7925/An Audience with Doom

An Audience with Doom
Date of Scene:	22 September 2021
Location:	Penthouse - Latverian Embassy
Synopsis:	Doom requests the presence of Meggan to discuss opportunities.
Cast of Characters:	Victor Von Doom, Meggan Puceanu

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Victor Von Doom has posed:
There were more arcane ways of getting the attention he desired, but the etiquette books thought very little of conjury as a means of polite request. So, he'd made contact through mundane means. An official at the Latverian Embassy had, through her staff, reached out to Meggan's publicist. The offer was an audience with Von Doom - King of Latveria. The reasoning was kept vague, for Doom spoke little of his plans even to those in his closest confidence.

The Penthouse is well-appointed, though it seems to lack any of the accoutrements of a home that is actually lived in. It seems more a strange for diplomatic discourse than a place to live. A grand and baroque oil painting of Doom dominates the space over a fireplace, and all of the art seems in some way or another to extol the virtues of Doom and his accomplishments.

He waits, back to the room, with his eyes fixated on the streets of Manhattan below.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Arcane or mysterious means have their place. Can reactions to a stranger's invitation delivered oddly ever be determined with a satisfactory degree of certainty? Certainly social media algorithms are built on the concept, predicting people's behaviour with growing accuracy to a point someone really ought to pass laws against that. Privacy standards circa 2003 aren't built for Latverian invasions or the standard Lex Luther marketing campaign. Thus any attempts to trace the English publicist's confounded messages to a girl then sitting in a lecture at Columbia University will reveal an active, rich social media presence and the alarmed battery of <<What did you do??>> and <<First an impromptu interview w/the mayor now this?? What the hell???>>

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A wiser person would not venture into the dark unknown. A smarter person would politely decline in taut, socially acceptable language. A more cautious person would run for Freedom Plaza and ask to borrow the public WiFi (password: Not4Doom?). Meggan Puceanu leaves word with someone who hasn't sent her astray, one who absolutely has, and confirms a time after class is done.

How does one prepare for an embassy? Stop at a friend's rented place where a changing array of people crash and rummage through the closets. Find a pretty dress instead of jeans and call it a day. The protections around the Latverian Embassy will have a field day with her anyway considering the enormous energy beacon wrapped up in her personal mana stores, the near white-gold hair, and the sorcerous binding on her left hand suppressing a significant chunk of her abilities to a hanging trigger. Poor bots trying to scan her; she bears the telltales of a humanoid appearance, a mutable genetic composition to boot. For the master of Latveria, her aura is a complex thing rippling in colours and that supremely masterful spell shot through it in a silver starlit skein.

Enough of her. More of them. She comes on foot to present herself, credentials tucked away in her pocket if they are required. The image to the face on social media is close. This building? Google Maps only does it so much justice. If there's no halt, she sees herself in through the doors. Otherwise, protocols are followed. For now.

Victor Von Doom has posed:
There is a remarkable lack of physical security in the Embassy. Very little in the way of armed guards or security personnel. Most of it is managed by hidden weaponry and technology that would prove difficult for even a superhuman to surpass, and the vast majority is concealed behind walls or inside furniture. For most, it would feel like a simple elevator ride up to the penthouse.

"Sit," the Master of Latveria commands, one gauntleted hand gesturing towards a plush and high-backed sofa chair in the middle of the room, "Doom would have words with you, Meggan Puceanu."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A lack of visible security does not intimate a total lack altogether. Meggan cautiously threads the needle of the elegant building, a place for business and governmental affairs as much as lording it over Atlantis or Wakanda and giving a smirk to the Russians. Whatever one does, when choosing to select real estate to make a statement.

She remains flat to the ground, an achievement of no small means. In the elevator, not opting to maintain her own equilibrium likewise must be worth something. Small victories in a place stewing in order, a little fear, and probably more purpose than even she can fathom. At the centre of it all, a locked up puzzle piece of a man. The slight way of her dress accentuates a smoothness of motion hindered once by the thought to genuflect, then the conscious decision *not* to. How often that must happen? "Thank you for the unexpected invitation," she says. The lilt of Celtic tongues overrides English, marking her a child of the Lake District besides. Glancing from Doom to the chair, she takes almost no time at all to cross the floor and perch on the very edge. Straight-backed, no slouch, the posture adopted speaks to anticipation. Or possibly expecting the damn thing to blow up.

Time will tell.

Victor Von Doom has posed:
"An invitation or a commandment," Doom answers, his back still turned, "It makes no difference to Doom how you view it. All that matters is that you are here now."

He turns now, revealing the very picture of Doctor Doom that people may know from television, newspapers, and the internet for the past thirty-odd years. Clad all in armor, partly concealed beneath a hooded cloak of dark green. He gestures, and a slender mechanical figure emblazoned with the seal of Latveria upon their chassis emerges with a bottle of wine and a single glass.

"Chateau Verdammnisberg. 2004."

A pause as the robot begins to fill the glass, not waiting for further instruction.

"Doom has watched you, Meggan Puceanu. Doom has seen what you are capable of, and it extends far beyond bending the opinions of shepardless sheep. You will feel the gravity of what Doom says next when you realize how rare such a compliment is."

Another pause, the fingers of his glove curl into a fist before him.

"Doom is ... impressed."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Issuing commandments to the Millennials or Gen Zs of the world inevitably brings out a delightful cascade effect invariably ending in unpredictable results. For the moment, Meggan humours this. She knows a few things about uppity bastards.

The mechanical bot's arrival stands out for the lack of an emotional halo around it, invisible to that deep sense, but not the others. She nods to the artificial sommelier, not quite extending to thanking it verbally. Those pale green eyes -- again not matching all the social media profiles, where they are emerald instead of jade -- tick back from the emerging glass to Doom again. "An excellent vintage if unconventional," muses the blonde. "The Castle of Damnation."

Where all the lines of his mask are edged and hard, the green cloak softening the effect, the opposite clearly applies to the activist crossing her ankles and taking the glass. A good thing she hasn't taken a sip being sampling the bouquet, her genetics already starting to shift at the atomic level to shave off bits of the helix and render her unaffected by the inebriation promised. Otherwise she might choke, at least once; beyond that's categorically impossible to keep her immediately from breathing some other way. Finding words is a whole other matter.

Shell-shocked people probably have a little in common with her. She holds perfectly still for a moment, absorbing the words, feeling for the truth of them. Lying isn't impossible, not for masters of the art, but reading into their emotions and intent comes intuitively sometimes.

"Begging your pardon," in sweeter words never, "but what has earned me this respect?" A caution, then.

Victor Von Doom has posed:
"The Latverian people have always trended towards the Gothic and Baroque in their nomenclature," Doom explains, "My own heritage included. This vineyard is nestled in the foothills of Mount Bergverhangnis. Down from there is the Forest Waldverhangnis. The Mountain and Forest of Disaster. Or Doom."

"But you are not here to discuss Latveria's unique Uralic-Germanic dialect. You are here to talk about the dominion you hold over the lower realms. Or to be more accurate, the dominion you could have held yet cast aside."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"A common feature in Europe," concedes Meggan, still taking in the wine in a slow, appreciative fashion that hardly proves idle. Several years bartending between the UK, Gotham, and New York's Empire Club assures she knows poor wine from the good stuff or the superlative vintages pulled from cellars only for particular occasions. Any buried poisons are another matter, but the first brush staining her lips is more for the glaze and initial notes hidden behind the tannins than a full invitation to taste it. Quaff? Please. Slurp? Never.

A good wine, like music, is something meant to be experienced in its fullness. Besides, it buys her time before the Master of Latveria. Time to skate across ice of unknown thickness and provenance. When he mentions the time before, the blonde still doesn't choke on the few drops coating her lips or fizzing on her palate. She might forget to swallow quite at all. Her eyes widen involuntarily, a tell impossible to suppress, but that guileless charm is her damnation. She couldn't outfox an actual fox, on the surface. "I see." The wine lowered slightly gives a direct line from her mildly troubled expression to his masked visage, as if anything but her own features are stamped on polished metal in harder shades than she's adopted in a while. "I'm a subject of a monarchy already. Holding a rival title might have been a problem," she says, and it's not actually in jest. "What is it that you want to know?"

Victor Von Doom has posed:
"Doom cares not for titles. It is the act of subjugation itself that is of interest. A complex rite usually involving great expenditure of will and preparation. Yet, by all accounts, a matter of rote for you. Your provenance is of interest to Doom, and you will reveal it."

"What are you, then?" he continues, "Empowered by the Elder Gods? One of Mephisto's stray progeny? Fae of Avalon?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The blonde strands touching her brow are very nearly colourless in places, snow-white and ice-blues woven together for a champagne silver appearance when she wants it. Meggan pushes one away in a habitual gesture. The feathered sheet falls right back into place as smooth as the rest, while the wine paints its colours across her shoulder.

Arrogant prat, isn't he? Fits the expected situation, one that would end up with a different kind of sorcerer flipping the bird and stomping out. Another kind altogether pulling on the same kind of pride in a different direction to stare right back at Victor with that certitude of purpose. And what of the great foe, Richards? None of those things is Meggan and nor can the Tuath de Danaan pretend at it. She touches the glass, feeling its coolness absorbing the heat from her skin.

"None of those." The reply is quiet. Her smile is faded back to the hazy shade of winter that holds mostly dormant. "May that vile horror be related in no way to me. I'd rather be Nergal's." A streak of contempt surfaces and dips aside, for all her soft tone. "Too much credit you do me. Misfortune and a bit of empathy, that's all."

Victor Von Doom has posed:
"Perhaps so," Doom answers, his voice low and treacherous, "Those realms are built on the forces of whim and will. It makes sense that such forces could undo them."

"If Doom is mistaken about you, then leave. If you feel it a fluke, then leave. But if you believe it a feat you could perform again, then you will align yourself with Doom. The creatures of those fetid Hells hold much of great value that they hold no right to."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Those pale eyes trace a path from the window to the ceiling, as if ascertaining the tilted stage wired into seemingly elegant paneling and plastering. Glass surely reinforced against spells or bullets, a blast radius bigger than anything she can calculate on the fly. A collaboration of risks piled up too great to walk away from without scars, then.

"I don't know what you believe," Meggan points out. The first step on the path may be acknowledgment first of that imperfect grasp on matters. It's scathed in the past, why not again? She takes a breath.

First shot in the dark.

"Who?"

Victor Von Doom has posed:
"A discussion for another time."

Doom regards the wine bottle for a moment, and the mechanical servitor now standing with perfect stillness nearby in case it is called upon again.

"If you are amenable to an alliance with Doom, arrangements will be made to discuss it somewhere less susceptible to the scrutiny of prying eyes. If not, you may enjoy your wine and the other amenities here for the evening and, upon your leaving, we shall not speak again. You will decide now."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
She swirls around the wine in the glass. Meggan has her answer in a roundabout way, something to be satisfied with. Small victories and not outright ones.

She strokes her thumb around the rim of the glass, produce a clear, pristine note that probably is nothing compared to the full grand piano and what music can be wrest from eighty-eight keys of dazzling loquacity.

"Where did you have in mind to talk?" she asks.