2014.06.19 - In Checkmate

Out of the office, he told Mabel. Hold down the fort. Forward emails. No way was he was going to drag that work that Nightwing had given him. He ditched his peacock's colars, the green and purple and gold left behind for a more sensible set of clothes for dealing with asking questions of dangerous people. Echo and Query were rung up, Johnthan off on an outting -- Edward was beginning to suspect the ladies enjoyed being the 'fun' babysitters (he's thirteen! no sex clubs, no strip joints, no crime!) on the sly, but he hoped they had the good sense to keep their heads down...
For now, he stopping to grab a coffee, before heading home with what he'd managed to rake up -- he had things to connect the dots with. There was something here... something big and ugly. But he'd gone a month without a Joker attack, so that was something right? Things had almost been what passed for quiet for the last week. Maybe this would be a quick bit of puzzling, and then a return to keeping his hands out of really grotesque issues like state-spanning crimebosses.
Slowly, almost lumberously, a sleek black vehicle comes to a stop before the coffee shop that Edward Nygma is settled in. The back doors pop open, and a pair of men in suits and trenchcoats with sleek shades come out. One has a scar on his face. The other the hardened stance of someone trained. Thugs. No; that would imply they were low tier. Something easier to manage. Professionals. Both go to the door, pushing into it with a gentle ding. Looking to each other, a small nod of the head is done towards the Riddler.
Casually, he's approached, lapels of the man's jacket flicked with a thumb. "Mr. Nygma. Someone wants to meet you. You know how these things go. It's not an option. You want to take your coffee, walk out into the cadillac, and go for a ride? Or do you want to make a scene?" At least they are offering the dignified solution.
Edward stops, brows rising over the edge of his sleek, black shades. Goddamn it. Coffee halfway to his lips as he turned to face walls of muscle, he paused. If they were simply -- common street trash, he could handle them; cane under his palm sleek dark ebony wood and a silver pomel, Edward had tricks up his sleeve... But this was a place with civilians.
Dammit, Nightwing. One day. ONE DAY, and he's already got some moronic twit up his ass over this.
"It's a very bad idea to harm me," he said quietly. "But we can talk a walk. No need to get the crowd involved." He gestured, coffee in hand; calculating odds; taser cane to one, coffee to the face of the other. But his body language was loose, calm -- he went for the door.
"It's nothing bad. Unless you want to make it bad. Someone wants to meet you. If it goes well, you will make a lot of money. Look me in the eyes." Shades lift from the man. Every ounce of body language is telling Nygma that this is the truth. Or at least, the truth that the mercenary believes. "He also said he wanted to play a game with you. Chess. He said if you came to meet him, he'd play you. And he'd win." Here is a complex psychological response. The thug is telling the truth, but he seems to doubt the idea that Edward would lose. Parroting something, for sure, but it builds up the case more and more that this is legitimate. "And he said if you fight and struggle like a dog, then he'll treat you like one." Are these guys from Black Mask? They reek of the upper echelons of the food chain. But the taste, the FEEL, is off. They aren't Gothamites. ...Bludhaven. "And if you fight... no chess. You'll just have to forever wonder if he'd have been able to beat you..." Scripted. These two are scripted. Saying words from someone else. Someone who knows the Riddler. Someone who read on him. Studied him. It might be... intriguing. One holds open the door. The other is well behind. Hand within his jacket. Grasping the hilt of... presumably a taser. The front door of the car rolls down, revealing a third. The first move is played. What will be Edward's response...?
Edward is not a fool. Egotist, madman, monster -- he could be called a lot of things, but 'fool' isn't really in him. His grip on his cane's pommel is tight. The two he could have taken. The third, with the taser.... that gets problematic. Already he is thinking in the terms of what he knows of Wing Chun; how to move each man, each piece of human pawn, as he needs to to escape the situation.
Laying out the grid in his mind, as they make their pushes.
"Your employer thinks I remain a madman. A victim of compulsion to prove myself. I don't need his gift of approval. I -know- I can beat him." What he can't do is keep Johnathan safe, warn Query and Echo, if he's in traction somewhere. Let them believe him mad, then. He drops his coffee at the foot of one man, stepping forward. "Oh, scoot over you great ape. I don't have all day."
Assuming everything goes without incident, the first man will move within the back seat. Leaving the middle for Edward, before the third comes in and pulls the door shut. The windows immediately tint black, making it impossible to tell what's outside. The hum of the vehicle is light. It's almost imperceptible, the feel of it going through traffic. About an hour of abject boredom follows, but at some point they hit the highway. Leaving Gotham...? Must be. They don't talk, just staring stoic. Probably paid to. Much can be read of them. They fit the profile of professionals. The sort that cost six figures on retainer. Special ops? Something like that. They have a sharp edge to them, despite the relaxed posture. Whoever sent them is not underestimating the Riddler, most assuredly.
And then, the door opens. They are within a garage. A large one, fifty meters in all directions. In the very center can be seen a fine chessboard, intricately carved and integrated into a stand. Similarly beautiful chairs of matching wood are on either side, one cushioned black, and one cushioned white. The pieces are all ivory. It likely cost well into five digits for it.
The man without the scar would lead Edward over, and motion for him to take a seat of his choosing. And then... the thug sit opposite. Is he going to be his opponent? Absurd. But here, the Riddler has a choice. Will he be white, and take the advantage? Or will he be black, and cede the initiative...?
Keeping still, Edward sat with his body still, his eyes half-closed. He felt each turn, gauged the speed of the vehicle. Occasionally his lips moved, as he memorized turns. His brain was working overdrive -- nothing like a shot of fear's adrenaline to make it work overdrive. But by the time the car stopped, he was certain he'd be able to recreate the route from the coffee shop even if he didn't see outside the car.
When he got out, he frowned slightly. THe excess did not impress him; nothing he had done was really driven by need for wealth. Nothing so crude. He had smashed a Stradavarius, once, before it's keeper to make him weep, admit Edward's powers over him.
He stopped at his chosen chair, leaning his cane against it. He shrugged out of his jacket -- unafraid to show that he was armed, the M1911 snug in it's shoulder holster. He was not about to start shooting now, and on the street? Batman would have had his ass for being so grossly careless.
"Playing by Proxy," he said, as he reversed the jacket and took out three items; a domino mask in purple, a collapsible hat, and his purple gloves. "The height of rudeness. Another advantage taken, denying me the ability to read you. Here. Since you need so many--"
The Riddler reached out and turned the board, taking black. "Let me give you another. You're going to need all of them."
He snapped his brass question mark tie-pin in place, and sat down, laying his cane over his sprawled legs.
"You are not a weak man." comes a voice above. Directly overhead, a blinking camera views the board. "You are not a coward. Nothing I saw read such. The psychological profiles. Those who like to think they understand the pieces. I came to a conclusion about you, Mr. Nygma. That you are not insane. Especially not by the standards of Gotham. If you wished to get away with your crimes, you could. On your own battlefield, you are at least as terrifying as the Dark Knight. If not moreso."
A lazy voice calls out a move. The thug does it with confidence. It's not a usual one; the Hungarian Opening. Very conservative and defensive for white. But making a quick, decisive win impossible. In a single stroke, ensuring that Edward is not going anywhere soon... not unless his prowess truly dominates the voice on the other end.
"A coward is someone who flees from things that they are afraid of facing. A reasonable man will avoid a situation not to his benefit. I understand that distinction. Don't you? Is it not reasonable for me to work by proxy...?"
Edward chews the inside of his cheek, watching the board.
"You're not using a voice modulator -- so either you're working through another speaking proxy, or you are unafraid of me knowing your voice." He scooted forward. "But your physicality is something that would give too much away. Your face, your movement, some flaw in your physical armor that could be used against you somehow. A memorable habit, body feature, or other tick. IT's imperative I don't see you."
He understands. He opens up, moving in what will likely align into a King's Indian attack -- an excellent counter to the Hungarian opener...
Unless Edward's baiting him. He could be. Probably is.
The voice is impossibly deep. A rumbling, crushing baritone. If Edward were a man stupid enough to be lead to bias, it is the voice of a buffoon. The classic thick-headed lummox, who can barely think enough to open a doorknob. That implies that he likely does have something notable about him physically. Unless that is another deception. This is the RIDDLER. You don't GIVE clues to the Riddler. It is like dropping coins into a ceramic pig, ones you can never get back without breaking it open -- that is, killing the man in question.
"Something like that. Or maybe if you saw a single thread of clothing on my suit, you could deduce more from me than all the detectives in BCPD pouring my case files in tandem. This is a tribute to you, Mr. Nygma. That even if I give you nothing, it might be something."
The game progresses normally for a few moves. There's brief pauses, but none longer than five to ten seconds. No indications of a computer. It feels true and organic. Yet... something feels off. The man... yes. This man has never played another human being. There is hints he has played computers, powerful and mighty ones. But nothing else. Something stale, with Desmond stalling most whenever the Riddler deviates from what should be optimal. Whoever he is, he is new to the game. But if he is... he's remarkably powerful. Almost a grandmaster. A strange-voiced man, new to chess, never played a real opponent, but is still this strong...? More and more, he's inadvertently giving Nygma ammunition.
"Tell me about the recent peculiarities in Gotham, Nygma. There was a series of events with zombie-like beings. It appeared to involve the history of the city, and implications beyond. It seemed ...supernatural. I was lead to believe such things were not generally the domain of Gotham. You were involved in the case. If you were involved, you know every answer."
Another move. This one is bold. Foolhardy. He just traded a knight. Ten moves ahead, fifteen, it seems stupidity. But it had no more hesitation than any other. "But the question is what you want. It's not money. You would be at the stock markets if that were the case. You might be already. Yet you run a successful, under appreciated investigation agency instead... if I were to be a gambling man, my belief is you want to prove something to people. They say you reformed. You are done with the games and riddles. I have seen no evidence beyond heresay and prejudice to indicate otherwise. Might that be it? Acknowledgement of your intelligence, if anything, was always your modus operandi..."
"Not zombies. Something somewhat more real, and certainly more terrifying," Edward corrects gently. This is an oddity, and this at least intrigues him -- also it gives him enough physical data on the movement and health of his thuggish keeper to let Edward know that he might disarm him, in time, and kill him if he must. He would prefer not to. It would be messy, and again-- trouble with the Bat. "They were the children of the founding families, preserved in death to protect their elders. But it was science that made them so, not magic." He wouldn't lie about that, anyway. It wouldn't gain him anything. "There was a leader, but between myself and the Bat, The Court of Owls was in ruin. Their leader is lost to technology beyond our ken, and the Talons are destroyed."
He paused, and then added; "As to what I want..." He smirked. "I am difficult to gain, yet so easily lost. Those without crave me, yet despise those who possess me. I can be traded away, or carried to the grave. What am I?"
There is a Bishop in danger, but it isn't Edward's. He waits.
"So the Court of Owls is real?" wonders the voice on the speaker. For a few seconds, the Riddler might expect the standard response. Even Batman laughed at such, and it stared him in the face. "Interesting." he settles, as if such were a fact inscribed in stone, irrefutable. "I had read indications, but it seemed quite fantastical. Indeed, you are quite my antithesis. I am large. You are small. And my intelligence surpasses you..." This is not said in a manner even remotely condescending, as another move happens. Suddenly the board is incredibly complex. It is no longer a function of experience, but of mental capacity. The sheer biological ability for one's brain to operate will determine the mid-game, drawn in by the peculiar gambit. "...But your experience and finesse with your own remarkable genius is such that, even were I to hermit myself the next twenty years, I might only catch up to where you stand now." Another piece. This man... was not always gifted? It fits all the pieces. Did some event grant him it? Well, it's certainly not narrowing down a list of suspects. Merely assembling a list of requirements to BE a suspect.
There's a brief, moment -- a brief, terrible moment where Edward's heart rattles in his chest. You dare to suggest, you pathetic animal, that you're smarter than Edward Nygma? He keep the thought to himself, keeps his eyes on the board. He runs the Fibonacci sequence in his mind. And he keeps his clues to himself.
"They're real," he says simply, keeping himself from snapping at the bait even as his blood pressure spiked. "Why are you interested in the walking dead?"
"You didn't like that." states the voice on the camera. "Even when I admit that you are a greater genius than I, the mere insinuation that my base gift surpasses your own... pride. I am different than you in that. For too long, I had nothing to be proud of. If you would like, we can play a different game. I can prove to you my biological superiority. For all the worth such holds in practice; such as the battlefield we are in now." The game continues. Roland is making no mistakes. He is working twenty, twenty-five moves in the future. Trying to counter experience with the ability to see the future. "I have no interest in the Walking Dead. I have interest in the world. The pursuit of knowledge. Something you have no need of. A man who has all the answers... and if not, can find them... is invaluable to me. You offered me a riddle before. I am bad at riddles. Riddles require one to have a grand base of knowledge and experiences, which I lack. My guess would be... trust?"
"If you have the paperwork, you know my past is an open book," Edward said. "Humble beginnings. A broken home. Errant youth. We are not base biology. We are not what we are engineered to be-- no matter how many drugs may be taken, what training can be given. Accomplishment is only partially inborn -- or augmented, in some cases," Edward said, eyes flicking up to the camera. He's understood the insinuations given. "There is no such thing as biological superiority. That is the realm of fascists who wish to manipulate the weakminded. No organism is entirely perfect." His white teeth flashed in a grin. "Not even me."
He seems somewhat mollified when the wrong answer is given, and works his pieces as best he can. He is not the only one who can see twenty moves in advance; Edward says: "If a man has all the answers, he is asking boring questions. I do not have all the answers, but I have some you don't. That's what makes this a challenge. No. I will stay with this game, and if you win, I will learn how, and be prepared again. This is actual little shame in losing, so long as you remember why."
Remember why the Bat beat you. Don't repeat those mistakes. That's winning.
"The answer to the riddle is 'respect'."
Nothing is said as Edward continues. In fact, there is silence as the game concludes. In the end, Roland's gamble fails. Edward gains a lead of a few points. Precisely the move that the Riddler would feel that there's no escape, thirty seconds pass. "Game." The peon intermediary knocks over the king, ceding defeat.
"Respect." the voice repeats, at length. But, Edward would note, it is the voice of a man who has just learned. "Truthfully, that is why I am in this game as well. But I became a criminal, for that is the path that was laid out to me from birth. A man of dying wealth, watching helpless as a once proud Bludhaven family bled the last of it's riches, leaving the deflated corpse of a once great whale. Harvested by this stinking, volatile city. You wish to know who I am, Mr. Nygma. If you wish, you will manage. The only way to stop that now would be to kill you."
The pieces are gathered and then set up once more, as if for another game. "But it is respect that made me bring you here, Mr. Nygma." Suddenly there's a dull click, as the camera goes off, and the speaker. The garage door slides open, showing Bludhaven's skyline in the distance. Slowly, a peculiar looking vehicle drives within. The front is like a limousine, but the rear is gargantuan, like a great tumor of metal. Broad at the back like a semi. It wheels forward without haste, before easing to a stop.
The driver steps out, before the huge door is pulled open. What steps out fits the mould that Edward likely had. Outside scope. Eight feet high and nearly a thousand pounds of muscle. Yet clad in the greatest finery, all custom-tailored for his unique physiology. A face like a monster, and hands that seem only able to destroy. Casually, Blockbuster reaches into the vehicle... and rips out the back seat. Metal can be heard ripping like velcro, bolts popping, glass breaking. Not a single of the men here, men worth millions, men who would die before even the Batman could break them, blink.
Walking forward, the fine leather chair in one hand, Roland places it down opposite the chessboard. And then eases, the metal displacing a time again from his weight. Huge hands fold beneath his chin. This time, he is black.
"Make your move, Mr. Nygma."
He was going to die. Not now, but eventually. Standing there, watching that thing approach. Was that the vehicle he was going to die in? No. It was something else. Carried something else.
Having spent most of his youth in and out of Gotham, Edward had seen-- things. A thousand things more sacred, a hundred things more profane. A gate to hell opened. People murdered. What the Joker calls 'love'. He's seen it all and lived to speak after. But he has seen nothing like Blockbuster. Nothing.
He does not stare precisely. Does not gawp. Seeing the clues come together into something not unexpected but still amazing...Well.
He returns to his chair, and reaches out and begins to move. The Ruy Lopez -- a complex opener, but he plays a complex game.
"Well, at the moment, you have mine interest. Respect is more complicated to gain, but..." There was the undeniable meat of mystery here, and he couldn't deny that, now could he? "I am flattered by your interest. You have ever played a live opponent, and you chose me."
"I am like you, Mr. Nygma. I do not wish to play an easy game. To gather empty victories. That was all you wished, was it not? A single, decisive crown on your head, of beating the Batman. If you had managed, legitimately, would you have stopped afterwards? I believe you would have. People mistake, I believe, what the conflict between you and the Dark Knight truly was. And that is why I believe your desire to rehabilitate is genuine." The deep voice lazily boils out.
Carefully, two fingers pinch a pawn. It's absurd. Hilarious. But to laugh would be to die. Every single neuron in the Riddler's mind would tell him that. Not a single thug is looking at him; anywhere but. Roland is incredibly sensitive about his appearance. It is clear he is a genius, but one trapped in the body of a brute simpleton. ...although with all the perks associated.
He manages to move the pawn without incident.
"You are in checkmate." he allows. "In the realm of infinity, even if the odds were infinity to one, Mr. Nygma, you would do it infinite times. But right now, you are in opposition with a force that is null. In a world of 0's and 1's, I am a 2. You did not expect to be seated opposite a man such as me right this moment. A man whom every bullet in your gun would not damage. A man where an entire cane's worth of tranquillizer, the greatest battery charge possible, would not take down. And even then, these half-dozen colleagues are the best money can buy. Literally. I searched for years. Vetted them for months. This is entirely for curiosity's sake, but... if I wished to reach across the board and twist your neck 180 degrees..."
"Do you think you would survive the attempt?"
Edward watched; not because he was unafraid (he was, but logic kept him calm), or becuse he was pointedly being rude. (He wasn't.) He was cataloging all information given him in every muscle movemnt.
"I would have," he admits. "Who could have challenged me, then? Lex Luthor? Boring." He's no match. He throws money at problem solvings. "Reed Richards? Tony Stark? Drearily predictable. Unmatched in their fields, certainly, but not the game I needed playing."
He takes another move, Ruy Lopez leading to early castling.
"Only if you twisted just so. I would prefer not to live, however, as a paraplegic cripple, a mind trapped in a body unable to exercise it's will -- which I have no doubt of your bodily control that you could do that if it pleased you." Thankfully, it did not. Edward knew that as surely as he took his next breath.
There is a laugh. A true, genuine laugh then. "But what victory is that? The grand Roland Desmond, defeated the Riddler. How epic is the tale? Coerced into a car with a threat of force, lured into a warehouse, then with a broken neck by a man who can hurl a semi. I am sure that people would praise my name for years." His expression slowly fades back to thoughtful, continuing to play. "I am not after so empty a victory. But what I am after is something else. I am waging war on the city. For years, Bludhaven was ignored. The evil everyone knew but looked away from. I have turned that evil into a weapon. And with it as my anvil, I shall strike Gotham with the fury of the /gods/."
His horse slams down upon the Riddler's pawn at the apex. The delicate tiles shatter around the piece, and the base is heard cracking deep inside. Slowly his hand lifts away, leaving a ruined knight in it's wake. And beneath it, white dust.
"You are a threat. You have a mind on par with the Dark Knight. I would prefer not to waste things. I want two things. I am in need of a tutor. My mind is new. New to enlightenment. For this, money will no longer be an issue for you. And I need you to be silent. I granted you the answer... the answer to the dragon in Bludhaven's lair. Sadly, I must insist that the alternative is the answer to my own riddle. I could kill you, if I needed to. And I do not wish to. I would ask you, so we can retain our mutual respect, to keep that information to yourself. I cede you would uncover me of your own accord. And the options are either you hold that riddle within, or you become another body on the pile of those who have stood opposed to me..."
A threat.
Two, three years ago. This would have been flattery. Intensely so. Now, it was a cage. A threat. He didn't laugh.
"Do you know the old riddle? 'What time is it when an elephant sits on your fence?' It's very simple, common. The answer it obvious: Time to get a new fence." Edward said, as he wiped up the powered of the crushed pawn. Ivory. Real ivory. A shame.
"The thing is, an answer everyone knows is worthless." Batman's words. His mouth. He used it once, to leverage Edward into silence. Now... he uses it to save his own life, indicate his compliance.
"I wouldn't threaten you if I didn't believe it would hold true. Respect, respect. Both of us want it. You were content to conquer the Batman. I simply wish to conquer the city. Let the vigilantes do what they do best. Try to stop me." He does continue playing, all the same. "The vigilantes of Gotham will find out who I am. I just do not wish you to spoil the riddle too quickly. I have my own pawns in play. I delivered Angel Marin openly on purpose. It was to signify to the world I was ready. My board is set up. And I am inviting the heroes to start to play. You, of all people, can understand this. The desire to win against another. I cannot exist in a normal life even if I desired it. And I owe this world no favors, to use my intelligence for good. I will play the role I was born into. The criminal. Only the scope... will be much, much higher than fate first had in store."
Between a rock and a hard place. Miserable.
"I can, I do. I'm merely in check." He can't say no. It's cake or death. Who choses death? When people are couintng on him to provide safety, security, a home? Will Johnathan be vulnerabl to the Court again? Grabbed and set on the path to being a Talon again as the Court rebuilt?
He pinched his nose, counting a span of breath.
"I would of course note that to play the criminal is to play to lose. If there is anything Gotham has taught me... anything..."
He took a breath.
"There's always someone bigger than you, meaner than you, and sometimes even cleverer than you... waiting right around the corner."
"I've already met someone more clever." Roland offers, fingers folding beneath his misshapen chin. "They are sitting opposite me. I can name a hundred people bigger. I am strong, but the likes of Superman would crush me beneath a finger. Meaner, though..." A tilt of the head. "I presume that the Joker has done atrocities even I would find repugnant. So I already fail at being the King." A finger taps the chessboard. "Yet you don't have to have the best pieces. Merely use them better than your opponents. We'll see. All my life, I had to rely on others. For once, I can flex my own muscles. Win or lose, I will have no regrets."
After a few moments, "This need not be a negative for you. I have the resources of an entire city. There is nothing mundane you can demand of me that I cannot fulfill. I would prefer it. Were our reliance to be mutual, then it would be far less... tenuous."
"To do so would be to admit defeat," Edward admits. "To become a criminal again, in truth. To be bested. You can understand why I can't do that. Then we become two sharks in a small bowl, rather than a man floating in a cage while the great white swims by."
He took a breath, and exhales. "Besides, there's a thousand ways to gain my compliance. I have weaknesses like any man. I betray you, everything I've worked for the last few months is in jeopardy. Have you ever been a father, sir? Have another life suddenly dependent on you? I have a daughter of my own, though we're estranged, and now a young man... who needs me alive, sane, and not what his past keepers were."
He won't bend knee. A hostage, yes. A willing consort, his will wed to Blockbuster's? No.
"..." Roland stares long and hard at Edward. There's an air of danger now. A chill in the air. His men have good instincts, for they fan a few meters further away. "Yes. I know what it is like to have someone rely entirely upon you. And I know the weakness that entails." He decides that leaving the Riddler with a partial answer is a fatal prospect. "My elder brother was a genius. He created the Blockbuster serum. A type of experimental steroid. Although he became strong and invincible, far beyond myself, he gained the mind of a child. ...I manipulated him. I used him. ...As far as I know, he is now dead."
After a few long moments, "Then our current arrangement shall fit. I am not asking you to be an ally. I won't even demand you help me. Simply remain neutral. And then... make what decisions you feel are most prudent. You can work for me. You can work against me. The responses from me will be appropriate. I read much on you, Edward. And I read it with a mind free of any bias or preconceived notions of your past. I do not underestimate you. ...Don't make that mistake with me."
Edward could not suppress the involuntary shudder. That, that was worse than death. To be reduced to an infantile mind, his intellect crushed... that was a threat far worse than anything else. That was thing that would keep Edward Nygma up nights.
"Then I concede I must congratulate you. Well played, sir. Well played." Now, all it would take would be time. Time and a lot of thinking.
"Indeed. For years, I was like my brother. I had always been dumb, but to be mindless. And then, imagine. Like a light turned on in a room dark for all perception. It is like every sense is new." Although then Roland looks upon his hands, and distaste sours him. "Only to find it in a body like this. I admit... I would trade this hulking form for that of my old body in a heartbeat." Fingers drum on the torn leather arm of his chair. "Then let our game begin. I look forward to what moves you make, Mr. Nygma. And I'll be watching..." A smirk. "Or trying to, at least." The back door of the car he arrived in opens once more, and the figure gestures. Apparently the meeting is concluded. "And don't forget..." A huge finger juxtaposes with his lips. "Shhhh..."
Category:Log