Chapter Text
pre-show
Of all the PR stunts he'd been forced to sit through, this had to be one of the most humiliating. He didn't know why he let Jonah convince him to come onto this ridiculous game show, he certainly didn't need the money. One of these days he'd have to learn how to tell that boy no.
Insufferably endearing interns aside, he did understand the necessity of it. After that insipid reporter recorded him reprimanding one of his floor managers last month, his stocks had taken a hit. It was all nonsensical conjecture about hostile working conditions, but that was just the words of a few spiteful underlings trying to press an exploitable wound. His lawyers had already descended with payoffs and libel claims, but the damage had been done. His precious reputation had fallen, if only slightly. He wouldn't have it.
If that meant debasing himself on daytime television, so be it. He could play these petty games, show that he was 'one of the people' and that he simply got a tad passionate when it came to his beloved company. It's not like that last fact was even false — Iceberg was his great success, his livelihood, a multinational conglomerate worth billions of dollars. He'd weathered far more substantial accusations in the past, but their current image was one he'd hard-fought to cultivate.
So, on the advice of his most trusted intern, he'd accepted an invitation to be one of the 'celebrity guests' on this week's airing of 'Riddle Me This!' Hopefully it wouldn't be as excruciating as those school tours he had to do a few months back.
"You memorized the report I sent?" Jonah asked as Oswald stepped out of his limo, his driver well-trained enough to hold the door for him.
"Yes, I did my homework."
"And what about the second round? You didn't mention—"
"I'll worry about that. Why don't you scamper on ahead, get me a read on the other contestants."
Always eager to please, Jonah gave him half a salute and ran in front of him into the studio. Jay, his favored guard (mostly for the fact that he rarely spoke) followed Oswald in a pace behind — could never be too careful about assassination attempts in this city. Gothamites tended to take that silly little 'eat the rich' catchphrase too seriously these days.
The contestant lounge in the studio was woefully bare — containing a stained couch, a few folding chairs, and a card table laid with a store bought charcuterie board, a bowl of cheap candy, boxes of franchise pizza, and a plastic container of green olives marked 'do not eat'.
Jonah was on the other side, chatting with a bored-looking woman Oswald was pretty sure he'd seen in commercials at some point. Typical — that boy was utterly useless if there was a skirt for him to chase.
"Excuse me," Oswald heard from his left. "Ah, I thought that was you, Mr. Cobblepot!" A woman in a sharp pantsuit flagged his attention. "I figured the rumor you'd make an appearance was false, but I stand corrected!"
"Indeed." He put on his public smile. "My board's been telling me I need to 'lighten up a little', so I thought a game show was as good a spot as any."
"Quite right!" she tittered. "Oh, where are my manners? I'm Melissa Fairchilde and I'm a representative of your competitor over there." She pointed at a tall, well-built man in a similarly sharp suit, though, and it had to be said, not nearly as stylish and eye-catching as Oswald's own. "Maximus Steele. He's a glass-cleaner for the Gotham Crocs, if you weren't aware."
Ah, a publicity hound. This is exactly why he avoided events like these. "And you're looking for sponsorship opportunities? Well, I'm afraid I'm about to be rather busy, but my assistant can put you in contact with my marketing team."
Oswald snapped his fingers, but Jonah didn't react like he heard. Really, he thought he trained him better than this. "Kildeer!"
The boy's head snapped around and he darted back to Oswald's side. Finally. "Could you please help Ms..."
"Fairchilde, sir."
"Right. Ms. Fairchilde with whatever she needs? I have a game show to focus on."
"Yes, sir! Right away, sir!" Jonah said brightly, already drawing the agent away and prattling in her ear.
That settled, he cast his eyes towards the three non-celebrity contestants, one of which he'd be paired with. A couple of them — two women, one mousey type and another with a tattoo of a dancing girl on her neck, were chatting near the candy bowl, while the final contestant in the corner had his nose buried in a book.
"Do you think he'll be like how he is on TV?" he overheard the mousey woman say to the other.
"No way. It's an act! All these Hollywood types have a persona."
"Oh, I suppose so. That's kind of disappointing."
In theory, Oswald would agree, but he had some reliable intel that their host was quite the character off-screen as well — a real competitive type. Hopefully, he wouldn't be too much of a sore loser when Oswald won his game.
Before he was subjected to more mingling, the studio door was flung open.
"Hello fair competitors — your host has arrived!" A gangly man in a sparkling green suit, question mark patterned tie, and a bowler hat stood frozen in the doorway, his arms aloft as he presented himself. "You can clap now."
Only the mousey woman clapped, just the thrice. It seemed Oswald's information on one Edward Nygma was more accurate than he anticipated — the facade didn't falter even when he was off-stage. Though, Oswald reluctantly admitted, his sense of fashion was excellent. Not that it could possibly compete with the furred and feathered number he was currently sporting.
"You all know my name, so I'll save introductions for the show. We air in twenty, so we'll pick teams now!"
He pulled out a sack with a neon green question mark on the front from...somewhere. It seemed excessive considering this portion wasn't even being aired, but Oswald could appreciate someone who developed a theme and stuck to it.
"Only polite to let our non-celebrity guests decide!" He shook the sack at the tattooed woman and the name she pulled out apparently belonged to the sports star (Oswald would admit that despite how good he normally was with names, he'd already forgotten). Next was the mousey woman who pulled out his own name, which he supposed was acceptable enough. He'd prepared to handle a far more unruly partner. Nygma flounced around the room as he waved in his stage hands, getting everyone micced and ready.
"Does anyone need a refresher on the rules? Of course not!" he interrupted himself before anyone could answer. "Only an ignoramus wouldn't watch 'Riddle Me This!', and I only invite... mildly intelligent guests. Oh! We air in five, places everyone!" He popped one of the olives in his mouth (ew) and herded everyone into a semblance of a line, watching the countdown timer next to the door.
Oswald brought up the rear — the ideal position to stage his entrance, but apparently his spot wasn't perfectly in-line with the rest because he felt a pair of gloved hands drop onto his shoulders and drag him into position. The nerve.
In a second, he whipped around and swung the pointed beak tip of his cane at the game show host's neck, halting it a scant inch in front of the vulnerable skin.
"Do that again and you're dead."
Nygma looked startled for a second before he scoffed and pushed Oswald's cane aside with one finger. "That's not very sporting, Mr...?"
"Cobblepot. Oswald Cobblepot. Do you not know the names of your own guests?"
"I only remember the one's that win," he sniped back, a wide, curling smile on his lips.
Just then, a loud buzzer went off and he heard claps and cheers coming from just beyond the stage door. Showtime.
____
round one
Oswald took his spot behind the third podium. As was instructed, a high stool was placed there to alleviate some of the strain on his leg. Nygma was riling up the crowd, taking a few photos with the fans in the front row. Why anyone would pay to be a part of this lanky fool's audience was beyond him, though the girl in the front row who looked like she was about to faint when she shook his hand certainly seemed to be having a grand old time.
She'd seen this show before, right? She was aware of the way the stretched-out leprechaun conducted this poor excuse of a program? Maybe she just enjoyed his face — which was admittedly decent — and was deaf. That seemed to be the only rational explanation.
"Oh, stop! You're too kind!" Nygma cooed at his audience. "Well, maybe a bit more."
On cue, the audience erupted into cheers while Nygma basked in it. Apparently, he schooled them well — even Oswald's partner was clapping along.
Imbeciles, the lot of them. Oswald tried to keep himself from grimacing by picturing his spacious office at Iceberg's headquarters, where he had managers and secretaries that would filter out any irritating pests that tried to disturb him. It’s where he should be now, brainstorming marketing schemes and planning competitor take-downs.
Back where he was stuck for the time being, Nygma had taken center stage, almost blinding as the spotlight caught on his glittering suit. Distractedly, Oswald thought he should've worn something more iridescent than his pinstripe number, though quickly dismissed the idea. His luxurious feathered overcoat was much more tasteful and refined.
"Best get this show on the road! Welcome to..." Nygma cupped his hand to his ear as the audience screamed 'Riddle Me This!'. "I'm your host, The Riddler! If this is your first time tuning in — what took you so long? The rules are simple! Whatever team has the least amount of points doesn't move on to the next round. Get points by getting my questions correct. Whoever’s left wins one hundred thousand dollars! If you're still confused, then you're not smart enough to be watching! Now, let's meet our contestants."
It was fortunate that he only brought his cane on set. If he had a pen in his hand, he would've snapped it in his clenching fist, trying to hold back his irritation at this flouncing moron.
Nygma rapped his knuckles on the first podium. "Hmm, team names, team names...aha! I've got it! You'll be team Blinky, which'll make you team Pinky, you Inky, and I'll of course be Clyde!"
The audience tittered for some reason. Were they going to do that after everything this glitzy fool said?
He shared the spotlight for just a moment so book guy and commercial girl could give their names, along with the sports star and tattoo woman. Normally, Oswald would take a bit more care to remember names and faces — it was essential for gaining the upper hand in business deals and schmoozing with wealthy 'partners', but he couldn't be bothered today. Not like any of these people mattered much as far as his business was concerned.
"And finally team Inky!" Nygma crowed when he reached them. "And you are?"
"Elouise Flores!" the mousey woman next to him said.
"And you?"
Oswald almost rolled his eyes. As if anyone here didn't know who he was. "Oswald Cobblepot."
"Fan tastic! Let's get right into it, shall we?"
A pair of women dressed in similarly shiny (though noticeably, not as shiny) pencil skirts and shoulder-padded suit jackets rolled out a dais — the spinner needle of course shaped like an oversized question mark.
"Round one — trivia! Why don't you start us off, Team Blinky. Come and give 'er a spin!" The dais was divided into slices, each a different of five colors representing different categories of questions, all decorated with those same looping question marks. Oswald mentally ran through the briefing he'd procured — if the information was wrong then heads would roll.
Once spun, the dais made a cacophony of irritatingly chipper sounds, not dying down until it landed on an orange slice.
"Geography! Starting out easy — what is the capital of Austria? You have—"
"Vienna!" book guy answered before Nygma was finished speaking. Oswald didn't miss the twitch in their host's eye.
"...Correct. Five points for you. Team Pinky, you're up!"
This time the dot of the question mark landed on a green tile. "Science! My favorite — roughly how long does it take for the light of the sun to reach the earth's surface?"
"Seven — no, eight minutes?" the athlete guessed.
"Correct again! Another five points. We might not need the timer today, ladies."
One of his assistants shrugged and tapped the flippable, oversized hourglass next to her.
"Team Inky! Come take a spin."
The questions weren't that difficult this first round, but shows like this always ramped them up. It was probably better to leave this question in the hands of his partner — he was here to show he was 'of the people' after all.
"History! Always fascinating. What..." He paused and looked at Oswald, a wry glint in his wide, brown eye, and flipped the cue card in his hand to another. "In 1896, the first speeding ticket ever was issued. How fast was the driver going?"
Oh, that spiteful bastard! One comment backstage and he was trying to rig the game against him. Too bad, Oswald was going to win this anyway.
"Thirty seconds on the clock!"
"O-oh dear, I'm not—" his partner began to stutter.
"Not to worry — eight miles an hour," Oswald said, smirking as Nygma's shit-eating grin fell, though irritatingly he recovered a second later.
"That's...correct. Five points to you. Impressive contestants this time, I have to say! Let's go back to the top of the order."
Originally, Oswald planned to throw in a couple duds, give a genuine-appearing pout when he got an answer wrong — for sympathy of course. Just enough to keep his team on track for the next level, but the face Nygma made whenever he got one of his little questions right was utterly priceless. It was only for a second, just a brief crack in that showman's persona, but Oswald was getting to him. His sharp jaw would tense or his fist would clench and for just a tick, Oswald could see a threat of violence behind his eyes.
How amusing. A game show host that couldn't stand someone winning. A new goal was emerging in Oswald's mind — he wanted to see what it would take for this bastard to lose his head on live television. Served him right for trying to disrespect Oswald Cobblepot.
Questions spun by one after another: What's the only planet in the solar system that spins clockwise? How many states does the Appalachian trail cross? When was the first Earth Day celebrated? How many noses does a slug have? What was the original title of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451? And each time Oswald confidently answered — Venus, fourteen, 1970, four, The Fireman — their host wound up even tighter. He barely even tried to congratulate or lord over the other teams, taking their wins and losses flippantly as he continued to glare at Oswald over his shoulder.
It was utterly delightful, the most fun he'd had all week. And it was all Nygma's fault — if he didn't want this to happen, then he should have guarded those cue cards a bit more carefully. Who knew what tween-sized cat burglars might be skulking around.
"Well," Nygma shot a strained smile out at his audience. "It seems we have a clear leader for the first level, but let's see if they can keep up this streak for the last question."
His teammate spun the blinking wheel this time, the dot coming to a rest on a red slice. Nygma flipped the cards in his hands.
"A fitting end! What...was the first message ever sent by morse code?"
"It has to be S.O.S. right?" his partner answered.
Nygma grinned, a gloating gleam cutting through. They didn't need the points, they were leaps and bounds ahead of their competitors. In fact, it would be beneficial to get this one wrong, just to add a little intrigue.
But Oswald couldn't do it. He tried to hold back his tongue, but all he could think to do was to dig another needle into this egomaniac.
"It's actually 'What hath God wrought.'"
Nygma huffed, threw down his cards, and stormed over to Oswald's podium. "How—"
"I thought this round was over?" Oswald interrupted,
"Bonus round!" Nygma abruptly decided. "Just for you."
"And how many points—”
“Never mind that! You—” he pointed at the book guy, his team bringing up the rear. “Spin the wheel!”
Oswald’s eyes darted over Nygma’s shoulder, seeing the audience awkwardly whisper and his two assistants nervously glance at each other. This was it — one tiny little push and he could get Nygma to scream at him on live TV, destroying his own career while Oswald’s only apparent sin was winning.
The spinner landed on a green slice, but Nygma didn’t bend to retrieve his cue cards. Not good. Did he have the questions memorized or was he about to make one up on the spot? If it was the former then there was no issue, but the latter could expose his deceit.
He must've noticed Oswald’s small break in composure, because he leaned in and whispered ‘got you, cheater’ just before he pulled back in that signature grin.
“How many…” he started, making Oswald’s blood pump in his ears. “Known species of vultures are there?”
Oh, oh this blundering idiot. No, this question wasn’t in the roster Oswald had stolen, but if this fool had bothered to do just a shred of research beforehand…
Oswald had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing.
“Twenty-three.”
”Hah!” Nygma nearly screamed. “There’s only twenty-one—“
”Wrong.” Oswald cut his celebration short. “You’re forgetting the Californian and Andean Condors.”
”But a condor isn’t a vulture.”
Oh, this was about to be delightful. “The only difference between condors and vultures is size, though if you desired to split the species taxonomically, you’d be more accurate to classify them between old-world vultures and new-world vultures, with condors falling into a subcategory of the latter. So yes, there are twenty-three living species.”
The studio fell to a dead silence, but Oswald didn’t look away from the blooming expression of rage and horror mixed on the game show host’s face. His lips wavered, like he was trying to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.
“About the points—“
”No points! … Because the round’s already finished!” Nygma whipped around and stomped back to center stage, realigned his perfectly centered hat, smoothed down his suit, and addressed his audience. “We’ll be right back after this commercial break!”
The curtain fell and Nygma ripped off his mic, huffing over to his pair of assistants. Commercial woman and book guy were shuffled off the set and a few more stage hands came around to offer water to those remaining.
Oswald couldn’t help but notice the frantic whispers around him, how these lowly techs kept shooting worried glances at their host. He supposed that was warranted — their jobs were also on the line if Nygma tanked their whole operation.
Too bad their boss didn’t know how to mind his manners…and was an arrogant, egotistical, childishly sore loser.