Lion's Roar (Clexa)

1. The Escape Artist.

The rain was intense, hammering the solid ground like an endless shower of bullets in the otherwise empty night. As they hit the slick and shiny sidewalk, the drops shattered into tiny diamondlike shards beneath the streetlights' lonely glow. A dark figure trudged through the blackness, boots splashing through the endless montage of puddles, head bowed against the biting wind. She avoided the lights, clearly not wanting to be seen. Her breathing was fast; an allegro panting against the incessant backbeat of the thundering downpour. This was real, this was it. There was nothing left for her back home: she was leaving, and she was never going back.

All those years she'd believed what her mother said, just like the rest of the world still believed the inherently flawed stories spread by the mass media. But now she had to face the truth. The illusion was gone; the facade destroyed. Everyone in this world was full of lies. Nobody could be trusted. She was on her own.

A pair of headlights appeared in the distance and the girl froze in fear. Were they looking for her already? Had they been so quick to realise that she was gone? The headlights, shining like unblinking golden eyes in the wild darkness, came closer. She held her breath, waiting. The vehicle drove past, its tyres sending a cascade of water in all directions, far too fast to possibly be hunting her down. The girl exhaled with relief. For now, at least, she was safe.

A year ago, a month ago, or even a week before, she never would have expected this of herself. Never would have expected she'd climb out her bedroom window in the dead of the night - especially in such inclement weather - with only a small bag of now-soaked possessions and the clothes on her back, never to return. But given the day's revelations, it was the only option she had. She couldn't have stayed there; couldn't have lived with the liar, the traitor, the killer that was her mother. Who cared if it was for the so-called greater good? Who cared if he was going to die anyway? Her mother had no right to do what she did, and it was unforgivable. That's why the girl had to leave. That, and the fact that for all she knew - she could be next.

She'd been waiting for nearly an hour now, raining the whole time, and had made it to the outskirts of town. There were few houses here - the landscape was gradually transitioning into farmland now - and every residence she did pass was a lifeless, lightless shadow. Whether the storm had caused power cuts or everyone was simply asleep, she didn't know.

At the next streetlight she took the risk of stepping into the illuminated circle to look at the smudged writing on her hand; to check it matched up with the addresses around her. It was only another mile or so. Only a mile to her new home - that is, if they would take her in. The sidewalk ended, concrete turning to mud beneath her already waterlogged boots, but still she trudged onward. What a lucky coincidence that the need to escape arose the one week of the year that a perfect solution just happened to be in town. Not long after, she saw a faint light on the horizon. Her face lit up in hope; in excitement - not that one could see it though, it was so dark. Coming closer, the ambiguous light source evolved into a silhouetted landscape of tents and caravans, windows emitting a warm, inviting glow. This was it. The girl veered away from the roadside, cutting across a muddy field toward the camp.

The first tent she passed was dark and smelled of horses - no point knocking there. Instead she made a beeline for the largest, grandest caravan (not that any she could see were exactly "grand" per se) and stood in front of it, taking a moment to compose herself. "Kane's Olde-Fashioned Circus" read the decal on the caravan's side. The girl took a deep breath, and knocked.

The door was answered by a young man in a faded black suit, who straightened the scarlet bow tie around his neck whilst observing the unexpected visitor. His hair was a shaggy brown, his ethnicity something the girl standing out in the rain couldn't quite put her finger on. Too numb from the frigid rain to form coherent thoughts, she just shivered and stared, clearly waiting for the man in the caravan to speak first. He obliged.

"So," he said a little awkwardly, "you here for any particular reason, or am I just supposed to watch you drown out there?"

The girl violently shook her head in both a denial of the latter option and to clear her face of the still-accumulating raindrops, her long blonde hair - the colour just visible by the caravan's soft glow of light - sending water flying in all directions. She remained silent except for the chattering of her teeth. The rain pounded on.

"Come in," said the man in the suit. "No fireplace or hot chocolate to warm you up, but a cheap heater and an instant coffee'll have to do."

The girl nodded, teeth still click-click-clicking from the cold, and stepped up into the caravan. The man shut the door and gestured for the girl to sit down on a worn-looking blue-grey couch beside the door. There was a bed wedged into one end of the caravan, and a tired yet homely 1970s-era kitchen filled the other. The man headed for the kitchen and began to boil the kettle. He opened a cupboard and produced two mugs and a jar of coffee. Beside the couch a modest space heater was humming away: presumably the cheap heater to which the bow tie man had been referring. The girl went to lower her shivering form onto the couch, but stopped short.

"Are you s-s-sure I can s-s-sit here?" she shivered. "I'm all wet. Wouldn't want to ruin your c-c-couch."

The man shook his head and smiled sympathetically.

"It's only rain. And you look like you could do with somewhere soft to sit. You want milk in your coffee? Sugar?"

"Thank you and yes, both please." the girl said gratefully. "My name's Clarke, by the way," she added as the man finished making the coffees. He handed her one of the two ceramic mugs he held; blue with a black rim, glaze cracked from years of use, filled with coffee the way she'd requested. She took a sip, the smooth drink making its way down her throat and warming her chilly insides. Once she'd stopped shivering, the man held out his hand to Clarke. She shook it.

"I'm Bellamy," he said. "So what brings you here, in the middle of nowhere, in the pouring rain, at" - he paused to glance at the gold-plated watch on his wrist - "two twenty-three AM?" Bellamy stared at Clarke inquisitively, awaiting an answer. She downed another swig of coffee, looked him in the eye, and took a deep breath.

"I want to join your circus."