Disclaimer: Do not own Marvel or The 100

Warnings for child abandonment, child abuse, child neglect, murder, mentions of sexual assault, gangrape, drug and alcohol use and rather dubious consent at the end.

Dangerous thoughts

Living with the abilities that she possessed, wasn't as difficult as one might think it to be.

Clarke Griffin, a twenty-two-year-old woman, who for all respects and purposes, you likely would have thought to be a perfectly normal young woman. And she was a normal young woman, as far as she could observe. Save for one thing.

She had abilities that she wisely kept quiet about. She could read minds. She could move objects with her mind. She could heal quicker than other people. And she could sense when someone was about to die.

She had kept a lid on her powers. And on who knew about all of that.

Clarke knew that logically, there was no reason why she should have these powers. That was, unless she was adopted.

She had never done a blood test to see if she was actually her parents; Abby and Jake Griffin's biological daughter.

Because she always had feared that if her blood was taken and analyzed? Everyone would know about her powers.

So, she hadn't.

She had asked her mother before, and her mother had looked at Clarke as if Clarke had slapped her.

So, Clarke knew better than to ever broach that subject with her mother or Jake Griffin, again.

Perhaps she wasn't Jake and Abby Griffin's biological daughter. Maybe she was and the powers that she had, had skipped a generation with her father or her mother. Perhaps that was why Clarke had never seen either of her parents exhibit powers like her before.

But she knew that if that was the case, or if Clarke was adopted, she had better never let Abby Griffin know about her powers.

One time, Clarke had told Abby that she had heard a young girl in her class, when Clarke was fifteen, thinking about her teacher and fantasizing about him, and Abby had refused to believe that Clarke had powers. She had told Clarke that Clarke wasn't to make up stories like this. And that people couldn't read minds. And told Clarke that if she ever made that story up or other stories like that again, she would send Clarke to boarding school.

It certainly wasn't the first time her horrid mother had threatened Clarke with such a threat.

So, it was the last time Clarke had ever brought up her powers to her mother, ever.

Never mind all the horrible things that Abby had thought of Clarke.

Clarke had heard her mother thinking about her before, and the thoughts were never flattering.

It was why Clarke was surprised that she didn't have depression by now. Because of how neglectful her mother always had been.

Now, seven years later, and living on her own, working as a professional assistant to lawyers at the most prominent law firm in Seattle.

She had an advantage, as she could read minds, and whenever she was ordered to investigate what she could about opponents in the courtroom, Clarke would easily come up with a lie as to how she had found her information. But how she had found this information, had been by reading the other lawyers' minds.

But the information she provided for her bosses, was always useful, which was why she was so successful and could be even called "rich."

However, she knew she could never tell anyone about her abilities. Not ever.

Which was what led her to nights like this; bored, drinking on her own, on her couch, in front of the TV, trying to zone out and not think about not having other people intimately in her life. Thankfully, it was night time, so, no one was called in for now.

There was an open pizza box on the coffee table before her, and on the TV screen in front of her, was some TV show that she wasn't going to bother knowing the name of.

There were five empty beer bottles to the right of her, next to the sofa where she was seated.

She'd long since learned not to bring up any indication of having powers to her parents. None of the acquaintances, she trusted enough to tell.

And she had no real close friends or wasn't dating anyone.

So, she had a feeling she could be excused for having a rather cynical view of things.

Which probably was why she was on her sixth bottle of beer in a row tonight.

Now, her not dating anyone, didn't mean that she'd never had sex before. Of course, she had.

She'd had two boyfriends in high school and two girlfriends in college and one boyfriend at the very last year of her college.

She'd had a couple of fuckbuddies since then at her law firm. But nothing serious.

She made sure that it was never anything serious.

She'd liked all of the people that used to be her boyfriends, girlfriends and fuckbuddies. But she knew better than to make any of her relationships serious.

As soon as Clarke pulled the bottle away from her mouth, after her next gulp of beer, she put the beer bottle down onto the floor at her feet, she switched the TV off, then gathered up some of the bottles, going to the sink, washing out each bottle, then putting them on the counter next to the sink's basin.

She then went back and did the same with the remaining empty beer bottles.

She switched the lights next to the sofa off, then went to her door and tried the door, making absolutely sure that the door was locked. It was.

She then walked to the coffee table, leaned down and grabbed the open pizza box, picking it up and taking it to the other side of the apartment, which had a sofa up against the wall and sat down on it, putting the pizza box down onto the table in front of that coffee table, reaching up and flicking on a light that had a curved neck, with its light aimed at the sofa, reached for the lowest shelf of the bookcase.

She grabbed the spine of the book which she wanted to read and pulled it out.

She opened up the book and began to read, from where she had last bookmarked it.

It was science fiction, and while you'd think that that would put her off of it, the unlikely possibility of things like spaceships actually being a "normal thing" with aliens, thankfully, distanced her mentally from being repulsed by the book's contents.

Occasionally, she would stop in her reading and pick up another pizza slice and all but gulp it down.

After almost an hour of reading, Clarke put the bookmark in the new place after finishing a large segment of the book. She closed the book up and put the book back onto the last shelf, getting up and turning the light off that was next to the couch.

She pulled out her phone and checked her texts, then checked her emails.

Thankfully, no requests; requests, meaning orders, from her bosses, as of yet.

After she was finished checking her texts and emails, she put her phone away, closed the pizza box and brought it to the kitchen, opened the fridge and put the box in, and closed the fridge door, allowing the pizza to be cooled there, and made her way over to her bedroom, going into the bathroom of her bedroom, flicking on the light switch in her bathroom and kneeling down next to the bathtub.

There were multiple small figurines of cars in the bathtub. Clarke had painted all of them, putting them in the tub to dry up and not risk getting paint on anything else in the apartment. At least if any paint dripped off in the tub, she easily could use the water from the tub's faucet to wash the paint away.

Clarke had collected car models for a very long time now. Since she was fourteen. Her dad was more than happy to indulge her hobby. Her mother, being her mother, had figured it to be a waste of time and would criticize Clarke for "wasting money," when Abby wasted money on "get rich fast" schemes, every chance she got. But then, no one ever said that Abby was self-aware enough to know that she was a hypocrite.

It made Clarke very happy that her father was now divorced from her mother.

As much as she loved her mother? Her father deserved better.

There were several car models of Cadillacs, Mercedes Benz, Chevys and so on.

All of them had fresh coats of paint on them, which she personally had applied.

In the cupboards to her left, above the toilet, were several tubes of paint and several paintbrushes.

While Clarke had liked getting figurines of automobiles, her father had come up with a way she could spend her time creatively, by getting a few unpainted models and getting her some paints to use on them.

At first, when her father had first done this, when Clarke was fourteen, Clarke hadn't understood why her dad had done that and had both looked and felt disappointed, until she realized that painting the cars, was actually fun.

So, she'd kept at it.

Inspecting the cars, she saw that the paint still was drying. She'd remove the cars tomorrow morning, then she could actually use the tub, herself. She got up, went to the sink, grabbed her toothbrush, brushed her teeth, then flossed. She then went to her bedroom from the bathroom doorway, and undressed and got into her nightclothes, pulled back the covers, switched off the light in her bedroom, got under the covers and before she laid her head down onto the pillow, she grabbed a set of headphones, stuck them on her, and started playing her metal music.

She could hear the usual traffic of thoughts, and while she didn't need any sleep aid to get to sleep, the heavy metal music she heard, tended to help enough for her to get to sleep.

She used to be worried that she'd go deaf early from all the music she listened to while sleeping. But so far? Her hearing was as good as the day she was born. She knew that, because she had tested out the high frequency test on online videos and she had heard all the frequencies. Which meant that her hearing probably healed up, since fast healing was one of her abilities.

She kept her headphones on, as she started playing one of the songs and laid her head on her pillow.

She heard a few murmurs from some of the surrounding apartment complexes, but it would soon be drowned out.

However, before the first note of the first metal song even started?

A low and almost sinister whisper of a voice entered her head, making her freeze, her blood turning to pure ice.

The voice that was all but whispered, said, (It won't be long now. Soon, we'll cut his body up into pieces. Burn the pieces. Take them to our place and burn them.)

Clarke barely was able to actually register the loud notes of the metal song she was listening to.

She pulled the headphones off and turned off the music, sitting up from bed, now listening to what she had heard in her head, with rapt attention.

There was another thought and Clarke had heard enough thoughts to know that this was a different person, not the first person that had mentally "spoken."

This new person thought, their thoughts leaking into Clarke's head, (We can hold him down, each of us can take turns stabbing him.)

Clarke shivered.

She knew that the people thinking this, meant every word.

See, Clarke had heard plenty of violent thoughts over the years. And she knew the difference between fantasizing and people actually meaning what they were planning.

Everyone everywhere, occasionally thought about wishing violence against their loved ones.

It wasn't pretty, but it happened. People who loved their loved ones greatly, occasionally had violent thoughts against them. Either because of some fight where both parties each said something underhanded or because one of them was frustrated. It happened.

But that was different from the thoughts Clarke was hearing now.

Thoughts from frustration that usually fizzled out or remained to just silent resentment? Wasn't anything like the thoughts she was hearing.

These thoughts were different from all those thoughts.

These thoughts were cold. Vicious. With a very sentient intent behind them.

These people were serious about everything they were thinking.

Clarke leapt from the bed, throwing the blankets back, turned the lights in her room on, ran to her dresser, opened the drawers, changed into street clothes in seconds flat, jammed on socks and shoes, then kneeled down and reached under her bed for the box containing her firearms and opened it.

She owned two different firearms. Either one would have worked.

She grabbed the one closest to her, checked the chamber, opened it up and loaded it.

The thoughts that she heard, continued. She heard a few other thoughts from other residents in her building and in neighboring buildings, but the cold, murderous thoughts she heard from these individuals, were the most dominant, so she heard them the loudest.

Soon, as with most dominant thoughts, there were visuals that accompanied the thoughts she heard.

The visuals made her blood chill, just as the verbal thoughts did. Feet walking along pavement and hands in front of the eyes of whoever Clarke was seeing through. Those hands carried a gun.

A gun that Clarke knew to be loaded. She knew, because the person whose eyes she was seeing through, knew.

And she knew also, from the same way she knew that the gun in the hands of who she was seeing through, was loaded, that the other people in the group, had multiple other weapons as well.

Knives, saws, duct tape, machetes.

The people whose thoughts she was seeing, were murderers.

And they had done this before.

Panic shot through her, and Clarke grabbed the gun, made sure it was loaded, closed the box and kicked it under her bed, grabbed her keys, shoved them in her pocket, grabbed her jacket, which was going to be used to cover the gun so no one would see the gun, ran to her desk and searched it.

She had several burner phones, not just her own phone for work and what few friends she had.

She had collected quite a few burner phones over the years. She'd removed the chips that could track the phones, as she had learned how to do it on online videos.

She had bought several burner phones by cash, so that no one would trace the calls to her.

That was the last thing she needed, more people in power investigating her life.

No, her working for a law firm, didn't make her feel more reassured. They called it "paranoia," for a reason.

She pocketed the burner phone and ran out of her bedroom and got to the door of her apartment, unlocking it, going out, closing the door and pulling her keys out and locking all four of the locks on her door, and pocketing her keys, then ran down the hallway to the stairwell.

She folded her jacket over her arm, the arm with the gun in the hand of, and the gun was concealed under her black jacket as she started tearing down the stairs of the stairwell.

Thankfully, she only lived on the sixth floor, so, it didn't take long before she got to the bottom of the stairs.

She ran out of her building, and reached the sidewalk outside, the thoughts that she was hearing, growing louder.

There were a few thoughts who she was positive, were coming from a man, and a few thoughts she was positive, were coming from a woman.

Then as she started moving, she realized it was coming from multiple people. Several men and several women.

Clarke turned on the burner phone and quickly dialed the number for the police, putting the call through and pressing the phone to her left ear, her right hand still gripping tightly onto the gun in that hand.

She started moving, seeing the landmarks around through the eyes of the people who she was reading the thoughts of.

She heard a few more troubling and dangerous whispers.

One of them, one of the men, sneered, (They'll find his arms and legs in the river.)

Again, Clarke had no doubt whatsoever that the person who thought it, meant it. Absolutely, one hundred percent meant it.

Another thought, a thought from one of the women, thought out, (Maybe cut his tongue out for what the things he's said, for ordering that family dead.)

Clarke stumbled, almost not sure of what she had heard.

Had she made a mistake?

Had someone started a turf war between gangs?

Maybe she'd made a mistake. Maybe this wasn't trying to murder some helpless person. Maybe this was just a gang war.

But then, she realized she'd already made the call to the police, when she heard a voice speak to her through the phone, "Hello? Are you there?"

Clarke almost didn't answer. She wondered, should she actually report this?

But a second later, when she heard more thoughts, not from the murderers, but from other people, from defenseless people; some of them children, and she knew she had to, especially if one of the bullets from the killers' gun or guns went through the walls of the other apartments and hit those children.

So, she quickly told the police that she had seen someone running around with a gun, and gave the person on the other end the address of the building complex, and told the person that she thought she'd seen more than one person moving along with a gun.

The person on the other end asked her to stay on the phone, as she moved, searching.

She knew that unless she wanted to get arrested, she'd need to run back to her apartment. She, after all, was running around, out here with a gun in her hand. And she had just given a description of someone like that to the police.

Of course, she had lied to the person she was talking to. She hadn't seen anyone outside her window, with a gun.

And she knew that technically speaking, lying to the police was literally a crime. But how exactly would she explain that she had actually found out about people about to commit murder? Somehow, she doubted that "reading minds," would pass over well with the police.

She knew what would happen if she told the police about her abilities.

They would either charge her for wasting their time, or they'd assume she was an unstable lunatic.

Or worse? They'd assume that she was working with the people whose thoughts she was hearing.

So, no, telling the police about her abilities and how exactly she had learned of these murderers outside of her building, would most definitely not be a very good idea.

She turned the corner of the building, peering out the side.

She was very glad that this immediate part of the building complex, didn't have any cameras.

She peered around the corner, shifting her body, so that she was ducking out, searching for any sign of anyone.

She froze, when she indeed saw someone. In fact, multiple people.

Thankfully, they all had their backs to her.

Clarke's eyes traveled all over these figures, counting them.

She counted at least twenty-one.

There were no cameras surrounding this building complex, but there were more than a few lights allowing people to see the walkway around them. So, Clarke was able to see the entire group in front of her. And she was pretty sure there were twenty-one of them.

She stepped back, just barely getting behind the corner where she had turned.

She glanced over what few features she could see of these figures from the back.

She was guessing that there were more women in the group than men, both based on what she was looking at, and what she was hearing from the thoughts coming from these figures.

She heard a new thought, and while she wasn't absolutely sure where the thought was coming from, she had a feeling that it was from the woman on the furthest left-hand side, who had long, almost black hair or black hair. The woman's thought said, (He's up there. We're so close. His crimes will be punished, soon.)

Clarke moved back, scooting away from that part of the apartment complex and far away from the backs of these very, very dangerous people.

She quickly whispered to the person on the other side of the line, "They're near the east side of the building complex." Again, she gave the address. The woman on the other end, assured Clarke, that someone had been dispatched.

Clarke quietly thanked the woman and reminded her that she had "seen" multiple people running outside with guns. That the police might need more than one police car.

The woman on the other end assured Clarke that more than one police car was dispatched. Clarke thanked her again and hung up.

She knew she was supposed to stay on the phone till the police arrived, but again, how was she to explain how she had found out about these murderers?

She ran to her building, went inside and went to the stairwell, and ran up it to her apartment, pocketed her gun, pulled out her keys and unlocked the door, going in and closed the door, locking all of the locks on the door.

She put the keys on her living room table and pulled out her gun and brought it and her jacket to her bedroom, putting both items down on her bed.

She then went down the hall to the kitchen, grabbed a large glass, filled it with water, put the glass down at the bottom of the sink, turned the phone off completely, then opened up the back of the phone, pulled out the battery and dumped both it and the phone into the large glass of water.

She would need to smash up the battery later with a hammer, just to make sure it couldn't be tracked.

And another one of her burner phones bit the dust.

A lot of her phones died that way.

Because even if most people thought violent thoughts that they didn't actually mean, that didn't mean that there weren't actually violent people out there, who would happily commit murder, first chance they got.

And Clarke read their thoughts. The ones that she couldn't influence lawyers to get put away, she'd call the police on with her burner phones.

And since she didn't want those reports being led back to her, she'd regularly get rid of the burner phones that she had called the police with.

Clarke checked the door of her apartment, just to be sure. It of course, didn't budge. So, totally locked.

She let the phone and the phone battery get soaked in the water from the glass and went back to the bedroom, grabbed the gun off of her bed, lowered herself down, pulled out the box, and ejected the magazines of bullets out of the gun and dropped them back into the box, and put the gun back into the box, putting the cover over the box and pushing it back under her bed, breathing out weakly as she sat down next to her bed, unsure of what else she could do.

Even if she had heard from the thoughts of the people whose thought she'd listened to, that the person they were planning on killing, that the person who they were after, probably deserved it, it didn't change that them having guns might risk innocent people getting shot.

Not to mention, just because these people were after someone as potentially as bad as them, didn't mean that these people would stop only at the other bad people in this neighborhood. After killing their rivals or whoever they were after, who was to say that they wouldn't then go after actual innocent people that lived around here?

So, she was sure that she had done the right thing by calling the police.

She hoped the police would come quickly.

Thankfully, soon after thinking that, she heard police sirens outside.

She was relieved, hearing those sirens. She got up from the floor and went down the hall to the main room, reaching out and peering through the closed blinds, down into the street.

She saw several police cars driving by, their lights all flashing.

Clarke smiled. Okay. If nothing else. The killers would be driven off.

She heard the thoughts from said killers.

(Shit,) one of the men thought, (The cops, we need to go.)

Clarke heard several more thoughts from the murderers, most of which were curses, as they dispersed.

Clarke was relieved. So relieved.

The killers whose thoughts Clarke had heard, indeed fled. All twenty-one of them.

They ran when they'd seen the police cars and ran to their cars, driving off. Thankfully, their cars were obscured by the many bushes, so, when they drove off, none of the police officers saw them do it.

They drove down the street and drove off. They drove to the highway and drove off.

When they finally reached their safehouse, they kept the cars behind a thick brush, got out, went to the safehouse, put their weapons away, locked all doors, and faced each other as they sat down at their tables.

"What the fuck was that?" Peggy demanded, as she faced her companions.

"Someone must have seen us," Wanda said, not brooking any room for any other possibility.

"We were careful," Frank said, "How did anyone see us?"

"Someone must have," Jessica said, leaning back against her seat, "It's a large apartment complex. There are a lot of people there. Someone must have looked out the window and saw us."

Pepper and Tony both cursed.

"So, someone saw us," Steve sighed, propping his left elbow on top of the chair, "That's alright. If someone saw us moving around out there, it's unlikely that they got close enough to see us and see details about us."

"And if they did?" Sylvie asked, "So what? Are we going to kill someone hasn't done anything wrong, just because they saw us?"

The question caused everyone present to be silent.

They already knew the answer. No, they wouldn't.

They killed people who deserved to be killed. Not anyone who just happened to be possible loose ends.

This, did, however, cause them to have to lay low for a while.

And not go after their intended target for some time.

"Damn," Yelena grumbled, cursing more loudly, "Fuck."

"We know, we know, love," Melina said, looking at her younger adoptive daughter.

Brunnhilde then stated, "If it wasn't one of the people that lived in that building complex, then maybe it was just a passerby?"

"It doesn't matter who it was," Tony said, hands folded in his lap, "We were seen, but I know that there wasn't enough light for that person to see any physical details about us. So, we're safe. We'll just have to track down our target later."

"And we will," Sylvie assured him. "We just need time. The police will now be swarming that area. So, we can't go back. Not right now. We'll wait in a week or two."

"That is such a pain in the ass," Jessica remarked, getting up from where she was sitting, and made her way over to the shelf behind her, Tony and Peggy, grabbing a round, white cylinder container, pulling the squat cap of it off, and grabbed a small, flat, white saucer, pouring the powder inside the cylinder container onto the saucer. Jessica placed the cylinder container back down onto the shelf. The powder on the saucer, was an intense hallucinatory drug, which was imported from Portugal. It was found under a thin layer of bark of a particular tree that grew there.

It was a drug that had to be smuggled into the United States from Utah. Because it was a new drug, it automatically was feared by media.

Much like any sort of drug that could offer anything calming, fun or even medicinal.

Any new thing that involved a drug, the populace tended to fear monger over.

It was this drug that had led several of the people present, into working in the crime profession.

Frank grabbed a curved, dark brown, wooden pipe, Jessica scooped a good deal of the dark powder into the basin of the pipe, and grabbed a match to light that pipe. After the pipe was lit, Frank raised it so that the stem of it was to her lips and he began to puff.

Jessica then grabbed the bottle of whiskey next to the container where the new drug had been kept and wrenched the bottle open, pouring the booze down her throat.

Scoffing, as she observed Frank use the drug they so often smuggled, and Jessica drink her fill. Carol focused on Melina and Maria. "So, we have to wait longer. Fine. We can handle that. During this time? Why don't we just have fun? So, we didn't get our man. Doesn't mean we won't get him soon enough. Now, I don't know about all of you? But I say that's opportunity to enjoy ourselves," she got herself up from her seat as she lifted her head and smirked at the others, her smirk shared with Loki, "I don't know about all of you, but I'm going to enjoy myself at the nearest nightclub. Tomorrow night."

Natasha and Yelena both chuckled.

That was a plan that they could get behind.

So, it was decided. They'd go to the nightclub that they often went to, first chance they got, tomorrow night.

The next day came, then arrived the night. And everyone got ready. This time, not to go hunt and kill people that had done absolutely unforgivable things in the city, but to party.

Hela, Loki, Thor, Natasha, Yelena and Brunnhilde got up and sided up next to Carol, as they got ready on this night.

"So, shall we be off then?" Thor's low and enthusiastic voice spoke for all of them.

An hour later, a good number of them were at a local nightclub.

This nightclub, they'd been at before. Many times before.

It was called "Random Pleasantries." One might find it to be an odd name. But it was fitting enough for a place where someone could get drunk off their ass, without needing to worry about being told they were no good, drunkard louses.

Which meant that everyone at the nightclub, unless they were drunk off their asses and starting fights, were pleasant enough.

It was a vast, wide nightclub, full of tables, chairs, and several different bar shelves, stocked with booze.

Some men and women alike, as long as they had the money available, could purchase whole bottles, and drink right from the bottle they now had in their hands.

Sitting at the bar furthest from the entrance, was Tony, who had just purchased a whole bottle of red wine and was downing it. Seated next to him, leaning against him and chuckling, was Pepper. She had a much slower approach to getting drunk, which was ordering white wine by the glass.

Yelena, who had a murderous grin on her face, frightening off even the boldest of men who even thought of approaching her to ask if she wanted to dance, had barked at the tender to just give her the "whole damn bottle," in her own words, of vodka, and was promptly given the whole damn bottle.

Seated on Natasha's lap, was Wanda, chuckling as Natasha kissed her throat.

Outside of Clint and Laura, who were married and Tony and Pepper had been together sexually and romantically for years now, most of the people in this group of murderers who were partners, didn't have romantic partners. They often slept together every now and then, but there were now sexual or romantic partners, outside of Laura and Clint and Tony and Pepper.

Well, except for Wanda and Natasha.

The two of them had been together now for about two years.

Now, the nightclub, Random Pleasantries, didn't judge anyone whatsoever. And regardless of how raunchy the activities of the clubgoers were, as long as there were no activities that went anywhere close to going against another person's consent, and risked rape, then no one judged and no interfered.

As a result, when Natasha had her mouth at Wanda's neck, kissing and sucking, her left hand at Wanda's left breast, squeezing it and rolling the younger woman's nipple, her right hand between Wanda's legs, under Wanda's skirt, two fingers pushing into Wanda's heat and curling them, causing Wanda to moan and close her eyes, no one threw any expressions of disgust the two women's way.

There were, however, plenty who gawked hungrily, but quickly looked away, as soon as all six Yelena, Hela, Maria, Jessica, Peggy, Frank and Bruce gave them their harsh looks, the people gawking at Wanda and Natasha, looked away, worried about being shot or beaten up or both.

Clint and Laura were currently in an equally lewd position. Laura had pushed Clint against the bar's side, her chest to his back, opened up his pants, her right hand in the front of his pants, and Clint rocked his hips into her hand, moaning "mistress," into the counter, which only caused Laura to smack his pants-covered ass with her left hand and snapping at him, "Shut your mouth, whore!"

Clint moaned again, thrusting against Laura jerking him off harder.

The point was, no one judged around here.

Leaning back against one part of the counter, Steve had a bottle of beer by its neck, the beer was almost drained, and occasionally, he glanced out the window, seeing the people walking by.

The people that hung around this nightclub, even when they didn't enter the building, they tended to stay close to the establishment, because it was sometimes safer there than in other places in the city. Random Pleasantries might have been considered a "lowly establishment," but it had strict rules which barely any other bar or nightclub possessed.

It was for that reason that those that frequented it, tended to stay near it.

Safer that way.

Several feet from the nightclub, Random Pleasantries, there was Clarke Griffin, walking back through the night.

In her hands, she had the handles of a white, plastic bag, filled with what she needed for a few days.

Technically speaking, she made enough money where she could afford to get groceries enough for a month, but she didn't like extravagant spending.

She barely spent all that much on paints and on her car models.

As she passed by the various buildings, grimacing at the many thoughts that she heard, zooming through the air and reaching her mind, almost shouting like loud music from a set of speakers.

Everyone wishing for something or another. For food, for sex, for booze, for a fight-for someone to punch and for someone to punch them so that they can feel something besides loneliness and self-hate, for some place to sleep, for money, for a home, for love.

So many people had such sad and miserable thoughts.

It was one of the many reasons why Clarke hated having the ability to hear thoughts. She heard the saddened, distressed thoughts of others, and she didn't have a clue as to how she was supposed to help them.

She was a block away from a nightclub she had heard of, but stayed clear of, when she heard disturbingly familiar minds.

See, everyone had specific signatures in their minds. Everyone had thoughts and some peoples' minds were familiar.

The minds that Clarke sensed from that nightclub? Made Clarke freeze in her steps, causing her to stare at the club, her heart racing in terror.

It was the same. The same damn minds!

She heard thoughts slipping out like slithering snakes from the doorway and windows of the nightclub and Clarke felt her skin buzzing with ice, recognizing the signature of the minds the thoughts were originating from.

It was the same people.

She could feel it. The same den of sinister intent, that was so good at pretending that they were people, but were covered in blood.

Clarke swallowed, her throat dry.

She quickly went to the side of the nightclub and shoved her things, behind one wall, reaching into her pocket and pulled out one of her extra burner phones. She always kept around one.

She turned it on, dialed up the police's number, and pressed the phone to her ear and was about to press "send" on calling the police, when a thought came to her.

What exactly was going to happen the moment she called the police?

She could say that the people that had tried to kill someone near her apartment complex last night, were here. But what then?

Because no one had died anywhere near her apartment complex last night.

The killers were scared off by the police.

So, then, by now, it was possible that the police thought that the person that called had just prank called them.

And since Clarke had hung up only a few minutes after calling them? They'd have every reason to assume that it was a prank. Especially since no one was arrested or shot by the police.

So, if the police a second call, which would just lead them to a nightclub, where there were multiple suspicious people, they'd assume it was another prank.

And how was she to pinpoint who it was she was calling the police on, without people asking questions as to how she knew? And without bringing her to the attention of these would be murderers?

So, all Clarke could do, was slowly drop her hand holding the burner phone and putting it in her pocket.

She quietly cursed out. She then leaned forward, peeking through the window, at the people inside.

She tried to focus.

Her ability to read minds, allowed her to zero in on who those thoughts were coming from.

One of them was an attractive looking man in his late twenties or early or late thirties, with pale blonde hair, with a sort of face that might strike someone as an almost innocent face, but Clarke knew better.

More thoughts spilled out of the club, telling her where the thoughts were coming from.

Some thoughts originated from a couple seated by the bar. A man with short, dark hair and moustache and beard. And a woman with orange hair.

Some thoughts came from two women seated together, one was on the lap of the other, the woman with shorter red hair, nipped at and kissed the neck of the other with longer hair, her hand between the other woman's legs.

Clarke swallowed, heat traveling to her cheeks, hearing the intense thoughts of those two women.

Their thoughts were still similar to the ones she'd heard last night, but now they were surrounded by a haze of pleasurable heat.

Clarke moved back from the window, suddenly feeling very voyeuristic.

She then felt the familiar thoughts of two of the minds in that building, because those thoughts were getting closer.

Two of them.

One man, one woman.

Clarke backed up from the doors of the club.

The man that emerged from the doors, was probably in his early or late fifties-maybe his very early sixties, with a fleshy face. He had short curls of dark hair with gray in it.

And a woman followed after him.

She was slim, but muscled, with black hair in a ponytail, light brown skinned, and looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties.

The two faced each other, talking.

Clarke listened in closely, trying to pretend that she was focused on something else entirely.

The two talking to each other, were Bruce and Brunnhilde. And Clarke could hear thoughts and words both.

And both chilled her blood.

Bruce and Brunnhilde claimed that they and their companions were going to wipe out the enemy that they were tracking.

They of course, said none of this out loud. But their minds practically screamed it.

Clarke shuddered, and grabbed her things, ready to duck out of there, when she heard something else.

That the people that these murderers were tracking? Were people that had committed multiple gangrapes.

Clarke almost stumbled when she heard that from their thoughts.

All of those whose thoughts were clear, and not befuddled by either drink or lust, were saying the same damn thing; that the people they were tracking deserved to be killed horribly.

And that each of these people were convinced that the people they were after were guilty of gangrape.

Clarke's mouth almost dropped at that.

These murderers were vigilantes?

Vigilantism was still a crime, yes-especially if it ended in murder.

But that changed things. At least for Clarke, it did.

These people weren't trying to kill people that had done nothing wrong. Or people that were going after people that had committed petty crimes like theft. No, these people were trying to kill actual monsters.

Clarke's eyes widened, now suddenly wondering if she should ever have called the police on them that first night she'd heard their thoughts.

She also saw the faces of the people that these people were after.

She didn't recognize their faces, but she heard the names that these people called them. She didn't recognize the names, but it was good to know their names and faces.

Their names were Bellamy Blake, John Murphy, Jasper Jordan, John Mbege, Atom Worth and Dax Summers.

There were some others helping them. They never participated in the rapes, but these people helped the rapists that these murderers were after.

The people helping the rapists, were named Raven Reyes, Monty Green, Nathan Miller and Octavia Blake.

Clarke's stomach turned.

How could people do something like that?

Suddenly, Clarke realized that she couldn't willingly stand in these murderers' way.

It wouldn't be the decent thing to do.

These rapists that the murderers were after? From what Clarke was getting from the murderers' minds? Had always escaped justice because of a technicality. Because there was something they had that was important for politicians, or politicians found their "services" useful.

The point was? Justice was rare. And it looked like justice hadn't gotten these rapists and their assistants yet.

Which meant that someone had to do something, if the law wasn't going to.

Clarke realized what she was going to do and knew that it was wrong, technically. But she was going to do it anyway.

She nodded, resigned, and decided to do nothing as the murderers acted.

Before she left, she heard more thoughts from the actual bar.

The thoughts she heard? Made her swallow and feel heat rise to her cheeks.

She heard the thoughts of a man, Clint, who clearly was enjoying what a woman, Laura, was doing to him, rubbing his cock off and smacking his ass and calling him a whore as she did it.

And thoughts of another woman, Wanda, practically being fisted by another woman, Natasha, Wanda's verbal and mental cries loud, very loud.

Clarke felt heat travel down to her stomach and between her legs, and she quickly darted out of their, going in the direction of her building, suddenly hearing new thoughts directed at her. Thoughts belonging to the people she'd listened to outside of the bar, and their attention was now directed at her, now that she had lingered too long at the bar.

But she didn't turn around to look at them, she just kept moving.

She reached her apartment and put her things away and locked her apartment up.

She decided to try to forget this. That whenever the news was broadcasted about a bunch of people fitting the description of the rapists she'd seen in the murderers' minds, she'd feign surprise, but wouldn't react in any other way.

She would pretend to know nothing.

She would cast this from her mind and never think about it again.

Or so she thought.

Four days went by.

Four days later, when Clarke got out from her work and went to her apartment, she went to begin to work on one of her model toy cars, when she heard that slithering, sinister thought again, entering her mind, seeping in like tendrils.

The thought was a woman's thought, and it said, (We will get them this time. Whoever interfered last time, we will have to avoid them seeing us again.)

Clarke stiffened hearing that.

So, the killers had returned.

Clarke tried to tell herself not to listen in, not to watch. But she couldn't help it.

It was like one of those car crashes that people talked about being drawn into watching.

You knew you weren't supposed to watch a car crash, but instead, call an ambulance.

But like a helpless observer, she felt like she could do nothing, except go over to the window, peering through it, hoping to catch sight of the murderers out and about.

Clarke saw several figures down below. Though she was several floors up from the ground level, Clarke saw them easily enough thanks to the buildings' lights and she recognized them.

It was them.

The people she'd seen at the bar, who she knew were the would be murderers.

Then again, from what she had seen of their thoughts? They had been murderers ages before this.

Okay. Clarke took a deep breath, what did she do now?

Clarke's mind went to what she had heard from these people when they'd been at the bar.

These were very sexual beings. Very sexual.

Clarke swallowed.

She knew she shouldn't feel any interest in these people.

But she was…

Clarke knew something in that instant-it didn't matter if these people killed a bunch of people here? Too bad.

She was going to try to track these people down.

If only out of fascination? She knew that she would try to be in these peoples' lives.

Clarke moved away from the window, and tried to ignore the thoughts she was hearing, as she got ready for bed.

She could feel it too. She could feel the death creeping up on the people that these murderers were targeting.

She could feel the people that the murderers were targeting, about to die.

She almost smirked when she heard the screaming sounds of pained thoughts from the people that the murderers were killing.

Good to know that some assholes were just getting what they deserved.

Two days went by afterwards.

Clarke couldn't help herself.

After her job? She went off to the same bar that she had heard the thoughts of the murderers.

And she stayed by the bar.

And she was not disappointed.

A slight smile crossed her face when she heard the perverted thoughts that were flooding out of that bar.

Clarke felt her breath caught in her throat, when she heard the depth of how pleasurable the thoughts were.

As Clarke listened, very much like an average sleazy voyeur, as a voice spoke from behind her.

"Aren't you a curious one?" A woman said from behind Clarke.

Clarke stiffened, but turned around, her eyes widening when she saw who was there.

Two of the murderers.

The woman who had spoken, a beautiful redhead with green eyes, dressed in black leather and a very handsome man with blonde hair and blue eyes, stood there.

The blond man was watching her.

The redheaded woman was smirking.

"You've been watching us, haven't you?" the woman asked, the smirk on her face, remaining.

Clarke swallowed, but didn't deny it.

What now?

The redheaded woman smirked still as she said, "Don't worry, malen'kiy, I don't think we'll mind your presence," She looked at the blond man, "What do you think, Rogers? Should we talk to Barton, Potts and Stark about this? Think they'll agreed?"

The blond man, "Rogers," looked at Clarke, seeming curious more than anything else and he smirked too.

"Yeah, Romanoff," he confessed, "I'm thinking we can include her in our life. If she's really so interested in us? Then why should we disappoint her?"

Clarke shivered, and was disturbed at her excitement, when she heard the thoughts of both the man and woman, knowing exactly how they were hoping to share her between them and their companions, sexually.