ArchivedLogs:Satisfaction

Satisfaction
Dramatis Personae Doom, Norman	2013-07-17 '
Location
Oscorp's holdings in the greater New York area are quite extensive; securing a warehouse for the purposes of a demonstration is easy enough. The warehouse is neat and tidy, at least; this isn't one of those dilapidated, back alleyway meetings between criminal masterminds -- no, this is /business/. Parts and technology are stored here, under high security; nothing /too/ top secret, but enough machinery to merit armed guards along the perimeter. Present during this demonstration are several Oscorp stockholders -- men and women in sharp suits, ties, and dresses, briefcases in hand, waving themselves off and occasionally grumbling in response to the oppressive heat that even the powerful AC units pumping frigid air in can't help to /fully/ dispel. Norman Osborn, however, does not even seem to be /sweating/. To the contrary: The man has never looked better than he does now. All smiles and cheer, stepping past the small crowd to direct them toward -- the Device. A large, metal dome; approximately the size of an armored car. Enough to emit one person within. A metal doorway fashioned into one of the plates that the dome consists of. Behind the dome, there are seats, tables, drinks, coolers -- and, of course, whatever provisions DOOM'S entourage requires. For a while, it almost seemed as though Doctor Doom has slipped into obscurity. In fact, those wishing to explore said obscurity will find that he has retreated into an impenetrable fortification of the unknown that is Latveria, mentioned only in passing by the news reports that escape the country's firm clutches. The monarch's support of the ongoing crisis and his continued efforts to rebuild his own land remain a constant status quo, but the man himself hadn't been seen. Until today. "Norman Osborn." The signature booming voice floods the warehouse before its owner steps over the threshold of the spacious arena. The green cape is soundlessly dragged behind the majestic monarch in fine armour, seemingly unaffected by the heat. The lingering marks of the heat-related assault in spring remain a reminder that temperature - at least the kind that makes mercury climb upward - is seemingly of no relevance to the king. Rather than welcoming, the greeting is ominous, if not downright demanding, but such is the effect of that artificial neutrality that the voice emits. Granted, Doctor Doom is also marching straight towards the CEO of Oscorp Industries - no open arms, no far-rearching handshake, and most certainly not a hint of smile on that scowling plate that obscures his face. No, the man strides over to his peer with utmost determination, arriving to a sudden stop right before him, as if a train defying physics to stop for a mole crossing the tracks. Furthermore, the royal's piercing gaze is not on Norman. Instead, his eyes are inspecting the dome. The entourage with which he has arrived is no less talkative. Granted, when you bring four humanoid machines and a young nervous looking fellow with you, you don't make for the chattiest group around. The androids are conventional fare, equipped as Latverian special units are, boasting dark green and black colours, as well as an impressive array of weaponry both lethal and otherwise. The young man himself is of an unmistakeable Romani origin - pallid and dark-haired. 'Gaunt' is a word that suits him. The guy is trying to keep his eyes on the prize, but ever so often his eyes swerve to regard Norman and Victor. He does try his best to maintain a cool demeanour, however. "Mmn. Doctor Doom," Norman responds, and for all his /cheer/, there's maybe just a hint of teeth-gritting, a faint twist of /tension/ in those words -- as if merely /speaking/ them somehow cranked Norman Osborn's jaw an inch tighter. His eyes drift to the machines that flank him -- those glorious, glorious robots -- even as Doom inspects the dome. Like two enemies /spying/ on the others' defenses. "--I've already demonstrated the device's functionality to my stockholders. They, of course, do not trust me. They /will/ trust you." At that, Norman does grin. As if this was something of a joke. Norman reaches, tapping the dome several times. "--as far as I can tell, it blocks /all/ telepathic projections -- inward and outward. We're working on minitiarized models, now -- as well as transparent models. I expect to have helmet-sized variants for military use by November." Just in time for Christmas! "--of course, you'll want to test it yourself. It's already active; Mr. Shaw -- no relation to /Sebastian/, of course -- is inside." The unfortunate issue regarding trust initially leads to nothing but prolonged silence on the monarch's part, long enough to suggest he has nothing to say on the matter. Instead, Doctor Doom continues to closely examine the dome at a distance, as if his gaze alone could deconstruct such a complicated machine. The idea is, of course, regardless of the brilliance of one's mind, complete nonsense, but it doesn't seem to stop Doctor Doom. Understandably, the dome itself is not the only object in the centre of his attention; the area surrounding it is victim to close inspection just as well. Once he has stared at the plated dome long enough, Victor van Doom steps further in the direction of the entrance, the synthetic servants and the young man left behind in their respective spots. Now, the Latverian leader finally begins to speak, "In times turbulent such as these, one often finds himself the beggar when choosing who to trust. Rest assured that the irony is not lost on me, Osborn." Once he is at the entrance, Doctor Doom slowly turns around to face what could loosely be described as the audience. "As I hope all of you can see, I have brought a young man with me today," he booms, appearing to address them all; his eyes even flick to Norman, once. His hands raise ahead of him, palms upturned yet gesturing vaguely towards the anxious Romani boy. "His name is irrelevant, but you will be able to sate your curiosity if you inquire his passport. It will also confirm that he is a mutant. I have grown attached to a theatrical label which he seemed to approve, as well - The Pulse. He is a telepath who - unlike others - cannot continuously stream thoughts or suggestions into our minds. No, as far as my private research is concerned, the boy is unique. His ability works in short bursts, able to alter short-term memory, immediate thoughts, opinions and even perceived information." One hand slowly lowers, the other sharply points an index finger at the so-called Pulse. The young man closes his eyes. It happens in a flash. It is almost unnoticeable, but it's certainly there, like a flash on a camera. It can be mistaken for one's own ill-timed blink, of course. Where Doctor Doom once stood, there now stands an immaculate twin of Norman Osborn, holding onto the lapels of his suit's jacket and grinning rather proudly. "--ngh," is Norman's response -- to being confronted with. Norman Osborn. Something about this seems to notably /displease/ Norman; as if the idea of seeing himself doubled was somehow deeply offensive. But that flicker of disgust evaporates a moment later, replaced with a plastered smile: "--how interesting," he rumbles, and his shareholders are soon murmuring in agreement. A placid, careful sort of agreement -- like men and women agreeing to a magician's initial set. Yes, that /does/ seem to be a fresh deck of unopened cards, sir. So, /now/ what? "--the dome requires an electrical charge. Otherwise," Norman continues, taking a delicate step back -- away -- from the confirmed 'pulse' telepath -- "--its functionality should be able to block -- /any/ attempt at contact. Control /or/ reading." Norman bangs against the side of the dome. "Mr. Shaw, can you hear us?" "--yeah, yeah," Mr. Shaw's curt, displeased voice fires back. Somebody is not very happy with being the guinea pig. Unlike Doom's minions, Norman's are not known for being 'quiet'. The promise that the alteration of minds is not an ongoing process seems to hold up, because that image seems to blur and deconstruct before Doctor Doom replaces the false twin of Norman Osborn. But as far as everyone is concerned, the monarch always stood there, right? The memory of the would-be illusion is there, but the transition is a hazy dream. And so the monarch remains where he stands, allowing Norman the window of opportunity to communicate with his subordinate. However, he proves to be less obliging in the coming moments. "Osborn," he begins, allowing for a pause to meaningfully linger before he continues. His neck is craned with an almost inaudible whiz, his eyes coolly regarding the similarly brilliantly minded CEO. "I will test the machine myself. The shareholders will agree that a man who has revolutionised the transmission of energy and the link between man and machine is far more qualified to evaluate the efficacy of such a machine, more so than a mere body guard." Victor inclines his chin as he adds with a bit of a slower tone for added emphasis: "Which, I might dare add, is on excellent terms with the purveyor of the invention." A hand expectantly motions to the entrance of the dome. "And after I deem it safe and functional, I strongly suggest we allow one of the shareholders to test the machine /themselves/, would that not be fair?" "Of course." Norman is /quick/ to agree to this suggestion; Mr. Shaw is even quicker to shove his way out of the door. Bang, bang, CLUNK -- in an instant, the disheveled bald-headed misanthrope is stepping out, GLARING at Norman, before -- just a passing look is thrown Doom's way. Like, 'oh, hello'. Then, Shaw is shuffling back toward the table, reaching for a bottle of water -- muttering about goddamn SCIENCE experiments. "As a warning," Norman tells Doom, stepping back to give him room to enter the chamber. "The device blocks all electromagnetic transmissions -- your methods of energy transfer may also be blocked. No doubt," he soon adds, "you have some manner of 'stored' power to deal with such contingencies, but..." A faint flicker of interest in Norman's eyes. PEERING at Doom's armor. "--anyway, you are more than qualified to demonstrate this technology. Please," he says. The shareholders also seem equitable to this arrangement. Although there's a brief argument over exactly /who/ is going to go inside of Norman Osborn's sinister TIN FOIL SCIENCE DOME. The man who departs from the dome is scarcely acknowledged by Doctor Doom, although the young man nicknamed The Pulse is actually more interested in him. After all, the two seem to share at least one quality - both of their masters regard them as guinea pigs. Before Victor van Doom enters the anti-telepathy bunker, however, the monarch steps in front of Norman Osborn. "I appreciate the good-natured warning," his monotonous bored tone informs the other man, "but I could frolick in the Mariana Trench and return in time to dine on the surface of the Earth's moon." If allowed, a gentle albeit heavy touch is laid on one of Norman's shoulder, a supposed assuring gesture. "Your concern is well-noted." It is only now that Doctor Doom steps into the dome, boldly striding into it with considerably more grace and determination than Mister Shaw exhibited when exiting it. Once inside, Doctor Doom actually takes a while before he addresses the world outside; as though a knight who has finally laid his eyes on the Holy Grail, he simply turns around and takes it all in, examining the bowels of the marvelous contraption. "The boy cannot transmit to selective individuals," his voice spontaneously erupts. "The range of his ability is all-encompassing and radial. He will present us with a few scenarios to help facilitate the experiment." Facing the exit now, Doctor Doom remains firmly standing and ignoring the chair behind him. "Shall we begin, Osborn?" The grip of DOOM upon Norman Osborn's shoulder manages to draw from the Oscorp CEO a brief tightening of muscles; a /clenching/ of that jaw. But he keeps on that well-worn smile, even in the inevitable face of that perpetual, iron-clad scowl. "Of course." As Doom steps within the machine, Osborn reaches for the door -- waiting, carefully, for his cue. When the question comes, Norman nods -- and shuts the door closed. Those shareholders in the room are given an opportunity to witness Doom within the confines of the dome by close-circuit camera; the dome is well-lit, with its lone chair no doubt making a poor throne for the monarch (it is perhaps fortunate he did not deign to sit -- the chair would likely not survive DOOM's magnificent weight!). Norman's voice comes from outside the dome, only somewhat muffled -- a faint, delicate humming arising around Doom -- as the chamber is powered, energy coursing through the plates: "We are ready, Doctor." A single steel hand rises in front of Doom, the motion languid, heavy and yet still somehow as meticulously measured as always. Fingers expand and then slowly shrink into a furious iron fist, the diminutive spectacle right before Victor's own eyes before that hand is lowered to his side. It may be an exploration of some kind, or it may be a signal for the mutant to start. Indeed, The Pulse closes his eyes, exhales an uneven sigh and-- Itch. It's a very annoying itch right behind the right ear, the kind that offends you with further intensity if you choose to ignore it, begging you and teasing you with its insistent presence. It is, of course, possible to ignore it, although what amount of willpower is needed for that is about anyone's guess - and that guess likely will revolve around an amount it's required to resist most telepaths. Be it proof of the monarch's own will or the efficiency of the machine, he stands perfectly still. In fact, in that feed that the camera provides, he almost looks like definitions of determination and boredom oddly mixed together. Norman immediately scratches. He thinks nothing of it, in fact; his fingers dart up toward the space behind his ear to scratch, scratch, scratch -- it's only when he glances to his side -- and sees the entire board of directors /also/ scratching -- that his eyebrows lift in realization. Then settle into a straight, careful line -- eyes focusing on the screen with Doom. One of the stockholders muffles a laugh as he scratches, whispering in a voice he /thinks/ no one else can hear: "How can we even tell under all that armo--ngh." ELBOW. Courtesy of the person sitting beside him. Mr. Shaw, by the way, seems to be the one person in the room /not/ scratching. Because fuck itches. "...hn," Norman responds, the sound of hushed conversation among his stockholders having drawn his attention away for just a moment -- now, he is focused entirely on the image of Doom. Watching, expectantly. Unsurprisingly, be it indeed due to an incapability to scratch the persistent itch, or due to the monarch's own willpower, he does not submit to his primal urge. Or perhaps there is a small, built-in wiper for behind-the-ear scratching. Regardless, the young mutant is now skittishly looking around to survey the results, only occasionally acknowledging the screen on which he can see his superior. The machines Doctor Doom has brought with are not entirely still - their skulls at times twitch and turn to record their environs, too. The Pulse closes his eyes, rolls his jaw as he concentrates and-- One. That seems to be the number on everyone's mind. Ever woke up in the middle of the night and mumbled nonsense? This seems to be like the lucid version of that. Everyone is subject to the perception that the number is somehow very important, and that it must be spoken of, that the world must know, that this crucial number should not fall in obscurity. It's a sudden need, great and intense; only after one would voice it (or manage to resist it) would they realise they've been manipulated by the mutant. Doctor Doom remains entirely silent and motionless "One," is the word spoken -- in semi-unison -- by every person /not/ part of Doom's entourage -- all at once. Norman Osborn -- the stockholders -- even Mr. Shaw -- all speak the word; all of them instantly go tense a moment after the word has left their lips. None, perhaps, quite as /sharply/ as Norman fucking Osborn. His eyes narrow, a tiny hsss escaping his lips, that facade of civility briefly fading as he focuses in on Pulse -- but then, nothing. Back to a calm, placid neutrality. Though there might be the slightest hint of /yellow/ in those amber-gold eyes. "--christ," one of the stockholders mumbles. "They--mutants--can do that? He just--" There's more voices, all murmuring with a mixture of awe and astonishment. They're shocked that this just happened to them; more than just that, however -- they're shocked that /Doom/ didn't do it. It becomes quickly apparent that the mutant does not speak English - the further rise of voices only seems to amp up his anxiety, even if he remains in full control of the situation. Curiously, the mutant regards Norman Osborn the most. The lack of aptitude in regards to the language might explain the abstract commands. It looks like the mutant isn't quite yet done. Perhaps the Latverians are aiming for the magical number that is three. Either way, the mutant breathes in deeply, once again closes his eyes and another unseen wave engulfs the crowd, as well as the dome. Vertigo. This particular trial is arguably the least pleasant, although the tests have been mounting in a lack of pleasantness, indeed. The Pulse emits a sense of dizziness that seems to rob the ground off one's feet, figuratively speaking. How do you stand, again? Which way is gravity? The brain seem to frantically try to grasp onto spatial awareness, and this particular exercise is slightly harder to resist still. It doesn't last very long, but effects will vary between crouching down before regaining to balance to taking an unwanted step forward to reestablish firm footing. Doctor Doom seems to disagree with this sway of the mind, however. He stands as unmoving as a mountain, not at all affected by the mutant's attempts to penetrate the defences of the dome. It may perhaps be difficult to keep an eye on him with the vertigo, but he shows no hints of having moved whatsoever. "Nngh, oh, /fuck/," one of the stockholders groans, suddenly clutching his stomach -- shifting back in his seat. "I think I'm gonna be -- nngh, /fuck/." The sentiment is shared among those at the table -- heads swaying, hands jumping to mouths, clutching at skulls. Even Mr. Shaw is briefly gripped by a sharp, pained inability to understand which way is up; he staggers back, muttering a few choice curses under his breath. Norman Osborn. /Stares/. Directly at Pulse, now. Teeth clenched; jaw locked. A hand darts out to make contact with the dome -- keeping himself up. The dark amber-gold of his eyes shifts -- splitting into brilliant yellow. A slow, languid hiss emerging from between those tightly tensed teeth. For an instant -- a single instant -- Norman Osborn's skin tone seems to lighten, taking on a slightly more /green/ pallor. "--enough," Norman Osborn snaps. To Pulse. But then, to Doom: "Doctor. I think -- your point has been. Demonstrated." Spoken through grinding, clenching teeth. Fingers curled. Struggling not to /claw/ through that dome. "I only aim to be thorough," finally comes the answer from the still steel frame of Doctor Doom. "I suspect few gathered here will doubt the device enough to test it themselves, more so I doubt any left outside will want to play the part of the control group a second time. Power down the device, Osborn." The command almost comes across as though Norman were a mere lab assistant, and the monarch is well aware of it, which is why he lingers on the sentence and drags it out a touch longer than most of his words. The Pulse is definitely more uncomfortable, seemingly stuck in the divide between pleasing those he has been instructed to satisfy and obeying the commands of his master. Such are the political games, which the young man is not at all inclined to play. A brief glance is given towards the shareholders, perhaps to see if he's done good enough... or perhaps to actually check if they're okay, judging by the crumpled concern on his brows. His attention quickly shifts back to Norman. The boy really does not want to be here, and Norman Osborn is not helping with that at all. "Nngh," is Norman's response. A decisively /uncomfortable/ one. And yet! He does as Doctor Doom orders, as if he were nothing more than the Igor to his Doctor Frankenstein. The distant humming finishes, shutting off with a steady, near-silent growl. He turns, then -- first to Pulse, with narrowed eyes -- then to the stockholders behind him. "Is everyone satisfied?" Norman asks, with a tiny hiss of teeth. The stockholders glance among themselves; at least one seems to have just been in the process of retching. Several nod their heads -- one seems ready to say something, but is /glared/ at by two others -- and finally, compliance is acquired. Norman turns back to the machine -- opening the door with a click and rumble: "The shareholders," he informs Doom, "are satisfied, Doctor." A pause, before: "Are /you/?" As Doctor Doom steps out of the dome, the speed with which he marches forward might suggest he is ready to ignore the inventor of the machine and walk straight past him, but instead the dictator walks only a short distance past Norman Osborn, before turning to face him... and the machine. "The greatest burden of the genius mind is to have his ambitions reined in by the shortcomings of other, lesser men," the man begins, his cool eyes firmly setting their near-palpable claws on Norman. "How many have dreamed of motorised vehicles before their time? In how many cultures has the myth of Icarus and Daedalus spread, and how many centuries after did mankind take to the skies? And now, we have them, Osborn." The man pointedly turns his scowl to regard the mutant he's brought with. "A giant such as yourself has trouble convincing a handful of investors, but a man a third of your age can infiltrate the Pentagon. Science has become the laughing stock in the face of evolution. Nature has brought us our greatest lesson in humility yet." Again, the monarch's unwavering attention smothers Norman. "You have triumphed. You have took to the skies, and I remain on land." Envy is missing from the tone, along with any inkling of emotion in that lifelessly stoic voice. "You have my interest, my funds and a consciously pre-selected arrangement of resources that will aid you in turning these wax wings into a refined instrument. In short, Norman Osborn, I am satisfied. But not impressed." Norman Osborn steps aside to make way for the impressive bulk of Doctor Doom. As he emerges, all eyes are upon him; the stockholders are recovering -- slowly yet surely -- and Norman's own strength has returned. The faint hint of yellow in his eyes is gone; all that remains is a steady, neutral stare -- and perhaps the slightest tenseness of that jaw. The hand that gripped the side of the dome is now lowered, held at his side. As Doom speaks, the stockholders grow more agitated; they're clearly unhappy with being painted as the SMALLER minds in this instance. But they seem to have enough good sense to shut up and listen; the only person /not/ listening, in fact, seems to be Mr. Shaw. Who's texting on his phone. Because FUCK you guys. Norman, however, offers dictator and monarch a tight, careful smile. Both at the praise and the carefully leveled 'insult' on the end. "I understand, Doctor Doom. In time, I believe I will /certainly/ succeed in -- impressing you." A show of teeth. Dazzling white. "--but for now, satisfaction will be enough. I'll have the specs forwarded to your offices. Work on perfecting the technology will begin at once -- along with the other devices I spoke to your messenger of." "You will do so," the monarch confirms, casting aside any shadow of a doubt. It seems as though he is addressing the notion of having the specifications being forwarded to him, but Doctor Doom ever so subtly leans towards Norman, before letting his voice boom a clarification: "Impress me, that is." As he straightens, Victor van Doom marches away from the dome and towards the exit. The androids know to follow even before he walks by them, all four of them approaching their creator head-on to fall in diamond formation around him. The mutant is marginally less certain about it, but he joins in, sooner rather than later. "I have another meeting lying in wait. Your vessel has my blessing, Osborn."