Chapter Sixteen- Crime of the Century
Edward Nygma waited, his legs crossed, his cane in his hand. He turned to his henchpeople, waiting anxiously. Query and Echo had just come in from a side corridor, paint-buckets and brushes in hand. He grinned.
"Done already? All of them? You work wonderfully fast my dears." He said, producing an ornate pocket-watch from his breast-pocket, flicking it open to look. "Precise to the second. Tempus really knew his stuff. Such a shame, really. He had a brilliant mind, but, ultimately, mine proved the superior, and Gotham only has room for one with vision like mine."
Query and Echo simply nodded passively, used to their employee's tendency to monologue to himself. They wore tight green jumpsuits and simple eye-masks, leaving their full-lipped faces mostly uncovered, and their curvy bodies fully on display. Not that anyone but Edward and the other henchmen were around to appreciate it this time.
"Well, we have a few more minutes yet. Honestly, I had expected an appearance by now." Edward got up off of what he had been sitting on. A rare antique wooden-chair from the 17th century, finely carved. Exquisite craftsmanship. Edward had already made his own mark with the tip of his cane, carving a question mark into the upholstery, for all to see.
Throughout Gotham's Museum of Art, henchmen were busily defacing every item they could, the security systems paralysed by a combination of hacking and sophisticated jamming devices provided by the Penguin. The night watchmen had been incapacitated easily with knockout gas and more direct knock-out blows, courtesy of his green-clad henchmen.
It was time Gotham knew exactly who they were dealing with, he reflected. The Oil Rig had always been a gamble. An expensive, powerful mystery to tantalise any crime-fighters, an unknown unknown, hinting at what was to come.
But here, in the heart of Gotham City, he sought to make a known unknown. His signature would be everywhere, and the guards when they awoke would remember green faceless henchmen or shapely jump-suited women. He had kept his face hidden, for now. In a Hall of Faces, he would be the Faceless One, unavoidable, ever-present, and totally incognito.
It was simply too delicious.
"Did you bring me the painting I asked for?"
Query nodded, and brought forth a shrouded canvas she had procured from the maximum security display. It hadn't been easy, but challenges were partly why they followed the Riddler. Ordinary crime had long since become boring to the two former-mercenaries. The Riddler's brilliance always provided them with some new challenge for their skill, something truly insane or impossible that he would leave it up to them to accomplish. He wasn't that bad looking either, and his other demands were easy enough to accommodate.
He gently approached the painting, removing the shroud with a breath of anticipation. Ah, here it was. The Tempest by Giorgione, one of the most enigmatic and beautiful of the late Renaissance landscapes. It alone of the gallery had been spared the crude defacement he had ordered. And that was because he planned a much more sophisticated...re-working of this 500-year old masterpiece.
"Has my copy been skilfully substituted?"
"Yes, sir. Wasn't easy, even for us." Query replied stoically. An admission of difficulty spoke volumes for her. She prided herself on being the quiet one, and let Echo do most of the talking, usually.
He smiled. "Thank you, Query. That it is done is enough." An acknowledgement of gratitude also spoke volumes. Edward was rarely distracted from himself long enough to recognise the achievements of others. But tonight, there was a frisson in the air. Tonight, he could feel everything falling into place. Tonight, all Gotham would know a genius now walked among them.
He smiled to himself, before gently producing a very thin paintbrush and a tiny pot of black, thin oil-paint. He began, with care and precision, to paint his initials, E.N, in the bottom right hand corner of the iconic painting. He would do more work later, but he wanted to claim it for himself as soon as possible. All over the world art aficionados and critics would faint in horror when they found out what he had done, but what did they know?
Even Giorgione was inferior to the genius of Edward Nygma, and he would show everyone. There was nothing, not terrorism, not art, not science, not anything, that he could not excel at. But, of course, above and through all of that, there were the Riddles.
And so he had left, in big letters all over the Impressionists gallery this time, both his original riddle- in case it had been lost or the dunderheads had failed to find it- and a second one, to boast of his triumph and to provide hints of his next, even more grandiose caper.
Once he was finished, he packed the oil pot and brush away, and checked the pocket-watch he had obtained from dear, departed Temple Fugate. Yes, only a few more seconds now...
The arrow-hands passed the moment, and he frowned. He waited a few more seconds, and then a few more. He started to sweat, agitated. He shook the damn pocket-watch.
"Query, Echo. You are sure everything has gone as instructed?"
"Of course, sir." They answered in unison.
He began to sweat. His plan. Had something gone wrong? Had he made a mistake? Impossible. It was perfect to the last detail. He was the Riddler. No, no...it was their fault. Too stupid, too blind, too consumed by their own petty lives. That was it. They were late because he had over-estimated their capacity for intelligence.
He sighed with deep disappointment. He had been so looking forward to meeting his arch-nemesis for the first time. But if this...Wrath had not noted his clues, carefully seeded online and in a hundred other public places by now, then perhaps this brutish vigilante was not the true heir of the Dark Knight after all. He briefly considered the other one Black Mask had mentioned. The Question. She seemed much more along his lines, but he suspected she would meet her fate soon enough in another way.
No, there had to be another. Someone who could combine the traits of both, and give Edward the worthy challenge he craved. How could anyone truly appreciate the level of his brilliance, if they did not see the enemies he crushed, unmasked, exposed, humiliated to all the world before him?
He sighed, re-covering the canvas, and nodding to Query, who quickly moved forward to pick it up carefully. The boss did not like to carry things he didn't need to.
He began to walk out of the main lobby, question-marks gouged or painted or marked into every exhibit, even the replicas and the maps of the museum, a huge question-mark gouged into the middle of the graphic for the main lobby. No one could possibly mistake the scale of his act of art vandalism, the greatest crime of the century.
They headed for the huge doors, out into the cold November night. The other henchmen would follow soon, escaping by carefully planned routes, passing vehicles which would stop only for a few seconds at a time. The intricacy of the timing and the planning was in part, Fugate's work. He and the time-obsessed lawyer had collaborated in the early days, when they had both found a common bond in frustration with the way Gotham was, and a desire to turn their obsessions to grander things.
Edward would never admit anything less than sole credit for this work, of course. But, he admitted to himself, cheating like that was only a further mark of his brilliance. Edison had done no less when he had taken the work of the fool Nikola Tesla, and sold it as his own. Nikola would have squandered his gifts, giving them away for free. Edison was the smarter man, for he saw the power and the fame that such brilliance could bring.
He stood for a moment, feeling a cold wind ruffle his suit, and looked up, back towards the Art Museum, its lights dimly shining, the full extent of his work hidden for now till the morning. Black Friday would bring many surprises for Gotham this year.
A Black shadow stood high on the roof of the Art Galley, a long cape rippling out behind it in the wind.
Time seemed to freeze. He tutted.
"You're late."
The shadow began to move.
"Echo-" he said hastily, and the shadow leapt, like a predator with shining claws extended, or a vengeful fury come to claim the damned.
Nygma rolled to the side, and the Wrath landed with a powerful thud where the Riddler had been standing. Sweat began to bead on his brow. This wasn't going according to plan-
Echo and Query immediately drew their shoulder-slung carbines, and began firing at the Wrath. Bullets sparked and pinged as they shredded his cape and made painful dents in his armour. The only noise the hugely muscular masked figure made was a grunt of pain. He swept his clawed-gauntlets out in front of him as a make-shift shield, and he ran at them, his claws covering his face-mask.
Their guns ran out of ammo , and they both dived as Edward had, drawing their Exclamation-mark blades as they did so, mirroring one another with smooth and well-practised combat moves.
Other henchmen came hurrying out, small-arms at the ready.
Edward looked at his two henchwomen, and for one tiny moment he seemed to hesitate. Echo held his eyes. "Go. We can handle this." she said.
His hesitation immediately vanished, his brief moment of concern quickly washed away by pragmatic self-preservation, and an unacknowledged irritation and shame at himself for having ever hesitated even for a moment. The henchmen quickly covered his retreat, gun-fire echoing across the plaza in front of the Art Gallery. This was far too public, police would be drawn here in moments. It was Fugate's fault, his plans never had sufficient contigency-planning, he felt. Everything had to be like clock-work. All it took was one uncontrolled element, one wild spark, one rogue like this wrath, and the whole plan was shot through.
He scrambled into the back of a getaway van, and hammered frantically on the side. "Go, go go! I'm in! Don't wait for the others you fool!" he shouted, and with a squeal of tires the van raced off, screaming down the roads and onto the main Highway through Gotham.
Echo and Query panted, their arms quivering, as they circled and made probing attacks on the Wrath. But despite being outnumbered he vastly outmatched them, unconcerned with gun-fire and able seemingly to parry their attacks with both lightning speed and punishing strength.
"You wanted my attention...and this is what you do with it?" The Wrath finally spoke, a husky voice, powerful and full of arrogant contempt. "You are a distraction, all of you, from the Vengeance that truly matters."
He focused on Echo, since she was marginally closer, and then leapt forward with a surge of energy, a hiss of something being released. Echo swore he seemed to get stronger and faster, as his claws swept her blade out of her hand, the other slamming her across the plaza with a sickening crunch.
"Echo!" Query yelled, dashing forward. The Wrath turned, his blades flashing. She screamed, furious, worried for her best friend and life-partner.
She battered the vigilante furiously with her blade, raining blows down on his claws, her eyes alight with fury. He recoiled for a few moments, but it soon pierced her fog that he was toying with her.
"You want to see real fury? You want to see my Wrath?" he roared, an actual, ear-splitting roar. It was terrifying, and her blows dimmed for a moment. He smashed her blade in two, and drew his huge, powerful claws back to eviscerate her.
Untill a thundering sound distracted him. A henchman, easily six foot tall, was running across the plaza at him, ripping his green jump-suit free, revealing an impressively muscled chest, one that was criss-crossed in scars.
Victor Zsasz had arrived. A maniacal grin was on his face, and he had a long, serrated knife in one hand. "Nice claws. Maybe you'd like to see my little knife!" he yelled.
Query quickly back-flipped out of the way, as the Wrath bulldozed past where she had been to meet with Zsasz, two powerful juggernauts colliding head-on. She quickly hot-footed over to where Echo was, cradling her partners head. She was bleeding heavily, but scalp-wounds always looked messy. "Are you ok? How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Just one, bitch." she joked wearily. Query smiled, and then frowned. The fight occurring in the middle of the plaza now was audible even from here. Zsasz's blade screeched as it locked with the claws, but it did not break. He reached across and grabbed the Wrath by the throat, his meaty fingers choking the life from the caped vigilante.
"Fuckin' puny bird. You call those wings?" he sneered, indicating the eagle-like W symbol on the Wrath's chest.
The Wrath simply glared at him, before withdrawing his hands from his claws in a rapid motion, letting them and the knife drop to the ground with a clatter, throwing both hands up and around Victor's own throat, before head-butting him, echoing a move the Black Mask had used on him.
Victor recoiled, his vision dazed, his thinking blurry, blood starting to flow slightly from where the heavy mask had slammed into his powerful brow. But unlike Echo, he wasn't down for the count. He grinned. "I like this. Killing you might actually be fun."
He slammed his fist into the Wrath's gut with all his strength, his knuckles breaking and shock-waves travelling up his arm, but he didn't care. His whole body was -alive- with that special Miraclo stuff that the Riddler had managed to get for him. He wasn't just on the regular stuff, oh no, this was -Venom-, military grade performance enhancers. He loved it.
The Wrath flinched, but absorbed the blow. He spat blood. The armoured vigilante threw his arms around Zsasz, giving him a painful bear-hug, tight and hard enough for Victor to gasp, feeling a rib crack and break.
He kicked out, a powerful, muscled leg slamming upwards into the Wrath's groin, as he rolled away, gasping. The Wrath staggered, fazed by the assault, but not greatly harmed. He glared at the serial killer.
"Killing you would not be Vengeance. But it would certainly be Justice." his voice seemed to change a little on that last word. "Funny." he seemed to laugh at a private in-joke.
Whilst Victor and the vigilante grappled, Query carried Echo to safety. Other henchmen had quickly given up trying to get a pot-shot at the figure, who seemed to be mostly impervious to bullets anyway. She glared at the nearest one, and quickly loaded the injured hench-woman into the back of one of the last remaining get-away vehicles.
"Get us out of here. We're done here. Fuck the rest." she growled. Echo simply smiled drearily. "Looks like I'm the quiet one tonight." she said, before closing her eyes.
Query held her hand tightly. She was going to -kill- that fucking vigilante if anything happened to her partner. She would have -her- wrath, god damnit.
Seeing the henchwomen escape, and hearing the distant wail of sirens, the Wrath and Victor sized off against each other, both panting heavily.
"I can go a few more rounds. I don't care if they take me back to the Asylum. Breaking your neck would be worth it." Victor said, grinning madly.
"Adding you to my tally is gonna be so sweet."
"Don't count on it just yet." The Wrath began, but stopped, cocking his head, something buzzing in his ear. "I see." he said. "Plans have changed. I see you out again I'll kill you for sure, Zsasz."
The Wrath produced a grappling-hook gun from his belt, and fired it off at the nearest building, quickly propelling himself up and away, as the wail of sirens drew closer.
Zsasz found himself standing alone in the plaza, furious. "Fuck." All the henchmen had wisely disappeared. He looked around, before sighting a man-hole cover. Ugh, messy, but better than going back to Arkham just yet. He picked up his cherished blade, smiling to himself. He still had some time, he could add a few more notches to the tally before the cops caught up with him.
He vanished into the sewers below.
Dawn broke over Gotham City, as Black Friday began. Cold, windswept roads were nonetheless jammed with frantic shoppers, shivering and huddled together in long queues, tightly wrapped in parkas and scarfs, rubbing their hands together as they pressed desperately against shop-windows and into thinly-heated Malls, eager to grab the latest deals.
The GCPD awoke to a double-whammy, as ATF, FBI and DEA agents descended in droves on the city. Commissioner Akins had barely awoken after a long night of drinking and eating turkey with Gotham's finest and his extended family when he found his phone jammed with calls from all departments, as well as members of the press. He sighed, wondering if it was not too late to announce an early retirement.
Vicki Vale, eye-witness news reporter for Gotham City Network, was first on the scene at the Museum of Art early that morning, standing outside a hastily erected yellow police-tape, blood and spent bullet-shells still littering the plaza in front of the Museum.
She adjusted her finely coiffured blonde hair, before giving the thumbs up to her camera-man, and began to give her piece.
"Good Morning, Gotham. Last night saw an outrageous crime perpetrated here in the heart of Gotham City. I'm standing outside the Museum of Art, where earlier last night a pitched battle occurred between mysterious henchmen and a vigilante police are calling the Wrath. This masked figure fought for at least several minutes with multiple armed assailants, including wanted Arkham escapee, Victor Zsasz, the notorious Tally-man..."
As she continued, a cold wind blew, ruffling her scarf, a red length of cotton blowing wildly in the wind, and she struggled to maintain her composure, smiling fixedly into the lens.
Elsewhere in Gotham, Barbara awoke with a tired yawn from where she had slept on Ray's couch. Her eyes were still red and sore from crying. It had been a hard night, but she felt the worst of it was past, at least, for now. She could continue to focus on her new obsession, becoming the hero her father had been, and proving all of them, her ungrateful family especially, dead wrong.
She wasn't a monster. She wasn't.
"Ray, you awake yet? Ray?" she called, but there was only silence. She padded into the bed-room, uncertainly, wondering if he was heavily asleep, wary in case he was nude. Grown-ups slept nude sometimes, right?
But Ray wasn't there. A simple, hurried note was on the desk.
EMERGENCY AT WORK. RENEE IN TROUBLE.
SORRY.
-RAY
She frowned, wondering what that was about, before shrugging, and going to make herself some breakfast. If Patricia didn't show up in a few hours, she'd call her on Ray's phone. But for now she ate slowly, and watched the news, and saw Vicki's red scarf blowing madly in the wind.
The Crime of the Century they were calling it. At first the Press was obsessed with the oddity of it, and the dramatic showdown that had occurred. But given how little police presence there was, questions started to be asked.
And that's when the other big event of the night broke the news.
Barbara dropped her spoon full of cereal, gaping, her eyes wide. It couldn't be...surely...but? And she knew, she knew with grim certainty, that it really was.
The Black Mask's operation had been rumbled, and Gotham Police officer, Captain Renee Montoya, was MIA, presumed dead at his hands. Despite all her care and caution, it was now assumed she was the one who had leaked the documents. Harv Bullock gave a sour "no comment" as he filed into the police station that morning, his face pale and haggard.
There was no sign of Ray.
Barbara gaped, her mind still reeling. Yet it felt like a tipping point. Renee was someone else. Someone she knew. Someone she could help.
She raced to Ray's computer, firing it up. It would have to do for now. Logging in wasn't a problem, Ray never changed his passwords.
She cracked her knuckles, and began downloading what she'd need. She wasn't a Hero yet. But she could be an Oracle.