Edward Nygma was starting to have bad flashbacks to Midnight Cowboy.  

     Any moment now, he expected to find himself banging on some taxicab’s hood in the middle of an intersection and shouting, “We’re walking here!  WHERE LAW, REEKING!”

     It wasn’t that he’d been asked to give someone a tour of Gotham.  It was that he’d been asked to give a tour of Gotham to a professional killer from the other side of the world who barely spoke and who dressed like a waiter in a Pakistani cafe.

     Greg Brady had informed him that DEMON minions needed some "loosening up" when they first came to Gotham.  Eddie suspected the only thing that would loosen up the taciturn Il'Nar would be an injection of horse tranquilizers. 

     Still, he was trying to make the best of it.  He’d taken Il'Nar to see police headquarters first.  In most cities that wouldn’t be considered a tourist attraction, and in fact anyone giving more than a two-second glance to a police station in, say, Metropolis would probably be labeled a terrorist.

     In Gotham, however, GCPD headquarters was known as the location of the GIANT SLAB, the Bat-Signal, and for that reason it was a part of every tour bus’s route.  And since Il’Nar was, in more ways than one, an “out-of-towner,” a tour bus proved to be the easiest and cheapest way to accomplish Eddie’s mission of “showing him around.”  Now when the time came, Eddie could entrust Il’Nar with the delivery of his precious riddles, knowing they would be brought to the correct location.  Best of all, he could let the tour guide do all the work.

     Which was good, because Eddie didn’t know what he could say to the man without offending him.  For all he knew, NOT speaking might be just as offensive.  And Eddie made it a point never to offend professional hitmen.

     So at first, he was quite stymied by Greg’s request, rent break not withstanding.  But eventually Eddie recalled that Greg normally sent his newest minion to the Iceberg Lounge to not only "loosen up", but to get the lay of the land.  It wouldn’t do for Il'Nar to, say, assume that Blake and Selina were some kind of "team" because they both had cat motifs, and to then suggest this out loud, within earshot of either. 

     It was Eddie’s responsibility, therefore, to be the man’s tutor.  His etiquette coach.  He would be like the Sherpas who guided climbers up Mt. Everest.  Because there was no question that surviving the Gotham underworld was a lot more dangerous than some mountain.

     He’d done it once before, for Bruce Wayne when he first started dating Selina.  Jervis and Harvey had helped, of course, but Eddie felt confident he could conduct Il'Nar’s Rogue Orientation on his own.   (Of course, the Wayne thing had led to Selina shoving Eddie into her closet, but Eddie chose not to think about that.)

     “First thing you’ve got to understand, Il'Nar,” Eddie told him while their guide was waxing poetic about the Moxton Building, "is that some people like me, they’re all right.  And some others, well, they’re not.”

     “Like - you?” Il'Nar asked, obviously not getting it.  For all Eddie knew, Il'Nar thought he meant "men who wear hats.” 

     “The Rogues.  The ones on the A-list.  You know, the ones who wear costumes, commit the big crimes, tangle with Batman.”

     “Ah,” Il'Nar said.  “The enemies of He Who Shall Not –“ 

     “I think Greg told you not to—”

     Il'Nar narrowed his eyes at him.  

     “Call him whatever you like,” Eddie said quickly.  “The point is, most Rogues are a little - unpredictable.”

     “I see,” Il'Nar replied. 

     “No, you don’t.  Not until you see them in action, anyway.  Look, just as a primer?  Catwoman’s good people.  So is Two-Face.  Scarecrow, well, I’d stay away from him.  And you DEFINITELY want to stay away from Poison Ivy.  Then there’s…"  Eddie stopped and grimaced.  “Just to be clear on Ivy, if you ever encounter a woman who smells like the Amazon jungle, grab your nose and run the other way.”

     Damn that Pammy.  If she hadn’t gotten to Penguin and taken over the Iceberg, he wouldn’t be needing to have this bizarrely awkward conversation.  It would serve her right when she reopened the club and nobody showed up.

     Il'Nar looked oddly hesitant.  “What of - Roxy Rock-et?  I heard tales of her before I came to this city.”

     Eddie started.  He’d heard tales of ROXY?

     If she was the one they talked about back at DEMON HQ, then those stories about the Cadaver and Black Canary were suddenly making more sense.

     Talia checked herself in the mirror.  Her hair was perfect, her makeup even more so.  Her attire was exquisite.  She was ready to be taken to her beloved at his office, and this time she would be successful.

     She glanced at her watch.  It was ten in the morning.  Why was it so difficult for most women to look as good as this at this hour? 

     Well, she could wait for a little while.  Beloved would not be leaving his office for another few hours. 

     She told herself that it was because she’d had a long flight, and she wished to be rested when she set eyes on her beloved.  It was most certainly NOT because of the looks she’d received in the hotel lobby and in the elevator.  What was of the opinion of a few godless Gothamites? So what if her photograph had been plastered across the pages of newspapers while she was excoriated as the reason for the downfall of LionCorp? 

     These fools thought she cared!  Lioncorp had never been more than a means to an end.  The fate of the company and its workers had never meant anything to her.  She had taken the job because - well, because her father told her to, he’d taken pains to arrange it with Lionel Leiverman.  Who was she to refuse?  

     But once installed there, Talia had understood that the company was a tool for her use, something to make her beloved understand.  She went head to head with his company on his home ground.  When she emerged victorious, he would recognize how talented, how successful she was, and…

     Talia paused and shook her head slightly.  No… no, silly her, what was she thinking?  That was never what she’d wanted, that was what her FATHER had wanted.  HER plan had been to undermine Lioncorp from the very beginning, to singlehandedly engineer the downfall of one of the world’s biggest corporations so she might lay it at her beloved’s feet!  He had to understand that, he HAD to.

     And now her father called her and suggested that she say this very thing to Beloved, as if it were not true, some sort of cover story that he had just concocted for her.  When in fact, this had been Talia’s mission all along.

     Really, it had been. 

            Her father had also gone on about some important mission regarding the arrest and imprisonment of his men in Gotham and Bludhaven.  Apparently his handpicked lieutenant, this Gr'oriBr’di who was so special that he deserved two apostrophes, had failed to account satisfactorily for this development.  She’d been sent to investigate.

     Her father had done this because, he said, "now she had nothing better to do.”

     Just for that, and for his hurtful suggestion that her tenure at Lioncorp had been a failure but that she might as well make the best of it, she would not visit this Gr'oriBr’di until tomorrow, or perhaps the day after that!  That would show him.

     As for the uninformed morons in the lobby, if some people she didn’t even know looked at her as if she were an object of scorn, it didn’t bother her in the slightest.  Everything had gone as planned, and she reveled in the sense of being this close to victory.  Not even the she-cat witch could defeat her now, for it wasn’t the she-cat who bankrupted Lioncorp to lay it at Beloved’s feet now was it.

     So there was really no reason why she shouldn’t leave right now.

     Unbidden, Talia thought of the couple in the elevator with her.  The man had whispered something to the woman.  She wondered what he’d said.

     She had time before she left.  Maybe she’d put CNN on.

     A good reporter, like a good detective, always notices details others might dismiss as insignificant and, depending on their perspicacity, can draw astonishingly insightful – or disastrously absurd – conclusions.  The first thing that caught Clark Kent’s eye was the name along the side of the yacht.  “The Gatta?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

     “What do you think?” Bruce said.

     “Does that make it the Catboat?” Clark joked.

     Bruce glowered at him.

     “Okay, okay, I like it,” he admitted.  “Although it’s not what I was expecting.  I pictured something—”

     “Obnoxiously vulgar and pointlessly extravagant?”

     “Bigger, I was going to say.  But yeah, that too.”  Clark boarded the motor yacht.  “Don’t get me wrong, I probably couldn’t afford this on two years' salary.  But I would have figured you buying the biggest, showiest boat you could find.  And then you’d buy a Lamborghini and a plane.”

     Bruce frowned.  That was the image he’d worked hard to cultivate for years, the mega-fop who bought things for the purpose of reminding everyone how much money he had.  Just because Clark knew the real Bruce Wayne didn’t make him unaware of the public perception he cultivated.

     Still, it somehow bothered him that the Gatta was being lumped together with all those other purchases as if it was merely ‘Fop cover’, part of the playboy pose, as if it was…

     No, it bothered him because… “Actually, I did think about a bigger boat, at first,” Bruce admitted as he followed Clark on deck.  He hadn’t shown it to Selina yet.  He’d wanted to wait until after Clark and Lois’s surprisingly uneventful two-week stay in Gotham, which was to end tomorrow.  “I had promised Selina I would get something we could use for an occasional weekend cruise, just the two of us.  And when I got to the dealership, I saw this - vulgar cliché of a megayacht called the Dahlia.  A floating mansion.”

     “Like Trump’s Christina?” 

     “Twelve feet longer, actually.  And I thought how it was exactly the kind of thing 'Bruce Wayne' would buy.  I asked the dealer for a tour.  Told myself that it would look strange for 'the Playboy' not to look at the biggest monstrosity at the marina.”

     Clark nodded.  “So what stopped you?”

     “It’s not the boat I wanted,” Bruce said after a moment.  “I hated the thing, everything about it, on its own and what it represented.  I intended this to be a gift for Selina.  Because our lives have reached a point where I can leave Gotham for a couple days without compromising the Mission.”

     “Because of the Joker,” Clark said.

     Bruce frowned.  “I don’t like saying that something good has come out of a man’s death, but I can’t deny that his – absence has made Gotham a little safer.  There are other factors - Harley Quinn isn’t going to be leaving Arkham any time soon, and Poison Ivy is distracted with this new insanity at the Iceberg, Ra’s al Ghul’s operation here was completely decimated, and Cobblepot’s underground activities are floundering  - but those won’t last.  The Joker’s passing, though, that’s permanent. 

     “But anyway,” he went on, “If I’d bought the Dahlia, it wouldn’t have been a gift any more; it wouldn’t have been for us.  It would have become ABOUT the Mission, just another prop to reaffirm the fop image.”

     Clark privately felt that if Bruce was willing to admit that his life had changed to the extent, if he could draw that kind of distinction between the man and the mission, then he could certainly start entertaining the notion of marrying Selina some day.  Clark was extremely happy being married to Lois, and as far as he could see, the depth of Bruce’s feelings for Selina was no less than what Clark felt for his wife.   He wanted his friend to know the same satisfaction and contentment. 

     When Clark had raised the possibility near the start of his visit, however, Bruce had slammed the door with the death-glaring monosyllabic ferocity only Batman could manage.  Yes, he was happy with Selina; yes, he expected their relationship to last for a long time.  But marriage wasn’t something he was interested in.  It wasn’t something he needed to be happy.  And he absolutely would not entertain advice or interference on the subject of his private life from any friend or ally, no matter how well intentioned. 

     Bruce had a pessimistic streak, and Clark had briefly wondered if his friend was, on some level, afraid that taking the step of marriage would invite some kind of corresponding misfortune.  He decided, however, that this was simply one of those things that Wayne Manor, Bristol and Kent Farm, Smallville would always see differently.

     At any rate, Bruce had been very firm during their dinner at d'Annunzio’s, and Clark hadn’t mentioned the “M" word again.

     Plus he’d asked Lois to raise the subject with Selina, and she’d made it perfectly clear afterwards that one attempt had proved more than enough humiliation for her.  

     “I’m sure she’ll love it then,” Clark said diplomatically, and left it at that.

     But as they made their way into one of the staterooms, Clark had another question.  “Why did you just invite me to see this?  Why not Lois?”

     “I told you, it’s a surprise for Selina.  If the three of us went somewhere without her, she’d be suspicious.”

     “Yeah, but you also said you promised Selina you’d buy a new boat, so it can’t be THAT much of a surprise.  Is there another reason?”

     After a second or two, Bruce nodded.  “Something happened at the office today before I left.  I wanted to be able to talk about it with someone before I told Selina.”

     “What?”

     “Talia al Ghul paid a visit.” 

     “Oh, boy,” Clark sighed.  Like almost everyone else in Metropolis, Clark was well acquainted with “Talia Head.”  Lioncorp was the city’s biggest employer, and ever since Lionel Leiverman had appointed a mystery woman with little experience to run the company, the press had closely followed her tenure.  And of course, thanks to his own past with both Leiverman and DEMON, Superman had kept a close eye on her as well. By the time she ran the company into the ground, Talia was one of the most reviled women in the city’s history. 

     “She claimed,” Bruce said with a sneer, "that she bankrupted the company on purpose.  For me, she said.  I threw her out.”

     Clark nodded slowly.  “Not to sound like I’m defending her, but is there a chance that she’s telling the truth?  Some of her actions as CEO would make more sense if her intention was to drive the company under.”

     “She’s not,” Bruce told him.  “In Gotham, at least, she was definitely trying to compete with me.  Trying to prove she was a woman on my level.  Instead she just proved her incompetence.  But frankly, if she WAS telling the truth, that would be unforgivable.  A substantial percentage of Lioncorp employees are going to lose their jobs because there isn’t a place for them at WayneTech.  Lioncorp’s failure hurts Metropolis, the American economy, and a lot of investors who thought it was a strong corporation run by competent professionals. 

     “Talia would have caused all that damage, sacrificed all those jobs, to give me some twisted 'gift', because she’s still obsessed with me.  And she actually thought I’d thank her for that.”  Bruce shook his head in disgust.

     “Okay,” Clark said, “I understand all that.  But I’m sure Selina wouldn’t be upset because Talia came to your office.”

     “She wouldn’t be,” Bruce agreed.  “The problem is that Selina had a hold on Talia as long as she was in charge of Lioncorp.  Talia couldn’t go on harassing me without public embarrassment she couldn’t afford in her position as CEO.  Now that Lioncorp is history, her return was inevitable.  I’m sure Selina was expecting this as much as I was, but I’m still not looking forward to breaking the news.”

     “So what, this is a chance for you to find the right way to tell her?” Clark asked.

     “There IS no right way.  I just needed to talk with someone about it first.”  His first choice would have been Dick, but Dick had always disapproved of his past entanglements with Talia, and Bruce suspected he wouldn’t be very sympathetic.

     Clark just chuckled.  “Well, you took care of her once before.  I’m sure the two of you can think of something else,” he said.

     Bruce shook his head.  “Of course we will,” he said, as if that was perfectly obvious.  “I just wish Selina didn’t have to put up with her interference again. When I… let Talia believe what she wanted to all those years ago, I knew there would eventually be consequences, but just for myself.  I never dreamed there would be a Selina one day that had to put up with the fallout too.  I hurt her, Clark. I never meant to but I hurt her and she deserves better than that.  Anyway, so you can tell Lois you got the grand tour, this is the galley.  It has…"

            Clark was reeling from the impassioned admission.  It wasn’t like Bruce to “need to talk” and it really wasn’t like Bruce to talk about such deeply personal matters, especially regret.  He wasn’t sure what to say, and Bruce’s abrupt segue into the impressive but impersonal features of the galley made it seem as though the subject was closed.

            But then, Bruce had brought it up.  He’d wanted to talk about it.  Some kind of response was probably expected.  Clark fell back on reporter instincts and asked a question:

     “I’m sorry, Bruce, but one more thing that’s been bothering me,” Clark said.  “Why do you owe Selina?”

     “Excuse me?”

     “You said that you didn’t buy the Gatta just because you 'owed' her, and it sounds like that certainly predates the whole Talia mess.  So, why do you owe her?”

     “Oh, that,” Bruce said lightly.  “I’ve asked her to go shoe shopping with Poison Ivy.”

     Clark raised an eyebrow.

     “It’s a fact-finding mission.”

     “Are you sure a motor yacht is enough?  Maybe you should get that plane after all.”  Like all tourists in Gotham, he and Lois had both expressed interest in the Iceberg when they first arrived, and Bruce had explained about the new "ownership.”  Clark wasn’t sorry to hear that it hadn’t reopened yet, as his "interest" had been less than sincere.  Lois had never heard about Ivy crashing Dick’s bachelor party and 'greening' Clark, along with all the other guests.  If Lois and Ivy’s paths were to cross, that could change.

     “Whatever happened to the Penguin anyway?” Clark asked.  “Is he even alive?”

     “He’s alive,” Bruce said.  “Let’s just say he’s - happier, and leave it at that.”   

     Oswald Cobblepot returned from the kitchen with a fresh can of water.  The euphorbia was due for its weekly spritz.

     The birds twittered happily in the canopy over his head as he made his way onto the balcony that passed for a "back porch" in his residence above the Rydbergii Lounge.  His Loveliness had turned it into a tiny forest with her ability to make anything grow anywhere.

     He’d never fully acknowledged before this how birds and plants went hand-in-hand with each other, how you couldn’t appreciate your feathered friends without appreciating how much they needed plants.  How could he have resisted this remarkable synergy before?

     Oswald spilled a trickle of water into the large cactus, then moved onto other plants that needed it.  Another ten minutes, and he felt like he could reward himself.

     He wasn’t stupid.  He knew that Gaia’s Chosen could have an effect on other men, what was commonly referred to as 'greening'.  But that was a temporary feeling, something that only lasted a day or two.  This, these emotions, they had awakened in his breast, and never gone away.  Surely that meant it was the real thing!  Something that made his past infatuation with that faithless Lark Starling seem petty and small.

     In his breast…

     Oswald was lost in his thoughts for a minute or two as the word "breast" summoned up images of his goddess.  Then he returned to his duties.

     Before everything had changed, Oswald remembered days and nights alone in his office in the Lounge, time spent drinking.  He’d been lonely and unhappy.  Now the opposite was true.  Poison Ivy was always near to him, and those times when she was physically present were a joy to him.  And when had he been unhappy these past weeks?

     Yes, the Iceberg was being transformed into something very different.  Yes, all his possessions were now given to Her.  True, his life involved a lot more work than it used to.

     But how could it not be worth it?  And he was able to provide her with all kinds of useful information and advice.  In his own small way he was able to contribute to the new Rydbergii, even if there was no chance of her failing to make it a success.

     Oswald patted his brow and looked at his watch.  It had been long enough.

     He set the watering can down and went to his small bedroom.  There his shrine was waiting for him.  Gaia’s Chosen had encouraged him to do this.  Dozens of photographs and newspaper pictures - those which She deemed fair depictions of her grace and beauty, not to mention that alabaster skin - were attached to the walls.  He could sit there, look at them, and imagine she was there with him.

     And as he did so, his time passed.

     “Bitch,” Eddie hissed as he barged into his temporary Chinatown hideout.  “Stupid, interfering spawn!  GANG AFT AGLAY!”

     He was interrupted, though, by Il'Nar almost strangling him.

     “Whoa, Il'Nar, stop!” Greg said, hearing the commotion and coming in a moment after.  Il'Nar had his garrot pressed against Eddie’s neck, but he hadn’t actually broken the skin yet.  “That’s Eddie, remember?  Showed you around Gotham, renting space here?  You deliver things for him?”

     Il'Nar released him slowly.  “I apologize, Gr'oriBr’di,” he said, "but he entered without identifying himself in the proper manner, and was speaking nonsense.”

     “Proper manner?” Eddie asked as he put a hand to his throat and stumbled away from the assassin.

     “I told you, Il'Nar, I’m not big on the rituals,” Greg said with a sigh.  “Although Eddie, you might want to be more careful when you come in next time.”

     “I’ll try to remember that,” Eddie said.  “It’s just - the perfect scheme, and it’s about to be ruined by some twitterhead impostor!”

     Greg waved for Il'Nar to stand down.  “Something happened at the museum?”

     “You could say that.  This new plan is supposed to be foolproof, LOOP OR OFF, and instead I’ve got fools crawling all over it, messing up my schedule!”  Eddie flung his bag down.  “The first night went off without a hitch.  I was in and out with the prize, and Batman was nowhere to be found!  But tonight, who crashes my party but Barney Fife and…"

     Eddie paused.  At that moment it occurred to him that Talia al-Ghul, a.k.a. "demonspawn", was not just the woman he recognized underneath the Catwoman costume (although really, a tail?) in the museum tonight.  Not just the nincompoop who tried to steal the very trinkets he’d come for.  She was also the daughter of the man Greg and Il'Nar worked for.

     Bad-mouthing the boss' daughter didn’t strike Eddie as a good idea.  Not in their hideout. Not when one of them tried to garrot him already.  And Greg was okay, Eddie thought, one of them.  Il'Nar, on the other hand -

     “And a Catwoman impostor!” Eddie finished, leaving out any mention of her identity.  

     “I take it that’s bad,” Greg said.

     “I’ve got a timetable, and I don’t need inferior intellects ruining it,” Riddler replied.  “When I play my kind of chess with Batman, there’s no room for amateurs.”  He frowned.  “Hopefully the Bat will keep Pheromones out of it in the future, but I’ll need to handle that stupid snatch myself.”

     “You don’t think Ms. Kyle will handle this woman herself?”

     Eddie chuckled.  That was true.  He would be depriving 'Lina of the joy of dismantling the spawn herself, but his schedule didn’t leave time for him to wait around for Selina to unsheathe her claws.  He could always fill her in afterwards.  “I’m sure she will.  But I think - for once - I have first claim.”

     Greg nodded.  It was common knowledge that Catwoman and Riddler were closer than most Rogues.  He assumed Nygma knew her better.  “All you have to do is find her.”

     “You give me too little credit, Greg.  I think I know exactly how to find her… hmm-hmm, yes, credit indeed.  I’m not much for puns, but CAR DID CREST!  Credit cards!”

     To be continued…