what you do in the dark

(when they can't hear you scream)

All recognizable characters belong to their respective owners (Cartoon Network, DC Comics).

This is not a continuation, but the next in what is quickly becoming a series. This story features the Riddler.

He's not crazy, you know. He's not. He likes his world to make sense, see? Everything has to make sense, even if it's nonsense.

Everything has to make sense, so he's not mad. That's why he doesn't belong to Arkham because he's not mad, right?

Because he may see things backwards and twisted and through a mirror darkly, but they always make sense. There's always a punchline, you see? Always an answer, always a solution, always, always sense.

He's alone now, alone inside the crowd, and no one sees him, you know? No one sees him, because he's nobody, so it makes sense. He sits in his cell, and looks at the wall beside his head and he lifts a hand and he goes—

.

knock knock

.

just lying there, staring at the bottom of the bed above his, knuckles sore but there's still a concrete wall so he goes—

.

knock knock

.

—and he thinks, who's there, but he doesn't say it because no one is there, and he knows that because there's no one in his head because that wouldn't make sense.

And he makes sense. Because he's not mad. Right?

But he has a plan, you see, a plan to escape, but, shh, don't tell anyone, it's our little secret. Passwords are just like riddles, after all, and he's so good at those, so good, and he knows and he goes—

.

knock knock

.

and he goes—

.

knock knock

.

knock knock
knock knock

knockknockknockknock

.

"Shut up!" someone in another cell yells, and he almost laughs, wonders why he doesn't, and he goes—

.

knock knock

.

just lying there, knuckles to the concrete, smiling so broken, because he can get out of here.

He's solved the riddle of Belle Reve, and all he needs in a distraction.

The collars don't work on his mind, you see. But then, that only makes sense, after all—

And then he'll get back to Gotham, somehow, not important how, because nowhere else feels quite as right like the stain and the stench of home, and he can smell it if he closes his eyes and he goes—

.

knock knock

.

to the rhythm, with the flow, and he goes—

.

knock knock

.

And he'll get his revenge on that bastard bird.

Riddles have answers have structure have sense. There's no room for his words or his answers or his guESSes or hIS WOrds his mADE Up wORDs they're wRONg, just sO dAMn WRonG

.

knock knock

.

but he'll get his revenge (revenge, not 'venge' or whatever). How, exactly, is a riddle he hasn't quite figured out yet. But he will, he'll hurt that little bird and all his little friends, too—

because that's what people do, right? It makes sense, because he's not mad, he's not mad, right? You don't think he's mad, no one thinks he's mad, right? Right? Right? Because he knows, he knows and he goes—

.

knock knock

.

—and he's not mad, not mad, per se, but maybe just sometimes, maybe he's kind of a little—

.

knock knock

.

so he smiles, and whispers, who's there?