"Remember what I have said."
It was way past noon when Clara finally exited the Scarecrow's apartment. They talked, and they played, and they discussed how to apply placebo and therefore save the government's money on pills. It would be much cheaper to use a placebo - sugar, glycerol, some distilled water instead of the real stuff. Both doctors have acknowledged a few incidents in the past where patients experienced improvements without actual medicine, only believing that they got something that is supposed to help. Furthermore, it was legal. What else would one call homoeopathic drugs other than a placebo? Above a board of chess, there was room for a variety of topics to be discussed. The Joker got his honourable place and time, too. Crane updated, informed Clara on what he knew about that man, which, bearing in mind that it was the perspicacious doctor she was talking with, was surprisingly little.
Moving towards her car, the woman mused on her weekend plans. Forget the exploration of the city. She wanted some time alone, as Jonathan used up the remainings of her reserves of time for human interaction. Humorously, when Clara was younger, she used to imagine her patience's resources as this weird hourglass. Every time when the woman encountered a social interaction, she felt a mental tickling of sand. When it was all down, Clara would go to a quiet place and 'refill' that clock. Loneliness in the most direct meaning was her way of recharging.
Nearing the Mustang, Clara's sixth sense was silent. She didn't see a man exiting an underground kitchen. A man, with a purple suit full of small, self-made bombs, curiously following her retreat with dark, bottomless eyes. Jonathan lived next to a quiet, unpopular restaurant which lacked its customers due to the bad location. Convenient for Crane who hated cooking, but not prestigious enough for the so-called royalty of Gotham, powerful people who ruled this city. It was partly their own fault that at some point in Gotham's history, due to the lack of movement nearby, the restaurant became somewhat popular among criminals. And while Clara had her afternoon tea and games with the psychology professor, the Joker had his own trip to the kitchens, attending criminals' group therapy session. But now, when his appearance was made, threats and propositions presented, he had all the time in the world. Like a lucky cat, unnoticed by the unaware canary, with hungry orbs, the clown eyed a metaphorical open door of the cage. In reality, it was the turned back of an unaware woman and her lack of knowing what's behind. He eyed the sharp curve of his victim's spine, outstretched, seemingly strong torso, hidden by a long, dark coat which was not able to hide the unusually powerful build of this weird woman. That, and the fact that the Joker had a physical reminder of her fist and shoulder in a form of severe bruises, marking his skin. The man followed her movements closely, memorizing the car's numbers. "Little, uh, assassin, whatcha doin' here?" Murmuring underneath his breath, silently so he wouldn't spoil the advantage of woman's cluelessness about the Joker's whereabouts, the man experienced a hesitation inside his head. He could follow her now, strangle from behind, perhaps crack open her head, give a concussion or knock out so he could murder her later, adorn with a smile which her wintry face lacked, and push the dead body from the roof. "No, it's a, uh, special method for the fake Bat." Or, the Joker could track her location, her house through the car numbers that should be registered, tied with the name of the person who owned it and pay a short visit at night. "Short and painless-s." Grinning, the man remained where he was, hooded eyes displaying unhidden excitement. Licking his lips, he stood up, seeing the dark Mustang speeding down the road. The Joker made his way towards the black van. Inside his own vehicle, he took a phone from the glove compartment, dialling a number that he had memorized a long time ago. "Hello-o?" With his nasal, comic voice, the man asked to find the location of his soon-to-be victim, reversing from a hidden spot that the van was parked in and aimlessly driving down the street. He waited for a few minutes, drumming his fingers on the wheel, like a child on a day before Christmas, knowing well that the presents will arrive so fucking soon.
For Clara, it did take much longer to reach her house this time, as traffic increased together with the maturing day. People rushed towards their own destinations, ignoring basic civility and politeness. So much of a driver's etiquette, huh? The woman didn't complain though. Staying in traffic jams, she had enough time to construct the upcoming week. Using her phone, Clara arranged a schedule until Wednesday, keeping an eye on possible emergencies. Finally, she did a mental look-over of what her grocery list may consist of for the whole following week. Proteins, lots of proteins, just like always. Chicken breast, around a kilogram of it. Perhaps some lean steak that she would pan-fry, get a nice sear, but keep it rare. Also, vegetables. She ran out of red bell peppers yesterday, and mushrooms are left only a few, Clara needed those, too. She might want some asparagus, a natural diuretic, as she noticed some water retention due to the inflammation in her whole body. The stab wound and stress didn't go unnoticed.
Suddenly, almost thoughtlessly, the woman changed her direction. Clara knew what she needed. A pushing-to-the-limits sparring session. Driving towards her mentor's mansion, the woman's thoughts were already consumed by excitement. The electricity that was directed towards the upcoming battle kept her concentration on the crowded road. Additionally, like a cherry on a cake, his mansion was located far nearer Gotham's centre than her own, which means, if Clara is lucky enough, she won't need to stay on the road during the peak hours. Usually, their sessions lasted from two to even four hours if they got consumed in technicalities of Krav Maga or Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Around that time when they're finished, streets should be already cleared, at least a little.
Clara reached a closed gate to a huge white house in ten minutes. She pressed a button, located next to speakers, and patiently waited until the dungeon-deep Lucius's voice answered.
"My, my, have I forgotten to note today's session in my planner?"
"It would mean that your memory is getting unstable. Not exactly the most pleasant scenario, right?"
Silence followed her teasing, the only non-verbal answer being slow sliding of the front gate, allowing Clara to drive inside. Smiling slightly to herself, she parked her black car next to the entrance, already spotting the African-American man standing on top of a long flight of stairs, meeting his guest. Lucius's silver hair glinted in the bright sunlight, creating an illusional halo. "Miss my company already, Doc?"
"If your company and skills were two separate things, I would definitely choose your skills."
Lifting one eyebrow, Lucius double checked the woman in front of him. "Well, I have no intentions on giving my abilities a separate identity yet, so for now, I'm afraid, you will have to keep up with my company." Motioning towards the door, he asked. "Would you like some tea? Chocolate? So my skills could prepare mentally. I definitely need some time for that." Not waiting for an answer, Lucius span around and walked into the large mansion. The only thing that was left for the woman was to follow him.
"Did you see yesterday's news?"
"I did. Five banks in a row, that's a quick pace. Was it what pissed you off for two days?" The question threw her out of balance. Lucius Fox was surely an observant man, but Clara didn't expect him to know her mood that well.
"To some extent, yes."
"So in your language, it means a 'no', Doc?" Smiling, white teeth contrasting sharply with his dark skin, the man opened a large glass door to the kitchen. Immediately, smell of spices and herbs surrounded her, provoking Clara's sharp sense of smell. "Care to join me for lunch, not just tea?"
"Actually, my intentions were to kick your ass, Lucius, not have a meal with you." Sticking her nose in the air and taking a deep breath, she added. "On the other hand, it's not every day that I have gorgeous lamb. What did you marinate it in? Red wine?"
"You should be a chef, not a surgeon, Clara." Lucius's smile grew even wider, appreciating the woman's skills with distinguishing smells and aromas. "There's some rosemary, too."
Nodding, she approved the man's choice of ingredients. "Nice. Alcohol will tenderize the meat, and rosemary will provide some additional flavour and also antioxidants against free radicals that might be released while searing it in high heat."
Lucius rolled his brown eyes, dismissing Clara's lecture-like educational speech. "It's already time to cook the meat. Please, rinse and chop those vegetables." He motioned towards a large, marble sink. "We will put them in the oven for a delicious roast, should go well with lamb. What do you think, Doc?"
"I think you're distracting me from my actual purpose of coming here, Fox."
"My, my, but that's exactly what I'm doing." Lucius let out a small laugh, mirth reaching his warm eyes.
Clara made her way towards the sink and started cleaning carrots, orange and purple, and pieces of colourful cauliflowers. Beautiful purple mixed with green, and white, creating an edible rainbow. "Shouldn't you be at Wayne's right now?"
"I suppose not. And shouldn't you be at the hospital? Doc?"
"Took a day off. Have some... Stuff to do." A tight smile made it's way on her chapped lips, not giving away anything else. "Done. Should I put them in the oven right now, or first sear the meat, and then put it together so the juices would be absorbed?"
"We shouldn't waste the good stuff, right?"
"I wouldn't. Not sure about you."
They ended up exchanging a few more bite-like comments, friendly and lighthearted enough not to sting. When you had business with Clara, a sharp tongue was always involved, and one could either adopt a similar manner of talking or accept her remarks as an insult.
Clara met Lucius, or Lucius found Clara a few years ago when she was back for a few weeks. A mission in Vietnam had just ended. Much-needed rest time in Paris for the surgeon, a business trip for Lucius Fox. He approached a lonely woman, who stood watching a street artist painting laughing girls. Twins, judged from their alikeness. A conversation between them started, bonding two outsiders. Similar fields of interest and views. A bond that formed between them kept the surgeon and the man connected throughout the years. Hardly a friendship, the connection between the strangers remained nameless, yet long-lasting and strong. A platonic marriage made in heaven. It was Lucius who gave Clara the idea of moving to Gotham in the first place.
After twenty minutes, the host was carving large pieces of tender lamb and putting them into porcelain plates, whilst Clara scrubbed tin-plate to get vegetables off of it. They ended up with a simple balsamic vinegar-olive oil based sauce on top, drizzling only a tiny amount so it wouldn't suppress subtle flavours of lamb and caramelized vegetables. No small talk was made, as Clara clearly preferred eating in silence. They both had something to think about. The woman toyed with the idea of cleaning the whole house and sorting out her old items, whilst Lucius pondered how to improve Batman's armour. Neither of them knew anything about each another's thoughts, as Clara had no idea about Lucius's involvement with Gotham's hero, and Fox had no clue about what could be hidden in the woman's closet. Enjoying the food, that was the only thing that they did in unison. Just like old times.
"What about that sparring, Doc? Will you still be up for it, after all this food?" The African-American man finally broke the silence, getting Clara's unwavering attention and a slow smirk stretching her sharp features. The woman's answer was a slow rise from the chair. If only did the poor lamb know what kind of actions his pieces would fuel, he might have run to the hills if it wouldn't be too late.
The only thing that Clara had a sensation for after the third hour of ruthless kicks and punches was a drugged-like euphoric state. They both smelled like pigs, bruises already forming, bones unshattered and in the correct places, but muscles sore and tight. Nevertheless, it was exactly what she needed. Physical pain provided mental clarity, and whilst it hurt like a furious cat clawing at her skin, the mental silence that came was definitely worth it.
As they said their goodbyes and Clara finally drove home, just as she predicted, roads were relatively quiet, only a few vehicles here and there. The majority of people chose to spend their night at restaurants, or at home with family, not on the road. But Clara was not one of the majority, and her choice of Friday night's opening and ending consisted of aimless driving through the city. It was already dark outside, and Gotham showed it's true beauty with lights and colours.
But just like everything, this short trip had to end sometime. As the night matured, Clara got closer and closer to her own home. Nearing the driving in, she almost drove into a black van that was parked next to her neighbour's fence. "Fuck!" Throwing herself on the brakes, she managed to avoid the collision. "Who the hell leaves a car in the middle of the street?" Murmuring incoherent curses underneath her breath, Clara manoeuvred towards her own house, with the ease and grace of a seasoned, experienced driver, stepping outside immediately. "Bloody kids, five minutes after passing their driving tests, and already on the road, causing car accidents." The woman had already reached her front door when she abruptly stopped and turned around with curiosity. Now, when she thought about it, the black van seemed somewhat familiar. Unintentionally admiring the sleek vehicle, Clara remembered seeing it a few days ago. Next to her Mustang, any car would feel ashamed of its looks, but as a stand-alone, she had to admit, it was an elegant machine. Nevertheless, her suspicion increased with every passing second, nostrils flaring. Clara couldn't think of anybody nearby who possessed such a car, and she trusted her gut feeling quite well. The woman hadn't lost her abilities to observe the surroundings, and, unless somebody bought it today, this was not where the van belonged. After a moment of staring at the van, she turned once more, unlocking door silently, stepping inside. Despite it being pitch black, Clara skipped the light switch. Her eyesight adapted to the dark immediately, numerous similar situations from past taking their places in her mind, preparing an already beaten-up and tired body for something upcoming.
Clara listened. The only sound was her own slow, steady breathing. Somewhere deep in the forest nearby an owl hooted, the nocturnal bird probably searching for his prey. And then, out of nowhere, her body went rigid.
Pain.
A sharp pain went through Clara's skull, sending her down where she collided with the wooden floor painfully. The woman became still, limp and immobile, closing her eyes and trying to create an illusion of a knocked-out person. Almost immediately she felt two hands on her shoulders, gently shaking the whole body. Not getting any physical response, somebody - a man - crouched over Clara, bringing his head down, close to the side of her face. A smell of gasoline and gunpowder and leather reached the woman's nose, bringing back the shadow of her time overseas. This is how war and chaos that it created smelled like. He's listening. He's listening to my breathing.
"Dea-d?" A comic, nasal voice, barely above a whisper, cut through the silent darkness, giving away her attacker's identity.
"How about alive?" Clara's own hoarse timbre followed the clown's question, her eyes snapping open, head moving up in an attempt of hitting the Joker in the face with the backbone of the skull. The Joker was quick to get back on his feet, gracefully avoiding the woman's attack. Rolling forward, Clara tried to create enough distance to safely stand up and face the man. She had one single advantage of knowing the house much better than the attacker, therefore being able to orient quite well in the darkness. The woman heard him hitting something, silently hissing in pain.
"Uh, little assassin, where did ya go-o? Hello-o? Anybody's home?" Giggling to himself, the Joker started tapping the wall, in search of the light switch. "Let there be ligh-t. I need some light."
Suddenly, the whole hallway was lit with bright light, blinding the man for a millisecond. When he regained his vision again, an old-fashioned Enfield No. 2 was pointed at him, and furious grey eyes bore into his own bottomless ones. "How the fuck have you managed to break in?"
Eyeing the revolver in his opponent's hand, the Joker slowly moved an inch closer. "You, uh, you have a very comfortable attic. Suitable for, uh,late night visits." Grinning, the clown slowly put one hand in the pocket of his suit, retreating a...
"Is this... A potato peeler?" Confusion made itself evident of Clara's face, her eyes glued to the kitchen utensil.
"It is." Quickly, the Joker threw his hand forward, the peeler flying towards Clara's face. To avoid a damaging impact, she had to duck, at the same time losing her position and aim. Lunging at her, the clown aimed for the gun in Clara's hand. "Little assassins shouldn't play with guns." Low chuckles escaped his mouth, tongue darting to lick scarred lower lip as he snatched the revolver, aiming it at its previous master.
"And clown's place is not in the kitchen among potatoes either."
"Careful 'ere with, uh, names. You don't wanna give me a reason to cut something writhing out of your mouth."
"Should I already be scared?"
"I'm a man of my word." Now the Joker started laughing maniacally, stretching his scars. Clara stopped moving, staring at those poorly closed wounds. The clown's grin slowly died, hooded eyes narrowing. "Whatcha starin' a-t?" Locking steely gaze with those bottomless orbs, the woman lifted one eyebrow as if asking what he had in mind. "You, uh, you stare. It's rude to stare, y'know."
"I might be fascinated by the colour of your hair. Been thinking about changing mine. Do you think green would suit me?"
The Joker stood still, head tilted to the side. Was he actually... Thinking about whether or not the colour would fit her? The man's eyes moved, taking in Clara's dark, straight locks as if considering the possibility of turning it green. "No-o. It would dull your eyes-s. Pick another one." A bored expression made its way on his face, licking his lips the man silently judged her reaction. He lowered the gun, now simply twirling it between his gloved fingers.
It was time for Clara to narrow her eyes, seeing such a relaxed composure of this insolent intruder. "Oh, for fuck's sake." Bypassing the anarchist in her hall, she walked towards the kitchen, the whole time feeling the abysses following her. "When you exit, don't leave the door open. I don't want any more guests turning up this late." But in the end, Clara was just too tired to actually care. The day has finally caught up with her exhausted body, blunting the usually sharp mind. The woman reached her destination, taking a glass and filling it with water which she downed in an attempt to soothe gluttonous thirst.
"You, uh, should have been dea-d." Clara turned around, leaning against the countertop. The Joker followed the woman, not her commands. Standing in the doorway, he didn't look extremely out of place, surprisingly. With the purple suit, and tie, and his whole attire, slightly hunched forward, and also her Enfield, which was still being played with in his hand, the man naturally demanded everyone's attention. A dark grey wall behind him provided an imaginary stage for the clown, with only one spectator to watch his performance. "I came to kill. But you just keep destroying my day by doin' the opposite, y'know." His tongue darted out, wetting lower lip, twirling around a tiny scar there. The clown knew that she was watching, steely gaze following his tongue's path, and it annoyed him a little. "Sto-p starin'."
Clara fulfilled the Joker's request by lifting her eyes, meeting his own. "Well, I'm sorry that I don't meet your expectations. I have a little tendency of my own to do exactly the opposite of what others demand." Sarcasm was evident in her tone, one eyebrow unintentionally lifted. "By the way, may I know why exactly my death is desired by Your Excellency?"
The Joker started slowly moving forward, near the woman. "I feel," Now he was right in front of her, noses almost touching. "no, I hol-d," One hand sneaked around the back of Clara's neck. She heard a light shuffling, and instead of her revolver, the clown brought a knife next to her mouth. "a, uh, grudge against ya." Despite being a tall person herself, the woman had to lift her eyes up a little to keep contact with this six-feet-something clown, bottomless depths instead of eyes staring down at her. She remembered reading somewhere that if you stare into the abyss long enough, the abyss will also gaze at you. Nietzsche. It was Nietzsche who said that, and the irony of this clown's behaviour, the coincidence of conformity between the man and the philosopher which he quoted with a slight alter the first time, completely changing the whole meaning of that inspirational sentence, cracked her serious demeanour. "Little assassin, why're laughin' ?"
"Hormonal changes. Make me overly emotional." Smirking, Clara noticed his gaze drifting lower, towards her abdomen.
"Are you, uh, pregnant?"
"Would you believe me if I said yes?"
"No."
"Then no, I'm not."
"Then why 're smilin'?" Annoyance was clearly evident in Joker's voice, that nasal sound going up, becoming almost whine-like.
"Well, aren't clowns supposed to bring a smile to one's face?" Clara knew she was walking on edge of the blade, a tiny line between keeping his interest and angering to the point where he cuts her throat open. The woman got even closer to his face until the man's breath could be felt on her lips, so she could whisper, creating an environment of intimacy. "My happiness was not found by default but achievedas the result of hard work. Your hard work of trying to kill me just for one," Turning her face to the side, Clara's lips almost touched the clown's scars. "little," She could feel cold metal grazing the side of her jaw instead of cheek now. "punch." With her last word, the woman lifted her knee, hitting the Joker in the groin, at the same time gripping his shoulder tightly with one hand, using another one to grab his armoured limb. As she stepped to the right tugging it, Clara pushed his shoulder to the left, making the clown lose his balance and hit the countertop. The woman released him completely, simply watching the Joker crouch with his back turned to her, releasing an occasional chuckle. It took a few minutes for the man to stand up. He turned around, something - amusement - glinting in those dark orbs.
"Such a, uh, cruel assassin you are, toots."
"Sometimes justice requires cruelty, clown." The annoyance was there once more, clearly written on his face. The man licked his lips, a tick-like habit that he had. Clara sat down on a chair, closing her aching eyes. "Why are you presenting yourself as a clown if you don't like when I point it out?" Silence followed Clara's question. She remained like this for a few more moments, when a gentle gust of air hit her in the face. Snapping them open, the woman acknowledged Joker's face in front of her own, that tiny whiff being his breath. Unimpressed, Clara stared into his eyes, waiting for some kind of movement. A blink, tiny wavering, anything. But they bore into her own steely ones as if exposing something deep within.
"Because I already have a smile to go with it." Turning around, the Joker stalked towards the exit, the same hunch evident in his posture. "Don't think I have forgotten my, uh, grudge, little assassin, or that you're forgiven." After a moment, the woman heard a slam. The clown closed her front door, leaving Clara in complete and utter silence. Soon, a car somewhere nearby started rumbling, the sound weakening with every passing second. The Joker was gone.
"That fucker stole my revolver."
Song of the chapter: Tool - 10000 Days (Wings Part 2 )