11/25/2006 Central Park South ------------------------------------------------------------------ The southern region of the park is just as green as the north, rolling land and flowerbeds covering the ground in a gentle sweep. Dogs are walked, people jog and vendors do business here on the dark paths of the park. Shrubs line the walks, the older slightly charred trees stand now amongst new ones, thick and sturdy in their green existence. Flowerbeds are dotted along the grassy knolls, bringing spots and lines of color to the sweeping eye. The park seems more bustling on this end, and despite this the aura of the place is one of relaxation in the steel walls of the city. Still blackened walkways cover the paths, and some of the benches have been replaced beside half-working lamps and dusty bricks. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Though the park has undoubtedly seen better days, today it is a solace for those who seek it. As the crisp morning air warms in the light near-noon, the early joggers finish their rounds and other park-dwellers start to manifest. Closer to the replanted trees, a woman sits on a bench with a book in her lap. Rather than read it with her eyes, however, she is slowly going over its pages with her fingers. There is a look of concentration to her forward stare, and with a sigh she lets her hands slip from the book and slap the empty seat next to her. Even the most obsessed scientist needs fresh air once in a while... though, in truth, the only thing that's dragged Octavius away from his still not-quite-finished arms is the need for certain components stashed away in one of his many hidden laboratories around the city. Quite a collector of secretive lairs, is Dr. Octavius, but of course such things are useful when one has as many enemies as he does. Heading back from his errand, he crosses through the park, the handle of a thick, sturdy briefcase in one gloved hand, dark glasses shading bagged and sleep-deprived eyes, and the brim of his hat pulled low over an unshaven face. Though running on little to no sleep, the scientist's steps are quick and brisk, those of a man with a /purpose/. The woman lifts her head at the sound of the steps. Her lips quiver briefly as if she were suppressing a smile, then she closes the book and stuffs it in a shoulderbag. Fumbling, she reaches for a white cane with a red tip that was laying underneath the bench. Then she stands carefully, and rushes forward just in time to either slip her cane or her entire body into Octavius' path. Otto jerks to a halt just in time to avoid a collision, though it's a close thing. His mouth twists into an angrily impatient snarl. "Idiot woman." No sympathy for the handicapped /here/. Likewise the woman stumbles to a stop, leading with her cane to swivel in Otto's direction. "/Excuse me/," she says rather indignantly, 'staring' at him. "Who're you calling an idiot?" Another man would take note of the red-tipped cane and unfocussed eyes and apologize. Dr. Octavius, on the other hand, takes note of these signs and simply doesn't give a damn. "You. Now get out of my way." Those unfocused eyes suddenly become rather focused on Otto's own. "I think the only idiot here is you, Doctor, for coming out here completely 'unarmed'." A flash of yellow waves over her irises, sending a subliminal suggestion to the man's mind. A pitbull sits up through the sidewalk immediately after, growling steadily at him from behind. Otto freezes, that impatient knot of anger melting away and tightening into a cold knot of fear in his belly. Fear? The keen and suspicious mind puzzles at this for a moment. While it's true that without his arms attached he's more physically vulnerable, he wasn't the least bit afraid all the other times he's had to venture outside, not even when that mutant shapeshifter with the motorcycle, the tiger-girl, attacked him in Hell's Kitchen. He was, even then, in /control/. So, what...? It's the growling behind him that clicks the piece into place. "Marshall." His voice is low, though surprisingly even. The woman bursts into loud laughter, waving her cane to her left like a fencing sword. "Oh, Otto, I wish I had been there when those bombs went off and you screamed in excrutiating pain. I'm sure it would've been a feast for my soul." She snaps the cane in half and chucks it over her shoulder, her features melting into that of a twenty-three-year old man with spikey hair and motorcycle leather. "I've always wondered what it was like to be crippled. Hence that whole, blind-girl guise just now. But perhaps you can shed some light for me, hmm, armless?" Marshall and his dog slowly close the distance between them and the Doctor. "Do you still feel them writhing behind you? Does your brain still yearn to unleash them on the landscape? To see if they'll save you now from me?" Otto's face is tight, his stubbled jaw clenched as he struggles to control himself, to force away that alien, unwanted emotion. Anger coils underneath the imposed fear, and with that the knowledge that his arms -- three of them, anyway, are there in his mind; back in his quarters at the Brotherhood's warehouse, they pause in constructing the limb of the fourth to shift about in agitation, making low clicks and mechanical squeals. Dr. Octavius forces himself not to turn back to look at the hound at his heels, to focus on the face of his tormenter. "I warn you for one last time," he rasps, doing his best to keep his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. "Do not underestimate me." The pitbull snaps its jaws dangerously, only a half an inch away from the tendons in Otto's calves. "I think it's /you/ who has underestimated /me/, Doctor," Marshall states in a tone as low as his dog's growl. His right arm shoots forward and his hand clasps firmly around Octavius' neck, now with lengthy fingers and claws that lock together to secure his grasp. He raises the man several inches upward without so much as a grunted strain. "I am a /Demon/, Otto. It is my pleasure to rend you mentally, spiritually and physically from your very /bones/." Otto makes a strangled 'glrk' noise, teeth baring into a strained grimace of mingled fear and rage, eyes wide behind the dark lenses. With his breath choked off, he can't very well reply. Only a few passing park-goers have taken note of the scene until now, even when the blonde woman morphed into young motorcycle punk and the pitbull joined the party. Now, though, as the thug lifts the paunchy, middle-aged man in the three-piece suit by the /neck/, people start to take notice; one elderly early-morning dog-walker goes for her cellphone to call the police while her Yorkie goes crazy with yapping, while a jogger in a USMC t-shirt starts toward the pair, calling out, "Hey! Hey, you!" Marshall does nothing in response to the passerbys; however, the pitbull turns to face them and literally bursts from its skin. It enlarges several times over and bursts into flame, then belches fire in the direction of the woman and her cellphone. "Fortunately for you," Marshall continues to his captive, "I'm not done peeling you mentally. Oh, even with those lenses, I can see that you want to get angry, don't you, Doctor? But it's hard when you're not in control of yourself. When no science you know can be employed to aid you at this moment." He grins and his eyes glow, transferring his amusement. "Isn't that funny? All your work, all your knowledge, and you're helpless in the face of the supernatural..." His grip slides upward briefly, holding Otto underneath his jaw to give him slight breathing and speaking room. The old woman screams, dropping the cellphone, and her little dog scrabbles back in utter terror, pulling at its leash. And the jogging Marine pulls up short as well, with a vulgar exclamation. And Otto Octavius squeezes his eyes closed, fingers clenching tight around the briefcase handle, shoes dangling helplessly above the concrete path. The situation is far from amusing, /far/ from amusing, so why the low chuckle? "H-hilarious," he manages. He clings, mentally, to two precious bits of information. One, that Marshall clearly has no idea that Otto is not as 'handicapped' as he appears. And, two, an adage that's stood by him for many, many years -- that one is never as strong as when one appears weak. Marshall grins, chuckling as well. "That's right. Laugh it up, you sorry individual." He opens his hand and lets Octavius drop. Then he stares down at him, shaking his head in hollow sympathy. "By Baal, look at you. I'm tempted to put you out of your misery right now in front of those people." He gestures to the woman and the Marine, who are being threatened with an unearthly growl from the Hellhound. "Or, here's a thought. Perhaps I should turn you in! You did /escape/ from what would probably be a death sentence. How's that sound to you, Otto? A real laugh riot, eh?" Marshall bursts into a fit of laughter. They say it's contagious. Like influenza. Otto lands on his well-padded rear in an undignified sprawl. Laugh riot indeed. He chuckles weakly along with the infernal bully as he fingers gingerly at his abused neck with his free hand. Two hundred plus pounds to be suspended from that one piece of his anatomy is no small thing, and there'll be digit-shaped bruises blossoming there later. "Liar. If you... heh... if you were so /tempted/, you would /do/ it. But you're... heh-eh... you're not /done/ with me, are you?" Marshall slaps his own thigh. "Oh I could still have my fun with you from a prison cell. No spacial disruptor barriers in jail, you know?" He drops to one knee, hovering close to Otto yet again. "But you're right. You as a free man would be so much more fun to play with." He motions towards the man's prized package. "What's in the briefcase, hmm? Parts for your new prosthetics? My pet had a wonderful time with the last set. If you want, I'll schedule him to come break in the new ones for you." The dog snorts while its master hops to his feet and bounces excitedly on his steel-toed boots. "I missed this! I really did, Otto." Then he drops to his knees and quirks his head sideways. "Do you know you're one of my best playmates?" The old woman with the cellphone is heading away rapidly, her tiny little dog pulling her along. She doesn't even bother to retrieve her cellphone. The Marine's retreating too, more slowly, eyeballing the Hellhound with caution and, probably, planning to phone up the cops as soon as he's out of sight. Otto's mouth twists into a watery grin. Yes, it's all quite amusing. Especially imagining Marshall's head crushed between metal claws. "Is /that/ what I am." He leaves off rubbing his throat and uses that hand to start levering himself back to his feet. Marshall grins. "That's what the whole /world/ is, Otto. A playground. My mother's gift to me is the freedom to use it as I see fit. You, my friend." He chuckles. "You're just a doll in my toybox. And I'm gonna play with you until your head snaps off." As Otto rises, Marshall does as well, once again staring him in the eyes and flashing him a suggestion. "But you should be happy for the privilege. Not many of my playthings have lasted so long." From amusement to happiness is not much of a step (not nearly as large as the shift from fear to laughter), but the cold, rational part of the doctor's mind knows full well that there's little about the immediate situation to be glad about. And he's noted Marshall's tell, the brief transformation of the half-demon's eyes... though not quite quickly enough to avoid the next puppeteer-tug at his emotions. "Lovely," he says, rubbing at his neck again. "But unless you /do/ want me imprisoned, I should go. /Someone/ will have contacted the authorities if they haven't already." His gaze shifts to the hellhound prowling nearby. Marshall chuckles. "Please. What have I to fear from them? Oh, yes, you have much to, I suppose." He turns, shoving his hands in pockets. "Well, enjoy the feeling of euphoria, my friend. Consider it a gift! Unfortunately, you don't really have much of a soul for me to rend, do you? So next time, I think I may just skip right to the flesh." The hellhound disappears in a burst of fire; meanwhile, its master strolls off quite casually, as though he hadn't just caused a scene at all. Past some trees, he takes on the form of a homeless man and hobbles off, randomly begging passerbys for change. Otto watches Marshall depart for a few seconds before turning away and continuing, hurriedly, onwards toward his current hideout. As he goes, his smile widens, and his mind sets his three completed arms back to work on the fourth. Between that, the thoughts of the 'field test' he's planning for this evening, and what he's going to do to Marshall and that /cur/ sometime in the future... euphoria indeed.