Escapism
@onexbadday
Ed wouldn’t consider himself beaten, of course not. Resigned to his situation for now, perhaps.
Bored out of his skull, most certainly.
The hullabaloo with Strange had certainly spiced things up in Arkham at the time, and the small handful of escape attempts before, during, and after, but Edward Nygma considered himself a smart man, and soon acquiesced himself to attempting good behavior as a tactic. It wasn’t some sort of deep depression as he scratched puzzles onto the walls of his cell, or stared blankly at nothing during meals. Perhaps a little. Intermingling with the other inmates had certainly lost it’s charm, his patience wavering between disconnected waiting for it to finish, or excessively short.
The world had boiled down to a ticking clock of Routine: woken by guards, line up for meals, dispose of morning medication discretely, exercise, another meal, recreation, more pills to not take, back to his cell, one more meal, lights out, rinse and repeat. Things were occasionally broken up by Group Sessions, or the occasional visit from Oswald where he feigned humanity for a few minutes, before being lead back out and into the loop of the Routine once again.
He had been milking the cookies his friend had given him for a couple weeks, ever thankful the guards had allowed them, losing only a few to defuse the occasional conflict along the way. Keeping to himself, he waited out Recreation Time by nibbling on one of the very last three and hovering over his scrap of paper while scribbling away some sort of rough schematic with a small piece of charcoal.
Why they didn’t trust him with a darn pencil of all things....
His scribbling increased in intensity as he shaded in an area for clarity.
“What do you call a baby rifle?” He murmured to no one in particular.