Unreasonable Addiction
Chapter 3: Confrontation
By Yumegari and LRH (Beta-read by Skylanth)
The alarm went off, shrill and strident enough to wake up a heavy sleeper, which Clair intermittently was. She set aside her ignored book and went back to the lab, aware that this pattern was going to get tiresome.
Frank looked up at her with a soft brrrt sound as she entered the lab, but his was the only movement, as the couch's occupant still snored away softly. She decided not to wake him if she could avoid it, drawing the dose quietly and kneeling next to the couch. She took his right arm, as she had before, and slid the needle in.
The fingers of his right hand curled, but what was more alarming was the fingers of his left hand finding themselves around her throat in the blink of an eye. He stared at her, eyes unfocussed, before he slowly came to the present. His hand released its grip. "Don't do that," he said.
She held very still for a moment until her heart fell back out of her throat. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I didn't want to wake you. You need the sleep."
He sighed and looked away. "I'm not a very heavy sleeper," he muttered. "Either way I'll be woken up."
"I'll remember that," she assured him, rubbing her throat. She still held the syringe, its contents undelivered. She lifted it towards him. "May I?"
"Mm," he said, nodding. He seemed to already be fighting sleep again. The cat watched her with his one eye.
She made the injection quickly. "I'm going to make dinner," she said, standing up and tossing the needle away. "Do you want some? I have better options than soup and pickles, and I won't burn it this time."
"Mmm," he said again, nodding again, his eyes closed. Part of him wondered why he was so sleepy all of the sudden. Was it the injections? The purring cat? The fact that things tired him so easily these last few days? The fact that sleep presented a better alternative to lurching and shuffling about one-handed? Six arms reduced to one.
At least she knew not to poke him with needles in his sleep any more.
She was about to ask him another question when the garage door rattled, announcing the arrival of her house-mate and boyfriend. She fought down a bout of panic as she heard his car stop and his door slam, and she ducked out of the lab with a final "Not a sound," directed equally at Octavius and Frank, shutting the door firmly behind her.
"Hey, welcome home?" she said to Brandon, her face carefully surprised. "You're home early."
He gave her an odd look. "Did you lose your cell phone? Some guy, some Agent Lynley's been calling for you all day. Wouldn't tell me what it's about, but he wants you to call him back. Sounded pretty angry. He's left like a dozen messages."
"I just had it turned off," she said, pulling it out of her pocket now and turning it on. "Listen, I've got an experiment running in the lab. I need to get back to it. Could you make dinner? I'm starving for something stir-fry."
"After I grade my papers, 'kay?" he said, smiling indulgently. "You're not making another Franken-Kitty, are you? One's enough, don't you think?"
"No worries," she said, going back to the lab, slipping through the door and shutting it firmly behind her.
Frank looked at her again as she entered the lab, but Octavius merely made some kind of a muffled "Mmfh..." sound and shifted sleepily.
She turned the door's little lock and went over to turn on the TV in the corner. Quietly, but enough to excuse any noises Octavius might make. "Now what?" she asked Frank. The cat merely squinted at her and twitched his ears contentedly before laying his head on Octavius's shoulder and apparently falling asleep.
She had known that Brandon would be coming home, but she'd expected him to stay on campus for another four hours, at least. All her plans today had been made on the fly, none of them well-thought out, but she had counted on having to actively hide Octavius for as few hours as possible. Brandon generally avoided her lab as if it were the principal's office, but he did occasionally feel the need to explore in there.
All around him spread a huge library, its walls bearing shelves of books up to the ceilings. Several more standing shelves adorning the silent landscape like standing stones in a Celtic monument. All was quiet, light filtering in through high windows, illuminating dust specks in the air. A mosaic of gold and muted colours covered the floor, but he couldn't quite tell what it represented, if anything.
It didn't matter. A desk piled high with books loomed before him and, as he drew closer, he could see them a little more clearly, enough to tell they were terribly old. His interest was piques immediately, and he circled round the desk to sit in the high-backed leather chair behind it. His actuators curled round him, draping downward to rest on the floor. He reached out and picked up one of the books, and could feel the leather binding under his fingers, see the warm light shine on the gilt edges. He opened it, scanned over a full-page illustration, a woodcut print of an octopus of all things, and focused on the text-
One actuator shot forward and tore the book from his startled hands, another joining it to shred the tome to pieces. He scowled in irritation. There must be some kind of a malfunction. He concentrated harder on their position in space, letting it come to bearing in his mind, and picked up another book.
They didn't even wait for him to open it this time before yanking it away and tearing it to pieces. Desperately, he reached for a third. They beat him to it and shredded that one, too. Paper scraps floated around him as he leaned forward, reaching with only his left hand this time, seeing the actuators dive into the stacks of books and destroy them, their sharp claws rending paper and wood, leather and cloth, scraps and pieces surrounding him in a dizzy flurry, the shelves and walls and windows darkening, fading into the distance-
His eyes flew open and he gasped, his left hand reaching out before he could stop it. But the dream had fled and he found himself staring at the ceiling of Clair's back-room lab, his hand reached out ridiculously. Slowly, catching his breath, he curled the fingers and pulled his arm inward again.
Clair looked over from her perch on a high stool where she was watching TV, then jumped down and came over to his side. "Are you in pain?" she asked in a near silent whisper, glancing at the door.
"No," he breathed, still breathing hard. "No, I'm all right." He looked at her, a little confused at the worried expression on her face.
She interpreted his confusion. "My boyfriend is home early. I didn't expect him for another couple of hours. Obviously, he doesn't know that you're here, and I'd like to keep it that way."
"Boyfriend, hm?" he murmured. He smiled an odd, inscrutable smile, and closed his eyes again. "I'll try not to bring the place down, then," he mumbled drily.
"Don't fall back to sleep," she cautioned. "We've got another injection in about ten-"
"Hey!" interrupted Brandon's voice from outside the locked door. "Dinner's ready, if you haven't forgotten that you need food, too." It sounded like an old argument, and was followed by retreating footsteps.
Otto watched her through lidded eyes, one eyebrow raised.
She shrugged, "I'll be right back," she whispered, and unlocked the door, slipping through it. She served herself a plate of the stir fry and grabbed a fork, before nodding a thanks to Brandon.
"What, you're not going to eat out here with me?" he asked, mocking hurt.
"You don't want me to," she improvised. "I'm doing grey-matter experiments and I didn't wash my hands."
"Uck," he said delicately. "Get back to your lair, you. Begone."
She smiled and took the plate back to her lab, balancing it on one hand to open the door just enough to get by. Octavius watched her do this, as did the cat who had, in that presumptuous manner of cats everywhere, curled up on his chest. He didn't appear to mind the cat's presence, though as he ignored it and watched Clair squeeze her way back into the room, instead. She cleared a space for the plate on the end of the table nearest the couch, shoving a heap of papers higher onto a shelf on the wall. She set the fork on Octavius's side of the plate and retreated back to her stool, apparently interested in the show that was nearly over on the tv. "Oh, don't eat much," she cautioned quietly, turning back. "You're going under today, remember."
He felt the vaguest stab of annoyance at her blase attitude, but didn't have much energy to pursue it any further than that. Instead, he heaved himself up off the couch, his hair in a disheveled tangle around his head and shoulders, and found a chair , pushing it in front of the table and sitting on it. The TV caught his gaze as he slipped a forkful of stir-fry into his mouth and chewed carefully.
Out in the hallway, the phone rang suddenly. They could hear Brandon answer it, and then suddenly, before Clair could reach it, the door swung open. "Clair," he said, looking around for her in the clutter. "It's for ... Who the hell are you?"
Octavius stopped, a fork-full lifted to his face. Instinct would be to silence this "Brandon," but there was nothing to silence him with. No actuators. He dropped the fork, pushed his hands against the table, and stood, the chair scraping backward. His eyes fixed on the man with the phone in his hand.
Clair pushed forward, getting between the two. "Brandon, don't do anything. He's just a patient." But Brandon wasn't listening. A look of horror had come over his face. "It's that, that freak from New York," he said, reaching out to grab her and pull her behind him. "The guy you're hiding from." He was shorter by a handspan than Octavius, and softly built, but he stood defiantly between them. Clair hit him on the arm.
"He's been here all afternoon, you idiot," she insisted. "He's not going to hurt me, and if he were, he would have done it by now."
Octavius stared at this young man. A hard, angry stare. He remained motionless and could almost feel the actuators that would have snaked ceaselessly around him. But he could still stare.
Brandon backed up, pushing Clair out of the room. "Get out of here, Clair," he said gruffly, not taking his eyes off of Octavius. Apparently remembering the phone in his hand, he brought it up to his face. "Agent Lynley, could you please call the police? Dr. Oc-"
Clair yelped and grabbed the phone from his hand, yanking the cord out. "You moron!" she seethed at Brandon. "I told you, he's a patient! He's not going to hurt me!"
Had this not been such a grave situation, had he been a lighter-hearted individual, Octavius would have snickered at the fact that this Brandon just didn't seem to get it. A strange sort of calm came over him and he sat back down again, carefully, and resumed eating. The Agent Lynley who had been on the phone didn't seem to matter very much, and it looked as though Clair was perfectly capable of handling the situation with her boyfriend. He ordinarily would have been long gone with a trail of bodies behind him by now. It made him wonder what else this new condition he was in had changed.
Brandon stared back and forth between Octavius and Clair, puzzled. "What's going on?" he asked Clair, not relaxing his guard towards the dark doctor. She scowled at him and tried to push past him back into the lab.
"He came to me to ask for help. I'm a doctor, Brandon, I couldn't tell him that I wouldn't help him."
"Why you?" Brandon asked. He turned to Octavius. "Why Clair? Why'd you come all the way out here? Aren't there any doctors in New York? And how'd you find her, anyway?"
"Because she's done it before, because she's the only one who's done it, yes, but none who have her knowledge, and the morning news," came the slow reply as he picked up the abandoned fork-full. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."
Brandon looked hopelessly lost now, but he let Clair past at last. "Get out of here," she told him when he continued to just stand there and stare. "It's time for the next injection," she said to Octavius, getting the vial and a new needle, filling the former. "I don't suppose you know how to find a vein? You could do this yourself."
He looked up at her with an expression that clearly said, You have got to be kidding me. Then that expression cleared and he shifted his gaze to the needle and vial. "I haven't tried." He reached up to pluck the syringe from her hands, regarding it. Then he shifted his attention to his right arm, which lay on the table as though it belonged to someone else. Doggedly, he rolled the sleeve again and peered at the faint tracery of blue lines he saw.
She grabbed the tools back. "If you haven't tried, this is not the stuff to practice with. You don't want a plasminogen activator in your muscle tissue, if you miss." She drew the dose and made the injection quickly, soothing the agitated site with her thumb.
She looked over her shoulder at Brandon, who hadn't moved. "Was that really Agent Lynley on the phone?"
He nodded dumbly, and she sighed deeply through her nose, anxiety creasing her forehead.
Octavius took a deep breath, blowing out the irritation he felt at such treatment. Honestly, that was why he detested doctors so much. The name caught his ear. "Who's Agent Lynley?" he asked.
"He's my liaison with Witness Protection," she said. "It's his job to make sure I'm safe, secure, and secret." The words had the slightly sarcastic air of the oft-repeated.
It didn't sound all that mundane to Octavius. "He knows where you live. And that interrupted telephone conversation is bound to arouse his suspicions."
"I know," she said, focusing on tidying up a corner of the table. "I'm trying to figure out what to do. I need my lab, but this is the first place he's going to come check on me." She scowled at Brandon. "And he's going to bring backup."
Backup did not sound good. A fleeting thought, I could kill them all, flitted through his mind before he squashed it. Fool. Without your actuators, how for would you get? Without use of even two of your own limbs, how far would you get? He stood again and for the first time in the face of normal, pathetic law enforcement, he felt afraid. He backed up and his right leg very nearly spilled him onto the floor had he not grabbed the table. There had to be something here he could use as a weapon. Something - his gaze darted about the room.
Clair tried to consider their options. She could call Lynley back, tell him that it was just a misunderstanding, no danger, certainly no Dr. Octavius in her lab. But the chances of him not coming to check anyway were slim. They could leave, run for it, and then come back... She shook her head. This was bad. And there was no time.
He watched her think. He watched her boyfriend stare. The television droned quietly in the background and one of the cats meowed. What was there to do? What could possibly be done in such a short amount of time? Think, Otto, think! You've easily outmaneuvered thornier situations than this. You've evaded capture, you've escaped with your skin intact and your plans in place. Do now what you did then! You are Doctor Octopus, and...
No, I'm not.
The realization came to him slowly, easily, almost anticlimactically. Doctor Octopus was an inscrutable, untouchable being, unnatural metal tentacles capable of anything.
But there were no tentacles now. There was no power of mystery and untouchability. There was only a man with muddled thoughts and two dead limbs. As though he'd woken up from a dream of power only to remember confining reality. His gaze returned to Clair.
"Come on," she said decisively. "We can't stay here. We'll have to go somewhere else until Brandon can get rid of Lynley." She glared significantly at her boyfriend. "Which he is going to do as quickly as he can."
"What?" Brandon sputtered. "Why would I?"
"Because this is your fault! If you hadn't barged into my lab like I've told you not to do a million times, I wouldn't be in this mess!"
"My fault?" he shouted back. "You're the one helping the guy who sent you into hiding in the first place. Have you gone crazy, Clair?"
"The FBI sent me into hiding, not him. He gave me his word that he wouldn't hurt me, and I believed him. I still do. If that's not good enough for you, how about the fact that he can hardly stand up? He's hurt, Brandon. I'm going to help him no matter what. I'm the only one who can."
"No, you're not," he insisted. "Any neurologist could repair the damage from a stroke. That's why you never handle them in the hospital, you told me."
"Anyone could repair the superficial damage enough to let the brain heal on its own. That's not good enough." Her eyes darted unintentionally to the chemical storage freezer on the wall with the cages, the one with a print-out of a comical zombie taped to its door, and he saw it.
"You're going to use that on him?" he asked, incredulous. "But that's... You were ordered to suspend human testing after the first time, you said. I thought you got in a lot of trouble for that first report."
"It's the only thing that can repair the damage that he keeps doing to himself," she said defensively. "The human brain isn't designed-"
He cut her off, looking at her as though she were insane. "Clair, he's a criminal. And you're helping him. I know you get locked into the doctor-patient mind-set, but I can't believe you're forgetting this."
"I'm not forgetting anything," she said coldly. "Now this is important, Brandon. Stay quiet. I'm going to try and get Lynley off our case..." She picked up the phone cord and plugged it back in. The instrument rang almost immediately.
She let it ring twice before answering it, holding Brandon's gaze. "Hello?"
"Clair? Clair, what's going on? What did I hear when I called a minute ago?" She could hear traffic and a radio that hissed and squawked out occasional words. "I'm on my way over there with the police. Is Octavius there?"
"What?" she said, confusion in her voice. She wasn't a spectacular actress, but she was hopefully good enough. "What? No. Why would he be here? He doesn't even know I'm here, does he?"
"Clair, Brandon just told me to call the police, and that Doctor Octavius was there." He sounded very serious. "Is he there, and you can't talk about it? If so, say that nothing is wrong."
"It's just me and Brandon here," she said earnestly. "And some neighbor kid who brought his dog for me to look at. I think Brandon's just on edge. And drunk. I'm really sorry he sent a false alarm. You don't need to come."
"My partner and I are coming anyway," he said firmly. "I still have to talk to you about that newscast yesterday, and I'll check the situation out."
"Eh. That," she said guiltily. "They ambushed me in the hospital. There was nothing I could do. You really don't need to come for that. It won't happen again."
I'm just worrying about you," he said. "It's my job. We'll be there in about ten minutes. Just us, no police."
"Alright," she said reluctantly. They both said goodbye, and she hung up, sighing.
Still leaning against the table, Octavius searched her gaze. "What did he say?" he asked.
"He's still coming," she said crossly. "But I don't think he's bringing the police. He just wants to check on the situation."
Breathing became difficult. "And what will he find, I wonder?" He looked about the room again.
"Not you," she assured him. "We've got to get you out of here until he's gone. We've got about ten minutes." She looked out the window, down the steep slope that her house was built on. "You can hide down there," she said, pointing to the brush-filled empty lot below hers.
Hide. The very thought of hiding caused anger to flare. He did not hide from people, people hid from him! He turned from the view out the window to look back at her and it seemed, for an instant, that his old presence had returned. That still lurking within the shell of a damaged body was the creature who towered over all, impassive. Cold. Lethal. He pulled in a breath to speak. Lifted a hand.
It wasn't the hand he wanted and it barely moved at all, bringing reality crashing in and deflating that moment of presence. He glared at it, a growl rumbling quietly in this throat. Anger directed at her became anger directed at fate. At himself. How could he have been so weak as to allow this to happen to himself? He looked out the window again. He would stand and fight. He would take what was his.
He would hide. The pragmatic decision undercut the anger and pride. Survival first and hiding stood the best chance of guaranteeing survival. There was no arguing with that. He sighed, deflating. "Very well."
"We're not hiding him," protested Brandon. "Come on, Clair. Be reasonable. Turn him in. The testing will be done eventually, and you can help him then, if it's that important to you."
Octavius' gaze came to rest on Brandon and his loud, slightly panicked voice. Finally, he found something he could center his anger on. A target that slipped neatly into his sights. He picked up his walking stick and made his way slowly toward him until he stood over the other, looking down at him. He spoke slowly and deliberately to keep back the slurring that had been growing steadily worse. He kept his gaze fixed on the other's face the entire time he spoke. "Listen to me, you impudent, bleating child. I barely tolerate such treatment as I have so far received from Doctor Holmes. I will not. Tolerate it. From. You. Silence yourself."
Brandon balled his fists. "I'm not afraid of you. I don't know what hold you have over Clair and I don't like it. I want you out of here, and I want you locked up."
Clair grimaced. "Brandon, this isn't smart."
The stick was transferred to his right hand, which gripped it carefully. Its weight reminded him of something, vaguely. These slow, considered movements, though, were followed by the striking out of his left hand, quick as thought, to close around Brandon's throat. "You should be," he hissed into the other's face. "It is, you'll agree, the wisest choice for your continued survival."
Brandon's eyes spread wide as he worked for air. Clair leapt forward and pulled at Octavius's hand, shouting. "Let him go! Please, don't hurt him." Octavius stopped and looked down at her hand pulling at his. But his grip didn't loosen. Neither did it tighten. He looked at her hand and then at her. "Please, let go," she pleaded, frightened. Brandon struggled violently, pulling back from Octavius. With a startled gasp, he found his balance shifted to his right side, which didn't bear his weight at all, and his leg buckled, sending him toppling forward, releasing Brandon and slamming painfully onto the floor.
Brandon stumbled, then caught himself. Before Clair could stop him, he drew one foot back and kicked Octavius. He was aiming for his head, but Clair shoved him desperately and knocked his aim off, so it was Octavius' shoulder that received the blow. "No!" Clair shouted, grabbing his arm before he could do more. The entire situation was spinning out of her control.
Every moment he regretted more and more his decision to come here without his actuators. His left shoulder ached now, which interfered with the movement of his good arm. Nevertheless, he hauled himself up into a sitting position, out for blood now, his hair hanging about his face and his teeth bared. A thought occured, a memory, and he looked down at the cane.
Brandon pulled away from Clair, pushing her away, behind him. "You're pathetic," he coughed, clearing his throat. "I can't believe that Clair's been hiding from you all these years. You can't even stand up."
Clair had never noticed the silver ring around the head of Octavius' cane until he braced it with his leg against the floor, grasped the top with his good hand, and pulled, the top coming free and revealing, of all things, a sword. He stood, pushing against the wall, and raised it, still panting. "We'll see how pathetic I am..." he grated.
Clair could only stare at the weapon, which seemed so entirely out of place in this setting as to be nearly unrecognizable. Brandon reared back, his face twisting with anger and fear. "You see, Clair?" he said slowly, watching the sword tip like mongoose watches a snake. "He's got to be put away. He's not one of your cats that you can just experiment on. He's a murderer."
"Have you ever stopped to wonder why that is, you impertinent whelp?" Octavius panted.
Brandon looked up, past the sword to Octavius. "Because you're insane."
Clair hissed a breath in through her teeth. This was not going to end well.
Octavius went white, but strangely calm. The sword tip came up, inexorably pressing toward Brandon's throat. "You really are a very stupid boy," Octavius said almost contemplatively. "In the face of certain death you still stand there, undefended, and toss out insults. Still you persist in your willful ignorance. If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is willful ignorance," he finished with a growl, pushing the sword forward further.
Brandon paled as the sword tip drew blood, his hands clenching and opening at his sides, but otherwise he stood completely still until Clair pulled him back by the shoulders. He was larger than she was, they both were, but she stepped between them, pushing Brandon away. "Brandon, just shut up," she warned him, her voice shaking. "Octavius, please. He's just an idiot-"
"Do you see what I mean, Clair?" Brandon shouted. "He's a freak, a dangerous freak, and I don't want him anywhere near you."
That was the last straw. With a vicious snarl, Octavius swung, the sword drawing a gash across Brandon's shoulder and chest. His hair fell forward even further, covering part of his face as he swayed to regain his balance.
Clair screamed as Brandon fell back, clutching the wound. She was at his side instantly, lowering him to sit on the floor. But as soon as the gash proved to be shallow, despite its length, she slapped him across the face.
He looked up at her, shocked. "What the fuck?" he asked succinctly.
"I don't belong to you," she hissed, offended. "It's not up to you to make any decisions about who I help. This whole thing was going just fine until you burst in!"
"Hey, he tried to kill me," protested Brandon, pointing past her at Octavius with a bloody hand.
"Only because you called him a freak!" she shouted. "Never call anyone that!"
"But he is one!"
"Leave off, Brandon," she said, her voice suddenly low. "He's not going to hurt me, but I'm going to hurt you if you don't shut up. You don't know anything about him."
"Oh, and you do?" he retorted. "You spent one day with him years ago and you're an expert? I've read that report, Clair. I know what that freak-"
"You don't know anything!" she shouted, furious. "Get out!" She tried to shove him bodily out the door, which was right behind him, but he resisted.
"I'm not going to leave you alone with him, Clair," he insisted stubbornly, standing up. He winced at the movement's pull on the gash, but his face was set and belligerent. "Come on, I'm going to call the police."
Leaning back against the wall, the sword still in his hand, Octavius lifted his right hand and pushed almost nerveless fingers through his hair, letting the hand drop again. He seemed to remember the word "freak" was an insult that brought out the worst in Clair. However, he noted, looking down at the blood on his sword, she wasn't alone.
It has been the first time he'd ever actually used this thing. He couldn't even remember where he'd acquired it, possibly back in the days before lucidity had taken a vacation. The days of gentility. He only vaguely remembered those days. He looked up at Clair again.
She was breathing heavily, staring up at Brandon. "If you don't get out of my house right now," she said darkly. "I am going to have to work very hard to keep from killing you myself."
He looked back at her. "Clair, you're not thinking straight."
"Don't tell me how I'm thinking!" she screamed back. "Stop telling me how I'm supposed to think!"
Brandon shot a glance at Octavius. "We're leaving," he said to Clair, and then he picked her up bodily, meaning to drag her out of the house. She shrieked in rage, pulled back, and punched him square in the temple, and he dropped like a stone.
Octavius watched these events, still panting, and a smile crossed his face as he let out a quiet heh.
