AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Not dead yet! -15/7/2015

This is the revised Chapter Thirteen, which will not make sense in the context of the next few chapters untill those have been replaced by revisions as well. The story is being altered considerably from what was here, in a direction that is in my opinion superior. I welcome feedback and beta readers still!

Chapter Thirteen- The Last Thursday

The Black Mask fumed as he waited in the back-room of the Iceberg Lounge. Coming to Cobblepot had been a mistake, he was sure now, but after losing his arms-shipment and almost his life at the hands of this new vigilante, he knew he needed to take more drastic measures.

So he'd come to the one asshole in Gotham he felt half-way sure would even consider his idea. Even that wasn't very certain though.

He reached into the pocket of his new suit for a cigar, and grimaced at the memory. He'd smelled of sewage for a week, despite hundreds of showers and unguents. He'd even taken off his mask to wash it, and that was a very rare thing for him. Iron rusts, after-all, and his face...well, no one was allowed to see his face.

He waited impatiently, eyeing the guards at the door warily. His fingers rolled the Cuban cigar around in them. He wished it was his pistol instead.

"What's taking that fat bird-minded fool so long?" he mumbled, grinding his teeth.

"The Boss will be with you in a moment." the mook repeated tonelessly.

The Black Mask simply waited.

Finally, Cobblepot emerged from his private meeting, and Mask was almost shocked by who he saw leaving the room with him.

"A pleasure to do business with you again. Do give Mr. Scarface my regards." Cobblepot oozed his usual charm.

Arnold Wesker, the mild-mannered free-agent who seemed to be the only one in Gotham who could speak for the notorious crime-lord "Scarface" nodded politely, before being guided back to the main Club area by some thugs. (Black Mask wasn't sure if the crime-lord was an Al Pacino aficionado or a genuine history buff. No one who'd met the puppet master of Gotham had been willing to talk about him, which was extraordinary given how persuasive the Black Mask could be.)

"What's he doing here?" The Black Mask snarled. " Are you trying on something behind my back, Cobblepot?"

"Please, there is no need for such dissent between friends." Cobblepot smiled. "Come into my private antechamber, and we can discuss this like men."

He beckoned the Black Mask inside. As soon as the door was shut, the Penguin turned around, his face contorted by a snarl.

"Alright Sionis, you snivelling prima donna. What do you want? And don't think you can take a high tone with me just because you have control over the guns and most of the high-quality narcotic s along the Waterfront. I know where the guns are coming from and I can get my own if I want." He took a heavy cigar of his own out of a silver-case, awkwardly lighting it with his crooked hands.

Black Mask grinned to himself under his mask, which was always grinning anyway. "Thats the Penguin I know. Now shut the fuck up. We have a problem. Again. A caped, masked vigilante, only this time one whose going straight to the killing, no dancing about or non-lethal intimidation crap this time. I told you the Clown wouldn't solve anything."

Cobblepot snorted. "You said no such thing. In fact I think you were most eager of all of us to bring that...rogue into our city, to finally kill the Dark Knight."

"Whatever. Look, we need to work together again, kill this fucker too. In fact it might be worth making some kinda pact, to get each other's back whenever there's a costumed freak running around..." Black Mask suggested.

"Why? He has only been killing cops and your boys so far, according to my sources. Why should the rest of us be concerned? And even if we are, do you really want to bring another Joker in every-time one of these fools turns up?"

Sionis shook his head. "No, but there's gotta be another way. It's killing our business. I got ATF all over my ass, swarming my warehouses. The waterfront's gonna be full of cops for weeks, especially with this Oil Rig business."

Cobblepot smiled cruelly. "You keep saying "our". It's only your business that's being hurt. I have just secured a -very- lucrative deal with Mr. Wesker there. No, I'm sorry Roman, I think you may be on your own for this one."

"Damnit, Oswald!" he exploded, slamming his fist onto the table. "You -owe- me one! You'd be just as screwed if the Dark Knight was still around! Without me, the Joker wouldn't have had any of the tools he used to finally get that bastard!"

Cobblepot frowned slightly. "Oh we're all well aware of that, this vigilante included if I'm not mistaken in my guess. And I owe nothing to no-one, you got that, -Roman-?" he snarled, leaning in, his hot cigar-breath puffing into the death's head mask.

Before the Black Mask could respond, there was a knock at the door. Cobblepot and Black Mask both turned, fuming. "This is supposed to be -private-" they both yelled in unison, as a shaken mobster entered.

"I'm sorry boss, but you said to come to you about this, no matter what."

"And by the sounds of it, I'm just in time, too." Another voice, speaking from behind the mobster.

A grinning young man with red-hair, wearing a green bowler-hat, a purple eye-mask which left the rest of his face uncovered, and a painfully bright pea-green suit, a pale green tie with black question marks imprinted on it completing the odd ensemble.

"Who the fuck are you?" Black Mask exploded. The Penguin simply observed, intrigued.

"Why, gentleman, I am the Riddler. And I have the answer to a Riddle that may be plaguing you."

As Thanksgiving drew nearer, Barbara found her thoughts increasingly returning to her family. The last time Thanksgiving had rolled around, she had still been in the hospital. Her memories of that time were blurry, but she knew that that was when her family began to drift away from her.

She wasn't in the habit of drowning out reality with music, but she clutched the LexPod Patricia had given her like it was a life-support machine, its buds running on thin white chords into her ears, easing her tension with the heavy chords of a Torch Song compilation album, her favourite heavy rock band.

She was pushing herself hard again. Her walks had become jogs. Patricia would think she was doing too much too fast, but even if she exhausted herself and had to spend half an hour recovering, she was determined to get fitter.

She didn't know if she could fight. But she wanted to be able to run, at least.

As she rounded a corner, her whole body shuddering and heaving with sweat, she felt a little proud. She'd jogged a whole block. It might seem like nothing to most, but it was something. She was getting stronger.

She slumped to the side-walk, feeling dizzy, reaching for her water-bottle. It was late November and she felt like she'd been running in June. The occasional gust of bone-chilling wind, rustling the remaining leaves, helped cool her down.

She sat for a while, watching the world go by. Things seemed so tranquil up here. Even sat alone, beneath a grey sky, sipping her water, she found the thoughts returning.

She couldn't keep running, and the music of her favourite band wasn't enough to drown it out. She closed her eyes and remembered. Her family. She couldn't remember seeing them in over nine months.

Maybe that was why it had taken so long for her to recover. Or maybe it wasn't until they'd left that she could really begin. So many thoughts.

She felt fourteen again. Which seemed like a lifetime ago, now. She was hurtling towards adult-hood and she'd left the tracks a long time ago.

She looked across, and recognised where she was. This was not far from where the convenience store she'd used to visit as a child was. Her mother had brought here many times, occasionally to buy her lemon sours. The place had closed down after the Mall had opened up, but she could still remember the taste of those sour candies.

So why did they leave? Was she so terrible? She felt a deep pain of a different kind. She'd been so angry about what had been done to her, so focused on overcoming that, she couldn't or wouldn't see the rest of it. There was so much more to deal with. She felt tears coming to her eyes. It just never stopped. How far did she have to go before she could finally escape? She remembered the first divorce, and when she had chosen to live more with her father than her mother. Perhaps her mother had never forgiven her for that. She closed her eyes, breathing in and out, while teen angst rock filled her ears.

Later that evening, after a meal with her carer, she returned to her computer, eagerly logging in to the hacker websites and the chat client that she had only recently re-activated. Whatever her thoughts about her family and her past, this was one part of it that she could still remember and somewhat enjoy.

She was surprised to see her friend Spoiler was on. She quickly sent her a ping, and began reading the latest responses to her queries on the message boards. She hadn't given up trying to find out more about this Rig, and she had secured a reluctant agreement from Ray to proceed in this manner.

From what he'd grudgingly shared with her, or at least permitted her to "accidentally" read, it seemed he was trying to track down a fellow named "The Riddler", some mysterious nut-ball who he felt was his best connection to the Prospero Incident.

So far there'd been nothing concrete, though she was interested to note that apparently Prospero had held annual Young Genius fairs which had featured riddle competitions as one of the events up until about fifteen years ago. Around the time her father started his vigilante career, interestingly enough.

She took a sip from a mug of hot coco, wincing as it scalded her tongue a little. She was still very sensitive. It had taken a while for her to recover her sense of taste, but now everything was...very intense. Heat, cold, spiciness.

She checked the client, and was again surprised. It seemed her friend had delivered.

Spoiler92: Riddle me this, riddle me that

Oracle: Hey!

Oracle: How are you? How have you been?

Spoiler92: I don't know why you're interested in this, but if you don't turn back, I'm afraid I
might have to tell you

Oracle: Um...ok. What does that mean?

Spoiler92: The Riddler is real. Prospero has ghosts of its own. But they're not the whole picture.

Oracle: Go on. What do you know?

Spoiler92: Keep looking. Coincidences are clues.

Spoiler92: Also, stay away from Arkham.

Oracle:...Arkham Asylum?

Spoiler92: I've said too much

Spoiler92 Disconnected.

She once again found herself wondering just who exactly her friend was. It was a little scary, and she began to doubt if this Spoiler was the same teen girl who she'd once shared gossip, hacking tips, and high school observations with. But if it wasn't her, then who was it?

Regardless, she'd made a promise to Ray, and to herself. There was no better time than the present to start fighting crime, even if it was from a keyboard. At least for now.

Thick November winds chilled everyone to the bone. The sky was a darkening grey, even this early in the afternoon, as the three active detectives of the Major Crimes Unit- Bullock and the two new-comers- responded to a call.

Two new bodies, Stacked on top of each other, impaled through the middle by a steel pole. Kovaleski looked rather pale at the violence of it. Bullock regarded the scene dispassionately, writing down notes.

Flass looked bored, flipping through his phone.

Kovaleski sighed, as Bullock waved over some waiting duty officers. "Nothing to do with us. Just a Homicide. Not the Wrath." He said dismissively.

Despite her uneasy stomach, she frowned heavily. "This is clearly a Major Crime! Sir-"

"Not now Detective." Bullock said, dismissing her curtly. "Call us if things get real messy."

She could barely believe his flippancy, his narrow focus. What the hell was their purview if not to solve stuff like this?

"That's it." she said, later, as they stood around, huddling for warmth by one of the squad-cars, the wind battering them in their trenchcoats.

"What is it?" Flass asked sourly. He didn't much like this Ruskie girl from the Narrows. His time in Vice had shown him plenty of what girls like her were really like. Crack sluts and jail-bait, all of them. How a Narrows girl like her had made it this far, he was only too happy to speculate.

"I've had it with this...this...crap." she fumed, pacing back and forth while the crime-scene was being taped off and cleaned up. Bullock seemed to stir a little from where he was, negiotiating to buy some coffee from a passing street-vendor, so she lowered her voice. "Who do they think they're kidding? Theyre keeping us away from all the good cases so they can focus on their own bullshit."

"Well duh." Arnold Flass rolled his eyes. "We knew that from day one. They're all far too lazy skimming the cream to do real police work, whatever that speech her high and mightiness gave." Flass was used to lax policing, it was what he was good at. But he liked to be lax on his own terms. He thanked Bullock gratefully as he rejoined them, and was handed a steaming cup of espresso. He began to sip it gratefully, wincing a little at how hot it was.

"Alright you two, we're headed back to the station. Homicide will take care of this. They're good people, right Kovaleski?"

The former murder cop grunted non-committally, inwardly seething. This should have been their case, god damnit.

When they got back to the office, she resumed her harangue, as Flass eased himself comfortably into his chair.

"I don't know about you, but I mean to take what that bitch said seriously." she said, grinding her teeth. "If she can wander off doing whatever the hell she wants to pursue how she interprets the Law, why not us? I'm not spending the rest of my career typing up other people's reports and handing off cases to other departments." She began pacing again, not removing her coat.

"What are you gonna do about it?" Flass complained. "Rocking the boat already? Christ, its only been a few days. I was gonna wait till the end of the week before turning them all in to the Chief." he whispered, his eyes alight with weasel-like delight at the prospect.

"Do what you want, Flass. If MCU's a do it yourself unit, then I aim to do things my own way. And unlike you Arnold, I aim to go places through my own merit, not through bringing others down low." She shook her head with barely concealed contempt.

"Hey, don't you take that tone with me.." he growled. Who was this narrows bitch anyway? She had even more of a stick up her ass than Montoya!

"Walk it off." She said dismissively, before heading out, determined to do some real policing for once. She wasn't going to get to do any here, that was for sure. Bullock raised his head briefly, having slumped down in front of his terminal, busily tapping away. Probably playing Solitaire. "Hey! Where you going?"

"Pursuing a lead." She said dismissively, and swept out the door. If everyone else in this damn police force wanted to do things their own way, she'd do it right. No more hand-offs. No more manning the fort while the star players swanned about pursuing their own hunches and vendettas.

Her successes would be reported directly to the Commissioner. She had no intention of waiting for Montoya or the others. She was going places, and she wasn't going to let anything get in the way of that.

She was going to return to that crime-scene, call some favours from Homicide. Get some real work done, and show the chiefs that even if MCU was no good, she at least could get things done.

Bullock yawned, before taking a sip from his now much-cooler vendor-bought coffee. He made a funny face at the taste. "Bah. You buy cheap, that's what you get" he shrugged to himself.

"Detective Bullock, we should do something about Detective Kovaleski's sudden and unapproved absence..." Flass began, eager to ingratiate himself with the last remaining figure of authority in the department.

"I'm approving it." He replied sardonically. "Listen, kid. Well, you're a little too old to be kid, but listen anyway. This unit has been a thorn in the side of the City's great and good for years. When it was Jim's unit he made it invincible, indispensable. But also inconvenient. With his death, they rejoiced. They couldn't shut us down anymore- not right away- but they had the perfect excuse to start bleeding this unit dry." Bullock seemed quite unconcerned about this.

Flass blinked. "Sir-"

"I'm not a sir, Flass." Bullock sighed. "Fuck's sake. I'm officially your senior partner. I know where you come from. How you been taught." Bullock rose reluctantly from his desk.

"My point is, this Unit is on a ticking clock. We got a brief reprieve because of this Black Mask business, but all this federal interest is bound to get some heads thinking. They don't need us. Big shit comes up? Probably the mob. The mob is federal. No need to fund a Major Crimes Unit, right?"

He walked around the desk, picking up the coffee as he went. He took another sip, grimacing again. It was shitty coffee, but at least it was still warm.

"Sir-Detective Bullock, I'm not sure I understand..."Flass said, uncertainly, as the heavier man walked towards his desk nonchalantly.

"Thats right. You don't understand. Which is why you got shunted here. You're a rat, Arnold, and a lazy cop. They needed to make some token effort, something they could say to those who still care about the memory of Jim Gordon, to reassure them that MCU was on the case. But they don't really care what we do. They've already begun figuring out how to sweep this all under the rug. To deal with it quietly and carefully. But they've forgotten something, Flass." He put the coffee down, and placed both hands on Flass's desk, leaning in real close as the thinner man recoiled.

"Maybe they expect you to give them the dirt to shut us down. I don't care, even if Montoya does." He shrugged. "But we were never about them. We're doing it for him. For us. For Gotham. That's what Jim taught us. Pride. Pride and a sense that, no matter how dirty we got our hands, we were at least a little clean on the inside. And if we couldn't manage that then..." he leaned in real close, almost overbalancing on Flass's crowded desk. "At least we lessened the amount of shit everyone else had to deal with."

Flass looked at him in confusion and growing fear "What the fuck are you talking about?" he asked incredulously.

"I'm saying shut your mouth. If that ruskie girl wants to be a real cop too, its something she'll have to learn herself. Maybe you'll learn it too someday. But we're not here to teach you, to guide you. We're not doing it for you. And if you don't want to get in our way, you better shut the fuck up and stay the lazy shit you are. We don't want you to join us, and we can't let you beat us. So stay outta the way, you got that?" He jabbed Flass on the chest with a meaty finger.

"I said, you got that?"

Flass snapped. "I got that...sir."

Bullock ignored the tone."Good. Submit your fucking snitch report at the end of the week if you must, I don't give a god-damn. But right now, we're gonna sit down, and type reports, and hold this fort, and in so doing, give Montoya and the rest all the time they need to do one last thing for Gotham." He sighed, walking away, heading back to the familiar comfort of his own padded chair and desk.

Seeing no one else to appeal to, and having nothing better to do, the young man complied, though he began typing up an extra-venomous e-mail. He wouldn't send it now. He smiled, an evil idea occuring to him. One week from now was Thanksgiving. The Last Thursday of this November, as always.

As he wrote his report, he knew it was almost guaranteed to be the Last Thursday for the Major Crimes Unit too, one way or another. Bullock was right. Jim was dead. The spirit of local justice he had fought to establish was dead. The chiefs wanted to do things the way they always had been in Gotham. Quietly. Behind closed doors. Major crimes were swept under the rug. The cost of doing business.

People like Flass were ideal in this organisation. He knew how to play the game. Not piss off those with real power. Play it safe. And in so doing, no one would notice or care if he helped himself along the way. Like Mulcahey had. Like Corrigan. Like all the cops the Black Mask and others had bought and paid for.

Gotham was ready to go back to the way things always had been. New hands for old ways.

All it needed was one Last Thursday.