Part I: Hello
The office air is refreshing, crisp, and unlike anything Clarke was expecting. With its carpeted floors, lively environment, and people who actually bantered and smiled, Clarke wonders why she insisted on staying in the hell that was a congressman's office consumed by stale air and manipulative company for the past few months.
She regrets not transferring from politics into federal law enforcement sooner.
"Welcome to the Ark, Clarke."
Clarke barely has time to register her new boss' words. The doors open to an operation room that takes Clarke's breath away. Sunlight saunters into the room through windows that stretch along an entire wall, revealing a spacious room equipped with the latest technology. Flat screen panels adorn the entire center wall and, of course, the mainstay glass operations table is predictably touch screen.
"This is as Hollywood as it gets." The words slip helplessly and Clarke's cheeks immediately flush pink when Jaha, her all-too-serious 6'1" boss, chuckles.
"I see you're impressed," he says with a pleasant smile. "Team, meet your new leader. Clarke, meet your new team."
It is then that Clarke notices the three seated individuals observing her. She feels uneasy under what she predicts is intense scrutiny. The Ark is a specialized division under the broader Federal Bureau of Intelligence that pursues matters that require top clearance to even hint at. While her new team members look as youthful as she is, she is certain that they possess immeasurable talent and, suddenly, Clarke feels woefully inadequate. All she has is a law degree, which holds the usefulness equivalent to pinkeye in undercover crime fighting.
"Hi Clarke," the shorter, black-haired boy chirps happily with an easy smile, immediately easing her worries about being unwelcomed. "I'm Monty, resident innovator."
Before Clarke is able to reply, the taller male beside Monty cuts in coolly. "What he means is he's the glorified IT guy." His eyes are sharp, and his lips tug at a smirk. "I'm Bellamy, extraction specialist."
Monty sneers, "Glorified security guard."
"You must be begging to throw down."
Clarke laughs. The two boys' nonchalant and joking attitudes assuage Clarke's worries about being resented. Too often does her law degree, a supposed hallmark of arrogance, become her entire first impression.
"Octavia, aren't you going to introduce yourself?" Jaha's voice direct Clarke's attention toward the only other female in the room. Her eyes bear the same edge as Bellamy's, distrustful, skeptical, and critical.
"Octavia," she states roughly, obviously bothered by Clarke's presence. "Field agent."
"And also my sister," Bellamy quickly adds in, casually draping an arm around Octavia's shoulders. It neither dulls Octavia's glare nor her irked tone.
"Don't get too friendly." Octavia's eyes stare straight into Clarke's, unmoving and all too familiar in its challenge. "She's only Raven's replacement, not our actual leader."
Ah, Raven. Before Clarke, Raven was the team's acting leader since their formation. The blonde doesn't blame the ebony haired girl for her hostile welcoming. Loyalty is important, especially in a small group like this. It is hard to trust just anyone with your life in the field, and Clarke has yet to prove her worth as their new leader.
"I can think of at least five individuals who would be a better fit than a corrupt politician drop out." Octavia's words are mercilessly scathing. To her, Clarke is a foreigner, a usurper of command and, perhaps worse, representative of corrupt politics. The politics she tried to reform before pursuing a more hopeful route promising positive impact. Clarke can't imagine Octavia giving her even a second to explain.
A bitter smile tugs at Clarke's lips, as she can't help but compare Octavia's antagonistic and presumptuous welcoming to one she received many years ago in law school.
It is as perfect as a Sunday afternoon could be. Clear and calm sky blue envelops all as far as the eye can see, while the warm air is sun kissed and wafting through beach ready hair, tempting even the most studious to relinquish their tension in the midst beginning the new semester.
Or at least that's what Clarke assumes.
It is as perfect as a Sunday afternoon could be, but the blonde's immediate surrounding consists of aisles of archaic bookshelves, a drabbled to-do list stacked on freshly printed syllabi, and windows that bait her with invigorating sunlight and the promise of freedom. As a law student, she should expect as much, but her natural optimism yearns for more. When she transferred from east coast to the west, she hoped to enjoy southern California's scenery, not confine herself to yet another library.
Reading assignments: Highlight. Annotate. Synthesize. Attempt to understand. Repeat.
These tasks consume Clarke's attention for consecutive hours, and she fails to notice when the seat across from her is suddenly taken or that the seat's new owner stares at her intently.
"Hello, Clarke."
Cerulean blue eyes flash to meet obsidian green.
"Um, hello?"
Clarke is immediately on guard, her eyes extracting all possible information from the alarming stranger. The dark brunette is around Clarke's age, and she must also be a law student since the law library requires exclusive access. Her eyes are piercing, as Clarke feels suddenly very bare and vulnerable under her gaze. It doesn't help that the corner of the girl's lips are raised knowingly, as if all of Clarke's secrets have already been exposed.
"Welcome to Ravus," she simply says. There is no enthusiasm in her voice. There is only challenge. Ravus School of Law, though a second tier law school, still clearly had qualities of a top tier school, namely bold arrogance.
"I didn't know Ravus had such a delightful welcoming committee." Clarke's words come out mockingly. Law requires utmost ambition and a daring desire to win.
She takes it as a minor victory when the girl looks slightly taken aback, not expecting a fight.
The victory quickly dissipates when the girl chuckles, clearly entertained. "Excuse my rudeness." Clarke doesn't hear a real apology. "I am but curious why you, a Desolo bred princess, transferred to Ravus."
The emphasis on "princess" quickly pisses Clarke off, her grip tightening on her pen almost to its snapping point. Did word really travel that fast? Is she already being judged and, hell, challenged? While it is true that Desolo—arguably one of the nation's best law schools with a rumored reputation that favored the privileged—was her father's alma mater, Clarke is more than where she came from.
"Because of people like you."
The words come out brutally honest, but the brunette remains unfazed, now with an intrigued smirk goading her to continue.
God, did Clarke want to slap the smirk right off her face. Her words are sharp. "Boastful, provocative, self-proclaimed know-it-alls." It is unlike her to lose patience, but she despises how quickly a mere stranger has confronted and belittled her in under a minute. "I've been here for less than a week, yet you already seem to think you know me. Who do I have the privilege of proving wrong?"
Another chuckle and a more taunting smirk. "If you do not know who I am by now, then you were not paying attention."
With that, the brunette slips out as quickly as she slipped in, as Clarke tries to quell the rage within and assess the past few minutes.
What the hell was that?
"Apologies on behalf of my sister," Bellamy says offhandedly. It is apparent that brash behavior is normal and expected from Octavia. "She's a hothead, alright, but fierce loyalty is a rare and respected trait in our line of business. Nothing personal."
It sure seems personal, Clarke thinks, but nods once nonetheless. Our line of business. The words strike her oddly, as she still struggles to understand how events of the past few years culminated in a future no betting man would have invested faith in. Not even Lexa, who would have bet on Clarke endlessly.
The bitter smile returns. It has been far too long since Clarke has last seen, or even heard, from the brunette, but she is still everywhere and nowhere. Octavia's assertive presence reminds her too much of Lexa. Her once sworn nemesis. Her once best friend. Her—
"Commander," Monty interrupts, momentarily capturing Clarke's attention with an all too familiar title. "Should I get Octavia to begin our ops meeting? Shit hit the fan, and now said shit requires massive chemical cleaning."
Commander, huh. Oh, would Lexa have a fantastic go at Clarke's new title. From privileged princess to fearless commander in only four years. Lexa would be proud.
"Yes, please bring her in."
Clarke braces herself. If Octavia is anything like Lexa—and she sure seems to be in more ways than one—then her loyalty would require sacrificial death to earn.