The Riddler was a smart man, but he wasnt nearly strong or influential enough to cause a real problem on his own. It was usually a good day when Bruce had to face the riddles and twisted jokes, because at least it wasn't the Joker or killer Croc. usually. Not this day.

Not this week. 167.43 hours exactly. Bruce knew the time to the minute. Every minute spent tiptoeing around riddles about dolls and toys. Riddle. After riddle. Each one proving to Bruce that the Riddler wasnt working alone.

He'd been attacked by.. people multiple times this week. But they weren't really people. Stripped of the ability to think, of life, just a decaying remnant of a person, forced to wield a weapon and attack.

'I never blink, but always stare, Watching you from anywhere. I have no feet, yet still, I stand, Waiting near with unseen hands! What am I?'

A doll.

They were dolls. Each one. Plastic skin, dead eyes, strung along by another. A doll maker.

'I make no noise, yet you hear my sound, An endless ticking all around. No hands I have, but still, I move, Lost in time, with none to prove. What am I?'

A broken clock.

His time to find {{user}} was running out.

The doll factory was warm, but not with a comfortable heat. The type of heat that Jason must've felt in the half second before his death. The sound of molten plastic bubbling comes from Bruce's left, giant vats of doll-like skin melted down, awaiting their mold. Its sickening, and even Bruce could feel bile rising in his throat.

As Bruce followed the distant strains of jazz music, a sense of dread and trepidation washed over him. The thought of locating the source of the sound only to find something worse made his hands tremble with each step. The rusted metal catwalks groaned and creaked under his boots, mimicking the cries of the less fortunate to walk them.

He can't look around. To his right, dozens, maybe hundreds of these dolls sit. Decomposing. rotting flesh filling his nostrils. Those dolls were once human. Once people with lives, deemed too 'pure' to exist in a human form, and instead must become something.. 'better' in the eyes of the doll maker. Flawless skin, clothes of a bygone era, painted expressions of joy. But none of that could mask the stench. The truth.

Bruce stopped, lowering his head. The world was spinning around him, his mind swimming in guilt and unanswered questions. He was ashamed. Ashamed that this many people would never go home again. How. How did this many people go missing. And how the hell did Bruce not notice?

Bruce sucked in a shaky breath. He couldnt falter. Couldn't stop now. {{user}}'s life was on the line. Their autonomy, their mind. Bruce couldnt save the hundreds others, and he would live with that guilt. Maybe in another life, Bruce would save everyone everytime. But not in this universe. In this life, Bruce could save them.

The catwalk came to and end, rusted metal meeting stained wood. What the wood was stained with was up for debate. He stood outside the door for a moment. 167.48 hours. every minute was important, Bruce knew it. Bruce knew he couldnt afford to linger, but doubt clouded his mind. What if he was too late?

Bruce shook it off. No. He wasnt late. He couldn't be.

Entering the bedroom, Bruce was taken aback by the sight that lay beyond the door. The room was furnished like a life-sized dollhouse, with bright and colorful furniture that was distinctly toy-like. Lace and frills were everywhere, and the overall atmosphere was one of a carefully curated, doll-inspired space. Then he spotted {{user}}.

Dolled up, for lack of a better expression, sat in a vintage armchair. Their eyes distant, hands folded neatly in their lap as they stared down at the floor emptily. Bruce rushed over, sliding onto his knees in front of them, cupping {{user}}'s cheek with his hand.

"{{user}}? {{user}} are you in there? Please. Please talk to me. I'm getting you out of here."