Work Text:
The good old Falcone was dead. His wrinkled, obnoxious face that was once loved, hated, and felt towards all kinds of emotions, by people from every corner of Gotham, was now cold and motionless. Oswald peered down at his warped body and stretched his lips into a tight smile, making fewer efforts than he should to conceal his excitement, and absolutely not paying the slightest bit of attention to the goons and bodyguards staring at him.
This is Gotham, after all. A cut-throat arena, a shining stage for endless power disputes, whose players are the most deadly maniacs known to the world. When a King falls, the wolves swarm to gnaw off the largest bite. No one likes sharing or being left behind.
During the time he’d spent in this shithole, more than twenty years, The Penguin had been nothing if not patient. Without the galactic fortunes like that of Wayne’s or a big family name like that of Arkham or Falcone, he had only his wit and guts with him when he started to climb up the ladder. He smiled at those he hated, snapped the necks of those who had helped him, and brown-nosed his way to the top. People could laugh all they want, but in the end, Oswald got what he wanted: money and power.
And that was all he cares about.
“Oz, you and I, we’re both businessmen,” Falcone said to him once, when they were having a drink or two at the Iceberg Lounge after dealing with a nasty rat in the family. “In lieu of expecting you to be loyal to me out of the good nature of your heart - which is laughably naive, if I may comment - I will always make sure that being loyal to me serves your best interests.”
“I believe so, sir,” Oswald answered with a polite nod.
His boss suddenly laughed, which startled him a little. Their eyes locked, and Oswald tightened the grip on his drink discreetly.
“Oh, I like you, man. You’re just like me,” Falcone said, wiping off the tear that came out with his laughter. “Predictable, in a good way. Easy to work with. Just like those little real penguins in the zoo, as long as I keep feeding you salmons and tunnies, you won’t bite me back.”
He was riled up, but he kept it off his face smoothly. The flickering lights in the club did a good job of hiding his expression too. Oswald, however, did not have a clear memory of how the conversation ended. In his alcohol-soaked brain, the red neon light dancing on the other man’s face looked a lot like blood.
And now, he was standing in front of the back door of his club, witnessing a welter of real blood enlarging underneath Falcone. He took a graceful step back to avoid the thick red liquid leaves a stain on his fine shoes. With the fact that no one was in his way to the highest position of the underworld of Gotham slowly sinking in, the feeling of the world around him rushed back to his numb brain. The shouts and murmurs of the crowd, the siren of police cars, the smell of industrial pollution and filth in the air, and a little coffee shop at the corner of the block now surrounded by at least fifty cops. There was no way a real person could escape a circle like that.
So Batman got this mysterious ‘Riddler’ in the end. Oswald was not particularly impressed with the work the caped crusader had done, with all the unnecessary harm the Bat did to him along the way. An error of the beginner’s Spanish, really? The world’s greatest detective?
The Penguin snorted.
*
The damn flood caused a hell of damage to Iceberg Lounge. It’s his club, his office, and his home. Ever since the day it opened, the name Iceberg Lounge had always equaled the Penguin. Oswald balled his hands into fists the moment he laid eyes on the complete mess the flood had reduced this once beautiful, extravagant hall into. His back hasn’t stopped hurting since the day the Bat and Gordon left him unapologetically on the street, after chasing him for a whole twenty minutes on the highway. The Penguin still rolled his eyes whenever the memory of that night flowed into his brain.
The riddler knows a lot about you, so you must know about him. What the actual fuck, man? Damn right the little bastard knew a lot about him because the fucker lived right next to his goddamn club! This dramatic serial killer had been operating right under his nose, yet Oswald knew nothing about that shit. This bugger framed him as a distraction for the Bat in his riddles, and no one got away easily after using the Penguin.
But that damn scum now stayed safely and happily in Arkham, surrounded by the best psychiatrists paid by the honest taxpayers like Penguin himself, and there was nothing he could do about it. Killing him surreptitiously was proven inhumanly hard since Oswald would like to stay out of the hair of that Bat, thank you very much.
Of course, he could at least pay the Riddler a visit, and that was exactly what he did the moment he was allowed to do so. The face behind the appalling mask seemed unexpectedly young and mediocre, reminding Oswald of the round face he himself had as a small teenager, a few decades ago. Though the good first impression vanished the moment they sat down and started talking. To be specific, it was Oswald’s monologue. What irritated him to no end was that this Edward Nashton did not answer a single question of his.
“Why did you lead the Bat on my heels?”
Nashton said nothing, not even moving a muscle. Oswald could see his own reflection in those large green eyes.
“Do you hold a personal grudge against me, Nashton?”
The Riddler did not even blink.
“You know what you did changes nothing, right? Those men you killed aren’t the only cause of the misery in this city. There will be hundreds, even thousands more than the mayor, the DA, and Falcones out there. It won’t change.”
This time, a knowing smirk emerged on the other man’s features, making his rounded face seem incredibly stupid. Oswald hated that smile. Had it not been for the firm glass between them and the guard staring at his back, he’d claw that damn grin off the Riddler’s face himself.
His visit had ended up absolutely fruitless, a total waste of time.
The night after his visit to Arkham, at 11 p.m., Oswald kicked the door to his office open, walked in, and flopped onto his huge black leather chair, seething. The chair squeaked poorly under his weight, but he didn’t give a damn. The noises of workers busy cleaning up the wreck downstairs and getting ready for reopening could still be heard from afar, reminding him of the huge amount of cost to repair the damage. The number was getting bigger in his head and he sighed, covering his eyes with his palm.
That was also why he did not see the huge shadow incoming from outside his window.
Crunch!!
He let out a short scream. The loud noise of the closest window shattering on the floor brought him to his knees, pieces of glass flying everywhere. Covering his face with his hands, he saw through his fingers and noticed a dark silhouette standing in front of him. Oswald groaned.
“Can’t you just walk in like a normal person?” he mumbled, getting back to his feet, but before he straightened his tuxedo and caught his breath, the Bat strode forward and grabbed his collar in his hands, almost having him standing on his toes.
“Where is the Riddler?” Vengeance snarled each word, staring down at him.
“How the fuck should I know?” the Penguin grumbled. “Isn’t it your job to find him? Wait. Isn’t he in Arkham?”
“Stop. Playing. Fool.” The Bat tightened his grip.
“I-I-I honestly don’t fucking know!” Oswald screamed. “What is all this about?”
The Bat glared at him fiercely for a moment before letting go. He stepped back, allowing a moment for Oswald to calm down, and then said curtly, “He escaped.”
“Oh, fine. Wonderful,” Oswald rolled his eyes. “And?”
“He streamed, saying thanks for your inspiration, he had a new motivation and a new plan now.”
“What?” Oswald’s jaw dropped. That - nasty, ridiculous, fucking -
“The doctors at the Asylum told me you visited him yesterday.” The Bat put his big hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Damn that hurt. “So, tell me everything there is between you two. Now. Don’t lie, or I can take you in as an accomplice.”
“I did not work with him!” Oswald squeaked. “I swear! Look, Vengeance,” (the Bat rolled his eyes at the moniker), “yes, I visited him yesterday. But, no, that damn bastard did not say a word to me! He just sat there, staring at me, smiling at me like some real maniac! I asked questions like why he did what he had done but I haven’t obtained any responses! You can ask the guard standing behind us that day and he’ll back my story up! Whatever he did, it has nothing to do with me -”
“Any riddles?”
“No! As I said, he did not utter a single word -”
“Mmm,” the Bat mused, then quite suddenly, “did he sing?”
“What?”
“Never mind,” the Bat murmured. “Now repeat to me all the questions you have asked him, as elaborated as possible.”
Oswald did, reluctantly. He knew his arguments were not solid enough for the Bat to believe. As he had expected, the Bat peered at him suspiciously when he finished.
“How do I know you haven’t lied?” he said slowly.
“No way. Believe it or not. I don’t care. All I know is that the more time you wasted interrogating me, the more time he had to get away. So how about you leaving me alone- ”
Something flickered in the Bat’s grey-blue eyes and Oswald instantly knew there would be trouble.
“If you truly weren’t helping him, which I found hard to believe,” the Bat breathed, “then you certainly wouldn’t mind having him found, right? How about you bringing him in to prove your own innocence?”
“What?” Some parts of him had seen this coming, but his heart still sank drastically hearing this. “Wait. No. No, no. Think about it, Batman. I’m not a detective like you. You’d find him faster if you do it yourself - ”
“For the time being, I am occupied. There’s a new criminal in town with burlap or something on his head who keeps gassing people and killing them afterward,” the Bat sighed. “Find the Riddler, Penguin, or Gordon would believe you aided him in his escape. I think I can get you … three days, by and large. After that, I won’t step in if the police decide to take you in instead.”
There was no going back. Oswald sighed as dramatically as he could, staring gloomily as the caped crusader climbed out of the room from where he came. He didn’t move for a long time after the Bat had disappeared into the dark.
Fuck. Fine. Okay. He’s going to beat the shit out of that little brat and leave him to the blood-dripping mouth of the Bat. He didn’t care. Oswald Cobblepot didn’t give a fuck.
*
It was a trap.
Oswald should have known before he allowed himself to act. In hindsight, probably the hatred he felt for the Riddler got the best of him. He shouldn’t have let that happen. He should have suspected that the great Riddler, who single-handedly fooled the Bat, would be captured by some of his goons.
Thankfully, no severe damage has been done. That was also why he was now sitting in a car outside a deserted farmhouse about fifty miles from Gotham downtown, at one a.m., lighting up a cigar to calm his nerves.
After he spread the order to find the Riddler through his underground network, it had taken twenty-eight hours and a half for him to hear the news that the Riddler had been spotted outside a farmhouse in the suburban areas.
“Keep an eye on him till I arrive. Don’t do anything stupid. I want him alive,” he said on the phone harshly.
That was the first mistake he made that evening.
When he was driving hurriedly towards the location, his phone rang again.
“We had him under control, sir. Tied to a post. Though he refused to talk, saying he will only speak to you. And he demanded that you come alone.”
“That’s exactly what I would like, too. Just two of us. Thank you. Mister-” he had a peek at the name on the screen, “Weasel.”
“Wiesel,” the henchman corrected him as if out of habit. Another slip of tone he had missed. His goons wouldn’t dare to speak to him like that normally.
That was the second mistake.
Hanging up his phone, grinning widely, Oswald put his foot on the accelerator and pressed, driving right into the trap the Riddler had prepared for him.
He arrived around midnight. Stepping into the deserted house, it took him no time to spot the man he met in Arkham the other day. Messy brown hair, mediocre face, dusty clothes, wrists tied firmly to the rail of the stairs leading to the second floor. A lightbulb was hung above him. It illuminated an area of ten feet or so. The rest of the room was kept in darkness.
“Oh oh, good evening, Mr. Penguin,” the Riddler chirped cheerfully. “You did come alone! Well, that’ll make things easier.”
“Is this the only way to get you to talk, Nashton?” Oswald took a couple of steps closer. “When you’re - quite literally - tied up?”
“No, when no unworthy chumps are here to listen,” the Riddler corrected.
“My men left you here, huh?” Oswald walked around slowly to check the ropes. The knots seemed firm enough.
“Riddle me this.” The moment Oswald heard the damn prelude phrase, he facepalmed. Oh Jesus mother fucking Christ no more riddles!! “I am the object that the god of trickery carries with him on his path, and a maze you never go out of. I was what the hunter used for the hunted, and I was called to shut up when I’m noisy. What am I?”
“Listen, kid. I’m here, at this shitty little house at one a.m. for a reason. I don’t have time for your game - ”
“No? Pity. People always underrate the wisdom hidden in wordplays and languages. What a shame.” He tutted his mouth. “See, if you managed to figure it out, there would still have hope for us to be on the same page,” the Riddler cocked his head.
“Oh, so you’re making me a deal,” Oswald sneered. “What do I need a psychotic serial killer for? After framing me up as his accessory, and before that, having the Bat chasing me for twenty minutes with your ‘Rat with wings’ tricks? No deal, Nashton, you go straight back to the Bat, and he’ll send you to the cops.”
“Wrong answer,” the Riddler sounded almost bored, shaking his head. “The answer is not ‘deal’. You still have two chances left. Be sure to use this to your advantage, birdie.”
“All you care about is your fucking game, Nashton?” Oswald tried not to let the other man lead the conversation but it seemed he was failing.
“Ah, it seems you’re stuck,” the bastard’s eyes brightened like a child as if he had been watching two birds fighting each other, or speaking to a hall spectators. “Don’t worry. I’m a patient host. I’ll give you a simpler one. Come on. Please pay attention. Riddle me this… where’s Mr. Wiesel?”
He subconsciously turned his head to glance over the room.
And that was the third mistake he made that evening.
All three mistakes combined, left him with a broken nose, a ripped tuxedo, losing a handful of hair, and bruises and scratches riddled all over his body.
Before he knew it, his back had collided with the ground, a sudden burning pain exploded inside him, a strong odor of burning flesh, and his limps began to twitch uncontrollably. In retrospect, that son of a bitch must have used an electric stun gun. God knows where he got that from.
“The correct answer to my riddle is ‘Trap’, dear Mr.Penguin,” the Riddler murmured beside his ears, pinning him to the ground with his knee. In his sheer pain, Oswald could barely make out the words.
“There have never been any Wiesel or Weasel. I’m pretty good at faking tied, right? Oh, stop calling me ‘Nashton’, I’ve never liked the name very much. Now I present you, Edward Nygma, the great Riddler, and your captor.” He flung one of his arms into the air, saluting his imaginary cheering crowd.
Oswald gasped under his weight, but miraculously, the pain was subduing, slowly, and he could move his fingers now. Self-claimed Edward Nygma was yet to realize the change, as he continued his babbling.
“You can call me Edward if you want. May I call you Oz, Mr. Penguin? I heard you told the Bat he could call you that. May I? Because we’re going to spend a not-so-short period of time together, it’d be so boring sticking to all the formalities. Your resources and connections will be very useful for me in my plan… I probably should call it ‘our plan’, Oz?” Edward lowered his head, mischief dancing in those green eyes.
That boy was obviously not an expert in weaponry. He had no idea how long it would take for a person with a build like Penguin’s to recover from an electric shock. And he was going to pay for that. Oswald could use the element of surprise as long as this self-centric bastard kept talking -
“I wasn’t lying when I told my followers you inspired me. You told me there are still thousands of Falcone out there. Yes, my mission is not done yet. I’m going to best Batman in cleaning up the city… and I won’t be reluctant to kill. Once there’s a new goal, a new motivation, escaping a badly-kept facility like Arkham is a piece of cake for a mind like mine -”
Whomp!
Oswald swung his fist at the motherfucker’s face, stopping more words from pouring out of his mouth. The other hand of his snatched the shotgun from Edward’s grasp and threw it out of the window.
Three seconds later, they were fighting tooth and nail on the filthy floor. Five minutes later, no furniture in the room stayed in one piece. Ten minutes later, after the dust had settled, when the fight finally left their bodies, both of them were wheezing heavily, with Edward’s wrists cuffed behind him and his face pressed to the ground.
Technically, Oswald was not a good fighter. He had never been trained as such, and he had always hated working out and footwork, this being said, it would indeed give you the upper hand if your weight was twice that of the guy you were fighting.
“You brought the cuffs all the way down here just to drag me to the Bat, huh?” Edward mumbled. There was blood on his lips as well as his forehead. He spat.
“Get up and move your fat ass into the car. No more games. No more talks,” Oswald hissed.
*
And here they were now. Edward laid on the backseats of his car, wrists cuffed to the door, and he stared at the endless darkness outside, enjoying the taste of the last mouthful of his precious Cuba cigar.
Nicotine did its job faithfully, smoothing his nerves like no other. When his heartbeat returned to normal speed, he threw the rest of the cigar out of the window and started the engine.
In less than ten minutes, they made it to the highway, which was almost empty at this time of the day. Oswald glanced at the miles shown on the navigator. Good. They would arrive at the GCPD station in thirty minutes.
“Okay, maybe I can make a deal with you now,” Edward broke the silence suddenly. Still spread all four out on the backseats, he turned his head to look Oswald in the eyes through the mirror.
“Absolutely no. The chances, even if there had been any, have passed,” Oswald said sternly.
“What’s the point of all this eagerness to catch me?” Edward drawled, propping himself up on his elbow, and sounded almost bored. “Your men have ransacked the city in search of me for the past two days. Hey, I’ve done you no harm. No irreparable harm, in that sense. Speaking of which, I even killed Falcone for you, so that you could take over his business and make Gotham your own playground.”
Oz turned his head to take a quick glance at the boy in the backseat. No, not a boy. Man, he secretly corrected himself. He was a man, an awful, crude, psychopathic man. Though his brain seemed to stick with the word “boy” and refused to let go, probably owing to that face with a ridiculously lot of baby fat.
He cleared his throat.
“Let’s clear things up. First of all, you didn’t kill Falcone for me. You did that for yourself and for your little game with our dear big bad bat,” Oz groaned, hands tightening around the wheel, and the Riddler giggled fanatically as if it had been the sweetest memory of his life.
“Secondly, your dossier shows that you were an accountant. Do you have absolutely no idea what you have done to me? Business, man! You fucking ruined my business!” He slammed his wheel while he said the word business. “All those dollars, gone! Firstly the woman who dressed like a damn cat took half of it and then you! You scum! I was supposed to make a million out of the deal I was about to sign with the D.A. before you fucking murdered him! Do you know how long I’ve been working on that? You didn’t even consider the collateral damage when you just did whatever you wanted for your so-called revenge, huh? And the flood! It’ll cost me at least three hundred million - ”
In his rage, Oz did not notice that the Riddler had stopped laughing until he cut him off.
“You’re just like them,” the little trouble-maker murmured. His voice was calm and even, emotionless, totally unlike how he sounded before, sending a shiver down Osward’s spine.
He waited for the Riddler to continue, but there was only silence.
“Like whom?” two minutes later, he was too curious to refrain from asking.
“Everyone I’ve killed,” Edward murmured slowly. “You’re one of them. Lying, posh high-born pricks. Talking about their business endlessly like it was the only thing that matters in the world. Your business, your profits, and what you can get out of a charity program… You know what.” He suddenly sat up straight, and Oswald could see his eyes glinting behind his glasses in the mirror.
“I was supposed to put you, Mister Penguin, on my victims’ list.” The Ridder narrowed his eyes, leaning toward to whisper into his ear. Oswald suddenly realized that his heart was thumping like thunder. “I took you out simply because I had no time for a watchdog like you. But now I regret it. I should’ve killed you alongside Falcone…” Edward purred, intimidatingly, “that would be laughably easy… I just needed to have my muzzle moved a couple of inches…”
Oswarld’s teeth clenched as the insulting word rang in his ears. He closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them, he was the Penguin, the king of Gotham again. He knew how to play this game. Riddles may not be his strong suit, he was good with men. The Riddler may have the smartest brain in Gotham, he was still a rookie in manipulating.
He could teach this damn egoist a lesson.
“So,” Oswald started, choosing his words carefully, “you’re taking revenge on those who ruined your life by embezzling the fund that was supposed to help you. Correct?”
“Correct. But there’s no point arguing that you have nothing to do with the fund,” Edward snorted, laying back down. “You’re the middleman. You knew everything but you have done nothing to stop it. Just drive faster to the Bat so that I can kill you sooner when I come out of Arkham.”
“But you didn’t stop there,” Oswald continued as if Edward hadn’t said anything. “You flooded the city. Killed hundreds of innocents. It was not only an act of revenge. It was a statement. A show. A game you want to play with who you believed is the smartest person in the city besides you, the famous vigilante, the Batman. You didn’t do it because you were hurt, or angry. You did it for fun, for attention and recognition, in other words, for your own benefits.”
Edward gasped slightly, and Oz pressed.
“You were telling the world you’re not a nobody anymore - not someone with a name as common as Edward Nashton. You wanted them to remember you as the mysterious, enigmatic man who made the real change. Not the politicians, or the Waynes. You loathed them so much because you knew that deep inside, they are as dirty and despicable as you are, but the public sees them as heroes. Unlike you, they’re loved and respected. You longed for that sort of recognition so much that you’d die trying to reveal the truth to the world.”
In the mirror, Edward bit his lips. Very well, now try to appeal to his conscience, if there’s still a thing down there. It’d be a flaw for a criminal.
“Among your victims are the old, the disabled, the women and children, and none of them have ever done anything to you - ”
“Like you are any better? How many people have you killed?” blurted Edward suddenly, raising his head to glare at him in the mirror. His pale face was now flushed in anger. “The civilians were cheated on and lied to. I don’t blame them for their ignorance, as none of them have the marvelous brain that I have to see the truth. In five years or so, the dead would be forgotten and the city would remember me, had my plan been executed smoothly. Actually, it did, except for the part that I was put in Arkham, but that’s not important. The rats had seen the light, Penguin. Hundreds of orphans will get the funds they deserved back. Innocent people won’t be put into jail because of that corrupted DA. The city will change, and it’s because of me. Me, the Riddler! Not the damn Bat!”
He almost screamed the last name out and had to stop to catch his breath. Oswald took the opportunity to chime in.
“And, that’s why you’re wrong,” Oz concluded.
The silence fell again. This time, Oswald was not the one who couldn’t help but break it.
“Fine,” five minutes later, he heard a frustrated voice from behind. “I’m wrong about what?”
“I’m one of them.” He turned his head back to look the Riddler firmly in the eyes, whose stunning green eyes were widened and filled with amazement now. It was quite dangerous to do so while driving, but thankfully, the highway at 1 a.m. was not that busy.
“Edward, I tell no lies. Not to you, and not to myself. I won’t conceal my lack of empathy and concern for others behind a ‘good man’ veneer or an excuse for the Greater Good. Don’t pretend you care about those orphans and victims of the corruption of the system. You don’t. You didn’t kill those men for them. You killed them for yourself and you tried to justify your actions with the ‘changing the city’ nonsense because there’s still a jot of conscience left in you. I know, because this is how I used to be when I started to get my hands dirty.”
Edward murmured something Oswald couldn’t quite catch under his breath. Nonetheless, he kept going.
“All you care about is revenging those who wronged you because it makes you feel good. That’s okay. I’d do the same if I were you. I would get what I want at all costs and I’d hurt people, just as you did.”
“You would?” Something changed in the Riddler’s voice. An unexpected softness. Barely noticeable, but it was there. Oswald suddenly paid extra attention to what he was saying now. In the deafening silence of the car, he heard the small sound of the other man swallowing.
“Yes. How’s that hard to believe? Not all criminals started with killing the mayor and making all the headlines, you know.”
Silence again. The road they were driving on was gradually getting illuminated by more dense street lights. Oswald realized that they were around the edge of Gotham City now, getting close to their destination.
One minute later, they exited from the highway and Oswald turned North, the direction leading to the GCPD station.
“No… no one told me it’s okay to be angry. No one said they would do what I did. No one said they wouldn’t lie to me,” Edward whispered.
His head lowered, voice hoarser than before, and Oswald refused to let his brain register any possible explanation for that change.
But his body reacted. He took his foot off the accelerator and slowed the driving speed. It seemed Edward had not noticed.
“…Everyone says I’m insane,” the boy said, turning his head to the window, facing the city lights of Gotham, his hands clenching around his cuffs.
It sounded so lonely, so familiar. Something suddenly tightened in Oswald's chest, some distant memories flashed in his head, and he could hear a voice of a school teacher saying, “that kid fat like a penguin? He’s not normal.”
He tried to say something nice, but he had forgotten how to say such things. God, how long had it been since the last time he wanted to comfort another person?
He had to say something, or it was getting weird. The last sentence voiced by the boy hung heavily in the air. But whenever Oswald got nervous, the first thing that automatically came out of his mouth was an insult.
“If you drop your annoying narcissism for a second, you’d probably notice that soon.”
“Fuck. I almost decided that for one second you’re not so much of a nauseous person,” Edward rolled his eyes and grunted.
The charm was broken, the moment had passed, and for some unnameable reasons, Oswald felt lost, like he had missed something very, very important.
To ease his nerves, he struggled to get back to the original subject. He pondered for a while before he opened his mouth again.
“Plus, your phrasing was wrong. You are exactly like who you’ve killed, the mayor, the D.A., Falcone, even me. Just as merciless, self-centric, and damned.” Oswald grinned. “You know, you really shouldn’t separate yourself from us, put us as ‘them’ and you as ‘I’. You’re trying to hunt us down, but you ARE one of us, Eddie.”
In the mirror, Oswald could see Edward freeze hearing that pet name, and Oz grinned with full teeth, knowing he was winning this round.
“The right way to put it is not ‘I’m one of them', but ‘you’re one of us’. Free yourself from the useless conscience that keeps telling you that you should do the right thing. It will only get in the way. Welcome to the real world, Eddie.”
Before Oswald realized what he was doing, he slammed his feet on the brakes. With a sudden jarring noise, the car was stopped in the middle of the road and both of them were thrown forward.
Oswald was sweating profusely. The idea that just formed in his head thrilled him, but Oz was not a man who would hesitate for long. He turned the wheel and drove in the opposite direction, the car at full speed.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Eddie mumbled from behind. “Aren’t you supposed to hand me to the Batman?”
“Change of plan,” his reply was curt.
“Then where are we heading?”
Oz smiled despite himself. He knew it would be a good idea. He just knew.
There was a feeling swelling in his heart. It was quite hard to describe. It reminded him of the feeling of a kid standing in front of a theater, waiting eagerly for the story between them to disclose.
He knew those would be damn good stories.
“Iceberg Lounge.”
-END-