The Schemer

Watch Me

"You'd rather protect an outlaw vigilante than the lives of citizens." A woman behind Clara asked, her voice almost mocking. The surgeon had to lock her jaw to keep herself from throwing back a replica to the reporter. 

"The Batman is an outlaw." Dent agreed, giving the noisy crowd an intense look. This time, his blue eyes met Clara's steely ones, acknowledging the fact that the surgeon was here, too. The man continued talking, but the woman didn't listen to him anymore. In her mind, she pondered what the fuck did Wayne think this time. Just... Turn himself in? Was he insane? He must have been. Completely and utterly delusional, that's it. 

She did spend enough time with the Joker to speculate that Batman was more of an excuse to cause chaos, rather than the reason. If, of course, the clown even needed a reason. The Batman had a symbolic meaning to Gotham's citizens, whether they consciously realized that or not. If there was no Dark Knight, no arc-force to fight the dark, the hope would soon drain out of them, leaving only an empty shell behind. 

The crowd around her cherished, and the woman felt Bruce move next to her a little. "So be it. Take the Batman into custody." Before turning around, Dent gave the surgeon one last glance, curious and more examining this time. It didn't last for longer than a few seconds, but it was enough for Clara to feel unease start to creep up her back. Finally, the man turned, offering his wrists to the officers. "I am the Batman."

This can't be real. A mistake. A grave mistake. A joke, isn't it? Something must have gone terribly wrong. It must have. Because Clara, she couldn't have been wrong. She couldn't. Not this time. Not. This. Time. 

With unbelieving eyes, the surgeon stared at Harvey, as he had been escorted from the room, handcuffed and surrounded by security guards. As the man disappeared in the crowd, she slowly turned her eyes towards Bruce, frozen next to her. He, too, kept staring after where Dent has gone, not saying anything. Wrong. 

"Did you know?" Her low voice tore through the noise that the crowd of people made, close enough only for the man to hear. "Is this why you invited me? To show who the real Batman is?" There was no malice in Clara's voice, only curiosity. Curiosity and scepticism. 

"Yes." Wayne didn't look at her, keeping his eyes on the people around them.

"And is Dent the real Batman? Huh?" That husky tone of hers held something indescribable in it, causing the man to finally turn and gaze at the woman. She met his brown, gentle eyes, communicating without words. Wrong. I know. Wrong. 

"You heard what he said." Clara nodded slowly, lips pressed tightly.

"Let it be, Bruce." The surgeon turned and manoeuvred her way out of the crowd, leaving the dark-haired man behind, staring at her retreating form. A moment later, she was already inside her Mustang, staring at the city in front of her. At the police cars. At the reporters. People. 

Clara knew Dent was not Batman. She knew. In a very logical, argument-based way. After all, ten-or-so years of her life were spent next to physical beings, analyzing and memorizing their built. Their physiques. Musculature. Bone structure. When you know what to look at, the rest falls into places by itself. 

The surgeon met Wayne a day before his party. But once was more than enough to take in the contour of the man's chin, and the way he used to press his thin, long lips firmly. And teeth. It is weird how much one's teeth could tell. A person can dye his hair, put in eye contacts, go through plastic surgery and change his face completely. But you rarely think about taking out and replacing your teeth, do you? Bruce had a very specific set of teeth. When he talked, you could notice his canines and first premolars, whilst his front teeth, central incisors, remained rarely seen. When Batman showed during the party, he came close enough to the woman for her to notice those minuscule details which for the majority would have made no sense at all. But Clara didn't belong to the majority. Not at all. And now, as absurd as it sounded, the surgeon put her money on the man based on his lower facial features.