ArchivedLogs:The Right People

The Right People
Dramatis Personae Norman, Lucien	2013-07-12 '
Location <NYC> Hellfire Clubhouse - 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, once vast and opulent, is currently shut down for renovations, a host of contractors in and out during the daytimes. The hallways that branch off from the ballroom staircase are still accessible, though; they run in opposing monochrome: the stark white court's quarters to one side, the dark black court's quarters to the other. Norman Osborn’s arrival in the HFC library is every bit intended as an insult; the pariah has long been removed from the club’s ledger for his little ‘side project’ with the Osborn Institute. The /excuse/ is that he is merely here to return a book, but the /point/ is no doubt to walk through those elegant hallways wearing his cheerful, self-satisfied smile -- knowing fully well the dark looks he catches and the occasional whispers he hears concerning the long, excruciatingly fall of Oscorp will soon be replaced with warm smiles and open arms in the months to come. While some people might find such negativity exhausting -- particularly considering he’s yet to release his wonderful new technology -- Norman finds it /invigorating/. The man actually seems to look several years younger; like he’s a vampire feasting on everyone else’s impending change-of-opinion. Norman arrives in the library dressed impeccably as always; a black suit, white shirt, and -- perhaps just a slight-off-black tie. A /hint/ of green. A recent addition to his wardrobe. He holds in his fingers a copy of a well-worn volume, borrowed some time ago -- ‘The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’. When the librarian mentions she’d be happy to take it, he smiles and laughs pleasantly, informing her he would be happy -- no, /thrilled/ -- to deliver it to its proper place himself. And so he does! There is a young man tucked already into the stacks. Also impeccably dressed, though his suit is a pale dove-grey, his dress shirt with a faint tinge of pink to it. He is browsing the volumes on the shelf, and he reaches up -- almost /absently/ for the book that Norman comes to return, two fingers already tucked neatly into the place it belongs. (Perhaps someone has been eavesdropping?) "Funny," he murmurs, a soft francophone accent tinging his words, "that is just the volume I was looking for." In Lucien's expression there is no censure at seeing Norman here, just a neutral-quiet-curious as he looks away from books to let his brilliant green eyes flit over the other man. "Mr. Osborn." His greeting is quiet-neutral, as well. "You are very conscientious." The easy, suave charm that exudes from every pore of Norman Osborn’s body encounters a hitch when he catches sight of Lucien in the very spot he was about to return the book -- a subtle twitch of that smile, a delicate /twang/ of that expression -- there may even be the tiniest twist of a growl in his voice. Though, at a glance, he certainly /seems/ quite cheerful: “Mmn? Is it, now? Funny,” Norman replies, holding the book out for Lucien -- clasping it, gently, by the spine -- “--I didn’t think it was very popular. Kind of a cliche, really.” Amber-gold eyes meet peacock green; something slithers just beneath the tranquil pool of Norman’s effortless smile: “--I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure...?” Lucien reaches for the book, taking it from Norman with a small dip of his head in thanks. "We did -- in passing, only," Lucien allows, "the night of your Gala -- I would not expect you to remember, it was," he says with the faintest curl of smile, "a /very/ busy night and I was there only as --" he sounds almost /charmed/ as he finishes this sentence, "-- the help." He tucks the volume neatly beneath an arm, extends a hand to Norman. "Lucien Tessier. And the pleasure is mine, I'm sure." “The ‘help’?” Norman asks, but then, with his smile growing: “Ah. You work for the club.” He accepts the hand, thoughtlessly; his grip is firm, his palm and fingers calloused from work -- though he is rich, Norman Osborn is no man of leisure. “That was, in fact, a busy night,” he adds, and as he speaks these words, Lucien has, perhaps, an opportunity to observe -- the state of mind of one Norman Osborn. Beneath the veneer of that machine-like intellect -- that grinding, churning, organized mindscape -- there is a throbbing darkness, a /cancer/ that spreads its limbs outward, hungrily claiming each inch it can find. The cancer itself possesses /sapience/; it is a thing with thoughts, and worse still, an /appetite/ -- one which it satisfies by curling its tendrils around everything it can acquire. It riddles Norman Osborn’s body, from head-to-toe; like an invader that has infiltrated someone so deeply that any cure would be worse than the disease. And at this very moment, it’s beckoning Norman Osborn to rip out Lucien’s eyes. And /eat/ them. “Still, I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” Norman says, his smile never flickering. “I make a note to recall people with -- an interesting taste.” He stares at Lucien’s eyes for just another moment, before... looking down at the book. Lucien's grip is firm and strong, though his hands are softer, an impeccable /manicure/ to go with his impeccable suit. His handshake lingers a beat or two longer than is strictly /necessary/, and the touch comes with a reflexive subtle trickle of soothing-calm-happy. But it comes with something else, too, a quiet /calm/ to very gently /tamp/ down the edges of that appetite, soft-cool fingers nudging that yawning cancer quietly back /down/. Lucien drops his hand to his side, letting the book slide to rest in his palm. "In books?" he answers, light and amused, "I do not believe we had a chance to exchange literary tastes, then." He lifts the book in indication. "A shame, if our interests run similarly. But, yes, I work now and then for the club." The trouble with cancer is that it takes after the hydra; slice one head off, and two more shall grow in its stead. Lucien’s subtle trickle of soothing -- followed by that swell of calmness -- swirls into an abyss of confusion and splintered neurochemistry; it /does/ pin the corners of that appetite down, however briefly -- but only briefly. As Lucien’s hand withdraws, he can already feel the hunger /swelling/ back in response, now suddenly stronger; as if it had a taste, and wanted more. Norman’s reaction is subtle, but noticeable -- a slight twitch of the eyebrow. A tiny tenseness of the jaw. A certain way his teeth /clamp/ together. And perhaps -- just perhaps -- the slightest flicker of yellow in those dark amber-gold eyes. “Mmmnh,” he responds. “Books. I find a great deal of people have little appreciation for -- the classics.” A certain grimness to his smile. “Are you fond of -- poetry?” "A great deal of people lack appreciation for many delights," Lucien answers softly, eyes fixing on Norman's with a small upward curl at the corners of his mouth. He shifts his hands behind his back, holding the book in one, his other hand curling fingers around his opposite wrist. "I have quite a few volumes of poetry in my own library. I have been working my way through a good deal of Boileau lately. Were you looking," he glances around the stacks of books, "for something in particular?" “Goodness,” Norman says, and then he is laughing, “it seems you have outclassed me as far as /classics/ go. I was thinking something no further back than Stephen Crane, or perhaps T. S. Eliot. Though, I /am/ fond of Milton -- I think that’s a cliche, too, isn’t it? I’ve never been able to keep track of what I am supposed to like,” he says, perhaps with a self-admonishing grin. “No, nothing in particular -- well, perhaps,” he adds, with a pause, peering at the stack. “--mmn. Something with /teeth/, I think.” "Supposed to like," Lucien echoes, a warm curl of amusement in his tone. "I should think that men like you /set/ the standard for what the proper tastes are." The last statement /earns/ some teeth, a quick sliver of smile that flashes quicksilver across his face. He drifts a little bit down the stacks, fingers trailing in light almost-caress along the spines of several books before he pulls one off. A volume of poetry by the Chinese poet Du Fu. He offers it out to Norman on the palm of a hand. "He wrote," Lucien says, "quite a bit of insightful verse on --" There's a slight hesitation in his voice before he continues, "-- human interaction, really." “I certainly /hope/ not,” Norman replies, at the mention of setting the standard: “Not, at least, in regards to /literature/. Science and business, perhaps. But -- mmn. I’ve always had trouble with other people’s standards. I’d hate to think--” He seems amused by this possibility, nevertheless; when the book is offered, his eyebrows lift -- a hand extending to accept it, fingers curling around the center of the spine -- before setting it out in his own hands, one palm cradling the back, the other carefully tracing the cover. “--oh?” he asks, briefly distracted by the volume. "I think the vagaries of public opinion means your name carries weight," Lucien answers lightly, "regardless of whether the given field means it /should/. But -- ah." His eyes drop to the book in Norman's hand. His own hands fold behind his back again, novel still held in one as his hand clasps against his wrist. "Yes," he murmurs, fingers returning to the shelves to find a volume by Milton, trace a forefinger along the lettering at its spine, "Or perhaps people's, ah, appetites for it." “Mnh. Appetite,” Norman’s interest -- and perhaps hackles -- are raised by that word, “is something I am... familiar with.” The book is being opened, oh-so-carefully; fingertips brush over a page, sending it rattling aside with a flutter of paper. His eyes lift -- regarding Lucien as his fingertips pass over the other book. “--do you have a favorite? Poem,” he says, as if to elaborate; a moment later, and he swiftly adds: “A bit unusual, perhaps, to choose just /one/. But I find it helps, sometimes. To -- remind myself of something important. Or,” he says, with just the slightest crinkling of a smile, “to stave off some of my less -- wise. Impulses.” "Does poetry help you with that?" Lucien's hand falls from the book titles back to his side. "What does help you with that," he rephrases the question quietly. "I have yet to meet a man without /some/ appetite in need of checking. Some of them can just be so much more consuming." “Surrendering to it,” Norman responds, another page ruffling beneath his fingers; there is no trace of irony or humor in his reply. It seems to be a genuine answer. “Although,” he adds, “I have recently discovered that the extent of my appetites sometimes renders such surrender -- less than ideal. I’ve also found,” a little more softly as he turns the next page, “the more I surrender, the more my appetite grows. I sometimes wonder if wisdom is merely the ability to resist one’s impulses.” "Sometimes," Lucien's fingers uncurl towards Norman, a lazy-languid flex of fingers that seems almost an invitation until he wraps them back in towards his palm, "it can be a stopgap measure, at least, to replace one appetite with another. Perhaps wisdom is the ability to discern which impulses need be resisted." Norman’s eyebrows lift at this comment. “--mmn. Perhaps. There have been times,” he agrees, “when pursuing an impulse has brought me great fortune.” A sliver of white, a quiet baring of teeth: “Just recently, in fact.” The book of poems is cradled to his chest, as if it were a child; eyes linger on Lucien, as if trying to make something out -- and then, relevantly, as if on such a very impulse: “Oscorp’s fortunes are about to change considerably. There will soon be a need for -- people with an appreciation of appetite. If you are interested, and have marketable skills,” the other hand is reaching into his jacket coat -- producing -- a business card. Brisk, simple; an Oscorp logo in one corner. A phone number and email in the center. Nothing else. “Send me a resume. And I’ll make you an offer.” Norman pauses, before adding, perhaps with a hint of humor: “--you may, of course, wish to wait until you see the change yourself. You don’t strike me as the sort who would join a sinking ship.” “My skills are --” Lucien’s lips curl upwards, his hand reaching to take the business card -- with a slight brush of fingers, a slight -- impulsive? -- flex of quiet-calm curling out into Osborn’s mind once more. “Well. Many people have found them quite useful. I am not,” he agrees, “the sort, but since your announcement at the Gala I have thought of Oscorp less as a sinking ship and more as --” he looks down to the business card, pockets it after a pause. “One sailing new waters.” “If only,” Norman’s mind seems to gently simmer beneath that soothing stroke of calm -- if he notices it, he shows no outward /sign/ of it -- “more people saw it that way. The government only perceives mutants as threats -- or resources to be seized and controlled. The opportunities they represent are -- /remarkable/. They’re capable of such marvelous things,” he says, and the words he speaks have a certain /polish/ to them, as if they are practiced and worn -- but the next sentence lacks that careful shine, more dark and primal: “--and in a position that leaves them wanting for leaders.” “Oh, I have no doubt that gap will not stay vacant for long,” Lucien’s own words come soft and light; there’s a quiet ease to his gently-accented cadence that suggests not so much practiced-polish as an effortless /glib/. “Really, it just seems a matter of making sure,” his green eyes flick briefly over Norman, and then down to the book still in his hands, “that the /right/ voices are the ones being heard.” “Oh-ho-ho,” Norman says, the grin that splits his face one he cannot hold back. A finger lifts to point toward Lucien, gently wagging: “You’re /very/ good. I’m going to have to make you a /very/ interesting offer.” He turns, to go -- but before he does, his tone soft and playful: “Keep an eye on the news for the next week. If what you see intrigues you, send your resume along. And we’ll talk.” Lucien lifts a hand, two fingers touching lightly to his forehead in a languid sort of salute. “Good day, Mr. Osborn,” is all he answers this with, quiet-light again.