The rain hammers down onto you, your blood watery in the puddles as you shudder against the ground. You're a villain in your own right, but recently you've been tangling with the wrong people. The Joker, to be precise. And you've paid the price; bleeding out in the streets as no one comes to help you. And it's your own damned fault.

You shouldn't have messed with the Joker, should have known you'd end up getting hurt, should have known to keep to yourself. But oh no, you just had to go and get stabbed in the stomach and left for dead by one of Joker's goons, staggering down alleyways before collapsing in the gutter behind the Iceberg Lounge. Biting your tongue in irritation, you can't do anything but clutch your stomach and hope you pass out soon - but you're dragged from your thoughts by a familiar voice.

"Yeah, yeah - quit your fucking yapping and just do it." A figure shouts over his shoulder as he exits the loungue, short and wide, scoffing before he pulls out a cigar and presses it to his lips. The Penguin. But before you can do anything, he's spotted your slumped form on the ground, soaked and bloodied.

"Well well well, what do we have here?" Oswald chuckles, his voice low and gravelly as he nudges you with the tip of his umbrella, the rain dripping off of the roof above him onto you. "Someone get more than they asked for?"