Summary:Three members of the fledgling Thunderbolts Initiative meet to discuss just what it is that they're recruited to do. Introductions are made. Harley Harleys the scene up. 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."
It's been a few weeks now since Deathstroke, tasked with taking out Harley Quinn, instead opted to take her IN. During that time, she's been incarcerated at the Raft. They were nice enough to get her nose fixed, and past that, it's been a lot of testing. IQ tests, reflex tests, personality tests (those took up most of the time because of inconclusive answers)… Evaluations to determine whether or not someone is fit to be a Thunderbolt.
Apparently, somehow, Harley passed. (After a while, she was able to figure out the tests' methodology, and guide the results to what she wanted them to be to ensure another shot at freedom. These sucker prison doctors always fall for inmates playing tricks on them! Harley would know.) She's being led down a corridor to a conference room where 'New Team Member Orientation' is scheduled.
Harley's in an orange short-sleeve jumpsuit, with her hair down, not even in pigtails. A band-aid rests across her nose. She's manacled and led along by two guards who are holding long poles attached to the manacles. "Careful, she's a biter," one guard says to the other.
"She's a spitter, too," the second guard says.
Harley looks offended. "Well, have ya tried drinkin' cranberry juice or somethin'? I read somewhere that makes it taste better," she cackles, before she's roughly shoved into the conference room.
Danielle Rand is not a criminal. In fact, the text of the agreement that she had Hogarth draw up before she went into this states that in no uncertain terms. However, she's had to spend an inordinate amount of her time since her return to New York embroiled in legal and criminal proceedings. She would very much like to not have to do that for another couple of years.
So, when an FBI investigation determined that certain criminal elements had been moving illegal substances and funds through Rand-Meachum holdings, she was not pleased. She handled it! But at least oen agent connected the dots in the process. So it was either go public, endure another couple years of trial, and risk losing quite a lot of her company…or this.
Danny decided this was the lesser of two evils.
The good news is, she doesn't have to be shackled or wear prison orange. When Harley reaches the orientation room, she's sitting cross-legged on the table, wearing a tank top, yoga pants, and what look like slip on slippers. Her hair's been braided and then wrapped around her head.
Inside the conference room, the imposing figure of Slade Wilson rests against one of the cold, grey walls, under the sterile, cold light of the flourescent bulbs. One of said bulbs has a flicker, which creates a strange sense of dread in the room. Perhaps it's just his presence, or the way that flickering light falls on his face, seeming to highlight areas in such a way that they look like bleached bone, while the divots and hollows of his grizzled features have deep, dark pools of shadow coalescing within them, with his singular, dark blue eye like a smoldering witchfire in a sea of darkness.
He's not been shackled, strangely enough. His attire is certainly that of a prisoner. Classic neon orange jumpsuit, stretched tight across a frame that teems with power and is chiseled in stone. His trunklike arms are folded across his chest, and he rests in a folding steel seat with an upright and perfect posture. Pride. Frustration, perhaps. Impatience, at least. But he's too proud to be anything other than perfect and professional.
Which may be why, when Harley gets shoved in, he's staring at Danny on the table in her pajamas with a look that could melt steel beams like jet fuel.
"Quinn," his deep, smokey voice rumbles when the Juggalette makes her appearance. His gaze drifts from Danielle to Harley, appraising her. He says nothing more, though.
Harley is kept manacled, though the guards detach their transport-poles from her and exit the room. Apparently, they're not cleared to hear whatever Slade is going to say!
In her fetching cuffs and leg irons, Harley shimmies over to a chair and sits down, herself. She looks from Slade, to Danny, back to Slade, back to Danny, and then one more round besides. "Y'know, Deathstroke, I'm startin' to sense some rampant inequality in how things are handled around here!"
"In my defense," Danny notes to Harley, smile wry, "I haven't bitten anyone. Here. Yet." Although she does look upward as though to check her memory before she nods once. "Yet."
Insouciant as she is, she's been watching things too. Including Slade. No shackles. Large. Looks like he can more than handle himself. Allowed alone in a room with both her and with Harley, so some measure of trust earned. Or else she really ticked someone in management off. Either of those is possible.
"So. First day of school for everyone?"
"I'm not the boss," Slade says, flatly, matter of factly. He stands up from his seat, and one can almost hear the steel give a sigh of relief as its burden is lifted. Even in his prison slipper shoes, Slade's footsteps seem heavy. Thunderous. "I also don't do politically correct. If you're talking about this one…"
Slade cocks his head in Danny's direction.
"Then that wasn't my call. But I understand we've got some others coming, too. More men. You should be pleased."
He turns his cyclopean gaze back on to Danny when she speaks, quipping about biting people. His lips curl up into a one-sided grin that looks entirely too predatory to be charming, despite the fact that Slade is really, rather a gorgeous specimen of a silverfox. He just looks too cold and cruel.
"Give it time, and I'm sure you'll wind up biting one of the guards. Henry's got a real eye for the pretty girls, and a real penchant for letting his lips smack without engaging what little gray matter he's got upstairs first."
The comment about first day of school, though, has him huffing with a chortle. He leans forward, letting his palms rest against the table as he looks between the pair of them.
"I'm sure you've both gotten at least a bit of an idea of what this is by now," he rumbles. "When I was brought in… I was given a deal. They want their own Avengers or something, under their thumb. That's the deal. We work, we get time off of our sentences. We get certain freedoms that we wouldn't otherwise get. Like a work release program."
He focuses on Danny. "I'm not sure what you're getting out of this, though."
Harley bobs her head from side to side while Slade speaks, as if she's imagining a steady 4/4 beat under his cadence. Or maybe she just can't sit still. "If you don't bite 'em, how do you know what they taste like?" she says, as if this was the most simple thing in the world.
"Anyway!" Harley gets up out of her chair. "If we're all doin' introductions, 'n all! I'm Harley Quinn! Clown Princess 'a Crime? Heard'a me? Anyway, I'm lookin' forward to bein' a Faux-venger, but I think we should all get to know each other, share our life goals, all that good stuff!"
Harley paces around the room as much as her leg irons will let her, in an oblong circle that puts her within grabbing distance of Slade the more she goes on. "So as far as my ambitions go, first among them is cannibalism, obviously." Harley looks at the other two as if, yes, that should be a given. "Second, 'n I know this is somethin' we all want to do, is callin' my mother the N-word. Actually, speakin' of," Harley says to Danny, "can I borrow your phone?"
"Government's really cracking down on tariffs these days," Danny replies to Slade with a smart-ass smile of her own, leaning forward to set her elbows on her knees, hands clasped lightly in front of herself. "More precisely, I get to not spend the next couple more years of my life fighting stupid-ass empty charges in court while my company takes a nosedive and the board schemes up more ways to boot me. I get to not tell the whole world who and what I am. And if it happens to come out in the course of my work here, then I get all potential charges dropped and out of any obligations here. Because lawyer reasons."
She holds out her hands, shrugging, before looking to Harley with another faint smirk. "Shockingly, they wouldn't let me bring anything cool in here with me. I can't imagine why."
"…Quinn," Slade says in a deadpan voice, his eye swiveling in its darkened socket to fixate on her. "Don't joke about cannibalism. You don't know what it is like being pinned down in a five by five foxhole for a week and a half, with no rations, and only the body of your buddy who took a seven-six-two round to the brainpan five days ago collecting flies next to you."
He rises back up from his lean against the table, and folds his arms across his chest once more. He tilts his head and looks to Danny, offering a wane smile. "So Danielle Rand is little more than a corporate, white collar criminal. And this comes as no surprise to anyone. Good work on your lawyers' part keeping you out of court. Or federal prison. The bad news is that you're here. On this initiative. Which from the way it sounds… we're expendables. Chances are, some soft corporate girl like you isn't going to make it past the first excursion."
"Who's JOKIN'?" Harley asks, standing on tip-toes next to Slade so that she can peer right into his eye when he's looking at her. "T' think, that I'd be accused of not treatin' somethin' with the seriousness it's due!" Harley lifts her cuffed wrists to her chest, as if she'd just been struck in the heart.
Harley continues: "Anyway, Slade, we gotta talk about this whole Anielle-Day And-Ray situation. First she can't even smuggle us in a phone, next she's lootin' our pensions to pay for a megayacht… how are we supposed to trust a blonde white woman?!"
Danny scrubs a hand over her face. "You know, the thing is, when you tell people the ninjas did it, they act like you're the crazy one. Like the world isn't full of all sorts of crazy-ass things just beneath the surface. The government especially. Not real big on admitting there are bigger things than them out there."
She unfolds then, hopping off the table to stand her…entire five feet and three inches. She was frankly more imposing on the table. "Soft corporate girl, that's me," she smiles faintly at Slade, tilting her head playfully. "You don't look dumb enough to buy that act, though."
When Harley stands up, in his face, Slade just barely ticks a brow upwards at her, but remains silent. Some may find Harley to be disturbing. Others might even find her antics comical. Slade, however, is one of those people with a heart of pure stone and ice. Nothing seems to phase him. Nothing makes him crack. If anything, he just looks mildly annoyed. And when she's finished her little rant, he just asks, "Finished?"
However, as Slade turns away from Harley, there *might* just be a small flirtation of a smile that plays on his lips as she inquires about how one should trust a blonde white woman.
"Well," Slade remarks to Danny, shrugging one shoulder. "I've traveled the world. I've been all over the East, and I've learned a lot about the hidden world in my time. I may have heard something along the way about a toothpick of a girl who claimed the title of the Immortal Iron Fist. You ever heard that rumor, Miss Rand?"
Approaching the corner, Slade turns his back to the wall and leans against it, lifting his arms across his chest. "I'm Slade Wilson, by the way. They call me Deathstroke, the Terminator."
His ambitions and goals? Not a peep.
Harley DOES have a couple inches on Danny, which would perhaps work to establish her supremacy if she wasn't, you know, in manacles. Speaking of, Harley rattles her shackles to make noise, then wails, "GUYS!"
"You can talk about who's fistin' who anytime! An' I admit, I love those rumors as much as the next gal! Maybe even moreso! But we're gettin' off track, so as the presidin' member of our illustrious and long-lived civic council, I'm callin' this meetin' back to order! Now, I wanna divulge more details about this fake-ass Avengers gig we all go! An' to present this information, I turn to vice chair 'n my wonderful administrative assistant 'a 25 years, Slade Wilson, Deathstroke, the Terminator."
Harley turns to face Slade in a way that makes her irons clank loudly. "Sladey?"
"Boy, I bet those monks were pissed. Outsider and a girl." Danny leans against the table, crossing her arms loosely over her chest in turn. "That title doesn't get tossed around much outside of a few select circles." She looks over to Harley as she shouts out again, that faint smile playing about her lips once more.
"Right, my bad, white privilege moment," she 'apologizes,' holding up one hand and turning back toward Slade. "Let's hear the spiel, then."
Slade just… sort of… watches Harley. Again. When she's finished with her babbling, he clears his throat.
"Like I said, I'm not the boss. We're here, we're given a mission. We are given time off of our sentence, and certain privileges that go with our status. It's like a trustee program. I suppose for Miss Rand, it's more like a community service program. We have no say in what the mission will be. We have no say in what the target is. We stay on mission, or we face the consequences. Those consequences include having a special contraption fitted to us. Said contraption is able to send a shock to our bodies directly, if we should sway from the mission. My understanding is that the contraption can, absolutely, be set to be lethal. Even up to superhuman standards."
He pauses there.
"In short, we do what we're told, and we get to enjoy life a little bit easier. More free time outside of the cell. Reduced sentences. Ability to do what we love."
The way Slade trails off here, suggests that for him, at the very least, there's something else. Something that remains unspoken.
"But if we buck against the system, they'll put us down like rabid dogs."
Harley holds the back of a chair with both hands, listening to Slade as he speaks. She has a smile on her face, but it's really not a different smile than her default expression. She always reacts like she's finding amusement in things, because to her, everything is funny.
When Slade finishes, Harley lifts both hands. She has to, because her wrists are locked together. "Ooh! Ooh! Question!"
Harley looks over at Danny, then back at Slade. "Do we get to wear our own stuff? That's all I wanna know, all the rest sounds fine." She says it as if indeed, Slade was proposing something totally normal and regular.
"Or angry dragons," Danny adds to Slade's final option, with a much more serious expression than she's shown so far. So there is another reason they've got her here. And it doesn't look like it's one she's particularly happy about, even if she's not going to say as much.
"They plan on running some sort of command remotely?" she asks on a more practical level, arching a brow at Slade. "Not that I'm saying I'm looking for leadership here, just that putting a group of people in the field with a mission without deciding how it's going down is…just bad planning."
"We will be allowed to use our own equipment, since that is the gear that we have specialized in using," Slade adds with a nod of his head to Harley. "Though we may be limited on what we're allowed to take with us, based on the mission perimeters. I'd expect to see some modifications done to some of said gear, though. My armor is fitted with the tracking beacon and electrical discharge unit. They won't let me take a fifty cal machine gun on every mission. That kind of thing."
Looking back to Danny, Slade examines her closely, with curiosity etched in his rugged countenance. But, he doesn't press. Instead, he simply shrugs those door-wide shoulders and says, "For now, I will be running field lead, receiving orders from remote command. This is due to my background in the military and SHIELD in the past, when I was meant to be the next Capta—"
He stops mid-syllable and breathes in sharply, before releasing a long, slow exhale. "I have extensive qualifications to run operations on missions, though we'll all be monitored. I understand that we may receive designated babysitters in the future, however."
Harley shimmies sideways toward Danny and leans in toward the other blonde, to whisper: "Did YOU know he was gonna be the next Capta? I hear that's a REALLY exclusive gig…" It's entirely POSSIBLE that she was paying attention to Slade — likely, even! — but her reactions really shouldn't come as a shock, considering that she is who she is.
Danny knows a little something about training your whole life for a title they say only one person can have. Knows enough not to press that matter, either. "That sounds like a peach," she says in reference to designated babysitters. "Bet they're all fighting over who gets that post."
She leans back toward Harley, still watching Slade. "They probably just couldn't afford his fees once they were done," she mock-whispers back to the other woman.
Slade, sadly, has very little room for humor. What he does have only comes in the most dire of circumstances. He's the kind of guy who laughs at accidental death videos. Not so much at slapstick personalities, and wry wit.
"If you two are finished…" He says, giving a long, pregnant pause for them to get the gravity of Just How Serious(tm) he is, before he continues on further.
"The handlers are expected to be legitimate capes. Maybe a few of them that have experience being on the wrong side of the law in the past. Right now, I don't know that any are really looking to take charge of a group like this, where they might have to worry about having a permanent target on their back. And right now… We three are the only fully vetted and approved members. This is a new project, and most of the Raft's current residents are not exactly suitable choices for placement on the team."
Here, he actually focuses his attention directly on Harley with a stare that could burn through one's very soul.
"Like you, Quinn. I was instructed to take you down, not bring you in. I went against orders, and I vouched for you. I think you have intelligence and skill that would benefit this operation, if you can let go of your childish…"
He just waves a hand in her general direction.
"Whatever this is."
Lifting himself from the corner, the hulking mountain of a man rolls out his shoulders and neck, before continuing. "You, Miss Rand, I only have a limited knowledge of. I was only briefed on who you are, and not so much what it is that you do. Like I said, I've heard rumors and speculation. I've heard tales of what the Immortal Iron Fist of K'un-lun can do, but most of it is the stuff of legends and tall tales, so separating fact from fiction is… difficult, to say the least."
"You did~?" Harley grins brightly at Slade, and wiggles her shoulders and her hips, leaning towards the mercenary with a giggle. "Aw, Slade, I had no idea!" She's reacting like Slade had confessed to being the secret admirer who gave her a valentine, not the guy who could have cut her head off but then didn't.
Harley shimmies away from Danny and then sits down in her chair again. She can't stop moving. She'll be out of the chair again in thirty seconds. "So when do we get our group photo taken for the fan club newsletter? I'm gonna need a little bit'a time t' heal my nose up some more! After all, I wanna look my best for all of our admirers! Plus I gotta figure out the exact best moment t' choke out George Stephanopoulos with his tie when he has us all on his show…"
"The legends are pretty heavy on the truth," Danny nods to Slade. "The government's pretty light on the details. Short version is I've got pretty solid mastery of my chi." She slips back up onto the table, sitting cross-legged once more. "Allows me to control my body, my energy, my…" Trailing off, she shrugs. "Chi's a pretty basic concept, I'm sure you're familiar. Skills are another matter. In order to even get the chance to become the Iron Fist, I trained. Every day, from the day I arrived in K'un-Lun when I was ten years old. I had to beat everyone. And then I had to best the dragon."
"I did," Slade affirms to Harley, though there's little warmth to his voice. "So, if you fail, you're failing me. If you fail me, I will be disappointed. You don't want to disappoint me. You won't like me when I'm disappointed."
Lifting a finger, he adds, "And strangling someone on television is sure to disappoint."
With that point stated, Slade pays attention to what Danny is telling him, with regard to her powers and skills. Chi. He's familiar with it, though he has very little use for the study and cultivation of his own chi ability. What would he do with it? Heal himself? He's got that down. Slow his aging? He's immortal. Punch through iron? Yeah, he can do that and more. But skill is something he can respect. Fighting to the top is something he can even admire.
"Well, then, Miss Rand, this should be a cake walk for you. I don't think we have much in the way of dragons to face down."
Harley lets out a pouty whimper when it's revealed to her that choking out television interviewers would be considered 'bad' under the terms of this new project. She's up out of her chair again, not so much pacing as dawdling, burning off whatever energy she collects the moment it comes to her.
When Slade mentions that they won't be fighting dragons, either, Harley whines again. "Well, at least we get the jerseys with our names on 'em," she grumbles. She tries to do a little kicking-rocks pantomime but it doesn't quite work because of how her legs are chained together.
"Danny," the woman says, leaning over enough to offer over a hand. "If we're going to go up against who knows what together, you can call me Danny. Goes for you too," she adds with a wry look in Harley's direction. Her hand, should he take it, is a dead giveaway for someone who knows a fighter. She might play the part of charitable socialite for the public, but there's no question that she's still training daily, barehanded, and spending at least some portion of that time hitting things that most people just don't hit like they mean it. Not to mention the thin lines of old nicks and scars.
"I'm kind of hoping for something in between muggers and dragons, really. With the exception of ninjas, because seriously, I've had enough of ninjas."
Slade just looks at Harley. Again. He really is starting to think that bringing her in on this thing may have been a bad idea after all. Part of him has always expected that much of what Harley presents is an act carefully cultivated in response to her need to please the Joker, and without his influence that mask would quickly start to slip. He had suspected that she might be able to put the clown aside and be serious. He's starting to think he misjudged. Perhaps he should have severed her head back at The Apollo.
If nothing else, she'll be decent fodder. She's loud and persistent and creates an excellent distraction.
Now, Danny is presenting a hand to him, and offering to get on a first name basis. His deep, Prussian blue eyes drop to the hand hovering there in the air like an offer, and he looks at it apprehensively. He's not here to make friends or trade respect. He couldn't care less about Danny Rand. But, if it makes working with her easier, and means she'll be more inclined to take his orders in the field…
He reaches out, taking her hand within his own rough, sandpaper calloused grasp, and squeezes firmly. Not enough to hurt. It's not a contest of dominance. Nor is it the patronizingly light grip that most people use. It's firm and even, and he gives a single brisk pump before retreating.
"If it's all the same, I think I'll stick with Rand. You're welcome to call me Slade," he remarks, before adding, "And, somehow I feel that we'll see a lot of ninjas, so be prepared."
When the handshake breaks, and Danny and Slade stop focusing on each other, there's the sound of a pair of manacles being thunked onto the seat of a chair. Strangely, they no longer have wrists or ankles in them.
"So when do we start?" Harley asks, eyes wide and innocent as she pops her thumb back into place. No wonder she was bouncing around the room so much, until it became background noise, not worth fully focusing on.
"Oh, an', uh, if any 'a the guards come runnin' with truncheons over this, I'm gonna say Danny did it. Deal?"
"Seriously, what is with the ninjas?!" Danny doesn't seem perturbed to find Harley out of her cuffs, looking over to the other woman as if for support in her anti-ninja crusade. "Is it a recruiting thing? Is that the problem? Like, people want to learn martial arts and suddenly they discover hey, fine print in the contract but now you're bound to engage in nefarious deeds under cover of darkness?"
Slade doesn't seem at all perturbed when the manacles finally come falling off. Truth is, he'd been waiting on it, and Harley was precisely two minutes and thirty-seven seconds behind schedule for his expectations. So, when he looks at Harley, free of her binds, he shrugs one shoulder. "We have use of the yard, and a training room. I'll run us through kumite a few times a week to keep us sharp. Other than that, we wait until someone does something that the US Government decides that they want to send a super team after."
Looking to Danny, Slade just says, "Hopefully it won'tbe ninjas. But…. it's almost always ninjas."