ArchivedLogs:What Could

What Could
Dramatis Personae Doom, Parley
In Absentia	2013-06-09 Doctor Doom teaches Parley the probability theory.
Location <LATV> Latverian Embassy - Midtown
Many people might consider Sunday morning a lazy one. It is a limbo that is stuck between a day of rest and a day of labour. For Doctor Doom, it seems, the concept of the former is an alien one. After all, be it the consequence of smokes and mirrors or a brutally efficient sleeping schedule, the dictator is often seen working tirelessly in both Latveria and beyond. This morning is no different. All that changed is the scope of his work. From tying knots between nations to throwing a length of rope to a single person. The rope arrives to Parley via post. It is a beautiful sand-coloured envelope with a coolly hued letter hidden inside. The gorgeous calligraphy is unfortunately premeditated by word-processing software - the invitation has been printed. It is callous yet warm: "Dear Einen, I, Doctor Doom, call for your presence in the Latverian Embassy. The meeting has been scheduled on your behalf for today. I insist you arrive at your earliest convenience, should you wish to visit my country a second time. In such a scenario, you would be accompanying the exalted Alice Lambton to witness firsthand the world's first publicly available mutant research facility. If you would rather forgo this opportunity, I assure you no feelings would be wounded, although I can't say for certain if your own mind would ever forgive you such a transgression." The sharp-angled mask-like symbol found on the Latverian flag can be found at the bottom of the document, along with the signature of Victor van Doom himself. Wearing only dark rimmed glasses and sweat pants, Parley reads this message thrice in the quiet glow of the living room window. His torso is bare, the window open to allow a combing of sunlight and breeze to dry the freshly washed fur layering his back; tawny around the smattering of ringed markings, the sunlight illuminates the golden glint of the sharper, spiky guard hairs that march down the line of his spine, the faint undercoat fading outward from this point more of a sandy-dull brown - colors that yearn for tall dry grass to camouflage amongst - absurd, really, here in a city environment. Behind him in the livingroom, he has an evident /work/ center arranged to spend his Sunday in what could be productivity or pleasure equally - three books in a stack atop the heavy tome that is the History of Latveria, a pencil laid over a notebook cluttered with repetitious Cyrillic doodads and re-written lines of sentences. Two browser windows are open on his laptop, still sitting on the couch, where he's streaming Latverian news on one (this one currently playing quietly in the background) and a TED talk on the marvels of the nucleotide sequence of the genome (this one paused). With his phone out and streaming news tweets, retrieval of the mail had been mostly to gather up the latest issues of Popular Science (very likely Tony Stark has made the cover again; smug bastard) and National Geographic, its cover boasting some juicy looks into ancient funerary rites. Very quietly... the pressure of three fingers bears down on the open laptop, clicking it closed. The news feed is silenced. "Tss." - a quiet hiss is made and, murmuring '/Einen/' in displeasure, bare feet pad swiftly for the bedroom to change. If he casts a brief glance narrowly at the windows, as though expecting to see someone observing him from the building windows far across the street, it's quick. His bedroom door clicks shut behind him. There is nary any fanfare upon Parley's arrival to the embassy. He is not greeted by anyone outside of the humble building. It's not until inside that he would be tended to, even if not immediately. The visitor would be allowed a brief moment to acclimatise to the more peculiar interior decor additions - such as the massive turrets - before a fashionably dressed young Romani man walks up to him and politely ask to follow. The art deco eventually unravels into something far more futuristic, sterile and clean. The cleanliness almost suggests a want to disguise something that is filthy, however the transparent walls nearly all rooms have push such suggestions away. The world does not cease on Sunday, but the embassy undeniably has a much smaller workload today. Parley's silent guide doesn't seem keen on being slow, leading him up to the third floor, shedding disjointed thoughts in the shape of imagery. A lot of those thoughts are assignments and meetings. Parley might be disappointed to discover they are of the usual diplomatic sort, even if the individual is very enthusiastic about his job. Confusion touches his mind as he remembers something. Doom's voice echoes in his mind, << I wonder if you will find this. What do you think of my embassy? Do you see a bloody aesthetic here, too? >> In the diplomat's rerun of this memory, he stumbles with a polite answer before departing from Victor's office, confused. And now that is exactly where the two arrive. Third floor and in front of a thick, almost vault-like white door. It opens, giving insight into what is once again an elegantly old-fashioned interior. Music spills outside as the door swings open. The early minutes of Mozart's Requiem, although it's actually past the Introitus, having moved on to Kyrie. Doctor Doom is ponderously eyeing a bookshelf. His mind is literally absent. Such large spaces and intricate environments don't reject a presence like Parley's so much as ignore him, in style; his unflourished manner of standing to the side remains consistent even when there is nothing to stand to the side /of/, his sports coat lightweight yet dark gray in color over a light wine-gold button up, bearing down the uncivilized fur of his neck and shoulders with the high mandarin collar he's come to favor. The shaggy hair and round dark-rimmed glasses yet manage to give him the semblance of a feral /librarian/. And /yet/... with no mind from Doom to pour through him, his presence is - louder; more insistently stable. The sound of his clothes shifting crisp, the soft scuff of his feet, while yet given some natural affinity for an animalistic grasp of balance, still compellingly /existential/. One cannot camouflage where there is nothing to camouflage themselves /with/. And his open, porous mind finds nothing with which to dye his colors. Well. May as well do without, then. Silent through the corridors, mindful of his guide yet undemanding of his attention, it's only once entering this room that his breathing develops the irregularity of one intending to speak - his head turned back to look over the hard structure of the thick vault-like door, "Are the windows reinforced as well?" If Doom is choosing to browse his shelves, Parley is not one to complain; he'll fall into wandering. A quiet poking with hands politely behind his back, meandering towards the window to gauge the view. It is not until Parley ventures deeper into the extravagantly decorated room that the thickly reinforced door soundlessly closes behind him. Only the locks ominously clicking into place give away the fact he is sealed in the same room as Doctor Doom. While the guest examines the window, the monarch continues to leisurely explore the many book spines on display, heavy steel arms crossed thoughtfully. "They will withstand anything but anti-tank weaponry," he speaks, still facing the bookshelf a moment longer. Afterwards, Victor van Doom turns around, flicking his worn green cloak behind him. Heavy footsteps land against the soft carpeting as the Latverian monarch slowly approaches the desk. Indeed, the only source of light this room has, comes from the grand set of windows behind the dark mahogany desk, framing the dictator when he is seated. Right now, however, he arrives to stand at the other side. The music is not very loud. It envelops the room like a soft glow of light. Its presence is hard to deny, but even the escalated pace of Kyrie does not eschew Parley's voice. At the same time, the majestic voice of Doctor Doom does not manage to overshadow the musical piece. "When writing this composition, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart feared he was composing his own requiem," he notes in a manner that would perhaps have sounded admirably, if it weren't for the immovable intonation. Eyes as cold as the Arctic Ocean regard Parley with an unreadable intention. "Enjoying my book?" "Do you think it was an inspiration to him? -- I'm learning from it." The way Parley suggests things, distantly, could as easily be an affirmative as it could a correction - or an offhand flippancy; he's facing out the window when this first is answered, though his head turns soon enough, tipped differentially down a minute increment, "Was it written with the intention to bring joy to its readers?" With his attention turned towards Victor van Doom, the light pouring in bathes only half his face, illuminating the wet bowl of his iris for the network of charcoal-brown threads and squiggles that make up the true coloration of his eyes. The pupil on this side recedes down naturally against this glow to a pindot. In the shadow cast by his brow, the other is dark in its depth. If the lock of the door is a concern to him, he seems only to embrace it, unhelpfully loose through his shoulders. The two engage not unlike a pair of bucks, mashing each other's antlers together. Here's hoping the antlers don't lock together and the two don't starve to death in unity. "Education," the monarch similarly corrects the visitor, at the same time answering the question regarding the book's intention. Parley's confession that he is learning from it is then dismissively addressed: "I am glad to hear it is successful." Doctor Doom circles the desk, approaching it from an angle that might initially suggest he is actually heading towards Parley. Instead, however, his end goal is one of the drawers. When opened, the top drawer reveals its contents to be a wide variety of documents, some of which appear to be letters. One open envelope is gracefully snatched up by the iron digits. "I summon you out of the belief that the communicative channel between us is closed." The drawer is brutally slammed shut. "I intend to pry it open." The stance that the Supreme Monarch assumes when he offers the envelope to Parley is, well, supreme. The king stands sideways, feet widely apart and firmly planted on the floor beneath him. His unoccupied hand is wrathfully curled into an iron fist, whereas his other arm is actually leisurely and relaxed, bent at the elbow and the wrist at contrasting angles. "You are an expert on civil rights." The voice need not lose its monotony to imply sarcasm. "Tell me, what do you think of the latest Latverian development?" "Would you prefer I pry as well, then?" Parley's eyes drop to the drawer when it slams and jump back to Doom's face - or in the least, the plate protecting it. Near enough to hand him this envelope, though loose through musculature systems there is something yet wired in him, alert and attentive in small shifts of body that respond to each readjustment of the other man's; whether it has been present all along, or only just developing, it's as difficult to trace as a pot of water only slowly brought to a boil. "An ideal communication channel would involve transference both ways." Like the timeless painting of The Creation of Adam, if viewed from the doorway Parley's silhouette would reach outward, slightly upward to take the envelope handed down to him. Also standing sideways to his present company, facing the window while Doom faces the room's interior, they are in all ways a contrasted study; the forcewall of Doom's radiant presence finds no counter pressure from the empath's understated, economized movements, Parley's own weight ungrounded, slung slightly to one hip with a hand resting atop it in an absently modern pose. For a moment seeming to leave Doom's sarcasm unheard - or at least, un/stung/ by its implication, he opens the envelope and reads: "Dear Doctor Doom, with utmost respect I urge you to reconsider the opening of the mutant testing facility. Your love of science is admirable, but at the same it blinds you to the very basics of human rights. You may disguise it with benevolent intentions and the illusion that the participants volunteer, but you hide its true purpose much like you hide your face. You are a cruel short-sighted man, bullying others into submission with your larger than life appearance and attitude. The mutant community is larger than you and your country combined. You may have fooled your nation, but you will not fool the world. I sincerely hope you will take these words into account and change your mind." "Mh," he is a quick reader; the speed in which his eyes flash down the epistle message is almost dismissively rapid, "I would say it was all but inevitable in coming. I'm surprised it's taken as long as it has." He tucks the letter back into the envelope, "-- I wouldn't personally consider you all that short-sighted." He envelope is offered back, "Nor blind. Perhaps it's difficult to imagine these things committed with both eyes fully opened." This entire time, Doctor Doom is silent, allowing Parley to read the correspondence in peace. At the same time, however, he continues to loom over the guest, the hand that clutched the envelope now open, patiently awaiting the return of the letter. Kyrie eleison - Lord, have mercy - softly fades. The silence that follows verges on being too great, but very soon Requiem picks up again, much more strongly and fiercely. The powerfully sung Latin words flood the room. "Dies irae, dies illa! Solvet saeclum in favilla, teste David cum Sibylla!" The monarch continues to stand perfectly still, the only movement being that of the occasional blink and the associated twitch of facial muscles. His reply comes only when the next stanza arrives. As the Latin rings in the background, the dictator helpfully provides a translation: "Oh, what fear man's bosom rendeth, when from Heaven the Judge descendeth, on whose sentence all dependeth." Once returned, the letter is returned to the drawer, which is closed afterwards more softly than before. The intricate joints whirr unobtrusively as Victor van Doom departs from his position, dragging the slightly discoloured end of the cape along with him. "They claim I hide, but they themselves cower behind meaningless words, scouring for bones like starved hounds." When he arrives to the opposite side of the desk, he turns to face the window and by proxy Parley, leaning forward and resting both hands on the mahogany surface, noisily slamming them against it yet managing not to damage it. Clunk. "They do not fear what is, they do not fear what I do. They fear what /could/ be, they fear what I /could/ do." Emphasis is not something Doctor Doom often indulges in, a conscious design that lends the few instances that he does afford emphasis to truly sound exceptional. "These men blindly wag their feebly lit torch in the thick darkness in the naive hope they will hit their foe," he illustrates the point. Slowly, his form straightens again. That spiteful scowl fits his monologue. "You speak of mutual transference, but it is you who has built the dam. I ask you again, what do you think of the facility I opened?" Dies Irae ends, but the ira of Doom is only just beginning. The drone of his voice sheds more of its humanity as it raises in volume. "Speak your mind." "And yet it's a fear you foster deliberately," Parley underpins, looking back towards the window, if for only a moment - the view fails to grip him, and he turns to hook the hidden messy termination of his tailbone on the windowsill, scanning the room's interior for it's small details. Possibly wondering just who placed them, what small communications /these/ small elaborations might mean. And as he absorbs, he murmurs, absently, "It was The Madness of King George, wasn't it? -- ' Deferred to, agreed with, acquiesced in, who can flourish on such a daily diet of compliance?' -- Do you dislike people living up to the convenience of your expectations? -- I'm often invited to speak my mind, Doctor Doom. Rarely does it behoove me to do so." Tap. He touches down a fingertip against the window frame on a moment of musical crescendo, watching the point where the contact occurs - voice lowering to something less light, more monotone, "I wasn't being -- mn, evasive. Acknowledging the inevitability of the premise is the first step of putting it into perspective - humans are curious. Even ones with mutant genes. One could argue ethically that an environment where there is little option /but/ to enroll in these programs is only systemizing abuse. I expect there will be deaths. Some of them pointless. Some," and here comes the long pause --, "interesting." It's difficult for attention in a room not to eventually fall upon the monarch, his tensile steel might, even sans a sense of mind, harbors more daunting presence than the near-inanimate sensory trickle the young mutant offers as he quietly continues. "And in the meantime, perhaps this new, young country will pioneer a new wave of open testing facilities in other countries, and there will be more abuse, and more deaths, both pointless and otherwise. And possibly in time, the public nature of it will bring more minds together and maybe it will streamline into death camps or," he looks along the ceiling, the corners - for vents? Manners of air flow? "Possibly it will inspire a slow progression of /regulation/ on testing that will eventually lead to more humane methods as the momentum carries it forwards. It's -- "...a pebble. Toppling down a hill to start a landslide." Never has such a monumental concept been said with more flippance, "What /breed/ of landslide, has not yet presented itself. And in the meantime?" Parley offers a thin smile. "Perhaps we will get some interesting reading material from it." The room Parley has found himself in is as carefully constructed as the armour of the dictator who has invited him here. While the sealed window does let the warmth and the light of the sun inside, the caress of any sort of breeze is woefully absent. Yet strange as it may seem, there is no shortage of air to breathe. The reason for this is not readily apparent. The source is shielded from curiosity. Eyes will see an ordinary room, even if the mind might stubbornly insist there is so much more, and would be right in doing so. If the monarch's attitude has flared up along with the music, it seems to have evaporated along with the melodic climax. The wondrous sound of trumpets is sung of more fondly and warmly than the days of wrath. Doctor Doom keenly and silently observes Parley while the feline man speaks, providing nothing in the way of a response until silence shrouds the room once more. His iron visage is as immovable as always, and his eyes have slammed shut the windows to his soul. "Death camps," he echoes the words, his voice reverting to its usual sinister monotony, albeit the words are dragged along a little more slowly. The drawl almost makes the dictator sound exasperated. "Why do you think the mutant issue weighs so heavily on the globe?" The rhetoric is left with little room for answer, because the armoured monarch continues almost immediately, "Are they hard to detain? To contain? To destroy?" In case the answer isn't clear, Doctor Doom provides with a soft electronic purr: "No." Victor van Doom steps away from the desk once more, this time moving towards a cabinet full of delftware and glassware. "The solution to the majority of the mutated community is as simple as a bullet. They can raise cars, melt metal, read thoughts and command the elements, but all of them exhibit one or more of the following functions – breathing, eating, sleeping or bleeding." The monarch looks through the glass cabinet doors, admiring his private collection. "They even dream." After opening the glass cabinet, he summons two frail wine glasses, both held delicately in a dangerously unforgiving grip. The cabinet is shut with one hand, each glass door delicately swung into a closed state with utmost care. Curiously enough, the iron fingers linger on the handle for a few moments, as if he is contemplating something. Unfortunately for Parley, this is one mind that is currently off-limits. Then, movement is suddenly restored, and Victor makes his way back to the desk. Yet there is nary a moment of silence. "Fetch the wine in the lower part of the cabinet," he commands the young man as he noisily strides towards the desk. It may as well be a request, but the thunderous voice makes it difficult to see it as anything other than a demand. "Throughout the war-strewn history of humanity, the world has harnessed a staggering collection of weaponry, from bare hands to mobile gas chambers. Total eradication of the mutant community would take mere months." The glasses are carefully set down, softly enough for the clink to be almost inaudible. An echo sweeps through the room in the shape of the resounding voice of Doctor Doom. "Inaction does not stem from incapability. The world does not fear mutants, the world does not fear what they do. It fears what they /could/ be, it fears what they /could/ do." Straightening up, Victor turns to face young Parley ever so expectantly. "But the nations have imprisoned themselves with delusions of ethics." The steel man lightly inclines his chin, those empty eyes burrowing into Einen. "Instead, they will watch me. They will gasp in shock and shudder in terror at the things I do." The muffled electronic grunt that arrives nearly resembles a chortle. "But tomorrow, they will build upon the very bones I provide. Any word spoken or action committed against me and my land will be a meaningless formality, meant to disguise their hunger for the knowledge they dare not claim. They see me as a tool, and in doing so, they submit to my design." Through all of this, Parley is the counter-weight to Doom; quiet, soft, primal fur and vulnerable flesh to modern steel and booming power, perched as a bare silhouetted in the window, backlit with head turning to observe the monarch as he conducts his movements, like some attentive, unattainable bird. There's - /weight/ in his expression, one that drinks in the words spoken even sans any such food that his mere mutation might dine on. "To what end?" It's not slow caution, here - he so slightly is leaning forward and engaged, "If fear lies in potential, what you're saying is that /you/ want control the mutant realm of what 'could be'." It's difficult to tell, whether he opines this, or suggests it in the neutral voice of the devil's advocate; his path cut from window to wine one idle and winding. As he sets the bottle in a location accessible to Doom he asks, abruptly, "Are you trying to see if I'll condemn you?" The wine is found pre-emptively prepared for this meeting, cooling in a bucket filled with ice. The bottle is already open, so when it is set down on the desk beside the two pristinely clean glasses, all that is required of Victor van Doom is to pull the cork out of the neck with a distinct pop. The measured trickle of the blood-coloured drink goes with the continued tranquil chime of Requiem quite well. The left glass is filled halfway full first, then it's the right one's turn. "No." The answer is abrupt and sudden, arriving while the right glass is being filled. It looks like Doctor Doom has had plenty of experience serving wine, enough to suggest that perhaps some villains start as waiters. There's a theatrical elegance to his movement. "You have proven to be so perceptive during your meeting with Alice Lambton." The bottle is gently laid back down on the desk, whereas the two glasses are gracefully lifted off it. "Are you feigning ignorance, or have I given you too much credit?" Victor van Doom turns to Parley, then, a glass of wine each held at his formidable chest. Those cold eyes coil around Einen once again. Neither one of the two glasses is offered just yet. "This one I grant you for free," he informs his guest, not referring to the drink. "The mutated individuals are a leap in multiple fields of science. But before I know what they can do, I must first discover what they cannot do. And in doing so, I will provide the nations of the world with the means to control their mutant population as they see fit." The Supreme Monarch of Latveria takes heavy steps towards Parley, enough to bridge their distance to an arm's length, which is close enough for most to consider uncomfortable, especially considering the steel monstrosity that would stand before them. "You have to keep your wits about you, young Einen." Somehow, miraculous as it may seem, that encouragement does not warm at all. "I suspect your perceptiveness is all that has kept you from teetering over the edge of a great chasm." While the left glass is held close to his chest, the right one is kindly offered up to Parley. Like its sibling, it rests between the ring finger and the middle finger, while the stem is free for Parley to claim. "But there is one thing you fail to understand," he coldly explains, the level drone of his voice still very much devoid of encouragement. At least the dictator politely and patiently awaits his guest to raise a furry hand and accept the drink. But that is when Doctor Doom decides to mercilessly crush that wine glass in his powerful grip, a few shards escaping the incredible pressure of those fingers, springing free to fly in harmless directions. The largely intact stem drops to the ground. The wine runs down steel rather like blood. During this display, the trademark boom for a voice floods the room like a gust of strong wind through forcibly opened windows, casting a thick shadow over music, the shattering of glass and all else. "You do /not/ play games with me. Your audacious attempt to please me with words is based on the wrongful assumption that you can read me." The voice is almost painfully loud, and it's certainly loud enough to vibrate within Parley's chest. "/I/ can read /you/. Every time you blink, every time you speak, I learn to know more about you than yourself. I do not need spies to tell me what words you exchange with Alice Lambton or Norman Osborn. I have the power to take everything away from you, leave you with nothing but breath, so that you may spend each one to reminisce on what you lost." For once, those eyes transmit a very human emotion, easy enough for anyone to interpret as anger. Without further word, the second glass is offered up to Parley, and again he kindly waits for it to be accepted. Perhaps this one will not be crushed? Perhaps the uncertainty of it is what he is trying to hammer in. Parley's fingers curl away with a moment of surprise, wide eyes jumping from the crushed mess of glass dropping in glittering beads of red and crystal shimmer in a pretty little tinkle-patter on the ground, up to the face of Doom - and, abruptly, he finds himself /laugh/. It's a quiet 'khh!' through his teeth and he /walks away/ from the second offered glass while running his fingers through his hair. "But it's all a game, isn't it? The invitation, my greeting downstairs - the door," like a composer, his finger lifts towards the entrance of the room, the Requiem a contrast in that in this moment it is on a /descent/, and then this hand drops and his other rises, finger equally extended, "the /windows/. The music. The wine. … '/Einen/'." His teeth so slightly on edge for the name, causing a wrinkle to the side of his nose, a soft rasp purring in the word, gone the next moment to a tone gone /flat/. With his body facing the sealed off exit, he turns his head to ask in profile, "What do you want of me, Doctor Doom? If not to please you, why am I here." When the second glass goes ignored, Doctor Doom decides to claim ownership of it. While Parley walks off laughing to himself, the monarch brings the thin rim to the iron lips and swiftly angles the glass, emptying it in one fell swoop. This glass is fortunate in that it is set gently back down next to the wine bottle, surviving the wrath of Victor van Doom. When he speaks, his voice is no longer as obnoxiously loud as it was mere moments ago. "Insignificant peasant, you continue to drown in ignorance, desperately flailing your limbs in a haphazard attempt to swim. But these deep, shark-infested waters are no place for a cat." Calmly, Doctor Doom spins around and begins to head towards Parley much like one of the aforementioned sharks. His steps are soft and slow. He has all the time in the world, after all. Just as the distance between them shrinks, the monarch's voice gradually escalates in volume. "You do not liken yourself to Doctor Doom. If I command you to swim, you will swim. If I command you to drown, you /will/ drown. Your hold over me does not come anywhere close to the hold I possess over you, Parley." One step after another, those heavy metal feet lazily thud against the carpet as the towering monarch approaches. "That is why you are here, so that I may illustrate a crucial point." And there he is. Victor van Doom - in all his iron majesty - standing before poor Parley. The lumbering laziness evaporates in an instant, and the dictator aims to land a heavy steel hand on his shoulder; the ease of motion truly deceives the weight of gauntlets. The smaller man would be spun around first, and then those iron hands would sharply snatch up both of the boy's wrists. The grip that follows is understandably painful, and it forcibly wraps the palms around that greatly reinforced neck, the massive steel frame lowering itself for the sake of ease. Doctor Doom's own hands wrap around Parley's own significantly more vulnerable throat, and a booming dare then dominates the air between them. "Do you dare play a game with me still? Would you like to see who chokes another to death first?" It may not even be felt; the digging in of heels, the counter-yank /back/ - anymore than a meatgrinder would mark the difference between live meat or dead, thrashing or still - but it does come, reflexively, when Doom seizes Parley, when Doom /turns/ Parley. Or the one mad, stone cold moment when his mouth compresses and he seems to genuinely /consider/ just clamping down his fingers on that steel throat and riding out this black moment to its inevitable conclusion. Beyond a sharp inhale through his nose, and a series of subsequent short-breaths, this manhandling has been conducted with an eerie silence against the sharp glory of background music, bathing a decadence over the violent potential. Pupils dilated, color drained to two points of color at the height of either cheek, eyes locked glassy-steady on Doom's face plate. The throb of his pulse can be seen, rapid heavy thuds, against the iron collar Doom's hands have made for him... … slowly, he withdraws his own fingers, shoulders so carefully rising and falling with shallow breath. As though soothed, or slain, by the waves of Requiem, the moment where his hands hover over /Doom's/, as though to pry them away, passes. And he lowers them slowly to his sides, his pulse beating a contradicting speed /thicker/ with this mellowing of posture. A surrender to steel. "It would be you." So slightly, his chin tips up. And he /softens/, leans a spare increment /into/ the grip, something glinting /fascinated/. "Do you want to?" The cold grip around Parley's throat does not linger for much longer after the more fragile individual of the two surrenders to the other. It never exhibits actual force beyond light yet sinisterly suggestive pressure, insistently proposing the scenario of lethal oxygen deprivation. The scenario does not arrive. Instead, those hands retract, the twin claw-like formation of his hands right before Parley's eyes. "No," comes the softly spoken response. Its electric buzz trails off to imply further continuation, as if an even more ominous alternative is about to be voiced. Doctor Doom rises back to his full height; his hands slowly curl into powerful fists and lower to his sides. "I am no common thug. Your death will neither please me nor serve any purpose. Your mind interests me only so long as it is fed oxygen." Towering over Parley, Doctor Doom looks down at him with eyes that remain judging. "But my hands remain firmly clamped around your precious neck, even if you may not immediately feel the steel against your skin. And my hands are not alone. Other hands are vying for control over it. Some names are known to me, while others still escape me. This is a deep ocean, and you will never account for all sharks hunting you." One of those determined fists unravels and reaches for one of the belt pouches, burrowing inside to reach for something; likely a remote, because a single twitch of a finger instils life into the locks of the reinforced door behind Parley. As the pouch is clicked closed, the hydraulics hiss, and the door begins to open. "You can come aboard my ship, or you can continue swimming with the sharks." His other hand extends towards the gradually growing exit. "The choice is yours after I give you a tour of my vessel." As if the door actually needed to be pointed out. The monarch dismisses his gesture and turns his back to Parley, beginning his stride back towards his desk. "For now, begone, peasant." Parley's eyes lightly close to mask the sharp /glint/ in them as he's released, and then open once liberated - fully open for once, continuing to breathe even and shallow. His hands remain at his sides, taking Doom's words seemingly as a form of grim address. A downward-upward motion in his throat is either a swallow, or an unsticking of tongue from the roof of his mouth, maybe to speak when the monarch is through. But he doesn't. He only lowers his head and shoulders in a single semi-bow when dismissed, face turned slightly to the side. And quietly takes his leave, making no more sound than a whisper of feet.