capeandcowl2020 | Open Post 001

Edward's assassination attempt had stung, hurt the ex-politician deep. Something about it had been a betrayal. Mitchell was familiar with it, more than so, he'd done enough of it himself. He'd ran from the meeting location as soon as he was able, fighting to stay conscious from the poisonous air. The gas had almost killed him.

Edward had almost killed him.

He'd gone underground, pulled appearances, pulled media interviews. Adrian disappeared into a cabin that nobody knew existed. His surgery was refined, more like himself, younger, though. He didn't think he'd be leaving anytime soon. Really, ever, if he could help it. Maskin would be an enigma. He had the press photos. His publisher didn't know they had signed an import. He told them it was a new book. They couldn't complain about that one, that was for sure.

He stayed in. He had delivery boys drop off groceries, he was out from the closest town, but not out enough to make delivery impossible. He paid extra. He hid, because he knew that wouldn't be the first time that he encountered assassins. Someone knew that Adrian Maskin was Mitchell Hundred, and he waited in fear for the next attempt.

Eddie had "Adrian Maskin's" coordinates deduced on a map in his stronghold. A. Maskin. In a mask. Mitchell, he thought. His lips twitched. You make it so easy.

It had taken time, to find Mitchell again. Katurian was hardly as accommodating the second round, not after his first failure. Eddie still shivered at the word, failure, his hands unconsciously rubbed over his chest. The scars may never fade, he was told, and he should hope to god they never fade. He needed a constant reminder, he was told.

Edward took off, the destination in mind. He had no tips to work off of, no resources. Just his wits. Just his mind.

The cabin.

Eddie wondered, idly, if Mitch new he was committing a Lincoln reference. He thought it would be fun to share it, like an inside joke. Like old times. He thought it would be nice.

"Mitchell Hundred. I am using the door like a civilized human being. The least you can do is open it." A beat. "I'll even let you hold me at gunpoint, if you want."

The sound of a familiar voice, almost jovial in a way, was enough for him to almost jump out of his skin. Almost. He was close enough to doing that anyway. What he'd been doing, well, having a drink was the only thing he could do on a slow day with no inspiration, and the glass fell from his hands, hitting the ground. It shattered. "Motherfucker!" was the first response, loud enough to be heard through the door. He jumped up, looking at the splash of liquor on the floor, thinking.

He could run, of course.

Edward was out there waiting for him. He stood, and walked by the door, a test. Listening. He couldn't be locked in here, there were too many machines. This was his turf. Edward wouldn't come with the same plan again. Could he come up with anything? Could he do it on Mitchell's space? There were a lot of machines here.

He remembered that he hadn't put in his conacts. His hair was still blonde though. He pulled his gun from a drawer, a Beretta PX4, and leveled it at the door even as he told the locks to disengage. He slid the chain free, and cracked it. Peeking through, barrel of the gun at chest level.

"Well, is this going to be my second assassination attempt from you? So soon?"

Edited 2012-05-19 22:29 (UTC)

"You know how punctual I am, Mitchell." More banter. It was easier to slip into this script, easier to use to tune out the different voices in his mind now he had the lines. He was supposed to kill Mitchell, yes, Katurian had told him to. Katurian had sent him on this humiliation. He was supposed to finish Mitchell Hundred (traitor) supposed to silence his voice once and for all.

But why, he asked himself. But why?

Hundred had been spooked by the botched attempt, kept hidden in his proverbial bunker. Self-imposed censorship. He was no present threat, no star pawn the resistance right now. A loaded gun, perhaps, given time Hundred would burn back -- but the government had more obvious, more immediate targets. Mitchell Hundred (revolutionary) was a man of propaganda, but what did it matter when there was no one around to listen? If the ears to this voice were cut?

"Let me in the pleasant way. I don't want to resort to anything uncomfortable." He jiggled at the handle. Mitchell had already unlocked the door, unknown to Eddie. "Let me -- "

He stumbled in, facing Mitchell Hundred.

Edward had always been a little taller, even now, it was something to fear. He'd never been physically imposing, even as a superhero, he'd gotten the shit kicked out of him, relying on his powers more than being able to roll with the punches. He'd have to do it now. Without his contacts, his eyes were distinct, but his hair, now blonde, and face weren't his. Still. He'd gotten surgery again, sure, the scars still stung, but he wouldn't take the painkillers the dingy doctor had given him. They weren't likely up to his standards. He could self-medicate here. He hadn't been. The scars, the sharp pains, particularly on his face were a reminder. A reminder that he'd fucking trusted Edward Nygma. He'd done it for years, but this time it'd bitten him quite thoroughly in the ass.

Edward Nygma didn't look good, when he stumbled in, though. Something was different. The words were the same, so similar. This could be so easy. He could silence the person who could raze him, ruin him. Too simple. Edward knew too much.

He felt his finger tighten slightly, but not all the way. He didn't fire, he caught his brain. Stopped it. Caught up with the immediate reaction. Flipped the safety. Kept it in his hand, but lowered it. Too many years as coworkers. Partners in improving the stake of imports, improving the City itself. He couldn't do it.

He'd grown soft. Even now, he wanted to know why. That was it, it had to be.

"Edward. I'm surprised at you. I would have thought you'd wait until I left first. Or at least posed as someone else."

He closed the door behind him, his forehead pressing against it for but a moment before he turned to face Mitchell. Hands raised up, in surrender. Mitchell looked so paranoid, he thought. Holed in this cabin, surrounded by technology. Talking machines. Only why he saw Mitchell flick the safety, did Eddie ease his hands down.

"I'm unarmed."

Suicide nowadays, it really was, but it was true. An honest gesture -- but meaningless. They both knew Eddie didn't need his own weapons to kill. He just needed a way to silence Mitchell, everything else was here to grab.

"Mitchell," he rasped. His face broken with woe. Edward took a step closer, just one.

"Mitchell, they nearly killed me, did you know that? For failing to kill you."

Edward had never looked so broken to him than he did right now, the way he pressed his forehead to the door, the look on his face. Was it all an act? Emotional manipulation was something Edward was good at. He'd spent so much time with him in City Hall, so many secrets. He didn't even need to silence him, he could turn him in, and they would do the rest. He may have the will, but the thought of torture, endless torture, that was enough to make him sick. They could take away the propaganda, destroy his work, and destroy the hope of a leader again someday.

He considered, though. Listened. He couldn't hear Edward's breathing over the machines, there were so many here. Here in a place of power for him. Edward had come to a place where he had the advantage. A vacuum cleaner may not seem like much, but he could tell any of the items in here to blow out, to kill themselves. They would do it, too. In a heartbeat. Just for him.

"So you're here again? Are you looking for me to finish the job? Is that what you want? Or are you here to make up for the mistake?" he swallowed. Was it a mistake? His range, while it hadn't been great in City Hall, had been impressive enough. Had he known that Mitchell could call them from other locations, pulling them in?

He felt it was pointless asking why, he knew why, but he didn't know how. "How did you even find me? Why are you here now?"

"How did I find you? Mitchell, I'm Edward Nygma." He answered the easiest question available. The others he strolled past, just as he strolled deeper into the bunker of mechanics. Eddie's hands were consciously kept outside his pockets, docile at his side. He made eye contact with Mitchell, moved deliberately, and always maintained a comfortable distance. Mitchell was undeniably at lethal advantage, especially as Eddie himself came unarmed. That was a split second decision, a breakthrough.

He regretted it every other step.

"Do you ever wonder, Mitchell, what it's like to be pushed beyond your limits? Daily? Every hour agonizingly?" He paused his step, staring ahead. "Can you imagine the relief when, in that damp darkness, when nothing is ringing in your ears? When you recognize that your screaming has ended?"

The question stopped him, and he examined Edward a bit more carefully. Took in the lines, the strain. He'd had his own share of troubles, the push and the constant whispers for corruption, but what had Edward gone through, to ask a question like that? He relaxed a fraction, only a fraction, still wary.

The whispers were what kept him grounded, reminding him that he has to function, and machines always had a purpose. He couldn't let emotions, even the little ones get in the way of that. His hand tightened around the gun, but it was still at his side. Not until he knew that he wasn't in trouble.

"What happened?" he didn't respond to the question, Edward knew his particular experience, probably one of the few people who actually did. He didn't need to speak on it further.

"I was captured, Mitchell. I was captured, alive, and I was kept alive long after they finished interrogation." He leveled a look, the intensity of it a bulldozer between them. "What do you think happened?"

The tension surged. His fists clenched at his side, a motion mirroring Mitchell and the gun. The look that shot from Eddie's eyes could only be described as smoldering -- perhaps even hateful. Something that shot out and consumed him.

He swallowed, and closed his eyes. His lips moved soundlessly, to himself, all to himself. Until:

"What do you think happened."

"Shit," and it was harsh and broken when he actually spoke a few minutes later, watching his old friend for a long moment. He couldn't even put together how it would have been, how much would it have taken for him to actually break? How long had it taken Edward? How much could one person take before they crashed and burned, and gave everything just for it to stop? He wouldn't be able to ever say that Edward wasn't strong.

"And you're telling me," he broached, finally breaking eye contact to look down at the gun, and then he slid it into the back of his waistband, emotions finally weighing out over the cold logic, long enough for him to make the decision.

"You--" he paused, shaking his head. No, not yet. He wouldn't ask him what he wanted yet.

"But you're telling me this. You're telling me, which means that something's changed," he paused, under the intensity, the moment, it could snap at any time. "Are you alright? Will you be alright?"

Edward cringed at the questioning, the words bolting like bullets.

"Don't. Don't do that, Mitchell." The pointed syllables in his voice were pained. Punctured. "Even right now, do you understand? Even right now every impulse I have wants you dead."

But they didn't belong to him, he knew. These thoughts didn't belong to him.

"Don't pity me." It came out a growl. His mouth was twisted in a sneer and he took a step closer to Mitchell. Another step. That caged look never left him, not even in his spurts of aggression, it haunted him in his shadow. “That isn’t why I’ve come, for pity. I can see it in your face.”

His fists clenched. Again. And relax. He stood his ground, his shoulders slouched.

"I -- I just don't. Know."

"But you're not going to, are you? You came here, with no weapon, nothing that I can hear, and while I know you're smarter than that, you came in here," he paused, vocalizing the thoughts out loud, even as he knew Edward had done this on purpose.

"Fuck!" and now was the time for Mitchell to turn his back, holding his palms to his forehead, coiled tight with stress and worry. The amount of what Edward called pity for frustration, and worry.

"Edward, what do you need me to do? I know," he stopped, and then started again. "I know you didn't come here without purpose, whether it's to kill me, or if it's to do something else, but my question is what?"

Open Post 001

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