"Ladies, I assume you've heard of Mahatma Gandhi?"

The Iceberg Lounge had seen a colorful influx of patrons tonight, interrupting the evening's beginning as a quiet chat between friends. Business was business, and Ozzie had long since been called away on it—leaving Edward with a glass of wine and a recitation unfinished.

But there was a bright side.

Ozzie was fine company for talking. An arched tone and clipped cadence made him sound as though he were picking his way through words, and it was hard to argue with his flair (though it didn't quite match Edward's). He was educated enough—intelligent enough, even, a different thing altogether given education—to be able to hold his own in conversations Edward had come to look forward to. When they hit their stride together, it was a fencing match, all flash and precision and too elegant for most people to follow.

Yet when Edward had a tale to tell and dear Oswald was not in a cooperative mood, it made for a difficult night. That had been the nature of this evening; it took a sour turn the moment Edward attempted to line up an amusing monologue. (Edward would later be taking a close look at exactly how badly Ozzie had actually needed to excuse himself from the conversation. The man had left the lounge unattended on busier nights.)

But in every cloud a silver lining—and in every lounge a bright-eyed brunette in a silver dress.

As a bonus, Edward also had the attention of her scarlet-clad friend shooting him sinuous smiles. They had each given him the honor of a dance and he had returned their favors with drinks.

And now it was time to share his engaging wit. His opening question hadn't reeled in a response yet, but he didn't strictly require one. He gave an easy baritone laugh. "Of course you have—"

"How'd you know the Wasteland got hit?" the girl in scarlet asked him.

Edward's smile thinned for a moment as he gritted his teeth. How he hated interruptions. But far be it from him to refuse a charming young woman an explanation of his deductive prowess, whether or not she would understand it. Besides, they had all night.

He would just restart the joke—again—later.

"Simple," he declared, and if his voice was slightly strained, then at least it still had enough allure to earn another of the woman's smiles. This topic was a familiar track, and now that he had made the switch, one word gave way to many. "Anyone could see that this is quite the crowd for a Thursday evening. Something must have brought you all here—and later than usual, no less." His fingers laced together and his mouth curled into a smile for both of his new acquaintances. "You were already beautifully dressed for the occasion. Suggesting, of course..." His voice rolled slowly through the words to ensure they hung on each one. "That you relocated from other similar plans. And in such numbers! A sure sign of trouble, even if one isn't a skilled interpreter of body language." He flipped one hand over to gesture at a man in a suit—one of the newcomers—making a quietly frantic phone call. The man was one of a fair few. "Which I just so happen to be. So really it's only too obvious that some incident at another club drove its clientele here to our fair lounge."

The brunette stared blankly into her scotch glass as if seeking answers there instead of in the didactic summary he had just laid out. "But how did you know it was the Wasteland?" her friend pressed on.

Well, he had asked, but only to verify the conclusion he had already come to. "Timely knowledge is everything. Gotham is a city of one-man crusades, my dear, and I find it pays to know at any given moment who might take up the sword against whom."

"You guessed?" she said dubiously.

He flashed a smile so violent his teeth clicked. "I don't need to guess," he enunciated. He leaned back, letting his shoulders sink down comfortably. "Now. You do of course have some passing knowledge of Mahatma Gandhi."

The brunette looked up, briefly inspiring the impression of continued interest on her part. Then she said matter-of-factly, "Isn't that Karen over there?"

"Yep," her friend agreed without looking. They rose gracefully, linked arms, and vanished like twin specters into the crowd.

Edward stared after them, so shocked that he was still settled back in his seat. He had barely gotten out the premise. He opened his mouth to make an exclamation over it. Then he pressed his lips together and twisted around to see whether there was anyone to make such a comment to.

Oswald was making his determined way toward his offices from what had likely been a few firm words with his head of security, a journey that would bring him right by Edward's table. Edward straightened up and prepared to rattle off a number of indignant complaints to his friend. (Purely out of camaraderie, as the service was on par despite the incursion of customers.)

"Don't think you can sneak off with free drinks just because of the crowd," Ozzie warned as he passed. Then he, too, was gone, barreling into the back rooms.

Edward collapsed back against the seat, and this time his posture suffered for it. He folded his arms for good measure. His heel beat out an aggressive tempo on the floor.

Well.

He could do better than this.

In retrospect, his efforts had perhaps gone a tad too far.

But was it truly Edward's fault if he had taken the opportunity to make two solutions coincide? This particular scheme had been weeks in the works, and if he moved up the schedule by a few days, well, he had the quickest mind in Gotham. There was no such thing as a rush job with the Riddler. And too if he got to conclude his diverting little play on words, all the better.

Frankly, the opening line of I assume you've heard of Mahatma Gandhi was turning over and over in his head, and the opportunity to finish it out couldn't come soon enough. But the thing had to be done right.

Unfortunately, Batman never had been the sort for jokes.

This was particularly true when he was in the midst of suffering a humiliating loss at Edward's hands. He had sprung right into the clutches of a beautifully crafted trap. He was at the mercy of the Riddler, precisely according to plan.

And now for an encore—the addendum to that plan.

Edward leaned forward on his cane with an extra sharp smile. "Rather embarrassing, for the world's greatest detective," he said conspiratorially. Batman made no response; he wasn't a man to fill silences unless he found an opening. Nor was he a man to struggle against a trap once he had determined brawn wouldn't win him an escape. All this left Edward with a still and sullen vigilante, but that was just as well—all that was needed was his attention. Edward rocked back on his heels, expression the picture of surprise as though a marvelous idea had just occurred to him. "It would be such a shame to wrap up this early, don't you think? I happen to be in a generous mood tonight."

"What are you planning, Nygma?" Batman asked flatly.

Edward held one finger aloft. "One last test of your wits. A bonus round, if you will."

The ever-familiar grim expression didn't budge. "Do I have a choice?"

Edward laughed, a proud teacher's aren't you a clever one in the tilt of his head and the set of his shoulders. "As a matter of fact, you don't." He folded his arms over the sound control counter and crossed one leg behind the other.

"I don't have all night."

"I'll be happy to oblige if you're so eager for your clues." Because the opportunity for symmetry presented itself, he realigned the wording and intoned, "It may come as a surprise to you that Gandhi wore no shoes."

Batman's eyes narrowed.

"Oh, I'm not finished," Edward reassured him. He popped his heel against the floor like a tap dancer and took clicking, even steps across the room, the cane pressed horizontally against the small of his back. He could feel Batman's weaponized glare burning into the back of his neck. "Because of this, his feet developed exceptional calluses."

What a wonderful conclusion this was wrapping up to be. And the night had started out so frustrating.

"He of course adopted a vegan diet." Edward was beginning to build up a rhythm. He spun on his heel. "But this left him physically weak—"

Batman was gone.

Edward's trap was open and bereft. It had been cut straight through, the metal elements still glowing dull red with heat. Worse, the darkness of the room left everything to the imagination. Edward spun around again, less gracefully this time. Every shadow was a Schrödinger's Batman.

"Sloppy," the vigilante decided from behind him.

Edward let out a noise that was a touch too high to be a proper scoff and took a single swing at his enemy.

Batman caught his would-be blow. Edward was in handcuffs before he could make a second move. (A move he wouldn't have made—really, the first attempt had been on principle. He knew the futility of it.) The cane clattered to the floor and Edward was swiftly frog-marched toward the exit, seemingly with no effort on Batman's part.

To add insult to injury, there was a trace of humor in the detective's voice when he suggested, "Maybe you need more protein."

Batman had refused to stay for any amount of time after leaving Edward where the police would find him, despite multiple perfectly logical arguments on Edward's part. He invoked everything from the substandard methods of the police force to the recent upheaval at the Wasteland as a reason he shouldn't be left unattended. But the ever-stoic Batman was immune to rhetoric and sailed off into the night.

Now the joke was looping at the physically weak line. Edward bounced the back of his head off the brick wall he was slumped against in time with the stressed syllables.

Edward knew from the moment he thought Well, this couldn't get any worse that the night would, in fact, get worse. He simply didn't know how until a car pulled up in front of him and Harvey Bullock stepped out of it.

Detective Bullock had always had an unsettling way of negating Edward's verbal efforts, as if their dissimilarities caused them to cancel each other out. But that had never stopped Edward before. Even stuffed in the narrow backseat and told to make this ride "quiet and painless," he refused to let it stop him now.

He was meeting rampant resistance.

Perhaps because it was nearly five in the morning, Bullock's patience was paper-thin and just as likely to draw blood. With tousled hair, bloodshot eyes, and an inside-out dress shirt, the detective was a spectacularly menacing sight.

Edward had managed to fit most of the joke in edgewise out of pure determination. He turned sideways to stretch one leg out. (The backseat was not a place for grown men, much less men with legs as long as Edward's. He couldn't fit his legs in the space in front of him, so his only two options were to shove them to the left or brace them on the passenger seat.) "It was also because of this diet that Gandhi's breath was fetid—"

"Can it, Nygma," Bullock snapped. Edward craned his neck to shoot a delicate look at the speedometer. It was not reassuring. "What kinda genius epiphany made you pull this crap at four in the morning, huh?"

Edward opened his mouth to reply, but knew better than to speak when Bullock pointed a stern finger over his shoulder.

"I'll tell you why. Because that's when the freakin' Batman is out doing his thing."

This was why it was difficult to explain himself—or anything at all—to Bullock. GCPD's prize detective was much more interested in making his own accusatory, disjointed, and entirely inaccurate commentary. Edward pressed his lips together furiously and opted to prop his knees on the back of the passenger seat, sinking down in his own seat to do so.

"And you've just gotta get the Batman involved. Hell, I didn't even see any money or anything this time, Nygma. Did you even steal anything, or did you just send Batman a gilded invitation?"

Edward refused to answer, which conveniently kept him from having to scramble for a snappy response.

"That's what I thought." The way Bullock made the turn into Arkham's gates was nothing short of hazardous. "Just pulling crap for attention."

Edward scowled and drummed his fingers on his thigh as the car slowed. "Here's your stop, Nygma," Bullock announced. He twisted around to unleash a sleep-deprived glower on his unfortunate passenger. "Maybe try staying here until you're fixed this time."

Edward, suddenly aware that he was slumped down with his legs stuck up at odd angles, straightened as best he could. "I am not the one who needs fixing," he declared. The car door opened, and Edward was only too glad to step out, even if it meant entering the care of Arkham's doctors.

Bullock ran a hand over his face. "Whatever."

No one wanted to be locked away in Arkham, but at this point (assuming the absence of certain more troubling doctors and administrators), the place held a measure of comfort for many of Gotham's so-called insane. Familiarity breeds contempt, and since everyone had from the beginning held as much contempt for the institution as they were capable of generating, all that repeated visits could increase was a sense of apathy.

Nowhere was this attitude better exemplified than in the common room. Edward sat backwards on a chair, feet planted wide and arms folded nonchalantly over the top. His captive audience was setting up a chessboard—or rather, Jervis Tetch was doing so, primly placing one piece at a time. The esteemed Doctor Crane held a positively inspiring level of disinterest in his surroundings (likely the result of ten straight months of incarceration). He watched the chessboard with half-lidded eyes. He had not moved at all in the past twenty minutes, and his posture was horrendous.

"Well, gentlemen?" Edward prompted. "Have you guessed the punch line?"

"Eight soldiers carrying clubs," Tetch murmured as he set each pawn in its square with utmost delicacy.

The good doctor stirred at last. "It's a joke, Edward." He raised one eyebrow. "You're supposed to tell us."

Edward's mouth curved into an easy smile. "Very well—if you give up."

Jonathan leaned back and closed his eyes with a sound very much like ugh.

"Knowing all these things about Gandhi," Edward recited in his best stage voice, "we can say with certainty that he was..." His eyes gleamed and his grin turned toothy. "A super-callused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis."

The conclusion was a weight off his chest. Edward took a deep, contented breath in the space before they realized how ingenious his wit was.

Tetch held the last pawn up in front of him and mouthed words at it. All at once, his face cleared. "Super-callused fragile mystic," he chanted, swinging the pawn like a conductor's baton in time with the cadence, "hexed by halitosis!" He let out a delighted little laugh. "Super-callused-fragile-mystic-hexed-by-halitosis!"

Jonathan glared darkly at Edward, as he glared at anyone and anything that set Tetch off on a path he didn't approve of. But before that expression took hold, Edward had detected something that might have been a twitch of a smile.

At this point, it would do. At least his joke—the complete joke, finally—had gone appreciated. Jonathan turned his attention back to the chessboard with a slight shake of his head. Tetch swung his legs boyishly and chortled to himself.

For his part, Edward rested his chin on his forearms and melted into a warm, wide smile.