Three stories beneath the cobblestone streets of the Meatpacking District, inside a reinforced, soundproofed subterranean vault that used to be a Cold War bunker, New York’s most dangerous elites were sipping three-hundred-dollar champagne.
Weapon dealers, former Hydra lieutenants, Maggia mob bosses, and crooked politicians filled the plush velvet seats, all wearing Venetian velvet masquerade masks to protect their identities. On the grand marble stage stood a bulletproof glass display housing illegal Stark tech, stolen Chitauri energy cores, and a pristine vial of altered Super Soldier serum.
"Lot 4: A prototype arc-reactor containment unit, starting bid at five million dollars," the suave, tuxedo-wearing auctioneer purred into a gold-plated microphone.
In the back row, three figures sat together in a plush corner booth.
Felicia wore a fitted black silk evening gown with a silver cat mask, idly sipping a martini. Natasha was stunning in a backless deep-crimson silk dress, her dark red hair pinned up, wearing an ornate black lace mask that barely concealed the lethal focus in her grey eyes.
And sitting between them was Jack.
He had actually agreed to wear a tailored charcoal-grey tuxedo—though he refused the bowtie, leaving his collar open to reveal his pale, scarred neck. Over his face sat a porcelain Venetian harlequin mask painted with a classic black-and-red diamond pattern. His chalk-white paint and smudged eyes were hidden underneath, but his bloodshot eyes glowed through the eyeholes with a terrifying [30.0% SYNCHRONIZATION] spark.
He was currently holding Wilson Fisk's stolen black American Express card between his middle and index fingers, flipping it like a poker chip.
"I feel so distinguished, Red," Jack whispered rasply into Natasha’s ear, the scent of expensive cognac and greasepaste wafting off him. "Look at us! High society! A bunch of international criminals buying illegal laser guns in a basement!"
"Keep your voice down, Jack," Natasha murmured smoothly, her hand casually resting on his knee under the tablecloth, her fingers tracing the edge of his thigh holster. "There are six armed guards on the catwalks and two Maggia enforcers at the door. We're here for the Chitauri core, not a firefight."
"Six million!" a fat mob boss in a gold mask called out from the front row, raising his electronic paddle.
"Seven million!" another voice echoed.
Jack looked at the glowing crimson system menu hovering in the dark corner of his vision:
[SPECIAL CHAOS QUEST: "THE INFLATION SQUEEZE"]
Objective: Outbid every mob boss in the room using Wilson Fisk’s stolen line of credit, drive the price above $50 million, and bankrupt the auctioneer.
Reward: +5.0% Synchronization (Reaching 35.0%) + Skill: [Joker’s Anarchy Ledger]
Jack’s jaw stretched into a wide, wet grin behind his porcelain mask. A low, bubbling hehehe vibrated against Natasha’s knee.
"Did someone say... bidding war?" Jack rasped.
Before Natasha could stop him, Jack snatched the electronic bidding paddle off the table, stood up on top of the velvet booth, and raised the paddle high above his head.
"ONE HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS!" Jack’s screeching, raspy voice exploded through the quiet vault, shattering the refined atmosphere like a brick through a stained-glass window.
The entire room went dead silent. Fifty masked billionaires turned around in their seats to stare at the charcoal-suited lunatic standing on the furniture.
The auctioneer blinked, stuttering into his microphone. "I... excuse me, sir? One... one hundred million?"
"You heard me, Pierre!" Jack cackled, ripping off his porcelain Venetian mask to reveal his chalk-white face, hollow black raccoon eyes, and crimson lip balm scar stretched ear-to-ear. "ONE HUNDRED MILLION BIG ONES! Put it on the card marked FISK! In fact, make it TWO HUNDRED MILLION for the alien battery AND the bottle of sparklin' water on the stage! HAHAHAHA!"
Panic erupted instantly.
"IT'S THE CLOWN!" someone screamed.
"SECURITY! SHOOT HIM!" a Maggia boss yelled.
Felicia downed her martini in one gulp and pulled out two smoke grenades from her purse. "Well, so much for the quiet heist."
Natasha didn't even sigh. She stood up smoothly, her crimson dress sliding over her legs as she drew a suppressed pistol from her thigh holster, her grey eyes locking onto Jack with a mixture of exasperation and absolute, thrilling amusement.
"You really can't take me anywhere nice, can you, Jack?" Natasha purred.
"I AM THE NICE PLACE, BABY!" Jack shrieked, slamming Fisk’s black card onto the table and pulling his brass air-horn from his tuxedo coat. "LET THE BIDDING WAR BEGIN! DARE 'EM TO OUTBID THE JOKER! HAHAHAHAHA!"
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