Author's Note:
This is the third story is my Ruins of Gotham anthology. It is intended to continue my own continuity of events, such as Penguin having more gang control than others, like Rupert Thorne for instance. In my version of things, Penguin is already established as an imposing figure in Gotham's criminal underworld even though he maintains a public image of innocence. To avoid confusion, I am aware that normally Rupert Thorne would be on top of the power chain, with the likes of Falcone and Black Mask, but not in my Gotham. So as fair warning as to avoid confusion or any other issue, I just wanted to make that clear. And Thorne's relationship with Penguin will be explained deeper as the story unfolds. Hope you enjoy The Cobblepot Conspiracy.
Chapter 1:
A Cold Reception
For being called the Iceberg Lounge, it wasn't that cold. Rupert Thorne placed the current temperature barely over 70 degrees, a comfortable desire even if the men inside gave him a cold reception. With their eyes burning with distaste and judgment, Thorne did his best to brush off the unwelcoming response. This wasn't going to be the worst aspect of his time there. If those cold stares made him flinch, he wouldn't survive the first thirty seconds of the meeting with his employer.
He walked through the dining room. The tables were filled with extravagant dishes and high class meals, the guests dressed casually in business attire had a warmer greeting, even if it had a hint of a grueling undertone. Thorne's eyes drifted to the plaster walls, furnished with a fine Italian wallpaper, neatly trimmed in golden brown strips of carved wood. Thorne couldn't help but show a faint smirk at the sight. The Lounge's decor created a false image. The Lounge is many things, but flashy wasn't one of them.
The Iceberg Lounge attracted citizens of all classifications but was distinctly more popular with the wealthy and the criminal. A normal Gothamite dining there was rare. If there was, he or she was probably in deep with the wrong crowd and looking for a way out. The high foot traffic and the ever growing population made the Lounge one of the more popular attractions in Gotham, if Gotham had any competition. This made it the ideal place for dealings with the Black Market, dealing drugs, and for gangs to strategically plan their next move against their rivals. The only thing it wasn't good for was privacy and peace of mind.
Thorne push open a door and entered a smaller room, which seated men around a medium sized round table playing poker, in the midst of a thin layer of cigar smoke. He could feel the tension in the air with his entry and could feel the temperature drop.
"'Bout time you showed up. Thought you's gonna miss your own funeral" one of the men said. He was short and pudgy, dressed formally in a tuxedo. A thick strip of hair stretched from temple to temple along the backside of his skull. A monocle covered his right eye, its glassy reflection mirrored his intent. His left hand was wrapped in bandages, which resembled a flipper. A black top lay in front of him on the table, and a cane rested comfortably over his legs. Oswald Cobblepot, better known as "The Penguin" in the criminal underworld, was one of the most feared and respected men in all of Gotham, thanks in part to his fortune and the Iceberg Lounge. His nickname derived from the warm-blooded flightless birds inhabiting Antarctica as well for his fondness of his choice in attire, the tuxedo. "We were just discussing you" he said with a sadistic smirk.
Oswald Cobblepot knew how to invoke fear. His entire career proved that. Everyone who worked for him was challenged by his intimidating personality. He may not be the most threatening Crime Boss in Gotham, but he had the shortest fuse. When people let him down, Cobblepot ripped into them like sharks smelling blood in a water. Rupert Thorne had a recent setback. His failure reassured he would be punished for his unwillingness to commit. Only, he wasn't sure how.
There was a short pause between his next remark. Tension stirred, leaving Throne stiff. "You've let me down one too many times. I've given you more than enough chances, and to be frank, I've given all I can."
Thorne's expression melted. His heart pounded aggressive against his rib cage, his pulse ached. His throat itching, his lips dry, eyes stinging, sweat dripping like a never-ending river.
"I gave you a simple task. A task which I provided both money, and assets to obtain a briefcase. And you failed. You let your reputation and ego cloud your eyes."
"I'm sorry boss, it, it won't happen again."
"Don't make promises you can't keep, son." Cobblepot sighed and with his stubby hand he pulled a cigar and lighter from his jacket pocket. "Now," he began before breathing smoke from his lit cigar, "you have a lot of enemies, Falcone, Sionis, the ventriloquist who burned your Comedy Club down while back, and now me." Another deep breath interrupted his lecture. "I should feed you to 'em, but that wouldn't be very fair to me now would it?" He smiled at the thought of his next remark, leaving Thorne more than uncomfortable. "Here's what I'm gonna do. If I wasn't so sane I'd feed you to them sharks, but seeing as I'm feeling extra generous, I'm gonna let you off with a warning." He pulled a cigar cutter from his pocket and slid it's cold, rigid, metal surface over Thorne's jagged thumb.
"Mr. Cobblepot, please!"
"I made you a deal. Get me that briefcase and I'd help you redeem your reputation. Consider this payment for your failure."
"Please, I'll…"
Cobblepot pressed the blades together and Thorne's thumb fell to the floor. Blood seeped from the severed digit as Thorne caressed his wound. The men surrounding Cobblepot grabbed Thorne and dragged him outside before throwing him to the wet concrete. Cobblepot followed them. "Let this be a lesson for you. When I give an order I expect it to be followed. Understand? If you fail me again you'll lose more than your thumb." Cobblepot spent the next short moments glaring down at the peasant that laid below him. He saw a man who maintained a pathetic appearance, helpless as a newborn succumb to intolerance and damnation. The sight emphasized Cobblepot's failure to accept anything less than success.
As Cobblepot polished off the short stick of ash he felt the cold chill of a power-white snow flake melt on the bridge of his nose. He may earn his nickname from the Antarctic bird, but his fondness for the cold was non-existent. His tuxedo attire provided no insulation and let the chill breeze seep through his skin. However, the cold didn't shake his dominance. With the cigar still burning between his chipped lips, he took the bud and tossed it at Thorne, the smoke sowing a hole in the back of his jacket. "Come on boys, show's over. And I need a drink." The faded, unpleasant smirk of distaste Cobblepot bore smelt of raw, burnt shame, in an otherwise plain stare, one Thorne never saw in such a rare, perfect fury. Cobblepot's guards followed him inside the Lounge, leaving Thorne to his own consequence.
Smothering his hand, Thorne slowly rose from the moistened asphalt to see Cobblepot disappear beyond the doors of his haven, all hope vanishing with him. Fear never set it's dense, hollow touch in Thorne's vocab of emotion before Cobblepot entered the picture. It's embrace weighed him down like an anvil tied around a neck. He was a slave to an order not his own, an order that took full control over his self-empowerment and brought him down to a level only the poor and oppressed could relate. He would never admit it, he still had his pride, what little was left, but he would never confess to weakness, even if it ruined the small shard of dignity, he would still own his pride. For the past two years he succumbed to Cobblepot's demands, and so far nothing came of it. All of Cobblepot's promises were broken fantasies lost on the edge of time. With no savor-able reputation, no pathway toward a fresh, clean slate, no loyal men from his past life, there was only pain and a fool's hoe for a now distant promise. As long as Thorne remained a leash around Cobblepot's hand, fear would always have him.