There's that phenomena where you spend too much time around a person and slowly start to adopt their traits. That's apparent here in the shift of Clarke's vocabulary — revenants, and the amount of times she says fascinating — and the way she drinks coffee like Palamedes drinks tea. One day she may even trade in tight, moisture wicking athletic wear that'd be good in a physical fight for a comfy, oversized sweater because he makes them look good.

But it is not here in the love of a mystery. Pal is enthused over the layers to peel back to find the truth, while Clarke's simply impatient and wants the answers already in order to figure out how to mold them into something useful. So he all out beams, and she just sort of... grimaces.

"It sure is something. I —"

Give her a moment, as some gears turn. Sure there's inconsistencies, but the more she thinks about it the more it becomes a red flag just how little people have gotten sick around here. And that leads her to —

"You're telling me that I shot myself full of antibiotics every day, for two full weeks after getting stabbed, with those ominous looking needles —" A gesture across the infirmary, towards a tray of syringes. "— and probably didn't even need to because sepsis and necrosis might not even be things here?"