It was not as hard as Clara initially anticipated. Not at all, to get used being without an arm. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she was agile and adaptable as a wild cat, or perhaps humans simply tend to over-exaggerate the importance of four limbs on one's body. The woman didn't know which one of those it had to be, but the fact that she managed to bounce back into her usual collected self both amazed and satisfied her.
Although there were a few things she doubted she could ever do as well as she used to. Jiu-Jitsu, for instance. Clara had asked Ashwood, one of her former fighting partners back overseas, to fight with her, and was flung over his shoulder in no time. Maybe it was due to the fact that the man grew a lot since then, not only looming over her but also surpassing Clara with his width and the amount of muscle mass on his bones. A few weeks back it wouldn't have mattered. Jack was also a large human being, yet she had little trouble standing up for herself, matching his strength with her own. It was a different story now.
Jack. She didn't hear about him this whole time. Whether he flew the city, was alive or dead, planning another mass murdering or simply staying in his house watching old films, Clara had no idea. Probably forgot her the next day she didn't show up at his house, and that was fine with Clara, the lack of care and mutual trust between them. There was a reason why they never discussed the relationship that they had, the status, the feelings. Simply put, there were none, or at least not as much as it had to be to give a reason to care about each other. He was a challenge, while she was an entertainment.
Still, the pang of curiosity for his fate remained. The assassin debated with herself whether she should ask Ashwood as he knew much more than her, but stopped herself before taking action. He had left the military a few years back wearing his suspicious view of the world on his sleeve. There was no reason to fuel his old habits and paranoia.
Days didn't go by as painfully slowly in Arkham Asylum as they were in her lonely, secured cell. The place was interesting, to say the least. Unusual people made it look much more hospitable than it was supposed to be in the first place. Jail for the mad? Perhaps. A very pleasant jail, then. The majority of residents were insane indeed, and if they weren't, then they were soon-to-be. No one walked around without first getting drugged and tricked into being a vegetable. For Clara, as a former, very talented and bright-minded doctor, it was purely fascinating to watch what could a mix of very precisely measured, yet simple substances do to the human's body. It was a game of one's individual reaction and the power of a drug. A battle that could not be won without cheating. A pointless war of the mind.
A soft knock, and then an opening crack was heard behind Clara. She moved her head around, watching silently her handsome guard approach. He didn't wear his uniform, only a grey t-shirt hugging his muscular physique, hard ridges on his arms and shoulders protruding through the thin material. "Ashwood."
"Captain." That silky voice, a deep-throated baritone, could have melted the coldest heart, break the stone and make women clench their thighs together. The man possessed a voice meant only to be heard between the four walls of one's bedroom, secured safely underneath a heavy blanket, muttering words inside the ear of his lover. It was meant not to be responded to because any other tone that followed that specific voice would be equal to the dirt on one's shoes.
"Are you wearing a child's t-shirt?" Clara felt like laughing. Chuckling a little, she pondered over and over again, not reaching the conclusion throughout the years, what was wrong with her to not feel the pull towards her own comrade, to not drop on her knees and beg to be near the man in the most sensual way possible in the physical world. Especially when the said man was closer than a few meters beside her, giving the surgeon his undivided attention. As otherworldly as it sounded, it was hard to feel anything more than a platonic closeness to the person that went through hell together with Clara. Ashwood was not her love interest. He was a comrade.
Now, the said comrade was giving her a murdering look, the bottom of his exposed neck turning pale pink. "No, it is my old t-shirt. One of those that used to fit a few years back. Didn't want to waste such high-quality material."
"Sure. Or you could just admit you put it on with an idea in mind of seducing half of Arkham's female doctors." He blew out a slow gust of air through his nose. Ashwood understood it was just a tease meant to annoy him, one of many endured through the years of following his superior, and yet, he succumbed to a well-placed trap. Clara responded with a slow smile of her own, not the one teeth-showing, but a genuine, rare, a tiny movement of her ever-chapped lips. "You know I am just joking, and yet you respond like a fire-breathing dragon from Tolkien's books. Why is that?"
"I guess my brain keep confusing the time and environment. I am good looking, I know, but I acknowledge it with the part of my mind that is not tied to whatever responsible for my feelings and insecurities." He took a seat on Clara's bed, and she had to crane her neck back to be able to see him. The chair she was sitting on was not one of the comfortable ones, but it was good enough if you wanted to spend time sitting in front of a small desk near the window.
"You are attractive, Ash. I'll give you that, even in an undersized t-shirt. In fact, it makes you look bigger than you are. When did you start working out seriously?"
"I was already working out while being overseas. But I was lean. Now, I guess I hit a growth spurt or something. A little late, just like everything in my life." Ashwood let out a humourless bark that had to be understood as laugh and allowed his head to drop back, staring at the ceiling.
These were their days, already becoming a routine. Early mornings spent in her room, disguised as a security check, but actually, long and meaningless conversations about whatever topic on their mind at that moment. Ashwood was an easy human to be around and reminded Clara of another man that she knew and befriended a long time ago. James was another level of a partner, but he was older, more experienced, and at that time in Israel, Ashwood's youthfulness was a refreshing gust of air in an otherwise bleak environment. Now, his company was just as pleasant as it had been before, but in a different way. The man grew, matured, and his intelligence that always lurked behind his blue-green eyes showed itself with full force and intensity.
He broke the silence, still staring at the ceiling, examining tiny cracks in the white paint. "You've lost some weight."
"Have I?"
"You have. You seem thinner than before. Are you eating well?" Clara rolled her eyes.
"No, Ash. I am not. And I am not exercising at all, therefore my body is cannibalizing the muscle I have put on me throughout the years." Her steely gaze sought his own eyes, and as if feeling the call, the man brought his lake-coloured orbs to her. "I have no appetite for the crappy food that I am given, and I have no intentions to force my body to do something it does not want to do."
Food was another thing that both amazed Clara, and also angered her. How could someone function properly when fed a diet filled with processed products and artificial chemicals? Such food was cheap, yes, and lasted longer than the fresh produce the assassin was used to eating, but it had either no taste at all, or was flavoured so strongly she could not consume it without gagging. On those rare occasions when hunger consumed her fully, Clara would ask Ashwood to secretly bring her something freshly cooked and nutritious from the outside world. A steak, colourful vegetables, sometimes fruit if she suffered from a sweet tooth, and chocolate, good quality chocolate that they shared sitting cross-legged on her bed, talking nonsense or simply enjoying the silence. Ashwood joked that she made him become a quality-chocolate addict, and admitted that it was probably the best addiction he could ever imagine. Otherwise, although the man offered to bring her meals every night, Clara refused his good intentions to be implemented into reality. This half-starving protocol already started transforming the woman's body into something unfamiliar and unseen on her tall frame, making Clara's lean muscles pop, giving her body a dry-looking appearance. She was hovering on a line between athletic and just unhealthy-looking. Her hands, always vascular, became a spiderweb of raised lines without much body fat to hide them. The inked flesh covering her back and front was hugging her physique tightly, and it was just a matter of time when her body decided it didn't have enough body fat to feed on, and started consuming the expensive muscle tissue.
Ashwood released air from his lungs but didn't bring the topic any further. He knew better than to infuriate the woman in front. What he did, though, still made him feel slightly victorious. Digging inside his pants pocket, the man took out a broken bar of dark chocolate. Waving it in front of his head, his eyes followed the movement of Clara's grey ones, noticing her jaw clench. "You just had to do that, didn't you?"
"Me? Shouldn't I eat chocolate? It is you who decided to starve, not me. I like my sweets." With that, he opened the packaging, and popped a piece of dark goodness in his mouth, moaning with that bed voice of his. Ashwood heard the woman's sharp intake of breath and smirked slowly when she stood up, nearing the bed with precise, calculated movements. She eyed the bar.
"You know, if I were my old self, you would lay in your own liquids right now for teasing me with food." She propped on the bed facing Ashwood, who offered her the dark sweet.
"There is no denying you were ruthless back in the days. Now, not so much. Your claws had been shortened to tiny stubs, Captain." She allowed the chocolate to melt on her tongue, savouring the taste. It was good chocolate, giving the eater a pleasant mouthfeel, one of the most important criteria when evaluating the quality of chocolate.
"Claws grow back, Ash. Even the most mutilated ones." Clara cracked her neck out of the blue, producing a hollow sound. "And I have all intentions to follow mother nature's voice." The assassin felt his attentive gaze caressing her face, but refused to meet those blue-green eyes. "I had a lot of time to think, Ashwood. I was always good at scheming."
"Why are you telling me this? More importantly, what exactly are you trying to tell me?" His tone held a note of suspiciousness, and suddenly, Clara started doubting her choice of words. Or perhaps the receiver of her words.
"Nothing of great importance. Just spilling out the chaotic content of my mind like I would do if I had a diary." The surgeon gave him an assuring lift of her lips. Disappointment flashed in Ashwood's eyes, his eyebrows furrowing.
"Why would you think I am that stupid to not understand your masterplan of escaping? If there is such a plan, of course. Funny thing, Captain, I am paid to keep you from running away from Arkham Asylum." His tone lowered another note, reaching the depths of the oceans.
"How do you intend to do that, boy?" She emphasised the last word, trying to use his insecurities against himself. The situation was getting worse by the second, from a lazy morning talk taking a much darker, more aggressive route. Clara knew her question didn't help ease his anger, if something, it only lit the fire in him. The surgeon waited for Ashwood to snap.
Nothing happened. His breathing was ragged and uneven, but the man remained rigid. Not unresponding, but frozen. With a slight fascination, Clara took in his attempts to control himself. The man clearly practised before, because his hyperventilation eased, calmness projecting on his handsome face. Lake-coloured eyes met her steely ones, cold furry still raging somewhere deep within, but it was dimmed. "Please stop provoking me, Clara."
The woman smiled. The row of white teeth showing from the far ends of her mouth. "You've finally grown a pair, Ash. I'm proud of you." Her long-fingered, thin hand shot forward, stealing another piece of chocolate, the bar laying forgotten in the man's lap. He gave her a dark look, his neck turning pink. The colour crept up, passing his collar and reaching Ashwood's glass-cutting jaw. "Are you blushing?"
"Don't be ridiculous." The man grunted, his face downcast.
"Don't worry, I know you don't have enough blood in your upper body to blush properly. Everything's downside." Clara winked, the behaviour so unusual to her serious, cold self that her ex-comrade froze to the spot, his eyes widening.
"What in the bloody world are you trying to do, Clara?" Ashwood's voice was pained, eyes, suddenly without the previous anger in them, pleading the surgeon to stop whatever she was trying to achieve.
"Me? Nothing. It's all in your head." Her smile didn't ease, but now the man could see the hidden, subtle malicious glint in it. He understood she was giving these remarks on purpose. The woman was ruthless. She knew his weaknesses and played them well when the situation didn't roll as she wanted it to. This was the commando he practically grew with, and Ashwood was stupid enough to believe that these past few days could have turned the assassin soft and accepting. Clara was Clara, just like Ashwood was the same boy somewhere deep, hiding behind the grey wolf.
His shoulders sagged before he recollected himself, straightening up. "Do you want to remain in your room or should we get outside?" She gave him an understanding look. The topic and semi-argument were in the past.
"I might want to have a walk around. I think I am getting better at orienting around the building." She stood up, waiting for Ashwood to put away the chocolate and also rise. He towered above her, casting a dark shadow on her charcoal hair and pale skin. Reaching the end of the room, he opened the unlocked door and allowed Clara to pass.
This was their routine, too. To walk around the building, the assassin trying to memorize all the doors and where they lead, all the corridors and staff rooms, the private areas and public halls, filled with various entertaining devices for the patients. Except no one used them. The majority just sat on sofas, staring in the distance, counting cracks of painting on white walls. When passing another doctor, Clara tried hard to mimic their empty stares and zombie-like postures. Ashwood would immediately put his hand on her shoulder as if projecting the world a message that the woman he was keeping an eye on was so fragile and out of her habitat that she even needed to be physically directed around. Other times, he did not touch her.
Nurses used to follow them around. Them, but specifically him. Ashwood had many admirers among the staff, and it was probably stroking his humble ego a bit too much. His shoulders would immediately straighten up, posture going rigid and tall. The man was like a young peacock, not knowing what to do with his newly-grown feathers.
But not this time, surprisingly. Arkham Asylum was as silent as a grave, no flirtatious nurses running around nor living zombies staring at them with empty eyes. Not a soul in sight. Ashwood seemed to not mind that. "You will break in half if you tense even more, Captain." She threw him a questioning look. "Your back. I can see you flexing the top of your traps."
"This is not normal, is it?" The man shrugged, giving away his indifference.
"It happens sometimes. Either someone had just died and a burying procedure is being executed, or a zombie apocalypse has taken place, and everyone abandoned the building. Leaving us in the process." He gave her a one-sided smirk, the one that would turn any woman into liquid.
"Burying procedure?"
"Yeah. We have a graveyard nearby. You can't see it through your window because it is on the opposite side. The other patients can. In fact," He touched his lower lip with his forefinger, rubbing it in thought. "when I think about it, you're being held among the 'well-behaving' patients. The ones that are harder to control we don't allow to wander around, they remain in their rooms which resemble more of a cell. Perhaps the graveyard is some kind of attempt to scare them into behaving. After all, everybody fears the dead, Captain." He smiled again, and Clara did not miss the spice of irony in his guttural tone. Two soldiers fearing the dead. Right.
"And who's being buried in there?"
"The ones that had no families, or whose relatives did not want their bodies. Patients die all the time, Clara, and their corpses are rarely needed among the living."
"Are we allowed to... Go there?" Ashwood drew his lower lip between his teeth, biting it lightly.
"Why would you want to do that?"
"Sentiments, perhaps? I might be looking for familiar names." He did not buy that, Clara could see the wheels in his head turning. Yet, the man didn't comment.
"You are, as long as there is someone among the staff to escort you, and you behave." SHe nodded in understanding.
"Then, Ash, I would like you to plan a little trip to the cemetery one of these days." Clara turned, ready to resume their walking when Ashwood muttered something underneath his breath. "Sorry, didn't hear that. My hearing is not as good as it was when I was younger." The man cleared his throat.
"I said, he isn't down there if you were looking for him."
"He - who?"
"The Joker." Clara turned around, a muscle in her jaw twitching.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The Joker is not buried in the graveyard if you wanted to go looking for him. He is very much alive and breathing." The woman lowered her head to the side, examining the person in front. Ashwood misunderstood her intentions once again, jumping to false conclusions.
"Why in the world would I presume Joker is dead? He's like a bloody snake, slimy and adaptable to everything around him." Ashwood shrugged a little.
"I thought you were suspicious of why nobody's talking about him. For a criminal of such fame, he's quite underrated among the walls of Arkham Asylum. After all, he was someone who you were close with."
"Why nobody is talking about him, then? Is that some kind of taboo? He Who Must Not Be Named, huh?" Ashwood threw her a ridiculous look.
"No. He's been in here longer than you have." Clara felt her face harden. "Doctors do not want to inflict any chaos among the patients, therefore, they do not talk about him in public."
"Where is he?" The man's face went blank, no previous playfulness remained. He did not want to tell her, and now, the assassin assumed he regretted even starting this talk. But she waited. Ashwood was a painfully honest man when asked a direct question, he responded truthfully and without hiding.
"On the other side. Among the harder-to-tame patients." He lowered his beautiful head, peeking at Clara through his dirty-blonde strands of hair that fell into his eyes. "Do you want me to escort you to him? We have some time until they end the process." The woman remained silent for a moment. Coldness shielded her misty eyes, the old, familiar ruthlessness clear, promising nothing good.
"I would like that, Ash."
----------------------
Song of the chapter: System Of A Down - Mr. Jack