"... whu ..."
Amanda Waller, Ph.D, blearily arose to consciousness.
That was the limit of her rising, because she couldn't move any of her limbs. That little realisation worked better than a Turkish triple espresso.
And the bone-white bleached face topped by bleached hair that snapped into her view was like Travolta shoving a needle into her chest.
"Hiya Wally!"
"... Harley! Why am I ... get me out of this ..." Bed … hospital gurney? The décor of the room seemed familiar …
The literal whitest girl in the world wagged an index finger. "Uh-uh-uh! You're still a little concussed, so I'll recap. We stopped your squad version one. You got hit in the head. Superman had words with the President. Flash pulled the boom-booms from our heads. Batman made me a deal. And we've dealt with the exposition so here we are right now. And now. And now. A-"
"What! Deal!"
"Oh, right! The others were released, or on probation or a nice minimum security facility. Except me. Because Batman wanted someone to deal with your issues humanely."
Waller's mouth moved sans noise, because she now realised the faux-Victorian veneer in this room, a hallmark of the persistently underfunded federal criminal asylum that one infamous city made exclusive use.
"That's right! I'm your court-ordered therapist! And I have to say, in my professional capacity and personally, I've seen some shocking cases of megalomania and sublimated suicidal depression that are almost as bad as yours!"
The fact that Dr. Harleen Quinzel's kindly, compassionate smile was genuine what terrified Waller the most. "Oh God ..."
"Why thank you, Mandy! Time for the ink blots!" Harley leaned in closer, with a conspiratorial wag of her eyebrows. "And if you guess which body part I used to make them, you get extra pudding tonight!"