Chapter 1:
"The Admirer"
Edward Nygma sat brooding in his prison cell in Arkham Asylum.
It was dank and dirty, cold and small, but what was comfort to a place built to house some of the worse and devious criminals known in a highly, Industrial megalopolitan like Gotham City?
Nygma wore a drab, orange jumper, that reminded him of a fruit. He missed his dark green, but flashy Question Mark dapper suit and bowler hat. Clothes made the man, and his clothes struck fear into the germane masses. But in here, this hell hole, he looked like everyone else, and it had become the main reason for his own mood.
The guards were stupid. They had a book of riddles that were child's play to him, but to the guards, it took a great deal of brain matter to even decipher the simplest of riddles that an intelligent five year old could guess.
And they would often ask him for the answer when it was not apparent to their feeble minds.
But to stave off boredom, he would play with them, and offer them clues to get the answer. The drawback to that was they would hold back meals and privileges if he wouldn't tell them.
Another drawback, the guards would ask him for riddles, and knowing their pee-size, presbyterian minds, he would have to give them children riddles, so they would feel smart when they figured them out, and then praise them, appeasing their egos. But he would also give them hard ones, because he enjoyed watching them vent over the answers. He had to have some fun.
Every once in a while, he would get a letter that would lift his spirits. It was from an admirer, and one who challenged him with riddles that taxed even Nygma to the point that he would mull over them for days—not the riddles, but the ciphers hidden within. So, he would have to figure out the cipher, hidden in the riddles, to get the true real understanding of the letter.
Of course, his letters were always opened before they were given to him. It was policy, but his admirer wrote the letters in such a smart way, that they it tricked the guards, even the Warden, into making them believe they were just 'fan letters'. And there was nothing wrong with that.
Nygma waited for his admirer's letters. At first, they came randomly, then monthly, but most recently, weekly, and today was the day one would be arriving. Friday was mail call.
However, time had passed for his letter to arrive, and he was getting upset, because he had still not received it. And that's why he brooded in his cell. The guards had obviously opened his letter first and were now trying to figure out the riddle.
The riddle was nothing. It was the cipher, Nygma wanted.
He heard a noise from outside his cell door. The door was metallic and electrified, and supposedly escape proof. His cell was located on the highest level, maximum security, in Arkham. The lock disengaged, and the door opened. He saw two guards standing on either side of the door. The more heftier one of the pair, in his hand, was his letter, opened, and partially crumpled.
Nygma frowned. He hated when they did that. And it had not been the first. It ruined from the feel of his admirer's care for his work.
"It is disingenuous to read personal mail, gentleman," Nygma said, "and quite, factually, a criminal offence. I wish to remind you again, a letter for me is one of the only things I do favour in being in this dreary place!"
"Look at him," the heftier guard said, "big man on campus, telling us what to do?" He crumbled the letter fully. "You'll get your fan letter when we are done with it, Edward."
The other guard, a thinner one, cast his eyes away. When the heftier one wasn't partnered with him, he was more civil, and quite inquisitive. Once, he even asked Nygma about one of Riddler's adventures against Batman. Nygma was pleased to tell him, and he listened just like a school boy.
The thing guard carried a shotgun, while the heftier one had a sidearm on his belt. Nygma had no wish to qualm with them, so he took a deep breath and calmed himself.
"Very well, gentlemen," he said. "Would you care to read me my letter? I assume it contains another fascinating riddle that boggles your mind, does it not?"
He also wagered there was a cipher just for him within. And judging by all the other letters, a dozen in all, it may also be the last. The last clue to the bigger picture of what his admirer was trying to tell him. He wanted it, he wanted to read it, to figure it out. He needed conclusion, resolution, and solace. Although, when thinking about it, he pretty much knew what the cipher was going to say anyway.
"Sorry, Edward," the thin guard said. "We have orders not to give this letter to you." His tone was almost sympathetic.
Edward gave him a hard, narrowed stare, as he sat on his bunk. "Any why not? It's mine, give it to me!" He wasn't upset about the letter, per se, but he wanted that last cipher. It was crucial to him, wanting to solve the ultimate riddle within his admirer had sent him over the last couple of months. He needed it, like an addiction.
"He isn't here yet?" said the thin guard. "This wasn't our decision."
"Who isn't here yet?" Edward's angry faltered with the inquiry.
"Your secret admirer," the heftier guard said with a crooked smirk. "The great author to all these wonderful riddles. He's meeting with the Warden as we speak, this Adam Nichols. He says he wants to met you, saying that this will be his last letter."
Nygma wasn't surprised, he knew this would be the last letter. "My admirer is here to see me? I doubt the Warden will allow it. This is a maximum security prisoner, after all."
"Well, he's here, and Nichols is going through the basic security checks. But I don't know why. Most of his riddles are duds."
"That's because your adroitness is second only to your dimwittedness," Nygma replied, not even bothering to disguise his annoyance.
Nygma then mused to himself. Why would his admirer visit him at all? His letters and hereto corresponding responses were enough. Was the letter in the hefty guard's hand merely a prop to an end? And Nichols has the real letter? No, that would be suspicious.
He calmed himself. He knew his admirer, Adam Nichols, would not disappoint him. His ciphers were a means to an end, and Nygma wished to know the endgame.
And the final riddle.
The elevator at the end of the floor dinged and two men stepped out, one was the Warden and another an armed guard. A third man exited the elevator after them, and Nygma, his view of the elevator a straight-shot from his cell, was opened up, when the guards at his cell door separated to greet the others.
Adam Nichols was a tall, young, think looking man, brown hair, with octagonal glasses, and was dressed in a plaid-checked suit, which struck Nygma as quirky. It was almost as if, Adam Nichols, purposely wore the suit to draw attention to himself, and made it appear that it was not his normal attire. It did look big on him. It also made him look nerdy.
"Get up!" the hefty guard ordered Nygma, as Adam Nichols drew near.
Nygma did so, without reservation. He was curious about his admirer. And yet, he was also embarrassed for the young man for his dreadful attire. It almost made Nygma laugh. His letters showed such intelligence, but now to see that this person was the one who offered him such brain-teasers off-set Nygma's image of the man, and he questioned his wonder of the man.
And yet, looks can be deceiving. Not many people could pull off the ciphers within riddles like this young man could. It bordered on genius.
Nygma waited for Nichols to draw closer, then said, "Good afternoon," he greeted cordially.
"Good evening, Mr. Nygma," Nichols said with a boyish smile, stopping near. "I wager they don't allow you to see the time of day often. It's nearly dusk."
Nygma made no reply. He only got one hour a day out of his cell for recreational activities.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," Nichols started again. "When the Warden agreed to allow correspondence with those within Arkham Asylum, under strict supervision, a pen-pal exchange, I was excited to be matched up with you." Nichols smiled shyly, scratched a finger to his temple. "No, I tell a fib. I requested you, because I find you so fascinating; not for your criminality, but for your intellect. You see, I own a small games store called Mastermind Toys that caters to gifted children, and very rare do I come across people with such calibre as yourself."
Flattery, and a fan crush, how cute, Riddler thought humorously. "Thank you for your letters and the riddles," he said. "The content was fascinating and the riddles, I must admit, were somewhat interesting. I appreciate the effort that went into them."
They shared a moment's glance, and for a moment, Nichols eyes quickly blinked, in a weird sequence, as if giving morse code. Nygma instantly caught it.
Nichols then smiled. "I also waited eagerly for your responses," he said. "Your brain is wired for puzzles and abstract thinking. Often, when we are children, we are taught logic is the only method to live our lives. But, in truth, we must think outside the box to live happier lives. Corresponding with you helped brighten a rather mundane existence. That is why I wanted to thank you in person, with special permission from the Warden. And I wanted to give you…"
Suddenly, Nichols frowned when he saw his letter crumbled up in the hefty guard's hand. "Is that my letter, sir? Why would you ruin it in such a disrespectful matter? Is this policy, Warden?"
The Warden said no, and scolded the guard, and asked for the letter, then straightened it out as best he could before passing it to Nichols. Nichols straightened it out even more, but looked upset that his work already had the look of a read newspaper, put back together without a care for the next person to read it.
Nichols looked somewhat satisfied. "Unfortunately, this will be my final letter, sadly. The pen-pal exchange program is ending, I was told. Budget cuts?" The Warden nodded. He turned back to Nygma. "And I wish to read my final correspondence to you personally, so I can receive a response, as you would not be able to write back, I'm afraid. I am privileged to be here."
Nygma felt admired. He stood up straighter. He wished to hear the letter.
With additional straighten of his letter, Nichols said, "May I read the letter?"
"Go ahead, Mr. Nichols," the Warden said. "But once you receive an answer, you will be escorted from Arkham. This is highly unorthodox to say the least. But, thanks to your sizeable donation to the police fund, you were gifted this special thank-you. And besides, the guards enjoy your zingers. They get a kick out of them."
Nichols smiled humbly. "I'm glad they are enjoyed," he said. He gave another series of quick blinks of his eye lids to Nygma. Nygma followed it with a few of his own to acknowledge, he hoped his morse code was up to snuff. "This is not a letter, but merely a riddle, as I knew I would be coming here today. Pay close attention to the words, Mr. Nygma. Once you've heard the riddle, kindly, if willing, give me an answer. I'm eager to see if I can stump the great Riddler."
Nygma laughed short. "No one has yet done so, and I doubt you will be that person, Mr. Nichols, but your attempts have been amusing. Please, go ahead."
Nichols cleared his throat. There was a semi-quietude in the place as he began:
"Forever the nigh, heed my calling,
To speak this mystery, epee at hand.
I need not imbue my nature, firstly;
Thrice you listen to elope.
What Am I?"
Nygma smirked cleverly. "Oh, you are 'my saviour'."
"Exactly!" Nichols replied. "Killem' both! Now!" he shouted, fisting the hefty guard in the arm.
Nichols stepped back, and the hefty guard with the sidearm quickly pulled it out of its holster and shot both the accompanying guards, shooting the one who came with the Warden in the chest and his partner in throat. Then he picked up the shotgun and pointed it at the Warden. There was a moment's hesitation, but then he fired. The Warden was launched, thrown back like a projectile, and then dropped like a stone. The guard's killing spree was strategic, almost robotic in fashion, as if he was being controlled.
"Thank you, Officer," Nichols said with an arrogant tone. "You are released."
The hefty guard nodded, then took his own life, putting the shotgun to his mouth, and pulling the trigger. His bloody, headless corpse dropped. Prisoners in other cells cheered at the carnage.
Riddler was shocked, but it was not unexpected. When Nichols recited the riddle, he quickly deciphered the message within. It was both a message and a command, but the command was not for him. How and when Nichols' managed to 'program' the guard was an intriguing question.
"Quick! Our escape is here!"
Nichols pointed to a brick wall, apart from any cell, and suddenly, it exploded with a force that could only be delivered by something attached or just recently thrown at it. They were far enough away from any blast and the debris that came spewing inwards.
Nichols waved smoke away, and stepped over the rumble to the hole in the wall, as alarms blared. His hair whipped in the wind, as he ripped off his false face.
"How?" Riddler asked curiously.
Nichols smiled. His real face that of a man a little older and more mature, partially revealed behind latex and a wig. "I'll explain everything later! Come here, we're going to jump!"
Riddler went to the hole in the wall, stepping over the debris, and looked down. Within a minute, more guards would be on top of them, and would apprehend them both, attempting to escape, adding years to Nygma's sentence.
Nygma took at Nichols dumbfounded. "Are you crazy? It's too high! There is water down there in the form of a moot, a deterrent for would-be escapees, and around that is an electric fence. But the fall will snap our neck instantly when we hit the water!"
"As one says when you are about to do something foolish and reckless," Nichols said: "There's a method to my madness. Trust me, Edward. Reinforcements are close at hand." He pointed, and just then, two points of light began to emerge from the sinking, yellow sky. Two flying discs with pilots emerged into sight, with control panels attached out front.
Nygma heard the elevator doors ding open behind them and militarized orders to secure the area. Other prisoners shouted: "Take me with you!". Nygma knew more guards were also be coming up an adjacent stairway, blocking both standard access points of escape.
"Halt! Or we'll shoot!" came the order.
But Nichols ignored it, and pushed Nygma out the hole. Nygma screamed, more like swore at Nichols, as Nichols followed him, as they fell, mostly likely to their certain deaths. The water racing up towards him, or he falling down towards it. Either way, the effect was the same.
Then the two flying disc whisked in with their anti-gravity pad, and caught them both, one in each flying disc, the pilot helping each to their feet. Nygma was told to wrap his arms around the pilot for security, and Nichols did the same. The discs turned swiftly, and soared into the sunset, like an old Western cowboy movie. Only here, the bad guys had won the day.
And as the guards fired at them from the hole in the prison wall, two lasers ejected from the back of each flying disc at their attackers, hindering their retaliatory efforts, and covering their escape.
To be continued...
