Owner	Pose
Edward Nygma	Sometimes the best puzzles are those that you have to solve over and over again. Not because it gets any easier; quite the contrary, if you solve a puzzle one way enough, eventually the puzzle somehow knows. It morphs. It shifts until you find yourself not able to go back to the old ways, especially if you want to challenge yourself. And what is life if you're not challenging yourself?     Thus is the experience of Edward Nigma, AKA the Riddler, and his various stays at his home away from home, Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insnane. Insane. Such a judgmental word. Not criminally brilliant. Criminally inventive. Criminally creative and wise and underappreciated. It was simple enough to know the right orderlies, have the right names in his mind of who was married to whom, which chips to call in, and which threats to make. Soon enough he found himself on the outside, again, and trying to get his ducks in a row.     Stepping into one of his old haunts (conveniently named, the Old Haunt, a speakeasy that dates back to when speakeasies were necessary and never felt the need to go legit), the Riddler takes his rightful place at a corner booth, a relic in his hand: an actual newspaper. Paging through the paper, he finds a story that catches his interest, eye brows arching above his dark green mask. "Joker, you old kook, what exactly are you up to this time?" he mutters to himself before thumbing to the page he got the paper for in the first place: the crosswords in the back, a pen pulled out from behind his ear. Always in pen.
Sibilance	Sibilance has a taste of knowledge here and there, and that is what allows her to enter shady hidey holes such as the Old Haunt. This knowledge comes from her ability to read thoughts, and sometimes the criminals of these neighboring cities have such secrets knocking around at the surfaces of their minds. Not really a hero herself, the young rattlesnake-like woman stepped into the old speakeasy and found a booth to sit at where she could watch all the entrances and exits and where there was a wall behind her. She made sure that the table was between her and these spots so she could use it as cover in case the room became a shooting range.     Sibil sips at a decidedly non-alcoholic drink with her hood pulled down, her goggles stuffed in a pocket and her mask in another. Her snake-like visage is neutral as she keeps her eye on her surroundings. As it so happens, she is seated pretty near that corner booth that Nigma has settled into, his mental climate making her frown to herself.
Ra's al-Ghul	The was an old gloom in Ra's al-Ghul that had come over him, in the years since the Cold War had ended and the power of the worker's commune had been thrown aside. The titan that was the Soviet Union had threatened the entire world with existance inside an evolutionary constant, the adaptation of the world pushed towards Karl Marx's vision of utopia as it had been misused by those seeking stability at the cost of mutation. An animal that could never change, that could never grow, that could never die. He had fought the force of false comfort in the little places of the world, since the Bolshevist Revolutions and movements of the 19th century. Marxism, socialism, planned economy, even cultural warfare, all powerful tools. And if it took Americans forced into war against them before Brest-Litovisk to create the arms race to strike down the combined force of every worker who sought solace instead of growth, then that is what it took. A system disrupted here, a lever twisted there.     He had lost a daughter, Nyssa Raatko, to this conflict, who had sided with the false perception of the common man that the atheist materialists had created. A man oppressed by kings. Nay, he was oppressed by himself. Just like this man who the Demon was seeking. Edward Nygma. A most unusual specimen. Dead in any other form, except for this single green and purple lily, that refused to die amidst the refuse of Gotham City. Nothing made him unique except his own personal will to adapt. And here, was Ra's al-Ghul's admiration. A fitting tool, perhaps, in Ra's al-Ghul's quest to find a successor. Gotham City's chaos drew him here, this corruption and mire bubbling over, under the control now of a lunatic. And when he was studying the files of those inside Gotham, he came across Edward Nygma. And like that, Edward Nygma had escaped, into the chaos. Another sign to the Demon of the voice of Nature, of God, of a force beyond recognition, moving events.     A pair of men in business suits walked into the Old Haunt, each Persian in descent, one with long hair and sunglasses, the other with a shaved head and a grizzled pattern of facial hair. Their suit jackets open, holsters with guns were visible beneath the left of each. And after them walked a man in a black suit, a tall Chinese-Mongol with a long black metal cane. To the astute eye, one could tell that a dueling saber was hidden inside it, from the way he grasped the top. It clicked as he entered, his eyes sweeping across the bar. He immediately knew where he'd find the Riddler. Right in the corner. His bodyguards moved to stand at either side of the door, as if the establishment had just been taken over, as Ra's al-Ghul moved towards Edward Nygma, having sought him out and recognized him from his file at Arkham immediately. For Ra's al-Ghul's eyes were everywhere, and they hid beneath the mire until they flickered and disappeared, after finding their prey.
Edward Nygma	Gotham City Crime Boss Rule #1: always be cognitive of your surroundings. And especially unknown mystery people in cloaks who might be nearby, double especially so if you just got out of the pin and you're not exactly an 'obscure' player on the scene. As such, Eddie is quite aware of the unknown. He reaches up with one hand to pull his bowler down to obscure his face slightly. He shouldn't have worn the mask. He shouldn't have come here. Old habits, old puzzles. Best to change the systems, and break the patterns.     Just as he is about to roll up the newspaper and sneak out of the bar, the newcomers arrive. These are not regulars, and in a bar like the Old Haunt, nonregular stick out like a sore thumb. Not that these gents seem all that interested in blending in. Eddie slowly looks up, first looking past towards the guards at the door, and then at the man who was rapidly closing in. He was out of his league, and had not made it to the warehouse so he wasn't even armed. Not that physical altercations were his style in the first place. So hopefully it wouldn't come to that, as he quickly forgets about the hooded stranger and instead spins his pen around his fingers, slides it back behind his ear and leans back in his seat.     "Question: what kind of person comes to a bar, and doesn't place his order right away?" asks the Riddler, his eyes not displaying any of the absolutel intimidation he has for whoever this stranger is who has clearly come to see him, to say nothing of knowing he was on the outside. "Answer: Someone who isnt coming to the bar to drink. Which leads me to my next question: to whom do I have the privilege of making an acquaintance?"
Sibilance	Sibilance knows who the Riddler is, at least based off of news stories about the exploits of heroes in this area of the world. She knew that his thing was puzzles, and as he seems to grow uncomfortable, restless with the idea of familiarity, her brow knits and she stares into her drink with some distraction. Distraction that breaks when instead she feels something else approaching. Something dark, something old, the mind of someone who has undergone a life that most mortals cannot fathom. His mental landscape makes her head lift, a twitch in her movement as if she's straining not to snap her head in that direction like a frightened animal.     A soft rattling comes from her booth and comes to an abrupt halt when her hand slaps down on her tail. She looks down at her drink again and her heart pounds in her chest, her eyes wide with fear, her hand trying not to break her glass. In the act of trying not to be noticed by the Head of the Demon when she immediately felt how dangerous he was, she fears that she may have drawn too much attention to herself anyways.     Her only comfort is the fact that he's here to talk to someone else.
Ra's al-Ghul	"Are you a fan of the Rolling Stones, Mr. Nygma?" the Demon replies, placing both hands on his cane as holds it between his feet, standing before the Riddler as he looks at him with a positively mischievous smile, his eyebrows raised elegantly. "Never allow your answer to be defined by the individual posing the question. And that, is Japanese." Ra's al-Ghul knows Riddler's type far better than the doctors at Arkham Asylum, and is playing his game in a way only an ancient theologian could. And instead of provide a third option to add to Riddler's line of thinking and force him into a lateral exercise, he mercifully comes to a fruitful conclusion for the Riddler. "My name is Ra's al-Ghul. I have sought you out for a specific purpose."     Ra's moves to slide into the Riddler's booth opposite him, letting his cane sit aside the wooden frame. "You are very special, Mr. Nygma. For a reason you perhaps realize, and they say you do not know why, but I suspect you prefer to keep this a secret. You are special because you will it to be so. You have never once been selected by Fate, but only your own works." Ra's moves his hands into a steeple atop the table, fingers tight together until the tips touch. "I admire you. A select few have reached your level. And they are always blamed for society's worst tragedies, despite having acted to prevent them without the fortune of God."
Edward Nygma	There are certain deeply seeded primal reactions. The sound of a rattle is one of these reactions, causing Riddler to snap his head to one side to see where the sound was coming from. But his attention is soon drawn back to the mysterious gentleman who approached him. Speaking of snake, the serpentine way he speaks catches Eddie uncharacteristically off-guard. He is typically the one who speaks in engimatic phrases, not the one left to puzzle out the points. He sits forward in his seat, cradling his chin in his hand as he listens.     And while he might be an egomaniac, Riddler isn't stupid. He knows when his ego is being stroked. Not that he is going to complain, especially after the treatment he received in Arkham. But he does allow the stranger to do his opening salvo, the verbal chess underway. "I am happy to see my reputation proceeds me. But sadly I am left in the dark, Mr. al-Ghul." He shifts his weight slightly, reaching out for a drink from the table, picking it up and taking a sip before setting it back down. "But lets not get grandiose. I have trained my mind to a point of brilliance, but I have no illusion about my broader place in the world. Gotham's sharpest? Perhaps, but far from its richest or most famous or even most feared." His lips curl in a slight grin. "Which leads me to the question at hand. What of my accomplishments brings you here, to me, tonight?"
Sibilance	Sibilance flinches subtly, her jaw tensing, her pupils shrinking. Look away, look /away/... and Riddler does, and she slowly relaxes. After that, Sibil lifts her head and pulls her hand away from the slightly cracked glass in her hand. She flattens her palm against the table and begins casing exits to the speakeasy, frowning toward the one that Ra's had left a couple of his soldiers at. She tightly clutches her tail as it just rapidly fidgets between her fingers.     "Stop," she stops through her teeth, frustrated by her own fear response.
Ra's al-Ghul	The Demon notices the Riddler's gesture, and Ra's, trusting the natives of this place, parts his hands briefly, gesturing with his fingers at the guards and a slight, dangerous beckoning look, before his eyes move back to the Riddler. And then, his hand drops back down, his tightened lips loosening. The two Assassins read the gesture immediately, and they begin moving through the Old Haunt, and not towards Ra's and the Riddler. The Demon gives Riddler an assuring, soft hand gesture, as the two Persians walk towards Sibilance's table, not Riddler's corner booth. In her mind she can sense the intent to analyze, interview, and potentially harm, although Ra's al-Ghul has left open the possibility of utility for the snake woman, should she acquit herself. The unusual thing is, however, he does not even leave a single method to recruit herself for his cause open. And he's not even aware of being read or blocking. He is merely an ancient soul, having learned of these things.     "I was trained first as a doctor, Mr. Nygma. Yet, my hands?" He lifts them, the hands of a trained martial artist, not a modern surgeon. "And I was quite good." He lowers his hands to the table, allowing them to fold with quiet peace. But it is not pacifism, merely calm. "I see in you a tactician where it comes to mechanisms. They say you work with puzzles, but that is not the truth. Perhaps you consider this as well." His finger gestures once, with deep implication. "Mechanisms. And Gotham City? This is a mechanism I wish to save. But it is more than a machine. It is an ecosystem." Ra's al-Ghul looks down at his hands, a deep darkness in his eyes, of loss and guilt. "I often understand that a fire must destroy a forest for new growth to come. But the world has evolved into machines, Mr. Nygma. And I do not understand how to save a machine, I only understand how to test animals, and force them to live."     He lifts his eyes, a deep look to his sand weathered eyelids. "I have created this world of machines, Edward. In a way you could never guess possible, in your relative youth. And now, I need you."
Edward Nygma	The movement in the bar is not lost on Riddler, the bodyguards coming in, approaching the hooded woman, his eyes taking in the situation and his brow furrowing slightly. He silently hopes a scuffle isn't inevitable, that he will get involved in something he doesn't want to be. He looks back towards Ra's as he goes on about his plans, focusing on the key information, but also noticing the pieces that are missing. The parts that don't quite fit together. Yet at least. Some puzzles take longer to reveal themselve.     "I do enjoy my toys," Riddler says with a casual demeanor that is at odds with his whirling mind. "But make no mistake, everything is a puzzle. The very way we live our lives are a complex series of patterns, interconnected and seperating. Questions, answers that lead to more questions." He licks his lips, his smile widening. He actually is starting to enjoy himself as he looks up towards the hooded woman again. "And I would be lying, good sir, if I didn't say I recognize that look in your eyes. That gleam. The moment when you've been looking and finally find that final piece that you've been looking for." He cants his head to one side. "Or perhaps you are mine. See, as much as I like puzzles, I also love a good game. And I happen to think the three of us are in an interesting one right now." Three? Perhaps misreading the situation, but Riddler turns his gaze from the man across the table from him to the hooded stranger, taking another sip from his bourbon. "Or was I meant to miss one of the players?"
Sibilance	There it is. She's been spotted. Sibilance doesn't feel as if it's prudent to flee, not when there's no murderous intent to be felt in her vicinity. She is still afraid, and that much is clear in the way her golden eyes turn to fixate on the men that approach her. Her animal response is carefully restrained. Even as the men get closer, she reaches up with her free hand to grab the cracked glass and empty the contents into her mouth, hardly taking her eyes off the approaching pair for even a second.     When she speaks, it is when they get close enough to her table where it is normal. She fights the urge to choke on her words, a subtle, wary shake to her voice. A voice that is as soft as a windswept Mexican flower.     "Hola, you two intimidating hombres. How may I help you?"     And then she smiles. A trained smile, a careful one, being as cordial as possible to the men sent to her table to investigate her presence.     "Is it my face? Should I leave?" she wonders, as she isn't wearing her mask right now, "I hope I haven't offended your employer."     She more tightly grips her tail and slides her other hand down into her lap. Her muscles tense. If they move in any way other than a friendly or neutral one, she will probably bolt. It's a behavior most people that frequent establishments like this are probably aware of. Even from the undercurrent of tension in her friendly tone.
Ra's al-Ghul	The Persian without sunglasses speaks, as the other one merely stares, a grim look on his face. "How much have you heard?" the Assassin asks, as both of them place their hands before themselves, clasping left over right. The one with sunglasses stands in the way of Sibilance's exit from her seated position, the other looking at her at a diagonal angle, staring at her deadly serious. They are mostly concerned that Sibilance is a police agent, or would cooperate with one. There's a deadly tinge that she may be affiliated with SHIELD or another organization that would oppose the League of Assassins, which would mean they would silence her permanently. "We are not offended by mysteries such as yours, elegant or defilement."     Ra's al-Ghul spreads his hands slowly, a look of consideration on his face. The Riddler is self-involved, certainly, but he understands very much that the pair of them are on a crossroads together, having met here. Ra's al-Ghul considers it a crossroads of crucifixes, where the executed of the Roman Empire were left to become bone drenched skeletons, their spirits never allowed to go home. "A puzzle is something that changes. I have created this puzzle, this world, which you have sought to solve and manipulate and challenge. I was born outside Rafha, in the year twelve-sixty, Anno Domini. I have seen the solution to the puzzle that is the world, and I am a piece. You are an individual that defies being used as a piece, but willfully moves through this order."     His hand moves to his beard, stroking it contemplatively. "There is chaos, Riddler, and there is order. And whenever order gets too tightly wound by those that are merely members of a larger system, an agent of Fate is placed inside the system. You are an agent of order that is self-aware of the puzzle, to an alarming extent. And I am agent of Fate. Tell me. How do you become an agent of Fate? Show me that you can solve the puzzle."
Edward Nygma	Riddler cants his head to one side, eyes still locked on the expression of the man across the table from him. He clearly thinks he is telling the truth, but so do a lot of Riddler's old chums down at Arkham also fully believe their delusions. Not to be confused with Eddie. He knows what he knows. He allows the bodyguards to simply take care of the other woman and turns his attention fully to Ra's.     "You built this puzzle," Riddler says flatly, parroting the assertion of the other man, while fiddling with the brow of his bowler, his mind starting to go into overtime. "And you view all within it your to manipulate. And you come in here, clearly having an eye or two thousand on me, as no one should know where I am. Not yet. The time isn't right." The Riddler drums his fingers against the table now, eyes squinting as he considers. "So you openly admit to pushing me as a piece, yet know I won't want to be pushed. But by telling me this, are you in fact already moving your pieces? And what is your endgame anyway? See, that's the curious thing about puzzles. The first step to solving them is to know what the objective is, when you know you have finished it. For this reason, I am at a severe disadvantage." A low laughter comes up from his throat, eyes twinkling now. "Oh I do so love when something exciting happens around here, and you? You, sir, are very exciting." He leans in closer, pushing his hat back to more fully expose his masked face. "So riddle me this, stranger, what precisely are these keen minds of ours to do, now that we find ourselves at this existential crossroad?"
Sibilance	Sibilance meets the Assassin's gaze. She holds that gaze solidly. Her tail FREAKS OUT in her hand and her jaw tenses again until it stops trying to put on a cowardly threat display at the two men. A threat display meant to say 'Keep away, or I could kill you,' if one goes by the animal she is based off of. She isn't smiling anymore. She's just enormously tense.     They would kill her ... if she was an enemy.     "I am not your enemy," she tells him, her voice carrying a strange quality to it. She reflexively tried to command the man questioning her. "I overhear a lot, but I'm a vagrant, and of no consequence to you or your employer. I am easily startled by those with a dangerous air to them and have startled these other patrons in turn with my unusual instincts." The very deliberate tone to her voice, the strong eye contact... She lifts her rattle-tipped tail into plain view for them to see.     The other assassin might notice the effect she has on him. Mind control has a certain... feel to it. Behaviors change subtly. A man familiar with a comrade's way of carrying himself may pick up on the alien change, or disagree with her assessments enough that such controlled behavior would look all the more odd.     "Si?" And she smiles, the command capping off. "Anything else?"
Ra's al-Ghul	The Persians look to each other, nodding slowly, but there is a handsign given from the one under the effects of mind control. He lifts his left hand and makes an open handed wheel, his thumb and forefinger seperated enough to hold a small diamond. It is a precise, natural manuever, appearing perfect enough to be trained for an entire life. The Persian without the mind control being used on him reaches into his suit, with his left hand, to show he's not reaching for his gun, and withdraws a small, green card. He slides it onto Sibilance's table. It had a black skull, and an international phone number. There are letters in Arabic. "Very well." The pair of them move back over to Ra's al-Ghul's side, watching Riddler quietly, waiting to be dismissed.     "All puzzles are built by those selected by fortune, fate, nature, black chance, white luck...There are many religions to explain it, but there is only one person in the world ever capable of deducing the entire thing. And that man, is God. Do you know what I will tell you, 'keen mind' that I am, here, as we sit across from each other, Edward Nygma, son of humility and enchained by your own consideration?" He points across the table, directly at Riddler, deadly serious. "/You/, are God. You understand the pattern, and you refuse to fit into any portion of the pattern, beyond the one you have specifically chosen by yourself, your chains, because you understand the pattern. And myself? I am an agent of God. Technically speaking, Edward Nygma..." He smiles. "I have always worked for you." He slides out of the booth slowly, taking his cane. "That is a riddle to contemplate, until the day you die. And as for the objective of the game that we all play? Allow me to help you."     He looks down and removes a black smartphone from his suit jacket, placing it on the table. "Many of us find it when we die and pass on to the other side, but one man saw it earlier. His name was Charles Darwin. At least, that's the one that decided to place his particular insight into a book for others. There are others, of course. But Darwin grasped my particular objective's entire notion, centuries after I had introduced the basic motions into play." He tips his head as he places both hands on the head of his cane.     "Do think about it, Edward. And if you should choose to shape a new creation for a man like me, to create puzzles within, merely use that smartphone to contact my representatives. Otherwise?" He picks his came up in his right hand, with a bit of showmanship. "Consider a retirement as an author of philosophy. It is useful for much more than theory. I find this often myself." His cane slides back down in his hand to the ground.     "Good day to you, Riddler. And to the lady as well." He looks to Sibilance, bowing his head. There's a brief memory of Spain as he does so, of gold ships arriving in Spanish ports, a Spanish knight speaking to Ra's al-Ghul about the failure of Mexican natives to survive slave labor. And with that, he turns about, moving out of the Old Haunt, his minions following.
Edward Nygma	The Riddler listens intently, pursing his lips. He's doesn't have much room for God in his own calculations. Not because he is necessarily a non-believer; he simply doesn't factor in unknown variables, things outside of his control. Because if he can't have it under control, it is an anamoly and shouldn't be part of the game.     He actually blinks when called a god, unable to stifle a laugh at that. "I must say, you are a delightful flirt," he laughs, looking down at the phone. He hesitates for a moment before he picks it up with his gloved hands. He turns it over a few times, examining it for any signs of manufacturing, only to discover it a perfect burner. He'll take it apart later, test it for any internal tracking devices, but for now the mystery is too compelling. "Twelve-sixty, Anno Domini," he mimics, in al-Ghul's admittedly intimidating manner, before pocketing the phone and sliding out of his booth. He tosses a few bills on his table, enough to cover his tab as well as a generous tip to make sure no one professionally saw him here, collects his newspaper and then slips behind the bar, into the backroom and then out a rear staff exit. He has a lot to unpack for the evening, but for now he's thrilled. He hasn't been out of the old AA for an hour, and his old buddy is running the GCPD and he has a new mysterious puzzle to unravel. "Oh, Lady Gotham," he says with a pleased grin as he empties out into a dingy alley. "You never cease to entertain."
Sibilance	Hand gestures. They are hard to divine with surface mind reading. Sibil knits her brow in confusion, and turns her head on a smooth swivel to look upon the man with sunglasses. The lack of murderous intent shared between them is clear, at least. She isn't about to get shot at. But their caution -- a specific about SHIELD glimmers at the back of her mind -- is unnerving for her. They expected her to be the kind of threat she only reads about in books... to be truthful, she was worse than a lot of those. She could be very lethal.     She looks down at the card and stares at it until everyone leaves. Then she reaches down and presses her hand atop it to slide it off the table and place it in one of her pockets, so she can investigate it later. Her curiosity is piqued. Dangerous people might help her know how to protect herself, how to find safety in the dark. Their employer had that air about him, although his unusual chat with Nigma still rung as a warning bell in her head.     She affixes the mask, hood and goggles back to her head, and slides out from her seat, leaving some currency on the table to pay for her drink and for the glass she cracked. She disappears into the alleyway, her tail tucked up under her coat, where she looks like any other homeless person on the street.