thegreatmysterio | Ryslig: IC Inbox

Norman has had a very long day, and he's exhausted from talking to three of the people Alton had wronged the most. But he'd made a promise to Mysterio, and he would keep it. Dressed in a polo shirt he'd cut holes in for his new legs and a pair of khakis, he waits at the entrance, a paper bag with a bottle of good whiskey in hand. He opted for the middle ground: not cheap, but not frivolous either.

As he waits, his mind whirls. He's got to be ready for anything, because there's no telling how all of this could go... When Quentin does appear, Norman nods in greeting, curbing the ingrained businessman's reflex to smile.

"You made it. Ever been in here before?"

Quentin's smile at seeing Norman actually showed up is thin. He's dressed more casually, a loose shirt and slacks, but part of that is because he's got wings at his back now. Weird green skin on his hands and arms with hints of yellow thrown in there, cutting off at the neck like some pseudo-turtleneck. It's... definitely a look! And a rather permanent one at that.

He'd honestly shown up thinking Norman wouldn't, and it'd just be a waste of time. Welp.

"Nope, first time visiting. Sounded a bit too wild before, but-" He shrugs, grimacing as his wings twitch with it. He has to figure this shit out before he knocks somebody over with them. "A drink is a drink. You take 'em where you can."

"Wild is turning out to be relative," Norman remarked, starting to lead him down the hallway toward the simulation room he tended to favor: the first on the left. He would have normally gestured for Quentin to go first, but he had a feeling no one wanted to let him be at their back at the moment.

Once he reaches the control panel, he plugs in the necessary commands and data to pull up a different simulation than the usual recreation of his penthouse. When the door beeps softly and slides open, it reveals an old-fashioned gentleman's club, all dark wood and green upholstery. It's a simple one, though, nothing overtly fancy. In this, at least, he'll remember his manners.

"Please, after you. Have you eaten recently? I don't want either of us to have to deal with the effects of staying too long."

With his first glance at the inside of the Cube, it feels like something out of a Stark lab than a place of relaxation. Sets his teeth on edge a little. The interface is different though, which helps. Norman is right on the money about Quentin not wanting the other man at his back.

...Yeah, even if it's a simple gentleman's club, it still way beyond Quentin's pay-grade when he steps in. This is the kind of shit you see in movies but get shown away from politely if you don't have money at least three generations back, or enough money in the bank for them to look the other way. Thank you for the brand-new discomfort, Norman.

Time to shove that feeling down, and just- pretend shit's fine. Everything is fine.

"...Eaten? I mean, I had dinner, but-" Oh. It takes Quentin a second to remember the whole... eating people thing. He's had other things to worry about. "No. It isn't a problem yet." He waves off any protest vaguely, because it's true right now. "One night shouldn't do too much."

Note that, Norman: one night. Quentin has no intentions for this to be dragged on for longer than that as he wanders closer to one of the tables. "Can we use the glasses in here, or are we drinking from the bottle-?" He asks idly, but when he reaches for one of the glasses his hand is- different. Normal again. There's a dark sleeve instead of green chitin at his arm.

The Cube, in reaction to his own nerves, decided to shove him into something a bit dressier to fit the setting. Something a little too familiar for his liking, like he's some Stark lackey again.

Everything is totally fine, he will process these feelings later.

"We can use the glasses, interact with things ... but anything we want to really eat or drink has to come outside." Norman says easily, leading them to what is clearly The VIP Table. The card on the polished tabletop reads, in neat cursive: Mr. Q. Beck & Guest.

"I was thinking about some of the things you said. And if this place is a chance for Otto and I to try and put our lives on the path we would have wanted ... it should be that for you, too. I can't give you anything but an equal place at the table, and my attention, free of any ulterior motive, so:"

He gestures to the booth, indicating that Quentin should sit first.

"After you."

Mr. Q. Beck & Guest. Ha. He snags the card absently, flipping it face-down on the table. It all feels like useless fluff to butter him up. A little bit of salt in a reopened old wound, even if Norman seems too soft at the moment to do something like that. Quentin doesn't get things like this.

He's one of those little worker drones who gets called in to report on something, and then sent away when the next course is ready. Only noticed if somebody (Stark) can see a way to swipe something out from underneath his nose, and claim it as their own.

(Just a cog in the machine, but what use is a stripped gear, how are you useful if you're unstable-)

Quentin's jaw tenses up, and he doesn't sit just yet. "Equals-? I doubt that. You've made it very clear in the past how much of a laugh that is, Mr. Super-Soldier. I'm just- what was the word Alton used?" He cocks his head to the side in mock-thought, letting the silence hang for a moment. "A hustler. I don't think that's changed. I know how people like you tend to look at people like me."

How rich men look at their underlings like replaceable tools. Something to be tossed out when it breaks, or isn't the newest model anymore. And even with all these trappings, this little dressed set, he is nothing in the scheme of things. Norman has friends in all kinds of places. Quentin has one.

It's hard to miss the little spiteful gesture Quentin makes, but Norman lets it slide. Peter was right: the best way to keep the man from escalating was to be very selective about what you engaged with. Watching the conversations Quentin had had with others over the network - what parts hadn't been filtered, at least - had given him an even better idea of what he'd be walking into.

"How we tend to ... you're not wrong." He admitted it readily, evenly, and still refused to sit until his guest did. "There are a lot of horrible tendencies that I picked up from my field, my lifestyle. I want to change that. Especially since I can see now that you're not a hustler. You had good ideas, and they were taken for granted. You were poorly treated. It's a cycle I don't want to perpetuate, and it doesn't belong anywhere, let alone in a place like this where so many other things are already stacked against us."

Oh, Quentin could be far more spiteful, Norman. Right now he's trying to keep himself composed, wrapped together with a thin wire of restraint. The only problem is that his old work clothes don't feel like armor anymore. They set his teeth on edge, feel a hair too tight even if he knows they're fake here.

Quentin doesn't try to hide how he rolls his eyes a little as he crosses his arms over his chest. The gesture is... some degree of defensive. Means more to go through than just fabric and carapace if Norman tries something.

(Quentin doesn't think Norman will, but that's what fucked him over the first time: he assumed.)

"Can you really, truly put your money where your mouth is? Or are you lacking the capacity for it." And there's a hint of spite just for you, Norman. Quentin parroting Alton's words while a bit dead-eyed, just to see the other man squirm.

"It's a lot of pretty words, I'll give you that much. Know the right way to... stroke a man's ego." The look turns into something far more knowing then, but Quentin has some restraint as he goes to finally sit. "Show me you know how to do more than throw a few corporate apologies around, please. I'd like to see you try."

The way his darker half's words and actions come back to haunt him is not a lost point. Something in Norman's eyes hardens a bit, but only for a fraction of a second: the wound is registered, and then put aside.

"You're right. I do owe you more than words." He sits as well, now that Quentin has, and offers him the bottle to inspect. Under any other circumstances he'd play the proper host and pour, but he knows that Quentin's about as paranoid as a mob of meerkats on speed, so manners need to change accordingly. Then, he takes an envelope out of his pocket and sets it on the table. Inside is a deed to a half-acre of land in Bavan: an address Beck will recognize as the place where he met Alton. He waits until Beck has inspected the wine and the envelope before explaining his actions.

"I had that building razed to the ground. My work at Liewen Labs pays me generously, and I live at Hill House rent-free. I'm giving you the land. You just send me the invoices for whatever you want built in its place. A home, a workshop, you name it."

Quentin doesn't miss those hardening eyes. Nice to see that Osborn isn't entirely willing to roll over and take it.

He vaguely checks the whiskey, but the seal on it isn't cracked. Can't do much to glass unless you break it. He'll take his chances with the drink. If he gets offed again- fuck it. Quentin getting fooled twice, by the same guy, will be shame enough. Then he gets to the envelope, and-

"No." The response is automatic, because this is exactly what he expected. A rich man throwing money at a problem so it'll go away. "No, I'm not accepting this. I'm not some charity case, or some-" Quentin gets out of his seat to stalk around a little, unable to look at Norman for the moment. "Some slut looking for an out of court settlement after you stiffed me. I don't want anything from you here, least of all that."

And here's the thing Quentin doesn't want to admit: If Norman had some place built, he could theoretically have keys to it. No fucking thanks.

When he does turn to Norman again, he definitely looks more than a little ready to bite if approached in a threatening manner. "Money can't buy forgiveness. It won't get you shit with me."

Norman was expecting a refusal, but it still raises his blood temperature a few degrees once Beck starts to get going. It almost feels like playing Beck Bingo - charity case, check. Money's useless, check. Unnecessary swearing, check. Threatening posture, check. The misogyny and the slur are a surprise, but that's what the bonus space is for. Bingo.

He takes the deed back and tucks it into his pocket once more. "I had a feeling you wouldn't be interested, but I wanted to be sure. If you don't want the space, I'll make sure it's used in some way that benefits the community."

Norman's tone is calm, unassuming, hopefully maddeningly unflappable. He's hidden a challenge in his words: are you sure this isn't what you want? A chance to start your own life? Support from someone like the person who owed you so much? Connections to a community that'll lift you up instead of grinding you down? He wasn't trying to buy anything: he was trying to get Quentin to see the big picture: how much possibility there was in a truce between them. Clearly, the other man is still blind. He sits patiently, not rising to the bait of Quentin's anger in the least, and pours them each a glass now that the bottle has been approved. Slowly, he slides one glass back over to Beck's chair.

"This is your forum. I'm giving you the opportunity to tell me what you do want out of your life here. You've only told me what you don't want. No words. No money. What's left? Actions, I'd presume. But I'm not a mind-reader."

Quentin gives Norman a dubious look as he moves close enough to snatch the glass up, and take a rather inelegant swallow of it. The burn down his throat makes his eyes water a little.

Quentin refuses to be indebted to someone again who could take what's supposedly his away. If Norman gives him the deed, the man could take it back. If something's built, there could be extra keys that aren't in Quentin's hands. If somebody else builds shit for him- It's not his. And he needs something that's his for once, like Mysterio or his illusions.

(And he's been saving up those ridiculous not-arcade tokens in the hopes of getting something his, just one fucking thing-)

"You want to hear what I want? What I want is for you to stop lying to me. Stop pretending you even care about me, besides soothing your own little guilt." He sets the half-full glass back down on the table with a clink. He meets Norman's gaze as unflinching as he can manage. "I'm a reminder. Men like you don't like those. You can throw as much at me as you want, and I don't want any of it. I want my own life without somebody else's grubby fingerprints all over it-"

But there is a bit of a lie in there. It's enough for him to pale a little as he reaches the tail-end, feel some nausea rising up in his throat. His hands are shaking where they're pressed against the table as he looks at the other man, angry now. "If you put something in this, I swear to god-"

Norman endures the tirade, earnestly listening. As he suspected, Quentin is still making broad generalizations: accusing Norman of not knowing him when he's just as guilty of the same. He's trying to work out a way to calmly word a response when the other man pales and leans over the table.

"Wh-"

Norman's eyes widen in genuine surprise and any semblance of a calm facade he may have been presenting vanish. He's up from his chair in an instant, but keeps his distance, watching his eyes to see if they're dilating, his chest to monitor his breathing.

"No - no, it was a brand new bottle... talk to me. What's going on?"

In a show of solidarity, he drinks from his own glass to see what happens. His nerves already have his own stomach in knots, so ... this might get interesting.

If Norman had gotten closer, Quentin probably would have tried to bite him. Solid choice, Norman!

Quentin grits his teeth, trying to hide his fright with anger instead. Tries to pull away from the table, but can only manage to scrub a hand down his face instead. He hates that his hand feels normal here, instead of that weird shiny smoothness he's been forced to get used to.

"It's-" A frustrated mouth sound, his expression dark as he looks at Norman. "I feel sick, alright? And I'll I've done is take a sip of that drink-" It's enough of a lie to kick him in the metaphorical teeth again as he presses his forehead to the table. Jesus fuck, what is wrong with him-

The next few words feel like his teeth are being pulled out as he coughs them up. "He understood. He was the fucking first here, and then- why? Just one, goddamn time-" Alton listened, and understood, and even though the man killed him Quentin wants that back.

He watches as Quentin struggles... and then, suddenly, he remembers something from his extensive study of Spengler's Monster Guide, the one he and Moira had had discussions over even before they'd begun to change, themselves. Fairies can't lie.

"I see."

He sighs, slowly, and returns to his seat, putting his face in his hands. Quentin wants something he can't give - not completely. He stays that way for a long moment, long enough that if Quentin does raise his head, he'll see Norman without that shell of charismatic composure. He can enjoy that little victory, that moment of schadenfreude, before Norman looks up a little, propping his chin in his hands to reply.

"I'm not him, but ... I do remember what you said. And while you might not believe it, I know how it feels to be robbed of something you put your heart, soul, and life's work into. It's how - it's how he came to be, really. That was the start of it."

Quentin presses his forehead to the table again, completely missing the opening for some schadenfreude because he despises the thought of Norman being able to see his face. He doesn't need to show his underbelly just to get metaphorically cut open again. Quentin's got that covered on his own at the moment.

The laugh that spills out is sharp and abrupt, disbelieving. "No wonder I liked him, then. And I know, I know it's pathetic, but-" Quentin sinks in on himself, still not looking up. It's easier to talk if he's not looking someone in the face, easier to lie, but it's like there's someone, something else pulling his strings at the moment.

"I believed him. I thought it was real. What a laugh. Me, getting something real." He scoffs, the last word dripping with derision. "It's what I deserve though, isn't it?"

"Please don't put yourself down like that," Norman says gently. It's like looking in a mirror, he thinks: Quentin is being just as cruel to himself as Norman was whenever he'd hear the Goblin's voice - or his father's - berating him. Calling him weak, a failure. Useless.

"Just because things turned out so badly that you got angry, went too far ... like I did, when I created him ... It doesn't mean either of us deserve to not have real connections with people. I'm not asking you to look for that sort of thing with me - that's up to you. And it wouldn't be right of me after what happened. But ... I do think you can find someone who'll be that person for you. Someone who'll listen, and support you. Someone you can trust."

There's another laugh, because ha. All of this is easier said than done, Norman. This is the mindset Quentin's had for years by now. It fits him like a well-worn sweater.

"Connections break. In one day, they can be gone. What's the point when it's going to happen again? Nothing's permanent, and it's-" Quentin lets out a shuddering breath and vaguely shifts so he can look at Norman again, chin resting on an arm.

He's less pale with the truths he's coughing up, but still looks some degree of wrung-out. He certainly sounds it.

"I don't want to do that. Not again. There's only so many times shit can break before you just- write it off entirely. And things keep breaking." People keep leaving, goes unspoken. Everything keeps getting ripped out of his hands no matter how hard Quentin tries to hold on, so why should he keep reaching? All it's ever gotten him is handfuls of ash.

He knows change doesn't happen overnight - he's all too aware that he's skirting the edges of hypocrisy and has to be careful how he words his encouragement. He thought he was turning over new leaves, himself, after all, before all of this happened.

At first he thinks Quentin is just referring to bad luck, and the monthly chaos that comes and goes between banks of fog. But then he remembers what Peter had told him about his world, about the way half of humanity had simply ... ceased to exist. It wasn't any poor choice or circumstance that had caused Quentin to lose so many people he cared about, Norman realized: they were taken from him by a mad creature with more power than anyone or anything should have even been allowed. It brought him up short: how was he supposed to even respond to that, to one more thing he had no experience with and no business offering his thoughts on?

He folds his hands on the table, looks down at them so that he isn't staring at Quentin while he thinks. Beside him, one of the ice cubes in his glass settles with a soft clink, like a punctuation mark as his mind shifts gears and comes up with something.

"You're an engineer, right? ... If things keep breaking ... what project are you going to move on to from there?"

In other words: what was he going to do now, if not try to connect?

The first time he lost somebody was bad luck. The second... wasn't. It was just fate looking and laughing wildly as everything crumbled apart.

Quentin doesn't expect much of an answer from Norman as he watches the other man blankly. Even if the kid's told the guy plenty, he'd be surprised in the Snap ever got brought up. It's a footnote for Peter. For Quentin, it was five long years of his life.

"Survive-? Not get put through the grinder anymore? I don't know what you want me to say here." Quentin shrugs, eyes shifting towards Norman's glass. "My knowledge is useless here. I'm useless. I can't do half of what I want without reinventing the wheel. My work's gone, Mysterio's finished. What's left after that?"

"I may not understand completely, but I sure do know what you mean about reinventing the wheel. It's tough. I've had so many people tell me to pick up a hobby, and sometimes it makes me so frustrated." His nose crinkles, but there's no threat of escalating anger, just his own disgruntled feelings. "People like you and I with skill sets rooted so deep in progress that isn't here yet- we had one and now - poof."

He sighs. "I'm gonna try to make do with what I've got. ... You made holographic stuff, though, that's ... well." He makes another face, one that says he knows Quentin doesn't need HIM to tell him how hard that would be.

"Never know, though. Might run into a type of alloy or crystal that'd do the trick for a good laser array."

"And what if I...don't, anymore? Maybe I should shut the door and call it done." Quentin replies, barely moving his shoulders in a small shrug. It weirdly feels safer to stay small, unnoticed. "I got fired over it. I apparently died for it, if what the kid said is true."

He laughs mirthlessly, drawing himself up to scrub a hand down his face. He doesn't touch the drink again. "Quit while I'm ahead, right? Seems like a sign by now."

Norman sighs slowly, but it's not frustration, just the sound of someone thinking over a complex puzzle. He lets his gaze wander around the simulation, considerate in not wanting to stare at Quentin.

He died for his own project, too, according to Octavius and Marko - or would have? could still? It was hard to say. But he knows that losing the Goblin along with May and his own Peter's belief in him, that he could be better, were what was largely driving him to start on a new track here on the peninsula. Beck needed something like that, but the moment of penance, of realization that he'd done wrong, hadn't happened yet. He was still hurt, still angry. Pushing him in a different direction now could make it worse - something he'd learned from so many arguments with Caroline and Harry both. Maybe laying the rest on the table was a good idea, he decided.

"I know ... he told you that Octavius dies. But so do I. You're not alone in having to wrap your mind around that, around another chance. What you do with that is up to you, and I'm not going to try to tell you otherwise. Just ... think on it for a little while. Something will come to you. And when it does, if you do need my help, you have it: not as a hand-out. As an offer, an act of good faith and support."

Because his biggest failing as the Goblin lay in thinking he was the only smart one in the room, the only capable one. He didn't trust enough to let anyone support him, to be concerned enough to pull him off the path of self-destruction. He considers adding that, but keeps it to himself for the moment.

Edited 2022-08-10 19:07 (UTC)

Quentin grimaces, leaning back in his chair. He feels more exhausted than anything else. Unsure of how to even phrase the shit coiling in his chest at the moment. His tongue is still loose enough the inclination to cough something up is- there.

It's unsettling. If he tries to ignore it he'll be back where he started, though.

"...It's not the death that gets me." Quentin begins slowly, trying to unwind things in a way that could make sense to Osborn. Cuts to the point as cleanly as he can without spilling too much. "I lived with that what-if for five years. I also lived with... Mysterio for that long, but that's not like- him. All I had was my work and that role, for that period. Neither apply anymore."

It's on the tip of his tongue to say something like I just want to go home, but that's too much. Nothing Norman needs to hear, as he glances at the other man. He doesn't need pity. "They were everything I had. Now I can't have either, even if I'm stuck in this goddamn costume the rest of my life. What if nothing ever comes, and I'm just- this?"

Just the bug that'll get squashed, again and again, because everything he's ever hid behind is gone. Just... a washed up has-been, and that's being generous.

For the briefest moment, when Quentin says 'that's not like- him', he wonders if Mysterio was something like the Goblin, but that's ridiculous. He immediately realizes he's trying to put too much of himself into the read and tries to listen more objectively. Five years - that was how long that Snap thing had lasted. So Quentin had done a lot of 'what if it had been me' thinking, by the sound of things. Norman knows the feeling of being trapped with one's own darker thoughts - he'd chased enough of them down with bourbon back home, hadn't he? About Caroline, about his parents, Harry, school, all of it. What If It Happened Differently.

But what if nothing ever comes... wasn't that the question hanging over all of them, their own Swords of Damocles in one way or another? But Quentin was asking it as though he didn't still have several good decades ahead of him, as Norman himself did. As though all that was left to do was sit around.

"You created Mysterio when you didn't think you had anything, too, didn't you? You never know. There could be something else between your ears waiting to shake loose."

Ryslig: IC Inbox

6/10, 7 PM, The Cube

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cw: brief internalized ableism

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cw: very mild innuendo

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cw: mild self-destructive thoughts, (I guess???) misogyny, slut shaming language

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cw: mild nausea, assumed drink tampering I guess? (bad faerie reaction to lying)

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cw: mild nausea, metaphor involving teeth removal, reference to the moider

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cw: vague references to The Snap, not great mental health on display

snap discussion cont'd

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cw: vague disregard for his own health-? iffy mental health on display

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WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, DISILLUSIONED. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 072.19.136.64 * DISILLUSIONED has joined 072.19.136.64 <DISILLUSIONED> It's Beck. Yadda yadda, leave a message at the beep, I assume you know the drill. <DISILLUSIONED> Currently afk, will respond as promptly as possible or within three business days, etc etc. <DISILLUSIONED>** For emergencies, oh you are so in the wrong place.