Playground/prison rules are infallible and seem oddly fitting for this floating death ship dressed up as a pleasure cruise. Clarke is breathing a little hard, still staring down the cackling animatronic and feeling the pulsating hurt of her knuckles having collided with the metal supports under the fake ribcage. She at least seems aware that hitting the thing had been stupid, a waste of energy on something that wasn't even a threat, and had she the capacity to feel embarrassed right now, she would. But, as things stand, there's just exhaustion and pain. The tightly bandaged ten day old burn contributes the latter a lot.

And I sense your soul is ripe for harvesting as well. When your time comes, my scythe —

For a split second, she thinks nobody probably saw that and she can just carry on. But — not to be. Klaus isn't over seven feet tall or shrieking ominously at her, he's spared a new addition to his set of bruises.

"...just this one." Not entirely true, Clarke will fight anything given the right motivator (fear or anger). "...it startled me."