Edward Nygma was not having one of his better days.
Not that any given day in Arkham City could even generously be described as "good." He had his hobbies to keep him busy certainly, but setting up his games and riddles meant wading through a never ending stream of cretins and thugs too dumb to live. Most of them didn't, it was true, but it didn't make it any less annoying.
Another thing was the atmosphere. All the shouting and shooting and throwing things, and whimpering. To hear them, no one at all was supposed to be there, and everyone in Arkham was there by pure accident. Granted the Gotham City police seemed to recruit from the bottom of the class every time, but even they couldn't miss gang tattoos and henchman uniforms. And they wondered why they kept getting caught. At least he was there because he wished to be for the moment; work to be done and all that. Still, it had been a most trying day, and he looked forward to returning to his lair and relaxing.
And so he waded through the debris strewn streets, the fools and annoyances, admiring the way his largest question marks lit up the night from building tops. Yes, he supposed it could be worse. He could be the sobbing pile of trash in the alley.
Ordinarily he'd have walked on. Any given day there was some poor wretch bemoaning their fate. Once in a while he'd recruited someone desperate and willing to do anything to survive. What gave him pause was that the voice sounded feminine.
As far as he knew there were three female inmates in Arkham City: Catwoman, Poison Ivy, and Harley Quinn—and he wasn't convinced that Catwoman stayed inside the wall most of the time. He supposed they might have started shipping in other prisoners, though he hadn't heard anything through his surveillance. They were too far inside the walls for it to be a guard.
Curiosity killed the cat, Edward, he reminded himself with a sigh, even as he slipped into the alley in search of the sound. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it was not what he found.
Harley Quinn lay in a tangle among some broken boxes, one of her ponytails pulled loose, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth as she sobbed, trying weakly to push herself up into a sitting position. Glass littered the pavement around her and stuck out of bleeding cuts on her arms. Her makeup left dark lines as it flowed with her tears. High above he saw a broken window, glass still clinging to it and wood splintered outward. She'd come out of it with considerable force, and she'd been lucky the boxes had broken her fall.
He knew he should walk away; he had a suspicion of what had happened, and there was nothing to be gained by getting involved. Despite himself he knelt next to her, reaching to help her up, though he had no idea if it might hurt her more. Tearful blue eyes fixed on him, a small hand grabbing at his arm, desperately.
"My fault, I didn't get the joke. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." She trailed off into choked sobs.
His suspicions confirmed, he sighed. This was asking for trouble, but what was the alternative? If he walked away she was as good as dead. In point of fact her psychotic now-ex boyfriend might be on his way downstairs to finish what he'd started. And he really didn't have a desire to see Harley dead. He'd worked with her. He might generously describe them as being on friendly terms most of the time. And her tearful apologies were heartbreaking, even to a villain such as himself.
"I'm going to regret this," he told her, matter-of-factly as he scooped her up. She made no reply, choosing that moment to pass out, her head on his shoulder. He'd never get the blood out of his jacket.
One thing Edward had a wealth of was information. It was a cliché, but no less true for it, that knowledge was power so he made certain to have an abundance of it. Therefore it was a trivial matter to locate a doctor and feed the information to a few of his minions along with specific instructions as to speed and the condition—blindfolded, conscious and frightened—he wanted said doctor in. He'd parked Harley in his bed for the moment, albeit reluctantly. There was nowhere else to put her other than his work table that was currently strewn with bits of traps and trophies. He had no idea where he would sleep, though he could always send the minions back out to find something suitable; it was only a temporary arrangement, after all.
He sat at his bank of computer monitors as he waited, flicking through his multitude of hidden cameras strewn throughout Arkham City, paying special attention to the alley he'd found Harley in. He was curious to see if the clown showed any measure of concern for her well-being one way or the other. As expected, the only thing that moved in the alley were thugs trailing from one place to another, and the occasional political prisoner scurrying by. He leaned back in his chair for the moment, watching the monitors, occasionally flicking them from one location to another, following the movements of gangs and Tyger patrols, watching with some amusement as one of Two-Face's thugs puzzled over one of his trophy cages, and finally following the progress his doctor was making toward the lair.
Ordinarily he didn't care for others visiting his private residence, even those working for him. He liked to keep everything at arm's length at least. Communication through phones or wireless suited his purposes better, though there were admittedly times such wouldn't work, as when one had a rival's ex-girlfriend bleeding all over one's nice sheets. He'd just have to put up with the visitors for the time being.
While he waited, he prepared to receive his hostage. Unaccustomed to visitors as he was, he still had several items stockpiled that would make an unruly houseguest think twice about crossing him. They were mostly intended as surprises for the Detective, but in an emergency, one made do. Humming, he selected an intimidating looking shock collar. It was a prototype, with inelegant construction and exposed wires, but that only enhanced its visual impressiveness. If he was going to have the doctor in his home, he was going to make sure the man was frightened enough to do as he was told and not a whit more or less. Yes, holding a gun on him would help, but if there was one thing that Edward had learned from Batman, it was that fear was a very powerful motivator, and shadowed, nebulous fears played nicely into a person's imagination. Nothing was more terrifying than one's own personal fears, and lacking Scarecrow's fear toxin, giving the imagination something to run with was the easiest way to evoke them.
To that end, when he observed his minions approaching his lair, he pulled his hat low, laid his cane across the arms of his chair, leaned back, and waited to be seen as lord of his domain silhouetted against monitors that showed every corner of Arkham City. Sometimes power was all about presentation.
He watched, smiling slightly as two thugs, one wearing the regalia of the Joker's gang, the other of Two Face's, escorted a nervous, blindfolded man in a city-issued raincoat. One of them carried a bag of supplies, the other held a pistol on the doctor. Edward gestured and they pulled off the blindfold.
The doctor was a short, balding man with a paunch and a very weak resolve. That combined with his skill in trauma medicine had made him the lucky winner of a trip to the lair. His watery eyes darted around the room, finally focusing on the chair in front of the glowing monitors where Edward posed, fingers laced, smiling slightly.
"Oh, god. You're the Riddler." He seemed in equal measure frightened and confused.
Edward rolled his eyes. "Well, Doctor Wade, aren't you clever? What tipped it off? The question mark jacket, or was it the cane? Maybe the hat? Do regale us with your observational skills."
Doctor Wade cleared his throat, trying to regain some control of the situation. It was admirable. Futile, of course, but one had to give credit where it was due. "What is it you want? Why did you bring me here?"
Edward stood, tossing his cane in the air, catching it, and striding forward with a grin. "You have a patient, Doctor Wade. You will patch her up, care for her, and leave supplies for later if they will be required." As he passed the table, he scooped up the shock collar, fastening it around the man's neck as his two minions held him still. "And you'll do this because, and I know you were wondering, if I press this button—" He held up a small remote control, with a yellow and a red button. He pressed the yellow one, sending a painful electric shock through his captive. "—you get some, shall we say, encouragement."Hhe brushed his thumb over the red button before continuing, "If I press this one, well… I'll need another one of your colleagues. I trust I'm making myself clear?"
The doctor stared at him, wide-eyed and nodded, clearly too afraid to form words just yet.
He smirked, satisfied with the level of compliance, and walked past, motioning the man to follow, his guards trailing behind carrying the supplies. He hesitated slightly before opening the door to his room. He was still not comfortable with the situation, but what else was there to do? Sighing, he opened the door, leading the way inside.
Harley was still unconscious on the bed, her hair a mess, her clothing torn. Blood had soaked the sheets in places despite the makeshift dressings he'd applied, and she looked pale.
Doctor Wade stared a moment. "That's Harley Quinn. What's she—" He caught himself, clearly already mindful of the shock collar. "I need my bag. Some of those need stitches. How was she hurt?" He looked to Edward, and shrank back as his eyes narrowed at the question. "I need to know if there's possible internal damage."
Edward nodded, the explanation made sense. "From what I could tell, she was propelled through a window and fell to the ground. There was debris that probably broke her fall a bit."
"I'd be happier if I could get X-rays…" Doctor Wade began, but trailed off as he saw Edward's expression. "I suppose I'll make do."
"Good man," he replied, moving to one side and half-sitting on his desk. The two thugs took up positions on the door.
The doctor glanced at his audience warily, but quickly turned to his work, opening his bag and laying out medical supplies. Once he was absorbed in his job his manner was less hesitant, his movements quick and certain as he removed bits of glass, cleaned wounds, and stitched. After a few moments he even had the Joker-suited minion handing him items and holding things. Edward watched for any sign of defiance, but once focused the man seemed dedicated to his patient. Or alternately, to keeping the Riddler's finger off the red button. It was all the same to Edward.
He waited as patiently as he could as the doctor patched her up, then slowly went over her, peeling off the corset she was wearing to search for broken ribs, feeling up and down each extremity. The minions watched this with an interest he found uncomfortable, but it was over soon enough and Doctor Wade straightened, looking over at Edward and shifting uncomfortably.
"I've done what I can without x-rays. Her blood pressure is good, and nothing seems broken. I'd still be happier if we took her somewhere I could be sure."
Edward sighed, pushing his hat back with his cane. "Yes, well, let's examine that idea shall we? Her psychotic boyfriend, you may have heard of him, pushed her out of a window. What do you suppose he'd do if he were to hear she'd turned up at one of your hospital stations, hmm?" He crossed his arms, arching a sardonic eyebrow. "Why, do you think he might overreact? Come in guns blazing to finish the job? Considering who it is, maybe a gas attack or something more…'funny' would be his style. Brilliant idea, doctor. I'm amazed you've made it this long without a knife in your throat. Now, what else do you need to do here?"
The doctor glanced over at Harley's sleeping form, and shook his head. "Well, considering that risk, no. I'm reasonably certain there's no internal damage, and I couldn't find evidence of a head injury." He reached into his bag, pulling out a bottle of pills. "She should probably take these, one tablet three times a day, just to keep from getting an infection. Otherwise, she should be seen if any condition worsens or she has deep pain or trouble breathing."
"You're finished, then?" Edward asked, taking the pill bottle and examining it.
Doctor Wade took a breath, and nodded. "If we can't take her to a proper hospital, yes, this is the best I can do."
Edward nodded to his men, who stepped forward. "Very well. Thank you for your time." He raised the remote and pressed the red button.
Doctor Wade didn't scream, one had to give him that. He did however go stiff and white and look close to passing out as the collar released, dropping to the floor. He stared wide-eyed and shaken at the Riddler. "You…but…"
Edward grinned, broadly, quite satisfied with himself. "As I said, if I pressed the red button I'd need a new doctor. I never lied about that, though you shouldn't get too comfortable." He glanced at his minions. "Blindfold him and put him back where you found him."
Fortunately the two did as they were told without attempting banter, and the doctor was grateful to go. After a moment Edward was alone again in his lair. Alone aside from Harley, who muttered something and shifted slightly in her sleep. He sighed, retreating from the room for the moment.
As soon as she recovered, she'd probably go crawling back to Joker. She would only be here a few days at most, then he could get back to his comfortable routine of perfecting death traps and setting out trophies for the bat.
It couldn't possibly be that bad for a few days.