The Penguin may be ruthless and capable, but eloquence is not his strong suit. Even Gotham's hardened criminals, who had seen it all, remained unimpressed by his speech—let alone Martin, an outsider. The room was thick with silence, laced with indifference.
In this underworld, decisions weren't made based on empty rhetoric but on tangible benefits. The idea of rallying behind a cause without a clear profit was a fool's errand, fit only for the naive. The Penguin spoke of overthrowing Batman, yet he failed to answer the most crucial question: what was in it for them?
The dismissive atmosphere was palpable. Not just the kingpins who ruled Gotham's territories but even the low-level, bloodthirsty enforcers scoffed at the notion. The Penguin's frustration mounted as his gaze swept across the room, his chest heaving with barely contained rage. Grabbing the wine glass from the table, he downed it in one aggressive gulp. The crimson liquid trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining his pristine suit.
"Falcone, Maroni," he called out, his voice laced with both respect and desperation. "You two are the pillars of Gotham's underworld, the undisputed leaders of our kind. Can you really tolerate the Bat's shadow looming over us any longer?"
Falcone, aged yet undeniably shrewd, adjusted his glasses with deliberate slowness. He smacked his near-toothless mouth twice before responding in a whisper, "Cobblepot, let's not pretend here. Batman has haunted Gotham for a decade. How many plots have you devised to kill him? How many have succeeded?"
He let that question hang in the air before continuing. "Every time we think we've buried him, he claws his way back from the grave. I've grown tired of this game. Maybe Batman can be killed, but that's a task for younger men. I, however, have one foot in the grave already."
"Old bastard!" The Penguin cursed under his breath, seething. He knew Falcone was playing the long game. Just days ago, the crime lord had ruthlessly avenged his nephew's murder, leading a massacre against their rivals. Now, he feigned weariness, unwilling to commit to a cause that wouldn't immediately benefit him.
With Falcone refusing to bite, the others found their own excuses to dismiss the idea. The gathering, once a dangerous convergence of Gotham's criminal elite, was already beginning to unravel.
Martin, observing from the sidelines, understood what the Penguin failed to grasp. The old crime families—Falcone's and Maroni's—owed much of their continued survival to Batman's interventions. Over the years, as the Penguin and his ilk chipped away at their influence, it was Batman who inadvertently maintained the delicate balance. Without him, these old wolves would be the first to fall, torn apart by the ambitious younger generation.
Gotham thrived on unspoken rules, and the criminals who had lasted understood them well. They saw no reason to risk their lives fighting Batman when he was, ironically, their best safeguard against complete upheaval.
The room began emptying. The Penguin, still silent, simmered with barely restrained fury. Martin, however, knew this was far from over. Penguin was not one to let things go easily. If words failed, he had only one other option.
Martin tensed. Would the Penguin sweeten the deal, offering incentives too tempting to refuse? Or would he resort to brute force, slaughtering those who dared defy him?
Martin hoped for the former, but his instincts told him otherwise. The Penguin wasn't generous—he was greedy. And greed, when cornered, often turned violent.
Slowly, Martin released the safety on his rifle. His finger found the trigger, steadying itself. He exhaled, slowing his breathing, aligning the crosshairs on the Penguin.
The moment stretched.
Then, Penguin's voice, sharp and venomous, cut through the tension. "Two old relics who should've been buried long ago… If you refuse to step up, then don't blame me for what happens next."
With a flick of his wrist, he raised his signature umbrella, its tip aimed at Falcone. His finger twitched on the concealed trigger—
Ding!
Three distinct sounds erupted simultaneously. A bat-shaped projectile sliced through the air, intercepting the bullet before it could reach Falcone. At the same time, a 7.62mm round fired by Martin shattered the Penguin's weapon, sending pieces flying.
"BATMAN!" Someone screamed.
The room descended into chaos.
Explosions of smoke enveloped the space, swallowing criminals in dense, choking fog. The outer ring of gangsters bolted immediately, vanishing into the night. Those who remained were either too dim-witted or too bloodthirsty to retreat.
"This is not what I had planned."
Martin cursed under his breath. He had never intended to save Falcone—he was just another bloodstained relic of Gotham's past. But Batman had acted first, and in doing so, had robbed Martin of vital intel. Now, the Penguin would be far more cautious.
A dark figure moved through the smoke like a ghost. Thudding impacts and choked cries followed in his wake. One by one, the Penguin's men were yanked upward, bound in rope, their bodies dangling from the rafters.
Martin exhaled sharply, muttering, "Outrageous."
A sharp buzz filled the air. Someone had activated the ventilation system. The powerful suction force pulled the smoke out through the vents, revealing the wreckage below.
Martin, covering his nose, smashed through an iron fence and dropped into the clearing.
Batman was locked in combat with Deathstroke, their blows shaking the room. Meanwhile, the rest of the criminals had vanished—except for one.
The Electrocutioner.
A cruel grin split the scarred man's face as he spotted Martin. "Well, well. Detective Martin, the man who fancies himself Batman's equal. What an honor to meet you."
The Penguin, now back in control of his composure, spread his arms wide, grinning smugly. "Electrocutioner, Batman's off-limits. But this one? He's all yours. Kill him, and I'll pay you a million."
The assassin's eyes gleamed with greed. Electricity crackled from his gloves, arcs of energy illuminating his grotesque expression.
"A deal's a deal," he growled. "Now, kid, stand still, and I promise to make it quick. Otherwise…" He cracked his knuckles, the electricity surging. "I'll break every bone in your body."
Martin answered with gunfire. The first shots rang out, but the Electrocutioner's electrified gloves deflected them effortlessly, melting the bullets into glowing fragments.
Batman, still engaged with Deathstroke, tried to intervene. He hurled a cluster of Bat-darts, releasing a blinding flash to disorient his opponent. But as he turned, Deathstroke's steel staff came crashing down, forcing him back into the fight.
Martin gritted his teeth, frustration mounting. "Damn it. I hate super-criminals."
Electricity surged as the Electrocutioner lunged, his fist aimed for Martin's skull.