ironforgedrp

[soulscursed]

penned by  @deathchasing —

❛ you inspire me to be better! a better “what” is up for interpretation. (person? arsonist? alien?) ❜ 

there are few things that the doctor deems worthy of attention outside of his work, and beyond the pristine and hallowed walls of his laboratory. Attention worthy, a junkie is not.

A common story of attention-starved adolescence giving way to adulthood oppositional disorders and deviancy, and a predictable result of paternal failings — perhaps. But credit must be given where it is due. Octane's defiance, carved from such trivial deprivations, is nothing if not persevering.

When pestering Caustic throughout their few shared matches was not enough, Octane had set his sights beyond the arena. Caustic rarely leaves his lab unattended; it had been locked tight before the match, with little else of interest but a singular, innocuous gradual reaction left to run its gradual course securely in his absence.

He was not anxious — not like some paranoiacs amongst them, so self-important as to make productions of fortifying themselves behind steel walls and security protocols. But he was vigilant, as any academic with delicate projects should be.

Despite it all, there was Octavio Silva, grinning widely from where he'd perched on one of the lab's stools to await its overseer's return. Giddy with pride at his successful break-in, and perfectly oblivious to his unwanted presence, he peers across the room at Caustic expectantly.

Impractical a man as Silva was ( a child, really. ), even he has his own well-practised methodologies. His specialities lay less in the applied sciences, and more in deriving pleasure from poking and prodding at his colleagues. A goal without purpose, at first glance. But one needed little data about Silva to know that, for him, attention proved as effective a drug as adrenaline.

Regardless of the facts, some Legends proved more receptive to Silva's techniques than others. And as much as Caustic minded his personal property, he was not among them. He would not reward misconduct with the sort of outburst Octane sought. But, he supposes, a compliment warrants a response.

( After all, Miss Nox did not raise an uncivilised vagrant. )

" And yet. Given the source of your inspirations, your ambitions prove... "

The words sour his tongue, curling thin lips into a sneer that remains unseen beneath the mask. " ... rather lacking. "

He scans the laboratory for something amiss. Nothing out of place or visibly broken. Small mercies — though it does little to ease the doctor's weariness. Even under close scrutiny, men like Octane have their ways of leaving unscrupulous messes behind them, left unseen to fester until the grisly consequences bloom.

" Well ? I don't suppose you broke into my property just to sing my praises. "

Perhaps too much credit. It was likely Octane enlisted help for the actual break-in. Even more likely that he'd pawned the dirty work off on whoever ended up becoming his little helper. Caustic files away a mental reminder to find names — they must be dealt with, properly.