ArchivedLogs:Grim Business

Grim Business
Serious trigger warnings for casual murder/violence and wanton flesh-crafting.
Dramatis Personae Norman, Masque, Max Dillon, Mr. Shaw	2013-03-04 Scary men conduct scary business in a dingy motel room.
Location <NYC> Quality Motel - Lower East Side
When all you've got is only slightly more than nothing, Quality Motel will be glad to take that off your hands, too. The owner's son runs the check-in desk and is almost always just sober enough to squeeze a conversation out of. The wallpaper must have been a lovely shade of not-mudcoloured once upon a time, and if you ignore the mold that's taken over some corners of the carpet, it's almost possible to imagine this place ever having been taken care of. Staff seems awfully hard to come by and visitors, though frequent, rarely stay long and usually bring scantily-clad persons of questionable acquaintance. But hey, cockroaches and noisy neighbours aside, most rooms have at least one bed, a mostly unclogged toilet and sink, a functional little TV and phone, and no one asks questions you don't want to answer. Have you ever heard the distinctive whine made by a tree branch falling across two live wires, completing the circuit? That's the sound Masque hears at the front of his door. A bit lower, but similar -- a steadily increasing *shriek*, along with an occasional low, dark crackle. After a few moments of this, the doorknob... starts to glow. And then... The door *tears* itself open, ripping through timber and gouging the doorframe apart with a loud *CRRRKT*. The man standing on the other side has seen better days. He's dressed in a sharp black suit, white shirt, tie, and trilby hat -- or at least they *were* sharp. Soot marks cover all of them; a bit of smoke trails up from his shoulders -- it looks like his clothes were recently on fire. Beneath the trilby hat, his face is a scarred patchwork of chapped, hairless skin -- and his eyes are a glaring, brilliant shade of yellow. His palm is extended up toward the interior of the room -- little lightning bolts weaving their way between his fingers. His other hand clutches his lower chest -- a bit of dried blood clinging to it. "Hello, beautiful. I'm here to sell you somethin' you're gonna *love*: It's called 'Not Getting Your Ass Fried'. But act fast, because this is a /limited/ time offer." By the time the door tore itself away from its frame, the inhabitant of this Quality Motel room had already made his way well into the corner of the room, head low and arms tense by his sides. Masque looks a little... off, today. And not only because he looks like he's only just rolled out of the world's worst made bed in the opposite corner, but also because there's a brand new tattoo of an Asian-style dragon coiled seemingly unwillingly across his face, obscuring the eye on the least aesthetically pleasing side of his face. It's also caused him to go slightly blind on that side, so he ends up peering at his unexpected visitor with his head tilted to the side like some weird, puffed up red-coated bird. Yes, still in the coat. Does he sleep in that thing? Likely. "-- What in the fucking /HELL/." He growls after a few shuddering breaths, hoarse, eyes darting in an attempt to help him comprehend what the hell is going on. "You're worse than fucking Jehova's." "They told me you were ugly. You don't look ugly. You look normal." This is coming from a man with a face full of burn scars and a fist full of lightning. "Dragon tattoo's shit, though. Get up. You've got work to do." Max Dillon steps into the room -- well, more like /stumbles/. He's clearly been hurt. Seriously hurt. The palm that's extended into the room reaches for a near-empty bottle of... something. The metal stopper briefly glows; a tongue of lightning lashes out, licking at it -- and suddenly its flinging into his hand. He catches it, grimacing, shoving it under his arm as he tries to twist it open. It's not going so well. "You're gonna dig a bullet out of my stomach. You're gonna patch me the fuck up. Then, you're gonna help me put this bullet in some other freak's stomach -- right after you give them my *gorgeous* mug." Masque is not a man easily affected by flattery, and indeed it is ignored in favour of him lurching forward and back toward the middle of the room, seemingly unaware of the risks of welcoming a walking broken electrical socket into the room. "Sit down." Well, 'welcoming'. The words are there, though his voice is anything but. He disappears briefly around the corner, into a bathroom, turning on one of the few functioning lights on in there. There's the brief sound of running water from a far too violently spraying tap before he re-emerges with a slightly wet face and a wooden chair clamped tightly in a long-fingered hand. It's dragged back into the main room, legs scraping over the floor before it is somewhat forcefully thunked down in Max's path. "That's an interesting theory. And what gave you the idea I'd do something like /that/?" He peers at the visitor humourlessly, his bad eye wide open while his good one squints as it homes in on the visitor's chest. Max sits. More like slumps. He's still working at the bottle; once he's gotten it, he brings it up to his mouth with a hungry groan. What little's left in it is promptly downed -- then he's throwing it aside. The hand at his chest squeezes his injury, little webs of lightning dancing across his knuckles. "*Fuck*," he mumbles, but then Masque is returning -- and those yellow eyes pulse as he stares at him. *Burning*. "Because word on the street is you /can/. And because if you don't, I'm gonna cauterize your /sphincter/. And because if you do, I'm gonna offer you a job." "Not interested in fuckin' jobs." Masque replies with a sneer that he shows no intention of downplaying, even in the face of a murderous yellow-eyed sparkplug of a maniac. He rubs his own face, hard and carelessly enough to cause his jaw to silently crack out and into place, though he himself doesn't seem to notice. After a good few seconds of casually studying the other man's clutching and condition as if trying to determine the position and severity of the man's injury, Masque looks up, straight into those burning eyes again. Unimpressed. "No." He simply grates, then. "And correct me if I'm wrong... but it looks to me like if I don't help you, you won't even manage to get past the parking lot before keeling over. Sure, you could torture me a bit, but we'd still /both/ be fucked. So the question is not whether I can- the question is why I /would/." "*Fuck*," Max says, and now he spits -- when the saliva hits the carpet, it actually /sizzles/. He turns to meet Masque's stare, eyes narrowing -- it creates the illusion of intensifying the glow of his eyes. The lack of fear in the man's eyes -- the calm response -- it seems to placate Max. He sighs: "Well, ain't /you/ a right proper lunatic." He takes in a slow, ragged breath; it's clear he's trying to calm himself. By the look of him, he's lost a lot of blood. "You ever read comic books, beautiful?" Masque stands, unwavering save for a second of glaring at his precious room being spat on, giving a half-finished chuckle of an exhale at the question. "Do I look like a ten year old bedwetter?" Then, out of nowhere, he leans to reach for the man's neck. Not to grab it, mind, but going straight for the carotid artery. When Masque goes, Max lifts his hand to grab his wrist mid-contact. There is a faint pulse of electricity -- not too painful. Like a little static shock. Eyes narrowing: "Careful, beautiful. I'm a bitter man -- and I won't die alone." There's a brief pull back at Masque's arm when the zap goes through, but it doesn't go past the initial jolt of reflex. He holds still. "If you're gonna want me to fix you up, you should probably be less paranoid about me /trying to figure out how to fix you up/. " He hisses, right in Max's face, grabbed hand flexing its fingers outward and in. His voice turns even more annoyed than before when he continues. "Now, I think you were trying to convince me of something through some terribly clever metaphor. Or something." Max's hand relaxes. Eyes still narrow. He releases his grip and lowers his arm -- slowly. His pulse is weak; he is in it in a bad way. The wound in his stomach has been cauterized. He shudders, coughs, and grunts: "I did, when I was a kid. Loved that stuff. They always had these freaky looking heroes, you know? But never /too/ freaky. 'Oh woe is me, I have super-powers but my skin is blue' -- FUCK you, I look like Freddie Krueger." Max's eyes pulse -- but then the glow fades. Back to his natural brown coloration. His skin is warm -- *too* warm -- but no current is running through it. Not yet. "Kids always figure that if they get powers, they'll become superheroes. Go off and fight monsters. But the thing is, comics are a load of bull: Superheroes aren't real. We all know it -- but it takes a while before most of us are willing to say it. But there /is/ one thing comics /do/ get right. Superheroes aren't real -- but monsters? Oh, yes. /Those/ are real." That yellow light returns to his eyes -- more subtle, now. "In fact," he tells Masque, "I /work/ for one. And he likes you, beautiful. He likes you a /lot/." Masque's hand feels all too rough on the side of Max's neck, but it slides off without leaving a mark not long after it is put there. This one might be too interesting to maim. Or too far gone and delusional. It's hard to tell at this point. The room's owner seems disinterested throughout the current conversation, and little changes when the topic is shifted to Max's superior. "Oh, really." He mutters, going for yet another breach of personal space; This time, he reaches to unceremoniously remove any piece of clothing and/or limbs obscuring the bulletwound mentioned to get a better look at everything, decidedly failing to look at Max or to acknowledge the fact that the man has a face to talk to at all. Max sucks in a breath when Masque opens the bottom of his shirt; the injury is deep -- a sharp, cauterized hole in his mid-stomach, nestled in place. He growls something under his throat -- his skin heats up briefly, but he keeps it from getting *scorching*. "Be careful," he warns. And then, more reluctantly: "He told me to come here. Told me to get /you/ to fix me up. Said to tell you that he's setting up a new little enterprise. He's going to..." He swallows, dryly. "...he's going to /eat/ the competition." The way Max says 'eat', it doesn't sound like that's a 'metaphor'. "He wants your services, and he's willing to pay. In money, or..." A grimace, followed by a growl: "In blood." Then, with great reluctance -- and what might actually be the slightest hint of fear in his voice: "He also said to tell you that he's an admirer of your work." Masque lets the man talk in peace, his eyes searching the skin around the injury as it heats and causes him to pull his hands slightly upward again, breaking contact. When they lower again, his cold fingers are placed in either side of the wound, slowly pressing down ever so gently into the skin. Harmlessly, for now. As if completely oblivious as to why anyone would even know his work, let alone be a fan, he fails to recognise the matter through verbal communication and otherwise. Briefly, then, his eyes are drawn up to the other man's face. "Man sends you to /me/ to get fixed up?" Then, he looks down again, "You must not be his favourite pet." Next, without warning or room for a response to his previous comment, he /pulls/ his fingers down and outward, leaving the skin and flesh he presses into unchanged, but opening the wound far enough for him to jab both of his thumbs in there, teeth gritting as he /searches/ - nay, /digs/ around for the bullet that he was told would be in there. "Whether or not I'm his /favorite/ ain't none of your business, beautiful. Just make sure you don'tohFUCK WHAT THE FUCK!" His hands jerk up into the air -- hard -- and his fingers curl. LIGHTNING proceeds to lash out across his extended palms and digits, making a sharp, distracting BZZZT. Nevertheless, he manages /not/ to shock Masque -- but it is clear that the suddenness with which he is 'opened' is freaking him the hell out. The bullet is lodged in fairly deep, nudged up against his stomach. Easy enough to get out; the work he did cauterizing the wound wasn't enough, though -- there's still some damage around his stomach, and unless it's properly patched up, he'll need medical attention. Masque doesn't /do/ 'properly patched up'. He makes a point of throwing an annoyed glare up at Max when the minature lightning storm starts up, brow furrowing and nose wrinkling in disapproval in lieu of a verbal warning. But he's back to work soon enough, looking down at the wound which has now been stretched roughly the size of a baseball. Not any more painful than it already was, per se, but definitely a strange sensation to experience. Masque's right hand is relieved from flesh-warping to snake an index finger down into the bloodied hole, pulling the problematic bullet out with ease before lifting it in front of his face to stare at it. His left hand, meanwhile, moves to curl its fingers over the wound... and then inside of it, as though ready to pull it open even further. Who knows how far, this time. "Calm down. You're fine. You've still got, oh, fifteen minutes or so before you pass out." His eyes slide from the bullet to Max's face behind it, almost boredly. "Now. Tell me why I shouldn't send you packin' with half your chest inside-out as a message to your owner. Because as he should know, if he knows me at all-- the blood I spill? I spill myself." Max blinks. Looking between the bullet and Masque; then back down to his wound. His fingers uncurl; the light-show fades with a dull *BZZZRT*. And then, at Masque's question, he grunts... and /gawks/. "Are you--are you listening to me?! /He/ wants you! He--" Max licks his lips. "Five grand. I can get you five grand, easy--" "MR. DILLON." The voice is... not human. It's not even /possible/. It's the voice of a young child -- high-pitched and insolent -- yet there is nothing childish /about/ it. It comes from the doorway, torn open -- a silhouette of a man is standing, framed by the exterior darkness -- a shadow darker than the shadows. The flickering motel lights outline his frame -- bulkish, large. Distorted. /Wrong/. But it's his eyes that attract the most attention. The lights of the room flash off of them, revealing their color: Pure yellow. No whites. No blacks. No irises. Just... yellow. "This man is an artist. I will not have you insult him with such trifles as /money/." Kerthump. That noise? That was a bullet hitting cheap motel carpet at the speed of gravity after bouncing off of Max's chest. Masque doesn't even notice it missing from his blood-stained fingers, his attention finally, /properly/ grasped by the second visitor. His left hand stays squarely where it is, relaxing only enough to allow him to twist 'round slightly, in place, to try and get a better look at the newcomer. He squints, mouth opening but at a loss for what to do with it. 'What the fuck' doesn't quite cover this situation anymore, he finds. Finally, his voice manages in a tone that is both utterly exasperated yet reluctantly hesitant, "... Excuse me?" Max Dillon has gone utterly, completely still. So still you might suspect he has finally succumb to his wounds -- except that he is still breathing. And staring. At the man at the doorway. That man steps forward... into the light of that seedy motel room. Revealing himself to be... ...an ordinary looking man in an ordinary looking suit and black wool coat. He is handsome, well-groomed, and currently smiling. It is a smile that touches his eyes -- amber-gold. Perfectly ordinary. And his voice -- dark, pleasant, steady, and not at *all* inhuman: "Good evening, gentlemen." Behind him, another man steps forward. Mr. Shaw -- a man with a smooth, bald head in a black coat with black gloves. He's carrying a suitcase. As he steps in, he surveys the room, setting the suitcase down and opening it. Inside is... it looks like some sort of pro-mutant terrorist literature. "First," the well-groomed man with that curiously reddish hair states, "introductions. My name is Norman Osborn. I'm the most powerful man in the country. And you are...?" Still smiling, he extends his hands out to Masque. 'Overwhelmed with confusion,' is the unspoken answer to that question. The owner of the room now lets go of the wound he so happily claimed earlier, in order to straighten up as far as his usual hunch allows him. His breath catches in his throat and tensing muscles in his face and shoulders hint at the fact that he's unsure what the smartest course of action is, here. Does he run? Something tells him he would be found. Does he attack? He hasn't made it this far by attacking when outnumbered. So then there's only one option left. "Call me Masque." He smiles, far too promptly and far too out of place, and even the more functional of his eyes refuses to join into the expression properly. It's a twisted, crooked smile that seems on the verge of a snarl on one side. however unintentionally. He stands completely still, then, to observe both Norman and Mr. Shaw as unassumingly as he can manage with bloodied hands and what he can only assume is a near-dead colleague of his guests behind him. When he manages to focus solely on Norman's face long enough to properly look at it, he says almost unwillingly, like a guard dog growling uselessly at someone on the other side of a chain link fence yet smiling all the while, "And you have no idea how much fun I would have with that face of yours." "Masque," Norman states, as if testing the name on his tongue. And then, at Masque's veiled threat, Norman... smiles. Oh, how he *smiles*. And he moves to remove his own suede gloves -- exposing a strong, firm, rough hand. Extending it out to Masque -- to... *shake*. "I'm sure you would," Norman says, and he flashes him row after row of near-perfect white teeth. It is a grin. But something about it is almost... wolfish. "But let's stick to business, shall we? Mr. Shaw." Not looking back to the bald-headed henchman. "Fetch the decoy." At once, Mr. Shaw leaves... which means Masque is now alone with a near-dead mutant and a very handsome, very rich, very NON-Mutant man. Who is currently holding his hand out to shake with him. Poof. There goes the chain link fence. The smile disappears from Masque's face all too readily, replaced with a look of... it's hard to tell. Is it joyless excitement? Instead of relaxing... he tenses further. A breath leaves him, laboured and slow; This is good. This is Norman Osborn offering him a piece of flesh and skin and bones unmarred by the work and toil of the everyday man, a symbol of wealth and fame and success, a thing so /precious/, so /very precious/... The expression on his face becomes clearer, then. It's not excitement-- not all of it, anyway. Most of it? Is fear. The offered hand might seem good, but if Masque knows anything for sure right now, it's that there definitely is such a things as /too/ good. It is with a mix of that fear and genuine, simmering hatred showing on his lopsided face that he lets out a short growl in frustration, and reaches to shake the hand a little more firmly than it was presented to him, leaving streaks of red behind on the other man's fingers. Yet leaving them of so /perfectly/ in tact. For once, he's got nothin' to say. Nothing he can say out loud, anyway. Norman Osborn's hand is like his face: Perfect. Well-trimmed, manicured nails -- clean, smooth, flawless. Hands that are large and strong and rough, but with nary a callous in sight. He has the grip of a man half his age -- firm and powerful, hinting at his regular exercise regiment. Hell, the man even /smells/ wonderful -- a splash of expensive, fragrant cologne -- a twist of aftershave -- the whiff of freshly pressed and cleaned clothes. His eyelids lower as he shakes Masque's hand. Adding something sinister to that smile. And then... he reaches forward with his /other/ hand, clasping it upon Masque's -- gripping it in a meaty *sheathe*. It's the sort of earnest handshake you'd expect between two colleagues who share a deep wealth of respect. But then, still smiling, still shaking -- Norman Osborn opens his mouth: "I want you to know, Masque. While my associate finds you amusing, /I/ find you to be pathetic. You possess an extraordinary gift -- and what purpose do you put it to? Terrorizing addicts and night-time cashiers. Nevertheless, your gift makes you of great use to me. For /that/ much, you should be grateful." Oh, how he grins. His voice so cheerful, so smooth, so *pleasant* as he informs Masque of his proper place in existence. And then, in that same, effortless tone: "You want to do it so badly, don't you? Go ahead. Just this once, I'll allow it. When house-training a new dog, you need to be prepared for him to shit on your carpet." "Wouldn't that be a way to go out." Masque breathes out his words, somewhat helplessly yet utterly determined to get them heard, yellowed and crooked teeth briefly biting down on his lower lip. His eyes are locked on Norman's, unwavering. "But no," He grins, hungrily and shamelessly so, but not even a second passes before it twitches back to something more... threatened. Even if he so obviously despises the feeling. He keeps his hand firmly where it is, making no attempt to pull it back or otherwise. "I'd have to go for the the gold star, the big prize, the works, the /fucking billion dollar jackpot/." He spits out the words fluelled with repulsion and spite. From the looks he's giving the rest of Obsorn's face now, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out what said jackpot is. "Only I'm guessing /that/ part of you... is kept strictly off-limits." "Mmn." Norman's eyes narrow. "You're a bit more clever than I took you for. Still." He releases Masque's hand, withdrawing his own; a handkerchief is produced, wiping away at those bloody streaks left on his fingers. Behind him, Mr. Shaw is returning -- a human-sized sack over his shoulder. He throws the sack on top of the bed... and the sack proceeds to move and groan. The handkerchief is palmed off to Mr. Shaw; then, Norman is putting back on his suede gloves. "One of two things is going to happen in this motel room, Masque," he explains, stretching his fingers out as the gloves creak. "One: Mr. Dillon's corpse is going to be found here, along with pro-mutant literature and newsclippings implicating him in a plot to kill Eric Sutton, an officer of the NYPD responsible for a public ticketing of a known mutant -- political nonsense you needn't concern yourself with. In addition, *you* will disappear -- rather permanently." Mr. Shaw opens his coat, producing a gun. Norman Osborn takes it, now in his gloves -- and turns to the moaning sack. He plucks up one of the pillows, pushes it down to where the stomach seems to be -- then puts the barrel of the gun down on it. There is a brief muzzle-flash; a dull, painful cry -- the person in the sack starts to writhe and whimper. "Or two: You will finish patching Mr. Dillon up, then dig the bullet out of /this/ mutant's stomach, then put /that/ bullet in its place. You will then give this mutant Mr. Dillon's face. After which, you will leave this motel and begin working for... my associate. Now," Osborn says, and as he turns back to Masque, he hands the gun back to Mr. Shaw -- smiling. "Which will it be? And please, choose quickly. I'm having dinner with the Secretary of Defense tonight. I /hate/ being late." As soon as Masque's hand is released, the rest of him pulls back and away in what is likely not a conscious decision. He's clever enough to get by, and clever enough, seemingly, to listen very carefully when he is explained the two scenarios in detail. The flash of the gun causes him to wince, driving the point home rather effectively from the looks of it. Masque's answer comes after a shortlived internal debate, the indecision it brings only just managing to make it to his face. He breaks the silence with his voice lowered, less wishing to be heard and more saying something just for the sake of /saying it/. "I like this motel." And just like that, his muscles relax. There is no more need to fight. It would be wasted energy. Even his face goes blank, save for a nervous twitch or two. "I'm actually going to miss it." The next thing he does is move back over to Max to stick a hand right in his guts, proceeding to do exactly as he is told. A little messily, and below the ragged scars Max's stomach will likely never function quite the same again, but he does it. And, in response, Norman Osborn laughs -- the sound pleasant and warm. *Friendly*. It rolls across Masque in waves as he works -- and as Dillon groans and squirms, his insides getting squished. He hasn't said a goddamn word this whole time. By the tenseness in his exhausted body, it's clear that he is /beyond/ scared shitless of Osborn. "Fair enough, Masque," Norman says, and he gestures to Shaw. "If you'd really like, I can buy it for you." That pleasant grin surfaces again. "Really, though, you just need to leave it long enough for the police to finish their investigation. Now, I'll be heading out. Mr. Shaw here will take care of the details. Oh," he adds, moving toward the door -- Mr. Shaw taking up his prior position, grim and watching. "And just so we're clear..." His eyes -- amber gold -- grow just a hint paler. "Fuck this up, and I will find you -- and eat your heart. While you watch." Mr. Shaw doesn't flinch. He just sits down in a chair, pulls a cigarette, lights it, and politely watches Masque work. One professional to another. All just in a day's business for him. Norman Osborn leaves, cheerfully whistling as he walks to his car.