ILLUMINE ｢YOUNG JUSTICE｣

ONE

Sometimes, when Clarissa thinks too hard of what came before, her dreams seem closer to reality. A woman lovingly stroking her cheek, humming a Russian lullaby softly in hopes she sleeps peacefully that night, or a house so big it seems more of a castle, with an endless garden full of trees ready to be climbed. But often those dreams seem to clash, as the woman humming is in a dingy apartment, with stained wallpaper peeling off, and floorboards with chunks and holes missing.

Realistically, she knows they cannot be real, what came before now doesnt matter, shouldnt matter anyway, and if shes caught thinking about it for too long, punishment will be swift.

The green fluorescent lights of the bathroom dont help with the pounding in her head, or the ache of her muscles. It turns her bruises an ugly pickled color, and highlights the veins underneath her skin. She turns on the tap and lets the cold water pour onto her aching hand, stinging her busted knuckles. Selfishly, she lets the pain overwhelm her, her stinging hands, her aching muscles and bruises, the violent throbbing and pulsing in her head. Selfishly, she lets the tears well up in her dark eyes for a moment.

The bang on the door snaps her out of, however. In thick Russian, she hears her brother yell, "Father is ready for you." Fear slowly pools in her stomach as she listens to him walk away, and with a breath she turns the tap off, and wipes her eyes. As she opens the bathroom door (no room locks but one), shes greeted with the hospital-like walls and hallway. As she turns and walks down the never-ending white halls, shes reminded of the thick Kevlar that weighs her body down, and the stench of blood and sweat that follows her. As she reaches the deep mahogany door, and knocks, she remembers the failures of tonights job. As she hears the door click unlock, beckoning her to come in, she is once again reminded that she has killed a man tonight.

The office is the only colorful room here, with deep browns and reds covering its entirety. It is also the only dark and warm room, with dim lamps placed neatly around the room, and a fire always burning. It is deceivingly welcoming, and if Clarissa were to step in here for the first time, she would feel very much at home.

"Im sure youre aware of the problems you caused tonight, Clara." Her fathers heavy voice carries around the room, again in Russian, but much more precise and clipped than her brothers. Despite the fact that they live in Gotham, and all know English, it is the only language she is allowed to speak, with the only exception being if she is being taught a different language.

"Yes." Her father turns, allowing the light of the fire to illuminate his face, and the anger in his eyes.

"You are far too old to be allowing for these kinds of mistakes. The kill was supposed to be quick. Authorities should not have noticed, and neither should the vigilantes." He spits out the last word, the anger deepening in his face. "You know what happens next."

With the fear transforming into dread, Clara nods, staying silent and still. "Leave." Her father says, and quickly, she turns and goes back into the brightness. There, her brother is waiting for her.

"Come on." He says with a wicked smile, and leads her to another room. In it, there is a metal table with cuffs built into the front to hold hands down, a metal chair, with cuffs for the ankles, a helmet with wires at odd ends, and a mouth guard. "This is my favorite part." Holding her by the shoulders, he forces her into the chair, and clamps the cuffs shut on her ankles. Moving to her wrists, he frowns. "Theres no point for you to have this, Clara." He held up her limp wrist, tapping on the thick black bracelet. To the side, she sees the blinking green light.

"It helps me fight, Ivan." She watches with dread still gnawing at her, as he taps a button next to the green light, shutting it off, and then unclipping it and setting it in front of her. Nausea hits instantly, and she barely registers the metal clamping on her wrists, of her brothers words of "We both know if anything, it does the opposite."

She slumps forward in an attempt to nurse the spinning in her head, only for Ivan to slam her shoulders against the chair, and place the helmet on her head, sticking the cold wires to her temple, and them placing the mouth guard in between her teeth.

As the world around her starts to focus, and her skin grows warmer, Clara hears the door shut, and her eyes slide towards the window in front of her. Its two way, so she only sees her reflection, but she knows there is a small group of men in white coats, now joined by her brother, waiting to turn the helmet on. With most of her face obscured by the helmet and mouth guard, she focuses on her eyes, now much brighter than before in the bathroom. Bright golds and oranges overtake the brown, and in a childish way, Clara convinces herself they must be glowing.

And then the pain hits, one of the white coats pressed some button, and the searing pain in her temples causes her brain to quickly turn to static and mush. The pain travels around her skull like a spider quickly crawling, with each step stabbing into her. In these moments, the only thing Clara can register is the fact that she is in pain. The helmet, once on, does not allow for any coherent thoughts. It only brings forward the recent events, in this case, her recent killing.

She remembers the briefing, the order to kill some man she had never heard of before. She remembers it was raining when she found him, in one of the quieter parts of Gotham, as it had been mostly abandoned years ago, now only inhabited by the homeless or junkies. She remembers the chase, and then the distant sirens getting louder, and the panic setting in. And of course she remembers when the vigilantes arrived. When they chased her, and eventually split up, the leader-Batman, looking for her target, while the sidekick-Robin, distracted her. She remembers him managing to briefly tackle her, her mask, which covered the lower half of her face, almost like a muzzle, falling down, and the unreadable shock on the sidekicks face. She remembers her own escape, and managing a hasty kill with five bullets.

It is the last time she will be able to properly remember this night, but she will never forget her anger towards the vigilantes and herself, as they were the reason she was in this situation now.

As the pain continues searing through her, her memories of tonight slowly scramble until they become unreadable mush that she cannot make sense of, and then everything stops.

The pain stops, the blazing electricity coursing through her cuts short, and it feels like all heat left her body. When Clara slumps forward again, thoughts still a static jumble, her brother does not push her up like before. In fact, she does not see Ivan for the rest of the day, as a man in a white coat is the one to take the helmet off, un-cuff her, and hastily put her bracelet back on.

In a cruel twist, this is the only time she is given peace. They leave her alone for as long as it takes for her brain to recover. In this awful room, she is given real silence, and real time to recuperate.

Clara doesnt know how long it took for her to finally get up, but when she does, she is quickly ordered to shower and change, and head to medical, where another man in a white coat makes sure she had no serious injuries, and then she is ordered to bed.

It is here, where her bed is, that she is reminded that, despite her father and brothers control, she is nothing more to them than the others here. A row of white beds line up against the walls of the room, as many children from varying ages lay there, with one arm already against the metal railing of the headboard.

She doesnt know why all these children are here, or why they are trained to fight, and to spy, and to manipulate, like herself. She also doesnt know why almost all of them have abilities most humans dont. It is best, in these situations, to only worry about yourself.

The room goes dark, with the only light coming from an open door, as a woman in a white coat comes into the room, and starts handcuffing the others wrists to a railing on the headboard. Most of them are around the ages of 11 to 17, and none of them try to make friends or talk to others, as it never ends well. The woman cuffs Claras already raised wrist, and continues along the line.

Despite it all, lack of sleep never seemed to be a problem for Clara, she always put it down to the fact that sleep was a luxury here, and sometimes very hard to come by. There was never any time to think or hesitate. So, once she feels the cool metal on her wrist, sleep quickly consumes her, and her dreams are filled with family and fire, and the scent of burning skin.