Chapter 28: Penguin's monologue
————————————————————
The hawk pierced the sky, its sharp eagle eyes glaring into the terrified, thin man who trembled on the ground below. The shrill sound of the bird's cry echoed across the area, cutting through the eerie silence that had settled after the chaos.
Scarecrow, now devoid of his former menace, was reduced to a desperate figure clawing at the vines constricting him. The wild vines tightened around his body, thorns digging into his skin as he scrambled to retrieve his mask. His hands shook as he fought to conceal his true identity, but the effort was futile.
"That's enough," Dean said coldly, his tone carrying a finality that froze Scarecrow in place.
In an instant, Dean deactivated his transformation. The wild vines retreated, their tendrils unraveling and disappearing as they left Scarecrow sprawled on the floor, panting heavily. The man looked pitiful, but Dean felt no sympathy.
Dean's gaze lingered on Scarecrow for a moment before shifting to the surveillance camera mounted in the corner of the room. He spoke quietly, but his words carried weight.
"You should count yourself lucky this is a bank," he muttered.
If this were any other situation, Dean might have been tempted to handle things differently. But the bank's cameras were watching, and Gotham's active roster of villains now included a former prosecutor. Dean wasn't about to risk being dragged into a legal quagmire by taking things too far.
"Under the de-escalation policy," Dean said firmly, addressing the man on the floor, "I will no longer engage in violence against you. Stay put, Jonathan Crane."
The deliberate use of his real name stripped away whatever illusion of power Scarecrow had left. Jonathan Crane flinched at the sound of it, his trembling hands falling limp as he curled into himself. The name seemed to drain him of all defiance, leaving him nothing more than a broken man.
Dean stepped closer, confiscating the syringes and chemicals that Scarecrow had used to spread his fear toxin. Crane didn't resist. His shoulders slumped as if all the fight had left him.
Moments later, the sound of police sirens broke the silence, signaling the arrival of two patrol cars. Dean waited patiently as the officers entered the bank, their weapons drawn but their expressions wary.
"All hostages are safe," Dean said briskly, motioning toward the subdued criminals. "There are survivors among the thugs, but stay cautious."
He turned toward the door, adding one last instruction over his shoulder. "My car is parked two blocks away, holding five additional suspects. Secure them as well."
Without another word, Dean exited the bank. Gotham's police force was already stretched thin, and he knew there were more emergencies waiting for him.
---
The faint cry of an eagle broke through the city's noise as Dean jogged toward his next destination. He glanced upward, spotting a black silhouette disappearing into the foggy sky.
---
At the same time, Oswald Cobblepot—the infamous Penguin—stood on the top floor of the Iceberg Lounge. The once-bustling nightclub was eerily silent, its usual patrons absent due to the citywide evacuation. Cobblepot, however, was unbothered by the quiet. If anything, it gave him time to plot his next move.
"Damn those Wayne boys," he grumbled, crushing his cigar into an ornate silver ashtray. Smoke curled upward as he sprayed himself liberally with cologne, masking the lingering tobacco smell.
A loud rustling sound signaled the arrival of his feathered companion. The bald eagle swooped through the open balcony door, its wings cutting through the air with effortless power. It perched on a wooden stand, its sharp eyes focused intently on Cobblepot.
"Ah, my fine-feathered friend," Cobblepot greeted with a sly grin, tossing the bird a small morsel of meat. "What news have you brought me tonight?"
The eagle cawed softly, tilting its head.
Cobblepot chuckled, adjusting his monocle as he interpreted the bird's silence. "I see. Scarecrow has been dealt with already, has he? That meddling detective must have gotten to him."
The Penguin paced slowly, his polished shoes clicking against the tiled floor. He stopped in front of the large window overlooking the city and gazed out at the empty streets.
"Jonathan Crane," he muttered, almost to himself. "A pitiful man, really. Brilliant when it comes to chemistry, but a coward through and through. Hiding behind a mask to make himself feel powerful? It's pathetic."
Cobblepot leaned against the window frame, his expression growing thoughtful. The evacuation had created a unique opportunity—one that he couldn't afford to ignore. With most of Gotham's major players lying low, the Penguin saw a chance to cement his dominance over the city's underworld.
"They think Gotham belongs to the Bat," he mused aloud. "But soon, they'll see the truth. This city belongs to me."
He tapped the tip of his umbrella against the floor, the sound echoing through the empty room. Moments later, his secretary appeared, his expression as nervous as ever.
"Prepare the men," Cobblepot ordered, his tone sharp and decisive. "We're heading to the docks. There's business to take care of."
The Penguin reclined in his office chair at the Iceberg Lounge, the faint hum of the city filling the air. He drummed his fingers against the polished desk, his mood caught somewhere between irritation and intrigue. The evacuation had robbed him of his usual profits, but it had also opened opportunities that couldn't be ignored.
"Scarecrow caught," he muttered, adjusting his monocle. "That fool never had the grit to last long in Gotham's cesspool. Pathetic."
He stood, his umbrella in hand, and paced to the large window overlooking Gotham's industrial district. The lights flickered below, hinting at the chaos brewing. With the city in disarray and key players distracted, the Penguin saw an opportunity to tighten his grip on the underworld.
"Falcone thought I'd fail," he murmured to himself, a smirk curling his lips. "But I've outlasted him, outplayed him. Gotham doesn't need old blood anymore—it needs someone who understands the game."
The room was dim, illuminated only by the occasional flash of neon light from outside. It suited the Penguin's mood perfectly. He leaned against the windowsill, lost in thought, when a soft knock at the door pulled him back.
"Come in," he said curtly.
His secretary entered, pale-faced and hesitant. "Boss, the men are ready at the docks."
"Good," Penguin replied, straightening. "Tell them to stay sharp. This city's going to hell, and we need to make sure we're the ones who benefit from it."
The secretary nodded, quickly retreating from the room.
---
Across town, the Gotham Police Department scrambled to maintain order. The evacuation had stretched their resources to the breaking point, and crime had surged in the wake of the chaos. Officers Weaver and Jenkins were among those called to the frontlines, patrolling the streets in a squad car that had seen better days.
The radio crackled with updates, each one more urgent than the last. Armed robberies, assaults, looting—it seemed as though the city had devolved into madness overnight.
"I don't like this," Jenkins muttered, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. "Feels like we're driving straight into a war zone."
Weaver, riding shotgun, nodded grimly. "Stay sharp. If things go south, we need to be ready to move fast."
The two officers were nearing the industrial district when the sound of breaking glass shattered the relative quiet. Jenkins hit the brakes, and both men scanned the area.
"What the hell was that?" Weaver whispered, reaching for his radio.
Before Jenkins could respond, a Molotov cocktail arced through the air, smashing against the hood of their car. Flames erupted, licking at the windshield as the officers scrambled out.
"Ambush!" Jenkins shouted, drawing his weapon.
From the shadows, a group of masked men emerged, their makeshift weapons glinting in the dim light. One carried a crowbar, another a baseball bat, and several more brandished firearms. They advanced slowly, their intent clear.
"GCPD!" Weaver barked, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. "Drop your weapons and get on the ground!"
The assailants didn't respond. Instead, one of them raised a shotgun and fired, the blast narrowly missing Weaver as he dove for cover.
Jenkins returned fire, his shots forcing the attackers to scatter. The air filled with the deafening sounds of gunfire, shouts, and breaking glass.
"We need backup!" Jenkins yelled into his radio, his voice strained.
From a nearby rooftop, Penguin watched the scene unfold, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He'd orchestrated the ambush to draw attention away from his real objective—the docks.
"Let the police play their little games," he muttered. With a flourish, he spun his umbrella and turned to his bodyguards. "Let's move. We have business to attend to."
---
The Gotham docks were shrouded in darkness, the faint glow of industrial lights casting long shadows over the sprawling warehouses. The air was thick with the scent of saltwater and oil, a combination that clung to everything and everyone. Oswald Cobblepot—better known as the Penguin—stood at the edge of the pier, his sharp eyes surveying the scene with practiced calculation.
"Unload the crates quickly," he barked, his voice cutting through the quiet night. "And for God's sake, don't drop anything. If you break it, you pay for it."
His men scrambled to obey, hauling crates from a cargo ship docked nearby. The Penguin's operation was running like clockwork, but there was no room for error tonight. With Gotham's police force stretched thin and the city in chaos, Penguin knew this was his moment to strike.
One of the men stumbled as he carried a particularly heavy crate, nearly dropping it onto the pier. Cobblepot's eyes narrowed, and he strode toward the man with purpose.
"What do you think you're doing?" he snapped, jabbing the tip of his umbrella into the man's chest. "Do you have any idea how much that shipment is worth?"
"Sorry, boss," the man stammered, his face pale. "It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't," Penguin growled, stepping back. He glanced at the other workers, his gaze sharp. "I don't pay you to make mistakes. Keep moving!"
The men redoubled their efforts, the sound of crates thudding against the pier blending with the distant hum of machinery.
Penguin adjusted his coat, his fingers trailing over the polished handle of his umbrella. He felt a rare sense of satisfaction as he watched his men work.
---
Meanwhile, not far from the docks, a figure moved silently through the shadows. Dean had followed the trail left by Penguin's operations, tracking him to this secluded location. The night was quiet save for the occasional shout from Penguin's men, their voices carrying across the water.
Dean crouched behind a stack of shipping containers, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. The Penguin was there, standing at the center of it all, barking orders and overseeing the operation.
"So this is where he's been hiding," Dean muttered to himself. He activated the communicator on his wrist, sending a quick message to Oracle.
"I've located Penguin at the docks," he said quietly. "Large crew, possibly armed. Requesting backup."
Oracle's voice came through the communicator, calm and focused. "Understood. Reinforcements are tied up, but I'll redirect the nearest units to your location. Be careful, Dean."
"Always," he replied, cutting the transmission.
---
Back at the docks, Cobblepot's mood shifted as one of his bodyguards approached.
"Boss," the man said, his voice low. "We've got company. Someone's snooping around the perimeter."
Penguin's lips curled into a sneer. "Of course we do. Gotham's rats can never leave well enough alone."
He straightened his posture, twirling his umbrella with practiced ease. "No matter. Let them come. We'll show them why Gotham belongs to the Penguin."
The bodyguard nodded, signaling to the other men. The workers abandoned their crates, grabbing weapons and forming a defensive perimeter around the pier.
Dean watched from the shadows, his mind racing. He could see the men arming themselves, their movements coordinated. Penguin might play the role of a theatrical villain, but his operations were anything but disorganized.
Dean decided to strike before the situation escalated further. He moved swiftly, his blade cutting through the night as he disarmed the first thug with ease. The man barely had time to react before he was knocked unconscious.
The sound of the scuffle drew the attention of the others. Shouts erupted as the workers scrambled to defend themselves.
"He's here!" one of them yelled, raising a crowbar.
Dean didn't give them a chance to regroup. He darted forward, his movements fluid and precise. A well-placed kick sent another man sprawling, his weapon clattering to the ground.
Penguin watched the chaos unfold, his sneer deepening. "Impressive," he muttered. "But let's see how long you last."
He raised his umbrella, aiming it toward Dean. With the press of a button, a burst of electricity shot from the tip, crackling through the air. Dean barely managed to dodge, the charge narrowly missing him as it struck a nearby crate, leaving scorch marks in its wake.
"So, you've come to play, have you?" Penguin called, his voice dripping with mockery. "Let's see if you're ready for the big leagues."
Dean didn't respond. He moved toward Penguin, his blade at the ready.
The remaining thugs hesitated, unsure whether to attack or retreat. Penguin noticed their hesitation and snarled.
"Get him!" he barked. "Don't just stand there!"
The men charged, but Dean was ready. He sidestepped the first attacker, delivering a swift strike to his knee that sent him collapsing. Another man swung a metal pipe, but Dean parried the blow with his blade, following up with a punch that knocked the wind out of him.
As the last thug fell, Penguin found himself alone. He gripped his umbrella tightly, his confidence faltering for the first time.
"You think you've won?" he spat, his tone defiant.
Dean stepped closer, his gaze steady. "It's over, Penguin."
The sound of sirens in the distance broke the tension. Penguin cursed under his breath, realizing reinforcements were on their way.
"This isn't over," he growled, retreating toward the water. "Gotham isn't yours to save."
He activated a mechanism on his umbrella, releasing a burst of smoke that obscured him from view. When the cloud cleared, Penguin was gone, leaving only the chaos in his wake.
Dean sheathed his blade, his expression unreadable. He turned as the first patrol cars arrived, their lights flashing in the darkness.
"Secure the area," he instructed the officers. "Penguin's gone, but his operation ends here."
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Sorry for many days of not uploading, as an apology enjoy these chapters.
If you like the story please support me by giving powerstones, comments and reviews. Your support will be very much appreciated!