Body Count

Chilling anger surrounded Shane wherever she went for the next few days. The image of William dragging a blade through that despicable man's throat haunted her perpetually, and yet she felt no need to drive the image away. The knife used in the act was handed over to her, once she'd been released from The Joker's reining arms, and she carried it with her everywhere. It was caked with dried blood and her own sweat, as she never put it in a pocket or cleaned it. Once she'd witnessed that bloody murder - a murder she had ordered to happen - something had changed about Shane.

No longer was she kicked through doors or scoffed at by other clowns. Her old air of quiet uncertainty simmering anger was gone, replaced with an altogether more frightening attitude of unassuming command. Fear was thick in the air around her, as it had always been, but she was now the one who caused it, instead of the one to experience it. Her expression never wavered from frowning obedience, and she never seemed to sit down. She saw, in the masked eyes of those around her, that they were afraid. It hadn't been her hand that had dealt that man's death, but her word. Even Odie was silenced in her presence.

She didn't exactly know why this was, nor did she care. She herself hadn't done anything brutal in front of them, so why should they be scared? But let them quiver in their boots, let them stare at her with open terror. That suited her perfectly. The bruises dealt her by Odie and the others still stood out, yellow and gray, on her skin.

The Joker didn't appear to care what she did. He was always around now, unlike that solitary week when she'd been testing her clowns, but he was always silent. She caught glimpses of him quite often as she wandered from warehouse to warehouse, watching her from a shaded corner or behind a turned-over desk. No speech was shared between them, no confidences held, nothing confided. He let her go on with her seemingly random walking, his arms crossed, his eyes blank and cold.

Anything she'd felt for that man was being slowly and effectively repressed. Stockholm Syndrome was giving way to a new sense of separation, which she welcomed. After what he'd put her through, she'd rather not have to associate with him at all. Anger towards him boiled down into a feeble dislike. She didn't hate him, and she definitely did not love him. All she felt now was an almost - but not quite - reluctant bond. He'd turned her into what she was, and he'd kept her alive for what she thought must have been going on two and a half months. In turn, she'd done what she was told, obeyed his orders, and been blatantly honest with him during their entire misshapen relationship.

Now, when she caught sight of him observing her, it was as if she was passing somebody she knew in the hallways at school. Sometimes she nodded in recognition, and sometimes he nodded back. That was all that passed between them.

Her clowns - Will, Cliff, and Stone - followed her silently and willingly at all times. She couldn't always see them - Will was quite good at finding small hiding places - but she knew they were there. They wouldn't question her authority anymore.

The three had always known about her movie-house murders - how could they not? - but apparently witnessing such a brutal act of violence that she wholeheartedly welcomed was enough to put them in line, even if she hadn't committed it herself. Now they knew murder didn't bother her. Now they knew who she was.

William, for his part, went back to his normal self. He was always the one who looked least willing to do anything for her, always staring at her with those deep blue eyes of his. The other two seemed to regard him with something like unbelieving respect, and he accepted it modestly.

Now, in the middle of the night, Shane was pacing slowly through the overgrown warehouse yard, twirling the ever-present knife between her fingers - a habit she'd taken up to have something to do with her hands. Several cuts, shallow and deep alike, lined her hands. Stars were twinkling above her head, throwing her shadow in different directions, each tiny point of light reflected in her upturned eyes.

"Will," she said monotonously, not seeing him but knowing he was standing just behind a nearby clump of bushes. As if to confirm her knowledge, he stepped out of them with a dry rustle and waited for a command. "Are you hungry?"

Will looked taken aback, but regained his weary composure quickly. "Always," he said. "But is there a chance of real food?"

She smiled. Will and Shane shared a secret companionship that even they weren't completely aware of yet. And he was the only one of the three whose real name she continued to use, instead of the sarcastic nicknames she'd given them all. "Probably not. Then again, why not? Can't we check?"

She turned to face the warehouses again, as she'd been staring at the stars glistening in the water below. All three of them stood in a rough line, newly acquired masks secured to their faces, waiting.

She sighed. The smaller part of her, the old part of her, quailed at the thought of entering The Joker's presence in the dead of the night. The larger part of her didn't care what happened at all. "I suppose I'll have to ask the big man."

Taking long, purposeful steps towards the largest warehouse, Shane continued twirling the knife from hand to hand, finger to finger. A fresh cut was sliced into her broken hand, very near the ridge of bone that hadn't healed properly. She didn't flinch.

"Should we come?" Stone asked, always the first to speak without permission. She didn't dislike him for it, though. She admired his outspoken ability to say what was on everybody else's mind. The three were standing on their tip toes, as if eager to follow.

She thought for a moment as she continued to walk. "Yes," she called over her shoulder, hearing the sounds of their instant pursuit. "You should probably come, too."