Rube Elliot backed away from the light of a street lamp when he heard the door unlock. With the concrete wall pressed against his shoulder blades, he fished a cloth and bottle of chloroform from his pockets. He glanced beside him, giving a nod to the two other muscles-for-hire he was working with. They had been waiting in a tight alley next to the building for thirty minutes. Now Rube saw a security guard pass the corner and lean on the street lamp for a cigarette break. Right on schedule.
According to his boss, who had the medical research facility watched for weeks, the guard went out for a smoke at three A.M. every night like clockwork. It was the most opportune time for the heist. The place would probably be seeing some policy changes about cigarette breaks after this.
Rube advanced quickly but quietly. The guard was facing the street and didn't see the chloroform cloth coming. He pressed it against the man's mouth and nose just before he inhaled. The sixty-year-old struggled but couldn't get out of Rube's powerful grip before slipping into unconsciousness. Rube took the ring of keys from his waist and handed it to Loland—who insisted on being called Lurch—and hefted the guard onto his shoulder. Loland wanted to be the one to take out the old timer but Rube decided the larger man was as silent as a rhino. They didn't need the guard to hear them and start shouting.
Loland found the correct key and walked through the double doors, not bothering to hold it open for him. Vincent, who had said no more than a dozen words since he met him, held the door while Rube brought the guard inside. The building was rented by Venture Medicines Research Group, a small and as yet undistinguished company working on new pharmaceuticals. So far, V.M.R.G. had no success in any groundbreaking medicines that could be marketed. The company's dwindling funds and lack of profits left little in the budget for security. Besides, nobody expected a break-in to a lab with no applicable drugs. One rent-a-cop and a single security camera inside were all the protection allocated.
The camera was in a corner ceiling to the right of the entrance. Vincent went about deactivating it. Loland waited with nothing to do while Rube lay the guard on his chair. The only reason Loland was even there was in case something went wrong and they needed extra muscle. And an extra trigger finger.
He caught the old man's head as he slumped over and placed the side of his face gently on the table.
Loland scoffed. "You gonna sing em a lullaby, too?"
He ignored the comment and told him to watch the entrance. Loland, having nothing else to say, made a face of contempt and turned to the door. They were in what was supposed to be a waiting and reception room though it was unlikely there were people to wait here during business hours. It was really just a glorified hallway with a desk, a chair, and a cheap picture of a sunset beach nailed on the wall.
Vincent finished with the sorry attempt at a security system and removed its digital hard drive, then followed Rube into the back room. The first floor was mainly a filing room, filled with rows and rows of cabinets holding documents, research notes and test results. A door to the left led to a flight of stairs and the laboratory, which took up the second and only other floor. But they weren't interested in the laboratory.
"It's somewhere between E-six-two-eight-point-four and E-nine-four-nine-point-one," Rube reminded. He pointed at the far end of the row in question. "You start there and I'll start on this end. We'll make our way towards the middle."
Vincent nodded and walked down the line of filing cabinets. Rube found E-nine-four-nine-point-one and started flipping through files with gloved fingers. He scanned titles of folders quickly, stopping only to look at a set of documents that could have been what they were looking for. Very few files hinted at anything of interest anyway. Many of them had the words "STUDY DISCONTINUED" stamped in red. V.M.R.G.'s work was hardly unique, with one possible exception. About half of the files in the room were unrelated to research at all. Printouts of bills, memos, e-mails and other miscellaneous papers were mixed in a haphazard and poorly categorized order. About twenty minutes passed when he found a folder titled "High Dependence Pain Reliever," accompanied by a red stamp. Rube opened the manila and glanced through the documents inside. He looked up at Vincent.
"We're done."
The two of them found Loland looking through the guard's wallet in the reception room.
"Any problems, Loland?" Rube asked.
The bigger man scowled. "It's Lurch."
"I'll take that as a no." He grabbed the wallet from Loland's hand. "A break-in, missing security footage, possible theft—all because he left his post for a cigarette. And when he comes to, he'll never realize what's missing. What are the chances he'll call the police and lose his job over this?" Rube shook the wallet in front of Loland's face. "Much better chance if his wallet was stolen." He put the wallet back in the sleeping man's pocket. "Let's go."
Loland's face was red but he walked out with them silently. They made their way casually down the street to where an old rusty Dodge Dart was parked. The car was enough of a piece of junk that nobody would bother stealing it, even in this neighborhood. Rube sat in the driver's seat with Vincent next to him, Loland in the back. Eyeing the hulking mass in the rearview mirror—Loland took up nearly two seats—Rube could see he was still in a sour mood.
"There's a cooler to your left, Lurch," Rube said diplomatically, "Have yourself a beer."
Loland took a beer from the cooler and mumbled, "It's warm."
"It's a cool night. Good for your blood," Rube assured him.
Loland looked unsatisfied but started drinking it anyway. Rube reached around and grabbed one, handing it to Vincent, who accepted it but put the can down next to him. Rube put the file in the glove compartment, then started the car and drove to deliver it to their employer. Just another night in Gotham City.
….
He really did like chocolate. He loved it almost as much as money. Well, alright, not even close to money. But he liked it plenty enough. And it went deliciously with fish and wine. He popped another fudge-filled morsel into his mouth and squealed with glee. His work may have had its hiccups in the past but the risks and failures were worth the successes. Successes that allowed him to relax in a luxurious fine leather chair and munch on imported chocolate delicacies with a three hundred dollar bottle of wine. And have lots of money.
He cut a piece of tora-fugu fish with an elegantly designed knife and fork set—he was pleased the house chef took it upon herself to see that he had proper silverware—when a knock came at the door to his office. "What?" he said, irritably.
Mandlin, his current go-to assistant, let himself in. "Your friends are back from the library, Mr. Cobblepot."
He twisted his lip in annoyance. "I've told you before, Mandlin. My office is quite bug-proof. You don't need to speak to me in clubhouse code."
"Sir, I think it is wise to be cautious. More than once in the past…"
"I am very aware of that. I have seen to it that this room is stripped of surveillance equipment and I have the bill to prove it!" He still felt robbed by those techie swindlers. "Now bring them in already and stop wasting my time!"
Mandlin looked like he wanted to object, but nodded and said "Yes, Mr. Cobblepot."
The tall man disappeared and he took the opportunity to wipe his face with a silk cloth before the others came in. Oswald "The Penguin" Cobblepot had to keep up his appearance, even to the ruff he often needed to hire. Moments later his assistant escorted a trio of hefty brutes through the door. He addressed the man he left in charge of the job, a handsome man with blonde hair and dark blue eyes.
"Ah, Mr. Elliot, yes?" he spoke cheerfully.
"Call me Rube, sir." His voice was polite but held a hint of authority in it. That was alright for the Penguin. He could use more men like that. As long as he didn't get too carried away.
"Yes, Rube. Very good. I trust everything went well?"
Rube lifted a brown manila folder and dropped it on his desk as an answer. He reached from his leather chair and touched the folder. His smile widened.
"And you are positive this is the correct file?" he asked.
"High Dependency Pain Reliever. I read through enough of it at Venture Medicines Research Group to make sure it's the file you asked for, Mr. Cobblepot."
"You are a dependable man. I may call upon your talents again, soon," the Penguin offered.
"In the mean time, I'd like to receive my payment." The largest of the men behind him coughed loudly. "As I'm sure my night's associates, Loland Urchin and Vincent Hessel, would."
How considerate of him to share credit with his coworkers. Loyalty was rarely practiced by rough thugs. He would certainly be hiring him in the future.
"Of course, of course. Mr. Mandlin?"
Mandlin left the room briefly and returned with three brown suitcases. Rube took one and opened it, fingering the thick stacks of bills inside. Without looking up, he said "Ten thousand dollars, each?"
"I'm a man of my word, Mr. Elliot," the Penguin assured.
"Rube," he corrected simply. "Thank you for your business."
The three goons went on their way unceremoniously. Once they were gone, his face contorted into one of discomfort. He never liked making such expensive payments as he just did. But investment was always necessary.
He opened the file and hummed to himself contently. It would be worth it in the end. V.M.R.G. had been working on creating new pain relieving pharmaceuticals. They wanted to get into the market with drugs that could compete with morphine and oxycodene. One of many attempts at a formula proved to be exceptionally addictive after one or two ingestions. It made the trial participants so overwhelmingly dependent, both physically and mentally, that they became violently ill—even delirious—if they didn't receive a dose every twelve hours. And tolerance to the drug took hold quickly, making them need more doses more often by the week. If this side effect wasn't enough of a problem, the fact that it was less effective at relieving pain than children's Tylenol was. V.M.R.G. halted further research immediately.
Now the formula lay in the Penguin's hands.
He could imagine it perfectly. A drug with virtually no effects but severe addiction at the disposal of one of Gotham's most successful restaurateurs. A drug that would be manufactured and added as an ingredient into every entrée, beverage and soup cracker at dozens of fine dinner locations throughout the city. He had also taken it upon himself to purchase several fast-food locations from national franchises. The media mocked him for degrading his reputation as a high-class connoisseur of fine dining by buying deep fried burger joints. But now he had access to the mouths of both rich and poor in Gotham. In six months time the formula would be in circulation and over half the city would be desperately addicted to his food. They would buy more and more, unable to control themselves. Eventually, they'd do anything for a fix. And Oswald Cobblepot would be the only one who could give it to them.
….
The Dodge Dart double parked in front of a dingy apartment building. Carrying a brown brief case full of cash and a plastic cooler in his hands, the bulky blonde passed piles of garbage on the spray-painted sidewalk. A homeless man eyed him from across the street as he unlocked the crooked door and gave it a hard shove to open it.
He walked up six flights of stairs and down a hallway of identical grey doors that barely concealed the sounds of crying babies, loud televisions, and one or two arguing voices. He opened the door to the rented apartment and went inside. The bedroom and bathroom/kitchen combo were completely empty of personal belongings. Locking the door behind him, he went to the bed and picked up a large backpack. He stuffed the briefcase and cooler inside, strapped it onto his back, and opened the single window in the apartment. Avoiding the fire escape, which made unwanted noise, he scaled the brick wall of the building, climbing down silently. The tips of his fingers held on to cement depressions between the red bricks, alternating with opposite feet as they moved down to find new holds. At just under two stories above the ground, he was more than close enough for a safe drop. He let go and landed on the blacktop of a narrow path that led to a small parking lot behind the apartment building, bending his knees and elbows to catch his momentum.
He stood up immediately and made his way down the path, not going anywhere near the little light provided by apartment windows. Across the lot, he easily jumped a seven-foot fence covered in vines and continued down a thin alley between two other apartment buildings. Emerging on the other side of the block from where the Dart was parked, he went to the middle of the street and lifted the cap of a manhole, then slipped inside and covered it again. He knew that no one had seen him, but it was necessary to be cautious.
Walking through the extensive and complicated system of sewage tunnels beneath the streets of Gotham for an hour, he stopped at a ladder leading to another manhole. He climbed up and let himself out, leaving him lying down on a street beneath a limousine. Putting the palm of his hand on an inconspicuous square section on the underside of the car, a laser sensor scanned his handprint. A moment later, a twenty-four by twenty-four inch hatch slid open above him, and he lifted himself into the limo by his arms. The hatch slid closed once he was seated inside.
"Good morning, sir," the driver spoke.
Removing the blonde wig and blue iris contact lenses of Rube Elliot, he responded in turn. "Good morning, Alfred."
The rest of his silicone face makeup would be taken off at headquarters. For now, he opened the backpack and removed a manila folder from the brown briefcase as Alfred drove. The formula for V.M.R.G.'s failed drug could be very dangerous if it were put in the wrong hands. He had come to that conclusion when he first discovered a forty-year-old man-with no personal record or family history of mental instability-had almost thrown his wife out of a window, screaming she was poisoning him. He found the man had previously been a trial participant for an experimental pharmaceutical.
What he considered a possibility became a reality when the Penguin heard about it through his many contacts. Under the guise of a low-level criminal for hire, he had managed to place himself under Cobblepot's employ and provided him with false research material. Cobblepot spent most of his current capital on chemists, factories, workers, transporters and on the materials needed to manufacture the drug, which was expensive to produce. The altered formula he would be making and putting into his products was harmless, however.
In six months time, Oswald Cobblepot would be out of a significant investment. Shortly thereafter, he'd be very confused and disappointed. He'd also be at a considerable disadvantage without the funds to hire top-notch lawyers for the court trial.
"Play the recording from today, Alfred," he asked.
His trusted friend obliged and the conversation he had with the Penguin in his office played from speakers in the limo.
"And you are positive this is the correct file?" the Penguin's voice said.
"High Dependency Pain Reliever. I read through enough of it at Venture Medicines Research Group to make sure it's the file you asked for, Mr. Cobblepot," his own disguised voice said.
Confession.
"Ten thousand dollars each?"
"I'm a man of my word, Mr. Elliot."
Payment.
The recording devices he placed in Cobblepot's kitchen, disguised as simply silverware, worked perfectly. With all of the expensive accessories added to his collection of junk, no one bothered to ask where they came from.
He opened the cooler and carefully lifted each of the beer cans one at a time with his still gloved hands. Fingerprints were clearly visible. He'd have them lifted and stored in his database once they arrived. Removing a digital hard drive from his pocket, he plugged it into a computer port. Footage of Loland standing in the reception room of V.M.R.G., directly in front of the camera, was followed by a second man walking in, carrying an unconscious security guard over his shoulder. The guard's body blocked his face and continued to do so as the second man placed him down and crouched behind him, holding the guard's head up. Meanwhile, Vincent's face was moving back and forth, inches from the camera, as he went about dismantling it. Seconds later, the camera stopped recording. Loland and Vincent were unmistakably identifiable. The other man, however, was never really seen.
The security footage (from the hard drive Vincent hadn't noticed "Rube" take from his pocket as he handed him a beer), fingerprints, and other sets of audio recordings he had of Vincent and Loland—not to mention their payments he would be keeping tabs on—would be more than enough to get convictions for the two of them. He would wait until Cobblepot had exhausted his resources before he gave the evidence to Commissioner Gordon, though. Vincent and Loland would likely not be working before then, instead living on the money they received, so ensuring the Penguin was in Blackgate Prison was worth the wait. He'd have a counteragent to the real addictive formula developed by then, just in case someone else were to get hold of it.
The most important part of stopping crime was stopping it before it started. Oftentimes, that required many masks. But behind all of those masks—even that of Bruce Wayne—was the face of Batman.