Chapter 91: Gotham without crime
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In this world, the cheapest thing is justice. Everyone knows it. It's not a whispered secret, nor a bitter punchline—it's just a fact. The kind people carry in their eyes and in the set of their jaw when they walk past a crime scene without slowing down. A truth so worn-out and casual, it might as well be graffiti on a back alley wall.
A row of police cars thundered down the main street, their armored windows gleaming with grime. Thick metal bars shielded the glass, and mounted above the roof of each vehicle was a retractable skylight armed with a heavy machine gun. These weren't mere displays of force—they were war machines, and they meant business. At any moment, those turrets could open fire to crush anyone bold—or foolish—enough to resist.
Snowflakes drifted down like pale ash, dancing lazily in the cold air before vanishing on contact with the street's dark, cracked surface. Few dared to be outside in this weather—or in this city at all.
The few pedestrians scattered along the sidewalks all wore the same gray-black uniforms, as if the color of their clothes could help them disappear. No one lingered. Everyone's steps were rushed, clipped, like they were being chased by something only they could see. Something invisible, and always just a breath behind them.
But there was one exception.
Among the uniformed masses, one man walked at a steady pace, unhurried, unfazed. His gaze drifted calmly over the city's strange skyline, taking in the chaos with the kind of mild curiosity someone might have at a museum exhibit.
His name was Dean Hayes—a man not from this world.
This was already his fourth day on Earth-3.
By now, he'd managed to "borrow" a set of clothes, blending into this Gotham with the ease of someone who'd done this sort of thing before. And it was Gotham, make no mistake. Familiar buildings stood like skeletons of their counterparts, warped and twisted with strange symbolism and unfamiliar authority. But he could still recognize the bones.
It made a strange kind of sense, going from Gotham to another Gotham. Like stepping through a mirror and finding your reflection staring back, only… wrong.
He had first appeared in a place he knew all too well—Crime Alley. Not a crater, not ruins. Just the alley. That alone had given him a moment of relief. But it also sparked a ripple of dread in his chest.
The good news: the Anti-Monitor hadn't consumed this world yet.
The bad news: this Gotham had cameras everywhere.
Luckily, he'd already reclaimed the Snake Talisman.
With it, he'd activated invisibility and used the lingering speed energy he'd stored to vanish from the cameras' field of view and escape before someone could pin down where—or what—he was.
In the days that followed, he tried every method he could think of to understand this world. But the information was locked tight. He only found one newspaper, sold by a hunched vendor at a newsstand: The Daily Planet. But every article in it read like a parody of news—empty, sterile, full of bombast and propaganda. There were no names, no cities, no facts. Just broad declarations and cultish headlines.
It told him all he needed to know. Information control here wasn't just tight—it was suffocating.
Currency was another problem. He didn't have any of this world's money, but thanks to the warehouse stored in his system, he never lacked for clean water or packaged food. He could wait. He just had to stay ahead of the eyes.
"The world belongs to the Crime Syndicate! The world belongs to the Crime Syndicate!"
The chant echoed from the other end of the block. Dean veered away before he could be caught in the mob. A demonstration—angry, loud, and most dangerous of all, loyal. He didn't understand why anyone would willingly support the Crime Syndicate, but curiosity didn't outweigh survival. He kept his head down.
He had learned that lesson already.
On his third day, he'd made the mistake of slipping into Arkham Asylum. His reasoning had been simple: if this world was inverted, then maybe the inmates of Arkham weren't villains—they might be heroes, or at least, decent people.
And he was right.
But he hadn't counted on the level of security. The moment he activated the Snake Talisman and crossed the outer walls, alarms screamed to life.
Arkham's floors were rigged with pressure sensors. Step wrong once, and you'd alert the entire city.
Within minutes, the Rapid Response Force descended—military, not police. Gotham was no longer run by mayors or bureaucrats. This Gotham belonged to soldiers. Police patrolled the streets, sure, but they were just the first layer. Beneath that, steel and gunmetal ruled.
Dean could've fought. He wasn't afraid of weapons, not with his talismans. But fighting would draw attention. And he could feel it already.
The eyes.
The Owl's gaze.
Owl statues perched across the city, silent and watching. Rooftops, lamp posts, above windows, in alleyways. Wherever he went, he felt their gaze. Cold and constant. The same statues seemed to follow him, though he never saw them move.
He understood, then, why the people of this Gotham walked so fast.
Even more unsettling—since arriving, he hadn't seen a single crime. No petty theft. No gangs. No one even raised their voice in public. Everything was quiet. Perfect. Too perfect.
It made his skin crawl.
If he wanted to understand the real Gotham—the Gotham behind the glass—he'd need to do it outside the system.
He turned off the street and entered a weedy lot surrounded by the husks of half-collapsed buildings. A forgotten clearing where the snow barely touched the earth. The air was still, almost sterile.
Dean frowned. The man he was looking for wasn't here. Not yet.
Around him, huddled figures sat in twos and threes. Beggars. Wanderers. The discarded. Their clothing hung from their bones like wet paper. Sunken eyes stared into nothing. They didn't speak. They didn't move. Black Lantern Corps corpses had more life in them.
Dean needed answers. Formal channels were closed, so he turned to the informal.
His eyes scanned the group until he saw one man who stood out—not because of his posture or strength, but because of his shape. While most of the beggars looked like they hadn't eaten in weeks, this one had a round beer belly stretching the seams of his ragged coat.
A fat beggar meant one thing in a place like this: influence.
Dean stepped toward him and stopped just out of arm's reach.
"I want to ask for directions," he said plainly.
The fat beggar gave Dean a slow, measured glance. Then, without a word, he extended his chubby palm. No explanation needed—it was the universal language of trade.
Dean didn't hesitate. He reached into his coat and pulled out a bottle of red wine—the same one gifted to him by Oswald Cobblepot, back when the Penguin still had some standing in another world. Without ceremony, he tossed it lightly toward the beggar.
"Will this do?" he asked.
The bottle arced through the air, glinting in the pale light, before landing with a soft thunk in the beggar's hands. He examined it briefly, then let out a low grunt of approval and stuffed the bottle into the folds of fat hanging over his belt like it was a natural pocket.
"This," the beggar said, voice slick and wheezy, like he had a whistle caught in his throat, "is the kind of thing that keeps a man alive in winter. You pay like that, you're not just here for directions. You want a private word."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and waddled toward a rusted diesel barrel set apart from the others. As they approached, he struck a match and lit the firewood inside. Flames caught quickly, dancing orange shadows across the weathered walls of the alley.
"Ask," he said, gesturing with a stubby hand. "You paid. Talk."
Dean got straight to the point. "Tell me where the Iceberg Restaurant has moved."
At the mention of that name, something flickered in the beggar's eyes. His face didn't change, but his narrow gaze widened briefly—then sharpened to slits again.
"You joking with me?" the beggar snapped. "You want to play games, play 'em somewhere else. I don't have time for riddles."
Dean blinked. The reaction caught him off guard. He hadn't expected hostility.
But the beggar suddenly let out a wheezy laugh and shook his head, fat jiggling with the movement. "Heh. You really don't know, do you?" He coughed. "Well, I'm not about to scam a man who pays with wine. That question's on the house."
He turned slowly, spreading his arms to gesture at the scene around them. The scattered vagrants. The cracked pavement. The greasy smoke curling from half-lit barrels.
"This is the Iceberg Restaurant."
Dean stared. For a moment, he thought he'd misheard. His eyes swept the area again—broken pallets used as beds, trash-can fires, people bundled in rags, some gnawing on clearly scavenged food.
This was the Iceberg Restaurant?
That wasn't possible. The Iceberg was supposed to be a luxury spot for Gotham's elite. Hidden, yes, but refined. Classy. Private rooms, silk tablecloths, whispered deals over ten-thousand-dollar whiskey.
This was… a graveyard for the living.
Dean frowned, the pieces falling into place. It wasn't a lie—it was irony. Or maybe rebellion.
There was one more thing he needed to know.
He narrowed his eyes and studied the man's beer belly, the way he cradled the wine bottle with practiced ease. His pale fingers twitched near the tattered edge of a long coat that had once been elegant.
"Next question," Dean said. "Are you Oswald Cobblepot?"
The man's face went rigid. In a flash, he pulled out a battered umbrella from beneath his coat—its canopy frayed, its shaft reinforced with nails and blades. The tip gleamed with improvised steel. He leveled it at Dean's chest, fury dancing in his small, sharp eyes.
"You looking for me? Who sent you?" he hissed. "Was it Night Owl?"
Dean didn't move. He didn't have to.
He knew that stance, that sudden violence. That wasn't a bluff. It was muscle memory.
There was no longer any doubt. This was the Penguin—this world's Oswald Cobblepot, fallen and furious.
But not broken.
It took another bottle of wine—carefully offered, label turned outward—to get him to lower the umbrella. The blade-tip dipped, and Penguin tucked it away again with a grunt. He took a long breath, then exhaled through his nose.
"You've got questions," he muttered. "Fine. I've got time. For now."
And so he spoke.
His story wasn't long, but it was bitter.
After Thomas Wayne Jr.—known in this world as the Owlman—seized control of the Wayne family, he didn't stop there. One by one, he dismantled Gotham's great crime dynasties. The Cobblepot family fell just like the rest. With his resources gutted and his influence erased, Oswald was cast down to the streets like trash.
He had hoped for some kind of alliance with Falcone. But that door was slammed shut. Falcone had already been executed—eliminated by Owlman himself. There were no more families. Only one master in Gotham now.
Owlman ran everything. Every gang, every racket. Even the scraps were his.
Penguin refused to kneel. He wouldn't be a puppet. So he chose exile—willing exile. A beggar's life, but on his own terms.
And from that exile, he made something. The Iceberg Restaurant. A joke. A protest. A haven.
He fed the forgotten. Traded what he could. Ruled the lowest rung like a king in exile.
Dean listened, absorbing it all.
Finally, he asked the question that had been nagging at him.
"Why still call it the Iceberg Restaurant?" he asked. "There's no iceberg here. No luxury. Just… this."
The Penguin chuckled darkly and pointed to a small pile of snow they'd swept up near the edge of the barrel fire.
"That," he said, "is the iceberg. The part you can see."
Dean tilted his head. "On the surface?"
Penguin's expression changed. His eyes swept over Dean slowly, searching. Then they narrowed into thin slits of approval.
"You want to see the rest of it?" he said. "The part hidden underneath?"
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and waddled away again.
Dean followed him past rows of makeshift shelters, deeper into the slum. Eventually, Penguin led him to a structure slapped together from rotting wood and bent metal, barely standing.
Inside, he moved to the corner and shoved aside a broken mattress. Beneath it was a rusted manhole cover. He grabbed a crowbar and pried it up, revealing the dark hole beneath.
"The real iceberg," he said quietly, "never shows its full face above water. You want to understand Gotham… you've got to see what lies underneath."
Dean descended into the dark, and what he found surprised him.
The sewer wasn't what he'd expected.
It was clean—strangely clean. The walls were scrubbed, the floors dry. The air smelled faintly of food, oil, and distant voices. The tunnel widened as they went, until it opened into a massive underground shelter—an old wartime bunker repurposed and repopulated.
Vendors lined the walls with makeshift stalls. People wandered in small crowds, haggling over salvaged goods and steaming bowls of stew. Children laughed in the corners. Someone played a broken radio.
It was a market. A hidden community.
When the Penguin descended into the underground shelter, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The people noticed him, and a ripple of energy passed through the small crowd. Greetings came from every corner, spoken with warmth and a kind of quiet reverence.
"The Penguin brought someone down with him!"
"A newcomer, huh? That's great—we could use another strong pair of hands!"
Dean, standing slightly behind the waddling Penguin, couldn't have looked more out of place if he tried. Tall, sharp-eyed, and calm in a way this chaotic world rarely allowed, he looked like he could swallow a Metropolis eagle whole. There was nothing about him that screamed "Gotham"—not this version of it, anyway.
The Penguin led him past rows of makeshift stalls and flickering lanterns until they reached a partitioned cubicle framed by hanging tarps and corrugated metal sheets. Inside, two men were seated across from each other at a scarred wooden table, mid-conversation.
Dean recognized them instantly.
One was Harvey Dent—though here, he wasn't Two-Face. His skin was smooth, his features symmetrical. There were no burns, no scars. And yet, his signature move was still present—he absently flipped a coin between his fingers, the soft metallic clink filling the room.
The other was unmistakably Roman Sionis. Though the name "Black Mask" didn't quite apply here either, as his mask was a bone-white skull with such fine detail that it might as well have been carved from an actual human head.
Harvey's coin paused mid-air as he scowled slightly.
"Penguin, you're supposed to be on watch," he said with a frown. "Not wandering around bringing strangers to our doorstep."
Roman waved a gloved hand casually, leaning back in his seat. "Come on, Harvey. We trust Penguin, don't we? He's our eyes and ears for a reason. If he brought someone here, there's gotta be a reason."
Then Roman turned toward Dean, his tone softening slightly.
"I apologize. Things are… tense lately. The situation's worsening by the day. Even the Court's no longer independent—Night Owl controls everything. The Bright Knight is under more pressure than ever."
Dean didn't respond right away. The names, the roles—everything was twisted. Familiar people in unfamiliar skins. He finally understood why newcomers from other universes often took a year or more to adapt to this world's culture. Now that he was experiencing it firsthand, it was more than confusing. It was suffocating.
Penguin took a seat with a heavy grunt and gestured toward the men at the table. "This here is Harvey—our Bright Knight—and Roman, the White Mask. These two are the leaders of the resistance."
Dean blinked. That… made sense. In a world where everything was reversed, where villains became heroes and heroes were hunted like criminals, the very name Bright Knight made his stomach turn with irony.
Three pairs of eyes locked onto him, quietly waiting.
Dean didn't hesitate. He needed a believable identity, but more importantly, he needed one that no one else here would dare question. So, without blinking, he said:
"Bruce. I'm a detective. You can call me Batman."
He delivered the lie so naturally, so convincingly, that not even his heartbeat shifted. His face remained calm. His tone was level. Not even Penguin, sharp-eyed and seasoned in deception, flinched.
Then Dean turned to the Penguin. His voice was calm, but his question was pointed. "Why did you bring me here? You and I both know we've only just met. I haven't done anything to earn your trust."
Harvey's fingers paused on the coin. Roman leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing with renewed suspicion.
But the Penguin didn't offer a defense.
Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out the two wine bottles Dean had given him. He placed them gently on the table.
For a moment, neither Harvey nor Roman reacted. They simply stared at the bottles. The firelight caught the glass, and something about it seemed… off.
Then Harvey leaned in, squinting. His eyes widened in realization.
"The labels," he murmured. "They're reversed. The emblems… they're mirrored."
Dean's heart sank.
I forgot to remove the labels.
Roman picked up one of the bottles and turned it in his hand, slowly. The glass caught the flickering lantern light, casting warped shadows on the wall. He stared at Dean, confused.
"Is what he said true?" Roman asked slowly.
Dean blinked. "What?"
The Penguin gave no answer. Instead, he popped the cork from one bottle with a soft thup and poured a measure of deep red wine into each glass. The scent of aged berries and oak filled the air.
He slid a glass to each of them.
And then, in a tone that was unexpectedly calm, almost reverent, the Penguin spoke.
"There are prophecies," he said, voice low. "Whispers, stories. They say that one day… heroes from another universe will come. They'll challenge the Criminal Syndicate. Overthrow the Court. Restore balance. Save this world."
He raised his glass, his eyes locked onto Dean.
"Maybe… you're one of them."
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