ArchivedLogs:Expendable

Expendable
Dramatis Personae Malthus, Doom
In Absentia	2013-07-23 '
Location <LATV> Latverian Embassy - Midtown
The Latverian Embassy is a surprisingly modest building, although its appearance is slick and clean enough to imply some sort of official capacity. The building quite possibly dates back to early nineteenth century. The colour of the concrete walls appears to be between mild grey and pale sand, while the fancily ornate roofing is mostly green. The Latverian flag proudly flutters in the wind alongside the European Union flag right above the ornate double door entrance. The inside of the embassy is mostly art deco, extending the old-fashioned elegance of the exterior. The colour scheme is generally bright with the occasional gold and green. Most of the green is ominously dark, found as part of furniture or as carpeting. When it's cold out, a large fancy fireplace in the main lobby is actually occupied by the comforting waltz of flames. Amid the archaic interior, one can witness the occasional rush of neatly clad diplomats. Contrasting the old is the new. Barely audible flat screen TVs glorify Latveria's bright future, creating an ambience of confidence. The heavy-set turrets are generally attached to the ceiling, but there are also some on the gr-- Wait, turrets? It appears so. They are currently inert, of course. A none too welcoming sign features here and there: "LATVERIA ALREADY HAS MANY ALLIES, BUT THEIR ENEMIES ARE IN GREATER NUMBERS STILL. IF YOU COUNT YOURSELF AMONG THE LATTER, PLEASE REPORT TO THE CLOSEST LATVERIAN REPRESENTATIVE, STAND BACK, LIE DOWN WITH HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD AND AWAIT THE ARRIVAL OF APPROPRIATE AUTHORITIES." Hallways leading to more secure areas actually have warning strips painted on the floor, bearing the following text: "NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL PAST THIS POINT." The looming turrets above drive the point home. Malthus waits, politely, in the lobby of the Latverian embassy. For someone who is -- reputedly! -- of great importance in regard to the intersection between government action and mutant affairs, he seems extraordinarily subdued; the secretary -- presuming there is one! -- might not have even noticed him until he paused to ask her where the bathroom might be found. Despite his quiet nature, Malthus Rogers is -- physically -- a remarkable man. 6 feet and change; muscled and lean -- a head shaved bald. And that horrifying scar -- a fold of viciously healed tissue extends down through his right brow, across his right eye (now faded to a milky, nonfunctional white) and down to his lip -- where it pierces through to teeth, exposing a sliver of white. Giving him the look of a perpetual snarl. A snarl that is not born in Malthus Rogers' /expression/. The man looks positively serene; the sight of all these warning strips and turrets does little to disturb him. Malthus has arranged a meeting with a low-level diplomat, having -- apparently! -- been uninterested in disrupting Doom (or, perhaps, having presumed Doom would not care to meet with him). And so now he waits, here... ...in front of that sign placed before the turrets. Reading it. Curiously. An eyebrow raised. He seems... amused? And even intrigued. There is an information desk with an extraordinarily helpful young man, one who possesses an insurmountable amount of smiles and cheer, an amount that another might deem conflicting with the rich armaments guarding the indoors of the embassy. The deceptively vapid man almost always points visitors towards acquiring a ticket, so as to wait for any of the seven stalls. The embassy appears to be a well-oiled machine, and Malthus indeed would find himself easily lost in its guts. Hardly anyone seems to pay him mind, save for a visitor or two, but then again they might be more interested in his facial deformities than his identity. Phone calls, excruciatingly detailed explanations, even the occasional protests exclaimed. This is a busy work environment. This is a meticulously put together painting, except it falls prey to the ages old cliche of cut out eyes. In this digital age, cameras replace cut out eyes. Even more inconspicuous than Malthus - far more so, in fact - is a diplomat who seems to emerge from the ground itself. Light on the feet, the young Romani woman announces her presence with a soft-spoken. "Malthus Rogers?" The man would have scant time to confirm his identity, as if the query was nothing more than a rhetoric. The girl might look young, but her demeanour is stainless steel. ""I am here to accompany you to private quarters of the embassy," she offers sweetly with her Eastern European accent, pointing towards the necessary direction, "where a Latverian representative will accept you, as requested." An accurately restrained smile is offered, and Malthus is given no more than two seconds to signal a confirmation or offer a reply, after which the diplomat would promptly begin her trek towards the inner workings of the Latverian embassy, past the ominous turrets that almost seem as if they deeply slumber and pay no mind to their surroundings. "Of course." Malthus acquiesces almost instantly; he offers the girl a polite, surface-level smile -- scarcely more than a gesture of etiquette. When he walks, his hands are clasped behind his back. "I must ask," he continues, as he follows the woman. "The sign -- has it ever worked?" Malthus sounds... genuinely curious. The pleasantly ornate walls of the embassy eventually give way to thick glass that is at the very least transparent on the side Malthus and the girl both walk. It looks to be one of the busier days, seeing as many of the exceptionally private rooms are actually occupied by questional individuals whose troubles extend well beyond getting a ticket with a number on it printed. Despite that, none are restrained, although the guards are positioned at reasonable intervals and choke points. The pair moves past these corridors and move up the stairs. Like the walls, the ceiling, the floor and just about everything else gives way to a far more futuristic decor. But before the two move to the second floor, the diplomat girl receives the question, which she sees fit to answer almost immediately. A paranoid might think her telepathic, considering how quickly her reply arrives. "Twice, to my knowledge, Sir. One of them actually planned an attack on the embassy and Doctor Doom himself, but his motives lacked conviction." Despite the accent, her vocabulary is definitely not lacking. "He turned himself in. Moderate psychological therapy is all he had to endure, as opposed to incarceration or worse." Once the two /would/ begin moving up the stairs, the young woman notes coolly, "It's on the third floor, Mister Rogers." "How curious," is Malthus' only response to this quick, precise delivery of information; the guards -- along with the windows into those rooms where a variety of people await whatever fate -- receive a quick, investigating glance from that one remaining eye. He is otherwise silent for the extent of the journey; when they begin up the flight of stairs, he speaks only in response to her comment: "Ah. Thank you, ma'am." And upward he goes. Despite her comment, the woman actually follows Malthus some greater distance still. That said, the embassy is every bit as humble on the inside as it seems on the outside. It's not terribly spacious, even if it tries to make best of what it has. A couple of corridors later, the silent duo arrive to a ludicrously well-reinforced door, already flung open. Malthus would be able to catch sight of a lavish room decorated in the style of early twentieth century. If he looks closer as he comes nearer, no doubt he will manage to spot the unmistakeable figure brooding in front of the sizeable window behind a desk. The green cape says it all. "Here you are, Mister Rogers," the girl remarks with little emotion as she stands by the door, an almost undetectable polite smile on her fine lips. Well, technically, he is a representative. At the sight of that broadly opened door -- and the lavish interior -- Malthus lifts a brow. At the sight of the green cape and that eternal, metal-clad scowl -- Malthus' brow extends /higher/. But Malthus Rogers is nothing if not polite: "Thank you, ma'am. Doctor Doom? I had not come with the expectation of meeting you. I do hope 'Doctor Doom'," he swiftly adds, tone level and delicate, "is your preferred honorific? I seem to recall you stating as such in an early interview." Malthus stands, legs slightly parted, hands behind his back -- there is a brisk professionalism to his stance; as if he were addressing a superior officer. But there's no tension about the stance; it lacks both the sharpness and the upward cant of the head that one would expect of a soldier speaking to a general. Doctor Doom turns away from the window with speed equal to the door shutting behind Malthus. Just as the hydraulic locks hiss into place with a thunderous boom, so too does the monarch's foot is flung forward with a near-inaudible whisper of motion before it resoundingly stomps down. Unlike the door shutting closed, however, Victor van Doom's steps continue. His demeanour as ready for a war-ravaged march as always, the king valiantly steps towards Malthus, arriving to a premature halt a few steps shy of the man's personal space. The powerful steel arms extend to the side inquisitively, warmly inviting an answer for a question that soon thunders into being. "What leader dares to relegate his duties?" As his hands slowly shift back into place, the king speaks further: "For the time being, Doctor Doom will suffice." And so, Doctor Doom stands aside to give way towards the chair in front of the monarch's sizeable mahogany desk. It looks like quite the comfortable chair, almost bearing a greater resemblance to an armchair. It is to this furniture that the leader gestures towards, doing so without so much as a word. Malthus does not flinch at the approach of that armor; he does, however, inspect it with what is clear interest -- there is a slight struggle, there -- between a desire to satisfy his curiosity and a desire not to be rude. The latter eventually wins out; his eyes return to Doctor Doom's face -- and he politely smiles at the inquiry: "--I have always considered an ability to successfully relegate -- perhaps 'delegate'? -- various duties to be of critical importance for a leader," Malthus states, his tone subtle and soft. "One must trust to lead. Although, I myself have, on many occasions, found a great deal of pleasure in taking on certain 'trivial' tasks myself." Malthus moves to sit when indicated, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. "Not to imply," Malthus soon adds, with an uptick on the unscarred side of his mouth, "that this meeting is among such tasks. I do not wish to waste your time, Doctor Doom; may I state my purpose here?" Once Malthus claims the suggested seat, the armoured monarch moves behind the desk. A heavy sound grinds against the surface as Doctor Doom drags his steel digits along the mahogany surface, although nowhere near with enough strength to scratch it. The lack of any marks indicates he hasn't had such a problem in the past. Either that or he frequently changes his desks. Perhaps surprisingly, Victor van Doom offers no retort, instead moving to the uncannily throne-like seat, throwing his cape up behind him with surprisingly quick and agile movement of the wrists. Once he claims his own seat, the king reclines lazily in the throne, a firm iron grip on each end of its arms. The cold eyes regard Malthus with great intensity, as foreboding as the reflection of a knife twisted in the hand of a killer. A moment of silent consideration later, Doctor Doom lifts a single hand, invitingly gesturing towards his guest. He seems content to leave the spotlight fixated on Malthus, curiously enough. Malthus lowers his head in an acknowledging nod; his eyes linger, for the briefest moments, upon those metal-sheathed hands. But then: "Thank you, Doctor. I've been informed that you have expressed some interest in supplementing the city's police with devices for the purpose of dealing with mutants who's powers make -- /typical/ law enforcement responses -- inadequate?" Again, an uptick on the unscarred side of Malthus' mouth, his hands still neatly folded in his lap. "If so, I may have an opportunity for you to demonstrate the viability of your machines in a -- /unique/ -- environment. And simultaneously help contain a dangerous mutant criminal in this very city. I intend," Malthus adds, "to lead an operation down into the city's sewage system to capture the mutant responsible for Officer Whelan's death. We suspect there may be more mutants below, hiding -- we do not know the full extent of their capabilities." The hand that had gestures towards Malthus has now landed its elbow against the throne's arm, the hand itself raised high to let its fingers wrestle with one another not far from the monarch's unchanging frown. His thoughtful but keen gaze remaines fixed on the man who explains the nature of the situation. Doctor Doom inclines his chin when the story nears its end, a halfway gesture that serves to display acknowledgement. The electronic boom for a voice starts soon enough. "My machinery can withstand all manner of conventional weaponry in a controlled environment. Their superior speed, manoeuvrability, durability, strength and capacity to operate autonomously leaves little room for weaknesses. The reason why you are yet to witness their activity on the streets is because no crisis has necessitated their involvement." Straightening out in his throne some, Victor lowers that hovering hand once again. "So, when a man of your background - an auspicious soldier who drops off-grid - personally arrives to my doorstep and requests the aid of my mechanical guardians, I find myself questioning the nature of this operation." That very same hand lifts just barely to flick a motion towards Malthus. "When you say you intend to lead the operation," the monotone voice continues, "do you mean you will lead the men into the sewage system, or will you 'relegate' your leadership duties?" At that last question, Malthus -- /smiles/. There is something genuine about the gesture; something that was previously missing from all of those cautious, polite little expressions -- as if this question deeply /pleased/ him, on some level. "The former, of course. Leaders must trust their followers, but followers must also trust their leaders. I do not ask my troops to take any risk I myself would avoid. As to the nature of this mission--" The smile flags, for but a moment. "--telepaths may be present. All of my troops have standard psionic defense training; I myself have," and here, there is a subconscious tick of his head, a twitch on the scarred side of that mouth, "some experience in that regard. But against a suitably powerful telepath, there are precious few defenses. Oscorp's technology, while revolutionary, has yet to take the shape of an independent helmet that can be worn by our troops. In essence, Doctor, my unit's Achilles Heel is telepathy -- and you alone currently possess sufficient technology to wholly /circumvent/ that weakness." "Indeed." For a short while, it is the only answer Malthus is offered. There is nary any motion on Doctor Doom's part. In fact, initially there is none whatsoever. For a few seconds, the dictator of Latveria is an unmoving steel mountain, conveniently seated in a throne. After those few seconds, his other hand lifts off the throne to flick to the left expressively. That is when the monarch finally speaks. "I can assign a scouting party that takes point, providing you with a thin but mobile frontline. I can spare a single Hydra squad and two Titan units. They will operate autonomously, but I will give you - and you alone - a code word to override their role and shift their focus to protecting you." There is a brief pause before Doctor Doom elaborates on this peculiar clause: "Another ability of critical importance to a leader, Malthus Rogers, is survival." That little remark is given an embarrassingly short lifetime, because the monarch speedily moves on to add, "I expect full briefing of the mission in the hours to come. Tell me, in what state to you desire the killer to be detained, and how expendable are perpetrators who obstruct the path?" "That is far more than I had expected," Malthus agrees, with a low, respectful nod of his head. "Thank you, Doctor. The use of your machines may very well save lives. I would request further only that I also be supplied with a temporary shutdown code, exclusive to this excursion -- for the unlikely possibility that we encounter a technopath. /Highly/ doubtful, but I do not think," and here, the faintest ghost of a smile arrives, "my troops would be successful against /yours/." "--of course. I will have the details forwarded to your office at once -- there are some aspects which are classified, but nothing sensitive to the nature of the mission itself," Malthus quickly explains. "My preference regarding the state of the criminal is -- mmn." A twist of his mouth. "--an interesting question, actually. /My/ preference is immaterial, however. I have been told to bring her in alive, if possible. I also," and here, Malthus' expression darkens, "wish to, /at this juncture/, capture -- rather than kill -- any additional mutants we encounter." Something about Malthus' tone and posture indicates that this is not. How he would prefer to do things. "Ah, yes, /technopaths/." It is here that the voice of the monarch escalates for added emphasis. The word roars thunderously with easily detected disapproval, or at least that is what it comes across as. "You will receive such a code," he responds, both flatly and resoundingly. "But I assure you my machines have been tested against technopathy, as well. Unfortunately, it remains a weakness. One that I currently cannot circumvent, but reliable fail-safes are in place. The only threat your team will face will be the mutants that hide among the filth." His right hand travels upward again, this time to lean a closed fist against a jutting steel cheekbone. "All units come equipped with non-lethal weaponry of my design - electrocution, sedation and physical shock. The Hydra units wield them with greater proficiency. The Titan unit will be assigned to targets that resist the gentler touch. What about your men, Malthus Rogers? How expendable do you deem the men that will trust their leader?" "Expendable?" Malthus asks, and now his eyebrows lift -- the gesture pulls at the tangled snarl of a scar at his lip, producing an unintentional baring of teeth. As if this was a question he was unused to being asked. For a moment, Malthus seems to contemplate this question; though by the resolute shift of his jaw, it seems he already knows the answer. Perhaps he is pondering how best to put it /diplomatically/: "I do not abuse the trust of my allies, Doctor. Only my enemies. Indeed," and there's a faint /tap/ of teeth at this next bit, "part of my -- displeasure? -- at my current orders is rooted in the added risk /containment/ brings to those who have put their lives under my care. Though..." A slight tug of a smile at the corner of Malthus' mouth. "--I think it is the word 'expendable' that I am hung up on, perhaps? I do not consider people to be expendable. I would not hesitate to order a soldier to their death to fulfill a mission -- but that is not because I consider their life to be a commodity or resource to be expended toward my ends. Mmn..." Malthus' tone remains gentle throughout; his eyes close, and: "I apologize. I am rambling. You asked a simple question. No." His eyes open again: "I do not consider them expendable." "Of course, you don't." The reply is cold, stoic and as powerfully loud as usual. Throughout Malthus' vocal contemplation, Doctor Doom remained silent and observant, closely examining his guest. Now, the monarch directs the conversation further into personal territory when he asks, "And what about you, Malthus Rogers? Do you think those who have trusted you with this mission see you as expendable?" Those judging eyes never seem to leave the other man, as if the room the two reside in did not exist. The monarch lowers his chin again, the shadows shifting to reveal more of the flesh surrounding those eyes, which by now have gained a touch of something else, as well - curiosity. "Ah," and now! Malthus seems to be apologetic yet again, but with a hint of amusement -- his tone gentle and soft: "Myself? Perhaps. I do not think many of my superiors would weep bitterly were I to not return. I have noticed," and this is related to Doom -- as if! -- Malthus was describing some strange, peculiar secret, "that many of those in power do not /value/ those who make their power possible. It is a curious weakness so many in our world possess. I am often daunted," he continues -- again, apologetically! -- "at the number of ineffective leaders I encounter. But, mmn. Yes. I suspect I am -- in /some/ eyes, at least. An expendable asset." A sigh is not something Doctor Doom often makes known to others. This is a moment when he does. It is a distorted, electronic wheeze, yet it is hard to mistake it for anything other than a weary expression. "How curious," he begins, his voice as stalwart and resounding as before. "/I/ have noticed that men of lesser rank often believe they have a greater notion of how leadership should be exacted. And nearly as often have I witnessed their complete and utter inadequacy when given the chance to lead." The dictator rises from the throne, his movement slow but not languid or lazy. "Allow me to inform you, Malthus Rogers, of my own traits. Allow me to tell you what kind of a leader I am." Stepping aside, he circles around the desk, slowly and softly landing his heavy feet against the soft carpeting. "I believe in chain reactions. I believe that men I empower today, may well become men who empower me tomorrow. I do not question their ability - either to lead or to follow - until it fails them, and in doing so, fails /me/." There is a surreal sort of emphasis on the last word, the metallic drone of the voice becoming harsh enough to nearly distort the voice. Doctor Doom halts to stand at the side of Malthus' seat, although he still stands far away enough to respect the other man's personal bubble. "Is there anything else, Malthus Rogers?" "Mmnh," Malthus responds; his expression is -- /thoughtful/, really. A tiny crunch of eyebrows as he ponders what Doom is saying. "--I apologize, Doctor; my statements were -- perhaps -- crude? I am sometimes fond," he adds, as he rises to his feet, "of over-generalizations. But it is a weakness, not a strength." A small, polite smile: "That was all, sir. We'll have the details sent to your office -- once I've acquired authorization for the use of your machines, of course." A tiny nod. "--my superiors are particular about what they do and do not allow. I appreciate your time, and your consideration, in this regard." He steps aside, to go! The locks have already begun to disengage, unlocking the reinforced door. The heavily guarded entrance slowly begins to open, creating a passage for Malthus. Doctor Doom does not offer a response beyond the weighty gaze that he lands on the other man. Neither is a handshake offered; the monarch maintains his unwavering stance before the guest, awaiting his departure. It's not until Malthus is a couple of steps away from overstepping that considerably high threshold that Doctor Doom speaks up again, slowly starting to make his way back to where he stood when Malthus entered, as though a statue returning to its rightful place. "We will keep in contact," he offers, while on the move. "Succeed, Malthus Rogers."