ArchivedLogs:The Voice of God
| The Voice of God | |
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| Dramatis Personae | 2013-03-12 Alice checks in with her friend(s) at Oscorp. |
| Location | |
Osborn's office. The secretary... is different. A bit younger, darker hair. She looks nervous. The desk where the old secretary once sat has been thoroughly gutted, its contents sparse and sterile. When she sees Alice, she momentarily pauses -- as if fearful to hit the intercom -- but at the sight of those piercing green eyes (and SERIOUS BUSINESS face), eventually does so: "Mr. Osborn, there is a--" "Ms. Lambton. I'm aware. Send her in, Stacy." BZZT. The doors are opening and there, again, is Mr. Norman Osborn in his corner office, with his bookcase of interesting books and his rack of grotesque masks. Today, he is reading through what seems to be a large three ring binder full of paperwork -- a technical report of some sort. He seems deeply fascinated by what he is reading. As always, his clothes are trim, simple, business-like. An expensive suit -- jet black. A clean white shirt. A black tie. Consistency is the root of Norman Osborn's life. He does not look up as Alice enters -- but he does address her: "So. Rough week." Beat. "I'm glad that you are alive, Ms. Lambton." Alice favors the new girl with a faint smile but doesn't dignify her with a greeting. She simply walks by the desk, a leather portfolio tucked beneath her arm, fat with files of her own. It has been a rough week but she shows no sign of it, her own suit well-tailored, expensive, and as fresh now as it was when she donned it this morning. Her hair is up in a simple twist. "Hello to you as well, Mister Osborn. I'm rather glad of the fact, myself. You've been doing well, I trust?" she inquires as she moves to take the seat she'd occupied on her previous visit. "Exceptionally well," he tells her, and -- at last! -- his eyes raise up to meet her. That warm, comfortable smile. A little /too/ comfortable. "Have you read the papers today? I usually don't trouble myself with such... filth, but the Daily Bugle had a /fascinating/ article." And suddenly, he's pulling out from his desk -- laying it out in front of her. Folded to the particularly relevant page: 'ELECTRO' FOUND DEAD -- it details the discovery of a mutant found dead in a motel -- a mutant who matches the description of the very same mutant who attacked a member of the NYPD the week prior with lightning. Along with the mutant's corpse, a sizable portion of extremist Pro-mutant literature was found; it's believed by authorities this was reciprocity for the (unnamed) officer's involvement in fighting mutant crimes. And then: "Oh, wait. I'm sorry, that's the wrong article," Norman says, still smiling so /cheerfully./ And then he's flipping the newspaper over -- to another article. This one describing the death of a child, their body found mummified and bloodless -- and the suspicion cast on a mutant -- an image included of Nox. He is so very /pleased/ to present her with the first article by "mistake" that Alice can't help but chuckle. That sound is as cultured as the rest of her; she's even found the trick of projecting amusement with her eyes. It looks like the real thing! Except she barely dignifies the second with a glance, which is all too clear a sign that she is indeed familiar with the subject matter. Green eyes lift to focus, without ire, on the man behind his desk. Her smile dims a notch as she settles back comfortably in her chair, resting one knee over the other. This is Alice's sad face, as she considers such grievous news. "What a world we live in that such horrors can unfold beneath our very feet. The poor innocent." << ... Smooth. Smooth smooth smooth... >> The words bubble up in Norman's mind, fuzzy at first, but clearer with every iteration. The last word inches awfully close to the proverbial nails on a chalkboard. << Innocent, Normie. >> An unmistakably amused tone. << Do you think she /KNOWS/ innocence? >> "Mmm..." Norman leans back in his chair at Alice's response -- as cheerful as a cat who's caught the canary. "You'll have to forgive my glibness, Ms. Lambton. I try not to be petty, but all things in moderation -- even moderation." His smile thins, then: "Something the news report /doesn't/ mention. The boy who was found dead -- and the girl -- Hernandez? -- who was found alive. Both tested positive for the X-gene. Such a bizarre coincidence, don't you think?" Fingers steeple, now. A little less coy. "Is there something /you'd/ like to divulge to us, Ms. Lambton?" ...'us'? What an odd choice of words. << I think that if it were not in the best interests of Oscorp to maintain an excellent relationship with the government, I would allow you to eat her eyes. >> "Divulge?" Alice repeats, one eyebrow lifted in an inquisitive arch. Her fingers curl, knuckles brushing lightly over the leather surface of the folder in her lap. The gesture is a thoughtful one, the cultured's answer to needing something to do with their hands while they converse. "I wasn't aware that we had the sort of relationship where I need divulge anything to you, Mr. Osborn." There, her smile makes its return as punctuation to that gentle warning. "Not," she goes on, "that there is anything to divulge in this instance. It is of course disturbing to think that a child-killer roams free in this beautiful city. But as you know, we have other business to dwell on. I believe you meant to assure me that there would be no further publicity risks?" Whatever is amiss in Norman's head intensifies, contained but in an utterly delightful sort of way. Reaching further, spreading thinner. He should know better than to tempt with treats. << she only really NEEDS one look at them norman look normanNormanNORMAN LOOK >> << Behave. >> "Of course. I just find it fascinating -- shortly after this incident, spear-headed by mutants -- we suddenly find the city under assault by something that /eats/ mutants," Norman notes. "But no matter. I'll have some of my people look into it. Since it clearly has /nothing/ to do with you or your associates, I'll tell my people not to bother being... gentle. We can't have monsters predating on our children, after all." So *glib*. "But yes." Serious-face. "Publicity. The matter with the police officer has been shut down quite cleanly. It's even managed to stir up some anti-mutant sentiments. You have nothing to worry. I've taken a /personal/ interest in making sure the parties involved... behave." << That would be you. >> And then: "Actually, that's something else I want to ask you about. The terrorists responsible for this -- what are you doing about them? I'd like to know /who/ they are -- it would be so very unfortunate if any of them were accidentally invited to my little soiree." "Your efforts in that regard are greatly appreciated, Mr. Osborn." Alice, oblivious to the interplay between man and monster, simply gazes at him with her smile unaffected. It is a testament to her abilities that that expression doesn't shift, even as the tone of her voice and the atmosphere of the meeting does when she speaks again--it is time to reprimand the businessman. Gently, as only she can. "I'm sure you'll understand the reasons behind my having to tell you this, but even if I were privy towards certain factions' intentions towards the terrorists, I would be unable to share those intentions. I can certainly appreciate your concern, however." Alice tips her head to him, projecting that understanding. "If there is anything I can do to allay it, you can be sure that I will." << secrets >> The voice calms. For the moment. << she is making a fool out of you >> "When will the government learn? Privatization promotes efficiency," Osborn replies, but it's clear by the grin he's sporting that this is a /joke/. The grin slips away rapidly: "I'm throwing an event where I plan to show off a number of mutant countermeasures. From what I am now hearing, there is a terrorist cell of mutants -- /in this city/. Ms. Lambton," and there is an edge of anger there -- but the Goblin knows it to be false, calculated, a /ploy/ -- "at /least/ do me the service of telling me whether or not this company has inadvertently put known terrorists on our /guest/ list?" << Adults are speaking. >> "Perhaps if you were to share this guest list with me, I could find that out for you." Set and match. Alice spreads her hands, her smile a soft and almost tender thing. Sympathetic. It carves a path through the anger, letting it flow past her. "I am not The Government, Mr. Osborn. I am not even a large cog in the government. But I certainly understand that you, of all people, want /nothing/ to do with elements of that sort. Have your assistant...Stacy, was it? Have her email Giles a list of those whom you intend to invite and I will see that it's forwarded on to the correct people." << correct people >> This is echoed through Norman's mind, shrill, tearing. << she looks like a screamer doesnt she look like s screamer just look at her eyes look look looklooklookLOOK. >> "Of course. /Thank/ you, Ms. Lambton." Osborn's false front of anger evaporates at once. "I realize you are beholden to your own agenda. But it is... /crucial/ to me that this event goes without a hitch." << Speak with your 'associates'. Get the identities of as many mutants as you can. We'll sort them -- find those most likely to have been involved. Add them to our guest list. >> "I'll need to get in contact with Ms. Frost, of course. She's organizing the event -- and the guest-list. I should have the names forwarded to your people by tomorrow." << And I see them. They're very pretty. If you're good -- I'll let you have Emma's. /After/ the party. >> "Not my agenda, Mr. Osborn," Alice says with regret. "It is perhaps best if you think of me as the Voice of God. I am here simply to ensure that the course of events runs smoothly for those that matter." Here she leans forward slightly, as if to share a confidence with him. "You matter a great deal. I want this party of yours to go well, so I will do everything I can. It is no less than you deserve." << it would be so easy to take /these/ >> << RRRRRIIP SO CLOSE >> << Shhh. /Behave/. Too many questions. >> Osborn laughs, taking the compliment with a smile -- a sparkle in his own dark, amber-gold eyes. "I'm glad to hear it, Ms. Lambton. Oh -- give Rasheed my sympathies, won't you?" And for a moment -- perhaps even the Goblin feels it -- something sincere crosses over Norman's mind. The list of things Norman Osborn holds dear is very short -- but genius is near the top. "It's extraordinarily fortunate that we did not lose him. The world needs as many brilliant minds as it can get." And then, the flash of those teeth, that easy, practiced grin: "And, of course, men of vision." Such as myself. He doesn't say it, but you know he's thinking it. You don't even need to be a telepath to figure /that/ one out. << Mm. She's a tricky little minx. We must have ruffled her feathers during our last meeting. But she knows what's going on with the mummified corpses. Of that I'm sure. Whatever it is, we /need/ it. >> Alice's smile curls deeper as she supplies the unspoken words: "Such as yourself. We would be lost without men of vision, it is important we keep them both safe and happy. I'll be sure to pass your well-wishes on to Doctor Toure. He was in no danger, thankfully." Content, then, that the train has been returned to the proper tracks, she leans back into the chair and sighs. Softly, reluctantly, as if pained to bring up what she must bring up next. "Before I go, sir, there is one more thing I am compelled to ask of you." When the voice in Norman's head pipes up again, it is calmer, though only slightly less demanding. << I want it. I will FIND IT. >> Its presence shrinks back to something more strategically manageable. << Quietly. No more publicity. No more /press/. >> Osborn's face shows the slightest hint of disapproval. Not directed at Alice, but Alice wouldn't know that -- and it's easy enough to pass off as a reaction to her question. "Oh? By all means, Ms. Lambton..." Indeed, Alice seems to take that shift in expression as an indication that she's on the right track. Her smile thins into something with an edge, betraying a glimpse of the steel beneath the velvet. "If you could provide the names of your sources within Prometheus, it would be seen as a gesture of goodwill given what you have asked of us in kind." For now, the businessman's head clears of a secondary voice. Whether it is in response to his internal conversation or the one /outside/ of his own head... is unclear. You're on your own on answering that one, Normie. "Goodness, Ms. Lambton," Osborn responds, feigning a look of shock. "You're /far/ too intelligent to be working for the government -- you should really consider private sector work." A quirk of that smile, then. Eyes /glittering/ with amusement. "But," he adds, lifting his finger, "corporate espionage is a serious offense, and certainly /not/ something Oscorp would knowingly indulge in. But... perhaps someone in my office has been a bit naughty. I myself was informed of the raid only yesterday, by one of my advisors. I'll look into discovering how /he/ knew immediately, and forward the information to you /along/ with the guest list." Slippery, Osborn is. But inside, he is displeased. << Too many questions. Goodness, how this woman infuriates me. >> Hardly noticeable, but nevertheless there and starkly contrasting Norman's disapproval, one last thing creeps through the mental cracks. << maybe her tongue would be better >> "That's very kind of you, Mr. Osborn." Which is all that Alice has to say in regards to his defense. Her expression as it was as she stands and slips the portfolio beneath her arm. A handshake is offered, brisk and efficient and quickly severed so that she may take her leave of him. Before she goes, she does add, "I'm quite looking forward to attending this soiree. Do take care, Mr. Osborn, and thank you for your time." Then she departs, heels clicking, the faintest thread of perfume left behind her. | |
