Gotham Arc #4.
Jake took a step back. His eyes narrowing as he read the unveiled words for the second time.
RIDDLE REDEEMED.
The Bangers font of the message glared at him, wiping the smirk off his face. Thick lines and exaggerated curves twisted the words into something far too delighted by his disappointment.
Someone had beaten him to it.
He had only just found out about the riddles. Was he too late to the game?
The umbrella and the cane flashed in his mind. This was his best lead to acquiring both or either of them. He couldn't afford to feel defeated just yet.
If he was lucky, all riddles smelled the same.
Jake fired a web-line and swung north, letting his nose guide him. The East End sprawled beneath him. Cramped buildings leaned into each other like drunks, laundry strung between fire escapes.
Underneath the ever-present smell of Gotham's industrial rot, Jake caught a whiff of that sharp bite of chemical paint.
He followed it to an alley behind Mortimer's Pawn. The dumpster reeked of decay, but cutting through the stench was the acrid edge he'd learned to recognize.
Jake dropped to the pavement and scanned the brick wall. Decades of graffiti layered over each other. Tags. Territorial marks. A faded Bat-symbol someone had spray-painted over the Joker's grin.
Then he spotted it. A patch too clean.
His finger traced the brick. Green emerged. Letters forming.
"I have cities but no houses. Forests but no trees. Water but no fish. What am I?"
Jake opened his mouth -- a map -- but the letters were already shifting.
RIDDLE REDEEMED.
The letters flared red, mocking him.
"Shit." His fist hit the wall. The impact sent pain shooting up his arm, but he barely felt it.
Too late. Again.
He swung to the next location, following a landmark symbol concealed in the green grin smeared beneath the riddle.
It matched with the worn down, founders statue in Robinson Park. A dead end, however. No riddle. No clue.
A distraction?
Jake clenched his jaw. What now?
First things first -- a bathroom break.
He found the public restroom near the west entrance. And a riddle on the mirror above the sinks. His fingers hadn't even finished tracing the question when the letters turned red.
RIDDLE REDEEMED.
He left without reading it.
The fourth riddle -- hidden behind a boarded-up theater in Crime Alley. Red before he finished the first word.
The fifth, in a subway entrance. Red.
Sixth. Seventh. Each one the same. That goddamn Bangers font burning like accusations.
The sun had set by the time Jake collapsed on a rooftop in the Bowery. He didn't know which building. Didn't care. His legs burned. The suit clung to him, soaked through with sweat.
He pulled up the Time Bank with trembling hands.
00:40:34
Forty hours. He'd burned six hours chasing ghosts.
Jake's head fell back against the rooftop access door. The metal was cold against his skull.
Should've taken the Totem Icon. Could've gone straight to the next totem. Wouldn't be here.
But what if the umbrella and cane weren't even totems? What if he'd wasted the Mystery Reward on a useless suit and now he was wasting time on a dead lead?
What if--
No. Stop.
He forced himself upright. Think. The tournament was due the following night. There was still time.
Without a riddle solved, he couldn't enter. Without entry, he couldn't get the totems.
Seven riddles. Seven locations. Seven answers he'd figured out too late.
He twirled his fingers, pacing. Something nagged at him.
The riddles were easy. Too easy for the Riddler. Classic riddles any amateur could solve. Where was the obsession? The challenge designed to drive you insane?
Riddler didn't do simple. Riddler did layers. Riddles within riddles. Patterns that made you question your sanity. The man lived for prolonged suffering.
Jake repeated the answers:
Echo. Map. Silence. Tomorrow. Shadow. Mirror. Time.
First letters: E-M-S-T-S-M-T. Nothing.
Last letters: O-P-E-W-W-R-E. Nothing.
He tried alphabetical. Chronological. Backwards.
Nothing.
Wait.
Not the answers. The locations.
Jake closed his eyes and reconstructed his path through the city. Under the Trigate Bridge. Pawn shop alley. Robinson Park. The abandoned theater. Subway entrance. Warehouse in Tricorner. The rooftop water tower where he sat now.
He visualized them on Gotham's map. Random scatter across the East End and beyond.
Or were they random?
Jake stood. Paced the rooftop's edge. Riddler loved patterns. Loved making people see what wasn't there -- or miss what was right in front of them.
The locations didn't form a shape. But what if they weren't the pattern?
What if the clues within each riddle were?
Each solved riddle hadn't just given him an answer -- it had included a phrase. A direction. A hint pointing to the next location.
The bridge riddle had mentioned "eastern rust" -- leading him to the pawn shop.
The pawn shop riddle had referenced "green spaces" -- Robinson Park.
Robinson Park had pointed to "where performances died" -- the theater.
Each one a breadcrumb to the next.
Jake's pulse quickened. But the seventh riddle -- the water tower -- where had it pointed?
He closed his eyes. Forced himself to remember the exact wording before it turned red:
"Round and round I go, chasing myself in endless loops. I rise and fall, yet never leave my track. Find me where circles rule and moments repeat."
I rise and fall.
Time was Jake's answer. A rollercoaster also fit the description.
Two answers. Two locations.
The Clock Tower or Amusement Mile.
He had been to the clock tower.
Jake fired a web-line toward the waterfront.
Amusement Mile looked worse at night. Rusted rides creaked in the wind like dying animals. Faded paint peeled from plywood clown faces, their grins cracked and sinister. The Ferris wheel stood skeletal against the moon, half its carriages missing.
Jake landed on the roof of the fun house.
He dropped through a broken skylight and landed in the Hall of Mirrors. A dozen Jakes stared back -- distorted, elongated, compressed into grotesque versions of himself. His spider-sense hummed faintly. Not danger. Just wrongness.
He moved through the attraction. Past animatronic clowns frozen mid-laugh, their painted smiles chipped and faded. Past the Tunnel of Love, boats rotting in stagnant water that reeked of mildew and rot.
He approached a pristine mirror at the hall's end. His reflection watched him. Then it moved.
Not mirroring his movements. Moving independently.
The reflection tilted its head. Smiled. Its hand rose. Jake stepped back instinctively. His reflection stayed put.
His spider-sense spiked. This was wrong. Magic? Tech? In Gotham, the line blurred. Riddler had access to both through the underworld.
The reflection began tracing words on the mirror's surface. From Jake's perspective, they appeared backward. He read them reversed:
"I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but come alive with fear. What am I?"
The reflection stopped writing. Stared at him. Waiting.
Jake's mind raced. No mouth, no ears, no body, alive with fear...
"Secret," he said.
The reflection shook its head slowly. Pointed at the riddle again. It's smile turned pitying. Then its finger tapped the glass three times.
Three strikes.
Jake winced. Looked around as his Spidersense buzzed. No danger in sight, but he could feel it lurking.
It didn't matter. He would get this right.
Come alive with fear.
Something that grows with fear.
"Rumor."
The reflection's smile widened. Mocking. It shook its head again.
Jake's Spidersense shrieked. Final attempt.
He stared at the words. Read them once more.
I have no body, but come alive with fear.
Fear creates it. Fear gives it power. Fear makes it real even when it's not.
His breath caught.
"A ghost."
The reflection clapped silently. Then it reached behind it's back -- Jake's Spidersense went quiet -- pulled out a card wrapped in green smoke. It flicked it through the surface of the mirror like the glass was water.
Fascinating.
Jake watched it arc toward him. Not an attack. An invitation.
He caught it mid-air, and the card felt real.
Heavy cardstock, green ink:
THE RIDDLE KNIGHT TOURNAMENT
Warehouse 17, Pier 49
8:00 PM Sharp
Present this card for entry
On the back, a single question mark.
He'd passed.
The mirror swirled into a thick green curl of smoke. It rolled outward like breath given shape, then tightened into the Riddler's face. Sharp jaw. Tilted grin. Eyes that loved puzzles more than people.
The smoke mouth stretched into a smile.
"Ah. Clever hands, persistent feet. You found what seven others missed: the eighth riddle, hiding in plain sight."
The cheekbones sharpened as the grin widened.
"Tomorrow night, I'll see if that cleverness holds... or if you'll join the graveyard of almost-smart-enough."
The smoke thinned. Then it stretched upward, pulled by some unseen current, drifting through the vents in long twisting trails. It vanished with a slow, winding pull.
Jake released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Where the smoke had been, something remained on the floor. A small gift box wrapped in green paper, a question mark stamped on top.
Jake picked it up, testing its weight. Light. He shook it gently. Something rattled inside.
Part of him wanted to tear it open right there. But the funhouse suddenly felt too exposed, too much like Riddler's territory.
He tucked the box under his arm and headed for the exit. Whatever was inside could wait until he was somewhere with fewer mirrors watching him.
The tournament was in twenty-four hours. He had an invitation, a mystery box, and no idea what he was walking into.
But he was walking into it anyway.
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