ArchivedLogs:When Cliffs Collide

When Cliffs Collide
Dramatis Personae Doom, Shaw	2013-04-24 After his unique interaction with Norman Osborn, Doctor Doom meets Sebastian Shaw. Takes place right after the scene with Norman.
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 ticket 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. The lingering silence that had permeated the warehouse has long been torn apart by the ruthless and theatrical demonstration that Doctor Doom had devised. His work was initially hidden from prying eyes, but now Norman Osborn and the rest of attendees witnessed the technological might that Victor van Doom endlessly bragged about, suggesting that perhaps his ambitions are not as shallow and meaningless as tabloids might suggest. Having had his conversation with Norman Osborn, the thickly armoured monarch moves over to the rest of the crowd. The less daring executives and their bodyguards retreat some distance as the tremulous steps shake the ground closer and closer to them, until finally the green-clad Latverian monarch stands within reasonable distance from the gathered crowd. It might not be easily noticed, but his bloodshot eyes traverse all the men gathered, as though counting how many are presented and calculating his next move. Otherwise, he remains silent. Perhaps he expects someone else to break the silence. When a tide withdraws, it splashes away shattered and broken into sullen retreating whitewater, leaving behind only the grizzled withstanding cliff face. In such a way, so, too, will remain the unmoved upright posture of Sebastian Shaw as the representatives, the CEO’s, the /avatars/ of branched venues exhibit their restless individual reactions. He is neither a man radiant of social graces nor meekly subdued, though he is very much silent as an island amongst the gurgle and churn of excited voices and shifting feet. He is also not looking at, nor to, nor /for/ the eyes of Doom. Arms crossed, his designer attire has a curious timelessness to it, a subtle nod back to colonial roots the cut of his jacket, dark blue in subtle pinstripe, double-breasted, /stark/ amongst his contemporaries for having foregone a stylized tie in the name of a simple white cravat. It’s, in a way, defiantly less formal yet for the brutish /build/ of his broad shoulders, thick neck, stark sideburns, seems more generous that he’s donned it. His head is turned, watching the last of Norman Osborn exit the wide empty space with the personal, /invested/ attention of a work foreman taking note of a union employee cutting out early for the day. Then, only once he’s gone, does Shaw turn his head to look hard across the tides of moving people to seek out eye contact with their ironclad host. “An impressive display,” on three words, already Shaw’s praise can be pegged as both rare, short, and inwardly mitigated with critique. It is these three words that tell Doctor Doom where to divert his attention. All of executives are silent, unsure of what words should be spoken. Years of etiquette development flies out the window when your conversational partner stands at six foot three, encased in never-before-seen steel armour. What do you say to a man such as Victor van Doom? What offends him? What pleases him? Norman Osborn seems to have had the right idea, although perhaps that episode with the shoulder-grabbing may have seemed like a prelude to an international crisis. Whatever whispered words were exchanged, Osborn and his associate have departed, and Doctor Doom now stands before the rest. His weary bloodshot eyes twitch and snap to fixate on Sebastian Shaw. He knew everyone in the room. Not to a personal degree, of course, but he made the point of knowing whom he was inviting to this little circle-jerking clique of military contractors. It is not unreasonable to expect no less from Doctor Doom. And yet, as the metal monarch approaches, forcing the ground to tremble with each powerful step, his menacing voice echoes through the vast space of the warehouse, demanding an introduction. "And /who/ are /you/?" Shaw maintains his position as though cast of lead, holding down the ground with his weight and standing at a height nearly rivaling that of Doctor Doom’s. His eyes don’t pull the obvious up-and-down sweep of an assessing opponent, but possibly only because his assessment is in the contact of their gaze alone - his own, hard and direct and through the neat hair and neat clothes and neat clean fingernails, it’s somehow innately unpolished as a prospector considering the first steps of a very large potential project. Which may or may not require a fine tooth pick. Or dynamite. “Sebastian Shaw. Of Shaw Industries.” His pronunciation: the default enunciated lilt of academia. His vocal range: the ragged carry of a steel mill lineworker. “But I don’t imagine I would be here if you did not know as much.” He unfolds his arms to withdraw a large undeniably workman hand, faint old scars across his knuckles even if the callouses have long-since departed his palms, and reaches it out to clasp with Doom. "I was hoping for a more impressive introduction from you personally." His own introduction arrives shortly thereafter. "Doctor Doom. For the sake of communicative efficiency, you have been granted the luxury of addressing me as Victor." The monotonous boom of Victor's voice fails to convey the full extent of his disappointment in Shaw's introduction. Perhaps it is rife, or perhaps there is none of it. The words alone seem to convey some degree of disapproval, however. The same could be said of his surreal grimace and his cold blue eyes, but the two are always transmitting emotional destruction of whomever they have the misfortune of facing. But Sebastian Shaw, as it turns out, proves harder to intimidate. The collision of two cliff faces is in reality not as spectacular as one's imagination might imply. Two tall men merely stand dangerously close to each other, challenging each other with a regal posture, a frigid gaze and an alien sense of fashion. The handshake is accepted by Doctor Doom. It is a gesture that has been expected of him ever since his arrival to the United States. As odd his appearance might seem to this nation, so too their social quotas alienate him. But far be it from Victor to deny them of their little rituals, whether or not the recipient believes in the significance of social gestures. Shaw's hand is grasped with that dreadful steel hand, yet as many before Sebastian have discovered, that locomotion is incredibly precise. That said, the grip is strong and firm. Of course, as much as Victor van Doom enjoys the waltz of dominance, today it is not the reason he has made himself appear to the public. Or, at least, a select fraction of the public. "What offers have you brought to my humble exhibition, Sebastian Shaw?" “I could fax you my resume,” Shaw says in /just/ the trite tone to acknowledge the absurdity of the offer, not sneering but utterly frank,”Or a roster of the endeavors I’ve born to lucrative fruition. But for who I am, my name suffices me. ‘It is not titles that honor men, but men that honor titles’, Victor.” His shake is solid, it bears not just his hand, nor just his arm, but his body weight as well, eyes traveling past Doom’s shoulder to study the armed guards... /mechanical/ guards, hmm?... silently minding the room. If it’s not admiration for the implications of their presence, it’s a grim-smiling /appreciation/ for it. “Not all visits come with tributes as clear-cut as contracts and solicitations,” when he gets his hand back, he doesn’t seem to care much what to do with it, and lets it drop large and open and somehow /ready/ at his side. “I’ll bring you my congratulations. And an invitation to someday view the expanse of my estates throughout Virginia and Pennsylvania. Few lands are so fertile nor scenic.” Then, the slightest catch, like a burr snag on a fine cashmere fiber. “Perhaps aside from the lands of your own country.” Ore. Steel. These words, these /themes/ seem to comprise him, and his attention is more focused at this topic. “Have you begun taking bids yet for exchanging of resources.” "Titles? Whoever said anything about titles, Sebastian Shaw?" Surprise is not an emotion Doctor Doom portrays believably, although the eyes that remain visible through the scowl of his steel mask widen to help relay that particular emotion. That is, if it is indeed genuine in the first place. The serpentine evasion that follows is unfortunately detected by Victor. The monarch lets out a sigh that is perverted by whatever device or phenomenon that is responsible for digitising his voice. "So, you have brought nothing but your wits", he remarks with his impossibly deep voice. "Let us hope they serve you better than Norman Osborn." "Indulge me. Walk with me." The cape is flung to the side as Doctor Doom restarts his movement anew. His inhumanly heavy steps begin to create an increasing gap between him and Shaw. Even as he walks away, however, he continues to speak. "Convince me to visit your estates. You provide munitions to your God-fearing country, is that correct?" The main shareholder of a multinational organization puts Shaw in a position where a ‘snort’ must be conducted with great delicacy, “The fearing and the unfearing alike. Theistic beliefs among world leaders are less fear than they are /fashion/. Norman..." The far edge of his mouth rises up, just slightly; he wields smiles with the weight of a broad sword, but the /application/ of a narrow assassin's blade. For all his size, his almost absurd radiation of health is as quick in reflexes as it is raw power; the moment between Doom inviting him to walk and his actual departure from their previous location finds Shaw keeping up with long strides that put him alongside the steelclad ruler - /never/ behind or shuffling to catch up. His arms are folded behind his back, fists touching loosely just above his tailbone like an old sensei, scanning the arrangements of guards, their relation to guests, the projected vector necessary for them to interact. The mind of an engineer first, a social engineer second, fitting together what needs must -- "-- Norman is an elemental force. The land he bought for his institute, in fact, is escrowed from my own arsenal of land. Fitting, that it was once an /asylum/. My properties are expansive; I have not forgotten my roots sweating in steelmills, and the fruits of industry are a thing mankind will never outgrow so long as the industry's nature adapts to suit changing needs. I've torn the heads from the shoulders of mountains and made factories where once fallow land lay dead. Orchards, stockyards, shipyards, motorways, you could say I am a collector. And each investment produces its own tangible resources. To say I have nothing but my wits to offer," he brings it round full circle without angling his attention once Doom-wards, his lips barely moving - like a prison convict, uttering low and rapid and slightly put-upon, "is less accurate than saying the one thing I have /not/ come here with is any reason to /make/ you an offer yet." The pause here is heavy with potential - his dismissive glances at guards make the next logical step so easily suggest he departs next, as easily as a valley girl might toss her hair. "What I've brought for you, Victor, is an open interest in doing business. Shaw Industries and its munitions production has every use for the resources produced by your country. And nothing to gain from an embargo. I am if nothing else, like all good Americans, a /capitalist/." For a while, Doctor Doom does nothing but listen to the self-proclaimed good American. For that while, the only response the monarch offers is the eerily symmetrical rhythm of the steps that smash against the concrete ground. Hands clenched into fists sway like clockwork pendulums. His gaze travels onwards, latching on to nothing in particular. Ever so scrupulously, Victor vivisects each and every single word that Sebastian utters, allowing the man to speak at whatever length he desires. Goading is an elementary strategy, but one that seems to work well enough, it looks like. Even when offered that forebodingly long pause, Victor van Doom does not interrupt Sebastian, instead attempting to persuade him to speak further by keeping silent. It is not until the mention of capitalism that Doctor Doom slows to a halt, right before a guard numbered twenty three. The dimpled steel chin inclines as Doctor Doom lowers his gaze to the shorter android. One could assume the ruler is speaking to his creation, but his words are clearly directed at Shaw. "It will take me time to undo the damage my country has unjustly suffered. Mine shafts have collapsed, mills have been wrecked, people have been slain and tools have been covered in red. But as I lift rock upon rock, as I rebuild brick by brick--" The voice of Doctor Doom does not possess the capacity to trail off. Instead, it is an abrupt leap off a cliff. Obnoxious loudness dives into the darkness of silence. It is temporary. It is also not a trait of his speech that can be often observed. Come to think of it, it is the first time in public that his sentence remains unfinished. That heavy gaze falls upon Shaw, next. "You show no fear of me. How fascinating." The monotonous drawl implies sarcasm; while it is a possibility, one should know better that Doctor Doom is disadvantaged in that he can only express so much through his voice. Then again, perhaps it is not a disadvantage at all. "An alliance between you and me intrigues me. And so I propose the first stepping stone - a test of my accomplishments." The eyes behind the mask's eye sockets narrow. A hand extends to gesture towards the android. "A protector unmatched by human abilities." As though all things leading up to this moment had been fleeting and tedious - and there's little to say they haven't been, on all levels but the necessary passage of time - Shaw centers an engineer's appraising gaze on the android as though it were the first interesting thing he's seen since arriving. "Splendid," his mouth says, whether he's paying attention to it or not. No emotion associated. "It will do everything I bid of it?" "Nearly everything", the monarch corrects. "Your face and your voice have been submitted to memory." As that fraction of a revelation is unveiled, Doctor Doom lifts his heavy hand to gesture loosely towards one of the dome cameras overseeing the expo floor. "As with every other attendee." Lowering his hand to his side once more, Doom continues. "You cannot use it to bring me harm, and my commands will override yours. It does not eat, it does not sleep, it does not dream and it does not weave traitorous ambitions as humans do." At this point, it's hard to tell whether that was a jab at the world, Shaw or even himself. "Reassign function to target 12-C", he commands the machine. In turn, the android seems to respond with naught but the twitch of the neck, causing the opaque black visor to face Shaw. "It will respond to rudimentary commands of a humane nature, in case your vocabulary eludes you in life-threatening situations. I will enclose greater details through an electronic message." That would be an e-mail, then. Probably. "I trust you are satisfied with the first step?" All this time, the crystalline blue eyes are set on Shaw. "Oh," Sebastian Shaw sets a large, powerful hand on the android's shoulder, grinning for once with both sides of his mouth, a few teeth slowly baring, "I am satisfied. Lourdes will be most enamored." It's difficult to know of Shaw without knowing also of Lourdes Chantel. Dark hair. Large, laughing spanish eyes on a slender, well-tanned build. "In turn, let me extend access to some of my overseas construction partners. You may find them all to eager to aid Latveria in its rebuilding. Hmm." This last 'hmm' is said while looking over his new toy with satisfaction. And then he turns, a wide deceptively nimble rotation of his massive shoulders and lazily snap his fingers like a man summoning his dog, to inspire the android to fall in step behind him. "Victor, old boy. I think this may be the start of a wonderful new friendship."