The Schemer

Ruthless

It was not as hard as Clara initially anticipated. Not at all, to get used being without an arm. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she was agile and adaptable as a wild cat, or perhaps humans simply tend to over-exaggerate the importance of four limbs on one's body. The woman didn't know which one of those it had to be, but the fact that she managed to bounce back into her usual collected self both amazed and satisfied her.

Although there were a few things she doubted she could ever do as well as she used to. Jiu-Jitsu, for instance. Clara had asked Ashwood, one of her former fighting partners back overseas, to fight with her, and was flung over his shoulder in no time. Maybe it was due to the fact that the man grew a lot since then, not only looming over her but also surpassing Clara with his width and the amount of muscle mass on his bones. A few weeks back it wouldn't have mattered. Jack was also a large human being, yet she had little trouble standing up for herself, matching his strength with her own. It was a different story now. 

Jack. She didn't hear about him this whole time. Whether he flew the city, was alive or dead, planning another mass murdering or simply staying in his house watching old films, Clara had no idea. Probably forgot her the next day she didn't show up at his house, and that was fine with Clara, the lack of care and mutual trust between them. There was a reason why they never discussed the relationship that they had, the status, the feelings. Simply put, there were none, or at least not as much as it had to be to give a reason to care about each other. He was a challenge, while she was an entertainment. 

Still, the pang of curiosity for his fate remained. The assassin debated with herself whether she should ask Ashwood as he knew much more than her, but stopped herself before taking action. He had left the military a few years back wearing his suspicious view of the world on his sleeve. There was no reason to fuel his old habits and paranoia.

Days didn't go by as painfully slowly in Arkham Asylum as they were in her lonely, secured cell. The place was interesting, to say the least. Unusual people made it look much more hospitable than it was supposed to be in the first place. Jail for the mad? Perhaps. A very pleasant jail, then. The majority of residents were insane indeed, and if they weren't, then they were soon-to-be. No one walked around without first getting drugged and tricked into being a vegetable. For Clara, as a former, very talented and bright-minded doctor, it was purely fascinating to watch what could a mix of very precisely measured, yet simple substances do to the human's body. It was a game of one's individual reaction and the power of a drug. A battle that could not be won without cheating. A pointless war of the mind.

A soft knock, and then an opening crack was heard behind Clara. She moved her head around, watching silently her handsome guard approach. He didn't wear his uniform, only a grey t-shirt hugging his muscular physique, hard ridges on his arms and shoulders protruding through the thin material. "Ashwood."

"Captain." That silky voice, a deep-throated baritone, could have melted the coldest heart, break the stone and make women clench their thighs together. The man possessed a voice meant only to be heard between the four walls of one's bedroom, secured safely underneath a heavy blanket, muttering words inside the ear of his lover. It was meant not to be responded to because any other tone that followed that specific voice would be equal to the dirt on one's shoes. 

"Are you wearing a child's t-shirt?" Clara felt like laughing. Chuckling a little, she pondered over and over again, not reaching the conclusion throughout the years, what was wrong with her to not feel the pull towards her own comrade, to not drop on her knees and beg to be near the man in the most sensual way possible in the physical world. Especially when the said man was closer than a few meters beside her, giving the surgeon his undivided attention. As otherworldly as it sounded, it was hard to feel anything more than a platonic closeness to the person that went through hell together with Clara. Ashwood was not her love interest. He was a comrade.