ArchivedLogs:To Our Inevitable Betrayals

To Our Inevitable Betrayals
Dramatis Personae Emma, Norman
In Absentia	2013-04-19 A truce is proposed; Norman learns the value of /not/ threatening everyone he meets.
Location
The small, cozy little restaurant is on the outskirts of New York city; the food is almost as delicious as the atmosphere - a dozen or more minds, relaxed and buzzing with good humor, laughter, and class. No one here is troubled - no one here is stressed. Except, of course, for /those/ two. Mr. Shaw's mind is comparable to a well-polished club. Quick, useful, direct, and /vicious/. He's here to do a job - a job that involves the .45 neatly tucked beneath his dinner jacket. That job, while not involving the execution of Emma Frost, involves ensuring that his employer - one Norman Osborn - does not get himself into too much trouble. Then there's Osborn himself - that grim, grinding machine, with its hints of rust and madness. Baring down like a black glacier upon its target - today, it is Ms. Emma Frost. When she enters, Norman's eyes are upon her at once; his intent is clear. He has a plan. She is part of it. In his mind, Ms. Frost might get the instant impression of herself - as a pawn, being slowly moved into place. She might also get the impression that this is an image he /wants/ her to see - and there might be more hiding beneath the surface. Those egg-yellow eyes, often so /glaring/, are currently smothered beneath the surface of his mind - forced deep into slumber. He rises as she comes close, offering her his hand - and his smile. So warm, so easy, so deep it touches his eyes - and a complete fabrication. "Ms. Frost. So glad you could come." << Let me make this completely clear right now: If you try to manipulate me. Try to change one thing in my head without my permission. I /will/ leave this room without another word. And your next meeting won't be with Norman Osborn. >> There is a flash, in his mind. Not the actual eyes - just Norman Osborn's memory of them. Yellow, gleaming, and hungry. << I propose a truce. >> Emma Frost walks into the restaurant in her usual white, some concessions made for the day though. She's wearing jeans and flat shoes, her being infused with the smell of freshly cut wood and perhaps the tang of welded metal. She is wearing a blazer over a lace topped blouse, giving a hint of of the shape of her breasts without being informal or inappropriate for work. It is, after all, her lunch break and she has to get back to the ballroom to discuss more efforts to shore the mess up for safer inspection. She takes Osborn's proffered hand and shakes it once before finding her seat, a polite smile pulling at her lips as she settled down. "I am quite excited about the plans for the fundraiser and am glad we could start working on it so soon." She takes her napkin and places it in her lap. << A truce is desired. I have no intention of doing anything to your mind in the presence of so many witnesses, without you being restrained, so, please, be at peace. >> Emma's mental voice is cool and refreshing in the face of so much stress, as if glaciers had moved in and settled upon the sea scape between them. << What can you tell me about your situation? >> "Yes. The fundraiser is - mmm. The gala event was unfortunate," Norman admits, moving to take his own seat. Dressed as he always is - black suit, black tie. Predictable. /Consistent/. Something that Norman Osborn is clearly not happy with. << The thing in my head is growing. It's affecting my conscious decisions. I've been - acting imprudently. >> Norman's eyes do not move - but upon the psychic plane, one gets the sense of them narrowing. As if admitting this was, for Norman, an act that brought /extraordinary/ pain. << I require your services. For two tasks. Both benefit you highly. >> "If there's anything I can do - please, don't hesitate to tell me," Norman says, smiling oh-so-warmly. "This restaurant, by the way - it has a delightful roast terragon pheasant -" An image, however brief, of something /else/ roasted. Not a pheasant. Not even a bird. It's - mmn. The thought is suffocated beneath cogs and gears. "- I'm quite fond of it." << I need you to push him back. Bolster my defenses against him. Doing so will protect you from his attention. And... >> Norman picks up the menu, briefly scanning it. << ...I need you to infiltrate the Inner Circle. >> "Oh, that does sound lovely," Emma replies to the notion of roasted pheasant. She considers the menu for a little while longer though. "Well, it is going to be your fundraiser, so I really should be asking you what I can do for you." She smiles at him over the top edge of the menu. She reaches for her glass of water and takes a short sip. << The Inner Circle, eh? >> She has heard the name before and knew that there were higher ups in the club, but they are exceedingly hard to put a finger on when one is outside of their group. << Interesting. >> She is thoughtful for a moment before the press of her presence is felt a little more readily in Norman's mind. << As to your first request, did you want me to try somethings now? Or are we merely at the bargaining table? >> "Fair enough. I'm thinking - early May," Norman explains, closing the menu and setting it down on the table - he gestures to a distant waiter; at once, the man is beside him and Emma. Norman gestures to the item on the menu - the roast bird - before adding, offhandedly: "I think she'll be having something similar...?" << No. Not here. >> The force of this statement is deep, powerful - hinted with an edge of irritability at Emma's increased presence in his mind. Not anger; rather, the mere annoyance of a guest overstaying their welcome. << I have been taking too many risks. We'll arrange a date. >> As to the matter of the Inner Circle, Norman's mind retracts; a thin-lipped smile emerges from that churning network of gears: << I know of two members. I was being vetted - that opportunity has passed, alas. They are heavily aligned against - your kind. >> He almost said 'our' kind, but... no. << I'll give you one of their names. And another contact - a gentleman I have working on my side. >> A flash of Parley. A name, an address, contact information. << They do gene-testing, to determine if you are a mutant. I passed, of course. You wouldn't, I presume. Neither would Parley. You'll have to attack them... laterally. >> "Oh, yes. It does seem the pick of the menu." Emma agrees, setting down her menu. "With a glass of the house white." Naturally. Emma's presence pulls back at the lack of welcome, remaining within communicative distance though. She latches onto the information that Norman does give her, repeating it to herself to retain the information. << I can manage lateral, I believe, with the right contact information. Hmmm. The attache of the lawyer. >> She provides a flash of Claire Basil, Parley's reason for being at the gala. The waiter disperses; Norman smiles immediately. "By the way, Ms. Frost. I /do/ wish to apologize for all the trouble my party caused. I didn't expect... mmn, tell me, have you heard anything concerning the mutants who attacked? Last I've heard, no one can find a trace of them - I'm quite concerned about their plight..." At the mention of Claire Basil, Norman's mind produces a low, mechanical growl; he soon subdues it, however. << Yes. The important point here, Ms. Frost - what I desire you to understand. The Inner Circle is actively pursuing an agenda that runs /counter/ to mutants. You are following the news, yes? The sudden upswell of mutant registration laws? That would likely be their work. >> Norman's mind is crystal clear on this point; the plight of mutants is of little concern to him. But... << They are operating against me. Making the Institute all but impossible. I need their assets. Their resources. /You/ need their assets, their resources. In exchange for your aid... >> Again, the Osborn Institute flashes. << ...there will be a position waiting for you. But we will /share/ these resources, Ms. Frost. >> Then, more cautiously: << I do not trust you. You do not trust me. Our ends are no doubt distinctly - different. /But/, the path to those ends - are very similar, I expect. >> << I fully expect you to eventually betray me, Ms. Frost. And you should fully expect me to betray /you/. But until that day, there is /so/ much we can accomplish together. >> Emma shakes her head. "I haven't really been following them. I am about at the same dead end as you. Believe me, a number of members would like to see them on trial before the public, condemning them for their wanton destruction of their beloved ballroom." She picks up her glass, suspending it between long fingers. She lifts it to her lips and sips as they quietly wait on their food. "I appreciate the apology. Few people are actively blaming me for not anticipating the attack, but that doesn't completely reverse their opinions." << MMmmm. Yes. Their displeasure can be keen. I should probably warn you in advance that if specifically instructed, I will not be able to continue this fundraising and we will have to find another means to relay information. Nothing personal, but I cannot be effective if I am labeled to be in bed with you in any way. >> There is quiet for a while, but then she continues. << I am interested in seeing where this will go though.>> << Have you considered getting out of the military business wholesale? Transportation is a field that could use vast improvements - especially in gearing away from the use of fossil fuels. Additionally, I am looking to drive down the stock prices of my parents' business. Call it petty revenge, if you will, but it interests me more than a new job in military contracting. >> "I'm actually concerned about their accusations," Norman admits, wearing a small, sad little smile. "The notion of government death-camps - silly, really. But they seem to believe it. I'm sure /something/ happened to them. I'd hate to think they've gotten themselves into some sort of... trouble." Norman's concern is pure crocodile tears; he wants to know where they are because he finds them /interesting/. Plus, he's concerned about what shieldgirl knows. << Of course. Parley may function as our intermediary. He enjoys that sort of work. >> The mention of driving stock prices down - it produces a tiny psychic tinkle of laughter. One that almost reaches his eyes. << Mmm. I haven't decided, yet. My business is in - a precarious position. But I know how to get out. The Inner Circle contact I'm going to give you - he is rampantly, frothingly anti-mutant. To the point where he would /never/ think to stoop to having one work for him. This, of course, will be to our benefit. >> << My suggestion is simple, Ms. Frost. We will work together: You will do whatever you see fit to acquire a position as his secretary. I will set up a shell company with my considerable resources... and you will string him along like the hapless little puppet he is. >> This thought is, in fact, accompanied by an image of a puppet - bouncing, dancing, doing a merry little jig. << Feed me information about what the Inner Circle is plotting... while using his market connections to manipulate the stock prices. I will use this to increase my company's interests /considerably/... and then we will bleed him, step by step, dry. Of his contacts. His assets. His patents. His /power/. Once we are finished with him, we will move on. >> << You're a very powerful man, Mr. Osborn, and I can tell that you are very used to getting exactly what you want when you want it. >> Emma remarks, coolly, her attention elsewhere while she sips at her water. << But I am not your pawn. I will not go into this arrangement without this understanding between us: We will be associates in this endeavor, on equal footing, or it will not take place. Sure, you may wish to renew your threats upon my life, but I will leave this restaurant and you will never find me again and you and your problem will stew and grow worse as you look for another option. >> Emma looks a little concerned as she looks back at Osborn. "I was very concerned when those were brought up and the notion that you were involved. Really, Mr. Osborn, is there any truth to it? Perchance something that has just been hyperbolized to make you look bad?" << If you wish to continue, you can give me the name of your contact and I will see how best to proceed. >> There are two sighs; one physical, the other mental. Norman glances, then - toward one of the other tables - his expression one of considerable detachment. "As far as I am aware, no. But I've done government work - who knows what purpose some of my countermeasures have been put to?" << I'm not... going to threaten you. >> This admission comes with a psychic /growl/; as if /refraining/ from threats made Norman Osborn experience /pain/. << I am trying to... >> A flash of heat, of anger. But then: The weight of a cold anvil, /slamming/ deep into his mind. << ...you will have to be careful. The Inner Circle are not composed of fools; no mutants number among them, but some of them /employ/ mutants. They may notice an unsubtle telepathic touch. And actually... a secretary may be too obvious. They would notice your employment, after all. A mistress, perhaps? It would... >> The thought trails off, accompanied with a grimace. A name flashes across Norman's mind; contact information. The Inner Circle member. << ...you /need/ me. Worse still. I need /you/. We need each other. For now. >> << That was the point, >> Emma points out. << Why would an Inner Circle member, familiar with my position at the club, suddenly be okay with the notion of me giving up said nice, well paid position, just to play /secretary/? >> It is apparently not a pleasant word in Emma's mind. She inhales deeply watching the churning in Osborn's mind and considering. She also memorizes the information he provides. << I wish to move subtly. I wish to make this work, but I can't jump when you say jump and dance into whatever direction you point. I need to use my judgment. >> "Hmmm. Yes. You merely supply a product. That does not mean you know everywhere it goes. Unfortunately, your products are very recognizable at this point." Emma lets her face relax into a more bland expression as she spies the waiter, and then it cheers as the food is delivered. She inhales the aroma and smiles a little easier. "Oh, this is lovely." "Mmm. I might have to change that," Norman mentions - offhandedly, distractedly - apparently in response to the matter concerning his products' recognizability. But then - yes. There is food. And he is winding his fingers around the glass' stem. << ...fine, >> he submits, though it is with the grudging frustration of a man yielding ground he does not wish to yield. But: << Use your judgment. Be an 'associate' rather than a 'pawn'. But lest you forget: It would be a simple matter to disarm you. I don't need to /kill/ you, my dear; I only need to whisper four little words into the right ear. Four little words that will unravel all of your plots and leave you out in the cold. 'Isn't She A Mutant...?' >> Norman lifts the glass to the air. "A toast," he suddenly proposes, eyebrows lifting, smile swelling. "To the future of the fundraiser. And to useful partnerships." << To our inevitable betrayals, >> he mentally suggests. << In the meanwhile, may we pick the bones of our mutual enemies clean. >> << Aw, Norman, and I thought you weren't going to threaten me. >> Her mind is dry and sharp as a knife. Emma takes up her glass of wine as well, leaning her head a little to the left. She smiles warmly and nods. "To the fundraiser."