Jul. 24th, 2024 08:11 pm
RP With Oswald Cobblepot
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flippin_peachyHe was cold.
It was the type of cold that seeps into you, past your flesh and straight down to your bones to make them ache, ache in a way that makes you feel as if you were slowly being turned to stone.
And maybe he was.
It certainly felt like he had been here in this spot for centuries, motionless and cold.
And alone.
He was alone now, his one true north taken from him and when that happened he had fallen into this cold, dark place where his bones ached and his head throbbed and his hands were wet and sticky with blood. He can still hear the soft exhale of breath as Bruce died in his arms, his body slowly going limp and heavy.
And then....
nothing.
Just a cold, black feeling that had swarmed up inside him. It was a feeling he had spent a long time keeping locked away, ever since the day he had left the Army, since the day he found Esme dead in their flat. It was familiar and cold.
So bloody cold.
Just as he is now, cold and empty now that he had found the wretched bitch who had murdered his boy and made her pay. Knocking her away from the poor sod she had been busy torturing and onto the ground, straddling her and wrapping his callused hands around her head and bashing it.
Over and over.
And over.
Until....
Nothing.
Just silence and the feeling of being cold.
As if his heart had turned to stone.
It was the type of cold that seeps into you, past your flesh and straight down to your bones to make them ache, ache in a way that makes you feel as if you were slowly being turned to stone.
And maybe he was.
It certainly felt like he had been here in this spot for centuries, motionless and cold.
And alone.
He was alone now, his one true north taken from him and when that happened he had fallen into this cold, dark place where his bones ached and his head throbbed and his hands were wet and sticky with blood. He can still hear the soft exhale of breath as Bruce died in his arms, his body slowly going limp and heavy.
And then....
nothing.
Just a cold, black feeling that had swarmed up inside him. It was a feeling he had spent a long time keeping locked away, ever since the day he had left the Army, since the day he found Esme dead in their flat. It was familiar and cold.
So bloody cold.
Just as he is now, cold and empty now that he had found the wretched bitch who had murdered his boy and made her pay. Knocking her away from the poor sod she had been busy torturing and onto the ground, straddling her and wrapping his callused hands around her head and bashing it.
Over and over.
And over.
Until....
Nothing.
Just silence and the feeling of being cold.
As if his heart had turned to stone.
no subject
He looks terrified - and he hasn’t even seen her yet, rounding a pillar behind him. Coming up from the side.
Oswald’s heart swoops into his stomach. He shakes his head desperately, crying out through the gag behind his teeth. Screaming until darkness crowds the edges of his vision and tendons cord in his neck, bloody spit frothing out the corners of his mouth. He throws himself forward, desperate to reach him, to shove him out of the way. The ropes bite deeper into his wrists and wrench him back.
Ed blinks, shaken.
Then Oswald hears it over the pounding in his ears. They both hear it.
Click.
A cold, hard sound that bounces off the walls. And Ed understands.
Their eyes meet for the last time: Ed’s blank; Oswald’s wet and red and begging time to slow down, to stop. Begging Ed to pull an impossible escape from the pockets of his shiny green blazer, to find a way – because if anyone could, it’s him. It had to be him. Because they were supposed to seize the future and make Gotham theirs. Supposed to laugh and grow old together and sit around sipping Bordeaux, reminiscing on a life well-lived, the life they built together against all odds.
Then comes the bang that blows a hole through Ed’s skull. That throws bone and brains onto the tiles. Ed’s glasses clatter to the floor and the rest of him follows, his head landing with a thudding bounce.
The impact crushes the air from Oswald’s lungs. His mouth drops open, useless, empty. His world begins to spin, faster and faster, as all sense abandons him. Ears ringing, body all trembling-electric on the inside. He can't think, can’t breathe, his lungs struggling, straining, failing -- until a rattling gasp rips through his chest. Then another. And he begins to sob like an animal. Big, ugly sobs, screaming sobs that tear his throat up. He can't even recognize himself.
Nyssa drops to a crouch by the blood pooling under Ed’s temple, smiling grimly. Gotham is a cancer, she tells him, taking her knife to Ed’s neck – no chance of resurrection for him –
– and right then and there, Oswald can feel some part of him crack down to his very core, sliding away from the rest like a heavy sheet of ice from a glacier. He shakes and shakes. Can’t stop it any more than he can stop watching the blade saw its way through meat and tendon and bone, Ed’s glassy eyes staring back at him –
And then Oswald blinks, and Nyssa has moved in front of him. She grips him by the jaw, her thumb grinding into bone. Blood and tears and snot drips down his face and dribbles over the floor in fat blots, his nostrils flaring, quivering. Disgust curls her lip. He’s a perfect representation of the city, she reminds him, patiently dragging open another gash in his face: ugly, broken, pathetic. A lost cause. His head goes light; Nyssa’s face, her look of dark satisfaction, splits in his vision. Something primal rears up inside him – and he comes alive, for what feels like the very last time, twisting his head and biting down. And he bites savagely, not entirely sure what’s happening until Nyssa jerks her hand and they both stare at the wound he gouged into the web of her thumb. He bobs his head and lets a small chunk of meat tumble from his drooling mouth. His head is already whirling when she slaps him, and so viciously that his vision goes spotty. She fists his hair and yanks his heavy, lolling head back, and through a prism of tears, he sees her knife poised for his eye socket.
Her breath is hot on his skin, spit flecking his cheek. Her rage, whatever she felt for herself, for her father, when driving that blade into Bruce and killing him in his bed, and whatever she feels now, while cutting at his numbed flesh, can’t even begin to touch his. He's somewhere far away, every word out of her mouth thrusting him into higher and higher stratospheres of anger until all he can see is white. And he waits. Waits for the moment he’ll claw his way from this nightmare and out the other side with everything he has left, driven and ready, coming for her like a heart attack. Waits for the end, the bitter release, like a sick, sad brain waits for a bullet.
Death comes for Nyssa. And it comes now, ripping her away from him. Bludgeoning her to the floor. And it thrashes her senseless, just a few feet away from Ed’s headless corpse. Over and over and over, until there’s a wet crack, like a melon being split open.
And then it’s over.
Oswald blinks and blinks, bewildered. Breathing in fits and starts, a harsh, reedy sort of wheezing.
It’s over.]
no subject
All of it, that it was his life that had ended and not Bruce's, that he could trade his soul for one more chance to save his boy and for a moment he considers just ending it so he can be with the one good thing he had in his life. If he just gave up now then maybe he could see Bruce again, maybe Esme too.
Maybe he could find relief from this horrible weight in his heart and things could just be....over.
What finally stirs him from his own dark, suicidal thoughts is a voice.
'Alfred, you have to help the survivors.'
It's the voice of Bruce, murmuring deep inside his own mind but it somehow manages to give him the strength to come back to his senses, not fully but enough to realize that he's sitting in a puddle of blood and gore. That his hands are coated up to his elbows in Nyssa's blood, that the cuffs of his usually crisp white dress shirt are now a dark maroon color.
'You can fix yourself up later, Alfred. Get up and help him. That's an order.'
He hears Bruce say in his head and he nods, hauling himself up off the ground and plodding over to Oswald, his eyes glassy and faraway, as if he were on auto-pilot.]
Hold still.
[He croaks and gently removes the gag from Oswald's mouth before moving on to untie the rest of his restraints, there's no indication that he even seems to realize who it is he just saved just that he should be free.]
achilles tendon on his good side was severed
Oswald’s slimy-red teeth are jammed tight around the gag, and he jerks his face away from the hands reaching for him, hanging his head. Something inside him won’t let go, or forgot how. But those fingers keep pulling and prying. Teasing a ragged strip of his own pant leg from his mouth with impossible patience. He hears himself gasp for air as it falls away. Hears himself straining to breathe through his gummed up nostrils, still fighting to live, not knowing any better.
The ropes slip off him and his body pitches forward. He throws his hands out to break his fall, feeling that jolt of pain to his teeth. Lights pop behind his eyes, dizziness roaring through him. It hurts. Everything hurts. Fresh tears leak from the corners of his eyes, dripping acid into the open wounds in his face, his split lip. Sides heaving, he struggles to climb to his feet before he even understands where he’ll go, what he’ll do next. No plan. Nothing. Only mindless animal instinct driving him forward, onward, determined to survive at any cost. But his body is failing. Muscles shudder under him, rubbery-weak from abuse – and with a fierce stab of pain just above his heel comes a sensation of flesh peeling away from flesh. The ugly shock of it makes his knee give way, and he drops back on all fours.
A naked, shivering wreck at the heart of City Hall.
He stares at the floor in a daze, here and not here.
He stares at the bands of skinned meat around his wrists. Then at the splinter of too-white bone peeking out the stump of a finger – and feels his eye go wide. He remembers the blade sinking into him, the cruel, easy snap under its edge, as if she were doing nothing more than cutting a carrot. But seeing it makes it real. Seeing it turns his stomach and pushes a burning, bitter taste into his mouth. He makes a noise high in his throat, an anxious mewl, his breath coming faster, faster.]
owwwwwwwwwww
Help him.]
Yes, Master B. [Alfred whispers and moves to unbutton his vest and then shirt, shrugging off the latter so that he may kneel down next to Oswald and drape it over his bare shoulders.]
Try not to move. You'll only hurt yourself more, sir.
this might just be the perfect icon for this moment
It’s Alfred Pennyworth – butler and de facto father of the young Bruce Wayne.
He remembers Pennyworth through a fog. A scattering of details from what feels like many lifetimes ago. Remembers handshakes and clipped small talk, remembers Alfred stopping Selina from opening his throat. The in-between slips like smoke through his fingers. But it doesn’t matter now; none of that matters. Because it isn't hope that he finds in that harried face watching his. All he can see is someone else who raped him of the only comfort he could have found, the closest thing to closure anyone is ever allowed to have in this cursed city.
Oswald’s gaze sharpens through a film of tears, his skull rocking with a violence that feels like it’ll split itself open. His lips twitch, stinging as they peel back.
A film flashes through his mind, the very same that kept him alive for the last hour: a crowbar crunching into Nyssa’s skull, popping one eye halfway out the socket; a broad, heavy swing from the side loosing her jaw and knocking out her teeth in a gout of blood; a horrible shriek gurgling up in her throat. That’s how it starts. How it was supposed to go.
But that dream is over.
And all he has left is this rage engorging his brain, this feral rage that demands blood. Screaming, he rears up and throws himself at Alfred, snapping his hands out for his throat.]
Hell yeah!
Do it.
[He whispers as he feels Oswald's hands tighten around his throat, his voice trembles with emotion and he feels a few tears leak out of his closed eyes and run down his cheek.]
I want to be with him.
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Fuck you!
[He jerks him around, snarling through teeth clenched so hard he can feel his molars grinding.
Alfred is supposed to fight - and lose. He’s supposed to suffer and die shocked, struggling to understand how this half-dead, skinny thing could have ever overpowered him. But Alfred is motionless, unresisting. He's already dead, Oswald realizes; he’s just waiting for his body to catch up.
He squeezes. His knuckles blanch, and the nerves in his finger, or what's left of it, spit fire. Blood spurts out, his grip growing slippery and weaker, somehow, the harder he tries to make Alfred hurt. It’s not fair – not fucking fair. He throws back his head, his eye filling. And he howls at the ceiling, into all that wide, empty space. Because nothing is ever easy for him. Because Alfred won't even give him a sliver of satisfaction when death is what he wants. When he welcomes it so calmly and on his own terms, as if he has the goddamn right. Oswald’s face wrenches up, a vein splitting his forehead.]
...fuck you!!
[He sobs, brokenly, sagging.
He can't do it. He won't.
His arms drop, and he crumples to his knees. Throbbing with hate, hate for himself and Alfred and Nyssa and Ed, and every wet, ragged gasp he can’t bite back. If he has to suffer, to live with this pain, then he won’t suffer alone.]
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I'm sorry. [He says and quietly sinks down to his knees next to Oswald.
It's of course that moment that the cavalry finally arrives.]
Oh holy shit. [Bullock mutters when he sees the scene and looks over to Jim who already has his gun drawn. They approach slowly, Bullock wincing when he sees both Ed and Nyssa's bodies.]
Alfred. [Jim says slowly, his eyes watching Oswald carefully as he can't quite tell what state of mind he is in yet.] What happened? Are you okay?
[Alfred pulls in a ragged breath and slowly exhales and when he speaks his voice is controlled but also somehow horribly hollow sounding.]
Bruce is dead.
[His throat constricts painfully, a deep sob trying to choke him and he takes another breath before continuing.]
So no.
I'm not okay.
I'm actually doing fucking awful, mate.
Bruce....no. [Jim whispers in disbelief and Alfred nods, slowly rising to his feet.]
Yes.
How?! [He demands and then turns his gun towards Oswald.]
What did you do, Oswald!!
[Alfred moves fast, faster than most people would assume a man his age could and grabs Jim's wrist, twisting it savagely until he drops the gun.]
Don't you fucking dare! [He snarls.] This is YOUR fault! You should have killed her the first time!!
[He shouts and punches Jim in the face.]
They'd both still be here if you'd done your job properly!!
[Jim staggers back, both from the blow and the strength of Alfred's sudden rage. Alfred meanwhile advances and is about to strike Jim again when Lee comes onto the scene.]
Alfred. Please, stop.
[Her tone is soft and full of sadness and somehow it reaches past his anger and touches him briefly.]
I know you're upset, but hurting Jim won't bring Bruce back.
[Alfred looks at Jim with absolute hate in his eyes and then turns away.]
No but it will make me bloody well feel better.
[He says bitterly and comes back over to kneel next to Oswald, wrapping an arm around him protectively.]
Get out of here, all of you.
oopsiedaisy
It’s the first time someone has, and meant it, in as long as he can remember. And it’s useless. He doesn’t even know where to start with sorry, what he’s supposed to do with it. But he doesn’t throw it back into Alfred's face. Oswald doesn’t even look at him.
Gulping down deep, shuddering breaths, he dries his face on his arm, his mouth, slowly going cold. His head is pounding and pounding. And sitting there, on his knees, he begins to feel the sick ache in his gut of a boy who just wants to go home, even if he’s not sure what that means anymore. Only that home feels less and less like somewhere real and more like an idea of a warm, comfortable place that never existed.
Footsteps carry through the chamber, and he and Alfred are suddenly no longer alone. Oswald counts two people from the sound of their hard-soled shoes; Bullock is the first to give himself away, and it’s not hard to guess who he’s with. Once upon a time, Oswald's first thought, above all else, would’ve been that he can’t be seen like this.
--ugly, broken, pathetic--
But he doesn't scrabble around for the clothes that slid from his shoulders, or bother cupping his privates and preserving what little dignity he has left. He’s tired, so tired. A part of him wants to flatten himself over the tiled floor. To feel them cool against his heavy, throbbing cheek and forehead, and sleep forever.
People are talking now, talking around him, and Bruce’s name breaks through the numb, black buzzing in his mind. The last of the Waynes – gone, too. Oswald blinks, turning that over for a second. He isn’t sure, right away, why he feels the way he does – like he’s climbing stairs expecting the next step to be there, only for his foot to pass through empty air. Until Jim calls his name with all the aggression of a death-threat and turns his gun on him. Oswald raises a swollen, hooded eye to the barrel, dumbstruck. All he can do is stare, his mouth hanging open, as he grapples with the enormity of an accusation so off-the-mark that his fury nearly whiplashes into laughter. How much of that would’ve been the direct result of the trauma and how much would’ve been honest-to-goodness craziness setting in, here to deliver him from this hell, he doesn't know. But he’s not laughing. He’s trembling, so angry he could spit. And not at all prepared, either, for Alfred to answer on his behalf with a punch that snaps Jim’s head back.
It might just be the first good thing that has happened today.
Lee hurries in on clacking heels, and Oswald stops paying attention. Slouching, he sinks back into his own head, little by little, and disappears, until someone loops an arm around him. He flinches, his breath catching. Alfred’s skin is warm and sticky with sweat against his, and he’s reminded that this isn’t supposed to be happening. That Alfred finding him at all was purely accidental. Only Ed had come after him. Only Ed had cared, following up on a string of unanswered texts. And he had paid for it.
Like everyone else who ever cared for him.]
no subject
He sees a man who won't blink when pulling the trigger, who will hit his target every time.
They're sniper eyes.]
Jim. [Lee says softly and reaches out to take hold of his arm, trying to pull him away gently.] Leave them alone.
[It takes a moment but in the end Jim let's himself be lead away by Lee and Bullock who go outside to call for backup and a medical team, leaving Oswald and Alfred alone in the warehouse that stinks of death and sorrow.]
Oswald.
[It's the first time Alfred has addressed him by name and for a moment it feels strange on his tongue but he repeats it again.]
Oswald. Sir? I suspect a medical team and more police will arrive soon, so if you were thinking of leaving before then I would suggest we do so rather quickly.
[We. It just slips out but the second it does he knows it's right. Oswald is hurt after all and can't very well run on that sliced tendon of his.]
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No! [Oswald shouts, breaking free with a strength he shouldn't have.] I am not leaving!
[His heart clenches with a sense of desperate purpose, with a promise not to abandon Ed to the gloved, uncaring hands that would come for the corpses. One last indignity towards a man whose life was made up of nothing but indignities. Oswald makes a beeline for him, half-crawling half-dragging himself along, skin squealing over tiles. Doggedly, his breath coming in short, shallow heaves. But sheer force of will isn’t enough. He collapses an arm’s length from Ed’s side, shy of reaching a shaky hand out and touching him. Shy of feeling the unyielding denseness of a body that once braced his, held his steady, when he staggered around half-blinded. A body he could never pull close and find comfort in again.
He strains to move, choking out an angry sob. But his own has finally given up on him. Has already made peace with the darkness swallowing his senses and pulling him under. All he can think of, as his world disappears, is how sorry he is. And of how meaningless apologies are for the dead, too.]
no subject
The drive back to Wayne manor is hard, he knows what's waiting for him there and doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want to see his boy, who was once alive and bright, now laying cold and dead in blood stained sheets. He doesn't want to see those glassy, accusing eyes.
But he will, because he knows what needs to be done.
He brings Oswald into the manor and takes him into his own chambers, laying him down into his bed before going and retrieving the medical kit. In a way it's good that the other man is unconscious, it helps make the process of patching his wounds up faster than if he was alive and causing a fuss. Which is good, because Alfred has work to do.
With Oswald mostly patched up he then trudges up to Bruce's room, his heart feeling heavier and heavier with each step. He does not turn on any lights, he doesn't need to, he knows this house like the back of his hand and in a way turning on a light would make the scene of Bruce's death so much more real.
More brutal.
So he enters, shrouded in darkness, slowly walking across the room and then sitting down next to Bruce's body.]
I'm here, Master Bruce.
[He says softly as he reaches out to close the boy's eyes, his own filling with hot tears.]
I'll take care of everything.
I promise.
no subject
The door across him is open a crack. This isn’t his house. And under different circumstances, he’d have fumbled for the crutches leaned up against the bedpost and armed himself, seeking food and water and an exit after. Determined to mentally map out the place, to be anything but helpless. But he can’t bring himself to move. Hasn't tried short of pulling his arms into his chest and curling up, letting the day or night - whichever it is behind the drapes - move on without him. His legs aren't going anywhere, anyway. They feel so heavy they could be someone else's, if not for the pain deep and sharp in his foot.
He remembers the knife. Then he remembers the gunshot and Ed falling for what seemed like forever, and his throat heaves suddenly; he barely manages to drag himself to the bed's edge before he gags. It's all bile hitting the floor between spluttering, ragged lungfuls of air. But enough of it that he is exhausted by the end, feeling worse when he wipes his chin and drops back into bed.
It's a long time before the throbbing in his skull softens, becoming a sort of white noise. His stomach never does settle - and he’s grateful when the darkness comes back for him. Taking him away, away from the guilt, and from this cold, colourless life he no longer recognizes.]
no subject
No more birthdays, no more watching the boy who became his son grow into a man.
He can remember carrying Bruce's body, now clean and smartly dressed, outside to his parent's grave and there he begins to dig. He doesn't know how long it takes but it doesn't matter, it has to be done and in the end he lays Bruce's body between his parent's caskets. As if he will somehow find comfort being between them again in the afterlife.]
I love you, Master Bruce.
I always will.
[By the time everything is done Alfred is exhausted and he collapses onto one of the couches in the main room, falling into a fitful sleep. The next morning he wakes at his usual time, dragging himself up and out of bed to go check on the only other people here with him now.
He enters his room with a tea tray, on it is a pot of tea, two cups, some meds, and some fresh fruit.]
Good morning, sir.
[He says as he sets the tray down and moves to open the curtains slightly, letting in a small sliver of sun as to help wake the injured man in his bed.]
no subject
His bleary gaze falls on the pills. He doesn’t know what they are, exactly, and there’s no Ed to tell him the medical name and chemical make-up, to offer a deluge of facts. But whether it helps or kills him, it’s doing him a favour either way, he reasons. Wincing, he stretches an arm and paws the tray perched on the night table. One pill rolls away from his clumsy fingers but he manages to grab the other, finding premature relief in the sticky sweetness of it dissolving in his mouth. It scrapes its way down his throat in two, struggling swallows. All that’s left to do, after, is wait. It’s something to look forward to.
He sinks back under the covers, hunching his shoulders against the pale daylight.]
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You'll want to eat something with those pills. [He states clearly.] Otherwise you will feel sick.
[He grabs a wooden chair from the desk on the opposite side of the room and drags it across to sit next to the bed.]
I brought some fruit but if you'd prefer I can make something a little heartier, oatmeal perhaps?
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Leave me alone.
[His new, loose clothes feel raw against his skin when he shifts, fighting every whining muscle in his body just to turn over. He squints against that sliver of light slanting through the curtains a moment. The sun is still shining at the window, cruel in its indifference. Time has stopped – and yet it hasn’t, somehow, for the rest of the world, everyone everywhere moving on without a missing a beat. Gotham moving on.
His thoughts drift to the fruit on the tray. He can’t remember when he last ate or what it was, or the taste of anything other than blood and bile. But he doesn’t think he can trust his stomach to keep anything down if he tried.]
no subject
Afraid I can't do that, sir.
[He says patiently and pours himself and Oswald a cup of tea.]
You need to eat in order to get your strength back.
[A pause as he sips from his own cup.]
Especially if we are to start making arrangements.
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...Excuse me? [He demands, his voice low and raw.]
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And then of course there are arrangements that must be made to deal with Nyssa's spies. There's no way she knew where and when to attack either of us without getting some kind of inside information.
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It’s the reality check he never asked for but the one that was always coming. That puts a time limit on everything. The overwhelm hits him like a panic attack. He screws his eye shut hard enough for his brow muscles to ache, fighting to breathe around an awful, sinking feeling in his gut. Another loved one cold in the ground. Another headstone he’d stop and lay flowers by, week after week, growing old alone. He doesn’t even know which ones would’ve been Ed’s favourites. Tears gather at the corner of his eye.
He could have followed Ed into that darkness. He had come so close to the edge of nothingness, had stared fearlessly into it, ready and not ready. But instead, he's here, In someone else's clothes and someone else's bed, under a roof that isn't his. No phone or knife or gun. Nothing but this rage in his bones. It feels like some kind of karmic punishment.
He wipes his face, his gaze shuttering. It takes him a moment longer before he can trust his voice not to crack.]
...You mean that you believe one or more these supposed informants are responsible for Bruce’s death... [he reaches a compromise with his wounded body and rolls onto his back] and you need me to track them down.
[He chuffs wryly.]
no subject
[His tone is short and dry, his face composed and still and yet inside his chest aches at the mere mention of Bruce.]
I merely thought you might want to be involved in dealing with any informants or associates of hers, as payback for what she did to you and Mr. Nygma.
[A small pause.]
But if you are not then I shall deal with them on my own.
[And he will deal with them harshly.]
no subject
But it's a bold claim that Alfred is making and he needs proof that he wouldn't wind up expending what little fight he has left just chasing shadows.]
City Hall was my base of operations every since that Valeska lunatic blew the bridges... [he croaks] ...My whereabouts were no secret. [His expression darkens the longer the thought sits with him.] What makes you so certain that... vile bitch [Oswald spits the words like a black, burning venom] was not acting alone?
[His chest rises and falls more sharply, his knuckles whitening around the bedsheets.]
If you know something, spit it out, now--
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[Alfred says, his eyes still locked on Oswald's.]
And I should know, it's a tactic I've used before back when I was a soldier.
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Passing him a bat is another one of them.
Oswald’s knuckles blanch around it, the handle shaking in his death-grip. In borrowed shoes and a borrowed suit draping his wiry frame, he doesn’t look like himself. Hair down, face scuffed up and bandaged. But the resolve in the set of his jaw is unmistakable. There’s no room for bargaining here.]
You killed him. [Oswald advances, his eye flashing like a knife in the half-dark.] ...And now, I am going to beat you until you beg me to do the same. And I am going to enjoy every minute of it.
'the fuck you talking about?'
[His head snaps to the one of the men tied to a cheap, folding chair. Two chairs for three bottomfeeders; the third in line, Bobby, is down on the concrete, hands tied. Staring back at them, Oswald isn’t sure what shakes him most. That these forty-something year old nobodies are the rats who gave Nyssa the edge she needed to ambush him, or that they’re too tweaked out of their minds to grasp the devastation they're responsible for.
They don't even know why they're here.]
‘look at this guy, this fucking whiny little faggot,’ [Frankie continues, tugging at the ropes.] ‘I ain’t scared of you, Penguin!’
‘yeah, who made this crippled fuck king, anyway??’ [Joel demands.
A wild ripcurl of anger surges through Oswald. He never hears the scream that rings through the warehouse – his own – as he drives the bat down into Frankie’s skull, again and again. The fifth swing comes from the side and caves in a cheek, blood dribbling out a ruptured ear. Frankie howls.
Joel jerks from the bloodspray, his face taut and white.
‘yo, what the fuck, get this fucking maniac away from me!’
With only one arm to work with, the beating was always going to be nothing short of a full-bodied effort on Oswald’s part. His breath comes in harsh, wheezy gasps, furious gasps, his fringe flopping with every crack of the bat. It’s agonizingly slow. And it’s unrelenting.]
His name
[--whack--]
was
[--whack--]
Edward Nygma!!
[--whack--]
Wounds reopen, blood and sweat streaming down his sides. Everything hurts - and yet, it feels bitterly good to bleed and sweat because it means getting to feel Frankie’s bones give way, little by little. Getting to watch Frankie’s face, what’s left of it, collapse and his gaping wound of a mouth gush blood onto the concrete.
‘pl... pluh...’ Frankie splutters uselessly.
A few of his teeth stud the bat.]
What was that...?! [Oswald snarls.] Can’t hear you over all the whining!
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From:I switched to quotes for NPCery just 'cause
From:Works for me ;)
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From:ooc: bring on the booooze!
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