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Secrets are always locked away deep, hidden and secure. They can be eased out like a snail from its shell given enough time and effort. Figuring out the combination to unlock it is the challenge.
Perhaps that is why he is in Arkham rotting away. Edward is now a secret, only whispered about in passing. it had only been a year and a half since the flood, yet his existence was a blip to this decaying city.
He was always a loner. Easily forgotten. To slip under any radar. Even with his plans failing and his identity plastered on the news it only took a measly two weeks before that died away.
Not that he wanted all eyes on him. He just wanted change. Batman allowed that; He had been his hope. To see someone try their best to combat the crime, fighting for the weak. It inspired him. He thought they were a team.
Of course his hope was his downfall.
He should have known in hindsight. No one has ever looked his way, cared about him, or was on his side. Yet he tried, and he at least sparked the beginnings of his own renewal.
Edward Nashton was an enigma now. Known, but not spoken about. For the most part he was ignored here. Guards always looked at him in disgust, like he was a foul monster. He rarely got fed on time or often, not that anyone would care.
He knew all the cameras and their sightlines. He knew the guards routine, who worked and when, their schedules, and the prisoners near him. How could he not? It was the only thing in his life that weren’t painful white walls.
Oh, how he hated this color.
White.
Bland. Boring. Nothing special. It was dreary, easily stained. Any blemish was noticeable. It was colorless. It haunted his mind. It was the first and last thing he would see all day every day.
The only positives was that it could be drawn on by other colors. He filled his mind with plans. That was the only thing to keep him sane in this rotten place.
Plans to escape, steal, manipulate to getting him items he wanted. Mainly paper, pens, books, anything. He had so much going on in his head at all times, thoughts and realizations he would forget but wouldn’t if he could just write it down.
No one spoke to him. Why would they? What would they even say, ask, or talk about? His ears were often full of his own voice. Mutterings, rationalizing, filling the empty space.
“I had it! I had it..” Edward reached his hands up and scratched his scalp hard, but not painful, as if he could dig out the thought he lost. “Why don’t I just..” He brought one hand down to his mouth, the other not far behind due to the cuffs, and bit what little fingernail he had.
“I could tomorrow.. or the next day after that,” He spoke quietly, but not in fear someone would hear. These thoughts were quiet and soft, nothing like his manic thoughts which felt spiky, painful, and loud.
“But she normally takes off every other tuesday.” Edward grumbled, realizing his newest plan would either have to happen tomorrow or in two weeks. He was lucky— if one would ever consider him such— to be so invisible.
The opposite of Bruce Wayne.
“High and mighty,” He snarled out, those quiet thoughts of a plan vanishing the second his anger boiled up just at the mere thought of the billionaire. “Same side of the coin, yet so different. Born with no worries. Yet he is an orphan like me.”
He removed his finger near his mouth and began to pace, eyes darting yet seeing nothing as he ranted to himself again. “Why do we have to share that title? He could buy any family he wants,” He snarled to himself, voice growing almost loud enough to reverberate against the walls.
“-Nothing like him.” Edward wet his lips and kept repeating “I am nothing like him.”
He lost track of time. That was common here.
No clocks in his room. Any clock they had he tore it down. It made days pass by slower, tauntingly. The constant ticking would send him spiraling. A silent room with a constant, never ending noise.
It didn’t help any time they provided him a clock he would dismantle it for parts. Anything. Not like it would be dangerous. He used the hands to scratch the wall up. They were cheap flimsy plastic and didn’t last two minutes even with careful pressure.
Then they took away the clock, of course. They installed a digital one outside of his cell where he could look through the door to see. Its red LED lights bore into his room at night when it was pitch black.
Black.
Not his favorite color, but it was comforting. Daylight revealed too much. Under the cover of night could he be himself before Arkham— just wondering allyways aimlessly while he rambled.
Was it luck he never got mugged? He doubted it. He looked homeless at the time and was talking to himself without noticing anyone around him at all. It was almost sadistically funny how even thugs and murderers seemed to avoid him.
He fit into no crowd. No one during the day or night. He was his own horribly fucked up thing. Chewed and spit out by the system.
Yellow and orange always replaced black with the sun coming out. His white walls having a tinge of another color for an hour or so.
He got pretty good at shadow puppets. Making batman, bats, rats, and more were quite easy. He liked to use his hands to talk as if they were people. One hand talking to another. Edward was never apart of the conversation. Even in his own imaginary conversations he wasn’t invited.
It was today, or perhaps in two weeks. Edward couldn’t decide. Planning was the fun part, far more than doing what he wanted to. Because then it was over, and he couldn’t scheme until the next idea.
Today he would linger and mull over his ploy. Perhaps pretend to enact to make sure it would work before committing.
All of this for a pen he would most likely not be able to keep for an hour. It kept him sane. Well, as sane as he could be in here. This pen was important though. To him, at least. Vital to his plan.
For now, he watched the dark gray clouds cover what little of the dull blue sky he could see. Soon, he would be free to go to the cafeteria with the others. But until then he counted in multiples of three.
<?>
1,095 is the number he got to. Ironic, almost. 365 days in a year times three is that number. Perhaps a sign? No, of course not. He has no hope at all for anything anymore.
He loved answers. Complex questions having simple solutions. Numbers didn’t lie. Yet his life felt to be the opposite.
“What’s the purpose of you?” He mumbled under his breath at himself. He never knew that question. Perhaps there wasn’t an answer.
A man twice his size turned around and stared down at him with cold eyes. Edward did not meet his gaze. Half of him realized that they thought he was speaking to him. The other half couldn’t care less as his thoughts nearly tumbled over themselves.
The punch was unsurprising. He hardly reacted to it other than fixing his glasses and continue to stare at the floor. He could not stand to feel his glasses be askew for long once he knew they were.
The pain kept him grounded to reality. He felt a smile tug at his lips as the rational side of him had glee knowing this prisoner was taken aback by his reaction.
“Must be new.” Edward chuckled low to himself, never speaking to someone. Instead he always spoke at them. They were not apart of his conversations, though he was aware when someone listened in.
“They weren’t shittin’ about the mentally insane bein’ in here,” He heard the man say out loud for others to hear, not for himself.
“Then how do you suppose someone sane like yourself snuck in?” Edward looked up at him, eyes trailing from the mans white shoes to his orange shirt, his gaze only landing on his ear. Never the eyes. Not again.
Of course they did not like that answer. His vision was clouded by a red tray smashing into his face. Weak plastic. This attack was nothing new either, though his nose was never happy from the outcome.
“Go to hell.” Edward spoke, but it wasn’t at anyone. He didn’t know who or what it was for. A defense mechanism most likely. His only strength being words it made sense.
“I’ll be sending you there.” The bigger man punched him in the same spot he had been punched a day prior, so it hurt worse.
Edward couldn’t help but cry, yet a sick joy bubbled up as he began to laugh at how ironic this was. “Why does everything remind me of him?” He wiped his nose, smearing red across his pale skin. “A sick joke.”
He failed to see Batman in hell. Or to kill Bruce Wayne.
His smile faltered instantly, then dropped as his mood plummeted. “No, no. I said I wouldn’t think about him today. I promised—“
Edward had forgotten the man was still trying to beat him. He couldn’t care less, honestly. At least he was put off by how out of reality Edward was. It scared him off.
He wanted to laugh at the absurdity. To cry because emotions hurt worse than physical pain. Go and punch someone, or stop to hurt himself. Anything.
He needed a distraction. Nothing got his mind off of his thoughts. Not even sleep could do that. It was the worst by far. He couldn’t control his thoughts there, and they ran wild. An unstoppable animal, both tiny and frail as well as massive and disastrous.
He rarely got more than three hours of sleep before he jolted awake, mind going at a million miles an hour before he would crash again and repeat.
Edward got his food and sat down to eat. He was allowed this privilege to get his own meal out of his cell because he posed no threat, harm, or otherwise to anyone. He had yet to escape or do anything bad other than steal a pen or paper. Not even a keycard, weapon, or contraband. Just basic items other prisoners could often be rewarded.
But not him, of course. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve anything.
Even when one day sirens blared, as if there was a fire. Then every single door unlocked. Of course, everyone took off to try to break free. He had waited in his room until it was silent except the ringing from dozens of alarms signaling something.
He stepped out and went to a guards office, merely taking some paper, pens, and any books or newspaper he could find before returning to his room and shutting the door to muffle the noises. It was still unlocked, and didn’t latch behind.
He didn’t care.
He had read the gray newspaper first, gathering the date and whatever boring topics the media thought was important. Nothing on him. A blurb about Bruce Wayne he ripped out and nearly stabbed to pieces with his pen.
He hadn’t, though. The pen was more valuable unbroken.
Edward had used the papers he gathered (stole) and scribbled on all of it for hours. Muffled authoritative voices could be heard. Grumbles, annoyance. How they would have to stay late for days to fix this mess and get all the prisoners situated and under control.
All of the doors were open except Edwards. So of course they went to check on why this door had been different. What they saw was worrisome.
Somehow, in the short timeframe of whenever he started till they found him, the entire cell was nearly covered with papers and tape as Edward wrote as much as he could down, then stuck it to the wall.
No more white. No more bland. Some of his thoughts could leave his head like a balloon about to pop.
They just left him there to deal with that shitshow later. He was in his cell and thats all the guards cared about for now.
It took three days for everything to be neatly squared away again. That's when they finally addressed the Riddler issue.
He had to be put in solidary confident he had been fighting so hard to keep his items as they tore his thoughts down off the walls and confiscated his items.
The only positive after that was sometimes they would give him a pen and paper outside of his cell. He wasn’t stupid he knew what they were doing. It was to make sure he wasn’t planning anything.
He only wrote the truth and whatever he was thinking. They wanted to see if he was plotting or hiding anything. Get him to write a confession, admit something, or expose anything else.
It was always nonsensical ramblings to anyone but himself. He could read it. Maybe Batman could understand it, but no one would get it.
No one would ever understand.
<?>
It has been two slow weeks. He had the plan finalized a month ago. This was a big one. To escape this time. Not just for a pen or other stationary item. He was going to leave.
If he didn’t, he wouldn’t just rot in here. He would die a slow death as his mind withered away into true insanity. This was his last hope of trying to save himself. That maybe, maybe something could happen. A change.
He watched the red digital clock. One o’clock on the dot. Two minutes until the guard walked by, then the halls would be empty for thirty or so minutes. Dull consistent thumps from shoes of a bored and tired guard. None the wiser.
Edward had a pen. They only checked him in the morning. He could use it to break the cuffs, he did it before over and over until it was second nature. He always locked himself back up so no one knew.
The footsteps grew faint. He smiled wide and broke the cuffs, rubbing his wrists. Edward scribbled a simple message on the wall, a riddle only one person could answer, and left.
Shoes were too loud. He had discarded them long before. He stayed out of sight in most of the cameras views. Anytime he knew he would be seen by one he would look at it and smile softly, knowingly. It wouldn’t be long until someone saw.
Even if he lost hope with the Batman, he still wanted a change. Batman did too. He just needed him to understand. But was that really what this is about?
Edward slipped into a guards office, one he knew was patrolling. He went through the drawers and pulled out a keycard with a sigh. “Idiots. Batman should visit more often to whip you into shape.” He knew they would hear that later. That was the point.
He walked on, having memorized every hallway he could over and over. The map was ingrained in his mind. All the windows, doors, cameras, who worked, it was like an ecosystem. One that slowly suffocated rather than flourished.
He swiped the keycard over a door, listening to the lock click as it detached from its mechanism. Edward didn’t look back once as he slipped down hardly used hallways. Territory he didn’t see often. That he didn’t have memorized to heart.
A risk, but he had time. Edward set the card down in front of the last door. He winked at a camera. “I don’t want to go to prison for stealing now do I?” Then, he was gone.
It took a lot longer than he expected before he heard sirens in the distance. Edward’s first reaction was to look to the dark clouds though. As predicted, there it was. The bat symbol.
The ground was cold and rough under his feet. It was night, and winter at that with a windchill from the rivers shore. The air was refreshing, and all the sights were mentally stimulating.
He had a goal though! His thin orange jumper did little to protect him from the elements, but he trudged on. It wouldn’t take Batman long to review the footage, see his scribble on the wall, and piece together where he was and how long it would take on foot to get there.
It hadn’t snowed recently, but the cold had turned any moisture to mush as he walked. His feet went numb, then his hands. It didn’t matter, really. He is a bug in winter.
“Ah, but what insect would I be?” He whispered to himself, trying to distract his body from the cold setting in. “Perhaps a cockroach. No one likes those, and the only people that do use them for food for other creatures.”
Yeah. That one fit him the most, he would think. Hiding in darkness, cracks in walls, seen as filth and to kill on sight.
Edward stumbled over an uneven patch of ground and fell to his knees. The wet mud instantly stained his Arkham attire, the white and orange vanishing where it touched the earth. He didn’t care much, other than it making the cold far worse.
There was no leaves on any sad trees out here. The grass was brown and pathy if there at all. Only weeds thrived out here, but none in the winter. Green was nonexistent.
He didn’t intend on going back to Arkham. Truth be told, he had no plan. All of his scheming was around escaping that place, but nothing afterwards. His riddle should tell Batman that. Perhaps they may not even look for him with that knowledge. He knows that isn’t the case.
Maybe they think he is too deranged to think properly anymore. That’s a small possibility anyone except Batman would believe in.
Edward trudged on. He had a goal. Just one. He would reach it. It was just a nothing, useless bridge. He had three options. Travel down it and leave Gotham behind forever, stay and be forced back to Arkham, or jump into the icy water below.
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It was two days before Christmas. Crime never stops, though it slows around certain days. Valentines, Mothers Day, and of course Christmas to name a few. Bruce had been hopeful that criminals would hold back near Christmas.
Of course not, though. He was always prepared.
Arriving at the meet up didn’t take but five minutes. Gordon informed him that Nashton had escaped Arkham after a year and a half of good behavior with nothing suspicious going on in that time.
He reviewed the footage of that night. Normally he didn’t react to this type of thing, it was common, but he hadn’t seen Edward in quite a long time. He looked frail before Arkham, but now? He was beyond gaunt with visible bruises and untreated wounds.
His walk was unbalanced with a visible limp and his eyes always darted around but never locked onto anything. He was looking but not seeing. Lips moved, speaking silent words. Occasionally the microphone would pick up something, but it wasn’t enough unless he wanted to be heard.
Bruce had seen some footage, of course. He had kept tabs on Riddler for a few months after he was put in. The pacing, frantic movements, hair pulling, nail biting, speaking to himself, and more. Much more. It was signs of BPD, OCD, and others. He was undiagnosed though, so he would not guess though he had ideas.
His tics. Of course Bruce knew them. Edward always tapped in threes. If one side of him got touched he had to balance it out by getting the opposite side touched twice, then the original once again. Four in total.
Or how he would check the digital clock in the hallway almost exactly every 5 minutes some days down to the second.
Some days his eyes were glazed over and he didn’t really move. No signs of perceiving reality or time passing. Others he would be almost himself from before Arkham. Then there were the bad days. It didn’t happen often, but any time it did Batman had been informed.
Just in case. They had told him. But he had seen the triggers. It wasn’t sudden, it was always a buildup of things the staff did to purposefully irritate him. To whack the side of him once and then watch as he hit himself on the other sides to feel an equilibrium.
Then to send him to solitary confinement. He didn’t agree to giving Edward pens (too dangerous), paper (you’d be surprised how even that could be a weapon), or anything else. But he was deprived and every day got worse as boredom ate away at him.
It was sick. This city was sick too, but it was healing.
Batman wasted no time in entering the tiny cell Edward was in just hours ago. His eyes went over the wall to see cyphers. He had memorized every letter he made from his previous riddles, so understanding it was the easy part.
What breaks in half for others pass but is never truly broken?
Its vague, but simple. He doesn’t know what to think about it other than the realization that Edward wants to be found.
<?>
It’s eerily silent somewhere that’s quite often used by people. Though, it is almost two thirty. Edward has a mental nonstop clock going in his head. Its inaccurate though, it always gets the seconds correct but sometimes the minutes and hours just don’t line up.
He’s sitting down now. The concrete is sucking any heat he makes away and the wind on the bridge is whipping his hair. Every breath he takes shows a puff of air, whisking it away as if trying to steal any life he has left in him.
He can hear the purr of a motorcycle approach from Gotham. Odds are this is Batman, but he doesn’t look. He knows it is him. He isn’t going fast, probably fifty miles an hour versus over a hundred when he is angry.
The bike slows and stops a few feet from him, then cuts off. If Edward thinks hard enough he could imagine the heat from the metal washing over him.
He doesn’t give Batman the opportunity to speak first. If he does, its over.
“You nearly gave me four options.” Edward mumbled, adding hypothermia to the list of ‘what to do when on the bridge’.
The Batman doesn’t move, just stares in silence. He is trying to figure out any motive he has, or secret plan. Was this a lure, to bring him here for a reason?
“You think so lowly of me.” Edward finally turned to stare at him. His stupid black makeup, that mask, his whole get up. Its been modified. Its better than last he saw.
“Do you truly think I would even succeed in even harming you, let alone killing you?” Edward does stare into his eyes. Its the only ones he will lock to.
“No.” Batman finally speaks, getting off the motorcycle but not moving towards him. “Unapproachable, am I? I’m no virus here to infect Gotham. Just a lowly cockroach crawling into the light of a warm house.”
He knows what it means, thats clear. He’d rather be out here and die than go back to Arkham. That the bitter outside was leagues better that inside that hell hole.
Batman stiffens a bit, perhaps at his words or from the sudden wind that is so fast it rattles the bridge.
“Why here?” Batman steps closer to Edward who is shivering so hard his teeth are rattling. His core is getting cold Now. Its becoming unbearable.
“An ultimatum.” Edward says almost too quietly, especially with the current nearly stealing his words from any listening ears.
“For you.” Batman responds knowingly. Edward just nods. It was his own finish line. To die, or to continue.
“I know you’ve seen.” Edward can feel his lips turning blue. “Reformation,” He snorts. “Does not exist in Arkham. It’s just a worse prison.”
Batman has no reply. He had seen how they treated Edward. He had pushed his thoughts aside, too busy to go down and try to help.
“Don’t.” Edward snapped. “You have that look in your eyes. Stop.” He nearly spat it out, as if he was angry that Batman even care about him, to dare to pity him. “Who would let Batman in Arkham just to try to make the staff nicer towards the insane?”
Towards me was the silent words instead of what he spoke. No one was ever really nice to him. Not now, not ever. He didn’t expect anything anymore, other than this final stand. A desperate attempt to be heard one last time.
Batman walks towards him now, understanding the game. This was a ticking clock, and Edward was hoping to run It out before he realized. Seems it was too late, and he caught on. Of course. Batman is too smart for that.
“I’m not letting you die of hypothermia, Edward.” Batman said gruffly. “Get up.”
“You know I can’t.” Edward choked out a half sob, half laugh. Even if he wanted to throw himself off the bridge, he had no energy to. He had his arms wrapped around himself and ducked low as another harsh breeze past through.
“I can leave.” Edward said with no emotion, already knowing that wasn’t an option even from the beginning. He could have kept on walking. He didn’t have to wait for Batman.
“You could. But you didn’t.” Batman crouches down, taking off his cape and draping it around Edward. Silence is filled between them, and both of them know Ed hates the quiet.
He has to speak, but if he does he will just ramble. His mouth moves before his brain. “I had to see you again. At least one last time. It’s why I could never..” Edward swallowed, unable to finish the sentence. Admitting it was showing his cards. How weak and fragile he reallt was.
No. He was too weak to kill himself. He used Batman as an excuse to live. Perhaps thats why Batman never visited. He knew that if he saw him again, even once, he would have the push to go through with it.
“And now?” Batman asked, his voice less gruff than before. Edward can’t help the well of tears. He doesn’t feel sad, but his body does. They are hot and almost burn his skin as they trail down his face.
“I don’t know. I’ve never known.” Edward pulled the cape around him, hiding himself in it. Maybe he could vanish under here. If only ceasing to exist was that easy right now.
“You planned an escape for months and didn’t think about the after?” Batman asked, but it wasn’t a question. It was more of a statement directed at Edward.
He shrugged. What else could he reply? The cape was a nice buffer against the constant chilly wind, though it did little to warm him.
“Maybe I wanted to be caught.” It wasn’t a maybe, and they both knew that.
Edward felt a hard weight under him and lift him quickly, then a hesitation. He didn’t need words to hear the you’re far lighter than I expected in Batman’s body language.
“You’re just strong.” He lied. “Oh.” Edward pulled the cape closer but made a face. “It’s..” Edward squinted at some lights in the distance, soft and twinkling in various colors. White, red, green, and even deep blues. Some had rainbows up or other decorations.
“People are decorating for Christmas..?” Edward chuckled low, actually taken aback by this. “Gotham really has changed.” He liked the colors. It clashed beautifully against the dull browns across the city.
They knew the symptoms of onset hypothermia. Dilated pupils, uncontrollable shivering, impaired judgment, confusion, and more. There was no way this was real. The Gotham he grew up in in the North East would never do such a thing as decorate for Christmas. He was just being delusional due to the cold.
“You would be surprised what has changed in almost two years.” Edward almost misses what Batman says despite how close he is to him.
Its hard to think now, as if he is wading through mud. And maybe he is. Maybe he’s still in Arkham imagining this, sedated beyond belief. He wouldn’t put that idea past himself.
“Why did I do this?” Edward mumbled more so to himself. He didn’t have an answer. He never would. He is his own downfall, a puzzle he could never solve. Never enough piece or the ability to step back and analyze himself. He is shocked when Batman answers though.
“You want guidance.” Batman said firmly, as if it wasn’t just the truth, but he was speaking the answer.
No I don’t his brain wants to say, but his mouth doesn’t move. “I’m independent. I have been my whole life.” Edward’s head nods to the side. He’s losing energy. His vision is also fading. Or was it his glasses? He hopes he is still wearing them. If he lost them..
“Really?” Batman asks, a hint of perhaps amusement deep down somewhere.
Edward swears he hears the next words from his mouth wrong. “My pace is slow, yet I never need a home.” A riddle right from Batman himself. Edward knows its a distraction. It works. “A snail.”
Edward cracks a weak smile, head resting on his shoulder now. He knows what Batman is saying. That Edward isn’t a cockroach, but a snail. Hidden away, quiet. Or perhaps its due to him hiding in the cape like one right now.
He can hardly see the lights. Is he wearing his glasses? They have to be moving. Something is happening. He struggles to count to three in his head. Thats when he knows he’s approaching that finish line.
Perhaps Batman will win. That wouldn’t surprise him. He always wins in the end.
“You always left clues for me. Breadcrumbs right to you or your goals.” Ah. Batman was trying to keep him awake with words. At least they weren’t empty promises. He just hoped he could listen to it all.
He was a snail. He left a small trail behind him right to where he is. That’s what this was. He only came out of his shell because of and for Batman anyways.
Nothing was happening around him, but that’s how he wanted it. The only thing his mind could focus on was Batman’s words, even when he couldn’t speak anymore. They were moving, but he didn’t know where they were. Maybe he was back at Arkham, or someone finally came to end him and he was in hell where he belonged.
“You wanted someone to find you.” Batman says it with such truth. He knows. Edward would laugh if he could.
That’s all he hears before he blacks out, no longer shivering. Maybe in his mind he is warm, but for now he is in Batman’s hold as his brain quiets down and his thoughts silences for once.