A/N: Hello folks, I'm back with another chapter!

I felt like the stopping point between this one and chapter one was a bit weird, but ah well. These two are pretty short in comparison to later chapters; consider these two expositions of sorts. The next chapter is definitely longer, I can assure you of that.

Thank you for the review, Riskie-Dixie! And thank you to everyone who's favorited/followed this story!

I hope you like this chapter, and don't forget to leave a review!

Eve huffed exasperatedly, a fingerless-gloved hand running through her hair.

What the hell was that?

She was standing in front of her warehouse, about to head in and work on a commission, when something caught her eye. Well, then again, how could she not see the black envelope with a green question mark taped to the door?

Eve pried the envelope off the door and quickly stepped into the warm interior of her building. She hurried to the upper floors and into her office. She sat on her comfy rolling chair, her momentum rolling her across the floor to her desk. Brightly-colored fingernails slid under the envelope flap, prying it open cleanly.

Its contents included a simple card; nothing more, nothing less. She bit her cheek to stop the grin from spreading onto her face, seeing the colorful cover; it morphed various hues to portray a 50s-esque advertisement for a woman drinking soda.

Flipping open the card, however, was another story.

Grey. All grey. Grey background with darker grey lettering. Annoyance simmered in her chest. Whoever sent her this knew exactly her pet peeve, they had to!

Eve cleared her throat, trying to zone out and only focus on the text:

"32 WHITE horses stamp, prance, and then stop on a rolling RED hill.

What am I?"

A smirk made an appearance briefly on her lips. She knew the answer, having been told it a few times during her life. "A mouth talking," she murmured under her breath. But what did that mean in context? Why was she sent a card with only this on the inside, no signature or anything detailing who it could be from?

Connections clicked in her mind and she averted her attention to the envelope. The neon green question mark brought an item of similar shape to her thoughts. Eve spun around in her chair to glance at the question mark sculpture she found two days ago. It was still glowing just as brightly as when she first picked it up. At that moment, she knew that the owner of the statue was the same as the one who sent her the card.

She stared at the card again, noticing that the words "red" and "white" were capitalized. What for? Obviously, they were meant to be emphasized. Was it merely because of her fascination, or was it another clue? "Red and white," she muttered, twirling a lock of hair between her fingers absentmindedly. "Red and white make… pink."

She hastily produced a piece of paper and her favorite pen from her desk, jotting down what she knew so far in her perfect penmanship: "A mouth talking, clearly addressed to me, green question marks, pink…"

It was while she was writing that she finally took notice of the cover of the card. What was the cover for? The woman drinking soda was just plain random. Another thing her artistic vigilance picked out was that the bottle of soda was obviously the focus point of the piece. She scribbled down "soda" as an afterthought.

Wait.

They way her list went put "pink" and "soda" side-by-side. "Pink soda," Eve whispered, realization hitting her like a bag of bricks. Pink soda, also known as Peppy-Pop, was an upcoming popular new beverage made by Soder-Cola, made famous by its bright pink color despite its lemon-lime flavor.

Eve bolted from her chair to stand in front of her window, sweeping her gaze across as much of the city as she could. There, in the far distance, a neon pink sign flickered high above the buildings and against the snow-filled sky.

Suddenly, it was as if a torrent of intellect opened in her mind, making one connection after another until all was clear to her. Revelation in mind, she stuffed her card and the statue into a bright bag and made her way out the door.

"'Ey, lady, whatcha doin' here?" the rough voice of a thug called out in front of her. He, along with a shorter and pudgier thug, were guarding a door littered with green question marks, and she knew at once that this was where she was supposed to be. Above them, the bright pink glow of the Peppy-Pop billboard shone softly down, casting a light reflection on everything.

The pudgy thug elbowed the other one roughly in the ribs. "Ya dimbus, that's a Painta'! Boss wants to see you, go on in," he said, flicking his bald head behind him, to the door. Eve nodded, took an unnoticeable but deep breath, and moved past the guards to open the heavily-greased door.

An uncomfortable feeling pooled in the bottom of her stomach. It was pitch black in the room. There was absolutely no light, not since the door behind her clicked shut on its own accord. Her senses were heightened; she could hear the soft dripping of a faucet nearby. "Hello?" she called out tentatively.

"Riddle me this," apparently, her senses were not heightened enough to hear anyone move to her left, where she immediately snapped her neck to, in order to try and discover the location of the one who spoke, "What brings brightness to a person's day, but many people live in its opposite?" It was a light voice, almost singsong, one in which superiority practically seeped into every syllable.

Her heart began to race as she was put on the spot. People lived in the… "Dark," she murmured, realization dawning. "Light. The answer's light."

Suddenly, an overhead lamp turned on, providing Eve with the light to see her surroundings. It was a relatively small room, smaller than her bedroom, and it was impossibly messy. The wallpaper was peeling, stacks and folders of paper cluttered the floor, and rusting pipes were dripping from the ceiling.

And in front of her, was a man sitting on a sofa.

He was sprawled on it languidly, one arm thrown over the back cushions, one ankle resting on his knee. His other hand twirled a golden cane with a question mark as the tip. "Remarkable!" he praised, halting his twirling and tapping the cane onto the ground before pointing it at her. "I knew you had potential!"

Eve blinked. "Sorry?"

"You did figure out how to get here, did you not?" he asked, an eyebrow cocked.

"Of course I did," she snapped.

The man sighed, centering his bowler hat back atop the center of his head. "I've seen your work, Thaler. Quite impressive. You have exponentially more talent than others in this city. So new and upcoming, too; you don't even know who I am!"

"I do know you… Riddler." Not that she really knew anything past that, but he didn't need to know that. She had only gotten his name out of one of her thugs, as she had begun to memorize each and every Rogue.

He gave a smirk. "As I said, smarter than most."

"I'm not smarter, I'm just more open-minded than others. That's what I'm trying to show people," she defended.

"As I am trying to show these buffoons how much more intellectually superior I am. It seems we both have something to show to others," he said, a knowing glint in his eyes.

"And…?"

"Do I really need to spell it out for you? I propose an alliance of sorts."

Eve scoffed. "Excuse me? I don't even know your actual name."

At that, he stood up and smoothed out his suit jacket, allowing her to get a full glimpse of his outfit. It consisted of a green suit with golden question marks littering the fabric and purple lapels. A loose purple tie hung around his neck atop a loose white dress shirt. His hands were covered by purple fingerless gloves, not unlike her own. "It's Edward Nigma, or, as the world knows me, the Riddler. And you are Eve Thaler, a.k.a. the Painter. It's a… pleasure making your acquaintance. So, what do you say?"

Eve shifted, her brain whirring. "Well, what does this 'alliance' imply, Mr. Nigma?"

He shrugged, beginning to pace around casually, taking a few small steps towards her. "Oh, I don't mean a complete merging of our… efforts, but a few shared heists will do. See, you have manpower, something that I need. And you, well, you need money, and I can get you that."

The hairs on the back of her neck bristled at his cool statement. She crossed her arms, a physical barrier between them as she did the same mentally. "How do you know that?"

Edward stopped his trotting momentarily, an eyebrow raising in an 'you've-got-to-be-kidding-me' look. "Have you looked in a mirror lately?" An affronted look appeared on her face; how dare he? His expression broke and he chuckled, a wide smile parting his lips to reveal clean, straight teeth. "I'm kidding, of course! Your wardrobe could use a bit of a makeover, though; if you want to be a Rogue, you have to dress the part!"

Eve deadpanned. Here she was, wondering whether or not this guy was a dangerous as his title of Rogue implied, and there he was, scolding her on dressing habits! Self-consciously, she glanced down at herself, then winced. Her once vibrantly rainbow-colored sundress was stained and washed, muting the colors, and her boots were practically falling apart. The only thing relatively new about her were her gloves, which she had found only three days ago… in the trash.

"Well, let's say I do accept to be your… ally, what would you have my men do?" she asked.

"I need men to go around placing my 'trophies' around a certain area," Edward explained simply, fiddling with his cane.

She mimed her curiosity and suspicion. "And where is this certain area?"

"Arkham Asylum. Ever heard of the place?" She grimaced, then froze. Arkham Asylum? He wanted her thugs to hide his stuff there, disguising themselves as doctors and nurses or, even worse, inmates? Why the Asylum of all places? She voiced this question, to which he responded, "The reasoning doesn't matter. Not yet, at least. All I ask for right now is your trust."

Her brow furrowed on its own accord. Trust? They had just met mere minutes ago. There was no way she'd just simply trust him in a snap of his fingers. Besides, she didn't even know if she wanted to associate with him or not… or maybe she did. He spoke with such passion, such exuberance, that her artistic side automatically was appeased. He was seemingly much more (of her own form of) exciting than any other criminal, Rogue or someone more low-key, that she had dealt with in the past.

And maybe he could help get her money, or help her with her efforts. As long as she supplied manpower (which she was certain she'd never run out of), he would be alright.

Eve sighed, her thoughts clouding her mind until she decided to blow them away like a strong wind with a single answer. "I… suppose. It's not out of trust, though," she pointed a warning finger at him as his face began to light up, "I need someone who will help me get off the ground. But, why me? Out of everyone in Gotham, why me?"

His light eyes showed his amusement. "Well, to put it simply, you're a lot smarter than anyone else in the city. Just look at you; you're standing here. It might surprise you that I've offered this to a few other people before, but no one could figure out where to meet! So, that is why I want you to work with me, because you've already passed my first test."

She blinked at his explanation. If she wasn't aware that he was a narcissistic Rogue with a grudge against anyone with even a slightly-inane thought process, she might have blushed at the semi-compliment. "...Oh. Alright."

The Riddler practically danced closer to her, his steps more like skips. "I knew you'd come through. However, I do believe some trust is needed in order for our relationship to blossom." Without warning, he threw an arm around her shoulders and turned their bodies so that they were facing the door.

"So, how about we rob a bank together?"