The Schemer

Let's Talk About L.

"There ain't much to say, toots. We were, uh, on a roof of a building. Dogs and aroma of gunpowder." The clown grinned, remembering everything. "I got Batsy underneath me. In a very scandalous pose. He used his little tools to get me off. Threw me off of the building. Caught me with his spiderman rope. Brough to cops. En-d. Oh, and I tried to blow something u-p. Didn't happen." His relaxed expression was fixed on Clara, gauging her reaction. "Didn't have a schemer nearby to plan everything throughout. Fucked something u-p."

"I would agree, except I don't know what really happened. Since you're not exactly the most trustworthy information provider, I won't jump to conclusions." The surgeon wiggled a little, making herself more comfortable. "I get numb sitting in one place for too long." She explained when Joker gave her a questioning look.

"Since we are having a, uh, heart-to-heart conversation, when did tha-t happen?" He asked, staring at the empty sleeve. The phantom limb that Clara could swear she started to feel was just... There. It was not an unpleasant experience, although it was not comfortable either. It seemed as if she could grab things with the non-existent hand, but she couldn't. Clara tried to touch herself, her legs, her stomach, but nothing happened. Yet, the attachment on her limb failed to disappear completely. Now, under Joker's heavy gaze, it sprang to life once again, and the surgeon had to keep herself collected and calm to not freak the clown out.

"When the other car crashed into Mustang, my left side was crushed. Major fractures in multiple places, punctured muscle, shards of bone everywhere. Would take too much time and resources to dig in and save the arm." Bitterness laced her tone thinking about the potential - happy - ending of this incident. If only the surgeons that operated her had had enough experience in the first place to dig out every tiny shard, or enough courage to chop off chunks of muscles, just to keep the limb itself. If only she had been conscious to instruct them what to do, her left shoulder wouldn't be bare now. When Clara was the war doctor, sometimes the injuries were far greater than the one of her own, and she still managed to keep the soldiers intact. So how much of professionals were these excuses of a surgeon?

"Don-t explode on my bed, toots. Your pretty boy would have to clean that u-p." Her rage still simmered down in her body making it go rigid. Breathing helped. It always did. "Atta girl." She threw Joker a calmed down look.

"Pretty boy, huh? Are you changing sides?"

"For your frien-d? I would." The mood in the tiny room brightened a little. "I haven't seen him around. Seeing pretty people are no-t something of a constant experience here."

"I'm positive you wouldn't pass your English test with such sentence structures, Joker. They're unusually intricate for you." The assassin commented, trying to win some time to choose her next words. "When it comes to my 'pretty boy', he's probably something of a VIP escort. A guard reserved only for the most important patients." Clara shook her head. "I don't know. He simply showed up when I was brought here, and nobody questioned his existence. Ashwood himself stated he's been around for a few years."

"Righ-t."

"Right?" She lifted her eyebrow again. "You sound as if you didn't believe him."

"Well, I don't. I have a nose for liars, Ira. A nose and eyes."

"I would know that." She nodded once, curling her body in a seated fetus position and putting her chin on her knees. "He's been out of the army for a few years now. The time... He's been free this whole time. It very well might be Ashwood is not lying, and it's just you who suffers from the lack of observation. Not that you've been in Arkham Asylum for that long, after all."