rainingbullets (rainingbullets) wrote in modernage, @ 2010-05-04 08:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | !plot 02: happy birthday mr wayne, harleen quinzel | harley quinn, {bruce wayne | batman}, {floyd lawton | deadshot}, {scandal}, ∴ scenes: ongoing |
Who: The Secret Six and Bruce Wayne
Where: A safe house in Hoboken, NJ
When: 18 April, 2010 - Midday
Summary: The Six have successfully kidnapped one of the wealthiest men in America, but slowly come to realize they have no idea what to do with him ...
It had been a long night. So long that Floyd didn't even feel marginally guilty about rolling out of his cheap, lump mattress at the crack of noon. Moving with what he felt was a reasonable degree of circumspection to avoid waking his sleeping teammates, he made his way out of the boys' room and down the hall, in the general direction of the bulky television and musty sofa.
God, this place was a dump. Floyd had seen worse, though, back when he'd been in business for himself. And even the Suicide Squad had billeted in worse shitholes during his time with that bunch--though admittedly most of those had been in the third world, or lower. Yeah, thinking back on it, this crap shack was practically the Ritz. At least it had cable.
The building itself didn't really stand out; it was simply one of dozens just like it in this middle-class residential neighborhood. On the outside, its appearance was immaculate, seemingly having undergone the same rejuvenating gentrification as much of the city had over the past several years. It's interior was another matter, though, with its spartan furnishings, drab tan carpet, and primer-colored walls. Almost like someone had started making the place inhabitable, then given up about halfway through. Floyd was grateful they weren't likely to be here long. He called it a sad, sad day when one of their transitional hideouts made him pine for the House of Secrets in all its creeptastic glory.
Collapsing on the couch with a huff, he dismissed the drowsy guard seated across from him with a nod. He felt around between the cushions for the remote, finally excavating it from its resting place and turning on the TV. After flipping lazily through the daytime offerings for a bit, Floyd settled at last on the History Channel. Couldn't go wrong watching the Nazis lose the War for the eight thousandth time.
Somewhat belatedly, he spared a look for their captive, neatly trussed and propped up on a nearby armchair. He had to hand it to Quinn, she sure seemed to know her way around a knot. That fact would have suggested all kinds of creative things to Floyd, if it weren't for the obvious insanity. Much as he liked a girl with some personality, he had to draw the line at pronounced psychotic tendencies. Man had to have some standards, after all.
"Mornin', Sunshine," said Floyd languidly, scratching at his stomach as he spoke. "Sorry about the accommodations, but this is kind of a rough business. You can feel free to lodge a complaint with the management, though. That'd be the grumpy little chick with the knives strapped to her wrists. I'm sure she'll give your concerns the consideration they deserve."