Museum Studies

Chapter 4: Before Dawn

The next day:

Someone was knocking on his door.

Nobody ever knocked on his door.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. Nobody he wasn't expecting, such as minions delivering groceries or supply shipments, ever knocked on his door. The Dork Knight wouldn't bother knocking, and while the police would knock, they'd also yell, 'This is the police! Open up!' So who ever this was, it could be nobody he wanted or needed to see. Plus he'd fallen asleep in his computer chair again, which always left him with a sore neck and he hadn't brushed his teeth so his mouth tasted foul. But there was someone at the door, and they weren't going away.

Edward Nigma, otherwise known as Enigma, also AKA The Riddler, originally Edward Nashton, pushed himself out of his chair and staggered through the maze of works in progress to his door.

Coffee. I need coffee, he thought as he opened the door. "What do you want?" he demanded peevishly of the person in front of him and then blinked as his eyes delivered important if faulty information to his brain, because standing right there on his doorstep was Audrey Hepburn.

Of course it wasn't actually Audrey Hepburn, because if it was, she would be much, much older, not to mention dead. (The woman in front of him was in her mid-twenties and to all appearances, alive). She didn't even look that much like Audrey Hepburn, but she was definitely the same type.

"Ooh," Her eyes met his, and she dimpled up in an impish smile. "Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Shall I try?"

He took a step back, his hand flying up involuntarily to shield him should she attack. There were a lot of fierce women on both sides of the law in the hero/villain business, and sooner or later, they all tried to hit him, if only to shut him up. "What? No!"

"I was quoting Irene Adler when she meets Sherlock in 'A Scandal in Belgravia'. I thought Benedict Cumberbatch had the best cheekbones known to humanity, but yours bump his down the list. Oh. You still don't…I'm sorry. Of course someone with an intellect like yours wouldn't bother with popular culture or watch television shows. I'm talking about a BBC show called Sherlock, which explores the question 'What if Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson lived in contemporary London?' Forget I mentioned it."

"Uh, whoever you are, you have the wrong apartment." he managed, the words fighting their way up through a sleep-fogged mind. Plus, his most basic biological programming performed a fast potential mate assessment (shiny hair plus smooth skin plus .71 hip-waist ratio equals young, healthy and fertile. Prolonged eye contact equals interest. Smiling means she might like you!), reached a certain conclusion, and started flooding his brain with neurohormones related to pair-bonding, further complicating his reactions. Not to mention confusing him.

"Not if you're the Riddler, and if you're not I think he's going to be mad at you for stealing his clothes," she pointed to his question-mark print shirt.

He glanced down at himself, seeing the soup stains left behind from slurping down too-hot ramen, realized his stubble was approaching the length of a young beard and that he didn't remember when he last showered. Or slept in a bed. At least his fly was zipped. Meanwhile, she looked as fresh and sharp as an icicle in her neat white coat and slim blue dress. "Uh—then what do you want?"

"I'm here to invite you to the Iceberg Lounge at midnight tonight for a meeting at the owner's table. My name's Adele Chester, by the way. I've been wanting to meet you for the longest time." She dimpled again and her eyes danced as she scanned his face. "I understand that not only do you read books, you don't have to move your lips or drag your finger underneath the lines as you go. What does a vegetarian zombie groan for?"