I'm Going Ghost!

If Tucker knew that this train was going to be held hostage for one of Riddlers schemes he would have taken the bus instead.

One participant of the train had to solve the Riddlers puzzles before they would meet some flavor of gruesome end. The Bats were working on establishing a connection to the transit captives to help with the clues but so far no dice.

This’ll be easy. What could go wrong?

It’s too easy.

‘I am swift, I am unseen. I bring Death with me, but touch not a soul. Hell follows in my wake. What am I?’

This has to be a trap, right? Some kind of 'the right answer is the wrong answer’ situation.

“Can I see the second riddle?” He asks, carefully.

The Riddler hums smugly, “But of course. You get to see all four clues to solve my final puzzle and save your dear fellow passengers.” Dramatic condescension topped with the threat of imminent death. No pressure.

“Right, right…” Tucker takes the second piece of paper and reads.

'My master takes peace and paints my coat with blood. What am I?’

Okay, yeah, no. There HAS to be a catch, an extra trick at play. A quick glance at the other two clue-riddles does nothing but confirm his answers.

Tucker chewed his lip, floundering to find the right words. How do you ask a riddle-based supervillain with a body count, what the catch is, without insulting them if there really is no catch, and their riddle is just disappointingly simple? But like, politely.

The Riddler chuckled darkly.

“So, Mr. Volunteer, feeling like you’ve bit off more than you can chew?”

“No, I just…”

The train car was deathly quiet. The Riddler was clearly enjoying Tucker’s silence, practically vibrating with villainous validation. It was almost enough to make Tucker do the smart thing and simply solve the clues. Almost. But he just HAD to open his big mouth and blurt out:

“I thought you would give me a harder riddle?”

Tucker winced when a few of his dear fellow transit hostages hissed ’come on man!’ ’are you serious!??’. Yeah, that was a total Danny move.

And the Riddler looked LIVID. Silent, staring, still as a statue and probably seconds away from ordering his henchmen towards premature violence. If Tucker were a smaller guy, he’d be worried about the villain personally throttling him. For now, all the man did was whisper.

“Excuse me?”

“Look it’s just- I mean, the first one, it’s a Pale Horse, right?” Tucker stuttered, “'I bring Death with me and Hell follows in my wake.’ it’s a reference to the four horsemen of the apocalypse.” It’s fine, this is fine. Too Fine, in fact. Tucker can totally talk his way out of this. (Or at least buy time until someone gets here to deal with their man.)

“And I mean, it’s not a bad riddle. There’s no shame in using existing riddles! I just thought…”

Tucker fidgets with the strap of his gym bag. Everyone is staring at him now. The Riddler, the hostages, even the henchmen stand agape. To be fair, what kind of idiot with a deathwish decides to critique a villain mid-scheme? Bad Luck Tuck, that’s who

Welp, he’s already dug himself this deep. Let’s see how far the hole goes and if there are noxious fumes at the bottom. Time to Bugs Bunny this sitch.

“You know what? Screw it. I’ll say it; I’m insulted.” Taking advantage of his height, Tucker took one long step into the Riddler’s personal space and flicked the man’s stupid bowler hat right off his scheming head.

“You went through all the trouble of taking a train full of people hostage, put together this convoluted riddle-solving scenario, and then your riddles don’t even make a statement? Or at least a social commentary?”

Another step forward and the Riddler took one back.

“I get that 'a pale horse, a red horse, a black horse, and a white horse’ is probably alluding to a location or referencing some future team up against Batman, but honestly? It feels lazy, man. As soon as you figure out one clue, the rest are obvious.

"My life is on the line here and you’re half-assing this. So suuuue me for expecting harder riddles. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, when your performance today was downright pedestrian.”

A few women and maybe a henchman or two gasped from the rear of the train car. Of all his comments so far, the Riddler looked most offended at that.

In the back of Tucker’s head a little voice kept whispering bits of advice. Keep talking, keep him distracted and off kilter. Keep the pressure up, stay in his face, don’t let him regain his footing, physically or mentally. Be it from his years of watching Danny do the exact same thing, or a little bit of ancient wisdom making itself known, he listened.

“And also, if I’m reading this correctly, it’s pretty pretentious to compare yourself, and whoever you’re working with, to the apocalypse. Full offence, you are not world-ending material. I’ve seen what world-ending dudes look like, and you. are. not. it!”

The last four words Tucker punctuated with sharp jabs to the Riddler’s left lapel, forcing the man to pivot.

“Heck, Red Robin has more world-ending potential than you do. But, you know what you are good for?” Tucker said, stepping back.

“Wha-”

“A meat shield.”

local college student verbally eviscerates the riddler, makes batfamily’s entire day

without the blurred sight of joy and relief, it has become impossible to ignore. all the love inside you cannot keep you from seeing the truth. your children are strangers to you. the country has seen them grow taller, your youngest daughter’s hair much longer than you would have it all years past. their hands have more strength in them, their voices ring with an odd lilt and their eyes—it has become hard to look at them straight on, hasn’t it? your children have changed, helen, and as much as you knew they would grow a little in the time away from you, your children have become strangers.

your youngest sings songs you do not know in a language that makes your chest twist in odd ways. you watch her dance in floating steps, bare feet barely touching the dewy grass. when you try and make her wear her sister’s old shoes—growing out of her own faster than you think she ought to—, she looks at you as though you are the child instead of her. her fingers brush leaves with tenderness, and you swear your daughter’s gentle hum makes the drooping plant stand taller than before. you follow her eager leaps to her siblings, her enthusiasm the only thing you still recognise from before the country. yet, she laughs strangely, no longer the giggling girl she used to be but free in a way you have never seen. her smile can drop so fast now, her now-old eyes can turn distant and glassy, and her tears, now rarer, are always silent. it scares you to wonder what robbed her of the heaving sobs a child ought to make use of in the face of upset.

your other daughter—older than your youngest yet still at an age that she cannot be anything but a child—smiles with all the knowledge in the world sitting in the corner of her mouth. her voice is even, without all traces of the desperate importance her peers carry still, that she used to fill her siblings’ ears with at all hours of the day. she folds her hands in her lap with patience and soothes the ache of war in your mind before you even realise she has started speaking. you watch her curl her hair with careful, steady fingers and a straight back, her words a melody as she tells your eldest which move to make without so much a glance at the board off to her right. she reads still, and what a relief you find this sliver of normalcy, even if she’s started taking notes in a shorthand you couldn’t even think to decipher. even if you feel her slipping away, now more like one of the young, confident women in town than a child desperately wishing for a mother’s approval.

your younger son reads plenty as well these days, and it fills you with pride. he is quiet now, sitting still when you find him bent over a book in the armchair of his father. he looks at you with eyes too knowing for a petulant child on the cusp of puberty, and no longer beats his fists against the furniture when one of his siblings dares approach him. he has settled, you realise one evening when you walk into the living room and find him writing in a looping script you don’t recognise, so different from the scratched signature he carved into the doors of your pantry barely a year ago. he speaks sense to your youngest and eldest, respects their contributions without jest. you watch your two middle children pass a book back and forth, each a pen in hand and sheets of paper bridging the gap between them, his face opening up with a smile rather than a scowl. it freezes you mid-step to find such simple joy in him. remember when you sent them away, helen, and how long it had been since he allowed you to see a smile then?

your eldest doesn’t sleep anymore. none of your children care much for bedtimes these days, but at least sleep still finds them. it’s not restful, you know it from the startled yelps that fill the house each night, but they sleep. your eldest makes sure of it. you have not slept through a night since the war began, so it’s easy to discover the way he wanders the halls like a ghost, silent and persistent in a duty he carries with pride. each door is opened, your children soothed before you can even think to make your own way to their beds. his voice sounds deeper than it used to, deeper still than you think possible for a child his age and size. then again, you are never sure if the notches on his door frame are an accurate way to measure whatever it is that makes you feel like your eldest has grown beyond your reach. you watch him open doors, soothe your children, spend his nights in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea with a weariness not even the war should bring to him, not after all the effort you put into keeping him safe.

your children mostly talk to each other now, in a whispered privacy you cannot hope to be a part of. their arms no longer fit around your waist. your daughters are wilder—even your older one, as she carries herself like royalty, has grown teeth too sharp for polite society— and they no longer lean into your hands. your sons are broad-shouldered even before their shirts start being too small again, filling up space you never thought was up for taking. your eldest doesn’t sleep, your middle children take notes when politicians speak on the wireless and shake their heads as though they know better, and your youngest sings for hours in your garden.