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You made a monster of me through all your wicked lies.
Back when Norman faked his death, long, long ago... this log never was posted, but here's the scoop.
WHO: Norman Osborn and Victoria Hand.
WHERE: City morgue, then Avengers Tower.
WHEN: Dec 17th, evening. [back-dated]
WARNINGS: NPC death (omg poor hobo), some mild violent imagery? kinda?
SUMMARY: The real story.
FORMAT: Para
What he was first aware of was the slow rise and fall of his own chest. Slowly—his breathing came short and shallow but with an almost gulping gasp of air at first, as if all this time he'd been underwater.
Really, in a way he almost was. He could feel his body, slack and sore... but alive. He was alive. Norman Osborn opened his eyes and was welcomed to the land of living with pitch darkness. They widened and for a moment he panicked; then relaxed. That brief moment of fear—Have I gone blind?—was replaced with dejâ vu. This had happened to him before.
Norman reached upwards and uncannily lifted a sheet from himself as he had all those years ago, after he had awaken from his first... death. The fabric crumpled around him in a white mess, an ironically heavenly shawl protecting (hiding) his not-so-dead body. Sitting up was another ordeal filled with pain and stiffness from being sedentary for so long. Sedentary and broken.
He could feel his bones still not yet healed, and his head was still turned at an inhuman angle. He caressed the jaw gently, his hands curled to his neck—and snapped it back into place with a crack that made him wince. But thank God that was taken care of. Norman refused to acknowledge the irony of him snapping his neck. He would not mirror his plummet to that of Gwen Stacy.
He moved, carefully, off the table, staring at his reflection in the sleek metal drawers. When he'd had enough, he sat down again.
"Oh, Stark." His voice was low and alien in the empty room, more so since his neck lacerations made his voice hoarse. He rubbed it. "You can't even kill me. That is so sad. For a moment I thought you might actually have it in you."
He rubbed his neck again; remarking mentally on the merits of a healing factor. He was far from dead—Norman should have known this would happen. He hadn't died back then, either: why would this be any different? It couldn't even be called a rebirth or a resurrection if he had never actually died.
Of course he hadn't. He was Norman Osborn. Wealthy Industrialist. Director of the Avengers. The Iron Patriot. The Green Goblin. How could he die when he had so much to live for?
Though he could have done without the two or so days of grace time; his brain wasn't a goddamn battery that needed to be recharged. Though his state of temporary brain death (or whatever it was; it wasn't as if Norman could analyze it on himself) had at least dealt a rather significant blow to Stark's reputation within the city, Norman had to assume. The thought made him grin.
Locating a lab coat, Norman dressed himself in it's folds (again, white) and went through the trouble of doing up every button before he found his way out of that cold building, out onto the freezing streets of the City. Winter was the worst time of year to be stuck outside a morgue in only a lab coat, but Norman persevered until he came across a drifter he could murder for his clothes like he had the last time, which served the extra purpose of hiding himself from the general public. He pulled the collars of his coat up and the cap he'd taken down to hide his face. He had to keep going.
Find Victoria.
It was maddening he didn't have his armor's communicator, or even the City issued one. Anything that he could use to get in contact with somebody. He wanted to obsessively scan the network, see what has been done and said and become of his contacts. But for the moment he was too cold to care.
Unfortunately, his body had other plans. His injuries hadn't healed completely yet—healing factor or not, he was no Wolverine. He managed to get to the tower running only on a survivalist's adrenaline and what little strength had returned to him with his heartbeat, drudging on with it as a constant guide in the distance—a north star in the day time. He collapsed onto his knees before it, sinking to the concrete in a gray haze of semi-consciousness.
WHO: Norman Osborn and Victoria Hand.
WHERE: City morgue, then Avengers Tower.
WHEN: Dec 17th, evening. [back-dated]
WARNINGS: NPC death (omg poor hobo), some mild violent imagery? kinda?
SUMMARY: The real story.
FORMAT: Para
What he was first aware of was the slow rise and fall of his own chest. Slowly—his breathing came short and shallow but with an almost gulping gasp of air at first, as if all this time he'd been underwater.
Really, in a way he almost was. He could feel his body, slack and sore... but alive. He was alive. Norman Osborn opened his eyes and was welcomed to the land of living with pitch darkness. They widened and for a moment he panicked; then relaxed. That brief moment of fear—Have I gone blind?—was replaced with dejâ vu. This had happened to him before.
Norman reached upwards and uncannily lifted a sheet from himself as he had all those years ago, after he had awaken from his first... death. The fabric crumpled around him in a white mess, an ironically heavenly shawl protecting (hiding) his not-so-dead body. Sitting up was another ordeal filled with pain and stiffness from being sedentary for so long. Sedentary and broken.
He could feel his bones still not yet healed, and his head was still turned at an inhuman angle. He caressed the jaw gently, his hands curled to his neck—and snapped it back into place with a crack that made him wince. But thank God that was taken care of. Norman refused to acknowledge the irony of him snapping his neck. He would not mirror his plummet to that of Gwen Stacy.
He moved, carefully, off the table, staring at his reflection in the sleek metal drawers. When he'd had enough, he sat down again.
"Oh, Stark." His voice was low and alien in the empty room, more so since his neck lacerations made his voice hoarse. He rubbed it. "You can't even kill me. That is so sad. For a moment I thought you might actually have it in you."
He rubbed his neck again; remarking mentally on the merits of a healing factor. He was far from dead—Norman should have known this would happen. He hadn't died back then, either: why would this be any different? It couldn't even be called a rebirth or a resurrection if he had never actually died.
Of course he hadn't. He was Norman Osborn. Wealthy Industrialist. Director of the Avengers. The Iron Patriot. The Green Goblin. How could he die when he had so much to live for?
Though he could have done without the two or so days of grace time; his brain wasn't a goddamn battery that needed to be recharged. Though his state of temporary brain death (or whatever it was; it wasn't as if Norman could analyze it on himself) had at least dealt a rather significant blow to Stark's reputation within the city, Norman had to assume. The thought made him grin.
Locating a lab coat, Norman dressed himself in it's folds (again, white) and went through the trouble of doing up every button before he found his way out of that cold building, out onto the freezing streets of the City. Winter was the worst time of year to be stuck outside a morgue in only a lab coat, but Norman persevered until he came across a drifter he could murder for his clothes like he had the last time, which served the extra purpose of hiding himself from the general public. He pulled the collars of his coat up and the cap he'd taken down to hide his face. He had to keep going.
Find Victoria.
It was maddening he didn't have his armor's communicator, or even the City issued one. Anything that he could use to get in contact with somebody. He wanted to obsessively scan the network, see what has been done and said and become of his contacts. But for the moment he was too cold to care.
Unfortunately, his body had other plans. His injuries hadn't healed completely yet—healing factor or not, he was no Wolverine. He managed to get to the tower running only on a survivalist's adrenaline and what little strength had returned to him with his heartbeat, drudging on with it as a constant guide in the distance—a north star in the day time. He collapsed onto his knees before it, sinking to the concrete in a gray haze of semi-consciousness.