Before following Marcoulf and Teren, Clarke pauses to give Helena a look stuck somewhere between bewildered and concerned at her tone. But what matters is that it's done. She trades the scope for a knife and arrives at the bottom not far behind Marcoulf, stepping carefully around a splayed arm.

None of them are standing up again anytime soon. At least one of them is still breathing, in a wet and rattling way, eyes unfocused on the sky above him. Clarke crouches and looks at the damage to his torso, as if maybe he might make it, maybe they're here to take prisoners—looks at it and then shushes him, unnecessarily, while she cuts his throat.

Emptying his pockets is fairly quick work, and splitting the useful from the bits of lint and yarn is simple, but the letters she holds up to whoever is close by.

"I can't read these," she says.

She's working on it, but now's not the time to practice.