Despite the police presence, security at Caldwell Tech had been ramped up. The CEO had refused to allow the police to secure his building and had called in every available security guard he had on the payroll.

It made things difficult, but not impossible.

Had Batgirl been on her own, it would have been easier. She was skilled enough to get into a place and out without anyone being the wiser. She wasn't quite certain what possessed her to bring the two former Batclan girls, but they had tagged along and she was forced to sneak around this highly-guarded building with their stealth skills in mind.

They...really needed a refresher course.

There had been one too many close calls. Either Spoiler wasn't quick enough to get out of sight, or Bluebird made too much noise due to her arsenal; there was also a time when a guard caught a fleeting glance, or heard them moving about. Batgirl wasn't used to this and she didn't like it. They had ducked into so many rooms that she found herself rolling her eyes in irritation before they finally reached the crime scene.

"Ho-oooooooly ice," Spoiler gasped the moment she saw the large ice formation growing out of the floor and nearly touching the ceiling.

Bluebird let out a low whistle as she glanced up to the top. "This is the work of the Iceman, isn't it?" she asked for confirmation, to which Batgirl just nodded. "You hear about this guy, but you don't really know what he's capable of until you see something like this."

"Please don't tell me it's our job to bring him in," Spoiler pleaded. "I'm am so not ready to become a popsicle."

"None of us will fight him," Batgirl assured her. These two most definitely not, she didn't need her father's voice in her head telling her that. Heck, she wasn't certain if she would be able to take him on. All it took was one shot getting too close and she was done.

When news came out that the Iceman had gotten loose, she had done her own research on the man. She had seen the news articles, capped with the aerial footage of what was known as the Night of Ice. She had seen her father engaging the man, disarming him, hitting him with everything he had until the Iceman stopped him and leveled him with a single blow. The footage ended with a bright beam that undoubtedly froze the camera.

She was confident in her abilities. She knew she could predict where he was going to fire that infamous Freeze Gun just by reading his body language. But she wasn't physically stronger than Batman, even though she knew how to hit nearly as hard as him, and any punch she landed on that armored suit would have the same result. Judo moves to disable him was her next thought, but according to her father's notes, the suit increased the Iceman's strength, so using an arm lock might not be successful.

So how did one fight a force of nature like that?

Her father had defeated the man, so it could be done. Unfortunately, the fight had occurred before he had placed the camera lens in his cowl, so there was no footage of that fight for her to watch. That had been frustrating to discover.

"So then what are we doing here?" Bluebird asked. "Isn't this something for Batman to do?"

"We are doing him a favor," Batgirl told her succinctly. At this she started to circle around the ice formation, her eyes searching the room to see if she could tell what the Iceman was doing here. "Investigating is just as important as fighting."

"So we're investigating the Iceman's crime scene?" Spoiler questioned. "I think I can live with that."

"So what are we looking for?" Bluebird inquired.

"What is missing." Batgirl looked to the blue-haired vigilante. "I can see a computer. Go have a look to see if the Iceman used it."

Bluebird nodded before heading over to the computer. In the meantime, Batgirl and Spoiler spread out, searching the room for missing inventory. There were a few opened crates, but it looked as if most had been broken open, the result of being thrown about the room for whatever reason. Meeting on the other side of the ice formation with Spoiler, the girl had to admit that she wasn't sure what she was looking for since she didn't know what was missing.

Thankfully, Bluebird hit on something on the computer. "Hey, I think I found something," she called out.

Quickly, the two vigilantes went to the third, peering over her shoulder to see. It became apparent that Bluebird had pulled up the search history of the computer and found the last search entries were.

"It looks like the Iceman was looking for something," Bluebird reported as she pointed a finger at the last few searches. "These all happened around the same time and since they're the last entries, I think it's safe to say this was him."

"What was he looking for?" Spoiler asked.

"As best as I can tell? Parts. I'm not seeing any specific weapons, or anything too classified that would require a higher level of clearance." She then clicked on one of the first entries, a list appearing on the screen. "For instance, this is an inventory list for this room. This guy knew what he was looking for since he didn't put in a search for each part."

"Or maybe what he was looking for wasn't here," Spoiler pointed out.

"Or that," Bluebird agreed.

"What about the other searches?" Batgirl asked.

Bluebird began opening each search, which revealed specific search items and their locations. "I'm willing to bet that if we checked these places, we'd find something missing there. Strange thing is, I tried looking into the security feeds and I can't find a shred of evidence that the Iceman was here. If it weren't for that giant piece of ice, no one would have known the wiser."

"So he's trying to build...something," Spoiler then said. "What do you think he's trying to build?" A thought seemed to occur to her. "Oh god, I hope he's not trying to freeze the city again!"

Batgirl pulled out a flash drive and shoved it into an UBS port. "Save those searched onto this," she told Bluebird. "I'll review it with Batman and what he knows of the Night of Ice to see if I can figure something out."

Immediately, Bluebird did as told, the search history being saved. Once the drive was ejected, Batgirl put it back into the pouch on her belt. "Alright, time to leave."

"So we just wait to see what it is you find out with Batman?" Bluebird questioned.

"Yes, wait." Batgirl crept to the entrance to the inventory room, glancing out through the doorway. Because there was police tape, the doors were kept open. Thankfully there were no guards to hear them while they worked, otherwise all of their talking would have gotten them into trouble.

"You know, one day you're going to want us to hang out with you and we're not going to be available," Bluebird muttered.

"Like you wouldn't make time," Spoiler shot back.

"She doesn't need to know that."


She had been wondering if they would ever see any of them again. Hearing that there were survivors would have surprised anyone. Selina assumed that the reason they hadn't come back was because they knew the score and would keep their heads low.

There were two of them, and Selina barely recognized them. No, that was not a comment on how different they may or may not look, though one of them was missing an arm while the other arm wasn't looking very good either, and the other guy had both of his legs amputated from the knee down and had to use a wheelchair. The cat burglar-turned-crime lord was unable to put a name to either of their faces, but according to Antonia, they were two who left to go Iceman fishing.

It looked like that hadn't gone well, no surprise there.

Chris wasn't here; he was out and about doing some lawyer stuff. Nick was doing his Nick thing, so that meant only this cousin of hers would be here to witness how this was going to go down.

Selina kept her eyes on the two formerly gung-ho men and didn't feel even an ounce of pity. "I'd say look what the cat dragged in, but I know for a fact no cat would ever drop a couple of guys like you on my doorstep."

"We're sorry, Ms. Calabrese," the one missing an arm apologized. "We didn't listen. We should have listened."

"Yes, you should have. What's the point?" she cut off the apology. There were times where receiving one was a good thing, and this, well, she really wasn't in the mood to have one.

"We need help." That came from the one in the wheelchair. "You were right about the Iceman. Look what he did to us. I'm...I'm never gonna walk again."

No duh.

"Whatever you want, whatever you want us to do, we'll do it. Give us another chance, please." Missing Arm was the one talking there.

Selina looked over the two of them. She recalled that gathering days ago, remembered how most people there were in suits and looked so very presentable. Not now, not these two. Both looked like they had gotten their hands on the first things they could, so their coordination was out the door. You could see the plastic bracelets around their wrists; they had come here straight from the hospital. They had to have snuck out then, and somehow got here. She'd have Antonia check into that and make sure neither had been followed.

"So what do you want me to do with you two?" she asked, keeping her tone of voice mild. Armless looked like he was ready to say something, but the crime lord cut him off. "From where I stand, I can't think of a way either of you could do anything for the Family now."

"You're ditching us?" Armless Guy exclaimed, eyes starting to bulge.

Selina widened her eyes in fake innocence and pressed a hand to her chest. "Ditching you? How could I ever do that when you have already done it?"

Armless Guy began to bluster, but it was the legless one that began to beg. "You're just going to throw us out on the streets? Look at us! We wouldn't last five minutes! We need help! Ms. Calabrese, we need your help! What are we going to do? Where can we go?"

"Frankly, sir, I don't give a damn." Now she was crossing her arms in front of her, gazing coolly at the pair. She was not moved by their pleas, not in the slightest. "You turned your backs on the family first, remember? You chose to leave, to go kill the Iceman, and that was after I warned you not to, remember? I told you not to do something stupid, but what did I know? You thought I was talking crap. Now look at you."

"You said if we did it—"

"That I'd give up control and let you have it all, yes. Because I was confident that you were going to fail." It was interesting to see a lashing that didn't involve a whip. "You coming back here only proves how right I was. Yes, this is an 'I told you so' moment. What were you expecting? A scar if things went south? I need the able bodied. I need people with at least one hand—" a glance to the one whose only arm looked like it wasn't going to be there for much longer, "—and a good pair of legs to get work done. What do you want? A hand out? A pity prize? Oh, woe is us? Take care of us after we did something completely avoidable and incredibly stupid?

"Who do you think you're talking to? A bleeding heart social worker? You also chose to enter the dog-eat-dog world of the Mob. You want it to stay the dog-eat-dog world, but forgot that you weren't invincible. Too bad, so sad. Stupid has no place here. Stupid has no worth here either. I don't need stupid people who try to jump ship at the first opportunity and then slink right back in with their tails between their legs when things don't go their way."

"You can't leave us like this!" More begging from the man in the wheelchair. "I—"

"Don't even say it," Selina interrupted, holding up a hand, the palm facing the legless wonder. "I'm not interested. If it is so important, you should have thought about it before doing something incredibly stupid in the first place. What are you expecting? To be welcomed back with open arms after turning your back? What happens next time you get the chance to be stupid? No, neither of you can be trusted. And if you can't be trusted, you have no place here."

Selina peeled her eyes away from the pair and turned to Antonia. The cousin was standing there stoically, practically blending in with the walls if she got any stiffer.

"Show them out. Let everyone know that those who left have no place here. Don't even think about sneaking them back in, or giving them something under the table. The Calabreses have no place for anyone willing to turn their backs on us at the first chance. Spread the word while you take out the trash."

Antonia gave a sharp nod, her dark eyes laser focused on the crippled men.

It was no longer Selina's problem now. She turned away fully and sauntered out. This was not the time to show any weakness, and to her own disgust, she could practically feel approval coming from the direction of Blackgate. Rex, that sperm donor, would be so proud of her now, wouldn't he? Or maybe this wasn't how he envisioned the return of his crime family.

It didn't matter. She was in charge. For once, she was in charge. How many times had she gone to others, to people with some kind of power, and ask for even the slightest bit of help? Too many times, and every time she was refused. Now the shoe was on the other foot. Now she was the one people begged to.

She didn't like it. She didn't like the feeling. She didn't like those pleading eyes on her because she had seen those eyes before, reflected right back at her from a mirror. Not anymore, or ever again, because help, what was help? A foreign concept only those lucky enough got to experience.

The Mob didn't do help, or at least it wasn't the kind of help that came out of the goodness of their heart. Oh, they would lend you help, but then you had to pay the kindness back—with interest. It was a shitty kind of deal if you asked her.

If those former Calabreses wanted help, they could go to a charity for all the good that would do. The Mob was not a charity, far from it.

Selina wasn't a charity either.


Word had come from City Hall for an emergency meeting. Once again, he and multiple government officials had been brought together to find some kind of resolution to what was obvious.

The fighting between the various escapees from Arkham was escalating. No longer content with tearing down deserted buildings and burning up city parks, the violence had gone into the streets and all throughout the city. It was like a cancer, moving from one organ to another.

So long as the destruction didn't affect too many lives, then the only action taken would have been to put more pressure on law enforcement. That was usually how things went and Gordon was numb to that. It was a motion at this point in his life. Hell, it was practically a joke at the precinct that each time he was called to City Hall, it was to be yelled out.

In the beginning that hadn't been far from the truth. Hell, that had been the literal case when Krol was mayor.

But Krol wasn't the mayor now. Hady was. Hady wasn't Krol and operated differently. Sometimes, the Commissioner would find himself on the other side of the yelling, which was a change, a big change. After the war with Bane, Hady was much more sensitive to the various events that happened to occur in the city practically like clockwork at this point.

Like last time with the Riddler's hostage crisis, the various elected and appointed officials were gathered together to come up with some kind of solution. Naturally, this was taking place after the violence had begun affecting the campaign donors. Many of the crime scenes were at banks, or any place that involved money. Something was also brewing up thanks to what happened at Shreck Textiles the night before.

Funny how this emergency meeting was being called after one of Gotham's one percent was now being victimized.

Gordon wasn't being yelled at despite the various demands from other officials for the police to do their jobs already. There was no point in listing what they were already doing and how the department was already strained to the limit. The various precincts were doing what they could, but there were limits.

The response would always be to "do more." No ideas on how to do that were given.

Hady, at the very least, was good at demanding answers from the other assembled officials. Turning the tables on them, wanting to know why they had no ideas, what could they do to make a bad situation more manageable. Half-assed suggestions were the norm, a good idea here and there, and a great one that ended up being torn to shreds because of logistics and a lack of substantial intel.

This was all so unproductive with one exception. Hady expected action, he was going to get it, and everyone around that table would deliver. Otherwise, there were going to be a lot of unemployed people.

Gordon took it in stride. However, before he could effectively make his escape, Hady cut him off at the pass and invited him to his office. Ah, a one-on-one meeting. Perhaps he had believed too soon that he could get out of this with only minor hearing loss. There was nothing for it; he followed after the Mayor, trying to keep relaxed because going in for any kind of tongue lashing when you were tense was never helpful.

The journey was short, because it almost always was too short, and the Commissioner was ushered in, Hady closing the door behind them.

"I don't want anyone hearing this," the Mayor said as he moved around Gordon, walking to his desk and the chair behind it. "Tell me the truth, how bad is it?"

Interesting question. The last mayor who asked that kind of question was Grange. She had given him more leeway than other mayors, which had been a nice change of pace. "Struggling is an understatement," he answered honestly, knowing that politicians and bureaucrats were allergic to it. The reactions would be inevitable and Gordon didn't feel the need to mince words. "We're dealing with the worst of the worst. Many of these people have held this city hostage, terrorized it in ways no one could ever predict, and let's face it, way beyond anyone's pay grade, yet ordinary men and women will have to face off with the extraordinary anyway because we have no choice. Everyone is doing their best in a horrible situation."

Hady gave a nod. "That's what I hoped you would say. Tell me, any word from...him?"

"Him?" Gordon repeated.

The look that the Mayor gave him challenged him to do, or say something stupid. "It's an open secret, Gordon. After all these years, you would have to be incredibly ignorant, or massively stupid to not know the Batman is feeding information to you, to the department. And everyone, down to the youngest child, knows he's involved in the fighting. So answer me, truthfully, have you heard anything."

That was less of a question and more a statement. Hady wasn't turning a blind eye to this like Grange had. Regardless, there was only one answer the Commissioner could give.

"You know there is no way for me to answer that," Gordon stated.

"Yes, yes, I know, I too have to make anti-vigilante statements, but the man gets results. His little army of sidekicks, they get results. I know. They saved my damn life once. Right now, a bunch of maniacs are tearing apart my city, and we know they are involved, trying to stop it. So honestly, have you heard anything at all? Any plans? Something."

This felt so much like a set up, though with the information Hady had given him, if this was being recorded, he would be condemning himself. However, with technology as it was, it would be simple to cut Hady out, or replace all his lines with different ones. Gordon did not trust anyone beyond himself when it came to Batman and the other vigilantes.

A part of him viewed it as a failure that law enforcement was unable to meet the new challenges the city faced without them. His pragmatic side always won out, demanding they bring whatever crisis that was happening to an end, no matter who it was that ended it.

"You'll just have to trust me when I say no. We both know he and they are working on it, outside of the scope of my officers. That this hasn't come to an end yet, it means these maniacs working together has created a whole new dynamic, one that no one was prepared for. Everyone is playing catch up. Until we do, nothing will stop these people from fighting, and killing, and destroying."

Hady eyed him, studied the old veteran. Gordon took it, showing no signs that he was affected, or intimidated.

"That's disappointing," Hady said. "Tell me your plans on how you're going to end this. There's no one else listening, no other pricks with their own agendas—just you and me. How are you going to pull an upset and put these animals back into their cages?"

The Mayor was fishing. It's what they all did. "We continue following leads, following their trails, and any clues we can pick up. Many of them are master criminals, but even they slip—"

"That's what you've already been doing," Hady interrupted. "You've gotten nowhere. And this is far from how you acted when that bastard Bane was tearing the city apart. You're not the man I saw when I first took office. You're burned out, not burning out. You've got almost nothing left. And right now, we need everyone at their best. What am I supposed to do when the number one cop in Gotham isn't at his best?"

The sad part about that was that Hady was right and Gordon could not argue against it. What could he argue with? He knew he was burned out, his officers knew, and apparently the Mayor knew. Numbered days that felt like they were too few were all he had left.

He hated it. There was still too much left to do. Finishing this war between lunatics, taking down the Calabreses, ensuring that Gotham was indeed a better place than when he first became Commissioner.

Making a city that didn't need Batman. Lord knew that if anyone deserved to retire, it was the only ally and friend he had in this war on crime. But Gotham still needed Batman.

Did it need Jim Gordon?

"Gordon?" That was a question, one that was to get his attention. How long had he been wrapped up in his own thoughts? Judging by that mention of his name, too long.

Everything was too long now.

"Let me clear this up. When this...this chaos is over, and Joker, and Strange, and that whole lot is back where they belong...I'll submit my notice of resignation. I will retire." It felt so more real now that he was saying it, and to Hady of all people. It had been one thing to say it to his most loyal of allies, but it was another thing to say it to a man who he didn't know he could trust anything to. "When I do so," he continued, "all I ask, after everything, is that you consider who I would like to replace me. That's all."

Hady looked taken aback, like he had not been expecting this. "Do you...are...are you sure...you know what you have just said...right?"

"The one thing we both know that's true...that was said in this room only recently, is that I am burned out. When you're burned out, you get out of the way. But I will not leave with this mess on my hands. After...after it's whatever you want. All I ask is that you consider who I believe should replace me, but we both know that whoever you pick is your decision."

Truth had never felt so heavy, nor had it felt like it was still wrapped around his body in chains. The burden was not relieved; it was closer to tightening around him, imprisoning instead of setting free. It was like giving in to inevitability and giving up without a fight.

To give credit, Hady managed to recover. With a nod of his head, the Mayor said, "I'll keep that in mind. In the meantime, fix this problem before it kills us all."

All Gordon could do was nod his head and turned away. It was time to get back to work.


This was going to be interesting.

There had been a time when the most he would have done was convince a judge to sign off on a warrant. After that, it was up to Gordon and the GCPD to go in through the front doors. Sometimes, the warrant would have to wait, and Batman would go in and give a reason for a warrant.

That time was long gone, along with Harvey Dent, District Attorney. All that was left was Two-Face and that man had no reason to request a warrant. His authority came not from the will of the people, but from a gun.

With that authority, he did the one thing he had never done before, a part usually given to others, and that was going in through the front doors.

The Iceberg Lounge did its best to resemble the South Pole, or one of the polar ends of the planet. Light blues and white mixed together to create the illusion of ice and cold, but the room temperature begged to have a difference of opinion. Looking from left to right, Two-Face scanned everything in front of him, eyes landing on the maitre'd podium. Behind that was a world onto its own, filled with tables and guests and servers, a place for high society to congregate. Beyond that was the casino with its slot machines, card tables, roulettes, and other gambling features.

To the podium he approached, a young woman with a fake retail smile glancing down at a book, searching for the name of a reservation. She hadn't given him a good look yet, so he approached and stood in front of the podium, waiting for acknowledgement.

"Name and reservation, Sir?"

She still wasn't looking up.

"None. I need to see your boss."

The former D.A. could see the small crease in her brow, not anticipating, or expecting such an answer. "I'm sorry, Sir," she began, starting to look up, "but we require all patrons and customers to have a reservation un...less..."

Now she was getting a good look at him. Perhaps he should have shaved first.

There this poor girl was, in an outfit that fitted her form quite nicely, bared her shoulders to the air conditioned air, and was forced to use high heels and fishnet leggings to be in uniform, and she was staring in horror at the man who had half of his face scarred horrifically and half a smirk on the other half.

"One more time," Two-Face said calmly. "Where is your boss? Consider yourself lucky I'm only asking you twice. I won't ask a third."


Cobblepot had come to his office for a break. Schmoozing high society and people with bigger wallets than stomachs could be tiring, especially when you were making an effort to tone down on the accent and to use more proper speech. It was a challenge, especially when insults came your way and instead of making a mighty fine comeback, you stood back and took it.

Of course, once the evening was over, payback in lots of very harmful ways to the old boy would more than make up for it. You had to be smart, let the ass think they had gotten away with it, find out where their humble abode was, then violate its sanctity like nothing else would get the point across.

Naturally, there were always those who...donated with cold hard cash. Money tended to be a very good salve for the soul and a very good argument to let bygones be bygones.

He could do that, letting bygones be bygones. It wasn't like he was the type of man to hold a grudge—

Cobblepot shut both of his eyes at the loud blasts of gunfire he heard.

Well, there was at least one grudge he was nursing, even though it pained him to admit there was nothing he could do about it.

Yet.

His boys were getting up, making their way to the door. "Don't bother," he called out as he lumbered over to his liquor cabinet. "None o' ya stand a chance. Sounds like a newbie got trigger 'appy."

Looks were shared between his boys, uncertainty screaming loudly. "Are you sure, Boss?"

The small man rolled his eyes as he snagged an empty glass and picked up the cognac. "We got us a Batman in the belfry. Probably ran into the giant rat by accident, shot first. In fact, right 'bout now, tables should be turnin' and our man is 'bout to be wipin' the floor any second."


Two-Face yanked the goon's arm away, pointing the gun the bastard held at the wall. With his other hand, he rammed his fist into the goon's face, blood beginning to speckle after the second punch, and then the head bobbling backwards after a third hit. Cupping his hand around the goon's head, the two-faced crime lord pulled and bashed the guy's head into the nearest wall, leaving quite a dent behind.

Dropping the ass, he followed up with one last hit, stomping on the goon's head and walking over him. A long hallway stood before him and behind one of the numerous doors was Oswald Cobblepot.

One of the doors opened and another of Penguin's goons peeked his head out. In response, Two-Face held his gun up and opened fire. To the guy's credit, he was able to duck his head back in before bullets splintered the doorway. With long strides, the disfigured lawyer marched his way to where he last saw his latest mark.


With a grimacing, Cobblepot remarked, "I wished those idiots didn't make such a racket. All the gunshots are gonna scare the clientele away." He took a long sip of his cognac, not even wincing at the burn going down his throat.


Barging in, Two-Face did a quick look, then found himself being hit from the side. Holding a large couch cushion, his attacker advanced forward, shoving the two-faced intruder into a wall. Thanks to the cushion pushing against him, he couldn't aim his gun. With a grimace he began to push back despite having no leverage in his current position.

But that was if you went head on. He may be pressed against the wall, but that didn't mean he couldn't slide against it. Getting closer to an end of the cushion, that's where he shoved forward with all he had. Then it was a turning of the table, spinning the both of them around so that his attacker was now pressed against the wall.

The barrel of his gun pressed into the cushion, his finger pulled on the trigger, and the gunshots were muffled as the goon spasmed with each shot fired into him. Pulling away and taking the couch cushion, he watched as the man slumped onto the floor, the front of his clothes darkening with blood.

Then he turned his attention to the door, not needing to look around. Cobblepot wasn't in this room, so…

At about that time, another goon was coming in, no doubt to check on what the racket was. Two-Face didn't give him the chance to do anything; the cushion was held up like a shield as he rushed forward. This goon caught him, cushion and all, but he was none the wiser to the former DA's gun, the barrel pressed into the cushion. Like with the last one, two shots had this one going down as well.


"Much better," Cobblepot praised as he set down the bottle of cognac. Taking a sip from his glass, he waited until the next noise alerted him that their guest was closer. Not gunshots this time, meaning the boys had figured out that using that kind of firepower was useless here.

There was an odd sound, but one he recognized: breaking furniture. Someone was either crashing through it, or...oh, that sounded like a chair being bashed onto a mook's head.


There had been three of them lounging about in the next room he had checked. Odd how they were just sitting there. To give credit where credit was due, two ducked for cover as soon as they saw him. The third threw Tupperware at him, one that had a half-eaten dinner still in it. It struck his gun, throwing off his aim.

One of the men who had taken cover rushed out and shoulder tackled him. His wrist was grabbed and then a firm wrench had his gun falling to the floor. Raising up his other arm, Two-Face brought an elbow down between the man's shoulder blades then grabbed the back of his jacket, pulling the guy back. Twisting his wrist out of the man's grasp, he deck him twice, freed himself, and raised a leg up to kick his attacker right in the face.

The one thug that had thrown his dinner was going for the gun. Quickly, Two-Face reached for the nearest object he could grab, and that turned out to be a trashcan. He threw the receptacle right into the running man's path, tripping the guy. Running, the former lawyer snagged something else along the way, some kind of decorative bowl.

The tripped thug was scrambling across the floor, hand stretched out to grab the gun. Simultaneously, Two-Face had closed the distance between them fast enough to stomp down with his foot, trapping the man's hand against the gun itself. The man cried out, head tilting up, and he got a hit from the surprisingly sturdy bowl the disfigured criminal held.

Blood spilled out of a split lip, the thug looking dazed. He brought the bowl back down against the man's head, and there he went, falling unconscious. Before he could try to retrieve his gun, the last goon in the room grabbed him from behind. Arms wrapped around him, trying to pin him, large hands trying to grasp at one another to secure the hold.

Two-Face lashed out, jerking his body about, kicking outwards with his legs and throwing and rolling his torso around. A foot caught on to a small table, and he used the leverage he gained to push against it, the wall supporting the table's standing integrity. The push had the two of them shoved into the back of a couch and then over it.

Part of the defaced criminals' body landed on a coffee table, the goon trying to hold him had his hold broken as the bulk of his body slipped between the couch and coffee table. With an arm, Two-Face pushed his upper body up, his legs whipping about to find some kind of purchase. They found it on top of the coffee table and then he was back on his two feet.

Hopping off the low-riding piece of furniture, he reached out and grabbed a chair, a nice wooden one that was polished and looked really taken care of. It also had some weight to it. It didn't stop him from picking it up and swinging it at the goon who was only now rising up. The chair held together even as it struck the guy, a sign of some good craftsmanship there.

It didn't stop him from lifting it higher and bringing it down one more time.


Cobblepot stood next to his desk, glass of cognac in one hand, and the other tracing the fine wood of the piece of furniture.

As he heard a loud scream, he chuckled. "Sounds like an ulna, or a radius breaking."


The goon fell back, clutching his lower arm where a bit of bone was tearing out through the skin. It was a clean break.

Taking mercy, Two-Face ended the man's pain with a pistol whip.


Cobblepot winced. "Going to need a new bust."


Whoever that bust had been of, it didn't matter anymore. Snatching it from a stand, it became a weapon as Two-Face rammed it into body after body, taking a few good seconds here and there to give softer flesh another hit or two with the heavy decoration. One blow had a piece of the bust's head breaking off, and after eyeing it, the former DA tossed it over his shoulder and continued on his rampage.


"You boys ought to start getting ready," Cobblepot remarked, taking another sip from his glass. "He'll be 'ere any minute. Don't bother with guns, they won't work on 'im. Use your fists and once he 'its ya, just stay down."

One of his boys gulped. "Are you...sure about this?"

"Batman doesn't kill," the small crime lord stated with all the confidence of a self-assured man.


The goon's head was nearly twisted around itself, but Two-Face gave enough mercy to drop the guy to the floor. Oh, there was going to be some serious neck pain in the man's future, but that wasn't his problem. He should be happy enough that he gets to live another night.

Looking around, he spotted one closed door, one he was sure he had not visited yet. No one else was running out, ready for a fight. That had to be the right room. Two guns were held at the ready, checked to make sure they still had ammo.

Then the lawyer-turned-crime boss stalked his way forth.


"Right on time," Cobblepot remarked as the door handle began to turn.

His boys stood up, getting ready for a fight as the door itself opened. The self-styled Penguin swirled around what was left of his cognac and let himself relax, glancing through the corner of his eye as a man in a bi-colored suit and tie stood in the doorway.

Wait a tic, that ain't the Bat…

Harvey Dent raised up his guns and fired off several shots. One by one, his boys fell to the floor, some scrambling to go for their own guns and failing.

"Aw, hell!" Cobblepot swore as he dropped his glass and dashed for an umbrella stand placed next to his desk. At least three umbrella hands were within his reach and he grabbed one, pulling out the disguised weapon as fast as he could. Spinning around, he attempted to aim the pointed end at the unexpected intruder, not caring which umbrella this was and what it was about to do.

That turned out to be a moot point; Dent caught the umbrella and wretched it around, then used to strike its wielder. Cobblepot gave an "oomph!" and then another as he was shoved back and unto his desk, causing papers and knickknacks and what not to go scattering around, some falling to the floor.

The butt end of a pistol struck him in the face, and then did so a second time. Cobblepot felt himself go limp, his hands becoming lax and his only defense torn and cast away. An arm pinned itself against his chest, and blearily, the pudgy man looked up at a disfigured face that was uglier when he got close up.

"The clown ain't happy with you, Bird," Dent stated. "I'm here to settle the score. Nothing personal."

It was hard to think; pain could cloud a man's mind, especially when head blows were involved. How many times had he told his boys to never start with the head? The victim always got fuzzy and couldn't think straight and…

"It is personal," Dent growled, voice deepening. The two-faced man shook his head. "No, not going to kill him." Then, "The hell not?" After that, "He needs to suffer a bit. The dead don't suffer."

Then he was pulled back, Dent reaching into a pocket. Of all things, a coin slipped out and was flipped. Catching it, Dent glanced at the result, one Cobblepot wasn't privy to. Giving a sharp nod, the two-faced asshole pulled away, no longer pinning the smaller man down.

However, Dent then went to the liquor cabinet and snatched one of the bottles. Lifting it, he brought it down and shattered the glass, precious alcohol spilling everywhere. Tossing aside the bottleneck, Dent picked up a part of the bottle, the flat bottom to be precise, then returned about to where Cobblepot remained on his back.

An arm came down, and he was pinned once more, not that he was in any condition to resist. Dent hovered over him, one hand held up with the bottle bottom held in it.

"Half of this is business," Dent stated. "The other is personal. No one messes with Barbara."

Dent's hand came down and Cobblepot screamed.