ArchivedLogs:The Minotaur's Maze

The Minotaur's Maze
Dramatis Personae Doom, Alice Lambton
In Absentia	2013-05-28 Alice calls for a meeting with Victor van Doom. He invites her to his maze.
Location <LATV> Latverian Embassy - Midtown
The Latverian Embassy is a surprisingly modest building, although its appearance is slick and clean enough to imply some sort of official capacity. The building quite possibly dates back to early nineteenth century. The colour of the concrete walls appears to be between mild grey and pale sand, while the fancily ornate roofing is mostly green. The Latverian flag proudly flutters in the wind alongside the European Union flag right above the ornate double door entrance. The inside of the embassy is mostly art deco, extending the old-fashioned elegance of the exterior. The colour scheme is generally bright with the occasional gold and green. Most of the green is ominously dark, found as part of furniture or as carpeting. When it's cold out, a large fancy fireplace in the main lobby is actually occupied by the comforting waltz of flames. Amid the archaic interior, one can witness the occasional rush of neatly clad diplomats. Contrasting the old is the new. Barely audible flat screen TVs glorify Latveria's bright future, creating an ambience of confidence. The heavy-set turrets are generally attached to the ceiling, but there are also some on the gr-- Wait, turrets? It appears so. They are currently inert, of course. A none too welcoming sign features here and there: "LATVERIA ALREADY HAS MANY ALLIES, BUT THEIR ENEMIES ARE IN GREATER NUMBERS STILL. IF YOU COUNT YOURSELF AMONG THE LATTER, PLEASE REPORT TO THE CLOSEST LATVERIAN REPRESENTATIVE, STAND BACK, LIE DOWN WITH HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD AND AWAIT THE ARRIVAL OF APPROPRIATE AUTHORITIES." Hallways leading to more secure areas actually have warning strips painted on the floor, bearing the following text: "NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL PAST THIS POINT." The looming turrets above drive the point home. Contrary to the day when Doctor Doom first visited the United States and was met by Alice Lambton, the dictator does not personally see to the diplomat's arrival. Alice would instead be greeted by Mister Billings, who stands just outside the entrance and is flanked by two armed men. As has become custom of the monarch's security, the men wear incredibly dark green armour (along with an opaque visor) and sport a Kalashnikov, a holstered handgun and electric stun baton. The balding attache is rather anxious to fulfil his assigned duty, grinding his palms together while eagerly eyeing the tall, currently open gates that lead into what is officially Latverian ground. As is to be expected--she comes as supplicant on foreign ground. The limo pulls to the curb, the driver hastening from his seat to open the door for Ms. Lambton. He holds an umbrella over her head to catch the spitting rain that might stain her tasteful cream linen skirt-suit. If the diplomat is surprised to see the most unfortunate of attaches there to greet her, she gives no sign. As she approaches, up the walk and to the gates, smoothing the creases from her attire, she gives the man a cool smile of greeting. “Mr. Billings. You...seem to be doing well,” she says, green eyes flicking curtly over his appearance. Well might be overstating it slightly but...diplomacy. The guards she ignores, as is her custom. “I dare say this position has been good for you.” Oh dear. Is Alice Lambton making a /joke/? As restless and anxious as Mister Billings might be, there is a reason why Doctor Doom hasn't tossed him into a fire yet. Diplomatic audacity remains an integral trait of his, even if he appears worse for wear overall. Mirroring the cool greeting smile, he would accompany the gesture with an affirmative nod, before leading Miss Lambton inside the embassy. "It's been... freeing, in a way," he replies curtly before reluctantly adding, "I've seen the resistance fighters' footage. Have you? Well, I can't decide if Victor van Doom is more ferocious in the battlefield or behind a desk." Ultimately, Alice is led through the fashionable corridors and past the more quaint additions, such as the sizeable turrets. The pair of diplomats - along with the paired guards - travels beyond the allowed line, but fortunately no alarms ring and no turrets decide to fire. It is beyond that line that the archaic design gradually disappears and makes way for glass walls and ceramic ground, making the area look more like a sterile laboratory than an embassy. Each glass wall describes the purpose of the room; some of these are detainment rooms, some of which actually hold rather sad-looking detainees inside. A few are in tears. Mister Billings does not comment on the increasingly colder atmosphere. It is as if none of this exists. Ignorance is bliss, and he's come to cherish the saying dearly over the course of his assignment. "Right this way. We're nearly there." Surely Alice has; she doesn’t dignify the question with an answer. But she does say, “One could learn a great deal from the man, I suspect. If you do well here, Billings, it bodes well for your future career.” A string of words sure to delight any middle manager’s heart, to be sure. As they travel through the halls, mild appraisal is spared those chambers passed by. She is not so shy and retiring as her guide. “Refugees?” she asks, the word sharp, a prompt that demands answer. There is a bit of a chuckle on the man's part. Although it is meant to sound polite, it actually comes off as rather nervous, as if someone has just shared an offensive joke and he felt obliged to find amusement in it. The career remark is thusly not greatly appreciated by Mister Billings, but he chooses not to comment on it. Instead, he presses on ahead. "Sort of," he instead replies to the question. "The mutant registration act in Latveria is not... aligned with /everyone's/ interests. The mutants who disagree with it flee to an adjacent country, but most of them are clever enough to know they have to run much further than that. Unfortunately, they are /not/ clever enough to know that distance doesn't matter." As his explanation is paused, Mister Billings momentarily slows down to look through one of the glass walls to a dark-haired, darkly skinned woman, her face in her hands. "None of this makes sense to me," he admits quite bluntly. "You can ask the Supreme Monarch himself, if you'd like." His steps quicken once more, and they finally arrive to a door that is conveniently framed by two glass walls. Each room has one solid wall, which happens to hide the room that's behind said door. It looks thick and safe, and there is what looks like a biometrics sensor beside it. The balding diplomat does not use it, however, seeing as the heavy white door opens on its own. Strangely enough, the room behind the door doesn't look like anything worth guarding. It is quite unlike the previous rooms and corridors. Instead, it mirrors the art deco style of the lounge, except this is more reminiscent of a study room. There are plenty of book shelves about. There is a fancy yet aged desk in front of a tall window. Doctor Doom is as dramatic as ever, looking on through the window onto the street. They are by now on the third floor. Mister Billings looks to Alice, waiting for his queue to depart. “Mm.” Just that at first. Alice studies the woman for a long moment before turning back to Mr. Billings. Her smile slides easily into place. “Ours is not to reason why.” She has no further comment beyond that. The remainder of the trip is conducted in silence, underlings--including the attache--ignored save for the function they provide. When they arrive at the door and it opens for her--of course it’s for her--she gives the man a nod before leaving him without question or hesitation. The room beyond seems tailor made to the attitude she carries with her and after a brief glance around, a touch of approval is added to her expression. “Victor,” she says as she approaches the desk, studying the cloaked back presented to her. Her tone is that of a dear friend, long unvisited, so very glad to be seeing him again. “It was kind of you to make the time for me.” Once Mister Billings departs and Alice steps further into the room, the door slowly swings back into its closed state. The hiss of air the action presents is every bit as heavy as the door itself. Ultimately, there is a very soft and brief thud, like a fridge door closed in slowmotion. The clacks of locks that click into place are less subtle, however. Doctor Doom finally stirs, swinging his right arm behind him to violently lift his cloak upward, creating the necessary space for movement. The monarch swiftly turns around, although perhaps not quickly enough to live up to a dramatic flair. His right arm slowly moves to his side, and he begins to walk towards Alice. His steps are slow and deliberate; in combination with the thick carpet, the usually heavy and loud steps are much softer now. His own voice is less welcoming, either due to the modifications his voice undergoes, or because Victor van Doom really is that monotone every passing moment. "I protect my assets," he answers. It may not be clear what he is referring to until he speaks further. "I protect my people from all dangers, the kind that stares you in the eyes and the kind that hides within you. Today, they weep. Tomorrow, they shall thank me." It should come as no surprise that the conversation Alice had shared with Billings was monitored. Arriving to a halt a respectable distance from Alice, the tall armoured man lightly gestures to a leather chair in front of the desk. "For you, I will always have time, Alice Lambton. How is the land of freedom and opportunity this morning?" Alice Lambton is in no way surprised to learn that he was privy to the conversation. Perhaps it is not the first time she’s discovered having been recorded or monitored? Very, very likely, given her occupation. She just smile and frames her next question in a gently curious tone of voice: “What do you intend to /do/ with them? It seems an unusual problem. I have been watching the reactions to registration in your country with great interest, that is one facet I have often considered, myself.” With the invitation to sit, she moves to take the offered to seat. Her feet cross at the ankles, her hands fold in her lap. Neat and prim as any schoolgirl--though no schoolgirl has likely studied their host with such sharp eyes before. “Mm, it does well enough. The wheels here turn slowly but they grind fine. You will be pleased to know that there have been no further assassination attempts, during your absence.” Before further words are exchanged, Doctor Doom waits for Alice to claim her seat. Then, his heavy steel frame marches to the side, walking behind and past the seated diplomat. "Question them, test them, and issue them with identification papers. Emigration is not illegal in Latveria, unless you use it to escape your legal obligations." The man circles around the desk, arriving to a stop on the side opposite of Alice. The sizeable throne-like chair is currently left vacant. A hand lazily rises to highlighting the incoming words. "In the unlikely scenario that I am wrong, feel free to correct me, but I have observed that the citizens of this fair country are desperately obsessed with the sole fact that the wheels do indeed turn. They do not care who turns them and how, so long as they simply /do/." The addendum is delivered with practiced confidence, as though he had intended to arrive to the following all along. "It is why the mutant issue has cut so deeply here, has it not? It interferes with the wheels." The assassination jest is actually remarked upon. "Perhaps it is because I have two snipers follow you everywhere, guarding you?" The grin cannot be seen or heard in this voice, but the words themselves strongly suggest it somehow. "That would be a preposterous move on my part." “In some ways, you are correct, yes.” But Alice doesn’t enlighten him as to how he might be /wrong/, or what those other ways might be. Instead she is tilting her head and raising her eyebrows at him, lips curling in the most bemused of smiles. “And yet, were it so, I would be the most fortunate of women to have so fierce a defender. I rather suspect it has more to do with you having taken Norman Osborn with you, however.” And there is the crux of the matter--perhaps. She ticks one knee over the other and laces her fingers together as she leans comfortably back into the chair. “I trust he behaved?” Finally, the Supreme Monarch moves to claim his seat. Before doing so, he grips the thick fabric of his cape and pulls it upward, elegantly taking the throne in front of Alice. The chair appears wooden and comparatively fragile, although in truth it is only wooden on the surface. Doctor Doom reclines against and sprawls in his chair like a bored monarch which, as it happens, he just might actually be. "Your fascination with Norman Osborn is a curiosity," he comments. "He has behaved, as you put it. One peculiar happenstance that surfaces to the mind is his insistence that he is no mutant. He is not known to the public here as one, after all." While he spoke, a hand has wandered into one of the belt pouches, summoning a shiny silvery case. "He arrogantly suggested I test him," he begins, pausing, buying time as he opens the casing to withdraw one of the many syringes stored there. Not a typical old-fashioned syringe, these have a protective casing and a built-in mechanism for automated injection, so one doesn't have to fuss about with needles and cautious injecting. The casing is confidently placed on the desk, while the syringe is held up delicately with steel fingers in front of Alice. "And yet when I proposed my novel methods of testing for mutations, he refused. Curious, is it not?" “I assure you I have my reasons. Not that you expect any less, mm?” Alice shifts to the edge of her seat when the syringe is produced. Attention: snared. She’s polite about it but it’s clear he has her undivided focus, the story he relates causing narrow eyebrows to lift, widening her eyes. “I do not find it so very curious, given what I know of the man, but...” She leans forward and with movements equally as delicate, reaches for the syringe he is holding within such tempting range. “You’ve developed a new test for the X gene? May I ask how it works?” The feminine hand reaching for the tantalising display of the elusive syringe would find little, at first. Held by the very tip as though a pencil, it is twirled by the precise rolling of the mechanised thumb. Those cold blue eyes are locked on Alice. Now, it is his turn to sharply observe the other party. Silence would persist for nearly too long, and it is at that threshold that the syringe is offered up to the woman. The many warnings that stretch its plastic casing include all manner of ifs and don'ts, even including the well-known icon that indicates that this should not be administered to children under 3 years. "I did not develop it as a test," the monarch answers. "Some mutants proved uncooperative in my endeavours, and so I have devised a motivation in a format that is more easily applied. In humans, it causes nausea, fatigue and - occasionally - bouts of self-loathing. In mutants, however--" As is always the case, when Doctor Doom cuts himself short, it's almost as if the road you were walking on abruptly ended ahead into a sudden nothingness. "In layman's terms, it simulates a state of danger that the X-Gene eagerly responds to. To the human body, it is merely upsetting the system. To the mutant body, it forces the superhuman abilities to surface." The next word is enunciated strongly, one of the few traits his voice is actually capable of. "/Painfully/." The cowl-framed scowl tilts to the side, those eyes still on Alice. "Tell me, what do you know about Norman Osborn that I do not?" Alice is a patient woman. It is one of her many strengths and she is all too willing to lock eyes with that piercing scrutiny, hand remaining outstretched. Only the slow dance of her smile keeps that shared regard from touching the boundary of challenge. When the syringe is finally gifted to her, she holds it delicately between both hands. It’s turned slowly to allow her time to fully ingest the warnings sketched over its surface. “To trigger mutations purposefully...that sounds potentially dangerous. /Uncontrolled/. Without the proper facilities,” she murmurs thoughtfully. Green eyes flick back towards the monarch. Her smile returns. “But I expect you have those as well. You are an incredible man, Victor.” Carefully, she leans forward to set the syringe on the desk--returning it willingly! A show of good faith. “Norman Osborn is insane.” A statement of fact, strong without the benefit of enhancement. “Unpredictable. Uncontrollable. Potentially dangerous. Possibly a mutant, in spite of having passed the genetic test administered with flying colors. He threatened my life for having the temerity to deliver the news, early, that he was unlikely to receive the government contracts he was vying for. His...something in his eyes changed. It was unnatural.” Once the syringe is placed on the desk, a steel hand ominously reaches forward to audibly click those mechanic fingers around the precious item, lifting it and then subsequently returning it to its numerous siblings within the silver-coloured case. The syringe container itself is then duly hidden in the belt pouch it was summoned from in the first place. His mannerisms radiate a certain level of nonchalance, as if to suggest it was a mere toy that he has just shared with Alice. The issues such a volatile method presents, of course, are left unaddressed. Either Doctor Doom has decided that the woman has already answered her own question, or he is simply unwilling to share. Instead, those icy eyes remain fixed on Alice, listening to her description of Norman Osborn. While his left arm is firmly planted on an armrest, his right arm only has its elbow resting against the chair. The right hand is kept upright, and its digits rhythmically click and grind together. The clockwork-like movement ceases when Miss Lambton falls silent. The man inclines his iron chin, tipping his head ever so slightly forward. "Insane, you say," he echoes the woman's sentiment, setting the volume of his voice low enough for her to hear him exhale wearily alongside the spoken words. The trademark boom returns in the blink of an eye. "Insanity manifests in a myriad of ways. It might leave you crippled, feeble and unable to control salivation." "And then, of course," he resumes, freely and demonstratively flicking his wrist, "it might simply rob you of as little as fear, conscience or the ability to feel content with mundane accomplishments." That theatrical hand crumples into a fierce fist. "Finally, insanity is a label misapplied to tenacity, perseverance and callousness." The only reprieve from his relentless gaze that Alice would get would come in the way of the occasional blinking. As it would appear, the monologue is over. Both hands are lowered to the green lap, where the fingers casually intertwine. "You failed to tell me what I do not know." The words might seem accusatory, but perhaps it's just the sinisterly emotionless voice. It rises anew almost immediately afterwards. "Does the government believe Norman Osborn orchestrated the assassination attempt? Do you?" While Alice listens respectfully through Doom’s answer, it becomes increasingly clear that she is no shrinking violet. She actually /shakes her head/ when he speaks of fear and conscience and tenacity. As if she were openly and calmly disagreeing with what the man is saying. The reason for this becomes clear when he opens the floor to her again. With that small, lovely smile firmly in place, she says, “I am afraid you are quite mistaken if you felt that I was in any way drawing a comparison between yourself and Norman Osborn, Victor. Perhaps others have used the word unkindly towards you but I have not and would not. I said what I mean: that man has lost his mind. There is no comparison to be made.” After she has finished chiding the supreme monarch of Latveria as if he were an (exceptionally intelligent) school boy, she sighs. “Of course I’ve given them his name but there is no evidence, mm? The investigation continues, while I must live while looking constantly over my shoulder. But...” She turns her wrist in delicate fashion, spreads her fingers and sweeps the topic away. “That isn’t why I’ve come to speak with you.” Surprisingly, Doctor Doom accepts the critique rather well. Then again, the long and drawn out chuckle that follows is rather ambiguous, concealing what he thinks of Alice's correction. Whatever it is that contorts his voice is also responsible for twisting the chuckle, making it sound like a malfunctioned radio. The crow's feet framing his world-weary eyes intensify, either suggesting amusement or strong disapproval. "I am starting to understand how Norman Osborn came to threaten your life." The jest is delivered as monotonously as the rest of the monarch's words. If his modified voice is good for anything, it's being the world's driest deadpan. Still, Victor van Doom shows his respect for his visitor in letting her assume the reins. A single hand rises from his lap to gesture to the woman. "Speak, so that I may listen." Alice is capable of incredibly subtle changes with her smile. When he chuckles, and makes his little jest--or was it...?--her lips curl in a way that suggest pleasure. The sparkle in her eyes is unfeigned and only enhances that impression. But what of the mind behind the eyes? She isn’t telling. “Tell me, what do you think of Parley? Little Einen, he of the ever-changing spots.” Those heavy hands return to the chair's armrests. Thumbs slowly grind against their sides hard enough to harm the wood finishing. "Einen?" The thunderous yet monotonous voice shows off yet another advantage, the concealment of surprise. Doctor Doom follows up almost immediately afterwards, ruthlessly tearing the question apart before the prey dares question the predator. "I would rather like to play a game of chess with him one day." The dictator leans forward, lifting his left arm to prop the elbow against the chair, driving the steel knuckles against the jutting iron cheekbone. His weary blue eyes remain on Alice. "Words hold the ultimate power. Truthful words often deal a far greater blow than any lie. They can also be caged and taken hostage." Victor pauses for a mere moment, as if to lend greater weight to the following statement. "The words I speak might be misused by Miss Lambton, the United States diplomat. Were I to tell her that I intend to assault the White House, for example, she would be forced to take action. But Alice, the woman whose life I have saved, might indulge me a little longer before informing anyone of my intentions." Heavy metal stirs and clunks as Doctor Doom reclines in the throne-like chair. "Tell me who you have arrived as today, and then we will continue." Alice is charmed, /charmed/, by his request. It shows in the way her eyes sparkle at him, the way she leans forward, one elbow resting on the arm of the chair, her hands loosely clasped, as if he’s just finally succeeded in snaring her attention fully. Oh /Victor/. “I think it is safe to say that I am here as your friend, Victor. As Alice. The woman whose life you saved, as you’ve said. And I am all too happy to indulge you,” she says, her tone of voice so very warm. “Of course...as a friend, I should warn you that if your intention is to assault the White House...my feelings will be hurt.” And so Ms. Lambton proves that she too can make a joke. Be they shallow pleasantries or the actual truth, the words Alice speaks seem to inspire a certain change in the air and in the host. As though a mountain coming to life, Doctor Doom rises from his chair, standing tall before the desk and the diplomat. He directs his petrified frown towards Alice, shifting both of his hands into cruel iron fists. And then one of his hands rises to sweep his arm in an arc to his left. "Tea, perhaps?" Regardless of her response, Victor van Doom moves from his spot towards the cabinet that he gestured to. The fashionable wooden cabinet stands to the side of the regal window. The wooden doors in the lower half obscure its contents, while the upper half has glass doors that allow one to see the wide variety of porcelain wares. The king's steps are more determined and aggressive than earlier, and the usual clunks are accompanied by the creaks of the wooden ground that hides beneath the carpet. As he closes the distance between him and the cabinet, he starts another speech. "Trust is a curious social phenomenon. The more of it you build, the more you expect to gain from it. The more you gain from it, the more you stand to lose." Once he reaches the cabinet, Doctor Doom reaches for the fragile crystal handles and opens the glass doors, surveying the many gorgeous cups, likely trying to decide which ones to take. "Unless, of course, you flee with all the riches of the other party and burn the bridge." A delftware cup is picked up. It is of Dutch make, white porcelain with blue floral patterns. He examines it dearly, as if he were talking to it and not Alice. "Our mutual acquaintance strikes me as the sort of man to do just that." If there were ever any doubt who the addressee of this is, his attention leaves the cup, and he looks over his shoulder towards Lambton. “Oh yes, thank you.” Alice is just as approving of the offer of tea. She can’t help herself. But, being British, she isn’t content to remain stationary during tea preparation. Rising smoothly, she circles the desk to close on the cabinets, placing herself beside Doom’s elbow. It’s quite cozy. “I don’t know that he’s quite /that/ bad,” she murmurs, voice softer now that they’re closer, “but he /has/ fallen into poor company. It’s saddening. So much potential. So much.../usefulness/. Squandered. Youth truly is wasted on the young, Victor.” The cup Victor was eyeing is deemed worthy. An appropriately matching saucer is claimed from the cabinet as well, before the combination is offered to Alice. "Underestimation is more dangerous than overestimation." Once the woman accepts the cup and the little plate, Doctor Doom extracts another pair, this one presumably for himself. But it too is offered to his would-be friend. "I was assured upon his visitation to Latveria that his ability lies solely in the realm of interpretation and translation. I assume that it is not limited to that." The tall steel monarch turns halfway to face Alice. "Do you see Norman Osborn as the aforementioned poor company?" It becomes something of a ritual, given the manner in which Alice accepts both cups. She holds them one to a hand, like a priestess in a temple smiling up at the priest. Or the deity? Who can tell which distinction the monarch holds in her mind but she is certainly more casual--without losing her formal edge--in this interview than on previous occasions. “That is his primary ability. His secondary is in going unnoticed. Camouflage, of the mental variety. I underestimate him not at all, you can believe me on that account.” She pauses then, lifting the cup Doom has chosen for himself. It receives a pleased study. Then, quietly, “But he /is/ young, and has been making a number of mistakes lately. Osborn is likely responsible for some of that. He’s become...impetuous.” The lower wooden doors of the cabinet are swung open after the upper ones are closed. In the lower shelves, one can find a myriad of tea brews available, from packages containing tea bags to packaging containing tea leaves. There is also a modest variety of kitchen equipment, all of which looks decidedly new. None of the electronic appliances - including the kettle Doctor Doom will soon claim - have wires. In the seconds that follow, Alice witnesses something miraculous. It is not the technology that comes into display. It is not an android secretary or a buzzing tea-brewing drone. Instead, it is Victor van Doom, the ruler of a small country in the Balkans, lowering himself to one knee, bringing himself below Alice Lambton. Purely to fetch the kettle, of course. The armour heavily slams into position and the cape crumples around the monarch's half-knelt position. A simple yet powerfully symbolic motion. "Translation and camouflage. I assumed he was a telepath," he admits, rising up with the kettle in both hands; one holds it by the handle, the other places all five fingers around the bottom. Doctor Doom steps back to the desk, placing the wireless kettle atop it. A gentle gesture of a hand suggests placement of the cups on the desk as well. "During his visit, I had summoned him alone to my library. I had shielded myself from telepathy and let him question this." A desk drawer is opened, and Doctor Doom places on the surface of a desk a sleek device that has an elongated rectangular shape, a glossy black surface, a few blinking blue and red lights as well as backlit buttons on one end. It is summoned casually, in fact it is nearly tossed onto the table. "Feel free to pick a brew of your choice," he adds, turning his neck to direct his gaze toward the woman. This obeisance--if obeisance it is--leaves Alice gazing into Doom’s eyes, now almost on a level with hers. She smiles and makes it seem that the smile is for him and him alone. “An empath. A rather unique empath,” she says softly, just before he stands. Then she shifts to follow, placing the cups where indicated and turning to sit lightly on the edge of the desk, her hands curling over the sides and her head turned to allow her to study him. When he speaks of shielding himself from telepathy, that casual posture becomes charged with...something. A subtle sort of electricity that hums through her and leaves her unable to look away from the object that the dictator produces. She follows it rather than considering the choices available for tea. “...Earl Grey.” An absent reply. “You’ve discovered a way to block telepaths.” It isn’t a question. It’s a revelation. "I have," the monarch's voice thunders as he offers the simple response. The hand elegantly lands on the device, where the iron index finger presses down on a singular button. The device begins to emit classic music. The somewhat lacklustre quality may do the piece a disservice, but it is easily identifiable as Beethoven's For Elise. His feet summon forth further soft thuds as he ventures back towards the cabinet, past Alice who has stiffened at the mention of the earlier revelation. It seems the Supreme Monarch knows exactly what tea is kept where, because he barely has to lower himself as he reaches for the necessary tea leaves. His other hand also claims a little bowl of sugar. Both items are taken with him back to the desk. "My method is exclusively personal and inelegant." Once the items are set down, the cape behind him is pulled upward before Victor reclaims his throne. His hand cups the bottom of the electric kettle, clamping the fingers around it. "But the list of my discoveries will take up the entirety of your day," he warns, gesturing to the seat on the other end of the desk that Alice had claimed. "Tell me more of this man. Tell me of your ties to him." The positioning of his mask might not suggest it, but his eyes are on his ally nonetheless. "I cannot see why a woman of the government would be closely acquainted with a mere pawn of Norman Osborn." Noise begins to stir inside the kettle. The water's temperature begins to rise. “Exclusively personal,” Alice muses as she reclaims her seat. “Integrated into your armor, somehow?” And yet her gaze shifts back to the music-maker, considering its dimensions. “I /am/ intrigued, Victor. For this, of your discoveries, above all else.” She settles back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other and setting an elbow on the arm. Two fingers lift to rest against her temple, giving her the look of someone at ease and comfortable. Her smile echoes that sentiment. “Young Parley was introduced to me by an associate of mine. Recommended for his abilities. He was not a mere pawn of Norman Osborn...perhaps he isn’t, even now. I /had/ rather hoped I could take him on as a sort of protege. With...mm, close observation and careful handling, I think he could be most useful. However, I’ve come to wonder if his loyalties could ever be entirely counted upon. It’s so /difficult/ to find allies one can count on in this day and age. Trust comes in short supply.” It seems Doctor Doom is not too eager to share the finer secrets of his developments. The unoccupied steel hand rises, its palm facing Alice. It is a slow and gradual rise to indicate denial, the manner of which could be considered polite by the monarch's standards. Shortly after, that hand returns to rest atop an armoured knee. "Translation and camouflage suit him for corporate espionage, at best." It is perhaps fortunate Doctor Doom is the monarch of a country, rather than an employee in a career centre. As the temperature of the water rises, so too does the noise the kettle makes. Yet it is still dwarfed by the sound of that modified voice. "I personally find that our race has not been this divided since the establishment of monotheism. A great chasm has divided the globe, Alice." "Humans stand among the ranks of mutants, much as mutants stand among the ranks of humans. We live in turbulent times, where nothing is as we think it is. I trust you remember our meeting in the exhibition?" The question is a rhetoric, seeing as the pause barely lasts. "Would you mind?" His free hand offers another gesture, this time pointing towards the tea leaves and the cups. After all, he only has one hand free. The hand casually descends on the edge of the desk, idly resting in a sideways position afterwards. "We are forced to make alliances both short-term and long-term. Norman Osborn is struggling to convince me which category he falls into. For now, I see him as nothing more than an engine stage that will be detached the moment it is empty of fuel." Once the cruel conclusion is shared, the monotonous drone continues to pose a question: "And what of you, dear Alice?" The water is boiling. Beethoven stops playing, and the button clicks back into its default position. The hand that's been powering the kettle slides to the edge of the table, as well. "Surely, you have not come here to waste my time with idle gossip. You mention Parley with an expectation. I would love to hear it." “An engine stage that will either detach or explode, taking the entire vessel with it.” Alice is far more cruel. She rises again, moving smoothly to take over the act of preparing the cups for the water. Each gesture is economical but graceful from long practice. Tea is serious business and she doesn’t appear to mind attending to this stage of the ritual. “Of course I would prefer to be considered in the long-term...as I’m sure you yourself do. So many smaller countries vie for mine’s attention. It can be difficult to gain a place among the more valued ranks.” One cup done, she shifts to the second. Her head is down, her expression thoughtful. A small smile lingers. “You spent a great deal of time with Parley, recently. He had not told me he’d be leaving the country in such...company. It made me wonder what else he might not have told me. I wanted your opinion of him, to better decide whether he’s a resource worth redeeming, or whether I should...consider him expendable.” The steel figure reclines in the chair once more, placing both hands firmly atop the armrests, content to watch Alice prepare two cupfuls of Earl Grey. For a while, he seems to assume a passive position, until his strident voice shears through the silence yet again. "You are mistaken. I have spent with him but an evening." The silence that shrouds the room lingers for nearly too long a time. The Supreme Monarch waits for both cups to be ready, so that he may claim one of them, the cup's handle in one hand and the saucer in the other. There is something quaint about a six foot three heavily armoured king petitely holding a diminutive cup of tea. "You must strike while the iron is red hot. If the metal has cooled, you no longer have any hope of bending it to your will. You are the craftsman of this blade, you are the one who must observe it." Doctor Doom remains frozen in his seat, completely unmoving if not for the occasional blink of his eyes, one of the last remaining beacons of his humanity. The dramatic pause is mercilessly pierced and mutilated. "I am merely the furnace." Alice has just turned the handle towards his hand when it’s claimed. Then she takes the other cup and returns to her seat. Tea must be savored. /Enjoyed/. Which means that talk of business is put on hold so that she might sip. Such obvious respect for the refreshment removes some of the flippancy from her subsequent remark: “A furnace who makes a lovely cup of tea. Thank you, Victor.” When she tilts her head, combined with the smile already worn, there is an almost fond attitude attached to the way she regards him. “But enough of Parley, mm? Will you tell me more about this technology you’ve developed? Or must I beg?” At first, Alice is treated to nought but silence. Doctor Doom lowers his eyes to regard the tea leaves slowly sinking to the bottom of the cup. When he lifts his gaze to regard Alice anew, that is when his voice booms in response, "Which do you mean?" The hand that's responsible for holding the handle of the cup leaves, lowering to yet another belt pouch. This time, he summons a remote halfway from its resting position, pressing a single button with his thumb. The item is then pocketed and the pouch is clicked closed. When the steel fingers return to the handle, Doctor Doom once again displays his peculiar way of imbibing drinks. This time, however, a dripping chin is miraculously avoided. "Alice." The form of address is actually met with a heavy pause before the king continues. The soft clink of the cup hitting the saucer is followed by the thunderous electronic voice. "You are about to become only the second person on this globe who is privy to very sensitive information." The cold piercing eyes remain fixated on the woman; his own expression of warmth is sorely lacking, either by choice or due to an inability to do so. There is a muffled sort of noise to the monarch's far left, coming from behind the bookcase. It is a noise that is hard to determine, but if one had to venture a guess, it sounds suspiciously like the ascension of a lift. "It is too early in our relationship to announce my trust in you," he notes. The curious sound approaches still. "Please, consider this a test to determine if that will change." There is a muffled clunk as something shifts into its respective place. A single bookcase in the corner of the room slinks forward and then to the side, revealing what is indeed a lift. There is only one occupant inside the modestly spacious yet minimalist cabin. An indistinguishably identical replica of Doctor Doom steps forward. Unless, of course, the replica is seated before Alice. The twin monarch leaves the lift and slowly makes his way towards the other two, announcing his arrival with the trademark voice, "I believe the saying is 'two heads are better than one'?" “You are, perhaps, the only man I know who /announces/ when he is about to test me.” Alice’s tone is so light, so casual. This is not to say that she isn’t intrigued; she’s heard the sound of the lift and her senses are pricking up, ready to seize on anything else that is provided to them. But long years of practice mean she remains able to present that calm facade. Unfortunately, that facade is not strong enough to weather the sight of a second Doom. When she turns her head to survey the opening doors, to study what’s behind them, her eyes widen and the teacup briefly clatters against the saucer she holds beneath it. “My God,” she breathes. The Doom who is seated behind the desk receives a sharp glance and then she moves, setting the teacup and saucer down, standing to approach the second version of the man in the suit. She circles him. She studies him. Of special interest are the eyes--the only human part of him to show, Alice is not shy about stepping in close to see if they’re a match for the other. “Construct or twins?” The eyes of the newly arrived Doom appear to have a wet layer, maintained by the occasional blink. The eyeballs shift slowly, then twitch more quickly; the motions of eyes when an individual tracks something first, and then diverts his attention to something more distant. In this case, the standing Doctor Doom tracks Alice's movement before he eyes her from head to toe. The seated monarch claims another sip from the cup, this time failing to avoid some of the liquid inevitably running down his chin. The cup and the saucer are returned to the desk, and the armoured man stands, taking precisely two loud steps forward. He crosses his arms and observes Alice's scrutinous examination of his doppelganger. "Perhaps it is a construct," the copy by the desk begins. The other continues, "Perhaps it is a twin." The illusionist is unmistakably proud of his act. The monarch by the desk speaks next, "Perhaps Doctor Doom is not a single entity, but a council of capable men." The version of the man that Alice examines does not stand in his spot for long, walking forward. Avoiding closer inspection, perhaps. Or perhaps to show off more tricks still. Each motion seems to mirror that of the genuine article, whichever one that is. It even sports scorch marks that Doctor Doom has gained after the assassination attempt, although the extent of their similarities are partly concealed by the green tunic. The copy Alice has been conversing with up to now stands before the woman. In the meantime, the other Doom stands before the desk, leaning forward and placing one steel palm against the mahogany surface. A desk drawer is open, and after some fidgeting, one of the monarch produces a newspaper. Standing up straight and holding it before him as if he were Hamlet and he held the jester's skull, this version of Victor van Doom reads it aloud. "The resistance fighter still unidentified by Hungarian forces continues to reap victories for the rebellion. As of this morning, he leads the greater part of the rebels to Latveria's largest city, Hassenburg. Conflicting reports, however, place this unknown combatant in the south of the country, occupying the small mining town called Csakany. Hungarian officials dismiss the reports as fraudulent." The outdated newspaper is theatrically tossed flat on the desk. That particular Doom looks to Alice. Now, Miss Lambton has caught the attention of not one Doctor Doom, but two. Two pairs of cold eyes keenly watch her. The one closer to her clarifies monotonously, "I possess proxies, Alice. Their failures are not mine, and my mind is not theirs." One question is foremost in her mind: “And which have I dealt with, on those occasions when we have interacted? A proxy? The true Doom? A clever ruse for a man in the midst of a war...but...” Alice allows that last word to remain dangling, unfinished. She dares reach out, to trace a single fingertip down the chest of the armored figure nearest to her, allowing him the singular honor of a full, albeit somewhat twisted smile. Both touch and smile seem unveiled, almost intimate. Then she steps around him and once again returns to her chair. There is, after all, tea to be sipped before it’s ruined by cooling. Settling neatly after retrieving her cup, she sips and lets her gaze swing back and forth between the two. No doubt that busy, brilliant mind is trying to determine differences between the pair. Singularities. If she finds any, she gives no sign of it. “I’ll confess, Victor...it will be rather more difficult to trust you if I can’t be certain of which man is behind the mask.” The metal guarding the monarch's neck creaks as he looks down to regard Alice. While the immaculate copy silently observes, the woman unknowingly traces her fingertip down the cold hard chest of the real Victor van Doom. Nothing is said of this gesture, although those eyes forlornly follow Alice once she walks off to reclaim her seat. And then the Doctor Doom by the desk is nodded at. It is a swift and brisk motion, one that seems to tell the other armoured entity everything that is needed. The demonstration begins to march back towards the lift, reversing its arrival, including the inverse shift of the bookcase. By the time the lift starts, Doctor Doom is back in his own chair, as well, although he is yet to drink more of Earl Grey. Once in his throne, the armoured dictator leans forward. The voice that arrives no longer dominates the room, but instead comes off as understandably muffled because of the mask. It is still a strong voice, albeit somewhat gravelly and raspy. Perhaps surprisingly, it is nearly as level as when it is modified. "Every telepath you meet has the luxury of browsing your mind at their leisure. You complete me as much as you compromise me, dear Alice. A solution is necessary." Leaning against the back of his chair, Doctor Doom employs his usual voice. "And so I have fashioned myself a minotaur, and the globe my labyrinth. Paths that will open to you will be closed to others. What you cannot ask of me is total exclusion from the maze. What you will receive is Victor van Doom, watching you." Indeed, those eyes as cool as the steel enveloping him remain on Alice. "Guarding you." “And yet you have technology that will prevent such browsing,” the diplomat murmurs. How she must lust after that technology, to bring the conversation back to it again and again--and why not, in her line of work? Alice, who has watched the departure of the second and listened to this new voice with nary a twitch, now lifts her eyes from teacup to man. Her smile is far, far gentler than the remark just made. What she says next is, perhaps, surprisingly unfocused on petty business matters. “I think I much prefer when you speak to me with your own voice, Victor. I don’t doubt the necessity for either minotaur or maze, but I prefer the man to the machine. I’m quite glad we’ve had this conversation.” She leans forward then to set teacup and saucer on the desk. What’s left within the cup are the dregs, unscryed. When Alice settles back again, it’s with elbows resting on the arms of her chair and fingers laced before her. “What would you like, in return? For the man. Guarding me?” Of all words spoken, only the final ones manage to attract the monarch's attention. Casually reclined in his chair, he keeps but one hand sideways on the armrest, once again grinding his digits together thoughtfully. "Information," he replies curtly, refusing to revert to his true voice. "I want to know what brew of tea you drink in the morning, what colleague irritates you the most, what is happening on the streets of this city and behind the walls of the illustrious White House." The grinding of the fingers stops, and the hand rotates to clasp the edge of the armrest. "I need eyes and ears in this country, Alice. The question is not whether I will have them, the question is whether they will belong to you. In which case, you will not have to guess what I know about you."A pause divides his words once more. "A personal weekly report will do." Alice tilts her head and lets her cheek rest lightly against raised fingers. The smile she’s worn throughout fades until it is simply gone. It gives her a pensive look as she gazes at the man behind the desk. “What you would /like/ is the corruption of one of the longest serving and most well regarded diplomats in the US, Victor. I don’t believe you ask this lightly, however...I am, in many ways, already well protected. It is an unequal proposal.” That same hand is then turned out towards him, fingers curled to beckon him. “What will you /accept/?” The only movement Doctor Doom exhibits is again entirely in those human eyes. The crow's feet intensify for but a moment before a more neutral expression takes over. The eyes blink wearily once, nearly leaving them closed for a moment. "I would ask this from no other than one of the longest serving and most well regarded diplomats in the United States. I begin with you because you understand me. You admire me." Victor refuses to shift in his position still as he continues, "Where was your protection when your life was on the line?" The question is no rhetoric; the monarch fully expects an answer and grants an appropriate pause for the woman. But shortly afterwards the extension of his speech arrives, as well as a more difficult question. As he speaks, he finally leans forward, extending a hand to gracefully cup Alice's. "I do not intend to simply guard you. I intend to guide and foster you. You will gain access to unfathomable wonders that will enable you to accomplish the previously impossible. But my aid is limited if I am blind." The Mephistopheles spiel receives a brief pause. "What would you do differently if you were to be the President of the United States, Alice?" The attack. The flaw in her argument. Alice’s reaction is subtle but to those who know what to look for, it’s easily read: displeasure, seen in the way she takes a single slow inward breath, holds it and then releases it gently. “It’s true, my usual protection was lacking in that instance. I hadn’t thought that many would know I was taking lunch with you,” she is forced to admit, somewhat ruefully. With his hand beneath hers, she allows her arm to relax, elbow against the polished surface of the desk and fingers curled slightly towards her palm. The smile flows back into place as if it had never left. “One of the things I do admire about you is your confidence, Victor. Some might see it as patronizing but I understand where it comes from...” Alice might have said more but for the question he asks. /Then/, courtesy of her hand resting in his gloved one, he might well feel her grow tense. “...I would do a great deal differently. Are you suggesting you might have the ability to assist in that?” Once given the explanation regarding why she was not as well protected as she usually is, Doctor Doom comments quite briefly: "I see. A costly assumption that would otherwise have cost you your life." The remark that touches upon the monarch's confidence, however, is left alone. Sleeping dogs are best left alone, at least at such a delicate point in this conversation. Instead, Victor awaits for Alice to address his question. When her own inquiry comes, his strong hand retreats a bit, departing from the more feminine hand and leaving it to bask in solitude. The voice that he employs now once again is free from electronic interference. "Conquest comes in many forms, dear Alice. Many mistake me to be a warlord alone, simply because I have paved the path to /my/ throne with blood." The hand that has modestly withdrawn now has its palm upturned. This time, it is his hand that invites Alice's. "To yours, I would carve a gentler path. The least I would want for you is to trip over carcasses." It might seem encouraging that Alice listens so intently. That, when he withdraws his hand, she adjusts hers to settle over it, soft palm to steel one. And yet, when she speaks, it’s only to throw caltrops on the path he speaks of. “Do you know what they do to those perceived as traitors in this country, Victor? Execution. What you propose is that I accept the immediate and long-term risk of feeding you state secrets, secrets close to the heart of the country I have sworn to love and protect, whose interests I serve. What you propose is that I accept the possibility of being strapped to a cot and having a faceless doctor feed a lethal cocktail through the IV inserted into my arm,” she says, as cool and calm as if discussing the prospect of their deciding on a restaurant for dinner. “What you propose requires me to accept that you will in some way be able to assist my climb to the White House, a climb I should say that I began years ago and one that has gone well for me thus far, /without/ assistance. What you propose are dreams not yet made real, whose time has not yet come, while I hold assets of immediate value. To you.” Slowly, ever so slowly, her hand is withdrawn. “You will have to do better than that, sir.” "I know of an associate," he begins almost immediately. Victor's voice may now be his own, but the mask seems to pervert it to some degree nonetheless. The ghastly echo seems to be the largest contributor to that. "Short of a skilled telepath, tracing him to me is virtually impossible. You can converse with him under circumstances of your choice. If you wish further justification to communicate with him, I may arrange for him a modest position in the government." The monarch insists further still, "I strongly suggest you meet him regardless of your decision. As for the unlikely scenario of your untimely demise, I have the power to stop such an unfair event from ever occurring." The tug-of-war continues; his hand reaches forward to gently clasp that of the diplomat's. "For a start, you will be granted one of my machines to protect you day and night. Should this alliance be forged, you yourself will become privy to information long before it reaches others." "Imagine the trophies Miss Lambton will present to her superiors. Imagine gifting them what one day will become yours. Imagine them singing praises of how her unique silver tongue manages to challenge the unwavering dictator of Latveria." A heavy pause hangs over the two for almost too long. "The genius of that, dear Alice, is that you would not be lying." Alice raises her eyebrows and though she makes no attempt to disengage her hand from his, there is light tension lingering there--she might draw back, if he were to loosen his grip even slightly. She’s silent for a time. Digesting what he’s said. Once her mind has finished turning each sentence over and prying loose the pertinent meaning, she tilts her head. She smiles. “Am I to understand then, that this machine will come only in the event of an agreement to the terms you’ve set out?” Doctor Doom makes a point to not let go of that hand. There is no undue pressure, but the bond is maintained nonetheless. It is not until Alice smiles and questions the logistics of the aforementioned machine that the hand moves back, favouring the handle of a desk's drawer. He summons forth a card, one that bears contact details of a certain individual. When Victor's hand returns to Alice's hand, it places the card in her hand. "You have time to think. Talk to my associate. You will be issued a unit to protect you on your way out. You can even name it. Sebastian Shaw's wife named /his/." The card accepted, Alice studies its face before lifting her eyes to /his/ again. “Did she, now?” Her lips purse slightly; perhaps that was a smile. The question is purely rhetorical because she continues on, sliding the card into the pocket of her trim jacket and shifting to stand from her chair. It is possible she took his remark as prelude to being seen out. “To each their own, one supposes. I have heard that she dresses it, as well, but I do hope you don’t expect me to carry on so,” she murmurs. Victor van Doom rises from his elaborate chair, stepping around the desk to stand at the diplomat's side for but a mere moment before his strides carries him on towards the exit. As before, the door expects the woman's departure and opens preemptively. As he turns around in front of the opening door, Doctor Doom pushes the cape behind him much like he did upon Alice's arrival. "Allow me to personally see you out, Alice Lambton," he suggests, the usual booming properties of his voice returning. "I find my assistant has not given my embassy sufficient justice. Our meeting will conclude with a short tour."