11/3/2006 Stark Tower - 93rd Floor The door to the cell containing Doctor Octopus slides open with a woosh of muted hydralics and Steve Rogers walks in. No solemn tread this time. No air of grim ceremony. Just another person in law-enforcement talking to a prisoner -- even if the uniform in this case is substantially more vibrant. The informal nature of this session is even more pronounced by Steve having his mask down. And while he's clutching a piece of paper like the last time he was here, this one is crumpled and covered with notes. Instead of snapping to and addressing the prisoner with military formality, the Cap simply sits on the austere bench against one wall and looks at Otto Octavius -- newly classified "detainee" of the Federal Government -- in silence. Octavius, sitting on the narrow bunk with a decidedly sour expression, turns his attention away from the automatons guarding his cell -- he's been observing them closely for days now -- to fix a narrow, hateful stare upon the star-spangled super-hero. His lip curls into a slow sneer, but he remains silent. For the moment, anyway. Steve just keeps staring. Personally he's not very good at interrogation techniques... but Nick Fury is, and the Cap has had a chance to observe the best from close up. One thing Nick Fury always told him (his eyes seeming to smoulder behind a wavering curtain of cigar smoke): "Don't be so chatty at first, Rogers. There's no compulsion. The difference between you and them is you've /had/ a chance to gab to other people all day. So wait. See what happens." This is one instruction that the Avenger took to heart. So Steve waits, expressionless, and maintains eye contact. Otto's scowl deepens. He's had himself to talk to, of course, which he has; at times the monitors have captured the not-so-good doctor pacing his cell and muttering to himself in a kind of subvocal rant. Even so, as the seconds tick by without an utterance from either of them, the hateful glare intensifies, and finally boils over into a curt, snarling, "Spit it out, Rogers." "Rogers" does just that, in a soft tone: "What, exactly, Dr. Octavius, is an RVX-47 Neural Reconstitutor?" He holds up the rumpled paper in his hand and waves it gently, making a crinkling sound. For a second or two, Dr. Octavius stops breathing, the tight snarl evaporating gradually into a more worried expression. He unbends the knee that he'd been propping one elbow upon and leans forward, hands gripping the edge of the cot. Very quietly, eyes narrowing, he asks, "Why are you asking me that?" Steve continues staring at Ock with the same quiet neutrality, his thoughts hard to discern. "Well, Iron Man's away and SHIELD's technical advisor is unavailable. Since we don't often have... 'resources' such as yourself here, I thought I'd take a shot in the dark." The Cap flips the paper over and quickly scans a few lines of neatly written notes at the bottom. "Know anything about it?" he finishes without looking up. Octavius grits his teeth, broad hands tightening on the thin mattress until the knuckles turn white. "You're toying with me," he accuses. There's a tremor at the back of his grating voice. Steve struggles to keep his face neutral. (Dammit, Nick Fury was so much better at this sort of thing!) He manages a slightly puzzled expression. "I am?" Otto's face twists into a desperate, angry grimace. "Do not toy with me!" he rages, standing up and crossing to the barrier that separates them, hands clenched into fists. "Do not treat me like a simpleton! I am Otto Octavius, and I will /not/ be made a fool of!!" (In the back of his mind, in the space occupied by phantom limbs, a smashing tentacle punctuates his rant. His head still aches from the loss, and like other amputees, he can still feel them despite knowing perfectly well that they're gone.) In response, the Avenger abruptly stands and takes a step closer in one quick, fluid motion. This time his answer isn't taken from Fury's playbook, but a certain blue and red team-mate's: "Glad this thing doubles as a spit-guard," he says, failing to keep his own anger from rising to the surface. "All I know is, mister, people who rant and rave are often described just like that. /Simpletons/." He pokes a red gloved finger against the glass the way a drill sergeant might poke a scared young recruit in the chest. "If you didn't know what it is, just say so. Otherwise you're wasting my time." Octavius seethes. He's good at that. He's been nursing his hatreds for years, adding each one to the pot and stirring slowly until he's almost entirely filled up with this simmering, churning, bubbling stew of bitterness and animosity. For several seconds he just glares up at Captain America... and then speaks. "In /simple/ terms," he says, his grating voice somehow expressing both acquiescence and arrogance, "it repairs neural damage. Specifically, damaged caused by backlash when hooked up to a computational reality program." "Also known as /VR/, right Dr. Octavius?" Steve replies, again quickly checking his notes. "Real popular avenue of research in the nineties. If memory serves, your... 'disciple,' Dr. Trainer, was particularly dedicated to it." He looks back up and this time real curiosity is evident in the set of his eyes. "VR was abandoned before the new millenium as an ultimately unstable technology. It seems to me there would be extremely little use for such a piece of specialized medical equipment these days... probably why there were only three of these things ever made." Another quiet rustle as he consults the paper. "At least, that's what our fragmentary records indicate -- the company that manufactured them went under in '98." Steve pauses here, waiting for any further comment from the bespectacled super-villain. Otto is breathing very heavily by now. In a way, his reaction to all of this is more vivid, more telling, than his reaction to the imminent destruction of his arms. That had simply been anger -- anger and then pain. His current aura of rage has an added note of desperation. That note is evident at the back of his voice, along with a certain reluctance, as he replies. "I'm well aware of this. /Well/ aware." He pauses a beat, unclenches his fists, and places his hands behind his back, fingers twisting together as he stares up at the Avenger, magnified eyes intense. "How did you get it?" Steve doesn't move for a moment, and then he slowly starts folding the piece of paper up. "Flag-Smasher was a bit surprised when when Iron-Man and Lady Liberty showed up on his doorstep. His men only had time to /begin/ destroying their records. In order of importance, of course." The Avenger finishes folding the paper and carefully puts it into a utility pouch. His gaze then meets Otto's. "Guess the ones relating to your payment weren't that important to him." Steve turns, idly pacing the short strip of floor in front of the cell. "Who's it for, Octavius? Carolyn? She's been AWOL since..." He frowns. "...well, a few years." The Avenger turns back. "Is it for her?" Otto scowls, his gaze tracking the Cap's movements like a leashed attack dog. He answers with a blunt, sneering, "No. It's nothing to you. /Nothing/." And then narrows his eyes. "I demand that you have it delivered to my attorney /immediately/." Though he doesn't raise his voice this time, the tone of command is obvious. Steve doesn't move. "If it means something to /you/, it most assuredly means something to /us/. And the only thing you can demand here, 'doc,' is a double portion of dinner on Saturdays." Another brief pause, and the Avenger continues in a tone of finality. "This technology was seized as a result of super-villain activity. Since it is classified as 'unique,' the standard procedure is to take it apart, study it... and ultimately destroy it." The stick-part is obvious, next comes the carrot: "Can you give me a reason why we shouldn't follow standard procedure in this case?" Otto trembles, and he clenches his teeth against it. A more reasonable man would come clean, and a less prideful one would beg, but Doctor Octopus is not a reasonable man, and the thought of begging doesn't even cross his mind. "Damn you," he says, hoarsely. And again, "/Damn/ you." "Damn /me/?" Steve's words are soft, but the sudden flash of anger underneath them almost scorches the air between the two. "Listen up you meglomanical /ass/, over the years your callousness has left an almost uncountable trail of broken bodies and shattered minds strewn across this great nation. Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters left weeping and alone from the uncaring depradations of a madman! Don't you /dare/ pin this on me." With a savage, angry gesture, Steve Rogers pulls open his pouch and rips out the paper. He begins to shred it with savage motions, his expression contorted with weeks -- no, /months/ -- of dealing with this man and his plots; it's obvious that Captain America has, at long last, had /enough/. He hurls the scraps at the window of Otto's holding cell, the gray colored flecks of paper twirling down like polluted snow. "And /now/, now someone out there won't get the care they might possibly /need/ because the great Otto /fucking/ Octavius can't be bothered to just... /ask!/ Of course not! Not from a position of weakness...!" For an instant, it looks like Steve might just be furious enough to punch through that cell barrier and throttle the man behind it. "Your lack of respect for basic human life disgusts every /cell/ in my body! Damn /you/...!" He chokes off the words then, literally shaking in anger. It takes time, but after several quiet seconds, the Cap visibly controls his rage, pulling it back within. "If you don't give me the name and location of that patient..." he continues, the words grating from behind clenched teeth, "...then they become just one more victim of Dr. Octopus. /Your/ choice. Not mine." His fists clench tight enough for the leather to creak softly. "Never mine." Otto jerks back, flinching at this explosion of vehemence from the super-hero community's biggest Boy Scout. But shock and startlement quickly boil over into rage, and before the Cap's gotten halfway through his rant -- right around the time Rogers starts tearing up the paper, and all that signifies -- Octavius isn't listening at all; each subsequent word -- lost under the waves of boiling fury -- serves only to fan the flames higher. "I'll see you in hell first!" Dr. Octavius shouts, lunging forward to smack a meaty fist against the barrier. "I will tear you to /pieces/, strip by strip! Atom by atom!! You will die by /inches/, by /millimeters/!!" The madman's voice rises, shrill with outrage, spittle flying. "You will /beg/ me to kill you by the time I'm done with you, Rogers! You will /scream/!!!" For a moment, the Avenger remains rigid... and then he just sighs softly, his fury draining as quickly as it arrived. No doubt Steve's ashamed of the outburst, but he would never give Otto Octavius /that/ satisfaction. "I doubt that," he replies drily -- once the prisoner has finally wound down. "I've been tortured by the best. And you're not the best, Otto. You're not even close." He heads towards the door, realizing the futility of continuing the questioning. "By the way, the Raft is ready; you'll be transferred within the week. In other words, we're /done/ with you." He puts a hand on the door frame and turns back to regard the prisoner. "Let this be yet /another/ lesson," the Cap tells Otto as the barrier trundles open, "that actions such as yours are /never/ rewarded. Or if you'd like me to break it down for you: 'crime doesn't pay.' Ever. After all these years... I'd think even a simpleton would have figured it out." His steps disappear down the corridor, topped off by a loud CLUNK as the door-bolts lock closed. "This isn't the end, Rogers!" Octavius screams out, just as the door locks shut behind the Avenger. "I swear ih--" His voice cracks, choking off the last word, and he smacks his fist against the cell barrier again in a gesture of impotence, frustration... and grief. Months of planning and preparation. Millions of dollars in resources gathered and spent. His arms -- his /arms/ -- destroyed. And for nothing. /Nothing/. Otto Octavius turns to look at the three silent, watchful Iron Robots. He'd been considering them as a means to effect his escape (exactly how, he hadn't quite figured out yet) but now he simply turns away with a grimace and stumps back to his bunk. Thoughts of the Raft, or how he's going to escape from that, or what method he'll use to escape during transport (and if past experiences are any indication, they'll have him strapped to a gurney and sedated for the trip, just in case) are all far from his mind. He stretches out on the bunk and stares at the ceiling, frowning. Portrait of a defeated Octopus.