ArchivedLogs:Calvin and Hobbes

Calvin and Hobbes
Dramatis Personae Norman, Goblin	2013-05-16 Norman proposes. A deal.
Location Osborn's Office
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 is alone. The office’s interior has been locked - with a press of the key, the windows darken and the lights dim; a web of technology purrs to life along the perimeter of the room - converting this simple, sparse corner office into one of the most surveillance proof pieces of real estate in New York City. This is part of a ritual. A very old, very /practiced/ one. Once he has ensured that the room is secure - twice-over - he presses another key. Beneath the masks aligned on his far wall, a mirror descends; in it, Norman Osborn is reflected. As he steps before it - arms folded behind his back - he /glares/ at the image of himself. When he speaks, it’s with... gritted determination. Pulling in the back of his mind, trying to coax that knot of embedded darkness out. Completing the ritual; summoning the demon. “You’ve been acting naughty,” Norman tells the man in the mirror. There's a silence that follows. But Norman knows this silence, by now. It is estimated to be exactly the amount of time for him to start /doubting/ himself. Then, it relents. As it almost always does. Sweet temptation. The mirror image can be seen to change. Slowly at first, then suddenly all at once - as though a torrent sweeps in, tearing bits off and leaving something other in the image's place; Yellow light shines brightly outward from inside those eye sockets, skin a little paler, a little /greener/. Splatters of dark red across the white behind his tie. The very tip of an iceberg. Just a /peek/. Norman's mirrored face twitches briefly into something ugly and twisted, before returning right back to a more... dignified stare back. Calm and inquisitively so. Copying. As a mirror is wont to do. "'Naughty'," The word is thrown back at the CEO, a familiar voice somehow more contorted and childlike-shrill than usual, coming from that slightly off-colour man in that nice suit. "What. EVER. Do you mean...?" Norman shudders beneath the weight of that vision. There is something - disturbing - about watching himself transform. /Feeling/ someone else looking through his eyes; someone else moving under his skin. No matter how many times he experiences it - it never grows familiar. He knows that the Goblin never /would/ let it grow familiar. The moment it ceases to disturb him is the moment the Goblin would find a new tactic to turn his stomach. “The girl. Nearly in /public/,” Norman adds, the tang of disapproval almost tangible in his tone. “You could have exposed us. /Me/.” His eyes narrow. “This only works,” he reminds him, “if you do not go on a rampage and /eat/ half of Manhattan.” "She peeeeked." Sing-songs Norman's warped voice back, cheerfully. "Remember that, Normie? Norm, Normie, Normal, Norman - do you remember?" The person in the mirror doesn't even have to open his mouth for the beginning of a laugh to come rolling out, fragmented and only reaching that reflection's lips in the slightest of curls. ... Until it /bursts/ free, a mixture of cackle, growl and hiss, and the image Norman is treated to gives way in a SNAP, swathes of humanity stripped from his image's face as it changes to match the monster talking more closely. Teeth, claws, undeniably sharp angles and all. Yet still, still in that suit. Still a large part... Norman. Lingering on the edge of their shared consciousness. The laugh subsides. Almost sweetly but ever so sharply focused, the Goblin continues, "Childhood. Curiosity." /Changing subjects./ Norman sucks in a sharp breath at the image flickering in front of him. The swelling; the angles. The harsh, foreign geometry. The /teeth/. At once, his trimmed nails are driving deep into his palms - deep enough to break the skin. In his mind, he imagines a placid lake; but he does not push the eyes deeper into it. It’s merely - a barrier. Between him. And this thing, gleefully giggling at him on the other side of the mirror. “Leave her be. Leave /it/ be,” Norman responds. And is this - a flicker of benevolence on his part? Perhaps; or perhaps not: “One of you is enough. And that isn’t why I brought you here, Goblin.” Norman’s hands drift to his sides, now. /Eyeing/ the demon in the mirror. Still squeezing his nails deep into his palms - /driving/ them. “I want to propose... a /truce/. An additional one. To augment our first.” The mirror image moves - impossibly! - where Norman does not. The languid, fluid movements of an animal stalking its prey, already convinced of the fact that said prey has nowhere to run. So relaxed, so confident in its strides compared to Norman's apparent strife. To call it a struggle for control would be to call the water cascading down a waterfall willfully destructive in its force. No. That, and this... this is just how the creature works. Meandering, still in that suit, over to the desk present, /dropping down/ into that chair with a ripping noise of fabric tearing as he swings not shoes, but talons heavily onto the desk's pristinely waxed surface. Sccrtchk. The chair creaks underneath him, as his back /bulges/ wrongly, and barbs erupt to spike themselves through the comfortable leather. It can't possibly be real, these noises, these images. But there it is. Right beyond the looking glass. "What is yoour... /PROPosition/." The word escapes the smiling canine-collection of a mouth like it's a plaything. To be toyed with. “Nnngh.” Again, Norman makes that noise. The perverse mockery of a businessman making a deal. Taking the position Norman has so many times. Does this thing even - /know/ how it mocks him? Norman isn’t sure. He just... /bristles/. Fingers dig so deep that now, the edges of his nails threaten to break skin; to draw blood. He hisses between his teeth, eyes locked upon the image of the man in front of him - behind that desk - the /creature/. And... “Goblin.” The name is spoken as if it were an invocation. Some way of holding his presence at bay. “This isn’t... working.” Oho. Is this Norman’s attempt at /firing/ the Goblin? It would be perverse, wouldn’t it? Or maybe this is his resignation notice, laid out upon the Goblin’s desk. The idea flutters across Norman’s mind, and makes him shudder. He’s not even sure it’s /his/ idea. Maybe it’s the Goblin’s. The source of thoughts get... fuzzy, during these conversations. “Your appetite is destroying us. /Me/.” Norman corrects, then: “No. /Us/. I want to propose --” One hand lifts, fingers thrusting their way into his cheek, knuckles scraping up, rolling just beneath the eye-socket. “--very soon, Goblin. I’m going to have... associates. Arriving. Parley. Do you remember Parley, Goblin? I asked you to eat him. You didn’t. You /failed/ me.” The funny thing about hunger is that it has as much to do with the stomach as it does with the brain. No matter how much you may want to, occasionally, pretend it doesn't exist for the sake of convenience... the /gut/ is less pliable in its functionality. Even now, with both of the men - man and monster? - looking at each other from opposite sides of that mirror, their connection proves still oh so evident when Norman's stomach /growls/ at mention of Parley. "He was... TOO useful and you KNEW IT, Normie," the creature at the desk replies, words flowing easily but... leaving a bitter aftertaste. Not the whole truth, perhaps, but crammed unceremoniously and violently into a box to feel like such. A brief slip in confidence is shown by the bearing of his teeth in displeasure, but it isn't long before - with another SSHKRRT of his suit tearing - he is /beaming/ again. "Too much FUN." His lower eyelids slide upward, gleefully. "And now you're getting along! See? A GIFT! From MEEee," he lifts a clawed hand up to point at his own face, with a lazy sharp /twirl/, before directing it toward the mirror instead, "to /you/." He almost looks serene, sitting there. So nice. Behaving. The twitch of an eyelid hinting at the fact that he wishes to do the EXACT opposite. "So WHAT." With a crackle of bone rearranging below fabric and flesh, yet more barbs SHOOT out over the Goblin's broadening shoulders and from his back, like a sickly green porcupine's, anchoring him to that chair. "ISN'T." His yet calm smile /widens/, so far, too far. "WORKING?!" Norman wheezes out his next breath; he watches the changes that overcome the Goblin with a mixture of - dread? Horror? Fascination? /Jealousy/? - as his fingers /drag/ into his cheek, as if trying to tear into the flesh, strip it away and just see - if the Goblin is under there, somewhere. Green and giggling and /sprouting/ more barbs. “Nnnn. More of a gift than you know,” Norman replies. “Your /appetite/, Goblin. You can’t see... past your gut. You know. It’s -- marvelous,” Norman says, and then there’s a bit of a - twitch, there. The start of a giggle. That Norman /suppresses/. Hammering his mind down upon the brief urge. Straightening, forcing himself to stand with /dignity/. “But dangerous. You’ve been expanding. /Infecting/. The more I lose control...” Mmmn. “Emma is coming, Goblin. I know you aren’t afraid of telepaths. Your brain is... so very /tricky/. But this is different,” Norman tells him, /pulling/ his hand away from his face. Gripping it besides his hip. “Because she’ll be working with /Parley/. To translate. Your madness. To figure out. What buttons to push. It will take time, Goblin,” wheeze, “time and sweat and tears, but. With their help. I will. Lock you up inside of a /cage/. In my mind. And feed you. /Scraps/.” There’s a ‘but’ there, somewhere. Goblin can /feel/ it in Norman’s head. Before he even puts it into words: “But maybe there’s an alternative.” The chair the Goblin was seated in spins violently off to the side, tattered padding and shredded leather and all. At once, the less dignified half of the conversation is brought BACK to where it was, RAMMING into glass head first. Clawed hands press heavily against the mirror - nay, the WINDOW between the two individuals, as condensation builds up from snarled heaving outward and hitting that infuriating barrier. It is a very good thing there /was/ a 'but'. If there hadn't been, then what is now a /wrong/, green mass of continuous movement, teeth, writhing tentacles and alternatingly flattening and bristling barbed spines, might try to press THROUGH, rather than settle for staring, oh so closely. Threatening to /push/ with both arms against that slowly built up fog of breath. The Goblin may as well be a child, at this point. A child with a shotgun, cocked and loaded, listening to someone telling him his ticket to Disney World has just been promised to another, /better/ sibling. UNLESS...?! Norman Osborn is not a man who is easily intimidated. This has a lot to do with the fact that, when placed under duress, he has the ability to turn into a green, razor-toothed 8 foot tall MURDER-MACHINE. But at the sight of the Goblin’s anger - at the sight of the Goblin bristling, /crashing/ against that mirror, as if he intends to break through - claws raking against glass, breath washing up and fogging it - for a moment, Norman Osborn is fucking /terrified/. He steps back. Gasping. Wheezing. Hands fumbling for the desk behind him. Catching himself. Trying to compose. Calm, Norman Osborn. There is no one here. No one here but you. And... him. In your head. Body. Whatever. He closes his eyes and sucks in a long, deep breath. /Steadying/ himself. His eyes close. “Goblin. We’ve been playing this game for over a decade. Tentative truces. Secret pacts. Manuevering against one another. And though you lack tactical insight, you are... /winning/. Through sheer. Persistence. Which leaves me with two choices. /End/ you. Or...” What is that or...? Is Norman /teasing/ the Goblin with it? Maybe a little. Or maybe he’s just fighting for that distant composure - trying to keep his hands shaking. Rising to stand, he at last - brings his hands up to straighten his suit. Adjust his tie. He is having a /meeting/. This is /business/. And the Goblin - is just another CEO. “I propose a merger.” Within the time that passes between that fateful 'or' and the actual offer being thrown up into the air, the Goblin pulls himself back. Broadening still, joints /crackling/ as the tips of his claws scrape across but never /quite/ lose connection with the surface of the glass, in preparation to throw his whole weight forward and to come crashing through that mirror to emerge on the other side. But... he doesn't. Every heaving breath draws his shoulder slightly lower, and eventually he drops to the ground on all fours, a little... deflated? Large, yellow eyes peer at Norman as swirls of condensation on the mirror shrink back to nothing where their collected moisture does not drip downward along the barrier. The Goblin has been silenced. Except for an utterly calm and unabashedly /concerned/, "... What?" Breathe, Norman. He does so. And as he does so, he seems to grow - more composed. Stronger. More in /control/. He’s walking, now, toward the mirror - striding, as if he were in the midst of a board meeting, preparing to make some point upon a display latched on the wall. “Parley and Emma are going to be looking at your - my - /our/ minds. To understand the scope of the challenge,” Norman explains. “Once we understand, one of two things can be done - we can begin the process of separation - a process, I suspect, that will leave us both the lesser - or we can begin the process of /integration/.” Closer, now. Close enough to touch the mirror in front of him. And then Norman /does/ - reaching out with a finger to brush the surface of it. Almost... affectionate. But not quite. “Goblin. I...” Grimace. As if speaking these words brought him pain. “.../admire/ you. Your ambition. Your /hunger/. You have... pulled me through difficult times. But you lack patience. You lack foresight. You lack... /temperance/.” “I am suggesting... a negotiation between the two of us. With Parley and Emma’s help. I suspect it will not be... easy. I do not even know if it is /possible/,” Norman adds. “But. Step by step, we will. Secede territory to one another. And allow them to... combine us. Where it can be done.” Norman sucks in a sharp breath. “...a body cannot sustain two Masters. Not when they are opposed. Either one head must be decapitated... or they must be /united/ in their goals.” Though the exact focus of the pupilless eyes is difficult to pinpoint, the Goblin's attention can still be seen to waver. From Norman, to the ground, back to Norman, then... to the ground. Like a cat having spent minutes chasing the dot of a laser only to have it vanish before its very eyes. He rises, his form shrinking back in order to redistribute his weight and to facilitate standing straight more easily, tentacles and spines alike falling flat against his back and largely out of sight. In this silence, he thinks. Thoughts Norman is not privy to, but thoughts which leave signs in their wake all the same, peppering the creature's face with a multitude of expressions. Their reign of his face takes turns - fear comes first, but only so briefly, for it is /customarily/ followed by anger. Then, confusion, anger again, intrigue until finally... A maniacal huff of a giggle, followed by several more as he starts slinking forward, toward that mirror, thrusting a slowly shrinking claw up to the mirror, where Norman had brushed past it, as his confidence visibly returns to him in spades. Nothing of what Norman is shared of the Goblin's mind nor smile, bright with slowly receding points, carries a single hint of malice. No, no, this? This is /excitement/. "Let's see them TRY..." His smile widens, once more. "... /brother/."