Half a name of light, half a drury ending -- but always sought.
WHO: EDDIE NYGMA and OPEN.
WHERE: All over the City, just tag in your position.
WHEN: Between October 25, 2011 and October 29th, 2011.
WARNINGS: Will edit... In case... Well.
SUMMARY: I'm sure there's someone who wants to hit him, or something.
FORMAT: Tagger's choice.
This month was his to claim, and he knew it. That was the cutting corner in his smirk, the sharper superiority in his eyes -- the idea, the knowledge that Edward Nygma was conquering, having been conquered. The thrill, the evidence.
The evidence.
Mark Rothko's No. 16 was no longer at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It had been stolen on the night of the twenty-third. Whisked away. The newspapers noted a few key indicators -- a professional entrance and exit, meticulous detailed orchestration. Impressive.
And the moon had been so beautiful. Eddie couldn't have anticipated a better evening; the elegance, the clockwork, it was all so beautiful, so transformative. So very much like music. He no longer had the painting in his possession, of course -- that wasn't the point. The point was the morning of the next, the twenty-fifth. A date of importance to Norman Osborn, something Eddie had known since he worked under the man. Personal information was never safe nowadays, one could never be certain when someone unsavory might take a peek behind a firewall or five and indulge his own curiosity.
He carried the papers with him, two stories total. One concerning the theft proper, the second (written recently) engaging the investigation. Eddie himself had volunteered his efforts, for the investigation. It was amusing, that way. The sun prickled at his skin, a paradoxical feeling of empty warmth that pierced through rolling clouds and needling winds. A perfect time for a catastrophe, which was exactly what had been predicted. So many were concerned with the next great tragedy, the upcoming battle of wills and fears. So many were looking straight into the sun.
The Riddler kept an eye on the shadows.
WHERE: All over the City, just tag in your position.
WHEN: Between October 25, 2011 and October 29th, 2011.
WARNINGS: Will edit... In case... Well.
SUMMARY: I'm sure there's someone who wants to hit him, or something.
FORMAT: Tagger's choice.
This month was his to claim, and he knew it. That was the cutting corner in his smirk, the sharper superiority in his eyes -- the idea, the knowledge that Edward Nygma was conquering, having been conquered. The thrill, the evidence.
The evidence.
Mark Rothko's No. 16 was no longer at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It had been stolen on the night of the twenty-third. Whisked away. The newspapers noted a few key indicators -- a professional entrance and exit, meticulous detailed orchestration. Impressive.
And the moon had been so beautiful. Eddie couldn't have anticipated a better evening; the elegance, the clockwork, it was all so beautiful, so transformative. So very much like music. He no longer had the painting in his possession, of course -- that wasn't the point. The point was the morning of the next, the twenty-fifth. A date of importance to Norman Osborn, something Eddie had known since he worked under the man. Personal information was never safe nowadays, one could never be certain when someone unsavory might take a peek behind a firewall or five and indulge his own curiosity.
He carried the papers with him, two stories total. One concerning the theft proper, the second (written recently) engaging the investigation. Eddie himself had volunteered his efforts, for the investigation. It was amusing, that way. The sun prickled at his skin, a paradoxical feeling of empty warmth that pierced through rolling clouds and needling winds. A perfect time for a catastrophe, which was exactly what had been predicted. So many were concerned with the next great tragedy, the upcoming battle of wills and fears. So many were looking straight into the sun.
The Riddler kept an eye on the shadows.