Otto Octavius's Questionnaire

I live in Brooklyn, New York. Not the shiny side with glass towers and brunch spots, but the olderstreets where the rent is just low enough to welcome ambition and a little clutter. I live here because it’s close to the university where I lecture occasionally, and because it’s a place where a man can disappear into his work without drawing too much attention. My home is a converted brownstone. The top floor’s mine, and I’ve rigged the basement into a lab. There’s exposed brick, metal shelving, and half finished schematics scattered everywhere. It’s more workshop than living space. Practical, private, and cold enough to keep my tools from warping. It suits me. I don’t need much else.

My ambition is simple: to usher the world into a new technological age. Not inch by inch, but in leaps so vast they redefine what it means to be human. We stand at the edge of something unprecedented. Machines that think with us, not for us. Tools that extend the reach of human will and precision beyond the limits of flesh. I believe the old ways; the politics, the committees, the caution are holding us back. I’m not here to wait. I’m here to build. I will go as far as I have to. If that means breaking laws, severing ties, or spilling blood, so be it. I won’t flinch. If I must risk my life to prove this vision is real, I will. Great revolutions don’t come from playing it safe. They come from fire, steel, and sacrifice.

The most defining moment of my life was the successful interface between my neural system and the mechanical arms. I had been developing them for years. At first, as a solution for industrial applications, then for medical use, then... something more personal. The moment they moved with my thought, not by remote or command, but as extensions of my will; I knew everything had changed. It wasn’t just a breakthrough in science. It was evolution. That success showed me the truth: limitations are a choice. The body, the laws, even ethics, they’re scaffolding for the weak. The arms didn’t just make me stronger. They stripped away the last of my hesitation. I saw clearly what I could become. What the world must become.

There’s Dr. Elias Kurtz, my former mentor. He was the one who first recognized my potential, and was the one who pushed me to refine my theories and sharpen my ideas. For a while, he was the voice I trusted most. But Elias lives by limits. He worships the approval of institutions and fears anything that moves too fast. When I showed him the first working model of the arms, he didn’t congratulate me, he warned me. Told me I was going too far. That was the last time we spoke. I didn’t need a leash. I needed freedom.

Then there’s Lydia Moren. Lydia is different. Thoughtful. Patient. She sees people, not just problems. We met at a symposium years ago, and somehow, despite our differences, we kept orbiting each other. She believes in the betterment of mankind; I believe in its transformation. Still, she listens. She’s the one I’m closest to, though I’ve never said it aloud. I don’t want her involved… but part of me wants her to understand.

Lastly, there’s Randall Bloom. A liaison, a paper-pusher, the kind of man who sees science as product. He helps keep the grant money flowing, but his questions are becoming more pointed. He’s trying to understand what I’m building, but he doesn’t have the vocabulary, the vision. When he finally realizes this isn’t about quarterly reports or military contracts, he’ll panic. I’m not sure yet if I’ll need to silence him, or if he’ll try to stop me first.

There’s Dr. Elias Kurtz, my former mentor. He was the one who first recognized my potential, and was the one who pushed me to refine my theories and sharpen my ideas. For a while, he was the voice I trusted most. But Elias lives by limits. He worships the approval of institutions and fears anything that moves too fast. When I showed him the first working model of the arms, he didn’t congratulate me, he warned me. Told me I was going too far. That was the last time we spoke. I didn’t need a leash. I needed freedom.

Then there’s Lydia Moren. Lydia is different. Thoughtful. Patient. She sees people, not just problems. We met at a symposium years ago, and somehow, despite our differences, we kept orbiting each other. She believes in the betterment of mankind; I believe in its transformation. Still, she listens. She’s the one I’m closest to, though I’ve never said it aloud. I don’t want her involved… but part of me wants her to understand.

Lastly, there’s Randall Bloom. A liaison, a paper-pusher, the kind of man who sees science as product. He helps keep the grant money flowing, but his questions are becoming more pointed. He’s trying to understand what I’m building, but he doesn’t have the vocabulary, the vision. When he finally realizes this isn’t about quarterly reports or military contracts, he’ll panic. I’m not sure yet if I’ll need to silence him, or if he’ll try to stop me first.

I was, once. Her name was Claire. We met during my early years as a postdoc. She was studying molecular chemistry, sharp as a blade and just as quick to cut through my arrogance. She challenged me, called out my blind spots, but never with cruelty. There was a time I thought I could build a life with her. We'd spend long nights arguing over science, ethics, the future. She believed in people. I believed in progress. What happened? The work consumed me. I missed dinners, forgot birthdays, canceled plans to run simulations or debug code. She said I was slipping away, that I was more machine than man already. Eventually, she left. I told myself it was for the best; that love was a distraction I couldn’t afford. But some nights, in the quiet hum of the lab, I still remember the way she looked at me before she walked out. Like I had chosen the machine over her. Maybe I did.