The Wrath of Ultron
Part Four: Visions and Nightmares
The Vision arrived, as he said he would, appearing suddenly above Spectre HQ and descending through the various levels to arrive in the conference room.
"Impressive." Gibbs remarked. "You can float through the floors and ceilings, but you blocked a plasma beam yesterday."
"The mass, density and hardness of my form are determined by my will, Agent Gibbs." The Vision said. "It is a useful skill. One of many."
"Nice to know." Gibbs said. "But I'd sooner know who you are, where you come from, and what you want?"
"I am the Vision." Was the reply. "Whatever or whoever I once was, I am now the Vision."
"You used to be the Human Torch." Cypher announced. "I ran facial recognition on you. That face didn't use to be red, and it came up from some old World War Two files."
"Not helping, Probie." Nighthawk said. "Who was the Human Torch?"
"A synthetic human, created by Professor Horton in competition with the British Indestructible Robot Project." The Vision told them.
"That's right." McGee confirmed. "Horton thought a machine would be too predictable to be used more than a couple times. When Doctor Gargunza changed sides, he brought two things with him. The Jekyll Formula and the Frankenstein Documents. Gargunza used an upgraded Jekyll Formula to create the first Captain America, but he gave the Frankenstein Documents to Horton.
"Horton created an artificial human who had the power to surround himself with heated plasma that gave him all kinds of fire-based abilities. He fought the Japanese with Captain America and Prince Namor in the Pacific. But after D-Day he and Cap went to Europe and teamed up with Aquaman, the second Union Jack and the first Spitfire to help take down HYDRA and then the Nazis. Then he disappeared. Just dropped off the grid. Until now."
"I am not the Torch." The Vision said. "When Horton created him, he was mindful of the errors both Frankensteins made. Victors' Creature was far too intelligent and sensitive – his desire for acceptance set against his obvious non-humanity drove him mad and to eventual suicide. Henrys' Monster lacked the intelligence to either control its own power, or be controlled, so it had to be destroyed. The Torch was given sufficient intelligence to control his powers, to understand and carry out orders in open war, but not enough to function as a civilian or to undertake more complex and covert Cold War operations. Horton wiped his mind and placed the body in storage. It was retrieved and improved upon as part of the process of my coming into being."
"So you're an android?" Cyborg asked.
"Not entirely." The Vision replied. "My body, while organic, is synthetic. Part of my mind is a complex Artificial Intelligence, while the rest is that of the late Douglas Ramsey, of the Blackhawks.
"I am, by both design and choice, the first Post-Human. A Vision of one possible future for Mankind."
"Or a nightmare, depending on your point of view!" Cyborg said. "Not everyone would want to merge with a machine!"
"Indeed not, Victor Stone." The Vision said. "But unlike you, Douglas Ramsey chose this path. He was offered a human body, a clone of the one that was killed, but chose to become this instead."
Cyborg leaned forward. "Could you do that for me?" He asked, not eagerly, but with a certain intensity.
"Not as matters stand." The Vision told him. "The technology with which you have been merged is not of Human design or making. It is, in a sense, almost a living thing itself, and it has somehow merged with your DNA. Any attempt to clone you would simply create another Cyborg. Those who helped create me are researching the matter, but it may be many years before they find a solution. I am sorry."
Cyborg smiled. "Don't be." He said. "Your people are working on it, and that's more hope than anyone else has ever given me."
"This is all real nice," Cap put in, "but it doesn't tell us much more about why you're here, Vision, and what you want!"
"I am here to help." The Vision said. "The times ahead will be dangerous. Enemies will arise, some more powerful than Ultron, you will need my help. Part of me – the larger part – is still Doug Ramsey, and I wish to bear my part in the coming struggles. I have information which may help locate Ultrons' server, which I will share with you whatever your decision, but I would prefer to work with your team, Captain America. There is much I can bring to add to your strength, will you accept me?"
Cap stared hard at the android. The android looked back impassively. Even to Caps' enhanced perceptions, the Vision was impossible to read. He was far more still than any human could be. His expression did not alter and he always spoke in the same calm, even tone. Post-Human, he thought, is this how everyone will be, one day? On the one hand, the thought of being so emotionless repelled him, but on the other, in some ways he envied the Visions' serenity, his certainty. Besides, he owed the android his life, that earned him at least a chance.
"OK." He said. "You're with us until this Ultron thing is done. After that, we'll see. But you'll have to be more open with us about your creators and yourself if you want us to trust you!"
"Understood." The Vision replied. "I will also need to understand you and your people better in order to trust you fully."
"Then let's get started, Probie!" Cypher said. "What about this information!"
XXXXX
Jack Napier thought he had gone beyond fear. For most of his adult life he had been in pain, and would have welcomed death at any time. He should, he knew, have killed himself; but that would have been letting the pain win. So he devoted himself to relieving others of their pain, by killing them. The hope was that one day someone cleverer and more ruthless than himself would come and take away his pain.
So against others, the Joker would have stood and fought and hoped to die, taking as many as possible with him. He had already slaughtered those the Penguin had sent for him, and more of Wild Childs' minions. Both of them had wanted his brilliance and skills for their own purposes, but the Joker didn't care about what they cared about – wealth and power. His business was death, and death was the only boss he would ever serve.
But the ones who had come after him now were different. They didn't care about their own lives. No matter how many he killed, or how horribly, they kept coming. Their eyes were dead and their voices hollow, as if they were soulless. He had captured one to try and understand them.
"You do know," he had told the man, "that I'm going to kill you. Up to you whether it's slow or fast."
"It doesn't matter." The man had replied. "I have died before and will die again. Pain is no longer anything I can feel. Kill me and I will awake again, in the tanks. I am a soldier of AIM, living and dying, then living and dying again, in the service of MODOC. We will take you eventually, dead or alive, and you will become as we are, or be Transcended."
"Transcended?" Napier had asked.
"The reward of a good or valuable servant of AIM. To become Transhuman, the union of flesh and metal, man and machine!"
Then the wall had blown out and more AIM troopers had arrived. The Joker had escaped, but he'd been hit badly. He didn't have long and now they'd found him again. He clutched the gun he'd liberated from one of them. Some kind of machine pistol, heavy and difficult to handle, but it hit hard. The three AIM troopers waited in cover. They knew he was dying and were content to wait him out.
To live on as a copy of himself, unable to die and in servitude to this MODOC. Worse, to become some kind of cyborg, a metal and flesh parody of a man. These thoughts filled him with fear, a fear that might have given him the courage to blow his own brains out, except that he didn't know if even that would save him!
Then there was a grunt, and one of the AIM troopers went down. A low, chilling laugh sounded. One of the troopers rose from his crouch. Something hissed in the air, a weighted line went round the troopers' neck and tightened, severing the head. The last one stood, taking aim at the Joker, but a shadowy figure came out of nowhere, there was a blow that sounded like a whipcrack, a low groan and it was over.
The Batman moved toward the Joker, his gun levelled. Napier tossed his own weapon.
"It's over, Bruce, can't fight you now." He said.
"Bruce?" The Batman asked.
"Oh, don't!" The Joker replied. "It wasn't so hard to figure out! I'm insane, but I'm still a genius, got the papers and everything. Don't worry, I never told anyone or wrote it down. Kingpin never knew, Cobblepot doesn't and the Wild Child doesn't care. Luthor? Who knows, but he's dead and his secrets went with him."
Bruce holstered his gun. "Catwoman figured it out because she recognised my cologne." He remarked. "You're not looking good, Jack. I mean worse than usual!"
"Ha fucking ha!" The Joker responded. "My guts got shredded and I'm bleeding out. I'm dying, Bruce, and I need you to promise me something."
"No promises," Batman said, "but what do you want?"
"To make sure I'm cremated." The Joker said. "Straight away! No fucking about with autopsies and shit. Those guys were looking to turn me into some kind of zombie or cyborg, and I can't stand the thought of it. If I'm ashes, I'm safe!"
"They were AIM troopers." Batman noted. "Why were they after you?"
"My sparkling personality?" Joker sneered. "Or perhaps because I know more about poisons, explosives and general mass murder than anyone else I can think of?"
He began to cough, bringing up blood.
"Anyway," he gasped, "if they get my brain and revive it, then they'll know your little secret, won't they?"
"Two good points." Batman allowed. "OK, Jack, I'll see you into the oven myself!"
"Thanks." The Jokers' face took on an expression of surprise. "No pain!" He whispered. "After all these yearssss…."
Batman took a metal phial out of his utility belt, unstoppered it and poured the contents onto the body. Then he stepped back as his cowls' gasmask snapped into place. There was some hissing and bubbling, and a cloud of green-yellow vapour, but after a few minutes there was nothing on the floor but a charred area.
"Not necessarily what I promised." Batman said quietly. "But honestly more than you deserved!"
XXXXX
Ziva David DiNozzo, the Black Widow who was happily married, was stretched out on a couch in the Spectre lounge, singing softly to herself.
"Nine for the pom-pom-pom-pom.
Eight for the something, something.
Seven for the seven stars in the sky.
Six for the Six Proud Walkers…."
Her husband looked up from the file he was perusing and said. "Ziva, hon, I'm trying to concentrate here!"
"Oh! Sorry!" She said. "Was I being loud?"
"Getting louder." He said. "As well as being shaky on the lyrics – unless 'pom-pom-pom-pom' and 'something, something' are actually lyrics – and kinda off key!"
"Sorry!" She said again. "I have been ear-wormed, as they say. When I was in England for a while – you remember? – I heard a song in a pub. Something Stephen said reminded me of it, and it has been nagging at me since!"
"The song is called 'Green Grow the Rushes-O'." This was Strange himself, who had come quietly into the room. "Also, The Counting Song and The Dilly Song. It's very old and is said to have originated in the South-West of England, and some versions even made it over here to America. It's one of those songs that has a cumulative verse, starting from one and going up to twelve – like The Twelve Days of Christmas, except that the things it counts are a bit more…significant." He began to sing in his rich baritone:
"I'll sing you twelve-o!
Green grow the rushes-o!
What is your twelve-o?
Twelve for the twelve apostles!
Eleven the eleven who went to Heaven,
Ten for the Ten Commandments!
Nine for the Nine Bright Shiners,
Eight are the April Rainers,
Seven are the Seven Stars in the sky,
And Six for the Six Proud Walkers!
Five for the symbols at your door,
And four for the Gospel Makers!
Three, three the Rivals!
Two, two the lily-white boys,
Clothed all in green-o!
One is one and all alone,
And evermore shall be so!"
"There's a lot of Christian symbols in there." Tony noted. "But also other stuff that's just plain weird!"
"It's an old – very old – teaching song for young Humans to learn about the Fae." Strange said. "That part of the world – Ireland, Britain and parts of France and Spain – were the closest to the Faelands and there was a lot of coming and going at one time, so they needed to know about each other. After the Fae were cut off from Earth, the song hung around until the Christians got hold of it and changed as much as they could.
"Twelve was for the Lords of Faerie, the Summer and Winter Courts. Queen Galadriel and King Celeborn of Summer, Queen Melian and King Thingol of Winter. The Ladies are Arwen and Luthien and the Maidens Nimrodel and Elwing. Sir Glorfindel is the Champion of Summer, while the Champion of Winter is Sir Mablung of the Heavy Hand. The Summersmith is Feanor and the Wintersmith is Eol. Eleven was the eleven who came back from Heaven – both Courts were killed in the War of the Jewels, but Fae don't die forever. They go to the House of Mandos, and return to life when they feel ready. But Feanor, the Summersmith who created the Great Jewels, didn't return with the others and is still in Mandos.
"Ten was for the Ten Rules of Knighthood that all Fae and Mortal Knights swore to keep.
"The Nine Bright Shiners are the nine Fae/Human hybrids who are held to be heroes of both Realms. Earendil the Mariner, Merlin the Wizard, Elrond the Loremaster and his brother Elros the Lawgiver, Arthur the Once and Future King, Queen Gwynhwyfar, Sir Galahad and last the Lady Nimue and her lover Sir Gawain, who took up rings of power to become Guardians of Albion.
"The April Rainers are just the Hyades, which rise at the time of the Spring Rains in the Faelands, marking the ascendancy of Summer over Winter for the year. The Seven Stars are the Sun, the Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn – the closest heavenly bodies to Earth and the only objects in the Solar System visible to the naked eye.
"The Six Proud Walkers are six entities, all but one older than Fae or Humans, who watch over, speak for and act for, certain aspects of life. There is Pan, they call him Swamp Thing these days, who is the Voice of the Green. Then Herne the Hunter, who protects the land of Britain, which is the nearest place on Earth to the Faelands. Tom Bombadil cares for 'all kindly creatures', his wife Goldberry watches over the weather. Then there is Fate itself, who speaks through prophets and oracles, guiding people to the best ends. Finally, the one that until recently had no name, but is now called Justice.
"The Five Symbols are those of the Five Great Dragons that make up the world – Gaia, Ouranos, Jormungand, Kukulkan and Tiamat – that are carved above the doors of the Houses of Ysa and Ohn – the homes of the Summer and Winter Courts.
"Four was for the Four Great Traitors. Mairon who made alliance with Melkor of Esharra in the War of the Jewels. Gadflow who abandoned his allegiance to the Fae and became King of the Dragon Court of Tuatha Deohn. Morgan Lefay who led the Rebellion against the Edict of the Kree. Sir Mordred, the White Knight, who struck down his own father, King Arthur, from behind after having accepted his pardon and sworn allegiance.
"The Rivals are the three mortal knights whose deeds for the sake of the Fae rival those of their Fae and Halfblood peers. Sir Beren, who for love of the Lady Luthien ventured into Esharra and stole one of the Great Jewels from Melkor himself. Sir Turin, who struck down the Great Worm, Glaurung, that Melkor had sent to burn Ysa. Sir Launcelot, who slew the Firedrake Ancalagon the Black and drove his rider, Sir Morgul the Witch-Knight, from the field.
"The 'lily-white boys' are Ysa, the Oak King and Ohn, the Holly King, who meet and fight to the death in the spring and autumn. Ysa is reborn at midwinter and reaches his full strength in the Spring as Ohns' is waning. Ohn is reborn at Midsummer and reaches his full strength in the autumn as Ysas' wanes. That's how rule is passed between the Courts of Winter and Summer.
"The One all alone is Nodens, Lord of the Great Abyss, the most ancient being in the Universe, and the most powerful."
"Right." Tony mused. "Do these Fae have anything to do with this 'return of magic' deal?"
"Not directly." Strange said. "The Fae are a race who find magic more useful than technology. They were sealed off from us so they didn't persuade us the same way and because they couldn't have survived in a world with no magic. But as magic comes back, it's likely the Fae will come with it, and since they're functionally immortal, they'll remember us and how the two races helped each other and lived together in the past. Most of them will want to renew that relationship."
"That," Ziva remarked, "is going to be difficult. As a Jew I know all too well how some people can hate and fear other humans just for being of a different faith and culture, never mind a different colour! Present an entirely different species to such people, and they will go bugshit crazy!"
"That's batshit crazy, hon." Tony told her. "But I get what you mean!"
XXXXX
After all the years, all the hard work, we're back to this! Oswald Cobblepot mused. Oh, Wilton, my old friend, how you are missed!
The night was clear and cold -it was only April, after all – but the moonlight illuminated nothing worth seeing. The Dump, as everyone called it, covered perhaps four square miles near the edge of Gotham City. By day, it was a hive of activity as City workmen broke down the heaps of rubbish and junk, separating out what could be reused and recycled from what had to sent for burning in the new power-plant or to the Stark-Wayne facilities where bio-engineered 'phage' organisms devoured it and excreted biofuel. That was only since the St Marys virus had halved the population of the city and allowed a breathing space in the relentless piling-up of waste. Before, it had all been left to rot and rust and The Dump had grown year by year.
Near the centre was an open area, perhaps the size of a baseball field, where the sorting was done. Tonight, a different kind of decision was to be made here. Two very different groups stood opposite each other at either end of the space. Behind Cobblepot stood a mixed group: men in dark business suits, others in the overalls of stevedores or factory workers. They were all hard-faced and grim-looking, carrying assault rifles and tactical shotguns. They stood quietly, with the patience of long discipline.
The group opposite were more heterogenous. Bikers, punks, skinheads, all dressed in differing styles, the only common factor being that, somewhere about their gear, the word 'Mutantz' was garishly displayed. Their weapons were more varied -some carried modern assault weapons, while others carried ones which were accounted obsolete. There were hunting rifles, sawn-off double-barrelled shotguns, crossbows and slingshots. Almost a third had no firearms, but carried melee weapons ranging from the classic flick-knife through home-made chain-flails to expertly-forged versions of weapons copied from aliens in comic books, films and TV shows. They waited impatiently, shuffling about, shouting insults across the space and not infrequently engaging in scuffles among themselves. But there were more of them, at least twice as many.
Then there was the roar of an unmuffled engine, a blaring horn and the throb of heavy metal music played with the bass turned to maximum. The gang parted to allow a big SUV through. Whatever colour it had once been had vanished under a random patchwork of shades of red. Extra layers of steel plate had been bolted or welded onto every panel. Long, keen spikes decorated a snowplough built onto the front. Where the sunroof had been there was now a turret mounting a minigun operated by someone standing where the front passenger seat had been. It was simultaneously scary and comical.
The car came to a halt. The gang began to chant: "Wild Child! Wild Child!". A rear door swung open and a tall, thin figure emerged. The chanting grew louder as he made his way to the centre of the space. Cobblepot moved to meet him. When they were some two metres apart, the tall figure stopped, turned and raised a hand. The chanting died away and he turned to face Cobblepot.
It was a study in contrast.
Oswald Cobblepot, nicknamed the Penguin, stood perhaps five feet six inches tall. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick and his legs like tree-trunks, but his belly was rotund. He had been compared to a Sumo wrestler. Beneath a smart fedora, his face was round, with a high forehead and aquiline nose, piercing dark eyes and a thin, straight mouth. He wore a monocle over his left eye and was smoking a cigarette in a short holder. His overcoat was black, with a fur collar, worn over a black suit, snow-white shirt and bolo tie. He also wore black leather gloves and highly-polished black Oxford shoes.
Kyle Gibney, who rejoiced in the nom-de-guerre Wild Child, was easily six-and-a-half feet tall, but of slender build. His long, blond hair was worn loose, but did not cover the large, leaf-shaped ears. His features were sharp and thin, the deepset eyes had no irises, but vertical slit pupils. The lipless mouth curled back in a half-grin, half-snarl, revealing the pointed incisors and extended canines of a carnivore. He wore a leather jacket, a tie-dyed T-shirt bearing his nickname against a background of flame and blood-spatter, urban camouflage pants and sneakers. His hands, Cobblepot noted, were large, with long fingers, made even longer by the ivory-coloured claws that grew there instead of nails.
The Penguin looked around. "You brought more people than we agreed, Mr Gibney." He noted.
Wild Child shrugged. "My guys don't pack the heavy artillery yours do." He replied.
"Fair enough." The Penguins' voice was tenor, but rendered raspy by years of smoking. It still held traces of a Cockney accent. "Look, Mr Gibney, this situation helps nobody. Your people burn places down without agreeing a cut of the insurance payout. You extort money from businesses, then trash them anyway. You deal cheap drugs to the homeless and high-school kids, and it kills them -no way to build a customer base. You traffic girls from God knows where and let your customers beat them and cut them, even kill them. What profit you do make your people spend on cheap weapons, piercings, tattoos and pimping their rides. How long can you keep this up, Mr Gibney?"
"Who knows? Who cares?" Wild Childs' voice was guttural, more like an articulate growl. "People are scared of us, Penguin! The kids buy our stuff and use it because their folks know what'll happen if they don't! We burn a building, then take all the insurance money 'cause the owner doesn't want his house burned with him in it! We only trash a business if the owner holds money back from us.
"What it is, Pengy, is that you guys are parasites. We're predators! Top of the fucking food chain, old man!"
"That ain't what a predator does, sonny!" The Penguin told him. "A predator takes what he needs – he doesn't destroy the grazing lands and poison the water-hole because if he kills off the herd, he'll starve his bloody self!
"The Kingpin was a predator. An apex predator. He controlled the police and the City Council and the courts. He did it by being good to his people, by protecting the ones who paid, and being generous to the ones who cooperated. He sold the good stuff to people who could afford it, and kept the women clean and healthy and gave 'em good homes.
"You Mutants, you're a disease. You rip through everything, and then when everything's dead and ruined, you'll eat yourselves!
"But it doesn't have to work like that. Now Dent's gone, and the Darkholme woman's done a runner 'cos of this Justice feller, it's just you and me, mate. I'll take you on, teach you how it's done and between us we can run Gotham like Kingpin used to!"
"Kingpin!" Wild Child spat. "He couldn't even take out the Batman! The Batman who don't have the balls to come after me!"
"Sunshine," Penguin said quietly, "if the Bat hasn't come for you yet, it's because he doesn't think you're worth his time! That's why you need me, kid. Because once the Batman notices you, you're dead! I can put you where he can't reach you.
"Now, do we have a deal?"
"This is the deal!" Wild Child snarled. "We fight, you and me. The one who walks away is boss of both gangs."
"Jesus Christ, you're thick!" The Penguin snapped. "OK, kid, you want your arse kicked, fair enough. I need a minute to get ready.. I get one weapon, mind you, 'cos I ain't got claws! Not a gun, something else!"
"OK, old man, you can die with a weapon in your hand!"
They turned away and walked back to their groups. Wild Child shucked his jacket and handed it to one of his men.
"The old man got guts!" The gang-member remarked.
"Yeah, and you'll see 'em soon enough!" Wild Child remarked. "All over the ground!
"Watch his guys -they're gonna start shooting as soon as he goes down!"
The Penguin disposed of his cigarette, removed his hat, coat, suit jacket and tie. Out of his pocket he took a weapon which had served him well for decades, a set of heavy brass knuckles, studded with small steel spikes. He slipped them onto his gloved left hand.
"You sure about this, Boss?" His deputy asked. "Kid's what, thirty years younger than you, and unlike his gang, he is a mutant!"
"I've got this, Floyd." The Penguin told him. "But if I do go down, you know what to do?"
"I shoot him." Floyd Lawton, nickname Deadshot, was a master of every firearm known. Penguin knew that if he shot Wild Child, it would be a killshot.
"Do that, then go to the mattresses." The Penguin ordered. It would be a vicious war, but a short one -without their leader, the Mutants would be easy pickings for men who had served under Kingpin. "If he goes down, they'll probably attack. Use the tear gas and tasers as much as you can. There are probably some good kids among that rabble, ones we can use, so don't kill any you don't have to!"
Both leaders came back to the centre.
"Ready?" Penguin asked.
Wild Child bounded forward with a roar, swiping a clawed hand at his opponents abdomen. That belly is his weak point. He thought.
But the Penguin moved with a speed that belied his age. He stepped back just enough. The claws ripped across his shirt and left shallow scratches across the skin beneath. The Penguin moved in fast and landed a heavy punch to Wild Childs' side. The brass knuckles did their job, the spikes tearing into the skin while the Penguin felt at least one rib snap.
Wild Child had never been hit so hard before, but he rolled clear and came up. He'd heal, he always did, but fast enough? The old man had more to him than it looked! He glanced to see what damage had been done, and froze. He ain't fucking bleeding! I can see the scratches, but there's no blood!
The Penguin followed Wild Child's gaze. "What?" He taunted. "You thought the paunch was real? Nah! It's just there to fool people. It's stopped more bullets and knives than you've had hot dinners, sonny!"
Feral mutant. Penguin was thinking. Enhanced physical abilities, but it affects the brain. Makes them dumber as they get older, and he may look like a kid, but he's as old as I am!
Wild Child flew at Penguin, aiming for the throat. If he'd done any research, he would have known that Oswald Cobblepot was an expert in jiu-jitsu. As it was, Wild Child landed heavily on his back! He rolled and got up again, only to find his opponent almost on top of him! He jumped clear, receiving only a tap on the arm and a swipe at his head, which missed.
He prepared to charge again, only to find that his right arm refused to respond, hanging limp and numb. He looked up at his opponent, the old man was sweating and panting, certainly, but looked in no danger of immediate collapse. A sleeve had been ripped away, and the bare arm revealed was thick with muscle, not fat.
The Penguin was watching, waiting. The atemi strike had taken one arm out for a while, but it wasn't enough. There! Wild Child was suddenly rubbing at his eyes. The swipe at the head hadn't missed, but had opened a long cut that the near-berserk mutant had not even felt. Now the blood hit his eyes and the Penguin moved fast. Another throw, followed up with a pin, and as Wild Child stared up at him, Penguin struck down with the brass knuckles at the centre of the forehead. Skin split and tore, bone splintered. Penguin struck again, into the exposed brain, then stood up and moved away from the twitching, quivering corpse.
He looked over at the Mutants, as a wave of sound hit him. There were a few fights among the crowd, quicky and bloodily ended. The rest were chanting again, a single word. "Penguin! Penguin! Penguin!"
He raised a hand to acknowledge them, then turned and went to his own men.
"Getting too fucking old for this, Floyd!" He said.
"Could've fooled me!" Deadshot replied. "Sure you had to kill him, Boss? We coulda used him!"
Penguin shook his head. "Nah, his mind was going. Mutants of his kind, they go dumb and savage after a bit. No use to themselves nor anyone else."
He stripped off his shirt, then unfastened the straps that held the false paunch in place, revealing the steel-hard abdominal muscles behind it. Floyd opened the boot of the nearby car and produced a fresh shirt, which the Penguin donned, along with a shoulder holster supporting a 9mm Heckler and Koch.
"I'm going home, Floyd." Penguin said. "Round up any of that lot who'll come, open up the cash we brought. Give 'em fifty apiece, and tell 'em to come to the warehouse when they're ready. We'll see if we can use any, and look after those we can't. Like Kingpin would have."
The Penguin was perhaps halfway home when he realised he wasn't alone in the back seat. He made to reach for his gun, but the single word, "Don't." in a familiar harsh whisper stopped him at once.
"How long…" He began.
"All evening." Replied the Batman. "You put on a good show back there, but it left you distracted."
"I had to kill a man." Cobblepot said. "It ain't something I like doing, even when I have to. I never developed the ruthlessness Wilton specialised in. Or you, for that matter!"
"Relax, Ossie!" The shadowy figure beside him said. "I don't think any the less of you for not being a stone killer. It wasn't anything I chose for myself and I don't think Fiske did, either.
"But you were right, Gibney and his Mutants were a disease. He had to be stopped."
"Then why didn't you stop him?" Penguin asked.
The chilling laugh, then. "Why waste my time and energy dealing with both of you when one of you was always going to have to deal with the other one for me?"
"You would have worked out a deal with Dent, if Justice hadn't gotten to him. Darkholme would've had to come to you eventually. She's clever, but she has no experience in the business. But there was never a chance of Gibney working out a deal with anyone, or keeping to it if he did. He was degenerating too rapidly. Now he's gone. Saved me some trouble."
"Now it's my turn, I guess." The Penguin said. "I got a nice cold supper with some Dom Perignon waiting for me at home, too. What a waste!"
"Oh, you don't have to worry about me, Ossie." The Batman replied. "Right now, you're the least of my problems! But that doesn't mean I won't get around to you sometime soon.
"For now, you need to get your business in order. There's a new group called AIM – Advanced Idea Mechanics – moving in to the gap Luthor left. But they're after more than just Metropolis, so you need to be ready for them. Just saying.
"You can drop me here."
The Penguin knew better than to object, and signalled the driver – who seemed oblivious – to stop.
"You might want to know that Jack Napier died last night." The Batman said. "AIM got him. Then I got them."
"Good to know on both counts." Penguin allowed. "The Joker was crazier than Wild Child, but a lot smarter.
"I'll see you around, Batman."
"No, you won't." The Batman said as he got out of the car. "Not until it's too late, anyway!"