Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gotham is not a city meant for romantic get-togethers at the cinema followed by fancy dinners where the gentleman offers to pay the check for the night. It never was so, not when it was still being built nor now, in modern times. Still, public opinion is divided on whether this somber megalopolis was ever a safe place to live- There are some who believe Gotham is only bad now, that there were times of greatness and light when the city was prospering, its influence shaping the world around us. Such people may be inclined to point to the heyday of Park Row as an example of decay, referencing its time as one of Gotham’s most glamourous streets, but no amount of industrial and commercial growth could have saved the famous street from its grimy fate. That’s just how things go.

Park Row is no more.

There’s only Crime Alley now, a monolithic reminder of what Gotham always cycles back to. Corruption, impoverishment, crime and suffering. Law has no bearing in such a place, no constitution to assess how you should be leading your life, and so, logically, that’s exactly where you want to find yourself when you’re running from jurisdiction.

Edward Nygma knows this, of course. Knows that if he manages to reach the alley in time, he’ll be able to disappear into its complex disarray of abandoned houses the same as a whisper in the wind, never to be heard from again until he so chooses. And that’s really the only thing on his mind as he hurries through the East End. On any other occasion, his brain would be buzzing with all sorts of intriguing ideas, witty remarks and, as per design, riddles. But, for now, he has to focus.

Until he’s able to safely retreat into one of his hideouts he must continue carefully analyzing the mapping of the city, identifying each turn he has to take to reach his destination along with every shortcut he’ll be able to go through without risking capture. This task, on its own, is not particularly hard. Gotham is to Ed a puzzle he has long solved, from the little dark corners in deserted backstreets to the intricate underground maze that makes up the city’s sewage system, he has committed it all to memory.

But Gotham was never the real problem. No, of course not. The actual problem is currently 10 stories above Ed’s head, jumping from roof to roof, trying to catch up to his pace. And that’s none other than Batman himself, sworn vigilante of the city.

Edward was certain there weren’t enough words in the English language to accurately describe how much he hated to feel the dark knight’s gaze stationed at the back of his neck. It was like being prey to a vicious predator- as soon as he felt his eyes on him, he knew he had to run for his life. He didn’t appreciate the lack of control over the situation, nor to be left with no option but withdrawal. 

At his current speed, Ed could reach Crime Alley in about 8 minutes. It really wasn’t that far off, just two blocks away, but that still gave Batman plenty of time to find a way to corner him. There was a narrow little street approaching he could cut through, the fence at its end had a gap just wide enough for him to slide through. Were he to do it quickly, the Alley would be just 4 minutes away, but it was also a little too risky, and he’d rather not gamble his luck. Chance is not his gimmick, after all.

Unfortunately for the Riddler, the already very few options he had were quickly torn to pieces as he heard Batman’s grapple gun cut through the air above him, echoing against the avenue’s rickety houses with voracious force. The vigilante was gaining on him, and Edward knew it wouldn’t take long until he found an opportunity to pin him to the ground and take him back to that dreaded Asylum.

“Goddamn show-off!” Groaned Edward through gritted teeth, “This chase isn’t fair!”

Fair or not, the situation wasn’t going to change, so he had to make his move now. With the soles of his polished Oxford shoes tapping desperately against the concrete pavement, the rogue took a sharp turn into a dark street and kept on running. His shoes, he thought, were not made for this type of predicament.

The man had first stumbled upon this ill-lit street as a young teen. As fate would have it, he’d also been running then- not from some odd-costumed hero but, rather, from a group of older schoolboys. Silly as it may sound now, it too was an unfair chase. Their heights and strength easily overpowered his gawky little figure, who could often pass for younger than was actually the case. He ran into this street as a last resort, looking for somewhere to hide. Instead, he found an opening he could leap through, something that could quickly put him a safe distance away from his assailants.

Gotham had changed a lot since those days, and so had Ed. The changes time brought were not so much intrinsic as they were superficial, things that had been building up for a long time but which were yet to surface. There was a bubble that was bound to burst and, when it finally did, it triggered a colossal domino effect. Of the very few things that remained untouched throughout that time, this fence was oddly one of them. Edward had Bruce Wayne partially to thank for this, since he had sought to preserve Crime Alley and all of its surrounding areas.

And preserved it was, with the same decrepit walls and crumbling buildings of all those years ago, only getting worse with each passing day. This progressive deterioration was so jarring, the Riddler couldn’t help but be slightly distracted by the smell of rot that surrounded him as he prepared to jump through the small gap. This smell, although familiar, was abidingly sickening.

Edward found that both his head and right arm went through just fine, however, as he began to slide his torso across, a sharp pain made him let out a loud whimper. The hole was much too small to be crossed carelessly and, in his rush, the green-suited man let a honed wire edge slash the upper half of his left arm. The stinging was bad, though far from the worst he had faced. Still, he didn’t have time to stop and wallow in pain, so he continued wiggling his way through the gap until his body toppled down to the other side.

“What do you call a small wound?” A question inadvertently escaped his lips the second he got up from the ground, a gloved hand now squeezing around the lesion. His eyes glanced at it for just a second, examining the damage, seeing the purple of his glove slowly turn to red, “A short-cut.”

Just after he muttered the answer to his own riddle, he set off running again. Ed would never admit it, but he felt a little disappointed no one had been there to hear that.

There was no sign of Batman for now, just an uneasy sense of quietness accompanied by the moonlight, which illuminated the streets better than any of the worn out lampposts. The sky was void of stars, as usual. Urbanites expect to see stars on TV, not shining in the night sky. You’d have to be in the Bristol Township area before you could see a difference, near the homes of every major corporate mogul and hedonistic celebrity Gotham has to offer.

Edward had once wanted to be part of the elite, to receive the attention he both needed and deserved. His intellect finally recognized by the broader public and all the people who once doubted him proved wrong. Now, he saw through their corrupted schemes, the way they built empires exploiting the efforts of people like himself. So he realized he had been above the system all along.

If the dark knight quit meddling in his schemes, he knew he could achieve much more.

Eventually, he would. One day, he’d manage to beat Batman, concoct a plan so brilliant all of the vigilante’s sleazy tricks would be rendered useless… But that day was yet to come.

Tonight, he would be lucky to make it to Crime Alley, and luckier to treat his injury before it got infected. He was really close, just one more minute running and he’d be at the alley, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize this was too easy. Batman had just seemingly vanished and the GCPD was yet to make an appearance.  There was more to this, they’d never let him off without a struggle.

He paused.

At last, he had put two and two together, but it was already too late. There must have been no more than a 20-foot difference between the Riddler and the alley then. His eyes continued to stare blankly ahead as an aching feeling began spreading across his tired body, “Ah,” he breathed. It would take some time until he forgave himself for playing into such an obvious trap.

Slowly, he began moving forward. He could hear his heartbeat better than his own footsteps, “I get it,” Edward announced, “I am flora, not fauna-”

The sound of several guns being cocked back walled him, “I am foliage, not trees,” he put his arms up as best as he could, though his wounded limb struggled to stay balanced in the air, “I am shrubbery, not grass…”

Dozens of figures emerged from the shadows, all wearing those dark blue suits he found so distasteful, “What am I?” With that, he kneeled down. He had been so busy running from Batman, that he completely forgot about the police.

“Am bush,” came a rather dry response from behind him.

Ed glanced up at the caped vigilante with disdain as he walked towards him, “Hmf,” the captured criminal huffed, “Yes, that’s correct.”

This time, he actually wished there was no one to hear his riddle.

Chapter Text

“Why did you break into GothCorp’s Newtown laboratory?” Officer Montoya snapped, she had been interviewing the Riddler for well over an hour, but was yet to pry any information out of him “What were you looking for?”

“This again?” Edward rolled his eyes, “You’ve already asked me that,” he sounded offended- as if being confronted with the same question twice was insulting.

Montoya let out a long sigh, she was massaging her temples without even noticing, “Wouldn’t have to repeat myself if you’d just answer the damn question,” her patience was wearing thin. The Department didn’t have much time left until they were forced to return the world’s biggest riddle-obsessed-criminal to Arkham. In fact, the transport vehicle was already waiting outside.

“I did answer you,” he banged one of his feet against the side of the table, “And you didn’t even bother to think about it!” The criminal gestured to the officer’s notebook with his head, where she had written down his response.

“You gave me a riddle ,” she tore the page out of her book and slammed it down, “I want real answers.”

 A smug look spread through Ed’s face, “Why?” He tilted his head to the side, “Is that one too tough?”

“It’s nonsense ,” Montoya retorted. The remark was enough to make the Riddler drop the smile, which, in turn, amused her. Seeing his reaction, she decided to press further on it, “You know it’s nonsense.”

“It’s not ,” he quickly asserted, “I don’t speak nonsense . And it’s not my fault you lack the brain capacity to solve something as simple as that,” Edward was irritated now. He was giving the inspector his best menacing look, though he was far from intimidating.

“Fine,” the young woman grabbed the piece of paper and stood up, “It’s about time we got you back to the asylum anyway.”

Silence fell upon the interrogation room until she opened the door, “Oh, and officer?” Called the detained rogue.

“What is it, Nygma?”

“Why shouldn’t you tell your secrets to pigs?” Edward couldn’t resist any longer, he was grinning from ear to ear, the man had been holding back on this one for the whole day. Montoya, on the other hand, didn’t care to know the answer- in fact, she didn’t want to hear another word coming from his mouth, so she shut the door as soon as she realized he had nothing of value to add, “Because they’re squealers!” The Riddler shouted. He might not have been able to see her reaction, but he was content with the knowledge she had at least heard it.

“You tried your best,” An older man approached Montoya outside the room, he was carrying two cups of coffee, “He’s always like this,” he admitted. The man handed one of the cups to the young officer.

“Thanks, Jim,” she took a sip out of her drink. Despite still being warm, it was obvious it had been poured a while ago, “I thought I may be able to get him to speak… He’s got some nerve.”

“Yeah,” the Commissioner scratched his mustache, “What bothers me is that the Riddler is better known for petty thievery; antiques, collectibles, relics… That is what he goes after. What did he want from a lab?”

“Who knows?” the woman blew some hair away from her face, “Whatever it was, all he gave us to work with is a riddle.”

“Of course,” Gordon fought the urge to roll his eyes, “What is it this time?”

“ Which GothCorp room must always be kept at 212ºF ?”

---

A revoltingly foul smell tortured Edward’s nose as he was taken from the GCPD Headquarters back to Arkham Asylum. He was wondering when might have been the last time the transport van was cleaned, and suspected the answer to be well over a year ago. Most inmates didn’t, admittedly, have the best hygiene, and even though he was usually lucky enough to be carried in an empty vehicle, he simply couldn’t escape their disgusting odor.

It didn’t help that he couldn’t even cover his nose since he had to wear a straitjacket the whole way through- a special kind, nonetheless. He had learned his way around the normal ones, so now they just gave him a type with stricter security. There was pride in the notion that he was so smart Arkham staff had no option but to take harsher measures when transporting him, but said pride didn’t outweigh his desperate need to stop letting this diseased air through his nostrils.

Opposite to him was a set of worn-out benches, these were noticeably sticky on the surface. One wouldn’t even have to touch them to know, since as soon as light hit the seats their slimy textures were immediately highlighted. On the floor, dried blood stains that nobody had bothered to wash away. Glued to the legs of the benches rested several collections of aging chewing gum, which Edward suspected belonged to the staff rather than the inmates. Repulsive wasn’t enough to describe it.

“Riddle me this! What is it that smells most at the back of this van?” He leaned his head back and grimaced, “My poor nose!” But no amount of moaning or complaining would make them stop the vehicle for him. Hell, he could be having a heart attack and they’d just keep on driving. 

Luckily, the asylum wasn’t too far off. Edward made his hatred for Arkham no secret, but at least his usual cell, as depressingly gray as it was, didn’t smell like decomposing meat. The trip between Old Gotham, where the police headquarters were located, and the outskirts of the city was roughly 40 minutes long. It could easily surpass the 60-minute-mark during rush hours, but that wasn’t the case for today.

It had been 24 hours since his capture, time which he spent under GCPD custody. For most of it, he had to wait for them to complete some legal paperwork and to come up with a strategy on how to get him to speak. He was initially interrogated by detective Harvey Bullock, who tried to get information out of him using meaningless threats. Then, Jason Bard wanted to get a taste of him. He asked better, smarter questions than Bullock did, but still got little useful data. Lastly, he was supposed to be questioned by Arnold Flass, but the man never showed up. This was likely because Edward knew of the bribes Flass took, and Flass still had enough of a brain to know the rogue could easily use this against him. They tried to contact Hardback Bock to fill in for him, but he was too busy. That was when the department threw Renee Montoya into the mix- some newly recruited officer.

She was clever, but time wasn’t on her side, eventually allowing her temper to get the best of her at the end. Still, no young officer is ever asked to inquire rogues, so she must be well trusted by the Commissioner. Maybe she could have gotten a few extra hints if they hadn’t put that Harvey buffoon first.

But, in the end, it is what it is. And what it is, is a whole day wasted. A day Edward could have spent scheming another genius plan or coming up with great new riddles. Worse yet, he wasn’t able to get an ounce of sleep, so he was forced to stay conscious through every single moment of this lousy day. If there was something he could look forward to at the asylum was a night of sleep. Perhaps not a good night of sleep, but it would be enough.   

And, just as the thought popped in his head, the van came to a stop. It didn’t take long for a guard to open the vehicles’ doors, “Get up,” he ordered.

“With pleasure,” the Riddler retorted. He quickly stuck his head outside the vehicle and took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, allowing a cold night breeze to fill his lungs, “You need to clean this dump. The smell is unbearable back here.”

“Wouldn’t need to keep bearing that smell if you’d just stop running off, huh, Mr. Nygma?” Aaron Cash, the asylum’s most trusted security guard, came to greet the re-captured criminal, “Learned any new riddles while you were gone?”

Edward was about to scoff back at Aaron when the other guard pulled him down from the van, grabbing him by his hurt arm in the process, “Ow-ow-ow!” the man cried, “Careful, you imbecile!”

Despite the loud protesting, a scowl was enough to quiet Ed down. Of course he still wanted to voice his discontentment, but he knew what the underpaid staff was capable of doing and getting away with when annoyed, “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

While being walked to the entrance by the same guard, he watched as Aaron waved away at him. That man’s causality bothered him, made him feel disrespected and demeaned, but he knew the only inmate he feared was Croc. The brute had taken his arm in one gory fight during a riot. If viciously biting a limb out of him was what it took for Aaron to show a rogue some respect, then Edward would settle for impertinence.  

Two new guards then came to meet him, while the other one turned back around and returned to the van. The rogue took one last look up at the sky, it must have been well past 1 in the morning at that point. The darkness that enveloped the night was as proverbial as ever, to the point it became comforting. Afterwards, he looked forward, analyzing every inch of the asylum’s lobby. That had remained equally as unsightly as when he last visited…  But something did change while he was gone, the door that led to the basement was sealed off.

Ed didn’t have enough time to process that piece of information though, since, next thing he knew, he was being pushed into the elevator. It smelled an awful lot like disinfectant, but that wasn’t unsavory in the least. With a click of a button, they were on their way to the rogues wing, and then he noticed the button to the basement had also been removed from the elevator’s interface. His eyes widened slightly as he remembered the most recent scandal Arkham had been involved in, one that went down after he had already escaped. The head physician’s fear experiments .

“So, is no one allowed down there anymore?” Genuine curiosity provoked the question, but he was met with silence, “ So ?”

“Not ‘til cops say otherwise,” one of them spoke without making eye contact. The criminal nodded in response. Most guards would probably have told him to shut it, but this one mustn’t have wanted to deal with Edward’s incessant whining.

Professor Crane’s situation, on its own, didn’t come as much of a shock. Few were the things in Gotham capable of surprising the Riddler anymore- but he was still caught a little off guard. Not by the revelation that the professor had been performing experiments on inmates though. Most higher ups at Arkham had similar agendas, dark secrets hidden behind thin curtains. The lot of them were just waiting for opportunities; some had even already taken them. No, the surprise came from the extent of said experiments. The fact he was only caught because he decided to expand beyond the asylum, to haunt the streets with his endeavors. Rarely did you see this much dedication.

At any rate, he still landed himself in an Arkham cell, the same as the other “criminally insane” patients he seemed to assist. The irony writes itself.

Inevitable. The moment Crane decided to involve the broader public in his schemes was the same he signed up to be caught. Batman has many great foes, recognizable faces Edward saw while being walked to his own enclosure, but the vigilante remained undefeated.

These top-level criminals included names such as Two-Face, whose cell was always perfectly divided into two halves of very dissimilar aesthetics, Mr. Freeze, whose accommodations were kept on a lower floor of the building with freezing temperatures due to his peculiar condition, Poison Ivy, who Edward noticed had opened her eyes to check who was arriving (and frowning after the fact), the Joker, whose absence from the asylum made Ed let out a sigh of relief and, of course, the Riddler himself, currently having his straitjacket removed upon entering his temporary quarter.

His cell had, much to his annoyance, been cleaned of all papers once plastered on the walls, most of which containing Edward’s brilliant riddles and manifestos. Whoever removed them had no appreciation for his craft, he thought. They were probably too dense to understand it anyway.

But he could start working on remodeling his room in the morning. Right now, he wanted to get some sleep.

So he approached the sink, intending to remove his lenses and go straight to bed. One of the few privileges he had at Arkham that wouldn’t be allowed in Blackgate was his use of contacts. Truth be told, he wore glasses for most of his life, but eventually outgrew that style once he assumed his rogue persona.

“Hey, hey!” He quickly shouted out, trying to catch the attention of the guards before they got to the elevator, “You forgot to give me a contacts case! And solution!”

“The sector manager will have to review your permissions before handing that to you,” one of them turned back and replied, “In the morning.”

“In the morning? I’ve been wearing this pair for over 24 hours! Do you know what that can do to my corneas? I need to get them off!” He complained.

“Just take them off and put them by the sink or something,” the worker shrugged.

“That’s worse! They’ll dry out and shrivel up! In the best case scenario, they won’t break, but will still be full of bacteria.”

“Ask for a new pair then,” the man continued walking, “Nothing I can do about it.”

Edward punched his cell’s see-through door, and had to pretend really hard to not have hurt himself in the process. He flailed his hand around a little before glancing at the enclosure opposite to his own. Not the dimmest of light was on, but he could still make out the silhouette of the inmate. The figure was sitting in bed, not asleep. His eyes glanced at the label, “Jonathan Crane.” Great.

“What are you looking at?” He couldn’t actually tell if the ex-professor was looking at him, but simply assumed so.

The sinister figure offered no answers, and remained unmoved. Such lack of acknowledgement made the Riddler mumble something unintelligible, likely with the intention of offence. On any other day, he would have gladly continued fishing for a response, but he was too tired to do deal with yet another nuisance.

After circling around in his cell for a minute, eventually deciding not to remove his lenses. If he took them off for the night, they most likely wouldn’t be salvageable by the next day, and God knows how long staff would take to get him a new pair. He didn’t want to risk dealing with blurry vision for days, so setting them by the sink overnight was just not an option. Instead, the man chose to crawl into bed and just stare at the ceiling. He should really consider switching over to extended wear contacts.

Chapter Text

Arkham Asylum was enveloped by thick wall of silence. The night’s winds couldn’t muster enough force to rattle windows, or to escape into the building and echo ominously through the corridors. None of the facility’s patients were wailing others awake either, most were completely sound asleep. It was a perfectly calm time, a rare occurrence at the asylum, ideal to get some shut-eye.

Edward Nygma, however, had been stolen of this option, left fiddling with his hands with little to stimulate his mind. He was bored, and he hated being bored. He was entirely certain no more than an hour had gone by since he first stepped foot into his cell, so it couldn't be long past 2 then. If he was to assume things were to happen as homogeneously as ever, the sector manager should probably arrive at 6, meaning he still had to wait some dreadful 4 hours until being able to do anything about this major inconvenience.

His room had been emptied of his belongings, leaving him with nothing to entertain himself during such a tedious time, not even a loose piece of paper. After much tossing, he decided to sit up rather than continue to stare aimlessly at the ceiling in the darkness of his room. One of his hands ran through his hair as he straightened his back, noticing it was too greasy for his liking. The past few days had been a mess, so he had to sacrifice part of his self-care routine. Ed let his feet down, a shiver running through him as they reached the cold, hard floor. Barely any light came through the cell's puny little window, and the little that was able to slip through was easily obscured by the bars that stood on the other side of the glass. Thankfully, reading lights were now included in Arkham rooms- after enough patients hurt themselves while trying to take a leak in the middle of the night.

With a simple click,  it was was on. At least now he could see the walls he had been staring at.

Something else ended up catching his attention though. As he glanced at the cell opposite to his, he noticed the same unmoved silhouette that had been there as he arrived, “Do you not sleep?” He muttered abruptly. The question was rhetorical, of course, more of a jab than anything else.

But yet again, the man stood still. It was a rather unnerving sight, even if Edward wouldn’t state it out loud. Did Jonathan Crane sleep upright? It wouldn’t be the most unusual thing one could witness at the asylum, but still. Maybe it added a layer to the whole Scarecrow persona, he thought, though it would be a weird detail.

“What is dark but made by light?” The Riddler got closer to the see-through door as he spoke, this time making an effort to be heard. Despite not expecting an answer, he waited a few seconds before providing the answer, “A shadow.”

For a moment, the hallway fell back into a state of quietness. Ed had lost all hopes of getting a reaction out of the asylum's newest inmate when, finally, a response cut through the silent air, “Do you ever shut up?” This voice, although quiet, was noticeably nasal and deep. 

It felt a little funny. Edward had seen the man’s face many times (both throughout the asylum and, more recently, on the news), but he had never heard him speak. The voice was oddly fitting though, sounding exactly the same as he’d expect, “So you can hear me.”

“Hear you is all I’ve been doing for the past hour,” the shadowed figure grunted, “You’ve been here for less than a night and I’ve already counted 12 riddles.”

One of Edward’s eyebrows rose up; it was true that in his boredom-induced exasperation the man had been telling himself riddles, but he hadn’t simply blared them out either, “Oh, and what do you care? Was I keeping you up? You didn’t seem too keen on sleeping when I arrived either.”

“Did I ever claim you were disturbing my sleep?” the bed beneath Jonathan creaked as he suddenly got up, allowing for his silhouette to now reveal a long, thin shape, “I can appreciate silence without my goal being to doze off.”

Appreciate silence? Amusing, considering silence was definitely the last thing Scarecrow was appreciating when his fear gas broke loose in Gotham University. Or even just the experiments he had conducted in Arkham; Edward doubted those were anywhere close to quiet too, “Didn’t take you for much of a peace enthusiast.”

“And?” Crane’s monotonousness contrasted the other's more alluring tone of voice; the pair’s expressions were near opposites, “Doubt your judgment of my character holds any weight. What do you know about me that stands to reason?” Truth be said, few were the people who knew the extent of Jonathan’s story. No matter how much the Riddler was sure he had this man figured out, the puzzle that made up his psyche was still missing many pieces.

“Don’t underestimate my knowledge, professor,” the title was stressed in a snide tone, almost as if he was trying to get a reaction out of the figure in the cell opposite to his own.

“Don’t overestimate it, then,” Jonathan quickly scoffed back. Of course, he was fully aware that comment would be received with indignation, and he welcomed it. Frankly, he didn’t want to entertain the other rogue's childish games, nor did he feel pity for needling at the rogue’s thin-skin.

A wry expression filled Ed’s face, visible thanks to the dim light that lit his room. Crane’s image, on the other hand, remained concealed through layers of darkness. Unreachable, unperceivable. This only fuelled the tension between the men, especially on Ed’s end. It felt threatening to not be able to read someone’s body language, to lack the option of analyzing them and scope out their thoughts and feelings. And worse, to have his own face exposed, seen by his opponent and able of being scrutinized.

“Well? Are you going to enlighten me?” Jonathan cut through his thoughts like a swift bullet, making it clear he wasn’t willing to wait for a response, “What do you know that the news didn’t tell? Even if you collected every piece published by Gotham Times or accessed the police’s database- you still wouldn’t know the half of it.” There was caution to the words he spoke, they came without haste but still in a rather assertive manner.

Ed couldn’t help but chuckle at the mere suggestion of such a thing, “Collect newspaper articles? For what purpose? You’re not that interesting,” this was an honest statement. Crane and his fear schemes may have shown commitment but, as a whole, his shtick seemed unremarkable when compared to the many other criminal personalities Gotham had witnessed over the years, “But I don’t need to read a memoir to untangle your character profile.”

“Please,” croaked the other man while stepping closer to the glass door. It was still difficult to make out his form, but his round glasses reflected some of Edward’s cell’s light back. Crane’s eyebrows peeked behind the frames, raised upwards, “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Laugh? Are you capable of that?” Ed tilted his head to the side. He decided to change subjects rather than wait for an answer, “Want to hear a riddle?”

“No.”

“Too bad,” he wasn’t sure why he even bothered to ask, being fully aware of what most people’s reaction to that question was, “Why don’t scarecrows ever have any fun?”

An audible sigh escaped Jonathan’s lips. Admittedly, he was a little baffled at how Edward’s obsession made him be able to effectively pose riddles that fit each and every situation. He raised a hand up and massaged his forehead, “What is it?” Though highly literate, Jonathan Crane never found much excitement in riddles. He knew the answer to the more recognizable ones, but didn’t bother to extend his knowledge any further than that.

 “So, you’re not even going to try?” Edward felt a little disappointed, knowing the ex-professor was clearly not just some mindless sap. It was much more entertaining to tease well-learned men than random fools.

“I have no reason to feed the obsessions of an eccentric crank,” he quickly established.

Ed took a step back, “Eccentric crank? Well, will you look who’s talking!” he was no longer bothering to speak in mellow tones, “Last I checked I wasn’t the one whose fixation on fear cost him a job as a university professor. Nor did I get thrown into the very own asylum I was a head-physician at after putting a sack over my head and trying to murder some ex-colleagues.”

“You don’t know anything!” Crane hissed in exchange, “My experiments were going to advance science, they were important. Indispensable for progress. But I shouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re just some poseur trying to convince others of being this great intellectual, but you’re not as clever as you wish, and the way people perceive you won't change that. You have no real ambitions, no purpose aside from public recognition. Your dependence on riddles and brainteasers comes from a need for validation that your ego can’t provide you with and, because of that, you’re not worth academic appraisal.”

Most of that rant was entirely dismissed by his counterpart, who had no interest in being psychoanalyzed by some grouch this late at night. An urge to ask him how he figured driving people to insanity would be of any use for science crossed his mind, but he knew the ex-professor would have some self-imposed justification, “Then, surely, you’ll have no trouble solving my riddle?” the man crossed his arms, “Tell you what, if you guess the answer I won’t direct you another word, no riddling, no nothing.”

The offer was tempting. Jonathan had nothing to lose in trying, and he figured it couldn’t be that hard. Riddles are, after all, mere wordplay. They were popular among kids; it’s not rocket science.  So, the shadowed figure took a moment to think, “Because no-one likes a strawman?”

“Oh, not bad,” the Riddler’s lips curled into a pompous grin, “That’s not the answer, but I’ll give you points for creativity.”

“Hmf,” Jonathan rolled his eyes, immediately regretting to have indulged the egomaniac, “I really don’t care about your juvenile endeavors.”

That comment would have typically incited a bad reaction, but the man was feeling much too prideful to take offense, “The answer is: because they’ve got a stick up their ass.”

Crane responded only with a look of disgust.

“Will you two shut up?!” came a shriek from a cell further away, it was Ivy’s voice. She’d been painstakingly trying to sleep through the men’s discussion, but to no avail. One may even argue they had been lucky to not get yelled at sooner, considering the woman’s reputation.

Crane instinctively looked to the side, letting his gaze follow in the direction from which the voice had come from, even though her cell was too far away for him to see it. He looked back at Edward for a moment, but quickly reared back into bed. This time, he actually laid in it. Soon, he noticed the dim light from the Riddler’s cell being turned off. What a pest. 

Chapter Text

It had been a long, dreadful month since Jonathan Crane was first admitted into Arkham. During the first few days, whispers seeped from the mouths of staff members, hurling contemptuous remarks and other similarly vulgar comments at the man they once heeded orders from. A minority expressed bafflement, while most noted always having a funny feeling about him. Still, nobody would have guessed such a complex set of experiments was taking place right under their noses. If you wanted to keep tabs on every single person at the asylum who came off as a little creepy, you’d end up with a list too long to keep track of. Due to this, many things easily went unnoticed, and clear red flags were often dismissed.

From the moment he was caught, Crane knew he would have to deal with insolent comments about both his character and pursues. He was prepared for it, and didn’t care much for what such simpleminded oafs had to say. Even Harleen got a fair share of ridicule the first time she was institutionalized after running off with the Joker, and her case was pure tragedy; much more sympathetic than Jonathan’s. She became a psychologist at the asylum with the most well-principled purposes one could imagine, yet let herself be charmed by Gotham’s most deranged criminal. To think that, despite it all, her ex-colleagues still chose to make a mockery out of her- it really just served as evidence of the duplicity so many people hide.     

Fewer comments concerning the disgraced professor were made as time passed, all the most flaring assertions were made during the course of the first week after his capture and, subsequently, discourse grew dry. In that time, the man adjusted to the asylum’s routine without issues. He didn’t retaliate against any of the distasteful remarks and just generally kept to himself, only inciting some complaints that he didn’t cooperate with psychologists whenever they tried to get him a proper assessment. Of course, he had every intention of escaping at a future time, but he was in no rush yet. 

One thing Jonathan really liked about the asylum was the accessibility to books; entire catalogues to pick and choose from, selections from every genre. And the best part was that he actually had time to sit and read them. He didn’t have to worry about keeping jobs and using every hour of his spare time to further his research. If there was something in this world that could rival his obsession with fear, it would be his love for reading, the man was really just making the most of his situation. He finally found an opportunity to catch up with books he had been meaning to read for years, and who could blame him for that?

Not to mention that, once he finally got out, he would have to find a place to stay. Crane had nowhere to go, nobody he trusted or so much as cared for. There were plenty of abandoned buildings he in Gotham he could use as a hideout, but that was obviously not ideal on the long run. Finding someone who’d be willing to rent their place out to a rogue was probably not going to be that hard, so long as he asked the right people, but it would definitely be costly, and Jonathan was broke. Thankfully, he did have several vials of his fear toxin scattered throughout the city, carefully hidden from the public eye, so he’d just have to get a hold of some and, from there, formulate a plan to make money.

But he’d have to worry about those details some other time. Right now, he was being forced awake by an excruciatingly loud ringing noise which, although he had grown accustomed to, still made him flinch and occasionally cover his ears. The alarm bell went off 3 times in the morning, 6 AM being the first of the day. Guards were meant to check up on every patient at this hour, though usually they wouldn’t do much aside from knocking on the glass and yelling at them to wake up. If the inmate got up quickly, they would then be escorted to the dining room, but few people actually bothered to get up so early. The bell would ring again at 8 o’clock, signaling the guards to go check up on them again, and that’s when the majority of the asylum’s residents chose to leave their cells. An hour after the fact came the last chime, and if you still haven’t eaten anything by then, you’ll have to wait until lunch.

Jonathan preferred to get his food as early as possible, it was quieter then. The less people he had to be surrounded by, the better. Crowded spaces always put him on edge, it was practically impossible to settle down. Most of the other patients who chose to eat breakfast at daybreak seemed to reciprocate this feeling, as there was always a greater sense of calm in the room during this time of day than at any other point.                 

With that thought in mind, the man got up and headed to the sink. For a moment, he eyed the reflection in his cell’s dirtied mirror. Dark circles accented his state of exhaustion, and the shabby glasses he wore did nothing to hide it. His disheveled hair hadn’t been touched by a brush a single time over the past month. Undeniably, he looked older than he was though, then again, that had always been the case. Crane had trouble caring for his appearance; even back during his professor days, when he was actively trying his best to look presentable, he still eavesdropped on a few conversations between his peers where his looks were ridiculed.

Jonathan knew it wasn’t just about his clothes. Sure, he was never able to afford those fancy suits the other professors were so fond of showing off, nor did he want to put his savings towards clothes when he had higher priorities, but he also didn’t leave his apartment looking like a tramp. Especially not in comparison to the rags he grew up wearing when he lived with his grandmother. His whole figure just seemed to be hard on the eyes, to provoke repulsion. He was nothing but a scarecrow, born to be the master of fear. And why, then, should he care for the way he looks? It was an inescapable fate, so he might as well embrace it

 And embrace it he would, soon.

Before long he’d be back to play the role he’s meant to fulfill, back to his research and experiments. His mind just kept echoing the anticipation though, for the time being, Crane was busier pouring mouthwash into a little plastic cup, gargling it for a few seconds before spitting the minty liquid down the drain, he was fond of the slight stinging feeling it had on his mouth. Immediately after, he held up his pillow and grabbed a book from underneath it. There was a napkin sticking out in the middle, which was being used in place of a bookmark.  The cover had a nice leather texture, it was an authentic early edition of one of H.G. Wells’ classics, which he found tucked away at the asylum’s library.

Ready to wait for the staff, Jonathan took a few steps forward, turning to the automated see-through door. He faced the glass just in time to catch the Riddler leaving his cell, two guards gripping his shoulders while leading the man to the elevator. For a brief second, they exchanged glances; Edward quickly furrowed his brows but continued walking, his eyes were slightly red during the ordeal. Crane was hoping the manager would take a while to give the little wretch his prescribed solution, he could really use some quiet after last night’s debacle.                                 

---

Foul, rancid and nauseating were all words many people used to describe the mush Arkham patients were offered to eat. It was a little baffling how something as simple as breakfast could be defiled.

There was never any cereal or toast, only wheat cream, scrambled eggs that were always moist, juices fruit and vitamin gummies. Some days they’d have waffles or pancakes, but those were rare. When they got milk, it was usually spoiled. The food’s quality rivalled that of the average public high school meal, which in itself was worthy of a reward.

Most mornings, Jonathan ate only the fruit. He was never a big eater, so leaving left-overs didn’t bother him. Jervis Tetch took notice of that fairly quick, and began sitting next to Crane so he’d get himself the excess food. The short statured man seemed to be the only person who enjoyed the asylum’s meals, which was far more perplexing than any of his delusions. His presence wasn’t terrible- he was a little too chatty at times, but he’d leave Jonathan alone as soon as he realized he was bothering him. Jervis would talk to anyone who’d listen, but he clearly didn’t have the confidence to be overbearing.

On occasion he’d even incite scientific discussions, most of which were actually rather insightful. Jonathan was quite appreciative of those, and he respected Jervis’ intellect. The man’s psychosis was not at all disabling of his cognitive reasoning, as is easy to conclude from seeing his catalogue of inventions. Most notably, his expertise in the field of mind-control. He created technology most could only imagine in fiction and, for that, Crane thought of him as a praiseworthy pundit. Plus, access to this type of technology could certainly come in handy, so he’s also a valuable asset. 

“What day of the month is it?” Jervis broke the silence as soon as he sat next to Jonathan, whose food was still untouched. He looked eager to talk, more than usual. 

“The 6^th,” he didn’t look the man in the eye as he replied, but quickly slid him his food tray.

“The Riddler was brought back last night,” the blonde trailed off, “Makes 2 months since his escape.”

After heaving a sigh, a stern reply escaped Jonathan’s lips “I’m aware.”

“Of course you are,” Jervis held up his juice box as if he was holding a teacup, “The whole sector heard you two’s jovial little exchange.”

Upon realizing where the conversation was headed, the ex-professor’s already null desire to continue the discussion completely faded. He had no interest in revisiting last night’s events, especially after planning to get some peace this morning. But, much to his annoyance, the pretend-hatter decided to continue pushing despite noticing his sudden quietness, “Well then, what do you think?”

“Think about what?” Jonathan raised his head so he could meet Jervis’ gaze directly. He looked livid, and his peer grew a little antsy in his seat at he saw his expression.

“About the Riddler, of course,” he tried to regain his composure while looking away, his voice was a little quieter this time. It wasn’t unusual for him to ask new rogues about how they felt about other inmates, it was just something he liked knowing.

“I do not like him,” Jonathan asserted while digging his teeth into an apple.

“Why?” Was the immediate follow-up question.

 “What do you care?” A puzzling look spread through Crane’s face as he tried deciphering Jervis’ intentions, “Are you buddies?”

“I’d say we’re on friendly terms,” that actually just meant they had talked twice, “I just figured- you’re a clever bunch, right? You might get along, is all.”

“He’s not as smart as he wants you to think,” the taller man adjusted his glasses, he didn’t want to be compared to what he believed was a con artist, “All Edward Nygma wants is to convince others he’s some great intellectual by beating them at his own games, feeling validated in the process. Just because he’s memorized a whole assortment of riddles and puzzles he thinks his mind can rival real geniuses. He has no real ambitions, no set goals, he has nothing but greed.”

Jervis scratched the back of his head, “Don’t you think you might be underestimating the fellow a little?”  

“He’s a narcissist!” Crane squawked as he stabbed his apple with a plastic spoon, inadvertently breaking it in the process.

The Mad Hatter smiled widely at the remark, putting his oversized teeth in full view. His head moved from one side to the other as he looked around the room, looking at every single patient present in the cafeteria. Then, he looked back at Jonathan and laughed, “Oh, but aren’t we all?”

That question was the last straw needed to break the camel’s back, Jonathan found the mere suggestion abhorrent, “No.” He angrily asserted while standing up from his seat, “I’m leaving.”

“Suit yourself,” the hatter continued giggling, “Master of Fear.” 

Chapter Text

Friendships are, understandably, not too common of a thing among rogues. When your lifestyle ties in so closely with constant criminal affairs, it’s hard to maintain healthy bonds with peers. There’s too much stress and not nearly enough trust being put into those relationships. Everyone around you is trying to be the top dog, the one who gets to quash others under their heel. Worrying about backstabbers is just common sense. Alliances are not as unheard of, of course, but it is just as easy to gain allies as it is to have them betray you.

All of this pressure inevitably creates an unspoken sense of loneliness- one which is shared by the majority of inmates at the asylum. Of course, most would refuse to acknowledge this, and others are already so used to that feeling, they can’t even imagine living separate from it.

Arkham has, in an attempt to remedy this, created social spaces where patients can interact with each other. There, events are occasionally held to help establish a sense of teamwork and trust between inmates. Sadly, these ideas work better on paper than when put into effect. Even when thrown together into the same room, most of the rogues choose not to socialize unless they want something. Jonathan had an exceptionally bad case of quiescence; rarely would you see him do anything other than burying his head in a book. It wasn’t uncommon for staff to make mention of his withdrawn nature, but little was done to improve his behavior.

On days Jervis couldn’t find anyone else willing to put up with his chatter, he might convince Crane to play a few rounds of chess or checkers. The games didn’t involve a lot of communication between the two men. During busts of eccentricity, the hatter may monologue to himself, but this rarely prompted his fear-obsessed companion to reply. Jonathan was usually the one who came out victorious, but the hatter never failed to put up a good challenge.

Though, as one may be able to guess, they wouldn’t be doing that today. Tetch hit the wrong chord when talking to the ex-professor at breakfast, and he was more than aware of it. Truthfully, he didn’t want to cause any more conflict, so he’d keep a distance for the time being. And, naturally, this didn’t bother Jonathan one bit, who was quite content just sitting by himself in the corner of the room, sheltering his figure in the shadows of two book stands.

Reading on the floor was an old habit of his, something he’d been doing for all his life. One could argue it was a little weird to find a man of Dr. Crane’s height sitting on the floor like that, especially in public, but, at this point in his life, he really couldn’t care less. However, he would still have preferred to take a seat at the nearby table, but Edward Nygma got there first, and Jonathan wasn’t looking forward to letting his mood get any worse.  

There was some blabbering coming from across the room; Poison Ivy was watching the news on the asylum’s low-end TV. Nothing of relevance was being talked about, so it was just useless background noise. He was able to ignore it, for the most part. The ill-tempered botanist made sure to keep track of international ecological catastrophes, any new big constructions happening around the city and also of crimes being committed by the Joker, though the latter was just so she might get a glimpse at how Harley was doing.

In spite of this, at that moment, one thing was more bothersome than the TV, and that was Harvey Dent’s unmovable gaze. Although not an audible distraction, he had fixated his eyes on Jonathan for longer than would be comfortable. The disgraced attorney wasn’t particularly sociable too, he had enough company in his own mind, so it was clear there was something he was preparing to do. Though, what that might be was still a mystery.

After tolerating his stare for an excessive amount of time, Crane finally caved in, “Did nobody ever teach you it’s rude to stare?” An ironic statement, coming from a man who often pauses to analyze anyone in his path.

Harvey squinted at him, but did not respond. Instead, he looked down at his hand and then back at Jonathan, with that, he flipped his coin in one swift movement. The professor watched it spin through the air attentively, but without much interest. Half of his face was hidden behind a book, which he had every intention of going back to reading once this was dealt with. It took just an instant for the small piece of metal to find its way back to Two-Face’s hand, who stood up from his seat after giving it a quick glance.

“Crane,” the burly man approached his fellow inmate, “We have an offer.”

“Hm,” Jonathan raised an eyebrow, “Let’s hear it, shall we?”

With a quick nod, Harvey lowered himself so he could whisper to the other man, “We have formulated an escape plan. If you offer your assistance, we can help you get a hold of your fear toxin.”

“Interesting,” the sitting man conceded, “But I’m afraid I require more details,” the mention of his toxin did, in fact, spark some curiosity within his mind, but Crane was no idiot. Blindly accepting proposals was not something he did.

“Okay,” Dent held up his coin again, “Heads, I tell you everything. Bad heads, you get nothing. How about that?”

“Sure,” Jonathan agreed, albeit with reluctance.

As the man's approval was declared, Harvey wasted no time before throwing his prized coin up, allowing the power of chance to embrace it. After it landed, the ex-district attorney smirked, "Lucky you," he stated, then he lowered his voice some more, "Let's lay it out for you: The Asylum hired some new guy. A real big-shot. He's the new chief of psychiatry and, well, your experiments seemed to peak his interest. Rumor is, the man got his hands on some of your vials during the initial police investigation. Keeps them in his office."

The idea of some random mindless fool getting a hold of his toxin instantly infuriated Crane, who had spent years developing his formula, "Who is he?" But his contempt only grew further once he realized that man could easily try to make a profit off of his own hard work, so he didn't wait for a response, "Is there proof of this? Where did you get this information?"

"It's not hard to bribe staff," Two-Face explained. At least it wasn't hard for him to bribe them, as one of Gotham's most well connected and powerful rogues, “Apparently the GCPD was looking for "missing evidence", some vials disappeared overnight. They asked employees if they'd seen anything, but nothing came of it. This was just after that new doctor got hired. He doesn't let anyone into his office, not even for cleaning, but some lady didn't get the memo. She went inside, saw some stuff… Got fired right away."

"Who is he?” Jonathan repeated his first question, this time making sure to highlight his impatience.

"That, we can't tell you. They all just seem to be scared of him. Too afraid to mention his name. But we've learned he’s their new boss.”

Scared of him?! Crane finally put his book aside. How dare he! Not only was he in possession of an exceedingly invaluable toxin, but he also had complete control over the asylum’s staff. Hell, the man likely couldn’t even begin to wrap his mind around the importance of Jonathan’s experiments. There could only be one Master of Fear, “I’ve heard enough,” he groaned, “Tell me about what your plan entails, will you?”

“During one of those 'fitness hours' outside, we want you to pretend to be having an emergency. Make a scene. Then, when everyone’s distracted, we’ll steal the skeleton key from Aaron Cash’s office. His office is on a blind spot; no cameras. Then, at night we use the key to get us out of our cells, we run to the chief of psychiatry’s room. You’ll get your vials back and then we leave. If any of the guards see us, you can use the toxin.”

Jonathan gave Harvey a disconcerted look, suppressing the urge to call the man insane, “Fool’s mate.”

That remark was met with confusion, “What?”

“Two-move checkmate. He means your plan will quickly come undone,” a voice suddenly interrupted, it was Edward’s. A couple of minutes had already gone by since he left his seat at the table, and he’d been listening to the discussion since then, “You’re committing an extraordinary blunder because you’re not taking into account enough variables. It lacks foresight. Simple.”

“Eavesdropping on others’ conversations, are we, Edward?” Despite the sarcastic question, the ex-professor was actually pleasantly surprised with Nygma’s little intervention, even if it clearly reeked of exhibitionism.

“Please,” he rolled his eyes, “So Two-Face randomly walks up to you, starts whispering, and you still expect me not to be intrigued?”

“That,” Crane turned back to the more robust man, “What he said about your plan. That’s what I think.”

“How so?” Two-Face asked in a hoarser tone of voice. He was slightly angered by the assertion that his escape plan was too faulty to work.

“For one, how are you going to break into his office unnoticed? Aaron has been working here for longer than any other guard, he’d never leave his office unlocked. If you plan on kicking down the door or breaking one of the windows, do you really expect nobody to notice?” Jonathan criticized.

“For two, he usually has the key on himself at all time. There are spare keys, but they’re locked in a safe,” the riddle-obsessed rogue added, “Not to mention, I doubt old Crane here is any good at theatrics. I don’t think he’d keep the staff entertained for long.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jonathan’s expression softened.

Two-Face exhaled a growl-like noise, “If you don’t want your precious toxin back, I guess we’ll just find someone else to go through with the plan.”

“Oh,” Crane abruptly got up from the floor, “I am going to get my toxin back. I just don’t need your help.”

“Be like that then,” Harvey clenched his fists with anger, “But you’ll regret it.”

After leaving Jonathan with nothing but a vague threat to chew on, he walked away. “Well,” Edward began once the other man was a safe distance away, “That sure was exciting, huh?” Nosey as he was, Ed wanted to continue delving into the topic, but, by the time the question was out of his mouth, Jonathan had already left his side. That felt adequately in character for him.

Left without anything else to do, the Riddler made his way back to his seat. For the past half an hour, he’d been solving some crappy crossword puzzles from newspaper prints. None were particularly difficult, but there weren’t many exciting alternatives. He just wished that, for once, they’d print some challenging problems. Part of him missed the days when he’d stumble across a brand new puzzle as a kid, the excitement and thrill. The wonder… That rarely happened anymore. Things get so repetitive with time.

“Largest dolphin species,” he read out loud, “Orca, of course… Now, bit of trickery, 4 letters- “

But he didn’t have time to finish his brainteaser, as the sudden noise of something being dropped against the table scared him out of his trance, “Ruse.”

Edward looked up, allowing his gaze to meet the eyes of none other than Jonathan Crane himself, “Hey!” He protested, “I knew that.”

“I believe you,” the taller man sat opposite to Ed, resting his chin on his left hand as he continued, “Do you play?”

Jonathan slid a wooden board across the table, finally allowing the other to process what was happening. A foldable chess board.

“Of course I play,” Edward was almost offended by the question, “I’m the Prince of Puzzlers.”

“Oh, naturally, silly me,” Crane comforted the other man’s ego disingenuously, he didn’t want their conversation to turn sour so quickly, “When was it you started playing?”

“When I was a kid,” Ed raised an eyebrow, suspicious of his peer’s intentions, “Why?”

A half-smile creeped its way onto Jonathan’s face, “Well, I assume you’re good at it then, yes?”

“Yes,” the other replied, slightly unsettled by the eerie sight.

“May I challenge you to a match?”

Edward smirked, “Sure,” he’d never turn down an opportunity to prove his wits, it was far too irresistible, especially when he’d been dying of boredom the whole morning. Plus, he was quite confident in his chess skills too, “But can I ask what brought on this abrupt desire?”

In truth, this was somewhat of a test. Jonathan wanted to measure Edward’s cognitive abilities and general reasoning skills. How much of his boasting was granted? How much of it was nothing but a mechanism to cope with deep-rooted insecurities? That’s what he was really looking for, “No reason. Things are quite dull around here; wouldn’t you agree, Edward? I just want some friendly competition.”

“Yes,” he unfolded the board and began taking out the pieces, “Blacks or whites?”

“I’d like to play black,” the other man established.

Ed laughed, “Giving me an advantage, are you?”

“Maybe,” Crane wasn’t so sure about that, “We’ll see.”

“I don’t need it,” he asserted, but handed the other his desired set nonetheless.

“Of course you don’t,” the once-physician reassured, “It’s just my preference.”

“Sure,” Edward began placing his pieces down on the board, not entertaining the topic any further.

“Have you ever played in a competition?” Jonathan made sure to start organizing his own set. A seemingly mundane task, yet Ed was quick notice that the way he grabbed the pieces was a little strange; he gripped them by the head using his thumb and index fingers, somewhat resembling the hook of a claw machine.  

“None of the big ones. It gets boring after a while, chess is too predictable,” his eyes had fixated their gaze on the other man’s hands, “What do you call a machine with a doctorate in psychology?”

This new riddle was met with visible lack of enthusiasm on the professor’s behalf, so Edward immediately provided him with the answer, “A skill crane. Get it?”

Jonathan had to pause for a second. That question briefly stupefied him, but realization struck once he looked down at his hand and saw the way he was holding onto one of the pawns, “Ah, funny,” no hint of amusement could be picked up from his voice, “Did you come up with that one on spot?”

“Yes, as it so happens,” the Riddler finally stopped staring at his peer’s fingers, “You have a fitting name.”

“Great,” what a terrible turn this conversation took, “Anyway, you may start.”

Chapter Text

Edward’s first move was none other than the King’s Pawn Opening. It amused Jonathan to see him starting the game with the most foreseeable move of all, considering this was right after he complained about chess being too predictable. Then again, it was also the most reasonable way to start a game, practically the standard. After all, safety beats extravagance.

Without any hesitation, Crane copied his opponent’s move, ensuring the stronghold for himself too. A formulaic response, unremarkable in every sense. If he wanted, he could have pulled something more interesting, but he was curious to know how long the Riddler could go without making some haste decision out of impatience. The man would likely underestimate Jonathan’s grasp of the game, which, given a proper opportunity, could lead to his downfall.

And it didn’t take long until Edward chose to be a little less clichéd, “The Vienna Game,” smiled Crane, “Why, how unorthodox.”

Such a remark was quite odd, making the other man raise an eyebrow in response. The Vienna is not a very common choice, especially among experienced players, though it is still a rather sound opening. Most would, at this point, have gone for Ruy Lopez or the Italian Game, as those provide the white pieces with a greater advantage, but Edward was putting out feelers, “I’d hardly call it that.”

Although it wasn’t the most standard Opening choice, calling it ‘unorthodox’ felt immoderate. Truth was, Jonathan was trying to force a conversation. Hearing his opponents articulate their thoughts gave him a better sense of what’s to come. Humans are easy to predict once you learn to read their tones and movements, even the little details in one’s expression can communicate plenty of useful information, “Not the most typical response, yes?” he moved his Bishop to c5, “Are you, perhaps, underestimating me?”

Crane’s move was arguably far more offbeat than Edward’s choice of opening, “You’re the one who’s underestimating me,” his voice ceded a hint of tension. By this point, it had already become clear he was being analyzed, and being a test subject to the Scarecrow was not among his intents, “You do not understand me as well as you think you do.”

“Oh?” the ex-professor watched as his contender place his Knight on a4, “Interesting move, Edward, though perhaps a little questionable.”

 In response, Jonathan used his Bishop to take one of the other man’s Pawns, leaving him at check. This forced Edward’s King to eat the Bishop. One might say that was a warning, “I’m not going to lose.”

“Is that so?” he moved his Queen to h4, putting the white King at check again, “Prove it.”

There was a clear sense of agitation growing within Edward. He really hadn’t taken Jonathan as seriously as he should, but he was not letting himself go down. Tough challenges always put him under a great deal of stress; they could make him vulnerable to his insecurities, make him doubtful and frustrated, and that usually led him down a path of impulsive decisions. However, it was tough challenges that also gave him the most gratification. These problems were the ones he both feared and craved the most.

Without hesitation, Edward moved his King to e3. Moving the King to either of the alternative two squares would have been a blunter, costing his Queen. As should be expected, the black Queen tailed the opposing King by moving to f4, resulting in another check, “I have noticed you’ve gone quiet,” spoke Jonathan with a smile, “Is this a humbling experience?”

“Maybe if you’d let me focus,” complained the other rogue while moving his King to d3. He bit his thumb as he did so, a tic he often indulged when tense or in need of concentration, “What’s it to you anyway? Awful lot of chatting for someone who asked me if I ‘ever shut up’ just last night.”

Jonathan stopped pursuing the King and instead moved a Pawn to d5, “I’m trying to prove something.”

“And what might that be?” the white King jumped a square to the left. Edward locked eyes with the other man, thoroughly unamused.

In a swift move, the black Queen ate the white Pawn at the middle of the board, “That you’re not as spectacularly cunning as you make yourself out to be,” seeing the man’s immediate affronted look prompted Crane to continue, “You’re clever, sure. But you elevate your mind to a position it is simply unworthy of. You are no genius. For all your potential you lack discipline and ambition. The only things you commit to are feeble and useless. Your priorities are a mess.”

“Feeble and useless?! Well, what makes your ambitions so much better than mine?” Edward’s King moved left again. The piece sat diagonally to his Knight, protecting it from the black Queen, “Throwing away a successful career to pursue a fixation on fear doesn’t sound as prudent as you’d like to believe.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong, Edward,” before continuing, Jonathan introduced one of the black Knights to the field, placing it in a6, “You see, I am a man of science. I devote myself to causes which will benefit society and education. Understanding how fear works, how it effectively hinders progress and obstructs quotidian affairs, is essential to our betterment. To maximize one’s prospects, we must reach into that person’s core and pluck out the root of their anxieties. When you disburden your mind of irrational emotion, then you’ll truly be free.”

Distracted by the rambling, the other rogue moved a Pawn to a3, hoping to protect his King in a2 as soon as possible. This, however, was not at all a wise decision; he should have instead moved a Pawn to d4, but he’d been caught so off guard by the conversation he barely noticed, “I take great interest in science too- how could I not? It is the foundation of all puzzling. So many of my schemes rely on scientific knowledge, it is indispensable for me,” the man adopted a thinking position with his hand, “And I became a rogue because I wanted to improve this city myself. Everywhere you look there’s corruption and deadbeats. As soon as I defeat Batman, I’ll finally get the chance to reform Gotham. I’ll cultivate the population’s culture and intellect.”

“You became a rogue because you wanted to feel validated. Science may be indispensable to some of your schemes, but you are not qualified to apply the knowledge you use. Be honest, you don’t actually care to improve this city at all, do you? You just want to feel seen; you want to make a difference because, deep down, you believe that will relieve you of your self-doubt,” in a dazzling move, Jonathan took Edward’s Knight with the Queen, grinning as he witnessed the other’s shock, “This is what you get when you abandon fear. No more indecisiveness holding you down.”

“You scarified your Queen?!” Edward practically jumped out of his chair. He was in a state of complete uproar, “So early on?! And you still have the gall to tell me my priorities are a mess? Play the game right!”

“The only game being played here is you, Edward,” there was something absolutely frightening about his laugh, “Most players would have hesitated to do that, all because of fear… But it is actually a perfectly reasonable move. You have no chance of winning.”

“Shut up,” he hurled back after capturing Jonathan’s Queen, brows furrowed as he spoke, “You’re mistaken.”

“Tell me, Edward,” he reached for his knight and placed it in c5, “How many times has your King been at check already?”

“Five,” a sense of desolation could be felt as he announced the number, the disadvantaged man kept his eyes on the board now, dreading the idea of looking Crane in the eyes at the moment. In spite of this, he persisted, and moved his white King a square to the right.

“Rash decisions are born out of fear; panic is not logical. Isn’t your impulsivity something that frustrates you? It makes you feel like you’re losing control. Now imagine no longer feeling the need to fixate on the way others perceive you, free to live your own life in the company of your unapologetic individuality,” his Knight moves to e7, a very threatening move, “See, the thing about chess is that you can’t blame anyone but yourself for the outcome. After all, you are in control.”

Moving the Bishop to b5 felt very tempting, and seemed to be the best decision too. It would leave the black King at check, and prevent Check Mate. After being checked 5 times, Edward was desperate to check the opposing King at least once; he just needed to feel in charge again. However, Jonathan’s Knight revealed the man’s later intentions. If he played into his trap the game would, at best, end in a draw, “You’re right about one thing,” Edward moved the white Queen to g4, “I am in control. And I won’t be falling for your stupid tricks.”

He still felt humiliated over having walked into the GCPD’s ambush, and he wasn’t going to allow more shame to seep into his psyche.

The bold move was met with Jonathan’s widest grin, “Brilliant!” as his Bishop took the white Queen, he couldn’t hide his awe, “Oh, Edward, I expected you to get greedy, but how you’ve surprised me. Perhaps there really is more between those ears than I’ve given you credit for,” the game had finally become exciting. Few people would have had enough foresight to predict Crane’s ploy.

An odd sense of validation ensured as Edward received the other man’s praise. It was very abrupt, and caught him off guard; people would usually lash out once he outsmarted them, so being complimented definitely felt reassuring. Sacrificing his Queen had ultimately allowed him dominance on the board again, “Now you tell me,” his Bishop moved to b5, checking Jonathan’s King for the first time in the game. ‘Ecstatic’ fails to capture just how thrilled both men felt, “What word if pronounced right is wrong, but if pronounced wrong is right?”

Being forced to move the black King, Jonathan chose to place it at d8, “That will be ‘wrong’, yes?” the riddle posed was one the man was already familiar with, a classic.

“Yes,” Edward moved his Bishop to c6, “You are wrong about me. The things you said before, they were absurd.”

Accepting to engage, the other rogue took the Bishop with the remaining black Knight, “I disagree,” though now he was starting to consider the possibility that he may need to reevaluate some of his presumptions, “Perhaps you just can’t see it for yourself.”

Both of them had relevant points that were being dismissed, but neither party was willing to acknowledge them. The pair was so absorbed into their own self-preservation that they weren’t open to clashing beliefs, “Or, perhaps, you really are just incorrect,” the white King ate the black Pawn that was to its right, “Have you considered that?”

One of the black Rooks moved to e8, impeding the white King from taking another one of the opposing Pawns, “Who taught you to play?” Jonathan suddenly decided to focus on the other’s history with the game, rather than developing the subject.

“I did,” Edward reflected back on his childhood. He was alone for most of it, with nobody to count on but his own mind. Most of his free time was spent desperately seeking things that would make him feel stimulated and fulfilled. Some comfort was found in puzzles, riddles and other such things, and he’d found that he could use these to draw attention to himself, briefly providing him with a way to cope with the agonizing loneliness that lurked within his heart. Much like his other interests, nobody in his family knew a thing about chess, so he only learned what the game entailed at school, where he found out about its chess club. For days, he observed them, growing more intrigued with each passing game. Part of him became convinced he’d finally make friends in an environment of people like that, who he assumed would be able to relate to him, “No one’s ever taught me anything about chess. I watched other people play, then read up on it. Booby Fischer’s books were great introductions, even though the guy was a dipshit. I got my hands on a board and played solo until I was prepared to face competition. This was all in a relatively short period of time.”

But he had been wrong about the club. He never lost a game after he joined, but the attention he garnered was not positive in the slightest. The other kids grew resentful; they had been practicing for years only for a novice to quickly dethrone them. Some of them learned to play chess when they were as young as 6, and so, Edward’s triumphs felt unmerited. It also didn’t help that every time he won, he couldn’t live down the match. He was paranoid people would forget about his achievements if he didn’t constantly boast about them- or worse, that they’d forget about him. There was an intense need to control how other people saw him, their impression of young Edward Nygma needed to be a perfect reflection of what the boy wanted. In truth, he never intended to make others feel inferior by placing himself above them, he simply wanted to be recognized.

Nonetheless, perceived immodesty and arrogance aren’t traits most people welcome. He’d already grown a reputation around the school for being very easy to mess with. Few students had skin as thin as his; any little amount of teasing was enough to get a reaction out of him. Sometimes it was anger, sometimes it was tears. Being aware of this, the members of the club conspired to get him kicked out, knowing he’d be too scared to go back. They told the club teacher Edward had been cheating during matches, playing illegal moves whenever others were distracted. The teacher didn’t fully believe their claims; it was highly unlikely that an entire group of skilled boys would repeatedly fail to notice a beginner’s cheating, but, after receiving complaints from practically every member, he ultimately chose to follow through with their request to remove Nygma from the club.

After he was made aware of it, the boy begged him to reconsider the decision, swearing he wasn’t a cheat. The man told him there was nothing he could do about his situation, explaining that, although he did find it odd, there were simply too many complains for him to ignore. That day, Edward’s heart sank. He spent the rest of his afternoon clutching a pillow, quietly crying. It felt like there was something wrong with him, but he just couldn’t figure out what. There was nothing wrong with him, he began to convince himself, it was just everyone else. His father never did find out why he left the club, incorrectly assuming Edward had given up after figuring he wasn’t smart enough for it. Albeit a bothersome assumption, it was preferable to the alternative, since Ed dreaded the tormenting that he would have to endure if the man ever found out about the cheating allegations. 

“Edward?” Jonathan called out for the other rogue, who seemed lost in thought, “You haven’t made your move yet. What’s busying your mind?”

Flustered, he moved a pawn up to b3, “Nothing that should concern this conversation,” a funny way of wording it. The majority of people would have left it at ‘nothing.’

The black Knight trotted to d4, one square behind Edward’s King, “I was only introduced to chess in my senior year of high school,” it was unusual for Jonathan to share details about his past, but he believed that could ease the other into conversation, “Never had an incentive to learn how to play until my school held a competition. The winning prize was money, a rare occurrence where I lived. Since I wanted to buy myself new books, I signed up for the event. After days of studying at the library, I found myself absorbed in the game. Once the tournament was held, I came out in first place and, since then, have been playing whenever opportunity surges,” all in all, he considered himself a latecomer to the game.

Following the black Knight’s move, the remaining white Bishop moved to b2, “I mostly play online nowadays,” he cared little for the other’s story, but figured he should continue the discussion.

“I don’t like playing against computers,” Crane asserted as his Knight ate the white Pawn at c2. Half of the fun in chess came from observing your opponent, studying their bodies and finding a way into their heads. That’s not something you can do with machines.

“It’s not just computers,” he moved his King to e4, “You can play against other people through servers.”

Jonathan squinted his eyes, technology in general didn’t interest him unless it could actively help him further his research into fear, “That just doesn’t sound very fun to me,” he admitted while moving the black Rook to e8.

Time came for the white Rook to move too, this one heading to f1, “It feels practically the same to playing on a physical board,” at least to him it did.  

“Is that so?” Jonathan proceeded to move his Bishop to f5 while smiling, putting Edward’s King at check. The move, however, was the opposite of a wise call.

“Ugh,” groaned the man before countering the attack by taking out the hostile piece with his Rook, “That was such a stupid move, you know it was. Why the hell would you do that?”

He moved a Pawn to f6, “See, it’s those types of reactions that you really can’t get from a virtual match,” the other rogue looked genuinely upset, almost as if he felt offended by Crane’s impractical threat. The expression felt very comic, “A computer wouldn’t whine at me for doing that.”

“I’m not whining,” the white Knight moved to e2 while Edward protested, “But the least you could do is take this game seriously.”

A black Pawn moved to g6, “Do you feel disrespected when people don’t take you seriously?” Jonathan continued to drill after the other’s insecurities, wanting to understand them better, “Does it scare you? The idea of having your efforts be dismissed and laughed at? Is that something you’re afraid of?”

It did scare him, “Why do you keep trying to turn this into a goddamn psychological assessment?” he retreated his Rook back to f1, feeling vulnerable in more than just once sense, “What are you even trying to achieve?”

Jonathan moved the King to d7, “A simple prognostic,” he read through his treatment files before; he had actually read most documents pertaining to the criminally insane patients at Arkham. Most doctors who tried to treat the Riddler came out empty-handed. He could predict most of their tricks and techniques, as well as being a general pain to deal with. Some facets of his character were very obvious, but he continually refused to let anyone to get close to the source of his instability, “Just trying to confirm some suspicions.”

C1 was where Edward’s Rook moved to next, away from the action, “I don’t care about your suspicions, I already told you: you’re wrong about me.”

 From that point on, the discussion became very cyclical. It developed a pattern of sorts; Jonathan would provoke his opponent, which lead to a fiery reaction each and every time. After getting a reaction, the ex-physician needled into Edward’s personal issues and deep-seated worries, inquiring him relentlessly. Nonetheless, the man continued to avert the questions with impertinent remarks that didn’t bother Jonathan in the least. This continued throughout the rest of the game, which ended with a white Rook and a white Knight cornering the black King, ensuring Edward’s victory.

It had been a tiring match, but also objectively a fascinating one. To Jonathan, his loss was far from a defeat. He too came out triumphant, since his objective from the start was to observe the rogue. Not to mention it had been a long time since a game of chess posed such a challenge. However, if they ever played another round, he wouldn’t go so easy on Edward, and he was sure the man would do the same now that he knew Jonathan could actually put up a fight.

There was a wide smile on the winner’s face, who was quite relieved he won, considering that, at some points, he wasn’t so sure what the outcome would be. Sadly, that smile wasn’t going to stay there for long, as two guards presented themselves before Edward and informed him that he had a scheduled appointment, they were there to escort him.

This mystery appointment led him down a hallway on the second floor, at the end of which was a large door with a polished plate on the side, clearly having been placed there recently. The name there inscribed read, “DR. HUGO STRANGE.”

Chapter Text

An odd feeling crept down Edward’s spine as he slowly approached the door. If Harvey was to be believed, there was a new doctor at Arkham in possession of Jonathan’s so-prided fear toxin.  the mint-condition plate made it no secret that whoever the office opposite to him belonged to hadn’t been here for long. So, it was only rational for the man to assume that his week could be about to get much, much worse. Still, no doctor at the asylum had ever gotten the best of him, and he wasn’t about to let this one be the exception.

One of the guards knocked at the door with a surprising amount of gentleness. Just then, a creaking noise arose from the other side, it sounded like a chair moving, “Come in,” a voice commanded. As soon as the doors opened, Edward was practically shoved into the small room. He eyed the two men behind him with disdain, but none of them acknowledged the act.

“Ah, Mr. Nygma,” greeted a funny figure. There sat a doctor with an awkward beard, a perfectly bald head and a pair of glasses with lenses so thick that they completely masked his eyes. The clothes he wore were nowhere near extravagant, just a plain lab coat with a black sweater underneath, yet, his face gave him an eccentric look that was impossible to forget, “Please, take a seat.”  

It wasn’t like Edward had much of a choice on the matter though, protocol required patients to be chained to chairs during therapy sessions. The two staff workers that had escorted him chained his hands to the sides of the chair, “Grip’s too tight,” he complained.

“No it’s not,” one of them immediately hurled back, completely indifferent to the inmate’s protests. Most guards didn’t much care for the patients’ well-being, most would do whatever they wanted as long as they weren’t risking some sort of lawsuit in the process. They’d also laugh and brag about their abusive behavior between themselves.

“Gentlemen, no need to impose such roughness on my patient,” Strange intervened. As he did so, the guards immediately loosened the chains, allowing the rogue some hand movement. His way of speaking was very polite, very obviously trying to buy Edward’s trust. The way he acted was completely disconnected from Harvey’s vague description, who alleged staff was too scared to even mention his name, “There is much for us to discuss, we will be fine.”

Both guards proceeded to leave the room, allowing the consultation to begin. Appointments at Arkham usually range from 60 to 90 minutes. If doctors cannot seem to handle the patient, the session will be cut short. Edward had yet to complete a full appointment, as most doctors simply gave up on treating him. Other inmates would occasionally be escorted out when they became too aggressive, but it was usually the doctors who ran out of patience whenever Edward was in the room. The man never allowed for them to pry into his emotions or past, and so, most sessions would consist of him trying to outsmart professional methods while also predicting their responses. Some had genuinely believed that they’d be able to get through to him, but all came out empty-handed, “You’re the new chief of Psychiatry.”

“That is right,” the man nodded, a half smile appearing on his face, “My name is Hugo Strange, but I’m sure an observant man, such as yourself, must already know that.”

“Of course,” in truth, one wouldn’t need to be too vigilante to learn the doctor’s name, but Edward wasn’t going to decline the compliment. Aside from the obvious plate at the door and the fact his name tag was in full view (as the asylum’s dress code required), there was also a collection of certificates plastered behind him, all of which displaying his name in capital letters, “And what might the purpose of this appointment be? I’ve hardly settled in yet, as you may be able to guess.”

Hugo leaned back and clasped his hands together, “Ah, yes. As the new chief of Psychiatry, I feel it is my duty to meet with all the high-profile inmates, I want to see what I can do for you. Your arrival felt like the perfect starting point for my work,” no matter how softly he spoke, something in his tone still felt off, “And speaking of which, how has your first day at Arkham been?”

“Terrible,” the other man was torn between the urge to laugh or groan at the question, “I think that should be obvious.”

“Oh, yes, no doubt. It’s been a bad few days, hasn’t it, Edward?” he spoke while reaching for a nearby clipboard. His hands began flipping through sheets, “You suffered a laceration on the upper half of your arm just before the GCPD and Batman apprehended you. And you were locked up for the entirety of the next day, only being allowed out for questioning… I also hear you didn’t manage to get any sleep upon arrival at Arkham?”

A frown spread through Edward’s face, his fists clenching before he began to speak, “I didn’t get any sleep because the staff refused to give me solution for my lenses,” though he was planning on finally resting after lunch, “Then, that imbecile provoked me.”

“Imbecile?” the doctor raised an eyebrow, prompting his patient to continue.

“Please, you know who I’m talking about,” he rolled his eyes, “Crane.”

“Ah,” Hugo’s mouth quirked up, “Professor Jonathan Crane, the most recent addition to our program. Is he causing you any problems?”

The rogue shook his head lightly, “No. He’s just profoundly irritating.”

“And why is that? Can you tell me?” admittedly, the doctor already knew the answer to both those answers. The real answers. Jonathan had roused a sense of insecurity within Edward and, instead of being able to rationalize his self-doubt, the man let his emotions turn into anger and frustration. Strange found it intriguing how someone who so easily grew bored of being around ignorant people just so happened to feel insecure around individuals who could actually match his intelligence. He wanted to be surrounded by people like him, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being questioned.

“I could, but that’s not relevant for our appointment,” Edward’s gaze darted around the room, it looked as if he was searching for something, “I can tell you have other questions in mind.”

The man’s immediate change of subject made Hugo let out a low laugh, but he wasn’t wrong, “Yes, there’s plenty of questions,” he set the clipboard aside and leaned forward, “For instance, you were at GothCorp’s Newtown laboratory, why?”

A loud exhale echoed through the room, “Not this again! You can go ask the cops that, I’m not repeating myself.”

“Oh, I understand, but it is my job to know, Edward,” the man rested his chin against his hands, “After all, it is my topmost priority to understand what’s going through my patients’ minds. That’s the only way to cure them.”

 “I don’t need curing,” the inmate’s eyes finally found something to fixate on. One of the office’s bookstands looked to have been moved, as there were visible scratch marks on both the wall and floor. None of the other furniture showed as many signs of moving, so there was something about that particular bookstand that was justifying its regular displacement, “I’m perfectly sound as is.”

“You believe so?” he tutted while shaking a finger, “In that’s case, why are you not at Blackgate?”

Edward rolled his eyes, “The system misinterprets my mind, it’s as simple as that. You cannot draw a comparison between me and the insipid fools that inhabit this dump. My file’s contents are specious at best and outright bogus at worst,” denial of his own symptoms made rehabilitation an unachievable feat for the Riddler, as had been noted by many professionals before. But his rebuttals were born out of necessity, because accepting the reality of his being would shatter his whole sense of self, leaving him adrift in his own head.

“There are some diagnosis in your profile that do need adjusting,” Hugo vaguely decreed. He wasn’t looking to re-affirm the man’s deluded beliefs, but it was true that not everything in his file was an accurate assessment. In part, this was because Edward was adamant about not letting people into his mind without his own supervision. The only times he willingly let people take a peek inside was if he was in control of others’ perceptions, he didn’t want anyone else to come to their own individual conclusions, he had to take full charge… However, part of the issue also came from previous psychologists who focused too much on Edward’s superficial obsessions and narcissism, overlooking some integral components of his psyche. Indeed, many of his neurotic and neurodevelopmental symptoms had gone ignored, despite their clear significance.

“Oh, you better,” he lowered his head and glared at the man, “Because when I escape Arkham I am going to prove my genius to Gotham- in fact, to the whole world. I’m sick of the Batman underestimating me, and sicker still of being put in the same box as every thick-skulled criminal that bastard throws in here. I am so much more.”

“You’ll have to excuse my skepticism, but I don’t think you’ll be leaving this facility,” the doctor smirked. It was almost uncanny how, in spite of his calm demeanor, he still came across so sinisterly, “I mean, until you're rehabilitated, of course."

Without skipping a beat, Edward retorted, “And why’s that? I’ve escaped plenty of times already,” there was a great sense of smugness in his voice as re remembered his prior breakouts plans. The first time was the easiest of all, security wasn’t trained at all to deal with high profile criminals at the time. That’s not to say they’re much better now, but there had been improvements and adjustments over time, “Five times, to be exact. And I’m very much looking forward to make it six, as you can imagine.”

“Yes, no doubt. But, you see… Under my command, I’m hoping to reform this facility’s methods,” Hugo’s confidence beamed through his words, he was truly convinced no one would get past him, “I’ll be imposing some new measures to improve patients’ behavior and prevent rioting. So far, the data has proved effective. You’ll see the change in due time.”

His intentions were obviously anything but noble, but it was still difficult to tell what exactly he was planning, “I’m curious about that data,” the rogue admitted, “But don’t expect me to fall for whatever traps you’re laying out.”

“Traps? Oh, Edward, there are no ‘traps’ here. You’re quite distrusting, aren’t you?” the doctor chuckled, “Must have picked that up in your childhood, hm?”

Such comment was quick to make the other man tense up. With clenched fists, he began to speak, “Maybe I’d be more trusting if I couldn’t tell you’re a double-dealing skunk.”

“Have you ever noticed how quick you are to insult others? Impulsivity won’t do you any good,” Strange shook his head disapprovingly, “Isn’t that what led you right into GCPD’s ambush before you were sent here? Your impulsivity betrays your logical reasoning. Now, how does a man who thinks so much make such harsh decisions?”

“I care little for your evaluation,” Edward could feel his ears burning, but he had to keep his composure- otherwise, he’d be proving the other man right, “My mind is not a force to be reckoned with. It is not the least surprising to me that you’d fail to grasp that.”

Hugo tapped on his notes, “Impatience, irritability, touchiness, quick temperament- it’s all here. You’re more predictable than you’d expect,” the doctor leaned forward on his chair, “You dislike those characteristics, don’t you?”

Unfortunately, he did. Those were traits that reminded him of people who had hurt him in the past, people he’d rather forget about. The idea that he was anything like them was agonizing, “I’m sick of this conversation,” the rogue retreated, “Riddle me this: What’s the difference between a dog and Dr. Hugo Strange?”

“And there it is. I was wondering how long it would take until you gave into your compulsions,” the man crossed his arms, “The answer?”

“One has a wagging tail, the other has a wagging tongue. I strongly recommend you mind your business.”

“Of course,” despite the fact his eyes were completely obscured by the lenses of his glasses, it was easy to tell Hugo had just rolled his eyes, “Well, while we’re on the subject of riddles, let us backtrack a little. What was the riddle you left the police with yesterday?”

Edward raised an eyebrow, “How do you know I left them with a riddle?”

“Well I am your psychiatrist,” the man asserted, “And the new chief of Psychiatry at Arkham as a whole. It is relevant for me to know some details of police investigations, whenever it pertains to my patients, at least. But they still won’t reveal information they consider too delicate.”

“And is that why you were asking me about the laboratory before? Interesting,” it didn’t really matter though, he was more than happy to change topics at this point. He hated the scrutinization of therapy, “Which GothCorp room must always be kept at 212ºF?”

In that moment, Hugo Strange’s suspicions were confirmed, “Boyle’s office,” he couldn’t help but smirk, that was much easier than he would have anticipated. It was almost pitiable how the GCPD couldn’t get it right away, “So you were looking for his room…”

“Yes…” Edward reluctantly acknowledged, his riddle had been solved too quickly for his liking, leaving him dissatisfied. One of the things he enjoyed most about brainteasers was watching people struggle to solve them; he loved to watch untrained minds try to frantically find solutions to his problems. Those who figured responses out right away always made him grouchy, they were taking away his fun.

“Very well,” suddenly, the doctor reached for a button under his desk. There was a loud beeping noise before he spoke again, “Guards, you make take him back now. The appointment is over.”

The rogue’s eyes widened, “What?” typically, whenever he left the consultation room before time was up, there was clear explanation as to why. More often than not, the reason would be doctors getting fed up with his lousy mannerisms, but that wasn’t the case for Strange, “It’s only been half an hour.”

“Yes, Edward. I have important matters to attend to, so you must excuse me,” Hugo got up from his seat and began adjusting his coat, “I’ll be scheduling another appointment soon, so don’t worry. We’ll have plenty more time to talk then.”

---

Two guards escorted Edward back to the communal area, where the other rogues were still lounging. He hadn’t spoken a word the whole way back, which was quite uncharacteristic. Of course, the guards were happier not hearing him nag, so they didn’t bother to ask if something was bothering him. Truth was, that whole appointment had left a foul taste in his mouth. There wasn’t a way to predict what Strange’s sincere plans were, but he knew he had to learn more quickly. It would also probably be in his best interest to figure a way out of the asylum soon. Even though he was confident in his ability to outsmart the staff, he still had no idea what sort of security measures Hugo might be planning to introduce to Arkham, which could easily become an unsavory obstacle.

Without noticing, he has started walking in circles while thinking. It was only when a cold hand reached for his wrist that he realized it, as his focus was abruptly interrupted, “Edward,” called out a voice that was already much too family to the man. Jonathan Crane was the one whose hand squeezed his joint, “I’ve been waving at you for two minutes, what’s gotten you into such a trance?”

Following the other’s question, Edward promptly pushed his hand away, “What the hell do you want now?” he was really not in the mood to deal with Jonathan. In fact, the man wasn’t really in the mood to deal with anyone with any sort of background involving psychology studies for the rest of the day.

Crane was unbothered by his peer’s short fuse, as it wasn’t important at the time. He had much more pressing issues to get to the bottom of, “Did you have an appointment with that new doctor?”

“Yes. His name is Hugo Strange,” Edward quickly realized what had brought about the other man’s interest, “If you’re wondering about your toxin, I didn’t see it there… But I really wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s in possession of it. In fact, I think it’s quite likely.”

“Ugh,” the other rogue frowned, “Was there anything else interesting?”

 “And why would I tell you, of all people?” he squinted.

“I need my toxin back,” Jonathan insisted, “Look, I’ll help you get out of Arkham.”

Edward pushed him aside, “Tough luck, because I don’t need your help. I already have the perfect plan.”

Chapter Text

During the month Jonathan Crane spent cooped up at Arkham, his behavior was generally reported as positive. He was quiet and submissive, aware that any action deemed erratic could quickly land him in trouble. Many staff members were dying for an excuse to lay their hands on the ex-professor, seeking some form of vengeance for all the years spent working under him. Of course, the rogue knew he wouldn’t be able to fight back; he was practically skin and bone, easily overpowered by any given guard.

However, things change. The mere possibility someone else was in possession of Jonathan’s fear toxin made the risk of injury something the man was more than willing to accept. He couldn't care less about the reputation he'd built; all that mattered was retrieving what was rightfully his. After all, it was his life's work- something he had spent decades researching and perfecting. It was an urgent cause, but, luckily, nobody knew the asylum better than Crane. It should come as no surprise that a man who spent months secretly experimenting on Arkham’s patients had the whole building figured out. He was also, for the most part, familiarized with the staff’s habits and schedules.

Unlike Harvey previously suggested, the best way to get around security wasn’t to make a scene. Distractions can be helpful, but over-elaborate schemes are always doomed to fall through. As Edward had rightfully pointed out, Two-Face’s plan failed to consider variables. In truth, your best bet at escape is simply to slip away discreetly as soon as an opportunity comes into view. There is no need for theatrics; all that’s truly necessary is a sense of resourcefulness and a mind keen enough to know how to adapt to new situations.

That being said, you still need a starting point.

Jonathan’s goal wasn’t yet to leave the asylum, only to retrieve his toxin. In theory, this shouldn’t be too hard. Finding a way to roam around the building would probably prove simpler than if he wanted to climb over the wall at the courtyard unseen. Still, if he did get a hold of the toxin, it would probably not take long until guards came to search his cell. He hadn’t wasted much energy pondering over details, nor did he find it imperative. The more time you spend dwelling on minute issues, the easier it is for fear to seep into your mind- just like with a leaky pipe, the longer you let it be, the bigger the mess it creates. Right now, the only thing he was looking for was an opportunity.

A few hours had gone by since the ex-professor had first learned of Hugo Strange’s existence, and it was now lunchtime. Jonathan had barely touched his food yet, too distracted to eat. The afternoon’s meal was macaroni, though you wouldn’t be able to tell. In fact, it looked more like cornmeal mush, and its texture was uncomfortably close to toothpaste. By this point, it wouldn’t be odd for Jervis to ask him for his leftovers, but the man hadn’t dared make eye contact with Crane since breakfast. It was better like this.

The cafeteria was buzzing with the usual rowdiness you’d expect from a place that reallocates Gotham’s most disturbed. Overall, there were six guards in the room, two at the door, and the remaining four scattered around. They were only there to break fights up, but the men weren’t very competent at their job. Every time an inmate they disliked was on the receiving end of a beating, it often took them a good number of minutes to intervene. It would take exceptional havoc for anyone to be able to leave the cafeteria unnoticed, meaning Jonathan’s opportunity would likely not be found here.

Edward Nygma was sitting by himself, tapping his fingers against the table to some imaginary rhythm, seemingly waiting for the lunch break to be over. Interestingly, the ex-professor had seen him sneak a spork into his sock once he was done eating. Crane wasn’t sure what the other man was planning to do with the small plastic piece, but he was definitely curious. The asylum had initially allowed patients to use metal forks and knives, though that didn’t last very long. Arkham had to change its policies once newer, more violent criminals began stabbing each other a little too often, Victor Zsasz becoming particularly well known at the time for inciting these attacks. Jonathan wasn't yet a physician at the facility before the policy change, but he read about it while going through documents. Arkham had faults that made the rehabilitation of patients practically impossible. All money poured into the program by the kinds as Bruce Wayne often disappeared into the pockets of the administration- rarely used to improve anything. Worse still, there was little regulation over doctors and guards. Jonathan had exploited these faults to further his experiments, but he hadn't been the first, nor would he be the last.

After lunch, inmates were typically led to do tasks and activities around the ward. Some were arranged for recreational purposes- to help improve social skills, often resembling the pastimes available during leisure time in the morning, but with an emphasis on teamwork. In a general sense, it was created as a form of group therapy, and so, naturally, Jonathan couldn't stand being part of it. However, there were also adult education courses as well as mental and physical health programs. The remaining activities were just dull chores. According to the asylum’s headship, these were meant to strengthen work ethic, but it was painfully obvious their actual goal was to reduce staff expenses. When inmates were sent to do these jobs, it was usually as punishment for misbehavior. Sweeping the floor and cleaning dishes are not skills that you need unique training for, and Arkham took full advantage of that.

There were only a few minutes left until break time was over, and Crane was expecting to find his escape opportunity sometime soon. He was fully aware of the staff’s carelessness and the many exploitable situations waiting to be used. It was just a question of timing. Like impatient children before recess, most patients started to speak loudly about nonsensical topics as they rose from their seats. Amid this commotion, it was hard to keep track of people, but the door was still locked and guarded. This was the point at which Jonathan's plan began.

After standing up from his seat, the ex-professor adjusted his glasses and looked around the room for a second, quietly assessing the situation. Zsasz was sitting next to Garfield Lynns, making all sorts of loud, inappropriate comments. It had been a week since Zsasz was last allowed into the cafeteria after being temporarily deemed unfit to hang around other inmates. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, seeing that he was one of Arkham’s most disruptive patients, always willing to start a fight. During his period of confinement, Zsasz had made himself a brand new shiv, following the confiscation of his previous one. The new tool was a toothbrush handle that had been filed with a sharp point, a classic. He had proudly shown it off to Lynns and then set it by the edge of the table.

Knowing Victor Zsasz was absorbed in conversation, Jonathan took this opportunity to walk by his seat and quickly pocket the shiv. It was a somewhat risky move, but the ex-professor was confident in his timing. As he made his way across the cafeteria, it became clear the other man hadn’t noticed the item’s absence, meaning everything was going accordingly. Crane then leaned against a wall and waited.

Finally, once the bell rang, the guards began lining inmates up and grouping them together. Jonathan was placed along with the lot that had signed up for adult education courses and handcuffed along with everyone else. Security liked to make his cuffs unduly tight, which often left bruises. They excused it by saying Crane’s wrists were simply too thin, arguing he would be able to wiggle his way out of his restraints if they were to be loosened. Of course, this was just so they wouldn’t be liable in court for applying excessive force on a patient- in truth, they did because they wanted to see him squirm. Unfortunately for them, Jonathan never gave much of a reaction. Despite all the horrors he endured as a child, Crane was not desensitized to pain; however, he was accustomed enough to it to be able to suppress wincing.

Zsasz was signed up for the same education courses as Jonathan, though the decision wasn’t his own. Arkham took care of the man’s schedule, giving him little freedom of his own. The man stood up once he saw the group lining together, but not without realizing he was missing something, “Where’s my goddamn-” he cut himself off before turning to Garfield Lynns, “Did you take my fucking shank?”

“What the hell would I need that for?” the other immediately asserted, “Think I can’t make my own?”

“Well, somebody must’ve taken it,” protested Zsasz. Jonathan watched from a distance, unable to hear the two’s conversation but perfectly amused by Zsasz’s quick temper. The man looked under every tray at the table, but his knife was nowhere in sight. Eventually, a guard ordered him to step in line, forcing his search to come to an end.

It didn’t take long until every inmate present in the cafeteria appeared to have been lined against the wall and put into their respective group. Having previously held a prestigious rank at the asylum, Jonathan knew the guards were supposed to make a roll call now, but they never did. Truthfully, they should be doing roll calls several times a day, but the only time they did was at night- and only so to make sure every inmate is inside their respective cell. That’s part of the reason escapes at Arkham happened so often- it took the staff hours (or, sometimes, days) to even realize someone has gone missing. One would assume that stricter measures would have been implemented after just the first break-out, but criminals continued to be able to come in and leave as if they were walking through a set of revolving doors.

Two guards then guided Jonathan’s group through the dark corridors of the asylum. Each turn had the ex-professor grow more alert, knowing he might soon be able to sneak out of line. Truthfully, he just needed to find the right opening. Little re-modeling had ever been done to the facility since its time serving as Mercey Mansion, which allowed for the preservation of its unmistakable Neo-Gothic aesthetic even almost a century later. As a result, the building was filled with inconspicuous nooks one could easily go through unseen. Crane was always appreciative of Arkham’s architecture, having always been fascinated by Gothic art and its revival in the 18th century, but even more so knowing he could use it in his favor.

Of course, it also wasn’t as simple as just slipping away into one of these corners- perhaps, if Jonathan was shorter, that could be the case, but he was the tallest man in line, so it’s unlikely that he would be able to leave the group unnoticed. Now was the time a proper distraction could come in handy, something that would entertain the attention of both guards and allow the ex-professor to walk off discreetly-

Arnold Wesker was a small, pitiable man. At first glance, he didn’t seem to fit in at Arkham; Wesker was timid and polite, not to mention fully cooperative. Anyone unfamiliar with his history might have a hard time believing he wasn’t placed there by mistake, but there’s significantly more to his case than meets the eye. Alone, the man was harmless; however, when provided with a puppet through which Scarface could manifest, the Ventriloquist was capable of committing brutal crimes. Still, Wesker never seemed thrilled to partake in these schemes and appeared to be one of the few rogues eager to recover and be able to live a normal life. Sadly, for the man, with the asylum’s current management, that was no more than a laughable idea.

It was also Wesker who stood next in line to Jonathan, nervously looking down at the floor as he walked. Crane could almost feel bad for what he had planned, but, at Arkham, everything is fair game. Carefully, the ex-professor reached for Zsasz’s shiv and delicately quartered it inside the shorter man’s pocket. The group continued walking for a moment before Jonathan muttered, “Wesker,” he tugged at the other man’s sleeve, “Would you be so kind as to hand me a tissue?”

Instinctively, Arnold jumped as he suddenly heard Jonathan’s voice, making a shiver run through his body. After a moment, the man managed to regain his composure. Wesker was known to have allergies, and so this sort of request wasn’t unusual, “S-sure,” he stuttered as he reached into his pants. Before he could even get a hold of the tissues, the man felt something in his pocket poking at his hand, “What’s this-”

A loud gasp escaped the short man’s lips as he drew the weapon out. Zsasz, a few heads down the line, was quick to take notice, “You little pig, that’s my shank!” He blared out in pure, livid fury. It took only a few seconds until Victor pounced on the other man, “Were you gonna carve out another one of those ugly dummies? Is that it?”

“N-No! Pl-please, I swear!” But Wesker wasn’t given a chance to explain himself. Zsasz swung his still-handcuffed hands down, sinking his fists into the weaker man’s face. His nose was broken with the force of Victor’s first punch, and blood began to gush down his face almost instantly. The other inmates moved out of line, everyone trying to get a better view of the fight. Arnold, rendered speechless, was unable to defend himself against the other man’s blows; all he could do was stare at Jonathan through the broken lenses of his glasses, who looked down at him with cold, unforgiving eyes. There was a horrified look on Wesker’s face, one of the most helpless expressions a man can have. And, at that moment, Crane realized just how much he had missed the power of fear. The guards tried to rush into action, but Zsasz grabbed his shiv and stabbed one of them in the arm. The other tried to get a hold of him from behind, but he continued to struggle.

As the chaos continued, Jonathan withdrew into the crowd of patients and disappeared into a dark corridor, the same as any other bad omen. At last, the search for his toxin could begin. That was, once he solved this one final issue… His handcuffs. 

----

Edward Nygma’s escape plan was nothing like Crane’s. He didn't like to involve as much risk-taking in situations like this, so he tried to take the more predictable approaches. It is simply safer to rely back on strategies that have been proved to work, and that is why, at the cafeteria, Edward patiently waited for break time to be over after sliding a spork into his sock. Once inmates started to move around the room, the man lowered himself behind a table and got to work.

Gotham city, for some reason, was filled with ventilation systems large enough to support the weight of a person. While one may want to assume so-called high-security facilities would have enough common sense to install smaller-sized vent ducts, that was clearly not the case. Now, crawling through vents is not a comfortable experience, but some may find it useful at times. This was not going to be Edward's first time venturing through the vent system at Arkham, and that alone should speak volumes about the asylum's security.

Unscrewing bolts without a screwdriver may seem like a problem at first, but the solution is quite simple. In fact, a heat source and plastic are enough to do the trick. Edward had a few miscellaneous items stashed around the asylum, which he used when necessary. While he didn’t have a screwdriver lying around, he did have a lighter. It had been stuck under a floorboard for quite a few months, though it still worked fine. Plastic sporks aren’t practical for much, but you can break them into pieces and heat them up until they’re moldable. After the fact, all that’s left to do is push the tip into a screw and create an impression.

In a matter of minutes, Edward found himself dragging his weight across the ducts. The work put strenuous pressure on his injured arm, but he wasn’t going to be inside the vents for long. Ventilation conduits aren’t particularly labyrinthical- there are quite a few obstructions along the way that can stop people in their tracks (mostly fans, filters, or steep falls), so it was a short, straightforward path. Edward’s plan was to leave the vents and make a run for the employee changing room, where spare uniforms were typically found. Usually, Edward spent up to a week planning out his escape schemes, making sure they were flawless, but this time he felt compelled to do it quickly. He felt as if he needed to prove himself to Jonathan Crane, who he felt underestimated his abilities. So, the man continued to slide his body through the duct. Arkham’s vent conduits were dusty and filled with loose pieces of insulation. Edward was trying his best not to touch the walls of the duct with his hands, forcing his weight down on his elbows instead. There was also an unpleasant, humid smell that made the man squirm.

The course led Edward down a few hallways until he stopped at a gap that seemed to open into an empty corridor. Slowly, the man removed the vent hood and awkwardly pulled his body out of the vent. He took a moment to run a hand through his hair, making sure it was presentable, even if he wasn’t planning on anybody else being there to it. By the looks of it, the dressing room should be one floor below, meaning he had to search for a way down, so, after being certain he was alone, Edward began to move. He was mindful of cameras, though not exceptionally worried, as security men rarely kept watch of the surveillance system.

----

Jonathan was peeking around a corner when he suddenly heard footsteps approaching. This caught him off guard, making him react hastily. With one swift move, the man crouched behind a trolley and began reviewing all the possible outcomes. By the sounds of the footsteps whoever was walking towards him wasn’t too heavy, so he might be able to overpower them, though he wasn’t sure if it would be worth the risk. Perhaps he should just make a run for it across the corridor? Even though that could draw attention to him. At any rate, the footsteps stopped, making Jonathan begin to wonder if he’d been caught. All this work, and for what? He complained to himself, not thrilled about the idea of being sent back to his cell without his toxin. Hell, he hadn’t even gotten rid of his handcuffs yet.

A short silence followed this incident, only for it to be broken by a strange question, “Which three letters of the alphabet are the most likely to scare an escaped inmate?” This unmistakable voice made Jonathan let out a sigh that expressed both relief and frustration.

“You,” Jonathan rose from his ducking position, wrinkling his nose at the sight of Edward’s figure. He furrowed his brows and looked at him intently, admittedly surprised to cross paths with the man.

“Oh, those are three letters, alright; though that’s not the answer,” the younger man looked at his counterpart smugly, immediately noticing his cuffed hands. In truth, he was just as surprised to have run into Crane, but he saw this as an opportunity to boast, “The answer is ‘I, C, U,’ get it? That wasn’t a very clever hiding spot, I could see your hair sticking out from behind the cart.”

Still trying to process the situation, the other man raised an eyebrow, “I wasn’t trying to solve your mindless riddle,” he stepped closer to the other rogue, trying to speak quietly, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I told you I had the perfect escape plan,” Edward crossed his arms, “And I do. Can’t really say the same for you though. Searching for your beloved toxin, I presume? Now, how come a man as smart as you is still in handcuffs?”

Jonathan rolled his eyes at the other’s sarcastic comments, “I was looking for something to lockpick them with…”

“Say, something like this?” Edward bent over as he reached inside his sock, bringing out a paper clip. He waved it in front of the other man’s face, “Have you ever picked your way out of handcuffs before?”

“No,” the older man reluctantly admitted, knowing this would only fuel the other rogue’s ego. Crane had picked the locks of a few cabinets and doors before, but never a pair of cuffs, “Is it your intention to just stand there bragging? Because I have no time for such nonsense.”

“Sure,” Edward smiled, pointing towards Jonathan’s handcuffs, “But I can also help you out of those… Under one condition, of course.”

With a suspicious look, Crane ceded, “And what might that be?”

“You stop making fun of my riddles.”

Chapter Text

It was baffling that, out of the many things one could have asked from the professor, Edward had chosen the most absurd condition. Jonathan wasn’t one to ask for help, especially not from other criminals; there’s always a catch . Very few people do things out of the kindness of their hearts, and so, when you accept someone’s aid, you’re often just digging your grave deeper. Many men would have used this opportunity to try and convince Crane to give them some of his fear toxin or, otherwise, just leave him with a pending favor. There were plenty of things to bargain for, but it was clear Edward had different priorities.

“Well, and what should qualify as ‘making fun of’ your riddles?” Jonathan arched an eyebrow, curious to know how deep the other rogue’s insecurities ran. The younger man had grown so attached to his puzzles that any criticism brought up against them felt like a personal attack.

“Simple,” Edward smiled, “No more erroneous little remarks. Calling them ‘childish,’ ‘nonsensical’ or anything else of the sort. If you quit doing that, I’ll help you out of those handcuffs.”

“But why does it bother you so much?” The older man pressed further, “Is your self-worth really so delicate that you must go out of your way to silence any negative remarks? Just how miserable are you?”

Almost immediately, Edward reasserted his position, “Do you want my help or not? Because I assure you, I will feel no remorse over leaving you here,” he took a step back while trying not to let the other rogue’s questions get under his skin, “I’m sure guards would love to find you, of all people, wandering alone looking for a way out of those restraints.”

“Oh, but then how will I know that you’re not bluffing?” Crane’s lips took the form of a ghastly grin as he planned his next move, “Are you truly capable of ridding me of these handcuffs? If you leave me stranded, I’ll have no option but to assume you were lying.”

Once again, Jonathan’s probing nature cornered Edward, grabbing hold of his fears and toying with them around. The Riddler was a character that seemed to be in complete control of his every move, confident in his every thought, and always certain of what’s to come. Underneath such superficial pride lies a much different truth, though. Edward Nygma is a man scared of being forgotten or dismissed- a man so desperate to prove himself to anyone who opposes him that he will be willing to lose at his own game just so his self-doubt won’t break him.

“I know what you’re doing, you sleazy bastard,” the younger man raised a finger in protest. He didn’t want to give in so easily, yet he knew this point of discussion would lead nowhere. It was loathsome just how little power he held over this situation, pathetic even, “You’re playing dirty.”

"Come now, Edward," Jonathan's tone of voice sounded stern yet eerily calm, as if he was reprimanding the behavior of boorish students again. His gaze felt practically inescapable as he leaned forward. He tilted his head to the side before he continued to speak,  "There's no need for name-calling. I don't think you're a liar but how can you prove otherwise?"

It was never a secret among Arkham staff that Edward couldn't deal with people implying he might be lying. In fact, doctors would make it a point to discuss different patients’ triggers before beginning treatment, and they were able to access most inmates’ files whenever they saw fit. It was easier this way- and safer too. Few were reckless enough to want to instigate an outburst on a dangerous criminal purposefully. It was technically against protocol to put too much psychological pressure on the rogues without supervised permission. Of course, nobody actually cared about the protocol. The medical staff was entirely self-serving, abiding only by the guidelines that were the most convenient to them. It was less about ethics and more about self-preservation. They were scared of what might happen to them if they took things too far. None of the doctors wanted to be next on an escaped maniac's hit list, but Jonathan wasn't scared of the Riddler, and he couldn't care less if he ended up on the man's official shit-list .

“Let's renegotiate,” Edward scratched the tip of his chin, refusing to accept defeat, “I have a new idea."

“Is that so?” Crane was less than enthused but still chose to play along, “Go ahead then, I’m all ears.”

“I’ll get you out of those handcuffs right now and without repayment,” the younger man began to haggle, “But if you stop making a mockery of my riddles, I’ll also help you find your precious toxin.”

Jonathan furrowed his brows, “Help me? How ?” All amusement the rogue had been drawing from the conversation was suddenly gone, and his expression suddenly grew solemn, “Pardon me for being cynical, but what might you know that I don’t?”

Noticing the tension rise, Edward smiled; he felt like he was regaining some control over the current circumstances, even if that meant approaching some tricky territory, “I assume you remember my surprise appointment with Strange," he crossed his arms, adopting a more comfortable pose, “You might recall asking me if there was anything else interesting that I might want to bring up. Well, there was something.”

What frustrated Crane the most was the fact he knew Edward was telling the truth- there really was something he hadn’t told him yet, “Enlighten me.”

“I will,” the younger man was feeling satisfied with the turnabout, “But first, you must promise.”

“This is ridiculous,” Jonathan complained, “What would you do if I broke my promise? There’s no reason for me to keep it. These conditions are beyond foolish!”

“If you keep your promise, we’ll be on good terms,” Edward frowned at his counterpart. The thought that he might be double-crossed was offensive, “And, if we’re on good terms, I might offer you help when needed.”

“You act as if I’ll need your help,” the older man asserted. This conversation was starting to give him a headache, “Here’s one thing I can promise you: I can take care of myself. I’ve been alone for longer than you’ve even been alive and if there’s one thing this life has taught me is that I don’t need help to get by.”

“When you’re out there you’ll need my help,” Edward grabbed the other rogue’s arm and pulled him closer, receiving a nasty glare in return, “When the GCPD and Batman are both after you and you have nowhere to go but run-down buildings, you’ll need my help. You don’t know this city as well as I do, you don’t know the criminals, you don’t know where to get money or food. Your life as you know it is over, Crane. You can’t go back to what you had.”

Jonathan shook Edward’s hand off him; the man’s intimidation attempt had only managed to make him angrier, “I’ve never had a thing to go back to, you fool,” he snapped back. But his statement wasn’t entirely true; he had, at points, had things to go back to. His job as a professor, for instance, genuinely brought him some satisfaction. As much as he couldn’t stand the majority of his students and all the disgraceful tutors at the faculty, he still liked to feel like he was making a difference, small as it might’ve been, by teaching others. He sought revenge against Gotham University not just because they failed to recognize the value of his methods but also because they stripped him of one of the few things he could still look forward to in his life- teaching. That was something Jonathan had yet to come to terms with; the notion that he lost one of the only things that he cared for. If only he hadn’t let himself be consumed by his own bitterness and obsession, then perhaps he could have built a career somewhere else… But it’s just as possible that things were doomed from the start.

Slowly, the younger man backed away. The two rogues stayed quiet for a few seconds. Edward had, perhaps, been projecting his own experience of first becoming a rogue. It was never his plan to be caught; his criminal persona was supposed to be something entirely separate from his civilian life. To him, it was more of a part-time gig. Something he did to receive the recognition and attention he felt he deserved, but which he couldn’t achieve in his low-end job. It was supposed to be temporary, just until he could find an opportunity that would provide him with fame and success. When his anonymity was taken away from him by Batman, and he found himself on the run, he had to re-learn how to live.

“Give me your hands,” Edward finally broke the silence, “I’ll show you how to remove your handcuffs.”

Albeit reluctantly, Jonathan complied. He raised both hands forward, wrinkling his nose as he felt Edward’s warm fingers suddenly press against his wrist. Neither of them spoke, but the older man watched as his counterpart began to bend the wires of the paper clip. He inserted one of the wires in the lock, bent it around some more, and began rotating it in a key-like motion. The lock was disengaged with ease, making a slight ‘click’ sound as the cuffs came off. It was almost funny how effortless Edward had made it seem.

The older man, now freed from his restraints, started moving his wrists around, making blood flow easier, "Thank you," Jonathan mumbled. Odd as it may sound, he'd been raised to have good manners, and he was rarely willing to let his pride hurt his etiquette, "I'll be leaving now."

"You know, I can still help you find your toxin," Edward pocketed the handcuffs, figuring they might come in handy later. He was speaking calmly again and had decided to give the other rogue one last chance to accept his help, "But you know what I want in exchange."

All things considered, Crane knew this wasn't an offer he should turn down. After all, there was nothing he stood to lose by accepting the deal, "And just how useful is this information you possess?"

"Useful enough to make the search quicker," the younger man claimed, "And I'm sure you're aware time is of the essence." 

Jonathan sighed deeply, "Alright, you’ve made your point," he felt ridiculous. Part of him couldn’t even begin to understand why he’d be agreeing to such nonsense, and he had to  massage the bridge of his nose before continuing, "I won’t mock your riddles."

Instantly, the other rogue’s eyes beamed with delight, “What can be snatched from within something’s jaws and still retain its sweet smell?”

The riddle immediately caught the older man off guard, “Do I have to-”

But Jonathan didn’t even have enough time to finish his sentence, “Victory!” Edward exclaimed, “How did you like that one? I came up with it on spot.”

Despite how hard it was to ignore such frivolous teasing, the ex-professor kept his composure, “It’s certainly better than the crane one,” still, for what it’s worth, he continued to be blown away by the younger man’s sense of timing.

Chapter Text

Nothing screams incompetence quite like two escaped inmates being able to go completely unnoticed as they roam around the same facility that's meant to keep them locked away from the outside world. Granted, these are not ordinary men, but Arkham is not an ordinary facility either. 

Due to the sheer size and age of the structure, many corridors lacked surveillance systems, and certain paths were so ill-lit that any regular camera would surely be nothing but a useless prop. This is not to mention the countless broken or otherwise malfunctioning cameras that were rarely checked anyway. The asylum's administration knew criminals were always, inevitably, going to escape, so they often discouraged staff from reporting faulty equipment to prevent the lawsuits that would ensure once police had to check their records after receiving yet another missing patient's report. Of course, personnel had no reason to want the cameras fixed either- after all, they didn't want to risk their abuse and neglect of patients to be documented and exposed. It was all a vicious cycle of corruption.

And it was for this reason that Edward Nygma and Jonathan Crane were able to reach the head physician's office within just a few minutes of walking. On their way there, the pair had only come across a few patrolling guards but easily managed to avoid them without raising a hint of suspicion. Both rogues' absence from the scheduled group activities had yet to be noted, but there was still no way to tell just how much time they had left until someone finally realized- that is, if anyone was going to notice at all.

The younger of the two men had his face pressed against the door, patiently trying to pick up on any sounds that would indicate the room was currently occupied. Jonathan was meant to be watching out for guards, but his mind had gone somewhere else, "Odd," he murmured as he ran his fingers across the nameplate at the side of the door.

"What?" — Edward whispered back, quickly raising his head to look at the other man. He tried to identify what might have prompted the comment, but just couldn't seem to figure it out, "What is it? Something about the plate?"

The older man darted him a glare, "No, nothing of that sort," he then took a step back and scratched at his chin, "This room used to be for storage, is all. I only actually entered it once; there were documents and boxes scattered all around, all old and dull… It's just odd that this Hugo character would have them revamp an entire room when so many are always available for use."

"Probably because he noticed this room is connected to another one," Edward shrugged, now busying himself by peering through the door's keyhole.

" Pardon?! " — Crane suddenly raised his tone, being rendered somewhat stupefied by the manner in which the younger man had so casually delivered him this bombshell.

"Ah, so you didn't see it before," the younger rogue smiled, feeling a sense of pride rapidly rushing through him. He moved away from the keyhole and tugged at the other man's sleeve, pulling him down, "Take a look here."

Jonathan slapped the other's hand off his sleeve, but still kneeled down before the door. He pressed his glasses against the small opening and let his eye roam around the office, looking for a supposed extra entryway. The man's efforts were, however, fruitless, "And what exactly am I meant to be seeing, Edward?"

"You still can't see?" — The man's smile had by then already turned into a smug, toothy grin. It was a good thing the professor was still looking through the hole because catching a glimpse of such a pompous expression might have left him feeling ill. Edward had always felt gratified when he could see things others were unable to.

"Quit your games, you louse. Just tell me what I'm looking for already," Jonathan heaved a sigh, tired of his peer's antics.

"The lone bookcase to the left, notice anything on the floor?" — Edward guided the other rogue to the clue, unwilling to give him a straight answer off the bat.

It still took Crane a moment to process what he was staring at; his eyesight had always been an issue in situations like this. Even with the help of eyeglasses, many details still got buried under blurs of color, and so it took him longer to sort things out. Nonetheless, the man did eventually spot the drag marks on the wooden floor, "Oh, that's fascinating."

"Indeed," the younger man tapped the other's shoulder before standing up, "Now let's get a move on."

Following the other criminal's lead, the professor got up from the ground, promptly cracking his back and neck as he composed his figure. Edward's sickly reaction to the noise made him let out a soft chuckle, but it wasn't long before his stern appearance settled back in. He tried the door handle and found that it was unlocked- not a good sign. Most doctors always make sure their office is closed when they're not there; nobody wants strangers to look through private documents, especially if Hugo Strange was truly as sinister of an entity as all seemed to point to. Odds were, he had only left the room briefly and was bound to come back soon, "We should hurry- he won't be away for much longer."

Immediately after both men entered the room, Edward shut the door and rushed to the bookcase. He inspected it for a moment, making sure it wasn't connected to any sort of device that would alert guards to their presence. Once the rogue was sure it was safe to move the furniture piece, he began to drag it aside. Jonathan—aware of the insignificant amount of physical utility he had—let his peer do the hard work while he pranced around the room. First, he examined the books in the office, noticing that the shelves were mostly filled with Psychology books published or likewise endorsed by the white coats at the APA. Curiously, the bookstand Edward was pushing seemed to have a much more diverse variety of titles, a majority of which the professor failed to recognize. Jonathan couldn't help but wonder if those books had all been thrown there in a hurry- perhaps brought in at the last second to help conceal whatever laid behind the stand. But this was ultimately of little concern to the man, so, eventually, he started going through papers and browsing drawers. There was caution in the way Jonathan handled this process, making sure to place things exactly the way they were before so no one would later notice his intrusion. He had already spent a lifetime meddling with what he wasn't supposed to, making this a relatively easy task.

Although some of the drawers in his desk were locked, those that weren't, seemed entirely unremarkable. Most simply ported dull reports about inmates' prescriptions and behaviors, sometimes accompanied by a few equally as irrelevant notes. It wasn't until the very last drawer that Crane finally uncovered something worthy of his attention- There was a  large unmarked binder sat at the bottom of the drawer; it seemed relatively inconspicuous at first, but came to reveal a bizarre yet carefully organized collection of newspaper clippings and police reports. The professor felt his throat tighten for a second, as he came upon articles pertaining to his arrest in the previous month. Each paragraph related to his fear research was heavily underlined, including the effects of his toxin. Still, he wasn't the only one. There were several papers about Jervis Tetch's mind control devices too, as well as Pamela Isley's poisons and pollens, Bane's street drug Venom, and even some about Edward's recent break-in at GothCorp. A handful of documents had information about the GCPD, and seemed to include the contact information of a few officers. There were also several transcripts of interviews Commissioner Gordon had given to the press, all about Batman's involvement with law enforcement and crime-fighting. Crane continued to skim through pages, suddenly realizing that most included photographs and newspaper articles about Batman. There was one that was especially eye-catching to him; a scoop that was all too familiar to all of Gotham—'BAT-MAN: MAN OR MYTH?'—the first article to include a photograph of the Dark Knight, essentially putting to rest any remaining doubts of the vigilante's existence. The picture was taken by Vicki Vale, thrusting her into the spotlight. Crane found her to be an insufferable little thing, indistinguishable from most other cockroaches in the field of journalism, but even he had been intrigued by the scoop at the time. Strange's interest seemed to go beyond intrigue though. 

The article had been scrutinized to hell and back, with many erratic notes written all over the page. The date of publication had been circled in red several times—'05/25/08'—and had two embolden exclamation marks next to it. Strange had also written some text under it, but it wasn't completely legible. Jonathan couldn't tell what the man's end goal was, but he was now certain it would all lead back to Batman. Still, the oddest of all pages were the few last ones, all of which revolved around Bruce Wayne, who seemed to have no relation to the other data in the collection. There were traces of annotations in these articles, but all had been crossed over, erased, or cut out. Is he after the Wayne fortune? — The professor pondered,  Perhaps he's looking to fund a project. Or maybe there is something else at play-

"Would you look at that," Edward pompously exclaimed, cutting swiftly through the professor's thoughts, "A steel door! I knew it!" 

"Always a good sign when someone who's in charge of treating the criminally insane has a hidden passage in his office," Jonathan scoffed at his own sarcastic comment before setting the binder down back in place. Truth be said, it was genuinely impressive that Arkham managed to hire madman after madman, somehow surviving each scandal with little to no useful changes being made throughout the years, "Let's see what's on the other side, yes?"

"I'll need to get the PIN first," Edward hovered his gaze over the small interface that was connected to the door. It appeared to be a very plain security system—not impressive in any way—but he also didn't have the tools necessary to quickly bypass it. He might have been able to old-school it by checking for the most worn-out buttons and using them to form a pattern, but it was clear that the whole keyboard had only recently been installed, so there were still no obvious signs of usage.

"Well, and is that not your expertise?" — The older man raised an eyebrow as he analyzed his fellow inmate's troubled expression. He knew the Riddler to be renowned for many digital crimes and figured this shouldn't be a problem at all.

" It is , but I'm no wizard either ," the sudden change in tone made Edward's insecurities painfully evident. A question as simple as the one posed by the professor was already forcing him into a state of defensiveness, feeling threatened by doubt. He didn't want to have his skills challenged, or to ever be misunderstood, "The code is 6 digits long, all numbers; I could brute force it with some time, but we don't have that time ."

"Please, compose yourself," Crane sighed, not having meant to provoke his peer this time around. Technology was never, admittedly, the man's forte, so he was clueless as to how people breached security points. The online world just never enticed him, and he saw no use for it in his daily life since he had all the same information readily available through other means, "I wasn't trying to argue anything. It was an honest question."

"There are exactly ONE MILLION different combinations for a 6-digit numerical lock. Without external devices, we could be stuck here for hours!" — The younger man tried hammering why the PIN presented a problem, frantically trying to convince Jonathan that he could solve this if only he had the proper means, "Statistically speaking, it's probable that the PIN is either a date or a pattern of sorts, but that's still only a shot in the dark. And that's not to mention that the system might notify Strange when the wrong PIN is inserted."

"Dates, you say? Hmmm," the professor took a step back, ogling the desk behind him as he turned his head. A remote thought formed in the depths of his mind, but he wasn't sure just how much he could trust it. It was merely a gut feeling, and he was entirely aware that getting the answer wrong could land them both in trouble. Even so, he knew to trust his instincts better than anyone else, and he hadn't come this far only to give up now, "Allow me try something..."

"What are you doing?! No!" — Edward protested the professor's seeming recklessness, grabbing a hold of his right hand and pulling it away from the lock before he could press any key. Despite this, the younger man's complaints did little to deter Jonathan, who quickly freed himself from his peer's grip and began typing a sequence of numbers into the interface. Edward watched incredulously as the professor began to press a series of buttons—'0-5-2-5-0-8'—a combination he couldn't understand the origin of. Then, much to his shock, there was a click, and his face went pale, "How did you know?"

Crane smiled, pushing the door open, "Remind me to tell you some other time," part of him couldn't believe it had worked either, but he had no time to waste. The hatch had opened into a narrow, dimly lit corridor where, at its very end, was a staircase that descended into the dark. But, just as the man was preparing to enter the passage, he felt something pulling him back by force, holding him in place.

"No, please ," Edward wrapped his hand around the older man's forearm, squeezing it with startling desperation, "You have to tell me now. How did you do that? I must know."

Puzzlingly, Jonathan felt stuck in place, incapable of shaking his peer off this time around. The odd sight had left him staggered and, for a brief moment, he found himself wondering how he should react. Edward's touch was still very discomforting, provoking a sense of anxiety within the professor that was anything but pleasant; human touch was always too overwhelming, it left him feeling tense and uncomfortable, sometimes even repulsed, but something about the look on his counterpart's face stopped Jonathan for a moment. The two locked eyes briefly, until the older man heaved a sigh, "There is a folder full of newspaper articles in his desk. It seems Hugo has developed quite the obsession with Batman… He circled the date when Vicki Vale's photograph was published in the papers, that's how I knew," once he was done explaining, he quickly quit eye contact, "And stop touching me."

Compliantly, the younger rogue did as was asked, being suddenly made crushingly aware of his strange mannerisms. Then, he looked down at his hands in silence, watching as they fiddled with the fabric of his uniform. There was a sense of shame washing over him, but he was trying to keep it under wraps. Good lord, how he felt embarrassed. This all started with him wanting to prove his intellectual abilities to Crane, and now he had made a fool of himself! It should have been him who figured out the combination! That's what he's good at. That's where his worth lies. What is he if not the smartest man in the room? What value is there to him? What's left to be admired? Is there anything at all?

But while Edward was distracted experiencing the weight of his own thoughts, Jonathan had already moved on, now showing interest in something behind the bookstand; it was a handle, built so the stand could be moved by someone standing within the hidden passage, "Seems wise to drag this back in place before we venture out. Wouldn't want Hugo to suspect our visit," he started trying to push the rack backward, but quickly found that it was a bit of a strenuous task, "Lend me a hand, will you, Edward?"

The younger criminal again acted in accordance with Jonathan's request, not muttering a word as he did so. There was a blank look in his eyes as if he was not quite there. Clearly, he was still both conscious and perceptive enough to follow through with given commands, but part of him was also detached from the present time, trying to flee the threat that was his looming insecurities. After only a minute or so, the two inmates brought the bookstand back to the position it had been in when they first entered the office. The professor shut the metal door close again and started sauntering towards the stairs, paying close attention to the ground beneath him. Edward followed along, still mute. 

"I should have known," both inmates had already begun walking down the stairway when, all of a sudden, a frustrated mumble escaped the younger man's lips, putting his building emotions under the spotlight. It was always a matter of time until Edward's shame turned into frustration, then slowly transforming into anger and sometimes rage.

"Nonsense," Crane shrugged the other's lament off. He didn't have the time or will to hear his peer's cries, "Can't you see? I only knew given that, by chance, I decided to rummage through his documents. You're getting worked up because you think this makes you unintelligent, but it was pure coincidence."

"No, you don't get it," the younger man quickly interjected, "I know the day that photograph was published! I should have understood! I should have realized!"

"You didn't have the context clues, and the combination wasn't typed out in the form of a date. Perfectly natural to not be able to form a connection right away, this really says nothing about you," Jonathan rolled his eyes. His fellow inmate's inability for introspection was definitely none of his business, yet it was also hard to suppress his own urge to psychoanalyze a figure as peculiar as the Riddler,

"Now get a move on, I'm not your physician."

Edward grew flustered for a second, unable to tell if the professor was, for some reason, trying to comfort him, "You called me a poseur trying to convince others of being a great intellectual ," he recalled last night's exchange, "Said I was not as clever as I wished-"

"Yes, and the point still stands," the older man cut him short, not regretting a single word that he had said, " Should I elaborate? You wish to feel as if there is no one smarter than you so that you might finally be able to rid yourself of doubts that routinely plague your mind, but that's not something that can be correctly measured and compared. You won't ever get that. Secondly , you aren't an intellectual. You don't engage in the discourse of academic subjects. I have no doubt in my mind that you're cognitively gifted—you proved to me as much during our chess match—I was testing you, and you did nicely, but you're still not the beacon of erudition you try to portray yourself as."

"That's a bold claim. You don't know me," the other barked back at his peer. Time and time again, the Riddler felt like people failed to comprehend who he was as an individual. Frankly, his fragile sense of self left him occasionally confused too- but that’s precisely why he had developed such a haunting preoccupation with the way he was perceived in public, why he lashed out the moment he felt misinterpreted, and why mere simple, personal inquiries so often put him on high alert, "You don't see the books I read or the articles I research. Go ahead and quiz me if you'd like! I have more esoteric knowledge memorized than you could ever dream of. All you know about me you've learned from my file, same as every other doctor in this damned asylum. But none of you truly understands me or my goals. I'm sick of being reduced by the likes of you! You don't understand me. I'm an enigma."

An enigma? Hardly , Jonathan thought to himself. It was true that, in some ways, Edward did fascinate the professor, but to call him an enigma felt closer to an exaggeration. Jonathan felt as if the younger man was just an unsurprising culmination of all his childhood experiences in addition to his already obsessive tendencies. The gimmicks of his crimes were less formulaic, but none of it felt particularly incomprehensible to someone like the dreadful Scarecrow, "Spare me the monologuing. Tell you what, perhaps you're right. I do not know of your personal endeavors, but so remains my own query:  why not pursue something greater ? Where’s your end-goal? You sometimes seem to lack… Foresight.”

“Greater? All I do is out of passion. It doesn’t matter how small the crime- I always make sure solving it is just as challenging as any of my more ambitious heists!  It’s not the money that I’m after, I want the recognition! I want people to know what I’m capable of, I can’t have them forget! They need to know I’m not just some sap! I’m so much better than they’ve made me out to be! I need the attention,” Edward proclaimed his aspirations eagerly, although such enthusiasm soon transformed into nervousness as he bit his lower lip, realizing he had given up more details than he should have. No psychiatrist had managed to get him talking to this point, and he was suddenly mad at himself for letting his guard down so easily. Of course, the rogue was perfectly aware of his longing for the limelight, he just couldn’t reconcile that with the reality that fame wouldn’t actually make his insecurities disappear, much less that it wouldn’t earn him the honest apologies of those that had for so long abused him. He would come to blame this mishap on the fact he hadn’t gotten a proper night’s sleep for the past two days, but it may be something else, “My end-goal has always been recognition .”

“Oh so vain, Edward,” the older man cackled. He didn’t mean to provoke his peer, but also couldn’t help but find some amusement in the notion their objectives had such different foundations. Undoubtedly, Crane wanted recognition too- he wanted his intellect esteemed and valued by minds that were just as bright as his, people who could truly appreciate his devotion. He wanted to be understood . However, he could easily pass up the offer for attention . Even the mere idea of being stopped on the street by the masses was already nauseating; just imagining the smell and the noise that would follow those crowds was enough to make him recoil. The man’s interest in fear and psychology was genuine, as was his belief that his research would someday benefit humanity, and he would pursue it even without the guarantee of acclamation. Edward, on the other hand, seemed to prioritize the merits, welcoming positive attention of any kind. To the professor, this viewpoint came off as hollow, he couldn’t comprehend how anyone would crave a life of artificial praise, being chased by the flattery of people whose interest in you is both superficial and fleeting, though he knew why . 

"I do have something great planned," Edward now spoke casually, watching his feet as he continued walking down the stairs. He was following just a few inches behind the other man, "Once I get out, you'll see. I'll show you greatness."

"And Batman?" — Crane turned his head for a moment, curious to see the other rogue's reaction.

At that moment, the younger man grew very serious, "He'll see too."

The professor tediously nodded in response, deciding he didn't have the patience to continue the discussion any further. Needless to say, he greatly doubted the vigilante would meet his match any time soon, but he would keep that argument for later. Batman survived ploy after ploy, even after being left for dead. All things considered, the man was more of a cockroach than a bat. It wasn’t too difficult to understand why Hugo Strange—or anybody else for that matter—would become obsessed with such an unusual figure. What was the psychological profile of the man behind the cowl? Even his motivations were somewhat of a mystery. Most people theorized he was some rogue cop who had grown sick of the GCPD’s methods and corruption, but, in that case, there must be people funding his nightly crusades. Were the socialites behind it? That could feasibly be what connected Bruce Wayne to the rest of the newspaper clippings upstairs; the junior entrepreneur of Wayne Enterprises did have an interest in backing programs related to the capture and rehabilitation of criminals, Arkham Asylum being a prime example. Still, at the end of the day, where the money came from was of little importance; Batman’s identity would always be the more captivating matter. 

Either way, Jonathan didn’t have much longer to expand on these thoughts as the stairway came to an end. Before both men stood a large laboratory, lit brighter than most rooms in the facility. The contrast between this room and the staircase was significant enough to pain the two criminals’ eyes as they began to approach it. Once their eyes adjusted to the change, the professor took a moment to analyze the area before entering—as did Edward—trying to spot cameras or anything else that might disclose their presence there. Once they felt safe enough to venture into the expanse, the rogues quickly stepped forward and scattered. It was a large space, likely built near the basement. Jonathan was still baffled he didn’t know of this place; it must have existed before, but none of the asylum’s blueprints displayed it. How many people even knew of this room? Were there any other secret locations that he didn’t know of?

“There are thousands worth of equipment here,” the younger man determined, examining the large assortment of screens and processors that spread through the laboratory; Strange had built his own jackleg supercomputer. It was very clear from the chaotic appearance of the scene that no company had been contracted to build the computer. There was a mess of cables at Edward’s feet, and the rogue had to resist a sudden, intense urge to sort them out properly, knowing it would be irresponsible to move things around. A feeling crept at the back of his mind that if he didn’t assort the cable work, something terrible would happen; he focused his gaze on the extensive cluster of wires, trying to picture them ‘right’ in his mind just so he could calm his nerves, but that only helped slightly. Frustrated, Edward backed away and knocked exactly six times on the closest wall. He felt self-conscious suddenly, and looked back to check if Jonathan had noticed his odd behavior. Thankfully, he hadn’t, “All this expensive technology and he doesn’t even bother to arrange it properly. What an horrendous cable management… Why does he even need all of this? If he’s willing to purchase this amount of processors, he’s definitely storing a large amount of data here.” — Edward’s curiosity peaked, as he had a supercomputer too, put together in one of his most secluded hideouts. He powered it using some electricity that he had rerouted from a nearby factory and used it almost exclusively to collect surveillance data and radio signals from around the city. 

Jonathan was much too busy inspecting the other side of the room to take note of Edward’s findings. He had a mission, and that was to find his toxin. He wasn’t sure if it was actual intuition or just wishful thinking, but he could feel it near. The professor had already made a thorough search of several lockers; these were wide and spacey and, although there was one that was almost completely empty, most were filled with spare computer parts, medical tools, and other mechanical gear, but there was still no sign of his precious chemical. It was then that the rogue began to open the metal crates that sat near a workbench, then, after a few tries, bingo . As Jonathan lifted the container’s lid, he came face to face with a sight that both shocked and maddened him, “Son of a- That worthless cretin has been creating duplicates!” — He screeched wildly. Indeed, the box contained hundreds of small vials carrying the same fluorescent green chemical. Crane's lifetime of work had not only been stolen but also replicated, "To hell with him! I'll make the bastard pay for this."

Upon hearing the older man's squawks, Edward ambled towards the crate, intending to go see what was causing so much grief for himself. It was then that, once he had gotten closer, the rogue leaned over the container and raised both eyebrows in disbelief. When he heard the professor yelling about duplicates, the younger man guessed there would be a few dozen at most, but this far surpassed the amount anticipated. By that point, Jonathan was already frantically trying to fit as many vials as he could into his pockets. His eyes were fixed on the many small tubes, revealing a deep possessiveness as he continued to dig through the box. The professor’s frenzied demeanor seemed close to animalistic, crazed as a starving beast. He looked scary at that moment—even without accessories or a disguise—there was that horrible, wretched expression on his face that could terrify even the most courageous of men. A lifetime of laborious research, stolen within a month by a fool. This was all Jonathan lived for. All that mattered to him. He didn’t want to lose the only thing he had, his single prized possession.

Edward stood and watched for a second, expressionless. That same feeling of rage and desperation was all too familiar to him; he wasn’t scared. In fact, he had a funny feeling then; resonance. This was the first time the younger man had laid his eyes upon the infamous fear toxin. The chemical had a nice tone of green, reminiscent of the hues he many times used in his own contraptions as the Riddler. The rogue held up one of the vials and carefully examined it, just before Crane noticed and snatched it from his hands.

" Don't touch that!" — The professor cried out, gently cradling the flask he had just taken from his peer in his arms. He had already lost count of how many vials he had tucked into his pockets, but he knew he couldn’t fit any more. Despite this, the crate remained packed, looking nearly identical to how it had first been found, "Argh! This is hopeless. There's no way I'll be able to carry all of these out with me."

"Even if you did, he probably has figured out the formula already," Edward weighed on the subject while running his hand along the side of the container. The younger man noticed his peer tense up suddenly; Crane had become so lost in anger that such hypothesis hadn’t even occurred to him yet. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. For the first time in many years, the professor had been rendered entirely speechless. It was bizarre to see the Scarecrow look so helpless- distressed even. Edward continued, "I don't like the implications of this. Say, what do you suppose he's planning to do with all of these vials?"

Because Jonathan was trying to get a hold of his temper, it took him a moment to respond,  “He might be meaning to sell them to the highest bidder. Plenty of corporate leeches tried to haggle for my toxin when I was first captured; there is quite a community of people raring to get their filthy hands on my work,” with a heavy sigh, the older man stepped away from the crate, running a hand through his disheveled hair before adjusting his glasses with his palm, “But it’s just as likely that he actually intends on conducting his own experiments. How he plans to use my toxin isn’t something I may answer.”

"I think we are at least capable of deducing who his subjects are going to be. After all, where would an Arkham administrator find easily accessible lab rats, eh, Professor Crane? ” — The younger man made sure to put emphasis on the other’s designation. This was a question that Crane, of all people, should have no issue answering. Not that most other Gothamites would have any trouble answering either, considering the asylum’s horrendous track record. 

“Now, to be fair, I never tried it on rogues, Edward,” Jonathan pointed at his counterpart defensively, anticipating his peer’s theory that Strange was planning to perform experiments on members of the gallery. He felt the need to separate his principles from the other doctor’s, not for any moral distinction, but rather because he wanted it stressed that his work had nothing to do with Strange, “That is careless beyond my own standards, but I wouldn’t put it past him to do so. A mere gut-feeling.”

Edward rolled his eyes at the unwarranted rectification; he felt as if his point had been missed, “Sure, whatever, the predicament is- everything seems to be illustrating some nefarious scheme that I’d rather not be a witness to,” the man flailed his hand aimlessly as he began explaining his conclusion, “Call it self-preservation, but I’m leaving Arkham as soon as we’re done here.” — That had been the plan from the start, of course. Still, for some reason, the rogue felt the need to announce it.

“Surely you realize that is none of my business,” the professor raised an eyebrow at his counterpart, confused as to why he’d even bothered to make such a declaration. They weren’t friends- anything that happened to them once their deal was over was of no concern to each other,  “I must stay. Can’t leave my toxin in another man’s hands, much less when he stole from me.”

“You’re going to kill him,” that was an easy prediction to make, but the younger man still said it with a smile so pompous it could have you convinced he’d just revealed some abstruse secret. 

“Yes, evidently...” — At that moment, there’s a sudden noise that suddenly stops Crane. A door opens- and it’s clearly the one at the top of the staircase.

“ Shit ,” Edward breathed, any hint of smugness already wiped from his face, allowing for a fretful expression to creep in its place. If Strange were to find the pair down there, consequences would be grim. Perhaps they could take him on together—they did, in the end, outnumber him—but it was perfectly possible that the man was armed, or had a way to alert guards. This was not a good time to act thoughtlessly, “Put the lid back on and find somewhere to hide.”

It was clear the older rogue was everything but panicked by the situation, as he stood still for a few seconds, examining his counterpart’s look of terror. Something within Jonathan was urging him to kill Strange the moment he stepped into the room. He imagined himself attacking the intruding doctor as soon as he entered the laboratory, getting him down on the floor before forcing him to huff the toxin- a satisfying fantasy, but ultimately the professor decided it would be better to wait a little longer. Jonathan was, after all, an inquisitive man; learning more about the thieving fool’s plans could prove wise, or even useful. So, after what felt like an eternity, the man finally closed the crate and began assessing every possible hiding spot- which wasn’t the easiest task. When you’re 6’4, it can be quite a challenge to find places you fit in, but it seemed like Edward wasn’t having much luck either despite his smaller stature. There weren’t a lot of viable hideouts in the room, and they didn’t have much time left. Hugo Strange’s footsteps were approaching, climbing down the staircase at a steady speed. Step after step echoed closer, he was almost there, still unaware of their presence but drawing nearer with each second.

Then, Edward opened the one empty locker and made a gesture at the older man, signaling for him to get inside, “Have you gone mad?! We’re not both going in there,” Crane rashly protested. Sure, the locker was wide enough to hold them both, but they’d still be crammed! The mere thought of being stuck so close to another living human made the professor writhe. Physical touch was among the few things that could still easily rattle Crane, there was always a deep sense of pathologic discomfort that he couldn’t rid himself of. Not every touch triggered the same reaction though- it almost always depended on whether his brain read the contact as intimate or not. Abuse never provoked the same unrelenting feeling of overwhelm, it was too cold and detached, and light touches could sometimes be fine, so long as Crane initiated contact. Now, anything more prolonged or close was enough to make his skin crawl. A part of this was already inherent to his character, but it was undeniable that the struggle with closeness had only been aggravated by his upbringing.

Still, the professor didn’t have a say on the matter. It was too risky for either of them to stay out, so Edward pushed the older man into the locker before stepping in and barring them both inside, “Be quiet, he’s close,” the younger man warned. There were a few slight gaps through which Edward could see, and it took almost no time before he watched Hugo walk through the entrance door. He was carrying a cup of coffee in one hand, and a newspaper in the other. Although the rogue tried to figure out what the doctor might be reading up on, the distance between the two was too wide for him to be able to read the paper’s headlines. Nevertheless, it didn’t take long before the bald-headed man set the journal aside, grabbed a chair, and settled down in front of the computer. The screens all lit up at once, and at that moment Edward wondered where the power to run this machine might be coming from. Did this show on Arkham’s electricity bills, or was he redirecting energy from a different source?

“This was an awful idea,” Jonathan whispered annoyedly. He was taller than the locker, so he had to keep his head at a crooked angle, which was everything but comfortable. To make matters worse, he could feel the younger man’s hair brushing against his cheek, smell it even. Every ounce of the man was begging for him to push the younger rogue away, but he couldn’t. Their bodies were pressed so closely together he could feel the warmth of his counterpart begin to spread to him, each small movement spiking his agitation. It was an odd type of anxiety, but being vulnerable to it made him feel as humiliated as any other form of fright, “A terrible, foolish idea.”

“Shut your mouth, you moron,” Edward elbowed the professor in the arm to try to hush him. This ordeal wasn’t any more gratifying to him than it was to the older man—even if he didn’t have to endure the same crushing amount of jitters at physical touch—he didn’t choose to shut them both inside the same claustrophobic space for the fun of it, “What would you rather have done? Stand around and wait to greet the egghead?”

“I could have just killed him, I should have,” the professor argued, beginning to regret not listening to his initial instinct, “I could still do it!”

“I’m not letting you ruin my plan. You go out there and get us both caught, and I won’t be making it out of Arkham today,” both men were trying not to raise their voices too much, but the rising tension between them made that a difficult task. The younger rogue could feel his peer’s skeletal complexion; the man’s sharp hip bones were pressing hard against his back, which was starting to hurt, “Just shut up.”

“Why do you think I care about your plan? I don’t care about your lousy plan or anything else that pertains to you, I came here to find my damn toxin,” every time Edward tried to shush the older man, it only made him complain more. Luckily for the two, Hugo was too busy organizing his collection of data to notice their muffled squabbling.  

“And you found it, didn’t you? Thanks to me , nonetheless,” the younger man made an attempt to turn his head so he could face Crane, but he could only manage to catch a glimpse of his ear, which was burning red. The pair were both flustered, and the small confinement only compounded the problem.

“Argh, I would have found my way here regardless! And this is not to mention the fact I was the one who figured out the PIN!” — Jonathan leaned his weight against the back of the locker, trying desperately to add some space between them two, but there was little that could be done. His glasses had fogged up, which troubled him. With an awkward motion, the older man reached for his frames and removed them, consecutively attempting to clean them on the fabric of his clothes. As he looked down to do this, he had a glimpse of the unfathomable proximity between Edward’s behind and himself, which made him feel all the more bothered.

“Oh, sure, unless you didn’t realize one of the bookcases had a passage behind it, like I did. But that’s only in the event that you didn’t get caught by guards while wandering around, still stuck trying to get your handcuffs off,” it was admittedly comical how neither one of the men could admit that the discovery of Strange’s laboratory had only been possible through mutual cooperation. This wasn’t much of a surprise, of course, considering their disdain for teamwork. Still, how two of the most intelligent criminals in Gotham couldn’t ascertain the value of both their roles was beyond mind-boggling.

“You’re infuriating, you know that?” — Out of arguments yet still unwilling to surrender, the professor adopted a more aggressive tone of voice. He closed his eyes and began to count to ten, promising to never fall into a situation like this ever again. 

But the bittering tone of conversation didn’t deter Edward, who was ready to hurl yet another riddle at his peer,  “What can you hold without your hands?”

“Oh really? Now’s the time? I wish I could still be surprised,” of course, Crane wasn’t even going to bother figuring out the answer. He had to restrain himself not to make a mockery of his counterpart right there, but he opted to respect the deal they’d made. In any case, the professor was still irritated, and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise, “It’s been less than a day and I’ve already lost count of how many riddles you’ve tried to make me solve. Do you never run out?”

“The answer is your breath,” the younger rogue managed to keep his calm as he replied, but still spoke in a noticeably stern manner, “It stinks. Shut your mouth.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, heaving a sigh before continuing, “Oh that’s rich, Edward. Real classy-”

“Seriously- shut up, he is moving towards us,” snappily, the shorter man raised his hand and covered the other inmate’s mouth. He wasn’t sure whether Strange had heard them, or if he had something else in mind. Either way, he was now just a few feet away from the locker. The thickness of his glasses made it impossible to tell which direction he was looking at, but he still looked reasonably unassuming... 

That wouldn’t last long though.

As Crane made a rash move to get Edward’s hand off his face, the flasks in his pockets bumped against each other and made a loud clicking noise, one that Hugo took notice of almost immediately. The man raised an eyebrow and stepped closer, intrigued by the sound but obviously not immediately jumping to the conclusion that there would be escaped rogues inside his laboratory. Edward reflexively stepped back as he watched the doctor drawing near, he was scared he might be able to see him through the gaps in the locker. He pressed against Crane’s body, feeling him stiffen at the touch. The older rogue wasn’t scared of the approaching threat, yet he still appeared horror-stricken- that was the effect physical contact had on him.

Then, when Strange was only a few inches away from the locker, something else caught his attention. It was a ringing phone, which he immediately reached for, “Hello? Yes, that is right, this is Hugo Strange. Who’s speaking?” — He answered. It was impossible to make out what was being said on the other side of the line, but it seemed to excite him, “Ah, is that so? I thought Wesker never got into fights… Hmhm… Well then, I should meet with him in his cell- No, I’d like to talk to him personally… Oh no, no problem at all. Yes. He’s being moved to solitary? Mhm… Good, I only want the best for my patients. I’ll be meeting him at once. Yes, that is all. Goodbye,” after the conversation was over, Hugo put his phone away and strode towards the big crate where Jonathan’s toxin was stashed. He lifted the lid and grabbed one of the vials and quickly pocketed it inside his lab coat. Following this, he closed the container, shut the computer off, and rushed upstairs.

For a few more minutes, neither Edward nor Jonathan moved, waiting for the assurance that they were alone again. Once they heard the upstairs door opening and locking, both jumped out of the locker in near-union. Their faces were quite red, and both men were painfully aware of that fact. Hiding there had been a horrible idea.