Just before 9:00 AM, Gotham City gleamed under a clear blue sky. Pigeons strutted confidently along the sidewalks, unbothered by the usual bustle. To the casual observer, the city seemed calm, even idyllic.
But trouble in Gotham rarely gives advance notice.
Near the corner of Jefferson and 12th, a crowd had formed, drawn by the irresistible promise of something free.
"Step right up! Free umbrellas for everyone!" a man in a cheap tuxedo and an oversized top hat called out. "No strings attached. Just grab one and win a prize!"
Pedestrians exchanged confused glances. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the morning forecast had made no mention of rain. But the word "free" had its usual hypnotic effect, and soon dozens of umbrellas were being distributed like candy on Halloween.
"They say there's a prize in some of 'em," a woman muttered to her companion, cracking open a crimson umbrella.
That was when the chaos started.
Umbrellas flew open on their own. Some spun wildly. One exploded in a burst of confetti. Another blasted out a stream of thick smoke, blinding nearby bystanders. And one, terrifyingly, flung itself into the air and buzzed like a mechanized insect.
Within minutes, a dozen frantic calls flooded Gotham PD's switchboards.
Commissioner Gordon's phone was ringing off the hook when Chief O'Hara burst into the room.
"Commissioner!" the Irishman barked, face pale beneath his mustache. "We've got a citywide outbreak of berserk umbrellas!"
Gordon's face darkened. "You know what that means."
"Aye. Only one criminal carries that calling card."
"The Penguin," Gordon growled. "That waddling menace was released from Blackgate three days ago."
O'Hara shook his head. "That bird was caged for five years. You'd think he'd mellow."
Gordon didn't answer. Instead, he reached for the red phone encased in glass at the edge of his desk. The direct line.
There was only one man who could handle this.
In the stately manor of Bruce Wayne, the morning was less explosive, if not entirely tranquil.
Dick Grayson slumped at his desk, muttering French verb conjugations under his breath.
"Je suis, tu es, il est—ugh." He slammed the textbook shut. "What's the point, Bruce? No one even speaks French in Gotham."
Bruce Wayne, dressed in a tailored navy suit, looked up from his morning paper with the patient gaze of a man who had fought mob bosses and mind-controlled tigers.
"Language is the bridge between worlds, Dick. Understanding others is how we prevent future wars."
Dick sighed. "You and your Nobel Peace Prize wisdom."
Before Bruce could reply, Alfred entered with calm urgency.
"Pardon me, Master Wayne," the butler said. "It's the hotline."
Bruce's expression shifted in an instant. "Thank you, Alfred."
Within moments, Bruce and Dick were sliding down twin poles hidden behind a bookshelf. Gone were the wealthy heir and his young ward. In their place: Batman and Robin, the Dynamic Duo.
Back at Gotham PD, Gordon gestured to a TV screen brought in just for the occasion.
"I had Warden Crichton flown in. He brought security footage of Penguin's final hours in prison."
The tape showed the Penguin in his final day before release, pacing a cell that looked more like a gentleman's study than a prison block.
"Disgusting," the Penguin muttered on-screen. "An entire sentence and not a single worthy crime conceived. All wasted."
Off-camera, another inmate offered, "You could always knock over my mother-in-law's candy store."
The Penguin spun toward him, eyes gleaming. "A candy store? I'm an aristocrat of crime! No, my next scheme must be grand. Unexpected. Genius."
He paused, staring upward.
"Of course... if only Batman were a criminal instead of a nuisance…"
Suddenly animated, he snapped his fingers. "That's it! A plan so dazzling, even the Batman will play a role—without even knowing!"
Then he turned toward the corner of the cell.
"Goodnight, big brother," he said, acknowledging the hidden camera with a smirk.
"Well," Batman muttered, arms crossed, "so much for rehabilitation."
"I still say we should've kept him behind bars," O'Hara grumbled.
"That's not how the law works," Robin added, albeit reluctantly. "When a man's served his sentence…"
Batman turned to Gordon. "Penguin will need a front for whatever he's planning. And with all these umbrellas, I'd wager he's opened a factory."
"Bonnie," Gordon called to his secretary. "Run a search for any new umbrella businesses in the last 72 hours."
They found three. But only one stood out.
"K.G. Bird," Robin read. "He might as well have signed his name."
"Let's pay him a visit," Batman said, his tone cool and focused.
The factory stood like a black monolith on West Seventh Avenue, its windows shaded and its roof bristling with antennae. Inside, Penguin paced before his henchmen—two burly goons named Hawkeye and Sparrow.
"This is my masterpiece, boys," Penguin cooed. "A criminal caper planned... by Batman himself."
Sparrow blinked. "Wait. Batman's workin' for us now?"
Penguin gave him a withering look. "Not working for us. He's doing the legwork. I drop senseless clues, he scrambles to solve them, and in the process—unwittingly—plans the perfect crime!"
Hawkeye snorted. "You're cracked."
"Call me crazy again," Penguin said, pulling a small blade from his umbrella, "and I'll test this on your feathers."
Hawkeye wisely shut up.
By the time Batman and Robin arrived, Penguin was back in full performance mode.
"Welcome, gentlemen!" he beamed, flanked by a wall of gleaming umbrellas. "Shopping for something classy?"
"We're here about the stunt at the bank," Batman said. "And the jewelry store before that."
Penguin put a winged hand to his chest. "You wound me. I manufacture umbrellas, nothing more. How others use them is beyond my control."
Robin growled. "We could hit you with a dozen charges right now."
"And yet... here I am," Penguin said with a smile.
Batman scowled. He knew the bird had nothing overtly illegal pinned to him yet. "You've outmaneuvered us this time. But we'll be watching."
As the Dynamic Duo turned to leave, something caught Batman's eye—a massive umbrella launcher stationed on the roof.
An umbrella the size of a parasail shot into the sky, blooming midair like a monstrous flower. Suspended from the handle was a plaque.
Batman narrowed his eyes. "That's no advertisement."
Back at the Batcave, they placed the strange umbrella on a stainless steel table.
Robin frowned. "Nothing special in the fabric. No hidden ink, no mechanisms. Just this plaque."
He read aloud: "Compliments of K.G. Bird—maker of superior umbrellas."
"Whatever Penguin's planning," Batman murmured, "this umbrella is the key."
"If only we could listen in on him," Robin sighed.
Batman's eyes lit up.
"We can."
Ten minutes later, Batman held up a lifelike mechanical spider no larger than a coin.
"A high-powered transmitter disguised as a spider. Perfect for eavesdropping."
"You're not thinking of waltzing in as Batman, are you?" Robin asked.
"No," Bruce said, already removing his cowl. "I'll go as Bruce Wayne. A man of taste, with a broken umbrella and a request."
Inside the shop, Penguin eyed Bruce Wayne with mild curiosity.
"You want repairs?" he asked, inspecting the umbrella.
"It belonged to my late father," Bruce said. "I'd like it restored to its former glory."
Penguin nodded, taking the umbrella behind the counter—and directly into range of the hidden bug.
"Consider it done."
But as soon as Bruce exited, Penguin's smile faded.
"Bug me, will he?" he snarled, pulling out a radio scanner. "This umbrella's hot."
"Want us to ice him?" Hawkeye asked.
"No. Something more poetic. Put him in the tempering furnace. A little... accident in the ribs-forging division."
The henchmen grinned.
Penguin gazed out the window. "Batman thinks he's clever. But tonight, Gotham will see just how clever I am."
He held up a crimson umbrella with gold trim.
"And poor Bruce Wayne… he'll never see the storm coming."
To be continued...