ArchivedLogs:Selling It

Selling It
Dramatis Personae Norman, Lucien	2013-07-31 '
Location <NYC> Osborn's Office - Oscorp Tower - Midtown East
Once you get past Norman's secretary - and the set of large wooden doors - you'll find yourself in Norman Osborn's inner sanctum - located at the very top of Oscorp Tower. The corner office's floor-to-ceiling windows grant a breathtaking view of Midtown East Manhattan. It is otherwise extraordinarily sparse - a bookshelf with various volumes on war, history, technology, and biology - an organic looking desk with laptop - and a shelf of masks, all from various cultures, all notably grotesque and monstrous. Not very long after Lucien's intrigued email arrived at Norman's offices, a meeting was scheduled -- which leads to Mr. Tessier's arrival upon the elevator to the upper tiers of Oscorp Tower. Past the handsome secretary at his desk who offers Lucien a quick, cheerful smile -- past the double doors that buzz and 'click', offering Lucien entry. Into the very 'mouth of the beast' itself. Norman is, perhaps unsurprisingly, working. His slim laptop is unfolded in front of him; his fingers are tapping away as Lucien steps in. He finishes whatever it is he's doing with a few final /stabs/ of the fingers, then -- closes the laptop and rises to his feet. Wearing that effortless, practiced smile, even as he steps around his desk to offer Lucien his hand. "Mr. Tessier. A pleasure to see you again. I've finished reviewing your resume -- your work experience is rather sparse, but your referrals," and here there is a flash of teeth, pristine and white, "are /exceptional/. Indeed; it's been a challenge to find anyone who /doesn't/ like you." Lucien's arrival is very prompt, his attire crisply polished as ever, dove-grey suit sleekly tailored. His own smile is a smaller thing, but even in reservation it warms his brilliant green eyes as he takes the offered handshake firmly. The brief formality comes with the faintest touch of warmth, comfort, a quiet /easing/ of disposition that curls subtle-soft through the other man's mind. "Mr. Osborn," he greets lightly, "the pleasure is mine. I am thankful for the time, from a man as busy as you. Busier still these days, I imagine." Lucien's voice is soft, but that same easy warmth colours his gently accented baritone. "Oh, goodness, they are out there, I assure you. It is just rather in my job description to see to it they do not make their way into my professional life." "--mmh. Quite a useful skill," Norman says, and his smile only seems to /grow/ at that faint touch of warmth and ease that flows through Lucien's palm and into Norman's own. The underlying brain chemistry -- that hazardous, /cancerous/ neurology -- is still present. It trembles in response to that taste, as if in anticipation; part of it is expanding hungrily, eager for more. But outwardly, Norman Osborn shows little to no sign of that appetite. He releases Lucien's hand -- with just a /hint/ of reluctance in the way his palm slowly slides free -- and returns to his desk. "Please, have a seat," Norman says, gesturing to the chair in front of him. "You know, I've done a bit of 'independent' digging on you -- I hope you don't mind," Norman quickly adds. "What I found is -- mmmh. I very much think," Norman states, his face once again splitting into that wide, dark smile, "there is a place for a man of your -- talents. In Oscorp." "It certainly has its benefits." Lucien slips into the offered chair, settling in comfortably; though impeccably upright his posture has an ease to it, too, more athlete-graceful than uptight-rigid. "Mind? From a potential employer I would rather expect it." His hands fold in his lap, his own smile a smaller quieter shadow of Norman's. "I had been, I admit, doing some research of my own into Oscorp after our meeting. Given the announcement at your Gala -- I expected quite a lot. I did not," he admits easily, "expect /quite/ so staggering a leap as your recent announcement. You said it would be intriguing -- I should not," comes lightly, too, "have underestimated you." "--yes. It came as quite a surprise to all of us, I think," Norman says, that wide smile becoming more subdued -- reduced to something small and private. "With this new technology, of course, we'll see... quite a great deal of change, I imagine. We've /already/ marketed some of the technology out to various government agencies -- it's seeing immediate use in some very sensitive environments." "That being said," Norman adds, a slight /narrowing/ of his eyes -- not so much at Lucien as the space directly behind him. "My main desire is to use this newfound leverage to push forward the Osborn Institute. A very tricky proposition; the government is not entirely -- fond of me." An apologetic smile swells into place, here. "I've made mistakes in that regard. But I strongly believe that places like the Osborn Institute are an inevitability -- in order to make that happen, I need people capable of... mmmh. Smoothing over some of the more -- jagged relations." "I can imagine a number of them would be immensely grateful, for such security," Lucien murmurs, soft and with a slight downward tip of his head. Through that narrowing of eyes, through the words that follow, his smile curls just a hint wider. His fingers lace together, unlace again. "Bureaucrats are delicate creatures." There is a faint hint of amusement in his tone. "But even the rockiest of relationships can be cultivated into fertile ground once more. With the right tending. I do believe you are correct, about the Institute. I think with the correct approach, others might be convinced of its worth, as well." Norman produces a pen, along with a business card; he snaps the pen's tip out with a sharp *click* and begins writing -- a phone number. "This idea needs investors, Lucien; not just investors, but /allies/. If -- when -- it succeeds, the Osborn Institute will be teaching a whole new generation of mutants -- and its investors will be on the ground floor to acquire those mutants' services. Mutants with power over agriculture, or weather, or technopathy -- imagine the sheer /profit/ of having an entire workforce of mutant powers to select from -- to offer to the highest bidder. And the ones without useful powers... well, mutants are a minority; they're feared and reviled by the populace at large. By giving them an opportunity to rise and grow -- we'll create a loyal workforce for Oscorp to pick and choose from." Norman slides the card forward, to Lucien. "Parley," Norman explains, "is something of a 'consultant'. I'm intending to make him the mascot of the Osborn Institute; the," and here, Norman's mouth twitches, perhaps in amusement, "kind of mutant we're /selling/. Is extraordinarily useful; soft-spoken, educated, nonviolent. One of the 'good ones'. I imagine you might be able to -- network with him on this project, a little." "This idea needs a large dose of goodwill. From mutants and humans alike. I can only imagine it has been faced with a good deal of skepticism from /both/ sides." Lucien lifts a hand from his lap, long fingers splaying out over the card to slide it closer. "Parley?" He echoes that name with a slight lift of eyebrows. "Just -- Parley." His eyes drop down to the card, for a moment contemplative. "One of the good ones." The same soft amusement is in his voice. "Non-harmful? The more threatening, really, the harder the sell -- although." He slides the card off the desk, slipping it into an inside pocket of his jacket, "if there is one thing I excel at, it is --" A small twitch of lips, "selling people." "He has," Norman notes with just a touch of wry amusement, "an /actual/ name. I even have it written down here, somewhere. But he prefers 'Parley'. I actually consider him to be /extraordinarily/ dangerous, but--" This thought slips into oblivion before Norman finishes it. His lips press together; he smiles, tight and perhaps just a /bit/ weary: "--but I suspect others will regard him as a novelty. Nnmh, yes," he agrees, suddenly leaning /back/ into his chair, "that's what I've been told." Norman's fingers steeple into his lap. "And yes, such a /very/ hard sell. You can see some of the angles, though, yes? Those who hate mutants are told it's an opportunity to learn about them, to discover their weaknesses, to control them -- even create a system of voluntary registration as a first, smaller step to /involuntary/ registration. Those who -- do /not/ hate mutants," Norman adds with just a tiny smile, "well, those are the people we tell about the extensive health program, the rigorous educational curriculum, so on, etc." He unfolds his hands, waving one of them as if to dismiss all of these selling points. "--but yes," Norman agrees, "/goodwill/ is -- mmh. In such short supply. It's going to be a /very/ hard sell. But it's imperative that Oscorp be on the groundfloor -- be there /first/. However this goes, Lucien," a flicker of something in Norman's eyes, dark-and-maybe yellow, "I want /in/." "Extraordinarily dangerous." This actually stirs a note of curiosity; a slight lift of eyebrows, Lucien's green eyes studying Norman's expression for a long thoughtful moment. His hand pats lightly at the pocket he put Parley's number into. "Might I ask what sort of danger I am signing myself up for, when I reach out to him?" His hand drops, again; this time both his hands lace together, resting lightly at the edge of the desk. "I can see many angles," his murmured agreement comes with the barest flicker-hint of smile, "I have /heard/ many angles discussed, ah, around the club in the wake of the announcement. I am quite sure you have, as well. There are plenty who are skeptical and -- more than a few who simply wish they had thought of it first." His eyes watch Norman's, through that flicker, though his quiet-neutral expression does not change. "In the wake of your new technology -- I have little doubt that however this goes, Mr. Osborn, your foot is well in the door. But with the right work --" His hand turns up, turns over, fingers spreading slightly. "The man putting in the right work may well be able to /build/ the entire /house/." Norman's amusement blossoms at this last sentence; the smile reaches his eyes -- the laughter blooming in his voice: "/I/," he admits, "would prefer to build a /castle/. But your point is taken. Mnnhh -- Parley is --" Norman's eyes actually seem to grow more pale; a certain hint of yellow entering them: "--an interpreter. Translator. Can, interpret and transmit the intent behind words. An incredibly useful ability; also very dangerous. He translates a little /too/ well, sometimes." An upward twist of Norman's mouth. "His loyalties are also questionable; he's unpredictable, at times -- very unruly. You have to be stern with him. Like training a pet," Norman offers, and /now/ his face splits into a grin. "I'm sure you can handle him. Just don't bare your weaknesses to him /too/ quickly." "Interpret and transmit intent? Psionic?" Lucien's fingers drum against the opposite knuckles, a quiet pattering of skin on skin coming with the quick motion. "Of all the mutants that exist," he muses slowly, "the world hates psionics the most. Fears them the most -- with perhaps good reason. I think no matter how softspoken your mascot, it will be a still more difficult sell." Lucien's tone does not suggest this is an argument, only a quiet consideration. "I have never kept pets," this comes in soft musing as well, a small note of laughter twined through Lucien's tone. "But cultivating people, I imagine, runs along many similar lines. /Unpredictable/ makes for the most dangerous sort of mascot of all. But -- well." His eyes lower to his hands. "I imagine much of this road will be a challenge." Here, too, this sounds little like argument. More like a quiet note of /relish/. "Mmn. I've been contemplating that," Norman agrees with Lucien. "So long as we can de-emphasize the image of him being a telepath -- concentrate on his utility as a translator. He has a way," and Norman's cheer dwindles to a tight-yet-pleased smile, "of fading into the background. It's part of why I /want/ him as a mascot; part of his mutation seems to make him -- very hard to notice. Very /unthreatening/ in person. But..." The words trail off. At Lucien's mention of a challenge, Norman's grin returns, full-fledged. "Oh, yes. A definite -- /challenge/. But together, I'm sure we can rise to meet them. Are you interested, then, Mr. Tessier? I have a project portfolio -- along with extensive dossiers on all the possible backers, political allies, and potential enemies -- that will need work. You'll have a budget, an office, staff, and -- mmn. Two months to impress me." "The majority of people we need to convince," Lucien comments in the same idle-observing tone, "will not be dealing with him in person. I am sure his flaws can be downplayed, though. Most things can." Lucien's smile returns, here, too, not quite Norman's grin but a thing quick and quiet. "Two months." This has the slightest hint of laughter in it, warming Lucien's voice as his head tips in an accepting nod. "This shall be an interesting road, indeed. I rather look forward to it."