ArchivedLogs:Evolution
| Evolution | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-05-23 Parley and Norman discuss CHANGING WITH TIMES. |
| Location
<NYC> Osborn's Office - Oscorp Tower - Midtown East | |
Once you get past Norman's secretary - and the set of large wooden doors - you'll find yourself in Norman Osborn's inner sanctum - located at the very top of Oscorp Tower. The corner office's floor-to-ceiling windows grant a breathtaking view of Midtown East Manhattan. It is otherwise extraordinarily sparse - a bookshelf with various volumes on war, history, technology, and biology - an organic looking desk with laptop - and a shelf of masks, all from various cultures, all notably grotesque and monstrous. It isn't every day Parley actually gets /called/ to Norman's office. The secretary is a handsome young lad named Hendrick; dark-skinned, bright-eyed, chipper and cheerful. Considering the speed with which Norman chews through his personal employees, he'll probably last a week. As soon as he sees Parley - bright smile, BZZZZT. Doors are unlocked with a click. Ah. There is Norman Osborn. Sitting, as always, at his desk. /Typing/ at his laptop. Like it was the only interesting thing in the world. Something is off, though. Parley likely catches it the moment he comes in. There is a tenseness about Norman Osborn; a confusion stirring beneath the skin. It's there, hidden in the clench of his brows - the way he holds his jaw - even the careless stroke of his fingertips. As a rule, Norman Osborn is not a man who is unsure of /anything/. But as of this moment? If Parley didn't /know/ better? He looks... ...almost /guilty/. "Strawberry?" Parley arrives in his /street/ clothes. Which is honestly just a plaid button up in gray, pale yellow and black, over a sleeveless white undershirt, slacks and increasingly scuffed loafers. He has also brought a small container mesh container of the lumpy variety of semi-ugly but /livid/ red strawberries so commonly found at farmer's markets. He has one gripped in his teeth while offering forward the box over the desk. Rattle. This is apparently his hello. "No," Norman replies, turning away from his laptop to look at Parley, and then - at once - pressing the Button. By this time, Parley's no doubt familiar with this little ritual of Norman's. When he wants to speak - privately. On matters of /great/ consequence. The windows grow dark, tinting; the doors lock. And a web of electronics hum to life around the room - obstructing all forms of conventional surveillance. Signals that cannot be blocked are scrambled; a dense wall of silent-yet-present /noise/ floods the space surrounding the room itself. Norman Osborn steeples his fingers in front of him. Peering at Parley. His expression - tenser, now. Neutral. "Victor van Doom," Norman tells him. "Is a fucking /lunatic/." "And enjoys every moment of it," Parley just - so slightly /tenses/ at the change in environs, licking a thumb and glancing towards the windows. But really. For better or worse he does seem to be acclimating to Norman's habits, "Did you know? He summoned me to speak to him in private. It's probable he was hoping the conversation would get back to you." Which... the very fact that it didn't might speak of a quietly contrary habit /Norman/ might be getting accustomed to in turn. Hopefully there's a chair to sit in. Or else Parley /will/ just sit on the floor. Either way, crosslegged. Watching Norman from the corner of an eye. Norman leans back at Parley's information, just absorbing it. And rubbing at his temples, as his chair /creaks/ beneath his weight. Rub, rub. Yes, yes, of /course/ Doom spoke to you. But first, much more important things: "Please tell me, Parley," Norman begins, "that I do not sound /that/ fucking megalomaniacal." Then, regardless of Parley's answer - Norman leans forward again. Arms descending for his desk. "He /cannot/ be allowed to work with the government. You realize that, of course. His mastery over the human mind - the technology he has - that is a consolidation of power we /cannot/ permit." "Mh." Just that sound, mutely behind a strawberry, is all the affirmative you would /need/ to hear from Parley. His eyes swivel from Norman to a far window, narrowing. "You've thought about it as well, then." Norman laughs, briefly. Quick, sharp, brisk. "I helped /stock/ some of those laboratories, Parley. I've even spoken with the man who designed that clever little chip." Perhaps, for a moment, Parley might catch the fuzzy shape of a familiar figure. Rasheed? "The thought of what they could do - with /Doom/'s knowledge? Is deeply sobering." His eyes follow Parley's, out the window. As if he's just going to do some window-staring, today. "Whatever others might think of me," Norman begins, and then his eyes are drifting back to Parley - even, cold, calculating - "we /both/ desire this to not come to pass. And really," Norman adds, an edge of a smile tug-tugging at his lips, "isn't that what you're /here/ for, Parley? To find places we can, mmmn. Work together." Then, leaning forward. A little eager, a little /hungry/. "I have a plan. It requires /you/ to do what you do best," Norman tells him. "Betray me." The strange thing about these conversations is the absurd honesty of them. Norman makes no attempt to hide his involvement, Parley makes no attempt to feign surprise. His strawberry - a real /brute/ this one, where two healthy hopefuls had grown into a single twoheaded monster - pauses just the slightest fraction at the flicker of Rasheed. Or the face, the skin tone, but so excruciatingly /close/... to yet not have the /name/. His head turns a fraction, Osborn hunger tugging up a /sharpness/ in his eyes, just a little fragment of blackice. Nip. He rends the berry in two, "I can do that." Chew. "Depending." It's not said to wheedle - more a caution. "It will be dangerous," Norman advises. Is that concern flickering in his voice? There's, perhaps a /scrap/ of it; it's hard to untangle it from being more bothered at the idea of someone /else/ getting to kill him. But, twined within that hunger, there /is/ - something almost-soft, almost-fuzzy, toward Parley. An absence that would be noted. "Doom's brilliance is matched only by his dedication to theatrics," Norman begins. "And his hunger. Those are his two greatest weaknesses. We'll play "<<(prey)>>" upon them. My idea is this: You will approach Doom as you approach so many others. A facilitator of alliances; a broker between creatures of power. But, you have another agenda. You were taken by the government's labs. You wish to find them. Help those of your friends who still remain." Norman's brow crumples. "In exchange for Doom's help in identifying the location of these labs, you will offer him information on /me/." Some obsolete tendon in the side of Parley's temple constricts. Then eases, looking for one moment just... tired. The star-shaped top of his strawberry serves an item to dissect, watching the process with detachment. Pick. "How would I be asking him to do this?" His eyes rotate to Norman, "It may involve going in blind. He has -- mh. Some way to block me. I cannot always read him." Norman's answer to Parley's question does not come; instead, Norman's attention snaps down on the diplocat like a rubber-band that has just been released - a brief flicker of anger-panick in his eyes. "What? /Block/ you? That's imp--" And suddenly, all at once, Norman's anger-panick vanishes - replaced, instead, by a certain level of wistfulness. And /amusement/. "...you couldn't read him. At all. Was it like," Norman adds, gesturing to Parley, "he was not even /there/?" Then, perhaps even /more/ amused: "Let me guess. He somehow teasingly implied that some piece of technology /might/ be responsible." "Kh." Yes, Parley is capable of scoffing; it's a small cat-spit sound through tightened teeth, "Of /that/ I don't need empathy." There's just one moment more of tightly bound silence, before - fuck it, if it's already on the table why /not/ just acknowledge it, "I spent three years in a facility devoted exclusively to the intensive study of every inner working of my brain. I can recognize a double blind test when I'm involved in one." He's just going to.. set the rest of those strawberries down there, right now, folding an elbow to rub a hand upward against the back of his neck. "You think it was a full body prosthetic, then." His mouth /twitches/. "That's clever. And. Sadly. Does little to change the equation, if he intends to interact through it." Norman treats Parley to a natural Norman grin; it is a rare little creature - a showing of those teeth in a way that is neither predatory /nor/ a shallow attempt to convince others he is not about to devour them whole. "Clever, yes. But, again, /theatrical/. When we spoke, with Shaw. He threw a syringe at me. Claimed it was a test for mutants; causes physical pain after injection. I wasn't sure if it was a bluff. But now I'm positive. He's trying to /play/ us." "Mmmn," Norman continues, slowly rotating in his chair - almost child-like! His tone has an undercurrent of giddiness to it; Norman is /unaccustom/ to playing these sort of games against others. Some part of him? Genuinely enjoys it. "You're right, of course. But it /does/ tell you to exercise caution around him. It tells you something else, Parley: You /concern/ him. Telepathy is a weakness for him. And I doubt he has many. Should you be so bold as to offer your services to him -- he would be so /quick/ to take them." "Tell me what you think," Norman adds, laying /his/ cards out on the table. "The plan you'd present to Doom: Offer interesting Latverian mutants to the government. Secreted in each, a small tracking device meant to identify their precise location. If he does this for you - feeds you their locations - you will spy on me for him. Once this has been done," Norman says, "/I/ will inform /Lambston/ of Doom's treachery." "You're enjoying yourself," Parley mutters, and he's intending it to be stern. Never mind that there is a grudging near-smile threatening at the side of his mouth. Which seems to be /pissing/ him off. "Ffffffff," he runs his fingers through his hair, settling into /business/ and flicking his eyes back and forth as he faces the window as though drawing up the premise for himself in the empty realm beyond, "Betraying the American government is a dangerous step for a small country; Doom is /mad/ but he's not foolish. And he functions entirely on his own schedule - he /takes/ as though he's owed with little interest in reciprocation unless it will give him even more." His fingers drum upon his skull, and he forces air through his nose, allowing, "...sending me gives you plausible deniability in terms of involvement, should Ms. Lambton ask about it later. She would..." his eyes close, carefully working deeper, as though reciting a very difficult lesson, "...ah. Damn. And if Doom were to tell her who suggested it to him, she'd not even bat an eye hearing it was me. Of course." /Frank/ look rolled towards Norman, "You're asking me to take on all of the risks of incurring the wrath of both Latveria /and/ the American government, /both/ of whom happen to have very nasty bedside manners regarding the mutants that appear on their radar. While, ultimately. Also helping /you/ sooth over a rough spot with Alice Lampton." Oh, yes, Norman /is/ enjoying himself here. He may, in fact, right /now/ be resisting the urge to spin himself in that chair rapid-fast, in a full 360 degree arc. Grinning, ear-to-ear, as Parley works through the details himself. "Yes," Norman agrees with Parley's final assessment. "That's about the gist of it. As much as I may have burned my bridges with Ms. Lambston, she is, I suspect, at heart, a /pragmatist/. All diplomats are. Realpolitik, yes? When I inform her that I am in close communion with Doom -- when I inform her that he has revealed to me the locations of several of these secret labs -- and that I am willing to /continue/ informing her -- she, of course, will not /trust/ me," and there is a flutter to Norman's chest, as if terribly wounded by this sleight, "but she would be nothing short of foolish not to /use/ me." "But, yes," Norman continues, expression darkening to something more serious. "I /am/ asking you to put yourself under -- /extraordinary/ risks. And make enemies of two sides, both of whom may kill you for the sleight. Or worse," he adds, and behind these words - are the image of Parley's skull, split open. A scalpel, gleaming. Doom - or Alice? Or, perhaps, that fuzzy silhouette of Rasheed? All three blur together into a single entity of /possibility/. "...what I am asking from you -- will burn two very /important/ bridges," Norman agrees, hands folding atop of the table. "And will be to the benefit of a /very/ dangerous man," Norman adds, with an ever-so-slight smile. "But it will also secure you the -- mm, no doubt /temporary/ -- locations of several labs. And it will ensure Latverian and US relations suffer -- perhaps an irreconciable -- blow." A long silence stretches beyond this point. It's not long. But it may well be called deep. At length, almost seeming at first to be asking more himself, Parley ventures, at a seemingly random angle, "What is the name of the American project devoted to mutant study?" "Prometheus," Norman Osborn replies. Then, in what might be a rather bizarre shift in the conversation -- as if they were done -- as if Parley had just /agreed/ to do this thing: "I spoke to Mr. Holland." "Mph." Parley pinches the bridge of his nose as though the illusionist's name caused him a headache. "And why would you do that?" "I'm not sure," Norman admits, leaning back in his chair with a creak. "But, I thought you should know -- in case you were going to run off and risk what little trust you have left with these people by warning them. /You/ don't have to." "Alice Lambton wants to destroy you." Parley states. Towards the windows. "Did you know she's asked me to help /her/?" Norman draws in a sharp, harsh breath; silence fills the space between them. When he releases it, it sounds more relieved than anything else. "No. But it doesn't surprise me. She likely has mistaken you for someone who expects to /survive/ this little debacle. ...what did she offer you?" Something so delicately /clenches up/ in Parley's forearms. His eyes close, "Cambridge." He makes a strange short chuff, something like a laugh. "A tutor. Work, after. She was overseeing our execution in the laboratory, that day. When the raid began. I was next. They'd already shot my cellmate and fed her to that--..." his eyes open and he gestured blankly towards the window, "bloodmonster that got loose." "Mmmnh. And you're willing to work with her. Has anyone ever told you that you are a remarkably... /flexible/ creature, Parley?" It's hard to tell if that's a compliment. Norman Osborn himself isn't sure. His face no longer holds any sign of amusement; it's -- neutral. "Maybe you /should/ take her offer. It could be good for you." Ah, /there's/ a tint of amusement; a faint flavor tracing his words. "A remarkably selfless comment from the man Norman Osborn." Parley rolls back his head, throat bared to the room. "Shall I try and kill you now, then? Perhaps a letter opener? What did you do that made her so frightfully angry with you?" At Parley's response, Norman's eyebrows lift; the left side of his mouth twitches upwards. "I threatened to expose her. The government. The labs. Everything. Unless..." Norman suddenly shakes his head. "...I don't even know what that unless /was/, Parley. I -- /monologued/." And then, there is laughter: "I tried to /blackmail/ the US /government/." /Why/ does Parley /laugh/ at this? It's a terribly /ragged/ sound, and he makes it into his HANDS, "You need to stop doing that." He sounds bizarrely sincere; which means it also sounds raw and apathetic, "Or regardless of your dear better half, you're going to wind up dead right next to me." His hands fall /plop/ onto his chest, and then go questing off to the side in search of strawberry. Lil' one, like a little red thimble, which he informs. "Or in a laboratory yourself." "Mmmn," Norman responds, his laughter settling, but still -- smiling. It is a lazy little thing, unpolished and easy, breezy in a way his practiced smiles are not. "I genuinely pity whatever team they send to abduct me, Parley. Although," Norman adds, a certain /edge/ to the baring of teeth, now, as he grins -- "--I'm sure the /second/ team would be far more well-equipped." Then, a tssss, and: "The terrorist attack on Alice. The one Doom saved her from. What do you make of that?" "It's an unusual target for a terrorist, isn't it?" Parley waves a strawberry, turning in his seat to sit sideways, knees crossed on the arm rest, "A visiting dignitary and a moderate American diplomat? I don't think Doom has has long enough to /make/ enemies in foreign countries. If I was not better acquainted with your personal style, I would say the most likely candidate for the attack on Ms. Lambton would be /you/." "Mmmnyes. It has --" Norman wrinkles his nose. "Such a bizarre /flavor/ to it. The explosion, afterward. No, I would not -- pffft," and now Norman waves his hand, as if to brush aside the stench of a particularly /rancid/ idea. "A hired thug with a /gun/? Please. I am many things, but not -- that boringly /predictable/." "...if you do this thing, Parley," Norman continues, "I'd also like you to find out more about it. If you have the opportunity. It doesn't fit. And I don't like things that don't fit. Perhaps there's something else, there, that might be of use to us...?" "No, you are certainly more creative. Pulling people into the backs of /very/ nice cars to have them eaten alive. Ngh," Parley curls in a wrist to toss the empty strawberry box either at a trashcan -- or, if he sees none, he'll toss it right up there onto Norman's desk. "And now I'm to be your little spy? You're not paying me enough." In that. Outside of surely a handsomely reasonable wage for his work in Latveria, Norman Osborn is not likely paying him at /all/. No trashcan. Which means Norman Osborn is now the proud owner of a brand new empty strawberry container. His hand descends, whumping down on top of it with a *THWCK*. "What's unusual about this," Norman mentions, lifting the canister up - wrinkling his nose - and proceeding to /shove/ it in the wastebin cleverly hidden /behind/ the desk -- "is that I know you'll do it for free. But I've been in an unusual mood recently, Parley. I'm going to offer you something for your services /anyway/." "Will I?" Parley seems genuinely curious in this, turning over in his seat to rest on a hip, feet curling. One eye so slightly squints, "--Is it going to hurt?" He knows when you /lie/, Norman. So he /does/. Norman straightens in his chair, eyes settling on Parley's -- steady, focused, with a /hint/ of a smile, and... "You didn't know the name of the laboratories that kept you. I suspect," he adds, "you don't know the name of the /man/ who ran it -- do you?" Forearms cross on the arm of left arm of the chair, elbows sharply boned and unrefined as one would /find/ in a young man of twenty. Parley rests his cheek on them, "...no." "Rasheed Toure," Norman responds. And then: "Is that sufficient payment, you think?" He sounds like. He's genuinely /asking/. "You're putting your life in my hands, you realize," Parley comments instead. His hollow dark eyes unblinking on Norman's. "Someone has told me," Norman replies, voice treacherously soft -- "that survival requires a certain degree of -- /unpredictability/. And there's nothing quite as unpredictable as baring one's throat." Parley's eyes drift downward, from Norman's eyes to the aforementioned region, nestled just beneath his jaw. "It is that." "Tempted?" Norman asks. Eyebrows lifting. A hint of -- curiosity? A twinge of fear? Interest? "You don't often get to play the role of /predator/, do you. It's not something you're -- accustom to. You're more of a -- /scavenger/. Following the predators. Making yourself useful to them. Feeding off their /scraps/." "It's the scavengers that eat the predators when they die as well." Parley reminds, and even with Norman looking at him, his eyes remain fixed where they are. "And in the mean time, are learners. More versatile. Adaptive." "I'll admit," Norman tells him, ambergold eyes darkening. "I'm not a hundred percent certain you /won't/ decide to do something... rash. I'm fairly certain. Mmmn, /fairly/ certain. But it's a risk..." The words drift away. "Cambridge," Norman states, "is /lovely/ this time of year. Or so I've heard." His eyes turn back to the laptop. "I admit I've never been." Parley's legs slip down off the arm of the chair, pushing himself to his feet. "Did you really go on a date with Ms. Walters?" "God, yes," Norman responds, and now there is -- a roll of his eyes. Among many firsts during this meeting may, in fact, be that expression. Norman, eye-rolling. Next, he'll be peppering every sentence with 'LIKE' and buying himself Justin Beiber folders. "What an utterly bizarre creature. I think she's trying to /redeem/ me." "She's innocent," Parley says it with the wry tone generally reserved for discussing the plights of the handicapped. He walking, he slides his fingertips along the edge of Norman's desk like he's checking it for DUST. "Is it working?" "No. Besides, redemption is for -- villains and heroes. I've only interested in -- adaption. /Evolution/. I'm changing to suit my environment. To better survive. To better /prosper/," Norman corrects himself. "All so many shades of grey." Thoughtful movement, Parley's sleeve shifts along his shoulder when he raises a hand. His other is tented delicately on the desk's surface, and he leans over the wooden surface as though there were some invisible surface encircling the aura of this man. An invisible surface he rests a hand, hovering a few spare inches over Norman's brow, eyes trained somehow less on the potential of contact between two surfaces than he is the space separating them. Norman looks up from his keyboard, then. At the hand, hovering -- then at the man it belongs to. /Peering/ at Parley. "...you're invading my personal space," he informs him. Less like an accusation, more like a mere notation of fact. "Mmhmm," Parley agrees distantly, and his hand drops away shortly after. "Was there anything else you wanted to address with me?" Norman responds with a sharp, playful little 'clck' of teeth -- followed by: "No. Stay safe, Parley." He returns to his laptop. /Hrf/. Under his breath, head shaking: "Bastard." Because if Parley was staying safe he wouldn't /be/ here. Then he's on his way, with the parting words of only: "You should keep candies on your desk." For him. ParleyTreats. Knowing Norman, he'll probably take his dear sweet time hitting that fucking button on his desk to de-entomb the room, and then he's on his way to go inflict himself on the world once more. | |
