For a time, it was as if everything had faded away. The bloody white room. Drexel and Chen. Gotham City. Mom and dad. The Batman. Everything and everyone that made up Edward Nygma had faded away into nothingness, as his thoughts dissolved into a soporific haze. For the first time since he had left the Asylum, he didn't have to think about anything, didn't have to feel anything, and it was so...peaceful.

A blink, and Edward found himself in the heart of the Bowery, walking down what he believed was Kane St. (and Edward Nygma was rarely wrong). He ordered a falafel from the Mediterranean restaurant on the corner, unconscious of the looks of fear and hatred from the people around him, looks that on any given day would have filled him with a deep sense of satisfaction, even glee. He picked at his meal a bit, not all that hungry after all as it turned out, then tossed it away and walked out.

Another blink, and Edward found himself walking towards Iceberg Lounge, the hottest (and coldest, as Oswald liked to say) nightclub on this side of Gotham. Originally a restaurant add-on to the long defunct Cyrus Pinkney Natural History Museum, the entire property had been bought and renovated by a young Oswald Cobblepot, recently returned from schooling in Britain. At the time, it was mostly used as a front for Cobblepot (who had adopted the moniker of the Penguin in reference to his rather avian features) and his gang's sordid criminal activities, particularly in the area of bird-and-umbrella-based thievery. In his prime the Penguin had a firm lock on every bit of illegal business on the South End; racketeering, arms dealing, blackmail/extortion, the works. Certainly not an easy feat, considering the sheer amount of bloodthirsty gangs and costumed vigilantes running about.

When Black Mask and the rest of the current power players in the Gotham Underground decided to step things up, Oswald decided to turn his attention to more legitimate ventures. Utilizing the morbid curiosity of the idle rich, which had been the catalyst for many an interesting tale in Gotham's history and the charisma that helped him control one of the biggest gangs in the city, the Penguin managed to turn the Lounge into a lunatic safari for the socialites of the city, for lack of a better term. Young assistant vice presidents, bank managers and playboy millionaires, eager to capture a glimpse of dregs of society (and maybe even one of those mysterious masked vigilantes) up close and personal. And, if the argument was raised of social negligence, one just had to point out the enormous educational, cultural and financial benefits of the Cyrus Pinkney (nèe Cobblepot) Natural History Museum on Gotham. Oswald Cobblepot was not an innocent man by any means, but he was the only man Edward Nygma knew who had managed to drag himself out of the hell that was life, and for that he had an enormous respect for the man.

Even if he wasn't quite as intelligent as Nygma himself.

Standing in as bouncer this evening, quite obviously as a symbol of safety for incoming guests and a deterrent for any inhospitable ones, was one of the biggest men Edward Nygma had ever seen. Not biggest in terms of height, because there were several men, Waylon Jones, that Bane character, who edged him out in that era, but none of them quite so distinctly and so bluntly defined the idea of size the way this man did. It was as if someone had pushed a van upright and stretched a very sweaty leather sheet over it, and then dressed that sweaty van in an ill-fighting suit. Quite humorous, if he didn't look like he could crush a man's skull with one hand.

His alias, no one knew his real name as far as Nygma was aware, was Amygdala. Supposedly the name came as a result of a bit of experimental surgery he had been subjected to in the past, part of an attempt at somehow creating a super soldier by removing the Amygdala from the brain. The experiment (if there really was an experiment, as the whole thing seemed patently ridiculous) seemed to grant the recipient superhuman strength and endurance at the cost of uncontrollable bouts of rage and crippling memory deficiencies, which as it turned out is not the best combination of traits for people you operate on against their will. Here, now, with a steady job and steadier medication (generously provided by the Penguin), he was decent enough, but that had a tendency to change quickly and easily. People were still talking to this day about the time he threw a Volvo at the Condiment King for getting mustard on his tie.

"Stop right there." Amygdala grumbled as Nygma made his way to the door, his voice like standing next to a passing train. "Is your name on the list? No one gets in if there name ain't on the list."

"Myg, it's me. Edward Nygma. Mr. Cobblepot's friend, remember?"

For a few seconds the man's brow furrowed into a look of intense concentration (or confusion), as he wracked his tattered brain for information. Then, suddenly, a flash of recognition.

"Oh yeah! I remember you Mr. Riddler. Mr. Cobblepot told me that you can go in whenever you want, so you go ahead sir."

"Thanks, Myg, but it's not anymore, okay? It's Mr. Nygma now."

"Oh, right. Sorry Mr. Nygma sir, next time I won't forget." The gigantic doorman boomed in the most deferential tone he could manage.

Were Edward in a more vindictive mood, he might have pointed out that they had had this same conversation at least 10 times before, and each time it had ended the exact same way, with the exact same promise. Instead he gave a halfhearted wave, hoping it would be seen as a gesture of acceptance, and walked through the door.

As learned a man as Oswald Cobblepot was, he did have a rather glaring weakness for the ostentatious. When he had money, whether legitimate or illegitimate, he had an almost desperate need to prove it through flashy and public displays of wealth, philanthropy and charity. He didn't drive cars: he rode in limos. He didn't drink supermarket beer; he sipped expensive scotches and wines. It wasn't an uncommon behavioral trait amongst the criminally wealthy in Gotham, but few worked at it as hard as the Penguin.

Nowhere was this pathological need for acclaim more apparent than in his pride and joy: The Iceberg Lounge. Crystal chandeliers, handcrafted tables and chairs (recreations, as most of the original furniture was gone before the purchase), original paintings from Gotham's leading artists, impeccably dressed waiters and waitresses, and enough gold leaf to choke an elephant. In the center of the room, set deep into the floor was the titular iceberg, complete with several penguins on loan from the Gotham Zoo. The top of that iceberg formed a catwalk which lead onto the Lounge stage and bandstand, which allowed the performer (tonight, the lovely and talented Margot Devaughn) an elevated and unobstructed view of the entire room, rather the opposite of the standard stage or amphitheater model. Yet another example of the Penguin's innate need for superiority, some might say, but never out loud.

At the moment, Edward Nygma hated it. Too many people. Too much noise. How could people stand to be in these sorts of places, much less want to spend there time here? All this talking and laughing and singing and music and glasses tinkling and forks scraping on plates, just constant noise all the damn time. Why was there nowhere in this city where a man could get some peace?

"Edward!"

Oswald's voice, slightly nasal with a trace of the Eton accent he had appropriated during his schooling abroad. Reluctantly Nygma tore his gaze from the floor and turned his attention towards the direction of the call. The frantically waving umbrella at the corner table seemed familiar, so he headed over, each step feeling like it carried the weight of the world with it.

Unlike some of the other more colorful citizens of Gotham, who seemed to go through more outfits than a 16 year old girl, the Penguin hadn't changed all that much in his years of professional crime. A black tuxedo (tailored by the most exclusive menswear shop in the city), top hat when appropriate, a monocle to correct a slight astigmatism in his right eye, his jet-black cigarette holder and of course his often deadly umbrella, which completed the penguin image that his short stature and avian features began. Simple yet iconic, and Oswald was nothing if not a supporter of his own brand. He was the Penguin, lord of all he surveyed, with a hand in the pocket of every high-roller in Gotham and a collection of favors from every 2-bit piece of scum from Arkham to Bludhaven. He didn't change; people changed for him, and they damn well knew it.

Tonight he was drinking wine. Red, most likely a Beaujolais, of which he was a huge fan.

Sitting across from Mr. Cobblepot, dressed in a navy-blue suit was Warren White, otherwise known as the Great White Shark. Originally an incredibly corrupt but normal businessman, Warren copped an insanity plea in order to avoid jail time for his numerous and prolific crimes. Unfortunately this meant a cozy padded room in Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane, Gotham's favorite madhouse. Details of Warren's experiences in psychiatric care were sketchy at best (Nygma refused to believe that nonsense about ghosts and portals to hell that seemed to be the main theory around the water cooler), the end results were all too clear: hair loss, severe skin discoloration, the loss of his nose, ears, several fingers and the malingering, toxic psychosis that seemed all too common amongst the inmates of the institution. A bit of insanity never did much to deter the criminal element around here though, and so it was with the man formerly known as Warren White. After adopting the nom de guerre of the Great White Shark (in reference to his now grotesque appearance), GWS threw himself to his arms trading, bunko deals and black marketing with a far greater enthusiasm than he had before. A little pushy, but a relatively nice guy once you got to know him.

Recently, possibly a result of his ongoing mental degradation, it seemed that White had developed a prominent case of Pica, a disorder characterized by a hunger for non-nutritive substances. Paper, pencils, plastic bags, jugular veins (if that rumour about that hack Cluemaster trying to sell him out to the cops was true), every time that Nygma saw him in public it seemed like the Great White Shark was chewing some new and exotic object. Tonight: pink artist's gum erasers, collected in a nearby bowl, which he was currently digging into like popcorn.

He was drinking a Bloody Mary. A rather large Bloody Mary.

Last but not most, sitting next to the Shark in a 10 dollar suit was Drury Walker, aka Cameron Van Cleer, aka Killer Moth. Once a schlub in a vast sea of goons, thugs and two bit hoods, Walker decided to take the initiative and reinvent himself as one of the top power players in Gotham's costumed criminal longer Drury Walker, low class loser, he was now Cameron Van Cleer, high-class raconteur of vaguely European origins, who secretly-but-not-so-secretly lived a dual life as that masked thief and bon vivant Killer Moth. Of course Cameron, and by extension Moth, weren't actually any smarter than old Drury was. Or more skilled. Or more charismatic. So he was still a loser, but at least he was a well-known loser.

He was drinking lite beer from a can.

"Have a seat Edward, have a seat!" The Penguin crowed, as the former criminal walked up the table. "I've been waiting for you to arrive. You've had a very busy day, I trust?"

"Hey Eddy."

"Hi Mr. Riddler."

"Shut up Dru." Nygma muttered, as he sank down into the seat to Penguin. Letting his cane drop loudly onto the floor, he shoved his hands into his pockets and stared into the table.

"Come on guys, you know it's Cameron now!"

"Yeah, keeping telling yourself that kid." White shot back, after taking a swig from his drink. "Let's go Eddy, spill the details. How was your first day on the right side of the law? Meet any rich widows? Or some lady cops perhaps, eh? Enticed by the thought of forbidden passion that they dare not speak aloud?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Come on! What, you're a private dick for one day and suddenly you're too good to talk to your buddies anymore? Low blow man, low blow. I mean if it's Moth here that's bothering you we could just kill him."

"Uh…"

"Now Warren, you know my policy on violence in the Lounge. When Edward feels like telling us about it, I'm sure he will." Penguin replied. Turning about, he waved his umbrella at a passing waitress. "Candy? An Amaretto Sour for Mr. Nygma if wouldn't mind, my dear. Put it on Mr. White's tab."

"Hey! I may be the picture of success but I'm not made of money you know."

"Oh shush. Expecting the owner of the bar to pay for drinks, you really must be crazy."

"Only a little."

"Anyway," Penguin replied with a flourish of his hand, "Warren and Cameron were having a delightful conversation before you arrived, about the equipment one would need to rob a bank. Purely hypothetical of course, if anyone asks."

"Hm." Nygma grunted. Candy the waitress came by and placed his drink in front of him, nearly tripping on the cane but managing to make it look natural.

"Oh yeah! I forgot about that." White exclaimed, eraser chunks spraying everywhere. "So what is it exactly that you in the market for, Mothball? Hypothetically speaking, that is?"

"Well," Cameron said, putting on an air of confidence and know how, "my boys and I aren't a large gang, but we're talented. So I figure a Desert Eagle for everyone and we'll be good."

The Great White Shark considered this for a moment. For a second the only sound that could be heard from the table was the dull thud of his prosthetic fingers against the table. Then an abrupt "No."

Cameron's face fell. "What's wrong with it?"

"Tell me something kid: Why do people buy guns?"

"Protection?"

"No no no. It's all about intimidation. You see a man with a gun in his hand, you know that man is someone to be reckoned with. That man holds the power of life and death in his hands, so you give him the respect he deserves. Now, the security guards at the bank, the fuzz, they're all gonna have handguns, maybe even a few shotguns. You and your boys show up with handguns well, that just puts you on even footing doesn't it? The more power you have, the more people are intimidated by you, and the more people are intimidated by you, the more they respect you. It makes perfect sense."

"Alright, yeah." Cameron said, nodding along. "So what would be better then? Machine guns?"

"You're close pal, you're very close. A couple of AK-47's are going to go a long way in establishing the Killer Moth brand. But what if, and you're my friend here so I feel obligated to bring this up, what if, god forbid, the Batman shows up? The man goes through heavily armed criminals like Killer Croc goes through vagrants, especially if he has one or two of his little buddies around. A couple of assault rifles is just not going to cut it in today's competitive criminal underworld, especially when it comes to Gotham City."

"I don't know whether or not you've heard already," Oswald remarked quietly to Nygma, "but apparently Alex Yeager's wife was murdered earlier today. Erika, lovely girl, always made for pleasant company."

"Yes, I'm aware." Nygma replied, after a drink. "I was in the company of most of her brains, which happened to be spread out across the walls of her little home-away-from-home."

The Penguin shook his head morosely. "Such a shame. Never could stand messy deaths, especially when it came to women. As if we need another Joker or Abattoir in this city."

"Hm."

"Heavy. Artillery. You get me? I'm talking rocket launchers, grenade rifles, C4, bulletproof vests, all in their own convenient carrying cases. With crushed velvet interior, I might add." White had managed to get his around Walker's shoulders, a move he always used when he was on a roll. "You show up at Gotham First National with that, people will be throwing the deeds to their houses at you, that's how tough you'll be. You blow the vault, grab the cash, and waltz right on out of there. Cops show up, you blast 'em. The Batman shows up, you blast 'em. What are they gonna do to stop you? You'll be a team of one man armies. Overwhelming military force man, it's how we won the Cold War."

"I remember that." Cameron said, nodding to himself. "But all those guns sound kinda expensive. We only have 5,000 dollars to buy the guns and stuff."

"According to my sources," the Penguin continued, "the Cavalier was the one who murdered her.

For the first time in hours, Edward Nygma could feel the gears start to turn in his mind. "Mortimer Drake? He doesn't hit women. Can't hit women, from what I remember from his medical records. Anyway, isn't he still in Arkham?"

"That'll work great as a down payment, pal," The Shark relented, "but I will have to take a cut of the take to cover the rest of the bill. Let's say 80% of the take?"

"80%?! That's crazy!"

"Hey man, cool your jets for a second and think about it. You guys are going to have the guns, the equipment, it's going to be a walk in the park to get that money. Now me, I had to deal with the guys overseas, I had to grease the palms of the guys down at the wharf, not to mention Black Mask or the Ventriloquist trying to muscle in on my deal. It's not like a I can just pull out a gun and solve all my problems like you can chief. I figure I did the lion's share of the work with this bank job, it's only fair that I get the lion's share of the spoils. Hypothetically speaking, of course."

"From last I heard, he is." Penguin explained. "I thought he might have been behind a recent theft at the museum, but apparently he's been in lockdown since he botched his last job. They found some of his hair at the crime scene however, and there's apparently a video from hotel security that shows him and Erica walking in together. Of course he could have escaped Arkham, murdered Erica and then snuck back in, but that doesn't really seem like his modus operandi, does it?

"Yes," Nygma mumbled, "very curious…"

"I guess you're right. But 80%?"

"Don't think of it as losing money. Think of it as investing money towards bigger and better jobs in the future. You're at the start of what could potentially be an incredibly profitable and incredibly worthwhile career here. Cameron van Cleer, The Killer Moth! Scourge of Gotham City and enemy of the innocent! All yours, if you take the first step now."

Up on stage, Margot Devaughn had arrived for her second set, with a dress that shined almost as much as her smile. The band kicked into something by Gershwin and Nygma found there was a fresh new drink where his old finished one had been.

"So," The Penguin said, "are you going to take the case?"

"What, and not get any credit for it?" Drink. "Besides, Officer Drexel of the G.C.P.D. made it perfectly clear that if I did, then I would be sharing a spot in the morgue with what's left of Mrs. Yeager." Drink. "Philistines. Neanderthals. Threatening me like that. He's lucky he can manage to tie his shoes in the morning, and he thinks he can talk down to like I'm some nobody. Everyone in Gotham City knows the name of Edward Nygma, who the hell knows Detective Phil Drexel?" Drink. "No, he doesn't deserve my help, none of those Gordon cronies do." Drink. "Morons. Mythomaniacs. Sheep." Drink. "Well they can play second-fiddle to B-... to vigilantes all they want. Chasing capes, that's all they're good for anyway." Drink. "I don't care."

"You know, I think you're right, Mr. Shark!" Cameron said. "When can I, uh, 'inspect the merchandise'? I've got a lot of 'work' to do, if you know what I mean?"

"Oh I get ya alright." White replied with a wink. "Meet me at the Jade Koi restaurant in Chinatown in about two hours. Bring the money, and we can go from there. And please, we're friends here. Call me Great."

If Oswald had any sort of opinion about his friend's response, he didn't show it, and Edward didn't bother to look. "It's your decision, obviously. By the by, The Knights will be throwing a little party on Thursday. Will you be attending?"

"The Knights?" Edward said with distaste. "That one albino couple? Aren't they brother and sister or something like that?"

"Half-siblings, to be precise. Though I don't think I'd bring it up to a man who calls himself the Nightslayer without a trace of irony. Anyway, there's going to be a lot of our former business associates there, I'm sure you could drum up some work there. Maybe even legal work."

"Eh, I guess…" Drink. "Mob types are so boring though. Have you tried to hold a conversation with Mario Infantino? All the man talks about are cooking shows and his mother."

"The reality of life outside the cape & mask set, I'm afraid. The conversations tend to trend exclusively towards the banal."

"Thanks a lot !" Cameron said, as he shook White's hand vigorously. "I really feel like this could be a brand new start for me, you know, as a person! I'm finally gonna start getting some respect in this town!"

With a grin, the man once known as Drury Walker eagerly wriggled his way out of the booth, barely managing not to hit the floor as he tripped over an inconveniently placed cane. Giggling to himself, he practically jogged towards the exit, his fists shaking with a childlike glee. The Great White Shark watched him go, a small smile on what was left of his lips, then turned back.

"Mr. Walker seemed in quite the cheery mood." The Penguin said. "I take it the discussion went well?"

"Oh yeah, it was great." the former Warren White replied. "Dude is going to pay me 5000 bucks to take those guns I stole off of Wesker last week. Most generous guy I ever met, by far."

"Really? Does Mr. Walker know he's purchasing stolen goods?Does Mr. Wesker know that you stole some of his property?"

"Well really it's up to the customer to do the proper research before they make a purchase. I'm just trying to make a living " White swirled his drink with the tip of an eraser. "But you know Ozzie, you're right, it is a bit underhanded of me. I'm sure Scarface will be very grateful to know who is using his equipment. Might even reward me quite handsomely for the information too."

"And if Mr. Walker decides to show some Gotham hospitality and kill you after you fulfill your half of the bargain?"

"Oh, I'm sure him or one of his cronies will get the idea in his head to try to bump me off, it's the hallmark of small-minded people. The thing is, they probably wouldn't do it until after the job is completed. The sight of all that money will get the blood boiling, you know. If they don't get killed by the cops first, then they'll find Scarface's men waiting for them at their safehouse. Or maybe I'll call Scarface after I collect Dru's 5 grand. I mean, who's he gonna believe? Me, or the schmuck who's desperate to prove he's a 'big player'? Either way I get my money, so who cares?"

Oswald Cobblepot shrugged, his expression as always a carefully structured mask of bemusement. "I guess I'm just not one to put so much effort into so little payoff."

"Come on Ozzy, you know it's not about the money. It's about the fun! Winding up dumb bastards like Dru back there and seeing what happens? It's my raison d'etre, like painting was for Picasso and Taiwanese pool boys were for Mayor Hill. Hell, I haven't felt this good since my damn face fell off, man." Had Edward Nygma been looking back, he might have noticed the Great White Shark's eyes gleaming with the same hungry look that had appeared when he was talking with the unfortunate Killer Moth. "How about it Eddy? Miss it yet?"

A dozen or so feet away Margot Devaughn finished her song, and Edward Nygma kept drinking.