ArchivedLogs:Bargaining

Bargaining
Dramatis Personae Goblin, Emma	2013-04-11 '
Location <NYC> Emma's Apartment - East Village
Emma Frost's home has all the characteristics of one that has been left to sit idle without its owner; The evening has drawn all light from the rooms, leaving it with a darkness that seems eager to melt the dark and starkly white together in the absence of the sun's rays that may otherwise make it through the windows. There's a silence that hangs somewhat... unnaturally, though. Heavily. As if it shouldn't be there at all. And indeed, it shouldn't. Upon arriving at her apartment, Emma should find the door slightly ajar. It would have been closed after its last visitor, but that's a little hard to accomplish when the handle and the metal parts it usually attaches to have been torn clear off, leaving wood chips and splinters in its wake. The one tiny sliver of light that spills into the apartment draws a line straight to a white armchair further inside. Moved, perhaps, to sit there precisely in that spot. And sitting in that armchair... is Norman Osborn. Suit, tie, classy shoes, that /hair/ of his. Yes, definitely Norman. Only the tie that he's wearing is a little loose around the neck, and his collar's sticking out one way. And he's comfortable. Really sort of outrageously so, /lounging/ lazily in that chair as his fingers run idly over an arm rest, permitting himself a smile - nay - a grin in the direction of that lovely little spill of light. Emma arrives home after a long day of interviewing subcontractors and contractors and dealing with demolition and shoring up of structures at the Hellfire Club. Her suit remains impeccably white despite of this, but has chosen to wear black boots today to take further precautions. She's distracted as she walks up to her door, her keys jangling in one hand as she reads her phone, held securely in the other. When she reaches for the door knob, however, she finds something is wrong. Telepathic senses wake up and scan the vicinity for life, trying to get a feel for how many minds are in the area and if there is anyone inside her apartment still. Light fingers reach out, pinky and ring finger still curled around her keychain, while thumb, pointer and middle fingers press against the door, nudging it open slowly. Jaw is set. Eyes are immediately drawn to the light in the room and finally, to the figure in the chair. Hesitant to enter the room, Emma hovers near the hallway still, feet drawing her in only a foot or two. "Mr. Osborn, what can I do for you?" At first, Mr. Osborn seems to be here by his lonesome. There's a familiar mix of other individuals in the building, minds perhaps familiar to Emma's, and even if they aren't, they belong. Except... except for two others. On the roof. Minds that are sharp, focused. Should she seek further outward, she would find more. Dotted, high up. Attention drawn in her direction. "You don't keep food here. Why not?" The man in Emma's apartment replies with a voice to match that grin- airy and peppy and just a little strangely pitched. And... utterly demanding through it all. Mentally, it's even worse, pressing, twisting, hungrily provoking-- Why no food, Emma. << /WHY NOT/?! >> He sits, calmly, his brain an utter mess. As dark and treacherous and hard to navigate as any unfamiliar place of living when devoid of any speck of light. Devoid, in fact, of its owner. Norman Osborn, Emma should come to realise, is not available right now. "I very rarely eat here," Emma admits, quietly, keeping her bag close by her side, unable to look at her phone enough to poke that touch screen marvel into summoning help. Instead, she steps in further and meets his gaze for now. "I grab dinner at the club, for the most part, and only come here to sleep and shower." She inhales deeply and heads further into the room, depositing her bag over on a table by the door, resting its strap carefully over the bulk of the material. "If you would like, I could send out for food." Her mind is busy, examining those other minds with a little more thoroughness, getting a feel for what they are doing here and why - if they know why their boss is here and what his... their plan is for her. She skirts around the darkness in Osborn's mind for the most part, but she does listen to it, looking for opportunities, should they arise. "If I had known you were coming, I would have been prepared." The minds outside have few matters going on in their heads but the job they're on - the kind of job that one gets paid far too much for, the kind that sacrifices deeper knowledge of their task for greater profit. The kind of minds of people willing to /kill/. "Did you know," Emma's intruder rises from the chair, shoulders pushed back, chest out, chin up. "Did you know there are at least ssseven? Eight - nine - I FORGET," There's something gleeful about his face, then,"/Some/ amount of snipers with their sights trained on all possible exits to this apartment building that will shoot you to itty bitty smithereens if you come out before I give them a super special signal?" Inside his mind, what crumbles off of the tightly wound blackness is a playful little song. A mockery. << Prepared, preparedprepared PREPARED I wonder how... >> "No, I did not know that." It's honest. Emma has not put the effort into figure out exactly how many minds were out there and what their intentions are. She is a bit distracted with the individual in front of her. She wets her lips and watches him rise. "Thank you. That is very informative." She softens her tone and puts a small smile on her lips, one that distracts from the intent focus of her eyes. "Isn't that..." What is, for all intents and purposes, Norman's head, dips slightly to watch Emma from below a mostly relaxed brow, "... what we do? We're open. Informative. /InFORMATIVE/." What exactly prompted that echo does not make itself clear. He promptly turns to start moving towards a window. Ambling, relaxed. Not the sort of relaxed that Norman Osborn usually displays - no thinly veiled pressurised valves waiting to pop loose. Or perhaps the veil is simply of a more effective brand. "... Aren't we, Ms. Frost?" "After a fashion, sir." Emma replies, her hands clasping in front of her, eyes following him around the room. "Every party I plan seems to be about disseminating someone's point of view to others, in a more palatable form, in some cases." She keeps calm and only unfolds her hands to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. She's waiting, coiled and ready, absorbing the scope of this encounter, thinking, processing, and waiting most of all. "But your information needed none of my dressing. It was a phenomenal idea, the school, as a way to really reach out to the community and engage them far beyond the talks of military and police contracts." She sets her feet shoulder width apart and relaxes into the stance, conserving energy. The visitor, disconnected somehow from his body in the way he saunters and /sways/ quite contently, plants his hands firmly onto a windowsill to look out over what can be seen outside. Scanning the skyline in particular. After that, he breathes out the slowest breath he can possibly manage, head dropping to hang low, obscured by the shoulders and back of his perfectly tailored suit. "And yet, I'mmm, hmm ... upset." He chuckles. A single exhale, at first, but many more roll past shortly afterward. "Do you know who I, in this case should... consider to be singularly -- ... ssiingularly, fun word -- responsible? " His head turns, then, to peer past a shoulder and back into Emma's direction. Norman's head, yes. But those eyes... those eyes she will remember from inside of that head. Glowing bright yellow against the dark cityscape outside. Even his skin, now, seems to have taken on a slightly more sickly shade. "I will wager that you blame me," Emma replies simply. "He did say you were far too clever." Comes an easy response in sing-song, from the man now leaving the window to start moving slowly toward Emma, shoulders down, one hand snaking its way up to loosen the tie further. Fingers clawing impatiently at its knot as his back arches. Those eyes, they stay on her. His voice grows more strained still, as if instead of that tie loosening, it's strangling him. "But you can still redeeeem yourself. How would you like that." << oh come on come closer come inside >> Behind yellow eyes, something beckons. Flaking rust off a magnificent but creaking, sleeping metal monstrosity shrouded in black. But there's... warmth, somewhere. Light. A tiny little sliver that sneaks past, so much like what poked past that torn open door. Inviting a peek. "I would love a chance to redeem myself," Emma admits, drawing in a deep breath, the hand hidden behind her right squeezing, housing most of her tension until she is able to take a deep breath and release it. "But it did not take a lot of intelligence to figure out that you are displeased with me. The snipers gave it away." The change in the darkness before her is eyed with interest, but instead of taking the direct route toward that light - memories of the night of the gala providing adequate discouragement, Emma instead chooses to examine the door itself, eyeing it like a trap. She keeps her distance. She keeps herself safe from curiosity. At once, Norman's face loses so much of what makes it that. A sharp exhale that never quite makes it to a chortle stretches the corners of his mouth just slightly too wide-- inside his mouth, his teeth are sharp. Canine. Wrong. "Delicious." The yellow glow flares brighter, and he /stalks/ forward, yet closer. "But wrong. The mooksss, the little itty bitty helpers, those are just standard procedure with someone like you. /Special/." The last word leaves him in what almost looks to be an involuntary twitch of his jaw, followed by a tongue that slithers down pointed shiny whites. Inside that darkness, the visitor's thoughts remain hard to pinpoint. Dragged outward from places it does not belong. But more stirs, further inward. The sliver of light widens, only slightly, giving way to one more whisper of information. << THE SCHOOL NEEDS YOU >> "I see. I will keep that in mind." Emma inhales deeply, her eyes widening involuntarily as he shifts further and further from human, further and further from Norman Osborn. She takes a second once more before stepping forward as well and meeting that yellow gaze. "You were saying? A way to redeem myself? How can I be of service to you?" Intriguing whispers escape the trap that is Norman Osborn's darkness soaked mind. Instead of intruding, following, or seeking, Emma just offers a single word, the most threadbare of whispers, the quietest of thoughts, and a conjunction. Upon the tail end of << THE SCHOOL NEEDS YOU >> she tacks on the word, << because... >> The word is as stripped of everything Emma as much as possible, a ghost thought, meant to goad more information from the source while making it seem like the other mind's idea, not Emma's at all. << BECAUSE IT IS YOUR REWARD >> Without warning, that opening to the shared mind tightens to a hair-thin crack, once more. The humanity slips from Norman's shape like a loose-fitting robe, head lowering and shoulders jutting higher. Distorted. Muscles twitching and stretching the seams, threatening to rip the whole thing apart with an inhuman posture. The tie still dangles from his neck like a dead snake, vastly out of place on a decreasingly less human creature. Stalking, staring, grinning. "Pretty. Eyes." "Yes, thank you. I appreciate the compliment." Emma inhales as she waits, still trying to keep panic at bay. "How about I do some work for you, for the school, free of charge?" she offers, voice easy and positive, without a hint of shaking. "I know that I am rather tied to the Hellfire Club and their duties a good deal of my time, but I would like to offer to throw a fundraising event for your school to make up for how the club let you down in the past." She manages a smile, but her eyes are still a hair too wide. "I doesn't need to be held at the club, but I am sure I could convince the board it would be an opportunity for all parties to come together again and heal old wounds." There's something that erupts from that fanged mouth, something that may well be a laugh. Or a snarl. "Ooollld wounds. Wounds. Yes. That sounds--" a spasm interrupts him, throat contracting further as he finally closes the gap between himself and Emma's personal bubble. "Delightful." He stands, now, muscles tensing further, skin warping, features pointier, hardly anything left of the man who sat in the chair before. Staring right at Emma. Poised. Like a cat, waiting for its prey to make its first move toward escape. There is... something else, however. The crack that is the access to his mind trembles and flickers wider. Not voluntarily, this time. Something else writhes, forcing the machine back into working condition through all of the decay and rot. With it, though, the hungry, greedy, demanding, /childish/ voice grows louder in Emma's mind. << I HAVE FELT YOU IN HERE PRETTY EYES YOU /WILL/ FIX IT >> << Fix what? >> Emma engages, the look in her eyes is hard and solid, her mind clear and strong. She sets her jaw and stares back at the creature before her. << If you want my help, you will /back/ /down/. >> Christmas has come early. The mouth on that face? It widens once more, stretching beyond pointy teeth and molars. What utter joy. Those eyes brighten with the grin that reaches them. Whether he backs down is a matter of opinion. A newfound excitement an satisfaction that come with the success of a plan are clearly evident within his mind, but physically, he stays decidedly put. A tensing of muscles and a steady stream of thoughts centered around the way different shapes and different colours and different SPECIES' EYES TASTE suggests that he would so, so very much rather be lunging forward, but intentions of doing so are sorely lacking. If only they weren't. The answer comes after a brief internal struggle that flits by so fast it's hard to catch a proper glimpse of. Something that seems to leave him... weaker? << HIM >> << You're asking me to lock away or destroy the man who doesn't bring snipers to my apartment and threaten to eat my eyes, >> Emma clarifies, her expression clear. << So you can be free of him. >> She stares directly at those demonic eyes. << And what are you going to do for me? >> << HE HAS THE SAME MEANS TO KILL YOU >> The voice in Emma's mind sing-songs and screeches all at once. << THEY /ARE/ HIS MEANS at least I tell you about them >> With a blink of those ever-staring, hungry eyes, the beast that is very much not Norman finally shrinks back. A swipe at his own throat with a /clawed/ hand tears the top button off of his shirt, the tie falling to the floor as a sleeve rips at the shoulder as a result of the sudden movement and warped muscles pulling. "It's up to you--" A pause, as those yellow eyes dart around the apartment for a moment, "Leave him alone, and leave the school up to me - us - Normienorm - or..." His nostrils flare - inside his mind, the cogs are starting to turn, tearing shadowy cobwebs from where they anchored themselves down. He's been biding his time, but humanity is quick to make its return at the most inconvenient of times, "end him... throw the fundraiser. And have a /say/." In another spasm, he turns-- toward the door, one clawed hand on his face as he starts to slink towards it. "/Think of the children/." He tries. But even he can't help but laugh. Cackle, in fact, at his own joke. Still, there's a hint of truth in it, perhaps. "The problem is, I am not completely convinced that you would have a school without him." Emma replies blandly, watching the goblinesque creature start for the door. "Shall we table this conversation for later?" Bright eyes are pressed shut against an increasingly pink hand. Norman is once more recognisable under what had grabbed hold of him. And Emma? She gets very little more than a chuckle to follow the cackle from before as he leaves the apartment just as it was. No verbal answer, even his mind's too busy sorting this from that to mentally manage a coherent enough string of words. Barely a minute later, he is gone from the area, whisked off in a car. Leaving nothing but a mangled tie. The minds dotted around the area, so focused, so /tense/, dissolve into unimportance. Back to their daily life, and a paycheck without a claimed victim. Emma stands very still for a while. When the once and future Osborn leaves, she heads into her bedroom. She gathers clothing and her valuables. She leaves. Mind open and aware, she heads back to the office to sleep there. The super gets a call on the way out about the door, where Emma will allow herself to play the emotional victim to get that fixed as soon as possible.