Ground Down

Chapter 73

A lookalike had been left at the base, a woman of her height and build, with dark hair and fitting armour and a red cloth the shade of her sash. She hated using lookalikes. Lexa pulled the hood of the sweater she'd pulled over the top of her armour deeper into her face, stuffed her hands back into its front pocket and clenched them around her gloves hidden inside. The little bones pressed into her palm. Her own bones minded, all the parts of flesh and else that held them in place under her skin sorely remembered her last sparring session because working on seventeen things at once left little time for training and that she'd slipped up had made her angry and then she'd pushed herself the heck to the edge. And past it. And then some. The straps on her backpack dragged on her shoulders with the weight of the rest of her armour and weapons hanging off her back. 

After months in warrior attire, an oversized sweater slapping against her thighs with nothing but leggings guarding her skin and every twig and pebble on the ground pressing into her feet through a pair of old sneakers had her feeling naked. Like walking down the block in underpants. And wholly civilian. Which was the point, there couldn't be two Commanders and the point of a lookalike was that she could use her free time undisturbed and unguarded. 

Which was why she hated using lookalikes, the guilt of putting somebody else who had never made the choice to fight for that position in permanent danger while she took downtime to unwind. Seemed so pointless. Or underserved at least. But people became useless in war without rest, there was no glory to burning up with the speed of a projectile that couldn't stop its own path and therefore not control its impact. A warrior had to be the finger on the trigger. Aware when to hold tension in every muscle, and aware when to rest. 

Light burnt behind the windows to living room and kitchen of her childhood home, she saw them as soon as she'd passed the splintery old fir tree she'd fallen out of as a child, repeatedly, that belonged to the family five houses down who had made a rule about nobody being allowed to climb their trees, so, naturally, people had climbed them when they'd all been on base. Hadn't made for the best neighbourhood relations, really. 

Lexa turned off the cul-de-sac two houses too early because lights were on in the houses on either side of her childhood home and the point of creeping through other people's gardens was not being caught by any easily alerted warriors. Most members of her family included. 

Having grown up in that family and having been the goody-two-shoes compared to her three sisters, she'd learnt a thing or two about how to come home without alerting her parents. Involuntarily, mainly. Because when she'd been grounded, she'd actually stayed grounded unless one of her sisters had gotten grounded with her. Because they hadn't stayed grounded. And peer pressure and all. Same for curfew, she'd actually been home by ten unless she'd been out with her sisters. Either way, she'd tried to sneak in and gotten re-grounded and her ass beaten enough times to have figured out the three best routes with the highest chances of success. 

Lexa pressed her back against the backwall of the neighbours' shed and picked one of the rocks she and her sisters had stacked there. Most strategies involved waiting around. Rushing got you busted. Whether you planned to attack or infiltrate and enemy camp or just wanted to get past your easily triggered mother and sister didn't really matter for that, rushing got you busted. She let the stone bounce in her hand, listening, waiting, until a car passed by a street down, then she spun around and hurled the stone towards the transmission pole behind the gardens. 

A surge of sparks sent six different dogs into a barking frenzy, Lexa hopped the fence, pressed her back into the shadow and waited that out, too, waited for the noise to settle before she eased forwards, weight on the balls of her feet, checking every blade of grass for any connection to a twig or stone or crinkly leaf, until she reached the back patio. They had started building a ramp. Gazing at the pieces of wood strewn over the lawn and narrowing her eyes at what sure looked like bite-marks in them and getting side-tracked and craning her neck for a glance at her and Anya's bedroom windows almost had her lingering for too long.