Splashed in neon green and blue from the shop’s windows, two eyeballs with the nerves still attached and a tongue roll across the glass counter. A leather wallet’s slapped on top for insurance and opened so the former employee’s license is on display. One of Joker’s clowns in secret -- who isn’t. The clown mask’s stashed between two garbage bags on Market Street, a feat so simple, his newborn could do it. GCPD won’t search for it. Bodies have certainly been stuffed under those heaps and left for the state bird to gorge themselves. This one’s fate isn’t so far off. Smoke runs from his middle and index fingers as Joker shifts his weight, eyes averted. He takes a drag and pats the counter with a trembling hand.

Shyly he admits, “I hate rats,” like a boy sent to the principal’s office. “Though I,” Joker gestures towards his handiwork, “I’m sure you already knew.”

Though only returned to Gotham City recently, already the man works on achieving complete knowledge of how the city’s been running since his departure. He’s recognized the increase in the criminals running rampant, giving the city its bad name. Cobblepot is one of the few names still wholly recognizable. Though most of his past, he chooses to forget, focus spent only on a singular task instead, he does recall his family having past regards with the Cobblepot family. Perhaps the visit shouldn’t prove to be as much of a surprise as it is, though the Wayne heir isn’t one to show his shock. 

Besides that, he did make the Gala fairly open to the public-- so long as one is dressed properly, no reason to turn them away. Still making his rounds for the night when he spots the Cobblepot, excusing himself from Mr. Vandergilt, he makes his way towards the other.

PROBABLY A LITTLE RUDE AND OVERDONE to keep picking on Oswald’s height, as if that’s the peak of comedy. Well, to the clown prince, this low-effort remark still remains high up on the list of his BEST QUIPS. Doesn’t matter that it’s not squeezing a single laughter out of anyone anymore ( as though it ever did ). Hunching over to get closer to Penguin’s eye-level was one of the worst RECENT BAD DECISIONS. Who would’ve thought there’s so much force in these tiny fins?

Gloved hand covering the SORE nose, frisky gaze immediately resembling the look of a beaten-up PUPPY. Dark brows bump together in a frown far from apologetic, but he’s not going to try the other’s patience anytime soon. UNLESS—

       ❛   you   know,   penguie,   if   i   ever   learned   anything   from   the   deadliest,   scariest   men   in   this   business,   is   that—   awright,   one:   you   can   be   scarier.   ’n   two:   these   violent   fits   usually   come   from   very   disturbed   emotions   &,   also,   a   gig   goin’   wrong.   so   pick’cher   poison   &   let   it   out,   man.   drinks   &   counselin’   both   on   me   tonight.   ❜

     Many have taken to calling the position cursed. 

     Two-Face just calls it BAD LUCK.

     This brings us to the current DA: William O’Donnell. He’s a fast talker and wears a cheap suit — reminds Two-Face of a used car salesman more than a public servant — but his term has been unremarkable. A handful of drug busts and arrests with alleged connections to bigger names, but nothing that could be substantiated. Two-Face had assumed O’Donnell was in the pockets of Sionis, Cobblepot, and others like them, considering they’ve gone 'unnoticed’ for the past year and a HALF, but his sources inside the DA’s office have informed him that may not be the case.

     At least, not anymore.

“Maybe you should start having SECOND thoughts about throwing so many parties, Os...”

     Two-Face slid a folder towards the other man, preoccupied with the plump tiger prawn on his fork. As much as a part of him mourned the days where the Half-Moon Club was the definitive place to be, the former district attorney had to admit the Iceberg Lounge outclassed it in practically every category — save for perhaps its aesthetic. The folder contained photocopies of legal documents he’d gotten straight from the desk of the current district attorney, most notably several drafts for warrants to search a number of properties owned by Cobblepot.

“You’ll need that money to pay your lawyers’ retainer fees.”

Gotham City Botanical Gardens is a vast expanse of nature situated among towering skyscrapers that block out the sun and leagues of pavement that stunt the earth. Jonathan rarely actually goes inside the building -- Pamela, whether she’s in or out of Arkham, usually has something hidden in there that’s better left untouched. But outside of the system of huge, gothic-styled greenhouses is an outdoor area decorated with topiary and hedge mazes. Something that can be seen from the curb as if to desperately beg passersby to give the dangerous lair of Poison Ivy another chance at family fun.

Since they’ve installed the hedge mazes and topiary, Jonathan has found a comfortable place to sit and think. Behind the high hedges, he’s found a bench with a bit of open sky above it -- just enough for the birds to gather on the pavement and peck at whatever morsels they can find.

He’s made it his Sunday ritual. Wake up, shower for the first time in days, knock back a shot, and fill a bag with the bread that’s inevitably gone stale in his cupboard. The stale bread fragments easily in his hands when he breaks it up and throws the crumbs out for the crows. They hop around outside the gardens, ignorant to the state of the world. Ignorant to the petty squabbles that happen between people. Crows are the only things that have changed alongside him, never left him behind.

It was a fairly easy mission for once with considerably less flying than his usual one, but one that only Warren could confidently complete without people being too suspicious. He was a firm member of the Hellfire Club due to his lineage so travelling to the kind of club that he was in now didn’t look suspicious and he didn’t look out of place. With his wings strapped down tightly to disguise them underneath his dark blue suit, he looked as formal as anyone else did as he meandered towards the bar.

There were plenty of people in the X-Men who were convinced that Oswald Cobblepot was in deep with illegal actions, which they wanted Warren to uncover through his time at the Umbrella Lounge, ideally with regular visits. As someone who had his own upper-class connections both through his business and his personal life, they’d assumed that Warren would be a useful person to get into Cobblepot's network. He supposed was a safe assumption but he did worry that the people who had set him up for this did not understand the nuances that came with these social circles, and as a result, were setting him up for failure.

It didn’t take too long of him leaning against the bar with a vodka martini in hand before he saw a short man working his way through a crowd which parted easily for him and it didn’t take a genius for him to know that it would be Cobblepot. He didn’t move too far away from his place at the bar and he hoped that a dazzling smile would do enough to keep Oswald’s attention as well as make him recognise him.