Abilities: Canonically, Edward has no real powers. In the past he’s been injected with Venom, a highly-addictive super steroid that gives its users increased strength, speed and stamina, but that was a one-time occurrence and the effects have long since worn off. Likewise, he was once possessed by the bat demon Barbathos whose influence amplified his already dark desires by turning him into a cruel, vicious monster, but again, that was years in the past and Barbathos has long since been exorcised from him. He isn’t physically imposing or threatening; in a straight-up fistfight against someone with real talent, he’d most definitely lose. Endurance seems to be the only thing he has going for him in this case; while he can’t dish out too many heavy hits, he’s sure good at taking a lot of them.
To compensate for this, he boasts a variety of cerebral abilities that make use of his genius intellect. He has a complex understanding of puzzles, able to solve incredibly challenging ones on a whim and devise equally fiendish ones in turn. While this has lent itself nicely to concocting convolutedbrilliant and artfully crafted schemes that have led the police in circles in the past, or made it easy to create ridiculouswicked and nigh-impossible death traps for Batman to solve, these days he employs his skills strictly for detective work. He’s also a very talented hacker, able to break into well-guarded systems and networks on par with Wayne Enterprise's security, and has shown in the past that he has some understanding of engineering. Who else do you think designed all of those fucking stupiduniquely cunning traps? By this point, saying that he also has a knack for manipulation would be redundant. Additionally, like the rest of the Arkahmites, he's an old pro at escaping restraints, including and especially straightjackets and handcuffs. Locks are just metal puzzles, after all.
Lastly, although Edward isn’t the kind of person you’d want watching your back in a fight, when push comes to shove he can be surprisingly skilled with that cane he’s always carrying around with him. Its use as a bludgeoning tool or as something far more technologically advanced than it appears to be varies from depiction to depiction, but some versions have it so that he keeps a concealed blade hidden inside it.
Mary Applegate. Nineteen, female. Caucasian. Commuted to Gotham University, lived at home with her father. Divorced. Male, forty-eight. Worked the night shift on the evening Mary’s body was found at the corner of Fox and Gardner.
He repeats the words mentally now, but he can’t help it when one or two slip out all the same, a dull, quiet whisperhum lost amidst the drone of Gotham rush hour. It’s almost six o’clock, already too late to be outside in this part of the city especially when the thirty minute drive back to the office he has to look forward to has just been doubled, but his concentration is precious. Time, less so. It isn’t the most popular opinion to hold in this line of work, he’ll admit that; God knows he’d have to endure a nice slew of dirty looks from the peanut gallery for thinking that he has all the time in the world to figure this little mystery out (Mary Applegate. Nineteen, female. Caucasian. Commuted to -), but it isn’t like he doesn’t get his share of those already just for walking into view where they can see him. A few nasty glares won’t hurt him, no more than they could hurt poor Ms. Applegate right now, he supposes.
Still, it’s a little odd that he hasn’t encountered any resistance yet. He’s been here for a good three hours and not once has he encountered any of the officers who should still be lurking around the area. The perimeter is still taped off. That’s a good thing. The body’s long since been removed, but the outline still remains. That’s even better. At least he has a model to imitate, to contort his body over for maximum authenticity. It’s a lot harder when he has to rely on the impromptu ones he has to make on the floor in his office. Brilliant as his eidetic memory is, you just can’t beat the real thing. It does wonders for the brainstorming process and he couldn’t ask for more.
The sun is already beginning to descend behind a pair of fluffy clouds, allowing him to finally open his eyes without squinting. Three hours, almost three and half. Focus.
Mary Applegate. Nineteen, female.
Her father had an alibi. His office was all the way across town. He would’ve had to sprout wings it make it back from Fox and Gardner within twenty minutes, and the police seemed plenty eager to get him out of the picture, so there’s that. Probably intended to pin the blame on Mary’s boyfriend; an old classic in the world of lazy, sloppy police work. Clearly they’re missing something, no doubt there. Picking the case apart from the seams to weed out the inconsistencies, the hidden gem of truth concealed within mounds and mounds of falsehoods and red herrings, that’s where the real game is.
And it can be a very fun game, too. A rewarding one. But what he needs to do now is focus.
Mary Applegate. Nineteen, female.
Mary left for her evening classes at five thirty. Her father left for work at six. They had two cars, but his was at the mechanic’s for repairs, forcing him to take the bus to work when Mary wasn’t using the car. That evening, she was. Witnesses had spotted her father boarding the five thirty eastbound bus across from their apartment building, exactly within the time frame her body was found all the way across town.
Mary Applegate. Nineteen.
Her boyfriend was already on campus at the time. Easy pick. But the father – there’s something odd here that doesn’t match up with his testimony.
Focus.
Mary Applegate. Nineteen, female. Her father was adamant that she had spoken to him earlier about meeting her boyfriend for an early dinner on campus before her Sociology class. They had two cars, but his was at the mechanic’s for repairs, forcing him to take the bus to work when Mary wasn’t using the car. Mr. Applegate worked at PRC, a company that managed customer relations for bigger brand organizations. He was a code monkey. Worked late hours. Seen at the bus stop at five-thirty, right when Mary would have been killed. Usually left with a co-worker, the only other person in their building who worked at the company.
Mary Applegate.
It’s right there, clear as day. He can feel a headache coming on, a bitter twinge of mental frustration and then –
Mary Applegate, was it really your father they saw waiting for the five-thirty bus?
And then it hits him like a rocket, exploding in a fireball of light and iridescence and good God does he love the feeling. It’s discovery and triumph and victory all rolled into one neat little package; even the spasm of pain that zig-zags up his poor cramped back as he jolts up into a sitting position does little to ruin the moment.
Neither does Officer Friendly who chooses this precise second to come ambling around the corner.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!”
“Save it,” Edward replies blithely with a wave of his hand, grabbing his cane from off the ground as he quickly climbs to his feet. Laying on the street for a good portion of the afternoon hasn’t been kind to him, but it’s a lot better than sticking around to listen to the cop sputter and choke out threats and curses and how dare he, how dare he tamper with a crime scene, the nerve, the blah blah blah blah. White noise, really.
It can be a very fun game, Edward thinks. And, as he starts to hurry along down the street where his car is parked, he realizes that it never really stops being fun because he always knows what he’s getting into. He knows what to expect because these games always begin and end the same: with three words.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Edward Nigma (The Riddler) | DC Comics | Reserved [3]
To compensate for this, he boasts a variety of cerebral abilities that make use of his genius intellect. He has a complex understanding of puzzles, able to solve incredibly challenging ones on a whim and devise equally fiendish ones in turn. While this has lent itself nicely to concocting
convolutedbrilliant and artfully crafted schemes that have led the police in circles in the past, or made it easy to createridiculouswicked and nigh-impossible death traps for Batman to solve, these days he employs his skills strictly for detective work. He’s also a very talented hacker, able to break into well-guarded systems and networks on par with Wayne Enterprise's security, and has shown in the past that he has some understanding of engineering. Who else do you think designed all of thosefucking stupiduniquely cunning traps? By this point, saying that he also has a knack for manipulation would be redundant. Additionally, like the rest of the Arkahmites, he's an old pro at escaping restraints, including and especially straightjackets and handcuffs. Locks are just metal puzzles, after all.Lastly, although Edward isn’t the kind of person you’d want watching your back in a fight, when push comes to shove he can be surprisingly skilled with that cane he’s always carrying around with him. Its use as a bludgeoning tool or as something far more technologically advanced than it appears to be varies from depiction to depiction, but some versions have it so that he keeps a concealed blade hidden inside it.
Other: n/a
SAMPLES
First Person: Here!
Third Person:
Mary Applegate. Nineteen, female. Caucasian. Commuted to Gotham University, lived at home with her father. Divorced. Male, forty-eight. Worked the night shift on the evening Mary’s body was found at the corner of Fox and Gardner.
He repeats the words mentally now, but he can’t help it when one or two slip out all the same, a dull, quiet whisperhum lost amidst the drone of Gotham rush hour. It’s almost six o’clock, already too late to be outside in this part of the city especially when the thirty minute drive back to the office he has to look forward to has just been doubled, but his concentration is precious. Time, less so. It isn’t the most popular opinion to hold in this line of work, he’ll admit that; God knows he’d have to endure a nice slew of dirty looks from the peanut gallery for thinking that he has all the time in the world to figure this little mystery out (Mary Applegate. Nineteen, female. Caucasian. Commuted to -), but it isn’t like he doesn’t get his share of those already just for walking into view where they can see him. A few nasty glares won’t hurt him, no more than they could hurt poor Ms. Applegate right now, he supposes.
Still, it’s a little odd that he hasn’t encountered any resistance yet. He’s been here for a good three hours and not once has he encountered any of the officers who should still be lurking around the area. The perimeter is still taped off. That’s a good thing. The body’s long since been removed, but the outline still remains. That’s even better. At least he has a model to imitate, to contort his body over for maximum authenticity. It’s a lot harder when he has to rely on the impromptu ones he has to make on the floor in his office. Brilliant as his eidetic memory is, you just can’t beat the real thing. It does wonders for the brainstorming process and he couldn’t ask for more.
The sun is already beginning to descend behind a pair of fluffy clouds, allowing him to finally open his eyes without squinting. Three hours, almost three and half. Focus.
Mary Applegate. Nineteen, female.
Her father had an alibi. His office was all the way across town. He would’ve had to sprout wings it make it back from Fox and Gardner within twenty minutes, and the police seemed plenty eager to get him out of the picture, so there’s that. Probably intended to pin the blame on Mary’s boyfriend; an old classic in the world of lazy, sloppy police work. Clearly they’re missing something, no doubt there. Picking the case apart from the seams to weed out the inconsistencies, the hidden gem of truth concealed within mounds and mounds of falsehoods and red herrings, that’s where the real game is.
And it can be a very fun game, too. A rewarding one. But what he needs to do now is focus.
Mary Applegate. Nineteen, female.
Mary left for her evening classes at five thirty. Her father left for work at six. They had two cars, but his was at the mechanic’s for repairs, forcing him to take the bus to work when Mary wasn’t using the car. That evening, she was. Witnesses had spotted her father boarding the five thirty eastbound bus across from their apartment building, exactly within the time frame her body was found all the way across town.
Mary Applegate. Nineteen.
Her boyfriend was already on campus at the time. Easy pick. But the father – there’s something odd here that doesn’t match up with his testimony.
Focus.
Mary Applegate. Nineteen, female. Her father was adamant that she had spoken to him earlier about meeting her boyfriend for an early dinner on campus before her Sociology class. They had two cars, but his was at the mechanic’s for repairs, forcing him to take the bus to work when Mary wasn’t using the car. Mr. Applegate worked at PRC, a company that managed customer relations for bigger brand organizations. He was a code monkey. Worked late hours. Seen at the bus stop at five-thirty, right when Mary would have been killed. Usually left with a co-worker, the only other person in their building who worked at the company.
Mary Applegate.
It’s right there, clear as day. He can feel a headache coming on, a bitter twinge of mental frustration and then –
Mary Applegate, was it really your father they saw waiting for the five-thirty bus?
And then it hits him like a rocket, exploding in a fireball of light and iridescence and good God does he love the feeling. It’s discovery and triumph and victory all rolled into one neat little package; even the spasm of pain that zig-zags up his poor cramped back as he jolts up into a sitting position does little to ruin the moment.
Neither does Officer Friendly who chooses this precise second to come ambling around the corner.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?!”
“Save it,” Edward replies blithely with a wave of his hand, grabbing his cane from off the ground as he quickly climbs to his feet. Laying on the street for a good portion of the afternoon hasn’t been kind to him, but it’s a lot better than sticking around to listen to the cop sputter and choke out threats and curses and how dare he, how dare he tamper with a crime scene, the nerve, the blah blah blah blah. White noise, really.
It can be a very fun game, Edward thinks. And, as he starts to hurry along down the street where his car is parked, he realizes that it never really stops being fun because he always knows what he’s getting into. He knows what to expect because these games always begin and end the same: with three words.
I’m gonna win.