ArchivedLogs:New Friends

New Friends
Dramatis Personae Norman, Jennifer
In Absentia	2013-05-14 '
Location Osborn's Office
Oscorp Tower is undergoing serious repairs; the place is /buzzing/ with construction workers already, swarming across the damage in the lobby like angry hornets around their nest. There's a secondary entrance that's being used as a temporary 'front door'; people are being channeled up one of the (undamaged) elevators, while the first three stories remain largely closed. Norman Osborn is in his office. The secretary - a polite looking man named Harris, early 20s, dark, tawny skin, short curly hair - smiles at Jennifer as she steps in. "Ms. Walters?" he says, and then - clck - BZZZ - the doors are opening, allowing her to step inside... OSBORN'S LAIR. Osborn's 'lair' is actually a corner office - floor-to-ceiling windows on two of its sides, showing a lovely view of Midtown Manhattan. On one wall, there's a bookshelf full of manuals on war, weapon technology, biology, strategy, history - on the other side, a set of bizarre looking masks taken from various cultures - all of them hideous, all of them /monstrous/. Norman Osborn is sitting at his desk - in front of a laptop - dressed in his immaculate manner as always. Typing. Apparently, briefly distracted. Oh, and something else... ...there's a motorcycle sitting off to the side, propped up against the wall. Huh. How'd /that/ get there? "Ms. Walters," Norman states without looking up. "Please, have a seat." Of all the places she's already visited on Earth, the one she wants to visit again the least is Detroit. The first runner-up on that list is Oscorp Tower. Still, polite greetings are shared and equally pleasant smiles are flashed where appropriate. The more keen pairs of eyes will likely pierce through the theatrics, if only because the redhead's desire to be here is painfully abysmal. She is wearing attire that is predictably official, but by no means something a teacher would be caught wearing - a navy blue office jacket, a new white blouse (far less fancy and puffy than her last), a navy blue pencil skirt and tan stockings. A pair of simple black high heels announce her arrival. Last but not least, she is carrying a leather briefcase with. The moment she steps into Osborn's treasured lair, Jennifer begins her march forward-- Except she catches sight of one particularly out of place item - the motorcycle. An unseen forces grips her, rooting her to the ground. Her facial expression signals surprise, loss of words and quite possibly a hint of nausea. The woman swallows with some difficulty. "Mister Osborn", she replies, not looking away from the vehicle. Blinkblinkblink. Only then does she finally realise why she is here and for what purpose. Clearing her throat, the redhead carries herself forth. "Are you by any means injured?" The leather briefcase is opened and searched as she approaches. Withdrawn is an envelope, gripped by Jennifer's hand with a fabric handkerchief. It is offered to Norman once he is close enough. Inside is a folded A4 sheet of paper with printed words that state: "It is in our mutual interest that this conversation is private." "No." Norman's response is quick and adroit; indeed, by the way he is operating that laptop - fingers sprawling across the keys fearlessly - it seems there is no sign of the wrist sprain he suffered earlier that day. Unusual, maybe. /Maybe/. But, then there's that sheet of paper - that curious glance, an upraised eyebrow... and then his fingers retract from the keyboard - one moving underneath the desk. A button is pressed. *CLKT*. Instantly, the doors leading to the room slide shut with a loud *CLNKT*. Locking. Deadbolts, probably. Actually, maybe something /stronger/, considering just what... Norman Osborn is capable of. The lights grow a bit dimmer - and the glass that shows that lovely view begins to grow opaque with tint. Until it's almost mirror-like. "Are you familiar with TEMPEST, Ms. Walters? No, I imagine you aren't. Mmn." He gestures, then, toward the room at large. "Let's just say -- this room is now /secure/ against -- conventional surveillance." Although Jennifer silently observes the change in her surroundings with a certain air of ease about her, a trace of curiosity and caution is easily noticed. Once the office completes its metamorphosis, the woman inhales deeply, closes her eyes... and exhales. There is still a bit of reluctance before she speaks again, her tone of voice devoid of that unnatural restraint. "This is the first time in my life I'm considering a /lie/. I tried pretty damn hard to avoid the anecdotal reputation lawyers get." The briefcase clicks shut. "It really helps that I am /not/ a lawyer, at the moment." Now closed, the leather briefcase is now held in front of the officially dressed redhead. The pause that follows would last to an uncomfortable degree. "We both have secrets to keep, and I am willing to keep yours if you are willing to keep /mine/." Norman lifts a hand up toward Jennifer - as if in an attempt to stave off the rest of her words. "Ms. Walters. I've already made my decision concerning this entire - fiasco. Further discussion of our 'secrets' is not necessary. A prototype surveillance drone malfunctioned; it escaped the lab as a result of several technicians' failures to abide by standard security protocol. Because even our surveillance drones are equipped with /highly/ sensitive Oscorp proprietary technology - we were forced to detonate the drone before the situation developed into a security risk. The striketeam was mobilized to ensure no one would be harmed during the detonation process." The hand lowers, then. "As for the unusual appearance of several figures amidst the proceedings - it seems there was a mutant on the scene. In the resulting panic, this mutant used their abilities to help facilitate the evacuation process. Unnecessary, but I am nevertheless /thankful/. At the request of this good samaritan, I am respecting their wishes and withholding information concerning their identity." All so practiced. All so polished. All so /effortless/. Norman explains the details of this event to her with the air of a man who is not lying so much as /explaining/; it sounds, in every respect, as if he is relating precisely what happened to her - instead of what they are going to /say/ has happened. Relief is the first emotion that crosses Jennifer's visage. Disappointment is another. The realisation that occurs to her is not pleasant. After the thorough recalling of events - precise and rehearsed enough to suggest it is exactly what happened - Jennifer dips her chin, looking at the back of a laptop. "You've been doing this for a while, haven't you? This... tempest thing. The drones, the strike team. This story--" Her voice suddenly rises up, an undertone of panic weaving through it. "I'm not /complaining/, mind you!" "I just," she begins only to pause shortly afterwards, her voice attaining calm once more. "I just kind of feel bad. For making your day worse. For kicking up a storm. I mean, you probably came up with that story or had one of your law monkeys work it out for you, while I walk away safe and sound. Not the first time, I'll bet. And I just-- I just walk away." Beat. "I don't follow tabloids, so excuse me if you think the next question's stupid. Are you single?" Either she's getting somewhere, or actually hitting on the CEO of Oscorp Industries. An eyebrow. Norman lifts it high, almost toward the tip of that widow's peak of his. "If you're asking me if I've had to cover up an attack by what I can only describe as a /mutant-powered strike team/ on one of my offices, the answer is no - I have not been doing this for a 'while'. But," he soon continues, "I am familiar with the nature of /narratives/, Ms. Walters. And I --" He pauses, here. As if contemplating the flavor of these next words. "...am not. /Unfamiliar/. With your kind's plight." Norman Osborn does not, apparently, consider himself a mutant. At the mention of his status, /both/ eyebrows go up. Nearly into the stratosphere. "...I have not been in a relationship since the death of my wife, Emily. Fourteen years ago," Norman replies. "Why?" "Fourteen years," she echoes. Slowly, Jennifer nods in acknowledgement. The woman appears rather serene, plucking select points of interest to address. The many masks on display in the office are observed and examined at a distance. "I can only imagine the busy schedule is not the only thing that's getting in the way." Her gaze returns to the CEO. It might be considered unsettling, considering she is not just looking /at/ him, but attempting to look /into/ him, trying to make contact with the very essence of the man through his eyes. There is a question brewing in hers, although it doesn't look like she's willing to part with it. The blink of her eyes and thus a temporary loss of attention suggests Jen has abandoned it. "I ask because I believe hidden monsters come out when we're lonely. Eventually, we subconsciously /want/ them to appear, because they understand us better than anyone else. They've been with us since birth. But if we have someone else, if we share our lives with someone meaningful--" A feeble smirk is offered. "For me, it's a bike." "I have my son. Harry." It's... perhaps a bit off-putting, how quickly Norman replies with that. As if Harry were more of a shield than a connection. But, he soon continues: "Of my many problems, Ms. Walters - only one of which you have recently been privvy to - /loneliness/ has never been among them. That being said. I do not think /my/ flaws are the issue, here." Uh oh. Norman's getting to his feet. Is it... monologue time? "...someone gave me a bit of advice recently, Ms. Walters. I've tried to take it to heart. People who live under threat - people who live under duress - require /friends/. Others they can turn to when they need shelter against the elements. I am not lonely. But I am at the precipice of a very long, very dangerous storm. I suspect you and your friends may be, as well. Perhaps," and now Norman's eyes narrow, so intentfully, "we can weather it /together/." The monologue hardens Jennifer's demeanour. "A shovel you use to tunnel your way out of hard times, Mister Osborn, is not a friend. That's a tool." The woman nibbles down on her lower lip, as if to prevent herself expanding that lecture. Her eyes show eagerness - she really wants to continue, yet there is something keeping her at bay. "I have no sway over your life, Osborn. I am not very good at figuring out life's finer curves and turns, myself. I think Monday should tell you enough about my stellar decision-making abilities. Just-- All I ask is you consider my words. You're not going to win against it by being the badder of the two." A quick sigh threads her words together. "My friends see each other as friends, not tools. When the storm hits, /we/ - my friends and I - are going to brave it together. We'll work as a single unit; prepared and ready to face the darkest clouds and the highest waves. You throw away a tool the moment it gets a chip in the side, but your friends? They stay." "I'm aware. Friendship requires trust. And trust," Norman states with only the faintest hint of a smile, "is a difficult thing to secure. Doubly so for a man such as I. But make no mistake, Ms. Walters: My decision to /not/ inform the government as to the mutant strike-team who assaulted my office was not a decision I've made /lightly/. Consider it... an attempt to open dialogue. To bridge a gap. Between two sides who, on the surface, may appear opposed - but may, in fact, share many mutually beneficial interests. Or," and now that faint smile developes into a /full/ one, "think of it as my way of trying to make myself... some new friends." Norman withdraws something from his coat, now. Holding it out to Jennifer as he stands. It's... a business card. Very straightforward; OSCORP logo. Number. Email. Nothing else - no name, /nothing/. "I give you this in confidence that it will not be abused. I am not offering you a genie in the bottle, Ms. Walters. I /am/ offering you an opportunity, however. A chance to make a friend in a high place. And in exchange, all I ask... is that you might consider, at some point in the future, being /my/ friend." Again, Jennifer keenly listens to Norman, digesting every word spoken. It doesn't take a genius to arrive to a certain conclusion. "You /know/," she notes softly. "You have one secret more than me, then." A smirk begins to creep onto her own lips; it is a lopsided thing, and not a very enthusiastic one. When offered the business card, she accepts it, although it is not immediately pocketed. Instead, it is demonstratively waved as though it were a fan right between Norman and Jennifer. "I appreciate it." That smirk grows. "And the card, too, I guess," she adds with feigned disinterest, finally stuffing it in the breast pocket of her jacket. "Your business attitude is getting to your head, Mister Osborn. Try to remember what it's like to be /Norman/." She offers a hand, then. "Again, thank you for being understanding, but-- I propose a dinner. A restaurant of your choice, and you will come not as a CEO, but as a friend." Norman actually... /grimaces/ at this proposal. Something flickering in his expression - something akin to - is that pain? Oh, my. Is the thought with eating in public with a pretty red-head really that excruciating, Norman? But, then - an instant later, and his smile has returned, sliding in place of that brief flicker of discomfort: "Very well. I'll -- make arrangements. Tomorrow, perhaps. If you're free. I do know a place that makes a lovely thai curry." Norman is weaksauce against thai curry. His finger withdraws beneath the desk. A button pushed. There's... a click, as the doors are 'unlocked'; the glass windows become transluscent once more - the lights returning to their previous level. Only then does Norman Osborn take Jennifer Walters' hand; his grip is smooth - powerful - firm. The grip of a man who simultaneously does not make a business out of hard, physical labor - but does not /flee/ from it. Amusingly enough, Jennifer's handshake is similarly firm, without being too uncomfortable. It's hardly a show of power, this handshake-- At least on the redhead's side. She's already seen Norman's display of power firsthand. "It's a pleasure to speak with you, Mister Osborn. Tomorrow sounds /delightful/." It's hard not to pick up sarcasm or at the very least teasing in her tone. "I'll try my best not to disappoint." Once the handshake is broken loose, the woman casually walks over to Sam. Before gripping the handles, she actually runs her hand across the chassis. Is she petting it? Regardless, the handles are then grabbed and the bike is led towards the lift. "Thank you for looking after Sam," she offers sheepishly. Norman watches as Jennifer leads the motorcycle wordlessly; eyebrows proceed to lift upward. And then his voice floats up behind her: "...oh, is that /yours/? I was wondering. We found it in the lobby, yesterday. I was going to dissect it, maybe make it into something interesting." Beat. "Just kidding. No trouble, Ms. Walters. I'll see you tomorrrow."