Roman Sionis ground his teeth against the leather strap, sweat stinging his eyes as the surgeon clamped onto a jagged piece of fuselage embedded in his quadriceps. The metal slid out with a wet squelch. The pain was sharp, yet entirely secondary beneath a white-hot fury that made the open wound feel like a scratch.
Twelve times. The Bat had dismantled his operations twelve separate times. The first defeat had tasted of bile and humiliation, a distinct flavor of incompetence that lingered on his tongue for weeks on end.
The second was worse, and so was the third, fourth and fifth.
By the sixth, however, the outrage had calcified.
The human mind could only sustain peak indignation for so long before self-preservation kicked in. Roman had learned to treat the Batman as a cost of doing business, like a hurricane. You didn't scream at the weather; you boarded up the windows and calculated the insurance write-off and hoped for the best case scenario.
The contract on the protégé wasn't even personal.
It was simply brand management.
If Wilson killed the boy, Roman won.
If Wilson failed, it proved the target was beyond the reach of the world's best assassin, rendering his previous failures less about his incompetence and more about the vigilantes' competence. They were about the opposition being supernatural.
What he hadn't accounted for was the volatility, nor the Bat's sheer fucking audacity as he tore through the summit like a deity of myths, breaking Roman's ribs while pumping him full of Crane's Fear Toxin.
That particular nightmare cost him months. He spent weeks screaming at shadows in a hospital bed while his own lieutenants smelled blood anx circled, eager to carve up a boss who looked less and less intimidating by the day.
The purge had been as messy as it was necessary, decapitating much of his organization's infrastructure. Those dead men carried the codes, the contacts, and the knowledge of the laundering routes.
When the news broke of the Bat's demise, Roman drank a bottle of vintage scotch and slept soundly for the first time in years. The vigilante was gone. The sidekick was missing. Gotham was finally open for business again. He had just begun to see the profit margins return when that cocky little bastard made a comeback which, if he had to be honest, came as a surprise to absolutely no one.
Nobody took the warnings seriously, despite their street-level enforcers swearing on their mothers' graves that the protégé was the Devil Incarnate.
Sidekicks, after all, were supposed to be manageable, controllable, beatable. Even Deathstroke's failure seemed more attributable to the assassin's legendary arrogance than the kid's actual skill. Roman subscribed to that comfortable delusion right up until a severed car door came spinning through the air like a guillotine blade, missing his head by inches before his helicopter got swatted out of the sky.
The little bastard.
In Roman's defense, the Bat never would have resorted to such methods.
The older vigilante clung to his code like a drowning man clung to driftwood. Roman had naturally assumed the protégé operated under the same rigid constraints, but he had clearly miscalculated.
Teenagers were different. Their moral frameworks were still under construction and thus were susceptible to changes.
"He has to die." Black Mask muttered the words to the ceiling. Beside him, the doctor dropped a hemostat that clattered loudly against the tray. The surgeon's hands shook violently as he made to retrieve it, terrified of drawing attention to his clumsiness.
The hit wasn't personal then; it was now. Nearly bleeding out on the asphalt had a way of adjusting one's priorities.
The boy was currently a problem, but he was a manageable one, still leashed by Batman's dogma, but eventually, the Imp would mature into his full potential while Batman aged into irrelevance.
Once the mentor could no longer enforce restraint, nothing would stop the successor from deciding that permanent solutions were more efficient than Arkham or Black Gate's ever revolving door.
At the moment, the kid could be hurt.
He bled like anyone else, but if stats and experts were to be believed, that might not be true for much longer. Meta powers were like muscles that grew with age and use.
In a decade, the Imp might grow to be untouchable, unstoppable; enough to reshape Gotham to his whims.
"He must die," Roman repeated, the resolve hardening in his chest as he reached for the phone, only to be stopped by hail of gunfire outside. Black Mask's head snapped up, glare cutting across the room toward the henchmen standing uselessly near the entrance. His old lieutenants wouldn't have needed asking.
They would have known to check the perimeter or use the damn radios strapped to their chests for an update. The incompetence was just another problem to be laid at the Bat's feet. "Do I need to spell it out for you lot? Go! See what the fuck's going on out there." The five traded uncertain glances, hesitating for a moment too long.
That split second of confusion ended when Roman's gun came out and blew the brains out of the nearest man.
"Move!" Although it'd certainly slow his operations to have to train another to take over his work, this batch wasn't meeting expectations anyway. With his death, they'd hopefully start shaping up. People did tend to act more enthusiastic when it was their lives on the line. They stared at the corpse, only filing out of the room when the barrel of his gun returned the look.
The moment they did, Roman told the doctor to wrap him up.
"But the shards aren't—"
"Are you an idiot? Someone is attacking us!"
Last he heard, the Bat was back. If they were lucky, they would get the vigilante. That meant spending a few million to bail themselves out of jail or paying someone else to take the fall. It was expensive, but manageable. If they were unlucky, it would be the Imp who was far more volatile. If luck really decided to fuck them over, it might be another kingpin drawn to the scent of blood in the water.
"Wrap me up and let's get the hell out of here."
Helpless to do anything else, the doctor followed orders, hastily wrapping Roman's thigh before supporting the kingpin's weight as they limped toward the backdoor where a black SUV idled with its engine running.
Unfortunately, someone had beaten them to the exit.
The figure stood only as high as Roman's chest, dressed head to toe in crimson plating that seemed to drink in the dim alley light. "There is no sanctuary for the wicked." A backhand followed, crumpling the SUV's roof like an empty soda can before the engine erupted into a fiery blaze that cast dancing shadows across the narrow space.
Predictably, the doctor dropped Roman without warning and threw up his hands in surrender, causing the kingpin's full weight to collapse onto his injured leg. The pain tore a scream from his throat as he stumbled, barely keeping himself upright long enough to shoot a venomous glare at the traitorous coward still babbling his innocence.
"It's him! It's all him! He's the one you want, I'm just a surgeon he kept on threats!"
And generous pay, the doctor conveniently forgot to mention.
Black Mask might have preferred intimidation over incentives, but even he knew threats alone had diminishing returns without the occasional benefit to sweeten the deal. The surgeon's lakeside property hadn't purchased itself, and neither had the latest Mercedes sitting in his garage or the apartment complex he'd been collecting rent from to maintain his grand, luxurious lifestyle.
'I'll deal with you later.' Roman thought, before turning the gun at the vigilante and pulling the trigger.
* BANG!
The first shot slammed into his chest, driving him back a foot or two as the bullet fragmented against whatever armor he wore. Yet the vigilante kept walking, tilting his head to the right as if mildly amused by the attempt.
* BANG!
He could practically see the smug, self-righteous expression beneath that helmet as the vigilante shrugged off the second shot like a mosquito bite.
Roman had seen this on TV.
He'd heard horror stories from associates who operated in Metropolis where the 'Man of Steel' ran things or Washington and its residential Wonder Woman. He'd even met Metahumans who could shrug off bullets the same way, but they always had a price that could be negotiated or a weakness that could be exploited… The Imp, however, appeared hellbent on collecting his price in blood and little else.
* BANG!!!
* BANG! !!
* BANG!!!
* Click!
Shot after shot went off until the only sounds left were the doctor's pathetic sobbing, the trickling of urine running down his loose jeans, and the ominous click of an empty chamber. The Imp, meanwhile, had barely slowed his advance, taking small, deliberate steps that reminded Roman of a nature documentary he'd once seen about orcas.
Specifically the scene where one of those bloodshot-eyed beasts circled a helpless seal while strategically breaking away the last chunks of ice that kept it apart from its meal.
With a grunt, Black Mask hurled the empty firearm at him in what Rowan supposed was meant to be a final act of defiance. That was the only reason his addled mind could produce for the pathetic gesture, particularly when he swatted the gun aside without breaking stride. "T-There are bombs placed—" The kingpin had not finished the sentence when a flaming fist crashed into the side of his face, scattering his mask all over the wet and slimy concrete.
"Do it," the Imp said, his tone carrying neither anger nor hate. There was no emotion at all, only a promise and the determination to see it through. "For every life those explosions take, I'll break a bone. We'll see who runs out first." If it were the Bat, Roman would have called the bluff and laughed in his face, but this was not the Bat. This was the Imp and God knew what kind of psychotic recklessness lurked under that helmet.
People always had tells, though.
Micro-movements that betrayed their intentions no matter how much armor they hid under. Roman forced himself to look, studying the vigilante's arms for any hint of hesitation and felt his stomach dropped when he found nothing but conviction.
"What do you wa—" He immediately shifted into negotiation mode, trying to buy time, only to feel his back slam against the wall as a boot connected with his chest.
"You fucking—"
Curses spilled out before he could stop them, and the vigilante responded with a vicious backhand that sent what remained of his mask flying. Roman's head snapped to the side, blood already pooling at the corners of his split lips as he hit the floor, then quickly scrambled on hands and knees toward the wall, desperate for something solid to brace against while the alley spun around him.
"Argh!"
Seeing streaks of blood on his sleeve as he wiped at his mouth, Rowan twisted to face the vigilante with fury burning through the pain.
"What the fuck do you waNT?!" There was no grace to the responding kick to his question, nor the one proceeding it, nor the ones after that until he could feel his ribs shifting freely under bruised skin. "St-Stop!"
"You forgot to say 'Please.'"
For a split second, it looked like the kinhpin might actually say it, but before he could, Rowan's steel-plated boot cracked against his jaw. "Not so tough now, are you?"
"Y-You're gonna kill him…" The doctor pleaded.
"Good… That settles the penance for the bounty on my head. Now we address your other infractions." Shoving the doctor down to all fours, Rowan took a seat on the man's back and nudged the kingpin's face up with the tip of his boot. "You've unlawfully detained a man recently."
"You..." Roman spat a loose tooth onto the concrete. "You are going to have to refresh my memory."
The back of Rowan's gauntlet cracked against the kingpin's cheekbone. "Did that do the job?"
"Stop! You need me to find the upstart!"
"Actually, I don't." Rowan wiped the blood across Black Mask's stained white suit, then closed his hand around the man's throat and began to squeeze.
"You are sup-supposed to be a hero! Heroes don't kill!"
"Says who?" Heroes had waded through the blood of their enemies since men first put names to gods.
They slew monsters, butchered armies, and executed tyrants on the steps of their own palaces. The mandate of mercy was a recent invention designed so criminals and politicians could operate freely without fear of the blade and this world, through no fault of their own and more their Creators, had swallowed that poison whole.
"Y-You..."
"Judgment falls tonight, Roman. Before sunrise, the Black Mask will be nothing but another piece of filth in the city's gutters."
"You think this will change anything?!" Black Mask beat his fist uselessly against the helmet, the impacts growing feebler as his hand broke itself against the unyielding metal. "Someone else will take my place! Someone worse!"
"Then I will kill them too."
The kingpin's face deepened to a bruised purple as he choked. "You think... They'll be thankful?!"
"No."
Rowan tightened his grip until he felt the trachea beginning to give beneath his fingers. "And I don't expect them to."
As absurd as it sounded, many would condemn him for this.
They'd rush to protect the predators out of misguided mercy, or simply because they saw themselves in the monsters and wondered to themselves, 'What if it were me on that stand someday?' They'd cry and denounce and riot, but true acts of good could not be swayed by the judgment of others.
They came from the heart.
"Pl-Please!"
They came from one's own conviction.
"I'm sorrY!"
So long as he could sleep soundly in the coming nights…
"I'll leave Gotham! I'll disappear, you'll never see me again! I swear on my life, I'm done!"
The voices receded into blessed silence, leaving only clarity in their wake.
"Let's do this again then." Rowan relaxed his grip by a fraction, just enough to permit the passage of air but not hope. "The location of James Heller?"
"Th-The GCPD..." Roman wheezed, his eyes bulging as he scrabbled at the crimson gauntlet.
"Atta-boy."
.
.
.
"Why's the boss keeping these people anyway? Seems like a waste of resources if you ask me."
The False Facer in the rabbit mask let out a derisive snort, shaking his head at his partner's lack of foresight. "That's exactly why he's the boss and you're standing guard in a basement at three in the morning."
"Like you know shit!" His partner's voice pitched up defensively.
"Of course I do."
"Well then spell it out for me, oh wise one!"
Rabbit Mask straightened his spine, practically preening at the chance to lecture someone and feel just a tiny bit better about himself.
"The Boss is strangling the rebellion in the crib. You don't just kill the leaders. You keep them breathing so you can drag them in front of a camera and make them denounce everything they stood for. Once the rebels see their own idols groveling, the movement will rot from the inside out."
He gestured vaguely at his partner's biceps with a sneer.
"It'a called psychological warfare! Try putting some of those steroids into your brain instead of your arms, numbskull."
They were still halfway through the debate when the buzzer sounded.
The GCPD had spent millions rebuilding the precinct after the last wave of riots, transforming the station into a bunker with blast doors thick enough to stop armored vehicles and reinforced concrete walls three feet thick.
The fortress had made sense on paper.
All those defensive measures worked beautifully at keeping threats out, but when the threat was already inside, courtesy of the embedded operatives, the fortress became less of a sanctuary and more of a tomb that also trapped the officers during the initial purge.
Now the precinct served as Black Mask's personal political prison, a black site where opposition leaders and troublesome activists were chained in holding cells and subjected to beatings and all kinds of psychological torture.
Visitors were rare for obvious reasons.
The only people who'd dare ring the bell were other False Facers making rounds or Black Mask himself coming to inspect his collection of dissidents.
The rabbit-masked guard shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the reinforced door. "Did the boss say he'd be visiting today?"
"Haven't heard anything about it. You get a memo or something?"
"Nothin'."
Both guards snapped their weapons up, fingers hovering near triggers as tension crackled between them. Before either could decide on a next move, static burst from their radios followed by a clipped transmission. "—Boss is coming. Open the door."
"Shit." Rabbit Mask fumbled for the control panel, his earlier bravado evaporating as he jabbed the button. The blast door groaned and began rolling upward, revealing five black SUVs idling in formation outside.
The two guards approached the convoy, boots crunching against gravel as they moved into position.
Even with advance warning over the radio, they couldn't afford assumptions. One wrong identification and Black Mask would make examples of them both. Fortunately, they didn't need to request window verification as the tinted glass rolled down on their own, showing their boss's fractured mask and the vicious snarl twisting what remained of his exposed face.
Both guards snapped to attention, fists over hearts in salute.
Next to Roman sat a smaller figure, features obscured by shadow and the SUV's dim interior.
The guards noticed but knew better than to voice questions as the convoy doors opened in sequence, and armed False Facers emerged from the vehicles.
""Boss."" They said in unison, voices carefully neutral.
The kingpin acknowledged them with the barest nod, already moving past them with a pronounced limp that favored his left leg.
His entourage fell in behind him as he led the way through the blast door and into the converted precinct's fluorescent-lit interior. Only after Roman got out of earshot did Rabbit Mask lean toward his partner and whisper. "Is it just me or is the boss limping pretty bad?"
"Keep your voice down! Word is he crashed his helicopter earlier."
"Guess the Imp wasn't as easy to chew as he thought, huh?"
Unbeknownst to them, the Imp they were discussing was walking directly beside their boss, who only kept his mouth shut because opening it for anything other than directions would likely result in his immediate death or a beating severe enough to leave him drooling into a feeding tube for the rest of his miserable life.
After navigating a maze of corridors and passing through three separate checkpoints manned by increasingly nervous False Facers, they finally reached the solitary confinement wing.
Roman waved off the guards stationed outside with a sharp gesture, then pushed open the heavy steel door with Rowan close enough to constantly snip at his heels. Inside, one of Black Mask's regular torturers was hard at work on the man strung up in the center of the room, fists landing with meaty thuds against already tenderized flesh.
"Heller!" Marcus gasped next to them.
The torturer spun around at the sound of the door, bloody knuckles still raised mid-swing as he registered their arrival. "Boss!!! Good to see yo—"
The words caught in his throat as the vigilante's fist drove upward, launching the Jason mask skyward with a spray of teeth.
He wasn't dead, not technically, but the way his body lay twisted and twitching suggested death might have been the more merciful outcome as blood began to pool beneath his broken body, spreading across the floor in a slow, dark tide.
The one saving grace in all this was that between the screaming and regular violence permeating the place, no one would bat an eye at all the commotion. "Get him down."
The rebels rushed to get Heller down, grimacing at how loose his shoulders hung in their sockets.
He might make a recovery, but the odds of him ever using those arms the way he once did were slim to none.
Dark bruises mottled his face, while blood seeped steadily from between his legs, wounds nobody wanted to examine too closely. "God..." Marcus blurted, the word barely more than a breath. "Oh God, what have they done to you?"
On cue, the man stirred, his eyes prying open through the swell of tumor-like bruises to stare at them.
Those hopeless eyes searched for a long moment, drifting from face to face until they landed on Rowan, and it was as if he just... Knew. Heller coughed wetly, blood flecking his lips, then asked with a strangely jovial tone. "Wha-what the hell took you so long?"
'God.' Rowan felt the need to blurt… An impulse he strangled as he knelt beside the man and took his hand, the contact feeling all too inadequate. It would have been easier if Heller had blamed him for this. Rowan couldn't say why, but he knew an accusation would've hurt less. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be… Just promise me you'll put a stop to this."
"We will."
The man tried for a smile as his breath started to thin and slow.
"You don't get to die. Not yet. You don't get to make me a liar."
Rowan mumbled, shedding his gauntlet and biting a chunk out of his own wrist. Then he pressed the welling wound to the man's lips. "You know what you have to do." Black Mask hadn't just stockpiled political rivals; he also kept officers as insurance for a rainy day.
Men who would be all too eager to return the humiliations they had endured.
"Heller, he..."
"He'll be fine. Go."
The rebels exchanged uncertain glances and took off for the holding cells, leaving the three of them alone.
When Rowan felt Heller had taken the appropriate amount, he pulled his arm back and rose, casting a cold look over his shoulder at the trembling kingpin.
"Yo-You promised you wouldn't kill me!"
"And I won't. Oh, rest assured, I won't."