@king-crane (continued from here):
"Hush up, you fucking moron!"
He knew it was a sore topic for Eddie, but he didn't have enough time for that. Since his last stint, they had begun to lock Crane up far tighter than usual, and he couldn't physically reach out to grab Eddie's arm. His face was covered in a loose burlap hood thanks to a recent psychotic episode (falsely diagnosed, of course, the fucking doctor was a hack and Crane WAS NOT INSANE), and the chains over his hands had been replaced by some sort of trap that kept his arms linked together.
He remembered getting his fingers stuck in a finger trap as a kid, but this was ten times more frustrating, and no matter how hard he wiggled his arms, he couldn't escape - it was why Eddie's plan was so appealing.
Why he needed him to stay.
"Damn it, Eddie, you didn't even let me finish." He hadn't been expecting to be jumped with a plan like this, anyway. Nygma was obviously smart (to a certain extent), but his chatterbox tendencies and his consistent inability to even beat Jon at chess did not leave the best impression on his strategical skills.
"The plan is good. It's good, alright? I just said there were a few holes in it. God." He shook his head, burlap sack wiggling with each movement. "But it's good. And I want fucking in. Get me out of this god damn nuthouse."
Edward hears it. Edward whips around.
"Says you." Nygma drawing himself up, jaw squared, the words grating against his throat. Then, suddenly, a smile. No one can see it. "What do you call an inmate who needs my help?” he jabs, bright and syrupy. “A Scarecrow?”
Edward has always been petty. But there’s no time.
The alarms aren’t blaring yet and no one knows his cell’s empty. Edward has already fallen on one knee, jimmying something into the restraints—a pick he'd whittled down from a chess piece, maybe; something they'd given him for good behavior. He complains while he does it, too. He gloats, goading.
“I’d like to see you do better." The binds rustle. He works on another one. "Or maybe you'll say you have your hands tied.”
There's a double meaning in there.
Query and Echo will be waiting to pick them up. There's a truck due for Arkham, something about HVAC repairs—he'd overheard it from the orderlies—the girls, hijacking then disguised as its crew. He'd spent months writing down code in a prehistoric phone. They'll execute it at graveyard shift and fry Arkham's main systems. That gives him five minutes before power's restored. He knows where to run.
Restraints rustle. Metal clacking. Edward, ripping off Jonathan's bag with an obnoxious, worming smile.
"I didn't hear you say thank you," he croons.
Suddenly, the lights blow out, and Arkham goes dark.
