The private dining room at The Iceberg Lounge hummed with quiet tension. Despite the club's raucous atmosphere just beyond the soundproofed doors, the chamber maintained an almost oppressive silence, broken only by the occasional clink of ice against crystal as one of the room's occupants sipped their drink.
Each of the seven individuals seated around the table kept a carefully measured distance from the others. These weren't allies gathering for a collaborative mission—they were apex predators forced into temporary proximity, each acutely aware of the lethal capabilities possessed by their competitors.
Oswald "Oz" Cobblepot surveyed the assembled killers with barely concealed disdain, the distinctive scar running down his face tightening as he frowned. Unlike his establishment's usual clientele, these people were not from Gotham. They carried themselves differently—professional, disciplined, dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with street credibility or gang affiliation.
"Alright, listen up," Oz began, his raspy voice carrying the distinctive Gotham accent that marked him as a true native. He leaned forward on his cane, his stocky frame draped in an expensive but slightly flashy suit. "You're all here 'cause you're the best at what you do. The job pays serious cash, but the risk matches the reward, ya understand?"
"Cut the crap, Cobblepot," interrupted the man seated directly across from him. Slade Wilson—Deathstroke the Terminator—was imposing even in civilian attire, his eyepatch and stark white hair marking him as unmistakably as any costume would have. His single eye studied each person at the table with cold, analytical precision. "We were promised details on arrival. So far, all we've received is overpriced liquor and vague assurances."
Unlike the others, Slade's posture communicated absolute confidence bordering on arrogance. It wasn't merely bravado. With his enhanced physiology being the result of a military experiment gone both wrong and right. Originally a decorated military officer, Slade had volunteered for a procedure to enhance soldiers' resistance to truth serum. The experiment had unlocked his brain's full potential, allowing him to access 90% of his cerebral capacity rather than the typical 10%. This gave him enhanced strength, speed, and reflexes alongside tactical genius, but had nearly killed him in the process. Though the military had "saved" him, they'd inadvertently created one of the world's most lethal mercenaries.
Oz spread his hands in a placating gesture, a forced smile revealing his gold tooth. "Hey, hey, easy there, tough guy. Our mutual friend is very particular about his timing. Very dramatic, this one."
"Your friend," corrected a lean, athletic man whose casual posture belied the predatory awareness in his eyes. Taskmaster's skull-like mask sat on the table before him, a disconcerting juxtaposition with the expensive whiskey at his elbow. "We haven't accepted any contracts yet."
Taskmaster's gaze lingered on Deathstroke a moment longer than necessary—a subtle acknowledgment between the only two men at the table who could truly challenge each other. Taskmaster's photographic reflexes allowed him to perfectly replicate any physical movement he observed, making him perhaps the only person who could match Slade's combat prowess.
"Gentlemen, ladies," came a cultured voice from the doorway as Alberto Falcone entered, flanked by two silent bodyguards who immediately took positions by the door. "Thank you for your patience."
Unlike his father's more traditional mob boss appearance, Alberto was impeccably dressed in a tailored European suit, every detail speaking of refinement and education. He approached the table with practiced confidence, stopping just beyond arm's reach of any of the assembled killers—a sign of caution that didn't go unnoticed.
"Let's not waste time with pleasantries," Alberto said, adjusting his cufflinks. "Seven million dollars. That's the price for Batman, delivered alive to a location of my choosing. The money goes to whoever succeeds. Not split, not shared—to the victor go the spoils."
Oz grinned, revealing his gold tooth again. "Told ya it was worth your time."
The atmosphere in the room shifted immediately. What had been professional wariness transformed into something sharper—competitive calculation. Seven million to one person, not divided among them. This wasn't a team assignment; it was a contest with a single victor.
Sergei Kravinoff—better known as Kraven the Hunter—leaned forward, his interest clearly piqued. Unlike his more technologically enhanced competitors, Kraven's abilities stemmed from a combination of mystical herbs and lifelong training that had pushed his strength, speed, and agility far beyond normal human limits. The prospect of hunting worthy prey while defeating fellow predators appealed to his most fundamental instincts.
"And the Batman is worth this much to you?" Kraven asked, his Russian accent thickening with anticipation. "What makes him so valuable alive?"
Alberto's expression remained carefully neutral. "My reasons are my own. The price reflects both the difficulty of the task and the urgency. Batman must be captured within the next seventy-two hours."
"You're not the first to put a bounty on the Bat," Deadshot observed, his tone carefully neutral. His fingers unconsciously traced the edge of his specialized targeting scope. "What makes this different from previous attempts?"
"The caliber of talent I've assembled," Alberto replied smoothly. "And the nature of the request. I don't want him dead at least, not immediately. I want him captured, contained, and delivered. What happens after that is... no longer your concern."
"Capture is more difficult than elimination," Lady Shiva spoke for the first time, her voice soft yet carrying perfect clarity. "It requires precision, restraint, planning."
"Which is precisely why I've assembled individuals with your particular skills," Alberto replied. "Batman has defeated common mercenaries and Gotham's homegrown criminals with depressing regularity. This operation requires specialists."
Deathstroke's laugh was cold and short. "Specialists who will now be competing against each other rather than cooperating. An interesting approach."
"Competition breeds excellence, Mr. Wilson," Alberto replied smoothly. "And as I understand your particular history, you appreciate the opportunity to prove your superiority."
The subtle reference to Slade's military past and the experiment that had transformed him wasn't lost on the assassin. His single eye narrowed slightly, reassessing Alberto Falcone with new interest. The man had done his research.
A soft, melodic laugh drew attention to the woman draped languidly across her chair. Unlike the others, who maintained combat-ready postures despite their apparent relaxation, Copperhead embraced her sinuous nature openly. Her costume—a form-fitting bodysuit in scaled patterns of green and gold—left little to the imagination, the poisonous barbs on her gloves glinting in the low light of the Iceberg Lounge's private room.
"You misunderstand the nature of predators, Mr. Falcone," she purred, her Latin American accent adding a musical quality to her words. "We do not always compete. Sometimes..." she ran a finger along the rim of her untouched drink, "we consume one another."
Her unnaturally green eyes, with vertical pupils, moved deliberately to Deathstroke, then Taskmaster, assessing them not as colleagues but as potential meals. The two men showed no reaction, though the slight tensing in Taskmaster's shoulders betrayed his wariness.
"Why now?" she continued, her tone shifting to something harder as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. "The Bat hasss been operating for yearss. What makes thiss moment so... urgent?"
Alberto's expression hardened momentarily before he composed himself. Even among these killers, he maintained the Falcone air of aristocratic control—the new generation of Gotham's oldest crime family, educated abroad, cultured, but no less ruthless than his father.
"Batman possesses evidence that could prove... problematic for certain business interests. Evidence that is scheduled to become public in the very near future." His fingers tapped once against the polished tabletop. "His removal needs to happen within the next seventy-two hours."
"The Falcone trial," Deathstroke concluded, his single eye fixed on Alberto with calculating intensity. "You're worried Batman will provide additional evidence to the prosecution."
Alberto didn't flinch under Slade's gaze. Few men could maintain composure when dissected by the Terminator's analytical stare—a small testament to the younger Falcone's nerve.
"Business is business," Alberto deflected, neither confirming nor denying the accusation. "The deadline is non-negotiable."
Oz Cobblepot chuckled darkly, the sound like gravel in his throat. His distinctive Gotham accent marked him as a local among internationals. "Family business is always complicated, ain't it? Especially in Gotham."
Alberto shot him a warning glance before continuing. "Do we have an agreement on terms? Seven million to whoever delivers Batman alive within the specified timeframe."
"Seven million divided seven ways is hardly worth my time," Deadshot interjected, idly spinning a custom bullet between his fingers. The marksman's tone was bored, but his eyes remained sharp, constantly tracking the smallest movements of everyone in the room.
"You misunderstand," Alberto replied. "Seven million to the one who delivers Batman. This isn't a team effort—it's a competition."
Silence settled over the room as each assassin reconsidered the proposition. Not just a hunt for Batman, but potentially a bloodbath among themselves.
Bane, who had remained silent until now, his massive frame making the custom-reinforced chair seem almost doll-like, finally spoke. His voice rumbled through the room like distant thunder. "The Batman is not merely a man. He is a symbol. Capturing him requires understanding both aspects."
"Very philosophical," Oz quipped, rolling his eyes. "Listen, big guy, all that matters is: are you in or out? 'Cause there are plenty of other heavy-hitters who'd love a shot at this payday."
Bane's massive hands flexed, the movement causing Oz to shift subtly away despite his bravado. "Breaking him will be a pleasure I have yet to experience."
"His skills are formidable," Lady Shiva observed quietly. Her unassuming appearance belied her status as perhaps the deadliest martial artist in the room. "I have observed his technique. He shows training from disciplines few in the West have mastered."
Kraven the Hunter leaned forward, his interest clearly piqued. "How so? What makes this Batman more dangerous than his predecessors?"
Alberto turned to Oz, a silent command to explain. Cobblepot straightened slightly in his chair.
"The Bat's been evolving," he said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. "Seven years ago when he first appeared, he was brutal but basic. Now? He's a ghost. A goddamn nightmare."
Oz's expression turned grim beneath his scars. "After that business with Superman and Stark two years back, he's stepped up his game. New tech, new tactics. Stark gave him upgrades that make him the terror of Gotham's underworld. Word is, the vigilante beat twenty of Maroni's best men in under two minutes last month."
He leaned forward conspiratorially. "And he's less gentle than before. Criminals who used to walk away with a few bruises now wake up in Gotham General with reconstruction surgery."
"Sounds like he's becoming more like us," Deadshot observed with dark humor.
"No," Lady Shiva interjected, her voice carrying absolute certainty. "He maintains his code—no killing, no permanent crippling. But he has recognized that Gotham's criminals are adapting to his presence. He matches escalation with escalation."
"The perfect prey," Kraven smiled, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "A hunter who has become more dangerous through necessity and experience."
Copperhead's tongue, unnaturally long and forked at the tip, flicked out momentarily as she shifted in her seat. "You all speak of him like he's some sort of phantom. He's just a man in an expensive suit," she purred, running her toxin-laced claws along the table's surface. "Enhanced reflexes, maybe... but still human. Still warm-blooded." Her smile turned predatory. "I've always wondered what the Bat tastes like. Sweet? Bitter? Perhaps I'll find out before delivering him."
"You're welcome to try," Deathstroke said coldly. "But you'd do well to remember that Batman has been cleaning Gotham's streets for seven years. He's faced everyone from common thugs to enhanced beings. Underestimate him at your peril."
Deathstroke leaned back, his posture deceptively relaxed. "I've studied the Batman for years. His tactics, his equipment, his psychological profile. He's formidable—perhaps the most dangerous non-powered human on the planet." A slight smile crossed his face. "But he's still human. Still has limitations. Still bleeds."
His single eye swept around the table, assessing each competitor with cold precision. "And the rest of you would do well to stay out of my way once the hunt begins. I have no qualms about eliminating competition."
"Bold words from a man with only one eye," Taskmaster observed, his tone deliberately provocative. The mercenary's skull-like mask sat on the table before him, revealing a face that was handsome in a forgettable way—a useful trait for someone whose power lay in perfectly mimicking others. "I've analyzed your fighting style, Wilson. Impressive, but not unbeatable."
"Analysis isn't experience," Deathstroke countered smoothly. "And experience tells me you'll be the first to fall if you get between me and my target."
"Jesus, the testosterone in here," Oz muttered, rolling his eyes. "Save it for the Bat, would ya? The question is simple: you in or out?"
Copperhead uncurled from her chair with fluid grace, moving to stand behind Alberto. She placed her hands on his shoulders, the poisoned claws of her gloves deliberately close to his throat. To his credit, Alberto didn't flinch.
"I find myself... intrigued," she said, her eyes scanning each assassin in turn. "But seven million for one night's work seems... insufficient. Especially with such... competitive company."
Alberto remained perfectly still. "There are additional incentives for each of you. Side contracts, if you will. Tasks suited to your particular talents that might lead Batman into the open."
This caught everyone's attention. Even Deathstroke's eye narrowed with renewed interest.
"Elaborate," Lady Shiva commanded, her quiet voice somehow dominating the room.
Alberto carefully removed Copperhead's hands from his shoulders, standing to face the assembled killers. "Batman protects his city obsessively. When multiple threats emerge simultaneously, he becomes predictable—rushing to wherever the danger seems greatest, extending himself too thin."
He opened a sleek metal briefcase that had been sitting on the table, revealing seven sealed envelopes inside, each labeled with a name.
"These are your secondary objectives. Complete them, and you'll receive an additional one million each, regardless of who ultimately captures Batman." He began distributing them around the table. "They're designed to create a pattern of chaos that will flush him out, make him vulnerable."
When he handed Deathstroke his envelope, he lingered a moment longer than necessary. "Yours requires travel, Mr. Wilson. Haly's Circus will be arriving just outside Gotham in three days. There's a separate job there I believe only you are suited for."
Slade took the envelope without comment, but his eye showed a flash of understanding. The circus was known to be under the protection of various Gotham crime families—an arrangement dating back decades. Whatever Alberto wanted there, it wasn't simply about Batman.
"For you, my dear," Alberto said, presenting Copperhead with her envelope, "a task involving a certain judge whose chambers might contain evidence vital to my father's case."
She accepted it with a seductive smile, her fingers lingering against his longer than necessary. "How fortunate that poisons leave so little trace in the bloodstream. And how delightful that my particular... talents... allow me access that others can't manage."
"I don't care how you accomplish your tasks," Alberto clarified, "only that they create the chaos we need to draw Batman out, make him predictable."
"And if we encounter each other while completing these side jobs?" Deadshot asked, examining his envelope without opening it.
"Professional courtesy would suggest non-interference," Alberto replied. "But I'm not naive enough to expect honor among assassins. Consider it the first phase of your competition."
One by one, they indicated their acceptance, each already planning how to outmaneuver not just Batman but their fellow killers.
"Perfect," Alberto nodded, satisfied. "Mr. Cobblepot will provide each of you with a specialized briefing packet tailored to your specific skills. The operation window opens tomorrow night." He turned to leave, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Oh, and should any of you consider warning Batman or otherwise compromising this operation—remember that I can offer equally generous bounties for your heads."
After Alberto departed, Oz distributed sealed folders to each assassin. "All the intel you need is in here—patrol patterns, equipment specs, psychological profile, the whole nine yards. What you do with it, that's your business. Just keep the collateral damage to a minimum, alright? I got enough heat from the GCPD as it is."
Taskmaster opened his folder, scanning the contents with professional interest. "Impressive intelligence. Your employer has been studying the Bat for some time."
"Years," Oz confirmed, adjusting his gaudy ring. "Though the Batman you'll face is not the same one who first showed up. He's evolved, adapted—become something more dangerous."
"The perfect prey," Kraven smiled, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "A hunter who has become more dangerous through necessity and experience."
Copperhead slid her folder into a hidden compartment in her costume, her movements deliberately sensual yet precise. "A man who dresssess as a bat to frighten criminals," she purred, drawing out the 's' sounds in a way that emphasized her serpentine nature. "I wonder what else he fears. Perhaps I shall discover before delivering him."
"If you get the chance," Deadshot remarked dryly. "You'll have to find him first."
"Oh," she replied with a dangerous smile, "men always find me when I want them to. Even those who dress as animals." Her forked tongue flicked out briefly. "And unlike some of you... limited humans, my abilities aren't just tricks and training. The toxins in my blood are quite... persuasive."
Lady Shiva rose silently, folder in hand. "This gathering has served its purpose. Tomorrow, we are enemies. Tonight, consider yourselves warned." Her gaze swept the room. "I have studied each of you. I know your weaknesses."
"Mutual destruction rarely serves anyone's interests," Bane rumbled. "The Batman is the target. We would be wise to remember that."
"Word to the wise," Oz said as he prepared to leave, leaning on his cane. "The Bat's got friends in high places—cops, the DA's office, and some heavy hitters outside Gotham. That metalhead Stark has upgraded some of his tech. Underestimating his reach would be stupid, and none of you strike me as stupid."
The mention of Stark didn't go unnoticed. Deadshot's eyes narrowed slightly. "Still can't believe that egomaniac just announced himself to the world. Makes our job harder when clients know exactly who to target."
"Some of us don't have the luxury of hiding," Copperhead remarked with a dangerous smile, flexing her fingers as the scales along her arms shifted slightly with the movement. "Besides, it's made him a lucrative target. Three contracts in the last year alone... though none successful."
After Cobblepot's departure, the assassins remained briefly, each pretending to study their materials while actually watching the others. The tension in the room had become almost palpable—seven apex predators, one lucrative prize, and only days to claim it.
Deathstroke was the first to rise, his movements deliberately casual despite the coiled readiness evident in his frame. "May the best hunter win," he said, his tone making it clear who he believed that would be.
"Just so we're clear," Taskmaster said, rising to match him, "when this is over, you and I have unfinished business."
"Looking forward to it," Deathstroke replied with a cold smile. "Assuming you survive that long."
As Deathstroke moved toward the exit, Copperhead slid suddenly into his path, her body uncomfortably close to his. "Perhaps we could work together, Wilson," she suggested, her voice dropping to a whisper as she traced a finger dangerously close to his armor's seams. "I have always admired your... efficiency. And there are pleasures to be found in partnership."
Slade didn't step back, but neither did he engage with her obvious ploy. "Your poison doesn't work on my enhanced physiology, Santana. And your other methods of persuasion are equally ineffective."
She laughed, a sound both musical and chilling. "Another time, then. When the bat is caged and your guard is down." She stepped aside, allowing him to pass, but not before adding, "Though I must admit, I'm almost more interested in playing with the Bat before his delivery. They say the darkest knights fall the hardest."
One by one, they departed, each taking different exits, already beginning the competition that would ultimately determine who would face Batman alone. None were under any illusions—this contract would likely end with some of them seriously injured or dead, whether by Batman's hand or each other's.
The hunt would begin tomorrow night. And for the first time in years, the predator would become the prey—not just for one deadly assassin, but for seven of the world's most lethal killers, each determined to claim the prize for themselves.
Outside the Iceberg Lounge, Deathstroke moved through Gotham's shadows with practiced ease. Unlike Stark's gaudy displays or the colorful costumes of other operatives, his armor was designed for functionality—reinforced panels in vital areas, tactical webbing for equipment, the distinctive orange and blue a psychological tool rather than simple theatrics.
He opened the secondary envelope Alberto had given him, examining the contents in the dim glow of a distant street light. Inside was a dossier on the Flying Graysons, Haly Circus's star acrobats, along with technical specifications for their equipment and performance schedule. A handwritten note simply read: "Make it look like an accident. The boy must survive."
Slade's expression remained neutral, but something in his eye hardened. Using children as pawns was distasteful, even to someone with his reputation. Still, a contract was a contract, and the additional fee listed at the bottom of the page was substantial.
He tucked the envelope away, his mind already mapping out his approach to both assignments. Unlike the others, he would not waste time hunting Batman directly. The Dark Knight was too skilled at evasion, too familiar with his city's shadows. No, Slade would instead position himself to intercept whichever of his competitors found Batman first—let them wear each other down, then strike when both Batman and his would-be captor were vulnerable.
First, however, he would need to lay groundwork at Haly's Circus. The Flying Graysons were scheduled to perform in three days. Plenty of time to prepare, to make what was about to happen seem like nothing more than a tragic accident.
As for Batman... Slade had no illusions about the difficulty of that capture. The Dark Knight had earned his fearsome reputation over seven years of increasingly sophisticated crime-fighting. But then, so had Deathstroke the Terminator. And in all his years as the world's deadliest assassin, Slade Wilson had never once failed to complete a contract.
Above him, thunder rumbled across Gotham's perpetually overcast sky. A storm was coming—both literally and figuratively. And when it broke, Batman would find himself hunted by predators every bit as deadly as himself, with none of his moral constraints.
By this time tomorrow, the protector of Gotham would understand what it meant to be prey. And Deathstroke would prove, once and for all, why he was considered the most dangerous man alive.
Seven million dollars was certainly motivating. But proving his superiority over Batman, over Taskmaster, over all of them that was the true prize.
And Deathstroke the Terminator never failed to claim his prizes.