Looks like I got some readers last time! Here's a slightly shorter, but still epic chapter. Plenty of Riddler for all. Hope you all like it! Please review, even if it's just to suggest characters you'd like to see... Thanks!

I still don't own Batman, guys...

Part 2: Graphomania

A dark night, a dark room, and a dark man illuminated only by his computer screens.

The Riddler was scribbling away, as usual.

Graphomania - the psychotic, constant compulsion to write. The doctors never focused on that. Instead, they told Edward that he was obsessive-compulsive – that his beloved riddles were forces of habit, constraints he set for himself. His weakness. They told him he was desperate to never be known. To remain an E. Nigma. To leave behind nothing but question marks.

But they didn't understand.

It wasn't about the question, for him. For the police, the doctors, everybody else, yes, the question of his true motives was what mattered. He was a twisted mystery. An endless conundrum. Something to solve. But deep down, Edward needed answers. Rather, he needed to have the answers. A cheat sheet for all of reality, so that he could never lose. Only one man in the world could crack his codes and, well… let's just say Edward had been slowly, masterfully been revealing his final answer for a while now.

Edward had learned the truth, and he needed to share his knowledge with the world. Day after day, he had scrawled his glorious message all over the walls of Gotham, just before knocking them down. He was sick, so very sick of writing, but he had to go on. He was the teacher. He was the prophet. He was the mouthpiece of God.

The work had taken much time from him, because of course Edward was terrified of what would happen if he ever stopped writing. Perhaps the sky would fall down. You see, if he ever finished his perfect, elegant theorem, then every awful truth in the universe might manifest with it. We love only ourselves. God is dead. Nothing is real. And then everything would disappear…

Suddenly, the Riddler stopped riddling. He had forgotten to breathe again. It was as if his analytical mind had left his basic reptilian brain behind years ago. Riddler had to remain vigilant, or he'd lose his grip on reality. Refilling his lungs, Riddler wiped down his pen with a moist towelette and gingerly placed it on his desk. He surveyed his handiwork, wondering if it really needed a signature. He'll know. Won't he?

BLEEEEP! The blaring alarm spared Riddler from deciding for the moment. He adjusted his trademark green bowler hat and grinned as his fingers quickly tuned the main view screen to the source of the disturbance. It was as he thought – Master Wayne had returned home, and the plan was going perfectly.

The cameras had been installed years ago. From every angle, Wayne Manor was exposed before Edward. The naked truth. Of course, every villain in Gotham knew how impossible it was to track the Bat. Can't plant a tracking device on the Batmobile – the high-tech chariot generates a powerful electromagnetic field that knocks out any device not tuned to the Bat-freak's unique frequency. The sonar technology in his suit sends waves of feedback to any radar attempting to track his movements. So Riddler was still no match for The Dark Knight. Bruce Wayne, however, was a different story. Bruce Wayne was no force of nature. He was just a man, and his fatal mistake had left the door wide open for the Riddler and his machinations. (What was that fatal mistake, you ask? "Spoiler alert," smirks the Riddler.)

Did he need to watch what happened next? He already knew that Batman was just popping in to make sure his fortress hadn't been attacked; knowing that his identity had been compromised was surely torturing the Detective as he ran through his list of loved ones in his head. That, Riddler mused, is why loved ones are overrated. Besides, he was certain of the one place Brucie would check first, and he was oh-so-ready for that. So he could just turn off the computer, if he really wanted to... yet his gaze lingered. Batman had arrived in his cave, where he then yanked off his cowl, probably to clear his head. God, thought Edward, marveling once again at the vulnerable, undeniably human face of his most feared enemy. I never thought you'd be so beautiful…

Finally, the genius managed to avert his eyes. Yes. He has to know. Without further pause, Riddler seized his pen and added his signature to the canvas sprawled before him. It shuddered, and Riddler froze. Had he taken too long? No, it couldn't be. It was just a little twitch. The bitch wasn't going anywhere – the drugs were too strong. Gingerly wiping the last few drops of blood away, he proofread the riddle carved into the nude woman's back one last time before calling in a thug.

"Take her away, Arnie. You know what to do."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't you dare read it. You know what happens if anyone other than Batman sees it."

"Yes, sir."

"You try to know the mind of God, and you will know nothing but pain."

"Yes, sir."

"Now get out of here."

"Yes, sir." Dismissed, Arnie hoisted the woman onto his back, grinning at thoughts of what he might do to her gorgeous body. Of course, he wouldn't. Not with Riddler watching. Riddler was always watching. He should have never signed up for this job…

Riddler watched him leave with mild interest. Arnie was a good henchman, but not one of the best. The delivery car was rigged to explode five minutes after he left the drop-off point. It was brutal, but necessary. Riddler had to make sure that he didn't know. No one could know but him. No one knew how to keep a damn secret. No one understood. Still, it was worth the risk to be able to watch from a distance as his plan played out. Having secured his home, Batman would call Catwoman, needing backup, yet he would receive no answer. He'd race off to her house, break down the door, and find Selina Kyle sprawled face-down on her bed, beaten, bloody, barely alive, and etched with the most glorious riddles. And he would howl with rage. And probably punch something. And lucky Riddler would get to see it all.

It had been easy to trap the Cat, once he had the name. The name was his skeleton key for all of Gotham, and now he finally had free reign to use it. No more useless deathtraps. No more obvious puns. No more of the years of painfully faking defeat. The game was up. The Riddler looked upon his works and saw that they were good. More clownish villains would have tossed their heads back and cackled wildly into the night. Riddler, though, had work to do. He flicked the view screen on, took out his sketchbook, and began drawing Bruce's face for the millionth time as he glared at the computer. As his pencil captured every line of his rival's visage, Edward basked in the warmth of his own genius. It was perfect… Soon, you can stop hiding. All thanks to me. From now on, Bruce… you're mine.