The Original Genius

The Iceberg Lounge was a place Bruce never wanted to go to. It was like a sore thumb on Gotham's Bay. From above, it was like a diamond protruding from the ground of Gotham. He had to shrug off whatever callous thoughts he had on the design and merely had to show his face; especially for Tommy and Silver.

The Aston Martin DB Mark III hadn't been used in nearly five days and he knew that needed to be changed. Bruce remembered when he landed at Gotham International Airport. The car had been waiting for him and Alfred stood beside it. He almost felt a sense of deja vu; except the man he envisioned was years younger.

During the journey through Gotham, Bruce sat in silence in the car's backseat. Alfred had been sure to prepare his tuxedo well in advance. It was expensive and that was all that mattered. He needed to show just how well he spent his fortune. The tabloids always liked to make a list of what he purchased; mainly to show off the level of excess that "Gotham's Favorite Son" so heavily flaunted.

The car came to a sudden stop, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Sir, we have arrived. Do try not to get into too much trouble," Alfred jested from the front seat with a mere chuckle. "I do have to wonder if you like torturing me, considering that you are a twenty-five-year-old man perfectly capable of driving himself around, as evidenced by your nighttime activities. Is it that or do you just like my rather friendly disposition?"

"Everyone likes you, Alfred," Bruce had already slipped into the facade as he smirked toward him before exiting the car. "I'll be sure to be on my best behavior and nothing but."

He touched the pavement as Alfred drove with the explicit instructions to pick up after a few hours. Bruce would keep his drinking into a minimal as he surveyed the place out, while also showing his face where it mattered. There was a long bridge decorated by a velvet red carpet, that was his destination. It took him a moment to acknowledge the metal sign that simply read "Iceberg Lounge in ice blue font above it.

As imagined, a well-built man in a black suit and tie was stood there waiting, a thick binder laid in his grasp. He glanced over Bruce and then stepped aside, they didn't need to ask his name to know who he was. Maybe a minute had passed by the time he made it over the bridge. Before him now, the icy shell of the lounge made the club look gigantic. The double doors were manned by similar men to the one he had seen by the bridge. Bruce paid them no mind as they opened the door, allowing him to hear the life of the party escaping in the form of singing and chatter.

The interior of the Iceberg Lounge betrayed it's exterior. While it may have looked as if it had been in lifeless and dense ice, within its shell laid a lively atmosphere. Across the vast glass, floor were various ice sculptures; the likeness of Silver and Tommy captured in the centerpiece. Cobblepot really didn't spare any expense, did he?

He had made maybe several steps before someone had noticed him. "Bruce!"

A shrill cry of excitement followed as he traced the sound to its source. The platinum silver-haired woman was now breaking away from the circle of suits and dresses she had around her. They had seemed disoriented by her sudden outburst but quickly moved onto other areas of conversation in the moments after.

He was right. Silver Saint Cloud had not changed at all.

"Silver, you look beautiful." The young billionaire merely stated with a smile. It was genuine, something he wasn't entirely used to. "Your dress….is that a Pnina Tornai?"

"Yes, it is," Silver slyly grinned at the compliment. "Didn't you have a date for the party? I thought you would have brought someone. Tommy was telling me about a Russian ballerina?"

"Oh, she couldn't make it," Bruce merely chuckled, keeping his voice high and cheery. "I'm sure if she comes back to Gotham then she'd like to meet you. You two would get along, hopefully anyway."

"That's certainly a shame," Silver nodded her head before the smile broke out across her face again. "I know a few people would love to dance with you, excluding my aunt's and grandmother of course."

In his absence, Silver seemed to have remained the same bright and eager woman he remembered before. The thought of her father's criminal actions weighed on him. Before, he had the luxury of thinking about how he would handle interacting with them. Now that he was there; it seemed like all that had been for naught.

"I'll be sure to have a look around," Bruce stated nonchalantly, entertaining the thought as sarcasm seeped into his tone. "As long as you don't set me up with Vesper Fairchild again. I can't even count how many times I've heard her trash me over the radio. I could sue, but what good would that do?"

"Nothing really," Silver replied with a shrug of her shoulders before her eyes widened. "Oh, I haven't shown you my ring yet!" She outstretched her hand so that the light would flash in the engagement ring's diamond. "What do you think?"

"Hm. It's certainly expensive," Bruce took her hand and looked at the diamond. "It's perfect for you, Silver. After all, Tommy is a man of wealth and taste."

"You think? Silver asked rhetorically as she looked down at the ring itself as if she was seeing it for the first time again. "It's a champagne and cognac diamond. I don't all the specifics, Tommy could tell you. But, I think it looks great. He's thoughtful like that."

"Judging by the set up of this party, I'd say both of you are. Though, ice statues? If I didn't know any better, then I'd say the owner was trying to be Tommy's best man."

"Oh, please." Silver merely laughed. "Who could replace you?"

"Absolutely no one at all," Bruce merely grinned toward the woman before he looked away, focusing on the influx of people. "I'm certainly flattered you all welcomed me back with loving arms. Truth be told, I didn't expect my travels to last as long they did, but Tibet was certainly too beautiful to pass up."

"You should visit the estate eventually. You know you're always welcome."

"I would love to, I'll just have to check my schedule." Bruce insisted with a casual wave of his hand. "I don't suppose you know where is, do you?"

"Oh, he's out on one of those balconies. I don't suppose you could do me a favor and tell him that there's an aunt of mine who desperately wants to meet him?"

Bruce chuckled at the thought. "No doubt that he's trying to run away from that responsibility. I'll see what I can do."

"It's good to see you, Bruce."

He just smiled and left Silver to return to the flock of guests she had around her.

The lounge had various balconies, the ones above were only accessible through the stairwell that spiraled up the inner wall of the building. Thankfully, he didn't need to go upstairs to find the balcony Tommy Elliot had been occupying. It was like a glass box, a blue tint gave it the same texture as ice. Overlooking the waves of Gotham Bay were Tommy and some other men he didn't recognize immediately.

"Tommy!"

"More drinks already?" He spun around, almost splashing the drink in his hand. It took a moment for the Elliot heir to identify his friend. The men around him joined in. He didn't recognize them, maybe they were co-workers from the hospital? It didn't matter, he didn't pay them any attention.

"Silver's looking for you," Bruce merely chuckled. "It seems that you have quite a few future in-laws to meet tonight. You don't want to disappoint, right?"

"Of course I do," Tommy sloshed the drink around before taking a sip. Silver hasn't given me a break all day from meeting her family. Isn't a bad view of the bay, right? Cobblepot knows how to sell this place to the masses. Also, you see the entertainment for tonight? She might be the best thing to have come out of Gotham since us, Bruce!"

Bruce frowned at that statement quickly. "You forgot to mention Silver too. But regardless, I'll have to introduce myself."

Tommy merely ignored his comment, moving away from the men Bruce didn't recognize. "Well, I better scram. Don't want to upset the ol' fiancee. Remember that there's a free bar, so get what you want! I know I will."

Bruce watched as Tommy stumbled carefully toward him. To save him further trouble, he merely grabbed the Elliot heir by the shoulder and leaned on the balcony. "It's quite the place isn't it?"

"Oh, it certainly is," Tommy laughed, taking a sip of his drink. "A lot of prestigious people have been here apparently. I'm talking big ones, like that missing billionaire from Star City. What was his name again?"

"Oliver Queen."

"That's it."

Oliver Queen had been a playboy heir to a successful company in Star City. Unlike his own facade, Queen embodied it to the extreme, often making the headlines every other week. Somehow, a cruise party aboard the Gambit ended up in a storm and after three years of searching, there had been no success in finding the man.

"Very prestigious indeed," Bruce commented, forcing a smile. "I thought you would have said someone like Lex Luthor or Maxwell Lord?"

Luthor and Lord were big names in the technology market, while the likes of Ted Kord merely existed in making just one product. Luthor in particular had been marketing a new household A.I assistant; the Lexicon, while Lord had been working on faster and more efficient airplanes. He had a few meetings with Luthor upon his return about the possibilities of working together. From that conversation alone, he had felt uneasy about him and so had chosen to simply keep his distance.

"Luthor can't go out in public without shining that little bald head of his and I'm pretty sure Lord's too tightly wound up to make any decent conversation. A moody guy from what I've heard. Say, you ever been to a party on the Queen's Gambit?"

"Unfortunately not," Bruce shook his head, making eye contact with Tommy. "I heard he hosted quite the parties. A shame."

Bruce glanced around the second floor, much more of the same kind of decor. Ice sculptures and Gothic architecture that gave the place a strange sense of history. It was perhaps the only place in the city that the Cobblepot family had been remotely successful. Decades ago, their family had lost to his on several business fronts; hotels, restaurants.

Finally in his absence, Oswald had managed to make something remotely successful. If there was ever going to be something hidden here, it'd be below the surface, masked by everything that seemed so glamorous.

"No date?" Tommy abruptly asked as he walked alongside Bruce to the stairs. "Doesn't sound like you at all. I told Silver you'd be bringing that ballerina you were hanging out with. What happened?"

Bruce simply chuckled, their concern for his love life was almost somehow greater than Alfred's. "I was caught up in other things. My executives at Wayne Enterprises barely give me a break up in that tower."

"Truly a curse fit for a prince," Tommy replied. "Silver will be happy to play a matchmaker if you're in desperate need. When we were at Gotham Academy, she put you and that redhead together. What was her name again? Olivia?"

"Andrea," Bruce responded quickly, shooting a glare to the soon to be groom. "I think I'll pass. I'm not sure she knows the kind of women I like."

"I'm not sure any of us do," Tommy laughed as they got halfway down the stairwell. "Maybe the canary's more your taste."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're saying, Tommy."

"The Canary, she's the singer we managed to get for tonight. That's a view that beats the one outside for sure."

From this height, he could see across the room. A catwalk extended from the narrow stage, a single microphone stand at its end. Populated around it were several tables, they were occupied. With a small sigh, Tommy continued. "Cobblepot was kind of enough to invite us three to his table. We better hurry up and meet these in-laws or else we'll miss the quality entertainment."

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he could see the group of people around Silver turn in their direction. Even as Tommy approached them, they remained glued on him and him alone.

"I'm going to grab my seat before I miss it all."

Tommy may or may not have heard him, but it didn't matter. At least now he knew he would have Cobblepot directly in his sights for the night. A few people stopped him on his way through the maze of tables, simply to greet him and others to get him to sit with them. He politely greeted and declined when he was asked and continued until he came to the table.

"Oswald. It's been too long."

That got the man's attention. The club owner was immersed in the empty catwalk a few feet ahead of him. The announcement drew his attention to Bruce. Oswald Cobblepot had the unlucky nickname of Penguin in his youth, his beak-like nose, and drained skin being the reason why. The fact that he was the heir to a fishing business did him no favors either. If he was the man who supplied weapons for City hall's heist, then he was the closest thing he had to a lead on the mastermind's identity.

He was a creature of ego too. His anger would be his undoing and poking him just right would get him to spill. If he wanted to play the airhead, it would have been easy as well considering Cobblepot had always wanted to be better than him.

"Well, if it ain't the lost son," Oswald let out a cackle. "How's it feel to be inside my club? Proper successful, don't you think?"

"I heard you had some eye-candy on stage," Bruce looked at his fingernails out of seeming boredom. "That's it really."

His eyes bent inward to form a scowl. "And what's your tower got, Brucie? A couple of old geezers in suits?"

"No, money. How are you going to market out an ice cube to anyone outside of Gotham? Buy them a refrigerator?"

Before Cobblepot could respond, Tommy and Silver had finally reached the table. They were unaware of their discussion it seemed, judging by how eagerly they sat down between them. "We miss it?" Tommy immediately asked, addressing no one in particular.

"No, no. The show is just starting…" Oswald grinned, revealing his sharp-toothed grin. "Would you care for a drink, Bruce?"

"Sure," He answered, not trying to give a hint of emotion away.

Oswald smugly snapped his fingers for a waitress, who was by his side in seconds. She sat down the glasses and poured red wine into them. A second later, she was completely out of sight, gone.

More people had filed in to occupy a table and in minutes, almost every table was taken. Oswald grinned in delight when he caught Bruce noticing the fact.

A spotlight overhead sprung to life, illuminating the divide between two red curtains. From between them, a woman stepped through. As she moved up the catwalk, Bruce could make her out better. She was a blond, dressed in a flowing black dress. One leg that was bared by the dress' design was concealed in a layer of fishnet. As she approached the microphone, she gazed toward him, ruby smirk looking down at him. Her smirk shifted to Oswald, who only gave a toothier grin.

"Is that your Canary?"

"Yes, it is. What's wrong? Are you angry that you don't have a little birdie up in your ivory tower?" Oswald sneered in return.

A piano was wheeled out from behind the curtains next, once that was in place, there was a wave of silence as the man seated at the piano began to play. The singer began to fill the void with richly spoken lyrics, only amplified by the piano. For a second, Bruce thought he could see the contents of the glass shift.

Bruce glanced around the table. Tommy was smitten with how he ignored his fiancee's persistent shoulder prodding. This canary had dazed a lot of people, even he was impressed. He didn't recognize the song, but maybe he would give it a chance after hearing this rendition.

The song lasted for a while. When it stopped, the clapping ensued. Oswald rose out of his chair and swung his hands wide for each clap. Tommy was the same, awkwardly rising out of his chair and clapping with far more enthusiasm than necessary. Silver gave her own little applause with a frown aimed at the singer.

Bruce gave his own seated clap. When they returned to their seats, Bruce gave an unamused smirk across the table.

"Not bad," He casually shrugged. "Don't suppose she does birthday parties too?"

Oswald's eye twitched. It would have been comedic if the twitch didn't have to hide so much rage. "Unfortunately, the birdie ain't for sale."

Thankfully another song began and their silent stares were overlapped with a piano ballad. Eventually, they broke it to continue watching the performance. The ballad and the single lasted for several minutes. Another round of applause followed.

The Canary bowed before the wave of clapping. She immediately returned her grip to the microphone. It had an odd effect on Tommy, even after Silver managed to snap her fingers enough time in his face. Eventually, people began to drift from their tables in pairs. The smoother jazz made it easier for dancing after all.

Naturally, Silver pulled Tommy out of his chair to dance.

"You're not expecting a dance too, are you Oswald?" Bruce remarked with a small smirk. "Because I don't know if you could keep up."

"Walk with me, Brucie. Let me tell you how Gotham works now."

Whether it was advice or a threat, Bruce didn't know. All he knew to do was get up and follow him along. Oswald took him to the up-most floor of the lounge, the stairway up to it ended with a red cord. A bodyguard in a black suit removed it to allow him and Oswald through. The floor was silent with the only thing on it being a long dining table and a bar that took over the entire back wall of the room. Decorating the surrounding walls were exquisite paintings, a detail that made him believe Oswald had them for their monetary value; rather than their meaning.

"Interpret what I'm about to tell you as a favor. You'll thank me for it sometime down the road." He began. "Gotham is changing, already did when your parents got riddled with lead, but this one's different."

The crude way he described his parents simply made Bruce's fists ball. Then, he remembered where he was stood, so he released them and simply pried. Oswald was in deeper than when he first thought. "What do you mean?"

Cobblepot could only cackle in return. "The bloke who did that mess at City Hall. He's after the rich and their secrets. That means us, the big families of Gotham. Cobblepot, Elliot…Wayne."

"Oh god…how do you know this?" Bruce feigned shock. It was no surprise that Oswald knew more than he was letting out, mainly because there had to be a sizable amount of crime that passed through the lounge. The fact that he knew more or less about the blackmail meant that he must have dealt directly with the mastermind.

"He's spoken to me. I've been spared and so can you. At least, that's what I hope. After all, nobody wants the Prince of Gotham to end up dead in a gutter. Reminds me something familiar, doesn't it?"

By spared, he imagined that meant Oswald had offered this mastermind something in exchange for immunity. Supplying guns for City Hall would be enough to get into the masterminds good graces. Bruce's fists curled at the mention of his parents again, causing the billionaire's eyes to harden. As he was standing there; Bruce could identify twenty-seven ways to break Oswald's arms.

"What do you mean spared?"

Oswald merely cackled in response to that question, finding it to be amusing at the very least. "I'm sure you can come to some arrangement, Bruce. He's a very understanding man. You may get on soapboxes and speak about how you want to change Gotham, honor the memory of your bleeding heart parents while shedding your tears about how they couldn't hold your hand. But the real truth is that the bloke who wants the city rid of Hill…he's intent on doing it for real. Can you interpret that through your thick little noggin or do you need a little reminder?"

Bruce could only conjure the appearance of utter terror when in reality he could only feel anger course through his body. "Who is this person?"

"Look at you, scared as little fucking boy. Does your little butler need to change your diaper before I go on?" Cobblepot laughed once again as he moved toward Bruce, clasping his hand on his shoulder. "I don't know his real name, nobody he works with does. I only know what he prefers to be called. Do you want to know it?"

"Y-Yes."

"Then say please," Cobblepot snarled, staring the younger man in the eyes. "You precious little Wayne's….always looking down at everyone with your white smiles and your bleeding hearts. Your family ground mine to dust years ago, all because you couldn't handle some…competition. For the first time, right here and right now, a Cobblepot is going to make a Wayne beg for their little reputation and their riches. Quite funny, ain't it? Because you aren't the master of reality right now."

Bruce's fists could only clench as the rage began to course through his body. His heart was beating like a drum, steady thumps, ready to fight. He wanted to take down Cobblepot and break him for everything, but he couldn't. There would be a time and place for that. Alfred would urge him to show restraint in the matter, but it wouldn't work. Bruce wanted to pound him in the pavement, make him hurt, but he understood that Oswald was important. His fists uncurled and he could only nod at the smaller man.

"Please. Tell me his name,"

Loud laughter roared throughout the room in response. Cobblepot sounded like a man whose soul was rejuvenating with every little fantasy being played out. "My mum and me' dad would find it hilarious that I made the son of the great Thomas Wayne say please. Aren't so much of a spoiled brat now, are you? No, I made you learned a lesson in humility. I'd make you kiss my rings, but I'm afraid that my heart won't be able to take that much joy. Now, back onto the topic at hand. You wish to know this man's name because you're pissing in your boots that you won't be safe when the revolution comes knocking on Gotham's door. The bloke's name is The Riddler and well, he'll understand why I'm telling you this, Brucie boy."

"Why's that?" Bruce's eyes could only widen, his hands now shaking. "What are you planning on doing?"

"No, no. You don't get to ask those kinds of questions." Cobblepot merely chuckled, moving toward the bar and grabbing a glass. "It's a funny name, isn't it? Every one of those little freaks in the city has one. Batman, now this Catwoman? It's pathetic. Why are you shaking like that? Ain't nothing to be afraid of if you're this squeaky clean crusader. Do cheer up and enjoy your girlie's party. Maybe the last time you get to do any of that."

Finally, an alias. Bruce crafted horror on his features and glanced toward the stairwell, noticing the smirking guard. "I don't have anything to hide."

That only made Oswald laugh even harder.

"Then no need to fear, Wayne. If you're so squeaky clean." Oswald followed his stare and let out another cackle of amusement. "You can rejoin the party I threw for that beautiful girlie of yours. I have some business to attend to. Do enjoy the night."

Bruce nodded and didn't hesitate to move toward the stairs. However, Oswald merely coughed. He turned around, looking at the short man.

"If you ever stare at my Canary like that again, then I'll have your eyes fed to one of my sharks. Understood?"

"I understand."

"Good," Oswald merely smiled and sat down at the bar. "Have a good night Brucie. I'm sure you can enjoy many of the things I've provided tonight."

He kept up his act until he was downstairs and back within the party. The evening after all had been successful, now he could focus on making plans. While the thought of breaking Cobblepot was certainly entertaining, now he had the alias of the mastermind behind the City Hall attacks.

The Riddler.

Clayton Reed's penthouse had been cleaned up the following morning by the best cleaners money could buy. If only they could make everything feel as okay as it looked. Hill did nothing to help, only telling him that he should have expected it someday. How could he expect some flying freak of nature to attack him in his apartment? He didn't know. But what he also knew was that he didn't deserve it.

At least he could take some refuge in the idea that Hill would be going down with him. That was if anything was going to happen. He heard nothing from anyone. As such, Clayton had taken the day off and no one even bothered to say anything. The penthouse should have been impervious, but if the security system couldn't even work when that….Batman came calling, then what good was it? His solution had been to double the number of guards and increase their payroll. He could afford it and what other way was there to protect himself? If he died, who would be there to pay them?

There had to be something else he could do. Sitting back down at his desk after a minute of pacing, Reed pulled his telephone close as he searched his drawers for that book of names. His time under Falcone had allowed him to mingle with the kind of men who would kill whoever for a small fortune.

Reed found his little book and flicked through its pages as his other hand took hold of the phone and held it against his ear. Before he could even dial, the first number; there was breathing on the line already.

"Who is this?"

The breathing simply got heavier. Panting maybe. He held it held to his ear and kept listening, waiting for a response. Then there was the chuckle, a demonic roar as if someone's voice was being hidden. "What's the matter, Clayton? Are you scared?"

Reed's eyes widened as he held the phone to his ear. Someone was watching him. "Who is this? Who are you?"

There was another chuckle, one that only increased in intensity. "Your secret admirer, Clayton. The man who has lived in awe of your work. I know about your little business with the banks, how you funneled Falcone's little hideaway stash. You were good at it too, but even the best have competition. Tell me, do you want to play a game?"

"What kind of game?"

"The kind of game that will make your bones shiver. You know nothing about me, but I know everything about you. I know about your ex-wife living in Gotham Heights. For a man living in a penthouse, I have to say that you left the love of your life to the wolves. But that's typical of you, isn't it? A natural snake leaving his den in the grass."

What the fuck? How did he know these things? How did he know where Elizabeth lived? Reed's hand began to shake as he looked out of the window. "What…What do you want me?"

"I want everything from you, Clayton." The voice seethed. Despite the static, it was easy for Clayton to pick up on the anger. A lot of clients seemed to be like that. "You have lived a life of wealth and taste. Buying the fancy suits, putting those little dullards that you call your children in the finest prep schools. It's funny, isn't it? All you had to do was sell your soul to The Roman and he gave you everything. What can I take from the man who has everything? It's quite the interesting question, I suppose. One you will have to answer."

"Your quarrel is with me," Reed exclaimed, the mention of his children making him submit without a second thought. "Elizabeth and my children aren't apart of this sick game you're trying to play."

"They became apart of my game when you sold everything for a gangster," The voice roared with intensity. "They have just as much to lose as you do. Oh, and never tell me I'm trying to play this little game of ours. We've been playing it longer than you'll never know. Are you ready for the first round?"

Reed could only manage a weak nod as he looked around the room, There was no one in there but him. He could call out for the guards, but that would lead to something bad happening. He couldn't let anything bad happen to Elizabeth and the kids. Despite how things ended, they deserved a better life than what he could have given them. "I'm…ready."

"Good!" The voice interrupted. A happy inflection cutting through the riddle. "The rules of the game are clear. Three rounds. Three questions. Simple questions, the kind that your feeble mind can comprehend. If you win, you get a prize. If you lose, well…..you'll see."

Three rounds? Three questions? This could be easy, it had to be. Clayton managed to form whatever confidence he could find in the situation "I'm ready."

The voice could only chuckle. With calm deliberation, he merely sighed. "Good. I knew you were quite well at following orders, like a sheep heading toward the slaughter. Time for us to begin, we'll start easy. Riddle me this, Clayton. "I have branches, but no fruit. No trunk or leaves. What am I? Tick tock. Your time on the hourglass is running down fast."

Reed swallowed nervously, going silent for a moment as he tried to form an answer in his head. "A stick."

"This is surely embarrassing for you, isn't it?" The voice chuckled, amusement evident in his tone. "The answer is a bank, Clayton. Even a fifth-grader could have answered that one, you simpleton. You're not off to a good start, which means you will have to be punished. Tell me, which of your children do you love the most?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?"

"No, no. Don't talk to me like that, Clayton. You know what you stand to lose now, don't you?"

"I'm not letting you do anything to my kids. Your problems are with me, not them."

A loud yet bitter laugh exploded over the phone. For several seconds it remained this way. Whoever this was, he wanted everything taken away from him. Clayton couldn't allow that. "I'm afraid that your family is apart of the problem. See, you made it their problem. You invited them into a game they know nothing of, for what? Was the promise of a good life to irresponsible to pass up? Did you want your children to grow up better than what you did? Your father was not a nice man, Clayton. No, he wasn't."

"How do you know this?" Clayton yelled out, hand gripping the phone harshly. "How do you know everything about me?"

"It's my job to know these things," The voice said calmly, all traces of humor now gone from his voice. "I've been watching you for a long time, Clayton. I can record every single step you've taken in the past four years. Every little thing you've ever said to those kids of yours, how you made them promises you could never keep. I know you better than you know yourself. Tell me, did it feel good making your wife cry when you cheated on her? That's right. You don't want to answer because your fragile little ego will prevent you from doing so. Well, I'm going to teach you a little lesson in humility…starting now.

What the fuck? What the fuck! Clayton couldn't believe the words that were being said. This voice knew every single thing about him. Now he was playing the man's game. Falcone promised him that he would be protected, taken care of. Where was The Roman when he needed him? Why wasn't he here?

A second later, the lights began to falter.

"Guards!"

Clayton was fumbling through his drawers again. He found his pistol again and wasted no time loading it. He glanced up and saw all ten guards entering the room, ready to defend him. He was free, he had to be! They were truly there when they needed them.

The lights turned back to normal, yet the fear in his system was still there. The phone laid on the desk, he only managed to stare forward as chuckles began to dominate the line. Clayton knew he had a choice to make. Play the game or risk losing the three most important things to him. Placing his gun on the table gently, he hesitated before picking up the phone.

The voice continued to chuckle darkly. "You shouldn't have the put the phone down, Clayton. I'm afraid I forgot to tell you one of the rules. I needed your undivided attention and unfortunately, you didn't give me that. Your feeble little mind was unable to give that to me. I'm afraid that means you lose the game. Do you want to know the punishment?"

"I didn't mean to. Don't do this to me, don't take them away from me. Please stop! Don't do this to me!"

"I'm sure your family will be very comfortable with the thought of their father being Carmine Falcone's account. How much of their childhood was build through the pain of others? How many people died for you to have fun all these years? Too many. Now, if you can do one more thing for me….look to your right."

As he looked up at the row of guards in front of him, he paled. Before them stood a man in a contrasting green jacket covered in a multitude of pockets. Protruding from the top was a black turtleneck that matched a mask that served the sole purpose of obscuring his head. The mask was nothing more than a patchwork of black fabrics and tape. The closest thing to eyes were a pair of glasses.

And the guards? They were wearing masks of their own, green balaclavas with a black question mark at the center of their foreheads.

Clayton's first instinct was to reach for the gun. Before he could reach it, the stranger acted first by stabbing through his hand and pinning it to the table. The sudden pain caused Clayton to burst out with a scream.

"W-W-What the….one of you…." He barely managed, the shock making him rattle on the ground. "K-Kill him!"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but they work for me now." The stranger simply chuckled, his voice unrecognizable with whatever device he was using to hide it. "Who knew money could buy loyalty? Oh, that's right. You did."

One of his gloved hands was holding something. As he planted it on the desk, he realized it was a simple green trophy in the same of a question mark.

"The…hell?"

"Oh, nothing you should be concerned with. That's for all the brave little men and women of the GCPD to find. How many of them do you have in your pocket? Can you answer that question? It looks like you can't."

Clayton could only cry out, tears blaring down his face as his hand hovered over the handle of the knife. Attempting to pull it out only resulted in the stranger nodding toward one of his men. The tallest of the men walked forward and thrust his own knife downward. It went through Clayton's other hand, causing even more pain to explode through this body. "Why are you doing this to me?! Please stop, it h-hurts. I'll do anything you ask, just make it stop!"

"Because you're in Hill's pocket." The stranger moved toward the desk, gloved hands touching the pommel of the knife. "You were also in Falcone's pocket. You're an enabler. Some might even say that you're even worse than them. How does that make you feel?"

"I was only following orders. They tell you things….they give you things and b-before you know it, you're in too deep to back out!"

He didn't deserve this. This man should have been going Falcone and Hill, they were the real threat….

"Pleading with me won't work, Clayton. Maybe if you were really innocent, then I'd let you live. But, you have to be my example. Consider it an honor, you get to be a symbol of the new Gotham."

This man was insane. No help was coming and it was clear that this man wasn't going to let him live much longer. One last effort, he had to fight. It was a desperate measure, it would be worth more to him than accepting this madman. He tried to kick his legs forward, only falling back. Pain seared through his hands as he felt the knives carving through flesh. He had to fight, for Elizabeth….for the kids….

The stranger moved the gun toward Reed's hands, guiding him to grab it. He couldn't. The knives were dug in too deep and he couldn't move. Through the mask, Clayton was sure that this monster was smiling, he had to be. "It looks you're too slow. A shame that your efforts were all for nothing. It was quite admirable, even if it was laughable. Now, what do you think? A bone broken for every illegal transfer you've done for Falcone? Or, would you like something even better? How about this? However many transfers you've done for Hill gets to be how many fingers and toes your ex-wife and kids lose."

With a chuckle, the stranger turned to the guards, some of whom were smirking now. They made him sick and the worse thing was; he could do nothing about it. He was going to die in this penthouse, he made his peace with that. Elizabeth would find someone else, the kids would move on without him. They already did. He'd miss them, despite everything.

"Bones," One of the guards suggested, others chimed in with the same cold answer.

"Well, you best grab him and get to work. You on the end, go fetch my bag. Something tells me his skull is too dense for even a kick."

The knives were ripped out of his hands and discarded. Two guards moved around the table and Clayton could barely put up a fight against them as he was dragged around the desk and thrown to the floor. Before he could get to his feet, he felt kicks from all sides, the air being beaten out of him before he had time to react. Clayton balled himself up on the floor, a boot to the back of his head made the darkness he saw more bearable. His head was spinning. One minute, his body was alight with pain, and in the next; he could barely move.

He hoped there was a God.

Part of him wondered how much Clayton Reed felt during the assault. After the bones in his fingers had been shattered, the swollen hand looked more like a malformed balloon animal, given how the digits twisted without restraint. A genius such as he considered the idea that a simpleton like Clayton Reed could possibly die early into his torture. If he did, oh well. He would still be of good use. That was all that mattered. Hill needed to see that he was longer safe and removing his money man would make that message clear enough. All that paid support for him would mysteriously dwindle when payments didn't come through.

The guards had taken to crowbars, now smashing everywhere across Clayton's back. There was an orchestra of bones snapping and wheezed sobs that had lashed out for nearly ten minutes now. As a crowbar fell onto Reed's ankle with a crunch, there was no sound. No begged sobs asking to stop, no instance of the pathetic man crying for mercy. The Riddler had missed it already.

He got up from Reed's desk to survey the man. That prompted all the guards to take a step back and let their leader look upon the man's crumbled and bruised form. A small wheeze from against the carpet confirmed that he was still alive. It was simply interesting to a man so intellectually inclined that a rat could survive such torture. It was…remarkable and in some instances. Reed would have earned his respect if it wasn't for his corruption.

"Pick him up," He ordered, moving around the desk and sitting on its edge to watch. "Put him in his chair."

It was like watching Humpty Dumpty. A broken man barely held together by the sack of skin around all those broken bones. Every small movement must have been agony for him. Reed slumped into his chair, unable to stop coughing up blood from no doubt pierced lungs. Oh, the horror.

"After all this, Clayton. I think you deserve to pay for Hill's as well."

Deliberate suspense was built as he reached into his pocket, producing a little something of his. The police called them batarangs. A crude little design of a weapon for a crude little man. What better way was there to show the GCPD just what kind of genius they were truly dealing with? He was the greatest thing they'd ever face. Their one true rival. Forget that flying rodent, there was only him and him alone.

The sharp top tip of the batarang was placed between Clayton's eyes. It disappeared into the skin until there was blood leaking from his winching skin. It was quickly retracted and with that, he finished the rest of the question mark on the man's forehead.

Except it was too…sloppy. No, no, no. It wasn't perfect. A genius did everything correct on the first try. Time to do it again.

This time on the cheek. When he cut into the skin, that was when Clayton really came alive again. Gasping, weeping. A true orchestra by the inferior mind. He grabbed Clayton by his shirt and cut straight through it, pulling it open to reveal his injured abdomen.

The perfect canvas. Only the most intellectual could see the painting that his skin made….and he was nothing but an artist.

"You know," The Riddler suddenly asked, placing the bloodied knife on the desk. "I'll be fair to you. I shouldn't be, but I will. If you can answer this riddle then you're free to go. Does that sound good? I can't understand you, but I'll take that as a yes. Poor people have it, rich people need it. If you eat it, you die. What is it?"

"I…." Clayton managed to through a broken jaw. Teeth started to fall from his mouth. "I do…don….don't."

"Nothing."

Riddler plunged the batarang into his chest with a wet squelch. That was enough. Reed had accomplished his life's purpose. Now, onto the more important matters.

The eyes of justice were blind in Gotham City. Reed would soon know how that felt when the sharp edges ruptured both of his eyes. With blood still dripping on the weapon, he returned to Reed's stomach. The rich had made him fat, malformed. He had dined on their bribes. Well, that was no more.

Eventually, Reed made no more noise and his chest didn't rise anymore. The batarang was drenched in his blood. He left it lodged in the man's gut. That would be the perfect message.

"All of you leave," Riddler turned to his men. "I have a phone call to make."

When he heard the door shut, he took Reed's phone and dialed 911.

"I would like to report a murder. Clayton Reed is dead….and I killed him."

Then he hung up and laughed. Gotham wasn't ready for his plans yet. No one was. He would save this city when no one else could, after all….

He was the original genius.