ArchivedLogs:What He Wants

What He Wants
Dramatis Personae Norman, Trib	2017-06-05 Part of the Future Past TP. Note: This is the first post for the three-year time-skip. Check out the Future Past TP page for details on what's happened since then!
Location <NYC> Foswell's Gym - Clinton
Foswell's Gym is not the /fanciest/ of gyms, catering more to the boxing crowd than the Zumba dancers and their ilk, although there's plenty of signage encouraging non-boxing people to take advantage of their amenities. Located on the edge of Midtown and Clinton, it's almost a Hell's Kitchen landmark. Particularly since the owner, former boxer 'Foggy' Nelson, is one of the very few in the area who doesn't do business with Wilson Fisk. As a result, many of the locals come here to train alongside the boxers. The layout is relatively simple; a large room with a boxing ring in the middle. To the right of the entrance, a pair of doors lead to modest locker rooms and shower facilities. On one side of the gym are a line of punching bags, both heavy and speed, as well as a row of butterfly weight machines. On the other, weight benches line up in front of a rack containing weights from 5 to 100 pounds as well as dumbells with similar range. Towards the back, a glass wall looks onto a room padded with heavy canvas where often self-defense classes can be seen taking place. Next to that room, a door with the words OWNER/MANAGER marks the office beyond. The gym is relatively quiet tonight, in that Trib is alone. Not that he has a problem working out with non-professionals, but as he's climbed in the rankings, he's found himself with more and more solitude borne of respect. Not that it matters much to Trib. Dressed in a pair of loose-fitting red shorts and a grey sleeveless t-shirt soaked with sweat, the big man is working over the heavy bag fairly vigorously. His ungloved hands make a *thwap*ping noise as they strike the heavy leather, echoing in the otherwise empty gym. Or mostly empty. The door to the office opens, then, and a sturdy man with a shock of red hair exits. Keys jingle in his hand as he turns back to turn off the light inside. "I'm heading out," he calls to Trib, earning a grunt in response. "Lock up when you're done." Trib doesn't respond, but pauses in his pummeling to watch the man leave. When the door closes behind him, the big man moves away from the bag to a bench that holds a handy towel for face-wiping. Which is what Trib uses it for. Almost half a minute after the red haired man has left, and the doors open again -- to reveal three men. The first is a rough, broad-shouldered type with a head shaved as smooth as glass; he wears a dark coat, a crisp blue shirt beneath -- and by the way he moves and the size of that coat, probably carries a gun. Upon stepping into the gym, his expression -- one of general disgust -- deepens. "...y'sure you don't want me to--" "I'll be quite fine," the second man speaks, his voice soft -- pleased, even! -- as he steps forward with that warm, handsome smile. Norman Osborn has been having a very good year. Not only has he been featured on the cover of Times and Newsweek; not only has his Sentinel program been hailed by several journalists as a perfect fusion between technology and medicine -- not only has the Osborn Institute shown signs of successfully filling the gap Prometheus left with a much friendlier, much more *cheerful* program for mutant study -- he's also managed to shave two strokes off of his golf swing. The CEO of Oscorp looks startlingly healthy; he's never been a sickly man, but something about his cheeks -- so rosey red! -- and the sheen of that dark, reddish hair, slicked back -- seems so much more colorful, so much *brighter* for his presence. His jacket is a dark, dark green -- his shirt a bright, vivid white -- and his tie just a shade off of black, hinting toward an emerald. He's grinning -- grinning wide and cheerfully -- as he watches Trib. "Go back to the car, Shaw. 'Victor' has my back." Shaw reluctantly pulls away, stepping out through the doors to return to the car and wait -- and the third figure, walking on the opposite side of Norman, follows the CEO as he walks. This man's stride is... unusually slow, deliberate -- almost mechanical. There is a faint 'whirr' as he steps; a bizarre *click* -- he is dressed in a dark, simple black jacket, white shirt, slacks, and tie. And a very large wide-brimmed trilby hat. Beneath the trilby hat, yellow eyes are glowing. "Mr. Jones!" Osborn calls out. "Pardon the interruption; might I have a moment of your time? I'm a bit of a fan." When the door opens again, Trib swivels his body to look at who's entering. His golden gaze flickers over the big, bald man in silent assessment, and then travels on to watch Norman as he enters. When the two men begin speaking among themselves, Trib breaks his stare, and flips the towel over his left shoulder. Snagging up a water bottle with his half-hand, he takes a long pull from it while the two get things sorted. When he's addressed directly, the boxer lowers the water bottle, swallowing audibly and belching loudly as he eyes 'Victor'. His nostrils flare as if he's trying to get the third man's scent as he turns to face the CEO. "Bit late for autograph hounds." 'Victor' smells of... plastic, and metal, and motor oil. Circuitry, burnt ozone, and silocone. At a closer glance, the face beneath that hat, while resembling that of a human, is only a poor, mechanical facsimile; a non-existent nose -- a gleaming face wreathed with purple -- and LCD lights for its bright, yellow eyes and mouth. The mouth is currently drawn in a crudely pixelated smile, giving it the appearance of a ':)'. Norman's grin widens as he approaches, Victor trailing after; he does not get too close, of course -- keeping a good five yards between himself and the boxer. "Well, I'll admit, autographs aren't the primary reason I'm here. But I do enjoy your work." His features flicker, for a moment; something hesitant and guarded slips across his features. "But I'm not here to discuss your rising career, Mr. Jones. Do you know who I am?" Trib's nose actually /twitches/ at the scent of familiar materials, and he covers it by scrubbing the back of his half hand against it roughly. He takes another long pull at his water bottle, watching Norman intently as he speaks. There's a small, sharp narrowing that happens at that shift of features, and the boxer stills just a tiny bit. At the question, he lowers the bottle, lifting the end of his towel to swipe at his lips. "I know who you are," he grunts, offering a slow, cat-like blink. "Osborne, right? The guy with the sentinel things." Victor gets another look with this identification before Trib turns his attention back to Norman, his eyebrows hiking in anticipation of his continuance. "Yes." Norman's smile twitches back into existence. Twitch, twitch. He seems to be fighting off the urge to grin. "The 'sentinel things'. This is 'Victor'; he's our Mark III model -- ah, I won't bother you with such things," Norman suddenly decides, turning away from the machine to face Trib, once again. "No, I'm here to discuss... ah, something of a sensitive matter, actually." Again, that guardedness returns, the twitchy need to grin subsiding -- replaced with a slow, melancholy frown. "...you do, of course, recall the underground slavery ring discovered to be happening in this very city several years back? I'm here to talk to you about... that." Trib's gaze flickers over to Victor once more, his look this time much more appraising. "Looks like them robot things that Doom guy brought a few years back," he rumbles. "Kind of." He almost seems to be relaxing, now that introductions are assured. Until Norman brings up the fight ring. Then he's back to stiff-backed guardedness. His mouth presses into a flat line, and he looks at the door briefly before looking back at Norman, one eyebrow lowering deeply. "I remember it," he grunts. "It was some fucked up shit." He inhales through his nose, staring at the older man for a long moment. "What's that got to do with me?" "Mmnh, yes, well," Norman replies, glancing back at Victor -- then to Trib -- with a ghost of a smile. "The design was, at least in part, inspired by them -- though these are not machines built for war." At Trib's response regarding the Fight Club, however... the ghost of a smile is immediately banished -- dropped, instead, for a small, wry frown. "--mmnh. Mr. Jones, first, let me make this clear: Only I myself and another close associate are aware of your victimization at the hands of the NYPD. And, if that's the way you want to keep it... I'm very comfortable with that. However." Norman has taken a step toward Trib; there's a hint of something hungry in the motion. "I want to make you an offer." Trib's smile at Norman's assurances that Victor is non-combatant is sharp enough to convey his disbelief of this fact, but he offers an impressed-looking nod anyway. Trib mops at his face as Norman elaborates on Fight Club, holding the towel in front of his mouth as the man finishes. His gaze flicks to the door again, and back to Norman. He holds his ground as Norman steps forward, his chest swelling just a bit and his stance changing ever so slightly as he recognizes that faint hunger. "What kind of offer?" he asks, finally. "You're eventually going to be outed as a mutant," Norman tells him, his voice steady, his tone quiet and slow -- but there is an insistence, a desire to rush the words out that is barely suppressed. "They will test you, Mr. Jones. If not today, or tomorrow -- one day, soon. And, in all likelihood, your career will end." "What, then, are you to do? Simple: Control the narrative. Rather than waiting, let it be known you are a mutant; wear the badge with pride. It's been a little over four years since the NYPD enslaved a portion of our citizens -- and still, the populace doesn't know the whole story. I want to fill in the gaps -- fund the creation of a memorial. To do that, we're going to need interviews with some of the victims... and I want you to be among them." Norman soon adds: "There are two headlines that can come out of this, Mr. Jones: 'Prize-Fighter Outed as Mutant'... or 'Prize-Fighter Reveals His Painful Past'. The league might throw you out if they discover your mutancy... but imagine the PR disaster for them if they threw you out after discovering you'd been put in a cage and made to fight for others' amusement." Trib listens to the offer with a clearly attentive ear. His head tips to one side when Norman predicts his eventual outing, one eye narrowing dangerously for a split second. When Norman finishes, the boxer is thoughtful in his silence, his distant gaze indicating the slow weighing of the older man's words. There's a small grinding noise as his jaw shifts, and he reaches up to rake the fingers of his half-hand through his hair, pushing it back out of his eyes so he can look at Norman clearly. "I ain't exactly camera-friendly," he notes in a grunt, indicating the twisted ridge of his nose. "I swear too fuckin' much -- they bleep me on ESPN all the fuckin' time." It /might/ be an acceptance. Nothing in his posture indicates one way or another. "Mr. Jones," Norman responds -- and now he is stepping close, right up next to him, his grin widening until it becomes infectious; until it's nearly split his face in two. "You're in New York City. We love people who swear. I've got some of the best people -- no, the best person -- in the spin-business. Trust me; when we're finished with you, every weakness you think you have will be among your most prominent strengths." Norman's arm is descending, perhaps a bit boldly, perhaps a bit brazenly, to wrap around Trib's shoulder. Hello, there! Let's be bestest FRIENDS. "And the best part, Mr. Jones? Everyone gets what they want. You get to pursue your career; the victims have a chance to speak -- and I can quietly remind this city that one thing robotic police officers do not do is kidnap your children and make them kill each other in underground fighting circuits." The Sentinel Mark III silently observes, standing back -- its yellow eyes pulsing in computerized contemplation. At this point in his career, Trib is used to being schmoozed, even if he doesn't necessarily like it. There's the smallest tightening of his frame when Norman closes the distance and wraps him in the bro-hug. He doesn't /quite/ have a return smile for the older man, preferring instead to study him a bit more up-close. There's a bit of suspicion in that study, but the big man huffs a noise that might be a laugh. "They're gonna have their fuckin' work cut out," he rumbles, crinkling his eyes at the corners ever so slightly. "Ain't there some sayin' about gettin' what you want?" "Oh, trust me," Norman replies, a soft, deep laughter on the edges of his voice as he steps aside with his arm around Trib's shoulder -- ushering the man off toward one side, perhaps to discuss details with him. "My man will have you whipped in shape in no time. He can work... miracles." There's a hint of something, there -- in that last word. A whiff of brimstone; a vapor of shadow -- something in Norman's dark, handsome, ambergold eyes. Was that a flicker of... yellow? No, probably just a trick of the light; in an instant, he's given Trib a squeeze, releasing him as he nudges him past the Sentinel Mark III, and...! "The only saying I know of in that regard is my own, Mr. Jones: I always get what I want. C'mon, I'll buy you dinner -- and we can discuss the details of this arrangement. Come, Victor." The Sentinel Mark III -- who's silent yellow eyes have never left Retribution Jones -- turns, slow and mechanical, and follows -- its feet clanking with each steady, inevitable step.