When the Riddler didn't like something, he changed it.
The sewers or waterworks, for instance. There were a lot of things he had not liked about the sewers, or, more accurately, he disliked being in them. It was either too dark or too bright, depending on who had or had not been there priorly, and no matter which way it went, he hated it. Darkness was useful if you wanted to get rid of a pesky headache or sit around like a fool doing nothing at all, but if he wanted to do that, he'd kick his lackeys out and turn off the light himself. Not having the option to turn one back on when you were better was where the issue laid. So he installed one, not caring for how long it would take. Contrastingly, sometimes there was a light, set up by whatever gang that had possessed this territory before he got his superior mitts on it, and the bulb burned. Usually so much so that he preferred having no light at all to rid himself of the resultant, bothersome, hindering migraine. Damned if he didn't was the moral of the story and the old bulb would soon find itself discarded in favour of a dimmer one that left lurking shadows and eerie patterns on the far walls, but ultimately got him what he wanted.
Another thing he hadn't liked was the smell - a rather obvious observation to make when you thought about exactly where the hideout was located, but one that needed attention brought to it nevertheless. His goons were often lowlifes that had gotten used to the putrid scent, noseblind to the disasters he himself experienced with his heightened senses, mind it being bad enough to any ordinary person. So, he fixed it. Scent dispurses in every core section of the room, models he'd fashioned himself as to bestow a fragrance he personally enjoyed among the place and everyone in it, regardless of how unworthy of his genius he may consider them. The point was, he was fine, and he'd gotten what he wanted.
The rule of three was something the Riddler commonly lived by; he believed wholeheartedly in the theory of the concept, and was more than happy to apply such a thing to his riddles three. Yes, having things in groups of three indicated completion, it had a certain balance about it that leveled out the rival-like fight between a pair of things, and he imagined most things in life, natural as they were, came in a trio. Which is why it was such a shame that things he didn't like also reflected this.
He did not like being in the sewers. Not just for the priorly stated reasons, no - whilst why may be tricky and inconvenient, they were merely nothing-reasons in the eyes of his biggest battle: self-importance. It was a struggle for him most days, just what exactly it was that he was good for, but that, he figured, was an issue any genius ran into just on account of the fact they thought too much. Any troubles he had in that topic were buried in a slightly-buffed ego, still leaving the fact remaining that he should not be down there.
He was a man of great intelligence, he should not have to be spending his time in these below-average conditions for the sake of having a ceiling over his head. What did the Penguin or the Joker have that he didn't? What was it that let them possess decent (and sometimes downright impressive) lairs? Money. That was what he needed, that was what would get him out of the sewers and into somewhere that would earn him the recognition he deserved, and to fix this, he needed a plan.
The plan had failed. But where the caped crusader was involved, when didn't it.
At the same time, it was hardly as though he couldn't say he'd achieved his goal, albeit in a different way to that of which he'd intended, which carried its own annoyance not relevant right now. Being thrown into Arkham for the first time was less than ideal, but at a cost, he was out of the sewers, and he'd gotten what he wanted.
Except for the fact Arkham was worse. It was restricting, it was controlling, and it was utterly humiliating.
Bitterly irritating was the sway the guards felt they had over everyone locked up, overlooking the needs they claimed to require and shutting down any simple asks in a way that made the Riddler feel this was more some kind of zoo than a prison for human people. Behind bars, they were treated like caged animals that might leap at you any moment, that had no restriction over their own behaviour, or seen as flat-out nothing at all. Frankly, he was insulted. He had class, thank you very much, and pointless attacks were not on par with his way of crime, Batman would tell them that!
He would, too, if Riddler could tell him how horrid it was in here. Batman would believe any of them could reform and that they should be treated firmly but not cruelly, taught how to function properly again but respected enough to have basic needs met. Headache after headache that could have been saved by Batman if it wasn't for the fact he was helpless to getting his message out, or for the fact the guards refused to believe him when he told them his cell's lighting level physically hurt crossed his mind. He wanted to be taken seriously, recognised for the marvel he was, and at least also be given the dignity enough to have his suit back instead of the horrible uniform they'd forced upon him.
Uncomfortable was an understatement. The fabric used in the poorly-designed scraps of an outfit was incredibly cheap, which made sense given Gotham's budgeting issues, but made everything much harder to process in the moment. It may be okay for these other common criminals, but the Riddler was a man who had his own preferences for textures and designs - a lot of his clothes he made himself, after all. Given this, it was understandable that he may be a little overcritical, but whoever designed this really had made a horrible job of it: uneven seams that poked out intrusively, baggy areas in all the wrong parts that messed with any sensory processing one wanted to do, and the tag from this monstrosity's manufacturers from still in and unable to be removed via the guards' ignorance, scratching against skin in the itchiest way fathomable, meaning he kept having to prize the attaching fabric away.
Arkham was hazardous, too. Not directly to him, exactly, but in general - you may be liable to get hit by some type of weapon gone astray, for example. Such had almost been the case earlier that particular day in the mess hall (with the state of the slop the place served, he deemed the choice of name rather apt) when one of the lesser-known criminals had gone at a guard with a screwdriver, to no avail. The man's plan had been an absent party, and, by the looks of it, so had his brain. He'd not thought it through in the slightest, so it was obvious he'd get overpowered. What the man or guards had failed to predict was the gizmo slipping out of his hand and going flying across the room somewhere, clattering to the floor.
After the man had been removed and the commotion had died down, there'd been a search for the missing utensil after it had not been able to be scouted out on the floor. Fortunately for someone who didn't like being touched, the Riddler was left alone, as the security, in their laziness, had prioritised searching only the most physically-threatening rogues. The rest had been marched back to their cells.
Speaking of cells, that was another thing he hated. Lengthways, it was longer than width in such a fashion that made it awkwardly cramped depending on where you were standing. His earlier deduction about the fool who designed the clothes may also be the same fool that designed these rooms, he mused, after being locked back into its narrow walls for the rest of the day and left to his own devices. Restrictions in space came in the worst areas of the room possible, almost as though it had been done on purpose, like some cruel prank not even the Joker would pull on him to heighten the creeping sense of claustrophobia.
For what he felt was a prison, the lack of freedom partially made sense, but freedom to move around comfortably was something he figured they'd have worked on at the very least. He supposed he'd been wrong.
As a matter of fact, all the supposing was getting boring, because there was absolutely nothing to do in this place other than think. Options for classes were offered, but he always refused, no matter how much they claimed he would like it once he tried it - it was like they were insinuating he didn't know what he wanted, that he didn't know what he liked and disliked, like he had no control over what went on in his head.
With a newfound appreciation for the sewers, the Riddler pondered. As said before, it was the only thing you really could do in such a boring place. Looking out of the reinforced windows to survey the outside's layout on the walk back down here had been exhilarating in comparison. Prison wasn't usually like this. The warden was rather close to Batman, and he'd had their needs and requirements met. This being a specialised place, he could only assume Batman had guessed everything had already been sorted, but it hadn't, and it needed to be. Not only did the bright knight need to know about how terrible it was, but he needed to keep Riddler out of here. He was not meant to be here at all, they'd made a mistake, it was a nightmare come real.
Reflecting got him nowhere but irritated about the poor quality in air conditioning. The rooms were often too stuffy in a way that almost clogged up your nose and frontal lobe and left your brain throbbing, the closed-up threads of the clothes doing nothing to ameliorate the exhaustion. He imagined it'd help a great deal if the ventilation covers actually did their job. Where they were not cleaned regularly, dust had clogged up a majority of the inside grating, and even if he wasn't deathly opposed to touching the stuff to hook it out himself, a quick peek through one of the gaps revealed that the tunnel beyond was no better. For something so large and square one would think it'd be clear enough to do its job, but that was just another result of the neglect.
Slightly hot and very bothered, the Riddler sat atop the hard mattress of his bed and contemplated some more. Given everything, he thought, reaching down below the trousers of his uniform and threading a finger below his sock to pull out the missing screwdriver, it was quite a miracle he'd gotten away with thievery whilst on the inside. No - not a miracle, it was skill. He was a genius.
Toying with the tool between his fingers, he thought it a real shame that the poor thing had gone through all that travel between room to room, almost been complicit in an underthought attack, and it still hadn't been put to its proper use. He didn't like that.
The more he thought about it, the more it all came down to one simple solution: to tell Batman. And yet, how could he, trapped within the dastardly walls of this disrespectful dungeon? With its loose tools and screw-on air vent, just small enough against the outside wall for a thin man to squeeze through.
The Riddler did not like Arkham, not one bit.
And, when the Riddler doesn't like something, he changes it.
A little ways into central Gotham City, in a tidy office situated high up in the accommodation of a needlessly towering-tall building, the phone rang.
As quick at his job as ever, Commissioner Gordon answered, prompted the panicked speaker to go on, and let his eyes widen as he was informed of the regrettable news.
"What do you mean he's escaped?!"