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[ACTION - 726 ANDERSON LANE - EVENING
Crash!
Comes the sound of a thick glass bottle colliding with a nearby wall in the study upstairs. The room reeks of alcohol and cigarette smoke, to say nothing of the man in green that's currently sitting alone in the corner, indulging in far too much of both. Putting it lightly, this really hasn't been Edward Nigma's day at all.
He'd known about Schuldig's droning for some time now, and it had made him uncomfortable enough. But after a visit to 1492 Kramden Road earlier this morning, he'd discovered something horrifying: Ema Skye had been droned as well. They had gone through a rather tumultuous year or so together, but despite Mayfield's instabilities, she kept him stable. She was one of the few people to ever give him a second chance. The first person Edward had ever truly loved aside from himself. And now the woman who had always encouraged him to be a better person had joined the telepathic madman who always managed to bring out the worst in him in a state of complete and utter emptiness. To see both of them smiling like mindless dolls as their daughter---no, his daughter---laughed along with them made him absolutely sick. Far sicker than the alcohol's likely making him now.
Edward's stuck. He knows it. So what the hell is he supposed to do now? His main investigative partner is gone. His so-called Legion of Doom has dwindled down to only a scarce number. His fellow Gothamites, former friend and foe alike, have been plucked off as well. Crane. Freeze. Pam. The Joker. Even the Dark Knight himself. And after almost two years, the Riddler hasn't found a way out.
He hasn't found the answer.
This isn't right. It's not fair.
He stares down blankly at the pool of whiskey that's growing larger and larger on the floor and the bits of glass that are peppered through it. He almost feels like the bottle. Shattered. Empty. Broken.
For above all else, above every single question Edward's asked himself today, none are quite as significant as this:
"What good is a Riddler who can't solve anything?"]
Crash!
Comes the sound of a thick glass bottle colliding with a nearby wall in the study upstairs. The room reeks of alcohol and cigarette smoke, to say nothing of the man in green that's currently sitting alone in the corner, indulging in far too much of both. Putting it lightly, this really hasn't been Edward Nigma's day at all.
He'd known about Schuldig's droning for some time now, and it had made him uncomfortable enough. But after a visit to 1492 Kramden Road earlier this morning, he'd discovered something horrifying: Ema Skye had been droned as well. They had gone through a rather tumultuous year or so together, but despite Mayfield's instabilities, she kept him stable. She was one of the few people to ever give him a second chance. The first person Edward had ever truly loved aside from himself. And now the woman who had always encouraged him to be a better person had joined the telepathic madman who always managed to bring out the worst in him in a state of complete and utter emptiness. To see both of them smiling like mindless dolls as their daughter---no, his daughter---laughed along with them made him absolutely sick. Far sicker than the alcohol's likely making him now.
Edward's stuck. He knows it. So what the hell is he supposed to do now? His main investigative partner is gone. His so-called Legion of Doom has dwindled down to only a scarce number. His fellow Gothamites, former friend and foe alike, have been plucked off as well. Crane. Freeze. Pam. The Joker. Even the Dark Knight himself. And after almost two years, the Riddler hasn't found a way out.
He hasn't found the answer.
This isn't right. It's not fair.
He stares down blankly at the pool of whiskey that's growing larger and larger on the floor and the bits of glass that are peppered through it. He almost feels like the bottle. Shattered. Empty. Broken.
For above all else, above every single question Edward's asked himself today, none are quite as significant as this:
"What good is a Riddler who can't solve anything?"]
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