feels so good being bad, there's no way I'm turning back;
WHO: NORMAN OSBORN and EDWARD NYGMA
WHERE: Camembert, Orne, France
WHEN: August 3rd - 7th (forward-dated).
WARNINGS: Torture, mental trauma, etc.
SUMMARY: Remember all those things Edward has done to Norman the past year or so? Remember how Norman still hadn't taken revenge for any of it? ...
FORMAT: Paragraph
The facts were these:
Since their penultimate meeting two weeks ago, Edward Nygma had been poisoned. Not fatally, of course; the drug in question was of the hallucinogenic variety, not too unlike LSD. Diluted in water as it had been here in Eddie's drinking cup, it produced comparatively mild symptoms: paranoia, loss of muscular control, increased heart-rate, and mood instability, exactly as Norman wanted. Nygma had been far from on his guard when Norman at last was ready.
During this time Norman had casually perused the network, but didn't much participate; he'd been busy assembling the scene he wanted at a small, empty building in a quaint French town. If his uncharacteristic quiet had been noticed, no one made a mention.
A year. Or was it more? Norman had been thinking about Edward Nygma for a long time. His thoughts, in fact, were almost entirely consumed with the same feverish obsession he normally associated with the infuriating man behind the Spider mask, the face that constantly eluded his mind... right now none of that mattered. It was a matter of import, but import that would have to wait. He was a man possessed with singular purpose. To teach. To hurt. To--
Norman clutched tightly the ring he held but didn't wear -- once a symbol of his ties with Delirium of the Endless, one for each, now simply a trinket to aid in his violence and disposable sentimentality -- that Bellatrix Lestrange (lovely woman, she) had made into a "Portkey". He mentally counted down the time in his mind; close, but it wasn't time yet. His mind felt blissfully clear, save for the list of steps he followed and the dull throb of blood in his temples.
Almost time. Norman was maddeningly impatient, the closer the minutes ticked aggravating him further. His plans always took their time; he'd waited seven years after he'd faked his first death. The last minutes were always the worst. When the prize was just nearly close enough to feel under your fingers. His face was warm with blood, his mouth sliced in an unpleasant grin he couldn't quite get rid of.
The cellar had a cold cement floor, into which was build a man-sized cage with bars across the top. Eddie was still unconscious and likely would be for another half-hour at minimum. The darkness in the room was almost absolute save for a foggy square of light coming in from a dusty window. Norman stood in the furthest corner before he stripped himself of his business suit and dressed himself in one of the two outfits he'd spent the past month and a half sewing; all Norman hadn't made was his mask.
It felt peculiar doing that, had caused goosebumps and fevered breathing. No, he didn't need the mask. Not right now. He couldn't have it, or else he might truly become someone else... and although he'd brushed this thought off as irrational (clearly), he hadn't attempted again. Besides, for this he wanted to wear no other face but his own.
The rest of the familiar green and magenta costume that haunted memories he supposedly no longer had come on easily, like Norman had never taken them off. He felt particular smug as he slid on both gloves, than proceeded toward Nygma to repeat the process.
They'd had their meeting days earlier, and Norman had made sure to up the dosage this time, resulting in an almost effortless ambush on Nygma in his office with a cloth soaked in chloroform earlier this same day. The Portkey and the hour had synced shortly after, and suddenly they'd been in Camembert (of lower Normandy), France. Quite beautiful, in August.
For Edward Norman had a green question mark-covered jumpsuit waiting by the cage, folded, well-researched from the man's early crime days along with a dark purple domino mask. Cradling Eddie's face Norman had attached it last, taking care to place it exactly center on Eddie's face after he'd dressed him and to brush stray hair from his eyes. Then, easily hoisting him, Norman carried Eddie to the cage and locked him inside.
We have to wait.
Yes.
Impatience again rushed through him, gnawed his chest. Norman's eyes narrowed in the darkness.
A pity, he thought, that we can't just kill him, the way we killed that Dr. Horrible. It would be so easy, that neck--
-- There are things worse than death. Something so impermanent has no use here. I will be remembered. Respected. Feared. Killing is only done quick when the prey isn't worth your time.
He brushed his temple with a gloved finger, silencing the intrusive thoughts that were not quite his.
"We." What a joke.
WHERE: Camembert, Orne, France
WHEN: August 3rd - 7th (forward-dated).
WARNINGS: Torture, mental trauma, etc.
SUMMARY: Remember all those things Edward has done to Norman the past year or so? Remember how Norman still hadn't taken revenge for any of it? ...
FORMAT: Paragraph
The facts were these:
Since their penultimate meeting two weeks ago, Edward Nygma had been poisoned. Not fatally, of course; the drug in question was of the hallucinogenic variety, not too unlike LSD. Diluted in water as it had been here in Eddie's drinking cup, it produced comparatively mild symptoms: paranoia, loss of muscular control, increased heart-rate, and mood instability, exactly as Norman wanted. Nygma had been far from on his guard when Norman at last was ready.
During this time Norman had casually perused the network, but didn't much participate; he'd been busy assembling the scene he wanted at a small, empty building in a quaint French town. If his uncharacteristic quiet had been noticed, no one made a mention.
A year. Or was it more? Norman had been thinking about Edward Nygma for a long time. His thoughts, in fact, were almost entirely consumed with the same feverish obsession he normally associated with the infuriating man behind the Spider mask, the face that constantly eluded his mind... right now none of that mattered. It was a matter of import, but import that would have to wait. He was a man possessed with singular purpose. To teach. To hurt. To--
Norman clutched tightly the ring he held but didn't wear -- once a symbol of his ties with Delirium of the Endless, one for each, now simply a trinket to aid in his violence and disposable sentimentality -- that Bellatrix Lestrange (lovely woman, she) had made into a "Portkey". He mentally counted down the time in his mind; close, but it wasn't time yet. His mind felt blissfully clear, save for the list of steps he followed and the dull throb of blood in his temples.
Almost time. Norman was maddeningly impatient, the closer the minutes ticked aggravating him further. His plans always took their time; he'd waited seven years after he'd faked his first death. The last minutes were always the worst. When the prize was just nearly close enough to feel under your fingers. His face was warm with blood, his mouth sliced in an unpleasant grin he couldn't quite get rid of.
The cellar had a cold cement floor, into which was build a man-sized cage with bars across the top. Eddie was still unconscious and likely would be for another half-hour at minimum. The darkness in the room was almost absolute save for a foggy square of light coming in from a dusty window. Norman stood in the furthest corner before he stripped himself of his business suit and dressed himself in one of the two outfits he'd spent the past month and a half sewing; all Norman hadn't made was his mask.
It felt peculiar doing that, had caused goosebumps and fevered breathing. No, he didn't need the mask. Not right now. He couldn't have it, or else he might truly become someone else... and although he'd brushed this thought off as irrational (clearly), he hadn't attempted again. Besides, for this he wanted to wear no other face but his own.
The rest of the familiar green and magenta costume that haunted memories he supposedly no longer had come on easily, like Norman had never taken them off. He felt particular smug as he slid on both gloves, than proceeded toward Nygma to repeat the process.
They'd had their meeting days earlier, and Norman had made sure to up the dosage this time, resulting in an almost effortless ambush on Nygma in his office with a cloth soaked in chloroform earlier this same day. The Portkey and the hour had synced shortly after, and suddenly they'd been in Camembert (of lower Normandy), France. Quite beautiful, in August.
For Edward Norman had a green question mark-covered jumpsuit waiting by the cage, folded, well-researched from the man's early crime days along with a dark purple domino mask. Cradling Eddie's face Norman had attached it last, taking care to place it exactly center on Eddie's face after he'd dressed him and to brush stray hair from his eyes. Then, easily hoisting him, Norman carried Eddie to the cage and locked him inside.
We have to wait.
Yes.
Impatience again rushed through him, gnawed his chest. Norman's eyes narrowed in the darkness.
A pity, he thought, that we can't just kill him, the way we killed that Dr. Horrible. It would be so easy, that neck--
-- There are things worse than death. Something so impermanent has no use here. I will be remembered. Respected. Feared. Killing is only done quick when the prey isn't worth your time.
He brushed his temple with a gloved finger, silencing the intrusive thoughts that were not quite his.
"We." What a joke.