Eventually, even I couldn't sit any more. Rounding up all the lost children and orphans of Gotham was going to be a serious undertaking, and I had other errands besides. So when everyone was squared away I set off towards Otisburg, near the edge of Diamond District.
A few days and walking has already lost much of its charm, and I can run at highway speeds. Note to self, set at least a middling priority on restoring bus service, at least. We'll have to clear a lot of the streets and duplicate up some gas, but people need to be able to move around to get work done and restore the city to something like proper functioning. Pity the El is probably out for the duration, Gotham's public transport is fantastic... in any non-crisis situation. Not that you often see those in this town.
In time I reach the edge of Otisburg, wow it and Diamond seem to have suffered a lot worse than Old Gotham. The tallest intact building I can see is- what else? The Iceberg Lounge.
Outside are my first goal, a large group of children gathered, watching the entrance and occasionally begging scraps off the relatively well-to-do who still seem to be coming and going. Somehow.
Well, I take my time distributing food and explaining there's lots more where that came from in good Old Gotham. You catch more flies with promises of beds and food than coming on strong like CPS.
Also, Penguin's people will have noticed me by now, the dazzling white attire sticks out, and I want to give them plenty of time to report in. To do otherwise would just be rude.
After making sure each and every kid had been seen to, only then did I ascend to the steps to the Penguin's club. The lights were still on, I assumed from a generator. Not all of them, though, I saw many candles which were lit soon with the fall of night. People seemed to huddle around their tables, leaning into the small pools of light and speaking softly, as if afraid to be loud or move around. Above it all, Oswald Cobblepot sat at his accustomed table on a raised section with four or five others, from which the whole of the floor could be seen. To all appearances just one more patron, though his ownership of the club was common knowledge.
Over I went. We all have our oddities.
"Ah, if it isn't our beloved mayor. Thank you, Ogilvy, why don't you go get that set up."
A blonde young man stood quickly, nodded to Cobblepot and scurried off. I settled myself into his seat.
"Hello, Cobblepot. New assistant? I don't recognize him."
"Oh he's been with me for some time now. You really should get out more, Mr. Mayor."
I patted near my heart twice, to acknowledge the hit. "Well, here I am now."
"So you are, indeed." He took a sip from his drink. "Now what brings our illustrious leader out on a night like this?"
Below, on the floor people were picking up their plates and moving themselves to the edges of the room. Odd, and somewhat worrying. I kept half an eye on events.
"Because I so appreciate our little chats?"
He shot me a flat look. I sighed.
"This afternoon I had a run-in with a con-artist who was taking everything people had, promising a way off the island, then locking them in a cellar."
He gave a shrug that simultaneously conveyed his low opinion of the hucksters in question, and his total indifference to the topic at hand.
"So this got me thinking. A remaining, hidden, path off the island is not so farfetched as all that. The Feds aren't exactly known for their stunning efficiency and thoroughness. And if it exists, why, I'd lay any odds that you, sir, know precisely where it lies."
Now he was interested, though he certainly took pains not to look it.
"And whatever would lead you to that conclusion?" He asked with a nonchalance that was just a little too deliberate.
A comic book I first read forty years ago, I certainly didn't say. "Two reasons. First, you and this con man are the only people I know collecting up and hoarding jewelry and their paper money, which makes little sense... unless you have a way to spend it. Now, he seemed to think this would all blow over in a month or two, the Feds would come back and his ship would come in. But, in all the years I've known you, I've never known you to bet on nebulous hopes and dreams and vague promises. Second, because frankly Oswald, it's you we're talking about. You've always been the very paragon of collectors, and very much the first man to speak to for finding anything rare or difficult."
He hummed and half turned away to watch below. Waiters, or I assumed that's what they were from the suits, were taking away tablecloths and upending tables to roll away. Clearing a space. For dancing? I didn't see any place for a band, but with modern technology less of a problem. I didn't think this was a nightclub sort of place though.
"Perhaps I simply expect trade to resume after a period of months or years, and realize these items will never again be so cheaply attained?"
"You could be. But I'd be surprised, Cobblepot. I really would."
"Well then, today is truly a special day." He turned back to me, pulled his cigar from his lips and set it on his saucer before sipping his drink. "I finally get to see you looking surprised. I don't have any way off the island. If I did, do you think I'd still be here?"
"Probably. You're making out like a bandit selling what used to be cheap and commonplace goods at a premium."
Before he could retort, the lights dimmed, or rather, the candles seemed dimmer as lights came on only in the center.
"Ladies and gentleman!" Penguin's blonde lackey had climbed on a table. "The moment you've been waiting for! In this corner, your reigning champion, George Jessel!" a ragged cheer went around the room as he gestured to a muscular middle-aged and dark-skinned man in the final stage of pulling off his shirt. "And now meet- the challenger! All the way from Stockbridge Georgia, you loved him when he played football for Gotham U, it's Eddie Turner!" The kid looked barely out of highschool, pale and blonde with muscles on top of his muscles.
"A fight?" I turned to Penguin.
"You disapprove?"
Ah, a test. They'd probably upped the time-table when I came in, which is why the diners had to be moved. Probably specifically so Cobblepot could gauge my reaction.
"Not in the least." Well, a bit, but I was certainly no stranger to violence. "I'm just surprised, is all. It seems a little... low-brow entertainment, for your preferred clientele."
"Times change, and situations too. Most of my usual customers have fled the city. We needed a draw and- wouldn't you know it- it seems the State of New Jersey's laws about pit fights no longer apply to us. Seems there never was a civic ordinance."
I nodded as I caught the unspoken question. Will this become illegal in the near future? "Well, it's a free country. City. If two men want to go at it, and get paid to do it in front of an audience, I take no issue with that. Of course, it someone were to die, or I learned they weren't fighting as their free choice, well, I'd become quite upset." I locked eyes with him. "Very upset, Cobblepot."
"I understand."
"Same goes for prostitution, really. If they're treated decently and aren't coerced, it's fair game in my eyes."
"And does this newfound liberality extend to recreational substances, I wonder? Academically, of course."
"Of course." I said. "That this is hypothetical, I mean."
We- I... had some complicated views there. Among my many, many crimes, I have never sold drugs, nor tolerated their sale in my turf. James and I, we both have a bone-deep distrust of those things that overthrow the mind and turn it against itself. Besides, people did and still do take those personal, in many ways dealing drugs is a better way of drawing heat on yourself than gunrunning. On the other hand, I always disagreed with the fervor the Feds put into the "War on Drugs." Harsh minimum sentences ruined lives as surely as addiction, and the more they cracked down, the more drugs gained the allure of the forbidden fruit, the richer the drug lords grew. Didn't believing in freedom, in and of itself, entail respecting people's freedom to fuck up their lives if they so wish? It's not like there aren't a million-plus ways of doing that without drugs. And yet, I very much need the people of Gotham channeling their sorrow and rage into work and building a functional society, not escaping them to lay around in chemically-inspired fever dreams.
I... don't have a solid answer. Which may be one of the more damning statements of my character in this tale.
"I haven't bothered coming up with a drug policy as of yet." I heard my lips say. "And I'm certainly not going to commit to one right here and now. If you have a case to make, write it up and forward it to the Council. Anonymously, if you don't want your name on it." For years it was argued that legalizing drugs would cut down the price, and let the government tax it, so I wasn't sure this was to Cobblepot's benefit. But I am sure he ran the numbers a dozen ways before broaching the topic with me, and the fact that he had seemed to suggest he was for it.
In truth, where I didn't fall strongly on one side or another of the argument, Penguin and his ilk would very likely have their way with legalization. After I'd extracted every reasonably possible concession and compromise from them on my platform. Because that's how governing works.
Below the fight began, to cheers and jeers from the crowd. Sports aren't really my thing, blood sport, even less so. But to just leave would be rude. I waved over a waitress and gave her two silver pieces for a Coke. I probably overpaid, but everyone was finding their equilibrium with the new currency, and it's better to get it out and into circulation. Then I settled in to watch the pit fighters, wondering if I had won or lost tonight's bout, and which was of us was more at liberty.
===============================================================
When I got outside, it was already dark out. Very nearly a true night, like you get in the countryside with very few lights and very many stars... where the clouds don't block them. Well, there was a noticeable glow to the North, where Bludhaven was, and I bet from the opposite end of the island you could see Metropolis all lit up.
After that fun diversion, and popping into GCPDHQ to set up some things, I went for a calming moonlight swim, in the direction of Blackgate.
I have a wetsuit on, but don't really need it. The Moonstone's 'eternal summer' effect has clearly taken hold at least in the sea, and the waters are quite warm with just a hint of that chill current that reminds you from time to time that yes, the warm shallows are connected to a much vaster body of water. Over my lower face is a starfish-creature, feeding me air through its tongue down my throat, and a thin, lightweight metal hula hoop is in my hand as I approach the island underwater.
It's mostly for the stealthy approach, but I have some fun with it too. I love swimming, always have. It's the most fun, least objectionable possible form of exercise, and a wonderful way to feel clean again after the Iceberg mess.
Coming up on the rocky beach, I flatten the hoop and keep swimming as long as I can, crawling up from the water instead of standing and striding out to keep stealth. I peel the gnullith off my face and stash it in a belt pouch to return to its book later, then try to be quick and discreet (likely failing at both) as I hustle up close to the big prison's wall and circle west until I find a big grated pipe. I duck a little when I hear a helicopter, but it's just part of the standard National Guard sweeps.
The metal hoop, by the way, is Magwit's Mystifying Hoop, a matter-transmitter linked to the one Freddy has at the GCPD, from a Star Wars Boba Fett comic yet still mentioned in the Essential Guide to Weapons and Technology.
Most teleporters don't really work when created with libriomancy, but I've had a very long time to experiment and find the ones that do. After I thumb the activation switch and hold the hoop out, Freddie steps out, bending at the shoulders to fit. Along with a rifle, he's got my new brilliantly white coat and a cloth shopping back full of cheap paperbacks I start loading into the pockets, handling it personally so I know where all my gear can be found. The men all finish a final gear check as a large sword coalesces into Freddie's hand and he removes the grating with a few absent swipes, and tied off a carefully measured string.
I take a sniff and gag. That's a sewer-pipe, alright. Time for the glamorous bit, and why adventurers rarely own new and fancy clothing.
After a long, dark, wet and thoroughly unpleasant crawl through the piping, the string ran out and Freddie cut us an exit. Blackgate was originally a Civil War-era gun battery, converted into a prison in the 1930s, and there are a lot of nooks, crannies and small disused rooms they just bricked up and left alone. This specific one has a hole for firing small cannon out of. Outside should be a short hall leading to the men's showers.
We trundle off and through. The shower space is a relatively open area, showerheads set in the walls and some short walls. A sort of balcony or catwalk above.
"I swear I saw this place in a movie somewhere." I mutter, and Petit throws me a glare.
The feeling of deja vu only increases when a shot cracks out and one of the porcelain tiles on the mini-walls shatters explosively.
"I told ya they were comin' in this way! Give 'em hell, brother!"
A furious barrage of shots comes our way, and everyone scrambles behind a wall. But there's only two or three sources of fire, from one side so we seem alright at the moment. Petit starts shouting orders and some of his men start firing wildly, while a few try to hustle around hugging the walls, and two run for the door and are cut down. Apparently whoever is shooting at us doesn't duck for cover fire.
I look to Freddie. "And I guess we're doing this loud. Let's go."