The Schemer

Stayin' Alive

Nowadays, Clara spent her mornings inside her garage gym. Exchanging her nightly routine for sleep, that's what she did. An immediate change was seen, her grey eyes no longer clouded with sleep deprivation, no traces of black circles underneath. As she slept more, her bodily functions improved, too. Her vigorous exercise routine demanded a lot of energy. Clara intended to keep her musculature, for some weird, groundless reasoning that her keen mind, her instincts kept telling. 

Push, pull. Push, pull. A squat rack made weird noises, squeaking underneath the hefty weight. Almost two hundred pounds, that's how much a typical soldier, a man weighed. Ten times, fifteen repetitions. Clara can feel her quads slowly giving up. She's ready. She will be able to help, to hold, to save. Anytime, any moment. The potential weakness of womanly lack of strength was eliminated.

She still enjoyed her martial arts combats. Clara knew a man, an elderly one, who was able to kick anybody's ass nevertheless. They trained, keeping her skills intact, ready to strike anytime. Why? The woman couldn't answer, at least not until she moved to Gotham. The city was famous for its criminals, and in the middle of a sea full of sharks, it was wise to resemble a crocodile, a predator that was just as powerful. Whilst the surgeon had no actual reasoning behind a decision of buying a house in such a city of foul reputation, she rather enjoyed the place. Her income, both as an ex-military doctor and now as a surgeon, allowed the woman to choose whatever place she liked to live in. And who knew that out of any possible place in the world, Clara would settle in Gotham. 

Clara finished her routine five minutes to eight. She had to be at work exactly at nine A.M. A full hour was left to shower, dress up and drive to the centre of Gotham, where the Gotham General was located. 

Wrapped in a long, dark coat, a tall figure closed the door, locking it, and manoeuvring towards a sleek, black 70's Mustang. The car was one of the most valued things in Clara's list of possessions. And who wouldn't appreciate his car, if the vehicle was a fucking Mustang? She reversed out, then sped up almost the point of the speed limit, but not exceeding it, not risking her own safety. The woman enjoyed the feeling which the quick, powerful cars brought. Excitement. She felt excited. 

"Area number 6, Dr Moore, Dr Richardson, area number six. Five bodies, three alive, collect all of them." A large, green and brown coloured van was big enough for ten people, maybe seven when laying down. But Clara disliked the vehicle. It was slow, oh so slow, and lacked mobility. This stupid car only annoyed her. It was hard to manoeuvre it throughout the risky, dangerous zones. 

Getting closer to the hospital, the number of cars increased, too. She sped up a little more, to outdrive a black van with darkened windows. Passing the vehicle, Clara tried to catch a glimpse of the driver. Nothing could be seen. "Little old ladies in big, scary cars." The sarcasm broke through her husky tone. Based on its speed, there definitely must have been someone's grandma behind the steering wheel. An old, white Persian cat in the passenger's seat, too.

Humming a self-made tune, Clara reached her destination and got out. Throwing lazy glances around her, examining these already familiar surroundings, the woman slowly made her way to the main entrance. Yesterday evening, she had read her schedule. An early procedure, appendicitis, and an urgency for a new liver. The organ had already arrived, waiting to be implanted in the stomach of a schizophrenic, old, but nevertheless rich and wealthy lady. "Grandma, grandma, time to leave. Dripping, gripping, shall we do some... Stitching?" A low chuckle escaped Clara's mouth, sending curious glances her way. Smiling and shaking her head at her own wittiness, the woman passed a lady behind the reception desk, making eye contact and nodding in acknowledgement. She had to hurry up a little, as the traffic jam had started forming, delaying Clara. Not to the point of being late, luckily. Still, she didn't come to the General at her preferred time. A point to consider the next day.