11/7/2006

For the past several days, Otto Octavius been quiet -- no pacing, no ranting to
      himself, no staring at the Iron Robots or other parts of the cell and 
      muttering under his breath. In and of itself, that's not exactly a 
      reassuring thing, since any kind of vicious plot could be hatching 
      underneath that bowl-cut brown hair, but truth be told, if one didn't 
      know better, one might think that the Octopus is a trifle depressed. He 
      is, at the moment -- as he has been most of the weekend, in fact -- lying 
      on the narrow bunk with his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

Aside from a bit of a chat with his Spider-Clone, Peter's had little in the way
      of unusualness (For him at least).  He's returning from his patrols, 
      still clad in his red-gold Iron Spider outfit.  He'd been avoiding Otto, 
      not wanting to stoop to kicking a man while he's down, but he finally 
      does bring himself to visit.  He's got to see the man that's caused so 
      many problems for him.  And in he steps, staring through the glass, 
      quietly.

Several seconds tick by before Octavius seems to register the fact that he has
      a visitor. He turns his head slightly, just enough to get a look at the 
      red and gold figure at the other side of the barrier, and his muted, 
      solemn expression tightens into a scowl. "And what do /you/ want, 
      wall-crawler? Come to gloat, finally? Share a few sanctimonious words, 
      like your jingoistic teammate?"

"If I'd come to gloat, I'd have been here earlier," Spider-man says. "Probably
      would've brought bread and water with me. Maybe make a quip about a new 
      diet. But, no, I had to come," he says.  "All this years, and I had to 
      come see the man who's delusions and insanity have unsettled my life for 
      as long as you have."

Otto's eyes, magnified behind the extra-strong eyeglasses, narrow briefly
      before he gives a snort of derision. "I am neither insane nor 
      delusional," he states, looking back up at the ceiling. "True genius such 
      as mine is rarely understood -- or /appreciated/ -- by lesser minds."

"I have collected enough of your rant-happy spittle from my costume to wash the
      Quinjet," Spider-man tells Otto, "Trust me, you've got some serious 
      issues.  You need to get help, Otto.  You could do great things for this 
      world, but your actions have directly lead to where your 
      comfortably-padded bottom sits right now."  He puts his hand up to the 
      glass, "I don't know that this cell can hold you as long as everyone's 
      wanting it to," he admits, "But whether it does or not, you've seriously 
      got to change your life's direction."

"You /dare/?" says Octavius, with soft, sneering incredulity. Anger burns
      through the grief that he's been nursing since Captain Rogers came to him 
      about the RVX-47 Neural Reconstitutor, and he sits up on the bunk and 
      then stands to approach his most hated enemy. "/You/. /You/ dare to 
      lecture /me/ about /issues/, to tell me I need /help/?" He's inches from 
      the barrier, hands balled into fists and mouth twisted into the 
      hate-filled grimace that the web-slinger knows so well. "/You/, with your 
      mask and self-righteous crusades?"

"I save people," Spider-man says.  "From those that the police can't help. What
      do you do, with your infinite amount of genius, to help people, Otto?"  
      The hero lets out a light breath, "You've got the potential to do so much 
      good for humanity, yet you prefer destruction, chaos, and a path that 
      ultimatly lends itself to a cell." There's a pause, and he says, "I'm not 
      your greatest enemy, Otto. You are."

Otto sneers. He doesn't acknowledge the nod to his great intellect, since of
      course /that/ is as obvious as water being wet. "This cell is a temporary 
      situation, as you well know. I will leave when I choose to leave... even 
      /without/ the use of my arms. And do not delude yourself, Spider-Man. You 
      /are/ my enemy, and I /will/ destroy you one day. You, and all you hold 
      dear." He leans forward slightly. "No matter how many limbs you give 
      yourself."

Spider-Man shakes his head lightly. "You might escape, but you know I'll always
      be there to put you back. I had just hoped to save myself the need, hoped 
      you'd see the responsibilty you've got. "  He pauses, then says, "I guess 
      since you didn't change your mind on things, I should set up the joke I 
      had about prison-sex?"

Otto's lip curls. "If that was the best you could manage before resorting to
      puerile jibes, save your breath." He starts to turn away, then pauses and 
      looks back, eyes narrowing again as he peers at the web-slinger. "You 
      didn't create that new suit of yours, did you." It isn't a question.

Spider-Man crosses his arms and strums his fingers against his bicep.  "Well,
      if being frank didn't help, I thought I might try quipping you to the 
      side of good."  He ponders, "I could have The Captain come in and make a 
      rousing speech, if you'd prefer. I might have to wave the flag around 
      behind him when he gets started though." The last is said as he makes a 
      'thinking' gesture, as if considering the idea.  The statement makes him 
      shrug, simply not answering the not-question.

Otto makes a dismissive gesture as he stalks back to his bunk. Not all that far
      away, really; it's not a very big cell, truth be told. "I've had plenty 
      of opportunity to study your crude devices, wall-crawler," he grates. 
      "Countless spider-tracers, discarded cartridges, broken web-shooters... 
      as distinctive as a signature, each one." Taking a seat, he stares at the 
      Spider, one hand resting on his knee. "Clever, for one of your limited 
      skill and intellect."

"Thanks?" he replies, rubbing the back of his head. "You know, maybe if you
      didn't break so many of my web-shooters, I would have more time to 
      improve them and impress. Ever think of that?" He pauses, "Oh, I 
      should've brought a bowl and made a hair-cut quip," he says, as if making 
      a mental list.

Otto bares his teeth in a distinctly unpleasant smile. "Keep it up, bug. Truly.
      You only remind me why I must erase your existence from the planet."

"If my quips get under your skin," states Spider-man, "then what does that say
      about you?" he asks, knocking lightly on the glass.

"Perhaps," Octavius replies, the smile twisting into the usual scowl, "that I
      dislike brainless nattering. Now, in regards to your new suit..." He 
      leans back against the plain white wall and folds his arms across his 
      chest. "Judging from the color scheme, I'd guess Stark's hand in it."

Spider-Man gives a light shrug, "If that's how you want to read it."  He
      watches Otto a few moments. "I don't know that I find your sudden, new 
      interest in my sense of fashion something I'm comfortable with," he says, 
      amusedly.

Otto sneers again, though the expression might be read as an especially ugly
      grin. "I notice that you don't deny it." He's still staring at the 
      wall-crawler the way one might study a freshly-dissected lab animal.

"I didn't think I had to. You've got it all figured out right?" Spider-man
      muses. "That's why you're on that side of the glass and I'm on this 
      side."  He pauses, then says, "But I've said what I came to say. Just 
      wish you'd listen for once."  He turns, the nodule-arm tapping the glass 
      a time or two as he heads toward the door. "Enjoy your bread and water."

"Otto Octavius bends for no one, Spider-Man," the hateful genius retorts,
      raising his voice enough to carry. "Least of all for a scuttling /bug/." 
      The last word is spat out with considerable venom.