SCOURGE
Chapter One: In Which We Meet the Protagonists
*Note: Flashbacks and thoughts are in italics, so you know. There is extremely explicit drug use in this and subsequent chapters, but the adult content is limited to that and some violence and, later, sexual situations. I have confidence that you all can handle it. ;) But remember, drugs are bad! Or so the machine of government misinformation would have us believe…
No one asks for tragedy. Okay, well. That's not entirely true. Some people are masochists, after all.
Some people enjoy it. Maybe I'm one of them.
"How did I end up like this?"
This is the question a lot of people ask themselves as they helplessly watch their lives fall apart. They feel powerless, victimized, watching from the sidelines while everything they have siphons away and anything they've worked for falls to pieces. They wonder how it happened. They look for someone to blame.
I'm not one of those people.
I know exactly how I ended up here, and I'm crystal clear on who's to blame. I am. I did this. I made the decisions that put me in such shitty circumstances; it was my action and mine alone that ruined everything.
And now all I have left… is this.
The frayed green knapsack bounced in rhythm with the footsteps of a figure traversing the darkened streets. This vagabond, constantly preoccupied by the little package of joy contained in said sack, was on a quest for lodging, but all the while she was acutely aware of her sweating palms and the goose bumps running down her arms. She surveyed a familiar, dimly lit parking lot, ensuring no Police cars waited in the shadows, poised to harass any 'trespassers' looking for a place to stay for the night. It was, by all appearances, the perfect venue for crime.
How appropriate.
Satisfied she could cross the lot and enter the abandoned building undeterred, the woman carefully crawled through the torn opening in the chain-link fence and hurried into the boarded-up edifice.
The building was a shell, formerly a hotel or apartment complex which may have once been decent and cozy. Now, however, it was broken down and gutted, likely in the midst of renovation when it was cut from some budget and left to rot.
She looked up at the structure and the familiar broken windows seemed to stare back at her, empty and forlorn.
Abandoned and forgotten, she thought. Well. I can empathize.
Guided by memory, she crept easily through the darkness and eventually ducked into one of the few rooms which had retained a door. She quirked an eyebrow upon spotting the stained, broken-down sofa at one end of the room, surprised at the presence of furniture where before there was none... if memory served correctly. And memory always served correctly, even despite her current condition. Keeping in mind to be vigilant for any new inhabitants, she sat on the end of the couch that looked less worn and thus less likely to pop a sharp spring into her ass, and began setting up for her dose of hellish happiness.
She tried to control her excitement, even with the adrenaline pulsing through her body and her mind focused on one thing, the thing that consumed her: that which she craved. She made an effort to slow her breathing and her heart rate, but her longing betrayed her. With her rig set up and her rubber tourniquet tied securely around her upper arm, she cleaned her injection site and picked up the needle.
Carefully angling her needle above the accessory vein, she broke the skin and felt the slight resistance of the vessel wall before that, too, gave way, and she gently tugged back on the plunger. A crimson flash of blood swirled into the base of the syringe, and she promptly snapped off the tourniquet before steadily depressing the plunger until the contents were emptied into her bloodstream.
The rush hit her quick and hard, and she barely had time to remove the needle from her arm before she fell back, engrossed in the consuming warmth, basking in the beautiful feeling that overcame her. She let the nod take her, allowing herself to drift into the nothingness that came.
I'm dying. Instinctually, I'm sure of this.
In training, they use real ordinance, and real percussion grenades, but everything is so carefully choreographed that ten meters is the closest one has ever gone off to my head. Even with the disorienting darkness, deafening explosions and frightening sound of blanks being fired from AK-47s, there was no way to prepare for this.
Because being trained for war and actually having people try to kill you are so completely different. Ultimately, the trial runs will help teach you to manage your fear. But there simply is no way to prepare for death.
I can't hear anything. I can't feel anything. I can't even see… but I realize that this is because my eyes are shut tight. As sound returns to me through the haze of shock, I process that I'm upside down and someone is yelling my name and frantically cutting at the seatbelt restraining me.
"Amelia! Amelia! Fuck… Specialist Carlile! Oh, God, Amelia, wake the fuck up!"
I'm choking on dust and blood and a second before pain blinds me, my eyes focus on what's left of the up-armored humvee I was just dragged from. My commander is lodged in the passenger seat, unnaturally still, and I wonder why he isn't screaming out orders for 360 security like we've done in so many drills before this. I file the answer to that question away, for examination at a later date.
Oh. I can see shrapnel lodged in my abdomen and right leg. That's my good leg; the other one has a knee injury, so when I run long distance I start favoring my good leg. The right one. I hope I get to keep it.
The man who dragged me from the wreckage is speaking frantically into the radio, calling in air support, because we both know that the rest of the convoy kept moving to avoid being caught in the ambush.
It's not abandonment, it's procedure. They can't help us if they all get blown to hell too. Oh, fuck.
The one who dragged me out, Brady, well, he looks down at me, and this forces me to focus hard on his eyes. I can just make out the freckles there and I'm starting to wonder if this is the last time I'll see them. Something's not right. Something's missing. Oh!
I realize for the first time that he's not wearing his Kevlar helmet and we're taking fire. My voice sounds foreign to my own ears as I choke out "Brady…"
Amelia Carlile snapped awake, suddenly aware that she was not alone in the building. The hushed footsteps indicative of someone trying to be stealthy put her every nerve on alert, and she grabbed her weapon, a compact Glock pistol, from the satchel containing all of her Earthly possessions.
The door creaked open a few inches just as she came to stand behind it, trying to prepare for whatever was about to walk through the threshold. Not entirely sure about her choice of weapon at this point, she reached back to pistol-whip so that lethal force wouldn't be her only option.
The lanky, dark man who stepped through the door didn't have a second to react, so he was out of the picture. But the much larger guy behind him did, and that's when she rethought her momentary hesitation about lethal force.
His surprise at seeing his cohort hit the floor was fleeting, and Amelia found herself toe-to-toe with a somewhat worthy opponent. He tried to grab her, but to no avail; while he was quick, she was quicker. She ducked beneath the lunge, but did not have enough time to get a shot off before he swung around, landing an elbow to her temple as she tried to take aim. Getting hit in the head had a singular effect on Amelia Carlile.
She got really angry.
Nothing too fancy, Amelia decided, and landed a swift headbutt for revenge in the arena of potential concussions. The sizeable man staggered back just far enough to allow Amelia the leg room to land a solid kick to his chest, setting him off balance. Leaving no room for any retaliation, she covered the distance between them swiftly, bringing her elbow sharply across his jaw. She had only a moment to relish the loud thump of her current enemy hitting the ground before at least two more sets of footsteps rumbled the floorboards. Her head snapped up at the indication of additional unexpected company, and she decided she'd have time to mull over the very valid queries of whothefuck and whatthefuck at some other time.
Amelia wasn't going to let them come to her, but despite the fact that no one had tried to shoot her yet, she wasn't going to run into the narrow hallway only to be gunned down by any firepower coming her way. She crouched by the door, popping out quickly enough to get a shot off at the man leading the charge. He dropped to the ground, forcing the second man to lose his footing as he stumbled over her victim. Taking what could very well be her only opportunity to get the hell out, Amelia burst into a full-out sprint for the stairs.
Unfortunately, she didn't anticipate having to hurtle over a perfectly timed purple-clad leg which was jammed in front of her shin only a stride before she reached the staircase.
Amelia fell. Hard.
Hitting the floor with such momentum sent her hurtling down the concrete stairs, and before a collision with the landing stopped her, she heard a sickening pop and tasted blood.
Though she managed to cling to consciousness, her weapon was lost and she was in no condition to put up the kind of fight she assumed would be required in order to leave the building alive.
Shit, Amelia thought, begrudging only that a fucking flight of stairs was the reason she'd die today.
Several pairs of footsteps converged on her then, three coming from below and three from above, all of them urgent and hurried, save one. She heard someone from above pick up her weapon from the stairs, chucking quietly.
"Huh, pretty nice piece," he seemed to say to no one in particular. "That would be some good irony, huh? Shooting her with her own bullets, heh."
A pause, and then, more quietly, "Should I kill her now?"
"I'll shoot you with your own bullets if you don't shut your trap and let the Boss make this decision," another male voice snapped.
Oh, nice. I'll just sit here and bleed into my mouth while someone wrestles with where to dispose of my body. Amelia bristled. Fuck, I'm gonna end up chopped into pieces and tossed in a dumpster. The mental image of rats snacking on her corpse made Amelia laugh at the fitting lack of dignity. The sound escaping her lips, however, sounded more like a gurgle.
This 'boss' must have made his decision, though, as her field of vision was suddenly filled with the face of a man, ebony-skinned and upset. Upset, but not fuming or malicious. Amelia wondered at this lack of anger, and her curiosity increased when he tilted his head at her, apparently assessing her injuries while chewing on his lip.
That's interesting, she thought. I doubt that he'll be the one to off me; he doesn't seem the sort.
The man looked up the stairs, to the one set of footsteps working their way towards her slowly, deliberately. He sighed before addressing the unseen figure.
"She shot Copans. He says he's okay, but it sounds like it might be a sucking chest wound, boss. She's not gonna die though. Dislocated shoulder and scrapes, maybe a concussion- can I--?"
A voice erupted from the lower flight of stairs, distinctly feminine and commanding. "Jesus, Jordan. Use your head. Go help Copans before he fucking bleeds to death. We'll figure this out without your added genius."
What the hell is going on? Amelia wondered. Why wasn't she dead? Why were they assessing her injuries? Everything hurt. Her shoulder killed.
It would be really great if whoever these criminals were, they could just get it over with and shoot me in the fucking face already.
Amelia decided she would try to speed up the inevitable. So she opened her mouth.
"I think I killed-" Amelia paused to spit out a tooth and a mouthful of blood before going on, "-killed one of your buddies in the room." She gurgled, her voice sounding far away and muffled. "Pistol-whipped him pretty hard. Back of the… the head."
The figure still standing on the steps above her cleared his throat, and by the reaction of everyone she could see, Amelia gathered this was the 'boss' referenced before. His location meant he belonged to the slow and unconcerned set of feet. She fought through her confusion to care.
"Shut. Up," he said, making a popping noise with the "p" and moving toward Amelia.
Affronted, angry, and regaining some mobility, Amelia rolled onto her uninjured shoulder in an attempt to see this 'boss' with the gall to tell her to shut up. All she got was an eyeful of purple pant legs with matching shoes.
Well, then, I'll mouth off to the shoes, she decided.
"I will not 'shut up.' You may as well do… whatever it is you're planning to do, because I've seen what I've seen—" though she was completely unsure of what she was supposed to have seen, "and I know about your little operation here." Though she didn't, and knew she was tossing empty threats.
Amelia spat out more blood, and the figure seemed to hesitate for fear of his shoes, waiting for her to be done expelling bodily fluids before he moved forward. Satisfied she was finished, he squatted down and pried Amelia's face up at an odd angle, giving her a clear view of his face. Even in the dim lighting, his ludicrous suit and clown-themed facepaint were evident. As he cocked his head to the side, Amelia held back a guffaw. She knew the corners of her mouth must have betrayed her, because the man made a mockery of her expression, smiling back at her. Clearly, he was out of his goddamn mind.
"Ah… nice makeup. Do it yourself?" Amelia managed, and the face of her surveyor dropped into a deadpan. Apparently he didn't like being made fun of.
Ironic, for a clown.
He sighed loudly, dropping her head as he stood again, and made to move away. Without warning, he quickly turned around and kicked her hard in the stomach, and she failed to hold back the guttural sound of the wind being knocked out of her, much to the his delight.
"Do you do parties?" she wheezed out, and she thought she heard a chuckle from him this time.
Great. Glad I can entertain.
He crouched to her level again, holding one gloved hand to her cheek and brushing back some of the dark red hair covering her face. Amelia took in his appearance- in the shadows of the stairwell she could make out terrible scars beneath his facepaint, and she struggled to keep her expression neutral.
This is all starting to freak me the fuck out.
"Oh, you poor thing," he mocked, his voice deep and unsettlingly calm. "Y'know, normally, I'd feel obliged to put you out of your… misery, but, uh-" he chuckled to himself as though reveling in some private joke before continuing. "Well, it seems as if you kinda owe me an able body, now, don't you?"
Amelia, frozen and tense in response to his touch, like an animal playing dead, capitalized on his proximity by sharply turning her head and biting down with a vice grip on his hand.
"Ah ta-ta-ta-ta!" He brought his free hand sharply across her jaw, and she acquiesced, rolling into a tight ball in an attempt to avoid the coming onslaught.
He was clearly angry now, the little growl he made at the back of his throat told her so, and he signaled the nearby men to prop up the defiant subject. She barely held back a yelp as she was lifted to her feet and slammed harshly against the wall.
"Not. Nice." He hissed at her, waving his knife back and forth as a mother would wave her finger at a petulant child. Amelia was impressed, briefly wondering how she'd missed his retrieval of the weapon, but abandoned the inquiry and hung her head in apathy.
"Biting…" He sucked in air through his teeth, putting emphasis on each of his next syllables, "That- that's fighting dirty." She scoffed and answered without looking up.
"Seems to me that fighting dirty is more or less your cup of tea. That and letting other men do your biddi—"
The clown man advanced then, jerking Amelia's head up by her hair and pressing his blade to her face, effectively cutting her off mid-insult. She felt the cool metal against her lips and closed her eyes.
"Ha, ooh, uh, good one." He paused to consider his retort. "Y'know, that… that's just effective delegation. I possess excellent…" he looked up, waving his right hand as if willing the perfect words to come, "excellent leadership qualities. Oh. And, it's not just other men helping with this party, cupcake." His tone became mockingly disapproving, "Y'see, no, no, no, we don't discriminate here!" He gestured widely to the space with his knife-hand, and his high-pitched laugh was joined by hesitant chuckles from his lackeys.
Amelia set her jaw. She was not about to play foot soldier in some fuck-muffin's twisted incarnation of the criminal underground, doing God-knows-what to God-knows-who. He turned to her again, placing the blade flat against her mouth.
"This is ridiculous," Amelia mumbled against the cold steel, trying to pull her head back. "Either use that thing or let me go."
He tightened his grip on her hair, roughly jerking her head forward and stopping any further retreat from his weapon.
"So sorry to disappoint, doll," he said, giggling slightly, and he dropped his voice to a whisper, "but that's not the plan." At this, his men relinquished their hold on her, throwing her back to the ground.
"Then what is the plan?!" she asked, trying to sound defiant.
"Oh it's a secret," the man answered, crouching down yet again to regain control of a handful of Amelia's unruly hair. He put his finger to his lips, and gestured with his knife for Amelia to come closer. She flinched as he jerked her head forward, leaning in so that he could whisper in her ear.
Amelia had the distinct feeling that she did not want to know the secret or the plan or anything else that would require such proximity to this man or his knife. She struggled to pull back from his grip, placing her hands over his to try and pry his fingers loose, but he stilled her protests by bringing the tip of his knife to her chin.
Once satisfied that her feeble attempts at being restrained were quelled, he withdrew the knife and, with firm control of her head, promptly slammed Amelia's forehead into the concrete floor, knocking her out cold.
His tone was low as he turned to the woman concealed in the shadows by the base of the stairs, stating only, "You know what to do."
Hazel ascended the stairs with a lazy saunter, casting a look at the two men standing on the landing.
"What are you waiting for? You think I'm gonna carry her ass in heels? Pick her up and follow me."
I can't scream loud enough for Brady to hear me. Get your Kevlar, I scream, you fucking retard, I'm not gonna lie here while you get shot inthefuckingface!
He can't hear me. Any sound is obscured by the spray of AK-47s and what I think is a 50-cal, for which we can probably thank Iran with their goddamn black-market shipments of those fucking Austrian armor-piercing rifles. So of course when backup arrives, I don't hear them until their chorus of bullets joins his. I look over at the two vehicles that pulled up. I hope the air support gets here soon… let the fucking Air Force take care of this. Our reinforcements are close, but suddenly it dawns on me that they are nowhere near close enough to save us.
Because The Enemy is on the other side of our flipped and mangled humvee, and their concealed buddies are laying down good suppressing fire. Meaning we're pinned, and our backup is pinned, and I'm fucking useless without my weapon and with blood gushing from my leg and stomach. So Brady is shooting. He's on automatic and he's shooting like hell, and I hear the tink, tink, tink, of his expended brass hitting the ground near my head.
He's gonna get his head popped like a cherry, is all I can think. Fucking Brady is always losing his goddamn Kevlar.
And then a lot of things happen at once.
Two insurgents round the corner of the humvee, just as a medic and a Marine come up behind me. They obviously managed to break through because the enemy's cover fire has redirected... redirected towards pinning down Brady and keeping our reinforcements busy. As I'm being grabbed by the back of my body armor, Brady shoots the first of the men, and that one goes down flailing, his long scarf and traditional dress looking entirely inappropriate on a battlefield. They start to drag me out, back, back, away from Brady. I'm a casualty… so, wounded first. Brady is fine, and so he should be able to shoot the next asshole and cover us while we high-tail it back to the relief vehicles.
But that second motherfucker is so close, close enough that when he lunges for the muzzle of Brady's M-16, all he gets is a bullet in the hand, and Brady gets a face full of the butt of his weapon.
And Brady goes down like a sack of potatoes with a glass jaw. I'm being pulled away, and I cannot help him. I cannot stop the remaining haji from grabbing his unconscious body and unceremoniously dragging him through the dirt. I cannot save him.
I scream bloody murder.
Amelia woke with a start, assaulted by a horrid smell and the sound of someone pounding on wood. She took in her surroundings, sitting up from the cold tile floor on which she sprawled. The bathroom she occupied had just enough room for her to lie out, and the pounding was coming from the other side of the locked door. A muffled female voice was yelling for her to wake up.
"Hey! I could give a shit about whatever horrors haunt your nightmares, so suffer in silence and kindly let me sleep, will ya?" the voice requested.
"What the fuck-" Amelia mumbled, more to herself than anyone else. Whoever had woken her seemed satisfied, and she heard them retreat from the latrine door.
Her shoulder still hurt like hell, but was no longer dislocated, and the aching of her body was horribly exaggerated by the intense craving for opiates. She needed a fix, and she needed to get the fuck out of this place.
Somehow, I have a feeling that will not be easy.
Flexing her limbs and standing up shakily, she tried to take a deep breath but the putrid stench that hit her sent a fit of coughs rumbling from her chest. She gagged, dry heaving as she clutched the side of the sink and tears leaked from her eyes. It was then that Amelia realized the source of the awful smell- herself. It had been days since last she'd showered, and she was caked in dirt, blood, and now, apparently, vomit. She must have thrown up in her sleep, though someone had possessed enough foresight to place her on her side in the recovery position so that she didn't aspirate her own sick, choke and die.
How thoughtful.
By the abrupt wave of nausea that struck her and the chills running down her body, it had to have been over 24 hours since she'd shot up. Despite how shitty she felt at the moment, she knew that if she failed to get opiates into her system, things would get considerably worse.
It was clearly nighttime, and upon investigation, Amelia found that the dim light that filtered into the cramped bathroom came from a far off street lamp. She also found that she was at least five—maybe six— stories up, so that any attempt to jump would only earn her two broken legs, maybe even a broken back. Her mind raced, struggling to concoct a viable plan. Finally, Amelia decided that if she was going to make a run for it, there was no time like the present. The objections and cries from the part of her retaining any ounce of good sense failed to drown out the fatalistic and single-minded addict ruling her, however. She braced herself against the sink counter, preparing to deliver several powerful kicks to the door.
Hazel resented being called upon to babysit the Joker's latest 'recruit.' This woman could fight. Woo-fucking-hoo. She was a goddamn heroin addict, and before he could make any actual use of her, she had to finish detoxing and suffer through a few days of opiate withdrawal. From what Jordan, the closest thing to a medic they had and Captain Obvious himself, had told her, this meant three or four days of horribly exaggerated flu-like symptoms, crippling insomnia, and cravings which would result in behavior bordering on the psychotic.
Well, at least Hazel was familiar with the arena of psychotic behavior… she had to put up with it on a daily basis.
Shuffling noises came from behind the door, followed by coughs and a nasty spell of dry-heaving. Hazel briefly considered shoving a towel into the crack running along the bottom of the door… maybe then she would no longer have to endure even the occasional waft of the rank air emanating from the bathroom. Deciding she didn't want to know how long it would take for this woman to discover that the shower worked, she sighed and stood up to retrieve said towel from the hallway supply closet.
When she returned to the room, she nearly slammed into the much taller frame of the Joker, standing there with his arms crossed and a menacing look on his face. Hazel sighed impatiently before moving lithely around him and taking a seat on the sofa.
"What's up, doc?" he asked her in a hushed tone, but with all of his usual stress on the consonants.
"What's up is that she's awake, and she still smells unimaginably bad. Are you really set on-?" Hazel stopped as the Joker, head downcast, looked up at her from beneath his eyebrows. She hated it when he did that, but the meaning of his significant look reached her all the same.
She sighed. "Well. You always seem to know something I don't, so I'll just-"
She was interrupted by the sound of wood splitting, and both heads turned toward the source of the noise. A moment later, the bathroom door flew open, releasing the crazed woman within. She held in her hand the metal towel rod, and Hazel had only a moment to react before the Joker would likely be forced to intervene. He hadn't even unfolded his arms, clearly confident that Hazel would be able to handle the situation.
Though her hands shook, and she was going to throttle Jordan and Omar later for not reinforcing the door as she had suggested, ("She's not going anywhere!" they had said. "You're overreacting," they assured her. Hmph.) Hazel managed to retrieve her taser from the clip on her belt, aim, fire, and hit Amelia before she had a chance to reach them.
Amelia landed at the Joker's feet, jerking and thrashing as the voltage wreaked havoc on her body. Finally, she was still, face-down on the floor and completely incapacitated. The Joker looked from her to Hazel, finally uncrossing his arms and mirthfully laughing outright at the scene.
Hazel dropped the taser and pinched the bridge of her nose. Much as she would have been happy to be rid of the nuisance this woman represented, she had not wanted to do that. But, then, by now she should be accustomed to finding herself forced to deal with people who taxed her patience, or thrust into bad situations and even worse circumstances. It was all a part of the deal.
"I'm done here, and I'm tired. I'll fetch Omar to relieve me. He can fix this, and he can… fix the fucking door. If you need me, I'll be in my room. But I'd appreciate not being needed for a while."
The man she was addressing, however, waved her off, clearly unconcerned by her annoyance. He was too interested in the unconscious form of the novelty before him to worry about change of the security detail. That, as usual, was Hazel's area. He gave the orders. She made sure nothing was overlooked.
As such, nothing ever was.
She didn't need applause or pats on the back to know she was appreciated, though. It was a given. As she retreated back to her own room, Hazel heard the Joker mumble to the unconscious woman, "Whew, you need a shower."
She smirked.
The water coming down on Amelia's head was a fair sign that her escape attempt had failed miserably, and if she was going to be honest with herself, she hadn't really expected any better. She was sure her lapse in consciousness had been considerably shorter this time around, but nonetheless she awoke feeling, if possible, worse than she had before. She was belly-down on the shower's tile floor, clad in only her black sports bra and red panties. The rest of her clothes were balled up by her head, sopping wet.
The heat and steam from the shower dousing her was the only reprieve from how terrible she felt. Pushing her physical discomfort to the corner of her mind, she rolled onto her back and took stock of her body.
Her right side had taken a beating; badly bruised ribs, sore shoulder, big bruise on her hipbone. She could only imagine what her face looked like. Cuts and scrapes covered most of her body's bonier parts, and as such the skin on her shins, knees and elbows was pretty torn up.
And then there were marks from where that bitch had tasered her. Fucking tasered her! A closer look at her abdomen revealed two singed puncture wounds where it had latched into her skin.
Fucking A. This just gets better and better.
She heard a rustling noise and tensed up. Amelia threw the shower curtain back, and standing by the open bathroom door was the black man who had examined her earlier, Jordan, was it-?
He scrutinized Amelia, trying to exude medical professionalism in his assessment so as not to increase her obvious discomfort.
She looked pretty rough, with a busted lip and a bloodied, swollen cheek. Deep purple rings rimmed her brown eyes, adding to her haggard appearance. Beneath her superficial injuries, her body was showing signs of wasting— though she retained good muscle tone and was not yet painfully thin, Jordan had no doubt that her tall frame should and probably once did carry more muscle and fat than it had now. His pity for her was somewhat diminished, however, with the knowledge that homelessness and malnutrition were some of the inevitable side effects of a crippling drug addiction. As such, he could not assign full responsibility for her current state to her recent encounter with their little group.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, trying to sound neutral and calm.
"Oh, I donno, like I just had thousands of volts of electricity assault my nervous system," she spat.
Amelia wondered why she answered with such venom to someone who was clearly only trying to help. Jordan seemed approachable, even kind, but her withdrawals were ramping up the irritability a few notches.
"Yeah, well you kind of ran into a room wielding a curtain rod at a woman with a taser, so…"
Deciding this was one person she might like, Amelia flashed him a winning grin. Awkward as the situation was, Jordan smiled back, coming to crouch near the shower and take a closer look at her shoulder.
"Okay, you have me there." Amelia paused, looking down before asking, "Is, uh, is that guy alright? The one I shot?" Jordan suspended his evaluation, his hands going still. He looked up and met Amelia's eyes.
"Ah, well," he cleared his throat, "his name is Keith, and no, his injuries were severe enough that we had to drop him off at Gotham General. Which means he's essentially out of the game, here. He needs surgery but he'll live."
Jordan saw Amelia purse her lips and reassured her, "But the other guys are okay; Jeff has a nasty gash and a minor concussion, and uh, the big guy Victor is fine but has a badly bruised ego." He grinned and changed the subject.
"So aside from the tasering and staircase face-dive, you seem alright," he asserted, satisfied with the reduced swelling in her joint. Jordan dropped Amelia's arm and added, "That is, with the notable exception of withdrawal to deal with; you're coming off of heroin and… anything else?"
Amelia gave him a look. "So you're serious about this. I'm actually going to be kept locked up until I'm clean? What is this, some sort of fucked up criminal community outreach program?"
Jordan put on a lopsided grin, dissolving Amelia's burgeoning animosity on the spot. "Listen," he sighed, "I'm not the decision maker here, I'm just the help. It's important that I know if there's anything else you might be detoxing from- coming off of benzodiazepines—"
"—Can be fatal, I'm aware. No, there's nothing else, just the smack," she said with a slight edge to her voice. Knowing her justified anger was misdirected, she stowed it away until she was in range of a worthy recipient, namely clown-man or taser-bitch.
"Well, it won't last forever," he mumbled, obviously well-meaning. He stood to leave, but looked back, adding, "Hey, I'm Jordan by the way- what's your name?"
"Amelia."
"Ah, well nice to meet you, Amelia. Though I wish the circumstances were better."
Yeah, you're not the only one.
He closed the newly repaired door behind him, and Amelia relaxed. She drew the shower curtain closed and slipped off the remainder of her clothing, grabbing the soap and setting to work on three days' worth of sweat, blood and fear.
A/N: So, you've made it this far! Sweet. I'm elated, for serious. There will be a heavier dose of Joker in the next chapter, rest assured; as we continue on our journey together, one of excitement and crime and… stuff. Any and all reviews or comments are, naturally, much appreciated. I am always a proponent of constructive criticism, even if as a result I cry myself to sleep over the realization that I am inadequate as an author and a woman. Wait… what?