There were only a few places in the world that had the parts essential for Victor Fries' needs. Wayne Enterprises was the most prominent, but it was also the most difficult to access. Wayne had improved upon his security protocols over the years. While it was not impossible, it would require violence to accomplish. That would be his last choice seeing as the security force would only be collateral damage, needless if there were other options. While he had no qualms about doing what needed to be done, these men had not wronged him and did not deserve to face his vengeance.

That meant other companies were his first targets. After an extensive search, Fries believed he had found the place that could provide him with the majority of what he needed. It was a fledgling company, recently started in comparison to the other corporations that dominated Gotham's skyline. Caldwell Tech was at the forefront of cutting edge per reviews from distinguishable sources. A cursory look through the products they had released indicated as much as well. They also contained parts that he hadn't any design for, but he could very well use. In fact, some looked promising enough to greatly enhance the projections he had currently calculated.

However, those were only the ones known and easily accessed by the public at large. Even the website had indicated there was more as a tour by its C.E.O. championed the company, giving an abbreviated tour to highlight its facilities. It was through this video that Fries determined that he could obtain quite a bit on his list of materials.

Entry would be a problem, but nothing would be able to keep him out. He sought out the company's location through the sewers, finding it with the assistance of a GPS. Above his head was the lower level of the tech company. A truck was parked a short distance away, waiting for whatever cargo he would store in it.

Aiming his Freeze Gun at the rushing water, he fired a blast that covered it with ice. Continuing, the ice began to rise upward until it reached the ceiling. At first there was resistance, but then came a tremor. The ceiling couldn't handle the pressure being placed on it and gave way, the ice bursting through it.

Stopping his gun, Fries began climbing up the iceberg until he reached where the ceiling and ice formed a sharp corner. Pulling back his fist, he slammed it on the ice, causing it to crack. Over and over, he pounded his fist on it until large chunks of ice broke off. He continued this until he had made a large enough hallow, then began punching upward. The ice connecting to the ceiling chipped and cracked under his repeated blows until they finally broke apart, creating a hole into a room.

Fries kept at this until he had made a portal large enough for him to move through. Soon, he was at the lowest level of Caldwell Tech, a sort of storage area if the crates were any indication. Several of the crates were haphazardly tossed across the room, a result of the iceberg emerging beneath them. Some were simply lying on their sides while others were broken, spilling out their contents.

Fries ignores this as he spotted a computer terminal towards one side of the room. Walking towards it, he paused for a moment as he passed one of the broken crates, eyeing some of the parts spilling out of it. He came to a stop as he continued to studied them. It would seem he had already found one part he needed.

Continuing on, he reached the terminal and turned it on. As the screen lit up, Fries began running a search on the tech company's inventory, searching for the various parts he desired. It soon became apparent that much of what he needed could be found in this room. Excellent.

However, he was not finished. He continued his search to ascertain if there were other areas of the company that may have other parts. As he suspected, there were, and he obtained a list of the locations.

He paused for a moment. If he were to scour the rest of the building for these parts, no doubt he would encounter security. Fingers tapping on the keyboard, he then accessed the security system, first trying to determine if an alarm had been activated by his break-in. As it turned out, no such alarm—ones being loud and obvious to the other silent, stealthier alarms—had been activated. That was good news.

Working on the terminal, Fries made certain it stayed that way. Disabling the alarms, he then checked the other features of the security system, sensors and cameras specifically. He deactivated the sensors, doing so on the floors he knew he would be accessing. As for the cameras, he created a video loop of about a minute's worth of footage for each camera. He then cut the feeds of the cameras and began playing his loop footage. That would cover his tracks and buy him some time as he obtained what he needed.

Returning to the inventory list, he then printed up the list, snatching it off the printer warm from the machine. He then walked away from the computer terminal, searching the room for the materials he needed. Finding one crate, he picked it up and carried it over to the hole, placing it next to it. Over and over, he did this, finding a crate of the parts he needed and transferring it next to the hole. It took quite some time, but eventually he had collected everything he needed.

Eyeing the hole he had made, Fries decided it needed to be bigger, so he once again began breaking off large chunks of ice. He widened it wider than he believed he needed it to be, though it did give him pause as he was burrowing deeper into the iceberg. Any further chipping away would cause its tip to collapse, so this would have to do.

He then shoved one of the crates into the hole, watching it slide down on ice and disappear into the sewer below. He heard it hit the floor with a thud. Over and over he did this until each crate was in the sewer.

Now he just needed to venture further into Caldwell tech. This was the most vulnerable part of the operation, but if he could get everything he needed into this room, he could seal it shut with a layer of ice at the door, giving him all the time he needed to load up his waiting truck. He could even seal the hole as well if need be.

For now, he had work to do.


It was rude not to meet with your patient. If you were running late, you informed them about the delay. To not show up at all was rude. Punctuality was a virtue that better have a reason for its absence.

Strange and his colleagues were on time. Oswald Cobblepot, the self-styled Penguin, was not. Instead, the gunrunner had sent along a representative, a man who compared to the company he kept appeared relatively clean-looking. Clean was the operative word.

Oswald's representative surrounded himself with other men, ones who did not seem to care about appearances. You could see frays in the seams of their jackets and coats, the wrinkles in the shirts and pants, and untamed hair that was cut so as to save on grooming, or allowed to grow wild. Each were trying to appear tough, hard faces, some pockmarked, others wrinkled, and some sneering. The representative, in contrast, was the only one who had combed his hair back. An obscene amount of hair gel had to have been used to make it appear wet, even at this late hour. As representatives of their boss, they left quite a bit to be desired.

"You the paying customers?" the representative had asked when the three of them had arrived. Edward was easily giving the appearance that he was not impressed, or intimidated with his surroundings. Jervis had a hand close to a chest pocket where a handkerchief resides, the small man disdainfully eyeing the area in unspoken disgust.

"We are. Will Oswald be joining us?" Strange answered, taking point and center.

"The big man had something come up. Sent me along to make everything go smoothly," the representative answered smoothly.

Peering through his glasses, the former shrink took in the sight of this replacement Oswald Cobblepot and found him wanting. Still, business was business, and they were in need of ammunition. Still…

"Your name? I would like to address you by name rather than a title that has yet to be given to me," he stated more than asked, his tone of voice neutral.

"Why do you want to know that? We're just here for some guns, aren't we?" the representative tried to chide.

Moving with his waist, Strange leaned forward. "Humor me."

The representative's eyes darted to a side, glancing at his hired help. Strange gazed at him impassively, his eyes never leaving the stand-in. Finding no help, the representative began to say, "I prefer to be called—"

"Your real name, if you will," Strange interrupted. He did not know who this man was, but he was far from earning himself a moniker in the style of his pawns.

"I don't see why this is so important to you. This is—"

"Call it manners." Another interruption. "You are testing my patience."

Strange knew that look; it was one that he had seen before on many a face. There was questioning happening behind that look, the most common question being, "Are you serious?", or some variation of that. Sometimes it would follow to the next question, "Are you crazy?" Then it would lead inevitably to, "This is ridiculous." Strange remained unwavering, letting the artificial lighting cause a glare on his glasses, hiding his eyes.

Finally, "Lewis."

"Very well, Lewis. Show us the purchase." Only now did Strange pull back, a small smile on his lip.

Lewis continued to give him that look, but he was able to turn to the various crates that littered the floor. "Over here."

One of Lewis' cohorts opened up a crate, a cache of weapons filling it almost to the brim. Edward took a step closer, peering into the crate. "Automatics, semi-automatics, someone mixed the two here. Is there any sense of organization?"

"Now is not the time to get held up by the details," Strange remarked casually as he walked up to Edward's side. Without looking, "Show us what else you have, Lewis. Hopefully something with some stronger firepower."

Lewis glanced at one of his men. "You heard him. Open another."

Another crate was opened up and this one held more promise to it. It even got a whistle from Edward. "That there is some heavy artillery right there. A minigun?"

"Can cut through a wall if you keep it pointed at the same spot," Lewis chuckled, stepping right up to the crate. "This was a special order, had to get it through a lot of hoops. It's one of the newer models, the kind the army doesn't want getting out."

"You seem to know the right people in the right places. Do you have more than one?" the riddling Edward inquired.

"Lucky for you lot, we have two," Lewis boasted.

Other crates were opened, showcasing the wares inside. Jervis peered into one, his brow wrinkling but said nothing. Strange kept his mirth to himself, knowing the reason for such a reaction.

Jervis claimed to detest violence. He preferred the caricature of the literary character he claimed to be. He preferred the British decorum that came with tea parties and the wackiness of the role he had assumed. But he was still a man, prone to violence, and such violence he could commit. Still, despite the proclivity, Jervis took no pleasure from it. Thus, the act being performed here, the sensibilities being offended, and the very promise of these weapons placing the Mad Hatter into such an uncomfortable position.

At least until Mad became mad.

Strange returned his attention to the matter at hand, gazing on another flamethrower. With Victor Fries out and about, it was sensible to try and have something to fight against him. They had to prepare for another intervention. Speaking of, there was another quarter that had to be addressed.

"There was an order for security apparatuses," Strange remarked, looking to Lewis. "The kind to discourage those who haunt the night. In particular, rodents with wings. Were you able to obtain those that I ordered, Lewis?"

"Yeah, they're right over here," Lewis answered, gesturing to a set of unopened crates.

"Very good. Open them. I need to assess," the former shrink stated.

When you put out an order, it was up to you to make sure you were receiving what you paid for. In this day and age, you had to, because there were so many unscrupulous types trying to take advantage of you.

Not that he would know anything about that.


"Remind me again why all of us have to be here?" Two-Face groused. "It's just a bunch of guns and explosives. One of us could do this with some muscle."

"And that is why you don't get to make the decisions," the Joker responded. He reached out and patted the scaly arm of Croc. "We got our muscle here, sure, but this is a private enterprise. It doesn't surprise me at all that a civil servant wouldn't understand that business deals go bad all of the time."

"What I believe our colleague is trying to say is that we can't trust the seller," Scarecrow was quick to explain. "And frankly, the man we are dealing with has an inauspicious reputation."

"You mean Cobblepot," the two-faced man grunted. "I wouldn't trust the runt as far as I can throw him."

"Now you're getting it!" the Joker congratulated. "Why else do you think I left Harley back home, eh? There are some places women just don't belong. Besides, we could all use a boy's night out. Think of it as a bonding experience."

"I think I'd rather not."

The four men marched down the corridor they were in. The meet was supposed to take place in a warehouse, one of many that seemed to exist in Gotham. This one was still in use, however, no doubt a front for the Penguin.

The hallway made a right turn, forcing them that way. There was a doorway at the end, the entry to the main warehouse storage. Joker pulled ahead and went for the door, stopping once he reached it and spun around. With one hand on the knob, he raised his other hand up as he took a bow. "Gentlemen, allow us to get our state-of-the-art weapons of mass fun."

Turning the knob, he opened the door and the men filed through. The Joker followed after them, closing the door behind him. "Well, well, well! Gentlemen, we have...arrived…"

The clown's words trailed off as they were greeted with a most unexpected scene. Rough-looking men surrounded a series of crates, Penguin's men obviously. That wasn't the unexpected part. What was was the presence of Hugo Strange, the Riddler, and the Mad Hatter. The three were looking over the Penguin's stock, or had been until the Joker and friends had entered the room.

"And what's going on here?" the Joker questioned, his sunken eyes darting from the startled—and suddenly frightened—goons to Strange's entourage.

That's when the Riddler picked up one of the many automatic rifles, shoved a clip into it and opened fire at the men.

Immediately, Two-Face and Croc dove to the left, taking cover behind a couple conveniently placed crates. Scarecrow went to his right behind another crate. As for the Joker, he took the brunt of the gunfire and was pitched backwards, falling to the ground as the rest of the bullets pounded into the wall and door behind him. He landed hard on his back, not moving for a moment.

And then, "Gyah! I'm hit, boys!" The green-haired man began to writhe around on the floor.

Two-Face stared at the man before he pulled out his handguns. "Croc, flank 'em!" he ordered, the crocodile man immediately darting to the left, using the various stacked crates as cover. Leaning out from his cover, he began to open fire as the Penguins' men scrambled around, ducking behind their own cover. Strange and the Mad Hatter were also pulling out guns from the crates, moving behind them so they could hide behind them if necessary.

As for the Riddler, he directed his attention to the former DA and fired his automatic weapon at him, causing him to take cover again. He checked his magazines and found they were half-full. No point in reloading just now. Sparing a glance to the Joker, surprise appeared on his face as he didn't see the man still wiggling around. In fact, he was just finishing crawling behind the same cover Scarecrow was using. Yet, that wasn't even the strangest part.

For someone that claimed to have been shot, there was a strange lack of blood on the floor.


This was a most inopportune moment.

As Strange fumbled with his rifle, making sure the magazine was appropriately placed and the gun ready to be used, he mused on the fact that just when he was about to complete his business transaction, he had to be interrupted by his deranged foe.

It was rather irritating.

"Hey, hey!" the Penguin's negotiator protested. "You can't use those! You haven't bought 'em!"

"A most regrettable circumstance to be sure, but we are hardly in a position to follow decorum," Strange replied. A bullet struck the top of the open crate he was hiding behind, sending splinters of wood flying over him. "As you can see, we are in a gunfight."

"And the only ones that can use these weapons are us," the man shot back stubbornly. "You haven't bought 'em yet, so they're still ours. Now hand it over, old man."

"If you insist," Strange said before he glanced over the man's shoulder. "If you wouldn't mind, Jervis."

Suddenly, Jervis Tetch was right behind the negotiator, placing one of his infamous mind control cards against the man's head. Immediately it took over, the man's pupils dilating as any semblance of intelligence vanished from his face, though admittingly there wasn't that much to begin with. After ensuring the 10/6 card was secured into place, Strange handed the rifle to the man. "Now if you wouldn't mind, please shoot those menaces."

"At once," the man droned in a dull tone before he moved into a kneeling position. Propping the barrel of the gun on top of the crate, using it for balance, he began taking steady shots at their attackers. A look beyond the man showed that the Mad Hatter had been busy making sure the rest of Penguin's men were now their men.

That's when Nygma appeared next to the psychiatrist. "Riddle me this," the question-marked man began, "how do men of our incredible intellects find ourselves in a wild west shoot out with Neanderthals?"

"A regrettable turn of events," Strange agreed. "However, we can use Penguin's men to guard our withdrawal and leave them to the Joker's amusement."

"I don't believe he'll be much of a problem going forward," the Riddler responded proudly. "I must have put several bullets into him at the get-go."

Really? Strange immediately peaked out from his cover towards the entrance the Joker and his team had used. He wasn't too surprised at what he saw however. "If that is the case, then I believe your eyes are deceiving you."

The Riddler frowned before he too took a look. "Impossible!" he gasped. "I saw him go down!" He seemed stunned by the lack of a body anywhere. "He couldn't have just...gotten back up!"

Before Strange could reply to that, a new threat emerged and became immediately more imposing. Leaping out from behind a nearby stack of crates was the ferocious Waylon Jones, snarling as he charged at the men.

Thankfully, one of Penguin's men mind controlled by the Mad Hatter was between the two intellectuals and the charging crocodile man. The man turned to open fire, but was too late to react as Killer Croc rammed into him. Claws sank into the man's body as he cried out. Using his impressive strength, he hauled the man up and held him in front of him. By then, the rest of Penguin's men had turned and began firing at him.

Ducking their heads, Strange and Riddler rushed as fast as they could to remove themselves from between the reptile man and the guns. Though he was being fired upon, it seemed the large, scaly man did have a brain as he used the goon he attacked as a human shield, hiding behind him as bullets tore into him. Pushing forward, Killer Croc picked up speed and rammed his human shield into the closest goon, trampling over him.

In the meantime, Strange and Nygma took cover behind another set of crates. "I don't believe those men have much of a chance against that brute of a man," the Riddler commented.

Indeed that was true. Peering around his cover, he saw two more men were lying on the floor, blood splattered around them. There was more shooting and shouting, but he couldn't see what exactly. That was probably for the best. "A quick withdrawal would be most advantageous," he responded.

"Really? For someone that has been stubborn to relinquish the battlefield multiple times, this seems out of character."

"We do not have any control here." Strange pulled back and turned his attention back to the green-dressed man. "Trying to salvage such a situation will only lead to our downfall."

"What about the guns and explosives?"

"We will have to search for other suppliers. While I am uncertain as to how the Joker and his men found this place, I rather doubt they were out for a midnight stroll."

Suddenly, Jervis joined them, a terrified look on his face. "Heads will be rolling for this," he sputtered fearfully. He looked at the two men. "Not since the Queen of Hearts in all of her fury have I seen such mindless violence."

"Is the Man-Bat close by?" Riddler questioned. "That's the only person that could match the brutish strength of Mr. Jones."

While that was a fact, it wasn't necessary. "If you wish to try and salvage this situation, by all means, Mr. Nygma," Strange told him. "As for Mr. Tetch and I, we will be leaving."

"Posthaste," the Mad Hatter agreed.

The Riddler looked from one man to the other before he finally relented. "If that's how you would like to proceed, then let's go."


Croc was such an efficient killing machine that once he had flanked Penguin's men, they hadn't stood a chance. Each one was a bloody mess, some of their blood dripping from Croc's mouth and claws. The rest of it was spilled all over the floor, spattering against the surrounding crates.

"Now that is what I call a bloodbath!" the Joker crowed. For someone that had been shot mere minutes ago, he was walking if nothing had happened.

Two-Face just watched the man. Something didn't seem right about all of this. While he hadn't actually seen the clown get shot, he did hear him whining about it. He had been tossing around like an injured toddler not too long ago. Why this abrupt change?

"Looks like Strange got away—again," Scarecrow grumbled as he joined the men. "That is becoming quite irritating."

"But look at the booty he left behind," the Joker responded. He then marched right up to Croc and slapped him on one of his arms. "And without anywhere here to demand money, it's practically ours, free of charge. Plus, we have the muscle to move it all."

"Why do I get the feeling I'll be moving it by myself," the crocodile man growled.

"Not all of us have your impressive muscles, my scaly friend. Best part is that these boxes didn't just pop out of a hole in the ground. There's got to be a truck nearby that we can use."

"Tell me something," Two-Face suddenly spoke up. "You were shot by that question guy at the get-go. How are you still walking?" He then gestured towards the door. "Where's the blood?"

"That is a secret and a gentleman never tells."

"No, I think I'm going to have to insist this time."

The Joker stared at him. "You really want to know?"

"Yes, I do."

Looking around him, it was clear that both Scarecrow and Croc were interested in the answer. "Oh, alright, since you asked so nicely." He reached up to his shirt and began to unbutton the buttons. Once enough were undone, he pulled out his shirt to reveal a Kevlar vest. "Bulletproof vest, my two-faced friend. Still hurt like a bitch though."

Gazing at the vest, he saw signs of bullet impacts on it. He then looked back to the entrance, seeing the bullet holes in the wall and door. That seemed to explain it, but still, it didn't sit well with him.

"Hey, have you been wearing that vest the entire time?" Croc demanded. "How come we don't have vests?"

"Because you never asked," the Joker retorted. "Besides, you're shirtless, Croc. How were we going to hide one on you?"

"Uhh...well…"

"Regardless, that isn't important." A serious look appeared on the clown's face and Two-Face had the feeling that the man was not as jovial as he was acting. "I was told to meet Penguin's boys here for our consumer needs and what do we find? That bald-headed shrink and his lackeys getting their mitts on my guns. I don't think I have to tell any of you that I don't like having other people playing with my toys." A scowl was growing on his face with each word he stressed.

Then his eyes darted over to Dent. "So, Harv, I think I have a job for you."

"And what would that job be?" he questioned suspiciously.

"How about you go raise an objection or two with our short, bird friend. Depose him and his men. Consider yourself judge, jury—and most importantly—executioner."