Georgie Porgie Pudding Pie

March 24, 2018:

Taskmaster and Harley meet to further along their own agendas.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

A clown emoji pops up on Taskmaster’s phone, followed by an address. Followed by three smiles.

It mightn’t mean much to a stranger picking up his phone, but it does mean something.

It means that Harley Quinn is presently sitting in a mostly empty warehouse on the wrong side of Gotham, legs crossed as she sits on a beat-up wooden stool beneath one solitary working overhead light. She’s in her very best finery, domino mask outlining pale blue eyes and hiding them. Blonde hair is curled into ringlets, her fitted dress is quartered in red and black, and her chunky-heeled knee high black boots are laced up tight.

She’s presently applying black lipstick with a tiny compact mirror, checking her teeth to be sure that none of the dark cosmetic stains her pearly whites.

Somewhere in the dark, there is a sound of muffled… something. But Quinn doesn’t seem to acknowledge it.

Taskmaster has been waiting for this call. One cannot say eager where Harley is concerned as it may end up in tears to laughter or more than likely headache possibly coupled with trauma but waiting that works.

The emoji return from Taskmaster is a hailfire of overused return, skulls, skulls and tons of additions, he's terrible at this texting thing but oddly likes the emojis.

The warehouse took a moment for him to find, he circled twice and a plain silver sedan parked and hidden between two trucks.

HIs stride has its usual cocky flare, one shoulder dipped lower than the other as his hood falls down to reveal just the ever present grinning teeth, "Clownypants?" A shout into the darkness, his echo coming back but as soon as he's said as much, he is seeing her.

There is a loud ‘pop’ sound as Harley pantomimes a kiss for herself into her compact. She doesn’t rush, but rather slides the compact and lipstick into the messenger bag that is slung across her upper body with care.

“Yer on the right track,” she chirps brightly, her head tilting to one side.

“But I wanted to give ya one more chance to pick somethin’ else.”


"That something else other than Smilex?" Taskmaster inquires insistent, "What could that be that you'd be able to offer me? Seriously?" The mercenary's steps slowed until he is standing there in front of Harley on her perch, where she rests ‘self-kissing’ her image.

"We been over this a few times. I mean, you kinda probably know how badly I want it. My collection has a space just for it." A curious look past her, at the darkness then around him. Some part of him always expects the worst, even with his friends because his friends are always the best of the worst of the worst.

“Yeah, Tee. I know.” The admission is quiet, and there’s something off in Harley’s expression. Apologetic? Just uncomfortable, perhaps.

But then she pulls out a big remote control from her pocket, holding it up for Taskmaster to look at, and starts pushing buttons as an engine sputters and then roars to life in the dark. She glances past her guest a few times.

A muffled sound grows louder, re-emerging from beneath the sound of the engine.

“I got to thinkin’,” she continues, knees bending in to coyly touch each other after they uncross on the stool. The pendulum of her expression is swinging back the other way and painting her cheerful and bright. “See, ya’ just don’t know Him as well I do. Prolly why you and yer intern haven’t found what yer lookin’ for. And it’s ‘cause you’ll probably always look in the wrong place. But yer askin’ the wrong person to find it. See, I don’t know either…” Her voice drops again, this time low and ominous as she offers conspiratorially, “Fortunately, I know juuust who to ask and where to find ‘im.”

The featherweight blonde grins in Taskmaster’s direction, all teeth and bravado. As she looks up, her head falls backwards and she calls out loudly: “AIN’T THAT RIGHT, GEORGIE?”

Her tongue sticks out in her cheek as she continues to lower the industrial cargo hook she’s operating from the ceiling. And dangling from it as it comes into view, one enormous man in a latex clown mask and black sweat suit, bound tight around his arms and ankles and wriggling.

As the man lowers closer, the woman begins to sing over the sound of the industrial machinery. Her high-pitched sing-song carries over the engine at work: “Georgie Porgie, puddin’ and pie, kissed the girls and made’em cry~”

Taskmaster studies the woman's body language, this is a thing easier for him to read than actual people. It's like a natural sign language to him. The curious follow of his gaze has him watching the reveal of the muffled ones source.

"Ahh, you know, I'm not a big fan of torture." The man admits, "I've learned it usually just makes them spit out whatever they think they want you to hear and that's often wrong."

"I'm asking the best person I know for the source, toots. We both know this, you're just being bashful. I get it, somewhat. Your old old man, he was a prick—a colorful, sadistic prick—and you being the newly made solo dolo big girl you are, ya don't want the reminder." Taskmaster huffs, "I've paid attention, Harley. This ain't nothing I am just learnin' about you."

"Georgie, you can hear us right? Wiggle to the left if so. I'm calm right now, bored almost, but you're hanging in a shitty way, probably not great on your swollen body and that circulation thing. Its gonna suck for you the longer you dangle. I imagine the less you talk to us in this, the more likely my psychotic and beautiful companion here is gonna grow bored, just like me, when that happens, well, she's less predictable, probably not as opposed to finding new games to play with you."

"You're familiar though, from that stupid mask."

Taskmaster takes a lean against a support pillar. A hand fumbling through his pockets only to pull out a strip of Big Red.

“I got all night and enough gum to last.”

As Taskmaster digs a little deeper into Harley’s discomfort in all of its squirming and unsettled darkness, she rolls her eyes dismissively and continues navigating the freight hook. “Whatever.” Her frame, however, tells a different story as every muscle seems to tighten on it like a set of overwound springs.

Sneering, she lowers Joker’s poor goon down until he’s juuust above the ground. And there, she lets him stay.

As Taskmaster lays out options for ol’ Georgie, Quinn hops off her perch and circles behind her quarry. She is so much smaller than him, she needs to look up a good deal to really observe the swinging, protesting man. And she needs to actually jump a little to grab hold of the top of his mask. When she lands, she pulls the mask with her, ripping Georgie’s bald head back unmercifully and revealing him, his dirty sock and duct tape gag, and the black eye swollen shut and cut lip that speak to what is likely the tale of how he came to hang from a hook in an abandoned warehouse.

And Harley caresses his back, fingers trailing featherlight as she considers her handiwork.

Georgie’s good eye looks about, wild and wide, obviously not happy that he can’t see Quinn.

He pleads in Taskmaster’s direction, “Nrf mghl ng!”

"Your best response yet." Taskmaster quips at the 'Whatever' and his eyes follow the hop on over.

"Gorgeous George, I imagine that sock tastes just out-fuckin-standing." Taskmaster chews his gum beyond that mask, as if tasting that will not make him imagine a sock, a slobbery old sock.

"Let's go for simple. I'll start with three questions. Answer them with nods."

"Do you know what Smilex is?"

"Do you know where I can find it?"

"Do you realize that if you don't answer us or lie to us your death is going to be very very messed up and painful?"

The grinning skull disappears as his hood and back of his head become visible, he's rifling around behind him at his ‘utility belt’ drawing out a curved knife, studying it then sliding it back in to a sheath, “That's not it. Hrm. Nope, not it also. That’s a taser I been toying with to use on Wonder Woman, not enough voltage though but it fries people pretty damn good. Used it on this guy in Peru, his toes popped off. It was sick.”

George swings frantically at the sign of the knife, looking for all the world like a skewered worm on fishing day. He frees himself of Harley’s fingertips and nods emphatically.

“Aww,” she moans. “Y’ain’t gonna even make him work? That’s very unsportsmanlike.”

"Maybe he is smarter than he looks." Taskmaster says watching as Harley releases the swinging captive.

"One in fourteen. Always my given odds on humanity."

"Do you get to be one of those today? Guess we see with your answers."

Taskmaster stops fidgeting with his belt. "Go ahead and release him, gorgeous. If he runs or tries to wiggle hop away… that's a life choice I hope he's prepared to make."

“Yeah, don’t bank on his IQ savin’ the day, Tasky.”

Harley knows precisely what betrayal here could mean for the clown underling, and her displeasure is on full display as she fires the hook back up just to lower him down and get his feet on the ground.

“Georgie here ain’t known fer his breathtakin' feats of thinking-do.”

With an ease that belies her lithe frame, the blonde maneuvers both man and hook to separate them… only to shove the man towards Taskmaster’s feet.

“Ain’t that right, Porgie?”

Taskmaster kneels down as Georgie lands at his feet. A gloved hand roughly rises up and clamps one of the goons chubby cheeks, the sock plucked free next. "Why that’s because he obviously relies on his looks, aint that right Gorgeous Georgie?"

It is not right. "So, answer the questions, even the painted lady’s. So, ain't that right, Porgie?"

A look up towards Harley then down, Taskmaster still thinks she may be giving him a run around in all of this but he'll play along. For now. Something is bound to slip eventually.


As the duct tape is ripped free and the sock is cleared out of his mouth (one untied boot betraying where the sock likely came from), the Joker’s henchman is spitting mad.

“I told that sick, dumb bitch to stop callin’ me Georgie! It’s Al.” He glowers in Harley’s direction.

Harley is the very picture of remorse. She’s reclaimed her place on her stool, legs daintily twined once more. At this assertion from her ex’s lackey, Quinn frowns in an exaggerated pretense of contemplation. She closes her eyes and tilts her head as shrugs a moment later, squeaking her reply, “Eh.”

So remorseful.

"Gorgeous Georgeness. Such language. That is not the way we talk about our buddies around here."

"I think you were right, dollface. This one’s IQ isn't going to save him." A boot lashes out and lodges itself with violent impact in to 'Als' ribcage, near hard enough it could break a bone or two.

"Apologize then answer my questions."

"I said I didn't care for torture, that doesn't mean mood willing I won't resort to it."


“That Gotham drive for ruin. Why must everyone here be such fatalists? The water is definitely screwy. Has to be it.”

As that kick connects, forcefully driving out the air from Georgie/Al’s chest, Harley bats her long eyelashes coquettishly behind her mask, her hands setting themselves one upon another over her her heart—if a little high, nearer her shoulder. “So gallant, Tasky!”

Al coughs and sputters, but ultimately gives in as he wheezes on the cold concrete and curls around his abused rib. “Sorry.”

"Goodboy, George. Those three questions, the two first are very important. Do you know what Smilex is and where can I find some. Spill."

Taskmaster steps back giving the man some breathing room while he joins Harley's side, motioning with one hand in a flippant wave like gesture, "Go on. Just talk until I get bored of hearing you G-Man."

A sigh from Taskmaster, the gallant remark gets a grunt from him at the Clown Princess.

"You realize, this goomba, he's probably going to die and the more you keep me chasing down these silly jackholes like him to ask the same questions, that's more time I don't get to hunting down Bobo and Lorenzo."

“My time is your time.”

Bud. And Lou.” Harley’s smile dissipates immediately as she defends her hyenas’ identity, looking sidelong to her companion when he draws up to her side. “And do ya really think I’m stupid enough to just throw anyone up on the hook?”

She rolls her eyes, and then confesses as she shrugs again: “I may have a preview of coming attractions.” She lowers her head down once more, leaning forward over her lap as she snarls at Georgie. “C’mon, Curly. Tell ‘im what you told me, and maybe I’ll stand up fer ya.”

There’s a glance between the two Skwaddies, and then the goon on the floor sputters some more. “C’mon, Harley! The Joker finds out and gets ahold of me, I’m fish food.”

Harley’s flat stare is unsympathetic to poor Georgie’s plight, and the harlequin leans back. “Look, either you can tell my Tall Dark and Deadly here, or I can. Ya might as well go fer the route that’ll getcha someone in yer corner.” A pause, and then a reiteration of a particular point: “…maybe.”

"Yeah, them." Taskmaster corrects. "No, not stupid in the least. The opposite really, I think you're far too smart. Much more so than you play at me or anyone else."

The eyeroll and the shrug has him letting out a snigger from behind those white skull teeth.

"You don't have much of a leg to stand on G-Porgie, because, I may not be a demented psychoclown but I got a helluva temper on me and know how to hurtaguy pretty good."

"Shes right, sing, we'll let ya loose, maybe even stand in your corner plus then you're free to have a fighting chance because the other option is I fucking start dismantling you limb by limb until I reach your fat neck." Taskmaster's voice gets deeper at that last portion of the sentence, his fingers actually flexing in to his gloves enough they creak and groan.

"Hurry it up, chum."

There is a long moment where Georgie—or Al—actually debates.

At talk of letting the bottomfeeder loose, Quinn’s lips pucker up to one side, but she doesn’t contradict Taskmaster’s assertion.

It doesn’t matter. The thug on the floor shakes his bald head as best he can. “No dice. I’ll take my chances as a museum bust.”

Harley inhales deeply, exhales, and then shakes her head and clucks her tongue once. “Y’know those can get broken, too, right?”

"Well damn, man. I was hoping this was going to be a clean night." Taskmaster slides his sleeves up his forearms pausing to lean towards Harley, his bicep pushing against her shoulder, questioning, "Bets on how long he lasts?"

There is a sudden lurch forward and Taskmaster drops his heel on the back of Georgie's kneecap with enough impact and precision to shatter it against the unyielding floor of the warehouse.

"Look, odds of survival just went way down. The Joker won't have a problem catching a gimp."

"Your turn." The mercenary claps a hand in a smack off Quinn's backside, like she'd just been tag-teamed in on a wrasslin' match.

Harley’s gaze—wide and what most would likely categorize as “unsettling”—turns up to consider Taskmaster and then her mouth turns upwards into a giddy little smile as she uncrosses her knees to place her fingertips on them. “Depends on how hard you go at ‘im, Tee. I bet he’ll find ya jest as irresistible as the rest of us.”

The scream that fills the air resonates off the steel walls and empty space. Quinn applauds it enthusiastically.

The hand on her backside gets little more than a quirk of good-natured irritation across her features, but she gets moving. She was tagged for wrestling, huh? With her widely swaying stride, another overstated play of her femininity, she crosses the space and then promptly straddles the man on the floor, rolling him out of his curl so she can sit on his thighs, just above the destroyed kneecap.

“C’mon, Porgie,” she croons above the screaming. “Let’s start at the beginning. I’ll help, in case ya forgot. Ya’ helped Mistah J move a load of Smilex—” Her eyes roll skyward as she , her head lolls back, and her hand finds that wrecked knee to lean on its remains. The screaming and desperate attempts to buck the clown off are only met with Harley’s fingers digging in tighter and her own bare perfectly intact knees driving down harder towards the floor. Her weight makes it hard for her to keep him still, but it doesn’t seem to bother her and he doesn’t have his hands free… so. “…Where did you say ya moved it to again?”

“EDGAR WOODS PREP. Get off of me!”

As he continues to struggle, Quinn just smiles brightly in the skull-faced man’s direction. ‘See?’ her expression reads, desperate for approval.

The grin beyond the affixed one is not seen but heard in Taskmaster's voice, you can hear the smiling after all, right? "Beautiful, Harl. You shoulda took me up on the wager. I expected at least to break his thumbs and trigger fingers first."

"Edgar Woods Prep it is." Taskmaster looks curiously from Harley to 'Al', "Whatcha want to do with him? He is your catch after all."

That piece of chewing gum taken out and flicked carelessly against Georgie's head, it sticks just above his eyebrow.

"We'll see if this info pans out, if it doesn't, we can always find him again."

"I got a call to make and we'll get ourselves a lead on Burp and Loogie."

Bud. And Lou,” comes the snapped correction. “But we ain’t done yet, Tasky,” Harley says as she continues. “See, Mistah J isn’t a big fan of just… storehouses, right? He ain’t like the Bat.”

The gum on Al’s head doesn’t stop Quinn from grabbing his sweatshirt and pulling him up to lightly bonk his head against the hard concrete floor. “Which means, there’s a trick if there’s Smilex. A catch.”

Abandoning her abuse of the man’s knee, so kindly softened up by Taskmaster, the clown climbs over him to grab at his face and squish his cheeks as she draws close enough that he might smell her grape soda breath.

“And there is a catch, isn’t there, Georgie? There’s always a catch. A good punchline.” She sings some more as she shoves his pursed face in the mercenary's direction, grinding it into the floor as she sets her deathly pale cheek atop the bald goon’s own with her eyes gently closed. Her body twitches and jumps with the continued struggle happening beneath her. “Georgie Porgie, puddin’ and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry… But when the boys came out to play, Georgie Porgie ran awaaaay~”

Al grimaces as he looks in Taskmaster’s direction, his good eye squinting in pain and clearly uncomfortable with the present scenario. But he doesn’t say anything at all.

"Right, that’s what I said." Taskmaster insists.

"So what, it's a fun house full of silly mirrors, acid balloons and deathtraps?" A scowl as he watches the continued torment of Al, not because he cares about what's happening to the man in the least, no, but because he's eager to be moving. He wants to get his pay, only because at this point it has become one hell of a stance of principle.

"Welp, what the punchline Gorgeous?" Taskmaster's jaw sets as their captive buttons up. "I suppose it is my turn again."

A staccato as his bootfalls and he’s circling Harley astride her miserable mount of a victim, as if he is debating the right spot to pick. Dropping to a kneel, forearms rested on his knee caps and two fingers reach over and clutch Georgie's right hand, the thumb is clutched, pressure applied then bent with a deft 'twist' in the opposing direction.

The new round of screaming, right by Harley’s ear, doesn’t seem to faze her in the least. Nor does the way that Al’s body arches and twitches in his bindings. Her eyes stay closed until the screaming’s done. “Shh, shh,” she coos as she continues to hold his head still as she can. “It’ll be alright. Just tell ‘im.”

But still he holds his tongue, ragged breath and defiance born of fear, and Quinn just sighs after a moment and lifts herself up a little, planting her hands on their poor plaything’s shoulders and dangling her perfectly lovely dyed-tip pigtails in his face. “You can skip me, Tee. Go again.”

Taskmaster huffs past the mask's teeth while his fingers walk along and grip the man's right trigger finger, "A thumb, a knee, next up the index."

A crane of his neck and that skullmask sort of turns to an angle horizontal like, "I really suggest you talk because I get bored really fast and this is like fucked up foreplay, I finish this digit off and I'm bound to just go wild."

"Forefinger, foreplay, huh?" SNAP. The finger splinters in the center and now points upwards towards his wrist.

"I'll give you a minute to quit screaming so you can calm your shit and talk again."

The merc-villain doesn't get up from his crouch, still knelt there. “Lookit the perks here, you’re getting all kindsa mad attention from my adorable companion. This is probably the most action you’ve seen in a very long time Georgie Boy. When it’s worth it, it comes with a price!”

Right on cue, more screaming. Fingers splayed up at weird angles from where they’re bound at his sides, Quinn lifts herself just enough to crash back down and slam Al to the floor again. It forces the air out of his chest once more.

“It’s a bomb,” he sobs at last, once he has breath again. “Boss set the school for happy hour.”

And at that, Harley makes a visible wince. It’s not the woundings or the threats or the insults that get to her. She tilts her head to one side, and then the other before she finally growls. When she looks back to Al, all amusement is gone. “And you helped him.”

Looking to her side, to the man who so easily dwarfs her, she arches an eyebrow. “You said there was a bonus for deliverin’ a test subject, right?”

"I did say I would add a bonus for that." Taskmaster confirms and stands upright so he can stare down at them, there are certain lines not to cross even for the likes of Harley and Taskmaster. One of those is apparently children.

On any given day, Contingency T has no issues with wholesale slaughter as long as no innocent women or children are involved. There has got to be a point somewhere that humanity sets some roots in.

"Looks like we found our huckleberry." A hand extends down towards Harley, offering to help her to her feet.

"You tell me what extra bonus you want, we'll see if I can't manage it."

"Good job though Gorgeous Georgie, you just got upgraded from chum to guinea pig. I hope it was worth it."

Georgie descends into a string of expletives and angry, fitful rolling. He curses a blue streak, about the lunatic blonde and her sidekick, about lies and all manner of things foul.

Harley’s hand reaches out to pat at Al’s cheek, her smile viciously wide. “Congrats, honey.” And then that hand reaches up to take hold of the one that’s offered to her, bouncing up onto her feet and then curling herself around Taskmaster’s arm.

“Whatcha wanna do with him ‘til then?” She jabs a thumb back in the direction of the monstrous curl of steel behind them. “Back up on the hook?”

"Lovely personality, pal. A good thing you're such a handsome fellow." Taskmaster's bashes Georgie in the noggin with just enough of a tap to knock the man out.

The light tug that assists Harley to her feet also allows her to conform against his arm and side. A thoughtful sound escaping the swordsman.

"Yep, back upon the hook. He's not a very nice fellow and some alone time will let him consider the error of his ways or some garbage."

"Our work ain't done yet though, we got to scout this prep school out and apparently save the day." A rueful sound is released, "I feel dirty thinking about it already. So contrary to my goals today."

Harley squeals with delight as she untangles herself from her teddy bear du jour, bounds forward, and, once again, maneuvers Porgie with only a small grunt of effort. Once he’s on her shoulder, it’s very minimal work to get him strung back up on the freight hook. “Try runnin’ away now, Georgie!”

The remote, left by her stool, is fetched and then handed over to Taskmaster with a flirty pop of her hip. “I’ll think about the bonus and letcha know.”

The remote is lifted, the button depressed once the man's in place. The jerky upwards ascent only stopping once satisfied Georgie is entirely in the upright and incapacitated position. The pain alone he is likely going through will keep him around for time being.

"You do that. I may regret this later but I owe it and you earned it."

"We're set here. No point to linger other than watching this sad sack suffer." A distorted chuckle escapes Taskmaster at Harley's enthusiasm, "You ready for what comes next?"

“Not thinkin’ about it,” Harley tells him, smiling but tone firm beneath it. There’s warning there. “We get this done. I get my Babies back. That’s all I’m worryin’ about. God only knows where Satan’s got ‘em stashed.”

There’s a sharp sniff, and then the blonde starts to squirm herself into a place under Taskmaster’s arm. “We may need a demo guy, ‘pendin’ on what He’s got running in that school. And Mercer was talkin’ big about wantin’ to help me with getting the boys back. Might be able to talk him into helpin’ on this.”

Taskmaster's arm rises enough to let her cozy up in against his ribs and under his arm, that attached hand splaying out in a rest upon her red - black clad hip.

"We can find a demo guy. As for Mercer… I suppose we'll work him into this, too.’

“Numbnuts has his uses." Taskmaster has to admit the man is good despite the strange rivalry hs formed.

A click-clack sound as teeth are flicked at by his tongue. The 'electronic pickup' through his mask making the noise odd sounding, "We'll get a team ready for the school and I'll get that wire on your babies. Just need to make some preparations. We'll just forget to tell anyone what this first lil shindig is going to be about."

“Okay.” Readily falling into agreement, Harley falls into a comfortable and easy stride beside the man beside her as they start to walk out, the woman kicking aside the clown mask so it’s out from underfoot. As they start to head out the door, she worries her black lip and tilts her head against Taskmaster’s shoulder as she thinks.

“I’ll get Boomerang onboard, easy peasy.” She says after a long moment. “But what do you want me to tell’im if he asks what we’re up to?”

The walk together stops at the parked sedan, that question of Harley's hanging there before a low chuckle rumbles out of his broad chest. T's head tipped down so he can stare at her from behind that bone mask, "Don't gotta tell him a thing. It’s all steps towards getting back your boys."

"The dude’s just as bloodthirsty as the rest of us. Ain't no denying it and come out of it, we can reward him by saying 'surprise, you just helped a buncha preppies and Taskmaster got his hands on smiley murder gas."

Harley is turned easily enough—settles against him easily enough—although her chin tucks demurely as the marching orders are laid out. Her mouth tugs to one side, uncertain, but then she just shrugs and looks off to one side. “Okay, yeah, I can do that. No problem.”

Her slender shoulders shrug, but she can march to a plan as well as anyone when she wants to.

Taskmaster studies Harley, the expressions and can't help but feel a small tug, "Once upon a time… I remember a thing or three."

A grunt from him, there is a look at the car, "You need a ride, dollface?" His lips quirking behind his mask, tongue tracing the back of his teeth as he sifts through his thoughts to settle a gaze down upon her, "You wanna tell him what's up, go ahead. He’s either in or out anyways. We'll manage, I'll manage. You already lived up to your side of it. Next step, I get my new toys and then we go hunt down your kiddos."


“Naw,” comes the unhurried reply as Quinn leans in against that pressure on her hip, her gaze coming back up to meet the obscured one as best she can. “Yer plan; yer rules. You just help me get the Babies home. Mercer’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.”

She hopes, but nothing is ever certain where her ex and His stuff is concerned.

Shoving a hollow smile back onto her black lips, Harley playfully sways a little in place. “But if yer offerin’ up a lift, Sweetums, I’ll take it.” A ride, sure, but all the more to avoid the silence that invites her overthinking.

"It's a gig. Got a rep to keep so we're golden." Taskmaster murmurs, his head swaying slightly almost like a serpent following her own motions. The lean against his hand has it smearing back behind her to curl over her rear, to cup her backside, then just to tug her in closer as he lowers his skull's mask to bump the top of her forehead with it.

"I'm offerin' a lift, yeah, you wanna go back to my place or you have someplace you wanna be dropped off? Got some gear to pick up, a building schematic to purchase and really, I'm pretty damn hungry."

The close proximity lures Harley into a momentary quiet. A quiet that must, clearly, be destroyed at all costs. He leans his head against hers, and her eyes close. She breathes in deeply the scent of him and Gotham funk.

Her blonde head pops up before the moment can drag out too long, her eyes wide behind her mask as she grips ahold of Taskmaster’s shirt and bounces in place against him. “Ooh! Ooh! Can we go somewhere with milkshakes?!”

"You want a milkshake?" Taskmaster is amused, the rumble of his reaction evident again, the quiet broken by that suggestion and his hand, clutching Harley’s rather shapely rear end releases, teasing upwards to rest once more on her hip.

"Happy to oblige. This time I suppose that's not your bonus claim, is it?" A leer down upon her, the bounce against him, "We'll count this one a freebie. Need to cool off anyways."


One arm pumps up into the air as Harley cheers loudly. It’s a whoop of victory—although it may be hard to tell if the win comes in the form of a free milkshake or a moment shattered into a million pieces.

It was too quiet. Too quiet. Far too quiet.

Not hardly quiet enough.

This fixes that.

“I want one of those big fancy chocolate ones,” she continues loudly, her gaze skyward as she fantasizes about the latest dose of sugar headed her way. “With whipped cream! And a cherry.”

"Hop in. We'll hunt down… ice cream for you of all things." Taskmaster remarks, a rub of his jaw as he watches the far away look and that yippy of joy. An intentionally slow head shake following, "Daffy and wonderful, how do ya manage it?"

"Whipped cream and a cherry." A turn to look at Harley, his eyes locking on her. "You know…. uh…"

“I think it all started with the electroshock therapy,” Harley states plainly, seemingly oblivious to the observation that she’s under. Well, unaware until she brings her pale eyes down again to look at her Skwadie-cum-driver.

Her eyes blink, and she has not—it’s worth noting—gotten in the car yet. “We’re gonna be able to find one, right? Is it too late? Are the fancy milkshake places closed? Well!” She continues, smiling, pshawing, and waving a dismissive hand as she solves her own potential dilemma. “That’s fine. We can just pick the lock or knock the door down. And then we’ll have the place all to ourselves! If that happens, we’ll just have to eat two to make up for the trouble. I mean, if you’re gonna risk getting a new item on the rap sheet, ya’ better make it worth it, right?”

Quinn stops just long enough to ask with her wide-eyed and vacant stare, “What was I saying?”

"I forgot, something about electroshock therapy." Taskmaster repeats and replies, the pale blue eyes meet his dark browns beyond the skull's sockets, he looks away quickly and his eyes drift off toward the car, opening the door, waving a hand in, “Then I think you said something about how you wanted me.”

“I know a place if we want ice cream that bad. Maybe you’ll remember what you were saying when we get there.”

Awaiting that shuffle in to the car he is patient - surprisingly. Grunting bemused at her train of thought loss, his own leaving him when she begins to move. Maybe he is being too attentive.

At Taskmaster’s addition to the historical record, the jester scrunches up her nose and giggles. As he reaches past her for the door, she whines a little. “I really just want the milkshake right now, Tee.”

Ducking her head under the strap as she takes off her messenger bag, the blonde in her red and black dress sets it gently in the car on the passenger side floor before sliding in after it. She wastes no time in flipping down the sun visor, and then carefully peeling off her mask with the help of the dim light and tiny mirror.

Slender fingers tipped in a black and red paint job try to smear her pale makeup to cover the flaws it leaves behind. She quickly abandons the doomed task and instead bends down to rummage through her bag. There’s the rumble and clinking of metal, but eventually she pulls out a different compact than before to start applying more makeup to the already thick coat on her face with featherlight pats.

She’ll wait until her driver is in his seat before asking: “Do you have a coat in here? You’d be surprised how chilly it is when you ain’t hauling a 300 pound Joy Boy around.” To that point, she turns and hurls herself half into the back seat, looking to help herself to whatever warm thing she finds—if she finds anything at all—without waiting for a reply.

The souped up sedan is expensive, inside and out. There is a particular OCD that follows Taskmaster around, very simplistic the way he organizes things, no actual chaos to it as things are where he likes them, where he can remember them, train himself to remember them when he actually ‘cannot’. Intuitive. A change cycles the noise audible to them both as Harley leans over the central console, dipping half in to the back seat.

"Hrm, ice cream. Yeah yeah." A murmur, his eyes ascend from the deck and the numbers on it, "There's one of my cloaks back there. I learned it's a required in this city when bullets, flame throwers and weather starts coming down."

“Maybe a sweater.”

A cant of his head and he lets out a muted grunt. That half hurl of hers has Taskmaster’s hand rising up hovering just shy of giving her rear an appreciative swat. Discipline! How he’s exercising it. Entirely unsure why he’s restraining himself. He never used to before or so he thinks but things have altered, shifted or he has a memory gap he is having a struggle with. Those have been known to occur. Discipline a word that usually equates to a lack of fun.

"Cold, you wear that lil dress and you want ice cream? Bottle of Brandy back there too. That'll warm you real fast."

“Got ‘em!” Messily dragging the cloak and bottle with her as she melts back into the front seat, Harley curls up in it happily. Taskmaster and his precious car may be organized, but she is an agent of chaos.

“And what can I say?” she inquires brightly as she snuggles in up to her chin and starts to unscrew the bottle beneath the generous folds, entirely unaware of the practiced restraint that came before. “I am a woman of many moods.”

Uh, understatements. Harley makes them.

“I had to wear the dress, anyway. Business uniform, yanno? Gotta make an impression.”

Pulling the bottle out from under the cloak, she takes a swig. “And I am very professional.”

The cloak is one of his white ones, heavier than it looks because of the composite fiberworking ran through it, crafted by the Tinker it's just shy as being as good as one of Batman's over expensive ones. It'll keep her warm so will the amber bottle she's now clutching.

The car hitting reverse and pulling out to pitch them on down the road, out of that warehouse district.

"Ain't all women?" He tips his head, stereo finding a band, metal apparently.

"Business, right, I'll remember to wear a dress for my next business transaction so I can look as professional as you do right now."

"I know a place we can hit, it's small, didn't see any cameras and I think mobsters own it. Not going to get arrested for stealing some damned Haagen Dazs."

“You’d look amazing,” Harley says, a hand flopping at the wrist in dramatic flair at the thought. “Though you might wanna shave yer legs first.”

Her head tilts to one side as she takes another drink before stashing the bottle back beneath her stolen blanket. “That way, if we do get arrested, it’ll be the best laughs.” Pulling her knees up to her chin, the blonde closes her eyes and settles back against the luxurious seats.

This is living.

And then? Then she just has to court a dangerous line. She reopens her eyes, and then promptly settles them on the radio. Her lips slowly turn a mischievous line.

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