January 12th 2016 - Riley

If I were a normal person, I might actually worry. Edward shouldn't know what I look like...we've never actually met in person, and I scrubbed all the surveillance cameras I could access of my trip across Gotham. Somehow, he managed to get together a partial description, maybe from the guy I gave coffee to or someone in the coffee shop; maybe from the homeless man on the train platform. He has the description of the disguise I was using on the train platform at least. Luckily, other than my nickname, which isn't too obvious a derivation of my real name, he doesn't have much else to go on.

The more corrupt Gotham cops are on the lookout for a girl of my description. Cameras are going offline across the city at suspiciously inopportune moments; someone doesn't want to be seen. It was only a matter of time before I have to leave Gotham behind. It kind of sucks. Despite all the crime, I like my hometown.

In the last week I've been archiving my corkboards and placing some party favors strategically around the building. I've changed my look dramatically as well as made a few self-defense goodies. Better living through chemistry...and mechanical engineering...and robotics.

In two days, I have a prepared disguise and half a dozen identities in as many states. I tell my parents that I'm in California for a job interview. I think they're a little relieved that I'm doing something with my life other than playing around on the infonet. The inheritance from my dad's great-uncle includes a trust fund for any children, so it's not like I have to work to support myself. I'm what could charitably be called financially independent. Over the last couple of days, I've been funneling funds to safeish locations and bank accounts around the world. A lot of my money has been going to purchase phone apps on some less than reputable sites. I have to pay a full twenty-five percent to the site operators, but my money comes out laundered on the other side.

I know my time is up when my hidden cameras outside pick up a muscle-bound goon at my door. As I watch, he slips on a hockey mask and pulls off a too-large overcoat...Sportsmaster. I've been watching him for the last day wandering around Gotham like a two-hundred-pound gorilla. I have a dossier on him and most other supervillains I might encounter. I don't know if I should be relieved or insulted that Edward sent an unpowered mook to bring me in. I guess it's not like he knows anything beyond me being wicked smart. I maneuver a corkboard strategically ten feet in front of the door, then make myself scarce. Showtime.

-Sportsmaster-

Sportsmaster pauses at the door to doff his overcoat and don his hockey mask. A week of dealing with some bullshit that was completely beneath him was enough. Some old girlfriend of the Riddler apparently knew too much. He would have just taken care of the problem at the source, just do away with the Riddler. Apparently, though, the Light still had some use for him. So, here he is outside a warehouse in Batman's hometown. Time to plug a leak.

Sportsmaster attaches small explosives to the hinges and lock on the door and steps back out of the alcove to detonate them. This is Gotham. The police are paid off, so he doesn't have to worry about a response. When the charges go off, he rushes forward and kicks the doors down. The warehouse is fill with furniture; sheets draped over everything. Directly in front of him is a cork board on rollers; like something out of a school. Odd choice, positioning it there. His eyes dart about the room trying to spot his prey, but all the lights in the building are out. He moves to the right so he isn't silhouetted against the doorway.

As his eyes search, he realizes that each of the sheet-draped objects are corkboards on rollers. His eyes move back to the corkboard in front of the door, really looking at it for the first time. Prominently displayed in the middle of the board is a large mugshot of one Lawrence Crock. He moves forward as his eyes take in the rest of the board. There are pictures of Jade and Artemis with yarn running between his picture and theirs, white for Artemis, red for Jade. At the bottom of the board is a picture of Paula, also connected by a white string. Other strings, mostly red connect to note cards positioned around the board, Lex Luthor, League of Shadows, even Unknown Immortal? Mastermind?, referencing other boards, presumably in the room. He is trying to make sense of this all. Beneath his mugshot are two pages giving a brief synopsis of his career, both before and after he put on a mask. There is even a tiny photocopy of his teaching license from when he coached high-school track for a year under an assumed name. Whoever this Gray girl is, she definitely knows far too much. It would be a shame if she accidentally died while he was trying to bring her in.

Sportsmaster's eyes again move around the room. He spots a flutter of movement on a second-floor landing of an open metal stairwell at the back of the building. He rushes toward the stairs, knocking corkboards left and right. Rather than chase the girl up the stairs, he leaps, grabbing an exposed beam, flipping above where he saw the movement. Now she's trapped below him. He has the advantage. May as well give her a chance to surrender.

"Hey, girlie," he shouts, his voice echoing through the building. "Just give up. Riddler wants you alive so I'm not gonna hurt you," he finishes, pulling a baseball from a pouch at his waist.

"Just leave me alone," he hears a faint echoey voice from below somewhere. She must have snuck back down the stairs. "I don't know what you're doing and I don't want to know. Tell Eddie to fuck off."

He has a pretty good idea where she is so he throws a fastball that bounces off the floor behind the corkboard where she's hiding. A yelp of surprise tells him that he's spot on.

Several of the corkboards are jostled, allowing him to track the girl's movement across the warehouse floor. He throws a few more baseballs when she tries to run for the front door, pushing her deeper into the warehouse.

Sportsmaster makes his way onto the metal beams crisscrossing the ceiling of the building, his exceptional balance allowing him to stay more or less above the girl as she darts through the maze of corkboards, the movement of the boards allowing him to easily track the otherwise elusive girl.

"I'm running out of baseballs here, girly," Sportsmaster shouts from above. "If you don't stop soon, I may have to switch to something a little more dangerous."

The corkboards shift as the girl makes her way toward a desk in the middle of the room. She may have a gun or something there, but Sportsmaster isn't too worried. He's had more dangerous people than this little girl shooting at him. Hell, Artemis gave him more trouble back when she was running with that group of sidekicks. He can take this girl any time. He has no idea why Riddler is so concerned.

He hears a desk drawer slide open and he hears the sound of metal on metal, yep, a gun. He tosses his last baseball to bounce near the desk and a gunshot rings out. The flash ruins his night vision just as he is almost fully adjusted to the dark. He really needs to incorporate some infrared goggles into his gear. He's done toying around. Sportsmaster throws a javelin where he saw the flash from the barrel of the pistol. He hears a 'yeep' and then the sound a rolling chair moving. After a moment it moves again.

Seriously? Did this girl just hide under the desk? Sportsmaster waits for his night-vision to adjust again before dropping silently to the floor about twenty feet away from the desk. He pauses to listen. In the silence, he could actually hear the girl sobbing quietly under the desk. What a waste of time.

Sportsmaster boldly approaches the desk, giving it a kick, causing the girl to shriek in fear.

"Listen," Sportsmaster said calmly, "you had a good run, but I've fought superheroes. No need to get yourself hurt when you're clearly in over your head. If it's any consolation, Riddler doesn't want you to get hurt. Just come with me quietly and you can be safe."

"Safe!? SAFE!?," came the reply from under the desk. "I would rather die than go with you," the girl shouts, suddenly sounding VERY unhinged. "And since that's an option."

Sportsmaster hears a distinct click of a button being pressed. Throughout the room he sees red LED timers begin a countdown from five...four…

He doesn't have time to grab the clearly deranged girl. He sprints toward the entrance, running faster than he has in a long time. He just clears the door when the muffled whoomph of thermite igniting fills the building behind him. He turns as the girl's screams of pain reach his ears. At least it doesn't last long.

Sportsmaster relocates to the top of a building down the block. All he needs is for Batman to come investigate. He watches as the fire department shows up and does their best to contain the fire. Thermite isn't that easy to put out, so they just let the warehouse burn.

He doesn't bother to call it in. He'd rather report the failed mission in person. At least that way he won't have to listen to Riddler's bullshit twice.

-?-

I watch the fire burn from across the river, both with my eyes and on the Augmented reality lenses of my glasses, showing multiple external views, including a view of Sportsmaster watching my handiwork. He doesn't look sorry for what happened, just annoyed. Killing an innocent girl should have more impact, but I guess he's a sociopath so...

My remote-controlled corkboards seem to have done the trick. He thinks I was in the warehouse the entire time. As far as he knows, I just burned to death. It's going to suck for my parents when they find parts of my body in the rubble of the warehouse. The fire damage should make it difficult for Gotham's overworked coroners to notice that the body was chemically preserved.

Leading Sportsmaster around by his nose was necessary…Eddie wouldn't stop if he thought I was still alive. He has majorly OCD, so the only thing to do is give him something else to be OCD about...my death. Maybe it would cause a schism within the group of supervillains and the whole thing will fall apart. Right. Hopefully he will at least turn his sights on Sportsmaster for revenge, but I honestly didn't know if I mean that much to him.

It sucks to lose my warehouse, but I have others. Not as well established, but at least ready to be set up. I look different now. My long blond hair was now cut in a cute black bob. My skin tone is several shades lighter than my normal tan, but short of what I would call pasty. My non-prescription glasses feed me an augmented reality stream wherever I look.

I'm going to have to keep an eye on my parents from a distance. Despite not seeing them as much as they would like, I do love my patents. I worry how they're going to take this. I wipe away a raindrop from my cheek, despite the fact that the winter Gotham sky is suspiciously clear of clouds.

Hopefully my death will keep my parents uninvolved in this mess. Riley Mason is dead. Who am I? Now, that's The Question.