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]

[Oswald jerks awake on the floor of his cell, gasping as his calf immediately threatens to seize up. The pain in his leg was going to wake him sooner than later in this subterranean-damp place. But today, it’s the screaming that does it. He’s still struggling to understand where he is, what’s happening, when a second, jagged cry rings out, cutting through the static in his skull. Jangling him into high-alert.]

‘Monsters! Animals!’

[Oswald swings upright, blinking hard in the dark. His temples throb viciously.]

'Oh god! Oh god, someone help me!!'

[There's a sudden, frantic squealing of skin or rubber over the tiles. Curses and grunts.]

‘They're killing us!!' [The man shouts, over and over, his voice carrying down the hall. Already fading into the distance.] 'They’re going to kill us ALL!!’

[Finally, a door closes.

What follows is the closest thing to silence Oswald has known since Day 2. For the longest minute of his life, it's as if the ward itself is holding its breath. The absence of sound worse, so much worse, somehow, than what came before it.

Then, another door squeals open. And it begins.

Softly, at first. An idle whistling drifting down the corridor. Then the clunk, clunk, clunk of a baton dragged along the bars of every cell it passes, the sound growing louder, closer. Heavy footsteps. The jingle of keys. Then it all stops just outside Oswald’s cell. A face leans in, smirking at him: lantern-jawed and clean shaven, with a busted, crooked nose. A face that could almost be considered handsome anywhere other than here.]

‘Rise and shine - Dr. Strange wants you.’

[A flashlight clicks on, blinding Oswald with its harsh beam. He winces, squinting up at the latest recruit assigned to the ward on Day 3. Daly - a forty-something year old, like most of the security Strange has hired. Blond hair kept short and neat, his ex-military build starting to go to seed under his tactical vest. Funny enough, despite the two-guard-minimum per fifteen inmates, it’s this one Oswald seems to see most often.

Oswald staggers to his feet, swiping his tongue across cracked, sticky-dry lips. Every joint in his body protests the effort it takes to force himself upright.]

Tell him... I want my leg brace. [Oswald says, his voice raw and scraping. Daly barks a laugh.]

‘Want your bottle too?’ [He jeers.] ‘You’re not the one giving orders anymore, Princess. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Or do you need that beaten into your skull?’

[Blood roars behind Oswald’s eye, his vision pulsing at the edges. He lurches forward, hands clenching and unclenching --

And then Daly's baton comes alive with a buzzy-crackle. Oswald freezes, his insides coiling tight.]

‘Oh-ho, just give me one reason, ONE reason to shut that mouth of yours again, you little fucker! Give me one good reason!!'

[The baton crashes over the bars of Oswald's cell - metal on metal – the violence of it driving Oswald backwards. He stumbles into a corner, wide-eyed, his spine flush to the wall.

A long beat passes.]

‘...heh.' [Daly lowers his arm.] 'That's right.’

[A key grates into the lock. Slowly, the barred door groans open just enough to let Oswald out.]

‘Hands where I can see 'em. Let’s go!’

[Breath rattling, Oswald glares up at the man from under his brows, his mouth screwing into a tight line.

Soon, he vows to himself.

Soon.]

* * *

[In the medical bay, Strange greets him with a politician’s politeness and a smile that shows too many teeth.]

‘Ahhhh, Mr. Cobblepot. Welcome. Today marks a significant milestone for us both. A pivotal turning point... not only in your personal development, but in the advancement of human understanding. Even the very evolution of our species.’

[Strange stands with his arms folded behind his back, surrounded by a small throng of nameless, masked faces in lab coats and latex gloves. Oswald’s stomach swoops. His thoughts jump to the electrocautery pen again. The threat of touch-ups looming over his head ever since he was held down, wailing as numbers were etched deep into his trembling flesh. The acrid-sweet stink of singed meat doesn’t hang in the air today. He breathes in a cocktail of bleach and antiseptic instead. It sticks to the back of his throat all the same.

Still smiling, Strange gestures to The Chair.]

‘Please undress and have a seat. It might be a little... cold.’

[Machines hum and blip softly in the background. Oswald stares Strange down, chest rising and falling. The tension in the room is electric.]

...I will submit to your little experiment - [he bites out] - grudgingly. But I demand that my brace is returned to me when you’re done playing mad scientist.

[Over Oswald’s head, Daly shoots a stern look to Strange. But the good doctor only chuckles.]

‘Oswald, Ooooswald...’ [He drawls, with all the patronizing patience of an adult explaining a simple concept to a child. That smile of his lingers just a touch too long before he school his expression into something resembling sympathy or hurt.] ‘I understand your concern.’

[Strange furrows his brow.]

‘Truly, I do. But, very soon, I promise you... you’ll no longer need to rely on such... primitive assistive devices. Now... strip.’

[Oswald’s ears begin to ring. He hates them - all of them - with a black, bubbling hate. Them and their gawking cattle-eyes as he slides his pants down the cut of his hips, cupping himself with a hand. His knees are the first to betray him, quivering. His face burns.]

Happy now? [He spits the question at Strange like a mouthful of venom.

The meaty paw at the back of his neck clamps down, giving him an angry shake.]

‘Watch it,’ [Daly growls into his ear.]

‘Gentlemen, pleeease...’ [Strange lifts a hand, willing peace.] ‘Oswald, this is simply protocol - you know this. And there is nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all adults here, [he casts a glance around at his team] and, I remind you, you have nothing we haven’t already seen. Come. Sit.’

[Fury trembles on the tip of Oswald’s tongue. He chokes it down, stumbling as he's marched to The Chair.

He’s seen it before - always there during the routine humiliations and microaggressions masquerading as medical tests. Another looming threat clenching up his bladder while he strained to squeeze out what little he could manage with an audience. Its presence planting something dangerous in the more desperate parts of their brains: the fragile hope that if they just played along - yes sir, no sir, took their brandings, shut their mouths, spread their legs, and thanked Strange for it - they might avoid The Chair.

But that, like having any kind of choice down here, real choice, was never anything more than an illusion.

The Chair still comes with no name, no explanation. Its solid, Brutalist design - all angles and edges - is a departure from the electrotherapy chair. But the straps explain themselves.

Oswald is pushed into it, skin sticking to the icy metal. He yelps, panicking, as hands, so many hands, swarm him. They wrench his arms apart and buckle them in place, others removing his collar, smoothing electrodes over his chest. A damp cotton ball swipes across his neck.]

‘Five millilitres, sir?’

‘...Yeees. That will do, for now.’

[It isn't until his head is yanked back and pinned - until the needle enters Oswald's view, glinting as it catches the harsh florescent light – that it hits him: a balls-sucking-into-the-abdomen kind of terror. He lets out a high, anxious wheeze, tugging frantically at his wrists.

Strange shushes him gently.]

‘Don't worry, this will all be over soon.’

[Oswald’s lashes flutter, his eye darting from Strange to stranger and back again, desperately searching for an alternative. For anything else.]

‘You will feel... just a little prick.’

[The needle pierces his skin like wet tissue paper. The plunger depresses.

And then it’s Oswald’s turn to scream.]

* * *

[The spasms come first.

Wrenching, full-body chills that make him piss himself. Then comes a nausea so heavy that the whole world swims.

That he doesn’t have to walk back - that he buckles at his first attempt - is a small mercy.
While Daly is sent to drag in the next victim, someone else takes over. Clements: a mustachioed giant with a close-cropped afro and the kind of silence that leaves no room for negotiation. It falls to him to dress Oswald and haul him out - which he does, uncomplaining. A few brisk, efficient movements, and Oswald’s drooling, shivering body is slung over his shoulder, bouncing limply with every step.

They reach the cell. Clements dumps him without word and locks up. The jangling of his keys follows him back down the hallway.

The concrete is cool against Oswald’s fevered, aching skin. He doesn’t move. Just lies there, curled in on himself, fighting the urge to vomit with no strength left to claw his way over to the toilet. Ed's not helping. Not with the sounds he’s making: all the gasping and spluttering, and thick, guttural-wet hacking of a man heaving his guts out.]

...gonna k-kill them...

[Oswald forces the words through his chattering teeth, tasting bile. He doesn’t even know if Ed can hear him - or if all he’s doing is muttering fiercely to himself. The ramblings of a man halfway to madness.

...I'm gonna kill them all...

[whatam_i]

[When Ed finally wakes Oswald is gone from his cell and everything is quiet, so quiet that the only thing he can hear is his own ragged breathing and the soft whooshing of blood ringing in his ears and head. He has been re-dressed although rather sloppily but it gives him no comfort as his body feels numb and cold. He is shivering but barely notices because of the pain in his guts.

It starts as a deep ache, low in his belly and intestines, a low level pain that is coiled up like a sleeping serpent but slowly it starts to unravel and with it comes agony. Sharp, horrible stabbing pain that makes his abdominal muscles clench so hard he finds it hard to breathe and when they finally loosen he gasps and pants. Trying to draw in as much air as he can before the next cramp comes.

Dimly he is aware that this is going to end badly one way or another, his stomach is heaving and feels as if it is literally folding in on itself. That can only go on for so long before the small meal he was given earlier comes out.

The only question is which route it's going to take.

Thankfully the answer to that is the upwards trajectory and Ed manages to roll enough onto his side so that when he starts to vomit it isn't all over himself or back down to choke him. It's violent and his mind goes blank as his body heaves and shudders, over and over until he thinks he will die from not being able to stop and breathe. Finally it eases and he pulls in a shuddering painful gasp only to half cough the air back out as his lungs constrict painfully in his chest.

He dry heaves twice more and by the time those pass as well he is sweating, shaking and making a loan pathetic keening noise in the back of his throat. His mouth tastes like bile and fear and he rolls away from the mess he's made, curling in on himself as he prays that the stomach pain has ended for at least a while.]

...help.

[He whispers, his voice that almost of a child's. Lost, hurt and scared and seeking some kind of reassurance that he'll be okay.]

[hobblepot]

I can't --

[More air, more breath than voice.

A fresh wave of nausea swells in his throat at the thought of the runny, grey slop that passes for food around here. But he’s so hungry, suddenly, that he thinks he’d still guzzle it down and lick the plastic, crusted bowl clean. So hungry and thirsty and so cold, shivering down to his bones - and the sheer futility of his situation threatens to put tears in his eye. His face screws up. He’s supposed to have a plan, even just the beginnings of one taking shape, something his fury can help thrust into motion – but his brain has locked up. Grey, quivering jelly. As useless as the rest of him. Even if he could squeeze his way out now, it'd be a wasted effort; this network of cells and hallways is largely uncharted territory, and patrolling them are guards he has no hope of outmaneuvering. Not without a massive diversion.

Oswald cracks his eye open, staring across the grimy floor at Ed’s hunched, shuddering back.]

I can’t.

[He grits out, clutching his middle.]

[whatam_i]

[Oswald's voice floats across the hall to him and with great effort Ed rolls towards it, the side of his face pressed against the cold concrete floor and for a moment he can only see a pale blur across from him. Blinking away the tears that have formed in his eyes, when was he crying he can't really say, he tries to focus everything on Oswald's hunched shape.]

...one another.

[He croaks and reaches an arm out towards his friend. Extending his hand and long, graceful fingers as far as he can.]

We can....help...one another.

[It takes forever for him to get it out, his heart beating hard in his chest from exhaustion and he lifts his head slightly to try and see Oswald's face.]

[hobblepot]

[Oswald watches him struggle. His eye wide, gleaming-wet.

Ed's hand is empty. No bobby pin or bent paper clip reveals itself. No clever escape plan tucked in his palm. This is all there is.

One day, they'd look back on this nightmare of Strange’s making with grim smiles, knowing nothing could destroy them - nothing. Not after surviving the worst Strange has put them through, and the ugliest of ways they have hurt each other in the name of revenge. But the misery in Ed's haggard, sweaty face tells him: not today. Not in three days, or a week.

They're small and scared, becoming shells of the names they’ve made for themselves. With every passing hour, Oswald feels his sense of what life beyond these walls had been like slipping further away from him. This is his world now - and what matters most is what’s in front of him, what little is still familiar and safe: Ed's hand straining for his. Ed needing him more than Oswald has ever been needed in his life.

Sinking his teeth into his lip, he fights every sluggish muscle in his own body to drag himself over to the bars, the concrete rasping the skin of his forearm, his hip. He stretches his arm past the iron, slowly. Reaching for his best friend. The last man alive he can count on.

Their fingers never touch.

But he tries anyway.

As if the love swelling inside him really can conquer all.]

Some time later....

[whatam_i]

When I was young...I never needed anyone...

[He has no idea what time it is, let alone what DAY it is at this point. He was able to keep count before but now, with all the injections and black outs he's lost track and that irritates him.]

...making love was just for fun...those days are gone...

[Although not as much as that song is irritating him right now and Ed groans and rolls over onto his other side, yanking his dirty, sweat stained shirt up and over his head in an attempt to block out the sad wailing that is coming from the cell next to Oswald's. The man in that cell arrived a few days after them and at first he just cried quietly, much like all of them have, but now he seems to have resorted to singing in order to work through his pain and fear which wouldn't be so bad IF the man could carry a tune and IF Ed's hearing hadn't gotten so sensitive.

It's strangely fascinating how much MORE he can hear these days; the steady drip drip of water hitting the hallway floors, the hum of distant machinery, the soft murmur of guards and nurses talking to one another, the wet slapping of one of the other prisoners jerking off.

He hears all of it now.]

ENOUGH!! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!!

[Ed roars and the man falls silent, Ed sighs in relief as stillness falls over the dark halls once more.]

All byyyyyyyyyyyyy myyyyyyyyyseeeeeelf......don't wanna be.....All byyyyyyyy myseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelf....

[The man warbles at top volume and Ed snaps to his feet, grabbing the bars to his cell and shaking them roughly.]

SHUT YOUR MOUTH OR I'LL TEAR IT OFF!!

[He growls savagely at the man who is sitting cross-legged in the middle of his cell, swaying back and forth as he sings.]

Don't wanna be Aaaaaaaall byyyyyyyy myseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelf....Anymooooooooorrr-ghghlkghhggggggg!!

[The man's singing suddenly cuts off as his head jerks violently up, his eyes bulging out from his sockets and his jaw slamming shut with a hard clunk. He strains his head back even further and Ed can see his neck cords standing out like hard wires through his skin, pulsing as blood and spit start to seep out from the corner of his mouth.]

....oh...oh dear...

[Ed breathes softly, watching as the man starts to shake. Ed has had his fair share of tremors while he's been here thanks to whatever drug Strange has been pumping into him but this is something more, something so much more violent and when he hears the man's bones begin to break he gasps.]

Grgaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!

[The man screams through clenched teeth, blood dribbling through the gaps as his body goes from shaking to snapping back and forth in place. Limbs shooting and flailing out wildly as if he were being controlled by some malicious puppeteer. Urine flows down the man's leg and pools onto the floor only a moment before he collapses into it, face first. Blood, piss and spit all mixing together and still the man screams.

And that's when Ed hears something else.

It's soft at first, especially compared to the screams and breaking bones, almost a whispering, purring sound and Ed tries not to throw up when he realizes it's the sound of the man literally tearing out of his own skin.]