ArchivedLogs:Interesting Times

Interesting Times
Dramatis Personae Norman, Shaw
In Absentia	2013-03-25 Norman Osborn makes Sebastian Shaw an offer.
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. Getting Norman Osborn and Sebastian Shaw in the same room is like solving one of those high-school logic problems involving a goat, a head of cabbage, a wolf, a tiny canoe, and some poor schlub who for some /bizarre/ reason needs to get all three on the other side of a river. These are two men who would /never/ be caught dead in someone /else's/ waiting room. Thank /God/ for the HFC, then; it provides one of the few occasions where the two heads of industry can actually manage to meet. Meetings are still rare, of course; Osborn has only come to the HFC once or twice -- and that's only since he's started plotting this big gala of his. But on this occasion, Norman Osborn has decided to 'stoop to conquer' -- arranging to /just/ happen upon the HFC's rather opulent library on an occasion when Sebastian Shaw /just/ happened to be reading a book. Nevermind that this coincidental 'meeting-of-minds' has more planning behind it than D-Day; as far as it looks, they just happen to have run into each other. Norman smiles -- dressed in that oh-so-fashionable black suit, black tie, and white shirt. One has to wonder if he has anything else in his wardrobe. As soon as he sees Shaw sitting, he calls out to him -- gentle, warm, friendly: "Sebastian! What a lovely coincidence. I was just coming by to return a book," and there it is, Norman's little 'prop' -- a copy of 'The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde'. "I was actually planning on calling your office later today..." Seated in a large wingback chair by a large glowing hearth, Shaw looms in an expansive personal space bubble that fills up approximately half the room. A large man prone to stylishly tailored colonial jackets in dark blue with just a hint of ruffle at the base of his throat, his large hands and strong jaw somehow convey a sense that he could just as easily defend his seat by snapping a man over his knee as he could by litigation. His voice, however, is amenable, if unsmiling, "Norman. Fortuitous then, that you're an avid reader, I'm not likely to be due back at the office until Monday. I have three facilities I'm due to be touring." Something generally said with exasperation, he just barely withholds a sense of benign duty, closing his own book, The Virtuous Egoist: Ayn Rand's Normative Ethics, and using it then to gesture to a chair of equal distance opposite the fire, "Join me. I've been meaning to catch up with you, but it seems all I need do is read the front page of the paper." Grin - to one side of his mouth at least. Laughter -- polite, warm, just shy of /giddy/ -- swells up in reply to Sebastian's mention of the paper. Norman is, in many ways, far less physically intimidating than Shaw. Indeed, the man is /notorious/ for getting along splendidly with everyone he meets. In contrast to Shaw, he seems small, perhaps even a smudge childish -- but there's a sharp, animal cunning that lurks beneath those warm amber-gold eyes. Cunning that is ruthless and quick -- oh so /very/ quick. "Really," he says, as he settles down besides Sebastian, "/Rand/? I think there's a certain rule against the rich reading her. Something about being a little too obvious." He teases, of course. But he doesn't linger on the subject for long: "Actually, my intention is to talk business with you -- I hope you don't mind? Just a smidge. I'm looking into starting a project, and I was looking for a parcel of land -- and I found the /perfect/ little spot for it. And so I looked up who owned it, and wouldn't you know it..." "You know me, I'm a man of humble origins," Shaw waves a dismissive book as though clearing the air, grinning back, "I haven't had the pleasure of being rich long enough to dismiss schools of thought." Where Norman is a creature of quintessential quick speed, Sebastian sits staid, heavy - a creature of /fortitude/, and over his cultured smile, his eyes are hard and dark as the steel of his industry. The smile smelts down to something attentive as Norman continues, settling back in his chair, "What do you want, Norman?" Yes. Business. Norman's /favorite/ thing. "The Roscoe Estate," he replies, and his hand is already moving into his jacket pocket to produce the carefully folded document that describes its acreage -- its location -- its facilities -- and even includes a small picture. Three pages, cleanly stapled together. The presentation dispels any foolish notion that this meeting was accident. "It was part of a package deal, I believe -- you acquired it along with a few other sites during your purchasing binge of several steel mills a few years back. The estate itself -- it began as a large-scale sanatorium facility in the late 1800s. Converted into an asylum during the 20th century; abandoned in the 50s after some medical scandals, some investigations, so on," and the way Osborn waves his hand seems quite dismissive, as if this is all immaterial. "It's doing absolutely /nothing/, now. And it's very pristine -- beautiful woodlands, isolated, gorgeous Victorian-era architecture -- I think it's probably slated to be knocked down. Shame, really. Large-scale facilities like that -- they don't make them anymore, not really." "There's little room for sentimentality in progress," the fact that Shaw is leaning forward to take and study these papers is communication enough he wouldn't be here if he wasn't /interested/ in hearing with Oscorp might want of him. But intense familiarity of his business means he only passingly glances at the text or pictures before looking back at Norman; he knows his property as another man might know the names of their own children. "By the time the structure closed, they couldn't /get/ people to work there. I'll be frank, I have plans for this land. And you - you're no more a historical architectural enthusiast than I am a ballet dancer." On progress: "I'm glad you think so, Shaw. I feel precisely the same way." There is something in Osborn's eyes when he states this. Perhaps it's just the room's lighting; for a moment, they seem to grow brighter -- sharper -- /gleam/ with an undercurrent of yellow. But in the next moment, it is gone. Yes, definitely just the lighting. But now he is smiling. "Of course you do. You /always/ have plans. But what /I/ have planned for this land is -- how to put this lightly? -- bound to be /far/ more interesting." And then: "Actually, I'm glad to hear you aren't going to be letting go of it easily. Truth be told, I'm not absolutely sure what's going to happen after this Gala. Oscorp stocks will probably plunge. I'll be in the midst of a political /nightmare/." Is this Norman Osborn... admitting weakness? His smile remains, but his eyes seem softer, sadder. "But I've got an idea -- a splendid idea, Shaw. One that's bound to be very unpopular, but really -- isn't that true of /all/ splendid ideas...? I might need a little political support. In exchange, of course, for a piece of the... pie." Norman Osborn is typically a very calm, still man. Even now, most people would find him rather distant. But as someone who knows him, Sebastian Shaw can likely see the signs of giddiness -- of energy -- of activity that is strictly atypical for the endlessly patient CEO. In some respects, he looks like a child about to plunge headlong into a toy shop. Brick-laying. If there was a single set of words that could describe the activity behind Shaw's hard gaze, it would be this. Without saying the words, it hangs unmasked in the air: What are you up to, Norman. "I have not gotten to where I am today if I was shy in the face of risks," he chews on this allowance with a sideburned jaw set on top of a fist, navigating just where he wants to go with this position - and whether he /wants/ to go anywhere. The potential to dig in and shrug the whole thing off is always there as well. But it's that /energy/... Do you have enough excitement to share with the rest of us, Osborn old boy? "What is it you need of me and my land?" So subtle, the different between this question and a mere 'what do you want'. Norman leans back in his chair, then; leather creaks. He soaks in the atmosphere, slows his breathing -- just... relaxes. As if biding his time. Subduing that manic energy, pushing it beneath the surface... resuming his constant state of control. Of patience, caution, and /calculation/. And then... he responds to Sebastian Shaw's query with one of his own: "First... tell me, Sebastian. What do you think of mutants? As a businessman." Hrm. Shaw rolls his head to the side to align a queue of vertebrae, stating bluntly after a moment with only a thin layer of token money-chic polish over the gruff underworkings, "You know as well as I do that Shaw Industries funds mutant countermeasure research. Terrorism has an unfortunate way of being /good for business/ in the munitions industry, may we someday have no /need/ of it - and mutant terrorists are no different." He doesn't look torn nor uncomfortable to have made the statement he has - but he does look /bored/ with its pat, canned taste. So he takes a practical risk and adds, "And as a civilian /demographic/, I'd say from the luxury of a position that does very little catering to the civilian population they're /badly/ mismanaged, as an opportunity." Norman smiles at that last sentence. It is a sly, canny thing, quiet and subdued -- but present: "Precisely. I'd go a step further: It's bizarrely /criminal/ just how poorly managed they are. Just how many opportunities we've missed with them -- missed because of fear, ignorance, hostility..." And now... he sits up in his chair. Attentive. A little more energetic: "There are mutants who can heal the sick. Mutants who can read minds. Mutants who can control the weather. I realize reviling them carries a certain political expedience; nothing drums up the support quite like fear-mongering. But, my /God/, Shaw, the /opportunities/," Norman says, and one can taste that energy again, still churning beneath that carefully maintained shell of calm. "Why do we insist on limiting them? On imprisoning them -- destroying them? Mutants don't need to be controlled, Shaw. Mutants need to be inspired. Mutants need /leadership/." And Norman Osborn knows just the man for the job. The bouldered form of Sebastian Shaw has grown steadily more still in his seat; many men raise their voice to gain attention, but he manages to gain the same effect by growing steadily more /silent/. And then... he drops his head. And he /chuckles/. It's the sound of gravel being poured over a tin roof. "My my my, Norman, what /have/ you been up." He sniffs, and the laughter is gone. And his eyes spear at the other man's, "And the part you would have /me/ play in all this? And my land?" It may as well be a capitalized M in both Me... and /My/. "What I've always been up to, of course. Changing. Adapting. /Evolving/ to suit my environment," Norman speaks, and as Sebastian grows still, so does he; but that low-lidded smile remains. "And my environment now... is a very interesting one." "I need your support. You have certain friends -- who consider themselves my enemies. Some of them in the Pentagon. Washington's going to fight me every inch of the way for this, I know it. They'll say it's a security risk. They'll say Norman Osborn is raising an /army/." He doesn't say it, but the next sentence is there, hanging in the air: 'And maybe they'd be right.' "As for your land, Sebastian... well, you know. Genuine leadership -- it begins with children." Oh, how Norman Osborn /smiles/. "I'm going to open a school." Shaw seems on the verge of saying 'no'; his government contacts are better cultivated and tended than the bonsai trees of a monastery. His hands are raise to begin the impartial negation process - And then, nothing comes, Norman's words ringing like a lingering bell chime between them. Shaw's hands slowly lower back to either arm rest again, gripping them with tatto-taps of his fingers. He leans back deeper in his chair, and settles into a cavernous moment of consideration. "What you're proposing is unprecedented." "Of course it is. Adaption is /always/ unprecedented," Norman replies. "But unprecedented challenges require unprecedented solutions. Think of it, Shaw. An institute where mutants are welcome -- safe to explore the nature of their powers. Under careful supervision, of course," and /oh/ how Norman's eyes grow dark and pleased. Like a feline who's just figured out the trick to the latch on a canary's cage. "We'll focus on children -- but not /just/ children. We'll take anyone who is desperate -- who needs help, protection, /support/. And there are so many, Shaw. They'll come in /droves/." "It will all be very public, of course. But -- mmn, it's so perfect it nearly sells /itself/. The brass will be told it's an opportunity to study mutants -- to understand their capabilities, so we can better build countermeasures against them. The mutants will be told it's an opportunity to help them learn the extent of their own abilities. And the violent ones -- the ones who are trouble -- the ones who are particularly /special/ -- well, we'll have so /many/ applicants, Shaw," Norman says, and oh how his eyes /sparkle/. "It's no wonder that a few will vanish amidst the shuffle. Shuttled off to perform very /special/ tasks." "The Osborn Institute. If you give me a discount, I /might/ amend it to 'The Osborn-Shaw Institute'. But," and now Norman laughs, rolling and oh so pleased with himself, "I'm bandying about the idea of calling it 'The Land of Oz'." Shaw laughs - it's a practiced businessman's laugh, all the rough edges sanded down over the years to almost, /almost/ not sound so subtly like the crunching of bones. He claps his hands together slowly once, twice, a third time, giving Osborn a round of *applause* in three harsh beats. "Bra/vo/. An intriguing idea." He pushes down on the arms of his chair to stand up, "Of course, I would need time to think about it. Talk to Lourdes." The dutiful wife. Elegant, slim, dark hair - she's a catch he's always been proud to have at his side at most major functions. What he's notably not saying... is NO. Which, between these powerful men, is practically a yes. Shaw extends a powerful hand to Osborn, shaking his head with a grin that has teeth so slightly /gritted/ at all times, "I should be going. No rest for the wicked. Somedays, Norman, I wonder what must be going through your mind." Norman rises to accept that hand -- as smooth and effortless as a man rising to accept a well-deserved award. Though his hand is smaller than Shaw's, his grip is, as always, strong -- and his palm well-worn. Osborn shows his own teeth -- friendly, but one cannot help but wonder at the similarity between a wolf baring its teeth. "Of course. Take your time. Give your lovely wife my well-wishes, too. But don't take too long. I'll be announcing this at the gala -- things will move quickly after that." As he squeezes, the grin slips back into that subtle smile -- his eyelids drift low. "I'm a simple-minded creature, Shaw. Wherever I live, I adapt to thrive." The next line is so obvious it need not be spoken; nevertheless, Norman speaks it: "And I've found myself living in interesting times."