That was what she was.

Tattoo watched her, every single graceful movement, every little touch of death. She was toxic, there was no denying it. Any contact with her would kill or hurt. He knew of her escapades in Africa; all the dead villages she left behind her in a trail of death and destruction.

From behind some bushes his pale, blue eyes followed her as she strolled slowly through the garden of the rooftop headquarters of the Hand. Her hands were extended on either side of her, and she moved slowly, unrushed, at least until Kirigi called them to attend the meeting.

The edges of the bushes began to wither and turn black. They fell off their branches, as dead and dried up as they would ever become. She liked killing things and people; she saw it as freeing them. How could one ever appreciate the true feeling of life without feeling pain? She reveled in pain and death. Her very breath was poisionous.

He loved that.

Tattoo loved the danger that was Typhoid Mary. He loved how she could reach out and kill something. He knew the meaning of pain and he knew that it was impossible to live life to the fullest without it.

He was one of the few who could see through her disguise. Other than him, only Kirigi knew her hurt at being replaced as the Treasure. And Kirigi never cared about how his little freak show felt, as long as it did not get in the way of their tasks. He cared. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to draw her into his arms and tell her he cared. But he couldn't. Contact between them would mean almost certain death.

Slowly, Typhoid Mary was dying inside because she could touch no one, and no one could touch her soul.

It killed him to see her dying.