CHAPTER TWO

"Emperor Penguin"

It was just last night Jim Gordon had attended a celebration for zealous new DA Jane Porter at the Iceberg Lounge, only to be robbed at gunpoint by Scarface's gang, and now here he was back again in the early hours of the morning. A dead body had turned up at the front door, and the victim was of special relevance.

Arriving at the crime scene, Gordon exited his car and approached the visibly uncomfortable Lt. Bullock. It was not the corpse, but rather its location, that had unnerved him.

"This it?" Gordon asked, peering down at the unremarkable wooden barrel sat at the bottom of the Lounge's front steps. The area was taped off, and several technicians and detectives went about their various tasks.

Bullock simply spread out his hand towards the barrel, inviting the Commissioner to take a look. Lifting the lid, Gordon cringed at the sight and the stench that greeted him.

Resetting the lid firmly, Gordon asked, "How do you know it's Flass?" He was somewhat astounded that any identification had been made from the mess within the barrel.

"Had his wallet on him," said Bullock, holding up a clear evidence bag with the pertinent article inside. "Won't know for sure, of course, till we get a DNA match." He handed to the bag to a crime scene technician and went over his notepad, but without his usual lackadaisical demeanour.

"Security guys say Flass here was dropped off at about three a.m.," Bullock read out. "By some men in an old-fashioned car. They just threw it out and drove off."

Gordon sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Since dealing with the incident last night, and his subsequent report, he had only got a few hours sleep. At least he didn't have to worry about waking Barbara and the kids anymore. He still wasn't used to the emptiness of the house…

"He was a cop once," said Gordon, looking back at the barrel. "Not the best, but…" He didn't finish the thought. "Sounds like Scarface again… I knew Flass was doing some work for him on the side, but what did he have to do with Cobb?"

Bullock pointed to the barrel. "This here's what they used to call a 'barrel murder'. Another old school execution. The mob used to do it to squealers…"

"You think Flass was selling out to Cobb?" asked Gordon. He wasn't shocked; Flass had never known loyalty.

Bullock shrugged. "Two hits in one night. Scarface must have something against the Penguin."

Gordon knew how it looked, but there was technically nothing to incriminate Cobb, and Bullock knew it too. "Is Cobb here?" Gordon asked.

"Unfortunately," said Bullock. Cobb was slowly descending the stairs of his club with his distinct swagger.

"Commissioner," said Cobb. "It is lamentable to see you once again under such odious circumstances."

Gordon nodded to the short but imposing entrepreneur. "Mr. Cobb, can you think of any reason why someone would want to do this to you?"

Bullock snorted and looked away.

Cobb ignored him politely. "As I have been telling your officers; I have no idea who the unfortunate gentleman inside this ghastly tomb is, but I can speculate as to why this 'Scarface' seeks to disgrace me."

"Oh?" said Gordon.

"The Iceberg Lounge is Gotham's future," said Cobb, as if it were common knowledge. "A future where the innocent no longer have to fear nocturnal activities. The disrespectful members of our community would rather we live in a much regretted and fearful past."

"Awfully quick to forget yer own past, ain't ya, Penguin," said Bullock.

Cobb's lip involuntarily curled at the unauthorised use of his nickname, but he kept himself reserved. "I was not aware, Commissioner, that you had your own trained police dog."

"Aw, that's rich!" Bullock shouted, starting for Cobb. Gordon put out a hand to hold him back.

Gordon looked Bullock dead in the eye and said in a quiet but firm voice, "Not this way."

Bullock looked around at the MCU detectives, crime scene technicians and Cobb's own entourage, and realised that the Commissioner was right. One false move and, as soon as Branden heard about it, he'd be suspended faster than he could land a punch.

He backed down and said, "I wasn't gonna do anything, Commish. Honest."

"My, my," said Cobb, who had retained his smug posture throughout, "you are on a short leash, aren't you?"

Bullock did not respond this time.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Cobb," said Gordon. He led Bullock away from the scene towards the side alleyway.

"You shouldn't be apologising to that crooked bastard, Commish," Bullock said when they were in the alley's shadows.

"That was out of line, Lieutenant!" said Gordon. "I don't give a damn about your history; we don't make a move on Cobb without evidence!"

"Evidence?" said Bullock. "Commish, you don't know what he's like! He won't leave a shred of evidence for us! You already seen it: All that our best informants have got is rumours and they're still afraid to speak 'em! Cobb keeps his enemies in the dark and his friends terrified! I'm only here in Gotham 'cause I… I was getting too close to the case back in New York. Took its toll on me, y'know? But I still couldn't find a thing to pin on him…"

"I might have better luck."

Gordon and Bullock turned to see the Batman emerge from the darkness, diffusing their heated debate.

"That you might," said Bullock.

"You know about Flass?" said Gordon, nodding back towards the Iceberg Lounge.

"I got a look at the barrel before your men showed up," said Batman. "I can't tell without a proper analysis, but the dirt on the bottom looks like it's from a landfill; possibly in Tricorner. We should focus our search for Scarface there."

"The dirt?" said Bullock in amazement.

Gordon was used to Batman's uncanny thoroughness. "Doesn't mean he's based there… Could've just got the barrel from one of the old landfills; God knows there's plenty…"

"You've literally 'got dirt' on Scarface?" said Bullock.

"It's a start." Batman now focused his attention on the larger detective. "Gordon's right: Don't lean so hard on Cobb. I can do that. You have a reputation to maintain… I don't."

Bullock chuckled privately at the thought of Batman intimidating Cobb. "Speaking of reputations, Commish; I assume the Mayor's less of an asshole after ya saved his life last night?"

Gordon sighed. "Even though he endangered himself in the first place… He's still trying not-so-subtly to imply that I'm untrustworthy or incompetent…"

"That's bull," said Bullock.

"He said that if I weren't so 'careless' and 'apathetic' this kind of thing wouldn't go on in Gotham." Gordon shook his head. "It's the same political crap I'm used to dealing with…"

"Hill and Porter both suspect our association," said Batman. "That could lead to bigger problems. But there is a way around it." Batman looked at Bullock.

"Me?" said Bullock. "What the hell can I do?"

"You're still relatively new," explained Batman. "No-one's really sure if you're trustworthy yet."

Gordon was catching on to Batman's meaning. "If Bullock pretends to be against me – against you – then he can still stay on Hill's good side."

"An inside man," said Batman.

Bullock nodded. "I'll, uh… just have to do a good job of pretending to hate you, Bats… I think I can manage that."

Batman did not respond to Bullock's jibe, but instead turned back to Gordon. "I'll take a closer look at Cobb; see if there's anything at his penthouse…"

"Nah," interrupted Bullock. "He's too smart for that; never takes his work home. You'll have better luck at his office. Trust me."

Batman nodded. "In the meantime, you can pursue the leads on Scarface."

"Flass mentioned something," said Gordon, "earlier this week, about Scarface's capo; his second-in-command. Called him 'Rhino', but didn't know his real name."

Batman suddenly remembered the ringleader from last night. "The man who leads Scarface's gang raids. He has a tattoo of a rhino on his right arm."

"I don't even wanna know how you know that," said Bullock.

"At least now we have a face to put to the name," said Gordon. "I'll look in the database for aliases, tattoos, acquaintances… Flass said this guy and Scarface were old friends. Chances are 'Rhino' knows who he is."

"There's one more thing," said Batman. "I ran into Victor Zsasz last night."

"Yeah," said Bullock with a smirk. "I heard he had been brought in. Busted him up pretty good, I'm told."

"He had been working with Scarface, hadn't he?" said Gordon, trying in his early morning haze to recall various reports he had seen over the last month.

"He gave me a name too," said Batman. "Although he didn't say how far up the chain of command he was. Malone. Matches Malone."

Gordon let out a reflexive laugh of surprise and shook his head in amused disbelief.

"You know the guy, Commish?" asked Bullock.

"I… I created him," said Gordon. Both Batman and Bullock shared slightly puzzled looks. "There is no Matches Malone…" Gordon took a step back and rallied his fraying memories. "It was me and… Flass, actually. Back when we were both rookie detectives. We made up this powerful underworld character to intimidate the small-time skells and dealers. Gotham was a different city back then. We had to resort to… unusual methods from time to time…

"It was my idea, but Flass came up with the name," Gordon again chuckled at the memory. "Anytime we needed someone to talk, we'd mention 'Matches Malone', and say he was this big crime boss from New Jersey, and he always operated small, under the radar, that's why nobody had heard of him before, and he didn't appreciate anyone moving in on his turf…"

Gordon shrugged, almost embarrassed. "It was stupid; only worked half the time… But it caught on. Pretty soon, we were hearing stories about Malone. Every time a big job went down, but no-one got caught or claimed credit, it was 'Matches Malone'. We never did tell anyone that we had made him up. I haven't heard that name in years though. Flass must have said something to Zsasz, I suppose…"

Bullock laughed. "Matches Malone. Gotta remember that one, Commish." He turned back to Batman. "Guess you're left with a–" Batman was gone "–dead end."


In the dimly lit office of an abandoned factory, surrounded by cracked plaster and crumbling furniture, Arnold Wesker sat with his constant companion of the last forty years upon his knee. Rhino, Scarface's lieutenant, stood before them and as always two henchmen were on guard.

"Mugsy tells me last night's drop-off went down without a hitch, despite that rat bastard Flass." Wesker's lips twitched almost imperceptibly as he spoke Scarface's words in Scarface's voice, frighteningly unable or unwilling to comprehend that it was all coming from somewhere deep and dark within himself.

"You want we should move the bombs now, Mr. Scarface?" asked Rhino. His fierce loyalty and significantly low IQ ensured that he also shared Wesker's delusion of Scarface's animation.

"No time like the present. Besides, don't wanna be sitting on those things any longer than necessary, right?" Scarface's jaw rapidly clacked open and closed in sequence with his laugh. This action was also enacted independently from Wesker's conscious mind, as if Scarface truly was a separate individual to him.

Wesker had learned long ago that speaking out against Scarface was futile, yet he still felt strangely compelled, as if his fragile psyche demanded it, to assure itself that Arnold Wesker still existed somewhere inside. "M-Mr. Scarface," he risked, "I know I've said this b-before, but are the explosives really necessary? It all seems so viol–"

The puppet's wooden hand slapped him across the face. To Wesker, it was not he who had manipulated this action, but rather Scarface who had done it all by himself. "Who's running this show, huh? Who?"

Wesker winced. "Y-You, Mr. Scarface." He switched between voices so quickly it helped convince his mentally disturbed accomplices that he truly was two distinct people.

"That's right, dummy!" said Scarface. "Now, what'd I tell ya all them years back, eh? Everything will be okay just so long as you do exactly what I say. That's still true, Arnie."

"I know, Mr. Scarface. I'm sorry. You're always right," said Wesker. "You helped me through so much…"

Just then, one of Scarface's more competent henchmen, whom he had dubbed 'Mugsy', burst through the door. "Sorry ta interrupt, boss, but you're gonna want to see this." He switched on the television in the corner of the office and turned it to the GCN news station.

The entertainment and society reporter Lydia Filangeri was reporting on location at the Robinson Park Zoo. "…where philanthropist and entrepreneur Oswald Cobb has generously donated some endangered penguins." There was a shot of the penguins frolicking in their habitat with Cobb and a cheerful crowd gazing on. Lydia and the camera got closer to Cobb. "Mr. Cobb, what brought on this act of charity?"

Cobb oozed charm at the camera. "Well, Lydia, my grandfather, Nathaniel Cobb, was a noted ornithologist, so you might say it's the family business." They both chuckled. "Jocularity aside, I am attempting to rekindle Gotham's former spirit. This city, which is so dear to me, has endured terrible and trying troubles of late, but that is no reason for its citizens to think that good times will never come again.

"I'm sure by now everyone is aware of my own 'troubles' since returning to my beloved hometown."

"Your nightclub was robbed," Lydia clarified.

Cobb nodded. "Indeed. Despite this ordeal, I still forge forward into the light. We cannot let this city's criminal element cast a shadow over our well-being. We must show them that they cannot bring us down." He stared for just a moment into the camera.

"I'm hoping that the zoo, like my Iceberg Lounge – if you don't mind the gratuitous plug – will become somewhere for Gothamites to enjoy the wonders that life still has to offer. This is Gotham's future."

"Turn it off!" Scarface shouted. Mugsy did so and he, along with Rhino, Wesker and the two guards, tentatively awaited their artificial leader's comments. "I thought we had spooked the Penguin with the robbery and what we done ta Flass… I at least thought it woulda given him second thoughts about trying ta start something against us… But he ain't backing down."

"What makes ya say that, boss?" asked Rhino.

"Didn't ya all see it?" said Scarface angrily. "He was sending us a message. All that 'cannot bring us down' crap; that's him trying ta say he ain't afraid. He's gonna continue ta be a thorn in our side."

"S-So what are we going to do, Mr. Scarface?" asked Wesker, already dreading the answer.

Scarface didn't move for a moment, as if the wooden dummy were in contemplation. "I planned for this possibility, boys. I knew there might be some hotshot who tried ta make a stand against us, calling us 'freaks' and all ah that. Penguin needs ta see that it's me who's running this town, not him…

"Rhino, send word out to the remaining bosses who didn't sign up with Cobb's little Sunday school club. Tell them that if they want Cobb outta the picture, they're ta come and see me."

Rhino nodded obediently. "You got it, Mr. Scarface."

"Penguin wants trouble?" said Scarface. "I'll give him trouble all right."


Bruce emerged from the gloom of his subterranean fortress and into the mansion's brighter environs, searching for Alfred so that he might further task the old butler.

Finding him in the study, just getting off the phone, Bruce smiled as politely as he could. "Alfred, I'm going to need the private jet ready for a flight to Chicago as soon as possible."

"I shall telephone the air field at once, sir," said Alfred with an ever-weary expression. "Might I be so bold as to ask why?"

Bruce grinned at the act. "Finally tracked down our friend 'Rhino' in a Chicago PD database. Matched his tattoo and description to a Frederick Charles Daily, arrested for armed robbery and assault. He was found to be mentally unstable and sent to somewhere called the Breyfogle Institute for treatment and rehabilitation.

"But that's where all record of him ends. I can't find anything from this Institute, so I'm going to go out there and 'ask around' myself."

Alfred smirked. "I knew that nameless monstrosity of a computer would fail you one day, Master Wayne. Technology can't beat a bit of old-fashioned detective work."

"It should just be for one night," said Bruce, playing along with Alfred's tone. "Coming up with an alibi shouldn't be too difficult, even for you."

"Very good, Master Wayne," said Alfred dryly, picking up the receiver again. "Oh, I almost forgot; you have two messages: Mr. Fox called and told me to inform you that your 'secret project' is nearing final stages and he needs to see you about it."

"Good," said Bruce. "I'll speak to him before I fly out to Chicago..."

"Still keeping this one under your hat, are you, sir?"

"Don't worry, Alfred," said Bruce, enjoying the secrecy. "You'll find out all about it soon enough. You always do... What was the other message?"

"Hm?" said Alfred, clearly still annoyed at being left out the loop. "Oh yes, that was Ms. Porter just there. She has confirmed your invitation to the opera tomorrow evening."

Bruce nodded. "I need to know if she can be trusted and what she has planned for Gotham. This 'friendly invite' seemed the best way to get closer to her without raising suspicion. It's a special performance; all proceeds are going to charity."

"Yes, sir, I bought you your tickets," said Alfred. "It was the benevolent Mr. Oswald Cobb who organised the event, on his quest to give Gotham a brighter future." Alfred's words were tinted ever so slightly with sarcasm.

"Speaking of the Devil," said Bruce, "I think it's finally time Batman paid the Penguin a visit." He started to head back to the Cave.

Alfred began dialling, shaking his head. "Tomorrow the opera, tonight the darkest depths of Gotham…"

Chuckling, Bruce turned back. "Oh, what was the opera called again? Began with a 'Z', right?"

"Zoroastre, Master Wayne." Alfred looked up and grinned. "You'll like it: It's about good versus evil."


Cobb weaved through the Iceberg Lounge's guests as gracefully as the creature for which he was nicknamed swam through the ice cold waters it called home. They both followed the same mentality: Avoid the predators and head straight for the little fish, glittering like silver in the murk.

He left the main floor and the vainglorious simpletons whose money he plucked with ease and style, and made his waddling way upstairs to the private rooms.

Composing himself after the long trek, he spoke with his maître d' Drake. "Fetch Mr. White at once. And see to it we are not disturbed."

Drake nodded obediently and left. Cobb sighed and entered the conference room.

"Mr. Thorne," he greeted his accomplice inside. Thorne sat with arms folded, a complimentary drink in front of him, at one end of the table. "This is highly irregular and somewhat precarious. As you no doubt recall, I forewarned you all about being seen in public with me."

Thorne was absently rubbing the polished oak table. "You cleaned this place up real nice. Y'know, after you put a goddamn umbrella through Skeevers. That was damn odd..."

Cobb calmly sat. "I assume you have a purpose here?"

"First of all, you can rest easy: Only people that know I'm here is my driver, who thinks I'm just shooting craps, and my bodyguard, whom I obviously trust with my life, and he's downstairs.

"And I'm here because, despite what you say, I'm concerned about the Batman."

Cobb sighed. "As I have explained…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Thorne interrupted. "You got the physical threat taken care of. But the Bat's smart too, Penguin. Okay, so all that stuff with the storage is legal, nobody can touch us there… but what about this 'facilitator' stuff?"

Cobb leaned back, unperturbed. "Go on."

"Well, with the Skeevers brothers out the way, I've been moving in on their drug racket, but I've been using Moxon's boys to move product, as you know. You set that up and you take your share – which I got no problem with. This way, me and Moxon don't look connected, and you say you got your own tracks covered."

"You are concerned with how?" Cobb asked, thankful for having finally discerned Thorne's point.

"Don't matter how clean you're trying to look," said Thorne, with a low voice. "Everybody keeps books on this stuff. Everybody."

There was a timely knock on the doors. "I thought that might be the nature of your visit," said Cobb. "Come in," he said to the door.

In walked a young man dressed in a light grey Gucci sharkskin suit, open collar shirt and slicked-back hair. "You sent for me, Penguin?" His confident demeanour matched his fashion style.

Cobb gestured for the man to close the door and sit. "Mr. Thorne, this is my personal accountant, Warren White."

"White?" said Thorne. "Aren't you that guy from LA? That huge scam a coupla years back…"

"Yep," said White. "Cleaned out six big-name businesses, including a few that didn't make it to the papers, and walked away free as a bird with the money still in my pocket."

Thorne nodded respectfully. "I remember. Nobody could touch you. The media called you 'The Great White Shark'…"

White leaned back cockily. "Yeah, they do that sort of thing. Course, I couldn't stay in LA, cleared-of-all-charges or not. People are so single-minded sometimes… Made my way out to New York and Mr. Cobb here generously offered me a job."

"Warren is very good at covering tracks, Mr. Thorne," said Cobb.

Thorne nodded. "Alright, Penguin. You really have got all the angles worked out."

Cobb rose from his chair. "Since you are here, Mr. White could use some more of your details. That is, if you are finally convinced that our cooperative is of benefit to all parties?"

Usually Thorne would not have taken such a scolding from anyone, but he reminded himself that times were different now. He could not afford to aggravate the Penguin.

"Very good," said Cobb when Thorne did not respond. Leaving him with White, Cobb made his way back to his office. Aside from his unscrupulous endeavours, he also had a legitimate business to run and a public persona to maintain. Although White handled his less-than-legal monetary affairs, Cobb's official accounts were kept in a wall safe in his office, and he needed to finalise some transfers for the charity opera he was organising, in favour of the "bright future" he had planned for Gotham.


Cobb's office was twice the size of the average living room, bedecked with the Iceberg Lounge's ever-present furnishings of gold and oak, like some ancient throne room or imperial palace. A couch of finest leather lay at one end of the room, with a record player and mini-bar for relaxation, and a bookcase lined the wall in the middle. Although it contained several classics, it was mostly ornithological texts by Cobb's grandfather.

Nathaniel Cobb had been a well-known bird expert and written many reference books on the subject, earning him quite a bit of money. After Cobb's father had died, Cobb himself inherited Nathaniel's modest fortune, much to his mother's envy. It had been no secret she had married his father for his wealth, and she hated that it now all belonged to little Oswald. She reminded him of this as often as she could. When he was 18, Cobb had flown the nest, to seek his own fortune in life, and had not looked back since.

A large, circular desk dominated the head of the office, and behind it was a wall of glass, looking down at the main floor below. Cobb shuffled his way up to where a portrait of an emperor penguin hung on the wall next to his desk. Casually checking over his shoulder that the shadowy office was empty, Cobb slid the picture to one side, revealing his secret safe behind.

"Twelve forty-one," said a deep and intimidating voice from behind him, reciting his safe's combination exactly. Cobb turned quickly and saw the Batman standing where once the room was empty.

The Penguin grinned a sharp smile. Seemingly none too disturbed by the Dark Knight's presence, he took his seat at his desk. "At last, winged mammal meets flightless bird. I've been hearing much about you. Please, sit down."

Batman remained standing, and the office seemed somehow darker. "Things have changed since you were last in Gotham, Penguin," said Batman, deliberately using Cobb's nickname to rile him. "I know what you think you're doing, but it won't work. Not in my city."

"You know what I'm doing, do you, Batman?" said Cobb, steepling his fingers calmly. "Then you had best tell the police, hadn't you? Although, truth be told, I cannot imagine you on the witness stand. I rather think you'd have trouble getting past 'state your name,' don't you?"

Batman leaned over Cobb's desk. "Who said anything about the police?"

Cobb sighed. "I had hoped we would not need to resort to threats, Batman, but so be it. Allow me to introduce Mr. Zeiss." He gestured to behind Batman.

At first, Batman assumed that Cobb was pathetically trying to distract him, as he had felt no presence behind him. Then he saw, just a flicker out the corner of his eye, a reflection in the glass behind Cobb. A bald man in mirrored sunglasses and a leather trenchcoat, silent as a ghost, over his own shoulder.

Batman immediately threw up his arm to block the blow he knew was coming, barely in time, as his assailant's own arm collided with his. He had no time to wonder how this 'Zeiss' could possibly sneak up on him, before the eerily quiet attacker threw another deadly arm straight into Batman's ribs. Even through his Kevlar-lined armour, it winded him. Zeiss was clearly no ordinary hired thug.

His speed was almost preternatural; Batman did not even have time to strike his own blows, he was so busy blocking Zeiss'. After every hit, came another, as fast and relentless as a downpour: Batman blocked a move meant for his head just as Zeiss made for a kick to his shins, constantly keeping him on-guard. Zeiss was no bar-room brawler either; Batman detected hints of jujitsu, aikido, kung fu and various other martial art forms, all blended together seamlessly. It almost seemed familiar.

All the while, Cobb chuckled at this blur of motion, as if it were purely for his amusement. Zeiss, however, did not share his employer's enjoyment. Batman could tell from his demeanour: Zeiss would not stop until his opponent was dead.

Suddenly a powerful kick to the chest propelled Batman backwards with such force that he shattered the glass wall of the office and fell downward to the floor below. Exhausted from the fight, Batman barely had time to reach for his grapple-gun, but it was unnecessary as he landed on the hard, treated plastic of the iceberg centrepiece, the crowd gasping beneath him.

Zeiss' kick was so strong that, if it weren't for his protective armour, Batman was sure he'd have broken ribs. He was also sure that Zeiss would now consider their fight finished, but as Batman picked himself up, a wild and swift shadow dropped on him, knocking him off balance.

Batman slid down the watery surface of the faux iceberg, struggling for purchase. Zeiss' steel-capped boots provided him with better grip and he strode down the fountain towards his prey.

Already fatigued from the challenging combat upstairs, Batman knew he'd be no match for Zeiss without further preparation, and with the guests having taken notice of their one-on-one battle, he was no longer inconspicuous. This needed to end now.

Recalling his own martial arts training, Batman realised how to turn Zeiss' advantage into a disadvantage. His mysterious opponent stood over him with an unprofessional sneer and Batman activated the tasers in his gloves, setting them to maximum voltage. The current shot through the running water and conducted effortlessly into Zeiss, shocking him into unconsciousness. Batman's own suit was insulated against such measures.

With Zeiss' limp body following the cascade of water to the base of the fountain, Batman fired his grapple through the overhead skylight and pulled himself up. Before he exited, he passed by Cobb, gazing out of his broken office window, and shot him a look that told him they were not through.


"I tell ya, Franco, this whole city's going ta Hell in a hand basket," said Sean Riley, adjusting the collar of his overcoat, as if to protect himself from the city's demons.

Riley was the head of the Irish-descendent criminal families in Gotham. Their numbers had been thinned by the juggernaut-like expansion of the Falcone-Maroni empire, with whom Riley had always been too proud to ally with. But these were desperate times, and even with Falcone and Maroni out of the picture, life was still hard for them, which was why he had grudgingly accepted Scarface's invitation.

Franco Bertinelli stood alongside him and their respective bodyguards outside the unremarkable factory in Tricorner. Bertinelli was a good deal younger than Riley, and had risen to power in one of Gotham's Italian crime families. Despite the feudal nature of Gotham's underworld, and Riley and Bertinelli's differing heritages, the two men had always been friends, if not actual allies.

"That's the way of it, Sean," said Bertinelli. "Freaks like the Joker, Batman, Scarface… They're the ones running the show now. They got more power than we do, and we can't afford to ignore it any longer."

"This 'Scarface' says he can take the Penguin outta the picture," said Riley. "That's all I care about. Cobb may have suckered Thorne and those others with his fancy talk, but Sean Riley knows a rotten apple when he sees one."

"He's been making things tough for me and my boys," said Bertinelli. "Muscling in on our territory, raiding our safe houses, that kinda thing…"

Riley nodded. "Same here. He don't take too kindly to people telling him 'no'. We may not have had the same power as Maroni or Falcone, but life was sweeter before Cobb showed up."

"They say Cobb isn't afraid of the Batman," said Bertinelli.

"Bullshit," said Riley. "Nobody likes to say it, but we're all afraid of the Batman, Franco. Except the freaks…"

"Maybe that's another good reason to join Scarface…"

Riley let the matter drift away into the cool night air. He changed the subject. "How's Helena?"

Bertinelli smiled at his daughter's name. "Great. Always into her books. She's real smart." He chuckled. "Smarter than her old man, that's for sure."

Riley's craggy features worked their way into a grin. "They're grand, in't they? Especially at that age."

"How's your Peyton?"

Riley rolled his eyes. "Ah, you know Peyton; always after some troublesome lad. She'll wind up with a man that's no good for her, that one. Wish I could say she's as smart as your Helena."

Bertinelli shrugged. "It's just a phase, Sean. I wouldn't worry too much."

Riley chuckled. "Maybe we shoulda had boys, eh?"

Bertinelli joined his laughter. "Tell me about it!"

Their laughter eventually died away and once again the grimness of their locale and their purpose there was brought back into their minds.

"Jesus, what's this guy waiting on?" said Riley, suddenly impatient. "We told his man we were here half an hour ago!"

"I think we're waiting on a third person," said Bertinelli, nodding towards an approaching car. They both watched with interest – their bodyguards poised for a potential threat – as the car pulled up and opened its doors.

A remarkably tall woman exited and stared blankly at the two of them. She was broad-shouldered and although her reddish-brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, her rock-hard face showed no feminine traits. Both Riley and Bertinelli knew exactly who she was.

"Sophia Falcone," said Riley, almost in disbelief. "As I live and breathe." She did not respond. "I heard rumours that she had returned to take over her father's empire," Riley now said to Bertinelli, overemphasising the drama, "but I didn't believe a word. Till now."

"Mr. Mirti," Falcone said to her bodyguard, "if you could let them know we've arrived." Her loyal aide went to the factory door and spoke with one of Scarface's men, and Sophia continued to stand stoically in wait.

"Guess it makes sense that you'd want to stick it to Oswald Cobb," said Bertinelli, trying to sound friendly. Everyone needed allies these days. "I hear him and your old man never did see eye-to-eye… Shame about what happened to Carmine, by the way…" Falcone gave Bertinelli a grave look, silencing him.

"Mr. Scarface will see you now," said the man at the door.

"Well, it's about damn time," said Riley.

The powerful trio and their respective entourages made their way up the worn and rusty staircase inside to the office level. The factory was littered with various crazies in Halloween-esque gangster costumes, which made the whole party feel somewhat ill-at-ease, as if suddenly surrounded physically by the previously intangible insanity of the city.

Rhino was there to meet them on the top floor. "Stay behind the white line," he said, opening the door to the head office.

"What is this? Customs?" said Riley.

The group entered with one bodyguard each, leaving another outside in accordance with old traditions and practical superstitions. The room was dark but for a single dim bulb hanging over them which ensured that they could only just make out the room's other occupants: two of Scarface's own bodyguards and a man in a chair who was too shrouded in darkness to discern anything about.

They all maintained their position behind the white line, partly out of respect, and partly out of fear. Rhino stood back against the door.

"I was gonna thank you all for coming," said Scarface from the shadows, "but since it's in all our best interests, I think we can skip the pleasantries and just get to business, eh?"

"I like your efficiency," said Riley, only half-joking. "You say you can bring down Cobb. How?"

"You leave that ta me, Riley," said Scarface. "In the meantime… Quid pro quo."

"Figures," said Bertinelli.

"Don't get me all wrong, lady and gents. I don't want anything from ya… Yet."

"Goddamn freaks," Falcone whispered. Then, louder, "If you can't speak straight, then this is a waste of time!"

"If I strike a major blow against the Penguin tonight… I want you to swear an oath of fealty ta me."

Riley chuckled. "This what ya told the Skeevers brothers?"

"They were given the same offer I'm giving youse guys," said Scarface. "Alliance. But they tried ta double-cross me!" There was a strong pang of anger in his voice at this point. "One of 'em managed ta escape, but I hear he got what was coming to him, just like his brother. Either way, all a their men and their entire operation is under my control now, but it coulda been theirs.

"What I'm saying is: Don't screw with me and I won't screw with you."

"What do we get out of it?" asked Bertinelli.

"Power," said Scarface. "Just like the old days, before the Bat. I know him and Cobb have both been making things difficult for youse. But you join me and I'll change all a that. We're too smart for the Batman and, if you say yes, we'll be too powerful for the Penguin."

Riley and Bertinelli were seriously considering the offer. Everything Scarface had said was true, and they knew they'd never get power like he was offering on their own now that Gotham had Batman. But it was Sophia that spoke first.

"Alright, 'Scarface'," she said. "You don't wanna show us your face for whatever reason; I can live with that. The freak thing bothers me though. It was freaks like you that put my father in Arkham and made it so hard for me to rebuild what he had. But Gotham is a different city now than it was in his day.

"You were straight with us, so I'll be straight with you: I'll put up with all your damn quirks and join your little group if you do one thing for me… Make Cobb bleed."

Riley fell in behind Sophia. "That's the decider for me too. Show us what yer worth, boyo."

Bertinelli folded his arms, signalling his agreement.

Scarface did not say anything for quite a while. Riley and Bertinelli briefly worried that Sophia may have angered him with her 'freak' comments, but then he said, "So be it… The Penguin dies tonight!"


The Gotham Imperial Theatre on Grant Plaza was as grand and majestic as most high-class theatre houses, and was serving as the location of the charity opera performance provided by Oswald Cobb. It was filled with the usual crowd of Gotham's A-list personalities, including Cobb himself, and Bruce Wayne with his guest for the evening, Jane Porter.

The Imperial was the premier location for such events, ever since the theatre where Bruce had last attended the opera, in the East End, had been shut down. His parents' murder had cast a grim shadow over that entire area and although such a dark and painful memory would normally be foremost on his mind in such circumstances, Bruce found himself distracted by more recent proceedings as he stared over at Oswald Cobb in the opera box across from him.

The audience beneath them busily made their way back to their seats as the intermission drew to a close, but Bruce remained fixed on the obscene criminal as he chatted with unashamedly false charm at his date, whose reciprocation undoubtedly came at a price. Cobb's enigmatic and formidable bodyguard from last night was nowhere to be seen.

"Bruce? You okay?" his own date asked. "You seem a little… distant."

Bruce was brought back by the irony of Porter unknowingly reminding him that his purpose here was to study her, and not Cobb. "Sorry, Jane. I'm just… not too big a fan of the opera."

Porter smirked. "Well, it's not for everyone." Despite Bruce's distraction, it had seemed that Porter had bought into his public persona. It was clear she had attended only out of her love of the arts and for the charity. She had no interest in the supposedly uneducated playboy that was Bruce Wayne.

"What do you make of Oswald Cobb?" Bruce asked her, nodding across at the man in question.

Porter genuinely considered this issue for a moment. "He seems like the kind of public person Gotham needs now; positive, motivated. Even if he is only taking advantage of everyone's desire to escape and ignore what this city's become, at least he's doing some good. Like tonight's performance."

Bruce knew that Porter was right about Cobb's 'followers' and wondered just how much he was to blame for that himself. How many had he driven to Cobb, seeking an excuse to look the other way because of their fear of Batman? Porter's appraisal of Cobb seemed honest and pure enough, but Bruce still needed a measure of where her own interests lay.

"Why do you ask anyway?" she said. "Thinking of getting a piece of the action?"

Bruce shrugged nonchalantly. "Nah, I barely know what to do with the money I have, I don't need any more." They both laughed ever so casually. "I've just been trying to get… closer to him. Hasn't been easy…"

The orchestra was returning to their pit at the front of the stage and Bruce realised he had little time left to test Porter's trust. He had to press the matter. "You, uh, said something at Cobb's party about finally bringing down Batman. What did you mean by that?"

Porter smiled at this. The orchestra signalled the beginning of the final act by playing a few quiet notes and Bruce worried that he may not get a full answer. "Mayor Hill and I have got an idea that's going to put a stop to the Batman once and for all. Just you wait, Bruce."

But Bruce could not wait. "What do y–?" he started to ask but was interrupted by a sound he knew far too well: a gunshot.

Screams rippled outward from the audience like shockwaves and, at the epicentre of this panic, stood upon the stage instead of the cast were several of Scarface's zoot-suited henchmen. Their leader, Rhino, held a smoking Tommy-gun aimed at the dead conductor.

"Ladies and germs!" Rhino shouted, silencing the crowd. "Tonight's performance has been cancelled! All proceeds will now be going straight to the new capo supremo of Gotham, Mr. Scarface!" The other armed goons were already moving through the audience, as they had done at the Iceberg Lounge. "Anyone tries ta be a wiseguy or worse, a hero, and they get filled full a lead!"

Bruce had immediately stood when he had heard the gunshot, and now knew that Scarface's men being here could not be a coincidence – they must be after Cobb. He needed to get Cobb to safety and find some way to alert Gordon, fast. Before Bruce could make some excuse to Porter, two henchmen burst through the door to their opera box.

"You can't do this!" Porter shouted. "You won't–" The first henchmen struck her unconscious with the butt of his Tommy-gun.

"Shaddup, lady!" he said.

"Hand over yer cash, Mr. Millionaire," the second said to Bruce.

"Sorry, gentlemen," said Bruce. In one swift motion, he drove the second henchman's own rifle butt into the face of the first, returning the favour on Porter's behalf, then headbutted the second out cold. "These seats are taken." They were clearly not the brightest of hired help and likely insane; his cover was secure.

Making sure Porter wasn't too badly injured, he ducked down so as to be unseen by the masses below, and called Alfred on his cell phone.

"Bored already, sir?" Alfred answered.

"Priority Alpha," said Bruce. He knew Alfred would immediately snap into his own professional manner. "Contact Gordon. Tell him it's a Code Seven, Gotham Imperial Theatre." Bruce hung up and took a quick look over the edge. No henchmen were in Cobb's box yet, but that would not last.

He quickly made his way down the staircase to the ground floor, taking care going around corners in case anymore thugs patrolled the side corridors. There were two outside the door to the main foyer, but none covering the backstage entrance. Although efficient, this was clearly supposed to be a fast job; otherwise they'd have covered all areas.

Thinking tactically, Bruce knew that upon receiving Alfred's anonymous alert, Gordon would arrive swiftly since the theatre was close to GCPD Central Headquarters, but he still needed to get to Cobb. Keeping constantly moving, he slid silently backstage, ever-wary for any costumed goons.

At the side of the stage, he could see Rhino eagerly searching the crowd for Cobb and Bruce knew his patience would not last. Moving behind the backdrop, Bruce suddenly came face to face with the dead bodies of the cast and crew. He had suspected that they had likely been killed the moment he had seen Rhino, but still felt a flicker of anger at the senseless loss of life before him. There was no time to dwell on such things now.

Silently disabling another henchman patrolling the backstage, Bruce crept down into the opposing side corridor that led to Cobb's box. He worried that, in his need for stealth, he had taken too long and Cobb would have been found, but to Bruce's surprise he found the rotund man himself creeping down the hallway.

"Wayne?" Cobb whispered, equally as astonished. "What…? How did you–?"

"I slipped out before anyone saw," Bruce answered the very questions he wanted to pose.

"Likewise," Cobb nodded. "Unfortunately, my lady-friend was not so lucky. We should remove ourselves and contact the authorities at once."

Bruce could not help but agree with the criminal he was trying so very hard to bring down. None of Cobb's illegal actions mattered to Bruce now though: No-one would die while he stood by and did nothing. No-one.

"This way," he said, leading Cobb towards the fire exit. But they were too late.

"Lookee what we have here!" Bruce and Cobb turned to see two armed goons behind them.

Unable to act without risking gunfire, Bruce had to allow himself and Cobb to be marched out before the stage. Rhino seemed genuinely taken aback to see Cobb, as if he had started to lose hope and enthusiasm. The crowd were less vocal now and their attentions were drawn towards the main performance.

"Well if it ain't the Penguin himself," said Rhino. "You've been causing too many problems for Boss Scarface."

Cobb, restrained by the henchmen, struggled in vain. "If your 'boss' has grievances with my legitimate endeavours, then that is his folly! Had he chose a more honest living, he would not be in this–"

Rhino roughly struck Cobb's soft features into silence. "Get him on his knees!" He looked at Bruce. "Who's this?"

"Just some other rich clown," said one of the henchmen.

"Put him with the others," said Rhino. "We got a job ta do…"

As Rhino cocked his Tommy-gun, Bruce knew he had seconds left to act. There were too many eyes for him to try anything big, so we went for a more subtle approach.

With an exaggerated "Whoops!" Bruce pretended to stumble and in doing so elbowed the henchman escorting him in the crotch, hard.

Distracted by his whining, Rhino looked over. "Jeez! Can't you guys do one thing right? Goddamn lunatics!"

Bruce had planned on luring Rhino away from Cobb, but luckily it was unnecessary.

Several gas canisters were suddenly launched into the auditorium to cries of "POLICE! FREEZE! EVERYBODY DOWN NOW!"

Panic ensued as Bruce's cavalry arrived, giving him sufficient cover to knock out two henchmen and make his way to Rhino. The police SWAT team crashed into the crowd, sending people screaming every direction as Scarface's men fought back. It was sheer chaos.

Staying low to spare himself the tear gas, Bruce found Cobb surprisingly unharmed. There was no sign of Rhino. In fact, most of Scarface's saner thugs were retreating.

"Cobb! Stay down!" Bruce shouted, hoping to avoid getting hit by the stray bullets.

"Damn that Scarface!" Cobb was shouting amid the mayhem surrounding them. "How dare he embarrass me like this a third time! Has he no common decency!"

Bruce ignored Cobb's arrogance as he waited with a patience that he did not know he possessed for the carnage to subside. He could do nothing for the people running blindly through the tear gas and crossfire like startled cattle. The only person he could save now was the man with blood on his hands.


In the aftermath of the opera incident, several of Scarface's deranged henchmen had been captured with only a few civilian casualties. Thankfully there had been no fatalities this time, but Bruce knew that it would not be long before the rivalry between the Penguin and Scarface claimed innocent lives. This fact gnawed at him with a sickening hunger, as did the fact that he still knew nothing of Cobb's operations or Scarface's identity. One's face was well known but his crimes were a mystery, and the other vice versa.

Cobb himself sat with Bruce in the theatre, watching the police and medics deal with the consequences of the unruly siege. He recognised SWAT commander Lt. Frank Branden issuing orders, but there was no sign of Gordon.

Cobb had been thanking Bruce for his assistance. "Needless to say, Wayne, you shall always be welcome at the Iceberg Lounge," Cobb said, his previous terror and rage seemingly evaporated.

Bruce simply nodded. He found it hard to accept thanks, knowing that Cobb was very likely already plotting his revenge. More bloodshed in his city. They had both already given their statements, so Cobb simply waddled off, berating his entourage for their incompetence.

Bruce was about to leave himself, when Commissioner Gordon and Lt. Bullock entered.

"Jesus, Branden!" Gordon said, his voice slightly raised in anger. "You think maybe there was a more tactical – and tactful – way to go about this?" He gestured to the injured theatre-goers.

"Don't you dare take that sanctimonious tone with me, Commissioner!" Branden shouted back louder. "You said you got a tip-off from an 'anonymous source'. You don't think we all know what that means!"

Gordon realised that this was attention he did not need. "This is not the time or the place, Lieutenant!"

"Batman!" Branden shouted. "You got word from Batman about this little operation, didn't you?"

Bruce could see that the crowd was disturbed by this information, but Gordon held his ground.

"Lieutenant, you will stand down right now and report back to Central."

"He's right, Commish," said Bullock, stepping over to Branden's side. Bruce knew that he was pandering to Branden in order to become their inside man, as they had planned "You wouldn't scramble SWAT for an anonymous source. This has the Bat written all over it." Branden nodded along with Bullock.

Gordon had clearly caught on to Bullock's act as well, but continued to defend himself. "These are serious insinuations, gentlemen, and I am not prepared–!"

"And just where is the Batman anyway?" said Bullock, gesturing theatrically across the room. "How do we know he didn't set this whole thing up?"

"Exactly," said Branden. "Now, if you don't mind, sir, I will head back to Central to make my report. And I'll make sure Mayor Hill gets a copy."

With that, Branden exited along with Bullock, who had successfully attached himself to Branden's good side. Gordon stood alone, under the piercing gaze of the public.

Bruce felt a deep pity for his ally, knowing just how alone he was.


"Your jet will be ready for a flight to Chicago this evening, Master Wayne," Alfred reported while bringing Bruce his breakfast. His young employer and friend was already awake and deep in thought as he pored over police reports on the bed.

"Hm, good," Bruce muttered back.

Placing down the breakfast tray, Alfred carried on with the usual morning routine; opening the curtains and putting the local news station on the television at low volume.

"Just a round trip; flying back tomorrow morning," he said. "Sufficient gossip has been generated on the Internet, so you should have a reasonable alibi or two. However, I would recommend showing your face in at least one popular nightspot, just for appearances' sake. Of course, this does run the risk that you might actually enjoy yourself…"

"Last night was just the start," said Bruce, paying no attention to Alfred's harmless gibes. "Cobb tried to play the innocent, but I could see it in him: the need for revenge. This gang war is just beginning... And my only lead on Scarface – 'Matches Malone' – turned out to be fictional, so I'm still no closer to determining who he is."

"Hopefully your trip to Chicago will be more fruitful in that regard," said Alfred.

"I've hit a wall with Cobb too," said Bruce. "I thought I could simply intimidate him, but… Bullock was right: He's smart; knows how to protect himself.

"Zeiss is no ordinary bodyguard. He's only with Cobb when he's away from the public eye, which is precisely when I would be a threat to him. There's no record of him anywhere, even in the Iceberg Lounge's employment files, which are public record so it's no real surprise…

"I can't find any match on his description, or the fingerprints I took off my suit, in any police or FBI database."

"Is it really that inconceivable that Mr. Cobb would work with men of ill-repute, sir?"

"He's not some common hood, Alfred. He's had training – proper training, and he's got incredible skill and speed… The fact that there's no criminal or civilian record for him anywhere just confirms my suspicion…"

Alfred slowly sat in the chair across from the bed. "And what suspicion would that be?"

Bruce looked gravely into Alfred's eyes. "Martial art is so-called for a reason: It is truly an art. Every fighting style is unique in its own way, and every practitioner of it has their own technique and mannerisms, their own flow and method.

"Each teacher is also unique – distinct. They each leave an unmistakeable signature on their pupils that remains even through adaptation and development…

"I saw, in Zeiss' movements, a familiar signature… I think he may be an ex-member of the League of Shadows…"

Alfred took a moment to fully comprehend the seriousness of what Bruce was saying. "An ex-member? Then you don't think–?"

"They've returned?" Bruce had also considered this. "No. If he were still in the League, he'd know that I am Batman and what I'm capable of. But when we fought in the Lounge, he was testing me; seeing what my strengths and limits are. I was unprepared – if he were still working with them, he'd have known that and killed me there and then."

"What is he then, sir?" asked Alfred. "A rouge member of some sort?"

Bruce nodded grimly. "Likely. I heard talk of former members who had broken off from the League to use their skills for profit or… worse."

"And you're definitely sure that this Zeiss was in the League of Shadows?"

"Either that, or he was trained by someone who was. There's no way to know for certain, but one thing's for sure: He can identify my style just as easily as I did his. He knows I'm ex-League too."

Suddenly, their severe conversation was cut off when Bruce noticed something on the TV. "Porter…?" he said, turning up the volume with the remote.

Distracted from their prior dialogue, Alfred too noticed that the new DA's name was on the screen.

"HILL AND PORTER TO MAKE ANNOUNCEMENT," it read. GCN reporter Mike Engel was on location at the steps of city hall.

"Is this something to do with her and the Mayor's grudge against Batman?" asked Alfred.

"I don't know," said Bruce, just as curious. "She mentioned something big last night, but I was obviously distracted before I could determine if it was something serious or not…"

On the television, Mayor Hill took to the podium in front of all the press, with Porter standing behind him and looking quite eager.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Hill. "As you know, I am dedicated to solving Gotham's crime problems once and for all. This will not be an easy task, nor a swift one, but there are certain elements making it more difficult than necessary.

"To speak candidly; Batman is the main problem facing us. He makes a mockery of the very laws that hold our society together. And he is not simply going to disappear, but rather grows bolder with each blind eye turned. Left unchecked, there is no telling what this menace is capable of.

"That is why District Attorney Jane Porter and I have devised a revolutionary new idea for getting rid of the Batman once and for all. I'll let her explain it for you. Miss Porter?"

Bruce and Alfred shared a somewhat worried look as Porter replaced Hill at the podium.

"Thank you, Mr. Mayor," she said. "Too many times have the police relied upon the work of the vigilante known as Batman. Whether it is evidence gathered illegally or testimony acquired under duress, his methods matter not to some of those who supposedly enforce the law in this city.

"His success or his intentions do not matter – Batman is a criminal and, like any criminal, will not be accommodated by the law any longer.

"With the help of Mayor Hill, I have instated several new anti-vigilante laws to be put into effect immediately. I shan't go into the details, but put simply: No evidence or testimony in any way acquired by the Batman, or any other wanted vigilante, will be admissible in a Gotham City court of law."

The reporters in the crowd began asking questions frantically, but Hill took the microphone from in front of Porter.

"From this moment on," he said, "the Batman is powerless in Gotham!"

Alfred turned away from the screen to look at Bruce. "I'd call this serious, Master Wayne."

NEXT CHAPTER: "Tip of the Iceberg"