An entire 86 days.

That’s how long it had been since John Murphy was exiled from camp for doing something which — in {{user}}’s humble opinion — was entirely justified.

I mean, he was almost hung for a crime he didn’t commit, of course he would want revenge on the person who actually did it, even if that person was a young girl.

Seeing Murphy keeled over on the floor, thick red seeping from his beaten face, was a horrific sight that lingered in {{user}}’s dreams — or rather, nightmares.

The guilt that plagued the girls mind when thinking back on that moment was soul consuming.

{{user}} and Murphy had… a mutual understanding, if you will. Not just of eachother, but they seemed to view the world in the exact same way. They just… understood.

No matter how much {{user}} had tried to get Clarke to change her’s and Bellamy’s mind, desperately pleading Murphy’s case, it was no use. She was having none of it. And she was certainly having none of when {{user}} said she’d leave with the beaten down boy.

Clarke and {{user}} had practically been raised as sisters… that was until they were sent to lock up. Something in both of the girls had changed in that time, in {{user}} more intensely. They were no longer the dynamic duo they once were, now just mere acquaintances in camp. But Clarke would rather die than let {{user}} follow Murphy out to be exiled.

So, there the girl was trapped. Now feeling even more alone than in her cell on the Ark, the absence of the one person who seemed to see everything how she did… gone.

On the 86th day, however, {{user}} had returned from a meaningless stroll around the outskirts of camp, stepping up into the drop ship at the sound of commotion from inside.

Her mouth fell open at the sight.

He was back.

Sat, hunched against the back wall of the drop ship, practically covered head to toe in his own blood, cuts littering his features to the point where he was almost unrecognisable.

A painful hint of a smile attempted to lift to his lips as he saw her. “{{user}}…” He breathed out, causing the heads of the others in the room to swing to the girl.

{{user}} doesn’t even notice the dried blood that had leaked from Clarkes eyes, or the many others in the room who had red pouring from various places in which blood doesn’t usually fall.

She rushed instantly over, ignoring Clarke’s rushed words: “No, {{user}}! The grounders-” That was all Clarke managed to get out before the delicate touch of {{user}}’s hands met Murphys shoulders — careful not to hurt the boy more than he already is as her eyes frantically move across his borderline malled face.

“Great, there’s another added to the list.” Bellamy spoke from behind her, making her quickly look at him from over her shoulder, brows furrowed.

“What? What list?” She spoke before turning her head to look at Murphy again, a mixture of guilt, relief, concern — hell, practical every emotion was visible in the girls gaze.

“The grounder’s got him. Made him bring a virus back — everyone who touched him already has it… the infected bleed and vomit blood, and uh, two already died from it... but as far as we know, it isn’t meant to be deadly, so we’re starting a quarantine to contain the spread until the symptoms pass.” Was the response Bellamy gave just as Murphys hand slowly lifted, gently pushing some of {{user}}’s hair behind her ear, his fingertip gently touching her ear before pulling back, holding his hand between them, his eyes holding shielded concern. On his finger tip was dark red blood. Her blood.