Body Count

Relaxation was never something she'd expected to have the luxury of once her life as a criminal was set in motion.

But, for nearly a month, that's all Shane had to do. There were no politicians to be murdered, no press conferences to attend, no clowns to be trained, and no money to be stolen. There was just time to be alone, time to think, and time to do absolutely nothing for hours on end.

It seemed to Shane that The Joker had put himself out of action to throw the city's finest off track. As far as she knew, none of the goons ever left the night club except to go to a grocery store and buy food. Buy, not steal. The Joker himself was rarely seen, at least by her, but she could almost always hear him yelling. Screaming. He never laughed anymore. Maybe it was the lack of adrenaline, she thought, or the never ending tedium of the quiet life they all now led.

For four months Shane had spent her time glancing over her shoulder, wary of cops and various enemies, always thinking of what could go wrong. That feeling of simmering anxiety continued for the first few days at the club, but died soon when the boredom overpowered it. Nothing was happening, and she started to wonder whether anything would ever happen again.

There was a television in the room which she'd been staying in since their first night, the room that had at first been only for The Joker. The television was always full of static, and any noise that sounded like speech was hard to decipher, but by watching the news from day to day she soon found out that the cops had no new leads on her whereabouts.

And so time passed.

For one month, Shane did nothing but the bare necessities to keep herself alive. She ate, she slept, she attended all points of hygiene, and she thought about life. She thought of how lucky she was to still be able to wake up and think she'd live another day. She thought of how unfortunate she was to have to live such an underground life from now on - but she conceded that that was of her own doing, and thought nothing more of it. She wondered what was going at at school now, or with her parents, or her friends. Most of all, though, she thought of Daemyn.

She didn't exactly refuse to believe he was dead - she knew full well it was a possibility - but she refused not to do anything to find out about him. Lying around and staring into space was an insult to his memory, if he had indeed been slaughtered in the mayhem of the warehouse so many nights ago. The evidence, by now, would be cleaned out. But that didn't mean she couldn't try. She could go back and look for signs the police might have skimmed over - a stray piece of paper that turned out to be a note. Tire tracks that were left behind by another escape vehicle. Whatever was left behind, she would find it.

So, as well as watching the news for word on the search for her, but she watched for anything that might hint toward Daemyn's fate. A body they couldn't identify, perhaps? Or a set of prints with no match? Her eyes were always glued to the television screen, drinking everything hungrily, never satisfied by what she saw.

Outwardly, she was almost comatose. If it weren't for the fact she went back and forth from the washroom now and then, or nibbled on bits of food that always seemed to be placed on the dresser when she woke up, she might have been a zombie. She could always be found lying flat on her back, head turned to the side, breathing evenly and staring at the television. Her back ached, her arms cricked every time she moved, and her eyes watered badly from the dust floating through the air.

She also spent the month alone. She thought her clowns either weren't allowed to see her, or they didn't want to, because she hadn't seen them since the warehouse. Once in a while she'd find herself craving a nice conversation with Will, or spending some quality time with Cliff. She even missed Stone's sarcastic attitude. But she never saw them.

The Joker, of course, still needed a place to sleep. She found evidence of his having slept on the floor every morning when she woke up - he would occasionally leave his jacket on the floor, crumpled up as if used for a pillow, or there would be a thin sheet spread over the area at the foot of the bed. He was always gone by the time she woke up, though.

At night, however, she would hear him come in if she was still awake. The television was always off by the time the door creaked open and he was briefly silhouetted in the doorway, and she would be sprawled on the bed and breathing slowly. She didn't always catch him - he tended to wander in very late at night or early in the morning - but when she did, she feigned sleep. For some reason she couldn't even explain to herself, she didn't fancy a conversation with him.

So he'd creep in, thinking he'd caught her unawares yet again, and slump to the floor to sleep.

Day after day went by, and she eventually found out that the police - having started their search anew - had found solid evidence that one Shane Fatello was in cahoots with a gang of Joker wannabes that had gained possession of a series of drug blocks and ill-gotten beach houses occupied by the city's criminals and vagrants. Which she knew to be false. Through several overheard shouting matches - which she really couldn't help but eavesdrop on, as they were so loud - she'd learned they were in fact holed up in a night club on the complete other end of town.

The shouting, of course, was usually done by The Joker himself. She could hear his harsh words become more slurred as they hours wore on, and the drinks grew more toxic. Apparently, if he wasn't killing as much as he'd like to, he was consuming copious amounts of alcohol. His drunken habit frightened her, but it concerned her more. The safety of her clowns - whom, despite proper criminal etiquette, she admitted she may have grown fond of - was at stake. When she heard him stumble up the stairs, she'd switch the television and lights off before throwing herself at the uncomfortable bed and calming her breath so as not to be suspicious.

His drunken shouting scared her, yes, because she'd heard many fights break out just across he hall. The Joker would berate his clowns over everything and nothing. She could hear him hitting them, too, and more so could she hear their screams of pain.

And then he'd walk through the door to their room, a knife dangling at his side, darkness shrouding his face.

Every night when he kicked the door shut, she could just make out his outline, towering over her in the darkness, still and silent. He'd stand like this for maybe ten minutes every night, staring at her, before crumpling into a ball and falling asleep.

One morning, as she gulped scalding coffee and looked sidelong at the news, she decided that tonight would be different. Tonight would cause chaos, tonight would put everybody in danger, and tonight would bring about very bad experiences for her.

Tonight, The Joker would walk into an empty room.