Chapter 21: Norman Osborn II
The fire roared upon impact. The crystal glass shattered against the brick fireplace, but Norman didn't give a damn about it. He could buy a thousand more of those at any store. What he can't get nor replicate was Peter Parker.
His accomplice failed. He had one job. One fucking job!
Norman raked his fingers through his hair, grabbing the ends as he paced madly in his office. How hard was it to capture a boy?
Apparently, it was difficult enough to fail. Norman contacted Bullseye again, wanting updates as to what went wrong, but he received a dead-end silence from the mercenary. Nothing.
Weeks of silence and Norman figured Bullseye failed or ran off with his money. Worst part was that Peter never made an appearance either. No public mentions of him. He didn't even attend the basketball game that Norman splurged tickets on for his son's "friends". He asked Harry about Peter's absence, but Harry merely shrugged and said he didn't know.
Norman doubted his son's honesty. Harry knew. He simply wanted to be a brat. His immaturity was the reason Norman could never take his son seriously. Norman nonetheless gave the tickets to Harry and his tagalongs, knowing that he could not back out after making such a fuss to ensure they all came.
It wound Norman up that Peter didn't show.
Of course, Norman soon got the explanation behind Peter's vanishing act. Norman woke up one morning, grabbed the paper and coffee, and sat down to start his morning. And right there. Dead center that took up the whole front page was a title that read "PETER PARKER BRUTALIZES FORMER MILITARY GENERAL." A massive picture of former Secretary Ross laying on his cot in agony was underneath the caption.
Norman pored over the article. His fingers pinched the newspaper ever so tightly the further he got into the article. It became apparent on what occurred that night. It seemed Bullseye truly failed in his mission. That imbecilic! It infuriated Norman as he paid good money for the mercenary to retrieve the boy.
He was aware that the article was garbage. Norman knew Peter. He understood the boy's psyche. Peter didn't lay a hand on Ross. Those battered injuries were from another, but Norman couldn't quite believe that Bullseye partook in it. Why would he? He had no quarrel with the general. And why would Bullseye take Peter to Ross unless Ross put out an order as well?
No. That was ridiculous. It didn't make sense why the mercenary would turn on his benefactor. No, this was another individual. Another mercenary who interfered with the plans. The mysterious mercenary must have took out Bullseye and hunted down Ross. Which left an unknown variable Norman didn't want.
At least Norman learned of the reason behind Peter's sudden absence. Stark must have locked Peter up in that upstate tower of his, denying all freedom and rights.
God—he hated Stark. That pompous ass always stole everything from employees to ideas. Norman was a far better company that Stark Industries; and yet, Stark continued to dominate and out-shine in everything they competed. Not only that, Stark had Peter wrapped around his finger.
Peter falsely idolize Stark. He's seen the pictures of Stark and Peter together. The way Peter tilted his head back to look up to Stark. Eyes shiny and brilliant as he listened intensely to whatever Stark gabbled on about. The boy could do better. Should do better.
That weekend after the article's release, there was a flurry of counter-articles about the incident, followed with a libel suit against the newspaper and Ross himself. Ross determination to ruin Peter's reputation seemed to have backfired, with a few exceptions to those closely tied to certain organizations.
Norman was in his office, reviewing over schematics when he decided to turn on the television as background noise. The television was on for a few seconds before his thoughts were disrupted by an announcer commentating on Stark and Peter Parker. Norman snapped his eyes to the television. Stark and Peter sat in courtside seats, watching the Knicks versus the Lakers play a basketball game. At one point, Stark leaned over and spoke to Peter, who started to laugh at whatever Stark said.
Peter looked happy. A bit stressed, but happy enough to relax in Stark's presence. The announcer kept mentioning Stark and Peter, giving a blurb about the notorious article. Norman leaned against his desk, observing his creation's interaction. He watched Peter's wondered face as he cheered on the Knicks with Stark. Noticed the way Peter engaged with the players a bit, catching a runaway ball with his fingertips.
The crowd roared and clapped at the feat, entertained by Peter's talent.
Norman bristled when Stark ruffled Peter's hair. A fatherly gesture that irked Norman to rip the television right off the wall. The destruction of his television did not satisfy him. He needed more. He needed… he had to get his creation back. Away from Stark and those other leechers!
Norman took a deep breath and centered himself. He returned to his desk and looked up a number. He dialed and waited until the other line answered.
"I am in need of your services."
Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Children was not Norman's choice of a bar. Nor meeting place. But the hired mercenary insisted to meet there. Norman kept on his trench coat upon entry, hiding his suit from the patrons all dressed in biker attire of leather, chains and black clothes.
Norman maneuvered his way to the bar, avoiding any contact with the low-life patrons. No one looked his way. They ignored him just as much as he ignored them. He got to the bar where a curly-haired fatty shared some lewd joke to a drunk.
Norman sat on a stool and waited. He arrived early, checking over his shoulder to see if his… buyer arrived.
"It would be easier if you just call out the douche's name."
Norman looked back around and saw that the fatty bartender stood in front of him. His yellow plaid was wrinkled and smelled of piss and ash. Norman recoiled from the bartender, nose curled up as he eyed him disgustedly.
"What do you want?" the bartender asked.
"Nothing."
"Then you are in the wrong place," the bartender stated. "Either order a drink or get the hell out of my bar."
Norman glared up at the man, not appreciating the hostilities of the lowly man. "Do you know who the fuck I am?"
The bartender took a moment to study him. "Class A douche?"
Norman didn't like the man's words. Or tone. Or face.
Before his anger was unleashed on the fat man, another patron stepped up to the counter. "It's all right Weasel," he said to the bartender. "He's a possible client of mine."
Weasel the bartender nodded to the patron and scooted on his way down the bar. Norman turned to meet with the mercenary he hired. A burly man took the stool next to him. Unlike the others in the hepatitis bar, he was dressed in a suave suit. His skin was unusual. He lost all pigment to the point he was as white as snow all around. Even his white hair, slicked back, blended into his scalp that he almost appeared bald.
The mercenary noticed Norman looking over him and smiled. His teeth were as sharp as a dog's! "You aren't the first person to stare at me," he said and he held a finger up to Weasel the bartender. "So… I was told you have a specific job. One that requires… a strong conviction."
The bartender returned with a pint of dark ale before he disappeared to give them privacy. In fact, there were no other patrons around them. It was like they were in their own little office.
The mercenary took to a draught of his ale. "The name's Tombstone," he introduced himself, but he did not offer to shake hands. Norman didn't want to. "That's all the personal information you need."
"Fair enough," Norman responded as he made no plans to share his personal details either. "Does this mean you're accepting the deal?"
Tombstone showed his pearly teeth again. "Taskmaster told me it was a once in a lifetime opportunity," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "Told me it could be quite the challenge for me too."
"Maybe," Norman said, fingers slowly tapped on the bar. "My demands are specific. There can be no faults. I want exactly what I ask. And in order for me to get what I want, I need to make sure that the person I hire won't fuck me over like the last mercenary. So, what makes you so goddamn special to do the job?"
Tombstone's smile faltered. Only for a bit. His razor teeth pinched his lower lip before he laughed. "Ever heard about the murder of Ozzy Montan?"
Norman had to think for a moment. "No."
"Exactly," Tombstone finished off his pint. "I am aware that your original choice was unavailable. Hell—I haven't seen Deadpool around this joint for some time. Apparently, he's off on some personal quest or some shit.
"Don't be mistaken though," Tombstone's tone turned darker. "I'm not Deadpool. That twat is annoying as hell and hard to work with. My jobs are clean and quick. I don't fuck around and if you fuck me, then I'll be more than happy to fuck you." He leaned in closer, his words a serious whisper. "Does that ease your conscious?"
Norman did not like the threatening tone, but he appreciated the assurance than man promised. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. "That's the first half," he said to the mercenary. "I'll pay you the rest after you do the job."
The albino took the envelope and checked it over. He smiled again, pleased, before he pocketed the money away. "Best you get back to that sweet penthouse of yours," he said, sliding off his stool. He laid a crisp twenty on the bar. "This is a bad place with bad people with bad intentions."
Norman spied around them, catching the eye of Weasel the bartender. The fatty watched their parting through his cheap, plastic spectacles with a peculiar curiosity. It only lasted a second before the bartender turned his attention to the next customer. There was something not right about that bartender. Something that didn't sit well.
Norman got off his stool and hurried back to the doors, dodging the others and keeping his face covered by the collar of his trench coat. Once outside, he kept his head down and face out of sight from any nearby cameras as he made his way to a much nicer area to catch a cab.
Norman finished a chat with a few local college students. All of them were trying to suck up to him, impressing him with their genetic knowledge and other achievements that far annoyed Norman more than awed him. He favored them with some of his attention, but excused himself quickly to have a quick word with his engineer.
He wanted to ensure that the glider was ready to be presentable during his speech. Norman hardly ever attended TechStart, a conference for industries to come and showcase their up-and-coming products. Norman found them boring and mostly it was a chance for young people to network and hope to get an internship.
This year was different when the board members of the conference asked Norman to be the featured speaker at the conference. Normally, they extended it to someone from Stark Industries, but this year, they asked Norman first. It was a great honor to be recognized and, more importantly, to show up Stark.
He accepted and was now in the Javits Center, listening to his engineer's concerns about the stability of the glider.
"I don't care what you have to do to fix it," Norman cut off his employee with a sharp bite. "Just fix it!"
The engineer nodded and busied himself to silence as he tinkered on the glider. Norman checked his watch. It was nearing noon. He should get something for lunch. He still had five hours to kill before his presentation.
Norman called for his car. He strutted across the floor, eyes wandering from exhibit to the next, disappointed by all the App-driven solutions. Nothing was innovative anymore. And the millennials think they are geniuses.
He reached the front of the building. The glass structure of the center shined brilliant in the sunlight, forcing Norman to throw on his sunglasses. He heard whispers of others as he moved to the doors, his security team tight around him. A few people attempted to approach him, but were turned away by his bodyguards.
Norman's smirk widened. The attention and the seeking of his guidance heightened him. His shoulders back and neck proudly straight. He favored the onlookers with a few waves as he headed to his car, basking in the spotlight.
A sudden hush fell over the waiting crowd followed by a sudden intake of air. Bodies froze, almost struck. Not a single person Norman managed to glimpse at even blinked. Their irises stationary as they looked beyond.
Before Norman figured what caused the sudden change, someone yelled out over the silence.
"Norman!"
Norman halted. He knew that voice. His heckles rose along his neck as he swirled on his heels to meet Tony Stark.
And that triggered everyone to react. Everyone swarmed Stark, pushing Norman and company aside to make their way to the famous Iron Man. Shrieks and screams mingled overhead, interchanging to the point that Norman believed a migraine was growing behind his eyes.
Norman watched Stark favor a few fans with pictures, handshakes and greetings. The man's swagger doubled as more people came to circle him, but his entourage kept him in a comfortable circle of protection. Norman didn't recognize anyone. No Avengers or Pepper or even that lazy chauffeur that hardly drove him around the city. Just plain, old, business suited individuals.
Stark finished his adoration session. Dressed in fine clothes and sporting those hideous purple shades, he sauntered pass his admirers to Norman.
"Fancy seeing you here," Stark said in a jabbing tone as clicks of phones went off around them. "Thought you did away with all those schmoozing events after that disastrous 2010 TechCrunch convention?"
A twinge of anger heated Norman's blood at the remembrance of that embarrassing malfunction. His prototype of a similar military armor failed spectacularly in front of prestigious guests, which earned him mockery throughout his field.
But, Norman refused to take Stark's bait. He kept his cool. "I was called to be a lecturer," he boasted. "Featured speaker, to be exact."
Stark nodded, but wasn't at all impressed. "Is it your first time?" he questioned, mockingly. "Well, don't be shy. I know public speaking isn't your forte. Although you do have a knack for being loud."
"Not as explosive as yours, I can assure you," Norman fired back, but Stark only chuckled at his attempt to insult. "What are you doing here? Didn't think you personally attend these unless alcohol is free."
"Oh—I came to see what the newest, scientific-minded generation has to offer," Stark revealed, ignoring the jab. "Help some of these youngsters develop and reach their potential in bettering the world. That sort of thing." He looked around to the young faces that peered at them in awe and excitement. "After all, the children are the future. Might as well help them."
Norman wanted to gag at the statement. "They should learn to help themselves," he snipped. "I grew up with nothing and made myself into something. Kids this generation are lazy, weak and coddled too much. They should learn to thrive on their own without relying on our bank accounts."
Stark stared for a moment like he wasn't certain he heard correctly before accepting that his ears didn't lie. "Sound like a true capitalist," he remarked. "Don't you have a kid of your own? What—Harry, isn't?"
Harry—he was the perfect model of a self-absorbed, co-dependent, lazy youngster that Norman mentioned. Harry lacked any and all direction. His lack of curiosity and passion left him incompetent and, frankly, an embarrassment to Norman. Harry was nothing like his other son.
Nevertheless, Norman didn't appreciate Stark's observation. "I'll raise my son as I see fit," he snapped. "Besides, he needs tough love if he wants to survive in today's business world."
"Or a therapist," Stark muttered. "Either way, you're right. He's your kid." He shrugged in forfeit. "I have my own kids to worry about. Mentoring and all that can be quite a project itself."
Norman knew who Stark was referring to: Peter. He was mentoring his creation to be more like him! He mentally scowled at the image of Peter resembling Stark. Peter didn't belong to Stark. He rightfully belonged to Norman. He was Norman's creation. Norman should be mentoring Peter!
Stark adjusted the sleeves of his jacket, oblivious to Norman's uproar. "I heard Oscorp is presenting a new form of weaponry for the military," he remarked, changing the subject. "A glider to be exact."
Norman's face contorted for a split second. How the hell did Stark know about that? It was top secret.
Stark smiled like he had the ability to read his mind. "Relax, Norman. I'm not snooping in your servers, although I probably could," he quipped. "Like you, I have friends in high places. They told me a thing or two."
Rhodes. Colonel Rhodes must have told him of the design. "And let me guess," Norman said, peeved. "You're going to try to one up on me? Build your own version?"
Stark shook his head. "Nah. It's a lame idea," he lazily parried as if Norman's jab had no effect on him. "I'm far more interested in what the younger generation has to offer. Not a low-rated version of my suit."
A bitter taste stung Norman's tongue as he held himself back. "Well, my glider certainly got the military's attention," he remarked, proudly. "They are coming for a demonstration."
"I imagine they'll be full of disappointment," Stark wisecracked, "once they realize it's nothing like my suits."
Norman bristled at the insult. "Well, you forfeited your chance to earn the military's favor," he reminded Stark. "Someone needs to fill in the gap you selfishly abandoned for your own personal use rather than for the good of the country."
Stark's face morphed from that cocky grin to a more serious mien. "For the 'good of the country'?" he repeated, either insulted or exasperated, Norman wasn't certain. "And what is that exactly, Norman? Handing the military powerful weapons that would terrorize not only enemies, but their own citizens? Ross did a fine demonstration why the government needs less power over its civilians. And that includes weapons." Stark had taken off his sunglasses, looking straight at Norman. "So, if you consider me withholding the designs of the Iron Man suit as being selfish, then… yes! I am incredibly selfish and proud of it.
"Besides, I've matured from playing Cowboys and Indians," Stark added recomposing himself into some martyr figure that revolted Norman. "I focus on preservation rather than destruction. Don't want to screw the next generation over."
"Big talk for a man who built a murderbot a few years ago," Norman jeered, remembering how Stark's Ultron devastated an entire country and killed thousands. "Face it, Stark. You're still the same arrogant, imposter as ever. You haven't changed a bit."
Stark didn't smile at that. He looked far somber than Norman even hoped. "In some ways," he admitted, "but not in the more important aspects. You wouldn't understand."
Norman's smile slipped as Stark placed his sunglasses back on his face. "I would advise that you be careful, Norman," Stark offered. "Some men have gone mad for power."
"I'm not worried," Norman answered, calm. Collective. "I'm Norman Osborn. I have a way of getting what I want."
"And if you don't?"
"You do what you have to do," Norman's grin widened as he thought of Peter being returned home. "Gotta take what's yours, Stark."
"And protect it with your life," Stark finished, resolute.
The threat lingered between them as they stood-off against one another. Norman studied Stark's face, measuring him up to determine if they were talking about the same thing. The unnerving glare and steadfast position subtly warned Norman that Stark may know more than just the glider.
If Thaddeus Ross confessed to Stark—
Cracksss. Cracksss. Cracksss.
Curling screams ripped the air.
A body fell.