whatam_i: (close_up_serious)
[personal profile] 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."

Date: 2025-05-02 05:55 am (UTC)
hobblepot: (how could you [bleed])
From: [personal profile] 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.
]
Edited Date: 2025-05-02 06:02 am (UTC)