ArchivedLogs:Touring the Labs

Touring the Labs
Dramatis Personae Doom, Alice Lambton, Parley	2013-06-15 Alice and Parley visit the more secret parts of Latverian labs.
Location Latveria
The doors slam shut with a sort of thunderous finality that few others doors can match. These are revolving steel doors, circling the cylinder-shaped lift cabin. The lift itself is surprisingly spacious, although it's not large enough to be classified as one of the industrial kind. It has no buttons or anything of the sort. For all intents and purposes, it shares more similarities with a well-protected cell. It's certainly less welcoming than the rest of the mansion. The almost palace-esque Hall of Science is the main building of where all approved research-related data is managed, or so the guests were told. It is the nexus of all scientific accomplishments in their public-ready format, protected by a not-so-humble number of guards and automated defences. Welcoming old décor is mixed in along with the cold future of glass walls, metal detectors, motion sensors and plenty of cameras. At some point, Alice Lambton and Parley were escorted into the most secured hallway, which has two heavy vault-like doors on both ends. Although it might not have been readily apparent, the two were thoroughly scanned, and any inappropriate items would have been removed with diligence that would have made even airport security blush. Besides being granted identification cards - Alice gets a convenient clip-on, while Parley unfortunately gets the around-the-neck kind - both were also given NDA agreements to sign. And now the pair is surrounded by cold steel, the old completely replaced with the new. As the cabin is sealed off, locks join in on the symphony of inescapability. There is no indication of interaction or anything, really - no camera, no buttons, no vents, absolutely nothing. For the first time since the two were met at the as of yet unfinished airport, Alice Lambton and Parley are alone, and it just happens to be in the moderately spacious steel cabin of this lift. It does not move yet. With New York currently a roil of anarchy in the streets, there's a certain ironic sanctuary to Latveria's clinical peacefulness. Parley's conduct in the subsequent private jetflight, the food, the sleeping arrangements, has been primarily quiet, the reservation of an attache, even shy of one to which he might be /attached/, all so many mannerisms in line with unfolding his napkin over his lap or pausing in doorways to check his shoes, watching whatever tableaus unfold side-eye from behind his glasses with low voice and self-aware smiles. He wears one such smile here, on the elevator, as the door slips closed. He paces into it, hips slowly swaying with a toe-to-heel slink of steps, walking clear to the far interior wall then stopping to turn and pace back to the center of the elevator, his ID swinging against his chest and arms folded behind his head in a way that either could be casual - /or/ appear as though he were preparing to be arrested, "Your ID is nicer." Complaint! (not really.) Much of the trip was spent with Alice immersed in /work/. Her superiors might have approved the travel but events continue to unfold in the US--and there are anxious allies that need reassuring that the issues will be handled. Firmly, if need be, though of course it won’t come to that, yes, yes, we have it under control. She’s been wed to phone and laptop almost entirely, and seems capable of subsisting on four hours of sleep and a few quick bites of food between conferences. The strictness of rations and the workload do not show, however. Even here. She is every bit as cool and calm as her surroundings, though a good portion of her mind is still committed to other concerns than touring these laboratories. Parley would feel that, would sense the river current of list-making and arrangements being decided behind the delicate veil she presents to the world at all times. When she steps into the elevator, she takes her place and simply stands there, hands folded before her. Her eyes lift, as people’s tend to inside of elevators, towards the ceiling or the wall directly above the doors. “A little jest on his behalf, perhaps. Be grateful you weren’t issued tags.” She considers for a moment before inquiring, “Would you like some? For Christmas?” "From you or from him?" arms still folded behind his head, Parley's eyes rise upward as well. “Would you like for them to be from me?” "Would your heart be in it?" Alice’s lips curl. Smile or threat? “I had no idea you were so interested in the workings of my heart.” "There is nothing about you I'm not interested in, Ms. Lambton." Parley's smile dies here, by the side of the road. "You gave him my name." “Flatterer.” Alice draws a short, exasperated breath. Maybe her eyes cast about, looking for anything like a button that would make the lift go. “I did. You had been very, very naughty.” "I'll have to remember that." “I suspect you will.” The lift budges from its place reluctantly. The long ride would have been boring if not for the charming female voice that floods the chamber with enunciated English. "Hello, and welcome to Victor van Doom's research facility! You have been classified as. guests! I am Venus, an artificial intelligence, and I will be your assistant and guide during your unfortunately short-term stay in this laboratory! In order to ensure your stay is short-term, please make sure to hold onto your identification cards. The Latverian Health Board also obliges us to inform you that oxygen is not supplied to this cabin, but we assure you the descent is by far not long enough for you to feel any sort of discomfort!" "In the event of an emergency," the AI continues, "please follow my instructions carefully if survival is your preferred option. With that said, allow me to introduce you to this facility! You are currently riding an elevator reinforced multiple times to withstand great punishment. This elevator is the smaller of the two we have. The other elevator is for transporting the more dangerous mutants as well as laboratory equipment. The top-most floor of the facility is located 252 metres - or approximately 826 feet - underground. Once an abandoned innovation in mining technology, it now stands repurposed to forward science in other ways." Venus continues her programmed speech, regardless if the visitors are paying attention to her. "The first few floors are administration and data processing. We apologise that they are not part of the concluded tour. The individuals with an active X-Gene are divided into four categories of lethality, and each category has two floors of accommodation dedicated to it. Each volunteer is provided with the removable privilege to personalise their living space to achieve maximum happiness and the greatest degree of collaboration between the two parties!" The lift slows down as it prepares to halt. Venus continues cheerfully, "You are now arriving at floor. twelve. This floor houses mutated individuals who possess extremely lethal abilities. Unlike the individuals of Category Three, whose abilities only pose /potential/ threat, Category Four mutants are unfortunately adept at incapacitation, neutralisation, disintegration, dematerialisation and good old-fashioned murder." The lift stops. "We strongly advise you not to make any sudden movements or attempts to communicate if you face these individuals outside of their cells." The locks disengage, and the half-circle door begins to move to open. When the elevator begins its movement, if Parley /had/ been intending to say more it -- doesn't come. His features remain even, but for a twitch in the side of his jaw, like a flicker of fish scales beneath a serene water, which corresponds with a cord pulled in the side of his neck -- that then eases. It doesn't impede his speech any - if anything, he sounds so slightly brighter, more flippant, "I never got to personalize my living space." Woe. Perhaps part from habit, and simply part from disregard of the orders, as the doors open, he lets out a slow breath... and with it, like a slow unrolling invisible fog, he breathes out a reflexive /net/ of empathic awareness to pour down the corridor ahead. To see what state, these minds found therein might live in... “No oxygen,” Alice murmurs beneath her--deoxygenated--breath. “Rather efficient, don’t you think? Painless. Quick.” Just that, at first, though she chuckles softly at Parley’s more flippant remark. When the doors open, she has no extraordinary senses to cast out into the corridor. Only herself, and so she proceeds ahead of the empath, no less crisply than when she arrived. “I am getting a better grasp of our host’s sense of humor, aren’t you, Parley? So many small jokes hidden within the greater whole.” "Assuming they have lungs," Parley muses, eyes scanning the world ahead; he falls in naturally behind and to Alice's right. "There are likely other features it didn't mention for those that don't. He's meticulous, isn't he?" He glances over his shoulder at the elevator they've exited, "How many languages do you think it's programmed to say all of that in? Good old-fashioned murder..." Why does he say this like it pleases him? A light backnote of 'hnnn' purring in it. His hands have come down from their lacing behind his head to clasp over the termination point of his tailbone, eyes fully open. Peering. The empathic sweep Parley casts forth returns a myriad of responses.The feedback is the equivalent of roughly twenty people competing against one another to have their woes heard, all stuffed in a cramped pit of misery, unwashed and unfed. It's an unpleasant transmission that varies between the psychotic desire to be here, the reluctant acceptance that they belong here and the screeching want to flee. It's not pleasant for an empath, and it would probably be significantly less so for a telepath. As noisy as it might be for Parley, Alice would see what's ahead them for what it really is - a sterile corridor that is as peaceful as a school during classes. The area might even look unnaturally still, as if it there must be a reason for it to be filled with chaos. The reason for such an assumption - a whole floor dedicated to dangerous mutants - is currently hidden away. There is a heavy steel door to their left as they leave the lift. It has no label, but an attractive assumption is that it is some sort of security room. That or a broom closet. Far more important are the double doors ahead of the pair. They look more fragile than anything else, but keen eyes might note the ludicrously thick protective doors sheathed in the ceiling above. It is through those double doors that the guests are expected to move, an invitation made clear by the increasing sound of those trademark thuds that slam continuously against the ground. The steps are quick, abrupt and harsh. It's not long before their prominence peaks, and the doors open, revealing the monarch. "Welcome to the future, Alice Lambton," he booms. Doctor Doom does not stand with anyone else. In fact, he does not stand here at all, something Parley will be able to detect... through sheer lack of a detection of a mind, that is. Even as the corridor extends further beyond the currently open doors, there are no guards present. No buttons, no handles or levers... But there are cameras. "And welcome home, Parley," he tells to the other guest, eyes turning to acknowledge the would-be attache. An uneasy silence lingers for a flash of a moment, before the massive steel frame turns around and begins to walk at a slower pace. "I appreciate both of you taking the time to grace my land with your presence. Before we begin the tour proper, however, I must demand that you do nothing to provoke a response from the test subjects. It will corrupt test results." When those steps are heard, Alice knows well enough to stop and wait. She is nothing if not considerate of the need for an entrance, and so when Doom appears--for why wouldn’t he come to greet them personally?--she has a smile ready for him. “Thank you, Victor. It’s a pleasure to be here...in the future, with you,” she returns, and if there is a trace of humor in her response, well then...perhaps the diplomat is in a good mood. Or maybe she really, really like laboratories. “I wouldn’t think of doing anything to interfere with the tests you’re currently running. If I may, however, what are you testing for at the moment? Or would that require you telling us more about the subjects than you’re comfortable with?” This all reels pleasantly from her lips as she steps up to take a place at the dictator’s elbow. Down an inner throat, Parley drinks in the thick concoction of emotion thick, unflinching; bathing through it, picking out thin ribbons of fractured narrative, and as it channels on its course, the intensity of its connotation wanes as the emotions and the inherent import of them slit apart into neat, streamlined facts... and their dissociated, /heady/ chemical responses; endorphin responses awaken, adrenal heat grows friction-warmth in the back of his mind. He does not interact nor reach out to touch these minds; nor does he /pale/ from them. If one knew to look, for these responses /are/ documented - it is not quite a flush, but there's an easing in his shoulders, a simple healthy color in his cheeks around his weary smile for Doom's personalized greeting, "Your welcome is kind." His lips barely seem to move, and where Alice falls in alongside the monarch, he falls in without apparent thought behind, silent for now, as he listens for the answer to Alice's inquiry. As the trio progresses down the spacious corridors, the walls soon open up to reveal evenly spaced windows that grant insight into unimaginatively designed cells. Some of them have lights off, others actually have shutters obstructing the view, and some the visitors will actually be able to look into. The opportunity to personalise a cell is notably absent here, although one cell is actually padded, and that's the first cell Alice and Parley can look into. The entirety of the spacious containment cell is padded, and careful netting is shielding the window. The young man inside is clearly Romani, what with his dark hair and pale skin. He is as naked as the day he was born, rolled up in a foetal position, his nude rear facing those who walk by. He doesn't seem very happy, and Parley will easily pick it up; the word that is the most prominent and is repeated the most in that head is 'out'. His oft-foiled plans to escape also replay in his mind quite rapidly. It is in front of this window that Doctor Doom arrives to a slow halt, slow enough to allow Alice to reposition herself. It looks like he favours her position by the elbow, one might dare to guess. "We divide our attention to multiple research missions. Our vision is currently thricefold. One, the mutants bend what is known, therefore researching their abilities helps us understand the world and correct respective models. Two, understanding the extent of their abilities helps us better prepare against them. Three--" Victor van Doom is a man that does not hesitate. He moves to step away from the cell. "By better understanding mutant abilities, we will be able to replicate some of them with technology. Our highest priority is developing anti-telepathy measures and remote detection of an individual with an active X-Gene." Alice, however, intends to linger. She’s silent as the dictator explains the focus of their research, her eyes on the man curled in his cell. The details of its furnishings, or lack thereof, are all taken in as well. With her arms folded across her chest, the thoughtful tap tap tap of a finger against her forearm is easily visible. Thus far--at least to Parley’s senses--she has seen nothing with surprises or intrigues. “Remote detection is quite the ambitious undertaking, given the extent of current testing ability. Have you had any success thus far?” Pretense of only just noticing Doom’s departure is then made, a glance and a surprised lifting of her eyebrows. Oh, are we moving on? All right then. She turns to follow him. “Success would make you quite the desirable partner.” "The problem of course also being the wide variety of telepathic leanings," Parley doesn't seem interested much in the curled figure; more the design of the cell, eyes scanning the each corner; so much to tell from the installed /countermeasures/ against the mutation than even from the mutant themselves. He scans it closely, and where Alice dallies back, he dallies further, lengthening the space between them all not /significantly/, but it enables a vague solo meander when he pulls away to fall back into following, "What might discourage one just as easily bolsters another." "I have heard those words before," rolls the surprisingly tired tone, relatively unharmed by the electronic drone that is responsible for contorting the monarch's voice. "Short-sighted men sharing tall tales of how my ambitions verge on the impossible." Steel hits steel as Doctor Doom continues to walk down the corridor. The drone of his voice picks up in its intensity,much like the tone of it acquires greater monotony."At least your wording was the most polite yet, Alice Lambton." The next cell the two arrive at is completely dark. A man whose features are hard to make out is illuminated by glow sticks attached to his arms, legs and torso. What little bits of light he carries with him is tossed around spontaneously and with great force, before he slows down. There is someone else there with him, but Parley will only be able to pick up one mind, and it belongs to the poorly lit test subject. "Powering steel monstrosities with steam and coal alone, achieving flight, and placing a man on a lump of rock orbiting our planet are all accomplishments that began with an impossible dream. Each day, humanity redefines what is possible and what is not. The mutants serve as a valuable reminder that we must not grow attached to the comfort and safety of easy to predict possibilities." The speech is paused, and it couldn't be done at a more convenient moment - the test subject is slammed forcefully against the window. It trembles but remains undamaged. The Supreme Monarch is unaffected, instead adding, "I have seamlessly connected the human mind to technology in ways neither of you are able to fathom. The unpredictability of the mutant mind is a more delicate matter, but not an impossible one. All I need is a mutant who can detect their kin." The following words are birthed with spite, intensity and heightened volume: "And /time/." “I hadn’t intended to be polite, Doctor. I said that it was ambitious, not impossible.” As before, Alice stops before the next cell and studies the view within. Her head tilts. “You’ve collected quite the arrangement of wonders--” If she’d meant to continue, that statement is snapped in half when the window shudders in place. The restless tapping of her fingers stops but she doesn’t otherwise react--seeming to trust the security in place. And when their guide chooses to continue on with his speech, rather than addressing the brief disruption, she turns her head up to study that unyielding steel profile. Hers is softer, a faint smile lending a gleam to pale green eyes. “What might discourage one,” she murmurs, parroting Parley. And then, “You’ve an odd way of making guests feel welcome, Victor. I’m afraid I’ll have to impose that limitation of “time” upon you now, much as I hate to. I believe you promised something that might aid my government in the event of...difficulties?” Parley is in the process of walking just pass the window when it /thumps/, earning a turn of his head partway back towards it. The angle of corner-eye glance is with a downward-tipped face, lashes fanned nearly against cheeks with only a brief jump of an eyebrow. It returns to its proper elevation at the same time his eyes return to the other two's faces, offering nothing at the moment, sadly, but his intent attention - no comment, to the conversation at hand. Without a word, Doctor Doom lifts a hand. Whoever is behind those cameras has apparently spotted the signal, because it turns the lights on in the cell. The man is wearing a special sort of harness, the purpose of which is hard to determine visually, besides the obvious feature of concealing his dignity. This man is of a mixed heritage, a middle-aged brown-haired, slightly tanned fellow. As he becomes illuminated, it becomes clear he is fairly injured, with blood streaking down his face; he's missing teeth, even if he's clenching them. But apparently he is not just well enough to stand, he's also healthy enough to showcase his ability. The moment those lights flare up, so does his ability - tiny flames begin to flicker along the contour of his body. He twitches like a bird when he sees the room be lit. A crucial mistake, because his cell's companion comes straight at him, swooping a punch that sends him flying at a wall. The owner of this hit is a burly monstrosity of a machine. It is at least seven feet tall, built like a humanoid with fairly sharp angles here and there. Its skull barely passes for a human's, even if its jagged exterior teeth contrast it. The movements it exhibits are slow, but scarily precise and fluid. The test subject is slowly gathering his form to stand again, while the iron giant marches towards it. "The conversion of light into pyrokinetic abilities and a moderate healing factor. He is one of our most promising subjects. One of our loudest, too." That raised hand flicks a wrist. Unseen speakers blare the man's Russian protests: "{Fucking-- Fuck you, Doctor Doom! Fuck you and /fuck/ your toy soldiers! I will burn it down. I will burn all of you down!}" The monarch turns his neck to cast an expectant gaze to Parley, while the man in the cell busies with dousing the machine with a humble trickle of flames. "You will enjoy translating that," Victor adds. Alice’s lips are tugged by a faint smile. “A small hint, Parley. Try to determine which of those words is Russian for “fuck”.” "-and /fuck/ your toy soldier." Parley /is/ translating, quietly, from his position behind the two; in channeling, he really only needs to simple blank-eyed monotone to be the clean white canvas over which the rich intonations and personal, rippling /inflection/ of the speaker might use. Which gets entirely /derailed/ by Alice's suggestion. He at first doesn't seem to have heard, staring inward at the fiery blood man waging his battle with the monstrous machine, head tipped down, eyes jumping from each prominent point of activity in motion. But his lips are slightly moving. Mouthing slowly '{...fuck you and -- fuck your... toy?}' A slow mottling of color has begun to creep up his neck, warming in his cheeks. And he says, a smidge weakly, shoulders hunching up, with an underhand peek to Alice's profile beside him, "...{fuck}?" Much as he grips to reel in his mutation, to make the word stand alone, it bears the slightest empathic implication of its /meaning/. Against the sterile clean environment, it's /highly/ organic. The word 'fuck' is freely tossed about, it seems, and the captive subject contributes to the chorus further, a prolonged Russian "{Fuck!}" blaring through the speakers as he desperately tries to drown the machine in flames. The dead steel being doesn't seem all that phased by the offence, defiantly striding up to its victim, snatching up an arm and exercising a grip that forcibly changes words into a piercing unintelligible scream. It's safe to say bones are being cracked. The shower of flames is thusly ceased. There is an ungodly thunderous sound emitted by the machine, distorted by the speakers of an untrustworthy quality. Incomprehensible and intangible even to Parley, it is an announcement of malicious intent, that much should be clear to anyone with a self-preservation instinct. The mutant is tugged upwards abruptly, thrown into the air, only for its calf to be caught by that monstrously ungentle hand. What follows is a predictably pull downward, rough and careless. The slam is powerful and loud, its severity transmitted well through the speakers to the guests. All air is knocked from the subject's chest as he merely wheezes, sprawled on his back. What few flames lined his body extinguish, although some linger on the android's body. The machine looms and crouches over the downed body, motionless yet clearly ready to attack still. An otherworldly electric grunt signals its unclear intent. "It is highly impervious against piercing, stabbing, slashing and blunt weapons," the monarch finally speaks up. "Of course, it is immune to telepathy and all mind-based abilities. Its perceptive capabilities are multiple, allowing it to navigate in daylight, night and otherwise poor visibility conditions. It houses an adaptive AI that tries its best to form the most appropriate response to a mutant ability. It can also match a mutant power against a catalogue that we can update remotely. Multiple anti-hacking countermeasures safeguard it against all but the most advanced technopaths, and defensive self-destruction protocols deny enemies any measure of success. Its powerful rotors are sufficient to tear apart a car like paper." The man finally stirs, even if just barely. A single hand from a machine darts forward as far as it can, which admittedly is not as fast as a human might be able to. Still, the unfortunate individual himself is quite slow at this point. That metal hand clamps around his neck. "All units are inherently non-lethal. Lethal protocols must be separately uploaded, and they have limited lifetime within the unit's core processor." Alice likely does not help the heat in the face Parley is experiencing, given that she times a glance and a short smile for /his/ glance, denying him the view of a less intimate profile. “Your accent does give it that little extra something, mm?” One might think she weren’t standing in front of the horrifying sight of machine suppressing man. But she returns to that soon enough. For the most part, the woman is unaffected by the violence of the tableau before them--save for one slight wince when the robot slams its prey so forcefully against the ground. Ah, violence. Must it /always/ come to this? “What of its weaponry? What sort of suppressive firepower do you allow it, or does it prefer to handle encounters this way?” The glance Parley had cut Alice-wards also slices back to the effectively brutal end; he doesn't wince, though something... flutters minutely in his eyes, dropping back to half-mast, the color in his face only slowly fading. He tips his head slightly, exhaling through his nose while running a hand around the back of his neck, hooking it there for a moment, "--Does its approach change when dealing with humans? It would make a mess of relations, if someone had a cellphone camera on hand while it was pacifying -- civilians." The pause isn't hesitation - it's just him leaning slightly forward to see better what is happening, eyebrows raising. The hand of the monarch lowers, and the groans of the incapacitated subject are muted. The lights, however, stay on. "Projectile weaponry is an ill-suited form of pacification when it comes to men whose skin is impenetrable, or women who can freeze bullets in their tracks," the dictator explains. "The future forms of pacification will rely on concussive blows, either dealt remotely or the archaic way. This specific model is designed to counter exceptionally strong and durable mutants." Doctor Doom leisurely flicks a hand towards the chamber before he continues to boast: "One of the more exciting ways we tested the model was strapping explosives to its chassis. It survived the test with minimal damage sustained to vital components, and moderate damage sustained to non-critical areas. Observe its abrupt and sharp design. It is covered in experimental reactive armour, meaning it will take multiple hits from anti-tank weaponry before it is sufficiently damaged." "From a tactical standpoint, these models will be accompanied by a class of units equipped with at least three different forms of neutralisation - electroshock, tranquillisation darts and rubber pellets. The model I have shared with you, Alice Lambton, is the one I speak of." And then Doctor Doom steps away from the chamber, before turning to move further down the corridor. "Why do you strike me as the sort who fears little for the safety of civilians, Parley? Nevertheless, the units operate on a sophisticated threat detection level, both adaptive and based on what you could loosely call a memory grid. It is not a perfect system, but I assure you they make less mistakes than humans." The monarch looks over his shoulder towards Parley. "Unless you fear what bystanders will think of such a rough method of subdual. In which case, you underestimate how many of its convictions the human mind is willing to sacrifice to feel safe." And then Victor looks on, marching ahead. "The Titan will not be pacifying mutants with trivial parlour tricks." “I believe Parley is considering the public relations aspect as such. The internet has encouraged a certain mindset among those who sit safely behind their monitors, untouched by reality.” This time, Alice does not hesitate in taking her place beside Doom again. With the demonstration over, she walks away without a backwards glance. “It is a valid concern, however. Public perception is a fickle beast. Law enforcement was considered untouchable until the Rodney King video was published so widely. People might not sympathize with a mutant being taken down, however all it would take is one small software glitch and they would be calling for the heads of those who imported these peacekeepers,” she muses, almost absently tucking one hand under the elbow of the steel golem walking beside her. “After all, we can hardly keep our desktop computers from flashing blue screens of death at us, when performing the simplest of functions. With mutant identification still being an issue, it is something to keep in mind, mm?” Parley remains leaning forward, chin tipped up to consider the steady grip the steel victor keeps on the mutant's neck on the other side of the glass. He absently pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a middle finger while listening to Doom's response, only a slight twitch upward at the side of his mouth neither confirming nor denying his personal concern for public safety. And continues to watch the unmoving mutant with his head tipped, not seeming to have much investment in Alice's follow-up. That, or he's politely abstaining. He falls back in as they move on, pacing behind with the ease of balance that seems to liquify his movements; making them soft, unjarring. "Do you have other models beyond these two, then?" He inquires, undercurrent-tone mindful to not interrupt the dialogue already carrying on. Roughly halfway to the next cell, Doctor Doom arrives to an abrupt halt. The monarch stops and turns sideways to regard Alice, the cold eyes daring her to finish speaking. The moment she does, his voice ascends to a volume marginally greater than usual. "A software glitch? A software /glitch/?" Doctor Doom is most definitely not pleased. "Men have a feeble body that tires. Men have a weak mind that is prone to forgetfulness. Men have a thin measure of resolve, shattered at the promise of material, emotional or intellectual gain. Tell me, indulge me, Alice Lambton, what glitch compares to the death of one named Kyle Michael Whelan?" Great big steel arms rise up to gesture to the monarch's surroundings. "The public will always demand heads. The mud-ridden peasants have eternally blamed lords for burnt crops. Whether you are man or machine, you will always be judged, and if you so much as show an inkling of fear, they will flock to it like sharks to a wound. Latveria prospers because I show no fear. They trust me because I do not doubt my actions. If I doubt my actions, then they rightfully doubt mine as well." Those arms lower to his side. "Your precious twin rocks collapsed. Who did they blame, remind me? /You/. What did they do when you retaliated against your would-be attackers? They labelled you gluttonous whores. A /glitch/, you say." Parley, as it happens, is currently ignored. Victor van Doom's attention is on Alice. Alice stops as Doom does, turns to face him as he faces her, even meets that cold look with one that is...much less cold. Her eyes twinkle as he launches into a retort. A /heated/ retort. She is mannered enough to avoid chuckling at the feeling behind it--but perhaps only just. “Victor.” The tone she uses is chiding and gentle--a mother to a child, or lover to lover. It’s a tone that says, “Come now, dear, this is me you’re speaking to.” “Victor,” Alice Lambton says, “could you possibly think that I was referring to /you/ when I spoke of glitches? Honestly. Come, we’re speaking of /business/. Historical /precedent/. Not that man who occupies that brilliant armor. But you have to agree, the American public is /nothing/ like the more well behaved creatures you hold sway over, mm?” She reaches for his arm again, seeking to turn him as if he were not many times her weight and size. There’s a tour to complete! “And I’ll have you know, no one has /ever/ labeled me a gluttonous whore. Nor am I prone to forgetfulness. If you assure me that these constructs will never target innocent civilians, why...who I am to disbelieve? Or forget.” While in his silence, Parley must be capable of hearing, he doesn't seem as though he is; expression disengaged with hands once more folded behind his back - the wrist of one arm loosely hooked by the fingers of the other. His eyes move, in quick quick flicks - to Doom when his voice raises. To Alice's hand when it re-folds around his arm. To the manner in which the lights affect their entwined shadows; man and woman, flesh against steel, gentle voice against booming roar - sleek dagger against mighty warhammer. In no way does he look /bored/. Parley is briefly regarded before Doctor Doom lowers his eyes to the woman right in front of him. If anyone is going to move this mountainous monarch, it is this unassuming little diplomat. As if his armour weighed as much as a feather, it moves along with Alice's physical request. "For the time being," he speaks with a more monotonous voice once more, "the machinery's targeting is assisted by pilots. Without assisted targeting, they are restricted to reconnaissance, self-defence and responding to profiled threats." The next cell bears a striking resemblance to an operating room. A sizeable robot on six wheels has firmly parked itself behind the test subject, who is firmly strapped into a custom chair meant for what appears to be brain surgeries. In fact, one such surgery is happening right now. The multiple mechanical arms gracefully commit themselves to work as they wreak calculated havoc. Parley receives interesting input; confusing, perhaps, comparable to switching between channels, all of them poor quality and noisy. "We have plenty of models. Some remain a secret, while others are still a work in progress. None of them are comparable to desktop computers." Doctor Doom arrives to stand before the cell, eyeing the progress of his creation. "This individual is most curious. For as long as he maintains eye contact, he can cause brain functions to deteriorate. The eye contact, of course, is not mandatory for his ability to function, but it serves as the only viable method of concentrating. Among the symptoms he can induce is short-term memory loss, long-term memory loss, psychosis, paralysis and ultimately death." There is a pause here, as Doctor Doom allows the guests to take in the sight. The patient is actually staring at Parley with a seemingly vacant look, but his thoughts don't seem to mirror his intent, if there is any. "All mutations are deviations from normalcy that are either actively triggered or constantly acknowledged somewhere in the brain. Abilities themselves may differ, but the way they manifest falls into a neat pattern. Even accelerated healing is the brain drawing a card the deck is not supposed to have. It is up to us to find where that card is drawn from." “Sensible precautions,” Alice says, approving of the limitations currently in place. “Should we place an order, we would of course prefer that your people train some of ours to act as pilots. A proper sharing of knowledge.” And what is knowledge for, if not to be shared? She’s smiling again as they arrive at the next cell. The operating theater is taken in--she even follows the blank stare of the subject to Parley--but special attention is paid to the machine performing the surgery. “A dangerous ability indeed. Your surgeon...another model? It’s fascinating. What is it attempting to do?” The eye contact from the subject is met absently by Parley; he does not look away while he listens to the others speaking. The flicker-flashes of the restrained mutant's mind are allowed to pour through like a funeral procession. "-- sharing?" The sides of his mouth ride up slowly. "He's only shown us the covers of his books so far." Not really a complaint; more observation. Background noise, not intended to interject beyond the equivalent of laying a coaster on the table of a person already holding a drink. Initially, Parley's remark goes ignored. "Miss Lambton, when your country sends their drones to patrol the Middle East, do they instruct the local insurgents or military force how to command the property of the United States of America?" The monarch turns his head ever so slightly, just enough to cast a glance to Alice. "If and when I decide to permanently bestow my hardware upon your nation, each unit will come with a gift-wrapped manual and access codes even I will not be privy to. Until then, only my men will be authorised to operate this equipment." A nudge of a nod is directed to the cell then, the booming monotone starting anew. "Human staff proved useless when the surgeons would begin to laugh uncontrollably at the sight of the human brain, or fumble about clumsily while trying to open up the skull with their bare hands," he informs his guests. "The current operation is yet another attempt to better understand what portions of the brain control the destructive wavelengths." Victor follows the gaze of the test subject, looking over to Parley. Whether the following remark is genuine or mocking is hard to tell. "Don't panic, Parley, the man is blind." Again, the monarch moves to walk away from the cell and venture further down the corridor. "But you are correct, dear Einen. You two are in what is currently the deepest level of the laboratory, yet you walk on the very surface of what we achieve here. Before you can read the book, you have to learn the language." As far as the eye can see, the next few cells actually have shutters obstructing the view. "There is a shortcut, of course. Perhaps you would like to sign a long-term contract with us, Parley." “A fair point,” Alice says, though her tone implies that there is room yet left to compromise. “The decision won’t be mine, I’m afraid. But I am very much looking forward to the sharing aspect of this trip. Reading has always been a special pleasure of mine.” As she reclaims her place at Doom’s side--small, fragile hand curled so securely against ungiving steel arm--the diplomat casts a brief, smiling glance at the young man who accompanies them. <<(don’t panic)(the man is blind)>> that smile whispers, without sound. Then she looks forward. Always forward. “You shouldn’t tease the boy, Victor. Now, what else do you have to show us?.” Dark eyes are drawn like magnets to Alice's smile; as equally dark and opaque as well. Parley looks at her for a moment, inscrutable. Then... gives her a very small smile back - eyes dropping to the floor. "I have to think, Doctor Doom, I'm currently as much property of the U.S. government as your robots are Latveria's." Sloooow creep of eyes towards the monarch's back, asking lightly, "Are you proposing an exchange? You'd be disappointed." "I am afraid you are incorrect," is the answer that that ominously floods the corridors. It is initially hard to determine who it is meant for, until Victor van Doom speaks up again. "It is legally impossible for you to be property of the United States government on the same level as my machinery. Unless, of course--" Doctor Doom pivots his neck and inclines his chin to look down to Alice. "--your country reintroduced slavery without my notice." But that steel gaze is soon redirected back to the corridor, which finally arrives to a T-shaped junction. Doctor Doom aims to guide them to the left. "I do not wish to claim you for myself entirely just yet, boy. I will grant Miss Lambton her time to have her fun, first." Again, he looks over his shoulder to acknowledge Parley briefly. "And you will need to learn Russian before you work for me." His free hand elevates to gesture to the cell-free hallway. "I wish to show you some of the inner workings of the laboratory, namely the equipment. After the tour, I have booked a wondrous lunch at a prestigious restaurant for you to share your experiences in private, for the restaurant is closed to all others today. I have also summoned the Latverian Orchestra to bless your departure with a memorable concert." If anyone's going to talk culture while giving a tour in fascist research facilities, it's Doctor Doom.