Riddle Me A Rhyme

1. Sanity

"I'm watching you, Nigma."

The Dark Knight's words rang through Edward's head again and again. Why did those words bother him so much? It was just Batman. What could Edward expect from the great Bat?

A chance. That's what.

So, maybe Edward had made some bad choices. Perhaps he'd let his mind run away with him... But, Edward Nigma was a completely reformed man. Why couldn't Batman just accept that?

Edward never thought about hurting people anymore!...As long as they didn't tread on his nerves. But, really, isn't it true that even sane, normal, average citizens of Gotham, citizens of the world, want to hurt each other every once in a while? The only thing that mattered was that Edward was never going to act upon such thoughts again! He'd embraced his treatment! And, he had been rewarded for it! He didn't think about puzzles anymore! He didn't!

It had been four months since Edward Nigma had been let out of Arkham Asylum on parole. And, he'd never felt more alone or more lost in his life.

Initially, the media had gone on a field day. His face had been in the paper every morning, and every word he had uttered had been taken as a clue for some future crime. After all, no one had truly believed that Arkham could cure anyone. When a month had passed and 'The Riddler' had never shown his face, the media gave up, moving on to bigger and brighter things, like the outbreak of Mr. Freeze. And, the only things that Edward had left were an unexceptional apartment, an unexceptional mindset, and, truly, an unexceptional life. He had some memories; he was ashamed to think of them. He was supposed to be ashamed to think of them. Normal, sane, average citizens weren't supposed to feel proud about hurting people and going to prison.

But, Edward had to admit... Being sane was not as liberating as Arkham's doctors made it out to be. In fact, Edward had never been more miserable in his life. He didn't have money - well, none that was in his 'official' bank account, anyway... But, as long as he was a normal citizen of Gotham, he wasn't supposed to have money stowed away in fake accounts. There was no way he was going to access that illegal money! And, he didn't have a job: who would hire a former super-criminal?

He did, however, have Batman monitoring him. Every single night things made noise outside Edward's room. Whether it be a swish, or a scrape, or a clang, there was always noise. Not much, but it was enough for Edward, who laid awake all night in an ordinary bed with plain white sheets, to hear. And, Edward knew the sounds were always Batman, deliberately announcing his presence. Because, despite the fact that the Bat was the one who insisted upon getting treatment for all of the villains... Batman was the one person who would never, ever be able to believe that people could change.

"I'm watching you, Nigma."

Because, despite himself, Batman was sure of one thing: there was no cure for insanity.

And, Edward Nigma knew the exact same thing.

It was just another night in Gotham City. The news was covering a variety of stories... A charity ball... A new fashion line opening from Metropolis... Scarecrow's breakout of Arkham... Bruce Wayne opening another office...

Edward was only half-listening as the news reporter carried on with a story: "...at three o' clock this afternoon. The aquarium had been constructed for scientists at Wayne Enterprises to conduct research on marine life... But, instead, the tanks began to grow cold to the point of becoming solid blocks of ice. Three people who were in the tanks at the time are now in the hospital, one of them in critical condition. Authorities believe that this may be yet another attack by Mr. Freeze..."

Edward groaned, sitting up on his dull, beige couch. Is this what all the people of Gotham feel like every day? Did all the normal, sane, average citizens of Gotham City wake up feeling lost, without a purpose, and with such a lack of direction...?

So, why, then, would anyone ever strive for normalcy?

I can't believe I let them get inside my head. After all those years of being a genius, of being rich, of being respected and feared, of being dangerous and outlandish, of being... The Prince of Puzzles... Edward Nigma had been reduced to just another man. All because some doctors made him actually believe that life would be better if he were in control of his obsessions.

Edward let out a sigh, standing up. He was dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. A tie, without any question marks on it at all, was tied neatly around his neck. His hair was brown again: all traces of hair dye had disappeared from it. No more black hair or red hair. No more hat, either, of course. No more cane shaped like a question mark... He walked out of his apartment building and down the street, receiving only one or two stares from people who thought he looked somehow familiar... But, no one said a word to him.

And, he didn't bother to strike up conversation with any of the people on the street... He walked. And, he walked and walked, with no direction in mind. He had no idea where he would go - better that way, since, as he had discovered, normal people couldn't plan a single thing because it would always blow up in their faces. Nothing ever worked out the way it was planned.

So, there was no logical thought that led him away from the busy streets of Gotham; there was no illogical thought, either. It just happened. It just happened that he walked right into the alleyways, the backstreets where he used to strut about. It just happened that he walked right into Crime Alley.

As a completely lawful citizen of Gotham City, Edward was nothing but a walking target. And, it barely took three minutes of his wandering around the shady neighborhood for unarmed Edward to attract the attention of a few thugs. But, naturally, Edward didn't notice the musclemen until it was too late.

One of the thugs - a large guy with a bald head - grabbed Edward by the collar of his shirt and smiled. "Well, look what we got here, boys. A li'l visitor fer the boss." The man's face soured as he looked at Edward. "Who sent ya?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Edward countered. "Now, please, get your filthy hands off me." That request earned Edward a punch in the jaw. He yowled in pain, kicking his legs to put up a struggle.

"Shut up! That's nothin' compared ta what the boss is gonna do ta ya!"

Edward couldn't remember the last time he'd ever been faced by a thug and treated as an inferior. Just a year or two ago, he had been the one hiring those lowlifes and ordering them around. Not long ago, he had been 'the boss'. Why had Arkham made him change that...?

"Ya might 'uz well stop strugglin'. You ain't gettin' outta this alive!" The bald-headed man tossed Edward to his companions, and they started running down the alley, farther into the 'bad' part of town.

Normal people call for help. "Put me down! Let me go! Let me go right now!" Edward had asked for help before... Just not from the police. Not from Gotham. But, as he realized he might actually be in danger, he threw away what was left of his pride and cried out, "Help! Somebody! HELP! Any-!" His voice was muffled as one of the men carrying him put a hand over his mouth. Not that it would have mattered. There wasn't a decent soul within hearing distance, anyway.

The thugs stopped and looked around before they entered what appeared to be an abandoned toy factory... Red letters that spelled "Santa's Workshop" were fading on the side of the building. The inside of the place was covered in dusty old machinery, cobwebs, and dirt. Rundown. Definitely not someplace that The Riddler would ever have considered keeping for a hideout.

"Boss! Boss, we're back! We brought ya a patient!"

Edward frowned. 'Patient'? Not many people would refer to a prisoner as that...

The bald thug looked around the building uncertainly. "...Boss?"

"Yes, Ronald?"

All three thugs jumped as a man appeared from the shadows. Edward turned his head to look at 'the boss', and his suspicions were confirmed. Who else could ever be that scrawny? The Scarecrow stood before them, wearing a mask to cover his face and a white labcoat to cover his freakishly malnourished body. Both of his hands were covered in latex gloves that were stained with a red substance... But, surely it was just fear toxin.

The bald-headed man, Ronald, spoke again, but his voice was shakier, "W-we... brought ya a... patient..."

The Scarecrow placed a hand on the large man's shoulder. His voice was befitting of a doctor. So very calming and proper... "Oh, Ronald, you've done much better than that. You've brought me four."

"Wha-," the man started before he let out a scream and threw himself at the ground, clutching his head.

The two other thugs watched their companion go into a fit for a moment, awestricken. But, then, the Scarecrow turned to them, wielding a syringe in each of his hands, and the doctor's voice was gone. Instead, it was a chilling sort of whisper that asked, "Who's afraid of needles?"

In an instant, the thugs dropped Edward and turned to run, but it was far too late for them. Each fell to the ground with a needle in his throat.

"Over the hills we go,

Screaming all the way..."

"...Crane?," Edward asked, half-heartedly drawing attention to himself. Maybe it wasn't the smartest thing to do... But, then again, Edward had lost his genius somewhere along the path to losing his insanity...

The Scarecrow's head turned, and, for half a second, Edward was glad that, of all the criminals he could have been taken to, he ended up in the hideout of Dr. Jonathan Crane. Really, no one but another genius would have been able to recognize him. Scarecrow tilted his head, slowly removing his gloves. "Edward Nigma?" The Lord of Despair put his gloves in a pocket on his labcoat and walked around Edward, obviously trying to study the effects of his toxin on the bald man. "I heard you're finished with Arkham."

Edward nodded, holding his jaw as he sat up. "I am. I'm normal, now. The doctors fixed me."

"Really? Interesting. What would a normal person like you be doing out in a place like this, Edward?"

"I... don't know," Edward admitted, trying his best to ignore the awful taste in his mouth as he said those words. "But, that's okay... It's alright for normal people not to know things..."

The Scarecrow removed his mask before turning to face Edward. "But, it doesn't feel 'alright', does it, Edward?" Jonathan Crane's blue eyes seemed to stare right into Edward's mind. As if he knew everything. Everything. As if he understood. "Do you believe all the things the doctors told you?"

"Yes."

"That's a lie."

"Normal people lie sometimes."

"Do you like being normal?"

"Yes..."

"Do you like being normal?"

"...No. It's horrible."

Crane nodded, satisfied with that answer. "I know the sorts of things they've told you, Edward. I used to be one of them."

"Then tell me why it's not working! Why hasn't anything they've said worked? Why? Why do I feel miserable? Why am I not happy..?"

"Simple. They've filled your head with lies. Lies about 'sanity' and 'insanity'... In reality, neither of those exists. There is no such thing as an 'insane' person. We are all simply who we are. Sometimes our traits just... aren't acceptable in the scope of law and order in society... You aren't happy, Edward, because those people who call themselves doctors have drilled into you the idea that you can change who you are. But, you can't."

Edward listened, fascinated. Something was different about listening to Crane. Different than listening to Arkham's doctors. Back in Arkham, Edward had decided he desperately needed treatment. So, he'd forced himself to listen, to cooperate, to do everything the doctors told him to... And, that's what they'd wanted. But, Crane... Somehow, what he said just... made sense. Edward didn't have to force himself to believe it. It wasn't something he expected to hear, like he'd expected the doctors to tell him to forget about puzzles. No, Crane's words were unexpected. Yet, they were the most welcome words in all the world. Those words were exactly what Edward wanted to hear.

Scarecrow pulled his mask back over his face then, and he took out a syringe filled with a red liquid. "It's such a shame that they can ruin perfectly good minds so easily," he said, moving toward Edward.

"Wait! No! Crane, please don't!," Edward yelped, trying his best to crawl away from the approaching needle. Think, Edward, think... Normal Edward Nigma would probably have tried to run away. But, if what Crane had said held any merit, there really was no such thing as 'normal' Edward... And, besides, there was no way he could outrun Scarecrow... At a dead end, Edward had nothing left to do but to listen to an aching in his head that told him to talk. "You can't kill me, Jonathan Crane! Why do you even want to?"

"I cannot afford to let a lab rat get away, Edward. Surely you understand... I need to know how the toxin affects you..."

"But, you can't!" Edward glanced around the room, trying to think of anything that might save him. "I..." His eyes caught a glimpse of a mural on the wall depicting a group of elves dancing in the snow. "I... have a cold!"

"What?"

"Yes, I've got a cold! You can't give me the toxin! What if the sickness affects the formula? What if it amplifies the powers of the formula, leading you to believe that your toxin is strong enough for Batman? And, then, when you administer it to the Bat, it doesn't work, and he sends you packing! Back to Arkham! You just escaped yesterday! Is it worth it... Jonathan?" Edward took a few deep breaths, pride suddenly swelling up inside him. His mind... His brilliant mind... Oh, it was back! At last!

Scarecrow took a step back, just eyeing Edward for a few moments. "Is that you, Edward? Or is that the fear talking?"

I know this... I know what to say. I'm a genius! Not 'a' genius - THE genius! I know the answer! I know all the answers! "Of course it's the fear, my creepy compadre. But, where would I be without fear?"

Jonathan Crane released a heavy breath, lowering the syringe into an unthreatening position. "Back in Arkham. Or, dead already."

"Back in Arkham?," Edward asked curiously, knowing that his best odds existed only if he could keep the Scarecrow talking.

"If you didn't fear the opinions of other people, you never would have sought 'treatment'. You wouldn't care that Gothamites view you as a deranged, rambling lunatic..."

"They most certainly do not!" Edward cleared his throat. "...I mean, The Riddler was never seen that way... Not as a lunatic..."

The Scarecrow put the syringe away entirely, and his voice reverted to its high, cold screech, " 'Was never'? You speak about The Riddler as if he is something of the past, instead of who you really are..."

"Well, he is, of course. He doesn't exist anymore. The doctors took him away."

"They also took away your mind. You got that back."

Edward shook his head. How can he possibly know that? "Minds can change. That's different."

"Your mind has changed."

Edward's eyes wavered from the crudely-sewn burlap mask that was the Scarecrow's face. "You might have been a psychologist once, but you don't have any power over me. You don't have the credentials anymore."

"Whatever you say, Edward."

"Besides, you don't understand! I've been good for over a year, now. I haven't even looked at a crossword, or a maze, or a decent book..."

"But, you've wanted to."

"That doesn't matter! I haven't! That's what matters..."

"Inside, you know what they've been doing to you... They've been degrading you, Edward... There's no room for a genius in the civilized world. They want sameness. Everyone has to be the same. You fell for their tricks, Edward, but you don't have to keep falling..."

"No. I'm still a genius. I don't need puzzles. I don't need crime."

"Oh, but you want it, don't you? You desperately want the satisfaction of solving what few others can. You want to stand out, to rid the world of those who... don't deserve to live."

Edward grasped at his hair - his natural, un-dyed, normal, dull, ordinary hair - and closed his eyes shut. "It doesn't matter! I can't! I'm not The Riddler! I'm not! He's gone!"

The Scarecrow lashed out, grabbing Edward's forearm. He rolled the sleeve up and pressed his spindly fingers against the skin as if testing the pulse. "Is he?"

"I can't bring him back! It doesn't matter if I want to! I'm not a criminal anymore!"

"But, you are."

"No! They turned me into this! There's no going back!"

"You want to go back, though."

"There's no going back!"

"Do you want to go back?"

"I can't!"

"Do you want to go back?" Jonathan Crane's fingers pressed harder against the skin on the inside of Edward's arm, nails sinking in.

Edward shrieked, trying to pull his arm away. "Let go!" He practically heard the sound of the Scarecrow's nails piercing through his skin. The tears felt like they were melting his eyes... Crying. Why was he crying...? Weak... so... weak. He was powerless. Absolutely powerless. Just like any average person would be in that situation. And, to think, he'd wanted this powerlessness. Not long ago, he had held power... Not only power. He'd had confidence. He wouldn't have cried! Not as The Riddler!

"Do you want to go back?"

"Yes! I want to! I can't, but I want to! I don't want to be like this anymore..." He coughed, trying to cover up the sob that he knew the Scarecrow would hear.

But, Scarecrow's voice was professional again. "Good. See what happens when you cooperate?" He loosened his hold a bit on Edward's arm. "All I ask for is the same cooperation you gave to the doctors at Arkham. And, my results come in far less time, Edward..."

"Results...?"

"You don't want this miserable existence, Edward. You want to go back to a life of crime; you want to be yourself again. I can help you."

"...Why would you, though? ...Even if you could..."

"Listen closely: I'm difficult to understand. I'm as elusive as a handful of sand. Even if you perceive me, you know me not, before you can tell me what I have forgot... What am I?"

Edward blinked furiously, listening with a pained look on his face. "A riddle..."

"Just a riddle?"

"...My riddle. I've used that one before."

"Indeed you have..."

"You... really are going to help me?"

"Of course, Edward. I'm the only one who can help you. As long as you'll allow me to."

"...I want my puzzles back..."

"I can fix your problem quickly, actually..."

"How quickly?"

"Oh, by tomorrow you'll be perfectly fine. And, Gotham City will be screaming about the return of The Riddler."

"Do I have to take more drugs?"

"Actually, on doctor's orders, you are going to have to stop taking all drugs that have been prescribed to you."

"That will help?"

"It won't do any harm."

"Anything else..?"

"Just one thing." The Scarecrow's right hand held Edward's arm in place, and his fingers stretched out the skin in one particular spot... In almost a single movement, Scarecrow's left hand pulled out the syringe again and drove the needle directly into the most visible vein. "Take this, and call me in the morning," he rasped as Edward pulled away, eyes wide with surprise. "That will be all for today, Edward."

Edward watched Jonathan Crane stand up and pull out a knife, then walk over to the bald man, who was clutching his chest, unable to cry out any longer... And, then the scene blurred, and Crane disappeared. And, the thug disappeared. And, Edward was watching his father lean over his sleeping mother and slide a knife across her throat, and Edward screamed and no one heard. And, his father ran away, and Edward couldn't move. And, he stayed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed.