Tuesday, April 23rd, 2024, 03:24.
"Nygma- stay awake!"
Edward Nygma is delirious, diaphoretic, tachypneic, and bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound to the chest. A heist gone wrong, a run-in with the police, a single bullet later, and he finds himself in the Batmobile as it tears through the water-soaked streets. He would be rolling over knowing that he depends on Batman to save his life, but he is barely conscious and does not comprehend anything happening around him. Even the vigilante is worried, but one would never be able to tell on his face. During the four minute drive, Batman had to reach over and check his pulse to ensure the Rogue was still alive.
The supped-up vehicle spins and slides into a parallel position at Gotham General Hospital ER. Batman expeditiously jumps from the driver's seat and flips over to the passenger side. The vigilante scoops up the green-clad villain. Edward's body is limp and nearly lifeless in his arms. He really is not doing well. Otherwise, the Riddler would be running far away from this embarrassing and compromising position of being cradled in the arms of his greatest foil.
Batman hustles to the ER doors and nearly knocks them down with a powerful front kick.
"Help! I have a casualty!"
Like a swarm, a medical emergency team meets him halfway with a stretcher in tow. Batman quickly lays the villain down on the stretcher and watches as the team gets to work. Once he is assured that Edward is in good hands, Batman stalks away to his vehicle. His part is done. He did right by the Riddler, and he does not ever expect appreciation for it.
These Rogues will be the death of him one day - one way or another.
With emerald eyes glazed and a pained expression on his face, he is wheeled to the trauma bay as rapidly and safely as possible. Typically, dangerous patients would be handcuffed to the bed, but he is not. They need him to be mobile and easily accessible for this particular emergency care. Besides, he is too weak to resist the nurses, medical assistants, residents, and attendings as they rush around him like a well-choreographed dance.
One female voice cut through the chaos, calm, firm, and engaged.
"I need someone starting an IV."
"Got it," Someone responded.
"Good; start an 18gauge and give bolus saline per Dr. Lee's orders. We have O-negative blood and platelets on the way, but let's get a type and screen on him. I want that saline wide open."
The team is diligent in addressing the trauma, as bloody gore is leaking from a sizeable chest wound.
A male voice states, "Call the OR and make sure the trauma team is ready to go. We need to stabilize him before we transport him. Let's get a 12-lead going, if possible."
Yes, Dr. Lee," the female said. "You heard him, Susan. Call the OR."
"Calling OR now!"
The Riddler groans in pain as the trauma team continues. He tries to speak, but his voice is weak and raspy.
The female notices him talking.
"Hey, buddy, can you tell me your name?" She tries to keep him engaged and talking while checking his cognition.
He squints and tries to focus on the female speaking to him, but he cannot see; everything is blurry. Exhausted, his voice barely above a whisper, he responds, "I am Edward Nygma, the Riddler."
The nurse does not react to the fact that he is a dangerous, insane, and wanted criminal; she merely continues, "Do you know your date of birth?"
Edward's eyes blink slowly, and he tries to find an answer, but his head is spinning, and he feels cold.
"I... I can't remember."
"Okay, do you have any allergies to anything? Latex, medications?"
"No, I don't think-"
Before the next question comes, the female notices Edward fading out. His eyes are dull,
unfocused, and they slip close.
"Hey! Stay with me," she pats his arm firmly. "Edward. Wake up."
He does not.
"He's fading," she feels for his carotid. "I don't have a pulse! Call code blue! Get the crash cart! Where's that EKG?"
The Riddler's body goes limp as the medical emergency team switches gears from treatment to resuscitation. Like a pit stop, the crash cart skids into place, they drop the bed to an appropriate height, log roll him for a backboard placement, and someone begins steady, rapid compressions.
"Defibrillator charging. Give two rounds of 30 compressions and then switch."
They are all working in practiced synchronicity. They get an EKG on him while someone continues compressions, and another is at his head doing respirations with an Ambu bag mask intermittently between rounds.
"I'm about finished with this round! Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two- "
"He has a shockable rhythm. On compression completion, we shock and then switch compressors."
"- twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!"
"Shock advised. Clear, you're clear, I'm clear, everyone clear! Shocking!"
Edward's body convulses hard, but there is no response.
"Clear, you're clear, I'm clear, everyone clear! Shocking!"
His body jerks upwards again. No response.
"No pulse. Continue compressions for another two rounds of thirty, with two breaths between. Let's get 1mg of epinephrine going and repeat every three minutes."
"Yes, Doctor," a chorus calls.
The first female jumps onto the stool for optimal height and downward force. She is working hard and steady, with her gloved fingers interlocked on his chest. There is sterile gauze over his wound to prevent any further contamination, as they must touch a part of the damaged area for proper cardiopulmonary resuscitation.
Dr. Lee calls, "He's still in V-tach; let's defibrillate upon this completion."
"Yes, doctor! . . . twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty!"
"Shock advised. Clear, you're clear, I'm clear, everyone clear! Shocking!"
Edwards's body bucked again. No steady pulse.
The nurse resumes her second round of thirty, "Switch again on thirty. Three, four, five, six, seven- "
"We have a pulse, sinus tachycardia," someone cuts through the controlled chaos.
The female immediately stops as the team switches to recovery mode. Edward's eyes flutter open after some seconds pass, still weak, if not more. The first thing he sees is the woman looming over him with a concerned smile. Her body and face are framed in a halo of bright, stark artificial light.
"Hey, Edward. Welcome back."
He is so tired. The Riddler's eyes struggle to focus, and he has tunnel vision, but he does see the pretty female above him. Her cheeks are flushed from hard work, and her dark hair is in a high, disheveled ponytail.
He can make out a name on her badge that reads Eliza Tucker, RN, BSN.
"Can you tell me your name," she asks again.
His eyes are shifting focus again, but he is determined to stay present for this woman above him, "I am Edward Nygma, the Riddler. And you . . . are my savior."
Eliza smiles at him, keeping him talking while the rest of her team stabilizes him for the OR transport. Edward's world is just the two of them, and everything else fades away. He focuses on her bright, green eyes as an anchor.
"Do you know where you are, Edward?"
"I am at Gotham General . . .with you," he smiles faintly.
The nurse continues, checking his cognition, "Do you know your date of birth?"
"July 21st, 1987."
"Good. Can you tell me what 23+42 is?"
Edward is still focused solely on her, "23+42 is 65."
"Good. Spell WORLD backwards for me."
Edward's face scrunches. Normally, he can spit it out immediately, but it took several seconds for him to follow her command.
"D-L-R-O-W."
Eliza smiles at him again and wipes some blood from his face and neck with a saline-soaked gauze.
"Very good, Edward. Do you know what happened to you," she asks, checking his memory.
His gaze remains fixed on his proclaimed savior, "I was shot – by a foolish foe."
She nods as he continues, "But it seems my luck has turned, for I have found you."
The nurse's cheeks brighten more, but she continues her professional demeanor.
"That's terrible, Edward. But I'm glad you are with us."
She is kind and caring and unbiased and gives him unconditional positive regard.
"Listen, we'll be getting you to the OR to get you patched up. You have internal trauma and lost a lot of blood. We're giving you fluids and donor blood, but we must get the active bleed fixed. We think it's your aorta, possibly, which is bad. I need you to consent verbally."
She was talking fast but clearly so that he could understand.
"Do you consent to life-saving surgery?"
Edward nods the best he can, "Yes. . . Will you be there with me?
She smiles sweetly, but there is a poignance to her façade.
"I will help transport you, but other, more specialized nurses will care for you. My job is in the ER," she says, squeezing his hand in comfort.
"Do you have anyone you want me to call for you?"
"No."
Eliza looked sad, "I understand."
"Will I be able to see you when I wake up?"
Her face does not change, and she feels terrible, but her answers are direct and truthful.
"I'm sorry, but no. After surgery, you'll be taken to recovery and then admitted to the intensive care unit."
She petted him and stroked his ruddy, brown hair one time, and he felt a calm wash over him.
He begins to ask her if she will come to see him, but she is distracted by someone talking to her. She turns to him and says, "They're ready to get you to the OR."
She turns again to speak to someone he cannot see, nor does he care to see.
"His name is Edward Nygma, DOB 07.21.1987; gunshot to the chest; coded in the trauma bay due to hypovolemic shock. He was asystolic for 3 minutes, but we got him back. Normal saline is wide open at 50 milliliters a minute. Received 1 milligram epinephrine and was shocked x3. No allergies. He is not alert but is oriented x3. Temperature 96.3; pulse 134; pressure 79/53; and respirations 26 a minute and shallow. No next of kin. He verbally consented to any life-saving procedures."
"Thanks, we'll take him from here."
"Thank you. Take care of him."
She turns to the Rogue, "Edward?"
He opens his eyes to see his pretty nurse, "Yes, my sweet nurse?"
"Best wishes. I hope you get well very soon."
The Riddler looks at Eliza with gratitude and yearning, "I hope to see you again."
Eliza smiles, gives his head one last soothing pat, and waves him away, thinking she probably will not see him directly again. She sees and helps save many people.
"Bye, Edward. Good luck."
Edward Nygma does not remember much after that. He is cared for by a team of doctors and nurses in the operating room, where the surgery was successful in repairing the aortic dissection and hard and soft tissue trauma, and they found the bullet. After the surgery, he is taken to the post-anesthesia care unit to recover and then transported a few hours later to the trauma intensive care unit. By the time he is awake in the ICU, he is handcuffed to the hospital bed.
This is what happens when a Gotham Rogue is taken to the hospital, no matter the extent of their injuries. They are rescued, patched up, always handcuffed to the bed with a security guard in their room, and then, once recovered enough for lower acuity care, packed up and sent to Arkham Asylum's medical ward. Wash, rinse, repeat.
During his time in the intensive care unit, the Arkham medical ward, and then back to maximum security lock-down, he has a nurse on his mind—one with dark chocolate hair, emerald eyes, round cheeks, plush lips, and a kind, calm demeanor. She was indifferent to his Rogue status. She just wanted him to live. She did not try to kill him. She did not scream. She did not look uncomfortable around him – she was perfect. He needs to know more about this woman – everything about her.
He wants to know what she wears outside of navy scrubs, what she looks like underneath her scrubs, what are her dreams, her fears, her desires, if her eyes are natural or contacts, why did she become a nurse, how old she is, if she is from Gotham, why she is so kind, why did she care about him, why she was not afraid of him, and if she likes riddles or games or puzzles. He hopes to the gods she is at least moderately intelligent. . .
Edward tried to ask the nurses in the ICU about her, but they only gave him cagey, protective responses. He is a villain; of course, they were not going to out one of their own for safety reasons. And once back at Arkham, he had no one else to ask and no access to a computer or phone. He had nothing to go on other than Eliza Tucker, RN, BSN.
He needed to get out. Edward wanted to get out, but now he has a specific motivation other than his typical riddle-themed debauchery.
It is a month—no, maybe two—before the moment is right. The fitzcarraldo of Eliza leaning over him, the halo of light around her like an ethereal being, is burned into his memory to keep him going. She is the new puzzle he is determined to solve, and by the end of the stint in Arkham, his fellow Rogues are tired of hearing about his "savior." They all wanted to break out to get him out of their hair. Even his friend, Johnathan, became tired of his obsessive ramblings, murmurs, and sighs about his "dear nurse."
"What if she is married," Johnathan asks, looking at him from across the hall one day.
Edward's solution is, "That's an easily solved problem; nothing that a staged car wreck or accident can't fix."
His obsession knows no bounds, and when his compulsiveness engages, it is game over.
"And if she does not want you around her? What if she screams in fear?"
"She won't!" he hisses. "My dear nurse is too kind and considerate for that. She was quite respectful and helpful, and she wanted me to get better. She wished me well!"
Trying to orient his comrade to reality, Johnathan counters, "She's a nurse, Edward; she is supposed to do that."
"The other nurses acted nothing like her! They were helpful but standoffish. She wanted to see me better."
Edward refused to hear more nonsense from Johnathan. What did he know about Eliza Tucker, RN, BSN? Absolutely nothing. He was not there. He did not see how she looked at him, spoke to him, or touched him. She was not afraid.
Johnathan felt his friend had experienced incidental contact high compounded with a near-death experience. But he knew better than to push the subject any further. He would let his ally live in this delusion; it keeps his mind busy in this institution and gives him something to look forward to on the outside.
As always, Riddler's plan is meticulous, and he bides his time gathering resources and allies within the asylum. When one breaks out, they all break out, usually. This creates mass chaos and fear, making it easier to get away. Killer Croc, KC for short, is always his best break-out buddy for his sheer brute strength, terror, and ability to tolerate Nygma. Plus, the conversations are not half bad – Waylon is more engaging than people realize.
Among the ensuing explosions that rocked the other side of the building, the two strode out unhurried and without concern. Through bribes, sneaking supplies, and making promises to help others escape, Edward collected enough ingredients for a time-delayed chemical explosion. It is easy for them to make their way to the facility's basement and into the sewers. This is where KC shines; he knows every nook, cranny, tunnel, and bunker running beneath Gotham. Even Edward did not know about the tunnel that stretched from Arkham's old innards to Gotham's old bowels, but he will remember it from now on. It made for one of the easier escapes he had partook in.
Once off the island, the two part ways. KC had helped to navigate Edward to an area directly beneath one of his safehouses; he just needed to climb up. His buddy even moved the manhole cover for him and allowed the "Puzzle-Man," as he keenly called him, to climb out into an alleyway outside the warehouse.
"Take it easy, Puzzle-Man, and good luck with the broad."
Edward tipped his hand in a slight bow, regarding the mutant in appreciation, "Best wishes, KC."
The manhole cover clatters down to the alley, and Edward turns to find the hidden keypad he installed a time before.
Once inside, Edward can finally think in peace—no screaming patients, snide comments, therapy, apish guards, idiotic physicians, jumpsuits, or ugly nurses. He took a deep breath through his nose and smiled, "Good to be home! Time to wake up!"
His hand grips a large switch, flips it up, and his open-concept home comes to life in the dark: computers, gizmos, gadgets, intimidating contraptions, a kitchenette, a simple bed, a clothing rack, and stacks upon stacks of books piled from floor to ceiling. He likes to keep things simple and less cluttered for his mind.
First, a shower, and second, Eliza.
Once refreshed and clean, he sat at his computer in sweatpants and a T-shirt with a cup of coffee, small pleasures he missed so dearly. His wet, usually wavy, thick hair falls in loose strands around his face, ears, and neck - he needs a haircut terribly, but the facial shadow does not look offensive. He wants to look tip-top for when he sees Eliza again. Edward feels he owes it to her to be presentable, given his state the first time they met. With their first encounter on the mind, his hand drifts to his chest, where the large scar runs down the center. A bullet and open-heart surgery will thoroughly leave a nasty mark.
The Riddler set to work doing what he arguably does best: gathering information, spying, and hacking.
"Eliza Tucker. Eliza Tucker. Eliza. Where are you, my dear?"
His eyes roam the Internet and servers as quickly as they load. He tries googling at first to give it a shot, but he has no luck, and he feels he knows better than that. His next step is to go directly to the best source: the Gotham General Hospital server and employee files. Infiltrating their system is a no-brainer.
"So much for protecting health information. . ."
The Riddler searches through the files, typing in Tucker, Eliza.
Nothing.
"What about. . . Tucker, Elizabeth?"
A file is attached to that name, so he opens it, and his eyes widen with a possessed excitement.
"There you are, my dear nurse. My savior."
Elizabeth Tucker's employee badge photo shows her smiling brightly, her green eyes sparkling, and her dark hair hanging around her shoulders in long, neat curtains. She looks just as joyful, kind, and charismatic in her picture as in person. Edward stares at her picture hickering for a long time, studying every feature and refreshing the image he had kept as clear as possible in his mind for a painfully long two months. He wishes to touch her hair and run his fingers through the silky-looking strands.
"I bet it is soft," his hand reaches out to the screen, but he pulls it away with a sigh. He knows better than to touch a computer screen.
The Rogue reigns it in and gets back to work studying his target. Employee files are always the best when information is needed because everything is there: name, date of birth, phone number, address, social security number, school name, nurse license number, and many other interesting details. After memorizing every little detail, he returns to the regular old inter-webs and searches for her full name. There are a few Elizabeth Tuckers in Gotham, but he easily finds her social media pages. They are private, though, and he does not want to make any dummy accounts to add her, which rarely works. He sighs; he will have to wait to see more pictures of her.
Edward Nygma, high on Eliza, stares at her badge photo again for a little longer. He would see her soon. He has a plan, and he intends to initiate it tonight. Her employee file says she is off right now, and it is still early in the evening for the most part. She does not live too far from the hospital, and he assumes it is out of convenience.
Taking precautions so he does not frighten her, he comes up with an excuse. Edward grins as he clips his hair and dresses in his trademark green suit, tie, black button-up, and bowler cap. He always felt powerful, dressing more like a gentleman than any goofy leotard or whatever he had experimented with in the past. His gloves fit slimly and allow for fine manipulation. Before he leaves, he has one last thing to do.
Edward finds a blade in his stockpile of various tools and weapons; it is serrated on one side and sharp as the dickens on the other. He needs an excuse to see his nurse – to have her care for him – to take pity. He grabs some suture from his first aid kit and slips it into his pants pocket, just in case. The Riddler hypes himself up, takes slow, deliberate inhales, and exhales as he brings the knife to the upper part of his nondominant arm on the lateral aspect. He reminds himself this is for Eliza as he digs the blade and pulls it across the soft tissue diagonally, about five inches long and half an inch deep. Feeling dizzy momentarily, he must hold onto the wall due to the pain but soon regains his bearings. The blood oozes from the deep slash and seeps into the material of his clothing. It is a waste of perfectly good clothes, but would do anything for his sweet, sweet Eliza.
'Oh no, my poor Edward is hurt again! Let me kiss it better for you!'
His imagination runs wild, and he strides out the door whistling.
I wear a uniform of white or blue,
I'm a comforting sight.
I'm there for you.
With care and skill,
I tend to the ill,
in hospitals and homes,
I fulfill.
Who am I?