The Schemer

Lie To Me

Silence. 

White, hot pain. And then... Silence once more.

A pale woman lying in bed opened her storm-coloured, bloodshot eyes and snapped them back closed when the harsh light hit them. With a strangled grunt, she slowly peered them, taking in the world around her through narrow slits. White, white everywhere. There was nothing to contrast against the brightness, nothing to hook her attention onto. And the smell. The odour, strangely familiar, bringing the memories crashing back. The lingering smell of medical drugs and antibacterial substances. 

Instinctually, Clara tried to lift herself up and find a cover, somewhere to hide, to escape. But as soon as she tried to yank her limbs, tearing pain, equal to the agony of a lost body part, pierced the woman's body. She remembered feeling something close only when the blood-thirsty men came after her, cutting out her uterus and leaving her younger self to bleed out. The woman fell back onto the mattress, Clara's back arching away from the flat surface, and a suppressed, throaty wail escaped her dry, chapped lips. Breath. Slow breaths. The assassin had to remind herself to breathe. 

Her eyes were closed as she took gulps of oxygen-filled air through her mouth, to not smell the odour of drugs. Tormentingly slowly, the pain subsided, and yet, the woman was terrified of the thought of moving an inch. Her hazed brain managed to draw the correlation between movement and scorchingly burning sensation in her left side. 

Finally, Clara's pulse calmed down. She could think clearly now, the thick mist in her head clearing away. Something went horribly wrong, resulting in her being brought to this isolated room. Based on the smell, it had to be some kind of hospital, but it didn't make any sense, because the only hospital in Gotham was destroyed. 

Her eyes snapped open. The car accident. She could recall being in a car accident, and then her world went black. But before that, Clara knew she was furious. She would have murdered the other driver, who dared mess up her masterplan. Was it truly just an accident? Or was it a planned attack, specifically targeting her freedom? The assassin was not sure, but her gut feeling kept telling her it had not been a coincidence. It was a trap.

And then the pain. Something was not right with her left side, the one which met the wild force of another car smashing into her Mustang. Reluctantly, with the speed of a snail, Clara diverted her steely gaze to the wounded side and froze.

Throughout her life, Ira had experienced severe wounds. Her body told the whole history of them. White scars, long and deep, small and circular, shining silver and ugly pink, they all were endured with the patience of a seasoned warrior. Yet, excluding the lost reproductive organ, the assassin had not had any wounds that were beyond just 'serious'. The fortune favoured her often, and she managed to come back from war with her limbs intact, with no unhealable damage.

Clara's arm, her beautiful, art-covered arm, her strong, powerful limb with muscular development suited to wield a weapon and choke an enemy, her arm was not here. A part of her body was missing. 

The woman choked on her own spit, her eyes widening in pure terror. Clara had never felt such horror overtaking her body ever in her long three decades of living. Not when she killed her own blood and flesh. The anger fueled her actions. Not when her uterus was ripped out of her torso. Survival instinct made her not give up and move forward. Not when she departed to Israel. Determination burned deep inside. Not when James was torn out of her hands. The pain of her own soul blinded the assassin. Not even all those times acknowledging the death of others did make Clara as much as flinch. She got used to it. Unfortunately, the naive part of her believed that fortune would keep smiling upon her. The Betrayer chose not to. She was not prepared for this.