The Assembled Rogues

Gotham City. 

Wearing a tweed jacket, Count Vertigo strolled through the Petit Saint-Prince district, cane in hand. Though not the worst slum in Gotham, it was still far from the pristine order he preferred. Ordinarily, he'd never set foot in such a crude and vulgar area, but the demands of his current employer necessitated it. 

Beep-beep-beep- 

Count Vertigo paused, glancing at the driver who was cursing next to him. 

"Get the f*ck outta the way, are ya deaf?" The agitated driver honked again, the sound piercing the air. When Count Vertigo didn't react, the driver brandished a pistol. "Move it, or you want a new set of holes in your body?" This was classic mania. Count Vertigo frowned, surprised that even the clinically insane could roam the streets and obtain driver's licenses in this city. 

"I said move, or I swear to—" 

Hum hum hum-- 

An invisible wave washed over the driver's brain. His head slumped, and with a puff, an eyeball popped from its socket, rolling onto the pavement. Amidst the dying screams and the continuous blare of the horn as the driver's head collapsed onto it, Count Vertigo offered a slight bow, a gesture of practiced British courtesy. He then turned and continued towards a dilapidated apartment building. 

"Let's see... Number 52. Indeed, this is the place." He navigated the exposed concrete steps and peeling red handrails, arriving at apartment 401. He extended his hand and knocked. 

Knock knock knock-- 

"Come in." 

"Well!" Count Vertigo let out a surprised gasp as he stepped into the room. From the outside, the place looked like any other run-down apartment near the slums. Even the door seemed to be made of wood, but once inside, it was a different world. Behind the wooden facade was a solid alloy metal airtight door, capable of controlling air pressure. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all metal plates, coated with explosion-proof paint on the exterior and anti-corrosion paint on the interior. 

This was a professional-grade safe room. Even if the building collapsed, this room would remain intact. Various weapons are piled in the corners of the room, including grenades, rocket launchers, and even multiple explosives. 

On the other side of the room, four figures sat around a table. Two of them Count Vertigo recognized: Deadshot, the infamous assassin whose marksmanship was as legendary as his foul temper, and Ms. Victoria October, a British mercenary whose lethal skills were only matched by her alluring looks. The other two, masked, were unknown to him. The younger woman appeared relatively normal, wearing a Cheshire Cat mask and a long knife at her waist. Count Vertigo surmised she was another assassin-for-hire. The other figure, however, was a bit weird. 

The man was sitting in the corner, wearing a welding mask on his face, which is the transparent, glare-proof welding mask used by welders. He carried a pair of gas cylinders on his back, held a welding gun, and wore a light gray tights and suspenders, as well as a pair of long rubber shoes. At first glance, he appeared to be just an ordinary welder. But what was striking was the dead dog clutched in his left hand. 

It was a common golden retriever, but only the top half remained. Something had sliced the dog in two, the lower half missing. The dog seemed freshly killed, its innards still partially exposed. Just the sight of it made Count Vertigo's stomach churn. 

The man's left hand was plunged into the dog's back, unconcerned with the blood dripping down his arm. 

"You..." 

"Hello there! Name's Dogwelder. Pleased to meet ya, new pal! Just got here myself." The Dogwelder spoke... Wait, it wasn't the man speaking, it was the dog.

??? 

The dead dog's head in the Dogwelder's hand suddenly lifted, a grotesque grin splitting its lifeless face. "You here for the job, too?" The bizarre scene startled Count Vertigo, but he quickly regained his composure. "Indeed, sir. It's an honor to work alongside you." 

Resisting the urge to stare at the dead dog, he walked over to Ms. October and kissed her hand. "My dear lady, your beauty shines like the stars themselves." 

"Count Vertigo, my old friend," Ms. October purred. She was a slender woman with blonde hair and blue eyes, clad in an eye mask and a red-and-gold bodysuit that left her shoulders and half her breasts exposed. 

"You—" 

"Enough with the pleasantries," Deadshot interrupted, annoyed at being ignored. "Now that we're all here, let's hear what crazy scheme our benefactor has cooked up for us this time." He nodded towards the Cat, who wordlessly retrieved a tape recorder from the pile of grenades. 

"Well, well, am I seeing things? A tape recorder?" Ms. October remarked. 

Deadshot paid her no mind. He pressed a button on the recorder, raised the antenna, and fiddled with it for a moment. "The client wants us to turn on the radio once everyone's assembled. Shut up and listen. I figure you're all here for the money, same as me." 

The four of them fell silent. Soon, a voice crackled through the static. 

"Zizizizi... Can you hear me?" 

"Loud and clear, Employer," Deadshot replied. "What's the job this time? Chasing down Firefly, or some other two-bit crook, our righteous employer?" 

"Neither." 

Deadshot noted the client's voice was distorted by the radio. He'd checked the tape recorder—it was an oversized wireless walkie-talkie. Did that mean the client was nearby? 

"I've assigned a leader for this operation. You will obey their orders. Especially you, Count Vertigo." Vertigo was little unconvinced. Though he knew he wasn't alone on this mission, he hadn't planned on cooperating with anyone. He was a lone wolf, here solely for the money. How could he be expected to follow orders? Who did they think this leader was, Batman?

....

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