The Start of Something Horribly Wonderful

July 24, 2018:

Harley Quinn shows up to a team audition against her better judgment, only to find that Deadpool has canceled it.

A Deserted Warehouse

See above.

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions: Boomerang

Plot:

Mood Music: None.


Fade In…

There was an ad. She knows there was.

And yet, when Harley Quinn shows up to the empty warehouse where she was fairly certain she was told she’d need to go in order to ‘audition’, she’s baffled.

“Really?” she asks of the hollow expanse, and the mallet presently resting on her shoulder twirls behind her as an outward sign of her agitation. “Really?

In her fitted bodysuit—of course, quartered into her signature red and black—the clown princess is the picture of vexation. The boots she wears, peeled back into curls at the tops, tap against the floor impatiently.

“That’s strike two, whackadoo,” she says to no one in particular, as she grunts in disgust. “You just wait until I find you.” The delivery of the words is melodic, the pigtails that spiral down on either side of her head bobbing in time.

Deadpool. Is. Scared.

Okay, so maybe he's not scared. But he's definitely hiding.

The warehouse is empty except for all the kinds of stuff that would be in a warehouse that he's likely stolen and stuff. There are crates of all kinds of things in here. There's toilet paper. Paper towels. Cheese. And there's even a giant crate of Spider-Man action figures which are about seventy percent done being transformed into Deadpool action figures.

There's a black Sharpie, uncapped, laying nearby… and almost pointing in the direction of the Audition Table that was set up for prior activities that have gotten postponed for any number of reasons.

From beneath the table, which is really easy to see because it's just a folding table, Deadpool raises his fist and shakes it angrily at the 4th Wall.

"Shit!"

Deadpool realizes his mistake and drops back down to plainview beneath the table and curls up into a position that might be known as fetal if he wasn't doing it backwards. It's weird. Don't try to figure it out.

"There's no place like Cleveland. There's no place like Cleveland. There's no place like Cleveland."

Looks like somebody forgot his ruby slippers.

—-

“Yoohoooooo, Pooly. Where are you? We’re overdue fer a conversation.

The mallet twirls again behind Harley’s shoulder menacingly.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. The pick-me-up package ya sent was nice. But I also really don’t like showin’ up somewhere, dressed up and ready to go, fer nothin’.”

The clown’s footsteps fall heavier than they normally do as she pushes forward into the space, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. She spies the box of Spider-Man toys, and her scowl twitches. ….’cuz that’s kinda funny. Murderers and hooligans rarely get action figures.

Ask her sometime. She’ll blab endlessly about it.

Her head twists as she scours the space, considering the multitude of hiding spaces.

And then the overly fortuitous appearance of one Mouthy Merc happens, and her pale eyes train on him with a very singular focus. And then her scowl turns up into a very maliciously pleased sort of smile.

“Why, helloooooo.”

"Ruh Roh!"

Scooby Pool pops up from underneath the table to behind it and immediately throws his hands up like he wasn't just hiding for his life. It probably doesn't make much difference, considering that he's dealing with (one of) his not-so-secret crush(es). There's a lot to take in.

Deadpool's got on his usual get up, though the black and red matches Harley's because it's funnier that way. He does have a long white ascot thrown around his neck as if that were going to make it clear that he's the DIRECTOR of whatever he's auditioning people for. Or what he was going to audition them for. IF THINGS HAD WORKED OUT.

"Haaaaaaaaaaay, gurl." Deadpool keeps his eyes up. He's pretty sure he shouldn't be gawking at her while she's upset. If she's even upset. A Harley Quinn is harder to read than a Robin Williams obituarity. It's just too damn painful. "… you look, man, you look amazing today. /Tight/."

Deadpool keeps his hands where they can be seen and doesn't reach for any of his many weapons that he's got stashed on his person. Most of them obvious.

"Listen, there was a mix up with my casting guy. He was supposed to zig when he shoulda' zagged. It's this whole big Howie Mandel of a mess." Pooly tries the reasonable lie approach immediately. "Buuuuuuut. That doesn't mean we can't go out in our matching outfits and make some bad things happen to good people, right?"

Olive Garden Branch!


“While I would definitely like to indulge in the singular pleasure of goin’ out and smashin’ all of the stuff, there are definitely some things we gotta get discussed.”

Her head cocks to one side as the comically oversized mallet swings off of her shoulder and into battering position. Harley Quinn sways from side to side—shifts her weight from foot to foot—as she thinks.

“Like what would have happened had I not shot my phone to pieces weeks ago.”

Deadpool raises an eyebrow which raises his mask which makes him get a little huffy.

"Waitwaitwait. You shot your phone?!" Deadpool narrows his mask eyes and hops over the table. This would be his version of turning the tables on her because he's a little upset of his own accord this time.

"So you mean to tell me that I go through alllll the trouble of kidnapping some Jackson 5 impersonators, choreographing a fuckin' /sweet/ dance number, getting your digits and instead of texting me back you SHOOT YOUR PHONE?!?!"

Okay, so maybe Deady's overreacting and overacting (chill out, Ryan!) but this is a crucial moment of reverse psychology at work here. Not to mention it'll probably get him out of the hot water he's already drowning in.

He even wags a finger of disappointment. Wag! Wag wag!

“What can I say?” Quinn queries, her eyelashes batting behind her domino mask. “I like to be courted. No one respects an easy mark.”

Deadpool may be overreacting, but he has an able adversary in that arena with the mistress of mayhem. “Like,” Harley continues, racing forward to take a swing at the mercenary with her mallet and its x-eyed frownie faces, “some bathroom stall trophy!”

While she intends to hit him, she’s already gearing up for a backswing, too.

“HALF OF GOTHAM CITY COULD HAVE HAD MY BURNER NUMBER, YOU MOOK.”

She’s also kinda flattered, but no one ever said that she had the most healthy expressions of feeling.

Deadpool.
Gets.
HAMMERED.

There's a sensation of bones cracking and then a body flailing as that Mallet of Mayhem smacks right into his face and sends him spiraling backwards to crack and crumple against the wall. The pain is immense but the Merc With A Mouth is still ticking.

He's always still ticking.

"Wowsers." Wade winces as he tries to get himself back up to his feet. He slips and slides on wobbly legs, grabbing hold of the table and dragging himself up to a half-standing position. His head is on a little bit crooked and he takes a moment to straighten it out. Maybe it'll impress her. Maybe it'll gross her out. Maybe both for a big time bonus.

"First of all, have you tried going to the bathroom in a suit like this? There are NO easy marks. Let me tell you. That is one of the reasons why I've made the switch to kitty litter."

Deadpool's randomness gives him time to recover and he hops up onto the table, spinning around it and lets his feet dangle off the side.

"Can't we just let Bi-Jons be Bi-Jons? This is really nobody's fault. Not yours, not yours and definitely not yours. So if you really think about it, we could be having our first date right now instead of you hammering away at my face. Trust me, sister, it won't help. I look I let Charles Manson give me a acid mud bath at Jeffery Dahmer's Day Spa."

Self-Deprecation is the way to Hot Clown Women's Hearts, right?

Harley’s eyes narrow. But, with a full strike or two now in, she at least feels heard. It’s important to be heard and understood.

She lets her posture relax a little, and her expression melts towards ‘mollified’. The mallet swings low by her ankles, a hip pops to one side, and—as Wade’s head straightens—hers goes curiously to one side. “Okay,” she says, relenting with a quirk of her mouth. “That’s fine, but let’s establish some ground rules. First, no more postin’ my info. I give it to you, it better not end up a public commodity. Second, I don’t do cattle calls. I’m either in yer little club, or I’m out.”

Deadpool has managed to switch to laying across the table, with his chin on his hands and just staring with paper hearts stapled to the front of his mask. It's weird that he can do this kind of stuff when the attention is not focused on him. He's prepared for all comedic situations.

"Done and Doner."

Wade hops up and grabs a clipboard hanging off the wall and uses the most glittery crayon out of the box to scrawl 'Harley Quinn' on the first line of his PEOPLE THAT ARE HIRED list. Yes, it actually says that. Deadpool is so weird.

"Sooooooooooo. Now that you're on the team. We should talk shopping montage. Ooo! And weapons! Oh and we should probably do some Steal Estate shopping. We're gonna' need lots of room for all the freaks that come on down. I wonder if we should have a rad battle van or something."

Wade starts running down his mental list of 'things to do' and that's just the tip of so many icebergs. Better stop him before he plans out everything… including how the team is going to break up in a later issue.


Harley nods once emphatically as a mark of her satisfaction. He’s adoring her, he’s got glitter, and he’s bumped her to the top of a list.

All is going as it should, so she bumps the flat of her mallet with her toe and swings it up to her shoulder in a Chaplin-esque move made appropriate to her. As it lands on the crook of her shoulder, she leans her head the other way.

“So,” she continues, swaying closer to where Wade is, “We can absolutely do a shopping montage, so long as my hyenas get to come. And that you don’t mean actually payin’ fer stuff. ‘Cuz my current employment is more a benefits gig than salary. But, anyway, the Babies hate to be left out of musical numbers. Especially Lou. He plays an amazing screamin’ guy, chews ‘em into key and everythin’. And the boys’ll definitely wanna make sure there’s enough play room if yer talking digs. And does all this mean I get a vote on whoever’s coming on board afterwards? Because I very much think that I should get some sort of privileges because I’m me. And an early adopter. And also, me.” The fingers draped over Harley’s clavicle sometime in the middle of her monologue remain in place as she bends forward with her knees straight, the mallet precisely balanced just so over her back. “I mentioned that I’m me, right?”

"HEY! THIS IS A TWO-MAN OPERATION AND YOU'RE ALL WOMAN!"

Deadpool turns to to look out of the screen. "What? I notice these things." And now back to paying attention.

"Which means you /definitely/ get a vote. I mean, unfortunately, it's my team so I have to get the last vote. Plus, it kind of depends on what our budget for this series of films is going to be. We might get some leftover X-Men or, oooh maybe some of the Brotherhood people will want to join in!" Deadpool taps his chin. "Oh man. What if we get Wolverine? His claws are so sharp…"

Deadpool has to pull himself out of his own daydream moment to find himself back into the middle of the conversation with Harley Quinn. Because that's the conversation that he's supposed to be having. Not thinking about Logan stabbing villainous mooks through the chest with those long… sharp… claws.

Unf.

"Waitwaitwait." Deadpool tosses the clipboard over his shoulder and into a pile of nothing that actually matters. He'll remember who all is on the team. "You. Have. Hyenas?!" Deadpool pauses for a fistpump. "OF COURSE THEY CAN COME. What kind of shopping montage would it be without bloodthirsty wild animals?! Also, the hyenas."

Deadpool kicks open a crate of guns because of course there are guns here and starts loading up.

"Don't you worry about payin' for a thing, little lady." Wade's heroic cowboy impression is even worse than his usual voice. "We're going to be using America's Express." Deadpool holds up a shotgun. "… I'm talkin' about guns, by the way."

—-

Fistbump totally reciprocated, Harley exploding it in a wiggle of fingers as she straightens up and pulls her hand back behind her shoulder with a giddy squeal.

All of this sounds wonderful, and the momentary suspicion about talk of X-Men is swept aside as guns appear and her chompy furbabies are given the carte blanche to come along with her.

But, wait! No. X-Men. X-Men could mean heroics and she’s not doing heroics! …or getting turned over to anyone. She physically shakes her head as a mark of her expression becoming more grave, her lips inverting into a frown, and the mallet twirling behind her shoulder again.

“Great. So. I insist on being part of the panel when you hold auditions, any clown-themed equipment and/or gear acquired in the course of shenanigans of course is immediately property of me, and…. And I get to add more rules as we go along because I am, indeed, all woman and capriciousness is in my nature.”

Her gloved hand holds out, ready to shake. “Deal?”

Deadpool is not listening. Or maybe he's listening and not remembering that he's listening. Or maybe he doesn't actually ever listen and just pretends to listen to people because that's what the social norms call for in these days and times.

Wade reaches out to shake hands with Harley and seal the deal.

"Deal! Of the Century!"

Wade grins beneath his mask and goes back to putting guns in various holsters and grabbing extra ammunition and whatever else that he's going to need. He's already got his swords where they belong so that's another plus. He's going to be armed to the teeth.

"Grenades. I never do a shopping montage without grenades."

Deadpool waves around a hand to motion towards all the crates. "Hey, take anything you want. I stole all these crates a few weeks ago so I don't know what's in them. Crack 'em open and load up."

Wade moves over towards whatever crate may have explosives in it and judo chops the lock off. May be why there's a scream in pain that happens in the next moment. "Jeez! Ow!" Deadpool lifts the lid and nods at the holy grail of grenades.

"Oh! New thought! We should call that weird delivery guy with the boomerangs! Make this a threesome!" Wade rolls his eyes under his mask. "… That guy could really use some new clothes."


Harley’s eyes grow wide at the thought of including Owen on this. Because, of course, he will want in on this.

Who in the right mind would not want in on this? Exactly, everyone. So Owen should be just fine for the engagement.

Yes,” she agrees emphatically. “But I mean, he’s already taken a really impressive risk by going all in on the boomerang gimmick. If he wants to keep dressin’ normal, I guess that’s okay. As long as the boomerangs come. Because I hate to see him go, but it’s always nice that I get to see him back again!”

There’s a pause, as Harley’s smile dims and realization slowly dawns.

“I realize now that his tool of the trade is strangely and metaphorically appropriate for, like, our entire relat—” Her head shakes again, a hand waves broadly. “NEVERMIND. YES. We should get Boomerang on board. You wanna send the invite, or should I tie him up and drag ‘im over?”

"I've never really been a fan of bondage since they made 50 Shades of Grey into a movie so I'll let you handle all the kidnappings of our Third Baseman."

Deadpool hooks at least a dozen grenades onto his various belts and pouches. "I have a sexy beast of my own to recruit. He's an old dude from the future. A little racist but he's go it where it counts." Deadpool looks up and over at Harley and cups his hands around his masked mouth. "In his pants!" It's a whisper yell. It's awkward.

"Anyway, his name's Cable and he's almost as big of a badass as I am. It'll be fun having him around too."

Then it's Deadpool's chance to have a realization. "Holy Fuck Biscuits! Maybe I don't have to hold auditions! Maybe we can just check our phones and our socials and just go grab people that fit this rag tag team of plot convenience and franchise possibilities. Then we can do one of those getting the band together montages where everybody gets to showcase their particular skills, talents or abilities before they're recruited." Deadpool almost sounds like he's having a happy moment.

"It'll be beautiful."

Deadpool sniffs and wipes away a tear that's not on the outside of his mask.

"Are we gonna' do a color scheme or like badges or what? We should probably decide that too! So we know what we're shoppin' for!"

—-

The look on Harley’s face is appropriately horrified. “Oh. Em. Gee. YOU’RE RIGHT. We should absolutely theme. BUT. Since you are in red and black, and I am also in red and black, and we’re presently the only two standing here we should absolutely say that the theme is red and black.”

She pauses, and then her head turns to one side. “We could get decoder rings,” she stage whispers, the mallet in her hand finally falling to one side. “So we can send special team messages in cracker jack boxes and pieces of toast and stuff!”

“THIS IS GOING TO BE SO GREAT!!!” Rushing forward, Quinn moves to throw her arms around Wade’s neck to enthusiastically bearhug. “WE’RE TOTALLY MIND TWINSIES.”

Except probably not really.

But she’s swept up in the moment, so she’s going to go with it.

“Bud and Lou are gonna love you!”

Except definitely not really.

It’ll be fine.

There are so many ways this can go wrong and that's what makes it fun. Or something. It's all complicated but it's all so awesome at the same time. Deadpool is already in love with the plotting and scheming that's coming from the various minds in the warehouse right now. There's his, Harley's, his other one and then that other one… that's a lot of brains working at maximum capacity for insanity!

And Deadpool loves it.

"Red & Black! On the attack!" Deadpool takes a moment to shake off that very bad battle cry and ends up almost melting into an actual puddle of Poolness when he gets BEARHUGGED by the Harley Quinn.

"Hominahominahominaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Deadpool loses control over all of his weight and just sort of goes limp in Harley's hands!

"Hey! Hey! Do not type that! I have a reputation!"

Fine.

Deadpool loses control over all his weight and just sort of allows Harley to be the one dealing with all of his weight. He can't stand anymore.

"Better!"

Asides, aside (HA!) Deadpool flutters the eyelashes that aren't there and swoons at Harley's words.

"They're gonna' think I'm GRRRRRRReat!"


“Fabulous!” Harley chirps brightly, even as she’s suddenly left with the whole of Deadpool’s mass in her arms. She twists at the hips, just like in all of those classic romance movies, and loudly smooches his forehead.

“So!” she continues, dropping the poor mercenary on the floor so she can plant one hip on her hip and lift a finger on the other hand in the very portrait of brilliant thinkers everywhere as her chin lifts and her gaze affixes itself to some distant point on the ceiling, “clearly, I should go and find B right now to tell him the wonderful news.”

A pause.

“And get a bag of lollipops and a fresh pack of gum. Because all this dreamin’ is killin’ my sugar reserves like ya wouldn’t believe.”

Another pause as she realizes that she’s dropped Deadpool, and looks down to the floor.

“And you absolutely want me at my sweetest. Trust me.

Except, don’t actually trust her. It’s a bad idea to actually trust her.

Every decision that Deadpool makes is a bad decision. Which is why he makes them. If he makes bad decisions then there's nothing else that can happen. Everything is bad so there won't be anything that can happen that he didn't expect. He keeps himself from having expectations and bam! Everything works out great!

Deadpool hits the floor and doesn't even seem to be bothered. He's fine with being tossed around like a sack of insane potatoes.

He likes potatoes.

"Right! And I'll find us a sweet ride. So we can put all of our recruits in it and then we can paint it red and black!"

Deadpool gives two thumbs up from his position on the floor.

"Leave your number somewhere up there for me to call when I get our cool mobile-mobile!"


Harley goes to fetch the glitter crayon from earlier, and the clipboard.

She slowly walks back towards Deadpool, and then scrawls her name on the top sheet. She slowly pulls off the sheet and holds it up as she plops the clipboard on top of the mercenary’s stomach. The crayon is tucked up behind her ear for safekeeping.

“This is the new number. You put this out there again, and I will shove this here crayon—” she gestures with a pointing finger to the glittery thing “—so deep into yer ear that yer gonna sneeze glitter like it’s Christmas in July. Ya get me, toots?”

The phone number is surrounded by doodle hearts.

"I love it when you talk ear canal-y."

Deadpool brings a hand up to do one of those mighty salutes that he's stolen from Gomer Pyle, USMC and then proceeds to snatch off the sheet, fold it up and shove it into one of his pouches.

"I think this is the beginning of a beautiful orgyship."

Deadpool might be talking to everyone or Harley or just his own varied brains and voices. It's a weird situation this one. Not that every situation that Deadpool is in isn't a weird one.

"… wait. Isn't tomorrow Christmas?"

Deadpool narrows his masked eyes and turns to offer another aside.

"Francis."

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