11.37 PM, Marabou Nightclub, Gotham City

Gio's nightclub was open for business. The club was packed. The dancers were in their cages, the bar was flowing freely. The Johns were snorting through the coke and popping pills like there was no tomorrow. Further downstairs some men and not a few women were getting 'serviced' by the local girls. Gio looked down on them all from his position on the balcony upstairs.

Business was still good here at least.

Out on the streets, it was a different matter entirely. The Batman was coming down hard on every crime. You couldn't scratch your ass on the streets without the Bat knowing about it. People were starting to complain, one of them was his uncle Sal.

Gio loved his uncle Sal, he was the closest thing he had ever had to a father. When he was little he had been dirt poor and the runt of his family. Things only got worse after his mother died of a heroin overdose. But uncle Sal had taken him in, practically raised him. He had seen something in him, and when he graduated from college with a Masters degree in accounts and marketing, he had brought him out to Gotham and put him in charge of this business. Giovanni Maroni was the archetypal "kid out of the gutter", and it was all thanks to his uncle Sal.

So when his uncle Sal asked to use the club for a meeting tonight, how could Gio refuse him? He had a funny feeling about it, usually bad shit happened around his uncle, but he swallowed his fears and opened his doors for him. He only hoped there wouldn't be a mess. That would be bad for business. He took one last look around then went upstairs to the meeting room.

UPSTAIRS

"This guy, this bat-character, he's making life really fucking difficult for us Salvatore. I can't even get my product out on the streets these days. My boys are shitting their pants, they won't do any business at night. Last night, a shipment of product came in, word of God says the Batman blew it up, after he hospitalized a whole squad of my best boys. We can't work like this Sal. The money just ain't coming in like it used to." The fat man stopped speaking, taking a sip from the glass of scotch before him.

Salvatore Maroni sat at the head of the table, thinking over his lieutenants words. He was dressed in an expensive suit. It was cut to fit his lean physique but it was flashy, the mark of a man who didn't grow up around money. His salt and pepper hair was cut stylishly, and his tanned face was shaved smooth. He was a handsome man and he knew it, taking great pains to look good at all times, though he was pushing 50.

Business had been tight lately. True, things had gotten a little tougher ever since the Batman came on the scene, but it had gotten even worse the past year. The GCPD was useless, hardly worth the money he paid them, they had failed to kill him. Many a time since the vigilante's emergence Sal Maroni had wondered who and what this Batman was. Word on the street said he wasn't a man. Some said he was a vampire, others said he was a demon or a ghost. Sal Maroni knew what the Batman was. A pain in the ass.

"These goddamn costumed freaks. Driving us honest working men out of work. It started with this Superman guy, that alien freak. Then this Batman showed up and motherfucked us. Now there's a broad that looks like she should be on the cover of Sports Illustrated flying around in a stripper outfit. When will this shit stop?" said Maroni.

The men and women around the table shifted uneasily,unsure what to say. Their faces obscured by the smoke of cigars. They were some of the most powerful people in Gotham. Mobsters, arms dealers,drug and human traffickers, top level gang members,enforcers, dirty cops and politicians,corrupt bureaucrats.. Everyone who was big and bad was in this room. Even Carmine Falcone, the rival of Sal Maroni was here, sitting at the head of the table on the other end. He was older than Maroni by well over a decade, with white hair and a wrinkled face. He also wore an expensive suit. He was puffing quietly on a cigar as Maroni spoke his words, and it was at that moment that he spoke up.

"Maroni, normally I would want to pull your tongue out through your ass, but this time you speak the truth. I think I speak for everyone when I say that these freaks have fucked up our operations." He paused to puff thoughtfully on his cigar. "It's simple really. Since the goddamn GCPD can't kill this cockroach"-he looked at the Police Commissioner, whos squirmed in his seat-"I figure we should fight fire with fire. Set a thief to catch a thief. Use one of these costumed freaks to take out the Batman, permanently."

The mood in the room changed almost immediately, with the people murmuring amongst themselves.

A young dark skinned man wearing a blood red bandanna, going by the name of Rico, spoke up. "And where the fuck are we s'posed to get one from pops?"

"Watch your mouth you fucking jungle bunny." said a big burly bodyguard behind him.

"What did you say bitch?" his gun was cocked and pointed in the bodyguards face in an instant. "You got something to say to my .45? What's the matter white bread, you deaf?"

There was a series of clicks as every hood in the room pulled a gun and pointed it at the gang member, and another series of clicks as several gang members pulled out their weapons.

"Put your guns down. All this macho posturing will get you killed. And I won't get paid if you're all dead." The voice came from the shadows,sounding deep and somewhat distorted, then the figure stepped forward.

He was huge, at least 6'4 with a very muscular body. He wore a helmet that was black and featureless on one side but bronze colored and with a red lens on the other side. At his broad back there was strapped an incredibly huge broadsword and a small bo staff. There were massive bronze colored pads on his shoulders, the one on his left was strapped with shotgun shells. He wore a suit of black body armor, crisscrossed with holsters that housed explosives. Around his neck the unmistakable dog tags worn by soldiers hung. At his left hip a gun was holstered, at his right there was a long knife and a baton. Around his waist was a thick belt with many compartments. He wore gloves the same color as his shoulder pads, they had short sharp scallops on their sides, and the knuckles had extra thick padding.

The air in the room seemed to freeze, everyone scared to do so much as take a breath. The man approached one gang member wearing a blue bandanna. "Never thought I'd see that. I thought you reds and blues didn't get along. We really are living in strange times." You couldn't see his face, but his voice gave the impression he was amused.

"Put your guns down. I won't say that again." There was a menacing edge to his voice. This time everyone obeyed. They were all hardened men, killers, but they recognized an alpha male when they saw one.
"Now, because you boys can't go about your business without shooting each other, I'll take over from here. For those of you who don't know me, I am Deathstroke The Terminator-"

"Hahaha! Like the Schwarzenegger"-a knife flew through the air and sliced clean through the skull of the man and into the wall behind him before he finished his sentence. He dropped to the ground, blood gushing from his forehead. Several faces in the room went pale. Deathstroke continued as though he hadn't been interrupted.

-"Mercenary, assassin and bounty hunter. The best there is or will ever be. Mr Falcone contacted me, informed me that you have a.. Bat problem. For the right price, I can take care of him."

Sal Maroni tore his eyes away from the twitching, bleeding corpse of his nephew Giovanni and found the courage to speak up. "When you say 'take care of him', what do you mean exactly?"

"I can kill him, I can capture him.. Hell, I can skin him alive and spit roast him if thats what you want."

"And how much would that cost?"

"That depends on the quarry. A high profile target like yours would cost at least 5."

"Half a million dollars?" a woman's voice asked meekly.

Deathstroke stood in silence for a full minute,enjoying the sense of discomfort the moment gave everyone in the room. "No, 5 million. Dollars. Cash. From both Crime families. An additional 1 million from everyone who is in charge of their organisation in this room. That means you too, Mr Maroni."

"Thats a lot of dough. You talk a big game Mr Terminator. How come I've never heard of you?"

"I've never heard of you either. In any case,the mark of a good assassin is that the general public do not know he or she even exists. In the underworld circles I am very well known. Clearly your influence in the underworld is very weak indeed if you don't know who I am."

"Who the fuck is this guy? I'm Salvatore fucking Maroni! This is my city! You walk into my city, my fucking nightclub, and you disrespect me like this? You kill my nephew for cracking a joke, you talk all this shit and do some alpha male bullshit and you think what? That we'll just roll over for you? This is Gotham freak! This ain't like whatever shithole you crawled out of."

His mouth was full of blood before he could say another word. Deathstroke moved with impossible speed, punching Maroni square in the face before tossing him across the room. He was unconscious before he hit the floor. His bodyguards didn't even have time to draw their weapons, and now after his display of power they were too scared to do so. The room was completely silent.

"Mr Falcone will inform you of the payment methods. You will pay me after the job is done. Mr Falcone, you know how to reach me." With those words, he retreated back into the shadows. Moments later the occupants of the room felt rather than saw his presence eaving the room.

Carmine Falcone sat in his chair, suddenly regretting his decision. Maybe this time they had bitten off more than they could chew. The world just wasn't the same. Superpowered freaks and vigilantes everywhere. He moved the cigar to his lips and realized he had stopped smoking it when a thick roll of ash the size of his index finger fell off the tip.

Still,this assassin was their best bet against the Batman. He just hoped it would be worth it.