Your Marksmanship Looks Better This Way

Inside the operating room, six chairs formed a circle, and the Suicide Squad members sat on them with blank expressions. Even Harley Quinn, who had been looking forward to it the most, was listless and kept yawning.

The reason was that the voltage was only 1,000 volts. The other five thought their nervousness was making a mountain out of a molehill, while Harley found it insufficiently exciting.

This was all the Joker's fault. He had tormented Harley as if she were a toy, and electric shocks were merely a minor part of their daily life. What was torture to ordinary people was, to Harley, roughly equivalent to acupressure massage—a source of pleasure.

One thousand volts was too boring. Harley got sleepy the moment she heard about it.

"Deadshot, if you're afraid you won't be able to stop yourself from biting your tongue, I can give you a wooden stick. No need to play the tough guy. Nobody will laugh at you." The Riddler stuck medical electrodes onto Deadshot and offered a kind reminder.

As for how close the two of them were, that was debatable. The Riddler was being so enthusiastic for exactly the reason he had stated: there were too few grasshoppers tied to the same rope, and he needed more people to share the heat.

"No need. Let's make this quick. I need to leave Gotham before noon today!" Deadshot was firm, and the others shared the same sentiment, telling the Riddler to get started and stop wasting breath.

"Okay, but don't regret it later!"

His good intentions had been treated like garbage, so the Riddler said no more. He adjusted the medical generator to the output meant for five people, turned the switch, and released the current, ready to enjoy the show.

Crackle! Crackle!

"Wahahaha... ha... huh!?"