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CHAPTER TWO: In Which Our Main Character Avoids
Slowly, the gates to Arkham Asylum swung open.
Commissioner Gordon nodded, and his driver pulled the heavily armored limousine through. He tried not to flinch as the gate swung closed behind him.
This was a bad idea.
He'd been telling Mayor James so for the past month; ever since eleven dead bodies had bled out right in front of the Gotham Public Library. When he'd secretly divulged the Mayor's idea to his daughter, the language she used could've peeled wallpaper. And he found he didn't have the heart to call her out on it.
Mayor James, in all of his benevolent stupidity, had decided to go along with Wildcard's suggestion. The absolutely, mind-bogglingly, iditoic notion that Gotham now needed a daytime protector as much as a nighttime one. One that would answer to the law, and the law alone. And no amount of begging, pleading, or bribery (not that he knew anything about the latter), had gotten him to change his mind. Which was why he, Commissioner Gordon, was now pulling himself from a cold leather seat to greet one Amanda Waller, Warden of Arkham Asylum.
Floyd Lawton, the supervillain known to all the world as Deadhsot, was to be released today. And then immediately sworn in as an Officer in the Gotham City Police Department. At least all the man's pay and benefits were to be directly sent to his child and it's mother: the only thing about this whole business Gordon agreed with.
Once upon a time, Gordon had worked with Lawton. Back when he was a lowly Lieutenant, and back when Lawton was just a Batman knockoff who used his guns liberally, if not lethally. Time had not been kind to their relationship.
But he was still one of the few GCPD officers left that had ever gotten close to the villain, which left him stuck as the post for Lawton's chain. He just hoped the man didn't think too hard on it, or he'd bring Gordon down right along with him. Which, now that he thought about it, might be what the Mayor was hoping for. The man had never forgiven him for his role in the gang war.
He adjusted his overcoat, and then began to walk across the courtyard. Waller was waiting for him. Oh how he hated that woman; he was pretty sure she was hiding something big, but he'd never been able to prove anything. And the Bat had vouched for her. So for now, she stayed. And did her best to make his life hell.
"Commissioner."
"Warden."
"I trust you had a pleasant drive."
"As well as can be expected. Snow's getting pretty bad."
"It always does, Commissioner, sooner or later. This is Gotham, after all."
"...Yeah."
"I'll take you to Lawton now. For your own sake, I hope he remembers your time working together fondly. Or this will go south very quickly.
"It always does, Warden; sooner or later. This is Gotham, after all."
"...Quite."
And with that, they hurried their way along, out of the howling wind and the oncoming storm.
It had been a quiet month for John Wick.
It had started off a little wilder than he would've liked, but he'd take what he could get. Especially in what he still felt could very well be Purgatory.
He'd cleaned his prints off the stolen MP5-K and CZ-75 as best he could, then hocked them both to a dealer that was thankfully just as crooked here as he was back home. With the cash, he'd picked himself out a new outfit (since the police were probably looking for the old one); one more suited to work on a boat. Military surplus green cargo pants, warm ocean blue jacket, black sweater, and a red toboggan to top it off with. The Timberlands he kept on, then stashed his other clothes somewhere safe.
As for arming himself, he'd picked up an old Browning Hi-Power and kit to keep it running. That was as much as he could reasonably justify in any profession he happened to end up in. Oh what he wouldn't give for a Benelli M4 shotgun or Vz.58 assault rifle. But he'd make do.
He'd make do.
After that, it had been ludicrously easy to hire onto a 'fishing' boat with no questions asked. Especially once they found out how good he was with old engines. He hadn't given a name when hiring on, so when the crew found out about his skills with a socket set, they'd taken to calling him "Jack"; short for "jack of all trades". The name had stuck, and when the smuggling had begun tapering off for the winter, it had been the name the Continental used when offering him a replacement position.
Fixing and maintaining Oswald Cobblepot's private fleet of cars: not the worst job he'd ever had. There were even times he enjoyed it. Especially once the pay started coming in checks instead of cash.
For that, he'd needed a last name. Unfortunately, he'd mentally grabbed for the first word he could think of in conjunction with the name "Jack", and now he was stuck with the outcome.
Jack Diamond, Continental Vehicle Manager, at your service. It was what he got for playing Texas Hold 'Em so much when he was a kid. Well, he guessed he still was a kid. Just one that people mistook for being a lot older than he actually was.
Surprisingly, no one had really come looking for his by now well-known alter ego. "Wildcard" had made the papers in a big way, and that was saying something considering people in Gotham got shot all the time. His decision to disappear off-coast for a couple of weeks seemed to have paid off.
What was surprising was the official position the city of Gotham had taken after the fact. They were releasing one of the supervillains John (or Jack now, he supposed) had read about to try and clean up crime during the day. Floyd Lawton, aka Deadshot, had been officially inducted into the GCPD, and so far the results seemed to speak for themselves.
Cobblepot had at first cursed and raged over the matter, but after a while it became apparent to even someone as low on the totem pole as Jack Diamond that this Deadshot seemed to be leaving the operations of the Continental (Iceberg Lounge, Jack, Iceberg Lounge) well enough alone. After all, they had a certain set of rules they played by. Not so much the other big names in town.
If 'Black Mask' was as high up the food chain as Jack was beginning to think, then they were definitely starting to feel the squeeze. It was only a matter of time before something broke.
That something turned out to be Tim Drake's patience.
This had been, quite easily, one of the worst months of Slade Wilson's life.
Nothing. One million dollars up front, rest on delivery, and he'd found nothing.
It was like Wildcard simply didn't exist. One minute, the man wasn't there, and then poof! Surprise apparition! The guy was a better ghost than some of the actual ghosts Slade had met.
Oh sure, he'd found the stolen guns the guy had taken with him after the incident. Both cleaned, both resold on the black market. He'd gone to the dealer they'd come from, but all he'd gotten out of the trip was intel on what Wildcard's new outfit had looked like. Plus the fact that the wannabe vigilante was now carrying a Browning Hi-Power. Whoever the guy was, he liked to do things old school.
But all for nothing. Slade was starting to think the guy had ditched town, considering how many fake leads both he and the GCPD had been forced to track down. And, to be honest, Deathstroke was starting to get bored.
Which was why when he got the call from the Penguin that Robin had taken it upon himself to crash into the Iceberg Lounge, he'd been all too happy to take the contract to remove the kid. No business was allowed on Iceberg grounds, but so long as he was officially on staff as 'pest removal', he'd be okay. The job was non-lethal anyway; everyone remembered how the Bat had acted after the last Robin had disappeared. And no one in Gotham wanted to see that again.
To Slade's surprise, by the time he actually got to the Lounge, the fight was still going on. Every other member of Cobblepot's entourage had been laid out cold, except for a man quite clearly dressed as a car mechanic. Faded blue jeans...dark blue coat...greasy red shirt…
And yellow Timberland boots.
Oh, well-played Wildcard.
The kid was matching Robin blow for blow, but whereas the Bird fought like a martial artist, the kid fought like he'd been born on the streets. Russian streets. No wonder Slade hadn't turned up anything on him.
He waited for the opportune moment, and then silently struck. Robin crumpled to the ground, unconscious from a blow to the head.
He hoisted the kid up over his shoulder, and then turned to face the Penguin. "Somebody order take-out?"
Why oh why had he come upstairs?
Oh, right. To tell the Boss his Rolls-Royce Phantom II was finally ready to drive. Stupid reason.
Everything had gone to hell the second that Tim Drake, the new Robin, had crashed through the skylight. Jack had been the only one in the room besides Cobblepot to recognize the boy's thrown smoke bombs as knockout gas; by the time the cloud had dissipated, it was just the three of them facing each other across the room.
Jack didn't particularly care for Cobblepot. But the man signed his paychecks, enforced the rules, and most importantly, actually had enough pull to keep a friend out of the clutches of both the Batfamily and the other mobs if worse came to worse. So Jack did what any good employee would do:
He shot Robin.
Unfortunately, he'd aimed for the kneecap. It seemed the Bats had learned their lesson about that little weak spot: Drake shrugged the bullet off and rounded on him like...well, like a Bat out of hell.
If Jack's body had been anywhere near the condition he was used to, the fight would've been over and done with in thirteen seconds flat. As it was, he just wasn't used to being able to move as fast as his new body could.
On the bright side, all that time messing with mechanics had put a lot of grit back in his muscles. And while he wasn't quite up to the training regimen he'd like, he'd at least made a start. End result? He could punch a lot harder than Drake could. And for a lot longer.
Things had gotten pretty intense in the last half-a-minute of the fight...and then Jack had been cheated out of the finale when Deathstroke had shown up.
"WHERE'S WILDCARD?!" Drake snarled as Jack ducked and deflected his bo-staff. "WHERE IS HE?! I KNOW UNGH!"
That last noise was the result of Deathstroke's hammer blow to the back of Drake's head. He knew from experience that the kid was gonna have a bitch of a welt there in the morning; ouch. Drake crumpled like wet cardboard, then Deathstroke scooped him up like a sack of potatoes.
"Somebody order take-out?"
Inwardly he snorted. Really? The world-famous assassin could still afford a sense of humor? Nice to know he wasn't the only one. But it did make him wonder just who it was under the assassin's mask; maybe this world's darker version of him? A terrifying thought indeed.
Cobblepot was wringing his hands in distraction. "Well done, Deathstroke; well done indeed. I'll have the payment wired to your usual account. Now, if you would be so kind as to escort the young man from the premises…"
Deathstroke hefted the unconscious kid along. "My pleasure, Mister Cobblepot. Usual rules?"
"Usual rules. All affiliates of the Bat are hereby barred from the Lounge until such time as I decide. If you'd care to make sure that rule gets enforced, with no escalation unless they're the ones that start it, I'll compensate you handsomely."
"Thanks, but no thanks. Only took this job because I was in the area and curious to see if the new Bird had gotten any better. Apparently not. I'll just be on my way now." Oddly, the assassin didn't immediately leave. Instead, he turned back to Jack. "What's your name, kid?"
Cobblepot scowled. "That's Diamond. Jack Diamond, the best mechanic in my garage. So no stealing him."
Deathstroke shrugged. "Whatever you say, Mister Cobblepot. Have a pleasant evening."
Jack turned to make his own exit, only to be stopped by his Boss.
"So." said Cobblepot. "Where'd you learn how to fight like that, boy? Cause it certainly wasn't right here in merry old Gotham."
"...Bludhaven." he finally replied. It was the only other town he could think of that would be believable as an explanation. "Got too hot for kids like me. Decided to try somewhere the Bosses still kept things civilized."
There was no other word for it;Cobblepot quacked with laughter. "That's one word for it, boy. From now on, Diamond, you're not just my mechanic; you're my personal chauffeur. If even the mighty Deathstroke wanted to get you away, I figure you'll be worth the investment. I'll see about setting you up with a full fake ID; last thing we need is people digging into your background too hard. You're not wanted in Bludhaven for anything, are you?"
"...No, Boss. I'm not wanted in Bludhaven for anything." Gotham, yes. But what Cobblepot didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
"Good." the Boss grunted. "Good night, Diamond."
"Good night, sir."
Whether it would actually be a good night remained to be seen. He had noticed something behind Deathstroke's mask when the assassin had first taken in the scene; something in that one lifeless eye.
A hint of recognition.
He had a bad feeling it hadn't been directed at Timothy Drake.
But so long as he stayed on Lounge grounds, he'd be fine right?
Oh. Right. He was Cobblepot's new driver.
Shit.
Tim Drake hit the ground with a groan.
Dimly he heard the heavy bootsteps of Deathstroke come to a halt just on the edge of the pavement. "No deaths tonight, little birdie. And no unmaskings either. I'm on Lounge property still, and technically still on Lounge staff. At least until the Penguin pays up. So I'd suggest you get lost, kid; before I decide you're more fun to play with than my current target."
Hoisting himself up on his elbows, Tim glared back at the mercenary. "If you could find Wildcard, you would've done it by now. I know you've been looking; all of us know. We're going to find him before you do, mark my words."
Deathstroke chuckled. "Oh, but haven't you heard little birdie? You only work at night. Me? I'm always working. I've handled Lawton before, and I'll handle him again. And then, and only then, is when the fun begins. Now, get out of here. Dawn's coming, and your time-share's running out."
There was a hiss of air, the sound of a line catching, and then the assassin was gone. Tim stumbled to his feet, wincing as all the hits from Penguin's bodyguard began to catch up with him.
Despite appearances, that entire confrontation had been arranged. It had been the only way Tim could think of to get Deathstroke in a one-on-one conversation without any of his family knowing about it. Wildcard was his, and he needed to know just how far the mercenary had gotten in the search without Babs breathing down his neck.
Cobblepot was rather tight on hirees at the moment, with Deadshot going 'straight' and Bloodsport still in Arkham. It had been a pretty good bet the Penguin would call in one of the only people left in the underworld who could evict a Bat non-lethally.
What he hadn't been counting on was the increase in the skill level of Penguin's goons. True, it had only been one guy, but what a guy he was. Brutal, ruthless, the kind of fighter you could only find somewhere that had been at war for the past thirty years. If the dude hadn't been following the Lounge rules, Tim very well could've come out in a body bag.
But he hadn't. And now he had what he needed:
Deathstroke knew who Wildcard was. He knew where to find him. And he was planning to do the job in daylight.
All he could do was hope and pray that Bruce thought the information was worth getting banned from the Lounge for.
It had been a long time since Barabara had seen Floyd Lawton. And now she was rolling her wheelchair up to his front door, about to warn him of the storm that was coming his way.
Floyd had been a friend, back in his vigilante days. Granted, they'd only really met as Deadshot and Batgirl, but it had been a working relationship. Right up until the Joker left her for dead.
It hadn't taken Lawton long to realize just why the Clown had targeted the daughter of a lowly police lieutenant. And once he had, Floyd had gone nuts. He'd lost all respect for Bruce's methods, methods he had willingly played by in order to keep doing what he loved. And it had cost the world the first Batgirl.
When Lawton had found out that the person responsible for the Joker being out was one Dr. Harleen Quinzel, a poor Arkham psychiatrist the Joker had twisted from the inside out, he'd lost all faith in the system. The Clown was long gone, but the Asylum was still there. So Lawton had laid waste to it. He'd killed every single corrupt guard in the place, plus the Warden, and was about to start on the housed inmates when Batman and Robin finally showed up.
After then, the man had been in and out on parole, one time even standing in for Bruce when Dick grounded the man after...after Jason. But then Bruce had gotten back on his feet, Amanda Waller had been installed as Arkham's Warden, and Floyd Lawton had disappeared behind it's walls for what she thought was the last time.
Apparently not.
There was no need to knock. Lawton always knew who was coming. The door swung open. "Hello, Floyd,"
"Long time no see, Babs." Lawton had an easy confidence to him; something Barbara had always admired. "How's the fam?" 4
"Tired," she admitted. "But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you. Getting ready to start your shift?"
"Yeah, just about to head out. Waiting for the lady to come home from her night shift. Don't like to leave the kid alone for too long."
"Understandable."
For a moment, there is awkward silence. Floyd breaks it with a sigh. "What do you want, Barbara?"
She shifted uneasily in her chair. "...Wilson's in town."
Floyd immediately tensed up. "...Is he? What for?"
"...Wildcard."
"...And you're coming to me because you think they're gonna end up fighting in broad daylight. I'm good, Babs, but I'm not Wilson good. And I ain't risking my neck when I got mouths to feed."
She winced. "We are getting you backup."
"Who?"
"...Poison Ivy. The new Batgirl's at the Bowery right now, offering her a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"Ivy gets Harley; out of Arkham, and away from the Clown. Ivy knows you're out too; she won't let Harley do anything stupid to get you mad at her."
"I was never mad at Harley, Babs; well, not until Jason. We got along fine in prison, and we helped pull each other out of some dark holes once Waller took over. But I am technically a cop. So long as she doesn't do anything too illegal, we'll be fine."
She breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. Deathstroke was last sighted near the Lounge; I'd suggest starting your search around there."
"Got it. And...thank you."
"For what?"
"For being willing to let me have another chance on the outside. If anyone could've put the kibosh on the Mayor's idea, it would've been your family. And you're the only one I know of that could keep 'em from doing just that. I know...what I did left a bad taste in the mouth. Even now you're still a little pissed at me. And I can't really blame you for it. So...thanks."
"...You're welcome. See you around, Floyd."
"See you round, Babs."
"Three little birds in green and red, one took a crowbar to the head, Joker called the Doctor and Doctor said, 'Gee, Mistah Jay, looks like he's dead'!"
Inside his cell in Arkham Asylum, the Joker cackled wildly. Those idiots; giving him a newspaper! Had they not read Prisoner of Azkaban? It was like they wanted him to break out!
Wildcard. What a guy; even Waller hated him, because she'd lost Lawton for her precious Suicide Squad. Joker couldn't help but admire a guy who'd managed to cause this much chaos with exactly one sighting.
A guy with suspiciously familiar hair and features.
The photo in the paper was black and white, but Joker knew. He knew who it was running around making fun of the Joker's bad name. Somehow, Jason Todd had clawed his way out of the grave.
And the Joker would be only too happy to send him right back again.