When the strong man in the arena was dismembered, the ravenous wolves fought viciously over his torn flesh and scattered body parts, some even leaping into the stands in their frenzy. The entire arena resembled a cauldron of boiling chaos.
The spectators erupted in cheers, reveling in the bloodshed.
Martin felt disgusted and rage boiled within him—he wanted to mow down every depraved piece of shit around him with a machine gun. But he swallowed his fury, reminding himself of his mission. The villainous gathering was still underway, and he had work to do. Using the crowd for cover, he maneuvered his way beneath the stands to where the Penguin's secretary was stationed.
"Yes, boss, the banquet is prepared exactly as you ordered—no mistakes," the secretary assured over the phone. "Entertaining those people? No, no problem at all..."
Martin, lurking nearby, listened to her Spanish-accented English, confirming that the banquet had yet to begin. As she clicked away on her high heels, he followed her, only to spot Penguin's armed men patrolling the corridor, seeing them he paused, evaluating his options.
Engaging them in a direct fight wasn't the problem—he could take them down. The real issue was gunfire. If a single shot rang out, the wily criminals inside would scatter like rats, making his mission infinitely harder.
He still didn't know why these criminals, who typically despised each other, had gathered on Penguin's ship. His gaze shifted to a repair site along the corridor. A maintenance pipe. That would do.
"A ship isn't a fortress. Did they build such a spacious pipe in case infiltrators needed a place to hide?" he mused sarcastically.
With practiced agility, Martin gripped the railing, leaped up, and climbed into the pipe. As he crawled through the narrow passage, he peered through the mesh of a vent, watching the secretary sway as she walked, her movements dictated by her irritation.
She entered Penguin's office, opened a cabinet, and retrieved several expensive bottles of wine. Examining the labels, she muttered under her breath, "What did I do in my past life to deserve serving these lunatics?" She clasped her hands together in mock prayer. "Oh Lord, protect your humble believer and help me get through this cursed night."
Martin scoffed. She was no true believer— her prayer lacked sincerity and her deeds were no good either. He took advantage of the moment, flicking a micro-tracker onto her coat. When she exited with the bottles, he braced himself against the pipe's walls and slid down to another vent. With a swift kick, he dislodged the iron grate and entered Penguin's office.
The room was lavish—wood-paneled walls, intricately woven carpets, and artifacts from across the globe glowed under the crystal chandeliers. Yet Martin's focus wasn't on the decor. He needed weapons.
Penguin's men had searched every guest thoroughly before allowing them on board, making smuggling weapons onto the ship impossible. But for a smuggler like Penguin, firearms would be abundant here. Martin just needed to find them.
"No guns, no cannons? The enemy will always provide," he muttered. He intended to confiscate Penguin's stash to ensure these weapons wouldn't be used to terrorize Gotham.
But after searching, he found nothing except an old relic from World War II—a Garand semi-automatic rifle.
"Damn it! Of course, he doesn't stockpile weapons—he always carries that tricked-out umbrella of his."
Sighing, he wrapped his fist in a curtain, shattered the glass case, and retrieved the rifle and an M1911 pistol. A quick inspection confirmed they were in working condition. He secured the ammo pouch around his waist and climbed back into the pipe system.
Navigating through the dark, twisting ventilation ducts was almost as complex as Penguin's mind. Getting lost in the ship's corridors was one thing—but doing so in the cramped pipes could be deadly. Fortunately, his tracker provided a constant update on the secretary's location, leading him toward the ship's lower level.
Through the slats of another vent, Martin spotted Penguin seated at the head of a long table, cigar in hand, his beady eyes scrutinizing the room through a monocle.
Around the table sat Gotham's most powerful crime lords—Falcone and Maniello, both past their prime but still influential; the ever-calculating Black Mask and Two-Face; the enigmatic Riddler and the silent menace known as Hush. Despite their histories of rivalry, they remained composed, sipping their wine and awaiting Penguin's purpose for the gathering.
But on the outskirts of the table, lesser criminals barely hid their impatience. Deadshot and Deathstroke maintained their calm, but others—Firefly, Mr. Freeze, and Electrocutioner—were restless, shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
Martin positioned his rifle, aiming directly at Penguin, but held his fire.
Patience. Timing was everything.
The wine flowed, but still, no one spoke. Until, finally, Electrocutioner slammed his fist on the table.
"Enough of this!" he barked. "Cobblepot, you know that damned bat is hunting us down like animals. If you have something to say, say it! I don't plan on waiting around for him to find me."
At the mere mention of Batman, the room's temperature seemed to drop several degrees. A phantom chill slithered down their spines.
For all their bravado, these hardened criminals—masters of Gotham's underworld—paled at the thought of the Dark Knight. Their masks of confidence cracked. Some turned ghostly white; others clenched their jaws in unease.
Martin, still concealed in the ventilation system, struggled to contain his laughter.
Penguin had orchestrated this gathering to assert dominance, yet all it took was Batman's name to steal the show. Such was the terror the Caped Crusader inspired.
With a scowl, Penguin banged his umbrella against the floor and stood. "I called you here because of Batman!" he declared, his shrill voice cutting through the tension.
He swept his gaze across the table. "Think back ten years! We ruled Gotham. We were untouchable. The police obeyed our orders like trained dogs. No one could challenge us. But now? Now, everything has changed!" He jabbed a finger at the air. "And it's all because of that masked freak in his ridiculous tights! He's stripped us of our power, our status, and our freedom."
He leaned forward, his expression dark. "If we ever want to reclaim our golden age, there's only one solution."
His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "We kill Batman."
A silence settled over the room. The air thickened with tension.
Martin, unseen in the vent, smirked. "Let's see how that works out for you, Cobblepot."