Chapter Text
Clarke’s head pounded, her whole body ached, but she kept her eyes closed and her mouth shut as she came to. Enough training had taught her never to reveal anything about her situation before she knew more.
The room smelled faintly metallic, but the stench of human feces, sweat, vomit, and decay overpowered everything. Groans and moans echoed around the cathedral like space and a draft of cold air rushed over her barely clothed body. She was wearing something lighter than parchment—they took her clothes.
They undressed her.
She swallowed hard and opened her eyes, greeted with the thin bars of a tiny cage, something her parents might’ve used for a dog who was misbehaving. Worse, the rows and rows of them, all filled to the brim with people just like her. Well, southerners. But just like her.
“Shopta, azgeda?” What’s up, azgeda. A voice mumbled and Clarke looked over at the source of the trigedasleng. A trikru woman, someone she faintly recognizable, a familiar shadow with her eyes sunken in, arms like kindling.
Clarke blinked a few times. “Onya?” She asked. The woman’s mouth formed a thin line.
“Jok,” Fuck, Anya mumbled. “Ai don get in em don’s yu.” I knew it was you.
“Ste maun-de?” Is this the mountain? Clarke asked. Anya nodded.
“Monin. En’s yu brana hou.” Welcome. It’s your new home.
The days passed horrifically slowly, Anya hadn’t been able to keep track of the days before Clarke woke up as there was no light or regular meals. Clarke’s best estimate, based on her perfect sleep schedule, put them there for about a week.
The maunkru were dumb, was what Clarke learned first. For one, they drained someone dry each time. Instead of letting them recover, they killed them. They went in an orderly line too, the second you were strung up you knew you wouldn’t be off until your blood stopped pumping.
Clarke and Anya hadn’t been too far in line, starting a little to the back which meant they had time to lose weight before they got strung up. Another dumbass thing. The whole setup was dumb.
They spent most of their time sleeping, neither one of them felt up to talking. Sometimes, someone would sing from a distant cage. The whole room would go silent and everyone would listen, leaning up against their bars for the sound of someone, anyone, doing something different. Those people usually got moved farther ahead in line.
By the time the hung corpses were visible to Clarke, giving her days, or possibly hours to go, she matched Anya almost identically. Her eyes were gray, her limbs weak, all she could do was stare at the ceiling of their crate and think about everything she possibly could, for as long as she could.
A clang sounded and the room went silent, a vent had popped off from a panel on the wall. A head poked out, and thrust himself all the way through, his body a little bit too big to fit in a tight space.
He was wearing a garment similar to theirs, though brightly colored, and he looked as healthy as they all had when they first arrived. His eyes widened as he looked at them, and Clarke watched him gag at the smell, leaning over on his knee like he might vomit then and there.
He had no tattoos and no scars and looked unafraid, unconcerned.
He walked around the cages and Anya leaned closer to the bars, reaching a hand out. He knelt, staring into her eyes and there was something about him, like a distant ringing had sounded off from somewhere deep and hidden away in Clarke’s mind.
“Anya?” He asked, he took her hand but didn’t seem bothered by the grime, just concerned.
“Wells,” Anya rasped back, maybe the first word she’d said in weeks.
Wells. That name was familiar right? Clarke wracked her brains. She’d had a friend, hadn’t she? Once? A little boy who kept her out of trouble? She’d had a friend. This couldn’t be him though. He was away on a spaceship, this couldn’t be Wells.
“I’m gonna get you out of here,” he said, still holding Anya’s hand, her gaze. It struck Clarke that he was treating Anya with humanity. Dignity.
It also struck her that he was speaking gonasleng. Well, English. With no accent. A guy with no marks like that couldn’t have been training to be a soldier for very long. Why didn’t he have an accent?
Anya nodded, leaning her head against the bars. He fiddled with the lock, and Clarke watched him, watching the way the knuckles of his hand moved, the curve of his brow. Wells was not a common name, not in azgeda.
Why didn’t he have an accent?
He stood up, taking in the room again, and ran to where the people were strung up. He grabbed spare needles from a container and ran back to the cage, sorting through the tiny gears.
He did it for too long and Clarke kept glancing at the door, glancing at Anya who looked doubtful, glancing at everyone else who was desperately reaching for him.
“Wels,” she whispered, he ignored her. She wasn’t alone in her plea. “Wels, yu souda klir ai of,” Wells, you have to let me out, she continued. “Wels, ai laik fisa, ai kru gaf ai in.” Wells, I am a healer, my people need me.
He kept ignoring her. Easily ignoring her. Clarke swallowed hard. He didn’t have an accent. Anya leaned back against the bars, shutting her eyes.
The lock clicked open and the door swung wide, Anya almost fell through.
“Hurry,” he muttered. “We don’t have much time.”
“Wells,” Clarke grabbed his wrist and he stared at her, he blinked as he met her eyes. “Wells, I’m a doctor.”
“I—”
“I’m a doctor, Wells,” she tried again. “Please, I have to get out of here. I have to help my family.”
He kept staring at her.
“Em pleni,” Enough, Anya hissed. “We will return for her. Come.”
A chime sounded and Wells looked to the front of the room where a door was opening. He pushed Anya back into the crate and huddled in there with her. He passed the needles to Clarke.
“Try to catch the first two gears,” he whispered.
Clarke nodded. The maunon, someone Clarke had watched orchestrate the harvesting, made a few marks on her papers, took a look at the brightly lit screens, and left. Clarke made her lock click as soon as the door closed.
She stumbled out as Wells looped an arm under Anya, almost dragging her.
“You’ll have to carry yourself,” he told her.
She nodded and as she stumbled she felt hands, so many hands, catch her. Balance her. Where she went in one direction someone was there to hold her.
“Gyon au, wanfisa,” Go, wanfisa, one person whispered and Clarke had to keep moving but the thought made her heart stop. Had they heard of her? All the way down here? Did they believe it too?
Wells led them through a door only to be met with a wall. The floor opened up and they fell down a ramp. Clarke felt the hands still on her, still catching her, and realized there still were hands on her. These ones just didn’t have a choice.
They'd fallen into a container of corpses. Though there were still groans Clarke knew enough about corpses to know they were still corpses. She' d seen enough.
Wells dragged himself out but Clarke couldn’t help but gaze around the faces. Did she know them? Did she recognize them? There was one that was only fifteen, his tattoo said. Fifteen.
He pulled Anya out and then Clarke, gazing at her with a furrowed brow. She looked away.
“I think we’re out,” he said. Clarke saw a pile of clothing and made for it, grabbing for anything that might fit.
“Yu gaf in ban oson kru au?” You want to abandon our people? Anya demanded.
“‘So nou gada taim in,” We don’t have time. Clarke said.
“Good idea,” Wells said to Clarke, “c’mon Anya, we don’t have time to waste.”
“There is no ‘we,’” Anya spat at him. “I won’t leave my people.”
Something sounded distantly and Clarke perked up, staring at where it had come from. Beside her, Anya was feeling the ground.
“We need to get help,” Wells said. “We can’t do this alone.”
“Hush,” Anya told him.
“Sis komba raun,” Six coming, Clarke said, “Mebi mou.” Maybe more.
“Are people coming?” Well’s whispered. He grabbed a nearby rock, and moved to stand in front of Anya. She grabbed a rock too and Clarke rolled her eyes.
“Branwoda,” Morons, Clarke hissed. “Get in the cart, we can’t fight them all.”
They followed her lead and reapers descended on them, piling on more corpses that had slipped off, and pushing the cart down the tracks. It could’ve been hours that they were on that cart, the mountain would know they were gone by now.
When they finally came to a stop Wells poked his head over the edge of the cart, as Clarke and Anya remained still.
“I think we should go now,” Wells whispered. “They look distracted.”
Anya helped Clarke out and Wells played lookout until they made it safely. Then he dropped out as well, leading them away from the reapers, and from where they’d come. Clarke made a mark on the wall as he did.
“What are they doing to us?” Anya demanded as she almost dragged the two of them into a run.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I think it’s something to do with the radiation.”
Clarke made another mark.
“It’s like an invisible gas that we’re immune to, but the mountain men aren’t,” Wells said. “It can kill them in minutes.”
He dragged them towards the right in a fork but Clarke noticed one of her marks.
“Disha’s izi,” this is useless, Clarke said. She nodded at it to Anya.
“Dise,” this way, Anya moved back the way they had come and Wells stopped.
“What are you guys doing?” He asked. “The reapers will find you!”
“You go your way, we’ll go ours,” Anya said.
“We can get out if we work together,” Wells said.
Anya snarled. “There is no we.”
He looked at Clarke. “You too? I saved your life.”
Clarke met his gaze. “Thank you,” she said. “I mean it.”
She nodded at Anya and the two of them left, leaving Wells in the dust.
“Yu fig au em na kik thru?” You think he’ll make it? Anya asked.
“Einathing,” Not my problem, Clarke said. She could feel Anya’s eyes on her as they ran, headed towards the sound of the reapers where they had made their first wrong turn.
“Yu azgeda haiki ste azas,” You azgeda really are cold, Anya said.
“Taim yu gaf in bak op…” If you want to go back… Clarke trailed off and Anya scoffed and shook her head. The reapers were gone by the time they arrived, the embers of their fire still warm.
“Em don gyon au gon Wels,” They went towards Wells, Anya said.
“Sha,” Yes, Clarke said. “Os. Ron ‘sir op mou taim.” Good, buys us some time.
Anya shook her head. “Em don kep ‘sir sonraun klin.” He saved your life.
“Ai don biyo mochof,” I said thank you. Clarke said. Distantly, a piercing squeal hit the air, and the hair on Clarke’s arms stood up.
“Maunkru,” Anya said. “Em hod ripa daun.” It controls the reapers.
“Ena,” So, Clarke said. “Em klir.” It’s safe.
“Miya,” Come here, Anya said, heading towards the sound. Clarke grit her teeth but followed. If they did escape, Clarke wondered if Anya would tell the commander Clarke was an obedient soldier.
Just what she needed—a reputation for following trikru orders.
They caught sight of Wells, walking with a fayagon at his back and two maunkru flanking him. His jaw was clenched but he was silent, eyes sweeping the tunnel. For a moment, as Clarke watched him, their eyes met.
He immediately faced forward, his expression not changing one iota.
A practiced liar, then.
“I bet you’re excited,” one of the maunkru said. “You’re gonna get the privilege of bleeding for the outsiders you love so much.” They reached a lit up keypad and pressed a few buttons. “Alpha delta two, we’ve reached the intake. One prisoner in custody.”
“Your mission was to bring back all of them,” the keypad responded.
The guy at Wells’s back lowered his gun. “Are you kidding me?” He demanded.
“The outsider cannot be allowed to leave this mountain,” the keypad continued, unhindered.
Wells made eye contact with Clarke again, and his back leg sweeped out, knocking out the fayagon at his back. Anya and Clarke leaped, rocks in their hands, bringing them down on the hard plastic shell of their masks.
“Get the masks!” Wells called and Clarke ripped at the weird, almost jaw like protrusion. The mask came off easily, too easily, and the man was gasping in her hands.
He was—he was gasping in her hands.
He had green eyes, and a pox scar on the top of his forehead. He had freckles.
He was gasping in her hands as his face slowly clouded over with inflammation and she could save him she could save him—
“Wanfisa!” Anya grabbed at her wrist. Wells was watching her.
Clarke swallowed hard and forced herself away from the man that she could save that was gasping in her hands that had a pox scar on his forehead that had freckles that had green eyes. She looked away and he was gone, he never existed even. Yes, that was it. He never existed.
They ran, the sounds of shouting maunkru at their backs, and Anya must’ve led them by her nose because before long Clarke was inundated with sounds of a deep, guttural roar.
Anya didn’t hesitate, using her running start to make a graceful leap down the largest waterfall Clarke had ever seen.
“Fuck,” Wells said. He looked at Clarke. “I can’t swim.”
The maunkru approached and Clarke held out her hand. “I won’t let you drown.”
He met her eyes, then furrowed his brow. “What did you say your name was?”
“No time!” She grabbed his arm and pulled him down with her.