbed his bag and leaving Bellamy to sort through the mess.

Up a small dune and back down it again, Murphy was standing in front of the thing, which truly was a tent and not just Murphy losing his mind. Poking around the fallen insides, he found nothing but a towel, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and a depressing book of Edgar Allen Poe. Just as he ran a finger through the dog-eared pages a sudden force pulled him out of the tent and pushed him to his knees.

It took Murphy a breathless moment to realize the cool pressure on his throat was a knife.

“Chon sen yu op?”(Who sent you?) The attacker said into Murphy’s ear, his heart beating with fear and intrigue when he realized the harsh voice belonged to a girl.

“Chon do yu gonplei gon, skat!” (Whom do you fight for boy!)

There was malice in the way she bit her T’s, hunger in the way she hissed her S’s. Murphy had a feeling he would recognize the fight in her eyes if he saw her.

“Sorry babe, I only speak English,” Murphy choked as he pulled back his chin to escape the knife. The girl sighed, finally pulling away the knife and pushing Murphy away.

He looked up at her from the sand, rubbing his neck as if would remove the bruise already forming there. His breathe threatened to leave him again as he took a good look at his attacker.

“Water,” the girl spoke. She choked the word into a question so strong and broken Murphy didn’t know how to reply. She had a knife, the stance of a hit man and a gang tattoo violently careening over her cheek. At first glance she was a predator, disastrous and dangerous and ready to fight. But looking up from the sand Murphy could see the fire behind her eyes, the tired look of a girl watching all of her hope burn into flames.

Murphy held out his bottle, now more intrigued than afraid of his wild attacker. She quickly grabbed it and, with shaking focus, poured its contents onto her tongue. Water dribbled down her chin and neck all while Murphy watched, rather breathlessly, similar to how a person watches someone paint a picture or sew a wound. Desperation wore through her strong façade as she licked the remaining water off her hand. The other, Murphy realized, was coveted behind her back.

Her eyes met Murphy’s and then he understood. She was no predator. She was prey who had been hunted for far too long.

With a sigh, she built herself back up again, looking as mysterious as ever as she returned his water bottle.

“Thank you,” she smiled. Murphy mumbled something awkwardly along the lines of no problem as he fumbled to his feet.

“Sorry about that,” she sighed at his already bruising neck, “You can never be too careful out here in the Deadzone.”

“The Deadzone?” Murphy echoed.

“Yes,” she replied, raising her eyebrows in question, “Where did you think we were?”

Murphy shrugged, looking out towards the waves before meeting the girl’s gaze again. He didn’t mind the way she looked at him.

“Well you’re a long way from the tourist beaches,” the girl shook her head.

“Kinda the point,” Murphy explained, “Whatever this place is it’s better than being out there chased by the cops.”

“Ah,” the girl smiled at his reveal, “So that’s what brings you to my beach.”

“Unfortunately,” Murphy found himself silenced by the smile growing on his lips, “Or fortunately.”

“Then we have a lot in common, you and I. We’re both on the run.”

Murphy wasn’t too surprised by that. From the way she was living it was clear she was scraping to survive. No wonder she had attacked him.

“Maybe,” Murphy laughed, not his biting laugh or his sarcastic laugh but a genuine, amused laugh.

“But you’re taste in literature is pretty questionable. What was that in your tent? A Tell Tale Heart and Harry Potter? Doesn’t really make sense.”

“Or it makes perfect sense,” she replied, sounding more relaxed as she raised her eyebrows playfully. “There’s hope and magic to balance out the depressing and true, I’d say I got it all.”

Murphy bit back a grin. Besides his better judgment he was starting to like this girl.

“If by all you mean a broken tent and no food or water, then sure.”

The girl looked away to hide her laugh, some knotty hair blowing in her face.

“You know,” Murphy said, taking a step towards her, “I-well, me and my group-we have food, water, potentially some tequila. I’m sure we could help you out.”

The girl looked at him intently, pleasantly surprised but nevertheless wary. He watched as her eyes narrowed, weighing her options.

“And what do I give you in return?” She asked rather smartly.

“You seem to know a lot about this place, we can help each other out.”

“And why should I trust you?” the girl tested him by taking a step forward. Murphy matched her step, now they were face to face. Brown eyes burning blue.

“What better option do you have?”

She held his gaze, watching for any sign of joke or mistruth. Whatever she saw in Murphy’s eyes she must have liked because she held out her hand with a devious smirk.

“I’m Emori.”

“I’m John. John Murphy.”

________

Clarke awoke feeling fucked in more ways then one. For starters, she had a hangover that would last for a week and a black eye darker than hell itself. But even worse than her upset stomach and lack of Advil was the feeling of what they had done. Clarke attacked a cop. And she liked it. She wondered if she would recognize her reflection if she saw it. Luckily, this desolate beach was fresh out of mirrors.

She was mulling over a bag of lychees side by side with Octavia who wore her hangover like a badge of honor. Bellamy was setting up his tent while Jasper and Monty tried to sort out the mess that was the back of Clarke’s truck. Miller was off looking for water.

“How does a bra even do this?” Jasper remarked, holding up a knot of clothing and shoes held together by a lace bra.

“Blame Clarke,” Octavia said through a cheek of lychees, “She’s the one with Double D’s.”

“Hey it’s not like we had time to pack,” Clarke frowned as she grabbed the knot from Jasper and untied the mess of clothing in a matter of seconds.

“It’s not like we had time for anything,” Monty added, “I mean do we even have enough water or food?”

At this point Bellamy had joined the group at the back of the truck, silently grabbing some lychees from Octavia’s hand.

“Yeah,” Clarke said rather grimly, “If were only staying for a day.”

“What do you mean?” Bellamy asked with cheeks more full than his sister, “We have hot dogs, burgers, a shit ton of alcohol-“

“Yeah and only three bottles of water,” Clarke interrupted, “With seven of us how long do you think that’s gonna last?”

“Make that eight.”

The group turned to see Murphy standing in his wet boxers an unusual smile distorting his lips. Lingering just behind him was a strange girl, who was clearly no stranger to these beaches. She had tan skin, salty hair and menacing tattoo painted over cheek, up her nose and to her forehead.

“This is Emori,” Murphy gestured towards the girl, “Emori these are the assholes I live with.”

Jasper and Monty smiled at her, clearly intrigued by the new addition to the group. Clarke and Bellamy shared a worried look. A machete appeared in Octavia’s hand and she began to twirl it from her seat on the back of the truck.

Murphy caught onto their suspicion pretty quickly and added, “She’s from around here, I bet she can help us out.”

This seemed to grab Clarke’s attention; she quickly stood and held her hand out to Emori.

“I’m Clarke,” she said, sounding more like a politician than a homeless drifter, “You wouldn’t happen to know where we can find water?”

“There’s not much out here in the Deadzone,” Emori spoke, “Besides coconuts and rain the only water you can get is from town.”

“The Deadzone?” Jasper echoed, “This sounds promising.”

“Yeah, what the hell is that?” Bellamy added with crossed arms.

“These beaches are uninhabited for a reason,” Emori articulated, looking around at the delinquent, “And I thought you mainlanders were supposed to be smart,” she laughed, “We can’t get by on tourism alone so the government sells patches of land like this to corporations for testing. Though this beach is safe, I wouldn’t want to be here for too long.”

“Even in Hawaii we can’t escape the corporate bullshit,” Bellamy groaned.

Clarke tried to ignore him as the rest of the group sighed in agreement.

“So were squatting here, that’s not too surprising,” Clarke spoke, looking at Emori intently, “But what are they testing?”

“Pesticides,” Emori spat the word like it was a curse, “They’re destroying our native land. That’s why these beaches and forests are Grounder hunting grounds, they’re trying to destroy these businesses before they destroy us.”

“Grounders,” Octavia exclaimed, finally looking up from her machete, “Are you Trikru?”

Clarke and Murphy shared a confused look. Murphy new from the first time he met Lincoln that he was part of a gang, but a gang of political vigilantes? And to think their mess couldn’t get any messier.

“Sankru,” Emori corrected, “Well I used to be-”

“So what your saying is that this land is not only corporate owned, but also taken over by a gang of natives, who could potentially get us into trouble even more trouble?” Bellamy huffed from beside Clarke.

“Basically, but where we are, right here, is completely uninhabited. The only Grounder here is me.”

“Wait what do you mean you used to be,” Clarke questioned, taking another step towards Emori, “Why are you here.”

“I’m hiding,” Emori said, her voice harsh, challenging, “Same as you.”

They held eye contact, strong, unwavering. Maybe it was for too long, maybe not long enough.

Clarke nodded.

“You can stay,” Bellamy nodded in agreement before catching Murphy’s gaze.

“Hey, are you hungry?” Jasper piped in.

“We have potato chips,” Monty added with a smile. Emori returned the smile, her eyes glowing with a new light. Maybe all that hope she used to have wasn’t entirely lost to the flames.

“Cool sword,” Murphy heard her say 5o Octavia, “I can show you the best way to sharpen it.”

“Murphy,” Bellamy turned his name into a command as he grabbed his friend’s arm.

“What the hell man,” Bellamy whispered.

“She needed help, Bell,” Murphy spoke, his voice indifferent but Bellamy could see how much he cared in his eyes, “I wasn’t just going to let her starve.”

“She could be dangerous,” Bellamy remarked.

“If anyone's dangerous here it's us,” Murphy spat, his voice laced with its usual venom. He was just about to turn away when he saw Miller approaching from the beach.

“You guys!” Miller screamed, or cried, or laughed. “You guys aren’t going to believe this.”

Miller’s voice was slurred and excited and everything about it was completely wrong. He could barely walk in a straight line.

“Mermaids,” he grinned, “Mermaids, can’t you see them?”

“Miller, how many of Monty’s shrooms did you take?” Bellamy laughed.

But just as he laughed Miller collapsed, coughing and gasping with an empty water bottle in his hand.

This was not good.

“Fuck!” Clarke cursed as she ran towards Miller. Now he was completely passed out, “What’s wrong with him?”

Emori walked over, calmly examining his face, his hands, and the empty bottle by his side.

“The water,” she spoke, her eyes wide, her voice grim, “It’s poisoned.”

Chapter Text

When Emori was a little girl she dreamt of cars. Bright red Ferraris and Electric Blue Camaros speeding down dusty roads. The race was never ending, but it only counted from dawn ‘til dusk. She didn’t know much about cars, except that with some tinted windows and a killer engine everything no one would know who she was. She’d be the nameless legend. The faceless street racer kicking up highway dust. It was a lonely dream, but with Emori’s abandoned home and broken nose childhood everything seemed lonely. In fact, Emori preferred it that way. But she never anticipated to be driving for anyone but herself (or her brother, but his name was too bitter to even say in her thoughts).

Now, Emori was sitting behind the steering wheel, going 75 down the road in a rickety and stolen Chevrolet. She had a firm right-hand grip on the wheel while Murphy managed the gear (Emori was never much good at using the stick shift anyway). Clarke sat anxiously in the backseat, leaning towards the front on her elbows.

With Emori’s expertise and Clarke’s out of the blue medical skills, Miller’s situation turned out to be decent. Not lethal, but not necessarily good either. Monty managed to translate his ramblings, revealing that he’d found a running tap at the old campsite (and being the intelligent Blake Militia Member he was, Miller drank the shit without a second thought).

Emori clicked on the windshield wipers to brush away the remaining leaves that had hid her car so well in the trees not too far from Clarke’s truck. Murphy watched her knuckles whiten on the wheel, her other hand, being the mystery that it was, was tucked under her left thigh and well out of Murphy’s view. The Bitch or the Bird or whatever pretentious name Clarke gave her truck, would’ve been too risky to drive following their incident.

Emori left the wipers going-dry and squeaking-as if to fill the void of silent worry that had formed as they drove. Murphy flipped through the radio, Clarke tapped a beat on her legs, Emori kept a hazy focus on the road.

“So how much time do we have till Miller dies?” Murphy joked, courageously breaking the heavy silence, “Because I’d kill for burrito right now.”

“We should get back at soon as possible just incase his symptoms worsen,” Emori assured, “But he will live.”

“You really know a lot about the poison Miller drank,” Clarke spoke, her voice more unsettling then the radio static.

“Yes,” is all Emori said in reply, finally turning off the wipers and leaning back in her seat. She looked at Murphy for a brief second, her eyes all dark and brimming with mystery.

“Why is that?” Clarke challenged, catching Emori’s eyes in the rearview.

“Because I’ve seen it before,” Emori quipped sharply.

“You’ve seen it before?-“

“Just listen to me,” Emori said, keeping her voice level as she interrupted Clarke. Her words were jarring in her cold, balanced tone, “I am doing you a favor. You are in my car. I could have left you and your friends for dead but I didn’t, so don’t risk it by questioning my generosity.” Emori sighed, finally looking away from the road to meet Murphy’s soft gaze, “John asked for my trust, now, I ask for yours.”

Murphy’s lip quirked in a half smile. He nodded before rubbing his nose and looking back towards the road. Clarke said nothing and leaned back in her seat. Suddenly the truck slowed as they approached the vast parking lot of some little grocery store.

Emori looked at Murphy. He shifted the gear as she pushed the pedal. She bit her lips as he bit his nails. They were oddly similar, Murphy thought. It was as if they had known each other forever but had miraculously forgot they ever met. It was as if, through some twisted hand of fate, Murphy found a soul just as lost as he was.

Clarke sighed as Murphy pushed the gear into park.

“Let’s be quick then,” she said solemnly.

________

When Octavia was a little girl she dreamed of a beach. Soft sand, a cotton breeze, a cool, cool sea. Even with her bruised wrists and black eyes she smiled at the thought that one day she would be swimming, laughing. That one day she would be would be free.

She remember the penny postcard Bellamy had given her all those years ago, slightly crumpled, with a real sunset burning orange and pink over a dark sea, and the word Aloha written in a curly font. Or maybe it was a sunrise, she could never tell.

So when Bellamy swept her up from foster care a month ago with two tickets to Kauai, she ran away to her long lost fantasy without looking back. But when she imagined these beaches she never saw herself running from cops or stealing to survive or swimming just to get the blood off her skin. She never imagined befriending two dorky potheads and an ultra-rich surfer chick. She definitely didn’t see herself wrestling Nathan Miller and trying to pour water down his throat.

“You need to drink!” Octavia huffed as she finally pushed Miller down and got him to open his mouth. Sand was flying everywhere as Nathan flapped around, he’d been delusional all day and wouldn’t stop saying that this one coconut was his son.

“Where’s Nathan Junior?” He exclaimed, knocking the water bottle out of Octavia’s hand as he reached for his coconut.

“Goddamn it!” Octavia groaned as she collapsed on the sand beside Jasper, “That was our last water bottle.”

“And his fever is only getting worse,” Monty added, feeling Miller’s forehead as he lay curled in the sand with Nathan Junior in his arms.

“At least he’s happy,” Jasper joked, “Bellamy would really get a kick out of this.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m gonna kick him in the balls if he doesn’t show up soon,” Octavia added bitterly.

“We should really get him in a tent,” Monty said with a voice full of worry, “He needs to rest.”

“Monty,” Nathan whispered from the sand, holding out his coconut, “You’re the father.”

“I am?!” Monty played along with a smile, ”Maybe we should take him inside, I think he needs a nap.”

“You’re right. Come on little Nate,” Miller grinned down at his coconut, “We’re such good parents.”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Octavia groaned while Jasper and Monty shoved Miller into his tent, “I’m getting food.”

Octavia walked away from their new campsite and towards the trees, trying not to think about how thirsty she was. If Clarke didn’t come back soon Miller wouldn’t be the only one in the group on the brink of death.

As the sand turned into to dirt she felt something squish beneath her feet. It was a purple orchid. Octavia looked up and grinned at the trail of flowers leading into the trees. She practically ran through the bushes until the flowers ended by a large, dark tree, and leaning against it with his warming smile was Lincoln.

“Where have you been!” Octavia laughed as she launched herself into his arms.

“I’ve missed you,” is all he replied as he ran a hand through Octavia’s wild hair and placed passionate kiss on her chapped lips.

“I missed you too,” Octavia spoke only an inch away from his mouth, “Do you know why we’re here?”

Lincoln sighed, looking down at O with his hands still holding her cheeks. She loved the way he held her, the way he never let go.

“Everyone knows. It’s been on the news all day. Two cops brutally assaulted by a group of missing underage kids in Kilauea. I knew it was you.”

“We’re fucked.” Octavia shook her head and pressed it into Lincoln’s chest. He smelled like salt, comfort and surfboard wax.

“No, you’re not,” Lincoln assured her. He held her gaze, so strong and caring against her shaking eyes.

“It will be okay, you’re safe here.”

“Lincoln,” Octavia turned his name to stone with her voice. She took a step away from him, out of his arms. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Tavia-“ he begged.

“Just stop,” Octavia exhaled, “Please. Tell me the truth about your people. Tell me why we found a Grounder girl starving on this beach because she was hiding from your gang.”

The sun was slowly fading and rain was well on its way with clouds looming overhead, much like Octavia’s thoughts (which, due to Lincoln’s dark eyes, were worsening by the moment).

“You wouldn’t understand,” Lincoln tried to explain as he took a careful step towards Octavia, “The Grounders are one the biggest gangs in the Pacific. They’re my blood. My family. We do good things here, we protect people who have nothing, but…. Sometimes we have to do bad things to achieve good, that is our way.”

The rain had begun, but the sound of Octavia’s thoughts were louder than the stormy music of the trees. She loved Lincoln, but now, looking at his tattoos in the rain, she realized she didn’t know a thing about his life. Did she even know him at all?

“What kind of bad things?” Octavia asked, but her voice gave way on her. She felt like she was choking.

Lincoln opened his mouth, but all that escaped his lips was an exhalation held far too long. He couldn’t tell her, so he watched as Octavia looked towards the ground while terrible thoughts ran wild through her head.

“So was it the Grounders who poisoned the water here?” Octavia finally asked, her voice shaking with betrayal, “Are you the reason my friend is sick?”

“I don’t know,” Lincoln said, his voice stony as if he was talking to a peer rather than the girl he loved, “I’m trying to get away from that, I’m trying to do good, to protect you.”

Octavia didn’t know what to do besides return his gaze.

“Sometimes,” Lincoln sighed with his hand on her shoulder, “It’s safer not to know the whole truth.”

Sometimes, Octavia thought, it’s safer to not keep secrets.

“Octavia!”

She turned, recognizing the rough voice of her brother through the trees.

“I have to go,” she said without looking at Lincoln. She tried to run but he grabbed her hand in earnest.

“I love you,” he spoke, his words like a plea.

“Then don’t lie to me,” Octavia replied sharply.

“Coming Bell!”

Lincoln watched as she ran, his breath wavering, until she was engulfed by the trees.

_____

In aisle 13, Emori and Murphy stood before a shelf of holistic herbs and medicines, something that must have been characteristic to all Hawaiian grocery stores.

Emori peered at the shelves in an oversized tee and bare legs (her left hand, as Murphy noticed, was carefully wrapped in a bandana and perched behind her back). She was running a finger over pill bottles, glass jars, essential oils and herbs Murphy all thought looked like weed. He wouldn’t be surprised if they sold that here too. Finally she found what she wanted, flinging jars and bottles into Murphy’s basket so quickly he thought they might break.

“Activated charcoal, valerian oil, shit I can’t pronounce and… Lavender body lotion?”

Murphy quirked his eyebrows at Emori, looking from their prospective purchases and to her reluctant smile.

“That’s for me,” she laughed as she reached down to grab some herbs and Murphy was relieved to see she was actually wearing shorts under her shirt.

She caught Murphy’s confused look as she tossed a dried herb into their basket.

“It’s sage,” she told him, “For spiritual cleansing.”

“Yeah were gonna need a lot of that,” Murphy quipped, taking his time to sniff some candles before they left the aisle. Emori tossed a bottle of biodegradable shampoo into the basket, and then some soap.

“You know Clarke’s buying this, right?” Murphy told her as they walked towards the cashiers.

Emori raised her eyebrows as if to say, that’s kind of the goddamn point.

“Well in that case,” Murphy smirked, “I’m getting myself a toothbrush.”

“You don’t have a toothbrush?”

“Bellamy took it-uh, the guy with the curly hair and freckles.”

“Gross,” Emori remarked.

“That’s what bros are for, right?” Murphy joked, but he stopped in his tracks to look at the newsstand that had abruptly caught his eye. Besides the word GRIFFIN, the headline was complete gibberish to Murphy (who’s dyslexia only seemed to worsen with age). And under it was the recognizable picture of President Theoloniass and Vice Asshole Griffin standing side by side. And beside it was a picture of a woman holding a girl. A crying, blond haired girl. A girl that looked a hell of a lot like Clarke.

“Come on!” Emori huffed as she grabbed Murphy’s arm, “Clarke’s already at the register.”

____

In aisle 7, Clarke was running to throw a couple extra large boxes of cereal and oatmeal into her already overflowing cart. She had gotten her hands on the biggest pack of water bottles in the store and miraculously some purifying tablets. At least now they had a chance at survival. Well, hopefully, if Miller hadn’t keeled over in the time they’d been gone.

Once the cart was undeniably full, and Clarke was positive she and her friends wouldn’t starve, she made her way to the cashier. But what she saw on the newsstand turned her bones into stone. Her fingers fluttered in shock as the cart rolled slowly into a stand of candy bars.

THE ASSASINATION OF JAKE GRIFFIN: A MONTH LATER.

It was the gunshot, a horrific crack in the air like bones broken to dust.

A month after the tragic events, the Griffins and Jahas still grieve…

She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. She could her herself gasping as Wells’ blood painting her fingers.

Abby Griffin says that her daughter Clarke, age 19, is taking time off and away from public eye.

She could hear her mother’s sobs as she pressed her fathers wound, his life pouring out in her hands. She could taste the champagne in her mouth. She could smell the smoke.

Wells Jaha, best friend of Clarke, was also 19 when he was shot and killed. The same gunman who also assassinated Vice President Griffin and attempted to kill President Jaha. Suspects are in custody, police believe the gunman…

Clarke steadied her breath, aware of the slight shake of her hands as she pulled a magazine over the blaring Newspaper headline. She then reached for the cart to balance herself, but it was more an effort to hold something real. Apparently, avoiding her grief by running away to surf and swim had turned her mind into madness. Her head was full of nightmares she could never unsee.

“How’s that hangover treating you Princess?”

Clarke looked up, too distraught to glare at Murphy, the guy (who in less then 24 hours of knowing her) had already exhausted every joke to her nickname. She also noticed his eyes, which were gravitating from the newsstand and back to Clarke. Did he know?

“Like shit,” Clarke tried to laugh, to seem okay, but her heart was still running wild in her chest. What would happen if Murphy figured out who she was? What would her new friends think of her if they knew?

“Let’s check out quick,” she added, “We need to get out of here.”

_____

Back at camp, Emori mixed up a disgusting looking antidote for Miller and she and Clarke treated him until he was docile (and devoid of coconut delusions). By dinnertime their campsite had come alive with colorful tents, a weed scented bonfire and fruits neatly sliced by Octavia and her machete.

Still wet from the salty sea, Clarke cooked over the fire, listening to Emori and Octavia trade stories while Jasper and Monty traded a joint. It felt, oddly enough, like they were safe. Like on this messy beach a couple of teenage delinquents had found home.

Everyone seemed content to roast hotdogs and pass around tequila and talk about everything besides themselves. Everyone besides Bellamy Blake (and Miller, who was passed out in his tent). He was sitting down the beach, on some jagged rocks smoking his cigarettes and mulling over his thoughts. Who was Clarke? And why was she helping them? And even more importantly, why was Bellamy letting her do it? It was against everything he stood for, but then again, what did he have to stand for these days?

He exhaled a thick cloud then looked back to the bonfire. He could see Octavia laughing as Jasper danced. He saw Clarke grinning with her guitar. Even Murphy was smiling with the girl who washed up that morning.

Bellamy looked back over the sea. Dark and swelling, angry and beautiful all at once. There was something off with Princess Clarke, he thought. And tomorrow he was going to figure it out.