Disclaimer: Do not own Marvel or The 100
Warnings for murder, mentions of pedophilia and rape and human trafficking, child neglect.
To catch a vigilante
Having ditched the stolen Chevrolet, which she had hijacked from two towns over, Clarke Griffin, currently going under the name, "Abby Green," which was a mashup of one of her previous victims, and of the first name of her mother, made her way to the nearest town. Normally, Clarke would loathe to ever have her name be tied in any way to her biological mother. But in this particular case, she had needed an alias and fast.
So, she had taken the last name of one of her previous victims, Monty Green, who no one knew was tied to her, and had used her mother's first name, who no one had seen for over fourteen years.
No one would know that there was a connection.
Now, Clarke knew that it was extremely morbid for her to use a mashup of dead people, particularly of some of the people she had killed, personally, but it didn't matter to her.
While she did admittedly, feel some pity for Monty Green-he had been collateral damage, he had just been a witness who she had gotten out of the way, because he had seen her kill his friend, Jasper Jordan, so, she actually felt bad for killing him. But she felt no pity whatsoever for her mother.
Could she be blamed for not feeling any real pity for her mother? Only those who had no idea what her history was with her mother, Abby Griffin, would judge.
Clarke only kept her real last name, because that name belonged to her father, Jake Griffin, and what few things she remembered about him, told her that he had been a loving father.
Unlike her mother? Her father had loved her.
Clarke, or sickeningly, as she was calling herself, Abby, reached the diner, where she intended to eat. From what she recalled the last time she was here, they had delicious maple cookies.
She had gone by the name, "Abby Green" before. So, no one would see it as anything new, that she was coming by with that particular name. It was the only name some of these people knew her as.
She had plenty of money from the victims who she had killed. Cash only, of course.
She never paid anything with any currency, other than cash.
She got to the diner, entered, and greeted the waiters and waitresses there, who almost immediately seated her.
She sat down at a window booth seat, and started looking over the menu for the maple cookies.
As she had learned over the years? There were few real pleasures in life. The only true pleasures in life, were music, art, books, comedic movies, sex, booze, killing and food.
Admittedly, she was sure that in that list, most people wouldn't have expected the "killing" part. But Clarke had found a certain delight in it.
She supposed that meant she had a lot in common with her "siblings."
Clarke had been just one of the group of children, who had been taken from her biological family members.
But in Clarke's case? She was grateful for it.
Her mother had been neglectful as fuck.
But Clarke hadn't been the only one who had been taken from her biological parent.
Three other children had been.
Ontari, Roan, Echo.
The three of them and Clarke? They had lived together for years, and trained mercilessly by their instructor, a woman named Nia.
Nia? She wished for them to be assassins.
And much to her satisfaction, Clarke was sure, all for of the children she had taken, had indeed, grown to be assassins.
Roan, last time Clarke checked? Was somewhere in Canada, sleeping and killing his way through the many cities and towns there.
Ontari? She had taken over a faction in the underground, not that long ago. Many regarded her as a queen, as a result.
And Echo? Some unfortunate bastard had actually fallen in love with her. From what Clarke remembered Echo telling her? His name had been Bellamy Blake. And yes, "had been." Bellamy Blake and his sister, Octavia Blake, were both dead. Echo had killed them both. She had shot Octavia in the head for Bellamy to see. And then she had tortured Bellamy to death.
It perhaps was more accurate to call the four of them; Ontari, Roan, Echo and of course, none other than Clarke herself, killers. But it was just that they were occasionally paid for their "work."
Apparently, Bellamy had pissed off a lot of people, when some families had found out that Bellamy had sex with their underage daughters, some as young as fourteen and fifteen.
In other words, Bellamy had been a pedophile.
So, some of them had paid Echo to kill him, and she had taken advantage of his horniness.
Clarke smirked as she remembered the coded message that Echo had sent her, when bragging to her sister about her newest kill. The coded message had been, "I'm actually surprised that he decided to date me. I thought I was a bit old for him."
Clarke figured she knew what Echo meant. A piece of garbage like that? He liked them young.
Real young.
Clarke, herself? She stayed near fringe groups, only took jobs when necessary. The past fourteen years, since she had been eight years old and first taken from Abby Griffin by Nia, she had learned a lot of skills.
She had learned how to lie, how to pick locks, how to hotwire cars, how to fight in multiple different styles, and take down opponents three times her size, how to shoot with deadly accuracy, how to handle knives and such, how to move silently and creep up on someone, how to conceal evidence, how to forge paperwork. And that was just naming a few skills in her possession.
She currently was wearing all black. She had several knives and small guns beneath her clothing.
No need for anyone to know that.
Dangling over her neck, were her heavy duty headphones, which were connected by wire, down to her iPod, which was in her right-hand pocket.
She currently wasn't listening to anything, however, that would change, after she gave her order.
She had plenty of money in her bank account, which would afford her mostly anything, but she took up jobs, because yes, she enjoyed killing.
It was hard not to, when the targets tended to be scumbags.
Nia, the woman who had raised her, after Nia had taken Clarke from her biological mother, Abby, had done what she needed to, to keep her four growing killers alive.
She had learned their blood types, even, and made sure the four of them knew each other's blood types, too.
Roan's blood type was B Negative.
Ontari's blood type was B Positive.
Echo's blood type was O Positive.
And Clarke's blood type was A Positive.
So, they knew everything about each other, should they need to ever help each other, in any given situation.
The waiter came by, asking for Clarke's order. Clarke gave it. A big glass of just water, and two glasses of brandy, and four maple cookies.
The cookies were small, unfortunately. Hence why she was getting four.
The waiter wrote down the order and walked off.
She leaned back against the leatherbound seat of her booth, grabbed her headphones, jammed them on, pulled out her iPod, went to the options there, and started playing one of her death metal songs, then shoved the iPod back into her right-hand pocket.
Most ignoramuses, thought that heavy metal or death metal, was what led them to be murderers. This was hilariously inaccurate. Clarke was a killer who just happened to like death metal.
She had absolutely no idea what sort of music killers by default were "supposed to" be into, but it wasn't any sort of metal variety.
She had actually one time met a serial killer that she had killed, named John Murphy, who had been into all three jazz, hip hop and classical.
So, try figuring out that one.
It had been particularly fun to kill him and his girlfriend, Emori.
Especially as both of them hadn't thought that she was going to kill them.
Shooting them in the stomach had been satisfying, honestly.
Clarke glanced out the window, noticing the various cars shooting by along the highway.
She wanted to go to the next town over, already, find some new prey there.
Clarke's number of kills went up somewhere in the 50s, if she had to be perfectly honest.
The better way of regarding her was a mass murderer. And she was fine with that, as long as it didn't get out into public.
She had killed loads of people, but again, they all had had it coming. They might as well have the word, "evil" on their foreheads.
Clarke had used explosions.
Clarke lifted one of the things she had carried inside the diner onto the table, and looked at the front page.
It was the daily newspaper.
Now, such a thing wouldn't be relevant to anyone else, but Clarke was looking at something very specific.
At the story of the detectives who were following her killings, trying to figure out who the murderer was.
Clarke had read up on these detectives for a while now, as they had been trying to track her for a while.
There was a whole group of them.
They were divided up into two different groups. The smaller group called themselves the Defenders.
The larger group was called the Avengers.
The Defenders consisted of Jessica Jones, Trish Walker, Matt Murdock, Elektra Natchios, Luke Cage, Danny Rand and Frank Castle.
The Avengers consisted of Steve Rogers, Bruce Banner, Sam Wilson, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Maria Hill, Clint and Laura Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Yelena Belova, Melina Vostokoff, Carol Danvers, Brunnhilde, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, James Rhodes, Thor Odinson, Hela Odinsdotter, Loki Laufeyson, Sylvie Laufeysdotter and Barney and Simone Barton.
Clarke had been interested in them. Not just because of their interest in her. Oh, no, not just because of that.
But because they were in general, very intriguing.
She knew a lot about them. She hadn't yet sent any letters to them. She wasn't so depraved yet, that she would send letters mocking the people pursuing her.
She for now, just would like to observe them, follow their careers.
She saw a shadow of someone loom over her and she looked up, a smile crossing her face, as she saw the waiter back, carrying a tray with three glasses on it; her water and her two brandies, and her plate of cookies.
She thanked him as he put everything onto the table, then nodded to her and walked off.
Clarke turned to her cookies and began to eat, reading the article, as she did.
It occurred to her, as she read, that she actually didn't know where exactly their base of operations, was located.
Something else she would need to learn about these detectives that she honestly found herself fascinated by.
She would have to contact her brother, Roan, and sisters, Ontari and Echo, she decided. She'd ask if they knew anything about these Avengers and Defenders.
She would also have to make sure that they didn't go anywhere near the Defenders or Avengers.
Clarke didn't want these detectives hurt. And her sisters often could get carried away.
She'd have to keep the detectives safe, of course, while investigating them.
Several states over, the detectives known as the Defenders and the Avengers, all received calls at their offices.
Calls from various sheriffs in different states.
And they got the news.
More bodies had been found.
Either shot, stabbed, burned or run over. The killer kept striking. And yes, they all knew that it was the same killer.
A killer that the underground referred to as "Wanheda."
And they all knew that it was the same killer, because of the calling card killer always left behind. The same symbol that the killer always carved into something; either a piece of wood, into the ground, or into some leather of a piece of furniture, and even into the flesh of some of the killer's victims.
The symbol was of a pair of almost angel wings, each wing had three curved parts. It was considered Wanheda's symbol.
The killer also sported around a can of blue spray paint regularly, because each of these symbols were painted a pale blue. With spray paint. There had been samples taken from the symbols. It was the same sort of paint. Spray paint.
From what the Defenders and the Avengers all were able to tell? This killer was intensely intelligent. Resourceful. Cunning. Sadistic. Inventive. And patient.
All of this made for a terrible recipe, as it meant that it would be a long, long time till this killer was caught.
In the office of the Defenders, Elektra, Jessica and Luke looked over the most recent reports.
"You know," Trish said as she walked in, holding two cups of coffee, one for herself and one for Jessica, "Notice how there's a pattern in the people that this 'Wanheda' is killing? People that more or less deserve it."
Trish went up next to Jessica and handed the other woman a cup of coffee. Jessica took it and grumbled something about needing whiskey in it, to which Trish gave her sister an aggravated look over.
"Deserve it?" Luke asked, eyeing Trish worriedly.
"Yeah, she's right," Frank said, from where he was leaning against the doorway, "This person kills rapists, members of cartels, pedophiles, human traffickers-I don't think this 'Wanheda' is such a threat. Just a threat to those that deserve it."
Matt began, from where he walked into the room, after talking to his friends, Foggy and Karen, "The law is-"
"You and your law," Frank snorted, "You've learned by now that you need to get your hands dirty. Maybe this person just realized they needed to get their hands dirtier."
The rest of the Defenders were quiet, contemplating this. But Trish and Frank had made good observations.
That this killer only hunted rapists, pedophiles, human traffickers and the worst sort of gang members.
A pattern that was in no way missed by the Avengers.
Drawing on the board in front of them, using markers to line one victim to the next, Bruce stepped back, seeing the pattern.
"You see it too, right?" Maria asked next to him.
"Yeah," Bruce said, "This person only kills the worst types."
"Sounds to me," Yelena snorted from where she sat by the window, "We shouldn't be trying to arrest this person. We should be trying to recruit them."
"Well," Bruce said uneasily, turning to the others, "This person is clearly severely unstable, judging by the murders they've committed.
"Think we don't know that?" Steve asked as he sat down next to the table, in front of the board that Bruce had been writing on, "But none of us are what we'd call 'well adjusted.'"
"Steve?" Natasha asked, walking into the room, sounding curious, "You think we should give this murderer a chance?" She wasn't saying it with judgment or anything. Why should she? Her hands were far from clean of human blood.
None of their hands were entirely clean of human blood.
Steve sighed, "This person is trying to do the right thing. Or what they think is the right thing. And we did a lot of profiling on them, right? It's likely that this person's young."
Natasha nodded. They had done a lot of profiling on Wanheda-and they'd all decided that Wanheda had to be young. Probably eighteen at the youngest, or twenty-two at the oldest.
Which meant that this person still could potentially be easily influenced. Maybe even rehabilitated.
"So, what are you saying?" Pietro asked, "That we should be the ones to rehabilitate this person?"
Steve sighed, shrugging.
He looked to Natasha, Clint, Laura and Sam for their opinions.
All four of them contemplated it, but then they all nodded, seeming to agree that they should try.
Next to Bruce and Maria, Brunnhilde remarked, "Oh, boy. This is going to be fun."