capeandcowllogs | An actor in number, demon in a languge and reorganized

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An actor in number, demon in a languge and reorganized

WHO: EDWARD NYGMA and ERIDAN AMPORA
WHERE: Eddie's warehouse by the docks.
WHEN: Late evening, 8/15th.
WARNINGS: Violence.
SUMMARY: Sometime after this exchange, Edward hunts down Eridan. It goes as well as one might expect.
FORMAT: Paragraph.

The heat sizzled the streets under his feet as he walked to his warehouse. Walked, from five blocks back, where the taxi cab had delivered him. Walked, because he wanted to leave as little obvious evidence as possible. Anger over Eridan's audacity electrified his veins, blood pounded through them with each and every step. Seagulls cried from their swoops above the docks, and warmth colored Eddie's jacketless back as seasalted air punctured his lungs. The sun was setting.

They had made this more complicated than it had to be, and he recognized that. There were too many variables in this equation, they had grown like mold under soggy rags or unattended cheese. Too many webs woven. Edward needed to eradicate the complication, to simplify and recreate something more elegant.

He was going to stop Eridan Ampora.

The waves of the Atlantic Ocean lapped softly against the limited shore. Water rushed against crusted wood, lumber that had spent decades in an unending tango with the sea. The sounds fell silently against his ears -- he was focused on one thing, and one thing only.

"Eridan Ampora!" Eddie pulled his revolver from his pocket. "Let's make this quick, shall we?"

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Eridan, to his major credit, had resisted the primal urge to be a showboating dick. (One way or another.) In fact, he wasn't even immediately present when Eddie arrived.

What was present, however, was a rather large green arrow on the side of one of the warehouses - loud against the faded paint of the building itself, and almost as demanding of attention as Eridan himself. It pointed around a corner, off in some nebulous direction that eventually lead to the water. Question marks peppered the surrounding walls, almost in mocking tribute. Eridan had invested hours into this endeavor.

A distant laugh answered the statement.

Edward's eyes narrowed at the handiwork. The devotion was evident, the obsession. This, along with the marks peppered throughout the city and the map indicating the extent, all pointed to one solid conclusion: Eridan was psychologically in supervillain territory. And the fact that he was screwing with Eddie's design made that doubly true.

The drama thickened with each and every step. His shoes stepped over the marked ground, his heels grinding into his own green symbol.

Edward stopped at the water's edge, scanning around before stepping onto one of the docks that shot out into sea. He looked at the wood under his feet, judging. When he estimated the tide level was high enough to submerge, say, the body of a fourteen year old boy, he shot into the deck, shooting into the water. Announcing his presence. Wood splinters sprayed.

Eddie knew Eridan was aquatic, and he knew where he was. The rest only made sense.

Curiously enough, there was no answer - not only that, there was no reaction. Nobody shouted, nothing exploded out of the water Jaws-style to drag Eddie to his murky doom. Articles of clothing littered the dock; a scarf, an improbably hip blue and black pinstripe vest to match an improbably hip blue and black pinstripe pair of slacks. Only one shoe, near the mouth of the dock and pointing back towards the warehouses, the other undoubtedly having been lost in the tide. All of these were tossed haphazardly around the dock, indicating a hurry in his undressing.

The silence stretched on, only broken by the sounds of the Atlantic. Half washed away question marks continued to fade with every lap of the tide.

"Okay," murmured Edward. "That is actually rather creepy." To calm his concern, he shot at the articles of clothing. Just in case Eridan fancied the idea of wearing them ever again. Having exuded his bullets in a particularly petty fashion, he paused to reload. He had only one cartridge with him. Carefully now, he walked down the dock. Step. By. Step. Watching for any movement, staring for any signs of a booby trap. Any indications.

The tone had changed, since he stepped onto that dock. There was something quiet now, something eerie and menacing. Something untamed by man.

At the very end of the dock, a piece of paper had been impaled to the dock itself - by a whale bone wand, in fact. Whether it was a promise by proxy not to do something so crass and impersonal as try and gun Eddie down from a distance or simply a taunt went unclarified by the paper itself; the side immediately visible held only another question mark.

A bee, a second vowel, and an ache all went for a walk. "I am behind on the business of Em," one said; "So is Dee, and she doesn't mind," said another. "Why? There's never anything of interest to talk about when it comes to her," quipped the third, and they all shared a good laugh. The first had the sense of mind to roll his eyes and breathe an exasperated "Oh you."

Where am I?

It was a very amateur riddle, written hastily and smudged with an inky green thumbprint at the corner. The answer was a very inelegant BEHIND YOU, marking Eridan's inability to not give himself away in a show of theatrics. He'd hoped Eddie would consider it a mockery of his own riddling compulsions, to be honest. Or that the riddle was stupid on purpose and hadn't been thought up and worked on days in advance.

Behind you.

Edward closed his eyes, and took a slow breath. The intimacy, the planning, the mockery of it all – something was wrong. Something was miscalculated. This wasn’t the Eridan he knew, this wasn’t the Eridan he was anticipating when he stormed towards his warehouse, all snarls an fury. This wasn’t a boy any longer. He hated, he absolutely hated changing the game midway through. But all the signs were there, spoke a voice deep within his brain.

The hair on Eddie's neck prickled.

"Eridan!" He yelled as he turned sharply, firing bullets relentlessly into the darkness behind him.

Eridan had had quite a bit of practice walking around barefoot, really; stumbling across rocky beaches, slashing the bottom of his feet open on the odd patch of coral noticed too late; he found little difficulty in moving around silently after kicking his shoes off at the docks, just as long as he moved very slowly. Hence the distractions - the mocking question marks, the arrows, anything to keep Eddie focused on the ahead rather than the behind. The time it took to circle around in a wide arc and pad along behind his former mentor, following along at a sea slug's pace.

Once they hit the clearing that merged with the docks, it had been the simple riddle's job to keep him distracted for the few moments Eridan so desperately needed to get in close. A miscalculation there; he'd honestly though that puzzle would've bought him all the time he needed rather than a fraction of it.

Well, nothing ever went perfectly.

By the time Eddie was firing, Eridan had begun his charge; beyond the kinetic thud of the bullet that broke his collarbone clean in two on the left side as it passed through, the one that lodged itself in the meat of his leg, and the one that tore through the delicate membrane of his fin, he hardly noticed them at all; most definitely wouldn't in their full scope until later. That was all tertiary to what the entire evening, the past few weeks had been building up to, one cold and lonely night after another spent spraying stolen symbols all over the city; this one moment was the payoff.

Eridan didn't say anything as he lunged at Eddie, aiming to tackle him off the edge of the pier, not necessarily; it was more of a war cry than anything else.

He realized it only too late. That moment's illumination with his whitely widened, pupil-shrunk eyes. The water. The water behind him. It was all the environment the Alternian ever needed, and Edward would play victim to it. It was too late to run, impossible to hide. That next millisecond, when Eridan's body made contact with his own, when those small and familiar hands walloped the air out of Eddie's chest, that brief realization born the first true panic that Eddie had ever felt in Eridan's presence. Fear felt because of Eridan.

His back slammed into the waves below, a loud thunderclap. Frantically, he fired into the water, striking nothing. It was impulse, scared and loud. The first few bullets soaked slowly through volumes of water, his gun soon too liquid-logged to work properly. Edward bucked, bubbles fleeing from the corners of his mouth and his nose. His elbows jutted out, his torso twisted and legs kicked.

It was a crippled struggle.

He needed air.

He needed air soon.

Eridan gripped the front of Eddie's shirt like a vice, using his volition and the latter's own weight against him to put more distance between them and the surface. Here, in his element (as much of his element as it could ever be, the black sheep sea dweller who had barely spent a day underwater until he came to this universe and haphazardly made it his own), Eddie's genius didn't matter; his cutting words didn't matter; his gun didn't matter.

This was the equalizer.

There was no taunting, though the sea dweller had gone through this exact moment of the confrontation time and time again over the evening; he'd cycled through every possible quip or rhyme, and none of them had seemed to fit. Now he dimly realized that there was no need for flash or pomp in the first place. The last breath of air bubbling out from between his razor teeth and the curve of his snarl were loud enough as he grabbed at Eddie's arm and kicked off through the plumes of violet, seeking to drag him deeper.

Hesitation was lacking. Eridan really did intend to drown his former adoptive surrogate human lusus figure right then and there, and he made no illusions of meaning otherwise.

The corners of his vision darkened as they dove into the oceanic depths. Eridan's grip around Eddie's arm was iron-wrought, curled and sinister and inescapable. Horror etched into Eddie's face, his features vulnerable, his last air bubbles dragged out and dancing through that stream of violet trailed behind them. Intermingling, this blood and air, trapped in a waltz of water.

He couldn't even scream.

Panic flooded his brain. Drowning was a horrific fate, he had decided long ago, and one he'd bee keen to avoid. He feared the process, he feared what it did to the mind, how dwindling oxygen burned and betrayed the neurons it serviced. Eddie couldn't fight back, physically: between them Eridan was inarguably the more powerful swimmer. He couldn't slip away. His body merely followed Eridan's tugging, a puppet to the younger man's whims.

Vainly, he tried to twist and grip at Eridan. The legs first, then the waist. He tried to pull at Eridan, to force Eridan to look at him.

His chest was inflamed for absent air. He had less than a minute.

It was undoubtedly some stray movement that finally jarred Eridan, even briefly, out of his murderous high; a flailing leg that connected with his still bleeding one, or something like it. The bolt of pain cut through the haze and he jerked around, finally, unintentionally meeting Eddie's eyes. His strong swimmer's legs paused in the water; anxiety, doubt flickered across his features the same way the last refracted rays of sunlight did.

His grip, however slightly, slackened. His shoulder, his fin, his leg were all beginning to catch up with him; one even mediocre blow would send the Alternian reeling off into the depths like a wounded shark.

But Eddie couldn't risk merely discarding Eridan, not at this point, not this deep. He understood how immeasurably screwed he was, he knew how severely he needed Eridan's help. With cold, slow fingers, Edward crawled along Eridan's body, trying to grip the sea dweller's face with his hands. Trying to force Eridan to stare into his own eyes, his own fading consciousness. He needed Eridan to see him like this, in order to survive.

Even at death's threshold, Edward was a manipulator.

He mouthed one word, surrendering the absolute last of his air. One word he had never said in earnest to Eridan before. One word he hated above all other words.

Please.

He held that gaze for as long as he could.

Saltwater was in his mouth, sinking into his lungs. The compulsion to breathe convulsed his whole body.

Edited 2012-08-17 08:04 (UTC)

A moment passed, two - if asked later, Eridan couldn't have measured exactly how long he'd stared back, mouth still knitted into a halfhearted snarl. His grip slackened further.

A few seconds more and it'd be over. He'd win. He didn't even have to watch; all he had to do was let go, and Edward Nygma's death throes would blaze, dim, and then be snuffed out far beneath him. But, in this crucial moment -

"Fuck."

It was the first word he'd said throughout the entire encounter, bubbled out between frowning black lips. Not even a minute later they broke the surface, Eridan, with difficulty, hauling himself and then Eddie back onto dry land. The haze was broken; there would be no satisfaction in killing Eddie tonight. That please had effectively ruined his evening, and he knew it.

Eddie he left to recover by himself; no matter what bolt of - something had brought them back on land, he hadn't forgotten what the Riddler had come here to do, had no intention of offering more than the barest amount of support. As the adrenaline slackened, his injuries had begun to eat up more and more of his attention.

At first, he was unresponsive. Half-opened eyes staring listlessly up at the star-obscured sky, the hum of undying city light polluting even this way out. At first, he just lay there where Eridan had left him: in the harsh sand, on his back, his mouth partially open. At first, there was nothing.

And then a spark, a gasp, a big bang of energy triumphant from the tiniest compounds of air that sneaked into his lungs. Eddie jerked and rolled over and promptly vomited up seawater. He gasped again and vomited more. Fingers dug into sand and shale and he hurled back his souvenirs from the sea. His sounds echoed under the shadowed docks.

"You -- lunatic," he said between vomits. "Nearly -- damn well -- hrrrrk!"

His hair was mussed, his mouth stained. And still, he was smirking between furtive glances at his company.

Eridan, between staring dazedly at the sunset and listening to the attractive sounds of somebody vomiting their guts out, happened to glance up and catch one of those smirks.

His expression darkened.

"What, you think this is fuckin' funny?" He hissed over at Eddie, standing haphazardly. He made to stroll (limp in a dignified fashion) over and... well, he didn't know what he was going to do yet, but it was probably going to be pretty bad. Or he would have, had his leg not went out from under him. He thumped back harmlessly on the sand, hissing obscenities and finally looking down at his state. The sand was quickly turning a dark indigo underneath him now that they were on land again; violet rolled in rivulets down his front and dripped from his chin.

"Son of a bitch."

"You're going to die," he said before pausing to hasten the last exit of his seawater. "If you don't get medical attention for those. Soon." Helpful advice, Eddie reckoned, about to go unappreciated. His wet, matted hair clung to his body like his soaked dress shirt and his whole body felt unusually weakened. Perhaps that's what nearly dying did you. Ah yes, he thought shortly after, I remember now.

That's precisely what near-death did.

He pushed himself to his hands and knees and looked over at Eridan. Cautiously, he tried to stagger to his feet.

"I didn't expect this degree of ambition."

His tone was impressed.

"Yeah, well." Eridan reached up, fingers glowing bright as he cauterized his fin with a low hiss - not entirely of burning flesh, either. "I didn't do it to impress you, if you ain't fuckin' noticed. I did it to kill you."

He doubted the validity of that first statement, but as Eridan looked down at his leg, he had second thoughts. Trolls were sturdy - they could take a lot of damage, lose a lot of blood, the whole gamut. But it was all melee weapons and blunt instruments back in FLARP, not bullets; you couldn't just sew something like this up and forget about it. Not to mention it had been exposed to filthy seawater and dirty sand time and time over.

He sighed again, running a blood slicked hand through his hair. Not that it didn't already look like shit anyway.

"I came close enough."

"Indeed, you did. But even close enough doesn't satisfy the quota of a corpse." Edward hazard a few steps closer, his hands spread in a most mollifying fashion. "You've come closer than anyone else in this world. And that is notably high competition."

Soothing words, flattering words. His body language spoke a more casual dialect now; easy charm and polite movements.

"Are you ready to let me help you, now?"

Eridan looked up mistrustfully, though the hard angles of his expression had softened somewhat at the mollification.

"I really was goin' to do it."

His tone was defensive, tinged with desperation. He dug the heel of his palm into the dark sand and sat up a little straighter, shivering, the twilight air beginning to wick the heat away from his wet body as effectively as the steady throbbing pain dug into his composure.

"I had you. I was gonna watch you turn blue and toss your corpse to the sharks. Make next year's shark week actually interestin'. I was..." Eridan trailed off, glancing back down at his lap. His burgundy swim briefs were getting splotchy.

"I..." A pause, a heavy one, and then a shake of his head. "It doesn't matter. Just go home."

"Eridan."

That soft, coaxing tone. Edward took a step, and then another, coming slowly towards the young troll. The moon stalked them from the sky, illuminating the stains of blood and thrown fluids on the shore. The waves lapped gently along the crest.

He smiled down at Eridan. Not smirked, but smiled, as if he saw someone different looking out through Eridan's eyes. Edward bent down, lowering himself somewhat to Eridan's sitting level. He reached over, slowly and without threat, and wiped away some running blood dripping down Eridan's cheek with the back of his fingers.

"I'm very proud of you tonight."

Eridan started - just barely - at the touch, mouth open slightly in the start of a sentence. A denial, an insult of some nebulous sort that never made it past his larynx.

"You're...?"

It was, of course, always kindness that killed him. Even when he thought he had built up an impenetrable shield of hate and mistrust and self-support, someone always blew it back down like this - it seemed to be an unbreakable cycle.

It was exhausting.

Simply, without flair, he leaned in and pressed his face to Eddie's shoulder, glassing going akimbo. It was a relief, a long-sought one; like a rubber band on the brink of snapping being relaxed again. And if Eddie didn't immediately push him away, Eridan's whole weight would sink into the former's.

"That ain't how I planned this," he murmured. He was so tired.

He didn't pull away. The registered surprise would have passed unseen in the settling darkness even if Eridan was facing Edward, and this position made his composure all the more secured. His hands moved to Eridan, a motion of support, as his fingers formed claws to pat along the sea dweller's back.

"I know."

A slow smirk worked its way up Eddie's lips, cutting and victorious.

"I know it wasn't."

Blood mixed with the water still clinging to Eddie's clothing.

"But you came so close to actually manifesting your plans. So close. Much closer, in fact, than you could have just a year ago," he spoke in gentle coos. "Think about it, Eridan: what inspired you so? What's been pushing and egging and baiting you to do better, all this while?"

Edited 2012-08-17 09:49 (UTC)

"You."

It was drawled at length - tired, exasperated, or some measure of both. The whole situation was kind of nice, if you overlooked the near drowning and the fact that he was quite possibly dying. He only pushed back into a sitting position with great reluctance, glancing back towards his ruined clothes on the docks.

"But that's what almost got you fuckin' drowned. You're all manner a dedicated when it comes to this mentorin' shit, I gotta say." An incline of his head towards the dock. "I could use a tourniquet."

Edward slipped off his tie, intending it for sacrifice. The gesture was symbolic and practical, though both had their limitations: Italian silk when soaked was ruined anyway and such a slippery fabric didn't make well for any sort of emergency tourniquet. It would do only to get Eridan through the next half hour, maybe. But he knew the younger man would appreciate the meaning behind such movement.

He bound it from Eridan's knee, around his torn leg muscle, the most accessible wound with heavy blood flow.

"Your collarbone needs subtler care. The bone is broken, and any inaccurate tending would push shards through the skin, creating more of a gape." He gave another once over. "As for the fin, well, it's merely cosmetic, isn't it? Hardly a wound."

Edited 2012-08-17 21:10 (UTC)

"You can't do anythin' for it anyhow." Eridan said nothing about the tie, though he did watch the tying closely. "Like you said, cosmetic shit. Happens to most sea dwellers sooner or later, unless they're empress caste or fuckin' cowards."

And of course, in an attempted show of badassery and self-reliance, he began to try and stand.

"Can't beliewe you fuckin' shot me, goddamn. Should of made that riddle not make any fuckin' sense so it'd keep you busier."

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