Part Three

Lexa shifts.

Blinks.

Cracks her neck.

They're late, and her already sour attitude is slowly morphing into one of downright annoyance.

Her informant (more accurately the squirrely young man she'd savagely beaten until he told her the information she'd been seeking) had told her that some of Wallace's lower tier compatriots would be meeting out here by the docks for a drop precisely fifteen minutes ago. Lexa kept herself sharp, eyes and ears tuned to the swell of waves to her left, the faint sounds of cars and congestion in the city to her right, sweeping the darkness in front of her for any sounds of approaching individuals, but so far no dice. Lexa thought the whole situation was odd, because Wallace may not be involved directly in this little transaction, but people working for him were, and she was sure they knew how much he hated when things did not go exactly as according to plan.

That was one thing that Lexa found she had in common with the man she was hunting, much to her displeasure. Lexa has a strict habit of being extremely punctual. It makes her feel sweaty and anxious when people are late, or especially when she herself might be late for something, so she always makes sure that she leaves enough time to account for traffic or any other kind of unforeseen holdup that might occur whenever she's expected somewhere. Her mother had been a lot like that too, and maybe that's where Lexa gets it from. Or maybe it's just a product of circumstance, a result of all the torturous things she's had to deal with, the things she's seen, the things she's done, another toll that's been strapped to her shoulders as she fights to keep an iron grip of control over her own life, the life of her city, and the life of the Commander she's shaped herself into.

(Maybe it's only just one of the many manifestations of that control that she clings to like it's the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely).

Lately, there's been a chink in that control. A chink in the armor she keeps up around her at all times, a chink in the fact that she shuts everyone out of her life without a second thought, and she's better off because of it. A weakness.

She hates herself for it. Hates herself for thinking about her, hates herself for being intrigued, drawn to the strength and the spirit she found within her, drawn to her kindness and her genuineness. Clarke Griffin seems as of late to be causing her more problems than the ones she'd patched up for her on that night they'd met.

She has not been weak since her and she never intended to be weak again. Not after what it had cost her. She had learned that she needed to be ruthless that day, she had learned that the world was not forgiving, that she had been right in her skepticism that there was any kind of God. She had promised herself she would never drag another innocent person into her life to reap the consequences, to be destroyed. She had promised herself she would never become invested in anyone ever again, not after that. She could more easily think of herself as a weapon, as a method of destruction, if there wasn't anyone around to remind her that she's still a person too, that she's more than that, that there is still a heart that beats in her chest and care that floods through her veins.

And yet, here was Clarke Griffin, a woman she'd only met because she'd needed medical attention, out of pure circumstance, yet someone she subsequently found she couldn't seem to get out of her head.

It was disarming and annoying and upsetting.

There wasn't anything remarkable about Clarke Griffin. So why did her thoughts always seem to drift in that direction? (Blue eyes, the nagging part of her brain supplies for her, blue eyes and soft curls of blonde hair and timid but firm fingers and kindness in her soft smile and her tired eyes and the fact that she wasn't afraid).

The side of her that was drawn to Clarke Griffin eventually won out, briefly. She let herself believe that it did no one any harm to check up on her every once and a while, to make sure she was okay. It was just her being concerned about a fellow citizen, and it didn't have to be anything more than that. It didn't have to hold weight just because Lexa thought Clarke Griffin was intriguing. It didn't have to mean something because then that would mean that she cared. And Lexa doesn't care about people.

(She does, of course, care about people, but it's more in the abstract sense than anything else. She cares about people as a collective whole, not as individuals. She cares for her city, and the people who reside in it, but she does not know them by name, she does not sit down for coffee with them, and she does not know any of them in any sort of intimate way. That is what keeps her sane. That is what allows her to do what she does; that degree of separation that allows her to remain aloof).

For a while, she found herself frequenting alleys near the hospital where the doctor works, checking up on her when it was late at night and all the rats crawled out of the woodwork to prey on good people like Clarke Griffin. (The good people were the reason she did any of this; the good people were the reason she donned this mask every evening and twisted arms and fingers and necks and woke up in the morning with bloodstained skin and bruised knuckles. The good people were the ones she protected, and Clarke Griffin was one of those good people. There wasn't any real harm in making sure she was safe; she was just doing her job. No harm, no foul. It didn't mean anything. It didn't).

She learned Clarke's typical schedule fairly quickly. She liked to watch her, especially when the streetlamps cast a dim light over her and a yellow glow around her already blonde head, almost like a halo; when she'd smile at her nurse friend or the man who picked her up most evenings and it suddenly felt like the world had a little added hue of color in it again, like Lexa could see all the intricate blues and yellows and greens and purples, instead of the usual monochrome blacks and whites and grays.

(There was something about her that was magnetic, and Lexa couldn't help but be drawn to her; an inescapable pull that seemed to defy logic itself).

She spent a little too much time watching over Clarke, if she's completely honest, and as the weeks dragged on and her injuries began to heal more fully, she realized just how much of her time she'd spent following Clarke around, justified only in her mind by her broken state and the ever present duty to protect the people of her city, of which Clarke was one. She'd been neglecting her duties, and she felt an immense amount of shame for focusing so much of her attention on one woman, and allowing criminals to get away with their machinations unharmed, allowing Wallace to perceive her as weak, allowing him to get cocky again. That would not do, not ever.

So she locked up the part of herself that wanted to seek out the doctor, the part of her that wanted to see her and talk to her and know her.

(It's the tiny part of her that's still human, she thinks, but she must remind herself that she is not human: she is a machine, she is a force to be reckoned with; every man's nightmare. She is a ruthless enforcer of justice with iron skin and eyes of steel and rust coursing through her veins. She is not meant to be anything more than that, because this is the life that she chose for herself and she must accept the consequences, even if they make her nothing more than a shadow illuminated only by the moonlit streetlights underneath a blanket of suffocating darkness. She does not deserve to be human; after all, she can't afford it, and especially not after all that she's done. She shed her privilege to be human the day she took her first life, the moment she took her first life and didn't stop).

She couldn't afford to be thinking about Clarke Griffin all the time, to want to watch for her safety. That other night was just an anomaly, a flaw in the prescribed code of her day to day existence, ever since she firmly decided to shut Clarke out of her thoughts.

She'd been in the neighborhood, tracking a low life heroin dealer who was seeking to be brought into the Wallace-ian fold, hoping either to take him out before he got there, or to take everyone who showed up to the meet out (she hadn't quite decided yet), including the dealer who was unwittingly leading her right where she wanted to be. She had been about to pull out her grappling hook to follow the guy across the street (so she never had to leave her lofty purchase on the rooftops) when she saw Clarke Griffin, face streaked with sweat and toil, hair tied back in a messy bun, unfocused and tired, walking down the sidewalk. (There was a subway stop a few blocks over, and Lexa assumed that's where she'd come from).

She'd been thrown entirely off guard, because what are the odds she would just stumble across Clarke? She wasn't even looking for her; she'd just been making her usual rounds. (Maybe fate was trying to tell her something). She didn't know how to feel about it, she didn't really want to feel any particular way about it, but despite her best efforts she was almost blown over by the weight of the emotions that hit her like a freight truck, or like that time she'd catapulted into the ocean from the thirtieth floor of a building.

She felt a mixture of anger, annoyance, and to her complete and utter dismay, happiness. She was angry and annoyed that she'd run into the damn doctor, when she'd finally successfully stopped thinking about her all the damn time, when she hadn't watched over her in over a week. She was pissed. She didn't need a reminder of her momentary weakness. But she was still secretly pleased, because there was still something about Clarke that seemed to calm the storm always swirling around inside of her. She didn't mind, really, seeing her. She supposed it was bound to happen eventually, she'd just didn't think it'd be this soon. She'd been just about to continue on her way, following the dealer across the dimly lit street, when her stomach nearly dropped out of her body.

She'd acted out of pure instinct, but the moment when Clarke stepped off the sidewalk to cross to the other side, Lexa saw the car, and something constricted in her chest, squeezing tightly. She was jumping off the rooftop without a second thought about it, shooting her grappling hook at the building directly across from her, and didn't stop to think for a moment that she was breaking her precious rules again: she was interfering, she was concerned, she was saving Clarke Griffin, and maybe most importantly, she was interacting with the only person who had managed to crack her façade in years. Exactly what she told herself under no circumstances to ever ever do again.

But none of that mattered, apparently. She was crashing into Clarke in what seemed like a split second, arm around her hips, hugging her to her body. The car skidded past them, sliding to the side, and Lexa had tucked her body closer to Clarke's, trying not to let the relief overpower her.

They'd landed rather roughly, and Lexa had pulled Clarke closer, twisting her other arm around her waist, absorbing as much of the shock as she could, twisting with the momentum. She was used to this sort of thing, but Clarke certainly wasn't.

She didn't let go right away. Instead, she whispered in her ear. What in the world had possessed her to do that, she really wishes she knew, so she could punch it in the face or something before it decided to speak.

"Careful, Doc," was out of her mouth before she could stop herself, and she'd felt an almost immediate panic once she'd realized what she'd done. Now Lexa let go, abruptly, pushing Clarke away from her in a move that was probably a little harsher than necessary, but she'd wanted to make a point to herself. Space. The doctor wobbled slightly on unsteady feet, but Lexa didn't move to offer any more support; she'd done too much already. Too much. And now she was just standing there. She should be gone already, and yet she wasn't. She was just waiting. (What is wrong with her)?

That was when Clarke turned to face her; cheeks flushed red and chest heaving. She'd taken her in, blinking harshly, before she'd breathed out her alter-ego's name, wheezing, but somehow it still managed to sound like…something good coming from her lips. Commander.

And Lexa had continued to violate her code, for some ridiculous reason like the potential for human connection.

"Gotta watch your step," she said, and she'd even allowed a smile to grace her lips. Clarke had merely gaped, mouth falling open comically, eyes wide and bulging. Her rational side finally kicked in after what seemed like an eon. She had to get the hell out of there before she did anything else she'd come to regret.

"I'll see you around, Clarke Griffin," she'd said, and she still isn't sure if she'd actually meant it. And then she was tumbling off the other side of the rooftop, trying to control her racing heart, setting her sights back on what she was supposed to be doing that night, and away from Clarke Griffin. She hated herself for even considering going to see her again.

She still isn't clear on exactly what it was about Clarke Griffin that sent her careening off track. She's been doing just fine. No one has ever been a problem. Until her. (She hates herself more than she hates Clarke, really. She's the one who acted weak. Clarke didn't know she was smashing against walls that have been sturdy for so incredibly long). Maybe it's because no one's ever really cared enough about Lexa to try. She appears cold, distant, and aloof, and maybe people just don't want to bother with someone who doesn't seem to show any emotions. But that's exactly what she wants, so she shouldn't be ruminating over her so-called loneliness, because this is what she signed up for. She checked off the little box that declared 'no lasting attachments' the moment she decided this was the life she wanted for herself; a life dedicated to the betterment and the protection of others, at the expense of her own.

Lexa is startled from her thoughts at the sound of approaching tires crunching against gravel. She sits up straighter, suddenly alert. She watches as three cars glide into view, headlights shut off, parking parallel to the docks. There is a murmuring of harsh voices and slamming doors, heads sweeping around to take in the surroundings.

This is Lexa's newest plan to take Wallace down before his organization grows any more than it already has. (She doesn't need a repeat of several years ago).

She's attempting to dismantle the organization from the bottom up, taking out tiers of lesser criminals and working her way, slowly but surely, to the top. To Wallace himself, where he sits perched on his throne of lies in the city council office. She's not sure exactly how far his influence runs, how deep his claws go, and she hopes that it's more superficial than anything, that he isn't entrenched in the city so deeply that she'll be forced to rip it apart to remove the cancer. She loves her city, and it would kill her to have to hurt it in order to save it, even if she was doing the right thing.

She shifts her position again as one of the men begins unloading the trunk of his truck. (Her ribs are still in pretty bad shape, unfortunately and lying on them for hours hasn't done them any good). She crawls across the roof to get a better vantage point, ignoring the stab of pain in her elbow and shifting her hips to push herself slightly upward, cocking her left ear towards the voices below her.

"You sure this is a good idea?" One of the men says to his friend, looking worriedly around himself, "I mean between the Commander and Kilfer sayin' he was gonna rat us out to the cops, this isn't the brightest idea, don't ya think?"

The taller man rolls his eyes. "That damn vigilante ain't nothing we got to worry about. Heard she hurt herself. Moron. And as for Kilfer, he ain't got the balls to go down taking us out. So quit your whining and go get the fucking cash."

Lexa smirks to herself. Criminals are so predictable. But they had been getting off the hook for too long, since her injuries had put her out of commission for a while. But she's back now, a little worse for wear, but she can still kick their asses with one arm tied behind her back, of that she's pretty damn sure. They're just about to make the exchange when she decides it's about time to make her entrance.

She stands to her full height, somersaulting off the top of the roof and into the fray below.

"Sorry, boys," she says as she lands, "Can't let you do that." The man to her left pulls out his handgun, finger poised on the trigger, but she's faster. He gets a knife in his chest before he can even think to fire his weapon.

Then all hell breaks loose.

A bullet whizzes by her head as she ducks, swiveling to the right, her fist ramming into the nose of the guy near one of the cars, closest to her. She catches his body as he falls, swinging him up around to shield her torso as one of the taller men shoot a stream of bullets straight at her. She tosses his corpse to the side, bleeding and broken, tumbling head over heels behind the nearest car, unsheathing one of her swords in the process, snagging a Glock from the front seat of the vehicle as she does so.

She checks the clip; full, loaded, and ready to go. She's not particularly fond of guns, but she does know how to use them, and she'll use them if she has to, but from her perspective, guns tend to do more harm than good, though she supposes that's generally their intent.

She pulls up from her crouch and fires at the three men still shooting at her. She aims for kneecaps and they go down instantly, crying in agony as their legs splay out from their bodies at strange angles as they hit the dirt below them, a spray of red coating the darkness around them. She avoids center mass, even if it would be easier to just eliminate them, if only for the fact that she doesn't particularly like killing people, no matter how good she is at it, how efficient, how much it makes the blood in her ears hum.

The others are still looking for a fight, and if that's what they want, well, she'll give them that. She swings her sword in front of her as the first man charges, and she slices the blade through his knees, letting him slide to the ground.

"C'mon, bitch! Let's go!" One of the other men yells, and she rolls her eyes when he charges, and she cuts into him easily. He screams as he falls, clutching his leg, which has started spurting blood, droplets splattering onto the bottom of Lexa's shoes, across the legs of her pants. She must've hit his femoral artery. Too bad.

She's about to tussle with the remaining five when there's another loud screech of tires from behind them.

"Freeze!" She hears screamed at them, "Drop your weapons! This is the police!"

Fuck.

Three of the men start sprinting as if their lives depended on it, and well they kind of do. The other two throw their hands up in the air as one of the officers approaches them, gun trained on them. There's moaning all around her, but all she can focus on is the sound of footsteps running towards her.

She has to go.

So she follows in the lead of the three lowlifes – she starts running.

"Stop!" She hears shouted at her, but she doesn't listen. She tosses her sword back into its sheath on her back, feet kicking up dust as she pushes herself faster, harder, stronger. There's an ache in her ribs, pulsating and pounding, but she can't afford to think about that, not now. Her heart is racing in her ears, and she can feel the feet of the officers pursuing her, can feel them rumbling through the pavement and filling her with dread.

"Stop! You're under arrest!" Someone keeps yelling, and she hopes they realize they're going to have to shoot her to stop her, although realistically she kind of hopes they don't entertain that thought.

Today will not be the day she's caught. No way in hell.

There's a turn up ahead, and Lexa wills her body to get her there. Her lungs are heaving with the effort against her still bruised ribs, her feet pushing and falling against the ground in a brutal rhythm, her boots slapping against concrete, the sounds of cops in the not too distant background, of guns cocking and bullets in the chamber. Lexa feels the stitches still present in her side split open, can feel blood oozing out against the side of her clothes.

Just a few more yards, and hopefully there will be roof access somewhere in the alley, anything to get her to a better vantage point, to get her away from the police.

She ignores the screaming of her wounds, and torpedoes around the corner, coming face to face with a brick wall a mere few feet in front of her.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

There's no fire escapes, no dumpsters, just a fucking brick wall and two buildings encasing her from the sides.

She takes a minute to drink it in: the taste of freedom, the smell of salt in the seawater behind her, the slight breeze against her skin. She may never get to see autumn again, to look at the city from the top of the buildings, to watch the sun set in the distance over the heads of the people she's sworn herself to protect. Maybe this has been enough for her. Maybe she can be free, even if it means giving up her freedom. She entertains the thought, fleetingly, that this is the end. That she will put her hands up and the cops will cuff her and reveal her identity and this will all be over. That she will have served her city and be able to put her head down and forget the pain and the damage and the blood on her hands. That she could end this without the inevitable tragedy (well, any more than she's already suffered).

Only for a moment.

The deep timbre of one of the cop's voices jars her from her moment of respite, before she's plunged back into reality.

"On your knees!" He commands.

"Hands in the air!" A woman yells.

She complies with both, throwing her hands up into the air, slowly lowering herself to her knees, chancing a glance over her shoulder. There are four cops: three men and a woman, all in uniform.

One of the men is shaking; she can see the miniscule tremor in his weapon as he tries to hold it steady, pointed at the back of her head. He won't shoot. He's too afraid. She can take him easily, and she calculates what he'd need to be put out of commission: she thinks he'd go down with one punch, right to the jaw. He's not built very well, all lanky limbs and skinny arms, and the sheer fact that Lexa's packed with more muscle than five of him put together is enough to reassure her he'll go down without too much of a fight, if one at all.

The second man won't be as easy, but Lexa doesn't foresee a problem. Whoever cuffs her gets the element of surprise: she'll steal their weapon and kill whoever it is, before turning on scrawny boy or this one. She'll shoot him with the gun. Then she'll take out whoever's still left standing.

Her ribs are burning.

(Maybe she shouldn't be as cocky about this as she is).

"Hands on you head," the woman approaches, and Lexa complies, hearing the clink of metal as handcuffs are drawn. Lexa lets herself exude a sense of defeat; she hangs her head, stills her muscles. Prepares.

She feels the woman's fingers gripping her wrist and Lexa offers no resistance as she maneuvers the cool metal around it. Lexa closes her eyes, takes a deep breath.

Time seems to slow. She can hear the steady beating of her own heart; hear the ocean breaking against the docks, the scuffle of feet as the officers move apprehensively in place, the harsh sound of the woman breathing against the back of her neck. Each tiny little detail before she readies herself.

She opens her eyes and catches the woman's hand in her own just as she's about to snap the cuffs closed.

She twists immediately, bringing the woman down howling, snapping the bones in her arm as she does so even from her awkward position, and she brings her now freed hand up to snap the woman's neck in one quick motion. She dies with the sound of her scream still hanging in the air around them.

The dark skinned cop reacts first. He shoots, but she uses the dead officer's body as a shield, much like she'd done only minutes before, reaching into the dead woman's holster to retrieve her weapon as she spins around. She shoots the scrawny cop in the chest as she lets the woman's body fall to the ground, firing at the man to his left and catching him in the temple, blood spurting from the bullet wound in his skull as he drops with a sickening thud. And now it's just them. She aims her gun at the dark skinned cop, who's pointing his weapon at her in much the same fashion.

"Let's take it easy," he says, his voice deep and rumbling, "Nobody else has to get hurt. Just put down the gun."

"You first," she quips back, adrenaline humming in her ears despite the shaky feeling in her limbs. He fixes her with his gaze, dark and penetrating. He's fearless, reckless.

"You know I can't do that. But neither of us has to die here today. You put down the gun, and we both walk out of here, breathing. Put it down, and let me take you in. No more bloodshed." She blinks behind her mask. He seems like a good man. But Lexa doesn't have time to care about that, not right now. Right now, she needs to get out of here, no matter what the cost. She can do more good out here than from behind the bars of a jail cell.

So she makes a move of lowering her weapon. She can see the triumphant gleam in his eye before she snaps the gun back up and into her side, firing off two consecutive shots that shred into his legs. He screams as he goes down, finger squeezing the trigger of his own gun and the bullet takes her by surprise, embedding itself into her shoulder. She winces but takes the pain in check, leaping forward to clamp her foot down onto the hand that's holding his weapon. She stomps until his fingers release, and she kicks it far out of reach before dragging his body up into her arms.

She settles her better arm against his neck, squeezing tightly. He struggles against her iron grip, sputtering for air.

"Just remember," she hisses into his ear, tightening her arms around his neck, watching as his eyes bulge up in terror, the way his hands claw desperately at her forearm, choking on his own tongue.

"I could have killed you." And with that she releases him and he crumples to the concrete below, lungs gasping and hacking as he tries to breathe, hands curled around his chest.

She doesn't stop to take a look at the carnage she's left behind, the lives she's ruined, the damage she's done.

She runs and runs and runs until she can't see straight anymore.

What has she become?

(She doesn't think she knows anymore).

The minute she stops, the minute she relaxes, she feels her chest closing up and tears welling in her eyes. She tries to shut them out. She did what she had to do. (That doesn't mean she has to enjoy it).

She takes a moment to breathe, ripping the mask from her head and bending over on her knees, fighting off the panic snaking its way around her heart. At what point does she go too far? Has she already gone too far? Does any of this mean anything? Is she even making a difference? Or is she just killing people, killing people and taking them away from the people they love, from their lives, is she just ruining the world she's trying to save? She just wants to help; she just wants to bring peace to these streets, to see the sunlight peek from the storm clouds overhead and shine down again on a better world, a better existence. A moment where death and corruption and ruthlessness no longer reign. A moment where Lexa could finally rest her aching bones and put down her cross. A moment where people could live.

She sucks in her tears, trying to ignore the shaking of her shoulders, the throbbing of the gunshot wound. She grits her teeth, leaning back against the alley wall before digging her fingers into the blood gushing from her shoulder, feeling for the bullet she knows is still embedded in her. She only lets out a few grunts of pain before the tips of her fingers brush against something metallic, and she wrenches it from her shoulder in one quick fluid motion, before she can even fully register the pain. She tucks the bloodied bullet into the pocket of her pants, breathing heavily as she drops her mask to the concrete below her, slipping down to join it.

She reaches out to wipe her tears. (She only succeeds in smearing dark red blood across her face).

She leans her head against the brick behind her, trying to remember something beyond this. Something beyond the duty she feels to protect the people of her city. Something more than misery.

(She remembers laughing, tiny hands, clutching her slightly bigger ones, dirty blonde hair and an angular adoring face, following her everywhere. She remembers the tickle of her uncle's beard, the smell of leather and metal when she would bury her head in the crook of his shoulder. She remembers the playground in the park, the laughter in her father's eyes, the smile stretching across his face. She remembers her mother, strict but loving, oh so deeply loving, with her apron on, chasing them around the house, brandishing a spoon, giggling. She remembers long brown hair and deep, gentle brown eyes, soft dark skin below Lexa's palms, tracing infinities across breasts and hips and murmured whispers of forever on smiling lips, the echo of promises never kept. She remembers everything).

But even those memories are tainted. There is no innocence in Lexa's life. From an impossibly young age, Lexa's been faced with the horrid realities of life, of survival, of the hatred and anger that swelled in people's hearts. She may remember solace in those memories, but those memories only serve to remind her exactly why she's here. Exactly why she's crouched in a heap in this alleyway, battered and bruised and looking for guidance. She's here to protect people from all that she's seen. She's here to give people a chance to live their lives happy.

She closes her eyes. There may be no happiness on the horizon for Lexa Forrest, but she can still bring that happiness to others. She can still fight for something better.

That's why she's here.

She's here to give her life for the benefit of others.

She gets up, standing back up on shaky legs, a newfound determination glinting in her eyes, in the set of her shoulders and the clench of her jaw.

She slides her mask back over her face, securing it in place.

She has work to do.

Notes: turns out I'm not dead! After nearly a year I present you with this mess. Sorry for the gigantic delay between updates but I've been really busy with school (attempting to maintain a 4.0 GPA is exactly as hard as it sounds) and sometimes just super unmotivated but I'll try to be a little better in the future. Thanks for reading, it means a lot :) come drop by on tumblr (scmeenshaw) and yell at me to write and talk to me about the story!