ArchivedLogs:Genesis

Genesis
Dramatis Personae Doom, Shaw, Norman	2013-05-11 A feast is arranged, monologues are exchanged. Shaw's kind of shy. Follows after the excursion through Hassenburg.
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 child. 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. Late Saturday evening, the royal dining room has been prepared for three key figures. The incredibly spacious room is not royal strictly because it has an ornate appearance, but also because it has actually been used by royalty in the past. There are two exits on each side, and there is a large mahogany dinner table that stretches across the room's width. On one side of the table's great length is the wall, a grand fireplace and a myriad of animal trophies. The fireplace is flanked by two statues, two decently dressed men kindling the fire that's flickering and crackling right now. A man with scarred ears - deaf, most likely - is actually tending to the flames to keep them alive. On the other side of the table is a slightly elevated platform, a sort of miniature amphitheatre that was likely used by jesters and actors to entertain those who dine in this room; an early version of watching the telly while eating. Tonight, this is home to a man-sized contraption that bears some similarity to a tesla coil, except the orb at the top is replaced with a slowly spinning pyramid. An android - the 'face' of which might help recognise it as the same model shown in the Doom Expo, except it was dressed in guard uniform then - is hanging from chains a mere inch above the ground. It doesn't look like it's on. Thick polymethyl methacrylate - acrylic glass - walls off the inside of this little theatre. Most of food is plain, even if it's been prepared by masterful hands. There is plenty of variety to choose from - the guests have empty plates, while the table is rich with various salads, meat and vegetables. Freshly baked potatoes, mashed potatoes, pilaf, kebab meat, chicken, beef, venison, squab, roasted dumplings, various bread, butter, and two kinds of soups (one type cold cucumber soup with sour cream, while another is hot tomato soup) - the selection is grand and of high quality. Doctor Doom does not rush to fill his plate. He is seated in one of the throne-like mahogany chairs, although his is designed to be wider than the rest. Both hands on the table, clenched into fists. "In days long forgotten," he speaks, his voice resonating sharply across the room, "kings would have a private aide who would taste food for them. I sincerely apologise for not providing each for one of you, but I assure you nothing here is poisonous." A hand rises to point towards the potato sausage. "Except that." "You know," Shaw murmurs down towards his lap, where he's arranging his napkin, "I don't think I can tell if our host is joking or not." This is intended for Norman's hearing alone, though he doesn't seem terribly concerned that Doom may have the technology available to make him the ultimate eavesdropper. He actually sounds more amused, encouraging, "You try it." /Eat/ the potato snausage, Norman. Eat it for Shaw's entertainment. "Poisoning would be a bit /gauche/, wouldn't it Victor?" he adds to Doom directly, transferring his fork to an easily accessible point beside his plate, "Tell me what I'm looking at here." He nods to the chain suspended android. Shaw's had a /nice shower/, and cleans up from his long flight; if he's jetlagged or sleep deprived, it doesn't show - he looks eager and lively, his clothes suited to match a formal dinner; dark blue waistcoat with gold-thread detailing at the sleeves and pockets, over white shirt with little gold cufflinks and hair, as ever, combed back in an austere ponytail at his nape. It's not impossible that the mean time between his shower and dinner, he and Norman have gone /poking/ about with a tourguide. Grilling said guide mercilessly and engaging one another in mortal combat of the obscure architectural dialogue variety. “Mmm. Poison,” Norman rumbles, and now he’s /loading his plate/ up with it. Is Norman insane? Adventurous? Does he want to /test/ their host’s ability to make a jest? Whatever the reason, Norman seems prepared to put his life on the line just to discover more about their host’s nature. “You need to take more risks, Shaw. I thought you were /adventurous/,” Norman replies to the gesture. He also spares the pyramid bot a - brief, curious glance. Shaw had the courtesy to ask the question /for/ him, though, so he does not deign to remark upon it - instead, just listening to Doom’s reply. Norman, too, has showered. And slept. Surprisingly well! The windy chill of an uncomfortable castle seems to suit him; indeed, /everywhere/ seems to suit him. Not long after making himself comfortable, he joined Shaw on a brief tour of the castle - and did, indeed, have a thoroughly engaging battle of wits with the fellow industrial titan. As to who won - well, it depends on who you ask. Norman has /also/ taken the time to assemble a few of his toys in his living quarters - a matter he made no attempt to hide, but no attempt to /announce/. One of his drones is now fully assembled, sitting in his room; the control for it is in his pocket. “You know,” Norman comments to Shaw - voice ever-so-low - “I think there might be a microphone in the potato salad.” The host of this lush feast is unwilling to reveal whether or not his comment on the frankly unappealing potato sausage is merely a jest or, indeed, some sort of social experiment. Instead, his eyes are set on one of these guests at a time, observing each for a dedicated amount of time, eyeing their movements and mannerisms, listening in on their tone of voice, like a book printer examining the quality of a book's paper and the make of each and every single one of the black printed letters. Even as his guests dig into the food, Doctor Doom instead digs into one of the pouches that adorn the thick leather belt. A remote is drawn. "There is one particular piece of technology I regret not demonstrating it thoroughly," he comments, pointing the remote towards the walled-off stage. "I have continued the work of a brilliant mind. Where his work was unfortunately cut short, I have continued unrestrained and succeeded." A button is pressed. Nothing happens, save for that fancy silvery pyramid beginning to turn quicker. Then, Doctor Doom waits until both Shaw and Osborn are seated. Another pair of buttons is interacted with. If the stage did not muffle sounds, a mildly loud buzzing would be heard. With yet another press of a button, the chains release the droid, but rather than collapsing on the ground motionless, it lands on its feet. Its knees buckle for but a moment, before it stands up straight, looking ahead with a measure of determination that the human mind is simply incapable of. "Wireless energy transmission," the monarch explains. "You are free to assume the machine is powered inwardly, but I assure you its economic design and limitless hunger for energy makes that impossible." The remote-holding hand is lowered onto the table, joining its iron sibling. "It is one of the first hurdles I have faced in my endeavours", he booms. "But given the presence of appropriate conductors, I can power a large array of devices without the need of a physical connection. Ceasing the connection does not depower the device immediately. Depending on the efficacy and the size of energy storage units within the device, a phenomenon known as 'energy bleeding' will continue to power the device for short periods of time afterwards." The vacant hand reaches towards a silver goblet. His is not the only one - Sebastian and Norman are both provided with one, as well. In fact, cutlery and all dishes are reminiscent of older times, proving the Latverian king as an eccentric man, indeed. The wine goblet is raised to that steel scowl, the silver brim mashed against the jutting iron lip. It is tipped back briskly and almost angrily, causing the drink to pour past the grate of the mouthpiece. When the goblet is pulled away, some of that wine inevitably runs down the shiny chin. Doctor Doom, master of innovation falls short when it comes to designing drink-friendly masks. "There is adventurous, Norman," Shaw has a voice that speaks through the /throat/, the words crunch over gravel and reverberate in his chest. Which apparently means he's enjoying himself, because he's developed a hooked sort of /grin/ while HELPING HIMSELF to that potato salad. Maybe he likes the idea of Doom listening in on his digestive tract. "And then there is reckless. The difference between trend-setting and merely being that first man to jump off a bridge. How /is/ that institute of yours progressing?" Totally two separate thoughts, right? Like Shaw wouldn't already know. He hands the question to Norman like it's a big sack of LEAD WEIGHTS and then leaves him holding the door -- Because Doom is making a demonstration, and it's enough to pause with his goblet halfway to his mouth. /Hopefully/ this is in pause at the remarkable technological innovation, and not because Doom just...totally poured that shit all over himself. "/Remarkable/." He's looking at the android very - seriously for a moment, "How is it received? Is there a /range/ for how far the energy can be transmitted?" Oh, Shaw. If he’s been paying any attention to the progress of the Institute at all - well, Shaw would know that he’s just hammered on a weakspot. Norman’s smile almost flinches! /Almost/. Norman proceeds to the table, besides Shaw - watching the demonstration with - vague interest. Norman is torn between fascination and skepticism - which leaves him looking something like a cat watching its owner use the toilet. As if to say: ‘oh, so /that’s/ how you do it? How... bizarre’. Again, Shaw asks the questions Norman would ask. But, even after they are asked - Norman’s eyes regard the machine with a mind adroit at tearing things apart. Processing their nature. And then, a murmur to Shaw: “If he’s Nikolai, does that make you Edison?” A flicker of amusement at the attempt to pour that wine; being an engineer at heart, it is a struggle for Norman to not suggest Doom invest in a funnel. Yet somehow, he manages. The rivalry between Shaw and Osborn is noticed and passively observed, although Doctor Doom ultimately spends most of his attention and efforts on the display before them. A single button on the remote is pressed, and the android moves towards a large slab of chiselled stone, sizeable enough to reach the knees of an averagely tall human being. The machine begins to pummel away at it wildly. One thrown punch after another sends bits of stone flying off in random directions. Some of the bits thunk against the thick protective glass. The set activity is going to take the android some time. "Specific receptors are required to maximise efficiency of received signals. At present, my method can exploit wired connection to extend its range. As wired connections become obsolete, the range will have to be extended by specific checkpoints, such as the one you see before you." The host lifts a vacant hand to presumably gesture towards the tall construct with the rotating pyramid on top. "The preparation of stored energy for wireless transmission remains a gruelling work in progress. This technology is not fully ready. The risks involved in the operation of this machinery are less than desirable at this point in time." Hopefully, these 'risks' are mitigated by the glass, but who knows? In the meantime, the guests will be sorely disappointed to discover no visible means of listening on their digestive tracts. They will be met with further disappointment still if they expect any dish on the table to be poisoned. It looks like Doctor Doom has spared no expense in regards to food as well, and not just technology. "You are free to familiarise yourself with this marvel more closely during your stay here", his sinister digitised voice bellows anew. Even if the sentence might have sounded casual in his mind, his voice is simply not meant for nonchalance. "But I have not invited you this far across the globe to impress you with my trinkets and toys. Consider this innovation tonight's entertainment, the hors d'oeuvres to the more substantial matters at hand." There is a brief pause before that drone-like thunder erupts again. "By seizing control over this country, I have entered a game of power and plot. I have exchanged the fields of battle for administrative offices, conference halls and embassies. I now watch the world, and the world watches me." The silver goblet is grabbed again, but this time it hovers some distance away from Doom's massive chest. Delaying his drink, he instead chooses to continue his speech, "But the world is short-sighted. It only sees what powerful individuals want it to see, be it through money, manpower or the illusion of ideals. History is not written by victors. It is writ by blind fools. I have invited you here today to show who I am and to know who you are. I am the man who grants victories. I am the man who will move the globe with no one the wiser. No one but a select few - minds I deem worthy, hands I deem capable." "To the world, I will have mere partnerships, friends and allies. But when we gather in private, it is not food that will populate our plates, but Earth itself." Silence. There are no questions asked, no hooks left to explore. The speech is over. Doctor Doom repeats the ritual from before, soiling his steel chin with more red wine, although the amount is still as minuscule as before. Even so, it's clear he expects his guests to react; the silence left behind has entered abruptly and sharply, like a stabbing wound exacerbated by the twist of a knife. Shaw had been in the midst of murmuring back to Norman, "-and yourself /Franklin/, I'd presume." It has the mock-chagrin necessary to add without saying: you have the fucking /snark/ to pull it off OM NOM delicious kebab meat. He isn't a rude voracious eater, but Sebastian Shaw is not built for delicacy and does not bother to /try/ for it. His bites tend to involve exposing an eyetooth on the side of his mouth where food meets mandibles. He just makes up for it with frequent, passingly impatient swipes of napkin. DAB. Which he is in the middle of when Doom begins his dinnertime /address/. There is only the slightest delay of lowering napkin /back/ to his lap as he listens, somber and reserved and /not/ making '-holy shit he is saying this out loud-' faces. It is possibly easier - with a few slow rotations of his gaze towards that powered robot. The castle environs. It's not long sweeping inspections - just brief micro flicks of his eyes. Doom - android - Doom. Remain on Doom. Then Doom - ceiling - Doom. In the resounding silence that follows, what else really is there to say? His face remains brutally hard, and his voice - cultured. "Here here." He lifts his drink as well. And sips. Norman eats - slowly. Carefully. Politely. Like the food on the table isn’t exactly what interests him; or, perhaps, as if he was saving room for dessert. Another theory: Maybe he’s /teasing/ his appetite. But why on earth would Norman do that? The jib about Franklin coaxes a smile out of Norman, but then - those half-lidded eyes are watching the android as it beats a block of granite silly. Listening to the monarch’s speech with a sort of dreamy half-interest. He’s already waist deep in the madness that is Latveria; what’s a little megalomania between friends? His smile - so practiced, so easy - gives a tiny /twitch-twitch/ at the mention of the world being upon their plates. When Shaw lifts the goblet in a toast, Norman moves to mimic the motion, though he does not add his voice to the choir. Instead, Norman merely takes a delicate sip, washing down the flavor of his unpoisoned food - and then, comments, with flippancy - as if he were merely making a bit of polite conversation: “You know, Victor, there’s /already/ a secret little ‘club’ of elites carving up the world on their plates. And, mmn - I don’t think they’re going to invite /you/ to any of their parties. But,” Norman adds, with a slow, sly smile. “I do suspect that will be their downfall.” Sssssip. The remote that is tethered to the warlike marionette beyond the plexiglass is slowly laid down on the table. Each movement Doom exhibits is deliberate and measured, as if he had rehearsed this many times before the arrival of his guests. Both of his steel hands rest on either side of his empty plate. The monarch does not exhibit a very vigorous appetite, at least not for food. A sideways glance is shot towards Sebastian Shaw, and the silence that accompanies that gaze might just mean approval, considering Shaw's goblet is raised in agreement. And then Doctor Doom slowly turns his neck to look towards Norman Osborn, the movement so painstakingly slow that it might as well be an overly theatrical response to an insult. "I assume this faction you speak of has set up its home in the United States of America." An iron index finger lifts before landing with a heavy thud on the mahogany surface. "An ambitious beginning, but an admirably auspicious one." As if he did not hear the part about him not being invited; as if it were a minor trifle that did not even necessitate a mention. That neck turns again, but this time it snaps with almost bird-like agility, an unpleasantly lifeless whirr and click following the quick motion. Those dead icy blue eyes now focus on Shaw. "Tell me more," he demands nonchalantly, as if it is not Norman who has told him about this little secret club. "My goodness, Norman," Shaw grins behind a fork, his /eyes/ fixed yet on Doom. It's like Everyone Ignores Norman day. Except that Shaw is, y'know, /talking/ to him. "You are /nothing/ if not bold." Against Doom's direct /command/, Shaw's smile remains /quite/ hard. "I rather think, Victor, Mr. Osborn could probably explain himself better." What, is this defending the other CEO? Just as likely, /not/ prone to jumping when commanded. Norman, for his part, seems immune to offense; if Doom’s decision to ask /Shaw/ about this little club bothers him, it doesn’t show. When Shaw redirects Doom back to him, Norman looks up, and -- ssssip. Savoring. Like an indifferent cat batting at an interesting little toy. Maybe he’s been hanging around Parley too long. “Only if Victor /permits/,” Norman responds, the statement - just short of cheeky, really. But he does seem to want to secure the monarch’s permission before continuing. “I’m not familiar with how much Mr. Shaw knows about the Inner Circle,” he states, smiling oh-so-coyly. “But -- as far I’m aware -- /he/ wasn’t up for /membership/.” Sssip. Oh, Osborn. You /bitch/. Doctor Doom is yet to show any clear signs of disapproval in regards to the elegant rivalry between the two men. Instead, he reclines in his chair, spurring it to creak. A metallic elbow thunks against the armrest, and silvery knuckles prop against one of the protruding cheekbones. The infinitely wrathful iron visage complements this bored position rather well. For a short while, the only sounds in the dinner hall are once more just the crackling of fire behind the monarch and the muffled thuds and smashes delivered by the android behind the sturdy glass. "We barely have our fingertips on the globe. There are many obstacles that await our hands. We will fail, time and time again. But we will rise from the ashes and reclaim what is rightfully ours." A deliberate, almost theatrical pause follows. "I have little intention of sharing my spoils, and I suspect your outlook is much the same. But you are confusing your steps. We do not start with ourselves. Eliminate all other obstacles first, and only then we will wage war against each other." A vacant, languid hand reaches forward to lazily land a finger on a button on the remote. The structure with the eerie silvery pyramid on top seems to power down, as the spinning figure slows down. The android continues smashing the block of stone, having nearly pummeled into the ground by now. Doom's droning voice rises anew, "If you fathom such a strategy, you are welcome to explain more to me. What is this Inner Circle? What of its membership rules?" Although that spiteful mask faces forward, his gaze lands on Norman, this time. Oh, Norman, you catty catty fucker. It's probably a bad sign that Sebastian Shaw is chuckling deep underground -- in his chest. It's a noise that manifests independent of any stone-set feature, shoulders and chest unshaking. Hn-nh-nh-nh... "I've heard some," he says, in his own time, "about the Inner Circle's existence. Enough to know your own /hooks/ into it have withered." To Doom, he tips back his head, and cants itself vaguely to one side, settling deeper into his chair. An elbow propped on his armrest making the elevation of his drink held at a somewhat elegant height to his loose repose, "Wage war, Victor. Are we discussing inevitable betrayal already? I've always been of the opinion that war is far more lucrative if you are not the one directly engaged in it." Shaw’s comment about ‘withering hooks’ manages to get a little twitch out of Norman’s smile. Just a /tiny/ one. Well-played, you magnificent /ogre/. Norman sets the goblet down. “I was up for membership. After my little -- announcement at the Gala -- they reconsidered. /And/ revoked my membership to the Hellfire Club,” he adds with just a twist of his nose; as if this was the act of some juvenile bully. “The Inner Circle consists of several prominent individuals - people in positions of power and industry. The club itself is just a game; they fancy themselves the Masters of the Universe. Also, they are /rigidly/ anti-mutant. Part of their indoctrination process involves a gene-test.” “I myself,” Norman adds, a hand fluttering to his chest meekly - as if suddenly playing the role of the long-suffering martyr, “have nothing /particular/ against them. Actually, I find their existence - fascinating. I agree that they should be - mmn, /controlled/, but - the Inner Circle thinks of them only as a threat to be nullified. /I/ think of them as an opportunity. That, I believe,” he adds, his eyes growing - low-lidded, “is their greatest weakness. I /might/,” Norman adds, “already be in the process of -- shall we say -- /exploiting/ that weakness.” The hand that touched Norman’s chest now moves back to his drink, lifting the goblet again. It is, like so many things around Norman, just another prop; another piece of this well-polished /act/ meant to drive his point home. And goodness, how Norman is /enjoying/ himself. “Actually,” he adds, oh-so-casually -- as if this whole conversation was /not/ something he had practiced in front of a mirror, “I’m glad you brought this up, Victor. I’ve been thinking of -- mmn, shall we say -- building a little ‘clubhouse’ of my own.” Despite his undying interest in this affair, Doctor Doom shows very little of it beyond the occasional question. Due to his limited gestures and the monochrome spectrum of facial expressions, it's easy to interpret the man as wholly bored and undaunted by the weight of the conversation. Each movement is measured, even the slightest sway of the hand holding a goblet. At any other moment, the firmness his pose exhibits is unwavering to the degree to suggest that he has stood or sat in the same place for eons, unshaken by time itself. It is how he listens to both Shaw and Osborn. The eager theatrics of the latter persona seem to ineffectively ricochet off of the majestic armour of Victor van Doom. It is only when silence presents the opportunity to speak does that booming modulated voice starts, giving rise to an observation, "You are both mutants." The biggest danger of his voice, perhaps, is that such brief statements could mean just about anything, and it is only one's inflection and tone of voice that could indicate intent. The silvery goblet is slowly returned to the table, but steel digits remain wrapped around it. "And you wish to overthrow the rule of this Inner Circle", he continues. As he does, the grip around the goblet tightens, fingers starting to crush it, crumpling it slowly either on purpose, or because his measure of strength does not allow it to be quicker. The agonising crrk of the goblet collapsing carries on for a while, until wine begins to seep past his fingers. A fair amount of it splashes onto the table. The goblet, now resembling a mangled candlestick, is dismissively tossed forth and across the width of the table, the shallow clink repeating itself as it tumbles across the uneven ground before finding a resting position not far from the glassed off stage. The as of yet unused hand moves to snatch the napkin off the table, and the king begins to clean individual fingers ever so gracefully. "The Circle has fewer chances of resistance than it did," he notes as offhandedly as his peculiar voice allows, continuing to methodically tidy the fingers on one hand. "Form your 'clubhouse' as you desire. My interest in it is limited, as is my interest in the Inner Circle. Wherein my interest does lie, however, is your success." The napkin is neatly laid back down on the table. Doctor Doom still refuses to dedicate his gaze to either Sebastian or Norman. "This is your war, not mine. I will not take part in it." His face angles upwards, and then the host looks to one guest, then the other. "But I will provide the weapons and the means." It can't really be said Shaw's face goes hard at any particular point - it was already hard, stately-severe and watchful. His eyes do /narrow/ an increment the more Doom speaks, the bland near-raise at the side of his mouth, ever so cocky, remaining undiminished. It's an expression that might bring to mind a certain theme: pitbulls and snapping turtles, bear traps, his large body too healthy and coiled in repose to look slothful. More content to wait and listen, Norman painting his grand pitch, Doom adroitly shrugging for neutral without snipping any sewn threads. He himself? Well. He does the same - but with silence. For now. Like a well-fed lion watching a hunt he has not yet /decided/ to join. Dab! Of his napkin, watching Doom groom his steely fingers. Or maybe, just watching the intricate mechanisms that makes such fussy work possible. Norman Osborn crooks an eyebrow high -- both at the crumpling of the goblet /and/ at the mention of them both being mutants. There is a glance toward Shaw, however brief, at the former. Eyebrows raised. It might be a silent inquiry. It might even be Norman Osborn wordlessly asking the man: What Have We Gotten Ourselves Into? But, on the issue of mutations, Norman gives voice to his concerns: “...is that a -- mm. I don’t see the /relevance/, Victor, but -- if you’d like. I’d be happy to submit a sample of my DNA for testing.” There is, maybe, a certain revealing quickness to which Norman offers this; as if the notion of him being accused of being a mutant is taken as a personal affront. “That being said,” and now Norman’s eyes trace their way back to Shaw, slow-yet-sure, “I cannot speak for my colleague concerning his interest in the Inner Circle. But /war/,” he repeats, as if he found the word - dirty, “is better left to those with nothing left to sell. /I/ prefer /negotiation/,” he states, then - with a slight upturn quirk of his lips, “perhaps with a bit of - light-hearted manipulation.” "DNA?" Each letter is enunciated with a theatrical pause between them. The voice modulator does a terrible job of accurately maintaining amusement. The chuckle that spills forth is guttural and muzzled with subtle artefacts, bringing it closer to ominous white noise, as if your television set went haywire and decided to laugh at your misfortune. "For testing?" he asks, as if there were other uses of it up on the table. "Allow me to explain our methods of testing for mutation." Uh-oh. Doctor Doom is lowering one of his hands to one of the many pouches lining his belt. From this inventory of hidden things, is drawn a tin box reminiscent of an eccentric cigar case. What Victor summons forth is not a cigarette or a cigar, however. Instead, it's a futuristic sort of syringe, labelled with colourful warnings about making sure to think twice or thrice before using it. Its encased in plastic, with a little window to let the user know if it's empty, which it currently is not. The syringe is carelessly tossed towards Norman. Despite the weight of the steel hand, Doctor Doom is surprisingly accurate. "We inject them with D-12." The syringe tumbles and rolls towards Norman for but a small distance before the handle stops it. "If you care to know the reason for the number, it took us eleven sore attempts to ensure the subject does not perish, although we are aiming for D-13 by the end of this year." Clack goes the syringe case, click goes the pouch. "The mutant is in pain for minutes at a time. The more physical their mutation, the greater the pain they are in. Their body refuses to obey, exposing their mutation to the world, usually in an amplified measure. We have had strong, durable mutants sprain their muscles just from convulsing from pain." "Humans are fortunately not affected," he adds. "So, if you want to test yourself, Norman Osborn, you are welcome to." Shaw, amusingly enough, is not offered the same gesture. Now, Doom. /Now/, you've managed to capture the full attention of Sebastian Hiram Shaw. He remains leaning back in his seat, but his unblinking gaze is set hawkish-sharp as he listens, and when the syringe is tossed, he watches it in the air, marking its landing. He doesn't - /quite/ draw back the arm nearest to it, but a single jump of tendon in one of his hands says he'd thought about it. As he roves gaze from the implement to Norman's /face/, to observe his response, he's murmuring, "An interesting /placement/ test. It seems you weren't bluffing when you said you'd eradicated the fallibility of mutant honesty. What contingencies do you have for the more /destructively/ mutated. The," he /quirks/, for a moment all to amused by a thought, "/explosive/. Or implosive." He leans forward? A little? Which his head tipped up to peer at the syringe again. "Or what of the passive abilities? The ones that require certain elements to manipulate?" As that syringe is thrown toward Norman Osborn, his inner mind becomes a place of - /extraordinary/ caution. Outwardly, he shows no sign of fear; indeed, perhaps he is a little /too/ calm when he watches that instrument land on the table before him. There is - a quirk of the eyebrow, perhaps? As if finding this idea somehow charming. When it comes to projecting false facades, Norman Osborn /is/ a master. But even masters have limits. Norman lifts the syringe in his hand, turning it over - peering at it oh-so-closely. Before looking up toward Doom, eyebrows knitting together. “Is this -- some manner of bluff?” Norman asks, starkly casual. “The ability to test for the existence of mutants with a mere injection -- mmn.” A thoughtful smile appears on Norman’s face as he lifts the syringe up, toward Doom. “Do you mind,” he asks, “if I simply keep it, instead?” Those cold pools of blue remain fixed on Norman Osborn. The usually absent crow's feet are rather visible now, although the distance between him and Norman might be too great to notice it; Victor van Doom is grinning. There is little in the world he enjoys more than testing the resolve of men. "We perform the tests in a repurposed fallout shelter. The staff is cautious, but ultimately expendable." Although the explanation is directed at Shaw, Doom does not shift in his seat not even by an inch. "We also monitor brain activity during the administration of the substance. We are yet to be faced with a passive mutation that slipped under the radar. Pain is hard to hide." Whether or not the thrown syringe is a bluff, that is a secret Doctor Doom is unwilling to reveal. Or perhaps he simply expects the other parties to take it for truth. What he does elaborate upon, however, is the request to retain the curious substance. "I do mind." One of those heavy hands rises from the table, turning at the wrist to turn the palm upwards in an expecting manner. Fingers jerk inwardly to hammer the point home. "I doubt the capability of your staff to replicate it, but I would rather not have something so valuable freely floating about in the globe." Out of left field - or, rather, returning to the left field - Doctor Doom spills his monstrously modulated voice forth again. "Who else stands beside you in your quest to reshape the Inner Circle?" My god, is Doom enjoying himself? That is enough to raise even the brows of Sebastian Shaw. A BIT, "So there are dares even the CEO of Oscorp will not take. Good show, Norman, for not mindlessly injecting yourself with mysterious Latverian concoctions on a dare." Apparently tests of resolve aren't things Shaw himself has much interest in. If Doom dared you to jump off a bridge would you do it, Normie? Would you do it with a /smile/ on your face? But oh, he /is/ so very interested in that serum, watching it in Norman's hand, "And you intend to subject /all/ of your citizens to this substance when they apply for identification?" Slow, slow head shake, and a /scoff/, scoffing being a sport of which Shaw could take home the gold, glancing siiiiiide-eyed towards Norman at the question of who stood with him, "I recognize a /fresh/ Osborn pitch when I hear one." And yet, you might ask, why he continues to listen when he /does/ hear them. Hmm hmm, go on, Norman. He /is/ interested. FORKful of venison, his teeth fastening onto the tines for a moment longer than necessary. Grip. "I would wager, Victor, we're the first to hear it." An honor? Maybe. Or maybe Shaw is just expecting some nice meal time standup comedy. Norman’s thoughtful smile never flickers; at Doom’s response - and outstretched hand - Norman produces a slow, dramatically reluctant sigh... and rises from his seat to place the object within the dictator’s grip. One may notice a certain /carefulness/ with which he approaches Doom - should the monarch make any gesture that indicates that such an approach is unwelcome, Norman will halt. He is also notably /not/ touching Doom’s hand - instead, merely allowing the serum to drop into his palm from some distance - and quickly retract. “Only a few trusted agents,” Norman replies, shooting a withering /glance/ at Shaw, before adding: “Though I /am/ in the process of seeking out -- allies in high places.” Doctor Doom is seemingly petrified, refusing to so much as flinch in his seat, all while his hand is still outstretched and patiently waiting for the return of that treasured substance. In a way, the lack of motion is reassuring. On the other hand, the knowledge that Victor van Doom could impulsively react at any moment is much less so. Regardless, Norman finds no difficulty in placing that syringe in the steel palm. To an engineer, the design of that palm might be rather fascinating. There is a sleek layer on top of the abductor pollicis brevis muscle, simulating its shape and allowing the thumb to move about freely. The little plate is framed by rubber that moves smoothly across the rest of the palm, ensuring what is very likely a hermetic seal. The amount of thought and precision that went into something as diminutive as this, if it were possible to measure, would likely not fit on the screen of any common calculator. Those fingers show off the graceful locomotion they are capable of as the grasp surrounding the syringe slowly clamps down. The hand twists at the wrist and then lowers the item back towards the pouch, where Doom retrieves the case and reverses the previous act of drawing the syringe. "I demand to know the superhuman abilities of every single mutant you intend to directly involve in this project. Unfortunately, that applies to the both of you." Shaped into loose fists, both hands clank down on the table in front of Doom. "I assure you, my demand is only partially fuelled by selfish reasons," he informs the two. "To utilise maximum strategic advantage, the transparency of our assets is a necessity. Disclosing our capabilities will also minimise the temptation to betray, simply because each of us will know one another's weakness." Is he also referring to himself? His word structure appears to suggest such. The quiet all but returns, except it is interrupted by a muffled thud. The android has collapsed to the ground. Now, all that stands in the way of silence is the occasional serene crackling of the fire behind Doctor Doom. Shaw remains in his seat, leaning back, but not /too/ far - just enough to have an elbow hooked over one arm rest and his legs crossed to the side. All he needs now is a pipe and a smoking jacket, and to replace the raised wine glass - he tips it absently to Norman when he /glares/ at him, like he'd just been congratulated on a Job Well Done, brows up - with a snifter of brandy. He watches this little ballet like he's -- honestly also not sure Doom isn't going to trigger the spring-loaded /trap/ hidden in the mechanical innermost portions of that intricate steel hand and break Norman's mother fucking /wrist/ during the transfer. "I have absolutely no intention of complying with this demand, of course," he rolls his wine in a delicate swill, then suspends it beneath his nose, nostrils flaring. He doesn't even bother to say it forcefully - more with some casual amusement, nearly boredom, like /naturally/ this would be his response. "What need have I, of any such union to start?" Once Norman has returned to his seat - and absorbed the details of Doom’s demand, followed by the explanation - that polished smile has worn its way down to a nub. And when it is followed by Shaw’s pronouncement - that of course he would not comply; furthermore, what need of such a union had he? Norman’s hand and face have met in due course - /stroking/ at his forehead, as if in an attempt to massage away a vicious migraine. “I see that we have,” Norman mutters, “quite a number of challenges ahead.” A chuckle quite similar to the one before rumbles deeply from within the confines of Victor's steel chest. It actually carries greater amusement than the one before, although it is still far from laughter. Its timing places it only after Norman's words. Neither of the guests is really acknowledged as Doom voices his thoughts aloud, and loud it is, thanks to his unique voice: "You have not planned this together?" The idea appears to entertain the monarch greatly. "A number, indeed," he agrees. "But they are not for tonight. Enough, men. Feast, before the food grows cold." For once, the host is warmly welcoming, or at least as warmly welcoming as a man like Doctor Doom can be. One of his hand rises and sweeps in an arcing motion to gesture to the myriad of food that populates the table. This particular summit - one of many, no doubt - is over.