ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Making Friends
| Vignette - Making Friends | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2013-05-13 ' |
| Location
<NYC> Oscorp Tower - Midtown | |
The interior of Norman Osborn's private gym is precisely what you would expect from a man who can /afford/ a private gym; large, fully stocked, and empty save for one Norman Osborn - clad in a sleeveless white t-shirt, slacks, socks, and sweat. With a steady 'hup', he grips the metal bar and hefts himself up off the ground - counting with each sharp, powerful /compression/ of biceps. He's gotten up to 43 before Mr. Shaw interrupts. Norman's assistant is a grim looking specter. His head has been shaved as smooth as glass; he wears a dark black coat, is considerably well-built, and prefers to solve the majority of problems he encounters with violence. At the moment, his arm is in a cast and his forehead has been bandaged, fresh stitches hidden underneath. As he arrives, Norman pauses mid-lift - but then returns to his exercise. "Shareholders," Norman asks, thoughtlessly. "44." "More pissed than you can possibly imagine." "I can imagine a /lot/, Mr. Shaw. Hnnn... 45." "Right," Shaw responds, a frown flickering over his visage. "Fine. They're - as pissed off as /they/ can possibly imagine." "Heh. I figured. 46." "They want an explanation. Also, whatever that explanation is, they want you to step down." "Not happening. 47." "Boss..." Mr. Shaw is a hard man. He has weathered quite a lot underneath Norman Osborn. But for once, he lets his exhaustation and frustration show. "You know, I've lived through some things I damn well shouldn't have." "Is this a letter of resignation, Mr. Shaw? 48." "/No/. Fuckin'... Just listen, alright, boss? You get lucky enough times - you start to think you're invincible. Bullets can't touch you. You can take on the world." "Mmm. Go on. 49." "You've made more enemies in the past few months than in your entire life, Mr. Osborn. And you're doin' it at the worst possible time." Mr. Shaw levels a long stare at Norman. "What you need right now? Are friends. /Lots/ of friends." Norman Osborn bristles, reaching that last pull. Slowly... but surely. Nnngh. "...50." He drops to the ground with a thump, reaching for his towel. "Finished?" Shaw sighs. "Yeah. Finished." "Good. I appreciate your advice." Now, Norman is walking toward Shaw. His hand descends - clasping his shoulder. Firmly. Squeezing. "And you're right. I /do/ need friends." This, at least, seems to give Shaw a bit of a shock. "...so. Are you...? What /are/ you gonna do?" "Make some." Norman replies, stepping past Shaw and toward the exit. | |
