The Iceberg Lounge

by Michele | Nov 26, 2017 | Chronicles

Tim: Yesterday was a pretty terrible day in the life of being a Hero. Not just in Gotham, but everywhere. My friends have had it rough of late. Damien’s mother is being held hostage by the Clown Prince of Crime. Dinah’s ex was actually arrested and taken to a Black Site somewhere. Cassie and my super friends were off battling for their lives with Isis, the Egyptian Goddess. While some things played out in to happier endings that they began with? Not everything went well. Damien had killed again. Only this time it wasn’t going to be so easy for him to wash the blood off of his hands. This time, he needs help. Real help.

Which brings me here. So on the list of things in my life that I never thought I’d get to do? This is one of them. Taking an expensive luxury yacht out on to the Bay? I’ve done that before, but tonight’s company is a little different. Guys, let me tell you something. Black Canary might kick your ass in under three seconds. She might break your bones. Grind them in to dust. Snuff it up and spit you out again. But she sure cleans up well. Hot Damn. When I’d told Alfred to find her something appropriate to wear. Something that she’d still have a lot of free movement? Well, I just hadn’t thought he’d put her in something right out of a James Bond movie. The entire boat-ride out, I’d had nothing but trouble focusing on my computers. I’ve never seen a dress with the cut in the legs going up so high.

Are those stilettos? Gulp! It had taken at least three attempts to put the little micro-ear piece in place, because Canary’s boobs are at least six inches higher than normal. Which puts them right about… Hominahominahomina. One can only be so grateful for Alfred’s bone ass elbows and their precision strikes to kidneys at just the right time to stop a fellow from drooling. Because. Wow. I decided not to even try to helping her find a place from the telescoping quarter staff. I felt it was better for my ego not to even make that attempt and trip on my own feet, because I can’t excuse that with ‘the ears’ being too tall or the cape being too long.

By the time we arrive at the Iceberg lounge, they’re expecting us. No. That’s not quite right. They’re expecting me. Son of Bruce Wayne. Who’s being escorted by a veritable flock of birds. Each one as beautiful as Dinah Lance. I don’t even know where Alfred found them, but he muttered something about the being ‘Lucky’ that the ‘Royal Family’ had a showing in the area. I’m not even sure who that is, but I’m sure happy that Alfred seems to know everything, because they complete the ensemble. Getting the Wealthiest Son of the Wealthiest Family in the door. Giving Dinah a cover to getting past the first and arguably best part of the Iceberg’s defense.

Once we’re past the checkpoints, with the guards who are too busy oogling the girls to worry about the rich kid who brought them? It’s on to the actual Casino. Where I can deploy my cufflink drones and with a tap upon the corner of my needless reading glasses? I’m going to have eyes in the sky, everywhere. As with any Casino, once you’re inside if you’re going to gamble? You need a line of credit. Luckily for the Rich People, we don’t have to wait in line. We get taken on tours. We get shown around and all the leg work is done for us. You guessed it. I’m the distraction.

Penny-One’s calm, melodious voice is ever reassuring in their ears. ::Drones are in place, Ms. Lance. Interfacing with the security system now. Wait for Master Timothy to make a show of his checkbook. And… now. You’re free to break away from the group.::

Dinah: I’ve had a whole day to get over being nearly blown up/crashed into by a Batplane and past a whole lot of drinking. It’s much more than I need. If anything, a good near death experience has a tendency to get me all fired up for another one in rapid order. I suppose depending upon how this goes it may qualify. If you want a measuring stick of exactly how seriously I’m taking tonight’s task, however? Point A. I’d not only allowed someone else to pick out clothes for me, but agreed to wear a dress in the first place. Point B. There’d been minimal grousing (and what there was, was good natured) about being shipped off to be primped. Point C. I’m only moderately making this awkward for Tim on purpose.

It’s not that I don’t know how to ‘girl.’ I just don’t bother most of the time. Frankly I don’t need to, and I know I don’t need to. Nor is it really my taste, personally. I’m also the kind of girl that would normally get a little outraged about a Wane-tourage groupie having to look a certain way, because damn the man and then physically correct him of those false notions. This isn’t a normally kind of situation though. I get in the door, by not being noticed, by getting in the door looking like all I want is to be noticed by a very specific sort of very rich man. And I’ve got a whole gaggle of other ‘like-minded’ ladies to compete with.

I have to hand it to Alfred, though. He knows his slinky black dresses, and that they should come equipped with thigh holsters. The trip to the salon had left me buffed, polished, and shined until blonde hair almost competes with the metal on the staff that went into said thigh holster. I’m not new to stilettos or this might have made for an entirely awkward experience. You know. For someone other than Timothy Wayne, who I could practically use for an armrest right now. So maybe the heels were a little overkill. I suppose it plays into making him look like someone to be underestimated, when his date’s legs are about as long as he is tall. Slight over-exaggeration. Emphasis on the slight.

Getting inside is no trouble at all. They’re looking at me, oh are they looking, but they’re not looking at me. This may be the only night this month that is exactly what I want.

“By that I assume you mean Black Amex, because I’m fairly sure no one uses an actual checkbook anymore.”

Purring at Alfred isn’t my normal kind of gig, I mean. I’ll flirt with him about food, but otherwise there’s a line. But it keeps my voice low, as I do exactly that. Break away from the group. Take a slow, slinky meander around the casino. I’m not here to talk to just anybody though. And that particular waddling someone, who is even shorter than my own date, isn’t likely to be down here on the main floor with the shmucks. Fortunately, said Date’s tour of the place is going to get us into a better location. This place may have plenty of rich people, through work, inheritance or corruption, but it only has one Wayne right now.

There’s no sign of the misadventures that had clearly happened here. I’m sure that was cleaned up and wiped away within hours of it going down. Doesn’t do good business for the Penguin if people have reminders of what can, and does, happen in Gotham when the crazies get a bug up their ass. So I blend with the other hopeful eye candy. Staying in any place only long enough to flirt, make eyes, and move on, clearly not satisfied with my selection at any one place.

Tim: The easy part was getting in, the hard part is finding what we’re after. This place is actually pretty huge. We’d looked at the official blueprints, but that only lists three floors. The central floor, which is as large as any civic center you’ve ever seen. Room enough to be broken in to four sections, each large enough to contain hundreds of people. There’s the Casino itself, which dominates the center of the Iceberg itself. All along the outer edge of the Iceberg is something for everyone. A show room, where there was a small cadre of Dancers or Singers performing. Tonight seems to be some sort of famous Burlesque ensemble dance with men and women doing some rather unseemly things with their outlandish props. A restaurant and bar that could easy sit a dinner party for the social elite to dine or allow for some ornery curmudgeons to get a drink, somehow all within the confines of the same place.

Overseeing it all is the second story. Considered a V.I.P. area, one doesn’t simply meander up there without being important. Enter the reason for this particular version of a costume tonight. That is where, after seeing what the lower level has to offer, the entourage is eventually escorted too. The tour is being given by a young woman, named Lark, who could have easily given Dinah a run for her money as one of the prettiest of the bunch. She shows them about with the flare of an experienced sales person. Hitting the high points, while downplaying the lows. Up to the second level where we get to see how the ‘Other Side’ of life actually lives.

In the V.I.P. area there is a bar that positively dominates the entirety of a single wall. Once more the floor is divided, but this time it is clear that this is far more about the High Rollers. With the tables being occupied by fewer people, with almost no onlookers. It’s quieter up here for that. Allowing those few who can afford it to play in peace. Or play with one another, in games that host larger bets than Dinah has ever seen at one time in her whole life. On the other side there is not merely the show of Dancers, but the opportunity for a much more private showing in and of itself. Each dancer has a partner. A well paying partner that is taking them to perfectly lighted booths that allow for anonymity, in spite of being in public.

::Alright, Ms. Lance show time. The drones have located Cobblepot. He’s on level three. There’s a small door leading to a stairwell. You can find the door near the southern most stage. Where a young ‘Candy’ is currently engaged in dancing. With a pole. My word. They sure grow them limber in Lithuania.::

“I’ll create a distraction. You’ll know it when you see.”

My voice is as low as it goes without trying to do my Batman impression. A soft whisper between ‘Ooh’ and ‘Ahh’ of being shown around such an immaculate place. This is really no place for a Kid my age, I can’t even drink legally, but they don’t seem to worried about that. I guess money talks, in a place like this one. Why not? A couple years ago most of the people who work here were getting punched in the face by the Batman for one criminal enterprise of another. If you really think about it, this is a big step up for the Penguin and his lot.

Distractions come in many forms. Mine happens to come in the form of adjusting my tie. Which allows a momentary sleight of hand. Touching a wrist mounted controller, that keys the drones in to a new protocol. Which I’ve oh-so-helpfully named ‘Jackpot.’ Three of the four drones, each one formerly a cuff-link to my suit, immediately go in to action. One finds a slot machine. The player of whom is quickly rewarded with a jackpot. Another takes a momentary position needed to deploy a dart. Which strikes a burlesque dancer in the backside. Moments later she tumbles face first off the stage, in to a group of slobbering men who’d been only to happy to catch her. A third does the same, to a passing waitress. Causing her a misstep that sends her directly in to the path of Lark and her tour. As she stumbles, Lark bumps in to her. Sending her drinks all over the two of us.

Leaving me to cut of the quick round of apologies, “No no. It’s alright. Is there somewhere can ‘clean up?'” The way in which my brow quirks, is just so that I’m suggesting this Lark might be interested in helping me detox my suit.

::Very good Master Timothy. He’s only been trying to use this protocol he wrote for five years. Merciful heavens, that we’ve never had to endure this before.::

Dinah: All of this seems a little unnecessary to me. The sales pitch, when we’re already here, but I suppose one has to know all the possible delights before they can really know what they’re going to enjoy. Or not. And then avoid the ones that might make for a poor experience that would prevent a return of them, and more importantly, their wallets. The eye candy job is the same either way. Less potential distractions up in the VIP area, just higher caliber distractions. Must be positively panic inducing for everyone. Except me. I’m sure working with the benefit of knowing I’m in no danger of being passed over, because I’m here on a mission and not because I’m trying to move it on up in the world.

Higher value client, means higher value entertainment. It also means less beautiful faces and leggy dresses to blend in with. Good thing this isn’t the BatCo’s first rodeo.

“The Eastern Europeans don’t exactly have a corner on that market you know, Penny-One.”

Spoken behind a hand that’s ostensibly covering a giggle that would make me want to gag if I had to listen to much of it being done by someone else. Clearly, ‘Young Master Wayne’ has just said something terribly cheeky. That I had to bend down to hear. Tim? Doesn’t do things in half measures. Because distraction is putting it very lightly. More like a mini-disaster. One of these mishaps would have been sufficient. Two might be overdoing. The rest is definitely overkill. I’d say the set of Tim’s brow means he’d been hanging out with his friend Conner too much, except that I doubt that influence was needed. He had the rest of his family to teach him Playboy long before he left for Metropolis. And it makes for my cue to conveniently wander off. Not wasting time, which means perfecting a certain kind of gait. You rush? You get attention. You dawdle? Too long an amount of time for someone to not notice where you’re off to.

It’s only once I’m through the door by the pole dancer’s stage that I allow myself a snigger as I start up the stairs on the balls of my feet to avoid the clatter of heels. It’s only a slight tip forward in these, since they more or less already have me on my toes.

“Making plans for strip clubs at a rather tender age, weren’t you? Maybe if you’re a good boy I’ll take you to a real one when we’re done here.”

One flight of stairs is no problem, I make quick work of it without breaking a sweat and messing up my hair and/or makeup.

“Where to once I’m through this door?”

I never like going blind, if I can help it. That’s how you get surprised. I need a direction and quickly, because one has to assume that since I came from VIP? This is the staff floor, and no guests allowed. There’ll be no blending. Only getting where I need to be, with as little interference as possible.

Tim: To my credit? I don’t answer Dinah right away. Instead I manage to keep up the ruse, by virtue of focus. Playing it through to being shown to a small side room. Where Lark is able to help me take off my coat, in order to assist with cleaning the spilled drink off of the suit. She seems supremely confident about her ability to convince me not to leave, immediately, after being accosted in a such manner. Promising to demote or even fire the inattentive waitress. Both things I’ve got carefully worded declines for. Since I wouldn’t want someone being fired for no other reason than being a witless dupe in our scheme.

At the point of Lark offering to pour us proper drinks? Another little sleight of hand is all it takes to spike her drink with a little something that’s going to take her out of the equation. All I have to do is make an honest gentlemanly offer of doing that for us, while suggestively mentioning that she should get ‘more comfortable.’

“I think I’d rather like that,” is the answer to Dinah, but at the same time a very smarmy little suggestion to Lark as I pass her the spiked drink. Strip Club with Dinah sounds like a bucket list item.

Once up the staircase Dinah finds herself in a small hallway with only four doors. Two on the right side. One on the left side. One at the end. Only the singular door to the left is marked, ‘Private Elevator.’ However the one at the end of the Hall has an obvious security system to it, with a visible keypad needed for starters.

::Drone-3 has determined that Cobblepot is in the office on the right. First door. There are six heat signatures inside. One of which is Cobblepot. Two of which are … eh… Penguins. Emperor Penguins to be precise. The other three appear to be one male, two females. Average height, weight and over all build. Everyone in the room has a weapon, Ms. Lance. And I do mean everyone. Including the Penguins.::

Dinah: “I’m sure you would. We’ll have to pick you up a stack of grubby ones, though. Don’t know that your plastic is going to sing quite the same way.”

Also potentially less going to want to bandy about the ‘Wayne’ part of his name, but that’s not really the point. Or the matter at hand. I just like carrying on a conversation while I’m ‘working,’ and I’m about to hit the point of the night where I probably won’t be doing an awful lot of it. At least, not to Alfred and Tim. Now, the kind of talking that’s coming up very quickly here could go one or two ways.

“Do we know what the door at the end of the hall is? I’d like a secondary exit, ideally. It’s got a keypad though, and would need disabling. Or a code. So I’m betting goods, shinies, and illegal things.”

Option One. Guns blazing. Them, not me. In which case, this is going to the action route and fists doing the talking really quickly. The staff whipped out literally and physically. I’d actually prefer to avoid Option One. It complicates matters, and I’m not here alone. If I were, I’d be less worried about it but I have a whole bevy of other souls to get off this ‘berg with me. Still. Less desirable doesn’t mean planned for. A doorway gives me a point to originate a wide cone of of sonic force, with zero innocents in the line of fire. No. The Penguins aren’t innocents. Obviously. They have guns.

“Going in.”

Option Two. There’s a chat. Maybe friendly. Maybe not. Depends how persuasive I am, and how persuaded my opponent wants to be. Not actually my preferred method of talking to people like are waiting for me on the other side here. Less likely to potentially get me shot. Unless they open fire anyway. Which is why I’m not just going to throw this door open, no matter how much I might like to. Situating myself in front of the door, I take a moment to adjust myself. The dress, tugged into proper order, holster checked just in case, and blonde hair given a little bit of fluffing, and then arranging, before I give a delicate rap on the door.

“Mr. Cobblepot? My name’s Di. I have a business proposition for you.”

That tone of voice has probably only ever been used to say those words in adult films. Or maybe for a pizza delivery but this isn’t exactly the time or place for that.

Penguin: ::Drones are unable to scan the interior of that door, Ms. Lance. The second door however is interesting. It would seem to be something of a private media room. Perhaps where the Penguin watches his Red Box rentals? However, as secondary exits go you’re not lacking for choices. Back down the stairs. Down the elevator. There is also, of course, former Master Wayne’s exit of choice. The windows.::

By Windows Alfred means the large ones lining the entire wall of the Penguin’s office. Two of the walls in fact. One overlooks the interior of the Casino. While the other looks out in to Gotham Harbor, where the Iceberg Lounge sets as an island unto itself. True to Alfred’s words the Drones were correct. Within the room are six people. Oswald Cobblepot being the one who dominates the entire Office, despite being only a bit less diminutive than the Emperor Penguins at either side of his desk. Oh and they’re not sporting guns. One looks as though it’s out-fitted with a Flame-thrower. The other sure seems to be wearing an actual rocket. Along with those three are Raven and Jay, whom Dinah is likely to recognize immediately. As they happen to be the other two parts of triplets. Identical triplets, the third of which is Lark. Whom has been showing Timothy around all evening.

As Dinah enters there’s a legitimate squawk! of excitement out of Penguin. Though the two literal penguins barely move at all. Settled as he is behind a desk there’s no way to miss the ‘startling’ of Osward, as he seems just a little on edge with surprises given what happened so recently. He’s already up, before she even speaks, gun in hand and pointed suspiciously steady at Dinah’s chest.

“… who the bloody hell are you? Di? It better be a hell of a proposition to interrupt my meeting… is this one of the new girls Lark hired to replace the…”

The answer to all of that doesn’t come from Cobblepot. It doesn’t come from Dinah Lance. Nor Raven and Jay. Not even the penguins get an opportunity to tweedle their disappointment. The answer comes in the form of the man reclined on the sofa, along with the two women. His smooth white hair and eye-patch seem perfectly in tune with the accent that rolls off of his tongue.

“My. Word. Dinah? Dinah Lance. My word. Cobblepot. You’ve arranged for far more excitement tonight than I’d hoped for. This is an old friend of mine. She and Mr. Queen are old acquaintances, right Sweet Heart?”

Dinah: Of course Bruce would choose the windows. Bruce was probably, usually, in either the Bat suit, or a full suit. Knowing him, the latter had some degree of armor in its lining. I’m wearing a dress that exposes pretty much just as much as my Canary suit. Going through a window is going to be a last ditch effort because it’s got the potential to hurt just as much as whatever I was trying to run away from. Bullets at least have a high chance of going through. Glass? I don’t love glass.

Huh. Well. Undersold the weapons situation on this side of the door a little, Penny-One. I just can’t tell him as much right now. Flamethrowers and rocket launchers are a lot more worrisome than just guns. Which would make them a lot more terrifying than the Penguin. Unless you consider how someone who looks like a walking punchline has managed to get a toe-hold in a place like Gotham, where the rich and terrible come to him. I’ve got my hands up, palms out at chest height before the gun is actually even raised, though I’ve got my eyes on it. I’m a whole lot less concerned about it than Cobblepot seems to be about life at the moment, however. So what’s got a man so jumpy in his own highly secured office, in the middle of his iceberg playland/fortress?

My head cocks to the side as the ‘other’ man I’d been told was present speaks, blue eyes roving from Oswald and his gun to the rest of the coterie on the sofa. Well. Fuck. I’m changing my mind about which option I should have opened with. The sound I make in my throat is a whole lot more amused than I’m feeling. I can thank the veritable cavalcade of ‘weird and awful shit’ I’ve seen and done in my lifetime for the fact that I just don’t go out the window right now.

“Oh, Slade. I think we all know that only one of us fits that description.”

Old. I’d normally have called him ‘honey’ in response, but it’s a little more important that I deviate from my usual banter lingo to alert everyone else listening and present to exactly who else is in the room up here. Besides Raven and Jay anyway, who are approximately ranked fifth and sixth on my ‘concern’ list right now. Not because they’re women, but because flame thrower, rocket launcher, itchy trigger finger and motherfucker over there are a lot bigger problems for me right this second. Demonstrating a lot less concern than I’m feeling, I tilt my head in the opposite direction, turning my attention back to Cobblepot as if I hadn’t been interrupted in the first place.

“But yes. I thought it would be a pretty good deal for you, personally. I thought I might do you a rather large favor, in exchange for a little bit of information. Frankly, you’re probably getting the higher value end of the deal. I had heard you had a little bit of a Joker problem the other night. I’d like to make sure that doesn’t snowball into a problem with Capes and Assassins invading this lovely establishment.”

What the fuck is Wilson doing here? Clearly no one is happy about it. Well. Maybe Raven and Jay. They’re probably paid to look happy about everything.

Penguin: Squawk!

Apparently that is his version of a snort. It seems to only rankle Wilson when it happens. Though Copplepot isn’t wavering in hold on the gun. There’s something about the introduction that seems to ring bells with him, but the way he’s looking at Dinah Lance suggests that he doesn’t know her. At all. Which might be good for her, might be bad for him. With a group like this, there’s only so much that can be said for the element of surprise.

“Funny. Slade made a similar proposal about sixty seconds ago. Only his offer included a lot less to look at.”

On the sofa, Slade Wilson sits about as worry free as you could possibly get without sipping jin and juice with your feet kicked back on a porch somewhere. He’s surrounded by Penguin’s lovely girls. Paying very little obvious attention to the two armed penguins, not the armed Penguin. It would seem that he only has eye for Dinah, at least for the moment. Whether that be because he considers her a threat of he’s interested in this proposal she makes? Well that’s any one’s guess at the moment.

He just chuckles at her, “Let me guess. Earbud? Accomplices. Go on sweet heart, show ’em the weapons. Everyone here is wonderin where you’re keepin ’em. Might as well cut through the suspense.”

“Quiet, Slade. What the hell is wrong with this town? For Ten Years, I kept this place ‘neutral.’ Doing just enough legitimate business to keep the Batman off my arse and just enough illegitimate business to turn a keep the gangs of this City under my thumb. It was a good deal. A sweet arrangement. Even the Batman saw the profit in the Devil he Knew. Now look. All because of one damned Clown.”

When the gun moves it’s sudden. Slamming it down with such irresponsible force that only the Gods of Fate keep it from registering a shot off at Dinah. The Penguin throws his hands in the air. Leaving the two girls and both penguins gaping at him. “The Batman is gone and suddenly everyone loses their goddamned minds. It’s like everyone forgot one very important fact…”

“I’m the mother fuckin Penguin! I own this Town. I was born here. Raised here. When everyone else was being beaten to death by the Batman? I was carving a piece of the city out for myself. When the rest of them were locked up in the loony bin? I brought the crime families to their knees. Everyone comes to Penguin. The Mayor, the Governor. Even the Batman. Now he’s gone and… everyone forgot the pecking order.”

“The two of you came here for a deal? Fine. Here’s the deal. I’ve got answers for one of you. Last one standing gets them.”

Dinah: “Similar, but not the same? And I at least had the courtesy to not bring a gun into your office. It’s shocking the lack of manners. Really.”

I’m paying about as much attention to Wilson as he seems to be tallying up concerns. At least obviously, though I’m staying very aware of any peripheral movement. With a more complete read on the situation, I’m assuming Penguin already had the gun in hand before I’d even knocked in the first place on account of his current visitor. The question would be if he just dropped in, too, or if this was a pre-arranged sort of affair. The answer isn’t actually all that important right this second. I’d be a lot more interested in knowing why Deathstroke was after the information, or rather who was and paid him to get it. I don’t have any illusions of getting both sets of intel out of this one little gathering, though. I’m more interested in what I want to know, without getting shot, stabbed, blown up or singed.

That gun slamming down on the desk leaves me sucking in a deep, loud breath. That move could have startled anyone and made them gasp, clearly everyone else was. Except probably Slade. I was just preparing to defend myself from a stray gunshot with a pop of concussive force. It fortunately doesn’t come, leaving me to not tip my hand. One person in this room knows exactly who I am, but there’s five others including penguins-actual that at least I’ve got that card on. Penguin-not actual is going on about the Batman being gone which means either he hasn’t been paying attention to the one that’s been turning up again, or that he didn’t believe Tim was actually Batman. And now Dick, though that’s new to tonight. The latter seems more likely, and more concerning.

“In the middle of your office, Mr. Cobblepot? Forgive me, honey, but that seems likely to permanently ruffle an awful lot of feathers and I’d really hate to damage such lovely creatures.”

Through all of it, I’ve maintained the same saccharine sweet tone of voice, sometimes bordering on a coo. Who exactly I don’t want to ruffle is iffy. Mostly it’s anyone except Slade Wilson. I’d actually really enjoying wailing him right through that glass. I’m ready for Slade to make that move though, with the challenge in the air. Shrugging my shoulders as if I’m indifferent either way to how this plays out. Easy way or hard way. Or harder way, apparently.

“If that’s the way you want to play it. Your house, your rules. I’m not promising to keep the Hood out of your hair if I’m going to have to go to that much trouble, though.”

Penguin: “Oh, no. You see, I threw in offering to kill the Clown,” Slade says with a smile and a shrug that is far more impish than you’d normally think possible with him. “Maybe even bonus, for killing the Hood too.”

There’s nothing about Wilson that suggests he is perturbed by this development. If anything he seems highly amused by the whole affair. Dinah’s presence had certainly turned this in to a show for Wilson, who is soaking it up like one of the guys down watching the Burlesque Dancers. He only even seems to take offence to Dinah’s insinuation. “Gun. Singular. Always one for jokes, Sweetheart.”

Penguin is actually the least amused one in the room. Because at this point he’s waiting for the two of them to leap at the demand. Lips curling up in frustration. But it’s Slade once again that cuts in to the silence, with a gentle guffaw, “Fight to the Death, then? With her? But I’m wearing my suit and the ladies are very comfortable. Are you amenable to a counter proposal, Goldilocks?”

“Because I would much rather watch you beat the tar out of the Penguin. I’m here for answers. Doesn’t matter to me how I come by them. Whether it be from a fair trade with the Fat Bird or by letting the Pretty Bird beat the Fat? Answers is all I want.”

“Now. Wait. Just a minute…” Penguin says as he’s making a move toward the desk again and the gun. “…gah! No honor among thieves, girls you know what to do…”

::Ms. Lance. Sorry to bother you, but the Drone has been running through Red Robin’s decryption keys on the the security for that locked door. It is going to need roughly three minutes to achieve access. Master Drake is running interference on the Penguin’s security. Do be careful. We’re reading high yield explosives in the room with you.::

DInah: “And Batman, too? That seems highly unlike you to trade that much work for information that sharing is really only going to be in Penguin here’s better interest. Awful hard to be neutral ground with the League, Red Hood and everyone else knocking and sure that you’re going to be able to point them in the proper direction. And bad for business. But. Again. What do I know. I’m just the pretty one.”

Spreading my hands, both for the dissembling words and because I said he only had one gun. I know. Seems really unlikely, knowing him. I’m definitely not interested in beating the squawks out of Penguin for Wilson Slade’s entertainment, though my urge to do it for my own is rapidly mounting. See. This is what happens when you try to gather information responsibly and without your fists. Oh, what’s that? No bother at all, Penny-One. Just more bad news. Three minutes. Sounds short, but is actually a really, really long time when there’s flamethrowers, guns, knives, rocket launchers oh. And more explosives. That seems unlikely to be used while Penguin’s in the room, or in his club at all except as a last resort. Neutral ground. All that.

“Ladies, ladies, I don’t actually have any interest in beating the tar, or anything else, out of anyone.” There’s a pregnant pause before I make an ‘eh’ gesture with one of my still lifted hands. “Or I would have opened with that.”

How do you use up three minutes? You stall as long as you possibly can with some more verbal sparring, or at the very least swaying the majority to not be shooting at you in this situation particular situation. Or blowing up the room. While shifting your weight back on one foot, ostensibly to step back from the ‘threat’ of Cobblepot and his gun, which takes me that much closer to being able to simply sidestep the door and away from all of the rest of them in here. They could always go out the windows I suppose but…I only see Slade taking that option.

Penguin: “Batmans already dead, sweetheart, I assumed you knew.” How the grief in Slade’s voice conveys the sorrow for her loss, is by not exactly twisting in a chuckle, until after he’s managed to say the whole thing. “You’re running a little short on boyfriends aren’t you, Pretty Bird?”

Though the next thing Dinah says has everyone. Even the real penguins. Looking from one another, to Dinah and back again. You know you’re in trouble when absolutely every bad guy in a room laughs at the same time. Penguin hoots like he’s heard the funniest joke in years. Slade’s chortle is more restrained but just as offensive, given the chiming of the girls on either side of him.

Penguin’s constant stream of ‘Wah wah wah wah…’ is broken only when he lifts the gun back up in her direction a second time. There’s a turn of his nose that says something is far different than mere moments ago. “You think telling you my business with the League of Shadows is in my best interests? You’re either as delusional as the Clown or just plain stupid.”

How many people have actually called Dinah Lance stupid? The answer to that question is, ‘Not a lot that can answer you without putting in false teeth first.’ But he isn’t even teasing or taunting. For a murderous mobster, this is about as singularly direct and honest as the Penguin has ever been with someone. Leaving Slade Wilson chuckling in his seat, between the two girls again.

“She’s stalling, Penguin. Look at her positioning. She’s got someone inside…”

Slade Wilson, the Deathstroke, is actually in the midst of talking when one of the girls follows the Penguin’s cue. It just isn’t one of the girls he was expecting. It’s the Penguin with the Rocket. Tilting his head, squawking a chittering little ‘Wah wah wah’ of his own. Then FWOOSH! off goes the rocket, right at Black Canary.

Dinah: “Awwwww, Sladebaby that’s cute how behind and off you are on your information. On all counts.”

I was trying to be nice. Charming even. Accommodating. Even with the surprising and definitely unwelcome guest star of this little sit down. Well. Everyone else is sitting. Except me and the Penguins-Actual. There’s an abrupt one-eighty from that simpering, sweet tone I’d been using to the one that practically oozes mean girl condescension. Slade’s laughing at me. Raven and Jay are giggling at me, the kind of idiotic laugh that makes me want to slap people upside the back of the head. And Penguin-Not Actual I want to throat punch and then slap upside the face. This could have been so much easier. Yes. Something did change.

Just when I needed it to, in fact. He asks me a question. Calls me stupid. And like I didn’t understand what he said, my head abruptly cocks to the side again. A pale eyebrow hikes up about an inch, and the corner of my mouth follows suit. Telling me his business with the League. Bingo.

“Thanks so much, Ozzie. Was that so hard?”

She is stalling, yes thank you Slade. Another step backwards while he’s making that obvious statement of the year takes me completely into the hallway. Gunfire, sure, that I could probably have gotten some shielding from out here. I think none us expected Rocket Launcher Penguin-Actual to open fire though. I may not be the planning master genius that Tim is, but you don’t live long in this particular ‘job’ without having a whole lot of situational awareness and ability to make knee-jerk reactions that are intelligent. Deflecting the rocket down the hall? Too far, too unpredictable, high likelihood to detonate before blasting that locked door and even if it did, could damage anything valuable inside. Ducking to the side? I don’t know what these walls are made of. High probability of blasting me and my sexy dress.

Which leaves me with just one option. Short of taking it like a champ which is no option. This is all their fault. And clearly I should have just opened with this.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Penguin: Well. To be truthful. Slade is less of a guest star and more of a scene stealer, but that probably depends on who you ask. Dinah was certainly not pleased with his presence. Penguin was actually a lot more pleased to see the Deathstroke than you might believe, because he was seeing an answer to all of his prayers. Right before ‘Di’ broke in and made the whole thing go up in smoke.

Okay. Maybe not smoke. That’s not fire coming out of the Black Canary’s mouth. It’s the concussive blast of a sonic pulses that have a lot more effect than a good speaker. She had to act fast and sure enough she’s up to the task. It takes mere milliseconds for that Rocket to fire off the back of the actual penguin. Blasting through the air might seem like slow motion, but it is actually nothing of the sort. In the time that Dinah has to take that next step backward, it’s closed more than half the gap between them. She really only had one choice and she makes it just in the nick of time.

Hitting the rocket with enough power to send it off it’s trajectory. Not to mention sending everyone else in the office scrambling. It slams in to the ceiling of Cobblepot’s office. Where it blasts a hole half way up to the roof, before it’s stuck there, sputtering out. In time with Penny-One chiming in to Dinah’s ear.

::Good Play, Ms. Lance. Master Drake has managed to jam the arming sequence on the rocket, it shouldn’t explode unless someone triggers it manually.::

Even as Alfred is cluing in Dinah to why the Rocket didn’t explode when she diverted, even damaged it with the pure concussion shock of her voice? The people on the inside? Are neither aware of why it hasn’t exploded. Each of them has sought the safety of cover by this point. Penguin beneath his desk. The two penguins moved back, if only to avoid the blast radius and then Dinah’s scream. Slade kicked back the table before him, pulling a shade of heroism, by bringing the two girls with him when he up-ended the sofa to dig in behind it. Now, with it relatively safe from certain disaster? All of them are sneaking glances out from behind whatever they deemed was safety.

“Atta girl, Dinah. Now you’re playing for keeps.”
“Whaaah! My ears are ringing! What did you say Slade?”

::Two minutes more, Canary. A silent alarm was also triggered, but Red Robin was already working to divert it too.:: You know the shit has hit the fan, if Alfred has gone to code names instead of titles for the purpose of brevity. ::Slade Wilson. He is not affiliated with the League of Shadows. Totally free lance. I strongly advise that we abort this mission.::

If anyone, other than the Canary, can actually hear a damn thing being said? Someone might actually hear the sounds of a skirmish starting on the other side of the upturned sofa.

Dinah: There was shockingly little ‘boom’ in the middle of my screaming. It’s actually a little disappointing. Not that I was especially out to kill anyone inside of the office, I don’t do that sort of thing as a general rule, but I have no doubt that no one in this room has that aversion. Slade would probably do it. So would the rest of them. Rocket Launcher Penguin-Actual already tried once. The reason for the lack of explosions, which may or may not have led to more explosions, is supplied in my ear though. Which I can, actually, hear unlike the state of basically everyone else in the room. It’s nice to be immune to your own abilities.

Unless someone triggers it manually. I don’t know how you accomplish that. The Penguins Actual and Otherwise look to be a hair too short to do so at least. I’d try to take the opportunity to now beat the squawk out of Cobblepot, except chances are? He’s not going to actually be able to hear any questions that I might have for him. Which is going to lead to a lot of repeating myself, and then frustration, and probably some retaliatory yelling. I almost feel like I ought to call up Superman and tell him ‘Guy. Listen. I totally know how you feel right now. Tried to do the ‘right’ thing. Almost literally blew up in my face.’

I can hear the skirmish behind the couch. I’m not going in there to help. Not a one of those jerks is on my side, and whoever I liberate has a high chance to turn on me. Plus there’s still flamethrower Penguin to contend with if I were to get close. I at least got something to go on. It may not have been a lot, but what little there was? Pretty telling. Also makes me think that Penguin is the stupid one, because if Talia was here because of a deal with the League? They’re probably really going to be looking into Penguin now.

“Unless dollar signs have made him affiliated. Seems slim, though.”

Two minutes. How long is it going to take Slade to dispatch the two thirds of a set of triplets? I’m betting not terribly long. Definitely not two minutes long, plus the amount of time it would take me to rifle around, when I don’t even know what I’m looking for, and then still be able to get out. Probably with the same two available exits as before. No. I don’t need Penny-One to tell me it’s probably a good time to bail. I just needed that countdown. Besides. Maybe the drone can go and do…whatever they do… next time someone actually goes in the room. I take a step into the room again, but only long enough to grab hold of the door and yank it shut again. Reaching under my dress to produce the the collapsing staff. It doesn’t just collapse though. Positioning it in the door frame, my thumb finds the button that will make the weapon expand, hydraulically, rapidly and hard.

It’s probably not going to slow Slade or the girls coming this way, but it will definitely at this height and angle, make it really hard for any type of Penguin to just walk out. Not without the effort of moving it first.

“Headed back for the stairs. We all clear to rendezvous and blow this joint?” Not literally. “Or do I need to detour to help anyone?”

Wilson: The inner office is in a bit of turmoil. What with the penguin twins, protecting their Master. Dinah is rearing back to slam that door in to position, just in time. Because the FWOOSH! she hears, as much as feels the heat splash against the door? Tells her what would have happened if she went in any further. As does the sound of Slade Wilson cursing the Penguin over just that sort of move.

“How the Farkin Hell, you run Gotham is beyond me,” he actually seems quite a bit offended to even be in the same room as someone with misfiring rockets and flame-throwing wild animals, that nearly light the whole place up.

Oh and Party Favors for all. Cue in the Fire Suppression system. Sprinkling Water down atop everyone. Not just the Penguin, Slade and goons, but also the entirety of the Casino. Which sends people in to a flurry of movement. Not exactly a clandestine outing for the likes of Black Canary and her would-be sidekick the Red Robin (Yum!). Because it almost perfectly coincides with…

::Read you loud and clear, Canary. Unfortunately, Red Robin has… encountered a problem. A very large problem. Several members of the League of Shadows have arrived. Red Robin was attempting to see to the safe exit of the Ladies he brought in as cover, when the Assassins began to cut their way in to the club. They’re heedless of the casualties as they cut through Penguin’s roughians.::

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse. It gets a whole lot worse. People are fleeing, due to the fire alarms. In the room behind her, there’s a crazed Mobster with a penguin motif and a psychotic killer that she has History with. Capital H. Down below, a floor beneath her, is apparently her partner. Timothy Wayne-Drake, otherwise known as Red Robin and more recently the Batman. Is engaged with members of the League of Shadows.

What more could possibly go wrong? Well, since you asked. It happens just as Canary clears that little side door, out in to the V.I.P. room’s former arena for Lap-Dancing. That’s all gone now. Bystanders are doing what any reasonable civilian does when the Fire Alarms are tripped. They head for the door. Leaving no one there to really see Slade Wilson crashing through the windows of the Penguin’s office. Launching himself out through the glass, in to the very heart of the Casino. There’s no tuxedo now. Nor is there any mistaking Slade Wilson as anyone but the Terminator, Deathstroke that he is. Apparently the scorch marks suggest the tuxedo was burned away as he plunged through the fire, out the windows in to a controlled fall in the middle of a craps table.

“You didn’t think it’d be that easy did ya? C’mon. Whatya say, Sweetheart? Do you wanna dance with me or help me kill Ninja?”

Dinah: I’m a professional, so there’s no facepalming going on as I hear and understand Penny-One’s latest message. But I don’t need both eyes to be able to see my way down the stairs at a fast clip, so one of them squints down in an expression that would have been priceless for this moment. Were anyone around to see it.

“Let him know I’m en route.”

The fire suppression system? Is just perfect. No, really. Perfect. Nothing like a little rain on my parade, to raise the spirits, plaster my hair to my face and neck and make everything overall a little more slippery, difficult, and cold. Except, unless of course… you’re Slade Wilson. Who was apparently wearing his goddamn suit under his suit and has emerged from the ashes in a shower of glass and general jack-assery. Seriously. I’m not usually the one with luck like this, and I would very much like to know who I can blame for it so they can be hand and foot delivered a piece of my mind.

“Deathstroke’s on me. I’ll try to head off the problem, then find my own exit.”

I’m not leading him back to Tim. Not directly. Damn people and their armor that get to make dramatic entrances/exits. Well. At least he’s good for something. I know he’s not working for the League to try and get some sort of revenge on Cobblepot for whatever his part may have been in Talia’s situation. Chances are he probably wouldn’t be turning on his clients to do some ninja murdering. Who are doing mafia murdering. There’s an awful lot of murdering going on in the Iceberg Lounge right now, attempted and otherwise, and stopping all of it from happening? Not a proposition I’m actually very excited about right now.

“Tch. Tempting, but they’re not really playing my kind of music right now. Rain check?”

Pointing a finger up at the sprinklers overhead. Hah. No. Not the middle one. That would have been a good play, though.

“Besides. Last I checked you were a big boy that could kill Ninja all on your own.”

He’s also much closer to ‘between’ me and the way I want to go than I really like. Which means I get to start a wary skirting trajectory, not exactly trying to head him off so much as waiting to see if he’s going to go find his other kind of fun, or if Slade’s going to be ungentlemanly and impose himself on a ‘lady.’ As much as I’d actually like to scream him down, the more time I take here, the less time I’ve got to try and hem in the other member of my team’s problem.

Wilson: Sigh.

“Playing hard t’ get isn’t really yer style, Birdy,” that one eye of his seems to narrow, but for the most part he makes no effort of heading her off right away. “Funny, just remember. That’s twice I’ve offered t’ help ya. Now yer gonna have ta ask me nicely, when you realize ya need it.”

Whatever that means? Slade is actually still not progressing on Black Canary. If anything, he’s just watching. Which is almost worse than attacking. This isn’t the sort of stalker creepy type of stare, but the sort that says he knows something that she doesn’t. Something that might force her hand, eventually. So he’s willing to play along, for no other reason than being all too willing to wait now. For her to ask for his help.

How long he’s going to have to wait? Might not actually be that long. Not once Black Canary makes around the corner and sees what Penny-One had been talking about. Down on the Casino floor was a virtual black masse of hooded assassins making their way inside. Cutting people down indiscriminately. Life long Criminal? Stabbed. Completely innocent Grandma spending her life savings on the slot machine? Shruiken to the throat. Penguin’s men are fairing only slightly better, due to being armed and seemingly prepared for a fight. Though they lack the combat prowess needed to fight off the League of Shadows? They’re slowing them down just enough to turn the whole thing in to a blood bath. Once more you can thank the penguin for that added bit of carnage.

Be that as it may be, the Ninja are hobbled only so much as they don’t wield guns of their own. So they have to make smarter plays. Like taking cover, long enough to fire arrows with unwavering precision in to mobster throats. Or by taking a hostage, that they use as a meatshield in order to get in close enough to give a go with sword. Last but not least? Are those few who came equipped with grappling hooks that seek to evade the gunfire entirely and come up to the second floor by way of the balcony overhang.

In the very middle of all this? Timothy Drake and the Royal Family dance troupe. Hobbled by his own Secret Identity, that they had used to seek entry. Tim was caught in a position of defending the Girls, while not giving himself away. That had left him struggling at first, but it would seem that at this point he’s started to care less about his identity and more about saving those lives he feels more directly responsible for. Even now he’s erected a small defensive position behind one of the High Roller tables. Which would probably be fine. Were it not for the fact that it was quickly taken by members of the Penguin’s security force. Since Tim had been trying to ‘run interference’ for Dinah. They started shooting at Ninja. Who now see the whole area as one that needs neutralized.

So what, if anything, is the Good News in all of this? Penny-One’s voice. ::On the bright side. Less than a minute until the final door is unlocked. On the not-so-bright side. Cobblepot is taking the Private Elevator to a previously unknown Fourth Floor. A sub-terra basement, that wasn’t on the blue prints. At this rate he’s going to be the only one to make a clean getaway.::

The moment that Tim sees Dinah? There’s a sign of relief that only momentarily passes his features. Then he’s right back to business. “Alright girls. You have to be brave.” They’re not brave. Not a one of them. Each one of them is taking a turn crying and being otherwise useless in a crisis. But then with this sort of carnage going on who can blame them? So he’s left giving Dinah the only information he’s got left. “Fire Escape is blocked. They’re fighting in there too. There is fighting everywhere. How the hell did the League get so many people in Gotham this quickly?”

Dinah: “Well, you see Slade. I was trying this new thing today. I hear it’s called being polite and asking nicely. But clearly it’s not working great for me, and I’m basically giving it up. And what you’ve offered hasn’t been help. You wanted me to beat the shit out of Penguin while you dandled floozies, and then you wanted me to help you kill League Assassins.”

I don’t like the look on his face though, or what he seems to be hinting at. Which I don’t think is a potential assist with however many ninjas there actually are here. I’m assuming it’s not ‘a few’ members of the League, however, for Tim to have gotten pinned down. Even with victims to protect. Once I get to the door, satisfied with my positioning to be willing, if not excited about, turning my back on Deathstroke I can actually get a view of…Jesus Christ. Time to play whack-a-mole, or more correctly a little game I like to call Target Triage. The goal’s getting Tim and the innocent’s out. The only ones really targeting them seem to be the ninjas, which means the mafia are spared my wrath for the time being.

“I think we can forget about the locked door for the time being, Penny-One. Unless there’s a potential of there being an escape jet inside it that we can use to get people out of here.”

Of course he’d have an escape. Goddamn Penguin. I’m not even actually shocked or surprised by that particular turn of events. It’s probably not the first time, or the last, that he’s fled carnage that erupted here.

“They didn’t. They were already here and working with Penguin. Until they got the impression that he turned on them. Still going to be less in the fire escape. Can you clear the bottleneck?”

At least the last part is my assumption, but I think it’s a pretty safe one. There’s too many in here for me to take on solo, not that I couldn’t make a dent the old fashioned way, there’s just not time. For every small group I could take down, more would be jeopardizing everyone else. Asking Slade for help? Isn’t actually that much of a temptation either. Sure. He’d help. Still a similar problem though. I’m trying to pick civilians out of the crowd, but most are probably not fleeing towards the ninjas. Even with fighting in the fire exit, I imagine it’s going to be less. The League knows tactics as well as I do. You don’t need many to take, or hold, something like that and they’re trying to come in, en masse from the looks.
Squaring myself in that direction, there’s a mutter before I suck in another breath.

“Hands on ears, guys.”

Though, the truth is hands over your ears does absolutely nothing if you’re in the way of the blast of force. Just dampens the volume if you’re out of it. I’m not aiming at Tim and his little foxhole though, so much as the area in front of it. Trying to clear them a path, only this time it’s not a short burst to knock a projectile away. It’s long, it’s wide and it’s of course, loud.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Tim: Timothy Drake is a man of many flavors. He was ready for a fight from the moment they stepped in here. Even if he had to play the part of a hapless, youthful, playboy. He’s still the son of Bruce Wayne, who never got taken by surprise or was never unwilling to put himself in harms way for a damsel. Much less a gaggle of them. By the time Canary makes it clear what she’s about to do? Tim’s giving her a quick thumbs up, followed by a short gesture to his ears. She’ll see the girls all covering their ears (and their heads entirely) on account of the gunfire, but more so than that? She’ll see that they’ve each been given a small ball of cotton. That Mr. Wayne has helpfully suggested would mute the ringing in their ears from the Gunshots. True, but also helpful for certain blasts of sonic annihilation from the Canary Cry too.

As soon as Dinah lets go with it, Tim’s quickly checking something on his wrist mounted computer, before hustling the girls to follow him. Brave Mr. Wayne that he is, it would seem that he’ll have no trouble leading them through the now mostly open space to the door of the Fire Escape. The moment they’re at the door, Tim pauses only long enough to peek inside, before pushing the door open. It doesn’t take the Canary being observant to see him moving at a slower than normal speed, playing at being scared just like he should be. But in doing so it frees the door open, before anyone else goes in to the Fire Escape, for the remaining drones to enter ahead of them. Dart-Gun Drones. Go!

Ahead of them is the rapid fire sound of Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. Down goes a Mobster, then another. Followed by a Ninja that came up the stairs as soon as the shooting stopped. Tim himself has just stepped out, intending to lead the girls down with Canary taking up the rear when he bounces back, narrowly avoiding a series of shruiken that stick in the door was holding.

Through all of this? Slade Wilson stands a top that same table he landed upon. Not taking part. Not assisting the Penguin’s men. Nor taking down any of the would-be assassins. He just watches. As if he were waiting for something. His mask stops anyone from knowing that there’s a smirk hidden beneath it, but Canary knows it’s there all the same. “All. Ya gotta do. Is say pretty please, Birdy. Won’t even bill you for the spent bullets.”

::At the risk of sounding rather flippant about your last comment, Canary, the drone has opened the door to that locked room. I’m not quite sure what I’m even seeing here, but this looks like … I believe we’ve broken in to Cobblepot’s private uh … whirlpool? Bath House? Jacuzzi, I believe Master Bruce would have called it. He had one in the late nineties. Mrs. Vale and he used to… well, nevermind all that. I suppose you’re all much too busy for reminiscing. Cobblepot must not have paid the bill on his though. It’s exceedingly green. Glowingly, so.::

Dinah: If we’re being 100% honest here? I’m about 110% done with Tim and his act. Yeah, yeah. I know it’s necessary. I don’t want to blow his cover, not on any day let alone here in the middle of a fire/shuriken fight. It’s not in any of our interest and especially not his. He’s got a big enough target on his back right now just for being Timothy Drake-Wayne, let alone all the other things he may or may not be tonight. I just want him to get out of here, so that I can stop worrying about him and his Waynetourage. Any other time, I’d trust him to handle himself. But right now? He’s as much pretending to be something he’s not as he was the first night in the Batsuit.

I can’t see what’s going on inside the fire escape. I’d have to turn my head that way to do so, and that would mean turning what’s coming out of my mouth at the same time. What I do know? Is he’s still not through that door. And I’ve got this smug motherfucker standing on the craps table teasing me, and Alfred with his commentary that normally I would find really amusing but right now I’m dripping wet, and overall just not really enjoying my night. Men. When I stop screaming, I find something to duck behind. Mostly to avoid an unfortunate weapon headed my way as I respond to both the voices speaking to me.

“What the hell, Penny-One. Glowing Green? Get a drone in there to…I don’t know. Collect a sample!”

Slade’s answer is the middle finger I didn’t give him when asking for the raincheck earlier. There doesn’t appear to be anymore civilians on this floor at the very least, and that narrows the number of people that need direct protection. And would it really be so much to ask for one of the League to fling something at Slade and his perch? But the truth is? Tim’s got about five seconds to get that door cleared and his ass out the door before I’m going to swallow my pride and make sure the job gets done. With a little hop, I draw my knees up, hooking my fingers into the backs of my heels and getting them off my feet. They’re not called stilettos for nothing, and while they may not be bladed weapons they can inflict some damage, especially when hurled end over end at any exposed soft spots. Eyes. Throats.

I’m not headed for the fire escape, so much as advancing and moving to intercept anyone that tries to follow them. Closer to the balcony edge so that I can try to get a view of what kind of additional problems may be downstairs, working their way up here.

Wilson: Downstairs is a mess. Penguin is going to be out millions repairing the place. Not to mention the losses from the financial side of what’s being ruined in pure money alone. There’s a legitimate body count piling up. Between the Penguin’s men who are fighting a stalling tactic and the Assassins who are relentless, while being unafraid to give their lives for the Will of the Demon’s Head? It’s probably difficult to even count the dead. Although there are far fewer men in black masks, than there are in black armani suits that much is for sure.

The irony? Is that the moment, the very moment, that Penguin makes it to the underground submersible? Those mobsters get the call that all is clear and that means they stop trying to hold their ground. In a way this is equally good and bad for the Good Guys. As it means that the Penguin’s men start to flock to the escapes themselves. It also means that there’s far few things to dodge once the gunfire stops.

In the middle of all of this? Stands Timothy Wayne-Drake and the cadre of Dance Troupe performers. Who have still not made it down the Fire Escape, despite Dinah’s best efforts at covering them. Not for a lack of trying, but surely for a lack of Red Robin, due to being trapped in the guise of Philanthropist Teen Wonder. Though, much like Dinah, they are getting to the sure fire point of his being ready to throw caution to the wind. Another quick glance in to the Hallway, then Tim opens the door again. As he does? Two of the black hooded men from downstairs meet the door. Fighting with the young man to pull it completely open. With a sudden shove, he drives one back in the entry way. Then with a short charge, he takes the other down the staircase. Disappearing from sight entirely. Leaving the huddled girls behind, unable to overcome their own fear of what’s going on in order to follow their Hero. Leaving the door to clatter shut and Timothy Wayne disappearing from sight.

Dinah’s shoe weapons are going to find a sure-fire challenge in the making. As the Penguin’s men pull back. Seemingly heading to that same elevator, as much as they can. The Assassins begin to push forward. Giving her little in the way of an escape route herself. Unless she too makes for the elevator, fighting her way through gun-toting idiots. Or down the fire escape, in to close quarter combat with a bunch of assassins, while trying to keep a bunch of girls and one Boy Wonder from being mauled.

Dinah -does- finally get her wish though. Because the League of Shadows are now beginning to ascend the stairs on either side of the second floor. Along with coming up over the balcony as they had originally. With the Penguin’s men in full retreat? There are only two people left who aren’t retreating. A stilletto armed Black Canary and a man in armor toting a sword and guns. Guess who they take a first shot at? A no longer teasing Deathstroke. Who actually bats away a hailstorm of throwing stars with his sword, before being struck by a single shruiken. He barely even acknowledges it sinking in to the mesh weave of his Ikon suit before a single shot of that gun rings out. Dropping the one assassin that managed to strike him.

If there’s only one person in all of this that understands what has just happened? It is no doubt the Black Canary. Because there is a sudden, almost palpable lack of teasing now. Deathstroke hops down from the shruiken filled craps table in a deceptively nonchalant way. Giving the League about three seconds to continue mounting that second story. At which point a symphony of destruction begins, that Black Canary has undoubtedly seen before. Not a bullet wasted, not a slice of his sword out of synch with the rest of his body. Slade Wilson commits, entirely, to the total eradication… the termination of absolutely every single man, woman and child wearing one of those black masks. He goes about it with such merciless silence that it’s stark contrast to the way he’d been toying with Dinah.

Of course, that isn’t to say that Dinah’s out of the fire. There’s an awful lot of Ninja between her and any of the three exits from this place she’s got in her reach. But there is a distinctly a new level of distraction on the hands of the League. One that, should she play her cards right, might actually allow her to save the Boy Wonder and beat feet with a troupe of dancing ninnies. Whom are cringing away from the door that opens, until they see Tim Drake. Slightly battle-torn, but still standing, as he gives a two thumbs up sign in true Spoiler fashion. Once out of sight, the young man hadn’t been constrained by dual identity needing to be kept secret, but that hadn’t stopped him from tackling a Ninja down a stairwell, to get that privacy in the first place. He’s sure showing the ill-effects of it too.

“Stairwell clear… I may have broken my… everything.”

::Sample taken. Preliminary analysis suggests that the Penguin’s jacuzzi, was filled with … oh-dear… water from the Lazarus Pit. I suppose that tells us what Talia’s business with the Penguin was.::

Dinah: On the plus side? There’s a lot less bullets flying through the air, but on the downside… pretty much the same thing. There’s also a whole lot less targets for them to be aiming at, and about 80% of those I’d like to keep in one piece. At best. Still alive at worst. This time I can see from my vantage point the sheer insanity that is Tim’s attempts to get down that flight of emergency stairs. Unable to go rush to his immediate aid mostly thanks to the not so timely arrival of apparently the entire remainder of the League of Shadows. We’d already wondered at the numbers. Guessed that they were already here. Now I’ve concluded where they’ve been, and the more specific why. The ‘what’ had been something of a mystery, though.

This is even more than we guessed were here in the first place I think. We’ve dealt with them before, but this…?

I have to admit, as a practiced combatant in a dozen plus fighting forms? Watching Slade Wilson work is a thing of beauty when you’re not on the other side of him. I just usually am. It does my ego no harm to say that when it boils down to it, he’s one of the very few fighters who are better than me. Some of that may boil down to the lethality factor, it definitely doesn’t hurt. I don’t even stop to see what’s about to happen. The throwing stars sail through the air at him? And I turn and skirt/backpedal my way towards the fire escape. It’s the only feasible exit for me now, having Tim gone that way is only really secondary at this point.

The League has just instigated what I was about to open my mouth and do. It would have been a lot less bloody, since I was going to ask him to get this group out while I tried to take the stairs. Dodged a proverbial bullet there, I guess. Which the assassin? Does not. Slade’s getting down off the table, and I’m bolting for the fire escape. Kicking, short burst shrieking, and jabbing my way through anyone that gets between me, those girls, the door and Tim. Who’s now reappeared at the top of the stairs, and gets to see the squinty eyed look that everyone had missed as I descended from the third floor.

“Everyone, down. Lets go. Follow me. Tim, watch the rear.”

Which should ideally have a lot less potential trouble at this point. Or at least we’ll hear anyone coming through the door I slam shut behind the ladies, and boy, that I wave through the door. The cotton in their ears stopping them from hearing the stream of curses that come out of my lips as I hop past the rest of them to take point for our escape. Not at them, or Tim, but at Alfred.

“Well. There’s the why. Now we have to find the Demon’s Daughter.”

Not. That we wouldn’t have for Damien’s sake but. There’s really only one conclusion to jump to that would account for what we’ve been discovering lately, the League, Talia, and a Lazarus Pit jacuzzi hidden away here in Penguin’s place. And she’s likely the only one who who knows where that ‘why’ is hidden away.

Tim: Getting from the V.I.P. lounge, to the High Rollers room isn’t really a challenge. Not for Dinah. She may have inwardly accepted that Slade Wilson is better than her, but that doesn’t leave out the beauty of her own technique. A crunched nose for a goon that seeks to use her as meat-shield. A stilletto to the eye for an Assassin seeking to cut down one more infidel on their way towards Penguin’s secret lair. A mini-skree that shatters nearly every bone in another’s body, who was making a kamikaze run at the Troupe and awaiting Timothy Wayne. By the time she’s made it to the group, in order to take charge, she’s battled through enough of the jerks that all eyes have fallen upon her in slack jawed appreciation. All except Tim’s, who while appreciative? Is giving her a quick set of signals to tell her the numbers awaiting them at the bottom of the stairs. Two men at the bottom, guarding the staircase. They’re far too easy prey for her though, given that their real focus is no longer upon taking the stairwell, but upon what is happening up above them.

When Dinah and her band of merry makers get to the ground floor? There is a genuine twist of fate happening. In that there is no longer a surge of League of Shadows going in to the building, but the opposite. How many times in Dinah’s life has she seen the League of Shadows retreat? Most likely they give their lives to a man in order to die for the honor of having served the Demon’s will. Rarely is that will for them to spare their own lives. Leaving one to wonder whether someone signaled for a retreat or…

It’s almost a cacophony of death in the Iceberg Lounge. With the screams of the dying, clashing with the silence of the dead. Occasionally a shot rings out, but there are few of those. Fewer stragglers making their way out, by the time Dinah is leading Tim and the Troupe to the awaiting Yacht. Those she does see, do not require a scream to be dealt with. Not at the point which they’re the ones running for their lives.

Once they’re on the boat and safely heading back towards Gotham proper, Alfred’s voice greets her one more time. ::Do you think Ra’s brought the Pit to Gotham… or do you think Talia did so on her own accord? Does it even matter? With the men they just threw at the Lounge, the only way you commit to such losses, is if you have superior numbers in reserve. The whole League must be here in Gotham.::

“That means Damien and Dick aren’t going to have to go far, To have that talk with his Grandfather, after all.” Tim’s voice is a lot more somber than normal, for once, as he steps in closer to Dinah, pointedly turning off his com in a way that she can see. “Dinah. We’re going to need to go back to the Berg sooner than later. We have to figure out if that makeshift pit actually got used or not.”