Sleighride to Hell
It was an address he knew quite well. He didn't frequent it, but he was very well aware of the location.
It was a small house, perhaps not in the best neighborhood, but there really wasn't such a thing as a safe neighborhood in Gotham. The safest you could be was in one of the many high-rises or lived out in the country. Still, this wasn't a bad area.
Especially for the former commissioner of the GCPD.
Gordon hadn't changed a thing in the house, save for the removal of certain photographs. Anything that reminded him of his late-wife he had taken down so as to not continue traumatizing himself every time he saw them. One day, Batman hoped one of those pictures would return, but he knew it was a long road until that point.
Not all was the same in the house, however. One of the rooms was an office, always had been. But now it was more than that; now it was the office of James Gordon, P.I. The man was just starting out, but there were quite a few people from the neighborhood that had jumped at the opportunity to have them work on whatever local mysteries they had, whether it was a missing pet, a missing ring, or something inane as the identity of a bunch of kids running around the neighborhood with fireworks. Through Oracle, he had learned of consultation that occurred between Gordon and the GCPD, homicide cases primarily with an occasional search and locate this suspect. It was a private investigation firm that was growing if only due to his former title, but the man's skills were what maintained it.
This was all recent for Gordon. After leaving the GCPD, the man had just disappeared from the action. It seemed you couldn't keep a good investigator down. Either this was just something for Gordon to keep busy during his retirement, or he was meaning to make some kind of living off of it. It was too early to tell which it was.
There was an opening of the front door, followed shortly by it closing. Batman left the home office and went into the living room, where he saw Gordon tossing his keys into a tray on his kitchen counter. Normally, he would just wait for the older man to settle in, but this was his home.
"Jim," he called out.
Immediately, Gordon dropped a hand to his sidearm, grabbing onto the handle as he whipped his head around. HIs eyes were wide, but then relaxed when he saw the dark-clad man's figure. "I thought you knew I was retired!" he exclaimed. "Which means you don't try to give me a heart attack!"
"Sorry," he grunted back.
"You better be!" Gordon let go of his sidearm and instead entered his kitchen. He flicked a switch on his coffeemaker, starting the process of making coffee. "You want a cup?" he asked then, his tone more pleasant.
"Please."
The two men just waited in silence, the sound of coffee brewing and pouring into the large coffee pot being made. When it was done, Gordon pulled out a couple mugs, pouring the hot beverage into each one. After setting the pot down, he picked up both mugs and exited the kitchen, heading right for Batman. He held out one, which the vigilante accepted. Both were clearly drinking black.
"So what do I owe the unexpected visit?" the former commissioner asked after taking a sip of his drink.
"Ever heard of a man called Rhino?"
Gordon paused. "Big son of a bitch? Looks like he could pull a bus all on his own? Not all that bright?"
That was a pretty good description. "Yes."
"Name's Charles Daly, but as you can guess, everyone just calls him Rhino. Low level, but if you want muscle, he's your guy," Gordon rattled off. "Usually took six of my men and ten stun guns to bring him down. Bullock did it by himself once."
"Bullock did?" Batman raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, took a shotgun and blasted a hole in the wall next to Rhino to prove he didn't have a problem using it on him. He may be big, but he's no Superman."
Batman paused to take a sip of coffee. If there was one thing Gordon didn't skimp out on, it was his coffee, so it was definitely of good stock. From what he had described of Rhino, it was exactly like he had heard from Nick Calabrese. The man was just muscle and not much else.
"Word on the street is that he has money to spend lately," he finally added to the conversation.
"Sounds like he got himself work, though it's strange. A man of his build, he's usually pretty noticeable. Guy walks around the world like a…well, like a rhino."
Meaning he would have been noticed on any number of jobs. That his description wasn't on every APB with the GCPD meant he was doing something that wasn't all that readily apparent.
"He usually goes around with an accomplice," Gordon continued. "Guy by the name of Mugsy Callahan. He's definitely the brains between the two of them, but that isn't saying much. He usually finds work for the two of them and that's about the extent of their planning."
That was someone else to look into. Between Callahan and Daly, there had to be a significant rap sheet, so he could start there. He sipped down more of his coffee before holding the half-empty mug to the white-haired man. "Thank you, Jim."
"No problem," he responded as he took the mug. "Is there anything else I can help out with?"
That gave the dark-clad man pause. While he could most certainly get all he needed through his supercomputer, Gordon no doubt still had connections with the GCPD. He could easily get intel on what the GCPD knew about Daly and if they were keeping an eye on him. Plus, it would give the man something to do with his retirement.
"Think you can find out anything on Daly and Callahan from the GCPD?" he asked. "Last known address, any investigations with them being suspects, anything like that."
Gordon stared at him. "You're asking me to do something we both know you can already do." He sighed before he took the last swig of his coffee. "Beats running off some kids with fireworks. Consider it done."
There he was.
Redbird could not hold back the smirk. From his perch, he peered down on the street below, Hoover Avenue. It was one of the three streets that Oracle had informed him of which had the majority of confirmed assaults perpetrated by his target.
The descriptions created the picture of a large man, one who wore a trenchcoat and a hat, fedora style. Some reports had a rough face, but those were few and far between. Right now, what he saw was a man that matched the description: large, a trenchcoat, and a hat. The Usurper might try to say that this could be anyone and not necessarily whom he was looking for.
Well, the true son of Batman had taken to observing first, utilizing his mother's teachings about patience, and now he was finding it being rewarded. That was why he was smirking. This man had been walking on the sidewalks, sometimes crossing the street, sometimes changing streets, but inevitably he would turn around and finding himself back at his starting point.
It was like a patrol. There was more. The gait was relaxed, too relaxed. These streets, especially those in this poor section of the city, were dangerous, criminals teeming at every corner. None approached him, which could be explained by the cold weather combined with the late hour. However, the man's stride was one that Redbird was familiar with.
It was the stride of confidence, the kind that screamed he was safe yet his guard was up at all times. Such a man was a rarity, and very few had that kind of stride. Redbird knew—he had the same kind of stride. So did his father, his mother, Grandfather, the small glimpse he had confirmed Lady Shiva, and…the Usurper.
Where had this man gained his confidence? Perhaps being able to hold his own against this city's scum might have inflated his ego. Probably hadn't really had a true fight, one that tested you to your limits and challenged everything about you.
The young vigilante was sure he would be that challenge once he chose to engage, but first he needed to wait for the right opportunity. Perhaps give himself a handicap so his own impending victory was all the sweeter. Allow this assaulter to take him back to his little hideout, and then Redbird would issue challenge.
Or maybe wait until this man was at the threshold. His mother would prefer that one.
Time passed slowly, but Redbird was magnanimous about it this time. He would have something to rub in the Usurper's face and prove his mettle to Father. He would revel in this feeling for a little longer.
At least he would have. His target was crossing the street again. Redbird went into a jog, taking leaps across alleyways to keep up. Not once did he let this man escape his sight. His smirk changed to a concentrated frown, though. The clues were small, but they added up to the man changing his normal trajectory. The man's pace had increased; was there a destination in mind?
That question would have an answer soon, as the man made another turn, but not around a corner or onto another street. No, the man was heading towards a building, a large one. The architectural features indicated a church. Slipping out binoculars, Redbird peered through them, getting a close up of the man's back.
The fabric of that coat was thin, too thin for this kind of weather. Redbird's uniform was insulated so he could bear the low temperatures better. Oh, there was a sign that the man passed. It said…St. Aidan's Orphanage.
An orphanage? Now why was he heading there? An arm reached out to a door, one that appeared thick and wooden, and opened it. Eyes narrowing, Redbird realized that his target was about to leave his sight.
Tucking away the binoculars and replacing them with a grapple, he fired the claw out, waited the precious seconds for the cable to go taut, then he swung across the street, his cape flapping behind him. Snowflakes battered at his face, but the true heir to the mantle would not be deterred by frozen precipitation.
Legs came up, then his booted feet impacted the side of the orphanage, worn stone bearing the brunt of his landing easily. A press of a button had the grappling claw release its grip while the cable began to retract. Down he fell, landing and going into a roll to spread out the impact. His masked eyes found the now closed door, and quickly he ran to it, climbing up the steps in front of it.
Catching himself just next to the door, Redbird evened his breathing, then pressed himself against the building, right next to the door. Carefully, he took the handle with a gloved hand, steadied his breathing, then carefully began to pull it open.
It wasn't locked, how careless, he sneered inside his head. He only cracked open the door, making sure he could see into the building now; there was no need to give away his presence to his prey, not yet.
On the other side of the door, he was greeted by a large room—a chapel. It was dark, only illuminated by candle flame. Various candles were placed around the chapel, many grouped on the dais where sermons were read. Lines of pews filled the rest of the cavernous room, candlelight making that much visible. From his angle, there were no stained glass windows to be seen, but surely there were some in here.
Putting a finger to the side of his mask, he activated the night vision feature. Everything was now green, but he was able to make out more. For example, towards the back of the chapel, partially blocked off by the dais, there was a hallway. A dark figure was strolling down it, one with similar features to his target. The young vigilante had not lost him yet.
However, another figure entered his vision, an individual in a nun habit. Why would…oh yes, St. Aidan's. This doubled as both an orphanage and a church. Judging by the habit, it was Catholic.
Regardless, it appeared this nun was following his target. This meant he only needed to follow her now and she would lead him to where this mysterious assaulter was heading.
Opening the door more, he slipped in and carefully closed it behind. While it was cold in the chapel, it was not as frigid as the outside was. Keeping low, he darted through the pews, eyes sharp for anyone else that may be here. His cape was wrapped around his body, its dark colors camouflaging him. Into the hallway he had found, the nun was further down and making a left turn.
Redbird followed then passed the intersecting hallway on purpose, coming to a stop and then peering around the corner. Further down this new hallway, he saw the nun opening a door. Quickly, he ran his eyes along the new hallway and counted the number of doors between himself and the opened door. Seven; the eighth door it was.
Not even a minute had passed, perhaps it was closer to fifteen seconds, but the nun was closing the door and she was on the outside. It was as if she had looked in but not had entered. Redbird pulled back and lowered himself close to the floor, trusting in the dark colors of the uniform Father had bestowed on him. The sounds of the nun's footwear against the floor was soft, almost muffled, but it was not due to deliberate training.
The material of the nun's shoes was just too soft and thus did not clack. Redbird had had more than enough training to still keep track of the footsteps then watch as the nun came into view, turning to head back to the chapel. Once more he waited, and then he was entering the intersection hallway, his footsteps completely silence.
He imagined himself gliding across the floor, much like how his father would. One, two, three, he counted in his head, keeping track of the doors he had passed, noticing how on the top of each doorway was a number. He came to a stop once he reached door number eight, the one that the nun had opened.
Getting a good look at his destination, he noted how old the door handle and its lock were. Black, perhaps made of iron, it was not of any modern make. Even in Grandfather's sanctum, there was nothing this old to be found in there, especially pertaining to doors. The handle was curved, opened enough to allow fingers to slip under it. Above the handle was a latch, one that needed to be pressed down to open it. Just above that was a circular protrusion with a slim hole—a keyhole.
Taking the doorhandle and placing his thumb on the latch, the young vigilante looked to his left and right, listened for any approaching footsteps, and when all he heard was silence, he pressed down.
The sound of the jamming mechanism which held the door closed but not locked sounded too loud to his ears, and he gritted his teeth together while holding still. His heart seemed to pound in his chest, almost too loud. He was feeling a little hot now, slight anxiety—no, concern that perhaps he had alerted his target to his presence.
To be beaten by an antiquated door handle—pathetic. Nevertheless, he had come this far. This night would not be a waste, especially with the sight of the Usurper's face when he presented his findings to her along with a solved case was too tempting to pass up.
So slowly, so carefully, he opened the door, night vision still activated. The hinges gave a soft squeal, getting another wince out of him. Squaring his shoulders, he continued until he could get a good look at…the…very…very small room…
There was no one in here—no, there was, but it was…
Further risking detection, he opened the door wider but not too fast to get too loud a protest from the hinges, then slipped in. This allowed him to experience more of this room—his closet was bigger than this. All of his closets, all of the ones he had ever had in his life, and every single one of them was bigger than this. There was barely any room for anything in here!
A bed that took up most of the space, a small segment of wall that look so much newer than the rest of this orphanage formed a closet of sorts that even someone of his side would struggle to step in, a chair pushed against one wall with a large coat hanging off of it, a desk next to it, wooden and old much like this place.
All in all, it was so small; how did anyone…?
There was a lump in the bed, a small lump, but a lump that had a head peeking out from under the covers. A boy's head judging by how messy the hair was. Curled under too thin blankets, sleeping through the night—an orphan. Another kid. Not a man. Not one at all.
How could this be? Where was his target? The nun had followed him to this very room! There was no way for a man that large to simply disappear! This was not possible!
The vision of the Usurper put in her place was now replaced by that gloating expression of hers, one he could see even through that mask she wore. That stolen cowl. His hands were balling into fists now, almost trembling.
Redbird wanted more than anything to yell, to demand answers, but the months under Father's tutelage had granted him at least enough control to hold it in. Take a deep breath, calm down, then leave. Get out of here. Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow he would find his target and confront him before he could disappear.
Out of the room, he slipped back into the hallway, looking once more to his left, then his right. He took a step forward—
What do you see?
Redbird blinked, coming to a stop with one foot stretched out, a heel just touching down. What did he see? An orphan's bedroom which was smaller than a closet, barely any signs of personal touches, except…there had been something on the walls. No, one wall and many touches.
He had skimmed over it…but there were many things taped to the wall. Cut outs because not all were perfect squares or rectangles. Pictures, too dark to make out, but there were words of varying sizes. Sometimes all lettering was capitalized. Cut outs of articles? But what did any of that had to do with anything?
What do you see?
Other than bare bones? A bed took up too much space, a wooden desk that made him wonder if it had a termite infestation, and a chair with a coat hanging off of it. Don't forget the so called closet where the coat wouldn't fit in because…because…
The coat didn't just hang off the chair, it draped off and collected around the chair legs. That was a big coat. Too big for the lump on the bed, curled up to maintain heat under the blankets. The head clearly belonged to a child, so unless the kid was taller than he looked, why did he need a coat that big?
And—and!—the pillow. Vaguely, he recalled what might have been a hand tucked under the pillow, but something had been peeking out from under it. Something cloth, curved, a hat brim?
Now he needed to look back in there. Could he risk the orphan in there spotting him?
Or…
Looking up to the number on the doorway, he memorized it, then trekked deeper into the orphanage. His destination this time was an office, a place for administrative business. A place that held records.
It took more time than he wanted, but he found it. A small office—why was it so small? Did they put everything into the chapel?—with a computer set up. Perfect. Or maybe not, that model was practically outdated. Did they even make computers that big anymore?
Focus, turn on the computer, plug into a USB port a flash drive with a hacking program on it. He spent more time booting up the computer than he did opening up the files on it. He first searched for and found a directory, one that documented the names of every orphan in this place and was up to date surprisingly. There were names and the numbers of assigned rooms.
Scrolling down, he found the room number he had memorized. The 847th orphan to pass through this place and was assigned to that room was…Wilkes, Colin.
Was that a name he had come across before? If it was important now…no matter. More research was needed, but it would not be done here. He could request Oracle's aid once more, but no. He would see this through himself. Maybe not Father's computer as tempting as that was because this needed to be a surprise for him.
The Usurper's computer, on the other hand…
Closing down the programs and shutting off the computer, Redbird took his leave, his smirk back where it belonged.
In hindsight, Spoiler would wonder if her vote had been the right one. The only thing she could argue in her defense at the time was the information she had at that moment.
A Greek vase was stolen, a riddle had been left behind, beating the museum's security system required a smart if not brilliant mind to beat it, and the police already had their suspicions. It was the only lead they had and one that could get to the heart of the matter quickly. Bluebird had said that now was the time to act before it got worse.
Standing before Arkham once more had the up and coming vigilante questioning all of her life's decisions.
The Batclan had prepared themselves as best as they could before coming. That meant a quick trip back to the cave, gearing up, and getting Oracle to fork over the riddle left behind at the museum. Something else to pick up? A way to get through Arkham's security so that even Bluebird and her could do it. Batgirl came through on that one.
Before you ask, she was sworn to secrecy so it was not going to be told here. Spoiler knew most of what Batgirl was capable of, didn't want any of it being done to her, didn't want to find out what else their leader could do, and you weren't even a fraction of the kind of threat Batgirl could pose to her wellbeing.
Suffice to say, they got in. Her blue eyes were wide as she sought out every shadow in this place. You might say she was looking for staff, but the memories of hallways full of crazed lunatics charging at her were like flashbacks to the past.
She wasn't that person anymore. There wasn't a madman breaking into here instead of breaking out. She was stronger, better trained, and wasn't such a n00b that random, nameless punks could stuff her in a trash can, leave her alive, and feel bad about their actions.
To the maximum security wing they went, spoiler alert, she did not watch whatever Batgirl needed to do to get them into this restricted area. The hood-wearing vigilante did not know what to expect on the other side, but seeing the long hallway with see through glass—was it glass?—lining segments of the wall fell within her expectations.
There was something off-putting about it all. Spooky even. Behind each pane of glass was a very dangerous individual, each one with a laundry list of crimes under their belt. Each one had taken a required gathering of skills and people to beat. Here they were seeking one of them out. Had her vote truly been the right one?
Nothing for it. Bluebird was taking the lead, head up, shoulders back, and the very picture of confidence and determination. Batgirl was practically next to her teammate like a shadow that would never leave you. This left Spoiler pulling up the rear, doing her best to not make too much noise because you didn't want any of the eyes in this place to see you.
The young vigilante kept her gaze focused up ahead, not wanting to peek in on the lives of the people here. It felt like it would be tempting fate if she made singular eye contact with any of them.
Arkham had lights out, right? Hopefully? Some of the rooms here had lights shining out of them while others didn't, it seemed almost random. Through the corner of her eyes, she did risk a peek, noticing lamps in some of the rooms. Again, it seemed random which ones had a lamp and which ones didn't.
One of the rooms that had a lamp on was their destination. The heart was now pounding in her chest, anxiety was going through the roof, but Spoiler was keeping a lid on it. She did move around the group that she stood to Bluebird's right, Batgirl to the left, and all facing the dangerous man in front of them.
Said man was laying on a bed and holding a book in hand. One hand, the other hand held a pencil and he was writing in the book. Narrowing her eyes, Spoiler focused on the book cover and was able to make out the word puzzle. Other than this, the man known both as Edward Nashton and the Riddler was reclined back and completely relaxed. Did he even know they were there?
There was a slight lowering of the book, and Spoiler thought she made out a pair of eyes, but just as soon as it had happened, the book raised back up, and there was no response or even acknowledgement. Now she was feeling awkward about just standing there.
Bluebird took the initiative, rapping on the transparent wall and saying mockingly, "Knock knock. We know you're conscious."
Did she have to speak so loud? Spoiler held back a flinch, but she was quickly looking around to see if any of the inmates here were watching them.
In response, Riddler said nothing, just wrote once more in his book. Was he ignoring them?
Bluebird gave another sharp rap to the glass. "You know we're here. We got a bone to pick with you."
A pair of long legs crossed themselves, the upper body shifted back into the bed mattress. Someone was getting comfortable instead of getting on alert. "Do you now?"
Now Spoiler gave a blink, one of surprise. It was safe to say that the Riddler knew they were there even if he wasn't even bothering to look at them. A glance to Batgirl told her nothing; their leader was remaining blank and stoic. Considering the circumstances, she was showing a lot of calm here.
"You bet we do," Bluebird sneered back. "Got you in the act too. Where's the vase, asshole? What do you plan to do with it?"
"Vase."
Huh? What was—
"You're using the incorrect pronunciation. You're saying vase with ay syllable, making it vay-se, when it is actually with the ah syllable, vah-se. A bit too soon for my get smart or die scheme to go down the drain, hmm?"
A grammar lesson. One of the most dangerous men in Gotham was giving them a grammar lesson.
"Don't care, how about you confess already. We're on to you," Bluebird accused, glaring. Not even her mask could hide that much.
"Are you now?" Riddler quipped back.
"We know what you're up to." Another accusation that was a clear lie, but Bluebird tended to like being bad cop.
"I doubt that." The reply was quick and smooth. It wasn't rushed, wasn't delayed, no hesitation.
"What makes you think that?" Bluebird was not about to give up so easily.
"Number seventy-three. A six lettered word for a miss or a hit." Riddler swung the end of his pencil whimsically as he spoke.
The Batclan collectively shared looks with one another, confused. It was harder to tell with Batgirl, but after spending enough time with her to pick up some of the body language, her uncertainty was being screamed through a megaphone. No one had any idea of where this was going.
Without waiting another second for them to retort, Riddler said, "Strike," and wrote into his book once more.
"Is that a puzzle book?" Spoiler found herself asking.
"Very observant. Mental stimulation in a place like Arkham is not as easy as you would think," Riddler said, and you could hear the verbal head pat in those words.
"No more games," Bluebird cut in. "What are you up to?"
"As I told the officers who had come here before, absolutely nothing. You have the wrong man, though I am flattered that I am the first to come to mind when certain crimes are committed." The book lowered and stayed lowered so there was no question that the self-proclaimed smartest man in Gotham was looking at them. "What isn't flattering are the rank amateurs that have come to visit me. Truly offensive, and that is the appropriate way of using that word."
If Bluebird was a dog, she'd be growling. Spoiler slid an arm in front of her teammate and took charge of speaking to this man. "You didn't rob the museum and steal a vas—a vase?"
"I was here, I have not tampered with the security feed, and if I were to steal a vase from the Gotham Museum of Art, I would do it myself and not outsource. What would be the point of sending a riddle out and not committing the deed myself?" The puzzle book rose up once more, blocking off the unimpressed brown eyes. "I have my pride, girl. If you're done wasting my time, then leave, or seek another conversation from my illustrious cohort here. That might be more entertaining than this."
"A likely story," Bluebird spat out.
"You think I would waste my time robbing some artifact from a museum, move back and forth between the Asylum and my targeted location for robbery, stash away and hide my ill-gotten goods in some mysterious location, and I would not tamper with the security around here, all so I can get the C team of Gotham's gaggle of vigilantes to pay me a visit? That's a likely story? If I were to pull anything off, I would make sure everyone would know, because what challenge would there be for me if I didn't give you a handicap and tell you what I am doing? You are no challenge, girl. Now hide behind Batman's cape and stay there until you actually learn something of value."
Bluebird looked like she wanted to rush and perhaps break through the glass that was the only thing standing between them and the Riddler. This time, it was Batgirl putting a steadying hand on their teammates' shoulder.
"There is nothing more we can get from this. Let's go," their leader said.
Spoiler agreed with that. She did. Naturally, at that moment, it just had to pop up in her head. The riddle, the one left at the museum. If nothing else, maybe see if they could get an answer for that?
"A second," she told Batgirl, and then she was on the receiving end of that expressionless look. Spoiler returned it, trying to convey "trust me" and eventually, Batgirl capitulated.
Taking a deep breath, Spoiler turned back to Riddler and voiced her last question. "If you really didn't steal that vase, then what about the riddle? 'I gleam from the skies of Lucy and you find me hanging on you or on display.' You have to admit, that sounds like your work."
Batgirl was catching on and was focusing on their opponent here. Riddler gave a snort and wrote another answer into his book. "That isn't one of mine. You would know if it was. It's too simple, lacks my usual candor both in wording, pacing, and verbosity. It's not a riddle, check your eyes."
"It's not a riddle?" she pressed, both for information and her luck.
"You and the younger generation need to brush up on the Beatles. Now if you will stop wasting my time, go back out there, and catch this third-rate copycat so he stops soiling my good name, will you? I have far more important things to do than to continue entertaining this dazzling display of ineptitude."
That was a dismissal if she had ever heard one. Once more sharing a look with Batgirl, it was agreed that it was time to leave. Unfortunately, Bluebird had a different opinion.
"You want a riddle, Riddler? I got one for you. It's a toughie," their tech-savvy teammate snarled, glaring at the normally green-suited menace.
"Oh? For me? Really? Fine, tell me. Make it a good one." Not even a look to convey interest.
A nasty smirk formed on Bluebird's masked face, and Spoiler wanted nothing more than to gag and drag her out of here. Best case scenario, Riddler would dismiss this riddle as unimportant as them. Worst? He'll break out of Arkham, track them down, and demand to know and be able to answer the riddle. With as dismissive as he was, she was betting on the former.
Too bad Bluebird spoke up faster than the hooded vigilante could act.
"Who am I?"
Spoiler wanted to groan. That was not a riddle, that was a question. And a very bad one at that. What was she thinking, challenging someone like the Riddler to answer a question about her secret identity? Was she insane? If so, they were in the perfect place to commit her!
Riddler seemed to share the same opinion. Even voiced her thoughts and everything. "That too isn't a riddle. That is a question, and a poor one at that."
"But it's my riddle," Bluebird taunted.
"And why should I answer it?"
"I don't know, maybe because I know you can't answer it," Bluebird shot back.
Several seconds passed, and again in hindsight they were seconds to act on and get out of there. Naturally, that was the one thing none of them did. It gave Riddler all the time he needed to compose the answer to Bluebird's riddle.
"Along with his crew, held against his will, what name was it that Odysseus gave to the Cyclops?"
A frown formed on Spoiler's face. Was that a reference to The Odyssey? But the answer to that was—
"What was that? Whatever it was, wrong answer, pal," Bluebird retorted. She was smug, pleased with herself.
Now she couldn't help herself; she looked to her teammate and friend in the daylight hours like she was an idiot. The temptation to call their resident tech geek an idiot and demand to know if she had even attended school on the day the teacher assigned them to read The Odyssey, but she stopped herself. Riddler was way too smart and that would be telling him way too much information. Best to hold on to that and demand answers later.
In the meantime, she explained what Riddler meant. "He's calling you a nobody."
Bluebird whipped her head towards the hooded vigilante, eyes lit up in anger. "How did you get that?"
"Odysseus was this Greek guy, spent ten years going home, and got stuck on an island of Cyclopes. Skip a few details, there was one Cyclops that wanted to eat him and his crew, and after being a little helpful, asked for Odysseus' name. Odysseus said his name was Nobody so after he blinded the Cyclops, the Cyclops could only tell the other Cyclopes that Nobody blinded him." It was the best she could do to sum that up.
"Oh ha ha," Bluebird snarled, turning back. "Still doesn't change the fact that you didn't answer. I guess you're not smart enough to answer it."
The puzzle book was closed, pencil held in-between the pages. It was set aside as Riddler stood up from his bed, then with the grace of a predator, stalked his way to the transparent wall of glass. He was taller than the three of them, but not by too much. However, the presence he seemed to exude made him seem bigger.
"Who am I? A simple question with so many different answers. Perhaps you mean who you are philosophically? Maybe who you are right now. No, I know what you mean, your real name, the one you use when not wearing a mask, Ms. Brown." Riddler's lips curled widely, hinting at malevolence. Spoiler found herself spellbound, unsure of what to do. Bluebird continued to remain defiant, not even breaking eye contact.
"Wrong again," Bluebird retorted.
Riddler remained unfazed, though he did lean closer to them. When he spoke, his tone of voice was low, quiet, but they all heard the two words he spoke as if they were the explosion from a bomb.
"Harper Row."
Bluebird's body froze up, stiff with tension. Spoiler felt the blood draining from his face, her mind derailing. Batgirl was also tense, but who knew what was going through her mind? Perhaps she was caught off guard as they were? Unsure of what to do now?
"It's incredible, isn't it?" Riddler said with a more normal volume of voice. "The avatars generated by the Omnicron resemble the real world selves of the avatar's counterpart. A quick check with social media and I knew you weren't the intended target for that particular delivery. It didn't matter at the time, but I've had more than enough of it lately that I decided to amuse myself. You'd be surprised what you can do and find out with the better half of two hours and a smartphone an orderly carelessly leaves around.
"Obviously, you knew the real Stephanie Brown; why else would you be brought into my virtual world? So she knew you. Curious how no one resembling you shows up on any of her social feeds. But a girl like the real Ms. Brown has classmates, perhaps you go to the same school. It wasn't too hard hacking in, but then no one resembling your description matched with any of the private school brats she takes classes with. But they also have social media, they post, and on a field trip to Wayne Enterprises, there you were."
She knew the field trip he was talking about. Apparently some of her classmates couldn't stop taking selfies and pictures while on the trip. One must have gotten a shot of her with Harper when they were standing next to one another.
"From there, it was more sleuthing until I found another account, Cullen Row. It was easy enough to find you from there," Riddler finished, concluding with his damning bragging. "You don't look so confident anymore, but don't worry, I have no reason to expose you. What would be the point?"
"How do we know?" That question, sharply asked, came from Batgirl who was stepping ahead of them.
Not intimidated, Riddler turned his back to their leader and quipped, "Riddle me this: what do you call a riddle that everyone knows the answer to?"
Spoiler blinked. That one she didn't have an answer for.
However, Riddler was quick to answer for them. "Answer: worthless. Remember, you are Nobody. There may be those in your rundown neighborhood who might want to take a cheap shot or two, but everyone else? They don't know you. Who you are when wearing your mask? Even I haven't cared enough to learn that name. Thus exposing you, Nobody, to the world will mean nothing. Now, Batman is another story. That would be a challenge worthy of my attention. You? Not so much. No, you need to be worthy of me, so continue your crusade, grow strong, actually get smart, and when you stand upon the pinnacle, then I will come for you. Only then will you be a challenge for me."
Back on the bed, Riddler laid out and picked up his puzzle book, opened it up and presumably continuing with his current puzzle.
Spoiler kept herself quiet. After what had just happened, she did not want to remind Riddler that she had been the one who had spoiled his escape, leading to his arrest. Seeing how Bluebird had been destroyed, and with words no less, poking this bear would be a terrible mistake. What were the odds he had figured her out? A picture with Harper and herself side by side, Harper caught by the Omnicron sent to her. She had been targeted by this man, though why she did not know.
Yet…the riddle. They had come out here for answers and gotten more than they had bargained for. At the least, they needed some kind of answer for something, make this worthwhile.
"I gleam from the skies of Lucy and you find me hanging on you or on display. You can answer that one, right?"
Batgirl was shooting her a look, but kept her mouth shut. Personally, Spoiler wished she had done the same, but still. Still. If they could get something…
"I already gave you the answer, you weren't paying attention," Riddler said. You could hear the graphite of the pencil marking the paper in the book. "But if you need me to enlighten the minds of lesser mortals, fine. You are asking the wrong question. Once you ask it correctly, you'll find your answer."
Yes, that was so enlightening. "Are you saying I am saying that riddle wrong?"
"Precisely." The eraser on the end of the pencil was waved with a flourish. "That is not a riddle." A pause to heighten suspense because Riddler was a man for theatrics. "That is a clue."
There was temptation to ask for more, to say "are you sure?" but she felt that she had already pressed their luck enough. Keeping quiet, she looked to Batgirl and gave a sharp nod. Batgirl answered in kind, and then the both of them took Bluebird on either side of their frozen teammate. From there, they began to guide her away from her riddling nemesis. You would have assumed there would have been resistance, but no.
The revelation that her secret identity was known and that it had been uncovered with your everyday smartphone was still wreaking havoc on the blue-haired girl's mind. Oh, and Cullen, was he not in danger too?
Something about being worthy enough to challenge the Riddler seemed like a promise to not act on that information, but how much could you trust a man like that? Maybe she was looking too deeply into it, but the insults about being nobody and worthless was the best promise of protection they had.
It went against everything in Harper to remain in ignominy. Stephanie knew this, knew that Harper had aspirations, but would the possible threat to her brother keep her from pulling out of the shadow of the bats?
If there was one lesson to be taken from this, Spoiler voiced it to Batgirl.
"We are never coming back here again."
Batgirl gave a solid nod of agreement as they left these dark halls.
They had been storefronts once, built together in a line, side by side. Three establishments for three buildings, all closed. There had been an attempt to buy all three and bust down some of the walls in the back to open up more space for inventory, then it came to an end with a bankruptcy and a foreclosure. It now stood vacant, empty, and so far no one had come knocking on its doors for it.
Rhino approached it, then walked around to the back. The instructions were to never come in through the front. The back door on the right was where to come in. That meant once he got to the back, he had to go up a few steps and then buzz in on a small panel. The door was opened for him, and he stepped inside, ducking his head while he was at it.
The first thing to see were what was left of some of the walls. You could tell where renovation stopped. It left quite a bit of space, though, and a table with several chairs had been set up. A light fixture that still had a cobweb stuck to its button was set close to one of the chairs, and two others were currently occupied.
One was a man with light brown hair, about average height if a couple inches taller than that. Didn't really stand out in a crowd, not like Rhino did. This was Mugsy, long time buddy of his. For a long time, he was the brains, at least until he found the boss and he could be muscle along with Rhino.
The other was a shorter guy, short black hair, really thin head, and had two teeth peeking out from under his lips. That was Ratso, a new guy, but so far was pulling his weight. Whenever he spoke, it was like a buzzing hum, not too deep and not soft enough to be a lady. He was fast though, like a rat. No offense.
Mugsy and Ratso looked like they were having some fun playing some cards, Ratso having a smoke. The two looked up to him, and Mugsy gave a nod of his head.
"Ey," Rhino greeted. "You know what the Boss says about new guys?"
Mugsy raised an eyebrow. "Gotta trust them first. Took a while before he warmed up to Ratso. Why? Somebody askin'?"
"You know it," Rhino grunted. "Trying to enjoy a drink and this grifter shows up and won't leave me alone. Would've bashed his head in, but Boss told me not to get any attention on me."
"You gotta be careful, Rhino," Mugsy told him. "Second you start flashing your cash, all the guys with small pickings are going to swarm ya."
"Yeah, yeah." Rolled his eyes there because he didn't need Mugsy rubbing it in. Taking a chair, he pulled it out and sat his large frame onto it. It looked and felt like he was sitting in a kiddie's seat. "The Boss called for us tonight, right?"
"Yeah, he did," Mugsy confirmed. Leaning back in his chair, then balancing on the back two legs, his pal called out, "The Boss coming? We're all here!"
The response came from a man who looked both old and young at the same time. The hair fell flat around his head leaving a big bald spot up top. There wasn't a wrinkle on the guy's face, which was why he didn't look too old. A pair of glasses he wore had lens that looked like they were always fogged up, and because of that you couldn't see his eyes. However, that didn't mean he was blind; he could see just fine.
The clothes he wore had the same kind of disconnect as his looks, looking fine but a little ratty. Like something from a secondhand thrift store but well-taken care of. A white dress shirt was covered by a black suitjacket and a little black bowtie. Black slacks covered the legs, and the black shoes were polished, you could probably see your reflection in them.
He always kept himself small, thin, and could probably be blown over by a stiff breeze. The second Mugsy called out to him, the little guy straightened up pretty quickly.
"I'll go let him know," a soft voice breathed out. Didn't sound like it even disturbed the air. It was one of the quiet voices, like you find at a library or something. If he didn't speak up, you either didn't hear him, or you thought a ghost was talking to you.
Dress shoes clacked as the little man scurried away. Yeah, scurried, like a little squirrel. Rhino felt a bit proud about that one.
There was a door far off, one that the little man disappeared into. It barely closed, but then again, what would be the point of closing it when the Boss spoke up.
"What are you doing in 'ere? Did I say you could come in 'ere? I'm gusy 'ere!" A pause for a moment. "What's that? Rhino on time? Why didn't ya say so! Get over 'ere, I'm comin'! Do something useful for once, Dummy! That's right, that's right! There! That's what you get for takin' too long! Now let's go."
Mugsy gave out a whistle as he balanced his chair back on all four legs. "Boss is going really hard on him tonight."
"Probably woke him up. You know how cranky the Boss can get," Rhino said.
Ratso looked at the two of them, but then said nothing. The door that the Boss' helper disappeared into opened wide and out he came, the Boss with him. Rhino sat up a bit straighter, his shoulder sloping a little less steeper.
"Evenin', Mr. Scarface," Mugsy greeted. "I hope you've been doing well!"
"Knock it off, Mugsy. Do I look sick to you?" the Boss retorted, glaring at the mook. Mugsy only sat up straighter, swallowing.
"You look fine to me, Boss," Rhino said.
"Don't suck up to me, it's not a good look on ya, Rhino. I need ya gig and tough, get me?"
"Absolutely, Mr. Scarface!"
There he was in front of them all, looking down on them from exactly where he needed to be. The blue pinstripe suit decked him out to a T, from the suitjacket to the slacks. A solid black dress shirt boldly peeked from the opening in the suitjacket, a white necktie clashing with it. Mean eyes glared from under the brim of the white fedora hat he wore while his mouth held a cigar in it, not dropping it for a second with each word he spoke.
Despite how gruff and tough he was, the Boss' checks were well-rounded, and the only thing off was the scar on the right cheek. A gnarly thing it was; where'd he got it was anyone guess, but he wasn't called Scarface for nothing.
The Boss' arm came up and smacked his helper. "Sit down already, Dummy. Don't keep me waitin'."
"Yes, Mr. Scarface, right away," the little man gasped, quickly pulling out the seat next to the desk lamp and sitting down on it.
"There, much getter." That was perhaps the only bit of praise that was going to be thrown his way. "A'right, goys, got quite the haul from last night. Doin' me proud. Dummy 'ere will give ya your cut of the action aftah we're done 'ere."
That was great. Let nobody say that Mr. Scarface didn't pay you for a job well done. Did you hear him? Proud! That's right.
"Now on ta pressin' gusiness, and I do mean pressin'," the Boss continued, turning to look each and every one of them in the eye. They don't make them that mean anymore, and Rhino sat up straighter to show his respect. "Linin' up another job. Goin' dougle or nothin' on this one. Make this last pay day look like chump change."
Chump change, huh? Now he was interested. The Boss never bragged unless he had a good reason. Whatever this next job was, it was going to be bigger than the last one, and they had killed a lot of mooks in that last one. He was leaning close, so was Ratso.
"Don't keep us in suspense, Boss. What're we doing next?" Mugsy eagerly asked. His old pal was practically hanging over the table, more than ready for quick cash and some action.
"Hang on to yer coattails, I'm gettin' to it. Now, I 'eard a little girdie what tell 'gout—"
A rapid knocking did the unthinkable and interrupted the Boss. Scarface shut up, his help whipped his head around, both Mugsy and Ratso were sitting up straighter, glaring at whoever was interrupting. Rhino turned around in his seat, not happy at all either. No one interrupted the Boss, no one at all.
"Knock, knock."
Who the hell was this joker?
In a rich, crisp suit, there stood a man with combed back white hair who was leaning through the backdoor, a balled up hand clad in a glove resting against the open door. Rhino couldn't make out too many details, but it didn't really matter. The bastard was a deadman if he thought he could just walk in here.
Smiling a bit too widely, this man said, "I hope…I'm not interrupting anything."
Well if this wasn't your classic backroom dealing. Here they were in a backroom minus the smoke. Shreck had found himself in many a room before, though those rooms were much cleaner and filled up with tobacco.
Their big elephant of a man had led him here, and now it was negotiating time.
"Who the hell do you think you are?!" a very loud, boisterous voice demanded. It was also accented, reminded the business mogul of Chicago. "What are you goys doin', sittin' there? Waste the gastard!"
Three men stood up, including the big one. Shreck quickly held up both of his hands as he stepped further into the backroom brazenly, moving further away from the opened doorway and safety beyond it.
"Now, now, let's…not get too hasty. I'm not here…to turn you in," he attempted to soothe, deescalate what might become a failed negotiation before even the first words could be traded.
"Yous still a dead man! Fire already!"
The guns were coming out and so Shreck was left with no other choice.
"You might…not want to do that." Heavy footsteps thundered in. "I…came prepared myself."
From here, those looked like your standard handguns. Maybe some accessories could make them automatics. Chip and his boys, a crew of at least twelve in total, had assault rifles and Uzis with hair triggers in their grips, all aimed at the ragtag group of four. They out armed and out powered all of them.
"They are for…insurance purposes!" Shreck called out from behind his wall of All-American youth and muscle. "I promise…I'm only here to talk."
One thing you could say about this lot, their survival instincts were on point. Seeing all the firepower aimed at them, they didn't fire off any shots of their own. However, they didn't put down their weapons either. It was a poor man's standoff, and a single word from Shreck would end the whole thing.
"Kinda 'ard to trust ya with yer marines there," the accented voice bellowed back.
Giving a chuckle, Shreck stepped around Chip and his boys, putting himself back in the line of fire. "How about now? I just want…a few minutes…of your time. Nothing else. Got a proposition for you. Here me out first."
Seconds ticked by as the mogul waited. Not even a dry mouth yet. He had been in far more stressful…negotiations before.
"A proposition, eh?" A thoughtful tone there, Shreck felt. "Suppose it wouldn't 'urt ta 'ear it first."
"May I…sit down?" He gestured with his hand towards the table and the chairs around it. One of them had fallen on its back, the same one the big man had been sitting on.
"Sure. Fine. Get over 'ere."
Keeping his hands up for all to see, Shreck cautiously approached the table, moving closer to the small group of crooks. The big one that Chip had managed to tag earlier was the nearest to him and that knocked over chair.
Glancing to the big fellow, "Mind if I…have a seat?"
A glare that came down from twenty stories worth of man was his answer. The man did take a step back, though, which indicated to the business mogul that he could get his own chair if he wanted to sit so bad. Heh, still had it.
His hands reached down and grasped the backrest of the chair, then hefted it up, chair legs scratching against the floor once the angle was just right. Shreck took his seat, and only then did he get a good look at the man in charge.
Blank faced and balding, the suit looked cheap, and those glasses made it hard to see the man's eyes. Not the first person he expected to be leading this group of ruffians and thugs, but looks could be deceiving in Gotham. You could never be too careful—
"My eyes are down 'ere, moron."
His head tilted down, and Shreck found a blue-suited…puppet? No, not a puppet. That…that was wood, wood smoothed and sanded down so as to hide any and all natural blemishes, but that was wood. Ignore the comment about no blemishes, there was one, a deep cut in the right check that was as close to jagged without being so. Eyes peered back at him, ones that somehow seemed to have more life than the glasses that the nondescript, cheaply dressed owner wore.
Confused, Shreck looked back to the glasses-wearing man and opened his mouth to speak.
"What are you doin' talkin' to 'im?! I'm the Goss 'round 'ere! You talk to me, not the Dummy 'ere," the wooden puppet snarled.
Shreck slowly blinked, then finally something about this strange situation clicked. Of course that wasn't a puppet, that was a ventriloquist dummy. He hadn't seen one of those in years. The dummy had all the proportions of a person, just size to scale. Some of the features were exaggerated on purpose to allow some comfort; anything that wasn't human that looked too human entered what his advertising people called the uncanny valley.
This whole set up here, it was becoming obvious that he was dealing with one of the crazies that this city had spat up over the years. The newest one on the scene it seemed. They tended to do a lot of damage, upset the established order, and just make a mess.
Funny how he was in just the mood to make a mess.
"My…apologies." Now he locked eyes with the dummy's eyes. "I'm new to this. I hope you…bear with me. Maximilian Shreck, at your service."
"Max Shreck, eh?" the dummy remarked. "What's a glueglood like yous doin' in my neck of town? Mighty lost, ain't you?"
"I didn't get your name?" the mogul prompted.
The dummy leaned forward, the brim of its white fedora shadowing its eyes. "Scarface. The one an' only."
Shreck swept his hands through the air, as if clearing the space in front of him. "Mr. Scarface, I caught wind…of your operation. Half of Gotham…must have by now. I'm in a bit of a pickle…myself. I heard about you…and thought to myself, what are the odds…you could help me scratch an itch?"
The dummy raised its head back, almost as if it was looking down its nose at him. "Cut the crap. Why are you here?"
"Same reason as anyone. Business." Shreck sat back in his seat, crossing his legs. "I mentioned that I had a…proposition. I think it's one…you're going to like."
"Yeah? Start singin' and quit wastin' my time. I'm a gusy man, you see," the dummy retorted. One of the man's—the ventriloquist's—hands moved, slipping under the table, then raising up one of the dummy's arms. The arm was equipped with an antiquated tommy gun, something that was a relic before Shreck's time.
Immediately, Chip and the boys had their guns aimed at the dummy and its ventriloquist friend. Shreck held a hand up, one to tell them not to act any further. Negotiations were just starting after all.
"Alright, my song." The hand lowered only to clasp with the mogul's empty hand, fingers intertwining. "You lot are taking on the mob head on…and I like the guts. That mob…the Calabreses…have been a pain in my ass for some time. I would like for you…to step up your activities, and make them hurt."
"That's it? You want me to step up and gring the pain to those lily-livered losers?" The dummy somehow looked incredulous.
"I don't just want…I'm hiring you to do it," Shreck corrected.
"Hirin'?" repeated the dummy, skeptical.
Shreck leaned forward, his voice softening. "One million per day."
"A million gucks per day to lay the hurt on the Calabreses?!" the dummy exclaimed.
"Exactly." A white, almost silver, haired head nodded. "Think what you can do with that money. Not only are you taking out a rival…you're setting yourself up…to take their place. Forget the Calabrese, Scarface…is what the mob should be talking about. You'll not only have…the reputation, you'll have the money…to keep them all in line."
A wooden hand rubbed against a wooden check. "You sing a pretty song there."
"Always was a tenor in the choir. A decent alto…if I don't say so myself." Shreck adjusted his seat in the wooden chair. It wasn't easy finding a comfortable spot on it. "The real question is…do you like my lyrics?"
The dummy threw its head back and let out a loud guffaw. "An' people think the Dummy 'ere is the crazy one! Yer crazy, Shreck, gut I like it."
"So…do we have a deal?" There was a time to read between the lines, then there was a time for confirmation. He always got confirmation one way or another.
"Yous payin' me to do what I was already plannin' to do? You got yourself a deal. Put'er there!"
Not even thinking, Shreck reached out a hand to shake…then stopped as he saw the dummy's arm extended towards him. Unusual, but these were unusual times, weren't they? His hand changed trajectory and grasped the wooden hand, giving it a shake.
"To a fruitful partnership." The moment was crowned. "Now let's light this city up."
Author's Note: In the comics, the Ventriloquist has difficulty with saying B's when throwing his voice. The B's would be replaced with G's, so if anyone things I did a lot of spelling errors here, they were on purpose. On another note, I remember some readers being disappointed with my not having Harper give a certain riddle to the Riddler. After a few years, here's my retort. You don't ask someone like the Riddler something like that; the worst thing he could do is answer it correctly.