Gotham City. A metropolis like so many others, and a metropolis that was completely devoid of the expectations of normality. Gotham City, the beacon of the Southwest, the black light of the criminal underworld. Gotham City, the nest to the ugly, and the mountain of the powerful, even when the nest was set upon the mountainside did the light dim and shine with black luminance and brilliant white emphasis. It was not heads, and never tails. It was both sides of the coin, and with each flip came an outcome that could never be predicted.
The island was set out to sea, a haven of the squawking crows of the city, where good men felt fear, where fear felt pressure to exert itself, and where the pressure was the gambit of the local residents. That fear held the place together, that island so avoided and spat upon by the minds of Gotham City's patrons. A mansion, surrounded by several structures, each with their own stories, their own purposes, and whether these purposes were dark or light, little mattered, because the island was what it was meant to be, and what it would always be: the land of the lords of Gotham. That island was Arkham Island, and that castle that gave the patrons such place and meaning in their internal demeanors was Arkham Asylum, a short name, but one that carried much meaning.
The castle was a home. That dark castle with its non-existant towers, it patrolling guards who were not wrapped in the navy blue of the law, but the black and white of the chaos that they were: criminally insane and so beautiful. He was beautiful, with his Gasglove smile, his matted green hair, his chalk white complexion and the laughter that he produced as natural instinct, and yet he was alone, cold in his mind because the joy was coldness, though he did not know it. She was beautiful, her long red hair flowing with such grace and yearning, adorned with a crown of leaves that bore prominence with her bright green eyes and lips laced with crippling poison, for she was what she was, a poison that had arms and legs, lost in her mesomaniasm. And then there was him, deluded by his own unique ability, his ingenuity that knew several bounds and no bounds, constantly lost in what he was, a "god" he said of the natural mind, but behind that vision of his "god-like" state was the integrity of his chains, which held him in place, again and again, locked tightly by the hand of the night oppressor, the Batman, as they called him. Jack was happy, Pamela was wrathful, but Edward...Edward was afraid. Very afraid. He did not want people forgetting who he was. What he was.
"Tell me, Dark Knight," he had once said to his oppressor, the man hidden in the shadow of his own fear, "if I were the Joker, would you hold me with some form of respect? If I were Jonathon Crane, would you fear me above all others? If I were Pamela Isley, would you feel an unwanted, yet undeniable, desire towards my continued existance?"
He had spoken so softly, had asked the questions so calmly, because he had been terrified. Horribly afraid, and yet, that aspect of his self-love and highly honored image had held him firmly on the place of his pedestal. Edward, sit up straight, darn it! This is twelfth grade physics not kindergarten nap time! "Yes, Mr. Lawrence, I'm sorry. It's just that your lecture on astronomical height growth seems to be missing some of your own ego. Perhaps you would like to explain again why you were placed to teach us a subject you barely know anything about?"That had made me smile. And that smile had not left his face, for the longest time, even when he was dragged into Principal Brumley's office for a good thrashing with the fiberglass paddle that he had made friends with so many times before. And with each strike, the pain was friend. A pleasure to him. For it proved him right. Ingenuity made others nervous, jealous, even, and thus it forced them to devolve into the primal ways of the neanderthals. Edward...you're going back to Arkham. I will personally drag you there and ensure that you stay there until your time has come. Do you understand? And nothing. No words. No retorts. That was because Mr. Lawrence was a dismal, non-existant phanomenan that had been dissolved by Edward Nygma's own intellectual superiority. This voice, however, belonged to the Oppressor, and the Oppressor's word was law, even for Edward. Edward loved the command, because he hated it so much. He was two sides of the same coin. Move over, Harvey, the coin has a new master...yes...yes...
"No, Edward. I would look at you, calmly, and tell you what I have always told you. I am going to take you home...and ensure that you stay there until your time has come."
"Indeed, Dark Knight? Why would you continue the repetition?"
"Because life is repetition, Edward. Surely your intellect knows that. It just has longer words on the occasion."
"Don't try to cheek me, Dark Knight." There was desperation in his voice now. Fear was the name, but the Oppressor was beyond fear. He breathed the fear, produced it, yet he was a slave to it all the same. And if the Oppressor was a slave to himself, to that aspect of fear, then what was Edward? A dismal, non-existant phanomenan dissolved by the Oppressor's sincerity and simplicity. Edward Nygma had become Arnold Lawrence. He was not the Riddler, in the Oppressor's presence. He was simply Lawrence, caught in the unending, spiraling web of his self-gratification, not the "god" that he had wanted to be. The Oppressor had taken that from him. Edward Nygma hated the Oppressor...hated him and idolized him. The Dark Knight was a dirty mirror. Move over, Hugo, there is a new master of the delusional, pitious loss of self and placement. "Don't try to cheek me, no! I'm superior!"
"To whom? To me?"
"N-yes! YES, I SAY!" The screaming voice had almost ruptured the very structure of the intercom system. But the Oppressor had not minded. Loud noises in Gotham City? This was a slighty whisper. The Oppressor had then given Edward a look, as the dark clad man had peered into the windowed, boxed in area, high above the stacked crates of this abandoned warehouse near the port (crates that held three hostages, each of them dead already, though the Oppressor did not know it), and the Oppressor knew that Edward Nygma hid behind that dark glass, tinted to hide the green but green was a standout color. Edward watched, in awe, in obsessive glee that was fired by his hatred of the Oppressor, as the Dark Knight aimed what appeared to be a gun. Whatever bullets the dark rodent possessed, they would penetrate the bulletproof glass that the Riddler hid behind, and he knew it. The Oppressor had gotten through his other traps that littered the warehouse. Edward had been denied his chance to watch the Oppressor die. It had been something worthy of climax, to see that death, because it proved that he was not Lawrence...no...he could never be Lawrence...
The shot. Loud, echoeing in the empty chamber, aimed for the glass, striking it with fierce intensity that it made a trembling vibration run into Edward's very skin, yet such a soft thump on the window. Indeed, he had aimed for the window, not the crates. Edward had been so sure that the Oppressor knew that the hostages were inside. Then he did know that Edward had already killed them, each with a bullet to the head, each a broken promise to the Oppressor, their blood the ink that signed the false contract between Riddler and Knight, their corpses the end result of a nasty business partnership. Their usefulness as bait for the bombs triggered inside of the crates had lost its course. They were merely corpses now, not the beautiful tools that he had imagined them being. And so he took the knife at his side, a large, Metropolis made hunting dagger, and prepared his mind, calmed his body, leveled his perception. The shot had not broken the glass, but it had, as the Riddler knew it...as Lawrence knew it...broken something. A promise that the Riddler had made to himself that very evening, that he would prove his superiority, that he had fooled the Oppressor. They're alive, Dark Knight, but you had better hurry. We only have fifteen minutes until the final round of this game. Wouldn't want you to be left out of the finale. The grand prize is going to be huge! Fifteen minutes, Dark Knight. They're waiting for you...screaming for you. An accountant, a stripper, and a mob enforcer, oh, what a beautiful score of contestants we have today, but none so beautiful as the winged freak himself, the Dark Knight of Gotham's finest patrons!
Should he have cut himself? Would it have killed Lawrence? What would be left? A dead Lawrence, or an ascended Riddler? Edward Nygma, who are you? WHO THE HESSIAN ARE YOU!? He had shot again. The screaming voice inside told him so, as a slightly thouder thump hit the window. Edward had brought the knife to his wrist. Whose blood!? Lawrence's or Edward's!? LAWRENCE'S OR EDWARD'S!?
There was bat flying towards the window now, the largest of the bats, the King Aladruc. The grappling hook. Abomination slithers in the skull of what Edward detested, of meager device. A grappling hook was what ascended the Oppressor. Not ingenuity, not the murder of any man named Lawrence (Edward's first kill was a haunting expression of his love for himself), and certainly not the knowledge of superiority. It was a device, mechanical in its essence, man-made, a tool of the neanderthals. Edward hated him. Hated him like no other, because he was a shadow of the Oppressor, and he was the living image of Edward Nygma...
SMASH! Whatever the Oppressor had hit the glass with prior to using the grappling hook, it had somehow decreased the density of the glass. The Oppressor, his wings spread with a desire to feast upon a Lawrence, landed not on his feet but on his back as he rolled forward, Edward finding himself pressed firmly against the wall beside the door leading out of the box, where the elevator had waited him, called him, beggining him to take it down to the lower harbor dock where his boat awaited, complete with the most prestigous library ever to be placed on a small yacht, and yet he had remained there, in the box, glued by his own desire to have the Oppressor fall and admit that he was in fact Edward, and not Mr. Lawrence. No...not Lawrence...
He had been placed firmly against the wall, had felt the cold blades press firmly against his neck, ever so slightly on the ends were their malice, not penetrating, not giving comfort. Cold warnings, empty souls themselves, a part of the Oppressor. Edward had slowly raised the knife. Even in the dark, Edward saw light. A fire was burning. It was in the Oppressor's black slits where the shadows hid his eyes. They were roaring with life, fire unyielding, un-iced. Stay away, Victor, you may melt by this intensity.
The Oppressor did not speak a word. He merely waited. Edward had no heart, however, as he sunk it, quite slowly, into the Oppressor's left ab. But the blade of the well furbished knife bended leftwards. There's the warranty. He had released it, for the knife was nothing to him. It had clattered loudly to the floor, filling the lifelfess, soundless chamber with war drums.
"They're dead, you know," Edward Nygma had whispered.
"I know, Edward," whispered the Oppressor. "I killed them."
"What are you talking about!?" Edward had snapped.
"I killed them," he had returned, a little louder this time, "the moment I decided to cross your path."
"Revel in it, Dark Knight," Mr. Lawrence whispered. "You're below me. I tricked you. Admit it. Tell me that I'm better."
The words had to come. They must come. A testament must be made to his superiority. But the Oppressor answered with words that Edward had feared.
"I am going to take you home, Edward, and I am going to make sure you stay there until your time comes."
Edward had not snapped. That bridge was in the past. The smile was now. Joker, hit the road, your smile was now his, Edward's...not Lawrence's...
"I hate me..."
"We're going home now. I'm going to take you home." The Oppressor did not sound fierce. He did not sound as if he were trying to be threatning. That was the natural aspect of him. He sounded calm, almost as fearful as Edward. The Dark Knight really was human, wasn't he? That wicked Oppressor who had stoped Edward so many time before, always brining him back to the island, to the castle, where his friends were...they were his friends, right? The way Ivy looked at him...what kind of lust was it? The way Joker stuck his tongue out at him? What joke had the mad man come up with then? The way the Penguin squawked at him, though the fat bird was the only one who seemed natural, being what he is, what he was meant to be. He did not want to go back to that place.
"Kill me!" Not a request. A demand.
"I will," the Oppressor agreed. "I will as soon as I drop you off at home."
Edward Nygma screamed. Arnold Lawrence laughed.
And where was Edward Nygma now? He was at home, that's where he was. With the smiley man laughing at him, with the lusty vine queen laughing softly at him, blowing him a kiss, with the cold one, rolling his eyes and bringing his attention back to the daily paper. And Mr. Lawrence waved at him, sitting across the cell from Edward. But Edward could not have any of it. A rock beside his bed. A rock smuggled from within, from the botanical gardens. Its toss was fierce, the shattering of the mirror over the sink was fiercer. Maybe he would cut himself with the glass later, if the guards failed to get it all up. He had to be Edward Nygma. He had to be the superior one...the Oppressor could not stop him...
