The Penguin Hunt - part 4

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Your presence goes unnoticed upon your entrance, just another person obscured in the lowlights.

A sense of deja-vu passes over you as you scan the interior, picturing the gaudy red countertop where you used to sit.

Then you blink, and it's replaced by a fully stocked bar, the table lined with scotch glasses and the shelves covered in nearly every liquor known to man.

Scantily-clad waitresses slip through the throng, avoiding wandering hands with practiced ease, carrying trays covered to the brim with drinks to customers.

You can catch flashes of guards throughout the club, concealed discreetly within alcoves and blending in with the rest of the patrons.

You didn't know what you had expected when you first looked inside the Gothic, maybe, maybe just a hint of what it used to be, some fixture that had survived the destruction.

But Cobblepot had done a very good job of erasing any trace of Danny's Diner.

You would just have to repay him by doing the same to his precious little nightclub.

He'll even get to see the fires if he's watching from the top of the Iceberg Lounge.

There have to be almost two hundred people inside, there's not even enough room to stand much less walk without getting a shoulder in the ribs.

So you do the obvious thing to thin the herd.

A single gunshot rings through the air.

For a moment, nothing changes, but like the ripples in a pond, it begins slowly before overtaking the entirety of the club.

It starts with those closest to you, fleeing away from the gunshot frantically without any thought for the direction the music cuts out and the poles and bar are vacated with all due haste, but not without a few bottles of liquor disappearing from the shelves.

The panic spreads through the club like a virus, driving everyone not a crony of Penguin fleeing for the nearest exit, and from the back, at an inconspicuous table rises a giant of a man, almost of a height with you.

Butch Gilzean, head Capo of Penguin's City District operations, and he's coming straight towards the source of the shot, you, flanked by a dozen of his own goons.

"Those were paying customers, you know," Gilzean says with a smile. "why'd you have to go and scare them off like that?"

You're not fooled for a second. Gilzean had not come to be Penguin's most trusted lieutenant because he could crush cinder blocks like they were overripe grapes, the man was cunning and responsible for more than one hostile acquisition.

And anyone who underestimated him found out just how strong he truly was.

"Not much of a talker, are you? Well, that's okay, my buddies will teach you." he laughs delightedly and takes a seat at the bar, pouring himself a drink.

"Don't break him too much."

His men smile and rush towards you, weapons held high and clearly expecting to bring you down with strength of numbers.

The dozen of them circle around you brandishing bats, batons, pipes, brass knuckles, and every weapon a mobster could possibly have.

And just like mobsters, they don't play fair, coming at you from all angles intent on pulverizing you.

Unfortunately for them, you didn't play fair either.

The familiar anchoring weight settles deep within you, and the golden currents are bent to your will, enshrouding each of them in a glowing sarcophagus of threads.

The world turns cold, not as it was before, but truly cold, your breath turns to mist, and the pallor of the thugs' turn a sickly blue.

It's like you were just transported into an industrial freezer.

Your sword falls down, splitting one from head to groin, but only the thin red line is all the evidence of his death.

Swiftly pirouetting, a still figure is bisected at the waist, the now two pieces of him frozen in the air like some macabre modern-art exhibit.

You fall upon the rest with savage glee, exulting in the naked fear in their eyes and the moment of realization that this is the end.

Gauntleted fists tear through skin, bone, and brain matter with frightening ease, bullets pause in the air just piercing vital spots, and your blade flashes and cuts with deadly precision.

A healthy covering of gore and blood splatters across every visible surface and errant passerby in the splash zone when the weight finally lifts, including Gilzean, who had just been in the middle of pouring himself a drink.

The glass shatters in his hand with a crack, and he begins nonchalantly picking out the shards embedded in his hand.

The giant wipes at his blood-stained suit with a handkerchief. "That was Italian, you know," he says with feigned calmness, rising from his seat. "I was going to maybe just break your kneecaps then cut your throat, now, oh now, your gonna suffer."

He reaches out underneath the bar and retrieves a wicked metal bat.

"I'm sure it'll buff out," you reply.

"Smart guy, huh, let's see how smart you are without a head."

Gilzean attacks you with all the savage ferocity of a berserker, and with the lack of skill to match.

His blows are sloppy and overextending, and you take full advantage, your blade slipping through his guard and cutting deep into the flesh.

He bellows in anger and pain, features contorting furiously as he doubles his assault on the empty space where you had just been.

You toy with him, cutting and goading him like you're a matador and he's a rampant bull.

It's cruel and unnecessary and every one of your guardians would have been chastised you for it.

Slade, because it's unprofessional, Selina, because of her hate of messy things, and Bruce, well Bruce would have already had an aneurysm by now.

You don't care, he deserves it, because this man, he's the one who personally saw to the destruction of the diner, the one who killed Danny and buried his remains under the cinders of his family's restaurant.

Your blade lashes out, and Butch lets out a cry of agony as his weapon clatters to the floor, reeling back into the counter, and staring uncomprehendingly at the stump where his right hand had been.

The said hand is still tightly clutching the bat, leaving a fountain of blood behind it.

He stumbles away from your approaching form, eyes frantically darting across the room for any chance of salvation.

They die just a little when they find nothing.

"Now-now, wait a sec," he gets out, turning back towards you.

Like a viper, your hand lashes out, catching his neck, the thin barrier of his trachea collapses nearly instantly.

He gurgles and spits out blood, falling to the floor, you following right after him, hands encircling his head and thumbs jamming into his temples.

His meaty hands pull fruitlessly at you, punching ineffectually and slapping at your arms as you press down harder and harder.

"No, no, whait! Pleashe, pleashe! dohn't khill mhe! I'll dho anything!"

You relax the pressure just an inch.

"Anything?" the baritone of your voice echoes ominously in the empty room.

His chins flap as he nods vigorously.

"Then die for me."

His eyes widen in panic and he lets out a shrill cry as your hands clap together. He writhes like an eel, screaming incoherently as the bone slowly gives away with a series of groans and cracks.

His cries abruptly cut off and the pressure suddenly evaporates, and then, his head pops like an overripe grape, sending blood and grey matter in every direction.

Hot scarlet drops splatter against your mask, rolling down the sides like bloody tears.

You let the body fall back to the ground, but not before swiping the surprisingly still-clean handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping at your mask.

You don't want the metal to rust after all.

The Gothic is consumed in a fireball five minutes later, and much like the first safehouse suffered from rusted pipes leading to a gas leak.

Truly unfortunate.

Twenty-two minutes since you've started. Word will finally start filtering back to Penguin of what's going on, maybe even outright lies as his capos try to pin the blame on others, you could at least hope for that.

But this signal, oh, he'll suspect something is happening and no doubt is planning his inevitable escape.

You flick the detonator's switch. Too bad you'd have to rain on that parade.

There's no whirring of a bomb, no loud click, only a soft press against the trigger to begin the fireworks.

It begins with a low rumble in the distance, and then shockwave hits you, like a sharp gust of wind, and in the distance, the entirety of Penguin's offshore operations go up in flames, every ship, every warehouse, every dollar and piece of cargo he had stored, reduce to ash and cinders in an instant.

The explosion towers on the horizon, like a candle flame dancing on the shoreline, a flurry of crimson and orange that flutters in the wind, one that could be seen across the city.

Now, now he knows you're coming, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

You smile imagining him shouting and demanding answers, knowing deep down inside that death was coming for him.

Soon, this will all be over.

The blare of fire trucks and police cars are apparent throughout the city, rushing towards the litany of fires dotting the slums and dockside.

But besides that, the streets are conspicuously silent, as if all of Gotham held its breath in anticipation for what you would do next.

Well, you'd give them a show they'll never soon forget.

The Iceberg Lounge's doors are sealed shut, and hidden behind a thick wall of metal, or it was before you crumpled it like a paper ball.

Your footsteps echo loudly against the white marble tile as you finally enter the building.

Its roof extends far above you, separated by hundreds of feet and many different floors filled with all manner of exotics, whether it be a penguin exhibit or aquariums built into the snow-white walls.

Everything is the color of ice or very well near it and you can feel a noticeable chill that leaves your hairs standing on edge.

And in the center of the building is the creme de la creme of all, a massive iceberg made hollow and with a great white shark swimming inside, staring at you through beady hungry eyes.

Then you notice the guards. On every walkway, on nearly every inch of space is one of Penguin's thugs, each armed to the teeth and weapons pointed straight at you.

But even though the balaclavas and tinted helmets that concealed their faces, you can almost see the fear in their eyes, feel it wafting off them like the stench of corpses, how they're desperately fighting their animal urge to run and flee from you, how they're but one moment from shattering.

You finally find Cobblepot on the highest floor, flanked by three women dressed in skin-tight hostess outfits - they must be his bodyguards, staring down at you like you were some insect,

"So you're the one responsible for this mess, you cost me quite the pretty penny," he says, monocle gleaming in the fluorescent light.

"An army won't stop me from getting to you," you say calmly, not giving any mind to the hundreds of pistols, rifles and the odd RPG pointed towards you.

"Oh, I beg to differ," he cackles. "kill him and throw his body in the tank. My dear Mary hasn't been fed today."

The bullets fall upon you like torrents of rain, drowning your vision with their sheer number. And through all of the clatter of magazines nad the whistling of hot lead, Cobblepot's laugh echoes the loudest.

The world falls apart, falling into darkness until all you can see his sneering visage high above you.

A cry escapes free from your lips, filled with every bit of suffering that he had caused you, every ounce of anger that had festered and grown like a weed inside of you, everything that he had caused these past seven years.

The anchor in your stomach turns into the weight of the world itself, forcing you to keel over lest you collapse then and there.

The golden threads flutter and shake, as if in response to your shout, bending and twisting, but unable to break free as you shatter their resistance, forcing them to your command.

A vortex of light forms swirling and consuming everything in the Iceberg Lounge, wrapping across every surface, every person, every object and clutching them in an unbreakable embrace.

And then, they stop, and with them, so too does the world.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

The clock ticks rhythmically in your mind as you open your eyes, coming face to face with the rather large round of a Barret 50. cal pointed directly between your eyes.

And behind it are RPG rounds, grenades, and thousands and bullets of air suspended in mid-air.

Your blade slips free of its scabbard, and then the killing begins.

Hack and cut. Rip and Tear. There is no form, no technique, no finesse, no ripostes, parries, or elegant pirouettes, only a mindless need to hurt, to kill that drives your movements.

You become more animal than man, no, you become a force of nature, unstoppable and terrible to behold.

If only Slade could see you now, you don't know if he'd chastise you, or be too scared to say a word.

You unload magazine after magazine in every which direction, letting every single ace in the hole fly, semtex, and fragmentation grenades pause right above the walkways, throwing knives piercing eyes and skin, and steel tears through mesh armor and kevlar like it isn't even there.

And when those run out, and your sword becomes too slow, you return to using your fists.

Blow after blow, decapitating, amputating, mutilating, shredding, shattering their forms into a thousand pieces with the same ease a child would break a lego tower.

And all the while, the clock continues to tick loudly.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

You go floor after floor, up the steps, and through everything stands in your way to Oswald Cobblepot.

At some point, maybe minutes, maybe hours, nothing is left standing, not a single man in Penguin's army who you hadn't dealt with.

The bloody haze that had settled over you finally recedes, and with it so too does the anchor.

Bodies crash and blood splatters across the walls, separated limbs and gore scatter across the walkways and floors, spilling and staining every surface.

You relish the dawning realization in Penguin's eyes as he looks down upon the remains of his private army.

"I told you they couldn't stop me. You were always bad at listening, weren't you, Penguin?"

His face turns a dark scarlet. "Kill him! Lark, Jay, Raven, quickly!" He brandishes his umbrella at you and a single bullet emerges from it, bouncing harmlessly off your chest.

The three women in question give each other uncertain looks, perhaps unsure of whether to try to challenge the monster that had just killed a hundred men in but a blink of an eye.

"Yes, Mr. Penguin!" they finally chorus in unison before encircling you in a triangle formation.

They're clearly trained and experienced at that, one is always cartwheeling, spinning, or feinting an attack to keep your attention, while the other two hound at your flanks.

Unfortunately for them, you're better.

Your arm lashes out, catching an errant kick from the read-haired one. "Jay," you hear the other two cry. You drag her towards you, forcing her leg up and twisting until it pops with a painful snap.

She lets out a shout of agony before you throw her over the railing.

"You'll pay for that." The black one declares, cart-wheeling towards you almost comically.

"Raven, wait," the blonde follows swiftly after, but she's a step too slow as Raven falls to the floor clutching at the long wound across her neck.

"So, that must make you Lark, then." you muse to yourself, cornering in the last of Penguin's bodyguards like a big cat would its prey.

She backpedals away from you, offering everything, information, locations, and when that doesn't work she even offers herself.

"Let me go, I can tell you about his safehouses, or about the DA he has in his back pocket," or she frantically strikes a pose. "how about me?"

You might have been tempted once, it if weren't for the fact she's one of Penguin's bodyguards or the fact that Rose would be liable to castrate you.

You don't deign to give her a response, simply clutching her jaw and then twisting violently.

Quick and painless, something those below could not say.

And with their deaths, so goes Penguin's last line of defense, and the King of Gotham's Underworld knows it.

"Why-why are you doing this?" Cobblepot asks.

"You took something from me, so I took everything from you."

The fires of Penguin's empire burn brightly through the great window that showed all of Gotham City below.

"Danny Tollini." Cobblepot gives you a befuddled look.

"Am I supposed to-to know who that is?" he stammers.

How dare he, how dare he pretend to not know. Or maybe, maybe he's killed so many, ruined so many lives, he truly didn't remember just one simple pizza shop owner.

"Maybe this will help you remember." Your mask clatters to the floor.

Cobblepot looks at your face confusedly, before comprehension finally dawns upon him.

"Those eyes, oh I know those eyes, now I remember," his smile returns in full force belied by the full body shakes. "You're the little urchin he kept around.

"All of this - " he waves to the destroyed interior of the Iceberg Lounge, shattered pieces of glass, marble, and ice mingling with crumpled metal and blood. "for some pizza shop owner?" Cobblebot cackles hysterically.

His laughter only grows when you foist him into the air, hand gripping tightly into the collar of his shirt. "I confess, I didn't think anyone would care about what happened to him."

"I did." your simple answer belies how every fiber of your being demands you make him suffer, to pay a thousand times for everything he's done.

Your eyes burn, searing needles of pain digging directly into their center.

"He died screaming," Cobblepot sneers goadingly. "crying and begging until the end, just like any other man."

"And so will you."

"You can't do that," he demands, almost trying to convince himself. "you're supposed to be a hero."

He follows your eyes to the bloody scene below.

"So come on then, clap me in cuffs and give me to the GCPD, just like how you vigilantes do." he offers his hands almost pleadingly, as though he expected you to have a sudden change of heart at this very moment.

You did not.

"No, not this time." His smile withers and dies.

"You will suffer," you promise. "for one death, you will die a thousand times, slowly reduced to ash and given to the wind just like everything you've ever built. Look out that window Oswald Cobblepot, and watch as your kingdom falls."

The fires across Gotham's City stretch across your field of vision, a thousand embers of flickering light that dance hypnotically in the night.

"No-no, you can't do this! You can't do this! I forbid it, no no, Batman! Ed! Someone, anyone, please help me!" he sobs hysterically clutching at your arms like a man begging for salvation.

He would find none from you.

Dust to Dust. Ashes to Ashes.

"Your time's up Penguin, this is the end."

It begins with his fingers and toes, his grip on you slowly weakening as the skin flicks of like wet paper, then so does the muscle and flesh until bony fingers are digging tightly into your wrists.

They snap and crack and turn to dust right before both of your eyes, Cobblepot shrieking and crying all the while.

"Please, I'll be good! I'll reform my ways please don't ki-"

His unheeded pleas continue, even as his chest caves in, and finally, the skin peels off from his skull, and the eyes dissolve within the sockets.

Penguin lets out one last bone-chilling cry before his body collapses in on itself, reduced to nothing more than ash that spills across the floor and your boots, like sand from a broken hourglass.

Ugh, that'll be a bitch to clean.

A cold wind slips through the open doors, scattering the ashes into the winds.

So is the end of Oswald Cobblepot, Crime King of Gotham.

And for you, the first measure of peace in five long years.

You stand over the scene of your victory, looking out upon the burnt remains of Penguin's empire, waiting for the sense of relief, of satisfaction, of exultation to come.

It never does.

A dark figure grows out of the shadows of the broken entrance, accompanied by the flapping of his cape in the wind.

"What have you done?" The Dark Knight demands from below.

You fix the mask over your face before turning to face him, feeling a bitter pride in the look of ineffectual anger he fails to hide underneath his cowl.

"Something you should have done a long time ago."

The great window overlooking Gotham shatters, and you disappear into the streets below.

An ominous heavy air hanged over Gotham, a miasma that filled the bones of old men with dread, like the inside of an execution chamber.

Sirens rang throughout the city and each street had its own barricade and squadron of GCPD cars blocking all entrance and exit.

The horns of fire trucks blared loudly from below, and the rush of water against roaring flames sent great gouts of steam into the night sky.

It's a warzone, and no one on either side knows who fired the first shot.

Except for you. You are the man to make Gotham, for one night, standstill.

I did this, all of this.

The realization falls upon you like the weight of the world.

All that death, the macabre scene laid out before you, it was done by your hand, only you.

Not a great army, nor a vengeful god, but by a Gothamite orphan by the name of Cadmus Othrys.

No one would ever know that if you had your way.

You didn't kill Penguin for glory, to have your name known throughout the world, you did it because it was right, because it was necessary.

And yet, to know you were the specter that hanged over the city tonight, like the Reaper itself, that struck fear into the heart of the mightiest criminals that had ever stained the city with their presence?

It was intoxicating, heady, addictive, like walking a tightrope with a blindfold and knowing that one misstep would send you careening into the abyss.

You're drawn out of your reverie as the rooftops finally give way to your destination, a vast plain dotted with grey and white headstones and half-ruined cairns.

The Gotham City Graveyard.

An ominous heavy air hangs over Gotham, like the inside of the execution chamber, grim and all-encompassing.

Sirens ring throughout the city and each street had its own barricade and squadron of GCPD cars blocking all entrance and exit.

The horns of fire trucks blare loudly from below, and the force of water against roaring flames sends great gouts of steam into the sky. Mothers usher their children into their homes and fathers sleep just a bit farther from the door.

It's a warzone, and no one knows who fired the first shot.

But the sounds are muted, filtering like static through the graveyard, nothing more than slight tingling in the back of your mind, pushed away like a fly.

"I did this for you," you tell the silent headstone. The words ring hollow, even to you.

You receive no response. You'd have been surprised if you had.

What do you tell the dead? That they could finally rest in peace? What difference did it make to them?

This wasn't about him, it was about us, always us, a voice whsipersin the back of your mind.

You roughly shove the encroaching thoughts away, but they returned with a vengeance each time. And no matter how much you protested, and denied it, you couldn't deny the truth of it.

You enjoyed it, of how all of Gotham sat in the palm of your hand, the power you wielded, the fear you put into their eyes.

For those few hours, you were something more than just a man, you were a god. Who could say that they would lunge at the chance to be something more, something greater than what they were?

And how much of it truly had to do with Danny? Would he be happy to see what you did?

No, probably not.

You still would have done it again, either way.

He wouldn't have been able to understand your reasons, that it was not only justice for him, but for yourself, and justice for all those who had suffered because of Oswald Cobblepot.

And all the evidence of how much you cared lay right in front of you. The headstone shows no marking or damage from weathering and the very same flowers that had been placed on the day of the funeral remained in full bloom, as they had just been plucked this very morning.

Time had not moved an inch at this spot for over three years. The threads of Time had been lashed and bound to stone and earth by your childish demand, and you hadn't even known you did it.

It was wrong, wrong in ways you couldn't begin to describe, like a child wailing against reality.

Always forward, never back. The words echo through the night like the fluttering of leaves. The stone etchings are cold to the touch as you trace the name scrawled upon it.

You don't know what compels you to look behind and face the dark clouds rising over Gotham. You're met with dark orange and red haze that poked out from behind its skyline like some demonic hellscape, a city engulfed in fire and yet as silent as the grave.

The realization settles with the weight of the world on your shoulders. All the death, all the destruction, all the chaos in the city below, it's all for yourself, just as much for the body rotting beneath the ground.

And now, looking over the headstone, you know it was time to make a choice. There are some moments that define men, that shape who they are, and whose consequences ripple across eternity.

You knew in your bones this was one moment.

Knowing you have to do something didn't make it any easier. Trepidation bit and swirled through your stomach making you feel like a young orphan boy all over again.

The threads bend stiffly under the pressure of your touch. They're a dull yellow with none of their characterized golden hue that you had become familiar with, as though the strain of holding it for so long had worn them dry and broken.

You would have to rectify that. They give way with a low groan, breaking free from the stone-like cables torn from the ground, swiping through the air with a low hiss.

The stone begins to wear and weather before your very eyes, entire sections turning smooth and the etchings disappearing with every moment. The flowers turn grey and wilt as well, petals drooping into the mud and dirt.

The nagging urge rises up within you to stop it, to halt the damage, and preserve what was left. You don't.

Time was reaping what it was due, as it should be. Nothing was meant to last forever, both gods and men bowed before Time.

"Goodbye," A single-word eulogy, yet it carries more meaning than words could ever express. Today is the end of one life, and yet, the beginning of another.

You turn to leave, but a low glow emerging from dirt above the grave stops you. A plant sprouts, with petals that shined like moonlight and evergreen leaves. It almost seemed to hum, moving hypnotically as it rose out from beneath the earth.

Not thinking twice, you gathered it up in your hands, mindful of the roots and packing it with dirt to sustain it until you reached your apartment.

You had no idea what this was, but you would be damned before you would leave it here to die.

The graveyard lays silent behind you, and ahead, Gotham continues to burn, but to You, the future had never seemed brighter than before today.