ArchivedLogs:Jeepers Creepers

Jeepers Creepers
Dramatis Personae Nox, Norman, Parley	2013-03-28 Where'd you get those peepers...?
Location <NYC> Hellfire Club - Upper East Side
The Oscorp Gala is as high-falootin' as you might imagine; set in the Hellfire Club's main lobby, it's flush with some of New York City's financial and political elites -- businessmen, politicians, lawyers, and a number of generals who meander from display to display and table to table, amicably chatting. Of particular interest -- and a source of perpetual tension -- are the mutants. Some are obvious; others, less so. Nox falls into the former. Parley falls somewhere in-between. At the moment, Nox has been cornered by an obnoxious member of the military who is peppering her with /endless/ questions about her mutations. The man has had a bit to drink, and his interest is starting to get... well, probably a little creepy. On top of that, any attempt to gracefully 'bow-out' of the conversation is promptly and crudely circumvented with all the social savvy of a shaved howler monkey. But then -- just as he's starting to ask questions about her /clothes/ (and maybe stare a little too long at her dress), a DASHING HERO ENTERS THE FRAY TO SAVE HER FROM AWKWARD CREEPSTERS. ...actually, hm. This might be /much/ worse. "Colonel?" Norman Osborn says, smiling with that warm, effortless charm. "Your wife was asking for you." And then the Colonel is blustering about something or other, slightly flustered and quickly retreating to see just what the MISSUS wants. Which means that Nox is, of course, now facing Norman Osborn... alone. He doesn't look /half/ as dangerous as they say. Handsome! Charming! Smiling! An unusual color hair, with a sharp widow's peak -- crow's feet crowded around his warm, piercing amber-gold eyes. A black suit, white shirt, and -- for this evening only -- a dark green bow-tie. As the Colonel evaporates into the party proper, Norman Osborn offers Nox his hand -- "Ms... Nox, wasn't it? I don't believe we've met. Emma's told me a bit about you, though. I'm Norman Osborn." There is a limit to even the patience of darkness. When one is attired as a lady, sheathed in clouds of organza, weighed down with sparkling chains of jet beads, one must behave as such. But Nox has been holding her champagne flute before her like a shield for the past ten minutes and it is fortunate that Emma was able to find her a pair of small, decorative glasses with tinted lenses--they hide the way her eyes continuously rove in search of an exit. There is no hiding the fixed nature of her smile, however, nor the way it relaxes into relief when the Colonel is sent scurrying away. Except...except it means that she is now trapped with Norman Osborn. Alone. The shadow-hair that she'd willed into a coiffure that is drawn back from her face and left to fall past her shoulders grows agitated. "Mr. Osborn," she whispers as she fits her unoccupied hand into his. Hers is not a firm grip, the give to her fingers slightly more than flesh should allow. "Nox, yes, thank you, sir. It is a pleasure. Ms. Frost has been a great boon to me. A wonderful woman." Parley's presence has been measured, and it's been measuring. He drifts from small conversation circle to small conversation circle like a parasitic butterfly, slipping in sideways into appropriate dialogue and expressing no shame in taking pains to remain in the presence of at least one person that he's already been introduced to, that they might /make/ introductions for him at the next group. There's not a /huge/ stir of recognition for his published article, though a few have commented, and more are encouraged /to/ comment with each cautious talking point he murmurs. And hand shaking. He must unwind a hand from behind his back often to make with the cool-fingered handshaking. His own attire is gray and simple, a mandarin collar making a further polite obscurity of his mutation that he /starts/ with a smile and ends with a peripheral muting of presence at each quiet departure. Even ghosts will manifest at time to time. But an effecting haunting is all a matter of timing... Norman Osborn laughs. The sound is rich, pleasant, indulgent -- it carries the warmth of a gentle sun-soaked wave. It crashes down across Nox with perfect ease. Nope, nothing off-putting about /this/ fellow. Well, except that he might squeeze her hand just a /little/ more firmly than should be proper... "Ms. Frost is a miracle-worker," Norman agrees. "The woman has performed an act that is nothing short of pure wizardry. Managing to simultaneously allay the concerns of a dozen top military officials -- /and/ still slip in a few superheroes to this little soiree...? I am eternally in her debt." He releases her hand, and produces that quick, effortless grin: "Just as the city is also in /yours/. Nox. What a lovely name. The Roman Goddess of the night, if I recall?" Parley. Norman's nostrils flare, however briefly; as if trying to catch the man's scent. He /knows/ he's here, somewhere. But the fellow has a way of blurring into the background static. It might not hurt to have her hand not quite crushed but Nox surely notices the pressure. She looks down as if to double-check that yes, her senses are not lying--that there is a handshake held too long, with too much strength. Her fingers begin to work to extricate themselves while she looks up to Osborn's face again, her smile adopting the same fixed quality it had possessed under the Colonel's gaze. The cultured warmth of his laugh should set her at ease. Instead, the hackles of her emotional spectrum are bristling in a way that leaves the shadow-ringlets of her hair lashing against her back. "You recall correctly, yes sir. But I am owed no debt. As I have said, it was more a matter of timing than one of...extraordinary heroism." Nox hides briefly behind taking a sip of champagne, her gaze roaming. It slides over Parley, returns briefly but then drifts again. "I was honored to be invited. Among such notables. You are the wizard I think, Mr. Osborn, to have such a vision and to make it real." Parley has a way of arriving that seems gradual, even at a normal walking pace; he rises up like a mist at Nox's elbow, materializing all at once into a quiet speaking voice and eyes set on Osborn's face first and foremost, "Mr. Osborn." He offers forward an open hand, "Your party couldn't be a greater success, sir. You should be congratulated once again. I've never seen such intricate ice sculptures." Because you know there are ice sculptures. There are always ice sculptures. He doesn't at first seem to realize Nox is even present - she'll only get a view of the side of his relaxed and smiling face. "A wizard? /Me/?" Osborn laughs at the thought. "If I recall, the Wizard of Oz was all smoke and mirrors, wasn't he?" Then, softer, as if confessing a dreadful secret -- a sparkle in his eyes: "You know that that's all this is, don't you? You and Mr. Holland -- you're the real magic, here." This whispered confession comes a moment before Parley seems to spring into being from no where; Norman looks briefly surprised -- eyebrows raising -- before that warm, pleased smile returns. His hand reaching to seize Parley's own. At once, two things are very clear: Norman is /extraordinarily/ pleased with the party so far... and he's planning something. Something big. Something that he suspects his enemies aren't going to like. "Parley. Thank you! Although I hope the ice sculptures aren't the /highlight/ of the party," he adds, chuckling. "The lovely creature besides you is Nox. She was responsible, in part, for vanquishing that... 'vampire' in the news." "Would that we could claim magic." Nox's reply is faint, as it must be, but there's an additional amount of pale to her voice. She's watching Osborn's face closely, her smile perfect--and her hidden eyes slightly wider. She had been warned he was dangerous but it wasn't until she saw that sparkle and /felt/ him whispering to her that she really understood the reality of it. Something is...not quite right about this man. Which makes Parley's arrival, surprising though it is, a welcome relief. She turns, movements constrained by her gown. "In some small part," she murmurs. "It is a pleasure, Mr. Parley. I have yet to see the ice sculptures, I was...detained." "No, sir," Parley allows with a small dip of head, "I was admiring some of your display models as well. I'm afraid a lot of it's more technology than I can really understand, but I'm very impressed with the defensive capabilities of your dragonscale prototypes. I can't imagine the amount of research Oscorp must have undergone to produce what it has." When he inhales - at a nice, natural moment - he is pulling in this /pleasure/ radiating from Osborn, and cautiously swells wider the breath of his channels to try and read /more/. "-And. Ms. Nox." His expression is somewhere between cool and curious, offering a hand quietly. "It must have been terribly frightening for you." His smile is so slightly rigid. Quietly, a subtle pulse slipped underhand: << (you don't know me.) >> "Oscorp just has a few brilliant mad scientists locked away in the basement," Norman says with a good humored smile -- but something about the way he says it hints at the possibility that this isn't a lie. In fact, Parley might pick up the fact that there actually /is/ a mad scientist or two working for Osborn -- strictly off the books. "But yes, I'm quite pleased with some of our toys -- the drones, particularly," he adds, and at that moment one such drone is buzzing by -- a basketball sized machine with a dinner platter on top, somehow managing to carry any number of champagne flutes without so much as tipping it. Osborn pauses to reach -- the drone instantly grows still, continuing its perpetual hum. The flute is plucked up, and Osborn turns away -- the machine buzzes by, returning to its steady, cyclical patrol of the ballroom. "We've had several breakthroughs with their targeting and manuevering protocols." That surprise, whatever Norman's planning... it's there, but deeply entangled. The man practically lies for a /living/. Sometimes, translating him is hard. But whatever it is, it's not violent. He's planning on /announcing/ something. << (don't know him mustn't know him this is worse so much worse than I thought it would be.) >> Nox's smile remains as it was--perfect, as only something created consciously can be, but uninvolved. Her taking of Parley's hand is brief and impersonal. "It was not an experience I care to repeat, no sir. I much prefer my present company." Drawing her hand away, she shifts it to join its twin around her champagne and turns a glance towards the busily humming drone. "What sort of protocols would these be, Mr. Osborn? One supposes they do not only serve as butlers." Standing to face Osborn, it can't be seen straight-on that the quiet whine of the drone slipping by earns a stiffening of hackles at the nape of Parley's neck - bizarrely, at the front, this makes his smile touched with a hair more liveliness, coasting on the adrenaline to ask with a spark of visible interest, admitting, "I'm also curious. It must be an incredibly fickle matter to program accurately." "Trade secrets," Norman says, and it's with a pleased, self-indulgent laugh; 'trade secrets', Parley might catch, translates into a mutant. With a peculiar affinity for machines. "But, yes. The programming is /exceptionally/ tricky. They've come very far from the first models we used to use -- at their peak, these variants could out-fly a hawk." He's looking at Parley, now, as he adds this last part. Heavy-lidded. The words translate into something else, this time. Not a phrase, but an image, a /concept/. Of a boy, moving razor-fast along ziplines -- rushing through city alleyways, pursued. The sense that he is supposed to escape... but this time, he does not. A flash, a burst; a charred, smoking corpse. And Norman's pleased smile. "Mmn, you know, I'm curious to meet your associate -- I heard she's attending as well? The one who helped you with that 'creature'," Norman says, his eyes suddenly swinging toward Nox. "I've been told she's quite the fighter." Oh, how he /grins/. Nox is silent for a beat too long, betraying the focus being channelled into maintaining an outward semblance of calm. Her hair hangs limp now, sure sign of overcompensation for an emotional state filled with static. She does not like Osborn's laughter. Even more, she does not like his grin and the concern and protectiveness that she feels for Tatters...well... There is a sudden /thereness/ in the woman that was lacking before. No longer the gentle debutante, she reaches up to remove her glasses and holds them folded loose in her palm so she can look at him with naked black eyes. "Jill," she says to name her associate. "She was the true hero, yes. A formidable woman and a good friend." Parley tiptoes around the potential of a shudder with redirection - he holds out a hand for a small glass of spring water, expelling just enough energy with it to break up any inconvenient patterns of self-silencing behavior, and dips his head to sip as though for just the moment passively listening. But beneath it, he washes up alongside Nox to shore against her, whispering between her cracks, through the fragments that form her, << (careful). >> It's a stead, quiet musing, and offers a sense of something odd, it's /like/ anxiety, flavored so startlingly like Nox's own... but it's rendered sleek, streamlined... but also impersonal and sterilized. << (don't boast too loud.)(unless you /want/ him more interested...) >> And this last comes with a very grim almost-laugh. And then fades away. And all that remains is Parley, sipping quietly behind his water, and performing a mild scan of faces as they pass by. Those dark eyes of Nox's draws Norman Osborn's attention. So does that sudden /focus/ she exhibits. "Mmh," he breathes, and he watches -- with rapt fascination -- and a sluggish, slow smile. It's nothing more than an exhalation, yet that sound alone rolls across Parley's mind with so many thoughts, so many /intentions/... all of them layered upon one another. But the clearest thought? The most obvious intention? Is not Norman Osborn's at all. Something else stirs beneath that exhalation -- poking and prodding. Wondering. /Gawking/. At those jet-black eyes... ...and wondering how they might taste. "I'll keep that in mind -- she sounds like an extraordinary person," he says, and then there is that warm smile again. Those words contain images -- of a struggle, in the sewers -- a boy, a boy in a red mask running, an infuriating little boy who /escaped/ him, and a sudden flash of green, a knight standing guard, fending off a creature full of /teeth/ and /hunger/ and-- "Mmn, if you'll excuse me," Norman says, suddenly distracted, his eyes turning away, "I think I see someone I need to speak to... Nox? Parley. A pleasure." And then he's evaporating back into the crowd... leaving the two of them to reminisce. About that time. When they didn't get devoured by Norman Osborn.