A/N:- Stones, power stones.
Jason tucked away the items, his fingers lingering on the unassuming phone Stanfield had provided. He held it up, turning it over in his hand, its plain exterior betraying nothing of its potential. "This thing Stan gave us," He said, his voice tinged with curiosity, "it’s gotta have some fancy-ass tricks up its sleeve, right?"
The contact nodded, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "You bet. That phone’s got a special chip baked into it. Beyond the standard anti-eavesdropping tech, it’s got a nifty feature that scrambles your IP address. Every time you make a call, it generates a virtual IP, masking your real location. No one’s cracked this tech yet—not the feds, not Interpol, nobody."
Anti-wiretapping, anti-tracking—fuck, that was some next-level shit. Jason’s mind raced with possibilities. A phone like this was a criminal’s wet dream, a tool that could keep him one step ahead of the law’s prying eyes. He could already imagine himself making calls from the heart of LA, the cops chasing their own tails in some Podunk town halfway across the globe.
"Stan’s covered all the bases," The contact continued, his tone professional but warm. "Anything else you need, just give him a call. We’ll coordinate with the LA DEA to back you up."
"Got it," Jason said, slipping the phone into his pocket with a nod. "I’ll be in touch."
The contact gave a quick wave, climbed into the cruiser, and peeled out, leaving a faint cloud of dust in his wake.
Jason grabbed Harley’s hand, her fingers warm and familiar in his, and they boarded the plane. The cabin was empty—twenty-plus seats, all empty, just the two of them rattling around in the bare-bones interior. No flight attendants, no frills. This wasn’t some billionaire’s sky palace; it was a workhorse, functional and unpretentious, a far cry from the word "luxury."
Harley, though, was practically bouncing with excitement, her eyes wide as she took in the cabin. "Holy shit, babe!" She squealed, spinning in a slow circle. "My first time on a private jet! This is so fucking cool!"
Jason slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close with a grin. "Back when I was running with the gang, I hitched a ride on Kingpin’s jet once. That thing? Pure decadence. Marble floors, champagne on ice, a full staff of drop-dead gorgeous flight attendants, even a shower and a bedroom big enough to throw a party in."
Harley’s eyes sparkled, her lips parting as she drank in the image, practically swooning. "Oh my God, that sounds like heaven," She murmured, her voice thick with envy and longing.
Jason leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against her lips. "Stick with me, darlin’. I promise, we’ll have all that and more someday."
Harley gazed up at him, her smile radiant, and then launched herself at him, her lips crashing into his in a deep, hungry kiss that sent a jolt of heat straight to his core. They were lost in each other for a moment, the world shrinking to just the two of them.
The pilot’s voice broke the spell, calm but firm. "Sir, are we ready to take off?"
Jason pulled back, flashing a grin. "Hell yeah, let’s roll!"
Twenty minutes later, the jet roared down the runway, climbing into the sky toward Los Angeles. Harley was a bundle of energy at first, her face pressed to the window, chattering excitedly about the view below. But the high didn’t last. Less than half an hour in, the late night of debauchery and their predawn wake-up caught up with her. She yawned, her head drooping onto Jason’s shoulder, and within minutes, she was out cold, her soft breaths warm against his neck.
Jason chuckled softly, adjusting her so she was more comfortable. Last night had been a wild ride—hours of sex that left them both drained. She’d earned her nap. He reclined two rows of seats into a makeshift bed, easing her down gently before settling in himself. With nothing else to do, he pulled up the system shop, scrolling through the tantalizing list of superpowers that still felt like a cruel tease.
His eyes grew heavy after just ten minutes. Yawning, he decided to allocate his last 10 attribute points to Intelligence, bringing it up to par with his other stats. With that done, he closed his eyes, letting the hum of the jet lull him into a light sleep. Six hours to LA—plenty of time to rest.
[Level: 10 (2670/10000)]
[Strength: 63 → 63]
[Agility: 50 → 50]
[Endurance: 50 → 50]
[Intelligence: 40 → 50]
[Remaining Attribute Points: 0]
[Reputation: 1158 → 1319]
[Allies: Harley Quinn, John Wick... (Reputation needed for next recruitment: 3000)]
[Points: 0]
[Abilities: Combat Mastery (Level 6), Driving Mastery (Level 3), Firearms Mastery (Level 6), Melee Weapons Mastery (Level 2)]
[Shop: Click here]
---
Six hours later, the jet touched down at Los Angeles International Airport. The sky outside was tinged with the soft hues of dusk, the horizon glowing faintly as the city came to life.
Jason and Harley stepped off the plane, hand in hand, blending seamlessly into the crowd. To the average passerby, they were just another couple in love, their disguises rendering them invisible to scrutiny. They hailed a taxi and slid into the backseat, their eyes drinking in the sprawling, vibrant cityscape as the driver pulled into traffic.
If New York was a stern, no-nonsense gentleman in a tailored suit, Los Angeles was a fiery, free-spirited woman, all passion and allure. The city pulsed with a unique blend of art, culture, and unapologetic glamour, its streets alive with a creative energy that made New York’s grit seem almost sterile by comparison.
"This is the City of Angels," Harley whispered, her face pressed to the window, her voice soft with awe. "It’s fucking gorgeous."
Jason watched her, a fond smile tugging at his lips. Her childlike wonder was infectious, and for a moment, he let himself get lost in it. Then, acting on impulse, he pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to the driver. "Pull over."
The driver took the cash, no questions asked, and eased the car to the curb. Harley turned, her brow furrowed in confusion. "What’s up?"
Jason’s smile widened, warm and genuine. "You’re loving this city’s vibe. Let’s get out and soak it in. A little night stroll won’t hurt."
Harley’s eyes softened, a flicker of emotion crossing her face—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper. "But don’t you have... you know, important work to do?"
He stepped out, rounding the car to open her door with a flourish. "A day or two won’t fuck up the plan. Come on."
Harley’s face lit up, and she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck like a koala clinging to a tree. "I fucking love you, you know that?" She murmured, her voice thick with affection.
They lingered in the moment, wrapped up in each other, before breaking apart to stroll hand in hand down the iconic Hollywood Walk of Fame. Harley was in her element, pointing out the stars embedded in the sidewalk with the enthusiasm of a lifelong movie buff. "Michael Jackson! Britney Spears! Bruce Lee! Jackie Chan!" She rattled off, reciting their iconic works with a grin. At the Chinese Theatre, she shelled out a twenty-dollar tip to snap a photo with a Snow White cosplayer, giggling like a teenager. It was clear she was a cinema junkie, though she pouted a little when she realized her idol didn’t have a star.
Their walk ended at a sprawling mall nearby, where Harley’s shopping instincts kicked into overdrive. She tore through the stores like a woman possessed, snatching up Louis Vuitton bags, Chanel dresses, Ferragamo heels—anything that caught her eye. Jason trailed behind, occasionally offering a half-hearted suggestion on color or fit, but mostly playing the role of human credit card. Hold it together, man, he thought, gripping Stan’s card tightly as the charges racked up. This is for her.
By the time night had fully settled, the city cloaked in darkness, Harley’s shopping frenzy finally petered out. They left the delivery address with the stores and hopped into another taxi, this time bound for the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills.
---
The next morning, the first rays of California sunshine streamed through the bedroom window, bathing the room in a golden glow. The king-sized bed, a tangled mess of sheets from their late-night sex, lay empty.
Jason and Harley sat at the dining table, digging into a lavish breakfast delivered by room service—fluffy pancakes, crispy bacon, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Jason slathered butter on a slice of toast, glancing at Harley. "So, what’s the plan today? Universal Studios? Santa Monica Beach?"
Harley took the toast from him, shaking her head with a small smile. "Last night was a blast, but I’m good. Let’s get to work. Time to handle your big plans."
Her thoughtfulness caught him off guard, and he leaned over, planting a playful morning kiss on her lips. "You’re too good to me," He said, his voice warm.
They ate in comfortable silence, the TV humming in the background. Watching the news had become Jason’s daily ritual, a way to keep his finger on the pulse of the chaos they’d left behind.
The anchor’s voice cut through their quiet moment. "Yesterday, New York authorities apprehended nine escapees from Long Island Prison. According to their confessions, the mastermind behind the breakout was Jason Walter, with the prison’s psychiatric consultant, Harleen Quinzel, as his primary accomplice."
Jason paused mid-bite, a grin spreading across his face. "Well, damn, babe. You’re famous."
Harley’s expression darkened, her playful demeanor fading. "Nine escapees in just two days? The NYPD’s moving way too fast."
Jason shrugged, unfazed, and took another bite of his toast. "With the city locked down like a fortress, I’m not surprised. They’ve got every cop, soldier, and wannabe hero out there hunting. Catching a few stragglers was inevitable."
The anchor continued, his tone grave. "Jason Walter coordinated with his allies to orchestrate a series of explosions across New York, diverting police attention. Meanwhile, he hired over eight hundred mercenaries to storm the prison and secure his escape."
Harley’s brow furrowed. "Eight hundred? Didn’t we have, like, four hundred?"
Jason chuckled, shaking his head. "They’re inflating the numbers to save face. Admitting they got outmaneuvered by half that many would make them look like fucking idiots."
Harley nodded, a spark of understanding in her eyes. "Sneaky bastards."
The anchor’s voice grew more urgent. "Breaking news: The Department of Justice has issued a warrant for Harleen Quinzel, with a bounty of eight million dollars. Jason Walter’s bounty has been raised to thirty million dollars."
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