The Penguin Hunt - part 3

Words 3,071

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You really should be getting back, every moment you spend longer out, the higher the risk of being discovered.

But at the same time, you couldn't stop the nagging urge to watch.

So, you make your way up to a nearby rooftop, giving yourself a vantage point to watch the fight.

Selina's new student is not a good fighter, struggling futilely and almost fleeing away from Robin's attacks.

Her moves are clumsy and unsure as though this is her first night...Selina wouldn't.

On second thought, she actually would.

Dick doesn't seem to care about his opponent's hesitance or her clear inexperience, pushing the advantage with reckless confidence, crowding her towards a nearby ledge, cutting off all avenues of escape.

Selina and Batman's fight on the other hand is far less one-sided.

Wherever he attacked, she slinked back, lashing out with her claws in retaliation. Every attack by her is met head-on with equal ferocity.

It's like watching two big cats locked in combat, neither willing to give an inch, baring their teeth and tearing at each other with wild abandon.

Selina's whip lashes out and coils around Batman's forearm, only for him to stand stock still as she tries to pull him off balance.

Batman forcefully brings his arm back, dragging her forward, tumbling straight into him. But she doesn't retreat, instead forcing the two of them into some caricature of a lover's embrace.

Something ugly rises up inside of you at the sight.

For a long moment, the world stops, and then Selina lunges forward from her position in his arms, raking her claws across his cowled face.

The Dark Knight snarls in anger and jumps back into the fight, engaging in a flurry of blows with no sign of either giving up any time soon.

Turning back to Robin, you find him toying with Selina's partner, throwing out more quips than hits at this point.

Selina's mystery partner's brown locks had come undone sometime during the fight, and you could catch a glimpse of silver in between them, the sight nudging something in the back of your mind.

Selina really had not taught her anything.

I think I've seen enough, you decide, preparing to take your leave, you had more important things to do than watch children fight.

You return home with little fanfare, depositing your gear and placing your mask back upon the stand. The map that decorates the inner wall of your room remains just as you had left it, and you spend many long hours of the night examining it, plotting and plan every move down to the last detail.

Your body is jittering and your heart beating fast in anticipation at the very thought of what's to come as you fall into the realm of dreams.

You learn the Gotham Herald had taken to calling Selina's new protege, Catgirl, and the grainy black-and-white picture from last night's heist they provided definitely gave credence to the name.

Whoever she is, she's dressed up just like Selina with even a matching whip. Evidently, Selina skipped out on teaching her the skills she would need to stay alive.

From what you saw last night, she wouldn't be able to take on a high school bully much less someone like Joker or any criminal worth their salt.

It didn't matter, if Selina wanted to lead her like a lamb to slaughter, let her.

All you care about is bringing Oswald Cobblepot to a quick and painful end.

You mark the Day for December 17th, two days later, and four days before the Gala.

Hours of research had been dedicated to planning your steps. The safehouses on the outer reaches of the city would have to fall first, followed by the capos running the financial district and then the Gothic. You would take your time there, though, and make sure not one brick is left standing.

By then, Cobblepot would know what's happening, filling the streets with his thugs and anyone he could pay off to hunt you down while he waited in the Iceberg Lounge and plotted his escape.

That's when you would blow the docks, sending his capos, his ships, and last chance of escape sky high in a bonfire that even a blind man couldn't miss.

Penguin would simmer in the knowledge that there would be no escape while you tear through his fronts in the City District, and you'd let him watch from his fortress as his empire collapses all around him.

In regards to the Gala, Alfred had responded to your RSVP with a thinly-veiled letter regarding etiquette and decorum at the Gala and that Bruce would be happy to see you again.

You can feel the sarcasm through the elegantly written script.

Needless to say, the next couple of days aren't exactly productive for your schoolwork, made only worse by dodging Rose's pointed questions with half-truths and outright lies about what exactly is bothering you.

You want to tell her, and it's not hesitance of her disapproval that stops you, but rather that she would undoubtedly want to help.

You have to do this on your own.

Luckily, her and Artemis sniping at one another provides a long and very entertaining distraction for you during homeroom.

And if that isn't enough to keep your mind busy, the sight of Kitrina Falcone's hair, brown and flashes of silver locks brings back memories of the fight on the rooftop.

But that isn't possible, no way Selina would take a mob princess under her wing, much less the granddaughter of Carmine 'The Roman'.

The thoughts keep your mind plenty busy.

Inevitably, second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, the time ticks away and two days pass in the blink of an eye.

December 17th, the Day had come.

Your heart pounds in your ears as the Sun sets over Gotham City, bathing the land in darkness.

Only lights beating it back are the wide shimmering rows of Gotham's skyline and the rapidly rising moon.

The city is laid out underneath you, a sprawling patchwork of highrises and shantytowns that look like little lego blocks from your vantage point.

The weight of the mask keeps you grounded, not letting the surreality of what you're about to do overtake you.

Seven years, seven years and it's all led to this moment.

Ms. Aclis had taught you about the Fates, of Clotho, the Spinner, of Lachesis, the Drawer of Lots, Atropos, the Cutter of the Thread. And at this moment, the beginning of the end, their existence stopped being a myth, confined to paper and words.

Atropos would cut many threads this night.

With a deep breath, you drop down into the city below.

The first of Penguin's safehouses sits innocently within the depths of the Gotham slums, surrounded by mud, filth, flanked by derelict edifices, and within a building that looked like it had taken the full brunt of the Blitz.

You half expect the front door to fall over for you.

The elements of Gotham's night world, the homeless, the urchins, and would-be criminals pay you no mind outside of the jangling of cups in demand of money.

They go silent when they find themselves under the blazing lights of your eyes.

The floorplans that Slade provided you detailed every aspect of the building to the most minutia of detail.

You know that the building holds nothing but cobwebs, mothballed furniture, and rats for the first thirty feet, and then there will be a little hollow within a built-in bookshelf just beside the kitchen.

Once it's clicked, the bookcase will be thrown outwards, revealing a set of stairs leading to the actual safe house, twenty feet below the ground.

Between you and the bookshelf could be anywhere from three to a dozen of Penguin's goons, armed with anything from handguns to assault rifles and rocket launchers.

It's likely the former, the king of Gotham's Underworld had become lax with his position, believing himself untouchable.

And within the safehouse is a series of reinforced steel doors, enough gunpowder and armaments to hold off against a small army, and a secondary escape tunnel leading into another safehouse deep within the Devil's Square.

Although, that safe house may have been compromised after Poison Ivy turned the park into her own little upstart Plantoracy.

A hand glides over your utility belt, marking the locations of spare ammo packs, grenades - explosive and concussive - and the weight of your new weapon, the crimson glowing ominously in the night.

Your heart follows a staccato beat like the quickly growing strikes of drums as you approach the building.

Your knuckles wrap against the front door.

once, then twice, thr-

It swings open with a squeaky complaint, revealing a stocky beer-bellied man with heavy eyes on the other side. A gun hangs not-so-subtly out of his waistband.

"What do you-" his eyes widen as you snap your fingers, the sound echoing through the empty streets.

The familiar feeling of the anchor settles inside of you, the currents of time itself bending to your will, transforming from wild golden lashes of light to rigid chains that bound reality to this moment.

You can hear as the clock ticks on your watch die out into silence.

A raindrop freezes right in front of you, your golden eyes reflecting off its surface.

You easily navigate the man into the hallway, closing the door behind you without a sound.

You can count half a dozen inside, frozen in their activities, one watching a silent T.V., another few in the kitchen with food and drinks laid out on a foldable table.

Then the blade flashes out, parting the soft flesh of the man's neck, biting deep into the bone. He does not react, face frozen in the annoyed grimace he had just outside.

The wound remains open, no great river of blood rushing out from the opening, but instead laying bare the pink flesh within.

You pay him no mind, continuing through the house. No feeling of pity or regret rises up within you as you deal with the rest.

They may not responsible for Danny's death, maybe they're only simple men who ended up in this life out of necessity, guilty of only minor crimes.

It doesn't matter, they are just as corrupt, as guilty as the foundation of this entire rotting empire.

And the only suitable way to purge them is death.

Your gun discharges silently five times, a bullet freezing an imperceptible distance from each of their temples, feedback, and smoke floating listlessly through the air.

Thunder rumbles and lightning cracks through the air in tandem with five muffled gunshots as you press the button hidden behind the bookshelf, letting the currents unfurl.

Six bodies fall to the ground as the wall falls away, revealing a set of stairs leading farther into the safehouse.

The cracked drywall and creaky floorboards give way to stone and tile, and old dim lights are replaced by bright fluorescent lights like those in hospitals as you descend down to the steps.

The sound of your boots tapping against the tiled ground is the only thing that keeps the silence at bay.

The entrance door is guarded by a pair of guards dressed in military fatigues, rifles in hand with all sure stature of experienced mercenaries.

A hail of bullets rushes towards you the moment you come into their line of sight.

Another snap of your fingers and the currents tighten around each piece of lead, freezing them in place.

No bullets after, the mercenaries frozen with weapons aimed towards space where you once were.

You fire two bullets of your own in return, the tip of each just indenting into the skin.

The door is made of reinforced steel, strong enough to handle anything short of a decently-sized bomb.

You would have cracked your knuckles if they made any noise.

The metal crumples like paper under your blows, cracking and bending in on itself.

You could hear frantic movement coming from the inside, desperate mutters and shouts in a vain hope to stop the veritable hurricane bearing down upon them.

There would be no safe harbor, no deliverance for them.

With a final strike, the door is torn off its hinges and flung into the hallway.

A sickening squelch and a loud bang follow after.

"Blast him!" you hear from the other side. The rattling of bullets and the loud retort of feedback rattle in your ears.

Do they ever learn? you wonder.

On second thought, they're just goons, you don't think they're capable of learning.

The bullets are reduced into trails of dust and gunpowder halfway towards you.

Feedback and smoke fill the hall as you walk forwards, relishing the looks of fear and terror they sport.

"My turn."

The world blurs into rushes of color as reality slows to a crawl.

Their movements are slower than snail's, you could close your eyes for an hour and they wouldn't have moved even an inch.

Five seconds later, a dozen bodies hit the floor.

You find a strongbox built into a hollow within the office in the far back, cracking it open with a single strike.

Inside, you find heaping stacks of files and documents, ranging from land deeds to ledgers to papers detailing locations of interest for further expansion of Penguin's criminal empire.

Not if I have anything to say about that.

It would all fall tonight, every brick and every man who made up its foundation.

You check your watch as you exit the safe house.

Eight seconds, that's all that had passed since the moment you stepped inside, and the only sign of what you had done is your slightly labored breathing.

You quicken your steps as a hissing sound from the inside of the house grows steadily louder.

A moment later, the building is consumed in a fiery inferno, roaring in your ears, throwing burning cinders across the streets and sending up a bonfire that could be spotted from half a mile away.

You smile grimly. The official cause would be a gas leak, just like Danny.

Rusty pipes are a serious fire hazard.

You set off into the city, leaving the burning building and rapidly spreading fire behind.

You have a long night ahead of you, and this, this is just the beginning.

Two more safehouses are burnt to the ground, reduced to nothing but ash and rubble, and stripped of anything of value.

Their contents are a noticeable weight in your bag.

You have enough land deeds to start your own little empire at this point, and enough blackmail and locations of cash drops to secure your own place in Gotham's Underworld.

It'd be a giddy thought if you weren't disgusted by the thought of becoming anything even close to Oswald Cobblepot.

No, you'd use it as leverage, if you had to, many powerful people will desire these documents.

And you, well, you have all the cards and you aren't going to part them without a very hefty payment.

The drifting pump of jazz music turns your attention back to your next target.

The Gothic sits below, a winding line of patrons wrapping around the block, and multi-colored lights flashing within.

It had grown even larger since the last time, cannibalizing entire shops and businesses until it could command the entire strip by itself.

The new capo, Butch Gilzean had earned himself quite the reputation and could be considered the sole reason for the club's astronomic growth.

From what you've heard, he personally negotiated the purchase of many shops on the block.

Strangely, many of those who refused mysteriously disappeared soon after, and their next of kin were quick to sign off their deeds.

To think it had once been confined atop the ruins of a little pizza shop called Danny's Diner.

There's a thousand and one way to get inside, you would know more than anyone else.

After all, you've spent countless nights studying the layout and floorplan.

There's a porter entrance on the east side, a door for special V.I.P.'s located in the rear, and even an exit point specifically made for removing rowdy patrons.

But instead of choosing any of those options, you went through the path of least resistance, the front doors.

You want them to see you coming, and to know there's nothing they can do to stop you.

The baying hound prowls and leaps inside of you, churning and howling the siren's call of bloodlust.

Blood thrums through you and the drum of heartbeats fills your ears as your vision tunnels.

The crowd waiting outside the door parts before you like the Red Sea, socialities pressing themselves against the walls and whispering in hushed and frantic whispers to each other as you pass.

You pay them no mind, what threat could they possibly pose to you?

What are they going to tell Gotham's finest?

Oh, officer, a masked figure walked in and killed all of the men on Penguin's payroll?

It doesn't really narrow it down, now does it.

The bouncer at the front doesn't even spare you a glance before speaking, looking at you through black tinted glasses.

"Back of the line." He says gruffly.

"You slow in the head or something?" he asks stepping towards you only to realize he stood almost half a head shorter than you. "I sai-"

His words grate against your ears and you gladly satisfy the urge to shut him up.

You wave your hand and he goes abruptly silent, mouth curled permanently into a sneer and an unspoken word on his lips.

You turn towards the long line behind you and are met by loud gasps and the errant flash of a camera.

A low baritone drone emerges from your mask, distorted, cold, inhuman, and very much not like your actual voice.

I don't remember asking Slade to install a voice modulator.

"If you don't want to end up like him", you say. "I suggest you go home."

They scatter like startled rabbits, tripping over and pushing one another to get as far away from you as possible, leaving more than a few pieces of jewelry and broken heels in their wake.

The streets of the City District are conspicuously silent as you enter the Gothic, and are met by flashing multi-colored lights, the sounds of drunken revelry, and the smell of ash.