quinnsanity

[quinnsanity]

@s4m3c01n

She could still smell the champagne. Even with the air gone stale and the heating cut halfway through the building, that thin, fizzy scent of money and something rotten still clung to the velvet ropes and polished tile. The museum had only just reopened this wing - technically still under renovation, but that hadn’t stopped Gotham’s upper crust from throwing themselves a little pre-exhibit mixer here last week; the kind with passed hors d'oeuvres, too much alcohol, soft jazz, and nobody asking too many questions about the ethics of displaying crime scene relics under museum glass.

'Objects of Infamy,' the press release had called it. Subtle. Gotham’s rich loved that stuff: reminders that they lived right on the edge of something dangerous, but at a safe distance. Crime as conversation piece, trauma with hors d'oeuvres.

Harley hadn’t scored an invite, duh. She’d gotten wind of it through a guy who knew a guy who ran cleanup for a guy who’d spilled a glass of wine on Two-Face’s old coin. Swore he’d seen the thing, laid out all fancy for viewing.

She didn’t care about the coin. She didn’t even care about the busted umbrella from Cobblepot’s heyday or the original blueprints for the Iceberg Lounge someone had inexplicably loaned out of a private collection. That was all fluff. But someone had said there was a case in the back - locked, unlabeled, kept off the press sheet - and that was the kind of thing that got Harley’s attention.

She stepped carefully over a coil of lighting cable left behind by some bored AV tech, the thud of her boots muted by an expensive rug half-rolled across the floor. The display cases were still lit, low and gold like mood lighting, glass gleamed, polished recently.

She slowed at one of the final displays. Inside: a cracked domino mask, darkened with age. A broken lapel flower. A few torn playing cards, preserved between archival sheets like they were ancient manuscripts. Not the real relics, probably, fakes for staging while the genuine ones got special handling in the back. But they still made her stomach turn in that slow, sour way, like she’d eaten something sweet and remembered too late that it had gone off.

She didn’t touch the glass. Just stared at it, expression flat, jaw tight. No smirk, no wisecrack, just the same stillness she'd learned to use when people still brought him up like it was a joke or a phase or something she was gonna relapse into if she stayed up too late.

She wasn't here for this. She was here for something else. Something tucked further in - a black case, thin and long, with fraying travel tags still wired to the handle. One of the interns had joked it looked like a magician’s wand or a pool cue. But Harley knew exactly what it was the second she saw the description buried in the shipment manifest. The cane.

Not just any cane - the cane. Gold-plated at the top, hairline fracture near the base where it sparked too hot during that first heist together at the theatre. The stun charge had never worked right after that, but they'd kept using it anyway, partly for the voltage, mostly for the drama. And back then, she’d thought helping him build it meant something.

She wasn’t sure what she’d do with it. Smash it? Keep it? Toss it somewhere after confirming it was real? She hadn’t decided yet. She just knew she didn’t want it behind glass, grinned at by some bozo in a bow tie with too much booze in his system, talkin’ about 'the golden age of Gotham’s criminal elite.'

[quinnsanity]

cont. || @purrfatale

♦ ♠ ♥ ♣ Harley snapped her gum as she turned on her heel, arms flinging wide like she was presenting the eighth wonder of the world, or maybe just a very expensive mess. The fountain burbled behind her like it was trying to cough up one last gasp of dignity, but that ship had sailed - probably on a river of magenta.

"A callin’ card’s boring," she said with a shrug that sent droplets of orange flying from her brush. "Any two-bit nobody with a business card and a fragile ego can leave their initials behind. I like to leave a legacy."

She twirled, then tiptoed across the splash zone, narrowly avoiding a puddle of neon that was trying its best to become permanent. The brush was now a wand, waved toward the cherub as if she were granting it the gift of personality. "Chemical peels are in this season, don’tcha know?" she quipped, glancing toward the dark where the cat had tucked herself away, just outta reach like always. "Besides, all that blank baby-stare and no flair? I did the little guy a favour."

Harley narrowed her eyes, grinning as she reached into the paint bucket beside her and fished out a fistful of glitter. With a practiced flick, she tossed it toward the air above the fountain, where it caught the sickly streetlamp light and sparkled downward. “Tadaaaa~!” she sang, jazz-hands and all, before dropping into a theatrical bow that smudged bright red across one cheek.

"You got an eye for detail, kittycat," she said, half to the wing, half to the shadows that had spoken. "But I ain't much for perfection. Don’t need to colour inside the lines, ya feel me?" She scooped up her brush again and slapped a blotch of violet onto the cherub’s wing anyway - not where Catwoman had pointed, just beside it, because Harley Quinn did not take notes. She made ‘em up as she went.

And as the fountain let out a fresh, gurgling belch of paint-slick water, Harley laughed. Loud, unladylike, and fully entertained by her own mess. She dipped her brush back into the nearest bucket - this one a dizzying bright pink - and gave it a quick, cheeky flick in the cat’s general direction, sending droplets of paint flying toward Catwoman. “OOPS !!” she said, sing-song sweet, batting her lashes innocently.

[quinnsanity]

I know I owe a couple starters and maybe a reply but I did not sleep well and on top of a busy work day and appointment tonight methinks I will not get to anything today. I sat down and tried to write at least one post a few times today but I just can't lol. so sorry! I will hopefully be full-throttle tomorrow and get at least two out, because I have an event with friends this weekend and likely will be pretty busy fri-sun.

if i'm still alive after my appointment tho i'm hoping to get some ramen and a bevvie. rip.

[quinnsanity]

Criminal Sentences, Vol. 26

(Sentences from various sources for criminals and/or dangerous muses. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"A rational society would either kill me or put me to some use."

"You don't get the tell me who to kill."

"I've never felt as alive as I did when I was killing him."

"Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in."

"Did you really think I was above that sort of thing?"

"Tell me about it and don't lie, or I'll know."

"They think you did it. They think you killed him. They're looking for anything to pin this on you, and they're finding it."

"Don't think I won't shoot you if you pull that kind of shit again!"

"This job is very important to me, you understand? So don't fuck it up. For your own sake."

"Can you provide any assurance that you'll follow through on this extravagant promise?"

"I think we should kill someone tonight."

"You pulled a gun on me!"

"You can't see the line until you've passed it, but once you're over it, you can't go back without fear of getting caught. Next thing you know, you can't see the line even if you wanted to."

"Is homicidal not your type?"

"People have died for me before, and by my own hand as well."

"If you keep holding out on me like this, I'm going to have to get really nasty."

"We're not that different, you and I."

"Watch your eyes. People get killed over a wrong look around here."

"Why don't you kill him? You could always say that it was me."

"Do you know why you failed to murder him? You failed to murder him because you still love him."

"You used to get people to do your killing for you. How does it feel to finally get your hands dirty?"

"Despite all evidence to the contrary, I am a gentleman."

"Fear is not what you owe me. You owe me awe."

"You are nothing without me."

"It's a shame. You came all this way and you didn't get to kill anybody."

"Now that you're so respectable, I think you're more dangerous than you ever were."

"I have a problem, and I want to find out if it is my problem or your problem."

"I can undo what I said. I can also make it a lot worse."

"Is this a bribe?"

"You're mistaking this for a conversation. When I ask for information, you give it."

"You know, it's truly amazing how any organs the body can offer up before it really begins to suffer."

"Are you beginning to appreciate my lack of sympathy?"

"I am not the intelligent psychopath you are looking for."

"I hope you're not coming for your pound of flesh because I'm not sure I've got that much to spare."

"You can call me whatever you like. My real name is buried."

"A low heart rate is a true indicator of one's capacity for violence."

"Given the chance, you would deny me my life, wouldn't you?"

[quinnsanity]

cont. || @fa1lmech

♦ ♠ ♥ ♣ Harley puffed out a sigh that might’ve rattled the windows if it had any more drama packed in it. She slumped back into her couch, the springs giving a tired sproing! under her weight, one leg swinging over the armrest. Her hand still clutched the phone tight against her cheek, the cord of her landline twisting into little anxious nooses around her fingers. On the floor, Bud let out a long, mournful grunt that sounded like the end of the world wrapped in a whimper. Lou didn’t even lift his head.

“Oh, puh-lease, like I’m some kinda animal hoarder. It’s just me, the boys, and a couple’a pigeons who keep showin’ up on the fire escape ‘cause I mighta left out half a bagel that one time. And that one bat in the kitchen vent that I’ve been pretendin’ ain’t there.”

The question about toys earned a derisive snort. “Toys? TOYS? Mister, they got everything. I got 'em chew ropes the size of street signs, a kiddie pool full'a squeaky duckies, and even one'a them fancy, overpriced enrichment things from that boutique pet shop near Crime Alley - y;know, the one with the ferrets in lil’ suits? Bud just drooled on it and went back to sulkin’. Lou tried to bury it under the couch. I don’t think it’s a boredom thing. I think it’s a spook thing.”

Then she leaned forward, real serious-like, lowering her voice.

“Y’know, now that I’m thinkin’ about it... the night they started gettin’ all twitchy, there was this real weird buzzin’ noise. Not like a fridge buzz, this was more like a giant mosquito was tryin’ to break into the building. Lights flickered, TV cut out, and my lava lamp went all poltergeist for a minute. I thought it was just Gotham bein’ Gotham, but maybe it scrambled their fuzzy little brains or somethin’? Maybe somethin’s messin’ with the power grid? You ever seen a hyena try to process static? It’s tragic.”

She glanced toward the living room again, eyeing her boys with a furrow in her brow. “Ever since then, it’s like they’re... watchin’ somethin’. Or waitin’ for somethin’. Bud’s hackles go up every time I so much as touch a light switch. Lou’s been sleepin’ under the couch. That’s not a thing he does unless somethin’s seriously freakin’ him out. Like Fourth-of-July-fireworks-freakin’-him-out. And if you tell me it’s 'just a phase,' I swear I’m gonna mail you a flaming box of disappointment.”

She leaned back again, biting at a nail thoughtfully. “So. Still thinkin’ this is a job for your sunshine-touchy-healer? Or you got someone who specialises in, like... electrical hauntings? Or hyena exorcisms? I’m flexible. 'Cause if you send me some bright-eyed cape in tights with a thermometer, they’re just gonna end up with teethmarks in their butt and a whole lotta regret.”

She paused. “Unless they bring snacks. That might help. Hyenas love jerky.”

[quinnsanity]

cont. || @chimericgrimoire

♦ ♠ ♥ ♣ She snorted into her glass, loud enough to be r u d e. “Cute,” Harley said, drawing the word out like gum on a shoe. “Real gritty loner energy you got there. Bet you get all kinds of attention at the gun range.”

Her eyes stayed on the mirror. Not him, not really. Just the blur of him. That faint reflection, shoulders squared, the stillness of someone who could hurt a room without raising his voice. She could respect that. Hell, she could use that.

The drink was halfway gone already, which was less a problem and more a forecast. She tipped it back again, then thunked the glass down with a little sigh - not disappointed, not impressed, just taking stock. The liquor still burned going down and brought her smile back with it.

Harley turned on the stool like a lazy carousel, finally facing him full-on. Elbow to the bar, ankle hooked behind the other, chin in her palm again. The G R I N stayed in place, but her eyes were sharper now. “You got that military stink about you,” she said, sniffing the air like a bloodhound and wrinkling her nose. “Not the hoo-rah kind, either. More like… leftovers. Like you used to take orders for a living, and now you only take ‘em from the dead.”

Her grin briefly became a sneer. She glanced down at the beer in his hand. Looked back up. “Lemme guess. You’re here for someone. Real quiet-like. Maybe a favour. Maybe a paycheque. And you weren’t expectin’ to run into me.” Her grin widened, all teeth now. “I love accidents.”

Somewhere behind the bar, a bottle fell off a shelf and shattered. The bartender didn’t flinch. Neither did Harley.

She lifted her empty glass and rattled the ice. “You can tell me I’m wrong,” she said sweetly, “or you can tell me who’s gonna die tonight. Either way, you’re talkin’. 'Cause if you came in here plannin’ to be left alone…” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a purr. “You picked the wrong stool, handsome.”

[quinnsanity]

Will try to get to replies (and starter I owe) asap. Dog sometimes makes it harder to get to stuff because he gets clingy when I try to do stuff on my computer lmao plus been busy with the long weekend. Sorry for delay!

[quinnsanity]

Jenny Frison

[quinnsanity]

starter call (accepting) || @emeraldbuilt

♦ ♠ ♥ ♣ The dome still worked, kinda. Not the way the science folks meant it to, with lenses and 'proper channels,' but it spun slow enough if you jimmied the right gear with a crowbar and whispered sweet nothings to it. She’d spent the last three nights up here making the place hers: draping wires, rerouting power from a grid she definitely did not have permission to use, and hooking up a little projector she borrowed from a planetarium exhibit down the hill. The result? A lazy swirl of shapes and colours driftin’ across the night sky, blotting out the real stars like crayon scribbles over an oil painting.

From the lawn, it probably looked like the universe was glitching. From orbit, though? It had to look like a sign. One big, weird, glittery “Hi!”

Harley sprawled on a blanket in the centre of the busted dome, hands behind her head and one leg bent at the knee, the toe of her boot tapping slow to music only she could hear. She’d programmed the lightshow to loop - first came the candy-coloured auroras, then a carousel of old constellations reshaped into things that made sense to her: a mallet, a laughing mouth, a woman’s face with one eye winking. Some of ‘em blinked in and out almost like morse code, though that part had been a happy accident. “Oops,” she’d said earlier, grinning at the mess of wires like they were puppies that’d chewed the couch.

The fun was just knowing the sky was watching, even if it didn’t blink back. The patterns overhead pulsed slow and strange, washing her in borrowed light: soft greens, faint purples, the occasional flicker of something bright and gold. It must have looked brilliant from afar, but up close it was barely holding together. Kind of like her. Harley reached up and traced a shape against the dome, a looping little flourish, meaningless and deliberate. “A girl’s allowed to make noise,” she said to herself. “Even if she ain’t sayin’ nothin’.”

[quinnsanity]

Bruce Wayne, comedic genius

[quinnsanity]

starter call (accepting) || @identitysolved

♦ ♠ ♥ ♣ She found the file thirty minutes before things went sideways. Records was barely still a room - half-collapsed ceiling, water damage on the walls, drawers warped and rusted shut. The old hospital had been condemned since the city vote to bulldoze it five years back. Of course, nobody ever did demolish it. Just slapped a few hazard signs on the fence and let it rot.

What was left of the records room stank like mildew and rat piss, and a lot of it was either rotted or torn to shreds. She’d been digging through soggy cabinets for twenty minutes when she finally found the folder. Thick, sealed, real official lookin’, if not water damaged with large sections of the ink warping. She read the name once and felt something burn hot in her throat. "Gotcha, you creepy little cockroach." She didn’t smile. Just shoved it inside her jacket and slammed the drawer shut harder than she meant to. Metal echoed. Somewhere above her, something shifted. Footsteps?

The place was supposed to be empty. That’s what the map said. That’s what the forums said. That’s what the jittery fence-cutter guy said before she ditched him. “No one goes there anymore, Harls, it’s condemned.” Yeah, well, so was she. Didn’t stop her. Guess it didn't stop anyone else, either.

Then, just as she was getting the hell out of dodge, the lights came on.

She heard the sound of generators rumbling as more came to life. Somewhere above her, a man with a megaphone started shouting about “taking back the city.” Harley froze. Her hand stayed on the door handle. But her ears were tracking bootsteps and static-filled radio chatter moving through the halls.

Not cops. Not SWAT. Militia. Of course.

She backed into a side hallway, and slipped into what used to be group therapy - now repurposed into a makeshift broadcast studio held together with duct tape. The walls were covered in tarps and crumpled flags with what must be the group's symbol. A guy in a skull bandana fiddled with a tripod. Another tapped at an old laptop wired to what had once been a heart monitor.

Then one of ‘em dragged someone through the doorway by the collar. A civilian, gagged, zip-tied, and wide-eyed. The poor guy’s shoe squeaked as he was shoved to the floor and kicked closer to the centre of the room. A backdrop was hung behind him like it was a talk show set. Harley stared.

“Oh, hell no,” she whispered under her breath.

One of the goons barked, "Ten seconds!" Another adjusted the camera angle. "Get the flag in frame!"

"And we’re LIVE in Gotham City!" the leader boomed, loud enough to make the windows shudder. "This is the New Gotham Initative! No more lies. Justice will be reclaimed!"

And then the camera panned. Right across the room.

And caught her - Harley freakin’ Quinn - dead centre in the frame.

"…Aw, crap."

She bolted sideways out of frame, nearly slipping on the grimy tile, boots scuffing loud as hell. But it was too late. The feed was out. Harley Quinn, front and centre, standing behind a hostage in the middle of some goon-fueled livestream manifesto.

[quinnsanity]

starter call (accepting) || @chimericgrimoire

♦ ♠ ♥ ♣ She could hear the jukebox dying before she even pushed the door open. Something warbled and twangy looping over itself, caught in a slow, drunken stumble like it didn’t know whether to keep playing or give up entirely. Fitting, really. The place reeked of mildew and cigarette ash, and the wallpaper had long since given up the ghost, with bits and whole sections peeling off the wall or ripped off completely. No TVs, music that barely worked, and a single, flickering light over the bar that audibly buzzed.

Harley slipped inside without fanfare, trailing the stink of rainwater and gasoline behind her. She moved like someone who didn’t give a damn about being watched, but made sure she was anyway. Her jacket was damp - red suede going dark along the shoulders - and a smear of something dried and brown clung to one cuff. She wasn't bothered. The stool she picked creaked like it might give out under her, but she just leaned forward, resting her elbows on the bar, and let her chin settle into her palm. A pout formed on her lips as she tried to get a look at the small offering of bottles behind the bar.

No one asked what she wanted. The bartender was halfway through pouring something cheap and mean-looking into an iced glass when she spoke, not even looking at him. “Make it a double,” she said, voice flat. “Not ‘cause I’ve had a rough day. Just 'cause I don’t wanna remember it.” She plucked the drink from his hand before he could slide it toward her and took a sip that made her eyes flutter closed as it burned going down.

It wasn’t until she felt movement behind her that she moved again. Not much, just a tilt of her head, like she was listening for footsteps. In the mirror above the bar, the newcomer’s shape b l u r r e d against the smoke-stained glass. Didn’t matter if it was a stray or a storm. This wasn’t a place people found by accident. She traced the condensation on her glass with a fingertip, then spoke without turning around.

“Mister, you sure got that look on ya. Like you ain’t sure if you need a drink or a body bag.”

[quinnsanity]

workin' through starters. I might (maybe) have one more in me today but I may be taking a break the rest of the day. If anyone would like to plot or chat about rp, my messages are always open, too. ♡ ♡ ♡

[quinnsanity]

prompt (accepting) || @imperiouslex asked: "Alright, shut up and listen, I've got a plan."

♦ ♠ ♥ ♣ There was blood on her mallet. Not hers - someone else’s. Probably a few someones, honestly, but she hadn’t stopped to take roll call. The hallway was a warzone of twisted metal and smoking vents, the kind of industrial hellscape that screamed 'Luthor money' and 'catastrophic failure' in the same breath. Sirens blared overhead, flashing red through clouds of steam and sparking wires, while a very large something behind them roared like it had opinions about who was trespassing in its containment wing. Harley, crouched behind an overturned console and catching her breath, didn’t need the science-y specifics. She could feel when the odds were stacked. And buddy, this was one of those days.

She popped her gum loud enough to make a point, then flicked a piece of someone’s name tag off her shoulder. "Y'know, usually when I blow somethin’ up, I got at least one escape route in mind. You? You blew the place up, didn’tcha?" Her voice curled into a grin even as she stayed low, sneakers squeaking slightly against the grime-slick floor. “What’d ya do, Lexy? Poke a bear? Build a deathbot that got feelings? Forget to pay off the universe and now karma’s collectin’ with interest?”

Then came his line: “Alright, shut up and listen, I’ve got a plan.”

Harley paused, one hand already reaching into her jacket for her last stick of dynamite. The pause wasn’t out of fear - it was amusement. Fascination. Maybe even a little annoyance.

“A plan? You get one shot, Baldilocks. One. I’ve had just about enough of rampaging lab rats and team-ups that end with me doin’ all the dirty work while some rich egomaniac monologues their way into a villain-of-the-month calendar. So unless this plan ends with me on a beach with a daiquiri and zero prison time, sell me.”

She stood, slowly, mallet resting against one shoulder, her grin a smear of challenge. "But I am listenin’. 'Cause let’s face it: if you’re scared, then we’re already past the point of normal problem-solvin’. So go on, genius. Dazzle me."

[quinnsanity]

starter call (accepting) || @arkhamdecay

♦ ♠ ♥ ♣ The Brown Bridge looked like a corpse in a bridal gown, white-draped, skeletal, and creaking under the weight of the freak blizzard. Snow crusted everything: the girders, the cables, even the broken 'Welcome to Gotham' sign hanging at a sad little angle like it’d just given up (hey, who hasn't!). But Harley didn't mind, she'd brought her own kind of party. A trail of skate lines zigzagged across the bridge’s iced-over concrete, each turn punctuated by a whoop!, a pirouette, or an off-key whistle of 'Baby, It’s Cold Outside.' Below, the river sloshed black and half-frozen, like a mouth full’a teeth waiting to bite anyone dumb enough to fall in. And yet - here she was! Harley freakin’ Quinn, skatin’ loops over six lanes of dead traffic and ice. The wind howled. She howled L O U D E R.

“Ladies and gents and whatever’s crawlin’ around in between!” she shouted to absolutely no one, spinning on her skates with a firework tucked under her arm. “Welcome to the show! Gotham’s own bridge-top ballet, sponsored by frostbite, unresolved trauma, and discount explosives from that one guy near the docks who smells like vinegar and sin!”

She lit another one, sparkler jammed between her lips like a cigarette. Fffzzzzzttt! went the fuse. ˗ˏˋ B O O M ! ´ˎ˗ went the sky. Pretty colours bloomed overhead, golden and green and red exploding into sparkles above the bridge and the river, decorating the skyline. One of 'em popped so close to the suspension cables it rattled the whole damn structure, and maybe somebody shoulda been worried, but Harley just laughed and curtsied deep, wobbly on her skates. “That’s the money shot, baby!” she sang out, her voice echoing down into the emptiness.

A gust of wind yanked her coat sideways and nearly took her with it, but she twirled through it like a ballerina loopy on amphetamines. She was loving it! The height, the wind and the ice, the way the fireworks echoed back like all of Gotham was clapping for her. She imagined the whole city watching from their crummy windows - Gothamites in bathrobes trying to stay in from the cold, maybe even a Bat or two with their long ears twitchin’. The bridge rumbled once beneath her skates, a deep old-man groan that she ignored with the practiced indifference of a girl who'd learned not to flinch.

She hadn't noticed the drones right away, and definitely hadn't heard them, obviously. News choppers, maybe? Or worse. Her little fireworks display had probably set off somebody’s alert system, and now they were buzzin' in from the north like she’d thrown up a flare. Which, okay, she kinda did, but that’s not the point. Her grin faltered just a tick. “Oopsie-daisy,” she muttered, patting the crate of remaining fireworks. “Might’ve overdone it this time.”

[quinnsanity]

starter call (accepting) || @punchlinexoxo

♦ ♠ ♥ ♣ The fire was crackling like applause. And not the good kind. It was the kind you get from the inside of your own skull when things start to snap. Harley stood just outside the warehouse office, watching the orange light d a n c e across the shattered panes like it was putting on a little show just for her. The flames hadn’t gotten to the heart of it yet: the room at the back with all the real souvenirs, the stuff he thought nobody knew about. But they would, she made sure of that. A neat little line of gasoline snaked its way through the floorboards like a ribbon on a gift she was giving herself.

It didn’t look like much from the outside, this dump. Just another husk in Gotham’s industrial rot. But she remembered this place. He brought her here once to test out new formulas, to “laugh in peace,” he said. Ha! Peace. She’d thrown a brick at that mirror first thing when she walked in, the one that still had her red lipstick print half-faded on it. Now it lay in a hundred g l i t t e r i n g pieces, catching firelight like dying stars. Pretty, in a stupid, tragic kinda way.

Harley adjusted the straps on her shoulder holster and cracked her neck, pacing a lazy little half-circle near the blown-out wall. She didn’t come here to feel things. She came to T O R C H them. BURN it all down, one memory at a time. Let it hurt. Let it reek. Let it go. Smoke curled sweet and chemical around her nose, and she leaned into it like perfume. “Ashes to ashes, puddin’,” she muttered, the smile not reaching her eyes. “Hope ya choke on it wherever ya are.”

She turned to leave because the good part was done, the part where you light the match and watch it all catch. But something caught her ear. A scuff. A shadow. Movement where there shouldn’t be any, not unless the rats in this place were wearin’ boots now. Harley froze, one hand resting easy on the grip of her baseball bat.

“Huh,” she said aloud to the smoke. “Didn’t think this JOINT had enough charm left to draw company.” She didn’t raise her voice. She just smiled wider, teeth catching firelight. “Unless yer a ghost. In which case, sorry for the mess, Casper. Didn’t know ya were still haunin’ the joint.”

ooc: hope this is okay! I rewrote the whole thing several times trying to get the encounter right. I figure Punchline has a few options for being here: maybe she wants to also burn it down to get at joker, or joker asked her to destroy it to get rid of evidence, or maybe she came to grab something specific, etc, whatever you think! let me know if you want changes.

[quinnsanity]

Was finally forced to set up my new phone kjdyipksj I don't like change