The Treacherous Trunk

November 22, 2017:

Owen unwittingly throws Harley a homecoming party that starts with whiskey shots, moves on to tequila and ends with blowing up a traitor… the treacherous trunk.

Gotham Arms > Silveroak Inn & Tavern


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Poison Ivy


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

It has been a crazy time for Owen. Considering the most sane thing he's done in a while is go on a mission to recover a weapon of mass destruction and have it turn out to be a Nu-Human, he needs a break. The rogues popping back up trying to find him. A demon bear looking to eat his soul. So he decided that New York was maybe not the best place for him to be. He has been crashing at the Gotham Arms for the last few days. The fact that he feels safer among thieves, murderers and witches says a lot.

Waking up in his flat, not in a bed but from a disheveled state of half on the couch and half off, Owen tries to get his bearings. It's noon-ish. Maybe Wednesday? He takes a swig of the beer still nearby from last night. He regrets it but as he slowly makes his way to his feet, he still takes another sip. Looking around at the wreckage of his crash pad, he fumbles for something reasonably clean to wear. It's been a rough couple of days and something tells him he has not seen the last of what's likely now chasing him.


Owen will probably not appreciate his waking.

A loud 'fwump' from outside that door of his. Followed by an unceremonious "Ow!" A louder 'FWUMP'. A louder "OW." A large 'CRACK' and then a long stream of loud and emphatic cursing with a bunch of colorful euphemisms thrown in.

It ends with a promise to destroy every factory in Hong Kong. ….or, oh. Wait. Whatever lady's outside -and we use the term "lady" loosely here, gentle reader- isn't done yet. The blonde with the tight, ripped up black jeans and pigtails is still going.

Then something hard and metallic collides with Owen's front door.


Every thump. Every noise in fact reverberates in Owen's aching head. He mutters a "shut up." at the door, even his own voice being too loud for his own taste.

Owen is of course used to a rowdy environment here. It's not exactly a relaxing day spa of calm and peace. He knew this coming in and if he were honest, peace and quiet is the last thing he actually wants right now. This on the other hand sounds like it might a fight. That sounds pretty good to him.

In just a pair of jeans with a tee shirt over his head, half dressed, Owen opens the door. "What?" He realizes that whatever is happening out in the hall is probably going to be bonkers. But it's likely the crazy he is used to, not demon bears or maggot filled crows. Oh god, he hopes it's not maggot filled crows.


No. No crows. Instead, a brass handle is at Owen's feet with a chunk of splintered wood half-attached to it and jagged screws threatening from the other half.

There is a long string of weapons of all variety from the mundane to the clown-painted ridiculous laid out behind a graffiti-augmented steamer trunk that is missing half of its bottomand is turned up on its side with the giant hole where the handle once sat.

"—AND I SWEAR, I'M GONNA REPLACE YA WITH THE BEST DAMNED PIECE OF AMERICAN MADE USA CHEST THAT THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN!" Harley Quinn screams, kicking the chest again with her steel-toed boot. "THIS IS WHY NOBODY LIKES IMPORTS." She kicks it again. "U!" Again. "S!" Again. "A!" Again. "U!" Again. "Esssssss…"

Then her head sloooowly turns in Owens direction and her blue eyes blink. A pause. And then her furious facade melts away into a huge grin. "Oh, hi!" She chirps, all sunshine and roses as a hand is lightly placed upon the collarbone left bare by her red and black tank top and black leather jacket. "I was just having a heartfelt conversation…" That hand sweeps theatrically towards the broken and ancient steamer trunk, in pieces for having been asked to carry too much. "With a traitor in our midst." She leans in and whispers for Owen's benefit, blue eyes wide. "No one likes a traitor, yanno."


Owen is currently covered in more bandages and bruises than clothing and would normally be super pissed at someone waking him. And yet as he opens the door and assesses the situation, his best stern face melts slowly into at first a small smile and then by the time Harley is flat out chanting USA, a full blown laugh.

The talk of traitor causes him to sober up super fast though. He coughs out a weak *heh* as his mind runs through the possibility that she's here on behalf of the Rogues. Shaking his head a bit to clear away the thought, his smile returns. He hasn't betrayed anyone.. yet. He's just laying low, that's fine right? He can explain that away easily. Crap, he's getting paranoid… Or maybe he was always paranoid? Focus, Mercer.

"It had it coming." He raises his right hand and very solemnly states "I swear it was either you.. or the trunk." Then extending that hand, "I'm Owen. You're Harley, right?"


The question elicits a squeal of joy as the blonde bounds over to Owen's hand to take it with her knees straight and slightly bowed at the waist. Harley seizes it firmly in her leather-gloved own, and shakes emphatically. "I am! Howdy do, Owen? I see that my reputation precedes me!"

She's still shaking that hand as she turns her eyes up and to the side, head tilting as she mimes her thinking process. "I don't know if that's a good thing." Her shaking slows, slowly, as she turns her attention back to Owen. "Is that a good thing? I mean, I didn't put the bandages on ya', so it can't be a bad thing, right?" She asks these things with - unless Owen puts a stop to it - her hand still bobbing.


Owen laughs out loud again as she squeals over the introduction. "It certainly does." He has never 'worked' with Harley but he has certainly heard stories. Nothing specific, and who knows if any of them are actually true.

He continues to let her shakes his hand while she talks. "It's good." Glancing over his shoulder, he says "I'd offer for you t'come in and have a drink but.. I think I drank everything in sight last night. Want to join me out for a drink?"

At that he extricates his hand and finishes pulling on his tee shirt. "Unless you'd rather take the trunk out back and shoot it." That also sounds like a good idea to Owen.


Quinn bites her lower lip as again outwardly expresses her inward processing. Her head even bobs from side to side, like a little kooky clock. Then, at last she offers her counter-proposal: "Can we drink first, execute the traitor after?"

Because that is definitely the order in which those things should be done.

"Because I don't know about you, but a good bit of catharsis always makes me downright parched. …which means we'll probably have to drink, do the execution, and drink again. Drink during? Never stop? Somethin'." There's an open appraisal of Owen, and then the woman feigns something of an expression of concern. "I mean, it looks like two rounds might not be the worst ever with the kinda' week you seem ta' be havin' anyway, no 'fense."

Her lips quirk up. And then more. "I mean, this ain't what yer good weeks look like, right?"


It's like heaven sent an angel.. or hell sent an angel? Or .. Arkham sent an angel? Yea, let's go with that. With what Owen's been dealing with the thought of saying ^$(@**^*#!!! YOU! to reality sounds kind of great. He smiles broadly at her first question. "Hells yes, Harley. We can absolutely make that happen. But I think shooting might be too good for this sack of shit. " He pauses dramatically and gets his best sly look on. "We need to blow it up."

He leans back into his doorway for a second to grab a jacket and then extends a hand towards the stairs. "I know a place.." is all said on the subject as he heads down the stairs.

When she mentions his week, he just laughs. "No! This has been a banner terrible week for me." Sure, there have been some bright spots, but all in all. "But screw that. How bout you? You got good reasons or bad reasons for day drinkin?" Owen realizes as he says it that 'reasons' may not apply to much of what Harley does, but oh well, it'll be fun to find out.


Blow. It. Up.

The words spoken make Harley Quinn light up like a Christmas tree, and there's another squeal of delight as she giddily claps her hands together and bounces. "I LOVE DRINKING AND BLOWING THINGS UP," she shrieks unapologetically, and an arm is thrown around Owen's own as though they've been the best of friends for ages. "Lead the way!" she entreats with a pointing finger that jabs forward as though the general of an army. …If the general of an army would wear pigtails and let his head loll back. From that place, her face turns towards Owen. "Because it's been a lousy few months for me." She doesn't elaborate. "Just gettin' back in town after some time away. You get to be the welcome committee! I'm touched by all the plannin' you put into my party."


As she exclaims her love for drinking and blowing things up Owen exclaims with as much enthusiasm as his hangover lets him, "ME TOO!" And he genuinely means it. He laughs a little, realizing how true it is. He realizes that this is why he came here, because this is what he needs. To blow off steam, to not worry about things. He's not equipped for dealing with problems in any sort of healthy way.

When she talks about her time away, he nods. "Time in the joint? Or .." He then realizes it's probably something she doesn't want to go into, so he follows up with "Nevermind. We can talk after the first round of shots. And sorry the balloons didn't come in time, we'll have to settle for fireworks later."

The bar is just up the street so it only takes a few minutes to walk to. Entering with Harley, probably causes some heads to turn, considering it's early and they both stand out a bit, Owen could not care less. "Two whiskeys. Two beers." As an aside to Harley "Next round, your choice."


She laughs like she's with an old friend, too, as he matches her sentiment - boisterous and loud - as she picks her way over the knives and firearms and mallet and assorted other things as though she were just tiptoeing around the contents of a mess apartment. Yeah, the stuff can stay there for now. Anyone who touches it before she gets back will just have to pay for it with their hides later.

"Takin' some Me Time," Harley replies to the question put to her, although it's with all of the indications that Owen's suspicions are correct. She really doesn't want to talk about it. "Fireworks are perfect," she tells him, squeezing his arm and setting her head against it.

When the eyes turn their way upon entering the bar, it doesn't phase her. Rather, she lets go of the arm she came in on and bounces her way up onto a barstool with all of the ease of a gymnast's horse. She hears the order placed behind her shoulder. The aside comes with him beside her. She shrugs to it. "I ain' choosy most days," she tells him. "I'm up for whatever keeps ya drinkin' with me."

She leans an elbow on the bar, and plants her head lazily upon her upturned fist. "Sooooooooo," she begins. "What's new around the place? Got any good chatter?"


Owen is happy to let her choose what she does or not want to discuss. As she takes his arm, he pats her hand and leads the way.

When the drinks come, he pounds the shot, with a quickness that isn't super human, but it's awfully close. He coughs, just a bit and shrugs to her question about news. "I dunno. Truth be told I usually keep to myself. But in honor of you being back, I decided to be social." Yes, both of them know it's not true, but it's fun to say anyway.

"I need to catch up with Ivy at some point. We had a thing go sideways and I never followed up." He has really been meaning to, but he doesn't even know how to contact her and isn't sure how she would react to him just showing up. He asks, "What about you? Anything your experience with our lovely little group you care to share?" He's evading just a bit here, but the mood is light.


"I'm genuinely honored!" Harley quips back, drinking down just enough of the beer to make room for when she drops the whiskey shot into it and starts downing the beer. About halfway through, she pauses and looks to Owen. "Me 'n Red go back a ways, so you tell her I'm back and better'n ever if you see her first? But, yanno. Same as everyone else, otherwise, I guess. Satan pulls on the leash, and we all come." An airy shrug lifts her shoulders as she confides, "…I'm just cuter'n most."

She winks with a big show. "Everyone's gotta have a gimmick, right?"


Raising his glass towards her, he readily agrees. "You. Are certainly cuter than most of the ugly mugs in this outfit." He realizes that is not much of a compliment so he amends "You're hotter than most of the women I've slept with." Classy compliments are Owen's specialty. "Cheers" And he drinks to that.

"Gimmicks! YES!" He laughs again, as he normally has to explain it. "I throw boomerangs. Sometimes they explode. It's /fucking/ awesome! Why don't people get that Harley?" He takes a big gulp of beer and continues "YOU get it." He punctuates the 'you' with a point of a finger on his free hand.

Maybe he had the wrong idea. Maybe running away from all of this wasn't the right choice. Maybe he should embrace it. Maybe .. he should order some fries. "FRIES!" Is exclaimed at the bartender, followed by a bit of a sheepish explanation "Can I get the largest container of fries you sell?"


Harley beams as she's on the receiving end of Owen's praise. The revised scale of hotness is given a bounce of blonde eyebrows, but it's the talk of gimmicks that gives her a fresh veneer of exuberance. "I KNOW," she says back, hands lifting to the sides of her head with fingers splayed wide. "I have the coolest boxing glove gun," she says around another giant chug of beer. "And does anyone ever appreciate it? NO. No, they want me bring the machine guns and the "normal people weapons". Do you know who uses "normal people weapons"? NORMAL PEOPLE. I mean, who really wants to be normal?!"

Each mention of "normal people weapons" gets an emphatic set of air quotes.

"I mean, seriously. I have bells on half the time when I am acting professionally." A pause. "Like," she explains, "as in acting in the way of my profession. Not as in… WELL, ANYWAY. If I wanted to be normal, I would definitely be making some different fashion decisions."


It's like she knows what Owen's been up to, trying to build a normal life, and she is here to put an end to such nonsense. He laughs loudly, much to the annoyance of other patrons, not that he cares.

He raises a glass again "Boxing glove gun!" and drinks to it.

"Normal people suck. They treat you like you garbage. They don't care about you." Yea, Moonstar's nightmares have definitely stuck with him. He's been reliving a past back when he was among normal people. It wasn't pretty. Maybe being a super powered someone is better, even if he isn't always doing the right thing, he's doing something!

"Screw them. Your fashion choices.. your weapon choices.. you do you. Because being normal sucks." He makes re-ordering motions at the bartender who is staying far away if possible, just in case.


"Hear, hear!" Harley hoots as she lifts her own mug, her booted feet stomping on the rail of her barstool like a drum roll or the sound of thunderous applause. She drinks more beer, and praises whatever powers look out for their kind for a conversation that makes sense to her. Yeah, okay. This is good stuff.

"Normal is the worst," she readily continues. "No one ever accepts a prophet in their times. I tell ya', we're the future of therapeutic expression. They're just playin' pretend and thinkin' they're superior for it."

To that creeping away bartender, Harley points to her near-empty glass. Then between herself and Owen a few times. WE NEED TEQUILA, she mouths. LIKE, NOW.

"An' if you think the gun is fun, my mallet will really wow ya'." Then, she leans forward on her arms. "You know, Owen. I would really love ta see yer explodin' boomerangs. In fact, I'll even let ya' have the first crack at the Traitor if ya' promise to use one."


The bartender gives Owen a look as if to question whether that is a good idea. It is not, of course. Tequila is never a good idea. But Owen nods solemnly, fully committed to letting this run its course. Because then he doesn't have to think about what Dani dredged up. He is making a cozy little alcohol fueled fort to hide in instead, because he is an adult now.

"Yes!" Is said in response to the mallet. "Can I use it? I will let you throw a boomerang.." Okay, probably not an exploding one, because those are actually a little scary in the wrong hands. He doesn't say that. It's too responsible a topic for this conversation. So instead he adds "I swear. I will blow up that traitor but good."

And the afternoon progresses from there, a few more rounds of drinks at the bar before the bartender starts getting more and more reluctant to serve them. Owen is pretty drunk by that time, but wants to avoid the situation so he steers the talk back to blowing stuff up. Some beer is purchased on the way back from the nearest mini mart. Using the back alley, Owen sets up a shooting gallery of sorts with empty bottles for Harley to shatter with normal boomerangs. And yes. The traitor pays for its crimes, first with 'splosions and then with good solid malleting, as befits its terrible treachery.

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