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Oswald usually hated leaving his territory. The idea that he could be attacked weighed heavily in his mind whenever he left the loosely-drawn borders, and the people surrounding him went from worshippers to those who would kill him for a pack of bullets. The lines between the two groups were blurred, but he was usually an imposing enough force in the area around City Hall that nobody would try anything. Today, he had to engage in a necessary evil. The Street Demonz gang, which he could have sworn had dissolved months before, were causing problems in the Diamond District, small skirmishes that were a little too close for comfort. So, he planned to show up at their base and practice his intimidation skills. They could keep starting pointless fights that left a sizable portion of their men dead, or they could commit to peace. Oswald didn’t particularly care, as long as they stayed far away from his home.
After a short ride, he arrived at the apparent location of the gang’s base. He thanked his driver, telling him he could go in alone. Hopefully, it would be interpreted by the gang as a sign of respect from him, though it was more like the opposite than anything else. He knew they wouldn’t go after him directly, but the thought that the king of his own pocket of Gotham would visit them alone, ready to be civil, might squash any violent impulses they held.
Their headquarters appeared to be nothing more than a run-down warehouse. It was dark and dirty, far from the almost gaudy beauty of City Hall - it reminded Oswald of a prison, something he really did not want to think about at the moment. His annoyance grew as he made his way through the entrance, which had been left open for whatever reason. Amateurs.
When he entered, the first thing he noticed was that it was eerily quiet. Then, he noticed the smell. The stench of blood filled his nose so quickly that he immediately felt nauseous, temporarily distracting him from the ache in his leg. He was familiar with violence, his comfort with it something that he prided himself on. He forced his mouth into a straight line so that he wouldn’t vomit right here. So much for signs of respect.
Then, he heard the screams. He was also familiar with sounds of pain, mostly ones caused by his own hands, and this was no different. He slowly made his way to the main room, something of a courtyard, of the base.
There were bodies everywhere. Slit necks and lacerations across chests and stomachs litter his vision, and he couldn't stop himself from gagging. This little mission he had planned for himself was certainly not going as expected. He’s so taken aback by the multitude of gore in front of him that he doesn’t notice the figure standing a little into the distance, until - well, until he does.
It’s Ed. He’s turned to the side, and his hair (It’s so long? Longer than Oswald’s ever seen it, at least) is covering most of his profile, but Oswald still knows it’s him. His suit is wrinkled, a darker green than usual, and stained with blood - some fresh, some dried. He's holding two long knives, almost looking like something you’d buy from a costume store, in each hand. A gun is poorly squashed into his left pant pocket. It’s Ed, who he had seen cold and dead in the Narrows, who he had brought to Hugo Strange out of some buried desperation. God, he was still paranoid about the fact Ed had been with Strange, but he justified it to himself because Ed needed to come back. Their story wasn’t over yet, he was sure of it. Another part of him - a repressed, resentful, bitter section of his heart - believed that maybe Ed deserved it. To be toyed with for a change.
He had fled as soon as Strange gave him confirmation that Ed was alive. They could reunite another time, but that was not it. There was a war, and the city was basically a barren wasteland. He couldn’t bear the thought of their rivalry being revived when the city was in this state. When he thought of Ed, he thought of him cold and dead on the floor of Cherry’s. He expected that when he saw Ed alive again, he wouldn’t know how to react. There was a fear that his reaction would not be appropriate in the context of Ed being his sworn enemy, distant ally, or however Ed wanted to see him. Now, they were face to...half face, and Oswald had no idea how to react.
Ed looked down at one of the bodies that was lying limp at his feet. He smiled, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. Oswald tensed, trying his best to stay completely silent. He hoped he was still partly concealed by the shadows. His attempt at quiet was challenged when one of the gang members, who was somehow still alive, suddenly hurled himself at Ed - who then kicked him across the jaw. Oswald winced at the cracking sound despite himself.
“You,” the man choked out, “I know you. You’re - you’re The Riddler, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” Ed frowned. “Doesn’t seem particularly relevant.” He seemed disgusted that the man had attempted to spark conversation with him. His boot was still pressing down on the man’s shoulder.
Well, that was...odd. At that moment, Oswald’s resolve cracked, and he finally let out a breath. Ed immediately turned to look at him, and Oswald flinched.
The look on Ed’s face could only really be described as vacant - something close to conniving, but missing the mark. It pierced through Oswald’s defenses, and immediately he felt almost sick. When Ed had been against him before, there had been something there. Rage, resentment, desperation. Now, Ed was looking at him like he was even less of a priority than the gang member lying half-dead at his feet, blood sputtering out of his mouth.
Ed blinked a few times, and then frowned again. “Penguin,” he said, almost like he was confirming to himself that, yes, The Penguin was standing right there. Ed’s voice was different too, not the high cadence of his time at the GCPD or the put-upon deepness of his first stint as The Riddler, and Oswald didn’t know why it made him so nervous. Ed dropped one of the knives, and got the gun out of his pocket. He pointed it right at Oswald immediately.
“Listen, Ed,” Oswald hated how scared he sounded, “whatever you’re doing, whatever problem you have with these guys - I’m not involved, alright? I’ll leave.”
Something was off. Something was so, so off, and Oswald didn’t expect the waves of emotion washing over him. He didn’t want them to reunite like this, not when Ed was acting - fucking weird, with ratty hair and sunken cheekbones. He’d been done with the imbalance - him and Ed were equals, it’s what he had intended when he called Ed his chosen name for the first time (though he wasn’t sure if that was the impression Ed had gotten from the situation. He forced memories of bank vaults from his mind.) He wanted to run. It was so unlike him, but he told himself that this was a normal response to a planned meeting going awry. Regardless of any personal history with the one who had crashed it.
Ed was still staring at him, his eyebrows scrunched up in concentration. He swayed, just a little.
“Honestly, I didn’t know you were involved in this whole gang war thing,” Oswald forced a laugh. “But I really am just here because of a problem with my territory, not to interfere with your plans, Edward.” He was rambling. He was embarrassed. It shouldn't be happening like this.
Ed approached him, gun still pointed right at Oswald’s chest. He reflexively leaned back, trying not to meet Ed’s gaze. Then, suddenly, something like..pain flashed across Ed’s face? He was still looking at Oswald, but he started blinking rapidly. It was like he was listening to something else, but the room was completely silent. Oswald frowned. Was Ed’s behavior the product of some hallucination? He’d known about Ed’s issues, for lack of a better word, for some time, but never asked him about it. A burst of self-hatred burned through Oswald, but he pushed it down.
The mask of vacancy suddenly returned to Ed’s face. “Not yet,” he said, seemingly to himself. “I’m done here.”
Suddenly, Ed turned and fled so quickly that it was almost comical. His movements were just so weird, his legs running on what appeared to be their own volition, arms wobbling like he was a puppet on strings. He retreated into the shadows of the courtyard. Well, it was only almost comical because it left Oswald even more bewildered than he had been before. He wanted to call after him, but the words died in his throat.
He looked down at Ed’s obnoxious little sword, and the mess of bodies around him.
God. What the hell was that?