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.

Nowadays, Clara spent her mornings inside her garage gym. Exchanging her nightly routine for sleep, that's what she did. An immediate change was seen, her grey eyes no longer clouded with sleep deprivation, no traces of black circles underneath. As she slept more, her bodily functions improved, too. Her vigorous exercise routine demanded a lot of energy. Clara intended to keep her musculature, for some weird, groundless reasoning that her keen mind, her instincts kept telling.

Push, pull. Push, pull. A squat rack made weird noises, squeaking underneath the hefty weight. Almost two hundred pounds, that's how much a typical soldier, a man weighed. Ten times, fifteen repetitions. Clara can feel her quads slowly giving up. She's ready. She will be able to help, to hold, to save. Anytime, any moment. The potential weakness of womanly lack of strength was eliminated.

She still enjoyed her martial arts combats. Clara knew a man, an elderly one, who was able to kick anybody's ass nevertheless. They trained, keeping her skills intact, ready to strike anytime. Why? The woman couldn't answer, at least not until she moved to Gotham. The city was famous for its criminals, and in the middle of a sea full of sharks, it was wise to resemble a crocodile, a predator that was just as powerful. Whilst the surgeon had no actual reasoning behind a decision of buying a house in such a city of foul reputation, she rather enjoyed the place. Her income, both as an ex-military doctor and now as a surgeon, allowed the woman to choose whatever place she liked to live in. And who knew that out of any possible place in the world, Clara would settle in Gotham.

Clara finished her routine five minutes to eight. She had to be at work exactly at nine A.M. A full hour was left to shower, dress up and drive to the centre of Gotham, where the Gotham General was located.

Wrapped in a long, dark coat, a tall figure closed the door, locking it, and manoeuvring towards a sleek, black 70's Mustang. The car was one of the most valued things in Clara's list of possessions. And who wouldn't appreciate his car, if the vehicle was a fucking Mustang? She reversed out, then sped up almost the point of the speed limit, but not exceeding it, not risking her own safety. The woman enjoyed the feeling which the quick, powerful cars brought. Excitement. She felt excited.

"Area number 6, Dr Moore, Dr Richardson, area number six. Five bodies, three alive, collect all of them." A large, green and brown coloured van was big enough for ten people, maybe seven when laying down. But Clara disliked the vehicle. It was slow, oh so slow, and lacked mobility. This stupid car only annoyed her. It was hard to manoeuvre it throughout the risky, dangerous zones.

Getting closer to the hospital, the number of cars increased, too. She sped up a little more, to outdrive a black van with darkened windows. Passing the vehicle, Clara tried to catch a glimpse of the driver. Nothing could be seen. "Little old ladies in big, scary cars." The sarcasm broke through her husky tone. Based on its speed, there definitely must have been someone's grandma behind the steering wheel. An old, white Persian cat in the passenger's seat, too.

Humming a self-made tune, Clara reached her destination and got out. Throwing lazy glances around her, examining these already familiar surroundings, the woman slowly made her way to the main entrance. Yesterday evening, she had read her schedule. An early procedure, appendicitis, and an urgency for a new liver. The organ had already arrived, waiting to be implanted in the stomach of a schizophrenic, old, but nevertheless rich and wealthy lady. "Grandma, grandma, time to leave. Dripping, gripping, shall we do some... Stitching?" A low chuckle escaped Clara's mouth, sending curious glances her way. Smiling and shaking her head at her own wittiness, the woman passed a lady behind the reception desk, making eye contact and nodding in acknowledgement. She had to hurry up a little, as the traffic jam had started forming, delaying Clara. Not to the point of being late, luckily. Still, she didn't come to the General at her preferred time. A point to consider the next day.

"Dr Moore, Clara, now! The bed number fifty-two, shot it the lung, urgent surgery. Dr Moore? Dr Moore, there is no time, come here, he's drowning in his own blood!"

"Scalpel, now!"

"There ain't any clean ones, Daisy was sent to disinfect them!"

"Hurry up, his brains are starving without oxygen!"

"Give me the holder. Shirley, keep an eye on her pulse. I'm cutting the old tissue out. Tom, sear her capillaries. James, pass me the liver." Sterile. Completely white, with shining scalpels and scissors, and needles, and saws. Beeping, beeping, only beeping, and slow, calm breaths. Low, rhythmic music could be heard somewhere in the background. Silent enough not to disturb, it was an inside trick of the surgeons to keep their movements rhythmical and steady, mind cool and clear. 'Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother, you're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.' Long-fingered hands in blue gloves moved strategically inside the dark-skinned lady's body, careful to not cause any additional damage to fragile tissues, but determined to cut out the dysfunctional, fat-surrounded organ. 'Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin', and we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.' - "Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive." Using her husky tone, which most vocal coaches would describe as an example of overused vocal fry, Clara murmured the lyrics underneath her breath, silently, to not disturb nurses and interns around. "Done. Clean the wound. Good job, everybody."

The smell of old blood and alcohol surrounded four people in the room, standing beside the bed with a dark '52' written on its end. One of them, a tall, dark-haired woman had her hands bloodied to her elbows, digging inside a man's chest. Shallow breaths were heard, gurgling and moaning followed. "Don't close your eyes, James. Don't you dare close your fucking eyes." Grey met brown, coolness colliding with soft warmness. "His third rib on the left is shattered. Pass me the retractor to keep his skin from folding over the wound. I need to gather the bone fragments, so they wouldn't damage anything further." With a frantic rush, cutting, and sewing, they managed to minimize the bleeding. Not for long. Main arteries, damaged with sharp pieces of bone, continued their path of depleting James's body from its life juices.

"Dr Moore? Dr Moore, wait! Clara! Can I call you Clara? Would you like to have lunch together?" Like a lost puppy, one of the interns, continuing his unwritten mission of seducing the woman, kept asking her. This young man, still a boy, had his own hopes and dreams. Once, they talked about them. Never again did Clara agree to have a meal with him. Although it wasn't a meal for her - not yet. She had a drink, for once exchanging her green tea for coffee. Unfortunately, Christian Brook failed to keep the woman's interest for longer than ten minutes.

"No, and no, thank you, Mr Brook. I'm afraid I need to fill in some files. A successful mission is always being followed by boring paperwork." Not waiting for his answer, nor seeing those large, blue puppy eyes, the woman went towards her office. There, put inside a small fridge, was her actual lunch. "Chicken breast. Protein. Broccoli. Brussel sprouts. Bell pepper. Vitamins and minerals. Seeds. Fats. Absolutely beautiful." Muttering, she boiled some water for her tea. The first actual meal of the day. Proteins and fats will keep her full, support muscle repair from the previous exercise. And then there will be supper later in the day. Steak, eggs, and a huge salad, to compensate for the lack of calories in the morning. Clara remembered having those gorgeous, ripe avocados. She will add them, too. And...

Smiling softly, she opened a drawer, taking out a few pieces of the most incredible thing that human-kind managed to create while refining nature's gifts. Chocolate. Amazing dark chocolate.

Some people get obsessed over doughnuts, or pizza, or candy, peanut butter, or ice cream. Clara had her weak moments when it came to chocolate. A bar of really good quality chocolate could buy her love and loyalty.

"Dr. Moore? Please, have a seat. I will bring you your usual."

"Thank you, James." The crowd of hungry soldiers parted in front of him, knowing well to whom the tall, European man will bring the food. That's the thing: military men wanted, just craved to somehow repay for those who saved them, who commanded them, who stood beside and never wavered to risk their own lives just to protect the others. Clara Moore, being one of them, received both the respect and privileges. Half of them were patched by her sometime before, another half simply knew her from taking part besides them in the front lines. Quickly, James came back, with a plate of lean beef, and vegetables, spiced to perfection. A foil-wrapped bar was placed proudly on the side of the plate, luring Clara to pick and open it. War raged around the camp, but chefs still maintained quality products, making the experience of eating one of the most enjoyable throughout the day. "Gentleman as always, James."

After finishing her lunch, Clara decided to perform the second - and last - surgery of the day. An easy one, far from being life-threatening. Someone's appendix failed to keep up with all the waste that came through his mouth, therefore deciding to remind about its existence.

"Stop, Clara. He's not breathing anymore. Call someone to clean up this mess." Once a sweet, caring man, now only an empty shell, a corpse left behind. Blood slowed down due to the absence of heart work. "Dr Moore, bed number sixty-five needs you. The man is experiencing some serious stomach pains, we guess it's his appendicitis." That's it. Lock emotions inside, for now, and mourn later. Mourn, and then let go.

"Here you go." Clara murmured to the unconscious man, laying on top of a metal table. "All patched up. Take him to a spare post-surgery room. Rest and ample of liquids. Supervision required, in case any complications occur. Should wake up in about thirty minutes."

That's it. Her day at work has finished. At six P.M., Clara was done much earlier than the majority of her coworkers, the people working at the hospital, and deep inside, the woman was thankful for that. Now, she could drive home and prepare that juicy steak which she fantasized about earlier. Or, even better, get in one boxing session, and then cook the food. The meat, after all, needed some time to warm up. It is never wise to pan fry a cold steak. Instead of becoming rare, it remains raw on the inside.

"It's time for you to go home, Clara. You're not thinking straight, and I fear that your attitude will get you killed." That's it. The end. "You're an amazing surgeon, and I have no doubt that you will be as busy as ever. Just... Don't overthink too much." Sergeant's old, wrinkly face grimaced into something similar to a smile. Clara guessed it was meant to be a smile, an encouraging one, but due to his partial face paralysis, the woman couldn't be sure.

"I understand. I hope to see you again someday, sergeant. Alive and whole." Her low voice echoed in an empty space, a half smirk playing on woman's lips. "I really do."

Two days later, she got a message from her former colleague. The old sergeant Robbins has been blown up by dynamite. So much for a sweet farewell.

Sizzling meat, the smell of garlic and thyme, beautiful, dark sear on one side, soon to be on another one, too. Eggs are being prepared at the same time, poured straight into the pan after the meat is taken out to rest. Rest, with juices leaking out, muscle relaxing and softening up its tight fibres. Those long, slim fingers, previously cutting liver out of its bodily cave, now sliced a medium-rare steak. Silence enveloped Clara once more, leaving her to her own thoughts. A book, Stephen King's 'Cujo' waited for her, already read a number of times. The woman was willing to repeat this experience. For now, Clara was hungry for something familiar. A book and a cup of tea. A few pieces of chocolate. Always the best answer.

She never said her goodbyes. Laying in a new bed, seeing stars through a large window, Clara thought about what she had left behind. When James was brought home, in a flag-draped coffin, she was with him. Clara met his brother, a war veteran, too, injured to the point of having to retire from Vietnam. They talked a little, expressing their sorrow and grief. She also met James's wife and two sons, old enough to understand that their father was never to come back home again. But what neither of them, except for perhaps his brother, was capable of understanding, is the actual weight of James's situation. The loneliness, the pain, the pressure, and a desire for a friend who actually knows what he has been through. Yes, his family grieved and sympathized with the husband, the father, but never could they actually feel the full impact of the war. Bleak memories enveloped Clara in its cold embrace, draining the warmth, the light. Forcing an ancient, war-trained creature out of its cave deep within her mind.

But not for long. This was a woman of plans. A futurist. A schemer. And she intended to create the ultimate scheme to suit her needs. To support her new future.

Song of the chapter: Bee Gees - Stayin' Alive