The Schemer

Burn It Down

Clara enjoyed civilization and everything that came with it. It was surprising, because, if anyone, the commando always seemed at ease in the wild, surrounded by trees and water ponds, bushes and unkempt grass. Surrounded by predators, one of which she considered herself as well. But if the woman was asked, she would choose the comfort of a warm fireplace, soft couch and tea, drunk from a clean cup, together with a piece of chocolate. Just like a cat could learn to survive in the wild, Clara knew how to keep herself alive. And like the same feline, she would trade the harsh wind into the secured walls of a house. 

Yet, the morning after metaphorically devouring the Joker, the morning after harassing him both mentally and physically, she found herself in his garden once more. Not searching for basil or thyme, but laying on the spiky, summer-dried grass. Staring at the sky and passing clouds. 

Yesterday was not a goodbye. Definitely not, but it seemed that something clicked, changed, and could never be as it was. It seemed like a goodbye, and the surgeon couldn't explain this strange feeling of an upcoming loss. Her intuitive, ancient side screamed 'run', whilst the logical, more developed, humane part reasoned to analyze and find a solution to the problem. Except, there was no problem. 

Crack. Somewhere behind here, a tiny sound echoed, disturbing the silence. Snap.

"It is fate, little assassin, for us to mee-t in the Garden of Eden over and over again." Clara closed her eyes, a slow smile stretching her bruised, chapped and dry lips.

"You're the master of your fate, just as you're the captain of your soul, J." The man crouched next to her, balancing on his heels. As the woman opened her eyes, she took in his bare face, two asymmetrical scars on the sides of his mouth, only one visible from this angle, strong, sharp facial structure, and the abysses, two bottomless abysses staring into space. She noticed his eyebrows furrowing, concentration written all over his face.

"Why does it sound, uh, familiar?"

"Familiar?"

"Mhhm. Master of your fate, captain of your soul. Does it have something to do with the Flying Dutchman's captain?"

"So you remember the story of the ruthless Hendrick Van der Decken. I'm proud of you."

"I'm no-t that old to have dementia, toots."

"I haven't said that. Furthermore, I doubt you're actually that much older than me, Joker, if any at all. Suspecting dementia in your case would indicate bad news to my own self."

"Yeah?"

"Hmm." Clara closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as if preparing for something. And she was indeed, trying to remember once read lines. Those freezing orbs opened again, and the woman turned on her side, facing the Joker."Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole,"  The man's attention was on her now, his head turned towards the laying assassin. "I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul."

"I'm, uh, not sure where are ya goin' with this-s-s."

"Hush." Clara rose, positioning herself in Budha's pose, her long fingers spread widely on her knees. "It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll," A tiny pause followed the lines, giving some dramatism to the speech, but also taking in the man's reaction. "I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul." Drumming silently on her muscular legs, Clara finished the poem with a dramatic drum-like sound, exposing white, straight teeth in a nothing-good-promising smile. "Remembered now?"

"No, but it does ring a bell." The woman's face returned to its normal neutral expression, one eyebrow lifted, for Joker indicating her slight amusement.