After that brush with dignity, back to Batman.

[seiberwing]

Title: Solve Me
Fandom: Batman (1960s TV Show)
Characters: Riddler, Batman, OC
Warnings: Depression, discussion of suicide.
Summary: “What is the question every man asks and every man will solve, but no one can tell the answer to?”
Author’s Note: And my descent into depravity continues. Unsure where this fits in relation to my other two fics. One could consider it separate, or consider Riddler an unreliable narrator to correct any inconsistencies.


If you asked Batman what his favorite thing about Gotham was, the list would start with "the fine, upstanding, noble people of this fair city" and continue on for about ten pages. But buried somewhere in there, to the surprise of most, would be the Gotham State Penitentiary. True, it held the worst of Gotham, the forgers and killers and thieves, but it was also a place of healing. Compared to the disgusting prisons of only several decades past, it was clean, hygienic, and humane. The warden's new techniques had given Gotham one of the lowest recidivism rates in the country and it wasn’t unheard of for Bruce Wayne to go to a charity party and meet some happy law-abiding citizen he’d first met as Batman. Batman couldn't say he enjoyed visiting the place but he appreciated its existence.

He left Robin in the Batmobile outside the GSP’s gates and went into the prison offices alone. The guards tipped their hats in his presence, a gesture that always made him feel a little uncomfortable. He was as much a civil servant as they were.

Waiting at the door was a man in the costume of a harried academic, complete with thick rimmed glasses and a small dagger of a dark beard. He was wringing his hands but managed to put in a welcome smile and hearty handshake for the Caped Crusader. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Batman. I’m Heinrich Battenburg, I’m one of the psychologists here at the penitentiary.” His accent was German, most likely from the Bavarian region. Not a Gotham native but his English was clear and colloquial enough to give him at least a decade in the country. And something was deeply worrying him. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know what a busy man you must be.”

Batman waved his concerns aside with one hand. “It’s my pleasure. The call Warden Crichton made to Commissioner Gordon said it was important but he couldn’t elaborate for me.” Just said that it hadn’t involved escape plans or future crimes and that they’d prefer Robin wasn’t involved. And that it was a very time-sensitive request.

“I asked Crichton keep this as discreet as possible. It’s a rather unusual matter. Please, come upstairs with me.”

Batman gave Battenburg a crowd-pleasing smile. “Unusual matters are my business,” he said as Battenburg led him up to the medical wing. “But I thought Dr. Wertham was the GSP’s criminal psychologist.” One of the warden’s theories on penal reform was that many criminals were motivated by mental illness and that in curing the illness one cured the criminal tendencies. It was a good idea when it worked.

“He’s been working on a side project lately, some paper he’s writing about children and comic books. I was hired to take up some of the slack in the patient load.” Batman noted the weariness of Battenburg’s posture, the threadbare suit jacket given only the most cursory of attention, and the unique creases that indicated he’d probably slept in the pants he’d worn to work that morning. It seemed he hadn’t so much taken up the slack as grasped the rope with both hands and pulled as hard as he could.

Battenburg’s office was warm, welcoming, decorated with soothing paintings, and completely devoid of sharp objects. He leaned on his desk and removed his glasses, fiddling nervously with one of their arms. His voice was lowered, even though it was clear no one else was listening. “The other part of the reason I asked that Crichton not be specific is that I wasn’t sure you’d come if I told you the truth. My request concerns one of your former foes…specifically, the man who you would know best as the Riddler.”

Oh boy, did Batman know him. “You think he’s suffering from some mental disease? It’s not an impossible hypothesis.” It was hard to tell the insane from the simply bizarre around Gotham.

"It’s no mere hypothesis." Dr. Battenburg took out a handkerchief and began cleaning his glasses so hard he nearly popped the lens out of its frame. "I wouldn't have bothered you but I’m beginning to run out of options."

"What do you mean?"

Battenburg gestured with his glasses to a bookshelf of medical texts and South American carved figurines. "You are aware, with your master's knowledge of the legal system, of the concept of doctor-patient confidentiality. But you are also aware that I am not only allowed but required to break it if I feel my patient is a clear danger to himself or others."

Batman felt a growing sense of dread. The Riddler was often more playful than destructive, at least in comparison to the rest of the bizarre gang of supercriminals, but his idea of play could be very, very dangerous. He nodded to encourage Battenburg to continue. Best to be soothing and let the good doctor think he’d have everything under control.

"We had our weekly session this morning. He wasn’t as chatty as usual, though I tried to encourage him to open up. He's often recalcitrant when he feels that he's been insulted or that I'm too stupid to grasp what he's saying.” Battenbug replaced his glasses and seemed to brace himself for the next part of his statement. “Today he broke the silence by announcing that he'd thought of fifteen different ways to kill himself with what I had on my desk, but that he was too weary to do so at the moment. And that the one with the paperweight might take too much effort. I don’t think he was joking."

Batman’s eyes widened in shock. “You think he means it?” he asked, aghast. “That’s not a threat I’d expect of him. He’s very attached to himself.” Riddler was always such a joyous imp when Batman went up against him, the thought that he’d take his own life was unbelievable.

"My esteemed colleague Dr. Wertham believes that he's simply looking for attention and that by indulging his threat we're only giving in to what he wants." The way Battenburg said his esteemed colleague's name through his teeth indicated how little he thought of his opinions. "In my reckoning, if a man's desperate enough for attention to threaten suicide I'd say he needs that attention very badly. And should he be telling the truth...you know how clever he is and how often he manages to escape these walls. If he should set himself with purpose to an even greater escape there would be little we could do to stop him."

“But why? When he was arrested he seemed…well, not happy, but not like this.” Certainly Riddler had very emphatic about how he’d ‘be back’, as was normal at the end of their meetings. If he’d been treated poorly here Batman would have to have some very strict words with a few people. Possibly accompanied by very strict lawyers.

“He could be living in a penthouse with room service and it wouldn’t change a thing. The Riddler’s mind is sick, though perhaps not in the way Dr. Wertham imagines.” Battenburg ran his fingers over his beard, his voice growing even graver. “Imagine that you go through life wearing tinted glasses but believing you’re only wearing clear ones. It doesn’t matter what you’re looking at, everywhere you go you see darkness and you refuse to hear anyone tell you otherwise. The world is dull and harsh, and even the effort of existing can seem too painful a burden to bear.”

Batman’s attention turned towards a small jumble of wooden blocks on one of Battenburg’s bookshelves. A little toy puzzle, now for ornamentation rather than mental stimulation. “He hides it well, if that’s true.” A more passionate man you couldn’t find in Gotham City. If the lawabiding citizens took as much joy in their pursuits as he took in his crimes the world would be a far merrier place. Batman always considered it a shame that the Riddler’s glee and genius couldn’t be turned towards the side of good.

“Which is why I’ve had such trouble convincing Wertham to let me seek outside help. The Riddler isn’t always like this, it’s in the nature of the sickness. When you meet him a different sort of madness has taken him, one that sets him on fire rather than crushing him beneath its weight. This prison has seen him both ways, and from what I’ve read of his file it’s like meeting two different men. Both of them want attention…one wants fame, but I think the other just wants someone to help pull him out of the well.” Battenburg spread his hands helplessly. "I realize asking you to aid one of your enemies is a little presumptuous, but at least-"

Batman didn’t let him finish. "Let me talk to him."

He ignored the slurs and heckling as he was led through the penitentiary. Familiar faces, many of them, repeat customers of his fists and cuffs. Some of them even gave him cheerful greetings as if he were an old friend. Batman wasn’t sure which was stranger, the crooks who treated crime as a game or the ones who treated it like a timeclock factory job.

After Riddler’s idle comment Battenburg had requested the archcriminal be taken out of general population and put in a private cell where it would be easier to keep an eye on him. The penitentiary wasn’t used to dealing with this kind of situation, and Battenburg mostly wanted him secure and contained until the great hero of Gotham could make everything better. As Battenburg admitted, the next step up would be a formal suicide watch or possibly a mental hospital, and that was if he could convince the administration to care about the idle threats of a convicted felon in the first place. And the humiliation would do little for the Riddler’s self-destructive tendencies.

Behind the steel door of solitary confinement Riddler was splayed out on a cot, one leg dangling aimlessly over the edge. He was in the usual dingy prison clothes but they seemed bright compared to the dulled, almost annoyed expression on his usually-gleeful face as he stared at the ceiling. A bored guard was sitting across from him reading a newspaper, occasionally flicking down the sports section to make sure his charge hadn’t done anything foolish. Both looked up as Batman entered, the guard with mild relief at something to break up the monotony and the Riddler with absolute horror.

"No! No, not him, anyone but him!" Riddler yanked the blanket up over his head, cowering like a recalcitrant child. “Go away!” he howled. “Go drown yourself in acid, go fall on a switchblade umbrella! Anywhere, just go! Someone get this useless moralizing fool out of here!”

Batman could read Riddler’s thought processes as easy as his riddles. Don’t look at me like this. Not beaten and hopeless. Not you, of all people.

Batman turned to the guard, using his best stalwart everything-is-all-right-citizen voice. “Why don’t you take a break? I’ll make sure he doesn’t…try anything.” They didn’t need any witnesses for this. Illness was a private matter.

“If you want to put up with his whining.” The guard rolled his eyes and tucked his newspaper under his arm. “You’d think a guy who likes attention wouldn’t mind being stared at for two hours.”

“We’re alone now,” Batman said when the heavy door had slammed shut again. He sat down in the folding chair the guard had left behind, voice lowered to a more kindly tone.

“Not alone enough,” said the blanket. “Why are you here, to gloat? Flap off! Go hang upside down off a tall building.”

Batman gave the archcriminal his space. There was a distinct difference in Riddler’s voice from the one that usually dealt out riddles and threats, a sort of unsettling flatness behind his harsh words. A different man, the psychologist had said. The change was chilling. “Not to gloat. I spoke to Dr. Battenburg, he’s worried about you.”

“Horrible busybody,” grumbled Riddler, huddling up tighter underneath his shield. “You make one little joke and suddenly everyone treats you like a china figurine about to fall off the shelf. You’d think this was a nursery instead of a prison. Besides, he’s more worried about his job than me. How would it look if a patient offed himself? Hah, might do it just to spite him.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“I don’t recall asking your permission!”

Batman listened to the harsh, angry breathing from beneath the blanket. He felt like some bizarre zoologist, a scholar well-studied in the behavior of the wild supercriminal now monitoring its psychology in captivity. Of course Riddler would hate to be watched as he was now. He wanted to be a genius god among men, not a wing-clipped broken little mortal who people were rushing to protect from himself.

“Riddle me this,” Riddler said, face still pressed to his knees. The phrase usually came coupled with an eager giggle. Now the Prince of Puzzlers just sounded tired. “What is the question every man asks and every man will solve, but no one can tell the answer to?”

“Riddler-”

“If you’re going to come down here and harass me you could at least do me the courtesy of answering my riddles.”

Poor devil. “The question of what lies after death,” Batman said reluctantly. “But why?”

Even with his worst enemies it hurt for Batman to see someone else in pain. His close companions had always found his boundless empathy strange, especially given his work with the most foul of Gotham’s rogues. Perhaps it was some malfunction of his own mind, an inability to not feel the slightest of another’s agony in the sharpest detail, but it wasn’t something he was eager to erase. Not when the darker thoughts were already so loud.

The blanket shook its fuzzy blue head. “Because there’s no point anymore. What have I done with my life, nothing. A bunch of fruitless heists and pointless self-sabotaging riddles. I’m not even that good at it.” He sounded halfway dead already. “You should know that better than anyone.”

“But you adore riddles,” Batman said, aghast. “You once said life wasn’t worth living without them.”

“And I was right. I don’t want riddles and I don’t want to live anymore. So go away, I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.” The blanket slipped, exposing the back of Riddler’s bowed head. Out of his suit and out of his element he looked distressingly vulnerable.

Batman pondered his next move. So much of his strategy against Riddler involved getting into his head and detangling the twisted logic that connected his riddles to reality, but this was a puzzle he’d never come up against. He wasn’t sure this was even a man he’d come up against.

“There must be some bright spot in your life,” he said, trying to encourage Riddler back towards the light.” You were a comedian before you turned to crime, weren’t you?” Not a half bad one, as Batman recalled, but not a famous one. He’d become the Riddler when the stage had not given him the attention he desired. “What did you use as inspiration?”

Riddler finally laughed. It was bitter and loud, making the cell ring with his derision of the world. “This. All of this. What’s comedy but making fun of the horrific mess that is life? Riddles and puzzles keep your mind busy so you don’t have to focus on what’s going on around you, and jokes help you forget how bad it is. Slapstick’s just assault that’s people laugh at. Ha. Ha. Ha.” The laugh slowed and silenced like a car running out of gas, until his voice was cold and sharp as steel. “And when your routine grows stale, it’s time to move on and let someone else take the stage.”

Batman had studied the Riddler’s past career in an attempt to better understand his motivations, but come up empty when trying to examine his personal life. It had been the one thing Riddler refused to discuss, even with other prisoners or the themed minions he hired to do his bidding. Batman had often wondered if there was some tragic secret in his past that had led him down the dark path of evil. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” he said softly. “You’ve got so much of life to see, things to laugh at. Riddles to…riddle.” It was uncomfortable having to promote criminal activity but it seemed to be the thing Riddler enjoyed above all. Once he’d coaxed him back from the edge they could talk about rehabilitation.

“Why do you care? I’ve tried to kill you god knows how many times. How would the world not be better off without me?” The blanket fell away completely as the Riddler turned to face him with hard eyes, one knee on the cot. “How can you not hate me, of all people?” he hissed. “I’m your worst enemy!”

A bit presumptuous. Batman thought most of his foes could share that title, but then again criminals never liked to share. “It isn’t a matter of what you’ve done to me,” he said, insistent on this of all points. “You’re a human being. Your life has value, no matter what you’ve done.”

Riddler sneered. This was slightly more of what Batman was used to, a man full of energy and unusual sitting positions. His arm snapped out to point at the Caped Crusader. “If I repent, yes, but I have no intention of doing so!”

“All lives are of value,” Batman repeated. It was his highest principle.

Riddler bundled the blanket up and threw it at him. A half-millisecond was devoted to trying to dodge before rationality calmed Batman down again. Not a net or a bomb. Just a blanket. A dangerous world made one twitchy.

“What does it take to make you hate me?” Riddler screamed. He gripped the bars of the cot with one hand, as if restraining himself from leaping for Batman’s throat. “How do you work? No one is that noble, no one! You are not human!”

Batman leaned forward and set his fingers together, refusing to react to Riddler’s act of violence. “Would you mind if I told you a short story?” he asked.

Riddler twisted around again, presenting Batman with his apathetic back. “Only a short one, nanny. I’m due for my nap.”

Batman drew in a long breath. It was a risk, letting this out to his enemy. Even the slightest bit of information could be used against him and his. But to save a life one had to be willing to risk everything. “It’s about a close friend of mine. When he was a child his parents were murdered by a mob hitman. He had been a happy child until then, and in one moment his entire world, everything he knew and loved, was destroyed by someone who didn’t even know his name. That sort of thing is enough to break any child but the boy pulled through. He trained his body and mind to become a force against crime, and when he was old enough he set out to find the man who had ruined his life.”

Even with his back sullenly turned it was clear that Riddler’s ears were perking up. Depressed or not, the man couldn’t resist a good mystery.

“The hitman had never gone to jail for his crimes. He was retired and living happily on his illgotten salary, with grandchildren on the way. When the young man confronted him all the hitman had to say was…it was just business. He hadn’t seen them as people, just targets. The murders hadn’t been anything personal to him. I suppose you can understand why the young man would be filled with a near-insatiable urge to simply…” Batman circled his fingers in the air. “Take matters into his own hands.” It had come dangerously close. “But he’d had guidance from a mentor who knew that justice doesn’t come at the point of a knife or a gun, one that knew that dismissing any human life as worthless only leads down the path of destruction. If anyone is written off as irredeemable and inhuman then another one can be, and another, and then the killing never stops. When you break one law the others will all seem weak and useless. The young man stayed his hand-he took the hitman to jail and left it at that.”

“And let me guess, that little boy was you,” Riddler sneered.

Close. Batman’s smile was bittersweet. “It was Robin.”

Riddler’s lanky, sullen frame tensed up. He turned to peek over his shoulder, accidentally shedding his mask of indifference. “He always did seem such an angry child. I’d wondered.” Still that pretense to not giving a care for Batman’s opinions, but it was getting flimsier.

“Robin is one life I’ve managed to save. He never went down that black road and if that’s all I do with my time as a crimefighter that will be enough.”

“He hits harder than you, you know. You pull your punches and he puts his weight into them. It’s quite funny, actually.” Riddler’s eyes were wandering the room, as Batman had often seen him do when he had some huge idea brewing in his mind. Excellent. Anything to get his mind off that riddle.

“I’ve been working on training him to stay his hand when full force isn’t necessary. Perhaps Robin doesn’t share my empathy, but then again I don’t think anyone else does. You said I wasn’t human. I’m certainly as much a human being as the rest of the population but perhaps I’m a little abnormal. I set a good example because the alternative is unthinkable, I hold myself to a higher standard than even Commissioner Gordon and Chief O’Hara. And even I…” This conversation had gotten lost somewhere. He’d been trying to force his principled view onto someone whose mind was trying fervently to destroy its owner and in the process slipped into discussing his own monsters without noticing he’d done it. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’m being too charitable. If I couldn’t better help the world by taking my resources and my skills and…”

Riddler finished his thought by making a sideways slice across his own throat. “Taking a little justice into your own hands?” he asked, a lopsided morbid grin on his face.

Batman was forced to agree with the crude gesture. “Exactly.”

Riddler gave a scornful shrug. “So what? I’ve never been afraid of what you thought.”

“Perhaps I’ve been in your shoes more than you think.”

Riddler laughed again, now triumphant and superior. “Don’t tell me the great Batman’s thought of killing himself. Now there would be a prize joke.”

Now that Batman had let one secret out the rest came tumbling out unbidden, like a prison break from his brain. It was a thought he couldn’t possibly express to his loved ones or the people who relied on him to be a paladin when they faltered. If they began to doubt him they might doubt the ideas he held and he couldn’t let that happen. But to a criminal who already had reason to distrust and hate him, well, who could believe a criminal’s word? They detested Batman for his ability to cling to justice in the face of adversity. What good would maintaining his image do in front of them?

And if he didn’t let it out to someone he was going to burst. Batman bent his head and put his fingers on the forehead of his mask. “I’ve thought about killing you.”

Riddler stared, and then recoiled a few feet backwards on the cot. His lips parted as he struggled to come up with some clever phrase to rebut that that didn’t consist entirely of ‘But you’re Batman.’ The man for whom hope sprung eternal. The man whose devotion to justice went down to even the tiniest of regulations and no parking zones. It was an image carefully cultivated, a code followed without hesitation…but not without doubts.

“You, or the Sandman, or the Queen of Diamonds, anyone who’s threatened the city I care about and the people I love. It’s why I never carry a gun. One little twitch of a finger, one moment of bad judgment and it’s something you can never take back. A gun makes it all so simple.”

Unlike Robin he had never found the man who’d killed his parents. He’d often speculated on what had been going through the man’s mind when he’d left a ten year old boy kneeling in his parents’ blood, what little Bruce Wayne would have seen if he’d lifted his head to look at the expression on the mugger’s face. Had he regretted it and made the murders the catalyst of a lifestyle change, or had he taken Bruce’s mother’s jewelry and carried on his career with a clear conscience? Batman was optimistic but he wasn’t an idiot.

Riddler looked almost as pale as the white concrete of the floor. Batman began regretting his slip of the brain. “I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he said, ready to stand and make for a speedy escape in the Batmobile. He hadn’t even told Alfred, though he suspected the butler might have guessed it. Alfred was far more perceptive than most gave him credit for. And to Riddler? He’d gotten the man worked up and passionate, he should just leave now. Cogitating on that would distract Riddler’s attention for a long time yet.

“No, you really shouldn’t.” Riddler was now at the end of his cot and seemed about to try crawling into the concrete wall of his cell. One hand was curled up in front of his terrified face, his teeth firmly set into the skin of his forefinger. Batman felt like a horrible person for bringing the matter up in the first place. He wanted to nudge him away from crime but not by making him fear for his life.

Just as Batman’s gloved fingers touched the cell door Riddler spoke up again. His voice was as timid as an impassioned, arrogant man like him could keep it. “You’d off me, just like that?”

Batman whirled, cape sweeping around him and hitting the wall with a soft thwock. “I would never,” he insisted, though his raised voice only made Riddler cringe back further. “Never, I swear it. But the thoughts are there…the thoughts bother me.” Batman slipped back onto the chair, hands folded before him. This time his voice was softened not by a nurturing need but by shame. “You know the kind of resources I have at my disposal, and the loyalty I have from the police and the mayor. I could get away with it. So I chase the idea around and around. I can’t let it loose but I can’t stop it either.”

“You care deeply for me and yet you’re worried about wanting to kill me.” Riddler set his chin on his knee, peering at Batman over the closed fist against his lips. “I’m not the best judge of these things, but perhaps you should see a doctor.” He lifted a finger, grinning with mock glee and every word dripping with acid. “Or try some of their delightful little pills! Wertham calls them mental painkillers. They take all the bad thoughts away-and the good ones. Nothing but a numb, smiling shell ambling through life. Doesn’t it sound appealing?” Battenburg had mentioned Riddler’s bitterness at the thought of treatment. It made sense for someone so attached to his own mind to cling to it even when it sought desperately to destroy him.

Batman shook his head. Though yes, it did. “It would ruin my worth as a crimefighter, as much as it would ruin yours as a master criminal.” Ah, there was that little hidden smirk. Riddler counted himself as complex but indulging his attention was a guaranteed way to reel him in. “I don’t like what goes through my head but if I can’t think properly I conduct myself as if I do. Otherwise there really would be no point.”

Riddler rearranged himself, legs crossed as he leaned back on his arms. He seemed to have gotten over his prior fear in favor of curiosity. Catwoman would approve. “Speaking of points, what’s yours?” he asked, raising an idle eyebrow. “If you have one in telling me all this it’s completely failed to pierce me. I’m a prince, not a priest.”

The fact that he was referring to himself by his title was itself heartening. Batman favored him with a smile. “You’re not the only one who struggles with demons. I understand what it’s like.”

Riddler raised his head defiantly. “You want to kill. I just want to die. You don’t know a thing about it.”

“Do you want to want to die? That is, do you like feeling this way?”

A considering frown. “Well, it’s never been a life goal,” Riddler had to admit.

“If I were to raise my hand in anger, to kill or maim a criminal no matter how foul their crimes it would be the death of Batman. I would no longer be a symbol of justice, just anger and vengeance. For the sake of Gotham, for the sake of everything I stand for I must follow my principles.” Riddler had said he wasn’t human. In a way perhaps it was true, or at least he’d strived to make it so. Humans reacted in anger, they sought revenge and held grudges. The Batman could not have the luxury of the same.

“Batman, the sacrificial lamb of Gotham,” Riddler mused, two fingers pressed to his lips. “It must hurt.” The smile stayed on his lips. Taking pleasure in Batman’s pain, or finally starting to be pierced by the point?

“There are bright spots.” Robin beside him. Alfred’s small smiles. Aunt Harriet’s bumbling but good-hearted affections. A hearty handshake from Gordon and O’Hara. The voice of a little boy declaring that Batman had inspired him to become a better person. “But when there aren’t, my principles keep me going.”

“And what’s my reason? I’m a criminal, you know. No strong motives that you’d care for me to have. I have no principles, just a-” And here Riddler adopted a formal, disdainful accent that gave Batman a distinct idea of what Dr. Wertham must sound like. “A depraved need for attention that manifests itself in compulsive riddles and criminality, as well as other socially unacceptable behavior. Utterly incurable because he has no desire to be cured.” His voice dropped to normal. “I can’t be redeemed. So what is the point in keeping me from taking my leave? It wouldn’t be by your hand and so it wouldn’t be your responsibility.”

Batman leaned back and steepled his fingers, a pose that Riddler mockingly imitated. He was again smirking but Batman had stared down that smirk too many times to miss the nervousness marring the smug tilt of his lips.

Well, then. Go on, Caped Crusader. Solve me. Save me.

Batman had packed his brain full of knowledge and trivia, down to the smallest item he could get his hands on. No telling when a knowledge of bullfighting techniques or musical physics might save the city from destruction. One had to prepare oneself even for the impossible things. Batman stared deep into Riddler’s eyes and pulled out everything he’d found of him from the organized filing cabinet of his mind. The riddle always had an answer, that was one of Riddler’s rules. No riddle was impossible.

“You were a four-time chess champion, I believe?” he asked cautiously. Two in high school, one state and one regional adult competition, placed second in the national. That much of the Riddler could be found in public record.

Riddler tilted his head, wanting to see where Batman was going with this. “Five, if we count the Claremont Hotel caper.” He’d entered under a false name, beaten every competitor with ease, and used the awards ceremony as an opening to steal the diamond necklace of the heiress about to hand him the trophy. “Why do you bring it up?”

Every one of Riddler’s puzzles was a careful gamble for Batman. If he was wrong a fortune in precious goods might be at stake, or a priceless artifact, or the safety of one of his citizens. Here a life hung in the balance and all Batman could do was pray he got the right answer.

“I’m not good at keeping social engagements,” he said, speaking with the same caution one might use when walking across a minefield. “Something always comes up. Egghead wants to scramble the minds of an entire academics’ conference, Joker poisons the water supply, a man in a minstrel costume tries to use resonance to destroy the largest building in Gotham. One thing after the other with no break for a lazy Sunday afternoon.” He ran his fingers over the bridge of his mask’s nose. “Schedules aren’t really possible. But if nothing comes up, nothing that threatens Gotham City and its people…I promise on my honor as a crime fighter I will come and play chess with you next week. If you’re here next week.”

Riddler folded himself up again. “To soothe your own conscience?” he asked with a sneer, trying to find some loophole to prove that he was unloved.

“I’ve won a few prizes myself. It’s hard to find a good opponent these days, when all the quicker minds are occupied with mundane matters or international competitions, and harder still to find one who won’t be distracted from the game by their opponent’s popular persona.” True. He was training up Dick but you could only get so much competition from a fifteen-year-old with little patience for a simple board game.

Riddler wavered. The attention of Batman and the chance to prove his own cleverness, even outside a criminal context, was the thing he strived for most. He couldn’t stand to give him the satisfaction of winning but when a riddle was solved there was nothing for it.

“All I ask is next week,” Batman encouraged. He watched Riddler’s face closely, reading his expression and through it the contents of the archcriminal’s battered mind.

“Next week. I can’t promise anything beyond that,” Riddler said, digging in his heels even as his face split into a grin.

You haven’t won, Batman, not yet, but I’ll give you until next week so I can prove myself your better.

“Fine. Next week we’ll discuss the next week.” Batman rose, feeling his other assignment tugging at his cape. As he’d said, things were always coming up. For example, a detour from an important case to deal with an even more important one.

“And if you let me win I really will kill myself,” Riddler called out as Batman left his cell. He sounded almost chipper. “Cross my heart. I want a fair game.”

Batman held the door open a crack so he could get in a last word and a faint smile. “And for once, you’ll have one.”

Robin was mostly where Batman had left him. He was sprawled out sideways in the Batmobile, his feet up on the driver’s side door. The American history book he was supposed to be studying was on the dashboard and he was instead reading a sports magazine that was quickly hidden once he noticed Batman approaching.

“So what did this have to do with the case?” he asked as Batman reconquered the driver’s seat.

“Absolutely nothing, old chum. Just a little side errand regarding one of our defeated foes.” Batman started the Batmobile, ensuring that Robin put his seatbelt on. “Never fear. Mrs. Landingham’s prize Pomeranians are worth far too much for the Dogcatcher to harm and the Kay Nine Top Ten dog show doesn’t start for another six hours. We have time to stop that canine kidnapper.” People stole the strangest things in this city.

Robin folded his arms and closed his eyes as they left the prison for the highway. Batman sneaked a look at his ward, watching the wind ruffle the young man’s hair and shirt. For him, if nothing else, he had to be the example to be followed. If he fell Robin fell, and the whole city after him like a line of dominoes. “Then it seems like a real waste of time, interrupting our case to come all the way out here and talk to some criminal,” the Boy Wonder said in disgust. Batman could see the slight flinch as he regretted his statement and braced himself for one of Batman’s little lectures.

Batman sighed and drove onward to the city. Always something. Never a moment’s peace. But it would be unconscionable to have it any other way. “Nobody is a waste. Robin. Nobody.”