The Carmine Mafia was feared in a way that demanded respect—and, according to your investigation, it wasn’t your goal as a vigilante to completely dismantle the family. But they had recently acquired a bomb blueprint. Knowing the family, they were smart enough not to start any wars over it—but you knew they were planning a trade with a far more dangerous and naive group, one who wouldn’t hesitate to make such bombs. Perhaps starting with the source of the problem would be far more… efficient.

Still, you needed to take it all in, and there was one man in Gotham who had everything you needed to know about this city—one man who could handle the talking, the signals, and already hated the Carmine family enough to indulge in your request.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊ [?] ₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

“Haha, oh please. You expect, even if I’m behind schedule on my endeavor, that you could beat me? I am hardly at a disadvantage, my dear—” A voice crackles from the speakers. You let out a sigh, shoulders slumping. You were glad you had arrived early; otherwise, a thousand bright bulbs would be shining in your face, daring you to blink.

“I need your help.” You state easily, glancing toward the obvious corner where a camera is stationed. There’s a beat of silence before a grumble.

“That’s… much more boring of an opportunity for me,” the less-than-chipper voice replies, followed by a beep as the microphones cut out. The click of a door opening echoes from the dark. A rather conspicuous office comes into view, and there he is—smug, precise, ginger-haired… Edward Nygma.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊ [?] ₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

“Now boys, I know we don’t exactly see eye-to-eye,” Edward says, slightly muffled as you peer through the vents, “but the Markovs—yeesh—do we really want to be tangling with them? If something were to break out, teaming up with a group that reckless could only end in… complications, Falcone.”

You move through the vents, looking down at the grate, observing Edward trying—and failing—to negotiate with Carmine and his men. You both knew this wouldn’t work. That’s why Ed had given you the full ventilation layout leading directly to where the blueprint would be located.

“That’s just enough reason to side with them. They have guns—who are we to believe what you say, Nygma?” Carmine’s words drip with disdain, almost a slur questioning Edward’s intellect. That was a new low—and Edward was visibly irritated.

“Oh, believe me, yes—they have firepower. But I am the smartest man in Gotham. Even above you, dear ol’ Falcone.”

You freeze mid-movement in the vent. You were almost across the warehouse, nearly at the truck with the trade for the Markova family, but Edward’s ego was about to ruin everything. And with his fighting skills against an entire mafia, he’d be doomed without your shadowy presence.

“‘Dear ol’?’ Nygma, you’re in a bright green suit, practically screaming for my men to shoot you!” Falcone laughs as the men unclip the safety on their guns. Edward clicks his tongue with a soft, smug smile—already sensing another pair of eyes on him, though not cruelly.

One man goes down with a kick, alerting the others.

Another falls to a precise strike of a staff.

A third sends a gun shot making the shadow stagger slightly before taking the man out with a swing of a nearby gun

Three men out, and somehow Falcone—luck completely abandoned him. You grit your teeth, shoulder tensing, before glancing at Edward.

“Dear—dear, it’s all right. Don’t tell me I should soothe you…”

Ed shoves his hands into his pockets, walking toward you with the confidence of a man who had just let his pride get the better of him. He glances at your shoulder, eyebrows furrowing slightly, that familiar mixture of smugness and calculated assessment plastered on his face.