Chapter Text
To The Batman,
‘What walks on two legs at dawn, one-thousand and two at noon, and can no longer walk at dusk?’
I found that carved into my mattress today. I didn’t even notice until I felt the springs dig into my spine; you’d think an Asylum wouldn’t have beds with springs in them. You’d also think they’d take knives away from their more dangerous criminals, but it wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong. I was wrong about you, it seemed.
I will not ask you what we are, but instead I will ask you what we could have been. What happened? Can’t you shove this brand new holier-than-thou attitude back to the depths from whence it came? You and I know better than anyone that we live in the midst of Gotham, our own beautiful, vulnerable shitshow, and without people like us, good people get hurt. Bad people get away. Did I not orchestrate my deeds for a noble cause? Why do you get the chance to be good after all you’ve done, especially when you’re just like me?
Well, perhaps not exactly like me. You’re not in Arkham.
Back to my point, I’d like to warn you about the Joker. Mr. John Doe himself. I’m sure you’re aware of who and what he is, what he’s done to the people of our city, but to get so close to him is like the world’s greatest puzzle. I see him across the dining hall sometimes, chained to his throne of steel and lies, smiling, laughing in that rancorous, mad way that makes me think I don't belong here; then again, I’ve been told that no madman believes he’s insane, but I digress. He sees me, too. That’s the problem.
I think he knows. I don’t know how he knows, but he does. I see you on the television in passing, but he and his lackeys seem to have a superhuman ability to get on my head. I’ll ask a question and someone halfway across the room will answer. It makes me paranoid, but at the same time, he hasn’t hurt me. We’ve never spoken, nor have I held a real conversation with his Insane Clown Posse, and yet I can’t help but feel drawn to him. His appeal is magnetizing in a place like this, someone so powerful with such a huge following. He would protect me, I’m sure of it.
I think he wants me, too.
I don’t like the way he looks at me. He smiles too much, even if I know it’s indicative of his history. It’s his aposematism: the pink of his gums just scream ‘danger!’ in a way that you can’t ignore, and if you still get close enough to touch, then it’s your own fault. This threat has to be from him, I’m sure of it, especially when it’s punctuated with that little smile, but how can I stay away from something so beautiful? I can’t help but be the moth to his flame. He’s so bright. His teeth shine. The fire in his soul glows so much brighter than anything else in this Asylum. Would you hand me over to him if I asked, Batman? Would you let such a devious man, everything we stood against, take your former partner as his own if it meant his safety and protection in a place so similar to the fires in which he was forged?
It’s too late for you to answer. I’ve already accepted his bait of friendship, and if my emotional haze allows me to remember it correctly, I was happy to have it. What you’ve done to me has wounded me so deeply that I’ve sacrificed my morals for the sake of camaraderie; when I look at this man, wicked beyond my wildest dreams, I know that my work will be valued. There’s always the risk that he could run me through while howling with laughter, but I think that’s a risk I’m willing to take. What other choices do I have?
In all honesty, I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t excited. I’m in mourning, if that’s not obvious, and to have someone at my side is so relieving. I would have let you dry my tears, or for that matter, anyone else could have. Call me weak, but being shown a bit of kindness means the world to me, and the Joker just so happened to be the first one there. He needed what I had; tell me, Batman, what does the Joker want that the Riddler has, the very same thing that a rich man needs, a poor man has, and will kill you if you eat it?
Absolutely nothing.
The selfless nature of humanity can be beautiful, can’t it?
I’m still scared. I feel betrayed, but I would take you back in a heartbeat if it meant I never had to get close enough for that knife to mar my skin any further than those springs already have. For now, though, I’ll be his, and I’ll adore every second of it. I hope you don’t mind. You didn’t seem to appreciate the same offer.
Regards,
The Riddler
Edward Nashton.
P.S. They refused to give me any greeting cards to make this letter with. It lacks my flair. I apologize for how bland this is. They also made me sign like that. I’m going to die here.
-
Bruce was fairly sure that letter wasn’t ever meant to reach him.
Nevermind the fact that he wasn’t technically the intended recipient, even if he was still sitting underneath Wayne Manor with all of his Batman regalia on, it was to his understanding that Arkham didn’t send out letters to people without looking them over first. No envelope would be sealed without first being checked over by a guard, then a therapist, and then god knows who else before actually making it to the right place. The letter in his hand, however, still signed in the Riddler’s hand with the same garish ‘To The Batman’ plastered on the front, was a declaration of war. There was no way that thing made it through the correct procedures to get to him, and yet here it was.
Sighing, he removed the cowl and gloves from his suit and set the letter aside for a moment to rub his face. He could feel the dirt and sweat searing his eyes from the instant he touched them, but the burn wasn’t all that unpleasant. It was something after a day like that, that was for damn sure, and when he opened his eyes again, he spotted something on the envelope, barely there, right on the corner, just a little splotch of white.
Clown paint.
He would have been told if the Joker had gotten out of Arkham, but if one of his cronies had gotten in so that they could take the Riddler’s letter, then he may have been kept out of the loop. He’d only been working closer to the sun for a little while now, and he knew damn well that not a soul in that building trusted him, staff or patient alike. It was unmistakable, at least, and the sudden realization that the Joker, and by extension, the Riddler, could likely find a way to escape at any moment…
Yeah, alright. Playdate over.
It was for the best, but Bruce couldn’t stand his new creed. It kept him from slinking off in the shadows and remaining silent so often, and when cameras were constantly on him, it was harder to keep a lower profile. Further still, where was one supposed to start? As the Batman, there were ways that he could change his methods, but change wouldn’t come for a while. As Bruce Wayne, he could do whatever he damn well pleased to rebuild the world around him, and yet that wouldn’t help ease his conscience with what happened. He had to stop being vengeance for a while, and he had no idea where to begin in a way that was immediate. He knew he was looking for gratification. It was hard to care.
Maybe, though, he could kill two birds with one stone. Dos Ratas Alatas , Riddler may have said, but instead of hurting others, he could fix what he had never had the foresight to consider. To this day, he knew that the incident wasn’t his fault, nor the aftermath of his father’s death, but in the wake of all that, they had both accidentally left people behind. They’d left the Riddler behind, long before the idea of bombings and murders were even conceived in that too-innocent head of his. He couldn’t start in every corner of Gotham, but maybe he could pick out somewhere to begin.
The phone connected after two rings. “Arkham Asylum, please state your business.”
“I’d like to know who to speak to about sponsoring Edward Nashton.”