Post by Femme on Feb 9, 2014 14:44:06 GMT -5
Dead shot: Gentle morbid fingers clamped down upon a butterfly metal gear to begin cranking it. A small little monkey would begin dancing as its
hands smashed two gongs against each other and with a clacking of its jaw. A large and bloated face smiled forming wrinkles. Tapping the
monkey’s precious little hat a beep would sound indicating it had been disarmed and suddenly the monkey stopped. Humpty Dumpty sat on the
floor of the toy factory, explosives and toy parts surrounding him along with his trusted tool box. A door would open and a man dressed in a
trench coat began to approach. “Jesus…What is with you and the toys? I thought you were more into explosives but…Toys?” The man
approached standing approximately 6 feet tall; his round head gave him the appearance that he was bald. He looked over the toys as he kept
his hands in his pocket. <c>
Batman: “I’m here for my package. Custom made a Gingerbread house.” Humpty Dumpty smiled and for a moment he struggled to get off the
floor and walk over to a large toy box. Humpty pulled out a gift box and offered it to the man. Taking the box he opened it to see the
Gingerbread house. “How do I arm it?” “The controller is inside…I made it a candy cane.” “You know…the Joker might like some of the stuff you
do, but honestly it creeps me out. Still can’t complain, and this had better be worth the 10k...Or else.” The mysterious man’s right eye suddenly
flashed red as the optic lens adjusted to scan and analyze Humpty Dumpty.
The Harlequin: Harley loved toys, she collected them and curled up in them as though they were the jewels to a cat burglar. It was, more or
less, a regressive trait brought on by psychopathological issues too serious to think about. And when she did feel the diagnoses sneaking up on
her, she pulled out Mr Fuzz and La Rona and played house. The non dysfunctional house where everyone is happy and they all say each other's
names but end it with -dear-. She was doing that now, while everyone was sleeping. Bud and Lou were at her feet, snoring, and Harley was
telling La Rona that Mr. Fuzz would come back soon. God, why was it so hard to sleep in Gotham? Was it actually louder at night? Harley
rubbed her eyes and considered donning her costume and going outside. But it was against her orders. She had a curfew and parol officers
and…Her blond hair drooped forward. Only two weeks out and she was already getting that itch. "Okay, La Rona," she whispered into the dark.-
The Harlequin: "Just a walk. Just a five minute walk around the block." She kept telling herself. But why she insisted on doing it in costume
was a different story. Everyone was in costume, in Gotham. She only wanted to fit in. To stand out for the Joker.-F-
Dead shot: He walked down the dark alley away from the factory, carrying the package. His skin was concealed by a mask curved around his
head with a bandage like design giving him a round peak. A metal device attached perfectly over the design of his right eye. When he reached
the dark streets he swiftly stopped before the brazen movements of an exploring Harley Quinn. His left arm angled towards the mail box behind
her, a shot that would reflect t off the steel bolt and puncture Harley’s kidney -- if he fired. His right hand angled towards a street pole, its form
solid enough that it would reflect a bullet and strike Harley in the chest, anticipating at she would run forward or crouch ergo a headshot -- if he
were to fire…His hands were inconspicuous as he was holding a gifted package. “Watch where you’re going clown. You’re gonna get yourself
shot.”
The Harlequin: It was a fair assessment. She was practically skipping down the street. Had it not been past the witching hour, she might have
been tempted to 'tra la la' off key for the giggles. But what a way to ruin her groove. She was unprepared, but that wasn't a big deal.
Opportunities always present themselves under pressure. Still, she was glad not to be shot. She brought her heels together and stood straight
up, sticking out both her chin and her lower lip, painted black as night. "I'm really more of a jester," she didn't know how many times she's said
it, but it was true in her mind. Like the difference between whole grain and multigrain. Or Jelly and Jam. And preserves. But she didn't want to
argue with the guy. "Say," she started, her voice losing its indignation as her eyes caught the package. "Watcha got there?" She asked, too
sweetly to be trusted. Harley loved packages, so long as there weren't pies on springs in them. Or bombs. Or both. She placed both arms up in
a -
The Harlequin: harmless motion and tip toed closer. "What's inside?" she asked curiously. What she didn't want to ask was who was it for
because she already wanted it for herself.-F-
Dead shot: “It’s a bomb…Now get l--…Would you like to help me deliver it?” Underneath a blank expression face he smirked. “I need this delivered
to a hotel floor.” A red optic lens flared analyzing Harley’s features, reading her biological signs to detect what her heart rate was currently
operating at. The optic provided sufficient information such as the distance he was from her, the density of her skin and her cloths even. Within
his own mind, trained as a marksman he knew the right bullets for most fabrics, the right caliber of bullet to even wound Batman. A shame no
one wanted that freak dead recently, Floyd would’ve done it for free but, it’s only a matter of time until that name jumps up onto the bounty
board again. Until it does, he’ll wait patiently as any good hunter would.
The Harlequin: "Lost!" she said, finishing his sentence as if it were a game. Then she frowned, sullen at the realization that she was being
dismissed. Oh wait a sec, he wanted what? What was that word that got her heart a pitter patter? H.E.L.P. But she couldn't jump on it, she
wasn't no ordinary lackey. She had class, she had a title. She was a Mol. On and off again but isn't that just the way with Mols? Harley pursed
her lips, trying not to look too excited, or to stare too long at his right eye. Oh, what the Hell, she stared at it good and long, leaning in to peer at
it. "What am I gonna get for -helping-?" She put the word in air quotes. Usually, when she helped, it meant she did all the work. Well, all the
crappy work, anyhow. "Is it really a bomb?" She eyed the package again doubtfully. It didn't seem as appealing anymore. And she certainly
didn't like being assessed. She was a head shrink in a former life, she knew an assessing gaze when she felt it.-F-
Dead shot: “You’ll have my gratitude, but perhaps I could pay you--…” Floyd stared at her as she peered closer to his eye, uncomfortably close.
“--Yes. It is *really* a bomb.” He sighed and then tucked the package under his arm and grabbed Harley by the bicep to pull her along. “Lets just
go...” If she would be grabbed, he would begin walking across the street into another alley while explaining his plan. “My target is a hotel
manager and an executive for a bank. The explosion will lure both out of hiding and I’ll take my shots from the distance. All you have to do is
place the bomb, get to the car and wait for me. Simple enough for you?” Deadshot would release her after the first sentence and after they
crossed the street. His lens searched through the dark alleys for any thugs who might’ve tried to attack either of them, the coast was clear
though.
The Harlequin: Gratitude? Was that a joke? She inhaled deeply to let out her usual alarming cackle in response to jokes. Always laugh, even if
you don't wanna. That was the mantra. But before she could bless his ears with the sound, she was pulled along, easily grabbed. She followed,
half a step behind, walking, leaning, tripping until she roughly yanked her arm back, rubbing it and giving him a chilly expression. Though, to be
fair, she does get dragged about quite a bit anyway. "Yeah, you can pay me," she mumbled, She repeated his plan, it was the best way for her
to remember if she'd said it once herself. "…Then get to the car and wait for you…Do I get to drive?" Harley asked, a hint of hopefulness in her
voice. She was suppose to drive. It said so on her papers. But she was already out passed curfew, about to plant a bomb, and communicating
with other criminals. Why not drive? "Oh, and where exactly do I plant it?"-F-
Dead shot: “Yes, you will be driving. I will need to speak to my contact and keep a look out to make sure we don’t have any unexpected
company. God how I hate this city and its bat problems.” Arriving at a dark blue Honda, Deadshot opened the back seat and placed the package
in the back and then jumped into the driver seat. His head began calculating and anticipating his moves; once the bomb goes off, Batman has
enough time to arrive and if he figures out what’s going on, he might thwart the job. Very unlikely, but Deadshot had to entertain the possibility.
A swift shot at his targets and the only thing Floyd need worry about was the Dark Knight pursuing him--them. Not his first time with a partner,
but definitely his first time with a woman who had an obnoxious personality and wore a mask.
The Harlequin: The first thing she did when she hopped in, before personal safety or even closing the door, was fiddle with the radio.
"Something with a killer beat, you know, get us in the mood," she mumbled to herself. She was surprisingly good at multitasking, managing to
shut and lock her door, loosely click on her seatbelt and found and irritating song. "Oh goodie!" Top 40 never screamed -time to kill,- but she
liked the glitchy sounds and the childish harmony. She put her feet up on the dash, rolled her window down, and felt a sense of purpose again.
Her therapist was right. Walks in Gotham are so productive. "Bats are actually really helpful little creatures. The mosquito population has gone
down considerably in the past decade." Oh, but he wasn't talking about -those- bats. "Eh, I wouldn't worry about B-man. I'm sure he's busy," she
said, waving her hand dismissively. "Say, what's your name, anyway, Eye-Guy?" She crossed her fingers. Please said Eye-Guy. And also, did
she rob him, ever? -F-
hands smashed two gongs against each other and with a clacking of its jaw. A large and bloated face smiled forming wrinkles. Tapping the
monkey’s precious little hat a beep would sound indicating it had been disarmed and suddenly the monkey stopped. Humpty Dumpty sat on the
floor of the toy factory, explosives and toy parts surrounding him along with his trusted tool box. A door would open and a man dressed in a
trench coat began to approach. “Jesus…What is with you and the toys? I thought you were more into explosives but…Toys?” The man
approached standing approximately 6 feet tall; his round head gave him the appearance that he was bald. He looked over the toys as he kept
his hands in his pocket. <c>
Batman: “I’m here for my package. Custom made a Gingerbread house.” Humpty Dumpty smiled and for a moment he struggled to get off the
floor and walk over to a large toy box. Humpty pulled out a gift box and offered it to the man. Taking the box he opened it to see the
Gingerbread house. “How do I arm it?” “The controller is inside…I made it a candy cane.” “You know…the Joker might like some of the stuff you
do, but honestly it creeps me out. Still can’t complain, and this had better be worth the 10k...Or else.” The mysterious man’s right eye suddenly
flashed red as the optic lens adjusted to scan and analyze Humpty Dumpty.
The Harlequin: Harley loved toys, she collected them and curled up in them as though they were the jewels to a cat burglar. It was, more or
less, a regressive trait brought on by psychopathological issues too serious to think about. And when she did feel the diagnoses sneaking up on
her, she pulled out Mr Fuzz and La Rona and played house. The non dysfunctional house where everyone is happy and they all say each other's
names but end it with -dear-. She was doing that now, while everyone was sleeping. Bud and Lou were at her feet, snoring, and Harley was
telling La Rona that Mr. Fuzz would come back soon. God, why was it so hard to sleep in Gotham? Was it actually louder at night? Harley
rubbed her eyes and considered donning her costume and going outside. But it was against her orders. She had a curfew and parol officers
and…Her blond hair drooped forward. Only two weeks out and she was already getting that itch. "Okay, La Rona," she whispered into the dark.-
The Harlequin: "Just a walk. Just a five minute walk around the block." She kept telling herself. But why she insisted on doing it in costume
was a different story. Everyone was in costume, in Gotham. She only wanted to fit in. To stand out for the Joker.-F-
Dead shot: He walked down the dark alley away from the factory, carrying the package. His skin was concealed by a mask curved around his
head with a bandage like design giving him a round peak. A metal device attached perfectly over the design of his right eye. When he reached
the dark streets he swiftly stopped before the brazen movements of an exploring Harley Quinn. His left arm angled towards the mail box behind
her, a shot that would reflect t off the steel bolt and puncture Harley’s kidney -- if he fired. His right hand angled towards a street pole, its form
solid enough that it would reflect a bullet and strike Harley in the chest, anticipating at she would run forward or crouch ergo a headshot -- if he
were to fire…His hands were inconspicuous as he was holding a gifted package. “Watch where you’re going clown. You’re gonna get yourself
shot.”
The Harlequin: It was a fair assessment. She was practically skipping down the street. Had it not been past the witching hour, she might have
been tempted to 'tra la la' off key for the giggles. But what a way to ruin her groove. She was unprepared, but that wasn't a big deal.
Opportunities always present themselves under pressure. Still, she was glad not to be shot. She brought her heels together and stood straight
up, sticking out both her chin and her lower lip, painted black as night. "I'm really more of a jester," she didn't know how many times she's said
it, but it was true in her mind. Like the difference between whole grain and multigrain. Or Jelly and Jam. And preserves. But she didn't want to
argue with the guy. "Say," she started, her voice losing its indignation as her eyes caught the package. "Watcha got there?" She asked, too
sweetly to be trusted. Harley loved packages, so long as there weren't pies on springs in them. Or bombs. Or both. She placed both arms up in
a -
The Harlequin: harmless motion and tip toed closer. "What's inside?" she asked curiously. What she didn't want to ask was who was it for
because she already wanted it for herself.-F-
Dead shot: “It’s a bomb…Now get l--…Would you like to help me deliver it?” Underneath a blank expression face he smirked. “I need this delivered
to a hotel floor.” A red optic lens flared analyzing Harley’s features, reading her biological signs to detect what her heart rate was currently
operating at. The optic provided sufficient information such as the distance he was from her, the density of her skin and her cloths even. Within
his own mind, trained as a marksman he knew the right bullets for most fabrics, the right caliber of bullet to even wound Batman. A shame no
one wanted that freak dead recently, Floyd would’ve done it for free but, it’s only a matter of time until that name jumps up onto the bounty
board again. Until it does, he’ll wait patiently as any good hunter would.
The Harlequin: "Lost!" she said, finishing his sentence as if it were a game. Then she frowned, sullen at the realization that she was being
dismissed. Oh wait a sec, he wanted what? What was that word that got her heart a pitter patter? H.E.L.P. But she couldn't jump on it, she
wasn't no ordinary lackey. She had class, she had a title. She was a Mol. On and off again but isn't that just the way with Mols? Harley pursed
her lips, trying not to look too excited, or to stare too long at his right eye. Oh, what the Hell, she stared at it good and long, leaning in to peer at
it. "What am I gonna get for -helping-?" She put the word in air quotes. Usually, when she helped, it meant she did all the work. Well, all the
crappy work, anyhow. "Is it really a bomb?" She eyed the package again doubtfully. It didn't seem as appealing anymore. And she certainly
didn't like being assessed. She was a head shrink in a former life, she knew an assessing gaze when she felt it.-F-
Dead shot: “You’ll have my gratitude, but perhaps I could pay you--…” Floyd stared at her as she peered closer to his eye, uncomfortably close.
“--Yes. It is *really* a bomb.” He sighed and then tucked the package under his arm and grabbed Harley by the bicep to pull her along. “Lets just
go...” If she would be grabbed, he would begin walking across the street into another alley while explaining his plan. “My target is a hotel
manager and an executive for a bank. The explosion will lure both out of hiding and I’ll take my shots from the distance. All you have to do is
place the bomb, get to the car and wait for me. Simple enough for you?” Deadshot would release her after the first sentence and after they
crossed the street. His lens searched through the dark alleys for any thugs who might’ve tried to attack either of them, the coast was clear
though.
The Harlequin: Gratitude? Was that a joke? She inhaled deeply to let out her usual alarming cackle in response to jokes. Always laugh, even if
you don't wanna. That was the mantra. But before she could bless his ears with the sound, she was pulled along, easily grabbed. She followed,
half a step behind, walking, leaning, tripping until she roughly yanked her arm back, rubbing it and giving him a chilly expression. Though, to be
fair, she does get dragged about quite a bit anyway. "Yeah, you can pay me," she mumbled, She repeated his plan, it was the best way for her
to remember if she'd said it once herself. "…Then get to the car and wait for you…Do I get to drive?" Harley asked, a hint of hopefulness in her
voice. She was suppose to drive. It said so on her papers. But she was already out passed curfew, about to plant a bomb, and communicating
with other criminals. Why not drive? "Oh, and where exactly do I plant it?"-F-
Dead shot: “Yes, you will be driving. I will need to speak to my contact and keep a look out to make sure we don’t have any unexpected
company. God how I hate this city and its bat problems.” Arriving at a dark blue Honda, Deadshot opened the back seat and placed the package
in the back and then jumped into the driver seat. His head began calculating and anticipating his moves; once the bomb goes off, Batman has
enough time to arrive and if he figures out what’s going on, he might thwart the job. Very unlikely, but Deadshot had to entertain the possibility.
A swift shot at his targets and the only thing Floyd need worry about was the Dark Knight pursuing him--them. Not his first time with a partner,
but definitely his first time with a woman who had an obnoxious personality and wore a mask.
The Harlequin: The first thing she did when she hopped in, before personal safety or even closing the door, was fiddle with the radio.
"Something with a killer beat, you know, get us in the mood," she mumbled to herself. She was surprisingly good at multitasking, managing to
shut and lock her door, loosely click on her seatbelt and found and irritating song. "Oh goodie!" Top 40 never screamed -time to kill,- but she
liked the glitchy sounds and the childish harmony. She put her feet up on the dash, rolled her window down, and felt a sense of purpose again.
Her therapist was right. Walks in Gotham are so productive. "Bats are actually really helpful little creatures. The mosquito population has gone
down considerably in the past decade." Oh, but he wasn't talking about -those- bats. "Eh, I wouldn't worry about B-man. I'm sure he's busy," she
said, waving her hand dismissively. "Say, what's your name, anyway, Eye-Guy?" She crossed her fingers. Please said Eye-Guy. And also, did
she rob him, ever? -F-