ArchivedLogs:Defying Fate

Defying Fate
Dramatis Personae Doom
In Absentia	2013-06-18 Doom meets Madame Web.
Location <WES> Westchester
Madame Web's World of Wonders is set up across 3 acres of land behind Harvest Moon Farms in rural West-Chester; it sprawls out like some garish parade across the rolling fields of grass, tucked away between the woods and the farmhouse. Half a dozen large, purple-and-white striped tents are set up -- for shows, food, bathrooms, and relief from the occasional shower -- with a massive ferris wheel (strewn with lights!), a tilt-a-whirl, chair-o-planes, bumper cars, a carousel, and funhouse all available. The grounds are also peppered with well-trained capuchin monkeys who will perch on your shoulders (and eat your food!). There are numerous game booths set up, as well as a nightly showing of 'The Mysterious Mysterio's Magical Mayhem' act, along with 'Kraven the Hunter's Animal Kingdom'. There's even a tent for what is politely described as 'Wonders of Biology' (but often gets snidely referred to as 'The Freak Tent'), where for a ticket price of ten dollars, you can see some of the oddities that Madame Web has gathered in her extensive travels. Past these booths walks a man whose presence disturbs the otherwise vibrant and positive atmosphere of the entire event. The grass may soften his steps to a degree, but the trademark metallic clunk is unmistakable even to a blind visitor. Doctor Doom drags his cape behind as his determined stride carries him forward, beyond all these meagre forms of entertainment and to his ultimate goal - the abode of Madame Web herself. His arrival doesn't come as a surprise to the guests of the carnival alone. One of his representatives have introduced him as a bright-minded and gold-hearted (if a bit eccentric) philanthropist who seeks a more illuminated future than the present that surrounds him, and that due to his celebrity status, he wishes to remain anonymous. A lie? Perhaps. Twisted truth? More likely. But now, the Supreme Monarch of Latveria is marching straight towards the recreational vehicle where Madam Web can hopefully be found. What is the saying? A ruler must sometimes 'stoop to conquer'? That might explain the perplexing puzzle Dr. Doom finds himself confronted with as he approaches the RV that houses the mysterious Madame Web; the very doorframe may, in fact, require him to lower his head to fit through. A series of bobbleheads sit on a window ledge, peering out at him with their wide eyes and plastic smiles, all silently nodding their assent ('yes, yes, yes, please come in, yes, yes, yes') as he approaches. The door itself clicks as soon as his footfalls hit the small metal stairwell (which is at risk of crumpling beneath the weight of his steps); an instant later, and it is opening -- a chamomile-scented interior wafting out toward the metal-sheathed monarch. And then... there is a woman. In a wheelchair. She looks like a mummified exhibit; her entire figure is swarmed in multi-colored fabrics, so thick and deep that not a stitch of skin can be seen. She even wears sunglasses to hide her eyes. The only way her gender can even be ascertained is by her voice -- old, crinkly -- and addressing the Monarch in a fluent expression of a Latverian dialect of Romani: "{Your Majesty.}" She doesn't sound... surprised. There is, however, a notable presence on Dr. Doom's left, now. Two people watching -- 20 yards away. Both in loose summer clothes; one is a towering giant of a man in a green-and-black striped muscle-shirt -- the other is a man covered in horrible burn-scars, with a crisp blue collared shirt. They linger, but do not approach -- as if waiting for a signal. Indeed, the entire vehicle creaks and whines as the monarch steps further away from the entrance. That said, he does not willingly abuse the floor upon which he walks. Not only did he show grace by lowering his cowl-covered head beneath the frame of the door, he also continues to walk as carefully as would a barefoot man navigate a hallway full of glass shards. Curiously, he stops a respectable distance away from the colourfully wrapped gypsy woman. His neck swivels so that he may look at the various decorations of the RV's interior. He even notes the bobbleheads, which are gradually starting to rein in their excitement pertaining to the Latverian king's arrival. It seems as if he looks at everything /but/ Madame Web. No, she is last on this list, but also the one to whom he pays the most attention. Even the burly men were but briefly acknowledged, as if they were insignificant wax statues. "{I did not grow with Romani,}" the dictator admits. His usual booming voice is still lacking humanity, though surprisingly the usual volume has been dialed down, somewhat. His accent is pretty terrible. "And it would be impolite to speak a foreign tongue in a foreign land." Pause. "You do not fear me." Not a question; a statement. "Oh?" Madame Web responds; her wheelchair gives a small, electric hum as she retreats back into the RV -- only slightly -- at his approach. Not, apparently, out of fear -- no, she is reaching with one of those cloth-wrapped hands for a nearby electric tea-kettle. "But I've heard our people owe you an extraordinary debt of gratitude," she continues, in English -- her accent is thick, and betrays both her Latverian and Romani heritage. "To have a country of our own -- is a remarkable thing. I did not suspect it possible. Would you like tea?" she adds. "I find English to be a miserable language, myself -- but also quite versatile." She pauses, before depressing the pedal to activate the kettle -- sending a rumble of heat through the water contained within. "/Should/ I fear you?" she asks, before adding -- rather softly: "What does an old, dying expatriote spinster have to fear from a King?" Although Doctor Doom himself remains entirely still, his eyes more than make up for the lack of motion, regarding every minute change in the environment, every twitch of the muscle they can spot on the old woman. He lets the praise quietly sink past that no doubt thick armour. Even when asked if he would like tea, the monarch simply offers a silent nod. It is not until Madame Web comments on the English language does his voice rise almost the moment that invisible full stop ends her sentence. "Then we have something in common." A sigh is grated and lacerated by the mouthpiece, escaping into the air distorted and mangled. "A lot," he answers her last question. "A man leaves but two pairs of distinct footprints upon the earth - when he enters and when he departs. I could make your exit exceptionally." An abrupt pause follows. "Arduous," he finishes, momentarily narrowing his eyes. The muscles relax by the time his own question arrives: "Why did you flee? And why do you abstain from a return, now that the country is reborn?" "But why /would/ you?" she asks, and there's unexpressed laughter in her next words as she produces a pair of tea cups -- bags, too. "The benefit of weakness is being ignored by the strong. Of course, that is also what makes weakness strong -- and strength, weak. Perhaps," she adds, as if the thought amuses her, "you are here because you do not wish to make that very mistake?" The electric tea kettle works with rapid speed, powered on by the force of exposition. It is soon being poured -- delicately! -- into each cup. The contents of the cups are then dumped, the water meant only to heat them; a teabag is placed in each -- and the final water poured. "I fled because I was a Romani in Latveria," Madame Web tells him, "and because I feared for my family. I have not returned because I do not trust your intentions," she adds, allowing her own tea to steep -- even as she offers the second cup to Doom, in case he is not the sort who likes to /wait/. "...yet," she quietly finishes. Although Victor van Doom does not address Madame Web's observation regarding the weak and the strong, there is once again a twitchy narrowing of his weary eyes, before the steel-like gaze regains its former certainty. Silently, the monarch examines the ritual of tea preparation. When he is offered the cup, the iron digits clink delicately around it before he claims it. He does not yet drink it, however, instead hugging it with both hands and keeping it just below his chest level. It is not a suffocating hold; in fact he holds it as though it were a newborn chick. "My ascent to strength led me through weakness," he coolly admits. "Time and time again I have braved through the swamp of stagnation. I know the danger of underestimation and the power of exaggeration." He allows himself another dramatic pause before he speaks anew. "I do not come here to chase legality." Much like Madame Web, he decides to add: "Yet." He immediately clarifies his intentions shortly afterwards, if somewhat unconventionally and indirectly. "You are perhaps the most prestigious fortune-teller in this city, perhaps the entire country. You ask so much for such an abysmally known reputation." Madame Web allows her tea to steep for another precious few moments -- until! A spoon is drawn from a nearby cup which holds several; the bag is drawn out with it, and deposited in a nearby trash can with a wet /whunk/. "Oh? Did you rise up from mediocrity? I've often found it interesting how weakness can lead to strength. /Sometimes/," she adds, with a little more force. As if to emphasize -- she's seen weakness lead to merely death. That previously inexpressed laughter swells up to Madame Web's throat, now; it is a little choked and travel-worn, a little world-weary -- not the laugh of a young, chipper woman. "People love a mystery. Tell them everything and they'll give you nothing for it; tell them nothing and they'll give you /everything/ for it. I ask so much," she adds, "because they're willing to /pay/. Because I am 'strange' and 'mysterious'. Would you like me to tell your fortune? I suspect not," she quickly adds. "Self-made men do not believe in fate. Well, neither do I." The tea cup lifts, now. A hand rising to her cloths -- tug, tug. A hint of dark, wrinkled skin as her mouth is exposed -- and, sssssip. "I have often found that the first step toward strength is found only through /rejecting/ the fate 'assigned' to you." First, those eyes lower in a decisively coy fashion, right before they rise back up to intensely stare at the aged woman. "Then we think alike on two matters," he comments when the topic of mystery is touched upon. The cup of tea is still held in his hands delicately, kept for a later moment, if indeed the monarch even intends to drink any of it. "What was your fate? Have you defied it?" "My fate was to die," Madame Web responds. "So far, so good." There is a hint of /humor/ there, but -- "In Latveria, I was very sick. Deformed. I was abandoned, for fear of slowing my family down. It was my fate to die as a child. I triumphed. And yet," she adds, the tea-cup rising to her mouth, "I now find it is my fate to die as an adult. No matter how many times I defy my fate, I am assigned a new one." Ssssip. Unseen eyes /peer/ at Doom beneath those darkened shades. "You were fated to live, toil, and die in mediocrity, yes? But you triumphed. And yet," she continues, "it is now your fate to rule a mere country. I suspect, like me, you find this new fate as unsatisfying as the old. Yes? You want /more/. Improbable things. Impossible things. /Marvelous/ things," she says, and what is exposed of her mouth now threatens to twist into a smile. "How glorious that we live in a time of miracles. Maybe I /will/ live forever. Maybe you /will/ rule the world." There is a bit of a flinch of the lower eye-lids as they momentarily climb upward before they twitch back into place. His gaze is a stark contrast to the grip on the tea cup - it is much colder and much firmer, not unlike those mechanised hands would feel around one's neck. "/Maybe/," he echoes, his peculiar voice an aptly ominous reiteration of the fortune-teller's musings. "If the past repeats itself in the future." The off-handed comment is but a prelude to something far more elaborate and far more extensive. Doctor Doom proves to be select in his responses, but perhaps his silence is a form of confirmation... or denial. "I have a riddle for you. You do not believe in fate, and neither do I. A fool sinks his foot into a puddle and claims it is meant to be. A wise man sees the puddle beforehand and evades it in time. Who are we to say it is not by design that we avoid our fate? What if, in trying to deny fate, we adhere to it unknowingly? Who can ever truly claim to truly see the threads of Fate, if not the Moirai?" It is perhaps ironic that -- within this space -- neither Doom or Madame Web's faces can be seen; one sheathed in armor, the other in cloth -- leaving their thoughts a mystery. But at the mention of the Moirai, Web's head inclines, cocking to the left -- a gesture of almost bird-like curiousity. But, there's a hint of amusement lingering in her response: "The fool remains a fool because he is wet. The wise man remains wise because he is /not/. Fools once believed Gods lived atop mountains. When we climbed the mountains, they moved them to the skies; when we conquered the skies, they moved them beyond. The wise do not trouble themselves with thoughts of powers they cannot perceive. If you find the Moirai, kill them and take back your thread. Until then, they can go /fuck/ themselves." Ever so slowly, the crow's feet framing those tired yet surprisingly keen eyes gather together to form rows of wrinkles. From within a short-lived silence, his majestic booming voice is birthed once more: "And so we agree on three things." Madame Web continues to enjoy basking in the monarch's full attention even as that cup finally rises to his mask; the fragile brim is gently propped against the steel lip before the cup is tipped over as though a shot glass. Emptied, it is offered back to the woman. "I will be sure to relay your message to the Fates when I find them," he offers. Then Victor van Doom suggests something... more interesting. "Consider these three acres unofficially guarded by the Latverian forces I have allocated in this country. You are a valuable asset, long-forgotten and painstakingly underappreciated. Your immeasurable contributions to Latveria were buried by the Hungarians. Your continued survival and well-being is therefore in the ruler's interest." As always, the eyes is where the monarch's words begin to swirl into creation. An addendum is easily foreseen. "I stress the word 'unofficially'. You are a citizen of the United States and you are held accountable by the laws of the country you have chosen. Should you and Moirai come to a disagreement, however, my land is always open to you." It is not easy to detect Madame Web's surprise beneath those numerous garments she cloaks herself in; nevertheless, the signs are there -- the faint inclination of her head, the shift of cloth that indicates a raising of the brows -- and the slow, /careful/ way in which she reaches for that cup -- accepting it from Doom's iron-clad hand. Her voice is tense, then -- /cautious/ -- despite the nature of the gesture. Probably because she has learned all too well that generosity is a dangerous thing. "...your generosity is -- /extraordinary/, your Majesty." Before adding -- perhaps, on blind impulse, and with a certain sharpness: "When you do, take their needles and /stab/ the bitches in the eyes." There is a rumbling exhalation, a sort of drawn out chortle, perhaps. Nevertheless, he replies firmly, "You'll find me in the yellow pages." Doctor Doom turns around with all the swiftness of a bear who's just woken up from hibernation. Throughout this entire conversation, he's barely moved. Now, however, he commands his impenetrable frame to carry itself towards the exit. The bobblehead nod in undue excitement once again, bowing their heads to the king's departure.