10/20/2006

<NYC> Stark Tower - 93rd Floor

Portrait of a captive Octopus.  The cell is stark white (no pun intended), and
      barely furnished -- a bunk, a sink, other facilities partitioned off for 
      basic privacy. A double layer of bullet-proof (and 
      many-other-projectiles-and-weapons-proof) glass separates the prisoner 
      from the hallway. If that weren't enough, three of Tony's Iron Robots 
      stand guard, and it's safe to say that there are plenty of other, less 
      noticeable, safeguards to prevent even the slippery Dr. Otto Octavius 
      from escaping.

The man himself is clad in a very standard prison-type jumpsuit, his usual
      eyewear -- goggles or sunglasses -- replaced by a pair of clunky 
      black-framed eyeglasses.  Needless to say, the criminal genius also lacks 
      his trademark metal tentacles.

At the moment, Octavius is lying on his back on the thin bunk, hands folded
      behind his head, his eyes closed.  He could be sleeping, but he's not. 
      His mind's reaching out, past physical walls and barriers, grasping at 
      the other, missing, part of himself -- his arms.  He can feel them, but 
      so far has failed to make them respond; they're there, but numbed.  
      Still, he keeps trying, brow furrowed with concentration.

The door slides open and muted bootsteps reverberate in the enclosed space.
      Captain America walks in silently, his eyes first falling on the silent 
      robot guards Tony has placed in the room... and then on Otto himself. The 
      Cap has come a long way in just a few days. His arm is out of the sling 
      and no more bandages are obvious. For this particular encounter he's gone 
      all out, right down to the shield slung on his back. Steve Rogers doesn't 
      know if Otto was aware of his recent capture at the hands of his 
      employer, but just in case he's going to make damn sure that it /looks/ 
      like he's suffered no ill effects from the ordeal. After a moment, the 
      Avenger speaks, his words ringing off the largely empty visitation space: 
      "Don't bother." Whether he surmised Doc Ock's intention from what he 
      knows of the man, or simply from the brainwave patterns that the cell's 
      monitoring equipment picked up, the message in his tone couldn't be 
      clearer: 'You're not going /anywhere./' "Up to a chat?" He continues, 
      then glances over towards the door -- where he's expecting Syran at any 
      moment.

Syran has been locked in her room more often than not lately; Leaving only when
      she needs to go outside, or head into the kitchen. However, when it was 
      requested of her to pry into Ock's mind to find out more about the Flag 
      Smasher, Syran was more than willing to suit up and head down. At the 
      moment, she's a little more subdued than Captain America, her own, mini 
      shields, still small disks on her belt, rather than completely open and 
      in her hands. She doubts she'll be needing her weapons for this. "I don't 
      wish to sever the link between you and your mechanical arms, because I 
      consider it cruel. But if you continue attempting to use them, you will 
      force my hand." Lady Liberty speaks as she strides in shortly after Cap.

"Heaven forbid that you should be cruel," Octavius says in an insolent drawl,
      but he mentally pulls back. Not entirely; a part of his mind is always 
      aware of those arms of his, just as it's aware of the ones made of flesh 
      and blood. Opening his eyes, he turns his head just enough to look at the 
      two star-spangled heroes, lips twisting into an unpleasant smile.

Captain America ignores the jibe. He reaches out and puts a grateful hand on
      Syran's shoulder. "Thanks for moving on this so fast," he tells her with 
      a smile, and then leans in to whisper so that Otto can't hear them. 
      "We're looking for three things here: what Flag-Smasher's goal was in 
      seizing the prison, what he bribed Otto with to get his help..." the Cap 
      pauses then, and can't quite keep the bitter edge out of his voice when 
      he finishes: "...and /where/ Flag-Smasher might presently be." He 
      abruptly lapses into silence, staring at the floor and breathing heavily; 
      one can almost sense his self-reproach about not being able to control 
      the anger. But when he finally looks back up, he's calm and concerned. 
      "Please be careful, Ney. Don't get lost in that psychotic labyrinth he 
      calls a mind."

The look that Liberty settles on Otto is one of pity. He isn't going to get a
      rise out of her right now, she's already prepared for such attempts. "You 
      know.." she remarks to Cap with a soft smirk. "If you really didn't want 
      him to hear, you can always talk up here." She whispers, tapping a 
      temple. But that's still probably taking him time to get used to. "And 
      don't worry about me, I've been in worse minds than his and been 
      perfectly fine." She promises, giving his hand a quick squeeze as he 
      begins to let the anger fuel him. "I'll be fine." Taking a couple of 
      steps towards the glass and standing at ease, the red head peers through 
      the glass, finally smiling towards the trapped man. "Don't struggle and 
      this won't hurt."

Otto Octavius has experienced such intrusions before; his dislike of them peels
      his lips back in a snarling grimace, though the look in his eyes is 
      challenging. He doesn't speak the words but the sentiment is clear even 
      to the non-telepathic Captain America: Bring it on.

Captain America returns Syran's hand-squeeze and leans close a second time just
      before she gets started. He catches himself, hesitates and straightens. 
      The Avenger then /thinks/ the words carefully and clearly -- like a 
      tourist speaking from a phrasebook: < I'm afraid I've got to get out of 
      here /now/. My legs are about to give out... I don't want to give him the 
      satisfaction. > The Cap straightens and turns to Otto. "Octavius, you're 
      supposed to have quite the intellect. Use it now. Just tell her what she 
      wants to know and you can hang on to some of your dirty laundry." He 
      turns to Syran. "Call if you need help, I'll be /right/ outside." Giving 
      another narrow-eyed stare at Otto, the Cap turns and walks out, seeming 
      not to exert the slightest effort. The doors open and close behind him, 
      and never has Steve Rogers been so grateful for soundproofing; that way 
      Doc Ock can't here the scuffling sounds of Jarvis helping him to a nearby 
      chair.

<< Go. Sit down. If you need to, go lie down; Or you're not going to be in any
      position to fight after I get the information we need. And that's an 
      order! >> It's stated softly, like a joke, though he can tell Liberty 
      means it. Like a den mother, she wants to go over and fret over him, but 
      there are more important things at hand. At the look in Otto's eyes, 
      Syran's smile simply grows, her mind delving right into his without 
      another thought. He can feel her presence there like a heavy hand sifting 
      fingers through a web. << Don't suppose you're just going to give it up 
      easy? >>

When has Otto Octavius ever given anything up easily? He has the strength of
      will to keep on, year after year, in his mad schemes for power and rogue 
      science, despite defeat after defeat. The man was even /dead/ once, or so 
      it seemed; no one's really sure how he managed to escape the grave, or 
      even if he had actually died at all -- except that Syran, at least, knows 
      that he did; Octavius doesn't answer her with words, instead throwing at 
      her one of his nastier and most vivid memories: his death, a moment 
      which, perversely, lingered in the twisted brain when all others had to 
      be uploaded by his protege, Carolyn Trainer.

The memory is swift, brutal, and blurry, like an impressionistic painting done
      by Bosch -- a massive, masked black figure, white-hot rage, a sickening 
      >snap< of vertebrae giving way, and thick black oblivion, dragging her 
      down into the twisted maze that is the mindscape of Dr. Otto Gunther 
      Octavius.

Ah, so we're going to be playing dirty then. At least she'd prepared herself for
      it to not go so well. Though, even with her preperations Liberty is 
      shaken by the moment, falling and falling into the mind until her eyes 
      widen as her astral body suddenly jerks to a halt. << I see you've dealt 
      with telepaths before. But I have experianced death before, and I will 
      not be so easily broken. >> The power of the memory is drawn into raw 
      energy, crackling like wild fire around Syran's fingertips as she shoots 
      it right back into Otto's mind, fighting it with the memory of her death. 
      The peace and love that came with the sacrifice she made for Cap those 
      many, many years ago.

In the cell, Octavius grunts, rolling over onto his side on the bunk and
      pressing fingers against the suddenly throbbing knot of pain in his 
      forehead. Mentally, the mad genius's mind seems to give way; the mental 
      darkness clears to reveal something the imagination can take hold and 
      make sense of... though it's far from pretty.

The Ryker's Island prison stands dead, gutted, half its walls broken; it looks
      a ruin, as does the cityscape on the mainland. It's the image of nuclear 
      winter, the chilly, terrible, and dim sunless holocaust years after 
      radioactive Armageddon, and standing there on the beach is someone who 
      looks rather like Octavius, only dressed in hospital whites, his 
      expression guarded and quizzical, but not obviously hostile. Certainly 
      not as hostile as the mindscape surrounding them.

Syran closes her eyes, waiting for the landscape to settle. When she feels it
      finally shift into place around her, those lavender beauties drift open 
      once more. And what a shame, this certainly isn't anything pretty. In a 
      simple, white dress, Syran's astral form takes a few, barefoot steps 
      forward. Eventually the red head comes to a stop at Otto's side, eyes 
      wide as she gazes around. "Is this really what you wanted, Otto?" she 
      asks softly. Curious. By the look on his face, she'd guess no.

Rightfully, such a question should result in a good megalomaniacal rant, or at
      the very least a scornful sneer.  Instead, this uncharacteristically 
      quiet and sedate avatar of the tentacular terrorist simply stares at her 
      blankly for a second or two before looking away toward the distant, 
      crumbling outline of this post-holocaust New York skyline.  "It's what 
      /he/ wants," he says, clasping his hands behind his back. "It's what he's 
      always wanted." The use of the third person pronoun somewhat odd; 
      Octavius's profile mentioned no multi-personality disorder (though there 
      was one footnote from Dr. Jefferson's files about how he tried to shift 
      Octavius away from thinking of himself as 'Doctor Octopus'.)

Syran links her fingers behind her back as she surveys the landscape. It isn't
      pretty. But she's seen plenty of unpretty scenes in her life, and if 
      she's overly bothered, it isn't obvious. "I see." The statement is said 
      in a subdued tone. She's scimmed his mental profile, but this being only 
      the second time she's gone into a mind like this, she still has to be 
      careful. "So then, why don't you tell me what /you've/ always wanted?"

At this, the paunchy scientist (or patient, judging by his attire) turns his
      head slightly toward her. "Ah," he says, and flicks his eyes up toward 
      hers, and though the expression is secretive and guarded, it lacks the 
      ruthless malice of the man in the holding cell. "There's a question. But 
      that isn't the question you came in here to ask, is it?"

Syran chuckles softly as he calls her out on the questioning. "No it isn't. But
      I figured I'd try conversation before interigation." Lavender eyes settle 
      on his gaze as it lifts towards her. "But if you're not up for 
      conversation, I can make this quick; I need all of the information you 
      have on Flag Smasher."

"He's an anarchist," he answers solemnly, without returning her chuckle or even
      smiling.  "He wants to overthrow the government. /All/ governments." It's 
      a simple answer, and obvious answer. "Unlike certain others, he keeps 
      promises."

"To what end? Without a government everything would fall into chaos.." Of
      course, like Otto said, he's an anarchist, chaos for choas sake is 
      sometimes enough. "Besides, Ryker's; while filled with some of the worst 
      scum on the planet, isn't exactly the choiciest place to try and send the 
      world into chaos." Syran's hair shifts behind her before settling quietly 
      into the shape of a chair, allowing her to sit.

He looks puzzled for a moment. Then: "Oh. Oh, no. No, I'm fairly certain--" The
      wind kicks up abruptly, full of stinging grit and the taste of ice. He 
      steps back, grimacing apprehensively, and begins backing away from the 
      shoreline, moving toward the ruined prison at their back. The tumbled 
      structure seems closer somehow, bigger... looming.

Syran blinks suddenly, her hair shifting beneath her to form a sort of shield
      against the wind. Of course that means she looses her chair. Oh well. A 
      hand flickers 'teke' shield appearing by Otto, protecting him from the 
      chill. Feet touch sand once more, as she follows along behind. "You were 
      saying?"

Thin canvas shoes pick hurriedly but carefully along the hard, rocky beach.
      "Isn't it obvious?" A ghost of the familiar arrogance, the impatience of 
      a genius having to /explain/ things. It's blunted by hunched set of his 
      shoulders and the nervous way he keeps glancing at the grey-shrouded sky. 
      "Doctor Octopus is trusted by no one and trusts no one. He doesn't even 
      trust /me/." He stops abruptly in the gaping doorway of the prison and 
      meets her eyes intently. "I'm a fiction. He's stalling you." The wind 
      howls around them, beating at Syran's shields; the cityscape at the other 
      side of the water is rapidly becoming obscured.

Syran simple sighs, her chin falling towards her chest. "Understand that I am
      attempting to do this in the most humane way possible. I am allowing your 
      mind to maintain a certain level of control because I understand what 
      it's like to have no control. I will give you one last chance to give me 
      the information I require. If I don't have it in the next thirty seconds 
      I will simply rip it from your mind and leave." She waves a hand towards 
      the cityscape, forcing it to shift from whatever his mind has constructed 
      to pure whiteness. She will not be distracted, and she's getting 
      irritated.

The battered skyline vanishes and, with it, the wind. The calm that follows is
      colder, arctic. Of course, none of it is real, not even the paunchy, 
      middle-aged man with the laughable hair-cut and the shabby mental-patient 
      attire, who now stands frozen, staring, and seems simply... not fully 
      'there'. The real McCoy, so to speak, is behind her, goggled and 
      tentacled and dressed in the infamous green jumpsuit, his expression hard 
      and hateful. "Flag-Smasher is, as it happens, far too intelligent to 
      trust someone like myself with his plans," says Otto Octavius, arms 
      folded across his chest. He speaks from a nine-foot height, held up by 
      his amazing arms which are so much a part of his mental Self. "To be 
      sure, he gave me a list of certain criminals to free from Ryker's, but 
      that isn't what he was after. And before you ask, I have no idea where he 
      is now." He smirks. "I didn't ask, to save him the dishonor of lying to 
      my face."

Syran folds her arms over her chest, not yet looking back towards Otto, despite
      feeling him behind her. "Even if Flag Smasher didn't offer up his plan to 
      you on a silver platter, you're a smart man. One who has surely thought 
      long and hard about the reasons he's putting himself in danger for 
      someone else's dreams." Finally she turns, not actually moving, just 
      floating up and around to face him. "That, or he must have offered you 
      something so delicious that even you couldn't pass it up." Her regal chin 
      lifts, eyes studying his face. "If the criminals weren't what he was 
      after, why Rykers? Even if it's just a guess on your part."

A crooked smile slants itself across Octavius's face. "A prison facility so
      close to a major metropolis. An invasion, a hostage situation, at that 
      facility by a number of powered criminals, one of whom is the ruthless 
      and infamous terrorist Doctor Octopus." It's obvious that he takes 
      perverse pride in his reputation. "The authorities cannot help but 
      respond, turning their eyes and resources to the situation. And the 
      authorities are /not/, as much as they wish to be, omniscient."

"So the entire act itself was a distractionfrom his true intentions." Syran
      concludes to herself, nodding. Clever. This is why she isn't an evil 
      mastermind. She doesn't have the brain for such things. Floating a mere 
      inch off the floor, Syran's head cants, studying Otto intently. "You 
      couldn't possibly have expected not to get caught, so what could he 
      possibly have offered, beyond publicity, that would make you go along 
      with it?"

Octavius's jawline tightens with displeasure, the smile dissolving into a
      grimace. Nearby, flitting like a shadow from one ruined wall to the next, 
      is a web-slinging shadow, there and gone as it passes across the front of 
      the madman's mind. "My plans were meticulous," he says in a low, grating 
      voice. "I accounted for every variable, including the interference of 
      that endlessly bothersome arachnid. /Spider-Man/." He spits the name out 
      with a hate that burns with the intensity of suns. "Except, of course, 
      for the fact that he'd equipped himself with an apparatus like my own." 
      His hands, falling to his sides, close into fists. "At every turn, he 
      mocks me! Insults me! Stands in my way! I won't /have/ it!" The >WAM< of 
      a tentacle striking the nearby wall punctuates the last sentence, 
      smashing it inward; the rest of the illusionary structure collapses with 
      it like a line of dominoes and gradually vanishes into the ground.

Syran watches, the look in her eyes anything but fearful. No, in fact, it's
      more curious and amused than anything else. "You thought that you were 
      using Flag Smasher's plan for yourself in order to attract Spiderman and 
      lure him to his 'doom'." She air quotes the words, unable to keep from 
      smirking. "I bet he'd stop mocking you if you stopped running around the 
      city doing terrible things. But that's not what you want to hear, is it?" 
      Syran laughs quietly, her feet rising a few more inches from the ground. 
      "It's a shame that a mind like yours has fallen into such .. disarray. 
      You could have been quite the boon to society." Her mind begins to 
      project out, scraping up any unspoken information she can find on the 
      subject as she speaks.

One thing Octavius wasn't lying about is his lack of knowledge as to the
      details of Flag-Smasher's specific plans. Other information he has on the 
      man is nothing that can't be found in a SHIELD database (and in some 
      cases is inaccurate), and though she has no trouble getting it, it's like 
      pulling weeds -- easy to do, but with a tendency to rumple the soil. Back 
      in the cell, Dr. Octavius has the heels of his hands pressed to his 
      forehead like a man with a vicious headache.

Syran goes through what she finds, and with a final nod begins to float
      backwards, her form quickly becoming intangible. She has what she needs. 
      Or at the very least, she has what he knows; Little though it may be. "A 
      real shame." Syran whispers, letting the words vibrate through his 
      mindscape as she fades out of view. In the cell, the redhead's eyes snap 
      open, glaring down to the man in the cell. There's nothing left for her 
      to say to him, so instead, she simply inclines her head before turning to 
      make her way from the room and towards where Cap is seated outside. They 
      have a couple of things to discuss.

Otto cracks open an eye to fix a hateful glare at the retreating figure, then
      closes it again. Just as she has nothing to say to him, he has nothing to 
      say to her.