Summer in Gotham was only slightly different than summers in other cities. Only criminals rose up from their deep slumber. Drug dealers. Mobsters. Thieves. That, and chaotic men without a clear purpose. Other than that, nothing else changed, giving the surgeon a sense of familiarity.
That year, July seventeenth happened to be exactly in the middle of the week. Clara enjoyed Thursdays. Thursday meant a slow nearing of the weekend, close enough to feel it, but not here, yet. The woman, just like everybody else, was somewhat fascinated by the idea of the weekend. When you think about all those activities that you could assign yourself to, you get a river of ideas. Except, Clara's approach to leisure time consisted of slightly different plans. Although being in Gotham for over half a month now, she still lacked knowledge of the city. Famous for its criminals and Batman, but not well-known for art museums, and theatres, nor other cultural buildings. Not that Clara was overly into that, but she understood the value of knowledge, and get acquainted with one's city was definitely something of potential use. Therefore, instead of staying at home that weekend, she intended to spend some time outside. But first, two more days needed to be lived through. Two more days of small cuts and beauty-threatening scar making. Perhaps saving lives, but hardly maintaining one's features that match the classical understanding of attractiveness.
With these thoughts in mind, Clara went through her routine, not skipping a single step of it. She disliked that weird feeling, which came if eliminating one minor, but constant detail. No stretch after climbing from bed? Tiny itching at the back of her neck. Something's wrong. Leaving untidy bed? Constant thoughts about the mess that she has left behind. Not cleaning the cup after drinking morning tea? She would have a hard time concentrating at work. But this was Clara and her way of being a control freak. Whilst it might be hard to control a constantly changing outer world, it is fairly easy to have a hold on your own routine, especially if it's an enjoyable one. She enjoyed discipline. Discipline meant order, and order equalled freedom. It may be hard to understand for the majority, those, who called themselves chaotic. Funny thing, because they actually never really experienced genuine disorder in their lives. A lost shoe or a boyfriend being late is not mayhem. Clara did not belong to the majority. She knew what real chaos was, and understood that being chaotic does rarely provide one the freedom that he craves.
Leaving her home, double checking the door, the woman got inside her car. Not that a lock would help against the metaphorical sharks. It was meant to deter smaller fish, not as experienced in breaking in. Also, in Gotham, it was not wise to demonstrate your foolishness. What else would an open door indicate, other than a stupid occupant?
Driving to the Gotham's General, just like any other day, was hardly anyhow adventurous. Living at the suburban area of Gotham definitely had its benefits, like the calm wildness and small patches of forest, and a lake, too small to attract tourists, but big enough to catch some fish or have a little boat trip. Overall, to some extent that area actually met the standards of your typical countryside, only with a huge city besides.
Traffic jams were definitely something in this city, especially in the morning. Roads full of cars, modern monsters that took far too much space, with lonely drivers inside. "Who the fuck needs that?" The woman murmured underneath her breath, seeing vehicles that were made specifically for huge families, yet used by one. Clara enjoyed small, quick cars, valued their mobility and economized space. That, and also the fact that big vehicles reminded her of the time overseas.
Stuck in traffic, there was little else to do, besides staring outside. Out of boredom, the woman could either stare at her nails or out the window. The later one seemed a little more appealing. Old habits died hard, after all. And perhaps because she was trained and used to seeing minuscule details, or maybe because the surgeon was gifted with perspicacious intuition, Clara noticed a man standing on the sidewalk. A human being in the street full of men and women didn't seem suspicious at all. What caught her attention was his hair colour. Sleek and glistening against the sun, they had this weird greenish tint to them. Seemingly tall and broad-shouldered, the man had his back turned to her, slightly hunched forward. The man seemed way too old to be another youngster, dying his hair to project his punk style and anarchistic nature. After taking a better, more analytical look, Clara saw a clown mask in his left hand. "Do we have a bloody circus in this city now?" The question hovered in warm air, not answered. Cool, steely eyes followed his every move. Not that there were many. The man stood still as a statue, his baggy clothes barely moving in the light breeze. Suddenly, a silver car pulled towards him, hiding the clown from the view. Clara couldn't catch a glimpse of him anymore, only the vehicle was visible. And it wasn't big enough to clear her suspicion. "Not a circus bus, huh?" The woman's uneasiness increased with every second. Her gut feeling screamed to expect the worst from that clown, and she learned to trust her instincts a long time ago. "Oh, fuck it." Changing the parking lanes, Clara sped up and followed the grey car, murmuring curse words underneath her breath, as if there could be someone to hear it if she said it any louder.
For an outsider, it might be hard to explain what was happening in Clara's head at the moment. He doesn't know what it feels like to risk your own life to protect others, because from his young days, under the supervision of caring parents, he had been programmed to avoid trouble. Run if can, save his own ass. For a soldier, it is somewhat different. Even when raised in the same family, under the same rules, the military changes his perception and understanding. Just like a dog, even the tiniest one, has an instinct to run after a moving object, a soldier has an urge to eliminate the potential trouble. Clara was trained as a warrior, and she had the mentality of one. It was an instinctual thing to follow. Observe and interfere if needed.
It didn't take too long. They parked next to a bank, whilst Clara stopped at the other side of the street. Getting out, the previous guy from the sidewalk, now wearing his mask, turned around, apparently checking his surroundings. She recognized him from the wrinkly clothes and slight greenish colour of his hair. "Two's a company. Three clowns is a whole circus." The woman joked silently, killing the engine. Clara noticed the other two rushing towards the entrance, not bothering to get a scan of what was around them. Shaking her head at their foolishness, she was slowly tapping her finger on the steering wheel, not taking her steely gaze away. A few minutes passed, testing her patience. Her right hand reached towards the glove compartment, where she knew was a whole block of chocolate. Magnesium calms you down. The surgeon needed to stay calm.
Ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed, nothing happening. Enough was enough. Stepping out, Clara walked across the street, stalking towards where the three men disappeared. Silently, she opened the door, getting inside. The entrance was located it the corner of the main area, therefore slightly hidden by a wall. Clara could see what was happening inside and stay unnoticed at the same time.
Trusting her gut feeling was something that she learned way back in Israel. Sometimes, your brain is able to pick and connect those tiny little details that wouldn't make any sense on their own. But together they do, and this is how Clara's intuition informed her of unavoidable trouble.
She walked straight into a bank robbery, with men dressed up as clowns. Except, there were hardly any clowns anymore. She could see two laying on the ground, either dead or knocked out, the third one, with green hair, putting bags of money into a... "Bloody hell, is that a bus?" With disbelieving eyes, the woman watched him, until she noticed a movement from another man in a suit, laying on the ground. Slowly, not making any sound, when the last remaining clown turned his back to her, Clara crept behind one of the pedestals, close enough to hear the manager's shallow breathing.
"Think you're smart, huh?" Idiot, IDIOT, shut up, you fucking IDIOT. "Well, the guy who hired you's just do the same to you..." The clown slowly shook his head as if agreeing with Clara. Idiot. "Sure he will. Criminals in this town used to believe in things." The man, still wearing his mask, slowly made his way towards the one on the ground. "Honor. Respect. Look at you. What do you believe in, huh? WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IN?" The clown crouched in front of the manager, getting dangerously close.
"I believe that what doesn't kill you, simply makes you... Stranger."
"I prefer Schopenhauer over Nietzsche."
The clown, now without his mask, froze underneath Clara's sudden choke from behind, loose enough not to strangle, but firm nevertheless. A tube of something in his hand, ready to put it in his victim's mouth, stopped midway, surprised by an unexpected attack. One arm around the clown's neck, the other on top of his head, the woman made sure to put him in a rather dangerous position. "One wrong move and I will snap your neck."
"Will ya, toots?" As predicted, he let go of the device, instead jabbing his elbows into Clara's sides, in an attempt of getting rid of her. Grunting, but satisfied that her plan worked, the woman released the clown's neck, instead thrusting her arms forward between his raised arms and ribs, trying to perform a Full Nelson. Half succeeding, Clara suddenly felt momentum weightlessness - the man threw her over his shoulder, the woman's back colliding with the floor, face-to-face with the aggressor.
Clara laughed.
"Seriously? A clown underneath a clown's mask?" Momentarily forgetting her current position, the woman chuckled deep in her throat. The clown's black, bottomless eyes narrowed, tongue darting out to wet his lip.
"You're, uh, way too happy with this situation, Schopenhauer's lover. Are you, uh, delusional?" Not getting anything more to say, the man's chin received a hammer fist from underneath with the back of the hand, forcing his head to turn upwards. Meanwhile, Clara stood up, just in time to duck a fist from the right. From this crouched position, she dived forward, colliding with the man's torso, hugging him tightly, except not with love and admiration, but rather in a death grip, forcing air out from his lungs. Now it was the clown's turn to grunt, trying to keep both his own and the additional hundred and forty-something pounds upright. To be on the ground was dangerous, and he knew well that the majority of times a street fight without rules ends the moment when one falls. Therefore, digging his heels into the ground, the man used his own force to counterbalance his opponent's weight. Like two sumo wrestlers, they grunted and growled, trying to push one another, not really doing much damage.
But the clown wasn't stupid. Changing her position, Clara's eyes darted towards a large wall clock, mentally debating with herself how long will it take for police to come. It has to come, right? Returning her steely gaze, she noticed the man's eyes glued to the same spot that hers were a moment ago. Narrowing his eyes once more, licking his lips, realization showed in the bottomless holes. "Someone's going to be late. More time for Nietzsche, perhaps you will find another, more inspirational quote." Grinning, Clara performed a sided push, relieving the force, but tugging the man's body sideways, so his own weight would make him stumble. Except, what she didn't expect was that the clown wouldn't release her when falling. Usually, the ones she spared with would lose their grip, using their hands to soften collision with the ground. What this man did was both extremely stupid and, the woman had to admit, rather cunning. Due to his enormous strength, they did a 180-degree turn, him being on the bottom, woman collapsing on top. A high possibility of organ damage or at least broken ribs didn't matter to the clown, apparently, as the priority was not to release Clara from his grip, putting her in a vulnerable, nearly defenceless position.
Sirens could be heard somewhere in the background. The woman knew that the police would be here at any moment, and so did the clown. So he did something that Clara wasn't expecting. "Toots, it's been a, uh, pleasure meeting you." Suddenly, a sharp pain appeared in her oblique, making the woman crouch. The sneaky man revealed a knife from his pocket, stabbing, not deep enough to cause mortal damage, but to slow her down. Pushing the woman off of him, the clown scrambled on his feet, rushing towards a bus with all the money inside. With a last glance, he closed the door. School vehicle moved, the aggressor disappearing in a long line of similar cars.
Clara lost him. That bloody creature went off, leaving this mess behind. Slowly standing up, the woman clutched her wounded side, running towards the main exit - the one that she used at the beginning when coming inside. Police cars started parking next to a huge hole in the wall where the bus was, not caring about the main entrance. This is how she escaped, crossing the street, surprisingly void of any moving cars, and scrambling inside her Mustang. The first thing to do was to put pressure on the stab, disallowing blood to drip freely. Furthermore, Clara didn't want any stains on the seat. It took a lot of time and professional equipment to clean blood from the leather. Ripping her shirt, the woman made a temporary bandage, securing it with a military knot. Calm breaths came in and out from her nose. She was used to similar situations, so panic didn't occur now. Starting her car, Clara reversed, careful not to disturb the traffic, and drove home. She will call and announce herself sick. That's what her plan was. The woman couldn't take care of others when her own body was flawed. Besides, that tear needed serious attention. Who knows what else that clown had stabbed before, and she doubted whether he actually cleaned his sharp tool afterwards.
To silence her own low, occasional grunts, prohibit them to reach her ears, Clara turned on the radio. Immediately, a song of her liking started playing, matching the woman's mood. With music on, Clara could concentrate easier, the pain dulling to slight ache. 'You... turned and you ran, oh yeah, oh, slipped... right from my hand.' Fueling her anger, but at the same time allowing thoughts to run freely.
It took a good twenty minutes to reach the house. Stepping out and inside, Clara went straight to the bathroom where her first aid kit and much more was. Cutting the knot, she slowly peeled the fabric off, exposing an ugly-looking, jagged stab. Her previous assumptions proved to be correct. The wound was not deep, hardly damaging anything on the inside, except ripping muscle. "Now I will have one more valuable specimen in my collection." Amusement could be heard in her voice, careful, long fingers tapping ethanol-based solution on the wound. It hurt, utterly abused her nociceptors, except it didn't impel much of a reaction in her stony expression. "At least the idiotic manager is still alive. Of course, if the clown didn't come back to finish his work, or he hadn't bled to death." Putting on a clean bandage, Clara cleaned the mess, throwing out the bloodied shirt and muttering something about the need to wash her coat.
Calling the hospital, she informed them about her imaginary cold in the middle of summer, lowering already deep voice to the point of vocal fry. Clara would've grinned at this successful attempt of becoming a rock singer, if not the actual gruffness of her mood. Tea. She needed some tea. A drink, and some time to think. Mindlessly, the woman turned on the TV in her living room, leaving it with an aim of brewing a cup of expensive green tea. Since the kitchen was partly connected with her living room, no walls in between, Clara could hear everything that was said. "A few hours ago, a Central Bank robbery was executed by a man who calls himself 'The Joker'. Five people were found dead, with clown masks on their faces, bank manager seriously injured." With the speed of light, completely forgetting her tea, Clara scooted from behind the bar. On the screen, a picture of the very same man was exposed, with a question 'Have you seen this man?' underneath. "Currently, this is the fifth bank that was robbed by the man under the same alias. Police forces with the help of Batman are currently running an investigation on..."
Clara stood there, frozen, steely eyes locked on a disfigured face in front of her. What she previously believed to be a simple warpaint, dragged into a pattern of a huge, smudged smile, the woman now realized was actually a pair of scars. A long time ago, she had seen this sort of macabre wounds, with a cheerful name of 'Glasgow smile', typically done by British gangs. Although not as serious as this clown's. The doctor guessed that there were some serious complications when healing those rips, disallowing his flesh to close up correctly, which resulted in jagged, uneven scars. "The Joker." Testing, almost tasting the name on her tongue, Clara tilted her head to the right side. "You have a very unique sense of humor."
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Song of the chapter: Five Finger Death Punch - Blue on Black