Chapter 4: Double Takes
The Story Thus Far: Bruce submerges his yacht so that he, Ivy and Harley can reach their goal undetected; Bruce explains to Ivy that Harley had died when the Joker shot her those weeks ago, and that she was brought back to life by one of his enemies, but he doesn't know why; Allen and Bullock make it to Arkham Asylum and learn from Dr. Jeremiah Arkham that Two-Face had a grudge with the Commissioner; Allen apparently discovers a clue, but doesn't share. Bullock realizes this but keeps quiet, content that he could bust Allen pretty much anytime he wants…
…
Gotham City Police Headquarters, a building that once, ages ago, was merely two stories tall and occupied a single, small city corner. Over time it has metamorphosised into a behemoth complex, engulfing its original brethren into a shimmering glass construct that occupies an entire city block. A veritable maze within, it is a hub of activity that underscores the seamier aspect of city living. One sometimes has to wonder how an active security detail can distinguish between those who belong and those who don't. Then again, why would anyone wish to break into such a place?
Although modernized with computer databases on all information the department would require, some records are continually kept in paper file folders in a quaint little area called 'the morgue,' a precaution to ensure the information can survive beyond any cataclysm. While it isn't uncommon for such rooms to exist, what is odd is to find anyone actually down there, rummaging through the files, as is the case currently. A single file drawer is open and the culprit, though garbed in policeman's blue, is definitely not a member of Gotham's finest. In fact, if anyone dared venture forth to take a glance at the intruder's features, they'd find his facial features are more monster than man. With a tiny light held between its teeth it grins with glee at having found what it required. Making a quick mental note of the information it sought, the thief gently shuts the file drawer, turns left and right to ensure it is unobserved and exits into the shadows.
…
The Somnambulist, a wondrous craft just as capable of cutting across the waves as it is of swimming steadily beneath them. Developed by Waynetech industries as a prototype military vehicle, and later as pleasure craft for the rich and idle, its development was halted and the prototype 'lost' like so many other projects before it. Some would say that if it were the work of one man, over time he would have amassed one of the most powerful and bizarre armouries in military history. The Somnambulist, contrary to its name, appears to be resting gently near the oceans bottom a few hundred meters from sandy shores. The only hint of activity comes from a thin stream of bubbles that seem to lead away from the slumbering craft to the moonlit shoreline.
The peaceful still of night is soon broken by the appearance of three dark clad figures rising up from the depths. Each one is dressed in complete scuba attire and steadily makes their way towards dry land, hoping that the cover of night has screened their arrival. The scuba equipment is removed, revealing the exhausted features of Bruce Wayne, Ivy and Harley Quinn. Bruce then opens a watertight satchel and removes some dry clothes for each of them.
"What are we supposed to do with the equipment?" Harley asks as she takes her bundle.
"Leave it," is his only response.
"But we'll be found out by whoever it is we're trying to surprise," she retorts, crossing her arms in anger, "What the heck's the point of getting up at 3 am and swimmin' to shore if you're just gonna' give away the surprise? And another thing, why can't I wear the old costume? I just don't feel the same without it, and this skin-tight black stuff just doesn't do a thing for me. Where's the colour? I know black is your thing, but at least you let bird boy liven things up with his…"
"Don't!" Bruce growls at her through clenched teeth, his eyes radiating fire, "Don't DARE mention him, or any of them, again! Understand?"
Harley's eyes grow round with fear and she tries to swallow as she humbly nods in compliance. Bruce finishes dressing all in black, save for the conspicuous multi-pocketed, yellow belt around his waist. He then unfurls a latex mask and slips it upon his head, covering his scarred visage with one that is complete and handsome and his own. He adjusts the mask, making sure to hide any furls that may give it away.
"I hate that thing," Harley whispers at him, "You've got such a lovely smile, why'd you want to hide it? Mr. J never…"
Harley's greeted by another look that tells her to either stop talking or to change the subject. She obliges, "so how are we gonna' get back to the sub without our gear, boss?"
As Bruce answers Ivy's focus shifts. She'd been scanning the area with her mind, searching for anything out of place, and now, as if from nowhere it comes. Instantly gauging its intent she lunges at Harley, tackling her to the ground as a shimmering blade misses Harley's blonde locks by mere inches. In a single fluid motion the attacker twirls the long blade around, lifting it high and swinging it down at the prone forms before him, but it does not make it to its intended target. A loud clang is heard as steel smashes into steel, the assassin's blade and Bruce's scuba tank. The assassin rears his head upwards to meet Bruce face-to-face, and is met with a crushing punch to the nose, courtesy of Bruce's free hand. The assassin reels but does not fall, using the blade as a prop to hold himself up, embedding it deep into the sand. A quick shake to remove the cobwebs and he turns and runs.
"While I'm all for a romp in the sand, you just ain't my type, Red," Harley coos as Ivy helps her up, "Why don't ya just warn me next time, 'kay?"
Ivy manages a half-hearted grin before looking at Bruce and asking, "What was that about?"
Bruce ignores the question and makes his way to where the attacker had momentarily fallen. Spotting something he bends down and retrieves it. The girls are soon looking at the bizarre object in his palm.
"What is it?" Ivy asks over his left shoulder.
"A warning," Bruce whispers solemnly.
"A warning…? From that guy…?" Harley questions over his right shoulder with an incredulous look on her face. She smacks her forehead, "He nearly lowers my IQ to zero and you call that stupid miniature goat's skull with antlers he dropped a warning? Was your oxygen tank working?"
"It's not just a miniature skull," Bruce continues, "It's a head, a demon's head."
There is silence for a moment before Harley pipes up, "Mighty small demon."
…
Most know that nothing is static, that we all face a life in a constant state of flux. Few things are stable enough to be relied upon and those that are, are also constantly being altered in such a minute manner so as to escape human senses. A look at the stars has been critical in navigation for centuries and yet these stars themselves are not static. Most have already burned out and what we perceive as existence is merely their last, great gasp before the end. It was a final, spectacular demise that reaches our eyes only after years upon years of interstellar travel. It provides a wondrous sight to all, unless you live in the city.
Within Gotham most stars are not visible to the naked eye, and Commissioner Gordon feels we are the poorer for it. His only chances to see the celestial heavens occur when a case falls outside of the city, and in those occasions it's usually so grim he finds no joy in their presence, such as when he watched Wayne Manor burn to the ground. He sighs.
He's a police commissioner, he should be spending his last few years sitting behind a desk in his nice, warm office reading reports and assigning cases and so on. Instead it's 3 am and he's sitting in an unmarked car, freezing in a cool December night, occasionally glancing at a window in the tenant building across the street. He's still trying to buck the system, to try and stop time and perform his duty as he did twenty years ago. He shakes his head and mutters, "I'm getting too old for this."
The driver's side door opens and the dishevelled Harvey Bullock steps in, his hands full. "Cup of coffee, Commish, best on the block," he comments, spilling half the contents as he passes the paper cup.
'There goes the coat,' Gordon fumes as he graciously accepts the offering. Taking a sip he churns, 'And there go my taste buds.' Seeking escape he tries to start a conversation, "Are you sure about this, Harvey? I mean, I'm not naïve, I know there are cops on the force who bend the rules, others who break them and some others who line their pockets. It's human nature to expect some corruption here and there, but a detective? Not just a detective, but a homicide man, a man on my taskforce, a man with HIS record! I just don't get it."
Harvey sneers at his companion, annoyed at the mistrust, "Look, Commish, we went over this in your office. I swear he's pulling a fast one. He said the courier company was a dead end, but he's got another notebook in his pocket that I'm sure says otherwise. He suggests we go to Arkham when Two-Face and Penguin bust out, and he instantly finds some note in Two-Face's room and stashes it before I get a gander. Top it off with Arkham's suggestion that Two-Face hates your guts, and my guts tell me something ain't kosher. I don't know, maybe Allen's just trying to hog the glory, but maybe, just maybe, he's moonlighting. Two jobs, get it?" Bullock then grins, "Of course I could be wrong. Maybe Allen's under the control of one of them freaks like the Mad Hatter and doesn't know what's what. Maybe they're both up there hopping around in giant bunny suits and pretending to chase blonde skirts down a…"
"Don't mock the dead," Gordon huffs as he takes another whiff of the fetid coffee. He sighs, "You should have just confronted him, Bullock. This is insane, the Commissioner skulking about after one of his own officers on a hunch! I never should have let you talk me into it."
"But if I'm right…"
"But if you're wrong," Gordon cuts him off. He grows sullen and turns away, looking out the car window again, "Ah, to hell with it. That was my house that burned down, and if they try to pull me down, I'll plead insanity. They'll believe it after I spend the night in your car. Besides, it's not like I had anything else to do."
Within the dark apartment Det. Allen stares out the window and at the unmarked car below.
"Seems I've got a couple of night owls outside," he muses silently to himself. He leaves the vantage point and sits on the edge of his bed, cocking the gun in his hand. Satisfied, he stares out into his pitch black apartment, looking for something that shouldn't be there, "Good..."
…
"A desert?! You want us to cross a freaking desert…and in broad daylight?!"
Its midday across the ocean and Harley has just learned of Bruce's intent to trek by foot to their intended target. It's incredibly warm, with the sun's unbroken rays strafing the sand covered surface, heating it to near human tolerance.
"You want us to cross a desert, and on top of that you're making us wear this black stalker clothing, that doesn't do a thing for me by the way, and you want us to do it in broad daylight!" Harley shouts, uncaring that they're in enemy territory.
"You said that already," Ivy interjects.
"And I'll say it again! This is nuts, and believe me, I know nuts," Harley growls, "and I'm putting my foot down. I'm not going and you can't make me!" She then places both hands to the sides of her head and waves them at her colleagues while crossing her eyes and calling in a mocking tone, "Nyah-nyah!"
Bruce doesn't bother addressing her immediately and instead looks out at the vast emptiness. He unfurls a tiny piece of paper retrieved from the utility belt and makes a note of what is written, "The black clothing is for nightfall, when the temperature will drop. Our adversary is prepared for assaults by air, so we've got to go by land. He may be expecting us, but that doesn't mean we should proceed with reckless abandon. No," he shakes his head, "not with him. You two can take your chances here if you want, or try to head back to the ship, but if you do follow me walk exactly where I walk."
Bruce then begins to walk into the scorched land.
"Fine!" Harley calls, "We will! Right, Red?"
But already Ivy has begun to cross the desert after Bruce Wayne, following his steps precisely. Harley crosses her arms in a huff and growls to herself, "Fine. I'll show them. I'll just wait here with the psychotic ninja that tried to cut my head off. And then they'll come back and find my broken body and they'll cry, 'Boo-hoo, why didn't we stay with Harley? Cut down in the prime of her life. With her brains and body she could have done it all! It's not fair!' And I'll be laughing…wait a minute…what the heck am I saying?! Hey, wait for me!"
…
If there ever were a city bred for perversion, then Gotham would be it. Spires and arches spread across a tangled web of streets and alleys that appear more spewed from the earth than planned and created by human hands. All this creates darkened corners and hiding spaces which make even the most experienced of travellers prey to something dark and vile. An aura of danger haunts the city that causes the honest and dishonest to cringe in fear with sun fall. Yes, the dishonest, disenfranchised, and dispossessed have also learned to fear the night, for something even darker stalks them as well…
Still, life must continue, and for the honest this could include taking chances in order to survive. On the corner of 5th and Madison one of Gotham's most extensive jewellery collections is housed, kept safely locked away in a four inch thick safe that's set on a timer. Even with this precaution two armed men are kept on to guard the safe through night and day. Their job is menial since the entire underworld knows robbery of such a safe is next to impossible. They understand that the safe is burglar proof, and that even the safe manufacturer would have difficulty opening it were the system to malfunction.
Stoic and unmoving, the guards stand at the ready like the staunch men outside the old English palace. To the left is Mr. John Peters, 43, father of three. To the right is Mr. Jonas Reinhold, 33, divorced, father of one. Each man is looking forward to the end of his shift, which comes much sooner than expected. In the dimly lit room they do not see the two tiny birds dart towards them until it is too late, their beaks jabbing into their necks, and soon each man is greeted by complete blackness. The two birds then hear a faint call from behind them and respond by flying to their master and perching on his index finger. With top hat and tails, the rotund little fellow with the pointy nose looks every bit his moniker, the Penguin. He smiles, content that his pets were able to complete their task successfully. He then removes the needles wrapped around their beaks and sets them on their way home.
"The cameras are taken care of," Two-Face whispers, his two-tone suit matching his complexion admirably, "The guards?"
"Off to dreamland, per your suggestion. So you're still anxious about murdering policemen, fair, former district attorney?" Penguin sneers at Dent, "Even after all these years? Ah well, to each his own I say. Oh, incidentally, I made sure to utilize the exact same species of bird on each guard, to ensure the duality of the assault was complete. I hope you approve?"
"Of course," Two-Face nods, "Now let's set up the explosive."
Penguin taps his umbrella nervously on the ground, "I am beginning to have reservations about executing our plan. After all, could we not simply steal the valuables and then obliterate their encasement? The police should be none the wiser until we complete out plans."
"We chose this for a reason, Penguin, and we're going to stick with the plan."
Penguin appears to grow even more jittery, "But still, the twin Faberge egg, an exact copy done by the master, recovered after so long. Such a rare piece would feather such a wonderful nest…"
"Forget it," Two-Face mutters as he begins to set explosive about the office, "Besides, it's a fake."
Penguin's jaw nearly strikes the floor, "A fake? Are you sure?"
"I have a great understanding of duality by nature," Two-Face counters, "And as such have a nose for such things, if you will. I won't be deceived in such matters. Faberge never had an appreciation for duality Penguin, symmetry, but not duality. That's why I agreed on the target, not because it's a twin egg but because of the duality of the message we're about to create."
Twenty minutes later Two-Face and the Penguin are safely absconded within a nearby van and the two slumbering guards are tied up neatly to a lamppost. Two-Face produces a tiny remote detonation device and grins, "Would you be kind enough to do the honours?"
"Of course my good man, of course," and the Penguin depresses the button…
TO BE CONTINUED…
The Story Thus Far: Bruce submerges his yacht so that he, Ivy and Harley can reach their goal undetected; Bruce explains to Ivy that Harley had died when the Joker shot her those weeks ago, and that she was brought back to life by one of his enemies, but he doesn't know why; Allen and Bullock make it to Arkham Asylum and learn from Dr. Jeremiah Arkham that Two-Face had a grudge with the Commissioner; Allen apparently discovers a clue, but doesn't share. Bullock realizes this but keeps quiet, content that he could bust Allen pretty much anytime he wants…
…
Gotham City Police Headquarters, a building that once, ages ago, was merely two stories tall and occupied a single, small city corner. Over time it has metamorphosised into a behemoth complex, engulfing its original brethren into a shimmering glass construct that occupies an entire city block. A veritable maze within, it is a hub of activity that underscores the seamier aspect of city living. One sometimes has to wonder how an active security detail can distinguish between those who belong and those who don't. Then again, why would anyone wish to break into such a place?
Although modernized with computer databases on all information the department would require, some records are continually kept in paper file folders in a quaint little area called 'the morgue,' a precaution to ensure the information can survive beyond any cataclysm. While it isn't uncommon for such rooms to exist, what is odd is to find anyone actually down there, rummaging through the files, as is the case currently. A single file drawer is open and the culprit, though garbed in policeman's blue, is definitely not a member of Gotham's finest. In fact, if anyone dared venture forth to take a glance at the intruder's features, they'd find his facial features are more monster than man. With a tiny light held between its teeth it grins with glee at having found what it required. Making a quick mental note of the information it sought, the thief gently shuts the file drawer, turns left and right to ensure it is unobserved and exits into the shadows.
…
The Somnambulist, a wondrous craft just as capable of cutting across the waves as it is of swimming steadily beneath them. Developed by Waynetech industries as a prototype military vehicle, and later as pleasure craft for the rich and idle, its development was halted and the prototype 'lost' like so many other projects before it. Some would say that if it were the work of one man, over time he would have amassed one of the most powerful and bizarre armouries in military history. The Somnambulist, contrary to its name, appears to be resting gently near the oceans bottom a few hundred meters from sandy shores. The only hint of activity comes from a thin stream of bubbles that seem to lead away from the slumbering craft to the moonlit shoreline.
The peaceful still of night is soon broken by the appearance of three dark clad figures rising up from the depths. Each one is dressed in complete scuba attire and steadily makes their way towards dry land, hoping that the cover of night has screened their arrival. The scuba equipment is removed, revealing the exhausted features of Bruce Wayne, Ivy and Harley Quinn. Bruce then opens a watertight satchel and removes some dry clothes for each of them.
"What are we supposed to do with the equipment?" Harley asks as she takes her bundle.
"Leave it," is his only response.
"But we'll be found out by whoever it is we're trying to surprise," she retorts, crossing her arms in anger, "What the heck's the point of getting up at 3 am and swimmin' to shore if you're just gonna' give away the surprise? And another thing, why can't I wear the old costume? I just don't feel the same without it, and this skin-tight black stuff just doesn't do a thing for me. Where's the colour? I know black is your thing, but at least you let bird boy liven things up with his…"
"Don't!" Bruce growls at her through clenched teeth, his eyes radiating fire, "Don't DARE mention him, or any of them, again! Understand?"
Harley's eyes grow round with fear and she tries to swallow as she humbly nods in compliance. Bruce finishes dressing all in black, save for the conspicuous multi-pocketed, yellow belt around his waist. He then unfurls a latex mask and slips it upon his head, covering his scarred visage with one that is complete and handsome and his own. He adjusts the mask, making sure to hide any furls that may give it away.
"I hate that thing," Harley whispers at him, "You've got such a lovely smile, why'd you want to hide it? Mr. J never…"
Harley's greeted by another look that tells her to either stop talking or to change the subject. She obliges, "so how are we gonna' get back to the sub without our gear, boss?"
As Bruce answers Ivy's focus shifts. She'd been scanning the area with her mind, searching for anything out of place, and now, as if from nowhere it comes. Instantly gauging its intent she lunges at Harley, tackling her to the ground as a shimmering blade misses Harley's blonde locks by mere inches. In a single fluid motion the attacker twirls the long blade around, lifting it high and swinging it down at the prone forms before him, but it does not make it to its intended target. A loud clang is heard as steel smashes into steel, the assassin's blade and Bruce's scuba tank. The assassin rears his head upwards to meet Bruce face-to-face, and is met with a crushing punch to the nose, courtesy of Bruce's free hand. The assassin reels but does not fall, using the blade as a prop to hold himself up, embedding it deep into the sand. A quick shake to remove the cobwebs and he turns and runs.
"While I'm all for a romp in the sand, you just ain't my type, Red," Harley coos as Ivy helps her up, "Why don't ya just warn me next time, 'kay?"
Ivy manages a half-hearted grin before looking at Bruce and asking, "What was that about?"
Bruce ignores the question and makes his way to where the attacker had momentarily fallen. Spotting something he bends down and retrieves it. The girls are soon looking at the bizarre object in his palm.
"What is it?" Ivy asks over his left shoulder.
"A warning," Bruce whispers solemnly.
"A warning…? From that guy…?" Harley questions over his right shoulder with an incredulous look on her face. She smacks her forehead, "He nearly lowers my IQ to zero and you call that stupid miniature goat's skull with antlers he dropped a warning? Was your oxygen tank working?"
"It's not just a miniature skull," Bruce continues, "It's a head, a demon's head."
There is silence for a moment before Harley pipes up, "Mighty small demon."
…
Most know that nothing is static, that we all face a life in a constant state of flux. Few things are stable enough to be relied upon and those that are, are also constantly being altered in such a minute manner so as to escape human senses. A look at the stars has been critical in navigation for centuries and yet these stars themselves are not static. Most have already burned out and what we perceive as existence is merely their last, great gasp before the end. It was a final, spectacular demise that reaches our eyes only after years upon years of interstellar travel. It provides a wondrous sight to all, unless you live in the city.
Within Gotham most stars are not visible to the naked eye, and Commissioner Gordon feels we are the poorer for it. His only chances to see the celestial heavens occur when a case falls outside of the city, and in those occasions it's usually so grim he finds no joy in their presence, such as when he watched Wayne Manor burn to the ground. He sighs.
He's a police commissioner, he should be spending his last few years sitting behind a desk in his nice, warm office reading reports and assigning cases and so on. Instead it's 3 am and he's sitting in an unmarked car, freezing in a cool December night, occasionally glancing at a window in the tenant building across the street. He's still trying to buck the system, to try and stop time and perform his duty as he did twenty years ago. He shakes his head and mutters, "I'm getting too old for this."
The driver's side door opens and the dishevelled Harvey Bullock steps in, his hands full. "Cup of coffee, Commish, best on the block," he comments, spilling half the contents as he passes the paper cup.
'There goes the coat,' Gordon fumes as he graciously accepts the offering. Taking a sip he churns, 'And there go my taste buds.' Seeking escape he tries to start a conversation, "Are you sure about this, Harvey? I mean, I'm not naïve, I know there are cops on the force who bend the rules, others who break them and some others who line their pockets. It's human nature to expect some corruption here and there, but a detective? Not just a detective, but a homicide man, a man on my taskforce, a man with HIS record! I just don't get it."
Harvey sneers at his companion, annoyed at the mistrust, "Look, Commish, we went over this in your office. I swear he's pulling a fast one. He said the courier company was a dead end, but he's got another notebook in his pocket that I'm sure says otherwise. He suggests we go to Arkham when Two-Face and Penguin bust out, and he instantly finds some note in Two-Face's room and stashes it before I get a gander. Top it off with Arkham's suggestion that Two-Face hates your guts, and my guts tell me something ain't kosher. I don't know, maybe Allen's just trying to hog the glory, but maybe, just maybe, he's moonlighting. Two jobs, get it?" Bullock then grins, "Of course I could be wrong. Maybe Allen's under the control of one of them freaks like the Mad Hatter and doesn't know what's what. Maybe they're both up there hopping around in giant bunny suits and pretending to chase blonde skirts down a…"
"Don't mock the dead," Gordon huffs as he takes another whiff of the fetid coffee. He sighs, "You should have just confronted him, Bullock. This is insane, the Commissioner skulking about after one of his own officers on a hunch! I never should have let you talk me into it."
"But if I'm right…"
"But if you're wrong," Gordon cuts him off. He grows sullen and turns away, looking out the car window again, "Ah, to hell with it. That was my house that burned down, and if they try to pull me down, I'll plead insanity. They'll believe it after I spend the night in your car. Besides, it's not like I had anything else to do."
Within the dark apartment Det. Allen stares out the window and at the unmarked car below.
"Seems I've got a couple of night owls outside," he muses silently to himself. He leaves the vantage point and sits on the edge of his bed, cocking the gun in his hand. Satisfied, he stares out into his pitch black apartment, looking for something that shouldn't be there, "Good..."
…
"A desert?! You want us to cross a freaking desert…and in broad daylight?!"
Its midday across the ocean and Harley has just learned of Bruce's intent to trek by foot to their intended target. It's incredibly warm, with the sun's unbroken rays strafing the sand covered surface, heating it to near human tolerance.
"You want us to cross a desert, and on top of that you're making us wear this black stalker clothing, that doesn't do a thing for me by the way, and you want us to do it in broad daylight!" Harley shouts, uncaring that they're in enemy territory.
"You said that already," Ivy interjects.
"And I'll say it again! This is nuts, and believe me, I know nuts," Harley growls, "and I'm putting my foot down. I'm not going and you can't make me!" She then places both hands to the sides of her head and waves them at her colleagues while crossing her eyes and calling in a mocking tone, "Nyah-nyah!"
Bruce doesn't bother addressing her immediately and instead looks out at the vast emptiness. He unfurls a tiny piece of paper retrieved from the utility belt and makes a note of what is written, "The black clothing is for nightfall, when the temperature will drop. Our adversary is prepared for assaults by air, so we've got to go by land. He may be expecting us, but that doesn't mean we should proceed with reckless abandon. No," he shakes his head, "not with him. You two can take your chances here if you want, or try to head back to the ship, but if you do follow me walk exactly where I walk."
Bruce then begins to walk into the scorched land.
"Fine!" Harley calls, "We will! Right, Red?"
But already Ivy has begun to cross the desert after Bruce Wayne, following his steps precisely. Harley crosses her arms in a huff and growls to herself, "Fine. I'll show them. I'll just wait here with the psychotic ninja that tried to cut my head off. And then they'll come back and find my broken body and they'll cry, 'Boo-hoo, why didn't we stay with Harley? Cut down in the prime of her life. With her brains and body she could have done it all! It's not fair!' And I'll be laughing…wait a minute…what the heck am I saying?! Hey, wait for me!"
…
If there ever were a city bred for perversion, then Gotham would be it. Spires and arches spread across a tangled web of streets and alleys that appear more spewed from the earth than planned and created by human hands. All this creates darkened corners and hiding spaces which make even the most experienced of travellers prey to something dark and vile. An aura of danger haunts the city that causes the honest and dishonest to cringe in fear with sun fall. Yes, the dishonest, disenfranchised, and dispossessed have also learned to fear the night, for something even darker stalks them as well…
Still, life must continue, and for the honest this could include taking chances in order to survive. On the corner of 5th and Madison one of Gotham's most extensive jewellery collections is housed, kept safely locked away in a four inch thick safe that's set on a timer. Even with this precaution two armed men are kept on to guard the safe through night and day. Their job is menial since the entire underworld knows robbery of such a safe is next to impossible. They understand that the safe is burglar proof, and that even the safe manufacturer would have difficulty opening it were the system to malfunction.
Stoic and unmoving, the guards stand at the ready like the staunch men outside the old English palace. To the left is Mr. John Peters, 43, father of three. To the right is Mr. Jonas Reinhold, 33, divorced, father of one. Each man is looking forward to the end of his shift, which comes much sooner than expected. In the dimly lit room they do not see the two tiny birds dart towards them until it is too late, their beaks jabbing into their necks, and soon each man is greeted by complete blackness. The two birds then hear a faint call from behind them and respond by flying to their master and perching on his index finger. With top hat and tails, the rotund little fellow with the pointy nose looks every bit his moniker, the Penguin. He smiles, content that his pets were able to complete their task successfully. He then removes the needles wrapped around their beaks and sets them on their way home.
"The cameras are taken care of," Two-Face whispers, his two-tone suit matching his complexion admirably, "The guards?"
"Off to dreamland, per your suggestion. So you're still anxious about murdering policemen, fair, former district attorney?" Penguin sneers at Dent, "Even after all these years? Ah well, to each his own I say. Oh, incidentally, I made sure to utilize the exact same species of bird on each guard, to ensure the duality of the assault was complete. I hope you approve?"
"Of course," Two-Face nods, "Now let's set up the explosive."
Penguin taps his umbrella nervously on the ground, "I am beginning to have reservations about executing our plan. After all, could we not simply steal the valuables and then obliterate their encasement? The police should be none the wiser until we complete out plans."
"We chose this for a reason, Penguin, and we're going to stick with the plan."
Penguin appears to grow even more jittery, "But still, the twin Faberge egg, an exact copy done by the master, recovered after so long. Such a rare piece would feather such a wonderful nest…"
"Forget it," Two-Face mutters as he begins to set explosive about the office, "Besides, it's a fake."
Penguin's jaw nearly strikes the floor, "A fake? Are you sure?"
"I have a great understanding of duality by nature," Two-Face counters, "And as such have a nose for such things, if you will. I won't be deceived in such matters. Faberge never had an appreciation for duality Penguin, symmetry, but not duality. That's why I agreed on the target, not because it's a twin egg but because of the duality of the message we're about to create."
Twenty minutes later Two-Face and the Penguin are safely absconded within a nearby van and the two slumbering guards are tied up neatly to a lamppost. Two-Face produces a tiny remote detonation device and grins, "Would you be kind enough to do the honours?"
"Of course my good man, of course," and the Penguin depresses the button…
TO BE CONTINUED…