Leaving the nightclub, Oswald’s face was completely masked in shadow.
His recklessness and brief breakdown had almost cost them their lives in front of Falcone.
“Vincent…
I am sorry.” It was the countless apology of the night.
Oswald muttered the words deep into his chest, unable to bring himself to look Vincent in the eye.
“What the fuck are you apologizing for?” Vincent gave a relaxed smile, throwing his arms back to stretch against the freezing midnight air.
“At least your math was right.
Falcone and Maroni are not on good terms.
We got what we wanted, secured a new gig, and we won’t be bored for a while.” “Are you…
are you actually going to be Falcone’s spy?” Oswald looked up, panic filling his voice.
“Vincent, we shouldn’t get involved in this.
Stuck between two mob kings, cockroaches like us only get crushed.” Recent failures had broken Oswald completely.
The arrogant, fiercely ambitious street punk he had been only few days earlier was gone, replaced by a trembling mess.
“What’s wrong, Penguin?
Your legs didn’t grow, and now you lost your balls too?” Oswald froze at the insult.
He stared at Vincent, wondering if he had heard him correctly.
“What did you just say?” “I said you’re a penguin, you stupid piece of shit.” Oswald’s face twisted with anger.
A deep red flush spread from his neck across his face.
He couldn’t believe that Vincent; the only person he saw as a true brother; had deliberately used the one insult that hurt him the most.
“Vincent, I don’t want to fight you.
But you’d better explain yourself right now.” “Did I stutter, Penguin?
Oh look, the baby’s turning red.
Eyes are getting all watery too.
What, are you going to cry and run home to mommy?” *Boom.* Oswald answered the insult with a left hook.
Vincent didn’t even try to dodge.
Instead, he leaned into the punch and fired a hard straight right at the same time.
They tore into each other right there on the sidewalk.
Neither man tried to block or dodge, trading raw, concussive punches like members of a sick fight club, pouring every ounce of their bottled-up frustration into their fists.
They beat each other for ten straight minutes until Oswald finally collapsed.
He crashed onto the pavement with a heavy thud.
His face was covered in dark purple bruises, and his right eyelid had swollen completely shut.
Vincent looked just as bad.
His nose was badly bent to one side, and blood mixed with saliva dripped from his split lips, leaving his face a bloody, battered mess.
They stared at each other with their remaining good eyes, and then, simultaneously, they burst out laughing.
“You miserable son of a bitch,” Oswald said, spitting blood.
“How’s my punch taste?
Look at your fucking nose!” “Go fuck yourself, Oswald.
I literally just knocked you out, shut the fuck up.” Vincent laughed, reaching down to pull the smaller man back to his feet.
The senseless fight cleared the fog of despair from their minds.
It was exactly the wake-up call Oswald needed to find his courage again.
“Vincent!
You’re right.
We don’t bow down to anyone.
We’re going to take Maroni down.
But this is not the right time, for revenge, and it’s sure as shit not to be Falcone’s loyal dog.
We’re doing it because we are strong enough.
That throne belongs to us.” Vincent nodded, satisfied.
This was the result he wanted.
If Gotham had no Batman, if no one was coming to enforce justice, then the only way to stabilize this damn city was to build a wall of order using the bricks of criminal enterprise.
To stop being a pawn used by everyone else, he needed power, and Oswald was the perfect weapon to use.
He would do whatever it took to put Oswald on that throne and make him the undisputed King of Gotham.
…
Three days later, Vincent’s facial cuts had mostly healed.
The fading purple bruises didn’t do much to hurt his sharp, clean looks.
The job for Maroni had earned them out a hundred thousand dollars.
Oswald spent his share immediately on a matte-black Ford Mustang, driving straight down to the Lower District to recruit some new muscle.
The old Senate crew had been wiped out during the casino massacre, and you couldn’t run a crew without soldiers.
With some rare free time, Vincent went to Gordon’s apartment to return the cash he owed him.
The Captain was out on a shift, but a bright, energetic Barbara hosted him, cooking a strawberry crepe for his starving stomach.
Chatting with the innocent girl, he learned she was heading off to college after the summer.
She had applied to the police academy, desperate to follow her father’s footsteps.
Vincent kept his mouth shut.
In the original timeline, Barbara would become Batgirl and fall for Robin, but in a universe without a Batman, everything was an absolute wildcard.
Next, Vincent stopped by the hospital to visit Bullock, bringing a basket of fruit like people often did back home.
The detective wasn’t in his room.
After looking around, Vincent found him leaning on a crutch and shamelessly flirting with a pretty nurse at the front desk.
He left the fruit basket on the counter and quietly walked away without interrupting him.
His last stop was Selina.
Vincent took out the piece of paper she had given him.
On the back, beneath Falcone’s address, she had written another address.
Following the map, Vincent took the monorail to the Downtown Fashion District and found a luxury yoga studio inside a tall office building.
Selina worked there as an instructor.
It was closing time, and the clients were heading out, leaving her alone in front of the massive mirrors stretching her body.
On the yoga mat, she moved with the smooth, dangerous grace of a stray cat.
Holding her ankles, she bent her back into a perfect curve.
Sweat ran down her pale neck, soaking her gray tank top, outlining her toned abs before dampening the waistband of her leggings.
The perfect shape of her body left Vincent in a brief daze.
He didn’t know how long he stood there before she turned her head to look at him, “Like what you see?” “Michel Angelo would’ve cried,” Vincent said honestly.
“Give me a minute to hit the shower.
Let’s grab some food, I have questions for you.” They left the office building and stepped into the warm evening summer breeze.
Selina closed her eyes and took a deep breath before naturally slipping her arm through Vincent’s.
It was an instinctive gesture, but the moment her hand felt the solid, dense muscle of his forearm, she flinched in surprise.
“Do you work out a lot?” “Something like that.” Vincent rubbed the back of his neck.
Before coming to this world, he went to the gym once in a while to stay in shape after sitting at a desk all day.
But this body was completely different.
In loose clothes, it looked normal.
Once his shirt came off, however, his rock-hard, perfectly built muscles looked almost inhuman.
Vincent had his suspicions.
*Am I Bruce Wayne?* But there was zero evidence to back it up.
He couldn’t even get past the front gates of Wayne Enterprises, and the abandoned Wayne Manor was empty with no sign of an Alfred Pennyworth.
More importantly, he didn’t want to find out.
He didn’t want to carry the crushing, suicidal weight of being Batman.
“What do you want to eat?” Selina asked, sensing that he didn’t want to talk about it any further.
The question instantly brought back a wave of intense homesickness.
“I want dumplings.” “Dumplings?
We’d have to hit Chinatown.
It’s right by the Brown Suspension Bridge, just past the city center.” Chinatown.
The name made Vincent’s heart skip a beat.
Even though he could never return home, Gotham’s layout was based on the real world.
There, he could hear his native language and eat authentic food.
“Chinatown it is!” Vincent got excited, letting go of her arm to head toward the monorail station.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Selina called out to him.
A deep, growling engine roared behind him.
Vincent turned and saw Catwoman fastening a matte-black Ducati Diavel helmet.
She was sitting on a huge motorcycle whose engine rumbled with incredible power.
Vincent let out a low whistle.
The bike was cool as fuck.