Chapter Text
Trikru Territory
[51AP (51 years After Pulse), eleven years before the fall]
The sun in their clearing is bright enough to blind a Citizen. The Trikru though have fire-black painted around their eyes, enough to cut the glare and allow them to revel in the heat. Barwyn wears hers dark and spread from nose to hairline marking her as Heda, commander of her people. It is the longest day of the season and with the sun at its peak, there’s a celebration for all children that will learn the spear. In a circle of tents in dense forests, the clan dances and sings with the rhythm of drums.
Lexa is the youngest of the group only in her sixth summer. Barwyn is her Mother by birth but no one need know it as Heda loves all her people equally. Lexa must earn her spear just like any other young one. She is small, even among other children, kicking and biting and scratching to prove herself. They kick up dust in their fight, blue-greys, blacks and red-browns of their clothes disappearing under a uniform beige.
Little Lexa stands on the throat of her opponent until they tap out defeated, and the aunties laugh and clap at their antics. But Lexa with black soot smudged around her eyes and blood in her mouth isn’t playing.
On the same afternoon Anya, a young Brussin receives the first mark on her shoulder, burned to remember an honourable kill. In only her fifteenth year Anya has excelled past any other her age. Barwyn speaks with Anya longer than the others and Lexa watches, jealous until the girl moves to stand right beside her. With eyes sparkling above her fresh warpaint Anya tells her that they’ll start training tomorrow, Lexa will be Anya’s second.
Lexa licks her lips to taste dirt and blood. She doesn’t ask why she won’t continue to train with the rest of the children. The way they look at her is reason enough. She’s walked away from too many fights with her opponent prone on the ground, cradling broken limbs; most children avoid her now.
That night, Lexa sleeps in Anya's tent with other Brussin women. She cries. She is cold, the older women snore in tents beside theirs, and her new bed is stretched tighter than her old one.
Lexa startles when her bed seems to move on its own, but she calms realising it is only Anya pulling her closer.
"Dream well, Little One.”
Lexa falls asleep with Anya's gentle hand stroking through her hair and over her cheek.
//
In the woods months later Lexa is hunting.
“Shh," Anya whispers an order for Lexa to quiet her breathing.
Lexa tries to steady herself, but they have come so far and her feet are hurting, her arms are heavy, and her hands ache from gripping a spear so much bigger than she is.
She made the weapon herself, but it still feels foreign.
“Shh,” Anya whispers again, raising a steady hand to point through the trees. A rabbiton is visible in the grass far ahead, long ears twisting, alert for any sound.
Lexa concentrates and slows her breathing to match Anya's. She adjusts her spear for a more balanced grip even if she can't throw it yet. Her arms are too small, too weak. She is too small. Anya assures her though, she will grow.
With Anya's nod, they move – low, swift and silent they are on the rabbiton before he can raise his head. An ear twitches then Anya releases an arrow into the animal’s neck.
The rabbiton is still breathing and twitching under their arrow when they approach. Anya hangs back as Lexa draws her dagger. "Your life joins mine, your soul goes on," she whispers her thanks.
Anya mutters the same words so she knows she had it right.
Lexa slips the knife into his heart with a trembling hand.
//
The leaves bronze and fall then grow again in spring before Lexa can lift her spear to hunt.
Anya's voice is a persistent accompaniment to day after day of training. "One more time Little Lex." She pushes her through lifting and running and running and lifting. "Just a bit further Little One." Lexa looks at Anya like she hates her more than once, but then Anya is warm and stern and shows her so many new things.
The first time Lexa throws her spear hard enough to hit her target Anya is so proud and glad, she brings strawberries for them to celebrate together.
//
Lexa earns her first braid a year later. Barwyn cuts a glass bead from her own hair to be threaded into Lexa's and the girl feels pride in her chest full enough to burst. When Barwyn walks away from her to speak with a young Brussin she looks at her Spear blade now clean of blood.
Anya sneaks up behind her and taps on the wrong shoulder to make her novice spin around on the spot. "You did well Little Lex," she says with a laugh.
When Lexa stops spinning she folds her arms with a frowning huff. "You’ll have to stop calling me that, you know."
“Only in front of other people." Anya shrugs and fingers the new braid hanging in Lexa’s hair, her expression both proud and sad. "And we have a few more seasons yet.
Lexa rolls her eyes, and pouts pulling a frustrated sigh from Anya.
"You’ll lose your eyes to the back of your head if you’re not careful.”
In the hours after her ceremony Anya tells her that she will be learning more than the hunt. "You ready for the real lessons Little Lex?" Anya is smiling without sadness this time.
Lexa stows her spear across her back and follows Anya through the trees.
//
“Again," Anya says jabbing hard fingers into Lexa's back. "Up straight.’
Lexa straightens her spine then pulls another arrow tight against the bowstring. Her arms quiver, sweat slips down her temple and she longs for the weight of her spear. It has a shorter range but is more within her control. She looses the arrow and misses again. She sighs, draws another from her quiver and continues to recite her lessons.
"Four clans with ours hold the land from Polis to the sands. The city is ours." She misses the target again. "The free-way is ours to the river. The river we share. The north hills are ours to the Vine Grove. The vines we share." Another arrow sails past the tree and frustrated tears sting her eyes. She knocks another arrow, her breath wavering. "The Wildenbeasts will roam throughout but our people hold to our own borders."
A thunk sounds as her arrow hits the tree just high of the mark.
“Good," Anya remarks then prompts, "And why?"
Lexa grimaces, hating the feel of Feathers under her fingertips. "Because the sun blinds us all. And peace wassa hard one." Her arrow veers left again and she reaches for another, but her quiver is empty.
Anya sets a gentle hand on Lexa’s shoulder, soothing her frustrations. She kneels down to meet Lexa’s eyes. " Binds us all," she corrects gently. "And peace was hard won."
Lexa swallows her frustrated tears. Anya has earned a fresh mark on her shoulder. She will teach Lexa everything she needs to know.
//
They continue to train through winter. Her recitations continue "Citimen fear the trikru and the sun-fire we wield." Her aim is true but still short of the mark. "There are children born among the Citemen with the sunfire and it is our duty to protect them.”
//
The spring brings her greater precision with the bow, and Anya changes their training and demands that Lexa run. Now her targets are moving, and her belly will stay empty if she doesn’t hit her mark.
“There will be times when your skill with a bow will determine your dinner plans, Little Lexa,” Anya reminds her. “This isn’t just a swinging target, this is your lunch.”
Lexa tries to think of the tree branches as food while also remembering her lessons. "The rabbitton, foxen, cattish and bambin are game,” she pants. “But wildenbeast are sacred."
First, second, and third arrows all find their mark but the fourth falls short as does the fifth and Lexa has to start over again.
“Now tell me again, Little Lex," Anya says. "Why are the mountains not ours.”
//
It’s highest summer before Lexa can hit every target and still she itches to snap the bowstring in half and just land the same mark with her spear. Anya laughs as always though the shine in her gaze is not quite as strong. She wears a third and fourth mark on her shoulder now, and hardly ever calls her Little Lex anymore.
//
Trikru Territory
[55AP, seven years before the fall]
On a warm night in Lexa’s tenth summer Anya gifts her a short-sword. "You’re joining a raid in the morning, Little Lex.”
Lexa looks over the blade with wide cautious eyes. The leather is hard, fresh and black. The blade clean. "Why?" she asks, not looking up.
“Barwyn wants you to see." Anya settles herself on her bed with all the supplies for her arrows. "There are Citimen approaching our border and we will take them.’
“Why these ones?" she asks.
Anya shrugs, fletching feathers to an arrow shaft with worn nimble fingers. "They have something we want.’
Lexa accepts this and unsheathes her new sword, plays with the way the light reflects off the blade.
"Then I guess I’ll see."
She puts aside the sword and picks up a clean arrow shaft from the pile. Anya halts in her work fixing a shard of bright steel to her new arrow.
"I guess you will,” she says.
Lexa hums as she picks up a clutch of feathers.
In the morning Anya walks at Lexa's pace through the trees, twenty paces behind the Brussin. Her quiver is full, Lexa crafting most of the arrows herself.
The heat pooling in each shadow is stifling, the sun harsh but welcome on a hunting day. Lexa ignores the sweat streaming down her neck and sides, just wiping it away from her eyes before it can smudge her warpaint.
In sight of the freeway Barwyn looks back and Anya halts their pace. "Go on Little Lex. Find your spot. Then keep an eye on me."
Lexa looks around and then up before approaching the tree a few paces ahead. She scales the trunk, climbing through branches to the swaying treetops. The highway ahead is almost at eye-level, with stone pillars holding it high above the plain. She can see a convoy in the distance, approaching them fast through the skeletons of cars scattered across the black.
Lexa focuses on becoming invisible, holding close to the trunk. They all must stay out of sight until the right moment. She fastens her grip on the rough bark of her tree and ignores the itching of her nose. She’s here to watch, to see and to understand. Barwyn, believes she is ready. Lexa aims to be ready.
The movement of her people by the freeway is almost invisible under thick underbrush. The Citimen up on their road will not see them. They stomp and holler and don’t watch the way that they should. It’s well known that their sight is narrow and limited. Compared to most trikru who could see and hear a mouse cleaning his whiskers at a hundred meters, the citimen are practically blind. They rely on guns and armour to keep them safe.
Two of the men in the convoy wear city leaders’ blue, with a dozen mercenary guards in black. Some wear the gold and red of the Church of Humanity and cower between their well-armed guards. So much firepower for those with burning suns sewn into their robes. Lexa feels the sun on her own skin, can feel the power of sun-fire building in her fingertips. She doesn’t understand why these men would want to wear such a pale imitation of the sun over their hearts when the sun herself is so bright overhead.
A light breeze shifts the leaves around her and stirs the branches over the Brussin. She freezes, worried the Citimen might see the warriors after all. The citimen guards carry guns around their hips and casually scan the wilds as they march. They walk as if safe on their concrete haven, steps heavy and voices sharp.
Suddenly, a stick cracks sharp as thunder on the other side of the freeway and draws the citimen away from the Brussin’s approach. Lexa shifts to sit square on her branch and watch.
The guards rush for the wrong edge, with guns raised and their back’s bared to attack.
A priest falls first with an arrow in her throat and blood spurting out to soak her robes. Blood bubbles out her mouth as well before her knees hit the ground. Another priest catches her and instead of helping, he pulls the body over himself as a shield.
That man will die soon, Lexa thinks with a grimace.
The Citimen guards turn too slowly and are met with a flurry of arrows. Two guardsmen fall with arrows dug into gaps in their armour, and the rest drop to shield themselves. The whole convoy drops, seeking shelter behind cars as well as each other. A rich blood-smell reaches Lexa in the trees hot and sweet and then the scene is quiet. She can hear broken glass shifting under soft bodies, the gentle groans of wounded.
In a wild rush, Heda Barwyn breaks from the trees, first into battle against the Citimen. A bullet hits her shoulder but she doesn’t flinch or even slow as twelve more Brussin follow behind her. They scale the netting stretched between true-ground and the roadway then leap fast over the edge. Anya is with them and she swings herself up with strong precise movements. A bullet ricochets off her chest plate making her gasp but she recovers quickly and in another two strides she slits the gunman’s throat.
As more guards open fire a Brussin stumbles, clutching at his leg. A second loses a soft section of his torso to a heavy gauge weapon blasting his flesh out in a hot burst of pink. The guard carrying that weapon loses his throat under the heat of Anya’s fiery blue grip.
Six guards fall under knives and arrows, then three citimen in plain clothes drop like stones. All of the Citimen who try to fight fall, until no one in the vibrant citimen colours remains standing.
Finally, a quiet returns. The only sounds are citimen whimpers and cicada thrum. Barwyn turns from the freeway to find Lexa in her hiding place. Even from this distance Lexa can feel the command. ‘ Wait. Watch. ’
Anya follows her Heda’s gaze, and meets Lexa's eyes with a smile. There’s blood on her cheek and she’s breathing hard, but she’s happy, confident.
The remaining citimen are pushed and jostled into a line on their knees, with their hands behind their heads. Barwyn walks up the line making eye contact with each of them. "You will make a choice," she says in the distinct Citimen phrasing. "Join us. Live as trikru. Or become meat for the wildenbeast."
A young man huffs a laugh. "Attack our convoy then ask us to join you? You really are all crazy." He’s tall and his voice is low.
Barwyn is turned away from Lexa's, but she can imagine her expression. This man will amuse her, maybe even impress her. He is broad shouldered and has the look of a worker, with tattoos similar to their own on his arms.
Barwyn draws her knife. "Your name?" she asks.
“Lincoln."
Barwyn surveys the man before continuing. "You may think you know who we are, Lincoln." She holds the knife with her usual delicate hand, sharp point resting on the front side of his shoulder. "You may have heard stories," Barwyn tears a hole in his shirt and uses the knife to push back the fabric. "And some of them are true." The blade point slices into Lincoln’s bared skin and draws a thin stream of blood.
A high pitched shout of "No, I can’t!" draws all their attention from Lincoln.
The coward priest – robes stained with blood – had survived the attack. He staggers to his feet with his cry and runs back the way the convoy had come. Lexa can hear his breath even from her place in the trees; all panic and weak lungs. He falls after thirty meters, tripping over his own feet and unable to get up again.
Barwyn continues. "Lincoln. All of you, join us. Or join him," she nods to the priest now crawling away on hands and knees.
All the prisoners watch, necks craned as a wildenbeast slips from the trees and onto the road. She’s a delicate Owlynx creeping forward on four padded feet, feathered nape slicked back on high alert as she watches them, watches the trees and watches her meal. The lynx body is thickly covered in golden fur with dark spots fading into black feathers at the neck. Her eyes shine over a short beak.
Small and gasping, the priest doesn't scream. He doesn’t get a chance to. The owlynx is merciful enough to kill him quickly – snips his throat with her delicate beak then lifts his corpse and leaves before more scavengers can arrive to challenge her claim.
Barwyn clears her throat and the prisoners turn back again. "As I was saying—"
She’s interrupted again, this time by a quiet grunt. Her blade has been twisting gradually into Lincoln’s shoulder, yet it's the first sound he’s made. Barwyn withdraws the blade then ignites the tip of her finger with blue sun-flame. The prisoners cringe, but Lexa feels excitement flutter in her chest.
Barwyn leans forward with her flaming finger raised at Lincoln's eye-level. She waits for him to cringe away. When he doesn't, she presses her finger into the knife wound, his flesh sizzles and seals. The man lets out a groan of pain. Not even the Brussin would hold it against him.
"Make your choice."
Barwyn turns back again to find Lexa in the trees and gives a minute nod. Lexa rushes to comply, slipping down branches to the ground. She makes too much noise. She's still learning and can work to be better.
From the ground she has an underside view of the freeway. Bright drops of blood and gore are slipping out of a drainpipe that was meant for water. Lexa stalls then drops to one knee as her stomach twists. She breathes deep to relax, but that only draws the scent of fresh burnt flesh and blood over her tongue. She vomits onto the ground.
When the stomach convulsions subside she wipes her mouth, covers the last distance in a few long strides and climbs the ropes to join the others.
She feels small among them. Ten summers have not given her Barwyn’s height as readily as they have her features and Anya still enjoys relaxing an elbow on Lexa’s shoulder when no one else is around.
Working her way forward, Lexa can see the row of Citimen on their knees. The missionaries have chosen to die rather than live as trikru, and their throats were slit. One city Leader swears fealty to Trikru, the other not. Two ordinary women join them with two men including Lincoln, blood still fresh on his shoulder. The rest are killed – corpses left for the beasts.
Barwyn approaches her after the last Citimen falls.
"What do you feel?" She asks, her words falling back into the familiar trikru song.
Unsure how to answer, Lexa hesitates. She still feels sick. She also feels like she is shimmering with energy, she feels jumpy and aware. Lexa knows that Barwyn doesn’t care to know any of those things.
"We are strong," she replies finally.
She looks down the road at all the bodies left behind. Wildenbeasts are crouched on the free-way edges waiting for the Trikru to leave and be out of sight to feast.
"Shouldn’t we give those citimen to the sun?"
Barwyn smiles. "It is an honour to become sustenance for the beasts. Likely the only honour in the Citimen’s soft lives. The pyre would be wasted on them." Barwyn leaves then to tend her wounded along with the bullet gash in her own shoulder. Lexa feels small again like Heda Barwyn is more incredible than she ever could be.
“Don’t worry, Lex." Anya pats her back in the rough way she does with the Brussin. "You’ll have plenty of scars before I’m through with you."
As they leave burdened with food and supplies to last them for months Lexa looks back. There’s every kind of beast she has ever thought of feasting or waiting to scavenge what’s left of the citimen’s corpses.
//
Omega Craft LEXC-3
[60AP, 2 years before the fall]
In the social hall on a ship hurtling at the fastest speeds humanity has known Clarke feels her body move. The crowd swells and breaks to the music, connected as much by the drugs in their systems as the hardware in their skulls. It’s intoxicating and Clarke is glad that kids Raven’s age are still excluded. Glad for the same reason that she fights against its influence.
Her thoughts are clouded and confused, her emotions are higher than normal and it’s all Clarke can do to keep her hands to herself. There’s a dim flicker of contact through her kenect. Raven is reading in bed. She sees their room through her sister’s eyes for one long moment and then it’s gone.
Slow lights move across the long hall casting shadows through the crowd. They light up the badges of guardsmen lined up along all four walls. Missing Journey’s End celebrations is the sacrifice you make joining the guard.
Finn is moving closer to her through his own Journey’s End haze and she thinks she knows how this night will end. They’re both sixteen, legally adults and free to do as they wish, for just this one night. Screens bolted to the walls all show the countdown reminding every crew member that they have two years, four hours, thirteen minutes until Journey’s End. They’ll return with nothing, but they’ve had fifty-five years to come to terms with that.
Clarke feels her body sway into Finn’s arms, and she wonders if Jaha approved a heavier dose for the Two Years celebration. With Earth in sight, supplies are more freely released then Clarke can ever remember. Finn pulls her in closer and all thoughts drift away under the sensation of a heavy music beat.
//
Hours later Clarke checks the time above the bio-readings on her wrist, the ink condensing with tomorrow’s schedule as 11:59 ticks over to ships-midnight. She shuts off her computer so the glow won’t wake Raven in the night. They’ve both been sleeping light and Journey’s End celebration plans have kept Clarke occupied long outside of her normal work hours. As soon as she’s back from the hospital she is dragged off by Harper to join the rest of the committee for hours.
Glad that the celebrations will be over after tonight, she only hopes that Finn won't get weird in the morning. She likes him well enough, just doesn't want to give him the wrong idea for the sake of one annual celebration. The earth is so close she swears she could feel it. On the ground there’s nothing she won’t be able to do. With all the resources and humanity there, Clarke can do and be anything she wants.
In the dim glow coming in under the door she finds her way to Raven’s bed. She has her own bed since Abby got herself a bunk set up in the hospital, but there’s a comfort for them both in feeling a warm living someone sleeping next to them.
“Was it a good party?” Raven murmurs. Her thoughts come to Clarke through Kenekt as well. "It's late, but not that late."
Clarke feels the protective urge to hold her little sister close. “It was okay. I think Harper hooked up with Jasper.”
“She could do so much better,” Raven laughs then asks, “What about you?”
Clarke resists the urge to cuddle into her sister. “Finn tried,” she says honestly. "I nearly..." She has to clamp down on her own thoughts with Raven so close. She turns to face away, feeling only the warmth of Raven’s back. Raven doesn’t need to know how close she came to giving in to his wandering hands.
Clarke needs to sleep. Tomorrow the hospital will be overflowing with the minor scrapes, burns and bruised heads. They inevitably happen with Journey’s End parties. Her badge may have that new shine to it still, but she knows what she needs to do.
//
Trikru Territory
[60AP, Eighteen months before the fall]
Lexa is fifteen when she meets a girl. Costia isn’t afraid of her at all and Anya digs an elbow into her ribs when the girl walks away. Lexa is on a diplomatic mission, entreating the Wadakru, to join with Trikru and Sankru in an alliance against the citimen and any other invading clan.
They have six perfect months together.
At Costia’s funeral, Anya swears she will help Lexa avenge her death against the Azgeda, no matter the cost.
//
Omega Craft LEXC-3
[61AP eleven months before the fall]
Time slips by as quickly as the stars. Clarke is seventeen, and the gym has the largest window on the ship, giving a one hundred twenty degree view of the stars ahead of them. If she stands still long enough she can just detect the movement of the ship as stars disappear behind them. It’s an awe inspiring sight and Clarke doesn't doubt that’s why the gym gets this view. To feel the rush of stars as you run across a treadmill instills a certain positivity about your future.
Screens above the window show a tranquil forest scene and, in the corner the countdown of ten months, eighteen days until Journeys End. She wonders how long ago the countdowns started. She glances at her wrist, the digital display under her skin just now condensing with her schedule for the day. She can hear others around the ship wondering about the late schedules. She's watching the calories displayed on the back of her hand jump up with her heartrate when she gets a glimpse of the hospital. Raven must be looking for her there, and Clarke thinks she’s had enough exercise. Their bond is too close and Raven is too tired lately to stop the rush of images transmitting through their hardware.
“So much thinking.” A familiar voice pulls Clarke from her thoughts and causes a misstep in her jog.
Murphy is stepping onto the next machine and setting a pace just a little faster than her own. The machine whirs into motion. Murphy has to go with it, glancing sideways to check his pace against Clarke's.
Clarke doesn’t bother matching him. She’s run enough k’s already. In her mind she’s still back in the hospital anyway; a baby girl was born with one blue and one green eye. It’s the kind of genetic anomaly that shouldn't have happened within the limits of the Omega Procreation Initiative. Ten or more years ago the child would have been destroyed. Clarke can’t help but be glad that’s not necessary, no matter how her training has directed her to think otherwise. ’For The Good Of All’ isn't just a phrase to be repeated, it’s the key to their survival in the depths of space. Or was the key.
“Eleven months,” Murphy puffs out as he runs. He’s watching the stars.
His sigh matches her own thoughts so closely that Clarke wonders exactly how silent her Kennect mute function really is these days. She taps her temple to bring up the visual display and check the mute is activated, then thinks "Murphy is a glitched up virus". She gets a chuckle from Raven who is still linked on their private channel but from Murphy, nothing. Mute is active enough.
She starts to slow down and Murphy smirks. “Cutting out early?”
Clarke has nothing to be ashamed of. “I wouldn't miss Raven’s Sixteen Years ceremony for anything.”
“That’s sweet,” he says in a tone that suggests he feels otherwise. “You won’t miss it, but your sister will. What with her sitting in the hospital getting stitches.”
He says something more but Clarke doesn't hear it as she staggers from the treadmill and grabs up her bag. With her loss of concentration a dozen voices stream into her awareness, stats and data from the hospital, including the name of her sister, Raven Reyes on an admittance sheet. Her name above a catalgue of injuries and recomendations.
“Dammit Raven,” Clarke says aloud, just to hear her own voice above the chatter.
Murphy calls after her, “Don't thank me for bringing the news or anything.”
Clark just suppresses the urge to flip him off.
//
“What the hell were you thinking?” Clarke shouts, ignoring the annoyed expression of the nurse suturing a deep cut in Raven’s arm.
Clarke’s pacing the floor up and down at the foot of her bed. Raven groans and flops back against the pillows, wincing as the last suture is drawn too tight. The nurse cuts off the thread and looks at Clarke with a ‘talk to her’ expression. She checks the drip going into Raven’s arm and stalks away.
Raven looks so small on the bed. She’s grown as tall as Clarke in the past year but she still seems small against the white bedsheets. She is also filthy. Crawling around in an engine will do that. Not that she was meant to be doing any such thing on today of all days.
“What about your ceremony?”
“What about it?” Raven looks away, pushing her hair back where it’s fallen out of her pony tail. She also smudges more grease onto her face. “You said the ceremonies don't matter, it’s what I learn that counts.”
“And did you learn something from jumping into a fully operational engine?” Raven shrugs and Clarke growls in the way that only happens when talking to Raven. “There’s more to this ceremony than just a party. You’re expected to play along.” Clarke snaps her mouth shut realising everyone in the hospital can hear their argument. She activates their private kenekt and rings Raven in.
“Mate isn't even a political position,” Raven protests silently, eyeing off the nurses station.
“But Quartermaster and Alpha are,” Clarke barely manages to keep her thoughts in the calm even tone needed for undistorted transmission.
“We have less than a year left in the sky. And then who cares about any of it?”
Clarke sighs, again frustrated at the conversation they keep duplicating over and over. She speaks aloud to ask, “Why were you even in that engine?”
Raven goes back to staring at her hands, already picking idly at her stitches. “You wouldn't understand,” she says.
Clarke wants to snap back, to rise to the argument in her voice but instead, she cools off her temper with a breath and asks, “Can you help me understand?” She puts special emphasis on one word knowing that Raven can never look past a sincere request for help.
Raven’s expression softens a little even as she rolls her eyes knowing that she’s being manipulated. “Sinclair didn't believe that I could hear a problem with one of the turbines. Wouldn't even consider going in because he couldn't hear it.” She switches back to Kinect to continue. “So I broke in, I found the Belt that was wearing, replaced it and everything was fine.”
“But?” Clarke prompts.
“But Monroe followed me in when she thought I was going to get caught. She tripped on something and I had to push her out of the way of a piston arm and,” she lifts up her forearm showing the twelve stitches. “But I’m okay, and the turbine’s fixed.”
“What about your leg?” Clarke glances subtly down. Most people don’t know about the machine parts keeping Raven mobile.
“I’m fine.” Raven’s voice echoes aloud and in Clarke’s mind. A difficult feat for anything other than the truth.
Clarke sighs, knowing honesty when she sees it. As a doctor and her official sibling, Clarke can see all Raven’s stats floating around her body. She taps her temple to turn off the visualisations.
“Except, you got caught?” Clarke guesses since Murphy was the one to let her know. Raven shrugs. “And your ceremony?” Clarke adds sitting down on the bed.
There’s another shrug but Raven looks down now, eyes shimmering.
“I guess it’s good you still keep on learning even without the badges, right?”
“Yeah,” Raven says and chokes on a harsh breath of tears. She’ll keep learning but she’ll miss out on other opportunities. “No walk time. Not this year.” The possibility of not ever hangs in the air between them. Not on earth.
Clarke just wraps Raven up in her arms. Of course Raven knew this would happen. Going behind her officer's back, expressly disobeying his instruction is exactly the career misstep a young engineer doesn't need. Raven just couldn’t walk away, knowing that something was wrong, she just had to fix it. And that’s Raven. Leap first, consider what she’s falling into second. Especially when it comes to her friend. “Is Monroe okay?”
As if in answer, the girl herself appears and answers, “Yeah I'm fine,” she says and sits on Clarke's other side. “So long as I have my Super Mechanic to keep me out of trouble.”
Clarke doesn't mention Raven’s blush, nor does she point out that Monroe wouldn’t find herself in so much trouble if she wasn't following Raven headlong into it all the time. They all already know that.
//
Clarke accompanies Raven to the ceremony anyway to support the other kids in their Sixteen years ceremonies. Raven scowls through most of it until Monroe gets on stage grinning from ear to ear. There’s five kids altogether accepting their certificates from Jaha and shaking hands with the Quartermaster but only Raven and Monroe were accepted into the Mate program. Five sets of parents proudly clap for their children shoulder to shoulder.
Clarke is there since Raven’s Mom won’t be. She remembers her own sixteen years ceremony, that Abby was there for her. She also remember how much it hurt when her Dad wasn’t.
Jaha begins his speech, “For the good of all.” His voice echoes through their hardware, direct into their thoughts.
The small crowd gathered murmurs the words after him, the whole ship hearing the words.
“I’m so pleased to see such fine young people growing so quickly. This new generation of Omega crew who will be the first to breath Earth air – who will have children of their own born in Earth’s atmosphere – are a beacon of hope.”
The kids on stage wrinkle their noses but a quiet murmur spreads through the crowd. So many men and women have been denied the right to offspring in these past years. The topic of children remains a sore point for some.
Alpha continues in his booming voice, “It is a bittersweet moment to know that these are the last young people that I will get to receive on this stage for their Sixteenth year. A shame that not all could attend.”
Raven squirms next to Clarke and folds both arms across her chest, but Alpha doesn’t linger on the moment. His tone becomes solemn.
“We have come so far and our journey is almost ended. We continue on, for the good of all.” The recitation is also their dismissal and the children leave the stage to join their parents.
When Raven and Clarke return to their empty quarters the certificate is waiting in a dull black frame. “The ceremony doesn’t matter,” Clarke says and this time she believes it. “We’ll be home soon.”
//
City of Polis
[61 AP, six months before the fall]
At 6am the alarm sounds. Indra groans and slams the button to shut off its ringing, rolls over and glares out the window. There’s nothing to see but the burnt orange of a dust storm, the city nearly invisible. She sits up rubbing her eyes, swings both feet onto the floor, and yawns a greeting to her cat.
“Morning Rat.”
She shakes her head a little to displace the dust from her hair. The inside of her apartment is painted orange. Bookshelf, radio, coffee table and all her stuff scattered about the small room has a fine layer of dust. Rat, the cat keeps rubbing against her ankles meowing.
Indra stands and Rat curls around her feet almost tripping her up on the way to the pantry. “Calm down," she tells him, opening up his food.
Then there’s a whooping noise from outside and Indra sighs.
‘ALL CARS ARE TO REMAIN GARAGED," the speaker at the end of her block squawks. "STAY INDOORS UNLESS ASSIGNED TO MANDATORY WORK ORDERS."
“Right,” she gripes to Rat. “Stay indoors unless you’re a criminal minor and then go outside and work with no protection against the dust or the Wilds Beasts you’ll probably run into.”
There’s a pause of two hundred fifty eight seconds and then the speaker says again. "ALL CARS ARE TO REMAIN GARAGED. STAY INDOORS UNLESS ASSIGNED TO MANDATORY WORK ORDERS.’
“Every time,” she sighs. “They couldn't have made the difference a full five minutes?”
Rat is purring and lapping up the fish paste before Indra’s even finished scraping it into his bowl.
“No need to thank me.”
Rat doesn't thank her, and Indra goes to take a shower.
Outside the speaker adds another announcement. "IT IS YOUR CIVIC DUTY TO REPORT AERIAL ANOMALIES AT YOUR NEAREST TELEGRAPH OFFICE’
//
Indra's grey coveralls are coated quickly with a layer of dust as she walks to the tram. She tightens the bandana over her nose and mouth to keep out the swirling dust cloud. The tram-car is all but empty when she climbs in pulling her scarf down. The dusty air whirls around the doors with every open and close, but is still more tolerable than outside.
At Spencer street, the end of the line, Indra hops down. Her heavy work boots crunch through the rubble of fallen buildings. Behind her, the tram makes its way back into the city while ahead is all broken metal, glass and concrete. The crumbling edges of the city are roughly fenced off, signs labeling the area dangerous and off limits.
She walks past the last WARNING sign, giving it a tap and is followed a moment later by Octavia. Indra gives her a nod and the same to Artigas and Penn who are already there.
The inspector sent to watch them work is already there. Quint is fat and filthy, sitting in the shade of a concrete overhang on a plastic camp chair, reading his morning paper.
Octavia follows Indra close, almost bumping into her when she stops.
“What are you doing, Fresh Meat?” Indra snarls and gets the flinch she was after.
“I’m—” Octavia adjusts the cloth over her nose nervously. “You’re training me?”
“Does that mean you have to stand so close?”
“Oi!” Quint shouts across the short distance without leaving his chair or folding away his paper. “Train her properly, or I’ll have another six months thrown onto your sentence, Indi.”
Indra groans. “It’s Indra, you overgrown potato.”
Octavia chuckles, earning a sharp glare.
“Let’s get on with this, fresh meat. Do exactly what I say, when I say it, understood?”
Octavia nods and Indra is happy to see something like determination in her eyes. The girl could do alright yet.
“So, do you know what we’re doing here?”
Octavia shakes her head with enough keen attention that Indra holds back her groan.
“Okay, let’s start at the very beginning.” She points at the skyline. “All of that up there is nothing compared to what was here. Before the War, this city sprawled out for miles. Then the War kept going, people started abandoning the city edges and it started falling apart. Then the pulse hit.”
Octavia nods solemnly, understanding what came next. All technology failed, global trade ceased overnight. Planes fell from the sky, 90% of land and sea vessels floundered and transport ground to a halt. Computers phones and televisions all became relics of the past overnight. Technology, the shining heart of a mechanised war became something from before , a symbol of fear, death and destruction.
“The good news,” Indra continues. “The city needs metal. Metal to build, metal to burn. The city needs, and us convicts are here to deliver.”
“Convicts,” Octavia scoffs at the word.
“Yes, convicts,” Indra says lifting up her pant leg to show the blinking tracker on her ankle. “Until the cuffs are off and we're free to move.”
Octavia rolls her eyes because there is no ‘free to move’ for New Genes. She says, “We're always going to be kept, catalogued and penned in like animals.”
Indra’s eyes flick over to Quint, but he doesn’t seem to be listening, turning through pages in his newspaper.
“Keep that talk at a minimum, Fresh Meat,” Indra cautions. “Unless you want to lose the privileges you do have. Now, pay attention so we can get on with this. I don’t want you slowing us down.”
Indra spends an hour showing Octavia how to use the fuel torch, the wire cutters, and how to swing a sledgehammer. “Keep an eye out for any metal, but steel and iron especially. If you’re not sure what something is, ask.”
Octavia takes a deep determined breath. “Okay.”
“Good, now go at least twenty meters that way. I want to barely see you through the dust.”
As Octavia walks away, dragging the propane tank behind her, Quint clears his throat.
Indra is meant to turn around. Instead, she turns to the work she left unfinished yesterday.
“See the news?" Quint grunts. "Somethings comin straight for us outa deep space.’
Indra doesn't answer. She adjusts her scarf and pulls on dark-lensed goggles.
“Big enough to leave a crater the size of this city,"
“What is?" She asks, glaring at a long metal rod. It projects from the concrete by about a foot and she picks up a hammer drill to shake it loose.
“The space thing," Quint says with a snot clearing snort. "They’s found a space thing flying straight for us. Haven't you bin listening?"
“No. I haven't," Indra gives the rod a kick, wraps gloved hands around it and grunts as she pries the metal loose and tosses it behind her.
Quint scratches at his wide stomach watching the rod roll toward him. "You’re meanta respect me," he looks up to glare at her over his face mask.
“No," she says again. She pushes aside more concrete blocks. “There.” A sheet of metal, maybe roofing is underneath, ready to be cut loose.
She tightens the bandana over her nose again, lifts up the welding gun and knocks dust out of the trigger.
“Parole officer said I have to do as you tell me,” she says. “They never said anything about respect." She wipes sweat away from her eyes, flips her visor back down and sparks up the torch flame. "Come on, Quint. You want to talk all day or do you wanna make quota?"
She doesn’t wait for a reply before pressing the flame through the heavy sheet.
Shouting over the noise of burning metal she says, “There’s enough scrap in just this one broken corner of the city that dozens of delinquents could work all day every day for years and still have plenty left over.”
The metal gets thinker at the far end and her torch chokes on it. “Dammit, she mutters and sets the torch aside. Checking that Quint is again invested in his paper, she lights up her hand in blue flame pushing heat and intensity up into one finger. She glances back again. Quint isn’t paying any attention so she quickly presses into the sheet of metal, tearing through the last few inches.
When the metal gives way and falls, Indra looks down the line of workers. The air is too thick with dust now to see much past arm's reach but Indra can hear Octavia working through the rubble off to her right. Artigas and Penn are both on her left applying jackhammers to a concrete slab too big for one of them. Three strong players and maybe four if Octavia proves herself as resourceful as Indra thinks she is.
Sometimes Indra has to pick up the slack for kids as young as twelve sent out to salvage, but this team are all older teenagers like her, and the kind of strong that comes from living tough. She won’t have to mess around with the fission power which is guaranteed only to get her into trouble.
She grins. “We could meet quota and be out of here by midday.”
Four hours later the dust has settled leaving the sky a muddy blue, and her skip is almost full. Out on the city’s broken edges the energy and bustle of Polis can be heard as a low rumble. Indra is bashing her way through a slab of concrete with her sledgehammer.
“Indra!" A sharp yell makes her turn. The space where Octavia had been working is empty – welding tank toppled over on its side and rocking back and forth.
“Octavia?”
Another shout of her name and Indra rushes to follow. She scrambles through rubble and broken glass, and vaults over a low wall. The drop on the other side is higher than expected and she falls, only just rolling into the rough landing. Her sledgehammer clatters away. Her head is ringing, the wind knocked out of her.
A low growl and yelp of pain draws her attention. Octavia is pinned under a Wildsbeast. It's huge with big glowing blue eyes set above a jaw of wickedly sharp teeth. Four clawed feet stretch out either side of Octavia’s prone, shaking body. It growls and Indra lurches to her feet. She picks up the sledge hammer with shaking hands, the heavy head, scraping across gravel. The beast crouches on his hind legs, all black fur, slicked feathers and malice.
There’s no such thing as eaglebears this far south, but she can’t think of any other category for it. The eaglebear sniffs the air and seems to decide Indra isn’t a threat. There’s a trail of blue glow around his snout as he lowers to sniff at Octavia’s face and neck. If the girl is conscious she must be too scared to move.
“Hey," Indra shouts.
The beast looks up and she takes a few steps left hoping it will follow. It does and she wonders how she came up with such a ridiculous plan. The eaglebear growls and snaps again, and Indra crouches with the sledgehammer gripped in both hands to growl right back at it, the sound tearing her throat.
“Oh my god," Artigas’ voice is a gasp behind her but Indra doesn’t turn around.
The beast growls and snaps again and Indra rushes forward swinging the hammer in a mad arc which connects with the charging animal’s skull. It stumbles, doesn’t fall but appears stunned. She swings again and the bear flinches back with a yelp. Indra bellows as loud as she can and takes another lunging step.
The animal turns and flees in an ambling run.
“Holy shit!" Artigas whoops, amazed as he throws both hands in the air like he’s cheering at a football game.
Penn yells from an upper level, "That was amazing."
Indra lets out a vaguely hysterical laugh and drops the hammer from numb fingers. Adrenaline along with every ounce of energy drains from her body and she slumps like a rag doll to her knees.
Arms outstretched, she fights the urge to vomit.
//
Still coated in dirt, standing at a bar surrounded by people, Octavia raises a glass in toast, "Let it never be said that criminals can’t also be heroes.’
“Here here," a shout goes across the bar, full with the friday afternoon crowd.
Once Octavia’s leg had been taped up and declared not broken by the salvage office their first stop was a favorite walking-distance bar. Indra still feels a little numb but that could be all the rum she’s not had to order or pay for all afternoon. News of her fighting off a Wilds Beast reached the bar before they did and Indra hasn’t been without a glass in her hand since they arrived.
“Couldn’t pay me to do that salvage work so far outa the city," someone says.
“Don’t get paid," is Indra’s automatic reply and several eyes go down to the tracker locked around her ankle. "Hey, I’m a hero!" she rallies again and most cheer while the rest forget whatever they might have said by the time Indra empties her glass.
//
Omega Craft LEXC-3
[61AP five months before the fall]
Despite Clarke's best efforts and threats Raven’s arm became infected. Too much time spent elbow deep in engine grease and fuel before the study period could drag her away from the engine room and into the library. Five months after her accident a scar has replaced the wound running along almost the entire length of her forearm. Raven wears it with pride showing everyone the gory way that the pink flesh twists in the light, and the way her bio-readings have all been shifted to her other arm.
Countdown screens show five months, three days until Journey’s End when luck brings her library schedule in sync with Raven’s. Clarke tries to keep herself out of Raven’s way knowing how much her sister hates any apparent hovering. She tries to ignore Raven and her friends while they work, to not watch her sister as she spends more time talking to Monroe than looking at her books, but it’s still hard not to say anything.
She knows Raven has the smarts to pass her exams and she wants her to do more than just pass. She wants Raven in the best academies on earth and that won't happen if she’s just smart. She needs to be exceptional.
“Kids these days.” Finn jokes as he sits down next to Clarke.
Harper drops down on her other side. “No discipline,” she says crunching into a bright red apple.
“Where did you get that?” Clarke asks. She can’t believe it.
Another crunch draws her attention back to Finn who has his own apple. He gives a shrug with a twinkle in his eye and Clarke is disappointed. “Really? You couldn't—?” An apple appears at her elbow before she can finish, Finn’s fingers wrapped around it.
“Now, what do you say?” Finn says, teasing.
“Finn is the absolute greatest upgrade on Omega,” Clarke says through a grin.
“And?” Finn dips his chin and Clarke can see his wavy hair is even more perfectly combed and kept than usual, almost shining.
“And I love his hair. And I love him more than the whole earth and big empty Galaxy combined,” Clarke finishes quickly grabbing the apple out of his loose fingers. She ignores the way his lips quirk like he might hope her words were true.
The apple is worth so much more than a silly boy like Finn and she lifts it to her nose and breathes in the sweet smell. Fresh and bright, the apple’s skin is firm and crisp as she bites into it. She groans into the taste in a way wholly inappropriate for the library and Harper laughs as Finn blushes with a few others noting their amusement in the library chat link. Clarke ignores them all.
“How? Why?” She asks after the third blissful bite.
Harper answers. “Last full harvest of the voyage.”
Of course. She can hear other people thinking about the harvest. It still all seems so unreal, despite so many ‘lasts' in the past year: the last Journey’s End celebration where Clarke fully indulged in the intoxication, danced with Finn again and fell in love with him; the last Planet Passing festival where Clarke figured out that Finn really didn't care about her and she cried for a week; all of the last birth-year ceremonies in space.
The last Apple harvest shouldn't feel strange but it does.
Two guardsmen enter moments later with baskets of apples and start handing them out to the others. A little apple tree sketch appears on the back of Clarke's hand, posted to the network from farm station. She watches Raven accross the room take one from the guardsman with an innocent smile while swiping another two unseen. Clarke frowns but says nothing as Raven just hands the second and third apples to Monroe with a shy smile.
Harper says, “So much is going to change.”
Clarke tunes back into the conversation as Murphy sits down across from them. He has the results from his last exam posted on his own cheek, because he doesn't understand what humble means.
“Some things,” Finn agrees with Harper.
Murphy shrugs. “If what everyone says about the cities is true then we should get installed into an academy for a while. Then we upgrade to a corporation, live and work as we always have but in a building instead of a ship.”
“You’d be happy with that?” Clarke asks. “Just migrate from ship to Earth Tower. And then what, work until you die? What about the whole planet that’s right there to explore? Forests, deserts, and towns with no big buildings or corporations. What about the oceans and animals and, and the blue sky?”
Finn shakes his head with an indulgent smile while Harper looks as wistful as Clarke feels.
Murphy on the other hand, smirks. “Ever the optimist romantic. Forget it. By now there will be no forest, no towns or parks, no blue sky. There is just vast endless city. The only question is population density and what colour is the smog.”
“You always expect the worst.”
“And then I’m never disappointed, or unprepared,” he points out.
Clarke ignores this idea as she usually does. She has to believe there’s more to earth than cities and crowds.
Harper tries to diffuse the tension with a laugh. “Well, two more months and we’ll get to find out.”
Finn agrees. “Think they’ll throw a parade?”
//
Countdowns show One Week Six Hours when Monroe and Raven are both pulled away to engineering and remain with the rest of their crew behind the engine room doors for two days. No kenekt communications reach Clarke and with a countdown now on every screen in the ship it's hard not to think Journey’s End has everything to do with the tension in the council ranks.
Medical is quiet, but they're cataloging supplies and preparing as if for the worst. Reentry is going to be difficult and it’s a well known secret that there’s been no communication from earth in decades. Clarke knows she’ll be safest in her quarters close to medical and the heart of the ship, but Raven and Monroe will be in one of the worst places affected if the ship loses any integrity on reentry.
//
City of Polis
[62AP, 6 hours before the fall]
The rain wakes her first, tearing down outside and making a racket against the window. Rat starts pawing at her back with wailing meows and she knows she’s slept in.
“Shit." She drags a hand down her face as the hangover hits full force. She’s draped across her bed wearing nothing but her jeans and tracker anklet, and she doesn’t remember getting home. A quick self assessment tells her she probably didn’t do anything too regrettable last night and she just hopes there’s not too many embarrassing stories.
Sharp cat nails dig into her bare back again and she becomes aware of the speaker at the end of the street "IT IS YOUR CIVIC DUTY TO REPORT AERIAL ANOMALIES AT YOUR NEAREST TELEGRAPH OFFICE’.
“Okay, I know," she groans and lurches to her feet. "Gimme a sec."
Rat meows.
"Okay, your highness.’
A quick shower and a breakfast of cold beans later sees Indra down the street under the shelter of Flinders station. Rain on a day off is a minor blessing and she props up her hand-painted sign to face the busy intersection.
INSTANT FISSION DRY. NO RADIATION. 20ç.
It’s still raining which is usually good for business. Today, everyone seems to have an umbrella which means that no one needs a quick-dry service. People just hurry by looking down or toward the other side of the street. There’s nothing to see but another red brick building and a few government posters.
IT IS YOUR CIVIC DUTY TO REPORT AERIAL ANOMALIES AT YOUR NEAREST TELEGRAPH OFFICE.
The illustration of a supposed alien behind the bold text has been on posters all over Polis for years.
Indra shifts her weight from one foot to the other watching CBD crowds stream past. She has to dodge back as an old man pulls his overweight chihuahua past her and down toward Elizabeth Street. He has an umbrella and even a little raincoat for the dog pulling hard against his leash. She resists the urge to yell after him. One call to the cops about a screaming New Gene and she’d be hauled off the street in a heartbeat. There’s cops enough watching her close, without her making a scene.
Indra turned out hungover in the rain for nothing. Except, she thinks, screw that and flares up her hands so the blue glow of fission-flame illuminates her face.
On the corner, waiting to cross the street is a girl. She’s standing with her mother and watching the burst of blue flames with a smile. Indra flashes her hands again and the girl laughs.
Her mother follows the girl’s eye-line, "Don’t stare, Charlotte." She adjusts the umbrella she holds over them both. Charlotte’s gaze falls, then the lights change and the girl disappears into the rain.
Indra sighs, dims the flame of her hands and waits. No one looks like stopping, and not even the woman handing out the free paper makes eye contact with her. She considers leaving but then she sees Captain Miller turn the corner, hobbling up from Elizabeth Street scraping the sole of his boot against the gutter. Indra rethinks her initial dislike for Chihuahuas and spins her sign around to read:
INSTANT SANITATION. ABSOLUTELY NO RADIATION. 20ç.
She stands to attention with a hand thrown up in a mock salute, "Good afternoon, Captain Sir," she subtly nudges the sign with her foot.
Her arresting officer gives a sigh, "Twenty credits, Miss Indra?”
She ignores the Miss. "Yes, that’s all.’
“You have a chair for me?”
Indra pulls out her little deck chair from against the wall. "Just for you, Sir.”
Captain Miller doesn’t reply. He unbuttons his stiff blue uniform coat, medals and insignia jangling, to take a seat. The traffic is building up on Flinders Street and afternoon light filters through the clouds to reflect off his steel buttons. Indra's head and back are aching after the few hours on her feet but she ignores it.
“Don’t you singe the sole, kid.’
“Obviously."
Indra fires up her hands again, concentrating on temperature, depth and containment. Melting off the general’s shoes could get Indra thrown back in detention if she’s not careful. She kneels.
"Lift up your foot?" Indra holds her breath against the rank smell of dog shit as she takes hold of the General’s heel. "Lots of you Blue boys about," she mentions.
“Sure is.”
“Anything we should worry about?”
The Captain’s stern frown deepens and Indra wonders if maybe the papers are right about the space thing falling into the city.
Indra scrubs the boot’s sole twice with one glowing hand. There’s a puff of acrid smoke and the boot is clean; no sign of burning.
Captain Miller twists his foot to see the sole for himself. "Pretty good," he says then glances at the tracker on Indra's ankle. "It’s a shame really." He pays her the twenty credits and is on his way.
Indra tucks the money into her pocket as a hot wind picks up, blowing rain and rubbish under her shelter. After another hour, a soaked sheet of paper flies in to slap wetly against her leg. Indra picks up the flyer, one she’s seen so many time before.
ARE NEW GENES DANGEROUS? KNOW WHAT IT MEANS TO HAVE MUTANTS IN YOUR NEIGHBOURHOOD AND THE THREAT THEY POSE TO CHILDREN OF NORMAL DEVELOPMENT.
At the bottom is a logo for The Church Of Humanity.
On the other side of the flyer is an ad for mobile phone collections.
DO YOU STILL HAVE DANGEROUS TECHNOLOGY IN YOUR HOME? PROTECT THE NORMAL HEALTH OF YOUR FAMILY. PRE WAR TECHNOLOGY SHOULD BE DELIVERED TO THE CTC TODAY FOR INCINERATION.
This side of the flyer includes an illustration of a New Gene like Indra but one whose fission powers have caused his eyes to glow out of his rage filled face, flames flowing out of control over a skeletal body. The logo for the Centre for Technology Control and the city emblem are side by side at the bottom.
She balls up the page and throws it into the nearest bin. Her hangover is still banging on the inside of her head so with enough credits for a coffee and a couple tins of cat food Indra gives up. She tucks her sign under one arm tugs up the collar on her shirt and joins the flow of black umbrellas into the street.
Pedestrians jostle forward on the footpaths flanking the road, no one paying any mind to the posters lining both sides. Closest to Indra the posters read IT IS YOUR CIVIC DUTY TO REPORT AERIAL ANOMALIES AT YOUR NEAREST TELEGRAPH OFFICE. Some of the aliens have been vandalised with party hats, devil horns and Hitler moustaches. A sign bolted to the wall stating that it is illegal to vandalise government propaganda has a detailed penis illustration scratched into the paint with strategic letters scratched out of the word VANDALISE. Indra frowns at how much joy people get from ridiculous things.
On the other side of the street are larger versions of the flyer that Indra tossed away earlier: ARE NEW GENES DANGEROUS? The Church of Humanity logo is bright enough to shine. Right alongside those are the Centre for Technology Control posters. Neither have anything scratched into the paper.
A warm fog hangs over the ever-hot bitumen. Above the shuffling crowds a speaker crackles to life.
"ATTENTION CITIZENS. IT IS YOUR CIVIC DUTY TO REPORT AERIAL ANOMALIES AT YOUR NEAREST TELEGRAPH OFFICE."
No one pays any attention, turning instead toward the end of the street and the sound of a small army marching in unison. Officers in blue with their insignia blazing in flashing lights part the sea of people, Captain Miller is at the lead.
“Nothing to worry about?" Indra shouts.
The Captain says nothing as air raid sirens blast to life.
The crowd closes back in behind the last Officer, most people watching their own feet as they rush home.
//
Omega Craft LEXC-3
[62 AP, the fall]
With 16 hours until atmosphere, the ship slows down and everyone can feel it. They’re not meant to feel it but the balance of inertia which had kept them stable for decades shifts and they find themselves stumbling and sick.
Clarke bends down to look her patient in the eye. “You’ll just need to keep off your feet.” The patient, Roma works in the kitchens and is among some of the worst affected by the slow down. Most people on the ship have already been confined to their rooms in the past week with only essential personnel moving around freely. Raven has returned to their rooms only for brief hours of sleep and Clarke missed her. She just hopes that the youngest engineers will be sent back to their rooms for atmospheric reentry. She gets flashes of engine parts, of Raven's hands as her sister works. For the most part though, the transmissions seem to be blocked.
Abby taps her on the shoulder with two hours left until reentry. “Time to go.” Clarke tries to argue but Abby shakes her head. “I know it's your instinct to take care of everybody else first, but you have to go. Now.”
Clarke registers then that this isn’t just Dr Griffin. Her mother sees the shift in her gaze and holds out her arms. Clarke falls into the embrace and they share a long tight hug.
“May we meet again.”
“May we meet again,” Clarke echoes and follows Abby’s push out the door.
With the countdown showing less than an hour and the ship perceptibly vibrating Clarke secures everything in their room not already fastened down. She clips herself into the seat. It was designed exactly for this moment, but it’s still hard not to think about the fact she ate breakfast in this chair every day of her life.
She watches the door and prays to the stars that Raven is on her way, that Harper and Finn and everyone she cares about, even those few that she doesn't care for, have found a secure position for the crash. There is no doubt now that whatever plans there might have been before, they are now facing a crash-landing into the earth.
The lights dim and the countdown is transmitted to every person on Omega, a quiet electronic voice in her mind is shared through every mind on the ship, and Clarke can hear them all in their panic. Two hundred fifty nine seconds to reentry.
The readings on her wrist go blank then flash with the same countdown. Two hundred fifty-eight, two hundred fifty-seven, two hundred fifty-six seconds.
The lights flicker, and the countdown stops.
//
City of Polis
[62AP The Fall]
Indra passes neighbours from other floors in her building’s stairwell. They’ve had the same idea of heading up to watch the sky, but she’s quicker and crashes out onto the roof-top first. The falling object appears white hot against the sky. It’s moving slow and the angle of its descent keeps changing subtly. The thing is falling without question, but with more control than a simple rock.
Indra's hands come up to bracket her head as she realises that this is some kind of massive craft flying into their atmosphere from the space beyond. Every announcement and government poster is fresh in her mind as she wonders what kind of alien could be falling into their city. She’d never heard of anything landing in her lifetime and had thought the propaganda was just meant to scare them all, or to distract from something else.
Great chunks of the craft are breaking off and burning away in streaks of red smoke. People on the ground are pointing and shouting. It’s falling so close to the city it might yet fall into the jagged fringes.
The craft turns in a wide arc around the city, skirting so close to her that Indra could read the name painted on the side if the letters hadn’t almost burnt away. Heat from the craft reaches her seconds after it passes followed by the booming explosion of it crashing through the city outskirts. The initial cloud of dust and smoke clears and a plume of grey smoke comes up from what Indra expects will be burning Wilds.
Indra lost sight of it behind a building taller than her own. She is sure though, that it has fallen into the same rubble passed Spencer Street that she had been clearing only yesterday. She has a bad feeling that whatever happens, she’s going to be dragged into it.
//
Trikru Territory
[62AP, the fall]
Lexa is newly eighteen when a star is seen moving out of sync from the rest. The slow spec in the sky becomes more substantial over hours then in the orange-pink of afternoon, streaks through the sky and slams into the cities edge.
It tears through rubble then trees and mud to straddle the city limits and is bigger than anything they've seen before – as wide as the river and longer than they can see, all twisted hot and creaking metal. It takes twenty of them to keep the flames from spreading, pushing back with their own blue sun-flame until the red fire burns itself out.
There’s a gaping hole in the craft overlooking Trikru territory. Lexa will have to personally deal with whatever is going to come out.