[There is something Schuldig hasn't bothered to inform you of, Edward - his speed. It's not supernatural, like his telepathy, but it's certainly above average, and his ability to mentally blur a person's perception of his movements can give it the appearance of being uncanny.
He doesn't actually bother with clouding Edward's ability to see him move here, if only because they're so close it's not really necessary. So the speed with which he darts forward, a hand painfully gripping Edward's throat, is entirely without 'cheating'. But it's still damn fast, and with no warning.
His thumb is digging into the hollow of Edward's throat all too pointedly. He's not cutting off air entirely, but it's a close thing.]
I think we've discovered a point of misunderstanding between us, Nigma. [His voice has shifted completely. The mocking tone is entirely gone; what's left is low, and dark, and dangerous. If his previous tone was the hiss of a snake, then this is the rattle.] You think, somehow, that telepathy is easy. That something I was born with, that I am actually incapable of shutting off, is somehow cheating because I choose to make some use of it. That I have no right. That by enduring your thoughts, I am taking from you.
Fine. Take them back.
[And he promptly pours everything he's hearing into Edward's own mind. Every thought around them within perhaps a mile and a half, simultaneously, every one as loud and pressing - if not more so - as Edward's own, talking over him, drowning him out.]
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He doesn't actually bother with clouding Edward's ability to see him move here, if only because they're so close it's not really necessary. So the speed with which he darts forward, a hand painfully gripping Edward's throat, is entirely without 'cheating'. But it's still damn fast, and with no warning.
His thumb is digging into the hollow of Edward's throat all too pointedly. He's not cutting off air entirely, but it's a close thing.]
I think we've discovered a point of misunderstanding between us, Nigma. [His voice has shifted completely. The mocking tone is entirely gone; what's left is low, and dark, and dangerous. If his previous tone was the hiss of a snake, then this is the rattle.] You think, somehow, that telepathy is easy. That something I was born with, that I am actually incapable of shutting off, is somehow cheating because I choose to make some use of it. That I have no right. That by enduring your thoughts, I am taking from you.
Fine. Take them back.
[And he promptly pours everything he's hearing into Edward's own mind. Every thought around them within perhaps a mile and a half, simultaneously, every one as loud and pressing - if not more so - as Edward's own, talking over him, drowning him out.]