Penguin was unusually talkative that evening, his cigar glowing in the dark interior of the car as he lectured Ogilvy about politics and vice.
"Think about it," he began, his tone smug and deliberate. "The Netherlands legalized marijuana and red-light districts. What happened? Crime plummeted. Their prisons are so empty they have to rent cells to Norway's criminals just to fill the space." He gave a harsh laugh, exhaling smoke that fogged up the tinted window. "In America, when Obama even hinted at a gun ban, gun sales skyrocketed overnight. Hillary Clinton wanted to raise taxes on the rich—guess who cheered the loudest? The rich themselves. Why? Because they know the tax code better than anyone. They'll dodge it all. The middle class—the working stiffs—always end up paying the price. Politics," he spat, "is a theater of absurdity."
Ogilvy, as always, kept silent while driving. He knew his boss's ambition went far beyond Gotham's underworld. Cobblepot had studied politicians like chess pieces, and it showed.
"Ah, but we're not wasting a single day," Penguin said suddenly, pulling out a sleek satellite phone. He dialed a number and his tone instantly turned warm and boisterous.
"Ivan! My dear Russian friend! No, no, not the weapons today. Your last quote for the Chita base shipment was daylight robbery." He chuckled, switching between English and rapid Russian like a seasoned trader. "What I want this time is white oak. Yes, the finest barrels you can carve. Gotham is thirsty, my friend, and I'll make sure they pay a king's ransom for every drop. Let's keep our friendship alive with a proper price, yes? Ah, good! Da, da! Until we drink together again—long live the Motherland!"
He ended the call with a satisfied grin.
Ogilvy glanced at him through the rearview mirror, curious.
"Boss, did I hear that right? Wine barrels? Why all of a sudden—"
"Didn't Harvey Dent say he'd keep an eye on me?"
Penguin's smirk widened. "Fine. Let him. I'm just an honest businessman, am I not? He can't touch me for selling barrels. But when word of this new prohibition spreads, every citizen and bar in Gotham will panic and hoard liquor. Ordinary glass bottles won't cut it for long. Oak barrels, on the other hand… those will be worth their weight in gold."
Ogily blinked. He'd been thinking about alcohol sales, but Penguin had already moved three steps ahead, targeting the supporting industry. It was this kind of foresight that had transformed him from a lowly umbrella-carrying errand boy into one of Gotham's criminal kingpins.
Penguin's tone softened, but his eyes gleamed with calculation.
"If someone secures a liquor license now, they'll be rolling in cash within months. Once the ban passes, no new bars will get approval, which means current licenses will become priceless. I wonder…" He looked out the window, his voice lowering to a purr. "Who'll be smart enough to catch this storm?"
Meanwhile, on the other side of Gotham, Adam had his own schemes.
After his brief collaboration with Catwoman fizzled out, he decided to shift tactics. The bar he'd recently acquired needed a legal front, so he handed the ownership papers to his hotheaded apprentice, Jason Todd.
Jason was stunned and asked, "You're… giving me a bar? Just like that?"
"Don't get sentimental," Adam replied dryly. "You'll keep your name on the license, live here if you want, and I'll handle the back-end. You'll also get a cut of the profits every month. Think of it as tuition for not screwing things up."
Jason, who had spent most of his life scraping by on Gotham's streets, was floored. A bar of his own? With no strings attached? He tried to hide it, but he was moved. For the first time, he felt like his mentor truly had his back.
Time moved on, but Adam's life had taken a sharp turn since solving his first big case. Now, whenever Gotham was in crisis, he was the first one people called. It was exhausting.
Today was no different. Chief Gordon had shown up unannounced and practically dragged him from his office. Adam had been enjoying a quiet moment—feet on the desk, coffee in hand, reviewing financial reports—when Gordon stormed in.
"You've got to be kidding me," Adam grumbled from the passenger seat of Gordon's car. "Look, if this was some locked-room mystery, sure. If this was some psycho with a calling card, I'd get it. But a hostage situation? The guy's less than two hundred meters from your SWAT team. Why the hell am I here? Call the National Guard!"
Gordon ignored the sarcasm, his face as grim as ever.
"You might not believe it, but my officers… they feel safer when you're around. You have this way of resolving situations in ten minutes with zero casualties. And with you here, if it comes to a firefight, none of my people will hesitate."
Adam rubbed his forehead. "That's not a compliment. That's emotional blackmail."
But Gordon wasn't done. Deep down, the old man believed Adam's talent was being wasted. He saw potential, a sharp mind, instincts as good as any detective he'd ever met, but also a frustrating lack of responsibility.
To Gordon, Adam was too smooth and too detached.
'He needs to be thrown into the fire,' the chief thought. 'Or he'll end up like the corrupt suits in City Hall.'
By the time they reached the scene, Adam's irritation was boiling over. The criminal had barricaded himself inside an abandoned house, holding a terrified little girl as a hostage. It was the kind of tense standoff that required negotiation, not deduction.
Adam crossed his arms, unimpressed.
"Remind me again why Batman isn't here? This is his department, not mine."
Gordon shot him a look that said, shut up and do your thing.
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