Chapter 1
The fabric of a moonless black sky drapes perfectly over Gotham’s skyline. The lights and people give life to this foreboding and almost mythological city. The building that houses Wayne Technologies stands out among the dreary backdrop for quite a few architectural reasons. But at the moment, it’s so prominent because it’s the only skyscraper whose electricity is flickering in and out like a 1,100 foot tall, neon window sign in front of some old roadside motel.
The darkest hours of the night are only occupied by a select few in Gotham City. A never ending flux of twisted souls, drawn to this hapless burg like a moth to a flame; each with a different set of psychological motivations to explain their exaggerated lifestyles.
The three tuxedo clad gentlemen defying the laws of human aerodynamics by flying straight up, hundreds of feet in the air, with nothing more than two propeller-powered umbrellas work as perfect examples and are at one end of the wide spectrum of this cities nocturnal denizens.
Two of the men hold one of the oversized umbrellas as the third is secured by a harness, while hanging between the others. In his hands he is carrying a large gilded birdcage. Inside it sits six pigeons, two black, two white and two are black and white. Each bird is wearing a made to fit custom gas masks, modeled after the profile of an emperor penguin with pointed hook-like beaks and small eyes.
Once the three men land safely and silently on the roof of the Wayne Tech building, the man carrying the birdcage pulls a phone from his inner breast pocket and dials the only number programmed into it. The name the number is stored under simply reads, “Hummingbird”.
A mile away from their location, in an abandoned construction site, sits a black stretch limousine with white walled tires, seemingly untouched by the muddy terrain. It’s parked in the darkest corner of the sites layout.
The driver is standing outside the limo, resting against the side of the vehicle as he takes a long drag of his freshly lit cigarette.
Inside the elaborately decked out limousine, sits Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, also known as The Penguin. He and his two beloved Emperor penguins, Roc and Isa sit at a pullout table with a large array of fresh sushi in front of them. They quietly enjoy their feast while listening to a horn laden jazz symphony. Cobblepot breaks the silence to correct Roc on his atrocious table manners. Isa refuses to eat and is behaving unnaturally lethargic compared to her average vibrant and temperamental nature.
As he notices and parts his lips to speak on it; a cell phone plays an instrumental version of “Close to you” by The Carpenters from his outer jacket pocket.
He picks up the phone call but does not say a word. The line is silent for three full seconds before the man calling from the Wayne Tech rooftop begins to whistle a long intricate series of birdcalls; mimicking the vocal patterns of a nightingale.
As if he were listening to someone speaking English, Cobblepot understands and responds to the birdcalls without flaw.
“Good, now count to thirty and do what I told you verbatim and all will go swimmingly. I’ll be there shortly.”
He immediately ends the call and snaps the foldable cell phone in two before handing the pieces to an extremely large hand in black leather gloves hovering outside his window. The massive figure crushes the phone into shards within its palm and sprinkles the fragmented bits of plastic and small computer parts into the dirt around them.
“We’re off to ask the wizard for a heart, Tinman. Be there in ten minutes.” says Cobblepot to the enormous shadowed figure.
He then calls to his driver alerting him that he’s ready to leave while he takes a long, black cigarette that smells of clove and coffee from a silver case, engraved with a rendition of M.C. Escher’s “Sky and Water” woodcut on either side. It features a flock of birds that seamlessly shifts into a school of fish at the bottom of the image. Placing the cigarette into the long black and gold holder pressed between his clenched teeth, he lights it with a wooden match as the limousine is carefully driven out of the dank construction site.
From a distance, Cobblepot can be heard reprimanding Roc, once again for sloppily eating in the back of his limo.
On the top of Wayne Tech headquarters, the cell phone that was used during the call to The Penguin is crushed under foot, and hurled from the unlit roof into the streets below. The gas masked pigeons are introduced, one by one into a small square that has been laser cut into the bottom corner of the rooftop’s one and only door.
Each of the pigeon’s masks has a camera embedded into them, which allows the three men to monitor their actions and surroundings via a security program installed onto a small tablet computer. They wait patiently and watch for any sign that a necessary intervention is required, though they seem all too confident that it won’t be.
The humanity of giant facility is almost non-existent at three o’clock in the morning. As its scientists and employees are sleeping; the computers and machinery they create are in full command of every facet of the businesses ongoing operations. Darkened corridors and laboratories, kept alive with thousands of interconnected mechanized brains, working together, either in the search for new information or transforming gained knowledge and theory into applied scientific practices. Each system individually gifted with the equal potential of great success and incorruptible failure; not at all different from their human creators.
A small group of disgruntled security officers are the only people required to maintain a false sense of control, forced into mandatory overtime and trapped in the massive complex with the man that is responsible for their discomfort.
On the buildings 23rd floor, its sterile, metallic hallways reverberate with the soulful voice and music of Sam Cooke accompanied by a tone deaf backup singer and the frantic hammering of computer keys.
The source of it all is a corner laboratory marked “Engineering Lab 2314”. The door is slightly ajar as if to invite rather than repel visitors. More than likely due to the high noise level within its walls that would render any knocking on the door in case of emergency inaudible.
A man sits on a tall, wheeled stool in front of a huge computer screen and surrounded by a collection of self operating robotics of varying sizes and purposes. Like a modern day mad scientist at work, the man sings and criticizes himself out loud while inputting a 350 digit code from memory into his pulverized keyboard.
He’s a pudgy man of average height and fair skin, in a pair of thick circular rimmed bifocals and a tattered Wayne Enterprises lab coat. His employee identification badge that he has clipped to his breast pocket reads “Head of Engineering: Dr. Leonardo K. DiVincent” in bold lettering above his picture.
Upon typing the final number of the perplexingly long sequence, a separate screen appears asking him if he would like to start “Function 6 of the Matter Transference Operating System”.
His eyes then scroll around the lab and lock onto the face of a young boy in a tiny picture frame on the base of his “Superman” desk lamp. The young boy in the picture is wearing a turtle-necked dickey on the outside of his sweater while displaying a wide mouthed, hockey player’s grin, in front a powder blue backdrop.
Leonardo can hardly help but smile as he looks through the photo and into the child’s innocent eyes. He takes the frame into his hand and walks over to a silver, almond shaped device the size of small adult. It hangs suspended by a series of thick cables and attached to dozens of cords with links to almost every piece of machinery the lab houses.
After placing the picture frame in the center of an “x” made out of black duct tape on the floor beneath the device, he plops back down onto his stool and presses enter, initiating the computer program and a five second countdown.
Leonardo’s anxiety builds as the seconds chip away at a snail’s pace. An undeniable torture for a drastically sleep deprived scientist with hopes of changing the future of the planet for the remainder of humanities miniscule existence.
As the countdown reaches all zeros; the lights flicker again but more aggressively, causing technical disruptions throughout the entire building and even a few surrounding businesses and street lights. A sudden brilliant flash of white light can be seen for miles, piercing through Gotham’s darkest streets and alleyways, making known some of the cities tawdriest secrets for one uncontrolled moment of revelation.
“What the hell was that?!” asks one of the two security guards stationed at the building’s entrance. The area they are confined to for the night lies directly in the center of the main lobby. It consists of an enclosed desk surrounding a small circular surveillance room, filled with computer screens highlighting every nook and cranny within the building. Had he been paying attention to the security footage, he would have seen a large white pigeon fly up to and land on one of the cameras and peck at it until it shut off. Starting a chain reaction of other seemingly random camera failures; peppering the surveillance wall with black or distorted screens.
“It’s the same thing it is every time you ask me that damn question! It’s that jag’off on the 23rd floor… Dammit, he knocked out the cable again! I missed whether or not Christie got kicked off the runway!!” the other guard panics, feverishly pressing the channel buttons on the remote control as he gets on his hands and knees to reach the reset button on the surge protector.
“What the hell is he doin’ up there anyway?” he says as he flips the glowing red switch of the dust laden rectangular box.
Suddenly, the building quakes and another bright flash of white light pours into the lobby from all around them through its darkly tinted glass walls and sliding electronic doors. This is instantly followed by a seven second wave of total darkness, as a massive energetic surge temporarily disables all of the buildings electronics.
As the electricity is restored, the guard kneeling on the floor finds himself face to face with a well fed, black and white pigeon. Confused by how it got there and why it’s wearing a mask, the guard attempts to catch it before it flies away.
“Great, we got friggin’ Doctor Frankenstein up there doing Lord knows what and now we got a flying rat in a costume. Now I know somebody has GOT to be screwin’ with us.” the guard complains as he stalks his “prey”.
As he lunges toward the bird, belting out a high pitched battle cry, the pigeon flies into the lap of the other security guard. He doesn’t notice until that moment that another pigeon, a white one this time, has pulled his bag of half empty cheese curls onto the floor and is attempting to eat them through its mask. A daunting task that proves itself to be fruitless.
“I thought you told me that you didn’t have any more curls.” says the frustrated security guard as he painfully rises from the floor using the edge of the table to help stabilize his body.
“I-I found those…” the other responds, guilefully.
“Where did you find a half eaten bag of cheese curls and why would you eat…” the guards retort is halted when a third pigeon lands calmly on his shoulder. Taking advantage, he swiftly grabs the bird and orders his partner to help him clear the lobby of the pigeons.
Upon examining the bird, the seated guard notices a piece of paper tied around the pigeon’s leg. Evoking childhood memories of a cartoon he’d seen of a messenger pigeon being chased by a team of bumbling Nazis in an airplane; he nonchalantly tugs at the long, thin strip revealing a message typed along the underside of the paper.
“”Death, so called, is a thing that makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.” What the hell does that mean??” he asks as the piece of paper reaches its end, where he sees a small black vial strapped separately to the bird’s leg and planted beneath the note.
Upon separating the end of the paper from the vial, he inadvertently triggers the release of a vaporous chemical directly into his face. Once inhaled the chemical cause’s paralysis and a sharp decline in brain activity and heart rate; causing him to drop to the floor as if he were a corpse and will remain that way indefinitely.
Before his fellow guard can react, he finds himself being circled and swarmed by the remaining pigeons. As they peck and scratch at his flesh, the birds are injecting his body with traces of the same toxin that has so easily taken down his partner.
His face, arms and hands, ripped to shreds as he plows toward the exit. Every movement feels as if he’s becoming heavier. Slower. He feels overheated with a vertigo-esque dizziness that finally pulls him to floor as he succumbs to the poison inches from his goal.
With the guards out of the way, the birds behave as if they’ve received extensive military training. Working as a cohesive unit; synchronistically flying to each camera en route to the lobby’s elevator and using the hooked beaks of their masks to sever the connections to their power sources.
With all possible surveillance of the building’s entrance, negated, the silent moment is shattered by a speeding fire hydrant that has been hurled through the glass wall of the lobby after being pulled directly out of some sidewalk.
The Penguin silently walks over the mounds of shattered glass and debris; entering the building with a sarcastic sense of caution.
He’s dressed in a jet black tuxedo with a silky, solid white bowtie. His large black and white spiraled umbrella and pointed leather shoes are both embellished with highly detailed chrome accents that match one another perfectly. Dusting shattered glass fragments from the brim of his black bowler hat using a handkerchief, he lightly kicks the body of the comatose security guard, who’s lying closest to the door in an attempt to make certain the poison had been fully absorbed into his bloodstream. Though his eyes are wide open and bulging from his head, bloodshot from strain, the rest of him can no longer respond physically to any form of stimuli; even The Penguin jabbing the spike of his umbrella forcefully into the guard’s ribcage.
A hulking, non-emoting gentleman in a tailored suit and black leather gloves follows behind him, breaking more of the glass wall as he walks through it like rice paper.
The man’s movements are very stiff and abrupt; feeling almost robotic or unnatural. His stone-like face is covered by a wrestling mask, styled after a traditional wooden cuckoo clock. With shoulders as wide as his body is tall; his silhouette is rather disproportioned and angular, while his awkwardly gigantic stature teeters over the line between highly imposing and utterly cartoonish.
“Cuckoo, tell me… where about in this structural eyesore will we be meeting with the good doctor?” asks Penguin as he surveys the work of his trained pigeons and pickpockets the two guards.
“The Vayne Enterprises employee database says that Dr.” Vunderkind” has been vorking in a private lab on the 23rd floor consistently for five months. Lab 2314 to be precise.” answers the large gentleman The Penguin refers to as “Cuckoo”. While speaking, Cuckoo’s exposed mouth never moves in the slightest. His voice just seems to emanate from his body in some way and sounds electronically filtered, similar to an intercom system. Even through the faint feedback, he has a distinct German accent and speaks in a soft spoken, high pitched tone, a voice that in no way matches a man of his size.
“So I’ll bet geese to gander that that’s where he is right now.” says The Penguin, before being distracted by the sudden alarm of six pigeons, all making the same loud noises and ruffling their chest feathers while incessantly flapping their wings.
Paying close attention to the birds every move and taking their behavior as a warning, he asks Cuckoo to watch the hallway to their left for “an unwanted visitor”.
A third security guard, much younger than the other two and blissfully unaware of what’s happening, exits a stairwell and walks toward the main entrance to check in with his two partners. Confused by the masked pigeons that have begun flying around him frantically, he calls out to his fellow guards for help.
Deliberately led to The Penguin by his feathered cohorts, the young guard draws his handgun the instant he sees Penguin’s distinct face, short and stocky frame and deformed hands.
“I know who you are… you’re that lunatic circus freak, Oswald Cobblepot!” the young man blurts out while meekly waving his pistol in The Penguin’s face.
“I am he, but I assure you my boy, I’m as far away from being a circus freak as you are from anyone who can help you out of the dangerous situation your flippant mouth just wandered into.” Penguin responds in an extremely passive aggressive manner.
Cuckoo grabs the guards hand and gun together and crushes them in a single blood soaked clench of his oversized fist. With every bone in his hand and his sidearm being broken into many pieces, the young security guard falls to his knees in anguish; pleading for his life. Donning a satisfied grin, The Penguin approaches him and presses the frigid barrel of his own pistol, hard into the center of the sobbing young man’s forehead.
“You know… It’s people like you that make it possible for people like myself to become immortalized within society. You’re the renewable fodder to our fire. My murdering you here will incite conversation, analyzation and fan worship for years to come. I’ve learned that popularized crime is kept alive through the effort of the fans, like yourself. You should be proud to be a part of this moment in the Cobblepot family history. You’re soon to become a word on a page within the book of my illustrious existence. So in a way… I guess I’m thanking you in advance for helping me “get back to my roots” as you common folk might say.”
He then fires three rounds through the security guards skull, nearly exploding his entire head before his dead body hits the ground and tucks the small, retractable snub-nosed pistol back down into the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. Any built up emotion is then wiped instantaneously from his face, along with a splattering of the young man’s blood, as he returns to his typical deadpan personality.
Pressing the button for the elevator, the door opens immediately, and Penguin enters and looks up to read the weight limit of the elevator car.
With it having a capacity for no more than 2,000 pounds, he presses the button for the 23rd floor and nonchalantly informs Cuckoo that he won’t be able to ride up with him and to meet him upstairs as quickly as possible, while the elevator door slowly closes in front of him.
Navigating through a maze of boxed equipment, Dr. DiVincent makes his way to a tiny coat closet tucked away in the rear corner of a cluttered office. The air is hot and laced with dust and a smell similar to that of a scorched metal. The atmosphere within the room feels heavy, it was to him as if he were walking under water and it’s becoming increasingly difficult for him to breathe as well, but he carries on as though he were used to the sensation.
Upon opening the door, he reaches down and picks up an item that was sitting atop the very center of another one his duct taped “X”s. The item was the very same picture frame he had taken from his desk and used during his experiment. Looking over every square inch of the frame, including removing and examining the photo inside; he becomes ecstatically overjoyed with the end results. So overjoyed, that he drops and breaks his picture frame as he darts out of the office and back into his lab, which turns out to only be the next room over.
In the rush of his personal excitement, he slams shut the door to his laboratory without realizing it and rushes to find a number for Lucius Fox in his computerized rolodex.
In the process of dialing the number into his desk phone, a light metallic tapping and a feint “hello” come from the other side of large steel door. DiVincent hears the knocking but chooses to ignore it; until the light taps turn to loud, angry banging in a matter of seconds.
“Come on, who the hell is this? May I help you?!” he yells to the door, not wanting to get up from his phone. His response returns in the form of louder, more thunderous bangs than before. DiVIncent witnesses a large dent begin to form on his side of the steel door during the last bangs; forcing him from his stool, to see what is going on outside of his lab.
“What the hell are you all doing out there? Is everything ok?” he asks loudly, pulling the hefty door open.
The chrome plated tip of The Penguin’s umbrella is unexpectedly shoved so hard into the middle of DiVincent’s chest, that he is thrown off balance and falls backward onto the cold, tile floor before the door swings open completely.
“Salutations, good sir. I sincerely apologize for my abrupt and dramatic entrance, but I didn’t think you would have opened the door if you knew I was coming to pilfer your belongings, now would you, Dr. DiVincent?” The Penguin asks as he steps over him and begins to curiously look over and interfere with the doctor’s inventions and equipment.
“What could you possibly want from me? I don’t have anything of value to you, or even myself for that matter.” DiVincent expresses fearfully as he watches Cuckoo bend down and twist his body to fit inside the laboratory door and approach him threateningly.
“The stifling modesty of a truly brilliant man: a deplorable trait that will certainly lead you into obscurity. Now, I know you’re far from a stupid man, Dr. DiVincent, so I’ll blame your ignorance on naiveté. Have you or have you not been tinkering away the past five months on a device, which in essence, is capable of… teleportation?” asks The Penguin in an intentionally pleasant and condescending tone.
“I don’t know how you know…”
“I have no time for company loyalty or delusions of heroism. So please, ANSWER THE GODDAMNED QUESTION!!” The Penguin yells, interrupting DiVincent in an impatient rage. He then signals Cuckoo, who picks the doctor up, wrapping just one of his monstrous hands around DiVincent’s torso and tosses him violently into his work station; knocking over equipment and breaking his lab stool.
The Penguin rests by sitting on his desk, next to the computer monitor as DiVincent pulls himself up from the floor. His face and arms have been cut in several places due to having to move through broken glass, which now covers a good portion of the floor around them.
“It’s fine Leo, you don’t have to tell me anything. I came here with all the information I need to get what I want from you. I know so much about you, that I feel absolutely horrible about what my friend; Cuckoo was forced to just do to you. The stress you must endure from working so vigilantly here at Wayne Enterprises and raising a terminally ill son all on your own… it’s truly commendable.”
“How do you know about my son?” Dr. DiVincent asks with great concern.
“A little birdie told me. And this same birdie also told me that little Leo Jr. is all cooped up in Gotham General, in need of a pretty pricey surgical procedure. A lung transplant, if I’m not mistaken.” says The Penguin while playfully twirling his umbrella between his fingers.
“This little birdie of yours sure does talk a lot.”
“Most do, I assure you. But you should be glad that I listen when they do, because those little chirps are the only thing that’s kept breath in your lungs, up to now. I feel like we could come up with a deal that could greatly benefit us both in the long run; you prove to me that your teleportation device works, show me how to operate it if it does and let me carry it out of here with no problem, and I will pay for your son’s transplant, in full.”
The Penguin’s voice plays over and over in DiVincent’s mind, like a recording. Seeing the kind of man The Penguin is, the thought of placing any trust in him, leaves a writhing worm of a feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. His instincts tell him to spit in his face and protect his hard fought achievements at all cost. But every one of the horrid scenarios that play out in his mind, showing the results of those instincts, all end in blood and sadness; the worst was a vision of The Penguin murdering his son, execution style, while inside his hospital room.
Unable to stand even the briefest thought of his only son being harmed in any way, he gestures toward his prototype Quantum Teleporter; begrudgingly giving into The Penguin’s desires.
“All you do is input the coordinates of your destination into the program, and initiate by entering my three digit passcode. It works by creating a black hole of sorts. The process breaks down any non-organic material into atomic information, and piece by piece, sends said information along a pre-determined pathway, where it “rebuilds” the individual bits of information and returns it to its original form. ” DiVincent despondently explains.
The Penguin strokes the point of his chin in deep thought, while absorbing any of the information DiVincent divulged that he could actually understand.
He then reaches into his sleeve and pulls his small caliber, pearl handled revolver from a holster he wears around his forearm.
“Show me.” says The Penguin, calm in tone and demeanor as he takes a bullet from the cylinder of his gun and throws it at DiVincent.
“What do you mean?” he asks as he struggles to catch it, as if he’s nervous to let it drop.
“I want to SEE you teleport that bullet. I want you to satiate that part of my being that ponders whether or not you’ve been a fluke this whole time. Prove that part of me wrong, like I know you will, and our gentleman’s deal is concrete. And if for some reason you fail, that deal and my patience with you ends, and you die here tonight.” The Penguin dictates; looking DiVincent straight in his eyes.
Without any further questions, he places the tiny silver bullet, under his Teleporter and inputs the required numerical information. With an increasingly loud, metalized hum and blinding eruption of light, the lone bullet no longer exists where it once stood. The Penguin is, so far, overjoyed at the possibilities of what he could do and acquire with the help of this untarnished technology.
“That’s only half of the magic trick, I hope. Where did you send my bullet?” The Penguin asks.
“There’s an office next door that I use for storage. The coordinates are set to restructure any items that I send from here into a cardboard box on the floor of the closet in there.” answers DiVincent, while heading for the laboratory door, to retrieve the bullet as proof that his device works.
Cuckoo turns to The Penguin and receives a negative shake of his head, as a response.
Dr. DiVincent is immediately taken by the back of his lab coat and aggressively pulled and flung across the floor, sending him backward to the feet of The Penguin, once again.
“I feel like you’re not as intelligent as you should be, my friend. During a violent crime, as you’re experiencing right now, at no point is there a period where the victim, i.e. you, are allowed to “run next door and grab something”. You sit. Or you get hurt. For the time I remain in your magnanimous presence, we’ll pretend you are an amputee. You’re legs metaphorically don’t exist. If any of your little piggies decide to go to market; we will make them LITERALLY not exist!” The Penguin exclaims through clenched teeth with a low, muffled growl.
DiVincent’s body goes limp; fully submitting to The Penguin’s threats.
“You heard where he said it was. Go see if it’s in there.” The Penguin tells Cuckoo.
Instead of using the labs larger sized door that he can actually fit through, he opts to use his giant hammer-like fists to break down the dividing wall between the two rooms to enter the second office.
Moments later, a large crash can be heard, coming from the darkened room, sharply cutting through the ominous quiet lingering inside the lab.
Cuckoo emerges from the room and opens his palm to show The Penguin that he had indeed, located the bullet, exactly where it was said to be.
“The bastard did it. I guess you’re not so stupid after all.” says The Penguin, as he gives DiVincent a celebratory yet condescending pat on his shoulder.
“You got what you wanted. Where’s the money for my son?” asks DiVincent, still lying on his back in front of The Penguin. Cuckoo has located the device that was pointed out to be the Quantum Teleporter, and wantonly rips it down from its suspension.
“Do you really think I would bring that amount of money with me to a large scale corporate robbery? Besides, I came here tonight, initially, to kill you and walk away with your invention. So this may not be a wise time to look a gift horse in the mouth, my friend. You’ll receive your money within the next day, you have my word as a gentleman.” answers, a more contented Penguin.
“Osvald, a call to emergency services was just placed, from a phone on the first floor. Ze polizei will be arriving shortly.” says Cuckoo, carrying the teleportation device on his shoulder. A menagerie of snapped cords and wires drag on the floor behind him.
“That means that HE won’t be too far behind.” The Penguin answers, while checking the only visible portion of the sky for something he seriously hopes isn’t there. The bat-signal clings to the surface of any passing clouds, giving it motion and breath. A life all its own. He scowls at the light in the sky as if it were the object of his individual damnation.
Demanding the operating program for the Quantum Teleporter, Penguin is given a flash drive that was hanging on a “Superman” lanyard, around DiVincent’s neck and tucked into his shirt.
With the teleporter in tow, Cuckoo approaches the oversized floor to ceiling window panels that line the lab’s westernmost wall. With his fingers wide spread, he presses his gloved hand against the reinforced glass.
He forces his fingers into the glass as if it were made from some malleable material like dense clay. Slowly working his way through, the process carries the high pitched shriek of metal grinding against glass. Unaffected by the noise, he gains a solid grip and thrusts his arm forward; cracking the glass in multiple places along its entire surface. Cuckoo then yanks his arm back and pulls out a large section of the six inch thick glass, starting a chain reaction of other bulky fragments of the widow to plummet to the streets below.
The boulder sized chunk of glass Cuckoo removed from the window remains tight in his grasp. He utilizes it as if he were swinging a tool; knocking away any leftover sections of unbroken glass. He causes the destructive wreck of a bus and three passenger vehicles after hurling it out of the currently non-existent window.
Cuckoo jumps from the ledge, unnerved by the 15 story fall. The weight and speed of his fall is more than enough to shatter the pavement under his feet as he lands. The resounding shockwave causes a quaking that is felt for blocks and some surrounding structural damage. He speedily disappears into the shadowy cracks of Gotham’s façade; moving at great speed through the cities intricate system of alleyways and backstreets, although his legs never move.
One of the masked pigeons flies into the lab from outside and perches itself on the top of The Penguin’s hat. Its beak opens wide, exposing a speaker inside of the birds head. It acts as a two way radio, that connects to the computer held by his trio of henchmen on the roof, awaiting their next orders.
He commends his three goons, for following his directions to the letter, and instructs them to evacuate the premises, but not before they make sure everyone of his pigeons are accounted for.
Looking down into DiVincent’s eyes, The Penguin appears almost remorseful; uncharacteristically disturbed at the torment of another. He closes his eyes as he shakes his head and pops his umbrella open with the push of a button. It unfolds like the blossoming of a flower; revealing itself to be a large circular platform, complete with a handrail and slots for his feet to be secured aboard it.
“Life is always throwing some unexpected tragedy our way, and we’re forced to just… take it. One such tragedy forced me back into this wretched lifestyle, and now fate has decided to make me a tragic force in your life. All any of us can hope to do is make the best of it.” The Penguin says with an air of sincerity as he extends his hand to help DiVincent to his feet.
As he steps up onto the platform and slides his feet into their assigned slots, the metal of The Penguin’s parasol and the tips of his dress shoes, spark as they make contact; triggering an electronic reaction that causes the base of the platform to glow with a blinding light. As this occurs the outer rim of the device starts to spin rapidly, initiating lift.
Utilizing the umbrellas handle as a means to steer his hovering contraption out of the laboratory; the now, airborne criminal flees the scene with ease. Heading in the direction of his awaiting getaway limousine, tucked away a short distance from Wayne Tech headquarters.
His trio of henchmen trail close behind, while his masked pigeons gather around him; flying erratically, with The Penguin within the small flocks epicenter.
The reflection of flashing red and blue lights, playfully ricochet from surface to surface as the sounds of sirens, amplify by the second. Comforted by the familiar sights and sounds, DiVincent stands in full confidence and pain, breathing a sigh of relief as he watches the police and emergency workers rush into the building, while looking down on them from the broken shamble his laboratory has become.
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