capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

WHO: Eridan Ampora (

amoray) and Edward Nygma (

enigmaestro).
WHERE: Eridan's penthouse.
WHEN: 11/23
WARNINGS: Torture, violence, language, the usual.
SUMMARY: PAYBACK'S A BITCH: the log.
FORMAT: never

Eridan insists on getting the lunch tab. He isn't sorry for what's about to happen to Edward Nygma, not really, but he figures it's the sort of quirky thing Eddie will look back on with vague, strained amusement. Or as a horrible insult, considering what's to come. Either one is good.

"Like I said, the doomsday dewice thing? I consider myself kind of a journeyman, yeah," he says while finishing off the rest of his soda, posture lazy. The cues weren't subtle, but they didn't have to be. He was confident Eddie wouldn't duck out early on him, but sweetening the pot couldn't hurt - doomsday device, what ex-supervillain didn't love a good old-fashioned doomsday device? "I'd say the only reason none of 'em worked out was 'cos a Wris. Meddlin' fuckin' dirthag stealin' my thunder. Don't know what I was thinkin', goin' to her. It's not like she got what I was about."

"So, you ready to go?"

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"Don't giwe me that look," Eridan chided in lieu of an answer, finishing Eddie's sentence to suit himself. Stalking back, scratching at his cheek with a claw - the manicure ruined sometime between tying the ropes, the clubbing, and nicks from the scalpel - he looked down imperiously, surveying his work. After a moment, he made an exaggerated show of glancing back at the camera, and then stepping just to the left, out of its line of sight. "All lookin' like a kicked fuckin' pupa. What's up - ain't got any fire left, Nygma? Or maybe I'm just borin' a seasoned weteran a torture like yourself."

There was a threat in there, although Eridan didn't make a point of it. Instead he brought his hand up to his face, rubbing his chin with the side of a finger. Torment or not, Eddie would need to be taken care of tonight, by him or anyone else; handing him over to Felicia or Mitchell (or Norman) would be fun in the moment, but would almost guarantee some whiplash. Possibly some very severe whiplash.

"Yeah, okay. You can text her when we're through." A definite statement, no argument to be broached. He kneeled down again, digging in the scalpel. Just two more to go. "I don't imagine we're gonna hawe any more dainty lunches together after this, but let's be keepin' it all between us, alright? Our secret."

Curving the scalpel had become muscle memory at this point. Eridan poised his tongue on the edge of his teeth, thinking.

"What hawe you done? Is that like a, I'we created a monster kinda thing, or I can't beliewe I let this happen, or what? Inquirin' minds."

"How about --" he hissed out the words, reluctant syllables like lead. It would take some severe alchemy to forge any gold from those sounds, but Edward was very little if not determined. He drew his chin upwards, groaning as the most relevant wave of agony flushed over his flesh.

At the very least, it was a goldmine for someone, and Eridan had always possessed such a princely fee.

Eddie kept his eyes skyward, as if unwilling to watch any more blood loss.

"How. About. What have I done to. Deserve this, from you?" His lips pried away the words, the emotions embedded in those vowels. Despite the efficiency of Eridan's brief medical support (after all, Eddie wasn't bleeding to death), he could still feel the sticky sickness of oxygen-exposed blood against his own skin. His nerves ached and the corners of his mouth quivered with little groans.

Nevertheless. Eddie would have been loathed to drop the theatrics now.

"I've made you so much better," he insisted.