2220/Downtown, No Finer Place For Sure

Downtown, No Finer Place For Sure
Date of Scene:	29 August 2017
Location:	Gotham City
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Penguin, Batman, Red Robin

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Penguin has posed:
It's closing time at the Iceberg Lounge, and Penguin sits in his shaded booth overlooking the club, toying with a veal medallion covered in gravy and pleasantly salty mushrooms, chewing one a bit too long, merely for pleasure. Normally, the texture of overly masticated fungus would disturb him, but on this fey night, it pleasures him. He's amused, faintly, with a sort of dull sadism, at those moving above below, customers shuffling out of the club and taking their coats from the coat check station to their collective right sides. Penguin reaches down to his upholstered chair, the stiff fabric supporting his girth, and he ratchets a polished, curved wooden lever. It jerks backwards with a quarter of clicks, the final pull of the lever locking it into position. Leaning back, he reaches into his suit and pulls out a leather packet, removing a black pack of expensive French cigarettes, and his customary cigarette holder. He idly twists the cigarette into the holder, before placing the black tube between his teeth. He squints his poor right eye behind the monocle as he removes his brass lighter from the sheaf, flicking his wrist to open it and lighting it in his gloved hand. The remains of the veal medallion are removed from his plate by a mustachoid Turk with tan skin and a smooth bald head, to be placed in a black plastic container for Penguin to snack on tonight in his penthouse, when his driver takes him home.

The fattened calf, for the prodigal son, come home yet again.

Batman has posed:
It's easy to miss the extra shadow cast by the outskirts of the illumination cast by that fine lighter, the Penguin's Turkish waiter certainly does. The Batman is masterfully placed amidst the luxurious curtains framing one of the upper level's finely crafted windows, any security it might have had surreptitiously silenced upon the Dark Knight's silent entry.

It's hard to say just how long he waits there, his approach further obscured by an ostentatious pillar on his path to the Penguin's VIP table, but it's not difficult to notice the Caped Crusader once the rather larger-than-average man, stealthier than he has any right to be, is lurking-- nay, looming-- over Oswald's left shoulder.

"Cobblepot." Then there's the intoned greeting, deep and subtly dismayed, a word spoken more like a curse than a greeting. It carries a distinct should-have-known disgust to it; not unlike other conversations the pair have had, no doubt.

Red Robin has posed:
"Hey Cobbles."

That would be the one that has come to be known as Red Robin. His entry was as stealthy and as lurking as the Batman's entry. Although, he's coming from the other side and that's how they're going to do this whole detective thing. He's dressed to the Reds and making sure that he's playing the much more comfortable role. Batman's here so he can handle all the brooding and what not.

"I'd be forthcoming, if I were you. He's in one of his moods." That's right, Red Robin's going for the sarcastic cop role this time. He even takes a moment to look around the table. Either he's looking for potential weapons or something to nibble on. Probably more the weapons thing, though.

Penguin has posed:
"Games without frontiers," is all Cobblepot says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. He appears mildly startled, but not very intimidated, despite his position in recline with the two heroes behind him. He could easily be thrashed within a whit of his life, and nobody enjoys such a thing. But, he has a degree of control. He has set this whole course of events into motion, and he has used a sacred rule of England. He has labeled himself a witch, and has invoked the wrath of the Spanish Armada. From there, it is merely watching for the tides of man to ebb and flow, and these sacred heroes to miscalculate with their ideas and their disguises and their promises. All men have them, even him. It is merely a matter of knowing that they exist.

Without turning about in his chair, he gestures towards the chairs around his table. "Sit, if you prefer." He picks up a gin martini at his table, stirred to mix, in the proper manner of an English gentleman, and withdraws his cigarette from his mouth, taking a slow sip.

"Tell me, what has chanced you by my booth tonight."

Batman has posed:
    he Dark Knight does not sit, but does shift ever so slightly around to be at least on the periphery of Penguin's vision; so as better to conduct polite conversation, of course. "No games, Penguin." Batman intones in the same deep, slightly impatiently matter-of-fact melody that seems to be his nom in such encounters.

"You already know why I'm here." It's an educated guess more than a certainty-- but an info broker of Cobblepot's calibre certainly had an inkling when he made the deal he made that this would be the end result. That much, the Caped Crusader has certitude of. "Tell me what I need to know about the people who bought the explosives, or I'll do everything in my power to bring this finery down around you."

It's a basic rule of interrogation not to let the subject immediately know what they can do for you; to focus questioning around rapport, what you can do for THEM. But an informed, career do-badder like Oswald? Some rules are eschewed, and when one's son and fledgling Robin are in danger? Much is eschewed for efficiency. Tim seems quite correct-- the Bat has no patience, tonight.

Red Robin has posed:
    Red Robin does take a seat however. He even kicks back a little bit to make sure that he's looking as comfortable as ever. Granted, he's not comfortable and it's all an act because he's ready to spring into action at the moment before the moment's notice. He's definitely ready and willing to fight if they have to. Right now, though, he's just backing up the Batman.

    Partners do that.

    "Told you." That's all Red Robin has to say because he's recording everything and activating the lie detector program and there's a bunch of things going on right now. He's got all his tech up to the nines to make sure he's ready to read everything with a second set of eyes.

Penguin has posed:
Penguin taps his cigarette out in an ashtray available by his left hand, using the hard nail of his meaty forefinger. "Ah, that transaction," Cobblepot replies, considering Red Robin instead of Batman, with a pucker of his cheeks in distaste. "That was a rather unfortunate deal, the incident with the Yakuza." He moves his attention to Batman, looking up at him as he places his cigarette tube back between his lips, taking a shallow puff, without inhaling, a drug informant trick. "I was approached by a member of H.I.V.E. for explosives to use in an operation." Red Robin's lie detector would register a faint peculiarity, not so much a lie or a statement of truth, merely an evasive statement of truth. Not something that most lie detectors are equipped for. "A rather large contract in terms of what they paid, but not in the difficulty of the deal."

And then, a spike for Robin's lie detector. "Someone named Ravager." It indicates, Penguin considers that statement very important.

Batman has posed:
"Who was the point of contact, and how was delivery made?" The Dark Knight queries, seeking clarification. With or without computerized assistance, he's something of a lie detector, keen at reading people; familiar even with such dupicitous volumes as the flightless avian before him.

None of the initial information seems to surprise Batman, nor spur him to immediate action elsewhere-- suggesting to the wise that much of what he's just learned was anticipated, or priorly discerned. Dotting i's, crossing t's... confirmation is important in an investigation. H.I.V.E.'s involvement in action against the Yakuza? -That- is something of an anomaly.

"The detonations and raid were deployed to isolate and target a specific mark." Or several marks. It's magnanimous information sharing, really-- also something the Bat suspects Cobblepot already knows, and happens to be watching the Penguin like a hawk as the intel is spoken. How deep -does- the Peguin's complicity in this go?

Red Robin has posed:
    Red Robin's taking all the notes ever. He knows that once they find Damian that they're going to have to figure out what the rest of this stuff is that's going on. He's focused on the matter at hand, though, and his constant moving around in his chair is to more or less just try and mask whatever anxiety he's feeling on his own. He's not as practiced as The Batman at this whole part of the deal but he's here to be support and maybe even keep Penguin alive. Things go bad when Batman's trying to find someone that matters and that may not end well for the flightless one. He just keeps a close eye on the proceedings.

    "Tell us something we don't know, Cobbles." He turns up the annoyance factor. What? He's a teenager.

Penguin has posed:
"Chocolate is a biochemical method of punishing the kings of Meso-America for seducing women of poverty," Penguin says to Red Robin, with a hand wave. "There, now you know. I'm not Nygma, I tell you everything you already know." The lie detector picks up a truthful statement, with a bit of irritation beneath it, in a particularly aggressive manner.

"A specific mark, you say?" Penguin sips his martini, narrowing his faulty right eye behind his monocle as his neurological fault fails to isolate the empathic concern that Batman is hiding. A curse, really, particularly if you play poker. "The point of contact was a corporate type, someone in a suit, like they always use. As for suspicion. Business school graduate, top of his class, dropped out of honest work because he didn't consider business honest." He smiles tragically. "As do we all."

He looks down in his martini, inhaling his cigarette, continuing the puff into his mouth without inhale, merely sampling the flavor of the cigarette. "The delivery was in China Basin, picked up by a truck. Since I prefer to monitor all my clientele that could betray me, and this one certainly did, they assaulted birds of a feather, I know that the truck went to a corporate facility owned by the company. They claim they deal in GMO crops, but they actually work with retroviral methuman modifications."

Penguin's face sours, looking up at Batman. "Nasty stuff. All experimental, you know?"

Batman has posed:
"Yet Nygma always tells us things he doesn't want us to know." The Caped Crusader observes pointedly, his eyeless, cowled gaze fixed on Oswald at once impassively and too-intently, the stoic masque he wears all but impregnable, even to the most empathic.

"/You/ rarely do." It's harsh, but difficult to argue as to fairness or accuracy. As Penguin himself notes, this client hardly acted in the broker's best interests; it's also possible Oswald was paid to direct the Dark Knight in just this direction.

At the moment, it scarcely matters to the Bat. "If anything else comes to mind, Cobblepot-- use the dead drop." The one just down the street from the Iceberg Lounge, a mailbox in a seedy hotel.

Something of a rarity on the way out, a moment of sincerity and frankness in the game they play while demanding it's no game, the Bat pauses in his disappearing act, as if translocated to near the bypassed window he entered through. "You'd have my gratitude." Those last words are almost pricelessly heavy, aren't they?

Red Robin has posed:
    Red Robin is up and on his feet, as if following the lead of the Batman. He's all about the information that he's gathered and also not running too slow. "Sounds like somebody just made the Nice List." Red Robin grins and offers a mock-salute as he turns to head out after Batman.

    "Don't expect a Christmas Card, though. I'm still waiting on mine from last year." And that's exactly why this Red Robin is too sarcastic for this interrogation. Good thing the Batman was here to get the actual info.

Penguin has posed:
Penguin puts his cigarette out, coughing as Batman and Red Robin leave his little booth. "All that glitters is not gold," Penguin says, looking down at his leather gloved hand. He removes the spent tobacco stick from the holder and slides the cigarette holder and pack away into his leather sheath, then slides it away into his jacket. He turns about from the table and rises, picking up his umbrella and trundling over to a small safe.

After opening it, he withdraws a small piece of parchment with a gold crown printed into the upper right corner. He lights it ablaze with his brass lighter, tossing it into an empty metal trash basket, the parchment efficiently burning with minimum fuss.