Hosed as F-*&!

May 09, 2017:

Ravager hunts down Regan after their session with Satan herself and repercussions….
They bond with Tequila and raw meat.
((NSFW - Not Disney))

1313 Wyngarde Lane



NPCs: None.

Mentions: Taskmaster, Harey Quinn, Alex Danvers, Bane, Suicide Squad, Amanda Waller


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

Forty-eight hours ago, Regan Wyngarde and Rose Wilson shared, separately, a new kind of SKWAD-bonding ritual: A savage message sent from Amanda Waller. First came the firehoses and cracked ribs, then came a few snap-batons and beatings, by the end of it all, it was the firehose every four hours and a thin meal of bread and sludge that was likely coughed into every twelve hours.

It was fun in the way that Fat Camp is fun, perhaps even less.

Definitely less.

When all was said and done and the solitary doors were opened and the final checks in the infirmary were through, they were released separately, and Regan Wyngarde was nowhere to be found. All that was left behind of Lady Mastermind at Belle Reve was a scribbled mark on the checkout list and three-thousand dollar nightclub dress, soaked and in tatters, in the garbage can at the exit.

Hell of a way to end a two-week party of pretending that she wasn’t a prisoner.

With no forwarding message as to where she’d be, the first stop on the list of hunting down Regan Wyngarde is in Gotham City’s Chelsea district. Past the brick and gargoyle-tipped apartment buildings is a condominium complex with rooftop pool where one Alicia Green lives. The cover for an alleged trust fund baby has been the identity set up by the Task Force as a front; it’s a reminder to be smart, to stay low. The very sort of suggestion that Regan should have taken to heart before drawing Waller’s ire and securing her beating.

Yet, for a woman who could appear as anyone she wanted, it’s the only place, on record, where Regan Wyngarde might go to ground to heal, and if the sickening pop that was heard when being introduced to a concrete wall by a prison guard so lovingly referred to as Discount John Goodman was any indication, it would be a good place to nurse a formerly dislocated shoulder, too.


Rose is there, in tattered orange when the door is thrown open.
INMATE indeed…

The light makes her react, one hand shoots up to stop an assumed onslaught that never comes. While the Discount helps Regan, she gets people who despise her Father, and thus hold no mercy for his offspring in the fling that has her hoisted, drug, and unceremoniously deposited into the clinic to be patched after fed, and offered…

Rose was not staying, she went to her bunk, could not find her eye, and her patch (in a puddle in seg), just leaves. Despite it all they are allowed and she pauses as she sees the scratch of Regan’s own departure, squinting.

Walking out she heads towards Chelsea, which is the very flavour of the Mastermind. So while ‘shopping’ Rose inquires, keeping bangs of razored variance over the scarred ocular, gathering more leather, lace, and even some crafts.
    Eyelets, grommets, studs, thin rope…

Life goes the fuck on.

Which is apparent when she follows answers to questions and finds the condo, the bell-hop… Not having a good day as he buzzes her, the secuirty cams showing him -smooshumcheekums- up to Rose, but something is wedged somewhere uncomfortable based on the squeak of his voice as he calls up for clearance.

~”You have a visit-or-! Buzz her in…”~ Not a question, a plea…

Liar liar pants on fire..


~”Let her up, Esteban. She’s cool.”

The voice coming down through the intercom, sure enough, belongs to Lady Mastermind. Faint and crackling over the line, it’s distant, as if pressed from arm’s reach or called from across the room with minimal amounts of aching vocal cords within the swan-like neck.

Alicia Green has psychopaths for friends.

The bell-hop is more than eager to press his finger down on the button when the buzz comes. Both buttons in time unlock the door to the elevator, which, all part of the wonders of twenty-first century automation, opens for Rose in unison.

The front door to Regan’s third-floor apartment clicks unlocked and is cracked in preparation for Rose’s arrival. An anticipated entry, would Regan truly make Rose knock? No, with a weapon pulled on her own door-man, leaving the door open for Rose serves as a way to keep it from being kicked in, anyway.

    A stitch in time saves nine.


Yet, the inside of Lady Mastermind’s apartment is a place of pristine relaxation. A trip-hop mix of house techno music whispers over the built-in speakers. Despite the apartment smelling faintly of spilled liquor, the hardwood floors are as spotless as the shine coming off of the black marbled countertops in the kitchen. The windows are covered in closed drapes, allowing the bluish track lighting to create a club-like atmosphere. The oversized 4k flat screen television is playing a set mix of anime clips with the music, casting flickering lights over the plush, leather furniture.

Whoever Regan’s cleaning lady is? She’s talented.

And when Regan first comes into view, she’s clad in a thigh-length, pleated black skirt and a shredded up tank top with bound, tied knots of tee shirt material in the back. The top is gaping, loungy and comfortable, and just enough coverage over the purple and black striped bikini top she’s wearing for a bra beneath.


It’s there, the tattoo in Harley’s script. Plain as day.
    Without bruising.
        Over a cream-colored stomach.
            On a body devoid of any signs of damage sustained over the weekend.

There, in front of the television, Regan is ignoring the pending arrival of her guest with a bottle of beer in one hand and a dip-roll of her hips, dancing coyly with the low bass drum of the music.

Whoever Regan’s primary care physician is? They’re talented, too.


Rose is allowed up, and poor Esteban, is relieved of the cold press of steel at his spinal column while she embraces him with fingers along his collar like a lover wilt.

A kiss is lain to his temple with the press of splayed palm upn opposing side and Rose is off, a wink from her one good eye behind, the other still covered by platinum strands.

    *DING* Door closes, and the ride up is taken.

But when it opens to the lavish apartment, Rose is not surprised, her own personal acquisition is ramshackle in Red Hook, but it does not bother her in the slightest, money has to be filtered to multiple accounts and then webbed outward for funneling of assets under a variance of names.

Regan’s appearance is met with a moment of placidity from Rose, who is now clad in low-waisted cut-offs, the number of straps peek from beneath and arch up over the curve of dermal laden hips, outlining the glimpses of titanium studs.

Abdomen is bare, showing the etchings of scars, tattoos, and the hem of an asymmetrical drop of black gauzy fabric that descends down behind to whisper over the backs of exposed thighs….and the beginning of her own SKWAD tattoo…

Gladiator sandals rise to just beneath knees, but for ease of removal zippers align on inner sides in a matching hue of black.  “You seem to be well…” No comment on the alias, as Rose has plenty, but that TV screen!

Gaze snaps to and fro and where Regan shows undamaged, Rose’s skin is fading from purple to sickly yellow… Yet far too quickly

“Nice pad. Nice music. But it lacks  certain …Saviore faire….” But the way Rose even says it and accents the words with her flick-of-wrist and snap…
        Maybe laughable, if it did not hurt like hell!


“I’m not doing so bad,” Regan mewls out arrogantly. She lifts her arm high above her head and turns her back to Rose, lifting her bottle high in the air with a stretch. Showing off in her own Wyngarde way, she makes bedroom eyes at her television set while smearing her fingers from her belly to the hem of her skirt, lifting it to show a little thigh. No. All better. The twist of her torso is no lack of gloating. “Those bitches forgot to turn off one of the dampeners. Hah. Fuckasses.

Regan’s recently pedicured heel slithers against the hardwood floor in a bouncy turn that sends skirt and baggy top material flowing. She moves in a dance, arms extended, reaching out with bottle and grabby-fingers for Rose in her approach to the woman. Hips sashaying to the beat, she leans in and presses her lips to Rose’s cheek, then slips past her towards the kitchen.

One detail is missing.
    Regan loves her perfume.
        Regan is not wearing her perfume, but her couch has the scent of rubbing alcohol.

“So, I don’t want to make you mad because you’re my main girl and all, but when the lights went out, some dumbass musta shut one of the boxes off. Maybe our skull-faced hombre? I dunno-” Regan chatterboxes her way to the kitchen. The scent of rubbing alcohol rises from the sofa and follows Regan slowly to her designer cooking spot. Bending to near scandalous lengths, Regan sticks half of her body into her fridge and starts to dig for food. “-So the hoses came out and I was like DODGEBALL and I totally wanted to help you out but I didn’t know if I was gonna get arm-sploded while it was going on, so I totally owe you one, babe.”

Dos Equiis. Two bottles are set down.
    A plate of baklava is set down beside them.
        Regan comes back up in a flutter of hair and a salacious grin.

The ghost that smells like rubbing alcohol makes its way back to the sofa.

“Round two of freedom? I’m totally gonna get laid before Waller pulls some shit like that again. I need to priority up.” Regan, the scentless Regan, continues from the kitchen. “Your face hurt to much to beer with me?”


Rose is watching, not sitting while the heel of booted foot pivots against the flooring, scraping rubber along that **pristine* tile to leave scuffs.

Yes, the cleaning lady (Consuela No…Nooo) may need commendations she is about to bridge her limitations if -pushed-. But that is what Rose does, while nostrils flare and her head turns one way while that single ocular of azure goes the other… To the couch where Regan had rested before lifting and offering her a drink.

“My face always hurts. Everything does. It’s why I “beer up”. But I prefer potatoes for dinner…” Vodka, no rocks, hard up.

“Since when did you go ‘Calgon Take me Away, Regan?” That smell, not to mention the scrawl of almost indecipherable pain now gone? A hot-tub deep tissue does not eliminate that. Rose has an enhanced metabolism, a driven super system… and still has charlie-horses from hell…. “Alien…. Is more my speed and below yours…”

There is suspicious look, one that has that drag of black scrape along her floor, coming from booted toe as Rose begins to sway, sashay, towards her “pool” on the balcony… But also, a door. One hand rises, a beckoning finger curls and the singular eye seals in a fast wink. “Where is your Madonna, Regan?” Shirley Temple, no cherry!

“Getting laid? No issue, if you can pause this reverb I can show you Trivium… “


Regan, from the kitchen, taps a fork against the side of the baklava dish when Rose looks towards the couch. Ever-needful for attention, the bitchcakes blonde tries to distract Rose to no avail. The chime against the plate sings out like she’s calling a kitten for dinner.

“Let me think of what I’ve got vodka-wise. I tend to roll Mexico-style.” Regan giggles and hops her hip up onto the countertop. One leg crosses over the other baring a wealth of thigh as she rifles through a series of bottles, checking her supply. “Rest assured I’m gonna have something to take your pain away or else I’ll phone out and have something delivered in.” A beat passes. “Though I swear my cleaner was fucking stealing from me because some of my shit was missing when I got back. I fired her. She kicked a bucket over. I had to mop it all up myself. MY. SELF.” The growl of frustration is as entitled as the woman who makes it.

Yet…Regan Wyngarde missed a detail.

When Rose pries apart the curtain covering the back door to the pool beyond, the light from within bounces off of her eye, back towards where Regan Wyngarde is bottle-servicing on the counter. The reflection on the window is that of an empty countertop with a closed liquor cabinet, despite the guarantee the rest of her senses paint Regan as being there.

“Fuck it.” Regan hops down and strides after Rose, hurrying to catch up. She twirls around the back of a chair and slides the rest of the way to Rose, coming to a stop against her back. The faint sensation of a pair of breasts press into Rose’s shoulder and a hand presses down over the back pocket of her jeans. Regan’s scentless hair waves past Rose’s nose as she reaches through Rose’s arms to grip the door. “Let’s get you in the tub first where it’s hot. I’ll head back in once you’re in and find the vodka. Help me with the door?” Regan, who surely has no reflection in the window so close, beckons for Rose to…open the door by herself.

Once more, the vague scent of rubbing alcohol rises from the sofa and begins in a slow trail behind the two of them for the liquor cabinet.

“What does Trivium have to do with getting laid and what’s a Trivium?” Regan asks with a roll of her eyes. “Text it to me once you’re in the tub and I’ll link it to my bomb-ass beat system.”


”Until The World Goes… Cold…”, Rose states through a breath as that single eye lifts and reflects, albeit Regan is there, but -not-. Her hand hooks into the patio door-handle, black and blue a sickly yellow but peeled open none the less… Nate’s aid at least helped her (un)break her tarsals.

Rose wants to believe, and with an exhale that almost fogs the glass she opens the door. Whispers… ”Get your ass up and out here…”

The door flings open, flurrying drapery and blinds aside in her huff, she will take it, she gets it… Or does she? Watching Regan make her way to the bar and speak her proclamations she starts to undo her attire, where beneath she is suitable for the pool, those straps of /under/ that framed piercings along the ‘v’ of hips in front nothing in comparison to what rests at the dimples of back just above hips, outlined by a rose vined tattoo, lifting from SKWAD’s end to beneath the curve of chest and the embrace of a matching brassiere. But between, above, below?

    Scars. Slashes of pink, holes of faded red. There’s several reasons Rose couldn’t care less if Regan wore Calgon or Versace.

Just get her some potatoes with cranberry and all is right in the world!


“I’ll come out and join you in a minute, then.” Regan bullshits her way through a gentle shove to the scarred platinum. She gives the woman’s rump a little shove in the open fling of the door. All smiles and few cares, Regan laughs and twists to avoid the heavy frame; there wasn’t a chance in hell that it was going to hit her, anyway. Perfectly flat-ironed hair fans out like like branches of a palm tree, brushed, but not undisturbed, by the aggression Rose throws into it.

Rose’s first footsteps onto the balcony, and the undressing ritual that follow, are trailed by a pair of illusory eyes that follow her.

“I’ll be…with the Madonna. Whatever.” A voice trails off.

The door slams shut behind Rose Wilson’s back.

The concrete floor of the back patio is cooled by the nighttime breeze. Black awnings line a small row of lounging chairs and provide personalized cover from would-be peeping toms from the building across the street. A building of this height would need a taller building of greater height to see in, and even then, such people would need binoculars. Chelsea is swanky, but not industrialized. The black and white pool furniture, all-weather sofas, and tables lead up to a small pool in the shape of a kidney bean, and a floor-height hot tub with LED lighting in the same, pale blue that Regan’s got running inside of her apartment.

A pale blue lighting that is no longer filtering through the curtains.

Regan leaves Rose on the balcony for nearly ten minutes, leaving her frienemy without drink or company other than the Gotham Sky. The techno soundtrack dissipates suddenly, no longer able to be heard, leaving the honking of taxicabs and the distant sounds of police sirens to provide soundtrack.

The door to Regan’s apartment opens.

A bruised ankle steps out, first.

With her head lowered, Regan is a different creature now. Baton-shaped bruises line bared legs up to the scant backside covering of a pair of Brazilian-coverage bikini bottoms that tie in pretty, feminine loops at the sides. The v-shaped fabric clings to the last curve of her backside, where a large bruise the shape of a footprint rests.

Regan Wyngarde’s once flat, yoga-abs are marred with bruising from the firehose, up to a span of cleavage held together by black, rope-like strands laced through purple and black-striped cups of a string bikini top. SKWAD reads as SKWA- where a black bruise still lives, and whatever latent allure could be gathered from the cling of such a bikini top is covered over by a black sling through which an arm dislocated just days ago rests to keep comfortable.

Regan Wyngarde remembered the vodka.

With dark sunglasses over her eyes and half of her face a purplish-green bruise, Regan marches out with her hair in a loose, unremarkable ponytail. Eyes to the floor, she walks around to the hot tub and sets a bottle of vodka, a sixpack of Cherry 7up(™), two glasses, and a control deck for her sound system down with a huff.

“…fine.” Regan murmurs with a swollen jaw. “…you win.”


Did Rose win, though? Really??

Sitting in the pool, her whole body feels like a football team had its way with her in a tackle-pile, that avoided save words and took no prisoners. The water is a win, and slowly from resting along the wall of the pool she slides down and sinks beneath the surface, at first there are ripples, bubbles….
    Then still…

But the waters are clear, for a moment just hovered there like in stasis, even as music changes and the bass of movement is like a dull rattle upon foundation that is clearly chosen for privacy purposes.

Kicking from the wall she moves from the wall she was against to the other, surfacing and smearing hands across her face, pressing hair of almost a silver hue away from her face, her hand remaining in a splay of fingers over the eye laden and rimmed with scars… No longer there. Not even bionics.

When Regan comes forth, the real deal, Rose squints, droplets hanging like unfallen comets, glistening against ridges, from icy spires and threatening an even more subarctic ocular of blue. Psy is what they block, not factors ingrained apparently, and where Regan is bruised and bandaged, Rose is a sickening baby-puke green/yellow. Give her her injections and it’d be gone. But she left everything back there, and opted to just find Regan who signed out after she only signed in to say HI!.


Hosed, in more ways then one, but they did have it coming and is showed in trails as well as livid purple etchings and swells. Like braille to the blind, this told a story or two.

“Win…” The ripples resound, water's surface parts as she pushes across back to where she came from and rises to take the glasses, backing off to allow Regan room. “May want to choose a better word.”

“You had me at ‘Fuck You’,” Months ago, now.
    “Don’t play with my head again.”

A warning? Rose had fallen for it for a moment, was confused, and now she was worried, but she simply sipped on that glass and tried to avoid it by drowning sorrows and frets….

A pat to the water’s surface for Regan to sink in. “Esteban better crank up the heat in this bitch…” A second glance and study… Brows dip over bridge of nose.

“Goodman is going to be recycled.” Rose may seem non-plussed, but it is not the alcohol in her ‘Madonna’ making her red. She had been tricked by the woman, and mindgames are a wool over Rose’s eyes.

    … Goddammit! Slade’s going to kill her.
        She likes this bitch.


The dark sunglasses are a shield for Regan Wyngarde, and even with them slid over the bruising on her face, they don’t point towards Rose Wilson’s face. The bridge of Regan’s nose — miraculously free from bruising and swelling — points like an arrow to everywhere Regan’s attention diverts that isn’t Rose’s face. Two dark lenses, her shield against the scarring of her vanity, looks to the water, the warbled reflection of Rose’s arms beneath the waves, and the empty space provided in the void when Rose makes room for her.

    Anywhere but the eyes of the woman who hath warned her.

“I don’t apologize for anything and ever mean it.” Regan mutters at the water’s edge. The tip of her pink tongue sneaks out, running over her lip while she bends an ankle testing the water with her big toe. “It’s just something that people want to feel better about themselves. A little doggy treat. Shake, beg, roll over.” Hissing, Regan’s belly sucks into a concave waterslide framed by bruised ribs. Her shoulders lift mincingly, lifting the black shoulder-strap of her sling off of her head. “I sound more convincing when I lie than when I tell the truth.”

A strip of hair cut at an odd angle falls out of Regan’s ponytail and over her eye. The slant in the hair is freshly shorn and out of place, hanging to the sharp line of Regan’s jaw. Two fingertips lift to push it back, but hesitate mid-length. It’s hiding the bruise. Instead, she digs her fingers under the velcro strip in her sling, frees her aching arm with a sharp intake of breath that whistles. She drops the unwanted medical aid onto the table.

Each step down the tiny stairs comes with a wince, a turkey-trot wobble of arms, and a failure to make eye contact with Rose Wilson so complete that Regan may as well be walking the Green Mile to her own execution with no want or desire to acknowledge a the cat-calls.

Her thin body splits into the water, casting ripples of her own. Puffy lips part and show two rows of teeth that are all still there, unchipped, in the blue LED lighting.

“I won’t do it again without good reason.”

Regan turns towards Rose and moon-hops beneath the water once. Her bruised ankle lifts with a bend of the knee, keeping off of the pebble-tec floor of the pool. It’s a short distance that Regan travels to wrap an arm around Rose Wilson’s shoulder and pull herself to the woman for…a hug? Regan presses the unbruised side of her face against Rose’s collarbone and sneers, her bruised lips forming a venomous triangle of fury-laden teeth.

“Thank you.”
    Regan doesn’t apologize.


    Regan Wyngarde squeezes Rose, teeth biting down until her gums ache.

        “…save the last piece of him for me.”


Rose may have warned Regan, but she did it ‘of free will’ (snort), with her and Harley, and there is no regrets, no apologies, only a rising of red that easily flourishes over the pale skin, contrasting to alabastrite where that platinum hair sweeps along her face.

The swell went down hours after the barrage ended, the bruising only looking sickly, but in the Blue UV light what is there, looks green instead. But she is not Regan and when the woman reveals it all, even despite that pride that puts pieces back to cover. Rose got over pride, and wears her bullshit in the open, down to the limp. She makes sure she earns it, like a badge.

Two different creatures, one of the Locke, one of the Mer, but both now, in the same pool of water, and when Regan approached Rose, she expected to get shanked and the water to turn pink… But maybe..
        Just maybe…
            The other woman heard her sincerity, or saw it in the narrow of that single eye left to exposure, while the other is in Satan Herself's grasp.

((Don’t worry! What is removed Rose uploaded safely elsewhere behind firewalls and a variant of USB drivers.)) The memories remain!

A cautious rock back has Rose pressing one elbow upon the nook of the pools ledge, her other hand a pressure of slickened smear across the wall, curling fingers just over a small heat that on queue starts propelling hotter currents into the pool.
Good Esteban. Cookie for you.

When the barrage of rapid stabbing does not come, and instead Regan embraces her…
        I like this one.

Trusting one as much as you trust yourself is a look into a mirror.
Give me your damage,
I’m begging you please..

The embrace is returned, the utterance of words stated and returned. “Top. Bottom. Or ‘tween?” But that puppy is coming neutered…


Regan Wyngarde has never been stronger than the other members of Task Force X. Even at a glance, Regan is stronger than the mortal who houses the ancient entity known as the Enchantress, but Waller doesn’t want the June, she wants the witch, and the witch is stronger than Regan. In a knock-down, drag out fight, Regan has odds on June Moone, but no other.
    At least, toe to toe.
        Regan is at her most dangerous unannounced.

The weakness in Regan’s arm is supported by the way she clings it against her breast like a chicken’s wing. Weak-wristed and favoring her formerly dislocated shoulder, the hug she gives Rose Wilson isn’t a squeeze worthy of an attempt to crush a soda can. It’s a brief moment of cling, a hard-press of a wide-lensed pair of DC sunglasses against Rose’s collar, and a bitter laugh that ripples the water between them.

“I want him to know it was me.”

Regan taps her forehead against Rose’s shoulder, grinding it out there like she’s crunching tea leaves into a mortar and pestle.

“Don’t tell the others about this.”
    Or I’ll walk you off a building.
        Or you’ll end up like Discount John Goodman.
            I’ll find a way to hurt you for it.
                …because it will hurt.

Without so much as a sniffle, Regan squeezes one final time and slithers her water-slicked arm from around Rose’s shoulders. The closeness doesn’t fade, hovering in the wings with a temple against Rose’s jaw. The bruised, the weaker of the two, gathers herself in a moment of silence before turning her back to the pool’s edge and using the bounding power of three toes to lift her backside onto the underwater bench beside Rose. Two-toned, slender legs warble in the rippling water, working out a kind of pain Regan hasn’t yet had the joy in her adult life of healing from.

“Could you…make me a drink?”

Regan floats her request quietly, twisting her pale fingers around the demoralizing lock of hair where an extra foot and a half of blonde once was. She works it behind her ear, tucking it beneath the sides of her sunglasses.

    And still, she hasn’t looked to Rose’s face.

“My face hurts.”
    Regan pauses, brows dipping beneath the oversized lenses. Mall Bitch Shades.
“None of my clothes look right on me right now.”
    Somewhere, beneath the expenses lenses, an eye rolls.

“So for the next few days, my place is the clubhouse for team bitch.”


    Slowly, like it hurt..
        Betrayed survival, and truth..
            We’ll still gut each other like carp.

Rose reciprocated the embrace, her hand dripping water from fingertips like rain that cascaded down Regan’s back, over her shoulder… No squeeze, she knew better. It hurts, even where she is set to a wek later, Regan is next-day, almost.

“Make me you, I will let you know when…” And… Rose does what she has only done for Nate…Regan can feel that will, that Wall of her own reinforcement drop, allowing the other woman a link befre she slams it back in place!
        Get it while the getting is good.

That does not mean her suspicions have lessened, this is a two-way street if accepted… “What do you want?” Her own ‘Madonna’ drained and she is lifting, feet slowly tucking to the bar where their asses planted side-by-side, the suit made of x’ and o’s of straps in two parts clinging now, affected by the water and shrinking to that frame. Cut, hardened, but not by a gym, by trials and perseverance. Battle-ready, not small-space-of-sweaty-meat-mongers-ready.

“Tequila. I am guessing 1800 or better? Do not make me call Esteban… He’ll piss himself.” So name: label, what ya want in it… It will likely be 90 percent the alcohol. Rose takes her shit straight with a drop of color.  No ice. No umbrella. Fuck the frills.

Rose has not bothered to focus on Regan, she knows the feeling, the lack of an eyeball in her socket causes it. This may also be why exchanged glances are brief and when made… Threatening between them, like two predators caught in a corner…
    Or a pool…

“It’s hurting me too.” But when Rose says that about the hurting face… It is obviously reciprocal, and the wry smirk, is hard to miss before she steps inside to fill glasses.


“I will strangle you with your bikini top.” Regan sneers where one would normally smile. Or is that a smile but her contused facial muscles don’t make it all the way so it’s a flat-toothy snarl? The order of operations and intent isn’t printed out in a complicated IKEA manual, but the middle finger that splashes out of the water to hover in Rose’s direction is clear enough.

The finger lowers. Regan’s chin dips towards the water to chase the marbling effect the water’s reflection has on her skin.

From Rose’s vantage point, from Regan’s side, the rest of the picture comes to a close. Regan’s left eye is puffy and black, kept halfway open even in the shade the sunglasses provide.

    It’s not something she could wear at the Hellfire Club.
        Domestic Violence Chic isn’t in this year.

Regan turns her head, nose pointing Rose’s way when she lifts and rains poolwater down over her shoulder. The neck-hanging strip of her own top strains against her wounded shoulder, testing an arm painted in the style of a wicked birthmark. Lady Mastermind lifts her only undamaged hand in a flat palm, considering a swing, but it never comes. Too tired to play, it flops to the water and sinks.

“I grifted my way into a Herradura Sumprema that’s in my place. Door’s open if you want to go that far, but Esteban’s totally not going to be coming up here. I don’t know if you could convince him to so…” Regan huffs and shakes her ponytail. “…I brought out extra for the Madonnas. Just pour me what you’re having and when we get down to the place you’ll owe me some Don Juan Miguel Villalobos or whatever!”

Regan calls out, trying to stop Rose from leaving. When it doesn’t have the desired effect, Regan slops her elbow over the edge of the pool’s rim and points her nose down the wet-concrete line that Rose is painting towards the door. Her lips form a hyphen, pinching together into a flat line while she watches the international assassin — her maybe friend for the moment, though maybe never — walk away.

“Fuck. You are so stupid.” Regan whispers. “This is stupid. Make her leave.”

Alone, Regan tilts her head back against the pool’s edge and plucks her glasses from her face. She brushes her forearm over her brow, which turns quickly into a drag of her thin forearm over the sockets of her eyes. She holds the bone over her eye. Cracks in the mortar form as her teeth bare, lips peeling back, teeth grinding together in the stone-over-stone way.

    The sob comes quickly.

Pitiful to Regan’s ears, such a weak, hopeless sound, it bubbles up fury in Regan Wyngarde like nothing else. A line of saliva hangs from her top teeth to the bottom, holding like a spiderweb as she seizes the muscles in her throat to keep it quiet.

    Her fist comes down, glasses in hand, crushing into the water.

Regan’s head dunks down quickly. She saves Waller from the need to dunk her face into a rain barrel; Regan does it herself. She comes back up, tearing the hair-tie from the back of her head and sliding back into place on the bench in a casual lean, water-soaked bikini top covering her breasts pointed towards the sky.

The DC sunglasses come back on.

“Oh my god, bitch.” Regan yells. “Andale! Andale!”


“Arriba, /th/unt(cunt), have path-encccce!” One bare leg pushes blinds aside, followed by a hip, and twixt each finger is a bottle (not beer, liquor!) , wedged along her bikini top is lime and lemon wedges, perched between is a salt shaker, but in her other hand is a dangling ribeye. (Kll her later).

No, Rose is not /th/uupit! She is blatantly ignoring th sufferage of self and Regan to just… Make it go numb. “Tell them a Wilson head-butted your ass. It goes miles, but for now, take my gifts and put the frozen slab on your face. We’ll grill it later.” They’ll need to as all those bottles clatter to the pool edge, bare feet /shuffling/ glasses to the edge.

“I am not your servant. Not getting up again. If you like mixers, tough shit.” Still, Rose does not look at Regan as she drops into the pool and one hand dangles that meat in front of her… WIGGLEWIGGLE. “Trust me, it works.”
    That comes before Hold my beer…!

Rose is not being ignorant to the woman’s emotions, or the hic’cup’d moment she had alone, but she knows better than to acknowledge. She got this far not getting bled out by a sticking or by a mental breach of angryBitch proportions, so she is seeking to keep it that way.  A drink is fixed for Regan and when her own is made similar she turns, a bounding float across the pool and it is held to her as well.

“You can drop the glasses. You’re not fooling me. You’re still MACABE Magazine cover worthy…
    One foot is already pushing Rose an arm-distance from the other woman, but to make it better, she tucks her own errant strand away from her eye.

“I’ll bring him to you whimpering.”


Half-smashed lips part in a moment of disbelief. Regan’s head tilts, staring at Rose as she returns looking like the one-man-band version of a bartender. She lowers the glasses enough to show Rose the way her reddish-tinted brow is lifting at the sight of her, but stops short of allowing the woman to see her blue eyes.

“This is me looking at you like you’re being really weird right now.” Regan deadpans, slinking out to help stabilize the bottles on the side of the pool. She catches her blessed tequila before it topples over. “And this is me saving the four-hundred a bottle tequila from coming into the pool with first being smuggled into my tummy.”

She takes a pensive sip of the liquor. Careful to get her tongue against the edge of her lip, it isn’t her first jaunt with something with kick since returning home. At some point, her tooth sliced open the inside of her mouth, as is expected when being kicked in the face with linebacker grade water pressure. She swallows it smoothly, tilts her head back, and allows the blessings of Mexico to work its magic as her preferred pain-reliever of the moment.

“It wasn’t like this after Australia, you know. This is totally fucking gross, by the way,” Changing subjects mid-sentence, Regan wobbles the ribeye at Rose, holding it by the bone. She sticks a pinky out against her glass of tequila and hooks her glasses, carefully pulling them away from her closed eyes and SHHHPLORTing the steak against the side of her face. The bone makes it easy to hold. The half-gurgled gagging sound she makes is weak enough to be faked. “Seriously. It’s a dead animal.”

Deep breath in.
    Deep breath out.

Regan Wyngarde turns her face towards the sound of Rose Wilson’s voice and opens her eyes.

“I’m not Macabe-worthy right now, but I will be in a few weeks.”

Regan’s eyes peel open. Lower lids are puffy and lined with red lines that Regan chooses to ignore, just another point of damage in a face that’s shed tears in the last few hours, mourning her own reflection. Vanity destroyed is a thousand cracks in the glass, and in the negative space formed by the cracks comes a mote of comfort to slip through. Regan leans towards Rose’s fingers when she secures her runaway bangs. Her eyelids droop, then lift again, staring forward into Rose’s one good eye a look of thanks.

“Rose?” Regan finally bites. “I…know we’re going to get him. I do. And right now I want to talk to you about how we totally shared a beating together and how I love the fact that we’re both bonding over preparing to murder the same person. It’s not really even murder, it’s justice, but I’m getting off of the point and I don’t want to ramble.” Regan breathes in with a slight wheeze. She holds up a finger and turns, sipping another gulp of her tequila with a bitter beer face. “But I’m not going to let that blocky, size 22 golem-assed bitch or her goons fuck up everything that’s good about me. I’m not gonna let her take that.”

Regan swallows and wiggles her nose, roughly, towards Rose.

“I, like,” Regan mutters, brain puttering out into sociopathic butterfly dust. “Don’t want to explain how angry I am, because then I’m going to express things I don’t want to express to you, because then I’d be angry at myself for that. I don’t want to be angry at you for being here when I did that, not that I’d tell you that I was angry at you, but I’m still kind of regretting whatever reason it was I decided to stop making you see me the way the world should see me, because that’s who I really should be.”

A beat.

“Do you understand?”


This whole thing turns into a hip-hop video ft. #meanbitches… If it was not for the fact that the playlist went from Trivium to In Flames and is trying those ‘Beats’ to their max. Something wil *pop* eventually as Ravager takes it step-by-step into the pool now slowly rising in climate, the waves pushing out…

The the ribeye is slapped at Regan unceremoniously… Despite the smirk.

A slide of hand along the side of the pool, the bottles set down, captured by Regan’s pristine and (costly) hand, while another just takes from opposing end, tipping her chin down to capture a wedge from along bikini top to waggle twixt teeth.

The wedge skips across the pools watery surface and then sinks while the one good eye narrows at Regan, bottle in hand knocked back before the back of wrist sweeps along lower lip that is still swollen but not bruised.

“You took that beating from Satan like … “ A pause. Neither of them are good at feelings or honesty.


“I do not even know what to say. You are not bawling in a corner, you may have hidden,” Snort, sp “But that’s vanity, not pride. Hooker, shut up. Don’t explain. SKWAD.” A wink of the one unscarred eye and Rose closes any gap between them, hooking an arm around Regan and knocking that bottle back, the bobbing wedge passing them plucked up by opposing hand and offered.

“Let me know when I can take a selfie. We are totally on blast in the ‘Gram…” A muff of palm lightly presses that meat to Regan’s eye, not caring about the feel of the meat that she will later grill.
    Nugent has that shit right! Meat. Eat, Me!

“I won’t talk. What am I going to say? We both got fucking painted on a rec room wall like marionettes? Owned by Lane Bryant’s favorite Official?” SNOORRTTT.

“She’s terrifying…” Addition before she bites into a fresh lemon wedge and cringes… Or was it something else??


Regan’s swollen eyes are bouncing around in their sockets, recounting the alchemical math that it takes to understand if she’s gotten herself across properly. She squeezes the fleshy, pink steak to her face, mashing it against her bruised cheek in ways the cow it came from probably never expected. The joke’s on the cow, though, because dying, being sliced into pieces, and then being put against the face of a blonde in a bikini while taking tequila shots is probably better than any cow could ever have imagined.


Scrapping the mental scratch paper, Regan bounces a foot between Rose’s feet. Greeting the incoming attack of hooker logic and drinking, she presses the side of her tequila glass to the top of Rose’s shoulder, balancing it there. Meat on one side and tequila in the other, Regan is one hand too few to party like she’s in a Marilyn Manson video after being beaten by the Antichrist Superstar, himself.

Rose Wilson does have a certain way of wording things that gives Regan Wyngarde the easy out when it comes to her least favorite Jeopardy subjects:
                POTENT POTABLES.

It all comes rushing back so quickly.

“FUCK THAT bitch.” Regan yelps out in her higher-pitched voice. She takes a quick sip from her glass and gets an arm around Rose’s opposite shoulder, bouncing in place in the water to keep upright. “I mean, she’s probably looking for any online mention of us right now anyway, right? Look at them bitches I had beat, let’s see if they’re being quiet and sobbing into their lattes. FUCK NO.” Regan leans forward with an ache lancing at the corner of her mouth, but take the offered lime wedge she does between her teeth.

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