@vaultfrozen continued from here
"It's Doctor, actually." There's a game he likes to play, generally when he's in hostile territory (and yes, he very much considers the Institute very hostile territory, invitation to be here or not), that on the surface very rarely seems to play in his favor, but it's a goldmine for the one thing he prizes above all things: Information. Enough plots on the graph, give him just enough of a curve to let him form his predictive models, and he suddenly has a plan, where the outcome is very often predetermined. It's not a fun game, and there's usually a little more punching involved (usually to his face, and hasn't ruled that out completely yet), but it's one that's come in clutch more times than he has fingers and toes to count on.
It's like this: He pushes a button, gently - this is him asking about accountability. He gets a response back - the whole works, his last named used like a bludgeon, a reiteration on why he's here, a little bit of carrot and stick, a little bit of broad-brushing. And these things - all of them - they tell him things. How he's walking a fine line between righteous outrage and heavy-handed condemnation, teetering there carefully while he has the absolute best chance he thinks he ever will to have a look at the workings of the Institute up close and personal, with his own eyes. How he's giving what he assumes is expected pushback - this one's got a lot pride, and probably not a lot of patience for a motormouth smart guy with an attitude. If he's lucky, there's a little guilt mixed in, willingly tying himself to what is, essentially, an AIM or a Sinister Six or a Weapon X for the post-apocalyptic world.
He used to punch guys like these before breakfast, and here he is, walking into the lion's den under the guise of cooperation. What a fucking time to be alive.
"I have seven doctorates. Which I earned from the fine institution your little egghead think tank is sitting under. It's Dr. Stark." Which is a title he's never actually insisted on, except in jest. Mostly because literally no one in a life long ago would have used it, anyway. Once everyone you know is a doctor of something, it kind of loses its shine. But here...Here it has a point. He is, if anything, possibly the most qualified person in this entire underground little world. He doesn't think that to toot his own horn, he is, literally, a mind that comes along once a century, if not longer. It's not arrogance to admit your strengths.
Time to reel it back in. "I'm not here to argue with you, I'm genuinely asking. Is it? You want me to talk like the animals, and I can do that, sure. But I promise you- I promise you..." He picks up his own pace, lengthens his own stride, to cut in front of Nate and hold up both hands as a concession. "You're playing on one field, and they're playing on another, and those don't even share a game board, much less rules."
He gets the idea he gets to decide what's useful, what's not, he pisses off the wrong nerd...See, this is how things like MODOK happen. And while there is plenty of weird out there on the surface that makes MODOK look like a cute little kitten, something worse than the Institute - or worse, a disgruntled gaggle of scientists taking their balls to play in a new backyard - is probably in the top three things the wasteland actually doesn't need.
"Science isn't about useful, and these guys have two centuries and some change on both of us when it comes to doing shit for the sake of doing it. Otherwise...Super mutants? Really?" Because mini Hulks with half the smarts and twice the rage is a great idea, said no one ever. He waves a hand, as though he can brush that point to the side. "Clean water, safe food, sturdy housing, these things are useful. But you suggest that to guys that have been building people with computer chips in their heads and see what happens."
