Disclaimer: Gotham is owned by Bruno Heller and DC Comics.
Note: Takes place a few years after the end of season one.
Chapter One
November 4, 2019
Fish Mooney had been dead for years. Her disjointed, mangled body had washed ashore days later after her triumphant, but ultimately useless, return. The Gotham River had chewed her up and spit her out—gutting her like the slimy fish she was. Found by two unsuspecting teenagers carousing the bay late one night, they almost mistook the waterlogged body for the usual Gotham debris that littered the gloomy shorelines throughout the dying city. Fish was practically unrecognizable. Her right arm and left leg had been missing, apparently chewed off by daring Bull Sharks that liked to swim upstream from time to time. Chunks of her once beautiful chocolate-brown skin were absent, lacerated beyond repair and a significant portion of her torso had been eaten away as well. The spirit that had sparked life into the once dying Theatre District had finally vanished.
Salvatore Maroni had been another one to go. One of Gotham's major crime bosses had been shot right between the eyes by none other than Fish Mooney herself. Good riddance. The fact that she had taken the liberty to do it herself in front of multiple faces of Gotham's crime organization—including a few pigs—had been a great relief among the majority present. Two individual leaders had perished together in one night leaving gaps open for Carmine Falcone to take over freely but he was nowhere to be found, taking off into the night without a word to an undisclosed location.
After those three major heads were out of the picture that had left feeble, little Cobblepot. Oswald Cobblepot, also known as Penguin on the inner streets of Gotham, had survived. He had survived, and he had thrived. The self-proclaimed "King of Gotham" had manipulated his way to the top. There was no other to oppose him now, and the remnants of the other circles had quickly sworn their loyalty only after a few sly words of persuasion on his part. They were all so easily influenced, and he had had no trouble finally taking Gotham by the reins. Oswald quickly restored order among the streets, only having to take three bodies to send a message to those out there who had tried to oppose him in the beginning. His renovated bar—Oswald's—was finally a highly profitable establishment, the earnings constantly rising with each passing year. Since everyone had finally hopped aboard the 'Penguin Train' the crime organization in Gotham had seen nothing but sunshine and rainbows, so to speak, and the criminals locked within the zoo they called home were finally making decent money out on the streets.
Though, not all the money in the world could buy true happiness. Oswald had figured that out quickly once coming into power, and it was this thought alone that plagued him regularly when he was finally able to retire to his bedchambers for the night. He hated to be alone with his thoughts and often turned to marijuana to clear his swimming mind before he laid down to rest.
Tonight, Oswald had changed out of his dark lavender tailored suit and into briefs and a white tank top. He stood staring at himself in the full-length mirror that hung on the wall adjacent from his bed in disgust. A sneer was placed upon his lips as he stared at the oily features of his face. He turned his head to the side, eyeing his crooked nose. Such an ugly thing. Though he would never admit it out loud, it did look like a beak. The name he had earned unwillingly on the streets of Gotham actually fit, and he hated it. Saliva became thick within his mouth, and he struggled to swallow the lump within. Oswald quickly turned away from the mirror before his self-loathing consumed him. He then felt himself heading towards the closed double doors of his bedroom before his mind even registered what he was doing. He shook his head and ran a hand down his face before placing his hand on the golden handle. He stuck his head out, now curious to see if the newly appointed hire was still in position before he retired to bed. Oswald was quite satisfied when he found Reggie, 6'5 and built like a brick house, standing right where he had left him when he had ventured upstairs with Oswald hours ago. The younger man of twenty-one quickly turned, straightening his back as he faced his new boss.
"Sir, is everything alright?" he questioned pointedly, his hand swiftly reaching for the charcoal-grey pistol he had strapped to his side.
Oswald held up his hand, stopping the young gentleman in his haste. "No, no, all is well," he lied with a slick smile planted on his face.
Without another word, Oswald retreated into his dimly lit bedroom. Light from the full moon filtered through the full-length window that overlooked Gotham Bay, draping the contents of his room in pale blue light. Oswald sat on the edge of his bed, sighing as he pulled out a golden box from the top drawer of his nightstand. He stared down at the Falcone family crest, the item once belonging to Carmine of course, and with a shaky hand, he fingered the intricately drawn shield before flipping open the box and pulling out a finely rolled joint from its contents. Placing the box back from whence it came, Oswald retreated in between the sheets and rested his back against the pillows. He lit the end of the splif and then inhaled its smoky goodness, closing his eyes, finally allowing himself to relax. After a few more puffs it felt as though Oswald were lying across a sandy beach letting waves crash over his stiff body. He smiled to himself—a good indicator the drug was doing its job.
Six o'clock was going to come early. Victor Zsasz was due back in the morning to return Butch. For Victor's loyalty, it's what the two had agreed upon in the beginning when Oswald was first establishing power. Once a month the crazed lunatic would come for Butch and drag him off to God knows where. For the night, Butch was surrendered over and succumbed to unimaginable things. Oswald often wondered what the madman did to his right hand when he had him held captive, but Oswald hardly dared to spend too much energy speculating or even having the guts to ask Butch himself; chances were he wouldn't be comfortable finding out about the acts that took place anyway. Though whatever Victor was doing it was working, and it left Oswald speechless. It had been over four years since Victor had dropped Butch off in front of him and Oswald had yet to have a problem out of him. The man was as loyal as a dog. Oswald took another deep drag off the joint. In all honesty, he really didn't care what Victor did to him. Although unfortunate, it was a price that had to be paid. Having Victor Zsasz on his side was not an opportunity Oswald was willing to pass up.
He pulled the last drag from the joint and tossed it away in the tray he had upon his nightstand. Oswald turned over on his side and stared over at the light that filtered through the crack underneath the bedroom door. Though Oswald was ashamed to admit it, a small part of him was fond of his safeguard, Butch. He was thankful that Victor hadn't negotiated for more days—yet. Oswald never slept quite as well when Butch was away. He was without a doubt the most honest and loyal person by his side—besides his mother—and when he was gone, Oswald was left in the clutches of the other loyalist who he still didn't quite figure were over the way things that had trespassed nearly four years ago.
After a while Oswald found himself drifting between conscious awareness and deep sleep when a soft knock on the door pulled him begrudgingly back down from the clouds within his mind.
"Mr. Cobblepot." There was a pause. "Mr. Cobblepot, Sir."
"Yes!?" Oswald yelled as he opened his eyes, his temper rising quick.
Reggie poked his head in. The bright light that filtered in burned Oswald's eyes, and he squinted as he stared at the form in the doorway.
"I've gotten word that you have a visitor downstairs."
"Yesss… And?" Oswald asked through clenched teeth.
"It's urgent, uh—Sir, and they requested to speak with you immediately."
"Well," Oswald shouted harshly, throwing the thick blankets off of him in fury as his anger finally boiled over, "you tell them that I personally—"
"They say they have important information regarding Fish Mooney."
This stopped Oswald's trek to the door. He stood, dumbfounded, in the middle of his bedroom. Fish Mooney? It had been over four years since her death, what news could a stranger possibly bring that he didn't already know?
At the beginning of his reign, Oswald had organized multiple heists to retrieve old files and anything else of importance from the Falcone, Maroni, and Mooney organizations. He had painstakingly read over each record his team had collected, absorbing all the disreputable information up like a sponge. Oswald now knew which GCPD cop was corrupt as well as which politician he could easily manipulate through the use of blackmail. He knew where Mooney kept her precious smuggled jewels, where Falcone kept his laundered millions, and where Maroni kept his smuggled girls from China. He had quickly learned the ends and outs of the three deceased organizations. It had indeed been a painstaking mess at first, but eventually, Oswald held the upper hand among the many illegal businesses that littered Gotham City. Even after all these years, no one had yet to step out of line or cross him. He had honestly been lucky in that aspect, and he was still humble enough to be thankful, for his luck would inevitably run out one day.
"Sir?"
Oswald was pulled back down to earth, and he bit his bottom lip in contemplation. Should he venture down and appease his growing curiosity? Or should he head back to bed and retire for the night? It had been a long day, after all. Fish Mooney had been dead for years anyway, and he doubted he would learn anything new from this so-called informant, but if they did provide insufficient information, he could always kill them, and that would at least make getting out of bed worth it.
"Tell them I'll be right down," he said after a moment.
"Yes, Sir." Reggie quickly retreated from the room.
Oswald stared at his hunched features in the mirror, and a smile spread across his thin lips. The prospect of a possible kill sent a thrill through his spine. Oswald walked into his bathroom to retrieve a robe. He slipped it on as he walked over to his bed. Oswald lifted the pillow and grabbed the gun that he kept close to him at all times. Tucking the Colt Python within the strap of his boxer-briefs he made his way down the stairs to greet the visitor with a crooked smile still plastered upon his face.
