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The premise of the game show was simple enough - a real-life consequences version of rock paper scissors. Two opponents go into separate rooms, where they may choose from basketball-sized rocks, sword-sized scissors, or a stack of paper and a pen. They emerge after five minutes with their chosen weapon behind their back, revealing their choice at the sound of a whistle. A fight ensues that ends in surrender or death.
It may seem as if there would be no reason to choose paper, but Edward would never waste his time on a game that relied on physical skills alone. The paper was his crown jewel.
If a contestant chose the stack of paper, they would use their five minutes to write down as many questions as they wished. If their opponent refused to answer the questions or - in the case of questions with definitive answers - got an answer wrong, they would lose. Killing an opponent before answering their questions was grounds for disqualification.
For each victory, the winner would gain five hundred dollars and all of their opponent’s winnings. They could walk away with their cash at any time, but anyone who accumulated more than five grand in a single night was eligible to challenge the Riddler himself for the chance to double their earnings. However, to lose to the Riddler meant a gruesome death of his own choosing. It was a game of risks and calculations, exactly as Edward desired.
When he got the opportunity to shine, he usually chose paper, writing riddles of varying difficulty. On occasion, however, he was known to polish up his swashbuckling skills with the scissors. Only three people had ever beaten the Riddler, each one having the brains to successfully answer his riddles. While he hated losing, he appreciated finding intelligent people in the city of Gotham. He could at least respect that.
Tonight was a night like many others - a host of eager contestants, some more skilled than others, each being pitted against each other again and again, new players being selected as tired - or smart - ones take their money and go. Edward, when he’s not riling up the crowd, has been watching from his private balcony. His eye is on Contestant Number Eight. Eight had registered as “Arthur” but there was something about the way he’d said it that made Edward doubt his honesty. It was irrelevant, of course; false identities were as common as uninvestigated murders in the Narrows.
The other suspicious thing about this Arthur character was his style of dress. He wore heavy knee-length boots, a loose and shimmery black shirt that made his exact body shape impossible to determine, a cloak that obscured him even more, and a full face masquerade mask with intricate gold embellishments. While typically the contestants’ appearances meant nothing to Edward, the lengths to which this one had gone to give off an air of mystery was intriguing. That, he supposed, was the point, but it did nothing to detract from his increasing curiosity as to the man’s identity.
Arthur had competed in four challenges as of yet, and he had, without fail, chosen scissors. Edward had to admit the man was adept with the blades, and he began to hope for the chance to pit himself against such talent. Currently, Arthur had four thousand dollars for a total, and his current opponent held fifteen-hundred. If Arthur won his fifth fight, he’d have enough cash to challenge the Riddler. Edward tensed as the contestants entered the ring. He was holding his breath in anticipation, excited at the prospect of a worthy opponent of his own.
The sharp sound of a whistle cut failed to cut through his concentration as his lackey signaled the start of the fight.
Arthur had, of course, selected the scissors. His opponent, Contestant Number Nineteen, who hadn’t impressed Edward enough thus far to have his name remembered, had chosen rock.
Nineteen began to approach Arthur, who hadn’t moved since revealing his choice of weapons. He held back, stance relaxed but alert, ready for danger but not reacting to any yet. Nineteen continued to step closer, step after step, still out of reach with his rock, unless he elected to throw it. Throwing the rock was a great risk, as it could end the fight without risk to the thrower, but could be a deadly mistake if the rock missed, leaving the thrower weaponless.
Edward leaned forward over the railing of the balcony to get a better view of the fight as Nineteen halted just out of reach of the scissors. Arthur didn’t even twitch.
The crowd waited in suspense as the seconds ticked by on the giant clock above the ring.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Nineteen lunged, feinting a strike towards Arthur’s head before ducking low and swinging the rock towards his knees.
Edward sucked in a breath as the rock moved through the air, closer and closer, until -
Arthur lifted the scissors effortlessly, cutting a wide ‘V’ through the air without opening them, knocking his opponent down at the elbows first, then flinging him onto his back with the second strike.
To Nineteen’s credit, he kept ahold of his rock, using it like an unwieldy shield as Arthur opened the scissors, ready to end him. Edward had noticed that about Arthur as well: he had no qualms about killing. That only made him all the more intriguing. Edward found himself almost hoping Arthur would beat him, if only so he could continue to pursue a study of the man rather than killing him. It would almost be a shame.
Nineteen tried to keep the blades away, but he was on his back, vulnerable, and Arthur had pressed the advantage by standing on his stomach with one leg. When he got tired of his strikes hitting rock instead of flesh, Arthur shrugged - or, at least, Edward thought he did - and sliced through the man’s wrists with two strong cuts. Nineteen’s hands and weapon fell uselessly to his chest amidst his screams and the crowds jeers. Arthur wasted no more time in dragging out his win, merely sliced open the man’s neck and stepped back so as to avoid getting any more blood on his clothes, and turned to face the balcony from which Edward was watching.
Oh how Edward hoped he’d get the chance to duel him. Arthur was a mystery to him, and nothing was more appealing to the Riddler than a riddle he had yet to solve. Watching the masked man dispatch his enemies had been practically erotic, and the thought of crossing swords with the man himself had Edward hotter under the collar than he’d like to admit.
He descended from his private seat, taking the stage once more as his henchmen dragged the body of the loser away.
“And the winner of the round is: Contestant Number Eight, Arthur!” he announced with a dramatic twirl. He held out his hand to the masked man and said, “With that, I believe your total earnings comes out to six thousand dollars, and earns you the chance to face none other than myself for the opportunity to double your dough. What do you say?”
The mask prevented Edward from seeing the man’s eyes, but he could tell they were locked on him as if in consideration.
Finally, the man spoke, “I have no need for twelve thousand dollars, Riddler . That offer does not tempt me.”
Edward blinked. He’d never heard that one before. Twelve grand wasn’t tempting enough? But as he considered the phrasing - that offer - he raised an eyebrow, “No? Well then, what would? I have to admit, you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
The man gave a stifled laugh at that, “Piqued the Riddler’s curiosity? What an honor. But to answer your question, instead of the cash, how about a favor?”
Edward felt his mouth open as he tried to think of a response, “You - you want a favor?”
“I will compete against you if - and only if - the prize for beating you is to make a request of you that you cannot refuse. Of course, that request may not be harmful to yourself physically or materially. Is that acceptable to you?”
“You accept that I will kill you, howsoever I choose, if I win?” Edward asked.
“If that is what you wish,” Arthur inclined his head, holding his own hand out as Edward’s had long since dropped back to his side. Edward looked at the mask, unable to read anything, then down at the hand.
A favor, the man wanted, but not one that risked his health or wealth?
Edward reached forward to clasp the man’s hand, “You have yourself a deal.”
A thrill of excitement went down his spine at the other’s grip, and Edward had to swallow before facing the crowd.
“A challenge has been proposed and accepted! Lila, my dear,” he called his assistant up, “You will take over as announcer for the match, as usual. Contestant Eight: best of luck.”
He gave a flourishing bow before heading for the secluded room in which he would select his weapon. He glanced at the paper, considering, before he decided with certainty that it would be more fun to spar with Arthur than it would be to test his wits. Edward already knew the man was smart, this battle was for the fun of it alone. He hefted the scissors, warming up with a few practice moves as the bell gave him his one minute warning.
The crowd began to chant a countdown, the Riddler making his entrance first. As his name was shouted by the hundreds watching, he threw the curtains open, scissors hidden behind his back, strutting out with the confidence he always wished to have. The people loved him and he loved to be loved. He posed and waved, letting the lights bounce off his glittery green suit. Another roar from the crowd, and then -
“And his challenger,” Lila called out, “who goes only by ‘Arthur’!”
The curtain on the room across from him was drawn aside with far less flair and more calculation. Arthur walked out slowly, back straight but not with the false pride Edward had. He, too, had one hand clasped behind his back, the other by his side.
“On my whistle, you will reveal your weapons and the battle will commence. Agreed.”
Edward nodded once, as did his opponent, the mask seemingly boring a hole into him.
“Three, two, one,” Lila blew the whistle, it’s shrill tone deafening in the silence that had fallen over the crowd.
Edward drew the oversized scissors from behind him, assuming a casual stance.
Arthur hesitated, for the first time that night, and Edward felt an instinct, deep in his gut, warning him that something was wrong.
And then Arthur moved his other hand from behind his back to reveal the stack of paper clutched in it.
Edward nearly dropped the scissors.
“You chose paper?” he asked, unable to figure Arthur out and desperately needing to be able to, “Why?”
Arthur didn’t answer immediately. He continued to stand there, knowing he had time as Edward could do nothing until he had answered all the questions that had yet to be revealed. He didn’t speak at all, simply raised a hand to clasp of his cloak, undoing it. The material fell to the ground at his feet, and the apprehension stirring in Edward’s gut swelled into fear. Then that fear manifested into reality as Arthur reached behind his head to the strings holding his mask in place and let it, too, drop to his feet.
The face under the mask was one that had haunted both Edward’s dreams and waking hours for years. His former friend, his former enemy. The man who understood him too well.
Standing across from him in the ring was none other than the Penguin himself. Oswald Cobblepot.
When Edward finally managed to pick his jaw up off the floor and ask a question, the only thing he could manage to get out was, “...Arthur?”
Oswald snorted lightly, the smallest of condescending smiles on his face as he said, “A once and future king.”
Edward cursed himself for not expecting the wordplay. He had been so caught up in reveling over the mystery of Arthur that he hadn’t put his all into solving him.
“What - What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Oswald scoffed, “I’m playing your game. I’m facing you in a real life version of rock-paper-scissors to win a favor.”
Edward felt his blood turn to ice at those words. He had promised one, hadn’t he. If Oswald beat him - and when didn’t Oswald beat him? - he would owe the man a favor he couldn’t refuse. He could only imagine the humiliating things Oswald might have in store for him. Why had he been so stupid? How could he have assumed that the mysterious stranger in his club didn’t have a strategy specifically targeting him? It should have been obvious! It was exactly the sort of thing he would do.
“You always assume no one is as clever as you,” Oswald sighed, as if reading his mind, “Well, I guess it’s time to put that to the test.”
“I still don’t understand,” Edward frowned, “There are so many other, easier ways you could have procured a favor. Why go to all this trouble? It’s not like you.”
Oswald wasn’t looking at him, gaze somewhere far off, and Edward surprised himself in feeling pain that Oswald looked so sad.
“A favor would be nice, but even more than that… I wanted answers. I have some questions that I think you’ve been avoiding, and I couldn’t think of a better way to make you face them than to ask you them in a context where you must either tell me the truth or break your own rules. I know how you despise cheating.”
Edward gasped. It was a nefarious plan, exploiting his weaknesses, and Edward was terrified of what questions were about to be asked. Briefly he considered surrendering, but the humiliation of that would be even greater. How could he face the world again if he went down without a fight?
And then Oswald turned over the first piece of paper and Edward felt his heart stop. He was like a cornered animal, unable to think for the fear that overwhelmed him as he stared at the words.
After you shot me, did you miss me?
He had admitted it to his hallucination of Oswald, but never to the genuine article. At least he had admitted it before. That would make this marginally easier, he supposed.
Swallowing down his pride, looking anywhere but Oswald, Edward answered softly, “Yes.”
He glanced up to see Oswald’s eyes widen slightly, and somehow that hurt even more. Oswald had expected him to say no. That’s how far apart they were now. Once he had felt as if they had been completely in sync. No one had understood him the way Oswald had, and the man still did, in some ways. But it was like they were on opposite sides of a canyon, shouting across, and so far apart.
And then Oswald flipped to the next question and Edward realized just how screwed he was.
Why were you willing to die for me when we went after Sofia?
He felt his breaths coming quicker, hyperventilating as he tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t give away the feelings that Oswald couldn’t know he harbored. After everything they’d put each other through, for Oswald to discover them now… he’d surely kill him, or worse, use him. Edward held the scissors in front of him like a shield against the truth, but he couldn’t cheat. He couldn’t.
“I - you deserved to have revenge after what she did to you. I - I respect you enough to want to give you that. And - and besides, you have the greater future, between the two of us. If only one of us could survive that war… you deserved to be the one that did.”
Oswald reached up to swiftly brush at his eyes before delivering the next sucker punch to Edward.
If I had asked you out before I betrayed you, would you have said yes?
The scissors dropped to the floor with a clatter and Edward backed up until his back hit the wall of the selection room. He had his hands out before him, not unlike the pose he’d been frozen in, and he shook his head, “Please. Oswald, please.”
“Answer the question, Ed. Unless you forfeit?”
Forfeiting meant giving Oswald the favor automatically. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t. Besides, maybe - maybe it wouldn’t give anything away. He was asking about the past , after all.
“I - I - Yes. Yes, I would have,” he managed to whisper, the words unfortunately amplified by his microphone, booming over the hushed crowd.
He couldn’t see Oswald’s expression well enough through the tears forming in his eyes, tears he refused to shed, but he didn’t really want to. Didn’t want to know if his eyes were pitying or gloating. Didn’t want the hallucination fodder.
“Then I have only one more question for you, Ed Nygma,” Oswald said quietly, stepping closer and flipping to the last piece of paper, “Do you love me now?”
Edward slid down the wall, wrapping his arms around himself until his body had contorted into a tight ball, blinking back tears. He began to rock himself back and forth. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. This - this was a dream, a hallucination, come to torment him.
But no, there was Oswald, kneeling before him, hand very firmly, very real on his shoulder.
“Ed?”
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. Favor be darned.
“I surrender.”
“Ed?” Oswald repeated, sounding slightly confused.
“I concede. I refuse to answer,” he said, voice shaking with dry sobs as he added, “You can have your favor.”
“Oh,” Oswald honestly looked a bit shocked, as if he hadn’t expected Edward to break down so thoroughly. Edward scoffed, as if that hadn’t been his intention in the first place. Humiliate him in front of his employees and his adoring fans.
“Well? What do you want to make me do? Or will you keep this to hold over my head later on?” he bit out, feeling far too vulnerable for his own liking.
Oswald’s face had gone serene, and he slid the hand on Edward’s shoulder down his arm to his hand, taking it in his own, “Edward, for my favor, I request that you accompany me on a date.”
Edward blinked, unsure what he was hearing, “You what?”
“I want you to go out with me,” Oswald said, “I just wanted to make sure you wanted that too. I’m fairly certain you do, now.”
“You - why are you doing this? Did you really waste a favor just to toy with me? Are you that cruel?” he asked, unable to fathom why Oswald would have thrown away his favor like that.
“Oh, Ed,” Oswald sighed, laying his other hand on Edward’s cheek, “I’m not trying to toy with you. I’m trying to date you.”
“Why?” was all Edward could think to say. Oswald snorted, “I don’t know, maybe because I love you?”
“You what?”
“I know you’re the Riddler, but you sure do ask a lot of questions,” Oswald told him, “But I’ll deal, because I love you, Edward Nygma. I love your style, I love the way you kill, I love the way your brain works, I love your sense of humor, and I even love your infernal riddles. Because they’re a part of you, and I love all of you. Now are you going to keep asking me questions or are you going to let me kiss you?”
Edward stared at him, trying to wrap his head around the speech, before the last part finally caught up to him.
“You want to kiss me?”
“And here I was sure you’d choose the latter,” Oswald rolled his eyes, “Yes, darling. I want to kiss you.”
“Okie dokie,” Edward said, his brain nearly short-circuiting.
Oswald couldn’t help but smile as he brought his hand down to cup Edward’s jaw, holding him in place as he leaned in to brush their lips together. Edward sighed, letting his eyes flutter shut, and brought up his arms to cling to the only man who consistently bested him. He didn’t mind so much this time.
“Eh-em,” a voice coughed above them, and they broke apart. Edward looked up to find Lila staring down at him, unimpressed, “If you two don’t mind … the battle’s over. Perhaps you ought to leave the ring…?”
“Oh. Oh, yes,” Edward muttered, flustered as he realized the crowd was watching them, some looking furious but most looking amused.
“Anyone who earned money tonight may see Lila to collect their winnings. The next set of Rock Paper Scissors will take place a week from tonight. Same venue, same prizes. Don’t miss it!” he delivered his closing speech in a rather lackluster manner, much more interested in following Oswald, who had hastily exited the stage and headed for Edward’s private office.
“Take it from here, Lila,” he told his assistant, remembering to unclip the mic before hurrying off after Oswald. Perhaps all those shivers of excitement from watching ‘Arthur’ perform would not be for naught after all...