capeandcowllogs | A story high above the low, recorded by few, disputed by later.

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A story high above the low, recorded by few, disputed by later.

WHO: EDWARD NYGMA and POSSIBLY YOU.
WHERE: NOHoPE.
WHEN: August 8th - August 14th.
WARNINGS: Sweep you all up on a corner and pay for my bread.
SUMMARY: You know that I cannot believe my own truth.
FORMAT: To show what a truth, it's got nothing to lose.

They had taken away his pens. After the fourteenth riddle he had marked over the once-pristine walls, they had informed him that he was acting destructively and could not do with this privilege any longer. Eddie hadn't humored this exceptionally well. If you hadn't intended for me to express myself, he had argued, you wouldn't have encouraged such easily attained access. Whose idea was it to give me the tools anyway? His words were stonewalled, met with incomprehension or disdain. And shortly soon, punishment. Edward Nygma found himself alone, without release, staring at his blackly inked words driven over his walls. A room riddled.

He kept thinking of Norman. How that man was meandering through his life, undisturbed, when he had so abruptly ruined Eddie's own. How unfair it was, how cruel. How much he direly wanted to snip out Norman's vocal chords with a charming pair of symbolically rusty scissors and --

Oh. But that was rather frowned upon, wasn't it?

"Hardly a resonating concern anymore, is it?" Eddie muttered to himself. He had been in the habit of drifting in and out of speech in his solitude. Robbed of an audience and introduced to all kinds of new anti-psychotics (how the market had changed, since his Arkham days), he found himself prone to halfway-audible discussions with his own ears. It was grand company thus far, he wouldn't argue that. His eyes focused on the wall to his left, idly reading his own desperate scrawls.

PARTIAL OBLIGATION
FOLLOWING 01000111
ENDING WITH THE PENULTIMATE IN BEGINNING

Work that had yet been erased by his self-appointed caretakers. He rather liked that one particular riddle, it was rather pivotal. The act itself was soothing, something delving deeper into his past habits. A sort of solace granted in the dark, quiet places of his mind. An old friend. A resolve, an endurance. Truth screaming behind art. Truth. Obsession. Compulsion. This was better, he reasoned, this is how it should be. And that thought was perhaps the thing that Eddie hated the most, the one idea that he couldn't suffer; knowing how Norman Osborn made this realization first.

We may as well talk on equal terms, was what Norman had said to him as they both wore their respective costumes, both soaked in darkness. Equal terms. It was a phrase that stung, as surely Norman knew. When Eddie orchestrated his rival's convoluted downfall, he had done so with the superiority of his moral action. Eddie was right, and if he had to sacrifice a few dozen innocent lives to prove how right he was, so be it. If he had to pay with minimal blood in order to rescue thousands -- maybe even millions -- then it was a price well paid. His method was unconventional, yes, but effective. He was an agent of the greater good, a visionary of the Bigger Picture. He was the hero who had humbled a monster. Equal terms dismantled the idea, mocked it. Weaponized it.

SLAIN WITHOUT THE LEAD
VILE IN CONJUNCTION
WHAT IS THE HERO?

Locked within the painfully pale rooms of the Norman Osborn Hospital of Psychological Evaluation, Edward Nygma then decided that he was done playing games.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Caring? When that means personally investing in such a manner that you stand to suffer personal loss? Surely you see the self-defeating measures inherent. Surely you see that -- " Eddie glanced over. And froze. The throbbing florescents above reflected off wetness easily. Eddie covered his eyes with the backs of his hands, shielding his sight from any bodily fluid -- blood and tears and otherwise.

"Oh my God."

He tried to pretend he hadn't seen that. But the vulnerability was impossible to avoid entirely.

"Don't do that."

It escaped before he could censor himself.

Edited 2011-08-13 14:00 (UTC)

"I know," he said. It wasn't the sort of cry that racked his body, that left him unable to speak without more tears. It didn't catch his words and tangle them in his throat. It was a silent, almost ignorable thing. A sprinkle of fluid in his eyes. A yawn. A sneeze.

He wiped at his eyes again, the sleeve of his shirt rough against his skin.

"I'm sorry."

And yet, enough unintended emotion to leave Eddie uncomfortable. He stared at the ceiling, making faces, as he allowed Katurian the dignity of silence for a few more moments.

It was a great mercy, coming from Edward.

"My point is," he said, finally. "You've got to be careful with that sort of idea. And yes, I'm aware that you already know this -- which makes it even more perplexing, running into the same painful pattern again and again. You have a desire to redeem yourself. Okay. We get it. But doesn't it make more sense to do as much good as you can, with minimal damage to your own psyche? How can you continue to give the same quality of service if every venture leaves you psychologically crippled?" He glanced back at Katurian, keeping a steady look before his eyes wandered to the plastic bag.

"You should care for people who pose a low probability of disappointing you."

It was an impossibility. Katurian should have expected it to be an impossibility. After all, this was his salvation they were talking about, and his salvation was always just out of reach. He was more of a hermit before he arrived in the City, and perhaps that spared him from lost friendships and unexpected deaths, perhaps that made it easier for him, but then he lost Michal and none of that mattered. The only way to solve this, he figured, was to cut himself off completely. No friends. No trust. And then he would only be alone with his grief.

He didn't know if he could stand that. He nodded anyway.

Then he saw Eddie watching the plastic bag. He tugged at it from his place on the bed, pulling it back far enough to reveal the edge of the cover.

"They're puzzles. Word games and-- and so on. I don't think you need to pen to do them, but maybe it helps. Just to see the answers written out."

"I don't require a pen for those, it's child's play," said Eddie breezily. And then pursed his lips, watching Katurian with widening eyes. Perhaps fearing another display of extremely subtle tears. "But something to amuse myself with nonetheless, thank you Katurian. This will only make it more amusing, won't it?"

Edward was not particularly good at showing gratitude, especially when showing gratitude for unexpected reasons. He had been joking, when he inquired over gifts to Katurian, hardly actually believing himself a recipient on his company's mind.

He coughed, then glanced around the room.

"As you can see, I've had a hand in amusing myself quite a lot."

A pause -- and then, recognizing the perhaps mischievous ambiguity, hastily added: "The riddles I mean. Obviously."

Katurian's eyes scanned over the riddles. Words and words and words. They made him feel uncomfortably small in that room. Alpha, he had remembered, had covered the walls of his apartment with Katurian's stories. Katurian had sat there, drugged, shuddering so hard his legs clicked against their bounds.

"There are a lot of them," he said, grasping for stability in the obvious, in its simplicity. His eyes snagged on one in particular. BIRTHED INTO ONESELF. It sounded like as much nonsense as the dead birds.

"How long have you been at it?"

"Do you mean riddling, or this set?" Eddie's hand drifted lazily in the air, swatting at nonexistent bugs. "Because the former has roots in years. Over a decade. I was reborn as the Riddler when I came to Gotham, it was a renaissance of my own design."

He sat up suddenly, his mouth a thin hard line.

"I don't think I ever really stopped. Being the Riddler. That was his point all along, wasn't it? That your past is your person, and to deny that is to deny yourself." He simmered on the words, staring at Katurian, scouring his company with the intensity. But of course, he was only looking past Katurian. Looking through this moment and reliving some other time, dark and sharp and lonely as it was.

He couldn't think about this. He couldn't think about being dragged down by his past because that was the only thing he saw. He suffered dreams of laying breadcrumbs through forests, littering chunks of his own foreshadowing and doom to be torn into at some later date. He didn't want to belong to his past. It dug into his skull and made him that way anyway.

He stared at the riddles instead. AN OPERATING SYSTEM ANTICIPATING. He felt Edward's eyes. OR THE SCENT OF SULFUR AND OXYGEN COMBINED. He wanted to dodge this conversation like nothing more in the world.

And then the 'he' again.

The jolt was immediate. Like electricity. He swallowed and stared at the wall, at that riddle, his lips moving soundlessly before finding his voice.

"The first line is 'born.'"

From the way he said it, it was obvious he didn't need the others.

Of course, Eddie mused. Of course he would be the one. Katurian, of all people, knew how to play with language like Eddie did. That was the art to it, the crux where logic and language married, that was the point. That's what Eddie had been trying to make Katurian understand, all those months ago.

He didn't say a thing. He simply watched Katurian's dawning.

Silent. Breathless.

Wondering.

"Oxygen and sulfur," he continued, bolder. Once he uncovered the first piece (and then the only possible answer), the puzzle unfolded magnificently in his arms. It was a matter of clawing into it to find the rest.

His voice was trembling.

"Operating and system." (Katurian was never very good at computer terms.) "Anticipating like beginning, like the first letters. Or the first part of a word."

He finally looked to Edward. There was something like pride in his eyes, something like invigoration. He had broken into Edward's thoughts. For one moment, he had broken into Edward's thoughts.

"Did he do this?"

It brought a small smile to his face, he couldn't help it. Watching his once would-be protege unravel the twists and gnarls of truth. Observing the perfection of decoding, having Katurian weave through ideas he had woven. The flawless execution of creation and then equal deconstruction. He couldn't help that relief. The unspoken horror was muted in comparison, the slow terror that Katurian could know how he thought, and perhaps would know how he'd think. Katurian could speak his secret, solitude language. Katurian was growing dangerous.

Eddie would dwell on the consequence in time, but now? It was just nice to be understood, even in some small little way, even if Eddie had to believe that he hated it. It was nice to be this part of him.

Eddie stared at Katurian, his eyes round and unblinking, glowing with intrigue.

"Yes."

The thrill melted away, but he didn't panic. With Edward's eyes locked on his face, with that smile (and oh, how thankful he was for that smile), he wasn't ready to explode in his usual blind fear. Instead, he closed his eyes and swallowed. He should have known. Edward protected Osborn the same way Osborn protected Edward after the opera house. Osborn must have known that Edward was craving his blood, it was impossible not to have known, and yet he was still silent about it. Casual. He might have even known that Edward was the one who placed him in the hospital.

What went on between the two of them was not made for police eyes. It was not made for voyeurs.

"What now?"

That smile withered. Careful, calculating, cautious awareness replaced his slight emotion. This was a problem, he measured in his mind. A potential issue that would need to be eliminated, if undesired. But Eddie wasn't one to jump his guns. He would need to know, first.

He always liked knowing, first.

"What do you want to do now?"

"I think," he started carefully, measuring Edward's expression, "that the longer he runs free, the more people risk being hurt by him."

In other words, he wanted to tell the police.

Even before he said it, he knew it wasn't the answer Eddie wanted. That was why he kept it vague, why he softened it with thoughts over actions, with gaps carved out for the unsaid. Katurian had spent his first year fearing the police - and he still did, to an extent - but the fact was that Osborn had broken the law, had killed people, and was still moving around. And if what happened to Edward was any of indication, he was still very, very dangerous.

"I had suspected as much," he spoke in quiet, clipped words. A quick smile followed. A tense moment.

And then he was on Katurian, hands seeking wrists, fingers vicious and squeezing. Legs spread to pin around hips, and pressing against muscle. He used the bed as a surface of resistance, keeping Katurian locked in place as he leaned over, whispering is savaged and hushed tones. Barely restrained rage, unrepentant madness.

"Do not take action. Do not tell anyone. I will burn anything that gets in my way, I will incinerate anyone, do you understand? He is mine, because of this, he has promised himself to me. Do you understand?" Lips sneered, nearly touching Katurian's ear. "Save the hypothetical thousands."

Katurian didn't have time to yell. The back of his head slammed into the mattress, and he kicked out, automatic, but then Edward was pinning him completely and any struggle he could manage with his weak bones was haphazard at best. Useless. He was trapped on that bed, with Edward's bloody, sticky hands grounding into his wrists.

Katurian always worked better when he was trapped. He was learning.

"You're so much more than these walls, Edward." His skin was pale and his voice was wavering, choking, rough, but there was a calmness to him, too, a tone that hadn't quite given in. "You're better than this cage."

An echo from older times.

"Shh." Eddie smirked against his ear, before slowly pulling away. His hands still gripped those wrists, blood staining skin and sheets. "You don't think I remember my own words, Katurian? That I don't recognize that voice? I'm intimately aware."

Eyes flickered over Katurian's face, watching that strangely calm expression. Calmer than expected, anyway. Any other time, and Eddie would have been proud.

"Do you know what he did? He dressed me in my own costume, to remind me. To humiliate me in my own creation, do you know what he did?" Eddie's fingers gripped tighter, his mouth twisted in the unsubtle spasms of mania.

"Nothing was left sacred."

An involuntary shudder tore through his body, exiting through his teeth in another choke. He could feel it. The days Edward spent under Norman, the madness building into something concrete and whole and horrifying, the tendrils of it escaping into the air right now, right this instant. Katurian didn't need to know the costume to understand what that meant for Edward. His powers guaranteed that he knew what a life looked like while it was crumbling.

"Norman knows you, Edward." He grimaced, afraid of the words, but he knew he needed to go on. "Doesn't that prove it? Psychological torture. H-He-- He'll know that you won't involve anyone else, and if you wait until you get out of here, he will be prepared for you. Don't you see that?" Another hard swallow. "C-Can't you see?"

"Of course he knows," Eddie whispered. Fingertips stroked against Katurian's cheek, leaving sticky faded red marks. "Of course he's plotting. I am counting on him doing so."

Those fingers hooked into Katurian's cheek.

"He expects me to balk. To resent. To unwillingly, slowly, accept. But I'm much quicker than that, Katurian, I've already accepted." He exhaled, savoring his words. Hearing them outside his mind for the first time. "And I need to know you won't make me hurt you. I really don't want that, you know, I like you."

He dragged his nails downwards. His eyes, watching.

"Don't make me hurt you, Katurian."

He wanted to say no. He wanted to disobey Edward and go straight to the police, in part out of his own stubbornness, and in part because Edward frightened him with the way he spoke and clawed at his face and crooned acceptance. He had been caught up in something dangerous again. He wanted it to stop.

But his self-preservation existed. His desire to live was clocked in.

He was afraid of unexpected falsehoods, how his future actions might unwittingly betray whatever promises he made that night. The words he spoke were the most genuine he knew. "Let me help you." A whisper. He didn't know if the blood he felt on his face belonged to him or Edward. He raised his voice. "Please, let me help you."

Eddie tilted his head, his connection held to Katurian going numb. Distant. Something about those words froze his snarl, his hands, his legs. Something about the sincere insistence unnerved him, throwing him into casual darkness.

Because it was easier than appreciating the gravity of Katurian's feeling.

"Do you. Really want. To help me, Katurian?" It was less a whisper and more a slithered hiss, cornered from the back of his tongue.

Edited 2011-08-15 01:42 (UTC)

He was aware of terror in his system, of his hands sweating into the covers. He remembered the younger Edward speaking to him, telling him I know what mortal fear looks like.

"Yes," he said. He wanted to smudge that madness out of Edward's eyes. He wanted to protect him from rash decisions, from pikes and fire and people who were too prepared. Most importantly, he wanted to topple Osborn. For what he had done to Edward. For the people he had slaughtered because Katurian had protected him at the cost of his own freedom.

"I want to help you."

He stretched over Katurian, breathing in a careful, measured pace. The sight might have looked absurd, to any onlooker, but their discourse was one unseen by invasive eye. Eddie needed to impose himself, to ensure he had control on both a mental and physical level. He wasn't about to let Katurian leave until he knew he possessed this control. He had to, it was carved into his obsession. He had to, for Norman.

"Then do exactly as I say. Promise me, and I'll in turn let you keep me," he paused. "Keep me in check. Is that not agreeable?" Eddie's pupils dilated, the intensity of the moment overwhelming his expression. "Is that fair?"

He wasn't about to point out the contradiction in terms, but he wasn't really in a position to, either. Edward was right. Physically, he was drowning, his heart pounding like a drum, his pulse tangible in his fingertips. It was just as he thought when he first entered the room. He was an insect in his final, paralyzed moments of life.

Edward was the spider.

"That's fair," he breathed. His voice was thin. "Yes."

"Good."

Eddie pressed down harder, lower, just for emphasis before evacuating completely. He pulled off Katurian, assuming a seat next to his body, and immediately began sorting his own slightly mussed hair.

"Then it's a deal. You keep Norman a secret, and I'll keep you privy to certain delicate matters. That's what you want, correct? You'll know exactly what's going on." He glanced over at his company, smirking somewhat coyly. "Come now, you don't need to look so torn over the matter. It's not like I've kneed you some place unpleasant."

The grinning, jovial mood was a complete contrast to Eddie's demeanor a few seconds previous. He didn't seem to take notice.

B)

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