4020/The Riddle of Survival

The Riddle of Survival
Date of Scene:	04 November 2020
Location:	Bay Quay Motel, Gotham
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	John Constantine, Edward Nygma

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John Constantine has posed:
The Bay Quay Motel is a seedy and decrepit motel/hostel/budget inn that has exactly two things going for it: the desk attendant takes cash and the attached bar lets people charge to the rooms. Aside from this, there's really not much to recommend it. Much like the rest of Gotham's establishments the priority is to get people to drink as heavily as possible with little minding of the surroundings, and the bartender isn't above watering down the drinks with the sloppier patrons.

All that aside, it's at least *convenient*, and therefore it's where John Constantine's planted his ass at the bar proper. His overcoat's folded over itself and jammed into a rung under the bar. His feet are propped up on the iron bars rising up to the rickety old stool. At one point the bar might have been a speakeasy or even a proper saloon. These days, the entertainment's limited to a sad jukebox in the corner playing an uninspired array of country and rock songs with little soul to either.

Edward Nygma has posed:
What do bathrooms, gymnasts, and drunks have in common?

Edward Nygma, aka The Riddler, walks into the Bay Quay Motel's bar, not because this is the kind of place he'd normally attend, but because it's nice not to forget one's roots, and also one never knows when there's an opportunity to earn some future henchmens' respect.

The doors are thrust open with full Riddler bluster, wearing his mask, derby hat, and everything else. He even swirls his golden question mark cane. "All drinks on The Riddler, boys! I've just defeated Death, and my inoperable brain tumor is entirely gone! So I think it's time to get drunk."

He immediately plops down right next to John Constantine, as it's always clear when even the scraggly types have a bit of an aura. "Hey there." He offers his hand, particularly cheerful tonight. "The name's Edward Nygma."

John Constantine has posed:
John looks up briefly when Riddler swaggers in. Brows rise minutely, but once his examination is concluded John focuses back on his drink. It's not until Riddler sits down that John looks up from his notepad again, and gives the fellow a steady-eyed once over from hand to derbie to back again.

"Johnny Walker Black," John bids the bartender. "On his tab." He turns to Edward and grips the fellow's hand. "John Constantine. Congrats. Was the tumor the reason you're dressed like a kid's telly show host?"

Edward Nygma has posed:
"That's just my incredibly progressive fashion sense." Edward holds up a finger, to get the bartender's attention. "What do you drink if you want to be more like a cat?"

That's apparently his order, and he turns his attention back to John. "I've just had an incredible existential journey. I switched religions today. From Atheism to, well, what is commonly called old Norse religion. And boy, do those gods deliver."

John Constantine has posed:
The bartender gives John a nonplussed look; John shrugs at the unasked question. "Two," he suggests, and includes Edward in the order with a wag of his thumb.

"So you're a deist now, huh?" John roots around in his overcoat for a pack of cigarettes and a light. One's drummed loose and drawn forth in his lips. A snap of his fingers summons a tongue of fire from the zippo. The tobacco flares and crackles nearly inaudibly, in full defiance of the 'no smoking' sign nearby.

"Is that what happened then? Blundered into the path of one of the old gods, they worked some magic on you and now you're cancer-free?"

Edward Nygma has posed:
"Not quite blundered. I considered a few options." Edward starts to count on his fingers. "Thought about manipulating all the villains in Gotham in an elaborate scheme to kill and unmask Batman before I die, but it felt a bit fatalist and a little off my modern brand. I even considered trying out demon summoning, or whatever Ra's al Ghul's deal is."

"But then it hit me..." He holds up a gloved finger. "There are literal, real gods walking around. They have an embassy. So I walked into the Asgardian Embassy, swore allegiance to the Asgardian pantheon, and then told Hela, the Goddess of Death, that I want to challenge her for my survival."

John Constantine has posed:
"A Faustain Bargain." The drinks come over and John hoists his and downs it without offering salute. "Faustian gamble, more like it. Given that you're sitting here occupying your meatsuit and not freezing your ass off in Niffleheim, I'm assuming you were able to whip her at some game?"

The magus looks sidelong at Riddler and then makes a minor gesture to encourage more details. "So what game did she agree to? Hela's a cold bitch, I'm not sure I'd come at her looking to wager my life and mortality against her. She's not the sort to take well to being outmaneuvered, if my recollection serves."

Edward Nygma has posed:
"I won fair and square, so I fortunately did not earn the ire of a wrathful death god. Also, you seem to be very informed. I know an intellectual when I see one." Edward takes a sip of his drink, nodding in approval. "I had to sneak past an aggressive ice troll without being eaten, enter the ice troll's cave, then I had to solve an obscure puzzle before said ice troll returned to eat me." A pause, and he adds, "There were some corpses, fires and bombs involved in how I managed that."

"Of course, the scariest part was the mirror doppelganger... a very obscure puzzle, a challenge of both emotions and your mind." He has to take another drink to that.

John Constantine has posed:
John nods along agreeably as the story is relayed. He looks like a mortician going through a bad divorce; a shit motel, unwashed clothes, tie loosely corded around his neck. Nothing Edward tells him seems to phase him much, so he's either very in-the-know or he's displaying a typical big city tolerance for strangers telling outlandish stories.

The top-shelf whisky doesn't hurt, certainly.

"You ever lose fair and square to someone before?" John looks sidelong at Edward. "I mean proper lose, a bet or a debt or something akin." He drags his cigarette heavily. "Did you feel charitably disposed to the bloke after they took your winnings off the table and walked away with 'em?"

Edward Nygma has posed:
"While it's true that I may occasionally do a last minute stabbing, or explosion, if they survive //that// I do tend to accept my loss and try a new game later. Hela... I think the reason she isn't wrathful is because even if I won my soul, I go to Hel when I die now. The Asgardian one. So, really, like any death god, she wins in the end. Oh, and I have to spread the word that I live thanks to her infinite mercy." Edward shrugs at that last part. "Doing a bit of preaching here and there is a small price to pay."

He does have to consider, though... "I am grateful that she didn't simply blow me up in the end. Instead, she gave me a riddle."

John Constantine has posed:
"Sounds like you've got a winnin' deal then," John congratulates Ed. "You don't kick off early, and inexchange Hela gets your immortal soul as an eternal resident of Helheim. You swapped another thirty or fourty years on Earth for an eternity living unner the thumb of the Queen of the Dead, a right and proper bitch if my memory serves."

"So aside from proselytizing, what're you going to do with your years remaining?" John lifts a hand to flag the bartender down for a refill without first checking with Edward to make sure the fellow's still picking up his tab.

Edward Nygma has posed:
"The way I see it, if the Devil exists, I'm probably better off with the seven foot tall goddess than demons sticking pitchforks up my ass." Edward considers, still sipping his current drink. "I'll use my remaining years to become wealthier, solve more puzzles in the world, maybe figure out Batman's secret identity. I have some modest plans."

"Besides..." He shrugs, coming to a simple conclusion. "What is death if not the ultimate riddle?"

John Constantine has posed:
"It's a bloody inconvenience, is what it is," John tells Edward. There's something surly and a little tight in his voice. Like it's gone from an amusing hypothetical discussion to a personal grievance.

"Everyone's so afraid of it they sell their immortal souls to avoid a taste of it. Hell, Niffleheim-- it's all the same, and it's all cold and miserable."

"Tell you what mate, I'll do you a solid," John tells Ed, and turns to face him. "You answer me an honest question, and I'll peel the curtain back a bit. You can get a glimpse of things that'll make Hela seem blaise by comparison."

"Did you make that deal because of your unfinished business? Or for truth, because you were afraid of the possibilities of dyin'?"

Edward Nygma has posed:
"I'm not done yet." Edward answers, nodding. "Don't get me wrong, I always want answers, to uncover what's behind every question. But unfinished business was certainly my primary motivator. I don't know who Batman is, I don't know which one of these villains will be the ultimate destruction of the world, or hero I suppose. And what if they reboot Game of Thrones? I have to know if it'll have a good ending."

Motioning to John, he asks, "And what is the answer that //you// have for //me//?"

John Constantine has posed:
"It's not really an answer, boyo. More just a gateway to more questions," John offers. He flips through his little spiral notepad to a blank page and scribbles in it with a sharp-nibbed pen. It's torn loose and he slides it across the bar towards Edward; the paper picks up a few droplets of moisture as it goes, marring one of the numbers a little. It's a street address, and a name. 'Lux'.

"Go there, ask for the owner. Name's Lou. Tell him you don't believe in the Devil, and that John Constantine thought he could shed some light on the issue."

A grin crosses his face, unpleasant and darkly amused. "Who knows? If you rethink your deal with Hela, he might even be able to help get you out of a tough situation. He's done more for less reason in the past."

Edward Nygma has posed:
"You seem to be a riddle yourself." Edward takes the piece of paper, looking it over. "I am a family with optional blood, a belief with no clues, and I inspire war with no government."

He smiles over at John, then simply nods. "I'll give this Lou a visit. But what can //I// do for //you//?"

John Constantine has posed:
John's shrugging into his jacket when the question's put to him, and that humorless grin returns at Edward's question. "Do for me? Fuckall, I'm sure," he tells the fellow. "My problems are a little less mundane than trying to lift Batman's driver's license." His collar is half-propped, half flopped down, contributing to the look of rakish neglect John seems to cultivate. "Tell you what-- if you feel like your eyes have been opened to some possibilities, you pop a tab for me here. Oh, and--" John digs a business card out of his pocket. "When Hela decides to collect, come talk to me. Mayhaps we can get you out of a dodgy position once you wake up to your buyer's remorse, eh?"

Edward Nygma has posed:
Edward takes the card, smiling. "I really can't resist a puzzle. Everything's coming up Riddler today."

He slides a card from his own pocket, green with a large white question mark and a purple trim.

'Edward Nygma
'The Riddler'

Private Investigation, Riddles, No Questions Asked That Aren't In The Form of a Riddle

"Oh, and the answer really was whiskey. Because whiskers." He takes a very long sip of his drink.

John Constantine has posed:
"I would have guessed White Russian, because of the milk," John says. He accepts the card, reads it, and tucks it into a coat pocket. A fingertip touches to his eyebrow, arcs out. "Cheers, mate. Enjoy life. It's for the living, as they say." John gets a questioning look from the bartender and wiggles a thumb at Edward in reply. Before anyone can saddle him with the bill he disappears into the motel proper, leaving Edward alone with the bartender and his conundrums.