Chapter Eleven: Reunions


Hunting down Gabriel turned out to be easy. She never considered herself to be a 'hunter', but Ivy couldn't have been prouder when she returned to the house with the man following shortly behind her; when he realized that the Penguin had resurfaced, Gabe picked Oswald up and pulled him in a bear hug.

During their somewhat awkward reunion, Ivy kept her distance, watching skeptically.

She'd spent enough time around Lark to pick up on a few subtle cues about bad eggs. Demetri and Delilah were prime examples of people who appeared loyal—sometimes, even the seemingly best-looking eggs of the batch had their own cracks. Was Gabe one of those bad eggs?

"Oh, Boss, I'm so glad to see you again!" Gabe exclaimed, swaying a little in place as he continued hugging Oswald.

"Easy!" Oswald grunted. "Okay…That's enough…!"

Gabe backed off a little, grinning widely. He gesticulated towards him, saying, "Word is that you were dead! When this girl came and found me" (He glanced happily at Ivy) "I thought she was putting the screws to me—you know, pulling my leg! Did you hear what's been going on? Barbara's running things now."

Ivy's eyes narrowed as the large man spoke.

Gabe continued, "Things have been a bit weird since she started taking over. Her bar got bought out—the same one you used to run, even! I couldn't believe it when I heard."

"What do you mean 'when you heard'?" Ivy asked, stepping forward.

Gabe and Oswald glanced at her.

"What?" Gabe uttered uncertainly.

"You've been with Lark, right?" She specified. "You said so. Before we came here. If you've been with Lark this entire time—like you said you've been—why would you need to 'hear' about anything? And if you did have to hear about anything, where've you been since Barbara's takeover?"

"Yeah, well—I mean, I took a vacation for a bit."

Ivy opened her mouth to further imply Gabe's inexplicable absence. However, Oswald cut her off.

"Gabe's been on vacation—I'm sure Sylvia was aware of that. Anyway, that's not important. What is important is that I am very much alive, and this will go faster if you listen to me without interrupting," Oswald continued, turning his attention to the man in question. "I need to build an army to exact my revenge and take back my throne. Will you help me?"

"Of course, I will! When the guys hear that you're still alive, they'll come running! I'll make sure of it. What do you want me to do?"

"That, Gabe! I want you to do that!"

"Got it. I'm on it. I'll make a few phone calls," Gabe said happily.

He moved past him, taking out his cell. As he did, Oswald inwardly rolled his eyes and massaged his temple.

There were days where he was certain he had taken Sylvia's intuition for granted. On top of the fact that he generally missed her and couldn't wait to reveal to her that he was very much alive, knowing how much she was missing him in general, Oswald promised he'd never take for granted the way she automatically knew what he wanted without having to explain every little thing to her.

There was a cohesion of their reciprocating mentality—years of working together as employer/employee and as lovers had made their way of communicating so ideal that he coveted that type of understanding he didn't have with his current present company.

Ivy uncrossed her arms and strode over to him, whispering, "There's something off about him."

Oswald groaned, "No argument there."

"I don't trust him."

Oswald looked at her skeptically, "Gabe? He's a human Labrador. You whistle, he comes running. Trust me; he's loyal."

"Loyal to who, though," She muttered.

"What are you talking about?"

"When I found him, he was alone at some bar. He wasn't anywhere around Lark. Isn't that weird? I mean, this is a guy that you guys have been around, right? You go missing; Lark's people slim down in numbers; wouldn't you think one of your loyal people would stick around?" Ivy asked uncertainly, shrugging. "Protect the queen?"

Oswald sighed, "I understand you think you have some type of relationship with Sylvia, so you think you have an idea about what she would expect from her people. I get it. But even she trusts Gabe. And the people she trusts are a handful."

"There's a way that you can make sure he's still loyal. I have this perfume," Ivy said slyly, gesturing to the seemingly normal little bottle that she wore on a chain around her neck. "One whiff…" (She poured a few drops on her wrists and placed a dab below her ears) "And a man will do anything I ask, including telling the truth."

Gabe was still on the phone, making those calls. Oswald peered at Ivy unsuspectingly.

"Look," Oswald said coolly. "Now that Gabe is here, I'm afraid this is where we part ways. I have an army to build, a war to plan, and we really don't know each other all that well. You understand."

Blankly, she uttered, "No."

"Maybe you can ask one of your plants. I do not trust you."

Ivy said indignantly, "I saved your life. And I know Lark."

"Everyone knows 'Lark'." Oswald said impatiently. "Or, at least, they think they do."

"I spied for her. I helped her get rid of Delilah. Lark would vouch for me if she were here."

"Well, she's not. And I don't intend to wait here, making polite discussion with the friendly vegetation, wasting valuable time just so you can finally reveal your true motivations for saving my life."

"I saved your life because you needed to be saved. And I know how much you mean to her. Why wouldn't I save your life after she saved mine from someone as mean as Delilah? And…I don't know…I thought we could be friends."

Oswald stared at her.

Gabe got off the phone, saying victoriously, "My men are on their way!"

"I thought we were friends," Ivy said painfully.

Oswald snickered, "Friends." His amusement sobered when Ivy's expression didn't change. "Oh, you're being serious. Look, don't take this the wrong way. But you're kind of a freak."

Ivy glared at him before she turned on her heel and angrily left the house.

"Did she tell you not to trust me?" Gabe asked idly.

Oswald chuckled, "Yeah…"

Wait a minute.

He turned around: "Why—"

CLUNK!

Oswald was knocked unconscious. Gabe sighed, looking down at him.

He was split between amusement at his boss' naivety, impressed by the intuition of the girl who'd come to find him, and guilt for knowing that what he was about to do would likely tear Sylvia apart—that was, if she ever found out what he was up to.

The highest bidders who were interested in doing what the Riddler had done were sworn to secrecy. Penguin would stay dead, even if that right to his death switched hands. Gabe would go back to the house, do Sylvia's bidding as she declared, and no one would be the wiser (as long as things didn't leak out).

She was nice to him, considered the things he said, and even made him feel like an equal. It was because of this that Gabe had convinced his sales force that only Penguin's life would be up for auction. Sylvia's life was non-negotiable. He made sure to pay her back with that kindness.


The Ridgeway Gallery was the perfect rendezvous point. It had first begun as a construction project—one of Oswald's while he'd been mayor—to restore the once beautiful art gallery to its prime. Once upon a time, Barbara Kean had held the deed to its alabaster doors before she was put in Arkham for murdering her parents; since her release, the deed had switched hands approximately five times before Oswald had been elected Mayor; once the mayoral hat had been placed upon his head, reconstruction of the Ridgeway Gallery had begun.

That had been nearly a month ago. Now that Oswald was gone and Aubrey James—who could be as far from being an aficionado of anything remotely close to artistic expression—had reclaimed the mayoral chair by default without opposition, the gallery now remained a half-renovated attempt to restore what used to be.

For lack of a better phrase, this hideout served as a storage unit.

And it was fitting seeing as how this project of Oswald's served as a catacomb for what had once been a contextual friendship, tainted by jealousy (and repressed emotions that could have been reciprocated if not for the former).

After another day of messing with the GCPD, causing mayhem on the streets and making a name that Ed considered worthy of himself, he'd returned to the gallery, victorious. His walk became more of a saunter as he followed the marble-like walls to the center which housed most of the art pieces that were still framed or sitting on easels—promises of being displayed still left hanging in the balance.

Ed sighed, tossing his bowler hat onto a table, not paying attention to where it fell. When he didn't hear it land, he turned and startled, stumbling so his lower back fell unceremoniously against the wall.

Chairs lined against wooden tables as if they might've been more prominently displayed in a library rather than a gallery.

Sitting in one of those chairs was Sylvia, who held the hat in one hand; in another, she held what looked like a normal Glock at first glance until he recognized the short, red feathers which were out of place on such a weapon.

Beside her was Victor Zsasz; he seemed even less inclined to act. He sat on the edge of the table directly behind her; one boot hovering a little higher above the ground due to his seated position.

Ed gulped, slowly straightening, holding his hands up in a subconscious hint of surrender: "Lark."

"Hi, Ed." Sylvia said with a tight smile. She placed the hat on the table behind her and withdrew a newspaper from the same spot, holding it out to reveal the headlines. "Or do you prefer 'The Riddler' these days?"

"Why are you here?" Ed asked seriously.

"You and I have a few things to talk about." Sylvia said coolly. "We can do it one of two ways—I don't care which you decide." She stood and pointed the gun at him. "But fair warning: The first way is most cruel."

"You'll shoot me?" Ed asked warily.

"Not really. There aren't any bullets in this gun. Only a dart."

Ed lowered his eyes to the gun in her hand.

"It's filled with the same paralyzing agent that you injected into me the night you killed Oswald." She uttered darkly. "You see, I have mixed feelings about Option A."

"Do you…?"

"Yeah. Do you want to know why?"

Ed said reluctantly, "Why?"

"Pro: It involves me paralyzing you to the point you can neither talk nor move—you'll get to experience everything you put me through—some things: twice. And when you finally gain anything short of movement, Victor and I will physically tear you apart, piece by piece. First, your fingers will go, then your toes, and then we'll start working on things that you'll probably miss more."

Ed winced at her calmly spoken words as if she had cut him with a knife.

"And Option B?" He asked hoarsely.

"Option B is we have the same discussion. Victor leaves. And we do things one-on-one, killing included. And," Sylvia sighed, lowering the gun, "threats of paralysis are withdrawn. Option B is not my favorite. But, honestly, the con of Option A outweighs anything good that would come from it because paralyzing and killing you would make you a martyr, and I don't want you to die, knowing you didn't give me your all. You can see why I'm torn. It's why I'm giving you the option. So, which is it going to be?"

Ed lowered his hands: "Option B."

"Smart man, Riddles." Sylvia uttered. "Probably for the best, all things considered. Victor…?"

Victor looked at her expectantly. She handed him the dart gun.

"I'll have my phone off," She said lightly. "If Benson gives an update…"

"I'll let you know."

"Thank you."

"Do you want me to hold your other calls?" Victor joked.

"Interrupt only if it's important and it absolutely can't wait."

"So, what's the priority here?"

"You know me well enough," Sylvia said with a small smile. "You make that judgement call."

"After, pizza and a movie?"

"Pepperoni, and it's your choice this round."

"How about a romantic comedy?"

Sylvia cringed. Victor snickered and kissed her on the cheek: "Just kidding, Pumpkin." He gave Ed a look conveying impatience before he left. After, Ed turned to Sylvia.

She stood only briefly, pulling a chair out from the table, and placed it in front of her. She firmly patted the seat before reclining back in her own.

"Don't start clamming up on me now." Sylvia said snidely. "It's your home. You should be comfortable. Take a seat."

Edgily, Ed sat down in front of her.

"Now…Let's talk."