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General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes: The Arnold Wesker in this story is a pre-Ventriloquist one, though his personality is already divided.

To Trumpeteer34: I hope you'll find this story to your taste, I'm glad you like the characterisations so far. I have a soft spot for poor Arnold, too.

To AZ-woodbomb: Thanks for reading, it's lovely to see interest in a Penguin story! I like him because his character can fit into every crowd, be it Arkham, mobster or ordinary citizen. I agree, both of the characters are dangerous individuals.

Chapter One: Takeover (Part Two)

'I c-can imitate Frankie Delaney's voice n-now, too. I didn't know whether I would be able to, until I bought the r-record', said Arnold proudly later that day.

'That's nice. I myself am useless at singing', said Oswald. He wondered briefly if he dared ask his voice-talented colleague about his other hobby and plunged on recklessly, after a moment's hesitation.

'You... You still practise ventriloquism, Arnie?'

'Oh, yes! It's quite easy n-now, too. I can throw my voice here...

Or here...

Or anywhere, really.'

'Ack!' exclaimed Oswald, resisting the urge to spin around as the voice seemed to come from right behind him.

'Remarkable! You are getting frighteningly good, my friend', he told Arnold. As he shifted the numbers of three sets of bills to appear more acceptable and above all legal, a deeper, more confident voice answered him.

'Good? This twerp 'ere spent the entire weekend practisin' his little auditive games. In case youse fellas haven't noticed, the Wesker gang ain't exactly blooming these days. What we should of been doin' was gettin' even with them bastards at Goode's gang.'

'Hello, Mr Scarface', said Oswald resignedly.

Arnold Wesker had emotionally broken after the death of his family. He had broken into two, in fact.

Arnie was the small, meek, traumatised part of him which wanted only to be left in peace. Mr Scarface had surfaced some time after Arnold the hobbyist ventriloquist purchased an old doll resembling a twenties' gangster. Something had clicked in Arnold's emotionally strained brain. This new personality seemed to function parallel to Arnold, developing its own straight-forward, slick-speaking and sometimes ruthless personality.

Oswald felt that it helped to think of them as two individual persons in one body, rather than a very unfortunate split personality. It made things easier.

'What would you have done this Saturday, Mr Scarface? Taken a gun to them all by yourself?' he asked with explicit doubt in his tone.

'Huh. Wouldn't have needed to be by myself, if that weasel-faced uncle of ours showed some guts. Woulda loved to give wonnerful Mr Goode a taste of steel.'

'Oh no!' whimpered Arnold in protest. 'That would be murder, Mr Scarface!'

'And your point is, Dummy? Just so's you know, that filthy scumbag's been getting his fingers over what was supposed to have been our dough!'

'Don't insult Arnold, Mr Scarface', chided Oswald.

The perky gangster was always bullying the shy bookkeeper. Sometimes he even hit him; or rather, to the rest of the world, it appeared that Arnold was repeatedly slapping himself.
It was sad to watch. Oh, yes, indeed.

And you thought your life was hard, thought Oswald, looking down at his misshapen fingers.

'Eh, you keep your beak outta this, Penguin. The guy needs to get a grip on reality.'

'That was a very mean thing to say, Mr Scarface, sir.'

'Oh? Oh? Well, excuse me, I didn' know we was supposed to be nice in this business! Makes you wonder where this operation's goin', if everyone's so nice an' cuddly an' tippy-toe considerate.'

'Sorry, Mr Scarface. Best if I keep quiet.'

Oswald stiffened. It was with great difficulty that he held his temper, reminding himself that Arnold was a very ill man and couldn't be held responsible for his actions, even if they were flagrant insults.

'Please refrain from calling me that. My name happens to be Oswald.'

'Yeah, sure, sure, buddy. What d'you think of tonight's enterprise? I hear you'll be goin', too.'

'So will you. Or rather, Arnold. I don't think it would be wise to make your debut appearance at the meeting with Goode. He must be handled with delicacy and tact.'

'So youse two sayin' I ain't got tact?'

Oswald rolled his eyes and returned to work, ignoring the continuing struggle between Arnold's polar personalities. After a while, the room went quite again and Oswald decided that it was safe to assume Arnold was in possession again.
He spared a glance. The thin man was breathing heavily, running a trembling hand over his face.
They worked in silence for the next two hours, Oswald double-checking all the receipts and documents they would be bringing to the meeting tonight.

***

'C-could I borrow your newspaper, please, Oswald? I haven't had a ch-chance to read it today.'

'Myself neither. I only got to the fifth page', hissed Oswald, still feeling disgruntled at his friend.

He managed to add: 'Of course you may take it. It's nearing coffee-break, in any case. I shall just finish this up.'

'Thank you, Oswald!'

'Not a problem, my dear fellow, not a problem.'

It was hard to stay angry at poor Arnold. Instead, the individual bearing an unfortunate resemblance to a pudgy penguin stayed focused on the work at hand.

He completed his overview of the mob's recent dealings and selected a dozen choice receipts for valuable merchandise, some of which would pass hands tonight in order to ensure the not-so-good Mr Goode's goodwill.

'So many bad things happening in Gotham', stated Arnold sadly.

'What makes you say that?' asked Oswald, tucking a report on several 'acquired' second-hand cars back into the filing system.

'Did you take a look at the n-newsp-papers? There's been another murder in the Frattellini gang. The police have been called to break the s-strike at the s-steel factory, they injured fifteen workers. Broke a man's skull, it says here. Awful! And on top of it all, they're still s-searching for little Selina.'

'Who is she?'

'She's one of the girls that went missing from the orphanage at S-Scalby Street. You remember, don't you?'

'Oh, that. Yes, I remember', sighed Oswald. He didn't really like to think about the case; missing children fell into the category of subjects he could not do anything to help and thought best to avoid fretting about.
He held up his calculator pensively and frowned. The numbers didn't seem to add up properly. Again.

'Seems now they found something out about the p-principal's illegal dealings and scarpered when he confronted them. Police didn't know about it until yesterday, when they f-f-found the first girl and questioned her.'

'I doubt they'll have enough substantial evidence to arrest the principal. They never do. That girl will have a pretty time at the orphanage now', grumbled Oswald.

'She won't be going to the orphanage, she'll be sent to a reformatory. You see, she admitted they were stealing petty objects from the man's office when they found him out.'

Arnold sighed in satisfaction at having completed a few long sentences without stuttering. Oswald slammed the calculator a few times onto the desk and got it working properly. He completed the sum and put the final receipt away.

'Hah! Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Well, that happens when you are not cautious enough. Let me see the papers now.'

'I suppose there's some good in everything – at least she's safe now and off the streets.'

Arnold came and handed Oswald the Gotham Gazette, walking away in hesitant little steps. The accountant read the articles his mentally unstable co-worker had mentioned. It was true, it was hard to remain in a jolly mood while reading the headlines, even if the Penguin had been one for joviality.

He thumbed through to the last pages, glancing at the cinema repertoire and the obituaries.

'Hmm, would you look at this? Guess what, Arnold?'

'Yes?'

'Seem today's the Wayne murder anniversary – there's only two obituaries, very tasteful and unpretentious, one from the company and one from the remaining family members. No article. I suppose they do not wish to draw any more attention to the tragedy then already has been.'

'Poor people', said Arnold and shuddered. 'It was c-completely unexpected. H-how many years since now?'

'Five years today. Seems a lot more recent, doesn't it?'

'Oh, yes. A lot h-has happened since, though, you have to admit.'

'Not much of it good, neither for the city nor for us', said Oswald grimly. He referred to the decline of both the rapidly uncontrolled city and the Wesker gang.

'Oi!' came the high-pitched shout of the secretary from the corridor. 'If you two kooks wanna work overtime until tomorrow, that's fine with me, but I'm closing the place up now.'

'Yes, we are done. We will come along in a moment. Please be patient', snapped Oswald. He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to seven. In a matter of mere hours, the fate of the Wesker gang would be determined.

If Goode and his men accepted a share of their territory and portion of last month's profitable gains, Albie Wesker stood a chance of keeping a position within the underground. He still had connections, even if he lacked the best hired muscle these days; Goode would be wise to accept a truce of sorts.
In order to maintain trust, both parties had promised to leave their weapons outside the meeting space, a fact that Mr Scarface continuingly lamented.

Oswald folded the papers beneath his arm, hoping for a chance to finally finishing his reading at home. The faces of the late Mr and Mrs Wayne - millionaires, public benefactors, murder victims – stared impassively back at him.

'You know, I do not think you are right about one matter', Oswald told Arnold as they left the building.

'Which m-matter would that be, Oswald?'

'I look at the Wayne obituary and I think – those people had a child, one that will feel their loss in who knows what way, despite all his inheritance.'

'Oh, yes, that is true', nodded Arnold. 'A death in the family affects young children in unpredictable ways.'

The two stood in silence, Oswald contemplating his late father, whose face he barely remembered and whose protection he wished had been there.

Arnold thought of his father and brothers, whose faces he clearly remembered, especially the bleeding mouths and expressions of horror. Mr Scarface firmly told him not to dwell on the past, with so much business on hand tonight.

'So tell me', said Oswald finally, 'If there's some good in everything, what possible good could ever arise from their deaths? Hmm?'

'I really don't know', said Arnold, shaking his head.

They passed beneath the monorail arch, their footsteps echoing and startling a few nesting bats.

Oswald shook them away with his umbrella and stepped into a puddle of muddy water.

'Urgh. I hate suburbs', he snarled.