( she stops at the front desk on her way to the ballroom. briefly. just long enough to see the pen and paper, to approach it, to pick up the writing insturnment and hover with the tip right over the paper.

there's the desire to draw. something. anything. the ground, a person, a tree if she has to go back to her sky box coping mechanism.

but — it's not hers. it isn't something she's seen before, and so clarke ultimately puts the pen back down and turns to leave. )

( they didn't really do holidays like this on the ark, let alone activities to go along with the commemorative date. they also probably didn't have eggs, at least not by the time the fourth generation rolled around: it was all protein paste and nutrient waifers while on board their spaceship home, then all meat and berries on the ground. since arriving in the hotel, clarke's — had a lot of sad problems — gradually acclimate to rich breakfast food. it was stupid not to eat, especially when the food was right there, looked like something delicious out of mount weather, and hadn't proven to have any adverse side effects on anyone here.

and these things on the floor were... food, right?

yes, upon further examination (read: cracking one open and picking the shell off before sitting on the floor to nibble on) they're most certainly eddible, except the plastic ones. and they're kind of beautiful.

so here's your resident sad teenaged doctor, hotel guests, marveling and smiling at the glittery eggs that she deems too pretty to eat. )

( someone — clarke griffin, specifically — looks like they're about to lose their shit.

the earlier delight she'd found in marveling at the eggs is long gone, and she steps over them with as must disgust as she does caution. of course something that had started as nice hadn't stayed that way.

there are tables, covered in white tablecloths and sporting some decorative holiday bouquet or another. the vase, she discovers upon picking it up, is plastic and so clarke has no qualms just dropping it before ripping the cloth off the table. there's blood on her hands from touching raven's face — an all too familiar reality for clarke, now adays — and she sniffs, running her knuckle under her running nose before setting about trying to rip the cloth into smaller pieces, to strips. it's working, but not, and she tries to take a deep breath.

when someone passes within the vicinity of her personal space, she's as close to dissasociative doctor mode as she can be, and immediately waylays them: )

If you have something sharp, can I have it?