The Iceberg Lounge, Lower East Side - 11:47 PM
Slade Wilson studied the tactical display on his phone, watching thermal signatures approach the Iceberg Lounge through multiple vectors. Professional. Coordinated. Exactly what he'd expected from Pierce's cleanup crew. The man always did favor overkill when dealing with loose ends.
"Positions," he commanded quietly, his voice cutting through the lounge's ambient music. The other assassins moved with lethal efficiency, each understanding their role in the defense he'd hastily organized. Six of the world's deadliest killers taking orders from him without question. Under different circumstances, it might have been amusing.
Tonight, it was pure necessity.
Deadshot had claimed the mezzanine level, his distinctive red targeting eye already glowing as he calibrated his rifle's scope. From that elevated position, he commanded clear sightlines to every approach the tactical team might use. His breathing had settled into the mechanical rhythm of a professional marksman preparing for engagement.
"Thermal count?" Floyd asked, not taking his eye from the scope.
"Twelve hostiles, standard tactical formation," Slade replied, watching the signatures spread across his display. "But there's something else. Larger signature, moving independently."
"The Asset," Taskmaster observed from his position near the main entrance, shield already in hand. The skull-masked assassin had memorized the layout during their brief time here, his photographic reflexes allowing him to anticipate attack patterns before they developed.
Bane emerged from the shadows near the service entrance, his massive form making the lounge's generous spacing feel cramped. The tubes feeding into his mask pulsed with that familiar green glow, but the rhythm seemed steadier now. More controlled than it had been during their battle in the Batcave.
"How many men has Pierce sent to die tonight?" Bane rumbled, massive hands flexing in anticipation. Despite his earlier defeat, there was no hesitation in his movements. If anything, the encounter with Batman seemed to have focused his tactical thinking rather than diminishing it.
"Not enough," Kraven replied from somewhere in the darkness. The hunter had vanished into the lounge's shadows with predatory grace, positioning himself where he could strike without being detected. His voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, a psychological tactic that had unnerved countless prey over the years.
Lady Shiva remained near the bar, perfectly composed despite the approaching violence. She'd exchanged her damaged evening gown for functional black combat gear, though she somehow made even tactical equipment look elegant. Her posture suggested casual relaxation, but Slade recognized the coiled readiness beneath her apparent calm.
Copperhead had claimed the space near the kitchen entrance, her sinuous movements taking her through positions that would be impossible for normal human flexibility. She'd shed the formal attire entirely, now wearing form-fitting gear that allowed her full range of motion. Her eyes held the cold focus of a predator preparing to strike.
From behind the reinforced bar came the distinctive sound of Oswald Cobblepot's voice, thick with his native Gotham accent and barely contained fury.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me with this shit," Oz muttered, his scarred face twisted in disgust as he watched the thermal readings on his own security monitors. "Government spooks shooting up my establishment? On my goddamn turf? Are you out of your fucking minds?"
The Penguin had been monitoring the situation from his private security center, a sophisticated command post hidden behind the lounge's elegant facade. Multiple screens displayed feeds from cameras positioned throughout the building and surrounding blocks, giving him complete tactical awareness of the approaching threat.
His stubby fingers, adorned with gaudy rings that couldn't quite mask their violent history, drummed against the reinforced surface as he processed what was about to happen to his empire. Each tap grew more aggressive as his anger built.
"Boss," Marcus Webb, his head of security, spoke quietly into his earpiece. The ex-Special Forces operator had served two tours in Afghanistan before Falcone money convinced him that private sector work paid better and asked fewer questions. "Perimeter teams report multiple breaches incoming. Professional grade equipment, military tactics."
"Professional grade, my ass," Oz snarled, his gold tooth catching the emergency lighting as he bared his teeth. "These cocksuckers think they can just roll up on the Iceberg Lounge like it's some two-bit dive in the Narrows?"
He hefted his modified umbrella like a weapon, the elegant walking stick concealing sophisticated targeting systems and projectile capabilities that would surprise even seasoned combatants. The custom grip felt at home in his hands, worn smooth by years of use in situations exactly like this.
"Twenty-three fucking years I've been building this place," he growled, moving toward the main floor where the assassins were taking their positions. His limp was more pronounced when he was agitated, the cane serving both practical and weapons purposes. "Twenty-three years of careful neutrality, respecting territories, playing by the unwritten rules that keep this city from tearing itself apart."
Behind him came his personal security detail, men whose expensive suits couldn't quite hide the military bearing beneath. Unlike typical criminal muscle, these were professionals—former soldiers, discharged police, intelligence operatives who'd found lucrative employment in Gotham's underworld.
"And this Pierce motherfucker thinks he can just waltz in here with his toy soldiers like I'm some punk running a corner operation?" Oz's voice rose with each word, the Gotham working-class accent getting thicker as his rage intensified. "Like I don't have fucking connections? Like I don't have a reputation to maintain?"
Rodriguez, one of his lieutenants, looked up from checking his weapon. "Boss, you want us to call in backup from the other families?"
"Fuck no," Oz snapped immediately. "This is MY house. MY territory. MY fucking problem. Last thing I need is owing favors to Maroni or Bertinelli because some government prick decided to play war games in my establishment."
He gestured aggressively with his umbrella, the targeting system whirring softly as it tracked potential threats. "Besides, you think I built this place to last twenty-three years by running to daddy every time some asshole tried to muscle in? This is exactly the kind of shit I prepared for."
"Alberto," Slade called to the cowering Falcone heir, who'd pressed himself against the far wall like he could somehow disappear into the woodwork. "Get to the panic room. Lock it down. Don't come out until this is over."
"What if you lose?" Alberto asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
That question made Oz's head snap around, his scarred face contorting with fresh anger as he focused on the source of his current problems.
"What if they lose?" Oz repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm and barely controlled rage. "Kid, let me explain something to you about consequences and responsibility."
He limped closer to Alberto, his umbrella tapping ominously against the marble floor with each step. "See, when you make a deal with freaks like Pierce, when you start playing with government spooks and enhanced psychopaths, there tends to be blowback. And right now, that blowback is about to turn my beautiful establishment into a fucking war zone."
Alberto shrank back further against the wall, but Oz wasn't done.
"You know what this place means to me, Alberto? It's not just a business. It's my legacy. It's proof that a gimpy kid from the East End can build something that matters in this city. And your fucking stupidity just put all of that at risk."
"Then you'll have bigger problems than hiding in a closet," Deadshot interjected without taking his attention from his scope, clearly trying to defuse the tension before it compromised their defense. "Movement on the north approach. Three figures, moving with tactical discipline."
Oz emerged from behind the bar, his umbrella held with the casual confidence of someone who understood its hidden capabilities. His scarred face was flushed with genuine anger as he surveyed his carefully maintained establishment about to become a battlefield.
"Mr. Wilson," he said, addressing Deathstroke with forced civility despite his rage. "I appreciate you trying to keep your business contained, but since these government jackoffs decided to bring the war to MY house, me and my boys are gonna participate."
He paused, his good eye fixing on Alberto with unmistakable menace. "And when this is over, young Falcone, you and me are gonna have a very serious fucking conversation about bringing federal heat to my door. Your old man taught you better than this."
Webb appeared at Oz's shoulder, tactical vest already in place over his expensive suit. "Boss, perimeter teams are in position. Building's locked down tight. These government boys picked the wrong establishment to fuck with."
"Damn right they did," Oz replied, his gold tooth glinting as he smiled without humor. "See, Alberto, this is what twenty-three years of careful planning looks like. Every entrance, every exit, every fucking air vent has been accounted for. Hidden weapon caches, armored positions, automated defenses—the whole nine yards."
He gestured around the elegant lounge with obvious pride. "You think I survived this long in Gotham by being careless? By not preparing for exactly this kind of horseshit? Your father didn't build his empire by being stupid, and neither did I."
"The Falcones have always respected the Iceberg's neutrality," Alberto protested weakly.
"Yeah, well, respect doesn't stop bullets, does it?" Oz shot back. "And your goddamn government boyfriend just violated every principle that keeps this city's underworld from complete chaos. There are rules, kid. Boundaries. Lines you don't fucking cross."
His voice grew more animated, the working-class accent thickening even more. "You don't bring feds to neutral territory. You don't endanger civilian operations. And you sure as shit don't put my establishment at risk without clearing it with me first."
Slade checked his own equipment one final time. Modified Glock in his shoulder holster, combat knife secured at his thigh, staff collapsed and ready for deployment. The familiar weight of properly distributed gear was reassuring, a constant in a world where everything else shifted without warning.
"Your establishment, your rules," Slade acknowledged. "But Pierce's Asset isn't like the others. Enhanced strength, tactical awareness, and absolutely no moral constraints. He won't hesitate, won't negotiate, won't show mercy."
"Sounds familiar," Kraven laughed from the shadows, the sound carrying genuine anticipation. "A worthy hunt at last."
"Good thing I don't negotiate either," Oz replied, his umbrella's targeting system whirring softly as it calibrated. "This is my territory, my business, my responsibility. These government pricks wanna play soldier? Let's see how they handle Gotham rules."
Webb's voice crackled through the tactical radios his team wore. "All positions, stand by. Charges detected on north wall. Breaching imminent."
The lounge's emergency systems activated automatically, steel shutters descending over the windows while hidden defensive positions revealed themselves throughout the building. What had appeared to be decorative elements suddenly showed their true purpose as automated systems designed to protect Gotham's criminal elite during hostile takeovers.
"Don't underestimate him," Slade warned, his single eye tracking the thermal signatures as they moved into final assault positions. "He's survived longer than any of Pierce's other experiments for good reason."
Oz positioned himself behind his reinforced bar, the mahogany surface concealing armor plating that could stop rifle rounds. His expression was murderous as he contemplated the damage about to be inflicted on his carefully cultivated empire.
"You picked the wrong establishment to mess with, Pierce," he muttered, his gold tooth glinting in the low light. "This ain't some backwater dive you can shoot up without consequences."
The thermal signatures on Slade's display suddenly accelerated, switching from careful approach to full assault pattern. Pierce had grown impatient with stealth.
"Here they come," Slade announced.
Rodriguez, one of Cobblepot's lieutenants, had taken position near the kitchen entrance with a modified shotgun loaded with specialized rounds designed for close-quarters combat. His radio crackled with updates from the perimeter teams as they tracked the incoming assault.
"Boss," he called out quietly, "Charlie Team reports shaped charges on the north wall. Delta Team has movement on the service entrances. These guys are hitting us from multiple vectors."
"Let 'em come," Oz snarled, his umbrella's targeting system locking onto the breach point. "This is MY house. They wanna play rough? I'll show them what rough looks like."
The distinctive sound of shaped charges detonating echoed through the building's structure, followed immediately by the crash of falling masonry and the hiss of smoke grenades being deployed. Emergency lighting bathed everything in hellish red as the building's main power grid automatically shut down to protect sensitive systems.
Through the smoke and debris came the first wave of Pierce's tactical team, moving with military precision as they breached the north wall. Their night vision equipment and coordinated movements spoke of serious training and unlimited funding.
Deadshot's scope tracked the lead figure through his elevated position, the distinctive whir of his targeting eye calculating distance, wind resistance, and optimal impact points. His finger found the trigger as the first tactical operative cleared the breach.
"Contact north," he reported calmly, squeezing the trigger. The suppressed rifle spoke with deadly precision, dropping the lead operative instantly. Another tactical soldier spun and fell as Floyd's accuracy turned Pierce's coordinated assault into scattered confusion.
But the breach had been a diversion. The real attack came through the service entrance, where a figure in black tactical gear moved with inhuman speed. The Winter Soldier burst through the kitchen doors like a force of nature, metal arm gleaming under the lounge's blue lighting as he surveyed the battlefield with mechanical precision.
"Well, well, well," Oz's voice cut through the chaos, his gold tooth catching the emergency lighting as he grinned without humor. "Look what Pierce sent to crash my fucking party."
The Penguin had positioned himself behind his reinforced bar, but now he stepped into full view, revealing the modified Uzi he'd pulled from a hidden weapons cache. The compact submachine gun looked almost toy-like in his hands, but the barrel modification and extended magazine spoke of serious lethality.
"Hey, chrome arm!" Oz shouted across the smoke-filled lounge, raising the Uzi toward the Winter Soldier. "You think you can just waltz into my house like you own the fucking place?"
The Winter Soldier's head turned toward the voice with mechanical precision, his tactical assessment immediately identifying Cobblepot as a priority target. His metal arm began to rise, but Oz was already squeezing the trigger.
The Uzi erupted in controlled bursts, muzzle flashes strobing through the red emergency lighting as 9mm rounds chewed through the air toward the enhanced operative. The Winter Soldier moved with inhuman speed, his metal arm coming up to deflect the incoming fire while his body twisted to minimize exposure.
Most of the rounds sparked harmlessly off the metal appendage or buried themselves in the reinforced walls behind him, but several found their mark against his tactical vest. The impacts staggered him slightly, though his enhanced physiology absorbed damage that would have dropped a normal man.
"Hostile identified," the Winter Soldier stated flatly, his voice carrying across the chaos with mechanical clarity. "Cobblepot, Oswald. Crime boss. Non-enhanced but well-armed."
"Non-enhanced?" Oz barked out a laugh as he ducked behind cover to reload, ejecting the spent magazine with practiced efficiency. "Kid, I've been enhanced by twenty-three years of surviving in this city's underworld. Let's see how your government programming handles that."
He slammed a fresh magazine home with a satisfying click, the Uzi ready for another burst of controlled violence. "Besides, in my house, I don't need superpowers. I got something better—home field advantage and really expensive toys."
The Winter Soldier began moving toward Oz's position with mechanical purpose, but that's when Bane emerged from the shadows near the service entrance. The massive form intercepted the Asset's advance, his Venom-enhanced bulk making the lounge's generous spacing feel cramped.
"Soldat," Bane growled, recognition flickering in his eyes as he took in the Winter Soldier's stance and bearing. "I know you."
The collision when they met was tremendous, two enhanced fighters testing each other's limits with raw physical force. Bane's Venom-enhanced strength met the Winter Soldier's mechanical augmentation in a contest that sent shockwaves through the building's structure.
Bane's massive fist drove toward the Winter Soldier's head with crushing force, but the Asset deflected with his metal arm, the impact producing a sound like church bells ringing. Neither fighter gave ground initially, both drawing on enhanced physiology to contest raw strength.
"Venom enhancement confirmed," the Winter Soldier noted clinically, his free hand striking toward a nerve cluster in Bane's shoulder. "Systematic weaknesses identified."
But Bane had been fighting enhanced opponents for years. He twisted away from the pressure point strike, his other hand grabbing for the Winter Soldier's throat. "Your systematic approach lacks imagination, machine man."
The Winter Soldier responded by driving his metal elbow into Bane's midsection with enough force to crack reinforced concrete. Bane absorbed the blow with a grunt, his Venom-enhanced constitution allowing him to maintain his grip while retaliating with a knee strike that would have shattered normal ribs.
Meanwhile, Taskmaster had been circling the engagement, his photographic reflexes analyzing both fighters' techniques in real time. Shield raised defensively, he waited for the optimal moment to intervene.
"Interesting matchup," he observed, shield deflecting debris from their increasingly violent exchange. "Systematic brutality versus chemically enhanced strength. Both have predictable patterns, but the Asset adapts faster than normal muscle memory should allow."
That's when Oz decided to rejoin the fight in his own inimitable style.
"Hey chrome arm!" he shouted again, stepping out from behind the bar with his Uzi trained on the Winter Soldier. "You're trashing my fucking establishment! Do you have any idea how much this marble cost?"
The Uzi spoke again, controlled bursts aimed not just at the Winter Soldier but calculated to force him into Bane's striking range. Oz had spent years observing enhanced fighters in his establishment, learning their patterns and weaknesses through careful observation.
"Dance, you mechanical motherfucker!" Oz called out as his rounds sparked off the Winter Soldier's metal arm. "Let's see how well that government programming handles a three-way fight in close quarters!"
The tactical situation immediately became more complex. The Winter Soldier found himself engaged with Bane's overwhelming physical presence while also tracking Oz's ranged attacks and Taskmaster's flanking maneuvers. His mechanical precision struggled to optimize for multiple simultaneous threats.
A burst from Oz's Uzi caught the Winter Soldier across the shoulder, the impacts forcing him to adjust his defensive stance. Bane immediately capitalized, his massive fist driving into the Asset's relocated guard with enough force to send him staggering.
"Coordination between non-enhanced and enhanced operatives," the Winter Soldier noted, apparently updating his tactical assessment. "Unusual but effective."
"Twenty-three years of experience, chrome arm!" Oz replied, ejecting another spent magazine. "I didn't survive this long by fighting fair!"
Kraven emerged from the shadows behind the Winter Soldier, moving with predatory silence that should have made him undetectable. But somehow, the Asset sensed his approach, spinning with impossible speed to catch the hunter's throat in his metal grip.
"Too slow, hunter," the Winter Soldier said, his voice mechanically flat behind the tactical mask. His metal fingers began to close, applying pressure that would crush normal human windpipe in seconds.
Kraven smiled despite the crushing grip around his throat. "Not nearly."
The lion's mane vest he wore suddenly erupted in needle-sharp spines, defensive modifications he'd had installed years ago for exactly this type of close-quarters engagement. The Winter Soldier's grip loosened as the spines penetrated his tactical gear, drawing first blood from the enhanced operative.
"First blood to the hunter!" Oz called out approvingly, firing another burst that forced the Winter Soldier to release Kraven entirely. "That's what happens when you underestimate the competition!"
Kraven broke free with a devastating knee strike to the Winter Soldier's midsection that would have folded a normal man in half. The Asset absorbed the blow without flinching, retaliating with an elbow strike that caught Kraven across the jaw and sent him staggering into one of the lounge's expensive marble pillars.
"Impressive pain tolerance," Kraven acknowledged, wiping blood from his mouth as he used the pillar for cover. "But pain is merely information. Let's see how you process this."
He produced a specialized dart from his vest, the tip gleaming with something that definitely wasn't standard issue. The dart flew toward the Winter Soldier's exposed neck, seeking the gap between his tactical gear and mask.
The Winter Soldier caught it mid-flight, metal fingers crushing the projectile without apparent effort. "Toxins ineffective against enhanced physiology."
"Everything's got a weakness, chrome arm!" Oz shouted, stepping around his bar to get a better angle. "You just gotta find the right pressure point!"
The Uzi erupted again, this time aimed at the Winter Soldier's legs in an attempt to limit his mobility. The Asset moved with mechanical precision, his enhanced reflexes allowing him to deflect most of the rounds with his metal arm while maintaining engagement with multiple opponents.
But the constant pressure was beginning to tell. Bane's relentless physical assault, Taskmaster's analytical flanking, Kraven's hit-and-run tactics, and Oz's sustained ranged harassment created a tactical puzzle that even the Winter Soldier's programming struggled to solve efficiently.
Meanwhile, Lady Shiva had engaged the tactical team coming through the main entrance, her movements flowing like water as she dismantled Pierce's operatives with surgical precision. Three men went down in as many seconds, each dispatched through precise strikes to vital points that left them unconscious rather than dead.
"Sloppy training," she observed, stepping over the fallen operatives without breaking stride. "Pierce's standards have declined since his early experiments."
Her engagement drew the attention of several more tactical operatives, but she moved between them like a ghost, her understanding of pressure points and nerve clusters allowing her to disable multiple opponents without killing. Each strike was calculated for maximum effectiveness with minimal force.
Copperhead moved through the chaos like liquid mercury, her impossible flexibility allowing her to avoid gunfire while closing distance with venomous intent. She struck one operative with fingernails that had been modified into razor-sharp claws, toxins from specialized glands delivering paralysis within seconds.
"Sleep tight," she purred, already moving toward her next target with sinuous grace. Her serpentine movement pattern made her nearly impossible to track through the smoke and strobing muzzle flashes.
But the tactical teams were just the opening act. The Winter Soldier remained the primary threat, his enhanced capabilities and systematic approach making him a match for multiple elite opponents simultaneously.
"You know what your problem is, chrome arm?" Oz called out as he reloaded once again, his movements smooth despite the chaos around him. "You're fighting like a machine instead of thinking like a survivor!"
The Winter Soldier's head turned toward him with mechanical precision. "Explanation required."
"Machines follow programs," Oz replied, stepping out to fire another controlled burst. "Survivors adapt to circumstances. And right now, the circumstances are that you're outnumbered in my house, fighting people who've been killing professionally longer than your handlers have been alive!"
The burst caught the Winter Soldier across the chest, the impacts driving him backward into Bane's waiting arms. The massive criminal wrapped his enhanced grip around the Asset's metal arm, using it as leverage to attempt a devastating throw.
"Numbers advantage confirmed," the Winter Soldier noted clinically, even as he twisted in Bane's grip to deliver a series of strikes to the larger man's pressure points. "Adjusting tactical parameters."
But adjusting wasn't enough. Taskmaster moved to capitalize on the grappling match, his shield work creating openings that Kraven exploited with surgical precision. The hunter's darts found gaps in the Winter Soldier's tactical gear, each strike delivering specialized toxins that should have at least slowed an enhanced metabolism.
"We'll see about that," Kraven replied to the Asset's earlier dismissal of toxins, already moving to maintain distance while preparing his next attack.
The Winter Soldier broke free from his engagement with Bane through sheer brutality, his metal arm delivering a series of devastating strikes that forced the massive criminal to give ground. Blood streamed from multiple wounds, but the Asset's movements remained mechanically precise.
His metal fist caught Bane's enhanced arm mid-swing, the collision producing another bell-like sound that echoed through the smoke-filled lounge. Neither fighter gave ground initially, both drawing on enhanced physiology to contest raw strength.
"Pressure point identified," the Asset stated flatly, his free hand striking a nerve cluster in Bane's shoulder that caused the massive man's grip to loosen momentarily.
Bane snarled in pain and fury, his other hand swinging in a haymaker that would have decapitated a normal opponent. The Winter Soldier ducked under the blow with mechanical precision, his counterattack driving an armored knee into Bane's midsection with enough force to crack the marble flooring.
"Venom dependency creates predictable vulnerability patterns," the Winter Soldier observed as Bane staggered backward, momentarily winded despite his enhanced constitution.
"Predictable this, you mechanical prick!" Oz roared, emerging from cover with his Uzi set to full automatic. The weapon erupted in sustained fire, muzzle flashes strobing through the emergency lighting as he walked the burst across the Winter Soldier's position.
The Asset moved with inhuman speed, but even his enhanced reflexes couldn't completely avoid the sustained barrage. Rounds sparked off his metal arm and tactical gear while others found soft targets, the cumulative damage beginning to affect even his enhanced physiology.
Taskmaster moved to capitalize on the opening, his photographic reflexes having analyzed the Winter Soldier's fighting style for patterns he could exploit. Shield raised defensively, he launched a series of strikes designed to test the Asset's defensive capabilities under sustained pressure.
"Mixed martial foundation with systematic brutality overlay," Taskmaster noted, his shield deflecting a knife thrust while he attempted a leg sweep. "But you're adapting faster than normal muscle memory should allow."
The Winter Soldier's response was to grab Taskmaster's shield with his metal hand, the mechanical fingers finding purchase on the vibranium surface despite its supposedly frictionless properties. With inhuman strength, he used the shield to lift Taskmaster off his feet and hurl him across the lounge.
Taskmaster recovered in midair, his enhanced reflexes allowing him to land in a controlled roll that brought him back to fighting stance near where Oz was reloading his Uzi. But the casual display of strength had rattled him more than he cared to admit.
"Boss," Taskmaster called out as he regained his footing, "this guy's tougher than advertised."
"No shit, skull face," Oz replied, slamming another magazine home. "But tough don't mean invincible. Just means we gotta work harder to put him down."
Kraven circled the Winter Soldier with predatory patience, his hunter's instincts reading the enhanced operative's movement patterns for exploitable weaknesses. Unlike the others, he didn't engage directly, instead probing with ranged attacks that tested the Asset's defensive capabilities.
A specialized dart flew toward the Winter Soldier's exposed neck, the projectile coated with toxins that would incapacitate most enhanced individuals. The Asset caught it mid-flight without looking, metal fingers crushing the delivery system while his tactical awareness tracked Kraven's position.
"Toxin resistance noted," the Winter Soldier stated. "Hunter profile suggests enhanced sensory capabilities. Adjusting engagement parameters."
He moved toward Kraven with mechanical purpose, but the hunter melted back into the shadows with practiced ease. Years of stalking dangerous prey had taught him when to press an attack and when to withdraw.
"Good," Kraven's voice came from everywhere and nowhere, his concealment technique making precise targeting impossible. "Prey that adapts provides better sport."
The Winter Soldier paused, metal arm tilting slightly as his enhanced hearing attempted to triangulate Kraven's position. The hunter's voice seemed to echo from multiple directions, suggesting either advanced ventriloquism or careful positioning among the lounge's acoustic dead zones.
A throwing knife materialized from the darkness, aimed at the Winter Soldier's left knee with surgical precision. He deflected it with his metal arm while simultaneously tracking the trajectory back to its source, but Kraven had already relocated.
"Systematic analysis ineffective against irregular movement patterns," the Winter Soldier noted to himself, apparently updating his tactical assessment.
"That's the spirit, chrome arm!" Oz called out approvingly, firing another burst from his repositioned location. "Welcome to fighting real professionals instead of whatever lab rats Pierce usually feeds you!"
The rounds forced the Winter Soldier to adjust his stance, creating an opening that Bane immediately exploited with a charging tackle that drove both enhanced fighters through one of the lounge's expensive marble tables. The impact scattered debris across the battlefield while emergency lighting cast everything in hellish red illumination.