ArchivedLogs:Parley

Parley
Dramatis Personae Parley, Norman, Murphy
In Absentia	2013-04-17 Parley requests a parley.
Location ???
The white 5th avenue Chrysler is a tank of a car; a lumbering beast that reflects its owner. It’s the pride and joy of one Murphy Law - so when Parley ends up in the passenger seat, he is quickly informed: Bleed on the seats at your own mother-fucking peril. Murphy deposits him outside of a cafe not far from a small, bustling town on the outskirts of the border between Pennsylvania and New York - on the New York side, of course. It’s where Norman Osborn is currently wining and dining several important, very concerned people. People whom he is trying to convince that Mr. Osborn is /not/ insane. As some might imagine, this is quite the challenging task. When Norman Osborn emerges, he looks - flustered. Controlled, but flustered. Not happy about how the brunch went, but - not surprised, either. It’s hard to read him at this moment - his will is crushing down on his thoughts like an anvil, smothering all but the intense momentum he has - toward his goal. Osborn Institute. Saving Oscorp. Ensuring his survival and prosperity in the face of the /extraordinary/ risks he’s taken. Mr. Shaw - a bald-headed man in a suit who is well-experienced at the task of ‘handling’ Mr. Osborn - opens the car door for him. Norman Osborn slips into the back of the limousine, at once immersed in the cool rush of the AC - and the feel of pleasant leather on his back. It provides small comfort, however. He’s already reaching for pills in the tray placed in front of him. “Back to the hotel,” he mumbles to the driver. “We have a problem.” Parley says from the seat beside him, an elbow propped on the window. It breaks the stillness that initially had been a pleasant sense of ‘no one else HERE’. He has his legs crossed, his chin on knuckles. It’s all very casual and modern. The bottle of pills makes a loud clattering sound as it drops - opened - to the floor of the limousine’s spacious backseat. Norman Osborn’s head snaps up - staring at Parley with - /fury/. For an instant, it’s pure and absolute and unhidden; for an instant, Norman Osborn’s eyes flash a brilliant, egg-toned /YELLOW/. But in the next instant - it’s gone - his expression shifting into one of... reserved frustration. One fist clenched on the door as it slams shut. KA-CLUNK. “...so it appears,” Norman responds, his voice forcibly calm - flattened beneath the sheer weight of his need for control. Parley’s dark eyes make no attempt to hide the open fascination in which he watches that yellow arrive - and then decline. Once it fades, his gaze lingers, slides down to the pills scattered across the floor, then eventually directs somewhere straight ahead. The front of the car, or maybe some invisible abyss. “It’s not terribly voluntary, is it.” “It /can/ be.” Now, there is a sound - the casual /*thunk*/ of doors locking. The driver - Mr. Shaw - glancing back through the window. “Problem, Mr. Osborn?” “No, Mr. Shaw. Close the window. Drive. Somewhere remote.” And so the window between Shaw and Osborn proceeds to descend - tinted dark, near-opaque. The sounds from the front seat immediately disappear - it’s apparently soundproofed, too. Convenient. And while the leather interior is plush, Parley may note that it has an unusual plastic veneer coating it - it probably makes washing it very easy. In fact, one can easily imagine Norman Osborn having Mr. Shaw hose it down. After particularly /aggressive/ meetings. “Tell me, Parley,” Norman asks, and it is clear that he is /straining/ over each word - straining just to keep the thing inside of him at bay. “Tell me why I shouldn’t skip my 1 o’clock brunch. Because I’m sure you wouldn’t be here without a /very/ good reason.” “I’m here because you’re out of control, Mr. Osborn.” Parley is murmuring this almost before Norman is finished speaking, though it’s difficult to call interrupting. Just... to the point. “And it’s rapidly becoming inconvenient to me.” The implied threat doesn’t seem to trouble him. This alone, perhaps, communicates something else. /What/, exactly, is up for interpretation. “You’ve brought nothing with which to defend yourself,” Norman says; not as an accusation, but as a /realization/. He seems shocked; almost amused. “No bargaining chip beyond yourself. Do you fancy yourself a modern day Scheherazade, Parley? Making your story so /interesting/ that I spare you if only to see how it /ends/?” His clenched fist reaches forward. Fingers unravel - reluctantly - and grip leather. Squeezing. The leather /creaks/ - begins to tear. Just his fingernails. It helps him keep control. Heavy breathing, too. His eyes are pale, but not yellow - they are narrowed as he watches Parley. “I could use you,” he says. “Things are growing difficult. But I could also /finish/ this,” he says, and those words are spoken with a certain /relish/. “Learn everything you know. About you. Your friends. All your friends. Do you realize that, Parley?” Norman Osborn sucks in a slow breath. Steadying himself. Swallowing back that hunger. “That by coming here, you’ve enabled me - to know everything /you/ know - to then go after your friends?” His words translate clearly enough. This is Norman Osborn, teasing Parley. Trying to /hurt/ him. But there’s another, simple truth beneath his tone - and it is this: Norman Osborn has yet to decide whether or not he’s going to devour him. “I realize.” Parley does not say this flippantly. Nor smiling. Just solemn, evenly, with his eyes half lidded. “But I think the charade is over for either of us - you already know where I’m from. Or you should.” So slightly dry, the unspoken: I’ll be disappointed in you if you have not figured it out. “You’re making sticky little messes looking for information you could get just as neatly, while yet preserving your ever rapidly declining list of allies.” His eyes snap back to the side of Osborn’s face, “The reason I’m talking to you right now, instead of your /enemies/, is that I have a vested interest yet in seeing you succeed.” The fingers that claw into that leather begin to squeeze. Strips of leather curl down, slowly torn from the flesh of the chair; Osborn’s breathing remains slow, heavy, rhythmed. “Mmm,” he says, /staring/ at Parley. “You seem to regard your life with very little value. On this point, at least, we agree,” and now there is a flash of teeth, a harsh, hungry /grin/. But the teeth soon recede - and Norman’s hand untenses. He turns, then, to look out the window. Leaning back into his seat... growing calmer. “Let’s be done with the charade, then, Parley. I have need of well-behaved pawns. Since the threat of being devoured does not seem sufficient to dissuade you from misbehaving, I’ll put this simply: Next time, it won’t be you my associate will be visiting.” Amber-gold eyes now regard Parley; the hint of hungry teeth threatens to spill from the edge of his lips. “Next time, he’ll be after all the others. Holland. His children. Your roommates. Your employer. /Everyone/,” Norman growls, “/Except/ for you.” “-and there you are,” Parley breathes, running a hand for a moment over his face, “Straight to the same solution for every problem, Mr. Osborn. I very much believe you. I believe you’re entirely capable of it. And in the mean time, mnh, possibly y- he’ll die trying and I’ll be in loss, /you’ll/ be in loss, /Oscorp/ will be in loss and there is no victory for anyone.” He watches that dangerous amber-glare like a mongoose might watch a snake. Carefully. Sharply. Attentive. And he says, abruptly, “You do very little to inspire loyalty. Pursuit of pleasure and avoidance of pain are base animal motivations.” If any aspect of yellow eyes peer outward on the mental plane, his mind can almost be... felt. Like a pitched tuning fork, it hums in subtle proximity, softly giving like a cushion where lesions and deep fingerprints resonate. “You do not have to tread lightly with me.” His mind - /twitches/, nearly recoils. Then delicately lies still. “But you will need someone that treads lightly, going forward.” Norman’s hand twitches. Yellow eyes /spasm/ - and the psychic growl is so deep that it could easily be mistaken for a /real/ one. The hand that dug into the leather pulls back - and, for a moment, Norman Osborn’s fingertips resemble... /claws/. “Hnnh...” The claws retract. Norman’s eyes narrow. But he resumes looking out the window. “Shut up,” he says, and were Parley equipped with any power /other/ than translation, he might think Norman Osborn was speaking to /him/. But he isn’t. The yellow eyes close. “...he’s getting stronger,” Norman admits. “There was a time - I would be horrified at the prospect of -” << ( murder) ( the taste of human flesh ) >> “- I’m taking steps. To keep him... in check.” There’s more there, beneath the words. The Osborn Institute - is, apparently - one of those steps. “...the Hellfire Club. They retracted my membership,” Norman tells Parley. “Officially, because of the gala fiasco, pending a review. Unofficially. Are you familiar with the Inner Circle?” When Norman’s claws begin to develop, Parley, for whatever odd reason, looks out the window. There’s no hyper tension in his loose fingers, breathing slowly; it could be a simple lack of concern for his own wellbeing. But his grim-thoughtful nodding is merely engaged - so that it feels almost like a sense of odd /faith/ in Norman’s control. Requiring no comment in the course of business. “The gala was - inconvenient timing for everyone, I think.” He cups his fingers around his chin, with the index finger raised to rest over the center of his mouth as though gesturing ‘shh’ to unnecessary questions or irrelevant commentary his mind may be supplying. Of the final question: “I’m not.” And this, somehow, serves as a question all its own. Taking in building blocks. Quietly fitting them together. So tentatively, with great caution, he touches out with his empathy; his mind is raw, shredded in its tissue, but to one of these minds it’s only more sensitive for it. Following the scent of that mental growl to channel the truly bizarre sensation of two minds through his filter in one. Neatening. Streamlining. /Studying/. And braced for the very real possibility of it biting down. The second mind in Norman's head is... throttled. /Pushed/ deep beneath the surface; it now slumbers, dreaming of bloody carcasses and shrieking, writhing bodies. Of its jaws sinking around a helpless, squirming creature in the backseat of a car, the shocks squeaking as the car /bounces/ in some bizarre, horrifying caricature of a lover's romp. Norman's own mind is growing clear, more polished, more /sharp/. The moments of lucidity are growing increasingly rare - and he's learned to treasure them. When he talks, his tone is distant - detached - clinical. "The Hellfire Club is a pleasant front. Behind it is the Inner Circle - an association of businessmen. Movers and shakers who desire control and profit. Human only. They have... strong anti-mutant inclinations. I was on their shortlist for new membership - my pedigree, my money, my particular 'field'... with the Gala announcement, that went out the window. Expected, of course. But." That but is weighty indeed; behind it is a flash of fire and brimstone. "They're doing more than excluding me from the old boy's club. They're working /against/ me. And they have the means to do so. I need an in. They're... very careful about who they let behind those doors. They gene-test their members to ensure no mutants. Furthermore, they keep their contacts very tight-lipped." "I'll see who I can talk to." Parley answers, not quite brisk, just a touch raw, with his teeth clicking quietly. "But in the mean time, go," his head slowly drifts back, bumping against the (nice and soft and... plasticy headrest), and looks up at the car ceiling, "gentler. You're not going to be able to tear your way out of this with straight aggression. And everyone is expecting you to try to anyway." Even with his head back, his narrowed eyes are watching the world slide by outside the window. The pause that comes next is long, measuring. And, saying so little, there's something else implied. "You're being watched, Mr. Osborn. Possibly more than know. You can't afford to be predictable." "You puzzle me," Norman admits, but then, without another word - he knocks on the window in front of him. There is an electric buzz as the window descends... and Mr. Shaw glances back. If he's surprised to see Parley still in one piece, he doesn't show it. "Back to the restaurant. We'll be dropping our guest off," Norman informs him. "Then, back to the hotel." He leans back in his chair - a soft pffht. "I'll give you the contacts I'm aware of," he explains, before adding: "Just so you're aware, Parley. I haven't decided yet. Whether you're going to survive this. That isn't a threat; I just think you should know that." "I know." Parley's eyes close. "And. -- I appreciate your honesty in that." When he starts to move, it pulls in the unraveled fray-edges of his aura, solidifying him some, brushing straight his sleeves, glancing idly up at Mr. Shaw when the window comes down. Groom. Straighten. The inane straightening of an person preparing to get out of a car. Osborn makes no move to stop him. Once the car's besides the restaurant, he allows him to exit - without a word. Just... staring out the window. Thinking. Frowning. /Plotting/.