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“I don’t know why it took me so long to figure it out. You.”
The recording was unexpected, a file transferred to the Bat-Wave itself. Bruce assessed it, scanned it for viruses, and found absolutely none.
“No, no, that’s—no. It wasn’t hard, but the puzzle of who sabotaged my...life's work, Edward Nygma's most important project, that shouldn't have been hard either.”
Few of his rogues were remotely skilled enough to even find his frequencies; the fact that parts of the file could be converted to text to reveal a massive question mark was almost not worth picking apart to find. Riddler would be the only one to go to those kind of lengths.
“A puzzle is impossible to solve if you don’t let yourself look at the pieces.”
It was definitely his voice, though it lacked a certain edge the Batman was accustomed to.
“A rich playboy at the top of a business isn’t something I would ever want to consider. And so. I didn’t.”
A blunt honesty. Bottom of Gotham Bay honesty. Which, on a certain level, was more uncomfortable than knowing that the Riddler was sure of who The Batman was.
“‘When you know what I am, I am nothing.’ I’m sure you remember my true debut. I’ve been thinking of it often. I’ve been...well, thinking. Of course, I always have, you know my mind is brilliant, but now…”
There came a short pause. Riddler’s voice dropped, enough that the computer automatically adjusted the volume to keep it audible.
“Bruce Wayne, the Batman. I couldn’t get into your security system from afar, but I still studied you from where I could. Trying to put the puzzle together, and it was too easy! The pieces fell into my lap at the slightest digging. From your charities and company to the start point, and yet it took me so long to realize, too long. The murder of your parents. It made you into…oh, remember Gorman’s words? A freak. The old police chief as well. You’re a freak.”
Bruce had been insulted thousands of times over, as the Batman and as himself. It didn’t exactly sting, even with the mention of his parents before it. How Riddler sounded, however, was quite unusual. He didn’t sound like he was trying to make it a barb.
“I connected to you here, and I doubt you'll be amazed that I managed to dig into your company’s records undetected. I know what you are is genuine, not just ripping everything off and only falsely fronting the charities for the face value—well, not entirely. Many who go against you believe that, did you know? Of course you do. What don't you by now? You know how much you're hated. And I-- Well. From the beginning, I’ve known you were the hero."
Riddler's bitter chuckle distorted into noise. He must have leaned too close the mic.
“I... can’t tell you how many times I thought about stopping by your home. Taking that butler on his way back from dropping young Grayson off at school. To make absolutely certain you would walk into my traps, to me.”
Bruce tensed, just a little, but he kept listening. The recording was hours old, left waiting where he’d find it, but not shoved into the center of attention--something else unusual for the Riddler--and he had just checked in with them all, his family was fine--
“But I didn’t. I keep to my waiting. And…putting a jigsaw together.”
Motionless, Bruce waited for the usual hint. Instead, he got a very long pause. He could hear Riddler breathing, light mechanical hiss, no clue to a plan or location there.
“I can say with certainty I won’t be just telling anyone, as that would make knowing pointless.”
The voice grew louder again.
“I still don’t know half as much about you as you know about me. And I think I still hate you for that. And I loathe you for what you used against me, that you stopped me. But not as much as I did the Batman alone. And I hate—”
There was another pause, even longer, and a muffled sound of…something. Anger, likely.
"…I shouldn’t have told you. I shouldn’t have told you anything. I can’t—I can’t—but she did it, and I hate you, and you said it was easy and YOU WERE WRONG!”
Bruce gritted his teeth. The computer wasn’t quite quick enough to auto-adjust the sound, and the roar of WRONG echoed through the cave.
A static breath. "…you were wrong. Nobody else knew it. Nobody else figured it out, nobody realized it, even when I—I didn’t.”
His voice was cracking, and Bruce felt a creeping chill up his back, the heightened sense of familiarity and discomfort returning.
It cut off, falling completely silent, even the breathing static gone, but there was still more to the recording, according to the time limit.
Bruce waited.
“I always knew you were the hero,” Riddler’s voice returned and repeated, sounding subdued. “I…it was a factor in why I told you, besides the fact that you were there. Or maybe it was that. You’re there. The beginning, the end. You’ve been there, here, since the start of the Riddler. I—Riddler—I didn’t have anything and you gave it to me, even if you hadn’t meant to, or would have wanted to if you knew—”
An unexpected curse broke off into another bout of total silence.
"…I’d…I knew it was criminals and villains that were the ones who try to murder people in their own homes, but what did I care? I lost everything, it’s what I was, and so you being what you are was the only thing that kept me going. An opponent, a hero to beat down. To win, I thought, but it…kept me alive. The bomb was gas, you know, in Gorman’s home those years ago. It would have gotten Gorman before me, but the wall was thin, the mirrors would have broke. I'm--this is--I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. But you…you’re there.”
A vivid image of Edward sitting on the bottom of the crate, looking so small despite his height when he stood, flashed into Bruce’s mind.
But even then, he’d never sounded like this.
“You listened, and I know you had to, where else would you have gone, but--I still hate you for knowing, but I think I hate myself more for everything, for being stupid, and I—I know who you are, what you are, and I’m telling Bruce Wayne and the Batman all this because I don’t have anything and you’re a hero and I don’t want to die. I’ve been wrong for too long. I don’t–I don’t want to die knowing how many years I--you’re the hero. You tried to drag this city from the pits of Hell that it was when it took your parents, even though you’ve been called a freak and nearly killed a hundred times over and would have done well if you’d gone elsewhere, I--!”
Edward’s voice grew and quickened, anger doing a bad job of masking panic until it simply broke into another total silence, but Bruce caught a wretched noise that hadn’t been cut off quite quickly enough.
“…and…and you’ve succeeded far more than I have in nearly anything. What it’s worth. I want to hurt you for it, but doing that after everything would be a low even I can’t sink to. Batman, Bruce Wayne. I hate you. You’re all I have.”
By the end, his voice was almost entirely toneless.
“When is the beginning also at the end?”
The recording stopped.
Bruce kept watching the screen a little longer. Bracing for a hint, a threat, a nasty gotcha.
Nothing.
Bruce glanced at the clock—nearly morning, late for the Batman, early for Bruce Wayne, and he was exhausted…but Gotham University wasn’t that far away.
Saving a life was worth it.