Sharp Edges and No Coffee (Again?)

January 15, 2017:

Harley and Deathstroke encounter one another



NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

It's a beautiful day in Gotham. Well, beautiful if one can call anything about Gotham by that adjecive. The sun tries to shine above, leaving the air chill and crisp. Some clouds dot the brilliant blue of the sky, but for the most part the dome above is clear. People go about their day, heading to work, school or whatever mundane things are occupying their lives. That is until Harley comes along.

No, Harley is the fly in the ointment, the wrench in the gears of life. Even when she isn`t even trying. She walks along the busy street, a smile on her lips as her blonde hair bobs with each step. Two leashes strain from her wrist, two large hyenas at the other end of them. The beasts sniff at the buildings, the sidewalk, the hydrants and newsboxes, ignoring the panicked screams of the people that are avoiding the woman and her strange pets.

Harley is looking downright normal today, well, for her. Red overalls with black detailing and a white baseball shirt, sneakers, and a bomber jacket for warmth.
"I hate this city." Slade says into the mic hidden inside the collar of his exceptionall well made camel hair coat, "I hate the way it smells, I hate the people, I hate the damned crazies." «Pfft. You love Gotham. Gotham has the Bat.» Comes the responce in his ear, and the older man's eye narrows slightly, "I mentioned the crazies, didn't I?" He's wearing a pair of tailored slacks, dress boots, a gray cable knit sweater with a high neck under neath a black camel hair coat. If it wasn't for the white hair and the eye patch he'd fit in quite nicely in Gotham's nicer neighborhoods, where the Rich People lived.

Here he's not out of place so much as just worthy of making note of. Of course, if one knows what they're looking for one may also be aware that he's armed, something snugged up against his ribs under the coat, though it's hard to spot. Clothes are well tailored… maybe he's not a complete idiot then. He stops when he spots the hyenas, then the woman they're leading and lets out a long. Slow. Pained. Sigh. «What is it?» "Harley Quinn is being walked by her mutts." he says flatly. There's a long pause before Peabody responds on the channel, «Dude… get me a pic. She's a straight smoke show.» Slade makes an irritated sound in his throat and continues to walk. Everyone else moves out of the way, they cry out, they dodge, a few even run flat out, he does not. He just walks, with the sort of arrogance that assumes the hyenas will get out of his way.

Harley looks in the shop windows as she walks along blithely. It's just a nice day and she's taking her babies out for a walk. She stops when she sees something in the window that catches her eye, her arm out straight as the hyenas initially strain at the leashes and then grumble when they realize that their alpha is not going anywhere. They sit and sulk, starting to growl and snap at anyone foolish enough to come close.

But here comes someone that is different. He doesn't smell like prey. He doesn't move like prey. Not this one. Bud and Lou collectively shuffle closer to their mistress. A lion is wandering their savannah.

One who also, as it so happens, is familiar with the /actual/ savannah. Cause you know. Slade lives there. Sometimes. "Adequately trained." he says as he walks past, barely sparing the pair a glance, "Unexpected but appreciated." he has a smooth baritone voice and just enough of that high end accent Harley likely recognizes it from her time before she went bonkers. It's not 'born' money, but the earned kind. Just a /hint/ of something in it that's to rough for a childhood of high class. Maybe a gangster? Nah. Not enough trumped up bravado, and surely she knows all the gangsters in Gotham.

Turning to look at what seems to have her babies cowering at her knees, Harley sees the well dressed man. She takes a moment to give him a quick assessment. Clothes, stature, voice. She also notes that this man is not like the rabble of Gotham, not one of the scurrying mice. That makes him different. That makes him interesting. "Thanks!" she says in reply, smiling sweetly. Any pet mommy loves a compliment to her fur babies.

Her baby blue eyes continue to follow Slade as he walks along, a glint in them like when a cat spots a little red dot. She turns and begins to walk in the opposite direction of the way she was going, now following the gentleman.

Slade isn't exactly the sort to not notice a tail, «So… did you get my pic?» Slade lets his breath out slowly, either at the tail or at the voice in his head, honestly not even he's sure which. One thing he does know, he really doesn't need Quinn mucking about in his life right now. Things are complicated enough. "Can I help you Dr.?" he says without looking back over his shoulder.

The fact that this gentleman refers to her as Dr is rather intriguing. Someone who knew her from the old days? The days when she tried so hard to prove that she was more then just a pretty blonde, that she was more then some kid from a bad family in New Jersey. Her head tilts to one side, a smile playing on her lips. She bends down and unleashes the hyenas. "Go home, boys. Shoo." Their ears perk up and they suddenly burst off down the street, yipping and laughing as they go. The fact that she has just let loose two wild animals that are capable of killing just about anyone they come across doesn't seem to phase Harley in the least. Nor whether or not her babies will get home just fine on their own.

With a skip and a bounce, the blonde is now walking side by side with the dapper gentleman. Hands in her bomber jacket pockets, she eyes Slade once again. "Have we met before?"

Slade is… really tall. And big. Legit footballer big. Looking up at him involves a bit of craning, but at least the view isn't shit? "Not officially." he comments evenly, "But I have a good memory and I was visiting the city when you and your then significant other, a man of some infamy, were captured and placed back into Arkham. It was on the news. A lot." he turns his head enough to shoot a raised brow down at her, "Something about a train and an 800 pound birthday cake? Could have been a wedding cake. I was busy at the time and so only picked up a few things." 'busy' is a nice way to say Batman had just hit him with that damned car of his and Deathstroke saw the coverage of the event as he was flying through the window/living room of some poor family's brownstone. He hates that car too.

What is it about tall men that intrigues Harley. Possibly, due to her own short stature, she is drawn to tall men due to their implied authority. An intriguing thought, but one Harley will consider at another time. She doesn't seem the least bit threatened by the stranger as she walks beside him, her body language speaking volumes about how safe she feels out in the middle of the street with a man who seems to know her that is nearly twice her size. At the mention of the heist a few years back, Harley rolls her eyes expressively. "Yeah, we did a lot of stuff like that. Cakes, presents, smiles and confetti. It was sorta our gimmick. So, ya gonna intraduce yerself? Or am I gonna hafta guess?

"Not a problem. Mayhem is part of Harley's life, as is many trips to arkham with her ex"
Slade smirks slightly, "One should always have a name, a name is important, a name can command respect and obediance when other things do not. Like threats. Names, and to that extent, gimmicks, are important." he says as they walk, "It is why I call you Dr. and not Ms. Quinn." his pace isn't quick, but it's not slow either, meaning he's not the sort of tall person who makes her speed up to a half jog to keep up with him, but neither does he slow himself down to a meander for her either, he finds a nice middle that forces her to work, but doesn't make him an ass. "Slade." he offers after a moment, "My name is Slade." he holds out a gloved hand to her, "A pleasure, Dr."
Harley finds herself more and more interested the longer that she is with this man. He's smart too. very. Kind of a shame he's old enough to be her father. Or even older. She smiles at him, her blue eyes showing her intrigue in the stranger. The pace is nice, not too fast, not too slow. Not that should would mind if it was either. Faster means she could bounce more and men seem to get pleasantly distracted when she bounces, something she's learned to take advantage of. Slower means that she could sway more, which as it turns out is another pleasant distraction. Taking the gloved hand, she shakes it eagerly. "It's a pleasure ta make yer acquaintance, Slade. Mr. Slade? Or are we on a first name basis now?" she asks flirtaciously.

Slade smirks every so slightly at that, "That is my first name, yes. I think I'll stick with Dr. for you, it conveys a peice of you that I suspect many overlook," pause, eyes, "to their detriment I imagine." the handshake is firm and short lived, no nonsense, but not one of those jag-off 'squeeze to show my manliness' ones either. Which is when it sort of fits into place. Military. The man has Military stamped on his DNA. Some people have the bearing, the actives all have a touch of it, but this mane seems to exude easy dicipline and control, like cloud that surrounds him. Seen in that light, the pace he's keeping them at is clearly calculated to be /just/ to fast for her to sway, and just to slow for her to reasonably bounce. Most people wouldn't realize it, most people just don't have the training to even try profiling… But since when has Harley been most people? "Why the accent?" he asks curiously, suddenly shifting gears on her, "There is a bit of you on TV from, oh, ages back, that Vale woman asking you questions back when you were more lab coat then straight jacket, no trace of accent then. Why change that? Part of the gimmick or just an affectation to make people think less of your intelligence?"

When he calls her Dr again, there is a twitch at her eyes that is gone as fast as it showed up. Surprise. Uncertainty. She quickly covers up her own feelings by assessing the new information the handshake gave her. Firm, brief, no bones about it sort of business. With his bearing, she is figuring officer. But, from his apparent lack of arrogance, he worked his way up to officer, rather then one of those that got given their position due to family or wealth.

The question about her accent makes her beam out in a smile. Yes, this Slade person is very intriguing. She lets out a laugh. "No one ever asks me that. And since yer tha first ta do it, you get an honest answer. I grew up poor, wrong side of the tracks. I worked hard ta be smart, and that meant hidin' my New Jersey twang. Girls that talk like this ain't really considered too bright, like ya say. But then… when I started bein' a criminal, like my daddy, like my brothah… well, ain't no point in hidin' my roots then."

Slade tilts his head to the side, seems to consider this, then shakes his head, "Doubtful. Not a lie, but not a truth either." his small smirk of amusement remains, "I think I was more correct then you let on. Your roots, sure, they may be where it comes from, but you use it as a weapon. The same way that under your bomber jacket I'm better I'd see a plunging neck line if I were inclined to peek. Pants always a little to tight, shorts a little to short, the only remotely modest costume you've ever worn was your first, and I imagine you went through a pound of corn starch a week to powder yourself up enough to squeeze into it. No. You weaponized your voice just as you have everything else about you." he turns a corner, keeping them moving at the same pace, he seems to have a clear destination in mind.

"You are a woman of hard sharp edges and pointed things, but you hide all of that behind garish costumes, silly accents, bad dye jobs, and skimpy clothing. You round yourself off, dull the points, cover all of it in fluff and padding so people will underestimate you." he nods as he says his bit, clearly feeling he's got at least a bit of the truth of her. "It's why I call you Dr. Before you were this, you earned the title, and it's not an easy one to earn. It takes intelligence, dedication, effort, dicipline. I respect all those things, and this facade of yours is actually effective enough I have to remind myself to keep respecting the danger you might represent. Lest I slip." a more genuine smile passed down her way, "Coffee? I have to see a man about a thing." he motions to the door of a little greasy spoon they've stopped at. Harley knows it as the sort of place you can get your money freshly laundred if you need that sort of service, the guy that runs it is good enough and does small enough deals that he stays off of the radar and never makes himself a target for the bigger fish. He's cautious, careful, smart, and not to greedy. A good criminal in otherwords.
Harley pauses when they arrive at the greasy spoon. This man has managed to see through her more then anyone else has in a good long time. The only other person that seems to know this much about her is the Bat, and Harley is pretty sure he cheats. Hacks the system. Or uses his Batty influence to get her records from places like Arkham, Gotham City University or the GCPD. And with this Slade knowing so much about her just from observing her, as she's observing him, that makes him dangerous. Harley starts to get the same feeling that her babies had when they first scented him. Worry. He`s more then he appears as well.

"I think I'll pass on the coffee, handsome," she says blithely, hiding her apprehension behind her usual bubbly personality. "I should go make sure my boys have actually gone home and not just run amok. Or, if they did run amok, join in the fun. Toodles!" She waggles her fingers at Slade and backs away a few steps before turning and running the way she came.

Slade stands there, holding the door open, the same sort of blaise fair expression on his features as she says her bit. He nods to her once, "Next time Dr." he says simply, a gloved hand raising in a small wave as she jogs off back the way they both just came. He waits for her to round the corner then turns to enter the building. «No. Seriously dude. Did you get my picture?» the voice asks again in his ear, Slade just smirks, "No, I got something better." there's a pause, «Autograph?» Peabody sounds hopeful, "No." Slae responds, walking up to the dinner's counter and handing over a small scrap of paper on which is a coded number, "Insight." the man behind the counter nods once and disappears into the back, "She's not as crazy as they make her out to be, which means…" he lets that trail off before Peabody picks up the thread, «Which means you can use her if the need arises.» he sounds almost saddened as he says it, but keeps it faint, "No. Not as crazy doesn't mean sane. It means I can reach her, and in this town?" he lets his breath his through his teeth, "That's just shy of a fucking miracle."

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