ArchivedLogs:Megalomania

Megalomania
Dramatis Personae Norman, Doom
In Absentia	2013-04-24 Finally, Norman meets someone crazier than /him/.
Location Doom Expo
The warehouse that housed all manner of technological marvels is all but empty now. Gone are the impressive displays of artificial intelligence, gone are the stunning demonstrations of mechanical locomotion. There is little left that populates the interior of the warehouse. The icket booths are gone. The turnstiles are gone. The signs demanding lawful behaviour are still there, as are the cameras. Turrets stand on slightly elevated pedestals. Each are walled off by square-shaped black-and-yellow warning stripes on the ground, along with the words CAUTION DO NOT APPROACH. It seems Doctor Doom has deemed these bear-sized turrets insufficient, however. Guards armed with AK-47s are positioned here and there, always in pairs. They wear an outfit a darker shade of green that Doom's own, as well as opaque black visors that obscure their faces. A sidearm is strapped to their hip, and a stun-rod lines the back of their belt. The guards hardly move. Of all the death-dealing machinery and weaponry that is on display, it seems Doctor Doom is less keen on showcasing his work at the very entrance, much like he did the previous days. His work is hidden from curious gazes, set aside for when he demonstrates them privately. There is an eerie sort of atmosphere lurking about. The place is not unlike a graveyard. All is still. The turrets, the guards, the dome cameras-- Those who do dare to move in this painting of still life seem almost out of place. Doctor Doom stands at the shooting range, flanked by two still guards, talking to a man in a fresh clean suit and with a face so revoltingly ugly, he would probably win a consolation prize in Miss Universe. By his very nature, Norman Osborn is hard to pin down; he usually takes meetings in his office - and only in his office. Recently, however, the CEO of Oscorp has been on the move - wheeling and dealing in any number of circles, trying to oil the gears of the machinery that will put the Osborn Institute back on the grid. This has proven difficult, and has eaten up the majority of his time and energy. Nevertheless, when a dictator of a small country shows up in powered exo-armor showcasing some of the most advanced forms of robotics anyone has ever seen, you /make/ time. And so Norman Osborn has - accompanied only by Mr. Shaw, a man in a black wool coat with a head shaved as smooth as a cueball - the businessman and weapons contractor makes his way toward Doom on the shooting range. Clad in his usual black suit, black tie, and handsomely effortless smile. He pauses as he approaches Doom - it's clear from the moment he sees him that Norman Osborn is inspecting the armor he wears. He waits until Doom's attention has shifted from the man to whom he is speaking. And then - he extends his hand outward, to take Victor van Doom's own metal-sheathed appendage. "Norman Osborn. A pleasure to finally meet you. I must say, you have quite the flair for the theatrical - holding press conferences in full battle-armor. A lesser man," and at this, Osborn grins, "might think you've found yourself in the wrong era." The eyes of the mask are positioned a small distance from Victor's own, meaning that they are often obscured in some fashion, be it the angle they are facing him or the lighting. Therefore, none but his lackey would see the monarch's attention shift to the approaching CEO. That shift is sufficient to tell Nikolai to move away, and away he goes, ever so hastily. The handshake that Norman offers is accepted. To some, the handshake is merely a polite gesture of greeting. To others, it's an establishment of dominance. In the case with Doom, however, it might very well be a test of how precise his armour allows him to be. The answer is, very. Steel fingers clasp around Norman's hand, eclipsing flesh with metal. It might almost be worrisome to think what damage that hand could do, so perhaps it's best not to think on that. "All that remains is to hope that you - Norman Osborn - are not a lesser man." The voice that spills forth is an explosion of a bass-rich, digitised monotony. His voice only has one mode, and it is the tone, and it is the tone of a man and machine blended together, dipped in spite. "My introduction is redundant. You know who I am, and you have the exclusive privilege to refer to me as Victor, purely for the sake of efficiency." The hand retracts. "What marvels do you bring forth, Norman Osborn? If any." "Norman, then." If Osborn fears the possibilities that metal hand carries, he does not show it; there is nothing but interest in his eyes - and his grip on the hold of that metal is /hard/ - much less gentle than he'd be with a hand of flesh and bone. The pressure is likely unnoticed through the ironclad sheathe. As to the question - Norman's response is immediate, almost thoughtless: "Unmanned flight has been Oscorp's primary focus for the previous decade; until recently, we've handled the technology behind the US's drone program. The majority of weaponry we're working on now... mmn. Nothing marvelous. A few interesting toys, but - nothing, compared to the mere /trifles/ you offered on the exposition floor." Norman Osborn seems to have the flattery down, at least. But he soon quickly follows: "Our focus now is on mutant countermeasures - and, I'll be direct, Victor. I think your work in robotics - if it is even merely a /fraction/ of what I am seeing - will revolutionize, mmm. Everything." Doctor Doom stands perfectly still when he is given the inevitable sales pitch. The monarch's arms hang some distance away from his powerful torso, and his feet are widely spread and firmly planted on the concrete ground. His posture is an odd mixture of royalty and oppression. His eyes gaze down at Norman mostly with apathy, but disapproval is too tempting to not assume, especially given that the steel scowl is hard to look past. "I demand to know more about these counter-measures you speak of. I also desire to know why a man developing such technology would possess interest in opening an institute for mutants." As he speaks, Doctor Doom finally shifts. Like a computer-generated image that's too good for a film, it's almost as though he's been snatched from the big screen and placed into reality. His movements are easy and humanlike, which contradict the human expectation that something so big should not move like a human does. A sidearm is drawn from one of his still guards. The other arrivals not too far from Doom and Osborn look over to them anxiously. Surely, the monarch has no hostile intentions? Doctor Doom turns to Norman Osborn, that gun - with the safety still on - held in his hand at his hip, the barrel pointing towards the floor. Mr. Shaw instantly reacts - a step back from the scene - his hand moving to slide, ever so slowly, into his coat. But Norman Osborn - implacable, pleasant, effortlessly smiling - just raises an eyebrow and lifts a hand toward Mr. Shaw. Before speaking, /very/ slowly. The smile never showing a hint of waning: "Victor - if I may call upon you to indulge me, briefly? I would like to make a small observation: As I recall, you rose to power amidst turmoil and violence, seizing the reigns of rulership through the weight of your technological superiority alone. You are /accustom/ to securing what you want through show of power. But Victor... I'm already impressed. I /want/ to work with you." For a second, that smile flickers - just barely. Like a static image threatening to break through an otherwise perfectly random white snow. "...but what I give to you shall be given freely, of my own will. You are not in Latveria, your Majesty. And I am not your subject. And though I may not wear the raiments of a general..." Norman Osborn's left hand /squeezes/, white-knuckled. "...do /not/ mistake me for someone unaccustom to war." It is hard to say how Victor van Doom reacts to the not-so-veiled warning Norman issues. The leader of Latveria at the very least summons the necessary patience to listen to the end of that speech. The bloodshot eyes blink now and again, every brief blink momentarily shaping crow's feet that may or may not be visible throug the shadows. "Intimidation was not the intended reason for your answer, Norman. Awe was." Doom shuffles his foot away, turning to face one of his guards. In turn, the guard turns to face his master. The handgun is raised at the masked protector. The thumb removes the safety. All body guards within proximity - perhaps even Norman's fellow Shaw, perhaps not - at the very least put their own hands on their arms, although some even draw the weapons. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. The gunfire is continuous. Used up casings drop and tink to the ground, rolling away to their ineffectual escape. All bullets sink past the guard's uniform, yet he does not relent, standing still as he did before. The tear of clothing is accompanied by the telltale metallic ringing sound. The magazine is emptied and the gun is tossed forth. By now, most arrivals are confused, but some have already arrived to the correct conclusion. One of those mighty metal feet is raised and brutally shoved towards the torso of the visor'd guard. Consequently, the poor test subject flies off down the shooting range a few years, sliding down on his back. He continues to lie there for no more than two seconds, before he gets back to his feet to resume standing as he did. "Bear visor, seventeen", commands Doom's booming voice. And so seventeen does, revealing not a human's visage, but a mechanical pastiche of what could loosely be considered a homo sapiens skull, complete with cameras in deep eye sockets. Mr. Shaw does indeed reach to touch the reassuring hilt of his firearm, stepping even further back; Norman, however, responds much differently. Norman steps /forward/ - as if interested in seeing Dr. Doom fire upon one of his own associates. Perhaps, even, /eager/. When the gunshots ring out, Mr. Shaw grimaces - but Norman doesn't even flinch. And when the soldier is propelled down the firing lane - rising again - Norman is nearly standing besides Dr. Doom; his proximity may verge upon the uncomfortable. "Remarkable," Norman rumbles, low, thoughtful, eyebrows squeezed together. All of his attention is on the machine as it rises; his gaze seems intent upon stripping away the material that wraps it - stripping it down to its buzzing pistons and gyros. "DARPA has been working on their own models - similarly agile - but, for you to do this on your /own/ - mmn. The hands - are they..." His voice dwindles, then. A distant look, before he begins speaking, still watching the soldier. "Anti-telepathy countermeasures are my largest concern, at the moment. But I've recently lost funding - /and/ access to telepaths to test my devices on. As to others - we are working on a means to quickly detect mutants from range. Robotics - we have anti-personell drones. Some designed to track the rapidly moving ones. There's more - the problem is - mutants range the gambit. Their powers are so /diverse/; they resist simple solutions." Then - distractedly - as if it were borderline irrelevant: "The school is for information. I want to understand them, Victor. And unlike Latveria, America remains a democracy; one cannot simply round up mutants and put them all in camps. Not publically. ...not yet," Norman adds. The towering monarch doesn't seem to mind the fact that Norman is so close-by. After all, if he is willing to expose himself to potential danger, Victor is going to be the last person on Earth to even consider stopping him. If Doom values any trait, it's courage, and it shows. The King looks on to the range, and it /looks/ like he is listening to Norman Osborn. "I am content that our communication manages to overcome trivial obstacles." It is hard to tell whether it's genuine observation or borderline mockery. Whichever it is, Doom wastes no time in issuing further commands to his guards. "Seventeen, engage in circular maneuvers. Eighteen, track target 9-A, interval, mark hostile, engage." The machine that's been bullied and kicked down the range begins to move in circles. Its movement is agile and dextrous. In fact, judging from its movement, it's not unlikely it surpasses even its creator in terms of speed. The other guard that stood by Doom suggests the same conclusion, downright running down to the range, its steps slamming hard against the concrete ground. After it assumes a firing position, lifting the AK-47 to its shoulder. The gun barely shakes; a mild visible tremor courses through the weapon. The hits that do not reach the other android are the weapon's fault. "Cease fire, eighteen. Standby, seventeen, eighteen." The android numbered seventeen stands still and straightens out. The other one follows. Silence envelops the immediate vicinity. The contractors gathered look on. A few whispers break out. They are all eclipsed by a very particular boom of a voice. "I am highly interested in your anti-telepathy research. Your institute is a correct course of action. You also mentioned a desire of cooperation." Ah - when they fight - Norman watches. Intentfully. Jaw clinched; a sharp, inwardly hissed breath. And then: "Were I not watching this with my very own eyes, I might think you were playing a trick, Victor. /Nothing/ anyone has built is capable of this degree of -- but, of course," and then Norman is relaxing, his smile returning. "You did not ask me to come here to tell you things you /already/ know." Oh, Norman knows how to /schmooze/. It might help that, as a man who suffers from acute meglomania himself, he knows precisely what meglomaniacs like to hear. "Cooperation, yes. I face numerous obstacles that extend beyond mere engineering - my Institute faces extraordinary political resistance. Finding test subjects is all but impossible; in response to my course of action, factions in the government have dedicated themselves to shutting me down. Despite this, I shall still succeed, of course. But they have managed to set my time-table back. But... if Oscorp were to form strong ties with Latveria - many of these setbacks would evaporate. My anti-telepathy technology, for example. Perhaps Latveria could see to supplying mutant volunteers - telepaths who wish to further the ends of their benevolent ruler. Technology developed in conjunction with Latverian aid would, of course, be shared - and we would both benefit." Norman Oscorp pauses, then. And - rather suddenly, as if flushed on the high of taking risks - proceeds to take what might strike many as an apparently /large/ one: "Also - your Majesty, if I may - I think you are in danger of making a mistake." The compliments most definitely do not fall on deaf ears. They are not enough to snatch the monarch's attention to the point to make him turn to face Norman, but absolute silence implies that he has nothing to say on the matter; and in many cases, that is very much a good sign. "Relocation to Latveria offers the possibility of diplomatic immunity. You would be free from political implications. You would answer to no one." Ah, but just about anyone could see the addendum that flies straight in Norman's face. For that, Doctor Doom is even considerate enough to turn his neck and look down at the CEO. "Except me." On the matter of mutants, however, the monarch is less indulgent. "Your safety in exchange for cooperation on the development of anti-telepathy technology would be our first step." And then it comes. The first time anyone has ever told Doctor Doom that he might be making a mistake. If anyone was going to do it, it was going to be either Tony Stark or Norman Osborn. At least Norman is clever enough to know what exact words to pick. The polite detours that are taken are all that lessen the impact of what comes next. And what comes next is a pair of imposing steel hands rising with the intention to land on Norman's shoulders, making use of the close proximity to ease the task. If successful, the grip would strengthen; not enough to cause pain, but enough to cause discomfort. Enough to trap. "Of course, you may, Norman. /Explain/." Click. It is a very tiny sound; one so small that it is rendered nigh-imperceptible to the unacquainted ear. It is the sound of Mr. Shaw snapping the safety off of his pistol - as his fingers coil around that grip - white-knuckled, brows wrinkled, /staring/. Ready. But Norman Osborn is not afraid. When the metal hands grip Norman Osborn's shoulders - metal hands that no doubt possess sufficient strength to rend flesh - tear muscle - and crush bone - Norman Osborn only smiles. Up to the dictator. As if he were suddenly the receipient of a nice, warm, fuzzy DOOM-HUG. And then: "I've read the reports on your rise to power in Latveria. Your tactics - your methods. All marvelously effective. You demonstrated through deed why you alone deserved the throne; the people followed, and now you are their King. But..." Oh, here it comes. "...I read of the incident involving your electrocution of an unruly guest on the exposition floor. Understandable. If anything, you showed /mercy/. But: America /hates/ Kings, Victor. We do not reward greatness; we punish it. I have learned this first-hand," and now, Norman Osborn's arm reaches out - a difficult strain, considering their differing heights! - to touch Doom's own shoulder. And now it /does/ look like a hug! Almost. "In Latveria, your genius is unrestrained; but in America, feeble minds can - and will - find ways to slow us down. Sometimes, an emperor must /stoop/ to conquer, Victor. I am saying that to avoid the mistakes I myself have made, you may need to behave in a manner - sometimes unfitting - of a /Conqueror/." A heavy steel hand lifts off Norman's shoulder. A single one. It lands back to its place. This repeats itself in what turns out to be history's slowest and arguably most awkward pat on the shoulder. Ultimately, that steel hand resumes its grip. "Your concern is admirable, but ultimately unnecessary. The man who has /ruthlessly/ attacked me has been painted by the brainless media accordingly." While his voice may not be as adept when it comes to emphasis, when coupled with a theatrical pause, it delivers the point across. "You misunderstand the extent of my abilities. Their grasp lies far beyond the boundaries of science or tactics on the battlefield." Those fingers clamped around Norman's shoulders begin to roll around. Again, there is no pain involved; for certain masochists, the experienced pressure might even be pleasant. Leaning forward, the cold steel scowl is barely an inch away from Norman's face. The next few sentences are spoken in what is an actual whisper. Norman is able to hear Doom's true voice; it is breathy and it is raspy, but the insufficient volume prevents extensive conclusions. "The United States government is a fractured mirror, reflecting a confused old man. Bill upon bill, they tear each other apart, unable to reach a resolution due to the divisive nature of your so-called Congress. Your nation is as divided and scattered as your leaders, fumbling in a thicket filled with weeds. A single pawn has already fell under my influence, and God be my witness, Norman-- I will turn it into full chess set if need be. And those pawns will march against yours, except not /one/ country will oppose you, but /two/. Consider this not a shallow threat, but valuable information that we are in a similar situation - we are both in the process of choosing our allies. The /difference/ between us-- My choice will not undo me." Norman's expression grows distant as he listens to Doom; it is clear he is hearing what the dictator is saying - but at the same time, it is clear that the carefully polished bravado of the Oscorp CEO is retracting - falling back into something more guarded, something more /careful/. When the Latverian monarch finishes, Osborn stays close - his voice low: "...you remind me of someone. Mmm..." The light in his eyes return. The smile swells back into place; his voice reaches its previous timber: "Your ambitions put my own to shame, your Majesty. I'll have my office forward some of the initial paperwork to your office - we'll... start talks. Hammer something equitable out. And on behalf of Oscorp, I'd like to say..." "...it will be a pleasure to do business with you." The mountainous steel monarch straightens out. The hands retract from Norman's shoulders and return to Doom's side. The immovable appearance that Doctor Doom flaunts seems to extend to his attitude. Although his voiced ambitions are yet to be lived up to, Victor van Doom spares no confidence. "You will not be disappointed, Norman Osborn. Out of all the things that I can offer, disappointments are not among them. I am looking forward to resuming our communication. For now, I must attend to other guests." The whispering tone is gone. The voice of Victor van Doom is gone. In its place, the resounding cacophony of Doctor Doom booms with a heavy toll. Steel feet rise, guiding the massive monarch towards the confused, startled and disgruntled crowd of CEOs and body guards.