Chapter Text
So, as it turns out, Gotham wasn’t so full of criminals that it allowed someone to be one and also be left alone.
Victor wished he could say he was surprised, but he isn’t. He isn't at all. He knows how these things work. He had been busy the last few months- people had been dropping like flies and, although seemingly unconnected, because he was a careful man, word spread quickly around Gotham’s underworld about a new assassin. The chaos and panic born from Victor’s simple mission made it difficult not to revel in the recognition. Such a skilled and deadly killer on the loose left people wondering; who did he work for, and who was next on his list?
Ironic, because Zsasz chose his ‘victims’ at random, and he wasn’t really working for anyone. But nobody knew that. Which made him a sizable threat to the criminal elite. He found it funny, if he was honest- hotspots like clubs and restaurants that served as fronts for their operations seemed to double down on security. It didn’t stop him from targeting a few of the most dangerous kingpins’ men right under their noses. There was talk of him everywhere he went, about this brand new, shiny murderer, about how he had even the big players worried, about how he was ruthless and that there must be some kind of connection between all the bodies that had washed up on the grimy streets of the city.
Ridiculous. No one understood his mission. His philosophy on life wasn’t for the faint of heart, but he didn’t really need anybody to get it. He just needed people to stay the hell out of his way. He was doing charity work for every single one of the fools, freeing those he had chosen from the horrible world they pretended to survive under. Much like life, his killing patterns and those he chose to bestow his gift onto had no real connection, no real meaning- because there was no meaning to anything anybody did. It was all pointless. Vain attempts to pretend.
Given all that, he was pretty damn pissed when a burlap sack was dropped over his head, his hands pinned to his back, and his feet kicked out from under him in order to drag his writhing body into the back of a van.
How they had figured out it was him, he wasn’t too sure. But he was certain by the muffled conversations that they knew. Victor kicked his feet out, trying to get some idea of what kind of situation he was in, and was shoved. When he fell still and silent in response, the people who had grabbed him laughed. It made him burn with rage. He wasn’t someone to be laughed at.
“So much for deadly, huh?”
A man. With a Brooklyn accent, apparently. Victor stayed quiet, despite the anger boiling beneath his skin. Listening. Waiting. A predator before they pounced.
“I don’t know, man. It’s got to be him.”
A second man, undoubtedly italian. Interesting. Perhaps Maroni was behind this. He had picked off one of his accountants last week.
“Mr Sionis’ll go fucking nuts if it isn’t him.”
A third. From Gotham, for sure. Victor chewed the inside of his cheek. That wasn’t the important part. He didn’t know what Richard Sionis could possibly want with him, if he was honest. It was likely Zsasz had killed someone in his ranks, but that was only because half the men in the city were on the Sionis payroll. He didn’t really have a personal vendetta against the family- although his own parents hadn’t been too fond of them, something about how criminal activity was no way to keep a business afloat. How ironic, then, that their criminal son should end up blindfolded and tied up in the hands of Sionis muscle.
He forced himself to stop thinking about his parents. It had only been five months since the accident- not that Victor was convinced it was an accident at all- and the wound still felt as fresh as it had when it happened. The void inside him ached at even the thought.
Distraction came in the form of a rough break that sent him sliding to the end of the van, slamming against the metal sheet, and then hands were grabbing him again. He forced himself to kick a little, to try and wiggle out of it- but he wasn’t particularly worried about what would happen to him when the bag was removed from over his head. Three men, and a driver, was childsplay.
He mentally mapped out the blades he had on him while they continued to drag him, first across crunching gravel and then up some steps onto polished tiles, presumably. There was one strapped to his left thigh, one in his right sock, another hidden carefully under one of his short sleeves, and a fourth at his hip. Light by his standards, but he wasn’t planning on getting kidnapped that morning, if he was completely honest. And it was enough to provide some confidence in his ability to fight his way out if the situation became dangerous. Muscle was nothing compared to skill and fast feet. Men with guns didn’t scare him.
They forced him into a chair, and Victor thought it was unnecessary to tie his ankles to its legs, but it didn’t seem like he had much say in the matter. Fair. At least they were taking precautions, he did hate to be underestimated.
There was some murmuring, ruffles of papers, and the well-known click of a loaded gun barrel being pushed into place.
Victor hadn’t had this much excitement in weeks.
“Well, well, well- what do we have here?”
The bag was removed, and Zsasz kind of wished it hadn’t been, because the lights wherever he was being held were far too bright. He squinted at the figure in front of him. Tall, well-dressed, graying at the sides of his head. Richard Sionis, he thought, frowning slightly. He decided to stay silent. See how this played out.
“Not much of a talker, huh? Well, if you’re who I believe you to be, then I won’t have to make you talk. A nod or shake of the head is enough.”
Victor thought he was probably supposed to respond to this with relief. As if Richard sparing him torture was something he should get down on the floor and kiss his feet for. Zsasz had no patience for such men, though- he hadn’t even back when he ran his own business. The put-on confidence and the fake threatening lilt in their voices only served to piss him off. These were the kinds of people who would never truly understand his work, because they were always driven by the material, or a craving of power.
He kept his mouth shut, and stayed still- just to prove a point. No need to act yet.
“Very well, young man. I have some questions for you, if you don’t mind- hell, who cares? It doesn’t seem like you have much choice, does it?”
Victor shrugged, minimal and calculated and all angry tension in his muscles. Richard circled his chair. He tried not to fidget under the weight of his eyes although the hiding places of his weapons began to burn, that familiar itch creeping up his spine. Drive a knife into the bastards chest, just for being so condescending. He guesses he doesn’t hide his snarl well enough when Richard grips his chin, fingers pressing so hard into his jaw he thinks they’ll bruise, and forces him to look at him.
Respect, Zsasz thinks, is what keeps men like Richard Sionis breathing. He also believes that respect is rarely earned by bruising strangers. Not that he’ll ever understand the pursuit of something so trivial and delicate.
“Are you working for someone?” Richard demands, voice much less playful, now.
This is about business. And Victor knows he’s shown already that he doesn’t respond well to mind games. He shakes his head best he can with the vice grip on his face, and forces himself to meet Richard’s eyes. Cold, calculating- but fake. Something in there gives him away. He seems to find the answer to his liking, a small stretching across the lines at the corners of his mouth.
“Excellent. Would you like to?”
Victor gave himself a moment to consider it. If he was honest, he needed to find someone to even loosely contract him. He had no money. And, well- as much as he believed in his purpose, it felt directionless. A guided missile without a guide. Zsasz had found his meaning, but sometimes it felt like he’d only realised it halfway. As if he was waiting for something. The last missing piece to finally close the black hole that had opened inside him when the boat had started to sink.
He nodded, after a second- tentatively. Richard Sionis didn’t feel like the final piece. Not by a mile. But maybe it was the first step. Maybe it’d lead him to it.
At any rate, the grip on his face was dropped, and Richard clapped his hands, stood in front of Victor like a teacher about to scold him for his daydreaming.
“Fantastic. You are who I believe you to be, correct?”
Victor huffed, twisting his wrist to test how tightly he was bound. Pretty tight. He itched all over with the urge to arm himself properly. Then he collected himself, sliding a smirk onto his face as he looked up at Richard. A smug child deciding to be difficult.
“Who do you believe me to be?” Victor asked, enjoying the shock that flooded the confident figure at the sound of his voice.
People underestimated him. Always. He’d been told, once, by some drunken slob that he was about to kill, that he had the gravelly tone of a natural born killer. He supposed that was true, although he still sat on the fence when it came to deciding whether monsters were born or made.
Richard seemed to recollect his false confidence after a beat.
“The man who’s been causing all this trouble these last few months, slitting throats left and right. You’ve got everyone in quite a state of panic, you know.”
Good, Victor thought. He shifted and leaned back as best as he could, allowing his expression to become even more smug. He didn’t do it for notoriety, and he didn’t do it to incite chaos, but he couldn’t help enjoying the very idea that him and his small arsenal of knives had sent Gotham’s deadliest into a tailspin of security crackdowns.
“Then yeah, that’s me.”
“Who are you?”
“Victor. Zsasz.”
Richard fell silent again, pressing his finger to his lips in consideration, and Zsasz already knew what was coming. He felt his inside twist.
“Zsasz. I knew your parents. You’re about my son's age, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know your son.”
There was a small huff, and then Richard waved his hands.
“My boys will lead you to my office. Wait for me there, and we’ll go over your contract, yes? Yes, I think so.”
Victor gave up the urge of issuing a biting comment in favour of being released from the chair. Richard stalked off, legs long and strides purposeful, and Zsasz was almost calm. Almost.
And then some thug bastard decided to put his hands on him, and Victor acted without thinking, releasing the burning blade from his hip and stabbing it right through the man’s hand. The shriek was almost as satisfying as the pointed tip of his knife poking through. Good, clean stab. He could have smiled. He didn’t- instead, he yanked the knife out and heard the guy fall to the floor, still screaming, and turned to the rest of Richard Sionis’ men.
“Any one of you fucking touches me again, and I swear to God, I’ll gut all of you before you can fucking blink- got it?”
It would likely take even Zsasz longer than that, but nobody seemed to want to test the theory. They just lead him out of the door and up the stairs.
The office was big, and decorated in a way that made Victor feel ill. He hated it when the rich people felt the need to show off every single penny in their bank accounts by covering their walls in crap and filling shelves with things they would never use nor need. Although, he had to admit, he was rather drawn to Richard Sionis' collection of swords that hung on the far wall. He wandered over, running his hands along the embroidered sheaths, imagining the weight of the blades in his hands. What he could do with it.
He was two seconds from picking one up, just to feel it, when the door swung open so fast he thought it had fallen off it's hinges. His hand flew instinctively to his hip- just in case he was in some kind of trouble for slamming his blade through the idiotic thugs hand. He imagined Richard was rather protective of his men. Or maybe not. They were easily found, at the very least.
Turns out, he didn't have to attack, because the loud force of nature barely even noticed him. A tall stranger, in a suit far fancier than Victor had ever seen in his life, charged right up to the desk and threw himself into the plush chair behind it. It wasn't until he put his feet up on the desk- shiny, red-bottomed dress shoes, and probably super uncomfortable- that he even seemed to clock that Zsasz was present.
He stopped, mid-rant; something about a driver, and calling Richard 'Dick' with a surprising amount of venom. Victor took his hands away from the decorative weapons and shoved them in his pockets. There was a silence while the stranger studied him, taking his feet off the table and leaning forward, one eyebrow tipped upwards cockily. There was some kind of electricity in the air while they stared at each other, and Victor felt like an ant under a magnifying glass, about to catch fire.
"And who the hell are you?" He asked, jabbing his finger at Zsasz like it was an accusation. "I mean, I'm not surprised Dick's having an affair, but a guy? No way."
Victor choked on a laugh, still trying to find his footing with the other. His connection to Richard seemed personal. In fact, he looked exactly like how Zsasz would imagine Richard looked when he was his age. Young, beautiful, confident- a cocky kind of tilt in every single action, from the way he leaned back again in the chair, to the careful, solid stare on his face.
"He isn't my type."
"Answer the question."
Pretty, posh accent or not, Victor didn't like being spoken to like that unless he knew exactly who it was coming from. And even then, it was a push. He decided to wander closer, over to the open window, and lean against the wall as if he didn't care. As if he didn't feel some strange, magnetic pull into this guys orbit. He didn't answer for a second, and then turned- a challenge in his expression.
"Who are you?"
His face twitched, presumably anger, and there was a flicker of something across his face that Victor very nearly missed, but would later spend hours trying to figure out.
"Roman," he answered, measured, as if he was fighting the urge to lash out already- if nothing else, he was going to be fun to wind up. "Roman Sionis."
Ah. There it was. An explanation of the confident, easy demeanour, the perfectly styled hair, the suit that cost more than a years rent on Victor's shitty downtown apartment. Roman Sionis. Son of the billionaire.
Infinitely more handsome, though. And there was nothing false about his disposition. As if the world was waiting with baited breath for him to tap his knuckles against the table like he did. Victor didn't jump.
"What, are you some kind of fucking mute freak? Do you not have a name?"
He really did seem scandalised by the delayed response. Usually, that would piss Zsasz off. He really wasn't much of a talker- especially not small talk- and as far as he was aware, Roman wasn't paying him.
But it didn't. It didn't piss him off. In fact, it only made him more interested. And made him want to push all the guy's buttons, just to watch him explode. There was something just under his skin, and Victor wanted to know what it was so badly it was insane.
"Victor Zsasz. New hire."
He didn't offer his hand, and neither did Roman. His face did light up though. He got out of the seat and came to Victor's position at the window, leaning to push the top open before giving Zsasz an almost-cruel once-over.
"You're him, aren't you?"
Maybe it showed in his face, because Roman seemed to take half a step back, but Victor really was sick of that fucking question. His jaw tightened and he nodded, electing to ignore the flicker in his chest at the idea that Roman knew who he was. Or even just knew his work. He wasn't the type to go chasing after rich prettyboys or to hinge his value on the opinions of someone so out of touch.
Roman didn't indicate any further that he'd noticed. Instead, he leaned against the other side of the window and began to dig around the pockets of his pale pink jacket. Victor watched with vague interest- and then even more interest when Roman produced a pack of Sobranie cigarettes. The black ones. He took one, slid it between his lips, and then shook the box in Victor's direction.
"Thanks," he mumbled, taking one for himself, something telling him that this was going to get him in shit with his new boss.
He turned to ask for a light and nearly singed his eyebrows off. Roman stood, leaning forward, the lighter flicked and bright, offering Victor the flame. The shock lasted for a second before he leaned in, holding the tip to the fire.
It felt, strangely, significant- he just couldn't put his finger on why, or how. He decided to ignore it, following Roman's piercing gaze to the gravel driveway below them.
"Just like old Dick to need to get his grubby hands on Gotham's latest hellraiser- that's you, by the way," Roman said, his tone so conversational it was easy to miss that he was talking to a now-known serial killer.
"Thanks for confirming," Zsasz replied without thinking, mouth working quicker than his brain. "I thought someone was after my crown."
Roman laughed, and it was like nothing Victor had ever heard before. He looked beautiful- held tilted back, strong, straight white teeth bared almost purposefully. Zsasz really, really hoped this wasn't what he thought it was.
"You don't strike me as a guy who does it for notoriety. For one, you don't even have a calling card. Just how many of the recent bodies were your doing?"
"The last two months? Roughly 20."
Exactly 23, actually. He had been busy. 23 bodies, or missing persons, or ignored junkies in alleyways. 23 marks in his skin.
Roman grinned, looking at him, and Victor itched. He really did smile with all his teeth. Like a snarling animal. It was gorgeous. Exciting.
"Roughly 20! That's crazy. Are you crazy?"
He punctuated this by tapping his finger against his head, crossing his eyes a little, and it was the most boyish display Victor had ever seen. Something in him began to shift. Like when his body warned him he was in trouble, but different. He hated it immediately.
"I'm not crazy," he said, particularly defensive, because his philosophy was not much crazier than religion. "Not by my standards, anyways."
"Anyway."
Victor couldn't help but laugh at that. No one had corrected him on his pronunciation for years. He could have slapped Roman for the audacity. Instead, he shrugged, flicking his ash out of the open window. Then he turned back to the prettyboy himself.
"So what's your deal?"
"Pardon?"
"Your deal," Zsasz repeated, leaning just a little more casually against the wall. "You don't seem to be a big fan of your dad. That kind of thing."
"My 'deal' is that I don't share my life story with strangers."
"A guy like you loves to talk about himself."
There it was again- that crackling electricity. Roman scoffed, as if Victor wasn't correct. Of course he was. Pretty, rich men like Roman Sionis were all about themselves.
"Well. Um-"
Victor snorted, shrugging. It only made him more determined to push his buttons. To make him snap. See exactly what could ruffle the composed statue in front of him.
"Or don't tell me. You're right. We're strangers. And I honest to God don't really care."
Roman scowled. He definitely wasn't used to taking as good as he gave.
"You should be so fucking lucky as to hear me talk about anything, Mr Zsasz. The fact you're standing in my presence should make you feel fucking blessed as it is."
There was a venom there that Victor liked. He wanted more of it. Wanted to poke and prod and see what made Roman Sionis tick. Follow him until he figured it out. Get inside his proverbial (possibly physical) guts- under his perfect, polished skin.
"Right. Yeah- I feel fucking enlightened. Yeah."
"You've got an attitude problem."
"Gee, thanks teach."
Roman stared at him in calculated silence. Not that Victor would know, but they were asking themselves the exact same questions- why haven't I punched him yet? Why hasn't he punched me?
The crunch of wheels against gravel caught both their attention, and Roman's serious glare switched instantly into a grin that could only be described as troublemaking.
As if the world was his stage and Roman, the star performer.
"Well, this has been nice, Mr Zsasz, but I don't want to deal with the asshole right now. Think you'll stick around?"
Yes. Yes, for as long as it takes to figure you out. To dig my nails under your skin and find what's really there. Who you really are. Because you've already pulled me into your orbit and I need to know how. I'm immovable. Usually.
"Maybe."
Roman grinned at that, and stood up straight. He shoved his cigarette into Victor's free hand.
"See you around, Victor Zsasz," he said, and it would have been easier to register it as a threat if he hadn't flashed those pearly whites at the exact same time.
Zsasz watched him leave, surprised that he wanted to follow, and then dropped both of the cigarettes out of the window at the exact time Richard closed his car door.
Good start.