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THINGS HAD GONE SO QUIET THAT MARLEY COULD HEAR THE TREE BRANCHES TAPPING AGAINST THE DROP SHIP. She took a moment to calm herself, the soft rhythm pulling her back from the white noise she'd found herself drowning in. But it only lasted a few seconds — three or four taps echoing softly through the silence — until the restrained chaos resumed.
They'd managed to tie down Lincoln, seatbelts and chains pinning him to the floor, but she wasn't sure how much longer they had before he woke and tried to tear himself free again. There were more restraints, now, but Marley didn't doubt his ability to break his way through the binds that kept him immobile.
"We have to stop the bleeding and get the bullet out." Clarke murmured, hands skimming over Lincoln's bloody trouser leg as if she was trying to will the bullet from his leg with touching. "Hold his leg down." Clarke murmured, furrowing her eyebrows as she stared down at Lincoln's wound. "Marley, can you help me?"
"Oh-" Marley blinked a few times, surprised by the request. "Yes, what do you need?"
Octavia excused herself; she'd tried to give Lincoln some water but he'd spat it out stubbornly, knocking over the canteen in the process, still barely conscious, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as his head lolled to the side. Now the spilt water ran in thin rivulets along the metal floor, winding its way along the tilt in the dropship's floor.
"Hold this," Clarke instructed. She handed Marley a small knife - the kind they'd carved from the dropship when they'd first fallen to Earth. She tried her best to stop her hands from shaking as the weapon slipped into her fingers.
"What do I need to do?" Clarke was pulling back the fabric of Lincoln's trousers; they were jagged and frayed at the edges, and they soaked her pale hands in red. "I've never-"
"Just hold his pants out of the way," she requested, handing the blood-soaked scrap of fabric to hold up and away from the wound. She took the small knife from Marley, doused it and her hands in alcohol from a container beside her, gritted her teeth and pressed the edge of the blade to the wound.
Lincoln cried out in pain, screams growing louder and more pained as Clarke dug the knife into his neck. She dug around the wound for a few more seconds, desperately trying to locate the bullet that had lodged itself in Lincoln's shin. Bellamy pinned his writhing legs to the ground; Lincoln was much stronger than him and he struggled to keep the limbs pinned to the floor.
It was nauseating work. Even just holding the torn fabric of his pants made her feel sick; Marley had to look away, eyes focusing stoically - or about as stoically as was possible - as the metallic tang of blood rose up around the room, strong and pungent and nearly debilitating. She'd never had a problem with blood before and she'd dealt with her own wounds more than enough times but this was different. She took a moment, a long steadying breath and turned back to Clarke, watching her closely. Marley figured that, if she watched, maybe she could pick up a thing or two. Because it could come in handy, someday. That didn't mean that the sight was overwhelmingly nauseating.
