ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Riddles and Guests

Vignette - Riddles and Guests
Dramatis Personae Doom, Nikolai	2013-05-10 Doctor Doom shares company with his right hand man.
Location Somewhere in Hassenburg, Latveria
A stern womanly voice with a British accent rings across this monitor-rich security room. "I want to know where Osborn is. /Now/. Call me back." A steel hand lazily rises from its resting spot on the panel and deliberately clicks a button in place. A second passes. "I want to know where Osborn is. /Now/. Call me back." The hand slowly retreats. Bloodshot eyes narrow as their focus greatens. There is a barely audible artefact of sorts in the recording, but it's sudden and brief. "Oh, dear. This isn't good," the voice continues. The armoured hand rises again, and this time its motion is swift and firm, landing on the same switch as before. "{You know what I dislike, Nikolai?}" The electronic done that delivers the Hungarian question is somehow even more monotonous and bored than usual. "I want to know where Osborn is. /Now/. Call me back." "{No, Victor}," the man replies in in the same language, his own voice like sandpaper dragged repetitiously across stone. The unbelievably ugly assistant is standing behind the Supreme Monarch's oversized steel-framed swivel chair. He is lying, of course. He already knows what his leader is going to say. Both of them know it, to be frank. But the waltz of courtesy and indulgence is indulged in nonetheless. "{What is it that you dislike?}" The click of a switch can be heard again. "I want to know where Osborn is. /Now/. Call me back." "{I hate missing puzzle pieces.}" Doctor Doom leans forward in his chair, moving his hand across the panel to press a different button. The recording stops. Despite it being played exactly seventeen times, it refused to give out secrets beyond the intended call. The monarch turns the chair so that he faces his right hand man. "{Does she blame Norman Osborn for the attack? Or did this event change her mind? Is she turning to him for help?}" Nikolai offers but a shrug. "{She doesn't sound happy}," he offers apathetically. "{I don't think she is calling for help.}" The volume of Doctor Doom's voice rises sharply. "{She does not sound happy because she was shot at, imbecile.}" The assistant doesn't seem affected by this insult. There is a reason why Nikolai was chosen instead of others. Barring his facial deformities, he is a man who manages to see past masks, be they steel or flesh. Words mean little to him. He does not have to adapt to the intimidating sight that is Doctor Doom, purely because he no longer sees the armour. Again, the Latverian monarch speaks. "{I will speak of Alice Lambton with Norman Osborn. I will attempt to coax a reaction out of him.}" Slowly doth the iron mammoth rises from the chair, towering over the leaner man. Doctor Doom has wholly recovered from the attack, and the only sign of the scuffle is the darkened colour of his armour, mostly around the torso. "{Is everything ready for their arrival? Did you check on Boris?}" The fancily clad assistant refuses to move from his spot. The look he gives the monarch is one you would share with a drinking buddy at a pub. "{The private jet landed in the States thirty two minutes ago. Unless plans change, the moment they have Shaw and Osborn, they're going to lift off.}" The mention of the other individual stiffens Nikolai, but his gaze remains on his master. "{I was told his body is getting used to the new treatment faster than expected. Travel is also taking its toll.}" "{He is a fighter, like his name suggests}," the monarch replies. "{But even the strongest fighters break. I need to find a way--}" The sentence ends as abruptly as a car driven off a cliff. The car makes the dangerous gap between the cliff sides, however, as he speaks up again almost immediately afterwards. "{I will be in the castle until the guests near the borders. I will await your alert.}" With heavy foreboding steps, Doctor Doom departs from the room, with Nikolai stepping aside to give room to the monarch. Left alone, the sinfully ugly man lifts up his wrist and pulls his sleeve back just far enough to check the time. 10:47 PM. Assuming all goes according to plan, the guests should be arriving tomorrow morning. Looking up at the security monitors, Nikolai sighs softly. Boldly, he walks up to the control panel. His next movements are more deliberate and careful; he traces his calloused hands across the many buttons and switches, as if a grand pianist traversing the expanse of the keyboard. Ultimately, a hand finds a dial. He cranks it some distance. Then a switch is flipped. "The police will want statements and there will be... Ah. Damn the man." Nikolai tilts his head to the side, switching the recording off, mulling over the many times repeated sentences. A gruff sigh escapes the confines of his lungs. "{America}," he murmurs under his breath, straightening out and leaving the room.