Okay hey guys! I wrote this one in small chunks over like fourteen different random nights when I should have been sleeping but instead was writing lame one-shots. You know the drill. Anyway, because of ffn's formatting things and whatnot, the 'at' sign can't show up. So my social media pieces (which I swear looked SO COOL in google docs), look a little odd. I replaced all the 'at' signs with asterisks (*) so if you see one of those, that's what it's for

A HUGE thank you to Rippingbutterflywings for editing this for me. She's the bomb-dot-com and if you've never read her stories, make sure you go do that like right after this. They're amazing.

The girl heard the metal aerosol cans clanking together in her backpack, try as she might to keep them quiet. She readjusted the black canvas strap on her shoulder and pulled her hood up a little closer to her face. Shoulder-length curls kept flying out from the hood, an attribute that would hardly go unnoticed by police if anything went wrong tonight and they caught sight of her. She had done her best to look a little less like herself than usual, throwing on heavy eyeliner and dark lipstick. She wore black leggings and a black, slightly baggy hoodie. She needed the versatility of the flexible pants, but she was also trying to conceal her figure. She had tried throwing concealer on her face to cover up her freckles, but when it hadn't worked, she had wiped it all away, not liking the feeling it gave her, as though her own skin were suffocating.

She reached the spot she wanted and pulled her phone out. The clock read 3:39, she was a full six minutes ahead of schedule.

The girl had a very strict and concise plan. And she had followed it meticulously so far. She had picked somewhere that was public during the day and private at night. She had sought for hours for a spot with frequent daily foot traffic, but with few nearby bars, and the ones that did litter the strip closed early, the latest only open until 1:30. She had watched the police for weeks, seeing if they made any routine trips to this street, and they did, but so far only on Saturday night. She had picked this spot very carefully, had purchased the clothing and the paints carefully, had made the necessary climb half a dozen times now to be sure she could do it. She had acted normal at school all day, and even told one of her classmates she was planning on catching up on some episodes of Parks & Rec tonight that she hadn't yet seen. She had snuck out of her own place so craftily that her roommate would never even now she was gone. The Benadryl she had snuck into his dessert would all but ensure that he didn't wake up until morning. She had avoided subways and cabs all night to avoid showing up on any security footage or leaving any kind of money trail behind her that police could potentially follow.

Now, all she really had to do was paint the damn thing.

Hauling the second backpack strap onto her second shoulder, she began to climb the fire escape ladder to the landing she wanted. Once she reached the third story, she climbed over the edge of the gate boarding in the small fire escape platform. She threw one leg over first, then followed it with the other, sitting against the gate with her hands clinging to the rail underneath her on either side of her butt. Carefully, she reached up her arms and her gloved hands grasped the ladder she had set up the night before. It was a metal one, nearly identical to the rusted ones that had been installed on these buildings decades ago. Only this one was not installed decades ago, and unlike the other ladders, would hopefully not be here in the morning. She gripped the bottom rung of the ladder and used her whole body to swing out and off the fire escape, out into open air.

The girl felt only a moment of fleeting terror, the kind that was typically associated with impending doom (you know, the metallic taste and smell, the momentary loss of heartbeat, the icy freezing of all your body's organs all at once), before her feet landed home on her intended platform.

It was a narrow concrete ledge, just under 18 inches across, that spanned the entirety of the street-facing side of the building. The redhead who stood upon it in the dark, doing her best to stay hidden despite her bright hair and distinctly pale skin, believed when she first saw it that it must have something to do with window-cleaners, but then realized foolishly a moment later that there were no windows on the third story street-facing wall. Which was part of the reason she chose this place in the first place. Now she still had very little clue as to its real purpose, but for right now it served amazingly well as a walkway. The girl's small stature finally worked to her advantage as she crept along the wall. She reached the end and unzipped her canvas backpack, pulling out her first of many cans of spray paint.

And then she got to work.

Continuing this morning's ongoing report, the police have taken into custody several suspects regarding the vandalism in Upper Midtown Manhattan as of 7:00 am this morning. If you're just joining us now, allow us to fill you in. Somewhere between the hours of 2:00 and 5:00 am, an individual spray painted a mural on a privately-owned building in Upper Midtown Manhattan. Now, although this would not normally be such big news, it has garnered quite a bit of public attention. Theo Maiman, reporting on the scene, will show you why. Theo?

Hi Stacy, Theo Maiman reporting on the scene here in Upper Midtown, where a large mural has been painted by an unknown individual. You can see to my left and right here the crowds that have gathered to take photos and videos with the mural. If you look up at the building to my left here, you can see a large illustration of several women, all different ages, races, and in various forms of dress. However, the thing that appears to be most striking to these crowds are the letters across the bottom that read "She's not asking for it." The painter, whose identity remains a complete mystery to us has been dubbed "Little Girl," commemorating the young girl who is pictured largest and most prominently in the painting. The reason this specific building was targeted has not been officially confirmed, but many believe it is because of the building's owner. This building is one of many owned by retired NFL star and entrepreneur Jay Battersby, who is currently under fire for rape charges. The mural's slogan comes perhaps from the statement Battersby made regarding the young secretary who accused him of the rape, saying that, with her tight clothing, "She was asking for it." The building was supposed to become another store to sell his clothing line, but with all that's going on now, the outcome of the building is now under question. Back to you, Stacy.

Thank you, that was Theo Maiman reporting live in Upper Midtown at the site of the recent vandalism. Though the mural itself has shone a brighter light upon Mr. Battersby and the rape charges he is facing, it is still highly illegal, and the police are looking for the culprit. If you have any news regarding the artist of this mural, you are urged to call the police immediately and -

"I know it was you, Clary," Simon says, clicking off the TV as he speaks. He doesn't look particularly angry or particularly excited. Just resolved.

"You don't know that for sure," Clary responds, twirling her finger loosely around a red curl. "How could that possibly be me? I was home last night sleeping. Right down the hall."

"Oh really?" Simon asks. "Because I don't recall seeing you in your room when I woke up to pee last night. Around, I don't know, 3:30?" Clary chooses to narrow her eyes and glare at Simon.

"I started my period. And had to run to the store for pads," she says, trying to take advantage of how uncomfortable men seem to get when the subject of menstruation is approached. But it doesn't work.

"Your cycle doesn't restart until a week from now, liar." Clary really wasn't counting on Simon knowing her menstruation cycle. "Plus, we both know that's your art style, and that's so something you would do." Clary winces, knowing she's probably officially caught. She opens her mouth to come up with some last desperate excuse. "Before you come up with some other excuse"—well, there goes that idea, she thinks—"I found your backpack this morning. Filled with paint cans." Shit.

"Alright, fine, Simon. It was me. But you can't go to the police." Clary moves to kneel. She holds up her hands like she's trying to calm a wild animal or a baby or something else that is scary and lacks object permanence.

"Go to the police? Are you kidding? You're my best friend, Clary, I'm not about to throw you into jail for taking a political stand." Clary rises and hugs him around his middle. "However," Simon continues, "the way you made that stand was actually highly illegal. And you totally could have gotten caught."

Clary scoffs. "Get caught? That plan was foolproof."

"Yeah, right up until the point where I caught you," Simon retorts.

They remain at a standoff for a long moment before Simon sighs.

"What you did was really brave, and I'm proud of you, but it was also incredibly dangerous. And I wouldn't be able to bear it if something happened to you. Can you please promise me you won't do it again?"

Simon looks down with brown eyes into Clary's forest green ones.

"I promise."

*cityslicka1229: Little Girl struck again! The painter of the mural last week painted a new one right in my nbhd!

- rt'd by *nynewsch2 and 131 others-

*nynewsch2: investigators conclude that new graffiti mural indeed painted by Little Girl

*nynewsch2: *nynewsch2 new mural painted against office building of Porter Weston, businessman facing racial discrimination charges.

*nynewsch2: check the link below for more info regarding the newest mural painted by Little Girl

Good morning, New York, this is Stacy Freiling. This morning we see a story that may seem a bit familiar. Last Thursday in the early morning, a vandal dubbed Little Girl erected a large mural speaking out against sexual assault on the building front of a newly purchased office space by Jay Battersby, former NFL star, owner of the sports clothesline Battery'd, and alleged rapist. This morning Little Girl struck again, this time calling attention to billionaire and businessman Porter Weston, who currently is facing racial discrimination charges after firing an employee on the grounds of her skin color. As Carina Willmaw, said employee, later stated, she was being harassed because of her skin color and was told that people of "her kind" were no longer welcome in the workplace. Little Girl has once again brought the injustice to light with a mural. Theo Maiman, again reporting on the scene. Theo?

Good morning, Stacy. Theo Maiman here, reporting live in Upper Midtown at the scene of the latest political mural creation. The first to notice the mural, Twitter user "cityslicka1229" said "Little Girl has struck again," and strike she has. This site has gathered even more public attention, with crowd sizes over triple what they were only a week ago. As you can see above me, this mural is definitely about female empowerment, featuring three strong women of color with what the masses are calling "natural hair". The tag line this week reads,

"My skin is beautiful, because I live in it."

Photos of the mural have been posted on Twitter and in these first two hours alone have already reached a collective total of almost 600,000 retweets across all accounts. An official "Little Girl" Twitter account has been created with over 234,000 followers and people are demanding to know: what exactly will Little Girl do next?

"I thought you said-"

"I know what I said, Si. I know. But are you seeing this? This change that I've effected? The power my voice holds now? Hundreds of thousands of people are listening in, wanting to hear what I have to say, educating themselves and others. I can't not take advantage of that. This is something I can use to change the world. And I mean really change the world. I can't give that up."

Simon huffs at Clary. "Fine. But what do I have to do to get you to stop drugging me and sneaking out? Isn't there a way I can help you?"

"You kinda already are. I mean, you are the one who created that twitter fan account, right? LittleGirlNY?" Simon's ears turn red. He had obviously been more transparent than he thought. Clary takes it as the affirmative answer she needs. "Well, I want you to be my PR. You handle all the social media and make sure everything I do gets public attention."

Simon nods and grins. "Does that mean I get to come out with you next time? You know, for pictures?"

Clary groans, frustrated with herself for not realizing that's exactly where Simon would jump first. But he's looking at her with puppy dog eyes, and he is also capable of getting her arrested if she says no. So she begrudgingly nods and says, "Fine. But only so long as you try to do something to change that stupid nickname they gave me."

Clary Fray was many things, but an amateur was certainly not one of them. In just under two months, with six murals under her belt, she had garnered what could only be described as a cult following, and it spanned across seas. Simon did all that he could for her in the way of changing her pseudonym, but once it had been decided by the public, there didn't seem to be a way to change it.

So news outlets in New York, LA, Paris, London, Mumbai, Nairobi, and Sao Paulo all blew up when the seventh was discovered. It had been ballsy, but it had been worth it. To see the marred faces of the young women Clary had portrayed was shocking and caught people's attention which was what she wanted. Domestic acid attacks were something that were often spoken about in feminist circles but still something Clary thought most people didn't quite grasp the seriousness of. They were real and they were happening to young women and girls everyday. Clary had stopped watching the TV News coverage after about the third mural, and now relied mostly on online news. Simon kept her updated whenever need be and had been exceptionally helpful.

Especially when rumors had begun flying around that she was actually a dude. Because somehow she can't be a girl and also affect international change. When the gender-based rumors had started flying around, he had helped her do a photo shoot of sorts at the sight of her fourth mural. She had worn more form-fitting clothing to accent her curves and Simon managed to catch a kickass photo of her mid-spray of paint. They had debated about posting it for several hours, because Simon was worried that it gave the police too much information in their investigation. But Clary didn't mind. She knew herself well enough to know that she wouldn't be caught on the job, and if they really did find out it was her, she figured her followers could probably help her post bail.

Either way, she wasn't going to back down or shrivel up in the face of the authorities. Nothing could reverse the change she had influenced, not even being arrested. And, perhaps, a martyr is what people needed.

*LittleGirlNY: eighth mural in the works! keep your eyes peeled, New Yorkers: Thursday's the night! (it's going to be big) xoxo Little Girl

- rt'd by *LittleGurl_ and 6,451 others -

Clary Fray is many things. An amateur is not one of them.

Which is why, when a police cruiser breaks its route and spots her, only halfway through her mural, she , very loudly.

This was not supposed to happen. She had planned this night just like all the rest: down to every minute detail. Nothing was supposed to get in her way. She didn't bother trying to pack up her paints; she just took off. She had to lower herself down four levels of fire escapes, but that wasn't too much of a setback. By the time the cruiser had turned around and headed for the alley she had been climbing down to, her feet had touched the cement floor and she was sprinting away. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, pumping them quickly against the hard, wet, breathing concrete. The cruiser continued to follow her, the red and blue lights illuminating the alley much like the walls of her favorite club. She watched the ground at her feet shift from red to blue and back again, but never did the cruiser turn on its sirens.

She knew her escape route like she knew her own name: a right, two lefts, and then the second right after that, and she was lost in the bustling hubbub of the downtown strip where she would quickly remove her hoodie and backpack and slip in among a group of strangers who looked around her age. The route would be winding and confusing for her assailant, and the turns just tight enough that they'd have to slow down. By the time they made it to her she would be blocks away, buying a gelato and conversing with the person behind the counter. Her flash of red hair would be enough for the officer to stop and think, maybe, but then they'd realize that she was wearing a white t-shirt, not the black ensemble they were looking for. And I mean, it would be silly for them to stop her just because of her hair color. I mean, come on. There had to be thousands of redheads in New York City.

Her plan was fucking perfect, like it always was.

Until her second left turn was blocked by a delivery truck. The next one down was gated and the only other way to the main drag was if she went back. She stopped to think about her next step for just a half a second too long, because the flashing primary-colored lights went from being just reflections in the puddles to light that bounced off her skin and bled through her eyelids when she stopped to close them. The car was close enough that she could see the silhouette of the driver behind the wheel. She knew trying to run now would be a waste of her energy.

Instead, she pulled her hood off and made a show of putting her hands above her head. She wasn't armed or anything; she just felt like being a dick.

The officer walked closer, still only a silhouette, framed by the headlights. Clary saw his head move in, imagined the accompanying squinting of his eyes.

"You're Little Girl, aren't you?" he asked. His voice sounded much younger than Clary was expecting somehow. Once her eyes had grown accustomed to the harsh light of the cruiser's headlights, she herself began to squint to make out the details of his face.

"My name is not Little Girl," she huffs, but doesn't deny it. The officer can't help but think to himself that she is not quite as he imagined her to be. The name actually ironically fits her, what with her small stature and childish pout. Though her statement eyeliner and nose piercing seem to be trying to shout otherwise. There's a rebellious cock of her hips that screams to be noticed, and though her arms are above her head, her cool demeanor seems vaguely threatening.

"Although being scrutinized by a police officer is always tons of fun," she says, without even the slightest bit of effort to mask her sarcasm, "it's as cold as Santa's balls out here. So, if you're going to arrest me, you could at least make it quick."

The officer looks at her for a moment, confused. "I'm not going to arrest you." It's the vandal's turn to look confused. "I'm going to help you, idiot."

Clary has watched a lot of crime TV in her life. Like a lot. And there are times when the brave cop doesn't agree with the justice system in its entirety, and maybe once every few seasons, the buzz-cut-toting, all-business detective will turn a blind eye on a particular crime. It is his way of giving The Man the finger. But never before has Clary seen an episode where the fallen angel hero officer actually actively participates in the crime.

She is extremely wary of him, knowing that this could be some kind of trick to actually catch her in the act rather than just see it from his cruiser. But after half an hour of him not calling for backup or snapping any pictures of her or trying to detain her in any way, she finally lets him come help out. She lost a good fifteen minutes dealing with his crap, and he was going to help get her get the time back. She focuses on the most important details and he, still in uniform, fills in the patches of solid color for her.

The officer (whose name she had learned was Jace, and who in fact really did not want to arrest her) high-fived her. Jace's sister, Clary had learned, is a survivor of sexual violence, and he appreciates her work in bringing the issue at hand to light, and how her prevalence makes her impossible to bury.

"I know that if you end up behind bars, the conversation will disappear from the tables again, the reports will go from headlines back to the tiny, moving script at the bottom of the feed. And I can't do that. And I don't want my sister to have to do that. So, if the law says I'm supposed to arrest you, screw the law."

Clary was very moved by his admission, and try as she might to keep her stony demeanor, Jace sees her slip and files it away for further conversation. She isn't as scary as she wants to look.

Clary likes Officer Herondale ("No, really, please call me Jace") and Jace likes Little Girl ("That's not my fucking name, dude!"). It is easy for them to make amiable conversation, to tell jokes, and, when the moment calls for it, paint in silence.

At the end of their hour working together, she is satisfied with their work and so signs her name in looping script near the bottom of the mural. She watches as the paint bleeds down the wall, admiring her work. She hands him the black can next. He looks at her, dumbstruck, and she says, "Well, go on, sign it. We don't have all day!" He looks sheepish before taking the can and swirling out an ampersand and a large capital "J" (because he doesn't have a cool code name like she does).

"Your art is amazing," Jace tells her as they admired it together.

"It's not art," Clary replies. "Art is up for interpretation; it's ambiguous. This is propaganda."

"Everything you do is art," is all Jace says. Clary turns her face out of the light to hide her blush from him.

Jace drives her home in his cruiser afterward. Clary swears to him that she knows martial arts and could pinpoint all the body's pressure points, and that if he tries to memorize her house and send people in for her later, he might not wake up the next morning. He chuckles, but makes a show of closing his eyes when she moves to get out of the car. She surprises the both of them when she kisses him on the cheek before bolting up to her apartment door.

The buzz the next morning is huge. Thousands of people come to see what Little Girl created, and Jace feels a surge of pride when he sees the mural on the news. He had helped make that! He filled in those colors! That is his "J" in the corner!

This one is less of a message than the others, less propagandist if you will. Rather, it is a large, vibrant, extremely colorful mural of Malala Yousafzai, the same as the cover of her novel. The only difference is that it stretched much wider, with a full background of bright colors. It's the type of art that demands your attention. You can't not look at it.

The major TV media does their typical swirling and schmoozing and wondering at who could possibly be the "J". Their theories never come close to the truth, but then again, he figures the truth isn't anything you'd ever really expect.

He drives by Clary's apartment several times (in his own car, not the cruiser), but never sees her come or go. The thrill of breaking the law (and in his uniform!) wasn't something he had experienced at that magnitude, and the buzz about him in the media for days afterward wasn't something he'd ever experienced at all.

He just wants to talk to about it with someone who understands what exactly he's feeling.

And, if he's being perfectly honest, he just wants to see her again.

Jace is slightly entertained once again to see the girl behind the counter at the coffee shop blanch when she asks for his name. It isn't that uncommon of a name, but for some reason, people always expect him to stop at Jay or continue into Jason. And when he lands somewhere in the middle, it always throws them for a loop.

"Sixteen-ounce mocha for Clary!" the barista calls at the other end of the store, setting a paper cup onto the counter. Clary stands up to retrieve her coffee, and Jace, whose ears had picked up on the familiar (and uncommon) name, turns to look only to catch a flash of red hair turning towards the rear exit of the store. He hasn't seen her since the eighth mural.

"Sir?" the barista says, sounding impatient. "Sir," she repeats. Jace turns, dazed, mouth hanging slightly open to look at her. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her red hair and atypical name leave the store.

"I'm sorry, what?" Jace asks, though the barista still doesn't have anything close to his full attention. That night with Clary had been unlike anything else he's ever done. He joined the police force to help protect people like his sister, but he found it much more thrilling to be on the other side of the law for a change. Her witty banter and dry sense of humor weren't bad either. Neither was the chaste kiss she left on his cheek.

"I said, that'll be three-twenty-five," the barista says, clearly pissed. But Jace doesn't really care much about his coffee anymore, not when an enigma of a human being that he's been secretly looking for for weeks just walked out of the coffee shop he is currently standing in. Without bothering to turn back to the barista, he drops the five dollar bill in his hand onto the counter and walks off, leaving behind his unfinished latte and the angry barista. He follows the path she had taken out the door and sees her red head bobbing in between other bodies quite far up the street.

He takes up a quick pace to try to catch up to her, but when he loses sight of her hair he doesn't find it again. He lost five dollars and a coffee was sitting untouched in the cafe so that he could go talk to her, and he didn't even catch her in time.

He slumps against the nearest park bench. That was stupid anyway, he thinks to himself. I mean, what would I have even said to her?

"Hey there, tiger," says a small but warm voice. Jace looks up from his spot on the bench and meets a pair of green eyes. "You know, for a cop, you're a terrible tracker."

Jace laughs. Clary sits down beside him. She offers him a sip of her coffee; he takes it. "I liked Mural Number Nine," Jace said. "Very fresh and original."

"Eh," she replies. "It was okay. Eight looked a lot better. You're really excellent at coloring inside pre-drawn lines. I don't know how that one would have come together without you," she says sarcastically. He smiles.

"You had me drive you to a random apartment building that night, didn't you? You so don't live there."

"Of course I don't. I'm not that dumb. But I do live within a mile of that place, so the walk wasn't too bad," she says. Her smile is truly quite dazzling, all white teeth and dimples and loud, dynamic freckles.

"You wanna get dinner sometime?" Jace asks directly, not bothering with warming up the conversation first.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Hope you enjoyed! This was my first time writing in this style I guess so I hope it came across well.

Don't forget to leave a review!
Kate