Summary:Harley Quinn enjoys a quiet night filled with comedy when Deathstroke rudely interrupts her with petty things like arrest warrants. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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The laughter coming from tonight's stand-up at the Apollo is more of the 'forced, terrified, panicked' variety than is normal, and is mixed with shrieks and sobs. That's because the emcee on stage has an Uzi.
Harley Quinn has her Uzi in one hand, trained at the crowd and ready to spray indeterminately, and her other hand is clutching a live mic. Next to her on the ground is the unconscious body of disgraced stand-up comic T.K. Hiller, whose curly mop of hair matted by blood after Harley decided to storm the stage and hit him in the head with a baseball bat. The baseball bat is currently stuck down the back of Mr. Hiller's pants.
"I can already hear the sirens outside! Hope you guys don't make any false moves when the SWAT comes in, 'cause otherwise, krkkrkrkrkrkr!" Harley makes a machine gun noise while waving the Uzi toward the crowd like she's firing, but doesn't actually squeeze the trigger. "What's the matter? LAUGH! That's funny!" The crowd again forces up laughter like vomit.
"Anyway, the thing about cops is, why should /I/ have to listen to some guy who spends all of his free time gettin' mad at black people on Facebook, and only workin' out his arms so that he's got 24-inch biceps but a belly like a beached whale — these guys always got hot-dog neck, you know? You know who I miss? Batman, that's who. He made things fun! You guys remember Batman? He had all those gadgets, he was dressed like the gimp at some nightclub you need a password to get into… I miss that! Instead, now it's all 'GET ON THE GROUND' and 'DON'T MOVE OR I'LL SHOOT' or 'PUT DOWN THE BASKET OF DACHSHUNDS…'"
Certainly, outside, the sound of sirens fills the air. The hostage situation has been reported, and police have sent every available unit down, filling the rain slicked streets with flashing red and blue lights, and seemingly more blue than the Atlantic ocean. Swat has been deployed, and a few foreboding black vans mark the perimeter, where men in full riot gear clutch submachine guns and just wait for the order to infiltrate the theater.
But that order isn't coming. No. Harleen Quinzel is too much of a threat, even for the SWAT teams to handle. It's not that she's some super powered freak, or anything. It's just that she has a reputation for being so utterly insane that human life, including her own, means nothing to her. She only exists to serve whatever purpose has consumed her mind on any given day. Typically, those purposes revolve around bad comedy and criminal activity. Right now, it seems maybe that includes murder. Mass murder. And one false move would lead to possibly dozens of lives being lost. In short, a total PR nightmare for the NYPD.
So what is one to do?
NYPD has secured the perimeter, tight as a drum. The boys in blue have done a fantastic job, in fact. However, beyond that, it's a game of waiting. Waiting and praying. All those poor, poor people.
But help is coming. Overhead, the ominous shadow of a military chopper creates an inky stain upon the light-polluted, ruddy orange haze of the nighttime sky, the whirring thunder of its propeller blades chopping loudly even over the sirens and the dim buzzing of the crowds conversation all around the barricades. The helicopter hovers over the Apollo like some grim harbinger of doom. A raven awaiting the last gasps of the dying so that it might carry the soul off to the underworld.
Until a figure drops from it in freefall. Thirty feet are fallen, with the figure taking the brunt of that on his feet, with just a slight bending of his knees under the rest of his weight.
Black armor, matted to seem as if shadows themselves were wrapped around a brutish, powerful frame. Orange accents, deliniating lines of plates in the form of piping. Orange plates on his lower legs and knees. Thick, orange and black gauntlets on his wrists. A sharp, symmetical W shape emblazoned across a proud and strong chest in glistening scale mail, which also covers tree trunks that serve as his upper arms. A tactical harness, with firearms holstered on each thigh, and a large, ornate broadsword strapped to his back
But the helmet. The helmet above all gives away his identity. Half glistening black, like polished obsidian, with contours that vaguely bring to mind to the visage of death. The other half, halloween orange, with a black, angular design around a dead white eye. The mask of Deathstroke, the Terminator. Slade Wilson. The world's deadliest assassin and mercenary.
"I'm on top of the building now," his deep, rumbling voice speaks, to some person on the other end of the com system placed inside of his headgear. "Commencing with primary objective. Neutralize Harleen Quinzel."
A pause, as he turns his half-and-half Reaper's visage up to the helicoper overhead and adds, "Don't send the chopper off. I expect extraction within three minutes."
"Tops."
With that, Slade slings an SMG from around his back and levels it at his hip, in a ready position, as his heavy footfalls carry him towards the roof access door, picking up speed and velocity until he gets near enough to lift one waffle-stomper covered foot and send the door crashing in with a loud crack and a shattering of rent steel and splintering of wood.
Deathstroke will have been briefed on the building's floor plan and had his time (however little he needs) to determine the best route to where Harley's at on the main stage. On his way, there are a few goons, but they're barely worth mentioning. Harley might have been hiring on a budget, or maybe she just didn't really care that much: they're dispatched in less time than it takes to read this sentence.
"So normally they have this guy, right? 'What are your demands?' Like, I'm robbing a bank here, buddy! You know what my demand is? Get away with all the money!" Harley now has the audience trained — laugh when she wags the Uzi at them. The laughter is hollow and scared, still. "Here's the thing, though, most bank robbers? They can't even enjoy it! They end up makin' out with like seven mil and then they're hiding out in some crappy little tent in a National Park or whatever because if they get so much as spotted at a gas station, it's all over! It's like risking it all and then deciding that well, no, time to ease back a bit. No! You go further! Am I right, folks? You take all that money, and you… I dunno… start financin' movies, or somethin'! Picture that! A Harley Quinn joint! 'Course, I'd run into problems with the MPAA pretty much instantly because as usual, censorship is the enemy of art…"
As stated, Deathstroke making his way from the roof access through the upper floors and down is a cakewalk. Whatever goons that he encountered could barely even manage to utter a squeak of fright before they were dispatched. It's final, and ruthless, but not cruel. Slade is cold and efficient. He's not a sadist.
Soon, though, the bloodied figure in glistening black and orange armor comes stepping out onto the stage. His SMG spent, he detaches the strap and lets it clatter to the floor. Instead, with his other hand, he draws a pistol from a holster on his thigh and levels it at Harley.
"Quinzel," his steady, rolling voice rumbles deep and almost strangely soothing. "You call this art? This is…"
His mask turns from side to side for dramatic effect, exaggerrating the way he looks around their surroundings and the crowd.
"This is made for Scyfy tv right here, girl. Make this easy for yourself. Put down the gun."
When Deathstroke walks onstage, Harley turns, pointing the Uzi in his direction. She has the foresight to step closer to the unconscious form of T.K. Hiller, likely because the closer she is to him, the more likely a stray bullet might take an innocent life. The crowd gasps and starts to panic.
"Everybody, keep calm," Harley says into the mic while keeping her eyes (and her gunsights) on Slade. "What Robocop here failed to get clued in on is that everythin' here goes according to MY design — this ain't some unscripted 'Curb' thing!" Right after calling out Larry David's masterwork, Harley opens fire. She's not trying very hard to aim, and really, one white girl with an Uzi is absolutely nothing Slade hasn't stared down before.
The gunfire actually going off makes the crowd panic more — and flee, as one audience member makes a run for it, and then more and more and more follow, stampeding for the exits, risking a crush…
Slade Wilson isn't a hero. It's not in his nature. Does he care if Harley kills some hack of a comedian on stage in front of a crowd of people? Hell no. Besides, the guy has it coming, if TMZ is counted for anything. What was that incident on the train even about, anyway? Does Slade even care if the crowd panics and tramples a few poor souls to death? Not in the slightest.
He's a man with a mission. That mission is to take Harley Quinn down. That's his "contract", and that is his entire focus. Everything else is white noise. Static. Allowing even the slightest acknowledgement of it is a detriment to the goal.
Harley opens fire, and underneath the mask, Slade's lips curl up into a malicious grin, despite the way that the first bullet slides off the edge of his cheekbone with a shower of sparks.
"Have it your way. I'm going to enjoy this," he mutters quietly, as he shifts into explosive movement. He only fires one shot from the pistol. Just one. One might think for a man as skilled as him, as efficient and deadly as he, that the bullet sent from the flare of his muzzle would be intended to land directly between Harley's eyes. But one would be wrong. Slade might have a mission, but as long as he's on point with the end goal, there's no sense in not having a little fun with it. He doesn't get out as often as he used to, after all. So that bullet that he fires? It's trajectory is leading, so that it's course is directed to the exact place where the bulk of the Uzi in Harley's hand is going to be a split second after he squeezes the trigger. The goal is to disarm her.
His body rushes forward into the hail of Harley's spray-and-pray. Most of the bullets deflect off of his vibranium plated armor, only serving to fuel its energy cells. One bullet actually does punch through a gap in the armor, piercing his bicep and sending a small spurt of crimson blood to spatter the ground. He doesn't skip a beat as he rears that arm back and balls up his fist to to leap at Harley with a classic Superman punch aimed squarely at her nose.
Slade's goal of disarming Harley is a complete success. The bulky Uzi gets slapped by a bullet so forcefully that her hand jerks back and she has to let go to avoid tearing any ligaments in her wrist. "HEY! I was USIN' that!"
When Slade charges, that's when things get a little bit trickier. It's one thing to see on paper that Harley is an elite-tier gymnast and acrobat, and often able to outlast much stronger opponents in combat solely by being able to dodge them until they tire out or slip up. It's another thing to have a Superman punch whiff because a clown in little shorts did a borderline impossible flip out of the way, swinging one leg up and windmilling herself through space so that she's on the other side of the unconscious Mr. Hiller.
Harley is quick to grab the bat she'd stuffed down the back of the comic's jeans. "They always say to put some stink on it when you swing," she crows. "Who am I t' disagree?!" She laughs, and it seems like she's having FUN as she swings the bat at the side of Deathstroke's mask without an eye-hole.
With his enhanced senses and reflexes, Slade almost sees the ducking and flipping in slow motion as it plays out before him. Slippery little bugger, ain't she? She might even hear a singular "Heh" escape from under that fierce orange and black mask, as Slade's fist slides right past her through the air.
He lands, feeting touching down on the stage with a thunderous clap of dense weight, his boots sliding across polished flooring with a squeaking scuff. With Harley just behind and to the side of him, he prepares for his next attack. He hasn't even gotten the blood pumping, yet. Right now, this is a game. He pivots on the toe of one foot, spinning about with his right leg chambered with a bent knee, ready to deliver a vicious roundhouse ki-!!
CRACK!!!
He had felt it before it even connected. His precognition ability let him know that it was coming, but even still, with one leg off the ground, he was committed to the action. And he's playing slow. Cat and mouse. Savoring it. But, that bat catches Slade full tilt in the side of the face. It rocks him to the side, aborting the kick as he stumbles, and his helmet actually flies off, clacking as it hits the ground and spins a few times before coming to rest.
Slade catches his balance before he falls, and immediately torques his body back upright, and then lunging forward. As Harley sees his ruggedly handsome face careening towards hers like a meteor with the intention of delivering a brutal headbutt, Slade's single blue eye is alight with glee, and there's a broad smile on his lips.
The bat breaks Slade's mask, sure. But Slade's head also breaks the bat, the force of Harley's swing enough to send the end of the Louisville Slugger flying off to join the other bits of debris that this fight will create.
"Easy on your hip there, Gran Tori—" Harley starts to taunt, when Slade's head collides with hers harder than most car-on-deer impacts. Blood sprays, because his forehead solidly breaks her nose. "Auugh!"
Harley still has the broken bat in her hand, and switches up her grip, trying to stab the wooden, splintery sharp ends at the side of Slade's face while he's in close. "Do eu noh how hawd id ith do ged blag mawked winopladdy?!"
Feeling the satisfying crunch of bone against his forehead, Slade doesn't get full of himself. That would put most people down for the count, even if they weren't unconscious, just due to the sheer pain and shock of it. Harley, though? That's a bit different. She's a solid, sturdy girl and she's got that whole madness thing going for her to boot. Not to mention he's certain she's just a little bit of a masochist. She'd have to be, considering the company she keeps.
And so when she comes in for the stabbing with a broken baseball bat, Slade lifts up his forearm so that it intercepts her own right by the wrist, halting her assault.
"Don't know, don't care," he says, deadpan. "All I care about is getting the job done."
He's not going to waste more time bantering. Leave that for the capes and crazies. He's neither of those things. He's just a guy, balling his fist to try to drive it up into the belly of a girl and knock the wind out of her with an uppercut.
The master tactician that he is, Deathstroke hits upon the most effective strategy for dealing with Harley: keep her close, but don't let her actually go anywhere. Her wrist is seized, and she's unable to pry herself loose from the larger, stronger man's grip before he comes in and cold-cocks the air right out of her lungs.
"Hoooof!" Harley wheezes, which makes blood squirt out of her Owen-Wilson'ed nose like it's a cartoon or something.
Ever the opportunist, Slade isn't going to let an advantage go to waste. He'll press it and press it until Harley either finds a way out, or lays broken at his feet.
"Is that all you got, clown girl?" He asks, as he raises his fist. His face, covered with a smear of Harley's blood, is alight with a cruel smile. He's not a sadist, but he does enjoy his work. He sends that fist down, aiming to rock the girl's jaw a good one, though still, only at a fraction of his full strength. "I'm disappointed. Weren't you supposed to be something special?"
If she hasn't ducked out of the way of the first, he's coming in with another and another, and yet another, just trying to rain a full scale assault of overwhelming blows to keep her suppressed and on the defensive, or take her down completely. The entire time, he speaks with barely any distress to his voice. Just calm and casual, as if he were making small talk in the bread aisle of the local supermarket. "People were so scared of you, but why? You're just a crazy girl who got her hands on a gun. A broken thing, but about as much of a threat as a kitten. I guess you need your clown prince to do all the real work for you. It's disgusting."
Here's one fault that Slade has. He gets comfortable with his own inherent superiority. This casual barrage that he's delivering is almost careless. His diatribe has more focus than he is giving to her, as in his mind, she's already lost the battle, having sacrificed her footing to him. For a crafty fox, it certainly leaves Slade open for an unexpected retaliation.
Harley might end up with a concussion. Actually, that seems like a pretty safe bet, as she eats her third, fourth, fifth punch to the head. Her knees are wobbling and she's only able to put up token defense, trying to shield her head with her free hand. If this was in the Octagon, the referee would have called for the bell long ago.
But there's no ref here, which means Harley is able to be as stupid as she likes in risking brain damage to try and find an opening in her fight. Just as it seems like she's on her last legs and about to drop to the ground, still clutched at the wrist, she springs to life. Her feet come up and she hops, kicking off of Deathstroke's chest to pull herself up on his shoulders. From there, with his arm holding hers, she wraps her free arm around that bicep of his and leans herself backwards, all the while tightening those thighs together and crossing her legs behind his head…
It's a really ugly choke, but she's not being judged on precise form here. "Haaaaa ha ha ha hahahaha!" she cackles, blood now running from her nose up her forehead because she's, er, upside-down. "Tibe fow gradpa do ged eudanithed!"
True to form, Harley manages to pull out another surprise comeback! Slade might have seen something like a leg sweep coming, or some craft escape, which he would have had a million counters to cut off. But instead, the pale skinned Juggalette goes Rey Mysterio Jr. on him with some Lucha Libre hocus pocus.
"Hrk!" is the sound that escapes him as pasty white thighs squeeze either side of his neck. The thing about a good choke that most people don't realize is that it's not so much about cutting off the oxygen supply. That's ineffective, as most fit people can operate without oxygen for upwards of a full minute. That's a full minute that they have to escape the situation and attack their opponent. No. A good choke targets the sides of the neck, cuttong off the flow of blood to the brain. It renders unconsciousness much, much more swiftly than oxygen deprivation. In short, it's super effective!
Feeling the pressure, and the veins in his temples throbbing as his body struggles to force blood against closed off pathways to feed his brain, Slade feels a momentary rush of pleasure. Like butterflies in his stomach. As his face turns red, he even cracks a smile.
But he's not going to lose out to some little girl sidekick, no matter how much she might have surprised him. She wants to go WWE with things? He can do that.
Slades releases his grip on Harley's wrist. While she's still holding his arm, it actually serves his purpose, in guiding his hand to the center of her chest. He bunches up her top in his clenched fist, and uses it as leverage to jerk her back upright with an inhuman amount of strength. Peering up at her with his single, bloodshot eye, he holds her upper body aloft just long enough to clearly mouth the words "Not. Yet." before he leaps into the air with her, so that they should both come crashing down onto the ground, though her back is primed to take the vast majority of the impact of that fall.
When you're as strong as Deathstroke is, it turns out that it's really easy to break the stage of the Apollo Theater — the world-famous one — by powerbombing a clown onto it. Harley has her own blood all over her face, smearing the make-up that she has on over her already bone-white flesh, and she won't stop CACKLING, open-mouth, full-throated HOWLING laughter, even as the welts are already beginning to rise up from the punches she took to the head…
…and then down she goes! It's such a sudden and forceful impact with the ground that the boards of the stage break and sag in a bit. Slade might as well have thrown her from the roof, the way she lands. The back of her head bounces like he's trying to do some kind of ricocheting trick shot with her skull, and the laughter is silenced. More importantly, her grip on his neck is let go, and her entire body is limp. But she's still alive! Probably!
Down. Silent. Limp. Slade feels the bloodflow surge back into his head, giving him a sudden sense of relief and clarity. He takes a deep, gasping breath as he pushes himself up, off of the clown princess of grime, and rises to his feet to stand over her. His shoulders square up, making him seem larger and more imposing than he already just… is. Because he's large and imposing already. But with blood smeared across his chiseled face, slicked into his silvery hair and goatee, and his blue eye blazing, at this point, he seems larger than life.
Panting, Slade steps over the fallen body of Harley Quinn, and reaches down to pick up his discarded helmet. Sliding it back on over his head, he then turns his full attention back onto her. "Alright, Mission Control. Be ready for my evac. I'm on my way."
Slade moves back over to Harley, as he slides the elegant broadsword from its sheath on his back, idly twirling it in his grasp as he places one foot on each side of the knocked out woman. His sword is heft high, clasped in both hands with the point aimed down at the center of her throat. It'll be easy enough to separate her head. Quick. Painless.
But he doesn't move. Inside of his helmet, a modulated, radio-static filled voice asks, "What are you doing, Deathstroke? Neutralize the target and evacuate the building. SWAT will be busting through those doors any moment."
"Yeah," he grumbles in response. "Yeah. I know."
But still, he doesn't plunge his sword into her still, bone white flesh. He just frowns as he looks down at her.
"Do I need to remind you that you're on contract here, "killer"? Do I need to remind you that you have been sentenced for over two centuries of jail time? Do you ever want to see your family again? Your daughter?"
Slade hoists his sword up higher, arching his back as he prepares to make the death stroke. But, he sighs, and gives a faint smirk. Relaxing, he places the sword back in its sheath on his back, and then reaches down to grab Harley by her hair, so that he can drag her limp body behind him.
On the other end of the line, "What do you think you're doing! You're disobeying a direct order! You MUST comply! You MUST comply immediately!!!"
"Relax, Mission Control," he half purrs in his deep, rolling voice as he starts to ascend the stairs off stage left, just as the SWAT team comes crashing in from each of the theater doors. "You want to start a program of using crazies to catch crazies… well… it doesn't get much crazier than this girl right here."