"Doctor Moore, you have thirty minutes to prepare for Miranda D.'s surgery. Ovarian cancer, stage two, operating room number four."
"Hmm."
"Doctor Moore? Did you hear me?"
"No." The woman's back straightened, she spun around on a rolling chair, facing the greying nurse. "I mean, I did."
"Bad timing, Doctor?" The nurse smiled kindly, her ageing face projecting calmness and serenity. The lines that ran through it, together with a white coat, gave the woman an aura of something indescribable. Sacrifice and utter devotion, perhaps.
"Not at all. I'm just... Constructing." Clara motioned towards her desk, indicating the half-finished house of cards, sitting proudly on a bed of papers, so the cards wouldn't slide on the sleek wood. "I will be there in no time."
The nurse nodded, leaving this bright, large room that belonged to the surgeon. Alone now, Clara turned around once more, returning to her project. She had found a deck of cards yesterday, among various other puzzles and games which were hidden in a large box. When coming to Gotham and occupying the secluded house with barely few neighbours nearby, Clara had left the majority of her things untouched, not bothering to unpack stuff that was not of everyday usage. But yesterday, the woman finally acknowledged the pile of boxes in one of the rooms. And not exactly with intentions of making the house a little homier. Clara actually needed another gun nearby, as the Joker took her revolver. Since the collection of guns and other various weapons was put in a few boxes, and there were many similar ones, the woman had no choice but to check all of them, at the same time sorting the stuff inside and putting it in their places. As a secondary result, the house, previously minimal and somewhat void of any signs that would indicate an actual human being living inside, developed an environment of an extremely weird occupant. Someone staying inside long-term, nevertheless. Clara dedicated a whole room for her weapon collection, which she cleaned and took proper care of before putting in places - polished the blades from dust and potential dirt, wiped off any buildup of carbon in pistols and revolvers, allowed various solvents to sit long enough to loosen any dirt, finally, oiled every part that requires lubrication. She cared for those mechanisms as much as a mother would care for her children. The smell of gunpowder calmed her, creating an atmosphere of familiarity.
When she thought a little, drowned in the aroma of guns, it probably was the main reason why the Joker hadn't paralyzed her in terror. He had this scent of gasoline, and gunpowder surrounding him, absorbed by his clothes due to the constant exposure to these substances. The human brain is an unpredictable organ, and instead of concentrating on his macabre war paint, dangerous behaviour, the risk of being murdered in cold blood, it made her pay attention to the familiar smell.
A quiet knock reached Clara's ears, bringing her back to reality. "Forgot anything?"
"Not that I know of." Doctor's fingers froze mid-air, two more cards held firmly, ready to be placed on top of other ones. Instead of doing that, she dropped them down and turned around. A dark-haired man, around her age, dressed in a black dress suit, was leaning against the door frame. He had a slim, bony face with well-defined facial features, pronounced glass-cutting cheekbones, and a seemingly sharp jaw. A man, whose brown eyes on their own could make you fall for him, Clara amusedly noted.
"Is there anything I can help you with, Mr-?"
"Wayne. Bruce Wayne." He stepped inside, nearing the doctor's desk. To not give herself a lesser position Clara had to stand up, almost meeting his height. Wayne's hand was outstretched, so she did exactly the same, trying not to create the first impression of a mannerless savage. Warm skin met cool, a smile met a stoic line of the typical British stiff upper lip, gentle shake rocking both of their bodies. "And you must be Clara if I was informed correctly?"
"You have a reliable informer, Mr Wayne."
"My informer happens to have a soft spot towards you, Doctor." Mirth was heard in Wayne's voice, a barely noticeable smile playing on his lips. His tone was polite enough to trick a bull into a friendship, and yet, Clara had a strange, gnawing feeling about the man.
"Then I should pray that his fondness would not disappear anytime soon if it continuously provides me such pleasant company." Her words made Wayne lift his eyebrows, mouth quirking even further.
"You're just as intricate as Lucius told me you were. If I weren't ready for a riddle to be incarnated in woman's body," His eyes drifted towards Clara's desk, taking in the unfinished construction, "I would have been extremely confused. Probably would have interpreted your sarcasm as honest pleasantries." Here, that honest, friend-like smile appeared once more. The man didn't take offence, apparently, or at least he hid it very well.
"My bantering should not be taken as an insult, Mr Wayne."
"I assure that none is taken."
Clara nodded, acknowledging his statement. It was time for the real purpose of his visit to be revealed. "As much as I would like to stay here and continue chatting, I have to perform a surgery in less than twenty minutes. Is there something important that you wanted to talk about?"
"Well, not something as significant as saving somebody's life, I'm afraid. In a few days, I'm throwing a fundraiser party in honour of Harvey Dent. I would love to see you there too, Doctor."
"Gotham's White Knight? Is this some kind of attempt to publicly show your own benevolent position in terms of his actions? Agreement with the vision of Gotham's future that he has?" Cynicism could be noticed in Clara's low, husky tone, one eyebrow lifted, giving her face a sceptical appearance.
"Are you telling me you don't share my affection?"
"I have my doubts, Mr Wayne. A pretty face and empty talk do not eliminate them."
"Well, then give the man himself a chance to clear your mistrust." Silence followed his proposition, warm brown eyes locked with guarded, steely ones. Bruce could detect the doctor's reluctance to accept his offer. "Furthermore, Lucius informed me how exactly you tend to spend your evenings, Clara." Addressing her by name, Clara mused, the man tried to create a feeling of trust, an acquaintance. "Give the poor man a break for the evening, and come to me. Your punches severely affect his grumpiness." Mentioning of her mentor, instructor and also a man who managed to earn her trust broke something inside Clara.
"I will make an appearance." The shock of such quick change in behaviour momentarily wiped the man's mouth of any positive emotion, only for it to come even brighter. Bruce's smile was genuine and broad. Not an ear-to-ear grin, but wide none the less.
"Perfect. I will contact you sometime in the evening for further details, immediately when I get back from Hong Kong." Stretching his hand once more, Wayne continued. "I will not disturb you anymore, Doctor. I'm sure somebody is waiting for your skills to be used."
Clara did not reply, only nodding once, giving him a handshake. She did not question how the man got her number. After all, being a billionaire had its perks in terms of collecting personal information.
Immediately after Wayne left, the woman decided to also follow his actions, leaving an unfinished house of cards behind. Somebody's cancer was more important than the stupid game. It's not.
Clara exited the cabinet, making her way towards the operating room. The fourth one was used specifically for reproductive organs' surgeries. When it came to the world of medical tools, some of them were universal, but the majority were specialized for specific cases. It was much easier to dedicate an operating room with needed instruments for one kind of organ, rather than keep transferring and mixing them up. When she finally arrived, the whole team of residents and nurses was already there, ready to do their job. It took five minutes for Clara to get ready, too. After washing her hands and arms, putting on a white coat, a mask, a head cap and gloves, she was ready to dig inside Miranda's body, identify damaged tissue of her ovaries, and cut it out.
The woman, who laid on top of the table, was young. Definitely younger than Clara herself, which made her question Miranda's future opportunities. She probably does not have any kids, not married or even engaged, based on her bare fingers and tight, toned core. Without ovaries, she still could get pregnant with medical intervention, as Clara will not remove her uterus, but it will disturb the production of estrogen, leading to decreased sex drive, which, as a result, will severely influence future decisions. It's almost like castrating a dog. He loses his liveness, joy, energy. If there was a choice, the surgeon would definitely go for a different route, saving those plum-sized, grey organs that made the woman a woman. Unfortunately, the majority of the human population would go for a quantity of years, and not quality. She couldn't blame them. At one point in her life, Clara would have chosen the same.
It didn't take too long to cut out the tumour-filled body parts. An hour, that's all it takes to permanently stop the production of someone's hormones. "Disinfect and sew. I'm done." Clara had two more surgeries on her schedule, therefore she entrusted the last steps for residents. The woman could trust them under a watchful eye of nurses.
Clara exited the operating room, disposing of her medical clothing. She had to move quickly if she wanted to sleep at home today, as there were two more operations left. Thankfully, neither one of them were extremely serious. Clara made sure to perform the most important procedures as early as possible when the mind is still sharp and the body is strong.
She made her way towards another room, performed exactly the same starting routine, and got one more body open. It was a man this time, middle-aged, his skin tattooed in various ornaments. A sailor, she presumed, taking in two swallows on his chest and an anchor on his bicep. A sailor with gangrene. Even the freest of us fall one day, Clara thought while sawing his dead, blackened leg off. The limb was infected, a 'wet' called gangrene and a tremendously inflamed part of the body. The surgeon couldn't even guarantee the man his life, as this type of gangrenes were absolutely unpredictable, spreading easily and invisibly. Just to be safe, she took samples of tissue from his upper body, biopsies to put under a microscope and check for the spreading of infected flesh.
Clara finished it quickly. There was only so much that Clara could do in this case. When she was younger, guilt usually used to come afterwards, drowning the woman in sorrow and culpability. Now, more than a decade later, it finally disappeared, dulling with each passing year, until nothing was left, except cold, rational logic behind. It was a medic's reality, to lose one's empathy and replace it with a sense of reality. She finished another one, the last surgery of the day, said her goodbyes and went outside. Clara's Mustang was parked in an underground parking lot which was reserved for staff and patients who had to stay for a longer amount of time. Sleep, the only thing on her mind was sleep. Deep slumber, hopefully, a dreamless one. The day was long, and the lack of rest from the previous day finally caught up with the woman.
She got home quicker than usual. Either a lack of cars on the road that night, or it was Clara who drove like a maniac, she couldn't decide. Bed. Bed. Bed. Finally. She unlocked her door, climbed up the stairs, managed to open the door to her bedroom, and collapsed on top of the bed, still fully clothed, not caring about it one bit. Fatigue came suddenly and unexpectedly, out of nowhere.
"Are you, uh, always sleeping like this? With full attire? Ready to, uh, jump and fight, and run?" A comical, nasal voice spoke, disturbing the upcoming oblivion. With a low groan, Clara managed to lift her upper body up, twisting so she could see what was behind her. In the corner, on a desk chair, sat no one else but the Joker, his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair, tie loosened up, hunched in his usual bad-for-your-back posture. The woman could make out only half of his face, a part that was lit by the moonlight. Those hooded bottomless eyes bore into her own, analyzing, like a predator following his prey.
"And are you always so annoyingly sneaky? Always breaking in and then lurking in shadows?" At this point, she didn't care about potentially angering the clown with her sarcastic reply.
"Humans have different approaches of what is sneaky, little assassin. I don't, uh, hide from ya."
"And yet, you break into my house, devastate any sense of my personal safety and privacy." Clara's body collapsed once more, voice becoming muffled by a pillow. "Not that I have any complaints about your company, but don't you have anything else to do? Continue terrorizing Gotham? Robbing banks? Perhaps blowing up something?"
Quiet giggles erupted from Joker's mouth. "Uh, actually, I came here straight from a, uh, high-level spectacle. Y'know, if you're interested in my schedule." His laugh got louder. "Striking performance, very realistic."
"Realistic? You must have participated in it, then? You know, being such a splendid character yourself, I'm sure you would adorn any kind of display."
"I di-d. A pool cue was involved. You, uh, would have loved it if you liked billiard." Even not seeing him, with her eyes closed, Clara knew that a large grin was displayed on the clown's face, stretching his past wounds.
"I'm a big fan. Next time, if you think of performing it again, count me in."
"A comedian shouldn't repeat his own jokes, little assassin. It will ruin his reputation."
"There is only so much originality in this world, Joker. At some point, one will start duplicating somebody else, even himself, unintentionally." With that, Clara slowly rose, stretching her arms above her head just like she does in the morning, long spine producing cracking sounds. The woman manoeuvred towards her closet, more than aware of the man's eyes on herself.
"Uh, little assassin, whatcha doin'?" Clara detected a slight confusion in Joker's nasal tone as she took off her sweater and proceeded with taking off the shirt.
"Getting ready for bed. What about you?" Looking for an oversized t-shirt that she usually slept in, Clara hung her clothes on one shoulder, taking them inside the bathroom. The whole time she felt a slight tingling on her bare back, indicating a staring man behind.
"I'm no-t getting ready for bed."
"I'm not asking whether you're getting ready for bed, Joker. I asked what you're doing." She didn't wait for the clown to answer, closing the door to her bathroom. Clara needed a quick shower, after all, feeling the weight of the day on her shoulders, sticking to her like a second skin. First scorching, then cool water helped a lot, relaxing tense muscles. It took less than ten minutes, but Clara felt a relief worth of decades. She stepped out, dried herself and put on a t-shirt that ended around her middle-thighs. After brushing her teeth and attempting to control the crow's nest on top of her head, the woman exited, turning off the light and drowning the room in darkness once more, the only source of light being a curtainless window. Clara felt antipathy for curtains. They blocked the starlight during nights and sunlight during days, disturbing human's natural ability to follow nature's guidance. The Joker hadn't moved an inch, remaining exactly as she left him. The woman ignored him, uncovering her bed and getting underneath a blanket. "Unless you want to tell me a story before sleep, I highly doubt there's anything left for you to do in my house."
"What about, uh, waiting for ya to fall asleep, and then murdering your unconscious self?"
"Wouldn't that be a little pointless? Where's the thrill of not being able to watch your victim squirm?"
"Ya gotta sacrifice pleasure to get the job done sometimes, little assassin." He became silent for a moment, giving Clara some hope of finally falling asleep. Unfortunately, it just wasn't her day. "Why a, uh, a crocodile?"
The Joker was indicating the large tattoo on her backside, consuming whole back and ending slightly below the upper curve of her glutes. "I thought it was you who had to tell me a story before sleep?"
"We could break the rules, toots." The clown showed his enthusiasm by letting out a low chuckle, shuffling slightly on the chair. "C'mon, little assassin, tell me your story."
Despite his urging, Clara remained silent. The woman wasn't sure how much she could open up to the criminal who occupied and found his place inside her house so easily. After all, how much damage could he do with such seemingly irrelevant information? "Almost five years ago, I decided to volunteer. In Israel, as a war doctor." Clara knew she had the clown's attention now, as nothing else but his breathing could be heard. "A few weeks before my departure, I had a dream of a crocodile. The whole time while devouring various human parts that were just laying around, he stared into my eyes. Even in a dream, I could tell that the reptile was laughing, mocking the irony of my choice. For those men, for soldiers in Israel, I was about to become both a symbol of destructive voracity and an agent of divine retribution."
"Because in their eyes you decided who's goin' to, uh, live and who are doomed to die?"
"Mhm." Neither of them said anything else, only breathing in unison.
"Y'know, ya look like a warrior." The Joker's voice suddenly got a shadow of amusement, confusing the woman whether he was mocking her or actually stating his honest opinion. "These, uh, scars on your back, and the croc, and your dramatically bleak, kinda ugly persona, they create an image of something that's been through hell, taunted the devil, and then came back to tell the story." Now the clown was openly laughing, the usual nasality of his tone completely hidden in high-pitched sounds of his guffaw.
"I'm glad my story managed to make you, an experienced comedian, laugh." Despite the slight uncertainty, she too heard mirth in her own voice. Listening to Joker's slowly dying chuckles, Clara stared at stars that were visible through the bare window, bright and distant, so unlike the memories that she possessed. And suddenly, laying in her own bed, with a psychotic criminal sitting in less than a few meter's distances, starlight bathing one side of his, and, she was positive, her own face, Clara felt... Safe. Still troubled, anxious somewhere deep within, but a perspective of a brighter future was not completely unattainable either. With her eyes already closed, she murmured. "Next time it will be your turn to tell me a story. A piece of advice on where I could get such long-lasting paint for my Halloween outfit is highly needed." With the man's silent giggles in the background, the metaphorical warrior's body finally surrendered, falling into a dreamless slumber.
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Song of the chapter: Tool - Vicarious