#2 - Current Events

#2 - Current Events



The sounds of laughter and piano filled the air at the Iceberg Lounge. The tables were full, the reservation list booked out for over a month, with guests from all walks of life. Celebrities, business people, politicians, career criminals, all with one thing in common. Wealth.

A violin joined alongside the piano, a perfect intertwined melody for the guests partaking of the dance floor. The dance floor extended out from the dining area and over the main attraction of the Iceberg Lounge, a large water tank filled with arctic sea life.

Oswald Cobblepot, a stout man in his late forties, weaved his way through the dining area, a warm smile underneath his long, thin nose. Dressed in a fine tuxedo and carrying an ornate cane, he stopped at each table in turn, offering thanks for dining at his establishment, asking on the quality of the food, or generally chatting with the regulars.

To all acquainted with him, Oswald seemed the most content man they could ever imagine. Born and bred to be a fine host, only concerned with the well being of his patrons. For a few brief moments, Oswald himself could even believe it. One could have a most happy and fulfilling life as nothing more than the owner of the Iceberg Lounge. Until the gnawing at the back of his skull, the ever present demand of ambition, came back to the forefront. A demand to be more.

"Nice turnout tonight, Mr. Cobblepot," the bartender, Reggie, smiled and nodded as Oswald walked up to the bar.

"As always, Reginald," Oswald returned the smile and reached out for the martini he knew would be there. Like any good bartender, Reggie knew when to pour another. "We are in the business of keeping our guests happy and they reward us with their patronage. A relationship as old as time."

"Not too different from politics," an older gentleman with thinning white hair said in a deep voice as he walked along the bar. "Wouldn't you say?"

"Not that different at all, Judge Wright," Oswald smiled, extending his hand.

"Oh Oswald, call me Harold," the man smiled, taking Oswald's hand.

"Perhaps some day," Oswald chuckled.

He had to look up to make eye contact with Harold. Certainly par for the course inside the judge's courtroom, but unusual outside as Harold was not a particularly tall man. He wasn't particularly anything in Oswald's estimation. Except greedy.

"So are the rumors and wild speculation I've been hearing true?" Oswald asked after ordering Harold his usual gin and tonic. "You plan to toss your hat into the ring for Mayor?"

Harold took a sip and laughed. "Oh well I cannot confirm nor deny any statements regarding my political aspirations."

Harold's dark brown skin creased in all manner of directions as he smiled, his perfect teeth shining. Oswald was ninety-nine percent certain they were dentures.

"You will of course be doing a lot of that should the rumors be true."

"Doing what?" Harold asked.

"Denying."

A dark expression fell over Harold's face. He was a man unaccustomed to being told the truth about himself. He surrounded himself with Yes Men and those vying to gain favor. Oswald himself had played that tune when it suited him. Now was not that time.

A look sent Reggie down to the other side of the bar, giving Oswald and Harold a modicum of privacy. "You are an ambitious man, Harold. That ambition has brought you far. It has, however, brought you as far as you're going to go."

"Now just one second..."

Oswald took a sip of his martini and set the glass down, hard. "Judge Wright is a man well connected, with much influence, and few eyes upon him. Mayoral Candidate Wright is a man in the sights of every reporter in the city. Not to mention the investigators on Mayor Vale's payroll. That is too much spotlight for a man such as you."

"As you said, I am well connected," Harold blustered, offended at Oswald's bluntness. "I can easily handle some gossip rags and Vale's flunkies."

Oswald looked away from the judge and kept his voice low and even. "Then you are more the fool than I took you for. So allow me to be even blunter. You are a man with connections, myself included, who have both vested interest in you remaining right where you are, and absolutely no patience for your bullshit."

Oswald finally turned to look at the judge. Despite their height, it was now clear to both men that Oswald was now the one looking down on Harold. "You have soared to the farthest heights you shall ever reach. Fly any higher and your wax shall melt. Any one of your connections will see to that."

Oswald began to lift his glass up to his mouth, only for Harold to reach over and grab his wrist. "Y-You...you can't talk to me like that. I..."

Harold fell silent as a hand rested on his shoulder. A large man in an expensive suit frowned at him but didn't say a word. Harold glanced about and noticed five other men and women, some Lounge employees and two guests sitting at separate tables, all staring at him. Their eyes all conveyed one word. "No."

"You will find, upon further retrospection, that there are a number of things about this and many of your relationships you had not considered. You are not the king, Harold. You are the pawn. And it is time you learned to play your part. Good evening."

After taking the last sip of his drink, Oswald gathered his cane and walked away from the bar, head held high. He had to admit to himself, as much as he would have preferred Harold having understood his place and accepting it gracefully, a large part of him enjoyed their interaction. Power was intoxicating, and being able to wield it was always quite enjoyable.

He made his way up the stairs to the large office that overlooked the entire lounge. A single guard stood watch at the door. The bald, pale man was named John, he believed. He nodded silently at Oswald and opened the door for him. Oswald sighed as he walked into the dark room.

"Long night, Penguin?"

Oswald jumped slightly and turned to see a figure in the shadows behind the closing door. The voice alerted John, who pushed through the door and reached for the gun inside his jacket.

"Wait..."

Oswald sighed again as the shadowy figure grabbed John's wrist away from his jacket, spun him head over heels onto the floor, and palm struck him in the face, knocking him out.

"Was that really necessary?" Oswald asked, moving to the wall sized window overlooking the lounge, ensuring he was in full view of the guests below. "How many other of my people did you injure getting in here?"

"Three," Nightwing answered. He shut the door and remained in the shadows. "They'll recover."

"Next time consider calling ahead. Had I known you were coming I would have told my people to stand down rather than risk disrupting business."

"That easy, huh?"

Oswald turned and squinted at the shadows. "I have nothing to hide. Why should I be afraid Batman's brats?"

"We both know you're dirty, Penguin."

Oswald shuddered at the second use of that name but kept his cool. "Oh we do? Then I suppose you are planning to march over to the GCPD and give a statement? Offer your expert testimony? Agree to reveal your identity and testify under oath in a court of law?"

Scoffing out loud, Oswald walked over to his large desk and reached for a bottle of brandy. Flipping one of the two glasses over, he poured himself a large drink. "Of course not. I've had the police investigating me for years. Even your master has spent a considerable amount of time spying, harassing, and threatening me. How is ol' Bats, by the way?"

Oswald turned to raise the glass toward Nightwing. He could just make out the scowl on the vigilante's face through the darkness. "Oh, well never mind. I've dealt with you and yours for years and yet here I remain, my legitimate business booming. So please, spare me the theatrics. You cannot hurt me."

"Hmm, well someone sure can." Nightwing said, his voice hard. "Nine dead at the docks. Two on Birch. Someone sure has a beef with your 'legitimate business.'"

After taking a long sip of his brandy, Oswald breathed, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course not," Nightwing smirked. He began walking along the back wall, remaining in shadow. "But if someone was, hypothetically, out to get you, do you have any idea who it would be?"

"Of course not. I don't have any enemies. Ridiculo..."

Before he could react, Oswald found a grapple line wrap around his wrist and yank him across the room. He was suddenly face down on the floor, his brandy spilled all around him, and a knee digging in between his shoulder blades.

"I don't know why Batman never took you down," Nightwing spoke through gritted teeth into Oswald's ear. "The devil you know, maybe? Or maybe you're just that good. But right now I don't care. I'm not looking to bust you. I'm trying to stop a turf war from erupting in our streets. So how about you cooperate just a tiny bit, okay?"

"All right," Oswald answered as best he could, his face pressing up against the expensive carpet of his office.

Nightwing pushed himself up off of Oswald, knocking some wind out of him. Oswald coughed and hacked up some phlegm as he sat up on the floor, angrily wiping at the brandy that soaked into his tuxedo.

"It's not a turf war," Oswald grumbled. "It's one man."

"One man?" Nightwing asked, confused.

"Yes, one man. There have been three other incidents you and the police aren't aware of. It's just one man, unless he has partners we haven't seen. He dresses much like you lot. Black leather, a red helmet, except he doesn't have your compunctions toward killing."

Nightwing appeared to be considering this information carefully. Oswald didn't know what the deal with Batman was, but he was observant enough over the years to notice the three different boys who had been his partner Robin, and that this Nightwing who came to Gotham a few weeks back was the same as the first Robin he'd encountered. It came as something of a shock. He always assumed the changes were due to Batman's young partners dying.

"Has he contacted you at all? Made any demands."

"He's not made a single peep," Oswald said as he got back up onto his feet. "Besides the sound of gunshots. He shows up seemingly at random, murders without mercy, and vanishes. No theft. No demands. Just death."

"I would think you'd have this place locked down after all that."

"He's yet to attack in any kind of public dealings. And if he wanted me dead he'd certainly have come for me by now. No, I think there's more to him than that. I think he's sending a message."

"I don't suppose you'll give me a list of your dealings for the next couple days so I know where to look?"

Oswald was overcome with the absurdity and started to laugh. He saw a smirk come to the corner of Nightwing's lips and it just made him laugh all the more. By the door, John started to groan as Nightwing made his way out.

"I'll be keeping an eye on you, Penguin."

Oswald's laughter immediately cut off. "Use both eyes," he shouted as the door swung shut. "You'll need them!"



It was late. Or rather early, depending on your point of view. It was well past four in the morning when Robin landed on the roof of his apartment building. After his run in with the red helmeted man, Robin laid next to a puddle of his own vomit, unable to move. It took the concerned voice of Oracle in his ear saying his name over and over to finally rouse him. After repeated assurances he was fine, Robin decided to go home rather than check in.

Alone on the roof, the sky still dark and cloudy, Robin went to a hidden panel he'd installed in the corner and took out a duffelbag with his civilian clothes. He changed in a daze, his body going through the motions with little thought. Once his costume was in the bag, he put it back in the secret compartment and climbed down to his bedroom window.

Standing on the fire escape, he silently lifted the window and went inside. Had he his wits about him, he would have seen the figure waiting on his bed.

"Tim."

A yelp escaping his lips, Tim fell back against the windowsill in surprise. Sitting on his bed, in the dark, was his father, Jack Drake. The older man, with the same jet black hair as Tim save for the gray filling out the sides, had a look of exhausted disappointment on his face.

"D-Dad?"

"Do you know what time it is?" Jack said, his voice even and steady.

"Look, Dad, I can explain. I..."

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?"

Jack leapt to his feet, fury overtaking the otherwise gentle man. The move was so sudden, so out of character for his father, that Tim fell back on instinct and took a defensive stance, reaching out and grabbing his father by the lapel of his robe and rearing back his fist.

The anger on Jack's face quickly changed to fear. Whether it was fear for himself or of what his son had become, Tim couldn't say for sure. He saw Jack's eyes scanning his face, noticing the bruises and the cut along his cheekbone.

"What is this?" Jack asked, his voice wavering. "What is it you're doing? Going out fighting? Or worse? Have you broken the law?"

Tim let go of his father and crumpled back against the window, his entire body suddenly feeling too heavy to stand. He stared down at his father's feet. He had on his brown fuzzy slippers. The ones Tim bought him for Father's Day two years ago. They were ratty and worn, the left one had a small hole where the tip of his big toe could be seen through, yet he still wore them every night.

"Tim?" Jack said in a voice just barely below shouting. "I asked you a question!"

"No...Dad it's nothing like that...it's..." Tim trailed off. In his mind he'd practiced this moment hundreds of times. He'd prepared different stories for what he'd been doing if his father ever caught him sneaking in. Arguments and counter arguments, he'd run through the scenarios over and over. Yet now that it happened, all of it slipped from his mind like water through his fingers.

"Just don't! I can't handle this right now! I have to get ready for work in an hour!" Jack said as he began to pace. "You had better be here when I get home and have one hell of an explanation. And yeah, consider yourself grounded for the rest of your life!"

Jack stormed toward the door and opened it, stopping just a moment to add, without looking back, "I'm just glad you're alive. This city already took your mother from me."

The door slammed shut and Tim was alone. His heart was pounding, his forehead covered in sweat. He almost died tonight save for the mercy of some masked gunman. Tim's life was unraveling, and yet none of it, not even the crippling fear in the back of his mind that Batman was dead, felt as bad as what his father just said to him.



The alarm woke Barbara Gordon from a light slumber. She rarely slept deeply. Not for some years.

The clock on her phone read noon. It was always a little funny to Barbara that she, now twenty-six years old and a college graduate, woke up at noon every day. Fortunately her current profession of coding and mercenary software development allowed her to make her own hours.

Rolling over the side of her bed, Barbara reached for her wheelchair and lifted herself into it. It had been four years and the struggle was now routine. That night had taken a lot of things from her, but her independence was not one of them.

Her routine was slightly different than normal for the last couple weeks. Instead of just using the bathroom and rolling out to grab a small breakfast before beginning her work, she took the time to brush her long, red hair, tie it up into a ponytail, wash her face, and put on a t-shirt. It took her a moment to decide between pants of shorts, but she had shaved yesterday and decided shorts were sufficient.

She felt silly for getting ready for what would likely be just another day at home, but every morning she still found herself doing it.

As she made her way out into the living area of her apartment she heard uneven snoring and smiled. Reaching out as she rolled past the couch, she slapped the sleeping bundle of blankets and said, "Wake up, Dick! It's past noon!"

The snoring stopped, but Barbara heard him roll over rather than get up. She made her way into the kitchen and started her Keurig. The red machine churned as it heated up. It needed a good cleaning, coffee stains covering the drip tray. Sighing to herself, Barbara looked around and realized much of her apartment needed cleaning. Perhaps she'd broach that subject to her unexpected roommate.

Coffee in hand and bowl of Raisin Bran in lap, Barbara headed toward her L shaped corner desk out in the living room, slapping at Dick's feet as she went by. He moaned a complaint but didn't move.

This was Barbara's space. Her life. There was no television in her living room. Even the couch was only a conceit to the possibility of guests. Her desk with her three computers and five monitors, ergonomic keyboards, and Tom Servo and Crow T. Robot statues was where everything happened now. Both her career as Barbara Gordon and her life as the mysterious online presence, Oracle.

Putting her glasses on, Barbara pulled up the Gotham City Police Department website as well as the Gotham Gazette, the Daily Planet, and the Daily Bugle. She ate quietly as she got caught up on current events, particularly engaging was an article on the Daily Bugle's site about a battle between Spider-Man and the Green Goblin.

"Anything interesting?"

Barbara nearly chocked on her cereal. She pushed the bowl away and pounded herself in the chest as she coughed. Dick laughed awkwardly and patted her through the back of her wheelchair.

"Sorry, bad habit."

Dick was crouched down beside her chair, a lopsided smirk on his face. When she recovered enough that she could breath, Barbara pushed his face and knocked him off balance. "I know you've been spending more and more time as Nightwing right now, but I'm not some criminal you have to sneak up on."

"I know, I know," Dick laughed, picking himself up off the floor and heading into the kitchen. "Life would be a lot better if Gotham's underbelly were as beautiful as you. Instead I have the likes of the Penguin to spend time with."

There he went again. Flattery. Flirtation. It was a hold over from their time as Robin and Batgirl. Even as a teen, and with Barbara three years his elder, he was always flirting with her. Not in a creepy, inappropriate way. It was just how they bantered with each other. Back in the day she was just as guilty as he was. They'd gotten out of touch for the most part when Dick went to college, but now that he was back he quickly fell into old patterns. It wasn't as easy for her.

"I haven't heard from Tim since last night," Barbara shouted to the kitchen. She didn't know what he was doing, but from the sounds of dishes clattering and bacon sizzling, it was certainly messy.

"It's not exactly airtight detective work," Dick shouted back. "But I'm willing to bet that the guy he fought was the same guy terrorizing Penguin."

"You should go talk to him," Barbara said, not having to shout now that Dick came out with a plate full of eggs and bacon and sat down on the couch.

"To Penguin? I did that."

"To Tim, you idiot!" Barbara said, rolling her eyes. The smirk on his face revealed he'd just been messing with her.

"I will after breakfast," Dick promised. He looked down to take a couple bites of food. When he looked up, he grimaced at the burning look Barbara was giving him over the top of her glasses. "I will! I promise!"

"And Alfred?" Barbara raised an eyebrow. "He called again last night. He wants to talk to you. And he keeps asking me why you haven't gone back to the manor. He has your room ready."

Dick didn't offer a reply to that. No quip. No smirk. He simply looked off to the side as he chewed a piece of bacon. Avoiding. Refusing to face the truth. A fact that in this moment, Barbara had finally had enough of.

"Dick, as 'fun' as it's been having you as a roomie, it's time you went home."

"Huh?" Dick met her gaze, uncertain.

"Look, I get it. You're in denial. I have been too." Pulling her glasses off, Barbara rubbed her eyes with one hand. "But Bruce has been gone for a month now. No clues. No trace. Alfred said Lucius has been doing what he can but the board wants to have him declared dead. I know it's not what you want, but you are his heir. In more ways than one..."

"I already told you no," Dick said, his voice flat and emotionless.

"People are going to start putting two and two together," Barbara said, her voice getting louder. Her frustration was rising quickly. It was an argument they'd already had. Twice. "Batman and Bruce disappearing at the same time? How long until someone starts putting it all together? Not just Bruce and Batman, but you, me, Alfred, Tim? God, Tim. He was able to figure it all out. Someone else will!"

"I'm not him!" Dick shouted, slamming his plate down on the floor. "I'm not Batman! I'll never be him! I left for so long because I didn't like what he was trying to turn me into! Now you're asking me to become that willingly?"

Barbara rolled over and pushed Dick back down onto the couch so she could look at him eye to eye. "I'm not asking you to be Bruce! I'm asking you to be Batman! Gotham needs Batman, whether you want to admit it or not. Tim needs Batman. It's the symbol that matters. I'm not saying you need to be Bruce's Batman. I'm saying you need to be Dick Grayson's Batman."

She could see his jaw clenching. His skin was turning red. The whole situation was infuriating, yet she found herself having to push away thoughts of being this close to him. Of feeling his breath on her face. Of the smell of his skin. Barbara shook her head and leaned back in her chair, taking a deep breath.

"Look, whether you take over as Batman or not, you're still Bruce Wayne's heir. You need to work with Lucius and deal with Wayne Enterprises. You NEED to go to the manor and help Alfred. You NEED to talk to Tim. He looks up to you. He won't admit it, but he's freaking out about Bruce and now almost dying last night. Dick...like it or not, Bruce is gone. We're all looking to you now."

Without a word, Dick stood up. He grabbed his pants, his bag, and his coat before storming out. Left alone in her living room, the remnants of bacon and eggs strewn across the carpet, Barbara ran her hands through her hair and roared in frustration. Everything Bruce built in ten years was falling apart in just a month, and she couldn't stop it.



Sweat dripped down over his brow and into his eyes. He squinted them shut at the pain, an involuntary response he wasn't able to prevent. After a brief moment he forced his eyes open. The initial shock gone, he now endured the pain.

"Sixty-two...sixty-three....sixty-four..."

Sweat started to pool underneath his palms making the push ups more difficult. He fought through it. He'd already been working out for forty-five minutes and he planned to keep going another fifteen. He was only running on four hours of sleep, but he never seemed to be able to get much more than that anymore. His body didn't seem to need it.

When he finally hit one hundred he leapt to his feet. After a quick stretch and a sip of water he grabbed a jumprope and got to work. As he jumped he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the blacked out window next to him. Sweat made the burn scars on his side and back shimmer in the dim light of the single hanging bulb.

Turning away from the window, he shook his head, trying to get the sweat drenched ginger hair plastered to his forehead out of his eyes. His lungs were on fire. His muscles screamed.

He inched his way toward a small table in the center of the room. When he was close enough, he dropped the jumprope, tucked and rolled across the cold cement floor and grabbed a knife off the table as he went. As he rose to his feet, he threw the dagger with one hand, with the other he pulled a pistol out from behind his back and fired one shot.

Taking a deep breath, he walked over to the wall and the picture of Oswald Cobblepot hanging there. He took the knife from the spot right below the picture, where his neck would be, and inspected the bullet hole in the middle of Oswald's forehead.

"Not bad," he whispered to himself, his voice deep and rough, almost like two rocks rubbing together. "Tonight, Oswald. Tonight."

-To Be Continued-