Our Lady Violence

July 23, 2016:

One weird job interview?


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

Because being led somewhere by a guy who sometimes has a skull for a face isn't creepy enough, meeting in a poorly lit dockside warehouse in Gotham at night was added just for flavor. The shit weather with the slow cold drizzle of rain was just natures personal little fuck you cherry on top. The wide open space with it's deep shadows and occasionally spaced I-beam steel support pillars is just about as cookie cutter Gotham as one could hope to get. There's the faint scent of urine and rot and cordite that more or less fills up any space in this shit town where a person could be murdered in relative privacy, and in the open spaces center there's an almost laughably ordinary set up of folding table with chairs, set in one of the few circles of light that dimly fall from the night's full moon and filter through the massive holes in the roof of the building. On the table is what appears to be a tea set, made of cold steel and in no way fancy, it is however functional, and the steam rising from the pot's stem is oddly comforting in the cold rain that comes down tonight. Only Gotham could find a way to be cold and wet in the middle of a heat wave like summer.

Deathstroke sits at the table looking all the world the worse for wear. His arm is in a brace of some kind, as are both of his legs, and there are a pair of canes close to hand for him. He does nothing to hide any of it, instead he appears to be making himself at home in this dank hell hole, sipping his tea and enjoying sitting in a dry seat in a damp drippy warehouse. In case one should forget who he was however, his coat hangs open over his chest, showing the glint of the guns beneath and what appears to be a small sword or a /very/ large knife strapped to his thigh.

"Yanno. I can't remember if I love or hate Gotham… " The electronic distortion of Taskmaster's voice makes it impossible to tell if he is serious or joking around.
The armor clad mercenary walks with a casual purpose, "It stinks but man, so much job opportunities. The city itself is like some dirty pleasure… that the right phrasing? I don't mean the kind with socks. Nevermind." An uplifted hand in acknowledgement to Deathstroke as he enters, "This way. " He ushers in his companion. "You two met before?"

"It's a place ya love to hate." Coming in out of the rain, Harley's makeup has come to the point of looking like a sad clown in the fact the blue and red with dark liner is dripping over high cheekbones. Nevermind the teensy tinsey umbrella she carries that may only have kept a single pig-tail dry.

Getting into the warehouse she flutters the umbrella as if to dry it and set it aside, fingers sweeping the dripping mascara and eye shadow out from underneath her eyes, flicking fingers to the side and letting them come to rest beside stud belt laden hips. The bat dangles from a small holster there, bearing the etching of 'Good Night' along the wooden length.

Dirty pleasure gets a look to Task from Harley, a single brow rising with the lift of a corner of her lips. "Uh-huh. I get ya Skeletor." A wink and when her eyes finally land on Deathstroke her head tilts a little…"He reminds me of a guy when I was doing charity work." Temple tap. "I had to take him to the stores and help him go to the…" Stop her if you know where this goes!
Deathstroke lips the tea cup to his lips and sips from it idly, ignoring the pair as they cross the distance to the table, his gaze settled somewhere in the middle distance as he if were thinking about something of greater importance. He speaks as they near, "Things are heating up in Gotham." he says towards Taskmaster, breaking his gaze away from the nowhere he was staring into, "We might want to keep an eye on that, I'm starting to see patterns there." he then glances over at Harley, then back to Task, then back to Harley, "Really?" he asks deadpan.

"Guilty pleasure maybe? Bad Habit? Dirty Habit? Shit this is going to bother me."
"Expect it to heat up a bit, you see what happen to Steel City on the news? Boom." Taskmaster hand gestures mimicking explosions with his gloved fingers. "Bound to push business somewhere. What do you mean really? Shes nuts, shes lethal, shes used to this kinda thing… perfect candidate, yeh?"
Looking the brace and wounds over the skull mask cants to the side, "You didn't have a run in with Wonder Woman too didja?"

Taskmaster walks over to a crate and hops up on to it.

"Yeah really! I mean in order to get him to talk he had to be comfort—-Ohhh… You mean me being here?" A wave of hand in a flippant gesture and Harley's head rocks back with the mirth that emits from red lips as if waving off any insult. But as she laughs she is walking closer to Deathstroke, and instead of keeping distance sequined clad ass of short-shorts props right on his table, hipping aside his tea pot to pour herself a cup.

Staring now silent at Deathstroke she brings it to lips, pinky up!

"So," Setting her cup down she crosses her legs and leans forward to get an eyefull of Deathstroke. "Is all of your business a heartbreaking story where ya need help wiping your ass after?" From stoic to a smile that flashes teeth she leans back and looks to Taskmaster and back.

"You had me at Hello." Though he never said such a thing.

Deathstroke shakes his head, "No. But she's on my list." he offers a grin to Task that's predatory with just a small hint of uncertainty to it and no small amount of excitement. Everyone under this roof has their madness to pursue. "Lynch, a container ship, an army of spec ops types, and that pissy little shit Hobgoblin. I got caught out, not so much I didn't survive, but enough to remind me I'm not always as smart as I think I am." his gaze moves back to Harley, "As for this one, well," he shrugs, "nuts and lethal aren't the only qualifications for this. Discipline and the ability to follow orders ranks high in my estimation of virtues. She's known for neither." he tilts his head to the side, "Besides, she's got a thing for the Clown, and since I almost killed him," he raises his braced hand and points to the corner of the warehouse, "over there," and then moves it up over her shoulder pointing, "and threw him through the roof there where the big hole is," he shrugs and sips his tea again, "I have to question her motivations." his eye flicks over Taskmaster, "And then of course there's that whole crazy thing."

"I'd ask what list but they're all the same list ain't they?" Taskmaster regards. "Hrm, you slackin' old boy. That line up shouldn't have left a scratch on you." That permanent grin of mask is joined by the shadow of one behind it. "Fair enough. She followed the Clowns orders yeah? Least it sounds like it from the lil bit shes spoken of him. Whats he got that we ain't? Definitely not as many fun toys." A clatter sound as booted blade scrapes the edge of the crate hes perched upon.

"I suppose we can ask her whats up there and where her loyalties are?" Yes, Task is talking like Harley isn't sitting right there, all colorful and kinda hot in a 'probably not safe to touch' fashion.

Harley just waits while they talk about her like she isn't there. In fact she even leans back and props herself up on hands, her head tipping back and forth as if a rhythm unheard is going through her head…. No, it's heard by her. But she is also waiting for her turn to talk about herslef like she is not there while pale blue eyes skip from where Deathstroke had pointed to and back.

Harley's head rolls lazily around from craned position and a few small pops can be heard while shoulders roll and ease the muscles down. Joker is still a touchy subject in areas, but once over the initial blow…

Teacup returned to hand and sipped upon with ease. In fact she went from music to personal tea time and a small smile returns to lips when the mug parts from them, tongue trailing over lower tier as she rocks forward again. The bedazzled red and black corset groaning with the motion. Arms fold over utmost knee while head tilts. "Perhaps ask then. Cuz if ya don't, I have no obligation to speak about Mistah J. Your list means nothing to me, nor your observations." A brief up-down of Deathstroke and serious suddenly cracks a Cheshire grin.

"Show me your toys, I'll show you mine."

Deathstroke waves at her with his tea cup nonchalantly, "Well currently you're sitting on one." he says, his tone conversational, "I imagine you're familiar with the M18A1, more colloquially known as a Claymore mine." sip. "I don't suspect that the threat of immediate and certain death is the sort of thing you're likely to sweat overly, I find it does tend to make people slightly more honest. Even crazy people." he leans back slightly in his chair, getting comfortable, "It also goes the extra mile to assuage the impression that many seem to posses that I and the Bat are similar in many ways. We are not." they're only alike in few ways.

"So, now that I have your attention, why are you here Dr. Quinzel?" he waves his hand around them, "In the more abstract sense of the word, I don't mean a literal interpretation of the question. Why have you come here, to see me?"
"I ain't made much of a connection with the vampires that try to lord over this city but what I've seen he isn't as overkilly as you." If the claymore mine isn't saying enough. Taskmaster pulls a fighting knife from some cross belt hidden at his lower back; sharpening it slowly as they have their fun meeting. That scraping sound audible between dialogue.
"Lynch, huh?" Not so much a question as an audible confirmation while Task muses at his own thoughts. He would pipe up and say he invited Harley but that isnt entirely the question being asked. Not completely.

Hips atop what is revealed to be a mine, wiggle, although the emptied tea cup is precariously set down as if of all things, that would be what sets it off. We all know better. Lips part and tongue traces the inside brim as they pop, then clicks off the roof before she speaks.

"Up close and personal like? Because I wanted to see the balls ya had even in such a state. Come to find out I'm sittin' on all 700 plus of em!" A slap of hands on the table and her back arches, an acrobatic move that has legs lifting in a kick off to bring her to her feet in a lateral spin just to the side.

A tilt of head and a wet pig tail is knocked from her face to slap along the bare expanse of back in a splay of red webbing tipped off the blonde. "Because Mista T said this is the real deal. And I'm a sucka for pain." Hidden in so few words was an answer to just about everything. She's in the presence of a man who hurt her J at one point, but she can contain that, as they ain't a thing no more. Her Mister J was gone years ago in her mind. She had time to snap and cope.

"And I got bills to pay like any other bad girl with Guilty Pleasures that are Fifty Shades of pretty in comparison to the swiss cheese you threaten to make of me."

That's when the shadows behind Deathstroke and near the door moved, revealing the massive Hyenas that come forth with mouths agape and tongues lolling, teeth only a show of casual tension. "They don't like me dead, and I think you'll find me more useful alive and well off." A pause and a lighter comes forth, slowly grinding finger over the wheel.

"I ain''t go much left to lose." The emphasis being on her making a discharge that could be -one- of the ways to set off the bomb.

Deathstroke snorts as he sips his tea, "They smell like wet dog." he says, seeming nonplussed. "So you're in this for the money and masochism then?" he asks casually, keeping his almost reclining posture, "Come on Doc, I expected better of you. If you were another Gotham thug, like Croc, or a jumped up intellectual with delusions like Crane, I might take that all at face value, but you're not. Why are you really here? Not the reasons you gave him," he jerks a thumb Taskmasters way, "though I suspect he's less easily fooled then he lets most believe, I am a student of human nature so I suspect you're here for more then base desires. Base desires are what got you into your little love affair with the clown, all accounts these days say you're reaching for… loftier goals. So what are they? Recompense? Revenge on someone? Surely not Redemption?" he makes a face as if this would be a great scandal.

Odd digitized laughter escapes Taskmaster at the 700 Balls remark. This causes the scraping sounds to stop momentarily before resuming again. No need to lose a finger. All of those are needed to gouge out the eyeballs of the super sorts.
"She knows very little about what it is we really do, yanno, beyond the killing things for money. Not that it's much different from what we really do."

Bud and Lou are ignored the past couple weeks he has grown used to their presence enough.
"He is asking you Doc Crazy Pants if you're on the straight and arrow now. Your ass not going to go all a flutter an' blow us to shit if a clown pops up or some other insane revenge scheme…" Maybe she caught that. Maybe not. Shes a hard one to get focused.

"Treat it like a job interview. That is kinda all I gave her before we showed up." Taskmaster shrugs and slides the knife back in to it's sheath.

"Not even insulting. They are not even of the Canis family. They're their own Hyenidae, genus Crocuta. If anything they''d smell like wet mud, or Awapoochie! I love that shampoo, not animal tested." Pausing her eyes roll with the small chuckle, a sound that has them keeping their distance, sitting a waiting.

"But they do have the jaw strength to sever a lead wire in one bite, that or a hand or two. Very useful, my babies." Though at Doc Crazy Pants her amused look deadpans and a glare is sent over her shoulder at T.

"I know what he's askin'. I got my issues but being a slow learner ain't one of em." A look back to Deathstroke and the flat-lined look of simply a wet and irritated clown is there.

"You want to know, try me. I ain't here for no one else save myself and to pay my bills." That and those within her Helter Shelter. "I ain't here to abide by no one's rules but my own. If it gets me paid, I'm willing to listen and amend them a teensy bit." A smidgen gesture of pinched fingers made then as the smile is returning.

"You apparently know me already. Your guess is as good as mine." A Gallic shrug and she smiles, batting lashes. "Looks like you need cute on this team, and a bit of non-physically broken."

Deathstroke sets his tea cup down on the table as he leans forward, "Doctor, I don't know you at all, hence the meeting. I has suspicions about you, theories, guesses and hunches all the other words that mean I havn't really got a handle on how to deal with your special brand of crazy. I'm here to decide if you'd be useful to me." he lets out a breath, "Contrary to popular opinion, I am not /entirely/ driven by purely mercenary motivations. Largely, yes, but not entirely. I have access to certain knowledge, the sort not even the Bat gets, and I have a mind for puzzling truth from the bullshit. It's how I know things in the world are happening, big things, the kind of big things that usually would require a team of spandex laden super-types in capes to deal with… only they can't. Because they're the Good Guys. Good Guys have rules, they have to follow certain codes of conduct, and some people," he smirks every so slightly, "I'm sure you know the type, don't respond to people who work within the rules."

He shifts one of his broken legs, glaring at it as if it had offended him somehow and he was taking it personally, "There are wars no cape will ever know are fought, wars whos casualties are vast and far reaching, but they'll never get a second of coverage on the news, never reach the eyes of the public. The Good Guys won't care, doesn't happen in their little towns, in their nice clean country, so they just ignore it. We do not." he tilts his head to the side, "This isn't to say we knock over every tin pot dictator and free the people either, we're not a fucking charity or some bleeding hearts. But we see the things others don't, the battles and the foes that lurk in the darkness and the slime, the kind that make a hobby of genocide and have plans to inhumane to be ignored. And then we kill those fuckers." he points a finger, "And then collect a check. So there's that. But first we kill some people."

"Ever essential and eternal, is she, our lady violence." Taskmaster releases another chuckle springing off the box to pace in a half-circle. "An' cute, sure, why not. I think we can use all the amoral heavy hitters we can. Shits gonna get real before long."

"Question though, I'm stuck on it, why we in Gotham again? Coulda met you easier in Brooklyn."

"Then you know as much as me!" Clapclap-hop! "We're on the level." Index and middle point to her eyes and then to Mistah D, same done to Mistah T, the 'watching you/watching me' gesture with a happy smile! Because… Honestly not even Harley can guarantee how she will be.

"Oh, don't give me /that/ look Mistah D, it's hot from you, but be better from one of the mini-you's. You fucked them up ~good~." A level handed gesture gauges height, with a puzzled look to it before Harleen shrugs and smiles all big. Yes, she knows some shit too!

"Just let me know who we kill and when I can write the check for my next bill… cuz checks can take a -max- of 3 days to clear so I got wiggle room…" A hand shakey wavey gesture and she taps a finger on lower lip. "Gotham? Because. It's falling apart and fits theme."

Deathstroke eyes Task, "Because I had business in Gotham. Two birds…" he hand waves the rest of the saying as he glances back at Harley, "Firstly, let's not pretend that you're an idiot. You're a skilled psychotherapist, I suspect heavy on the psycho, which means you know yourself /extremely/ well. Playing the stupid cheerleader in this company belittles us both. And secondly, and far more importantly, that is the /last/ time you will ever mention my family." what ever precious little levity there was in the man a moment ago is now entirely gone, "Ever."

"Welp that was fun and not tense or awkward at all. As usual. " Taskmaster's tone and role within this group tends towards the lancer. He often sounds even sounds on the verge of contrary but he always ends up following orders and working alongside Deathstroke. The man gets shit done. "C'mon Harley. Lets go paint one of my masks black and fuck with some of the locals."

"I fink you freeky…" Harley says in a small tone, a tone that has Bud and Lou standing and moving forward, their shoulders hiked higher and bristled, a method that shows beneath the fur the mass of muscle.

"…family, off the roster. Good, because I was worried." saying that blue eyes settle on Mistah D. and the smile seems Glasgow without the cut. "So I know where we stand. No thinking you know me better then me and vice versa. As I said, you had me at hello.. Swiss cheese is the best by the way. I like your toys."

Mistah T. speaking snaps her gaze from Deathstroke's own.

"I'm in."

"…and I like you alot…" The bat is withdrawn from her belt and the phrase burnt into it blurs in the spin in her hand, dragging the edge of wooden weapon over the broken concrete floor. Bud and Lou turn to exit the warehouse and follow her direction, but when the bat aims upward it is towards the hole Mistah D. claims Mistah J made in the ceiling, and it becomes bigger with a blast from other hand from an abnormally large and modded pistol, a flag coming from the barrel after saying *BANG!*.

"Now I made that hole."

"Let's go paint parts of Gotham black!"

Deathstroke calmly reaches beneath the folding table and there's a soft click sound before he waves her off, letting her know the mine is disarmed, "You're on the team on a probationary term. You make full pay, you get none of the secrets. Not yet. You didn't put in what the others did to make the cut and I don't trust you or your crazy, so for now, you're an outside contractor. Make a show of it and we'll talk about something more permanent." he shoots Task a look that says he'd better know what he's doing, and then waves them both away, "Go play. I'm going to finish my tea."

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