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Chapter Text

Gotham City - a tranquil, peaceful, community-promoting place that, in spite of all the changes that had taken effect as a result of the mayor election just a few months ago, had felt awfully uneventful as of late. Whilst the reactions to which had been a mixed bunch, people were beginning to accept their new leadership for better or for worse and get on with their lives, left with nothing they could truly do without a worthy successor able to prove anything against the Penguin - and as protests had died down, so had the noise.

As such, things had generally returned to their normal way, and that was exactly how the city stood in current times, a biting, chilling breeze sweeping throughout the pathways being the only movement, too far into the night for anyone to even be returning from work, and the distant, warm orange glow of the streetlamps being the only indication of life in the fair city, doing their very best to light up the otherwise gloomy ground below, and fighting back against the pitch-black, starless sky, with a dim, flickering punch.

Quiet.

In the moment, everything appeared to be just the way they always were, and that was the very moment when something came up amiss.

Creeping, sneaking, slinking, several figures slipped their way through Gotham’s streets, lurking in the shade the shadows provided, yet holding no shame for whatever it was they were up to, their actions taking place under the cover of night for purposeful anonymity rather than fear, as the woven bags slung over each of their shoulders were let down with a huff, roughly tugged open at the pull-string, lifted clean up by the bottom corners and tipped, brazenly pouring the contents out onto the roads and pavements.

Cash. Coins. Bills. A current of currency spilled out into the street, clinking echoing off the solid buildings as they rolled along the neglected cracks until they finally arrived at a standstill, where they spun and rotated to their finish, despite it being just the beginning of the group’s business. The notes fell mostly flat to where they were dumped, one of two fluttering off a little ways in the wind, but not quite enough to disperse the entire pile, something the mysterious figures fixed with a quick kick of the shoe, spreading it out more thoroughly.

Questionable actions mostly complete, the shadows branched apart to opposite sides of the street, each regarding one of the many propaganda posters for the current mayor, and callously readied their paper cutters.

“Pengy For Mayor”, slash.

“Pick Penguin”, gash.

“All the Way with Pengy”, hack.

It was not long before what once was Penguin promotion laid in tattered, torn remains at the crooks’ feet, blowing away and tumbling to mix with the rest of the discarded items, one larger piece coming to rest at the tip of a black leather shoe. Down on the paper, the Penguin’s smarmy face grinned up at the onlooker, cigarette holder clenched between his teeth in a fashion that would be uncomfortable to anyone else but a natural look on him. The text underneath that once read “I Give You… Penguin!” had been ripped almost perfectly so it now was nothing more than a mix of letters that when put together read “I Give Up”.

Satisfied, the stranger smiled to himself, leaned forward, and pressed the sole of his shoe atop the image, listening to the wonderful crinkling crunch beneath his foot as the image was defiled further, destroyed and ruined at his own doing, and his alone.

Leaving it to crumble without a second thought, the man progressed down the road with his gang following suit, footsteps unnoticed as they approached the dead-end of Main Street, tattered brick wall of which being currently unoccupied. With a mere point of his finger and nothing more, his goons got to work, retrieving the last needed item of the night from their vehicle and efficiently setting it up. In a few minutes it was done, and with one last smirk from the leader, the deliquents turned on their heels back to the van and drove away like they were never there, leaving nothing other than the monetary chicken feed adorning the floor and a large, bold poster pasted proudly against the wall, text clean, clear, and loud.

“Turn Again, Lord Mayor of Great Gotham”.

-

The night came and went as quickly as any other, and in the mid-afternoon in stately Wayne Manor, every resident found themselves involved with some activity or another. Whilst Alfred was off elsewhere in the manor on his routine cleaning schedule, Bruce Wayne and his young ward Dick Grayson found themselves in the living room, accompanied by Aunt Harriet, working on the English Literature homework Dick was struggling to begin.

Harriet sat intrigued atop the sofa, the book in question held in her hands as she read the blurb to herself, her nephew contrastingly rather defeated as he dejectedly tapped the end of his pencil against the thick worksheet he was yet to complete, and heaved a sigh.

“Gee, Bruce, I’ll never get through all this…” he complained, dispirited, “What’s the point of it all, anyway?”

“Now, Dick, you’ll never get anywhere with that attitude,” the wiser reasoned, reaching over to slide the workbook across the table to himself where he lifted the paper to skim the first page, “Literature broadens people’s understandings of others views, opinions, and concepts, and has proven to increase the reader’s empathy and emotional intelligence levels in many a case. It’s most important to learn what you can from famous authors and study their techniques, both to see things from a new light, and to apply those agreed methods to your own work. All in all, a very… helpful pursuit of knowledge.”

Passing the packet back to Dick, he drew his mouth tightly together and dropped it back down on the surface before him. “Ah, gee, Bruce, when you put it like that…” He paused to nod to himself, “You’re right.”

Responding with a smile that looked like something of a silent laugh, Bruce mirrored the younger’s nod. “I’m glad you think so. Now you see why I was so keen for you to get this done.”

“Oh, even I see it!” Aunt Harriet agreed enthusiastically, face full of fascination as she laid the book into her lap. “This title is just so educational!”

Just from the look on his face, it was clear that the millionaire agreed, and he opened his mouth to say as such, a one-sided conversation that could have gone on for the length of a lecture and then some, had he not been interrupted by the help as Alfred entered, having been temporarily interrupted himself from his own duties.

“It’s the phone, Sir,” he explained calmly, “A Mr R from the Gotham Gazette, on that editing you wished to have upon the daily puzzle page.”

“Ah.” No further hinting was needed - the initial and activity made the answer pretty plainly clear to anyone in on the secret, and it was that who Alfred was referring to was (as less than ideal as it may be) none other than the enigmatic egotist, the count of conundrums, the prince of puzzlers.

Yes, the Riddler was calling to require his assistance, alright.

And he was much less than pleased about it.

“Gosh, Bruce, do you need me to-”

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” he assured, “I should have everything under control and can work things out with Mister… R.” The way his eyes shifted between Dick and Alfred as he alluded to the other said everything he was thinking about the individual, and how whatever the issue that beckoned him to the batphone was, he could already tell it would likely not be worth his time.

Standing up with urgency regardless, he bid his farewells to those still present in the room, and with confirmation that the boy would knuckle down and complete his work alongside his encouraging aunt, Bruce took his leave via the doorway, and bat-walked down the hall to the study.

Once there, he closed the door tightly behind himself, the cold of the metal alloy doorknob slowly fading from his palm as his hand left it, only for the dwindling temperature to be retained by the warmth of the phone handle he moved to pick up, priorly preserved by Alfred’s answering. Mentally preparing himself, Bruce lifted the phone to his ear, making the seamless switch from socialite to crimefighter.

“Yes, Riddler?”

“Commissioner Riddler,” the voice on the other end of the phone corrected, smug-sounding as ever, “Really, caped crusader… How many times do I have to remind you? Perhaps your memory is wearing thin in your old age.”

Withholding any counter he could’ve offered, Batman made a mental note to not let the insult get to him, as at the end of the day, it all boiled down to just being a game. The Riddler thought he was funny, and Batman simply wasn’t going to entertain him by even acknowledging the comment.

…He wasn’t that much older than the Riddler, anyway.

“It would be preferable if you could get to the point, Ri-” Stopping himself, he sighed. “Commissioner.”

“Better,” he smiled, the expression on his face crystal clear just from his tone, “Now, to business - I called to, uh-”

It had taken until this point for Batman to properly pick up upon the background noise that had been ever-present the length of the phone call thus far, as he’d been more focused on the Riddler, but as the sounds of arguing spiked loud enough for the man on the other end of the line to lose his train of thought, Batman noticed it too. The squabbling in question sounded like a slapstick comedy act, one snapping and yelling from the back of his throat, and the other quipping and laughing from his stomach, both melding together in a perfect display of disharmony, voices that Batman now identified as Penguin and Joker.

The other voices growing distant, the Riddler saw his opportunity to get an audible word in, “As you may be able to hear, Batman, there is a little bit of a rising… situation, yes? This established, would you mind popping over?”

It was a tricky way of going about things - even though the Riddler asked in such a way that provided the illusion of choice, Batman knew that in actuality he really had none, and with the other’s skills and favours the Penguin could call in, he didn’t exactly fancy his chances. If things went awry, that would make it all the harder to plot toward getting Mayor Linseed back into power as soon as possible, so until that moment came, he found it better to cooperate. At the same time, he supposed it was nice the Riddler phrased things to make it appear as though he had free will, in a strange sort of way. Not that it changed his opinion of any of the three crooks, though.

Refraining from huffing, his eyes flickered to the wall clock, and he braced himself once again. “I’ll be there at two.”

“Fabulous!” he beamed, “Not a moment later, alright?”

If Batman had wanted to say something, then he should have taken the time before to train himself in speaking full sentences in a matter of milliseconds, because the demand was immediately followed by the unnecessary slamming of the phone. In the study, Bruce put his phone down as well, taking just a moment and no longer to survey his options, before lifting the Shakespeare head to turn the dial as he’d done time and time again. He had to be at police headquarters in twenty minutes, real disaster or not, and there was only one way he was going to make that sort of time in Gotham City.

To the Batpoles.

-

The speedy Batmobile pulled up next to police headquarters in a display of the most attentive parking anyone had ever seen for the haste it had been travelling at (Batman found it was always vital to practise safe driving habits) with ten minutes to go until the hour, and was at and inside the elevator with five. There were a few other occupants riding along with him, as well as the operator, and he recognised near enough all of them from his old police files back in the Batcave. Nothing too dire, to Penguin’s credit in hiring, as it was mostly petty burglars whose only capers had fallen straight through, and despite the narrowed, glaring looks they gave him half the time, it was also increasingly obvious they had orders to not lay a finger on him. Whether that be Penguin, Joker, or the Riddler’s doing, though, he was not sure.

He politely requested out on the thirteenth floor, and from there, made his way down the hall, surprised to find none of Joker’s pranks left on the way to force him into gymnastics, arriving at Riddler’s office early, cape settling as he came to a stop in the doorway, taking in the scene.

Sat at his desk, Riddler seemed in a similar boat of silence to Batman, watching on at the bird and clown as they bickered back and forth with varying degrees of volume and emotion. The Penguin was most definitely the more frustrated of the two, and whilst it partially read as though Joker agreed with him, it almost seemed like he was taking some pleasure from pushing him to his limit. Such a scene wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence between them, but the silly back-and-forths were generally over within minutes, if not seconds, and these two had been at it when he was still back at the manor, so he could quite securely assume there must be an actual issue afoot. On the other hand, with the way they were carrying on, he could completely sympathise with the Riddler’s predicament if he had summoned him there just to call the pair off.

“Ahh! There you are!” the Penguin exclaimed, breaking up his own argument to address Batman, “It’s about time you showed up, Bat-Fink!”

“That’s, uh, Bat-man, Penguin,” the hero corrected as though the ‘error’ had not been made on purpose, “But yes, here I am, as called for.”

“Two minutes early, no less,” Riddler commented in an impressed manner, overlooked by everyone else.

“Now what actually seems to be the problem, gentlemen?” Batman inquired, the key question to determine whether his tiresome trip actually carried some worth behind it or not.

“The matter? The matter?” Penguin roared, removing his cigarette holder to express his discontent better, “The matter, as you put it, Batman, is that some hooligan is challenging my authority! My position! My power!”

It didn’t take long for the Joker to chime in. “Well, that shouldn’t have been too difficult for them, now, should it? Oo-hahaha!”

“Can it, you!”

Before the disagreement could escalate further, Batman interjected. Another torrent of quarreling was the last thing any of them needed, particularly when he was after details. “Challenging? How so?”

“Some schmuck,” Penguin spat distastefully, “crept their way into town centre last night, and not only did they litter money all over the floor to make me look uncharitable, but they tore down my posters and left this message in the morning’s mail,” he took a moment to snatch the taken photo from Joker’s hands, who looked less than pleased, and shoved it into Batman’s, “all the day before my first promotion rally!”

Taking in the note handed to him, a rectangular piece of paper, lineless, with small, neat handwriting in the centre that spelled out “Gotham’s paved in gold.”, Batman couldn’t help but wonder where it was he’d seen those words before. It was right on the tip of his tongue in a way that was almost as bad as one of the many traps of torture he’d been caught in before, the front of his mind overwhelmingly nagging the back to release the information it held so he could put the pieces together, to no avail. Going into the Batzone would likely help a great deal, but with all the noise, he doubted that was currently a feasible option.

“Someone is trying to overthrow me,” the current mayor barked, poking at the crusader with the cigarette holder, “and I want it sorted.”

“Awh, Pengy, perhaps you’re just being paranoid,” Joker joined in, feigning pity and comfort; it was obvious from the look on his face he knew exactly how dire the situation was and just took some kind of weird fulfillment out of winding his feathered friend up.

“And I do not know what you are so merry about, Mr Joker!” he returned, snapping back to face him, “The second I get pushed out of office, whoever it is who takes my place will probably remove you, too! That is if I don’t do it first, of course - you’re a rotten police chief.”

“How dare you!” Joker accused, face falling in contrast to his beaming facepaint, “The only thing rotten around here is your dress sense!”

“My dress sense? Have you taken a look in the mirror recently?”

“I take it you haven’t, as they’d always smash.”

“Why, you cornball clown!”

“Why, you snivelling sardine!”

“Why, you-”

The arguing faded out into the background as Batman surveyed the surrounding area, eyes settling on where the Riddler was sitting at his desk, watching the situation go down, elbows on the surface to support steepled fingers before his face that did little to hide the amused smirk tugging at his mouth, and when he and Batman made eye-contact during the affair, it almost sent him over the edge. Thankfully (for his own sake), he commendably held the laughter in.

Batman didn’t exactly see the funny side himself, but Riddler’s grin got to him, and he did his best on his own end to repress a small smile, no matter how much he may not be in favour of him. The more time passed, the more Riddler looked as though he were about to lose it, so to save himself, he clearled his throat and attempted to break the two up.

“Gentlemen, as loosely I use that term, please - we can hardly sort this out with you two at each other’s throats, now, can we, hm? Why don’t we all take a step back and relax.” With Penguin and Joker listening to his advice, the exploitative side of himself rushed to the surface. “...Perhaps we could talk it out over some of those milkshakes from a few blocks away.”

“Oh, you and those milkshakes!” Joker bantered, “You’re not having one of those in here again, it took O’Hara ten minutes to wipe it off my shoes when you spilled it!”

“Two points,” Riddler began, holding up the same amount of fingers, “in my defense. One: that only happened because Penguin yelled and caught me off guard, and two: I’d argue the time taken is on account of that fool’s incompetence.”

“True.”

“Enough of that irrelevant nonsense!” Penguin demanded, being a fine one to talk, “Bat-Blunder, I demand you get to the bottom of this treachery and eliminate the competition through means that won’t bounce back on me, or I don’t care what the public wants - you’ll be banned from Gotham permanently.”

Certainly not a matter to be treated lightly, and that much was obvious as a chilling silence fell upon the room, casting over each person with a slightly varying emotion, but all united in their surprise. Batman didn’t take the time to try and figure how the other two had reacted, far too focused on the jittery sensation that had reared its head within his chest and crept up to the back of his throat as if to taunt him, tickling, teasing as his potential loss; if he found himself banned from the city, there’d be no way he’d be able to stop the Penguin in future, and with the activity starting up this new opponent’s campaign, he doubted his fate if they won would be very protected, either. A two-sided coin, and neither wound up nice.

The Penguin, however, paid it no mind. “Now, I’ve got a rally to prepare against this strange character. Mr Joker!”

Having gotten over the shock pretty quickly, Joker laughed, back to his jolly self. “Right behind you, Pengy! Perhaps we can get said mystery man to do his own disappearing act!”

Replacing his cigarette holder, Penguin nodded. “Wehk, wehk! That’d be a sight!”

And just like that, neither of them paid the senior half of the dynamic duo any attention, chattering amongst themselves in a much more civilised way in contrast to the disaster that was before, a small indicator toward why the mayor hadn’t replaced the police chief, a testament to how despite their disagreements, they still were on the same side at the end of the day, and left the room, leaving the door swinging behind them as their voices grew more and more distant the further they made it down the hall to the lift.

Somewhat sombre in his methodical movements, Batman inspected the paper one more time, before turning to make his own leave, only stopped when a voice cut through the air that he could quite easily have ignored and pressed on through, but found himself unable to pass, like the very words themselves had leapt up and locked the exit.

“Where are you going?”

The Riddler watched as Batman twisted to face him, still at his desk albeit now far more under control, eyes locking their stare into place. The caped man cleared his throat. “The… Batmobile. If I’m going to catch this devil, then I do need to get going.”

“Alone?”

What an odd thing to say. True, it could be that he’d picked up on Robin’s absence, but at the same time, it could be a ploy; he’d have to choose his words carefully. “That is correct.”

“May I assist?”

A honestly curious situation indeed, and a question that Batman would have been more than content in answering “no” to - he didn’t trust the Riddler as far as he could throw him, but then again, he was quite a small man, so perhaps that wasn’t the best choice of phrasing, although the sentiment remained.

“Why would you want to help me?” Batman asked, genuinely confused - was there really any feasible reason he would? None that he could see.

“Two things, Batman, and all very, very simple, I assure you,” Riddler responded with a beam across his face that usually meant nothing good was to come, “the first of which being that I don’t want you banned from city limits - who would be around to do my bidding without you here? And secondly, I am a creature of habit, and in this occupation, I find myself often stuck behind this rotten desk all day.” He kicked at the edge of it for good measure, putting the full stop on his remark. “I’m an artist. A genius. And that’s all going to waste when I’m cooped up inside. I need some action in my life, and what better way to achieve that than to relive old times, hm? Us, I mean. Not the… crimes, and such.”

Absolutely none of that explanation eased Batman’s distrust. Inside he wondered if there was more to be said about the opening point, given how uncharacteristically vague it was, but that possibility was soon overrun with the notion that the Riddler may be harbouring ulterior motives with his suspiciously kindly offer (even Gordon hadn’t gotten stuck in to this extent… though was that really saying much?), and the guard shot back up. At the same time, if Riddler was hiding something, perhaps it was a good bit of information that would wind up useful in the pursuit of taking Penguin down after the fact, something that would improve Gotham City. That alone made what he was about to agree to worth it.

“Alright, Riddler,” Batman allowed, “You can help. But no tricks.”

“No tricks!” Riddler echoed, holding his hands up as one would do when at gunpoint, “Promise!”

Batman just hummed in response, unsure of what to add. An “okay” implied he’d taken the words as veracity, and that felt a little like lying. Instead, down to business it was.

“So,” he began, visibly uncomfortable (but whether that was because he was a bad communicator or because of who it was he was talking to remained yet to be determined), “the main question: who is it we’re up against?”

Making a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a scoff, the Riddler sat up in his chair from his poorly-postured position, incredulous. “You mean you don’t know? And they call you the World’s Finest.”

Heart said to haggle, but head said to hold off. Ideally, he’d return picking apart Riddler being in a similar boat, as he likely had not a clue either, but by his expression and tone of voice, something regrettable told him he in fact did.

Raising a brow under the cowl, he rolled with it. “And I’m assuming you do?”

“I do indeed.” His mouth was turned up at the corners, half-lidded eyes watching him with self-satisfaction dripping from their very gaze making him the image of smugness. Generously (or was it his need for clues?), he decided to give his temporary partner a hint. “Think about the quote itself. Where have you heard it, what’s it to do with?”

The very thing Batman had been dreading. Not ever did he want to admit he could not recall something, but it was unfortunately unwinding like it may be one of those times, and his blank bat-stare served no other purpose than Riddler trying to prompt him.

“The note,” he gestured, “‘Gotham’s paved in gold’.”

The best Batman could do would be to make a haphazardous guess. “The… Wizard of Oz?”

Showing no signs of disdain, Riddler pointed, correcting the guess, “Dick Whittington.”

Of course! How could he have been so remiss? Cursing the fact that he’d neglected revising his recreational 1600s literature studies in favour of chess practice, he made a note to catch up on them later. But later on, naturally, as all too quickly, the puzzle made its picture.

“Bookworm!”

“Precisely.”

It all made so much sense. The copied quotes, the use of paper, the handwriting that was so compact it looked intimidated by its own lack of originality… how could he have not seen it before, he wondered, as Riddler stood up and rounded the desk to wait by his side, already proving to be a little more valuable an asset than presently expected.

“We’ve not a moment to lose,” Batman explained, his cape swishing as he turned, “To the Batmobile!”

In one flowing motion, he rushed to the door, closely followed by the green-suited man who snatched his question mark-adorned bowler from the hat stand as he passed it, face still in a grin. “The Batmobile? Oh, how kind of you to let me drive.”

“Don’t push it, Riddler.”

-

Far across town, tucked snuggly in a compact alleyway, the Witzbarren Bookstore lay quiet, undisturbed par a warm orange light glowing softly from an upstairs room, where a figure sat sensibly in his fancy leather chair, a book in one hand, and his headlamp on the other as he adjusted it to prevent any flickering. The Bookworm remained fairly motionless in his positioning, eyes darting back and forth as he re-read the book he was basing his current scheme on for the fifth time, just to be sure. It was an exceptionally quick read, even more so for him, but it never hurt to check. About halfway through, his sharply-tuned ears picked up on the distinct sound of a bookcase turning to allow access to their secret hideout, and two pairs of footsteps of varying weights that tailed, signifying his men were back. He took the time to finish the rest of the book in a matter of mere seconds and to replace his reading light before spinning the chair around on its wheels to face his goons, spine stiff in contrast.

With a twitch of the nose, his expression fell neutral, and he looked up at the two visitors, a lack of expectation in his eye.

“Well?” he prompted, giving little explanation, “What happened?”

The taller, burlier, spoke up first, deep voice rocking the room but affecting no man around to hear it, excitement slipping through, “It worked just as ya said it would, boss! Da Penguin’s turned up right at the spot, an’ boy, did he look nervous!”

“You can say that again,” the other man, shorter, fatter, piped up in his shrill tone.

“Boy, did he look nervous!” Ricely repeated, taking it too literally, to which Bookworm pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

Squealer ignored the mess-up and went on, far too enraptured with their plot’s progression. “Not that I had any doubt, boss - after all, the Bookworm is always right!”

“I am indeed,” Bookworm conceded, rising from his seat, “And so Gotham City will be, for once, when they sought to elect me as the new mayor.”

As stereotypically dumb as he was big, Ricely scratched his head briefly in spite of Squealer’s incessant applause and cheers, lip curling up in his small-minded confusion. “Gee, boss,” he added, brows knitting, “there are one or two- three-” He attempted to display the number of questions on his fingers but held up one too many, “-things I don’t quite get. Like, for instance, what’s with da money stint? We coulda done a whole lot wit’ all that dough.”

The blank look on the Bookworm’s face said all he was thinking, but the way his eyes closed and fingers slowly moved to the base of his forehead gave further indication, but if you were none too smart and still not getting the picture, he sighed long and narrowed for emphasis before answering. “You’re a fool,” he commented simply as though it went no deeper than that, “Although I suppose I pay you for brawn, not brain.”

“You haven’t paid us at all-”

“-In time, Ricely.” He tilted his head upward before speaking again. “‘To lose patience is to lose the battle’. Hm. Now, to address your idiotic issue, it is a tactic I skillfully sourced from a certain fictional vigilante, Robin Hood. I figured it was rather convenient, given how this plan is intended to play out.” Extended fingers attached to an outstretched palm fell forward, creasing the glove. “Taking from the rich, their pride,” the hand withdrew, “giving to the poor… It’s enough to get any common man on our side, and in this game, that in excess is all we need to succeed.”

Intended to clarify, the response only perplexed the brute further, and he huffed to himself, thinking around the possibilities with so much vigor that you could smell the smoke his head was generating. “If we’re trying to impress da public, then why aren’t we tellin’ ‘em it was us?”

A valid point one had to concede, but one that had a just-as-simple reason behind it. “Because,” Bookworm began, patience wearing thin against his earlier words, “Not revealing myself right away brings more intrigue. It gets more people talking. The people love a mystery, and they’ll grow to love my wants in time, too. As such, they’ll be more excited to meet me than support that fiendishly foul of a fowl.”

Finishing it off with something of a laugh, he turned to face the window, arms folding behind his back. “And?”

Squealer, understanding he was regarding the other, gave him a sharp nudge to the ribs, causing Ricely to perk up, now suddenly anxious that he was being addressed. “Huh?”

“The third,” he reiterated, formerly unhelpfully, “You mentioned another question.”

“I… did?” Another moment of thinking. “I did! Uh, well, it was Squealer’s idea, actu- Ow!”

The last cry of pain was drawn from his lips as a result of the man beside him trodding hard on his foot with a grunt of exertion. “I told you to keep my name out of it!” he squeaked.

“I can’t always remember!” the retort bellowed.

Raising a brow, Bookworm adjusted himself ever-so-slightly to face the pair enough to show a quarter of his face, the rest of it either unseen or shrouded in the shadow cast off the dark walls, too far for the weak candlelight to reach, no matter how hard it strained. For the time being, the action went unnoticed, the two bickering among themselves, before Squealer broke it off, stepping forward as he wrung his chubby hands.

“It’s nothing bad, boss,” he assured, “A-after all, you are always right, I just… After you got out of the penitentiary and found a new city to terrorise with your brilliant mind, I wondered just why you… bothered coming back?”

He stiffened, and a moment of silence fell upon the room that took years to pass.

“The bells,” he said eventually, “I may have been harder to stop elsewhere, but the sound of Gotham’s bells beckoned me back, yearned for my presence, ringing ‘turn again, turn again, Bookworm, Mayor of Gotham’ - urging for me to fix the problems that have befallen this befuddled place.”

“Penguin’s new removals?”

“Precisely, and his allowances.” Making the full turn around, his face was basked in the closer intense glow of the candle, fiery orange flickering fickly up and down his face, highlighting the higher points and leaving the lower areas for the darkness and unknown, amber embers in the reflection of his eyes and projected out through the glasses. “I, gentlemen, intend to rid this city of its terrible bat-infestation.”

-

“Don’t touch that.”

Jerking his hand away from the offending lever, the Riddler looked up at the caped crusader with a mirthful grin. “Problem, Batman?”

“The problem,” Batman stated, doing his very best to remain off edge when none other than the arch criminal the Riddler was sitting beside him in his car with a face like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, “is that you were about to touch the bat-beam.”

“Well, I didn’t know. Perhaps if you labelled these things, there wouldn’t be any error, hm?” he teased, before glancing down and realising his unobservance through the fact absolutely everything had a printed microlabel. “Oh. Make them nicer-looking next time, then.”

Not leaving enough room for anything else to be said, he launched into another alley. “‘Bat-juice dispenser’,” he read, finger itching near a button, “Sounds harmless enough. May I press this one?”

“Don’t press anything,” Batman reiterated, more broad to avoid future instances, a decision that caused the Riddler to frown and fall back against his seat.

“You really ought to calm down,” he suggested, pitch rising in his audacity, “I mean, you’re acting like I’m going to steal the whole car!”

“You have before,” he rightfully pointed out.

“True, but I don’t need to, now, I’m your passenger pri- Oh!” Cutting himself off in favour of calling attention to a cosy-looking cafe across the way, Riddler proceeded, thrill overtaking him, “That’s it! That glorious, delectable, fantastic little fantasy world of a shop I was talking about, the one with the milkshakes! You’ve never tasted anything so good in your whole bat-life. Would you mind if we stopped for-”

“No, I… do not believe under the current circumstances that such a pit-stop would be worth it.”

Just like that, all the giddiness was cruelly torn from the Riddler’s system, his face falling in an instant, and his demeanour changing so drastically that all the colour had practically been drained from his disappointed face. For someone who prided himself so much on his strength with the English language and his use of words, the let-down had left him unusually quiet, which would have rendered him easy to ignore for anyone else, but for an all-too-golden consciousness like Batman’s, the silence was far louder than his quipping.

With a defeated sigh, he reached forward and pressed one of the Batmobile’s buttons with his batgloved finger, letting the machine do its work from within the inner workings. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Riddler staring intently at the spot, eyes fixated in a mix of curiosity and some kind of fight or flight response, almost like he expected the dashboard to blow up in his face, and to someone who had never seen it go before, Batman fully understood how it could come across as a little unsettling - the mechanical whirring likely didn’t help to ease those fears. Everything found itself remedied, however, when a small compartment opened up in the drinks holder, the miniature trapdoors flapping outwards as a perfectly-made orange juice was produced, now nestled securely in place to be taken, and washing a brilliant grin over the man’s face.

The giggle that slipped through his lips wasn’t unheard of - in fact, Batman was surprised it had taken him this long, but it could be considered unwelcome, as such tones were usually followed by-

“Riddle me this!”

-Exactly.

“Good deeds welcome me, bad deeds repel me; when given, I am priceless, yet I cost nothing - what am I?”

It was sad to say the Riddler’s tricky clues had always been Robin’s forte, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try. After a few seconds of contemplation Batman feared the Riddler may get overconfident if he revealed he was stuck, so gave a short hum from under his cowl. “I’m not sure this is the most apt time, Riddler.”

More laughter, filled with a higher passion than before, right from his core. “Oh, I knew very well you wouldn’t get it, Batman, it’s just such fun to see you squirm trying to impossibly out-riddle me.” A snort of a laugh. “Regardless, I, ah,” he took a moment to compose himself, “the answer is ‘thank you’.”

Oh.

“You’re welcome,” he replied cautiously, tense shoulder loosening when Riddler only made a small, distracted noise in response, now focused on testing the juice.

With the Batmobile’s impressive speed and Gotham’s smooth roads (a result of the Wayne Foundation’s safety department’s involvement a little over five years ago), they found themselves arriving in no time, the car pulling up to deliver them directly to Central Square just as Riddler finished his drink.

Just as Penguin had rightly complained, the street itself was covered in a variety of bills and coins, still blowing about lightly and refusing to settle, a scene that found itself a little hard to take in for the fact that so many individuals were scrambling to get a piece of their own, in need of cash as ever. A majority of Joker’s men were guarding the area, holding back people as possible, but not missing a moment to swipe up some of their own when no-one was on them. All in all, it looked like a nightmare to part through. Riddler groaned.

“Ohhhh, can I activate the batbeam now?”

Already out of the vehicle, Batman slammed the door harder than he would’ve liked as he met the other’s eyes. “I do not think it would be in anyone’s best interests. The batbeam is a very dangerous tool, and when used against the human lifeform, I fear the results could be devastating. Unless,” he added, sounding more on-guard, “you’re planning on returning to your old, gruesome ways.”

Shooting his hands up in defense, the Riddler briefly shook his head. “Ah, no, uh, joking, just joking, Batman, you know how it is.”

Content in the answer, Batman turned away, perking up upon hearing the opposing door being opened and closed, and the Riddler’s voice sounding again. “I don’t need to mess with the beam, anyway. I could do a number of far-more-impressive other things.”

Letting out a humoured exhale, Batman blinked. “I doubt you’ll get one over on me in my own car.”

“Yeah. Oh, and here’s your batlaser,” he mentioned casually, nonchalantly retrieving it from his suit pocket and swinging it around his finger on its keychain before dropping it into Batman’s surprised hand, “I took it out of your glove compartment a few miles back. Let’s go.”

And like it was nothing, he made his way off toward the crowd, leaving Batman in his shock, unable to believe the situation, but whether that be from his audacity or the irony, he was not sure, much less admit he was partially impressed. Instead, he secured it in his utility belt, and followed suit.

The people themselves respectfully parted on their own accord when they saw the caped crusader coming (or perhaps they were avoiding the Riddler, it wasn’t quite clear), to leave room for their approach, something that almost went completely smoothly until a rather tall man stepped directly into Batman’s path to deny entry. Receiving a puzzled look, the officer spelt it out.

“No ordinary citizens can pass. Joker’s orders.”

“I think you’ll find I’m actually here on official business,” Batman clarified helpfully, hoping this would clear up the matter, face falling when it didn’t.

“Didn’t see you on the files,” the man stated rather rudely, pointedly having not checked any files whatsoever during the discussion.

He was so close, yet so far, and there was no way he could be banned from Gotham before he’d even begun. There had to be some way past, and said way pulled through in the form of a relaxed voice by his side as Riddler revealed himself.

“He’s with me.”

Changing his tune entirely, the guard tipped his cap and shifted to allow them access. “Oh, well, that changes everything! Take as long as you need, Mr Riddler.”

The smarmy waltz of a walk that he carried past Batman was one that was very clearly intended in his silent boasting, and the action had all its correct effects, evident in the taller’s heaving sigh before he followed him to the middle where most of the money had accumulated, much to the dismay of the greedy policemen.

Placing a hand on his hip, Riddler gestured to the far wall with a solid point. “Looks as though I was correct,” he observed, referencing the phrase printed across the large poster, “not that this should come as a surprise, of course.”

He did appear to have been right, yes, and Batman showed as such verbally, earning one of the only times he received a positive, and, more importantly, quiet, reaction in the form of a smile. Perhaps he would’ve commented or thought about it further, but they had work to be getting on with, and Batman decided to get down to business, swiftly retrieving one of the bills.

“We’ll have to get this analysed,” he stated, directing his walk back to the Batmobile, batboots flattening the cash below with soft creases that doubled when the Riddler jogged up beside him.

“Ooh! To the Batcave, partner?”

“I would prefer it if you refrained from calling me that,” he disallowed to Riddler’s disappointment, “and I have a mobile crime computer in the back of the Batmobile that will do the job just fine and be quicker than us driving all the way back.” He left out the part where the overarching reason was due to the fact he did not trust Riddler within ten miles of the Batcave. Something told him that likely would not end well.

Wholeheartedly, Batman had believed that the money was counterfeit. So when the Batcomputer flashed a light at its completion and ejected the results that proved it was in fact real, he found himself stumped. “What’s Bookworm’s game?” he pondered, eyes squinted, “That can’t be all his money.”

“Perhaps he robbed it,” Riddler suggested, leaning himself over top of Batman’s car door, in spite of his protests, in order to reach for the mobile batphone, “I’ll have a check with Joker and see if there’s been any recorded break-ins.”

He was through in a moment, and Batman remained in his state of silence to leave Riddler room to talk, as it was probably already hard enough to concentrate with the fiasco still to their left. “Hello? Hello, Joker, I- …yes, my refrigerator is running, I- yes, I’ll have to go catch it. Joker- yes, it was hilarious, Joker, listen, could you check the files and see if there’s been any recent break-ins, something that could’ve resulted in all this money left laying around?”

Thankful that he’d finally managed to get to the point, and frankly surprised he’d managed to wrangle Joker’s antics so quickly, Batman watched on as Riddler rounded up the call and hung up the phone, directing his attention back to him and, still disrespecting his car door, elaborated. “He’s going to check with his men on the matter and report back to us when anything is found. They’re about to head to the debate soon, actually, and if our little assumption was correct, then we might just catch a glimpse of that plot-pilfering plunderer, too.”

“A… good point,” Batman conceded, “We likely would get some more information from following him. As it stands, we’ve barely anything to go off, and this would be an opportunity to learn more, even if that does mean temporarily playing into his hand.”

“You love explaining things,” Riddler observed, slipping himself purposely off the car door and into the seat in a dip that hadn’t looked comfortable but he didn’t complain about, “It’s like you’re trying to educate-” He gasped, feigning an epiphany, “Is that who you are, Bat-man?” He mocked, a hand around his eye like that of a telescope as he leaned toward the man getting into the Batmobile considerably more sensibly, “A teacher? Are you truly one of poor old Tut’s colleagues?”

“We both know you don’t believe that, Riddler.”

Riddler giggled concomitantly with the engine starting up. “Well, of course not. Teachers don’t get paid enough to fund the sort of things you do.”

Making a note to himself that it was a valid point and issue that he’d have to get Bruce Wayne on to remedying, he nodded. “Indeed they do not.”

-

The Riddler liked music. Not a fact Batman had previously been aware of due to the nature of their past endeavours, but one that was stunningly, undeniably apparent now with the empirical evidence sitting beside him. Completely void of speech, he was listening along to what he’d requested to hear on the batradio, dancing his fingers along his skinny leg in a tapping tic-like muscle memory. As experienced a detective as Batman was, he could tell from the other’s body language that he knew the songs well, and drew the conclusion himself. But fancy that, a quiet Riddler. Oh, if he’d known this before…

In record time (and staying within the speed laws), the Batmobile parked just by where the Penguin was setting up for his oncoming event, disgruntled squawks just audible over top of the crowd’s low chatter. Upon seeing Batman, people began to part and offer he go ahead, to which he initially refused out of the politeness of his heart - just because he was a hero didn’t mean he was entitled to any special treatment - but was soon convinced by the Riddler to take them up on the offer, as they’d get a better view of the suspect.

At the front, they had a clear look of the elevated stage, and Penguin as his hat rose into view from behind a podium a bit too tall for him, which, on closer inspection, revealed he was managing by standing on one of Joker’s empty silly-boxes (Batman had never had the displeasure of finding out what was inside one of those, but by his own judgement and Riddler’s advice, he didn’t want to find out, either).

Just when they were beginning to wonder whether or not the Bookworm would show, they were proven right as a stiffly-moving figure made his way onto the stage to stand beside Penguin, folding his hands neatly above the surface with a very neutral expression. Indeed, the Penguin looked unusually nervous. Nervous enough to go first in his points with urgency, slightly on edge. It was as much nonsense as his rally speech was last term, as he’d refused Riddler’s help on the first, and the quiz-loving man kept giggling behind his hand at the absurdity, a similar state to the Joker who at one point had to leave, but Batman paid no real attention, far too focused on their current adversary, and stilled when it came to his time to speak.

“I suppose you are all wondering who left those posters, and that generous gift of money to you all,” he began calmly, looking like it took some resistance to not call potential voters “fools”, “and I can now with pleasure reveal that it was none other than myself, as I am for the people!”

“For the people,” Riddler muttered under his breath, “for his own self, I’m sure.”

“Let’s hear him out,” Batman said, elaborating when Riddler shot him a look, “We might garner some more information.”

“And why, you ask, did I dig into my store of gold for you all? Because I am for the working class, you see - the lower people being paid fairly and earning what they deserve. Higher pay for the poor and higher taxing for the rich-”

“-Blasphemy!” Penguin interjected, clutching at the pocket containing his wallet.

Everyone ignored him, the public cheering on Bookworm’s campaign, and he went on too, “The Penguin,” he gestured unfavourably, a sneer appearing on Penguin’s face, “is one of these rich men, and someone who only cares for himself. What does he do but take, take, take. Particularly in the book section… This… man has banned any book in Gotham that is not about penguins. Is that what you want for your children’s future?”

The crowd murmured disapprovingly among themselves, and Penguin let out a few disappointed “wehk”s, more upset that he’d been called out rather than for what he’d done. Riddler put a palm to his face and Batman drew his mouth into a tight line - this certainly explained it all, and spelled out Bookworm’s real intentions. It wasn’t for the good of Gotham, but more his own desire for diversity in reading. His speech sounded good, and under normal circumstances, Batman would consider him a good option, but no; he knew Bookworm too well for that.

“Man,” Bookworm announced, “is the only creature that consumes without producing. But worms,” he pressed a few fingers to his chest, “they break down the issues into something sustainable, something to be used.”

“Lies!” Penguin roared, when the audience applauded, “A pile-up of frolicing falsehoods!”

Bookworm scoffed, visually thinking he was above the other. “It seems the opposing candidate cannot handle the truth. But what else would you expect from the rich? They’re all the same, they don’t hate my campaign any less now it is prospering; indeed, they hate it more than ever!”

Batman had a tough time preventing himself from speaking up. Admittedly, a lot of the higher class did disrespect those they considered “lower”, but saying that all of them were like that greatly misrepresented the good some did do. Not all millionaires were bad. Bruce Wayne wasn’t.

“The best rule Penguin has bestowed upon you is ‘no man shall kill’. This is basic decency - what the people need is to be treated with equal rights!”

True.

“And how do you know I can be trusted?” he asked rhetorically, receiving a clearly rehearsed reply from a squeaky man in the front row of the audience.

“Because Bookworm is always right!”

False.

And Penguin seemed to agree. “You lying librarian! I’ll take you to court! Have you arrested for defamation! How dare you talk about a candidate for, and current leader of, office like that!”

The immediate uproar from the public was deafening, and Penguin almost fell off his box in surprise, only just managing to catch himself before he toppled by hooking the handle of his umbrella around the outside edge of the podium and yanking in panic. Bookworm’s smug face was quite the sight, proud and pleased as opposed to Penguin’s gurning.

“Let’s nab him anyway,” Riddler joked, jabbing a thumb behind himself toward the other runner.

“We cannot,” Batman clarified, “And not just because the public doesn’t want that. He hasn’t done anything other than oppose. If he’d committed a crime however, that’d be a different story - perhaps we might be able to do so if Joker has discovered anything stolen.”

Not dignifying him with the satisfaction of one of Robin’s “gosh, Batman, when you put it like that… you’re right”s, the Riddler rolled his eyes, and made move to head over to said chief of police, when they were both stopped in their tracks by a voice.

“I didn’t expect to see either of you here,” it, the Bookworm, commented.

Ever the improviser, Riddler relaxed his shoulders and reasoned, “Not all that much, my friend - I merely wanted to come along to listen to your fantastic campaign, and fantastic it was! All those bright ideas and perfectly justifiable points had the crowd riveting! One of the best speeches for one of these rallies I’ve seen in a long while, I’d wager.”

It was not immediately clear whether or not this was something he meant. Just before he’d been expressing a very different narrative, and now Batman found himself unsure which to believe. Who was he more likely to lie to? Or did he ever mean anything, anything at all? Was anything the Riddler said packed with anything other than meaningless nonsense that only had significance to the party he would gain benefits from?

“Such an especial ally,” a very proud Bookworm complimented, immeasurably pleased with Riddler’s reaction, “Truly such a clever talker… I’ll be sure to keep you around once I’m elected.” Not wasting a moment, he faced the short man who had only just managed to trudge up behind him, out of breath and exhausted, but spoke over his pants, clearly not giving too much of a fuss. “You better up your game or I worry you will soon be out of a job.”

Balking, Squealer panicked, not noticing how Ricely held a hand over his mouth to laugh. “I-! Well… I suppose if you think that’s best, Boss. After all, Bookworm is always right!”

Riddler cringed. He didn’t fancy sticking around that long if it meant giving up his rights to free-thinking. “Err… I think you can continue to be his right-hand man. I’m perfectly content being commissioner.”

Snapping his head back to face him, Bookworm raised a brow. “If you’re sure?”

Riddler’s concerned, weirded-out gaze did not leave Squealer. “Deathly.”

“Fair enough. However. Since you love questions, this does beg another: if you are here to support me, then what is the bat-winged fool doing here?” He pointed indiscreetly and rudely in Batman’s direction, earning a not very tasteful expression back.

“My bidding,” Riddler answered simply, quickly, almost too quickly if you looked into it hard enough - a testament of his sharp wit, or was it the truth? “He has to do whatever I say as long as I’m in the job.”

“I see.” Pondering, the Bookworm looked Batman over judgementally, back up, then once more for good measure. “Did you enjoy my stupendous speech, Batman?”

Either way, he seemed to buy Riddler’s alleged excuse, and Batman guessed he should at least be thankful for that. “I found some of the quotes most interesting,” he answered honestly, “Combining Robin Hood with Dick Whittington? Are you running out of ideas so quickly that you have to start making crossovers, Bookworm?”

“Hphf!” The shorter withdrew. “Rude as ever, but I didn’t expect anything else from someone as minisculely-brained as yourself… But - Shades of Shakespeare - you did identify some of the things I’ve been citing. Much a Three Musketeers scheme as ever.”

Batman could’ve kept going. He could’ve told him not to use good morals in vain, told him not to lead the desperate public on, told him to get creative or go home, to give this all up and stop causing havoc to his own plans to get Penguin out and Linseed in, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to. For one, it was far too brash in a way he wasn’t used to, a way that just wasn’t him, and two-

“Boss,” Ricely interjected, a hand on his shoulder that was promptly shrugged off, “Your appointment’s in ten minutes, we gotta get goin’.”

“Ah, I do believe you are correct - for once. We’d better be on our way. I shall see you two soon. Likely the time I am giving my acceptance speech.”

With that, he left, the two idiotic goons trailing behind like lost dogs. Shaking his head to himself, Riddler watched them go, before turning to keep on his own path, only to bump into the sturdier bat of a man and almost knock himself off his feet. Thankfully, he caught his step in time and looked up with a slightly dazed expression, huffing when he saw the one that stared back at him.

“Oh, don’t give me that bat-look,” he bargained, adjusting his hat better on his head, “If that plot-stealing plundered thinks I’m on his side, we get more information… and if we mess up, I get to keep my job, easy as that. Let it go, hm?”

Not thinking anything more of the matter, he wormed his way around the tall man, leaving him no more assured by the words than before. It screamed of ulterior motives, and did nothing to ease the bat’s wariness, but as long as he had a partn… that was, someone on his side, for now, he wasn’t going to complain.

“Odd,” Batman said, finding himself at Riddler’s side with his larger steps, “I didn’t see Ms. Limpet with him.”

“Perhaps she’s back at the hideout,” Riddler proposed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall nearest to where Joker was currently preoccupied dusting the Penguin down, “or she broke off from him. I can imagine hearing the same plot over and over eventually gets tiring.”

“Mm.”

“Ah! Riddler!” Joker exclaimed when he finally caught sight of the two, letting go of Penguin a bit too abruptly in a way that almost sent him sailing forward onto his face for the second time that day.

“Joker,” Riddler greeted, watching him approach, “How was the search?”

A disappointed face gave him his answer. “Nothing at all, I’m afraid. All of the banks we checked had all their money accounted for, as did the millionaires we phoned around to, to boot. Didn’t get an answer from Wayne, though, apparently he’s away on some business, but the butler said everything was fine.”

“Feh,” Penguin scoffed, waddling up with some difficulty, “Wayne… what’s he ever done for anyone?”

Batman stiffened.

“And the Bookworm! Him and his dratted speeches and his dratted posters!” On the topic of the promotion, he fished out some crumpled paper from under his hat that once used to be a part of the monstrous poster in town square, and distastefully shoved it into Riddler’s unready hands.

“Oh, you’re just angry because you got verbally destroyed by a geek,” Joker retorted, trying to make light of the situation and riding on the joy that came with the Penguin’s further frustrated reaction.

The newly-formed duo needn’t leave the older pair to it, as they separated the group for them, Penguin diverting the conversation to the fact he had groups to speak to and there was no time for tomfoolery. Joker permitted the exit but didn’t let up, even when they were far out of hearing range of most of the other citizens.

“Was that his own money?” Riddler asked, nose scrunched, shoving the neglected paper into his own suit pocket. “Where’d he get it?”

“I cannot say,” Batman admitted, confused. “All I can suggest is that we try to find that hideout and look for clues?”

“But where do we st-” Before the Riddler could finish his question, he froze, stepping back and blinking rapidly with a little shake of the head. Moving his hands to his eyes, he rubbed them, blinked again, and then looked around as though to test if they still worked. Preparatory to Batman inquiring what happened, he elaborated. “Funny, I thought I… saw some kind of light.”

“Most probably the sun,” Batman put forward, gently pushing an arm that Riddler let be moved down to get a better look at his eyes, having his gaze follow his finger and calming when he turned out alright, “You are rather light-sensitive.”

“I… suppose,” he agreed, clearing his throat. “Let’s get out of here. Please.”

Granting his request, Batman nodded and led him back to the Batmobile, opening the door for him to step in, and shut it securely behind before getting in himself. Riddler may often be a foe, but he was still a human being, and he deserved to be treated like one, especially when he wasn’t an active threat. Not long after, he started up the ignition, waiting for the rumble of the engine and, buckled up, drove away.

Unbeknownst to the men, a figure remained hidden in the bushes beside where they’d last been, a photography camera in a hand that they lowered in order to bring up the book held in the other, a false object they extended the antennae of and spoke into the centre.

“Bookworm, do you read me? Over.”

Immediately, the radio crackled alive. “I read you. What is the news?”

“Proceed with the plan for now. Although, I may have some information for you. I just need to make sure my hunch is correct.”

-

“Where is the hideout… Where. Is. The. Hideout,” Riddler pondered, punctuating each part of the last sentence with a little tap on the dashboard that Batman kindly requested he quit. “You know, I can always think better after a milkshake.”

“We’ve been through this,” Batman sighed, “and you don’t need to think, I’ve got a location in mind.”

“A hideout?”

“Perhaps. Or at least somewhere to find clues.”

“I see. Where are we going, anyway?”

“The library,” Batman revealed, eyes on the road, “The Bookworm mentioned Penguin replacing all those tales being an issue, so I figured we should check it out.”

“Uh-huh, yeah, great,” Riddler nodded half-heartedly, “but there’s tonnes of libraries in Gotham, genius, so which one are we heading to? Did you think of that?”

“...”

Giggling broke the silence. “Exactly. So where do we head first?”

“The biggest one in Gotham?” Not a bad guess, by any means. It tracked for the Bookworm’s knack of not leaving very clear clues, but was also in-character for his adoration of the written word, in spite of the fact he could never pick up the pencil himself.

Riddler half-scoffed, half-laughed. “The biggest one in Gotham? Who is he? Me?” The Riddler had trifled with a library or two in his past, and the most well-known one had been victim to a lot of his capers, most notably when he’d silently broken in to retrieve the book on the Lost Treasure of the Incas. He went on, “Still, not a terrible idea. I mean, he’s not exactly known for his originality, is he? And, do you mind if I take off my hat?” he tagged on the end, doing it anyway and leaving it next to him on the seat, “It’s a little hot out here, isn’t it?”

Settling in their choice, Batman turned the car around the next bend, heading as fast as the speed laws would allow him to Gotham Central Library.

-

Anyone on the topmost level of the library had hastily scooped up their belongings and made a swift getaway once the varied silhouettes of the duo made their surprise appearance via the stairway, anxious to make themselves scarce should anything go down. Batman didn’t mind, really, it just meant the place was clearer for clue-searching. Another positive to their location was that the main rule provided him with all he needed to concentrate - silence is golden.

Having agreed to check through the paperwork kept in the side drawers first and foremost in case anything had been sneaked in, Batman’s gloved fingers danced from page to page, flicking each sheet forward to meet with the others he’d scoured, checking out the next and repeating. Just as he neared the middle of the pile and was beginning to appreciate the soundlessness, he kicked himself for jinxing it as a hushed voice from behind him spoke up.

“Excuse me?”

Both he and the Riddler turned almost simultaneously, greeted with a small, pretty lady with glasses she pushed up her nose boldly, flashing the two a smile as she loosened her grip on the notebook she currently held against her chest. “Alice Barren,” she introduced, “Gotham City Daily. I was hoping I could conduct a quick interview about your current case. It’s my first story, see, and-”

“-Say no more!” Riddler expressed, offering conversation, “Always happy to help someone prove themselves, as it were…”

“Fantastic,” Alice went on, readying her pencil, “I take it you are on the Bookworm case, Batman?”

“Not exactly a-”

“I’m helping!” Riddler added.

“...Not exactly a case to be made as of yet, Ms Barren. I… We are investigating a few suspicions, but I am not in a place where I can publicly accuse the Bookworm of anything, nor can I currently reveal too many details, as they are, as of right now, police matter only.”

“I see.” She paused to jot something down. “Well, how about the both of you? How are things going between you? Getting along?”

“Like a Batcave on fire,” Riddler replied, having aptly changed the turn of phrase, “isn’t that right, partner, hmm?”

Batman shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to lie, but also cautious of Riddler’s fragile ego. Noticing his internal battle, Alice offered him a warm smile and nodded a little to her left. “How about we discuss matters privately?” she proposed, to which Batman rapidly agreed, taking the first step aside.

He didn’t notice when the bookshelf behind where Alice was standing moved slightly, when the distinct sound of a book sliding onto a shelf came about, barely audible, or when the shelf found itself a little heavier with the weight of an extra book upon its wooden frame. But Riddler did. And slowly, carefully, he made his way over and wrapped his deft fingers either side of the thin spine, tugging it out to look at the title.

“So I cannot say I’d be exactly… thrilled to collaborate with him again,” Batman finished, picking his words as though he were treading around glass.

Having disclosed just a few things, he felt content such a lovely young lady wouldn’t twist his words in any way, thanking him genuinely once the words have been noted and placed back into her bag.

“By the way,” she added, retrieving a black feather from her bag and handing it to the caped crusader, “Take this for giving me such a fine interview - admittedly I’d been poking around the rally earlier and that dastardly criminal dropped it when he adjusted his hat.”

Taking the clue, Batman spun it around in his fingers by the quill, watching the soft barbs rotate in his brief examination. “Thank you kindly, miss. Although, I will have to ask you to refrain from investigating scenes alone. The Bookworm can be dangerous, he’s for specialised officers to deal with, so it’s best civilians like yourself steer clear.”

“Understood,” she agreed, surprisingly easily for her type, “And just one more thing, perhaps in future you could consider partnering up with someone a little more… complimentary to you.”

Batman was not an expert, but he was fairly certain she was giving him some kind of look. He couldn’t exactly deny she was a rather attractive woman, too, especially when she giggled at his manners and pushed a blonde strand of hair behind her ear. It would be easy to get carried away, but now was not the time. Bidding farewells, she turned on her heel with one last meaningful glance. And made her way out the door, leaving Batman behind to awkwardly fidget and watch after her, a nice moment that was smashed like a football to a window when-

“Batman!” Riddler said, a bit too loudly for the setting, “Look, I think I-”

“That nice lady found a clue,” he accidentally interrupted, showing the feather in hand, “But given its delicate nature, I worry the mobile anti-crime computer may damage it. I’ll have to check it with the original model in the Batcave.”

“The Batcave!” Riddler clasped the book he was still holding against his chest, sighing wistfully, “Oh, after all these years of sending other eyes to invade, and I finally get to see what it looks like for myself!”

Ah. “I’m… afraid you’re not coming.”

A beat.

“What? Why?”

As a child, Bruce Wayne’s parents had always told him to be honest. Some people wouldn’t always like that, the truth could hurt, but it could hurt even harder if you carried out a lie. “I am not yet in a place where I trust you enough.”

Aghast, Riddler stepped back. “What!” he exclaimed incredulously, offense dripping from his words, “I’ve not done a thing! I’ve been good, I’ve been helping you!”

Caught up in the moment, neither of the escalating arguers noticed a familiar flash from around the corner, there one moment, and gone as quickly as it had come.

“You’ve also been verbally helping the Bookworm,” Batman pointed out, trying to stay composed, “Praising up his points and keeping your own self safe should anything go wrong. I worry it is clear where your true priorities may lie, and it’s with neither him nor myself, is it? You cannot play both sides and come out on top, Riddler. Especially when you…” Multiple instances of his messing around came to mind. “...haven’t been putting in the work.”

Something in Riddler’s eyes appeared hurt. The way his brows furrowed and pupils flickered, searching Batman’s face for any signs of whatever it was he was looking for, despite how angry it seemed on the surface, could only be described as emotionally pained. To Batman, this was really not a serious affair, but something about this teaming had meant a lot to the other man, and as he gritted his teeth to begin his retort, Batman began to wish he’d not listened to his parents for once.

“Do you know what they say about assuming, Batman?” he hissed, body inflexible, “I don’t think I even need to say it. Just because you think you’ve got this whole thing sorted out, it doesn’t mean you actually do! What- what ungratefulness - I pointed out the plot, I got us access to blocked off areas, and yes, I may, I may have sung Bookworm’s little song, but that doesn’t mean I meant it!”

Remorse empirically clear, Batman softened his tone in attempts to make amends. “Riddler, I-”

“Save it!” he snapped, “You don’t want my help, and I’m not asking for yours. I have capability! I’m a genius, I can and will do this without you! I will work harder, and I’ll bring Bookworm to justice before your feeble little mind could even comprehend the solution!”

The two little words that were direly needed in the sore, vulnerable moment died on Batman’s lips in the clutching feeling that kept his mouth shut, one of the first times in his life he understood what it was properly like for a cat to have one’s tongue. Riddler probably wouldn’t get too far into anything without him, so with any luck, he could speedily examine the feather, figure the answer, and meet him along the way. And then, then, he’d tell him exactly what he needed to hear. After he’d had some time to cool off, that was. But for now all he found himself able to do was stand in the same spot, a little stunned, and watch his teammate split up the group, taking something almost spiritual, emotional, right out with him.

-

Far across town, tucked snuggly in a close-packed alleyway, a street lay quiet, mostly undisturbed par the creeping of a blonde-haired figure clutching into the strap of her bag, as she wriggled her way around the bins and debris and to the front door of a bookstore, clearly having not listened to a much wiser man’s advice.

Getting involved in a criminal’s business was a bad idea, Alice knew, and it had even worse consequences, particularly when they were so well-known, particularly when they were so dangerous.

Particularly when one was a part of it.

Entering second-naturedly through the trick bookcase into her boss’ current office, the fake reporter shed her wig and other elements of her well-put-together disguise, the subtle commotion alerting the only worthy man in the room and having him turning with curiosity, a smile spreading onto his face when their eyes locked.

Lydia Limpet was a smart girl. Book smart. It was why she believed in him.

“And how did it go?” Bookworm inquired, a hint of anticipation in the back of his throat.

“Mostly according to plan, I’ve got the statements and the pictures,” she confirmed, placing her bag on top of his desk and unzipping it to show off the camera, “Just as you asked.”

“Of course it is no surprise that Chapter Five, Paragraph Three is going swimmingly well. You were so wonderful at causing a rift between them, Lydia my dear, you played the part so beautifully…” he gave his two fingers a small kiss as though to appreciate her efforts whilst rewarding himself, just prior to falling still and letting skepticism wash over his being as he pin-pointed. “‘Mostly’?”

“Shouldn’t be too bad, Boss!” Squealer assumed, hoping to lift his morale, “After all, you’re always right!”

“Never left!” Ricely added dumbly.

Feeling a headache coming on, the dim-namic duo left him no option but to demand through gritted teeth, “Quiet.”

“Sorry, boss.”

“It’s the Boy Wonder,” Lydia explained, ignoring the other antics, “He… well… isn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Bookworm pressed, pointing finger outstretched.

“I mean Batman didn’t bring Robin with him,” she reiterated, “He’s teamed up with another of the force, the Riddler.”

During the seconds of hush that followed, it was anyone’s guess as to what extent Bookworm would react. The question wasn’t whether or not it’d be poorly, that was a dead cert, just how far he would go. For Lydia, the outburst was surefire, but for the newcomers that were Squealer and Ricely, it was much less expected, and hurt their ears much more painfully.

“Noooo!” he screamed, kicking his neglected chair full force toward the door where it narrowly avoided hitting Squealer and instead whacked Ricely in the ankle at top speed, “It cannot be, it’s inconceivable!”

When something wasn't one-hundred-percent the way he planned it, the Bookworm found himself in a state of disarray for a reason he could never quite clue. The sudden rush of anger and vexation was almost crippling in the way it overtook his body and forced it into acts that worked toward the need, and the only thing more powerful than his belief to follow what his head told him was his belief in books. ‘The Secret of Success: Self-Control.’

In a fraction of a moment, it was like something deep within him snapped, and his body language returned to its usual unmoving state as if nothing had happened, the cogs turning in his brilliant mind hard enough that you could hear the inner workings strain.

“Inconcievable… but true,” he announced normally, pushing the glasses up his nose that had been knocked askew in the midst of his outburst, “all we require is a mere change of plan.”

“But Boss, we still need to construct the mice?” Ricely touched on.

“And we will,” he assured, tone smug and more dangerous than ever, “Never fear, for my wonderful brain has already invented us the perfect solution.”

-

An experienced shape edged through the alleyway outside the Witzbarren Bookstore for the third time that night, this one sneaking its way around the spot illuminated by the dim streetlamps that’d turned on early as a result of the overshadowed area. Copy of Dick Whittington still in hand, the Riddler wormed his way around a few trash cans, eyes locked on his target at the end of the street. He was fairly certain that he was correct in his genius deduction and that this would be the place that snivelling squirt was hiding out. A quick flick through the book had refreshed his memory of the story, most notably the section where Whittington went to work for a man named Mr Fitzbarren. His puzzle of a thought process only tumbled from there, and he soon recalled an event he and Joker had been making fun of a few months ago when this bookstore had opened, been forced to change its name due to copyright, and promptly shut down not a week later.

In Riddler’s eyes, such a location, based on the book the worm was copying, was the perfect place for the prince of plagiarised plots. There was only one snag, nagging at the back of his mind for the answer and annoying him endlessly, and it was where that darned quote was from. Hoping he’d find more context inside, he skillfully picked the lock of the door and smiled to himself when the breeze blew it open. Head ruling his actions, he entered. Here was to hoping he didn’t get careless. A quick job was all it needed to be, in and out before they got back from the second rally.

The inside was about what he expected. Cold, dusty, and adequately abandoned, but he hadn’t carted himself across town and gotten turned around in the market just for a guided tour. He was here for clues, for answers, to prove himself.

In his time around criminals, he came to find that they had a tendency to label near enough everything. Himself included, but not quite to the same extent he’d seen others do it. As such, he figured that a signed room should be what he tried to suss out first and foremost to save himself some time, and if nothing came of that lead, it wouldn’t hurt to double back and try the others, should this not be a typically traditional hideout.

For the most part, he couldn’t find a thing. The ground floor had come up blank, and the first half of the upstairs wasn’t proving any nicer results, nor was he getting very far with how the hallways twisted and turned - heaven knew how anyone got around this place. With a structure (if you could even call it that) like this, it was no wonder the place had its doors permanently shut in record time.

Walking down a new hall, Riddler had a job of wondering whether he’d actually been down it or not before, but had his suspicions disproved when he finally, finally, came across a sign - “Criminal’s Printing Room”. If anything in this place was weird, then it was most certainly that.

The fact this could be the answer he was looking for sent an anxiety he wasn’t recently used to through his body, spine tingling and throat tightening, trying to force out any thoughts his subconscious pushed forward of it being nothing more than where he made the posters, inching his grasp closer and closer, hand centimeters from the knob, when-

“Hey!”

Starting, Riddler turned for just a moment, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Bookworm’s two goons glaring at him from the other end of the hallway. There was an easy way to do this, and a hard way. Unluckily for them, the Riddler had always been difficult.

He took off like a shot, darting the opposite way as fast as his legs would carry him, heart throbbing in the back of his throat in conjunction with the heavy footsteps that he could agonisingly hear rapidly approaching him from behind, one set harder and faster than the other. Never having ran so quickly in his life, Riddler found himself growing weary, but pressed on the best he could, riding his fear instead of pushing it down, as to use the energy boost it gave him to support his flight, struggling to manage the way breathing had become difficult with how the sharp breaths he’d taken in through his mouth had turned icy, stabbing the back of his throat every time he tried to catch it.

He took a corner at such a speed it could probably break his pursuer’s ankles, but was saddened to hear they, or rather just Ricely, was still on his tail.

This wasn’t right, this wasn’t the plan - they weren’t supposed to be here, not yet, not now, not ever!

Left with little else to do, he took another corner, then another, then a third, and tugged harshly on the first door he saw, and to his relief, it was open. Slipping into the room, he closed it up behind him, plunging himself into somewhat of a darkness that was only kept away by a small candle in one corner. Pulse high and hammering, he found he couldn’t stand still in his wait for Ricely to pass, and decided to check around for any different means of escape.

Batman was right, and he hated it. He couldn’t do this by himself. Was it even Batman he was trying to prove himself to? Now he thought about it, his ex-ally hadn’t said anything of the like. So who was this all about really, if not him? His fragile, desperate ego? The force? The public? Or maybe-

His heart rate spiked when he heard the door behind him slam open, and the silhouette of Squealer in the door making squinted eye-contact.

“He’s in here!” the man squeaked, followed by a familiar set of footsteps that Riddler knew the owner of, but decided he wasn’t going to stick around to see.

Taking initiative, he scanned the room before shoving his way through the conjoining door and out the front just as Ricely had gotten to the previous room, not giving him a chance to catch on before he was off again, down, left, right, left, left, and stop.

He was not built for such strenuous activity and if he didn’t stop soon, his legs were going to give out. Having good hearing was both a blessing and a curse it seemed, for he could hear the two fools nearing distantly, but that didn’t exactly give him a answer of how much time he had. Turning briefly to see if he could catch a glimpse, chest heaving, he didn’t notice the small creak of a closet opening just behind him until it was too late.

WHAM!

Knocked out, Riddler flopped to the floor, unconscious at the feet of two shiny leather shoes and two high heels, belonging to that of the Bookworm and Lydia respectively, a large, heavy book held between them.

-

Pain.

That was the first thing Riddler noticed. Unbridled, unapologetic pain, coursing through his body and culminating torturously in a throbbing migraine. His limbs possessed the excruciating ache that came with overuse, pulsating deep within. The second thing he noticed was that the world had turned on its head, flipping everything in sight into a dizzying version of what it was before, the only things he could make out being a few pieces of machinery and a few figures below him, upside-down and slightly out of focus. The third thing he noticed was that he couldn't move.

Bound tightly with ropes, the Riddler found himself tied securely, the thick cable, upon closer inspection, connected to a pulley on the ceiling. Directly under him was a substantial pot, filled to the brim with some kind of liquid he couldn’t identify in his current state, but whatever it was when it was at home was bubbling, likely being boiled beneath.

Seeing no other option, he settled for clever remarks. “Unoriginal much?”

Taking it literally, Bookworm blinked. “That is the idea. Not that you’d be able to press any charges. You’ll be dead.”

Having the sobering realisation that for once his smart mouth wasn’t going to work as a way to get him out of a sticky situation, the Riddler doubled back to try from another angle. “You- you can’t kill, it’s in the rules. Soon to be your rules, yes?”

A look of feigned pity appeared on the Bookworm’s face as he cocked his head slightly to one side in an act of something so patronising it made Riddler sick. “Oh, you poor thing. Did I not reveal my addition to you just yet? How so very remiss of me: no man shall kill. Without cause.”

Remembering hit him like a tonne of bricks and hurt just as badly. That quote from before… this one, it-

“Animal Farm,” he managed to source a little raspily, “That’s what this is.”

“Ah, well, congratulations,” Bookworm mocked, tapping the book to his left that lay atop of the one he’d confiscated, “Perhaps you are smart, after all.”

“Do not patronise me!”

“I don’t believe you’re in a position to talk back.”

Well. He was right.

Not that it would stop him.

“What is this charade? Why am I here?”

“To finally give you some use,” Bookworm replied, saying it so simply, like Riddler really meant nothing. “You correctly identified I was citing Dick Whittington. And he won the public’s hearts how?”

“By getting rid of the rats!” Lydia contributed eagerly, to which Bookworm grinned proudly.

“Exactly. But I cannot control pests. That’s why I made them into something of worth.” He opened his palm in Ricely’s direction, waiting as the giant took something that resembled a mouse out of a box and placed it in his hold.

Distressed, Riddler found himself zoning in and out of the conversation, and only registered the introduction of the new item from the last thirty seconds. He squinted. “It’s in pieces.”

“That’s why,” Bookworm continued calmly, “I need to glue them together.”

Glue. Boiling. Use.

No.

Surely not.

“You’re going to use me as glue in your manic little delusions?!” Riddler fretted, struggling against the ropes to no avail, “Oh, you’re mad, Bookworm, you’re mad! Linking your book plots together is all well and good, but this is-!”

“-And do you not recall what happened in Animal Farm? Perhaps I should have set you some reading before I strung you up there like the helpless horse you are.”

“I do,” the other punctuated angrily to hide his fright, “And I am in no way Boxer!”

He wasn’t even sure why he was still arguing. It wasn’t going to change anything. Pride, probably. Or trying to buy time for someone, anyone, to come to his rescue.

“Correct,” the man safely on the ground conceded, “You weren’t supposed to be. You could’ve been by my side and telling of Sugarcandy Mountain by now. But you forfeited those rights when you betrayed us all. When you joined the Bat.”

Regret washed over him, not because he’d been working with Batman, but because he’d been found out, kicking himself especially hard when he somehow managed to clock Lydia’s striking resemblance to Alice.

“I still can!” he bargained, “You know I can, I’m a genius, just-” Seeing the expressionless look on Bookworm’s face made him trip over his own words. Why wasn’t this working? It was supposed to work! He couldn’t die! “Just- come on, you can’t do this to me! Your speech- equal rights, remember?”

Down below him, Bookworm made a small hum. “This is true. All Gothamites are equal.”

For a moment, a teasingly horrible moment, Riddler thought he might be safe.

“But some,” Bookworm continued, smiling up at his captive as he wrapped his grasp around the lever holding him up, “are more equal than others.”

Chapter Text

The Bookworm’s hand tightened around the lever, fingers folding around it in such a fashion that contrasted the craziness behind his calm eyes, magnified by his thick-rimmed glasses. One movement, one jerk, one tiny flick of the wrist would be all it’d take to send Riddler on his descent. There really wasn’t any point trying to delay things further, but that had never stopped him before.

“Before you do,” he rushed, pitch higher than normal, “at least-” he cleared his throat, “-at least answer me a few questions. If you’re going to kill me, I’d like to know some things.”

“You’re in no position to demand things from me,” Bookworm reiterated, yet contrarily removing his grip, relief washing over Riddler like a wave, “but I suppose I could bring myself to grant you this.”

He wasn’t going to waste his breath thanking him. “What’s the point of all this? What do you get out of killing me? You could glue your plastic rodents with any other adhesive!”

“You are not going to convince me to do as such,” he forewarned, “But if you must know, it’s to boost my case. With the reports of your little spat with the Bat, nobody will have any problem believing that he was the one to kill you. This information spread by my lovely assistant here, everyone will be on my side when my campaign includes wanting him arrested or gone.”

“They wouldn’t,” is what Riddler would have said, wished he could have said, if it were not for the fact he unfortunately knew the citizens of Gotham City better than that and really carried no faith in their judgement - Penguin wouldn’t be mayor, for one. And he knew himself that Batman would never, he was not capable, but the idea of this stung badly with a sweet edge, like getting a papercut but admiring the shade of the blood. He couldn’t stomach the thought of Batman killing him, and yet if he was to be killed, he’d rather it be no other man.

He said nothing.

“Bat got your tongue?” Bookworm mocked rather cruelly, his two goons laughing like they were trying a little too hard before he raised a hand and they immediately quitted, “You probably have already figured I need the useful parts of you for these little things,” he went on, poking at the plastic pieces in his other hand, “We did mention it just now.”

“What, so you and your subzero-IQ lackeys can play toys?” Riddler spat, struggling once more against the binds, “Or are you giving them out as freebies to get votes because you can’t afford anything nicer?”

His hand shot to the lever and Riddler’s heart dropped, the air knocked out of his lungs. Usually he was much better at controlling his emotions, but that came with experience, and it was safe to say he’d never been in the midst of something like this before. The abject horror must have been clear on his face as Bookworm returned a smirk and stepped away.

“Finally something effective in shutting you up;” he commented, “and to disprove your childish accusations, I’ll explain. You bought the correct book, now, how did Whittington win the hearts of the crowd? We’ve been through this, you’re a terrible student.”

And that was terribly triggering. But this must have been what he’d missed during his dizzy spell a minute ago. “He got rid of a lot of rats,” Riddler answered, a little half-heartedly from lack of care for the tale, “so, you’re going to set off a bunch of mechanical mice to terrorise the people and then remote control them to their deaths?”

“Precisely. I’ll eliminate the rats, the bats, and have made worth of one of his little supporters, as a bonus. And to add the sweetest of poetry to the whole thing, the mice are done in by something mechanical, and so,” He leaned forward, eyes half-lidded. “...was the glue.”

Something inside Riddler shifted. Something uncomfortable in his stomach, jittering nastily. So he responded the only way he knew how.

“You’re sick.”

“And you are not?”

“Not like you.”

“Funny. I seem to recall you doing something eerily similar to this a few capers ago, before all this commissioner business,” he pointed out.

Riddler rebutted, “You ought to know since you so shamelessly copied my bright idea. And I did not hang them upside down, actually, they had a chance, and they always do. This is just rude!”

That was certainly one way to describe it. Being tied above a large vat about to be lowered to one’s death, distinctively upside-down with no chance of escape. Rude. Right. At the same time, villains’ views on these kinds of subjects were never going to be completely unskewed.

“But how does it feel? It’s not nice, is it?”

Humiliating. Strung up like this, like neither he nor his life meant a thing, like he was expendable, disposable. Alienating. Left to fend for himself without any help in the world, like no-one cared enough to assist. Anxiety-rising. No surefire way out, no certainty that this time he'd surely be okay, heart rate spiking as though it were the beginning of the end.

Frightening.

“As I surmised. And why you and Batman could never make a good team. He’s a saint. You’re a sinner. That never works. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m about to portray him on your level. Maybe this caricature would want to be friends with you? Lydia tells me that’s likely what you were looking for.”

The man's tone was dripping with a mock kindness, the kind that became very sickly very quickly in the most demeaning of ways, and it made Riddler feel horribly ill.

His eyes flickered to Lydia, and something about the expression on her face felt like she was almost guilty. For this, for whatever else she’d been involved in. And then it was gone, replaced by admiration and devotion for the man beside her. It was terrible to see, him standing there all pridefully, grinning as he waited for the moment he could send Riddler to his imminent death. Heartless.

Is that what Batman thinks about me?

Something about that ached greatly, but he didn’t get much of a moment to process it or defend, as Squealer perked up, yanking his sleeve down after checking his watch. “Boss!” he notified, “The second rally’s soon!”

“About time after that delay,” Ricely chimed in, silenced by a mere glance.

That explained that mess, at least. He knew he hadn’t messed up his timings and that the debate was supposed to be in full swing right about now, and had all gone according to plan, he’d be searching for clues right about now in a completely empty bookstore. Give or take besides Lydia if she’d been left in charge to watch the place, but he had no doubt he could easily outfox her - his only error in the whole thing had been not double-checking with Joker beforehand for any changes in schedule. In hindsight, he should have expected something like this. Penguin and his rotten delays.

“Hm,” Bookworm hummed, far too pleasantly for the circumstances, “It appears I’ll have to hate you and leave you.” He looked pleased with the rephrasing. “We shall be back tomorrow when the process has completed. True, it only takes a little over half an hour to get you in there, but the process itself is… much more complex.”

“Oh, can it,” Riddler grumbled, as much as he hated to admit it, out of ideas for snark.

Bookworm only laughed sharply, a sound that occurred once more when Lydia eagerly piped up with, “Good luck with your sticky situation!”

“Excellent application,” he praised, pulling the lever like it was nothing to start Riddler on his slow descent, before turning to face the door and walking toward it, followed by the other three, “Grade A for this ploy, my dear.”

A few seconds passed, and then the sound of the door swinging shut marked their leave, it muffling the sound of voices and footsteps as they grew more and more distant down the hallway, leaving Riddler to struggle his way out with nothing other than the whirring of the machinery and the devastation of his imagination.

-

Two sets of sturdy wheels zoomed along the private road, carrying the snazzy car and the hero in the driver’s seat closer to home, and further from the location of the recent disagreements, and from the problems. The cold breeze generated from the speed of driving rushed against what was viewable of his face, acting as somewhat of a makeshift fan to cool down his nerves and slight temper, at all the situation, the Riddler, and himself. Speaking of the other half of his broken duo, Batman had thought it would be fairly easy to brush the Riddler out of his mind now that they’d gone their separate ways, only to find him again later when he made the arrest, but upon reaching the Batmobile, he’d made the unfortunate discovery that the Prince of Puzzlers had neglected to retrieve his hat from the car after his storming off, and as a result it lay untouched exactly where he had left it in the passenger’s seat.

Batman wasn’t particularly worried about him going off on his own. This situation was something for that of the Batcomputer’s caliber, so there was little chance he’d near any danger, but even if he did, by some miracle, manage to uncover the Bookworm’s base of bookish operations, due to earlier insurance in the form of Riddler praising his ideals, Batman surmised he would be welcomed and end up just fine.

At the same time, this didn’t feel right. The Riddler's absence was not a thing he pictured himself disliking; he'd spent half their journey together trying to shut him up, but now that he wasn't rabbiting in his ear, Batman missed him. If he weren't such a meticulous driver, he might remove one hand from the wheel to gently brush his fingertips across the hat's brim, but he was, so both hands remained on steering duty, regardless of where his mind was wandering.

Luckily for him, his final turn was coming up, and he completed it with great skill, smoothly maneuvering the vehicle down the worn dirt path, through the greenery that strategically hung down and into the secretive safety that was the Batcave. Upon parking, he exited, and only then did he notice that he was not alone in the area, for Robin was sitting at the corner table, hunkered over in doing something.

“Robin?” Batman said, alerting the other to his presence since the engine of the car somehow hadn’t, “I thought I told Dick Grayson that his studies were more important than this case.”

“Gee, Batman, don’t go on at me, huh?” he combatted in typical teenage fashion as he lifted up a sheet of paper, “I’m still doing it! Just in the Batcave! You were gone a while, so I figured it was a little more than the Riddler having you do his dirty work again, and if you were still working on it, then maybe I could've helped remotely!”

Batman had to hand it to him. The boy had initiative. It was the sort of thing he could imagine himself doing if he were in Robin's shoes, and that made him proud.

“I see. Well, it is indeed as you say,” Batman confirmed, “a little more than an errand. Quite a lot more, actually.”

“Oh boy!” Robin exclaimed, sitting up more fully in his seat, “A real caper? Who is it?”

“The Bookworm.”

“That uncreative crook?” Robin balked, “I thought he'd left town for good!”

“As did I…” Batman replied a little distantly, finally picking up Riddler's bowler and fidgeting with it between his hands, unnoticed to anybody apart from the loyal Wayne butler, who happened to be entering at that time.

“Forgive my noseyness, but is that the headwear of the Riddler, sir?” he inquired, setting the tray he’d been carrying down on the table next to Robin’s schoolwork, presenting him with a sandwich and a refreshing drink to keep his energy flowing.

Batman waited for Robin to thank Alfred, and once he did, the crusader responded, a little nervously albeit, as though he himself had taken it subconsciously. “Ah, yes, it is, Alfred. He was helping me solve this caper.”

“Holy turned tables!” Robin gaped, smacking the table, “That egotist? Helping?”

“Yyyes,” Batman confirmed slowly.

“Perhaps he is not so bad, then?” Alfred suggested, a knowing look on his face.

Taking to his own brand of careful pacing, Batman mulled the thought over in his mind before expressing his own. “To some degree. But the fact of the matter is he cannot be trusted. He advocated for Bookworm's plan, messed around with the Batmobile, has connections with the Penguin-”

“Is it not possible that he may have actually wanted to help, though?”

“Aw, c’mon, Alfred!” Robin blurted out, “That crook hasn't got an ounce of good in his body! Never has, never will!”

“Now, Robin,” Batman corrected on instinct, “Just because Riddler has done wrong in the past, it doesn't mean he wasn't trying to… help now…”

He drifted off in his realisation, stilling his movement, eyes darting to Alfred's “see?” face from under the cowl. And he was right.

“How can you tell?” the youngest of the three pressed, “He sounds like a nightmare to work with.”

“To… some degree,” Batman admitted, “but he did kickstart the investigation by telling me what was on his mind… he was somewhat bothersome in the Batmobile, but I suppose really he was just excited to be riding in it - he’s stolen the thing enough times to show he likes it. And, after all, his plan to stay on Bookworm’s good side does have quite a few positives if he still were to remain loyal to myself and the better side of things; even if the Bookworm got elected, we’d then have a man on the inside. He was the one who convinced Penguin to let us stick around after he was elected, if you remember, chum.”

“Gosh, right…” Robin tutted, “How could I have been so stupid?”

“I… believe we both made errors in this case, Robin.”

The more the thought about it, the clearer it seemed, and the more he began to kick himself for his incorrect judgement. He’d let Riddler’s criminal past and his old notions of the man’s character overrule his brain, instead of giving him the chance he needed to prove himself and help out. An action that nearly went against almost everything he stood for, and frankly, he was ashamed of himself.

“And to make matters worse, he had an idea of where Bookworm’s lair may be but I was too dead-set on my own plan of inquiring about it to the Batcomputer. Still… without all the details, I’m unsure I should get all that far. Wherever that hideout is, Riddler’s probably there by now.”

“Excuse my intrusion on your monologue, sir,” Alfred brought attention to, “but it sounds like all you needed to do was simply trust your companion more.”

“Quite incredibly right you are, Alfred,” he conceded, “It was foolish of me to think I could do this alone. My ideals conflict too hard with the Bookworm’s true intentions. That’s why I needed a mind who knows those ways better than I ever could.”

Exhaling in a light cursing of his prejudice, Robin remarked, “It’s just like this story. If only the animals looked at the bigger picture instead of blindly believing Napoleon was always right…”

Quick enough to give anyone whiplash, something snapped in Batman’s head, for better or for worse given its nature, the mention clicking the puzzle into place and ending in a disastrous hypothesis.

“What was that?”

“Hm?”

“The- the book,” Batman clarified, admittedly rushing his words, “what was that quote?”

“Oh, uh, ‘Napoleon is always right’,” Robin quoted, picking up the book and turning it around to look at the title before offering it to Batman’s eyes, “from Animal Farm. Why’d you ask?”

His question fell on deaf ears, for Batman was already away in his own bat-world, piecing together the parts of the investigation that had not made sense before, repenting for not thinking of it sooner with how plainly obvious it was, pulling out the gifted feather as the conclusion sprung into his mind. “Of course! That’s what the Riddler must’ve meant!”

The Boy Wonder sat up in his seat eagerly. “A lead? You know what Bookworm’s up to?”

“I… just might,” Batman pondered, mulling the situation over as it began to make more and more sense, almost to a frightening extent, “but there’s yet to be a threat toward anyone in the same way there was with the animals. With how Riddler was acting, Bookworm likely considered him a Moses, and if I was the Snowball of the equation, then who would…”

“I guess that’d make me Boxer if I follow you, Batman,” Robin reasoned, but looking none too happy about the criminal having compared him to a horse, “but I’m not on the caper, so there’s not much he can really-”

“True. But we all know how this creature obsesses with things going according to plan - if you recall the time he planned a gruesome fate for me and instead applied it to you.”

Robin shuddered. “I’ll never use a bell again as long as I live.”

“Indeed. So it’s entirely likely that he plans on capturing someone else when he figures out that you won’t be making an appearance.”

“Fabulous deduction, sir,” Alfred congratulated, “but I feel it may be my duty to point out that if the Riddler went to look for Bookworm, and the fiend was now under the impression he was working with you…”

…Then that meant Riddler didn’t have the protective shield encased around him as safely as Batman had wrongfully assumed from his words, meaning that not only was his false sticking up for Bookworm a good call, but a security measure, too. One that he’d stupidly dismissed. One that left Riddler vulnerable to harm.

One that made him the perfect candidate for Bookworm’s death trap.

“Great Scott!" Batman exclaimed, eyes wide.

If the horrible hunch was factually correct, and Riddler was in a deathly amount of danger, then he really had no-one to blame but himself, and therefore, he felt it was his duty to stop the oncoming event and fix his mistakes. That was just the sort of man he was, not one to backtrack and deny, deny, deny, but one who accepted his errors, fixed them where possible, and changed for the better, a sentiment he would find himself not able to abide by if he kept dawdling much longer. Immediately he turned, sprinting to the vehicle behind.

“There’s not one moment to lose - and unless I miss my guess,” he added, staring at his own batnotes in the glove compartment, various phrases from Dick Whittington circled, “I believe it may have just come to me exactly where he’s hiding!”

“Good luck, sir!” Alfred called after him.

“Yeah, go get him, Batman!” Robin joined, pumping his fist against his open palm.

Not wasting another moment, Batman turned on the ignition and the engine and turbines flared to life, the stressed tyres howling as they roared into action and propelled the Batmobile forward, practically producing the smell of rubber burning in its efforts to take the car and its driver the ride back to Gotham in the best time possible, not only to save the fate of the city, but the fate of his partner in crimefighting, too.

-

Being left alone with your own thoughts wasn’t nearly as appealing as it sounded, particularly when you were slowly being lowered into a death trap. Funnily enough, the inescapable imminent end wasn’t even the factor of this situation bothering Riddler the most. No, he’d come to terms with it now - he’d tried every escape trick in the book from Copperfield’s to Cunningham’s, and only when his long-term idol Houdini’s methods failed him had he given up. He was tired of fighting. He guessed this was going to get him. It wasn’t supposed to be his time, but Bookworm had made it so, and the whole darn world believed he was always right. Maybe this time he was.

Still. He’d still opted to twist his body upward the best he could to relieve some of the pressure on his lungs and head, for whatever that was worth. Deep down, a part of him maybe believed. That, or it was merely survival instinct.

The real hell of it all was the trip down, and more specifically, the nasty recesses of his mind that had opened up with the echo of the Bookworm’s rancid words, dripping against his brain like acid and eating away all that he valued. In a way, it was truth, and that was just the misfortune of the situation. In an ideal world, Batman would’ve let him assist and held no grudges, looked at him with a clean slate in mind, and gotten along, finally acting as his chance to get to know the caped crusader and how his mind worked, what made him tick, what made him win. In an ideal world, Batman wouldn’t look at Riddler and see what the puzzle-maker thought of himself.

In an ideal world.

The Riddler had never been a quitter. He’d always been certain he’d have a good outcome when it mattered.

But now he just wasn’t sure.

As he neared the death-promising liquid with a torturous slowness, he squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his body, bracing himself. Nothing was left for him here, so he may as well accept what was to come. No escape, no rescue, no nothing.

SMASH.

Well, maybe something.

Forgetting he was trying to preserve his brain, Riddler shot his laser-beam gaze in the direction the noise had sounded, eyes blurring for a moment from the sudden rush of blood, before focusing and leaving them locked on the scene laid out before him, saviour centre stage, and unbelievability hazed around the edges. There, recovering briefly from breaking the window in his entrance, was him.

Batman.

In an instant, he was at the Riddler’s side, hands around the lever that had gotten him into this predicament and yanking the opposite way, halting the lowering with an abrupt jolt that left Riddler swaying slowly on the rope, the motion still enough to make him sick. Not entirely registering what was happening, he was barely conscious of the fact Batman’s hands were at work above him, pulling him and the rope over to the edge of the vat, where he safely cut him down with the sharp edge of the batarang, and helped the Riddler to standing the right way up as gently as he could. It all happened so quickly, that for a moment, he didn’t realise it had. Until Batman placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned down to face him more fully, with an: “Are you okay?”

“I… knew you’d come and get me,” Riddler settled with, not really answering the question, “you knew you needed my assistance.”

“Seriously,” Batman reprimanded, raising two fingers and moving them side to side, not having to clarify he wanted Riddler to follow them with his eyes since he’d already caught on, “are you alright?”

“I almost died,” Riddler said, a little weakly, but with enough snark to imply he’d be fine, “what do you think?”

“But are you injured?”

He took a moment, still following the fingers before Batman decided the results were satisfactory and put them down, the smaller man taking to looking at the taller’s face to compensate for the lack of things to focus on. “I mean, my head smarts. Those brutes, they hit me.”

Fishing into a side compartment on his utility belt, Batman produced a small bottle, which he undid the lid of and poured one of its contents out into his open palm, offering it. “Try a Batpill. That should stop any of the pain and prevent any oncoming effects of concussion.”

He didn’t have to tell Riddler twice. The little medical miracle was taken and popped in his mouth in a second, keen to combat any issues. Maneuvering it to his cheek, he spoke up, clarity slightly below average. “What do I do with it?” That might have been something better to ask before the fact. “Can I suck it?”

Batman nodded. “Uh, yes, if you don’t prefer to have it with some batwater.”

Riddler blinked. “Pardon?”

He started to wish he hadn’t asked when Batman reached around the back of his belt and produced an entire glass filled three-quarters of the way with water, a little bat emblem on the front of the cup itself. Bewildered and not fully recovered from his ordeal, Riddler decided taking it was better than questioning, and thanked him quietly, receiving a nod in return.

Now that the case of Riddler’s wellbeing had been dealt with, Batman's demeanour suddenly changed from protective and concerned to something of a nervousness. He straightened his posture, a more serious look etched into his face. “I… believe I owe you an apology,” he said, the last thing Riddler expected to slip from his mouth, “I was wrong to judge you in such a way and not give you another chance. I know you can be reliable. You have a brilliant mind, Riddler, and that’s valuable. I am sorry I discredited it and made you feel less than.”

“...Can you stop being so considerate?” Riddler grumbled, “It makes it very hard to stay mad at you.”

“You do not have to forgive me. I just wanted you to know I treated you poorly, and that should not be taken as a reflection on y-”

He did not get the contentment of finishing his sentence before Riddler had interrupted him, pinching between his brows. “-Yes, I get it. I’m not… It's fine.”

“If you are sure?”

“Deathly.” He cringed from his poor choice of words. “That is. You want to re-form the alliance, yes?”

“I do.”

The count of conundrums beamed, jutting out his free hand for Batman to shake. “In which case, let’s officialise it, hm?”

Batman in all honesty did not see the point in such theatrics. It was enough that he’d verbally confirmed the assumption and that his head was in the correct mindspace as to deal with any antics, but if the mere notion of it meant something to the other, he felt it was his duty to make him feel welcomed in the way that most spoke to him. Consequently, he met the contract in the middle with a solid handshake to set the partnership in stone. And with a giggle, apparently, as Riddler was laughing again. To the caped crusader’s near-surprise, he’d missed it.

Jerking his hand away in his usual break-neck speed of switching between subjects, the Riddler’s eyes widened as he focused on the case, the way he’d moved having almost spilt what was left in the batglass over the edge. “There was a room I discovered earlier when I was snooping around,” he stated, “‘Printing room’, or something of the like. Case in point, that’s when they found me and gave chase - they seemed pretty adamant on keeping me out, so I’d wager our next clue resides beyond that door.”

“Fabulous find,” Batman praised, “Do you remember how to get there from here?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Ah.”

“We can always- here you go-” he paused to shove the glass back into the Bat’s hands now that he was done with it, “-seek it out again. With them now absent to be at Penguin’s rally, we’ve got free reign of this dilapidated dump.”

“True,” he agreed, the batglass slipped back into the belt like it was never there as he joined Riddler where he’d paced near the door, “But we don’t know when they’ll be back, and, whilst I’m sure I can take them, I don’t want you hurt, so we should maximise our findings in the minimum amount of time.”

“Reasonable.” To his surprise, Riddler found that the door had been left open, so trying the handle had in fact not been in vain. Rather remiss, but hey, with his past schemes, he wasn’t one to judge.

Batman followed him out into the hallway, and without the stress of having to sneak around, Riddler finally took the time to take in his surroundings.

‘Derelict’ was probably the most fitting word that came to mind. With an interior as unkempt as this, it was almost uncomfortable to imagine that this had been an open library once upon a time, and even more so that some no-good crooks were using it for a base now. The wallpaper was peeling from the top down, worse in the areas near the bottom of the wall where a thick layer of damp had settled itself, outlining the top of the skirting board. Cobwebs covered the ceiling and hallway’s corners like Halloween decorations, draping down tauntingly, but thankfully barren of the arachnids that made Riddler so fearful. The floor itself was not better - most of the paths laid out as options to them were caked in cough-inducing dust.

Dust that would come surprising more in handy than one would expect when Batman pointed out: “There’s less disturbance of the dust on the floor down this right passage than the left. Presumably, it’s been used more, so a room tied in so closely to their scheme must be down this way.”

“Holy deduction,” Riddler joked.

Batman gave him a look.

“Sorry, I thought you might be missing Robin.”

They moved on, following after the trail to the best of their ability, and did rather well, all things considered. Looking for a trail in a dust path was like, well, looking for a trail in a dust path, and that was something that did not claim to be easy - particularly when one had never done it before. After one or two wrong turns that just led them to other frequently-used areas of the library, they turned down into a corridor, one that had Riddler perking up in recognition. Sure this was the place, he went ahead of Batman a little ways, skimming the signs on each door until he reached one about three-quarters of the way down, punctuating his find with a small “aha!”.

“Here - ‘Criminal’s Printing Room’,” he read, tapping on the plaque, “I was right… more or less.”

Batman hummed, slightly absent-minded. He seemed to be focused on other things, and, assuming it was nothing more than wanting to get on with their investigation, Riddler hooked his hand around the curved handle and opened the door.

The room was dark, unlit by any artificial means so unable to provide much visual clarity from the lack of brightness in the evening outside. All things considered, the Riddler had fairly good eyesight. Remaining underground for so long did that to a person, and also happened to make them very, very familiar with Gotham’s sewer and waterworks network. He could make out a few shapes in the darkness as he stepped inside, including something on the far right side of the room that almost appeared to… move.

No, not one something. A lot of somethings.

Furrowing his brows, he reached around the side of the wall for a lightswitch, flicked it to the on position when he felt his fingers run along the bump, and promptly wished he hadn’t, when the light source overhead revealed what it was he was trying to see, but also revealed him to them.

Nine fairly large dogs were situated where he’d been squinting to see, intimidating and brutish, now baring their fangs at being able to recognise him as an enemy, and resulting in a cacophony of noisy, dangerous barking. His only saving grace was the fact that they were currently locked within a spacious metal cage, but that didn’t stop them from pawing and gnawing at the bars for a means of freedom, nor Riddler’s terrified jolting that tripped him up and sent him sailing backwards, only to be caught by a strong pair of arms.

If the situation had been different, he may have focused on the gesture more greatly, but with his neck on the line, fight or flight set in at its finest, and he leapt out of Batman’s grasp to round the taller man and lurk behind his new shield. Cautiously peeking around his arm, he whimpered.

“Get those things away from me!”

“They can’t get you,” Batman guaranteed, “I think they’re pretty securely locked away. But it’s probably advisable for us to calm them.”

“Those beasts?!”

“Those dogs,” Batman corrected, “They may be acting aggressively right now, but there is likely a reason for that. They could be injured in some way. Perhaps even hungry. But considering the location of these poor animals, I’d imagine they’re under the influence of something.”

He began to progress carefully toward them, conscious of the potential danger.

“I wouldn’t get too close, if I were you,” Riddler warned, pointing past him to the furthest corner of the cage, “I think he’s trained them to have it in for you.”

Following the outstretched finger revealed a cape on the floor behind the pack, not unlike Batman’s own one, abandoned and completely and utterly torn to shreds. Definitely not an ideal sign, and a perfect one to justify leaving them be, but the man’s knack for seeing the best in everyone extended among all species, and he kept his pace, albeit a little hesitantly.

“They must be what he was going to chase you out of town with. Like Napoleon did to Snowball,” he added.

Batman nodded. “Quite possibly, yes. But you needn’t fear, Riddler, I’ve got a foolproof plan to subdue them.”

Riddler trusted Batman. It had always been a factor that made the hero stand out from the criminal, and one that came with an overwhelming belief in his abilities, something that he’d never been used to, and never thought he would be used to. He trusted him now, to some degree, but at the same time, fear kept him in the same spot Batman left him at, as he went on to ameliorate their anger.

Kneeling down before the dogs, Batman’s hands went to yet another compartment of his utility belt, soon producing a paper-like bag with a rectangular base, the top folded over itself a few times, akin to a snack pouch. He unravelled the bag and opened it more fully at the corners, the dogs’ barking changing at the produced scent - not much difference to any regular person, but to those with a trained ear, they may notice that the noise had snapped from irritability to eagerness, less snarled, and now more of a yip. Bowls lined the front part of the cage, and Batman was able to nimbly poke the package through the top of the bars where the dogs couldn’t reach to pour the contents through the gaps and watch the biscuits fall with perfect precision into the containers. Waiting oddly patiently, the dogs stared on with their tongues hanging out, eyes fixed on offered food. Once it was all shared out, they jumped at it instantly, chomping away happily and completely content to enjoy the twist the situation was taking.

Now they were sated, Batman stood back up and turned to the Riddler, gesturing behind himself.

“Bat-kibble,” he explained, “It contains all the six essential nutrients, and is packed full of all the minerals and vitamins needed to maintain the pet’s healthy lifestyle.”

“Right,” Riddler said, too dumbfounded to provide a longer response. After all, he couldn’t really complain; the dogs were quiet, and that was all that mattered. “Let’s just check out this dratted machine over here.”

He hadn’t noticed it right off the bat, but had caught sight of it whilst waiting for Batman to release the tension in the room with those wolf-like things. Dogs was the name, but Riddler had never been keen on them enough to use or like it. Instead, he made his way over to the imposing machinery and leaned down to inspect the buttons and switches fastidiously, trying to figure out exactly what it could be. Batman joined him in the action, flipping down panels and studying wires with knowledgeable eyes. It was a shame the thing wasn’t labelled - of everything they’d encountered, why did it have to be the one thing that truly mattered that lacked something to define it?

Adequately stumped, Riddler seized away from the machine in his frustration, turning around with a grumble. Having done this, his attention was suddenly captured by the numerous objects laying neatly upon the long tables around the edges of that side of the room.

Money. Lots and lots of money; a few bills, sporadically placed for the most part, slipping out of half parcel-tied boxes, and much less nicely-packaged coins, on account of the fact they were, well, yet to be packaged at all. From this information, Riddler gathered two things: firstly that Bookworm’s goons weren’t very tidy, and secondly the answer to this whole dilemma.

“Printing Room,” he recalled, gesturing at Batman, “I bet this machine made all this cash.”

“The money we checked in town was real, however,” Batman pointed out in response.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean this is,” Riddler countered, prodding one of the parcels, “If it were me, I’d have done something priorly to throw you off the scent so I could come back with my actual intentions later - of course, I’d leave a riddle to indicate as such, or it wouldn’t be fair.” Distastefully, he shoved the package to one side, the wrapper crinkling under his hand. “He’s cheating.”

The Riddler’s ideals may be questionable, but Batman had to hand it to him that he had a point. “That,” he said, “is an excellent inference. And if it is true, then we need to take one of these,” he paused to pick up a coin and study how it shone in the dim light, “to the bat-analyst.”

“Why take the time for that?” Riddler frowned, “We’re against the clock here, Batman, it’d be so much easier to just-” With no explanation, he took the coin from Batman’s hand, inspected its cleanliness, and, determining it was good enough, bit down on it. Removing it and not caring for Batman’s reaction, he checked the results, and clear as day- “Bite marks. They’re fakes.”

“That is… well, thank you for that.” He bat-paused. “I think it may be safe to assume the rest of this is just as fraudulent. Still - it never hurts to check, and if we want this arrest to go well, we have to make them think they’ve won.”

“Take them in now,” Riddler asserted, “we’ve found they’re producing funny-money. And not the kind Joker’s been using, either.”

“Hm?”

“Oh he draws faces on… rectangular pieces of paper and tries to bargain it with Penguin, it’s… it’s a whole thing.”

“I see. And to answer your suggestion, I could, but our evidence wouldn’t be very strong. Whilst my own testimony would likely be rather strong, at the end of the day, I am just like any other ordinary citizen, and I would not like anyone to hold me in higher regard. I find it unlikely that an unbiased jury would be too keen on believing you on any charges against anyone, either. As unfortunate as that may be.”

“Numbskulls…”

“...Yes. What we need is a right-out confession. We need to catch him in a lie.”

-

“You’re sure that’ll work?” Riddler asked, tailing behind the faster-walker, “I mean, you’re Batman, it probably will, but you cannot tell me you’ve had a use for ultra-spreading-who-y-whatsit before.”

“Maximum-surface-area-covering rapidly-spreading bat-glue,” he amended.

“Sure. Does it work?”

“It’s been tested before, and it did then,” Batman answered, “I’m not sure why it wouldn’t now.”

Riddler held back the urge to question when and why, because at this rate not only was he sure he’d get a somehow even more ridiculous answer, but he was beginning to get weary of asking. The scheme itself was already so far gone, that it may as well work at this point anyway. Still, even if Bookworm did catch on that he wasn’t dead, he’d be left with enough glue from that concoction that Batman had poured into the vat to continue with his plot regardless. He’d watched the stuff spread when it had been applied, and it certainly looked like glue, and filled the area it was supposed to - he guessed that was why it was essentially what it said on the tin, or, well, tube.

Caring significantly less for the logistics of everything now that the Batmobile was in sight, Riddler found himself giddy again, and his legs were darting him over to the vehicle ahead of Batman before his brain picked up on it. Once by the car’s side, he furrowed his brows as he leaned over the door to retrieve the object left in the centre of the seat, caressing his hand over the top, and turning around with it to face the hero who was now behind him.

“You kept my hat safe?”

“Yes,” he said, simple as that as he orbited the Batmobile to the other side, “It belongs to you, and you left it with me, so I felt it was my duty to make sure nothing bad befell it.”

Riddler’s throat felt a bit dry. “Ah.”

-

“AH!”

Riddler jolted awake, heart pounding out of his chest and anxiety tickling the back of his throat, unaware of where he was or when he’d supposedly lost consciousness. He was a very particular person, and never slept during the day if he could help it, so such things weren’t exactly normal. With a turn of his head, he spotted Batman, the can he was holding, and the Batmobile, and then he got his answer. As he remembered it, they’d been driving back, Riddler thrilled he was now finally getting the chance to see the Batcave with for himself, when Batman had suddenly dropped the fact that he’d need to be put to sleep first. A protesting Riddler was no match for the strength of bat-sleep, and for the second time that day, he’d been out cold. Even if it was getting further into the night by the time they’d gotten on the road.

Annoyances aside, he was awake now, and that also meant he was witnessing something he couldn’t quite believe.

“The Batcave,” he expressed, living and breathing his words with an agape mouth, turned up at the corners and lopsided, “The base of operations for all your insanely, frustratingly good deeds, immense technological advancements, and unbelievable wit, all laid out here to witness for my very own…”

He was out of the car by this point, having carelessly slammed the door behind him, but too far gone in his awe to notice Batman’s disapproval.

“Such creative genius,” Riddler declared, kneeled before one of the machines that had caught his eye, biting at his knuckle, “Nothing in comparison to that of what I make, of course, but I’d most definitely declare you a very close second. Well, maybe not a close second, but second. If we’re only including living people, I mean.” Some of the magic was starting to wear off as he rambled, and Batman figured it was easier to let him come down from his high by himself. “In which case, you’d be much lower.”

The thing about Riddler was that he could flip like a switch. One moment he could be calm, and the next he’d be in over his head in excitement. Such was the case when he looked to his right and spotted a different apparatus and was next to it in an instant, gushing once again with that familiar twinkle in his eye. Batman watched him for a little while longer, zipping his attention between different components as he was, before interjecting with a small huff of a laugh. “Are you okay?”

When he got into such a state, the man always found it easier to declare himself through more complicated means. “Riddle me this: what links punch, thought, and boy?”

By some miracle, Batman found the answer coming to him: wonder. One-hit wonder, one wonders, and boy wonder. Quite clever, when he thought about it, but what else was there to expect from the Prince of Puzzlers himself? And it made sense he’d be so fascinated by the place, as it was the source of the man who bested him so often. Not to mention, and Batman didn’t want to toot his own trumpet here but, it was incredibly impressive a location.

Practically falling around the cave in glee, Riddler went from interest to interest until he found himself slumped against a table in one corner of the room with a face full of workbooks.

“Algebra?” he questioned, picking it up and tossing it to the man standing behind, before his hyperfocused eyes settled on something far more fascinating. “Oh, hello, what are you?”

Batman steadied the thrown object, and looked up in time to catch Riddler taking a newspaper into his hands and folding it out to nose at the headlines. A scorn of a noise later, he turned it down over top of his index fingers and held it out for Batman to see. “News travels fast.”

And in fact it did where the Bookworm and his lackeys were concerned. Printed loudly across the top of the paper in block capitals was the headline. ‘Batman Goes Batty’, it screamed, ‘Attacks Enemy in Unprompted Barbaric Display!’.

The title was viscous, unfair, and downright slander, but in context, he supposed that was the point. Making a mental note to lightly chastise Dick later for neglecting his algebra studies, he also made the keen deduction that Alfred had left the object out for him to find when he returned to base, knowing that it would help give him more of a clue of what may have gone down. Alfred cared, and Batman appreciated that, but it didn’t make seeing these allegations sting any less.

Not noticing, Riddler added, “Fake news, at that. It’s nothing remotely close to what actually occurred. Helpful towards his ploy, sure, but when you can spread things like this under a pen name - hah - it makes you wonder if you can trust the media at all. Which you shouldn’t, by the way. Half of them think I’m crazy.”

“You were not kidding about how desperately he wanted to paint me as a villain,” Batman commented, hurt by the idea of anyone believing such filthy falsehoods, “I suppose this is to make it easier for the public to accept that I’d…”

He discovered he physically couldn’t finish the sentence. Riddler understood.

“Right… Still, it’ll be, ah, sorted out in due time, I’m- sure. You better analyse that paper.” It may have been somewhat of a feeble suggestion, but seeing how the notion had apparently affected the other, Riddler had jumped to the first idea that came to mind to distract him. Luckily Batman agreed, and turned with a swooping cape toward the bat-analyst.

Left with no-one to tell him what he could or couldn’t do, Riddler planted himself atop the work table, adjusting until he was comfortable, one foot on the surface itself, as to have his knee provide for a nice armrest, and the other down lower on the seat of the chair. Thumbnail working itself away at stressing his lower lip, he watched Batman input some instructions into the technological wonder, and waited for the results. As the machine beeped away, he let his own hands wander, fiddling around with his suit until he felt a foreign pressure between the fabric and his pocket, which he consequently dipped his deft fingers into to pull out a small sheet of torn paper, the one that had been handed off to him by the Penguin earlier that day. Not thinking much of it, he kept it in his grasp to fiddle with, head snapping up when the batcomputer delivered its answers with a conclusive ding.

“As we thought,” Batman revealed, “Fake.”

“And that’s all? No fingerprints? Leads?”

“Not that the batcomputer can tell, and, with the greatest of modesty, if it can’t find anything…”

“...Then who can,” Riddler finished distantly.

Sensing his disappointment at the letdown, Batman tried one last attempt to shed a beam of light on the subject, no matter how unsure he himself may have been. “Like I said before, as you may recall, we need to catch him in a lie.”

Riddler nodded absent-mindedly, looking back down at the crumpled paper in his hands, feeling the raised texture beneath his fingertips as he directed them to get a better look at the pattern. It wasn’t a bad one, exactly, he was sure with a few tweaks here and there, he could make something rather nice, perhaps something stylish if he were to translate it to fabric. Only then did he pick up on something he hadn’t before, feeling over the paper one more time, as his eyes slowly began to widen in that tell-tale sign of genius realisation.

“Or,” he said, pupils darting around to nowhere in particular as he mulled over his plan, hand punctuating each word, “or, we catch him in a truth.”

-

As quickly as the tired moon had risen, it was gone, leaving the rise of a new dawn in its wake, the cheeky sun peeking over the building tops to throw its light down wherever it saw fit. Amongst this brightness, and not now caring as much for discretion, the Bookworm and his cronies made the familiar trip down the alleyway and easily into their hideout with the twist of a stolen key, welcoming them back into criminal madness. Ricely shut the door behind themselves where Bookworm felt he was too good to, and with their security sorted, they progressed down the halls with prior knowledge of the layout, anticipating the results of the inhumane methods that had taken place within the room to which they were headed.

“Call me an idiot, boss, but-”

“You are an idiot.”

“Not- not yet, I meant like-”

“He knows you didn’t mean yet,” Lydia rolled her eyes, “He was taking your sentence at face value and being literal as to emphasise his opinion of you and prove his own superiority. Very clever, analytically.”

“Thank you, my sweet,” Bookworm commented, a smile upon his face for the first time in a while; if there was one way to get to him, it was through his ego - positively or negatively.

“Exactly! Bookworm is always right!” Squealer chorused.

From the blank stare written upon Ricely’s face, it was terribly apparent that he didn’t have the foggiest clue of what was going on. This wasn’t saying much, exactly, because an onlooker would be decently sure that Ricely wouldn’t know what was going on if one was to stick him in the middle of a room with a button that beyond a shadow of a doubt opened the door, because he’d still find himself trying to tear it off its hinges instead.

He frowned, pretending to be on their level. “Ah, got it, boss. But as I was sayin’, I just don’t really understand the plan, is all. Why didn’t we just use da fake stuff from the get-go? Isn’t that wasting your own money?”

The sheer stupidity was enough to stop the Bookworm in his tracks, those behind him coming to a halt in their own time to prevent bumping into the leader and aggravating him further. Ricely and Squealer stumbled against each other, but made no further comment on the event, wary of the prior fact. Dangerously slowly, the Bookworm turned, eyes unimpressed and glasses a little askew from the amount of times he’d had to pinch the bridge of his nose that day.

“My original statement was correct,” he voiced, “You are a bumbling fool. However, I suppose I need to spell it out for you, as you’re too dim to read in the dark. We are doing it by the book. It was a means of investment, if you will.”

Afraid to speak up but too dumb not to, Ricely pressed, “How so?”

A drawn-out, exasperated sigh. “The first batch needed to be legit for when it would be eventually tested, so we would not be subject to arrest. Therefore by the time we are rid of Batman, there would be no-one to catch us out when the next lot is fraudulent. Why would anyone assume this would be fake if it had all been real up until the next point?”

“Say, that’s a good ploy!”

“Well, of course it is,” he stated as though it were obvious, “And the real money won’t even be lost - I’ll receive it back slowly via taxation, and I’ll keep providing them with the useless bills that don’t mean a thing until all the real cash in Gotham is mine.”

“Ya mean ours, boss?”

“...And with all the money in my grasp, I’ll nab all of the confiscated books locked away in that vault on Penguin’s orders and flee once again, leaving them to the financial chaos. But by that time, it won’t matter for us, them being left with a whole lot of nothing.”

‘The same way I creatively am’ went unsaid.

The others congratulated his plaigarised genius, and with that, they headed back on their journey, taking the usual twists and turns until they finally arrived at their immoral destination. Opening the door revealed his murderous scheme had been an abject success, for the rope that had once held their captive was lowered to its limit, frayed around the edges near the bottom where it met the vat, cogs clicking and whirring painfully against one another to try and carry out their purpose, but left at a standstill where there was no more death left to cause, and the Riddler himself was nowhere in sight. Alive, at least.

The struggling author stalked over to the container, skipped a few steps up to the top of the stool beside it, and peered over, greeted with a sight for dry eyes.

Filled with the liquid adhesive he’d been after, the vat sat happily with its sticky contents held close, goopy enough that one could visualise exactly how it would feel to dip an entire hand in and pull it out again, in a way that implied it had been churned to the perfect texture the criminal required and had thankfully not set too much overnight to the point of unusability. Things were looking good, everything considered, but just to be sure, he leaned over as carefully as he could to dip the tip of his leather glove into the mixture and scoop it out, the glue sticking to itself as his hand rose, in a very similar fashion to how cheese would when a pizza slice was lifted.

Connecting his thumb and index finger together, he verified the consistency of the substance with a little rub, stretch, and snap, determining that the results were of good enough quality to continue.

“Turn off the machine,” he commanded, and not a moment later, the mechanics halted, “It’s done.”

“The plan was a success?” Lydia clasped her hands before her chest. “It’s all coming together?”

“Indeed it is,” Bookworm sighed wistfully, spending an enchanting eternity dancing with every word he breathed, “And all thanks to my excellency.”

With a newly-inflated view of his self-importance, pride enraptured the Bookworm as a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction washed over him. He’d rarely been successful at most of his plans, so to see this one come together well when he’d been so cocky earlier was a marvel. And to have put a backstabber to good use…

“This being said!” he exclaimed, wiping the glue-covered finger against Ricely’s jacket whilst his back was turned, “We’ve not one moment to lose! Get to making those mice, men, so we can deal with both of Gotham’s biggest problems from best to worst - first we vanquish the rats…”

Down the stairs, a few calculated steps winded him up in the middle of the room, proud and prepared.

“And then we eradicate the bats.”

-

“Mr Joker!” Penguin roared from where he was pacing in the backstage of Gotham’s Community Park Stage, “Where are they?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you, Pengy,” Joker replied, a slight, foreign worry in his tone, “They still may show, at least. Who can say?”

“How long have we got?” he barked, stressed.

Pulling back his magenta suit jacket sleeve, Joker checked his trick watch; small and compact in appearance and the exclamation “HA” printed on each of the four main points of the face - complete and utter nonsense to absolutely anyone else, but he understood what it meant for what that was worth.

“About five minutes.”

“Faugh!” Penguin grumbled, shaking his umbrella around in a perfect display of anxiety disguised as anger, “If those two have done a runner, I’ll throw them to the penguins! See how they like it!”

Joker scoffed, disapprovingly. “Feel free to do whatever you like to that bat-fink, I wouldn’t put it past him for a moment to bail on helping us good citizens. But the Riddler? Giving up isn’t his style in the slightest. If he doesn’t show, there must be a reason. And I can only hope it’s because that crafty mind of his has something planned.”

Out of all the times they’d had some kind of debate, this was one time Penguin hoped that Joker was on the correct side of assumption. He’d never once given thought to the other having any positive basis before, but with the situation as sticky as it was…

“I hope you’re right.”

They’d been waiting on the pair longer than was a comfortable or acceptable amount of time. Upon creating plans yesterday morning between the three of them (or ‘two’ may have been more accurate, for Penguin had at the time still been caught up in his overreacting pacing in the face of being overthrown, leaving Joker and Riddler to make the arrangements themselves, which the clown had kindly filled the bird in on later that day), they’d determined the meeting for the third rally to be right here, exactly half an hour before proceedings. This way, even if something had to be delayed, they’d all be gathered to prepare, even if that meant waiting longer in a group of rogues who really shouldn’t mix that well. Most of the time, they didn’t.

Still, it was uncharacteristically unprofessional of Riddler not to show, without a phone call warning no less, and that always stuck up the possibility of there being something badly wrong. Nothing too bad, Penguin hoped, as Riddler had been essential in swaying the public and coming up with better campaigns, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he knew that relying on himself and the Joker to come up with something that would charismatically appeal to this public would be the equivalent of leaving a fish to run a beach party. No, he needed the Riddler here for that mind of his, and every moment that slipped by was another he spent worrying about what this could mean for his being mayor.

Worrying apparently to the point where he hadn’t noticed that Joker had been poking his silly face through the gap between the silk red backdrop to peer at the audience. Before Penguin could demand to know what he was doing, he seemed to read the other’s mind as his head popped back through and the fabric was shut behind himself, the motion having done little to help keep his hair neat, as out of place as it now was.

“If it makes you feel better, Pengy,” he explained, “I don’t see the Bookworm out there, either.”

The Bookworm was naturally very easy to pinpoint in a crowd with his clothes fashioned like old book bindings, but less easy to discern were his three current colleagues, sporadically stationed around the area with their remote controls at the ready and battalions hidden in the hedges. The audience themselves were however beginning to grow restless, so sensing further delays would only source to add to their present aggravation, and Penguin decided to get on with the affair in the hopes that Bookworm not being on time would mean either a rally cancellation or his gaining more votes, maybe both, and that way he wouldn’t even need Riddler to assist at all. He could push him down the stairs later for his inability, now was the time to put on a show.

Passing through the curtain backdrop, the two let it slide over their frames and fall to a stop as they got past, suddenly hit with a crisp afternoon breeze that had been blocked before, relaxing and reassuring to anyone else, almost nostalgic, but a feeling Penguin would not be forgetting in a hurry if this all went sour - maybe if he end up winning he could ban this particular kind of wind. How, he wasn’t sure, but with the way it was bothering him, he wouldn’t think twice given the chance.

Stepping up his convenient footstool, he readied himself at the podium, hands either side of the surface, and leaned forward to talk into the microphone, which, contrary to expected, didn’t make a sound. He frowned and tried it again, his volume slightly raised, the people’s impatient murmurs banished in favour of watching the bird make a fool of himself, before he finally snapped and yelled “TESTING!”, into the object. His volume would’ve been good enough alone to reach the back of the crowd, but still the speaker failed to comply.

Aside, Joker whispered, “Uh, Pengy?”

“What?”

“You need to turn it on.”

“...Oh. Blasted thing.”

He twisted the dial on and, upon leaning forward again to test it, smacked his big nose into the windscreen, broadcasting a horrible noise out through the speakers that had people clasping their ears and groaning. Penguin cursed. “At least the dratted thing works.”

Rubbing his injured beak, he began. “As you can all see, ladies and gentlemen, that snivelling, wriggle- uh, the Bookworm, has failed to rear his smart face and address you lovely people.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” came a smug voice from behind that had Penguin rolling his annoyed eyes up at the sky.

The Bookworm emerged, self-satisfaction at an all-time high. Corners of his mouth upturned, he took his place on the podium beside, and addressed those eagerly awaiting his thoughts, certainly more so than they’d been wanting the foul fiend’s.

“Fine citizens of Gotham, my people,” he lied blatantly, all that much was obvious to everyone but the voters, “If you were to check your watches, you will see that my opponent began his rally early, and did not appear at the agreed time. I still had a minute to be here, and yet I’ve arrived before this deadline. Good time management and security of your plans show initiative!”

Mumbles and rustling among the crowd suggested they’d done as told, found he was right, and, being the sheep they were, agreed with his ridiculous notions. Penguin had every right to be irritated, but he found himself far more put off by other details. “How come his microphone was working?” he hissed to his clownish police chief, who shrugged.

“I believe,” the competition went on, “that due to this callous misrepresentation of character, I should decide how everything goes ahead. Mr… Penguin-”

“Wehk.”

“...Mm. You may get on with your meaningless speech before myself.”

He stilled. That was not good. That was not good at all. He’d been first in yesterday’s events, which dictated that today’s would give Bookworm free reign of first place - in talking, that was, not on the board - which Penguin had thought would allow him plenty of extra time to stall and wait for Riddler and more pointers with that loose script. This meant he’d have to improvise. Without the assistance of someone who had gathered a lot of his popularity through word beforehand.

Prompted by a believing look from the Joker, he took the leap. “Gothamites… I promise to uphold the standards of this place as I always have… as I have been doing, anyway… and should I be lying, let wild animals tear apart my very-”

Stopping in the middle of his sentence, he realised he was unsure as to why he’d cut himself off, previous to his second realisation that he’d felt an odd pressure atop his foot. Expecting the jesting fool to have chosen now of all opportune times to have trodden on him, he looked down, ready to kick Joker off and scold him, only to come face-to-face with a-

“RAT!”

There was a moment where Penguin slipped, trying to kick the thing away, that nothing happened around them other than his receiving a plethora of strange looks in amongst raised brows. Another moment passed, and with the revelation that several members of the audience felt something crawling over their feet, they unfortunately discovered that the ground was infested with the things.

Chaos broke loose in an instant. A state of utter confusion and disorder followed suit, in which people ran around either trying to escape the plagued creatures or squash them under a shoe to no avail, only prompting further panic. Fear levels were through the roof, and so much was apparent by the lack of organisation and emotionally-driven movements. Penguin and Joker, in their hesitancy - or rather, not having considered it at all - to assist the distressed mob, had somehow clambered up the podium the best they could and were clinging to each other atop it to stay balanced on what little space it allowed for, desperate to get away from the unwelcome vermin.

On the other hand, the Bookworm was looking more placid and more ready than ever. And that only meant trouble in the long run. Calm as anything, he stepped forward and raised up a hand. “Gothamites, if I may have your attention, please do not panic. Your future mayor will curtail this egregiousness posthaste!”

That said, a gloved hand reached inside his suit and pulled out a flute-like object, lengthy, and one that took a little long to reveal. Not wasting any more time, he put it to his lips and blew through it, the sound that emerged stopping the mice in their tracks and flicking their direction toward him. An additional note had them all crowding together and making a beeline to the front of the stage, parting the fascinated, but still spooked, crowd as they went. Once where he wanted them, the Bookworm tooted the recorder once more, gesturing out to the pier that lay within viewing distance, and they all sharply turned at his command to make off for their target. At least, that was what it looked to be. Such focused eyes didn’t care to check around for any of the Bookworm’s associates and their remote controls, after all. Off the end of the pier the mice went, and down into the ocean below, ridding the people of the things that once terrorised them, appreciation exerted in endless amounts of cheers and praise for their saviour.

The man was a hero, and the slimy, knowing look he shot back at the cowering Penguin said everything it needed to say. The bird knew he’d lost.

“Thank you, thank you, all,” he accepted with a small bow, “I do believe that I have proven myself worthy of your time, and a tremendous potential leader.”

A sea of whoops of agreement sounded from every which direction. Bookworm smiled, disgustingly smug.

“May I take my turn to speak, now, Mr Penguin? You don’t have anything more to say, do you?”

Penguin wished he could whack him around the head with that umbrella, hard enough to knock those stupid glasses off his stupid face. Embarrassed and teeth gritted, he replied. “Go… ahead.”

“Thank you.”

As Bookworm made his way back to his place, Penguin and Joker became rather aware of the situation they’d wrangled themselves into, and tried to slip down from their safety spot as discreetly as possible, which was difficult when carrying out tough movements usually produced a “wehk” from habit.

“As I have said,” he continued, ignoring Penguin’s difficulty in bumbling down, knocking the microphone over, “I’ve proven I would be a trustworthy and capable leader, unlike my opposition, and that I put the public’s safety and wellbeing before anything else! And as such, there has been a terrible discovery I feel I must share with you all. One I uncovered whilst going through legal files this morning, and one that the current GCPD is trying to hide from you!”

“Do you think he found out about the rubber ducks?” Joker whispered.

“What?”

“Oh… nothing.”

“That unaptly-dubbed ‘hero’ you call Batman,” Bookworm revealed, “is actually a murderer.”

“What?!” Penguin and Joker jinxed.

The crowd gasped, and started up their murmurs again, debating whether or not they were to believe this jaw-dropping accusation at face value.

“I am sorry I have to be the one to reveal this, but it is true. I found documented files under lock and key of the Batman’s confession - a transcript of him admitting to such actions, and the police agreeing to let him go, and not only this, but to destroy the files at the earliest convenience! There is corruption afoot among the people who claim to protect you! And how can you trust them when they won’t tell you all? Just because this masked man has assisted them before and proved more useful than they ever could be? That is not justice! That is treachery!” From his suit, he produced another item, a book, Animal Farm, to anyone with good enough vision to see, “Treachery so diabolical, it is comparative to that of which within this very book!”

“I don’t believe it for a second,” Penguin muttered.

“Neither,” Joker agreed, “That bat’s too much of a square to do anything fun.”

Perhaps it was actually a good thing that Penguin had fortuitously knocked the microphone out of commission. More unfortunately, the onlookers had begun to whisper, and with the seed of lies planted in their heads and mouths running off with no restraint, a dark picture was beginning to be painted.

“And who, you may wonder, was the undeserving soul who fell victim to his cold-hearted, merciless deeds?” He paused for effect. “The only person around here who’s been working to try and keep things level, organised. The only person who vouched for me when I spoke to him. The Riddler.”

Horror filled the current mayor and police chief’s wide eyes, stunned to silence as their jaws went slack, everything around them including the people’s astonished exasperations faded into the background. It couldn’t be. Could it? Batman certainly wouldn’t have done it, even if he was dead, although the death was becoming scarily more likely every second that Riddler didn’t show passed. He’d rather die than to be late with his schedule, and maybe he had.

“You all saw in the newspapers how they were arguing! How our trusted reporter Miss Barren took pictures of the verbal brawl, showed the fiend’s lack of trust in his partner, and noted how violent Batman was when he thought no-one was there!”

“What news article?!” Penguin squawked.

Bookworm raised his brows in a way that sent a pang of fright through the other, telling him he was about to live to regret his little outburst.

“And the other candidate does not keep up with the news of our fair city…” he drifted off. “Answer me this, Gotham-” Considering the circumstances, a bitterly horrible choice of phrasing. “-is he really the sort of person you want to continue being your mayor?”

He’d been correct in his assumption, and was very much regretting it now with a pitiful “wehk…”

“As your future mayor, I promise you one thing that I will do when I am elected,” he announced, “will be to rid Gotham of this bat-creature!”

In a poorly put-together disguise, a figure almost identical to Squealer’s raised a hand. “Excuse me, Mr Future-Mayor, but are you sure you can take this felon down?”

“Deathly,” Bookworm grinned. “After all, as all the posters I created to disperse around the city say… the Bookworm is always right.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Bookworm.”

Spinning around to nothing, Bookworm scanned the surrounding area for a source of the low voice, only to register whatever it was must not be at eye level, causing him to slowly raise it, thoroughly braced, sight locking with the one man he didn’t want to see.

Cape flowing heroically in the wind, Batman stood atop the stage’s foundations, pose menacing to anyone who knew they’d done wrong, confident, ready, and waiting.

“What!” he cried, face void of colour, “I did not plan Wuthering Heights into this scheme!”

This uncharacteristically poor choice of words started whispers up again, and he held back a groan, instead focused on what the crusader was up to. Batarang hooked securely above, Batman let the sturdy batrope drop down the centre, and hauled himself down, sliding expertly until he reached the same polished wood the Bookworm stood elevated upon, free from stumbling.

Noticing the leather-hatted man was suitably intimidated, Batman couldn’t help but add: “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to lie, Bookworm? Or are you that much of an unreliable author?”

That set him off. Anger rushed to the surface, reddening his previously white cheeks, brows knitted, and tone offended. “Oouh, how dare you!” he vociferated, “How dare you talk about me like that! The future mayor!”

“Convict, more like,” Batman returned, reaching for his utility belt, “We’ve enough to put you away for a while. If you’ll come quietly.”

“Quietly? With a murderer? I should think not!” Turning slightly to look over his shoulder, he called to his goons. “Squealer! Ricely! Page nine, paragraph three, line one! Into action!”

Scrambling up onto the stage behind him with varying levels of difficulty, Squealer and Ricely followed orders, squared and ready to tackle. Naturally, Bookworm took this moment to slip out between them and hop off the stage itself out of harm and effort’s way, extending an arm to send the troops onward.

Upon his demanding they attack, the two darted forward, only for Batman to get the first punch in by extending both arms in a way that the idiots ran directly into both of his protected fists.

POW!

Recovering, Ricely went in for another swing, skillfully blocked by Batman’s grasp. He twisted Ricely’s arm painfully to disable the motion, before the batboot made contact with the man’s shin, propelling him away.

KICK!

Squealer’s turn was next, and he made the more sensible choice of trying to combat Batman’s powerful stance by running into his legs in an attempt to take him off his feet. Woefully for the portly man, Batman predicted the henchman’s move, and jumped backwards to throw him out of his groove, causing him to run into the taller’s leg and fall back onto the wood, wincing.

SPLAT!

Not allowing him a moment’s peace to rest, Batman hauled Squealer first to his feet, and then off of them, just in time to meet Ricely as he recovered from his blow, practically throwing the shorter into the brute, sending them both down like a couple of bowling pins, out for the count.

BAM!

“Fools!” Bookworm insulted, tense, “Get up! Don’t let him go!”

He soon changed the tune on the radio when he noticed that, with Joker having easily detained Lydia with a strong, but not painful, grasp on each arm, that left only one more person of the criminal outfit to be captured and dealt with. And he was not going to stick around to watch it happen.

Unprepared for physical combat, the man lacked the knowhow or capability to make a run for it, legs stiff in fear, and opted to instead back away as cautiously as he could, vision still locked upon the much taller, brawnier one. Begging was never a good option to be left with, but when you had no other choice, and the smarts to play it off as intellectualism, it was an incredibly useful tool.

“You wouldn’t hit a man with glasses, Batman.” It wasn’t a suggestion, but a statement. A fact.

“I wouldn’t,” Batman agreed, “I have something else planned for a depraved little devil like you.”

Understandably figuring that did not sound like it would end well, Bookworm backed up further, faster, not checking where he was going in a way that would prove fatal to his plan when the backs of his feet came up against an unexpected collision in the form of a rope pulled taut, sending him tripping backwards into a strategically-placed net, disguised to fit in with the leaves on the ground, immediately enclosing around him as the trap was yanked up to its full capacity, and stopped at its limit against a tall tree branch, leaving him swinging in its place, practically upside-down with his hat and glasses knocked askew, book discarded on the ground below.

“Oh, whaddya know, I guess two legs are bad,” a very pleased Riddler teased, locking the lever he’d set up to raise the net into place, “at least where simple trip traps are concerned, you understand.”

“You!” Bookworm hissed.

“Me,” Riddler echoed, almost yawning, “Let’s see how you like hanging up like that, shall we? Can you worm your way out?”

“You’re supposed to be- to have perished!”

“No thanks to you that I didn’t.”

“You-! Cannot treat me this abysmally!” he complained, struggling against the net.

“I think this is a light punishment for what you’ve been up to. And I don’t think Gothamites appreciate wind-up mice causing havoc, either.” Batman pointed out, joining the Riddler’s side.

“You can’t prove that. I sent those rascals into the water.”

“So you might’ve thought,” Riddler giggled, chuffed, “This little beauty here wasn’t the only net I crafted - the other is off the end of the pier. We caught every single one of your toys.”

“Such dastardly potential pollution,” Batman tutted, “All that plastic in our helpless oceans…”

Bookworm huffed. “Well. Fine, then. Perhaps they were fakes. But what man hasn’t staged a few things to sway votes in his favour? Morally questionable, yes, but setting those rodents free broke no law! There is nothing wrong with letting out some wind-up mice!”

“No, but try there being something wrong with attempted murder, forging money, and turning your library books in late.” With as much distaste as he could put into the phrase, Batman snatched the copy of Animal Farm from the ground and gave it a shake before Bookworm’s face, as though that were somehow the worst thing he’d done thus far. Riddler rolled his eyes.

“It’s my word against yours,” the worm threatened, “and you cannot prove the forgery.”

“We found fake money at your hideout.”

“Planted.”

“That’s interesting,” Riddler smiled, and Bookworm knew he’d been had, “because I made a little suggestion myself.”

The concern laced into Bookworm’s expression must’ve been obvious, as Batman wasted no time in explaining the entire situation, prompting by his partner’s set-up. “We cross-referenced the money with the posters you just admitted to creating and distributing in order to promote yourself. And they and the forgery paper came up an exact match.”

Riddler’s eyes feel half-lidded, but the know-all grin remained. “Even had to copy your own resources, didn’t you?”

He was completely, undeniably caught, and Bookworm was smart enough to know not only this fact, but that there was little to nothing he could say to save his own neck, even if that meant dumping a few of his goons in the process. So close, yet so far - and he couldn’t even still frame Batman for murder, as Riddler was there and very much alive. Frustrated and exasperated, he admitted defeat, and the crowd jumped to Batman’s side, having realised how awfully they’d been led on.

Just arriving next to the three, the Penguin chose this moment to capitalise. “And, ladies and gentleman, a vote for the Penguin is a vote for allowing Batman to remain!”

Another round of cheers. Bookworm scowled, and Penguin clasped his hands together, shaking them in self-congratulation to the same effect as if he’d won a special prize. Joker joined them next, actually showing some capability in his job description, as he had Lydia, Ricely, and Squealer trailing behind him on linked handcuffs, albeit ones that were painted in the colours of the rainbow and decorated with miniature pompoms and glitter. Whatever made him content to do his job right, Batman supposed.

Readying the final pair of cuffs for his arrest, Joker watched as Batman cut the net down with his trusty batknife, and lowered the orchestrator considerately carefully to the ground. Opening it up, Batman wrapped an hand around Bookworm’s upper arm, and pulled him to his feet, culminating in handing him off to the clown. Batman chose this moment to mention the caged dogs to the Joker, and as he wrangled Bookworm, he confirmed he and some men would pick them up after turning the goons in.

Bitter as the handcuffs clicked around the nerd’s wrists, he spat. “And I suppose Batman is always right, in contrast?"

“Not always, Bookworm,” Batman replied, modest and self-aware, “I’m human just like anyone else here, and I, too, make mistakes.” He waited a moment before he added something, giving Riddler a significant look. “Particularly in judgement.”

Riddler smiled back, and Batman would’ve spent longer in the moment if he didn’t feel that the people gathered around them needed a last little form of address.

“Though one thing I think we may learn from this is that I’m sure the current mayor will be allowing non-penguin books back in all the libraries.”

Looking a little guilty, Penguin begrudgingly nodded. “Wehk…”

-

“Fabulous job, Batman, as much as I hate to admit it,” Penguin congratulated, immensely pleased, “I never doubted you and the Riddler for a second.”

Joker took this moment to hold out his hand expectantly, only for Penguin to grumble and smack a twenty-dollar bill into his grasp.

“Well, thank you for your… belief, Penguin,” Batman said a little unsurely. “I take it everything is to your liking now that you’ll likely be safe for another term?”

“Oh, capital!” he confirmed, “I should’ve done this politician stuff years ago, it’s easy!”

“You can say that again,” Joker added, “Being friends with the mayor gets me out of a lot of scrapes, I tell you! Oo-hahaha!”

Batman drew his mouth into a thin line to prevent his instinctual reaction of explaining how no-one was in fact above the law, but if he wanted to make his plan to get Linseed back in the long-run, then he had to try and get the man in charge to let his guard down.

“That is correct, my friend,” Penguin directed his words at the Joker, removing his cigarette holder, “stick with me and we’ll go far.”

Batman didn’t like the sound of that.

Moving on swiftly, Penguin announced. “Ah, now, I do believe it’s time for one of my meetings - if you’ll accompany me, Mr Joker?”

“Certainly I will, Pengy.”

With a few more parting remarks, Joker opened the door for the Penguin to waddle out of and followed him swiftly, bidding the two one last goodbye before they made their leave. Alone in the room with Batman, Riddler pushed his deskchair back some, allowing him to more comfortably lean his head against his folded hands.

“Was there a point to the way you did that?”

“How do you mean?”

Riddler held back a giggle. “Dropping down from the top of the stage. It was a bit extravagant.”

“It also scared them,” Batman reasoned, “and getting them off-guard is the best way to win a fight.”

This time, the greener found it harder to withhold his humour and a laugh slipped through his lips. “Oh, you just wanted to feel cool.”

“Riddler…” he warned, not exactly denying the allegation.

“Okay, okay!” he snickered, all in good fun, briefly breaking eye-contact as a pregnant silence followed, and then he piped up again, less amused, but controlled in tone.

“I do apologise things haven’t turned out exactly the way you wanted them, Batman,” he remarked, “I know you’d rather Gordon back.”

A pause.

“There are… some benefits to having you here, Riddler.”

Perking up cheekily, he quipped, “Like I actually do work?”

A small laugh followed - Batman couldn’t exactly deny the allegation because on one case, Riddler had proven himself more productive and useful to his crimefighting than Gordon and O’Hara had in years.

“Something like that, yes.”

“Regardless,” Riddler went on, fully leaning back in his chair, boredom clear in his expression, “I imagine you’ll be off now that the others have left. You’re a busy man, you’ve probably plans.”

“I do indeed.” Suppressing a smile, Batman answered, knowing the look on the other’s face would be entirely worth it when he was told. “I believe I owe you a milkshake.”