Penquin is in Season
The cave was silent, save for the rhythmic, agonizing drip of water against stone and the ragged, shallow breathing of the man in the chair. Bruce hadn’t moved since Alfred had cut him down three hours ago. He sat in the dark, still wearing the shredded remains of the Batsuit, his eyes fixed on the empty floor where Dick’s body had been before the coroner arrived.
The phone rang. Not the house phone. Not the Bat phone. The burner.
"I missed your call, but how did you even get this number?" The voice on the other end was high-pitched, momentarily offended. "I change it every Tuesday, Bruce! It’s part of the mystery!"
"Jack," Bruce whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment. "Come to the cave. Please. Just... end it."
The silence on the other end lasted a full minute. The manic energy vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. "I’m on my way."
Bruce didn't give directions. He didn't have to. Twenty minutes later, the screech of tires echoed through the rock tunnels. Jack stepped out of a purple sedan, purple suit immaculate, though his face was uncharacteristically grim. He walked past the high-tech security grids as if they were weren’t even there.
He didn't marvel at the trophies. He didn't mock the costume. He walked straight to the chair where Bruce sat, broken and hollow.
"Three days, Bruce?" Jack asked softly, standing over him. "Alfred told me at the door. Oswald... he really did it, didn't he? He used the boy’s heart against him."
"Dick wouldn't pull the trigger," Bruce choked out. "He died because he followed my rule. He died because of me, Jack.
Jack sat on the floor, cross-legged, leaning his head against Bruce’s knee. He didn't offer a hug; he wasn't built for that. Instead, he looked up with a small, crooked smile.
"You know, Bruce... I heard a rumor that Oswald tried to start a fitness club recently. He called it 'The Waddlers.' It failed within a week." Jack paused, waiting. "When they asked him why, he said he couldn't find any members who were willing to 'wing it' on the treadmill."
Bruce let out a dry, pained sob that might have been a laugh in another life.
"And did you hear about his last heist?" Jack continued, his tone light but his eyes burning. "He tried to rob a bakery. He wanted the 'dough,' but he got stuck in the 'fluff.' They found him three hours later, covered in sprinkles cause he was too fat to pull himself out of the vat."
Bruce closed his eyes, the absurdity of the images cutting through the crushing weight of the grief for just a second. "He’s a monster, Jack."
"He’s a bird who thinks he’s a king," Jack corrected, standing up and dusting off his trousers. "And he forgot who owns the sky."
Jack turned toward the exit. He looked back over his shoulder, the playful light in his eyes replaced by something ancient and predatory.
"Get some sleep, Bruce. You look like hell, and honestly, it’s ruining the aesthetic of the cave."
"Where are you going?" Bruce asked, his voice regaining a sliver of its strength.
"I’m taking my people, and I’m going on a hunt," Jack said, his grip tightening on his cane. "No one breaks my Bat without getting beat by another one. This one’s on me, Batsy. Consider it a professional courtesy."
He stepped into the car, the engine roaring to life.
"Penguin is in season," Jack shouted over the engine.
Bruce knew what was going to happen to Oswald. He knew he would never see him again. For a second he wished he could be there for it. But the thought slipped away. That wasn't him. Then he looked at the spot on the floor. He thought of Batgirl. Cyborg. Wonder Woman. Maybe what Gotham needed was a cleansing. It needed a different kind of Bat now.












