Contrary to what the rumors might say, Adam wasn't dragging Edward Nygma through Gotham's seediest side streets because he was some kind of lust-crazed sleaze merchant. Far from it.
He just wanted the damn man to shut up.
You see, Nygma—The Riddler, mind you—was an elite-tier babbler. Gotham's most verbose villain. Give him a five-minute errand and he'd stretch it into a TED Talk with riddles, theories, historical references, and probably a recipe for soufflé somewhere in the middle.
Heartbroken, betrayed, freshly sobbing over some redheaded office assistant named Maggie. Adam knew if he let the guy stew in his own heartbreak, he'd be stuck listening to 3,000 reasons why women were like crossword puzzles and how Maggie's hair resembled ancient Greek mosaics.
So yes. Adam brought him here.
Not to a bar. Not to a shrink. But to Arkham's backstreets—Gotham's most infamous, half-legal red light district.
Because Adam was knee-deep in debt and the Arkham PD gave officers one free shot per quarter as part of their "stress management" package.
"Two birds. One stone," Adam muttered, parking the cruiser at the curb.
"Adam… uh… I don't know," Ed Nygma adjusted his bowtie nervously. "Isn't this a little… morally bankrupt? The kind of thing only libertines do after they fail algebra?"
"Listen to me, Ed," Adam said, masking his ulterior motives under a layer of greasy faux-philosophy. "Do you know who was born of seafoam? Who braved the flames of Olympus to taste forbidden fruit? Who chased joy through chaos itself?"
Nygma blinked. "Aphrodite? Goddess of love? Married to Hephaestus but, uh, flirted with Ares until she got caught in a divine scandal?"
"Exactly." Adam grinned like a man mid-scam. "And what happened to her after she got dragged through Mount Olympus's version of TMZ?"
"She, uh… cooled it?"
"Correct. Because humiliation is life's most effective teacher."
"Okay, but what does that have to do with—"
"Ed," Adam cut him off with faux gravity, "you're too nice to women. That's your fatal flaw. Maggie knew how deeply you liked her, and yet she still flirted with that meathead Fras. You gotta channel your inner Hephaestus, man—slap a metaphorical net on these people and regain your dignity."
Nygma looked like someone had just offered him a sword and told him to conquer Rome.
"...I mean, I did invite Maggie to dinner once or twice," he mumbled. "I wanted to confess. I just… never had the courage."
"There it is!" Adam clapped. "That's the problem. You don't understand women because you've never... experienced women. This is why we're here. Consider this your field research."
He leaned close, whispering like the devil on his shoulder.
"Tell me something, Ed… are you still a virgin?"
The question hit Nygma like a grenade.
He turned red. Not just blushing—boiling. His shoulders stiffened, his collar twitched, and he snapped, "What? Me? Virgin?! Are you insane?! Who—who even asks that?! I'll have you know I once... well... that's not important. Let's go already!"
He folded his arms like a teenage boy pretending he hadn't been pantsed.
Adam suppressed a grin. Bingo.
The streets of Arkham were business as usual.
Dim alley lights. Women in cheap makeup. Hooded shadows sharing alley corners with rusted trash bins. Even the sewer steam rising from the manholes seemed tired of it all.
Adam rolled down the window and tapped the horn twice.
It was a signal used only by local cops.
Once: Supervisor nearby—act clean. Thrice: Sweep happening—scram fast. Five times or more: Some idiot parked sideways again.
After two honks, a few women sauntered toward the car like it was feeding time at the zombie shelter.
"Officers," one of them mumbled, smacking gum and hiking her coat lower. "Looking for a little stress relief?"
Adam leaned casually out the window. "My buddy here is a first-timer. He wants the finest the Arkham district has to offer. Smart, sharp, and… educated. You got anyone with a diploma?"
The woman blinked. "Since when did this job need a degree? What, you want a linguist who speaks four tongues while using one?"
Adam chuckled. "Something like that."
A taller girl stepped forward, makeup barely smeared, coat cleaner than the rest.
"I graduated from Minnesota State's Biology Department," she said, smooth as bourbon. "I'll give you thirty minutes and a good memory for twenty bucks. Room's included."
Nygma's eyes lit up like he'd seen the Ark of the Covenant.
But just when Adam thought he'd done it—gotten this lovesick mess into the recovery lane—Nygma opened his mouth and ruined it.
"Wait. Biology major?" he asked, squinting. "Then tell me—what plant family does an apple belong to?"
The girl blinked. Adam blinked. Even the nearby loiterers blinked.
"…What?" the girl finally said.
"Answer the question," Nygma said seriously. "Anyone claiming to be from a real bio department should know. I mean, come on. Rosaceae? Basic taxonomy."
Adam's face fell into his hands. He wanted to slide under the seat, crawl out the exhaust pipe, and never return.
The girl flipped him off, muttered something about nerds, and stomped off.
Nygma, oblivious, puffed up his chest like he'd just cracked a riddle on national television.
"Adam," he said, "you can't let people scam you with fake credentials. This is why Gotham's economy is in ruins."
Adam stared ahead, mentally filing for unemployment. Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs No(ᴠ)ᴇlFire.nᴇt
This man. This fucking man.
He hadn't just failed the mission—he had created a whole new subgenre of failure.
Bachelor Degree Escort Interrogation. Only in Gotham.
Adam leaned back in the driver's seat, lit a cigarette, and muttered, "I brought a man to find peace and he brought a pop quiz."
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