The Batman
41 Down is Saturday
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! I don't know if anyone's still here who remembers, but every now and then I still get notifications that someone has Favorited my story Don't Go Out On Friday Night, so I suppose there is still some interest. I have always meant to write a sequel to that story, but other things have kept getting in the way. Suddenly, this week, I woke up with the urge to really do it this time. In the first chapter I will recap just a bit of the first story, which involved the Riddler working with The Batman and the police to catch a serial killer he had tried to catch three years previous. And since stories for other Batman verses get plopped into this category sometimes, I should probably mention that this story really is for the cartoon The Batman, the one that aired on Kids WB. I loved it and their overhaul of the Riddler, and it will probably always be my Batman verse of choice to play in.
Chapter OneThe Friday Night Killer had been caught.
He had been revealed as the Chessmaster, a disturbed man with a personal grudge against the Riddler—so personal that every one of his targets had been someone the Riddler had once met, even if only briefly in passing on the street or in a store.
Three years ago, he had murdered the Riddler's uncle. The Riddler had gathered information on the crimes and had come closer to catching him than the police had. When the Chessmaster resumed killing after a three-year absence, the police had in desperation turned to the Riddler for help.
It had proved fruitful; the Riddler had unraveled some of the man's mysteries and, together with Batman, they had at last cornered the Chessmaster at the old Gotham Power and Light building. But it had been a deathtrap, something the Chessmaster had never intended for any of them to leave alive.
In the end, the Riddler had pulled a switch that had electrocuted both him and the Chessmaster in order to stop the Chessmaster's mass murder from taking place.
The Chessmaster had survived, albeit driven out of any remaining scraps of sanity from being unable to complete his revenge.
The Riddler, having already suffered a violent beating and two prior electric shocks during the battle, had not.
Detective Ellen Yin rolled over on her couch, staring blankly across the room at the wall. It had been a long day at work and she had just barely come home. And for reasons she wasn't even fully sure of, she was thinking about that fateful night again.
The Riddler was arrogant, vain, and he had caused more than one problem for her and the police force in the past. Yet she had learned things about him on the Friday Night Killer case that she had never expected—some small part of the heartaches and betrayals he had suffered in his life, his continuing love for the one who had betrayed him most deeply, and the level of goodness left in his twisted and scarred heart.
Had it been goodness that had led him to his death? He could have simply wanted his final revenge on the Chessmaster for murdering his uncle, and for killing so many other people he had met. Batman had speculated on that, and it certainly sounded in keeping with the Riddler's vindictive character.
But it was alternately possible that he was sick of so many senseless killings and wanted to prevent any more. He had been horrified when he had realized the reason why the Chessmaster had murdered all those people. He hadn't wanted to feel responsible in any way for their deaths.
It was oddly true, that the Riddler had never actually endangered countless, random lives. The first time Yin had met him, he had given the impression that the city was in danger. But instead, there had only been lime Jell-O in the canisters set around town. It had been a distraction to keep everyone from realizing his real crime: stealing information from Gotham's supercomputers. It certainly wasn't right, but it was worlds apart from actually being willing to send thousands of people to their deaths.
He had endangered certain specific people, however, from Yin herself to Batman and the people who had been his main enemies—Charles Gorman and Julie.
Yin's eyes narrowed. She didn't like Julie. Neither did Batman. The Riddler had truly loved her and trusted her, yet she had betrayed him and sabotaged their project in college just so that she could have success without him and he would be discredited. More recently, she had stolen another of his ideas and, along with Gorman, had tried to have it marketed.
Yin sighed, turning to stare up at the ceiling. Julie was still in the hospital, recovering from being shot twice by the Chessmaster in an attempt to make her one of his victims. The day after the final battle, Yin had gone to see her. She wasn't sure how she had expected the meeting to go, but Julie certainly hadn't impressed her during it.
Yin was not sure what she had been expecting to see when she entered the hospital room. All she had known beforehand was that Julie had regained consciousness and was out of immediate danger. She was still on painkillers for the bullets she had taken, but she seemed fairly alert at some parts of the day. Judging from the look Yin was now receiving, she had come at the right time.
Julie was lying in the bed, her red hair spread out on the pillow instead of tucked into its neat bun. She had started to wear her glasses during the times she was awake and now was studying Yin through the lenses. Various emotions flickered across her face—confusion, apprehension, and a bit of defensiveness.
Yin crossed her arms. "You're looking better," she said. "The Riddler would be glad to see that."
"The Riddler . . ." Julie repeated. It seemed strange to hear him called that; he was always Edward to her, no matter whether he was wearing a jumpsuit and a mask or not.
"Why are you here?" she asked. She recognized Yin as a police detective who had been involved in this madness. But there was nothing more she could tell the police about what had happened at the laboratory. By now it mattered little anyway; the Chessmaster had been caught, as well as most of his minions.
"I came to see if it's true that you're getting along better," Yin answered. She did not really want to be there; Julie disgusted her. But there was something she had come to tell the other woman, something she supposed Julie needed to know. Yet she was not there to do any favors. She had come for her own personal reasons. She wanted to see whether what she had to say would mean anything to Julie.
". . . What's going to happen when I'm well enough to leave?" Julie's voice was steady and quiet.
"If I had my way, you'd be going to jail," Yin said. "But it doesn't look like that's going to happen. We can't prove you stole the Riddler's idea again."
And that was something that had been missing; Edward had not come. Julie had wondered whether he was planning to, since he had gone to the trouble of trying to save her. That certainly had not gone well, either; she had still been shot, in spite of his best efforts.
"Is he in the asylum again?" Julie wondered.
Yin's eyes narrowed. "He didn't do anything wrong . . . this time. We didn't have any reason to hold him."
"Oh." Julie sounded slightly surprised, but otherwise unaffected. "He was dressed up like that . . . I thought he was probably going back to crime."
"I don't know what he had in mind," Yin said in truth.
Julie was not certain what to say. Something told her that the detective was here for a reason other than to check on her well-being. But instead of saying what it was, it felt as if she wanted Julie to say or do something first. And Julie did not know what that would be.
Finally, Yin gave up. Julie was not going to ask how he was. Yin would just have to let the bomb drop anyway. "Edward Nygma is dead."
Julie stiffened. She looked back to Yin, her eyes wide in disbelief. But then she settled back into the bed, processing the news.
"Was he doing something reckless again?" she said at last.
Yin's expression only darkened. "He was upset because you had been shot," she said. "He thought you'd been killed."
"So he confronted the Chessmaster psychopath and was killed instead?" Julie retorted.
"He confronted the Chessmaster," Yin agreed, "but in the end he sacrificed himself to save several people who were endangered." Herself included. But Julie did not need to know that.
Julie looked down at the thin blanket. "I didn't think he was that type," she said.
"He did what he felt had to be done," Yin said. "Does his death mean anything to you at all?"
Frankly, Julie did not know. She was more inclined to say that it did not. Her conscience was nagging at her again for having treated him the way she had, but she pushed it aside. At least now he would not be able to interfere with her pursuit of success.
"It seems to mean something to you," she said instead, with a slight smirk.
"I know he was a good man," Yin found herself saying. Words she had never imagined she would be uttering in connection with the Riddler.
"It never would have worked out between you two," Julie said, still with the smirk. "You're too independent for him, just as he would have been for you. And his riddles would have driven you crazy."
Yin frowned. She did not care about the Riddler in that way. She did not even know that she thought of him as a friend. But he had been better than he had usually let on, and it bothered her that Julie did not seem to care at all about what had happened to him.
"He still loved you," she retorted aloud. "Right to the end, even though he knew it was pointless and you weren't worth it, he loved you."
Julie looked away. For a moment, brief guilt registered on her face. Why? Because she actually did feel regret? Or because she knew she had not been able to return his feelings for her?
Yin turned, heading for the door again. She did not plan to tell Julie about the strange message left when the Riddler's body had disappeared. Commissioner Gordon did not think that was something that should get out. Batman wondered if the Riddler himself was still alive, but Yin herself doubted the likelihood of it. Most likely the Riddlemen had stolen the body and left the message to make it look like the Riddler had left of his own accord.
Julie did not say anything as Yin slipped out the door.
Yin doubted that any tears fell once she was alone.
Yin scowled, pushing herself off the couch. It was ridiculous to be thinking about the Riddler again. He was gone, never to return this time. She could only hope that wherever he was now, he had found peace at last.
She sighed to herself as she wandered into the small kitchenette in her apartment. Maybe she had started thinking about him tonight because the case she had just been handed was a real doozy, something that the Riddler probably would have loved.
Chief Rojas was endlessly frustrated by it. He hated riddles, and crossword puzzles, and now they had a madman who had given them an ultimatum: solve his crossword puzzle within the week or Gotham City would be in shambles. He would send the police department one part of the puzzle every day until they had it all. He would also destroy a building every day they didn't get the puzzle pieces right.
The first pieces, he had said, he would fill in for them. And those had left the entire department and Batman utterly bewildered.
Who is Catherine?
Those were the words fit into the three sections of the puzzle that had been sent. Now their mission was to figure out what Catherine was being referred to before their next contact tomorrow night.
"The Riddler would know how to find out," Yin muttered to the empty room as she poured a glass of orange juice.
But the Riddler wasn't there. And after Yin had some much-needed sleep, she would be in for a day of puzzling over this madness with Batman and Commissioner Gordon. Batman was good at riddles, too. This one puzzled him, but he would surely come up with the answer.
Batman hadn't been the same since the Riddler's death, either. He blamed himself, considering it a failure that he had not been able to stop the Chessmaster before the Riddler had taken that drastic step. Hugo Strange had once said that Batman had a compulsion to rescue people. It was true, and after failing to save the Riddler, he had become all the more determined to not let failure happen again. He would probably stay up all night researching people named Catherine in the Gotham area.
Finishing her drink, Yin rinsed the glass and left it in the dish drainer. She didn't plan to stay up all night, since she was off-duty and since they had twenty-four hours to work on the Catherine problem before they were given a crossword section they had to actually fill in. The week promised to be long and hard. If she was going to have any hope of sleep, she had better try it now. She might not have many other chances over the next few days.
She just hoped the Riddler wasn't going to haunt her dreams as well as her waking moments. He had already done plenty of that in the days after he had died.
xxxx
The sign outside said Edward Nashton, Consultant and Troubleshooter. It was simple and rather drab and it was hanging at an angle. It had started to slip after one of the Eastern Seaboard's infamous rainstorms two days earlier and its owner had not bothered to fix it yet.
Inside, the office was much like that of the standard private investigator—a desk, a hat rack, and a computer. And one very tired consultant and troubleshooter slumped over the keyboard, his green-and-black suit rumpled and his long, dark hair splayed in all directions.
He was dreaming of a time not that long ago, really, and yet almost quite literally in another lifetime for him.
The morgue wasn't that difficult to break into. The Riddlemen knew how to do it without drawing a great deal of attention to themselves. Anyway, morgues didn't tend to have the highest security. After all, how many people would break into such a center of the dead?
The Riddlemen knew exactly what they wanted here. They just weren't entirely sure where it was located.
Several freezers drawers were extracted before they found the one they wanted. Then, pleased but sobered, one of them bent down and lifted the lifeless body, sheet and all.
Another Riddleman was going through the envelopes containing personal effects. Locating the desired one, he whisked it away, along with the golden cane propped against the wall.
A third Riddleman took care of the final order of business—a sheet of paper on which a cryptic riddle had been written. This he deposited in the freezer drawer they were robbing. Then, with a flick of the light switch and a turn of the doorknob, they departed.
They were following their master's instruction to the letter, instructions given to them in secret several days before, when he had been released from Arkham Asylum and the madness had started.
"If anything happens to me over the next few days, break into the morgue and take my body. Also remove everything that belongs to me. And leave this sheet of paper in the location where you find my body. If this works, they'll know I'm still out there, somewhere. Someday we will meet again. If it doesn't work, well . . . at least they'll never know for certain that I have been defeated for good. They will always wonder. Then the Riddler will achieve some semblance of immortality, kept alive in spirit if not in body."
He was vain, but also very human. He did not want to be forgotten. And if no one truly cared about him, as he was certain no one did, the only way to be remembered was to stay notorious in their minds—a threat with the promise of a return, someday, sometime.
The Riddlemen continued to follow his instructions as they drove to another of his many hideouts and slipped inside, inputting the codes to allow them access to the various rooms. Finding the one they sought, they locked themselves inside and set about bringing the large and mysterious machine in the center of the room to life.
The Riddleman bearing the body laid it carefully down on the cushioned slab. Others strapped it down, affixing electrodes in place as the controls were adjusted and then activated.
At first there was no response. They had been warned it might not work on the first try, and to keep trying until it was clear that there was no hope, increasing the voltage each time.
The one they were trying so diligently to revive was watching them in spirit, standing to the side and observing the proceedings with morbid fascination.
Of course it was not working. And it was not like him to experiment with matters of reviving the dead. He was overall much more interested in improving the living mind. But this had been a special case; he had built the machine out of his grief and sorrow over his uncle's brutal murder. His uncle had been the only person who had truly cared about him. And he still could have had many years to live. It was only right, in his nephew's mind, to try to bring him back.
It should have worked, really. He had successfully revived a cat and a dog, once. But he had never had any success in using the machine on people, including his uncle. So he had sealed it away and done nothing more with it, knowing it was really unwise to tamper with such things and wanting to turn his attention to other matters. Yet when he had realized that his death was quite possibly imminent, he had decided it was worth one final try, on himself.
The electrodes sparked and the body jerked. Still there was no indication that a return to life would be any more possible this time than those times in the past. He turned away with a resigned air.
"Ed."
He stiffened in surprise. That was his uncle's voice. He whirled to look, but saw nothing.
"Ed, you can't play around with life and death. It doesn't work that way."
He looked back to the machine, and his own body eerily upon it. "It should," he exclaimed in dark indignation and frustration. "Why should anyone have to have their life cut drastically short instead of living a long, full existence? That's a riddle no one has been able to answer satisfactorily since the beginning of time. There is no satisfactory answer!"
"Your machine will work this time. This one time. The only reason you were able to bring back those animals was because it wasn't their time to go yet. It was my time to go, Ed. That's why you couldn't do anything for me or the others you tried this out on.
"But you weren't supposed to die tonight. You'll be given another chance."
His eyes widened. "Why me and not you?" he cried. "You were an honest man, the only really decent influence in my life. And you believed in me, unlike everyone else."
"I don't have the answers, Ed. I wish I did. But just hang in there. You don't have to be a criminal. It's not your only way out. You proved that this past week."
"I was taking my revenge for your murder, something I wasn't able to do before!"
"And you were trying to protect a lot of lives." There was a smile in the voice. "Even if you can't believe that about yourself, that was part of it too."
He bowed his head. "Perhaps . . . perhaps it was."
"You're not the worst Gotham has to offer, not by a long shot. You'll find your way. I know you will."
Then the voice was gone and he was gone and instead he was waking up inside his body, gasping for breath, his eyes flying open.
He was alive.
He started awake, muttering to himself as he pushed himself up from the keyboard. The keys had made indentions in his cheek again. Really, he should put a couch in here.
It was strange, he mused to himself. Electricity had killed him and electricity had brought him back to life.
Or God had brought him back to life; that seemed to be what his uncle had intimated.
He had never been a big believer in God, really. He had always believed in cold, hard science. And certainly after he had turned to crime he had not imagined that any God would have anything to do with him.
But here he was, alive and well, and trying to see if he could possibly make a living not being the Riddler. He hadn't tried that since his uncle had arranged for him to be admitted to Gotham University, something that had soundly failed thanks to Julie's betrayal.
He wasn't sure yet why he was trying again, or why he was using an alias; he had been granted immunity for his part in catching the Chessmaster. Perhaps it was because if he failed under this name, he would still have another to fall back on.
But of all things, a consultant and "troubleshooter"? Basically, he was doing the work of a vigilante or a private investigator, behind the guise of a sign innocuous enough to not draw suspicion. He liked riddles and puzzles and had decided such a career was worth a try, especially since he believed in harsh justice for those worse than he. Still, he really didn't know if this was an experiment that would work.
He had been keeping tabs on all the cast of characters who had made up the inner circle of his life, particularly Batman, Yin, Gorman, and Julie. Batman and Yin wondered about the riddle that had been left in the morgue, but it seemed to him that they and his enemies were getting along just fine without him. Although Batman seemed a bit harsher of late. And Yin seemed somewhat more short-tempered.
Naturally Batman would hate to fail in protecting someone. But he would feel that way about anyone; it certainly wasn't a sign of actually caring about his old enemy. And Yinsey, well . . . it was probably something similar with her. He wouldn't expect anything else.
Of course, Gorman would dance on his grave, if he had one. As for Julie . . .
He clenched a fist. He did not want to think about Julie.
The door opened and he came to attention. A young girl, her light brown hair pulled back in the bun (so similar to Julie's hairstyle), came into the room and suddenly gasped in surprise, her eyes widening.
"Not what you expected?" He leaned forward, lacing his fingers and displaying the black nail polish. He smirked, the matching black lipstick stretching across his face.
"No," the girl stammered. "You're not." She reached up, as though to keep her wide-brimmed white hat from falling backwards off her head.
He shrugged. "Well, that's what you get when you come to an unconventional place of business."
She snapped back to herself. "Unconventional or not, I've been told you're one of the best." She came forward, placing her white-gloved hands on the edges of the desk.
He smiled. "I can't deny that."
"Good. But what exactly does a consultant and troubleshooter do?"
He leaned back. "You do know what a troubleshooter is, I trust."
"Someone who finds what's wrong and fixes it." Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Exactly. And a consultant offers advice."
She studied him with a scrutinizing eye. "You sound a lot like a private detective to me."
"Yes, but I would have to work for three years under someone else to obtain a private investigator's license." He smirked again. "I wanted to set up shop right away and be my own boss, and to see if that would be possible without actually breaking any laws from an outside standpoint. I don't need a license to be a 'consultant'." He peered at her. "Does any of that bother you?"
"Not really. You seem like someone who will get the job done. In the end, that's all I want."
"Then we understand each other."
She paused. "Do you take any job you're offered?"
"I'm not that desperate," he said boredly. "It has to be a job worthy of my talents."
"I believe this one will be." She brought a chair over and sat down in front of him. "My name is Catherine and I need your help. Someone is trying to kill me. And they're using the police department to ferret me out!"
"Ooh. That sounds intriguing." He stood, crossing to the water pitcher against the wall. After pouring a cup for himself and one for her, he held hers out. "Drink?"
She accepted.
He went back to his desk and sat down, very attentive. "Now, tell me everything."