A/N: Well what have we here? After receiving an incredible (and rather insistent) response to 'Sins of Our Youth,' I considered writing a sequel but couldn't seem to figure out a plot or story that was compelling. Then a couple weeks ago, a couple disparate thoughts started bouncing around in my head and out of nowhere, last week's episode did the trick and provided me with the last bit of motivation and inspiration. What an awesome episode, right?! So without further ado, welcome to the sequel! Please let me know what you think of it by review or PM, following or favoriting-all feedback is encouraging.

To maintain clarity, everything through Season Two's episode 'Worse Than A Crime' is considered canon in this story and its predecessor. I've cherry-picked other developments that appear in my version of continuity, but all the Arkham/Hugo Strange/monsters plot silliness did not occur.

I don't own 'Gotham' or 'Batman'; I just do this for fun.


"Times are not good here. The city is crumbling into ashes. It has been buried under taxes and frauds and maladministrations..."-Lafcadio Hearn

Prologue

6 YEARS BEFORE APPEARANCE OF BATMAN

Bullock strode through the massive double doors of the precinct, snatching his fedora off his head and shaking the excess water off onto the tile floor. He stutter-stepped down the stairs into the bullpen and grabbed Alvarez by the elbow, turning him around and leaving a damp hand-shaped outline on the other detective's jacket sleeve.

"Is it true?"

Alvarez pointed back towards the interrogation rooms with his pen as he looked disdainfully at his wet sleeve. "Yeah. Jim's got him back in interrogation."

Ignoring the look, Bullock squeezed tighter, patted Alvarez's shoulder twice, and began snaking his way around desks towards the back hall. He nodded at some other officers and detectives that met his eye, but said nothing.

Truthfully, for once in his life, he felt there was nothing to say.

Bullock cracked open the door to the observation room for Interrogation #2, silently easing the door shut behind him. Captain Barnes glanced back over his shoulder at the visitor and simply nodded. Harvey stepped up to the glass next to his boss and frowned. "So...he said anything of value yet?"

"Hasn't so much as breathed through his mouth."

"Makes sense; loyalest muscle I've ever come across. Word was, Zsasz got to use him as a little mind-control experiment before Galavan's sister undid the work. Why he still felt any sort of loyalty to the umbrella boy, I'll never understand."

Barnes grunted and stared at Butch Gilzean, rigid as if carved from a massive slab of granite in a diminutive chair in the interrogation room. "You don't have to understand it; we just need to get him to give up Penguin's whereabouts."

"Easier said than done, Cap. But if anyone can do..." Bullock nodded at the other person sitting at the table on the other side of the sound-proof glass. "...He can."

James Gordon aimlessly shuffled papers in Gilzean's file. Nobody would ever characterize him as being patient, but he also knew the large man across the table would never give up Penguin. Their efforts to just get an opportunity to apprehend Gilzean spanned eight months and more stakeouts and raids than Gordon could remember the force conducting in pursuit of one goal: the ultimate and permanent removal of Oswald Cobblepot from the streets of Gotham City.

After several minutes of ignoring one another, Jim clasped his hands together on top of the three-inch thick file and looked into Butch's eyes. "So, Butch...this all depends on you. You know the deal: Tell me where I can find Penguin and you go free. No strings attached, no more record. Your freedom...or both of you to Blackgate and never come out."

Gilzean simply narrowed his eyes, but remained defiantly silent. Gordon smiled wryly.

"Tell you what, Butch. We go back a long ways. Some of it good history; some of it not so much. But I respect you. So I'll give you some time to think about it. I'll make sure Harvey gets you some cushions or something for the cell." He stood and arched an eyebrow at the mirror on his side of the one-way window.

Harvey sputtered and restrained himself from giving his partner the finger. "Captain, you're not going to really let him have cushions and pillows and all manner of special perks...are you?"

Barnes turned to Bullock, eyes wide in disbelief. Over Bullock's shoulder and through the glass, he could see Gordon shut the door and exit the interrogation room. The police captain patted Bullock on the shoulder and limped towards the door of the observation room. "The only person using pillows and blankets at this precinct tonight will be you and Gordon if you can't break Gilzean or otherwise locate Penguin. Nobody leaves until he's caught."

The door slammed shut behind Barnes and Bullock pounded a fist on the glass before pointing an accusatory finger at Gilzean despite knowing that the gangster could not see the gesture.

Jim stormed across the bullpen up and up to the raised area just outside the captain's office where he began rifling through a menagerie of photographs, evidence bags, and witness statements that cluttered his desk. Bullock hustled across the bullpen after him, gasping for air as he leaned on the wood railing encircling their desks.

"Jim, what are you doing? You need to be in there, twisting his screws, finding out where Penguin's scrawny ass is hiding."

"It's here, Harvey. Not in there," Gordon returned adamantly.

Bullock glanced back at where Barnes was hobbling towards them with a scowl chiseled into his weathered face. He looked back at Jim while jabbing his damp fedora towards the police captain. "Yeah, well you'd better pull a white rabbit out of that invisible magic top hat on your desk before Barnes asks you what the heck we're doing."

"Gordon!" Barnes yelled out, as if on cue. Harvey smirked knowingly and waved his fedora as if to say, 'I told you so,' but Jim merely shrugged and skimmed a police report. "Detective Gordon, your interrogation is not finished yet."

Jim snatched a forensics report out from underneath two pictures of Butch meeting with undercover cops. He waved it in Harvey's direction before handing it to the captain. "My white rabbit."

"What the hell is this?"

"It's a forensics report," stated Gordon dryly. "That was filed about two hours ago after Gilzean was brought in."

"That I haven't signed off on yet as approved," Barnes said pointedly.

"Captain, now's your chance to review and sign, if you really think that's necessary." Gordon plucked a trenchcoat from the coat tree nestled in the corner and jingled a set of keys in the air while looking emphatically at Harvey. "I'm going alone"

Barnes threw his hands in the air in frustration. "Going where?!"

Out of curiosity, Bullock took the forensic report out of his captain's hand and smoothed it on his desk, running a finger back and forth along the lines looking for whatever had tipped Jim off. Halfway down the write-up, he saw it, too. "Son of a bitch." He looked up at Barnes. "How quickly can port authority get their response team into action?"


Gordon idled the car at the end of the dock under the cracked and rusted corrugated metal awning of a shipping company's warehouse. His lights were cut; the only illumination came from three towering and widely spaced light poles along the extent of the dock. A massive container ship, the chipped red paint of its water line around the bulbous bow and faded white paint of the Plimsoll line and stylized letters of Wayne Enterprises in dire need of maintenance and upkeep, bobbed up and down unevenly with the unruly tide.

Gordon turned off the engine and stepped out of the car; instantly, the low metallic hum of the port deluged his senses. Hastily, he jogged across the open concrete of the dock loading area, seeking shelter next to an abandoned guard shack. He edged his way between the guard shack and a vehicle gate permanently seized in the down position and began the long, monotonous walk along the dock towards the small sailor's center at the far end. As he passed through the yellow cone of light cast down from the final light pole, he heard a scuffle of shoes on gravel to his left and froze at the edge of the darkness. His hand drifted to his holster.

A shabby-looking grey cat darted out from behind a dumpster and through the light; Gordon rolled his eyes at his jumpiness. He took several breaths and finished the journey to the small two-story building at the end of the pier. A sign out front advertised phone booths, discounted calling cards, and a billiards room for the enjoyment of deckhands on the various vessels moored in the port. Gordon cast an appraising gaze at the blacked out windows, the rusted door frame, and the weed-infested hedges in front of the building.

"So this is where it ends," he whispered, and pushed on the front door. Unsurprisingly, it did not budge. He rubbed at the stubble covering his chin and began circling the building looking for a side entrance. On the side closest to the harbor, Jim found a partially torn screen door; he winced at how loud it creaked. Nevertheless, the main door did give way after three increasingly forceful slams of his shoulder. Gordon didn't hesitate as the door popped open, barreling through into a completely dark room, a flashlight in his left hand and pistol gripped in his right.

Sitting stoically on a tattered and now more brown-than-red sofa, was Oswald Cobblepot. He looked up with sadden eyes.

"Jim. My 'friend," he laughed bitterly. "Come to kill me?"

"Hardly," Gordon admonished as he side-stepped around the perimeter of the room searching for booby-traps, hidden weapons, or a henchman lurking in a closet. He made sure to keep one eye on the crime lord throughout the process, his gun occasionally sliding off his target to protect from other potential threat locations.

"We're alone," Oswald supplied.

"You'll excuse me if I don't take your word for anything ever again."

"I have always been nothing but honest with you!" The outburst crackled in the musty air of the lounge. Gordon cast the cone of his flashlight towards Penguin: his hands shook with rage and his dark eyes were wide. "And this is how you repay me?! For everything I've done for you."

"I don't owe you anything, Oswald."

"To wit, you owe me your life! Who helped you get your job back with the GCPD and disposed of a police commissioner as a favor? Me. Who took the fall for Theo Galavan's murder? Me. Who made sure that when you sent Wesker to Arkham his dealers and their clients didn't overrun the Narrows? Me. You've accomplished nothing without me."

Jim nodded somberly as he placed the flashlight on a dusty end table, its light projecting up towards the ceiling and casting both men in sharp relief. From his hip, Gordon revealed a set of flexicuffs. He closed the gap to Penguin, grabbing him bodily from the sofa and pinning him to the wall.

"Then I guess this will just have to be one more accomplishment I owe to you. Oswald Cobblepot, you are under arrest for murder, racketeering, grand larceny, and kidnapping. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say may and will be used against you in a court of law." The front door to their left was knocked off its hinges by a shotgun blast and GCPD swarmed the lounge, Harvey Bullock hurrying in amidst the rush of blue uniforms. "You have the right to consult an attorney..."

"I got it, Jim." Harvey clenched his hand around Oswald's arm and guided him out the door as he continued reciting the gangster's Miranda rights.

Behind them, Jim Gordon stood rigid in the seafarer's center as police canvassed the building for evidence, all sound blending together as he mulled Penguin's words.


3 MONTHS AFTER APPEARANCE OF BATMAN

The Mayor sat in his study, a furious thunderstorm raging outside the two-inch thick bulletproof windows of his residence, the sound of thunderclaps muffled by the protective glass. The potency of the storm's reflection of his inner quandary, however, seemed only to be magnified with each passing lightning bolt and raindrop lashing the window with the uncanny rapid-fire accuracy of a machine gun. He ran a trembling hand through his white hair, turned back to the massive cherry desk behind which he sat as the clock ticked unceasingly towards midnight, and worried his bottom lip. Crinkles appeared along his brow. He frowned and reread for the eighth time—or eight hundredth, he was not sure which—the letter resting in front of him. The navy blue wax seal of his auspicious office graced the upper left corner of the paper; the diligently typewritten letters of the body barely dry. A single black pen was situated on the blotter to the right of the dictum, waiting for the Mayor to use it.

He exhaled deeply and, after reading the pardon one final time, plucked the pen from his desk, scribbled his indecipherable signature in its prescribed position in the bottom right-center of the sheet, and stood to carry it down to be filed in the morning as his last official act as Mayor before tomorrow morning's inauguration.

He couldn't wait to see Hill try to deal with a vengeful Cobblepot from day one.