ArchivedLogs:Eyes in the Dark

Eyes in the Dark
Trigger Warnings for Violent Fantasies (specifically: eyes)
Dramatis Personae Emma, NPC-Norman
In Absentia	21 February, 2013 Discussions of Invitations - and dark desires
Location Oscorp Headquarters
The secretary for Norman Osborn is a pleasant, older plump woman who is currently having an affair with Phil from accounting. Her sister is a mutant, and she's terrified of the social implications this could have if anyone finds out -- but she's also genuinely terrified for her sister's sake, who she loves and cares for very deeply. She thinks her boss -- the somewhat reclusive Norman Osborn -- is a workaholic who is over-worked, over-stressed, and sometimes prone to talking to himself. After about fifteen minutes, she smiles at Emma and nods her head: "Mr. Osborn will see you now, Ms. Frost. Quite sorry about the wait...!" and then she presses a button, and the door buzzes--and unlocks. The first thing that would strike Emma Frost: Norman Osborn's office is much like his mind: Methodical. Sleek. Sterile. It is a corner office; two of the four walls are nothing but perfectly clear glass--giving a breathtaking view of the New York skyline. The desk is smooth, organic, curved -- its contents organized with a careful fastidiousness that borders upon the obsessive. There is a filing cabinet, a bookshelf -- containing largely books on mathematics, chemistry, science, and a few books on military history -- and, upon another wall, several... grotesque looking wooden masks. Norman Osborn is a brusque, handsome man in his mid 40s -- fit, dressed sharp in a black suit and tie -- currently speaking on the phone. At the sight of Emma Frost, he smiles, lifting a finger up to her to indicate she should hold: "Yes, of course. I understand. You're doing everything you possibly can. But it's _imperative_ we find out their identity. Consult with the police if you have to." He hangs the phone up, then turns his eyes to her. The surface of his mind is a smooth, polished stone -- hardly a thought flits across it that is not on its way to his lips. "Ms. Emma Frost. A pleasure," he tells her, and he's rising at once to cross the distance between them and offer her his hand. Emma Frost is impeccably dressed, wearing a fine white skirt suit that is just right. The skirt show just the right amount of leg without being distractingly alluring and the jacket accents her feminine form without drawing ones eyes /just/ to her chest. Her hair is pinned up and smoothed, a few curled ringlets gracing the back of her elegant neck, with a small string of small pearls rest just above her collar bones, matching pearls in her ears. The only thing seemingly out of place are the black rimmed glasses that surround her eyes, matching the black portfolio she carries against her hip. "Mr. Osborn, it is a pleasure." Emma strides forward and takes his hand, allowing the skin to skin contact to expand her reach into the man's mind. She smiles warmly, the weariness born of listening to his administrative assistant's mind prattle on and on about everything without the slightest probing vanishing as her eyes fall on this leader of industry. "I read the article you wrote in IEEE a few years back and found your discussion on graphene transistors quite informative." She releases his hand and moves hers back to the portfolio on her hip. "How can I help you today?" He laughs, then; it's an easy, warm sound -- practiced. The kind that swells outward and crashes over people in waves. As he laughs, she feels his mind open, that smooth, polished pebble swelling, its surface growing transluscent. He is... a very structured thinker. His brain works like a machine -- well-oiled and rumbling. He finds her attractive, but he considers that a distraction. There's something else, too -- something she can't quite catch without deeper probing. Something at the back of his head -- something deep, but present, throbbing like a clogged artery. "Ms. Frost," Norman says, and now he is smiling, and the smile carries effortlessly up into his eyes. An image of Jamie briefly flashes into his mind: "I was told you're the person to speak to when it comes to organizing get-togethers. I was, in fact, told that you're /perfect/." For a moment, something darkly suspicious flits across his thoughts: "A word of caution, Ms. Frost--from one salesman to another. When you're good at selling yourself, don't *oversell*. Someone who's too good to be true usually is." But then, he's grinning mischieviously, and that suspicion is dispersed -- just a dark, meaningless cloud. "Ah, but I didn't oversell myself. Jamie did," Emma counters with ease, weight shifting backward slightly, a more comfortable posture for her. "I got the feeling that he had the hardest time finding anyone remotely qualified for this position and his relief is clouding his judgment." She looks down at her portfolio as she gauges his reaction, opening the leather bound tablet as a distraction. Her mind's touch is still gentle and practically nonexistent, focused however on the heart of his storm. "But thank you, I'll remind him to tone it down a little." He laughs, again -- shorter, this time -- but his grin gets a little bigger. "Oh, yes. You're *very* good," he tells her. "Far too clever for whatever you're doing right now. But I'm happy to exploit that," he adds, and then -- as he moves back behind his desk and sits, folding his hands -- he asks her: "You already have this job, Ms. Frost, so please -- give me your honest opinion: Mutants. What do you think of them?" As she delicately focuses on that throbbing blackness, something happens. A tiny, near-imperceptible lump of it shifts, exposed. Within his mind, there is a voice -- it sounds like the voice of a child. <<pretty>> "Mutants, really?" Emma blinks at the shift in conversation, her dry amusement causing one well groomed eyebrow to slide up her forehead. "They certainly have been in the news lately." She recloses the portfolio, as they don't seem to be getting down to business, and brings it closer to her chest. "They're unfocused, powerful - dangerous - and cropping up all over the place. I think the government isn't doing itself any favors by throwing around citations and fines like they are going to do something other than make them poorer and more desperate." Her gaze studies the contours of Norman Osborn's face, lips lightly parted as she considers. Her mind is torn between focusing on a conversation that is quite delicate and the response - the almost recognition that she finds in the darkness of Osborn's mind. She moves her attention to his surface thoughts briefly and approaches once more from a different direction. There is a surge of mild approval; he seems pleased with her answer. His face shows it, too -- the smile has faded. His look is now serious, but his eyes have darkened. He nods: "The ordinance on mutant powers is a mistake. I even told the mayor so," he adds, and she gets a brief flash of that conversation -- small, trivial, but actual. "You're smart enough to have done your research, so I presume you know I'm in the market of mutant countermeasures -- but my goal isn't to escalate. Mutants are dangerous -- making them our enemies? Even moreso." His fingers steeple, then. "This distinction is important, Ms. Frost -- because among the guest list for this soiree, I would like to include several public mutant figures. Understand, my goal is not to be an activist," and here, there is a thin, humorless smile: "The party is an opportunity to convince several members of the US military to accept my bid for a mutant countermeasure project. But I wish to distinguish /my/ solution from the other bidders as being one that works /with/ mutants, rather than against." <<pretty eyes>> "You want prominent, public mutant at the party?" Emma blinks, rolling with the twist in conversation, but a little surprised by it. "Do you have mutants you are already working with, or am I to make overtures to the mutant community to begin this process?" Her tone grows quickly confident, as if this is something she can actually deliver. "It is a very interesting prospect. I have not heard about anyone else, well, embracing mutants in this process - at least not willingly." Emma's mind continues to circle, growing curious and analytical, attempting to map out how much space this darkness takes up in his mind. "Only a few. And they'll have to be _thoroughly_ vetted," Norman quickly adds. "By you _and_ my own staff." Thoughts of disaster flit through his mind. "In addition, their powers will have to be fully documented. Absolutely _no_ telepaths," and on this, there is a harsh, violent note. "The last thing I need is someone peeking into the minds of various heads of state." But then: "There's one mutant I had in mind, actually -- I would like you to vet him first, to ensure he's a likely candidate. He was in the news recently -- the one who saved the mayor? There was another incident, as well. Something in Central Park -- he saved several police officers, I believe. Tcketed for the trouble. I heard he's not going to pay." She can _hear_ the sound of Norman Osborn's mental 'tsk'. "The ACLU is sure to get involved -- it will be a political nightmare. If he looks like an excellent candidate -- nothing politically contentious, no telepathy -- we can make the ticket disappear, to get into his good graces." Again, that humorless smile: "We'd be doing him _and_ the mayor a favor." At first, that throbbing blackness seems small -- nothing more than a tiny lump in the back of his mind. But as Emma circles it, she sees something that doesn't make apparent sense -- the lump *extends*, folding into itself -- it is small on the outside, yet massive on the inside. <> "Ah, yes. That colorful young man. I do believe I have seen him before." Emma's face remains calm and collected as she observes the two sides of Norman Osborn, the mind and the body. She flips her portfolio open and makes note on the tablet, fingers tapping open a browser window and picking something out of her history as well. The news article blossoms onto the screen and she inhales deeply. "How would you define political contentious in this situation? Not peace mongering? His pictures paint him to be a bit of a punk hippie sort." While Emma's eyes study Osborn's reaction once more, her mind begins to take stock of which parts of Norman's brain are /not/ touched by this other side. Norman laughs, again. "Oh, I don't care if he's a *hippie*," he says. "I just don't want anyone involved in anything that even has a /whiff/ of domestic terrorism. Prior arrests involving acts of violence perpetrated with their mutant power would also be an out," he adds. "As would a connection to any mutant extremist -- *any* connection." "We have to be very careful -- the brass are very nervous around mutants. The more harmless their power, the better. The gentleman in question -- Jackson, I think his name was? -- I'm unaware of him having any offensive capability. That would be a consideration, of course -- although considering how much 'good will' he currently has -- he's saved the mayor _and_ several police officers! -- I might be willing to overlook an ability to slice my head off with a light-saber." He's grinning. That's a nerd joke. Even Osborn can make them. The majority of the... tumor? Is sharply contained. But there are small, near invisible veins that stretch out from it, spreading in a delicate web -- their tips nearly reaching every corner of his mind. Whatever it is, it is both quarantined from Osborn's current psyche... and yet so deeply interwoven that it would be impossible to remove it without simply _lobotomizing_ him. <<pretty eyes pretty eyes pretty eyes pretty eyes pretty eyes pretty eyes pretty eyes pretty eyes pretty eyes pretty eyes pretty eyes>> "So we're avoiding anyone associated with the Liberty Island incident and their ilk. I see." Emma makes a couple more notes and then smiles as she reaffixes her attention on Osborn's face. "I can get your more typical guest list from your assistant so as to not bog you down with trivial details. How about the gathering as a whole? Dinner? Cocktails and hor d'oeuvres? Is there to be a demonstration or are we simply socializing this time around?" Emma looks a little deeper into the party planning, gently and carefully when she asks about the demonstration. Is inviting mutants to the party going to get them killed? "God, yes," Osborn says. "The last thing we need is someone with a connection to Magneto. And that's another thing -- _any_ connection to Magneto -- I don't care if he was just a roommate with him back in college -- automatic out. Obviously." "A brief demonstration of several mutant countermeasures, yes. Nothing too flashy. Otherwise, just a social calling -- and an opportunity to make connections. I want to give the military a chance to see mutants as something other than an enemy. And," he adds, "I want some mutant connections of my own. Some of the devices we're working on -- we _need_ mutant participation to make them work. That sort of trust won't be easy to win." No. He's not planning on killing _any_ dinner guests. But there's a ruthless quality to him beneath the friendly congeniality -- he isn't doing this out of the goodness of his heart. To him, this is an opportunity. <> "SO." It takes a second - a half breath - for Emma to continue after the screaming starts. She turns her attention quickly back to the tablet and makes a few more concise notes. "I'll make sure to book the adjacent room to the main ball room to make sure that you have adequate space for staging your demonstration pieces. If you choose, I can book another so you can demonstrate in that room if you are showing anything that requires clean up afterward." Internally, Emma is steeled, keeping an wary eye on that demanding child, prepared to shock it into unconsciousness if needs be. While there, she traces other active synapses to gauge Osborn's awareness to this voice. Norman's head tilts when she pauses. Her pause is brief -- scarcely existent. You would have to be _spectacularly_ observant to make anything more of it than a mere pause of breath. But in that moment... his eyes grow the slightest bit darker. The synapses in his head are receptive to the sound. He hears it. When it wants to be heard. And as she traces those synapses, that dark, throbbing tumor suddenly *stops*... and goes silent. From the shadowy abyss, a pair of yellow, whiteless, pupiless eyes stare blindly outward. Glowing. Burning. *Searching*. "Excellent," Osborn says, and he gives a quick, abrupt nod: "I'll have my secretary send you the details of the demonstrations -- not, of course, the _blueprints_," and here he smiles oh-so-thinly. "Just the requirements concerning space and clean up. As for the rest of it..." So soft she can barely hear him: "I trust your judgment, Emma Frost." "Blueprints will not be required. Simple specs will suffice." Emma replies easily, her smile just as polished and professional. Sensing the end of the meeting, she pulls her shoulders back and closes the tablet portfolio quietly. "Thank you so much for your time. If there is anything else, please don't hesitate to let me know. We at Hellfire live to help you do whatever it is you'd like to do." Emma stares back at those eyes quietly and still, her attention dissipating from the rest of his brain slowly, as if it was never there. She remains ever vigilant of the demon though, watching and still. "Of course. You strike me as having a very bright future, Ms. Frost. I look forward to being part of it." He turns, then -- moving to lift the phone. The meeting is over. But those eyes, burning like pits of flame, still stare outward. Searching. Roaming across Osborn's mind like a scorching, hot white spot-light. And as she pulls back, she hears the darkness whisper -- in a voice that does not travel along those delicate little synapses -- in a voice that _Osborn_ does not hear: <<bye bye pretty eyes>> Emma nods as acceptance of the lack of ending formalities. She turns away and draws in a breath as she leaves, mentally backing away as she goes, not letting that creature out of her perception as long as she is in the room - and across the next room and throughout her conversation with the secretary - and down the hallway. And down the elevator and out the front door. It isn't until she reaches the edges of her range before she finally stops looking into that darkness. There, in her seat in her hired car, she lets out a shiver as cold sweat beads up on her brow. "Back to the club, please."