Issue# 6, Jun Yr. 2

Questions (part 1 of 2)
"First Impressions"

By Rory O'Sullivan

---

In an admittedly roundabout way, the Batman envied them.
He paused in mid-flight, high above inner city Gotham, watching a team of masked thugs as they systematically loaded the contents of a storage facility into the back of a stolen hover-transport. They worked smoothly, as a team. There was no verbal communication, just hand signals and facial expressions between them. It didn't matter. They knew each other well, could rely on each other, held shared hopes and goals and dreams.
He was alone. A single, solemn crusader, his thoughts denied expression since there was no one to express them to.
He put his qualms aside, and took refuge in the Call of Duty, circling slowly downward toward his prey.
His eyes narrowed as he reached the rooftop. Had he seen a flash of movement in his periphery just then? Probably not important. Time to focus on the task at hand---
The flash of movement materialized suddenly into a green blur hurtling past. Batman pulled up short, and watched open-mouthed as a muscular but agile figure, decked out in a green jumpsuit, landed solidly atop the transport.
In unison, the group of thieves looked up toward the new arrival. He threw back his head, and laughed.
The lead thug shrugged, and batted the safety off his laser-pistol. He aimed it deliberately, and spoke in succinct tones. "Get lost, pal, or you might get hurt, huh?"
The figure laughed again. Batman, who had edged closer, could make him out more clearly. Medium height, crew-cut black hair, a light purple eye mask offsetting the flamboyant green of his 'uniform.' As he laughed, his hand darted into his belt, and produced a small shaft of purple-hued metal. After a simple manipulation the metal unfolded itself into a javelin of sorts, its end curved into the form of a question mark.
The thug began to chuckle. Then laugh. The leader glanced away from his gun sight toward his compatriots---
---and the mysterious figure pounced.
The 'question mark' spear arced through the air, and smacked the lead thug neatly across the back of the head. As he fell, the figure gathered his javelin, and somersaulted into the midst of the others. In a flurry of movement that would've done Bruce Wayne proud, he felled each criminal in turn. He stood over their vanquished forms, smiling, posing triumphantly.
"I'm impressed." Batman lowered himself to the ground. "Maybe introductions are in order?"
"Maybe." The lilt of his voice made it seem as though every statement was amusing. "You're Batman. Everyone knows that, right?"
Batman sighed. "Yeah. I guess. And you are?"
"You didn't say please." He laughed briefly, and somersaulted onto the transport once more. "I can't introduce myself," he called as he bounded roofward, "it's a riddle!"
Batman considered following him, but decided not to bother. The guy was a joke. "Real subtle, buddy!" He called after the fleeing form. "Great. A damned riddler loose."

---

"The Riddler." Bruce Wayne grimaced, as only Bruce Wayne could.
Terry McGinnis, lounging before him at the BatComputer (out of costume now), was indifferent. "What's the big deal? You ask me, the city could do with another vigilante. It's lonely out there, y'know, and---"
"I know. But this... 'Riddler' is not a vigilante!" the old man spat.
"He acted like one."
Bruce paused, and considered carefully how to phrase his response. He had a feeling Terry was just being difficult, and could feel the Generation Gap widening.
"Edward Nigma was annoying enough when he was alive. The last thing Gotham needs is a resurgence of his antics."
Exasperated, Terry grumbled, "All I'm saying is give the guy a chance!"
"You can't afford to give him a chance! You have a responsibility to protect these citizens from any and every conceivable threat. That means you stay suspicious, and you never--- never--- assume anything! Got it?"
A flickering monitor caught their attention, displaying a security camera feed from downtown. Prominent was the 'Riddler,' manipulating his javelin in preparation for something off-camera.
Terry shot out of his chair. "Guess now we'll see who's right, huh?"

---

Batman burst onto the scene just as J Louis Parson's Department Store burst into flame.
The Dark Knight touched down before the inferno, sensing a new edge in his breath as the fire lapped up oxygen. He clicked his oxygen filter into operation, and stalked toward the building.
The man who had come to be known as the Riddler catapulted into the open from the ever-worsening fire, tumbling across the pavement and rolling to a stop at Batman's feet.
"Sui---" the green-clad figure managed, then broke into a coughing fit. His eyes strained to fight back tears beneath the singed mask. "Suicide bomber. Something--- about--- sym--- symbol of capitalism--- death---"
Batman squared his shoulders. "Okay, I'll get him. Stay here and---"
Riddler shook his head. "Saw him--- vaporized--- no point---"
A burst of static infiltrated Batman's earpiece. Grimacing, he began to walk away. Evidently, the potency of the atmosphere was interfering with the signal. Sure enough, as he walked the static cleared. "Go ahead."
"Terry, it's Bruce. The police just turned up something very interesting on your new friend. Get back here ASAP."
"All right, but he's---" Batman whirled. The Riddler was nowhere in sight. "Damn!"

---

Bruce was smiling that patronizing smile of his, Batman noted as he entered the confines of the Batcave. "What's up?"
Bruce flipped on one of the BatComputer monitors, and gestured at it. "Look at the rap sheets for the thugs that the Riddler apprehended."
Batman did, scanning each in turn. "They were all arrested for kidnapping... all on the same date, fifteen years ago. So?"
"So," Bruce crowed, obviously enjoying having been able to plunge back into his investigative persona, "I ran that particular date through the database. One other person was sentenced on that date, for kidnapping."
Batman crossed his arms over his steel-plated chest. "Don't keep me in suspense."
Bruce flamboyantly drummed on a keypad, and a large portrait filled the screen. The man's face was gaunt, the skin tight, and gray threaded through his receding quaff of brown hair. His eyes were ferocious at best, as though laughing without mirth. Above the portrait, the words NIGMA, EDWARD flashed in brazen red.
Batman sank into a chair. "So they were all the Riddler's gang."
"Exactly."
"So... So maybe this new Riddler was trying to clean up his predecessor's mistakes?" the vigilante ventured hopefully.
Bruce inclined his head. "What do you think?"
"Fine." Batman sighed. "You were right. Again. But," smugness was seeping back into his voice, "I'm not completely useless." He smiled. "I planted a tracer on our cantankerous conundrummer, just in case."
Bruce shuddered. "Lose the alliteration, Terry. This isn't a game."
"Are you kidding?" Batman called, as he sprang into the air, "This is just one huge adventure!"

---

Harold Nigma tried to look as inconspicuous as possible as he dropped into a vacant seat at the back of a cramped apartment living room that had been quickly and unprofessionally converted into a sort of pseudo-auditorium. The tenants' meeting for his apartment block had already been in progress for half an hour. Unfortunately, he'd been... otherwise occupied.
"Well, Mister Nigma," huffed the large woman at the 'podium,' "So nice of you to join us!"
He nodded, and smiled wanly, and gestured for her to continue.
"As I'd been saying," the woman continued, gesturing at a chart beside her, "this building has become completely unprofitable. She seemed guilty and indignant simultaneously, no easy feat. "It's become impossible for me to support my family! So, I've decided to give up the landlord business."
There was a rumble of discontent throughout the crowd, until finally someone, a rather sleazy young man in the front row who was actually one of the least downtrodden of the assembly, spoke up. "What's that mean for us?" he said as diplomatically as he could.
"Well..." she took a long sip of water, doing a bad job of disguising the fact that she struggled to phrase her answer delicately. "Well, because this dump is so unprofitable, it's become impossible to sell. So... I'm afraid you'll all have to be evicted."
The rumble consumed the room again, with renewed force. She gestured calmingly, despairingly even, to no effect.
Harold felt a confidence, pride, well within him, as he stood. "What if I could help?"
The room fell silent, as a glimmer of hope seemed to ignite over the assembly.
Careful not to appear too desperate, the landlady asked, "How?"
"Would... would this place's profitability go up if, say, a celebrity lived here?"
"Definitely!" she crowed, visibly excited. "Who?"
Proudly, Harold shucked off his trenchcoat, revealing the lime green uniform of the Riddler. "Why, me, of course!"
There were cries of surprise, of admiration throughout the crowd. Here, walking among them, was the man who smiled at them from their morning papers, who held the media in the palm of his hand, who was currently the toast of the town. He strode up to the podium amid cries of encouragement, and stood practically at attention before them, beaming.
It felt good to be a hero.

TO BE CONTINUED...