A/N: Last chapter didn't get as much of a response as I'd hoped, but I am not deterred. I'm enjoying these characters too much. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and followed this story up to this point. As always, if you have anything to recommend, feel free to review or message me.

Fandom: Batman (Arkham Origins/Asylum/City)

Title: The Broker

Chapter Four: Broker, Stressed

After a thorough self-inspection, it turned out his nose wasn't broken, and neither were his ribs or any other bone in his body. His normally pale, unembellished skin, however, wasn't so lucky. Bruises of the most interest shades of black, green, and blue marred his body like crude, polka-dotted watermarks left by an overenthusiastic artist.

Sherman moved gingerly around his apartment, when he had to move at all. His phone was always somewhere nearby as he waited for the inevitable call he knew would come.

Two days after his meeting with Black Mask, his phone rang, but it was only one of the crime boss' usual thugs, setting up a time where they could meet to exchange the first half of Sherman's payment.

Sherman showed up for the money, punctual as ever. But given his recent experiences, he half expected for Batman to show up and ruin everything. In spite of Sherman's newfound negativity, the whole thing was pulled off without a hint of trouble. Downright boring, in Sherman's opinion, but given the winces of discomfort he had to keep holding back with every movement, he was happy with boring.

In fact, a week came and went without anything much happening at all. Sherman sat at home, feet propped up on his coffee table, allowing his body time to heal. Occasionally, Emmanuel or another agent would call with a question or concern, but that was about it.

Even the news was fairly uneventful. Mike Engel and Julie Sterns seemed to have abandoned getting any professional insights on the Batman after Dr. Crane's peculiar interview and the backlash against the network it had caused. After all, the news was only supposed to keep fear in the public stirred up by showing them devastating stories; you weren't supposed to talk about it outright.

The only recent thing the Batman had done to make the news was on the night he boldly dropped off a few of the Penguin's men, bound and strung up, in front of the GCPD building. Still alive, though. That was beginning to be a pattern with the Batman. No casualties. Whether it was deliberate or just how the situation went down, only time would tell.

Well, only if the Bat could survive Christmas Eve, that is.

There was one other news story that caught Sherman's interest as he heated up leftovers the night before. Richard Bloom had been a no-show at a recent court case, only to be found dead in an alleyway a few hours later. According to the autopsy report, the body had shown no signs of violence. The cause of death was ruled as heart failure, even though Bloom had no history of heart-related illness even in his immediate family. Unusual, but not unheard of. But what the report couldn't account for was the look of abject terror frozen on Bloom's face at the time of his death.

Sherman could scarcely believe the journalists were being serious by that point. It was like some Harry Potter bullshit. Which Sherman had only read a little of, honestly. It was…cute. A little inspiring. Alright, it was downright enjoyable. He had gone to nearly every book release, so sue him.

All the same, the police had ruled out murder, not finding any trace of DNA from any supposed assailant. Bloom had probably been walking to work when his heart problems started. Panicking, he stumbled into the alley and died before he could contact 911 or get help from someone. Tragic, but these things happen all the time.

If only this city was really as easy as the reporters and the cops wanted you to believe.

Not able to stand his boredom or cabin fever anymore, Sherman Fine left his apartment close to ten o'clock on a rare, cloudless night in Gotham. Slush and snow crunched half-heartedly under his footsteps as he walked the festive blocks of the city's Diamond District. Nearly every street was lit up with Christmas lights—white and multi-colored—and decorative wreaths hung on every light post. A few restaurants on the block were still open, catering to the holiday parties of the wealthy and well connected. Christmas music hummed gently in the air from each open business, somehow managing to not clash with each other.

As nice as it was, Sherman was glad that Christmas was only four days away. He was starting to get sick of the repeated carols and careless gaiety Gotham always adopted around this time. It was worse in the Diamond District for obvious reasons. These people didn't need to, but they insisted on using Christmas as an excuse to pretend all was well in Gotham, that the depression never happened.

It didn't seem to matter to them that they managed to behave this way every non-holiday, too. Just without the singing.

At that line of thought, the atmosphere turned sour and suffocated Sherman with its all too obvious hypocrisy. Ironically, he sought out the subway to help alleviate it and preserve his mood. Trains were always in operation in the city, and for that, Fine was glad. It meant whenever he felt nostalgic or lost or overwhelmed, he could go down to the pier and stare up at the stars for a while. Clear his head. Gain some prospective.

That's where Fine was heading now.

The Final Offer, docked securely on the far left end of the pier, easily dwarfed everything else around it and was the first thing Sherman took notice of when he arrived. It was almost impossible not to. With the entire city so adorned for the holidays, to see such a massive, imposing thing without any sign of Christmas spirit was a harsh jerk back to reality. Corruption didn't have to hide in Gotham. It was out in the open plain as day for the world to see.

It was a reality that Sherman admittedly benefited from, but he felt he could do better if a little desperation entered the minds and hearts of the city's crime bosses. If things weren't quite so easy for them, he could get away with asking for what he thought he was worth and not settle for their offers. Wouldn't that be sweet?

The Broker cast a wary glance at the ship, spotting the hired hands patrolling the top deck. You didn't have to have lived in Gotham long to guess that they were walking about unarmed. In fact, there seemed to be a larger amount of men than the Broker remembered there being when he first visited. The Penguin could be arrogant, but it looked like he was taking seriously the sudden interest Batman had in his affairs.

Black Mask had some decidedly unfriendly competition, then. In more ways than one.

Sherman strolled leisurely in the opposite direction of the vessel. It was difficult to see the stars with so much light interfering, but he knew a spot where a gazer could get a decent view. Decent for the city, anyway.

Ocean waves as dark as the night sky above splashed gently against the side of the pier. If it weren't for the faint light of the moon and the stars, Sherman would have thought he was looking into a seamless abyss, but he felt soothed at the sight rather than intimidated. There were many who preferred the ocean during the day, where you could see its ever-changing hues of blues and greens as well as any threats that lurked just underneath the surface. Not Sherman. He felt the ocean reached its true beauty under the cover of nightfall.

An icy drop landed on his check, causing him to flinch. By the time he wiped it away, it had already dissolved fully into water. Craning his neck back, he saw a few other snowflakes reflected in the dim light. A single, dark cloud had snuck its way along Gotham's sky like some prowler while Sherman had been underground, and he knew he couldn't stay for much longer. The winter storm wasn't supposed to hit for a few more days yet, but that didn't mean Gotham's normal winters were any less dangerous. Still, wrapped up in several layers of clothes plus his long, black coat as he was, Sherman felt secure enough to linger a little longer.

He gave another glance at the stars before reaching inside his coat pocket for something he rarely indulged in. Pulling out a mostly full packet of cigarettes and a lighter, he lit one before returning the others to his pocket. The worn packet crinkled loudly in his hands, not new by any means. In fact, he couldn't remember exactly when he'd bought it.

Sherman wasn't much of a smoker, but the habit came in handy in certain situations, most of them social. Much of the criminal underworld smoked cigarettes, cigars, and joints, and Sherman noticed how much more comfortable they felt dealing with people who had the same vices they did. So Sherman would smoke with clients on occasion.

But there weren't any clients now, so what this? A stress reliever, of course.

He just couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness behind this thing with Black Mask. Sure, he'd been offered a shit ton of money; anyone would have been tempted to accept it, and with Black Mask, what other choice did he have? Torture? Which would have only led to him accepting anyway—Sherman knew better than to think he had some invulnerable willpower to stand up to pain—and he probably wouldn't have gotten compensation for it, either.

But why exactly did Black Mask think the Broker could work with Gotham Merchants Bank and Gotham City Royal Hotel? Did he think, if things with the Bat went south and Black Mask's connection with Roman Sionis became clearer to the public, that he could somehow pin the blame on Sherman, thus absolving himself? Did he really think Sherman would just let that happen?

It didn't make any sense.

Maybe... Maybe he was thinking about this too hard. Black Mask's associates probably wouldn't even call him. Christmas would be over and done with before he knew it, and he'd be millions richer for doing nothing except enduring a beat down. And with any luck, the Batman would be decomposing somewhere.

He'd take it.

Finally bringing the cigarette to his lips, Sherman took a long, leisurely drag, reveling in the feel of anxiety already leaving him. Most of that was probably in his head rather than the cigarette's true effect, but Fine didn't care. As long as it did the trick.

Out of nowhere, his phone blared his ringtone into the otherwise calm night. Unprepared, Sherman abruptly choked on the smoke in his lungs as he fumbled for the device.

If it was one of the associates, he couldn't dare to miss the call, or Black Mask would surely have his head for it.

When he finally answered it, he was still reeling from the smoke.

"He—" Sherman broke off to cough, trying to stifle the sounds as best he could. "Hello?"

"The fuck's wrong with you?" a decidedly familiar male voice grated into his right ear. "And why'd you take such a bloody long time to answer?"

It was the Penguin.

For a brief moment, Sherman's body relaxed as relief overtook him. Not one of Black Mask's guys. Which meant he didn't almost lose his life by slacking on the job. That was good. But wait…

All at once, his body seized up again as dread sunk into every pore of his skin. Why was Penguin calling him?

Luckily for Sherman, the Penguin wasn't one to beat around the bush.

"Never mind. One of my boys up top said he spotted you wandering down the pier."

Sherman cast a scathing look at The Final Offer, which even at this distance he could distinguish quite plainly. "And you'd thought you'd just call up to chat?"

"To an arsehole like you, Fine?" Penguin made a sound between a laugh and a growl. "I'd rather let the boys toss me overboard into the pissing cold."

If only they would. Sherman took a long drag on his cigarette before finally responding, smoke lazily curling from his mouth as he spoke, "And how are you liking the ship?"

"It's a floating turd," Penguin said accusingly as if the ship's damages were all his, Sherman's, fault. Fine wasn't concerned. He'd given sufficient warning and photographic evidence to Cobblepot before he signed the deed. "But it gets the job done."

"I'm happy to hear it," Shermain said, and he meant it even though he knew he sounded less than thrilled right now. "But I'm guessing that isn't what you wanted to talk to me about."

"No, no, it isn't. Word on the street is, you've got something big going down with Black Mask, and I want in."

Sherman didn't bother to deny the Penguin's claim. Even if he'd wanted to, he'd waited a second too long for his denial to sound genuine, and besides… It was no secret that the thugs of Gotham ran their mouths too much, posturing, talking shit, and everything else. Sherman knew the likelihood that one of Black Mask's men had bragged about this little operation—no matter the sparse details—to rival gang members was high.

So he answered as honestly as he could. "I'm not too sure if he'd be too keen on that. But I suppose if you got to the Batman first—"

Penguin interrupted with a noise of disgust. "I haven't the slightest interest in joining Sionis' super secret assassin's club." Sherman's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he almost dropped his phone. "They can have a go at the Batman all they want. In fact, you tell 'em that if they'd like to shoot him with my guns, I'll be all too happy to provide all the guns and ammo they want. I'll even throw in a generous, once-in-a-lifetime discount of one percent off. Fine?"

But Sherman had stopped paying attention to Penguin after he'd uttered one word in particular. A word that Fine was admittedly having trouble processing.

Assassins? Had he heard that right? Had Penguin really said assassins? See, this was the kind of little detail he needed from the start in order to do his goddam job right. This entire time, he'd had these unknown friends of Black Mask's categorized in his mind all wrong. Truth be told, he wasn't sure who he'd expected to show up. Gang leaders from Metropolis or Blüdhaven allied to Black Mask. Maybe a big-time hired gun or two. Not full-blown assassins, as in plural. That distinction meant way more in Sherman's mind than a mere "associate." An associate could be reasoned with, talked to rationally. An assassin was only in it for one of two things: the money or the kill, and they didn't take excuses.

In other words, if he disappointed these people, he'd never make it to Black Mask. They would just dispatch him themselves.

"'Ello?" Penguin snapped in his ear. "Are you bloody listening to me?"

"Yes, yes, of course." Sherman snapped back to reality. He needed to take this one step at a time, or he'd drown. Moment of truth here. "It's just… Look, I'm not supposed to be doing this. I'm sort of under a one-man contract right now, but the way I see it, you make these assassins' jobs easier by helping them kill the Bat, then everybody wins in the end, don't they? So, yeah, I'll let them know you're interested in doing business with them. Shouldn't be a problem."

"Good man, Fine. Not that I would have let you weasel out on me."

"Mm," Sherman replied noncommittally as he flicked ash off his cigarette. "Was that all you needed?"

"Yeah, son, I'd say we're done 'ere."

Hanging up on the call, Sherman returned his attention to fully enjoy his cigarette, pocketing his phone with one swift motion.

So, the Penguin had been added as a piece on this little game board of Black Mask's, alongside Enigma and however many assassins there were. Sherman wondered if this was something the crime boss had wanted to happen all along. If it wasn't, Sherman wasn't going to be the first to tell him. He liked his body operational and pain free, thank you very much.

Still, though, he couldn't help but think of how many more pieces would be added to the board before Christmas was over. Who else would join in on disposing of the Batman? It was no secret that Black Mask owned half of the police force, though most people liked to pretend otherwise. Would the cops be in on it, too, or would they only get in the assassins' way?

Sherman was about to light another cigarette, having finished the first, when someone spoke from directly behind him.

"Smoking's bad for you, you know?"

Having learned from the last time someone snuck up on him, Sherman spun around and frantically backpedaled away from his foe, his hands covering the back of his head.

He looked ridiculous. He knew he did. But it was better than laying on the ground getting beaten to submission. Nevertheless, Sherman felt foolish, especially when he took in just who he was up against.

Towering above Sherman's own six-foot-two frame was a man covered in assorted black and orange armor. Even his face was covered, which surprised Sherman because the man's amused yet authoritarian voice had sounded so clear when he spoke. But what intrigued Sherman more was the fact that the man seemed to only have one clear, crystal blue eye. His mask, at least, lacked a second eyehole to prove otherwise. He must be something, to have such an obvious disability yet still be an accomplished assassin.

Or maybe he was the runt of the litter.

Briefly, Sherman humored the notion that he was fast enough to go for his gun but then quickly discarded it. He really would look like an idiot if he tried.

Sherman couldn't stop his own gaze from darting to the black half of his mask before he remembered his manners. He focused instead on the man's good eye, which was narrowed in a keen gaze, as if he knew exactly what Sherman had been humoring mere moments before. Heat rushed up his neck, but Sherman ignored it, responding as if there had been no gap in the conversation.

"A guy's gotta have a little joy in life, gimme a break." Sherman twirled his unlit cigarette between his fingers before unceremoniously tossing it away. "But I was overdoing it. Now, let me guess. You're one of the assassins, I take it."

"You seem unbalanced. Weren't you expecting us?" The assassin said, his voice still oddly clear despite the mask.

"I was expecting a phone call." Sherman smiled but he knew it was a flimsy attempt. "But this is better than a house visit, even if I am freezing my balls off out here."

"You're being reimbursed well, I'm sure."

"But probably not as well as you if you kill Batman. What did Black Mask make the bounty?"

Sherman was sure that the assassin would comment on his lack of information, but he did not. Instead, he said with an almost bored tone, "Fifty million."

Sherman let out a low whistle. Maybe he was in the wrong line of work?

Nah. He was doing fine. Scrambling over rooftops after a mark wasn't quite his calling in life.

"I certainly can't say I blame you for taking that offer, Mr…?"

Sherman couldn't exactly tell, but he got the impression that the man was amused at his attempts at conversation.

That smooth voice responded again. "It's rare that I introduce myself. I'm used to my reputation preceding me or my opponents lying dead or unconscious at my feet before I get the chance. But you, civilian, can call me Deathstroke."

With anyone else, that statement would have sounded unbearably arrogant. But with this man, he was merely stating a fact.

Sherman was still wrapping his mind around the fact that he was talking to a man who assimilated death with his name.

"And is there anything I could help you with to make your job easier, Deathstroke?" Sherman asked, going into Broker mode in spite of his lack of sunglasses. "Do you need a hideout so you can set up shop before the holidays?"

"No, I don't." Deathstroke turned away, walking a few steps, the eyeless half of his mask all Sherman could see of his countenance. "I was merely advised to touch base with you. I feel I've done that sufficiently."

So someone had deliberately sought him out just to tell him that he wasn't needed. That was new. Was this how all the other assassins would act? Sherman was grateful he was being paid regardless, otherwise this would all be a fabulous waste of time.

Well, maybe not a complete waste.

"I don't suppose," Sherman started, and Deathstroke turned back to look at him again, "you'd want to pay a visit to ol' Cobblepot down the way, and buy some high-grade weapons from him? To make your job easier? He said for you guys to drop by anytime. He'll be happy to sell you the gun that kills the Bat."

"I've got it covered." And he did, now that Sherman looked at him. The guy was a walking armory. Everywhere he looked, there was a knife or a gun or some sword sticking out somewhere from his armor. All that was missing were a few bombs. Unless Deathstroke was keeping those somewhere else.

Sherman was quite proud of himself for not allowing his eyes to stray south and check.

"But I thank you, Sherman Fine," Deathstroke said, narrowing his eye to pin Sherman with a keen stare. "You've given me a useful hint."

"I have?"

"If this Cobblepot is going to be selling a sudden influx of arms, the Batman is sure to take notice and come looking. And when he does, I will be waiting for him."

Almost unbelievable, but Sherman thought he'd actually earned his paycheck tonight. Now if only he could do this… How many more times, exactly?

"Hang on a second." Fine hoped to whoever was out there that he wasn't being an annoyance, but he needed to know. "Black Mask never said, but how many are you?"

"We are eight," Deathstroke replied neutrally.

Eight. So he had potentially seven more assassins to get through by Christmas. Jesus.

"Well, best of luck." Sherman waved.

"Keep it." Deathstroke said as he unsheathed a long, metal staff from one of his many affects strapped to his back. "It's Batman who needs all the luck he can get."

The Broker watched, mildly stunned, as Deathstroke performed a series of acrobatics that launched him into the air and on top of a series of boxcars stacked along the pier, and Sherman no longer had any doubts about Deathstroke's disability affecting his skills as a killer. Faster than Sherman could perceive, the assassin vanished from sight, but Sherman could swear he was heading towards the Penguin's ship.

But maybe that was wishful thinking.

As he headed toward the subway to begin his journey back home, Sherman couldn't help but muse on what these seven other assassins had in store for him and that mysterious thing called luck. Sherman wondered if the Batman would somehow come out on Christmas as lucky as himself after facing them.

It'll be the only way he'll survive, Sherman thought, that's for sure.