[ Whatever their kidnappers' motives may be, Edward will grant them that they throw impressive parties. Or maybe his perception is skewed, never having attended any of Gotham's own festivities beyond a handful of tree-lightings at which the boys choir had performed. (Emphasis on performed; they weren't guests, they arrived and left on a schedule and weren't permitted to dawdle, ushered quickly away after their last number so as to not spoil anyone's pictures. A pretty harmony could make them seem uplifting for a few minutes at a time, but a still image would capture too much.) The hot cocoa here is better, though not quite enough to take the edge off. He feels eyes where he doesn't see them, wondering ceaselessly what the point of such an event could be, what they're all intended to be doing. He can be caught in decent spirits for this portion of the night, intentionally quick to raise his paper cup in celebration, recommend a soft pretzel, or muddle his way through talk of resolutions.
Then the ball drops, and it all goes sideways.
He first falls back on an earlier fear, that he's been drugged. It's a difficult, graceless stagger to one side of the courtyard, but with what awareness he has left he wants to ensure he's out of the way if anyone experiencing similar symptoms happens to be, say, operating a motor vehicle, or showing off some interesting fire-based party trick. He concentrates on his breathing until it's all he can concentrate on, every muscle tensed at the encroaching, encompassing dark.
In the end he gets off easy, not that he'd ever describe a foreign memory wedged through his skull in positive terms. It's a short phone call, and he comes back to himself after the memory subsides to find himself still mirroring that motion — turning his finger in the air, a sudden coiled impression on his skin the first wrench in the 'drugged' theory. In a reversal of custom he counts from one to ten, agonizingly slow and with no enthusiasm whatsoever, before unsteadily rising to his feet. He'd dropped his drink previously, he notices, and shuffles slow and numb to retrieve another. These people care about appearances.
He'll take note of anyone similarly indisposed, dazed, or bewildered. Anyone seated or sprawled on the ground can expect him kneeling and offering a hand, a you took quite a spill! offered through a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. You alright?
Once he's sat with the situation for a few minutes, he can then be found ambling toward his car, more lively for having decided on his next course of action. Do you need a ride home? He'll ask any newcomer to catch his eye. I'm probably headed that way. Getting a little claustrophobic, I think a drive will clear my head. This is in no way the purpose of the drive. ]
II. ...And I Am Watching You Shovel Snow
[ He hates it, truly, and doesn't make much effort to hide that. Let them haul him off for disliking the cold, like it isn't a perfectly respectable opinion. He hadn't had to worry himself much about it back home, it was just another reason to stay in on days off and mind his step otherwise. It wasn't tedious labor, tasks he's ill-suited for even on a good day. He does the minimum: keeps the car toward the tail end of the driveway so there's as little to move as possible between it and the road. One footpath, exactly the width of the shovel, from the front door to the car. It all feels like some trap meant to catch him out, and he can't stop unhappily imagining that prim woman from the party materializing on his doorstep. The thought gets more vivid when people begin their short-term disappearances, a frown on her face while she sends him to somewhere, dropping him back off a mess god-knows-when afterward. Or maybe they'll just kill him. Leaning heavily against the shovel's handle in the midst of a brave effort to attempt to clear the yard itself, breath visibly ragged when he huffs, he decides it might happen anyway. At least the power's staying on.
He will of course leap at the opportunity to pause upon sighting any passing newcomer, a gloved hand raised in a wave and his eyes squinting against the sun, which feels brighter for all the white around him. ] Afternoon. Some...some weather, huh?
III. In The Valley Of The Dolls We Sleep
[ He doesn't have it in him to try and cajole Beth into accompanying him, but he knows the minute he begins to doubt the woman's tone in the advertisement that he under no circumstance wants to be browsing these fine deals alone. So he loiters awhile in the parking lot, doing the crossword against the steering wheel until he can spot someone familiar to him entering the store. He follows. Somewhat of a wasted effort, he notes, as every passing face is familiar to him. It feels eerie, and he picks one individual or party at random to tail more closely, a meek excuse prepared about needing inspiration, wouldn't you know it, he just really blew Christmas with the missus and needs something to smooth things over—
Once again, it so suddenly shifts. He processes the sound first, the dull thud of a number of individuals hitting the floor all at once. Then the display behind him, loudly and roughly leveled by one swipe of an inhuman arm. He doesn't need to look back to find it in him to bolt, which he does with surprising speed when so thoroughly motivated. Hiding and stealing glances at the immediate danger is the obvious next step; he doesn't need to know their strength relative to a human when he already makes a point to enter no confrontation he hasn't planned for. Which he proposes, in a whisper, to anyone happening to seek refuge nearby. ]
Do you think they'd trip, like real people? [ He loosely mimes binding their legs. He doesn't yet have a clue how one would accomplish this, but he'll work better with a hypothesis. ]
IV. Wildcard
[ Go nuts! Overall Edward is doing his level best to be non-disruptive in public (and trying not to touch the network altogether, but rest assured he reads along), but can be expected to at one point or another have: followed your character around a (non-lethal) store, approached them (quietly and privately, the way you would tell someone they have something in their teeth) to inquire about any visible injury / questionable network post / sudden absence on their part in his best approximation of town-safe terms, and / or generally looked pitiful while attempting to shovel his walkway in a manner that screams for assistance. Available to bounce ideas around via pms or plurk, etc! ]
Edward Nashton | The Batman
[ Whatever their kidnappers' motives may be, Edward will grant them that they throw impressive parties. Or maybe his perception is skewed, never having attended any of Gotham's own festivities beyond a handful of tree-lightings at which the boys choir had performed. (Emphasis on performed; they weren't guests, they arrived and left on a schedule and weren't permitted to dawdle, ushered quickly away after their last number so as to not spoil anyone's pictures. A pretty harmony could make them seem uplifting for a few minutes at a time, but a still image would capture too much.) The hot cocoa here is better, though not quite enough to take the edge off. He feels eyes where he doesn't see them, wondering ceaselessly what the point of such an event could be, what they're all intended to be doing. He can be caught in decent spirits for this portion of the night, intentionally quick to raise his paper cup in celebration, recommend a soft pretzel, or muddle his way through talk of resolutions.
Then the ball drops, and it all goes sideways.
He first falls back on an earlier fear, that he's been drugged. It's a difficult, graceless stagger to one side of the courtyard, but with what awareness he has left he wants to ensure he's out of the way if anyone experiencing similar symptoms happens to be, say, operating a motor vehicle, or showing off some interesting fire-based party trick. He concentrates on his breathing until it's all he can concentrate on, every muscle tensed at the encroaching, encompassing dark.
In the end he gets off easy, not that he'd ever describe a foreign memory wedged through his skull in positive terms. It's a short phone call, and he comes back to himself after the memory subsides to find himself still mirroring that motion — turning his finger in the air, a sudden coiled impression on his skin the first wrench in the 'drugged' theory. In a reversal of custom he counts from one to ten, agonizingly slow and with no enthusiasm whatsoever, before unsteadily rising to his feet. He'd dropped his drink previously, he notices, and shuffles slow and numb to retrieve another. These people care about appearances.
He'll take note of anyone similarly indisposed, dazed, or bewildered. Anyone seated or sprawled on the ground can expect him kneeling and offering a hand, a you took quite a spill! offered through a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. You alright?
Once he's sat with the situation for a few minutes, he can then be found ambling toward his car, more lively for having decided on his next course of action. Do you need a ride home? He'll ask any newcomer to catch his eye. I'm probably headed that way. Getting a little claustrophobic, I think a drive will clear my head. This is in no way the purpose of the drive. ]
II. ...And I Am Watching You Shovel Snow
[ He hates it, truly, and doesn't make much effort to hide that. Let them haul him off for disliking the cold, like it isn't a perfectly respectable opinion. He hadn't had to worry himself much about it back home, it was just another reason to stay in on days off and mind his step otherwise. It wasn't tedious labor, tasks he's ill-suited for even on a good day. He does the minimum: keeps the car toward the tail end of the driveway so there's as little to move as possible between it and the road. One footpath, exactly the width of the shovel, from the front door to the car. It all feels like some trap meant to catch him out, and he can't stop unhappily imagining that prim woman from the party materializing on his doorstep. The thought gets more vivid when people begin their short-term disappearances, a frown on her face while she sends him to somewhere, dropping him back off a mess god-knows-when afterward. Or maybe they'll just kill him. Leaning heavily against the shovel's handle in the midst of a brave effort to attempt to clear the yard itself, breath visibly ragged when he huffs, he decides it might happen anyway. At least the power's staying on.
He will of course leap at the opportunity to pause upon sighting any passing newcomer, a gloved hand raised in a wave and his eyes squinting against the sun, which feels brighter for all the white around him. ] Afternoon. Some...some weather, huh?
III. In The Valley Of The Dolls We Sleep
[ He doesn't have it in him to try and cajole Beth into accompanying him, but he knows the minute he begins to doubt the woman's tone in the advertisement that he under no circumstance wants to be browsing these fine deals alone. So he loiters awhile in the parking lot, doing the crossword against the steering wheel until he can spot someone familiar to him entering the store. He follows. Somewhat of a wasted effort, he notes, as every passing face is familiar to him. It feels eerie, and he picks one individual or party at random to tail more closely, a meek excuse prepared about needing inspiration, wouldn't you know it, he just really blew Christmas with the missus and needs something to smooth things over—
Once again, it so suddenly shifts. He processes the sound first, the dull thud of a number of individuals hitting the floor all at once. Then the display behind him, loudly and roughly leveled by one swipe of an inhuman arm. He doesn't need to look back to find it in him to bolt, which he does with surprising speed when so thoroughly motivated. Hiding and stealing glances at the immediate danger is the obvious next step; he doesn't need to know their strength relative to a human when he already makes a point to enter no confrontation he hasn't planned for. Which he proposes, in a whisper, to anyone happening to seek refuge nearby. ]
Do you think they'd trip, like real people? [ He loosely mimes binding their legs. He doesn't yet have a clue how one would accomplish this, but he'll work better with a hypothesis. ]
IV. Wildcard
[ Go nuts! Overall Edward is doing his level best to be non-disruptive in public (and trying not to touch the network altogether, but rest assured he reads along), but can be expected to at one point or another have: followed your character around a (non-lethal) store, approached them (quietly and privately, the way you would tell someone they have something in their teeth) to inquire about any visible injury / questionable network post / sudden absence on their part in his best approximation of town-safe terms, and / or generally looked pitiful while attempting to shovel his walkway in a manner that screams for assistance. Available to bounce ideas around via pms or plurk, etc! ]