The 44th sub-floor of the Iceberg Lounge had its air conditioning cranked up so high it felt like a massive morgue.
Oswald Cobblepot--the short, stout man known behind his back as the Penguin--stood before an oak desk.
Spread across the desktop was a map of the East District. Several coordinates were densely circled in red ink: a shantytown water tower, a dockyard scrapyard, and a foul alleyway that even stray dogs avoided.
These places shared one thing in common: they were so poor that even the rats wanted to pack up and move overnight.
Next to the map lay a stack of handwritten intelligence reports, with dates, times, and types of activities noted in sloppy handwriting.
Every single one came from his informants--the pigeons, sparrows, and crows on the streets of Gotham.
Clutching an ivory-handled paper knife, the Penguin slowly slid the tip across the map, tracing from the water tower to the docks, and from the docks deep into the shantytown.
"Has Maroni been beaten so badly by that big guy in the cape lately that he can't even recognize his own mother?"
He asked without looking back.
His voice wasn't loud, carrying an affected elegance, like a gentleman discussing a dinner menu.
The henchman standing in the shadows shuddered.
He had seen the Penguin use that paper knife to open letters, and he had also seen him use it to rip people apart.
"Yes, Boss. Maroni lost three core warehouses. Batman cleared out two locations over at the docks, and even his number one enforcer, 'Scarface', is still lying in the ICU. They say his ribs were crushed like a box of stepped-on crackers. It was done by Spider-Man."
The Penguin let out a short laugh. The sound resembled the quack of an old mallard duck being strangled--sharp and wet.
"Then let's help freshen his mind a bit more."
The Penguin slammed the paper knife into the map, the tip piercing right through the red circle marking the shantytown water tower.
"Have someone leak some rumors on the street. Wasn't Scarface crippled by that little brat in the red and blue pajamas? Then spread the word that the Maroni family can't even handle a guy in pajamas, a bunch of useless trash. Add a bit of color to it, like: 'Spider-Man slapped him across the face while asking: Is your boss Maroni already too old to even tie his own belt?'"
The henchman froze for a moment. "Boss, Spider-Man didn't actually hit him that hard. Scarface was mostly..."
The Penguin spun around abruptly. A thoroughly hypocritical smile squeezed onto his heavy-jowled face, the curve of his parted lips resembling a gash sliced open by a knife.
"Does Gotham need the truth?"
His voice suddenly dropped very low, so low that only his henchman could hear it.
"No. Gotham only needs an excuse to make those idiots tear each other's throats out."
He wiped the smile from his face, his expression turning cold.
"Get out and get it done. Remember to make the words as nasty as possible. Preferably the kind that makes Maroni flip the dining table the moment he hears it."
The henchman bowed his head and backed out, his leather shoes making hurried scraping sounds against the floor.
After the door closed, the 44th sub-floor sank back into that morgue-level silence.
Standing before the map, the Penguin pulled out the paper knife and lightly tapped the red circle of the water tower with the tip.
One, two, three times.
Like some sort of countdown.
...
Atop the abandoned water tower in the East District.
Chen Mo crouched on the edge of the iron frame, hugging his knees, looking like a stray cat that had been beaten down by life.
The night wind was strong enough to blow away whatever meager warmth remained inside his suit. He shrunk his neck, feeling that the heat retention of this cheap fabric was basically zero.
The new suit was cool, sure, but it didn't protect against the cold.
Spending three hundred and sixty dollars could block small-caliber bullets, but it couldn't block Gotham's night wind.
Chen Mo had just webbed up two thugs who were prying open a convenience store's rolling shutter in an East District alley, leaving them hanging from a lamppost.
Now crouching at the top of the water tower, he looked down at his feet. Gotham's neon lights blurred through the rainy mist into a cluster of red and green smudges. It looked quite high-end, but underneath, it was entirely filled with the stench of open sewers and expired burgers.
In the distance, the roof of Wayne Tower glowed with a ring of warm yellow light, looking like the only clean thing in this gray city.
Chen Mo stared at that ring of light for two seconds, then shifted his gaze. That wasn't his Gotham.
His Gotham was this shantytown beneath his feet, where tin roofs crowded together like fish scales.
It was the attic that leaked like a showerhead. It was the crumpled hundred-dollar bill and few coins in his pocket.
It was wearing a self-made suit every night, crouching atop a water tower in the freezing wind, waiting for the next robber to appear.
Man... I should really add the downtown area to my patrol route. You can't even swing around in this dumpster of a place...
Chen Mo yawned.
"System, I'm applying for reimbursement for a set of thermal underwear."
His mind remained as silent as a pool of stagnant water.
Coo, coo.
A pigeon landed on the iron frame beside him. This pigeon looked incredibly arrogant. Its chest puffed out, its neck bobbed in and out, and it tilted its head to stare at him, its eyes radiating a street-thug vibe that clearly said, "What're you looking at?"
Its feathers were gray, bearing a glossy layer of iridescent green and purple. It looked well-fed.
Chen Mo pulled a piece of breadcrumb--so dry it could be used as a brick--from a small pouch on his suit and tossed it over.
"Eat up. Why does every pigeon in Gotham look like they're trying to collect protection money? They have the exact same temperament as the people in this city."
The pigeon lowered its head to peck at the breadcrumb, then raised its head to give him an incredibly disdainful look.
That look was clearly speaking: You're feeding a bird this garbage?
Chen Mo felt like he had just been looked down upon by a pigeon.
"Fine, you're refined, you're amazing. Next time I'll buy a baguette and specifically break off a piece for you. Satisfied?"
The pigeon ignored him, flapped its wings, and flew away.
Chen Mo watched the pigeon disappear into the night, lingering on the feeling that the bird's gaze was off.
It felt like... this pigeon was keeping an observation journal for some unknown entity.
The title would probably be On the Daily Daydreaming of Gotham's Newly Emerged Destitute Spider-Man and the Decline of Feeding Quality.
Before he could figure out why the pigeon despised him, his Spider-Sense suddenly twitched. It didn't hurt, but it tingled slightly, as if someone had brushed the back of his head with a feather.
Chen Mo rubbed the back of his head. "Is my sense broken? Or is there a fan of mine secretly watching nearby?"
He looked left and right.
No one. Even the pigeon from just now was gone.
There was only Gotham's hazy night sky and the never-ending sound of police sirens in the distance.
Oh, look at that, the Bat-Signal is lit over there.
Something's going down.
It's actually pretty close.
"Sounds like someone needs help from their friendly neighborhood Batman?"
Mimicking Batman's deep tone to deliver a witty remark, Chen Mo shot a strand of web, adhering it to the opposite water tower frame, and swung himself out.
The red and blue figure traced an arc through the hazy night, quickly disappearing among the overlapping tin roofs of the shantytown.