ArchivedLogs:Investments

Investments
Dramatis Personae Doom, Shaw	2013-06-16 Shaw visits Latveria to check up on the progress.
Location Latveria
A neat row of concrete slabs bound together is slowly being raised by a thick chain, the purr of a powerful engine responsible for the task not far from this ascent. As it reaches its intended elevation, two hands reach to anchor the massive package, pulling it in closer. The hands are not human. These hands are a dizzying amalgamation of pistons and discs. They belong to an unclothed android standing at roughly the height of the average human being. It is far more capable, however. The mechanised worker steers the concrete onto the ground, unhooks them and sends the chain flying aside. Humane yells flood the construction site. This was just one of many operations happening simultaneously. Construction in Latveria is tackled with a surprisingly tactical application of lawyers, starting with tasks assigned purely to machinery, tasks that are cooperatively solved by both machinery and humans, and then of course there are the finer aspects of constructing that are tended to exclusively by humans. This, assures Doctor Doom, is a necessitation for construction that is not only surprisingly quick, but also of a high quality. Even from a close distance, the sight is of a busy hive or well-oiled clockwork. The Supreme Monarch has made a point to grant Sebastian Shaw insight into what use the immense manpower is put to. Weekly reports are usually presented in a written manner by one of Victor's diplomatic associates, but this time the dictator has arranged for a more hands-on demonstration. The initial introductory speech has already been granted - this is going to be a school, it's going to accommodate a maximum of this many pupils, it's actually going to accept mutants, and numerous properly qualified pedagogues are already standing in line, awaiting the completion of the building. Whatever rocks are unfortunate enough to end up beneath Doctor Doom's heel are actually crushed with each forceful step. His powerful voice eclipses the cacophony of construction. "Your men have proven instrumental in rebuilding my land. Its recovering mining operations are beginning to offset the cost of the work they have accomplished here." As if the nature of the work were questioned, the monarch lifts a hand to elegantly sweep it and gesture to the marvel of concrete birth around them. And as his hand lowers to his side to continue mirroring his impressively regal march, the steel dictator resumes his speech. "Consider your title honoured," he announces, calling back to the pair's first meeting. Those cold eyes initially don't regard Sebastian, instead looking on ahead as the two men walk forward. "But then--" His impressive voice abruptly drops only to start a new a second later. "Sebastian Shaw is not known for finding comfort in balance alone. Your accomplishments venture beyond mere equalisation." Finally, that scornful scowl turns to face Shaw, and so do those remorseless eyes. The largely emotionless voice erupts with renewed force, as abrupt and blunt as always. "What do you desire most? What want of yours is so strong it could bring you back from the brink of death just so you could claim it?" "Come now, Victor, you're limiting me." Shaw's voice, in contrast, is unmodulated by machine - and suffers little for it. Without any need for genuine smiles to shape his mouth, just the barest curl at the side of his lips, his voice projects robust and nearly /warm/, unwinded by whatever length of trek they might make or incline they might climb, "To give me only /one/ desire is asking a carpenter what he'd construct with a /nail/." For the tour, he's dressed rather practical in a simple tailored set of suit jacket and slacks - expensive for the richness of their /quality/, not for any specific opulence present - each in a dark blue, a white open collared shirt beneath and shoes that, equally well-crafted as they may be, bear a firm /tread/ of teeth to navigate unstable ground with ease. For part of the tour, he's likely worn the necessary hard helmet, to get a look at the inner guts of the Latverian scaffolding up close and personal and even once out of the building zone, just carrying the helmet under an arm or swinging off the ends of a fingertip, there has been a consistent manner of open ease to the man in the environment. Offering pressing questions and commenting on technique - /possibly/ there has been one or two compliments, but they come sparing and utterly /frank/. As ever, through the refinement of ages, the smile of Sebastian Shaw is /wolfish/ when he tosses it to Doom, walking alongside him with torso, for the moment, slightly turned, "I don't require a /lure/ to inspire me back from death. My ambitions are myriad and adapting - the more I gain, the more I have at my disposal to expand. If it's true that a fish grows to suit the size of the pond it lives in, you could say what I want is the /ocean/." It is as though neither the monarch nor the industrial giant are there. Workers both of flesh and steel are slaving away at this project, having been instructed that every second wasted is a second of delay. Although the words will sound alien to Shaw, some of the foreign chatter exchanged is actually of a leisurely nature and not related to construction. But that never distracts anyone from their task at hand - if one construction worker has to illustrate his ongoing relationship by hip-thrusting, he will do so during a moment when he is absolutely free and nothing is expected of him. The site is the embodiment of efficiency. Doctor Doom continues to navigate the foreground of this shifting painting of dedication. Either he is unwaveringly confident of where he is leading them, or his armour has in some way taken care of that, but his stride is nothing if not determined. "A carpenter with a nail," he echoes in apparent thought, the gathering of crow's feet around his increasingly warm eyes suggests amusement, even if it is still unsurprisingly difficult to single them out on that steel visage of disapproval. Nothing else is said, at least not after Shaw is done. Doctor Doom steers his attention away from his guest, continuing to march ahead in content silence. "Are you a fan of Chinese literature?" he then asks abruptly. The rhetoric is immediately followed up with the electronic, roaring recitation of a proverb. "For want of a nail the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe the horse was lost. For want of a horse the rider was lost. For want of a rider the message was lost. For want of a message the battle was lost. For want of a battle the kingdom was lost. And all for the want of a nail." It is after the meticulous and rhythmic recitation that Victor van Doom arrives to a halt, pirouetting on his steel heels to face Sebastian Shaw. As his right hand lifts to gesture to the marvel behind him, his cape flutters in its path. "An ocean begins with droplets, Sebastian Shaw," he declares, slowly lowering his hand. Those eyes briefly flick down and then back upward, as if to summarily appraise Shaw anew. "But you know that. So, tell me, if you will, why you have expressed a startling lack of interest in the droplet offered by Norman Osborn." "Because," Shaw does not come to a stop immediately at Doom's turning; his head does rotate, to observe where the iron giant's gesture might direct his attention, but with his hardhat swinging off one hip, he walks /past/ Doom and shortly on a ways to observe the work going on further up the way, "to /belabor/ our metaphors, I've plenty of nails, and as many shoes, all to carry my different messages. But what I've little to gain from collecting is other men's /battles/. Norman Osborn is an /idea man/; he thinks in innovation and /bright lights/. But he is also a self-serving egotist ready to take more than he gives. I will make tactical risks for future gain, but I need a better premise than an endeavor that needs /me/ far more than I need it. He glances negligently over a shoulder, "He would have to bring me something more substantial than /thumbing/ my nose at a group that has been nothing but advantageous to me for the sake of /cheek/." The uneven ground crumples and crackles as Doctor Doom slowly makes his way to Shaw's side, his full weight - combined with the force beneath each step - kicking up dust from the abused path the monarch makes for himself. "If," he starts, his usually unwavering monotone voice initially marred by an annoyed weariness before it evens out, "Norman Osborn accurately represented the Inner Circle, it's an unprecedented gateway into controlling the United States through more than mere bank accounts." As the mountainous steel moves to stand beside Shaw, powerful mechanical arms are crossed across that wide chest. Human eyes thoughtfully appraise the worker bees scurrying here and there. "You have been keeping your success on a stricter diet as of late, Sebastian Shaw. Your gluttonous but unfortunately one-track appetite sees you purchase land after land, build one factory after another. You have to strain when looking at the map of the United States of America to find that which you do not yet own." Yet again, that scowl turns to address Shaw. "Like a dog chasing cars," he remarks with thunderous neutrality. "The finest hunting hound in the United States of America, chasing cars. And what do you intend to do with them once you catch them? Sell them to the likes of Norman Osborn at a higher price? Money is not the ultimate measure of success, Sebastian Shaw. It is merely something to pave the way. You have been paving it for such a long time, one cannot help but wonder if you forgot where to." "And one is welcome to wonder as they please," Shaw answers negligently, rolling back his head on thick neck to stretch a few vertebrae, "It's dangerous work, to assume a man is doing nothing but what you can see. Publicity is no more a value of success than financial gain. And /power/," his slow, brutal near-grin reappears under, "tends to show as an iceberg." He waves an absent hand, offering the floor back to Doom, "But you're trying to lead me down a narrative, Victor. And I'm not a man easily /led/. You seem to think I should take Osborn up on his offer." "No," comes the short initial answer. It is, however, elaborated upon in due time. "I think you should accept his offer and claim the land for yourself. Perhaps to sell it to Norman Osborn again, or perhaps to rule over it yourself." Doctor Doom remains where he is, motionless and unwavering, much like his tone. "This may be another man's battle, but the current general is - as you have accurately determined - an idea man. /Make/ it your battle, become the general and conquer terra incognito." The eyes behind the steel mask continue to observe the workings of the construction site. "Success is Midas' touch - when given dull stone, you turn it into gold." "And what do you stand to gain from all this?" Shaw turns in body to face the monarch; it's not even bothered to ask with any variety of accusation. The mountainous steel frame budges from its place again, shuffling the feet before they rise and slam back down on the sandy yet hard surface. Doctor Doom positions himself at a halfway right angle, his right side facing Sebastian Shaw. For a moment, it seems like a theatrical start to a departure from his position, but the armoured monarch remains to firmly stand there, glaring at Shaw. "You," he begins, lifting up a hand in front of the other man, "are unrefined." The hand opens up a flat palm straight before Shaw's face. "I observe attempts to chisel, but you stand a gargantuan mountain amidst a forest of mediocrity." Fingers begin clamp inwardly, and for a moment it looks like they are going to brush against Shaw's skin; if the man decides to stay still, he'll see the fingers miss their mark just barely. That metal hand forms into a tense fist, rotating at the wrist before it is all slowly withdrawn. "What remains to be seen is if the mountain is made of stone or /sandstone/." The intensity and volume of the modified voice sharply escalates for but a moment. As it reverts, Doom continues, his hand now back to his side, even though it remains a fist. "Nevertheless, you show promise. You show patience, tenacity and perseverance." Curiously enough, Shaw's question still remains unanswered. The brief pause that follows might suggest Victor is leaving it aside or forgetting, but such an assumption is woefully wrong. "I need a reliable man to open a window to the United States. I am Peter the Great, and I seek my Saint Petersburg." Shaw stands, broad-shouldered and unmoving, as the shadow of iron fingers fall in stripes across the side of his harsh-featured face. He stares back at the eye slits of the monarch's mask, starkly awake, but staid, hard, unblinking. "Except that Peter the Great founded Saint Petersburg," he returns, and even before Doom's arm lowers, he is raising his own to use the back of a hand to quite mildly /remove/ Doom's hand from his face. "And I am no foundling." He lowers his own arm back to his side, equally in a loose fist, and they stand two behemoths facing one another across a great distances. "Refinement without purpose is just conformity, of which I have no interest. But a /bridge/..." Ah, it's only here that he tips up his head, considering. "I have been approached already, by a member of the Hellfire Club's Inner Circle. I do not turn my back on worthy allies. But I do also not lead them into senseless battles. It may be that we can reach a middle ground /yet/." Amusement is not something that manages to find its way to the powerful drone of Doctor Doom's voice, but the timing of each one of the following words presents a sense of being entertained to those daring to look. "No, you are no foundling." There is a delay before Victor van Doom addresses Sebastian Shaw again, a delay during which those eyes keenly appraise the man that stands before the monarch. "The wisest general is indeed he who gains victory without battle. But I fear you belaboured yet another metaphor, Sebastian. The mention of skirmishes was referring to our endeavours as men, not the literal battlefields." That scowl is tilted at a subtle sideways angle, signalling consideration or perhaps even curiosity. "The secretive rulers of the world hide in a rich men country club, then. How woefully predictable." The frowning mask rights itself. Doctor Doom carries the flag to the next topic. "Allow me to clarify, Sebastian. You are to succeed in this /alone/, with me at your back only to break any fall and push you back on your feet. When you succeed, every resource I command will be at your disposal, as well." The aged and weary eyelids twitch as they slowly narrow, the gaze they focus still on Shaw. "Speak of the vision you have of this bridge, and when you are done, tell me this." Finally, that gaze is driven away from Shaw - Doctor Doom looks over to the construction site again. "Norman Osborn has retreated from his promise. He cowers in silence, fearful of what I will achieve should he aid me with anti-telepathy discoveries. What would you do, in my place?" The infinitely spiteful faux visage is once again directed at the industry giant. "In your place, Victor?" Shaw actually hikes up his eyebrows to say this, though only their outsides - it creates a few M-shaped lines to rise up his forehead. Benignly, his sideburn to one side pulls back with a side-jerk at the corner of his mouth, "I would more likely attribute /failure/, than fear, to silence from a man like Norman Osborn. And before I assumed either, I'd send an errand boy to remind him he was not /irreplaceable/." Can they begin walking again? Because Shaw is intent to roam, waving off a dismissive hand over a shoulder as though the content of the hypothetical thus far has left a /wind/ he cares to leave behind, drolling with the flesh to the side of his nose in a snarly curl, voice going instantly flat and indecorous, "And ideally would already have /found/ his replacement. Should he heel in time, he may work in conjunction with his successor." His fists fold up behind his back, knuckles touching above his tailbone with helmet bobbling against the side of one hip, "Or in competition, for all I might give a personal damn. Whatever would expedite the process. -- But I am not you." Which does bring about a solemnity in weighty silence. And he admits lower, "Though I'll not keep you at bay. I may well have need /of/ you, in coming months. A bridge has a way of requiring either bank equally to sustain itself. And while I will give nothing I am not given in /kind/, I'll neither ask you to do otherwise. /Have/ you made progress in the great anti-telepathy arms race?" Doctor Doom was already frozen in the middle of motion where he stood, so when Shaw begins to wander, the monarch follows suit, albeit with just enough of a delay to imply that he does not follow the other man, but rather moves by choice. The issue regarding Norman, as abruptly as it was brought up, is abandoned just as suddenly. The electronic voice booms anew as the monarch lays his accomplishments on the table. "We managed to detect a single signal emitted by a tactile telepath in a controlled environment. A great stride, yet it is but a small step in the race you mention. I have brilliant minds officially working on the project with my own irreplaceable input, but that merely ensures success. It will take time, and I am not known for my patience. I will build from scratch if need be, but Norman Osborn's progress would ensure near-instantaneous development of anti-telepathy equipment." A single hand rises to lay fingers ever so gently on that tunic-covered steel chest. "I can evade telepathy, but my method requires forethought and preparation." Doctor Doom stops to signal to his left with that very same hand, gesturing towards the vehicle. As agreed upon, the next stop in this tour is the mining facility. "There is one more thing, Sebastian. Seek out one called Emma Grace Frost, the prolific event coordinator at the Hellfire Club." Refusing to wait for Sebastian Shaw, Victor begins to move in the direction he has gestured to. "Her affinity for success may be brandished into a weapon for our cause, or it may be brandished against us. Her eminence also suggests either a tie to the Inner Circle, or an active X-gene." "Or a tenacious spirit," Shaw isn't saying it with great passion or argumentation - he's grinning vaguely on one side as he and Doom made their way off the site. "One of the more deadly attributes, when paired with intelligence." He could be referring to himself - but his eyes are actually fixed for just one moment on the man beside him for a full issuance of appraisal. Long row of heavy footsteps, heavier by far for the tread of the monarch, but full of the deep teeth of boot treads for Shaws, "Lourdes, I'm sure will be able to tell us more. She has an eye for a defiant ambition." Case in point. The man she married.