The weight room in Nolan's gym was dim except for the strip of light cutting down from the ceiling. The steady clink of iron plates rang out as he pressed the bar upward, muscles taut, veins standing out on his forearms. Each rep was methodical, almost ritualistic, as though he were grinding his thoughts into order with every lift.
The strain kept his mind sharp and his mind had plenty to churn over.
Reports kept piling in: more and more outsiders had been spotted sniffing around Underpass territory. Hammer boys lingering at the edges of the Narrows. Whisper scouts loitering by the old rail yards. Falcone's men straying into the South Tracks. Hell even the dockyard dogs and the triad were starting to grow bold.
The city was tightening, pressure building. Gotham felt like a powder keg one spark, even a firecracker tossed in the wrong alley, and the whole thing would blow into a war that would burn through every district.
He racked the bar, exhaling through clenched teeth, chest heaving.
He thought of the choices he'd made pulling back from expansion, telling his people to stop grabbing new turf and instead fortify what they already had. Stitch shoring up the Narrows. Naima drilling discipline into the South Tracks. Dre weaving his lookouts on the rooftops and traps in the swers/tunnels. Marcy stockpiling weapons were they will be needed most. A command chain was forming, something vital, a structure that could hold.
But even as they tightened their grip, Nolan knew what gave the Underpass its edge. Their freedom. His people could be anywhere, at any time ghosts in alleys, shadows on rooftops, whispers in tunnels. Take that away, cage them in districts, and they'd be just another gang waiting to get swallowed.
He shifted to the treadmill, pounding out mile after mile, sweat darkening his shirt. His mind kept looping back to the same image: Gotham fracturing, organizations snapping at each other like wolves, and his people caught in the middle.
Finally, he slowed, leaning forward against the treadmill's supports. Sweat ran down his face, dripping to the floor in steady ticks. He closed his eyes for a long moment, breathing deep, before muttering to himself,
"…I think I need to talk to Croc again."
The words hung heavy in the air.
The sewers. They'd be vital, arteries running beneath the city, places to disappear, to move unseen, to strike and fade. Survival would depend on them.
In his mind, the others stirred.
Vey's deep rumble, 'Smart. The sewers are his kingdom. If we want to own the underworld, we need its king on our side.'
Quentin's dry tone followed, 'And if Croc isn't inclined to play nice… well, better we find out now than when the walls are collapsing around us.'
Nolan pressed the towel to his face, dragging away sweat, nodding slowly. The decision was made. Killer Croc would have to be brought into the fold one way or another.
The elevator doors slid open with their usual soft chime, spilling Nolan into the polished quiet of the penthouse. The city was humming outside, but up here, the air was still. He loosened his tie, half-minded to pour a drink, when his eyes landed on an envelope slipped halfway under the door.
He bent, picked it up, weighing it in his hand. Heavy stock, embossed seal. Not the kind of letter the underpass ever bothered with. One of the staff must've slid it under while he'd been away.
He broke the seal and unfolded it.
An invitation. Gold-leaf script, obnoxiously formal, laced with polite mockery.
Mr. Everleigh, You are cordially invited to a most distinguished gathering at the Gotham Grand Ballroom. Consider this our way of "making up" for the less-than-pleasant conclusion of our last event. We promise no fear gas this time… only champagne.
Nolan stared at the words for a long moment. A humorless huff escaped him, somewhere between a chuckle and a groan
"A makeup gala," he muttered. "Because nothing says apology like rubbing elbows with the same people who nearly stampeded each other to death."
He folded the invitation neatly, tapping it against his palm. His reflection stared back from the dark glass of the window, tie undone, eyes shadowed.
"Which basically means," he said under his breath, "I have to be there."
From deep within, Quentin stirred with a dry laugh. 'You do love a circus, don't you?'
Vey's voice followed, sharp and practical, 'You can't afford to skip it. You're trying to play in their world, Nolan. Every absence is a weakness. Every smile you don't return, someone else uses to cut you out.
Nolan rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes flicking back to the neat gold script. "A room full of sharks… and I get to smile like I belong there."
Quentin's laugh rumbled again.
'Well I for one can't wait to get a new suit!' Kieran exclaimed conveniently blocking out the disaster that befell him the last time
He slipped the invitation onto his desk, next to the scatter of reports from Naima and Dre.
The stink of Gotham's underbelly hit long before the iron grate groaned open. Moisture clung to the brickwork, the endless trickle of runoff echoing in the tunnels like whispers. Boots splashed through shallow water, steady, deliberate. Vey moved with his usual calm precision, shoulders squared, eyes fixed ahead as if the gloom itself parted for him.
Killer Croc emerged from the dark like some ancient thing dredged up from the depths. Muscles knotted beneath scales, his massive frame nearly filling the tunnel's width. Yellow eyes glowed faintly in the low light, pinning Vey where he stood.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The sewer dripped. The city above rumbled. Then Vey broke the silence, his voice low, even.
"Things are changing up there. Fast. Black Mask's fall left a hole, and now every gang in Gotham is circling. Falcone's men, the Whispers, the Hammers… all of them sniffing around." He gestured faintly at the water around them. "Which means down here will see more footsteps too. People looking for routes, hiding places, shortcuts they don't understand. War is coming to the sewers."
Croc's nostrils flared. He said nothing, only watched.
Vey tilted his head slightly, unbothered by the silence. "I need to know. Can my people count on you not to interfere? At the least." His tone sharpened, deliberate. "At the most… if things get bloody, maybe you keep an eye out. Maybe even lend a hand."
The hulking reptilian man leaned down, the dim light catching the jagged ridges of his teeth. For a heartbeat, the tunnels felt smaller, the air tighter.
Then Croc's rumble filled the space. "I don't care about your turf wars. But these sewers are mine." His gaze bore down on Vey. "You respect that, keep your people in line, and I won't interfere."
A pause. His massive clawed hand flexed once, curling shut. "And if trouble comes crawling down here…" His lip curled in something between a grin and a snarl. "…I'll be here."
Vey inclined his head, the faintest smile ghosting across his lips. Agreement enough.
The two figures stood there a moment longer, predator and tactician, before Vey turned back toward the surface. The sound of his footsteps faded into the dripping dark, leaving Croc to melt back into the shadows of his kingdom.
'What a peachy fellow aye?' Kieran chortled
A/N: not trying to make croc jump on board too easily. Follow current novels on ɴo(v)elFɪre.ɴet