AN: Did I cackle while writing this? Yes. Did I pause and ponder what might be wrong with me? For a second or two.
Logically, they know bodies are heavy. Of course they are. The average human is one hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds, after all.
But knowing is not the same thing as knowing, intimately, how heavy a human body really is.
Now, considering how many people have died in their care, it's quite frankly astounding that they've made it this far without having to dispose of their own victims. But that's what the orderlies are-were-for.
You just can't get good help these days…that's the problem now. The still mass on the floor, with vomit still seeping from its mouth, was once the help. But the idiot went and nearly got them captured by Batman, and it was sheer dumb luck that let them ditch him.
So, really, it's his own fault that he died screaming. Or, rather, gurgling after he threw up.
But now…now comes the issue of getting rid of him. He's in the way. Sooner or later, he'll start to decompose. He'll attract vermin.
But. Well. Look. They're not…built for heavy lifting. Running? Sure. Setting deadly booby traps? Why not. Hefting two hundred plus pounds of corpse? Not so much.
Kitty kicks the mountain of flesh. It barely even jiggles. Jonathan grimaces. He's going to throw his back out and he's not even forty…he's regretting most of the life choices that led him here.
"Now what?"
"I didn't plan for this."
"On three?"
It's as good a plan as any.
It doesn't work-she gets the arms and he gets the legs and between them they…sort of…lift it. Not enough to be practical, but parts of it are off the ground.
They settle, in the end, for dragging it. This brings with it the unexpected dislocation of the shoulders, which adds an extra level of difficulty. But they get it, at least, to the head of the back staircase.
"Now what?"
They look at the steep stairs, leading down into the dark, and then at the corpse, slack-limbed and unfairly heavy. Then they look at each other, and the decision is made.
At this point, the sorry bastard's suffered plenty of indignitites. What's one more?
Pushing is hard, but they manage to shove it enough so that it…rolls…down the stairs, thudding and smacking its hands and feet against the walls. It gets stuck a few times, but in the end, it's lying in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, bruised, bloodied, and broken.
"We could leave him there. Like he fell."
"He's blocking the emergency exit."
"True."
They go back upstairs for a snack, semi-hoping that some passing Samaritan will see the body and spare them having to move it further. But no one comes and it's clear that if they want it out of the way, they'll have to do it themselves.
They haul it away just enough to open the emergency exit. It leads into the alley, where the dumpsters are, and that's fine. It's Gotham, there's a fifty percent chance of finding a body in the dumpster. They've found their share.
Getting it in there is, of course, another matter entirely.
"We should have dismembered him."
"Too late now."
They end up dragging it behind the dumpster, tossing a few trash bags over it, and calling it good. If it's still here when they get new help, they'll worry about it then.
THE END