There's an incredulous face, nearing shocked confusion and too sharply ready for an attack, for Clarke of all people to flip the board from under her (all of them) without any notice. That it'd be impossible for her not to know about — but she refers to The Bunker like it's innocuous — to Priamfaya like it was ... yesterday. Today.

Not more than a lifetime ago.

And Octavia pulls back. Slapped more by the realization that's why than her knitting confusion is linking facts and words from earlier. That's why Clarke hugged her. That's why Clarke is looking at her like this. Like she doesn't know. About the bodies, and the blood. About the food, and the army, the bloodbath only she is blamed for when Clarke was simultaneously making deals for herself on the side.

There's a step back. Something wildly helpless she doesn't even know catches in her face all too briefly. (Diyoza would recognize it so clearly. She midwifed it back from a grave full of blood, drowned and forgotten; a child's sacrifice, sanity for survival.) The words are more to the space between them than to Clarke herself. "They said, earlier, that people come from different places."

They'd also said dead people could, too. Which was why she'd ignored it. But.