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ONCE MORE, Taylor found herself back in the office of Dante Wallace. After their attempt at escape, both of them had been led back to his office in restraints. He was facing away from the door, focused intently on a painting that he was working on.
"Lose the handcuffs," he ordered without even taking a glance back at them. The guards uncuffed Clarke and Taylor, both of them shooting each other a quick look. Taylor wasn't sure she would ever understand anything about the motivations of anyone in the entire mountain. "There's a blank canvas if you'd like. I know you're not much of the art type, Taylor, but my offer extends to you too nonetheless."
Clarke simply shook her head confusedly while Taylor furrowed her brows, fists clenching slightly. "I used to paint the ground too," Clarke said, causing Taylor's attention to drift to the scene that he was working on. Dark green trees stood out against the light blue sky, reminding her of exactly what they had been living in and making her feel an ache for it, despite all that had happened.
"It's not just the ground, it's a memory," he clarified, his focus still not wavering for even a moment.
"You've been outside?" Clarke asked, shocked.
"How?" Taylor added, seeing as they had just been arrested for the endangerment of the entire population inside of Mount Weather for fear of radiation wiping every single one of them out.
"It was once. Fifty-six years ago. For five minutes," Dante replied, looking down at his palette and wetting his brush once more. "I was seven when the first of what we call the Outsiders appeared. Before that, we thought we were all there was. Imagine our surprise."
"We don't have to," Taylor interjected, looking at Clarke while the memories of that second day on the ground ran through her mind.
"My father — this was his office at the time — believed it meant that the Earth was survivable again. And so he opened the doors. Within a week, fifty-four people were dead from the exposure. My mother and sister among them," he explained, his tone drastically different from the one that she was accustomed to hearing from the man. He finally turned around and put down the palette and brushes in his hands to face the two. "Loss, pain, regret. Time eases these things. But the only time it's ever truly gone is when I'm painting."
"You didn't bring us here to talk about painting," Clarke responded, standing statue still and looking like she was slightly uncomfortable.
"I wouldn't be here if that was the case," Taylor mentioned, eyeing the older man suspiciously.
"I'm afraid I have bad news. Our patrols have swept the area and found no evidence of survivors. Either at your camp, or from the Ark," he informed. Taylor's expression fell while Clarke's remained one of denial.
