Meeting New Friends
Roleplaying Log: Meeting New Friends
IC Details

Jen Hayden has the unfortunate pleasure of meeting Harley Quinn. And losing a hot dog to her pets.

Other Characters Referenced: The Joker, Batman, Bat Family, Bruce Wayne
IC Date: April 05, 2019
IC Location: West Chelsea Park, Gotham
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 10 Apr 2019 03:01
Rating & Warnings: PG (A little bleeped language.)
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

"It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood! A beautiful day in the neighborhood… Won't you be mine? Won't you be minnnnne?!"

And it is a beautiful day! Nearing 60 degrees after a long winter, and the sun is brightly shining. It brings people out of the dark of buildings and into the glorious light. Food trucks line the outside of the park, and so many beautiful things.

This is supposed to be a safe place. A place of tranquility and order. A great place to take preschool kids out for picnic lunches.

"Supposed to be." Those are key words here.

Because, it starts down at the far end of the park: the screaming.


Ah. A beautiful day in Gotham. And Harley Quinn has chosen this particular one to walk the two surly hyenas that she calls 'Baby', dressed in a pair of denim shorts and a baby doll tee, both cropped short and perhaps hailing a little more to summer than early spring. But, with cosmetics painted on desperately pale, she looks like she could use the sunshine. So here she is, with blonde pigtails bouncing at her shoulders as she skates along one of the park's paths behind her pets.

"The HELL did you call me?"

Jen Hayden gapes at Harley's back as the woman skates, looking absolutely stunned. Infuriated, too, possibly due to the hot dog with all the trimmings that's currently upside down in a pile near her feet. The petite woman is dressed like it's late fall, swimming in an overcoat that's too big for her and wearing loose, baggy jeans and a heavy wool scarf around her neck. Her shoes look relatively new— and ruined with ketchup stains.

"You dumb peroxide bimbo! Y'all ain't ownin' the damn sidewalk!" She huffs angrily at Harley's back. "Watch where you goin!" With her heavy streetwise accent and green skin, it's pretty tough to get a read on Jen as something more nuanced than 'street tough'. She's certainly dressed like she hits hte budget bins at thrift shops. GReen hair's pushed back from her face and she scowls before kneeling donw to pick at her hot dog, trying to figure out what can be salvaged off the dusty pavement.

"I CALLED YA A SPECIESIST BIGOT," Harley calls over her shoulder, grinning wildly all the while with her pale eyes open wide. Awwwwww, yeah. A fight.

It is with a practiced turn of foot that the blonde turns backwards, even as her pets continue pulling her along. It's a recipe for disaster, to be certain, but the clown with her bright red lips and darkly lined eyes doesn't seem to register it at all. Instead, Quinn - with her messenger bag dutifully slid to the small of her back - just taunts with her teeth bared in feral bravado.

"YA WANNA COME DO SOMETHIN' ABOUT THAT?! Orrrrrrrr…" she adds after a moment's thought. "I CAN COME BACK AND WE CAN DISCUSS IT."

She turns her attention, if not her gaze, to her furry kids after that. "Ya hear that, Bud? Lou? She thinks we ain't watchin'. I mean, I was absolutely watching. Why WOULDN'T I be watching? That was hilarious! Did ya see that hot dog? Splat!!!" A pause, and then she turns around and squats down as she continues to roll around. "What's that?" Another pause. "Oh. Yeah, she probably ain't gonna eat that. She's probably some anti-litter goodnik. We can absolutely turn around!"

And then, with a subtle tug, her pets change direction. And they start tearing down the space between their present location and Jen, claws scrabbling against the hardscape.

Jen looks torn. On the one hand, holy shit those are real hyenas and they're tear-assing right for her, and not *remotely* under Harley's control. On the other hand, that's her hot dog! The fact that its' on the ground is immaterial to that fact.

She ends up hesitating (freezing), really, and by the time it occurs to her to do something, the hyenas are snarling up on her. She digs in her pocket and comes up with a handkerchief with a padlock on it, and swings it twice. Ugly improvised weapon and not an uncommon one, at least not for someone like Harley who is familiar with tactics and tricks from local street criminals.

"Fuck off! Get away from me!" she yelps, panicking. Between her thin wrists and short arms, and utter lack of technique, the improvised weapon doesn't have much zip. All she really manages to do is miss once, near miss again, and then smack herself in the thigh with the chunk of steel. "God, lady, get your frickin' mutts under control!" she wails, looking more scared than outraged.

Not in control? Not in control?! Bud and Lou are the very picture of control! Look at the way they pull their fur-mama along like the dogs of the Iditarod!

"They aren't mutts!" Quinn snaps, her face turning up in a snarl as she lets her pets go entirely. She has more than enough momentum to speed along the park path; now all she has to do is glide. Which she does, with her hands indignantly planted on her hips. "And this is precisely what I mean! Ya sayin' that all four-legged mammals look the same to ya? Well, joke's on you, Elphaba! They are more closely related to cats than dogs!"

Bud and Lou, for their part, definitely just want the hot dog. But they don't look like they'd particularly object to taking a bite out of the person who is presently claiming ownership of said hot dog. Or anything, really, between point A and point B. Their leashes drag behind them in their frenzied sprint forward, whipping and hissing like angry snakes in their wake.

Harley stabs the sky with one pointed finger as she rolls along, lifting her chin high and puffing up with righteous indignation as she crows, "DOWN WITH SHAMELESS SPECIESISM!"

"I'm sayin' some damn crazy ass white girl runnin' around Central Park shouldn't be talking shit about -isms to me!" Jen snaps back at Harley, looking a little pale (well, lighter green) and hugely intimidated by the yapping hyenas. "I don't give a shit if their cats or *rats*, just… gah! They stink! And they— NO!" She swings her improvised lock again. It goes flying from her hands and lands in a bush. "Damnit! That's my lunch!" she wails as they dive on her meal.

She points at Harley. "You owe me a new hot dog!" she accuses the strange woman on skates. "I ain't about to miss lunch *again* because of some jerk and her pets!"

"Who are not even on their leashes!"

When the lock comes flying towards Harley en route to the bush, she laughs… after moving out of the path it's on. It's a mad sound. A gleeful sound.

"Some jerk?!" she asks, her arms spread wide. Then her thumb jerks back to point at herself, voice manically large as she brakes and throws her shoulders back. "I'm Harley Quinn! I'm, like, THE jerk."

A pause, and then she considers the point while Bud and Lou snarl and fight over the hot dog that they snatch up. "I suppose," she allows in a voice only just barely loud enough to be heard over them, expression contemplative as she lets it percolate. "I'm, like, the jerk… unless Mistah J is in the room. Then I let him be THE jerk." Yeah. 'Let.' That's the right word.

She shrugs, and then continues brightly. "Yanno. Because he gets really cranky when ya try to one-up him there. He takes such pride in his work."

"Who the ing is this sucker 'Mister Jay'?" Jen demands of Harley, looking baffled and aghast all at once. And outraged. Ired? Certainly not at all envious of Harley's freewheeling sociopathy and disregard for the rules of society. Honestly, if she hadn't lost a hot dog just now, Jen might even be more enthusiastic about meeting the peroxide blonde.

"And am I supposed to know who Harley Quinn is? What're you, like a porn star or something?" she asks, giving Harley a baleful once over. "You still owe me a hot dog," she adds, a belated second later, and remembers to scowl again. "I don't give a about your mutts, but I gotta *eat* and I ain't got any more cash on me until I get home."


Harley looks absolutely baffled by the questions. The possibility that neither she nor the clown prince of crime wouldn't be known seems to have not even registered. So, for a long moment while her hyenas wreak havoc, the clown princess just stares blankly at the other woman. Then she squints, before asking slowly, "You… You really don't know who I am?" She lowers her head between her shoulders and shakes it briskly as she spreads her hands and prompts, "Harley Quinn and the Joker? Ya really ain't from around here, are ya?"

…Yeah, she totally just gave her psychotic beau second billing. Don't tell him that part, 'kay?

Now? NOW that the two hyenas are very much in the way of educating the Gotham visitor about the IMPORTANT things of Gotham (namely herself), the be-pigtailed blonde is much more invested in intervening before they try to take a chunk out of Jen. "BUD! LOU! Don't be rude! Yer gonna put a dent in Gotham tourism!" She reaches down, grabs the leashes, and then jerks on them. Hard, and mid-leap. It sends them sprawling onto their sides and they come back to a place where they skitter and dance about her wheeled heels with anxious giggling.

"Ya shouldn't mind them," Harley says, her smile changing to something sly and venomous… and somehow still the sort that many find charming. "They jes' got a case of the post-winter jitters. Kids! Whaddya do with 'em, right?"

"Oh shit, you're one of those crazy fruitcakes. Fucking Gotham," Jen says, dismayed. She lifts her hands, palms out in surrender. "Look, sorry for what I said," she adds. Her tone's nervously apologetic. "I been in Gotham a couple times for work. Y'all weird as shit out here," she informs Harley, sincerely. "I saw dudes dressed as birds robbing a convenience store an' then some weirdo in tights swinging from rooftop to rooftop with a rope and hook. Dunno who he was or what he was doin but it was freaky as shit. People ain't supposed to move like that."

She gives Harley a curious once-over. Like a sleeping dog, you know you *shouldn't* antagonize it, but then how can you really believe the sign that says 'do not pester the dog' if you don't?

"What're you doing over on this side of the city then? Y'all get tired of the stinkin' docks and wanted to get on dry land for a bit?"

"Yer in Gotham, honey. Yanno that, right? I mean, I am very familiar with gettin' a little mixed up on the particulars of a neighborhood, but make no mistake. Yer on my home turf." Quinn leans in, eyes wide as she murmurs, "There ain't one part of this city that ain't mine."

And then, leaning back, she continues. "I mean, mine and Mistah J's. And I know whatcher thinkin' now," she continues, transferring both leashes into a single hand so that she can raise the other as though quoting lines from Macbeth. "'Oh, I see, it's one of those delusional types. Playing among the bougie richies and feeling her delusions of grandeur.'" The blonde skates an inch forward, bending at the waist so that she can stage-whisper with manic attention. "But see, that's the thing. A queen's gotta have her serfs, or the kingdom don't work right. So we're lettin' the serfs work their serfdoms." A beat passes, and Quinn licks her upper right canine. "Fer today, anyway. Tomorrow is not promised ta any man. It's the best joke in the whole damned universe."

"I'm… pretty sure that Gotham's owned by Bruce Wayne," Jen tells Harley, with wary caution. She glances after her missing improvised weapon. Damnit. Harley's skating up waaay too close, and Jen takes a prudent half-step back. A little light flickers in her eyes, though that might just be a trick of the sun overhead.

"I've read about him. Fuckin' billionaire trust fund baby with the silver spoon an' shit, drops a million a year in charitable donations and says he ain't gotta pay taxes cause he's 'so generous'?" She make a 'tcch' sound of disgust, scowling angrily. "Y'all crazy girl, but you gotta get crazy the right way if you really wanna talk about the power of the people. Long as the one percenters own Gotham, you can call yourself Queen of the fuckin' sewer gators, but they'll buy an' sell your apartment block ten times over just to get a little more blood from you in a rent check."

"Ha! Fat chance," Harley crows, straightening and planting her hands on her hips. …Well, planting one of her hands on one of her hips, anyway. The other one is presently trying to keep the 'Babies' from tearing her shoulder out of its socket and from dragging her in the direction of a small poodle that looks mighty appetizing in their eyes. "I don't have an apartment!"

The glint in Jen's eyes catches Quinn's attention, trick of the light or not, and her attentive gaze grows fairly intense. "The fact that ya think the one-percenters own Gotham, though, is super cute. I mean, ya heard about Gotham crazy. They can try allllll they want, with their fancy asylum. With their big scary Bat and little batlings. Crime's what rules this city. And if you're queen of the sewers - the proverbial sort, of course - you're queen of it all."

"So… you're mired in shit, you can't go anywhere without cops harassing you, and there's an omnipresent fucking *mutant bat* who flies around at night terrorizing people forced into crime because of economic oppression," Jen recounts, counting on her fingers.

Her other hand lifts, delicate fingertips touching as she counts aloud. "Meanwhile, fuckin' Bruce Wayne lives in a mansion on the coast, got a second penthouse bigger than my *high school*, and wipes his ass with money that he tips his driver with in lieu of a working wage."

Both index fingers slowly level at Harley. "And meanwhile, you still owe me a new hot dog. Who's running this city, again?"

The amount of vitriol that seeps into Harley's gaze at the reframing of her glorious kingdom cannot, perhaps, be measured in the way of teaspoons or cups. But it is there, to be certain.

Who's running this city?

"Me," she retorts flatly. "And clearly ya ain't from around here, because otherwise ya would know me and that I have absolutely no intention of buying you a hot dog. Mostly because now you're demanding it, and I can't give in to the demands of terrorists. Because I am a terrorist, you see. And my inner terrorist is sayin' I can't give you any ground to think that disrespect will gotcha anywhere. Therefore, if my inner terrorist needs to arm wrestle your inner terrorist? My reign of terror is definitely coming out on top."

To emphasize the point, Harley flexes an arm a la Rosie the Riveter.

"Anyway," she continues, jerking her pets back in her direction as they start to tear into the grass. "What's yer name? I like meetin' new friends."

…uh, what?

Jen gets about a third of that. Harley's demented logic is almost spellbinding, and her brassy, limitless confidence gives her a sense of authority that defies the nonsense and appeals, clearly, to Jen's inner social anarchist. Like a lot of young teens, Jen has a lot of strong opinions about topics she doesn't understand well, and Harley's fearless demeanour seems to override the—

—friends? Jen blinks. Twice. "I, uh."

She clears her throat, looking around. People are gawking at the hyenas. People in the *know* are fleeing the crazy blonde girl, because she's Harley Quinn. Jen's instincts twig to the fact that there is a certain sort of royalty present after all. "I'm Jen," she says. Keep it simple. Cautious, though. And definitely making sure to stay as far from the hyenas as socially possible!

Harley offers a smile, bright and full of pearly and surprisingly well-kept teeth. "Nice ta meetcha, Jen! Ya shouldn't be a stranger. Gotham's great, other than when those delusional richies start gettin' all uppity and messin' with stuff. I mean, really! The crazies are the very best part, and they get a little jealous s'all."

She lifts her eyes upwards, and then pouts dramatically. "And selfish, too. Keepin' all the best shiny things fer themselves." Pale blue eyes narrow viciously as she whispers dramatically. "I mean, we can't let them think that's okay, right? We'd be bad grownups if we jes' let them go on thinkin' immature little thoughts like that."

Her eyebrows waggle, and then she just starts cackling out of nowhere with a sustained mania. "Ha! Who am I kiddin'? I freakin' love bein' a bad grownup! It's the best."

She doesn't notice right away that Bud & Lou have started pulling her backwards on her skates, but it doesn't seem to bother her once she does. Instead, she just drops her head. "Ugh. I guess the babies are bored, but you DON'T BE A STRANGER, OKAY? AND IF ANYONE GIVES YA ANY GRIEF, YA JES' TELL 'EM HARLEY QUINN'S A FRIEND OF YERS."

Because that will obviously make it better.

Jen just watches Harley skate backwards, torn between uneasy bemusement and giddy uncertainty. She's a freak and a half, absolutely, but the woman does have a compelling sort of charisma. Of course, is that the charisma of the brilliant, or the deranged?

"Yeah, uh, I'll do that," Jen says, her tone politely neutral. She lifts one hand from her pocket and waves at Harley. "See ya around, yer Majesty," she tells her, her own heavily Bronx accent a contrast to Harley's piping affectations.

The green-skinned girl turns back to the hot dog vendor, rummages in her coat, and comes up with a crumpled five dollar bill. She grimaces, and hands it to the fellow. Like most good Gothamites, he is unphased by the exchange. As long as gunfire isn't coming his way, he's making sales.

"Gimme another one, loaded."

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