610/To Victor Go the Spoils

To Victor Go the Spoils
Date of Scene:	25 May 2017
Location:	Castle Doom, Latveria
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Doctor Doom, Deathstroke

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Doctor Doom has posed:
In the throne room of Castle Doom, a vast space currently lit only by a series of linen-wrapped torches, Victor von Doom sits in state upon a dais. He leans against the high back of his throne, in which is carved the heraldic eagle of Latveria.

A long table is set up in the center of the room, on which a vast selection of dishes from eastern Europe are assembled. Half a dozen men and women stand ready to serve.

Doom's hands lightly wrap about the ends of the throne's armrests, exhaling audibly as he looks out to the lone guest in the room.

"Thank you for coming, Mister Wilson. I trust you find the accommodations...reasonable."

Deathstroke has posed:
"Yes, I've been quite comfortable, thank you. I hope you'll take it as a sign of respect rather than offense that I've avoided Latveria without an invitation, but it's a lovely little nation you have here." Slade Wilson has no illusions that much of the orderly and almost immaculately "clean" nature of Doomstadt stems from Doom's iron-handed rule, but this is hardly the first dictator Slade Wilson has done business with. Even if he might be the most -effective- one he's met...especially given how many in Doomstadt that he's interacted with truly do seem quite happy serving Doom. "This meal looks excellent, and I have no desire to rush it, but I hope you'll forgive me if I attempt to get the business side of things out of the way before we dine." A bit of a smile touches Slade's lips, "You didn't bring me here just to impress me with your hospitality, after all."

Doctor Doom has posed:
"Indeed," Doom intones, his voice modulated slightly by his armored faceplate.

"Just as I trust you understand the respect shown to you by the use of first-person pronouns. I...rarely speak of myself so." The Latverian monarch straightens his posture slightly.

Doom pushes himself to his feet. "It is a virtue to be so honest--but then, most lack the conviction to accept the consequences of their honesty."

The servants' posture uniformly improves further, even as they avert their eyes from the gaze of their king.

Doom clasps his gauntleted hands behind his back. "Is there a price that might serve as an invitation to visit other nations on business?" His eyes narrow slightly behind his mask. "Not that the specifics should be difficult to imagine."

Deathstroke has posed:
Conviction is something Slade Wilson has never lacked, and something in Doom's words makes the Mercenary suspect that this is the very reason he's here and not some other fellow. Well, that and Slade is the best, and he somehow doesn't suspect Doom settles for less than that.

"There are only a few things I won't do for the right price. My fees and rates are generally uniform, and you've already researched them, as well as my record." Not a shred of doubt in Slade's tone on that. "The only time I charge more is if it involves magic, space travel, certain heads of state, or other hostile environments that present unique challenges and expenses to operate within."

Slade cants his head, steepling his fingers before him, "So to some extent it depends a bit on those specifics. Otherwise...it doesn't make any difference if you want it to be quiet or loud, I'll get the job done or you'll get every cent you've paid back."

Doctor Doom has posed:
Doom offers a curt nod in reply. "I thought as much. Yet there are those who would try to re-negotiate once in the room. Or to claim a desire to avoid international diplomacy--as if this entire enterprise were not fueled by it."

"So," he continues. "Does your list of delicate matters include the heads of state for any of the following? Atlantis. Genosha. Wakanda..." The list goes on.

Doom steps toward the table and picks up a small cake, examining it idly. "It looks satisfactory," he says, handing it to the nearest servant. "I shall tell the chef, my lord," she replies meekly.

"You shall not," Doom snaps. "This is to be expected. Any /less/ would involve a word--of another kind."

Deathstroke has posed:
There are a few that fall into the exception category...Atlantis notably, for the challenge of getting there and escaping safely, though perhaps oddly neither Genosha nor Wakanda seem to be on Slade's "list of exceptions." After Doom is finished listing targets, and he corrects his servant, Slade rests his hands on the table.

"Aside from Atlantis, I don't think any of those would go outside the normal rates, but this sounds more like a long-term retainer than a series of individual jobs." Slade considers a few moments, "I rarely enter into those kinds of contracts, but I'd be willing to entertain the notion in this case. As long as you're willing to allow that I might have other work in-between interfering with these various nations. If I try to hit them all in rapid succession the pattern might become apparent."

Doctor Doom has posed:
"Doom...I...am not an impatient man," the Latverian responds, rubbing the cake dust off his gauntleted finger and thumb.

"So long as the work is done, I will be content. Besides, I will make my own moves during the length of our arrangement as well. However," he continues, raising his hand to point a finger roughly 'up', "if you would prefer a sequence of standalone contracts...that is still acceptable. Certainly it involves less dedication."

Doom turns his head to stare at the assassin. "No slight intended. I assume that most in your line of work prefer as little long-term commitment as possible. Long-term vision is a burden of nobility, it is true."

Deathstroke has posed:
"Then I would suggest we start with individual jobs, and if after a bit of time has passed, we're both more comfortable with a more long-term arrangement, it can be renegotiated." Slade notes, "It will give you the opportunity to make certain my methods agree with your designs, if nothing else." Slade smiles, even if there's little warmth in his good eye, "It seems we have enough of an arrangement to enjoy our meal. We can determine the final specifics over the after-dinner drink."

Doctor Doom has posed:
"Very well," Doom replies. "It is so decreed."

He leans his head back somewhat, looking down his nose at Deathstroke. "I look forward to this arrangement, Mr. Wilson. Just as I look forward to future negotiations with...what passes as my 'counterparts'...on the international stage."

He points toward the table and then turns his hand over, palm up. In response, several of the servants hurriedly begin assembling plates and bowls of food for the two diners, while others arrange dining places at the ends of the long table.

"To Latveria," Doom says, a silver goblet placed in his hand. "To victory."