Chapter Text
“Is there anything you would like to share with the group, Max?”
The monster that sat in the pit of his stomach coiled itself tighter at the words. He felt like an alien wearing his own skin every time he heard it, it just wasn’t right but he couldn’t explain how or why. The only thing keeping him from clawing at himself and digging out the beast within him was the stupid suit he had to wear.
“Nope,” he knew what she wanted him to say, “Not a thing, Doc.” He knew and he wouldn’t say it. Not when she addressed him like that. Not when her attempts at ‘healing’ would only strip him bare and take what little dignity he had left. She planned to expose his every flaw, every scratch and scrape and scar as if handing that information on a silver platter to a group of madmen wouldn’t be equivalent to handing the serial killer in the room a loaded gun. She wanted him to pour his heart out and replace the contents.
Dr. Kafka stared at him, unimpressed. She did that often. It was the type of stare that parents gave their children when the kid was trying to blame a mess on their imaginary friend. Or when a teenager comes home late obviously drunk. The “I’m not mad, just disappointed” look. It was a look that Electro was very familiar with even before Dr. Kafka tried to use it as some sort of guilt trip.
He didn’t hear what she said next but it seemed she understood that he wasn’t going to answer honestly to anything else she asked. It wasn’t as if he could escape the questioning altogether, so she moved on. It was Dr. Octavius—who was once again playing the “redeemed supervillain” role and insisted he was only called by his “proper name” as he had described it—who spoke next, describing an epiphany he had had the night before. It was an act, Electro hoped at least, but a damn good one at that. The Doc was committed.
Ock’s epiphany he claimed to have was about just that, his name and acting. He said that, “Mr. Osborn was the first person to call me Doctor Octopus. I-it was demeaning at the time but after the accident…” He trailed off. He had been doing that a lot recently. Overly thoughtful with his words. “After the accident, I wanted him to know that he was at fault for who- for what I had become. I-I used the name he called me to- to remind him a-and to shove the blame for everything I had done onto him.” He talked with his hands, “And I wanted him to feel as- as powerless as I did when I worked for him so I...I put up the front he did, played the monster that he acted like and...the one he ended up being…”
It was bullshit. It had to be complete bullshit. Electro knew damn well that Doc never would’ve accepted being anything like Osborn. He and Toomes had ranted to each other in front of the group more than enough times to make that quite clear. He was just trying to gain the trust of the Ravencroft personnel so whatever escape he surely had planned would be easier. Electro just wished that Doc would tell him about whatever it was.
The rest of the group session blurred together. They had the tendency to do that. Electro didn’t take much pleasure in listening to Kasady talk and didn’t want to think about Eddie more than what was necessary. At least that Chameleon guy told stories when it was his turn to talk which tended to be interesting enough. From what Electro could piece together about the guy, he either had one of the most interesting lives possible or the most painfully boring one and was just generally really fucked up in a very em>normal way. However, the paper-white mask—he certainly hoped it was a mask—he wore heavily suggested that it was the former.
So Electro waited and tried to keep himself from falling asleep—aside from the fact that he’d get berated for it, he didn’t want to make it even more difficult for him to sleep that night. Staring out the window helped. He’d watch people pass by, completely unaware or uncaring of the handful of monsters sitting just a few meters away at any given moment. It was strange, being so close to the outside world and to actual people yet so completely detached. What was stranger was that no one else in the group seemed to care all that much. They were all too caught up in their own problems to give a damn about the isolation.
Dr. Kafka stood. Electro’s eyes darted to the clock and–Ah, the torture technique known as group therapy was over. Oh, how the time flies when disconnected from reality. Nevertheless, one torture ended and another began.
It really was impossible to decide which part of the day was the worst. Absolutely all of it sucked.