Hail to the Victor
Rate: M
Summary: Victor Zsasz has always been considered the cream of the crop when it comes to the hitmen of Gotham. Fearless, unstoppable, and professional. And professionals had codes. Rule number one: aim for your mark, and minimize collateral damage; rule number two: you don't take credit for someone else's work. Unfortunately for him, his cash flow, and reputation, takes a hit when an outside assassin starts competing for the same marks. While the *friendly competition* is irritating, the presence of this new assassin and their masters are the real issue... Cirque de Fin is a harbinger of doom for a city, and it seems that Gotham is next on the docket. Chaos nears, and the families are pooling whatever resources they have to maintain any semblance of control. For Zsasz? That means overtime... often *unpaid* overtime.
[I started Swan Song some years ago. I don't remember where it was going. Taking a stab at rewriting with different main characters. Slow burn Zsasz/OC. Is this fandom dead? I don't know. I jump back into fandoms at weird times of my life.]
Disclaimers/Age Identifier: I own nothing but my original characters and the idea of Cirque de Fin.
000
His eardrums pounded within his head, his eyes focused and unfocused at the flashing lights, and the mass of bodies throwing themselves about, utterly writhing…
He loved it.
Well, he loved the idea of it, as he bobbed his head to the music. He liked his personal space too much to have any desire to join the dancing crowd, but overall, it was definitely not the worst place to carry out his job. In fact, he counted himself lucky-he must have earned himself some favor with Falcone in order to get sent such an easy contract.
Hell, it was nights like these where the phrase 'do what you love, and you'll never work a day in your life,' came into play.
Alas, it was nearly time to clock out. His target, a man just on the verge of being too old to be at a hopping joint such as the La Sanguine, was finally starting to move towards the exit with two young women in tow. He halted his neck bobbing and watched as they struggled to move through the bouncing crowd.
He formed his hand into a mock gun and pointed it at the man, closing one eye. He 'pulled the trigger,' clicking his tongue as he did so.
While he could have gone ahead and done the deed in the open, what with the nightclub being on Cobblepot's turf, he just kind of liked the place.
If he started shooting now, it'd be at least a week before it would be back to normal business, and he had an actual night off coming up. Their strawberry daiquiris were delicious.
And so, he waited.
Just as the trio was starting to reach the exit, grabbing their coats from the coat check, he stood from his leaning position against the ornate pillar in the VIP section. He straightened out the sleek, black fabric of his sleeves and vest, and turned on his heel, casually shoving his hands in his pockets. He swiftly descended the staircase, passing off a fifty to the server he slipped by, and side stepped towards one of the emergency exits. With a casual nod, the bouncer watching the door pushed it open for him while returning the gesture with a tip of his head, and out he went into the chilly night air.
Hands in his pocket and spring in his step as he returned to bobbing his head to the now muffled music, it didn't take long for him to catch up with his mark and his two guests.
They had barely made it down the block, his mark pointing at the aged, neon sign of a one-time classy hotel just down the way. It was late enough that the streets were empty, with just the sound of a car driving through puddles a street over to join the trio's inebriated laughter. It wasn't quite late enough that he had to worry about the club scene letting out en masse, but he knew that time was quickly approaching.
No more time to delay.
After putting enough distance between himself and La Sanguine, he whistled a nice sing-song tune, to catch their attention.
It was one of the women who noticed him first. She faltered in her step as she turned her head to look at him. At first, it was confusion, then it was fear.
He had that effect on people. Especially women.
Once the first woman came to a complete halt, it didn't take long until her two companions followed suit. Soon, all three were staring at him, trying to make sense of him in their post-clubbing stupor.
"Hi," he said, raising his right hand, wiggling his fingers enthusiastically.
"What do you want, pal? We're kinda busy," sneered his mark, who puffed himself up and put himself in front of the ladies. It made him want to roll his eyes.
He shrugged instead. "Oh, you know, health, wealth, and happiness, same as anyone. Ladies- you might wanna call a cab…" He crossed his arms in front of himself as he reached beneath his suit jacket, and withdrew his two firearms.
The two women shrieked at the sight of the weapons, though at least one of them had the sense to cover her mouth to muffle herself. They took a few stumbling steps, wondering which direction to run to for cover.
"You-you're Victor Zsasz!" His mark stuttered out, instantly deflating as he backed up, knocking one of the women into the shop window next to them. She bounced off of it but quickly recovered. She tried to take the hand of her friend to pull her away, but Zsasz's mark grabbed the other woman and held her in front of him.
The first woman clumsily punched him, shocking him just enough to let go of his human shield. She took her friend by the forearm and dragged her away, taking off into the empty streets and heading towards the sound of cars in the distance. Together, their hurried, high heeled steps bounced off the buildings.
He paid them no mind. They weren't his mark.
No, his mark remained in his spot, holding his jaw and watching the women run away, confusion and shock plastered to his face.
"Oh cool, you're just going to stand there. Makes my job easy-"
And then his mark started running. Victor smirked and gave chase. He didn't always enjoy the runners, but hey, it had been a slow few nights and he could use the exercise. That thought lasted for all of a block, however.
Unfortunately for Zsasz, he misjudged his mark. Apparently the man was a distance runner in his spare time… when he wasn't making deals with Chinese mobsters to bring in illegal guns through Falcone's docks.
With a few missed shots, they crossed another two blocks, the man weaving through the alleys, putting as many barricades between himself and Zsasz as possible. Zsasz nearly lost him when he jumped into a parking garage and started running up the stairwell. Luckily for Zsasz, it was glass so he caught sight of him again.
"I should have shot him during the DJ change," Zsasz muttered through gritted teeth, throwing the door open and bounding up the stairs, two at a time, after the man-who was, most certainly, slowing. By the time Zsasz reached the top, the man was out of breath, and unfortunately for him, there were nearly no cars on the top level for him to take cover behind.
Zsasz let out a laugh. "Dude, haven't you seen, like, any horror movies? Running up the stairs? Really?"
He could hear sirens in the distance-no, a siren. The sound of gunshots wasn't exactly abnormal here and cops didn't like to come down to this area. It wasn't quite the Narrows but it was close enough that it might as well have been. He almost pitied the rookie beat cop that got stuck with this route…. Almost. The siren continued to wail, but it didn't come much closer. He had time.
"Please-I have a wife, kids! And-and I've got connections! I'll double whatever they're paying you-please!" Zsasz's mark held out his hands in front of him as if that would save him, slowly taking a step back and nearly tripping as he stepped in a puddle that was deeper than it seemed.
Once again, Zsasz fought the urge to roll his eyes. It almost always ended the same. He loved his work, but sometimes, he felt that the rush just wasn't there anymore. When things become easy, they become boring.
"Sorry man. I'm a professional."
After using just those few moments to catch his breath, he started to squeeze the trigger.
And then there was a noise. It was so subtle, he nearly missed it. In fact, he probably would have missed it, over his mark's pleading, had it not whizzed right by his ear. Zsasz froze, just a hair's width from firing his shot.
By the time he realized what it was, it was too late. His mark was collapsing to the ground, his voice nothing more than a gurgling as he raised a shaking hand to his throat.
Zsasz frowned and cautiously walked forwards his mark, his pistols still trained on the man, though he knew it was pointless. He had toyed with the man, and he had paid the price. His mark was dead, and it was by another's hand.
Before he could reach the body, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. Zsasz turned and this time, did not hesitate to fire, quickly changing his objective to this kill stealer. He sprinted towards an electrical unit near the stairwell, and just barely made it in time to see a figure.
It was very clearly a woman. She was wearing an ensemble that reminded Zsasz of old military-or even a fucking marching band uniform. As outlandish as she looked, the worst part was the mask. It covered her eyes and nose, with a bit of a point that was perhaps meant to mimic a bird.
Ugh, the costumed freaks. They were simply so garish. What was Gotham coming to, seriously? Why did everyone have to have a gimmick?
He let out a shot, but she quickly dodged by bending at the waist. No, it wasn't a simple dodge. She swept her left arm out and bowed.
She gave him a wave, wiggling her fingers just as he had done only a few minutes prior. And then she stepped back, dropping over the ledge.
"Well, fuck me," Zsasz said, puffing out his cheeks with a deep exhale. He didn't bother following her. He had seen the trick before. Hell, he had done it before. He wasn't going to give the interloper the satisfaction of a reaction.
Zsasz turned around, raising his right pistol to the back of his head to scratch a bit. He casually strolled back to the body of his mark and when he reached its side, he stopped. With a nudge of his leather boot, he confirmed that yup, that's a corpse.
Not that he needed much confirmation beyond the throwing dagger lodged in the man's jugular. Zsasz grimaced and knelt down, reaching out a gloved hand to dislodge the blade, causing blood to squirt onto his designer suit with a loud squelch.
"Huh," he breathed, raising the blade to his eye level, catching it in the poor light cast by the fluorescent security bulbs of a nearby building. The weapon was stupidly ornate. Impractical even. But, he clearly couldn't deny it was effective… The handle was flat and shaped like the neck and head of a bird-a goose maybe? It would have taken someone very skilled to throw the imbalanced little blade with such precision.
Very skilled. Professional. In fact, he would venture to guess that this was a calling card, something which he found tacky. He was just about to toss it back on the corpse-tacky or not, this hit wasn't his, and he had an assassin's code to follow-when something caught his attention.
There was something engraved on the handle, though it was hard to see with all of the blood. He wiped at the length of the blade on his already bloodied pant leg until he could read it.
C. .
He stared at it for a moment, clenching his jaw. "Unexpected," he gritted out, dropping the blade unceremoniously onto the torso. A calling card was a calling card, and it wasn't his to take away. Zsasz stood again and backed away, holstering his firearms. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his phone, wasting no time dialing away.
"Let the Boss know I'm coming by," he said, glancing down at the corpse, "we have a problem."
Zsasz disconnected and slid the phone back into his pocket. Well, so much for that night off he was supposed to have. He suspected that this town was about to get very exciting… and he would be stuck working overtime.
000
Notes: Here I am, back on my bullshit with another story. How many chapters will I get through this time? 3? 5? 10? Who knows. I have bad habits. We know this. My life has had some massive changes (haven't we all?) and I haven't felt particularly inspired. I haven 2/3rds through my second novel and can't quite finish it, I have half finished podcast episodes waiting to be finalized, and I have game books I'm still trying to muddle through writing. And here I am. In a niche fandom. Posting something new.
Why do I do this to myself?
The world may never know.
Anyhow, I am trying to take some of the premises of Swan Song and redo them. I had a plot. I don't remember the plot. So I'm going to flip it and so something new, with some of the pieces I recall. I'm on a bad boy kick, so y'all are getting some Zsasz. As we all know, I'm more likely to put chapters out if I know there are people awaiting them. Feel free to pester me.
Ever Your Servant,
A.F
