Clara was staring. She was staring at herself in a mirror, hard. With her grey eyes narrowed, the assassin examined, really took in the way her body looked. What she saw, it did not please her. At all.
She rarely thought about her body as a piece of something beautiful. The inked art on her back, chest and arms was beautiful. Her body was capable of doing amazing things, and it was beautiful to watch it perform. It was beautiful, magnificent in its complexity, its management to survive, to thrive under pressure. But as a physical being, Clara did not believe her body being something of great beauty. No matter what others said. The assassin's attractiveness was achieved unintentionally, as a by-product of everything that she did to maintain her health and fluent body usage.
The saying states that one starts valuing things only when he loses them. Clara used to laugh at it, retorting that it tends to happen only for dreamers, youngsters and the naive ones. But like many things in life, she was proved wrong. It's only the ego that makes one believe humans are like snowflakes - every each of us different from one another. Clara was someone who had the ego of two. Or three. Was she responsible for believing she differed from others that much? No, she wasn't. Her ego, the irrational, arrogant part was.
Her confidence disappeared as soon as she took a really good look at herself in the dirty asylum's mirror, noticing every little detail that was different. Starting with the obvious, the beautiful ship on her left deltoid and part of her chest was ruined, scarred and missing parts of the ink where the skin had been peeled off. Moving her eyes down, she met the void, empty space where a long limb once was. The phantom arm was there, real as ever, but without material to touch. The woman tried to wave with it, to move the arm, but the only thing that changed its place was her shoulder, twitching slightly at the effort. Clara let out a sigh, relaxing the aching side, her steely gaze drawn to the rest of her physique.
At every stage of her life, Clara's body was forced to change to accommodate various needs. To survive, first, you have to adapt. In her late teens, she had been tall and lean, with a long, slender torso, snake-like limbs, built like a swimmer. Those features helped her move fluently through space, reach her target without a sound. She was barely a shadow on the wall, lithe body deadly and quick. It served her well until it didn't.
Later years, spent at the university, were not as adventurous. Clara gained some weight, filled out and started to actually look a woman and not a child. There was no particular purpose in her life at that moment, except for getting her degree, therefore her body did not resemble anything unusual. And even then, her height ensured that she would always remain somewhat proportionate, even with the additional mass on her. No wonder the majority of men found her physically attractive - the assassin's youth was filled with the opposite sex.
Then, there was the army. Clara was twenty-seven, a fully grown woman when she departed overseas, started working out, got stronger and developed her musculature. Where once were soft, womanly curves, the muscle took its place, giving her shape a harder, more angular look. Not to the point of being masculine, but enough to announce everyone that she was a force to be careful around. The surgeon became maximally efficient, her body - a perfectly working machine, made to wield a weapon and stand on feet for ten hours straight, carry a comrade from the war field, and send the assaulters six feet under.
Now? Now she did not know what purpose her body did have. Clara was a thirty-four-year-old woman, whose life shattered into pieces, and her body knew that very well. The machine broke down, refusing to cooperate.
It was not the sickly-looking leanness that made Clara anxious. She could deal with it, as long as her flesh did not fall off the bones. No, it was the abstract matter of not being herself that the woman could not tolerate. She was not herself. Her body did not function properly, and it was all due to the fact that her habits, forged in fire and ice in the most unlucky periods of her life and therefore as solid as the hardest diamond, were sabotaged, ripped away.
Many people underestimate the power of routine. But only the lucky ones can actually have a fulfilling existence without something constant. Familiar. Clara was not one of the lucky ones. She was a schemer. A theoretic, who needed constant insurance, not the one of money, but of her environment. She needed warrant predictions of what will happen the next minute.
Her whole life she was sure of everything. If she wasn't, she made sure she was. Self-reliance helped a lot. One can be poor, rich, homeless or live in a castle, as long as he relies on himself, his future is set in stone. A stone that only the man himself can alter. The moment you share your life, your thoughts, your guts with someone else and allow them to become a significant part of your existence, nothing is sure anymore, because there comes this second constant in the equation of what equals you.
Then, add the fact that everything of the above was being done without your agreement. It sucks. Simple as that.
Clara let out a sigh. A deep one, making her lungs collapse. Almost. She wouldn't be a doctor if she believed one could actually make his lungs collapse that way. A wry smile, thinking about her habits, grazed the woman's ever-chapped lips. They were soft, but completely bitten-down, not to the point of drawing blood, but enough to make the tender flesh peel off slowly. It was the assassin's way of biting off nails, or chewing on the insides of cheeks or picking on the skin around nail beds. One of those nasty habits you can not get rid off.
"Clara?" The woman's startled grey eyes drifted back to the mirror, except now meeting another set in the back of it. A beautiful blue-green colour, darkened by the dim light, staring at her with a guarded, careful concern. It lowered briefly, taking in her reflection, and then shot back. A rosy shadow appeared on the intruder's neck, but the man refused to lower his head.
"You're too young to be a pervert, Ash."
"I knocked at the door. You did not answer."
"Sure thing." The surgeon nodded, bringing her gaze back to the cut-off limb. "How does that look?" At her question, the man moved his head a bit, shrugging his broad shoulders at the same time.
"Like a healed up wound?" Clara swayed her head from side to side,
"Hmm. It kinda does. Matches both my gorgeous, scarred skin and personality." She referred to a set of various-sized scars on her abdomen, back and hands, clearly visible due to the lack of shirt concealing her upper body. She felt Ashwood's gaze caressing the huge crocodile tattoo on her back, and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine. "I am too old for you, Ash. You know that, right?"
"My father was older than my mother by a decade. It did not prevent him to impregnate her twice."
"Some people believe the Earth is flat, and dinosaurs never existed. It does not mean we should follow them with our own beliefs."
"No. But it means we would not be alone. It happens around us all the time. Besides," He cleared his throat, a rumbling sound echoing in the empty bathroom, while Ashwood's eyes finally stopped examining the inked flesh of her backside. "As I said, I do not expect you to jump my bones anytime soon. Ever, to be more specific." To that, Clara lifted both of her eyebrows, mirth plastered all over her bony features.
"Right. Sure you don't."
"I do not. My body and my consciousness have different personalities."
"I can see that." The woman sounded as if she was on the verge of letting out a burst of laughter. It didn't help that the crimson colour travelled from the man's neck to his face. It was a sight worth memorizing. A devilishly handsome man with his sculpted cheeks flaming hot, his eyes shooting daggers at her. "Don't worry. I am a doctor. I don't mind explicit sights. You should relax."
"I am perfectly relaxed. It's not for you to remind me anything why I came here, Clara. You have a visitor."
"You've got an interesting way of showing your intentions, Ashwood. And a very convenient timing." Clara allowed her words to linger for a moment while she reached for a t-shirt laying on a chair. "I did not order anything. Or anyone."
"Well, he ordered you, if you want to put it this way." Ashwood reached forward, wordlessly helping the woman to put on the piece of clothing, covering her exposed flesh. He managed not to touch the bare skin, a real gentleman, as always. "The man said you've got some unfinished business with him." At his words, Clara went completely rigid. Ashwood gave her a worried look, not able to ignore this sudden change in behaviour. Whoever this newcomer was, the commando was not fond of him being here. He assumed she knew who was waiting for her, even without asking for the physical description of the visitor.
"Did he say anything else?"
"No, at least not for me. I assume he had talked with someone of staff, they don't seem to mind an outsider being in Arkham Asylum. He only asked me to bring you to finish whatever has to be done."
"I see. Then let's not waste his time, Ashwood."
"Are you sure? I could inform them you're not feeling too good..." His voice wavered a little, question clear within Ashwood's tone. It was a rare thing for Clara to feel troubled. If it happened, the case surely was something more than she let out.
"I'm fine. Stop worrying too much. You're too young to get lines on your face." She dismissed him with a flick of her wrist, already slipping away from his arms and heading towards the door. The only thing that Ashwood could do was follow her lead, catching up with the woman as soon as they exited the room.
The walk down was filled with tense silence, radiating off of both of them. Though their long strides were filled with confidence, despite the lion waiting. Certain habits, as if not show fear when heading somewhere dangerous, were rooted inside the soldiers' heads. One simply does not command respect if he can't control his own responses to various triggers. Especially Clara, who knew that being one of the rare women in the army demanded some additional show-off.
The assassin had a vague feeling who the visitor was. Thinking about it, only one man from the outside world actually had something to say, to confront Clara, to demand answers and pay-backs. The knowledge did not make it any better. Sometimes, the blind meet provided more comfort.
The visiting room, unsurprisingly, was completely empty, save for the lonely man, Clara's visitor. Although with all the furniture it was somewhat prepared for a crowd of friends and family, Arkham Asylum usually was the last stop for the insane ones, criminals, without people who cared about them that much. For someone to remain in contact with his loved ones simply did not happen here. Their talk will be quite comfortable and undisturbed, the woman pondered, save for Ashwood, who had to remain by her side for the safety of her visitor. These were the rules he did not intend to break. She was fine with it. Perhaps what he will say will stir the young man away, after all the dirt of her actions is exposed. Meaning, less work for Clara trying to explain why there should not be any gentle feelings towards her on his behalf.
As the surgeon was debating with herself in her mind, Ashwood cleared his throat, successfully getting the other man's attention. Immediately when he spun around from his sitting position, Clara felt herself going rigid again, involuntary. This time it was not the tension freezing her, not anger or fear. It was pure shock and confusion, paralyzing the woman for a moment.
Upon hearing about this visitor, the first man coming to her mind was Bruce Wayne. Her supposed-to-be friend which she betrayed by actively hurting the woman he loved. And she would have understood the reasoning behind his visit. To shout, to confront and hurt her, to do something. To not remain in the background, allowing the antagonist to enjoy her holidays in the asylum.
Well, it was not Mr Wayne who decided to pay the assassin a visit. Clara's jaw was borderline broken from the force she was locking it with, and her remaining fist balled in a vice-like grip, nails almost piercing the skin. "What are you doing here, Lucius?"
The African-American man allowed a small smile to grace his plum lips, dark brown eyes taking in the state his ex-partner was in. It lingered on the empty sleeve, moving upwards towards her angular face and malnourished body until he met Clara's steely, cold gaze. Undisturbed calmness met the woman's confusion, which at the moment was morphing into something that closely resembled fury. "I am visiting an old friend. Can't you tell, Doc? Bringing you some treats." With that, he turned around, picking up a filled plastic bag. The woman eyed it suspiciously.
"I am not a dog to be given treats."
"Of course not. Freshly cooked lamb is far too expensive for dogs. Besides, chocolate is harmful to their organs. Did you know that?"
"No, I didn't. I have never owned a dog, remember?" Clara snapped, successfully bringing Lucius's attention from the bag to herself. "I asked you what are you doing here?"
"And I answered you kindly, Doc. If you had been listening in the first place, there would be no need to repeat your question. But it's okay, even you are not immortal and immune to deafness." Before she could bark an insult, Clara heard a low rumbling sound behind her, similar to a collapsing mountain. Twisting her head, she caught the corner of Ashwood's mouth lifting up, the sound apparently being his chuckle. This was not going the way she wanted it to.
With a sharp, yet controlled look, she turned, coldly addressing the tall, dark-skinned man in front of her. "I have no intentions to play one of your games, Fox. We've had enough of them in the past. State your business and go away."
"I will. But first, you have to eat." Not waiting for her response, Lucius spun around, placing the bag back on the table and taking out whatever was inside. A thermos, and a glass container, also a fork and a knife. "Do not even think about using it for assault, Clara." He murmured silently, giving the woman a pointed look. There was no need. She could only stand and watch him with growing uneasiness, eyeing the food in front.
The first wave of aroma hit her unexpectedly. And with 'hit', it was a quite literal hit - the scent of spices assaulted her nose in the most beautiful way possible, followed quickly by the unmistakable smell of lamb. Clara felt her mouth salivating without a command, her grey eyes drawn to the opened container. Like a starving woman, which she was, the assassin stared at food like it was a straw needed to get oneself from drowning. "Are you sure you don't want me to..." Lucius didn't get to finish his sentence before Clara launched forward, gripping the fork and shoving the first bite into her mouth. "...cut the meat for you?"
She did not care the pieces were giant and steaming hot, the taste, oh the taste, her starved mind was fixated on the taste, not even noticing the burning sensation on her tongue. A low, barely audible moan tore through her lips, showing how much that single bite actually meant to the woman.
Food. Who have thought that food, good food, might be of such significance for someone as rational, down-to-earth as Clara? Well, it wasn't. Under normal circumstances, the assassin wouldn't blink its way, choosing to ignore any distraction. In a perfect world, eating would remain a necessary nuisance, a mean to get the energy to sustain constant loads of work.
Arkham Asylum was hardly a definition of a perfect world, and the woman surely was not in the optimal environment. Under the right circumstances, it is possible to break anyone. Some way or another, every each of us has its downfall. The two men, staring at the starved assassin, remained silent, acknowledging the downfall of a mountain. Something as simple as a meal made Clara succumb. Knowing her personality, it was easy to think that her end might be something far greater, much more complex. But sometimes, the simplest, tiniest of things that happen to us are the worst ones. You don't need a tirade to break someone. One word is enough.
Lucius cleared his throat. It took Clara no more than fifteen minutes to empty the container. She was sitting, slowly sipping green tea from the thermos's lid, staring into the far wall weirdly. One would give such stare if the wall had threatened him personally. Hearing the sound, the woman's eyes snapped back towards the African-American, and the moment's emotion was gone. Her posture straightened immediately. "The food was... Good."
"I know." His lip twitched. "I wouldn't bring you anything that's bellow perfect."
"I meant it was acceptable. Not perfect." Clara was back into the character, her remarks as warm as Antarctica. "A little underseasoned if I must be honest. Lamb can take much more. Now," The woman gave him a calm, analytical look, putting her hand on top of the table. "why are you here?"
"You're not very glad seeing me, are you, Doc?"
"I don't like surprises, Lucius. I was not expecting you."
"So it's the fact that I came unannounced, and not me?"
"You could point it that way." She watched him sit at the other side of the table and connect his fingertips. Curious eyes bore into her, glinting from behind Lucius's old, veiny hands. They were as vascular as Clara's but in a different, ageing-like way. "Besides, I assumed it was a different person waiting downstairs."
"He did not want to see you." She nodded, understanding who the mentioned he might be. "This past month has not been easy."
"He - who?" A deep voice came from behind her. Ashwood neared them, his steps light and long. Clara ignored the man by fishing out an enormous bar of chocolate from the bag Lucius brought. The surgeon lifted it and smashed into the table. A muffled crack followed her action. Carefully, to not spill any goodness, she pried inside, taking a piece of rich dark-brown sweet. The dark-skinned man smiled a little when she closed her cold orbs for a moment, savouring the divine taste.
"I swear, you should have developed diabetes by now, Doc. The amount of chocolate you consume is surely unhealthy."
"I eat it every day, but not a lot at once. Well, ate. Now, I'm compromising for the lost time." With that, she threw another piece in her mouth, Clara's posture finally relaxing in her seat, reaching the point when she did not even care about Ashwood stealing her chocolate. "As for who he is, I don't see a reason for you to care."
"Do you know Bruce Wayne, young man?" Lucius asked, successfully making Clara frown at him. A short nod came from Ashwood, curiosity shining in his beautiful blue-green eyes. "Good. Our friend here," he motioned towards the assassin. "had a promising start of a relationship which might have extended many years forward. Unfortunately, she decided it was not worth to feel a little emotional discomfort, change a few character features, throw a few ''noes" here and there, and finally have a real friend. Instead, she decided a crazed clown, who could never provide safety nor normality, was worthier of her time. As a result, Mr Wayne's past love interest got blown-up, while the man himself fell into the river of depression and betrayal. Thanks to our mutual friend here."
Silence stood for a few minutes, neither one of them saying anything. Clara was busy throwing Lucius dagger-like looks, which could have killed a lesser man, while Ashwood simply stood, his mouth pressed in a tight line. "This sounds... Suspiciously like something only the Captain could do." He finally murmured, bending down to reach another piece of chocolate.
"Indeed." The African-American immediately nodded, a small, agreeing smile stretching his lips. "Ruthless, irrational and scared of warm feelings."
"Are you finished yet?" The woman's voice was unusually low, barely audible in the large room.
"Not quite. But, I am afraid, further conversation has to remain private." With that, he motioned to Ashwood to leave, meeting his unbelieving gaze. "I can take care of her for an hour, young man. She will not stab me."
"But..."
"Trust me, you don't want to hear what will be said." The low sound of protest still bubbled in the younger man's throat, until Clara twisted around, her steely eyes holding something indescribable in them. Commanding, they were commanding indeed, but in the far bottom, something gentler could also be detected. She took the opened packaging of the chocolate in her hand, bringing it up towards Ashwood. Without a word, he took it, long fingers touching Clara's just for a moment. "Let your superior protect you, if only for this one time."
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Song of the chapter: Metallica - Fixxxer