Cutscene: Parting is Sometimes Just Sorrow

September 05, 2018:

Harley says goodbye to a friend.

Rooftop of the Gotham Arms - Gotham


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: The Parting Glass by Ed Sheeran

Fade In…

There was a folding card table she set up on the rooftop, the sun setting over Gotham’s grimy skyline. She had the rooftop greenhouse behind her.

She laid them out, one by one by one.

Considered them at length. Weighed the pros and cons of each.

The lasting damage each would cause, how thoroughly each could cripple a system.

The dear one beside her, more precious than rubies, might never recover from the fate she was devising. She was consoled in one thing alone: this would be painless.

The precious memories contained in that lanky form would never—could never—die. They were etched upon her heart, her soul, with indelible ink.

But sometimes… sacrifices must be made.

Harley Quinn picked up the peach crumble pie and gently drew it out of the brown bakery box. It had been a bargain shelf find at the supermarket. The last hurrah of summer, undervalued and clearanced to move. It’s bright orange sticker shamed it for all to see, hoping someone would be moved to pity. Alas, only Harley found it in its plight.

There’s meaning there, churning in her head and consuming.

“Don’t think, Harl,” she tells herself. “Don’t think. Jes’ do it and get it done.”

The peach pie is set aside. Zook is pulled up. Harley starts to tear up as she gently sets him on the table. The modified bazooka is caressed through the misty view of her misery, and Quinn opens up the action one last time. The peach pie is tenderly loaded in.

“I’m sorry, baby. I hope ya can fergive me someday.”

The piezooka is loaded up onto the stand she's jury rigged for today to compensate for her bum shoulder and aimed towards the setting sun.

She fires.

And the peach pie—the wrong weight, the wrong consistency—explodes in the mechanism before it gets free of the chamber.

The blueberry with the flaky crosshatch is next. Followed by the custard and mousse with no crust at all.

By the end of the ordeal, she’s sobbing and hugging the metal length, and it’s a sugary mess. She's a sugary mess, too, covered in fruit syrup, custard, and tears. She sets it out on the table again. The bugs might come to dine on what they find. The next day, the sun will bake the pies’ remains solid inside the casing and moving parts.

Zook the Piezooka lays dying, soaked in the blood of false friends. But the falsest of all stands beside him, her shoulder bandaged and braced, but still breathing.

There’s meaning there, too. Harley pours a shot of whisky to drink them down, meaning and farewell toast both together. And then she turns the shotglass over and set it beside Zook as his memorial stone.

Quinn leaves the tableau behind, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief as she descends the stairs.

…There's work to be done come morning.

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