ArchivedLogs:Party Planning

Party Planning
Dramatis Personae Norman, Emma	2013-03-16 Seriously though Norman's gonna eat all of your eyes.
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. Norman Osborn almost /never/ leaves his office. The man's a notorious workaholic; the only time he's known to pry himself loose of a computer is when he sleeps (which, according to the rumors, is never), when he's exercising (according to rumors, Norman's a big Krav Maga fan), or when he's dealing with business that is /critical/ to the future of Oscorp. Guess what this instance represents? "You know," he informs Emma -- striding through the extraordinarily well-stocked library, his finger carefully tracing the spine of several books -- pausing a moment at a particular volume. Lingering. "I've never actually /visited/ the Hellfire Club. Isn't that... strange?" An amused little smile, as if to himself. He is dressed as he /always/ is -- black suit, tie. White shirt. Immaculate, clean. The sort of man who /exudes/ success -- effortlessly. His mind, as always, is a polished, well-oiled machine. Somewhere in the depths of that churning brain thrums... something. Dark. Tumor-like. For the moment, it is silent. On the surface, he's thinking about what he's going to buy his son for his birthday. Harry Osborn. 15, nearly 16. Sunshine of Norman's life. Maybe he'll buy him a chemistry set. Emma sits in one of the armchairs so relaxed, she gives the impression that she is draped across it like a bolt of silk, but her posture is upright, proper, and graceful. Her legs are crossed at the ankles, prim and ladylike. Dressed in her usual white on light, she has chosen a more neutral beige palate today, rather than the stark white or cool gray. Her pant suit is well fitted, and covers her well, without her usual flashes of flesh. She knew she was meeting with Osborn today. She looks up from her tablet and smiles a little wider. "Well, I'm glad you could come down. It gives me a chance to show off the venue and what it has to offer." Emma has her mind open mostly because she doesn't trust Osborn to behave and wants some sort of advanced warning of this. She finds his thoughts of his son charming in contrast to the darkness within him - which she avoids today as best she can. She has no desire to awaken that. At length, the event cordinator rises and closes the cover of her tablet. "Shall I show you around, or do you want to handle the more boring details first?" "Work first," Norman tells her, and there's a self-depreciating undercurrent to his thoughts there; one directed toward the image of his son. A regret, perhaps? Perhaps. His thoughts toward the boy are colored with a mixture of warmth and regret. He wishes he could do more for him. But Oscorp will be his inheritance. He must secure that legacy. "Work /always/ first," he reaffirms. And then... he slips the book he's kept his finger on off the shelf. Apparently intent on checking it out. Should Emma look, she might catch a glimpse: The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. "How has the list been coming?" he asks, approaching -- admiring. He's fond of the elegance she projects. A distraction -- but he so rarely allows himself to be distracted. A brief indulgence. Maybe he'll get Harry one of those new tablets; children like those, don't they? "I imagine it's been difficult -- considering my terms." Emma does see the title and raises an eyebrow, but does not laugh. "I've secured Mr. Holland for you," Emma speaks up, opening her tablet once more and finding an application. "He was annoyingly altruistic and self-righteous, so wouldn't accept the legal help, but I think his curiosity won out in the end. I've got a couple others, I could email you the list, that will fit the bill, but we're still researching them to see if they are who they are billing themselves to be." Emma lowers herself to pull something out of her bag - a more stripped down tablet than the one she is using - more of a reader than a true tablet, and locked into a receive mode that makes it useful for presentations. She extends a hand to offer it to him. The file she is referring to is already on display. "It hasn't been easy. Some people seem afraid to be honest about their powers, even when they are public, and removing telepaths and offensively strong mutants seems to make them even harder to find, but we're still working on gathering intel in case our current candidates do not pass muster." Oh, how Norman's eyebrows raise when Emma mentions that she's secured Mr. Holland. She can /feel/ the surprise coming from him; after doing a little digging of his own, he genuinely suspected that the answer would be an unequivocable 'No'. "Really," he says. "Fascinating." Something about how he says that word. Something about the way he /thinks/ it. For a moment, Emma might be reminded of two gleaming yellow eyes, staring out from the dark -- searching for weakness. Hungry for blood. But no. This isn't the monster she met in his office the other day. This is a charming, polite, overworked man; a man who loves his son and regrets not having enough time to spend with him. Regrets that spending time with him may even do more /harm/ than good. There is a history of abuse in his family; a part of him fears becoming like his father. An image of an ignorant, vain brute; squandering his inheritance and administering beatings inbetween drinking binges. Norman accepts the tablet, finger descending to flip through the display. Scanning. "Mmn. Still, Holland is an /extraordinary/ catch, Ms. Frost. Well done for securing him. I simply must know your secret." A cheeky little grin. "I expect a /little/ subterfuge as far as our mutant friends go. I'm not overtly concerned. I have a few tests I'll administer myself; nothing too invasive. Just to avoid... mmn. An absolute disaster." Emma is a little surprised at his surprise, but does her best to play it off. "Oh. Research, sir, it was just research. When you know enough about a person, it's easy to play on their weaknesses. Mr. Holland is brave, but doesn't want the attention he is receiving. He doesn't believe in the government, but wouldn't actually completely divorce himself from trying to make it work. The mere fact that he's intending to fight his ticket with the ACLU says that much. Additionally, he's curious. He's bringing a plus one - if the person meets your standards. "That does remind me -- about the things you wish to demonstrate at the party: getting permits to set off explosions in New York City is, how shall I put this - not beyond the scope of what the Hellfire Club can do, but my superiors do not really wish for their ballrooms to have explosions in them." Emma does not like saying no, especially not to Norman Osborn. "Messrs Carlyle and Buckman send their regrets and request that any further discussion about this be taken up with them directly." "Plus one? Hn. As long as they aren't -- hm." Now, Norman's thoughts verge on the technical. Could he get away with making mutant testing mandatory for all non-mutant guests? There would be some raised eyebrows, of course. The generals wouldn't like it. And there could be some... unfortunate discoveries. "For now, let's say yes," he finally decides. "I suppose we have to be a little trusting, don't we? Trust is the foundation of all good business." "Oh, yes, the explosions..." Regret. A brief flash of mild irritation. "Couldn't be helped. I'll have my engineers retool the display prototypes into something that conforms to fire code." He smiles, then, handing the tablet back to Emma -- "I'll need the list emailed soon, yes. By tomorrow, at the latest. We might be adding a few new prototypes to the demonstration line, by the way -- nothing that should significantly change any plans," he quickly adds. "In fact -- assuming we're all doing our job! -- I imagine it won't be much of a demonstration at /all/. More of a 'proof of concept'." Something is going on in Norman's mind. Something sneaky? It's hard to say without digging deeper. And the deeper Emma digs, the closer she gets to that throbbing darkness in the back of his psyche. It pulses. /Waiting/ for her to edge in just a little too deep. "They appreciate your understanding. They feel that they could secure the ballroom, but every other fragile piece of art in all of the other rooms could suffer from the reverberations - never mind the china and crystal they intend to serve your guests with." Emma is unfortunately curious, especially when it comes to new designs that Osborn is not willingly telling her about. She exhales as she uses the distraction of emailing the document to Norman directly to disguise her gentle pursuit of his sneaky thoughts, but trying desperately to skirt a safe distance around his madness. "And the email is sent." "Lovely," Norman responds, and to all of Emma's senses, it seems as if the distraction works -- the darkness continues to pulse, but nothing within it stirs -- nothing moves. Silence. And stillness. As she engages in that gentle pursuit, she catches the tail-end of a thought -- a wisp of an idea. A brilliant scientist in the field of neuroprosthetics. A man who's only recently started working for Osborn. In secret. Something he's going to unveil at the party... unless she's willing to risk brushing up against that darkness, she'll only catch the briefest flicker of words as it slithers away, into that throbbing tumor: 'anti-telepathy'. She might notice, then, that he's got one arm around his book -- and the other in his pocket. Touching something. A small device, there. Is it... a prototype? "Well, then. How about I show you the hall?" Emma is polite and professional once more, her mind drawing away for the time being, retracting toward itself in concern and self preservation. Now is not the time. Eyes glance toward his pocket for a moment but return to his face. "I don't suppose I could interest you in a tasting as well. I know you are leaving a lot of the details to me, but sometimes, a taste of what is to come only increases the anticipation." "Mm? Oh, of course. I'm sorry. I was distracted," Norman says, and he looks up to her with his easy, dazzling smile. "I -- mm. I have quite a bit of work. Still... mmn. I was just thinking -- I /should/ be a bit more indulgent with myself." There is... a terrible /presence/ to those words. A second implication, a brief thought, a concept that is wordless, imageless, yet horrifying and blood-soaked and /hungry/. His hand moves out of his pocket, now. "Yes, I'd love to."