The Rover doesn't work.

When Clarke first arrived at the ruins of the Ark and managed to locate one of the vehicles that appeared mostly undamaged, she'd actually smiled. Then it had faded, when the engine refused to turn on. Initially it had been a disappointment, until the inoperable Rover became a project of hers, giving her something more to do.

Mechanics, she's learned, are like surgeons, working with bolts instead of bones, operating on steel instead of flesh. There are valves and parts with different purposes. There is a heart, secured beneath the rib cage of the hood. These are aspects she can understand, and with the help of the other, partially destroyed Rover, Clarke learns how to fix hers.

It's taken her nearly a month of study and searching. Of transferring the viable donor parts of one Rover to the other with grease-stained hands and aching fingers she's repeatedly gotten caught inside. "It was pretty frustrating for a while," she says on one of her updates, as she leans against the grill. "especially knowing Raven probably could've had it fixed within hours, but for someone who's not a mechanic, I haven't made anything explode yet, so there's that." She takes a nervous breath, turning to look back at the the Rover. She's traveled between the lab and the Ark since she found it. But today is different, because only today does Clarke thinks she's finally done it, and a warm blast of anticipation sings through her blood.

She jumps into the front seat, the radio in her lap, one hand over the key, the other clutching the speaker head. "Here goes nothing." She shuts her eyes as she puts the key into the ignition. She loosens a slow breath and repeats one word, over and over again.

Please.

She turns the key.

At first, there is nothing.

Then the engine sputters and kicks to life, unleashing a single roar before it drops to a low idle that is quickly swallowed up by the sound of her laughter.

***

"Hey, Monty, think you could do us all a favor and whip up a batch of your moonshine?" asks Murphy as they convene in one of the commons rooms, chair pushed back, legs crossed on the table. He moves a spoon listlessly over the glass. "Might make the algae a little more interesting."

"Sure, Murphy," quips Monty on the other side, seated beside Harper. "Just give me four years and I'll get right on it."

Murphy raises his glass. "I'll be keeping you to that."

Bellamy listens to the exchange dimly, seated close by, his elbows folded on the pellucid table. It's followed by a dialogue of quips and small complaints from Murphy. "Only 1,460 more days to go," he says, and lifts the last of his water ration. He grimaces at it. "Practically right around the corner."

"It could be worse," says Monty quietly.

As if on some silent cue, the both of them cast Bellamy a glance. He doesn't need to ask what worse scenario they're considering. He already knows.

Bellamy stands up and moves away from them, relocating to another table where Echo quietly sits. He slides into the bench across from her and appraises her grim expression. It took him awhile to get used to grounders in cotton shirts and flannel pants but now it is a normal sight. If not for the braids in her hair, Echo would look like she came from the stars, as Skaikru as the rest of them.

"You're quiet today," she remarks, studying him back. He's always found the intensity of her gaze startling, but it's become a comfort. He knows Echo will not let his vigilance become blunted.

"You're one to talk," he says, voice matter-of-fact. Echo, like him, has become more silent than loud since leaving the ground. But unlike Murphy and the others, unlike himself, she doesn't complain. At first, there had been the initial claustrophobia for all of them, but once Echo adjusted to the space and taught herself to breathe past the tight, restrictive walls, she greeted the stars with curiosity.

"They're different up here," she said shortly after they'd arrived. Bellamy had taken her to the port window to show her Earth, but she'd turned her focus on the stars instead.

"They're brighter, I'll give you that," Bellamy had replied.

"Not just brighter. The constellations are clearer." She lifted a finger and tapped part of the glass, just over three stars, arranged in a row. "That's the Gona. The Warrior." She moved her finger to the left. "And that is Staff gon the Heda; the Staff of the Commander."

Bellamy smirked. "Here it's just called the Big Dipper."

Echo looked unimpressed and motioned to another constellation. "This one you can find at any time of the year, always pointing north. It is the most important to us."

"The North Star," He said. "Ursa Minor."

"To my people it is called the Finish Noma."

"Which means what?"

She paused, giving him a look of reluctance, maybe even sympathy before responding. "The Last Traveler."

Bellamy had been sorry he'd asked.

He drags a hand down his face and to his neck, where he tries to massage the stiffness from it. "How's it going in Alpha?" he asks her now. "I've noticed you and Emori aren't butting heads anymore."

Echo scowls, but it fades almost instantly. "We're learning to get along, though she still doesn't trust me like the rest have started to."

Bellamy shrugs. "Trust takes time. That will never change."

"I guess it's good then that we have so much of it," she says. "Time, that is."

Bellamy covers his frown with a smirk. "You heard Murphy, only 1,460 days to go." He sees her uncertainty and his voice softens. "If the Ark could survive ninety seven years up here, we can survive four more."

"The determination shows in your eyes," she says, her gaze locking on his. "Clarke would be proud."

Bellamy winces, not because he thinks she's wrong, but because he knows she's right. He doesn't know what to say to that so he simply nods. Then his eyes fall to the clock he's been glancing at since coming to the commons. Time for her radio call.

"I better go," he says to Echo as he stands. "I'll talk to you later?"

She nods, gaze dropping to her hands.

"And Echo?"

Her eyes snap back up to his.

"For whatever it's worth, I trust you."

Her expression turns surprised enough for him to actually see it. "Like you once had?"

He deliberates a moment. "Like I'm open to the suggestion of it."

She almost smiles.

When Bellamy reaches his room, he shuts the door behind him and pulls out the radio. Today he listens to Clarke's update as he stares out the circular window that captures a bit of Earth. Sometimes he prefers the sentiment of the cell, with its drawings and its stories. But there are other times when he longs for the familiarity of the ground. When seeing Earth makes him feel closer to the ones he left there.

"Day three-hundred-and-sixty-seven. That's right, I haven't lost count." Bellamy listens to the update and shuts his eyes, imagining her here. Him there. Wherever, just as long as it includes the both of them. "Today is a special day. If these updates are transmitting, then you already know I've been working on the Rover."

Every day, he thinks.

"It was pretty frustrating for a while, especially knowing that Raven probably could've had it fixed within hours. But for someone who's not a mechanic, I haven't made anything explode yet, so there's that."

He smiles. Raven will be proud.

When he hears Clarke insert the key, he tenses. Please, he thinks. Let it work for her. Please.

The radio crackles loudly when a growl tears through the receiver, letting him know the engine is on. She's done it. He grins and closes his eyes, relieved, until another sound snags his attention. At first, he thinks it's Clarke coughing and it takes him a moment before he realizes that it's laughter. Not the kind after a storm, but the real kind. The victorious kind, and the sound takes him by such surprise that he stares at the radio. Then her joy carries to him and he's laughing with her, quietly, in the privacy of his room.

He does not think about what will happen after it fades. He knows the loneliness will creep back into her voice tomorrow. But not today.

Today, Clarke Griffin is happy.

***

The following day, Clarke takes the Rover to the bunker, stopping a couple miles away to save fuel.

It's still early and the hike takes longer than she thought. Probably because all recognizable landmarks have pretty much been reduced to dust, and Clarke has to rely primarily on her sense of direction. The radiation has made any compass useless, so she keeps to her instincts, following a break in the razed woods she thinks used to be a road.

She's grown more accustomed to the quiet outside. There are no birds to sing away the silence. No trees with branches to rustle in the wind. There is no snapping of twigs that signals an animal nearby or the chime of crickets that always comes with the setting sun. There is only her, forging a way through the cinders of a mute world.

When the city finally comes into view, Clarke can only stare. She saw the live feed. She knew what to expect. But standing before the city that has been pulled to the ground is something else. Most of the ruins are stained black. Blocks of stone jut from the ash like headstones, forming a graveyard around her.

Clarke drags in small breath as she scans the area, lips parted in shock. When she sees the tower, she starts walking, first slow, then faster until her stumbling becomes a sprint and she runs as quickly as her legs can carry her. "No," she gasps, as she weaves through the ruins, dodging rock and rubble. "No, no, no, no."

The closer she gets to the tower, the more its remains build, and her dodging turns into a steady climb. She has to use her hands to make it over boulders and the rough stone bites into her palms. Her ankle nearly gets caught in a crevice, but Clarke doesn't stop. She climbs, her breath sawing between her teeth. Her heart hammers against her sternum and when she reaches the top, her legs shake, but she forces herself to stand where the tower once had.

Where the bunker still is, now buried like a tomb somewhere beneath her.

Slowly, a deeper shaking starts, one that reaches to her bones. Her hands curl into fists. Cold seeps in as hot, angry tears fill her eyes and without thinking about it, she grasps the nearest slab of rock and tries to move it. And when it doesn't budge, she goes to another, then another, managing to loosen a few fragments and nothing more. Clarke pulls and shoves and tries until her muscles won't listen anymore. Only then does her anger dissipate, as the truth hits her, so heavy it weighs her down to the stones.

She will not be able to try and contact the bunker. She will not get close enough to check it for damage. She will not even get the simple luxury of touching a door, and knowing there lay life just beyond it.

Shaking, she pulls her legs into her chest.

And it is there, seated atop a broken tower, where the silence is finally punctured and the only sound on the whole of the Earth is Clarke Griffin's scream.