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Mirror Maze: The Prequel
Apr. 14th, 2015 10:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brainteaseNot a team player.
Spending too much time on conspiracy theories and pointless cold cases.
You're smart, but you're just not a good fit.
We've had to make budget cuts.
I'm sorry, Nygma.
Former Detective Edward E. Nygma, most recently Mr. Edward "Fuck Everyone In This Building" Nygma, grabbed a cardboard box of police files from his coworker's desk and upended it onto the floor.
"Hey! I needed those!"
"As if you were going to read them." He slammed the box down onto his own desk and began throwing the contents of the drawers into it. The Rubix cube he'd solve and unsolve to relieve stress, the handwritten letter from a mother whose child he'd rescued, a box of crackers he'd finished last week and kept procrastinating on throwing out.
"You're too good for this place, Eddie." His erstwhile partner sat on Eddie's desk, watching Eddie push his life's work into a battered cube labeled "IMPORTANT" in red marker.
"And you're still here, Flass. What does that make you?"
"Means I know how to play ball," Flass said, shrugging, putting on that jaded expression he used whenever Nygma's flailings were no match for the dirty cops with their dirtier commissioner. Yeah, Flass was corrupt too. But at least he had the decency to feel guilty about it, which put him one up on the rest of the force. Eddie crumpled up a commendation letter and threw it backwards over his shoulder.
"What are you going to do from here?"
"Either get drunk or step out in front of a car."
Eddie walked through the station to stares and mumbles, refusing to look any of them in the face. Bastards the lot of them, men and women, worse threats to justice than the muggers and the drug dealers. At least most of the muggers weren't in the Owl's pocket, and were more willing to admit that he existed in the first place. He exited the building, turned right, turned right again into the alley, walked down the narrow brick corridor, and dropped the entire box into the dumpster.
Drunk first, at least. It was less messy. And if he wasn't a cop anymore he might as well go where the booze was finest, even if the place itself wasn't. Twenty minutes later he was sitting in the Iceberg Lounge, staring down a whiskey glass as if it were his only friend in the world.
(Right now? It was.)
Spending too much time on conspiracy theories and pointless cold cases.
You're smart, but you're just not a good fit.
We've had to make budget cuts.
I'm sorry, Nygma.
Former Detective Edward E. Nygma, most recently Mr. Edward "Fuck Everyone In This Building" Nygma, grabbed a cardboard box of police files from his coworker's desk and upended it onto the floor.
"Hey! I needed those!"
"As if you were going to read them." He slammed the box down onto his own desk and began throwing the contents of the drawers into it. The Rubix cube he'd solve and unsolve to relieve stress, the handwritten letter from a mother whose child he'd rescued, a box of crackers he'd finished last week and kept procrastinating on throwing out.
"You're too good for this place, Eddie." His erstwhile partner sat on Eddie's desk, watching Eddie push his life's work into a battered cube labeled "IMPORTANT" in red marker.
"And you're still here, Flass. What does that make you?"
"Means I know how to play ball," Flass said, shrugging, putting on that jaded expression he used whenever Nygma's flailings were no match for the dirty cops with their dirtier commissioner. Yeah, Flass was corrupt too. But at least he had the decency to feel guilty about it, which put him one up on the rest of the force. Eddie crumpled up a commendation letter and threw it backwards over his shoulder.
"What are you going to do from here?"
"Either get drunk or step out in front of a car."
Eddie walked through the station to stares and mumbles, refusing to look any of them in the face. Bastards the lot of them, men and women, worse threats to justice than the muggers and the drug dealers. At least most of the muggers weren't in the Owl's pocket, and were more willing to admit that he existed in the first place. He exited the building, turned right, turned right again into the alley, walked down the narrow brick corridor, and dropped the entire box into the dumpster.
Drunk first, at least. It was less messy. And if he wasn't a cop anymore he might as well go where the booze was finest, even if the place itself wasn't. Twenty minutes later he was sitting in the Iceberg Lounge, staring down a whiskey glass as if it were his only friend in the world.
(Right now? It was.)
