The Puppet and the Penguin

by RapidEyeMovement

Formerly titled "All Men Cast a Shadow" - With two new crime bosses competing for control of Gotham City, Batman must infiltrate the criminal underworld itself to bring down both the Penguin and Scarface.

1. Voices

ALL MEN CAST A SHADOW

Foreword: Although it is NOT a direct sequel, this story follows on from my two previous Bat-fics Shiver and The Terror That Came to Gotham and there are references to them throughout. It is perfectly possible to read this story without reading the other two. (See "The Story So Far" below for more info) Also, before anyone says anything: I am well aware that in the comics the Penguin's surname is Cobblepot, but I have changed it to Cobb in this story because I think it fits in more with the Nolanverse. Just imagine Christian Bale saying "Cobblepot" in his Batman voice and you'll see where I'm coming from.

The Story So Far: Batman, along with Commissioner Gordon and new ally Lt. Harvey Bullock, put a stop to Dr. Victor Fries and his cold-hearted quest for vengeance just in time to defeat the dangerously delusional Jervis Tetch, AKA the Mad Hatter, who lost his grip on reality in a twisted search for love.

Then, whilst investigating the murders committed by master-of-disguise Clayface, Bruce Wayne found himself falling for beautiful actress Julie Madison, only to see her brutally killed by Clayface, who was in fact veteran actor Basil Karlo. Shortly afterwards, Karlo himself mysteriously disappeared…

---

PROLOGUE

They were fighting again.

Arnold sat on the stairs, having being lured down from his slumber by the sound of his mother and father arguing loudly.

They thought that Arnold couldn't hear them when they argued in the kitchen, but the hard, solid walls only served to muffle their angry voices.

Sometimes they fought about Arnold.

He didn't quite know what his father did for a living, but Arnold knew it must be something important, because he wore such good suits and drove a real nice car and sometimes he could be gone for a long time and Arnold's mother would worry. Arnold knew that one day, he'd be just like his father; good suits and nice cars. Sometimes his father would bring friends home from work and they wore good suits too, but they never talked about what they did and his mother didn't seem to like them very much.

Sometimes his father would tell Arnold stories about people like Al Capone and John Dillinger, people he had looked up to when he was Arnold's age. They sounded magnificent to young Arnold: all honour and class; guardians of their own; answering to no-one and uncompromising in their beliefs. They took what they wanted when they wanted and never looked back.

Arnold's mother didn't like this either. She would tell him stories too, about her father, who had been a ventriloquist in a travelling vaudeville show. Arnold didn't know what any of that meant, but his mother got so happy when she talked about it. Sometimes she would get sad though; like when she said that she missed the laughter and joy of those days.

His mother had given Arnold his grandfather's old ventriloquist dummy, which was named Woody. At first Arnold was a little scared of the small, wooden figure, dressed in a garish tartan jacket and polka-dot bowtie like some mockery of a human being, but he had eventually warmed to it like a new toy and constant companion.

But his mother had treated it with such importance. It was no mere toy, and she had told him as much. She had taught Arnold how to make Woody talk in a special way that meant his lips didn't move but the dummy's did. This newfound skill had thrilled young Arnold and his mother hoped that it might dissuade him from following in his father's footsteps.

This difference of opinion as to Arnold's future was sometimes the reason they argued so much. But sitting on the stairs now, clutching Woody to his side, he didn't think they were fighting about him this time.

"The job went wrong and now we need to leave!" his father's voice yelled through the drywall.

"Why? What do you mean 'went wrong'?" his mother's voice yelled back, unaware of their little eavesdropper.

"Just… Just get Arnie and come to the car." His father's voice sounded scared. Arnold had never heard his father scared before.

"Alan, what's wrong? Tell me what happened?" Now his mother's voice sounded scared too.

There was a bit of quiet before his father's voice said, "It was a hit, May, but it went wrong and they seen my face… They're gonna be sending somebody…"

His parents' voices continued to argue, but quieter now. Arnold turned to look at Woody's blank and unmoving features. Although the carved and painted wood yielded no emotion, Arnold sometimes liked to imagine that Woody was real and had a life of his own.

"Wonder what they're fighting about this time," Arnold said to his inanimate friend.

"Geats me," he said in Woody's voice, making sure to manipulate the dummy's mouth in time with the words whilst keeping his own lips and jaw as still as possible. Just like his mother had taught him. He still made "G" sounds instead of "B" sounds, but he was working on it.

Suddenly, Arnold heard the sound of the kitchen door crashing open.

"Jesus, no!" his father's voice shouted, now terrified.

"Please!" his mother's voice cried.

Curious, Arnold left his perch and made his way slowly towards the kitchen, dragging Woody by the hand.

"Listen, whatever they're paying you, I'll double it!" said his father's voice.

Arnold quietly opened the kitchen door, just a crack, and saw a strange man in black clothes standing in the kitchen with his parents.

The stranger simply lifted his arm, holding a long, cruel chunk of metal. It made a sharp and soft "fwit" sound. Arnold's father fell to the floor and his mother screamed. Arnold found himself unable to move or think, for he had absolutely no frame of reference; no way to describe what was happening or to wrap his mind around how sick he suddenly felt.

Arnold's mother ran for the door, where he hid, and screamed his name, but the stranger pointed at her.

"Fwit!" the metal said again and his mother fell, right in front of him, her arms reaching out to him, her eyes gazing wide into his. They were not his mother's eyes anymore.

Arnold, now in plain sight, looked up at the stranger, whose black shadow seemed to encompass the whole room.

The stranger regarded him a moment, then said, "Choose your enemies better than your old man, kid. Maybe you'll live longer than he did." His laughter echoed off the hard, solid walls much like Arnold's parents' voices had done mere minutes ago, and the stranger left as though a guest.

Arnold was shaking.

There was blood.

His mother wasn't moving.

There was blood.

His father wasn't moving.

There was blood.

Arnold couldn't even cry. He knew, somewhere deep down, that he should be, but he was just too devastated. His mind was shrinking from him, from this unknown situation, and into darkness.

"Hey, dummy!" said a voice, jolting him back into the real world.

It had seemed to have come from Woody, whose hand Arnold realised he had been clutching tightly. He loosened his grip and looked curiously at the puppet, strangely grateful for something different to focus on.

"Woody? Was that you?"

"That ain't my name, Arnie. Not anymore."

When Arnold's mother had fallen towards him, she had reached out to touch him, but fallen short. Arnold now saw that, in her last moments, she had clawed desperately at the puppet's features and marked them with a single scar-like scratch on its right cheek.

"I… I didn't know you could talk."

"Course I can. But don't go telling nogody, alright? It has to be our little secret. For now."

Arnold's mind started to drift back to his current predicament and tears began to well up at last.

"My mom and dad… I think something's wrong with them…"

"It'll be okay, Arnie, I promise. Just so long as, from now on, you do exactly what I say…"

---

CHAPTER ONE

"Voices"

Bruce knew that what he was about to do would be difficult, stressful and taxing to even his formidable stamina. It would require all of his skill, his cunning and his patience to get through. But it needed to be done in order to protect Gotham.

And so, he checked his suit, put on his mask and stepped through the doors of the Iceberg Lounge.

In this instance, his "suit" was a tuxedo, his "mask" was a smile, and his "mission" was partly to maintain his public persona. The grand opening of the Iceberg was one of Gotham's biggest events and it was set to become a prime nightspot for the city's elite to wine and dine, gamble at roulette and blackjack, enjoy music and art, and generally be seen. And Bruce Wayne needed to be seen.

As Bruce expertly navigated through the chattering maze of wealthy surnames, he glanced around at the lavishly decorated main floor: there was a bar and dining area, resplendent in fine tableware, candlelight and white-jacketed waiters; a large stage where a pianist preformed a classical piece; various expensive sculptures littered the floor; and doors led off to back rooms for games of chance and private functions.

In the centre about which all this circled was a huge artificial iceberg, rising up forty feet to nearly touch the high ceiling. Water cascaded down it from a fountain at the top into a pool below, which contained some exotic fish. From his travels, Bruce could identify at least three rare varieties not common to this part of the world. No expense had been spared.

High above all this splendour were darkened windows, overlooking this paradise of indulgence. Clearly the Iceberg's owner and manager liked feeling on top of things in more ways than one.

It was the Lounge's owner that had caught Bruce's attention and brought him here tonight, beyond merely maintaining his double life. Oswald Cobb previously lived in Gotham but had left under unknown circumstances some years ago to live in New York. Running several small, high-class nightclubs and restaurants, Cobb had insisted that he was a legitimate businessman, but Bruce had heard rumours to the contrary. Now that Cobb had returned to Gotham, Bruce would be keeping a close eye on him.

The pianist finished his piece and a man in a white tuxedo took the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice amplified via microphone, "if I may have your attention please."

Bruce, cocktail glass in hand for appearance's sake, turned to the stage along with the other guests, their discordant conversations subsiding.

"My name is Drake and I am your maître d' this evening. Thank you all for attending the grand opening of the Iceberg Lounge. May I remind you that, for the next hour, drinks are free. But don't expect this every night." A polite chuckle rippled through the guests. "Now, without further ado, allow me to introduce our generous host, Mr. Oswald Cobb!"

Bruce joined the round of applause as Cobb appeared on stage. He was a short, rotund man of about forty dressed in tuxedo and tail-coat. His dark, thinning hair was slicked back neatly atop his low-set head and his well-fed features were unremarkable but for a small, beaklike nose. He walked slowly and with an unusual sway, surveying the room with tiny, unimpressed eyes.

The elegance of their surroundings, coupled now with Cobb's affluent appareance, caused an awed silence to fall over the crowd. They eagerly awaited his words as Drake adjusted the microphone for his diminutive employer. Cobb grinned, almost predatorily, and Bruce saw that he knew the crowd was in his grip.

"My friends," said Cobb, his voice deep and refined, "I have come home."

With this simple statement resonating off the walls, the crowd applauded again. Bruce joined in, if only to reluctantly praise Cobb's showmanship.

"For those of you unfamiliar with my history, allow me to explain," Cobb continued.

Not a word of thanks, Bruce noted. Not very civil.

"My family have long been in Gotham," said Cobb. "As far back as the 18th century when my ancestor, Sir Nigel Cobblepot, arrived from England, changing the family name to Cobb and eschewing his outdated British nobility in favour of an honest – an American – lifestyle.

"Since then, we have been synonymous with Gotham. Industrialists, entrepreneurs, politicians, always providing for the people. My own father, Theodore, owned an umbrella factory that he had built up from a humble storefront, and it served to employ many workers before it sadly had to shut down.

"I too have sought to help those in need; supplying entertainment and fine dining wherever I can. Although I once left this fair city to seek greater fortunes and follies in New York, I have now returned home to roost. I believe my home needs me now, more than ever.

"With the Iceberg Lounge, I will provide Gotham with a beacon in its time of need. Somewhere to relax, forget your troubles and enjoy yourself. An oasis – or iceberg, if you'll indulge me.

"We need to remind ourselves that there is still good in this city, and it is should not be hidden away. It should be rewarded! So when life starts to get you down, remember that the Iceberg will always be here."

Cobb spread his arms wide as if to encapsulate the whole arena. "This is Gotham's future!"

"Blow it out yer ass, Penguin!"

At this outburst, the crowd gasped as if with one breath and Bruce turned to see Lt. Bullock standing at the rear of the room and looking as rough around the edges as usual.

On stage, Cobb forced a smile. "Ah, Lieutenant Bullock. I had heard that you were in Gotham these days. Always a pleasure." He made a signal at Drake, who spoke to two burly security men.

"How many people you kill t'get this place, Penguin?" Bullock was slowly advancing, his eyes staring up at Cobb with genuine hate and malice. The security men stood in front of him, blocking his path.

"My dear Lieutenant," said Cobb, "your wild and unfounded accusations have no place at this time of merriment. Now, far be it for me to tell a detective how to conduct himself, but should you come to me with anything resembling evidence of any misdemeanours I have supposedly committed, I would be more than happy to discuss my innocence."

Bullock eyed the security men and thought better of trying to get past them. "You can't fool me, Penguin. You're up to yer eyes in shit and I'm gonna prove it!"

Although Bullock continued his vulgar insinuations, much to the crowd's audible outrage, Cobb wearily waved his hand at Drake.

"Get him out of here!" Drake shouted at the security men.

Bullock continued even as he was dragged away. "I ain't gonna make things easy for ya, Penguin! I'm taking you down this time! Ya hear me!"

With Bullock's expulsion, Cobb sighed and addressed his shocked audience once again. "My apologies, ladies and gentlemen. Try not to let this misunderstanding spoil your evening too much."

With that and nothing else, the pianist resumed playing and Cobb swaggered offstage. As the crowd resumed its blissfully ignorant hubbub, Bruce started for the side door.

Outside, and away from the paparazzi at the main entrance, he found Bullock sat on the kerb, wiping dirt off his hat and coat. Cobb's security men had obviously dismissed him with enthusiasm.

"Lieutenant?" Bruce said.

"What now?" Bullock replied sharply. Turning to see Bruce, he relaxed somewhat. "Oh… Wayne, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Bruce. He joined Bullock by the kerbside. The dull grey night was a welcome contrast from the bright noise indoors.

Bullock regarded him curiously. "What brings you out here? Ain't you got somebody t'get back to in there?"

Bullock had unknowingly stung Bruce with this innocent inquiry. Although Bruce usually acquired himself an attractive date (or two) for such evenings, purely for cover reasons, he had opted to come alone tonight. Nearly three months ago a serial killer calling himself Clayface had claimed the life of Julie Madison, whom Bruce had been in love with. He would have shared with her the secret of his double life had she not been taken from him. The pain of her loss was still too recent in his mind. His cover be damned; Julie meant more to him than that.

"No," said Bruce. "Alone tonight."

Bullock nodded. He had investigated the Clayface murders. He knew of Bruce's loss, but had probably underestimated its impact on the supposed playboy.

"So how come you ain't rubbing elbows, or whatever it is you types do?" asked Bullock.

"I dunno," said Bruce. "Not really in the mood, I guess. What's the deal with you and Cobb anyway? That was a heck of a performance you gave in there."

Bullock laughed tiredly. "I, uh… I used to be stationed in New York. Ran into Cobb a few times in connection with some pretty big stuff…"

"You mean he's a crook?" Bruce asked, feigning surprise.

"Never could prove anything," said Bullock with a sigh. "He's a slippery bastard. And smart; knows the system inside and out. He got away with… too much, let's just say." He started to light up a cigar, offering one to Bruce, who declined. "You want my advice, Wayne? Stay away from the Penguin."

"Yeah, that's another thing," said Bruce, frowning. "Why do you call him the Penguin?"

On this question, Bullock puffed out cigar smoke and smiled. "It's a nickname he had when he was a kid, on a count of how he looks, I suppose. And the way he walks." Bullock crudely mimicked Cobb's slight waddle. "He hated it cause he didn't have no friends and the other kids would tease him and his mommy didn't love him and boo-hoo-hoo.

"So when he gets himself all powerful like, he figures that instead of ignoring the name, he's gonna 'own' it."

"Own it?" Bruce asked.

"Yeah, some philosophical crap about turning your weaknesses into strengths or something. Anyway, now only those who have Cobb's permission can call him Penguin. Like it's his. He gets real mad if anyone does it without his say-so."

"And that's why you do it," Bruce said with a knowing smile.

"Exactly," said Bullock. "Really gets under his skin. Probably why he treats me so nice." He rubbed the back of his head.

Bruce now knew that Cobb was worth investigating closer, based on Bullock's account. Cobb no doubt intended to transfer his illegal operations to Gotham, since its criminal underworld was ripe for takeover. Bruce would make sure to give him second thoughts.

There was a mysterious new crime boss stirring things up and a strongly anti-Batman mayor recently elected into office. The last thing Bruce needed was another diversion.

Bullock's radio started to squawk and Bullock stood to answer it. Bruce overheard a mention of homicide by the docks. Bullock could handle it. He needed to stay close to Cobb.

"Sorry, Wayne," said Bullock. "Duty calls. Shouldn't even be here, really…"

"Don't worry, Lieutenant," said Bruce. "I won't tell anyone."

Bullock laughed and walked off, leaving Bruce alone on the kerb. Although he would have liked to have questioned Bullock further regarding Cobb, it would have raised suspicion. He would do so later as Batman, after taking a closer look at the Penguin himself.

---

The Sprang River bisected Gotham into north and south halves and its banks were well known for seedy goings-on and dealings of ill-repute, as if all the city's corruption seeped out of the water like it were a chasm leading down into Hell itself.

Finding a dead body in the Sprang was not uncommon, as Jim Gordon knew too well, but this latest morbid discovery had the taint of uniqueness and gruesome theatricality that had touched so many of the city's crimes lately.

Gordon stood on the old wooden dockside, the body covered by tarpaulin, surrounded by officers and detectives of the MCU, a unit he commanded before becoming commissioner. Their specialised talent for distinctive crime had become more of a necessary presence in recent months.

The MCU's current leader pulled up in his rusty old hatchback, exiting with his own trademark grace and dignity, and approached the crime scene.

"Jeez, Commish," said Bullock, regarding the concealed corpse nonchalantly, "if I had known we were going fishin' I'd've brought the beers."

Gordon had learned to tolerate Bullock's grim sense of humour. "Where've you been?" he asked.

Bullock shrugged. "Personal errand."

"Wouldn't have anything to do with Oswald Cobb being back in town would it?" Gordon peered knowingly over his glasses at the lieutenant. He knew all about Bullock's career in New York and just why he had been sent away to Gotham.

"Who?" Bullock asked in mock naivety.

Gordon merely sighed and made a note to himself to keep an eye on the matter. He nodded towards the body. "Night watchman saw some men dump the body overboard a few hours ago. Couldn't ID them. Divers pulled up Eddie Skeevers here. Pretty big drug lord and pimp in the East End."

"Yeah, I heard of him," said Bullock. "So somebody had it in for him. It happens. Why the big turnout?" He pointed his thumb at the assembled MCU officers.

Gordon silently kneeled by the corpse and flipped over the covering sheet. To Bullock's surprise, he had revealed not Skeevers' head but his feet, which were encased in a concrete block.

Bullock let out a long plume of cigar smoke. "Now that is something you do not see every day," he said. "Unless you're in a bad movie."

"You know who did this," said Gordon, recovering the body and standing.

Bullock sighed. "Fits his MO. Kinda surprised nobody tried this theme before actually. Old-fashioned style crimes, the outfits, the antique weapons and cars," he pointed at the body, "'sleepin' with the fishes'… Fancies himself a real Al Capone… And no-one's even seen what he looks like."

"Scarface," said Gordon, speaking aloud the name of Gotham's newest threat.

Several small-time jobs had been preformed over the last couple of months: bank robberies, warehouse break-ins, damage to property. All expertly conducted, 'in-and-out', with very little error, and all committed by ex-Arkham inmates dressed like 1930s gangsters, armed with Tommy-guns and driving classic cars. They always proclaimed that they were working for someone they called Mr. Scarface.

The few offenders who had been caught could not give an effective description of this Scarface, often rambling crazed and inconsistent nonsense. Whoever he was he was powerful, intelligent and elusive. Not even the Batman had turned up anything yet.

"So what you figure?" said Bullock. "Scarface is branching out into the big leagues and Skeevers got in his way?"

"I don't know," said Gordon. "But I know who does."

Bullock followed Gordon's gaze to the other side of the docks where he saw a man standing in shadow.

"Bats?" Bullock said quietly.

Gordon shook his head. "Flass. I told him to meet me here."

Bullock knew of Gordon's ex-partner and how he had been kicked off the force due to Gordon's own efforts. He was now a doorman for a seedy downtown strip club and a part-time informant with his ear to the ground. What little information about Scarface they had so far was from him.

Bullock tipped his hat at the commissioner and started issuing orders to the crime scene team. Gordon made his way to the other side of the dock, leaving the busy site in the distance.

"So Eddie Skeevers finally got what was coming to him, huh?" Flass said when Gordon was close enough. The former detective remained in the shadow cast by some cargo containers, but his smug and grizzled features were still recognisable and his voice drifted clearly through the dockside air. "He never did bribe well enough." Flass chuckled to himself.

"Did Scarface do this?" asked Gordon, staying in the light. He had never enjoyed spending time with Flass even when he had been a cop.

"Hey, Jimmy, I told ya: I just do some heavy lifting for him now and again. He don't trust me with his hit list."

"Skeevers' feet were encased in cement," said Gordon.

Flass snorted. "Old school. That's definitely Scarface's deal. His guys all dress in those funny suits and talk like they're in one of them old movies. Crazy bastards; scare the shit outta me, some of 'em. All from that Arkham breakout coupla years back. You remember that, Jimmy? Back in the good ol' days when you and me–"

"You've still got nothing on Scarface himself?" Gordon asked. He did not relish Flass's reminiscing.

Flass grinned through the gloom. "Come on, Jimmy. You know how this works. I got bills to pay, and this new mayor ain't exactly making things easy for guys like me…"

"I told you before, Flass," said Gordon, sternly. "I'm not paying for information. Things don't work that way anymore."

"That leads me to thinking why I even bother wasting my time with you, Jimmy. Especially since you're the reason I'm in such a dire situation in the first place." Flass turned and started walking away. "See ya around, Jimbo."

"You were a good cop once, Flass," said Gordon. This halted Flass, but he didn't turn around. "Then you made some bad choices, and I'm not gonna question them – that's not my right… But fast or slow, those choices are gonna get you killed some day.

"Before that happens, why not make one good choice?"

Flass hung his head and slowly turned to face Gordon.

"Rhino," he said. "Scarface's top guy, his chief lieutenant… calls himself Rhino. Apparently they go way back. Big guy, not too bright. I don't know his real name or anything, but he's the next best thing to Scarface himself."

Gordon knew Flass was holding back more, but at least now he had a name, so he nodded, silently showing his appreciation, and watched Flass depart into the night.

---

In the upper level of the Iceberg Lounge, Oswald Cobb waited outside the doors to a meeting room, savouring the sounds within.

Mere hours ago, he had done something similar for his grand opening speech – let his audience simmer so that his appearance makes more of an impression. When Cobb had something to say, he wanted full attention on him, no exceptions.

Bullock's intrusion had been a major weakening of his effect on the crowd. Cobb would have to make sure the doormen were fired and their names blacklisted for letting him in.

Bullock himself had been a pain for Cobb in New York and it was a sad twist of fate that they had both wound up in Gotham, but Cobb was sure that, with his latest plot, soon no member of the police force would pose a problem. Not even Bullock.

Through a crack in the door, Cobb could see several of Gotham's remaining crime bosses and gang lords sat around the oak conference table.

There was Tony Zucco, an obese and vulgar man, who did not carry his weight well at all, unlike Cobb. Zucco ran a few protection rackets in Amusement Mile; too small to attract much attention.

Across from him sat Lewis Moxon, acting suave and charismatic despite being known in the underworld for extortion, illegal gambling, and as a good source of hired mercenaries. He puffed casually on a cigar, but it was clear he was just as anxious as the others.

Next to Moxon was Rupert Thorne, dignified and refined, and probably the oldest and biggest criminal name left in Gotham after the "purges" last year. Although even he was stuck in small-time smuggling due to the efforts of the Batman.

Finally there was Jefferson Skeevers, dressed in a brash "pimp" outfit. His brother Eddie was the real brains behind their minor drug and prostitution ring, but he had very recently met an oddly disturbing end. Jefferson sat silently contemplating his loss.

As the tone within began to twitch towards tension, Cobb decided to make his grand entrance.

"Gentlemen," he said, instantly grabbing their attention. "Thank you all for accepting my invitation." Cobb sat himself at the head of the imposing table. "I know it is not regular for persons of our repute and business to gather in such a manner."

"Cut the fancy talk, Cobb," said Thorne, looking unimpressed. "We all know Falcone ran you outta Gotham years ago, and now he's gone you come crawling back and promise us some kinda miracle alliance? You had better make good, or my patience will wear thin real fast."

The others looked to Cobb, indicating their concordance with Thorne.

Cobb sighed. "It is a shame we cannot speak as equals, Mr. Thorne… Very well. You are right; Carmine Falcone's Romanesque domination of Gotham did indeed encourage my retreat to New York. And as I understand it, in my absence the entire superstructure of criminal enterprise in this city collapsed because of a clown and a man in a bat costume. Is this correct?"

Thorne was angered by this, but Moxon put out a hand to calm him.

"Okay," said Moxon steadily. "The Joker and the Bat took down the big guys." He shrugged. "But we're doing pretty good for ourselves. Small-time operations don't attract much attention. Easier to get off the hook if you do get caught." There were nods of agreement. "So why would we want to spoil that?"

Cobb leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "You are content with living under the heel of the law? Of the Batman? Of the 'freaks'?"

"We don't live under nobody's heel!" said Zucco. His ruddy features became more flushed. "We don't need to take this! We're better than this!"

Zucco started to rise, but Cobb pointed a single, sudden finger at him and said, "No. We are not."

Zucco slowly sat back down. "W-What?"

"None of us is 'better than this'," said Cobb. "We are criminals. Thieves. Swindlers. Murders. Whether by gun or by blade or by word of mouth, there are people dead because of us. People living in misery and despair because of us."

Cobb gestured around the room; classical gold and oak décor with oil paintings of eagles and swans and other elegant birds. "We surround ourselves in finery and opulence and tell ourselves that we are strong and they are weak. That we are wise and they are foolish. That we have rightly earned what we have. But it is not true.

"We cannot afford to be blind to our natures any longer. What we do is neither noble nor just. It is evil.

"We are evil, gentlemen."

Silence filled the air as thick as fog before Moxon leaned forward again.

"What… do you propose?" he asked.

"Not so much an alliance," said Cobb, "as a cooperative."

"Cooperative?" said Thorne.

Cobb nodded. "With myself as the central figure."

"Oh I get it," said Zucco, unconvinced. "It's a pyramid scheme."

Cobb wearily raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Mr. Zucco, my master plan is a mere pyramid scheme and I was hoping none of you would notice…" he said dryly. "Please refrain from interrupting me if possible, lest you wish to continue your meagre and meek lifestyle."

Zucco was quiet, his previous argumentative zeal gone.

"You all want more out of your businesses," continued Cobb, "but are limited by the eyes of the law. If it were like the bygone days, you could all simply pool your resources. Each one of you has something beneficial to offer another, and the combined profits would be most advantageous, but you cannot risk expansion.

"This is where I come in. As a facilitator."

Thorne's eyes betrayed his scepticism. "I dunno, Cobb… What exactly are you saying?"

Cobb opened his arms in a more friendly gesture. "I own several properties in the East End. Warehouses, mostly, all legally bought and paid for. Much of that area is still abandoned from the Depression and ripe for commercial takeover. But my intentions are darker.

"We would use these properties to store your various products: weapons, narcotics, contraband, people…"

"Storage is a big problem at the moment," Moxon said, coming around. "The Bat don't need a search warrant, y'know?"

"All with a big percentage to you, of course," Thorne said to Cobb.

"Actually, no," said Cobb to everyone's surprise.

"Then what do you get out of it?" asked Skeevers, who had been silent until now.

"I would rent out a warehouse to each of you and you would all pay me for that. Perfectly legitimate," said Cobb. "Should any of you be foolish enough to get caught and have my warehouses seized, I would be completely clean and blameless.

"Likewise, should I encounter trouble from the law, you can each feign ignorance of my 'improper use' of your storage areas.

"Of course, none of us will be foolish enough to get caught. I can promise that." Cobb gave them all an ominous look.

"I dunno," said Zucco. "Sounds kinda iffy…"

"It is but one example of the many services we would provide for one another," said Cobb. "I assure you, our gains will far outweigh the risk of capture. And we will each only ever be involved in small operations at any one time, so it will be no more risky than your current dealings, except that our earnings will be compounded. And, in time, our empire will grow…

"Additionally, this meeting aside, we should have minimal contact with one another. This is why I asked you only to bring your most trusted accomplices and to leave them downstairs. You may tell them what you wish, but our union must remain as secret as possible, so as to diminish the chances of exposure. Tell no one else under your employ any more than is necessary."

"That's all well and good if the cops catch us," said Moxon. "But what about the Batman?"

"That's right," said Zucco. "The Bat catches us, we won't need to worry about jail, he'll just kill us!"

Cobb again sighed. "If the Batman were as bloodthirsty as the media and 'campfire stories' portray him, none of us would be having this conversation. Clearly he only kills when the law fails even him and leaves him no choice.

"Also, I have reason to believe that he may not be a threat for very much longer… Until then however, if the 'Caped Crusader' comes to you for information on our operations, simply direct him straight to me."

The table were quite surprised by this.

"You want the Bat on your ass?" said Skeevers.

"Preferably not," said Cobb. "But should you refuse him data, the Batman would most probably kill you. So give him any and all knowledge he seeks."

"And when he comes for you?" asked Thorne.

"I am very much prepared," said Cobb smugly. He looked into the corner of the room. "Mr. Zeiss? If you would be so kind…"

Everyone turned to the corner in confusion, only to see a tall, lean man with a shaved head step out of the shadows as if from nowhere. He wore a long black leather overcoat and mirrored sunglasses despite the low lighting. His sharp face was passive and emotionless.

"Gentlemen, meet my personal bodyguard, Philo Zeiss," said Cobb. Zeiss nodded and remained, sentinel-like, in the corner.

"Jeez! Where'd he come from?" said Zucco in surprise.

"He has been in here the whole time," said Cobb.

"He's gonna protect you from the Batman?" said Moxon.

"I assure you, Mr. Zeiss is extraordinarily capable," said Cobb. "I only acquire the best."

Skeevers suddenly became more animated. "Alright, Cobb. You say you can make us big players in Gotham… You say you ain't afraid of the cops or the Batman… I'm cool with all that… But what about Scarface?"

A worried expression crossed Cobb's face for a moment. "Ah yes… The mysterious Mr. Scarface…"

Skeevers glanced around the room. "You all probably heard by now that he whacked my brother. Came for us in our own damn home! I only just escaped, but now I hear they dragged Eddie's body outta the Sprang! That shit ain't on, man! What you gonna do about that?"

Cobb again steepled his fingers and sighed. "This is the other issue I mean to address now that I am back: The freaks.

"Joker; Scarecrow; Mad Hatter; Clayface… They have cast a shadow over this city and run amok with childish antics that make a mockery of our vocation. This 'Scarface', whoever he is, sees himself as a new criminal kingpin, ready to monopolise crime in Gotham for his own purposes, no doubt crazed and obscene.

"And make no mistake, gentlemen, should you choose to break from our cooperative and return to your prior pitiful existences, whether by Bat or by lawmen, you will meet your doom, and that is when the lunatics and degenerates will seize their chance and fill the void. They care nothing for consequences, for profit, for honour, for even their own freedom. Prison means nothing to them; the Batman means nothing to them; and they think that this gives them strength.

"But they are mere field mice, scavenging wildly in the dark, and we are the owls, waiting to strike!" Cobb slammed his powerful fist down onto the polished wooden tabletop. "We will not let this city descend into madness and chaos! We will take back what is ours and drive out those pretenders! THIS IS GOTHAM'S FUTURE!"

The others were now nodding along, fully convinced by Cobb's words.

"Damn right!" said Thorne.

"You've sold me," said Moxon.

"And me," said Zucco.

All eyes were on Skeevers.

"So you'll help me get revenge for Eddie?" he asked Cobb.

Cobb slowly got to his feet and walked over to the elephant's foot umbrella-stand in the corner of the room. "Let me tell you how much family means to me, Jefferson…

"My father had his own umbrella factory here in Gotham many years ago," said Cobb. He produced an umbrella from the stand and held it in admiration, slowly crossing the room with his waddling gait. "Honest and hard-working he was, but a fair boss and beloved by all his staff. Sadly though, their profits slowly declined and the factory eventually had to shut down.

"The workers all pitched in and made my father this." Cobb, now at the opposite head of the table, held out the umbrella for all to see. "It is for sentimental purposes only – the spine is made of stainless steel, the handle is pearl and the material is fine silk – completely impractical for keeping rain off of one's head." Cobb chuckled and the others joined in, except for the confused Skeevers. "But my father loved it all the same…

"Shortly before his death, the police discovered that his trusted business partner had been skimming money from the company all along. He had been involved in other frauds and was arrested, but the news broke my father's heart.

"You see, an honest life, like my father's, does not pay in the end… But crime? Crime pays all too well."

Skeevers looked around as if he were missing something. "You didn't answer my question."

Suddenly with an unexpected speed and fury, Cobb plunged the sharpened steel tip of the umbrella straight into Skeevers' heart.

The others immediately leapt to their feet, but Zeiss stepped forward, silently indicating not to interfere.

Skeevers struggled against rapid blood loss and the uncanny brute strength of Oswald Cobb who leaned in close to Skeevers. His distinguished visage was twisted by pure malice.

"It may interest you to know that I have a source within Scarface's ranks," said Cobb. "He told me that you and your brother were working for Scarface and that you were skimming money from his operations!"

"N-No…" Skeevers gasped.

"When Scarface found out, he put out a hit on the both of you! And you came running straight for me, hoping to use me to settle your little vendetta!

"Although I am loathe to admit I have anything in common with a freak, if there is one thing I cannot stand… it is those who skim money, Jefferson…"

Skeevers drew his last breath and slumped forward. Cobb, still clutching the lethal umbrella, slowly turned his head to gaze at the other men.

"Honour among thieves is a value I hold quite dear," he said, enunciating each word threateningly.

Then Cobb withdrew the unlikely weapon and calmly handed it to Zeiss. "Drake!" Cobb shouted, calling for his maître d'.

Drake appeared promptly and said, "Yes, Mr. Cobb?" He didn't seem to notice the body.

"Have young Jefferson here disposed of," said Cobb with a wave of his hand. "Throw him in the Sprang River. Most poetic, don't you think?" Cobb cheerfully glanced towards the others who laughed nervously.

"Luckily," said Cobb, "in his desperation he was foolhardy enough to come alone, so we have no other waste to dispose of this evening."

"Very good, sir," nodded Drake. He left to acquire assistance.

Cobb straightened out his tuxedo as he resumed his seat at the head of the table. The others slowly joined him, half-staring at Skeevers' bleeding remains sprawled out over the table.

"Oh, and there is one more thing if we are to be allies, gentlemen," said Cobb. "You may all call me… Penguin."

---

Perched atop a neighbouring roof, the only thing between Batman and the Iceberg Lounge was the alleyway below, which the Lounge's side door entered into.

The Dark Knight had already completed a circuit of the building, assessing its weaknesses and surrounding vantage points. The Lounge was like a fortress; barely any windows (all of them darkened glass), state-of-the-art security systems, and an unusual structure that made external surveillance or entry via roof difficult.

The only feature advantageous to Batman was the loading bay at the rear, for supplies. He had thought infiltration may have been possible from there, but had checked that the security guards were licensed to carry firearms and could prove somewhat of an obstacle, especially in the tight corridors of the club.

Bullock was right: Cobb was smart. He had seemingly covered all angles, making it as inconvenient as possible for anyone looking to break in covertly.

Batman was confident he could crack the building's security codes, but would wait until after closing time, so as to minimise the number of guards.

Below him, the side door of the Lounge opened and two members of staff exited, carrying between them what was clearly a body wrapped in a white sheet. Its face was poorly concealed and Batman could see that it was Jefferson Skeevers.

Batman knew a gang hit when he saw one: Cobb had murdered Skeevers, or had him killed, no doubt over some criminal rivalry or another. Having checked in with Gordon, Batman was aware that Jefferson's brother Eddie had also been found dead earlier in the evening. Could their deaths be connected? He needed more information.

Leaning forward on the rooftop, his shadow creeping across the alley floor, Batman prepared to strike.

Beneath him, the two men carried Skeevers' body to a waiting car with its trunk open.

"Isn't this Jeff Skeevers?" said one of them.

"Not anymore," said the other.

"Yeah… Drake says we're to dump him in the Sprang."

"Whatever. Let's just do it and get back to work."

As they deposited the body in the trunk, Batman dropped out of the air and landed his armoured boots right on top of the trunk lid, crashing it down hard on the arms of one of the henchmen, who still had his hands inside.

He screamed in pain and Batman drove the heel of his hand straight into the face of his colleague, knocking him instantly unconscious before he could react.

Crouched atop the trunk, Batman hurried his interrogation for fear that the screams would have attracted attention. "WHO KILLED SKEEVERS!?" he demanded of the crippled henchman.

Whimpering from the pain, the man answered feebly, "I… I dunno… Please, I dunno!"

With precious time draining away, Batman leaned his weight forward, further crushing the man's arms in the trunk. He would spend a great deal of time in hospital, but his arms would heal. A small price for aiding and abetting a murderer.

He screamed again and tears now ran down his face. "Drake just told us to dump the body, I don't know who killed him!"

This news was unacceptable. Batman needed more solid facts if he were to bring down Cobb.

"WAS IT COBB!?" It was a risky question, as the henchman may simply tell him what he wanted to hear.

But before his captor could answer, the side door swung open and several security guards ran out wielding their over-the-counter Glock handguns. Eager to avoid confrontation, Batman threw down some gas capsules, which produced a shroud of smoke, distracting his would-be pursuers as he used his grapple gun to escape.

It had been a risk, trying to get information out of the thug in the alley, and now infiltration of the Iceberg would be impossible tonight. But Batman was not too worried; the Penguin could wait, and he had other matters to occupy him in the meantime. Gotham's new mayor for one…

---

Mayor Hamilton Hill had been elected a month ago on a campaign of "cleaning up the city". According to Hill, the attacks on Gotham by the Joker and others like him were a result of poor police work and, more directly, the Batman. With the public convinced that Batman is a killer, he had won a lot of support with this stance.

Given Hill's strong emphasis on ridding the city of crime, he had decided to pay a visit to GCPD's Central Station to "inspect the troops" as he put it.

Gordon had assembled the head officers of various departments, including MCU and SWAT, in the main recreation area. It was a frivolous exercise, and in Gordon's opinion a waste of valuable time, but Hill was eager to take a more hands-on approach to crime.

"What, Hill doesn't have enough keeping him busy at City Hall, he has to come here and breathe down our necks?" Bullock voiced Gordon's own thoughts.

Although the other officers had made an effort and dressed smartly for the occasion, Bullock was his usual dishevelled self and had even "forgot" to wear a tie. As commander of the Major Crimes Unit, he stood in front of his fellow officers, in line with the other CO's.

"I wouldn't take Hill so lightly, Lieutenant," said Gordon quietly while they all waited. "He plans to come down hard on our… 'silent partner' and he means it. We're going to have to be more careful about our little conferences."

Bullock shrugged. "Yeah, but Commish, everybody thinks you hate the Bat now. Your always telling the papers about the big manhunt for him and how we 'almost got him'."

"Not everyone is taken in by those stories," Gordon glanced across the hall at Lt. Branden, the head of SWAT. Branden had been staring at the two of them.

Bullock shot back a big smile and Branden looked away. "Branden's an asshole, Commish, always looking over your shoulder. But he's got nothing."

"Maybe…" Gordon left the point hanging as Mayor Hill's besuited bodyguard entered and gave him a nod.

Gordon called out for attention and everyone clicked into line. The Mayor himself then entered, a big politician's grin painted on his worn but amiable face.

"Mr. Mayor, pleasure to meet you," said Gordon as politely as possible, extending his hand.

Shaking hands, Hill replied, "Commissioner. Good to finally get down here. As I'm sure you know, I have big plans for Gotham and especially its police force."

"Well, sir, we all want what's best for the city and its people," Gordon heard himself say. He was getting far too good at delivering lines like that. "My officers and I are happy to help."

Hill nodded and indicated the assembled officers. "Why don't you introduce me to them?"

Walking along the ranks, Gordon and Hill stopped at Bullock's team first. "This is Lieutenant Harvey Bullock of the Major Crimes Unit," said Gordon.

"Mr. Mayor," said Bullock, informally saluting.

"Ah yes, you're responsible for hunting that atrocious Batman," said Hill. "How is that going, Lieutenant?"

Bullock shrugged. "He's not exactly your run-of-the-mill perp. Keeps giving us the slip. But we'll catch the bastard, don't you worry."

Gordon winced at Bullock's profanity but Hill didn't seem to mind.

"Yes…" said Hill. "I understand the Skeevers brothers were both found dead several nights ago?"

"Some problems take care of themselves, I guess," said Bullock.

Hill grinned. "Quite. Any leads on that so far? Was it the Batman exacting his own brutal justice? Or that new psychopath in the papers; Scarface? Or another individual altogether?"

"Sorry, sir, 'fraid that's an ongoing investigation," said Bullock. "Can't discuss it openly."

Gordon suppressed a smirk. Bullock could be professional when he wanted to.

"Of course, Lieutenant, of course," said Hill. "But more must be done to prevent this sort of thing. Murder is still a crime, regardless of the victim." Hill leaned in close and confidentially whispered to Bullock, "Even if it is these scumbags."

Bullock forced his tired expression into a grin but rolled his eyes at Gordon after Hill had walked on.

They moved on to the SWAT team and Gordon started to introduce Branden. "Mr. Mayor, this is Lieutenant Frank Branden…"

"Oh yes, I know Frank," said Hill with a smile. "Our fathers are old friends. How are you, Frank?"

They smiled and shook hands. "Been a long time, sir. Good to see you again," said Branden.

Gordon's smile remained firmly in place, despite his face's efforts to reflect his emotions. The new mayor was best friends with his main rival on the force. Great.

"Been keeping an eye on you, Frank," said Hill. "You're doing a damned fine job with your team."

Despite their camaraderie, Branden retained his militant posture. "Thank you, sir, but I agree with you that more should be done in order to bring in the Batman." He shot Gordon a hawkish look. "I myself have nearly apprehended the outlaw on two separate occasions."

Hill raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yes," Gordon immediately chimed in, eager to tell these particular stories, "Lt. Branden led the SWAT team to take down Batman at Arkham Asylum nearly two years ago. He and the other members of the team were subdued by… bats, wasn't it, Branden?"

"Bats?" asked Hill. "Actual bats?"

"There… was a lot of them, sir," Branden said in his defence, scowling now at Gordon.

Gordon, maintaining a professional tone, continued, "Then, just last year, Batman suspended the Lieutenant out of a skyscraper window to stop him and his men from shooting restrained hostages…"

"We did not know that they were hostages," Branden again protested. "It was–"

"No need to explain, Frank," said Hill. "As Lt. Bullock said, the Batman is no ordinary criminal." He patted Branden on the shoulder and moved on with Gordon.

"And to that end, Jim – may I call you Jim?" Hill didn't wait for an answer. "To that end, I have some changes planned that will show the Batman that vigilantism will not be tolerated in Gotham.

"You know the new DA, Jane Porter?"

"I, uh, haven't met her," said Gordon. Porter had just been elected over Vernon Fields, one of Harvey Dent's former assistants, who had been a placeholder since Dent's death last year.

Gordon was still unsure if she could live up to Dent's reputation as District Attorney, but she seemed dedicated to the job. Perhaps too dedicated…

"I've been speaking with her about the Batman problem as well, and she has some great ideas," said Hill. "She shares my belief in the law."

"As do I, Mr. Mayor," said Gordon. Hill had obviously said 'my' and not 'our' deliberately, and Gordon did not appreciate the insinuation.

"Of course, Jim, of course… I'm throwing her a little celebration in honour of her election. She protested – very modest – but I insisted. Gotham must celebrate its achievements. I'd like you to attend, Jim. Get to know the new DA, and get yourself seen by the taxpayers. Several of the city's most prestigious citizens will be attending and it'll be good for them to see how their money is being well spent."

Gordon nodded. He knew it was not a request.

"Good," said Hill. "It's at the Iceberg Lounge, tonight."

"The Iceberg Lounge?" said Gordon. "Oswald Cobb's place?" Given Cobb's supposed criminal involvement, he was surprised by Hill's choice of venue.

"Yes," said Hill. "Mr. Cobb used to be an esteemed member of our community; his family are old Gotham. Finally having an establishment of such class will be a major boon to the city, and his return shows that not everyone has abandoned Gotham.

"It's not a problem, is it, Jim?"

"No. Just last-minute, that's all…"

Gordon could not argue the matter. Bullock's assurances aside, Gordon would not act on rumour alone. If Cobb was involved in any illegal activity, they would bring him down, but not without proof.

Despite Hill's apparent ignorance of Cobb's past, Gordon could not help but wonder about the company this new mayor kept.

---

"We shall have to name this monster at some point, sir," said Alfred.

Bruce looked away from his bright computer screen in the dim Cave to give his butler a confused look.

"What monster?" he asked.

Alfred, casually wiping rock dust off some equipment, nodded towards the large screen. "This super-computer of yours. We can't just go around calling it 'the Bat-computer'."

Bruce smirked. "Never really thought it needed a name…" He turned back to the data onscreen. He had been reviewing Scarface's heists in the hopes of discovering something new, with no luck so far.

"Lucius tells me it's the most powerful processor on the planet, and the most intelligent," said Alfred.

"Probably," said Bruce. "It's not like we can check."

"Seems like something that incredible should have a proper name…" said Alfred, coming to stand behind Bruce's chair. Squinting at the displayed information, he said, "Still no luck with this Mr. Scarface, sir?"

"Nothing…" Bruce leaned back and vaguely pointed at the screen.

"It all started about two months ago," he said, almost to himself. Alfred recognised his master's need to organise all the facts in his head aloud. "But we still haven't been able to track anything down on who Scarface is or even what he looks like. Gordon and Bullock have been pursuing the classic car lead – looking for any mass purchases at auctions – but so far nothing. If Scarface is as smart as he seems, he most likely bought them out-of-state and through a third party.

"Using ex-Arkham inmates is also a stroke of genius," Bruce continued. "Schizophrenics and obsessive compulsives are perfect for Scarface's brand of theatrics and expert planning: All jobs executed with precise attention to detail. Only a few of his men have been caught, purely by chance, and they all give unreliable accounts of Scarface's identity – saying he's not human, or possessed, that kind of thing. Another benefit of hiring the mentally unstable.

"One thing's for sure though: He's planning something big. He's started small, testing the waters, seeing which of his men are reliable, but he's expanding into Gotham's organised underworld… Gaining more and more support, like Eddie Skeevers."

"Is the death of the younger Mr. Skeevers connected?" Alfred asked.

"No," said Bruce. "Jefferson Skeevers died at the Iceberg Lounge. Gordon's contacts says that it was Oswald Cobb, although they're all too scared to be sure, of course. Based on Bullock's opinion of Cobb, it seems likely he killed Skeevers, probably to serve as an example to Gotham's other crime bosses."

"Yes, I remember that Oswald Cobb chap from years ago," said Alfred with a slight distaste in his voice. "His family were quite esteemed, but he was something of a black sheep. Rumours of disreputable connections, although nothing beyond whispered hearsay among the well-to-do."

"Bullock told me something similar," said Bruce. "I've yet to get closer to Cobb as Batman, but Bruce Wayne may have better luck tonight."

"The function for Ms. Porter?" said Alfred.

Bruce nodded. "It's at the Iceberg Lounge. I also mean to get closer to Porter herself, and the new mayor."

"Hamilton Hill," said Alfred. "He and Ms. Porter to seem to share a particular dislike for your masked alter ego."

Bruce smiled. "I want to know if it's a genuinely moral dislike or something more sinister. And if it's something I need to worry about.

"I also need to talk to Lucius about some of my equipment and he's invited too…"

Alfred brightened up. "You can ask him about a name for this thing." He pointed at the computer and, as if on cue, it started beeping.

Bruce consulted the machine. "I was running a search for Scarface's accomplices," he explained. "It's found something interesting…"

The computer displayed a mugshot of a gruff, bald man with a goatee and several small scratches on his neck.

"Victor Zsasz," said Bruce. "Freelance hitman, did some work for Carmine Falcone, was moved to Arkham couple of years ago…" Bruce raised his eyebrows as he read more from the report "…on the recommendation of Dr. Jonathan Crane."

"Not exactly a trustworthy medical opinion," said Alfred.

"He escaped during the mass break-out," Bruce kept reading, "but doctors confirmed that he was an extreme sociopath and just used the mob as an excuse to carry out his 'hobby'. He scars tally-marks into his skin for each victim."

Alfred winced. "Not a very nice man, is he?"

"He eventually wound up working for Scarface, but there have been reports of someone matching his description – particularly the tally-marks – stalking the defunct subway tunnels…"

"Perhaps Mr. Scarface did not provide him with enough job satisfaction," said Alfred.

"It's a lead," said Bruce optimistically. "Zsasz might know something important. I'll make a search for him later tonight, but right now… I have a party to attend…"

---

"Ah, Bruce Wayne!" Oswald Cobb greeted his guest enthusiastically as he entered the large banquet room of the Iceberg Lounge. For tonight's function Cobb had discarded his formal tuxedo in favour of a more familiar ensemble: black velvet jacket, cream waistcoat and a black silk ascot.

Cobb shook Bruce's hand firmly. "I remember your parents, always very charitable, terrible shame what happened to them."

Bruce put on his best fake smile and nodded respectfully. "I didn't get a chance to speak to you on your opening night: You've got yourself real nice place here, Mr. Cobb."

"Thank you, my boy," said Cobb. "I hope that you will be frequenting my little club regularly, and telling all your friends about it."

Bruce chuckled. "Count on it, Mr. Cobb. Where's the bar?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne, indulge yourself," Cobb said as he gestured towards the bar, where Bruce could see Lucius waiting. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Mayor Hill is about to arrive, and he is paying for all of this."

Bruce left Cobb and made his way through the crowd, which was smaller than the opening night's, but no less moneyed and no less talkative. This function hall was not as big but just as grand as the main floor downstairs: a jazz band played smoothly in the corner and people milled around the tables and the small bar.

"I see you've met the Iceberg Lounge's friendly owner," said Lucius with a weary humour to his voice.

"Maybe not so friendly," said Bruce, leaning on the bar. He ordered a drink to maintain his image and made sure the bartender was out of earshot before going on.

"I plan to take a closer look at Cobb after I've pursued some leads on Scarface," said Bruce softly.

"You think they're connected?" asked Lucius.

"No, but word is they're both attracting Gotham's major players like opposing ends of a magnet," said Bruce. "Since last year everyone's been laying low, but if someone brought them all together again they could be a lot more dangerous.

"Cobb's plans are still unknown, but with Scarface on the side of the 'freaks' it's likely that Cobb will be rallying the remaining 'ordinary' criminals… It won't be long before one side makes a move for the other, and innocent people get hurt in the crossfire."

"You still don't know anything about Scarface?" Lucius asked.

Bruce shook his head.

"You ever think that maybe Cobb is Scarface?"

Bruce looked across the high-ceilinged room at Cobb, greeting the mayor and his wife, who entered like royalty, surrounded by yes men and self-interested well-wishers. Lucius' theory was one Bruce had also considered but dismissed.

"No," he said. "It wouldn't serve a purpose. At first I thought Scarface might be a scapegoat for Cobb, but if so then why have Scarface attract so much attention? From what I've heard, they're also causing each other plenty of grief. Besides, Cobb seems too much of a showman… He doesn't like hiding…"

"Fair enough," said Lucius. "I suppose I should leave the detective work to the professionals. I'll stick with what I know."

Bruce smirked. "I need to talk to you about just that: I'm going to need an upgrade to the code-scanner. This place has pretty tight security, so it'll have to be faster. I'll also need some surveillance equipment: listening devices, tracers, that sort of thing."

"I'll have it all sent to the mansion as soon as possible… How are those new taser gloves working out?" Lucius had modified the gloves on Batman's suit to emit an electrical pulse that could stun anyone they touched, like an ordinary taser.

"Haven't had a chance to test them yet, unfortunately," said Bruce. "But I'll let you know."

"What about our latest… 'project' at Wayne Enterprises?" Lucius asked, with extra covertness.

"That can wait for now," Bruce said, noticing Jim Gordon approaching the bar.

"Scotch, neat," Gordon said to the barman. He looked like how Bruce usually felt at these events: bored and alone. Three months ago, in the midst of the Clayface murders, Jonathan Crane had taken Gordon's family captive to exact information from the Commissioner. Although they were ultimately unharmed, the trauma had been too much for them, and Gordon's wife had taken the children and left for the foreseeable future.

Bruce wished he could inquire about Gordon's family and allow him a friend to talk to, but unlike his ally Bruce could not let his real feelings show so readily.

"Commissioner Gordon," he said. At the very least, he could keep him company.

"Oh, uh, Mr. Wayne," said Gordon, clearly feigning interest. "Good to see you again."

"And under better circumstances," said Bruce, putting on his oafish charm. "Have you met my CEO, Lucius Fox?"

Fox and Gordon exchanged pleasantries.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Commissioner," said Bruce. "Your Lt. Bullock told me that Oswald Cobb was a bit, uh… 'untrustworthy', shall we say."

"Did he?" said Gordon. "Well, pay no attention to rumours, Mr. Wayne. Although, truth be told, I'm only here because Mayor Hill requested my presence." Gordon pointed across at the mayor, mingling expertly with the guests.

"You don't support Jane Porter?" Lucius asked.

"It's not that," said Gordon. "It's just… my wife was more the party-goer than me… She's, uh, out of town at the moment…"

Bruce changed the difficult subject. "Where is that lovely Ms. Porter anyway? Isn't this supposed to be her little get-together?"

"That's Hill talking to her now," said Gordon. He pointed to a statuesque blonde woman in her early thirties, very smartly outfitted in a tan-coloured pants suit rather than an evening dress.

"I must go say hello," said Bruce, excusing himself from Gordon and Fox.

"Mr. Wayne!" said Hill as Bruce approached his circle. "Delightful to see Gotham's own Prince Charming!"

Bruce smiled and nodded. He directed his attention towards the new DA. "Just wanted to say congratulations, Ms. Porter."

"Thank you," she replied with sense of forced pleasantry. "You were a big supporter of Harvey Dent, weren't you?"

Bruce nodded. "I believed in his cause. Still do."

"Well, that's what we're all about," said Hill, very aware of his small audience. "No more outlaws like the Batman running around, killing our public servants. Isn't that right, Miss Porter?"

Porter, knowing the practiced response the mayor expected, answered, "Harvey Dent's fate was appalling. It's tragic that it took his own death to prove his point. But you're right, Mr. Mayor; it can't be allowed to happen again."

There were murmurs of agreement and people started to move off, either satisfied by Porter's little speech or engrossed by the new one the mayor was starting.

Bruce himself was still intrigued by Porter herself. She clearly knew how to tell people what they wanted to hear, but her words still carried poignancy to them. Did she truly mean what she said?

Porter caught him staring. "You were friends with Rachel Dawes too, right?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," Bruce said. Reminded of yet another lost love, he tried to contain his anguish yet still look sorrowful enough for show.

"We roomed together at law school," said Porter. "She talked about you a lot. She was devastated when everyone thought you were dead."

"I… I didn't know…" said Bruce.

"I was so sad to hear about… what happened to her…"

Bruce allowed for a respectful silence as they both thought about Rachel. "Did you mean all that earlier? About the Batman?"

"Relying on a vigilante goes against everything I hold true," said Porter, this time with more conviction. "Harvey and Rachel would both still be alive if it weren't for him. The Batman needs to be stopped, before anyone else is killed."

With genuine curiosity, Bruce asked, "But how do you stop him when the police have already been trying for so long?"

"The police… haven't been trying as hard as maybe they could have been," said Porter with just a hint of spite. "But the mayor and I have been working on a few ways around that."

Before Bruce could pursue this further, Porter was called away to another group, no doubt for another repetition of her speech. Bruce faded back into the crowd, but did not see Oswald Cobb exit into a side room.

Drowning out the noise from the party behind a thick door, Cobb hastily shuffled across the room to Drake, who held an ivory telephone receiver.

"This had better be important," he told Drake.

"It's Flass," Drake said simply.

"Flass?" Cobb took the phone and shooed Drake from the room.

"What is it?" Cobb said to his inside man. "I'm busy at the moment."

"I know," Flass whispered. "That's what this is about: I'm doing some lookout work for Scarface down in Tricorner and I overheard some of his boys saying he's planning a hit on your place – tonight!"

"What!?" shouted Cobb. "That charlatan thinks he can ransack my Iceberg like a common tavern!?"

"Look, I gotta get back before someone notices I'm gone," said Flass. "Get outta there while you can!" He hung up and Cobb angrily stormed back into the banquet room.

By this time, Bruce had noted Cobb's absence and saw him return looking quite perturbed. Before either man could take further action however, there was an explosive crash of doors as several armed men barraged into the room.

The first few fired into the air, a time-worn tactic for attracting attention, and it worked. The music ceased and Bruce recognised the sounds of a panicked crowd retreating back from danger, just as he recognised the intruders as members of Scarface's gang.

They were all dressed in pinstripe suits and trilby hats, and were all armed with anachronistic Tommy-guns. Bruce knew most of them from Arkham Asylum patient files, but they all had the wild-eyed look of the mentally unstable.

With the party guests successfully corralled, a large man stepped onto the scene. He was built like a tank with a chest like a brick wall and tree trunk arms, and was dressed in much less sophisticated clothing – a bowler instead of a trilby and a simple vest in place of a shirt. He was undoubtedly the leader of the pack.

"Okay, ladies and germs," said the leader, his voice thundering through the room. "Youse all know the score: Hand over all wallets, cash, jewellery, yadda-yadda-yadda, and nobody gets hurt. Capiche?"

Bruce and Lucius glanced at one another. Without speaking, Bruce told Lucius simply to play along. There was nothing either of them could do at the moment.

As the goons separated the wealthy from their wealth, the leader paced around. "Well, well, well," he said, "lookee here… The mayor, the DA and the police commissioner all in one room." He leered over Porter, his massive shadow enveloping her. "Imagine if something were to happen…"

Porter was smart enough not to rise to his bullying, but Hill was not.

"Leave us alone, you animal!" he shouted. "Your kind won't get away with this much longer! Justice will prevail!"

Bruce cringed, wishing the mayor would keep his tongue. The thugs' leader now diverted his attention onto Hill, lowering his Tommy-gun to point at the mayor.

"I don't remember yielding the floor, Mr. Mayor," said the leader.

Then Gordon put himself between the gun and Hill. "You don't want to do this," he said calmly and firmly. "You got a good haul. That's all your boss cares about. You kill the mayor, that's heat he doesn't need."

The air in the room grew heavy. All eyes – guest and criminal alike – were on this confrontation, waiting to see how it played out. Bruce sized up the goons between him and Gordon. If their leader made a move, Bruce knew he could not take them all out in time to save Gordon.

Eventually, the leader smiled. "You're right, Commissioner." He backed off and Bruce sighed along with the rest of the room. "But you're not, Mr. Mayor," the massive man continued. "This… is just the beginning." He spoke now for the whole room's benefit. "You all remember that this was the work of Mr. Scarface – the new boss of Gotham! You all answer to him now!"

The gargantuan brute and his men fired into the ceiling once more as they made their retreat. The crowd bubbled in the aftermath and Cobb seethed in uncharacteristic silence, but Bruce was already unlocking a window at the back of the room, unseen.

Although he knew he could not stop Scarface's men, he needed more facts. Bruce recognised the leader from several security camera pictures. He always seemed to be in charge, yet so far was unidentified. How far up Scarface's hierarchy was he?

Leaning out of the open window, Bruce saw the thieves pile into their getaway vehicles below; once again, vintage cars without license plates. Removing from his jacket pocket a small digital camera about the same dimensions as a credit card, Bruce took some snapshots to analyse later.

Despite being two floors up, Bruce could easily make out the huge frame of the leader, laughing as he removed his coat. Using the camera's zoom function, Bruce saw that the brute had unknowingly given himself away by revealing a single distinguishing feature on his right arm: a tattoo of a rhinoceros.

"Gotcha," whispered Bruce. It wasn't much, but it might be enough to make an ID.

---

Victor Zsasz used to be an average man. He was born into an average family, lived in an average house on an average street, had average friends, went to an average school, got an average job.

His life wasn't perfect, but it wasn't imperfect either. Just average.

On his thirtieth birthday, his family and friends threw him an average surprise party. Something changed inside Victor Zsasz's average mind that day.

He looked down at the average cake, emblazoned with a large and colourful "30", celebrating three decades of striving to maintain an unsatisfying status quo. Three decades of knowing he'd never be the best, but struggling not be the worst. Three decades of exaggerating every single, minor achievement in the hopes that it would seem extraordinary.

He looked at the happy, expectant faces of the people closest to him. Average people, like him. All of them as discontent as him, but they would never admit it. They would distract themselves with birthday parties, or television, or work, or gossip, all to take their minds of how truly insignificant and unimportant they all were.

Zsasz suddenly and vividly realised there and then that he did not matter. That no-one really mattered. They could all have died at any point in their worthless lives and it would not have made a blind bit of difference. And everyone was happy to just ignore that fact and make-believe that it wasn't true.

But not Zsasz. Not anymore.

He took the knife with which he was supposed to cut the cake and he used it to cut his father's throat instead.

The cacophony of screams that ensued went unheard by Zsasz. He looked down upon his father's corpse and waited. He waited for the voice in his head that was supposed to tell him that what he had done was wrong. He waited for the guilt, the sorrow, the remorse, but none of it came.

Instead, there was only a glorious harmony. Contrasted by the chaos surrounding him, the dull throbbing in Zsasz's head was replaced by a single, beautiful chorus.

He knew now what he had to do. He had to liberate the others from their coffins of flesh and blood, free their tormented souls, just like he had been freed. He was no longer average.

Once he had killed the others, Zsasz stood in their gory mess and decided that, after thirty years of meaninglessness, now that he had found purpose he should mark the event.

And so he started carving a morbid score into his body. A tally.

With murder the only pursuit he found any emotion in, Zsasz had quickly found work as a hitman, usually for the mob. He kept his twisted passion quiet though, knowing that even hired killers would find his interest macabre.

However, Zsasz one day found himself as a tiny wheel in a much grander machine, and was sent to Arkham Asylum to further a plan that was beyond his own understanding.

There the doctors had discerned his horrifying secret: that he killed not for money but for pleasure. For purpose. But Zsasz did not care that he was exposed as different; the current trend in Gotham's underworld had shifted in his favour anyway – once again proving his path was righteous.

He had tried doing some work for Scarface, Gotham's latest power-mad freak, but his thorough plans and strict rules meant Zsasz had less freedom. He had eventually ditched that outfit and had taken to roaming Gotham's subway system, abandoned since the construction of the elevated trains years ago.

Souls in need of liberation were scarce down here, but occasionally the night was good to him.

Like tonight.

Prowling the dark and disused track, Zsasz could see a young girl in rags, rifling through some trash on the platform, obviously one of the city's many homeless children. Zsasz held back a laugh of joy. He so dearly loved to spare youths the agony of life ahead. The younger, the better.

Zsasz climbed like a spider onto the platform and stalked closer to the unaware girl. He could hear her soul screeching for release. Clutching his blade tightly, Zsasz raised his arm and prepared to strike.

But the Batman dropped from the black ceiling and onto Zsasz, his new gloves sending a shock through Zsasz's body as he collapsed and dropped his knife.

The girl screamed and ran, and Batman was thankful that she did not remain for what was about to happen.

Batman hauled Zsasz up by his tattered shirt collar. "Tell me what you know about Scarface!" he demanded.

Zsasz's inhuman eyes glared out at the Dark Knight. "Your soul screams loudest of all, Batman… So much suffering… Let me help you… Let me take away your pain…"

"You want pain, Zsasz? HERE!" With a fierce growl, Batman threw the murderer against the tunnel wall. As Zsasz slid down the brickwork, Batman jumped onto the track and stood over his prey.

"Who is Scarface!?" His booming voice echoed off the empty tunnel, surrounding Zsasz with his threat.

"I don't… I don't know," said Zsasz. "I never met him…" He groaned and winced. "I think you broke my back…"

"I'll break more than that if you don't tell me what I want to know!" Batman grabbed Zsasz and pulled him up to eye level, his feet dangling limply.

"I told you…" Zsasz wheezed. "I never saw him… But they… they say he has… two heads!" Zsasz laughed in spite of his pain.

Batman would leave Zsasz for the police after he was through with him, but it was unlikely that they would get any useful information out of the demented sociopath. Batman knew that if he wanted anything from Zsasz, now was the only time to get it.

Throwing Zsasz down and pinning him to the track, Batman yelled, "You must know names! Someone in Scarface's gang! Who were his lieutenants!? Who was your contact!?"

Zsasz continued to giggle in Batman's face. It was time to step things up.

Holding Zsasz against the metal tracks with one hand, Batman grabbed the rail with the other and activated his taser glove.

Batman had increased the level of shock, and Zsasz's body convulsed with the electrical energy surging along the metal track. Lucius would probably disapprove, but that's why Bruce usually didn't tell him about 'creative' uses for his equipment.

"A name, Zsasz!" he demanded again once he had deactivated the taser. "Give me a name!"

Wide-eyed and slightly singed, Zsasz managed to cough out, "Malone… Matches Malone…"

---

After getting off the phone with Cobb, Flass had returned to his cohorts. The Tricorner Yards were known for bringing in a great deal of illegal offshore goods and apparently Scarface was expecting a delivery of something big. Flass was ignorant as to what and had only been hired as a lookout – given his former employment, he knew precisely who to lookout for.

"Where were you?" asked one of his accomplices, dressed in the dated clothing typical of Scarface's gang.

"Had ta take a leak," said Flass. The lie worked, as it often did when Flass had to sneak off to 'leak' information to Cobb. Most of Scarface's goons were so delusional, Flass could probably have got away with telling them the truth.

Cobb paid good money for anything he could use against Scarface and Flass was only too happy to oblige. He only hoped the chubby entrepreneur survived Scarface's assault on the Iceberg Lounge, or Flass would be looking for another rival boss to sell out to. And there weren't many of them left in Gotham.

The truck Scarface's men had been expecting pulled up and one of the less crazy henchman spoke with the driver. When their business was concluded, the driver took off in another car, leaving the truck.

Scarface's men opened the doors, and Flass was curious as to its content. After all, it may be something that Cobb would be interested in. What he saw inside surprised the hell out of him.

"Is that… explosives?" he asked. Next thing he knew he was struck from behind, a black bag was put over his head and his hands were restrained behind his back.

"Some lookout," he heard one the goons say.

Flass could tell he was being bundled into a car and, some long minutes later, bundled out of it. Throughout the journey, he just kept thinking that they must have known about his call to Cobb. Or maybe they just didn't appreciate anyone knowing about the severely heavy-duty explosives they had acquired. Either way, this was sure to be a one way trip.

After being marched at gunpoint briefly, he was tied to a chair and the bag, at last, removed.

Blinking from the sudden bright light, Flass saw someone sat in front of him, flanked by two besuited goons with Tommy-guns.

"You dirty rat," said the shadowy figure before him. He sounded odd, like somebody high-pitched impersonating a deeper voice. "You sold me up the river to the Penguin!"

Still unadjusted to the light, Flass blinked. "P-Penguin?"

"Cobb! Oswald Cobb! The Penguin, you numbskull! Don't play goody-two-shoes with me!"

His eyes now clear, Flass could not believe the sight he beheld.

A gangly, middle-aged, balding and bespectacled man sat nervously in front of him, dressed in a gaudy tartan jacket and spotted bowtie. But perched on his knee was a ventriloquist's dummy in a tiny gangster suit and hat, with a noticeable scratch on its weathered wooden face.

Flass laughed in the face of it all. "What…? What is this?" He looked at the ventriloquist himself, then the two goons, for some clue as to the nature of this bizarre circumstance.

"This is you staring inta the face of death, fatso," said the dummy, its mouth sliding up and down in a parody of speech.

Flass kept laughing. "That's good! Your lips didn't even move! Seriously, what is this? An initiation before I meet Scarface or something, huh?"

"I AM Scarface, ya knucklehead!" the dummy shouted angrily, its dull painted features unrelenting.

Flass's expression quickly turned to dread as he realised this was no joke. "Oh God…" He looked again at the other men in the room. "Jesus, you're all insane… You're all insane!"

"You're the screwball! Selling us out like that's a dangerous game, Flass. Rhino just called ta tell me the job went off without a hitch, but no thanks ta you!"

"Please, you gotta understand; this new mayor… he's making things tough for everyone…" The absurdity of begging for his life to a puppet was buried under Flass's urge to live.

"He… He's right, Mr. Scarface," the ventriloquist suddenly piped up. "Mayor Hill is coming down hard on our operations, and–"

The dummy's tiny hand slapped the ventriloquist. "Shaddup, ya dummy! If it weren't for me, you'd still have a speech impediment, so whadda you know!?"

Scarface, the puppet, revolved its head back to Flass who looked into its painted eyes as if it were a real person.

"Hill ain't nothing! I told ya! I told ya all; this is my town now! I'm gonna be running this whole joint soon, and not the mayor, or the cops, or the Penguin, or even the Bat is gonna stop me!

"But I ain't gonna get nowhere with squealers like you." He leaned towards the goons behind him. "Boys! Show Flass here what we do with squealers."

The armed goons, totally devoid of any visible reasoning or sanity, stepped forward and cocked their guns.

"No!" Flass shouted. "This is crazy! He's a puppet for Christ sakes!"

"I ain't the puppet, Flass… I'm the one pulling the strings."

With that, his men unleashed a relentless storm of bullets on Flass, his body toppling backwards from the sheer impact and blood splattering everywhere. They continued until their guns clicked empty and Flass was unrecognisable.

"Again! Again!" shouted Scarface in his glee. "I want nothing for the worms to chew!"

He laughed maniacally as his men reloaded and again assaulted the body with gunfire, decimating it into smaller and smaller pieces as all the while Scarface laughed.

But the ventriloquist, who had once been little Arnold Wesker, shut his eyes tight and wished for all the death and blood and madness to just go away.

Scarface kept on laughing.

NEXT CHAPTER: "Emperor Penguin"