RP With Oswald Cobblepot | Strange Monster Verse

[whatam_i]

No one knew why Hugo Strange had such a fascination with creating monsters, no one really knew much of the man in general. He was something of a mystery, the only man who truly knew him was dead and Hugo was certainly not one to share details of his life or past.

But one thing people did know was that he was ruthless in his pursuits, which is why it was probably not going to shock anyone to know that while Gotham slowly got back on her feet he seized the opportunity to start back up his own ventures. Backed by someone who had seen how much potential the manipulation of Eduardo Dorrance had, Hugo Strange suddenly found himself with the three best things for his next phase of work.

Opportunity.
Money.
Easy Test Subjects.

Because Gotham was still slowly being put back together now was the best time for Hugo to gather as many subjects as possible, after all it was going to take a long time to sort through who had made it and who had not during the black out and war.

"No no no." Hugo says evenly to the men who are hauling in the huge crates, each one holding a new subject. "These ones I want put in the Dark wing."

"You sure?"

A faint smile tugs at the corners of Hugo's mouth and he nods, "Oh yes.....I asked for these ones....specifically."

Comments

[hobblepot]

[It’s like some kind of fever dream.

He can hear Ed’s voice, muffled and distant, as though they’re both underwater. Cries no less frantic than his own. But he can’t see Ed. Can’t see anything as he's rocked around the inside of his crate for what feels like hours, bruises upon bruises forming on his knees and elbows and hips. When the lid finally unlatches, freeing him, he isn’t ready. Not for the fluorescent light flooding in, burning into his retina, or the hand seizing him by the back of the neck. Still. Even in his nauseous daze, he has the presence of mind to realize he’s just been moved from one suffocating box to another. A tiny concrete cell encloses him, like the one that still haunts his dreams. And it's like nothing has changed at all.

Oswald thrashes, screaming.

A stun baton jabs his side. His mind whites out, teeth all but clamping down on his own tongue. For the longest, most excruciating second of his life, he locks up completely, choking on a scream. Then collapses, twitching, in a pool of his own foamy drool.

He’s stripped down, unmoving, barely conscious. This time, there’s no assembly line of shivering, naked inmates out in the hallway, each waiting for their number and uniform. He doesn’t get a uniform. Doesn’t get shoes or a yellowed shirt or a standard issue button-down top, frayed at the sleeves. A pair of striped pants is thrown to the floor and the door groans shut. Deadbolts slamming into place.

He wakes in the dark, stiff, sore, and with a heavy metal collar around his neck. His eye widens as he touches his fingers to it, scrabbling frantically for a seam, for anything. The shock of his ordeal finally catches up to him, and he finds himself sucking down shaky, rasping breaths, struggling to breathe.]

Let me out this instant! [He shouts at the door, gripped by that gut-deep, animal fear that after everything he’s endured, everything he survived in just the last year - starvation, sickness, gang struggles, firefights - he’d die here, alone and forgotten. His legacy, lost with him.] You can't do this!!