My SpaceHey Kitten: A Riddlebat Story

Chapter 12: Murder Mystery 2 IRL

A knock at my bedroom door interrupted my Reddit browsing. I growled as I unlocked the door, met with my butler, arms crossed.

"Master Bruce, I received a call from my bank. There have been questionable purchases on my credit card recently. Does this sound familiar to you?"

Although I was a billionaire, the credit card was under his name after the thigh highs incident. Since my purchases were now monitored, I was too afraid to buy anything without his approval. Last time I tried he posted to his Facebook group about what to do when your teen buys a Mitski Album and a copy of My Year of Rest and Relaxation.

"Perhaps I should refresh your memory," he sighed before reading, "Discord Nitro, 13,500 V-bucks, Lemon Demon Spirit Phone vinyl, 25 gifted subs to Jerma985, Carpe Antiperspirant Hand Lotion: A dermatologist-recommended non-irritating smooth lotion that helps stops hand sweat (Great for hyperhidrosis), American Psycho (Uncut Version) (Killer Collector's Edition)-"

"Ok, ok, I've heard enough! I have no idea what you're talking about." All of these purchases sounded like incel behavior. Someone had to be skilled enough to hack into my bank account. Someone like-

"Not even cases of Pepto Bismol, Lactaid, unofficial Batman pajama pants, Twitch viewer bots, or 10,000 Robux?"

Lactaid? I didn't know anyone who was lactose intolerant, besides my mother, who could no longer enjoy Lactaid because she was no longer here (she died). I was an orphan, so my father was dead too. He wasn't lactose intolerant, but he couldn't enjoy milk (or chocolate, his favorite) anymore because he was murdered. Chocolate milk... why did that feel so familiar?

Of course, the Riddler! I had almost forgotten about his live- streamed emotional breakdown over my spilled chocolate milk carton (oopsies). I couldn't bring myself to snitch on him. Snitches get stitches, I guess. Though, when my parents snitched on corruption in the city, they got shot. That was how I became an orphan, meaning both my parents were dead.

"That wasn't me. Probably some incel hacker with a mild following on Twitch or something".

My butler sighed in frustration and started toward the door, mumbling something about "how his Facebook group would love to hear about this".

"Alfredo?"

He turned. "Yes, Master Bruce?"

"How should you respond if a guy- I MEAN someone confessed their undying love to you?"

"I suggest an edible arrangement, personally pineapple flowers are my favorite; I am also fond of a cheese inclusion."

Edibles? I've smoked one of those before.

"Wait but the rid-I MEAN THIS SPECIAL SOMEONE cannot have weed."

He's lactose intolerant. Unlike me, who had snorted a blunt before. Many times even. Alfredo didn't notice the USB in my Batmobile. My parents wouldn't either because they're dead. I was an orphan. My parents couldn't inject edibles anymore because they're dead.

"Master Bruce, edible arrangements are not those types of edibles. Also if you decide to buy one, please use this coupon."

Oh. I knew that. I was just testing him. I went to the computer to order one, but once again, the child lock was on. I called Alfredo. He opened the computer for me and handed me the coupon. I opened and began searching for the perfect one. Where would I even send it? I went to his twitch and saw he had a p.o box linked. Perfect.

Right then, I heard a knock at the door; I yelled for Alfredo to get it and continued typing in the coupon code. Because he was preoccupied with the door, I decided to try to sneak a few extra minutes of screen time. I got on Roblox and logged on to MM2 (Murder Mystery 2). I had to stop playing because it reminded me of when my parents were murdered. They're dead now, by the way. They would never experience the epic highs and lows of hit Roblox game Murder Mystery 2 because they're dead. Which means I was an orphan.

My game was interrupted with Alfredo calling from downstairs, telling me to fetch the mail and the package at the door (I predicted an air fryer). He could never understand the significance of Meep City to me; it was the closest I could be to having parents (mine were dead). It was merely a simulation; however, those brief moments basking in the warmth of parental love satisfied my heart in a way my butler could never have. The artificial glow of the paused game reminded me to respond. Should I go afk, just for a second, and do what was asked of me? Complying felt like a betrayal to my newly adopted parents and all they had sacrificed for me. In the time taken to retrieve the mail, I could miss a lifetime the same way my dead parents missed a lifetime with me. A trembling hand gripped the mouse.

"I'm busy!", I replied.

"There is a gift at the door!"

A gift? Had the Riddler already purchased something special for me? Was he thinking about me? My stomach fluttered at the thought. I took a final look at my newfound Roblox family before rising out of my gamer chair.

The descent down the main staircase was slow. I theorized all the presents the Riddler could have given me with every step I took. A MCR shirt? Fingerless gloves? A Monster can necklace? He would know me so well, I concluded, whatever it was. He had his flaws, clearly, but I would be his dark knight in shining armor— I vowed to stop him from destroying not only Gotham but also himself.

The silhouette of Alfredo stood in the open doorway as the sun crept into the dark and lonely mansion. I paused at the threshold of the upper landing of the spiral staircase, peering down at my father's legacy before me. My butler, having heard my footsteps, turned to me and smiled.

"I believe this is from your secret admirer, sir."

His arm outstretched, waving a large envelope.

I beamed, prepared to race down the stairs. One step forward sent me flying back in a deafening roar. I could only remember a blinding orange flare before my vision blurred.

It must have been five, ten minutes before I regained consciousness, sprawled, rather awkwardly, across the oak-varnished stairs, newly blackened from the heat of the explosion. Forcing my eyelids open, I wiped away the thin layer of ash caked in my eyelashes. Something was pulling tight deep inside my soul, which was thrumming like a drum, reverberating with a single name: Alfredo. Alfredo. Alfredo.

I forced myself to my feet. The leather of the Doc Martens I had since eighth grade had become hideously, horribly scuffed and bruised from the explosion, but I could not consider such trivial things at a moment when my only remaining father figure (because my real father figure was dead) was lying on the ground, his lifeblood spilling across the marble floor. (My shoelaces were still tied though, because Alfredo had told me to double knot them. At least I would not be disappointing him in that respect.) I hesitated on the 67 and 2/3 stair, not sure whether I had the mental or emotional strength to face the inevitable below me. I couldn't. I wouldn't. And yet I must. I'd watched enough television to know that young boys who let their father figures die on their watch carry life-altering, soul-crushing guilt with them for the rest of their lives. I couldn't handle that. I couldn't handle anything. I was utterly useless without him.

I kept waiting for something, some sign of life. I wasn't about to go down there and deal with a dead body by myself. Then I saw my father lying on the ground in the alley, struggling through his last breaths. Right then, I vowed I would never let that happen to anyone else. I pushed forward, aching with every step, crawling to my butler, my father.

I didn't remember his condition when I found him. I didn't think I even checked. With a trembling hand, I dialed 911. And I waited. In those minutes, I had never felt so hopeless, like a boy being unable to save his own father. A helpless child. The sirens snapped me from my trance.

The responders had asked me questions, but the ringing in my ears never ceased. I could only manage a nod. My throat burned.

The mansion had never felt so empty.