detectivenigma (detectivenigma) wrote in newalliance, @ 2016-09-25 13:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | riddler |
Who: Edward Nygma Narrative
When: Sunday, September 25th, 2016
Where: Gotham City
What: Release
Rating: Low
The SHIELD goons (he could only think of them as such), had escorted him back to Gotham, and had left him at the city limits. He hadn't expected much more than that. Staring at the sign that read "WELCOME TO GOTHAM" with the single bullet hole in one of the "O's" brought back an uncomfortable sense of nostalgia. He'd started here, so many years ago, hell bent on making a name for himself, any way that he could.
"Certainly got your wish," he mumbled, eyes closing. He felt ages older, and exhausted. The unique blend of mediation that he was on was giving him a sense of unease, or perhaps that was just simply at being let out again. So much silence, so much staring at blackness or the those gray/white walls. He felt a bit on sensory overload, to be honest.
So he was startled when a car pulled up beside him, black with tinted windows. More agents? Would they be escorting him somewhere else...? He tensed, until the window rolled down and he caught sight of a familiar bouncer from the Iceberg.
"Cobblepot said ya'd be here." A thumb was jerked at the back seat. "Said to give ya a lift wherever."
Eddie relaxed, a sad smile coming over his face. Ozzie. Of course. The one man in this town that would think of him and think to send a car. He climbed in, and sagged against the seat, glad to be out of cuffs this time. "My apartment," he said to the driver, and gave the address. "And ... tell him that I can't come see him right away. I need time to ..." he shifted uncomfortably as they merged into heavier traffic. "Decompress."
The driver nodded and they fell into silence. Edward watched the familiar parts of the city as they drove past, flickers of crimes and times gone past, moments of elation, of henchgirls and riddles, of broken bones and of disappointments.... A lifetime here. A lifetime of making a name for himself, and then dealing with that name.
Sometime later, he was stepping into his apartment, the lights all off, his mailbox jammed and his newspapers gone. Someone had undoubtedly helped themselves, not that he much cared. He left the lights off as he moved into the space, dropping his jacket, hat, keys and cane on the kitchen table before moving to the couch. He needed quiet. He needed his own space and control over it. He needed...
"Help," he whispered into the silence.