#livingheartattack

✞ ѻɦ ɭﻉ۷ٱคՇɦคก — — ▶

     Hugo was no stranger to offers – offers to speak for people, offers to move to a larger business firm, offers out for dinner from a grateful relative of a patient he had somehow managed to make the impression of charm on. He didn't try for these positions, these offers, no, though he could take pride in the fact that he owned them. There were many, many more important things for the psychiatrist to do than entertain hopefuls who likely lacked any kind of true passion or motivation. Many more plans he could make, more ideas he could fulfill. More conversations of a better, more interesting kind he could have.

     However, being asked to assist in a new – likely fruitless – rehabilitation program for the 'particularly afflicted' at Arkham caught his interest. Long ago Strange had decided that these supervillains were a black stain on not just Gotham but the entire world; long ago he had vowed to take on the role of a proper vigilante, to mesh mercy and justice together into a sudden, enlightening death. What better way to understand the thoughts and plans of a rogue than to converse with them, one on one? What better way to take notice of their individual weaknesses and recall them, learn where they would go, what specific little signs there were?

     Perhaps they were a bit surprised when he accepted the offer. Perhaps his record of so often turning down offers predated him more than he had assumed. Either way, he was invited in as though he were an old friend – and while he was a colleague to some of these doctors, though he knew their names and faces and the things they had done, he was not their friend; he never would be.

     It was the first day in what would be many. They were paying him, just a bit, and it was less a full-time position than it was something he would do every few days, between appointments, around things. On the days he had typically reserved for 'his' days. Scarecrow, though. That was who they had given him – he wondered why briefly, before he worked out the issue that Crane probably threatened and scared a good many doctors away from talking to him. Likely they figured that Strange would be greatly different in that regard.

     Which would not be far from the truth, not at all. Hugo was not the least bit afraid of the Scarecrow – to him he was another man in a mask attempting to lord himself over others in any way he can. Fear was his chosen weapon: a good weapon, one oft forgotten, and that was something Hugo could appreciate. There was much, much more tact in that one word than the entire body of the casual thug hired to serve as a walking meat sack.

      So the psychiatrist sat, hands resting on the table, finger-drumming listlessly while he waited for the guards to bring his patient in. Tut-tut-tut-tut. A constant rhythm on the tabletop, taking the time as it went. Tut-tut-tut-tut, and he still had not yet come.

      Tut-tut-tut-tut, and the door was opened up. In came a guard with his hand tightly grasping the arm of a tall, lanky man wearing glasses – ah, the little known face of the Prince of Fear. Now was a session though, as the man sat down at the push of the guards hand, as the uniformed man stepped back and waited by the door. Behind his coke-bottle glassed Hugo fixed the uniform in a cold stare, lifted his tap-tap-tapping hand to wave him out with an expression of neutrality.

     And when they were alone, he smiled.

                               ❝  — Good afternoon, Doctor Crane. —   ❞

♞ ₜₕₑ ₖₙᵢgₕₜ ₘₒᵥₑₛ —

     Before the story begins, let it be known that Edward Nygma was new to all of this, like most of them were.

                                                        Green.

     Green, like the color of the suit he was wearing.

     Thereby, it should be noted that the failures soon to be presented forth reflect not on the person he was to become, and hardly on the person he was. It is simply that the unprepared mind cannot properly respond to extreme circumstances.

     Now that this has been duly noted, let us go on. There was somebody stuck in Edward's little trap. It was hardly a trap – it was a working prototype of something he had devised in order to snatch up a particularly dirty cop that he wanted to suffer. Of course, there was some personal reason for this focus and intended hit – there always was – but that does not have any bearing on what happened next.

     You see, Nygma had no intention of letting whoever he had snatched up go (no, that would be stupid and he was not stupid). He had every intention of watching the little fly struggle a while and then getting rid of them quickly, silently. Maybe after a few questions, and then a drop down into Gotham's harbor. Those waters were deep, and dark, and nothing really ever came out of them.

     Flesh was just eaten up by chemical runoff and god knows what else lurked there.

     Thin limbs and dark hair, dark eyes were what greeted Edward when he went to check his trap out. They glared at him, lips pursed, almost a snarl. Such irritation – there was a proud swell in the young man's chest as he approached, hands on his hips and cocky expression shining out.

            ❝  — Well, well! Looks like a little mouse in my trap! Where did you crawl from? That looks like a Halloween costume. Where did you pull that from? —   ❞