Body Count

Voices were intruding upon her blissful sleep. She wasn't dreaming them; no, she hadn't had a proper dream for a few weeks now. These voices were real. And besides, they clashed sharply with the quiet serenity of her own unconsciousness - they were loud, sharp, and angry. She'd been trying to block them out for an indecipherable amount of time with some success, and the voices had become distant, echoing in her mind. But they were still loud enough to grab a hold of all of her attention, and finally, she could disregard them no longer.

Once she let the voices into her head willingly, they became much sharper and more piercing. She could distinct word from word now, and the words she was hearing did not sound comforting. Feigning continued unconsciousness, she kept her eyes shut and listened.

" ... believe you, I won't, look at her!"

"You'd be very wise not to talk to me that way, William."

"I don't care, look what you've done, she won't wake up! Wake her up!"

"Oh, he gives orders now, does he?" A pause. "Shane must not have trained you very well in the art of henchmanship."

"Don't talk about her that way! She taught us fine! Now fix her!"

"Calm down, Dope. She'll be fine. She's breathing, isn't she?"

"People in comas breathe!"

"Listen to him - he's got a point, Dope."

"You shut up! You're the one that made her this way! Put her right!"

"I told you, Dope, she's going to be fine -"

"Shut up, Grumpy! You don't know anything!"

"I think I know a hell of a lot more than you do!"

"Both of you, shut it, will you?"

"Oh, Happy to the rescue!"

"Do you wanna know how I got these scars?"

Silence followed this quiet inquiry.

Shane almost smiled. That was a bad sign, so, deciding she wouldn't like her goons as disfigured as she - it would send the wrong messages - she spoke up.

"You're giving me a headache," she said, surprised at how rough and dry her throat felt as she spoke. "All of you."

Opening her eyes seemed almost impossible at this point. She was tired. But she tried anyway. She managed to flutter her eyelids uselessly, and was just congratulating herself when Stone said something.

"I told you she'd be fine."

"Like you knew!" William retorted, though he sounded breathless and relieved. "Why hasn't she opened her eyes?" His tone grew more fierce, as though he was about to start throwing accusations again.

"Because," Shane said quickly, smirking. "The Joker here - and I'm assuming he's still here - has clearly super glued them shut in a conspiracy to undo me."

A hand cupped her cheek. She winced as rough fingers scraped along her scar. "Would I leave you, Princess?"

Feeling lightheaded, as if she had been slipped some drug, she grinned. "'Course not."

"She sounds high," Cliff observed. She could see him in her minds eye, smiling down at her in amusement. Smug bastard. "What did you - what did she eat?" he corrected, shying away from addressing The Joker directly.

"Nothing," said The Joker, his hand still placed lightly on her cheek. "She said she wasn't hungry."

"What?" said William, taken aback. "But she said she was going to ask about food! She did ask about food! There's food right there!"

"She said she wasn't hungry," he said again, dragging out the last two words for emphasis.

"Would you stop talking about me like I'm not here?" she said weakly, still struggling to open her eyes. They cracked open a bit wider, and light attacked her barely exposed pupils.

Everyone remained quiet, and she tried with all her might to force her eyes open. They felt as if they'd been weighed down and filled with lead while she was knocked out. Finally, after much twitching of her limbs and grimacing, they were open wide enough for her to look around.

She was still in The Joker's office, lying near the bottom of the desk, where she could still see steam rising up from the food on top. William was crouched down next to her, looking peaky. The Joker was on her other side. Once her eyes had opened, he removed his hand. Cliff and Stone were standing on either side of the doorway, looking down at her, both smiling.

"Ah, she wakes," said Cliff snidely. "Welcome back, boss. You had us all worried."

"Why?" she said, propping herself up on her elbows and peering around the room. "I can't have been out long."

"You were," William said urgently, his fathomless blue eyes boring into hers. "I thought you were going to ... to die, or something."

"Yeah," said Cliff over eagerly. He was nodding his head frantically as he said, "You were out for almost ten whole minutes!"

Shane grinned appreciatively at William, who was frowning and staring at the ground. "Thanks."

She sat up, rubbing her knuckles in her eyes like an exhausted child. "Well, I'm fine," she said thickly. "A little dizzy, but fine all the same."

"Okay," said The Joker distractedly, looking away. "Okay. Get out!" he barked, staring at the three gathered men. They obeyed instantly, and a little regretfully on Will's part. "You, Shane. Shane, Shane, Shane Fatello!"

Shane felt the urge to say, "Yes, that's my name," but she held her tongue.

"You have been acting very strangely tonight! Would you care to explain yourself?"

"Strangely?" she said, playing for time. "How?"

"Well," he said, sitting down cross legged across from her and crossing his hands in his lap. "First, you come in and tell me you're hungry. And refuse to eat," He licked his lips noisily. "Next, you ask me to repeat the same question twice. And then you fainted. Strange, Shane. Explain."

She looked around the dingy room for inspiration and, finding none, decided her honesty policy would have to continue. "I was ... thinking ..." she said thoughtfully, trying to word it safely. "About ... you," she said quickly, struggling not to get herself into trouble. The right words were denying themselves to her. Her speech was extremely broken and halting. "About how you effect me, sometimes. You know, the usual things ... fear, resentment, gratitude ..."

She was hoping beyond hope that this short, vague excuse would be enough for him. She felt as though she were hanging on tenterhooks, her entire future resting upon his next words. She bit her lip and stared at her feet.

"Princess," he said, slowly and clearly. She looked up to see him smiling dangerously at her. "Tell me the whole truth. Not just a ... a tiny part of it."

Her heart sank. She would have to tell him, of course, because he always knew a liar. Always. And the only way she could have dodged the entire truth was to lie completely. She closed her eyes, and began.

She told him all about her sudden internal realizations, which came to light in the blink of an eye while staring at a pile of cheeseburgers and apple pie. She relayed to him the story of how she had felt their separation during that silent week, that week in which they never spoke to each other, and she had become sure their relationship was back to something more healthy. Even the abuse, she could handle, she told him. As long as she no longer confused herself with mixed feelings of loathing and longing. And then came the part where his voice had seemed to begin working its' magic, corrupting her system once more with its' oily intoxicants. How she had fought with herself silently, trying to avoid a real attachment to him. How she had tested the theory, not looking at him the first time he asked his question, how it had sent a chill down her spine when he spoke to her. And then looking at him, seeing his curious - dangerously angry - eyes staring into her own frightened and excited ones as he spoke, his lips moving slowly and precisely to form four simple words: Princess, are you hungry? She found it hard to describe the feelings she had when he spoke to her, and she looked at him. She found herself using the word 'flood' a lot.

One word she never once said during the entire speech, though, was the one word that would have made the speech much shorter. The word 'love' hovered at the back of her throat, and she choked on it, never saying it aloud.

Once she'd finished, she didn't dare open her eyes to see what his reaction was. She merely leaned to the side and rested her pounding head against the cool wood of the desk.

It was a painfully long time before he spoke. "Let me make something ... perfectly clear."

She glanced up at him fearfully, but his expression was not, as she'd expected, angry or cruel. It was soft, confused, and apprehensive. He sucked on his bottom lip.

"You shouldn't have all of these ... feelings, Shane. Not for me," He placed two hands on his chest. "I'm a dangerous man, Shane. You don't want to feel too attached. Bad things ... very bad things could happen. And although you can be annoying ... nosy ... rude ... you're not worth losing. The world deserves to get a better look at you before you go throwing yourself at the mercy of mad killers like me."

She nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak.

"These feelings ..." he continued, and she felt her heart sink a little lower. "They're not ... romantic, are they?"

It had been posed as a question, but the way he was looking at her and the tone of his voice suggested he already knew the answer.

"No," she said. "They're not."

He smiled his distorted, elongated, bloody red smile. "No. They're not."