Anton sighed. Not a single mention of Razor Bat. Or Batman in a mech suit. What makes it worse, people on Twitter are fawning over the new Robin that's been streaking across Gotham. A girl Robin. He took the time to take off his helmet.

"You let one man slip quietly in the night and all of a sudden, you get teenagers with attitudes taking over. My damn spotlight's being stolen by a kid." He face palmed. Well, that was enough crime busting for one night, he thought.

---

It took about five minutes for Anton to take off the armor, though it took another five to discreetly hide the armor back at his apartment. While he'd go public with the identity of Razor Bat, he knew the press he'd get: "Crazy man dresses up as cyber bat to sell his brand", "Salty businessman refuses to let his business die", and not to mention the cops pulling in and arresting him for vigilantism. If that's even a crime in Gotham anymore.

Batman never revealed his identity either, so he had that to consider. Rereading the tweets on his Razor phone, he could only grip the phone in frustration over how he's being upstaged by a teenage girl of all people. He had to take his mind off... But how?

Out in the window, he saw someone on the ground. Seems he just got mugged or assaulted. He looked at his suit for a moment before he looked back at the man's suit. A detective. No. This would not be a job for Razor Bat.

This would be a job for Anton Bolton.

---

He had to throw a jacket on due to the cold of the night and headed out to the streets. Sure enough, the detective was still there. He could note the marks on his neck: strangulation. But... He's still alive. Usually when someone strangles you in Gotham, you'd be as good as dead. He went over to Harvey Bullock and tried to shake him.

"Hey, you alright?" Anton said to him. At the corner of his eye, he spotted a black card. Without trying to draw attention to the fact that he was looking at the card, he subtly shifted his eyes to the card. From his perspective though, it was simply a black card. He wasn't at the right position to see the raised numbers. He got out his phone and prepared to call for an ambulance.

Dross, worthlessness and foolishness. The Riddler had been right not to put too much faith in his human operatives, he felt, as not one of them had brought him anything even remotely useful. As always, it was Nigma’s own innovations and creations that brought him information of any relevancy. Around an hour ago, his roving search parameters had alerted him to the return of the boy-blunder on his ridiculous motorcycle. It seemed that Eddie wasn’t the only one who had noticed the Bat’s disappearance. In fact, there seemed to be far too many costumed thugs prowling the streets tonight, most of them almost entirely unknown to the Riddler. Something about this city makes people think it’s acceptable behaviour to put on a spandex suit, choose a random gimmick and make a name for themselves! Ridiculous!

As he glared at the flickering screens, there was a small BLIP from one of the many monitors around the room. Glancing at it, Eddie saw a flashing message symbol which which was unusual to say the least. Very few people had the ability to contact Eddie and no one could do it directly. This particular message alert was triggered when certain key-words were dumped into massive uploads of raw text on a storage website. And the individual that posted them was only to do so if the unregistered mobile he had in his possession received a message comprising of another set of keywords. As if that were not enough, that mobile’s number and the second set of words were known to only one person so Nigma could be 100% certain who the message was from and what that person wanted.

“It never rains, but it pours.” he muttered, cracking his knuckles and kicking off various prearranged sequences of commands, strings of code and messages. If he was going to set up a meeting, it would be done just like how he did everything else; carefully, cunningly and with the maximum amount of paranoia.

---

Simple things were never just simple with Edward. This, Jonathan came to expect. Everything from his schemes, his speech patterns, one could even potentially argue down to every thread stitched into his clothes.

On the one hand, it frustrated him, not for any so-called intellect, but because it gave the most straightforward processes about ten extra steps and six hoops to jump through. On the other, if anyone in this city could guarantee the utmost privacy and protection in this city, it was Edward. Even the Penguin with his connections couldn’t always ensure the level of security the Riddler provided.

He took in each message carefully, using specific cues to get the place and time. Even upon arriving at the location, he expected a process. And beyond the process, confirmation of the correct place. If the blaring green question marks inside didn't give it away immediately, the altered machinery in the process of being turned into a death trap contingent on quick thinking for release certainly would.

The warehouse looked nondescript, uniform and unremarkable, almost unusually so. Crane wouldn’t have been surprised if it Edward had found an image of what a warehouse ought to look like and then had one built to those specifications, expertly weathered and painted to look well used. The inside was a little more what one might expect; a lot of green and purple contraptions in various states of construction or disrepair. Crane had a couple of moments to wonder who it was Nigma got to work on these things before the lights cut out through the building.

The darkness stayed undisturbed for a few moments before two spotlights burst into life, highlighting two chairs in the middle of a cleared space in the floor. Sitting at one of the chairs was Edward Nigma, the Riddler, his grin as insufferably smug as ever. He gestured to the other chair with one hand, not taking his eyes off of Crane.

Jonathan glanced over at him. Where another man might have been taken off guard by such theatrics, he rather enjoyed the dark, wincing only due to the sudden brightness of the light.

“I don’t recall the last time we arranged a little rendezvous, Edward,”, he said quietly, “but I suspect one of your caliber expected this to come in time.”

Jonathan moved to take the spare seat, stepping into the light. The brim of his hat kept his face in shadow, the cloth mask like a distorted skull.

“Oh, indeed. There are too few of us now in Gotham who have our sights set on, aheh, higher things. It seems that nowadays there’s nothing but thieves, serial killers and mobsters.” Eddie sighed theatrically and placed his chin on one hand. “And now the clown has had his last laugh. I admit, not even I expected that.”

From behind his mask, Crane took in carefully Edward’s posture and expression. And then he smirked.

“So it seems.”

His fingers curled around the ends of the armrest, tightening at the mention of the Joker. Jonathan didn't attempt to hide the ensuing bitterness in his tone.

“...And none too soon. Aside from Ms. Quinzel, I doubt there's a soul in Gotham who mourns his passing.”

Eddie chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know. I always thought that Batman needed Joker just as much as Joker needed Batman. Were I the sort to intrude on other’s fields of expertise, which of course I am not, I’d hazard that Batman used Joker to personally justify the need for his continued crusade. After all, what battle against crime would be complete while the Joker was still at large?”

“One might think that. But to take it further, there is no denying that he was… reprehensible at best. To allow such a creature to exist in the very city the Batman time and time again vows to save...it would seem to go against his very nature, would it not? That innocent lives, time and time again, will always linger on the brink of peril.”

Another smirk.

“But no. We’re all very aware of his one rule. The mass of innocents slaughtered is nothing when it comes to wrestling with his own personal demons. The only reason the Batman hasn't already snapped his neck years ago is, quite simply, fear. That he’ll cross a line, and when he does, he’s reached the point of no return.”

Nigma shrugged. “If you say so. Though you must admit that many of our peers and perhaps even you live the lives you do only because of Batman’s one rule. Without it, his so called ‘rogue’s gallery’ would likely not last a week.” It spoke a great deal about Edward’s mental state that he saw not one thing wrong or disingenuous with what he said.

Jonathan pondered the statement a moment, gave Edward the faintest of nods.

“Regardless,” he continued, ”it doesn't take a genius to piece together that with the Joker's death, we’re all waiting to see who attempts to take the available vacancy.” A glance. “But I would say you and I are among the privileged few who understand it isn't just the inevitable in-fighting and mobs trying to outdo each other and staking our own claims. Rather, it’s a matter of what becomes of ourselves...and the Batman.”

He spoke calmly, with an air of respect, though he kept his tone careful, calculating.

“Whether this city realizes it or not, everything comes back to him. It’s not going to matter who takes the mantle. What does matter is how the Batman changes, because that in itself affects every dynamic we have, even among ourselves.”

“Bah, I have no interest in your psycho-babble! I, the Riddler, will not be influenced one jot by the Joker’s death! True, he was a titan in Gotham, a giant in the field of murder and mayhem, but my vendetta with the Batman will not be moved by the cessation of Joker’s antics. If anything, it will allow our delicate game of back and forth, our intricate chess match to proceed without distraction.”

Here Eddie eyed Crane carefully. It was always hard to make out facial expressions or reactions underneath masks to read people but long years of bluffing against the Bat, a man whose self control was legend, had honed Nigma’s not inconsiderable talents in that field. “but surely you didn’t call a meeting just so we could trade opinions on what comes next for the city. Perhaps you have some other, more nefarious reason for asking to meet?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Jonathan glanced back at Edward, joining him in their little game of trying to read one another. After a moment, he continued.

”The most important matter is where we both stand. I trust our agreement remains in effect.”

“Why wouldn’t it? Do you believe that something has changed in Gotham?” Eddie’s face and tone were calculatedly blank which was in itself something of a give-away.

”Yes. You know as well as I do that this city...it lives, in a sense. Has wants, needs, has its health and its ills.”

He paused a moment, once more looking at Edward. Despite the other man’s attempts to keep it back, he sensed it. A bit of nervousness. Not quite panic, but that something didn’t sit right with the Riddler.

”Something is amiss, and I summoned you because a man of your, shall we say, expertise, might be able to assist in pinpointing what has affected the dynamic aside from the obvious.”

Nigma scowled and spoke with noticeable irritation. “I don’t need you to tell me that I am the only being, the only man in all of Gotham that could have detected the subtle unease and, shall we say, absence that currently hangs over the city. I am fully aware that my intellect towers over that of every other feeble minded imbecile in this city!” Seeming to realise he might have lost the threat a little, Edward looked away and broke off talking. After a moment, he straightened his tie and looked at Crane again.

“Yes Jonathan, I know what is happening in Gotham even though I think that Gotham hasn’t precisely noticed yet; Batman is missing. He hasn’t been seen or heard from by anyone or anything in the city for approximately seventy five hours. Before I came here, I detected the arrival of some of his favourite lackeys, the boy-blunder and his successor, the one who always dresses in red. So they know that things are not right.”

A quiet smirk under the mask. A careful glance to the Riddler, a deliberate silence as he took in that information.

“...Then this city is, in a sense, unprotected. And eventually, they’ll notice.”

A note of amusement in his tone, if only because the Scarecrow could perfectly visualize the chaos that would ensue, hear the screams and rioting, already smell the fear permeating the air at the knowledge of Gotham’s savior no longer there to watch over and protect the innocent.

“Well… yes and no. The Bat is away, the mice can play. But the dogs are here too; the league of assassins have come to town. Again. They’ve set up in their favourite headquarters, the Nywaka Centre. So any operations we should choose to stage before Batman’s return may be met with a rather more lethal response than normal.”

“Noted,” Jonathan said calmly, “though it may be unwittingly to our advantage. With the Batman’s occasional allegiance, they may very well keep things from getting too out of hand before his return. And when he does, what better time to strike when he’s once more thrown them to the curb, and with less competition rising up in addition?”

“Could be. I feel there may be something else coming though… I’m a man of science and logic and naturally do not put any worth in feelings, premonitions or the like but there is a certain… feeling in the city. I don’t know what it means. Yet” It was clear the admission cost Nigma considerably.

“Call it instinct,” Jonathan said, in a rare moment of assuaging trepidation instead of encouraging it. “There are times the mind knows what the tongue cannot yet voice. All it means is we watch, we wait, we accumulate new information until we can make a definite move.”

The Riddler considered his companion’s words for a few seconds and eventually seemed to accept them. “I am, of course, well aware of the mysteries of the sub-conscious but perhaps it is only natural that my highly superior mind be the first to pick up traces of this uneasiness, even if my forebrain was not entirely aware of it.”

“Of course.” If Edward ever realized how much effort it took to hold back the sarcasm… “The mind is humanity’s greatest mystery.”

“I am confident I could solve it, were I to apply my full attention.”

Jonathan watched him for a moment, looking for those precious little tics and cues, and cataloguing them in the back of his mind should he ever need to set Nigma on edge. Not that he he had a reason right now, but who knew what the future held?

“Nevertheless, this meeting has been more than fruitful. I appreciate your assistance, Edward.” Jonathan stood, turning to head back into the darkness. “And while I don’t doubt your brilliance and confidence in your work, know that should another angle ever be needed, you know how to find me.”

Still sitting at the table, the Riddler laughed. “I know where to find everyone, Jonathan. No one hides from me for long.”

It may have been his imagination, but a faint chuckle came from the dark. Afterward, the Scarecrow did as he always did: melded into the shadows until he decided the time was right to reemerge.

Across town in a room full of green screens, lights began to flash and flicker. First one, then two, then three but before long there were dozens, each one reporting a separate incident. And all across Gotham, Nigma’s premonitions were coming true...

---

Gotham Gardens

Smoke filled the casino floor. Old ladies chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes and worked slot machines with dead eyes. Dolled up ex-strippers wobbled across the floor on too tall heels, dishing out chips and cigarettes. The heavy make-up couldn't hide the miles and the years. Drunk businessmen played blackjack. Geeks in Hawaiian shirts and Shriner fez hats played roulette. Slam sat at the casino bar on his lunch break. "Lunch": Six shots of rye and three beers. A straight up liquid lunch.

He moonlighted as a security goon for the cut-rate casino. It was shit work. He worked over drunks who got too handsy with the girls. Card cheats lost teeth, card counters got their arms broke. He got paid more than the rest of the goons because of notoriety. People still recognized him from time to time. Geeks wanted photos with Slam, geeks wanted to pose with their fist on his chin in a faux knockout punch. One card counter asked for his autograph after he fractured the fuck's arm. He spat blood and smiled. He said he had something in common with Goodnight Garcia; both got their asses handed to them by Slam Bradley.

Slam watched the beer swirl in his glass. He had six days to get two grand out of thin air or the Russians would turn him in Borscht. He'd get a few hundred working tonight and tomorrow at the Gardens, but there was no PI work to be had. The law firms wouldn't call him back or give him the time, and civilian walk-ins were rare in the business. Dames in distress coming into a PI's office was straight out of the movies and books. Slam didn't even have an office. He worked out of his flop over on the East End.

Chinatown. That's where he always went when he had enough booze in his system. The night they got street justice for Fat Ricky Fat's niece fucked Slam up in more ways than he would ever admit to even himself. He crossed a line that night. Beating shitbirds was one thing, but he had killed them. He'd taken a life; a life of a scumbag, but still a life. The transfer to homicide saved what little bit of his soul that he had left. He got teamed up with Gordon and the rest was history. But those days were over. As dead as the junkie rapist he gunned down in Chinatown all those years ago.

He polished off his last beer when the gorillas came up. They were different heights and weights but looked like twins. They both had necks like tree trunks and ruddy faces. Slam played his favorite game: Cop or Wiseguy? They both had buzzed heads like cops, they had that asshole swagger and self-importance that both cops and wiseguys had, their suits were too nice to be cops. In the end, the rings made him put his money down on wiseguy. They both wore gold rings on their pinkies. Slam saw a flash of diamond encrusted somewhere. Even if a cop could afford that kind of flash, he wouldn't be caught dead with that shit.

"If one of you is named Tony," Slam said softly, pushing away from the bar on wobbly legs. "I am going to fucking scream."

"I'm Angelo," the smaller of the two said. "And this is Paulie. And you're Slam Bradley."

"Charmed," Slam said with a loud beer belch. "I'm sure."

"I saw you fight back when I was a kid," said Paulie. "You were something."

"I was something," Slam shrugged. "Now I'm just a piece of work."

"And now you're coming with us," said Angelo.

"Guys, I gotta get back to work."

Slam tried to push in between the two mobsters. The pushed back and he was pressed against the bar.

"We talked to the pit boss," Paulie said with a smirk. "He's cool with you taking the rest of the night off."

"Awful nice of him," Slam said as the two men put their arms on his shoulders and started to guide him across the casino floor.

--

The next thing he knew, he was face to face with he head of the fucking Bertinelli Family. Geppe got in close, so close Slam could smell his stinking breath and the cologne he seemed to bathe in.

Geppe turned just-so to tilt his body in the guy's direction, before smiling. "Sorry about the drama, Slam. Hope the boys weren't rough or anything stupid. I'm Guiseppe Bertinelli. I've got a job I want you to look into. Happening right about now-ish, one of the GCPD sarges for traffic is gonna get capped. We're not sure by who, we just know it's gonna happen. We know he's crooked, working for someone. We want you to find out who killed him, and to find out who he was on the payroll of. To motivate you, and to address payment, I purchased your gambling debt from the Russians....you should really find better betting guides, my man. That's not a small debt for a guy of your means. Do this job for me, do it well, and the debt's gone. You never have to see me again. What do you say?"

The information came and went by Slam fast. If he were sober, he would have grasped it immediately. As it was, he took a few moments to comprehend just what Bertinelli was saying. He felt like telling him to call the cops. He didn't do murders and shit like that. He either did divorce jobs or muscle work. He hadn't looked into a murder since the... the case that got him ran out the GCPD.

But he had a fucking albatross around his neck in the form of that debt. And he didn't like being in the mob's debt. The Russians would beat you and huff and puff, but they only wanted cash. If the Italians got their hooks into you, they wanted favors. That was their coin. He was surprised he wasn't being asked to whack a guy. Compared to that, looking into a murder was..

"Easy," Slam said out loud. "I can tell you who killed your guy right away: A murderer."

- Abandoned Shipyard, Gotham

"Goddamn scavengers..", Derrick thought to himself as his bare feet touched the hard concrete. The ringing in his head faint, but still present. The medics at Arkham had really yanked his head around. Come to think of it, Derrick never actually understood the function of Arkham Asylum. They sent the Joker in years ago, and he came out of it with a new mischevious companion - Harley Quinn. Whatever was done to those criminals within the borders of that facility was in no way leading them towards reformation. Because Gotham's rich gallery of the criminally insane cannot be reformed. Yet, the higher-ups in charge of that shithole continuously insist that Arkham is necessary, and everyone nods in agreement as they sweep the years of failure and misconduct that place bears under their bloody rug. Of course, that's only a thought. Derrick is not even close to being the noble crusader that will one day free the tormented souls within the walls of that Asylum. He only wants to put a stop to the recurring nightmares, which seem to serve the purpose of reminding him how far he is from accomplishing his one and only goal; kill the Bat.

Derrick snapped out of his thoughts at the sight of a bonfire, the only source of light in a coal black background, a goth kid's wet dream. The shipyard was huge, as shipyards ought to be, but security was more concentrated on shielding the East wing. Didn't take a genius to figure out that's where the big guy is. Now it all came down to the question; how? How could he enter and exit the premises with his head intact? He could go commando and try to slaughter everyone in the base, but then again he could also play Russian roulette with a clip loading pistol. No, he had to find another way. After a brief moment of pondering, his index finger caressing his chin in co-operation with his thumb, a metaphorical lightbulb lit up on his head. He pulled his white blouse, now mostly stained brown due to the dirt, and revealed his dual pistols; FN Five Seven, arguably the best tactical handgun ever made. Sadly, he wouldn't get to use them tonight. Hiding them under his pants was impractical to say the least, but he left his house in a hurry. Derrick slowly stacked the weapons on top of each other in one of the containers, and threw a grubby newspaper over them so as to put them out of sight. Then, he began walking. Not away from his point of interest, but rather towards it.

There were five guards in the ground, two near the bonfire and three of them a few feet further. There were four on top of the abandoned ship, all seemed to be armed to the teeth unlike their 'comrades' on the ground who were equipped with mere pistols. It didn't take too long for one of those leather jacket admirers (seriously, what was with Russians and leather jackets?) to notice a homeless looking person coming their way. Even in the dark, Derrick could still make out one of them tapping the other on the shoulder, prompting him to turn his head and face him. He'd gotten their attention. At no point did Derrick flinch, as the two guards came close to a dangerous distance. One was below average height, bald, weary eyes, exactly as you'd expect a Russian to be. The other was even more so; built like a brickhouse, facially scarred, probably a former-Spetsnaz, made even Derrick look like a kindergarten child.

"What do you want, American?", the small Ruskie skipped straight to the point, his heavy accent grinding Derrick's ear.

"I want a meeting with your boss. I'm a potential buyer.", Derrick calmly replied.

Small Ruskie did a double take, his eyes following an invisible trail starting from his bare feet to his filthy blouse. He seemed to relay what Derrick said to his hulking buddy, who didn't seem to speak or understand an ounce of English. They both shared a laugh.

"You think I'm stupid, American? You look like you don't have money to buy a sandwich."

"Looks aren't everything, comrade. You'd think I'd waltz in with a bag of greens and just hand them to you? Get me a meeting with your boss, or else you're gonna have to explain to him how you accidentally wasted his chance of making some good money."

The determination and coldness on Derrick's tone seemed to hit the dwarf hard. Derrick could even see the exact moment that he realized there would be no harm in sending an unarmed guy into their base of operations. He spoke something in Russian to his big fella, and they both nodded.

"Alright, American.", he said, motioning with his hand for Derrick to follow him. He climbed the stairs leading to the cargo ship's deck. Ignoring the stares he got from the mooks and the pricking the rough surface caused to his bare feet, they both finally arrived to the main room. It appeared like the room was some sort of a storage facility, a vessel for the precious cargo, but re-modeled to look like a living room. There was even an open bar. There were about fifteen guards, five sitting in one of the couches, two of them playing cards in a table a few feet further, one in charge of the bar and the other seven had been scattered around the room. All their eyes were on Derrick. They were waiting on him, no, HOPING he would do something rash so that they'd have a reason to grill him. On the center of the room, sitting on an armchair, was the one in charge. He had two prostitutes by his side, one a redhead the other blonde, both looked like they were imported from Russia. They called him The Scavenger. He ran a business that was solely based on racketeering and what he called, scavenging; waiting for something bad to happen - a gang war, a tussle, the death of someone of importance to the Gotham underground - at which point he sends his lackeys to scavenge the valuables. It's a pretty good form of a low risk, high reward business. Hell, word on the street is he was all over the place when The Joker died, trying to find his corpse or any other type of keepsake from the now-deceased psychopath.

Physically speaking, the Scavenger appeared to be very inactive. He was overweight, his thinning hair slicked back probably in a desperate attempt to cover the bald spot on his head. He had a mole near his nose, and rotten blue eyes. Definitely around his early 60s, late 50s.

His attention shifted from the voluptuous, scantily clad girls, to his henchman as he called out for him. They had a talk in their mother tongue, which concluded with The Scavenger throwing a look at the elephant in the room, the only afro-american in a nest of white communist trash. Derrick could feel the silent judgment, but he also has to live with a heavy weight on his head, so he didn't mind.

"We don't sell shoes here, yankee.", The Scavenger spoke. He told the girls to hit the bar while he discussed business. Derrick took that as an invitation, and walked towards him, but he was stopped by one of the guards.

"Not here to buy shoes. I'm looking for a suit. A suit of armor."

Derrick's request seemed to have piqued his interest. He waved his hand to one of his guards, and spoke something to him in an aggressive tone, or so it seemed. Everything that was spoken in Russian sounded aggressive.

"I think I have just the thing for you.", he said to Derrick, his speech manner a little bit ominous.

Shortly after, one of his henchmen dragged the suit in and threw it right down Derrick's feet. Another thud was heard, and next to it as the mask. The mask came separately.

"That suit's got a rich history, American. It was-"

"I care very little about the suit's history, boss. How much?"

The Scavenger smirked. "Right down to business. I admire that. You'd pass off as a legit Russian, if your skin tone wasn't a dead give away."There were fits of laughter in some parts of the room. Some of the henchmen who did understand the language actually found the remarks funny.

"Three point four, American."

"Million?, Derrick queried. The Scavenger nodded.

He attempted to kneel down and take a close look at the suit, but The Scavenger's henchman grabbed him by his clothes.

"What are you doing?", The Scavenger spoke.

"I need to make sure you're not selling me a cheap knockoff."

The Scavenger motioned to the guard to let Derrick go. Derrick knelt down and began inspecting the suit. He knew all it's inner and outer workings. His 'inspection' was simply an attempt to find the right timing, for when shit hits the fan everyone's gonna get splattered.

"How do you put it on?", Derrick made yet another question.

"I don't know."

Derrick did a double take at the fat slob sitting on the center of the room. "You don't know?"

"I sell them. I don't make them, tovarich. If you're gonna buy it, buy it. If not, then please place your hands on the table so my men can break all your fingers for wasting my time."

Derrick didn't move his eyes from the suit, pretending he didn't hear the threat that was aimed at him. He moved his hand down the exosuit's feet and pressed a button, causing the armor's chest to open. Shit had made impact with the fan now. He had to act fast. In a precise and swift move, he reached for the 9mm on the russian's holster and shot him in the head, blood and brain matter squirting from it. He then rolled on his back on top of the exosuit and the armor automatically embroiled him. Before he could reach for the mask, however, shots were already being fired. He took cover behind one of the tables and rapidly made an attempt on The Scavenger, the bullet successfully penetrating his thick skull. The two prostitutes tried to leave, but they dropped down too, although Derrick wasn't sure if it was one of his bullets that killed them. A couple of minutes later, and the coast was clear. It was a bloodbath, but there was not a single drop of his blood. All those months in Arkham had done nothing to slow Derrick - or rather, Black Spider - down.

He reached for the mask laying on the ground, then hid behind the open door leading to the storage. The guards in the ship's deck heard the commotion. There was a hail of footsteps originating from the stairwell. The unsuspecting guards, armed with machine guns, came to investigate only to be momentarily distracted by what they saw. Derrick got behind the first one, and then landed a hit on his hand, effectively dropping his AK-47 on the ground and then another one right to his neck. He grabbed the machine gun and mowed over the guards coming from the stairwell. Not an ideal place for a combat, since there was little space you could maneuver. He dropped the AK-47 and grabbed another, fully loaded one, that he took from one of the dead bodies. The waiting game was his only strategy. He waited for the remaining five to drop in and investigate, then killed them all too. They stood no chance, considering their artillery was weak compared to his.

He dropped the machine gun on his way out and then made it to the container where he'd stacked his weapons of choice. He wouldn't admit it if asked, but he was sure glad to be back.

10:42 PM, Midtown in Gotham...

"Who is the Jester?" Lee asked himself climbing and leaping down from a nearby fire escape in midtown sporting his fedora and mask.

"It's only been a couple days since Batman supposedly disappeared, and my underworld contacts say the Joker is dead. Now these Jokerz clowns are trying to pick up the pieces, but their actions seem more random. Makes sense with all of the masks in this town..." the Crimson Avenger continued to think as he touched down on the ground in an alley just around the corner from where a few criminals in clown make-up were gathered, "These stooges barely look house trained. Even with the dumb clothes, neither one of them could be the gang's leader. Okay, there's three of them. One could only weigh a buck fifty soaking wet, the averaged size guy's got a baseball bat, and the meathead looks pretty slow. Should be easy enough, just gotta remember to not knock one of them out so I can question him..."

"Evenin' boys. I'm looking for the top man on the totem pole..." Lee asked pulling one of his pistols.

"You're looking for an ass-beating, ain't nobody around here knows anything about totem poles..." said the guy with the bat charging at 'Avenger and taking a swing.

Lee managed to dodge the swing and caught the clown with his elbow striking him to the ground. The big guy came next and Lee simply shot him with gas pellets that quickly knocked him out. The little skinny guy took off down the alley.

"I want you to tell your boss about me..." Lee said grabbing the clown punk he smashed with his elbow up by his shirt.

"Who are you man... who are you..?" the clown asked.

"I'm the Crimson Avenger. Also known as your worst nightmare..." Lee responded with all the confidence he could muster.

The big dumb clown recovered a little quicker than expected and charged at the hero. Lee Travis dropped the clown in his grasp and pulled his pistol once more changing the clip. The first round in the non-lethal clip is a standard bullet. This round would find itself shot into the right kneecap of 'Meathead' and take him down. The gun fire had attracted the attention of the GCPD, and the Crimson Avenger ran up the alley and darted quickly up a fire escape. Lee pulled out a red burner phone that matched his wardrobe and called a wheelman, James Wing. Soon after, 'Avenger leaped and ran over rooftops in midtown eventually coming down in an alley where a familiar cab was parked. A young Asian American was behind the wheel and not as shocked as the average guy would be who's cab was taken by a vigilante hero.

"I appreciate you helping me get across town, James." Lee said removing his hat, mask, and coat in the backseat of the cab, "If my dad ever found out I was one of the masks in Gotham I'd never hear the end of it..."

"You saved my sister, so I kind of owe you. Just don't ever ask me to go Kato on somebody..." the young man replied.

~KL~

@Doc Doctor

An unfamiliar sound tipped Spider off. He quickly reached for his dual pistols and pointed them at the source, the source in this case being a white van. He couldn't fully make out the driver, but from what he could see, everything about him screamed pedophile. He had an awfully pale complexion and was sporting a fedora. He sounded like Forrest Gump, if Gump had a sinus infection. Going by his strange manner of speech, he definitely was not from Gotham, or Bludhaven, or any of the surrounding cities. Derrick moved towards the van a step at a time, his pistols both pointed at 'First Degree Donny'. That was the name he tossed around, as if Derrick was supposed to instantly recognize it and gasp in amusement. His movement stopped as soon as he came close to a certain distance, close enough to get a better look at him, far enough to keep him from trying anything funny. It was only then he noticed that the man was a ginger, a fairly good reason to plant a bullet in his head.

"Don't move.", Spider uttered, his voice this time resonating because of his mask. He moved to the back of the van, maintaining the same pace as before while making sure to watch his six for any sudden movement. He mentally counted to three, and then opened the van's doors, expecting at least five thugs to jump out of it. Surprisingly, nothing like that happened. There was no denying that Donny guy had a rather innocent face for a man who could snoop into other people's dirty business without making a fuss about it, which made him all the more unsettling, but Derrick really had to tread through the situation more carefully this time around. Now that he'd finally gotten a partial hold of his brainwashing, he couldn't allow himself to make a mistake that would send him back to Blackgate, Arkham or worse, in the hands of one of Gotham's grade A psychopaths. Word of his escape from the nuthouse already made the papers. GCPD was on his ass, and so were all of his unsatisfied clients. Not to mention how the number of Caped Crusaders had doubled in an attempt to make up for Batman's absence. He couldn't be seen roaming through the streets.

In the end, he decided to give First Degree Donny the benefit of doubt. "Alright, Carrot Top. I'll take you up on your offer., Derrick spoke, taking the front seat. He smirked to himself as he called back to the bloodbath he was responsible for, a bloodbath which happened only thanks to a certain Russian giving Derrick the benefit of doubt.

Detective Hero really couldn't believe it, here he was in one of the dives of GCDP with the Gordon. He got taken out for a round of shots for catching a crook in an hour after the shooting. It was easier than it sounded.

Three hours ago there was a shooting and he was he closest officer to the scene. The body belonged to a female pimp and cause of death was a 45 to the side. What he saw that no one else did was a twin of the dead woman silently screaming at a worker of the night who was clutching his purse too tightly to simply be afraid of pickpockets.

He touched a patrol officer and had him corner the boy for questioning. A search of is purse turned up the 45, freshly shot, and residue on his hand. A short leap to logic and it was justifiable homicide. All he had to do was claim that she pulled the gun on him, there was a struggle, and it went off into her side. Hero chose to ignore the fact that the pimp had no holster for the 45 and the wallet check on the worker revealed a carry conceal license. He'd rather there be one less pimp on the streets than locking up someone willing to protect themselves.

End of shift and he belted one back with the commissioner himself. The place he had the drink at was a cop dive across the street from a place called "Carradale", it was well known as a criminal place and the brazen act to set up across from the cop bar was a middle finger to the establishment. Suddenly, the door across the street slammed open as a woman screamed while pointing to a man.

"MURDERER!"

Gordon took off after the man into the alley as Hero called for backup and an ambulance. Cops or criminals didn't matter at the moment, there was a death in a public building, the criminals would have to suck it up as the cop walked right in to the body... but he wasn't dead yet! The Carotid was torn to bits with a screwdriver, he was in shock, but he had three minutes to die from bloodloss. The ambulance would never make it.

Semi-pro killer to know anatomy, common enough tool to get on any street corner like a steak knife. The weapon of choice might be a calling card of the killer or a message for why they were killed. He would have to ask the spirit when it left the body.

He approached the woman from just a moment ago and started the line of questions while he waited for the spirit to leave the body. All she was willing to share was that the dead one was Alphonse Sisca and she heard the killer say. "With regards from the Bertinelli family." He took down the notes and got ready to pass them off to the backup when they arrived.

The only response that Anton got was a writhing sound from Bullock. In that time, Anton waited it out for the ambulance to arrive. Anton took the time to look at the card a little more, but before he did, Bullock grabbed at his leg and gave out a rasp. Anton could see that his throat had been assaulted, so he couldn't be able to decipher what Bullock was trying to say.

For now, he ignored him and looked at the card. Nothing. He did notice the raised numbers, but the coloring made them hidden on the matted black card. Whoever dropped the card wanted to remain hidden. He took out his phone and rubbed his fingers on the numbers. Rather than outright dialing the number, he added the number to his contacts. When he was done, he dropped the card by Bullock, who took it and placed it in his pocket.

The ambulance arrived and paramedics picked up and carried Harvey Bullock into a stretcher. Just before the doors closed on Bullock though, Bullock gave Anton a look. A sharp, dirty look. Anton spent his time watching old detective movies to get that the look meant:

"Listen kid, you're gonna end up in a world of hurt if you take this route."

As the ambulance drove off, he rushed back to his apartment and donned the Razor Batsuit again.

While Anton would refuse to go down that path, if it meant getting publicity for Razor Limited, then Razor Bat will go down it instead.

"Enable Mask Voice. Dial Black Card." Anton said the two commands out as the HUD began to dial up the number he put onto his phone. Worst case scenario, he's just got himself mixed up in gang violence and he's gonna end up on the hit list. Again, something Anton would never want in his life.

But Razor Bat, the entity dedicated to promoting his brand? He's all for it.

@Catchphrase

It should've been harder. It never was, and deep down, that scared her more than anything else in her life. Slipping from the vigilante to the crime lord was seamless, done with the ease and practice of a drug addict slipping back into the old familiar high. The Ferrari F12 screamed back into Gotham City over the Kane Memorial Bridge, an old structure of steel and concrete, built by immigrants and the poor. A city built by immigrants and the poor, before they were thrown away on the trash heap of history--forgotten and left out of the histories.

Something was causing that rage to build. Was it Alfred's warnings? Was it the League of Assassins? Or was it actually the problem she faced now? As the car came to a halt in front of the old factory, Helena took the time and care to at least consider it. Someone was actively trying to manipulate events against the Bertinelli family. A quick check of the glove box, and the silver plated low caliber pistol was checked for a round in the chamber, before she quickly flipped the safety with her thumb and slipped out the car.

She wasn't alone; there were three large black SUVs parked outside the factory, and half a dozen large men in black suits with black shirts and black ties, accessorized with SMGs and automatic pistols and automatic shotguns. All of them greeted her, one of them even told her to, "In the basement, boss. Get that son of a bitch." The soldiers were harboring anger, too, and she didn't blame them. If this framed hit on a Viti man started a real blood war, they were going to be caught in it just as much as Geppe. Just as much as her.

The door was opened, the stairs just off the entrance, leading to a basement that had once been some sort of machine shop. All that remained was a few rusted out pieces of equipment too large for scrappers and scavangers, a chair, and a torture kit: sharpened pliers, a heavy steel pipe, various daggers, car batteries with jumper cables, and bucket of water with towels for waterboarding. The man in the chair was naked, duct taped into place, eyes and mouth covered. She knew how it happened; how they always happened. Vincent Costello was hiding out, laying low, and suddenly a flashbang comes rushing in. Or gas. Or he was just surrounded and told to get in the fucking car.

Or else.

(I'll let you decide how the scene went down in your response post.)

Since Mr. Costello was still alive, Helena assumed he was either surprised, or just plain got in the fucking car without too much fuss. Out of three suited men in the room, one appeared just behind her, unfolding a metal folding chair for her to seat in--five feet directly in front of Vincent. Helena exposed Vincent to his reality with two vicious rips of duct tape; removing the tape over his mouth first, then his eyes. For a heartbeat, she stood there, staring down into his eyes. Looking for anger, looking for fear.

"Let's talk expectations, Mr. Costello. You're going to answer my questions, you're going to tell me everything you know--or you're going to die." Her voice was flat, void of emotion, as distanced from her heart and soul as possible. It wasn't personal, it was business. Helena sat herself in her chair, laying the pistol across her lap, brown eyes unwavering in their dedication to staring into his eyes.

"One of two things happened: You were given an unauthorized contract you believed was given to you by the Bertinelli family, or you were given a job to frame the Bertinelli family in the murder of a Viti man. We've all gathered together this evening for the express purpose of figuring out just which of those two possibilities is reality. Now, if I don't believe you, or you start playing games, I'll let them torture you until we get some kind of answer from you--what the fuck do I care? I don't have a reason to trust an answer given freely any more than I do an answer gotten from torture. It's in your best interest to talk. So start talking."

And so she went silent, watching, waiting--letting only the cocking of the small pistol in her lap break the silence of the moment.

@Ruby
Lucy's Diner, short time before abduction

Vincent was becoming paranoid. Not only had the client not turned up, but word is getting around about what happened at the bar. He didn't like what he was hearing. Best case scenario for him, the job was frame work and the client was running late. Worst case, the job was frame work, and the client had no intention of paying him anything for his services and may intend on killing him.

That's why he chose this diner as a meeting point for this job. He uses different places every job, and they are all public places where anyone can walk in and not be suspicious. Well, within reason. The place was fairly empty, just a few people finishing the graveyard shift mixes with people who start work early. That's one reason Vincent took this line of work, he can choose his hours.

Then, he spots a couple of big buggers in suits enter the front. With a glance he knew what the were, heavy hitters for one of the families. And he could guess which one. Bertinelli family.

This could either be really good, or really bad.

A couple more entered behind the first pair, and a few more came in through the back. They went up to the other patrons and whispered something in their ears. Whatever they said must have been good, because they left in a hurry, leaving only Vincent and the goons.

Yep, this is gonna go badly for him. Shit.

The approach him with caution, they don't know if he is armed or if he could take them all out without a weapon. He didn't intend to find out. When the first goon got withing arms length, he grabbed the man by his tie and slammed his face down onto the table he was sitting at. He grabbed the goons gun, pointed at the window, and fired.

The glass shattered and the goons went for their guns, but he was already out the window. He ran around the back of the diner and ran down a narrow alley. He looked behind him to see if they would follow, then he felt something hit him in the gut. He fell to the ground and clutched his stomach, and had enough time to see the the ring covered fist smack him in the face.

Warehouse

He woke up with a major headache. He looked around to see where he was, but couldn't see. This panicked him for a moment, but only a small moment, until he realised he wasn't blind, just had his eyes covered. And his mouth. He heard footsteps, the clatter of a chair, then the tear of the tape from his eyes and mouth. That hurt, almost as much as his face did from the punch, and the gash reminded him of that.

He looked into the eyes of a woman he had never met but knew about. Helena Bertenilli. Well fuckballs.

She stared into his eyes for a few moments, probably searching for fear or anger on his part. He had none. The only look he had in his eye was that of curiousity and acceptance. He was curious about why she was here, what she wanted from him, where he was, but most importantly, why he was naked.

And acceptance for what may happen to him. He knew he would meet a bloody end some day, he just hoped they left his junk alone.

When she started talking, he paid close attention to every word she said. She wanted answers, well so did he. And he would give some and hope to get some in return.

"It's in your best interest to talk. So start talking." That's his que then.

"Well to start with it is a pleasure to meet you Miss Bertenilli, though I wish it were under better circumstances. There is nothing much I can tell you I am afraid. I do not know who hired me, I was given the job through the usual channels that I normally get work. It was a simple job, kill a guy to make a statement. The bigger it was, the more I would get paid. It was good pay and easy work, one job and I would have no need to work for a year. They also wanted me to whisper in the targets ear that it was your family that sent me. I did. I performed the job, made a big statement and laid low for a few hours till the meet. The client was a no show and, you can guess where it goes from here."

Vincent cleared his throat and wiggles around a bit. The chair was cold, and his legs were spread wide, he'd rather not think on why. Needless to say, his balls were freezing, and he was a bit embarrassed about being nude in front of people. But that could wait.

"Now, I have three questions for you before we continue on with this, Miss Bertenilli. Firstly, who told you it was me who took the job? Second, who told you where I would be? Thridly, can I get some pants please? A man like me being naked is unpleasant for everyone in this room, including me."

Helena Bertinelli looked down, looked up, and smiled. "Please get Mr. Costello some pants."

The sound a pistol's hammer being gently disarmed was accompanied by Helena getting to her feet, and walking casually behind the man. The snap a switchblade, and relief came flooding into the man's bound joints as the tape was cut. A beat later, and one of the men tossed Costello his pants, followed by his shirt. Helena motioned to one of the guys near the door, Arturo, Bertinelli muscle with a sweet wife and a darling little boy at home, a man who took online classes for a law degree.

The knife she kept loose in her hand. "As for the other questions...wouldn't you like to know." There was the slightest play in her tone, a twisted sense of humor briefly bothering to reveal itself under the surface of her normal dull and officious tones. Her boys preferred her angry tones; they usually got a show when that happened. She took a few steps and turned, wishing she had something to snack on. She hadn't drank much at the club, but she also hadn't eaten much in a while, and it was starting to gnaw at her.

When she turned back to look at him, after his pants were on, she couldn't help but find herself wondering how good Costello was. Could he see signs of her own training? Did he have that kind of trained eye? Or was he more of a young punk? The moment being what it was, there was some difficulty in reading these things--and she had always been good at reading these things. In the end the decision was made in the most unusual, rare, of ways for Helena.

It was decided by emotion.

She'd been standing there silent while he redressed, and even a few long moments after that, her eyes never moving from him. She could use Costello; he was a buy low investment with potential. If nothing else, the person who hired him considered him just competent to get the job done without really realizing what was going on behind the scenes. Had they underestimated Costello? If they had, it wouldn't cost Helena that much to find out...and the potential payoff would be worth it.

There was no way she'd depend on him alone in the matter, but before she knew it, the idea of sending the man used to frame her family to hunt down those who did the framing was an incredibly satisfying one. Because someone was coming after her family. There was a predator loose in the dark, unknown and hungry, and she knew now it had been driving her crazy all night. And driving her anger. Anger that had no use being used on Costello.

"Okay." Sure, fuck it, why not believe you? A quick shrug, and she continued, "Half a million up front paid in gold coins, set up costs included." Suddenly Arturo walked in with a hand held black case, setting it down at Helena's feet before snapping up the lock mechanisms and flipping it open; five rows of gold coins snugly fit into foam cutouts. Helena pushed it gently with her foot, in Costello's direction. "Saul's in Old Gotham is the place I'd go to exchange for cash. Open 24/7, discrete, fair, but naturally that's up to you."

The silver plated pistol she tossed to Arturo, the knife being refolded carefully in her hands as her eyes finally dropped to the ground, in thought. "...there's another player in the mob. Hiding, working from the shadows, used you to frame us, probably planning on not revealing themselves until they've had time for their little ploy to come to fruition."

Her eyes snapped up, quicker and sharper than the switchblade folded in her hands. "Find them and the other half million is yours. Stay underground, create safehouses, burner phones, stay away from cameras, don't contact anyone from your past. If I found you, others could find you, others that might sell that location to the highest bidder," Fucking Nigma, "don't contact us, we'll keep an eye on you but you're on your own and we won't claim you if shit goes south. I'm using you because you're a dead man--if I don't kill you someone will, the Vitis, the person who framed us, a hitman looking for a bounty score. You have one way out of this, find them, expose them, destroy them."

One last look around, at the torture tools, at Costello, at the basement, and Helena turned back to him. "Think you can do it?"

Westside Gotham
1:28 AM

Blue lights and arc lights illuminated the crime scene. Three prowl cars parked in a semi-circle provided light. Slam stood behind crime scene tape with all the others. Patrolmen directed traffic and kept civilians and reporters at bay. Geeks on the sidewalks peddled merch. They sold cheap Batman t-shirts, cheap Batman capes, chunks of rusty metal claimed to be genuine bullets used in the murder. Slam smoked with steady hands. A half-pint of Ripple on the drive over steadied him.

FEATURE: A dead body on the pavement. A blue tarp covered him. Crime scene techs and plainclothes officers converged on the scene. He saw Homicide dicks and IAD men in sharp suits. He saw Charlie Fields in a sharp suit. Charlie was Slam's last partner in Homicide. Charlie loved the Life; capital L, always with a capital L. Charlie loved being a cop and solving murders. Slam used to. Slam told boxing stories and shadowboxed for effect. Slam used to be all about the Life. The Life turned on him. The Life chewed him up. It was still chewing him. Spitting him back out: TBA.

A crime scene tech was coming out of the scene. Red hair with flecks of gray in them. He carried a camera around his neck. Slam locked eyes. Geppe said he was the one to see at the scene. He was one of their men inside the GCPD. Jim Corrigan was as dirty as the day was long. Slam remembered him going through three different IAD investigations and not a single one touched him. Corrigan was slicker than goose shit.

"Corrigan," he said as the man passed by. "GB sent me."

Corrigan got stiff. Corrigan looked around to make sure the coast was clear.

"Slam fucking Bradley," Corrigan said softly. "Of all the people to send. Fuck... follow me."

Corrigan led Slam to his car. He bummed a cigarette off Slam and passed him back his camera. Slam thumbed through the pix on the digital camera. Crime scene pix showed a GCPD uniform face down on the pavement. Shots got in close on the back of the head. Two shots, two entry wounds. No pix of the front because it would be fucking pulp. Slam saw stippling around the wounds. The killer got in close before pulling the trigger.

"Who was he?"

"Perkins," said Corrigan. "Boss of a patrol squad out here in the Western. Name ring a bell?"

"Not particularly. But then again there's a lot of names I don't know anymore."

Slam scrolled through the pix faster. Shell casings near the body ruled out a revolver as the primary weapon. Entry wounds looked like either a 9 MM or .40 were used as the murder weapon. It probably didn't matter. If it was a pro job, the gun was already down a storm drain on the other side of town somewhere.

"What'd you know about him, Corrigan?"

Corrigan shrugged. "A hump by anybody's standards. I remember IAD looking into him hard after some shit he pulled. He got caught shaking down hookers for blowjobs and trying to run a half-ass protection racket here in the Western."

"And he was still here?" Slam asked.

"Must had one hell of a union rep."

Slam flicked his cigarette butt across the street and fumed. Slam got run out of the department for some petty bullshit, but this asshole got to stay GCPD until a shooter turned his brains into Swiss cheese? Only in this fucking city.

"Can you get your hands on Perkins' personnel jacket?" He asked, passing Corrigan's camera back to him.

Corrigan laughed.

"You are barking up the wrong tree there. No matter how much money I owe Geppe, I can't get into those files. Given my reputation, IAD would be all over me like flies on shit if I got anywhere close to this thing. They probably don't like me even here taking pictures, man. I me--"

"You're right, Officer Corrigan."

Slam and Corrigan turned. A tall, think black man in a three-piece stood close by. His head was shaved and he wore big, black frame glasses. Slam's face flushed and he balled his fists up.

"Mr. Bradley," he said with a grin. "It's been awhile."

"Go fuck yourself, Bock."

Bock had been IAD's point man in the investigation that ended Slam's career. Once upon a time, it had taken six full-grown men to pull Slam off Bock and to pry his big mitts off the thin man's windpipe.

Bock picked lint from his suit. "You're a civilian now, Bradley. I could have you arrested for making threats to a sworn police officer, but I'll settle for your swift departure from the scene. This is a GCPD matter." Bock flashed a smirk and raised an eyebrow. "Where were you tonight, say around midnight?"

"Ask your mother." Slam grabbed his crotch. "She's my fucking alibi. Literally."

Bock's grin disappeared. He played with a phi beta kappa chain attached to his waistcoat.

"Get the fuck out of here, Bradley, before I get the patrolmen to toss you out. And Officer, Corrigan, get back to fucking work."

Bock turned around and headed back to the crime scene. Slam flipped him off. Corrigan stubbed out his cigarette and shrugged at Slam. He followed Bock back to the scene. Slam shook his head. He'd call Corrigan tomorrow and try to glom a copy of the initial crime scene report from the police lab and Homicide. That was all he could do on that front. All the knew was what he told Geppe an hour ago. A murderer had killed Sergeant Perkins.

Slam lit up a fresh cigarette and beat tracks back to his car. He thought about Corrigan's words earlier. Perkins shook down hookers for BJs. If he was involved in the flesh market, then the hookers would know all about him. On the westside, when it came to pimps and johns and marks, there was one man Slam knew he could talk to: Bruce Vain.

Okay, something wasn't right here. In fact, Robin was abundantly sure that something was very wrong with this situation, that being that there were two Robins, and that's one too many. There's only supposed to be one Robin, after all... But not long after beating up those thugs, not long after slipping into another alley...

"Take off that disgusting mockery of a Halloween costume before I cut if off you myself! Then go home and stay off of my streets!"

Yeeeaaah, that was a bit freaky. Turning around... When had he appeared? She hadn't heard him at all... In fact the first indication she got that someone was following her was the hiss of cold steel being drawn and that barked threat. She almost jumped out of her skin, but trying to compose herself, she slowly turned around...

...What the hell!? He's just a kid! Well, she was just a kid too, but he was even more of a kid than her. He had to be about... Five or something! What the hell was a kid that young doing running about, dressed like Robin and brandishing a freaking katana!? And that look he gave her... The kid seemed like he was far too into this. Someone needed to talk him down, and, well... She was the new Robin in town, so she figured it fell to her.

"Look, kid, just... Just drop the sword before you hurt yourse-"

But just as she'd barely begun, someone else dropped into the alley. Someone who seemed even less friendly than the other Robin, which was really saying something.

”Little Robins, time to die”

Their appearance was striking, almost as much as Batman's, and just as much a contrast to the bright colours and flashy costumes of the Robins. Now, in the short time that she'd been calling herself Robin, Kuroko had really just been fighting gangbangers and thugs, little more than common criminals. But even though this was the first time she'd met one since donning the mask, it was obvious what this shadowy creature was. There was no doubting it, and whilst the reality of the situation filled her heart with terror, a surge of pride and excitement kept it well in check. No, there was no doubt about it at all... This was the new Robin's first encounter with a legitimate supervillain! That was so cool! They even had a freaky costume and everything! I mean, just look at that creepy suit, and those glowing eyes, and those... Those...

"...Eyebrows..." Damn it, she was supposed to say something cool! But she couldn't help it... Maybe she really was terrified beyond all belief right now, and had to focus on something like that. "What... What's with the big eyebrows?"

@Xtreme@Dblade26

Vincent got dressed, calm as a cucumber. He held no grudge agaisnt the Bertenilli family, it was just buisness. He understood. What he hated, was the fact that he wasn't paid for the hit he performed. That pissed him off more than anything else.

Then the chest full of gold was flopped open. He stared at it with open greed, and a practically drooling mouth. That was a lot of gold. It would make a lot of money.

All he had to do was take revenge. He reached out to touch the gold, then paused, and stood back up. He had been given a similiar offer before for a similiar job, that went tits up. Lots of people died because of that. If he took it and failed, he'd be their bitch at best, dead in a gutter at worst.

"Think you can do that?" An obvious question with an obvious answer. He looked at the gold chest, and slammed the lid closed.

"Keep your money, this is a personal matter for me now. My reputation is on the line for this fuck up. If people think they can get me to work for no pay, no one will pay. And example will be made of this fucker."

He walked past Helena and made his way up the stairs, without looking back at her he shouted to her.

"Consider my payment for this job already paid in full. After all, you left me alive. That is enough."

He walked out to the middle of the warehouse and waited, he could only leave if she allowed him to. He didn't want to get gunned down by trigger happy goons.

Vincent got dressed, calm as a cucumber. He held no grudge agaisnt the Bertenilli family, it was just buisness. He understood. What he hated, was the fact that he wasn't paid for the hit he performed. That pissed him off more than anything else.

Then the chest full of gold was flopped open. He stared at it with open greed, and a practically drooling mouth. That was a lot of gold. It would make a lot of money.

All he had to do was take revenge. He reached out to touch the gold, then paused, and stood back up. He had been given a similiar offer before for a similiar job, that went tits up. Lots of people died because of that. If he took it and failed, he'd be their bitch at best, dead in a gutter at worst.

"Think you can do that?" An obvious question with an obvious answer. He looked at the gold chest, and slammed the lid closed.

"Keep your money, this is a personal matter for me now. My reputation is on the line for this fuck up. If people think they can get me to work for no pay, no one will pay. And example will be made of this fucker."

He walked past Helena and made his way up the stairs, without looking back at her he shouted to her.

"Consider my payment for this job already paid in full. After all, you left me alive. That is enough."

He walked out to the middle of the warehouse and waited, he could only leave if she allowed him to. He didn't want to get gunned down by trigger happy goons.

"Good luck!" Helena shouted back, as Arturo closed, locked, picked up the case. They all filed out after Helena and Arturo, one by one, each mobster getting into their vehicle and driving off. The sound of the Ferrari roaring to life and peeling out and away from the old factory came first, followed by more mundane engines coming to life. All the SUVs left; since Vincent denied the money, surely, their logic went, he denied the offer of a ride home too.

Helena let half a hundred thoughts invade her, filling her consciousness with too many thoughts, too many impulses, too many questions that couldn't be answered. Quite frankly, it was a blessing to her when the phone went off and it was Alfred Pennyworth. "What's up, Al?"

"Miss Helena, we've located one of the vigilantes Master Bruce wanted dealt with, and it seems this vigilante has gotten himself in trouble."

Helena smirked. "Oh, yeah? What'd he do, Al? Get into a fight with some Jokerz, try to bust one of Penguin's arm deals, get trapped in one of Riddler's little tr--"

"--he happened upon a direct line to Talia al'Ghul."

The Ferrari came to a screeching stop that put more G forces on Helena than a jet aircraft in cruise would have. The car rumbled under her touch, unhappy with coming to a sudden stop, unhappy if it was doing anything but going fast. She ignored it, her mind now only having one thought. One thought that was on repeat:

He's dead.

Alfred must have thought so, too, otherwise why call her? The Huntress had dealt with the League before. She was probably to come out alive each time, let alone claiming any sort of victory. Talia would have listened to Bruce...but only Bruce. And the man wasn't around to reason with her.

"Yeah, send me his details. I'm not that close to one of my lairs, I'm a little...uh, out of the way...had to deal with a...thing."

She only hoped Alfred didn't already know what she was up to before he called. "There is an auxiliary cave close to you, I'll send you the location and unlock it for you."

"How's that help the Huntress, Al? What, Bruce got one of my suits," or made his own version of it for me, "and stored it in various Batcaves around the city just in case I ever--" Helena sighed, and pushed down on the gas pedal, just slightly irritated by it. "--of course he did, what am I even saying? Thanks, Alfred."

Your life better be worth saving Razor Bat.

The False Face Society. The elite enforcers of Black Mask's crime syndicate. Those who threw away their old identities to don the masks, to sublimate personality and remove inhibition, and awaken darker, primitive instincts. Quite often had they tangled with the Bat. Even they had come to fear the Dark Knight. And now, some of Black Mask's boys were talking about actual, literal monsters kicking around skid row. Well, that wasn't going to stand. There was exactly one guy the people there needed to fear, and it wasn't some huge red fuckwit with a baseball bat or some dancing asshole with a gold mask. But... if it WAS the bat, there was reason for Black Mask to fear.

And that's why, as two men in matching skeleton-print ski masks brought something down on the back of his head, he would probably be thankful it was a half a brick in a sock and not a Batarang that knocked his toady out.
---
Gotham, a Low-Rent Apartment.
<<"Can you believe what these Americans charge for bread?">>

<<"I know, man. Don't they have it with every meal? Like... burgers, sandwiches, toast, all that shit?">>

<<"Hey, I think he's waking up.">>

<<"You did well, boys. Go ahead and watch the door.">>

<<"Might not be too helpful, Lord Death Man. I read somewhere you can get serious brain damage if you get knocked out.">>

<<"I'll manage.">>

As the masked enforcer came to, Death Man sat in a recliner next to a sink in the kitchen/living room/bathroom of this run-down apartment complex. To his left, a cooler full of glass bottles filled with dark liquid, and in his right hand, the enforcer's pistol, which he twirled on his finger.

"Hah! Finally awake. I heard you Americans like to sleep in, so figured I let you come to on your own."

It didn't take long for the masked man to begin struggling. Lord Death Man chuckled.

"Now, before we get into the boring part, we get the basics out of the way. First of all, you're chained up, for obvious reasons, so stop flailing. Second, I can respect the need for anonymity in our field of work. That's why you're still wearing that... what the hell is that, a capybara? A horse?"

"Fuck you, Charlie, that's what it is."

"Aaaaand strike one."

Lord Death Man took the pistol and whipped one of the water taps, sending it spinning and steaming water flowing out.

"What's that suppo-"

"Shh. Let the shitty plumbing do its work."

It didn't take long for the thug to see what Death Man meant as the pipes began glowing red hot. This was a flaw in many buildings with old plumbing.

"Now, third: I'm going to torture you for information. That's why you're chained to the water pipes. Now, normally, anyone would do for this, but Black Mask went and stole the gimmick I've been using for nearly a century. And I can forgive his taste in fashion, but unoriginality?"

"AAAAH! AAAAAAAGH!"

"Glad to see you agree!"

Death Man spun the hot water the other way, turning it off. The pipes rapidly cooled as he took a bottle from the cooler, the telltale hiss of cola as he popped the top off and drained it through his mask.

"You know, normally, I'd go on a long rant, but you see my English is... subpar. So we skip to the good stuff. Tell me what I can't get from the papers."

Lord Death Man took another swig.

"Tell me what's what in this shithole's criminal underworld, the..." Death Man sighed and thumbed through a Japanese-to-English dictionary. "...Spookiest places of Gotham, and most importantly... how do I hurt the Batman."

"You really think I'm go-"

The mook held his tongue as Death Man raised his hand over the hot water tap, the raised eyebrow almost visible.

"...You want the spookiest places in Gotham? Arkham and Slaughter Swamp. More death and sorrow there than anywhere in town."

"See? We might just get out of here without... a texan standoff? That's the word for an insurmountable difference, right?" Death Man shrugged, drinking more of his cola. "Now, the Batman's probably changed his MO in the last decade. Normally I'd just rob a couple banks, see who shows up with him. But robberies take time, need henchmen, you know, the works."

"Oh, that I'll give you for free. He's got these kids who he pals around with. The Robins. EVERYONE wants those brats dead."

"Ugh, tell me about it! Child crimefighters are the worst. You can't even break their legs or some activist is bitching at you for six hours!"

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

"Strike two." Death Man spun the faucet again, throwing back a cola. "You've got about forty-five seconds. I suggest you tell me what's going on in the underworld.

A few moments of silence, before Lord Death Man noted the smell of burning flesh.

"Jokerz, man! A bunch of jackasses dressed like clowns. And uh... and there's Cobblepot, he runs the Iceberg Lounge... uh... Two-Face nad Black Mask... and... oh, fuck this, just let me go you spandex-wearing shi-"

A silenced gunshot, straight to the throat, cut him off. He looked down, fruitlessly, as Lord Death Man turned and left.

<<"Strike three, you're out.">>
---
Lord Death Man tossed the thug's pistol into the garbage, dragging the wheeled cooler behind him. The grunts were waiting with his dramatic cape as he stepped into the hall.

<<"You get what you needed, Lord Death Man?">>

<<"As much as you can get out of a two-bit thug.">>

Lord Death Man and his men hurried downstairs and into the back of the car, an older model of Honda. A man built like a brick house with red eyes sat behind the wheel, awaiting orders. The henchmen began to remove the skeletal suits over their body, revealing more typical garb underneath- T-shirts, shorts, and shoes built for performance. Lord Death Man, however, put something on over his costume- more typical Yakuza boss duds. A nice suit, a silk shirt, and a nice watch. He popped his neck and removed the mask, thankful for the tinted windows and shadowy car.

<<"Take us downtown, Shiro. I could KILL for some barbecue right now.">>