Maybe Clara was always in the wrong place at the wrong time, she could see where someone could get that idea. But, the woman actually couldn't force herself to think that. She doesn't think that at all. It's, in fact, quite the opposite. Now, looking back, of course, there were some tough times. There were some awful times. Clara would even go so far as to say there were some rigid times. There were nights filled with discomfort and stress and fear, and there was pressure. Sometimes the pressure was so great that she thought her mind might just fracture. Break apart. But fortunately, the surgeon didn't break. There were times when she saw the cracks. She saw the cracks and had to work hard to keep it together. But that's the way it was in her world. Her world had some downsides. On top of all that stress, and fear, and discomfort, there was death. Even during peacetime. Even during peacetime, she lost friends, teammates, and leaders. It goes with the personality type, they would say. Risk takers. So, even peace provided little peace. And then, once the war started, it just escalated. Not just for Clara. Every military member has dealt with death in some way. Some more than others.
There also have been some life-changing physical wounds, of which the woman was spared. She was lucky. Fortunate in the most direct way possible. But, many others were not so lucky. Because the bombs, the bullets, they do not care who you are. But, for whatever reason, she made it through. Clara was lucky. And now her life goes on. Maybe she's a little more paranoid than the next person, and maybe she doesn't sleep as well, or maybe a memory catches her off guard and she lives the moment from the past, wondering what could have changed if her actions were different. And, you might think, wouldn't she just want to change it all, to go back and erase all that pain, replace it with relief. Replace it with ease and comfort. And the answer to that question is no. Not just no, its hell no. Because wrapped up in that pain, wrapped up in that discomfort, and wrapped up in that stress and anxiety, its the polar opposites of those feelings. Inside that turmoil, there was the relief, there was the certainty. There was happiness, there were focus and security, and there was peace. Peace of mind in knowing that no matter what, no matter what horrors were in front, everything will be okay. That was because she was sure her brothers would take care of her.
Not all people are good. There are substantial people in every organization in the world. There is a bell curve. The bottom of the bell curve is filled with the same deficient people you will find everywhere. Lazy, scamming, irresponsible, self-centred. But at the high end, the guys she worked with were righteous, and noble, and hardworking, and it was humbling to be around them. Were they perfect? No. Did they have flaws? Yes, absolutely. But could she count on them? Could she count on them without question and without hesitation? One hundred percent. Through all the horror, and the fear, and the pressure. They would never let her down. Ever. And, as fate would have it, she was lucky enough to still have one man that she could count on.
Now, standing in front of that man's door, Clara experienced a deja-vu. It happened sometimes. It was not a pleasant feeling. As if you know that you have forgotten something, but can't remember what. A feeling of uncertainty. Did it happen? When? How? You don't remember the details, only the distinct feeling of the experience itself.
"What a rare guest. Christmas must have come early, right?" A smooth, velvety voice greeted the woman, blue eyes examining her bleak face.
"I have a feeling it won't come this year at all, Jonathan." She motioned with her head towards his door. "Will you let me in?"
"If half of the Arkham won't look for you, then yes, make yourself at home." Scarecrow moved to the side, allowing Clara to pass the door. "Or, to be more precise, if a certain clown won't come after you. I rather enjoy having a calm lifestyle nowadays."
"Getting old, are you?" Her sarcastic voice sounded a little more alive than before. Crane had this effect on her. Familiarity. The sadistic doctor gave her a feeling of comfort. "Abandoning your hectic existence for a calm life in the suburban area. Never thought the time will come."
"Just like I never thought that my long lost friend will show up without my pleadings. Tea?"
"Green. Don't burn it with boiling water. Let it cool for a few minutes." Crane took a deep breath. He never rolled his eyes. Not once. He always breathed deeply, in an attempt to calm down. Perhaps even counted in his head till ten.
"I know how to brew green tea, Clara. You have taught me a long, long time ago."
"With the head of yours, I can never be sure." He threw her a judging gaze before turning around and heading towards the kitchen. "How's the bite?"
"Good. Healed nicely, except for the ugly scar that has been left."
"I'm sure it will not ruin your magnificent beauty, Jonathan. Don't cry." The woman sat on a couch, the same one that the man was stitched on. Making herself comfortable, she leaned back, closing her eyes and listening to the Scarecrow working his magic. He was back rather quickly, holding two cups of steaming liquid that he placed on the table.
"How is life? Running around with a terrorist, killing my former patients, making new friends and attending billionaire's parties? Rather exciting days that you have now, Clara. You keep surprising me." Jonathan gave her his attentive look, blue eyes boring into her grey ones. The man knew her just too well to ignore the tiny details of uneasiness, hidden in her stance, movements, tight pressing of lips.
"If I lived my days of glory, I wouldn't be in need of a therapy session, Doctor Crane." She gave him a sour smile, lacking any mirth behind.
"Since I don't spend my days making friends with disordered people anymore..."
"You wanted to say since you don't experiment with them anymore. At least not openly." Clara interrupted the man before he drew a picture of his past days that was overly attractive and rather unrealistic.
"Well, since I have a lot more leisure time, we could work out a session, Clara." Crane gave her a polite, barely noticeable lift of lips, moving his glasses a little higher on his nose. "Should I grab my notebook?" He started standing up, pretending to search for a pen.
"No, sit, I changed my mind." The same movement of mouth repeated, an amused look making its way in Scarecrows eyes. But not for long.
"I must say I was rather surprised when I heard about your... Free time."
"And how exactly did you know about it?"
"I have my ways, Clara. My name still means something to few." He took his cup, swirling the liquid inside. "Although what was most unexpected is your little mission during the parade." Crane lifted his blue gaze, examining the woman on the couch.
"I'm slipping back." Silent confession sounded harsh and croaky, arms limp by her sides, the cup of tea untouched and forgotten. "Back to where it all started." She could feel the former psychologist's eyes on her, heard the deep breaths that Jonathan took in and let out.
"The funeral service?"
"Hmm. That was the main trigger. But then I remembered James." Here, those loud breaths again.
"We worked on this twice, Clara. Both times it took months to get you back on track, and a change in environment to eliminate your previous surroundings. Don't tell me you are spiralling down once more." The Scarecrow was angry now, or more likely disappointed, but it also lit the surgeon's temper.
"It's not like I can control these states, and you know that better than anybody else. I maintain my control. But the same voice, the same luring tempts me, calls me." Those steely eyes bore into the man's, previously guarded and cold, but now projecting mixed emotions, confusion, and anger, but also unexpected helplessness and vulnerability. Jonathan looked at her until he stood up and with a sigh reached for the woman, sitting beside and shooing her further towards the middle of the couch.
When they were younger, they used to do that sometimes. Crane, sitting upright, with Clara's head in his lap, doing nothing but stroking long, dark locks. She knew him enough not to believe this position being a sign of affection, and that at the same time he was probably thinking about ways to improve his fear toxin. But at those times, just like now, laying on her back, with long legs hanging over the armrest of the couch and feeling long, slim fingers tangling in her hair, the woman felt weird calmness overpowering her. It was an animalistic reaction, and both doctors knew that. Stroke, gentle caress indicated safety, therefore making both the one who moves and the one who feels relax. And it worked. It always worked.
"You have an addiction, Clara, I've already explained my theory a long time ago. And just like any other addict, being exposed to the substance makes you spiral down. Don't forget, that was the main reason why you decided to departure to Israel. To heal and save people. Not kill them." Caressing continued, the surgeon's facial expression was relaxed and emotionless. She was thinking and thinking hard.
"I've... Said that war is the ultimate teacher. I wanted to be taught how to control myself. But now, I think it's also true to say that war is the ultimate revealer. It reveals a side of people that would not normally be allowed to come out." Clara closed her eyes, blocking out everything - the light from outside, coming through the window, the sight of the ceiling, and also the look in Jonathan's eyes. "Because in war, there is so much happening. There is so much pressure, so much emotion, and everything is so intense. And I saw people change. I don't want to make this overly dramatic. In most cases, I'm not talking about some big, dramatic transformations that a person goes through. But I'm talking about changes. The changes were often visible. Visible things that would be out of character for someone, they'd start acting in a different way, sometimes negative, and sometimes positive."
"I'm a little confused where are you going with this, Clara."
"Hush. Just listen. There might be someone who's temper gets quick, starts to flare up. There might be someone who becomes more understanding, more forgiving. Some people were happier in combat, and some were absolutely stressed to the core. And when I look back, it becomes very clear that there were some changes in my own attitude. There were some times when I had to reel myself in. I definitely tried to stay professional at all times, that's what I always do. But I can feel it sometimes starting to come apart. And I had to breathe, mentally breathe, consciously pull the pieces back together so I don t lose my temper, so I don't lose my composure." She went quiet, waiting for the doctor to say anything. But the man was silent, simply stroking those black locks. "And I know that that's a good quality which I saw in other leaders, in other surgeons and doctors. I thought that it was a positive quality and I tried to imitate it. And I got pretty good at it. But sometimes, I really had to focus on that. I focused on keeping my composure, on staying calm, on controlling my reactions and to not start slashing people from inside out, just to end everything. Some people have a hard time doing that, and I noticed quite a few losing their temper when situations got highly intense. I had a lot of time to think about that, and there were some little things that I found inside myself."
"Your storytelling is like my patients' in Arkham. Except that, unlike the majority of them, it seems that you're not faking." She chuckled lowly, too caught up in her own ideas to be offended by his possibly insulting remark.
"No, look. There is some level of madness in war, there just is. Let's face it, you're going out and someone's going to kill people and they're trying to kill you, and their friends are trying to kill your friends, and your friends are killing their friends. That's not normal. If you take that out of context, that's just madness. And that madness in war can creep into your head and very easily it can creep into your actions. But what happens if someone who's mind gets corrupted was relatively insane in the first place? When we see death, and our friends and comrades are wounded and killed, that has an effect. When young men after young men are sent home in a flag-draped coffin, I had to pull my reigns hard. But I wasn't alone. I was surrounded by men with the same vengeful, murderous thoughts. In the end, the war reveals our true nature, unhidden and raw." The woman laid silent, ruminating on some dark thoughts, trying to make sense of them. "What if it is not the beginning of another assassination stroke, but rather rage of experiencing, of participating in an aimless killing, wasting lives of men that are way too similar to those that I used to continuously save for four years?"
"So you mean, it might be that a long-term killing machine who used assassination as a way to cope with family issues, became a humankind-saving warrior? That's a very brave and optimistic idea, Clara. I'm not sure how realistic, though."
"Don't dramatize my theories, Crane. They're logical and well-grounded." She opened those steely orbs, strange fire burning in them. A fire of hope. A fire of determination. A crazed fire that could always be seen somewhere deep inside if you looked long enough. A flame that the Scarecrow was so familiar with. A blaze. The one that was seen before the explosion of madness. The woman who's head weighed his lap had her hopes, which he didn't want to burst. But Jonathan knew her just too well.
"Don't get loose this time. I don't want you to move again."
"Such a sweetheart you are, Jonathan. I knew you secretly miss me when I'm away."
"No, you got it wrong. I just thought about who will fix my arm when another dog tries to bite it off."
"Just let it rot off." The woman twisted her body so that her legs would fall down, upper body following after. Like a large cat, she fell, then stood up, stretching long limbs and a strong back. "Either way, I don't have the urge to do something stupid. At least not now."
"Addictions are sneaky, Clara. You might not feel one coming when you suddenly find yourself hooked." She stared at him for a moment, jaw locked tightly and seemingly for eternity. Her mood changed once more, reality creeping back into the logic-driven brains.
"I know."
"Don't let him make you do that again."
"I most probably will." Clara made her way towards the window, staring at the world outside. "You know, it's a little creepy how well the Joker knows when to press and when to let things slip. As if he knew me at some point in my life, or if he has read my... Biography." She threw the man a thoughtful look. "And I haven't written my biography, Jonathan, nor do I remember ever having a deep and overly open conversation with a man who has a Glasgow smile."
"You are British, Clara. Europeans never ask and don't like answering to one question."
"Will you enlighten me? Now I'm intrigued."
"Are you? Have you ever noticed that Americans tend to say 'What's your story?' when they meet new people?"
"Yes, I get asked that a lot."
"Well, Europeans don't, nor do they answer this question."
"It is absolutely understandable why one would refuse to cry on somebody's shoulder while telling about his misery and distress."
"For you, it's understandable because you're not a native American." He gave Clara a tight-lipped smile. "It is socially acceptable to talk about your past. If I didn't know you, I would say you got drunk one day and told your life story to a random stranger. Bearing in mind your bad luck, it certainly would have been someone troublesome."
"I never get drunk. I don't even drink."
"I'm not saying anything, Clara. I'm just sharing possibilities. Ideas of what might have happened if you weren't you."
"Well, they do not exactly help." The Scarecrow remained quiet, not replying to this statement. They both had something to muse about. Neither of their thoughts was bright and cheerful, as both the man and woman were faced with their problems.
Clara needed a mission. We all need a mission. That's what life should be about. That's what gives your life a purpose, and focus, and drive, and ultimately, satisfaction. That mission can be the job you work at, it could be providing for your family, or it can be getting better at Krav Maga or Olympic lifting, or starting a business that you want to build and take over the world. And sometimes people ask what their mission should be because they haven't found their ultimate purpose yet. Clara thought that if someone is in that situation, they should go and help somebody. It would make one better, and it would make the world better, and eventually, from there, he would see what his own mission was.
She was lucky. From a young age, she had a mission. She had a mission to end up somewhere else than her parents were. To become something more, something greater, something... Different. And now, being three times more her young age, and realize that her mission failed, was harder than she would have anticipated in the first place. Elimination didn't solve the problem, and now, Clara was lost of ideas what would.
But eventually, the woman found a new purpose. A purpose not to fade. She didn't know this yet, or perhaps she did, in the unconscious, completely primal part of her mind, that only this newly found mission will keep the surgeon go forward in dark, bleak, upcoming times.
Song of the chapter: Alice In Chains - Rooster