ArchivedLogs:Straddling the Pits of Hell

Straddling the Pits of Hell
Dramatis Personae Norman, Parley	2013-07-14 '
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. The secretary is a woman, again; one with all the dignified grace of a woman working in a funeral home. She buzzes Parley in the moment he sees him -- one might wonder if Norman keeps a picture of the mutant at their desk, just so they realize who he is without asking. Norman Osborn is seated before his laptop, tap-tap-tapping away. He looks much better than he has in the previous months; it's almost like he's getting younger. The crow's feet are still there, but there's a certain /vigor/ to him that was absent in days prior -- he even makes typing a report look somehow cheerful. When Parley enters -- the doors close behind him with a metal click. And then, a rolling sheet of steel descends across the windows behind Norman, descending like a set of rumbling blinders -- locking into place with a harsh, finalizing /clunk/. The telepath blockers activate with an inaudible hum of electricity -- isolating this room from the rest of the world. The back-end of the steel plates are fitted with an extraordinarily high-resolution screen; they shimmer on -- replacing the view of those unsightly metal plates with a simulated image of the cityscape from Norman Osborn's office. "Good morning, Parley," Norman says, looking up from his laptop to throw a smile his way. "We're still working on a transparent model, but until then -- this is our workaround." Today, Parley breaks his almost obnoxious punctuality by being /late/, wandering into the office with a pair of books tucked under an arm, he's walking backwards for a last glimpse of the newest flavor of secretary, eyebrows up. He's shrugs out of his light summer jacket the instant he's in the door, the undershirt considerably lighter weight too, for once, allow his neck fur to breathe. Summer heat is bad enough, /humidity/ makes it intolerably sticky. This means it's visible when the little shivery ripple of hackles that shift when the the psionic energy in the room vanishes. His presence very suddenly now has a /mass/ to it, grounded down in the construction of fur and bones and meat, his movements still loose and well-balanced but starkly... visible. "Mr. Osborn," he greets back, though don't make EYE contact, Norman is SMILING. He makes his way right /past/ that cheery little desk to invade the bookshelf. Though it's not really invading when you're returning things. Kind of backwards mugging. "You move fast," he says it sharply - annoyed and kind of praising in ONE, roving his eyes over the windows. "I do," Norman informs Parley, still smiling. The tardiness seems to not bother him; indeed, it seems like /nothing/ could disrupt the cheer of his mood. When Parley poofs up, some part of Norman -- notably /subdued/, particularly in the past few weeks -- immediately begins to salivate. Mmmn, defenses against PREDATION. How they make his belly rumble. "--I don't need to tell you," Norman gestures toward Parley, "just how revolutionary this is going to be. In a world /full/ of exposed secrets, Oscorp now has patents on the first genuine means by which to /hide/ them. I've already sent notice to Doom -- I'll be sending notice to Lambton, later today. I'm going to hold a press conference next week, announcing the find. With the proceeds we'll make from this -- with the sheer /PR/ -- we'll finally have the leverage we need to make headway with the Osborn Institute." Norman pauses; it's not a pause for Parley to speak, but for a dramatic beat. Norman is SPEECHIFYING, Parley: "I would be remiss if I did not also mention that this golden opportunity was made possible only by your service." Sss. Parley twists down the side of his mouth and takes a very light mental /poke/ at that swell of hunger. << (so eager.) >> More a taunting concept than actual words, and he absently licks a palm, smoothing it down the back of his neck. He's turned to lean his tailbone against the bookshelf. And, slitting a bemused papercut smile, "Have you decided if I'm going to survive yet?" The hunger surges, however briefly, in response to that poke -- like greedy, grabby hands rising up to try and PULL IT BACK IN. And stick it in his mouth. But, Norman doesn't do that: "Mmh," he only responds, that grin flickering, something -- yellowish intruding in his eyes. Before adding: "I've decided that you deserve a treat." He reaches into his desk, withdrawing... a checkbook! Oho. "This," Norman informs Parley, "is going to be on-the-books. Payment for consulting services. If I were you, I'd invest it right back in Oscorp. Our stock is currently at a /steal/." A flashing sliver of teeth. "I've also been rethinking our policy at the Institute regarding the hiring of mutants as staff," Norman adds, as he scribbles out the check. "At least, perhaps making a few /minor/ exceptions. Osborn Institute will need a -- /mascot/, after all. One of the 'good' ones. One of the mutants who 'knows their place'." These comments are meant satirically; just as little jokes. But underneath their jovial inflection is a dark, primal stirring. On some level, Norman Osborn is not joking at all. "Holland is already preparing for the same. If he hasn't finalized the purchase already." Like a shaken paw, ridding itself of water, Parley's mind withdraws from the hungry mind of Norman Osborn, watching the man's forehead as though picturing just what the brain beneath that curious red hair might look like... It holds his attention more than even the check, which he only negligently lowers his gaze to. "Mmh. I do come," he unfolds his arms and comes forward, eventually, looking flattered, if anything, by Norman's choice of words, "with my own fur-suit." He reaches forward, loose fingers open for the check to be handed to him. Though he would only curl his fingers around one end, meeting dark eyes against amber. "Your teeth are nearly showing." "It's been a while since I've had the opportunity to savor the taste of good fortune," Norman explains. The pen hesitates, for a moment, over the portion of the check reserved for the amount -- Norman scribbles a number down. 50,000, scribbled in surprisingly smooth, elegant script. "I was joking about the stock-purchases," Norman tells him, tearing the check free -- handing it to him. "With your connection to Oscorp on paper, it would be considered insider trading. Just so you're aware." The mention of Holland -- no initial response. But a moment after Parley has taken the check, Norman is leaning back in his chair with a creak, and... "Nmh. Good to know the man can recognize an opportunity when it's in front of him." Off-hand, frivolously spoken; but beneath the words, Norman Osborn's brain is churning. Thinking. Wondering. "I have more reasons than just that," Parley taps his check in his palm, smiling blandly, "to not take you up on that temptation. I'm coming to two equally necessary practices in my work. Mitigate your damages." He folds the check in half and slips it into a breast pocket. "And if you cannot /afford/ to be caught doing something, you probably shouldn't be doing it." He doesn't clarify which of these relates to the topic, but he's settling into other things anyway. "I'd met with Ms. Lambton not too long ago. She's /very/ set on your being a mutant, still." "Mmn. I reviewed the footage of my monologue with her," Norman agrees, a tint of regret entering his tone, diluting that cheer. "I turned a bit -- green -- during our 'discussion'. She likely noticed." The fact that Norman /records/ all of the meetings he has in this room is just glossed over. Of /course/ he does. He's Norman-fucking-Osborn. "Nevertheless -- mutant or not -- she's unaware of my full capabilities. Unless you've told her," Norman adds, with just a /twist/ of that smile returning. "And even if you did. /You/ aren't aware of my full capabilities. That being said, once this technology hits the market -- she'll have little choice but to deal with me. Her superiors will see to that. The technology is /far/ too valuable to be dismissed over something so petty as 'bad blood'." Oh, how Norman /grins/. It's probably very obvious how much he's going to savor THAT conversation. "I merely told her the truth," Parley is all flippancy himself as well, closing eyes, rocking his head to the side where the shoulder to that side raises. He is meandering back to the bookshelves now, rummaging for some /bio/ in all that engineering. "That, to the deepest extent of /your/ knowledge, your genetic results are one hundred percent accurate. She's very," he withdraws one tomb that harbors promise, flipping it open, "aware of /my/ abilities." Mmh. He's looking back down at the pages. "Bad blood? No. But ego... - oh, you could still likely ruin things for yourself again." He does love to just poke holes in a good mood. Watching Norman's face with not infrequent surveys over the shoulder. "I'm sure she would love to /explore/ the extent of your capabilities." The biology book Parley has selected is a recent one; authored, in part, by one Dr. Moira Taggert, it explores the nature of mutations. At the mention of Lambton exploring the extent of Norman's capabilities, that grin extends -- until it has nearly split his face into two. "Oh," Norman says, "I don't think she'd enjoy it /that/ much, Parley. You know," and something more distant overcomes his face -- the grin eroding around the corners. "--I don't think I've yet to meet anyone capable of -- mmn. Well. I shouldn't get arrogant, should I? That's the same mistake I made before. No, I think that this time, I shall take pains to be very careful." Norman sniffs, before adding: "We're going to have to start extensive testing, too. Latverian telepaths, I'm thinking -- I doubt Prometheus will trust me with any of /their/ telepaths. Such a shame, really. Though, maybe -- we could work /something/ out with them." "You haven't looked very far," Parley responds before Norman even cuts himself off. "They had a young man in the labs that could turn into a twenty-meter long acid-breathing dragon." He's speed-reading through the delicious contents of the book; his voice airy, conversational. "It had rapid regenerative abilities as well. Remarkable creature. Unfortunate fellow, though. Korean. I translated for him." Page-flip. "Hunting humans, Mr. Osborn, is shooting fish in a barrel." It's the chaff of the conversation, those first words, tossed back like a frisbee, because Parley is also watching Norman when the man checks himself, reins it in. And what he see, he dips down his head to as though in some wordless acquiescence. Then drops his eyes back to the pages, "After all the time he spent studying the brain, wouldn't Doom be amused. To hear the key to telepathic counter-measures starts with the /room/ you're putting it in. Tsk." Pause. "Of course. He would probably provide you. Though everything he hands you, in his mind, is ultimately a length of rope. Pros and cons." He says this last part like others might dreamily sigh 'c'est la vie'. "A dragon?" Norman asks, eyebrows /lifting/ with interest. "--goodness. /Goodness/. How -- interesting." Parley may very well /hear/ Norman's psychic chop-licking. "Mmn, but yes. That's the /problem/ with the government, isn't it? They don't give the mutants sufficient motivation to -- work /with/ them." "Oh, yes. I'm not worried about Doom, honestly," Norman says. "The man's got bigger fish to fry than /Oscorp/. He's got his eyes on the world." Though he smiles, just a little: "I'm curious if the fact that Oscorp came up with this first will bother him. I hope so. Just a /little/." Then: "Do you think we can use this as an opportunity to drive a wedge between him and the government?" "Possibly." Parley has made a small pile - /three/ books - of gleanings to make off with from Norman's collection, possibly planting one of his own amongst the titles. It's like a book exchange crossed with a scavenger hunt. "Or give you access to information that could lead to it, further down the line." It's that bizarre /honesty/ again, that comes up in this room. Parley is walking towards Norman's desk. And past it, to meander behind it. "Being the star of a bidding war wouldn't hurt. Being a slab of /meat/ two dogs are tug of waring over... Mmh." Standing behind Norman, he's only a voice. Asking thoughtful in a return to the other topic, "--when you watched the fight footage from Stark's press release, did you find yourself wondering how you would have measured up? Against them?" "--mmn." Norman swivels in his chair to watch as Parley walks past, an eyebrow crooking up. "I'm not going to be able to leverage the government /forever/ with this. They'll want a deal for my telepath-blockers. And if I make the cost too high, they'll /take/ them from me -- one way or another. Still, I shouldn't /underestimate/ their leverage -- they'll give me a lot in exchange for this, I'm sure. So will Doom. I just have to navigate the two sides in such a way as to render them... incompatible. While managing to keep relations positive with /either/." His eyebrow twitches, as if he's thinking through precisely how to do this /right/ now. At the mention of the footage, Norman laughs; the sound is bitter and sharp: "No," he says. "You've seen a /taste/, Parley. I would have slaughtered them all. Effortlessly. Except, perhaps, the one made of shadow -- I presumed that was our lovely friend, Nox? From the Gala? Mmh, /she/ would perhaps be a challenge." "Always impatient, Norman Osborn." If Norman is trying to plot out his entire game, Parley is countering it with a very wry crowbar, conceding on the wings of /exhale/, "You have a lot to work with, right now. A window, and it can grant you a few free moves. You have plenty of time to make /enemies/, but you /will/ run out of time to make allies. Collect them." The side of his mouth twitches. "Play my game, a little. See where it goes." Standing closer, with no table between them, he can see the small places in Norman's face that are more vibrant, more alive, and it tips his head on side, "Mm probably Nox, yes." Kind of absently answered. "-- You're a man out of his time. A few thousand years ago, you would have been a fearsome warlord. Kill one man, and you have a murderer. Kill millions..." "Pfeh," Norman responds to Parley, but he doesn't /counter/ his statement concerning this 'window'. But concerning the mention of a warlord -- he laughs: "To be honest," Norman says, "I've never liked warlords. Aside from a few exceptions, absolutely miserable PR. Always end up getting painted as blood-thirsty lunatics. Though I've often admired," he adds, with just a hint of twinkle in his eyes, "their /results/." "That being said. I've yet to kill millions. But who knows?" Norman bares his teeth so /cheerfully/ to Parley: "The night is still young." "Oh, I wasn't saying it as a compliment," Parley assures. He's practically /counting/ Norman's teeth, fur ridge at his spine shifting in minor ripples to the much thinner fur visible from the front. Like a passing wave of static. "Only that it would suit your methods." But that's not entirely right, is it. Or at least, not sometimes. "Or maybe more his." Though instinct is trying to /make himself look bigger/, he seems only alive and fascinated, asking spontaneously, wheels turning, ever turning, "-can you control a deliberate half-transformation? Grow only..." He opens his fingers, where they're loosely tucked under opposite elbows, "talons." "--I can't," Norman responds, watching Parley's enlarging /floof/ with the bored, pleased interest of a predator observing prey after having just devoured an oh-so-satisfying meal. Not 'I'm-Going-To-Eat-You' so much as 'I-Want-To-Save-You-For-Later'. "/He/ can, though. He does most of it by -- it's -- difficult to describe. He's so very much like a cancer, really. Studying him is /tricky/, but from what we can see -- individual parts of him can think independent of his own mind. Parts of his body transform /independent/ of his own thought. His appendages sometimes, quite /literally/, have a mind of their own." Norman smiles. "It's a shame, really. /You/ could have been one of those minds." "As could you," Parley reminds, lightly. "I can hear them," he adds. "Or some of them. When he--," he raises a clawed hand, making a motion over his temple. A digging, /tearing/ motion "-- gets enthusiastic. Do they fade? With time?" “If he doesn’t -- ‘use’ them, yes. But most of them,” Norman comments, mouth suddenly drawn into a tight, thin line, “see regular use. I can hear them, sometimes -- nothing -- /cohesive/, mind you. Just -- idle thoughts. Memories. Snippets of things. Some of them -- I even recognize. A few,” he says, and now his voice grows a bit slower, as if brooching a delicate topic -- for Norman Osborn! -- “even seem to have some vague understanding of what has transpired.” "It's probably part of what makes him so difficult to control," Parley breathes out through his nose slowly. "Even broken up and -- hm, half-digested. The willpower alone, to not be entirely subsumed by that many minds..." To the farthest fringes of Norman's mind, he lurks, circling the mouth of the cave that leads down into the screaming, cackling black. So nearly touching, breathing in that wild, powerful sense into his channels while watching the entirely - yes, /human/ face before him. "All with Norman Osborn, straddling the pits of hell."