8/2/2006

The underworld grapevine of New York City, when squeezed in just the right
ways, points those looking for Doctor Octopus to a warehouse in the most
disreputable part of the docks. And that's exactly where the felonious
scientist is this evening, smoking a cigar as he watches a grim old man
in janitor's overalls distribute the week's pay (in cash, of course) to
an equally grim-looking group of younger men, grunt laborers by the look
of them. The doctor himself is smiling in a self-satisfied kind of way.

The oldster who approaches the warehouse tonight is no stranger to the web of
the city's underside. Of late he's not been paying huge amounts of
attention to it, but he's kept his ear to the ground sufficiently that
certain recent events of interest to him have come to his attention. And
so he comes through the docks, a tall upright figure, passing
longshoremen without a word or with only a grunt of greeting as he heads
for his target. He angles his approach so that he walks into the heavy
shadow of a stack of crates, from which he slowly emerges and lets light
fall on his beaky nose and bald head. "Good evening, Doctor," he greets
the chunky man in a dry voice.

Adrian

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An elderly-looking man, seemingly in his sixties or thereabouts, Adrian is not
prepossessing to look at. He's totally bald, to start, with not even a
tuft of hair remaining anywhere on his pate. Then there's the big
beak-like nose which dominates the center of his face as though it
decided to make its home there and push all his other features aside to
make way for it. His mouth's default expression is a scowl, and his small
eyes rarely contain any positive light in them.

He's tall for his advanced years, and also looks in very good condition for his
age; he stands upright and walks around without any sign of doddering or
infirmity. As far as clothing is concerned, he tends towards an
open-necked shirt covered by a ratty green cable-knit cardigan, with a
pair of slacks.

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Otto removes the cigar from his mouth with an adroit tentacle as he turns, and
upon seeing the old man, his mouth stretches into a broad grin. "Adrian
Toomes. What a surprise." He glances toward his hired hands, the eldest
of which is looking questioningly at him, and waves for them to continue
as he steps toward Adrian, angling their conversation away from unwashed
ears. "I was beginning to worry you'd been caged up in the Raft."
Referring, of course, to the grim supervillian prison annex of Ryker's.

"A surprise, Otto? Surely not." Adrian moves closer to the other supervillain
and his voice sinks to a lower, quieter register. "A little bird, if
you'll forgive the expression, told me you were working on something. In
fact, that several people are working on this... something. I'm sure it
was just you being all tied up and busy that led you to not get any word
to me."

"A terrible oversight," Octavius says, in a tone of faux contrition. He seems
quite pleased to see his former associate, in truth. Not that Doctor
Octopus has ever been known for his sincerity. "I deeply apologize. But,
my friend, you went to ground /very/ thoroughly."

"Sometimes I do," Adrian agrees. "Sometimes I need to for the sake of my own
well being and liberty. Sometimes I go through... phases when I simply
prefer my own company. But in the end," he smiles, his voice still dry
and papery, "the pull of this lifestyle always draws me back, as it does
you. Not only the possible rewards but also the thrills are unmatched by
any other pastime."

Otto's grin is toothy, hungry. "How very true." They're well out of earshot of
the workmen by now, and have turned the corner past a massive stack of
crates, so there's no chance of anyone lip-reading, either. "You're quite
correct, of course. I do have something in the works. The details are
still falling into place." He chuckles. "Did you know that the Hobgoblin
is in town? And a young man who possesses the powers of the Sandman." He
pauses beat and adds, sardonically, "And has the same lack of wit,
unfortunately."

Adrian chuckles. "What goes around, comes around. We are the product of our own
environments, after all. But let us cut to the chase, Otto. Is this
project of yours a solo affair? Or could you use my skills and talents?"

The pair of tentacles closest to the old man form a loose arc around behind
him, and Octavius continues to grin. "Oh, this will be /quite/ a large
party, my old friend. It will bring the city to its knees in terror."

"Excellent." The word comes in a sibilant whisper from Adrian, for all that it
contains not a single S or F. "Are all those you named involved also?"

Otto puffs on his cigar. "The Hobgoblin's in. I haven't extended an offer to
our Sandman lookalike yet, since I'm still not entirely sure of his
professionalism."

Adrian takes a few paces to one side, turns, and walks back, deep in thought.
"Consider me also interested," he eventually says. "I trust my
professionalism is /not/ under any shadow."

Otto's friendly smile has an oily edge to it. "Never, my friend, never."

Adrian's smile in return is equally ambivalent. "Then say the word when you are
ready," he says. "Some idea of what nature of plan this is would not go
amiss."

Otto takes another drag, slowly, seeming to consider this for a moment; as he
does so, each of his four extra arms rears up, stretching like awakening
cobras. Then he gives his head a beckoning jerk and starts walking to the
back of the warehouse, toward a door marked, quite plainly, with the word
"Office."

Adrian frowns in the direction of the "Office", or perhaps it's at Ock. But he
follows.

Otto heads through the door into what appears to be exactly what it seems --
the disorganized, cramped office of a ill-used warehouse. There's nothing
that suggests that scientific genius is ever at work here, or that
anything other than shipping manifests is ever stored. Once Toomes is
inside, Octavius shuts the door with one tentacle and, with another,
removes a palm-sized device from his coat pocket and sets it in the
middle of the cluttered desk before switching it on. "No need to tempt
the rabble," Ock comments, smiling thinly.

Adrian eyes the device. "Scrambler," he says. Not a question, a statement. "I
could make one half the size."

The dark glasses prevent one from seeing the way Ock's eyes narrow, though his
smile takes on a brittle edge. There's a second in which he might respond
to the implication that Toomes could do /anything/ better than Doctor
Otto Octavius... and then the moment passes. "As I said earlier, I plan
to bring this city to its knees. Its people have, by and large, forgotten
that there is more out there than petty criminals and overbearing
do-gooders. They bleat in contented complacency. They've forgotten
/fear/."

A slow and less than pleasant smile spreads over the Vulture's lined face. "You
can say that again," he agrees. "They think they can be so /cosy/.
Sitting around in their little everyday lives doing little everyday
things... So this is no simple financial raid," he concludes, "nor a
revenge job. This is just supervillainy for the sake of it. Its purest
and noblest form."

Otto settles into the battered leather chair behind the desk, making the
springs squeak. He grins. "Precisely. Though there'll be plenty of
revenge to be had, when our sanctimonious opposites attempt..." He
chuckles briefly. "/Attempt/ to strike back."

Adrian's smile becomes a little crueler. "Let them try," he says in a
fate-tempting manner.

"Oh, they'll try," Octavius says confidently. "The Avengers, the X-Men, every
eager idiot in a costume in addition to our good friends at S.H.I.E.L.D.
All rushing in to save the day and deal with the nefarious forces of
darkness." He chuckles again, thickly. "And as soon as they do, they'll
be as helpless as lambs."

"And like lambs, one presumes," Adrian states, "they will be herded to the
slaughter and turned into packages of ground round. Of course," he says
thoughtfully, "we need to have a /solid/ plan to ensure that this
happens?" He looks to Otto confidently, as though expecting reassurance.

Otto finishes another drag off his cigar and exhales a ring of smoke. "I
/always/ have a solid plan," he says. "You of all people should know
that, Toomes." And a hard note in his voice suggests that it would /not/
be a good idea for the other criminal to bring up past failures. "The way
I will arrange things, our people will have all the advantage, and theirs
none. They will crawl and flail like kittens, while we... we fly and
strike like falcons."

Adrian brings up no such failures; perhaps he's too respectful of Otto, or
perhaps he's too aware that he also has a string of them behind him. But
the last word elicits a snort from him. "Falcon? Pah. An overrated bird.
Supposedly noble and fierce, but trapped and used as a tool by hunters
and nobles for centuries. Now the vulture..."

"Heh," says Octavius. "Of course, of course. But you get the idea."

Adrian subsides into a mutter and nods. "I get the idea. But I am still waiting
for /tangibles/, Otto. I am too old to jump feet-first into someone
else's plan -- even yours -- without tangibles."


[What, you think I'd the secret out /that/ easily? >B) Details of plans snipped.]


Adrian nods, the movement making his silhouette against the wall bob like a
great bird. "Many years ago," he reminisces, "I studied mathematics as a
precursor to my specialization in engineering. Probability theory teaches
us that when viewed as part of a set, any given event with a fifty per
cent chance of occurring has only a twenty-five percent chance of
occurring twice consecutively...and so on. Of course this instance is not
so simplistic, but I think you take my point. The Avengers, Spider-Man
and his sneering do-gooder friends... are overdue for a failure. A big
failure. And with me aboard your plan," he concludes, "the percentages
have been given another nudge in the direction of evil."

Otto's hungry, vile grin displays many teeth. He levers himself to his feet and
extends a hand to the old bird. "I agree. It is a /pleasure/ to have you
on board, my friend."

Adrian's hand clasps Ottos and squeezes with a firmness that belies his age. "I
shall go home now," he states, "and take from my secret hiding place my
harness and wings. Make sure they're tuned up and working perfectly. The
Vulture flies again."