Bar says why, if he asked you, I cannot imagine why my opinion ought to matter.
Bell goes back up. "D'you care where? I probably have terrible aim. But you're not really far away so I can probably be at least approximate," she says, picking up the shotgun again.
She aims and sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth and mentally reviews her memory of the last several minutes to make sure she's not hallucinating the request or Bar's acquiescence. She pulls the trigger.
The Joker... giggles. It doesn't sound quite right. It usually doesn't, mind you, but it also usually doesn't have that bubbling undertone to it.
"This place isn't... booby-trapped or anything, is it?" she asks, pointing the gun back at the ceiling. She's going to have Tony look all the guns over.
She is, of course, welcome to disregard this information as suspect.
She also takes some of the fabric. One folded sheet of strong, shiny stuff that she just plain likes. She re-folds it so it's longer one way, and wraps it around herself and tucks everything but the guns into it so she can have her hands free for those.
Several of them are small. She tucks those in the makeshift sarong too, pointing away from herself and down - she doesn't know how to unload them, that's going to be Tony's job. The longer ones she carries in her arms. "Thanks," she says, not sure if he can still hear her. "Uh, good luck with being full of bits of metal."
(Lynnis would have volunteered in place of anyone - she was up that year - and this guy would probably have gotten someone else to shoot him if Bell had turned him down. This analogy makes sense to her.)
Bell goes down to stash the swag in her room - she can invite the twins to see it later - and goes to check in on Sherlock, who has been left with her sign for some time now.
"He said he was called 'the Joker' and he seemed enthusiastic about his proposed deal of me shooting him and taking his stuff. He's weird. You think he's dead? He could've just passed out from what I saw."
"I'm not sure of it," she says. "But you smell like a lot of blood and don't have very much on you. That suggests someone was doing a great deal of bleeding close by."
"Well, I have seven guns and accessories for Tony to take apart and cannibalize or improve, now. And some knives. And a pretty bolt of fabric that let me get it all down the stairs in one trip. And I guess now I know I can maybe-kill a guy, at least if he literally hands me a shotgun and asks nicely."
"Yeah. For certain values of 'good', I guess. Tony's still working?"
"Okay. Unless you're bored and wanna switch places I'll make another excursion, then."
"Good," says Bell cheerily, and off she goes in search of someone else she hasn't talked to yet. Who's shown up in the past hour?
Well, there's that girl sitting at the bar who's a little older than Bell, bears a passing resemblance to her actually, and has an impressive and incongruous war hammer hanging from a braided leather belt around her waist. The rest of her outfit is pure twenty-first-century Earth, but those two things look like they came out of a century rather earlier than that one.
Shell Bell squints at her. She doesn't think this is an alternate, but maybe they're related or something - she's never met anyone who claimed to be related to one of her, either. No, probably this is just someone who happens to be pale and brunette. "Hi," she says, sitting next to her. "I'm Shell Bell. Panem, Earth, year 72 by our count, something else by everyone else's. Who're you?"
"Nice to meet you, Darcy! My life back home is actually pretty dull" (so far; and Bell doesn't like to bring up 'please give me stuff' this early) "so I just talk to everyone when I get here to compensate. Your hammer is nifty. Doesn't look like the sort you build houses with."
It looks like the sort of thing that is not mass-produced. Especially if being "from space" is a relevant property. But its details could suggest things about what else there might be to be had.