Hi everyone. I'm sorry to have been away for so long. It's been a very rough last few months, both health-wise and family-wise, and it's been harder to write with everything going on. As a thank you for waiting for so long, I'll be posting two chapters - hopefully the next one will be up in the next couple of days. I am almost finished with it. Thank you to everyone for the reviews! 5 reviews last chapter - I've never gotten that many before on my Zsasz stories, and it made me very happy. :)
4S: Hi there! :) You're right, Talia was dead. I figure if the ninjas stole Ra's body to revive him in the after game of Arkham City, they probably did the same with her. Her body was missing during the Clayface fight...
Night Monkey: Thank you so much. :) I think you're right, Talia does have some height-ism issues (among many others). If the guy is not the exact same height as Bruce Wayne, she wants nothing to do with him. Poor Zsasz, treated badly for something he has nothing to do with!
TawniBravo and valerygromova: Aww, thank you both so much! :D I'm sorry to have taken so long to update. :/
i've .got .purple. nail. polish: I didn't even think about that with Becky and Scarecrow! Good eye, she was the one who he was really protective over, right? He was recovering until someone hurt her, and then he became Scarecrow again... I wish I'd worked that in somehow, that's a story that adds a lot more depth to him. :)
Thank you, i've .got .purple. nail. polish, Fuchsia .Grasshopper, valerygromova, Zaconator and Zackis, sparkles64, and anyone else I've missed for Following/Favoriting this and Salve, Salvage, & Salvation. (To Fuchsia and purple, I'm sorry I wrote your names strangely; the document kept deleting your names unless I put spaces in between the periods. Sorry about this. *sheepish* I do not understand the quirks of FFN editor sometimes... *glares menacingly at Save button*).
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Redemption, Restitution, & Resurrection
-Chapter Twenty-Three: POKER-
-/-/-/-/-
.
Two years ago...
.
.
"Oh, for the love of—Not again!"
Impatiently, Zsasz set down the knife – for the tenth time, no less! – and rubbed the skin of his forearms. They had been itching like crazy for the past week or so. A deep hissing sigh rose from his lips, and he had to stop before he scratched himself raw.
He was in his small square room, sharpening his blades. Ever since Talia's visit a few weeks ago, he had been stuck here. It seemed that the Mistress al Ghūl had a great deal of sway in the goings-on of her father's operations, Zsasz noted with a sneer.
He supposed he didn't blame Rā's, much anyway. It wasn't easy to say no to your daughter, he imagined – even if the daughter-in-question was a royal brat! Besides, his Master had been quite busy–
And here Zsasz stopped himself from continuing the thought. He'd been having trouble thinking of Rā's as "Master" these past few weeks. Zsasz was still respectful to Rā's, of course. He still believed in what the man was doing. But perhaps Rā's endorsement of Talia's treatment of him wasn't so lightly shrugged off after all.
Perhaps I am just restless, he mused. No missions these last few weeks... Or at least, none that I have been called to perform. If only he had something for me to do, even something small, anything but to remain cooped up here!
He traced the scars on his skin absently. They felt different under his fingertips. He frowned down at them. They were fading! Even the newer ones... They weren't as distinctive as they were before. Troubled, Zsasz wondered if this was a sign. Were his true purposes being diluted? Was he steadily losing himself to Rā's mission?
He looked around his tiny room, his cage. Usually it was cold in here, but today it was pleasantly warm. Not nearly as warm as his former luxurious room, of course… He imagined how baking hot it must be in there now—
Of course! He rubbed his arms again, watching the goosebumps rise and ripple. It was summertime! It must be; the heat had been steadily increasing for weeks now, and the flush of spring pollen was missing from the air. "Summer..." Zsasz mused. "How could I have missed it?"
Summertime was the most important time of year for him. The anniversary of his parents' deaths was coming up. And the anniversary of the first mark.
He could almost hear the screaming of the children at the boardwalk in the summertime. He could smell the syrupy funnel cakes and the stench of Gotham Bay. He couldn't smile. He'd had tears in his eyes. Surrounded by families, this empty happiness meant nothing to him. Nothing... Without someone to enjoy it with.
He'd been 25 years old then. It was a month after he'd lost his parents to the boating accident. He'd gone to the fairgrounds hoping to cheer himself up, but it had done the opposite. He'd found himself in the arcade, listlessly playing the kiddie slot machines — in retrospect, he wondered if that had helped start or shaped his gambling addiction. Just another fruitless effort towards filling up the void that nothing could sate.
Summer. A year ago, he had been in Gotham, with Danielle. The memory burst to mind, clear as day: he had stood with her on the Sprang Bridge, and then... he had fallen with her. But only he had died- That's right, Catwoman saved her! He remembered this now and spared a thought of grudging thanks for Catwoman. Not that it would stop him from taking her mark the next time he saw her...
A whole year ago. Where was she now? Where was his Alive Girl?
He needed to go back. He needed to go home.
His fingers itched. How could he break it to Rā's? Perhaps ask if there were any missions within Gotham he could take? No, it was too obvious. If Rā's saw his interest in returning home, he would find out about Danielle one way or another. He could make up a story, say that he wanted to return for Batman's mark (which was accurate)… But he knew that Rā's wanted Batman for himself. It was obvious. Although Rā's rarely spoke about Batman, Zsasz had the distinctive impression that whatever their quarrel, it was personal between them.
He was distracting himself. Zsasz knew he was clever enough to think of an excuse to return to Gotham if he really wanted to. So why wasn't he? If Rā's wasn't standing in his way, then what was really holding Zsasz back from returning?
The question made his guts twist unpleasantly. Grudgingly, Zsasz acknowledged the telltale sign of his own reaction. And for the very first time, he admitted to himself what was true: he was scared to return.
"What if she really did kill herself?"
Zsasz shuddered. What if Danielle had killed herself after all? What if after everything he had done, what if after everything he had shown her about life, his Alive Girl couldn't take it anymore? She had meant for them to die together, yet only he had fallen. What if she had decided to join him after all? Maybe not right after him, not with Batman and Catwoman present, but later... Perhaps she had allowed herself to be rescued, then returned later under cover of night, staring down at his empty watery grave before throwing herself in, and all for nothing…
What if he couldn't recover her body when he returned? The thought damn near caused him panic.
She was so fragile when he was with her on the Sprang Bridge… He remembered too clearly the words she sobbed: "I would be compromising myself, compromising everything, to be with someone who kills others."
The guilt was flooding thickly now.
"I want you to cut my throat and then throw me in the Sprang River. This is one murder you never need to take credit for. Don't pose me, I don't want to imitate a life I willingly left…"
Zsasz buried his head in his hands.
It was a simple enough errand. One of their affiliate villages was under attack by a band of criminals. The League of Shadows was sent to defend their allies and investments. Zsasz was just happy to get out of his room.
The horde had already murdered a significant number of civilians, and the remaining population had fled into the mountains before the League's arrival, putting them out of harm's way. Now, with no innocents to rescue, all that was left was to retake the village from the criminals.
As Zsasz strode down the streets, fellow assassins at his back, he could smell the blood on the warm summer air. Soon the smell would putrefy, he knew. The bodies would need to be burned as soon as possible.
A crew of bandits attacked. The other ninja split off, each with their own quarries. Each one could easily hold their own while outnumbered. Blood ran in the streets.
As Zsasz dodged and let his scimitar fall, he wondered again what Danielle was doing. If she was alive... was she standing on the Sprang Bridge, mourning for him? Or... again, if she was still alive... had she moved on already? Had she forgotten about him?
His stomach twisted when he realized how far away from home he had really been all this time. Like a valley – he jabbed his sword into an attacker's eye – like a chasm before him, he felt dizzy at the realization. He needed to pay his respects to his parents, find Danielle, there was so much to do… His thoughts were getting too distracted.
The blow came quickly. He couldn't block the second one.
He was dead before he felt it.
ZZZZZZZZT!
Green lightning. Agonizing pain.
ZZZZZZZZT!
Zsasz didn't scream. The pain was familiar. He took comfort in it. Pain meant that he was still alive. Somehow.
The lightning spread through his veins. His body was spasming, he knew. He couldn't control himself. He could only watch. Watch, and listen to the murmurs all around him. Some sounded concerned, others angry, while still others were laughing. Vaguely he wondered what was so funny, but soon the voices were drowned out by the gurgling in his ears, and his skin burned.
A film of green covered his eyes. Slowly, gradually it faded, and when Zsasz came back to himself, he was lying on his bed, in his small square room, alone.
He sat up abruptly. The peculiar smell of chemicals lingered in the air. He held up a hand and saw the greenish sheen from his strange vision, lingering on his skin. Lazarus!
"I was dead…" he whispered, the memory of the criminal's flail coming back violently. He flinched. "My Master brought me back…"
A wave of thankfulness had him sitting silently, awestruck. Slowly he ran a hand over his head. Not a single mark or bruise on him. He laughed in relief and then looked down at his arms. His skin was so beautifully alive, shimmering and glowing with good health—
"WHAT?!"
Zsasz fell off the bed, screaming in horror.
"WHERE ARE MY MARKS?!"
"An unfortunate side-effect of the Lazarus Pit, no doubt, but hardly worth such a fuss," Rā's said calmly. Zsasz had been standing in his private quarters for ten minutes, desperately trying (and failing) to appear level-headed. Zsasz's eyes nearly bugged out at Rā's dismissive words. "The loss of your marks is a small price to pay for renewed life."
"But—" Zsasz looked at the floor, ashamed, like a small child.
"As a sign of your gratitude to me, merely prepare yourself for the next mission. You will find a closet of suits three doors down from your room. Choose one; the next mission is a diplomatic one, and we must look professional. No bloodshed. Can you do this? Or are you…by chance…ungrateful?"
"I—I understand. I am very grateful, Master." He swept out of the room quickly.
Rā's had given him another mission already. He had not even been conscious, nay, revived an hour, and he was already being sent out. Zsasz gazed resentfully down at his skin. He felt…naked. Empty. Not even his service to Rā's could cover the pain of losing his marks…
But wait! Zsasz felt hope surge in him. He remembered every person he had ever killed… What if he were to remake all the marks? It wouldn't be the same as the original ones… But it would keep his work alive. Zsasz smiled, took out a knife, and began his work.
"What kept you, Victor?" Rā's usual patience failed him. "Is that blood on your suit?"
Zsasz bowed his head. "Yes, Master. I have come up with a solution. I will remake each mark myself, lovingly, without complaint. I do not forget the service the Lazarus has done for me; I am forever in your debt for resurrecting me, Master! I am grateful for the chance to make the marks again—"
He stopped when he felt a blade at his throat. He looked up into Rā's blazing eyes. He flinched. Rā's looked terrifying.
"We must be professional at all times," the Master's voice was barely a hiss. "Just because we are assassins, does not mean we are not professional about it. You wore this sharp suit to present an impression, to conceal an objective. And instead of taking that seriously, you roll around like a child before a grand event, making it filthy."
"Please, Master. There is no need to speak to me like a child—"
"But you are a child… aren't you, Victor?" The sword taunted him. When Zsasz gulped, his Adam's apple touched the scimitar's blade, and he could feel its sharpness. He adopted his best poker face; how would he appease the dragon?
"I don't merely mean in comparison to my significant lifespan." An amused smile painted the old man's face, and the words that fell from his mouth were like knives. "You have never truly grown up, have you, Victor? Your parents were your world, your guidance, until you were 25 years old. You never tried to strike out on your own before then. No, you were contented to ride on your mother's apron strings, making a business that complemented theirs, but never being your own man. And then they died, and you were left without a purpose, without guidance. They died, and still you did not grow up. Like a lost child, you wandered, pursuing whatever struck your fancy, whatever interested you. But your purpose was fleeting and volatile. It needed to be molded and forged into something more solid. I helped you forge your talents. I am your savior, Victor. You follow me now, the father you have regained. Now, my purpose… is your purpose."
Zsasz couldn't breathe.
"Go change, Victor," Rā's said with deceptive softness, and the scimitar lowered only a little, "And do not let me catch you making your ridiculous marks ever again."
Legs shaking like a newborn fawn's, Zsasz left the room to suit up once again.
Halfway to the rendezvous, his skin began to itch again. Could it be the continuing healing from the Lazarus Pit as it wiped away his marks into oblivion? His life's work entering the void?
Shortly thereafter, his scalp itched. He had shaved it, of course.
When his fingers began itching, he could no longer deny what was happening.
It was as if a fog had lifted. "Master"?! Just what was Zsasz doing, calling another man "Master"? What was he doing, running errands for this zombie?! Victor Zsasz, self-made serial killer, answered only to himself! Where had he gone for the last year?
Zsasz's grip tightened on the knife hidden in his suit. It was small enough to go unnoticed (so he hoped) by the ninjas at his back. Again, he was leading them, the face of Rā's operations. His butt monkey.
He was the goddamn Butcher of Gotham, the one and only Mr. Zsasz! He took orders from NO ONE!
Zsasz kept his face neutral as they entered the meeting place.
Throughout the meeting, he smiled customarily. He and their host exchanged meaningless pleasantries, he gave the necessary information and nothing more, and they eventually came to a gracious agreement. Rā's lieutenants were no more tense than usual; they suspected nothing. Now all that was left was to close the deal.
Zsasz stood up, smile beaming on his face, and reached across the desk to shake the man's hand. As they shook, the knife came up between them, silver and fast, and the man's neck was severed.
Blood spurted across Zsasz's face.
In a heartbeat, smoke descended upon the room, thrown by one of the assassins. When the smoke cleared, the deceased contact's bodyguards lay unconscious on the floor, none the wiser, but Zsasz was already gone.
He knew that they would be after him soon enough. But as he ducked through the cobblestone streets, he hoped his luck would hold out.
To his credit, it took them three hours to find him. Zsasz had managed to flee the city and was passing through another one when they caught up to him. And now, as they faced off in the middle of the street, Zsasz was acutely aware of every glorious sensation – the dust caressing the sunlit air, the heat prickling his skin, the cooling breeze whispering in his ears. It felt like… freedom.
The ninjas attacked. Zsasz parried the offensive of one, twisted under her arm, and stabbed another one beneath her ribs. She fell. Then two more were in front of him, a man and a woman, and as Zsasz twisted to avoid the man, the woman stabbed him through with her scimitar.
"…Are you certain it will not short out during the resurrection process?"
A soft voice, drifting somewhere above him. The green film was back over his eyes. But this time, he could hear. There were two people here with him, and they were talking in hushed voices.
"…Perfect condition, Master. We could give it a test—"
"Excellent."
Zsasz drifted for the longest moment, stomach flipping wildly as the green lightning arced through it once again. It felt like gasoline filling him, making him sick, keeping him alive. Returning him to life.
This must be the Lazarus Pit, he realized again. That means…
"ARRRRGHH!"
The pain came suddenly, right directly in the back of his head. It felt as though a drill were going straight through to his brain.
"AAAAAAAAARRRGHHHH!"
And then, it was over. Zsasz was awake now, staring up into the hate-filled eyes of Rā's al Ghul.
In that moment, he knew that there was no way Rā's was going to keep him alive. Zsasz didn't know why he had even bothered to heal him in the Pit. If looks could kill…
Zsasz was as good as dead.
"You disappoint me, Victor," the shout he imagined never came. Rā's voice was a deadly hiss, like a viper. "I suppose my daughter was right. Your true nature came out in the end. Such a pity…" He held up a dagger. "Isn't this the weapon you used to dispose of my contact?"
Zsasz saw that there was blood encrusted on the handle.
"An unfortunate setback, but nothing major. I have other allies." Without warning, he stabbed Zsasz.
"Mmmmmmph!" Lucid as he was, Zsasz had the sense to muffle his screams of pain. He would not show Rā's any weakness. Then again, he wasn't trained to.
The knife lingered in his flesh, and fleetingly, Zsasz wondered if this were what his own victims felt before they died. His body began to shudder. Still, determinedly, he held his killer's gaze.
At length, Rā's withdrew the knife. He held it above his prisoner's face, letting the salty liquid drip down into his eyes. Zsasz blinked rapidly, and the blood dripped down the sides of his cheeks, resembling tears.
Blinded by the blood, he didn't see Rā's raise the knife again.
"UHHH!" As Rā's pierced his shoulder, the slightest noise escaped from his clenched jaw. Rā's twisted the knife cruelly, and Zsasz felt part of his body go numb. Rā's removed the knife before stabbing the other shoulder.
It seemed like hours went by before Rā's spoke again. By that time, Zsasz's body was a bloody mess. Barely conscious, he listened to Rā's quiet speech.
"You betrayed me, Victor. After everything I have done for you. Now the price for insubordination is usually death, but I have bigger plans for you. Oh, don't worry, you will die, but you will still be of use to me."
SWWT! Zsasz's throat gurgled, cut. The world was fading quickly now. As the blackness set in, he saw Rā's stare. It was even more tiger-like now...
ZZZZZZ! Green electricity in his stomach. Gasoline in his veins.
The pain was excruciating this time. He wondered if it were because there was more of him to heal. And like before, at the end of the pain was glorious life. He felt every nerve, every sensation – as if he were more alive than ever.
In time, he came to again. He expected that. What he did not expect was to find himself, still strapped to the same table – and Rā's, looking down at him as if no time had passed.
"Do you understand now, Victor?" Rā's said quietly. Zsasz screamed as the knife plunged in unexpectedly. "Do you understand what the price is for your failure?"
Again and again the knife stabbed, moving at such a frantic tempo that Zsasz was amazed he could still feel every agonizing blow. His screams nearly drowned out Rā's words, but Rā's leaned even closer to his face and enunciated:
"You will die many times over – and I will bring you back to life each time to kill you, again and again – for betraying me. And once I have broken you, once I have made you wish to renounce your pathetic life – I will make you my slave once again. Your fate lies in my hands, Victor."
Rā's kept his word. During the torture, Zsasz died over and over again, and each time he was resurrected and awoke on that wretched table, staring up at the Demon's Head. When at last Rā's had had his fill, Zsasz was thrown into a cage.
And there he stayed, new chip fitted and whirring away in the back of his head, ensuring that he would never disobey Rā's directly ever again. Rā's slave, body and mind – but never soul.
.
.
Presently...
.
10:30pm, Saturday night. Reggie was making his usual rounds when he heard a knock at the door. "Now who could that be?" he wondered to himself. Pulling up his purple hoodie a little tighter (it had been raining intermittently all night), he strode over to the door and opened the lookout slot.
"Hello?"
He peered out and saw nothing but grey.
"Anybody—"
SWITT!
Reggie the doorman fell to his knees, a blade embedded where his eyeball used to be. A long lithe hand reached through the lookout slot, unlocking the door and knocking the dead man to the floor.
Victor Zsasz had invaded the Iceberg Lounge!
-/-
10:35pm. Helper was wandering the halls of the Lounge. He could hear the other men grumbling over their cards, and he grumbled a little to himself about why he always had to be on the job instead of at one of those card tables. Then he sighed when he remembered why: because his nickname was 'Helper'. Duh.
His cheeks reddened and he glared at the ground suddenly. Someone had left a puddle of water for him to clean up. He wondered if Reggie had done it. Reggie was always sneaking out and taking smoke breaks and leaving his cigarette butts all over the walkway…
Helper angrily grabbed a mop (with a penguin handle, no less!) and got to work cleaning it up…
He was so immersed in his task that he didn't notice the vent opening overhead and the man dropping down behind him.
-/-/-
10:37pm. Smartie adjusted his glasses as he hurried to the restroom. The heaters were on inside the Lounge, and combined with the humidity from the rain, it was making his glasses fog up. It wouldn't be easy to play cards with foggy glasses, now would it?
Smartie mused for a second that he was the only thug he knew who wore glasses. He wondered why more of them didn't; he knew some of them needed glasses, with the way they aimed!
The man saw a red blur in front of him – a hoodie. Looked like Helper was sleeping on the job again. "Hey, man, you really want the Bat to catch you napping—"
He bent down to shake Helper. Helper didn't move.
"Hey, Hamburger Helper! Up and at 'em!"
He gave the man's shoulder an extra hard shake. Helper's head suddenly lolled backward, revealing the deep gash in his neck. Smartie's voice fled him. Even with his foggy glasses, he could clearly make out the wide-eyed, blank stare on Helper's face.
"Ugh—" he stepped back, heart pounding, and prepared to turn away, run and warn the others. He bumped into someone. Spun around.
Victor Zsasz's dark eyes were the last things he ever saw.
SLASH!
-/-/-/-
10:42pm. The Iceberg Lounge was just as he remembered it. He hadn't been here in years, not since that night. The last time he was at the museum, the Penguin had brought him in through the front entrance, tied up, and thrown him in a cage. An animal on display, that was all he had been. Until he escaped. And now here he was. He looked up at the huge hunk of ice in the middle of the room, and his eyes were every bit as cold.
He could count 16 people in the Iceberg Lounge, if he listened carefully. It wasn't easy, considering how similar the men all sounded. He couldn't hear the Penguin's distinctive squawking. Good; that meant he could first dismiss the guests and then have the bird all to himself.
Zsasz smiled and fingered his knife. At long last, he would have his revenge.
"And now for my greatest work of art yet..." he whispered giddily. "They won't believe it when they see it! I bet even Batman will wonder how I did it. Enemy or not, Rā's trained me well," he laughed to himself as he slipped into the nearest floor grate.
"So why we get a game night anyway?" he could hear voices. "Not that I'm complaining..."
"The boss has got a meeting with the Riddler. Something top secret. Apparently he didn't want no one seeing the green man in here… Riddler must know something big!"
Zsasz peered up through the grate to see two pairs of legs and the underside of a table. He must be in one of the side rooms, the ones used for "fine dining", shady deals, or card games. Was this the very room where he had lost everything to the Penguin all those years ago? He couldn't remember.
From what the two men were saying, it sounded like they were Penguin's henchmen. Not guests.
"Wow! Boss doesn't usually close up shop like this," the first goon began jiggling his legs. "But what makes you so sure the Riddler freak knows anything? Maybe he just wants to join forces against the Bat or something."
"Naw, man," the other goon said confidently. "The Riddler knows things. He just… knows. It's what he does or something, he's supposed to be really smart..."
"How smart can he be? They're meeting in the room with Tiny. If boss don't like what Riddler's selling, he can just throw him in, or shoot him with his umbrella, sumthin'."
"...Speaking of smarts, where'd Smartie take off to?"
"I don't know where he went to, just deal the cards!"
"Deal the cards? I'm playing Solitaire, dummy!"
"You are? OK... So who goes first?"
"Solitaire is played alone, Worker! We're not supposed to be playing with two people!"
"Hey man, Bashful, don't go acting like you graduated high school or sumthin'. I'm sure it works fine with two people..."
"Where's Smartie when we need him?!"
That's enough entertainment for tonight, Zsasz thought as he pulled out a second knife.
A minute later, Worker and Bashful were dead, and Zsasz contemplated their cards. There was an extra deck nearby, and he needed one more six. He arranged the two familiar hands carefully between dead fingers: a three, a four, a five, a six, and a damn seven for one; six of clubs, six of diamonds, six of spades, and six of hearts for the other one. For the loser.
They were both losers tonight.
"Poker reenactment scene one, now complete…"
-/-/-/-/-
"Go Fish? Why's it called Go Fish?"
The next room held three people. Zsasz was, once again, in the grate underneath the table. He could see that one of the men was holding a couple extra cards in his lap. Zsasz smirked; why was there always cheating in this hall? How had he missed it when the Penguin had cheated? The smile slipped from his face.
"It's named after Fish Mooney, an old-time gangster. Penguin had a grudge against her, they were bitter enemies—"
"Don't talk about her in front of the boss," the third guy chimed in. "It ruffles his feathers but good — makes him go berserk! Saw him cut someone's throat with a broken bottle once for mentioning her name."
"But if the boss didn't like her, then why don't we call this game Go Penguin?"
"…Good point."
They didn't have time to scream. Zsasz came silently out of the grates behind them and cut their throats before they even knew he was there. Then he once again rearranged the blood-stained cards into his and Penguin's old game, all while the anger steadily built. How many lives had that disgusting, fat midget ruined here in his halls? He doubted he was the first, or the last.
He thought about the glass bottle wedged in the Penguin's face, his "monocle". By the time he was finished with the Penguin, he would wish that glass bottle had killed him.
-/-/-/-/- -/-/-/-
The third room held four people. It also seemed to have the liveliest game. Zsasz vaguely wondered if these guys were playing poker, unlike the other two rooms.
"HAHAA! I gotcha!" One man had jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair in his excitement. "You are a liar-liar-pants-on-fire, Sidney! There's no way you're holding twenty-one! Bull-SHIT!"
Obviously not.
"Umm, I hate to break it to you, man…"
"Bull-SHIT!" The man continued his victory dance, scattering cards on the dirty floor.
"Leeroy!" Thump! A jingle of ice and glass. "We ain't playing Bullshit!"
"…We're not?"
"No, man. We're playing Blackjack. Sidney's supposed to be holding 21! That means he wins. Pay up."
Leeroy was pouting now. "But I thought we were—"
"Just pay up."
"Aw man!" Leeroy threw up his hands. "I was gonna spend that money on a birthday present for my ma!"
"…Really? Is your ma hot? I might have a birthday present for her, if ya know what I mean..."
"Hah! No, man. My ma's been dead for ten years. Hah, I bullshitted you!"
"For the last time, it seems," a sinister voice whispered. The men all stood up, toppling cards and drinks. They looked outward, toward the entrance to the small room. From behind, Zsasz wielded Leeroy's fallen chair, sweeping it into their skulls and then cutting their throats while they still lay prone.
Four dead bodies and a Poker game later, Zsasz searched the room for an exit. The floor grate system had inexplicably ended in this room. He'd have to find another way to sneak around. He looked up.
There was a vent in the wall. He smiled.
-/-/-/-/- -/-/-/-/- -/-/-
Room number four. He could see the card table clearly from above. The vent had led into the ceiling and he could stare down at the men who played. There were seven of them this time.
"Let's play Texas Hold 'Em!"
"Dude, we always play Texas Hold 'Em. Let's play something different tonight… how about 7-Card Stud?"
"No, man!"
"Hey, there's no need to fight… We could play H.O.R.S.E., couldn't we?"
Seven people. Taking them out would be no problem. It would be doing it without alerting the whole museum that would be the real challenge. He would have to do it speedily. He grinned.
"Hey, where's Matches? Haven't seen him around recently, have you?"
"Malone's always on the outs. He'll be back. Why do you ask?"
"No reason. We just usually get cleaned out by him when we play. I'm glad he's not here!"
Now what would Batman do? He surveyed the scene carefully. I know! He would think of humiliating nicknames for everyone, and then he would take them all out. I should do the same...
"Alright then, Stinky, Sleazy, Slashful, Dumpy, Gropey, Happy, and Shock, looks like your numbers are up!"
He dropped out of the vent like a cat, landing on the table in the middle of the room.
"Oh shit!"
"It's Mr. Zsasz!"
The men jumped up. Zsasz kicked one in the face and he flew backward.
Everything seemed to move slowly for Zsasz, but to the men he seemed a blur. One man, Dumpy, made a dash for the weapons cache — Zsasz's knife came up and flew through the air, catching the man a mere foot away. He dropped like a stone.
Zsasz leaped at the nearest goon, wrapping both legs around his neck. His weight dragged poor Sleazy down, and Zsasz somersaulted, using the momentum to throw him across the room. Sleazy's head crashed into the wall and he lay still.
"We're as good as dead!"
Everywhere was yelling and chaos. Zsasz already had two knives in his hands, and he came up, slashing Shock across the throat. Stinky had gone for the guns after Dumpy. Zsasz threw one of the blades and it got Stinky in the back. He screamed bloody murder until Zsasz came over, silencing him with one downward thrust. He retrieved his knife and faced the remaining men.
Slashful, Gropey, and Happy put up their dukes, as Zsasz stood between their weapons and them. Gropey tried to run to get backup. Zsasz's blade whistled through the air, and Slashful and Happy actually dodged, letting it go to its intended target. Gropey fell, and before he even hit the ground, Zsasz had buried a knife in Slashful's gut. The man shuddered and gurgled, and Zsasz silenced him by slashing his throat.
Happy was backed into a wall, sobbing. "Please, have mercy!"
Zsasz had none.
He propped up the bodies of the seven goons around the table. Now he could make a full game. As he surveyed his completed scene, he could vaguely see the faces of the card sharks, thugs, princes he had played with... Heavily he picked up the fallen chips and stacked them on the table neatly.
He listened carefully. The Iceberg Lounge was empty.
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"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, INVADED?!" the Penguin squawked.
"I'm telling ya, boss, I heard yells. It sounded like some kinda fight!"
"And you didn't stay to see what was going on, boy?" Penguin cuffed the anxious henchman with his umbrella, and the young man flinched. "Well git your guns and come on!"
Four men followed the Penguin in the direction of the Lounge. Halfway through the hallway, Penguin stopped. "Now you go in, lad, and tell us if the coast is clear. If you're not back in ten seconds, we'll come in blasting."
"Yes, boss!" the man ran for the Lounge.
"You don't think it's the Bat, do you?" another henchman asked nervously.
"If it's the Bat, never you mind, lad. You'll be unconscious at worst; however, if you don't do your duty and defend me, you'll be WORSE THAN DEAD! Do you understand?!"
As the goons waited nervously, Zsasz peered out into the hallway. He slowly began to unscrew the bolts from the vent and then he stepped into the hallway. The Penguin's back was to him. The coward was standing behind his men, letting them face the threat first. How unfortunate for—
"Hey, boss!"
Penguin turned; his returning man had alerted him. He saw Zsasz, and their gazes locked. Hatred sparked.
"ZSASZ!"
"Oh shit!"
"GET HIM!"
The men turned as one, but Zsasz had already slipped forward and was pressing a blade to Oswald Cobblepot's throat.
The Penguin gasped; the men raised their guns. Zsasz had almost a foot on the Penguin and had to crouch down to avoid the goons' line of fire.
"Tell your men to back off, Oswald." Though smooth, there was unmistakeable malice in Zsasz's voice.
"Now wait, don't- don't do anything dramatic! Let's talk about this," the Penguin simpered.
"Talk? Are you going to beg me for your pathetic life, Penguin?" Zsasz's arm tightened around Penguin's throat. "Let's go somewhere more private. We have a lot to talk about apparently."
"No wait-"
"If I were a betting man... and I am… I'd tell your men to lay down their arms, right now, and step back. Otherwise, I'd say your chances of remaining alive are… Well, you won't like the odds." The pressure increased on the blade.
"Drop them!" the Penguin yelled frantically. "Drop your weapons!"
The goons looked genuinely conflicted. Finally, reluctantly, they dropped their weapons. But they refused to step back.
"Really? You want to push me, little pigs? You want me to kill your leader in front of you? You do realize that will only hasten your own ends, don't you?"
One of the men blanched. All of them backed away from the weapons and stood against the wall, hands raised.
"Please, Mr. Zsasz..." one of them pleaded. Another had clearly wet his pants.
"You blimey cowards!" the Penguin growled. "After this, I will make sure to kill you personally, you can count on it!"
"It's not wise to show your hand so early, Penguin. Your goons might not be so loyal to you by the time I'm finished. That is, assuming you're still alive." Zsasz slipped passed the men, who were too scared to try anything, and dragged Penguin with him toward the Iceberg Lounge.
"That will do. Now, just stay back, and don't try anything stupid..." Zsasz edged backward through the hallway, opening the door behind them. He saw the goons reach down for their weapons, but too late.
He slammed the door shut behind him.
"Now then..." He walked them onto the catwalk that led to the iceberg. "What shall we talk about? Hmm? Shall we talk about the way you cheated me out of my money all those years ago? No? What about the last time I was here? You showed me a clear lack of hospitality, Oswald. I daresay you owe me compensation."
"If it's money you want—"
"No, not money. I have no use for money; money is meaningless to me. Do you know what would be meaningful for me, Oswald?" He leaned forward when the Penguin didn't answer and pressed the point of his blade right into Penguin's jugular. "I said, do you know what is meaningful to me?"
"No, no I don't! Why don't you tell me?"
"Your blood, Oswald. Nothing is more valuable to me than your blood. Save possibly for your mark."
"So you're going to kill me, then?"
"Kill you...? Hmm... No. Not today. I'm just going to ruin you, just like you ruined me. Look down at your empire, Oswald." He turned the disgusting midget around so he could see his work. Four tables, full of corpses, full of cards.
"That's nothing," the Penguin scoffed, but Zsasz could hear the false bravado. "I've a dozen more men in my Armory on their way right now!" As if on cue, the door to the Lounge burst open and they could hear the voices of the men clamoring in.
"A dozen men mean nothing to you. Your life means something to you. Your life is what I hold in my hands. Now, unless you want me to shed your blood all over your icicle, I'd suggest you do as I say."
The Penguin was sweating.
Zsasz leaned closer to his face. The stench of cigar smoke was enough to make the serial killer recoil, but he kept leaning in, hiding himself from the men, buying himself more time and intimidating his old enemy. "I want you to announce to the whole room that you are a lying, cheating bastard."
"What?!"
"Don't you wish now that your men had kept their distance? Then you'd only be making the announcement to me and a room full of corpses. Say it."
"That's outrageous!"
"Pride goeth before a fall, Penguin. If you don't really mean it, then what's the harm? They're just empty words, just like it was empty money you stole from me all those years ago."
"...And if I say it, you'll let me go?"
"Why not try it and see for yourself?"
Oswald Cobblepot paused for so long that Zsasz was sure the strain would kill him.
"Fold now, Penguin… Fold while you can…"
"Boys!" the Penguin called out reluctantly to his men, and their gazes snapped from the serial killer to their boss. "I- er, well, I suppose I haven't been totally honest with you. I, er- well, you see..."
Penguin was sweating. Zsasz was delighted.
"I'm a bit of a... cheating, lying bastard. At least at cards."
The knife jabbed at his jugular.
"And other things too! Like your paychecks, your vacation allotments... Your workman's comp!" The last part came out a squeak; the men stiffened and their only sign of anger was in how they clutched their guns a little tighter. Penguin swallowed nervously. "That's, uh, well, I just wanted you to know that, in case I er, didn't make it out alive... And I'm sorry! And if I survive, you'll all get a raise!" He glared out of the corner of his one good eye at Zsasz. "I bloody well did what you asked, didn't I?!"
"Very good..." Zsasz's blade moved, up to Penguin's face.
"But you said you'd let me go!"
"And so I will. But just in case you think you're getting off easy, I want to leave you with a reminder... You see, I always wished I'd been the one to give you this," his blade tapped the glass of Penguin's "monocle" lightly. "Right now, I am going to give you a little reminder-" the blade settled over Oswald's good cheek, "-of our time together."
And Penguin screamed. The men couldn't do anything to stop it. When Zsasz was finished, a bright bloody "Z" was carved into Penguin's face.
The Penguin fell, clutching his face, and Zsasz kicked him in the back with his big boot. Almost immediately the air was hot as Penguin's men fired above their boss's head, but Zsasz was already gone, doing a backflip over the side of the catwalk and sliding down the iceberg all the way to the floor. Zsasz hightailed it to the exit as the men strained to follow him, trying to draw a bead. Zsasz opened the door and turned back, a wide creepy grin splitting his face. "Oh, and Oswald..." he called back. "Next time, you really must let me deal the cards!"
With that, he ran out into the night, brand new tallymarks bleeding and shining on his shoulders like angel wings.
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