Clara (part 6)

They sat down in the out-of-the-way break-out room, Clara doing her best to look casual and Chris excitedly whipping out his little notebook and pen.  "So..." he began with a wide grin.  "Why do you do it?"

Clara decided to play coy, so with a smirk she replied, "Do what?"

Chris rolled his eyes, which Clara had to admit was a funny look on him.  "You know what I'm talking about, Ninja," he said.

She laughed just a little at how he called her "Ninja".  She was glad there weren't other audio or video recorders in this room.  "That's a rather bold question to start an interview with," she noted.

"Well, I usually like to cut to the chase, get the interesting stuff in first, but I suppose some people like build-up instead."  He shrugged.  "Okay then, tell me about your childhood."

She laughed outright at that.  "That's not necessarily much better.  You don't do softballs, do you?"

He shrugged.  "It depends on the person," he admitted.  And then he just looked at her expectantly.

Clara sighed in defeat and replied, "I guess lucky for you my childhood isn't that interesting.  I had a mom and a dad who were very supportive.  Have, I should say, they're both still alive and married to each other.  I've got an older brother who lives in Seattle and a younger sister who's going to school in St Louis.  I'd appreciate it if you didn't give those details, by the way.  Just say I have two siblings, that's fine.  My childhood was happy.  We even had a dog."

"What was the dog's name?" Chris asked.

"Spot," she replied.  "Very creative, I know.  My sister named him and she was only three at the time, so whatever.  He was a pretty cool dog.  Passed away, wow, almost five years ago now it must have been."  She shrugged.  "Dogs don't tend to live that long in the grand scheme of things."

"But legends do," Chris noted.

Clara laughed again and leaned back in her chair, feeling strangely more relaxed around this odd person.  "I wouldn't say our dog was a legend..." she noted, considering winking at him, but then thinking better of it.

Chris actually blushed a little at that.  "I was talking about you," he said softly.  He was looking at her as he said it, but then he immediately looked back down at his notebook and cleared his throat.  "Okay," he said, "so a good childhood, check.  How about the transition to adulthood?  College?  What did you study?  What did you want to do?"

"Well, I certainly didn't plan on being a superhero, if that's what you're getting at," Clara said with another light laugh that surprised her as it came out.  "At first I thought about going into social work, you know, to help people.  But I quickly found I wasn't empathetic enough for that.  I mean, I care about people, I just can't really connect with them the way you'd need to to work in social work.  I was more... cold I guess."

"I'd think that could be an asset in some ways," Chris noted.  "Not getting caught up in the sob stories that aren't totally true, for example."

Clara shrugged.  "Yeah, I suppose it could have been, but still, it just didn't seem like the right fit.  So I ended up studying business administration instead.  Pretty much the most boring field possible, but honestly, I didn't have many other interests."

"But you had some," Chris prompted, picking up on the use of 'many' instead of 'any'.

Clara smiled softly.  "Yeah, I suppose I had a few," she admitted looking down at the table.  "I liked intramural sports.  I also liked singing so I tried out for a choral group, but I didn't get it so that was that.  I was interested in linguistics, but not enough to major in it.  I think I ended up having it as a minor."  She shrugged and looked back up.  "Not much interesting there, sorry."

He shook his head.  "No, there's plenty.  This doesn't have to be an in-depth analysis of everything you are.  In fact, given our agreement, it couldn't be that anyway.  Nothing too unique, remember?"

Clara smiled and nodded, glad he had remembered.  It baffled her for a moment that this seemingly very respectful man was the same one who had literally broken into her apartment several months ago.  She hoped this wasn't just an act or a ploy.  She was putting a lot of faith in him.  More than she put in literally anyone else in her life.

Chris continued to speak, interrupting her thoughts.  "I guess if we want to make it a bit more interesting, you could answer my original question of why you do what you do as the Ninja."  She saw a sly grin cross his face and she laughed, again with the laughing, ever so lightly.

"Okay, fine," she consented.  "I mean, even that, there isn't much to tell.  I've always wanted to help people, but I didn't seem cut out to help them in any deep way, going back to the whole social work thing.  I mean, I care about people, but I don't really CARE about people, you know?  I never really got close to people.  Not my own family.  Not my friends.  Heck, most of the people I would name as friends are more of acquaintances anyway.  But I still cared about them all, as people.  Even people I don't know, they matter.  People matter.  So I guess."  She sighed.  "I guess in place of making those deep meaningful connections, instead of being able to make a big difference in a few people's lives, I wanted to make a little difference in as many lives as possible."

When she finished talking, Chris just stared at her for a moment.  She noticed he had stopped taking notes.  There was a silence that was just bordering on awkward when Chris broke it by saying, "You're wrong if you think what you do isn't making a big difference in people's lives, Clara.  I'm certain there are people who would not even be ALIVE today were it not for you.  Heck it, it's even possible I would have been one of them."

Clara blushed at that, but she also shook her head as she thought back to Chris's mugging.  "Naw, that guy wasn't going to kill you," she said, deflecting.  "He was just going to take your wallet and phone and be on his way."

Chris cleared his throat and admitted, "Okay, maybe not me, but others for sure."

Clara couldn't argue with that.  She knew it was true.  She just didn't like thinking too much about it.  She glanced down and back up and down and back up.  "Okay, well, is that it then?" she finally asked.

"Well, I am curious about one more thing," Chris admitted.

"Go ahead," Clara prompted.

"What made you decide to dress like a ninja?"

Clara laughed yet again.  "I wasn't really thinking ninja," she admitted.  "I wanted to wear something form fitting but not too tight, so it wouldn't get in the way of my movement.  I wanted to conceal my identity because, you know, what I do isn't always strictly legal and I don't really want thugs knowing who I am."  She almost added, 'like you' after thugs, but it just didn't feel right anymore.  "So yeah, it just kind-of came out as a ninja thing."  She smiled thinking back to the first time anyone had reported on her.  "Actually, I was kinda surprised when they started calling me a ninja.  I hadn't thought about it like that before, but it wasn't wrong."

Chris smiled.  "Now that's a nice story," he noted.  "Something cute and funny but not at all revealing about you personally."  He blushed and added, "or at least, not revealing in a way that anyone else would know you were the ninja."

She nodded.  "No, I suppose not."  She sighed, debating whether she was going to tell him the next bit, but she felt it was important.  She wanted to emphasize just how important it was that he keep her identity a secret.  "Chris," she said, and he leaned forward a bit at the sound of his own name, "I know you already agreed to keep my name out of this, but seriously... you are the only person who knows my identity.  If I see my name associated with the ninja anywhere, I'll know it was your doing.  Seriously.  Don't mess with me."

Chris seemed a bit taken aback at that, maybe even a little scared?  And Clara realized what she had just said was probably at odds with the rest of the interview, but it had to be said.  Eventually, Chris recovered and nodded.  "Yes, yes of course," he agreed.  "You might not expect it, but I am a man of my word."

"I'm not sure whether I expect it or not," Clara said standing up, "but I'm counting on it."

Chris simply nodded as he stood as well.

"Okay," Clara said.  "Let me show you out."


Clara once again expected that to be the last time she ever saw Chris Thatcher.  She checked on the Globe every few days and once she saw his story printed, she was relieved.  True to his word, he had not written anything that could personally identify her.  He started with the story she told at the end about becoming a 'ninja' unintentionally, mentioned that behind the mask was an ordinary 9-5 office worker, noted that her family was kind and loving though even they did not know her secret and finished up stating that even though no one may ever know the Ninja's true identity, they could rest assured she was keeping them safe and watching out for the city.  It was actually a very nice article.  The conclusion made Clara smile and almost tear up.  Almost.  If nothing else, Chris had reminded her that what she was doing was important, was valuable, and now she felt like she could keep doing it without fear of being caught or exposed.

Still, she wasn't completely trusting.  Humans, as much as she cared about them, were humans after all.  So she still checked in the Globe from time to time, just to make sure Chris hadn't stabbed her in the back.  It was nearly three months later that she saw it, not an article about her, but an article about a second ninja.  She just stared at it, thinking, what the...  And then she called up the Globe.

"I'd like to speak to Chris Thatcher please," she said to the polite voice that answered the phone.

"Oh!" the person on the other end of the line seemed surprised.  Maybe Chris didn't give out his real name to many people?  Maybe even this person didn't know his real name?  But then, "Okay sure, just a moment."

There was a beep, a short period of hold music, and then Chris answered by saying, "This is Fred."

Clara laughed despite herself.  "Hey there 'Fred'," she said, leaning into the Fred.  "I hear there's another Ninja in town."

"Who is this?" Chris immediately asked.  And then recognition seemed to set it as he began, "Is this..." but he trailed off.  He didn't say her name.  Clara realized it was because he wanted to be sure it really was her.

"Yes, it's Clara," she confirmed.  And she heard him sigh on the other line.  "So what are you doing, man?  Another ninja in town?"

"Listen Clara, I can explain," his voice got more hushed and he sighed again.  "Okay, maybe I can't really explain just, that interview, it, it sort of inspired me?  I mean, I've taken self-defense classes before, so I knew I could at least defend myself and, and..."

Clara's eyes grew wide as he spoke.  Holy crap.  She hadn't realized he was the other ninja.  She had just thought his tabloid was reporting on another ninja.  The silence must have revealed to him that he had just unwittingly spilled the beans.

"Oh, you didn't realize it was me," he said softly.

"Nope," Clara confirmed.

"Well shit."

And at that Clara burst out laughing.  "So seriously," she said once she had calmed down.  "You wrote an article about yourself?"

"N-no," Chris stammered.  "One of my colleagues did.  It was a little annoying, actually.  I didn't necessarily want people knowing about it.  At least not yet."

"Well, now you know how I felt."

"Fair enough," Chris agreed.

"So who knows?" Clara asked.

"At this point..."  Chris sighed again.  "Only you."

Clara grinned.  "And only because you decided to tell me."

"Yes, har har."  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly and said, "Honestly, I think I wanted someone else to know.  And since you're well, you do it too, I figured..."

"Don't worry Chris," she reassured him.  "As long as my secret is safe with you, your secret is safe with me."

"Then I guess we're both safe," he said.

"Yeah, for now anyway,"  Clara said nodding.  This would be a perfect time to say good-bye, to just hang up, but instead she said, "So how is it going?  You're not doing anything too dangerous, are you?"

He laughed.  "No, and you'd probably know that if you'd read the entire article before you called me.  I know my limits."  He paused and then added more honestly, "At least I hope I do."

Clara closed her eyes and silently counted to three, seriously hoping she was not going to regret what came out of her mouth next.  "Maybe we could train together or something.  Just, you know, to make sure you do know your limits."

The tone of his voice completely changed, to the extent that Clara really hoped he realized this was just business.  "Yeah, that would be great!" he exclaimed.  And then after a clearing of his throat, more sheepishly, "Yeah, I would like that a lot."

"Good," she said with a nod.  Then she sighed and added, "Just to be clear, this isn't a date or anything.  It's also not an invitation for you to write more about me.  I'd prefer that be done."

"Yes, yes of course," Chris agreed.  "I'd prefer for that to be done, too."

Clara laughed.  "Oh, Chris," she scolded, "I'm afraid that for you, that might just be getting started."  After he sputtered a bit at that, she added, "But we'll at least make sure you don't make a fool of yourself."  And then more softly, "or end up dead."

"Yes, yes I'd prefer not to die," Chris agreed.

"Well good.  Maybe we can meet..."  And they set up a date, time, and place to meet up.  Clara realized after she hung up that she was yet again putting a lot of trust in Chris, but he was putting a lot of trust in her, too.  She turned back to the Globe and read the full story.  Now that she knew it was Chris in the photo, it really did look like him.  She wondered how no one else had recognized her in her photos, but then she figured she had done more to hide than Chris had, and they didn't know what to look for.  At any rate, it almost felt good to know there was another, and not just another who wanted to do good like her, another that maybe, just maybe, she could really trust.

Clara (part 5)

"Oh, Clara!" the receptionist piped up when she saw Clara walk in the door.  She seemed relieved and then a little nervous.  "Do you know this guy?"

Clara briefly considering lying and saying no, but with a resigned sigh, she just said, "Yeah, I know him.  That's Chris.  He can have a visitor's pass, I suppose."

The receptionist, Amy, raised an eyebrow at that.  "Are you sure?" she asked.

Clara reconsidered and decided, "No, actually, I think Chris and I can just chat outside."  And with that she turned and walked back out the door, expecting Chris to follow.

He did.  She glanced back and saw him, walked over to the side of the building, and then turned on him to demand, "What are you doing here?"

He just grinned stupidly.  "For one, confirming that you really are the Ninja."

She appreciated him dropping the "Lady" part, but still she had to ask, "And how did you do that?"

He continued to beam.  "I never told you my name.  That was just the Ninja."

She started to open her mouth in protest, but damn it!  He was right.  She had slipped up.  She sighed.  "Okay fine, but you already agreed you weren't going to print my name anyway.  So again, what are you doing here?"

"I said I wouldn't print your name," Chris admitted.  "And I'm a man of my word.  But my readers still want to know more about you.  Who you really are.  What makes you tick."

"I can tell you want makes me tick like a bomb," Clara said, a bit of a stretch for a metaphor for her anger, but who really cares, "and that's people getting in my business."

Chris took a step back and held his hands up in a gesture of submission. "Hey, I wasn't trying to do any of that," he protested.  "I was just hoping to chat.  Maybe have a little interview of sorts."

"And you couldn't just call?"

"You never gave me your phone number."

"And I certainly didn't give you the address of my employer!" Clara exclaimed.

Chris took another step back at that.  His smile faded and he sighed.  "Yeah, I suppose you're right.  I just felt like coming here was less intrusive that finding your phone number and calling you?  I might have made a mistake."

"Yeah, we can agree on that at least," Clara told him.  She sighed and rubbed her forehead.  "What kind of reporter are you anyway?" she asked, eyes closed and downcast.

"Not a very good one, apparently," he said.

That caught her completely off guard.  Her eyes shot open, her head went up, and she just stared at him for a moment.  He had this sheepish half grin on his face, but his eyes were twinkling, saying something like yeah I'm not very good, but at least you're talking to me right now.  And without really understanding why, Clara just burst out laughing.

Soon Chris was laughing, too.  And when the laughing eventually died down, Clara just sighed and rolled her eyes.  "Okay fine," she said.  "I'll give you one 'interview.'  But then that's it.  You leave me alone.  The only time I ever see you again is if its a coincidence.  And you still don't print anything that could identify me.  Nothing that's not true of more than a couple hundred other people in the city at least."

Chris seemed like he wanted to protest, but eventually he sighed as well, held out his hand for her to shake and said, "Okay, deal."

She hesitated, but took his hand and shook it.  "Okay, fine," she said.  "Now come on, let's get this over with."

And she led him back into the office building, where she got a guest pass for him for real this time, and then took him up a side staircase to a side room where she hoped no one would see them as she had resigned herself to this "interview" after which she hoped to endure as few questions from her co-workers as possible.

Clara (Part 4)

It turned out Clara had misjudged that peksy reporter whose name she didn't know, at least a little.  She kept an eye on his tabloid, the Globe, just in case, and was certainly glad that she did.  It didn't make the front page or anything, but in an issue published a week later, she found a short expose on the "Lady Ninja".  It didn't give her name, not even her first name, but it mentioned details about her that were flattering, and yet that she would have preferred not to see in print associated with her alter ego.  She was described as strong, both physically and mentally, independent, single, and managing to hold a steady job while still "fighting crime in the dead of night".  The article also promised more secrets to be revealed next week.  Clara hoped she could stop that from happening.  She hoped that perhaps now having a by-line attached to the man who appeared to have been at least slightly stalking her would help.  But then, it turned out she didn't need the by-line after all.

It was two nights after she found the article when she encountered it's author.  She hadn't even intended to.  She had googled the by-line, Fred Simmons, and found some other trashy, yet well-written and intriguing, "reporting" by him, as well as a photo that seemed to match with a less dishieveled version of her guy, but also a pretty strong indication that "Fred Simmons" was not his real name.  Before she could find out much more than that, she came face to face with "Fred" in a way she wasn't quite expecting.

"Fred" was being mugged.

Clara had been perched on a fire escape, waiting, when it happened.  She saw likely nere-do-wells in the alley, but she always waited until she actually witnessed them attempting a crime before she struck.  She did her best not to assume.  Though often her assumptions did turn out to be right, the few times they didn't were enough to make her stick to her rule of waiting.  And this time her rule of waiting also allowed her to witness "Fred" being pushed into the alley along with demands for his wallet and phone.

She was frustrated to see him there, but at the same time, he didn't seem to know she was there.  She could just leave, let him get robbed, hope that maybe it would convince him to stop stalking around dark alleys himself.  But she knew she couldn't do that.  She was a hero, or at least pretended to be, and heroes didn't let innocent people get hurt, even if those innocents were guilty of being really annoying.

So she swept down like she always did, scared the bad guys off, and made sure "Fred" was okay.  Once he realized he was safe, he just beamed at her and said, "This is definitely going in my next article."

"That better be all that's going in your next article," she said with a smirk.

"You mean you don't want me to publish your real name, Clara Younger?" he asked with a gleam in his eye and a degree of confidence that she did not feel was merited by someone who had just nearly been robbed.  It was also the first time he had used her full name.

"Even if that was my name," she replied, after pausing a beat longer than she wished she had, "it doesn't seem fair that it would be published by someone who hides behind a fake by-line."

He quirked up an eyebrow at that.  "So you have read my work," he noted.

"And looked into it enough to know you have a secret identity, too," she confirmed.

He just stared at her for a moment, but then he shrugged.  "I've got nothing to hide, really," he claimed.  And then he added, "Unlike some people..."  He let that trail off and then said with a return to confidence, "What the heck!  My real name is Chris Thatcher."  He held out his hand for her to shake.

She did not shake his hand.  "I'll look into that," she said.  She considered him carefully.  And then she sighed.  She had read his other stuff.  Though it certainly gravitated towards the, shall we say sensational, he never actually assailed any person's character and he didn't seem to print things that would actually put one in danger.  It was often stories about mysterious strangers making the world better.  And that was certainly what she was trying to do... she just didn't want people to know the identity of the person behind the mask.  Finally, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she decided to simply say, "Please don't print my real name.  You can write about this incident, sure, whatever.  Just please don't tell people who I really am."

He seemed surprised by the forwardness of that.  He even took a small step backwards, but then he said in the softest voice she had heard him use yet, "Of course.  If it's really that important to you, I won't use your real name."  Then he sighed and said in a normal volume, "But don't you want people to know who you are?  Don't you want the recognition?"

She simply shook her head.  "If I did, I wouldn't wear the outfit would I?"

He shrugged.  And then she was surprised to see him blush as he said, "Sometimes people just feel more confident in a costume."  Then he cleared his throat and added, "Or so I've heard."

She rolled her eyes at that.  "Yeah, well, you can't believe everything you hear, Chris Thatcher."  Part of the reason she repeated his name was to make sure she would remember it when she got home to Google it, but she also liked the way he seemed to stand up straighter when she said it, almost like he had been given a command.  It made her feel somehow powerful in the situation, even though she knew he had the leverage and she was having to trust he would show her the respect she had asked for.

He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then he apparently thought better of it as he pressed his lips back together and just shook his head as he looked down.  "Well, I guess being in the business I am, I can't argue with that."  Then he looked back up at her and smiled, "I'll see you around, Miss Ninja."

"I hope not," she replied.  And then more softly, "Be careful, Chris."

He nodded.  She was still surprised by how not shaken he was by the mugging attempt, but she supposed those things never shook her up either.  "You, too," he said.  "You, too."  And then he walked off never to be seen again.  Or so she had hoped.


The next time she saw Chris was a week later.  His second article had come out, and true to his word, he had not mentioned her name, but instead had focused on his "harrowing experience", which was rather embellished, and the "daring rescue" he experienced.  It was an interesting essay in how it emphasized the role reversals of the typical gender stereotypes.  Yet somehow it did this without referring to her as the "Lady Ninja".  It simply called her "the Ninja".  She thought to herself that maybe Chris wasn't so bad after all.

That thought had crossed her mind before she walked into her place of employment and saw him talking to the receptionist, asking about Clara Younger.

Clara (Part 3)

Once Clara found a new apartment she liked, she didn't hesitate to start moving as soon as possible.  She ultimately settled on just choosing the place that had the right combination of comfort, affordability, and proximity to her place of employment - you know, the normal considerations for normal non-vigilante individuals.

Amid the apartment search and subsequent moving period, she also tried to see if she could find out more about this person who had broken into her home.  She had given the police a rough description and that he worked, or at least claimed he worked, at the Globe.  She heard later from those police that the Globe had been contacted and had refused to offer any insights into who the "alleged" reporter had been.  Clara had tried to figure it out, but they had enough different by lines on their articles, and no photos of anyone, that she really had no idea.  After goggling the first five male names she found listed and discovering three of them seemed to be aliases and the other two were definitely not the man she had seen, she gave up.  She supposed if she really wanted to know who he was, she could track him down, but as long as he didn't bother her again, she didn't see the need.  She had already given him much more thought than she gave to most individuals, and she didn't quite like how that felt.  Or at least she didn't like how different it was.

After a few weeks had passed and she was safely settled in her new place, she put him completely out of her mind.  At least she did for a few days, because just over a month after she had met this mystery man, she came face to face with him again.

It was late on a Friday night, around 2am, and she had prevented two muggings and scared three drunk people into calling a cab instead of trying to drive home - some might say not the best use of her talents, but life-saving nonetheless.  She was hiding behind a dumpster, trying to determine if this was the best spot for her to wait for trouble, when she heard a man shout, "Stop thief!"

She ran out of the alley and heard a voice yell, "He went that way!"

Clara glanced quickly around, not seeing anyone running away.  Then her gaze fell on the man who was pointing with one hand and holding his phone in the other.  "Where - " she began.

And then the flash flashed and the camera on the phone made a series of rapid snapping noise.  And the man said, "Shit!"  And then she recognized him.  Though she certainly couldn't let on that she recognized him, since this was the first time this reporter and the "Lady Ninja" had met.

Rather than blow her cover, she simply did what she would have done anyway and exclaimed, "Did you really just take a picture of me?"

"N-no," he stammered, forcing a grin.

She took a big stomping step towards him, which made him flinch before exclaiming, "I took 20 pictures of you!  Okay bye!"  And he turned and ran.

Clara sighed, trying to decide if she should just let him go or chase after him.  It wasn't the first time she'd been caught on camera, after all.  Once, she had even let a small child pose with her for a shot.  She had a soft spot for little kids, or at least more of a soft spot than for adults.  But this was different.  She knew this man was a reporter.  He didn't necessarily have to know that she knew, but it was enough that she did know.  With another sigh, she took off running after him.  He wasn't hard to catch.

When she did catch up to him, she shoved him in an alley, a bit harder than she'd meant to, but not so hard that he fell over or anything, and demanded, "DELETE THOSE PHOTOS!"

Not only did he not delete those photos, but he grinned up at her and pressed a button on what was not his phone, but apparently a small digital recorder.  Her voice said back to her, "DELETE THOSE PHOTOS!"  Then looking like he'd won the lottery, he pressed another button and she heard her voice from a month ago say, "You BROKE INTO MY HOME."

Clara wanted to take a step back in shock, but she didn't dare.  That would only show he was right.  So would taking his device or demanding that he delete the audio.  So she didn't do any of those things.  She just stared at him.  And then after a silence that she cursed herself for letting go on for too long she said simply, "Who is that supposed to be?"

"That's you," he said.

She shrugged, doing her best to continue to feign ignorance, to which he said, "That's you, CLARA."

She wanted to throttle this man.  But that wasn't who she was.  She didn't hurt innocents.  And although she could argue the man who had broken into her home wasn't totally innocent of wrong-doing, there were much bigger fish to fry.  And what was he going to do with that audio anyway?  She was pretty sure that since it was just audio, he couldn't even prove it was her.  Well, she supposed if he did come up with some way to get the police involved and they had her come down for an interview as Clara, he could prove both voices were Clara's.  But how did he expect to prove Clara's voice was also the Ninja's?  He couldn't.  If nothing else, she could just use this to prove he was the one who broke into her apartment.  Maybe it would even help her press charges.

So ultimately she just sighed, rolled her eyes, and said, "Okay fine, keep the photos.  I don't care."

As she turned to walk off, she heard him stammering after her, "B-b-b..."  She couldn't help but smile.  What a buffoon.  She had probably worried about him for no reason after all.

Clara (Part 2)

That evening, Clara went out as usual.  She figured if this mystery reporter's suspicions really were aroused regarding her, she would only arouse them more if she decided to behave differently than normal.  So she stuffed her outfit into a small backpack, threw out some running clothes, and went off for a jog in the park.

She drove to a park fairly far from her apartment, as usual these days, a park in one of the "rougher" parts of town where, within a couple hours, drug dealers and "thugs" were likely to emerge.  She parked about a mile from the park, jogged there, and then walked around for a bit, scoping things out.  After about another 30 minutes of that, she went into restroom at the edge of the park that had been "out of order" for ages, but remained unlocked.  Changed into her outfit, hiding her other clothes and backpack above a lose ceiling tile, and then slipped out into the night as a much more dangerous person.

The night was successful.  Clara managed to break-up four drug sales and got out of there just in time when the police finally decided to show up and try their hand at what she was doing.  As she headed back to her apartment, she felt exhausted yet elated, and hopeful that maybe she was ready to move to the even more dangerous parts of town, where the leaders of the gangs hung out and not just their lackeys.

When she got back to her apartment, she immediately knew something was wrong.  Well, "immediately" as in as soon as she put her key in the lock and turned.  There was no familiar click of the deadbolt unlocking.  Her apartment was already unlocked.  She took a breath as she contemplated what to do.  Ultimately, she settled on going around the back side of her building and entering through her balcony instead to see if she could catch whoever was in there off guard.  With a sigh, she slung her backpack over her shoulders and went back outside.


They didn't call Clara "ninja" simply because of her outfit.  She was as silent as humanly possible as she hoisted herself up to her own balcony, unlocked the sliding glass door, and slid into the study at the end of the hallway.  She cautiously glided across the carpet, guided by the light that she knew she hadn't left on in the living room, and as she grew closer, she was able to peek around the corner to see, seated on her couch and staring towards the door she normally would have entered, that same reporter from earlier that day.

Clara rolled her eyes and then practically jumped into the living room.  "What the hell are you doing in my apartment?" she demanded.

The reporter let out a little shriek that sounded like "Eeek!" and really did jump.  He leaped up from the couch, but then seemed to stumble over his own two feet and plopped back down.  His eyes grew wide.  "I - I know who you are!" he blurted out.

"And I have no idea who you are," Clara countered.  She held up her cell phone which she had collected from her bedroom (she never took it out with her on "missions").  "I'm calling the police," she told him.

"No, no wait!" he insisted, waving his hands wildly.  "Before you do..." he grinned mischeviously, "what's in your backpack?"

Clara's pulse quickened just for a second or two, but then she simply rolled her eyes.  "Clothes," she said, "and I have no obligation to show them to you because you BROKE INTO MY HOME."

"Okay, okay," he consented, countenance falling and holding up his arms still in a submissive gesture.  "Do what you have to do just know..." he grinned again "I know who you are."

"Fine," she said, and she held out her phone so that he could see her dialing 911.  He stuck around just long enough to hear her say, "Yes, there's a crazy reporter who broke into my apartment and is now harassing me."  Then she watched as he did his best to calmly exit through her front door while also trembling in nervousness.  As she watched him go, she contemplated that she could have held him there, made him stay, forced the police to deal with him.  But then again, calling 911 was more or less just a show to get him to leave.  If this pesky reporter needed to be dealt with, Clara was more than capable of dealing with it in her own way.


The next morning she decided that "dealing with it in her own way" might as well mean getting a new apartment.  Her lease was up in another month and she hadn't renewed yet.  After living there 5 years, now was as good a time as any to move on.  Maybe she should move closer to the dangerous parts of the city she most wanted to protect and clean up.  But then again, maybe she should do just the opposite so as not to raise any additional suspicion.  She sighed as she browsed the web looking for apartments with vacancies.  She felt like this was the most any person outside her immediate family had influenced her decision making.  She already knew that she didn't really like it.

Clara (Part 1)

Clara had always cared about people.  Not any specific people, just people in general.  She cared that they existed, that they lived and grew around her.  She wanted to see them happy.  It made her smile to make someone else smile.  Yet, she never got to close, not to anyone, not even her own family.  She loved humanity, but she herself didn't always feel entirely human.

As Clara grew older, she started to see that some people weren't that great.  Some wanted to hurt others.  She could understand wanting to keep one's distance, not wanting to fully connect in an emotional way, keeping things intellectual, or even just as a surface level of affection.  What she could not understand was actively wanting to do harm.  She hated it.  She hated seeing others get hurt.  And she knew, deep inside, that she couldn't really get hurt, not in the same way others could.  She didn't have deep connections.  She cared, but her care was broad, and never deep.  Her ties to others couldn't be manipulated because they didn't exist.  When Clara realized the power of this surface level concern, the power she had to help others without putting herself at any greater risk than she already was, that was when Clara started to become a hero.

She at least needed a mask because even if she wasn't worried about a bad guy or gal coming after someone she cared about deeply, she'd still prefer it if they didn't seek her out when she wasn't looking for trouble.  In the end, she went with more than the mask - she had a whole ninja style get-up, covering everything but her eyes, and even those she disguised with colored contacts.  No need to take any risks of being caught.  She knew what she was doing wasn't strictly legal, but she also knew it was right.  She couldn't risk someone who was trying to do "good" by turning her in as a vigilante putting others in harms way when she was off the street.

At first, it didn't even matter that much.  The things she did were small - stopping some vandalism, preventing a mugging - but gradually, word about her spread.  Now when she appeared, those trying to do harm either scoffed because they didn't believe the stories they had heard, or ran because they did believe.  Either way, the innocent ended up safe.


It was three years into her late-night career that a knock at her door threatened to ruin everything.  Clara opened the door to reveal a handsome though rather disheveled man of about her own age.  He had dark hair, green eyes, and a small notebook with a pen.  "Good afternoon, ma'am," he said, sounding a bit nervous, "I'm a reporter with the Globe," Clara recognized that as a conspiracy mag, "and I've been tracking the whereabouts of the Lady Ninja."  Clara inwardly groaned at the extremely uncreative and unintentionally sexist name people had given to her alter ego, but only long enough to quickly transition to panic that this man was questioning her about her alter ego.  "My research indicates that she may be operating out of an apartment somewhere on your block."

Clara raised an eyebrow at that, and breathed an internal and silent sigh of relief that he did not seem to actually suspect her of being the veiled hero.  Still, she couldn't help but ask, "And what makes you think that?"

"The pattern of where she's been sighted," he said.  Clara found that odd considering she made a point to go all over the city when she went out on her "missions."  Almost as if he read her mind, though clearly he didn't, the man continued, "When she first started appearing it was around this area and she's moved out from here since, but she still seems to be mostly centered around this general area."  Clara silently cursed herself, realizing she had been doing exactly what the man said, thinking spreading out would throw off suspicion, but not thinking about the fact that it would still form a nice little circle around where she lived.  How had the police, who supposedly wanted to bring her in for questioning, not picked up on that?

"Anyway," the man was continuing, "I was just wondering how long you've lived here?  Long enough to remember someone moving in maybe three years ago?"

Clara relaxed a little at that, glad she had lived in this apartment for another two years before she had started her escapades.  "I don't really know my neighbors that well," she honestly replied.  "I've lived here for five years.  Not really sure who moved in three years ago that's still here.  I can assure you, though, that I haven't noticed any 'lady ninjas' around."  Other than when I look in the mirror, she silently added to herself.

The man was silent for a moment and seemed suspicious for the first time since knocking on her door.  Or maybe it was just that he seemed more confident?  Having gotten over his initial nerves at looking at her.  "Okay," he mumbled, and looked down at his paper without taking any notes, then back up at her.  "Just one more question," he said.  "How tall are you?"

Uh-oh, Clara thought.  He hadn't seemed suspicious of her before.  Had she gone too far in claiming not to have ever seen the ninja he was looking for.  Well, maybe if she fudged her height down just a little it would help?  Though she never took the time to ask, she imagined people who saw her threatening them would imagine her as being taller than she really was.  "Six foot six or so," she answered.  Then she decided to try to make him uncomfortable, maybe put him on his guard and distract him a bit by adding, "But don't ask my weight."

She was glad to see him blush just a little and stammer out, "N-no, of course not."  He looked back down and flipped his little notebook shut.  "Well, thank you for your time," he said, and he turned and walked away.

As Clara shut the door behind him, she couldn't help but think he had been kinda cute, in a nutty conspiracy theorist kind of way at least.  It was about the most emotionally affectionate thing she allowed herself to think about anyone.

Love You to Death (Part 8)

It seemed like an eternity passed in that instant, and yet it took no time at all for so many thoughts to run through Connor's mind.  He could try to run, but then what about Kiera?  Maybe if he simply didn't answer, this would go away.  Maybe this was still a dream.  If Death wanted to take Kiera, he wasn't going to let her go easily.  He was going to fight, even if it meant he died, too.  But would Kiera want that?  Would she want him to keep fighting the inevitable?  Had his dream meant she was ready to go?  But no, that dream was a manifestation of his own subconscious fears.  Just hours earlier, Kiera had told him she wasn't going to die any time soon.  She wanted to live.  He wanted her to live.  He was going to do anything in his power to make sure she kept on living.

"There's nothing to talk about," he said in response to the Grim Reaper, still clutching a skillet in his hand, thinking now about how little damage this skillet would do as a weapon, but how he would at least try anyway.

Death smirked.  "We all know that's not true," he said looking between Connor and Kiera.

To Connor's exterme shock and horror, Kiera chose this moment to step between him and Death.  "Connor isn't doing anything wrong," she insisted, trying to sound confident, though Connor could both see and feel her tremble.

"He is doing a lot of things wrong," Death insisted, as calm as ever, clearly not even remotely moved by Kiera's small act of bravery.  "But I would be willing to hear arguments that it isn't really his fault, that he was manipulated and used by one, Kiera Jones."

"Now just a minute," Connor insisted, slamming his skillet down, thoughts of using it as a weapon forgotten, and now putting himself between Death and Kiera.  "Kiera didn't make me do anything.  I chose to save her, and I chose to save the others, too.  I made a choice and I'm willing to live with the consequences.  Me.  Not Kiera."

Death's smirk deepened, and then he shrugged and looked at his nails.  "This is all very sweet, mortals," he said, "but I don't really care which of you dies, as long as one of you pays for all those lives you've been wrongly saving."

"It wasn't wrong," Kiera said, moving to now stand beside Connor, her hand silently slipping into his own and giving it a squeeze.  "None of what we did was wrong and you know it."

Had Connor not been so totally terrified, he would have laughed at that.  But this was definitely not a time for laughing.  This was a time for utter and complete terror.  Because in front of him, Death's eyes grew darker than dark, black robes became encased with shadows, and the whole room seemed to plunge into night as if the sun had simply ceased to exist and electricity was no longer a thing.  The only thing that gave Connor a sense of where he was and what was happening was the continued presence of Kiera's hand in his own.  Then he saw red light shining an outline around Death.  He saw horns grow from the man's head in that outline and heard a snarl as he sensed lunging towards them.  It was impossible to know which way they should dodge, but somehow Kiera and Connor both decided to dodge to the right, pulling out of the way as Death went crashing into the kitchen.

And then, Connor heard what was simultaneously the most shocking and expected thing he could have.  He heard Kiera say the words, "You have to let me go."  Except she wasn't talking to him.  She clearly wasn't talking to him based on how tightly she continued to grip his hand.  She was speaking away from him, into the darkness.  She was talking to Death.  Kiera Jones was asking, no, demanding that Death let her go.  "But if you don't," she continued, "you have to let Connor go.  Free him of his duty.  Let him live a normal life.  That's the only way I'll go with you.  That's the only way I'll die, is if Connor's life is made better for it."

"Kiera, no," Connor whispered.

He felt Kiera turn towards him, though he still couldn't see in the dark.  "Hush," she whispered back.  "I'm trying to make a deal with Death on your behalf."

"I don't want you to," he said back.  "And besides, my life could never be better without you in it."

He felt her staring at him, or at least trying to.  He was silent for a moment, and then he turned back to the direction of Death's snarling.  "I'll go," he said.  "You can take me.  But only on the condition that you don't make Kiera take my place.  Don't make her a reaper.  Never make her a reaper."

At this, Death cackled.  Connor felt a chill, as if the entire world had frozen.  He felt Kiera's hand shake and his and he knew she had felt it, too.  But he wasn't letting go.  He was never letting go unless it meant that it would leave Kiera safer than she had been before.

And then a totally surprising and not at all expected thing happened.  The lights came back on and there was Death, the Grim Reaper, once again standing before them, back in his basic black outfit, horns gone, eyes looking as normal as they could, and he was smiling at them.  Not smirking like before.  Death was smiling at them.  "So this is how it's going to be is it?" he asked, hands on his hips in a much less imposing pose than he had been striking before the little blackout.  "How am I supposed to choose which of you to take if both of you want to be the sacrificial lamb?"

"Uh, how about you take neither of us?" Kiera suggested.

Connor could not believe she had just said that.  Where the hell had that come from?  How could she think that was the right thing to...  But then Connor was shocked once again.  Because Death, the end of all life, the one who had controlled his life for the past decade, was laughing.  Not a maniacal laugh.  A laugh of genuine amusement and, pleasure?  What the living hell?

Death shrugged.  "Well, I suppose I can't take Connor because of the contract I held with his parents," Death noted looking at Kiera.  "And if I take you Kiera, well who knows what Connor would do."  He shifted his weight and grinned mischeviously.  "Tell you what," he said, shifting his gaze to Connor, "Connor, you are still in my employ, officially, as a reaper.  That paper you've got," he gestured in the general direction of the bedroom, apparently aware of where it was, "that has all the instructions you'll ever get from me from now on.  Don't expect another one.  Ever."  He sighed and his sly grin softened into something more reflective.  "Ah love," he lamented.  "The only thing stronger than death."  And then he snapped his fingers and he was gone.

Connor finally exhaled, not even aware he had been holding his breath, and turned to look at Kiera, "What the...?" he began.

She was grinning like mad as she interrupted him.  "Hold that thought," she ordered, as she finally let go of his hand and rushed out of the kitchen and back down the hall.  When she returned, she was holding a folded up piece of paper.  THE folded up piece of paper.  She stood beside him, and he swore he could hear both of their hearts pounding as she unfolded it.  When she did, there were no more names or dates or locations, but it wasn't blank either.  It simply said in large red block letters, "Burn."

Connor shuddered.  "What is he trying to say?  Is that a threat?"

Connor was scared.  But as he looked up at Kiera, he saw that she clearly at least thought she knew something he didn't.  "Nope," she said happily.  "It's your final instruction."  And she slipped past him further into the kitchen, opened a drawer, fished something out of it, and then turned back around holding out to him the paper that said "Burn" and a lighter.

Connor let his jaw drop open.  "Kiera, you can't really think that he means..."

Kiera nodded.  "That's exactly what he means," she said.  Then she cocked her head to the side.  "Did you never try to destroy one of these papers before?  Not ever?"

"Never," he admitted.

"Did he ever tell you not to?" she asked.

That question caught him off guard.  "Well, n-no..."

"And now he's telling you that you should," she noted, taking a step towards him.  "I would do it myself," she noted, "but you're the one who is still in his employ, not me."  She held the paper and the lighter out to him.

Connor took them nervously, his heart still pounding.  But when he looked up at her, she was still beaming, beaming like they had won, beaming like they had saved the world, when really, they had only saved each other... maybe.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked her.

Her eyes darted away and then quickly back to him and her smile faded just a little.  "No," she admitted.  "I'm not sure this is what 'Burn' means, but I want it to be, and what's the worst that can happen if this isn't what you're supposed to do?"

"Death could show back up and drag us both to hell," Connor said rather seriously, though coming out it almost felt like a joke to him.

Kiera decided to take it as a joke.  She laughed.  Genuine and full.  Just like she had at the party, the party in her apartment that he should never have gone to but was so glad he had, what felt like so long ago.  "We'll deal with this if it happens," she said.

Connor chuckled and shrugged.  "Okay, what the hell," he said, and he flicked the lighter on and held it up to the paper.

For a brief moment as the flame started to burn the page, Connor realized that maybe lighting a full sheet of paper in the middle of the kitchen was not the best idea, but then he watched as the paper seemed to burn without heat or ash.  As a red flame licked across the page, the bits that it touched seemed to simply fade away, like so many names, and then it was gone.  Connor was left with one hand empty and the other holding a lighter that he quickly flicked off.

And then the lighter was thrown onto the counter as Kiera threw herself into his arms.  She was laughing and crying and he spun her around without even thinking about it and they were kissing, at least as much as they could between gasps of laughter and tears.  When they pulled apart, they both reached up at the same time to wipe tears from the other's eyes and then they laughed again.

"You saved me," Connor said softly, arms wrapped around her shoulders, holding her close, leaning his forehead against hers.

"I guess we're even then," she whispered back.

"I love you," he said suddenly.  As soon as he said it, he pulled back a little feeling his pulse quicken in nervousness over what he had just said.

She smirked at him, but it was a happy smirk, a teasing smirk as she said, "I know."  And then after a beat.  "I love you, too.  I love you to death."

And he was laughing and she was laughing and he spun her around again and held her tight, feeling how alive she was and how alive he was as they kissed yet again in the realization of this exciting life of love that Death had given them.