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lex-munro · 2 years ago

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[Suicide Squad Scrap] Princess pt. 20

self-indulgent batjokes-flavored SS/BvS/JL, installment 20. errbody love Brucie. my Arkham layout is mostly similar to the Arkham gameverse’s version. we’re gonna handwave the composition of the basement flooring in that particular building, even though realistically there should be several feet of dirt and conduit space between any drain/sewer systems and the building (unless the Arkham family built it all at once as a single structure like a damn castle—y’know what, that’s not out of character).

the piece as a whole is rated Mature for pervasive language, varying degrees of violence, use of controlled substances, sexual references, questionable ethics, and themes of mental illness. set from Flag’s POV, with references to (and oblique spoilers for) Birds of Prey, but not compliant with The Suicide Squad.

***

Joker dozes intermittently on the drive, which is deeply inconvenient since he’s giving directions. They leave a hotwired Olds parked by the curb of the swanky two-level. It sounds like there’s a minor party in the pool at the back (splashing, laughter, clinking glasses, but only muted music).

Joker pauses on the porch and reaches up into the overhang to pull out a spare key. (Flag hopes the neighbors aren’t looking, because Joker definitely looks more like a meth-head trying to break in than a guy who lives in a place like this.)

They walk in the front door all but unnoticed.

Joker leads them to the den, where a bubble of silence spreads as people catch sight of him. He sidles up behind a guy (still talking to some busty redhead whose big blue eyes are currently fixed on the gun in Joker’s hand), and settles both hands on the guy’s shoulders. “Hoooney, I’m hoooome,” Joker coos.

Flag wonders what clichéd line will come next. It’s not what it looks like, is always a favorite. Maybe, I can explain.

“Welcome back, Mister J,” the guy says, and his voice barely shakes. “Club’s running like a dream, Queenie’s a big hit, shipments are all on schedule. How was Arkham?”

“Boring,” Joker says, and heaves a long sigh as he clambers over the couch to sit between the henchman and the redhead, armed hand still hooked over the henchman’s shoulder. “Then Boy Scout back there took me to meet Satan, and she had me doing her dirty work in between drug comas. Good times. But she once again has something of mine, and this time, oh, this time…” Joker leans his head back on the couch. “Fuck just shooting our way in, grabbing my property, and getting out. She needs to be taught a lesson.”

“Belle Reve again?”

“Possibly. We’ll have to look into it. Anyway, Daddy’s princess is gonna set fire to anything and anyone that gets between me and my Batsy.” He lifts the pistol to trail its muzzle over his henchman’s jaw. “All of you better remember who built all this. Remember who killed Carmine Falcone and Hamilton fucking Hill and Rupert goddamn Thorne. Remember who’s broken out of Blackgate three times and Arkham seven. I’m gonna go rinse off and get dressed, and then we’re getting Harley’s girl outta Arkham for her.” He presses a loud, theatrical kiss on the man’s cheek, leaving a morbid red smear, then hops up.

Flag would tell Lawton to follow him, but the assassin does it anyway.

“Fuckin’ weak,” complains Ratcatcher. “I was hoping he’d, like, cut the guy’s nose off, or drown him in the pool, or feed him his own balls…”

The henchman gets up from the couch and turns to them. “I’m Mike. I’m Mister J’s number one guy. You want anything, you come to me.”

Flag sees right through the bravado.

“Pretty obliging for a guy Harley said stole the whole operation when Jay and the Bat had their little talk,” Ratcatcher notes.

Mike goes as pale as Harley and Joker at the accusation.

Flag smirks. “Call me Flag. That’s Arcee. I’m sure Deadshot needs no introduction, even if he’s playing bodyguard instead of assassin.”

Mike nods agreeably. “You want anything? Beer, bourbon, tequila? We got a shitload of pizza in the kitchen, too.”

“Pizza, hell yeah, that’s what we smelled,” Ratcatcher says, to a chorus of eager squeaking in her coat.

Flag rolls his eyes and follows her, clocking each armed member of the gang and catching them doing the same to him. Seven in the den, one in the hall with his hands up a girl’s skirt while she giggles and almost (but not quite) spills her drink down his back. Three more talking sports in the foyer, two in the kitchen debating the underlying literary themes of Banks’ sci-fi work.

The two in the kitchen freak when eight big rats scamper out of Ratcatcher’s clothes to politely inspect the food and make their selections. Ratcatcher grabs them paper plates from the stack and everything. She catches the gangers staring and says (with her mouth full of what looks like mushroom-bell-pepper), “You wanna get down on this?”

“No thanks,” one says while the other just stares and looks green.

“They had a bath yesterday, and they only touched their own food,” Ratcatcher tells them reprovingly. “They’re probably cleaner than you are.”

By the time she and the rats are finished, Joker sweeps into the kitchen. He’s wearing a tailored purple three piece suit with a tail coat, lavendar pinstripes on the vest setting off the loud magenta trim. His silk shirt is an eye-gouging shade of mustardy yellow that matches a hideous paisley tie.

“Noice!” says Ratcatcher. “Looking fully pimp, Mister J!”

Flag can’t help the look of horror he gives her.

“That’s the face I made, too,” Lawton says. “Buuut, we do need to get noticed.”

“This is a classic,” Joker informs them. “I wore it to the GCPD Christmas Charity Ball the year I met my Batsy, and spilled red wine on Isabela Maroni after she insulted my poor hardworking tailor.”

Lawton frowns. “Didn’t you throw an entire bottle at her face? Just, like…corked and everything?”

“It spilled,” Joker insists.

“After it shattered on her nose. Sal’s the only guy who’s ever been both dumb and brave enough to try to hire me to kill you, y’know.”

“What’d ya tell him, sweetcheeks?”

“Haveta have a death wish to take the contract, ‘cause anybody skilled enough to actually get it done would be dead within a week, assuming the Bat didn’t get there first. This was before the psychotic break—pretty sure he’d kill ‘em these days.”

“What can I say? Daddy doesn’t like people touching his things,” Joker says with a grin. “Come on—we’re picking up some thermite from my stash before we meet back up with Croc and Boom.”

“And these guys?” Flag asks.

“Mickey and the gang will meet us at one of Croc’s old haunts, and he’ll guide us in.”

“Sewers?” Ratcatcher asks a little too eagerly.

Joker just keeps grinning.

“Oh, I almost forgot…” She stuffs the last of her pizza slice into her mouth while she digs in her coat. She pulls out a couple of knives—an antique ivory handled switchblade, yellowed with age but still proudly sporting an engraved motif of card suits; and the green-handled butterfly knife that left a permanent smile on Vinnie’s face. “My buddies snagged these when Satan’s cronies stripped and straited you.”

He takes the blades, stows them in opposite pockets (left vest, right trouser). “Not bad, Minnie.”

“‘Not bad’? Lick my ass! It was cool and you know it.”

He barks a short, sharp laugh, and Flag gets the feeling she’s impressed him, somehow.

“Macky, got something for you while you’re out,” he says. “Go to this address, say ‘Location compromised, get your bug-out bag,’ and take the charming young lady to the club.”

“Mike,” the henchman corrects in a long-suffering tone.

“Gently,” Lawton stipulates. “Every scratch on my baby is a bullet in something tender of yours. And don’t try to tell her we’re friends, or you work with me, or any of that bullshit, or she’ll probably mace your ass and run.”

On their way out the door, Lawton lingers over Flag’s shoulder to mutter, “He’s still in and out. Almost busted his skull open in the shower. Keep a sharp eye.”

They swing by an outdoor storage place to grab three heavy duffel bags full of metal canisters.

Back at Harley’s place, Croc is busy being fawned on by Harley, Huntress, and some leggy black girl while a grumpy Latina ignores Digger’s attempts to make small talk with her (admittedly impressive) cleavage.

“What the fuck is he wearing?” the grumpy one asks when Joker sidles in and gestures to the door. “Holy shit, isn’t that the suit you wore when you danced with Bruce Wayne after you threw a wine bottle at Sal Maroni’s wife?”

“Don’t do that, Montoya!” Harley scolds. “Don’t remember his antics, or you’ll just feed his obnoxious narcissism!”

Joker grins. “You know you love it. Croc-baby, we’re going in through the storm drains, and then we’ll melt our way into the props department. Told the crew to meet up at your old place under Amusement Mile; you’re on point, big guy. Ladies, I recommend following us as far as the island, but after that, we’ll be drawing far too much attention to ourselves. Let’s go get Ivy and nab some anti-ARGUS intel.”

“Well, somebody needs to stay here and babysit Brucie, so you lot have fun with that,” Digger says, petting the hyena sitting beside him on the couch.

Flag rolls his eyes, but Joker strolls over and plops down on Digger’s lap (the Aussie freezes like a skunk in headlights).

“You are so right, Boom-boom,” Joker says sweetly, one hand stroking suggestively over Digger’s chest. “And I know you are gonna be the best puppy-sitter in Gotham, because Brucie here is important to our galpal Harley, and if a single fuzzy hair on his precious little mug were to be harmed, you know that Harls would rip your balls off with her teeth and go play baseball. And I know you know how important it is to have a good puppy-sitter, because if it were anything less vital and you thought I might need your help getting my Batsy away from that smug evil asshole with the kitten heels, you would definitely give it to me so that I wouldn’t have to hunt you down and put a pretty smile on your face like I did the last guy who screwed me. You remember Vinnie, right? Or were you too busy with the Human Crepe impression?”

“I remember,” Digger squeaks.

“Oh, good. Then you stay here and take very, very good care of Brucie.” And he plants a loud kiss against Digger’s cheek, leaving a dark red lipstick print, somewhat less smudgy and disturbing than the one he left on Mike’s face.

Harley snorts. “My little business partner is on her way here, too, so watch your manners, Boomy. Her ‘n Brucie are besties.”

The storm drains are surprisingly clean. Jones leads them along loud, wet tunnels far below the streets of always-rainy Gotham, taking a maze of turns while Harley tells her girls all about ‘the fun we all had killin’ a bunch of eyeball zombies or whatever’ in Midway City. Then she tells Lawton (specifically him, definitely ignoring Joker and with an air of maybe having already told Croc) about ‘this diamond full of blackmail that Sionis put a bounty on,’ which is how she met the Birds and her ‘little buddy, Cass.’

“And thanks for the price on my head, by the way,” she adds sourly.

“If you couldn’t handle that drippy little fuckstick, you’d’ve deserved to get your pretty little face cut off,” Joker replies easily. “I have faith in your ability to solve your own problems, Doctor Quinzel. You did chase after me on a motorcycle after I specifically told you we were done and you bored me.”

“And then you made me un-boring, right? Whatever. I coulda had a psychotic break and a mutated epiphany all on my own, you know—I didn’t need you for it.”

“And I didn’t need you to fuck with my memory, but here we are, Doc. And it’s not like I pushed you—you jumped.”

“Focus up, Jay, we got shit to accomplish,” Flag says before Harley can continue their little slap fight.

“She started it.”

“And I’m stopping it. Behave yourself.”

“Yes, Mommy,” Joker snarks.

Flag almost misses the moment when Joker falters a step and Lawton catches him—it’s disguised in a single smooth motion that looks like Lawton pushing Joker to keep him moving.

Great. Unpredictable mood swings on a guy with a short, bloody temper, and lingering drug interactions on top.

They arrive at a huge cistern, where Mike and some guys in Halloween masks wait with guns.

“Brought the guns, Mister J,” says Mike.

Joker sways again; he catches himself on Flag and turns the motion into a few steps of a rather forceful waltz. “That’s what I like to hear!” he cries with a brief burst of laughter.

“Get off me,” Flag grumbles, but steadies the maniac.

“Grab some cans, gents—the usual color codes apply.” He and Croc throw down the bags from the outdoor storage unit, full to bursting with aerosol cans, and the cannon fodder hurriedly gear up.

They make it to the island without getting too wet; Croc leads the way with confident ease, despite a dozen twists and turns and detours.

A couple hundred feet in, Croc pauses at a ladder. “Drain here comes out below admin central offices,” he tells Harley. She nods, and the girls split off.

He leads the rest of them farther in, through a few more turns, and stops to listen.

“Yo, Arcee—your little snack packs hear anything above us?”

He hoists her up as she holds a rat up to the ceiling. After a few seconds, she shakes her head.

“Computers about twenty feet the way we came. Footsteps fifty-ish feet ahead.”

Joker looks up and counts bricks. “Gimme a boost, Croc,” he says, grabbing a purple canister and a green canister from some nearby goons.

He sprays the two compounds in a broad rectangle and shoves a fuse into it.

“Might step back and close your eyes,” he suggests. “It’s gonna get a little toasty.”

In point of fact, it gets hot as hell near the blinding conflagration that results. Clearly, the mad chemist makes good thermite.

A goon sprays the stuff down with a pink canister, once the section of brick and mortar has collapsed into the tunnel with a minor cloud of dirt.

“Finish up for me, boys,” Joker commands, and his men hurry to clamber into the new gap and spray more chemicals on the freshly exposed metal.

“Nice of them to line it with steel instead of concrete,” Flag scoffs.

“They were thinking of people digging in and out, not melting in and out.”

The chunk of floor panel drops with a raucous clang, and Joker’s masked gang spray down the edges and climb up as someone shouts in the distance and keys fumble at a lock.

Gunshots, and sounds of pain.

Joker throws his head back and laughs, arms spread wide and waving, conducting a symphony of destruction.

“Get up there, you,” Flag says, nudging Joker toward the hole.

“A gal could break a nail,” Joker says with a pout.

Croc just tosses Joker over his shoulder, gives Ratcatcher a boost, and jumps straight up into the darkness.

“Such a gentleman!” Flag hears Joker say.

“I could be taking a nap in my cell right now,” Lawton grumbles, but climbs up.

By the time Flag gets through the hole, Joker’s people have fanned out and the man himself is hunting through boxes of personal items, apparently with a very specific list in mind.

~Cameras are about to go down,~ says Harley. ~It takes three minutes for the system to reset. They’re on the same system as the cell doors for Intensive Treatment, so we’ll give you exactly five minutes to get everything open before we bring ‘em down again to get out. Synchronize watches or whatever—radio silence starts now.~

“All clear for now,” says Lawton. “It takes just under three minutes for the higher-end security staff to gather and deploy, so the timing should be about perfect.”

“Assuming nobody spotted us earlier,” Joker puts in. “Mm, love a good ambush…”

Out in the corridors, lights and sirens are going off. They make it up the stairs without seeing any new guards.

Croc and Ratcatcher take down the two guards controlling the airlock into Intensive Treatment and get the doors working (after some minor bickering about how to work the controls). Joker’s people stay to hold the corridor against the guards that are definitely on the way.

The ominous flickering sign stares down at them as they move on toward the control booth, and Joker steps inside only to have an Eskrima rod brandished at his face.

“Joker—I should’ve known you’d…” Nightwing trails off, looking confused. “If you’re breaking out, how come you’re not in scrubs or a jumpsuit?”

Joker rolls his head on his neck. “Just gimme a ten-minute head start, kid. Or go home, either way suits me.”

“You promised Batman—”

“We’re helping Batman,” Flag interrupts. “You’re gonna have to trust us on this.”

Nightwing crosses his arms over his chest. “Look, I already know Batman’s in trouble; he’s been out of contact for twenty hours and he hinted at somebody trying to catch him with human bait.”

“Not a very flattering description for the love of a guy’s life,” Joker grumbles.

“You’ve got ninety seconds before the cameras reboot to explain why I should let you go.”

“Y’see, when daddies and princesses love each other—”

Lawton, fortunately, has both the balls and the sway to put a hand over Joker’s mouth and hurriedly say, “Jay was recruited to work with us in a top secret government task force in exchange for guaranteed visits with the Bat. Turns out he was bait, now the Agency—ARGUS, that is—has Batman. If Jay’s loose, the Bat can sit tight, but if they get him, game over. Meanwhile, we ain’t the type to sit on our asses, so we’re breaking the Agency’s other schemes wide open.”

Nightwing nods. “Okay. In seven seconds, somebody needs to hit me, and make it look good.”

“Don’t look at me,” Joker says, hands in the air like he’s surrendering. “I’m not allowed to hit birdies anymore.”

“Eh, fair enough…” And Nightwing pins Joker to the wall with one Eskrima rod, the other poised to strike.

The control panel lights up, right on time.

Flag swings in from behind and gets him in a sleeper hold, which he fights with several uncomfortable strikes to Flag’s ribs before Lawton readies his wrist magnum.

“Stand down, boy,” he says. “This don’t concern you. Run on home to Blüdhaven.”

“You won’t get away with this!” Nightwing declares. “Batman will—”

“The Bat ain’t here,” Flag says, tightening the fake hold enough to put on a good show. The kid almost over-sells it with his swoon, but Flag thinks the cameras won’t see anything amiss.

Joker reaches over and flips all the release switches for maxsec. A new siren adds itself to the cacophony, red lights flaring for extra measure. He rolls his head again, eyes hooded and neck long—it’s the most predatory Flag’s seen him in a while…even more than Vinnie the smiling lookout and the fixation on Mercy Graves after. “Bring the kid,” he purrs.

For just a fraction of a second, Flag is sure Joker has something awful planned for Nightwing.

“‘Kid,’ my ass,” mutters the Blüdhaven vigilante, still playing possum over Lawton’s shoulder. “You’ve only been doing this a year longer than I have, asshole.”

Joker giggles in reply.

They step into maxsec to the sight of seven open doors, four bewildered inmates, four unresponsive guards (drooling and swaying on their feet), and one smug redhead.

“Good evening, gentlemen, milady,” Joker says with a flourishing bow and a tip of the stolen top hat. “We come bearing gifts from the personal effects locker.” He flicks the coin at Two-Face, tosses the top hat at the little guy (‘J Tetch,’ according to his shirt), and unzips the duffel with the wooden dummy in it.

“Oh, oh my,” murmurs ‘A Wesker,’ who looks like a sweet little old man.

“Thaaaat’s right, Arn,” says Joker, eyes round and metallic teeth glinting, “your old boss, safe and sound…”

A skinny guy in glasses (‘E Nygma’; Flag remembers him having that huge Rubik’s puzzle before) clears his throat meaningfully. When Joker ignores him to gently hand over the puppet, he clears his throat again and says, “Don’t you have something for me, too?”

Joker turns, and Flag can’t see, but he knows the guy well enough now to know he’s making shark-faces again. “Can’t fool me, Eddie,” he drawls, sidling up close. “I know a man of your intellect neither wants nor needs the assistance of ‘a pasty poser clown whore.’“

“Naturally,” ‘Eddie’ says with suicidal bravado.

Joker grabs him in a chummy half-hug. “Besides, I’m sure you know all about the escape tunnel. Gun Bunny, be a doll and put Nightlight in my old room. The Boy Blunder will be along later to let him out, and we’ll all be sipping champagne somewhere while he dies of embarrassment. Maybe the Iceberg Lounge—I’m feeling fancy. Run along, jailbirds…Croc will be holding the door.”

‘P Isley’ rolls her eyes. “Come on, boys,” she tells the guards under her thrall.

The wooden ventriloquist dummy chimes in with a Hollywood mobster accent, “If it’s all the same to youse, I think me ‘n Dummy will stick around for a while. I gotta make some guards pay for the way they treated my numba one guy.”

“Oh, dear,” says the little old man, but he seems happy enough at the proposition.

“Us, too,” says Two-Face. “But thanks for the hand, clown. We owe you one.”

Flag breaks radio silence to say, “Pack it up, kids, we’re on our way out.”

~Jackpot!~ Harley calls back. ~Okay, we just wrapped up, too. Cameras back down in sixty seconds. Meet you at the rendezvous point. How’s my Pammy look?~

How the hell is he supposed to answer that? “Uh. Judgy? Kinda smolder-y?”

Harley giggles. ~That’s my Pammy!~

.End.

#fanfic #scraps #Suicide Squad #CANON DIVERGENCE #universe alteration #guest-starring the Birds of Prey (and Brucie)#guest-starring Nightwing #guest-starring Poison Ivy (and the criminal cosplay club)#fic series: princess #you guys got this post 12 hours earlier than intended because i forgot to put PM after the time when i scheduled it lol

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