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At the stroke of midnight on an otherwise normal day, the hit went public.
Instructions were sent to every known person known to be involved in the blackmarket elimination game.
The target? None other than billionaire playboy and Gotham celebrity Bruce Wayne.
This was not bizarre. There is no billionaire in the world who doesn’t have a line up of people who want them dead. Bruce Wayne owned a major company that was known to anger other wealthy elites, merely for the audacity of being remotely decent, so there was no question that he had enemies with deep pockets. However, a normal hit on a billionaire would be carefully worded, with specific instructions for subtlety and rules to follow to earn the cheque.
This hit was nothing of the sort.
It was insanely lucrative, and even more important, it was a true dealer’s choice. No rules, no guidelines. Just proof of death and any assassin would find themselves 100 million dollars richer.
It was almost perfect, so of course, there was a catch.
There was an unspoken rule amongst the regular hitmen and mercenaries and everyday assassins of the world: Gotham City was left to the idiots in colourful masks and costumes who liked to antagonize actual superheroes. If you were a typical black-ops-turned-blacker-ops ex-soldier trying to make your mark, you knew to leave Gotham hits to the likes of the real “villainous” mercenaries. Everyone knew that Gotham was a different beast, and if you weren’t anyone special, the Bat and his army of terror would eat you alive.
So, of course, the catch was Gotham. Bruce Wayne’s hometown and the one demand of the contract. The billionaire needed to die on his own turf.
Thus formed the real dilemma: was Gotham worth the risk for a once in a lifetime payout?
As it turned out, for everyone who heeded the whispered warnings of the city, another answered the siren’s call.
***
The sniper figured that Bruce Wayne would make an easy enough target that he could be in and out of Gotham before any of the city’s resident crazies noticed him. He was really good at what he did, his time as a black ops agent having made him a professional at the quick and quiet kill.
Given his skills, and the simplicity of the hit, the sniper knew that the payoff would be worth the risk.
Besides, Bruce Wayne wasn’t even remotely difficult to track. After only two days of surveillance, the sniper knew his daily movements were unnaturally consistent. You would think that the wealthiest man in the city would do something to obfuscate his presence, but Wayne seemed unaffected by the fact that thanks to the gossip rags, half the city seemed to know where he was at any given point. Even better, Wayne travelled with barely any security despite living in the most dangerous city in the country, one where he was regularly kidnapped. Wayne Tower itself was likewise unsecure, to the point that the sniper was beginning to believe that Wayne was truly as stupid as the tabloids made him out to be.
All in all, it was a dream gig that he simply could not pass up just because people were afraid of a man who dresses like a bat to fight crime.
So it was fair to say the sniper was incredibly confident as he set up his nest from a building adjacent to Wayne Tower. He had a perfect view of Wayne’s office, which itself had so many windows that the sniper could track Wayne’s movements the entire time.
As he looked through his scope, he could see Wayne sit at his desk, just as he had the day before. Patiently, he waited for Wayne to drift off, head down on his expensive desk.
Perfect. The man would never see his death coming.
The sniper took a breath. Lined up his shot. Exhaled. Fired.
And missed.
Not because his aim had been off―his aim was never off― but because despite having been deep asleep at his desk for nearly an hour, Wayne had fallen from his chair the instant before the bullet would’ve pierced his skull.
What the hell?
The sniper was stunned, frozen in a way that he had never before been in the middle of a job. All he could do was continue staring as Wayne stood up dazedly, glancing around the room until he found the bullet hole in his window. He walked over to the glass, and then two things happened simultaneously.
Wayne looked up, and impossibly given the distance, seemed to stare right into the sniper’s scope, fucking winking as he did.
And a sharp pain exploded in the back of the sniper’s head as someone stuck him from behind.
As he felt himself fade from consciousness, the sniper could just make out a voice speaking above him.
“How stupid do you have to be to take on a contract in Gotham, and try to kill someone in the middle of the day? Bet you don’t even have a fancy name.”
***
Word on the street was that someone had already been caught by a Bat, the day one, trying to collect on the Bruce Wayne contract.
The poisoner however, was sure that where others went overt, subtlety was the way to succeed in Gotham. Poison required fitness and care, and she was the best at what she did.
It helped that Bruce Wayne was the perfect target, Gotham be damned.
Despite his wealth, minor surveillance revealed that Wayne ordered takeout from Batburger to his office every Thursday when he stayed late at the office. He’d recently made headlines for purchasing a series of franchises around the city only to turn around and re-sell to the previous owners at a fraction of the price. As a show of good faith, he continued to support the restaurants himself.
Wayne was also known to trust his employees, from his personal assistants to the teen interns at his company. As such, he insisted that the young people who delivered his food not be put through any rigorous security clearance despite also insisting that they personally deliver his food to his office.
This, the poisoner thought, was incredibly stupid and naive, but it was a weakness that she was more than happy to exploit.
So, she started from the ground up. She got a job at one of Wayne’s favoured Batburgers without even needing to use her fake references or IDs. It felt like a shame to waste a perfectly constructed alias on such a banal position. Yet, sure enough, a mere day after being hired, the poisoner was handed Wayne’s order and told to deliver it as quickly as possible.
From there, it was laughably simple.
A couple of drops of her favourite killer cocktail, and Wayne would be done for in a few bites. His “heart attack” would be just so tragic, but well, you know what they say about fast food.
They didn’t even blink at her twice as she arrived at Wayne Tower. Security just sent her up to the top floor, and told her that Wayne liked to meet any new delivery drivers in person. The poisoner was delighted, as she so rarely got to see her work all the way through to the end.
Exiting the elevator, she strode up to Wayne, sure to play up her “nerves”. As she met Wayne, she went through the motions of her character, playing the part and hiding her giddiness. Finally, she watched, enthralled, as Wayne took a bite of his food.
She waited for the moment to come. She counted in her head, prepared her exclamation for help, and eagerly bided the moment that Wayne would keel over.
She waited some more.
Nothing happened.
The poisoner was dismayed. Had she miscalculated the dosage? No, she was too good for that. Had Wayne switched the food somehow? Please, that idiot had been in front of her the whole time.
Unable to comprehend her error, the poisoner found herself standing awkwardly in front of the man she had failed to kill.
With a tense farewell, she bolted, though not so fast to arouse suspicion. She made it back to the Batburger-branded car, and slammed the door open.
As she sat there shaking, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of her failure. She felt like a mess.
Then, something touched her shoulder and the poisoner screamed.
“Hey now, you wouldn’t want someone to think you’re being murdered in here or something,” a voice spoke from behind her.
She hadn’t checked the backseat. What a rookie mistake.
The poisoner turned slowly and deliberately. “What do you want? I don’t have money, but―you―you can take the car.” She pushed a quiver into her voice, praying that this was a regular criminal and not one of those Gotham freaks.
“Nice try,” the voice said, “But I’m not here for money. I’m here for the idiot assassin who thought that taking on a contract in Gotham was a good idea.”
The last thing she saw before the world went dark was a masked face as one of those insane Gotham vigilantes stared down at her with blatant disregard.
“I mean, what kind of professional killer is stupid enough to even consider working in Gotham? It's like, not even a remotely viable mode of operation.
***
Apparently, more and more would-be-assassins were slowly disappearing. The chemist was not concerned.
He was certain that the road to success was paved in the fact that the contract had no stipulations about collateral damage. If he went big enough, he would simply be a ghost amongst his created chaos. And as the chemist was well aware, there was little that was better for creating chaos and devastation than chemical weapons.
Air, after all, was something that no one could live without.
It just so happened that the perfect opportunity to strike was right around the corner. A Wayne Charity Gala was set to be held in an old historic building downtown. The event would be full of Gotham elite, including the host Bruce Wayne himself. Not only would Wayne be confined to a tight space all night, but so would the rest of Gotham’s upper echelon, many of whom carried their own contracts. In one grand swoop, the chemist would be able to fund his work for the rest of his career.
In preparation, the chemist worked hard to perfect his toxin, and created uniquely subtle diffusers. A perfect blend of nerve toxins, the elite would stand no chance once it entered the air. He tweaked it so it was just unique enough to bypass all common antidotes.
The gala itself was fascinatingly easy to break into, and the chemist began to understand why these events were rather a hotbed for villainous attacks. It was all too easy to hide his devices and cameras all over the ballroom and then set up in an empty room to wait for the right moment.
At the stroke of midnight, he donned his gas mask and hit the detonator, ready to admire his handiwork.
The ballroom filled with noxious gas, and the chemist watched eagerly as his glorious efforts filled the air. He was ready to see it all play out, the pain as the richest people in the city would start convulsing―
Wait.
No one was screaming or rolling on the floor in pain.
Frustrated, the chemist switched cameras quickly, only to find that every single person in the ballroom had donned what appeared to be slim, portable gas masks. They were unlike any he had ever seen before, and many of the guests had apparently matched their masks to their outfits.
The chemist could only sit in his improvised den and watch in stunned defeat as the gala guests continued to mingle as though the room wasn’t full of deadly gas.
He didn’t even bother to move as a needle pricked his neck.
“Are you truly such an imbecile that you did not do any research into Gotham’s history with chemical weapons before coming here?” A voice, oddly young, scolded him as the room began to spin. “The others were idiots but you are truly moronic if you think airborne toxins are a new idea in this city. Clearly this is the type of pea-brained peasant that thinks it is a good idea to attempt an assassination in Gotham of all places.”
***
The swordsman figured a direct, hand-on approach would differentiate him from the many others who were said to have already failed. He knew that there was nothing more trustworthy than his own hand, wielding his perfect blade. Relying on others, be it bullet or poison, was no guarantee. No, the swordsman would succeed because he would personally see Bruce Wayne’s last breath.
Now, the swordsman was good, he had to be in his line of work, but he wasn’t an egotistical maniac or one of those whispered-about Shadows. He was good enough to operate, but certainly not good enough to cross the line and draw a hero’s attention. This was a truth about himself that he knew, and he was fine with it. He didn’t need a fancy name or costume to get his job done. He just needed to be better than Wayne.
And he most definitely was, thank you very much.
His plan was simple. Jump Wayne during his end of the day coffee run (what kind of billionaire orders his own coffee?), introduce his sword to Wayne’s neck, and get paid. Easy Peasy.
So the swordsman waited, perched to move the second that Wayne made his way past the dark alley that the swordsman was currently inhabiting.
Sure enough, right on schedule, Wayne emerged from Wayne Tower with no a bodyguard in sight. He immediately headed towards the cafe that any gossip column could tell you was Wayne’s favourite. The swordsman was the predator, and Wayne was the prey, unknowingly walking into the spider’s web.
The swordsman dashed forward. He moved swiftly, raised his sword, and swung at Wayne’s head. But instead of making contact like it should have, the sword completely missed Wayne’s head, which had suddenly lowered as the man dropped to one knee to tie his shoe.
It was insane, and practically slapstick, but given that Wayne was still alive despite the price on his head, it did make sense that he was just that kind of lucky. At least Wayne seemed to have completely missed the attack on his life, the rich idiot that he was.
Undeterred, the swordsman moved to lunge again, only for his momentum to be abruptly cut off as another blade―no, a wooden sword, like a practice blade―crossed with his own. Bracing himself, the swordsman prepared to fight off this amateur assailant. Yet, as he shifted his gaze from the now departing Wayne to try to find them, there was nothing to see.
He felt something tap his sword again, but there was only a shadow, moving in the darkness of the alley. He tried to fend off this opponent, to regain his composure―maybe he could still track down Wayne― but it was no use. Within moments he felt his sword clatter to the ground unceremoniously.
The shadow moved, and now he could just make out the tell-tale bat ears that adorned their head.
“Stupid,” the shadow chided, and then the world went black as their pommel made contact with the back of the swordsman's skull.
***
Apparently, the Bats were on the scene. It wasn’t really a surprise, so it didn’t particularly deter the driver from executing her plan. See, unlike what she assumed was the case for most people attempting this hit, the driver was not swayed by the open-ended contract. She knew what worked, and what she was best at was a perfectly staged scene.
After all, car accidents can happen so easily.
Now, it would be easy enough to simply run Wayne off the road on the dark drive between the city center and Wayne Manor. But the driver was a professional, so she was extra prepared. She had the perfect vehicle for the job, an hulk of a truck made to look normal enough, but so reinforced that it might as well have been a battering ram of a tank. In her wonderful monstrosity of a car, there was no way that she would be the one hurting after the collision.
From there, it was easy to set up on the only road out towards Wayne Manor, and wait until the tell-tale engine of Wayne’s custom Ferrari to come barreling down the road. It hadn’t taken much research at all to learn that Wayne always drove himself, and in fact had talked at length in many interviews about his love for driving. With him at the wheel, there was no way their head-on collision could be anything but deadly.
Lights appeared in the distance, and the driver prepared herself. She hit the gas and raced toward the oncoming car, ready to ram straight into it. She continued to accelerate, until the moment of truth came and she swerved hard into Wayne’s car, bracing herself for the impact.
The driver had done this so many times before, that she knew exactly what to expect after the collision, how to re-maneuver herself and speed off.
So, of course, she was absolutely not prepared for her own car to be the one sent careening off the road.
It was only her years of experience that allowed her to maneuver away from the most deadly of trees and obstacles, until she was finally stopped by crashing into a smaller tree on the passenger side.
The driver had been in many crashes in her day, but this time she felt for the first time like she was actually going into shock.
What the fuck had just happened? What kind of insane car was Wayne driving? Nothing in its specs had shown any modifications like that.
Still dazed, the driver tried to open her door, only to realize it had been crushed shut somewhere along the way. Unable to think with her pounding concussive headache, the driver resigned herself to collapsing into her seat. She was bleeding and was most definitely concussed, but she was somehow alive.
In her disoriented state, the driver couldn’t even get herself to react when a light shone outside her window and the sounds of a motorcycle drew near.
Already, she could feel her consciousness fading away as a hulking figure approached her wreck.
“Jesus fuck,” a mechanized voice exclaimed just outside her window, “What kind of idiot doesn’t assume that the most high-profile man in Gotham would have an extra special car? And I thought you were supposed to be a professional. But I guess if you were stupid enough to come to Gotham, I shouldn’t really expect you to be all that smart. Cuz what kind of fucking moron takes a contract in Gotham?”
As she lost consciousness, the driver couldn’t help but agree.
***
On a Gotham rooftop, interesting only in its direct view of the fancy Wayne Tower, a mercenary silently observed the comically terrible attempts that the other would-be assassins had made.
“Do I need to be concerned that you’re next up to bat?” asked a bird, landing silently beside him.
The mercenary looked nonplussed.
“The hit would need to be triple what it is before I even thought about trying to off Wayne,” he stated plainly, “I know he’s not as easy to kill as he looks.”
“It is a lot of money though,” the bird mused, a hard smile on his face, “I figured maybe you were tired of being all up in Batman’s business you might want a change in pace.”
“I know better than to accept a fake contract. So was it detective work or training?”
Nightwing smirked. “Who says it can't be both? And it’s not like any of those idiots noticed.”
“Those children thought working in Gotham was a good idea,” Deathstroke intoned. “They aren’t an accurate sample.”
“Hey now, don’t get mad at me, contract killing is your thing. If you don’t want them crossing the line, that’s your problem.”
Deathstroke glared.
Nightwing continued smirking.
“So are we fighting today or are you gonna leave and tell all those idiots to stay the hell out of Gotham? Because we can fight, but we both know I’m going to win, and I’d rather not go through the hassle.
The mercenary and the bird stared each other down.
“Get the fuck out of my city, Slade.”
The bird won. The mercenary left.
Soon enough, a violent reminder was made that Gotham is off limits to regular old hired killers.
After all, only insane people work in Gotham. The regular idiots simply don’t stand a chance.