[Oswald Cobblepot comes for them in the night – three of them. But he doesn’t go alone. Because it takes more than timing, the intel quietly supplied by Lucius Fox, and his own familiarity with street gangs to make it happen. More than roping members of rival gangs into the hunt with a money incentive too good to refuse. Struggling around on crutches and a bum leg, Oswald knows he could have never restrained and relocated Nyssa’s men, and this quickly. Alfred has his uses, for now.
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!
no subject
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!