Disclaimer: Don't own him.

Author's Note: 'Identity' was actually inspired by something that happened today. I was walking outside innocently enough when I saw this man from behind in an emerald bowler. Naturally my first reaction was "IS THAT THE RIDDLER?" before I remembered exactly what date it was. Then I hastened to put some proper colors on.


He is absinthe, smoke, and gaslights. A hat tilts over his eyes to beg the question you can't answer. Not for sure. Who walks streets in shades of black and green—marking his body while telling the world a name that isn't really a name? It belongs to him and it belongs to nobody.

A wordsmith that doesn't lie makes one only honest thief, something the whole world wants to understand purely because it can't. His cane is for show, defense, and occasional support. Identified as lean, part of the vanishing race of redheads but too tall for a leprechaun. Ancestry unknown, background unknown, residence unknown. He moves down alleys and between computer screens like electric plague.

What does he want? Why does he want it? What price is he willing to pay? Is there a limit? Is there a person behind that idea and who is at liberty to say?

The enigma leaves you hanging by a thread, a thought. Gotham will never know whose will breaks her.