Born to Fly

Protection - ✔

In the morning, I dress in dark blue jeans and a red sweater. I also make sure to pack my pink scrubs and tennis shoes for later on at the club. My nerves skyrocket the moment Oswald knocks on my door.

"Good afternoon," he says. He's wearing his normal, 3-piece tuxedo. Suddenly, I feel wildly underdressed. "Are you ready?"

"I think so." Together, we walk out to his car, huddled under a small umbrella. "Is it going to be this rainy all day?"

"That's what the forecast says." He opens my door and waddles over to the driver side. He keeps his nervousness well hidden. I, on the other hand, am not as graceful. He opens his mouth to speak. I'm prepared to receive a very specific list of things to say and not to say. Instead, he just asks, "Is classical music okay? I can change it."

"This is fine," I say in a manner of pleasant surprise. Swiping a strand of hair out of my eyes, I try and come up with a conversation. Do I ask him if there's anything I should know? I'm drawn out to the city before I can overthink myself into awkwardness. I've never felt so close to Gotham. I'm captivated by the vibrant leviathan.

My cheeks flush and burn. Oswald must be looking at me.

"Aren't you supposed to be driving?"

"Wha— No— I just— You're always looking around at the city. Haven't you lived here your whole life?"

"I'm drawn to it, I guess. When I look at Gotham, I'm filled with life and terror all at once. It's like a bad wreck you can't look away from." His look gives me pause. "That's strange, right?"

"Not at all. I feel the same way." Cobblepot grips the steering wheel. "Nobody else sees what I see in Gotham, but you do."

Does he? Does he truly see the same things I do? I see the pain of a struggling city hidden in alleyways and dripping in gutters. I see the promise of misfortune and the hope of a brighter tomorrow. Can he even fathom such a thing, or does he simply see a kingdom to rule?

"We're pulling in now."

The unease returns to my stomach. "Great."

Mama Penguin lives near the docks which means she's settled in the slums of Gotham. The complex itself looks to be rotting away, and the inside is even worse. With all the money her son makes, I have to wonder why she's still in this dump.

"She's very nice," he promises. "Mother?" When she doesn't answer, he opens the door. "We're coming in."

"Doesn't she lock her doors?" I ask.

He rolls those emerald eyes of his. "No. I'm trying to get her to. I always lock it behind me when I leave. It has yet to become a habit, obviously."

Her place is decorated in lavish, foreign furniture and artifacts. In one step, I've been transported to Europe.

"Feel free to look around. Mother?" He walks into another room, opposite of me.

A picture of Oswald and his mom sits on a coffee table. I pick it up before he can object. The two have their arms wrapped around each other and are posing for an Easter Sunday photo.

"How old were you?" I laugh.

"I think I was eighteen."

As he searches different rooms, I follow the sound of a lullaby I don't recognize. It's beautiful and slow, something one would sing to a fussy baby. The holder of the voice is Mother Penguin, I presume. She stands at a beaten up bookshelf, mindlessly living in a world far from here.

"Umm, ma'am—"

"Oh my goodness!" She gasps for air, stumbling back into her shelf. The books rattle and shake. "How did you get in here?"