[Dressed in the worn, secondhand clothing provided by Morningstar, Lexa appears a shadow of what she was, regal on the throne - weapon and armor and the drape of a red cape to set her apart from her subjects. Here, she seems just the same as the rest: tired, tucked into a corner, isolated in the large room of the warehouse, in a state of constant surveillance. Other refugees are more animated; that isn't Lexa's way.

She also doesn't need the appearance of a Commander to retain her spirit, no matter how removed she is from her role. What has changed is a loss of duty. She struggles with what to do next, constrained to this place until she is allowed the freedom to go out on her own. There seems to be no point to going forward without her people.

Clarke's presence offers some grounding, but even that is uncertain. With time to process, Lexa wonders what the difference in time will make of them, what the unfamiliarity of this world means. They have no alliances to upkeep. No one to lead.

When she returns, she'll find Lexa on the cot, cross-legged and hood drawn up over her ears. Her eyes are closed, and she maintains a familiar position of concentrated meditation. Clarke's voice reels her out of it.]

Yes, I noticed. And a much larger population than Polis contained. [The heights of the building, the lights, the technology... All of it is disorienting. Perhaps more for her than Clarke, but she won't assume their differences.] How long must I be kept here?

[Sharp impatience creeps into her tone. She doesn't like feeling imprisoned.]

They intend to use me as their spy, if I'll have it.