11/18/2006 Though the neighborhood's called Hell's Kitchen, it's just as chilly as the rest of the Big Apple, and it's already shaping up to be a miserable night for anyone forced to be out within it. Coat collar pulled up against the cold and damp, Otto Octavius walks at a determined pace, head down and the brim of his hat tugged low. Just another pedestrian bundled against the weather, with the handle of a bulky brown briefcase clenched in one gloved hand. He's heading in the direction of the Brotherhood's headquarters though is nowhere near that location yet. "Whoah-- 'scuse me-- can I-- Oh, /bugger off/." A rather underdressed individual pushes his way through a small group of people walking a short distance ahead of Otto Octavius. Apart from his shoes, jeans and shirt, the man has absolutely /nothing/ on him, and thus resorts to wrapping his arms around him in a desperate attempt to stay warm. Once he works himself through the group, it becomes apparent this man might not even /own/ a coat; his clothes are smeared with what looks to be dried mud, hair sticking this way and that, and he reeks of alcohol. His bloodshot eyes hint at the fact that he's been awake for a while. And if one would look even closer than that, they'd see that alcohol is definitely not the only toxic in his system. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Zachery is currently carrying the body of the 24-year-old Deandre Adams, a sinewy man with bright blue and shortcropped hair, grey-green eyes and a hooked nose. He wears a forest green shirt, denim jeans and blue All Star shoes. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Otto pulls himself out of his brooding introspection to peer, scowlingly, at the ill-dressed figure coming toward him. And, like most people in this situation, he alters his course to avoid the crazy drugged-up drunk and tightens his grip on the briefcase. And like most crazy drugged-up drunks, the man pushes on, the occasional stumble in his quickened pace. The expression on his face is somewhere between quizzical and angry, eyes narrowing now and then in a thought half finished. Although his gait is rushed and it looks like he has somewhere to go, his eyes are fixed not on where he's supposedly headed, but on the sidewalk. Then, suddenly and without warning, he stops in the middle of the pavement. And just... stands. Otto grumbles under his breath, the words just audible as he gets closer to the drunk, who likewise gets a glowering stare from behind dark glasses. "...nother waste of life, pah. Criminal, that filth like this should go on living..." The other man stands, shoulders drooping and head hanging as his eyes search the pavement for... something he thought he saw. But apparently isn't there anymore. Then, there's a voice. Otto's voice, and the drunk lifts his head in a sluggish motion, eyes narrowed in a confused squint at the genius. Otto stops short and glares right back, mouth twisted into a hate-filled scowl. "Go home, you fool," he grates. The drunk's arms drop to his side, mulling over Otto's words while he exhales in a sigh. "Home?" He blinks slowly, as if not even understanding the word. "Doctor, they /took/ my'ome." He finally drawls, seeming utterly unaware of the confusion he might be causing. Otto gives a puzzled frown, brow furrowing under the broad-brimmed hat. A couple of seconds of him studying the drunk more carefully tick by before he hazards, "Zachery?" "Sack." The bodysnatcher corrects with a most paranoid and skittish glance to the side, before his eyes land back on Otto's face. "Outcast 'mong outcasts." He adds in a strange, singsong tone, before his mouth opens as if he's about to say something else, but then apparently decides against it and pushes his arms up to uncertainly push his heads against the side of his head. The slight rocking back and forth doesn't help much, when you want things around you to /stop moving/. Otto grimaces, head shaking slightly. "Is that why you're intoxicated and courting pneumonia?" He shifts his weight, giving the area a glance 'round before turning back to the ill-dressed drunk. "/Who/ took your home?" As Otto speaks, the drunk's gaze flits from one object to another - house, street, apartment, house, pidgeon - accompanied by little twitches of his still held head. Definitely not the good kind of experience, no. "E-everyone. Never was." He mutters, slowly lowering his hands to rest them in his neck instead, might the world start spinning again. Otto, with a grating, thin attempt at patience, asks, "/Which/ everyone?" He does, after all, maintain a headquarters somewhere down in those abandoned subway tunnels. The bodysnatcher doesn't directly answer the question this time, instead taking a wary step back to stare at Otto for a few moments. His brows furrow, before he starts in an anything-but-stable walk past Otto, arms lowering to cross over his stomach again. Cold. Otto scowls. Not planning to let 'Sack' go that easily, he catches up with the ill-dressed mutant, reaching out with his free hand to grasp the other by the arm. "Zachery," he says in a tone of quiet reasonableness. "I cannot /help/ you if you do not tell me what is going /on/." The grabbed arm is pulled away with a sharp intake of breath from the now officially homeless man, who promptly spins around to stare at Otto with... fear? Seems like it. The younger man stumbles back with wide eyes, shaking his head as he mumbles something unintelligible to himself. Help? No, no. Not that again. "My friend, be /sensible/," says Otto Octavius, as he lets his hand drop. His tone of voice is still quite reasonable, even a bit entreating. "You should know by now that I mean you no ill-will." Zachery's eyes flit to the side, darting over the faces of an inexistant crowd. His hands move up to his face, to press his palms over his eyesockets. Focus, concentrate. Nothing there. Right? "M-morlocks." Another step back is taken, eyes quinted shut under the slightly twitchy-fingered hands. Go away now? Otto cocks his head slightly. "Morlocks?" he repeats, eyebrows rising. "Your own people?" Zachery's host immediately gives a shake, hands lowering to peek out at the space behind Otto. No more imaginary people, good. "Nonono. Theirs. Their--" No, wait, they're still there. The drunk takes another step back, before looking back to Otto with that strange, terrified expression. "/Their/ people. Theirs." He hisses, panic in his voice. Otto grimaces. Octavius, you know better than to attempt rational conversation with the inebriated. "Go home," he says sourly. "/Somebody's/ home. Sober up. You're no use to anyone in this... this paranoid fugue." Zachery winces visibly, and his face angles sharply as if receiving a blow to the face. It's not quite clear whether the bodysnatcher's heard what Otto had to say, since there's no immediate response, but after a few skittish glances in seemingly random directions, the whirls around and starts walking once more. "Cat. Have to get the cat." He mumbles, the latter three words then continuing over and over as half trips and half walks, proceeding on his trek to... wherever. Otto watches for a few seconds, his face sliding back into the acrimonious glower that he was wearing earlier. "Wasted," he rants to himself, under his breath. "/Wasted/." He turns away and continues his angry stalk back to the warehouse, grumbling all the while how criminally wasteful morons walk around freely while /other/ people hang in comatose states hooked into life-sustaining machines. For tonight at least, Zachery's made his way into Ock's hate list. Pah.