Gotham Imagines

Nygmobblepot

Did time move more quickly within the confines of Gotham's densely-packed buildings and bustling people, or did it only seem that way? He wondered, sometimes, though for the most part it was only an idle curiosity.

                                                                       Strange for him; his curiosity was rarely idle in any sense.

   But time had passed for the forensics analyst; time in which he had slowly embraced the other parts of himself, worn them like a fresh suit and found them strangely... comfortable.

   The first killings were only ever a matter of necessity or sheer, impulsive frustration. The impulse to taunt the police, though, gradually outweighing any sane considerations, which is when the little notes began to appear: Crypic. Carefully-worded (never in phrases he might normally have chosen, although hints were given in each one–if you knew where to look).

   Just notes. No body, no trace evidence at the scene beyond the occasional spatters of blood. It was his area of expertise, after all, and the little voice he'd ignored for so long, the one that insisted he was better than all of them; brighter and vastly more amusing, slowly took the place of his conscience.

   The clipped set of verses left in Kristen Kringle's brightly-decorated apartment read strangely like a sonnet.

   He almost regretted her, at least.

   Ed's new, double life carried unexpected perks, though: He was able to turn his talents to helping "solve" the crimes; an ironic twist that made him laugh softly to himself as he worked alone, late into long, dreary nights as he did every test he knew would come up empty, forced at last to use his puzzle-solving skills to decipher some key part of each note.

   While it was far more thrilling when someone else figured it out instead (infinitely more, if the truth be told) the GCPD staff now viewed him as more of an asset than a nuisance. Part of him (the cunning, shifting part) liked to imagine it was respect in their eyes while another (uncertain, unready) feared it might be suspicion.

   Still, he rose above his petty title at last, feeling more and more each day like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon: Shaking off the old, dead husk of his former self to become something brighter, bolder, and certainly more confident than he'd once been, back when he still crawled among the nothing-creatures bound so pitibly to the earth.

   Targets were chosen for their wrongdoings. Like a dark (if somewhat... whimsical) avatar of vengeance, he was doing the work he'd always longed to do–making Gotham City a safer place to live in, at least for those who mattered. And who better to judge that, after all? His intellect was piercing and nothing could remain hidden from him for long. He was a god among ants, and had walked among them as if he were less than destiny intended for much too long already.

   This new self, dubbed "The Riddler" by local press, was an image with bright wings spread wide, ready to soar above the common herd. And even beyond his sudden grace at the department, it was fun. Dressing for the evening, discarding his glasses, and even taking his prized possession along–a fine walking-stick with its golden handle shaped like a quizzmark, won in a trivia contest during fresh college days–Nygma cut a figure so different from his norm that even fellow officers couldn't recognize him.

   The transformation, though not yet complete, was truly that miraculous.

   On this particular evening, his step was light and his smile broader than ever, the wind flicking at his dark pin-stripped coat tails to show the slick green lining beneath. Occasionally, eyes would track him as he moved through the crowd. Hardly surprising, now; he moved with certainty and purpose, with unchecked pride and grace, with all his limbs finally working together in smooth, steady strides for once, just as he'd always hoped they might someday do.