DC: I Became A Godfather

Chapter 36: Chapter 37 - Outsmarting the Riddler



The truth was this:

Adam's badge—the detective title stitched to his coat—had far less to do with virtue and far more to do with leverage. He wasn't promoted for playing by the rules or solving cases by the book. He'd gotten his position because he'd covered for Loeb during a scandal that could've sunk the whole department.

But of course, none of this was ever going to be shared with Edward Nygma.

Letting him—this Nygma—know the truth would be dangerous. Because once this man turned dark, once that mind was sharpened into a blade of cynicism and obsession, Adam had no doubt he'd be one of the first to bleed.

But right now, Nygma was still naive. Still unspoiled by Gotham's rot. Still convinced there was logic to chaos, still playing games because they were fun—not because they were necessary.

So Adam would play his own game.

He needed something: upgrades. Disc production was slowing down. His pirated copies were in high demand, and the outdated duplication machines—half rust, half miracle—were wheezing like dying tractors every time he ran them. And the one person in the city with the brainpower to fix it?

Currently standing in his office, ready to go home.

Adam flicked on a series of aging disc burners. The machines groaned to life with a ka-chunk and sputter, coughing smoke from their vents like they were running on coal.

"Adam," Nygma said, clutching his coat as he watched the sparks fly. "Today's been… a lot. I need to go lie down. Preferably with a glass of chilled vermouth and a jazz record. This entire night felt like something out of a Kafka story."

Zhou nodded sympathetically, wiping dust from his hands with a rag.

"Fair enough. There's nothing better than a drink after surviving chaos. Hell, if the night was bad enough, I'd make it two drinks."

Nygma chuckled—but then, mid-laugh, a machine let out a pop, and black smoke billowed into the air.

A sharp, acrid scent cut through the room.

The lights inside the chassis blinked wildly, then dimmed. Sparks fizzed beneath a fraying wire.

"Oh my God—" Nygma gasped, stepping back. "That's the radiator! It's overheating! You have to cut power now or it'll fry the whole unit—worse, it might set the place on fire!"

Adam stared at the machine.

Then, in the most exaggerated, bumbling manner possible, he grabbed a thick felt blanket from a drawer and—with great confidence—tossed it over the sparking unit.

"Problem solved!" he declared proudly. "Blanket equals no fire. Right? Can't see it, can't burn. Let's head out. We'll deal with it tomorrow."

Nygma's jaw dropped.

Smoke continued to stream from under the blanket.

"Y-you can't be serious…" he stammered. "There's still smoke! There's still fire! That thing's melting and you want to leave it? Are you—are you trying to burn down the precinct?"

Adam blinked blankly. Then, grinning like a child who'd just drawn on the walls, he added:

"Fireworks? Did you just say fireworks? Haha—I am me, fireworks of different colors!"

Nygma didn't even respond. He kicked the malfunctioning machine aside. The blanket slipped off and flopped onto the floor, revealing the charred husk of a disc burner—completely ruined.

"What kind of imbecile builds a duplication system without a cooling system?" Nygma barked. "It's criminal! Even a fan in the chassis would have helped! Instead, you blanketed it like a roast chicken!"

Adam scratched his head, pretending to be sheepish.

"I mean… I don't know much about these things. I could find a Vietnamese tech down in the slums. They run all the video stores. Maybe they know how to fix it?" He sighed. "But now that you've smashed it, I guess I'm out of luck. Guess the discs I needed to burn tonight… just won't happen."

That did it.

Nygma inhaled sharply—offended, disgusted, and challenged all at once.

"Vietnamese?!" he sneered. "Amateurs?! They wouldn't know a thermal sensor from a potato battery! Move aside."

He flung off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and stormed to the corner where confiscated tech lay in piles—junk from raids, outdated recorders, orphaned wiring, leftover processors.

"This is child's play," Nygma growled, grabbing a soldering iron. "Your machine was trash. I'll build you something ten times better. You want discs? I'll give you art."

As he worked—furious, focused, and fueled by pride— Adam leaned against the doorway and lit a cigarette. His dumb smile vanished.

His eyes narrowed, calculating. Satisfied.

He'd played the Riddler like a violin.

There was a phrase his mother once used: "It's better to invite a general than to fight one."

That was exactly how you dealt with Nygma.

Adam knew this man. Understood him. In a way, he admired him. Genius was a lonely disease, and Nygma—bless his fragile pride—had never been immune. He needed to prove himself. Needed someone to witness his brilliance.

Even in the comics, the Riddler's worst enemy was his own ego. In Gotham Adventures #34, Nygma once confessed to Batman, "I didn't want to leave you any clues. I didn't. But I did. Because I needed you to know. I needed someone to stop me. I think… I might be sick."

That vulnerability—buried beneath layers of riddles and sarcasm—was the key.

And Adam had used it perfectly.

Pretending to be clueless. Playing the fool. Making one dumb mistake after another. It hadn't taken long before Nygma couldn't help himself. He had to intervene. He had to build something better.

He had to prove he was the smartest man in the room.

"Now all that's left…" Adam thought, watching sparks fly from the table where Nygma worked like a man possessed, "…is to shower him with praise when he's done and pretend I understand any of what he just made."

He smiled, dragging smoke between his teeth.

"But I'll be damned if I'm not a little curious. The man people call the 'greatest mind on Earth'—what kind of machine can he make when he's showing off?"

This wasn't just about piracy anymore.

This was a test of what Nygma was truly capable of—before the world turned him into the villain he'd become.

Adam was already three steps ahead.

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