( she wakes at the sensation of falling; lands on her bruised, sore face with a strangled yelp because she half expects to land on a knife. but there's nothing in her hand, and clarke has an open palm to press against the carpet, to slide over the rug as she attempts to push herself up onto all fours and breathe.

there's tear tracks on her face, and blood (she can't see, but that she knows is there) under her finger nails. but the pain in her chest is alleviated, if only temporarily, by the pure, driving panic the darkness in the room around her inspires. she wishes she could say this was the first time within the last week she'd woken up some place different with no explanation, and no real windows. but at least this time, when clarke propels herself towards the door neatly outlined by the chink of light, it's not locked. there's no girl in a suit, no sign of her friends, and no handy-dandy sign to announce which mountain she'd made it to. stepping into the light feels like a slap in the face; the blow which comes a second later when clarke gears up to run and her ankle catches on a rectangle on the floor and face plants again.

it's picking herself up, again, this time in the light that she catches sight of her bloody hands. and all the memories — of earth? of home? — come crashing over her like a wave of despair. and clarke sits for several long minutes, vigorously wiping her hands on her pants in an attempt to get rid of the blood, legs tangled in her suitcase and quiet tears collecting under her chin. )

( the stairs call to her as much as they do everyone else, and clarke arrives in the main lobby with the resounding thunk of her suitcase on the stairs to announce her arrival. and for a long moment she stands and stares. because for all the confusion and displacement, this is history that she would never see on the normal, radiation ravaged face of the earth that she'd crash landed on a month ago. and it's beautiful.

but clarke has things to do, has people to find, and one glance around the grand (run down, but have you seen what their shanty camp and clothing looked like? this was nice) entry way tells her that running is going to be useless. through the one door she can see at the other end of the room, she can see another wall, and if the other people milling about happen to be hostile, she's not going to get very far.

she's clogging the door. a few more dazed bodies push out, and clarke offers muttered apologies before pulling herself over to the large armchair. another cursory glance around shows that no one is visibly fiddling with their suitcase, and she takes it upon herself to be the first (the combination is the day her father died, the day she'd been dragged to confinement) and pulls out her tablet. it's eerily like the ones they'd learned from on board the ark, and she makes quick work in sending out A QUICK MESSAGE. )

( and later — because it doesn't feel safe, not out here in the open; because she's been fiddling with the card that'd come with her suitcase and curiosity had overcome her; because she couldn't just sit still, and couldn't quite keep her eyes dry, and because there was still blood on her hands, and blood on her shirt — clarke trudges back up the stairs.

only she's distracted, her head is clouded, and she keeps thinking she sees familiar faces in the shadows. so, not quite all... together... — she tries a couple other peoples doors.

sorry other people; chances are she's probably in your way. )