ArchivedLogs:Doom Answers Your Questions

Doom Answers Your Questions
"I have not come here to personally entertain you."
Dramatis Personae Doom, Mirror, Parley
In Absentia	2013-05-03 Some time has passed since the Doom Expo. The monarch has called for a press conference. Thanks everyone for providing me with fun and tough questions!
Location Somewhere in New York City
A crowd of journalists warily stream into the room. Careful lighting and an assortment of cameras point away from the entrance and towards a row of desks that stand atop an elevated platform. The supreme monarch of Latveria sits at the very centre of this line, flanked by a selection of his men – the timid attaché provided by Alice Lambton, a well-dressed man with a contrastingly ugly mug, and finally a selection of unremarkable suits, some worn by Americans and some Latverians. Everyone is scouring to fetch their seats. Doctor Doom occupies his – a massive throne that bears the unique design of blending the archaic with the new. At the unseen bottom, rocks and cliff faces begin. The frame snakes upward to what looks like pitiful hovels, which in turn tessellate into baroque ornaments. Those climb up further still, curling into sharp futuristic tiles and building blocks that ultimately form a cityscape at the very top of the throne. It looks reinforced many times over to support the monarch, so its size isn't necessarily a testament to his ego. The padding is rich and crimson-coloured. The ruler of Latveria is sprawled in the throne with what appears to be boredom. Leaning against the back, one heavy arm rests on the throne, while another has its metallic elbow propped against it. Steel knuckles lean against the side of that permanent scowl. The aged exterior of the armour reflects some of the light, but the lights were positioned in a way that the reflections will not offend anyone's eyes. His eyes scan the gathering crowd, impatiently awaiting the conference to start. Those that flank him – with the exclusion of the ugly one, whose nameplate suggests Nikolai Romanovic – busy themselves with paper as the conference nears its start. And when all are seated, when all find their place, when all is in the clear and when cameras begin to stream and record, the conference begins proper. Doctor Doom does not shift his demeanour, resuming his petrified pose of boredom. Lights. Camera. Action. The attaché known as Mister Billings gestures to one of the journalists who raised a hand. The young bespectacled reported seems quite eager to ask the question, eyes set on the steel dictator. "Morning, Your Majesty. First question, what do you think of your science exhibition? Do you consider it a success?" The one who answers that question is not Victor van Doom. Billings quickly intercepts. "The exhibition raised national awareness of technological advances, strengthened corporate bonds and at the same stimulated mutually beneficial competition. D--" The aged man trips over his own words. He lifts up a hand to stroke his expanding baldness. "Doctor Doom", he speaks before pausing again to digest the ridiculousness of pronouncing that alias. "Doctor Doom believes the exhibition was a resounding success." Murmurs and whispers surge through the gathered crowd. Another journalist is singled out. The woman points the eraser tip of her pencil at the monarch, asking, "Do you plan to extend your visit, Sir? How long do you intend to remain in the United States?" Yet again, the voice that fills the room is not Doom's, but that of his American assistant. "Doctor Doom plans to make a short return trip to his homeland this week", he answers with a voice that submits to a light tremor for but a moment. His eyes dive down to regard a sheet of paper. "He wishes to personally oversee the fruition of his alliance with Shaw Industries, which promised helping him rebuild his country. He will return to the United Stated shortly afterwards, since he wishes to strengthen his bond with the United States and he believes his presence here is crucial to succeeding that." The murmurs accelerate and escalate. Hands are raised slightly more reluctantly now. Even Mister Billings lifts his own hand with tremulous hesitation, his eyes trying to pick out a journalist. What finally sets off the brewing chaos is a journalist from the way back, yelling out, "Why doesn't His Majesty answer the questions?" And so the half-hushed mutterings erupt into a cacophony of affirmative echoes. Yes, why doesn't he? The task of picking out journalists becomes nigh impossible as the room finally goes raving mad in what is highly likely a record time. Poor Billings is at a loss. It is only then Doctor Doom finally stirs. The formerly unmoving statue of absolute boredom straightens out in the massive throne. Both hands now land their palms on the arm rests. Of all the representatives gathered, he was the only one without a microphone on the desk space in front of him. By now, almost everyone knew he had no need for such trivial devices. Neither does Doctor Doom need to raise his voice. All he needs to do is to raise the volume. The metallic drone of his deep voice floods the room like torrential water rushing away from a collapsed dam. "I have not come here to personally entertain you", he bellows, his voice loud enough to instil tremors within the chest of those present. "I have arrived here to answer your questions. Your questions are being answered. If you manage to devise a question that my competent men are unable to answer, I shall address such a question myself, unlikely as it may be. Until such a time, you will be answered by my right hand men. They answer as I would. Their answers are my answers." By now the room, is almost completely still. The momentary pause is pierced through by Doctor Doom anew. "/Next/ question." Now, the supreme monarch sits alert. No more boredom. His gaze scurries across the crowd, eyeing each and every single journalist to the best of his human ability. No hands raise just yet. It is fast becoming a Russian roulette, of a sort - who will be the first to dare pose the next question? The silence does not last all that long. One young woman in neat sunny-yellow business suit, neat flats, neat black hair tied back from her dark face into a neat black bun, has been sitting up by the front in silence all this while. She did not clamour with the others; she has yet to say a word to any save the similarly quiet young man beside her. Their press badges are both from the Daily Bugle, and through the questions so far she has only watched, tapped notes into a tablet, let her recorder run. In the silence now, though, she lifts her hand, stylus held in neatly but simply manicured fingers, and shortly thereafter speaks. "Doctor Doom," she begins her question in a smooth contralto, voice touched with the hint of not-quite-placeable accent, "You speak of creating bonds here in the United States, but anyone has yet to actually see /you/ rather than the rather extravagant armour you continually hide inside. Armour is a hallmark of wartime, not diplomatic visits to foreign nations. What, Your Majesty," somehow the slight emphasis she places on that last word does not lend it any great /respect/, "should we know about that you have to hide? And what is it that /you/ imagine you have to fear, here?" Slipping along the background, looking through the rows of seats like a strange grass of people in Serengeti, Parley prowls the parameter of the room in his standard, secretarial style; his turtleneck is dark green today, his sportscoat and slacks black; dark brown loafers and black-rimmed glasses accompanied by spiky dark hair that defies taming give him the quiet sense of a feral librarian. His sensory camouflage finds his presence here unchallenged - though he asks no questions himself. Only watches, samples the flavors in the air with the the soft laps of his empathy. This last question earns the slightest crook of a smile, as those before it had /not/. Hmhmm. "The Supreme Mon--..." Just as Mister Billings begins to answer the woman's question, Doctor Doom lifts up one of his heavy steel hands to halt the man. The aged assistant frees a ragged sigh and drives his gaze down to the papers before him. It's unlikely anyone knows that his shuffling of papers is just a desire to distance himself from all this. An uncomfortable silence lingers once more. The hand lowers to the arm rest. The digitally enhanced voice that restarts its boom is not as loud as it was before; the volume is at the very least halved. "Armour? You call this armour?" The surprise at the journalist's audacity is unfortunately missing in that tone of voice. The other hand is raised demonstratively. "You are correct." The digits curl inward to shape an iron fist in mid-air. "It is one of the more prestigious and favoured applications of this contraption." "You claim I hide inside of it. Have you not considered that I have no other choice? What if inside lies a broken man, unable to stand on his own two feet? What if behind this mask--" The fist unravels and the hand moves to tap a single digit against the bony steel cheek. "--lies a face that would curse you with unending nightmares that would stretch the very limits of your imagination? What if I told you my life depends on this... extravagant armour, as you inventively call it?" The glass of water that sits on the desk before the Latverian King is duly picked up. It looks like a fragile thing, but Victor van Doom holds it with surprising care. "My human capabilities are not limited. Quite the contrary, they are enhanced. My only limitation prevents me from pursuing a modelling career." The glass shatters. It is destroyed within a fraction of a second, the twitch of the steel fingers easily missed, considering they return to hold the phantom remains of the glass. "I understand the importance of vanity in diplomatic missions. I simply do not acknowledge it." The hand returns to the armrest. "I expect you to disagree. It is in your nature. But you will have to consider your question answered." So says Doctor Doom. "But my question was not answered, Doctor Doom. In answer to questions you posed leading hypotheticals and no true response." The reporter has looked back to her tablet, her stylus tapping quickly, and despite this comment she is moving on from the topic. "You mention strengthening your alliance with Shaw industries; is there truth to the speculation that you are building a similar partnership with Oscorp? Norman Osborn has proposed a project that many see as radical, and drawn a lot of controversy with the announced plans for his Institute. Does Latveria's stance on the mutant issue align with Osborn's?" And, sadly, as is the nature of all press conferences, there's always That Guy that piggybacks his question in on someone else's preliminary premise - this one is the old school dirt-digger, jowly in a brown suit with stubble, he leans forward behind the first reporterwoman as though he could totally pretend to be projecting his voice through her, "What are Latveria's views on civil rights?" Unfortunately, the monarch does not elaborate on the answer that the journalist remained unsatisfied with. It seems Doctor Doom indeed considered it answered. The moment between voiced dissatisfaction and the next question is filled with uneasy silence. It seems this room is host to many such moments today. Still, when the next question does arrive, the Latverian monarch gestures to Mister Billings, allowing him to continue to answer the press. "Yes, Victor van Doom is happy to announce that, ah, a partnership between Latveria and Oscorp Industries is in the works. Latveria actually plans to aid Mister Osborn with dealing with the backlash. His Majesty believes the company has great potential, more so than many are willing to give credit to it in recent times. And yes, it aligns with Doctor Doom's views on the mutant issue." Here, Mister Billings pauses, thinning his lips as he refers to the papers. Therein lie the answers. He takes some time to browse through them, before the answer is found and announced. "Doctor Doom would like to take this opportunity to announce his future plans regarding the mutant population in Latveria." Pause. Some murmurs spur in the crowd, although they are more hesitant than before. "The Supreme Monarch will introduce mutant registration and relevant regulations in the coming weeks. The judicial infrastructure will take time to support these changes, but He is convicted in his beliefs that he will do it--" Billings pauses to frown at the pun he spots. "That he will do it /justice/." The room is slowly attaining unrest, but it is yet to reach the same level as before. The question about civil rights is answered by Mister Billings once more, while the monarch continues to lounge in his throne completely still. "Doctor Doom-- Ah, Doctor Doom finds the current iteration of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights /lackluster/." This sentence is practically forced out of the man's mouth. "The many references to the term 'human' excludes mutated individuals, therefore unintentionally creating a legal loophole that countries can exploit. He hopes to work with the UN to plug the hole in the ship before it sinks. He hopes that future changes brought to Latveria will inspire the world to follow suit." Now and again, when Billings moves, a glint of sweat on his forehead would be caught on camera. The audaciously bold remarks stir the room up further. The bustling murmurs fail to reach quite the same impact as before, considering the monarch's firmness, but even the ruler of Latveria is unable to fully cull all the reporters. After all, self-preservation is on very few CVs of these people. One such fearless individual - a young up-and-coming man - almost lifts himself off his seat, holding up his hand. Mister Billings allows him to speak. "One pressing question to His Majesty, shouldn't such a stark decision involve a committee or, more importantly, a democratic approach? What is His Majesty's plans regarding the governmental model of Latveria?" This question lessens the disorder among his fellow professionals, considering its importance. The attaché answers that question without even so much as a glance at the papers. /This/ he was ready for. "The removal of the Hungarian government left Latveria without any whatsoever. Doctor Doom has currently established constitutional monarchy; the Royal Constitution of Latveria is currently a work in progress, as is the democratic model that will be implemented in due time. In the unlikely event of mutant registration being disapproved of, the nation will be able to vote against it." Billings casts a wayward glance towards the throne. It's nigh impossible to determine what is going through the monarch's head, at the moment. The next question is chosen in due time. "Latveria's borders have shrunk over time, Your Majesty. Do You believe Latveria has claim to lands that are currently not a part of it, and if so, are there any plans to reclaim them?" This question, on the other hand, requires Billings to sift through a couple of sheets of paper. "The, ah. There are no short-term or long-term plans to expand Latveria's borders. King van Doom believes that the country has all the resources he might need to succeed, that any attempts to expand the country would upset crucial geopolitical balance, and that his success will send a clear message to the world that-- that size does not matter." Slowly yet surely, the unrest is dying out. Now and again, there are spurs of whispers that course through the crowd of gathered journalists. It's not long before yet another question is posed. "I have two questions", a cheeky bearded reporter announces. "One, what title does the monarch officially prefer? Second, there are very strong rumours that law is enforced by machines in Latveria. If this is true, how can the leader know for sure the machines will act accordingly or exercise good judgment?" Once again, the poor pressured Mister Billings takes the fall. The mountain of steel in the throne beside him remains quiet, prompting the assistant to cater to the journalists. "Doctor Doom is his most preferred method of being addressed. The Supreme Monarch of Latveria is another, although he allows it to be shortened to The Supreme Monarch. He does not much care for Your Majesty or Your Excellence, but they are not an ill way to address Doctor Doom. Nation leaders and other key figures may be granted the privilege to address Doctor Doom by his first name." "The machines-- Ah, the machines--" Papers are browsed through haphazardly as Billings searches for the answers. This time, the mighty voice of Doctor Doom pierces through the room again. "For three full days, I have displayed the exceptional intelligence my creations possess. I have devised artificial intelligence that can perform first aid, retrieve victims from house fires and perform ethical enforcement of Law they have familiarised themselves with. You speak of the Centaur Enforcer models, citizen." "Centaurs are an armoured vehicle that is five feet and ten inches. The upper body of a synthetic humanoid is bonded with the chassis of a vehicle on continuous tracks. The former provides accuracy. The latter provides locomotive efficiency and versatility. All units are equipped exclusively with non-lethal weaponry. I have closely monitored my country during my absence, and I assure you they are at least two-point-seven times more reliable and effective than the human law enforcers. Consider your questions answered." Curiously enough, Doctor Doom uses plural. Indeed, the conference proves to be a short one, at least as far as such conferences go. It looks like he makes his distaste for the media public, despite his establishment of a news company back in Latveria. The Supreme Monarch rises from the throne and promptly begins his departure, repeatedly announcing it with each and every thunderous step. Since the journalists will no longer be picked to answer their questions, all of them hopelessly exclaim what other mysteries remain unanswered, but they go completely ignored. As the outer parameters of the media circus begin to dissolve, some flipping through their notes or fitting earbuds into their ear of choice to listen over their recordings - one yanks off his hat and /whacks/ it against a thigh - there's a lingering presence at the fringe that hangs back a while. Parley rolls back a shoulder to allow a woman in heels to bustle past him, and sways his hip mildly to the right to accommodate a man carrying a camera on his shoulder. They all walk outwards, towards the exits. He stands facing inward against the choppy current of moving bodies. Watching the empty stage with his head tipped pensively downward.