The Schemer

Comrade

Clara could feel minutes ticking by, morphing into hours until finally, they became long, everlasting days, the majority of which was spent staring at the ceiling, counting tiny cracks in paint, and balancing on the thin line between sanity and madness.

The assassin was not aware where exactly did they put her. Without any windows in the room, only a tiny bathroom area connected to the main ward, there was no way not only to distinguish day from the night but also recognize the environment, the area of Gotham she was being held in. The only way of judging the time was by taking into account her inner clock's voice, which was developed relatively well throughout the years, and also the people that came to take care of her limb and also brought meals.

The food in this place was horrible. Worse than she would have imagined. Milky, sugary white bread, lacking the depth of taste. Watered-down yoghurt, also full of sugar, flavoured with artificial flavours. An excuse for a banana, which was browned to the point of turning black. No protein. No meat to provide her body with the required amino acids to heal itself. No essential fatty acids for tissue repair and proper brain function. No vitamins and minerals to aid her recovery process. How was one supposed to survive on a diet, which consisted mainly of pure sugar? By the end of the third day, Clara ended up throwing the food down the toilet, fasting for longer and longer periods of time. It seemed better than filling herself with that inflammatory crap, comforting herself that in her next location the food will be better. 

Her sentence was announced the next day after waking up, by the commissioner himself. Remembering the scene, Clara wished she could fulfil her sudden urge to laugh maniacally at the irony, the absurd of the situation. Her lips stayed sealed shut, and only an angry flame in her eyes, which melted the ice, indicated her true feelings underneath a mask of indifference. Gordon was not pitying her, convinced that everything that happened was her own fault. And it was, to a certain extent. The surgeon's actions were a catalyst to further situation development. 

A week later, this was the day the assassin had to finally move to Arkham Asylum. The last destination to which she had to be sent. In the early morning, two beefed-up officers in smooth, spotless uniforms entered her ward-cell. Clara had been waiting for them and met the two giants halfway, in the middle of the room. The woman was fully dressed, wearing a mask of polite neutrality on her sharp-angled face. One of them took out handcuffs, nodding for Clara to extend her remaining arm. The man cuffed it, locking the other part of the metal device on his own much thicker wrist. Tugging gently, he checked the security. As the metal didn't give up, he nodded once again, this time for his colleague, who responded by taking his place on the other side of Clara, almost touching her left side. The woman flinched slightly when his upper arm brushed the cut-off limb but remained moving towards the exit.

The predator got tamed. Where a group of guards would be needed before, now only a pair did its job. The danger, the strength, the raw power - it all was gone, dissipating in thin air. Clara's form was hunched forward, her proud head lowered, shoulders rounded. Defeated. It was a silhouette of a defeated warrior. And only eyes, her steely eyes remained the same, hard and cold, promising pain and sorrow for those who dared cross her path. Yet, no one looked at her downcast eyes, taking in only the broken, mutilated body, forgetting that the real monster hid inside, deep within the mind of the assassin.

A large van, similar to the one she used to drive in Israel, was waiting. The surgeon was put in the back, her two guards following shortly after, one sitting in front, the other one, with which she was locked, on her side. The three people remained silent, not a word uttered. It was not the place to share their opinions, nor to make small talks. 

Both of the officers knew who the woman was. After the first week of her arrival to Gotham, Clara's name and reputation spread around quickly. It was only natural for citizens to get acknowledged with the city's surgeon. And now, confusion found its place in the men's heads, as they knew the woman to be someone of great importance. It was hard to believe the respected surgeon to have done something terrible, becoming an ally of the Joker. Doubt spread inside their guts, making the officers question the clarity and of the situation.