ArchivedLogs:A Single Throne

A Single Throne
Dramatis Personae Norman
In Absentia	2013-06-24 Norman gets a visit from Mr. Billings!
Location <NYC> Osborn's Office - Oscorp Tower - Midtown East
Once you get past Norman's secretary - and the set of large wooden doors - you'll find yourself in Norman Osborn's inner sanctum - located at the very top of Oscorp Tower. The corner office's floor-to-ceiling windows grant a breathtaking view of Midtown East Manhattan. It is otherwise extraordinarily sparse - a bookshelf with various volumes on war, history, technology, and biology - an organic looking desk with laptop - and a shelf of masks, all from various cultures, all notably grotesque and monstrous. Norman Osborn's latest secretary is a handsome fellow with nothing but smiles; even the sight of Mr. Billings won't be enough to chip the solid granite of that implacable cheer. "Mr. Osborn," the secretary immediately informs his employer via intercom, "Mr. Billings is--" "Send him in," comes the -- rumpled response. Something more like a /growl/, really. The door buzzes -- the chambers unlock -- and there is Mr. Osborn, sitting at his desk. Working on his laptop -- as if you'd ever expect to see him doing something /else/. He is dressed, as always, for battle; a black suit, white shirt, black tie -- and those shoes polished so well that when he holds a nickel over them he can read the date. It is important for a diplomat to keep up appearances. For someone as unfortunate as Mister Billings, that task has been proving increasingly difficult. Oh, sure, his suit is as immaculate as ever, an unobtrusive grey, contrasted by his white dress shirt and complemented by the pitch black tie. But since Norman's last seen him, however, the man has balded further, leaving his hair mostly circling his temples and the back of his head. His forehead now has faintly visible wrinkles, and the same can be said of the relatively recent appearance of crow's feet. Not to mention he looks like he's been missing sleep. Then again, when Norman last saw him, Oscorp Industries was just knocking against the government's door, and Mister Billings made it his mission to let that knocking go unheard for as long as possible. His appearance is hardly a coincidence. Doctor Doom knows how to insult, and it's hard to see this as anything but that. "Mister Osborn," he addresses the man at the laptop, his voice filled with notably less conviction than when the two men last spoke. A suitcase clutched firmly in his aged hands, he approaches the CEO carefully. "I don't think I need to inform you on whose behalf I have arrived." "Mmmn," Norman Osborn responds, his eyes still glued to the laptop -- he's yet to raise his gaze up to meet Mr. Billings! His fingers move, taping in a series of strokes, finishing something -- before at last, his eyes sweep up to meet the middling-age diplomat, and: "Mr. Billings. Are you carrying any essential Latverian technology on your person -- or in your body?" He asks this -- so blaisely. As if it were the most casual thing in the world to ask of someone. For Norman's part, though recent months have been unkind, he wears the stress well; he /doesn't/ look like he's been missing sleep. But there's a certain curiousity with which he studies Mr. Billings -- as if the man's current state is very important information. A consequence of extensive work beneath Doctor Doom, perhaps? The laptop closes with a delicate click. "Nothing /in/ my body just yet, mostly because I've given repeated consent to the, ah, alternatives." If anything, at least Mister Billings manages to keep up with Norman Osborn. But whereas earlier that comment might have been terse and level, now it is followed by an anxious chortle. His demeanour then desperately claws its way back into diplomatic stillness. "I come unarmed, Mister Osborn. Doctor-- Doctor Doom requested that I inform you of that, even in case you did not ask me that. I have to add, he was pretty sure you would-- Either you or one of the guards below." A quick, diminutive sigh escapes him. "I also assume you know /why/ I am here?" Norman Osborn produces a smile -- one stretched thin with both a lack of patience and a general air of irritability. "Oh, I'm not worried about your armanents, Mr. Billings. I was asking because on the off-chance Dr. Doom had -- mmmn, 'added' something to you, this next bit might actually be -- painful." And then Norman Osborn's finger is slipping under the desk -- and depressing a button. The windows go from transparent to near-opaque; the lights dim. A web of electronic interference flares up on all four corners of the room -- blocking signals on a wide band of spectrums from entering or leaving. Radio signals, electromagnetic interference, even the transmission of electricity is interrupted -- at a press of a switch, Norman Osborn's office effectively becomes a mix between a Faraday Cage and Fort Knox. "Doom's technology relies on wireless energy transmission. If you were carrying any such technology," Norman tells him, "it might have ceased to operate just now. And yes, I know why you're here. Doom wants an update on my anti-telepathy tech. He thinks," Norman adds, "I'm just stringing him along." There is nary a reaction from Mister Billings as the defences of the room go up, although he does observe the changes with a curious air about him. Once the office is completely secure, his attention returns to Osborn once again. It appears the diplomat is clean, so to speak. "I am a diplomat, Mister Osborn, not a scientist," he notes with unease rife in his tone. With a shake of his head, he continues, "But one thing I /do/ know. If Victor van Doom was really hunting you, you would have to sleep and eat in this room, in the state it is now. Consider that a warning, not a threat." Billings? Warning Norman Osborn? What has the world come to. Still, he comes here with a mission, and not even in this situation does Mister Billings swerve to be more empathetic. "I have no idea what he thinks. As a diplomat, part of my duties is to be receptive to the needs of other people, so that I an act upon them." A thoughtful gaze examines Norman's reaction. "/Or/ deny them." With that confession out of the way, the attache continues: "But I've given up on... /him/. He informs me of his needs, and I... obey them. And right now, he wants me to find out where you stand with your research. He also desires to forward the question of why you hold back on extending Oscorp to Latveria, something the two of you apparently agreed upon-- Verbally, not contractually." "Ah, I apologize," Norman tells Billings, hands steepling in front of him -- suddenly saddled with a cheeky little grin. "I've failed to clarify my intent -- the purpose of activating the room's defenses is not to protect myself against Doom's ire. It's to annoy him." And then there's a gesture, toward Billings himself. "The man's a control freak." Oh, like /Norman's/ one to talk. "I find it highly likely he's using some means to record this little dialogue so he can briefly review it and use that absurdly brilliant mind of his to ferret out the truth concerning Oscorp's status with anti-telepathy technology. By rendering this room dark," Osborn adds, "I'm just trying to piss him off." Norman reaches, then. For a small black device; it's more or less just a remote control, but slimmer, tinier -- like a miniature MP3 player. By manipulating the button atop of it, he activates a powerful projecter on the ceiling -- one capable of broadcasting light in any direction. It proceeds to do so, a far wall displaying an image -- of a small, black device. "We have three potentially viable anti-telepathic devices in the work. This is the first, and the one I consider most possible. One of my best men -- expert in the realm of neuroprosthetics, actually -- calls it the 'Screecher'." Norman pauses, before adding, almost as if it were an after-thought: "Extending Oscorp's interests into Latveria is something I'm /very/ interested in doing -- in conjunction with the work on the Osborn Institute. I want the two projects to work in parallel; I'm hoping that by opening a like-minded institute in Latveria, and demonstrating success there, we'll be able to demonstrate to America that it's a good idea. Largely, the work has stalled over -- financial issues. But those financial issues are finally being addressed -- the Institute is gaining investors," Norman states, /quite/ cheerfully. "Very rich ones." When the images are projected on the wall, Mister Billings turns to observe them. If one thing hasn't changed, it's that he is still the quiet and observing kind, watching and listening until Norman would finally fall silent. It is then that the diplomat turns to face the CEO again. "I am unsure if I can share the following information with you, but it dawns on me that the monarch only provides me with the information he /wants/ to be shared. So-- Doctor Doom wants to create a mutant ghetto. A whole mutant city, in fact. He would no doubt sell it as a means to escape prejudice, a bridge between unstable ground and society proper. I imagine a school-like institute would function very well in such an environment." A hand rises from the handle of that suitcase to the tie, so that he may adjust it. Billings clears his throat, as well. "I come here entirely free of any means of recording our conversation, Mister Osborn. Otherwise, I would not tell you that Victor van Doom is not a man even /you/ would want to upset. Tall skyscrapers, thick steel walls and the fine layers of the US judicial system spoil us, makes us think we're untouchable. Doctor Doom comes from a land where none of that exists. He is a /savage/ who knows exactly where to prod to make that neat card house collapse. He is... not so much a control freak as he is the... one man who ridicules control freaks. He's taken an interest in Alice, you, that-- feline mutant. /Me/. Face it, Mister Osborn. We're all control freaks, and we've all become inter-connected because of /him/." Finally, Mister Billings adds: "Why have you denied him the anti-telepathy research progress?" "...a mutant ghetto," Osborn notes, eyebrows pinching together as he considers this fact -- twisting it like a knot, puzzling over it. "A mutant city? In Latveria? You know," Norman adds, "such a thing could be -- the atmosphere for mutants in the world is growing increasingly hostile. Providing a safe place for them -- a place where they are welcome, protected from harm -- a mutant 'Israel' --" There's a snap of his teeth, then. Perhaps instinctive. Maybe a little more revealing than Osborn intends. Like he was imagining them all clustered in their little city, and him -- arriving to devour them, one by one. At the mention of Doctor Doom's savagery, that tangled knot of a brow smooths out; there's almost a /cheerfulness/ about his words: "You're right, of course. 'Control freak' -- mmn. Wrong term. One more applicable to /our/ ilk. He's a warlord. He comes from a place where might makes right. I was quite fascinated by his rise to power, you know -- the challenge he faces," Norman adds, with the sort of gentleness that indicates -- has he taken Mr. Billings' into his confidence? -- "is the same that every brilliant conquerer faces: It is difficult to forge an empire. But it is even harder to /maintain/ it." "Maintenance requires compromise; it requires temperance; it requires the willingness to surrender your vision for the vision of lesser men. In short," Norman says, /apparently/ on a monologue bender, "it requires that single attribute which great men, by necessity, must lack: Humility. I suspect Doom's ambitions will either destroy him, a large portion of the world, or -- both." At the last question, Norman's response is -- simple: "Because telepathy remains one of his few weaknesses. You can tell him I said that," he adds. "I suspect he already knows. But with the way this technology is moving -- it's only a matter of time. Better he acquire it through me than someone else. At least I'll get a cut." Little else is said on the matter of the mutant town concept; Mister Billings can tell when Norman Osborn gets going, and this is one of those moments. Letting sleeping-- well, nigh awake dogs lie, the diplomat instead chooses to tend to something else. "I can't tell if he's been making any compromises, since I am not intimately familiar with his, uh, /vision/. I'm not sure if anyone is. But Latveria's been-- It's going to have a few pages in history books. It's a dinky little corner in the middle of nowhere, but every inch of it is combed with great care." There is undoubtedly some degree of fascination in the politically minded man. "The reconstruction effort alone-- And he's been reaching out to international businesses, even working on benefits that verge on socialism. I have no idea how, but he knows how to run a country-- a small country, anyhow. But..." It is here that his fascination meets a dead end. "Humility, you say. Yes, I somehow doubt he even knows what the word means." Mister Billings examines Norman closely, then. A more professional tone is assumed as the diplomat asks, "When can... Doctor Doom expect results, or further updates?" "I saw. The country's progress is -- the word remarkable," Norman agrees, "seems like such a trifling word to use. But conquerers are never satisfied with what they do /well/." There's something about the way Norman's eyes get distant when he says this; as if he were listening to another voice, suddenly. "It is within their nature to over-extend their reach." "Mmn. Let's consider this the first update," Norman pronounces, and then -- he is reaching within his desk! -- to produce a portfolio. Small, slim, manila; filled with papers. "There are three proposed technologies -- the 'screecher', a device that would emit a wave of telepathic 'noise' that would be painful to those sensitive to sound -- a 'scrambler', a device that produces an extensive wealth of 'noise' on a variety of spectrums, in hopes of drowning out a telepath's ability to pick out anything useful -- and a type of reflective material we're experimenting with that may be able to mute or otherwise entirely block signals from the mind extending outward or reaching inward. The latter," Norman says, with a slight grin, "is what I imagine Doom would be most interested in. We're already running tests with help from MacNail's funding; I intend to acquire Shaw's backing as well, soon. After that, I want to start testing the prototypes on Latverian soil -- on telepaths. With Doom's permission, of course." "And I am pretty sure you will have it." The portfolio is accepted after Mister Billings approaches the CEO closer still. Curiously enough, there is a faint reluctance on the diplomat's part, not unlike that of a dog offered a treat after being hit with a rolled up newspaper. After the portfolio is received, he opens up his suitcase and stashes away the acquired documents. "I'm afraid I'm falling into a trap, but-- You do realize your feline employee - he is your employee, isn't he? - went to Latveria along with Miss Lambton? Both had access to the more secure layers of the Latverian mutant research facility. I assume it's for reasons similar to why /I/ am here - to insult you. Strange, if I had to... pick any date for you, it would be Doctor Doom. Consider me surprised the two of you don't get along." It's hard to say if Norman /actually/ knew this fact. He doesn't visibly respond to Billings' question; not a flutter of eyebrows -- not a flicker of response on his face -- Norman is /good/ when it comes to hiding his secrets. But, as he hands the portfolio over to Billings, he /does/ respond to that last bit: "...we don't get along, Mr. Billings, because we both understand a very simple, inescapable truth." Norman releases the portfolio from his grip; for a moment, Billings might detect a flicker of those hidden muscles -- a hesitation, as if he were reluctant to hand even /this/ morsel over to Doom. "Two men cannot sit upon a single throne."