by Peter David
The Riddler was curious, in a clinical way, with just how far he could push Two-Face. He found out quickly as Two-Face grabbed his guns and shoved one into each of the Riddler’s nostrils. “Show’s over. Let’s see if you bleed green.”
In a distinctly nasal tone, the Riddler said amiably, “All right. Go ahead. Fire away. But before you do, one question. Is it really me you want to kill?”
The Riddler brought his hands up in front of an exposed light bulb, interlacing his fingers and making an up-and-down, flapping motion. Despite his fury, Two-Face looked away long enough to see what the Riddler was up to. And what he saw, on the wall, was a shadow puppet of a bat.
“Do you know about hate, my dual-visaged friend?” asked the Riddler in a tone that was both conversational and yet somehow seductive. “Slow, burning hate that keeps you sleepless until late in the night, that wakes you before dawn. Do you know that kind of hate? I do.”
As he spoke, Two-Face slowly lowered the guns, listening to what the Riddler had to say. The Riddler, for his part, wove a spell of words. “Kill him? Seems like a good enough idea. But have you thought it through? A few bullets, a quick spray of blood, a fast, thrilling rush, and then what? Wet hands and post-coital depression. Is it really enough? Why not ruin him first? Expose his frailty. And then, when he is at his weakest, crush him in your hand.”
The Riddler then moved quickly. The moment he had entered, he had seen the twin TVs on either side of the room. One was playing “Leave It to Beaver.” The other was airing “Exit to Eden.”
“Have you seen the latest program?” he directed the comment to Sugar and Spice. Automatically they both glanced at the TVs, and as they did so, he pressed a stud on the head of his cane.
Instantaneously an invisible signal fed from a Box that he had hidden within his jacket. The television sets glowed green, the pictures vanishing, and white beams arced out of the sets, spearing straight through Sugar’s and Spice’s heads.
Two-Face stared at them, not understanding what he was seeing. If he’d truly cared anything for them, of course, he would have shouted in protest, yanked them out of the way. Tried, in some way, to spare them whatever it was they were going through. Such was not the case, and instead he merely watched, transfixed.
The Riddler reached for his jacket and removed a receiver from it. He held it out invitingly. “This is how I found you. Take a hit and see. It makes you smarter.”
He considered it a moment, still wary of a trap. But the temptation was too great. He brought the receiver up to his head experimentally . . .
. . . and the world was suddenly open to him.
As if it were an utterly trivial string of deductions, Two-Face said, “You correlated all dualities in the city, orders of half-and-half pizzas, wine splits, two-toned clothing, cross-referenced all addresses with multiples of two, crunched the probabilities by bicoastal, bizonal location leading you . . . here . . . holy shit!”
The Riddler winced at the coarseness of it, and then shrugged it off. “So not everyone can be a poet,” he philosophized. “Still, I respect the sentiment.” He pointed at Sugar and Spice, who were still mesmerized, and then at Harvey. “This is your brain on The Box,” he said to the former, “This is your brain on their brain.” Then he pulled the receiver away from Two-Face, who gasped at the separation. He put the receiver to his own brain, soaking in the rush of accelerated neural pathways . . . not to mention the sensual awareness of the women. “This is my brain on their brains after your brain. Does anybody else feel like a fried egg?”
Slowly Two-Face’s eyes refocussed. He grabbed for the receiver, but the Riddler easily kept it out of his reach.
“More . . .” he said in a strangled voice.
The Riddler waggled a finger at him. “Oh there’s more. But only the first one’s free. Here’s the concept, counselor. Crime: My IQ, your AK-47. This is the bargain: you will help me gather production capital so I can produce enough of these . . .” He held up the Box, which was so far miniaturized from its original prototype as to be almost unrecognizable. It was in the shape of a stylized question mark, with a glowing light in the bottom dot.
“. . . enough of these to build an empire that will eclipse Bruce Wayne’s forever. And, in return, I will help you solve the greatest riddle of all. Who is Batman? Then we’ll find him and kill him.”
Two-Face eyed the Riddler, interest dawning.
“You are a very strange person, a distinction we do not level lightly. You barge in here unarmed when it is clearly suicidal to do so. You speak to us as if we were old friends, which we are not. Still, an intriguing proposition.” He pulled out his coin. “Clean side: We take your offer.”
And then he placed the barrel of one of the guns against the Riddler’s temple. “Scarred side: We blow your goddamned head off.”
The Riddler licked his lips, suddenly dry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d forgotten to take Two-Face’s madness into account. He cursed bitterly to himself. All the potential that was riding on this new identity, this new business venture . . . and it depended on the toss of a coin.
And as the coin arced through the air, he said what might very well have been his last words: “Don’t rule out the concept of two out of three.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the Gotham Jewelry Exchange, Two-Face’s thugs were hurriedly scooping out handfuls of gems from glass cases and shoving them into bags. Nearby, the Riddler and Two-Face stood over a pallet of black jeweler’s felt, which was littered with bright, sparkling diamonds. The Riddler dropped a third riddle, then slipped on a magnifying monocle and lifted a gem to study it more closely.
Two-Face grabbed the rest of the pallet and upended it, pouring the diamonds into a loot bag. The Riddler looked at the rather uneven distribution of wealth. “One for me . . . one hundred for you.” But then he saw Two-Face’s glare and, rather than risk another toss of that damned coin, simply shrugged. “Sounds fair to me.”
As the Bat-Signal flared in the sky, the party moved across town.
In the Gotham Casino, the guards were struggling with Two-Face’s thugs, but they were sorely outnumbered. Two-Face strode over to them, surveying them thoughtfully, and then he gestured to the Riddler. Curious, the Riddler joined him, while the rest of the thugs relieved the patrons of their jewels and cash.
“You wanted to get into crime,” said Two-Face. “Time to get seriously into it.” He held up his hand. “Close your fist. Reach back.”
Then he swung suddenly, smashing one of the guards in the face. The guard went down, unconscious. Two-Face then turned to the Riddler, who looked a little pale. “Get it?”
The Riddler nodded uncertainly and then stepped up to the next guard. He closed his fist, cocked it, and slammed it into the guard’s face with all the power and destructive force of a bag of rice cakes.
His two-toned partner looked at him in disgust. “Riddler . . . you punch like a girl. Put some heart into it.” Feeling that a further demonstration was in order, he punched out the third guard, knocking him cold.
This time the Riddler put everything he had into it, and managed to rock the fourth guard back an entire inch.
“My God,” said Two-Face, shaking his head and walking away. The Riddler turned back to the relieved guard apologetically. “I’m actually not a violent person. So I need the practice.” He raised his cane. “Batter up.”
As Two-Face idly spun the roulette wheel, the Riddler kept darting in close to the guard, smashing him with the cane, then dancing away and back in again. He moved elegantly, weaving back in and clubbing the helpless guard once more before cavorting away again.
Moments later, Two-Face’s car was speeding away. With Two-Face at the wheel, the Riddler had slid open a hidden panel on his cane. There was a small array of buttons displayed within.
“You better be right about this,” said Two-Face.
“Oh, I am,” the Riddler said confidently. “Been tracking all the bands for weeks now. I’m absolu
tely, one hundred percent positive that I’ve tapped into the ‘private’ band Gordon has reserved for Batboy. His priority channel. His e-mail. The Batphone, if you will. All electronic . . . and if it’s electronic”—and he tapped the buttons with malicious glee—“then it’s mine.”
Two-Face nodded. “So where are you sending him?”
With a smile, the Riddler said playfully, “I think the Bat needs a new ‘do.’ ”
Batman’s eyes narrowed as the flashing sign “Crime in Progress” flashed on his tactical screen. His own position was marked on the map and he was drawing closer with every passing second.
It was an upscale neighborhood . . . exactly the type of place that Two-Face and his bizarre new cohort were likely to strike.
Still . . . something seemed a little off. But he couldn’t take the time to figure out precisely what it was. He had the feed from police headquarters, and that was all he needed.
The Batmobile rolled up to the service entrance of the building where the crime was reported. Batman wasted no time, charging up the stairs and smashing in through the door.
There was a collective shriek from within.
Batman stood in the middle of the “Curl Up and Dye” beauty salon, which was open late night since it was Friday. He looked around for the source of the disturbance. Unfortunately the only one who fit that description was him. The women didn’t seem particularly upset, though. After their initial astonishment, both beauticians and customers started babbling excitedly, crowding in around Batman, laughing and flirting.
Behind his mask, Batman fumed.
He wasn’t certain which annoyed him more: that he had not gotten his hands on his target, or the kind of field day that the media was going to have with this.
“. . . with millions in diamonds, cash and personal effects stolen,” said the newscaster, “while, bizarrely, Batman chose to make an appearance in a crosstown beauty parlor.”
With the late morning sun flooding in through his window, Bruce Wayne adjusted his tie while the morning news aired. He shook his head as the newscaster continued, “Witnesses clearly identified Two-Face as the perpetrator and mastermind behind the robbery. However, this station has learned exclusively that Two-Face has a new partner, who phoned earlier with the following message.”
A graphic of a question mark appeared on the screen as the Riddler’s voice crowed, “Blame Two-Face? I demand equal acclaim for my offenses. Recognition for my wrongdoings. Credit for my crimes. Gotham has a new bad boy in town and his name is the Riddler!”
The newscaster came back on, adding, “The caller then described several pieces taken in the heist that police confirmed were on a list not released to the public. At this stage, therefore, it would seem that Two-Face has now decided, appropriately, that two heads are better than one.”
Alfred entered Bruce’s bedroom, carrying coffee and the morning mail. Bruce turned to him and said, “I knew scrambling the downlink to misdirect me to that beauty salon was too sophisticated for Harvey alone.”
Alfred shook his head. “A madman calling himself the Riddler. Riddles delivered to Bruce Wayne. Apparently, you and Batman have a common enemy, sir.”
He handed Bruce an envelope, the style of which he’d come to recognize. This one, however, had postmarks on it. Unfortunately, it was postmarked Romania, and Sioux City, Iowa.
“He’s getting more ambitious,” said Bruce. “Either that or he’s just getting stranger and stranger.”
Alfred nodded deferentially. “I bow to your expertise on that, sir.”
Bruce glanced suspiciously at the butler, whose face remained unreadable. He then tore open the envelope, only listening with half an ear as the newscaster continued, “In other news, entrepreneur Edward Nygma has signed a lease for Claw Island. Nygma says he plans to break ground on an electronics plant . . .”
And there was Nygma, holding up sketches of what his fully refurbished Claw Island would look like. It was a bizarre blending of art deco styling with tall sleek factory chimneys, all intertwined with twisted piping. Furthermore it was elevated, mounted high above the water on a central pole which, presumably, contained elevators.
Bruce Wayne barely gave it a glance, Edward Nygma at that moment was the furthest thing from his mind.
And also, as it happened, the closest.
In the combination garage and gym in Wayne Manor’s west wing, Bruce Wayne entered to find Dick Grayson pummeling a straw-filled action dummy. Immediately he noticed the modifications that Dick had made to the dummy. He had drawn in a face on the dummy’s head, a smiley face. But there was a vertical line bisecting it. The left half of the face was smiling, while the right half was sneering, with a grossly distorted eye, mouth, and fangs.
Dick paused, clearly waiting for Bruce to make some comment. This, of course, Bruce didn’t do. Instead he turned to Dick and said approvingly, in reference to the motorcycle that the teen had been working on, “I just started the Black Knight. She sounds great. Why don’t you grab the Harley and we’ll take a ride?”
With a sigh, Dick lowered his arms from the cocked and punching position. He didn’t sound angry or arrogant . . . merely resigned, and even sad. “Look, man, I appreciate the gig, but let’s leave it at that. We’re not gonna be buddies, okay? You don’t even know me.”
In a very mild tone, Bruce said, “I know the pain that’s with you every day. The shame. Feeling somehow you should have saved them. I don’t know you,” he agreed. “But I’m like you.”
Dick shrugged in that way that only teenagers could and started pounding on the dummy again. It shuddered slightly under each thrust. Bruce watched him and then said, “Have you thought about your future? The Wayne Foundation has an excellent scholarship fund. Once the bikes are finished . . .”
With an impatient noise, Dick grabbed a copy of the Gotham Times that he’d tossed on the floor. He thrust the paper into Bruce’s face, and Two-Face’s image glowered back at him from the cover.
“He’s my future.”
Bruce shook his head sadly. “Don’t let your love, your passion for your family, twist into hatred of Two-Face. It’s too easy.”
“Look, no offense, man. But I don’t think you’ve got a lot to teach me.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow, and then stepped in front of the dummy. His two left hooks rattled the dummy with ear-shattering impact. His right took off the dummy’s head. Dick gaped at the two-faced stuffed head lying on the ground, rolling gently from side to side.
“Don’t be so sure,” Bruce informed him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“What are you going to do about him, Mr. Wayne?”
Bruce sat behind his desk, staring at one of Wayne Enterprises’ top lawyers, Stu “The Exterminator” Schoenfeld. Schoenfeld was an intense young man with intense black hair.
“Do?” he asked, going through a variety of documents. Off to the side, Margaret, as always, was manning the phone back. “You mean about Nygma?”
“Yes, sir,” said Schoenfeld in exasperation. He waved documentation and memos around. “As near as I can determine, this ‘Box’ he’s planning to market . . . it’s from a device that he was creating while he was in our employ.”
“This is the mind control thing, right?” asked Bruce.
“With all due respect, Mr. Wayne, that’s a grotesque over-simplification.” He rose and crossed over to the far wall, inserting a CD file that he’d been composing. “I’ve been keeping track of his activities over the past weeks, sir. As you’ll see, I find the entire business most upsetting.”
Bruce sat back and watched a time-lapse sequence of Claw Island under construction. One had to credit Nygma and whoever his backers were. Things were getting done damn quickly. Mere weeks ago the place had looked about as promising as a crater on the moon. Yet there Nygma now was, standing in front of the main building, with a huge sign that read “NYGMATECH” being raised into place by a crane. A sort of final crowning glory.
“Now you can be part of
the show!” Nygma was proclaiming to the press and onlookers. “Nygmatech brings the joy of 3-D entertainment into your own home. Ladies and gentlemen. Let me tell you my vision. ‘The Box’ in every home in America. And one day the world. I’ve seen the future and it is me!”
Schoenfeld froze the screen on Nygma’s chortling expression, and he turned to Wayne. “We’ve been doing some preliminary market research of our own, sir. If this Box can really do what Nygma claims it can . . . cheap, easy to watch, 3-D holographic entertainment in the home . . . sir, we’re talking billions. Billions that Nygma will be raking in for a device that he researched while in our employ.”
“You mean the device that Fred Stickley canceled research for.”
“Only one day before his suicide. It never came to you for finalization, sir. We could argue diminished capacity on Stickley’s part. With the company resources that Nygma made use of, sir, we have a very solid case . . .”
Bruce was staring into the gaze of Edward Nygma on the screen. At the time he had considered holding out some sort of olive branch to the rather intense employee, but Nygma’s abrupt departure from Wayne Enterprises had precluded that. Now, as he looked at the intense desperation of nearly fanatic glee, he couldn’t help but feel that his having missed connecting with Nygma was a blessing in disguise.
“Drop it, okay, Stu?” Wayne said.
Schoenfeld’s face practically slid off his head. “Drop it? Sir, the money . . .”
He turned to Schoenfeld and said, “I don’t doubt you’re right, Stu. And we might very well be able to take a big bite out of the Box. But I don’t need the money, Stu. And you know what I suspect I need even less? Extended dealings with, or grief from, one Edward Nygma.”
