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

"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.

Katurian didn't get up immediately. He continued to stay where he was, flat against the bed, his arms spread and his palms open. He could feel the sticky remnants of Edward's blood on his face, his wrists. Stray specks were drying on his neck. At Edward's jibe, he forced a laugh and then rolled over, easing himself back up again. He was still shaking. It wasn't very much, granted, but as he arranged himself on the bed, it tripped him up. It made him unsteady.

"That month wasn't made up of my finest moments." His voice was rougher than he expected, and so he cleared his throat, dropping his eyes. Here he was, apologizing for his irrationality. Right after all that. Katurian wasn't blind to the irony. "B-But speaking of all that, we need to do something about the anklet. So I don't end up your roommate."

"You don't want to be my roommate, Katurian?" Eddie slid in close, serpentine and fluid, scrapping his fingernails lightly against his company's face before moving past him. It was a blink of a movement. Brief.

Eddie was on his feet, stretching. He took a few steps, consumed by thought, before turning to Katurian with a finger raised.

"If you need it still, it's back at the house. Should be in my study, unless Felicia moved it. She's always moving my things."

Katurian shrunk in his seat. Even after Edward was standing, he could still feel the touch of his fingernail. Lingering. Humming.

"The problem is that they already know I have it off." He forced himself to look at Edward, to keep his voice clear and even. "They sent someone to find me after you weren't there, and they know."

It had practically been an interrogation. Katurian's bruises were still fresh then, and the stitches stood unexplained in his medical records. The replacement had yelled at him, had demanded to know where Edward was keeping his anklet records, and Katurian had extended his empty ankle and said look, look, he wouldn't have any!

He leaned forward on the bed. "We're both in very serious trouble."

Edited 2011-08-16 02:48 (UTC)

"Really." Eddie whipped around, his eyebrows raised. "I'm in very serious trouble?" He raised his hands dramatically, spreading them apart and looking around his white walled room in mock shock. "Why didn't anyone inform me? I'm in very serious trouble!"

He didn't wait for a response from his audience.

"You shouldn't have a worry, if you play your cards right," Eddie spoke with a degree more gravity, even while still wearing his highly amused smirk. "Your life was threatened by some psychotic lady with time traveling powers. You thought she could track you -- or that the anklet posed threat to your location. Make something up, I don't care. You've been excused for the whole 'oooh someone is leaving body parts at my place let me do something needlessly reckless' show before, haven't you?"

"To be fair," he said, raising his eyebrows, "that was what put me in the anklet in the first place."

But he paused. Fugue. Fugue was a good excuse. Katurian hated the idea of blaming an omniscient being for his own ills for fear of angering them even further (it was carryover from Desire, no question), but she was in part to blame, wasn't she? He had been afraid of Vulcanus nabbing his location. When he had it taken off, he wasn't planning on going to Greenland. It was entirely innocent.

"Would you be willing to--" He struggled for the words. "--not lie, but could you maybe bend the truth, just bend it, so that it sounds like we have the same story. Could you do that for me?"

"Actually," he said. "I argued for that. The council was far more sympathetic to your faceless plight, but I convinced them you were an unpredictable risk prone to over-reaction at the slightest provocation. Of course, my credibility has since been... Compromised. So I doubt my previous argument would hold mention." He walked around, picking up one of Eridan's novels and paging idly. "To be fair."

He paused, looking surprised at himself. As if momentarily regretting the words. Eddie had been rather liberal with his intentions here, a new and likely entirely brief tendency born from over-medication, trauma and unprecedented boredom. Beneath all that, of course, was a realization that he had lost so much, so quickly, that pretense held very little importance nowadays.

It was a dark thought.

"Collaboration is hardly stressful, if you understand the nuances. You have to speak with them first, you see. So they'll be expecting me to follow your lead, your tale will be in their minds already. I can suggest, and they will assume my story."

Katurian was determined not to lose his temper.

He raised himself up from the bed, extending his arms, feeling that tension, and then let himself down again, the mattress squeaking underneath. He had been afraid, at times, that Edward was deliberately keeping him chained. Holding him back. Drawing him close. Nothing tonight settled that fear.

"Why did you tell them that? Edward."

His voice was flat. He was trying for diplomatic.

"Because you were an irritating little twat, that's why. Katurian." Lurking on the opposite end of the diplomatic spectrum was Edward, callous and open with his words. He didn't seem unnerved by his own bizarre behavior, and perhaps he wasn't cognizant of the contrast to his more typical demeanor.

"But you're not now, are you? Behold! Something worked adequately," he said with a grin. His teasing was almost affectionate, a tone far more telling in this moment than his crippling words were.

He flinched, rubbing a hand against his bandaged forehead. A part of him wanted to believe that Edward didn't mean it, that he was frustrated and ill and unaware of what he was saying, but he knew that wasn't the case. He kept his eyes averted.

"Maybe I should blame Fugue for my injuries, too."

It was some day, when he'd rather talk about Fugue.

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

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