Mirk left the carnage behind, stepping over the fallen Talons with a fluidity born from both exhaustion and focus. The Iceberg Lounge felt eerily silent now, the remnants of chaos lingering like a fading storm. Blood dripped from his wounds, staining the polished floors, but adrenaline kept him moving.
He made his way toward the Penguin's office, his steps deliberate, almost theatrical. When he reached the heavy door, he paused. For a moment, he simply stood there, hand hovering over the handle, listening to the faint scuffle of someone working inside. Then he knocked—softly, deliberately.
A voice inside muttered something indistinct. Mirk leaned close and let his words roll out in a gravelly, ominous timbre, low and terrifying, laced with an almost animalistic grin:
"Here's Johnny."
The words lingered in the air, and silence followed for a heartbeat before the door creaked open.
Inside, Oswald Cobblepot—The Penguin—sat at his desk, his usual smug composure faltering as he noticed the bloodied, imposing figure in the doorway. Mirk stepped in, the shadows hugging him like a cloak, and without hesitation, leveled his umbrella gun. The tip of the barrel glinted menacingly.
Penguin stammered. "You—you can't—"
Before he could finish, Mirk activated his cursed technique. The umbrella's barrel split and twisted mid-air, shredded by an invisible slash. He didn't even need to touch it—his energy flowed along the contours of the metal like water, disassembling it effortlessly. He advanced toward Penguin, his steps slow, deliberate, almost predatory.
"You're not dead… yet," Mirk said, his voice cold and commanding. "But you're not in charge anymore. You… work for me now. Under my rules. My jurisdiction. You… no longer decide anything. Merc decides."
Penguin's eyes widened, terror washing over him. His voice was little more than a squeak. "I—I… you can't—"
Mirk's hand came down, heavy, over the top of Penguin's head. The man's body went rigid as cursed energy began to flow from Mirk's palm into him. The energy sank into his very core, twisting, reshaping, corrupting. Penguin screamed, but the sound was hollow, powerless against the force controlling him.
The transformation was brutal yet precise. His body shrank, feathers sprouting across his arms and back, sleek and metallic, glinting with a cold, silver-blue sheen. His eyes glowed faintly with the same cursed energy that now dominated him. Ice formed along his claws and beak, sharp and jagged, and shards of frost extended from his metallic plumage like weapons ready to strike.
Mirk stepped back, letting Penguin—no, the cursed version of him—take in his new form. The man was still cold, still calculating, but there was something alien in the way he moved now. Every step carried a predatory weight, feathers rattling like blades, and frost crackled with each movement.
"You exist now… as I've made you," Mirk said. "This body, these abilities—they answer to me. You survive, but only because you serve me. Fail, and you won't even get a second chance."
The cursed Penguin trembled under the weight of Mirk's energy, yet the instinct to obey burned into him. The room was silent, the air heavy with fear and authority. Mirk finally withdrew his hand, letting the energy settle into its new host, leaving behind a creature both familiar and horrifyingly transformed.
"And remember," Mirk added, his tone low and final, "you are mine. Not the other way around."
Few hours later
Mirk stepped out of the Penguin's office, the bloodied floor of the Iceberg Lounge crunching under his boots. The bodies of the fallen Talons lay scattered across the room, a grim reminder of the storm he had unleashed. The air smelled of iron and smoke, the silence punctuated only by the distant hum of the city beyond the lounge's walls.
He paused, scanning the carnage. Batman would be here soon—he could feel it. The thought brought a small, cold smile to his lips. He needed to delay the Dark Knight, manipulate his perception, and keep the truth of his cursed abilities hidden.
Crouching beside one of the Talon corpses, Mirk's fingers hovered over its cold skin. He channeled cursed energy carefully, reshaping the body, transfiguring it to mirror the Penguin's original appearance before his cursed transformation. Every detail—height, posture, facial features—was precise, uncanny in its resemblance. When he was satisfied, he hoisted the recreated corpse and carried it toward the front entrance, timing his movements with a predator's patience.
A deep, guttural growl vibrated through the street outside as the Batmobile skidded into view. The tires screeched against the pavement, headlights cutting through the night, illuminating the carnage inside. Batman leapt from the vehicle, cape billowing, eyes narrowing.
"You're too late," Mirk said, his voice calm, deadly. "I've already dealt with my problem. The rest… is yours to handle."
Batman's jaw tightened, anger radiating from him in palpable waves. "You'll pay for this, Mirk!" he shouted, his voice reverberating through the lounge.
Mirk's lips curved into a faint, taunting smirk. "If you insist," he murmured, dropping the fake penguin and stepping forward.
The fight erupted instantly. Batman lunged, strikes precise, but Mirk moved with the fluidity of cursed energy coursing through him. He dodged and weaved, jabbing Batman with sharp, calculated strikes. Each move was deliberate, designed not to overwhelm, but to test and toy with his opponent. Batman, though formidable, seemed slightly slower, his perception subtly altered by Mirk's energy-enhanced reflexes.
In the midst of combat, Mirk's mind raced. "Boring. Predictable. Too serious." I need a subordinate to keep things interesting… A plan crystallized, dangerous and precise.
With a feint and a sudden misstep, leaving himself with multiple openings that Batman took advantage of.
He let himself be "captured", allowing Batman to restrain him "effortlessly". "Take me," he thought, his smile hidden beneath the grimace of controlled submission. "Take me wherever you like."
The Dark Knight didn't hesitate. Mirk was loaded into the Batmobile, the journey to Arkham Asylum silent but tense. Batman's mind raced, piecing together everything Mark had said and done, the carnage, the Penguin's "corpse", the fallen Talon members. Every detail matched Mark's words, his narrative. Yet something didn't sit right.
He glanced at Mirk, shackled and seemingly defeated. And that's when he saw it—a subtle, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips. A quiet, knowing smirk that suggested he had already won. Batman's eyes narrowed. This isn't over. Not by a long shot.
The Batmobile disappeared into the night, carrying Mirk away, but the seed of unease had already been planted. The game had shifted, and Batman didn't yet realize he was no longer the one in control.