A/N: ... what is an acceptable price for a load of black-market assault weapons, anyways? I mean, I went with about 2 million here being high, but I honestly don't even begin to have any idea- I mean, 2 million seems high, but drugs and guns are supposed to be pretty damn profitable, so it should be expensive... Oh well. I'll just BS it and hope no one'll call me on it.

... actually, that pretty much sums up anything organized-crime related that I'm writing. This should make for an interesting story.

*******

The crisp night air of the docks was cold and still, the harsh glare of floodlights somehow only amplifying the same heavy darkness it penetrated. Standing in the halogen pools were two groups of men, faces mostly obscured by shadow. Though muffled and distorted slightly by the slow lap of water on concrete, the voices still cut sharply through the salt-air.

"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me!" said Robert "Bobby" Mason, a large, burly blonde man in his 30's. Around him stood five more men, all scowling slightly in emulation of their boss.

"No joke. Two million for the load, or we walk away." With his fur coat, slicked-back dark hair and thick Russian accent, Lev Andreev was the very picture of a stereotypical Russian mobster, an effect that could only have been intentional for its blatancy. He, too, had a group of men surrounding him, all doing their best to seem stoic and intimidating in face of the other's irritation.

"The deal was 1.6."

"Yes, it was. And then the Black Mask and his animals started ripping apart anyone who crossed them. Or have you forgotten what happened to Dominic Moretti? There is much talk of simply leaving Gotham until gang war is over- there is being killed for dealing with wrong person, and there is being skinned alive. "

"What, Mask gets a little nasty and you lot run away pissin' your pants?"

Andreev bristled, scowling. "Dealing with Shark has become far too dangerous as of late. You will not find a better price even if you find someone who will take the risk."

"Eh, you're all a bunch of pussies," Mason said, waving a hand dismissively. "Mask's nothin' but some cornered dog that don't yet know it's dead. Dealin' with Shark ain't hardly nothin' ta worry a-," suddenly, he broke off as a loud 'crack' split the air. Without warning, his whole body jerked as his joints locked tight. Then, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Robert Mason crumbled limply to the ground, crimson liquid trickling down from the hole between his wide, glazed eyes. He was dead.

"Oh shit," one of the men murmured, staggering away as he quickly pulled a gun from its place at his hip. A few others just stared or looked around in confusion, talking in low murmurs as they attempted to spot the source of the shot.

It didn't take them long. Nimbly, the shooter sprung down from the top of the large, nearby stack of crates, landing lightly on the hard ground. As he stood, the rest of the men swore and leapt into action, some advancing slightly, others darting backwards, and all quickly pulling weapons from various holsters about their bodies.

Leisurely, as though heedless of the men's reactions, the figure straightened and strode forward a few steps, the blank mask of his red helmet glinting as the light slowly illuminated his frame.

"I donno, the Russian has a point," the arrival said, voice slightly distorted by his helmet. He had been holding the handgun, still-smoking, by his side in a loose grip, and as they watched, he raised it, twirling it idly before bringing it to bear. "I mean, I don't know what the Mask can do, but either way, it seems to me that dealing with the Shark is getting to be downright... suicidal."

*******

"Shark!" Richard "Rich" Johnson's voice was loud and urgent as he burst through the door with a second man, Johnny Richardson, close at his heels.

Seemingly unconcerned with the two arrivals' alarm, the Great White Shark, real name Warren White, merely continued looking over his papers as he asked, "Doesn't anyone know how to knock anymore?" He paused, glancing up at the men, "And don't I have guards for this sort of thing?"

"We told them it was important," Johnny said, stepping forward. "And it is. The arms deal with Andreev went south."

The Shark put down his papers, asking "Andreev wasn't willing to deal?"

"We don't know," Rich responded. "Him and his men are dead. Same with Mason."

"What happened?"

"We're not sure," Johnny said. "We just know they got hit. And we think it was-"

"The Black Mask?" Shark said. "Of course. No survivors to confirm?"

"One- Nelson Manson- but he's not saying much of anything: poor sonofabitch is lying half-dead in the hospital right now. Doctors're saying his condition's critical."

"What is this, the fourth gun buy that's been hit so far, plus other assorted deals? The Black Mask's getting bolder," Shark said. "And more desperate. Good. It means we've him on the run."

"Yeah, except it wasn't Mask," Rich said, tossing a blood-caked knife in front of him. The twisted blade made a muffled clatter on the desk as it landed. "This was stuck in one of our guys' throats."

Shark picked up the weapon, studying it. "I'm betting this isn't Mask's?"

"That's the same type of knife that Red Hood psycho from a while ago used," Rich told him. "That was his fucking trademark, and we found it stuck in some poor bastard's throat. And it turns out this isn't the first one, just the first one we heard about- we think this guy's been hitting us for near a week now."

"'Red Hood psycho'- you mean the one that was supposed to have been blown into very tiny pieces last year?"

"Cops never found a body," Johnny said. "Guy like him, that's good as proof he's still breathin' somewhere. And if he is, we've got a problem. This is bad. Real bad."

Shark laughed, shaking his head. "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny," he said, walking over towards the man and setting both hands on his shoulders. "Relax. Even if this 'Red Hood' guy is back, it's nothing. We'll track him down and either make a deal or kill him. And chances are, this is probably just Black Mask trying to play mind games, make it look too dangerous to risk dealing with us."

"That's easy for you to say," interjected Rich. "You were still hiding away in that loony bin, Arkham, when he was on the scene. I saw this guy in action once. Just him against 20 guys. Leader of the guys didn't take him serious and told him to give up 'cause it wasn't a fair fight. Red Hood said he was right, so he tossed him his gun, said that was a little more even, and then went and killed them all. Twenty guys, all armed to the teeth, against one kid with a knife, and they never stood a chance. I don't think the Hood even got a scratch on him. Guy's a fucking demon."

"Well then," Shark said. "It's a good thing that I have experience dealing with demons, isn't it?" He turned and waved his hand, dismissing them. "Tell me what what's-his-name says if he wakes up- I'm sure he'll be able to confirm it if it is the Red Hood, which it probably isn't: dollars to doughnuts it's just the Mask trying to scare us."

*******

A/N: For those of you who missed it, Shark's "experience dealing with demons" line is a reference to the rather... interesting end of "Arkham Asylum: Living Hell," the short series where he was first introduced.