A/N: Greetings, lovely readers! This is just the formal legal disclaimer, lest DC send their hit men lawyers out after me: I don't own the Riddler, Batman, Vicki Vale, or any other villain or DC character mentioned. Gotham at Night and all personnel attached to it are the products of my own imagination.

As the makeup crew put their finishing touches on my face, I looked over the rim of my glasses at the man sitting across from me. He lounged in a semi-comfortable armchair, dressed in his usual green and black suit. He looked around at the hustle and bustle that fill a television set before filming with a mildly amused look on his face.

"Alright, Miss Vale," Joey the cameraman said, and the makeup crew rushed off the set. "Filming in one minute." I nodded in acknowledgement and settled deeper into my chair. A sardonic smile flashed across the face of the man across from me. A feeling of unease spread through me. Was this really such a good idea? Well, the producers thought it would boost ratings, and their word was law.

"Rolling in five, four, three, two," Joey intoned and gave me the "go" signal as a bright light illuminated me and the show's five bars of theme music sounded. I gave the camera my usual smile, part warm, part amused, and crossed my legs.

"Good evening, Gotham, this is Gotham at Night, and I'm Vicki Vale. Our guest this evening is known to most of us as the Riddler, one of the rouges who make our city a cesspool of crime." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his eyebrows arc upward, though due to his mask, I couldn't tell if it was in annoyance or amusement. Keeping my reporter's poker face up, I continued. "But the Riddler, also known as Edward Nygma, has graciously agreed to appear on our program and answer the questions Gotham's citizens may have for him. Many of you have sent in questions via Twitter and e-mail, so we have an interesting evening ahead of us." I flashed the camera one more smile and turned to the Riddler.

He oozed satisfaction, much as a cat would. I have to admit, a pang of apprehension shot through me. I'd been in war zones, but the aura emanating from Nygma was enough to alarm me. As I shuffled my papers, it hit me: he was crazy. Not homicidal like the Joker, or Two-Face. Worse. If someone died because of Nygma, he simply didn't care. It was his utter detachment that made him so terrible.

"Well, Mr. Nygma, a popular question from our viewers is this: why do you use games to prove that you're smarter than the Batman?" I liked the fact that no-one had pointed out that Batman proved himself to be smarter, or luckier at any rate, than Nygma.

"Games?" Nygma repeated coolly. "Riddles-that is, MYriddles, are not mere games." Icy indignation replaced the self-satisfaction. "Games are used to entertain. The riddles are tests, battles of wits. If I win, and there's no challenge, well then, where is the glory of winning? The satisfaction? I have to set the riddles. By challenging my enemies, I challenge myself. The challenge makes it all worthwhile."

I took another sip of my tea to give him a chance to add anything else. But he seemed to have finished talking. It was as if his switch had been flipped to "off". No, it was as if he was a spring, and in his silence he was rewinding himself, tighter and tighter, ready to snap open at any moment.

"How interesting," I said in my best talk show host gush. Men seemed to open up quicker when I used the gush, and people were going to tune in to listen to the arrogant nutcase talk, not me. Well, maybe not a nutcase, but definitely a man. He perked up slightly at the gush, and seemed to relax a little.

"I can see how some people," he stressed the words, "would think that leaving clues for my opponents would be a rather silly idea. But those aren't the people I'm challenging, are they? No, a good crime is like a game of chess." He tapped the crown of his green bowler. "Everything important is going on in the mind."

I nodded and tried to look as if I was absolutely fascinated. He sucked up the attention like a greedy sponge.

"Besides, Vicki, I make life more interesting for everyone. I provide a challenge for all those little minds, and constantly I prove myself the cleverest." He smiled a very smug, conceited smile. "And being the cleverest is really the most rewarding thing."

"But Mr. Nygma," I said, piping my voice up a step (not noticeable, but again, something that the male guests tend to respond to) and leaning in, "what about the Batman?"

"What about him?" Nygma sneered. Yep, the tricks were working. That was the sneer of someone trying to show off.

"Well, hasn't he figured out all your riddles?" Add a slight eyelash flutter. The sneer deepened, to one of actual contempt.

"The Batman is a hyped-up vigilante. He is the over muscled arm of an unintelligent law. He is," Nygma said, swelling with indignation, "an unworthy opponent."

"Then why does he always figure-"I began, but was cut off by Nygma.

"Because he always has help. Always. It is conceivable that a group of average minded individuals would be able to come up with the same idea that a single genius had by himself."

"Then what would you do if there was no Batman?" And what would Gotham do? I wondered. Nygma shrugged.

"There will always be people trying to challenge a higher intellect."

"Really?" I asked dubiously. "History doesn't seem to support that." Nygma shook his head, like a teacher dealing with a particularly slow student.

"History supports it. People generally don't try and challenge a stronger arm. But intelligence, genius, well, most people are offended and frightened by what they don't understand. Therefore the mob will always try to knock down the brilliant people. In this case, that would be me." He gave me a surprisingly charming smile and leaned back, at arrogant ease again.

"Next question, Vicki?"