@remcmbertosmile
it is easy for a man with eidetic memory to remember
details; names, dates-- clothing style. shoe size. the
pitch and timbre of a voice, and all of the mannerisms
associated with it. remembering everything about this
boy, Jerome Valeska, is a cinch. on paper, he knows
all that there is to know. it’s all right there, waiting to
be pulled out and recited. but there’s something lost
in that, something that doesn’t get across who this
boy is. some spark - it is a cliche that Edward despises,
but he has run out of adequate descriptors - is simply
not communicated in all that rote knowledge. and that
spark ( WILDFIRE ) is what so interests him.
without being bidden, those rote facts find themselves
slipping off his tongue with an awkward smile, allowing
him the opportunity to dissociate from the conversation,
pondering more important matters than the standard
questions that the Arkham guard is obligated to field.
after several minutes of this, and being prompted through
the harsh buzzing of a metal detector, he is shepherded
into a small observation room, hastily converted to his
purposes with mismatched chairs and an unpainted desk.
Edward folds himself patiently into the chair across from
the door, and forces on a tight, nearly clinical smile when
Jerome is led in, only to be quickly abandoned by the orderly.
a dispute amongst the other patients; he gruffly adds that
the room features a surveillance system, advising that any
illicit activity will be caught - likely for Jerome’s benefit.
he only responds with that same smile, adding,
❝ he’s quite safe with me, officer. ❞
no need to advertise the fact that he had quietly orchestrated the
fight himself, and that he had disabled the surveillance system earlier
this morning, not to be repaired until long after he had finished here.
as the door clicks decisively shut, all facades slip away in
seconds, his expression wiping into careful neutrality, eyes
squinted to study Jerome, as though the secret to that
murderous spark would be writ plainly on his sleeve. when
he speaks, his voice is curiously lilted, the words pointed,
n e e d i n g this answer, needing to solve this R I D D L E.
❝ you don’t regret it. do you? the laugh-- it’s out of
r e l i e f for what you’ve done-- isn’t it? ❞
