[Rolling Silver Gacha Ticket]

  [Bell Gargoyles]

  |Uncommon Familiar|

  Dark Souls – A pair of towering gargoyles, each rge enough to dwarf the average man, armed with supernaturally sturdy weapons. One exhales fire, the other commands lightning. Their bodies possess enough raw strength to shatter stone and colpse walls with a single blow. As your energy grows, additional gargoyles can be summoned to serve under your command.

  I paused at the description. That sounded a bit…

  “Hm. Harvey, what do you think? Some extra muscle might be welcome at the Iceberg Lounge?”

  “You got more guys?” Harvey shot me a questioning look.

  “Something like that…”

  We were riding in one of Harvey’s cars. I gnced out the window as the scenery shifted into Gotham’s wealthier districts. White-colr crooks and heavy hitters owned these streets, their clubs and private bars tucked behind bright lights and clean streets.

  Still, none of them matched the success of the man we were here to see.

  The car rolled to a stop, and I stepped out with a low whistle. The Iceberg Lounge lived up to its name. Ice sculptures lined the entrance, gleaming beneath carefully angled lights, while the building itself carried frosted flourishes that made it look carved from an iceberg.

  A pair of suited men approached us.

  “Where are your guys?” Harvey muttered under his breath. “Cobblepot’s gonna want everyone accounted for. He won’t risk anything that messes with his ‘legit’ reputation. But best we’ve got some muscle nearby.”

  “They’re close. Don’t worry.” I let a grin tug at my mouth as we were escorted inside.

  —Oswald took a long drink of brandy and let the burn settle in his chest as he reflected, not for the first time, on how thoroughly Gotham could ruin a man’s week. Whatever lunatic had orchestrated the Arkham breakout could not have chosen a worse moment.

  Ordinarily, he would not have spared a thought for his former “compatriots” and their spectacur ck of sanity. That was the Bat’s problem, not his.

  Unfortunately, they were making themselves his problem as his margins were taking the hit.

  The city’s chaos had gutted nightlife. Attendance at the Iceberg Lounge had plummeted to an all-time low. If that were the only issue, it would have been tolerable, but…

  He had poured cash, manpower, and carefully called-in favors into acquiring property along the street. An entire strip poised for reinvention under his design. Construction had been progressing at a brisk, beautiful pace. Iceberg Street was barely a month from its grand opening.

  And then the city had decided to explode.

  Construction had ground to a halt. He now owned half a dozen half-finished properties that did nothing but bleed money. If it were only that, he might have endured it. Funds were tight, yes, but he was Oswald Cobblepot.

  The problem was that every dreg in the city wanted a piece of the pie.

  With the city destabilized, every gang, upstart, and gutter-born opportunist had started circling. They had been docile enough when things were orderly. He had cemented his territory. The Bat’s nightly patrols had even, in their own irritating way, kept things calm.

  Now the rules were gone.

  Several of Arkham’s escapees had already made “inquiries” about his services. Most of them he could turn away without consequence. He was not some greedy two-bit fence scrambling for quick cash. He’d bet half of those idiots would be back in Arkham within the month, so rebuffing them was perfectly acceptable.

  Unfortunately, a few inquiries were more delicate.

  Bane, for instance. A newer face in Gotham, but far more disciplined than the average criminal. He had been maneuvering quietly through the underworld for months. Oswald suspected some connection to the breakout, though he cked any solid proof. Teleporting half of Arkham’s inmates across the city felt… a bit beyond even a professional of Bane’s caliber.

  Oswald exhaled and leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the card resting on his desk, a formal message from the League of Assassins. A request for intelligence on the Bat.

  Why could people not simply allow him to remain a respectable white-colr criminal?

  Both clients were troublesome, particurly in times like these. Thankfully, they were professionals. With the right phrasing and a carefully crafted excuse, he could likely deflect them without inviting retaliation.

  If only everyone were so rational.

  The Joker had also come calling.

  That, at least, had been simple. He had refused outright. Experience had taught him that working with that lunatic never ended well.

  Oswald was no saint—far from it—but even he had limits. Lord Almighty, he would not stoop so low as to help bomb a children’s hospital.

  The refusal had not been well received.

  Trying to predict how, or even if, the Joker would retaliate was a fool’s errand. Still, Oswald was not stupid enough to take the risk lightly. He made sure to double security around the Lounge.

  Which brought him to the true problem.

  “I’m running out of men,” he said, drawing deeply from his cigar before rubbing his forehead.

  And so, much to his profound chagrin, he was being forced to make alliances.

  “Sir, your guests are here,” his secretary said from the doorway.

  “Send them up, Tracy.”

  As she stepped away, Oswald adjusted his top hat and settled his monocle into pce. He smoothed his jacket, ensuring every crease was precise. If one had to entertain barbarians, one would at least do so impeccably dressed. He leaned back in his chair, arranging himself into a refined posture.“Harvey. How good to see you! A drink?” He had already pced two whiskey gsses on the table and poured what he knew was the man’s preference.

  “Cobblepot,” Harvey growled and immediately snatched the gss.

  The fact that Harvey had proposed this meeting at all had been a surprise. Perhaps one of his more lucid phases. Dealing with a less mad Two-Face would be a blessing.

  The other guest drew Oswald’s attention next. Young. Early twenties at most. Pin dress shirt, simple scks. Nothing about his appearance signaled him as one of the rising powers in Gotham’s underworld.

  “Mr. Valjean. A pleasure meeting you again.” Oswald extended a gloved hand.

  “You remember me?” The young man smiled faintly as he shook it firmly.

  Of course, he didn’t. But one did not remain in power by neglecting information. Discovering that this “rising star” had once run courier jobs for him a couple of years ago had been amusing to say the least.

  “I never forget someone who’s done good work for me,” Oswald replied smoothly. “I’d be gd to have you work with me again.”

  “Work for you, you mean.” The young man leaned back and took a casual sip of whiskey. “Must sting, sitting across from the ‘help’ as an equal.”

  Confident little punk. Oswald kept the irritation from his face and offered a light chuckle instead, gncing toward Harvey.

  The madman seemed oddly calm.

  “Can we get to the brass tacks?” Harvey grunted. “I don’t wanna spend a second longer in your damn office, Cobblepot.”

  Oswald clicked his tongue and took a slow draw from his cigar. He had intended to probe a bit more.

  “Fine. I’ll be blunt.” He leaned back, fixing his gaze squarely on the young man. “I’ll provide you with money, drugs, weapons—whatever your crew requires. In exchange, you protect my assets from Fifth to Twelfth Street. We can negotiate specifics. I’m also willing to concede certain—”

  “No.”

  Oswald blinked. “What?”

  “I said no. We’re not here to negotiate, you fat Penguin.”

  A vein throbbed at Oswald’s temple. He turned his eyes to Harvey, expecting pushback. Instead, the man simply nodded once.

  Were their ties tighter than he thought?

  “Oh? Then what exactly are you here for?” His voice roughened despite himself.

  “To send you a formal invitation,” the young man said with an infuriating smile. “To join my organization.”

  Oswald stared.

  “The foundation of the Goon Union.”

  “Goon Union?” Oswald repeated, disbelief slipping through despite his control.

  “We’re workshopping the name. You can just call it the Union.” The young man shrugged.

  Oswald shifted his gaze to Harvey. “You’re on board with this?”

  Harvey grunted, something almost like embarrassment flickering across his expression.

  So he had misjudged. Harvey was not in a lucid phase. The man was simply crazy in a different direction this time.

  Oswald pinched the bridge of his nose. “And what, precisely, would this… Union do?”

  “Set rules,” the young man replied easily. “Establish clear rules of engagement between criminal groups. No more city-destroying schemes from vilins. Every criminal in Gotham either follows the rules or the Union takes them down. The rest we’re still ironing out.”

  He spoke with absolute confidence, as if the idea were not completely absurd.

  Oswald exhaled slowly through his nose. “Haaa… This is what I get for entertaining lunatics.” He straightened in his chair. “I’m done. I’m not listening to another word of this nonsense—”

  “Oh, you’re just going to let your little development project go belly up?”

  Oswald’s grip tightened around his cigar, the wrapper crinkling slightly beneath his fingers. The brat kept smiling at him.

  “Funny thing about being at the bottom,” the kid continued, voice easy. “We look out for each other. Word travels fast. Loads of buildings, bars, and clubs around your pce are hiring. That kind of thing gets around.”

  He leaned forward, grin sharpening into something almost feral.

  “But st I heard, none of those properties are open yet. And a whole lotta people are starting to look at them like free real estate.”

  “And…?” Oswald’s voice came out clipped. His gss creaked faintly in his hand.

  “Well, you join up, and we cover your manpower problems. You chip in some Union funds, we make sure nobody so much as sneezes on Fifth through Twelfth.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Then Oswald exhaled slowly, and a chuckle slipped out. It grew, deepening into full-bodied ughter that filled the office.

  “I have to hand it to you, kid,” he said at st, wiping at the corner of his eye. “You’ve got spunk.”

  His fist smmed into the desk.

  “Boys!”

  The doors burst open. A dozen of his guards flooded in, cd in top-tier body armor and armed with the best weapons money could buy.

  “Oh? What happened to the ‘legitimate businessman,’ huh?” The brat still wore that same damn smile.

  “This is business,” Oswald replied smoothly, rubbing his hands together. “You’re right. I do need manpower. So, in the spirit of cooperation, we’ve just reached an agreement. Such was my persuasive skill that the two of you have graciously decided to remain at my Lounge for your own ‘safety.’”

  His eyes hardened.

  “So, unless you’d like to test my hospitality, I suggest you take out your phones and start dialing.”

  Harvey gnced around, frowning. The kid, however, didn’t so much as blink.

  “Hm. If that’s how you want to py it,” the brat said lightly, “then I suppose I’ll respond in kind.”

  He snapped his fingers.

  “Sic ’em, boys.”

  Nothing happened.

  He scoffed. “Have you completely lost your marbles?”

  “Why don’t you ask my friends?”

  A slow, hot breath washed over the back of Oswald’s neck.

  His men, hardened criminals all, had gone pale. Several had stopped breathing altogether, eyes fixed on something behind him.

  Carefully—very carefully—Oswald turned.

  Two towering monstrosities loomed over him.

  They were easily twice the height of a man, bodies carved from dark, weathered stone like grotesque gargoyles brought to life. Jagged wings folded behind their backs. One gripped a halberd nearly as tall as the room itself. The other’s maw parted slightly, revealing a furnace glow within.The floor creaked beneath their weight.

  Oswald felt sweat bead at his temple.

  “What,” he breathed, “is that?”

  “Hm… about that invitation to the Union,” the brat said pleasantly as if there weren’t literal monsters in the room.

  Oswald swallowed, monocle slipping slightly as he forced a stiff smile.

  “I believe,” he said carefully, “I may be reconsidering my earlier position.”

  One of the gargoyles exhaled, a low rumble building in its chest before an arc of lightning spilled from its jaws, the static washing across the office. Oswald felt his body go rigid and he realized, with mounting horror, that his pants were growing wet.

  “Wonderful,” the demon wearing a man’s face replied with a grin.

  ***

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  I have advanced chapters if you wanna read ahead.