Who: Riddler and Batman Where: Old Gotham When: Recentlyish What: Batman needs a dog to kick Warning: a leeeetle bit of violence
In hindsight, this might not have been the wisest course of action.
Expressing his displeasure for Eddie’s actions in a physical manner would, inevitably, complicate his relationship with Stephanie, and nothing could undo what had already been done to Dick, but the Bat was tired of such blatant disregard for human life. He held the inherent hope that everyone was capable of change, even someone like the Riddler, yet the assistance he’d given could not erase the selfishness his actions had displayed. First, he’d taken away Stephanie’s choice and forced her to use the Lazarus Pit, regardless of the fact that she hadn’t been fully submerged, and then, then, he had trespassed where he had no right and stolen a dead body. Dick had never to his knowledge given consent to be put in the Pit should he die, and that was not a decision for anyone to make on his behalf, certainly not Eddie. Oh, he knew the man hadn’t acted alone, but he would deal with Selina later, and at least she had not been in her right mind. Riddler knew exactly what he was doing, and he had done it regardless; not out of the goodness of his heart, the Bat was certain of that. Not using the Pit, or using it, had nothing to do with caring. He loved his parents more than he had ever loved another human being, yet if they refused, if they told him no, he would not have put even them into the Pit. It was about free will, about having a choice.
Eddie had taken that from Stephanie, and now he had taken it from Dick as well. To say that angered the Bat was a gross understatement.
He came back through the door after giving Luke most of the day. Gotham was still in ruins, barely keeping itself together, and the Bat knew it would take time for the city to recover. It would, however, as it always did. He would make sure of that... later. Not now. Now, his focus was finding the Riddler, and when the Bat wanted information, he got it, especially now. Normally he was fearsome for most to behold, but under these circumstances he was angry enough to do almost anything necessary to retrieve a location on the man he was looking for. Those who knew the Riddler would be thankful to not be him tonight.
His search took him to a bar, of all places, the sort Bruce Wayne would never, ever step foot near, never mind in, but the Bat was well versed in. It was also the type of bar which required very little subtlety; no one inside posed a threat to him. Even so, the Bat didn’t use the front door; when did he ever? And so, to everyone inside, it appeared as though Batman had just shown up behind the bar, out of nowhere, and the bartender had barely managed to reach for the gun he had beneath the counter before the hulking shadow in a cape and cowl had his arm twisted up behind his back and knocked the man out cold with one blow, letting his body drop solidly to the floor.
“Riddler.” His voice was a deep, guttural growl, and behind the cowl his eyes burned with a vengeance. “You and I need to talk.” Among other things.
Change was a terrible thing, Riddler decided. It was unfamiliar, difficult and it hurt him in ways that didn’t feel like positive reinforcement. The night in question had been a whirlwind. Having a simple, sweet dinner with Stephanie, stealing the Tummmbbller, raising Grayson from the dead and then oh so promptly dealing with the fall out of waltzing back into his own habits. Stephanie was on the brink of hating him and even Death gave him a lecture for not giving much thought to his timed warning. He had believed that simply not being antagonistic would earn him points with the very few people that he liked in Gotham, but they didn’t appreciate this little psychopath's efforts. It wasn’t good enough. He was never going to be good enough.
So, he did what any ancient criminal mastermind would do. He dressed up in his favorite green suit with delicate gold question marks riddled over it and he spent the night on the town with people who appreciated him for who he really was. See, Old Gotham had gotten to know Riddler during this plague and he played by their scummy little rules. He was helpful as long as they had something he wanted and that worked just fine for most of this underbelly. He wasn’t some brooding hero dressed in black. No, the Riddler didn’t promise change. He just opened the right doors for the right people.
There was a hope in the back of his crossworded mind that he could just riddle his way free of Stephanie. Just thinking about her made him queezy. Made him drown in the real dark blues of this town. And, so The Riddler tried to forget it about it tonight. He wanted to sit on his barstool, tell amusing stories and soak up the attention he craved so badly. But, that would have lead to promising another favor or maybe getting himself involved with something much bigger than borrowing things from the Batcave. In fact, he was just in the middle of feeling like his old self again when Batman popped up like a children’s toy behind the bar and knocked out the bartender.
Riddler nearly fell off his stool with a nerdy little gguuaaah! and stumbled to his feet. The man in green wasn’t impressive in size, but he wasn’t afraid of the towering Bat. In fact, he kind of missed the winged beast. Dark eyes behind a green domino mask looked over Batman with interest, sweeping over that angry look that was homey like mom’s apple pie. “The first thing you need to know about me is that I’m always happy to talk.” Riddler cooed gently, his soft nerdy voice an intentional contrast to Batman’s overpowering grit. But, that line had been used before, hadn’t? When his Batman needed help with that corporation? The little green man looked suddenly distracted as he tried to remember how many times he had said that and to how many people. Snared in his own infinite loop.
The Bat may as well have been made of stone for all his response, or lack thereof, to the manner in which the Riddler reacted to his presence. Fear, however, was absent, this he noted; he knew it far too well to not be aware of when it was missing and when it wasn’t. Few others in the bar seemed to share his bravado, which was unsurprising. Part of him wondered if the man in green had been expecting this, if he knew why he’d bothered to come here when there was so much else to do. He decided the odds were likely in his favor. Whatever else the Riddler might have been, he wasn’t an idiot, although putting Dick Grayson in the Pit had been a fairly ill-advised choice. Trespassing in the Batcave paled in comparison. Stephanie could defend him all she liked, though it seemed their relationship was no more; a loss he did not particularly mourn.
Always happy to talk, was he? Good. He wasn’t exactly brimming over with patience. “Not here.” Taking advantage of the Riddler’s sudden, seemingly unexplained lack of attention, the Bat hauled himself over the bar, grasped the fabric of his collar, and dragged him back over, where the entrance-slash-exit he’d come through lay. No attempt was made to be gentle, and it was all done in succession, without pause, a clear indication that no amount of struggling from the green-clad man would hinder him. In a battle of physical strength, the cowled shadow was the clear victor.
The Riddler had played this game so often that the sudden physicality of Batman didn’t seem to phase him. His body went limp, but not heavy, like a child agreeing to be taken out of his car seat. And, the Riddler didn’t laugh like the clown might or squirm like Scarecrow. This wasn’t just expected, it was customary. And, the dingy bar around them panicked, but didn’t move to try and save the little green man. No one in this city would have. Being useful wasn’t enough to be rescued from Gotham’s dark protector, who was still very much feared even in crime-ridden places like this. Even if Stephanie was here, she’d just stand there and watch.
Once outside, Riddler adjusted his bowler hat while still in the Dark Knight’s grip. He looked up at the Batman, eyes finally focusing on that pointed nose, the long ears and the eyes that screamed pain before justice. “This is the first time I’ve seen you with my own eyes.” There wasn’t a fondness in his voice, just gentle wonder. Wonder if Batman could keep up and if so, what did that mean for the little green man? Did he avoid his greatest foe because he knew that there was no resisting a good opponent? The truth was after this plague The Riddler wasn’t convinced this Dark Knight was very good at anything besides threatening geeky little Arkham boys.
The Riddler’s lack of struggle was unexpected, but not unwelcome. As for the lack of response from the bar’s other patrons, that was exactly what the Bat had expected, and as usual, the underbelly of Gotham did not disappoint. Or, depending on one’s perspective, as usual it did. A brawl would slow him down, not deter him, and at this particular moment he only had one specific target in mind. Nothing would bring Dick back. Nothing would change what Stephanie had gone through. But all actions had consequences, and he was beginning to think he hadn’t been harsh enough. The Bat could not afford to go soft. He had to be unrelenting, immovable, and merciless-- to a degree.
Unlike the rest, the Bat had never known any version of Edward Nigma. He had no basis for comparison, no expectations, and in truth he had initially dismissed him as any real threat. He knew the Joker, knew Crane, knew Ra’s; there had always been bigger problems, larger threats, than a man who loved riddles. Like a king surveying his kingdom, he had priorities, ranked from high to low, and the Riddler had yet to reach the top. As time passed, however, and the Bat learned not to underestimate anyone, regardless of how they might appear, he had kept an eye on Nigma, but had yet to find reason to confront the man face-to-face.
Until now, that is, and while physically he was unimpressive, the Bat was well aware that his mind was his greatest weapon. “Yes.” Short and clipped. “You participated in Nightwing’s resurrection. Why?” He kept hold of the Riddler’s collar, tight enough to verge on the edge of painful without crossing the line. A hint of things to come, perhaps.
Over the years, his Batman had started to overlook The Riddler as well. It was what made working with Hush so deliciously easy. No one expected the little man wrapped in riddles to pull off anything substantial. The truth was, he was capable of surprising anyone who worked with him. Double crossing even the oldest allies. All for the sake of his own game. But, these past two weeks didn’t feel like a game. A test, maybe even a trial, but never a game of his own design.
“It’s a lot less complicated than you think.” Riddler said, eyes daring Batman to tighten his grip. “First you have to ask yourself why Selina wanted the first boy wonder to keep flapping his wings.” He was the least interesting part of the resurrection, even in his own egotistical opinion. There was Selina and her dying kitty cat wish. Stephanie and a real death in the family. And, Grayson, who was always the linchpin in the Bat family. But, if Batman wanted to make this about Riddler, how could he refuse? The little green man would lead him there, slowly but surely.
“I didn’t say I thought it was complicated.” The Bat’s volume remained consistent, and his response was immediate, whip-quick and just as sharp. At present, hearing Selina’s side of the story was not an option, and so this was what he was left with. He wanted to know why the Riddler had agreed to help firsthand, from the man himself, rather than some passed-along secondhand version of events. What he had not asked for was Selina’s motivation, both for resurrecting Dick in the first place and choosing to involve an outside party. Behind the cowl, his eyes narrowed, a subtle change at best, but no less dangerous for it.
Because deep down, he knew--or, at least, he thought he knew--the truth. No matter how much time passed, no matter what happened, he would never be their Bat. Never be the right Bat. Their disappointment might fade, it might be tucked away and almost forgotten, but it would always exist, and there would always be a certain amount of distance between him and the rest. How fitting that those who did recognize him as their Bat were his enemies. Not Riddler, not Ivy, but Crane, Ra’s, the Joker; all his. Selina had wanted to save Dick because this Bat couldn’t keep the family together on his own. Had he been the one to die, they might not be so quick to make the decision; after all, the right Bat might come along in his place. No, with Dick gone, and an actual death to rock the foundation, everything would shatter, and Selina obviously didn’t trust him to be able to get them through it.
None of that pertained to him being here now. “You’re not listening,” he told the Riddler. The hold he had on his shirt collar against his throat began to tighten again, a slow, painful pressure, as the Bat’s patience wore thin beneath his cold exterior. “I asked why you participated. You had a choice. You could have refused. It would have been easy for you to do so. Much more so than becoming involved.”
Riddler dramatically gurgled as the Dark Knight closed his fists around the green shirt collar. It wasn’t enough to scare him into talking, that took quite a bit of life-threatening violence, but he liked giving the satisfaction to his favorite long eared bully. “Oh, I’m listening.” He said, unintentional edge sharpening his voice as disappointment wiggled through. “You want to have a conversation with me, Bats? Then think about what I’m asking you.” The man in green could feel his patience running thin, too. This wasn’t a difficult puzzle and if Batman had the good sense to play along, he’d get his answer a lot faster and could get right back to kicking the question marked wild dog. “An equation must have equality between two expressions. Once upon a time, you understood that.”
He reached to put his hands on top of the Dark Knight’s knuckles. Light, delicate fingers barely felt under protective gloves. “Meow face isn’t the one I remember, but she still gets it. There were rules in my Gotham. Patterns that never bled into each other.” The Riddler felt clarity, even under the bat’s pressure he could feel his mind trying to click off all the riddles and puzzles. Still, clarity for the Riddler was still a tedious maze of crosswords. “Patterns that don’t mean anything here. Except one.” He barely lifted one finger off the Bat’s gloves. “Do you know what a linchpin is, Bats? Grayson is yours. He was in my Gotham. He is here. He will be if we all end up in some new cyberpunk future. Without him your little family will fall apart.”
It all sounded so noble, didn’t? The resurrection of the first Robin for the sake of the Bat family. “So, the kitty cat wanted what was best for your family. A kitty cat that I can recognize through her youth and inexperience. A kitty cat who might have been dying and sick, but always saw things better than you ever could.” His teeth gritted and for the first time that night he started to struggle away from Batman as he decided that he was sick of this particular shadow. His fight was like a rabbit caught by the scruff of his neck. Pointless, kicking and pathetic.
It took a great deal of self-restraint conditioned and developed over a span of multiple years for the Bat to refrain from strangling Riddler into unconsciousness. But he was not, despite what some might believe, some mindless brute capable only of physical violence. As reluctant as he was to do so, he listened, his eyes practically burning pinpoints of black behind the cowl as they seared into the man caught in his grasp. Listening required a different sort of calm, and that throbbing, painful anger was momentarily pushed aside to let the Riddler’s words flow and become absorbed. For all his madness, the man spoke sense. This other Gotham was different, relying heavily upon a Batfamily, where he had been solitary in his, but he could no longer operate as he had; it was unbalanced. It wouldn’t work. There were simply too many adversaries for one man to handle, as he was incapable of being in five different places at once, and the GCPD here weren’t as reliable as his had been.
To hear the Riddler say what he already knew, in a dark place within him, stung. Selina’s intentions had been good, even if her actions had been horribly misguided and inappropriate. Yes, he knew that, but Riddler... Riddler had not been motivated by actual concern for his family. That regard for human life, that care, was missing within him; perhaps it might have extended to Stephanie, but no further. The man only wanted to maintain balance, to keep the pattern going, as the Batfamily was a constant throughout all worlds. The Riddler merely hadn’t wanted to lose that.
“I see.” Finally, the Bat spoke. Now that he had humored the pathetic little man, his anger was back, even stronger than before. Neither of them had considered whether or not Dick being resurrected might make things worse, nor had they taken what he wanted into consideration. No, of course not. Even in trying to keep the Batfamily together, to maintain familiar constants, they had managed to act in a disgustingly selfish manner; Riddler in particular. He maintained his hold even as the man attempted to fight, because he was far from done with him yet. “There are rules in this Gotham too,” he told him. “My rules. Not yours, or the rules of the Bat you knew, and you would do well to remember that.” And then, he released him, but less than a second passed between freedom and an armor-clad knee, driven up deep just below his ribs, and an equally armor-clad arm went around his neck to keep him immobilized. He’d been far too tolerant, as he’d told Damian, and that was about to change.
There was a quiet snick of a zip line being fired, and the Riddler would, for a few seconds, experience weightlessness.
The methods were the same, Riddler would give him that. The proclamation of dominance, the pointless use of violence, the dramatic flying sensation that bloomed from the pain in his belly. It neither impressed nor delighted the green man and the latter he found disappointing. He was supposed to relish this. He was supposed to tilt his head back into the whipping Gotham air and breathe in the anger and hurt he caused Batman. There was no remorse for his actions beyond hurting Stephanie. No pleasure earned of stealing the batmobile besides crossing something off his bucket list. This was why he hated reflecting. Researching and hunting were different, but reflecting bore such meaningless fruit. All these thoughts raced through his mind as he tried to catch his breath. None of it was self doubt, not for the first time tonight, but there was enough disappointment to pass around.
“So, this is the sound a desperate man makes.” Riddler said softly enough that it could get whipped up in wings. His voice touched a side of roughness that had never been there before. Not in front of Stephanie or the Joker. The sort of dead, dark roughness that politicians used in backrooms. That fathers did when they had enough of their son acting out. Enough. The little geeky man who knew too much seemed to say. That’s enough. “If this was your city. If we were playing by your rules, there’d be no plague for two weeks. Your bat brood wouldn’t have to be saved by a lunatic.” The bat wanted to talk? The Riddler would talk. A long time ago he might have cowered and even let that hit to his gut linger long enough to invoke some self-sympathy. But, not tonight.
“You failed.” Riddler didn’t spit the words out in some vindictive hate. There was no puzzling whimsy. Just an older man severely disappointed by the promise of a younger one. It seemed strange as physically they were around the same age and Eddie darling seemed so small compared to the big-bad Bat, but his voice knew how to carry weight. How to show his age when the time called for it. “Keep it up, Batman. In a couple weeks your rules won’t mean anything to these streets. And, the last thing you want is for people looking for alternative answers to getting a job done right.” And, for the second time in all of tiny Riddler’s life, he found telling the truth more meaningful than beating around the bush.
As soon as the soles of weighted boots hit solid ground, the Bat dragged the Riddler up over the building’s edge, the weight of a full-grown man nothing in his grasp, and kept him there. Between safety and danger he lingered, the only thing preventing him from plummeting to what would undoubtedly be a painful drop (whether it was fatal or not) being Batman himself. Behind the cowl his eyes were pure black, glistening orbs that burned, and he was sorely tempted to simply let go of the little man and see just how much damage a fall from this height could cause. But no, he refrained, because he had more self-control than that, and he did not kill, even unwittingly. One rule kept him human, separating him from what he had become under the influence of Crane’s drug and this, and he would not (could not) break it. “Saved by a lunatic?” Disbelief coated his words as he stared at the man., and in that moment, he was seized by the sudden, irrational urge to laugh. His expression never changed, of course, never wavered, but the desire sparked just beneath the surface. “Do you truly think you saved them? That you saved Dick by tearing him from death and tossing him back? Stephanie, by dousing her in Lazarus Pit? Are you so deeply caught in your self-delusion, Riddler, that you believe your own importance?” And maybe he did. Maybe he was little more than a genius squandering his mind on petty things yet believing that he stood so far above everyone in this city. The Bat could never respect someone like that, nor would he let himself even if it was possible.
He refused to let the Riddler’s taunts of failure, of mocking his presence in this city, incite him into blind rage. No, the Bat remained cool, perhaps cold, but steady nonetheless. “We’ll see what my rules mean in the coming weeks, Riddler.” Because, oh, change was coming to Gotham, and all those who stood against the law and the good of the city had best prepare themselves for it. “Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see wasted potential. I see a pathetic little man whose arrogance is unparallelled. You think so highly of yourself, believe yourself to be so much greater than the rest, but in truth you are nothing. You take advantage of the weak and desperate, you play your games and construct your riddles, but what does it all accomplish? Nothing,” he spat. “Nothing. When you are old and near death, and you look back on your life, that is all you’ll see. Empty expanses of wasted skills. Wasted time. Stephanie tells me you’re attempting to change, but change comes from within.” The Bat turned suddenly, in a semicircle, and the empty air beneath the Riddler would vanish, as the force with which he used to throw him to the ground was quick and true. He stood over him, a looming shadow. “Do you truly want to change, Edward? Or are you like the majority who refuse, and will remain trapped until the day they die?”
Riddler grinned brilliantly at Batman’s little rules and moral high ground that served the same purpose of his own riddles. Devices set to cope with the true pain of living in Gotham and refusing to abandon a city that would never see dawn. Not ever. There was no fear of being dropped on his head, no satisfying plea that a crooked cop or a younger version of himself might give. “For a man so concerned with saving this city, you sure are disposable with human life.” He shook his head, pulling his bowler hat off and frisbeeing it off into the Gotham air to punctuate his point. Stephanie would be dead without him. Dead. No matter how many rules made and bones broken by this Dark Knight. She’d be dead because Batman couldn’t take care of his own. And, that was plenty for him. It had nothing to do with his tumbling arrogance or how twisted his mind could get. She was alive despite the big, bad bat.
He opened his mouth to say more about the Pit. About how afraid the bats were of their own minds, but in a second he was crashing into dirty cement like a discarded toy. His body crumpled into a funny little ball of green limbs. Riddler gasped and unraveled himself like a spider escaping a tissue and looked up at the looming Bat with a wink. “Good to know we feel the same way about each other.” The Riddler gave out a long, exhausted sigh from this playtime and leaned back on his elbows. “What a terrible question. After all the clues I gave you.”
Resisting the urge to wipe that grin off the Riddler’s face required near superhuman restraint, and the Bat wondered, not for the first time, what exactly Stephanie saw in this man. Disappointment was too strong a word for what lined his expression as he regarded him; it required a level of care he simply didn’t have for him. It was similar to the way he’d looked at Harvey Dent the night he died, though Riddler would have no way of knowing such a thing; there was resignation, tinged with something like disdain, but fainter, less defined. “Don’t speak to me about human life as though you care,” he snapped. Aside from Stephanie, and perhaps Selina, he doubted Riddler cared if anyone in this city lived or died. He certainly didn’t mourn the masses. No, he’d simply used the Lazarus Pit on one person, and suddenly that made him a savior-- only in his own twisted mind. Let him have his delusions, then, so long as he kept them to himself.
The Bat moved swiftly, planting one heavy boot on the smaller man’s chest. He could crush his ribs easily, splintering bone and piercing lungs, perhaps even other vital organs, but he kept his weight distributed so that all he would feel was an uncomfortable pressure. “When you base your efforts around one person, and that person disappears, what do you have left? Will the desire to change still remain?” He leaned down, cape spilling over his shoulders, practically all-encompassing in his proximity. “Consider this your first and only warning, Riddler. I don’t recognize your rules, nor will I play by them. I hope, for your sake and Stephanie’s, you truly can change,” he said, “but I won’t forget the choices you’ve made and the people who have suffered because of them, Dick included.” The pressure increased, then, to a painful, wheezing degree, before the Bat stepped back, still glowering, until he stopped just at the edge of the building. Riddler could find his own way down; he doubted riddlers flew as well as bats did.
Riddler stayed stamped into the roof long after Batman left. His ribcage rattled like windchimes tangled up in each other and he clenched his fist and pounded it onto the dirty, snowy ground as he tried to find his breath. From the back of his mind, something familiar blinked. A light coming back to life, a final Riddler trophy he forgot to turn off. Kill him. It suggested so simply, as it always had. And, for a moment the nearly broken man in green closed his eyes and allowed himself to play out that particular dream. Not just the Bat, but his whole family burned, riddled and trapped until the only logical escape was death. It was glorious, bloody and if he listened closely enough he could hear the little bats screaming. His mouth turned into a grin he hadn’t used in a long time, his vision blotted out in green shining through endless darkness.
And, then he let it go.
Stumbling to his feet, he teetered to the edge of the roof and looked down at the streets below. He hated rooftops. Always had. He decided that after this, there wouldn’t be any more meetings above the streets he knew so well. Not for the Bat, not even for Stephanie if she ever returned. He’d stay in his tunnels and foxholes. He’d make that meeting tomorrow night with a mobster who needed help locating his runaway son. He’d reform and recover, but on his own terms. With his own rules.