All the Best Places You Never Wanted to Go
Roleplaying Log: All the Best Places You Never Wanted to Go
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

The Suicide Squad gets a Thai vacation!!! (They're totally killing people in Thailand.)

Other Characters Referenced: Joker
IC Date: June 16, 2019
IC Location: Thailand
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 27 Jun 2019 02:42
Rating & Warnings: R
NPC & GM Credits: NPCs by Ursa.
Associated Plots

They picked up Harley Quinn a couple of days ago, hanging out in an abandoned warehouse on the docks. She was alone, and tried to convince the collection committee that she wasn't herself. …Of course, there is the unfortunate reality of the ticking GPS in her brain and the bright red point that it puts on the map.

So. Here she is, happily listening and bopping along to whatever obnoxious pop music is bleeding out of her headphones as she sits with her hands in cuffs, like nothing in the world is wrong, as the black helicopter they happen to be flying in soars over a lovely and completely dark part of Thailand.

The mission is simple: destroy a small house there, belonging to an American ex-pat who knows something he shouldn't, and everyone inside. Everything inside, save one box. A small box full of old CDs in a safe.

That comes back to Waller.


Harley is oblivious to the world around her while Owen couldn't be more acutely aware of what is happening. He is dressed in his usual combination of tactical gear and bits of 'uniform' from his Captain Boomerang days. He grouses, "Can we just pretend like he's a humping little boys and that's why we're being sent in to murder him? Because I gotta say, I'd feel much better about slicing his skull open and setting everything on fire if that were the cause. What happened to lying to us?"

He knows that few if any in the helicopter can actually hear his chatter but Waller will be listening in. "You used to at least bother with a farcical premise Waller, now it's just go here murder this mailman, go there blow up that orphanage, shoot this puppy. Really, would it kill you to put a little bit of that mystique back in our relationship?"

Somehow the resultant static on the comms sounds angry.


There's a point where, if you always lie, it's known that you are always lying. The best lies are the ones couched between pieces of truth, so that all certainty of what is truth and what is untruth is entirely lost. It's probably safest to assume Waller has struck a balance of sorts.

And the static on the radio is definitely angry.

There's the start of turbulence, and rain begins to pelt against the outside of the chopper. It's the start of monsoon season, after all. Because of course it is, and the rains will - presumably - give good cover.

Quinn, with mallet and bag of tricks with her handler nearby, lifts her head as the chopper starts to bounce and watches the ceiling suspiciously. The headphones stay on, however.

It's the man beside Mercer, however, with his tricked out AR-15 nestled against his chest, who turns his head towards the speedster and arches an eyebrow. "You know that shit never helps your case."


"SHOT THROUGH THE HEART! AND YOU'RE SO LAME! BABY, YOU GIVE BLOOD! AND YOUR SHIRT STAINS!"

Wade Winston Wilson. Deadpool. Why he's even on this chopper is probably anyone's guess. And also they probably shouldn't have let him have his walkman. He's geared up for the shear cuts and he's probably sitting farthest from everybody because he's not being dark and broody. He's being, well, himself. And air guitaring the riff from this bad rendition of this rock ballad.
"Oooooooo. I wonder if these rains are as blessed as the ones down in Africa." Wade leans towards the outside of the chopper and just gazes at the rain and the moonsooniness. "Y'know. This is kind of how I'd imagine a Disney and Fox merger." Wade looks left. "Just saying."

With that side comment done, Wade's back to rocking out with his Walkman that does not belong to Peter Quill. This one's black and gray.

At least, now it is.


Watching Deadpool air guitar is at least a good distraction from the fact that he's on a mission with Harley right now. At the comment about not helping himself, Owen turns a look of pure disgust at the soldier. "You think that's not helping my case? I broke into Waller's office last night, dressed up as her complete with ill advised wig and threw up in her trash can, all on camera. THAT didn't help my case."

Of course that little bit of 'confession' could be a complete lie considering who's saying it. But the look on Owen's face is very convincing that he's that adept at meaningless self-sabotage.


It could be a lie, and so would fit in with half of the things that are said in the company of thieves and murderers. There's suddenly a lot of chatter in the radio as they near the destination. The man beside Owen nudges him up, trying to get him to his feet. They physically haul Quinn up onto her feet and start undoing her cuffs. Once they do, she hands off her own headset and starts stretching.

"So," she asks over the smacking of her bubble gum as her arms intertwine behind her back and she leans forward to twist them upwards. "When we gonna land?" And that's about the time that they slam a parachute against her belly. She looks at it, even as more of the packs are handed out to Mercer and Wade in similar fashion, and then her expression falls. 'Really?'


"Nice! I love this part!"

Deadpool straps the pack onto his front because he's weird like that and pulls down his headphones. "So uh. If this goes south, I just want everyone here to know that each and every one of you… complete me." Deadpool places a hand over the parachute pack where his heart would be.

"Let's go kill a likely innocent person who doesn't deserve it in the least, gang!"

And cue the whistling of the Scooby Doo theme.

The parachute slammed against his chest gets a confused "Wha?" from Owen and then he slips it on and starts buckling up. He grumbles, "Can't even bother to land for us? We're gonna be blown into the ocean or eaten by Godzilla." Owen's pretty sure Thailand is basically right next to Japan, because like many Americans he's awesome at geography and world knowledge.


Deadpool's little speech and exit from the chopper actually has a smile on Owen's lips, but once Wade's gone he's left standing facing Harley.

Lighting up a cigarette, he tries his best to be mature. So he's on a mission with his ex? He can focus and be a professional. He doesn't need to stoop down to an immature level. He holds his head up high as he walks past her and turns to offer her best wishes on a successful mission in a completely cordial manner.

Hah, it's Owen. Nope. He turns to her spits out his cigarette in her direction, lifts both middle fingers and shouts, "I hope you get caught in the helicopter blades!" before he jumps out.
See? Very mature and professional.


Harley's flat expression turns towards the open door, where the wind is wailing and the rain is suddenly coming down in sheets. "Yeah," she mutters, "But yer both all wet." She pauses, and then slings stuff into place at what becomes - in an instant - gun point. "Alright, alright, alright."
And then she's out the hatch next, bellowing: "If the landing doesn't kill ya, Mercer, I'm gonna do it!" Another thought. "BUT YOU WILL GET TO LIVE, POOLIE, DUE TO MY MAGNANIMOUS NATURE AND YER ENDURING SENSE OF HUMOUR."

When they all land, however they land, it is in a field of mud and tall weeds. And in the distance, across the field of muck, there is a huge estate with the windows dimly glowing yellow.

Quinn, for those interested, lands facedown in a running stream and its associated mud. She's very angry when she comes up under the soaking wet parachute, a black-wrapped ghost in the dark as she mutters a curse on every single person on this mission. And when she runs out of known identities? She makes up new ones. "And I'm gonna kill that dude before any of you," she hisses at the last, still trying to find her way out of the parachute canopy.


"SPAGHETTI TACCOOOOOOOOOOS!"

The wind catches Deadpool's chute the moment it opens and there he goes. Snatched up and sent flailing off in a direction that is decidedly not the direction he's supposed to be going in.
This is probably not going to end well.


Landing in the mud is gross, but landing in mud so deep that Owen can barely get his feet out of it is worse. He finally manages to get one foot out, losing a boot in the process and then the other. He has to crawl on his stomach to avoid sinking in further, so really he's not in anyway better off than Harley.

Owen grumbles into the comms, "Why don't we have fancy ass heat vision goggles? Or at the least night vision?" He sighs and gets to his feet and pulls out a couple boomerangs from the holder on his chest to wipe them off in the grass. "I've got mud in all my equipment. I'm missing a boot. Waller won't admit her undying love and affection for me. Could this night get any worse?"

He stalks towards the house at least somewhat quietly, even if he lets out an "Ow!" occasionally after stepping on something sharp with his socked foot.


It takes Harley time to disentangle herself, but eventually she's stalking in Mercer's wake towards the house with leaves of whatever is growing in the fields sticking out of her hair. If she weren't completely soaked and concerned about her own equipment, she might be inclined to hunt through her bag for her pop gun and an appropriately hilarious canister to fire in Owen's direction. Instead, she unhitches herself and then hisses after him. "Aw, yer so eager to leave me behind, huh? I'm sensing someone's still got haaard feelings~" Needling him back, revenge for his press against sore places, keeps her from thinking too hard about the last downpour they were in together. Ugh. Ugh!

As they approach the house, it may be easier to spot that there are - despite the foul weather - men on top of the building atop a second story balcony. They're sporting some heavy firepower, but the roof over their heads affords at least some protection. It's also easier to see how immense the traditionally styled home is, and how luxuriously appointed. Raised on numerous columns above the ground, it is safe from the possibility of flood. And it makes it harder, possibly, for our illustrious villains to get inside when there is only one flight of stairs leading into the home.

Quinn draws to a stop just inside the line of light that crosses the field, and her wide eyes consider all of it as she twirls her oversized mallet in her hands. "Gettin' shot would be worse," she decides after a moment, "I guess."


Accepting that the mud just isn't coming off the boomerangs anytime soon Owen blows water off his lips in frustration. He turns back to look at Harley as she needles him about leaving her behind and says, "Aw. You must be used to that by now, arencha? Me? I got no complaints, I fucked my way to the top of the crazy hot scale, screwed the Joker's girl, and lived to tell the tale." Oh Owen, like anyone besides you would believe that story you're telling yourself. Though he does his best to add a cruel twist to his lips as he says it.

Turning back to focus on the mission at hand he says, "You should make a run for the stairs, I'll cover you from a distance." He still has that cruel smirk on his face when he says it, though who knows, neither of them are tacticians and are both equally prone to crazy stunts. "And since when do you worry about getting shot? Going soft, Zelle?"


"Crazy as they come, baby," Harley offers as her only retort as she rolls onto the balls of her muddy feet, and then stretches one leg. Then the other. He mentions living, and Quinn says nothing to that. She let's it hang, and in the silence she falls into - a dangerous sound - she reminds herself of her part in that scenario. And she keeps silent. She looks as vapid as ever, chewing on gum, while her guts churn with a certain indignation.

"Yeah, I got this," she says to the first bit of the plan, preparing to run. And then he says the latter part. She turns to look at him, still chewing her gum like a cow with cud. "You got somethin' ya wanna say, there, B? Before I actually probably get myself shot?"


"Nope!"

Owen gives a chipper response and big fake smile when asked if he has anything he wants to say. But it's worth asking, "How 'bout you? I bet everything's just grand and you're not gonna end up a sobbing mess when he blows you up again, right? Just peachy?" He keeps the smile pasted on his face and forces himself to try and keep as much of the anger out of his voice as he can. Therapy works! Kind of.

He pulls out two boomerangs and points, "Stairs are that way, sweetcheeks."


Owen needles at her own self-doubts, and it waters a dangerous seed. Harley licks her upper lip, and leans in to offer in her most sultry drawl. "He ain't gonna do that." He will. "We got it all worked out." They do, don’t they?

Mercer's messing with the balance in her head—the one that keeps her on the very fine tightrope. The one that reminds her that Mister J was very clear about what will surely happen to anything she dares to put before him. The threat that betrays he cares.

Have you ever tried to save something, my dear? The words ring again through the pink corridors of her brain, and Harley sniffs. It's a thing easily enough blamed on the rain pouring down her nose

"I ain't blind, Gonzales. Jes' don't let 'em in on purpose, alright?" And with that? Quinn is across the remaining distance with a speed that is swift, but well within the human range. With her mallet hanging behind her as she runs full tilt, she makes it to the stone patio before they notice.

But then they notice. And they start firing.

Mercer, for the moment, is safely wrapped in the darkness and storm.


He ain't gonna do that.

Owen's face clearly shows just how skeptical he is of that statement. He lets out a small "mhhmmm" of non-agreement when she insists they have it all worked out. He tries to remember to breath or repeat something about calm and center and what the fuck was that again!? He grits his teeth and is glad when she's barking back at him and then running for the stairs.

The gunfire that erupts is hardly a surprise, they didn't take out a single guard before she made her approach. Owen might normally be worried, not that a teammate was going to get shot, but that he would have to take their place. But in this instance, he watches at first with disinterest as she runs straight towards the goal.

Eventually, he steps out and launches two boomerangs and then a third at the guards, a little extra speed to give them enough oomph to embed themselves even into hard skulls. He is then awkwardly jogging after her, one wet muddy sock slipping on the smooth patio as he runs.


The boomerangs hit their marks, and guards fall. But the damage is done. The gunfire means that two new bodies come racing out of the doors at the top of the stairs with the equipment to pick up where the other guys left off, putting Quinn right downhill of them. She launches herself up the rest of the way up the stairs, brandishing Mister Smiley with murderous intent.

Mister Smiley blushes after kissing the side of the first man's head.

That is to say, there's blood spraying. Lots of blood. And the Joker's girl is suddenly nothing but a feral killer, and she laughs loudly — madly — as she finds herself struck by the spray. "Bad night ta be the OTHER bad guys," she taunts, ignoring for a moment the other guard behind her.


Owen's on the move even as the men drop to the ground. He hears the guards coming in for reinforcement and pulls out an orange tipped boomerang, there's no need for stealth but he feels a great need for carnage. He throws the exploding boomerang high and towards the roof area where the patrols there, hoping to cut down on the cover fire and reinforcements later.

And then he's up the stairs and watching Mr. Smiley do his thing. He agrees, "Yea. That doesn't look fun." In contrast, it looks like Harley's having a grand old time.

"Where's the target?"

He's asking the comms mostly, but maybe Harley knows? It is very unlikely that Harley knows.


The comms are definitely the people to ask as Harley wheels on the second man, and starts pulverizing his head, too, with a very exuberant from-behind-the-head swing. And another. And another. "You got something on yer face!" she shrieks to the corpse, only to run ahead and look for the next thing to kill.

It's been a very bad few months for poor Harley's brain, and she's ready to smash everyone else's to make up for it. It's not her fault. None of this is her fault. And she's sick and tired of it!

But back to the comms. It's Waller's voice who crackles through, unfortunately giving Owen the intel that she's probably been listening the whole time. "The second floor. He's got a study. He should be there. And Mercer? Watch the mouth, or you're going back in a cell for a month."


Watching Harley smash in the corpse, causes Owen to grimace a little bit. He's not one for overly violent head smashing, especially the squicky noises that the hammer makes with the fluids and the bone and the.. he doesn't feel so good. He carefully side steps around Harley to move for the second floor stairs and head towards the target.

"First of all, I have been a damn saint on the channel tonight." Okay, for at least the last five minutes maybe he's been tolerable. "But if you promise to cuff me and lock me up, I can turn up the naughty talk."


"I promise to put you in the deepest and darkest hole I can find unless you do what you're told, so I would suggest moving." Even as Harley continues a tirade elsewhere, the Wall seems unmoved. "Or, I suppose, I could just leave you little shits there." The pause that comes next is interrupted by another wave of men rushing down the hall to try to dislodge Harley and Owen from their place near the doorway.

Harley's gaze sweeps in Owen's direction, wide and wild, as she offers a tooth-baring grin. And then? She's off. More things to kill. More things standing between this moment and the one that gets her home again. More things that complicate the prospect of not only herself, but Owen getting to keep breathing.

She's also pretty okay just with killing in general, so it's easier for her. And she's willing to take that on with gusto. And so, when he slides around her, she lingers behind him until there's someone else to kill. Then it's a surge forward to do her part. "What's the difference between a jar of jelly and a grand piano?" she asks, red rubber noses filled to bursting with the things that go 'boom' sliding down the hall.

…Wait. So they let her on the chopper, and dropped her out with those?!

Ain’t one,” she croons as she delivers the punchline, her voice a low rumble, “if ya burn it all.” And then she just starts laughing, loud and hard.


“Are you trying to talk dirty or does your natural raw sex appeal just make it all sound super filthy?” Look she’s talking about deep, dark holes and he’s Owen so it’s not terribly surprising. Though no one, least of all Amanda Waller, understands Owen’s predilection for flirting with her, he continues to find some sort of joy in it. Honestly her ‘threat’ of being left there doesn’t sound all that bad, despite the mud, his lack of shoe and the shooting.

Harley’s crazy pants blood-lust grin only gets a concerned half-smile from Owen that looks an awful lot like a grimace. The exploding rubber noses make him laugh though. Look they both appreciate a good gimmick, that hasn’t changed.

Heading for the study, Owen kicks the door attempting a dramatic entrance with shock and awe. Except it’s a really solid door. And he forgot about the fact that he only has one boot on and of course kicked it with his muddy sock. This means he mostly just hurts his foot and bounces back and has to wait for a ‘key’… a giant smiling mallet shaped key.


Waller growls into Owen’s ear. “Just get it done, Mercer.”

Pigtails bobbing all the while, Harley’s eyes light up with a childlike wonder as the noses go boom and the house shakes. There’s a brief moment where a scream might have gone, but the blast cuts it all short.

Quinn, for her part, just stares as though observing a flower in bloom.

And then she’s got Waller shouting in her ear about getting to Owen and blah blah blah blah blah BLAH blah blah. She chews her gum and slowly lifts her gaze to the ceiling as there’s the sound of boots overhead—lots of boots, pounding their way into her awareness once the ringing has stopped. They’re moving towards the study, too, although she doesn’t know it.

Owen Mercer will know it, though, as the private security rounds the bend with automatic rifles in their possession. These are lowered towards Owen, so they can try to perforate him. The walls are more solid than they look, ammunition wedging itself in their solid expanse instead of punching straight through.

Once the shooting starts, Quinn’s on her way up a different flight of stairs than Owen took, hoping it deposits her somewhere helpful.


“OOW!”

Owen yells into the comms in displeasure at his foot that is definitely going to be hurting in the morning. He at first mistakes the people rounding the corner to be his own allies, since he’s too busy looking down at his poor foot but realizes just in time that they are much more serious about killing him than his allies, who mostly joke about it. Mostly.

The good thing about being a cheater, err speedster, is that you can get the hell out of dodge when suddenly faced with a barrage of bullets. Owen is able to get back around a corner and launch a volley of two razor boomerangs to relieve the men of their arms, in both senses. He calls “Door’s more solid than I hoped. Anyone bring a battering ram?”

The mental picture of Harley using one of the guards as a battering ram briefly crosses his mind and he can’t decide if it’s gross, hilarious or weirdly attractive. Dammit. He’s past that!

“Already used my explodies to take out some guards on the roof? Any more red noses Bozette?”


“Nooooo,” Harley must lamentably confess. She wishes she had more of those. They were fun! And effective. Two important pieces. “Buuuuut, I may have something to help. Lemme jes’ get ta ya.”

It feels nice, when she forgets that he hates her now, to pretend like Stark Tower never happened.

Sure, yeah, he said he hoped she’d die chopped to death and calls her names, but that’s hardly something she’s unaccustomed to! He hasn’t actually pushed her towards the helicopter blades, so… maybe he only hates her a little?

These are things that go through a girl’s head… when she’s readying to smash in someone else’s. Harley comes in behind the guards, ready to defend her ex-whatever-he-was with her mallet at the ready, only to find them bleeding out on the floor.

“Awwwwwwww,” she whines melodramatically. “You didn’t save me one!!!”

She gives Owen a dirty look as she sets her mallet against the wall by the door and rifles through her messenger bag. What she pulls out is a small clear glass bottle with a spray dispenser top. “What’s that, you ask! How will you open the door with a seltzer bottle?”

Quinn shakes it, and the clear liquid inside bubbles harmlessly. She kneels at a space back from the door, and sprays.

She lets it bubble again, less harmlessly, as the highly corrosive acid does its work in melting the locking mechanism.

She stands up, steps back, and sweeps a hand proudly towards her handiwork. “Atcher leisure, Captain Kangaroo.”


It’s easy to forget that he’s supposed to hate her now, that Stark Towers happened. Not that he’s in danger of falling back into old patterns per se, just that it makes it easier to think of her as just another criminal thrown together by Black Machiavellina to do supposedly good things in terrible, terrible ways.

“Nope! Too slow Quinn.” Owen has apparently decided that right now, in the middle of the mission is a good time to light up a cigarette, which he does while Harley rifles through her bag.

The acidic spray gets a twisted lip and look of concern or disgust from Owen as he asks, “Isn’t that normally for spraying in people’s faces? … Do you ever forget?” Yes, it’s probably not the right time to be asking questions like that but considering it’s Owen and Harley and the Squad in general, no one is surprised. Plus, it’s a very valid question.

Once the door knob is thoroughly bubbled, Owen kicks again, this time with booted foot and enters the room, a regular boomerang in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other.


Harley looks at Owen with a dumb-founded expression, mouth agape, as he kicks open the door and goes first. It’s only right that he goes first. Because he’s a cheating speedster who should be able to better react to what’s on the other side.

“Do I ever forget what?” she asks him after a beat, after the door is open and slamming into the wall.

This, like the rest of the estate, is palatially decorated. Thai silk drapes the curtains in elaborate patterns of gold, turquoise, and red. The walls are covered in a floral stucco tile, painted gold. It looks like the hall of a king, rather than American far from home.

On the other side of the door are two heavily armed guards, and a man who sits behind them at an expansive desk with a cavernous, roaring fireplace at his back. It’s like out of a James Bond novel, except that the clean-cut ‘villain’ of the piece—and we do have to use that word lightly—is wearing a golfing polo, a pair of khakis, and a pair of brown Rockport sandals.

Also, there’s a distinctive lack of talking as the two men open fire. Quinn ducks low as bullets tear the wall over her apart, punching through the plaster and blasting it into a cloud of white. As she crouches, she loads up one of her pop gun’s canisters.

She talks during this process, letting the chatter fill the radio.

“I mean, I ferget lotsa stuff. Jes’ ask somebody! My manners… My own phone number… Why I ever cared about the big fricking hot shots sitting in that room like they’re gods while I get sent to the middle of no fricking where, through the mud and rain, on a night off…” She barks a laugh loudly at that.

She waits until there’s a pause, and then hangs her arm blindly through the gaping hole to fire her canister the middle of the room. “Jes’ kidding! I never cared about you lousy mooks.”

And with that, the cannister skitters across the floor before erupting in a shower of sparks.


“That your ex is a manipulative mastermind who tried to murder you repeatedly and that we had something good going …” Owen helpfully provides another example of things Harley has forgotten, but there’s very little venom in the tone. The only emphasis comes as he ducks and dips out of the line of fire and launches a boomerang for one of the gunmen. Normally he’d try to disarm them, but it’s just easier to bludgeon their heads in really.

He’s still in the room when the canister sputters in and he sees sparks and yells, “Dammit, Quinn!” before beating a hasty if not supernaturally fast retreat back outside the room before that cannister does more than just sparkle.

The only good thing is that he can grab the door on the way back through to help seal all that goodness inside the room. Really make sure they get the full impact.


Like a firecracker on the fourth of July, the canister starts spraying fiery streams with abandon across the room. The silk rug threatens to burn when a few cinders smoulder upon it, but they go out. The men inside the room aren’t so lucky.

The bloom of colored gunpowder burns hands and faces. There’d probably be more screaming, but half of the security team is lying insensible on the floor. The stench of sulfur and seared meat fills the air.

And it lands on the paper on the desk and starts to burn there, instead.

“What?” she asks as she looks to Owen at his exclamation, holding the door closed. She looks oblivious and innocent as she blinks and shrugs, her soot-streaked face seemingly without guile as she continues to hold her pop gun and sit upon the floor. “Ya had plenty-a time to get out.”

The comment about the Joker, she lets pass by without reply because what could actually be said?

She’d be the death of him. And it’s probably saying a whole lot when Quinn herself is readily certain that she is—was—Owen’s version of slumming it.

Didn’t he just say so? She is the top of the crazy scale. The very top! She can’t really deny it. And, if care is something that must be earned (for surely it is), what could she ever offer him? The jokes would run dry eventually, and then she’d be left with nothing at all. She’s a passing fancy, perhaps, but ultimately worthless to decent people. And passing fancies do just that. They pass.

The last year? More than a year. Bozo Alive, it was more than a year she was on her own. It was freedom from all of the ways that her puddin’ knows how to sneak into her thoughts, and poison everything.

Ugh. The biggest joke of all: she doesn’t deserve Owen Mercer. Owen Mercer.

This is kindness, she reminds herself before she gets too far down the rabbit hole. Keep him distant, Harl, she think to herself. Keep him safe. Then, once that’s done, ya make the best of whatcha got.

She loves the Joker. And he loves her back. Who else could know the darkest parts of her and still put up with her? And if she stops loving him, who else will? Doesn’t everyone deserve to be loved?

Not everything you love is good for you. Old advice she once gave patients has been put to her more than once.

Round and round and round, she goes, tearing herself apart better than anyone else she knows until she squints and bobs her head to the side, as though she could physically shake loose the wretched thoughts.

She licks her teeth as she tries to not think anymore about it, and starts loading another canister. “I wanna get outta here. I’m soaked. Why doncha go find those stupid CDs Satan wants, and then we can burn this place down, huh? I promise to not shootcha.” A pause, and then she shrugs and turns her dripping face towards Owen. “Unless ya dawdle.”


Fireworks yay! Fireworks inside small contained spaces? Even better! Well at least it is so long as Owen’s not also inside those spaces. And the good thing about the burning sulfur smell of the gunpowder? It covers the smell of burning flesh really well.

Owen looks at Harley as she promises not to shoot him and he says, “Yea, and I promised to stop shooting heroin and screwing hookers buuuuuuut..” Things happen. He then makes an *I’m watching you* motion before heading inside with a look over his shoulder at her as he walks in. She would hardly be the first other member of the Squad to shoot at Owen.

All the turmoil within Harley about their past is hidden to Owen; he’s happy to just make quips at this point.

But now that he’s in the room and actually has to find the DVDs or CDs or whatever.


At the heroin and hookers comment, Harley looks at Owen with one of those looks. It’s kinda funny, when you think about. Harley Quinn wordlessly chastising ANYONE about their self-destructive addictions and the treacherous goat paths they carve over a person.

Downright hilarious, really.

Meanwhile, the room in its smouldering glory seems to have no easy place to safely store a treasure precious enough to get Amanda Waller’s interest. The harlequin walks inside, wrapping a strap of jingle bells around the handle of her mallet, just under the smiling, X-eyed drawing. She pokes around in a cursory fashion, her wide eyes considering the room at large.

When they fall on a camera in the corner, she pulls out a chair, climbs it, and then promptly smashes it into oblivion as though Owen didn’t just speed-bash a bunch of folk on camera already.

They can search the room, too. And, wherever they start, a search of the desk will reveal—to criminals who know the type (here, Owen)—a heavy lockbox under a drawer’s false bottom.


The paintings on the wall go first, because it’s a classic for a reason. Owen doesn’t bother lifting them gently to look, no, he flings them off the wall with a flip from the bottom. Calling out “Nope!” after each one falls down to reveal blank wall beneath.

The burned body in the chair blocking the desk is rolled out of the way with a grimace and a few choking noises, but luckily he keeps it together long enough to start searching the drawers. Again the preferred method being to pull out the drawer, dump all of the contents on the ground and then fling the drawer to the side. As soon as he pulls out the drawer with the fake bottom, Owen knows what’s up. The weight alone gives it away. He sets it on the desk and fiddles around to find how to release the false bottom.

He pulls out the lockbox and looks at it.

“Huh. I bet that it’s it but we should probably open it to make sure we got the goods, right?”

And by that he means see if it has anything he might want in it like drugs, or cash or weird asian porn. Owen is gross. Move on.


Harley, who would typically be the first to laugh along with Owen’s various debaucheries, is probably better off never knowing that last item. She leans her mallet against a dead guy’s hip, and rests its handle upon the curve of her own, as she rifles through her bag.

“Yeah, probably,” Quinn agrees before going to the desk and starting to set out supplies. The seltzer bottle. A set of lock picks. A few paper wrapped somethings that at least *look* like popper fireworks.

She’s a clown for all seasons.

“Maybe there’s gold in there,” she suggests with a dramatic voice full of awe as she dumps the burned body out of the seat and onto the floor. Owen gagged; she only crinkles her nose a little. At least now the one they can presume to be Mister Expat has his uncharred backside facing up. She then rolls the chair back to the desk to sit on its edge. “And there’ll be enough in there that we can split it and still have enough to run away and leave behind this life of crime.”

Waller’s voice grunts in their ears, and then smashes all frail imagining: “Don’t count on it, convicts.”

For the blonde, it’s a harsh reminder that everything that came before was also in Satan’s ear and she looks up to the middle of the room as though the dark shadow over her life was standing right there. Her eyes narrow.

Her eyes then chance over to Owen, she considers him for a moment, and then her features resolve into something more neutral. More vacant. She forces a smile and then pats the desk for the box to be set down, continuing with saccharine sweetness, “Orrrrr we could give unto Satan what is Satan’s.”

“Don’t you forget it.”

Unseen, Harl makes a face and mouths, ‘Do you think Dee Pee could…?’ A finger slowly draws across her throat, and then Quinn’s eyebrows bounce up hopefully.

Again, she draws her finger across her throat. Then she points to the box and pantomimes opening it. Then she alternates pointing to herself and Owen. And then she her fingers take a stroll through the proverbial Yellow Pages, walking across her arm.


“Yea, the days of us doing one last score before disappearing into the sunset simultaneously never happened and are over.” The cliche exists for a reason but they were never that type of partner in crime. And the fact that she’s bringing it up now draws a suspicious look from Owen as she’s openly talking about it?

He makes a pointing gesture to his ear, where the comm device is just as Amanda’s dulcet tones (ie painfully loud bark) fill their ears with the reminder that there will be no absconding with any gold, which there is likely none. Because this is Owen and his bad luck fills the air around him with a miasma of disappointment and failure. Or maybe that’s just the smell of burning flesh and gunpowder. Either way, Owen’s sure there is no gold in there.

He watches as she mouths the question and he shakes his head and mimes Waller snapping something in half, presumably Wade in this instance and then eating one of those halves.

“Alright, let’s get this open and find out what’s inside.”

Owen narrates possibly for Waller’s benefit but also for Harley’s. There’s no point in getting overly excited if they blow it open and it’s just a bunch of guns or cocaine, as much as Owen likes those things they’d hardly be worth crossing Waller for, nor would she likely care if he took them.

And so he picks up the lockpicks ‘cheats’ to work the lock as quickly as he can, in case they need the time to convince Waller they’re still working on it.


Harley, for her part, just smirks and shrugs to Owen’s sensibility.

Because that box may very well be filled with gold. Not the precious metal variety, perhaps, but the kind that turns into precious metal in the right hands. Why else would Waller want it?

But Owen is—and this bears repeating because it’s Owen—being sensible. She can go along with his sensible compliance, she supposes. It doesn’t hurt anything. It gets her back to Gotham sooner. Hopefully before her Puddin’ notices she’s been gone.

Sitting in the chair formerly occupied by the corpse (done with all of the ease of someone who has done this more than once), she sets her elbows upon the desk, knits her fingers together, and sets her chin daintily atop the hammock they form. She watches Owen expectantly as he works, and it only takes him moments what would take others much longer.

Cheating speedsters, you know.

When the son of Boomerang opens up the box, he’ll find several things. A small stack of doctored passports that match the once-gaunt and now charcoal-briquette face of the man in the chair, a few large bills and scattered coins in varying currencies that the discerning eye will notice match the passports, and a thick blue canvas CD wallet from a security trade show in Chicago, September 30, 1998.

Inside are a bunch of CDs, all marked ‘Spin Doctors’ with black permanent marker.

Waller’s voice rumbles impatiently in their ears. “Well…?”


“It’s taking a while, I have performance anxiety when you’re listening. But I’m.. mhmm.. Almost there.” Owen puts on a pretty good verbal performance of being both his normal gross self and of not having actually opened the box. Which gives him and Harley time to paw through the contents. Hopefully quietly, though that is rarely Harley’s specialty.

Owen lays out the passports and the money carefully and then picks up the CD wallet and looks at it and then up at Harley. He has no idea what the hell that is. I mean besides the awesome band that brought us the earworm that is ‘Two Princes’, obviously.

If this is what Waller wants, then that security tradeshow from twenty years ago must have been lit.

“Passports. Money, which I’m taking.” He looks at the passports and shoves both of them into his pocket.

“What else were we supposed to find in there? Pretty sure you didn’t send us here to bump the guy off for petty cash and fake documents.”

He points at the CDs and mimes to Harley, “Why?” before handing them to her.


Harley flips through the passports on the desk just before Owen takes them, but finds just as little particularly suspicious about them as he does, save the obvious illegality of them as they dance across a number of Asian countries.

He takes the money, and she really doesn’t care. She’s busy rifling through the other contents of the desk. Until Owen holds up the CDs and her entire face screws up in a very obvious ‘what the hell?’. She shrugs and then stretches a hand out to mime back, ‘Give’em to me’, even as he does.

She looks at the 20 disc canvass CD wallet and, finding nothing, squints at the little pages of vinyl and anti-scratch fabric. She flips a page back and forth. Back and forth. And then she starts sliding CDs out of their pages and flipping their backs over to watch the prismatic surfaces on the back. Compares a couple. Then she only pulls the rest out just enough to glance at the backs.

She goes through all of them… Until she pulls out one that has a smattering of nonsense words and numbers handwritten neatly in no apparent order on the back with Sharpie. Her face screws up again as she pulls it out. She squints and considers it for a long moment before she shakes her head as she gives up the puzzle and holds it out for Owen to look at for himself at the end of one meticulously painted fingernail.

Meanwhile, Waller is losing her patience on the other end. “There should be a batch of discs, you disgusting maggot. If they’re not there, then you keep the hell looking. And you might want to hurry up and find them before I decide you two are a waste of my time.”

Two. Which means Waller must have already collected Wilson back up. Or exploded him. Harley’s dreams of murdering Waller dissipate in a puff of smoke. Again. The soot-smeared clown sighs as a pout erupts on her face and she starts packing her bag back up.

But then, there’s noise from elsewhere in the house, and Quinn’s head head turns sharply towards the door, sending her shorter pigtails bouncing.


Owen plucks the discs out of her hand and pulls the one with the writing on it. He shrugs at Harley and tucks that one away into one of his boomerang holding pockets. He then calls in “Oh look taped under the desk. I think I got it.”

Acting may not be a skillset he possesses, but lying is an awful lot like acting and that comes as second nature to Owen.

The noise outside causes him to snap his head to look at the door as well, though he has no bouncy pigtails to accentuate the movement. He pulls out a boomerang to launch at whatever comes through that door, realizes it’s the CD he’s in the process of double-stealing and sheepishly tucks that back in.

Now with actual boomerang in hand Owen waits, but checks the windows for other possible terrible exit strategies he could use.


Quinn’s expression is a frantic one as Owen nearly throws the CD, but it resolves into an exasperated one with a sigh as he realizes it’s the wrong thing and makes the switch.

She’s not entirely certain that stealing from Waller is the best plan that Mercer’s ever had, but her moment to wallow in skepticism is denied as there is something that overtakes the sound of the wind and rain as it crashes against the window panes in the hall.

It’s the sound of machine gun fire coming up through the floorboards.

Harley takes this in with an undignified “AUGH!” and then proceeds to get on top of the desk for some additional cover, fishing around for a grenade in her bag after pulling up a .44 Magnum for the job which she promptly points towards the door, just in case. Because she’s bracing to drop a floor if they rip apart the boards beneath her, and then drop some more bodies.

Owen might notice, however, that there are several wood panels cracked open that are actually leading out to thinner windows, just wide enough for a human body. Else, there’s only trying to cross the floor or go up the massive chimney.


The “best plan Mercer’s ever had” is on such a sliding scale of terrible that it’s hard to tell if the apex is even above neutral. Which is to say that no one should ever let Owen plan anything.

The bullets ripping up through the floor send Owen careening around the desk and onto a chair as he takes in the scene. He points to the cracked wooden panels and says, “Harley! Go through!” Yes, he has no idea where they lead but he’s also not exactly going first so what’s the problem.

If she doesn’t go, though, he’s going to try and slip through one himself.


It’s a good thing for Owen Mercer that Harley is often a very bad judge of common sense herself. She hears this plan, looks to where he’s pointing, and then simply puts her grenade and pistol away in order to pick up Mister Smiley.

No. Mallet. Left. Behind.

And, as gunfire continues to explode underneath the harlequin and the speedster, the floor becoming more uncertain with each passing moment, she slings her bag onto her back and takes a moment to gauge the distance before sliding back to the end of the desk and then running as far as she can before jumping for the edge of the room. She lands on top of a couch, only to have it slide the rest of the way and then slam into the wall. It’s a scramble after that for the windows. She hurls herself through one, and it leads to an interior garden room, filled with a collection of elaborate wooden Thai garden shrines. The cavernous room has two walls that are open to the elements, save the ornate wooden scrollwork of the pillars. But now, those pillars are all alight as fire has snaked up from the floor below. Part of the floor has fallen through. If they hadn’t been high ceilings in the home, the flames would have likely already taken out the floor.

Harley sees it and, for the first time in a long time, freezes with her eyes open wide and then they fill with a manic light as she searches for anywhere to go that isn’t a floor she doesn’t trust to not dump her into a deadly fire. Again. If Mercer is right on her heels or beside her through another window, he’ll see the way she slams her back up against the wall. Then starts rifling through her bag for her little jester grappling hook with its hooks painted to be the three tails of a cap, and the rest painted up to look just like her.

“Get goin’, B. I’ll catch up.”

There’s a curse as she looks down into her bag. “I know I brought it! WHERE ARE YOU?!”

There’s another voice that cuts onto the radio. The chopper pilot for tonight’s misadventure cuts in, announcing his imminent arrival for the location. He won’t be landing, but hell put the ladder down and get them to the getaway plane’s location. At least, it seems, they aren’t going to have trudge back out through the mud field?

After a moment, she holds it aloft, victorious and proud, like a queen’s scepter. “TA DA!”

A queen in a kingdom surrounded by fire and blood, and about to be reduced to ash. If that isn’t a fitting metaphor…

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