ArchivedLogs:Changing Gears

Changing Gears
Dramatis Personae Emma, Norman	2013-03-28 Emma catches Norman after Jackson at the Oscorp Gala.
Location <NYC> Hellfire Club - Upper East Side
Monochrome elegance at its finest: the Hellfire Club plays home to New York's elite, and has spared no expense in making that clear. Black and white marble tiles the floor, the pattern distinctly that of a chessboard. Rich wood paneling lines the walls, and the alcoves of the entry hall hold statues reminiscent of chess pieces. Meeting and dining halls provide plentiful space for the club's members to congregate, whatever their needs. The Hellfire's library, while far smaller than its ballroom in size, is far more prized in content. Hundreds of volumes line the meticulously tended shelves, the rarest kept carefully in climate-controlled cases under the watchful eye of the mansion's librarian. High-backed leather chairs and plush couches provide quiet reading spaces beneath soft lighting, and tall windows look out to the mansion's gardens beyond. The main ballroom of the mansion is vast and opulent, its ceiling vaulted and the balconies above curving gracefully away from the grand staircase -- an ideal place from which to Make An Entrance. The hallways that branch off from the staircase run in opposing monochrome: the stark white court's quarters to one side, the dark black court's quarters to the other. The Oscorp Gala is just not the same without Norman Osborn present -- swimming through the crowd like a shark through blood-tinted water. He's suddenly disappeared from the floor after a brief conversation with Jackson and Micah -- there are a few whispered utterances about his white-knuckled fists and the stiffness of his smile -- but most partygoers suspect the man probably just had a sudden urgent need to use the bathroom. A bathroom that is currently guarded by the always-stern, always-silent bald-headed Mr. Shaw -- Norman Osborn's personal valet, body-guard, and naer-do-well (and a man who's been /thoroughly/ prepped to recognize and defend himself from psychic intrusion!). Osborn emerges about fifteen minutes later. His eyes lack that sharp, gleaming luster of pleasure, but his smile has been carefully erected back in place. Dressed in his black tux -- with a dark-green bow-tie -- he seems to have reclaimed whatever composure he briefly lost. That well-oiled machine of a mind is still rumbling pleasantly; the faint traces of rust that linger on the edges might be a little /deeper/, but they are still held in place. The black, pulsating tumor in his mind is stirring -- but it has been subdued. Norman Osborn is once more in control. Emma would not be worth her salt if she did not notice the party's chief person disappear for an extended period of time immediately following talking to one of its more controversial guests. She watches like a hawk from her position in the room and waits, her mind passively waiting for people to notice him leaving the restroom - as well as some sort of visual clue. She floats over in Norman Osborn's direction, her strapless, white ball gown swishing quietly around her, and meets him a little ways away, studying him before stepping up with a quiet little smile. "Is everything okay, sir? You were in there quite a while. I had terrible thoughts that the food was off." Emma smiles sweetly, hands clasped around a jeweled minaudiere in front of her, a strap also hanging around her wrist. There is certainly a smaller version of her tablet inside. "Is there anything I can do to make your evening more enjoyable?" "Mmn." Norman blinks, a moment, at Emma's sudden manifestation in front of him; she can feel the internal gears of his mind twisting and rolling, like some extraordinary puzzle of interlocking pistons working to rearrange themselves into a right and /proper/ configuration. There's a solid psychic *CLUNK* as the pieces lock back into place -- and he smiles, warm and polite. "No," he tells her, "just had to -- use the facilities rather unexpectedly." Half-truth. Norman's mind is back in control, but for a moment -- the signs are still there, even /without/ digging deep. He had to go into full-on crisis mode. Something was... on the verge of getting out. The image of those yellow eyes flash -- not the /actual/ eyes. Just Norman's recollection of them. Norman Osborn was three seconds away from doing something that would have likely ended his entire career in an instant. "Very well, sir," Emma replies, letting go of a small breath. "If you have any further discomfort, I can send for the club's private physician. We do want you to feel your best during your announcement." The woman is all business. She couldn't possibly be ignoring the man throwing the party. She is starting to inch away, to allow him space now that the assumed crisis is no longer. "No, that's -- quite fine. Unnecessary," he tells Emma, and as his mind reasserts himself -- as whatever that /thing/ is starts to descend back into the depths of his mind -- she can feel his other thoughts surfacing. The announcement, tonight. His little plot. A snippet of Sebastian Shaw in his mind; a phone-call. The word 'Yes'. An estate, somewhere in Pennsylvania -- once a massive sprawling asylum. Now, put to a more interesting use. "It's passed," he assures her, before adding: "I've meant to tell you, Ms. Frost. You've done an absolutely splendid job. I couldn't have asked for a better event -- a better /opportunity/." Emma has the sense to blush at this, eyes turned down a little, a small smile pulling at her lips. "Thank you, Mr. Osborn. I did my best. Of course, it's Hellfire's resources and a century of connections that makes any of this possible. I just conducted an expert orchestra." She inhales deeply, her lungs inflating until her back is straight once more. Emma's mind gleans all this information, focusing for a moment on the image of this Sebastian Shaw. It is a familiar face to her. She is careful though, having seen how volatile his brain seems to be and how short his previous conversation seemed to be to inspire such an incident, and keeps herself only on the most passive of receptive modes. She would like nothing better than to ghost through the evening. Osborn observes her. Distracted by her looks? Or does he suspect something? It's hard to tell -- perhaps both. Norman's mind is closing back up; the opportunity for these quick, spurious flashes of knowledge is rapidly shrinking -- he is, at heart, a very /structured/ thinker and at least passingly familiar with the art of hiding one's thoughts from brief scans. But before the door slams /shut/ on his mind once again -- the lock turning with a delicate click -- she may catch one brief wisp of information, fluttering on its way out. A whispered memory of a conversation... a phrase. 'Mutants need /leadership/'... "You are an exceptional conductor, then," he informs her, once again with that easy, practiced smile. His eyes scan the crowd -- noticing, only now, the image of his drones wearing... are those... bowties? His left eyebrow twitches. What. "...mmn. Tonight is promising to be... very interesting." /Interesting times/. It's the name Osborn's given to his speech; a speech which is carefully folded and tucked inside his left breast pocket. "Again, Thank you." Emma's blush is not apparent this time. There is perhaps some tiredness, instead, forming in her figure, and a moment's vision of stress - the kind only one who has many irons in the fire can feel - but it all soon vanishes and she smiles a little brighter. "And have you had a chance to check in with all of your special guests yet? I thought I saw you hitting the high points already, but if you'd like, I can find anyone you're still looking for." She is dressed to mingle after all. "I've spoken with... Mr. Holland, Ms. Nox -- Oh, yes, the other girl responsible for attacking that vampiric creature? I've yet to speak with her," Norman admits, and his eyebrows frumple. An image of her -- her oddly shaped face and expression -- emerges from the depths of his mind. Yes, he wants to meet her. Talk with her, get a feel for her. His reasons might not entirely be for the matter of this party. "I think, however, that may be it. Also, someone seems to be dressing my drones up in tuxedos. I'd like to know who," he notes, and although this comes off as an idle concern, Norman's mindset clearly indicates that he is Not Pleased with this development. "I am sorry, Mr. Osborn. I did not see anyone tampering with them." Emma sees it now. Poor telepath - far too interested in the people at the party to remember this is about the machines as well. Given Osborn's temperment, though, she does not mention that the bowties are harmless. "I will get to the bottom of it though." Emma opens up her minaudiere and wakes up the screen inside. When she finishes looking up the information, she manages to spy Tatters in the party. "Oh, I think I see her. I'll try and bring her over soon." "I'd appreciate it. A harmless prank, maybe, but I'm curious how they pulled it off without anyone noticing." Osborn's concern pulses; a security risk? Or one of the mutants? Probably the latter. He's wondering what sort of odd power allows for the wardrobe of his drones to be effortlessly changed. "Good," he tells Emma as she mentions Tatters. "I'll need to -- get a few photos with her, as well. All of them, if possible." Necessary. To associate himself with 'heroes'. To make them /out/ to be heroes. Their reputation -- his -- entertwined, somehow. He's planning, plotting, moving pieces into place. High risk. High reward. Norman likes to gamble. "Emma," he adds, his tone a mite softer than one might expect: "Tell me something. Personally." There's a flavor to his thoughts, now; something more threadbare than usual. Everything Osborn says has an undercurrent of double-meaning to it -- but at the moment, he sounds /suspiciously/ genuine. "Do you think..." He's looking at Holland, as he speaks -- off dancing with Micah. "...mm. No, nevermind." "Do I think ... what, Mr. Osborn?" Emma looks up from her hidden PDA and smiles. "I did say I would help you in any way, if I could," she replies, looking toward Jackson and Micah, watching them for a moment before turning back to Osborn. "Nothing. Nothing, Ms. Frost. See to sending the young lady my way, when you have an opportunity, would you?" Norman tells her, and suddenly he's turning to move away, whatever thought was rising in his head quickly submerged, crushed and destroyed beneath a set of grinding, clicking gears.