ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Hobgoblin of Little Minds
| Vignette - Hobgoblin of Little Minds | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2013-03-29 Norman has a conversation with a special friend. |
| Location | |
"Mr. Osborn. You're losing your mind." Norman Osborn squints at the MRI on the computer, ignoring the doctor who sits in front of it. The man is a slightly heavyset fellow with rigid black glasses, a bow-tie, a dark brown vest, and a lab-coat over it. "I'm in control," Norman tells him, not looking away from the monitor. "You /think/ you're in control," the doctor replies. "But you're losing." "What is this." Norman stabs at the monitor with his finger. A dark discoloration, near the center. "What is this thing." The doctor removes his glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose. "That's -- the thing that you're losing /to/," he says, lacking a better way to put it. "It's growing." "So, figure out a way to stop it. Isn't that what I pay you for?" Norman asks, and now he is turning away from the image, buttoning up his shirt. "Whatever it takes. Chemotherapy, whatever--" "Osborn, this is in your /brain/." The doctor's tone is thick with frustration. Explaining to Norman Osborn why something he wants is impossible is never an easy task. "I could flood your body with enough chemo to kill ten men and it wouldn't touch this. Nothing short of surgery could -- and it's far too deep to even think about that." "So, what you are saying, then." Norman continues to button. "Is that he's /winning/." "We talked about this possibility. The nature of your mutation--" "I am /NOT/ a mutant." The force behind these words is so vicious -- so sudden -- so extraordinarily immense -- that it manages to, for a moment, subdue even the doctor. Said doctor begins again. This time, more carefully: "The nature of /his/ mutation... this was always a risk. I told you that we should have treated it like a cancer -- right from the get-go. Because that's precisely what it is: It's a tumor, except it's /sapient/. And it doesn't want to kill you. It wants to--" "What are my options." The buttons have been finished; Norman is in no mood for lectures. He reaches for his coat. "There /are/ no options, Norman. This thing -- Norman." The doctor stands, turning to him. He is a man who has, on more than one occasion, faced down all the murderous, ruthless horror that is Norman Osborn -- and not blinked. He looks upon him now, and when he speaks, his tone allows for no interruption: "There is nothing in the realm of known medical science that can stop this. Not without either killing you or turning you into a vegetable. At this rate, I'd give you six months -- at most." "Six months until what?" "Until you go from having this thing as a voice in /your/ head to being a voice in /its/ head," the doctor replies. "Until /you're/ the tumor in /its/ brain." Norman Osborn's eyes narrow. The coat is drawn close; he clasps the buttons. "Nothing in the realm of known medical science." "Nothing." "Then we'll just have to look /outside/ the realm of known medical science -- won't we?" The doctor frowns. Norman Osborn leaves Oscorp's medical bay. | |
