Evening in Gotham. Drizzle washed neon signs into watercolor smears. Most people had gone home.
Jude had not gone home.
Nine PM. His shift ended at ten. At this rate, he might not make it.
Santos crouched behind an overturned table, face twisted with fury. Bridget beside him, equally transformed from polite server to snarling defender. Their guns were out, firing methodically.
"YOU ASSHOLES!" Santos roared. "You think you can shoot up the Red Dragon? You're DEAD!"
At the entrance, a dozen armed men returned fire. They hadn't made a reservation.
One of them—wearing a top hat and tailcoat, like some Victorian gentleman cosplaying a gangster—shouted over the gunfire: "Cobblepot sends his regards! This is what happens when you compete with the Iceberg!"
Gunfire. Cursing. Mad laughter.
The rainy night's atmosphere, thoroughly shredded.
Jude huddled in the corner, watching bullets deform the wooden tabletop. The wood splintered away, revealing solid bulletproof steel beneath.
Oh. That's why these tables weigh so much.
He pulled a candy cigarette from his pocket, stuck it between his lips.
Not one peaceful day since I arrived, he thought. Robbery, shootouts, theft. The calmest moment was exorcising a car that had nine people die in it. That was my GOOD day.
This goddamn city.
The restaurant was a heavyweight operation. Of course it attracted heavyweight problems.
Last time: Harvey Dent, future Two-Face.
This time: Cobblepot's thugs.
The Penguin himself.
Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot—better known as Penguin—was one of Gotham's established crime lords. Born into the Cobblepot family, one of Gotham's founding dynasties, he'd grown up with wealth and status. Then watched it all crumble.
Short. Fat. Long hooked nose. Bullied relentlessly as a child.
His father died of pneumonia. His mother went insane. The family fortune evaporated.
Oswald climbed back through self-education, ruthlessness, and strategic brilliance. Transformed himself from fallen aristocrat to underworld kingpin. Built the Iceberg as his public face—legitimate business on the surface, money laundering and gang coordination underneath.
But the transformation left scars. Inferiority complex. Paranoia. Mood swings between affected elegance and explosive rage.
Normally, the Penguin wouldn't challenge the Falcones directly.
But Batman had hit the Falcone family hard recently. Wayne Enterprises had seized control of their legitimate fronts, forcing them to squeeze smaller operations for revenue.
The Penguin was getting tired of being squeezed.
Hence: this.
Jude looked out the window. Rain streaked the glass, distorting the city lights into something almost beautiful. Cyberpunk aesthetic, if you ignored the gunfire and screaming.
He really wanted to go home. Order takeout. Watch TV shows while enjoying the view.
Instead, he was crouched behind a table wondering if he'd survive to clock out.
Workers never have much choice.
"Jude!" The supervisor's voice cut through the chaos. "Stop hiding! SHOOT!"
"I can't!"
The supervisor froze mid-reload. Stared at him.
"What?"
"I said I can't shoot!" Jude shouted over the gunfire.
"What are you talking about?!" The supervisor's eyes went wide. "This is GOTHAM!"
"Can't there be a few people in Gotham who don't know how to shoot?" Jude protested. "The Waynes never carried guns!"
"Look how that turned out for them!" The supervisor gritted his teeth. "Release the safety! Point at the bad guys! Pull the trigger!"
Jude fumbled with the Beretta. Found what he thought was the safety. Clicked it off.
Aimed vaguely toward the entrance.
Lowered the gun.
"I might hit something in the restaurant."
"THAT'S WHAT THE FURNITURE IS FOR!" The supervisor's blood pressure was clearly spiking. "WE HAVE INSURANCE! JUST SHOOT!"
"Okay! You said so!"
Jude raised the gun. Aimed at the cluster of shooters near the door.
Pulled the trigger.
The chandelier exploded.
Crystal fragments rained down like a glittering storm, the massive fixture crashing to the floor in a cascade of shattered light.
The supervisor's voice reached a pitch Jude had only heard once before, in a very different context.
A memory surfaced. Inappropriate. Unavoidable.
Snowflakes falling, north wind howling—
"DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THAT CHANDELIER COST?!"
"I was aiming at the table!"
"HOW?! HOW DO YOU AIM THAT BADLY?!"
The supervisor wasn't even that angry initially. But hearing Jude's excuse—I was aiming at the table—sent him into apoplectic rage.
The dining room, already dim, plunged into near-darkness without the main chandelier. Only the hazy neon from outside and thin moonlight through clouds provided illumination.
In the shadows, Cobblepot's men exchanged confused looks.
One of them squinted toward the Red Dragon's position.
"Did their boss go down?"
"I think so. Should we keep shooting or—"