Times were she'd kept her name and history tightly bound to her chest, like a wound one might try to rub salt in if they knew it existed. But months had stretched on board the Serena Eteran, and Clarke's lips have loosened. Disastrously, apparently, as it's left her open to a critical hit from a five minute musical set piece.

Something something two wolves inside of her, but it's more like standing on a very thin mountain trail. One side of the drop off would unravel all her nerves, strip past skin and muscle and bone until there's just feelings. The other side is less steep, and less dangerous; almost a familiar path of compartmentalizing, restrengthening. Stoppering up cracks in the emotional dam and pasteurizing every hurt and fear into drive. It is an easy choice.

And when she looks back up at Bash, it's with a flat, impassive sort of mask.

"What, about the nuclear apocalypse?"