Nygma leaned on a green cane, carefully picking his way across slippery rocks covered in slimy moss. Beneath his feet lay the filth and garbage Gotham's sewers spat into the sea. The air reeked of briny seawater, rotting sludge, and pungent industrial chemicals.
His brow furrowed, he held a notebook and stopped from time to time to jot something down.
"Too dirty..." he murmured, his voice sounding faint among the rocks of the empty bay. "This isn't normal, Otis. People usually dump bodies in places like landfills because they're easy to hide there, but every place we've passed has been exceptionally filthy, as though someone chose them deliberately."
Otis Flanagan followed behind him, looking uneasy. Far from the bustle of the city, there was only the monotonous crash of waves against rock and the wind moaning through abandoned pipes. A few gulls circling in the distance gave shrill cries, adding to the desolation.
"Mr. Nygma," Otis finally said, "this place feels... wrong. It's too quiet. So quiet it gives me the creeps. We should've brought a couple more people."
Nygma looked up from his thoughts, adjusted his glasses, and turned to Otis. "Psychological discomfort often stems from wariness of unfamiliar surroundings. It's an instinct produced by evolution. But logically speaking..."
Otis didn't argue... nor did he understand. But he trusted his instincts. Watching Nygma search their surroundings carefully, he gave a soft, low whistle. Before long, dozens of rats rustled out of nearby crevices and from behind heaps of garbage. They gathered quietly at Otis's feet, while Bastian poked his head out of his pocket and climbed out.
"Good boy, Bastian," Otis said softly to the large rat as he crouched down. "Take your friends and have a look around. If anything's wrong, come back and tell me right away."