Something to Do

October 11, 2018:

Harley and Taskmaster go distraction hunting.

Gotham Arms


NPCs: Bud & Lou

Mentions: Owen Mercer


Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

There was a prank war between one Harley Quinn and one Owen Mercer. It bled into a couple of missions, but fizzled out after—according to numerous sources—Harley spiked Mercer's deodorant with hyena scent, bribed one of Waller's handlers to make a switch, and ruined a bunch of stuff in one of his lockers.

Then there was a trip to demon-infested New York just before the state of emergency sealed off entrance to the beleaguered city, and Quinn had left her babies behind. She was back a couple of days later, hopefully before Waller noticed.

But the rest of the time has been… trying.

For everyone ELSE at the Gotham Arms.

Because Harley has been trying her hand at Domestic Goddess between hyena walks and milk runs and "milk runs", which has meant cleaning and failed YouTube tutorial projects. Which meant they had to get a new dinette for the kitchen after the clown had tried to give it a new 'concrete finish' makeover. She keeps odd hours and keeps others up with them.

But then, dressed in a pair of black jeans with red vinyl diamonds sewn onto the thigh and a red tank top, Quinn comes bounding into the space that Taskmaster occupies. Furthermore, unless he protests (and protests hard), she's dragging him up by the hand and pulling him out the door. "Come ooooooon," she whines. "Let's go find something to dooo!"

Taskmaster's half-presence is often accompanied with loud music or him sleeping, he claims he's only here because he likes the liquor cabinet but they know he's 'attached', they're the closest humans he knows to being legit humans in his eyes.

The soft skull mask he wears little more than a ski mask, a simple tank top, workout pants and sneakers along with wrist and ankle wraps. A bag being punished to loud heavy metal.
Upon the grab from Harleen he is rolling his arm free, tipping his chin up at her, "What gives, spaz?"

"I'm not playing your stupid masochistic games you have going with Owen and no way in hell, I'm headed out to be demon chow either…. "

Though, this is Gotham. Not New York… they have a distance between them.

"Unf… fuck it." Deodorant snared and a hoodie he's joining her side.

"I know where this is headed."

As soon as Taskmaster relents, Harley explodes into an open-mouthed grin and an amused cackle. "Yer the best, Tee!" is her cry as she pulls him out the door behind her pets who are already bounding and tearing down the stairs on the hunt for whatever they'll find tonight. A stray cat, perhaps. An overly grown and bold rat, may chance.

I know where this is headed, he says.

And the clown princess, back to her more infamous demeanor just walks backwards down the stairs and haphazardly dances around corners to laugh merrily in his direction. For one who so recently FINALLY got her wing freed of its immobilizer, she sure doesn't seem to care much about the possibility of falling down the stairs and ending up back in it. The new scar on her shoulder is still there, fresh and pink, but she doesn't seem to pay it any mind, either, as she lets it sit on display. "Do ya’?" she asks, eye bright and full of trouble. "And where do ya’ think it's goin’?"

She shoves the doors out of the building open with her backside, and her 'kids' shove past her legs with frantic abandon and tear out onto the street. The blonde with her pigtails follows after into the cool night air.

"Where it always goes." Taskmaster replies as he is drug after the Jester, the stairs being taken with a stolen amount of grace as his legs wobble from physical exertion. He is only mortal despite the grim skull that promises much to the after life.

"Explosions, a lot of shouting, us cussing one another out, you disappearing to wherever and me nursing a hangover while I wonder if I got paid or ruined some of my street cred." He flashes a grin under that mask and is tracking after her though, long legs keeping up with the pigtail bouncing strides.

"Shit, it's getting colder." He mumbles tugging his sweater on tighter.

The harlequin hasn't been drinking, but you'd never know it by the way Harley fluidly bends forward and swaggers out onto the street. Her feet, shod in the flexible soles of a pair of black fake leather flats, make the dance look simple enough as she skips through the next pair of turns. "Eh," she says of the cold, eyes glassy and wide as she looks briefly upwards to the dark of the crisp night sky. "It's not that bad."

Says the girl in the tank top. Well, she is crazy, so…

"But I don't really have anything that needs exploding." She stops dead, and then bites her lower lip giddily. "Do you?"

Rushing up, the petite gymnast closes whatever distance would set itself between them, looking to set her palms against the Taskmaster's chest and lean up towards him, smelling of dime store perfume and the grape gum she's smacking on. "Someone tick ya' off? Look at ya' funny? Call yer momma names? We could absolutely blow 'em up, you an' me. Grenade pits and exit wound holes."

"Not that bad?" Taskmaster stares at her in that usual manner of 'you lost your shit' that she's accustomed to. "When you can see your breath, it is too cold." The mercenary himself not drunk either or even drinking, its a scheduled workout day. He's been slacking on his work out rituals.

"Then though, you're from Gotham ain't you? Crazies." He says with some odd affection, there and gone.

The abrupt 'ambush' and grape gum sealing itself in to his Memory Palace, locking itself in there as he stares down at her, "Someone is always ticked off which means I make a living. I don't know my mother…. and you're looking at me funny right now, toots." His hand sweeps down and gives her a sporting pat on the red-black clad rump. "That mean we fight? Some low bounties around here if you're that eager. Maybe find someone to rough up."

"Gimme a hitch and I can make some magic go down or… joy ride?" He motions across the street at the stretch of parked cars.

At the swat, Harley's mouth cracks open into another open-mouthed grin to release a cackle and her hands fly in opposite directions, leaving her arms spread wide. She dances down the middle of the street in a spin, seemingly with no attempt at remaining aware of cars that might pass down this way. There's a shout or two from further down the street as her pets heckle some random passerby, some woman screaming something about getting away from her dog.

The blonde stops, rolls her head fluidly atop her neck, and then lets her face loll in the direction of the shouting. "Babies!" No response. "Bud! Lou!" Still no response from the furry terrors. "BABIES!" she screeches as last, and there are a few complaints, but they finally abandon their overly long quarry in his fussing owner's arms—a terrified and frantic dachshund all growls and yips— atop a porch and come racing back.

"I swear," she says, stooping down to cover them in affection… still in the middle of the road. "No one ever takes what they want into consideration. So rude."

Then, her head tilts and her smile turns devious. "Whatcha wanna drive tonight, toots?"

The confusion and terror of those overly large slabs of meat that are nothing added but fur, funky noises and a promise of violence always rakes in the attention. Taskmaster, he likes attention when it's intentional, serves a purpose…

Releasing a groan, he watches her collect up Bud and Lou, "We ain't gonna make it far." He promises in regards to them, striding past her only to stop, give her a long stare from that grinning skull mask. "The first answer to that, toots, is you, of course. but then, that's just making me come off predictable and feedin' yer ego. How about… " A thoughtful wrap of his arms around himself, chin being rubbed. Then he stops behind a sleek deep blue 2015 Scion FR-S, "This has no right bein' here and no room for your pets but shit, fastest one on the lot. Suppose we could settle for.. " A look away from it and he's gazing at a parked FIAT, four doors at least, small, 'zippy'.

"Fuckin' clown car."

When Taskmaster plays to her ego, Quinn drinks in the attention like a dying man in the desert. She waggles her eyebrows; she runs her tongue visibly over her perfect front teeth.

But then she continues to lavish the spotted hyenas with love as her companion considers his options. And then she squeals as he chooses the FIAT and calls it a clown car. She bounds up with seemingly limitless energy, racing for it so she can hop up on its hood and lie across it on her back with her legs melting over the edge as she sprawls. Her better arm goes partway up onto the windshield. "A ME CAR," she amends gleefully. A pause, and then she lifts her head just enough to look at him without needing to move the rest of herself. "Does that mean I get to drive?!"

"Tease." Taskmaster regards, "Watch yourself."

The man adds with a promise as she clambers up on to the car, splaying out like some hood ornament. Striding on up close enough to look her and the ugly yellow automobile a once over.
"An improvement with you on it but…. sure, you get to drive. I'll… ride."

"Maybe I should drink." He teases.

"If you can get this thing to the Canal and back…. we'll make a sport of it. Maybe involve some cash or IOU a dead frenemy." He likes his games and competitions.

She’s warned to watch herself, and Harley just laughs, dark and low as her pets laugh with her in an intimidating accompaniment as they rub against her dangling ankles.

There's a momentary vacant expression, however, as Harley …actually… gets permission to drive. With Taskmaster in the passenger seat. She blinks with the expression of a Kewpie doll and then passes very quickly from surprise, to suspicion… and then right back to glee. "YES!" she cheers, arms pumping upwards as she curls up into a sit on the edge of the hood. "OH, MAN. I AIN'T EVER DRIVEN ONE OF THESE. This is gonna be great…" She kneels on the hood of the car just long enough to lunge at him if he's close enough to nab, to set a kiss on his cheek with a loud 'MWAH!'.

But then she's spinning on her ass to get to the other side of the car, to the driver's side. "You jimmying this thing open, or do I got the honors?"

The car is given a second look, longer this time and Taskmaster considers what he may have just done. Then, Harley is upon him, lunged in and smacking lips against the soft mask fabric that's a sort of weave meant for indirect protection and the elements over actual ballistics or more.

The spin as quick as she is gets one of those familiar swats from his gloved hand in an audible POP, just because it's expected and also because… it is deserved. Might be a last with her driving anyways.

"Let me have a look actually. Less noise the better, this thing will need a headstart…. " Leaning up against the side of the vehicle he peers in, everything is electronic anymore. He draws up his phone and thumbs something open before he's walking to the front, kneeling down and reaching under the wheelbase, stabbing something in and fishing around before the car lets out a -blip-whup-beeep- and the doors lock.

"Alarms down, just get the locks open and we can have ourselves some fun. Head for the Channel, a thing we can do there that I been puttin' off."

Harley’s hyenas are already distracted by a motorcycle that goes flying by, and she forgets them momentarily as she makes her way to the side of the fiat and considers it. Hrm. How nicely secure.

She looks around briefly before making her way towards the curb and a collection of trashcans there. Hauling up one of the steel lids, she considers it for a moment, too, and then moves to crash it through the backseat window.

The noise draws Harley’s lips up into a smile as she shrugs helplessly in Taskmaster’s direction. “The babies were already gonna need a window rolled down anyway.” She then brushes away the rest of the safety glass and smoothly slides her way up and through the window and crawls into the front seat from the back. She unlocks the doors and then rips her way to the collection of wires that will help her trip the ignition.

She waits until her companion in place, drives along just enough to be just ahead of the hyenas. A sharp break, a hop out, and then an opening of the door later, she has the hyenas panting in the backseat, Taskmaster in the passenger seat, and a delighted shriek released into the air as she floors the gas pedal to tear off in the direction of the Channel, Taskmaster’s overdue project, and a good distraction.

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