ArchivedLogs:May Day
| May Day | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2013-05-01 ' |
| Location | |
It was a smashing day for New York's elite, a frisky /May Day/ of flowers and possibly a decadent feast at the Hell Fire Club where Lourdes has played her wifely part as crem de la crem, distributing LUSH baskets of flowers at the offices of all and sundry. But spending much LONGER in the office of Emma Frost, decorating her as well with innocent mums and daisies before insistently WHISKING her out of the office on a trip to pay a visit to another old friend, /departed/ from the ranks of Hell Fire not forgotten! She phoned ahead of course, her voice laughing and proper and spiced with its lively Spanish accent, and the two arrive punctually and will /not/ be left to wait outside. This might be due to the /MURDER-BOT/ accompanying the two white-clad women. Pepe today is bedecked in a fetching white robe and /garland/, a thousand little daisy chains looped around his neck and a wreath of flowers set atop his metal head. Lourdes is dressed to match, in a long flowing May Day dress, the skirt ending around her calves but pleated and /flowing/ in a long train behind her like a white-clad goddess, her mass of curly dark hair is stuck through with little daisies and she bears a basket of flowers over her arm. She sweeps into Norman's office with her arms open, hands extended warmly - and this woman CAN SWEEP, her dress whooshing in behind her and an adventurous-wide grin, "Norman Osborn!" Said like he'd GROWN since she'd last seen him. "So good to see you again!" The machine seems displeased with its attire. Then again, it seems the trait of disapproval is hereditary, because the machine looks disappointed with the outfit it has been given. Pepe may not sport the definitive scowl of Doom, but its lack of a face might as well radiate its annoyance with the flowery crown. Not that it shows any actual signs of protest. It will take it. It will endure. Emma certainly had less time to prepare for her flower goddess duties, but does her best in a simple little white dress, a gauzy wrap around hir shoulders to accentuate an etherial look as well as keep the evening chill off her shoulders. She has a crown of flowers about hir hair, little ringlets of wispy curls hanging down and framing hir face and hiding the stems throughout her hair. She is quiet and patient, only a half step behind the exuberant Lourdes Chantel, a smile placed on hir face, not quite as fresh as it was in the car. She holds a basket in her hands, one also laden with flowers, something picturesque and amused in her eyes and gait. "Good evening." Norman Osborn's left eyebrow twitches. It happens a moment before the doors open - when his secretary, a pleasant, chipper young girl named Samantha - has briefly flicked the button down on the intercom and announced 'You have visitors, Mr. Osborn - they have - flowers'. The Word 'flowers' comes out at the precise moment when the doors rush open with a *WHUMP* - just one /instant/ before that twitching eyebrow is brought under control. And then Norman Osborn is on his feet, all smiles and /cheer/, not an /inch/ of disapproval in his features. As he steps around the desk to greet Lourdes - his eyes drifting to the machine, then to Emma - his hands extending out to greet her in either a firm handshake or warm hug (whatever her preference) - his mind, like a narrowing beam of light, focuses /intently/ on Emma. << Were there a word stronger than 'loathe'... >> "Lourdes. An absolute /delight/," Norman informs her, eyes flicking toward - ah, yes. Pepe. "Who is /this/ bright-eyed little fellow?" he asks this question as if he were inquiring about Lourdes' new /baby/. "Goodness gracious..." Eyes flickering. Oh, he is all cheer and sunshine on the outside, but Emma can /feel/ him fuming beneath the surface. They got a robot. Doom gave them what might be the most advanced full-body prosthetic in the /world/. And she's turned it into a goddamn /flower/ girl. "Tsk, come!" Lourdes has the expansive presence of a woman /bred/ for power, and while grinning sly beneath her sharp eyes and thick lashes, she conducts herself in the high society role of the unhesitating, long-(red)nailed /alpha-bitch/ of the room, tossing her arms loosely around his neck to plant a kiss to his cheek - one heel lifted. "The Club is not the /same/ without you there. Sebastian feels the same. But you are not forgotten, my dear." She swishes away from Norman as though breaking off from a tango, setting her basket coneflower and hyacinth and a few /fuchsia/ stargazer lilies on the corner of his desk so very absently, and pausing to neaten their arrangement, "Oh, this old thing?" She flicks her eyes at the robot, "Isn't he a trinket? He was a gift to my husband from the ruler of Latveria," /nudge/, she tidies up the baby's breath too, "I call him /Pepe/. Tsk, I'm afraid he's not terribly well programmed, we tried to make him walk the dog and he was absolutely /inattentive/." Her mind is crystal /laughter/. Ladies enjoy their fun. The way Pepe confidently strides inside, it might as well be secretly mocking Norman. It is as if the machine is parading itself about, showing off the colourful array of flowers that complement the metallic sheen of its armoured skeleton. Oh, and showing off its splendidly precise locomotion. But the flowers are definitely the highlight. The machine twists its head left and right, scanning and surveying its environment. Behind the dull and emotionless eyes, of course, there is a man. Beneath this flamboyant facade, there is a monarch on the other end. Ever watchful. When Lourdes mentions Pepe, like an attention-starved puppy, its attention /snaps/ back to the Hispanic woman, that soulless gaze fixated on her. Emma returns the firm handshake, but leans in for a air kiss near his cheek. She pulls away, doing her best to stifle her growing amusement. She might've responded to Osborn telepathically, but he hates it /so/ when she is in his head, so refrains. "Apparently, May Day is a day for flowers. I never knew this before. I might have sent out baskets to more members." She glances to Pepe, then confides in Norman. "She takes him everywhere. They're practically joined at the hip." "Mmn. Of course," Norman replies to Lourde's words with the warm, affable smile he has practiced so many times in front of the camera; yet somehow, it feels /perverse/ on him now. The Shaws have a way of making him feel uncomfortable in his own skin. /Particularly/ the missus. "But, I'm sure the HFC will change their mind - in time. Until then..." "...yes. How fascinating," Norman replies, looking to Pepe again. Outwardly, he's /dripping/ with indifference; inwardly, he is /churning/ with a mixture of envy - and - yes, /fascination/ with the machine. He is mentally dissecting it - disassembling each part as he looks upon it, imagining how it functions. And even as this goes on, he turns to receive Emma's handshake and brief, air-kiss - rumbling to her: "A pleasure to see you here, as well, Ms. Frost." << You know, of course, that this 'Doom' fellow is likely watching us through that... machine. Right now. >> The mental image of Doom, in his prestigious armor, arms folded, staring at a monitor. << I wonder, >> Norman continues, << how he handles the toiletry. >> This thought is immediately followed by the same scowling Doom, now atop of a TOILET. Nothing vulgarly exposed, but - two hairy, white legs protruding out from beneath his robes like knobby little drumsticks. "I am sure they will." Lourdes says offhand, her mind flat for a single moment behind her flashing white teeth to intone << Just as soon as they get over their little anti-mutant /fad/. Hm. Though hell will have gone /cool/. >> She plucks up a dropped petal with a licked finger, rolling it into a ball while slipping away from the desk, "We'll all have to keep faith until then, yes? We'll not keep you from running your company. Take care, Norman. Do have us over sometime, won't you? It's good to see how tall young Harry has grown. Pepe?" When she passes by the robot, she reaches up to /fix/ a few flowers fallen down his brow, tucking them back into the wreath. And she then spins on the toes of her heels - again, it's almost like a dance, her skirt swirling around her legs and then /past/ in a silky whorl that would require her hold still for a few moments to finish swaying. Which she does not, sweeping out the door again, leaving the office far more /floral/ than it had been heading in. She has a small basket for Samantha as well. /Naturally/. Just as Pepe's attention leaves Lourdes, it suddenly returns when it is beckoned to the woman's side. If one man is going to follow at her side without so much as a single question or even a peep, it's Pepe. The murderous android turns around, twirling the regal robe around just high enough to scandalously flash its steel shins. Then, the flower-themed murderbot makes its exit as well. But even as it leaves, it attentively examines the interior. "Have a .. pleasant evening, Mr. Osborn," Emma performs a small bow as she turns, no flourish, her features gaining a rather static expression as she does her utmost not to laugh out loud at Norman's different considerations. She glances back at him when she reaches the door, an eyebrow raised, a little more of her cool demeanor showing in a private glance before hurrying after Lourdes, keeping up the appearance of a doting staff member. Norman watches them go. All smiles and sunshine, of course. "Absolutely, Mrs. Shaw. Give my regards to your husband. Emma," he nods to her, once - briskly - followed by a << I'll schedule an appointment, soon. >>. And then - once they, along with Pepe, are out of the office... he's sitting at his desk. Pulling up - the videofeed of Pepe in the office. All the different camera angles. /Inspecting/, ever so closely. As if to try and pull him apart just from the surface. As a last, errant thought, he reaches to press his finger against the intercom - Samantha chips up, but Norman immediately cuts her off: "Samantha, pick up all the flowers and send them to the incinerator. /Including/ the ones she gave you." Norman Osborn does not 'do' flowers. | |
