Eddie would have thought he was going crazy, if he hadn't known that had long since happened already.

Edward Nigma opened his desk drawer and pulled out a short pair of scissors (purple) and a case of plastic-tipped pins (green). He pulled the sheet of newspaper from the rest and started cutting out the article.

It was a very strange feeling he had lately, like he was missing something. He had taken to printing out, cutting out, and making notes of certain things during his investigations – not about the investigations themselves, though he did that as well, but about anything that gave him that feeling. It wasn't déjà vu – that was when something unfamiliar seemed familiar. No, it was something else. It almost felt like he was trying to remember a dream; when you get constantly reminded of something from the dream, but can't remember for the life of you what happened in it.

Eddie finished cutting the article, and absentmindedly smoothed it out. Once. Twice. Three times the charm. He grabbed two pins from the case, and pinned the article to the board, the big one, just behind the door in his office. He had to put it there, where his clients were less likely to notice it. It unsettled them.

After all, Eddie Nigma is – was the Riddler, and the Riddler fought – used to fight – Batman, and a board covered with articles, pictures, blog posts and accounts of Batman wasn't something his clients wanted to see.

It wasn't entirely about Batman, of course. The other residents of Arkham (Other? He was no longer one of them, remember?), other Bats, and a whole slew of famous Gotham residents.

It was in this last area of the board where he pinned the newest article.

"Bruce Wayne Pledges Millions to Gotham Charities"

He stared at the article on the board, occasionally glancing from it to the other pictures and notes. He knew there had to be a connection. He could almost see it, but his mind almost seemed to skitter from the answer, and it frustrated him more than anybody could know.

All riddles have answers, or else they're pointless.

(Eddie, why do you have to think about it that way?)

All mysteries have an explanation.

(Better, if unsatisfying.)

He turned from the board and paced his office. He hated this. He hated this feeling of not knowing something, of not knowing how to figure something out, or worse – what he suspected was the truth – was that he had known the answers, but had forgotten them.

Something was keeping him from remembering.

Something was stopping him from solving the rid- the mystery.

He wasn't dumb. He was more intelligent than most people. People sometimes scoffed at him, at the riddles. "It just makes the Bat catch you faster!"

They didn't get it. That wasn't the point.

(Stop that. That's history. You're a detective now, stop thinking of the good old days.)

There was a knock at the door. He ignored it. Another knock now, louder, impatient, but not desperate. A client, and not one that was not nervous, just entitled. Money.

Eddie grabbed his cane before opening the door. He forced his face into a smile; he didn't want to make the client uncomfortable if he let his dislike show.

"My apologies, sir, I was in the midst of the art of deduction, and lost well into my mind. Would you like take a seat?"

The man was exactly as he expected. Old, white, with a very expensive suit and a very self-important huffy expression.

The man scowled at him. "You're the Riddler? The private detective?"

Oh for – he was wearing the hat! With the question mark emblazoned on it and everything! He had the cane and the suit and the – enough. Keep smiling. (Don't think about stuffing him in a room with nothing but a bomb on a timer with a clue.)

"Correct! I am Edward Nigma."

The man brushed past him and sat in the chair. Eddie walked around his desk, sitting down and tossing the cut-up newspaper in the nearby recycling.

"I heard you can get the job done, despite your record," the man said.

Riddler couldn't help but sneer at the man. "I can get the job done because of my record. But no matter – what do you need help with?"

The man stared at him. For a moment Riddler was afraid he'd sucked up to the man for nothing, and he would walk off with the money and more importantly the job.

"I need you to find something on Bruce Wayne."

Eddie didn't answer at first. He looked the man over again. He glanced at his board. He recognized the man.

"You're on the board of Wayne Enterprises, yes?"

The man was surprised, but tried to hide it and shifted in his seat. "Right. I'm Grant Gideon."

Eddie smiled. "And what seems to be your problem with Mr. Wayne?"

The man leaned back on his chair and looked away from Eddie. "He's wasting money on revitalization projects and charities. He's had a sudden and unconvincing 'change of heart' and he's acting strange. It's very suspicious."

"It seems you already know what's wrong with Mr. Wayne. Why do you need me?"

Eddie knew what the man was going to say.

"I need proof."

And he was right. "That's all very well and good, Mr. Gideon, but what do you expect me to find?"

Gideon shrugged. "Drugs, pressure from the mob, I don't know – something to make him stop this foolishness. He's making the company look bad."

Eddie looked at the ceiling, purposely stretching the silence as he pretended to think.

Gideon huffed. "I'll pay half your fee up front, and add in a very generous tip depending on what you find."

Bingo.

"Sounds like we have a deal, Mr. Gideon."

The man immediately stood up. "One more thing – I would prefer not to be linked to your investigation."

Eddie stood up too. "I will be discrete, Mr. Gideon, don't you worry."