Member
mickilennial
Mao Mao
Asura
LG
Master EffeX
Half Pint
Lemons
Sep
Eviledd1984
AlteredTundra
Osborn attended more funerals than he cared to count after the invasion. The first few for the likes of Thor and Captain America were tremendous occasions watched the world over as one would expect, but the hundreds- thousands, even- that came afterwards? They were sparse affairs, only covered by a local news station or two, and didn't have the attendance to fill a countryside church. The world didn't care what happened to the likes of Ant-Man, Daredevil, or Beast. They were just more names on the list of casualties. Soldiers in the war for humanity's survival to be honored on great, obsidian memorials, but nothing more. Norman went to as many as he could, knowing it was expected of him, but at a certain point the invitations were allowed to pile up, ignored.
There was one he'd actually wanted to attend. He was expecting it to be a small, local affair, given their minor renown. And it was true that most of the attendants were local. Nearly all fifteen thousand of them were citizens of New York City, come to mourn the loss of their most ardent and beloved protector. There was no burial service- the family wanted to keep his identity a secret, even in death- but Norman knew. He'd seen the boy on the morgue table with his own two eyes.
SHIELD, newly reorganized by resistance leadership, had coordinated the recovery of those replaced by Skrull infiltrators or captured during the invasion. Near all of them could be found either in internment camps in alien-occupied cities, or imprisoned aboard gargantuan penal barges in orbit over the planet. Osborn ordered rescue operations to begin the moment Veranke and the rest of the enemy's high command was dead, but it was already too late. The Skrulls did not take kindly to having their holy monarch executed, and chose to respond in kind.
When SHIELD agents boarded the barges they found nothing but piles of dead prisoners, their bodies still shackled in their cells, earth's mightiest heroes among them.
Osborn couldn't help but feel responsible for what happened to Peter Parker. To all of them. To say it haunted him was an understatement, but...
Never quite so literally.
Not oft a man to wear his emotions on his sleeve, even Osborn couldn't help but look astonished to see Peter Parker standing alive, though not quite well, just feet away from him. He was older and world weary, a tired look about his countenance and a full beard sprouting from his jaw. The two locked eyes for the briefest moment, a lifetime of conversation passing between them without a word, before they and the rest of the gladiators were ushered forward by Major Domo.
This was an entirely different affair than what Osborn had grown used to. Prior to this moment he hadn't even been sure there were other prisoners here, forced to compete in these bloodsports for the entertainment of teeming, alien masses. And the first time he could confirm he wasn't alone came when he'd be forced to slaughter the rest of them. He felt his heart twist and burn with disgust, even as his mind began to work through the best way to go about it.
'I will not abandon my world. This place will not conquer me, no matter what twisted death games it throws at me.'
It was easy to tell himself that. He knew he couldn't hesitate. But the rational mind was rarely in sole control of the body.
After an exhausting and tedious repeat of his usual speech and receiving the instructions for the event, Domo showed them to the preparation room where their armaments were all stored. Osborn approached his Iron Patriot armor stored his the corner and began to strip down, as he usually did, though this time he kept one eye on the rest of the competition: studying them with quiet intent.
The child could be left till near the end, he wasn't a threat to worry over. Whatever power allowed him to survive the gauntlet so far must not have been invulnerability, or he wouldn't look so nervous.
That crystal armor the young woman draped herself in was either alien or supernatural in origin, making her far more dangerous than appearances would have one believe. Osborn would keep his distance and pick her apart from afar.
The alien was a wildcard, and likely the biggest threat present. She'd need to be dealt with quickly if he wanted a chance at surviving this.
And...Parker...They'd done this dance a thousand times. He would be the last to fall.
His heart racing and his blood growing cold, Osborn stepped into his armor. Its cold shell fell in place around his arms and his legs first. The suit was supremely heavy when in its low power state, but Domo and his lackies had placed some damnable restraint disc on his chestplate to keep him from fighting his way out. It functioned much like the restraint collars they all wore, he imagined.
The breastplate came next, brought up to cover the twin pair of scars decorating Norman's chest- reminders of the day he'd nearly been crucified on a stake of humble tin. It locked into place with a swish of air and the whining of its arc reactor as it slowly came to life. The sound was off from what Osborn was used it, marking it as just one of many reminders that this was but a poor facsimile of his creation.
Wrapped in bright, Star-Spangled colors and bearing a XM214 Microgun on its shoulder, Iron Patriot was as gaudy and eye catching as any suit of iron could be. Just underneath its intimidating weapon was its tail code, SI 08 014, written vertically and in bold, easily identified print. Just beneath that was the Oscorp logo, equally visible for all to see. The scars of battle peppered its damaged yet unconquered frame.
He took his helmet and held it in his hands. Its thick armor made it weighty and difficult to handle, but it kept him safe. Osborn had learned to appreciate that the first time he'd been shot in it. With a heave he lifted it up and allowed it to fall over his head. A satisfying series of clicks followed, locking it in place and allowing his HUD to spring to life.
It was still jarring not hearing EMILY's voice when its systems booted up. He was reminded of the first few nights after work when there was no 'welcome home' waiting for him. Still, he shook it off, and began to go through a mental checklist of everything the Patriot had left. The power bar still wasn't showing up, as he'd come to expect. And none of the other systems that had magically vanished had decided to make a return yet. His ammunition was terminally low, as always, and one of his best tools was still damaged beyond use after a nasty encounter in that labyrinth. Norman preferred losing that to his head, but it still wasn't ideal.
Time was nearly up, now. They'd all lose consciousness and appear in some strange arena of a kind and be forced to brutalize one another to entertain the crowds. Some cynical, twisted part of him could see why they enjoyed it. Domo and his ilk had picked a group capable of putting on a hell of a show. The competitors were all dressed up in their own flashy costumes, each mentally preparing for the same thing he was.
He raised a brow at that observation- these weren't just any random assortment of unwilling gladiators. They had costumes. Powers. They were the so-called 'superhumans' that had been so popular before the Age of Heroes came to its violent end. Yet, the heroes and villains of his world were nearly all extinct, and the only one here he recognized was...a dead man...
The realization that hit him was sudden and powerful, like an explosion.
His ears rang with the painfully familiar dirge of a battlefield. A shockwave washed over his armor, and it would've knocked him over if he hadn't caught himself on the wall behind him. Osborn quickly recovered, shoving off from the wall and turning toward the source of the rupture. His optics took a moment to adjust after the blinding flash of light, though once they had they offered him a clear view of the world around him.
All of the prisoners' collars were on the ground, shattered into pieces. There was a hole blown in wall large enough for them to move through, and beyond it lay a scene of devastation. Multiple guards were on the ground, either dead or unconscious. The alien was the first of them to react to the sudden opportunity, shouting a word he was surprised to understand:
Run.
The animal part of Osborn's brain reacted to it before the rest could catch up, trying and failing to lift a foot that weighed a hundred pounds.
'God damn it, no! Not now!' He cursed to himself, only just remembering the hyper-advanced wheel clamp stuck to his chest. It hadn't been destroyed in the blast as the collars had, locking Osborn in place even as the other prisoners began their mad rush toward freedom. A painful lump formed in his throat, his heart began to pound in his breast and for the first time in what felt like decades, Norman Osborn felt afraid.
"Peter!" The name left Osborn's lips in a roar before he had time to second guess himself.
Some part of him was surprised Parker even bothered to look back. Norman could've sworn he saw that same surprise on Peter's face when he did it, too.
"I can't move." The words came out quick, bitter and ashamed. "The disc, its interfering with my systems, locking me out of basic functionality-"
Spider-Man hadn't taken another step forward, but he didn't move back, either. He was just staring. Those giant, white eyes of his mask narrowed, the material around his nose and mouth crinkled tight. Osborn hadn't needed to read Spider-Man's soul through his mask for years now, but it was so ingrained in his memory that he knew just what that look meant:
It was rage in its purest, rawest form.
Parker crossed the gap between them quickly. He was a good six inches shorter than Norman in the armor yet at that moment Norman could've sworn Peter was ten feet tall. He loomed over Osborn, that look on his mask shifting and churning. Parker was thinking, and Osborn could tell what about: from Peter's clenched, shaky fist and the fact he hadn't torn the restraint off, Spider-Man was deciding Osborn's fate.
His hand moved quicker than Osborn's eyes could follow. The discus-like device was torn from the armor like the top off a tin can and tossed to the side, crumpled and shattered. A surge of power flowed through the Iron Patriot and Osborn took a single, powerful step forward, placing himself just inches from Spider-Man's face.
Osborn nodded, and the two broke for the exit.
They stepped out into the wider room, revealing more information than before. The alien had just finished swiping a transformed hand through Major Domo's shimmering, ethereal form. He didn't seem in the least bit concerned about the breakout, his demeanor completely unchanged from every other encounter Osborn had had with him before. His confidence was respectable, and rather disquieting, but Norman couldn't allow it to shake his resolve. This was his chance to finally be free of this place. To finally return home. There was a brief thought of finding the one they called Mojo and getting revenge on him for putting them through this, but Osborn discarded it. He had to keep his priorities straight in a time as critical as this.
"Keep going!" He yelled, redundant as it was. Everyone was already sprinting for the door like their lives depended on it, that pale-skinned creature leading the charge. Osborn was just behind them, his boots thundering with their every footfall. His attention shifted toward a sound not unlike gunfire from the other end of the room, where a squadron of guards armed with some form of energy weapon were engaging a threat unseen.
There was no telling how long it'd take for them to notice the fleeing prisoners, or if any of the others could take even a single shot from weaponry like those. Osborn grunted, pushing passed the threshold of their escape. He spun on his heel, placing his armored body between the gaggle of guards and them. He just needed to keep watch long enough for everyone to enter the hallway, and then he could follow.
Norman Osborn kept his hands up, the repulsors embedded in his palms flaring to life in anticipation of use.
There was one he'd actually wanted to attend. He was expecting it to be a small, local affair, given their minor renown. And it was true that most of the attendants were local. Nearly all fifteen thousand of them were citizens of New York City, come to mourn the loss of their most ardent and beloved protector. There was no burial service- the family wanted to keep his identity a secret, even in death- but Norman knew. He'd seen the boy on the morgue table with his own two eyes.
SHIELD, newly reorganized by resistance leadership, had coordinated the recovery of those replaced by Skrull infiltrators or captured during the invasion. Near all of them could be found either in internment camps in alien-occupied cities, or imprisoned aboard gargantuan penal barges in orbit over the planet. Osborn ordered rescue operations to begin the moment Veranke and the rest of the enemy's high command was dead, but it was already too late. The Skrulls did not take kindly to having their holy monarch executed, and chose to respond in kind.
When SHIELD agents boarded the barges they found nothing but piles of dead prisoners, their bodies still shackled in their cells, earth's mightiest heroes among them.
Osborn couldn't help but feel responsible for what happened to Peter Parker. To all of them. To say it haunted him was an understatement, but...
Never quite so literally.
Not oft a man to wear his emotions on his sleeve, even Osborn couldn't help but look astonished to see Peter Parker standing alive, though not quite well, just feet away from him. He was older and world weary, a tired look about his countenance and a full beard sprouting from his jaw. The two locked eyes for the briefest moment, a lifetime of conversation passing between them without a word, before they and the rest of the gladiators were ushered forward by Major Domo.
This was an entirely different affair than what Osborn had grown used to. Prior to this moment he hadn't even been sure there were other prisoners here, forced to compete in these bloodsports for the entertainment of teeming, alien masses. And the first time he could confirm he wasn't alone came when he'd be forced to slaughter the rest of them. He felt his heart twist and burn with disgust, even as his mind began to work through the best way to go about it.
'I will not abandon my world. This place will not conquer me, no matter what twisted death games it throws at me.'
It was easy to tell himself that. He knew he couldn't hesitate. But the rational mind was rarely in sole control of the body.
After an exhausting and tedious repeat of his usual speech and receiving the instructions for the event, Domo showed them to the preparation room where their armaments were all stored. Osborn approached his Iron Patriot armor stored his the corner and began to strip down, as he usually did, though this time he kept one eye on the rest of the competition: studying them with quiet intent.
The child could be left till near the end, he wasn't a threat to worry over. Whatever power allowed him to survive the gauntlet so far must not have been invulnerability, or he wouldn't look so nervous.
That crystal armor the young woman draped herself in was either alien or supernatural in origin, making her far more dangerous than appearances would have one believe. Osborn would keep his distance and pick her apart from afar.
The alien was a wildcard, and likely the biggest threat present. She'd need to be dealt with quickly if he wanted a chance at surviving this.
And...Parker...They'd done this dance a thousand times. He would be the last to fall.
His heart racing and his blood growing cold, Osborn stepped into his armor. Its cold shell fell in place around his arms and his legs first. The suit was supremely heavy when in its low power state, but Domo and his lackies had placed some damnable restraint disc on his chestplate to keep him from fighting his way out. It functioned much like the restraint collars they all wore, he imagined.
The breastplate came next, brought up to cover the twin pair of scars decorating Norman's chest- reminders of the day he'd nearly been crucified on a stake of humble tin. It locked into place with a swish of air and the whining of its arc reactor as it slowly came to life. The sound was off from what Osborn was used it, marking it as just one of many reminders that this was but a poor facsimile of his creation.
Wrapped in bright, Star-Spangled colors and bearing a XM214 Microgun on its shoulder, Iron Patriot was as gaudy and eye catching as any suit of iron could be. Just underneath its intimidating weapon was its tail code, SI 08 014, written vertically and in bold, easily identified print. Just beneath that was the Oscorp logo, equally visible for all to see. The scars of battle peppered its damaged yet unconquered frame.
He took his helmet and held it in his hands. Its thick armor made it weighty and difficult to handle, but it kept him safe. Osborn had learned to appreciate that the first time he'd been shot in it. With a heave he lifted it up and allowed it to fall over his head. A satisfying series of clicks followed, locking it in place and allowing his HUD to spring to life.
It was still jarring not hearing EMILY's voice when its systems booted up. He was reminded of the first few nights after work when there was no 'welcome home' waiting for him. Still, he shook it off, and began to go through a mental checklist of everything the Patriot had left. The power bar still wasn't showing up, as he'd come to expect. And none of the other systems that had magically vanished had decided to make a return yet. His ammunition was terminally low, as always, and one of his best tools was still damaged beyond use after a nasty encounter in that labyrinth. Norman preferred losing that to his head, but it still wasn't ideal.
Time was nearly up, now. They'd all lose consciousness and appear in some strange arena of a kind and be forced to brutalize one another to entertain the crowds. Some cynical, twisted part of him could see why they enjoyed it. Domo and his ilk had picked a group capable of putting on a hell of a show. The competitors were all dressed up in their own flashy costumes, each mentally preparing for the same thing he was.
He raised a brow at that observation- these weren't just any random assortment of unwilling gladiators. They had costumes. Powers. They were the so-called 'superhumans' that had been so popular before the Age of Heroes came to its violent end. Yet, the heroes and villains of his world were nearly all extinct, and the only one here he recognized was...a dead man...
The realization that hit him was sudden and powerful, like an explosion.
His ears rang with the painfully familiar dirge of a battlefield. A shockwave washed over his armor, and it would've knocked him over if he hadn't caught himself on the wall behind him. Osborn quickly recovered, shoving off from the wall and turning toward the source of the rupture. His optics took a moment to adjust after the blinding flash of light, though once they had they offered him a clear view of the world around him.
All of the prisoners' collars were on the ground, shattered into pieces. There was a hole blown in wall large enough for them to move through, and beyond it lay a scene of devastation. Multiple guards were on the ground, either dead or unconscious. The alien was the first of them to react to the sudden opportunity, shouting a word he was surprised to understand:
Run.
The animal part of Osborn's brain reacted to it before the rest could catch up, trying and failing to lift a foot that weighed a hundred pounds.
'God damn it, no! Not now!' He cursed to himself, only just remembering the hyper-advanced wheel clamp stuck to his chest. It hadn't been destroyed in the blast as the collars had, locking Osborn in place even as the other prisoners began their mad rush toward freedom. A painful lump formed in his throat, his heart began to pound in his breast and for the first time in what felt like decades, Norman Osborn felt afraid.
"Peter!" The name left Osborn's lips in a roar before he had time to second guess himself.
Some part of him was surprised Parker even bothered to look back. Norman could've sworn he saw that same surprise on Peter's face when he did it, too.
"I can't move." The words came out quick, bitter and ashamed. "The disc, its interfering with my systems, locking me out of basic functionality-"
Spider-Man hadn't taken another step forward, but he didn't move back, either. He was just staring. Those giant, white eyes of his mask narrowed, the material around his nose and mouth crinkled tight. Osborn hadn't needed to read Spider-Man's soul through his mask for years now, but it was so ingrained in his memory that he knew just what that look meant:
It was rage in its purest, rawest form.
Parker crossed the gap between them quickly. He was a good six inches shorter than Norman in the armor yet at that moment Norman could've sworn Peter was ten feet tall. He loomed over Osborn, that look on his mask shifting and churning. Parker was thinking, and Osborn could tell what about: from Peter's clenched, shaky fist and the fact he hadn't torn the restraint off, Spider-Man was deciding Osborn's fate.
His hand moved quicker than Osborn's eyes could follow. The discus-like device was torn from the armor like the top off a tin can and tossed to the side, crumpled and shattered. A surge of power flowed through the Iron Patriot and Osborn took a single, powerful step forward, placing himself just inches from Spider-Man's face.
Osborn nodded, and the two broke for the exit.
They stepped out into the wider room, revealing more information than before. The alien had just finished swiping a transformed hand through Major Domo's shimmering, ethereal form. He didn't seem in the least bit concerned about the breakout, his demeanor completely unchanged from every other encounter Osborn had had with him before. His confidence was respectable, and rather disquieting, but Norman couldn't allow it to shake his resolve. This was his chance to finally be free of this place. To finally return home. There was a brief thought of finding the one they called Mojo and getting revenge on him for putting them through this, but Osborn discarded it. He had to keep his priorities straight in a time as critical as this.
"Keep going!" He yelled, redundant as it was. Everyone was already sprinting for the door like their lives depended on it, that pale-skinned creature leading the charge. Osborn was just behind them, his boots thundering with their every footfall. His attention shifted toward a sound not unlike gunfire from the other end of the room, where a squadron of guards armed with some form of energy weapon were engaging a threat unseen.
There was no telling how long it'd take for them to notice the fleeing prisoners, or if any of the others could take even a single shot from weaponry like those. Osborn grunted, pushing passed the threshold of their escape. He spun on his heel, placing his armored body between the gaggle of guards and them. He just needed to keep watch long enough for everyone to enter the hallway, and then he could follow.
Norman Osborn kept his hands up, the repulsors embedded in his palms flaring to life in anticipation of use.
