Chapter Text
Bruce still isn’t very familiar with Arkham’s walls, despite the fact that he’s been taking criminals there for over five years, but he’s sure that the bloody handprint isn’t supposed to be there. He’s being escorted to the Warden’s Office by two trigger-happy orderlies, when he sees it. The walls are a off-white, almost yellow, and the wallpaper is peeling. It’s covered in old stains, but the handprint looks fairly recent. The handprint is still dripping, the blood is fresh. Bruce glances down to the moldy carpet, and starts following the trail of blood droplets.
He knows from studying Arkham’s blueprints that the Warden’s Office is still a ways away, and that he’s in the solitary wing. He follows the trail to an open door, when the orderlies crash past him, tasers in hand. Bruce follows them, and surveys the scene before him. A dead man, a discarded nurse’s uniform in a hole of a room.
“Victim number nine,” Bruce whispers. “Steven Bolton.” He kneels next to the body, pushes the corpse’s bangs out of the way, and takes a photo of his face, and the bullet hole in his forehead. Like the eight victims before him, the bullet had been removed, likely by tweezers.
The orderlies are speaking indistinctly into their walkie-talkies, likely calling security to review the cameras. Bruce stands.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need you to let me talk to Riddler.” The orderlies look at each other, seeming to come to a sort of agreement.
“Alright, do you still want to talk to the warden?” The female orderly asks. Bruce shakes his head.
“This way to the visitor's area,” The male orderly starts walking. “I’ll take you there. Marissa, get him ready to see Batman.”
/
Bruce has been waiting in the visitor’s area for at least thirty minutes, with the male orderly, Markus, standing behind him. He vaguely wonders what is taking Marissa and Riddler so long. He’s drawn out of his reverive by the sound of the door on the other side of the glass opening.
The first thing Bruce latches onto is the fact that Riddler’s in a wheelchair. Riddler’s hair is the second thing Bruce notices. Honey blonde, the same color it's always been, it reaches well past his shoulders, and is matted and tangled. They meet each other's eyes from across the room. His gaze is unfocused, green eyes heavy with emotion that Bruce can’t decipher. The metal collar around his neck is tighter, his wrist chains are shorter, pulling his hands up in an awkward position. His nails are long and jagged, arms covered in scars that Bruce doesn’t remember.
Marissa rolls Riddler’s chair up to the glass divide, and passes him the phone. Bruce takes his corresponding phone.
Riddler’s expression changes from uninterested to very, very, interested when he is close enough to see Batman. He reaches a finger up to twirl a lock of hair, and cocks his head. His attitude is nonchalant, but Bruce can hear his breath coming in quick and uneven.
The two sit and stare for a moment, drinking in each other’s appearances and presence, Markus and Marissa forgotten.
“What happened to you?” Bruce asks tactlessly. Riddler’s face, open and easy to read, shuts down to a blank, bored expression.
“Oh,” Riddler finally breathes, “That’s what you’re starting with?” He sounds almost disappointed. Bruce shakes his head.
“I don’t have time for this. Your people are being killed, and…” Bruce breathes out an angry sigh. “Your people. The people who helped you blow Gotham to hell and back three years ago. Someone is targeting them, killing them, and you are in danger.” Bruce tries to feel anything other than anger and apathy, but looking directly into the eyes of the terrorist across from him makes his skin crawl. He ignores the voice in his head that whispers maybe he deserves to die, and he isn’t worth your time, why are you even trying?
“Okay.” Riddler says, voice impassive. They keep staring at each other, before Riddler glances away. “Thank you for the warning.” The tone is polite, the message is dismissive.
Bruce feels something twinge in his gut as he looks at the man across from him, and he comes to a realization. Riddler doesn't care what happens to him. His breathing has stabilized, and he looks back at Bruce and frowns.
“You can leave, you know.”
“I know,” Bruce says, but he doesn’t move. Riddler makes the move for him, putting the phone back on the hook, and Marissa wheels him out of the room. “Where is the warden? I need to talk to him.”
/
Quincy Sharp is not a good man, Bruce decides. The Warden of Arkham Asylum has spent the past fifteen minutes of Bruce’s time complaining about his patients and how wretched and hopeless they are, giving Bruce no useful information,and diverting the topic back to himself each time Bruce had tried to intervene. Bruce had come to ask how many of the Riddler’s followers were housed here, but then one had been murdered, and Bruce’s goals changed. He needs to convince Sharp to put them into protective custody at the GCPD, and transfer Riddler to a safer location as well.
“Warden Sharp,” Bruce interrupts. “The GCPD needs custody of Riddler and his followers for as long as the investigation is open. You cannot protect them here.” Sharp frowns and nods.
“Did Gordon send you?” He asks. Bruce nods. “Why didn’t he come himself?”
"Commissioner Gordon is a busy man. He needed someone he trusts to get the job done.” Bruce says. Sharp sighs and stands, then motions the orderlies at the door to leave.
“Alright, alright. I’ll file the paperwork now. God knows we don’t need more bad press, so we keep the transfer quiet, right?” Bruce makes a small hum of affirmation. He leaves the small office, and begins to aimlessly wander down the halls until he finds the exit. He sighs, and against his better judgment, pulls out his phone, dialing Gordon’s number.
“Gordon. I think Riddler should be kept in a safehouse away from the rest of them. I mean, keeping them all in one place isn’t the best idea.” The crackle of Gordon sighing rumbles into Bruce’s ear.
“You’re right. Riddler is the ringleader. I’ll call Sharp, get some men to take him to–”
“No.” Bruce interrupts, shocking himself. “I’ll take care of it.” Gordon makes a displeased noise.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” Gordon says, “I trust you. Don’t fuck this up.” He hangs up.
/
Edward sits in silence in his cell, and thinks about what happened today. He’d gotten something new in his meds this morning. Joker hadn’t contacted or visited him. Batman had. Batman had visited him! He feels as if this should be a significant event, but he can’t quite bring himself to remember why that is. He’d mentioned something about murders, but Edward’s already forgotten. He felt an old anger stir in him, and he’d pushed it down, just like Dr Browne had taught him too. He wouldn't let his emotions control him.
He feels the voice inside tell him to stop listening to Dr Browne, and to stop taking the medication she gave him. He shakes his head. He needs to take the medication to make the past pain go away, and listen to Dr Browne because she would protect him from future pain.
A knock sounds on his door and then it opens, revealing Marissa and the wheelchair. She rolls it over to the bed, and he gets into a standing position and limps over to the chair. It’s funny that they let him have a wheelchair but not a cane. He can walk with a cane, but Dr Browne says he can’t have one. Hence the wheelchair.
He gets in it without complaint. Marissa attaches his collar and handcuffs. Edward wonders if he’s getting another visitor.
“Ms Marissa,” He begins, “Where are we going?” Marissa sighs and Edward sees her shrug.
“You’re going to a safehouse,” She says. “Because of the murders.” She adds, noticing his blank expression. Edward decides not to ask what murders she’s talking about. Maybe the ones Batman mentioned. Probably the ones Batman mentioned.
Edward lets the fog in his mind take over while he is brought to a room to be searched. The process is downright humiliating, and Edward would rather not be mentally present for it. He vaguely hears Markus telling him to turn around and bend over, and feels the intruding fingers of a cavity exam. Edward blinks back to reality when he is handed clothes. He puts them on without complaint.
He limps over to the wheelchair, only to be stopped by Marissa, who hands him a wooden cane. He frowns at it.
“Don’t get used to it,” She says, “It’s only temporary, ‘cause the safehouse has stairs.” Edward hesitantly takes it. He follows her out of the room to a door that leads outside.
The door opens, and Edward is blinded. The last time he was outside… Well, that would have to have been the day he was found in that diner. The sky is overcast, and rain clouds are forming, but Edward cringes away from it all. It’s too much, too bright, too loud, all at once. Marissa fishes a pair of sunglasses out of her pocket. She puts them on over Edward’s regular glasses, and Edward lets the fog take over.
/
Bruce is waiting outside of the car when he sees them. Marissa walks slowly next to Riddler, her taser out. Riddler is wearing fresh orange scrubs and sunglasses. He’s walking, with a very heavy limp favoring his right leg and using a cane, but he’s walking. They make their way up to the car.
“Here’s a thirty day supply of his meds, plus some of his stuff,” She says, handing Bruce a bag. “Make sure that he takes them.” With that said she turns around, leaving Bruce alone with Riddler.
“Get in the car.” Bruce orders, and Riddler obeys. Bruce gets into the front seat and starts the car.
The drive down to the safehouse is silent and tense. Riddler stares out the window and Bruce drives recklessly. Bruce feels doubt coiling in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn’t have done this. He should have the GCPD take Riddler, he doesn’t even know why he didn’t. A misguided sense of pity, perhaps. Riddler had just looked so pathetic. Bruce couldn't help but fear that something was wrong with him. The way his eyes had looked so blank, the nonchalant attitude a front for something else.
Whatever it was, Bruce regrets making the decision to bring Riddler to the safehouse. He’s a terrorist, the voice reminds him, whoever’s killing his little friends is in the right, they all deserve to die. Bruce shakes his head, trying not to think about that. He can help you, another thought pops up, he’s a genius. He can help you find who it is. Bruce nearly laughs at it, him, working with Riddler? Never. Sure, whoever has been killing these men has been lucky so far, but Bruce or the GCPD will get them soon. It’s been three weeks since the murders began on the three year annversiery of the start of No Man’s Land. Three men each week so far, Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Today was a Friday, Bruce should have planned better. But he has no leads, and no way to secure whoever the next target would be. So Bruce and the GCPD had to work together. Now the culprit would have to strike at the GCPD itself, a task easier said than done.
Bruce shakes the thoughts from his head as he pulls up to the safehouse. He knew that the Batmobile wouldn't exactly be inconspicuous, so he brought a black Mazda instead. He looks back at Riddler.
“We’re here.” He says, and steps out of the car. Riddler gets out as well, his steps unsure and small. Bruce motions to the door in the back. It’s an abandoned motel. Riddler doesn’t seem to care, he just follows Bruce to the back door and waits for him to unlock it. Once unlocked, they take the stairs in the back to the second floor, where Bruce pushes Riddler into the fourth room. He hangs the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob. A single twin bed, a desk and no window occupy the small room.
“Don’t try to escape,” Bruce says. “I have cameras all over the premises. No one will be here. No one will hear you. Just stay here and wait for me.” Riddler just nods and limps over to the bed, and sits down on it. Bruce opens the bag that Marissa gave him, and gives Riddler the electric razor, as well as the toothbrush and toothpaste and deodorant. He keeps the meds with him. He also hands Riddler a radio. “Contact me if there's an emergency. Otherwise, don’t use it.”
Riddler nods again. Bruce leaves the room, locking the door from the outside. He makes his way back to the car and drives away.
/
Bruce wakes up to a beeping notification on his phone. He’d fallen asleep scrolling through police reports of the past nine murders when the motion dectors went off at the safehouse. The beeping noise is incessant, and Bruce jolts awake when he realizes what it is. Someone had pulled up in a car to the motel’s driveway, and someone had gotten out of that car. Bruce suits up as fast as humanly possible, and sprints to the Batmobile.
The drive is brief and very illegal. Bruce drives in a way that would cost him a ticket or two, but he doesn't care. He has somewhere to be. The parking job is awful.
He runs as fast as his legs can carry him, and sprints up the stairs, noting that Riddler’s room door is already open, pulls out a batarang, and enters the room. Standing in the center of the room is a young woman, holding a gun to Riddler’s head, who stands over her, leaning heavily on her cane and breathing hard and fast.
“Put down the gun.” Bruce says.
“No,” She says to Batman, sensing his entrance without turning around, “You are going to put down the weapon. You are going to put down the weapon, or I’m gonna blow his fucking brains out,” Bruce carefully drops the batarang and walks into her line of vision, but she isn’t looking at him. “Edward Nashton. You killed my whole fucking family. We were on a shopping trip in town when the bridges blew. The flood killed them all, I was the only one who could swim. You killed so many people that night, and I’m gonna make you face that.” She smiles at the horrified look on Riddler’s face. “My name is Ashley Green, and I’m sixteen. You killed my baby brother when he wasn’t even a year old yet. His name was Joseph Green. My mom and pops were thirty nine each. They were Eric Green and Mary Green. I want to remember that. I want you to remember that for the rest of your life, because believe me, you are going to live a very long, long time. And I want you to remember me,” She says, tears freely flowing now, “Because who else will?”
Bruce sees what she’s doing far too late. He lunges at her, trying to tackle her, but the damage has been done. She had turned the gun on herself, and with a horrible bang, her blood splattered on Riddler’s face.
Bruce turns his eyes to Riddler and his rage takes over, stalking towards the man, whose knees buckle and he collapses over Ashley’s body.
“Oh my God,” he whimpers. “Oh my God, I’m sorry, God forgive me, please, Ashley, no, oh my God, no, no, no, no, no, no!” His words turn into sobs that turn into screams. Bruce walks over to Riddler and kicks him into the wall and away from the corpse. His head collides with the plaster in a sickening crack.
“Just stop,” He roars, “Stop pretending. Let me see you, Riddler. Not the facade, let me see your rage. You did this, so stop pretending to care!” He stalks towards Ridder, who tries to curl into a ball.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no… No! I, I, I, no, no, I can’t, I’m not. I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry.” He repeats over and over again. Bruce kicks him again, and again, feeling a cruel twinge of pleasure in the way Riddler whimpers and begs for him to stop. Riddler twitches and goes limp. Bruce feels guilt wash over him as he realizes what he just did. He falls to his knees before the two limp forms. Riddler takes a deep shuddering breath, and laughs. He laughs a broken little giggle, completely devoid of mirth.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have killed and killed and killed, and so much more. I am filthy and rotten, and for these and all other sins which I cannot remember or call to mind, I am truly sorry. Oh, Father, forgive me.” He laughs again, and takes another deep breath. “Ave Maria… Gratia plena… Maria, gratia plena… Maria, gratia plena…” He sings, and as the sirens of the cop cars closing in, Bruce wonders if this is where it ends. A requiem for the boy Edward once was, an ending for the monster that he has become. He stands, and slips away into the dark, leaving the man to his fate.
/