heartsick-honeybee - Tumblr blog

heartsick-honeybee · 8 days

Text

Cat & Mouse - Chapter 1

● Ao3 ● X ● Retrospring ● Read on Ao3 ●

It had been three years since you’d seen him. Three years since Batman had been killed, his identity as Bruce Wayne outed to the entire world. Blown to smithereens inside Wayne Manor, which remained a pile of ash and rubble where it once stood. No one in Gotham had bothered to clean it up – you don’t think anyone cared enough to bother. Still, there were rumors around Gotham of “the Ghost”, another vigilante stopping crime on the shadowy streets. Though the rumors were often theorized and speculated on – some thought the shadowy bat people saw was still an effect on Scarecrow’s fear toxin. Others thought it was the ghost of Batman himself. Either way, the Dark Knights ever faithful sidekick, Robin, still did his best to carry on the caped crusaders mission, but despite his best efforts, the city was still rampant with injustice and crime. It seemed as though the most powerful of villains only continued their efforts to secure a hold on the criminal underworld.

One, however, had been gone for those three years: Edward Nigma, better known as the Riddler. Through the grapevine, you knew he’d been in Arkham Asylum. Despite the usual and numerous escapes from other prisoners, which seemed never ending, he hadn’t been one to escape. There were rumors, of course, as to why: that he was too broken and defeated by the loss of Batman to care. That he’d become catatonic and refused treatment. The truth is that no one was certain what had become of the enigmatic, if not irritatingly charming, master of riddles, other than the doctors who worked there, though they remained tight-lipped about the condition of their current patients. You’d heard he’d been released on parole, but where he’d gone or what he was up to, no one knew. Sometimes it felt like everyone was waiting for the pin to drop, wondering when his next death trap or riddle would spring up to terrorize Gotham’s citizens. Who in the hell would approve his parole, you truly had no idea.

You jumped when Commissioner Aaron Cash called your name from his office. You’d grown stiff from leaning over your desk, pouring over files and reports, the only thing you’d eaten was half a donut and three cups of coffee. Cliché, you knew, but you didn’t mind. Hunger churned in your stomach, and your eyes threatened to close, but by the tone of the commissioner’s voice, you knew something was up. The sound made your stomach drop and dread pool in your belly. You stood from your desk and hurried into the commissioner ’s office. Aaron Cash had held the position ever since James Gordon became mayor. But as soon as you walked in, you could tell by the look in his eyes that something was very, very wrong.

“Commissioner?” you asked.

“Detective,” he said, giving you a courteous nod. There were dark circles under his eyes, exhaustion evident in his posture. Something had happened.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, walking further into his office.

“No, everything is not okay. Look, detective – I don’t know how else to put this, so I’m just going to come out and say it. Edward Nigma was released from Arkham on parole three weeks ago. Against Mayor Gordon’s wishes, City Council came to an agreement: his skills are far too valuable to go to waste, so they cut him a deal.”

“So you’re saying…?”

“The goddamn Riddler is coming here to work for our Cyber Crime Division again.”

There it was. The inevitable pin that’d been waiting to drop. It felt like the air had been sucked from your lungs, cutting off all the oxygen.

“Are you serious?” you asked, unable to stop yourself. You knew it better than to question your superiors, but this…this was outrageous.

“Look detective, I don’t like it either. But you know how these damn bureaucrats can be. I don’t have any other choice but to smile and nod and allow that maniac back in here. I’ve got ten doctors who signed off on his parole, approving his “reformation”. A bunch of bullshit if you ask me.” Cash tossed a stack of papers your way.

When you looked through them, you realized he was right. Not one, not two, but ten doctors at Arkham had approved his released, claiming the last three years of therapy, medication, and healthy coping had deemed him suitable for a return to society. You almost gagged at the thought.

You’d been a GCPD over for several years now and seen far too much for your young eyes. Dead bodies in the streets. Disfigured victims of psychopaths. Battered men and women, children orphaned because of impulsive street thugs. But the idea of a psychotic, egomaniacal criminal coming to work for the GCPD because his skillset was valuable? You couldn’t even fathom the idea.

As always, there was never a dull moment as an officer in this damned city – which you were beginning to believe was cursed – considering the number of criminals who came in and out with each passing day. Sometimes you barely had any time to sleep; but perhaps the trouble had been worth it, as you’d made your way up the ranks from rookie to detective in only a few short years. At least, you used to think it was worth it, until the idea of working alongside a known criminal had just been thrown in your face like hot acid.

“There’s something else you aren’t going to like,” Cash said, getting your attention again. “And don’t shoot me for this, you know I don’t have any choice, but since you’re our newest detective…we’re assigning you to be his handler.”

“Me?” you asked, breathless. It was true – you’d been vying for bigger cases. More than just petty street crimes. You wanted more; bigger, better crimes to investigate. Sometimes you felt like the only reason you’d been promoted was because the GCPD was running out of bodies to keep on the payroll.

Cash nodded. “Sorry, detective, I’m briefing you now before anyone else because I wanted to you be prepared.”

“I understand,” you replied, keeping your voice as calm and collected as possible. But inside, your stomach was in knots, your chest heavy. “When is he coming?”

“Should be here in a few hours. Now, I’m gonna go brief everyone else.”

You nodded and left the commissioner’s office. You ran a hand through your hair, which you had tied back in a ponytail. Okay, you could do this – of course you could. This was what you signed up for. To protect the people of Gotham. What better way to protect them than having your eyes on one of its most twisted citizens of all time?

You were ready to walk back to your desk, but first, you took a swift right towards the water cooler to get something to drink, in hopes of clearing the angry heat from your cheeks. You couldn’t exactly tell if being given the position of “Riddler’s Handler” was a goddamn honor or insult.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said, getting your attention. You turned back to find Archer Crux coming out of his office.

He was a man five years older than you and the current head of the Cyber Crime Division. His ice-blue eyes, which were hidden behind silver glasses, and short blonde hair was striking against his pale skin and strong jaw, and when he smiled, a little part of you melted inside.

Okay, you admitted it: you had a little crush on Archer. You’d never tell him that, though. Your own insecurities about dating ruled you far too much.

“Hi,” you said, turning away and bringing the little plastic cup to your lips.

“You okay?” he asked. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, because you weren’t ready to spill the truth just yet. After all, you’d leave that honor to the commissioner himself. You had a lot of respect for Aaron Cash. Everyone did. But after leaving you in this position, well…you’d let him take the brunt of the outrage from the rest of the force.

As if he read your mind, Cash walked out and called for everyone’s attention. And of course, as expected, the outrage everyone felt for hearing what was to come was not pleasant. Officers cried out in protest, some even threatened to quit or go on strike. Others were ready to walk out within an hour. You watched from the sidelines, patiently waiting for the flames to die down, and once it had, you knew an ember still flickered, threatening to spark a wildfire.

“What is Cash thinking?” Archer asked. “And seriously, I’m going to have to be that nutjob’s superior? Unbelievable.”

“He doesn’t have a choice,” you mumble, though you’re grateful Archer feels the same way.

When the storm calms, you take the opportunity to head back to your desk and pour over the files. You’d been tracking a series of murders spread throughout Gotham. Bodies left with their throats slashed, all men, each left in humiliating positions. The only thing you knew that connected them was the killer’s signature: an X carved into their foreheads, right between the eyes. Coincidentally, now that you thought about, the murders started three weeks ago – exactly when the Riddler got out. You had half a mind to pin the murders on him, but it didn’t seem him like his MO. The lack of clues and death traps left him out of the suspect pool.

A throbbing headache pounded between your eyes and you rubbed your temples. Constantly you found your eyes straying to the door, waiting for the moment he would walk through it in all his egotistical, self-righteous glory. The clock on your desk ticked by, each moment causing anxiety to swirl deeper and deeper within you. And when you finally began to think maybe, just maybe, City Council had changed their mind and decided against allowing Riddler back into the GCPD, he appeared.

The familiar shuffle of feet was what first got your attention, as well as everyone else. Three officers escorted him into the room, one arm on each of his, keeping him secure. He was not in handcuffs, but you wondered what security measures the others had taken against him. For a moment, you could hardly believe it. You had to blink to make sure you weren’t seeing things, but sure enough, there he stood.

He’d changed. That was the first thing you noticed.

The last time you’d seen him was during Scarecrow’s attempt to kill Batman with the fear toxin. Back when the other villains ran rampant, when you insisted to stay behind and help in any way you could, though you hadn’t done much but apprehend a few thugs from Two-Face’s gang. Back then, the Riddler was skinny, gaunt, a shell of himself. Pale, as if he hadn’t seen the sun in several days. Practically emaciated, like he barely ate. Greasy, stained with oil and other mechanical fluids. The night Batman put him in the cell, it seemed as though he couldn’t shut up, couldn’t stop rambling about his defeat. How Batman had cheated during his latest trap.

The man standing in the GCPD was not that same man.

Edward Nigma had clearly tried to fix himself. He’d gained weight, gotten a haircut, showered. The gauntness he once held was gone, replaced by a healthiness to his skin, which practically made him look ten years younger. He looked as he did once before, when he worked for the GCPD back in the day. You know, before he became a criminal.

You admit you were taken aback by his appearance. It was interesting how much someone’s appearance could change by the slightest changes in diet, exercise, and hygiene. But the worst part of all is that you were probably taken aback a bit too much. He was handsome, unnervingly so, and you were pretty sure that he knew it, too. His ego wouldn’t let him accept anything less, so you’d been surprised when he’d let himself go three years ago.

Now, you wondered what had changed.

Was it true? Had the doctors at Arkham truly found a way to cure him of his obsessions, had made his impulses manageable? You were admittedly curious, though you wouldn’t show it. He’d certainly ditched the Riddler uniform – no longer sporting his green outfit and Bowler hat, but now he wore a pair of khaki’s and a green sweater. So clearly, he had a thing for green.

The entire GCPD was silent. Everyone held their breath, even you. You were worried that someone would pull out their gun and end this right now. After all, Nigma was a criminal. But was he truly a reformed criminal? Did those who did such bad things get a second-chance, when they had a graveyard at their feet?

It was a question you pondered as the Riddler was brought in to speak with Cash, and the door shut with a heavy thud behind them.

It was true.

Edward Nigma, the Riddler, had reformed.

Once upon a time, he would’ve thought the idea ridiculous. He, the Riddler, reformed? How foolish, stupid, giving up his quest to destroy the Dark Knight – that was, at least, until the detective had offed himself in a fiery blaze. He’d seen it with his own two eyes on the news station, when Wayne Manor exploded in an inferno of orange and yellow flames, a combustion process ninety percent of the other Gothamites wouldn’t understand.

At first, he’d believed it to be a trick. Batman had only wanted to hide, to put his tail between his legs and when the chaos subsided, he’d emerge from the shadows once again.

But that time never came.

He remembered, after his return to Arkham, that he’d waited eagerly for some news of the Dark Knight’s return. Waited for the rumors, for the information to pass through guards during silent nights. Yet there was nothing.

And that was finally what broke him.

His one mission had been to best that bothersome bat. To prove himself intellectually superior. When that mission had been ripped right out from underneath him, he hadn’t known what to do. So, he’d regressed. His mental health worsened.

It’d taken almost a year for the doctors to get through to him, to pull him from his depression, from the nothingness that was his mind. Two more years after that to help him develop…healthier coping habits. There was a part of him that consistently wondered if, by reforming, he’d actually given up and failed. But there was another part of him, that he had to admit, had grown tired of the running. The fighting. The humiliation. A person can only take so much, and he’d hit his all-time low in the lonely moments of the silence inside Arkham. His doctors had finally convinced him that he’d let his obsession with the Dark Knight rule over him, and with that obsession gone, he could focus on himself again.

It took time. Lots and lots of time, therapy, and medication, but he’d made it through the storm and come out better than ever. After all, if a man of his intelligence and superiority couldn’t overcome the obstacles in his mind, than what kind of genius would he be? A genius like himself was capable of self-improvement. So that was exactly what he’d done: improved.

Aaron Cash had since taken up the mantle of Commissioner, that was one thing he’d already known when coming in here. He wasn’t a fool: he still employed an informant to keep him updated on the local turf wars, arms deals, and movements of Penguin, Two-Face, and Harley Quinn. After all these years he’d spent making a name for himself in the criminal underworld, he certainly couldn’t risk coming back into the fold unknown. In fact, it’d been a bit of a surprise when several Gotham City Council members approached him after he’d applied for parole; because, let’s face, he knew he eventually would – a man of his intellect was not meant to be cooped up behind bars.

Though, the city council had recognized his genius (of course, as they should, they would be fools not to), and approached him with a deal: if he accepted their agreements to live in a half-way home for convinced felons for the next three years, kept out of trouble with the law – even so much as a parking ticket – and accepted a role working at his old position for the GCPD’s Cyber Crime Division, they would grant his parole. Of course, his parole would last the rest of his life, unless by some miracle he could prove that he was a model citizen in the next ten years. Still, he had to admit, even for someone with such an intellect as himself questioned why city council would be so adamant to have him back at his old job. The only real conclusion he came to was simple: they needed him.

Isn’t that what he’d always wanted? To be needed, respected, admired? Perhaps, in another life, those were things he wished for. But now he was a different man, though those feelings still lingered, as ever, tickling the back of his brain like a parasite. He’d have to speak to his therapist about that, something he did twice a week.

But, he wasn’t bothered by the way Cash was looking at him, eyes filled with malice and hatred. Sure, Edward had put him and his blue-blooded brothers and sisters through hell and back more times than he could count (alright, that’s an expression. He could count it, every single instances, as simple as remembering to turn on a light switch or brush one’s teeth).

“Look Nigma,” Cash finally said. One hand was held at his hip, where his gun was holstered. Edward wasn’t blind to the way the man’s fingers twitched lower, as if unconsciously searching for the trigger. “I don’t give a damn if you’re out on parole or not, or if a hundred doctors said you’re ready to be back to in society. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. Hell, I kinda wanna shoot you myself. But, I’m not gonna do that. You want to know why?”

“Please, enlighten me,” Edward said.

“Because I’m gonna give you one chance. One. If these doctors at Arkham say you’ve been rehabilitated, then I’ll listen to them. I mean, it is true – you haven’t escape once. And look at you: you look better than the last time I saw you. So, one chance. But if you step one toe out of line, I’ll shoot you myself. Got it?”

Edward smiled and adjusted his glasses, pushing them further up the bridge of his nose. Of course, he wasn’t subtle about using his middle finger to do so.

“I understand perfectly, Officer Cash. Oh, forgive me, commissioner.” Edward may be agreeing not to step out of line, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t toy with his nemesis, now could it? A few barbs here and there, just to get under the man’s skin.

Besides, he was already a prisoner enough as is. A thick, heavy ankle monitor was tight against his left ankle. One of the conditions he’d been forced to agree to. Though, the fools at city council seemed to forget just how easy it would be for him to short-circuit the wires inside, do a little finagling, and fool their small-minded brains into thinking he was wearing the bracelet twenty-four-seven. And as much as he wanted – and God, he wanted to – just to prove how smart he was, he wouldn’t go through with it. It wasn’t healthy, he knew. Not anymore. His therapists had reminded him many times that he truly was a genius, he truly did have a superior intellect, and there was no reason to go around proving it to everyone. So, no. He would not give back in to his old desires, to his old ways. Self-improvement, remember?

Cash’s eyebrow twitched slightly; a muscle feathered in his jaw. But he finally dropped his hand back to his waist. He reached into a desk drawer and tossed a folder in front of Edward. “Your schedule and your badge. You’ll be working underneath Lieutenant Crux.”

Edward opened the folder and peeked inside. There was the usual paperwork, as one would expect, but he was surprised to find his badge was the same from almost eleven years ago – when he looked different, younger. He’d since practically regained that appearance, thanks to his therapists reminding him to eat, though age still crept into his features now. Perhaps they didn’t care enough to take a new photo of him, but that was unimportant to him. Except he couldn’t help but notice the last name bolded on the badge: NASHTON.

A flicker of irritation sparked in his chest, a rage threatening to burn. That name, that horrible last name, reminding him of his childhood. Of his father, who’d beat him into submission. He hadn’t been Edward Nashton in a very, very long time. No – he was Nigma now. EDWARD NIGMA.

He closed the folder and took a deep breath before reaching into his pocket, where a stress ball resided. He gave it several angry squeezes until his anger disappeared. Another coping mechanism his therapists had trained him to rely on. Cash continued to stare at him, some confusion etched into his expression, but he walked around the desk and opened the door before calling for someone to come inside.

Ah yes, another brute to escort him to the next room, as if he was incapable of getting there himself. Didn’t they know he had memorized every single room and hallway in this place?

Though, what he soon found was not a hulking brute – but a girl who stepped inside. Her eyes immediately flicked to him, lingering for perhaps a moment too long, before back to Cash.

She was wearing a typical GCPD uniform, and her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. Cash turned back to him and introduced her. “She’ll be your handler here.”

Handler? Were they going to treat him like an animal? Perhaps one could argue that he was one, but that was beside the point.

Cash turned back to the woman. “Why don’t you show Mr. Nigma to his desk.”

She nodded and turned on her heels without a word, which Edward took as his cue to follow, because he was sure she wouldn’t speak to him unless it was necessary. As he expected, she led him through the GCPD until they came to a small office where the Cyber Crime Division resided. Even in all the years, they’d done little to upgrade their systems, and that was the first thing he noticed. Old, out of date computer monitors and desktops. He was sure to find that their software was a decade old, too, though he clenched his teeth to avoid making an arrogant quip.

Self-improvement, Edward. Self-improvement.

“You’ll be working with Lieutenant Crux,” the woman said, gesturing to the man who turned around in his seat to look at him across the office, eyes full of disdain. “And if you need me for anything, I’m over there.” She pointed to a desk across the GCPD.

Edward was quiet for a moment, but the words slipped out, as always. “How do you expect me to work with these archaic machines?”

The girl’s stoic face twisted in confusion. “What?”

“Look at these computers. How old are these processors? How much memory do they store? They look just like they did ten years ago.”

“I’m pretty sure they are from ten years ago,” she said.

“This is unacceptable,” Edward continued. “I insist you get new computers in here.”

“Yeah, that’s not really in the budget,” she said, crossing her arms. Her gaze turned towards Lieutenant Crux, and she shrugged, as if to say “he’s your problem now”. Then she turned on her heels and walked out the door.

Edward admitted that he felt a small sting of rejection and humiliation. Heat seared across his cheeks. He did not like people turning his back on him, making him feel like a fool. He reached into his pocket and found his stress ball again, squeezing until his knuckles turned white.

Archer examined him with disinterest. As if he was a rat who’d crawled out of the gutter. But, the man squared his shoulders back and extended his hand. “Lieutenant Crux.”

Edward did not shake his hand.

Archer's arm lowered back to his side, and an awkward tension hung in the air. Archer cleared his throat before walking across the room. “This’ll be your desk,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”

Edward’s eyes flickered to Archer’s desk. Clearly the term “make yourself at home” wasn’t shy to him. Family photos, perhaps a graduation photo, rested in the corner. At least the man was neat and organized, he’d give him that.

It felt strange, being back here. Being back in his old job. Things had changed. And through the tinted glass, he could just barely make out the shapes of the other officers whispering about him, huddled together, gossip already running rampant through the building. But, Edward was determined to turn things around, to prove everyone wrong, that he had reformed. Self-improvement. No more obsessions. No more Batman. No more reason to keep himself the brunt of every joke. He would prove everyone wrong in succeeding in his new life.

Edward turned his attention to the monitors hanging across the wall. As far as he could tell, it looked like they were upgrading their firewalls and security systems. Lines of green code would look like gibberish to most people, but to him, well – it was like second nature. Already, his mind was spinning a million miles, picking apart the bad lines of code and those which worked.

Archer cleared his throat again, a sound that would no doubt get on Edward’s nerves soon enough. “I’m sure you can probably tell what we’re doing. We’ve been having some trouble keeping a certain group out of our system. They’ve managed to infiltrate our servers and slipped a few viruses in. I’ve been busy updating our firewalls, but I think they’ve opened a backdoor, which I’m having trouble pinpointing.”

“May I?” Edward asked, gesturing to the seat before the monitors.

“Go ahead. Saves me the trouble and going through another headache.”

Edward sat down, though vaguely irritated he bothered to ask for permission, and found himself transported back to a world familiar. Code was like his friend, machines were his friends – they had to be, because no one else would otherwise.

He was quiet as his fingers raced across the keyboard. Quickly finding those holes in the walls that Crux’s dull mind couldn’t discover, even though they were right in front of his face. And when he patched them up in only a matter of minutes, he swiveled back around in his chair and smiled. “All finished,” he said.

Archer blinked and leaned over to get a better look. “You can’t be serious. You’re finished all ready?”

“Why, yes, it was easy, really. Something a dullard like you couldn’t possibly understand.” Oh, there he went again.

Archer crossed his arms. His brows were furrowed, his face shadowed with uncertainty. Pride flickered in Edward’s chest, because of course, he was already better than the imposter standing next to him.

Archer scoffed, “Well, I suppose Cash was right to hire you. I’ve been at that wall for weeks.” But his hand strayed down to his desk, where a pistol rested. When his eyes met Edward’s again, he said quietly, “Just know, I’ve got eyes on all these systems. If you try to sabotage them, I’ll know.”

Edward smiled. “Of course not, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.”

You had expected screaming. Shouting. Gunfire. But when nothing but silence emerged from the Cybercrime office, you found yourself finally relaxing, the tension drained out of your shoulders. Everyone else seemed to find the calm, as well, as least as much as they could after the events that had transpired. Still, there was a part of you that held your breath. Wondering when the shoe would drop, when Riddler’s impulses would take over, when he’d kill someone. Consistently, your eyes strayed back to the office to make sure Archer had not been murdered. Sure enough, he was still alive, and that made your heart swell.

If only you could work up the courage to actually ask Archer out and stop being such a wuss, maybe you’d actually turn your life around. Stop living in your shitty apartment, though you only stayed because the rent was so cheap. After all, the pay increase when you’d been promoted had been nice. Besides, it was close. You didn’t want to drive halfway across Gotham just to get to work.

You blinked your tired eyes. You’d been on desk duty almost all day. Folders and papers were scattered about, an unorganized mess across the table. So much work to do, so much to fill out. Though, it’d been hours, and your shift was close to over for the day. Soon the nightshift would come in. Even though you liked your job, liked making a difference, even you couldn’t help but admit how exhausting today had been.

“Hey,” a voice said, getting your attention.

You swiveled around in your chair to discover that Archer had emerged from his cave and approached you, a mug of coffee in his hands. “Hi,” you said, keeping your voice steady. “How’s it going in there?”

“Well, actually,” Archer replied, which shocked you. “He’s actually not wasting my time.”

“So, he hasn’t told you any riddles?”

“Not yet,” he answered, smirking.

That made you laugh, perhaps a little too forcefully. Your heart thundered in your chest, your cheeks warmed. Archer gently pat your shoulder and walked past and into the commissioner’s office, leaving you feeling a bit defeated. Had the gesture been friendly, or romantic? Your skin tingled from the ghost of his touch.

Brushing a stray hair behind your ear, you glanced back to discover that the Riddler was still completely absorbed in the dozens of screens in front of him. As you expected. You supposed as long as his attention was focused there, then it didn’t hurt anyone, right? That’s what you told yourself. It was easier to keep your spirits up that way.

You stood from your desk to stretch your legs, but soon found yourself wandering into the Evidence Room of the GCPD. It was in there that Cash had collected everything from each of these villains who’d plagued Gotham since you’d been a child. You couldn’t help but wonder how these people had come to be the way they were. How tragedy, manipulation, or their own minds had made them who they were to be. And if it was true, if the Riddler could reform, could the others, too? Or were they simply far too gone down a path of death and destruction to turn back? You paused when you reached the Riddler’s evidence: the giant mecha-robot machine he’d used in an attempt to kill Batman, his hat, his staff. A shudder passed through you and you turned away.

Before you returned to your desk, you paused once again at the watercooler to get yourself something to drink. Your headache had yet to relieve itself, which you were beginning to believe had to do with dehydration. You never even took your lunch break, either, your appetite gone ever since Riddler walked through the doors of the GCPD. Just as you raised your head, you paused and almost couldn’t believe your eyes when you found him standing there.

Ah, of course, he probably wanted water. You supposed even supervillains needed to drink and eat too.

Clutching your cup in hand, you prepared to walk around him, but he said, “So, detective, you did say I should come to you if I need anything. Here I am.”

You sucked in a breath and forced a pleasant, only-for-coworkers smile onto your face. “Yes, Mr. Nigma. How can I help you?”

“I actually request a few things for my desk. These, to be exact.” He handed you a piece of paper, the entire legal pad scribbled with…riddles???

You almost could not believe your eyes. Pages upon pages were filled with riddles.

“What the hell is this?” you asked.

“What I need. Answer the riddle correctly, and it shouldn’t be a problem, should it?” He smiled.

You thrust the legal pad back at him. “Absolutely not. No games, Nigma. Is this really what you’ve been doing with your time?”

“I did exactly as Mr. Crux asked me to do. In less than fifteen minutes, I might add. I needed other methods to keep my intelligence from fading while I waited for his further instructions.”

You were quiet, and it felt like the air had been sucked from your lungs. You’d heard the stories. How arrogant he could be. How irritating his riddles were, but you’d never expected to be on the brunt end of them.

“Are you afraid you might fail, detective?” he asked after you didn’t answer. His green eyes felt like they were staring directly into your soul.

Angrily, you snatched the pad out of his hands. “All right, fine. I’ll play your game.”

“I’ll give you 48 hours, since I’m feeling generous.”

"How do you know I won’t cheat?”

“Hm. An excellent point.” He crossed his arms and rested his chin between two fingers, studying you. But then, he leaned a little closer, his size almost overpowering yours. “I know you won’t cheat, detective, because I don’t like cheaters.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Nigma?” you asked quietly.

He pulled back a bit. “Of course not. Just a piece of advice. Forty-eight hours, detective.” With that, he turned on his heels and walked away, leaving you a stunned and confused mess.

But the thing you hated most was just how much your heart was beating. Just how much his over-bearing presence and obnoxious attitude somehow had such an effect on you. You hated it, feeling vulnerable, even though your pistol was in such easy reach. But, if keeping him distracted with riddles – which you wondered if it was healthy, considering all things – was the one way to go, then so be it.

You glanced at the first riddle, skimming his scribbled writing.

Contrary to my name I am not a queen Hold me up to things though And their length is seen

What could I be?

Huh. You admitted, you were pretty shit at riddles. But you were determined to figure it out. You didn’t want to be made a fool of, or let him think he could walk all over you. Still, you had to tread lightly. The last thing you wanted to be was another Batman, another person who made him feel lessor. But you couldn’t help but wonder: what would happen if you hadn’t solved them all in forty-eight hours? Just what, exactly, did Riddler have in store?

You glanced at the riddle again. Ah, of course, it was simpler than you thought. The answer was a ruler.

What in the world could he want with a ruler?

You shook your head and when you returned to your desk, you wrote the answer down anyways. But when you looked back up, there he was, watching you through the glass with a smug look on his face. You rolled your eyes and swiveled around so your back was to him.

This was going to be a very, very long forty-eight hours.

And perhaps it excited you. Just a bit.

Edward Nigma had never had much interested in women. Of course, like most men, there was once a time when he’d shoot his shot and fail spectacularly. Something that only furthered his insecurities, his uncertainties, his turn towards other pursuits.

So, when he’d handed his legal pad over to you in hopes of a game, just something – anything – to make his new job the slightest bit entertaining, he hadn’t expected the feistiness he’d received in return. That fiery look in your eyes, your quick quips about not wanting to bend to his whims…it had excited him, in a way he hadn’t been excited in a long time. It stirred a fire in his belly. A whirring in his mind – something he was fighting to keep at bay. There was no reason for his mind to wander. Intellectuals like himself did not allow themselves to be distracted by such primal desires.

But still, his gaze fixated on you, just a bit, watching as you turned your back on him. You tried to hide it, but it was clear you were already working your way through his riddles.

Edward Nigma smiled.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

4 notes · View notes