Owner	Pose
Oswald Cobblepot	The Iceberg Lounge, past midnight, is closed to outside business, although it often remains open past these hours to select clientele. When the glitterati and chosen sons of Gotham City depart for their homes and affairs and families, the strange ones come out, drawn to this icon of depravity and open resistance to order. The Iceberg Lounge is a palace of decadence by day, and by night, it is a ballroom for the fantasies of the misbegotten children of this choking urban hell.     Although the restaurant slash bar is closed to the front, the wide alley in the back has a door guarded from the inside by a bouncer recruited from the local merchant marine dropouts. Once one walks through the door and through the corridor to the closed kitchens and the billiard room in the back, one finds themselves in the dim club, with chairs atop tables and the bar manned by a Vietnamese man with a broad scar across his face and a glass eye, a former human trafficker that was injured serving a stretch in Thailand and has found his way here. Mafiaso lurk about the bar, and the tables, talking in dim tones and drinking simple, hard drinks and expensive beers. Penguin sits amidst the show, at a large round table beneath the crystal chandalier, holding a bell glass of white rum and tangerine juice in his left hand, his palm upwards as he regards those around him. A dour look is on his face, mostly passing the lonely hours with the similarly bedraggled.
Scarecrow	A whispered word, a snatch of conversation, a menacing glare and Professor Crane walks past the now-cowed back-door guard; he stalks through the back corridor of the club, until he finally emerges into the tawdry interior of the Lounge and moves to the bar. A simple glass of water in hand afterwards, he then moves to the center - gunmen recognize him, and pass the word down the line, until at last he comes to the Penguin's chair. "Cobblepot," he says simply, his voice a hoarse rasp, as he sits down. "You seem to be doing well, at least," he says after a moment spent looking around.
Oswald Cobblepot	The Penguin's gloomy eyes lift as he hears the mention of Crane, tilting his head to the left with a slide of his jaw to the right in quiet appraisal. "Doctor Crane," Penguin replies, his British accent distinct, with the mark of a sophisticate and the dull edge of the thug shop clerk that follows wealth built from muscle. He's not hiding himself tonight, with the magnamity of the host. There's a movement of his left eye, without the monocle, to Crane's glass of water, taking a slow sip from his glass, a low lift to his hand, before he sets it down to be polite.     "Never a dull moment in the life of an entertainer," Penguin replies with a muse, appraising Crane's intent. "A cagey one is always best in a cage, that's what I say. What brings you to the Elysian fields tonight, Doctor?" There's a slow reach into his suit, before he withdraws a black leather pouch. He withdraws his cigarette holder and affixes a cigarette into it out of a black pack, before he places it in his mouth and lights with his custom brass lighter. There are six stars on one side, and an eye on the other. He lets the eye face out, not his normal tactic, as he flicks the hood open and lights it.     "Kitchen's shut down, but we have cold meats and some nice baguette."
Scarecrow	I have already dined, thank you," Crane says as he sips his water. He makes a slight face at the taste, then looks to the Penguin. "Meaning no slight to your offered victuals; the medicine they had me on changes the sensitivity of the taste buds. I suggested several alternatives but, alas, I was rebuffed," he says as he takes a longer drink. "It should clear up over the next few days."     He sets his glass down and fixes the Penguin with a single eye through his smudged and cracked glasses. "I must observe: your demeanor seems ill at odds with the festive decor."
Oswald Cobblepot	Cobblepot looks downwards, pensively, at the mention of Dr. Crane's medication. There is no false show of pity - Crane is a better psychologist than any he's met save Catwoman - but there is a ponderance to his heavy face, at the banality of it all. "You can only cure a patient that wishes to be cured, Johnny. Some of us like our scars and marks." He exhales smoke to the side, a man in a black suit placing an ashtray to his right side, which he uses to tap ash from his cigarette in. "You know, you could learn a lot from those doctors. And they could learn a lot from you." He'll allow his puzzle to be solved however Crane pleases. He's not a martyr for a cause, merely a broker.     "All of this, this art and splendor, it's all for the look. There are precise ways to understand it, you know. Feng Shui is what the Chinese call it. But it's really the same thing as a cathedral." He gestures at the bar, along the right side. "People see the bar on their right when they enter, the bartender likes them. They feel like they're not an addict. Anyone that drinks is an addict." He then points at the VIP booth, in the back, that he's facing. "That's my booth. It makes people think that I'm protecting them. I'm a bloodsucker, but here, I'm a mother hen."     He inhales on his cigarette again, a jagged grin on his face, the next statement an unusual pair with the facial expression. "It's all lost on me, though, Crane. To me, it's just a game of slots."
Scarecrow	Jonathan Crane flares his nostrils briefly at the thought that the clumsy fools at Arkham could ever approach his genius, but strangely he keeps quiet on the subject. It costs him, though, in the tight grip he has on that glass. "It is lost on you because you have no need of it, anymore," he says. "You know you have risen above the base needs of the vermin surrounding us." He sips his water, considering his next move. "It occurs to me, though, that you seem to lack that vital spark, since last we met. I may have a solution to that."
Oswald Cobblepot	Penguin's grin doesn't fade at Crane's statement of his lack of art appreciation, only raising his chin with a silent, deliberate poker tell. "I'm listening, Johnny." He turns to the side, his girth pivoting slowly across his muscular trunk, waving his left arm at the waiter tending to the clients about the Lounge. "Benny, put together a salami and cheese for me. Put it on the challah we got from Libby's. And get some of that Italian oil on it, you know the kind." Benny, a young man of Irish descent with long hair and a knife fighter's physique, grins and nods, standing from the table where he was chatting with a showgirl and moving about. "And onion!"     Penguin looks back to Crane, motioning with his right hand to continue, cigarette holder sticking out from his teeth as he puffs on it.
Scarecrow	Jonathan Crane finishes his water, and places the glass deliberately to the side, to signal a refill. "I think you have been the spider at the center of the web for too long. You need to stretch your legs, break your diet of ennui. How long has it been since you last left your tinsel paradise?" He runs a finger through a circle of condensation on the table, drawing it out.
Oswald Cobblepot	Cobblepot considers Crane calmly, watching his finger openly, his myopic right eye squinting behind his monocle. "I'm a gambler, Jon. You know how it works, gambling?" Cobblepot looks to the small Bolivian woman that refills Crane's drink from a pitcher, smiling and nodding genially at her soft glance, silent until she leaves, giving her a nod. He moves his attention back to Crane, dropping his voice. "You have a set pool. That's how much you're willing to spend. You have a bank number. That's how much you stop at. And you have a partial risk equation, for each individual game. Everything else? Not important. All other considerations are a house confidence scheme." Benny returns, with Penguin's sandwich, and a glass of Moxie.     "You ever have Moxie, Crane?" He arranges things on the table, placing the Moxie to his right, moving the mixed drink forward so it won't be near the edge of the table, and sliding his plate an inch behind the rim. "Contrast is the key to any form of consumption. Things that go well together taste bad in quantity. And things that taste good individually, you eat too much when there's too little of it." He puts down his cigarette holder in the tray.     "What's the game, Crane? Put it in terms you understand, not me." He takes a long sip of the bitter Moxie to clean his palette of the cigarette, before he bites into his sandwich, watching Crane as he eats, a rude gesture among some cultures, but not from business, police, and mob boss culture.
Scarecrow	"To continue the motif, then, 'cards on the table'. There is a biochem startup that has moved into the old Perez building; it is sufficiently isolated in it's location at the edge of an industrial area so as to present little danger in case of an accident," Crane says. "I find myself in need of base stock to replenish my own laboratory to acceptable levels, though I beleive you can understand the difficulty in procuring the chemicals I need in sufficient bulk." He steeples his stick-thin fingers, peering over them at the Penguin. "There is also the matter of a DNA sequencer that can operate at the speed I reguire. They have the only such model in the city, outside of much better-guarded facilities."     He takes the refilled glass and slowly takes a long drink from it. The medicine they forced on him every day left him dehydrated. His throat was drier than usual. "The risk is minimal; they have security, but nothing of any real concern, and their self-imposed isolation makes it unlikely there would be police interfeerance." He pauses. "I thought it might make for a short and profitable outing. They also sell sequenced genomes to the scientific community, meaning that they have donor animals. Particularly interesting, and I am sure it has already come to your attention so I apoligize if this is old news, is their acqusition of a New Caledonian owlet-nightjar - the rarest bird in the world, last seen in 1998. As a zooiligical specimen it is priceless. So when I found this out, I thought we might do each other a favor. It is, after all, a place that has something both of us crave."
Oswald Cobblepot	Penguin slowly chews as he watches Crane, speak, swallowing at the mention of the DNA sequencer and picking up his Moxie in a leather gloved hand. As Scarecrow drinks from his glass, Cobblepot plays careful attention at the self-soothing gesture, a look that could be misinterpreted as a lecherous pout on his face. Penguin lifts his ponderous right forearm from the table and props his elbow up, a show of rudeness in fellowship with Scarecrow's fragile gesture of creature comfort. Penguin would've thought about it in his teens, but now, it's instinct, something that only throws lawyers. He scratches the underside of his chin, having accumulated a day's worth of stubble.     Penguin drops his arm and puts his cigarette out as he hears the three factors that interest him, regarding the risk evaluation and the twin reasons. He's interested now, leaning forward in his chair and shifting his rugby forward frame as his ponderous gut presses over his lap.     "That's a French collectivity, isn't it?" Penguin says, looking upwards as he calculates something abstract. "You know, Jon, I'm not really into birds." He pauses at Crane, staring at him, before a slick, reptilian smile breaks out across his face. "Women of breeding, however, are." He leans backwards and pulls at his belt, stretching out.     "You have my sword, sir," he says as his party host magnamity shows itself, with a snap of both hands over the table, as if he was a maestro, palms together. He then grabs his sandwich and leans forward, the oil dripping on the plate as he eats it with shallow concern for his gloves. He looks down now, removing the scrutiny from Crane.
Scarecrow	Jonathan Crane's tight thin features slowly school themselves into a smile. "Excellent to hear. Now, I must turn our discussion of matters to more distasteful subjects. My recent indisposition has been, while restful, also of neccesity held me at a considerable remove from the news of the day. So to the point then: How fares our mutual and prime adversary?"
Oswald Cobblepot	Penguin coughs, putting his sandwich down and nearly spitting out his food. He chugs down a long sip of Moxie, before he continues to cough, putting his left fist in front of his mouth as an afterthought. He emits a deep throat clear, before he makes a chuff, finishing his soda. "Still skulking about the rooftops for means to catch me. I have important matters to attend to, and he's after revenge for this humiliation or that remark. He's rather like you, you know Jonathan. Except he never mastered, the mind." Penguin wipes his gloves on a tablecloth, before removing them and setting them aside, rubbing his smooth fingers together. "Entrapment's the latest scheme. The political system is better, after Luthor moved in with his money and his police, but Batman's dedication to law and order seems to be based on some fantasy he has about the working class liking their lot. They'd all get out of they could. That's what I do here."     Penguin taps the side of his nose.     "Despite what you'd think, I'm a union man myself. Just got to keep them clean, balanced, and realistic. Don't always trust the textbook, Scarecrow. Or me." He points at his left eye, not the myopic right. "Trust what you see. We all have instincts and intuition. The system is meant to make you forget that, if they don't like what you see. Or what they think you see."
Scarecrow	Jonathan Crane frowns and considers his cracked fingernails for a moment. "Pity. I had hoped that Luthor would have put him in his place by now. Still it is of little matter to us in this endevour." He finishes his glass of water, keeping it close to him this time. He shifts in his seat, indicating he is about to depart. "I was an enforced guest of the system for quite some number of months, Oswald. I am well aware of what it can do to a man. The only solace I can offer is that no system continues indefinately. I shall be in touch soon with further details: maps, schedules and the like."
Oswald Cobblepot	"I'm British, Jonathan. Kingdom is older than you know. You must merely find a lord to serve. And lords must merely protect their servants. That is how you stop the system." He looks up, waving with his right hand affluently at all around them. "You create a new one." He nods dismissively, with a bob as he returns to his mixed drink. "Stay safe, Dr. Crane. There are bastards out tonight, and there's more of them than us."