Her vision is starting to clear, in one eye at least. There's a leg right in front of her, another to one side. She looks up; the legs meet at Caraco's crotch. Acton and Brander are in her cubby too; Clarke's amazed that they can all fit.

Acton, his mouth bloody, is under siege. Brander's hand is at his throat. Acton has the wrist of that hand caught in a grip of his own; while Clarke watches, his other arm lashes out and glances off Brander's jaw.

"Stop it," she mumbles.

Caraco hits Acton's temple twice in rapid succession. Acton's head snaps sideways, snarls, but he doesn't release his grip on Brander.

"I said stop it!"

This time they hear her. The struggle slows, pauses; fists remain poised, no holds break, but they're all looking at her now.

Even Acton. Clarke looks up into his eyes, looks behind them. She can see nothing staring back but Acton himself. You were there before, she remembers. I'm almost sure of it. Count on you to get Acton into a losing fight and then bugger off...

She braces herself against the bulkhead and pushes slowly erect. Caraco moves aside, helps her up.

"I'm flattered by all the attention, folks," Clarke says, "and I want to thank you for stopping by, but I think we can handle this on our own from here on in."

Caraco puts a protective hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to put up with this shit." Her eyes, somehow venomous through the shielding, are still locked on Acton. "None of us do."

One corner of Acton's mouth pulls back in a small, bloody sneer.

Clarke endures Caraco's touch without flinching. "I know that. And thanks for stepping in. But please, just leave us alone for a while."

Brander doesn't loosen his grip on Acton's throat. "I don't think that a very good—"

"Will you get your fucking hands off him and leave us alone!"

They back off. Clarke glares after them, dogs the hatch to keep them out. "Goddamned nosy neighbors," she grumbles, turning back to Acton.

His body sags in the sudden privacy, all the anger and bravado evaporating as she watches.

"Want to tell me why you're being such an asshole?" she says.

Acton collapses on her pallet. He stares at the deck, avoiding her eyes. "Don't you know when you're being fucked over?"

Clarke sits down beside him. "Sure. Getting punched out is pretty much a giveaway."

"I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to help all of you." He turns and hugs her, body shaking, cheek pressed against hers, face aimed at the bulkhead behind her shoulder. "Oh God Lenie I'm so sorry you're the last person in the whole fucking world I want to hurt—"

She strokes him without speaking. She knows he means it. They always do. She still can't bring herself to blame any of them.

He thinks he's alone in there. He thinks it's all his own doing.