ArchivedLogs:Dire Consequences

Dire Consequences
Dramatis Personae Norman, Parley, Mr. Shaw	2013-05-13 Post Oscorp attack.
Location Osborn's Office
Humans love their dirty laundry, and bad news has a way of traveling fast, especially in Terrorist-Fixated New York City. A building bombed, rumors thrown around of fleeing mutants outside the Oscorp Tower, roaring sirens and milling police men - the texts poured in, wherever Parley had been. Probably just /arriving/ back home, maybe showing up in true workaholic fashion to harass Claire with scones and maybe Latverian /treats/ to both regale her with (carefully censured) tales of his 'vacation' as well as probably APOLOGIZE A LOT for giving her such little notice that he was leaving the country to start with. It's practically becoming routine. Until both of their phones go off. Have you heard the NEWS? Is everyone OKAY? Parley? ...Parley? He's shortly slipping under a line of Police Tape, skirting along the parameters of the closed down building, wandering in oblique paths along various security personnel's peripheral vision in search of one particularly /unique/ mind. Hunting himself a Mr. Norman FUCKING Osborn with... well, hands in his pockets. Peer? Glance? There's a slight tightness around his face giving away the easy slouch in his shoulders. STIFF-backed. Peer? Norman is, perhaps quite surprisingly, no where to be found. There is, however, the familiar - /bracingly brutal/ - mind of one Mr. Shaw. Bandaged up; arm in a sling, with a bandaid on his big shiny forehead. Just - /emerging/ from one corner of the smoldering ruin that is the Oscorp lobby (where police are, indeed, milling about; along with several important looking people in expensive suits). No sooner has Parley taken several steps forward into that lobby then is Mr. Shaw /accosting/ him with a glare, and a rushed - heated exchange: "Mr. Osborn's waiting for you," Shaw tells him, and then he gestures - toward an elevator that /hasn't/ been annihilated by what looks to be some sort of beam of concussive force. Even going so far as to escort him there! Winding a path through the smoking rubble and men in expensive suits. Up the elevator. Toward the top of Oscorp tower. To Norman Osborn's office. Where his secretary - is absent. And the doors to that familiar office - with its sterile furniture, its arrangement of frightful masks, its desk, its tremendous view - are open. And where Norman Osborn is sitting - back to the door, eyes cast toward the view. His mind... perplexingly /absent/. Difficult to ascertain. Distant, detached... but somewhere inside of that brain, gears are whirring, /churning/. Putting things together. Connecting dots. Arranging puzzle pieces into a comprehensive whole... ...and /smiling/. Norman Osborn is - Parley can't see him, but he can /feel/ that smile. Widening, centimeter by centimeter. Norman Osborn's lobby has just been blown up - he has just suffered a terrorist attack by mutants - he has just /transformed/, lost control (Parley can still catch the whiff of rust on that churning psychic machinery of his, so fresh, so /tainted/), possibly gotten himself in a /world/ of trouble... and he's somehow /happy/ about it. Sadly, Parley is /not/ currently dressed for SUCCESS, he'd come straight over, and is thus not wearing his neat high-collared attire; it's just jeans, a t-shirt. Also - *pwuff*. FUR. The tawny-spiky guardhairs running down the ridge of his neck stand up in a punky little mohawk down his nape. "You have a singularly terrible luck with mutants, Mr. Osborn." Yeah. He'll say it like it's Norman's fault. It's like Norman can /detect/ the puffing of those neckspikes. Norman doesn't make the sound - but somehow, there's a happygrowl there. Like a hungry lion chuffing at the sound of a skittering gazelle. Norman Osborn is so /pleased/ with himself, right now. "Yes, I've noticed," Norman states. "Bit of a pickle I've gotten myself into. Government's demanding I hand over all the footage of the event. Hard to fight them on it, too. They want to designate it as a /terrorist/ attack," and here, Norman actually /laughs/, like he found this idea /funny/. Turning then, to face Parley. That grin still affixed to his face. "You came to check in on me, Parley? I'm flattered." He doesn't sound flattered. "I imagine you want -- mm. Details." Somewhere in Norman's mind, a lion licks its chops. Oh, he wants /so/ badly to grip Parley by the nape of his scruff. /Twitch/. Parley's head /twitches/, like he has something in his vertebrae he'd dearly like to crack. Pulls in a deep breath (sadly those spikes are NOT succeeding in making him look bigger) he just strides on in the rest of the distance between the entrance and Norman's desk, "You know I do." So subtly his presence can be felt - /sagging/ against that lingering smell of Goblin, Norman's presence and powerful mind a blast-force wind he leans against, pressing his hands down on the man's desk across from him. Leaning deliberately /into/ grasping reach with his dark beetle-black eyes fixed on Norman's. "I fail to see what's so humorous about this, Mr. Osborn. There is no one I can see that this /benefits/." "Of course not, Parley," Norman responds, and oh how that smile /hungers/. Were it not for the still-lingering smell of Goblin's rustic intrusion, one might think Norman /was/ the Goblin - right here, right now. And now Norman is rising in his chair - pressing a button under his desk. And the room... darkens. The doors, behind Parley... slide close. *CLKT*. And those lovely glass windows... proceed to darken, their tint becoming impenetrable. There is a slow, hungry huff that emerges from Norman Osborn's throat. As he /stares/ at Parley. With that wicked, wicked smile. Oh, Norman's /savoring/ this. Whatever... 'this' is. "Jackson Holland," Norman rumbles. "When I researched him for our little Gala, I couldn't help but notice - just how many /jobs/ the man works. Frankly, I was - /am/ - a bit envious. One wonders if he ever /sleeps/." And WHUMP; down comes Norman's hand. Reaching for that scruff. Fingers /gripping/ those tender, bristling furrs. Almost... /scritching/? A little too /harsh/, yet not hard enough to pinch - to draw blood. Not yet. "There was one particular occupation. At the time, I thought it unusual - it stuck in my mind. But I thought little of it since then," Norman /purrs/. The instant the door snaps shut, Parley goes - /very/ still. The expression on his face solidifying into a single quintessential sentiment: Damn. "Wh- ngk-." His elbow thumps down on on the desk top, the strength liquifying ingloriously through the muscles in his back and legs in a single pathetically simple /crumple/. Twitch-twitch. Small knot-clusters of tendon can be felt aimlessly constricting in the rather loose skin that gathers so easily into a little Parley-handle between his shoulders. "-ster Osborn." GRIT. He slaps down a palm on the desk. Reaching for - the edge of the desk maybe. Why? Who knows. He doesn't seem to be thinking much about planning. But it's all very /careful/ slow motions. You can just FEEL him thinking about how easily that hand can grow /talons/. "-t go." "Peter Parker," Norman continues, unabated. /Scrubbing/ at Parley's scruff. Norman's actually quite good at this; he knows precisely how much force is enough. Nails /dragging/ so deep they nearly threaten to gouge out slivers of skin - but never /quite/ reaching it. Just short of painful. So insistent. And then he begins to pull - /lift/ - Parley upward, by that handle. Just a little. Feet not quite off the ground yet; just some weight. "I won't bore you with the details - let's say he's been - an interest of mine," Norman rumbles. "A young teenage mutant. Coincidentally, a student at the school Jackson teaches at. Again, at the time, I thought it unusual - but I've given it little thought since then." And then, Norman's purr is so deep, so dark, one can /feel/ it in their very bones; it reverbrates down through Norman's hand - down Parley's spine - /vibrating/ across it as if it were a trembling /vice/. "And today, Rasa Djalili - who's parents' apathy toward their daughter, I may mention, I find /quite/ repulsive - comes to visit me. Another mutant. Another student of this very same school." Norman /lifts/. And /now/, Parley's off the floor. "I know what you're thinking, Parley. 'Just a coincidence'. That's what I thought too," Norman says, smiling so /warmly/. "Until I remembered Rasa's teacher who arrived to pick her up. Jennifer Walters. /Another/ mutant. And then I remembered the two who came to aid Ms. Walters in helping Rasa to escape - two /more/ mutants. I wonder, Parley - when I discover who they are - do you think I will find that they, too, attend Xavier's?" Names. Coincidences. HARD dragging nails. The harder Norman digs in, those careful micro-increments of pressure, the more Parley's bones grow loose in their mores, caving to it, conforming like some unhooked latch has snipped all his tendons. Squish. Lifted, lifted, he comes away from the desk with his head dropped on the side where his pulse visibly slams in his arteries, nostrils flared open and breathing. /Very/. /Carefully/. When he's lifted, you can hear his throat click, try to swallow it down, FIGHT IT, clench against it - but still a strangled little animal noise (of protest? /hatred/? fear?) creaks out. "Interesting question," he hisses, bared teeth slowly forming into a twist of rather unhappy snarlsmile aimed mindlessly across the room. He reaches up a hand, /hovers/ it over Norman's. Not grabbing onto him. But NEARLY. "I give up. What's the answer?" YOU TELL ME, Norman. "Mmmnhh." Norman releases a breath; on it, Parley can catch the whiff of so many things, so many desires, so many /flavors/. He wants to - /devour/ Parley. On the spot. Not out of spite; not out of anger. Just... for the sheer /pleasure/ of it. But, instead - with vast, lazy reluctance - he releases. Letting that slinking pile of bones /slide/ off his fingers, back into the chair. And dropping into his own chair. So slowly, so indulgently. "And here," Norman continues, "I thought I was so /clever/. Only to find - there's /already/ a school for mutants. And I bet you know all about it, don't you, Parley? Mmmmnnn..." Norman licks his lips. "Tell me everything you know. Or," and Norman waves his hand, almost dismissively. Like the threat isn't even worth his time. Like it's some boring /after-thought/ to this whole tantalizing discussion. The hungry strength in Norman is /warm/ in Parley's mind, invasive; it drowns out his presence like a winning war, glorified by thrown up little banners all bearing the colors of /Norman Osborn/. Were he not so near, not in such /overt/ attentive contact, it would all but eclipse Parley from awareness. But so close, so /near/, where his short, controlled breathing can be heard, it is... an expansion of territory in Norman's favor. He drops loosely into his seat, a hand pressed instantly over his mouth, eyes closed tightly. Breathe. Okay. In. And out. He runs a hand up his face, shoves his fingers into his hair, then slides it down the back of his neck to /roughly/ smooth down his hackles. His eyes don't stay closed for long - he can very literally /feel/ the hunger in Norman. This bears full attention. A wild /rapid/ series of thoughts swarm behind his eyes. A brief moment of flat apathy... But then. Death isn't the worst that would happen, is it. /Damn/. "-- there is a private school," so coldly, he says these words. "Where young mutants are able to attend. To learn to control their abilities over the course of their education." His jaw constricts. "They are extremely confidential about their admissions process, well-defended and organized." "/Glorious/," Norman murmurs, the sound - so joyous, so /euphoric/. His eyes drift toward the ceiling; his smile is now serene. "To have kept such a thing a secret for so long - my God. How? It baffles the mind. Such a delicate house of cards -- mmn, no, of course," Norman states, as pieces begin to click together. "They have -- mutants. Telepaths. To help them keep such a delightful secret. But..." Now Norman's eyebrows crease. Thinking. The machine churning. "It can't last, Parley. They must know that. If they're clever enough to have gotten this far - they're clever enough to know - they'll have to go public. Eventually. Soon, no doubt. The Osborn Institute - goodness, I've probably escalated their schedule, haven't I? They'll want to announce it before we open our doors. Make a show of having done this /first/. Either that, or... mmmn." Norman licks his lips. Not psychically; physically. "They must have - /remarkable/ specimens. Ah, Parley," and now Norman's eyes flicker down to him. "I almost feel guilty, putting you in this position." Parley /chuffs/ at this, continuing to /smooth/ down his hackles. Already a /blandness/ has fallen in around him, a rumpled mess he's shrugging out of. Even if a million little misfiring muscles in his back keep spasming. He fishes a hand into a back pocket, "I think you're mistaking their motivations badly." Somehow, hysterically, he almost sounds like he's /laughing/ when he says this, "This isn't a race of egos, Mr. Osborn. Why do you think I keep /backing/ you against all pressing reasons you continue to hand me to do otherwise?" From a pocket, he withdraws... a small plastic curry comb. It's pink. He proceeds to start /grooming/ right there in Norman's office. CAT HAIR, Norman, CAT HAIR on your office chair. "Break this wave, Norman Osborn. Make history. And others will likely /follow/." "Nnnmh." Norman's eyes are distant, now. Peering past Parley's shoulder, toward the closed doors. "What you said to me - in the car. About predictability. It did not go... unheeded. I think..." He wets his lips. "Mmmnh. I need to think about this. Consider what it means... The government -- if they knew. There would be -- trouble." Then, his eyes refocus upon Parley. "...perhaps my Institute would even play in their favor. An opportunity to test the waters - pave the ground. See what the consequences of a public school would be. Nmmn..." Norman reaches, then. Pressing the button under his desk again. The doors unlock behind Parley; the windows grow light and transparent. Norman settles back into his chair. "You musn't blame yourself for this," Norman comments - almost idly. "I would have found out one way or another. I just, mmmn. Like tormenting you, sometimes." Is that... a sparkle in Norman's eyes? "I'd prefer you not tell anyone I know. But since I have no means to guarantee your silence - aside from the /obvious/ - if you do, also tell them - I have no intention to share this information. And should they send someone to take it from me," Norman adds, with just a tiny 'clpt' of his teeth snapping together, "there will be dire consequences." "/There/ it is." Parley sighs with some - oddly genuine /relief/ as Norman begins to consider the full scope of possibilities - not happy relief, exhausted, respiration still far from recovered. "Finally, Mr. Osborn. Underneath all of that ego, you have a brilliant mind. If you can get past your fucking /appetite/." He rises to his feet and, god dammit, for that comment about /tormenting/ he shares all the joys of agitating him by pulling out the small layer of loose fur from his curry comb, extends an arm, and /drops/ it in the center of Norman's desk. The little bit of tawny fur drifts down like a feather. So soft! "I work with too many people from opposing sides to be in the habit of sharing secrets /freely/. If you did not have alternative ways to make me -... Mn. I want to /build/ this house of cards." He /exhales/, shaking out his body, his shoulders, running hands down opposing arms, "not destroy it." He pauses in the door way, looking back at the man behind the desk. His eyes are narrowed. "...I am aware. Of the restraint you've shown." Inhale. Exhale. "...stay alive, Mr. Osborn." As parting words go, perhaps strange. But it's all he has to offer. Right now, all he's thinking about is CLAIRE'S COUCH. And maybe her wine. Welcome back to America, Parley. Back to work with you.