Owner	Pose
Doctor Doom	Dawn comes, and reaches warm fingers through the high, stately windows of Castle Doom. Those tender rays cast dappling shadows through regal curtains, painting the fire-warmed interior of the chamber Felicia is staying in calming, mottled hues. The daily hymns to Doom's glory and wisdom and benevolence erupt from various holographic projectors installed around the nation, sending immense, statuesque images of Doctor Doom himself into the sky as the Mouth of Doom -- a state-run media outlet -- leads the people in their pledges of worship. What joy must fill the people's hearts, knowing that the sun has risen on another beautiful day in Latveria, guided by the perfect will of their Master? The morning pledge is subdued in the castle grounds proper, and so Felicia's rest is not overly burdened, though a knock upon her door is followed by a rush of servants (female, for her own comfort) coming in to see her dressed, bathed, and entertained however she might fancy. "The Master commands you washed, and then brought to the throne room," is all they will say, if pressed. None even dare to muse about what Doom might want; it would be blasphemous to dare think they could understand him. Later on, she will find Doom, seated upon his high throne, surrounded by opulence that beggars anything she's ever stolen. The royal carpet leading her to his feet is gold-fringed and red, while massive green banners flying Latveria's iconography hang from stone pillars. Behind the throne is a portrait of Doom himself, painted in lush oils, the world held in his open metal palm. He says nothing. The chamber is filled with silent mechanical guards, lined up on either side of the rug leading to him, armed with shock-pikes and dressed in obsequious finery. Doom is silent, watching.
Felicia Hardy	Felicia shakes her head, sitting up and muttering to herself. She groans as she sits up, feeling her ribs and taking deep chest-expanding breath. "I'm sore /everywhere/." She protests to herself, trying to swing her arms and stretch the muscles a little bit after the grueling procedure which removed the ghost from her brain, or soul, or whatever Doom was muttering about, and put it into a computer chip instead. But still, at least she is blessedly possession free now. "It's true what they say I guess, you can do anything with computers these days."      When the servants come in making a fuss she mostly does her best to ignore them or shoo them away, only putting in a breakfast order and then slowly getting dressed.      Later, she's in Doom's throne room, which sounds like a weird thing to say in the year of our lord 2022 but here we are. As she walks down the royal carpet and she approaches where Doom is sitting with her customary hip-swaying swagger, though her tone is a bit more subdued, and tinged with gratitude as she offers out, "Thanks for doing me the favor Doctor. But uh, next time, don't do me any favors...." She laughs, to drive the good-humor of it home
Doctor Doom	Other than a surgical scar so thin it can't be seen by the naked eye, there are no lasting marks from Felicia's brush with the supernatural. The techno-magical interface concocted by Doom's mind has proved a complete success, an outcome he had absolute confidence in, and the malignant spirit from the painting is now safely trapped in a simulacrum of the human mind, effectively possessing a doll -- if that doll were a microchip that could fit on a fingertip. Said chip is currently being analyzed in a laboratory, for the record. But that's a matter outside of the woman's concern. Her concern now is whatever purpose Doom summoned her for, and if she were hoping to avoid notice, the way his eyes follow her sensual swagger with the sharpness of knives dispels such notions. That's the look of a man with a job in mind. "It served my own purposes," comes his sepulchral voice, dark and cold and filtered through the rebreather of his mask. "But you are welcome, nevertheless. The spirit will trouble you no more." Doom slouches to the side, metal cheek propped on his knuckles, his gaze burning a hole through Felicia. "I have a task for you. Perform to my satisfaction, and any debt between us is settled."
Felicia Hardy	In the far future, all dolls will be microchips. It's /technology/. And to be honest, at this moment Felicia wouldn't really be concerned with where the chip is or why it would matter. She's a sort of border-line hero, a gray hero. You wouldn't really call her a bad guy, but she definitely doesn't have Peter's concern for doing good and interfering or meddling in things just because they might be dangerous to the general public. "Ah sure, heh." She chuckles wryly and shakes her head, platinum white locks jostling with the movement, "You know in New York we've got a saying Doctor - there's no such thing as a free lunch." She takes a deep chest-swelling sigh and then cracks her knuckles, letting the breath out and wondering, "What can I do for you?" There's an ironic bitterness in the tone, after all, it's all Doom's fault in the first place!
Doctor Doom	"I detect displeasure in your voice, Felicia," Doom rumbles, slow and menacing, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. "Do you perhaps think the debt is already paid, and I have no further right to call upon your services?" There's a gleam of wrath in his eyes, the man unaccustomed to permitting even the most timid resistance to his will -- here, in Latveria, as it will one day be in all the universe, Doom's word is law. "The traditional punishment for theft is the severing of the right hand," he begins, casually lifting his own gauntleted limb. "Whereas crimes against majesty have traditionally been punished by the removal of the tongue and eyes, followed by imprisonment until death. Of course, these are old practices, from more barbaric times; these days, even I have embraced a certain forward-thinkingness. I thought a public service would suit to make amends." His voice is the cold of winter and death, heartless and domineering. To argue with him is like arguing against inevitability itself. As one, the mechanical Praetorian Guard steps forth, their heavy, coordinated step like a gunshot popping off, harsh and staccato. "I was not wrong to offer you this mercy, was I?"
Felicia Hardy	"I still maintain that I /found/ that painting. She's not a theif, she'd never be a thief, that would be against the law! She coughs, clearing her throat into her fist and then saying, "But even if I had stolen it, I wouldn't have known it was yours." She raises her hand, as if about to make another salient point. But of course, Doom is not well-known for listening to reason, and she's surrounded by robotic Doom Guards without any of her gear, and so she just asks, "I already asked what it was I can do for you, you haven't told me yet. I can't do it until you tell me what it is." Even Doom can't argue with that logic!
Doctor Doom	"It's simple," Doom replies, and his raised hand falls with a wave. The machines step back in perfect synchronization and resume their earlier guarded pose. "You will steal something for me."