Problems of Business

"Glad you could make it out this early, Bruce. It's almost noon but you look like you just got out of bed. Life hard or are you taking it easy?"

That was how Harvey greeted the billionaire this fine day. The district attorney had been looking forward to this break in his day, a time when he didn't need to stress over poll numbers and statistics, pour through countless law books to address all the nuances of each and every case on his desk, or to lead the whole office and coordinate the efforts of each employee.

Best of all, he wouldn't have to put up too much of a front. He had never expected to be on friendly terms with one of Gotham's richest bachelors, a mere acquaintance at best, but here he was having lunch with this bachelor.

Said bachelor's appearance did nothing to debunk any and all womanizing rumors there were about him. Sure, he was dressed appropriately for a man of his status, hair was combed and face shaved, and there was hardly a wrinkle to be seen. It was all in the eyes; there was an exhaustion to them that hinted at late nights or long nights. Take your pick which.

"Sorry Harv, just starting the day late," Bruce quipped, pausing for a moment. It looked like he was trying to hold back in a yawn. "I've been having to deal with some unexpected things. It's been taking a lot out of me recently."

"Anything you'd like to tell me? If nothing else, I can be a good listener," the attorney offered.

"Thanks, but you're the DA. I don't want to potentially incriminate myself by saying the wrong things," the billionaire joked as he took a seat. Picking up the menu placed before him, he muttered, "What's good for a late morning headache?"

"Would that be a headache or a hangover? I can at least help with the last one," Harvey teased.

"I'll take my chances," Bruce replied as a waitress arrived, placing a glass of water next to Harvey.

"Need to stall for some time or ready to order?" the lawyer asked as he picked up the glass, taking a sip of the iced beverage. "I've had plenty of time and know what I want."

"I'll pick something at random," Bruce shrugged, eyes focused on the menu. "You order first."

Looking up at the waitress, Harvey gave a smirk and said, "You heard the man."

A couple minutes late, their orders taken, the two men were left to their own devices while they waited.

"So how's the campaign? I heard about that debate the other night," Bruce asked, not looking the least bit interested in the topic, but trying to start some kind of small talk.

"Better than what I expected, but not by much," Harvey answered. "I only went up by three points. Harkness picked up some steam and not much to say about Weinstein. Overall, nothing much has changed, even after having that debate."

"At least you didn't go down. That's something to look at," the wealthier man remarked.

"I swear, there are times where I wonder why I'm doing all this," the dark-haired attorney sighed. "Getting torn down one minute, being yelled at for taking too long on a case, and having to deal with government officials that get in your way with their string pulling and insane verdicts. And let's not forget scum that flip you the bird while getting a slap on the wrist."

Huh, where had all that come from? He had just blurted it out for no reason.

"This is really getting to you Harvey," Bruce commented, his forehead creasing.

"Yeah," he agreed, "but then I remember the faces of those who receive justice. The families of the victims smiling, truly smiling, for the first time in who knows how long…it's quite the sight. It's like you did something right for once and it feels good. I don't know if you've ever felt that way before."

"Every once in a while," Bruce replied, shrugging his shoulders like he was saying it wasn't a big deal.

"Maybe you haven't but trust me, you'll know when you feel it. It's like pride," Harvey described, "pride in what you're doing, and what you're doing is making the world that much better. You have made a difference, not just for the city, but for one person's life. And maybe you've inspired them at the same time. One of the cases I'm working on has that kind of feeling to it. Sure, it's a slam dunk, but the piece of shit involved deserves so much worse than what he'll get. But it's not about them, it's about helping the families of the people he's hurt. It's showing them that sometimes, things do work out. The good are rewarded, the bad punished. Like it's supposed to be."

"Actually, I think I do know what you're talking about." Harvey had to blink and look hard at the other man, because was it him or had Bruce Wayne spoken softer that usual? And he looked as if he did understand what he was saying, and not just agreeing for whatever reason.

"You do know, don't you?" he stated, nodding his head in approval. "Care to share?"

"Not right now, but sure," Bruce said, straightening up. "I'll wait for when it's the right time. I gotta give you some time to torture yourself about what it is."

"You're either a sadist or what you're hiding is really that big," Harvey chuckled. "Fine, hold onto it for now. Maybe I'll do some digging. Part of the job is being an investigator."

"You can try, Harv, but I think even your office would have trouble with this one." The billionaire was smirking at him, eyes twinkling in mirth.

"Challenged accepted, Bruce. I not only have the skills, I also have the luck," Harvey boosted. "Which reminds me. I found this the other day." Digging into a pocket, he pulled out a coin and showed it off to the billionaire.

"That looks like a quarter," Bruce said. "It's a little bigger but what about it are you trying to show me?"

"This, Bruce, is my father's lucky coin," Harvey told him. "Won quite a few bets with it. Until some unsavory folk found out about it and suddenly he wasn't lucky anymore."

"So?"

With a smirk, Harvey turned the coin around. Understanding dawned in the other man's eyes.

"Your father must have had balls to use a double-sided coin. I'm surprised people didn't catch on sooner."

"I'm more surprised he managed to hold on to it," Harvey admitted as he flipped the coin experimentally. Catching it, he looked at the image of Lady Liberty's profile staring right back at him before he pocketed it. Yes, Lady Liberty, because this wasn't a quarter, but a silver dollar. "I'd figured I'd use it as a prank at the office. Try to lighten the mood a bit. The election has a lot of people on edge right now, wondering who their next boss is going to be."

"Sure that's not more for you than them?" Bruce asked pointedly.

Harvey shrugged his shoulders. "It could be," he agreed without actually agreeing to the observation. "It was just a thought I had."

"You might want to think over it before you try it," Bruce recommended.

"Probably right." Deciding to change the topic, he saw that maybe now was as good a time as any. This morning the news, as well as the internet, had been blowing up about a story, one that happened to involve a certain company CEO. Then again, this was supposed to be a friendly meal with a man he was beginning to see as a friend.

"You look like you have something else on your mind," Brue stated.

"I do, but I'm not sure that I should mention it," he said.

"Don't make me have to do my own investigation, Harv. I may not look it, but I happened to have quite a few people on my payroll who are good at finding information. Let's skip all that and not have me shell out a few thousand, alright?" Bruce was having a bit of a laugh but Harvey wasn't too sure that the billionaire would be laughing for long.

"Well, you asked for it. There's been a story recently that's been causing waves," Harvey began. "Your name, more specifically, your company's name came up in it."

"You're going to have to be a bit more specific. There are a lot of stories that have my company's name in them."

"Are they stories that happen to accuse Wayne Enterprises of trying to create an army of Bat-like monsters with some secret experimental concoction of chemicals?" the district attorney laid it all out in one simple, neat question. "The name Man-bat has been flying around, probably because Batman has already been taken. So, any truth to it?"

Bruce's face was all the answer he needed. Instead of the jovial and friendly expression he was known to have, Bruce's face was a mask of stone that could give marble a run for its money. Then he spoke, his tone of voice deeper and darker than Harvey had ever heard it before.

"What?"

The image of Bruce Wayne was of an idiot. He was careless, preferred alcohol at all times of the morning, and was just smart enough to have smarter people running his business. He hardly worked, was so nonchalant towards his day job he might as well be an absentee. Carefree didn't do enough justice to describe the persona.

As the doors to the Wayne Pharmaceutical lab flung open, lackadaisical Wayne was nowhere to be found. Thunderous, enraged Wayne stormed into the lab, drawing the attention of most of the researchers. A permanent scowl was etched on his face, dark and stony. Bruce paid the scientists little mind, even though he was quite aware that they were staring at his rage-twisted face.

The people towards the back of the lab were still hard at work, some of which seemed to be darting from one side of the room to the other. Bruce didn't concern himself with what they were doing. There was one person he wanted to see and one person only.

However, his search came to an abrupt stop when he noticed the cages belonging to the lab rats. Gone was his anger, his mouth dropping open as horror filled his gut. Those rats, they looked just like miniature Man-Bats. Sharp shrieks escaped their mouths full of sharp teeth. Their winged arms flapped over and over, beating against the metal bars.

Mother of God…

Had no one approached him, Bruce was sure he would've stayed rooted to that spot for most of the day. As it turned out Lincoln March had walked right up to him, tapping him on his shoulder. "Mr. Wayne," he greeted solemnly. "How—"

"What the hell is going on here?!" Bruce exploded as he whirled around to face March, his anger once more on his face.

March, to his credit, merely flinched, but held his ground. "There was a slight…accident with one of our projects. No one's been hurt, but as you can see, there were some unexpected side-effects."

"Side-effects," the dark-haired man repeated skeptically. "You call this," he gestured to the cages with a hand, "a side-effect? What project was this? I want to know everything!"

"Are you sure?" the taller man questioned. "I know you're upset, but at the very least you can claim that you didn't know anything about it if someone were to come asking."

Bruce stared at Lincoln. Where had this guy been all morning? Admitted, the billionaire had been sleeping right up until his lunch with Harvey, so that was how he had missed the news the DA had shared with him. Lincoln, on the other hand, did not have that excuse. "In case you hadn't noticed, someone already has."

The entire time he had been in the lab, Bruce had been carrying a folded-up newspaper, tucking it up in his armpit. In one move, he snatched the paper out and slapped it down on a nearby table, the headline MONSTERS AT WAYNE ENTERPRISES boldly declaring itself on the face of the Gotham Star.

His face darkening, voice dropping an octave, Bruce said, "I want to know why I had to find out about this through the damn media and not my own people. Explain, Lincoln."

March froze at the sight. It was clear he had not been expecting this. Then, that moment of weakness vanished. "That's what I've been trying to figure out, Mr. Wayne," he replied after a moment. "And I believe that we have a mole in the department."

All around them, researchers froze. Though it was obvious they were trying to eavesdrop from the beginning, never mind they didn't have to bother trying since Bruce and Lincoln's voices were pretty loud already, the mentioning of a leak was enough to set everyone on edge.

That was beside the point. "I don't care if there is or isn't a mole," Bruce grounded out lowly. "The issue is that this was all kept within Wayne Pharmaceuticals. The Board should have been notified when this all happened. I should have been notified. It's clear to me that the channels of communication have broken down here."

"And that will be remedied," March promised earnestly. "For now I'm more concerned about who talked. There's no telling what else has been leaked and to whom. As a company, we can't have all of our research given away at the last moment to our competitors after we do all the legwork for them."

Bruce took a step towards the taller man, closing the distance between them. "I want to know who knew about this and why they didn't report this to me. This 'mole' can wait. I want a full briefing tomorrow morning."

Spinning around, Bruce stormed back the way he came, heading right for the still-open lab doors. He was going to make sure this was taken care of. While March had an excellent point about corporate espionage, that hardly mattered. He should've known about this long before it was exposed to the public, plausible deniability be damned.

He shouldn't have to find out from Vicki Vale of all people about what was going on in his company.

"I'll see to it it gets done," he faintly heard Lincoln say reassuringly. "Someone will be sorry."

"Honestly, what is it with hired guns and putting some variation of death or kill in their names?" Throne grumbled as he flipped through the "resumes" scattered on his desk. All of them were for various men and women who happened to have the kind of career you don't market in public, and each was concise in what information was given.

"I did my best to find the ones that could be the best fit for the kind of job you want," Michael piped up. "These are some of the best with the most consistent records I could find."

"And you did a mighty fine job at getting them, Mr. Doubleday," Throne replied. "Still, I'm tempted to throw some of these out based on their 'names' alone. What's this one? 'Killshot?' And only five confirmed kills?"

"The hits were ones that required quite a lot of skill," Michael put in his two cents.

"He's a rookie and not up to the big leagues," the crime boss sneered in disgust. "Shred it. I don't want to rely on someone with a name taken from a Saturday morning cartoon."

"Very well, Mr. Thorne." The pencil pusher picked up the "resume" and held onto it, probably waiting until he had a few more before going to destroy them.

Looking for a few more, Thorne stopped on one that had quite a few impressive numbers. The fee was high, a million per hit. The confirmed body count, pretty damn high. Some of the identifies of his known hits were very high profile and very difficult to take out. This one looked good, except for one glaring detail that Thorne couldn't ignore.

"Deadshot? First we have a Killshot, now we have a Deadshot. Do assassins really have to emphasize the fact that they kill for a living in their monikers?" Thorne growled. "Whatever happened to names like the 'Cleaner' or the 'Doc?' Simple names that you wouldn't ordinarily link to murder."

"Shall I shred that one too?" Michael asked.

"No, this one is one of the better ones so far," he grumbled. "I'll hold on to it until I find someone with either better numbers or a better name. I honestly don't know which one I prefer at this point."

He had been at this all day and only now was he willing to hold onto one of the many prospects. What he needed done was something that no ordinary thug or lowlife was competent enough to do. Thorne wasn't stupid, he knew that none of his boys stood a chance at icing the Batman once and for all. A whole building failed to do it, so anything less was a waste of time.

Thus these "specialists" with the death-fetish names. Oh, come on, "Deathstroke?" Oh wait, and there was "The Terminator" after that. So not only was it a name, it had a title to add to it. Now this really was a goddamn cartoon. Though those numbers were very appealing to the eye, and the list of known skills made him consider for a moment.

He'll put this "Deathstroke" next to "Deadshot." Christ, those names were too similar sounding. Really, could these people just call themselves something normal, and better yet innocuous? A hint of deception goes a long way people. Put any form of dead or death in your name, you're crying for people to notice you and say "Oh wow, he must be a great assassin! I want to hire him!"

But not him. Not Rupert Thorne. He couldn't and wouldn't pick just anybody. Especially with ridiculous names that screamed for attention.

Sure, use a code name. Hide your identity. Thorne didn't really begrudge that because if no one knew your real name, they couldn't pin the crime on you. It was smart to do.

Just pick something reasonable to call yourselves already!

"Oh come on! Deadline?! They're not even trying anymore!" he exclaimed.

Kingslayer, Executrix, Pierce, Detonator, Camorouge, Battleaxe, Razorburn, Whip, oh, and perhaps a personal favorite, Lady Victim, really, who did these people think they were?

"You know, I would have thought that finding a person willing and able to take out the Batman wouldn't have included such stupid names," Thorne sighed, pushing himself back and into his seat. He rubbed at his forehead to try and calm down the headache he could feel growing.

"I'm sorry, sir. I paid more attention to their qualifications than their names," Michael apologized, not even having the guts to look at him.

"Just as well. I'll see about getting over this pet peeve of mine." A pet peeve he only now discovered, thanks a lot you hacks. Reaching out, he picked up the next "resume," finding out shortly it was more of a folder. Hmmph, someone was overcompensating. "Hey, what's with this one?"

"That one is a bit of an up and comer," Michael answered. "Started becoming active over the last few years and has been making a name for himself. There was more…information on his jobs. They're…different from the others."

"Hopefully the right kind of different," the crime boss commented as he opened the folder. Okay, the usual information, though some of the dates on the hits showed a lot of recent activity. But wait, there was more. There were pictures in here. Probably what Michael was talking about.

No way. No way were these real. Alright, what did it say about his weapon of choice again? Now that was impossible!

"Is this some kind of joke?" he demanded, glaring at his overglorified assistant. "I want some answers, Mr. Doubleday."

"I verified them, Mr. Thorne. It's all legitimate," Michael hastily answered, swallowing. "I had some difficulty myself, but it all follows up. It's real."

"You mean this guy was able to accomplish this," Thorne smacked the opened folder down on his desk, revealing the images of various individuals practically broken in two, the bodies all in awkward positions that were not naturally possible, along with walls with gaping holes in them, "with only his bare hands?!"

"That is correct, Mr. Thorne."

Unreal. Truly, it was unreal. What was this person, someone like one of those superpowered freaks you could find in Metropolis or Gateway? Hmm, no place of origin mentioned. Nothing about where such abilities came from.

Yet…this could be what he was looking for. If what Michael said was true, that meant this person had skills with hand-to-hand combat. He could get in and take the bat-themed menace head-on and more than likely win. Hell, one hit was probably all it would take.

Taking a second to look up the assassin's name, he grimaced.

Well, at the very least, it wasn't as bad as the others. A bit more subtle, but if you knew what it meant then it was obvious that this guy could be nothing other than a killer. However, the results that he had evidence of so far hinted at such efficiency that even if he couldn't do the job right away, he was more than capable of providing a distraction.

There was one last question that needed to be answered first, though. "What's the price," he muttered.

He soon found it.

"Five million a head!" he shouted. "Five million?!"

"I was worried that the price might rule him out but I figured that should be your decision, Mr. Thorne," Michael explained, his voice low like he wasn't trying to attract attention.

Five million? You had to do an exceptional level of work to demand that kind of pay. And you better damn well be worth it. Failure could not be an option.

Thorne had to think about this. He needed to think about this more than he had the others. Was this one the one he wanted? The others had more reasonable prices, along with longer histories.

Recalling the recent dismantling of one of his more lucrative ventures, one that had promised to put him in league with the billionaires of this city, and knowing who was the one responsible for it…

…as well as considering the fact that he may be stuck with that masked freak up until the day he was put into handcuffs, that ended whatever problem he had.

"I want this one," he declared, holding up the folder. "If I'm to prosper in this city, then money is no object. One way or another, the Batman needs to be out of my hair. For good. Contact our specialist Mr. Doubleday. Use the diamonds Frankie recovered as the down payment. Let's get this done once and for all."

Then, as an afterthought, "Shred the other 'resumes.' I don't need them anymore."

With that settled, it was time to get back to some light reading. Yes, the unofficial biography of Harvey Dent. Trading one folder for another, Thorne made himself more comfortable as he read through the confidential file of a certain DA's psychological state.

Now that he could focus on more important things, he needed to change up his strategy. So long as he had this file, it didn't matter who won the election. Either his thorn in the side DA dropped out or became a puppet, it didn't matter. Mort Weinstein no longer mattered.

It wouldn't be long now before he finally had all of Gotham in the palm of his hand.

Things were coming together quite nicely.

Putting the final touch into the notes of his latest project, Dr. Erie allowed himself the moment to feel satisfaction. Everything was progressing as per his design. Given a little more time, and this client should prove to be one of the more entertaining ones to date.

Rising from his seat, Erie made his way to the windows of his penthouse and looked out into the city beyond. Everything was so ripe and ready for what was to come. So many changes awaited it and he was having difficulty maintaining his patience.

Such a struggle would have to wait when a knock on the door echoed throughout the real estate. Knocks on his door had been becoming more frequent as of late. Based on prior experience, the person on the other side of the door was most likely Kirk Langstrom. He had been showing up a lot recently, not that Erie minded.

As he made his way to the door, he wondered what new surprise awaited him this time. One could not say that the Langstrom saga had been boring. Opening the door, the shrink found himself surprised at what he found.

He had only been partially right about who was paying him a visit. It was indeed a Langstrom, just not the right one.

"Victor Erie?" demanded the voice of none other than Abraham Langstrom. Erie recognized him from the pictures he had found when looking up this man's information. It was necessary since Kirk happened to speak about this man and it wouldn't due for him not to be up to date.

"That is I, yes," Erie confirmed, nodding his head. "How may I help you."

Without waiting for him to move, the elder Langstrom shoved his way past the psychiatrist. From the way he moved, it was like he was a conqueror, making a survey of his latest conquest.

"I'll cut to the chase," Langstrom stated as he spun around to face him. Meanwhile, Erie had closed and locked the door, to maintain the privacy of this meeting. "I know Robert is seeing you. You shrinks keep files on all your patients. I want Robert's, end of discussion."

Erie quirked an eyebrow in amusement. "I'm afraid I cannot confirm or deny—"

"Do not give me the runaround Erie. Make this easier on yourself," Langstrom interrupted. Pulling out a very familiar business card and practically shoving it into his face, the Langstrom patriarch continued to press his advantage, "I found this in my son's wallet. I know he's seeing you. I want the file you have on Robert—Kirk Langstrom."

"I seemed to be having problems with individuals wanting to have access to confidential files lately," Erie replied dryly. "Again, Mr. Langstrom, I have to refuse you. This is more than just protecting a client I may or may not be seeing, this is upholding the highest echelons of ethics. True, your son may have had that card in his wallet, but you have no proof I was the one to give it to him."

"You shrinks and your double talk," Langstrom growled, full out glaring at him. "Do you know who you are messing with?"

"Of course, Abraham Langstrom, the up and coming business tycoon that's been giving Wayne Enterprises a run for its money. It's hard not to know who you are when you are in the business section of the newspaper almost every day," the shrink answered casually.

"Then you can guess what I am capable of."

"Is that a threat I detect?" This unplanned and unexpected meeting was becoming more and more entertaining by the moment.

"I don't make threats, Erie. I make promises."

Erie was having to hold back a laugh. Really, did this man think he would be intimidated by such a show of force? He had witnessed much better men do so much more with so much less. Where was the subtlety? The finesse? How this man was creating waves in the business world said so much about the state of financial and commercial institutions.

Giving a short, sharp whistle, the shrink commented, "Your tenacity has been well documented, Mr. Langstrom. However, I'm afraid you will find—"

Suddenly, the larger man was mere inches away from him, glaring down at him like the emperor he believed himself to be considering the fate of an unruly subject. He was using his larger size and demeanor to intimidate him, such a primal way of establishing dominance. However, Erie had seen better before.

"Do not test me, Erie. I don't care who you are, who you see, or what you're trying to hide with that horrible toupee, but let me tell you this. You do not know what I will do with you if I don't have my son's file in my hand in the next minute. Let me promise you, you have seen nothing compared to what I'll do and before I'm finished, you will be begging me like a dog. You have fifty seconds now."

Had Erie been a lesser man, he would have been completely cowed. There was a part of him that was certainly impressed. With movement occurring behind the tycoon, things were about to come to a head real soon. Best to play along.

"Very well," he acquiesced. "I hope I will be able to retrieve what you desire before my friend decides to act."

Langstrom snorted at him mere seconds before a stomp sounded behind him. Snapping his head around, the rest of his large body began to turn just as large hands tipped with sharp claws grabbed him and held him up into the air, his designer shoed feet dangling in the air.

"SSSSKRRRRRAAAAAAHHHHH!" a bat-like creature screamed into the businessman's face, bits of saliva spewing out of a toothy mouth and splattering against the helpless man's face. It was a shame that Langstrom was turned around; Erie would have loved to seen what the unflappable man's face looked like in the moment.

"What the devil is this?" Langstrom demanded as he struggled in the monster's grasp.

"Just a friend," Erie casually remarked as he made his way to small lamp table. Pulling open the small drawer, he removed a small syringe that was filled with a clear liquid, a tranquilizer to be more precise. Etorphine was not easy to get your hands onto, but Erie was not about to let something like the law prevent him from getting a very effective means of sedation. "Now, Mr. Langstrom, or shall I call you Abraham? You appear to be a very stressed man. Allow me to provide you with some relief."

"You have no idea who you are dealing with," Abraham growled, continuing to struggle.

"Maybe, but the same could be said about yourself," Erie replied flippantly as he approached the furious man. Testing the needle of the syringe, he unceremoniously jabbed it into Abraham's neck and injected the potent tranquilizer. Abraham's body froze then began to struggle once more only less aggressive.

It didn't take long for Abraham to succumb, becoming unconscious as he dangled in the bat monster's grasp.

"Very good," Erie praised. "Let us get him prepared. Though unexpected, I do believe I have a use for our guest."

With dusk arising, the psychiatrist double checked to make sure everything was ready. He stopped only long enough to observe his pet, a Man-bat as the news was starting to call them.

How apropos.

Now, to business. The toupee-wearing M.D. approached the still sedated Abraham, armed with another syringe. Unlike the last one, this had something to wake him up.

Precautions were already taken. Abraham was restrained to a counter, his sportscoat and dress shirt removed so that all he remained in were his wifebeater, his suspenders, designer shoes, and a necktie that Erie had kept on because for some reason it fit the picture better. Despite his age, Abraham had kept himself in remarkable shape. He was more fit than men half his age.

This was becoming a better and better idea by the second.

With this second injection, it didn't take long for the Langstrom patriarch to rouse. Everything else fell in place like dominoes: discovering restrained movement, seeing the bindings, and lastly expected rage.

Rage that soon targeted him.

"You are a dead man," Abraham swore.

"You're very intimidating from this position, Abraham," Erie mocked as he took a step away to survey his work thus far. "Do continue. Terrify me if you can."

"Do you know who I am? What I'm capable of?" came the too predictable response. He had already used that type of threat. Honestly, it was very disappointing. After the tales that Kirk had spun for him, he had expected so much more.

"I believe we've been through this," the shrink spoke dismissively. "Whatever power you claim to have, I believe we have proven is worthless, especially in the face of this." With his last words, he directed all attention to the Man-bat that took up post on a chair. How it hadn't broken yet escaped even his mind, but then again, this was a very unique scenario. "Do you think he cares who you are or what you're capable of? I think not."

"So you have a pet. You can't fight on your own, can you?" Abraham sneered at him.

"And why would I want to?" Erie quipped back. "Why risk physical harm to prove what exactly? I have found that using my intellect to get what I want is much more advantageous and carries an extremely small risk of harm. You, my friend, on the other hand, are a brute in fine clothing. You portray status and importance but you are no better than a common thug from the streets. You have no vision, only banking on the bottom line which will get you nowhere if you're not willing to gamble for a big win."

"Who do you think you are? You know absolutely nothing about me," Abraham snarled.

"I know plenty. Poor Kirk, a great mind like his damned to exist around you. What a waste." This was getting boring very quickly. For a man with no spine like Kirk Langstrom, this helpless savage was a nightmare. For someone like him, a pawn to be moved on the board and nothing more, a sacrifice in the making.

"Still, I have far more respect for your son than I do you," he continued before any more inane comments could be thrown at him. "Really, he is a genius. After all, my pet here is a product of his work."

"You can't be serious." Ah yes, disbelief, how he knew its bitter sound.

"I wish I could claim it as my own, but I do have to give credit where credit is due," Erie admitted. "While searching for a cure for hearing loss, he instead developed a mutagen. That is truly the story of science. We search for one thing only to find something else. In Kirk's case, what he found is far more useful than a measly cure." As he spoke, he walked about the space he had reserved for this. "It was simple enough to get out of him with a little hypnosis. Unfortunately, chemistry has not been one of my strong suits, sadly. Fortunately, I have colleagues who are and he was more than willing to aid me in my endeavors."

"What are you talking about?" Abraham demanded.

"Something that is beyond your feeble understanding," the psychiatrist taunted as he stopped by another counter. Reaching forward, he picked up the third syringe of the night. Unlike the last two, this one was much bigger, with a longer needle, and a larger payload to boot. A light, pinkish fluid filled the glass chamber, the toupee-wearing man gazing at it in awe.

"Behold!" he announced, spinning around and showing the large syringe to his captive. "The fruit of your son's labor! The mutagen he unknowingly created and perfected through my own machinations. The Matbat serum fully realized!"

Abraham continued to glare at him. "You're insane. You belong in Arkham with all the other lunatics."

"We'll see," he chuckled, stalking his way to the restrained man. "In the meantime, allow me to give you something that no amount of money can purchase for you. That the power you have now pales in comparison to. You think you're mighty now? You know nothing, nothing at all puny man.

"But I shall correct it for you."

Erie stabbed the needle into Abraham's neck, attempting to get close to the jugular artery. Pushing down on the plunger, he watched as the mutagen was pressured out of its home and into the body of its new host. Abraham made no noise, making quite a show of trying to remain stoic through the process.

Once the syringe was emptied, the needle was pulled out, leaving only a miniscule trail of blood to leak out. Erie pulled away, never taking his eyes off his victim as the time ticked away. Grunts left the bound man's lips but if he was trying to fight the mutagen, he was going to lose. Time would triumph in the end.

The first sign that the mutagen was taking hold was the inhuman growl that seeped through Abraham's lips, his teeth beginning to sharpen. Hair began to sprout through the skin as the face started to elongate. Abraham's growls soon turned into snarls, growing louder and louder in volume.

Erie's lips twisted, forming a large smile filled with teeth as the transformation began in earnest.

Author's note: Yes, the names of the assassins Thorne was looking through are actual names of DC characters. Even Killshot, whom I never heard of and the name I picked up from Robot Chicken sketch. Still, if you are wondering about the identity of Thorne's selected hitman, the price should be a hint. And for an additional clue, don't limit yourself to the comics, look also at other mediums like TV and movies. Or you can wait. Take your pick.