capeandcowllogs | Give Me Drink And I Die.

Give Me Drink And I Die.

WHO: Thomas Elliot/Hush and Edward Nygma/The Riddler
WHERE: Rooftops and a seedy warehouse, where else?
WHEN: 31st of March, evening dimming into night.
WARNINGS: Violence, violence, puns maybe, and definitely violence.
SUMMARY: Riddler is hunting Hush who is hunting Riddler. Impressive forces collide and seething grudges ensue.
FORMAT: Para perhaps, or whatever works.

Truth be told, Edward wasn't really a fan of heights. Given his personal, blood-splattered history, it was hardly a questionable distaste; however, given his profession, it was often an unavoidable ordeal to endure. But everything potentially displeasing was bound to happen, wasn't it? Of course. Edward muttered horrible things about Murphy's Law as he felt the weather-worn rooftop gravel crunch beneath his leather shoes. This wasn't his terrain. His battlefield was the mind, the intellect. Sure, the detective was never averse to a little gumshoe work, but only when he possessed the upper hand. Sneaking on top of buildings, stalking the shadows? No, that wasn't quite Eddie's style. It was far too exposed.

And far too familiar.

By his own nature, the Riddler was an intellectual first and an opportunist second. The man was a danger when combining these qualities into his Machiavellian mind frame. He was dangerous and he loved it. Not so much physically, of course; Edward didn't hold any delusions about his abilities. He had no wish to engage any hand-to-hand combat; he'd lose. Eddie wanted to keep the matter purely a psychological power-play. He had Thomas Elliot. In theory, at the very least, he had the bastard. And really, the only man Hush could blame was himself. Wasn't that right? It had been child's play for Edward to deduce the true murderer behind those crafty cuts and incisions. And when he discovered the truth, well, Eddie just couldn't resist. As he climbed down a squeaking, iron-wrought fire escape ladder, the Riddler pondered on this quirk of his. This need for revenge. Would it cause him complications? Without a doubt. Did the end justify these efforts? Of course. Edward jumped down and peered over the gray bricks of a lower rooftop's ledge. Hush was here. It took a smidgen of investigation, but he got his results. He was a genius, after all; the mental sphere of motion was the easy part.

Now came the fancy footwork. His lithe figure loomed over the warehouse; a temporary slim silhouette against the darkening sky. He dropped to his knees, reducing the likelihood of being spotted. Running the plan once more through his head. Eddie wasn't looking for an outright confrontation. The man had more than enough wit to know how that would end. Oh no, Eddie wanted to ambush Hush, needed to subdue him. One shot would do it, surely. A purple gloved hand smoothed over the handle of the tranquilizer gun strapped on, just underneath that audaciously green blazer of his. The capture would be the difficult part. But afterward? That would be fun. Reasonable fun, of course. Edward wasn't a monster, not like some of his Gotham brethern. He didn't intend to kill Hush.

He only wanted Tommy to beg for death, that's all.

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The warehouse was built with a combination of heavy steel and wood. Who knows its original purpose? Naturally storage, but it had long since been deserted. Rust caked walls, missing floorboards, and crumpled ceilings. A dim pull-string light bulb dully illuminated about a fifth of the space.

He’d arrived about three minutes prior , restlessly pulling at the hems of his gloves. A few droplets of something murky and thick splashed on the floor. His empty gaze bore into them, clearly thinking about something other than his current position. Another “innocent” had fallen, so to speak. Though realistically, there were never any innocents. There were only those who lived behind the senseless continuity of denial, restricting them from true success. There was no merit in neglecting reality.

Face it.

More easily said than done, but he managed to remind himself every day: he was Thomas Elliot, genius surgeon, rogue criminal. Very few truly knew him, but those who did had the common sense of using it “against” him. How unfortunate that Edward Nigma wasn’t included in that particular group. Even less fortunate was the fact that “The Riddler” knew “Hush” a bit too well. Dangerously so. He was a threat, a nuisance, a traitor, and was thoroughly making a mockery oh him. It wouldn’t be tolerated.

Tommy’s gaze idly shifted to peer up at one of the demolished sections of the ceiling. Rooftops, smokestacks; it was sickeningly similar to Gotham. His gaze traveled downward and stopped. The split second it took to register the numerous possibilities of who was standing there seemed to melt down to a third of its speed. It was watching him.

He ducked low. Panic gripped his chest, its invisible iron fingers curling over his heart and lungs. Had he been seen? No. Well. Maybe. Possibly? No way of knowing for sure. Was that moving shadow down there even Hush? Could have been anyone. Anything. It had stopped moving. The subject--assuming it was even sentient--had exhibited conscious movement. Edward took a deep breath, his question marked tie sliding off his thin chest. Elbows dug into the chilled brick of his ledge.

"Damn it," whispered Edward. He had a dilemma on his gloved hands, and not necessarily the fun kind. Edward was ninety-eight percent positive Thomas Elliot was in that building right now. He was a hundred percent sure Elliot would underestimate him--hell, was currently underestimating him--and luckily that could only serve as a factor in his favor. He was sixty-four percent certain that if Hush knew he was here, he was already screwed. Probability flirted with his mind. Take the chance? Abandon ship?

No. No running. He had waited too long for this; waited years for this chance. Revenge only sweetened in time, like an elegant wine, but at some point you just had to seize the bottle or thirst forevermore. That time had arrived. Do or die.

Well let's not be hasty. Not do or die, perhaps. Do or be relatively irate for a few months. How about that? Edward gritted his teeth, forming a determined scowl. He knew he had good odds. Hush would be foolish enough to underestimate him, again. Some people never learned, did they?

Rhetorical questions were comforting.

Calculating a decent amount of ducking time, Edward peeked over the ledge once more. This was his cue.

The glimpse was brief, but thorough enough to nix out this being a chance encounter. He couldn’t predict what would happen, couldn’t estimate the outcome of the situation. At least, not in the particular and precise ways Edward did. Tommy lived in the now. Even his occupation mirrored his thought processes when it came to focusing. Perhaps revenge is what “drove” him, but dwindling on the past or the future in a scenario such as this would be a drastic mistake.

There were a handful of people that this could possibly end up being. Though there was only one he found himself thoroughly considering. There was an inkling of intimidation, but it was completely overridden by rage. His icy gaze peered past the mess of bandages wound around his face, making his expression all the more inhuman. He let his hands drop to his side, briefly flexing them before taking his first step forward.

The building was more than three stories high. He wasn’t counting. He wasn’t him.

Currently, he was a sitting duck. He could flee back into the shadows, and wait it out. No, no no. That was the definition of regression. He wouldn’t fall back. Not to this despicable catastrophe; someone who so blatantly found pleasure in taunting him. He, Thomas Elliot, progressed. In a sudden movement, he darted forward across the alleyway and toward the fire escape. Which would of course, eventually bring him to one place.

Astute green eyes just barely caught the speeding figure dashing forward. Hush moved like a bloody gazelle, damn him. Damn, damn, damn! The detective cursed under his breath, too careful to shout it, as he jumped to his feet. Time was moving more rapidly that he had initially calculated, but the Riddler always planned for contingencies.

In this case? Use his remaining locational advantage. Hush was struggling to meet his ground. This held promise. Eddie sped to the mouth of the fire escape railing, withdrawing his hand-held tranq gun a second before looming overhead. Looking down. Meeting eyes with Thomas Elliot. Aiming the gun at Hush's shoulder. And smirking.

The sharp curve of his delighted sneer parted as Eddie mocked, "And here you thought only doctors made house calls." He pulled the trigger.

For a moment, his eyes widened. Realization had dawned up on him. He wasn’t necessarily surprised, but he had indeed, underestimated Edward. By not finding him first, he’d made a grave error. Once more, time seemed to move at a third of its speed. He was staring down the barrel of the gun. Not a pistol, not fatal. At least not in the literal sense.

Before he had time to think, he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Tommy let out a low grunt, tensing his grip on the railing. He could slow down and dwell over the impending circumstances, or he could move. The footsteps quickened, and he began making his way up the escape faster, though already he could feel a faint blanket of haze enveloping his psyche.

“No!” He let out a short snarl before abruptly stopping in his track. Slowly, he tilted his head up, a soullessly gaping out at “The Riddler.” His gaze abruptly narrowed, and his expression twisted into a hybrid of a sneer and a smirk.

The next action, took perhaps three or four seconds. He gradually began lifting his hands, flexing them at a steady pace. Then, he removed both gloves, tossing them aside. As soon as he did, his fingers began stretching out, his nails seemingly vanishing into his flesh. In fact, flesh was the only conceivable physical feature he currently had on his hands. Within the next second, each digit had extended at least two feet in size. The tips curled forward, forming a distorted shape of a wrench. Then, he swung both forward, jumped up, and latched onto the next story.

Shang. Shang. Shang.

A freakish site, completely uncharacteristic of him: he was crawling up the sides of the fire escape now. Then finally, he was at the mouth. He used the momentum of his legs to swing forward, and (hopefully) flip up to the final platform.

What. The. Bloody. Hell?!

Edward gaped, his smirk augmented into an opened-mouth jaw drop as this-- this thing crawled up the vertical barrier and propelled onto the rooftop. Numbly staggering backwards, clearly stunned--in shock, unbearable to see--the Riddler just stared. Until adrenaline shocked his synapses into hyper-awareness.

"Damn it, Hush. That is cheating!" The words sputtered out like a revving engine. Edward cursed as he galloped in a sideways manner, keeping his eyes on this creature. Those hands, holy damn!
As if his relationship with Hush couldn't get any worse.

Edward had assumed Thomas Elliot developed a power. He had, after all, hadn't he? And Tommy was more than willing to laden their conversations with hints. That much was obvious. But this was really bloody weird.

"Hush--!" Edward aimed the gun again, aiming for his heart. "Don't!"

The retorts only seemed to ignite a fiery blaze in his eyes. There was absolutely no delight, amusement, or otherwise satisfaction. Tommy hated his ability. It had forced him to conform to the seamless run of freaks here. Before, he’d bathed in knowing that he outwitted, crafted, and displayed his ideologies by his own means. Now, he was something of a disgusting subhuman. Though, more than anyone, Eddie deserved to see his ability. This was what he’d been hiding. Half the reason he struggled to keep the investigation of the murders under the wraps, so to speak.

The crowbar-like hands began to shrink. The sound of bones shifting, popping, and grinding could be heard. The feeling made his stomach churn, and he held back the urge to gag. No. This was necessary. Eventually, his hands were at least recognizable. Though, the fingers were still extended a full fifteen inches. The further they traveled to the tips, the smaller they became, like a grotesque set of needles.

“What’s the matter, ‘Eddie,’” Hush hissed through his teeth, gradually stalking toward the other man. “So eager to put me down?” The haze in his mind was thickening, and he could feel parts of himself beginning to numb. No, it wouldn’t end like that. His time was limited. “You said you made me. So why do you seem so surprised by this?” He could have aimed to knock the gun out of his mentor’s hand, but instead his hand tensed for a moment. Then, in a single swipe, he directed his attack at the man’s face.

“I HATE YOU!”

"Nngh!" Edward turned his cheek with the swipe, attempting to minimize damage to facial tissue by reducing any friction between them. He couldn't jump away in time, Hush's freak-hands were too fast. So Eddie took it. Piercing agony littered his left cheek in parallel lines, one two three four... Eddie dipped his shoulder as he rolled with it, turning protectively downwards, aiming the barrel of his gun to hit anything on Hush's body. His finger twitched, a dart misfired.

No, no, not like this.

"No need to be repetitive," Edward had landed on his knees, and he was looking up at Hush's towering form. Dear God those needle hands... Edward blinked. Could Hush manifest chemicals? Was anything within those syringe points? His face stung, flesh bled, the neurons in his brains screamed. Eddie smeared his right hand across the cheek, numbed with shock. It would have been funny, really, had he not been in this position. Edward was well aware of Hush's disdain for the superpowered. He assumed it was a control thing; both of Hush himself and his surrounding. Power could be unpredictable, after all.

Eddie's eyes focused on the fury radiating from his former pupil's face. His little darling pet project, all grown up and growing unnatural things from his hands. Lovely. Edward monitored his reaction, noting something was a bit... Off. He was far too nonchalant. Something in the needles, or was it the shock? Which one? Life or death, this riddle was life or death, it meant everything...

One way to find out.

"How did you plan to kill me?" Edward faintly smiled up at Hush. Waiting for his own new-found power to ignite. He had one more tranq left, but it was pointless if his fears were true. "Humor me."

The weapon fired off again, this time lacking any direct aim. The dart grazed his right arm, and lodging into the top skin. He grimaced for a moment shifting his focus to where he was hit, then immediately swiped it away, letting out a brief snarl as he did so. His gaze flitted back to Eddie, his focus and goals still very apparent.

Tommy felt his consciousness becoming even groggier. His breathing was still fairly steady, but occasionally slowed down for a moment or so. He needed to focus. He took two steps forward, now towering over the other man. Slowly, the right hand began returning to its original state. What? He tensed. Could it be possible that this was numbing his abilities? It didn’t matter. The adrenaline was still there, namely the rage, driving him forward despite the circumstances. He lifted one foot, attempting to kick the weapon out of Eddie’s hand.

“The difference in the crime scene, Eddie. Remember now? The cuts. Deeper, longer.”

The remaining clawed hand lifted upward slightly, the upper part of his arm still flattened against his side. As he did so, the familiar sound of his bones cracking and shifting could be heard once more. The skin began melding together, forming one large “stake.” Then, like wet clay, the flesh began twisting and turning, forming what appeared to be a distorted type of scythe. Gradually, he lowered it downward, grazing around Eddie’s face and stopping at his neck.

“Let’s make an estimate, shall we? You’re so very good at that. I would like you to hypothesize the percentage of deaths that occur on the operating table each year.”

"Collectively?" Edward gulped, the pale skin of his throat caressing that freakishly sharp blade. The sharp prickle induced a wince--a sign of weakness he wasn't thrilled to exhibit--and Edward tried to lean away by a few millimeters. "Including medical and cosmetic, roughly 14.3 percent." The Riddler didn't need to inquire after the query. The point--yes, even his puns defied death threats--was clear enough. But he just would not give in to this matter. He wouldn't give in to Tommy Elliot.

He wouldn't succumb to death.

"Not bad odds, looking at the matter holistically," drawled on Eddie. His voice, full of forced bravado, wavered only one or twice. But that really wasn't the point, was it? He jut needed to buy time. Surely the sedative would set in? Edward had been banking on the doctor's adrenaline to speed the integration of chemicals, but he hadn't calculated on the nature of Hush's powers. His would-be prey had already dislocated the gun from Eddie's hand, so that final shot went unmoved. It was half the dosage Edward had planned. It would logically take double the time he had calculated to properly set in.

Green eyes flickered down to the blade. His face paled considerably. "Okay, Thomas." Edward knew his gun lay not five feet to his right. Too far away to grab. He had to stall. "I can see why you'd be a little irritated. But let's look at the situations logically, shall we? I haven't informed anyone else of your murders. It's just between us. Doesn't that mean anything personal to you?"

((ooc: SORRY IF THIS IS SHORT/SUCKS i'm barreling off to class and wanted to get a tag in before the day sails by because i'm gone like... all of it))

Tommy scowled, obviously dissatisfied and displeased with the answer. Why was he so persistent in humiliating him? Well, realistically, he knew the answer to that but until now, he honestly didn’t think that Eddie would have the guts to stand up to him. Did this make him dangerous? The thought briefly darted through his mind before vanishing entirely. No. Edward Nygma was far from dangerous. The only danger he’d ever spurred up was the terror he brought upon himself.

“It’s not the murders I’m worried about,” he snarled.

Suddenly, he staggered backward. The numbing sensation began tingling through his other arm now. His eyes widened with a mix of dread and disbelief as he watched his newly made weapon began to shrink. Steadily, it began returning to its original, humane state.

“No…” he muttered under his breath, temporarily distracted from Eddie’s status.

He snapped out of it, eyes shifting to the weapon that had skittered off to the side. How unfortunate that he would have to result to such a medieval method. Before he had time to analyze it further, he leapt forward, grabbing the gun and landing in a crouch. Tommy spun around, hoping Eddie hadn’t jumped the gun by now, and fired the final two shots.

((PSH IT IS GREAT FEAR NOT))

Two separate but equally alarming jolts of penetration alerted Edward tot he fact that this wasn't going to end well. No, it really wasn't going to end well. As he swiped the well-aimed darts from his chest, the world melted into a haze. Edward was considerably lighter than Hush, and his fight-or-flight mechanism was already in play Hormones and neurons that should have granted his feet flight only sped along the drowsy sedation through his system. Little wonder why he fell quicker then his opponent. Edward tried to rise, pushed himself to his feet, only to take a few steps and tumbled back to earth.

His body betrayed him quicker than his mind. Edward could still think with acute clarity, despite the rising urge to close his eyes, and thus knew exactly what was going on. And it terrified him. Thomas Elliot, that self-satisfied bastard, was winning. The truth was agonizing in itself, only vaguely numbed by the relaxation of his muscles and the slowing of his heartbeat.

"Damn it," Edward hissed between a deep breath and a scowl. "Why?" Why hadn't Hush just gone for the jugular and be done with it? Why bother to sedate Eddie? The presumed answer was horrifying: he had worse plans in mind. That was the only logical conclusion. Hush was cunning enough, Eddie had to admit, to utilize this opportunity.

But why?

As darkness plagued his sight, that was the last thought lingering on the Riddler's mind before he surrendered to oblivion.

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Give Me Drink And I Die.

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This log is making me shit my pants. kthx.

THIS LOG IS MORE LIKE A CABIN OF AWESOME a log cabin hur hur

FFF SORRY THAT TOOK FOREVER I HAD TO CATCH UP ON A STUPID LAB UGHGHG

NO PROBLEM BB <3

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