starter call (accepting) || @neovex
♦ ♠ ♥ ♣ Harley was already halfway through kicking the vending machine when she decided she liked the place. It wasn’t much to look at - low ceiling, flickering fluorescents, paint peeling in spots - but there was something about it that felt promising. Like the kind of spot where you could find a decent poker game. She gave the machine one last thump with the heel of her hand, and a packet of peanut butter crackers clattered down into the tray. Victory !!
She ripped the wrapper open with her teeth and wandered further inside. The building had been a twenty-four-hour laundromat once, back before Gotham’s night life took a turn for the apocalyptic. Rows of dented washers and dryers lined the walls, half of them with their doors hanging open, hinges bending from the weight. Somebody had dragged a few folding tables together in the centre of the room to make a long, uneven counter. Empty mugs and a stale coffee smell suggested it’d been a meeting spot at some point.
Harley hopped up onto the counter, swinging her legs as she chewed, humming quietly to herself. She’d come looking for a guy who owed her money. Word was, he’d been hanging 'round here, doing 'business'. Which could mean anything from selling knock-off perfume to cooking something you didn’t put in a frying pan. Either way, she figured it was worth a look.
She tapped the edge of the counter with her boot heel, listening to the hollow thud. The place was quiet. Then, her eyes flicked to the back door, where a bead curtain swayed like it’d just been disturbed.
“Hellooo?” she called out, voice carrying through the hum of the old fluorescent tubes. “Don’t be shy, I’m real friendly when I wanna be.”
No answer.
She slid down from the counter, cracker crumbs scattering across the floor, and moved toward the back. Her bat hung at her side. The bead curtain parted with a lazy rattle under her hand.
The back room was smaller, warmer, and smelled of something sharp and chemical. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with bottles, boxes, and a couple of things that probably violated at least three safety codes. A single desk lamp cast a pale circle of light over a damp ledger book, the handwriting inside looping and jagged. She looked upward, noting a small, slow drip from the ceiling above. Maybe no one had used this place in a while.
Harley leaned over the desk, letting her eyes skim the pages without touching them. Numbers. Dates. Some names she recognised, some she didn’t. And then a page torn clean out, leaving only a jagged edge behind.
She straightened, chewing on the inside of her cheek. It wasn't any explicit sign of the guy she was looking for, any small-time crook could have set up shop here. Either way, maybe she'd have to set up a meetin’ the landlord.
