The Schemer

The Warrior

"Doctor Moore, you have thirty minutes to prepare for Miranda D.'s surgery. Ovarian cancer, stage two, operating room number four." 

"Hmm."

"Doctor Moore? Did you hear me?"

"No." The woman's back straightened, she spun around on a rolling chair, facing the greying nurse. "I mean, I did."

"Bad timing, Doctor?" The nurse smiled kindly, her ageing face projecting calmness and serenity. The lines that ran through it, together with a white coat, gave the woman an aura of something indescribable. Sacrifice and utter devotion, perhaps.

"Not at all. I'm just... Constructing." Clara motioned towards her desk, indicating the half-finished house of cards, sitting proudly on a bed of papers, so the cards wouldn't slide on the sleek wood. "I will be there in no time."

The nurse nodded, leaving this bright, large room that belonged to the surgeon. Alone now, Clara turned around once more, returning to her project. She had found a deck of cards yesterday, among various other puzzles and games which were hidden in a large box. When coming to Gotham and occupying the secluded house with barely few neighbours nearby, Clara had left the majority of her things untouched, not bothering to unpack stuff that was not of everyday usage. But yesterday, the woman finally acknowledged the pile of boxes in one of the rooms. And not exactly with intentions of making the house a little homier. Clara actually needed another gun nearby, as the Joker took her revolver. Since the collection of guns and other various weapons was put in a few boxes, and there were many similar ones, the woman had no choice but to check all of them, at the same time sorting the stuff inside and putting it in their places. As a secondary result, the house, previously minimal and somewhat void of any signs that would indicate an actual human being living inside, developed an environment of an extremely weird occupant. Someone staying inside long-term, nevertheless. Clara dedicated a whole room for her weapon collection, which she cleaned and took proper care of before putting in places - polished the blades from dust and potential dirt, wiped off any buildup of carbon in pistols and revolvers, allowed various solvents to sit long enough to loosen any dirt, finally, oiled every part that requires lubrication. She cared for those mechanisms as much as a mother would care for her children. The smell of gunpowder calmed her, creating an atmosphere of familiarity. 

When she thought a little, drowned in the aroma of guns, it probably was the main reason why the Joker hadn't paralyzed her in terror. He had this scent of gasoline, and gunpowder surrounding him, absorbed by his clothes due to the constant exposure to these substances. The human brain is an unpredictable organ, and instead of concentrating on his macabre war paint, dangerous behaviour, the risk of being murdered in cold blood, it made her pay attention to the familiar smell. 

A quiet knock reached Clara's ears, bringing her back to reality. "Forgot anything?" 

"Not that I know of." Doctor's fingers froze mid-air, two more cards held firmly, ready to be placed on top of other ones. Instead of doing that, she dropped them down and turned around. A dark-haired man, around her age, dressed in a black dress suit, was leaning against the door frame. He had a slim, bony face with well-defined facial features, pronounced glass-cutting cheekbones, and a seemingly sharp jaw. A man, whose brown eyes on their own could make you fall for him, Clara amusedly noted. 

"Is there anything I can help you with, Mr-?"

"Wayne. Bruce Wayne." He stepped inside, nearing the doctor's desk. To not give herself a lesser position Clara had to stand up, almost meeting his height. Wayne's hand was outstretched, so she did exactly the same, trying not to create the first impression of a mannerless savage. Warm skin met cool, a smile met a stoic line of the typical British stiff upper lip, gentle shake rocking both of their bodies. "And you must be Clara if I was informed correctly?"