Learning On the Job

Participants: Harvey McPhearson + Harleen Quinzel
Open/Closed: Closed
Location(s): The Joker's rig, Gotham City harbor
Time of Day: 8:00 PM
Weather: Cloudy, foggy and rainy
Summary: Harvey gets a little over-zealous in his guard duties. Shenaniganry ensues!

The oil rig rattled, hummed and groaned around him. Why the Joker thought making what amounted to a metal shack on stilts his newest hideout was beyond Harvey. Having an opinion on the matter wasn't really worthwhile, though - or at his pay grade. He was content to keep his focus on the tasks Harley meted out to him, especially since those tended to keep him far, far away from that mad clown that her new boss had hitched her wagon to (again).

Harvey didn't think, not really, that his mind had snapped. But to work, happily, for the infamous Harley Quinn and willingly be around the Joker? Well, maybe he had.

Thwip-tsing! Another playing card left Harvey's hand, whizzing through the air to embed its razor edge in a dart board nailed haphazardly to the wall. The corridor of the rig around him was splashed with red and black paint, multi-colored Christmas lights and several rotating disco balls. Harvey himself leaned back in an aged bean-bag chair, his feet propped on an over-sized stuffed animal while he lazily passed the time tossing cards.

Behind his little workstation, a single metal door, draped in tinsel and a curtain of strung troll doll heads lead into his new boss's personal quarters. Harvey looked up at the sound of another metal portal further down the hall groaning. Through the psychedelic lighting in the hallway a lumbering figure marched, at least a foot taller than Harvey and three times as wide. Harvey Quinn quirked a brow at the brute's approach, waiting for him to slow or say something.

When it was clear that the man was planning on ignoring him entirely, Harvey rolled his eyes. Thwip! One of the cards left his hand, ricocheting off of the floor an inch in front of the trespasser's foot. He slowed. "Sorry, Charlie. Madame Quinn needs her beauty sleep," Harvey said dismissively. The brute glared down at Harvey, looking over his little space. "Boss wants her. Now." Harvey Quinn frowned. "Boss as in the big boss, or as in-"

"My boss," the man interrupted. Meaning one of the "generals" the Joker had enlisted right now. Harvey grinned. "Aah. Well, then, respectfully: tell your boss to screw himself. Madame Quinn will be out when she pleases." The man's neck rippled with bulging veins, and Harvey was glad to see how easily he was getting to the idiot's temper. "Just play with your ****ing horse toy and stay outta my way."

Harvey was confused by the comment. Enough that he didn't react when the agent of one of the Joker's generals started lumbering forward again. Then, his eyes fell on the stuffed animal his feet were propped up on: a white horse with matching pink horn and wings. Harvey's eyes flashed. His hand reached out and snatched a baseball bat from where it lay next to him. The brute was at Harley's door, fist raised to pound on it, when - CRACK!

"It's called an alicorn, you troglodyte." The man stumbled forward from the impact to the back of his head, collapsing momentarily against the door he'd been about to knock on. Harvey aimed another whack of his bat at the brute's side then, taking a step back, sprinted at him, driving his knee into the idiot's lower back, pushing him hard enough to break through the door into Harley's quarters.

Harvey Quinn bit his bottom lip and winced at the thundering sound of the rusted metal door hitting the ground, followed by the trespasser and then him. Slowly pushing himself into a kneeling position, knees driving mercilessly into the man underneath him, Harvey rubbed the back of his neck with his unarmed hand. "Sorry, Harley. I was teaching a lesson in class and may have gotten a little carried away."

She lay prone atop a queen-sized bed; a crimson, fluffy blackout mask covering her eyes. The lights in the room were dimmed, and the soft, dulcet tones of fairground music were just audible over the ever-present mechanical hum of the rig. Harleen's chest rose and fell evenly, the breath of someone lost in a deep sleep. Occasionally, a slight snore added to the room's ambient symphony – a grumble, followed by a mutter, ended with a smacking of the lips. For a woman who lived such a chaotic lifestyle, in that moment, she exuded peace and harmony.

It wasn't to last.

A raucous clanging sound echoed about the room, disturbing its perfectly balanced equilibrium, and instantly, Harleen shrieked and bolted upright. Her pony-tails, wild from sleep, seemed to prick like the ears of a shocked animal, and she instinctively reached out to the dressing table on her left, snatching a heavy revolver from where it lay. With her free hand, she scrabbled to tug her mask up, revealing wide blue eyes, which immediately darted about her, searching for signs of an intruder.

They were quickly drawn to a lump of a man, laying sprawled across the floor, and above him, her personal assistant, Harvey. Blinking twice, Harleen tilted her head, as the first member of her new 'Quintet' awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, offering an apology for the disturbance. She didn't reply, simply muttering to herself and returning her weapon to where it had previously rested.

“You better have taught him good,” she grumbled finally, pawing her face with the back of her hands, clearing away the grogginess of slumber. “I was havin' a lovely dream. The Bat had finally come to his senses and proposed to me, the kinda proposal where you don't take no for an answer. I was pretendin' to put up a fight as he whisked me away to the registry office.”

She sighed almost whistfully - it was a recurring dream, and one which had cycled through most of the caped crusaders and even some of their more attractive companions. The Nightwing dream had been a personal favourite. Those escrima sticks...

It was with a wild-head shake that she stopped herself returning to dreamland, instead refocussing on the problem at hand – the humungous lout Harvey knelt atop of. Swinging her legs from her bed, Harley bounded to her feet with a nimbleness surprising of a woman wearing a 'S-laughter is the best medicine' nightie and 'beaver' bed socks, and quickly closed the gap between her and her aide.

Then, pausing at his side, she stooped low and glowered at the pinned individual. “So what was today's lesson, Harv?”

Tag: Harvey McPhearson
Notes: QUINNS!

When Harvey had first encountered Harley Quinn, he'd been terrified. He'd heard all the stories that the rest of the world did about the jester, after all. He'd known what she was capable of. Costumed heroes and villains, even ones without powers, when they reached a certain level of credibility, were like encountering demigods. Harley Quinn had definitely surpassed that credibility level. That instinctive fear? It hadn't lasted. Harvey was still terrified of the Joker and most of the other super-criminals that prowled around Gotham City; he wasn't stupid.

No, any "fear" for Harley had been replaced by admiration, appreciation, respect and even a kind of familial love. Just weeks into his gig, Harvey was fiercely loyal and devoted to the jester. So, when Harvey came crashing into Harley's suite, it wasn't nervousness at repercussions that had him wincing and apologizing - it was genuine guilt at having interrupted the woman's rest. Mastering her moment of fright, Harley tossed the revolver she'd instinctively grabbed onto her side table and mourning the dream she'd lost.

"Heh," Harvey said, climbing onto his feet and stepping off of the still-prone brute beneath him. "I have a similar dream just... a lot more graphic." Now it was Harvey Quinn's turn to look wistful and distracted. He snapped back to attention when his boss sprang from bed and bounded to the door. Harley scowled at the thug still splayed on the ground and asked what lesson, exactly, Harvey had just handed out.

Remembering it, Harvey's expression shifted - wide-eyed and curious a moment ago, now firm and sour. Propping his hands on his hips, Harvey shook his head in affronted disbelief. "He called Duke Twiddledums a "horse toy,"" he answered, tone grim and low. As though he'd just accused the man of torching an orphanage. 

Harleen Quinzel

Finding members to join the new 'Quintets' had not been an easy task. Harleen Quinzel was no stranger to betrayal – in fact it was something that followed her around like a particularly bad smell. Her Puddin' had tried to kill her a number of times, the former Quintets had tried to kill her, and she was fairly sure both Selina and Ivy had considered it. Indeed, the one constant in her life as a criminal had been Batman: he had never stabbed her in the back or fallen short of her expectations. No, the Dark Knight always did his utmost to foil her, knock her out with some kind of gadget and throw her in a poorly-staffed excuse for a prison.

Unfortunately, despite numerous letters and unanswered post-its, it seemed the Caped Crusader wasn't interested in adding some red flair to his suit and joining the jester in a life of wild and reckless abandon (though, that hadn't stopped her trying. Perhaps one day he would see the benefit.)

As such, Harleen had promised herself that she would be more considerarte when sorting candidates for her new posse. She had rejected a number of applicants and had begun to despair, until she'd met Harvey. In him, she saw so much of herself. For example, when, on mentioning her dream, he too fell listless into a wistful memory, distracted from his surroundings entirely. She had often done the same, much to many of her companion's chagrin.

Admiring their synchronicity for a moment, the jester eventually snapped her fingers, hoping to illicit some kind of response from her number two. It came eventually, accompanied with a familiar scowl.

'He called Duke Twiddledums a 'horse toy.''

Harleen clasped her hands to her mouth and gasped in shock. For a moment, she could only stare at the brute at her feet in utter disbelief. Then, her expression soured, and her hands dropped. Without warning, she kicked the downed male hard in the side – not once, not twice, but three times. Each kick she punctuated with squeaked word of rage; “Hes!” “An!” “ALICORN!”

She added a fourth punt for good measure, and then looked to Harvey.
“Think that helped drive the point home? This bozo looks like he needed kickin' into shape!” Harley paused for a minute, then tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Maybe I need the mallet to make sure? Y'know everything's clearer with a mallet...”

Harvey McPhearson

For all his distaste toward the stupid specimen of toxic masculinity laying on the floor, Harvey couldn't help but wince when each one of Harley's kicks connected. She never put on kiddy gloves, and this was no exception. Plus, Harvey had come to suspect that Harley had more strength and power in her than should've been physiologically possible, in the strictest sense. The last kick, for example, came with the sound of a snapping rib, despite the brute's layers of clothing, armor and muscle.

Harley tapped her lip in thought, asking for Harvey's advice. Not so much pity as a desire to not have to clean up whatever mess bringing a mallet to the party would create encouraged an empathetic look from the junior Quinn. "While you make an excellent point, I wonder if he'd even remember the lesson after a pow-wow with Monsieur Mallet," Harvey considered, just as pensive and thoughtful as his boss.

The thug, to punctuate his point, groaned faintly on the ground. "Besides," Harvey added, wrinkling his nose like he caught a whiff of something foul, "if he stays in here much longer we'll never get the stink out." He used one foot to shove the man onto his back. The thug yelped, then when Harvey gave a significant look for him to beat it, he - whimpering and wincing and biting his lip so hard it bled - scrambled to his feet and limped into the hall.

"Oh! I forgot! What is it you wanted to say to Harley?" Harvey asked at the threshold. The thug looked over his shoulder, eyes full of hate. He opened his mouth to talk - and Harvey slammed the door in his face. "Must've slipped his mind," he said, with a shrug, turning back to Harley.

Harleen Quinzel