Fitness had never been pressed as a topic of great importance. Sure, throw a hundred kids into a wasteland and make them scrape for every minute of life they can secure, and callouses form over. Muscles tone, fighting styles emerge, and any vestiges of babyfat disappear between the hard scrabble of life and the slow suck of starvation. Put anyone in front of a wall of radioactive fire and tell them to run for their lives, and the adrenaline turns them into a track star. But Clarke Griffin's style of endurance had always been mental, never physical. She couldn't run the entire stairwell of the Serena Eterna without getting winded, but ask her to argue about the sanctity of human life and the truth behind desperate times call for desperate measures and she wouldn't even stop to draw breath.
But, hard learned lessons and the unpleasant reminder of being outright slaughtered in the battle royale a few months ago, diplomacy and conviction didn't stop you from bleeding out.
It's insomnia and the pervasive need to always be doing something that drives Clarke from her bed in the wee hours of July 1st. The building sound of rain pattering against the window in her cabin had also stirred some curiosity deep in her chest — that was a new development here, in sharp contrast to the perpetually sunny skies and cloudless nights. She'd figured the sports deck would be pretty empty in the middle of the night, bathed in fluorescent lights but eerily quiet. But the ding and slide of the elevator doors reveal that's... not quite the case.
Newcomers seem to be showing up every week at this rate, when her eyes latch onto the blond haired boy running laps, she can't place him. It's getting exhausting, honestly. Every new person that wakes up on this hellscape is either a new potential ally or an enemy in the making; a new soul to recount every horrible atrocity they've experienced on board to (discussing their own deaths, over and over again) in the hope they'd understand what was at stake. The weight of responsibility drags down her shoulders as she treks over to the track and carefully deposits a water bottle, sweatshirt, and her ship issued cell phone. But somewhere along the way, a self prescribed sort of slack — she doesn't need to tell him anything he doesn't ask for. They could absolutely just run and never talk.
Clarke doesn't ask permission to join Dimitri's workout regimine, and also doesn't make it to four laps before her lungs are on fire and she has to stop and bend double in the middle of the track. Hands on her knees, drenched in a mixture of rain water and sweat. Breathing hurts, and her tongue is coated with the coppery taste of blood. Ow?
Maybe they'd fallen into step once or twice. Maybe the weirdly competitive streak in her had Clarke trying to match Dimitri's pace only to be so intensely humbled. She can't even blame nuclear irradiated lungs anymore, she'd died and been reborn here healed of all hurts. All, except the ones doled out to her pride when he inevitably passes her again.
"It's fine, go on without me." This is the extent of Clarke's depth for humor. Panted, good natured sarcasm. There's even a airy, inconsequential flap of her hand towards a proverbial finish line, like they're (in the middle of a warzone and she's bidding him run to save his own life) in an actual race and there's some invisible finish line ahead. She doesn't even know if he hears her while breezing past, but starts towards the faux grass of the soccer field to sit down. Just for a few minutes, just to catch her breath and nurse the stitch that's spread across her side.
ii
But, hard learned lessons and the unpleasant reminder of being outright slaughtered in the battle royale a few months ago, diplomacy and conviction didn't stop you from bleeding out.
It's insomnia and the pervasive need to always be doing something that drives Clarke from her bed in the wee hours of July 1st. The building sound of rain pattering against the window in her cabin had also stirred some curiosity deep in her chest — that was a new development here, in sharp contrast to the perpetually sunny skies and cloudless nights. She'd figured the sports deck would be pretty empty in the middle of the night, bathed in fluorescent lights but eerily quiet. But the ding and slide of the elevator doors reveal that's... not quite the case.
Newcomers seem to be showing up every week at this rate, when her eyes latch onto the blond haired boy running laps, she can't place him. It's getting exhausting, honestly. Every new person that wakes up on this hellscape is either a new potential ally or an enemy in the making; a new soul to recount every horrible atrocity they've experienced on board to (discussing their own deaths, over and over again) in the hope they'd understand what was at stake. The weight of responsibility drags down her shoulders as she treks over to the track and carefully deposits a water bottle, sweatshirt, and her ship issued cell phone. But somewhere along the way, a self prescribed sort of slack — she doesn't need to tell him anything he doesn't ask for. They could absolutely just run and never talk.
Clarke doesn't ask permission to join Dimitri's workout regimine, and also doesn't make it to four laps before her lungs are on fire and she has to stop and bend double in the middle of the track. Hands on her knees, drenched in a mixture of rain water and sweat. Breathing hurts, and her tongue is coated with the coppery taste of blood. Ow?
Maybe they'd fallen into step once or twice. Maybe the weirdly competitive streak in her had Clarke trying to match Dimitri's pace only to be so intensely humbled. She can't even blame nuclear irradiated lungs anymore, she'd died and been reborn here healed of all hurts. All, except the ones doled out to her pride when he inevitably passes her again.
"It's fine, go on without me." This is the extent of Clarke's depth for humor. Panted, good natured sarcasm. There's even a airy, inconsequential flap of her hand towards a proverbial finish line, like they're (in the middle of a warzone and she's bidding him run to save his own life) in an actual race and there's some invisible finish line ahead. She doesn't even know if he hears her while breezing past, but starts towards the faux grass of the soccer field to sit down. Just for a few minutes, just to catch her breath and nurse the stitch that's spread across her side.