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Cub likes to think of himself as a reasonable person. He doesn't know what else he's supposed to do except knock out a man if he's actively damaging his still recalibrating prosthetic. It makes sense to him.
He's not ignorant enough to ignore the anger he's sure this will cause the man, Doc, but it was either that or he rips off his already damaged arm, leaving Cub unable to fix any of it. Cub is fine with eternal spite if it stops an accidental amputation and destruction of technology he's never seen– in fact, couldn't even dream up.
Doc's prosthetics are interesting to say the least and most drab thing possible about them. They are the reason Doc woke up much earlier than Cub expected. Not only did Cub not expect them to so fully capture him with intrigue, thus underestimating the time he needed, but they have also helped Doc expel all substances from his body at a rate he's never seen before. He now realizes that this may be one of the main reasons the King (which still feels like such an inane title for a man Cub's known since he was a teen) sought him out.
That and the creeping sensation Cub has that Doc has created these on his own. (It feels like such an absurd thought– a person in this day and age able to create anything that measures to this caliber.)
Even with how much this whole situation interests him, he's unsure how he feels about the context of such machines on– within?– this man's body. He was already a creeper-human hybrid– that much was obvious from any scans Cub had managed to do in such little time, nevermind his outward appearance. However, this immediately contrasted the very overt goat horns on the man's head. He wasn't entirely sure how such a thing was possible. There were hybrids, yes, obviously; however, a mix of 3 different species was not something he had ever heard of (something about genetics and infertility– that was not his scene). This became all the more confusing at the revelation that the butterfly wings Cub thought he wore solely for flying like any other person, were actually attached to his back, as if his own, just as out of place as the horns.
The prosthetics, on the other hand, are not so unordinary. He has met many people with prosthetics; it was a fairly normal procedure. What stuck out was how advanced they were. He has never and will never see anything like them again.
This paired with the obvious signs of some form of hybrid and/or body part transplantations pointed solely towards experimentation. Whether by himself or someone else, Cub cannot tell (and probably won't be able to until he can finally speak with him). Cub takes a moment to look him over again. Despite his height and obvious strength, he doesn't seem to be all that dangerous. He hasn't inherited the traits which allow him to explode things on will. Truly, that just makes this all easier for Cub.
Cub sighs, rubbing his eyes slowly as he stares down at Doc. Cub's sitting off to the left of the operating table, forearm crutch resting precariously on his chair. He'd let the fatigue he feels fully wash over him if he didn't know his night would last much longer than it already has.
He didn't particularly enjoy using any form of medical intervention for interrogations, but it's not like he has a say-so in the matter. The King wanted him to do it, and that was that. However, that doesn't mean he can't go about this in a way that's not… so harsh.
All he needed to do now was wait for Doc to wake back up. That should be soon if the dose he used was at all accurate for his body.
It is not lost on Cub that the man's name is Doc (followed by a string of digits, classifying who he is and why he is wanted by the King). Whether the man is an actual licensed doctor (he'd doubt it based on the state of isolation he keeps himself in) or just a fraud that fancies himself as one, Cub can't tell (though he does lean towards a certain interpretation). Either way, Cub is not so obtuse as to ignore the fact this man has a clear scientific prowess.
At the very least, those prosthetics have been with him for a couple of decades. He would have had to keep up maintenance. Either, he went out of his way to leave the safety of his home to have someone fix them, or he knew how to upkeep them himself. Just the knowledge he could figure out the basic workings of such a machine is insane to Cub. Though, Cub's hypotheses are only backed up by the especially chatty Red Knights that dropped Doc off with him.
Cub, despite himself, is quite excited to talk with a man who may understand the machines that make him up; however, it is also quite a bit worrying that a man, such as himself, would be here in the first place.
It was a known secret that the King had been dismissing large amounts of his father's previous staff. He doesn't think the King would go so far as to relieve] him of his position (he thinks he finds him funny at times), but he wouldn't be surprised if he could find some way to leverage this against Cub. It was well known that Cub wasn't the most… accommodating of advisors. He was really only here for a singular reason, and the King knew that. Despite it all, he's not going to complain. It was really Cub's fault for letting all that… personal information slip.
Whether the many thoughts swirling around his head may be right, Cub knows that ultimately, his best choice is to make nice with Doc. It'd be bad to have his new partner be more pissed at him than he already is.
Cub bows his head down, forehead resting against his hands. He can feel a migraine spiking and begins to rub his temples in response. He sure is hoping this night can stay as stressless as possible.
There's a stirring in front of him, a dark green foot twitching. Maybe not, then.
Cub stands, forgoing his crutches in the likely case he needs both of his hands for the many complicated procedures he'll be conducting. (He ignores that the real reason is his fear he may have to restrain Doc.) He walks to Doc, stopping for a moment as he notices his eyes twitching. He continues as the fingers on his left hand tremble lightly. It'll take a few minutes more before he fully wakes up.
Thankfully, Cub had the precognition to set out all of the tools he'd need before Doc woke up. Now, he just has to steel himself to talk with him and hopefully get as much information from him as he possibly can without absolutely ruining their relationship.
Cub breathes, thinking about bringing his chair over to sit on before realizing that would keep him out of Doc's periphery and would cause him to further hurt himself. By the time Cub has fully shaken out all of his nervous jitters– he was a scientist, not a diplomat, hence the operating table in his lab– Doc's eyes begin to creep open.
Cub smiles but immediately stops as he realizes that could come off all the more threatening– a creepy scientist smiling wasn't the most pleasant image to wake up to. Doc's eyes snap open as soon as he is conscious enough to do so– well, they both would if it wasn't for the numbness still coursing through his prosthetic eye. His right eye is fully open whilst his left eye hangs limp, muscles unable to fully close or open the lid, a light red emanating from the crack.
His eyes immediately focus on Cub, and before Cub can react, Doc is already trying to break free of his bonds.
“Woah, there. I can promise you won't be breaking through those things any time soon.” That gets him to freeze in his tracts. He glares at Cub, though it's not entirely intimidating with his one eye rolling off to the side. Cub won't comment on that, though. No point in making him more angry.
“Why am I here?” He asks, voice gravelly with disuse– though, Cub supposes his voice could always sound like that. Despite that, he still notes to get him an actual glass of water instead of solely relying on the IV still coursing through his left arm to hydrate him
Cub knows he can't directly answer his questions, but he can at least give him something to chew on, something as a peace offering (as if he doesn't currently have him tied down, scalpel a foot from his hand). “You were quite badly hurt. I made sure you healed.” He says, voice neutral and unaffected. He's sure Doc wouldn't like a fake, chipper attitude.
Doc stares at him as if calculating something. Cub notices how his body subtly moves as if checking himself over. His grim face morphs into a scowl, eyes scrunching together. “Then, why can't I feel my arm?”
…Right. Okay, that was actually a problem Cub maybe should have solved, but he'd rather had him not wake up to excruciating pain. It wouldn't have made him the best conversationalist. However, being caught in a lie is quite embarrassing in such a context.
“Okay, so that was my fault. However, if you could feel your arm right now, you wouldn't be able to speak. I didn't think you'd want that.” He says carefully. The fact the nerves around his arm are shot is the only thing keeping him from unbearable pain. He'll be feeling that pain soon enough– especially with his metabolism– but Cub needed it numb for a while longer. He needed a closer view of it.
Doc huffs in response but says nothing else, clearly knowledgeable on the workings of anesthetics. Cub sighs, right hand looping around his lab coat to tug lightly at it.
It was odd. Treating a man covered in blood stains, only clothes a lab coat, felt… ironic. He's sure Doc would have been able to take care of himself if he hadn't been kidnapped. He's sure he could have fixed his own arm faster and without using any anesthetic at all. But that wasn't the present. Doc was tied down to Cub's exam table, arm busted and a thin wall of numbness keeping his mind from a wrath of pain. It wasn't Cub's fault, though, that did nothing to assuage his guilt. All he has to do is talk to Doc to figure out how to fix his arm, and then Doc will be free from him and Cub will be free from any and all responsibility.
“You cannot see it, but your arm is injured.” He begins, taking care to not say his name; having information he should not know would not help the hostility in the air. “It occurred during the fight you were a part of before coming here.” He doesn't use the word kidnapped for obvious reasons.
Despite his inability to stare directly at Cub, he does a great job at getting the effect of a murderous glare across.
“I cannot tell you why you're here, but I have already treated all wounds I could manage. I will be able to treat your arm and eye, but I need a bit more information before I can begin.” Cub explains slowly, only pausing for a moment when Doc growls lightly, scorn ragging across his face. Cub's job was never entirely easy, but he especially did not enjoy dealing with other lifeforms. (He knew it was ironic coming from a biologist, but he much preferred observation than direct contact. He can't be faulted for that.)
“Begin what? Will you be finding a way to rip off my arm so you can attach a new one? Or you could leave me with none. Or better yet! You could add one with remotely controlled mechanics that can make me do what you want!” His words cut out of his mouth, sardonically joyful. Cub shifts awkwardly, rubs his foot against his other leg. He was expecting some hostility, but, by no means, was he expecting this much.
However, it was fair either way.
“I will do no such thing. I am merely a scientist that is treating you-” Doc's jaw shuts in one quick snap, teeth grinding hard against one another. He breathes in deeply, nostrils flaring as his mouth contorts into a jagged frown.
“Ah, yes, because scientists are known for having a perfect moral standing. I'm glad to be assured by such an eloquent explanation.” Cub's sure Doc would be spitting on him if he could.
Right, so he's much more hostile than he expected. Cub would probably be as much. That's fine. He can deal with that.
Cub deflates, shoulders dropping as he leans back on the balls of his feet. He drops the professional exterior; it's obviously not helping. “I'm not hacking off your arm. Trying to cajole me into doing so is not going to help either of us.”
Doc stops, chest shallowing as if he's stopped breathing. His eyes angle towards Cub's, and they meet directly for the first time. He's still scowling, but Cub notices a trace of something else beneath his eyes; it's the shine of a man who's been in this situation before, an animal that knows a cage better than any man could. He's not going to address that.
Cub holds his stare, keeping his casual demeanor but keeping his face neutral. He doesn't need him thinking he's a pushover– Cub could tell that would be a dire mistake. But he does try to let some light seep into his eyes, pushing down the darkness that swirls in his mind nowadays. He has no reason to be nice, but he does not want to be unnecessarily cruel.
The silence stretches out a moment more before Doc finally speaks once again. “Fine. Then what do you want from me?” Doc's eyebrows bunch, lips pursing, and Cub belatedly realizes that he's trying to raise an eyebrow.
Cub stays as calm as possible, words flowing from out of his mouth as if he was talking about the weather, unimpeded by the looming consequences of an impromptu guest. “I just need some basic information on your arm, so I am able to fix it up enough for it to work. Whoever normally fixes it for you can bring it up to fully fixed at a later date.” Cub does assume it is Doc, himself, that fixes his arm, but if he can prompt him into loosening his hold on some affirmative information, Cub would not mind.
“I'm the one that fixes my arm.” Bingo. “I could easily do it myself if-” Doc stops abruptly, catching himself. He scowls off to the side, in the general direction of Cub. He huffs then continues what he was saying, quickly moving past his mistake. “If you got these straps off of me.”
Cub can't help the snort that bursts from his nose. “Yeah, right. Should I give you a scalpel, too? Guide your arm to my throat? Please…” He doesn't mean to be patronizing, but, really, does this guy think he's that much of an idiot?
Doc's face morphs into a small pout, left fist clenching closed. But he soon returns to his hard glare, plans disintegrated by two rhetorical questions. “Okay, I see how this is. But if you can't figure out my arm on your own, I'm doubtful you'll be able to figure it out whilst I'm awake.” Cub is beginning to realize why scientists are often stereotyped as arrogant. “I truly do not understand what Kingdoms are teaching their citizens if they can't even figure out a basic prosthetic.”
Basic? What does he mean by- Cub catches himself. He has no need to be riled up by Doc. The man's arrogant and pretentious; Cub should have expected it as soon as he heard his name was Doc. He's not even sure if the man really is a doctor.
Cub sighs, rubbing slowly at his temples as a migraine begins to blossom. “Your prosthetic is-” He catches himself. Now would not be a great time to stroke his ego. “I think you misunderstand me. I have left your prosthetic mostly alone until now because I am asking you for help with it. I am sure you know it best, and, despite what it may seem, I do not want to further destroy your arm.” Cub spares a glance at Doc's face and finds his brows furrowed in confusion. Not the worst reaction he could have received.
Doc tries to angle his head to catch a full picture of Cub instead of just flashes and glimpses, but his futile effort allows him to only see vague splotches of white and brown in his periphery. Cub had chosen to stand on the side of Doc's injured eye on purpose, after all. (And he had already decided that he would help fix up Doc's arm and then let him fix up his eye. He was pushing his expertise by working on the arm, anyway; an eye would be impossible.) Doc huffs, boring a hole into the ceiling with his petulant glare. “You know, you're not particularly good at interrogations.” Doc grumbles.
A laugh escapes Cub's mouth. “You don't know the half of it.” He whispers under his breath, not caring if Doc hears it. It's not like he's been trying to hide anything. Doc has him all figured out, anyway.
Cub gives Doc a moment as his mouth works around words that don't leave his mouth. Cub's sure he's never been in a situation where he was at the mercy of someone else and needs time to adjust. It's not like Cub wanted to make it particularly hard on him to do so. He just wants to be done with this and push the whole situation aside for the rest of forever. He'd much rather be eating dinner alone in his room than deal with a man high off his head on drugs yet still able to form (mostly) coherent speech.
“If…” Doc begins, and Cub focuses his attention back on him, staring at a non-descript point on one of his horns. “You allow me to direct the surgery, then you will be unable to perform any specific procedures you'd like to do without me knowing.” Cub has to hold back a scoff.
What? And give himself more work to do? It's clear that Doc believes Cub is here to permanently alter his body (Cub ignores why that is his first assumption), but that couldn't be further from the truth. The King just wanted him patched up, and Cub had been able to do that until it came to his prosthetics– those were beyond him. Even so, Cub would never go out of his way to perform extraneous experiments on someone he'd much rather have out of his lab.
Cub holds back any caustic retort and instead slowly explains (though not so slowly to be patronizing), “I know that. I don't want to do any of that. The only thing I have to do is fix you up enough so that you're functioning without the use of 5 drugs in your system. I don't need any more of a workload.” For a second, Cub thinks he sees a quirk in Doc's lips, but it vanishes before he can analyze it any further.
For a few moments, Doc thinks. At this point, Cub does think he's doing it just for show. For all his niceties, Cub knows that Doc knows his only choice is to let Cub fix his arm. It's either that or Cub will find some way to fix them on his own, and that will surely make them worse off than they already are. All he's doing is feigning the reality of a choice, and that's all Doc will get. Cub really can't feel one way or another about it.
Doc's face falls, relaxing into an only slightly forced neutrality. “Fine. I'll teach you the basics of bioengineering.”
He may not be an official doctor, but he sure sounds like he has a PhD.
“Great. Let's begin.”