"Do you realize you're asking me to be a coward?" A cool fire burned in Clara's even colder, freezing eyes as she was staring at the African-American man sitting in front of her. She herself could admit being many things. Horrible, honourable and in-between. Coward was certainly not among them. If anything, it should have been the opposite.
"Nobody says that, Doc. You're thinking too much again. It's just another mission that needs to be accomplished."
"Missions are supposed to lift you up in others' eyes. Not make you lesser than dirt on their shoes."
"At this point, you definitely should stop feeding your own arrogance, Clara!" The sudden bark coming from Lucius's mouth took the woman by surprise. "For it's not worth the consequences. I give you an option, an easy way. Don't reject it just because of your pride speaking, because there is nothing better for you. Admit it, and take action."
For the past hour, they'd been talking. Shouting occasionally, but mainly just talking. Discussing, to be more specific. And the longer they kept doing that, the more infuriated Clara became. And although the cold fire in her steely eyes never eased, if you knew where you needed to look, you could see fear lingering underneath the charade of braveness. Unfiltered fear, the one seen only in the eyes of a soldier who is about to go on his last mission. Could this be her last mission?
Lucius heaved a sigh. A deep, calming one. Throwing a weighty, somewhat understanding look towards the stubborn woman, he slowly stood up. Their conversation was done, everything that had to be said already muttered. It was only up to a certain person to decide whether to take into account his words or remain in the dark nurturing wounded ego. And possibly lose herself completely.
Taking a different bag from underneath the table, a dark-coloured and made from a stiff, not see-through fabric, he put it on top. Clara's eyes were involuntarily drawn to the medium-sized object. Thanks to their previous discussion, she knew what was inside. The content of it offered sin among the walls of Arkham Asylum, as tempting as the forbidden apple, if not more. But was the price worth it?
"Don't support your delusions, Clara. Once, they were the reality. But 'now' changes. To survive, you have to adapt. I wish you luck, for we will not meet again." With a final look, he gently touched the assassin's shoulder. A single squeeze sealed their meeting, consolidating the meaning behind their words. Without another word, the man moved around towards the exit. Opening the door, he nodded swiftly to the anxious male behind them and disappeared in the hall. For full two minutes, nothing but slow, steady breaths could be heard in the empty room.
"What was that about, Captain?" Upon hearing the low baritone, Clara blinked a little and closed her eyes, resting her head against the back of the chair. The sound broke her hypnotic staring at the wall. Ashwood had a tendency to pry into alien businesses that he could not fully comprehend, yet was interested in.
"One day," A grave voice, much harsher than an hour earlier, reached the man. "you will lose your nose for sticking it so much where it does not belong." Ashwood smiled before nearing the woman. Clara felt him stop a few inches away. Unexpectedly, long, strong fingers touched her shoulders, feeling for the tense trapezius muscles, kneading them, releasing the pressure.
"Your accent is coming through. You might want to work on that." She felt a hot breath on her cheek, the touch not disappearing from her upper back. Clara deflated like a balloon, the stiffness running out, thanks to Ashwood's long digits working their magic.
Sometimes, she wished things were different. That she wouldn't be herself, and wouldn't have her principles, her knowledge, her... Everything. Life might be easier that way. She could appreciate all the little things around, take and give back without restraints. Without thinking. Without constantly seeing the invisible line between 'yes' and 'no', and actually having things that could be accepted without a second thought. What a life might that be! What opportunities! What prospects!
"You're... Quite acceptable at this."
"Why thank you, Captain. You seemed a little... How to put it, in a chafe. Assumed it might actually help you to cool down. That, or a cold shower. Also aids well in uncomfortable situations." From above, he noticed a slight twitch on Clara's lips.
"Of course you should know that. The cold shower part, I mean. Such a useful tool helps with absolutely everything." She opened her frosty eyes, meeting the ones coloured like lake water on a sunny day. The steel should not be able to feel amused, but somehow, those grey orbs projected unsaid mirth within them. Clear mock, to which Ashwood answered with a touch of crimson rising up his neck.
"Are you making fun of me because you get a reaction from me, or because I am a man - something that proud females tend to ignore as their equals? Or superiors in certain fields, but I am sure some women are very successful in defeating this sort of gravity." His fingers stopped kneading the woman's flesh, instead choosing to slide down slowly her shoulders, then one arm, until his own limbs extended to their maximum.
"I am not sure what you wanted to say with the last part, but I definitely enjoy seeing your blood rushing towards the surface of your skin. I am a feminist, Ashwood, but I would not make fun of a man just because of my beliefs." She chewed on her lip for a moment, contemplating her next words. "Don't get me wrong. I like seeing strong female characters taking the world in their hands. Or hand. Men were ruling it for far too long, wasting its resources and building unprofitable, useless structures, accomplishing irrational ideas. But I would never go as far as making fun of men and their... Needs and... Bodily functions."
"You're trying to change the topic, aren't you? By introducing a view to which I might want to argue with."
"How would you know?" A tiny, the most conservative smirk graced those long, chapped lips. "It was you who started talking about men's rights in the first place, Ash." Suddenly, Clara bent her neck, protruding a hollow sound. The man flinched, immediately removing his hands from her body. He hated that sound. The commando knew that. What she did not expect was him to move around her and prompt himself on the abandoned chair.
"Don't even think of leaving me in the dark, Captain." His jaw clenched, making the lines of his face harsher, more prominent. Involuntary, Clara wished to just sit like this and keep staring, drinking in the Ancient Greek statue gone alive, for some miracle choosing to waste his time right here, with her. It was not an attraction, she was sure of this. No, it was simple appreciation, admiration of his aesthetics, which would be valued even without Ashwood's personality. Knowing him in person made it even more enjoyable, because now, Clara could hold in high regard both his physical beauty and his persona.
She cleared her throat. And it was not a typical I-need-some-time-to-think cough, no, it sounded as if something was genuinely stuck in Clara's throat, blocking the way for words to escape. "Let's have a... Conversation. Or better, be silent and let me do all the talking. I will tell you a short story. That's all you will get from me."
"Is this story of yours related to the matter of your visitor?"
"Definitely. Not as closely as to give away all the answers, but I believe, at some point in the future, it will make a lot of sense. I promise. Now, will you allow me to do that?" The man furrowed his eagle-wing eyebrows just a tiny bit, making a barely noticeable line appear on his otherwise smooth forehead. After a few seconds, he nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact. "Good."
Clara extended her long legs underneath the table. Her foot bumped Ashwood's shoe, forcing him to break intense staring by lowering his gaze for a moment. When he lifted his eyes once more, ash-blonde hair falling into them, the man noticed the same fire of amusement blazing within her light-coloured orbs. "Well? I'm waiting."
"Patience is a virtue. Not that you have either of them, Ash."
"You..."
"Hush. Are you familiar with the book 'Cujo', Ashwood?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"That's what I thought." Clara nodded, her gaze becoming dreamy. She stared at the wall behind Ashwood, not really seeing it. "Then allow me to retell the story just for you. At first, there was a monster. Every good story needs a monster, trust me. A ruthless one. He killed a waitress, named Alma Frechette, a woman named Pauline Toothaker and a junior high school studentnamed Cheryl Moody. I'm sure there were numerous other people, but I don't remember their names. The monster, he was not werewolf, vampire, ghoul, or unnameable creature from the enchanted forest or fromthe snowy wastes; he was only a cop named Frank Dodd with mental and sexual problems. A goodman named John Smith uncovered his name by a kind of magic, but before he could be captured -perhaps it was just as well - Frank Dodd killed himself. People of the town, they were shocked. But mostly just relieved because the monster which had haunted so many dreams was dead, dead at last. A town's nightmareswere buried in Frank Dodd's grave. Are you following me?"
"I am."
"Good. Even in this enlightened age, when so many parents are aware of the psychological damagethey may do to their children, surely there was one parent somewhere in Castle Rock - or perhaps onegrandmother - who quieted the kids by telling them that Frank Dodd would get them if they didn'twatch out, if they weren't good, and surely-"
"That's what my mother told me and my sister when we were younger. I mean, not that Frank Dodd would get us, but about horrible creatures lurking in the dark." Ashwood met Clara's narrowed eyes and gave her a wide grin. "I'm sorry. Please continue, Captain."
"And surely a hush fell as children looked toward their dark windowsand thought of Frank Dodd in his shiny black vinyl raincoat, Frank Dodd who had choked ... andchoked ... and choked. 'He's out there', the grandmother was whispering as the wind whistled down the chimneypipe and snuffled around the old pot lid crammed in the stove hole. 'He's out there, and if you're notgood, it may be his face you see looking in your bedroom window after everyone in the house isasleep except you; it may be his smiling face you see peeking at you from the closet in the middleof the night, the STOP sign he held up when he crossed the little children in one hand, the razor heused to kill himself in the other... So shhh, children... Shhh... Shhh.' " Clara's voice lowered a volume, reminding Ashwood of the stories that youngsters would tell around the fire while camping, in the middle of the night. "But for most, the ending was the ending. There were nightmares to be sure, and children who laywakeful to be sure, and the empty Dodd house quickly gained a reputation as a haunted house and was avoided, but these were passingphenomena - the perhaps unavoidable side effects of a chain of senseless murders.
But time passed. Five years of time.The monster was gone, the monster was dead. Frank Dodd mouldered inside his coffin.Except that the monster never dies. Werewolf, vampire, ghoul, unnameable creature from thewastes. The monster never dies. He remains in people's memories to haunt them for the remainder of their lives." The woman traced her lips with one finger. "It's different for heroes, Ashwood. Heroes rarely remain in our memory as vivid and colourful as villains. They simply disappear." She met his blue-green gaze and smiled. A one-sided smirk graced her long mouth. But Clara's eyes remained cold and calculating, detached from the lower half of her face. "It's a good thing I never have truly been a hero."
Silence. Complete and utter silence. Ashwood didn't say a word after Clara had finished the story. It extended for so long that the assassin started doubting her choice of words. Was it inaccurate? Too hard to understand? Was Ashwood too stupid to grasp the right meaning and interpret it correctly? Had she overestimated his intelligence?
Well, it's for the better, then. She did not need him to interrupt her plans anyway. If Clara wanted the man to be informed about her schemes, she would have told everything straight in the first place. Right? Although it might have been nice to have another person, besides Lucius, who knew the stuff that was running through her head.
No, the surgeon immediately corrected herself. No, it would be not. She worked alone. Besides, Ashwood would most definitely not approve of her intentions.
"Clara..." Lightning speed, her head snapped towards the sound. Apparently, her comrade regained the gift of speaking. He was eyeing the bag on top of the table, suspiciousness clear in his beautiful face. "What's in there?"
"Seriously? I've just retold you the beginning of one of my favourite books of all time, and you're asking me what's in the bag?"
"Yes. Because, after hearing this story of yours, I'm not sure I want you to have it. Too many possibilities."
"Oh? What kind of?"
"The worst."
"Right." She nodded, leaning forward and snatching the bag before Ashwood could take a hold of it. "Good things, Ash. Only the good things that I might need are in there. Could we go now?"
"Go? Where?"
"To my room, of course. I want you to escort me to my room. It's late. I need my beauty sleep. Not that it helps much nowadays." Not waiting for the man, Clara stood up, swaying a little as blood rushed upwards, black dots appearing in her vision. It disappeared immediately as her body readjusted. Now she was prepared to move back.
Except, Clara did not intend to stay in her room. The night was still young. Certain businesses demanded her attention.
When Ashwood left her, she decided to wait another hour or two before going into action. To use the spare time, Clara opened the dark-coloured bag to inspect the tools in there. Lucius analyzed the plan throughout, making sure every detail was in place. What was left is to Clara to make sure those details were executed properly. One wrong decision and everything falls down. Like a house of cards. To achieve a firm structure, you've got to make sure every card is in its place.
That, and make sure she has the courage to actually do what has to be done.
Time went by, and soon, Clara was slowly opening the unlocked door of her room. Do sedated patients not wander around? They don't. Good thing the assassin continued throwing numerous pills down the toilet every day and was far from a vegetable.
Her mind was clear enough to remember the way to one specific room which she had visited only once before. A cell where a certain clown remained, restrained by that ridiculous shirt. She needed him this one night, to remind the woman every reason why not to stop, not give up. Or maybe giving up was exactly what she intended to do?
She neared the familiar door, taking out a pair of metal wires and moving them inside the lock. A simple trick as old as the invention of locks. A key? Who needs a bloody key? Well, apparently the ones who had only one hand to manipulate two wires. It took longer than it should have, but the sound of a click and a light creak when the door was opened was even more rewarding. Clara slipped into the dark room. She did not need light to know what - or who - was inside. Creeping forward, the assassin inhaled, searching for the specific, unique scent of gunpowder and paint. "You know, I truly miss my children."
"I don't remember making any, toots."
"That's why they're mine, not ours. Don't they clean your ears?"
"Why ask when you know they don-t?" The familiar spitting of the letter soothed something inside Clara's chest.
"Just to make sure." She found the bed, managing to make out a large figure laying on top. Clara lowered herself on the furniture, careful not to sit on Joker's legs, and sighed. "Guns, J. I miss my guns like a mother would miss her children. And you," the surgeon indicated with her head the immobile figure. "you still smell like them even when you've not been exposed to gunpowder for a long time. It's nostalgic."
"How d'you know I don't have a, uh, bazooka underneath my bed?"
"Do you?"
"No."
"Then I know it by asking."
"I could be lyin'."
"You could indeed." Amusement was clear in Clara's husky voice. Their conversation led nowhere, yet, it was refreshing to have someone arguing with her childishly. The clown twisted a few degrees in the bed, and then a few more, until after a vigorous wiggle the shirt gave up, allowing Joker to get his arms free of restraint.
"Gunpowder, huh?"
"Hmm." Unexpectedly, the man threw himself forward, coming nose-to-nose with the assassin.
"You, Ira, still smell like a bunch of spices. Annoyingly strong, overpowering and, uh, here."
"Oh?"
"Oh."
"Do you need physical evidence I'm here?"
The only answer that Clara got was his fathomless gaze, visible even in pitch-black darkness.
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Song of the chapter: Empire Of The Sun - We Are The People