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.
It is a strange thing how one single thing going wrong could flip over one's whole life. One. SIngle. Thing. Suddenly, you're left staring at the ashes of your previous life, left with nothing but empty sheets of paper, which used to be your existence's history. Pages that either has to be rewritten or destroyed completely.
An inhuman shriek echoed in the white room, reflecting off the walls and intensifying multiple times. Clara did not recognize nor even see people in white coats running inside, her crazed eyes kept searching only for the invisible arm, trying to feel, to move the phantom limb. The moment she felt a gentle touch, a shake on her unwounded shoulder, the woman jerked backwards, trying to escape the sensation. She moved around, avoiding multiple sets of gloved hands, all the time screaming. Her throat hurt from the unusually high sounds, voice chords unused to the heightened pitch.
As abruptly as it started, Clara's shouting disappeared, reducing to occasional moan and groan, until finally, her eyelids dropped, too heavy to keep them opened. An elderly, grey-haired nurse with keen, soft eyes injected her a syringe of clear liquid, taming the demons within the assassin's mind. But the darkness that came was not as quiet as one would expect. No, it was filled with figures and colours that one couldn't escape. Like a dream from which you can't wake up.
Clara felt herself being pulled towards her past experiences, the ones that she craved running away from. Suddenly, she felt the same old grief all over again, reading a letter that James had asked her to give his mother before the final and fatal departure. 'Usually, when I write a letter,' it said, 'it is very much overdue and I make every effort to give it away quickly. This letter, however, is different. It is a letter that I hoped you would never receive, as it is a verification of that black-edged card that you received a while ago, and which has caused you so much grief. It is because of that grief that I wrote this letter, and by the time you have finished it, I hope it has done something good, and I have not written it in vain.' Her heart broke once more just like it did at that moment, and the present Clara, a tiny part hiding within her old brain, shouted her memory self to stop reading, to withhold this agony. 'It is very difficult to write now future things in the past tense, so I return to the present. Tomorrow we're going into action. As yet, we do not know exactly what our job will be, but I have no doubt it will be a dangerous one, during which many lives will be lost, mine could be one of them. Well, mom, I'm not afraid to die. I like this life, yes. For the past two years, I've planned and dreamed and laid out a perfect future for myself. I'd like that future to materialize, but it is not what I will, but what God wills. And if by sacrificing all this I leave world slightly better than I found it, I'm perfectly willing to make that sacrifice. Don't get me wrong, mom. I'm no flag-waving patriot, nor had I ever professed to be. America's a great country, the best that there is. But I can't honestly and sincerely say that is it worth fighting for it. Nor can I imagine myself fighting for the liberation of Europe. It's a nice thought, but I don't want to fool myself. No, mom. My world is centred around you, and my dad. My friends, too. You're worth fighting for. If my sacrifice includes the well-being of you, it is worth fighting for. Now, I've already stated I'm not afraid to die and am perfectly willing to do so if you will be benefiting in any way. If you do not, then my sacrifice is all in vain. Have you benefited, mom? Or have you cried and worried yourself sick? I fear it is the later. Don't you see, mom, it will do me no good? In addition, it will undo all the good work I've been trying to do. Grief is useless. It does neither you nor me any good. I want no flowers.No epitaph and tears. All I want is for you to remember me, feel proud of me. Then shall I rest in peace, knowing that I've done a good job. Death is nothing final or lasting. It is just a stage in everyone's life. To some, it comes early, to some late, but it will come in no time.' Something old and malicious overpowered Clara's numb body. Sweat ran down along her eyebrow, seeping out of her pores, eyes moving underneath the lids.
The view changed. Her younger self, a few weeks prior, sat on a chair next to a small, antique-looking desk, crafted from dark, one-layered wood. An opened bar of chocolate laid on top and Clara's fingers absentmindedly kept pushing around the broken pieces. Her lips moved, and for a deaf, it would seem that she's eating, swallowing the sweet. Wrong.
Clara was speaking to a man, who loomed in the shadows behind her. The woman's husky, chesty voice, mostly suitable for bed whispers and shouts in the war field, was audible enough only for him to hear, too low to cross the border of thin walls. "When I was made responsible for the commandment of our army, I said that the mandate was to destroy the enemy of the innocent Israeli civilians, and therefore, America's enemy. And then it would be done, as soon as we're ready. We're ready now. The battle which is about to begin will be one of the most decisive battles in the history of our departure. It will be a turning point. The eyes of the whole world will be on us. Watching anxiously which way the battle will swing. We can give them their answer at once. It will swing our way. We have first-class equipment. Good tanks. Good anti-tank guns. Plenty of artillery and plenty of ammunition. And we're backed up by the finest striking forces in this area." The woman's silvery eyes glistened in the dim light, long, bony fingers attached to a veiny hand twitching slightly just like a dying spider would twitch. "Each one of us, every officer and man should enter this battle with a determination to see it through. To fight and kill. And finally, to win. If we all do this, there can be only one result. Together, we will destroy the enemy. The sooner we win this battle, the sooner we shall all get back home to our families."
"And yet, I can hear the doubt in your voice." His velvety tone, coloured with a gentle, barely noticeable accent, forced the commando to finally face him. They held eye contact for a painfully extended moment, communicating without a sound, without a whisper muttered, and yet, the depth of their connection could be seen with a bare eye. James knew what his friend refused to acknowledge. The gut feeling of something bad upcoming. He knew because the man felt it too.
When Clara finally spoke, her voice was harsh and cold, matching the freezing look in her grey orbs. "I can not allow the doubt to influence my decision. Logic does not match my emotions, but one shall not trust his heart when the brain is telling him to act. And I refuse to be the one who acts on his feelings." The finality of the woman's words told everything that James wanted to know. He lowered his head, staring at the dirty flood, and backed towards the closed door. One last glance, memorizing the rigid form of his companion, was the last thing before he turned around.
Low moans tore through Clara's lips, and the woman forced her eyes open for the second time in a few hours. The view hadn't changed, the same white ceiling stared down at her, indifferent, apathetic.
She had a visitor. A greying nurse, who sat on a chair next to her bed. An elderly woman, whose keen eyes stared at Clara, warmth and empathy shining in a form of a glistening layer. When she noticed the pale woman gaining her consciousness back, she moved a little closer, her gaze becoming more attentive. "Welcome back, Doctor Moore."
"Hardly." The voice of a grave tore out of Clara's throat, the evident results of her shouts and screams. Her mouth was dry and rubbery, tongue sticking to the base of the upper jaw. The burning heat that was lacing Clara's left side had nearly disappeared, bare hints of it occasionally reminding of themselves. She dared not to as much as glimpse that way, too terrified of losing control again. The nurse caught her drifting gaze and the warmth within her eyes clouded them once more
"They had to do this, Clara." The assassin's jaw tightened, steely eyes suddenly cooling to the freezing point, and a strange, nondescribable expression made its way on her angular face. "The bone was fractured in more than ten places, shards pierced and buried inside the muscles. Hundreds of them. If they tried to take out every each of them, they would risk to not being able to save your life."
"Which, minding my current situation, wouldn't be half as bad." The nurse shook her head.
"It's your emotions speaking, Clara. Not your rational side. A lost limb does not mean that your life will lack in any way. As for your situation, it's not decisive yet." She maintained eye contact with the surgeon, refusing to succumb underneath her heavy gaze. "I don't know what you have done, and neither do I care. In my eyes, as well as many others', you have the name of a reputable surgeon, who managed to save hundreds of lives in a short period of time. Who practised and forged her skills in the eye of the war. We didn't see a delusional madwoman. We saw a professional doctor. Trust me, our voice is loud."
"Oh yeah? Guess what. After my last expedition to the Gotham General, I doubt the cops would be interested in your voice. How would they call me? A doctor who hated her job?" A borderline cruel, mirthless smile stretched Clara's lips, words heavy with their meaning. "There is no debate what Gordon is going to do to me the moment he receives information about my recovering self. If not in the jail, then they will lock me inside Arkham Asylum. So stop pouring gasoline inside the fire with your lies."
Interrupting Clara's speech, a barely audible knock reached their ears. A young man in a doctor's coat came in. Another ghost from her past, the assassin was now faced with Christian Brook, whose blue eyes lacked any previous childishness. Those large, already matured puppy orbs observed the woman on the bed, examining her non-existing arm with unhid professionalism. Not looking at the nurse, Christian addressed her. "I am afraid you have to leave us now. The patient requires rest and care." As she stood up, Clara avoided her tired gaze, only listening to the retreating footsteps. Her attention was set on the man in front of her, lingering on his familiar, yet distinct and unseen features. "I need to inspect your wound." In a calming voice, Christian explained the reasoning behind his visit, not addressing the elephant in the room. Was there even an elephant? Or was Clara imagining things just to fill in the blank space and the uncomfortable silence?
The woman nodded once but hissed the same second he touched the remaining part of her arm. Christian threw her a worried look but remained silent. "So you're going to just stand here with your mouth shut?"
The man blew out a gust of air that he was holding, and lifted his gentle, turquoise eyes towards the assassin's steely ones. They all seemed to have the same strange, soft expression plastered on their faces, making Clara question the reasoning behind it. Did she become so pathetic? Lamentable? "What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Give me an assuring speech of how I will be okay, perhaps? Lie to me how they will let me be untouched, alone in my secured house, mourning my disability."
"I can. But if you are the same woman I knew you to be, I will not do this. Because the old Clara would never allow others to do so." His answer pierced the surgeon's chest with its honesty. Christian lowered his head once more, tending the fresh wound.
"I see." She watched him for a moment before a half-smirk stretched her dry lips. "Congratulations on finally becoming a doctor." The man smiled, too, tension leaving his body all of a sudden.
"Yeah. That was unexpected. I didn't even think about applying for a job among Gotham General staff for at least the upcoming three years. I wanted to travel a bit, visit the countries abroad. But it turned out, they had a rather positive opinion about me. Since we're lacking doctors at the moment, they offered me a place." Clara nodded slowly, relaxing into the man's warm touch. It didn't hurt anymore, only a gentle tickle could be felt.
"I mocked you in my mind. Now, I wish I could turn back the time, and say something more encouraging to you, Christian. I am proud of you."
"Hey. Are you getting soft, Doc?" A cheerful smile shone in his young face, straight white teeth glistening in the bright room. "Perhaps it was the lack of compliments from your department what actually pushed me to give hundred and ten per cent, and not give up on my goals."
"I really hope so." The surgeon followed him with the eyes of molten silver, and for the first time, her true age was not disguised behind an unbreakable mask. Clara didn't seem old, at least not through the eyes of Christian Brook, and not in a typical way one would imagine someone 'old'. The woman looked like an ancient warrior who went through hell, mocked the devil, and came back to tell the story. "Do you have time?"
"I do. My lunch break starts in ten minutes."
"Then sit with me. And tell me what was happening when I was knocked out."
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Song of the chapter: THENX - Corner Swangin
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I'm not dead yet, folks. Been working on, planning out a new project of mine, which consumed the majority of my writer's inspiration resources. Check it out if you're a fan of Christopher Paolini's books. They will be altered according to my preferences, formulated around a highly neglected character - Blodhgarm.