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⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ( open )
the rusted ferris wheel groaned in the wind behind her, its skeletal frame casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt. quinn stood in the center of what used to be a bustling bus depot, now just another corpse in gotham’s graveyard of failed dreams. her fingers drummed against the worn leather grip of her baseball bat, the wood scuffed and stained with evidence of a hundred previous conversations she’d had with people who didn’t listen good.
“ batter up, puddin .ᐟ ” she whispered to herself, a manic grin splitting her pale features.
she tossed the grenade up with her left hand, just a little thing, really, apple-sized and considerably more exciting than fruit, and watched it arc against the sickly orange glow of the gotham sky. the bat came around in a perfect swing, her whole body rotating with the kind of grace that came from years of gymnastics training and a complete disregard for personal safety.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ crack.
the impact sang through her arms as the grenade launched like a comet toward the abandoned bus slouched against the far fence. it still wore its old route number like a name tag at a funeral. the grenade pinged off the bus’s corroded side panel with a hollow thunk, bounced once on the hood, then rolled lazily underneath the chassis.
harley’s grin widened. she started counting on her fingers.
“one mississippi, two mississippi, three miss.”
the explosion turned night into noon for half a heartbeat. the bus lifted clean off its axles, metal shrieking as it crumpled inward like a stepped-on soda can. flames licked through the shattered windows, painting the amusement park ruins in shades of amber and crimson. debris rained down in a symphony of clattering metal and tinkling glass.
“-issippi.ᐟ hah.ᐟ still got it.ᐟ”
harley shouldered her bat, admiring her handiwork as the bus settled back down with one final, dying groan.
now she simply had to wait and see what kind of attention a little fireworks show might attract in this dead corner of gotham.