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Circles of Pain.

Not so internal dialogue.

Norman Osborn

Oh?

Not so internal dialogue.

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Triptych
"She's our responsibility, Norman."

"Yes, of course she is."

"Therefore, so is he."
  • "I think you'll want it to be." A touch of frost in her voice, in the green of her touch inside his head. Don't think she can't, won't just rip you out, if you make things too difficult for them. Or for her.
    • Oh, it likes her. They have so much in common, products of their makers' egos. Indulgances.

      Would you really, darling? When I'm what you love most about us?
      • If you make me, darling. She did it to her maker, to save her own skin. If she needed to tear Ulti apart, put him back together again exactly how she wanted him, to save either of them... well. There wouldn't be very much hesitation, let's just say.

        She ignores, doesn't acknowledge that 'what you love most' comment. No matter how much she suspects it might be true.
        • I wouldn't dream of it. Not yet, anyway. Give it time, let it explore what Ulti's become...
          • You had best pray you don't. The green is closed-off now, cold with unsaid threats, and she's tense in his arms, eyes fixed on nothing at all.
            • He kisses her temple, and then disappears with a twist of green that invites her to follow if she'd like, but promises nothing. Just as closed off as she.
              • She snarls, cursing under her breath. But --

                She isn't so good at transport-by-thread as he is. So it takes a few minutes, and her PINpoint. But she does follow him, this stranger in hier fiancee's body. God damn him.
                • Busy! A bright, daylit crowd on a broad street, one lined with grassy medians, black iron fences, and the occassional small white building flanked with guards. Tourists swarm everywhere, in this sunny afternoon, many trying to take pictures through the fence of the very familiar building beyond.

                  1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
                  • Oh, Hell -- Her hands clench into fists as she fights down the panic, casting her mind about for the taste of Norman's mind as she weaves briskly through the crowds. Find him, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, oh God please don't let him have done anything stupid...
                    • Have some faith, darling. The thought comes out of nowhere, and then he's right there, through a gap in a crowd of school children, just leaning against a light post.
                      • Her lips pull back in a snarl, teeth bared at him for just a heartbeat -- and then gone, everything hidden under a calm veneer as she joins him. I don't know you well enough to have any kind of 'faith' in you, just yet. What are we doing here?
                        • He welcomes her with a mile smile, offering memories through that wall. This vista, a landscape of burning tanks, corpses, and rain. Harry. And herself, quiet sly green in the dark bedroom and Ulti's teeth on her skin. But you've known me all along.
                          • She closes her eyes, trying not to show how much she likes that, the dark-bloody taste of those memories. How much she likes it, and how much she knows he's right.

                            Her eyes are still shut when she replies, a green tendril twisting around him. You didn't answer my question. There are no claws yet, no thorns. But there could be, very easily.
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