2066/La-La-(tveria)-Land

La-La-(tveria)-Land
Date of Scene:	11 June 2020
Location:	Latveria
Synopsis:	Doom and Clea head to Latveria, and lay out their official commitments. And commitment!
Cast of Characters:	Victor Von Doom, Clea

---

Victor Von Doom has posed:
Normally Doom would not waste the time flying to Latveria from New York. When you have a working time portal, after all, flying is an indulgence and a waste of time, compared to simply teleporting to where you need to go.

However, there is something to be said for the trip itself. Particularly when your paramour had not seen Latveria at all, just yet. So, the rarely-used diplomatic plane for Latveria was actually used, the supersonic craft launching from New York. Destination: Latveria.

Doom, meanwhile, sits in his armor, mask present of course as he looks over at Clea, "I'm glad that you decided to come with me for this visit. It's been far too long since I've had the opportunity to visit my home, with other business happening in New York and elsewhere."

Clea has posed:
When it comes to passports and political fronts, having one's own portal proves an excellent standby option to get around those nuisances. Useful considering that, despite all her time on Earth, such identification can be a little dodgy for Clea. She has a sufficient amount, of course, to survive in her day to day existence.. But still, that little matter of X-rays or scanners occasionally freaking out because she looks like a suspended explosion now and then is far from ideal. Unless traveling with a potentate in his own realm, and a young lady doesn't need to worry about such things. So she's seated calmly in the plane, ladylike with her ankles crossed, positively brimming with excitement. The excess energy filters away from her in the occasional lustrous spark of a violet bubble visible mostly in the arcane spectrum. Mostly. There is probably a bottle of champers or jet fuel being tinted violet.

"I realize I am a diplomatic oddity. Do not visits of state routinely demand special compensation? Better that we can approach it in a way you think best for your people." No ticker tape parades, no awkward formal dinners where they sit across from one another separated by twenty Doombots, floral Doombot arrangements, and half the security council of the Balkans silently panicking. Clea gently rests her hand upon Doom's arm for the duration unless he happens to need that arm back for some reason. In which case, there are other ways to mingle formally. Informally.

She assesses him through that mask, superimposing expressions on steel. "Is there anything I should know in terms of protocol? I've brought nothing to declare to customs except a scandalous dress."

Victor Von Doom has posed:
Doom laughs softly, "No, nothing of that sort, Clea. We'll be visiting for the week, just to touch base with the people. A few public appearances to visit some of the schools and factories, but in general this will be mostly business. I believe there's a state dinner with Symkaria's representative and a few others planned..."

He makes a bit of a snort, "Politics. But, it is a necessary evil of my position, I suppose." He gives Clea a wry expression. "If there are less scandalous dresses required, I'm certain my tailors can craft something suitable for your beauty. And no, they are not Doombots either." His lips quirk through the mask at that.

Clea has posed:
"Then I will not be required to wear a hat and big sunglasses to look similar to a tourist," Clea replies with a rich laugh bubbling up. Being in the air atop something explosive probably does her good. She certainly enjoys being in the air, and the dramatically shortened ride at supersonic speeds is well on its way to sending her mood to its logical conclusion. Delight simmers there, even as she nudges him with her arm. "Fear not, I am aware how to behave for such things. I will not seek to diminish your stature in any sense, though I will accept any guidance on culture. They must be excited that you are home." Or agitating, but who knows? What lies ahead doesn't stain her mood any. "This shall culminate in a good break for you. Something about going home."

His response of Doombot tailors earns a widened smile, bright with wry amusement in kind. "Victor, you act like politics is not in your blood. Perhaps if not, then certainly mine. We can always sneak away if you need, and beg off in a conciliatory way. Something about measurements for your smoking jacket. Or a robe. Or we can push for ever more audacious plans."

Victor Von Doom has posed:
Doom laughs softly, "A smoking jacket? Well, I suppose I could use one..." He looks mildly amused at the notion, then tilts his head at Clea, placing his hand over hers, "And you are correct. It is in my blood, but in truth, I think I would prefer to be in a lab, but so often I am needed to lead, and thus, I do what I must."

He hmms, and nods slightly, "And I admit, I do wish to have the people see you, to see /us/. If you are amenable to that, of course. I do delight in your company, and it is off-putting when you are /not/ with me, these days."

Clea has posed:
"Don't you know? They are entirely the thing. Along with transcendental mystical texts and questionable chemicals," Clea answers with blithe sincerity in every word. "I regret, at times, I missed the middle decades of the last century. To witness the change in social mores and fashion alone." With a mild shake of her head, her white hair flows in a lyrical wave and then bounces back almost perfectly into place. Her fingers curl under his, smaller and defined, a pair of rings on the longest digits exactly the same in nature and hue. One faces upward, one down, spun from two metals. "I suspect had you the option, you would only leave that lab for meals and the occasional test the room could not contain. I do not begrudge you for it, as I am every bit as prone to long for a library where I can indulge my thoughts in the temple of the mind. Forth we go into the world at large, though, drawn though we might long for quieter places and times. Cherish the moments as they come."

That contemplative state lasts only so long, bubbled away by the fact being airborne and hurled like a dart at the Balkans is simply so evocative. It isn't her first plane ride surely; her face isn't squished to a window to admire the cloud decks or the sea soon enough streaming underwing. "I would never deny you. Much less such a request. Name me as you will to Latveria, proclaim us as you wish. There is, of course, a time for discretion, and I wouldn't ever think to overshadow you where matters call for formalities. I'd be rather heavy-hearted to have to be so close and not allowed to admit to being yours." She nods to him, hazy amethyst eyes charged by inner regard. "When you are absent, it feels like part of me is far away, water in a distant river. I can /feel/ you but you are not within reach. It doesn't feel right. I think you've anchored yourself to me for good or ill, doctor."

Victor Von Doom has posed:
Doom smiles a little as his eyes take in Clea then, and the touch of his armored hand would be surprising in its gentleness to anyone but her, most likely, "Victor."

He then glances out the window, as the plane is on the final approach, "Ah, there is Doomstadt, the capital." A bit of a wry expression at that, "Despite what some would think, it was not named exclusively by me, but the people were grateful at their liberation from the hands of the accursed Soviets. Sad to see that their power is rising again." His eyes narrow a bit, as he looks a bit disturbed at the thought. Latveria is powerful... but it is also very small in comparison to such nations as that.

Clea has posed:
Leaning over, she presses a kiss to the mask rather than the flesh beneath. "Victor." The word rolls with emphasis on the R, just a little, a breathy purr. "A multifaceted man with many talents. But at the end, mine."

She reaches back behind her nape and pulls a pin holding her hair back slightly, allowing the curls to do exactly what they will. A side part sings to sirens of old, gracious 40s starlets who used eyeliner and a blush of lipstick to bring imaginations to their knees. "Names changed in honour of their founders or greatest heroes is not uncommon. St. Petersburg and Stalingrad are the foremost examples that come to mind. But even that leader of Kazakhstan renamed Astana." Yes. She actually knows the names of former Soviet capitals. She probably laments the death of the Aral Sea. "The power of a moribund empire flows, rises, and falls as the tide. Fear drives them, a need to secure their boundaries. You will not lose Latveria as a satellite state to them. Moscow is not the juggernaut it once was."

Victor Von Doom has posed:
Victor nods, "Oh, that I'm aware. But they are still a danger, and one that, as time has passed, is ill-remembered by most people these days. I remember speaking with the United States President about it, once... and was thoroughly mocked. But their power is shadowy and unconventional now, something Doom is all too familiar with..."

He coughs, catching himself, even as the plane touches down on the landing strip, slowly decelerating as it moves into position on the tarmac, "Forgive me, beloved. The mere thought of the Soviets regaining influence fills me with disdain. Today, this is for you, and for us." He smiles and rises with a grace that seems impossible in that armor he wears, and extends a hand, "Shall we?"

Clea has posed:
Catching him in third person isn't odd; the multiform language properties of the Dark Dimension can exceed the strangeness even found on Earth in places. Clea once again curls her fingers, holding his hand the tighter. Victor earns a faint smile. "Men with short terms often look no further than their nose. It is a peril to forget the lessons of history, though equally perilous to be bound by them. An uneasy path to walk, and when one is -- forgive me, but a harbinger of doom -- it is often scoffed at. Because the comforts of adhering to a palatable story are better than declaring that we must change."

When the plane sets down, acceleration no longer an issue, the comforts of the seat are given a proper wiggle as she lands. "Victor, you need not ask my forgiveness. You haven't offended me. I know what they are like. These are different times and your people tasted of that bitter draught from a well they surely do not want to taste again. If their memories fail about what it was really like, then exposure and honesty will show them. So shall a certainty that Latveria will be her own nation, and let those who disagree see they aren't the majority. And should I come across someone I remember from days of old when the Ancient One walked with me as a ghost through those old streets, I will be sure to tell you a relic of the Okrana or the KGB is lurking in your midst. After I force-cage him, more than likely, though I shall be discreet to avoid a confrontation with a larger neighbour of yours. Though take comfort; you have a dimension behind you, and not merely a pocket one. They can't say that in the Kremlin."

At least hopefully not! The Darkforce Dimension isn't very peopled. With a careless elegance, she floats up from her se---

After removing the lap belt, being tethered in place, /then/ she floats up to take Victor's hand. "Oh yes. Let's. I cannot wait!"

Eleven hundred, eleven, either way the excitement and exuberance are about the same.