ArchivedLogs:Deal with the Devil

Deal with the Devil
Dramatis Personae Doom, Roger	2013-04-23 Roger visits Doom's exhibition after closing hours.
Location Doom Science Expo
The warehouse that housed all manner of technological marvels is all but empty now. Gone are the impressive displays of artificial intelligence, gone are the stunning demonstrations of mechanical locomotion. There is little left that populates the interior of the warehouse. The ticket booths are gone. The turnstiles are gone. The signs demanding lawful behaviour are still there, as are the cameras. Turrets stand on slightly elevated pedestals. Each are walled off by square-shaped black-and-yellow warning stripes on the ground, along with the words CAUTION DO NOT APPROACH. It seems Doctor Doom has deemed these bear-sized turrets insufficient, however. Guards armed with AK-47s are positioned here and there, always in pairs. They wear an outfit a darker shade of green that Doom's own, as well as opaque black visors that obscure their faces. A sidearm is strapped to their hip, and a stun-rod lines the back of their belt. The guards hardly move. Almost all of that is easily missed, purely because the warehouse is pitch black. A flashlight would be needed to navigate this massive space. Any light would fail to attract the attention of the guards, as if they died standing and some bizarre form of rigor mortis has frozen them as they stand. The turrets do not respond either. All of the displays are in open container-like mobile rooms, although they've been clossed off with shutter doors. There is also a shooting range. All in all, it is awfully quiet. It may be night, but it seems as though the place has escaped Time itself. If the trite phrase about the overabundant silence should ever be used again, now would be the perfect time. Roger had been summoned to the premises by way of hushed whisper by one of Doom's lackeys during a kerfuffle at his Expo show earlier on. Normally, he was hardly one to be agreeable when it comes to vague solicits. In fact, he was the sort to bust in uninvited. But he'd come to the Expo a while ago looking for something he could use - something mean, something dangerous. The mutant was a very simple individual of very simple motivations. Into the darkness he walked, the door creaking open and echoing through the warehouse. He stepped into pitch black darkness, his eyes crinkling. He hadn't even bothered disguising himself. He fished into his pocket, and fished out a ninety nine cent lighter. Clicking the flint, he raised it over his head so he could see at least in front of his face. Of course, it was a little bit startling to catch the faintest impressions of figures surrounding the area, but Roger had a good poker face and an ace up his sleeve besides. "You called, I'm here." The heavy pksh of spotlights being turned on rings twice. Once to summon abundant light at Roger's left, and another to illuminate him from the right. Granted, the spotlights are powerful and are aimed towards the ground rather than the would-be intruder, meaning that the surrounding area is clear as day. The side-effect that everything else seems that much darker. The signature signs of His arrival are easy to tell apart. Strong impacts hit the ground as He makes his way towards Roger. From the darkness, his contours eventually take shape. As steel hammers into the concrete some more, Doctor Doom finally steps into the light. Remarkably unprepared for this meeting, one could say, if it weren't for that armour. "Fascinating." His voice is as impressive as always, although now it rings as an echo throughout the warehouse. "Your intelligence exceeds that of a primate. You picked up on my invitation. But tell me, why did you accept it?" Roger's eyes don't even crinkle to squint once the lights are turned on, his eyes merely adjusting slowly. His expression is a perpetually mildly-displeased deadpan. His lip pulls a little bit at the edge at Doom's first quip into a scowl. He may not be the brightest, but he knows when he's being talked down to. Despite the enormous disadvantage Doom has him at, once the lights are on and he sees Doom advancing, he starts to walk forward himself at a brisk clip, hunched forward. He's not particularly tall, so this is no doubt less than intimidating for someone fully suited in power armor. "After giving it some thought, I decided it'd be easier if you were just going to give me the stuff I want instead of having to steal this shit from you." His tone is a sort of baseline resentment, laced with anger. It's obvious to a learned scholar of men like Doom that he is a small man with huge rage issues. Although Roger starts his advance towards Doctor Doom, the Supreme Monarch remains where he is, which is some distance away from the mutant. The only movement he exhibits is the languid lift of his hand, lazily undoing a pouch. The form and size of the pouch does not suggest a weapon, but with a man like Victor van Doom, who can be absolutely sure? "First things first", the monotonous voice booms. "Let us test if your insolence has firm ground to stand on." A remote control is drawn. It is not raised theatrically; the moment it is drawn from its home, it is pointed at Roger's legs, at which a point whirring echoes throughout the warehouse. Light flashes. A series of thunderous shots resonate around the pair. One of the turrets goes wild, peppering Roger's legs with an unending stream of lead. If the rapid stream connects, well, it's unlikely they will do any lasting damage, but the impact will be notable. The brief expression of suspicion from Roger is the only reaction he's able to have before round after round starts to strike him in the leg. Bullets begin to ricochet or occasionally crumple, but before a few seconds of sustained fire are up, his leg is flung out from under him and he trips, landing on his bunched forearm. Lead peppers his chest, neck and face on his way down, shredding his pants leg and a piece of his wife-beater. Almost lazily, he rolls out of the line of fire, though. He pushes himself to a crouch with an exaggerated sigh, then stands up. His jaw is set, his eyes alight with annoyance - and maybe a sick sort of vague amusement (pleasure?). "This is my favorite part," Roger says throatily, brushing off his chest and pants. He levels his gaze on Doom. There is a sadistic glee in his tone, though not in his face - he at least has a little bit of restraint. And then he starts to advance again, presuming the turrent hasn't already turned to fire on him more. "Bring it out, bring it all out. Let's make this a night." The constant brapbrapbrapbrapbrap of gunfire dies out as suddenly as it had started. Specifically, it dies down when Roger hits the floor, allowing him to rise up and continue his advance undisturbed. "Arrogance borne of recklessness. Recklessness borne of a power wasted on a lesser mind." The minuscule speech gives Roger to continue closing the gap between the two. Doctor Doom himself now begins to walk towards Roger. "You came here for my weapons. You will join them as one." Unless Roger dodges out of the way, that metallic hand would snap forward, aiming to latch an inhuman firm grip on his face to push back and slam him headfirst into the concrete onto his back. If the grapple is successful, Roger will discover that the armour grants the monarch strength that surpasses what the human body can achieve. The surprised Roger's back hits the pavement with a thud, his legs already in the air when Doom carries him forward by the neck to the ground. What sort of time is there to react to that? He barely had time to flinch. He has been effortlessly pinned by the ruler of Latveria. He stares up into the eye-holes Doom looks down upon him with. Yes, despite initial indications to the contrary, the man on his back does not seem concerned in the least. Past a certain point, Doom simply cannot squeeze him hard enough to break skin or even apply much pressure to his trachea. Indeed, reckless even when throated like some sort of wolf cub. "The whole long arm of the law of good old U.S. of A took their best shot at making me beg," he says slowly, a certain hick and perverted patriotic pride in his voice. "But you know what I never heard not /once/? An /offer/." Even though the grip is firm, there is no further pressure is applied. Doctor Doom is kneeling down on one knee, keeping Roger harshly pinned to the ground. The swing toward the stone floor is actually careful enough to not crack it. He has guests to look forward to tomorrow, after all. Victor's eyes, bloodshot as they are, seem rather bored with the affair. They examine the trapped mutant casually, while the voice restart its surreal bass. "What a tragic story", he remarks, slowly twisting his head sideways to imply curiosity. "I cannot harm you. But I can trap you. Tell me, do you age? I would find myself greatly entertained if you did not. You could spend the rest of time buried under my castle, withstanding the tides of time, the fall and rise of civilisations. Perhaps one day you will be discovered by archaeologists." "Tell me, to whom belongs tomorrow's dawn? The mutants... or the humans?" ineffectual gesture - his fingers can't even get a very good grasp on the metal. His eyes are wide a little bit. Strictly half of his buttons just got pushed at once. Confusion and the faint hint of fear are mixed with fury and zealous ideological belief. He raises his voice, his voice filling the warehouse. "There's homo superior and there's homo inferior, and there isn't one god damn thing that is going to stop mutants from inheriting the earth, meek or no-meek. You better believe it. Magneto's waiting for me." "I fear not." There is a startling sense of finality to those booming words. "Magneto is a relic of the past. He does not understand the way the world works. His vision is far too narrow. I blame the helmet." The pressure against Roger's face is as hard as ever, making sure the mutant is kept firmly against the cold unwelcoming ground. It may not be painful, but discomfort slips past the radar of Roger's mutation. The steel arm is no less welcoming - it is even colder and its surface is even less forgiving. "Homo Superior? Homo Inferior? Curious. I have a Doctor's degree in biology, yet I have never heard these peculiar terms." And then: "On a side-note, how small of a box would you like? Or should I just trap you beneath an underwhelming weight of sand, so that all grains of it flood your lungs. Delightful thought, is it not?" "Savour it. Then tell me, is your feeble mind familiar with the story of Noah's Ark? How God damned the Earth to save it?" Roger is fuming. It's sort of hard to talk shit in the position that he's in right now, so he skips it. His fingertips skid audibly with a squeak across the forearm he's clutching with all his might now, and his hand snaps a little smidgeon forward in an attempt to once again grasp Doom's more-or-less ungraspable armor. He resorts to doing his best to nod his head, which is more like a tuck of his chin into his neck a couple of times. It's like a truck fell on Roger's face. Doom's arm is largely unmoving even if Roger struggles; it can be nudged a little bit, but otherwise there is quite a bit of force attached to keeping the mutant restrained. "That which is shaped may take a long amount of time to undo. Under some circumstances, it is impossible. But destruction gives us a blank slate. Mutants are hated. Struggling against this prejudice is an uphill battle." Slowly lowering his face closer to Roger's, he dares to add with his voice's volume tweaked downwards a touch. "Much like this one." But then he lifts his head to the previous position, and the volume rises again. "But if mutants are hated and herded into cages, they can show humanity the chaos the world will tumble into without them. Carefully placed cataclysms will have humanity crawling back to mutantkin to restore order. Humanity will only value you once they lose you." His teeth grit, and his lip curls in disgust. Roger hates the way every word sounds. It was cold to his ears, with none of the march-onward-mutant-soldiers inspiration that Magneto had lavished on the Brotherhood of Mutants. This isn't difficult to detect in his angered expression, but one thing his time in supermax taught him was a modicum of patience when there was no way out. He would hear Doom out. What choice did he have? "Silence suits you." Indeed, that rage-filled expression is duly picked up on. "But I can sense a pinch of disappointment. War is outdated, I fear. The world can no longer be changed by it. You are children throwing pebbles at an iron wall." "My mind is far beyond the comprehension of mutants and humans alike. Magneto is a toddler compared to me. I will lead your people into a brighter tomorrow. But it will take time. Did I rush into the embrace of stupidity in my quest to reclaim Latveria? Did you see me accomplish it alone?" "You will help me start the change. If not you, then I will find another, and /you/ can spend the rest of eternity counting the grains of sand in your body." Roger takes a deep breath, one last completely futile push against that hand on his face precipitating his acquiescence. "...Fine." Clearly not a man in the habit of conceding an inch, the mutant had sensed in Doom a callous disregard for men that very few can speak for. This had shaken the normally unflappable Roger to his core. His fist clangs uselessly against Doom's arm, like a little beast that didn't know how to do anything besides struggle. "Fine! I'll do it! I'll do it." His eyes lower, his face contorted into a grimace. He already loathed himself for saying yes. Not entirely convinced, Doom continues to hold Roger in his place, both literally and figuratively speaking. His free hand pockets the remote and opens a different pouch. "I am a resourceful man. In the event of cowardice or betrayal, I assure that I will show far greater competence in finding you than the Federal Bureau." A phone is summoned. In truth, it is the exact custom-built model he has given a US diplomat. It can call only one individual. It can receive calls from that same person only. That mysterious figure is, of course, Doctor Doom. What both Alice Lambton and Roger Waller might suspect is that the phone also houses a tracking mechanism,. Slightly harder to guess is its ability to act as a microphone for Doom to listen through at any point. It is casually handed to Rogers. "Await my signal. You will attempt to murder a US diplomat. If she has a bodyguard with her, kill him first. I will step in the way. There you will get your chance to vent your shallow frustrations that this night will leave you with and shoot me in the chest. Repeatedly, if you so desire. I will then both discard you and help you make your escape. Understood?" Roger clutches the phone in his hand ruefully while staring up into a metal palm. He swallows in his throat, his gaze hard and his brow bunched into a tight line. He didn't like it. He didn't have to. He put the phone in his pocket and glared daggers at Doom. "Understood," he says, his voice twanged and bleak. "I sincerely hope so." The metallic drone of his voice is drawn out for dramatic effect. Finally, Roger is let go. Doctor Doom rises to his full length. It is at this point that the terrorist's presence is completely ignored. The monarch turns around and walks off into the pitch black ocean outside the patch of light. Even when his image sinks into the blackest night, his steps continue to echo throughout the warehouse. The lights go out with defeatist psh. At one point, the steps mysteriously cease. Silence and darkness return to the warehouse.