ArchivedLogs:Convenience of Illusion

Convenience of Illusion
Dramatis Personae Doom, Parley
In Absentia	2013-05-11 Doom plays a little game, later that night.
Location Castle Doom, Latveria
Castle Doom might not be as impressive as the first few results of an image search for a big castle, but it comes close. Its size is definitely noteworthy, and it is surrounded by a lake. There is no bridge or path leading up to the entrance, as instead all those who wish to enter the castle have to take a boat. It is a grand sight, and while it's too rudimentary and pragmatic to be an architectural marvel, the most curious trait is the blend of the old with the new. Each large bulky tower that claims a corner of the castle is crowned by SAM launchers. The battlements are home to patrols, each equipped with semi-automatic sniper rifles. Even the castle bridge is lowered by a pneumatic mechanism far sturdier and complex than the chains of yore. The inside of the castle melds today with yesterday in a similar fashion, although the aspects of today are mostly out of reach for visitors. Any guests will be treated to typical grandiose sights of baroque, as well as incredibly long dark green carpets, various paintings of idyllic countryside life, and good old knight armour displays. Unlike the less impressive displays that fiction usually portrays, however, these plate armour sets are incredibly ornate and fashionable, likely belonging to commanders or nobles. Their helmets are but one of many hiding spots for cameras that spy on all that happens in the castle. All the doors are heavy and large, although the sizable O-shaped ring makes it easy enough to eventually pull one open just about by anyone, save maybe a kid. There are patrols inside the castle, as well. Guards equipped with opaque visors and dressed in overly dark green outfits, the flag of Latveria on their biceps. Hard to tell whether they're machine or human. Some of them are stationed at entranceways, some of them actually patrol hallways, and a few pairs are actually blocking off access to some corridors. Overall, the castle has but the most necessary aspects of the modern world, such as plumbing and unmistakeably modern restrooms fashioned to look old, but doors, stairs and even the uneven floor – this castle has not been redesigned with great comfort in mind. The dark night has coldly enveloped the castle within its ebony grasp. Latverian nights are dark and sinister. Patrols atop the battlements are forced to resort to thermal scope attachments, whereas from within all windows seem to suggest the castle is floating in an indescribable void, free from the world and all its worries. It is this atmosphere that Doctor Doom revels in the most. It is here that he feels like a king, rather than in throne rooms or conference halls. It is nearly midnight, and he has decided to claim the library for his own. It is a marvelous room, one that is still very much a work in progress, by the looks of things. The shelves form concentric circles with four gaps leading to the very centre. At the heart of the library is a round mahogany table. It is gargantuan and surrounded by many throne-like chairs. In one of these oversized chairs is Victor van Doom himself, reclined and relaxed, both hands leisurely lounging on the arm rests. Seemingly blank blue eyes stare forth, past the centre of the table, which is marked by a literal representation of an iron fist, the armoured glove continuing a little further than the wrist before reaching the wooden surface. One of his human guards have let Parley known that the Latverian king wishes for his presence. A strong yet polite encouragement was voiced that he makes his way straight to the library, rather than making pit stops elsewhere. He would be accompanied by a guard; for Parley's own safety, supposedly. One curious addition is a device that looks like a tape recorder, except an iteration of it you'd see in Back to the Future - it has plenty of blinky lights, is sleek and has a smaller amount of buttons. Whatever it is, it is in the chair besides Doctor Doom. Parley would have been found amusing himself somewhere in whatever wing their guest quarters are on, roaming the halls on feet just a shade more quiet than they should be, dwarfed by the high ceilings and walking, possibly daunted by the raw magnitude, along the wall parameters where his fingertips can trail along them. The absent wide-eyed curiosity neutralizes when addressed and -- mnh. He's already slipped out of his jacket for the evening, and left it in his bedroom, currently wearing only the thin charcoal turtleneck, black slacks and a brown belt; also he's /barefoot/, for no other reason than to savor the feeling of old chill stone under his foot pads. Not really dressed to meet the king of a country. But -- he flicks his eyes up and down the guard. "Of course." Lapping hands behind his back, he falls wordlessly into the differential /left/ side - and slightly behind - the guard to follow. As they travel, he'll trail mental fingers along the empathic currents in the halls to offhandedly explore whether there are HUMAN minds behind those sentry guards' visors, but his eyes remain set forward, his spine upright, but his shoulders loose and sloped low. Those visors, opaque as they are, conceal the identity of those serving Doctor Doom. Yet all of the guards Parley encounters seem to hide a human mind behind them, honed and trained to concern itself only with its duties. In this regard, Norman's aide is actually treated to a red carpet. The theatrics must be perfect. The mind behind this meeting is putting together a play that the audience will hopefully not see through. The library is built as a glorious distraction, the very unfinished /nature/ weaves for him a sort of ancient poetry, smelling of old paper and stone walls and old traditions meeting new ideas -- And that /brutally/ industrial iron fist gripped in its heart. Hmm. He only indulges a study of it for a heartbeat. "Doctor Doom," with hands at his sides, he cuts a bow; deep enough to be formal, but not so deep as to be culturally /awkward/. Like a deep nod, really, but from the /spine/. Upright again, he studies the monarch, where the man's his hands rest on the arms of his chair, dropping his eyes to the machine at his side and then raising them again. "Is there something I can be of service to you with?" Whatever it might be, the device is gripped with cold steel fingers, languidly lifted to a demonstrative height above the table. It is paused there, as if to let Parley see it. Then the hand is lowered, gently placing the neon-lit black device on the table in front of Victor van Doom. There is an eerie silence. A deathly nothing surrounds the pair, then. The guard has abandoned the two upon Parley's entry. The fact they are surrounded by books rather than weaponry might soften the atmosphere, but the King might more than make up for that. "I love a good conversation," he answers. The loud, low-pitched digitised voice resonates well within the spacious confines of the library, adding a ghastly trait to it. Forearms are parked neatly on the armrests, fingers are leisurely weaved together. "Your ability is fascinating." The next few words arrive in Russian. "{How does it work?}" The mind of Doctor Doom is an impenetrable fortress, contrary to when they travelled to the castle. It is as though the monarch simply is not here. Cold hard stone beyond those shelves encases a heavy silence in between Doom's mechanical words, and Parley does little to fill the gaps with any warmth of personal presence. He manages to kind of lurk, even standing center-stage, politely paying attention to the device Doom holds up, and then returning attention to the monarch's eyes (...eye holes...) when it's set down again. The very fact that its purpose is /unexplained/ makes its existence oddly weighty in the room. The fact that there is no /mind/ behind that steel scowl... "It's difficult to say," the very far side of Parley's mouth twitches, "There unfortunately isn't much research conducted to explore the mechanics of mutant manifestation." He is, noticeably /not/ speaking in Russian himself. "I would liken it to a series of conduits," he splays his fingers out, hovering them beside his head, "that all meet in a central filtering system. I'm sure you're aware, human communication bases only ten percent on spoken language. I would say that my mutation effectively -- eliminates that ten percent." A somewhat...reserved, wistful glance tracks along the books on the shelves behind the seated Doom, adding quieter, "It only works with spoken words, sadly. The passive language of foreign writing is elusive to me." "Interesting." Unfortunately, the monotonous drone of the monarch's voice fails to convey any actual interest, if there truly is any. Its late timing also makes it hard to determine just what it refers to. Doctor Doom noisily pushes the chair as he pushes himself away from the table. Not that the heavy man was actually seated to begin with, rather simply positioning himself appropriately. That is in great part why his rise is fairly awkward and generally looking a bit off. Once arisen, Victor van Doom wanders over towards one of the massive quarter-circle shelves surrounding the pair, his long green cape shuffling along the castle ground behind him. Heavy feet land resoundingly against the stone floor, his movements as fluid as ever, eerily so. Surely, that armour weighs a lot? Yet he elegantly strides towards a particular spot, where a hand lazily lifts to summon one of the books. Keen eyes might discover cyrillic letters on the spine and on the cover. Doctor Doom turns his back to the shelf, instead facing the table. The book is tipped to the side, and pages flutter by the hundreds. It is a large, thick book. "How sad that your ability robs you of the wisdom that lies within the written word," he neutrally remarks. Pausing, he lifts his gaze from the pages he casually flips through and sets his sights on Parley. "How long have you been working with Norman Osborn?" No thoughts. No intentions. The mind of Doctor Doom is a pool of nothingness, the spoken words shaped into existence by an unknown entity. "Not robbed," Parley says quietly, that odd lack of mind-presence in Doom leaving him, for once, /nude/ of other camouflaging auras to bathe in. Leaving him both more stark, and somehow smaller. He slips into one of the large seats at the table, leaning forward over his elbows with one hand absently rubbing down the back of his neck, "Just not instantly entitled. Nothing obstructs my ability to learn languages, same as anyone else." He sweeps a negligent gaze over the shelves surrounding them, seeming to comment, detached, more to himself than Doom, "...It would take time." Ah. The question comes. He forms a small, unsurprised smile, closing his eyes, "This is my first time working in conjunction with Mr. Osborn's company. Though, I've been a periodic admirer for longer. I met him at the Oscorp gala. It's a shame that it was attacked as it was; his message about mutant kind was unexpectedly progressive." One eye reopens, locating Doom's position, "You, yourself have had an unfortunate experience while visiting New York, I've read. I hope there are no lasting effects?" The matter of learning is initially ignored. Instead, the massive steel monarch decides to slowly approach Parley, announcing his approach with each deliberate slam of one foot after the other. "None." Still, the metallic sheen on the surface of his armour seems to have darkened further here and there, most notably around the shoulders. The rest of the damage is hidden beneath the tunic. Once he stands close enough, the thick book is tossed noisily onto the table. {The History of Latveria}, it reads. The author - {Victor van Doom} - could perhaps be guessed, seeing as the two o's and the m mght give it away, as well as the three-letter {van} in between. "This documents my life," he informs Parley. Technically, it is not a lie, but the mind behind the mask remains absent. "Imagine the knowledge it contains." And then Doctor Doom steps away, turning his cape-covered back to Parley, wandering along the circular row of chairs towards the opposite end of the table. "Why do you admire Norman Osborn?" When he stands at the chair that is the very opposite of where Parley is seated, Doom remains standing between two chairs, eyeing the other person, observing him. Parley can imagine a lot, "You're not giving this to me." Sort of a question. Sort of not. He tents his fingers over the book and slowly pulls it closer, turning it around to arrange it in front of him.. Dark eyes follow Doom's weighty progress up the table length and when the monarch turns to observe him, his gaze drops to the tome's cover. There's something - respectful in the way he handles it carefully, only touching its corners when he flips it open, turning pages. Maybe he's looking for the /pictures/. His eyes certainly scan the foreign interior text as though there is something worth seeing in it. "He's quite fearless, isn't he?" page flip. "It's not that I'm unaware he taps into standard rhetorics. But I would say in such controversial issues as the Mutant Question, his solutions aren't so harmful to society as many of his contemporaries. As a moderate, you could say I appreciate a voice that can make itself heard without needing to..." His thumb taps on the table. "Scream?" He glances up, the movement only in his eyes, "You're interested in my employer?" Much to Parley's dismay, the book doesn't have any pictures. Even the text is of a fairly small font, ensuring that there is plenty of history covered. Chapter upon chapter details every droplet of knowledge Latveria has bled throughout the ages, and through it Doctor Doom himself. "I am interested in seeing him succeed in certain areas," the monarch admits. The heavy frame leans forward and both hands are planted firmly atop the table. "Such as his anti-telepathy research. I could accelerate the progress greatly." Flanked by both of his hands is the mysterious device. "Civil rights and civil defence are not mutually exclusive," he cites from his memory, staring Parley down, or attempting to. "Your words. Tell me, where do you see the former end and the latter begin?" "You read my piece," Parley has a slight smile directed down at those tightly bound letters, seeming - for a moment surprised? Pleased? Staring him down is almost a waste of effort; the downward tip of his head, the subdued angle of his shoulders provide nothing 'up' to start with. "Anti-telepathy. I have to imagine that's the next international arms race in the coming years. Even we mutants as a general rule aren't fond of invasions of privacy." The angle of his face makes it difficult to see his eyes, but the subtle rolling movement beneath his lowered eyelids suggests that they are, in fact, open, flicking over text that he cannot read. And, at intervals, looking back at that device over which the monarch looms. "Which is somewhat the point, I suppose; we all want to be protected from one another. It's only once protection of the former no longer aligns with the protection of the latter that the system becomes flawed and polarized." He's not /quite/ mumbling, but he speaks in a quiet undertone, as though the words were there in the book for him to read aloud. "A flawed system, sadly, being the easiest to exploit and corrupt. And, thus... more ideal for those in positions of power inclined to do so." He flicks his eyes up to Doom's face, "You could say bigotry is just a convenience." Steel fingers heavily scrape against the surface of the table as Doctor Doom slowly straightens his back. Once at his side, his hands spitefully curl inward to shape iron fists not too dissimilar from the one in the centre of the table. Beneath the permanent scowl, the eerie absence of a mind persists. For a short while, the silence that envelops the pair is as great as the distance between them. Then the monarch shifts. A hand is theatrically raised upward, fingers unraveling during its ascent. "You could say the same of equality," he notes, the roaring voice piercing through the silence with all the elegance of a steam train trying to park in handicapped space. "In a desperate attempt to avoid restricting freedoms, you instead risk the integrity of the protection you offer. All political models throughout history, including the modern iterations, demand sacrifices." The Supreme Monarch departs from his spot, taking the unknown device with him in his other hand. "The relevance of human rights ceases when the individual in question knowingly forsakes his birthright through endangering those who are still protected by it," so states the Latverian king. Again, he circles the table, methodically approaching Parley. Each step measured and slow, landing blunter and softer sounding steps than usual. The device is held up high at his shoulder level. "Your country knows this. But they force-feed your citizens a happier tale, casting thin webs of illusory freedom." Here he is, standing beside Parley once more. All six feet and three inches of the sinisterly statuesque monarch. "Enjoying the book?" The tone might be dead and devoid of emotion, but it's clear Victor van Doom has noticed Parley leafing through the thick tome and has decided to address it sardonically. Parley is unmoving in his seat - or no overt movements. But the nearer this vision of Victor von Doom comes, the more he seems to … depress. His hands grow still, the current page he'd been transferring from one side to the other slowly drifts back to where it had been with a subtle -- /slackening/. He looks from the raised device and then to that unmoving mask, "May I borrow it?" Sarcastic Doom may be, but there is no indication this young mutant is anything but dead serious. Slowly, he re-fastens some of the necessary sinew in narrow shoulders to slip fingers beneath the book cover, closing it. "And possibly someone that could read it to me?" His bare feet are drawn up to sit cross-legged in the chair, turning in the large seat - big enough to swallow him, big enough to nest in - to better face Doom. His head required to tip back, exposing throat with the lift of chin, he turns his face upwards to this fell empty presence, blotting out the light behind it, "I think all governments require some semblance of soft illusion to maintain control. Is freedom such a harmful one? I don't think anyone would argue that a dangerous element shouldn't be permitted to harm the innocent. But /being/ dangerous is practically human. It's discouraging the drive to /act/ on it that should be the key, isn't it? -- is that supposed to be doing something?" There, finally, a slight tightening in his back muscles. And a fixing of his eyes on the device once more. "You will take the book with you back to the United States," comes the reply, as if Doctor Doom has made the decision for Parley already. "Prove to me you do not blindly trust your ability by learning the language in which this tome is writ. Read it, return it and then let me know what you think." Those shadow-shrouded blue eyes are still set on Norman's furry aide, even as silence intersperses the monarch's words. "I am always open to constructive feedback." As the philosophical topic is returned to, Victor van Doom slowly twists his head sideways in what could be interpreted as a very specific measure of curiosity. The extreme disapproval that scowl constantly transmits does tend to overwhelm other signals, like a strong perfume might overshadow - but not entirely eliminate - another scent. "Such certainty," he seemingly marvels, or perhaps simply notes offhandedly. "Unfortunately, I suspect it is moulded by personal experience, rather than education. Otherwise, you would be aware that the nature of man remains an unsolved mystery to the world." The dictator distances the device from himself to have a better look at it, as if he were unaware he was holding it all this time. "It is supposed to, yes," he reveals. His attention then leaves the device, landing back on Parley. "I fear that no more than one person in this room knows if it does." As it is casually lowered to his side, Doctor Doom extends his hand opposite of the table to gesture towards the ring of bookshelves. Footsteps can be heard. The same cannot be said of thoughts. A guard arrives. The host announces, "You have indulged me sufficiently long. You are free to return to your quarters." The vacant concavity behind Parley's eyes clouds; though he has been initiating no obvious movement, he has the sense of momentarily /pausing/, flicking a look back and forth between either darkened portal where Victor von Doom's eyes would be... before it's reigned in a second later to form the very slightest of tired smiles. He turns down his head, running a hand almost reverentially over the book before silently off the table to fit under an arm, "I don't think I entirely trust anything, Doctor-san. Blindly, or otherwise." His head turns towards the sound of feet, a distraction to sever what would otherwise have been a kind of skeptical final quick-glance at the device in the monarch's possession. The rotation pulls taut the cloth of his shirt, the back of his high collar only capable of remaining so concealing of his delicate vertebrae, or the far more /delicate/ ridge of tawny fur marching alone the subtle divet of his nape in a pencil-thin line of raised hackles. They vanish beneath a reflexive palm that he rests over them, just as quickly. Murmuring quietly, distractedly, "...I would agree that my education is not complete yet..." He slips to his feet in a ripple of movement, falling in beside the guard with gifted item essentially kind of hugged - /loosely/ - to his chest with a naturally overlapping of forearms. Totally not looking like he's worried Doom might try and take it back. And folds smartly at the waist, a bow of equal depth as the first time, returning upright briskly, "Thank you. For the book." He turns, settling in with that same natural habit behind the guard, to be led away.