Most Funnest Person Ever

December 17, 2017:

Owen tries to escape those awful feelings of responsibility and growing up by reliving some glory days with a little light B & E. Who better to have fun and escape reality with that Harley Quinn? No one. That's who. Also begins the plotting of the cream pie bazooka. It must happen.

Gotham - Chelsea

Rooftops in Gotham.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

It's late night on a Sunday in a sleepy section of Gotham. This part of town is mostly quiet. Blanketed in snow, the stars shining, though few can be seen over the glow of the streetlights and buildings, it's nice to think they are. All is calm, except for one particular rooftop. Music blasts from a stereo speaker. A lone man sits on a lawnchair, beer in hand. Yes, it's freezing cold outside and Owen is drinking on a seemingly random rooftop in Gotham.

Having reasons for not wanting to be in either of his actual warm dwelling places, this rooftop is actually not quite as random to him as it may seem. But finding himself alone with his thoughts, well his thoughts and a lot of booze, cigarettes and other illicit substances he decides to change that. This was supposed to be fun. And who is the most fun person he knows?

Text to Harley: "Hey world's most funnest person. I'm on a roof drinking. Want to get into some shenanigans? I need some fun! Bring a bathing suit."


How could a girl /not/ answer a text like that? I mean, hello! FUNNEST PERSON. Not just funnest person, but most FUNNEST PERSON.

And since the last time they blew up her defective weapons trunk, Owen gets pretty high marks in that arena, too.

Text to Owen: "Addie???"

And you can betcher sweet tushie that she's there as soon as she can. Because what does she have to do anyway? Nothing desirable, that's for damned sure.

With a mini-duffel over her shoulder, Harley gets onto the roof however mundane way she must - be it stairwell or ladder - wearing a pair of torn black jeans, black combat boots with smiley faces painted on the toes with nail polish, and a raglan tee proudly declaring 'Straight Outta Arkham' with a Sharpie. "Heeey," she greets, her voice set on maximum 'chirp'. "I came with bells on." A pause, and then a shrug. "The figurative type, yanno. Not the professional ones." Another pause. "Y'said bathing suit, not bells." Another pause, and then a tentative peering in Owen's direction. "…I didn't need the bells, right?


When his phone lights up again with the reply, he quickly sends back the details, smiling broadly. He needs a bright spot, and nothing put a smile on his face like his last outing with the clown princess. He is standing looking over the rooftops, smoking a cigarette and shielding his eyes from the glare looking at a roof a few buildings away, trying to see if it looks the same even though it's been a few years.

Lost in his scoping out the goal, he barely hears Harley before she is up and on the roof. "Harley!" He exclaims loudly over the music, and he scoops up two beers on the way to greet her. He picks her up in a big hug, because they're apparently on hugging terms now. That and he's a bit tipsy so he's on hugging terms with most people and a few dogs. Hug over, he hands her a beer and takes a big swig of his own.

"Yes. Figurative bells are good. We probably don't need the real ones. Probably." He shrugs and says "I used to come up here all the time when I was a kid." Ohh…kay? Hold on, he's going somewhere with this. Maybe.

Pointing across to where he was looking earlier. "There's a heated rooftop pool. Just a few buildings over. We probably need to break in. They may have started locking it." He waits a beat before adding "Because of me. You up for a little winter dip?"


As soon as Owen comes to give Harley a hug, she lets loose with a squeal of joy. Her duffle drops to the snow-covered ground. It's not until she's back on the ground and bending at the waist to pick up her bag.

"Oooooh," she replies, turning to look in the direction Owen is pointing so that she can check out the proverbial Promised Land. "S'too bad we down't have a biplane, right? We could just, yanno…" Two hands come up as though gripping a pair of handles in front of her face. "….wheeeeeeeeeeeeee."

Waving a hand dismissively, she continues "So, in lieu of a biplane, we're gonna need another brilliant plan to get over there toot sweet. Human canon with a giant whoopee cushion landing pad on the other side? Ugh, but where do we get one of those at this time of night?"


"Nope. No plane, but goodness I love the canon idea. Note to self, err us. We need to make that canon thing happen. But maybe lower…? Cause I'm squishy when I fall off buildings." As are most people but Owen finds it fun to state this like it's a particular fault of his.

And then he explains how this actually works. He points out the path between buildings, which sure involves a few leaps between them, but for the most part they are doable. "You don't mind jumping between a few roofs right? I mean, it's no human canon. But I think we can get there." He has done this route quite a few times in the past so he should be fine now with much more experience. And he assumes Harley has done much, more worse than this in terms of sketchy routes.

Standing up on the edge of the roof, he chugs his beer. Turning to face Harley so that his back is to the edge, he tosses the empty beer can on their roof and says "Come on, it'll be fun." He then does a backflip over to the fire escape across the way. His landing is rough, but fun points for trying right? He knocks his head against the wall and crunches his side on the rail but calls out "I'm good! Woooo… been a while since I did that." Going on ten years since this was Owen's old haunt, but he's still got it, right? Calling back up to Harley he says "Watch the first step!" before climbing his way up to the roof of the new building. Just a few more dicy jumps to go. Probably no more back flips though, he's not quite as spry or as sober as he used to be.


As Owen goes over the roof's edge, Quinn goes racing over the wall and peers over it to see where he went. Her face immediately lights up with a childlike glee as she sees where her Shenanigans Partner just ended up.

"Doncha worry 'bout me, sweetness!" She's certainly not as she hops up onto the same bit of wall. "I got it!" She takes the time to kick the snow out from under her feet and then she's leaping and swandiving to get her way across to the same fire escape. She has not been drinking, and the leap seems to bother her just a little less in general. She actually lands low on the fire escape, her glove-covered palms catching its bottom edge.

Without much in the way of concern, Harley simply takes a few rocks sideways before she pulls herself up on the slippery steps that pull down under her slight weight.

"Look, Ma!" she crows victoriously, as she tugs her bag through the slim opening between rails. "No net!"


Holding up an imaginary scorecard Owen calls out "9.7" in his best Russian accent. His best Russian accent of course sounds like the villains from Rocky & Bullwinkle, so it doesn't really qualify as good. But he laughs and makes his way across the rooftops. He glances back, realizing that he has left all beer and other party favors back on the other roof, along with his blaring music but oh, well.

"So how've you been? Getting back settled in with all the other ne'er do wells at our lovely little Gotham Arms?" The next jump is a little worse than the first, so Owen actually takes the time to knock the snow off the ledge, and take a running start. He somersaults upon landing on the other side, rather than try and stick the landing in the snow. Flopping back he waits on his back for Harley. Conveniently this gives him the chance to make some snow angels. Whether he realizes it or not, this night is very much about trying to reclaim something good from when he was younger.


Bright blue eyes consider the next part of the obstacle course, and her lips - presently painted a dark Bordeaux - twitch before the lower one disappears between her teeth. "Homecomin's are usually complicated," she fires back, just before giving a tiny hop and then breaking into a flat-out run to go up and over the edge and come down hard on the other side in a crouch with a soft grunt of effort as her bag hits her back. Once the vibrating feeling leaves her legs a breath or two later, she pushes up into a stand. "But I'm makin' do. Slowly making' the rounds t'see everyone, yanno? 'Til Satan starts ringin' the bell for armageddon, ain' no hurry."

Because she'd never be avoiding people, no sir.


Laying in the snow for a bit longer than really needed, Owen flops his head to the side. "You know what's weird? I really want a mission from Waller." Yes, that is strange. Particularly since they usually go sideways and people die. But when you are looking for a distraction, it's kind of hard to beat a good crisis.

Sitting up, he points at a drain pipe. "I think next we shimmy up that and then hop down on the next roof." He narrows his eyes, trying to remember the route. Not really sure of himself or the route, he just shrugs and moves on. "I'm sure everyone is glad to see you." He means it. Come on, who wouldn't be happy to see Harley? Well. At least the Harley that he knows, who is fun, fun, all the time.

After a few more roofs, none of which pose a large problem for either of them. They come to the target. A glassed in room on a roof with a heated pool inside. Owen makes his way to the door and peers at the lock, mumbling something about an upgrade. He pulls a device out of a pocket of his jeans and plugs something into the keypad. "Just a minute hon' and we'll be open for business." This last quip is said in his best 'diner waitress who smokes a pack a day' voice.


"Ha! Yer wantin' it is probably precisely why she ain' come callin'. Soon as it's not what you want, she'll be on the doorstep with the shock collars." The blonde follows behind Owen, but she takes her time a little more than is typically her wont to prepare for jumps. Her feet still land sure, though.

"I mean, it seems like yer keepin' busy anyway. Whatcha need her for? Pretty much anythin' you could find on the outside's gotta be better laughs than the Joybuzzer Special she brings to the party." As she comes up beside her tour guide, she roughly thuds against the wall near the door and traps her duffle between it and her back. "I mean, yeah, it's somethin' to do on a Friday night if y'ain' got plans. Butcha got plans, right?" Because who wouldn't want plans with this guy? He's looking like he's gonna go two for two by her. Her head lolls against the wall so she can look up at the sky as he works. "Blowin' stuff up. Shootin' stuff. Thinking about blowin' stuff up. Thinking 'bout shooting stuff. Thinking about how a weaponized cream pie launcher could work…" She grins over in Owen's direction. "Well, I guess that last one's probably jes' me."


Laughing at the thought of literal shock collars, Owen shakes his head. He agrees "Yea, it's dumb. I've just." He stops, thankful that the lock is considerate enough to give way now. It gives him an excuse to pause and think out how to say this, "I've given up some other things lately."

Pushing the door open he waves her in "After you." As soon as they get inside the heat of the room and chlorine smell of the pool hit pretty hard, a stark contrast to the chilly city air outside. "I mean. I always have you for a good time. I'm certainly not complainin', about that." Does he? He just easily slips into the thing where they pretend to be old friends, the best of buddies.

Stripping off his clothes in the steam of the room, he asks "Like a gun? Or more like a full on vehicle, like a tank cream pie launcher? And how would you stop the cream from going bad?" Owen is always game for figuring out how to weaponize something. Always. "Because cream pie gun. Awesome. Curdled cream pies: super gross. Not so awesome. Probably really hard to get that smell out of … anything." He does keep his boxers on, for modesty.


As he so gentlemanly lets her go first, Harley offers an exaggerated curtsy. She blows a kiss as she goes by. "'Course you got me, toots!" Because old friends who don't know all of the horrible things to hate about you are the best kind, aren't they?

But then there's plotting that she can sink her teeth into and the jester is quick to seize it. Her hands fly up emphatically to demonstrate her thought: "I was thinkin' kinda like a bazooka, right? Shoulder launch, some extra sugar in the crust if ya get my drift!"

Her teeth are bared as she offers a more unhinged smile. "I mean, that'd be hilarious, right? SPLAT, kaBOOM?"

A pause, and then Harley pulls her lip back in between her teeth, smearing a touch of lipstick across her front teeth as she worries it. "I'd have to figure out a delay, maybe? I want time to enjoy the humor of it."

Crouching down, she opens up her duffel bag and pulls out a surprisingly fluffy towel and pink terry bathrobe. She lays them out with care, and then sits down to start pulling off her boots and jeans. "I'd hate to go to all that effort, and then it's over, faster'n Christmas."


Lining up his heels on the side of the pool, Owen nods thoughtfully at the discussion of the best way to design a cream pie launcher. This is serious stuff here folks. Actually it's exactly the kind of ridiculous problem that he was hoping for to distract him from such ugly dour thoughts such as remorse, responsibility and some other re thing that is not nearly as fun as exploding pies.

"Right. I think a remote trigger is best. And it would probably have to be either low yield or … wait."

He does another backflip, but this time into the pool so his landing is much softer. Surfacing with a spit of water like a spout. He continues "How do you not gunk up the works with all the baked goods. Do you bake your own weapons?"

Floating on his back in the pool now he continues to consider. "I've never made an edible weapon. Despite claims to the contrary." Yes, someone may have called his napalm boomerang a flaming battle croissant, but it was just a boomerang. Because making weapons is easy. Baking something? That's like deep dark black magic to Owen.


Harley looks to Owen with her jeans half-done, and then lays down to shrug out of the painted-on things. Staring up at the ceiling, she thinks about it. Baking, does not seem to have occurred to her. And these are not the sorts of things that one can pick up at the grocery, are they?

Once the jeans are kicked off and the shirt too, leaving Harley in a bright red "one" piece bathing suit (as it's really two panels held together by a few pieces of string along her sides, the blonde purses her lips in contemplation. "Well, I mean, a catapult's kinda traditional-" if cream pie warfare could ever be called traditional "- but I feel like there's gotta be a way to load this thing. Maybe the delay is in the /crust/. A layer in the pan? I…"

Then, the more serious realization. "Oh, gawd. You're right." Because this, clearly, is the worst thing ever. Harley's head lolls back as she exhales in despair, only to pull herself back up to her feet in a fluid orchestration of limbs. She reaches up and stretches a little bit as she continues to think. She stretches her arms, rolls up a few times on the balls of her feet. "This is a much more complicated contemplation than I thought." With an exaggerated walk that belongs more in the ballet than poolside, she makes her way to the edge and then crouches down once more to look solemnly at Owen. "You're gonna hafta help me find a baker, or our beautiful brainchild is doomed."


Laying in the water, contemplating the best way to add explosives to pies is surprisingly therapeutic. Until the thought crosses his mind that he's maybe trying to self sabotage. Stupid self help books filling his head with dumb ideas that seem to perfectly describe his actions. He sinks down into the water and resurfaces at the side for Harley to crouch down next to.

"We can probably like buy a cream pie and then jury rig something under it? Or I could maybe make a special tin to house a remote detonator." He matches her serious tone. "This must not die Harley."

Of course he is quick to switch off of any solemn tone just as fast by reaching for her arms to pull her in. "Come on in. Waters fine." Hoping to pull her over his head into the water behind him. Pushing or in this case pulling girls into a pool is classic teenage boy flirting material and as seems to be the theme for the night Owen is trying to recapture something of his time then.


Harley doesn't really fight it, either, more than willing to awkwardly go over his head and land in the water with a shriek that's punctuated by her mouth going underwater. Once she's in the water, though, she can turn gracefully enough

Ruby lips above the water, blowin' bubbles soft and fine…

When Quinn resurfaces, the water beads along her alabaster foundation. Her mascara and eyeliner's shot, though, and it begins dripping down her cheeks as she wipes with both hands to clear her eyes of the water that escapes her hair.

"Yer gonna die, Mercer," she tells Owen with a sharp grin, her black-nailed hand backhanding the water to send a wave of it in his direction. "You just wait 'til I can see again."


"Yes but if you kill me, you'll never get a cream pie bazooka" Owen retorts and then dissolves into a fit of laughter. "Which by the way sounds so fuckin' dirty, I can't even handle it." He lets out a 'hooo' before composing himself to make a bring it on motion with both of his hands. "Sorry I've been trying my best to not crack up at it but I'm done. A man has limits."

Easily treading water in the center of the pool he continues on with the taunting, "And unless you are packing some serious heat, I like my chances of taking you Quinn." Something about having called her by her last name causes his mind to want to wander. He shakes it off and tries to just stay in this moment. It's fun. Light hearted. And she's probably joking about killing him. Probably.


"Yeah, I betcha do," she retorts back, blowing a raspberry in his general direction. "Doncha put yer nasty thoughts on my gear! This is gonna be a THING OF BEAUTY. And here ya' are, violatin' its virgin purity before we've even built it." Grinding the heels of her hands into her face to try to clear cosmetics and chlorine from her eyes, she pauses in the middle of her work to slap the water again to shove more in his direction as she bobs in the water, trying to stay above it but nearly losing herself in it everytime she has to push off the bottom of the pool.

But then the one hand's labor becomes a frenzied back and forth of her hand as she basically tries to drown him in the splashing. "Yer just jealous you didn't think of it first! But it's okay! I promise. Not everyone can be as inspired as meeeeeee," she crows.


Laughing as she opines on the virginal purity of her weapon Owen does his best to protect himself from the splashing. He puts up both arms, using only his legs to stay up. He pffts "Splashing? You are going to have to do much worse than that I'm afraid." He swims under and around her.

It's all going as he wanted. Just some whacky antics and talk of whacky weaponry. But he can't ignore what she plans to do with that eventually. As he surfaces behind her, he can't stop himself from asking "But it wouldn't be for killing people, right? Just a bit of fun and maybe some light maiming?" He knows better than to ask a serious question but Taskmaster has him all tripped up and he can't help but wonder if he's playing with his life. It's been buzzing in the back of his mind and as usual his mouth is too quick for him sometimes.

It's like he's trying to force himself not to age out of something. Willingly throwing himself back to old ways, but he can't stop his newly found moral compass from rearing it's boring head. And he would crack a joke or dunk her, but now that he's let those words out he finds himself needing to know. Shoot!


Harley's bobbing in the water slows, and she turns to look over her shoulder. She's a dripping freak show of ruined makeup and bedraggled pigtails. And she really doesn't care.

But Owen's serious question draws the harlequin's eyebrow upwards and her smile fades. "I dunno," she finally decides to offer, her kilowatt smile dimming to something far less emphatic.

Her bobbing stops and her legs start to the scissor kicking that keeps her afloat as she leans her head back to do a far more effective job of clearing her hair back and out of her face. Even the elastics are pulled free of her pigtails so she can get some order back. "You ain' gettin' judgy on me, are ya'? No reason to call in the gloom brigade."


"No! I promise. I'm not. No judgement just…" Owen smiles wistfully, knowing that he has for sure killed whatever kind of moment they were having. The fun sucked out by all this new found responsibility he's been feeling. He sighs and says "I just have been thinking about stuff lately. And …" He trails off again.

Turning to float on his back, maybe to break the eye contact or just to gather his thoughts he floats for a bit before continuing. He adds "I don't want to be someone who just offs people anymore. I mean sure, someone tries killin' me, game on mother fucker. But… Am I making any sense?"

He immerses himself in water and pushes back finding the shallow end of the pool. He rises up and shakes the water out of his ginger hair. "I don't know. I probably sound crazy." Ugh, he's making it worse. Crazy is probably one of those words best avoided in situations like these. "Can we go back to flirting? Or blowing stuff up? I suck at talking. I'm ruining this."


"No," Harley counters. "Y'sound normal. That's the problem."

With a roll of her lithe body, the blonde stretches out to float on top of the water with her arms spread. Languidly, she kicks in Owen's direction, but she doesn't rush. "We ain' normal," she continues with a shrug, although the gesture's probably lost in the game of perspectives. "We don' see the shit we see and stay normal."

A finger with a prominent E painted on its black lacquered surface with red jabs up in the air, altogether ridiculous looking given her current luxuriating, as though popping some invisible bubble. "We don' do the shit we do and stay normal. We don' get Normal People things. Y'get used to it." The smile's gone now, but she doesn't sound particularly upset about it.

Twisting in the water as she draws near the shallow end where Owen lurks, she buries half of her face in it like some horror show crocodile and continues to slowly float forward towards him with her hair spreading through the water around her.

And then, under the surface of the water, he might see her smile slowly reemerge, feral and amused.


Glad that she can roll with it and not completely crush the night, Owen laughs. "Oh no. Not normal! Quick, we should find some cyborg walruses to attack or have to fend off an invasion of nanotech enabled traffic cops." He has faced some seriously weird shit in his short life and it does him good to poke fun at it. Okay, maybe neither of those two things specifically, but really some weird stuff.

"Yer right. Of course." Owen at least remembers his basic survival instinct to always tell women they are right, thankfully. "I just needed a reminder."

When she surfaces he mocks screams and runs for the side, arms flailing. He laughs and stops to wave her over.

Of course the two of them have been having their little grand old time unaware that the owner below can hear them. The owner who thought they had put an end to people breaking into their rooftop pool. The same owner, who now appears at the door to the building with a shotgun yelling "Stay where you are I called the cops!"


And Harley, not used to being told she's right about anything ever, devours the praise as though it were bread for a starving man. Not that Owen likely knows it, aside from her smile growing ever brighter under the water.

And then, in an instant, it changes. That shotgun shows up, and Quinn's whole being seems to change. Her eyes lose their spark, gaining a steely glint in its stead. But her smile, that merely changes the tune. "Aww, Mistah," she says, planting her feet and rising out of the water and letting the rivulets of water fall where they will over her. Her hands lift, as though in surrender. "Yer so cute! Y'think I actually care about yer little pop gun?"


"Seriously?!" Owen growls and slowly turns to face the man waving a shotgun at the two of them. It's obvious from the way he holds it that he rarely if ever actually uses the gun. Everything about his demeanor, stance and terrible trigger discipline is clear to Owen at least, if not Harley. Slowly bringing his hands up out of the water, he crosses them briefly, enough to slip his watch head off the band.

It's a crude missile, but Owen is a ridiculously good marksman. It strikes the man dead center in the forehead and sends him reeling back. Even without super speed, it gives plenty of time to hop out of the pool and grab the gun. He tosses it clear to the other side and says "Sorry. We'll be going now. Nice place ya got here."

Glancing back to Harley he smiles and says "Closing time toots. I think we need to find another place to go." He starts to casually walk towards his stuff, it's probably best not to have to flee soaking wet without his clothes after all.


At the watch trick, whatever dark thinking seized Quinn evaporates and she devolves once more into a cotton candy fluff ball. She squeals with delight, clapping giddily. "THAT WAS GREAT," she praises, even as she wades to the edge to do what's asked of her.

Popping out of the water, she is a dripping mess as she races across the concrete and throws on her fuzzy robe her combat boots. The rest is roughly shoved into her duffle. She wraps her hair up in her towel, emblazoned with cats in Hawaiian shorts and leis and a giant ALOHA written across the top.

"We could go get some coffee? Or hit a roller rink. Or iceskating! Or somewhere for cocoa. Cocoa's super nice when it snows."


Picking up his own clothes, he throws on his shirt and a jacket. Looking at his pants for a second, he makes an executive decision. Sorry boxers, you stay. He shucks them off, and balls them up, throwing them at the owner. "Something to remember me by!" before actually getting a pair of pants on. Shy is one thing that Owen is certainly not, but pants are good for snowy weather. He squishes his wet feet into this boots and gathers the rest in his arms.

"Yes. To all of that. We should absolutely do all of those thing Harl." And he means it, just maybe not tonight or all at once. "Maybe just the coffee tonight, but next time you need a night out. Call me. Text. We'll do your fun thing."

He thankfully can look away from her as he has to concentrate on climbing and jumping between roofs for a bit. Once back to the original rooftop, Owen starts the less fun process of actually gathering his stuff. It wasn't exactly the night he had in mind, but it was fun and it nearly succeeded in distracting him. He just makes a mental note to take the beer with him next time.

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