Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat.
WHO: Norman Osborn, Tony Stark, and later Victoria Hand & Betty Ross.
WHERE: In the sky! and then the street. And also in some office building.
WHEN: Tuesday, Dec. 15th, around 5 PM.
WARNINGS: Violence.
SUMMARY: Norman can't talk his way out of this one as the world gets turned upside down and no joke...someone dies. For reelz!!
FORMAT: Para to start, quicklog later?
The stress was beginning to get to him. Norman would never admit to that out loud-to himself, even, but he could feel it thrumming in his head, numbing the brain. He popped four different medications into his mouth and downed them with a brief sip of water, crunching the Clozapine between his back molars. It wasn't long before the pain in his head seemed to fade into a dull memory, hidden beneath the bandage of a medical cocktail.
No need to be stressed. Of course not. Things were going tolerably on nearly every front. Hand would take care of this SheHulk situation, Nygma was taking passable care of the Thunderbolts, Stark's impertinence seemed to have ebbed, and Selina seemed to be playing right into his armor-plated hands. He was gathering new, media-friendly Avengers on a regular basis. So it was with accomplishment Norman poured himself a small Jack Daniels, savoring the flavor before he began to assemble his armor on, eager and energized to go out on a patrol.
He flew out of a high Avengers Tower window, sailing over the city but paying little to no heed towards its beauty from this height. There was little place for beauty in Norman Osborn's world. He was focusing more on the rush of power he felt from wearing the suit, what it symbolized. His triumph over his history, over his past, over the Skrulls, over Tony Stark-it was more than a suit, it was an ideal.
And that ideal was Norman.
He kicked his boots into Mach 6, curling around a building to overlook the streets below, scanning the area for crime. None that wasn't being handled, and it was all petty crimes he came across. Norman was in the mood to fight. The presence that dared not speak its name to Norman clawed at him, eager for its aggression to be exercised.
WHERE: In the sky! and then the street. And also in some office building.
WHEN: Tuesday, Dec. 15th, around 5 PM.
WARNINGS: Violence.
SUMMARY: Norman can't talk his way out of this one as the world gets turned upside down and no joke...someone dies. For reelz!!
FORMAT: Para to start, quicklog later?
The stress was beginning to get to him. Norman would never admit to that out loud-to himself, even, but he could feel it thrumming in his head, numbing the brain. He popped four different medications into his mouth and downed them with a brief sip of water, crunching the Clozapine between his back molars. It wasn't long before the pain in his head seemed to fade into a dull memory, hidden beneath the bandage of a medical cocktail.
No need to be stressed. Of course not. Things were going tolerably on nearly every front. Hand would take care of this SheHulk situation, Nygma was taking passable care of the Thunderbolts, Stark's impertinence seemed to have ebbed, and Selina seemed to be playing right into his armor-plated hands. He was gathering new, media-friendly Avengers on a regular basis. So it was with accomplishment Norman poured himself a small Jack Daniels, savoring the flavor before he began to assemble his armor on, eager and energized to go out on a patrol.
He flew out of a high Avengers Tower window, sailing over the city but paying little to no heed towards its beauty from this height. There was little place for beauty in Norman Osborn's world. He was focusing more on the rush of power he felt from wearing the suit, what it symbolized. His triumph over his history, over his past, over the Skrulls, over Tony Stark-it was more than a suit, it was an ideal.
And that ideal was Norman.
He kicked his boots into Mach 6, curling around a building to overlook the streets below, scanning the area for crime. None that wasn't being handled, and it was all petty crimes he came across. Norman was in the mood to fight. The presence that dared not speak its name to Norman clawed at him, eager for its aggression to be exercised.