Epilogue

Twenty Years Later

The grand opening of Gotham's art gallery had been intended to be a smashing hit. Instead, it turned out to be a smashing robbery.

Before the manager had had time to blink, gas had filled the chamber. His eyes had begun to sting to the point that he hadn't been able to keep them open. Then, he'd suddenly been on the ground. A pair of small nets, woven from barbed wire, had fastened themselves around his wrists and ankles. He'd lain on the floor, coughing and leaking tears, as his employees met a similar fate. All the while, men in suits walked in like they owned the place. One by one, as calmly as a housewife picking out apples at the grocery store, they began to take down the paintings from the walls and carefully stored them in folders. The same happened to statues and vases, though with a bit more care involved.

The manager was about to demand who these men worked for when the answer's shadow fell over him.

"Ah, Monet. One of my favorites." The figure chuckled. "Be careful, you buffoons. Those paintings are worth more than you are."

The manager looked up. His blood turned to ice.

The Penguin stood before him. A rotund, pale man in his fifties, the Penguin wore a fine black suit and polished leather shoes. The spats on his shoes were as spotless as fresh snow. Despite his age, the Penguin had only a few wrinkles here and there, and they were only visible when he contorted his face. His nose was beak-like and his chin was weak. He had long, flowing hair the color of pitch that went past his shoulders. He wore a top hat, a monocle that made one of his eyes look freakishly large (yet ironically made it difficult to guess its color), and a ruby brooch over his heart. He leaned on his umbrella, a smug smile on his round face.

"Sorry for the intrusion, sir," The Penguin apologized in an oddly effeminate voice, "but at least you've been ransacked by a man with impeccable taste." He adjusted his tie with his flippers, smirking all the way.

Two of the Penguin's goons placed their hands on the last painting. But with a silver flash, they suddenly found themselves cuffed to the wall. By bat-shaped restraints.

The Penguin's eyes widened. He spun around to find a tall, muscular man appear as if by magic. Sheathed in black and donning a bat mask, the vigilante had foiled his plans plenty of times. Each time caused only a delay in the inevitable, of course, but the man's presence certainly made the Penguin's blood boil.

"Two days out of prison," Batman said, "and you're back to your old games, huh, Penguin?"

"You again!" Penguin exclaimed. "And again, and again!" He held up the umbrella and squeezed the trigger. A flurry of bullets showered the wall, but Batman had already ducked.

His umbrella-gun smoking, the Penguin turned and fled. A bat-shaped shadow was in close pursuit. Reaching into his pocket, the Penguin extracted a few metal orbs no bigger than marbles. He let them fall. Smoke burst forth as if from a geyser. Batman held his cape over the lower half of his face, masked eyes scanning.

The Penguin slid down the banister. Landed on his feet as nimbly as a cat.

But then, with a flash of black and yellow, a pair of boots landed on his back. He crashed on his stomach.

Batgirl hovered over him, a pair of cuffs in her yellow gloves.

Penguin knocked her down, then scrambled to his feet. She froze, ready to defend herself. He was at an advantage here, and they knew it. He merely looked at her. At the fiery hair that flowed from her mask. At those big, bright green eyes that glared at him defiantly. Then, he ran out. She sat up, stunned.

Five minutes later, as the police cars' sirens blasted through the night, Batman stepped out of the gallery. Batgirl stood by his side. The workers, now freed, were more than happy to explain what had happened. The hired help scowled as they were led into the vehicles, their hands behind their backs.

From his perch, far above the ground, Oswald Cobblepot watched the scene unfold. It was a pity that the plan had failed. He had truly been looking forward to stealing such fine works. Half of it would have been sold on the black market at outrageous prices. The other half would have decorated his mansion. He'd even had his eye on a priceless pearl necklace that would have gone on the altar. Oh, well. Such is life. There would be another day, and another crime to commit.

Oswald watched Batgirl. She carried herself with great pride and confidence, as though she had been born to do this. She had grown as lean and strong as a wolf. In some aspects, physically, she reminded him of someone else. Somewhere in the posture, something in the bone structure. Just a shadow, maybe less, but it was there. Her eyes had stayed the same.

This wasn't the first time Oswald had seen her. He had watched her blossom into a beautiful desert bloom over the years, never seen but vigilant. Making sure no harm befell her. Indeed, during their interactions, he had never hit her. Not once, even though he'd had plenty of chances. And none of his men were allowed to hurt her. Batman? They could put him in a wheelchair for all Oswald cared. But not her. Not the last living relic of his friend.

Gordon had done a splendid job at raising her. The monthly cheques, anonymous and generous, had greatly helped him do it. Each month, for two decades, a cheque of anything between five and ten thousand dollars was mailed directly to the Gordon residence - even if they moved, even if they were away, it found them. More than once, it had left Oswald unable to fill his belly or keep his mansion warm, but he had never regretted it. When it came time for Beryl...no, Barbara to attend college, the cheques had become more frequent and more plentiful. When coupled with her excellent average and sublime athletic performance, they had allowed her to attend her dream college.

Oswald, and the presence inside him, had wanted to do more. Maybe send her a present each Christmas, on each birthday. When Barbara had fallen and broken her knee once, Oswald had wanted to send her flowers and 'get well soon' balloons. But they had to be prudent. Those would have been easier to track down. All it would take is one fingerprint.

Thus, he had made due with simply peering into her life without ever entering it. Well, unless one included their interactions as Penguin and Batgirl. Those were inevitable. They had picked different paths.

Nor could Barbara ever know the truth. Hell, her own father didn't know it. The truth would crush them both. Oswald didn't want that, and nor did the ghost living in his heart.

Oswald would've liked things to turn out differently. But he'd peeked into Barbara's life often enough to know that she was happy. And that was enough for the both of them.

Suddenly, one of Oswald's goons managed to grab one of the cops' gun. He managed to make it to the curb before Batgirl appeared behind him and trapped him in a headlock. Two minutes later, he was back in the police car.

Oswald chuckled. He removed his monocle. Behind the frosted glass, his indigo eye was tearing up. "Well, Ruby, it looks like she's growing up."

For a brief moment, the full moon peeked out from behind the clouds. Its pallid light fell upon Oswald's perch. In the window next to him, a second figure reflected in the glass. It was a woman in her late forties. She had a figure average for her age, and her curly hair was mostly gray. It tumbled down her shoulders, free and uncombed. She wore enough jewelry to fill a store, all glittering softly in the moonlight. Her face, as round as a coin, was marred by a few lines - mostly, the ones that came with smiling. Her eyes were large and dark blue.

Silent, she took Oswald's hand. He could almost feel its warmth. Almost.

For as long as the moonlight was present she sat next to him, holding his hand.

A small smile was on her face.