I have found a new crevice that has been left unexplored by others upon this section of intellectual wit. Perhaps it will lead to a whole lot of problems, but I will not be deterred! This chapter takes place about, oh, let's say three weeks after Deidre has joined the League so she can be a little more loose—at least in respect to some of the other members allowing her anywhere near anything seen as vaguely important.
Don't you run, I'm not done!
Can't you tell, we've just begun!
What's your rush—You're not having fun?
-Reefer Madness.
Crows and Moor Hens-:-
There was a picture of two prostitutes on the wall.
The room—one of the many they had in the Metro Tower for new members or members who needed a place to stay for the night if exhausted—had finally been customized and this was the first chance Warhawk had of Darling Quinn being on a mission, enabling him to use his own access code to take a look inside. Thus far in the days leading up to the child of evil (in his opinion) being afforded a place to call home in the League head quarters, he was the first to enter the room aside from Batman or, on rare occasions, Flash. He would soak it all in until he was alerted that she was on her way back.
He wasn't being paranoid. He was just… If he was to work with the skinny imp, he wanted a feel for what he was getting into.
His green eyes were first met with the—no doubt stolen—painting that was meant to catch the eye of anyone allowed in. Two kind of Parisian brothel girls were the center piece of the painting, one blonde and one redhead, in nothing much but a feather boa, a black corset, black thong and lace gloves for the fiery haired woman looking down a hallway, eyes alert, and the blonde just in a ruffled, white silk teddy, looking out at…something. Both of their eyes were glassy on account of the way the paint was lined into the fabric that made up the surface of the work. Undoubtedly sad, but beautiful, in its way.
Rex wasn't sure if he liked it.
Looking away from the framed art piece, the Halfling glanced about, intent on finding something to think on that revealed some truth into her personality.
In the corner nearest the door, there was a tall, grandiose clock. It was ticking gently, the chimes inside of its guts shining a rusted gold and its wood had a smell and look; as though it had been dragged out of a fire. Most unpleasant. Adjacent to that, screwed into the wall, was a massive book case that was one foot from touching the high ceiling, every inch of it filled to bursting with books made of paper. Some of the books were a little dusty and smelled that way of the perpetually ancient texts Rex could, himself, remember while growing up with his parents. He stepped close to the books, and his eyes soaked in the words along the bindings. Virginia Woolfe—a lot of those—were the books obviously read most, some Dickens, Dickenson, bits on Artemisia Gentileschi, Picasso, Monet, those large, detailed books from university on Grimms Fairy Tales, Hans Christian Anderson, Edgar Alan Poe and the entire workings of the Alice in Wonderland book along with Through the Looking Glass. Bits of color tags decorated many pages of the books.
"Okay, so she isintelligent," he grumbled under his breath, "What does she read in her spare time?"
He turned on the balls of his feet toward the bed. It was simple, like all the beds in the Metro Tower, save for the white sheets and thick blanket with what looked like two red hearts sewn into the corner at the bottom and the puffy black pillow left half-askew, nearly falling off the bed when she had been summoned that morning by J'onn to go with Flash somewhere. Some of her long blonde hairs she'd shed the other night in sleep still clung to the sheets as well as the pillow.
But, Rex paid no mind to that (except for maybe the hairs, as he had yet to see under her yarn wig and cap, so those were interesting in a way that he hoped didn't make him seem to be a stalker) and looked at the short table that sat beside the bed. The table could serve to eat off of, study off of, balance things on. He used his to put his helmet atop on the rare occasions he stayed over the night; or hid certain inappropriate magazines within the drawer that came with it.
Quinn used her table to hold a small lamp and a book that she had been reading before going to sleep. He mentally pictured its exact position, before picking it up to look at it. He'd rather not be caught snooping.
His metal gloves caused friction to move over the book cover, sliding over the thin plastic meant to protect the literature from the elements and he held it with both hands, "Girl, Interrupted…. Go figure."
He made to put the book back, but upon further inspection, found that what was marking where Quinn had left off reading—rather than dog ear the thing and ruin the page—was some sort of card.
He opened the book completely, looking over the actual text for a second—{The meat was bruised, bleeding and imprisoned in a tight wrapping. And, though I had a six-month respite from thinking about it, so was I.}—before blinking away the passage and picked up the card, large hand pressing the book open to be sure he didn't lose the page and get caught.
Opening the card, he saw that, before it was completely bared before him like some naked animal needed to be studied and kept to himself, that there was something sort of hard bound inside of the cardboard sort of paper; round and with little bumps that he could see but not feel under his gloves.
Open and revealing, Rex saw for a quarter second the words, 'Happy 8th Birthday, to my little princess, my sweetest darling.' Before sound erupted and he heard a recording spill forth into the atmosphere.
"For there is no friend like a sister,
In calm or stormy weather,
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands."
There was something like flutes and bagpipes for the recording's background noise, and the voice that sang was most certainly Gaelic or perhaps British. It was loud and, despite his training and thick skin, he jumped a little and clutched the thing to his chest like he was caught with the murder weapon to a triple homicide. But the door was still shut and he allowed himself a sigh of relief. Not caught yet.
He surveyed the room once more as he put away the card and set back down the book, exactly as they were. There was a bathroom, but there was nothing in it—no face paint, no tweezers, no medical equipment, just a large white towel with a tiny red wash cloth.
Nothing in here was really worth sneaking in for.
So he left the room, looking both ways before stepping into the hall and vanished along the corridors to head for lunch. Perhaps he'd have the special of Hawaiian Sweet Rolls and BBQ meat.
However, back in the room, if he bothered to look around a little more, he would have noticed that the mirror hung above the sink in the bathroom was turned over so the reflective surface didn't show, and underneath the bed was another pillow, as well as an extra blanket. The blankets were damp with sweat and the mirror was a little cracked.