The Schemer

Stayin' Alive

Blood. Blood. Patient number fifty-seven. Blood. Patient number thirteen. Blood. Patient number sixty-one. Blood. Blood. Number eighty. Number fifteen. Number forty-three. Seventy-seven. Ninety-five. Fifty-two. Fifty-two? Fifty-two!

Blood. Blood. Blood. 

BLOOD!

"FUCK!"

With a strangled groan, a dark-haired woman sat up in her bed, cold sweat dripping down her back, air coming in and out in short gasps. Teeth bared, her jaw was locked in an unmovable stiffness. "Fifty-two. James. James was number fifty-two." Muttered in a low voice, the woman's words reached her own ears, flew around and disappeared, not leaving a trace behind. Just like the person of the topic, only memory remained. Slowly, she unclenched her fists, noticing small, oval wounds starting to bleed, placed just under barely visible callouses that she possessed. Unlike words, the woman's nails left their mark, reminding of a sharp presence sometime in the past. Wiggling those long, bony fingers, she tested her ability to use hands. Not feeling any discomfort, she simply dismissed the tiny holes. 

The woman's name was Clara. 

Placing one foot after another on the black rug next to her bed, she rose, stretching stiff, sleep-numbed muscles. 

Cold. Freezing cold underneath her feet. Grey concrete scratching bare limbs, sending tiny needles of pain upwards bruised legs. The same stretching, the same body. Routine. It was her routine.

It is Clara's routine now, to hold her arms high above her head, trying to reach the ceiling. Broad shoulders, transforming into elegant, yet strong arms. Wide back, merging with a long, slim torso. Powerful, muscular legs, able to hold both her own and another one's weight. Clara was a magnificent creature, possessing a body that many craved to have. 

Troubled days, spent carrying disfigured bodies. Sleepless nights, spent inside the soldiers' gym. Thoughts, crazy thoughts, raging inside her mind. Pain, both pain and relief. Then silence. Complete and utter silence. The moon was watching. A lonely, sweaty body underneath the moon.

After all, Clara was a devoted gym goer. She attended the gym of life. 

Slowly making her way towards the kitchen, she moved her limbs with predatory grace and silence, observing every corner, noticing possible escape routes if an intruder happened to appear. A habit that saved her life, more than once. A low chuckle escaped Clara's mouth when she realized what was happening. The second, third or fourth month, she already has lost the count, of not hearing any moans of pain, and the woman still kept her attitude. The fifteenth day of sleeping in her new house, located at the suburban area of Gotham, of course, as much as the side of such city could be suburban, and the same dream, a nightmare waking her up. 

Water. Clara needed water. And tea. Green, smooth, refreshing tea. That was everything that the woman had in the morning. No breakfast, apparently. She preferred the fasted state, with her mind sharp and ready, body craving for nutrition, and therefore forced to work harder in order to find it, to survive. When Clara pondered about her behaviour and manipulation of food, she would often get rather amused. In a deranged, so much more humane way, it was a mimicking of a caveman's existence, and at some points, when her humanity would hang on brittle strings, she could almost feel like one. Back to nature, huh? 

Clara never had breakfast at the camp. As long as she remembered, her mornings were spent inside the laboratory, analyzing and learning at the same time. Plenty of blood examples were available, and an opportunistic person like Clara would never forgive herself if she didn't use them to her advantage. Or sometimes she would be dressed up in soldier's attire, a rifle or a machinegun in her hands, standing beside those men of a similar fate.