Disclaimer: Transformers! Touch one and you'll fry!

CHAPTER THREE: In Which Our Main Character Altercates

Floyd Lawton had never gotten along with Pamela Isley. Excuse him, Doctor Pamela Isley. When it came right down to it, all they had in common was a desire to see one Harleen Quinzel as far away from the Joker as they could get her. Fortunately, if they did their jobs, that might just be what ended up happening.

Provided of course Pamela didn't kill him first.

"Really?" he sighed from his precarious position. "Why you gotta string me up every time we meet?"

"Insurance." Poison Ivy drawled. "You may not be allowed to actually kill anyone while on the job, but I'm well aware that toasting my darlings might just get you a commendation from the GCPD. And you just so happen to have a flamethrower strapped to your forearm."

"And what's to keep me from activating it right now if I wanted to?"

"They don't call me Poison Ivy for nothing, sweetcakes. You'd be dead before your fuel ran out."

"...Well that don't sound very nice. I thought we were supposed to be working together."

"We're not. All I'm doing is spying on the entire city via my babies for Oracle, who I will then contact should I observe either Deathstroke or Wildcard. She, naturally, will then contact you and direct you where to go. In addition, Deathstroke isn't afraid to cause collateral damage, so I'll be keeping any and all civilians that I can safe. If the bastard shows up with more thugs than you can handle, I might step in from afar, but that's it. You're the one that gets to go toe-to-toe with two ruthless assassins."

Damn. "What about Harley? I hear she's getting out; can she lend a hand?"

"Emphatically not. One condition of her parole is she stays here, in the Bowery, at all times. Which is why I refuse to leave unless absolutely necessary; you know what her impulse control is like."

And how. "...Fine. But if Deathstroke kills me, I'll never forgive you."

"A risk I'm willing to take." Ivy responded dryly. "Now move along; I'm sure you have other things to attend to."

Yep. He certainly did. Including but not limited to calling in some backup of his own.

He wondered if Canary would be willing to help out...she'd looked after his family while they were living in Star City; maybe she'd be willing to help out again.

For a fee, of course.

A week.

That was how much time "Jack" got before Cobblepot decided to put his new driver to use.

A week to prepare for any and every eventuality he could think of; not just to keep his new boss alive, but himself as well.

Good thing the Lounge's official armorer (some guy named Rance) had taken a shine to him; while the guy's taste in cars was questionable, they had some ground in common when it came to opinions on video game weapons. Namely, how much said weapons pissed them off.

Rance had managed to scrounge up at least a few pieces of body armor for him; not the best quality, or even all the same paint job, but he'd take what he could get. The chestplate was OD green, but thankfully thin. Easily concealable under his new navy blue double-breasted chauffeur's outfit. Same for the thigh-plates from the same set.

The elbow and knee pads were desert khaki, and too conspicuous to wear openly. That was fine; they were snap-ons, so he could just throw them on once he was actually in the car, and then take them off again before getting out. His boots were military surplus, and the same color as the pads.

As for the final piece of gear...he had no idea where Rance had managed to dig up a Ronin Ballistic Mask, and he wasn't about to ask. So what if the thing was maroon? If he was forced outside the safety of the car's bulletproof windows and body, he'd be dumb to turn down full-head protection.

When it came to weapons, however, he had choices a plenty. And if everyone in Gotham was as armored as Deathstroke had been, he intended to leverage every last one of those choices. To start with, a sawed-off double-barreled '87 shotgun went into the hidden compartment on the right side of the driver's seat. Wouldn't go through armor, but might break a couple of ribs at close range. Especially with slugs.

Next, a Heckler and Koch MP7 went into the built-in holster on the driver's door. Easily controllable if he was forced to shoot left-handed, and might actually get through armor if he got lucky. He tossed in two extra magazines with it, just to be one the safe side.

It took a while to find a shoulder holster that didn't snag on his armor, but once he did in went an FN 57 semi-auto pistol. It worked on the same principle as the MP7, but in a slightly bigger caliber. He snapped on two extra magazines for that as well.

Deathstroke had been carrying a particularly nasty-looking katana, so he'd pulled out some countermeasures for that as well. Two Japanese sai; triple-bladed daggers. One to catch the blade, the other to either snap it off or stab his opponent in a weak spot.

And finally, for long range, he actually went back to Heckler and Koch: a G3 battle rifle in .308 Winchester, with an underslung M187 grenade launcher attachment. Just in case he needed to stop an armored van in a hurry. Again.

Rance had driven for Cobblepot before, so he would be riding in the passenger seat with a matching chauffeur's outfit for Jack's first time out. That, plus the fact they were going to Metropolis, served to calm his nerves somewhat. Apparently, Lex Luthor ran his borough's version of the Continental (one that was actually called the Continental), and since he and Cobblepot would be meeting there, he'd be providing security on his end for the entire half of the drive that took place in his side of town. And only an idiot would try and take on Luthor's forces on their home turf. True, they were down a couple of people (some guy named Bloodsport had apparently taken a contract on Superman for Luthor and botched it), but still.

What that ultimately meant was there was only one place where any potential assassins could conceivably get away with a hit: the bridge that separated Gotham from Metropolis. Not only utterly exposed, but also a place where jurisdiction was fuzzy enough that it would take ages before the respective police departments of both sides could ever agree on how to deal with a situation there, much less the respective "heroes". More than enough time for a killer to make their getaway.

And Jack had to drive over it not once, but twice.

Joy.

At least the pay was good.

Slade had known Cobblepot would be meeting with Lex Luthor today.

He'd also known that it would be at the Continental in Metropolis.

And he'd also known that Wildcard, aka "Jack Diamond", aka Cobblepot's new driver would be coming along.

Really, it was amazing what a few bribes could get you.

Black Mask had been practically frothing at the mouth when he'd found out Wildcard was working for the Penguin. Certainly angry enough to double Slade's payout if he killed Cobblepot as well as his stooge. Which suited Deathstroke just fine; if Cobblepot and Luthor were fixing to get in bed together, he'd be more than happy to short-sheet the relationship. Luthor had always rubbed him the wrong way; especially after the man had undercut him to offer the contract on Superman to Bloodsport instead.

Prick.

The Gotham-Metropolis Bridge was a decrepit brick-and-steel affair; not maintained since the murder of the man responsible for it's construction, Thomas Wayne. On the one hand, that made things kind of difficult for Slade, since the thicker construction meant there were less sniper lanes than your typical suspension bridge. On the other, it meant it would be far easier to blow a hole in the road. And again on the other, he'd have to be careful where he set his explosives. Killing a few criminals was one thing; bringing down an entire bridge would piss off the Bat and the Man of Steel more than he cared to find out.

In the end, he decided to play things safe. Just enough C4 to make sure the car wouldn't be able to drive around the hole, plus a couple squads of goons in vans to block off the rest of the traffic coming from Gotham. Cobblepot and Wildcard would never make it to Metropolis; Slade would make sure of it.

Which was why when Wildcard decided to pull an absolutely insane stunt and tilt the car up onto its right wheels in order to get around the hole, Slade was more than prepared.

His RPG hit the asphalt directly under the car's front tires and blasted the thing over the railing that separated the directions of traffic. Where it was then promptly hit by a panel van coming the other way.

The van driver went down with a .50 Action Express in the neck; there would be no escape to Metropolis around him for his targets. Black Mask's vans had already closed off all traffic on the Gotham side; Cobblepot and Wildcard were now well and truly cut-off.

Slade approached the now upside-down vehicle cautiously. Animals were at their most dangerous when cornered, after all. And humans were no different.

An opinion that was only reinforced when the driver's supposedly bulletproof window disintegrated under a hail of fire directed in his direction.

MP7, he mentally catalogued as he dodged. Armor-piercing rounds. They were expecting me.

Return fire spat from his pair of custom Desert Eagles; flashy, he knew, but they got the job done. Cracks began to appear in what little protective glass Wildcard had in front of him (and yes, it was definitely Wildcard). It was only a matter of time before…

He was forced to drop and roll to the right when fire started coming his way from over the top (or rather bottom) of the car as well. Stupid, stupid; he'd forgotten. There had been someone in the passenger seat as well. Someone that was now shooting back at him.

Franchi SPAS, he noted wryly. Shit shotgun. I give it two more shots before…

The telltale click of a jam echoed over the freeway.

...That happens, he finished smugly. He holstered his Eagles and pulled out his katana; best to finish the man off close-range before he got his shotgun fixed.

His first sight of his assailant came as he vaulted onto the car; it was Rance Leddick. Cobblepot's armorer. Surprising that Cobblepot would be willing to risk the supposed heir to the Iceberg Lounge on a drive like this. Maybe there was more going on with Luthor than he'd originally thought.

Those thoughts got brutally shoved aside when a triple-pronged dagger came up to intercept his downward stroke...and he found himself staring into a menacing maroon mask.

"Do svidanya." drawled Wildcard in Russian. And then fired.

The shotgun slugs hit at point-blanks range; he could feel his ribs crack under the impact. Nothing his healing factor couldn't take care of; but it would take time. Time he now afraid he was desperately short on.

Where the hell was his backup?

As Wildcard produced another of those odd daggers (sai, he recognized them now), he glanced backwards down the road to see. And as he looked, he began to wonder if perhaps he was just a little bit more than outmatched.

Because both Deadshot and a literal army of plants were tearing through his reinforcements like they were paper mache.

...Shit.

Naturally it was right about then that Leddick got his shotgun fixed.

Floyd Lawton was having a pretty alright day, all things considered.

Sure, Canary had turned down his offer. And sure, no other GCPD units had shown up yet. But at least Poison Ivy had stepped in, albeit indirectly, to help deal with the horde of heavily-armed goons. Even better, Wildcard (who else could it be dressed in those four colors?) had apparently been smart enough to bring backup of his own.

Floyd had no idea exactly how the assassin had ended up working for Cobblepot, but he could connect at least some of the dots. And he was going to have words with Oracle for either not realizing or leaving out that little tidbit. Honestly, why else would Deathstroke have been hanging out that close to the Lounge?

Still, things were apparently working out. It looked like Wildcard and Penguins' second-in-command had Deathstroke on the ropes; the former engaging hand-to-hand, and the latter taking potshots with a shotgun.

He was just putting the last thugs down for the count with rubber bullets when Leddick's shotgun jammed for the second time.

That was all the opening Deathstroke needed. In the blink of an eye, Wildcard had been twisted away by some fancy katana work...leaving Leddick open to attack.

Too far away to hear the wet schlick that he was all too familiar with, Floyd watched as Deathstroke's blade sliced cleanly through the armorer's neck, blood spraying like a fountain. The second confirmed death of the day (Floyd had seen what happened to the van driver).

Of course, by choosing to turn all his attention to Leddick, the hired killer left himself open to attack from the rear. Wildcard's sai struck true, and Deathstroke stumbled under the pain that came with only having one functional knee.

Seriously, what was it with Wildcard and knees?

The two assassins lost their remaining blades not long after, Deathstroke allowing his opponent to disarm him in exchange for the same. From then on it was nothing more than a competition to see who could take the most punishment without succumbing.

A competition that screeched to a halt when Deathstroke finally managed to rip off Wildcard's helmet.

Even as all his concentration was focused on beating asphalt to join the fight as fast as possible, Floyd couldn't help but notice as the most dangerous man in the world went stiff with shock.

"You…" the whisper hung in the wind. "You died…"

BANG BANG BANG!

Deathstroke slumped to the ground, three bullets now lodged in his internal organs.

"I got better."

A final round in the exposed eye socket. And then Wildcard calmly holstered his handgun and turned to face Floyd.

That face...Floyd had seen that face before. Had chased after it; been chased by it; worked with it.

His breath left him in a gasp. "Jason…"

Wildcard (no, Jason) grunted. "Just what I needed; someone recognizing me. Deadshot, right?"

"Floyd, kid," his voice was cracking, "I told you a hundred times to call me Floyd."

"Did I?" Jason frowned. "Huh. Floyd, then. Let me guess: you want me to come with you."

He was fully prepared to say yes, but the tone in Jason's voice made him reconsider. "...I just want to clear things up, kid. If I got questions, you can bet everyone else will too."

"Too bad." Jason straightened his outfit. "Cause I ain't got answers. At all. What I do have is a job. And right now, that means I need to check on my boss."

And without another word, Jason began limping back to the seriously damaged limo.

He couldn't help but follow.

As he stumbled back towards the car, Jack couldn't help but feel like this entire situation was just about as bad as he could imagine.

His partner was dead. He'd been recognized. Cobblepot was probably seriously injured. His job with the Lounge was more than likely about to go up in smoke. His brand new bank account was now useless. Same for his identification.

About the only good thing to come out of the day was the fact that the world's most dangerous assassin would no longer be bothering him.

On the other hand, that now firmly catapulted him back to the top spot. Look out New York, the Boogeyman was back. Or, rather, Wildcard. Hooray.

The rear door on the limo was jammed shut, but he eventually managed to get it to open. Cobblepot had been traveling with a few guards inside the cab; one of them now had apparently survived the crash and was now greeting him.

"It's pretty bad, Diamond." the man grunted. "Boss is unconscious; mor'n likely a bruised spinal cord. There'll be no movin' him hoss."

Damn. "What's the play then?"

"One of us better get to the Continental." the man replied. "Better be Leddick; if he can…?"

He shook his head. "He's dead."

"Shame. Looks like it'll be you then. Luthor won't let the fuzz get to you; he's a bastard from all accounts, but a proper one. How many did you kill?"

"Just the one;" he held up a single finger, "Deathstroke."

The man gave a whistle. "Daaaaaaaamn. You go Diamond. That makes you top dog now. Luthor'll fix you up right. Now get lost, afore the flats get here and arrest you."

It was right then that Deadshot (excuse him, Floyd) cleared his throat. "Fuzz are already here, I'm afraid. That you Jeff?"

"Yeah Floyd; me and Lester. You gon forget this talk, right?"

Floyd thought about it, then nodded. "Forgotten. I'll get on the horn and get an ambulance; I still know a few cops that are more loyal to the Lounge than the Commissioner."

"Thanks hoss." rasped Jeff. "Now'n if you'll scuse me, I got to call the next person on the chain o'command."

Jeff's head was swallowed up once more by the interior gloom of the cab. Jack watched him disappear, then turned back to Floyd. "You apparently trust me, so I'm trusting you. Take care of them. Mind if I borrow your motorcycle?"

Floyd nodded absent-mindedly (probably still in shock). "Uh-huh, sure."

"Good. Now, just one more thing to take care of."

Deathstroke's helmet was a pain to get off, but the thing had deflected at least one shotgun slug at point-blank range. A new paint job, and Jack would be set.

Floyd was already on the radio by the time Jack started up the GCPD bike and revved the engine. All Jack got was a single backwards glance, then Floyd went right back to his conversation.

For some reason, the lack of acknowledgement stung. He shrugged it off, then took off down the road.

Maybe he'd let Floyd go without a bike for longer than was strictly necessary.

Crooked cops were loyal to the highest bidder. And with Cobblepot unconscious, that left Roman Sionis the loudest voice in their ears and pocketbooks.

The Penguin died alone and friendless in the Gotham Public Hospital.

Floyd Lawton was on probation after failing to prevent two deaths and losing his motorcycle; Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn were now ensconced in the Bowery and wouldn't be leaving anytime soon; Roman's thugs would soon be back out on the streets; Wildcard was running scared in Metropolis; and the new manager of the Lounge might just end up being more amenable to a buyout than Cobblepot had been.

Yes sir, things were looking up for Black Mask.

RING!

Click.

"Talk to me, Floyd."

"Jason's alive, Babs."

"...That isn't funny Floyd."

"I'm not trying to be. Jason's alive, and he's Wildcard. He's alive, and he's Wildcard. And he was working for the goddamn Penguin. Who, I might also add, is now dead. Oh, and we caught Deathstroke! Who tripped facial recognition as an ex-Army Colonel named Slade Wilson! Now we got Homeland Security rolling up in here, the Metropolis PD, the Mayor, Amanda Waller, and WHAT THE HELL BABS!"

She couldn't breathe. Everything was bright, and hot, and she was going to puke, and the Joker was laughing, and it just wouldn't stop oh God make it stop please please make it stop…

And stop it did as she slipped blissfully into a faint.

"Hello there, Seline Kyle here. Leave your message, and I might just decide to pick up midway if it's interesting enough."

BEEP!

"Kyle, this is Jeff. The Iceberg's melted; repeat, the Iceberg's melted. Fish are all yours. Come by soon."

BEEP!

Click.

Slade Wilson woke up blind.

That son-of-a-bitch had shot out his other eye!

The one body part his healing factor was less than useless on: the optics. Sure, he could get another cybernetic replacement, but it was the point of the thing.

Oh, he'd been glad when the Joker had put that little runt down the first time, but now? Now it was personal. Jason Todd was going back in the grave he crawled out of.

And he'd still be alive when it happened. Slade would make sure of it.

He always made sure.