ArchivedLogs:Shooting the Messenger

Shooting the Messenger
WARNING: Contains Meglomania
Dramatis Personae Norman, Alice Lambton	2013-04-02 '
Location Osborn's Office
Norman Osborn's office is as it always was. The secretary is new -- the position seems to be a revolving door. But otherwise... no sooner has Alice Lambston walked into the room than does the woman behind the desk stiffen, whisper something into the intercom, and give her a nod -- the door buzzing, clicking, and... ...there is Norman Osborn, side-by-side with a young, 15 year old boy -- dressed neatly, in a white-collar shirt and tie, with a hairstyle that is strikingly similar to his father's -- short, curly dark-red. They're currently chatting -- with Norman Osborn behind the desk, Harry Osborn in a chair in front of it. The latter looks... a little out of his element. Very subdued. Sad, hesitant eyes. Norman Osborn is -- *was* -- smiling. The smile has evaporated now that he has guests. Click click, click click. The sound of Alice's heels precede her into the office. The secretary may not even be recognized as new, given that the woman looks neither left nor right--though her assistant, a strapping young man in an exquisitely tailored suit, remains behind and offers the woman a smile as he settles into the waiting area. Leaving Alice alone. Ish. With Norman Osborn and... "My goodness," she says, her cultured voice easily spanning the distance between the entrance and the desk. "You must be Harry, dear. The very image of your father. I've heard a great deal about you, young man, all of it glowing." Her smile is so very warm, so very /inviting/. Even in her middle age, Alice is a woman capable of turning heads, and she seems intent on wrapping Harry in the aura of her personal charisma. She approaches, crisp and cool in grey silk, and extends her hand to the young man. Said young man produces a hesitant -- but warm! -- smile. He accepts Alice's hand rather quickly, almost stumbling over himself to do it. It's very easy to make Harry Osborn your friend; all you really have to do is pay some attention to him. "Ohhello! I'm--" "Harry." Norman's voice is quick and adroit; like an edge of steel cutting through something soft. There is warmth in it -- but the warmth is barely able to overcome the /sharpness/ of it. "I'm sorry. Ms. Lambton has pressing business with me. We can pick this up -- tomorrow, alright?" Harry turns away from Alice to regale his father with those sad, troubled eyes... but then he smiles, somewhat chipperly, and says: "Okay!" before nodding to Alice with that same, meek little smile. "Bye, miss." And then he's heading out through the doors. And then Norman Osborn is turning his /full/ attention on Alice Lambston. Fingers steepled on his desk. Lips pressed into a tight little knot, eyes half-open. Waiting. "Good-bye, Harry. It was a pleasure to finally meet you." Alice slips this in before the boy can escape, smiling almost maternally after him. Then she slides into the chair Norman's son has left vacant and neatly crosses her legs, hands folded in her lap. Her smile does /not/ change in its external warmth, though it doesn't even begin to approach her eyes. Those green eyes remain wide, watchful and fixed on the whole of one Norman Osborn. "Such a handsome young man. And so polite!" she opens with. "You rarely see such excellent manners any more, outside of a boarding home environment. You've done well by him, Mr. Osborn. I /am/ impressed." Her head tilts, her gaze wanders to where a bandage was strategically placed only days ago. "How are you feeling? A terrible thing, the disruption of your party." "Well enough," is Norman Osborn's only reply. He continues, his tone now devoid of the warmth he showed Harry -- equipped only with the /cutting/: "I presume you are here to present me with my last rites. Well, then: Get to it." The bandage, of course, is now gone; no sign of bruising. Osborn, you nefarious /dog/. Alice's smile skews towards the crooked. Not that she would /ever/ be so inelegant as to wear a crooked smile but the implication is there. "I am not here as an enemy, Mr. Osborn, though I will understand you might have difficulty in accepting that. You will know I have access to certain channels. I thought perhaps you might like to hear what I have heard through those channels, before the official correspondence arrives." "The government plans on pursuing other options for the purpose of Project Wideawake. Options that do not include Oscorp." Norman states, rather calmly. /Surprisingly/ calmly. His fingers remain steepled. His face does not even /twitch/. "Have I summarized your announcement correctly, Ms. Lambton?" He sounds... shockingly unperturbed. Almost... /bored/. "An excellent summary." Alice does pause before answering him, a single brow lifted at the quick recitation. But rather than seem puzzled, she simply observes the man with more /interest/. "I commend you on your network, Mr. Osborn. Or your ability to anticipate the greater response to your own announcement." Norman Osborn smiles -- but it is a joyless gesture. "Even if I hadn't, the fact that you brought an 'assistant' --" His eyes linger on the door, which, upon opening, had afforded him a brief glimpse of the man in the lobby. "--speaks volumes. But let's not dwell on the past, Ms. Lambton. Let's look to the future." And now, he's standing. "You see, I don't think you -- or your superiors -- quite understand the position Oscorp has just put you /in/." Her smile thins. "Mr. Osborn, I am in every way as busy as you are. This meeting squeezed between those meetings..." Alice lifts one hand, gesture dismissive of the aforementioned assistant. She remains sitting while he stands, only her head tilting and her eyes moving to follow him. "I'm sure they've weighed a great deal in making their decision, sir. It is not one to be made lightly, considering the size of the budget on the line." Norman Osborn is walking, now. Toward the window behind him; staring out over the city-scape. It's sort of a cliche, really; a powerful man looking out over a city, describing to some important guest the nature of his /master/ plan. But cliches are cliches for a reason; sometimes, they are enjoyable. And Norman Osborn relinquishes this one with relish: "The government has never understood PR, Ms. Lambston. It's their greatest weakness: They inevitably become distanced from the common man. They lose sight of how to control the /narrative/." "Consider, for instance, my decision to announce the formation of an institute to study -- and help -- mutants. The government's response is quick, adroit, and effective: Cut off the contracts my company needs to flourish. It's an understandable response -- surgical, even. I'm competing with them for control over the future of mutants. So, as a competitor, they have every reason to /squelch/ me. But they're forgetting something, Ms. Lambton. They're forgetting just how much Oscorp means to me. They're forgetting just how far I'll go to /survive/. And they're forgetting," he soon adds -- the reflection of his eyes in the glass narrowing -- "just how much I /know/." Green eyes track him, hardly blinking. Alice is an excellent active listener. One could say she was born to this, to situations just such as these. She doesn't bat an eyelash while listening to the man speak his own narrative, but she /does/ project a deep and abiding interest in what he has to say. She even nods while Osborn talks as if to encourage him. As if to sympathize. And that same thing is echoed in her gaze--sympathy? Could it be? She sighs when he finishes. When he /pins/ her with that reflected look. "It is unfortunate. Having raised your company up, much as you have your son, one can understand that you would go to great lengths to protect it." The mention of his son. There's a grimace, then. A chink in that armor. A weakness, perhaps? Or perhaps he takes Ms. Lambston's words to be something other than sympathetic concern. The mention of his child is enough to make one hand tighten into a fist. "The teenagers responsible for the attack. They disappeared, didn't they...? Curious. There's been a lot of speculation -- a lot of /attention/. On their youtube nonsense. Claims of labs. Government experiments. Even tentative links to Oscorp. And now," he continues, turning to Alice, fitting her with that /implacable/ stare, "I find myself announcing an institute -- to help understand mutants -- and promptly having my contracts /canceled/ by the government. That strikes me as... an unusual coincidence. Perhaps," he adds, "I should 'investigate'. I would hate to think my company has been somehow unwittingly involved in something... /unlawful/." "It would indeed be regrettable were that the case, Mr. Osborn." Alice is made of stern stuff. Outwardly, she does not quail under the weight of his regard. Her hands unclasp and move to the arms of the chair as she rises, pushing gently. She moves as lightly as the silk she wears, though he has finally succeeded in driving her smile away. The look she wears now is solemn--as is appropriate to the topic. She turns her hand out towards him, fingers spread. It's a gesture meant to command him to listen. "I find at times like these that it is better to avoid speculation, Mr. Osborn. It is so often a waste of energy. Of resources." "I don't think you understand." Those eyes have taken on a colder edge, now. They seem -- almost paler. Almost... yellow. As she approaches, the frost that gathers in his tone seems to only /intensify/. "No, you clearly don't. So let me educate you. I'm about to speak frankly, Ms. Lambton. Very frankly. I would apologize for just /how/ frank I'm about to be -- but the fact of the matter is this: I no longer give a fuck." "Every meeting I've ever had in this office has been recorded. That includes you. That includes Dr. Toure. That includes every person involved in Prometheus I've ever contacted independently /outside/ of your knowledge. I've been shipping technology to Prometheus for several months, now -- I have locations. Addresses. I have video footage. I have my own sources -- which have provided me with a plethora of information on your dealings -- I have firsthand accounts from both your lab technicians /and/ the mutants you've been dissecting." "Now, I know what you're thinking, Ms. Lambton." Norman Osborn seems to almost... /loom/. His skin seems off-color, now; there's an unusual pallor to it -- almost... greenish. His voice crackles, something dark and menacing inside of it: "You're thinking: Norman Osborn, you are signing your death warrant. But that's just it, Ms. Lambton. This isn't why your superiors are going to give me that contract. I haven't even told you that part yet. No, this is why your superiors are not going to /touch/ me. Or my son. Or Oscorp. Because if they do -- if my son disappears -- if /I/ disappear -- I have left explicit instructions for all the data I have to be released to the press. Worse," he adds, and now he steps /forward/ -- toward Alison Lambston. "Worse, I have left explicit instructions for Rasheed Toure -- for you, Ms. Lambton -- for every top-ranking official involved in all of this -- to have their names, addresses, and deeds forwarded to all my /new/ wealth of mutant friends." "Ms. Lambton, this is the situation: I, Norman Osborn, know where you bury your bodies. I, Norman Osborn, know where your children sleep. And I, Norman Osborn, know the names of those who would like nothing more than an opportunity to /eat/ them. And if anything threatens me -- my child -- my company -- with absolute destruction, I, Norman Osborn, will not hesitate to unleash upon you a fury so complete, so absolute, so /pure/ that children centuries from now will sing songs of the day the government was so foolhardy as to trifle with NORMAN. FUCKING. OSBORN." To her credit, Alice does not flinch. Even when he raises his voice to roar at her, she does not flinch. A pale woman, she does grow paler, the color in her cheeks standing out in stark relief; her lips thin together after that drop in shade. But it is testament to her many, many years in her chosen profession that she meets Osborn's queer yellowed gaze with apparent calm, external equanimity. It will not be the first time that she has been threatened. Her hand slowly lowers to her side. "So you are, Mr. Osborn. I do not believe I have ever suggested otherwise." Again, she does not smile but her voice is soft, calm. Not deliberately soothing but certainly setting a certain mood. "I can appreciate the amount of thought you have clearly put into this. Unfortunately, as I said earlier, I do have other appointments that require my attention. But thank you for giving me this time, sir." The skin pallor shifts. He stops looking so sickly; his eyes darken -- for a moment, he seems... almost confused. Before Alice Lambston's calm surity, he seems to nearly /shrink/! But then, something hard returns. Flicking back on. He draws in a sharp, heavy breathe. "...there is one more thing, Ms. Lambton." Whatever control Osborn was losing seems to return, now; full-force. He is civil, polite, and calm. A gentleman through-and-through. "When the government denies my contract, I /will/ make them -- you -- out to be the villains. And should Oscorp go down, I /will/ take everyone with me. But..." That but seems to be spoken with such extraordinary disgust -- as if he finds merely /voicing/ this idea to be distasteful. "But, there is an alternative route. One that will benefit both of us -- serve both of us. One in which your superiors' needs would be ultimately -- fulfilled." The changes in his coloring are not missed. Alice sees all, though what she might think of them, she keeps to herself. The turn she had been about to perform is placed on hold, however, when Osborn delays her with that simple remark. Once more he is assessed from head to toe before her eyes lift to meet his. From enraged to cordial in the span of seconds? Her head tilts slightly. Without seeming to think about it, her hand lifts to tuck a stray--perhaps invisible--wisp of hair behind one ear. "And what would that be, Mr. Osborn?" "Your project. It inevitably would -- /have/ to -- go public. You wouldn't be able to hide this forever. Not with so many escapees -- not with so many attacks. Eventually, you'll be revealed. The only question is when. And," he adds, moving back to his desk, "how that revelation will be presented -- who will control the narrative. You? Or the mutants?" "You could fight me on this institute. Do everything in your power to deplete my strength. Put me in a position where I will do /anything/ to win. And risk possibly forcing that revelation to come much earlier than you intended. Or," he opens the laptop with a click, "you could work with me. To control the narrative. Make the Institute become the public front -- make it the /palatable/ version of Prometheus." "As distasteful as I find government regulation, I am willing to accept -- a certain extraordinary amount of oversight -- in return for some special considerations. In return, you have an opportunity -- to slowly but surely introduce Prometheus into the public consciousness. Oppose this now, and the result will be a PR fiasco. I'll see to that. But work with me, instead -- and it could lead the way to a publically accepted, /visible/ Prometheus." "Wouldn't it be so much easier," he adds, "if you could just treat the ones attacking these facilities as if they were legally committing terrorism?" Alice listens to all of this, and as before she does so actively--there are nods at the appropriate time, a look of keen interest on her fine features. But in the end, she has little to offer to him in return but to say, "I am afraid it is not my decision to make, Mr. Osborn. But I understand your passion for this project and I will, of course, convey that to those for whom your words are intended." All so very pleasant, all so very /proper/, all spoken just before she turns to continue on towards the door. It's almost as if she wants to be away from his presence! Except once she reaches the door, Alice pauses and turns back. Her head tilts slightly. "A word to the wise, Mr. Osborn?" "Mmmn," is Norman Osborn's only response. He slips into his chair; he looks... exhausted. Not so much physically -- but emotionally. As if he was struggling with something. "It is considered in poor taste to shoot the messenger," Alice says, a flicker of her previous smile appearing before she turns to exit the office.