Master Bruce

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

I don't know why, but there's a small part of me that sees that and imagines Ygritte saying "You know nothing, Thor Odinson."

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

Working on my awards at the moment, those'll go up later tonight.

I'm also working on the banner for Season 2, and by popular request, I'll be adding whoever wants to be added. But there's a catch: You gotta provide the image so that I can work it in. Everyone who submits an image gets on, everyone who doesn't is out of luck. Hoping to have it ready by October 1st, so that's the deadline.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

And yes, we can do Awards now.

Best Character:
Best Character Concept:
Best Character Development:
Best Story:
Best Post:
The John Lees Memorial MVP Award:

Feel feel to add/subtract whatever categories you want.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

But it seems as though everyone who was going to post has posted.

@Morden Man, feel free to close'er up.

Well done, all. That was one hell of a season.

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

26 minutes for MB and still no post... I think it's time to shut up shop and call it a day..

@Hound55

*Finished with over 45 minutes to spare*

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

_{Musical Accompaniment}



Life will come our way, it has only just begun...

Sunrise. The birds were singing and the many businesses of Gotham City had began to open up shop. This was especially true of the prestigious Roman's Empire, an exclusive investment firm that catered to the elite and the particularly well-connected citizens of town for a very obvious reason. It's owner was Carmine Falcone, the biggest crimelord in all of Gotham. Every member of The Roman's Syndicate invested their money into it, with the assurance that it would be well protected. An assurance that had proven true, over the years. The few unlucky individuals that had attempted to commit a robbery at the establishment were not only found and tortured, but their bodies were mutilated beyond recognition, their families were murdered, and each one had been considered a missing person going back at least a decade. Point being that if you stole from The Roman, you ceased to exist entirely. That type of security made Roman's Empire the biggest bank in all of Gotham, as some had deposited millions, if not even larger fortunes.

One individual, however, didn't see it that way. He saw only opportunity for a year's worth of preparations that were about to pay off. As two unmarked vans pulled up across the street, parking bumper to bumper in a unified position, the back doors of the vehicles slowly opened and several men and women clad in black and white all stepped out, carrying large, reinforced suitcases. All wore masks that completely hid their features, save for one man, who led the pack as they descended upon the front entrance in a calm and orderly fashion. The man was wearing a large leather overcoat, fur-trimmed and decadently prepared. His hair was slicked back and his skin was tan, making it clear that he was a man of some considerable class. And under his arm rested the oddest accessory of all - a large umbrella.

But as they approached and the security guards standing just inside began to radio for back-up, a third van pulled up behind them, as if on command. This one was larger, and very clearly armored, displaying the GothCorp logo on it's side as it's back door opened aswell. Out stood an armored boot, followed by another, as a particularly inconspicuous owner stood up and departed while wearing a modified cooling unit. He had been seen on the news, as of late, for an attack on the Starling Fashion Show. To eyewitnesses that were there, in the midst of a battle with The Batman, the man had called himself Mr. Freeze.

Behind him, other mysterious, hideous figures emerged. A large, muscular man with cracked skin and a series of tattoos that accentuated his deformity, making it seem as if he were a human crocodile. A smaller, demented looking individual who curiously wore a bloodied apron and wielded a meat cleaver followed - his skin was a reddish pink hue and his nose had been cut off, making him resemble a pig. A manhole cover was lifted on the street behind them, and out from the sewers emerged a mass of living clay, having been blown up and destroyed just two days earlier before reforming and being given the opportunity of it's life.

These individuals were all converging at once, and despite the considerable armed presence inside of the building, the man leading the pack didn't seem the least bit worried. There would be resistance at first, but only at first. They had a small battalion, while he had an army of men and women wielding the highest caliber weapons, superpowered individuals that had seen their share of disenfranchisement and were looking to take it out on the world, and one mind steering them all towards a common goal. In short, this wouldn't last any more than a few minutes. And that was being generous.

With a puff of his lit cigarette, the leader smiled as the door was opened for him, with guns already drawn. There were precisely forty-one high level employees of Roman's Empire, all of whom were working that day. Some had families. Some were innocent. But others weren't, and for that reason, they were all going to die.

"Take it all."

The world will die alone, the fair will fall below...

"If you're just joining us, shocking news coming out of the financial district today as the site of a popular bank in Gotham City became the site of an unprecedented robbery turned massacre. Perpetrated by what appears to be a group of metahuman terrorists working with organized crime, the attack happened this morning just after sunrise, as the ringleader of a group calling themselves The Red Triangle looked to security cameras and made his motives clear. Viewer discretion is advised, as the footage could be considered disturbing."

The GNN news anchor hesitantly waited for the footage to roll, before partially grainy footage appeared across practically every television in the city. In the footage was a man, staring directly up at the camera, as the sounds of bullets flying, people screaming, and general chaos could be heard behind him. He took a hit off of his cigar, tossed it aside, and outstretched his arms.

"This, people of Gotham, is what happen when you become complacent. When you let the wolves rule the den for too long, and allow them to become so comfortable that they catch themselves look the other way. You get the occasional tiger waiting in the snow, looking to pounce on them and take everything they've ever known. I have been called many names over the years, including The Penguin, but that tiger is what I am today."

Placing his hand against his chest, the individual smirked as he introduced himself.

"My name is Oswald Cobblepot. For the past year, I've allowed each member of The Five Families to believe that I was someone else, while a paid actor took my place and helped to build my empire in secret. That man is now dead, having outlived his usefulness, and his body can be found in the trunk of a Volkswagen Polo that is parked on the Wayne Memorial Bridge. I say this because I stand unafraid of the consequences of my actions, today. And I'll tell you why."

Cobblepot gestured to the scene behind him, which was just off camera. But the noises were enough to get the point across. Looking back towards the camera, The Penguin narrowed his eyes and showed no sense of remorse in the violence that he was allowing to transpire in his name.

"The police cannot touch me. While it is something of an open secret, they are all under the control of a man named Salvatore Maroni, the leader of an organization calling itself Capo Italiana. Through posing as the bodyguard of Carmine Falcone, The Roman, I have acquired a ledger of each and every officer and public official working under him. I have also taken the liberty of having that ledger's contents transferred to the digital spectrum. Should a move be made against me by the GCPD, that list goes out to the public."

Removing another cigarette from within his jacket, The Penguin struck a match against his sleeve and nonchalantly lit it. Blowing smoke into the camera, he continued on, making it clear that he was far from done.

"But the police are nothing compared to organized crime. Anyone who's lived in Gotham for even a modicum of time knows this. So in the interest of keeping myself far away from their meager grasp, I issue this warning. Try and come for me if you wish, but know that for as much intel that I have on the cops, I have twice as much on you. I've been privy to The Roman's most secure back-door dealings, and have made note of every single member of The Five Families and their many illegal operations. Should I die or be injured by one of you trigger-happy ladies and gentlemen, that information will automatically leak to every federal bureau in the country. Gotham may be corrupt beyond measure, but the United States government won't hesitate to slap the cuffs on you. So if I go down, the rest of you go with me. The Five Families are done."

Giving a particularly devious smile, Cobblepot held up a stack of thousand dollar bills.

"And should you come for me anyway? Well, just listen to the environment I've created with just one attack. That is the sound of bank tellers being frozen solid, security guards being choked to death with clay, the elite having their throats ripped out by filed teeth, and pedestrians being butchered. Once this is over, the police will find that I am not in any way exaggerating any of those methods of brutality. This is the work of powerful people who have sworn their allegiance to me. Those who you've written off as metahumans, or freaks of nature, looking down at them when they were meant to rise above you. They are being given parts of Gotham to control for themselves, once we remove The Five Families from power. And there is nothing that any of you can do to stop it, even if you were foolish enough to try."

Using the still burning match that he had used to light his cigarette, The Penguin brought it to the stack of thousands and waited as it burned, before tossing it aside and allowing smoke to surround him.



"Make no mistake. This is a declaration of war, and we've just made the first strike. The next move is your's, Gotham."

As he smiled once again, the feed cut out, leaving a stunned news anchor to try and pick up where the footage had left off. Equally as stunned were the assembled group of mobsters who had been called back to The Loeb Building, their neutral spot, just hours after assembling at Carmine Falcone's behest. The Roman had thought The Penguin dead, and had even provided proof. But it was all a ruse. His bodyguard, Meredith, had been the real Oswald Cobblepot all along. And now he knew enough secrets to absolve him from immediate retaliation, not to mention a group of metahumans to back him up from physical harm.

Among the many figureheads of The Five Families, save for Falcone himself, was Salvatore Maroni. The usually temperamental crimelord was just as shocked as everyone else in attendance, as the room fell deathly silent, but only Maroni was the one to be able to convey the first immediate thought on everyone's mind.

"Holy shit."

Time will take our place, we return it back to one...

Agent Nashton, having heard about the incident at Roman's Empire, marched into Precinct 27 with a small crowd of officers flanking him. Captain Gordon looked up from watching the television footage of The Penguin, already put into a foul mood by the escalating violence that had just rang out like a single shot across the entire city, and shook his head as Nashton approached the door to his office.

Putting out the fifth cigarette that he had smoked since the footage aired, Gordon got up from his seat and went to meet the Agent at the door. Mercifully, he thought to himself, his daughter wasn't working today. He didn't want to have to explain how they were unable to prevent this, as it was a question that he was already asking himself.

"This is possibly the worst time for you to make an entrance, Nashton."

Nashton sneered, gesturing to the officers behind him.

"Correction, Captain. This is actually the best possible time. Behind me are the selected candidates for The Batman Task Force. They will be working with your department in an effort to stop this insanity before it can truly begin. And it starts with the vigilante."

Gordon gave the Agent an incredulous, stupefied glare.

"The Batman? Nashton, The Batman is the least of our concerns right now! Didn't you watch the news?! The Penguin's just declared war on Falcone and the mob! We've got to send tactical units out there to protect the streets, not go on a manhunt for one masked lunatic!"

"What was that, Captain? I couldn't hear you over the sound of my ears ringing."

Both Nashton and Gordon turned to see another figure emerge into the Precinct, as multiple officers stood in recognition. District Attorney Harvey Dent approached Gordon, pointing to a scar left by the bullet wound that had struck him in the side of the head on the night of his Anti-Batman rally. Gordon looked back at Nashton, then at Dent.

"You're in on this too, Counselor?"

"You're damn right I am.", Dent countered, bitterly. "Somebody's got to stop this, Jim. I've been tolerant of your department's lack of progress in getting results in the Batman investigation before now, but that tolerance has only been stretched thin. It was bad enough when he nearly killed me, twice, but now he's inspired a whole host of costumed terrorists to come barging out of the shadows and protect Cobblepot. This violence started when he initiated it. If there's an example to be made of anyone, it's him."

Gordon remained silent.

He could easily dissuade Dent by telling him the truth. That Batman hadn't been the one to shoot him, and the real sniper had been taken into custody weeks ago. But Floyd Lawton had long since been transferred to some secretive government facility under the orders of a Commander Waller, and if the Captain told him the truth, it could mean his own arrest.

The right thing to do was come clean and face the consequences of his actions. But right now, Gotham City was in a state of peril that it had never even seen before. Gordon was damned if he was going to allow corrupt politicians like Mayor Thorne and Commissioner Loeb dictate what happened next in this war for the streets. There were honest cops, decent people who worked with him that could help turn the tide.

"Even if what you're saying is true. And I'm leaning heavily on if, Dent."

Gordon pointed towards the precinct's windows that showed skyline of Gotham.

"What the hell are we supposed to do about Cobblepot?"

Dent narrowed his eyes.

"One threat at a time. For now, you're going to work night and day to bring us The Batman. Or so help me, Captain, I will personally see that you're removed from your post."

Gordon stared back as the District Attorney angrily left, leaving a satisfied Nashton in his wake. Mockingly placing a hand to the side of his face, Nashton watched Dent exit the building via the elevator.



"I would say that he has an axe to grind, but I think that would be understating it."

Shooting Nashton a hateful glare, Gordon looked to the individuals behind him.

"And these are the candidates?"

Nashton produced a completed folder, outlining the candidates through their GCPD personnel files.

"Hand selected by me, Gordon. Each and every one of them."

Gordon eyed them each, knowing fully well that at least half of them answered directly to Maroni's people without even having to read their files. They sure as hell couldn't be trusted, but at the end of the day, what choice did he really have but to let it happen? The city was at war, and war required soldiers.

"Do what you need to do. I'm going to start working on the real problem in this city, Harvey Dent be damned."

Pushing the folder against Nashton's chest, Gordon turned around and slammed the door to his office in the Agent's face. Nashton simply turned to the group of candidates, each waiting on his first official command as leader of the Task Force. Giving them all a smile, he leaned against a desk and

"You heard our District Attorney. We have a Bat to hunt."

The calm before the cold, the long and lonely road...

Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone entered the catacombs far beneath the city with some trepidation. He wasn't accompanied by anyone, of course, given that his traitorous bodyguard had ended up being The Penguin all along. But he had nowhere else to turn in light of these events. The Five Families were no longer operating on firm ground, and with the threat of war looming, he had to consult the fifth family once and for all. Looking out into the darkness ahead of him, Falcone called out to the hollow shadows.

"Is anyone there?"

At first, there was silence.

"Is there anyone there?!"

"We're here, Carmine."

Eventually, a light cascaded onto a group of individuals before him. Spooked, Falcone fell backwards, looking at them with a combination of rage and fear.

"We're always here."

He wouldn't be able to speak out of turn, of course, given that they were the oldest and most feared organization in the history of Gotham. But he was particularly jumpy today, in light of recent events.

"Christ. Then I suppose I should cut straight to business."

Falcone removed his hat and placed it infront of him, humbled beyond words. Gotham City was about to enter a war the likes of which it had never seen, and he had been too foolish to see right through the act that was being played out before his very eyes. If Falcone had vetted 'Meredith' alot more closely, he might have sniffed out the rat before he could make his move.

"There's a troublemaker. Someone who's set his sights on my business. Our business. He calls himself The Penguin, for some reason I never understood, but he's really just one more cheap hood who hides behind money and needs to be taught a lesson in respect."

Falcone sighed to himself.

"The problem is, he's got serious power backing him. Raw, physical strength. Something that I'm not sure if I can fight alone. The other families are... skeptical, to say the least, of trying to join in a fight that they see as mine to finish. So I was hoping that you would be more accomodating."

Looking back up at the group, the old man’s eyes were pleading.

"Will you help me?"

There was a silence, as they looked upon him. Their expressions blank. Indiscernible.

"You have done this to yourself, Carmine Falcone. As your father once did, before we were able to silence him. You share his trait of foolishness in believing that your empire was secure. That all challengers would fall to your influence. When the truth is, influence can be fleeting."

Falcone grit his teeth, reminded of the fact that these people had brought an end to his long departed father. Ushering him into the life, forcing him to make his bed on the corpses of others. Because of them, he lied awake at night, wondering if it could've been different.

"And what about your's, huh? How is mine fleeting, but your's intact?"

In an instant, The Roman felt a blade scratch against the skin of his throat. Suddenly brought to being still, the color drained from his face and he looked back up, petrified.

"I... meant no disrespect."

"Of course you did, Falcone. But we're more forgiving than you. And the reason that our influence has remained is because we have been selective. Our predecessors were smart enough to stay hidden, and we have remained in the dark."

Falcone let out a sigh of relief as the blade was removed, and the individual wielding it vanished.

"But to answer your question, we may not help in the way that you wish. But we're going to be watching. After all..."



"The Court of Owls watches, watches all the time."

Look for the light that leads me home...

Alfred Pennyworth placed the last remaining piece of the destroyed Batsuit in the raging fire of the furnace, watching as the kevlar began to melt before shutting the door. Bruce had insisted that there had needed to be a change in direction, and it started with the costume. He needed to create a new one, a better one that could help him maintain the advantage in the tribulations ahead.

But Bruce had left just earlier for a destination unknown to him, and it left Alfred worried. Oswald Cobblepot had just declared war on the entire city, it seemed, and Bruce's first instinct was to run. It was very much unlike him, and he wondered what his employer could be thinking. But he had resigned to the fact that it wasn't his place to question such matters, as Bruce would soldier ahead in the end and win the day. That, he had faith in.

"Bloody heat..."

Wiping an excess of sweat from his brow, Alfred looked off towards one of the earlier Batsuits. It was simple in it's design, and it's function was severely outdated in terms of protection, but he had to admit. There was something about it that might work, with the right modifications. Walking toward it to inspect the material further, Alfred was caught off guard as the Batcomputer suddenly sprang to life. Spinning around, he watched as the screen circulated through various colors.

Then it just... shut off.

"Hmm?"

Walking up to the massive command console, Alfred initiated the boot-up sequence. Everything loaded just fine, as it was before. Bruce's case files from the morning's massacre were even still open. Alfred inspected the monitor closely, before eventually shrugging off the brief disturbance.

"Must have been a glitch, of some manner."

Content, he headed back to the Batsuit chamber to inspect the outfit that had caught his eye.

But behind him, the computer began to circulate through colors once again. And then it began to download schematics, all on it's own. Six letters subliminally flashed across the screen, infront of the schematics for most of Batman's arsenal, followed by a logo that briefly appeared.



The letters flashed once again, in sequence.

H. A. R. D. A. C.

By the time Alfred had exited the chamber, the computer screen was blank once again.

As though nothing had happened at all.

Tired of feeling lost, tired of letting go...

Selina Kyle stared out at the skies of Gotham from her penthouse window, watching as the sun set on a city gripped by fear. Angrily, she brought the curtains to a close, shutting the world out as best as she could in the fleeting moments that she had to herself. This was a disaster, and Carmine Falcone knew it. Yet all he had done was run in the face of adversity. It showed the kind of leadership that Selina was more used to, beyond the bravado and beyond the threats. Falcone had always been a fraud to her, but being his daughter allowed her some small advantages. In the wake of all of this, however, it seemed as though those advantages didn't outweigh the opportunities that would be coming her way if she severed ties with the Falcone name altogether.

Staring at a portrait on her dresser drawer, Selina reached down and picked up the framed photograph. It was her most prized possession: a picture of her late mother, just before she had died. Had Maria Kyle lived to see the daughter that was staring back at her portrait, she likely wouldn't have approved. Her tryst with Falcone had ended rather bitterly, with Maria never once wanting to be apart of the life that he'd lived. And because of that, Selina thought to herself, she was dead. Though she couldn't yet prove it after all these years, Carmine had personally murdered her mother and lied to her about it since she'd been old enough to ask. It was why he had those hideous scars on his face. The lasting claw marks of a woman brutalized who had tried to fight back against her aggressor.

Thanks to Cobblepot's war, whenever Falcone returned, he was going to be too distracted to pay attention to whatever Selina was up to. Which meant that she could finally spend less time playing the dutiful mobster's daughter and devote more time towards her ultimate goal: stealing everything that he held dear right out from him, a piece at a time, until his empire was worth nothing.

Placing the photo down, Selina looked down at her bed and placed a hand against the back of a black cat. Isis, as Selina had named her, purred in recognition as she began to have her ears scratched. Selina smiled, somewhat, looking down at the creature.

"You know, girl, you may actually be the only friend I have in this world. Aren't you lucky?"

She didn't know how, but somehow, Selina had screwed things up with Bruce Wayne. The billionaire boy toy wasn't answering her calls, and she had been stonewalled by the butler. Despite stringing him along under false pretenses in a bid to ensure Wayne didn't make a move for his company, there was a part of Selina that felt genuinely for the man, as he seemed kind. Generous, even. Both qualities were almost non-existent in the men of Gotham. Had she been honest with him, she wondered what kind of a future they could have had.

But that was over, now. Alot of things were. Everything had changed. Walking over to a section of her wall that was covered by a painting of the Paris skyline, Selina pulled it aside to remove a secret compartment. Flicking a lightswitch on that was hidden within, she stared back at the various news clippings and articles that she'd been collecting for some time now. They all revolved around one subject.

The Batman.

Selina cracked her neck as she began to remove her clothes, replacing them with a suit that she'd had specially made from a number of different specially reinforced items. A black bodysuit zipped up against her curvaceous form, a pair of militarized climbing boots strapped against her legs, a belt containing various thieving tools slid together to connect at the center, and a hood hung behind her head. Whatever or whoever The Batman was, he had definitely left an impact on Selina whenever he'd first arrived in Gotham. He had given her the perfect way to exact revenge on her father, whether he knew it or not.

From the shadows, behind a mask. In the dark of night.

Selina pulled the leather gloves up against her forearm, twisting her palm. The fingertips immediately sprang forth a set of razor sharp claws all her own, in honor of her late mother's fight to the death against her father. If Batman could stalk criminals doing what he did, then she could certainly do what she was about to do without much notice. It's just the sort of city that Gotham was becoming. And some small part of her, despite the vengeful task she was about to set upon, enjoyed the thrill that such a thought arose within her.

"You can finally rest well, momma."



"I'll make him pay for what he did to you."

Tear the whole world down...

My city is at war.

The thought kept sticking with me as I awoke to the footage of Cobblepot this morning. Saw the bodies of those that had been slain in his grandiose effort to incite The Roman's wrath through the police photos and reports that I'd taken from the GCPD database. It was all too much for me to bear at once, which is why I told Alfred that I had to get away. Had to take a flight to somewhere remote, just to collect my thoughts and analyze how I was going to approach this. The excuse of needing time to heal from recent injuries was also sufficient in getting me out of the country. So as much as he didn't like it, he reluctantly agreed, and booked me a flight to my chosen destination: Budapest.

But my actual motives in coming here are somewhat astray from my given excuses. This becomes all the more evident as I arrive outside of Leopoldov Prison, one of the oldest maximum security penitentiaries in the world. I'm barely running on thought, at this point, more than I am instinct. There are currently one thousand, four hundred and twenty six inmates within this structure. But among them is one man in particular that I've come to seek out today, in response to the metahuman war that Cobblepot threatens to unleash upon Gotham.

Poison Ivy. Mr. Freeze. Clayface. And even Superman, to an extent. They all showed me that for as much training as I underwent to prepare for the criminal underworld, I had absolutely no idea of how to handle threats of this specific nature. People with special abilities aren't exactly something that one could have prepared for, given that until a few months ago, none ever really knew that they existed. But one man has hunted them, and even more impressively, he's managed to subdue them. He's the man I came to see, and as it stands, he's one of my old mentors.

We had a falling out. I disagreed with his methods. He preferred the kill, I preferred to seek a different approach. But he was damn good at what he did, and in the very little time I spent under him, I learned a great deal about how to survive. Now that I'm facing down the worst threat that Gotham's ever seen, I'll admit... I'm out of my depth. I need training that only an experienced metahuman hunter could give me. Which means burying an old rivalry, no matter how much I believe that the man deserves to rot in this hell of a place.

"<Five minutes. Then you leave.>"

I don't even look the guard in the eyes as he escorts me to the cell I requested.

"<I'll only need three.>"

With that, he allows me to enter, where the man in question is sitting in the shadows. I take a moment to look at him, to see how far he's fallen, before looking off. They say that great men can often aspire to the paths of the damned. It makes me wonder, in this moment, what sorts of paths that terrible men can aspire to. And if by doing this, I'm damning myself.

"It's been a long time."

He remains silent as I remain standing.

Glaring. Refusing to take my eyes off of him for even a second.

"I know about what you did to get here. Your sentence is, by all means, light compared to what you deserve. But you have a chance at redemption. A once-in-a-lifetime chance that I'm willing to offer you in exchange for something."

Folding his arms across his chest, he narrows his eye at me as I continue.

"Once upon a time, you were one of the most skilled people to ever hone my capabilities. I left you thinking that I had learned everything that I needed to, that you were beyond redemption and couldn't rationally give me anything others would not provide. But I was wrong, and I'm here to admit that. And to say that I need your guidance again."

Massaging the bridge of my nose, the next few words are strained. Hesitant, as I barely want to admit them out loud. But it's the reason that I've been driven to this absolutely insane length. I wasn't willing to admit my limitations, and they cost me. Had I sought help from the beginning, what happened with Cobblepot may have been avoided.

"I know that you're aware of who I am. Who I really am, when Gotham City goes dark and needs someone to protect her. You taught me the methods that I've utilized to avoid incarceration, and as you told me once, that might aswell be as incriminating as a fingerprint. So let's not dance around the details. I need to be able to protect Gotham from metahumans. You're the only one that's come close to subduing one, much less killing one. So under the condition that you train me to overcome them, and push me to my limit, I'm giving you a chance at freedom."

My expression hardens as he smirks at that.

"A limited freedom, but a freedom nonetheless. Which is more than they're offering you with a life sentence. I have connections. I can pull strings and get you out of here within the week. But I'm putting you under my own surveillance. Nothing you do will be beyond my knowledge, and that includes killing. So if you want any measure of what I'm offering, you'll agree not to take a life. Once we've finished, we go our separate ways. And you continue to build a life without murder."

His smirk fades. Mine grows. Knew he wouldn't like the catch.

"This is the only version of any offer I'm going to make you. Take it or leave it..."



"Slade."

The man known as Deathstroke leans forward, his face no longer obscured by the darkness. He could tell me to go hell. He could try to attack me. He could laugh in my face, for all that I care. But I need him more than he needs me, so I simply wait for his answer, patiently. He thinks it over. Gives it a real consideration. And then looks up.

"Good to see you haven’t changed, kid."

Extending his hand, I look at it as though I'm being offered a deal with the devil himself.

And I may very well be.

Tear the whole world down…

Harleen Quinzel had been walking through Robinson Park for an hour, sobbing to herself and generally feeling sorry for her predicament. But her legs were just about to give out, and she was tired of making a scene for any onlooker that happened to come across her path. Peering through the darkness between reddened eyes, she spotted a light in the distance and was immediately drawn to it. Slowly, she approached the bench that was lit up like Christmas morning, wiping the smeared makeup from her face and drawing back a combination of blacks and reds. Disgustedly sighing at the sight, she looked up to notice that there was a man already seated at the bench by the time that she made it.

"Oh!", she exclaimed, surprised. "Sorry, mistah. I didn't think this was occupied. I'll get outta your hair."

The man looked back at her, curiously, before scooting over and allowing her room.

"Nonsense. There's room for two. Come, sit! The park can be lovely this time of night."

Harleen looked quizzically at the man as he grinned, seeming genuinely upbeat. She wanted to disregard the offer, as she didn't even want to know what she currently looked like in the mirror, but there was something hypnotic about the man's gaze. It was as if saying no to him wasn't really an option. And despite being the only other person she could see for a mile, Harleen didn't feel the least bit threatened by him. If anything, he had a kind face.

"Well... if you're instistin'."

Sitting down, she tried to fight back the tears from streaming forth again. The man didn't seem to be paying attention, as he was looking out to the city itself. As though he were marvelling at it, like it were some grand tapestry rather than hell on Earth. Eventually, however, Harleen couldn't take it anymore. She placed her hand over her face to try and hide her crying, but the man eventually noticed.

"Oh, dear. What's wrong?"

"Nothin'. Nothin's wrong. It's just..."

Despite herself, Harleen broke down.

"Everythin's wrong. God, it's just... I'm sorry, but I gotta vent, ya know? I wouldn't have even come ta this stupid park if I still had an apartment ta go back to, but my looneypants landlord evicted me! He kicked me out all because I had a damn dog that wouldn't stop yappin'! An' now I've got nowhere ta go!"

Despite her hysterical outburst, the man seemed unphased, offering a kind hand to her shoulder.

"There, there, my dear. I'm sure it's not as bad as you're making it out to be."

"Ya haven't heard the whole story."

Harleen sighed, furiously wiping tears from her eyes.

"When I got the eviction notice, I figured, hey, now's the best time to move in with the boyfriend, right? Just until I could get back on my feet, I told myself. He'd love to have me over, I told myself. We'd been seein' eachother for a year! But what do I find when I get to that creep's doorstep? Another woman, in his bed right alongside him! He didn't even pretend like it mattered!"

"Oh."

The stranger seemed to recoil the hand, realizing the futility of such a gesture.

"Well, that does seem to be a bit of a downer..."

"So I took a waffle iron and bashed his skull in! Now he and his new galpal are pressin' charges, because'a the fact that I maybe tried ta claw her eyes out. I'm gettin' sued by the douche who screwed me over!"

Harleen leaned forward, allowing the tears to freely fall against the pavement.

"All I got left is a job that barely pays. Some psychiatry thing, and even they're startin' to get tired'a my antics. All I want is a little break from life, ya know? All I want is the chance to be happy. Like, really, really happy. The kinda happy that you see in the movies. But what do I get? Stomped on. Chewed up. Spit out."

For a moment, the stranger seemed unsure of what to say.

And then he started... giggling.

Harleen shot up, surprised, as the giggle fit turned into full blown laughter. The gaunt man slapped his knee, fighting back tears of his own, but of happiness. Harleen angrily eyed him, standing up from the bench and placing her hands on her hips.

"And what's so freakin' funny about that?!"

The stranger shook his head, eventually calming himself down.

"Hehe. Hah. No, you misunderstand. I wasn't making fun of your predicament, my dear. Truly, I meant no disrespect. It's just..."

He began to laugh again.

"A waffle iron! That's classic!"

As his laughter continued, Harleen's frown slowly turned into a smile.

And then she began laughing aswell, sitting back down on the bench beside him.

"Well, when ya put it that way. I guess it's kinda funny."

Grinning back at her, the man took her hand in his, and placed his other hand over it.

"The world can be cruel sometimes, it's true. But you'll land on your feet, my dear. As long as you see the funny side of life, you'll always land on your feet. That's the great punchline of the universe. You do your set, you get booed off stage, and then you try again until someone laughs with you. Then you find that you're not alone anymore, and life starts to seem alot less cruel."

Harleen was genuinely taken aback by the man's words, not expecting such eloquence or kindness. She'd never even been told that she'd been worth a damn in her life, let alone that she had the power to get back up. Everybody had always beaten her down. This man was laughing about the way she dispatched the creep that had cheated on her.

It made her smile. Genuinely, she felt just a bit happier than when she arrived.

"I don't know what ta say ta that. But you're right. I ain't let this be the end’a me. Thanks, mistah."

He patted her hand before relinquishing it.

"Anytime, dear. It's what I hope to do to this town. Spread joy as far as the eye can see."

Harleen raised an eyebrow.

"You in some line'a charity work or somethin'?"

He shrugged.

"You could say that. I am about to give back, in a way."

Harleen couldn't believe it. Not only was the man jovial and kind, but he had a good heart, aswell. That was a one-in-a-million catch if she'd ever seen it, and yet when she looked at his hands, she saw no signs of a ring.

"I just realized I never gave my name. That's awfully rude of me."

Extending her hand, Harleen flashed a grin of her own.

"Harleen Quinzel."

Placing his hand in her's, he nodded once.

"Jack."

As the two rested against the bench, Jack began to softly giggle to himself once more. Harleen looked over, curiously.

"What's got your goat now?"

Jack smiled, glancing over at her.

"Oh, nothing. It's just that I went back to thinking about your story. And, well..."



"It reminded me of a joke."

Failure

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

We've only got an hour and a half (more or less... more, really) until the deadline. If you haven't made it by now, chances are you ain't gonna make it. Someone prove me wrong.

@Byrd Man

Unless it takes me an hour and a half to format this son of a bitch, you're wrong.

You son of a bitch!

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

Why do you have two?

@Sep

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

Epilogue one of two is up.

Homestretch...

CLOSED - Ultimate One Universe: Season One

Gotham City, 140th Street
Alcuin & Spilsbury Towers
8:27 PM

"There has to be a thread to pull. You're just not seeing it. Think bigger, Edward..."



A little under twenty-four hours ago, the citizens of Gotham had awoken to one of the most unbelievable sights of their lives. Rising up just eighty miles miles beyond the coastline of the city, a mushroom cloud had appeared. National health officials and members of both the FBI and CIA were coordinating with eachother on an extensive investigation into the blast, and whether or not it was a failed terrorist attack on US Soil perpetrated by an enemy state. Rumors were already circulating through the usual channels that it was either Khandaq or Biayla, two warring nations that had brought the whole of the Middle East into their crossfire, but very little was known by most intelligence committees. In the meantime, a temporary quarantine had been placed on Gotham and a mandatory curfew had been enacted by the Governor. It simply wasn't safe to freely walk the streets.

Which suited Edward Nashton just fine, as he had been trying desperately to concentrate on his own investigations amid various distractions. Between trying to navigate the treacherous waters of the GCPD, collecting information on the gangs from his two operatives stationed within the city, and keeping a watchful eye on any potential leads that would give him The Batman, the Agent hadn't been given a moment's rest in weeks. With the fallout of the bomb to take into consideration, most workers in the city had been given the day off, leading to many spending a relaxing evening at home. Edward's idea of relaxation was stretching his mind, not his legs, in the pursuit of a larger equation that no one had yet to solve.

The latest puzzle to gauge his interest? The mysterious fifth family of the reigning collective of mobsters, The Five Families.

So far, Nashton had been working multiple angles in order to come up with a feasible candidate. There were many spokes in the wheel of organized crime in Gotham, with multiple moving parts working under the larger families. Operations of a miniscule size, largely headed by would-be gangsters and small-timers looking to become the next Carmine Falcone. But despite checking and double checking the qualifications that would likely be mixed into the variables to put one family above the other and attract Falcone's attention, Edward kept drawing a blank.

Falcone's own Syndicate had been there from the beginning of the movement, whenever Carmine's father enacted The Roman's Holiday Massacre in 1939. Then came the Moxon family, the Syndicate's initial rival from the 1940's all the way the 1960's, with Lewis 'Lew' Moxon cutting a bloody swath through what eventually became the East End in retaliation to Falcone's seizure of power. That family was now represented by Thomas 'El Gato' Blake, the husband of Mallory Maxon and heir apparent. Following them was Salvatore Maroni, a made man of his own accord who helped spring Carmine's original operations in the 1970's. A falling out occurred, Maroni stabbed the Syndicate in the back and gained control of the GCPD, turning the tide and giving his own Capo Italiana a piece of the city all their own.

And then there was the Siberian. Oswald 'The Penguin' Cobblepot. Taking advantage of the fall of the Grissom crime family, who had been considered the third to the hierarchy in Gotham throughout the 1980's, Cobblepot had seemingly bought his way into the fold with a cache of military grade weapons that most seemed to favor over those already on the black market. By all accounts that Nashton could pull together, Cobblepot wasn't particularly well respected by any of the major families, but The Red Triangle had endless resources after Oswald had migrated his business directly from Russia, inheriting billions from his time as a major figurehead of the Bratva. So while the short, fat little man was being kept on a short leash for his erratic behavior, The Penguin was otherwise considered virtually untouchable.

Nashton leaned forward in his seat, carefully scanning over the list of names that could potentially be acting as the fifth member of the titular group. But the list was short, and there was no evidence to support any one of them having made an ascension to the top. Frustratedly massaging his temple, Edward started to seriously consider the possibility that there was, in fact, no fifth family and that the secrecy surrounding their existence was all a ruse.

It made some degree of sense, since Falcone's operations had been taking a hit under the combination of rogue factions like The Royal Flush Gang and Batman's sudden appearance several months prior, but it felt more like feeding a conspiracy theory to give up the search than to buy into the idea that there was a secret faction that no one, not even Falcone or Maroni themselves, wished to acknowledge to their top lieutenants. After all, that was how shadow organizations amassed power in the first place. If one could doubt their existence, they could theoretically rule everything.

That was how the Bilderberg Group and the Illuminati had operated, and Edward had long since managed to tie specific members of the government directly to those organizations. But this investigation was beginning to become taxing, as Nashton had been doing research for close to nine hours straight without so much as a credible lead. He sighed to himself, closing his laptop and standing up from behind his desk in the top floor penthouse office he had built for himself.

"Ah, of course. Why didn't you see it sooner?", he rhetorically asked himself. "Perhaps a drink will clear out the cobwebs and illuminate something. I believe you have a rare Chardonnay awaiting in the fridge..."

Securing both his cane and a silk robe, Edward removed his emerald suit jacket and placed the robe over himself, fastening it as he descended down the stairs and into the dark. Feeling the vibration of his cellphone, he reached within his pocket and produced it to find a text message waiting. It stopped him in his tracks, briefly, noting the urgency of which it was written.

"Trouble. Get out now."

Edward rolled his eyes, tucking the phone into his robe.

"Arthur, you were always entirely too dramatic."

But as he reached the bottom floor of the suite, no sooner did the soles of his shoes touch the marble floor did Nashton hear something shuffling in the distance. Raising an eyebrow, he noted that it was coming from the living room area. An intruder, he mused. Whoever had broken in would have had to do so with some degree of skill, given the many alarm systems that Edward had taken the liberty of installing. Nevertheless, his hand gripped the cane even tighter as he limped ahead to the lightswitch next to the front door, which had been carelessly left open.

The rational homeowner would search for a weapon of some sort, preferably a gun. Nashton was so bored by the notion of this breach that he didn't even want to waste the effort. Flipping the lightswitch on and casting light into the room, Edward stared nonchalantly at the figure that had been rummaging through the dark as they froze.

"You know, Peyton. If you wanted safe habor from the fallout of the blast, you could have just knocked."

Agent Peyton Riley slowly turned around, making her hands visible in the event that Nashton had a weapon. Whenever she saw that he didn't, she frantically pulled a glock from a holster strapped to her own hip and levelled it squarely at Nashton. Rather than being overcome with fear, however, Nashton looked at the loaded gun with a head-tilt, as if he expected something better. As if he were expecting this, in general.

"Don't move."

Edward narrowed his eyes into a sneer.

"Do I look to be doing so?", he retorted, his tone laced with condescension. "What is this, Riley? Some sort of blackmail, or am I giving you far too much credit?"

Riley raised the gun even more directly at Nashton's chest. One of her hands began trembling, but she shook it off, taking a step forward as she noted that her superior wasn't so much as flinching. He wasn't taking her seriously in the least, so she would give him a reason to.

"You're fond of riddles, aren't you, Edward?", she began, her voice holding back venom. "Then see if you can answer this one. Is it Agent Edward Nashton, profiler for the CIA? Or is it Arthur Wynne of Cadmus, expert manhunter? You told Gordon the former, and told the Secretary of State the latter. And that's just the tip of the iceberg whenever it comes to your many aliases and chosen professions, isn't it?"

Nashton didn't so much as blink.

"You know what? It's irrelevant. I think the real puzzle is staring us both in the face."

Narrowing her eyes, Riley's finger overlapped the trigger.

"Are you Edward Nashton... or Edward Nigma?"

Once more, Edward didn't seem threatened or even affected by this acquired revelation. Though everything she said was entirely true, Nigma simply shook his head, shooting her a glare.

"My, Agent Riley. It seems as though you've been busy."

"Shut up!", she protested. "Three years. For three fucking years you've been lying to me. Lying to everyone, making up false credentials to hide your criminal past and getting by with it in the face of every major government organization that you've somehow managed to cross. Giving us cryptic clues about the Agency we were even working for. Funneling our paychecks through wired accounts, supplying us with equipment on your own. Christ, Edward. Was any of it real?"

"Technically speaking? No."

Edward took a limp step forward, causing Riley to tense up as she gripped the gun.

"The truth is, this was all a series of investigations. My own private investigations, to gain knowledge where others could never acquire it. Never hope to acquire it, as most weren't smart enough to see the bigger picture. But to speak of your so-called credentials? That much is true.", he admitted. "They were falsified from the beginning. You don't work for any official agency any more than I do."

Nigma blankly stared her in the eyes as tears began to form in hers.

"Which, given the way you were hired, one would think you would have figured that out long before now. You were an Ivy League dropout, Peyton. I found you selling your body on the streets of Coast City just so that you could meet your meager rent. What government organization, pray tell, would have you with that kind of resume?"

"You arrogant bastard.", she spat behind gritted teeth. "Why go to all this trouble? Why the deception with me and Brown? We both stuck our necks out for you too many times to count. We risked our lives to give you intel! And now you're telling me that it was all just so you could play some sick, twisted game of mental superiority?!"

Nigma smirked.

"Is it really a game if it's the truth?"

Riley began to circle him, hoping to give herself some leverage between Edward and the front door, in the event that he somehow gained the upper hand. Through her own investigations, Peyton had discovered an alarming rap sheet for the criminal that she now saw herself staring down, exposed for what he truly was.

He'd started as a low-level hacker, leaking government secrets to terrorist cells and then framing high-ranking officials for his crimes. As he'd started to make a bigger name for himself as the hacker 'Enigma', the aliases began to circulate.

Edward Nashton. Arthur Wynne. James Glover. John Gorshin. Frank Carrey.

All members of a top level intelligence agency, swooping into an active investigation whenever each organization needed it. The genius willing to lend out his expertise, knowing which string to pull in order to solve the unsolvable case. This was his scheme. And he'd been playing it for over a decade, now, with no one becoming the wiser. No one that had lived to speak of it, that is.

But what was most alarming about this was the apparent lack of motive, as Nigma had financed his own operations from the beginning, with bank records almost non-existent with any of those given aliases. So he hadn't done it for money, which meant that there was something even more nefarious behind the facade. What Riley hadn't figured out was what that was.

"Before I answer your questions, I'd almost be betraying my reputation if I didn't pose one of my own.", Nigma offered, never breaking eye contact. "How did you learn of all this? You're smarter than Brown, I'll give you, but you were never that smart. It must have taken quite a considerable amount of effort for someone of your resources to come up with all the necessary pieces."

Riley's fear faded, as her expression exuded a level of cockiness.

"For such a brilliant man, you certainly aren't very careful, Edward. All you had to do was set me on the path, and everything came to light whenever I started digging. You revealed that machine to us, gave us the fake story about it being lifted from a would-be cyber terrorist. There was something off about the whole thing, so I looked into who that criminal could have been. Turns out, there was never such a man reported in the first place, which led me to focus on you. And that's when the dominoes started to fall."

Peyton smirked.

"It was almost too easy."

Nigma still didn't seem even somewhat phased by any of this.

Infact, he began to chuckle, prompting Riley to stare back in a hostile confusion.

"You think this is funny, you psychotic piece of shit?!"

"Forgive me, Peyton. It's just in the way you said it.", Nigma replied. "That it was almost too easy. Rather than the fact of it simply being too easy. Ask yourself this, Peyton. With all of the high-level clearance that I've been afforded over the years, and all of the information that you found, how is it that you, of all people, were able to vet me when entire teams of intelligence ops never could?"

Riley froze.

"I..."

"It's because I allowed it, you crusading idiot. I set the trap, you took the bait. I'd been tracking your little investigation since it started, placing the right incriminating files in the right areas for you to find, leaving it all out in the open just long enough for you to stumble across them. Handing them to you as if you were a child.", Nigma began, increasingly hostile himself. "And what did you do with the information? Report me to the GCPD? To Gordon? Or perhaps get in touch with the CIA? Cadmus? SHIELD? No. You did nothing of the sort. You texted Brown, and you came here with a gun, all so you could brag about how you followed the breadcrumbs that I laid at your feet."

Peyton's hand began to tremble once again. Surely, he was just trying to save face.

He was skilled and a shrewd manipulator, but to go to that level of effort?

That indicated a level of sociopathy that she had never even began to encounter.

"You're lying.", she outright accused. "This is all some mind game that you're trying to pull in order to spare yourself the extra time. Even if that insane story was the slightest bit true, I didn't come here to brag, Edward. I came here to find that damned machine, your 'Tabula Rasa', and turn it over to Gordon myself. Giving him the files would be one thing, but to have your skeleton key to go with them? It would send you away for life. I planned this, and you're just angry that you got caught with your pants down."

Nigma smiled, mischievously.

"Then, pray tell, where is the device?"

Riley levelled the gun to Edward's temple, stepping into close enough range.

"Funny. That was what I was about to ask you. Hand it over right now, and I don't have to kill you."

"Oh, Peyton."

Twisting a hidden dial on the back of his cane, Nigma made sure to keep her attention squarely focused on him as he waited for the panel at the bottom of the cane to slide back.

"Do grow up."

Slamming his cane against the floor, Riley was immediately caught off guard as she suddenly felt several thousand volts of electricity course throughout her body. Her nerves instantaneously froze up, the gun fell to her feet, and she doubled over before collapsing to the floor, still conscious but numb. Nigma stepped over her and slid the gun away with his shoe, indicating the footwear with his cane.

"Insulated soles. You would have done well to bring yourself a pair."

Riley stared up in horror, realizing that the madman had gained the advantage.

"Oh, god. Oh, god..."

Nigma leaned over her, tilting his head once again.

"Frankly, Peyton, you did me quite the favor in going about this as predictably as possible. Whenever I revealed Tabula Rasa's existence to you and Brown, I did so with the intention to see what you both would do with such knowledge. Knowledge, as you may have already guessed, is the greatest commodity in existence. It either pushes us forward or clouds our perspective, sending us back. I needed the knowledge, for instance, of whom I could trust in going forward with my plans for Gotham. And that has been made clear. You, however..."

Poking her temple with the cane, Nigma glared at her with a look of disapproval.

"Came up short, as always."

The tears now streaming down her face as she realized that she was entirely helpless, Riley looked to Nigma with a clear plea for mercy etched across her face.

"Please. Please don't kill me. I... I'll keep quiet. I won't say a word."

Standing up straight, Edward didn't so much as acknowledge her as he turned around and continued into the kitchen.

"I have more pressing matters to concern myself with than your empty promises. But if you're worrying that I'm the type of person who enacts personal vengeance, you honestly insult my intelligence. I have no intention of killing you."

Opening the fridge, Nigma produced his bottle of wine as Riley noticed the front door creak open. Standing in the doorway was Arthur Brown, her partner and the other patsy that Edward had made a fool out of for three years. Her eyes widening, she tried to move as if to warn him to turn back. He had been her back-up, in the event that things went south, but Nigma was more clever than she had anticipated. Brown was better off running and getting the documents to Gordon as quickly as he could.

"That being said..."

BLAM!

"I can't speak for Arthur."

The back of Peyton Riley's skull shattered open as Brown stood over her lifeless body, a smoking pistol in hand. Her blood splattered over the marble floors as her brains began to spill out, which Edward was quick to step over as he advanced, holding two glasses of his freshly prepared Chardonnay. Handing one to Brown, he took a long sip of his before looking down at the corpse.

"Such a pity. I had hoped she would have been smarter, but Peyton really had always been a disappointment. Now we're a woman short."

Brown looked at the glass of wine and merely placed it aside, sheathing his gun as he looked towards Edward with little-to-no emotion.

"Then I assume we're going to be recruiting, sir?"

Nigma smiled to himself, allowing the wine to swish around in the glass as he contemplated that very notion. Perhaps it was time to begin an expansion of their operation. All that it had taken to convince Brown to turn against his partner was a hefty sum wired directly to his account, electronically stolen from some millionaire that Nigma had chosen at random. And if that was all that it took to get people on his side, he would have no shortage of loyalists to pluck from Maroni's grasp in the GCPD.

"We already are. Why else do you think I set up the hit on Dent by placing him in Miss Isley's crosshairs?", Nigma curtly replied. "The Batman Task Force isn't merely to capture a caped vigilante. It's my own bit of insurance to ensure that everything runs smoothly from here on out."

Glancing down at Peyton Riley's dead body, Nigma posed a riddle to both himself and to her. An old favorite of his from childhood.

"When is a door not a door?"

Gotham City, Dini Plaza
The Syndicate Hideout
9:00 PM

"And when did you receive this message?"

Roman Sionis looked at his phone, checking the exact date and time attached to the photo. Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone looked toward him with a skeptical eye from behind his desk, as his bodyguard, a man known only as Meredith, stood to his left and Selina Kyle leaned against the wall to his right, filing her nails and making her disinterest in the matter clear. Sionis had called ahead, particularly eager to share the news.

The Penguin was dead. The photo on Sionis' phone was of his corpse, having been strangled and strung up on a pole overlooking the dance floor of his nightclub. Which theoretically meant that The Red Triangle was no more, and that there would be many vying for the now vacant fifth spot on The Five Families' roster.

"Just a little over an hour ago. Had a guy working Maroni's beat confirm it for us through the forensics lab. They just carted Cobblepott's fat ass away after his mistress found him."

Falcone reached for the phone as it was handed to him. Carefully inspecting the photo for himself, which showed the corpse's face in great detail, he seemed displeased with the result, rather than content with the matter of the rogue Siberian finally being settled.

"Don't you see what this means, Carmine? His men are ours. All we gotta do is make an offer, and Grissom's old territories are back where they belong, under Syndicate jurisdiction."

The Roman didn't even look at Sionis as he placed the phone down.

"You said that this came from an anonymous source. Did this man on Salvatore's payroll happen to have the number ran?"

Sionis raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

Falcone placed his hands together.

"Roman, you're not exactly seeing the bigger picture, here. You see opportunity where there likely is none. If Maroni's people already know about this, Capo Italiana is likely to be making the very offer that you spoke of to The Penguin's men. This is now his opportunity, not mine, and you allowed it to slip through your fingers."

Sionis sneered.

"With all due respect..."

Carmine slammed his fist down onto the phone, simultaneously cracking the screen and silencing his underboss in one fell swoop.

"And the more prevalent issue is not what we can gain from this. I'm more concerned with who could have done this to Cobblepot in the first place. By all accounts, he was well protected. Some even claimed he was building an army of freaks to stake out even larger areas of Gotham for himself. So whoever did this is likely incredibly skilled, and considering none of the other bosses have taken credit..."

A look of realization washed over Sionis' face.

"Someone's targeting us."

Selina finally stopped to admire her pedicure, leering at Sionis' ineptitude.

"And the cat finally swallows the canary."

Falcone snapped his fingers, prompting Meredith to step forward.

"Sir?"

"I want an assembly of all organizational figureheads. Tonight, with no excuses to be accepted. This will be a matter for all of us to discuss, moving forward. Extend an invitation to Cobblepot's entourage, aswell. Though I don't expect them to attend."

Meredith nodded.

"Yes, sir."

Roman looked at the bodyguard with a sense of offense, turning back to Falcone.

"Why are you making him do that? I have everybody's number, and could get them here within the hour."

Carmine glared back at Sionis with a measure of contempt.

"You weren't even competent enough to handle a simple confirmation of this rather sensitive information. I don't expect to be able to trust you to carry out an even simpler task."

Roman angrily stared back, but was still smart enough to say nothing. The old man had looked down on him for years, chided him at every turn, and questioned his methods whenever possible. It had grown tiresome, given the amount of loyalty that Sionis had placed towards Falcone since earning his spot in the organization. But this sleight was one too many.

"Carmine..."

"It's sir, to you. You'll earn your right to formalities when I've decided you're worth being allowed to them. Now get out of my office, and take the rest of the night off. You're dismissed."

His eyes widened, Roman nevertheless stood up from his seat. He didn't know whether to shoot the old man right then and there, but the temptation was certainly hanging over him. Eventually, a cooler head prevailed and he decided against it. With a careful nod, Sionis wordlessly turned around and promptly exited the room. Selina watched him as he left, before turning to her father.

"You don't really believe that Maroni's capitalizing on this, do you?"

Falcone sighed.

"Not in the slightest. But the idiota has to learn if he wants to run a significant portion of my operation. I'm not handing him the votes to lead Waynetech as CEO if he manages to screw up even a single job that's tossed his way. That was not how you handle matters of interest."

Raising an eyebrow towards Meredith, who was still standing to attention, The Roman caught him off guard with another snap.

"Hey! Didn't I just give you an order?"

Realizing his error, Meredith nodded once more, reaching for his phone.

"My apologies, sir. I'll relay the message at once."

Roman hand-waved him away.

"Do it outside. I've further business to conduct before the meeting."

Meredith looked towards the door, hesitant to leave his employer unprotected. But he knew it was unwise to question Falcone for even an instant, as Sionis had already thoroughly proven.

"Of course, sir."



"Anything you say."