Beneath the Iceberg Lounge, the air carried a strange mixture of years-old mildew and expensive cigars.
The two smells mingled like someone had stuffed a piece of moldy cheese into a safe full of cash, bizarre yet somehow fitting.
Oswald Cobblepot was laboriously settling himself into his custom leather swivel chair.
He had ordered it specially, a full ten centimeters lower than an ordinary office chair, so that when he sat down, both feet could rest firmly on the floor instead of dangling in midair as they did elsewhere.
Three crumpled maps lay spread across the solid wood desk before him.
The first showed Batman's patrol routes, its dense red lines resembling a ball of yarn a cat had tangled up.
The second marked the Maroni Family's territory, with several key strongholds circled in blue ink.
The third was a defensive layout of Falcone's dockside warehouses, every sentry post and patrol route clearly marked.
Penguin stared at the dock defenses, a vicious glint in his small eyes.
He had spent far too long as Falcone's second-in-command, so long he felt his backside was about to develop calluses.
That old man always styled himself Gotham's guardian of order, forever saying things like, "Even gangsters need rules." But Penguin knew perfectly well that rules were ropes the strong used to bind the weak, and he, Oswald Cobblepot, should never have been the one bound.
All he wanted was Gotham's money.
All of it!
Penguin held a sharp letter opener, its tip scraping across the map with a piercing sound.
His avian intelligence network had already sent word: that Spider-Man, who dressed like a red-and-blue plastic bag, had actually teamed up with the big bat lately.
Those two freaks had worked quite smoothly together in Black Mask's factory, running circles around his False Face Society.
Penguin took the letter opener and viciously scored three long, brutal lines across the map.
The blade directly connected Falcone's dockside warehouses to Maroni's territory.
He was going to thoroughly stir up these stagnant waters!
He would set an ambush in the dock district, first shooting down that big bat who spent all day flying around overhead, then anonymously leak a little information to provoke that hotheaded idiot Maroni into bringing his men into the fight.
Once the various factions had battered one another beyond recognition, he would bring his own men out to reap the rewards.
With Batman crippled, he would be the old man's greatest contributor. With Maroni severely weakened, a large chunk of East End territory would naturally open up. As for that lunatic in the black mask, he had better join the fun too. The murkier the water, the easier it was to catch fish.
Penguin turned his head toward a patchy-feathered crow perched on a stand beside him.
He had raised that crow himself, and it was more reliable than most of his human subordinates. It would not lie, betray him, or go weak in the knees from fear of death at a critical moment.
"Let them bite each other until there aren't even bone fragments left. Then we'll clean up."
He let out a strange laugh like a leaky bellows, the sound echoing around the basement several times before slowly fading.
The patchy crow cocked its head and looked back at him with one black, beanlike eye, letting out a hoarse caw that sounded both like agreement and urging.
The orders were soon passed down.
The entire underground section of the Iceberg Lounge began creaking into motion like a rusty machine, footsteps, clacking gun bolts, and low commands weaving together in the narrow corridors.
Meanwhile, Chen Mo was crouched in his leaky attic, as busy as a farmer who had just finished harvesting.
He had set out a long row of dog bowls on the floor, six in all.
Each was filled with the cheapest puppy food he could buy at the pet store, little round disks with rather large pieces that smelled of cheap grease.
Beside them, three large stainless steel bowls full of water sat neatly arranged. A layer of unfiltered impurities had settled at the bottom; he had filled them straight from the tap.
Bruce the puppy sat in a battered cardboard box, watching him with his little head tilted.
His short, sticklike tail occasionally brushed the side of the box with a soft pattering sound.
The spider-silk splint had already been removed from his broken hind leg. Although he still limped a little, he could now jump out of the box on his own and wander around the room.
Chen Mo crouched down and rubbed those furry ears with exasperation. Bruce narrowed his eyes and nuzzled his head into his palm.
"Make do with this food and water for now. Those gangsters outside have been like powder kegs these past few days, fighting everywhere. My night patrols have been worse than an office worker's overtime. I come home and fall straight asleep. Do you know how long it's been since I touched a paintbrush?"
Chen Mo pursed his lips, looking thoroughly displeased.
Bruce licked his fingers, his tail wagging even more enthusiastically.
"The storyboards for the next installment of our comic are still stuck on page three. I haven't changed a single word. This is all money, Bruce. Do you understand creative costs? Two thousand dollars an installment. After materials, your dog food, and my compressed biscuits, only what's left can go toward a nanosuit. Do you know how expensive a nanosuit is? No. You're just a dog."
Bruce yawned, clearly uninterested in his financial predicament.
Chen Mo filled the last dog bowl, stood up, and vigorously stretched his aching shoulders.
His shoulder blades gave a sharp crack, like a potato chip being crushed underfoot.
He walked to the window and glanced at Gotham's murky night sky. The clouds were as thick as a greasy rag that could never be wiped clean, without even a sliver of moon showing through.
Tonight did not look like another peaceful night when he could get to bed early.
Chen Mo sighed.
With the intensity of the fighting over the past couple of days, he and Batman had practically been spinning like tops. Last night had been a smuggling case at a dockside warehouse, the night before an arms deal in an East End alley. As for the night before that, he did not want to remember. Anyway, it had involved Falcone's men.
Every time he was just about to call it a night and head home to work on his comic, gunshots rang out, as though someone had set an alarm.
Back when Chen Mo watched the movies, he had always thought Batman was pretty cool.
The black cape, the deep voice, the way he looked like a huge, silent grim reaper when he leaped from a rooftop.
Impossibly cool.
Now he just thought this job was downright inhuman.
And this spinning-like-tops situation was with two vigilantes on the job!
Normally, when Batman was the only one operating in Gotham, how on earth did the guy manage all this work?
Did he have shadow clones?
Or did he simply not need sleep, popping a couple of caffeine pills every night before heading out?
Oh, right, Batman also had to maintain his identity as Bruce Wayne, appearing in public now and then, attending dances and picking up women.
How did he manage it all?
Did peak humans really not need sleep?
Chen Mo shook his head, casting aside those jumbled thoughts.
However Batman managed to keep going, there was definitely no getting out of tonight's patrol for him.
Chen Mo deftly pulled on his heavily patched suit.
It'll have to do. I'll make a new one when the next payment comes through in a couple of days.
Chen Mo tugged his mask up over the bridge of his nose and glanced down at Bruce in the cardboard box. "Watch the place. Don't chew my slippers. They're my only pair."
Bruce barked, rested his chin on the edge of the box, and watched him climb out through the vent.
The camera cut back to the Iceberg Lounge.
Penguin stood before the enormous bird stand, densely crowded with dozens of pigeons, crows, and sparrows. Their feathers gleamed with an oily sheen beneath the dim lights, and an occasional flutter of wings stirred up a small cloud of dust.
Penguin grabbed a handful of premium birdseed and casually scattered it. The birds immediately grew restless, scrambling to peck at the golden grains.
He really loved birds.
Was that only to be expected of the notorious birdman?
Every pigeon the birdman owned was a living surveillance camera, and every crow a messenger that would never leak a secret.
They knew nothing of justice or evil, only grain, nests, and this short, fat man who fed them three times a week.
Reports flowed in one after another, piecing together a complete, real-time picture of the battlefield.
Batman was driving his ostentatious car, tracking a supposed arms deal. The deal was bait Penguin had personally arranged. Everything from the weapons manifest to the delivery location was fake. The only real thing was the route leading into the dock district.
Batman was driving closer and closer to the trap.
As for Spider-Man, he had just swung through the East End, casually wrapping two robbers into cocoons and hanging them from a streetlight, even sticking on a note with a cute abstract drawing.
Everything was following his script. Batman was entering the cage, Maroni was being provoked, and Spider-Man was still wandering aimlessly around the East End. Every piece was moving where it should.
Penguin raised his head and repeated those words to the pitch-black crow.
"Let them bite each other. Once they're done, we'll clean up."
The crow cocked its head, watching him with one black, beanlike eye.
Then it spread its wings, rose from the stand, flew through the basement's ventilation duct, and vanished into Gotham's murky night sky.
Penguin stood before the bird stand, looking in the direction where the crow had vanished, his fingers slowly tracing the grooves on his umbrella handle.
He was very pleased with his plan.
He had calculated every step and considered every variable.
Maroni would join the fight, Batman would be wounded, Falcone would see his value, and he would emerge from this chaotic battle as the biggest winner.
Heh heh heh heh heh!
A perfect plan.
Or was it?
Before you continue