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It starts innocently enough.
He’s elbow-deep into testing a new finicky- unrelenting- cleaving- kinglike- electrified- ruse (The name, despite being inspired by the tricky process of its construction, is in dire need of some more work.) when he’s made aware of a rather peculiar problem.
Edward Nygma, The Riddler himself, abruptly stops twiddling with one of the blades to listen to his right hand man. One of them. The one that’s in charge of the team that’s spying on Joker.
“Boss.”
“Well? Don’t just stand there gawking like some unhinged turtle. Talk.”
“Beta team reports that Joker's started leaving clusters of painted balloons all over the Amusement Mile.”
“How dare he.”
This will not stand. He refuses to let it stand. Who on earth does the clown think he is? He starts pacing. Oh, but he can fix this. He can.
“What was the name of the woman in charge of handing Batman his list of challenges.”
“Er, Dean, Sir.”
“Call her back.”
Ed has a few choice things to add to that list.
“Sir?”
“Get her back here, NOW. How dare that gimmick-stealing, dim-witted, cross-breed between a STD-riddled donkey and a decaying plasmodium-”
“Sir.”
“What?”
“That’s not all they found.”
----------
Now, let it be known that, for the record, Edward Nygma is not a good person. It’s something of a point of pride.
Obvious. Any moronic goon looking at his criminal records would be able to deduce that. He’s left ethics behind in pursuit of a more intellectual approach. He’s hurt people, each method more clever than the last. He loves it, the challenge, the thinking about all the ways a plan could go wrong, then preventing them all. The more elaborate and painful the death-trap, the more he enjoys inventing it.
Then there’s the chase. The finding out, getting in places he’s not supposed to be. Placing traps and Riddles, tricking Batman, knowing things he shouldn’t.
His men are as used to it as they can be.
(“Where’s the boss?”
“Take a wild guess.”
“He’s gone crawling through the vents again, hasn’t he.”
Salvatore tiredly looks up to the ceiling, sighs, then nods. Pending another bat-attack, pay day's near.
“He’s gone crawling through the vents again.”)
Though, loyal as they are, sometimes their minds cannot comprehend the grandeur, the initiative, required to beat the Bat at his own game.
(“Sir, no.”
“Uh; Sir, yes.”
“No. Sir, while I’ll admit to being impressed that you survived the Sionis Mill climb, may I remind you that this is a League of Assassin’s secret base, sneaking in to install explosives is not- Sir, come back here right this instant-”)
Edward tries to pick the best and brightest, but it often is a fruitless endeavor. Gotham’s henchman population is not known for its geniuses.
(“Hey man, you okay?”
“The boss wants me to paint that gargoyle. I have an hour.”
“The boss wants you to what?”
“Yeah.”
“…How?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“God, I hate working for that crazy bastard.”
“Maybe if I just… bungee-jump from that roof while holding the can of paint open….?”
“Nah, that’ll never work. You know he’ll want the question mark motif.”
“Of course he does.”)
Like any of his fellow Arkham inmates, he’s had his moments of toeing the line. He’s played with fire.
(“Sir.”
“What now?”
“Why?”
“Do you need me to spell it out for you? I’d have thought four years spent working for me would have you somewhat used to the concept of riddles, Salvatore. I suppose my expectations were once again too high.”
“No. No, the hostages I get. The weird hiding places, and the challenges, the riddles, the car races, all of that, I get. What I do not get, Sir, is why we’re giving the Batman tips as to the locations of the other vill– your colleagues.”
“Mmh. I never could stand Victor. All act, no class. Base violence, no grandeur. Move that corpse a little farther to the right.”
“Like this, Sir?”
“No. That’s not obvious enough. Batman may be slightly less dim than the rest of the inbred pigs populating this town, but he’s not that smart.”
“Rigor Mortis hasn’t fully set in yet. We could make it so it’s standing up, leaning against the phone.”
“This is why I keep you around, Salvatore. You occasionally come up with decent ideas.”
“Thank you, Sir.”)
But he’s never downright, obviously helped the Bat.
This new intel, however, might just change his mind.
He’s noticed – hated with every fiber of his being – how distracted Batman has been for the past few weeks. He hasn’t even tried to solve any of Ed’s riddles, has refused every trap, breezed past every game.
Ed doesn’t take any risks.
He double checks.
----------
He stares at the video his men have stolen from Joker, full of disgust.
It is Robin.
The poor bastard screaming up the Asylum’s walls is the Bat’s latest pet project.
Well, that changes things.
There’s no finesse behind what the Joker’s doing. No point. No greater plot, no demonstration of superior intelligence. It’s pure, mindless, torture. It serves no other purpose than hurting the Bat.
While Edward’s all for that, usually, that’s a child, tied there, begging for Joker to stop.
A child that bested him, once, in the most irritating manner possible, but still. Robin.
Abhorrent, is what it is. A waste of potential.
Edward sniffs disdainfully. The Joker and the Riddler may both belong in Arkham, but certainly not in the same wing.
Checking on the Bat’s recent activities reveals an ever-growing number of hospital admissions amongst Joker goons. Correlating the names of those goons with their previous time and place of assignment proves more complicated – it’s disgraceful, how unorganized that clown is. – but still entirely doable for a man with Edward’s resources and talents.
It only shows him what he expected. The Bat’s punching chunks out of the Amusement Mile’s criminal population. Growing more desperate by the hour, too, if the increase in fractures per capita over the last couple of weeks is any indication.
“Boss? What do we do?”
He takes an hour to think about it. There’s no need to reach a hasty decision. The boy’s not gonna get any less tortured for it - what’s an hour in a matter of weeks - and crossing the Clown’s not something that’s lightly done.
Consequences can be dire.
Still, doing nothing doesn’t sit well with him.
But helping Batman doesn’t sit well with him either. He needs a reason. An excuse.
Then, he remembers an essential element. A point, dare he say, of pride.
He’s still bitter about the whole Donut Incident. About being humiliated in front of Batman, in front of the Justice League.
Crossing the Clown may not be something done lightly, but when has Edward Nygma, The Riddler, ever settled for mediocrity?
No, he may be a villain, but he can’t let it rest as it is.
With enough bravado, he could even make it pass for a play over Batman. Leverage. Yes, that’s it. Pride and leverage. That’s all there is to it.
And so begins one of the most complicated nights of Edward Nygma’s life.
With spite.
----------
Trying to track Batman’s movements through the city is futile. With the mood he’s in, at least.
He reaches for his computer. Tries to hack the Bat’s comm. Would have managed it too, had he not decided to let Oracle win this one. Sore loser as she is, she still acknowledges his superiority by putting him through the gauntlet’s communicator.
“I don’t have time for this, Nygma.” Batman growls at him.
“Oh, you’ll want to hear this one, B-b-b-Batman.”
The Bat looks awful. There’s no other way to put it. Edward’s seen him stabbed, zapped, slapped, poisoned, impaled, burnt, fear-gassed – most of it by his own doing, actually, now that he thinks about it – but never so tired, drawn.
Pity.
How to make this as obvious as possible, to ensure his feeble mind will get it despite his exhausted and distracted state?
“What does-” He’s interrupted by a dial tone.
…
The Bat’s hung up on him.
The Bat’s hung up on him.
How dare he.
No, this will not stand.
Edward starts typing viciously. He traces the call, then, when that fails, orders all of his men to alert him the second they spot the Bat. It comes mere minutes later, pained howls sounding through a comm unit. Checking the street cameras reveals a hardware store right next to the Bat’s position.
He hacks some speakers and turns the volume to ear-splitting.
“Batman.”
“Nygma.” The Bat growls. The raw anger lacing his tone is satisfying. “What do you want?”
He makes it as obvious as possible. It’s taunting, perhaps, but the past couple of weeks have been dreadfully dull.
“Riddle me this: Where could one find an outfoxed Argonaut?”
Then he destroys his computer.
Who’s hanging up on whom now, huh, Batman?
He settles back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile. That would teach them not to ignore him.
-----------
Nightwing’s tearing through his lair’s vents not ten minutes later.
Much better.
Edward activates the numerous traps he’s prepared for just such an occasion, never mind that were it not for the clown’s brand of sickness, they would have been activated weeks ago.
Nightwing jumps out of a spinning scythe’s way – one of Jonathan’s gifts, the man has taste – and-
“Riddler.” He shouts. Bellows. “What do you know?”
“Now is this any way to talk to the man with the information?” Ed taunts.
The first Robin’s never been quite this ruthless with Ed’s traps before. He dismantles - destroys them, really - in less than three minutes flat, not even taking the time to outsmart them properly.
Mindless destruction and distraction. Riddler's comforted in his choice. The sooner things go back to normal, the better. Nightwing has him by the throat, escrima sticks digging in painfully in no time at all.
“Where. Is. He.”
Riddler sneers.
“Don’t tell me that you’ve finally come to care about your successor, Robin? Not now that the little cuckoo has flown over the nest.”
For all his faults, the first Robin’s never been dull.
“Arkham.” The fingers around Riddler’s throat slackens. Nightwing breathes. “B. B. Robin’s in Arkham.” He looks back at Edward. “Where?” he growls.
Ah. So they’ve checked the Asylum, already. He smirks and gets a fist to the gut for it. Another. It’s a minute before he has enough breath back to cough.
“Unhand me, you brute.”
Then the Bat lands in a crouch next to them, having obliterated the rest of his traps. Ed glares.
“I am not above-” Batman grinds out, straightening up. “begging for the life of my son. Please. Nygma.”
It’s everything Ed’s ever wanted. Batman knows that.
He should be happy. Triumphant. But this victory belongs to the clown, not him, and that’s infuriating.
Now he’s not above cheating. He loves cheating. Cheating is all about being smart enough to think outside the box, outsmart his opponent, but this, this victory is hollow. It’s nothing he did.
Batman also knows that. “Please.” He says again, and it’s rough enough to make Nightwing let go of him and stare at his mentor.
“I can find out.” Riddler says when the silence’s stretched on long enough, when the Bat’s teeth are grinding, when the naked hope in his body language is starting to die. When the first Robin looks about a second from punching him again. “If you bring Joker down.”
“How long do you need?” Nightwing asks.
“A few hours. Maybe more, might be less. You don’t follow me. Or I make sure that little thorn in my side rots-” of course, the Bats won’t get it, but dropping hints is ever so fun. “-with the clown for the rest of his miserable existence.”
They both look like they’ve swallowed an orchard-full of lemons. But they nod.
Ed’s regretting this already.
----------
They don’t follow him.
Every single camera on his way to Ivy’s lair do.
No matter, those cameras won’t spontaneously enter a building. Especially not one of Ivy’s.
The safehouse smells divine, as her lairs always do. A sure sign this one’s in use. Not that Ivy – or Bruce Wayne, when she’s in Arkham – ever let her plants die otherwise.
“Harley, honey.-” He purrs, twirling his cane, using it to lightly push a curtain of vines aside. He re-adjusts his hat when a plant tries to swipe it.
“Call me honey again and I rip your armpits’ skin off with a stapler, Ed, dearie.” Harley chirps.
He’s pleasantly surprised to find Oswald there, too. Of course, he’d known they were planning on a momentary treaty, long enough for Penguin to get some shipments in, but he hadn’t known that was happening tonight. Still, that gives him one more person to hold information over, someone else he can play, that can owe him for this.
The goon at his side, though. Would have to go
As far as impromptu visits go, this one is starting off surprisingly well.
“What do you want, Nygma?” Ivy.
He smirks. He does so enjoy being the (only) one to know.
“What does every man seek? What do you use to make them meek? What can make a man beg, and in a single move bring him down a peg?” He asks, hiding his eyes behind the brim of his hat.
They both level him with an unimpressed look. Penguin has an eyebrow so high up his forehead his monocle’s threatening to fall off, despite having been permanently embedded in his skin a good 7 years ago.
“I don’t know, Ed.” Ivy purrs, but it’s her dangerous tone of voice. He takes a moment to wonder why, as he hasn’t even done anything yet. Besides say a riddle, but that’s a given with him, really. “What does every man seek?”
“Information.” He huffs. Gets four identical, disbelieving, blanks looks. “It was my most obvious one yet.”
“It...was really not, you nitwit.” Penguin rolls his eyes, both eyebrows back where they should be. Ivy’s more serious. Interested, even.
“What do you want to know?”
“And what’s in it for us?” Says Harley, swinging her bat around to rest on her shoulders.
That’s an easy one.
“What can be lost but never returned?”
“Life.” Ivy replies. Her eyes narrow. She leans forward, causing her hair to cascade forward over a shoulder in a red waterfall of strands. Somehow, the greenery around them seems to tense, to get darker, more oppressive. “What’s going on?”
Quick on the uptake as always, Oswald snaps his fingers twice.
“You,” he points at his goon, then at the hallway. “-out. And for the love of god, manage not to get eaten on the way there.”
-----------
Ed tells them.
He’s not even halfway through before Harley pales dramatically. A feat, given who she is.
“That bastard fucking what?”
“You didn’t know.” Edward concludes from her reaction. There go his plans to get Robin’s precise location immediately. Still she might be useful yet. He examines his nails. “Though if you did have a hand in it, I’d consider skipping town for a little while. The Bat's not in the best mood. Of course, that’s entirely up to you.”
Though she’d be stupid not to follow his advice.
“No fucking kidding, he’s not in the best mood.” She spits. “Puddin’s either already offed the kid, or-”
Wrong, wrong, w-r-o-n-g. He leans on his cane. A particularly vicious cactus oozes something in his direction in a startlingly accurate imitation of a drooling toddler, and he quickly leans back, going for smooth and natural.
“I have evidence he’s still alive.”
“Yeah, what’s left of him, maybe.”
That, Ed can’t refute. No one wants to be in Joker's hands. Not for a minute, not for ten. Much, much, less for entire weeks.
“Now where, I wonder-” He’s forced to sidestep another wiggling, worm-like, plant as it crawls between his feet. Now’s not the time to get into a brawl for daring to step on one of Ivy’s kids. The more agitated she gets, the more alive her plants get. Inconvenient, in this instance. “-could Joker have stashed him?”
The three of them turn to Harley.
-----------
He rendez-vous with Batman and Nightwing on a rooftop overlooking Arkham’s main entrance not an hour later. Batman’s as still as Ed’s ever seen him, so still he could actually pass for a gargoyle this time. Nightwing’s pacing the length of the roof over and over again.
“Batma-”
“Where?” Batman growls, leaving no time for pleasantries, even though Ed went through all the trouble of walking to Arkham, and out of his volition no less. The only other time he’s done that, Batman had created a treasure hunt through Gotham that led straight back to his cell.
Speaking of.
“Found in every living being, I am the outermost part of their smaller components. I provide protection and give boneless bodies a shape. I take-”
“A cell wall,” Batman interrupts him again. “Whose? Joker’s?”
“Is it too much to ask of you to let me finish a single sentence?”
Silence. Ed huffs.
“Yes, Joker’s cell’s wall. I was leading to that, you unbearable ignoramus, had you just waited another damned minute.”
“We don’t have a minute. You're coming with us.”
Oh, look, wonder of wonders, two syllable words. Multiple word sentences. A miracle.
“I don’t think so.”
Nightwing grips his shoulder tight, shoves him forward.
“Yes, you are.” Is growled near his ear.
Well, then. He supposes he is.
“Nygma.”
“What, now?” He asks, brushing at his suit to get rid of the pain Nigthwing’s hand left.
“If this proves to be a false lead. If at any moment we find out you lead us on a false trail-”
This man, Riddler isn't used to seeing. The dangerous thing hiding behind the mask is new. What it promises is not especially something he wants to experience.
“Well with that attitude, see if I ever give you pointers again.” He grumbles.
They walk past Arkham’s gates.
“I'm taking care of this. Personally.” Batman growls at a cluster of gawking security guards that are standing right there, useless as always. “Where’s Joker?”
“In the courtyard.”
But there's an idea, dressing one of his men as Batman the next time he needs to get in or out the Asylum. He’d dress them up as Nightwing, but then he’d have to make prosthetics to fill the form-fitting suit, if he wanted the charade to be any kind of believable.
The walk – jog really, he's reminded just how much he loathes any kind of cardio that doesn’t involve snooping somewhere – is tense. Even he can sense that.
When they enter the right cell, they can hear the boy whimpering, plain as day. It’s not entirely out of place, in the mess of sounds that make up Arkham, but it’s...young. Not even terrified. Defeated, agonized, and young.
The Bat has the wall down in less time that it takes for Edward to blink. One second he’s trying to think where on earth Joker would hide a secret panel, the next his ears are ringing and he’s coughing out drywall as debris settle around them. The vigilante duo is nowhere to be seen.
He hikes up his pants' legs and gingerly steps over some rubble.
The room's a mess, of course. It looks just as it did in the video, blood pooling, crusting on the ground, a tray with a bunch of tools, and oh lord that cannot be sanitary. Worst of all is how utterly dark the room is, pitch-black, half-hiding Robin's bleeding form that’s tied up right in the middle of it. Really, the only reason they can see anything at all are the bat-flares scattered on the ground, in the mess of blood on the floor.
Though the gore’s somewhat offset by the way Batman is trying to wipe it away. To wake Robin up.
Riddler fully declines responsibility if the clown’s killed the brat. It’d be different had he killed Robin himself, of course, or if the little nuisance had been caught in one of his masterpieces. But not like this.
“I’m,” Nightwing sounds strangled. “I’m going to the courtyard.”
Then he flees from the room. Good. At least that part of their bargain will be fulfilled.
“You should probably go after him, you know?” He asks the room at large, knowing full well it’s futile the second Robin’s eyes flutter open.
“I knew you'd come,” Robin babbles fervently. It’s pathetic enough that Ed has to turn his attention back to the rest of the room again instead, even as Batman leans down to cup the back of Robin's head, as he shushes him in a gentle voice. It’s hard to tell who’s feeling the most irrational out of the two of them. “He tried to make me- But- I told him. I knew you would, I knew, he lied, he liedhelied-”
He then starts crying and hyperventilating so badly he ends up passing out, no matter how much effort Batman puts into trying to calm him down. Ed scoffs disdainfully.
“Nygma.” His nemesis grunts.
When he brings his attention back to them, arms still crossed, he’s directed to the chains with a jerk of the cowl. Like Batman has any right to order him around.
“I'm not stepping in that,” He snaps, gesturing at the puddle Batman’s kneeling in. Batman sends him a hard look, hand still carding repeatedly through Robin's hair.
Reluctantly, Ed steps in that. Just enough to unhook the chain from the ceiling. Robin sags in Batman's arms, a doll with his strings cut. The tinkling of the chains’ morbid in the dark torture cell.
“Honestly,” because if nothing else he can at the very least still complain about things. “-you'd believe he'd stolen what little was left of your common sense, not your sidekick.”
“My son.”
Ed sneers, even as he picks up a saw out of the tray of tools. Batman tenses, but only for a moment. It’s gone as soon as he starts on the chains trailing on the ground.
Once he’s done, most of the chains’ length cut short, he picks a pair of shears and moves to the barbed wire around Robin’s torso. Batman shifts to a protective safety-hold.
Ed’s not one to leave a job half-done, and he knows his way around tools better than anyone else.
“I expect compensation for this.” He announces.
Maybe he could make this place the answer to a Riddle in a few weeks. Really drive the point home. ‘Where did the Riddler thoroughly outsmart a poor, brain-addled rodent?’
No, that wouldn’t work there’d be too many possible answers.
“I’ve got you. Shh, Robin, I’ve got you.”
“He’s unconscious. He can’t hear you.”
As if to prove him wrong, the infuriating little bastard whimpers. Then wakes up.
Batman starts to rush the path back out of the Asylum, and Ed’s forced to jog behind again, less the guards try to stop him.
“What are you looking at?” He snaps, more than just a couple of times.
------------
He watches from the very rooftop he started this little rescue op on, as the ambulance takes the Joker’s battered form away. Between his injuries and the police cruisers, he’s a mess of reds and blues. Ed finds that for once he can’t feel anything but grim satisfaction.
The beating Nightwing dished out is infinitely more violent than usual, yet there’s none of the usual adrenaline at the sight.
Robin.
For weeks.
And yet, still, when the clown raises his head, when he looks straight in Ed’s eyes, when dark promises burn the air between them, he’s laughing.
------------
Unsurprisingly, life goes on, routine.
Joker’s in the hospital. Will be for a long time, according to Edward’s sources. Batman’s disappeared from the streets, so he uses the down time to scheme. He starts by changing lairs, and refurbishing the new one. Plots entirely new death traps, the kind no one’s ever seen before, the kind that are sure to defeat both Batman and Nightwing.
He builds riddler bots.
Who else than him, who out of Batman's Rogues Gallery can claim to have robots that obey their every whim?
No one. No one that's who.
Though, eventually, boredom strikes.
All of his efforts to make the Bat pay attention again, and he just disappears.
“Edward,” Oswald says, one night, in that tone he uses when he’s trying not to lose it. “-just what, exactly, are you doing?”
Riddler pauses. Looks down at the trophies he’s packing in his sturdiest backpack. Looks at Oswald, who takes this moment to limp over.
“I’m usually the one asking the trick questions.”
“Why yes, you’re usually smarter than this, so glad we both agree on that.”
Yes, they do. So why does Oswald look like he’s about to strangle him?
“I am,” He starts slowly, unsure what part of this is unclear to his fellow Rogue. “-going to Wayne Manor. To hide my trophies.”
“That I gathered. But let me get this clear: You’re going to break into the house of an on-edge vigilante and his highly traumatised, recently kidnapped, child. And leave trophies.”
“And what about it?”
“Don’t you think,” Oswald pinches his lips together tight, and nods quickly. It would look frantic on anyone else. On him it just looks highly irritated. Manic. “-that the Bat might take it as a threat.”
“It is a threat.” A threat to Batman’s intelligence.
“A declaration of war, as it is. When he’s finally distracted enough by his brat’s recovery not to notice some of my…more covert sales.”
“The new models light up.” He feels compelled to point out, demonstrating how the new Riddler trophies models do, in fact, light up. They’re DNA-locked to their target too. Green for Batman, Red for Catwoman. And a single bright yellow model he fully intends to drop by a certain hospital bed.
“Oh, how wonderful, they light up. Did you hear a single word I’ve just said?”
-----------
He tries.
“I will choose to believe that the noises that are presently coming out of the servants passages must be caused by some sort of intruding animal,” Wayne’s butler calls down at him from the kitchen, shotgun near enough to grab in less than a second. “However, should said noises not cease within the next five minutes, I shall be forced to apply my very own unique pest control method. Are we clear?”
As if Ed could be brought down by the help.
“Al?” comes a weak, young voice. “Who’re you talking to?”
“Myself, Master Jason. Nothing for you to worry yourself over. Let’s get you back to bed, hmm?”
Robin hesitates.
“But, Al?”
“Humor us, lad. We’ve been quite worried about you.”
“No, it’s just. I. I found this weird lamp in my room and I was wondering if maybe you put it there.”
The butler’s voice turns glacial.
“A lamp, you say? Let’s go find your father. He was just telling me something about that- ”
-----------
He’s deep in the vents of a new League of assassins’ base, the one that’s in the old city, buried under tons of flooding ruins. He’s plugging cables into sockets, and generally crawling his way through it, nailing a trapped slab to the floor, barely covering a few mines - it’s entirely amusing how overconfident Ra’s al Ghul is. Ed’s dropped a trophy in one of the pits a few days back and is now waiting for the meltdown the immortal’s sure to have - when a hand closes around his ankle and drags him backwards.
“Riddler.” Batman whispers/ growls. He's pulled out of the vent and set down on the cold cement floor of the corridor they’re occupying.
He feels irritation well up. All of his new traps, useless.
Yell/whispering is excessively annoying. He needs space to rub his irritation into the Bat’s face, to declare his plans, to scream for revenge.
He starts walking away, intent on making his way out of the League’s base.
Batman follows without a word. He doesn’t grip his collar or start trying to interrogate him.
It’s only once they’re out, once they’re in the abandoned metro station with its faded posters - reminiscent of a more hopeful Gotham city - and decaying benches that Batman speaks.
“Why?”
Ed tries to look for a way out.
“Well, I had the occasion to prove my vastly superior knowledge. To show the whole of Gotham how pathetically outmatched you’ve been all this time. Why wouldn’t I?”
He makes to leave again. Batman catches his arm.
“Why?” He repeats.
“You were distracted.”
“Why.”
“Joker’s not better than me.”
“Riddler.”
Ed stops.
“What?” He snaps, resisting the urge to throw his now useless mines at Batman’s head.
“He’s on the mend. Thank you.”
“You seem to be under the misguided impression that I care.”
Batman’s almost smiling.
It’s official, Joker’s killed him already, he’s in hell.
“I don’t,” he insists. “I could care less about your obnoxious progeny. In fact, feel free to sell him to Black Mask for all I care. I would not hesitate to blow him up. Not one second. Not one.”
Batman doesn’t seem to give that much thought. He’s smirking in that insufferable superior way of his.
“Thank you.”
“I invent death traps for a living.”
“I know.”
Yes, he would, wouldn't he.
“I'm usually the one behind the kidnappings.”
“I know.”
“I bomb places,” Riddler says, “-In fact, I fully remember almost making you explode the first time we met.”
“I would appreciate it if you stopped doing that.”
Dear lord he thinks he’s funny.
“You’re insane.”
“Everyone deserves a second chance. Thank you.”
Does his nemesis even know how to count. Concerns should be raised. This time, he does throw the mines at Batman’s head. Infuriatingly, he dodges them easily.
“Oh get rid of your smug smirk, you insufferable, imbecilic, infuriating prat-.”
-----------
“Are you ready for some more? Explore! Find my challenges. And when you fail to solve them and lie blubbering like an ignorant child on the floor, you will know that The Riddler is better than you.*”