Body Count

'I always have to be knocked out in order to get a good night's sleep, don't I?' Shane thought, waking up abruptly. Her head felt as though somebody had beat the inside of her skull with a jackhammer, and her shoulder still throbbed unpleasantly. Aside from all the pains she had grown accustomed to over the past few weeks, the rest of her body seared with pain, too. Her ankle, far from being nicely healed after a solid night's rest, practically screamed in agony. She thought the clown may have taken a knife to the bone.

She raised an arm to rub the sleep away from her eyes, and in doing so felt a rough material beneath her. Twitching around a little to get a better look at whatever she was lying on, she opened her eyes.

Panic engulfed her - she thought she'd gone blind, as everything was pitch dark even with her eyes wide open. The panic subsided just as quickly as it had come, though, as she saw the vague outline of a pile of old drapes underneath her.

Where was she, though? Her mind surged into motion reluctantly, as though it resented her for ending the blissful repose of the previous night. With her face screwed up with the effort, faded images dribbled to mind: falling faint with The Joker's hand secured under her chin, waking up to the clown in the ridiculous mask, beating him senseless, and then ...

The gears in her head came to a grinding halt. She couldn't remember anything past that. And why had she woken up, not to The Joker, but to one of his faceless cronies?

That was what had riled Shane into such an anger last night, after all. Surely she was a bit more important than that? Surely, The Joker himself could have taken the time to ask her if her shoulder hurt? But, in a realization that she was just another tool to his violent whims, she had thrown her broken and unbroken fists both at the face of her new tormentor.

Remembering this, her right hand was suddenly home to a sharp and agonizing pain. It clenched convulsively, sending fresh waves of pain up her arm, and a gasp of pain burst forth from her lips.

"Awake? Finally," said a voice, all too familiar in it's oiliness.

Shane squinted around through the darkness, trying to see where his voice was coming from. "Where are you?" she said angrily, forgetting the pains he had caused her when she dared to question him.

"Over here!" he said gleefully. Her head turned to the left, just as he said, "Here!" This time he was closer, but on the other side. Her neck cricked as she turned one way and the other. "Here!" he said loudly, right in her ear. She jumped away from him. "Ah, ah, ah!" he said gleefully, grabbing her uninjured arm and holding her fast. "Can't have you running away, can I?"

"What?" she said, still trying in vain to see his face, which must be less than a foot from hers.

"My little clown friend said you tried to run away last night, Shaney, and I can't have that. Not just yet." His grip on her arm tightened.

She let out a splutter of disbelief. "I didn't try to run!" she said defensively, shivering with cold. "I just ... hit him."

His fingers loosened considerably, but he kept a hold on her. "That's all, hmm?" he asked, his voice deep with thought. "I'll have a few words with him, then."

Still shivering with the unexpected chill, she said, "Where are we?"

"A warehouse," he answered abruptly. She heard him lick his lips. "But we won't be for long. We're going to the bank today."

A chill ran down her spine, completely unrelated to the temperature. "The bank?"

He chuckled, high pitched and happy. "Don't be so scared, Princess!" he said. "No need to be shaking."

She frowned. Why was she so cold? She felt her torso, expecting to feel the rough griminess of her button-up shirt, but her fingers met only the thin layer of material that was The Joker's shirt. "Hey!" she said, anger rising up in her once more. "Where's my shirt?"

A grunt of confusion echoed to her right, and the hand disappeared from her forearm. Light footsteps clicked away from her, and something snapped on the wall.

Unexpected, unwanted white light blazed from the strip lights above, temporarily blinding the girl. When she finally lowered her arms and squinted out across the vast space of the warehouse, The Joker was kicking aside the sheets she was on.

"Here," he said after a moment's searching. He bent down and snatched up a pathetic bit of violet material that turned out to be her shirt. She watched as he made his way back over to her, holding it out. "And put it on!" he said, his eyes bugging out slightly as his eyes rested on her. "Looks like my clown tried to take that one off, too." He turned his head away from her, shoving the shirt back into her arms.

Shane looked down at herself, and her cheeks colored instantly. The white shirt, which turned out to be virtually transparent, was hanging halfway off of her grossly thin shoulders. She was, for the most part, covered up, but she yanked his shirt back up over her injured shoulder with a little yelp of pain, and made to put on her other shirt.

"Wait," he said all of a sudden, bending closer to her shoulder. "Does that still hurt?"

She nodded, shrinking away from his pain-bringing touch. He over-powered her, though, and pulled the white shirt back down to reveal the darkening gash.

"Hmm," he said, peering at it and prodding it attentively. She wondered at the lack of cackling as he pulled her around so he could get a better look at it. "He took the stitches out," he said finally, leaning back on his heels. "But it's fine. Now put your shirt on!"

She did so, quickly and without a sound, staring at the ground.

"Good, good," he said, pulling her up by the wrist of her good hand. "Now come on."

She was thoroughly confused. The Joker wasn't his usual abusive, laughing, smiling self. In fact, he seemed a little preoccupied. She followed him across the warehouse in silence, staring at his silent figure.

Sunlight flooded in as he kicked the far door open, and they both blinked as they emerged into the crisp morning air. They were standing in what seemed to be a loading bay for delivery trucks, their feet resting on dirt and gravel spilling from the road beyond.

"Get in the car," The Joker said, remaining strangely brusque. He was already walking towards the drivers side, and Shane, turning around to face the vehicle, stopped.

"That?" she said incredulously, pointing at the sleek black car before her. "But ... isn't ... shouldn't you be driving a white van, or something?"

He looked up at her, turning a key in the lock. "Those are so last year," he said, a ghost of the old Joker shining through his face-paint. "This is much more comfortable on the interior, and it's easier on the eyes, too. Get in." He himself slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut.

Still frowning perplexedly at the car, which had a silver Jaguar on the hood, Shane walked around the automobile and opened the passenger side door.

As she crouched down to get into the car, the engine revved gently. The car started quietly, beautifully, making hardly a sound. "Shouldn't you be trying to be ... erm ... inconspicuous?" she ventured, staring around at the all-leather interior.

"Being inconspicuous ain't my game, Princess," he said, shifting gears. "White vans draw more attention than this baby, anyway," He patted the dash almost lovingly as he pulled out of the grounds. "People would think me a predator automatically. Think I was handing out candy to little kids while I gave them innocent rides home. No, this is more practical."

And with that, they were speeding off down a deserted side-street, The Joker frowning uncharacteristically at the road while Shane stared at him in shock.