To the Things That Don't Kill You (and the Fun Things We Kill)

August 30, 2018:

Harley Quinn moves back into the Gotham Arms, bringing her furbabies with her. Poor Taskmaster happens to be there at the time.

Gotham Arms


NPCs: Bud and Lou, the best hyenas ever.



Mood Music: Have a Drink on Me by AC/DC

Fade In…

Gotham Arms

When the sun starts to set, there’s a scrabbling outside the door of the Gotham Arms. It’s quiet at first; the sound of something scurrying behind the couch, perhaps.

But it becomes a thudding sound. There’s shouting. Loud screeching, muffled by the door.

Then there’s a louder thud against the door, scratching, and heavy breathing. And then there’s Harley Quinn’s voice. “BOYS. I told ya t’wait fer Mommy! What are ya doin’? Ya don’t just push me up the stairs!”

A moment later, there’s a turn of a key in the lock and the door flies open as Bud and Lou—decked out with brand new lime green collars studded with stainless steel diamonds—barge through.They’re alert and attentive, quick to turn in the direction of anything that moves or threatens to with their typical threatening cackle.

Quinn isn’t far behind, her shoulder immobilized with some sort of brace, but she’s dressed to minimize its appearance.


The unforgettable Gotham Arms… Taskmaster haunts here when he's avoiding his own business, murderous intern, pilfering his stash or reminiscing. Better days? Yes and no. More chaotic? Very much a yes. It took a long time to get rid of the heat he accrued living here before…

The sounds of thundering paws, shrieking and other odd noises Harley and or her ‘cackle’ of pets make is… unexpected. It does not give the skully-merc time enough to close the floor panel quick enough and spin in time to not look like he was busy.

It's him hopping over the raggedy patchwork couch and away from the nearest hyena that gets a human-electronic distortion snarl, "Damnit. Careful… " Not towards her but the beast thats over-eager, possibly bite or licky, he can't remember which one likes him and which doesn't…. let alone their names half the time.

"Who is in control? You or them?" Taskmaster's hand lifts to grab his hood, drawing it over the top of his head. NO weapons drawn at least. He's bare handed, combat vest open showing a snug deep blue under shirt, grey fatigue pants, combat boots. Like he is fresh off a mission or job and just unloading for the night. The ARMs for once. He is definitely bored, hiding out or doing the nostalgia thing.


It’s not until he starts moving that Lou definitely takes a nearby spot, claims it for his own, and starts heckling at the mercenary with a barking laugh. His counterpoint, Bud, considers the exchange and simply decides he’d rather claim the couch for a nap.

Harley, meanwhile, has a couple of bags slung over her good shoulder, leaving her to just laugh, too, as she walks through the door. “Aww, they don’t mean nothin’,” she says, despite the fact that Lou very much appears as though he means to take a bite out of Taskmaster if they get too close to each other.

She seems oblivious to this as she throws her stuff down at the edge of the room, and then crosses over to the kitchen to start rummaging around in the fridge for someone’s stuff to steal if it looks appetizing. As she bends over at the icebox, she keeps talking over her shoulder. “Funny thing: when ya don’t pay rent, no one wants to fix yer windows. So I’m back here while I figure out where next. Hopefully the Boys ain’t gonna be trouble fer anyone.” She doesn’t really care, though.

Finding a forgotten off-brand soda in the back of the fridge, Quinn looks at it, considers how imminently perilous to life something two years past its best by date could be, and then cracks it open. She then moves to lean against the counter. “Figure stickin’ a little closer to people right now might not be the worst plan.” For her. For them…? Another story entirely. “I mean, no one’s in my room, right?”

She finally looks up at Taskmaster and notices the hyena harassing him. “LOU. KNOCK IT OFF.” The hyena ducks his head and slinks, after a look in his mistress’s direction, to curl up on the floor next to Bud on the couch.

There mercenary while Harley talks glares at Lou, "I never remember which one likes me." Apparently it is Bud or maybe this is the Hyena's way of showing it is him. He doesn't know. He isn't an animal sort really. The scowl is sustained while Harley gets cozy enough to begin making herself home, again in, well, her home.

Their home. The SKWAD's old abode, a place full of memories and nothing really living at this point. "It's open, Regan, June, Ivy, Rosie, you, ya'll moved on. I just stash shit here." It helps they own the building and rather marked their territory on it. Or the last he knew one of them owned it, Lady Mastermind or the Ravager or bought out the floor for several years? Maybe it was that last one.Then again, with his memory he might have been the one to do that even.

Kneeling down he picks up a green ball off the ground and waves it in the air, a peace offering. "Here, take this tennis ball… " He pauses then swipes it off in a toss to the garbage can. "NO don't, that was an orange." A very fuzzy old orange. Hopefully the heckling mongrel doesn't try to go after it.

Harley s joined as the soda cracks open, the man leaning in to the counter beside her. His dark eyes under that mask scrutinizing, "We goin' through one of those phases, huh? Or this somthin' else? Your room’s in the same place we left it." The further harassing ignored, the less attention he pays them the more he can collect his sanity and eardrums in to one place again.

Lou seems like he might go for the orange, but then there’s a sharp sneeze and he aborts the mission. He cackles from his place on the floor instead, the sound loud and reverberating.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Quinn says, pulling the soda away after a sip so that she can study the can with a wary narrowing of her eyes. Her mouth smacks a moment later, her tongue sticks out as she resembles the infamous Mister Yuck, and then she sighs. She brushes around Taskmaster in order to get to the sink, emptying the can there.

“That was not soda,” she tells him, although it at least looks fairly normal as she disposes of it. Flat, but normal.

“But I mean, I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘phases,’” she continues, returning to her previous thought. “I ain’t a moon. A lunatic, sure, but not a moon.”

Taskmaster's chuckle does it's usual distortion break from behind the mask. "Careful, half this food in here has been here since people actually lived here." The man turns around while she brushes past, his stare tracking her.

"Some might even have fermented by now, if you're lucky." The lift of his arms to fold them across his chest places his hip against the counter, supporting him as she moves about.
"No moon but you're still very much a woman and human… I think." He teases. "So, what is this new somethin' or it somethin' we dun really want to talk about right now?"

There is a lookup as one bulb sparks out in another room, light thrown over the hallway. "Wiring in this place has been fucked since Ivy tore her roots up. If we're lucky she didn't screw the foundation too."Idle chatter. Talkative is a thing for Taskmaster when he gets goin'.

Harley shrugs her good shoulder, her features adopting a familiar flippancy. As the bulb burns out, though, her whole body tenses. A beat later, she’s scowling at the traitorous light and relaxing.

“Finally saw a doc, and she said I'm outta commish fer a minute. Given my luck lately, figured that translates to hunker down. Satan’s madder’n a hornet ‘bout it, so I’ll take the upside where I can get it.”

Turning herself around to lean against the counter herself, she folds her good arm over the bad and looks out over the space beside the taller, bulkier form of the Taskmaster.

“I got some change left from the teddy bear job. ‘ll see if I c’n get someone in ta patch up the wirin’. S’just gonna be me here, then?”

"Finally, good one or that chop shop over in Old G?" Taskmaster squints one eye looking at Harley's shoulder and patch job in the limited lighting.

"Good call, hide right under her nose where she won't think twice aboutcha. Part of why I come here." He taps the countertop with his knuckles, the loud rap of bone encased in kevlar resounding.

"We can get the Carpenter on it again, she likes coming around here. Plus she's better eye candy than anyone else we get up in this joint." A noise escapes the man as he tries to remember the last time the woman was here, "If she didn't get shot, I kinda think she disappeared in the fighting when the Losers attacked. Huh… Guess the polite thing woulda been to ask eh? Might be why that jacuzzi never got finished."

A break from his own thoughts and he looks at the painted woman beside him, an limb sliding along the countertop to rest forearm over the back of her hips, tugging her in to his side. "What's wrong, s'matter, feeling lonesome? Got yer pups back an' everything."

"Nah, you won't be alone here, I keep things here. I come and go. Maybe even Ivy hear you're back up in here and she'll slither on in again… " He can't say for the others. Lady Mastermind vanished, maybe Waller's doing.

“Ehhhh, had to get a real one,” Harley replies, her nose crinkling up in disgust and eyes dropping to the floor. As he inspects the work, what little is visible under the jacket she’s hung from her shoulders to help hide the brace, he’ll see the bandaged up area’s gotten a little larger from where the rework got done. “Ya get into a couple of scuffles and they start actin’ like yer dyin’.” When her lips twist up to one side, the clown finally looks up from the place she’d found there and looks up. “Fer what it’s worth, she had nothin’ but nice things to say aboutcher work. I just did a great job puttin’ it through its paces.”

As she’s tugged closer, the smaller woman does nothing to fight it. Rather, she gingerly settles her be-pigtailed head against him. “I jes’ like a party,” she lies quietly. “I never get lonely.” Another glance upward. “Can’t, yanno. Voices in my head never really shut up.” …not her diagnosis, but close enough for government work.

"Still attached." Taskmaster confirms giving a quick half-assed assessment of his own. He grunts at Waller's appreciation. "It's worth about as much as I could toss her, which, these years not very damn far. Wait, that’s more a trust as far as… whatever. You get me. Or some of them voices do.

"I work, she pays in pennies and IOUs. At least its not threats right now… "

"She's got me on a thing, chasing folks all over Gotham. Maybe we can get you in on it for some home turf work… " his head tips down, jawbone almost touching the top of her head as his fingers tap along her belt, drum beating. "Fair, besides, I tend to come back around like some stray that just… doesn't know when to vanish. Not from you, just all this… "

"And you are my favorite party girl. When you ain't all caught up in some idiot that ain't me."
"We can party. What's your flavor tonight? I've got a bag full of ideas and the restlessness to accommodate, in spades."


At talk of work closer to home, Quinn arches an eyebrow up. “Yeah? If it’s not gonna put me back in the clinic with another patch job, I definitely wouldn’t say no.” Her smile brightens then, to the point that it eclipses her gaze and they squint shut. “Thanks, Tee!”

Once that glee has passed, she bobs a little beside him “Everyone gets a little distracted now and again. What can I say? I’m a free spirit! Born to be the very best meeee that I can beee!” She starts to spread her arms, only to remember the brace. She winces, then deflates.

“Or, you know. At least me. …I don’t even know.” Harley indicates the hyenas with a sweep of her hand. “They’re hard to take places, and I hate leavin’ ‘em.”

"You are in then. We'll keep it our secret and I'll give you a cut. Satan doesn't gotta know a thing." Though she's likely to find out but right now he's employee of the month, maybe Taskmaster has some leeway.

"Anytime, toots." He gives Harley's hip a casual pat-pat then sets his fingers back to the countertop, gripping the edge.

"Yeah, smarts, don't it?" He taunts, "When you outta that?" Taskmasters eyes follow her gesture, "We can stay in, maybe terrorize the new neighbors or entertain one another. Plenty of options. That board game closet only half burned."

“Go back in a couple of weeks ta find out.” Rolling her eyes upwards, the harlequin sighs melodramatically. “Apparently, I wasn’t supposed to be going into fights? I mean, really.” Harley’s arsenic-pale features turn to Taskmaster anew, questioning. “Who does that? I mean, no fights. Is that a thing?” Her face then contorts in contemplation, as she bumps back against the pat on her hip.

“Anyway, whatever. It’ll be fine. Like I said, at least it made Satan all kinds of twitchy that she was gonna hafta back off with the hup-to a bit.” She ducks her head down as she ventures a hope, “…Did the cards make it? I could be in for a few times through Canasta? Make some drinkin’ rules, and we got ourselves a night.”

"No fighting? Absurd. It is in our blood. Wimps, cowards, politicians, nerds…" Taskmaster ticks off names while she bumps his hand, encouraging it to wrap long fingers over the hip and teasingly push her to the side along the counter and back. Guided by his hand.
"You will and if you're not it will give me something to laugh at."

"She's worried about something. I'll tell ya more about that too… " He looks at the fridge, then the back room where his stash lies, "Aight, drinking game it is. Canasta? Rummy or somethin? Not sure I know it. I'm a quick learn though. Wager on clothing and shots?" The skull is already grinning. "Or you can't do that either?"

“Hopefully I still got some whiskey. I know the other two stashed a load of vodka here too but I won’t drink that swill… “

Where he leads, Harley easily follows down the counter and back. “Yeah, you’ll laugh while I beat ya’ half ta death with my limp arm. It’ll be the biggest pile of laughs you’ll ever get.” A pause, and then? “Oh, wait, no. It’ll be the biggest pile of laughs I’ll ever get. The time that the Taskmaster got his ass handed to him by a one-armed clown.” She doesn’t mean it, and the heatless return comes with a smile and batting of her mascara-coated lashes.

“But I’d rather gamble fer whatever jobs we gotta do to clean up this joint. When I’m sayin’ we need to do chores, ya know the sitch is desperate. But a fine lady of the center ring like myself is a little concerned about what’s waitin’ fer her in the shower, come mornin’.”

The man appears to reluctantly grow bored with the delightful sway his hands rising up and clasping up behind the back of his skull, fingers interlocking. "She talks about partying then the first thing she shoots for is chores." A noise escapes Taskmaster.
"It's a trap. Always… "

"A one armed clown kicking my ass would force me to retire. Maybe not a bad call, once I got enough cash to keep me satisfied and one day fat I guess."

"I kill people, I don't clean house. We can hire a maid for that but otherwise, have at, you won't catch me scrubbin' and washing no toilets, showers or floors. You are nuts."

“Hire… a… maid?” The look that Harley levels at Taskmaster is one of incredulity, perhaps. Or it just conveys that’s fairly now certain that she’s staring at the crazier of the two and struggling with the implications of her being the saner one.

She doesn’t wanna be the saner one. Fortunately, that’s a problem easy enough to remedy.

“B-but! You can’t hire a maid!” she squeaks in protest. “Think of the Babies!” Her hand gestures emphatically in the direction of Bud and Lou, the former who has drifted off to sleep on the couch and the latter who is now neurotically licking something off the inside of his hind leg. “A maid could let them out. They could eat her. …OH MY GAWD, THEY COULD EAT HER WHEN SHE HAS CHEMICALS ON HER HANDS AND SHE COULD POISON THE BABIES, AND THEN THEY’D RUN AWAY AND I WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO FIND THEM UNTIL IT’S TOO LATE.”

That free hand comes back to grab his shirt as she presses herself against his front, her head lolling backwards. It’s not as extreme a drop as she’s been known to do, likely in deference to that shoulder, but the spirit is certainly there. “YOU CAN’T LET HER KILL MY BABIES WITH BLEACH, TEE. I JES’ GOT THEM BACK.” Cue the wailing as she starts to melt towards the floor while continuing to hold onto his shirt, her knees bending in towards each other. “THAT’S A HORRIBLE WAY TO DIE, AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PLAN FER A HYENA FUNERAL!!!”

Her eyes close as she throws her face beside her hand and laments, “WAAAAH!”

"A maid." Taskmaster says firmly even as she dramatically crumples, wails and releases those jeremiad range theatrics. The slide down him and descent to knees gets a rueful sigh, "My ears. My ears are going to bleed and then I won't be able to call a damn maid…"

He looks over at Bud and Lou, murmuring under his breath an oath or several their way only he hears.

"Let's make a damn deal then… if I win, you dress up as the maid and clean this shit up yourself AND hire one if you're too incapable with that busted wing. Lock 'em up while she is here. I dunno. Or he, I think they do he-maids now-a-days… " A rake of his fingertips against his skull as they drop down, hanging at his sides, his head tipped down so he's looking full downwards.
"IF you win, I'll clean something without a single complaint. First game though is a refresher, second games the one that counts. Deal, eh?"

"Party, my ass. Wait, we're not playing sober right?"

The wailing quiets, and there are a couple of melodramatic sniffs from Harley’s place on the floor. She sits on the floor with her legs turned and bent into a W, the young woman's arm trailed behind her along the Taskmaster’s leg from where she needed to release his shirt on the way to the floor. Her other arm is nestled protectively in the curve of her, bent in still at the waist.

One sniffle. Two sniffle. Three.

And then she looks up, eyes wild and wide. Her grin is manic, and her tongue curls around her teeth as she offers a more darkly amused bit of laughter.

“Oh, we’re playin’ dress up? Make it so you have to clean in the maid costume, too, and you got yerself a bet, skull face. Ya still get the better deal if ya win. …But ya won’t win, no matter how drunk I am. Jes’ so we’re clear.” She considers a moment, and then offers: “Three shot start, a shot for every other hand until we’re six in. That drunk enough fer ya?”

A gloved palm uplifts and settles atop Harley's head, thumb caressing in a swipe before Taskmaster tousles her hair. "Dress up… call it what you want I guess. Me winning. I always win… "

"Fine, a deal is a deal" That hand rises from her skull enough he can push his sleeve back to look at the watch like strap there, tapping it. Is it a FitBit!? May as well be. Apparently the mercenary is calorie to carb counting to see just how much drinking he can indulge in…
"Aight, we're good for some drinking and you losing. Though eh, I never had a maid fetish, don't even know why I suggested this but it was your ass who wants to play housekeeper so punishment fits."

Another swipe while he stands there and he's looking up rules for Canasta, "Ahh shit, nevermind. I know what we're playin'…. just been a bit. Ready to lose your colorful britches, dollface?"

"Hop up before we play a different game. Cards should still be in the island and I'll go fetch the drinks."

Quinn casually hurls up her good arm to get assistance up, batting back whatever tears she’d been coming up on in her new good humour. “Oh, no,” she quips back, adamantly shaking her head as she gets to her feet either way — with or without help. “There’s a chance of ya in a maid costume, cleaning. I can’t lose this one. I’ll never forgive myself.” She shrugs, her lips screwing up into a swervy line of non-apology.

“Sorry, skully. Yer goin’ down. Hope ya shaved yer legs.”

Then, barring any issues, she’s after a couple decks.

"Silky smooth. Always." No lie from Taskmaster, over the years Harley will recall the man has certain rituals, personal hygiene for the mercenary is a near obsessive disorder, his gear almost always immaculate, oiled, ready, his organizational skills when it comes down to belongings top notch. Shockingly he can walk through the chaos of the SKWADs living conditions unphased and out the other end without a speck of grime on his person. Glitter a different story. There is no salvation from glitter…

Vanishing from the central area and returning in a walk towards the small flight of stairs up to that mini-loft and its tattered seating arrangement he drops down, shot glasses and a bottle of Johnnie Walker. The resounding *clinkclanks* of them being set out follows and he sits with knees bent on the opposing short cushion-sofa, elbows on them as he leans over the small table.

"I hope you've shaven your own legs."

Gloss-covered lips tug up to one side in a mischievous smirk as Harley pipes up from where she's settled in the curl of Bud's belly, knees spread to give her some chance of putting her feet down on the floor between Lou and the couch, with every intent to play over the two stinky fur balls. "Guess you'll never find out." She awkwardly cuts the two decks, although her fingers are nimble enough for the task of shuffling at least. She does this a few times, and then puts all 108 cards down on the table. "Cut it again," she offers, stretching her neck.

Gloss-covered lips tug up to one side in a mischievous smirk as Harley pipes up from where she's settled in the curl of Bud's belly, knees spread to give her some chance of putting her feet down on the floor between Lou and the couch, with every intent to play over the two stinky fur balls. "Guess you'll never find out." She awkwardly cuts the two decks, although her fingers are nimble enough for the task of shuffling at least.

She does this a few times, and then puts all 108 cards down on the table. "Cut it again," she offers, stretching her neck. "The last thing I need is you trying to wiggle outta the deal cuz I win and ya say I cheated."

Taskmaster releases a grunt at the Hyenas. He does well to ignore their presence though when they're not being obnoxious. "We'll see."

"You sure?" The skull’s teeth keeping that smile, he rolls his shoulders shedding off the unadorned combat vest so he is just in a long sleeved tactical turtleneck! His forearms being exposed as he pushes them up and takes off his gloves. "Last time I played cards with y’all, you accused me of pullin' tricks and you do cheat.

A calloused and scar-riddled right hand drops over the cards, palm on top and his fingers move, one forward and thumb out, digits moving in a swirl that cases the deck to slice in half and re-arrange with a flourish. Fast eyes will realize hes just cut it in the middle not made any sly moves. Not this time.

Leaning back a little, Harley lets her head fall to one side and considers. Then, satisfied, she crinkles her nose. "Eh. We're bad guys. We cheat. Try to catch me at it, though…" Her better arm reaches out, gathering up the cards so she can start dealing them out. It's slower than normal, but she manages with seemingly no tricks about it either. "You pourin'?"

A realization he hadn't poured and was watching her or staring through her in a momentary thoughtless daze state has him jerking upright, shoulders stiff. "How the fuck I not remember to pour up?" Taskmaster suppresses a bemused chuckle and begins to fill their glasses, double-shots for each sliding one over to her with a fingertip.

"No mercy."

Harley's head hangs low between her shoulders, the good and the bad, as she shrugs the jacket off the ugly brace she's been hiding and the bandages beneath it. Her smile turns feral as she starts building the assorted piles. Once the cards are out into their myriad mountains and stacks, she scruffles Bud as he stretches behind her. "No mercy," she agrees, pale eyes bright. "But all I can think of is how terrific you'll look in ruffles and lace. I'll be merciful after, though. No photo evidence."

She picks up the shot glass, and then reaches over to tap it against the Taskmaster's. "To the things that don't kill ya."

The 'clink' of glass on glass, a pause, "And all the fun things we get to kill." He shoots his back, at some point his mask has ridden up enough his lower jaw is visible, smooth shaven as advertised. The skull is left pushed up enough it keeps his features obscured, just lips, white teeth, chin and cheeks visible.

"Think of something else, like, matching your underwear with your own ruffles and frills."
"Mercy is for capes an' pussies and i can't promise the lack of photo evidence." Ante upped. His fingers flex and soon the game is on that first round. Though hes making sure once their glasses are down they are full again. Outside that loft wall of windows below they got a clear view of Gotham streets and one of those GCPD airships drifting by in it's lazy circling. A good backdrop.

"Fine," Harley says, working her way through the hand with a bit of concentration. "Photos. Ya sealed yer own fate, and I don't wanna hear yer bellyachin' when it's time to pay the popcorn stand." She picks up a new card for the set, and then leers over her hand. "Do we have a feather duster? Cuz yer definitely gonna need a feather duster for the photo op. Because we have to observe the classics, of course."

Taskmaster's hand reaches in to his left pocket his phone rising up, drifting over it to turn it around and show her one outfit, scandalous to say the least, "This one?" He taunts. "Maybe a bit too much for you." Taunting her as he, holds his own cards in a fan wit his other. A tap tap noise of his boot's toe on the floor, "Feather duster is a must."

"Dun think I've ever paid a popcorn stand in my life." A card drawn from the stock and a discard of his own.

"Your poker face is ridiculous."

"We ain't playin' poker, and so your observation is meaningless," Harley sing-songs back at him over her hand as she turns a few cards more. "Furthermore and also, if you've already forgotten the game we're playin' then yer odds ain't good of seein' anything more than a cameraphone flash." Her hand comes down, distractedly, to drink more.

When Lou raises his head at the tapping on the floor and starts rumbling his displeasure for being woken, she quiets him down easily with a gentle nudge of her own boot against his snout to get him to settle again. Hyenas can give a mean side eye, for what it's worth.

There's a pause, and Harley looks down to her cards. The smile hitches. "Thanks, Tee," she offers, a little more soberly.

"Figure of speech." Taskmaster defends his word choice, the hyena given a wary look before he's pushing shots out again for card hands and simple timing, "Thanks for what?" He questions, his elbows finding his knees as he hunches for some, one leg bouncing restlessly. The tone change inspiring the question, his eyes lifting up to study her.

"You got somethin' good or this one of those other things, some spark in that wild mind of yours?" He swallows back taste of the whiskey.

"Cause, it dun look like you're going to be winning this, again. Unless you're already aiming to cheat." Bluffing very possible.

Harley considers Taskmaster for a long moment, although she makes a show of pretending to study her cards at least. She bites at her lower lip. "I dunno," she says, suddenly shying away from what came before. "Jes'… jes' thanks."

It's awkward, and she knows it's awkward. So she laughs louder for it in her discomfort and then seizes the shot to throw it back. "An' what kinda American doesn't eat popcorn?" she scoffs, playing off what came before. "I mean, what're scared of? Kernels gettin' stuck in yer teeth?"

Taskmaster drops another empty glass, one out of turn and checks that device on his wrist again before giving her a long stare. One that remains as he considers his response, "It is disgusting and bland unless you add butter or a bunch of other nonsense crap. It also makes sure no movie is ever enjoyable… and yeah, it gets stuck in your teeth. How is that delicious, and you sure it is even American?" He honestly has no clue, slapping a card down on the table. At this point he isn't sure who is winning, points at the end will tell right?

The dark of outside proceeds, their hours are creeping away further into the night, witching hours before long.

Points at the end will do the trick, and Quinn raises an eyebrow as the Taskmaster checks his watch. Again. "Ya got somewhere ta be, Tee? Or are ya actually countin' calories when yer in a drinking game?" She snorts, and then shakes her head in disbelief. Her card-bearing good hand comes back to fan over her collarbone. "I mean, far be it from me to judge if ya wanna watch yer girlie figure." Her voice drops, sultry low as she brings those cards up over her smiling mouth. "I mean, all those muscles come at a price, eh?"

"Girlie figure?" Taskmaster scoffs and his dark eyes under the shadow of his resting skull bore in to her, "I am not on a timer… I got to keep up with your ass and the idiots we end up rubbin' elbows with. Age is a thing… it creeps up." He refills them both with less gusto than the last couple rounds and then flings out another cards to the growing piles.

"We all can't just starve ourselves, put on a pair of tight shorts and call it go time."

"Ready to fold yet?" He challenges. The table being bumped towards her with his shins and knees.

There's a shriek. "Age? Did you really just pull an age card?!" Without looking, Harley sets her cards down on her lap, bends forward, and flips through the draw pile with a suddenly bright smile. "I KNEW you were cheatin'! I DIDN'T PUT AN AGE CARD IN THERE." Drawing her fingers back, she pulls the shot glass with her. "So what I hear ya tellin' me," she says, pausing the thought to drink, "is that I need to stop callin' ya Skullface and start callin' ya old man." She sways merrily as she throws her hand on the table. "But, fine, yeah, I fold. Good thing it was the warm up round, old man."

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