2683/Seeing a Man About a Penguin

Seeing a Man About a Penguin
Date of Scene:	03 October 2017
Location:	Iceberg Lounge, Gotham City
Synopsis:	Iceberg Lounge, Gotham City... a palace of ice and excess; a place Norman finds himself, to seek answers and potential partnership from the information broker known as Oswald Cobblepot.
Cast of Characters:	Penguin, Green Goblin

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Penguin has posed:
Developments in the markets have certainly fascinated Oswald Cobblepot lately, particularly a blue chip by the name of oscCorp. The Penguin always knew when a fresh fish was lurking around beneath the waters, and that it was merely a matter of time before it sidled up to the ice to explore the light. A certain type of fish was always the one that challenged adversity, its breeding the kind that knew, to prosper in genetics, one had to challenge predators, to breed a stronger and wiser line. It was the nature of evolution, and Cobblepot knew, economics and evolution were the same science. Well, close.

In economics, you were more akin to a god than a gopher.

It was early hours in the Iceberg Lounge, a quiet melody was playing from the band on stage, a low key jazz affair, and soft murmurs broken by laughter and the sounds of cutlery on plates populated his diverse little club. A group of lawyers from San Diego was in town tonight for a prominent case, a lawsuit against a local automotive factory on the outskirts of town in hard hat New Jersey, and Penguin was entertaining the company's defense team. He chatted with them at a table in the back of the club, sipping from a glass of Merlot and enjoying a nice cut of venison, prepared with black pepper and just a hint of clove, a personal recipe that Penguin had developed upon sampling a Native Canadian friend's game locker.

Green Goblin has posed:
    Insert obligatory 'Sympathy For The Devil' reference, as one of Norman's many bullet-proofed, tinted-window sedans pulls up into the parking lot of one of Gotham's cities most exclusive joints, the Iceberg Lounge. In fact, the recently-returned Venture Capitalist has arrived in a motorcade, one car both ahead and behind his - one can never be too careful in Gotham City, after all.. particularly since Norman can never tell where he stands with a certain Bat. Best to play it safe; this town is home to many masked lunatics, after all.

    At present, Norman has business with a more... refined, level-headed individual. One of the few left in the city that can be trusted to see a lucrative, if potentially illega, business opportunity when he saw one - Oswald Cobbleplot.

    A wave of his hand and a few muttered words dismiss his security detail as Norman himself walks through the front doors of the Iceberg Lounge, narrowed green eyes sizing up the location - strolling calmly up towards the nearest obvious help he can find, seemingly unconcerned with whoever might spot him in such a place. The Iceberg Lounge, after all, hosts MANY Gotham City elites - Norman Osborn, a NYC power player in his own right, is hardly out of place.

    "Cobblepot. Now," he says cooly and confidently to the hired help, clearly a man used to getting whatever he demands out of those around him. He's come, naturally, unarmed - without even the usual assortment of hidden weapons stashed in the lining of his suit. No, he knows Oswald well enough to know that the man is safe, here, of all places. No point getting violent, when he's simply here to... talk.

Penguin has posed:
The coat check attendant raises an eyebrow, faintly annoyed, the look to him of a Sephardic Spaniard by distant descent, a hint of an inky black tattoo disappearing beneath his white suit. "Of course, sir," he says with a bowed head, keeping humility (not for fear of Norman, but his employer's code of ethics) with his guest. His accent is northern South American, but his English is par excellente.

The villain leads Osborn to Cobblepot's table, nodding. Cobblepot looks up, and grins toothily. "Well well well, if it isn't Charles Dickens himself." The lawyers at the table all look up, polite and amused, as expensive lawyers from another interest always are to a man like Norman Osborn. "I'm sure I'll enjoy your latest work. You write at length, but there's always a little extra sarcasm between the lines, isn't there?"

Cobblepot looks to the coat check man, still waiting there. "Get my friend Norman whatever he wants, on the house." The Sephardic Jew looks at Norman with displeasure and a smile, before Penguin's monocled eye squints, and he jams a finger with a chop at his friend. "Santo. You be polite to our guest. No Irish." Santo nods twice with a slim dip of his narrow chin, and looks to Norman.

"Gents, evening to you. I hope your friend with the mangled hand gets the proper ovation from the judge. Remember, a crutch is always refused if another is using theirs." They all chuckle, the rookie looking ashamed, before Penguin tips a glass up in a mock toast at him. The youngest lawyer grins, returning to eating his food in thought, before Penguin stands and picks up his plate and glass.

"Shall we retire to the smoking lounge, Mister Osborn?"

Green Goblin has posed:
    Nodding as the attendant responds and following several steps behind the man, Norman can't help but smile at the man's quick response. Cobblepot really does hire the best help, whatever else might be said of the man's morals or... methods. Despite his sense of confidence in the Lounge's security staff, Norman keeps his eyes darting around the location as he is led to the back table. After all, he has recently had a strange run-in with a certain Gotham City madman... and it's not Batman he's concerned about.

A smile passes Norman's face as he's brought to the group of men - plainly only one he's interested in, as his eyes quickly scan the assorted lawyers but then fix onto Cobblepot. He's a man of dedication once he's set his mind to the task, and no amount of subtle disrespect - either from a bunch of Gotham City lawyers, the help OR Cobblepot himself - is going to distract him from his goal. In fact, a double dose of medication has ensured even the Goblin is more silent this evening than usual; an odd occurence given the city's reputation for bringing out mental illness.

"Nothing for me..." he says, as a matter of course not trusting any drink he doesn't pour himself. He is immune to most common toxins, but he's got reason, perhaps, to be more... paranoid than usual.

"A good plan, Mr. Cobblepot. I'll never get used to the STINK of this city," he says, a harsh burst of contempt entering his voice, "A private place and a bit of smoke might be just the thing..." Obviously offering no hint of his purpose while still in the public eye.

Penguin has posed:
Penguin chuckles and shakes his head at the comment of Gotham's odor. "It's the sewers, Norman. They were built too wide, too deep. This is the devil's city. Keep that in mind. The British lost pounds worth of Redcoat blood to the resistance beneath the streets, and this place is still haunted by things we don't understand." He turns about and strolls through the club, to the corridor in the rear. "Thieves in blood is what I call us in Gotham," he mentions, once they're inside the smoking room and the door is sealed shut by the hermetic frame. He sets his venison down on a small table against the rear wall, with a chair on either end, then takes a long sip of his merlot.

He sets his glass down. "Now, Norm, what can I do for you." He takes a seat at the chair, and gestures to a long set of racks of different types of cigars, labeled by the country and variety in gold lattice on black enamel wooden panels behind each box. "The courteous thing I should mention is, this is not just a single operation, but an organ of a much larger beast."

He slowly reaches into his jacket, watching Norman, removing a black satchel and pulling out a cigarette holder, a black pack of expensive cigarettes, and a brass lighter. He holds it so Norman can see an eye emblazoned on it, facing him, six stars inwards towards Penguin. After affixing the cigarette, his fingers slide around the eye and he lights it.

Green Goblin has posed:
Noticeably relaxing his shoulders and slowing his roaming gaze as they finally leave public earshot and move into a more enclosed, secure location; the man is obviously mildly unnerved about something. His dead eyes - emotions clearly dulled by the massive doses of psychiatric medications to keep him as professional as possible in this environment - watch with an odd neutrality as Cobblepot finishes lighting his cigarette.

Flashy. Perhaps needlessly so; but such is the manner of the city, after all. In a place where a flying Bat is a semi-public figure, it seems that one must do what they can to stand out...

"That's what I'm here to find out, Oswald," he says, dropping the formalities but nevertheless remaining standing, "And believe me, I wouldn't be setting foot... here... if it weren't to show a man like you the respect you deserve, face-to-face."

A natural businessman, Norman straightens his olive-green tie somewhat as he takes note of the various details of the room, "You're one of the few trustworthy figures left in Gotham. One of the few men I can trust with certain information. One of the few men, maybe..." he says, letting that last word sink in - almost passive-aggressively, as he narrows his eyes somewhat at the Penguin, "...who can still spot an opportunity, when it presents itself. Now, you tell me," he says with a casual laugh, "Is that still the case?"

Penguin has posed:
Norman Osborn's frivolties and attempts at rapport are lost on a man like Penguin, perhaps to Norman's favor. The odd balance of Penguin's cerebrum, his right side's empathic circuits impugned to the point of atypical mono-myopia, allows him to analyze Osborn with perfect logic, and no empathy. Cobblepot watches Norman's hands grip the tie, a slow smile coming to his face as he languidly, with intentional arachnid care, sets his lighter down on the table with a quiet click. Olive green. The color of self-interest, deeply repressed into noble class. But open. Once a pauper, perhaps a prince again.

"I've spotted an opportunity since before you stepped in, Mister Osborn." Clenching his cigarette holder between his teeth, he inhales, exhaling again as he turns to his meat. "You can always trust Gotham, if you know how to predict behavior. I'm the right man to talk to," he continues, not watching Osborn (for his comfort) as he picks up a piece of venison with his fork in his right hand, pulling the cigarette from his mouth with his left and inserting it into his mouth.

Chewing, he says, "Look at Gotham as an inevitable outcome scenario. If you do something here, Batman will hear about it. If Batman hears about it, Major Case Squad hears about it. So, work with this in mind."

Green Goblin has posed:
"Trust me Oswald, I'm more than familiar of being forced to work with certain restrictions," comes the quick reply from Norman as he picks up on that last comment - his ego once again taking over his attempted pleasantries, "I came here, because you seem to be a man who is capable of the same, and you fail to disappoint."

He moves past this exchange with a slight wave of his hand and a grin, "After all, you've built this wonderful place - you remain out in the world, doing what you do best. Making a profit. A lot of your... 'peers', they're behind bars in Arkham or Blackgate."

He leans forward towards Cobblepot, seated across the table, resting his hands on the back of the chair in front of him as he focuses in on the odd man - the one seemingly intent on displaying his pride and odd eating habits. "You're not. That makes you smarter than the rest of them. Or at least more cunning. I know a bit about that too," he says, perfect teeth flashing as his grin widens.

"But we can talk about business matters at a later date, Oswald, more pressing situations have arisen... and business, can wait..." he says, dropping a playing card, face-up on the table in front of him.

A Joker playing card, with a large black 'J' in the middle.

"Do you know about this man? This CLOWN?!" he shouts, his grip tightening on the chair, teeth gritting as a wild look crosses his eyes. It's clear he expects SOME kind of answer, for a man who supposedly knows Gotham so well.

Penguin has posed:
Penguin makes a little nod of affirmation to the side at the mention of Arkham and Blackgate, having pulled a stretch or two himself. He swallows the meat in his mouth with a slow sip of his musky chocolate-like wine, then looks down at the card, exhaling lowly.

"Oh, mercy me," he mutters, putting his cigarette holder back in his mouth.

He knows that look. "You remind me of someone else, you know, in regards to this poor fool," he says, looking up from the card and at Osborn. He sets his fork down, taking a slow drag on his cigarette. "That's the Joker. The saddest story in all of Gotham City. Everyone sees something about him, all the wrong way. Batman sees his perfect rival, one he doesn't want. Harley Quinn, his girlfriend, sees someone she can fix. The people of Gotham see a terror from another world. The criminals around here see a man to be feared, one that can outwit every trap in this place. But I'll tell you who the Joker is."

He taps his monocle, indicating his insight, then tilts his head to force the bad eye down a notch.

"The Joker is a man that has been broken by this place. Any of us could be this clown. A clown means many things. Do you know what a clown is on the streets, Norman, far away from your world? A clown is someone who's been broken, so thoroughly, they become the opposite of what they were before. The same skills, politics, insights, dreams, hopes, aspirations, but in their deepest, ephermal nature? They're in a mirror. A man who sold the world."

"Somehow, this one broken man, survived, and he should've died." Penguin sighs. "For all our sake. Do you understand this, this act that defies explanation to demonstrate what runs this city?" He raises his eyebrow. "How could someone so much a machined part, but with the perfect opposition in the mirror to challenge everything, survive to become someone so ideal to flaunt opposition to everything our world stands for?" Penguin reaches forward, putting his finger on the clown card's face. "Any of us could have this happen, Norman Osborn. This is a man you should fear, not for who he is, but for what created him."

He quietly makes the Protestant sign of the cross, shaking in a reflexive shudder and inhaling his cigarette raggedly.

Green Goblin has posed:
There is little doubt the physical reaction is one he had entirely expected - after all, his run-in with the lunatic left even Norman Osborn (no stranger to madness himself, in his darker times) himself shaken up and paranoid.

Nevertheless, he can't help but regard the fanciful explanation with a light chuckle, "Is all of Gotham so dramatic, I wonder?" Despite this attempt at humour, he keeps his fixed on Oswald all the same, a certain... uncertainty resting behind his usual smoothed-over exterior. "The man himself poses enough of a problem for me, nevermind his origin. I won't attempt to pin an explanation to sheer lunacy. I've LOOKED into his eyes..." he emphasis that last part, his voice almost - almost - cracking with a certain desperate emotion.

"I had hoped for contacts, people he might know, places I might FIND him... If you can offer no more information than a moral tale, however..." he says, releasing his grip on the furniture and leaning forward to scoop the playing card off the table - placing it back into his suit pocket with one swift movement, "Then maybe I can offer you something. I need a way to contact you, Oswald. Quickly, and privately. I have certain plans, and you may play a part in them - to your great profit, of course..." he says, straightening his back and waiting for a further reply.

"And I CAN'T be expected to come to this godforsaken place, every time I wish to SPEAK..." he adds, as another odd jab at a city he has some odd distaste for.

Penguin has posed:
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," Penguin sighs. "Do you want a trade secret for dealing with this place?" Cobblepot is serious, dead serious. "Play to the dramatic here. When you're in Gotham, people take you seriously when you have a modus operandi that speaks to their hearts. This city is founded on a devil's masquerade. Any poor man can be rich with a bit of a trademark, and any rich man can inspire fear with a cunning rose to our lady of liberty." Penguin extends his right hand upwards, tucking his middle and ring finger, and bending his thumb inwards while keeping it out to the side. "They still peer about the crannies and among the branches of Slaughter Swamp, they say, the Owls." Penguin balefully lowers his hand after loosening the gesture, removing his cigarette from his teeth and tapping it out.

"The Joker is an actor, that once was a real man. You clearly have an insight into him you won't admit. Merely play to your instincts. Never try to find the Joker, without the Joker wanting to find you. He's found you once, hasn't he? Criminals around here don't tell Batman stories. They tell stories about the man that almost got the Batman. And the Joker has more than conquered that foe, despite his own judgment."

Penguin slides out of his chair and moves over to a book case beside his humidor, moving a shelf aside and revealing a phone and internet system. "And this, is my private line. I have several of these, all monitored by the Gotham City Police Department's wiretap unit. It is unavoidable, here. Send me pre-arranged signal that leads to the proper contact method in New York, Bludhaven, or Metropolis, and I will use a clean line to contact you immediately." Penguin removes a list of registers in a black book with a golden English crown from beneath the computer station, and sets them down on a table. "This is a codex of the proper codes and numerical encrypts. I update it regularly, you will be provided a new one every three weeks at your office in the Big Apple."

He smiles. "View it as my newsletter.

Green Goblin has posed:
Picking up the black book for a moment and taking a few seconds to commit the present numbers to memory, Norman finally responds to the Penguin's advice. "My interests in this city are strictly ones of influence and business, Oswald. And, to be honest, I believe men like YOU to be far more suited to the task in such a place, than I..."

"After all, you're established. You seem to know... the right people. And you certainly have a flair," he says with a snicker as he glances at the somewhat odd sight that Cobblepot presents in his private smoking lounge, "for the unusual nature of this city. No doubt you owe your continued success to your sense of Gotham's... 'unique' culture."

He drops the black book back on the table just in front of Cobblepot's plate, "It's been a pleasure, Oswald. You've proven yourself a... rational actor, in a place filled with madness. Barring any business you with to discuss..." he says, offering Oswald the chance to bring up any topics he might wish to bring up.

Penguin has posed:
Penguin gives Norman Osborn an unusual look. An eiditic recall factor with a clear case of unstable personality repression. "If there's ever a magic show in town, Mister Osborn, I recommend you attend. The Zatara family can be quite mystifying. Perhaps you can figure out their trick." He snickers at this, some of Penguin's sadism coming out. He isn't particularly pleasant to deal with for those heroes either. Cobblepot takes the book back, and slides the register back amid the small stack of them, closing the apparatus.

Oswald pulls an umbrella off the rack opposite the cigar rack, and uses it as a swagger stick as he moves to the door. "I do think I'll depart early tonight," Cobblepot says, aware that Norman's presence has likely attracted more than a bit of attention around the club from his entrance. "A lovely winter is coming, I'm sure, if you don't mind the occasional bit of rock in the ice." He opens the door, and gestures to a waiter, who waits outside to collect Penguin's glass and plate after the pair leave. Penguin is handed a squat top hat by the man at the door in the rear, and he places it on his head with a pat on top. "Good day, Mister Osborn. Thank you for considering me a colleague." He steps out the iron back door and into the alley, strolling out into the night with total confidence. After all, when you're a gentleman, your only enemy is yourself.