#Wil did NOT make Mor do anything talony

[cant-have-shit-in-gotham]

@riddle-me-this-riddler

“Mor, d’ya rememb’r when I said ya could only spook scum?”

Morel nods seriously.

“Well,” Wil grins, “I got’a friend who needs an ex scared straight. Ya up for it?”

Below: A video attachment labeled “Frightened Flightless Birds”

[TW: minor violence, threats of murder, minor psychological torture i guess?

Let me know if you spot an error or if I missed a TW]

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Oswald Cobblepot, commonly known as “The Penguin.”

Morel’s target.

Morel is silent as he follows Cobblepot. Father told him that the inferior bird was “tryin ta date someone, but then gettin’ pissy when he got excited about somethin’ and proved he ‘as more of’a personality than just ‘is pretty face,” so Morel is going to scare him.

Well, terrify is a better word for what Morel is going to do.

Finally, Cobblepot enters an old, grimy apartment building not too far from the Bowrey. He has enough money for something better, Morel knows, but this was all he could get on such short notice.

The man’s apartment is on the fourth floor. Morel quietly scales the side of the building and cracks open a window to the apartment, slipping inside. Cobblepot doesn’t notice them.

Morel is silent as he sneaks behind the couch his target is face-planted on.

“Beware the Court of Owls”, he rasps, the sound seeming to come from all sides. (So what is he installed tiny speakers all over the room beforehand for extra Spooky Factor. You can’t prove shit)

“That watches all the time,”

Cobblepot has sat up now, scanning the room for intruders.

“Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch,”

“Where are you?! Show yourself!” Cobblepot shouts. Morel can hear the fear tracing his words.

“Behind granite and lime.”

Cobblepot is standing now, scanning the room for anything amiss. He doesn’t spot anything.

“They watch you at your hearth,”

“Is this about the lounge? I didn’t blow it up! That was all Eddie’s fault-“

“They watch you in your bed,”

Cobblepot is shaking now.

“Speak not a whispered word of them,”

Morel draws two of his knives, the sound echoing around the room.

“Or they’ll send the Talon for your head.”

Morel flips out of his hiding spot, landing on the back of the couch with a knife in each hand.

“Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.”

Morel didn’t go quite so far as to put on the old costume, but he is wearing all black and a specifically painted mask, so it’s not real far off.

“You have been weighed,” Morel moves closer. “You have been measured,” Closer still. “And you have been found wanting.”

Cobblepot still stands frozen five or so feet in front of Morel.

“The Court has sentenced you to die.”

Before their target can react, Morel dashes forward and jumps to draw a long, shallow line across his throat. Nothing that would require anything more than neosporin and a bandaid.

“But not quite yet.”

And then he’s gone, disappeared into the night.