Forty-four floors beneath the Iceberg Lounge, the air-conditioning made the place feel like an enormous morgue.
Oswald Cobblepot, the short, fat man known behind his back as the Penguin, stood before an oak desk.
A map of the East End covered the desktop, several locations densely circled in red ink: the shantytown water tower, the dockside dump, and some stinking alley even stray dogs refused to enter.
These places had one thing in common: they were so poor even the rats wanted to move out overnight.
Beside the map lay a stack of hand-drawn intelligence reports, with dates, times, and types of activity noted in a scrawl.
Every sheet came from his informants: the pigeons, sparrows, and crows on Gotham's streets.
The Penguin held an ivory-handled letter opener, slowly tracing its tip across the map, from the water tower to the docks, then from the docks deep into the shantytown.
"Has that big guy in black with the cape been beating Maroni so badly lately that even his own mother wouldn't recognize him?"
He asked without turning around.
His voice was quiet, carrying an affected elegance, like a gentleman discussing the dinner menu.
The henchman standing in the shadows shuddered.
He had seen the Penguin open letters with that blade. He had also seen him open people with it.
"Yes, boss. Maroni lost three key warehouses, and Batman took out two sites at the docks. Even his top enforcer, Scarface, is still lying in the ICU. They say his ribs are shattered like a box of cookies someone stepped on. Spider-Man did it."
The Penguin gave a short laugh. It sounded like an old female duck hiccuping while someone strangled it, shrill and wet.
"Then let's give him another wake-up call."
The Penguin drove the letter opener into the map, its tip piercing the red circle around the shantytown water tower.
"Have people spread a few rumors on the streets. Wasn't Scarface crippled by that little brat in red-and-blue pajamas? Then say the Maroni Family can't even handle someone in pajamas. A bunch of useless bastards. Throw in a little story about Spider-Man slapping him and asking, 'Is your boss Maroni so old he can't even fasten his own belt anymore?'"
The henchman froze for a moment. "Boss, Spider-Man didn't actually hit him that hard. Scarface was mostly..."
The Penguin spun around. An utterly insincere smile squeezed onto his fleshy face, the curve of his parted lips like a knife wound.
"Does Gotham need the truth?"
His voice suddenly dropped so low that only the henchman could hear.
"No. Gotham only needs an excuse for those idiots to bite each other's throats out."
He stopped smiling, his face turning cold.
"Get the hell out and do it. Make sure it sounds nasty. Preferably nasty enough that Maroni flips his dinner table the moment he hears it."
The henchman lowered his head and withdrew, his leather shoes scraping rapidly across the floor.
After the door closed, the forty-fourth basement level sank back into its morgue-like silence.
The Penguin stood before the map, pulled out the letter opener, and lightly tapped its tip against the water tower's red circle.
Once, twice, three times.
Like some kind of countdown.
Atop an abandoned water tower in the East End.
Chen Mo crouched on the edge of the iron framework, hugging his knees like a stray cat life had beaten down.
The night wind was strong enough to blow every last trace of poverty out of his suit. He hunched his neck, feeling that the cheap fabric provided virtually no warmth.
The new suit looked cool, sure, but it did nothing against the cold.
Three hundred and sixty dollars spent, and it could stop small-caliber bullets but not Gotham's night wind.
Chen Mo had just strung up two thugs on a streetlight after catching them prying open a convenience store's roller shutter in an East End alley.
Now he crouched atop the water tower and looked down. Gotham's neon blurred into red and green patches through the rain and mist. It looked pretty upscale, but underneath it all was the smell of foul drains and expired burgers.
In the distance, a ring of warm yellow lights glowed atop Wayne Tower, like the only clean thing in this gray city.
Chen Mo stared at that ring of light for two seconds, then looked away. That wasn't his Gotham.
His Gotham was the shantytown beneath his feet, its sheet-metal roofs crammed together like fish scales.
It was an attic that leaked like a showerhead. It was the crumpled hundred-dollar bill and handful of coins in his pocket.
It was wearing a suit he had sewn himself every night, crouching atop a water tower in the freezing wind, waiting for the next robber to appear.
Hmm... I should add downtown to my patrol route. I can't even swing around this dump...
Chen Mo yawned.
"System, I'd like to request reimbursement for some thermal underwear."
His mind was as quiet as a pool of stagnant water.
Coo, coo.
A pigeon landed on the iron framework beside him. It looked outrageously arrogant, its chest puffed out, its neck bobbing as it tilted its head to stare at him. Its eyes had the streetwise attitude of someone asking, "What're you looking at?"
Its feathers were gray with an oily green-and-purple sheen. It looked well fed.
Chen Mo pulled a piece of bread hard enough to use as a brick from a small pocket in his suit and casually tossed it over.
"Eat up. Why do all Gotham's pigeons look like they're here to collect protection money? Just like the people in this city."
The pigeon lowered its head and pecked at the bread, then raised its head and gave him an utterly disdainful look.
That look clearly said, This is what you're feeding a bird?
Chen Mo felt that a pigeon had just looked down on him.
"Fine, you're too good for this. You're amazing. Next time I'll buy a baguette and break off a piece just for you. Happy now?"
The pigeon ignored him, flapped its wings, and flew away.
Chen Mo watched it disappear into the night, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong with its gaze.
It felt like... this pigeon was writing an observation journal for some entity he knew nothing about.
The title was probably "On Gotham's Newest Broke Loser Spider-Man's Daily Spacing Out and the Declining Quality of His Food Offerings."
Before he could figure out why the pigeon despised him, his Spider-Sense suddenly twitched. It didn't hurt, but it itched a little, as though someone had brushed a feather against the back of his head.
Chen Mo rubbed the back of his head. "Is my sense broken? Or is one of my fans nearby sneaking a look at me?"
He looked left and right.
No one. Even that pigeon was gone.
There was only Gotham's gray night sky and the distant, never-ending wail of sirens.
Oh, the Bat-Signal's lit up over there.
Something's going on.
Pretty close, too.
"Looks like someone needs help from their friendly neighborhood Batman?"
After delivering the quip in an imitation of Batman's deep voice, Chen Mo shot out a strand of webbing, stuck it to the water tower framework opposite him, and swung out.
His red-and-blue figure traced an arc through the gray night, soon disappearing among the shantytown's overlapping sheet-metal roofs.
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