Ira.
A name that the woman hadn't heard in fifteen years. A name that she used to respond to for nineteen years. A name that was once hers. A name. Just a name, but also a failed attempt to leave the past attached to it.
It was all too easy to remember everything, alone, sitting in an isolated cell, no one around. Just the surgeon and her thoughts. The deep corridors of her ancient mind.
Ira Lowsen was born in 1974, August 7th, in a junkie family, with her mother too high to understand that the water broke and she's bringing her child into this world. And it certainly remained a mystery how Ira survived that sunny, warm day, left untreated and on its own for a few hours until the bearer realized what had happened and finally fed it from her breast, with drug-contaminated milk and a constant echo of the once beautiful voice cooing near her daughter's ear.
She tried to be a good mother. She tried really hard, and sometimes, Claire Lowsen could almost be called successful. It lasted till the first hit.
Who knew what would have happened to Ira if not her grandfather's, Claire's father's, help and financial support. The girl would probably have ended in the same pool as her parents. But for small repays, the man provided her proper basic education, and then, later, the higher education, too. He helped her become human in the most direct way, at the same time destroying anything humane within Ira. The old man introduced her to Jonathan Crane at the age of nineteen, a potential American student at Harvard, in an attempt to break that psychotic part of Ira that got out from her head at times, making the young body do horrible things. Her grandfather wanted to help her create a fulfilling life, the one that resembled normality and peace. The one which suppressed that ancient mind of a predator.
For many years, Ira was a wild card. Unpredictable and harsh, she would isolate herself from any human interaction, except the weekend meeting at grandfather's mansion. After the incident with the little bird, during light hours, Ira would either read books from his library, borrowed back home and hidden from her parents, or experiment, slicing bugs and insects in half, introducing methamphetamine to street cats, trying to make frogs swim in acidic water, or, if she happened to catch two animals at once, introduce one to another, watching them fight. Once, the girl had found a large snake which she kept for a few weeks, feeding the occasional mouse that visited her home. And then, one particularly large rat, instead of being given dead, was introduced to the snake alive. The rodent ate the reptile. The next morning Ira found a dead, long, headless corpse with a rat inside.
These were the girl's days until she hit sixteen. That is when the dark period of Ira's life had begun. She was introduced to the life of British gangs, exposed to their philosophies and ways of living. Still attending school, Ira managed to do both her assignments and also the 'gang business', as everyone used to call the constant disappearance of various people. Ira became a low-key assassin. Unsurprisingly, this character just naturally stuck to her personality, creating a monster. Numerous men eliminated, even more than that adorned by scarred smiles on their faces. Weirdly enough, Ira developed a fascination with close-contact combat. Close enough to feel the same vibration that she first felt when crushing the bird. Close enough to feel their warmth, to see light leave their eyes, misery and terror taking its place.
When others hesitated, Ira continued their tasks. If others lacked determination, the young woman encouraged them to continue. If she herself stopped to think for a moment, she couldn't reason her own behaviour. A strange, ruthless creature just lived inside, twisting her mind and the voice of sanity. And it worked. For a long time, it vindicated every drop of blood in the goblet of pain. And somehow, the present Clara knew that it would still succour when trying to keep her place in this world.
Despite becoming somewhat of a leading figure barely in her late teens, Ira always remained reserved to herself. She rarely talked with others if it was not gang-related, stayed away from social gatherings, didn't communicate much. It was a weird situation that the young woman had placed herself into. To some extent, just like every human being, like a young, lively person, Ira craved interaction with others. To be approached by her peers, talking, just talking with, being considered as a part of the group. And yet, it never had happened. They remained to themselves, whilst Ira was left with herself, and only herself. Naturally, it was a huge change when the future surgeon finally met the Scarecrow. Not only he accepted her for who she was, but also shared similar qualities that she was banned from her peer's group for. The intellect. Dry sense of humour. Crazed fire in the eyes, when an innovative idea entered the brains. The connection. A weird feeling of belonging somewhere.
Sometimes, the missions were not that successful. Sometimes, they cost Ira her own blood. One time, when she was eighteen, the young woman was caught. Caught and mutilated, just like every other victim of hers. They cut out her uterus, in an attempt to give the assassin her own medicine. But Ira rarely made mistakes when doing her job, just like now, she was an idealist, a perfectionist with a plan, and she used to follow her plans to the last detail, therefore eliminating harsh faults of her mission. Unfortunately for the vengeance seekers, they lacked her planning. Their mistake was to leave the half-alive body in a pool of blood. The creature survived, rising up, an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach due to additional free space. Now, Clara knew what started happening, she often saw it occur within her patients. A human body is a compact mechanism, where everything is put tightly. When you take out one part, the others start taking its place, enlarging in size sometimes, but mostly just moving.
At this point, the assassin had to heal. She stayed home, among those badly aged human-beings that were hardly humans anymore. A monster among materialized nothingness. A twisted mind among washed-out brains of addicts. A wendigo among corpses. And it took only one bad day to finally snap and end their pathetic, vegetative existence, sustained just with a hit and an occasional badly-made sandwich.
Ira's grandfather had found her a few days later, concerned why his granddaughter hasn't visited him that weekend. The girl had an immune system of a hundred put together, and nobody ever had seen her ill. It was only natural to assume that something bad happened if she missed an appointment or a meeting. The man rescued her from the empty house, making sure that not a spot of dirt had made it to his granddaughter's name. Unfortunately, his power and connections could reach so far. Ira was already well-known for her behaviour, if not by her teachers, then among those who she mingled with.
A few weeks into the hiding, Ira Lowsen, the daughter of Claire Lowsen-Moore and Henrick Lowsen disappeared from the face of Earth. The late child of the seasoned professor Moore took Ira's place, materializing into a different human-being, unfortunately, possessing the same character traits that the young woman once had. A few weeks later, with her new identity, she applied to Harward to study medicine. A month later, she was introduced to the future Scarecrow, creating a bond with a mind that was just as complex as her own. Clara Moore was born, not from blood and body, but from lies and dead, cold ashes of the past. And she rose. Hardly like a phoenix, though.
Wild years, that's all that the woman of the present could say about them.
In this lonely cell, it was easy to reflect her past, staring at the white wall, bitting off the skin of chapped, already bloody lips. It was easy to remember what created her be who she was, and what lead her to sit in this cold, sterile room.
Clara's head snapped up as she heard someone unlock the door, stepping inside. Her eyes widened, staring at a ghost entering the cell. A calming, relaxed smile stretched the ghost's mouth, his hands in the air in a reassuring manner. "Relax, doctor."
"Gordon."
"Still a Commissioner, doc."
"Commissioner Gordon." A one-sided smirk made its way on Clara's face, too, seeing the supposed-to-be-dead man very much alive. "What a pleasure seeing you in the world of the living."
"We share a mutual feeling, doctor Moore." The man sat down on a chair that happened to be there as an extra, besides the one that Clara was sitting on. "And, although as much as I enjoy being here, with life also come duties. And nothing else but duties bring me here." His blue eyes stared at the woman in front of him, examining her calm exterior, collected expression.
"Hmm."
"Nothing else to say, doctor?"
"I'm waiting to hear the accusations." Those grey eyes met the force of James Gordon's gaze, waiting, something ancient and cunning lurking behind the steel. The man coughed lightly as if clearing his throat.
"What makes you think that you're accused of anything? Perhaps you're here to just be questioned."
"Don't think I'm naive, commissioner. I have been working in the field of medicine for over a decade. Both crime victims and suspectors were constantly coming and departing. One does not lock someone up just to question him." Gordon swayed his head to both sides as if mentally debating with himself. The man wore his heart on the sleeve, his emotions, slight hesitancy and uncertainty apparent, clear as a day.
"I must agree with you here, Clara. You currently are in the red zone. But if you collaborate, perhaps we can find the truth the easy, painless way. I really don't want journalists to ruin your reputation."
"Could I be informed on what field exactly are we debating? It might be a little challenging to justify myself if I don't know what exactly I've done."
"We don't know it either, Clara. We've been informed that you may or may not be connected to Ira Lowsen, who disappeared quite a few years ago. And you know the most fascinating part of her vanishing?" He met the woman's stoic expression. "When we dug deeper in this case, nobody had reported her missing, except one single person then, and one now. But here we run into a problem." Gordon bent closer to Clara, following closely her reaction. "The only relative that we could find is you. Everybody else... Let's say they didn't live up to their senility. Murdered, and then left to rot for several days. Your father included."
"Where exactly are you going with this, commissioner?"
"According to the family records that, surprisingly, have been left untouched, Ira should have been your niece, keeping in mind that her mother was your sister. Right?"
"Yes."
"Bu-t," The man emphasised the word as if imitating the Joker's manner of talking. Except when for Jack it came naturally, Gordon's tone sounded off. Artificial. "our informer stated different relative bonds. He gave the idea that you are the real Ira Lowsen. And you know what? It could actually explain a few things."
"Just as correlation is not causation, the hypothesis explanation is not the real deal either, Gordon."
"How could you explain the fact that nobody reported Ira missing, except one person?" Silence met his question, indicating the encouragement to continue. "If you can't, I will. You see, there is no need to report someone missing if the person is not missing. You might have been walking among them with a different identity, and yet nobody would have seen your new name. Except, every social performance was now done under the name of Clara. When it was time to attend university, everybody accepted it as a natural thing - little Ira has grown up, departs to create her own life."
"Have you actually found any evidence of this... Hmm, trail of events?" Now it was time for Gordon to quiet down for a few moments, his jaw pressed tightly.
"Such an interesting town you've been living in, Clara. When we asked the civilians about you or Ira, their lips stayed tight. I must say, talkative about crops, silent about people. Your niece was a scary one to be around, wasn't she?"
"Indeed. But that means the only evidence-based fact that you have are two people's reports on Ira Lowsen's disappearance."
"For now, yes." Now it was Clara's turn to lean forward.
"Commissioner," the woman hissed out the word, her analyzing grey eyes locked on the man who was so persistently implying the detrimental conclusion. "Why do I get a feeling that you are... I don't want to say biased, but... Well, extremely frantic to prove you're right?"
"Ira is guilty of many unsolved murders. I'm looking for justice, that's it, doctor."
"Of murders that occurred in the depth of Great Britain a long time ago, without even the citizens complaining. Besides, it's quite a distance from Gotham, where you have your power. Are you sure it's just the great crimes of Ira that make you so desperate to find and punish her? Isolate me?"
"Is there another reason?" The surgeon stared at him, not blinking, trying to determine what's inside of the man's head.
"No."
"I hope not, Clara. I'm afraid I must leave you here for now. Not for too long, if you're lucky enough. I have another man to question." James Gordon stood up, all the time feeling that sharp gaze of the woman. "We've caught the Joker."
"Congratulations."
"Thank you. But right now, I have a feeling he will cause more trouble in captivity than he did when roaming free." The door of her cell opened and closed, leaving Clara alone once more. Good.
The conversation with Gordon explained a few things. The first being that someone knew her well enough to recognize the former assassin, and now she's being suspected for her past crimes, although their evidence is based on practically nothing. Another thing, the police does not know about her little missions with Joker's thugs and Rachel. And hopefully nothing about Clara's connection with the clown. A puff of air escaped the surgeon's lungs. Good. But who's the mysterious creature that knew who she was? He, or she, might cause even more trouble, and needs to be eliminated as quickly as possible.
Clara's analysis was disturbed by yet another visitor, this time a man dressed in a bat suit. It wasn't hard to fool around with the commissioner, even though he was a wise man. Batman was another level. "Where is she?" The gruff voice, so unlike Bruce's, asked Clara the question that gave everything away, and the surgeon felt her confidence falter. He knew.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Rachel. Where did he hide her?"
"Why should I know?"
"I know that you're involved. You were stupid enough to leave one of his thugs alive."
"And you do trust Joker's goon's word, Bruce?" The Batman stilled. She could hear his breathing, coming in and going out, the quiet puffs declaring Clara's theories.
"How?"
"Took me some time." She noticed his fists clench. "Much harder than to solve a sudoku. And yet easier than it will be to find Ms Dawes." Bruce took a step forward, nearing the surgeon. "You shouldn't trust strangers so freely, Bruce." She saw a determined clench of his jaw.
Now, imagine yourself at the moment. The moment just prior to the battle. Don't think as a soldier whose training has made him into some kind of superhuman. The training that you've been through hasn't changed the fact that you're a human being, after all. All warriors are human beings. Think about that time before you're going to the battle because that's the time you can actually think. When you're waiting. When you're waiting to go. And if you're going to feel fear, it's because you have time. The preparation is done, the planning is done, the gear is prepared, you're dressed, and you're ready to go. And now you're just waiting. Waiting for the call, or for the signal, or for the command to execute. And so you have time to think. The only thing that you can do is think.
"I'm warning you, Clara. Don't. Test. Me."
In that moment, what do you think about? Are you thinking about your family? Friends? You think about your life, death? Maybe you're thinking 'How did I get myself into this?', or perhaps 'How do I get myself out of this?' Or perhaps you're just sitting there, rethinking the orders that you've been given? Maybe you're thinking about your friends getting killed or wounded. Maybe you're thinking about yourself getting killed or wounded. You could be thinking about so many different things. But one thing is certain. Whatever you are thinking about, whatever those thoughts are, those thoughts are clear. Those thoughts are an insight into your true nature, into your true nature, into your soul.
"What will you do, Bruce?" Gentle Brittish accent broke through the surgeon's tone, and yet her eyes stayed mocking, infuriating the Batman.
What about the cleansing of the mind? What about the purity, which seems to only be revealed by the blood, and violence, and combat. When you think these thoughts, there is this moment when you realize that what's killing us... Is us. Other humans. Who are they? What are they? Why are they here, and why am I here? There is only one answer. Forward. Forward into the battle. Toward the smoke, and the bullets, and the fire, and pain. Towards death, to face it without fear in your heart. Perhaps war is the highest addiction of them all. Once in your mind, never goes away. And when you possess the instinct of fighting, you attack everyone, with everything you have, with every ounce of commitment. Attack with your weapons, and your mind, and your body, and attack with your very soul. And maybe that purity is what we miss. It's what Clara missed about combat.
She ducked the upcoming fist, twisting her whole body. And although Clara missed the first one, the second punch collided with her oblique, forcing out the air from her lungs. "You're not playing around, are you, Bruce? Huh?" The surgeon let out a bemused chuckle, at the same time stepping to the side. The man was beyond angry, like a rabid bull going for his prey, the matador. "Hasn't anyone else disappeared, besides your precious friend?" It was her chin now that felt the impact, forcing Clara's head backwards.
"STOP! You will kill her!" A different voice from somewhere behind shouted, outvoicing the surgeon's hoarse laugh. "We need her for information!" It did the trick, leaving panting Clara leaning on the wall, a sarcastic smirk twisting the side of her bony face.
"Listen to the wise man, boy. Back off." And the huge man did exactly that, escaping the mocking blue eyes, leaving her staring at the door that was closed immediately after.
She didn't know how long it took for her to fall asleep sitting in front of the wall. Minutes, hours? Long enough for something outside to happen, because the next thing that Clara felt was a gentle shake, a nasal, deep voice called next to her ears, sending goosebumps all over her body.
"Ira."