2012-11-16 Drawing the Battle Lines (2/2)

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"Yo, Shiftkit. If you're done sending us vulgar texts, mind making yourself halfway presentable? Veev wants to pow-wow."

Surprisingly, Kwabena doesn't sound drunk at all when the line is received. "What? Vulgar texts?" There is a pause. "Never mind that. Come to Brooklyn. I have something to show you." An address is presented... an all too familiar address.

Michael Slean's old warehouse.

Once the dueling duo have arrived, the heavy steel garage door protecting the loading dock begins to open. Standing inside is Kwabena, silhouetted in dimly lit darkness. Once a light shines on him, he is revealed to be wearing a pair of leather riding pants, a rather plain black sweater, and a calf-length trench coat. The cold air blows into the warehouse, causing his breath to mist up in tufts of pale white when he exhales. He steps aside so that they might drive into the warehouse, then grabs the control box as it dangles from the ceiling above him, and triggers the door to close again.

Lifting the nearly finished cigarette in his other hand, he takes a pull, then walks over toward the car. "I see you found it." He takes a step back and motions about. "Welcome to our new, albeit temporary, meeting place. Headquarters. What ever the hell you want to call it."

"I don't care if he's drunk, dying, or sleeping with your twin sister. He's part of the team."

Prophetic words spoken with a cool flash of violet eyes as Psylocke moves from the small, well-fortified apartment occupied by Blink and her screaming burden. After standing aside for Domino, she'll let the patch-eyed mercenary take the lead she's sure to desire-- after all, the monochromatic one isn't precisely the type to catch a taxi. There'll be no debate how they travel. This might be something approaching the fabled thing known as 'teamwork'. Maybe.

Who was it that said setting up shop in Slee's old joint would be a -bad- idea? Yeah, that would be Domino. And the guy that completely ignored her warning? That's Kwabena.

However, there is one nice thing about having a nice, empty warehouse all to themselves. Right now this translates to 'lots of floor space' and 'few obstacles.' And Dom's in command of an all-wheel drive spots sedan. With all of the crazy stuff that's been going on lately? It's time to cut loose.

Without warning the warehouse is filled with the rumbling of an engine and the shrieking of tires over polished concrete as the Audi goes for it, sweeping around where Kwabena stands to do a half circle slide and end up on the opposite side of where he's standing, drifting to a halt amidst a chorus of strained chirping from the wheels.

Out steps the albino, doing so with a loud catcall. "If I knew you were providing entertainment I woulda got us here sooner!" The temptation proves too great as she wanders closer to Kwabena and smacks him a good one on the rump.

Well, -someone- is in a good mood all of a sudden.

"That almost makes up for the rookie move you made by taking over this warehouse."

The African just watches with a smirk. The daredevil move leaves smoking tire tracks on the clean cement, which Kwabena cannot help but approve of. As she steps out, he laughs out loud and remarks, "You should learn to never dou-"

-SMACK-

"... to never doubt me."

Mirth fills the Ghanaian's eyes as Domino speaks about rookie mistakes. He takes a daring step closer, pearly whites peeking beneath splitting lips. "Taking over? My friend." He gestures about in mock grandeur. "This warehouse is now owned by 'D&P Import Export Incorporated'!" He lowers his hand and squelches his grin while cocking an eyebrow, before speaking with a tone of voice riddled with suggestive irony. "It's a legitimate organization, with bank accounts, papers, even payroll." A most serious expression filters into his eyes. "We even pay our taxes, and provide a healthy donation to a non-profit organization that -also- doesn't exist." He shakes his head back and forth, then begins to grin again.

"And you thought I was a rookie."

Intelligence agencies have made occasional practice of claiming an apprehended foe's safehouses; provided they remain safe and you know said target is entirely eliminated, it can prove advantageous. Particularly in locations with few viable boltholes. Sometimes, there are further tactical reasons, however-- where better to draw out the few stragglers than to occupy their headquarters and lie in wait? In this case, though... Psylocke would agree with Domino.

Less so where it comes to her driving, though Betsy is as far from a girly-girl as one who heads to a bar kitted in stiletto heels and a scandalous dress could ever be. There's a sideshift of violet eyes as the vehicle begins to swerve, the kunoichi calmly lifting her left arm and crooking the elbow against the door beside her. It soaks the momentary sway that follows the sharp turn, and she barely otherwise reacts, letting her body fall buoyantly back into place once they come to an equally sudden, jarring halt. Just to make the point, though?

She does let out an understated 'ahem' before stepping out of the car.

Horseplay is allowed to continue - Betsy just registering a little snort of amusement as she takes her time stepping around the vehicle to take position on the other side. Still weary from her exhausting day, she leans upon the warm bonnet, placing a cool palm against it with a sigh. Kwabena's speech is listened to with a passive smile upon her lips, and it's not until she glances to Domino that the telepath begins to play her own hand. Poker face intact.

"Doesn't exist, *yet*. Maybe you should give your friends more credit, hmm?"

Domino stops, and watches, and listens. Oh, the listening that she does. And the -grinning.- It just slowly grows the more that Kwabena speaks, and before she knows it? She approves.

"I owe you a drink," she states while pointing at Kwa, the base of her hand very nearly resting on his sternum as she does. It's far from impersonal. In fact, it's downright chummy. That finger waggles a bit more before she chuckles and turns back to her car, flicking the door closed. "Either you're a fast learner or you've played this song before. Nice going, kid." Color the colorless one impressed.

"Now all we have to worry about are all of the remaining druglords that are familiar with this place, if they find out who's really behind it all?" Pause. Knuckle-crack. "It won't be a problem for long."

That amused look is retained as Dom looks about the space proper, nodding her head once up at the catwalks. "Those are going to need safety inspection. Shoddy installation there, last I checked." Considering she dropped a chunk of it on top of one of Slee's goons with a well placed bullet or two.

Oh, the promise of a drink is always one to put Kwabena in a perfectly agreeable mood. The answer to her concern about the other drug lords comes in yet another admission of Kwabena's hustling. "Most of the other drug lords -do- know about it. You don't think -I- opened those bank accounts, with one of -my- false identities." He shakes his head. "No paper trail. Not to you, not to me, not to Betsy."

Speaking of Betsy. He looks over as she makes her appearance, and his greeting to her is far less chummy, shall we say, that it was for Domino. After all, his friendship with both women is starkly different. "I've no need to give more credit where credit is already deserved," he answers in a far more sober manner. There's a curiosity in his eye when she speaks so mysteriously about aforementioned non-profit, but he presses not.

Folding his hands behind his back and safely concealed by the trench coat, he begins pacing about, eyes inspecting the dimly lit warehouse much like a prospector would appraise his prey. "Don't worry. What few trails do lead anywhere all lead back to me, and my accomplices are much too afraid to betray me. Especially after what happened to this establishment's previous owner." He turns back to face both momentarily and explains, "I believe the space will be useful in many ways. However, that's not why we're here. I believe you said that, ah, Betsy wants to have a 'pow-wow'?"

"Financing renovations won't be a problem," comes the British woman's sly response to Domino's highly-informed inspection. A darting sidelong gaze returns smoothly to Kwabena, an inclination of her head forming her own greeting. "You've done well, my friend, but we can do better." That's said quietly, with an introverted self-assurance. "I suppose I should start..."

Any still wondering why Psylocke is dressed like a beleagured business-class executive and toting a leather briefcase - currently tucked underneath her left arm - are given answers as she takes her weight from Domino's modded sports car and swings the case out onto the bonnet in its place. The combination is already in place, so she simply flicks the catches and opens it to reveal the carefully stacked and sorted papers within. Dancing her fingers through the compartments, she finds what she needs, and slides out a few crisp, stapled sheets.

When she resumes speaking, it's with the practiced flow of an expert sales rep.

"By noting that the Pathways Foundation is generous with its own donations; and Brooklyn does not want for people in need. All the CEO of D&P Import Export Incorporated need do is place his signature here," she gestures at the page now held comfortably before her, "And here, and his generous donation will be both appreciated and..." Suddenly she flashes a tiny, tight grin, "Reciprocated. The Pathways Foundation looks after its own, Mr. Odame."

All of which does relatively little to explain anything, bar her attire and tired manner. That briefcase bears a lot more than just the produced papers, that much is certain. After allowing Kwabena to take the proferred contract, she turns back to those neat compartments. Her tone shifts, growing more familiar but not losing its businesslike edge. As though that's unfamiliar.

"There are... two more things. Where shall I start, Europe or Japan?"

Of course, bureaucratic stuff is a good way to put Domino right the hell to sleep. From the side there's a soft but audible "Here we go..." as she remote-pops the trunk and steadily makes her way toward it. It isn't a weapon she goes for this time, it's a bottle of vodka. Imported. Decent stuff. She twists the cap off and flicks it back into the trunk then comes around to lean against the Audi's side by the back tire. Exaggerated slouching with bottle in in hand is go.

"This is the part that starts to mean Jack-all to me, but clearly you guys have an amazing plan that's gathering momentum. So, here's to a vote of confidence," she announces with the bottle raised in hand before she puts the open end to her charcoal black lips. "May it be awesome and get us lots of money and shiny new toys, amen."

Darnit, and here she was hoping that Betsy's meeting was going to involve less paperwork and more about excitement. But, hey! At least the focus isn't on her again!

"But we will do better," notes Kwabena. "That's the beauty of it." He joins Psylocke now, watching with a coy expression as she takes open the briefcase and prepares two documents. "I, ah, believe you mean, 'Mister Johnson', in this case." He retrieves a pen, black ink, from within the woman's briefcase and begins to sign in both places, without taking a moment to read what's actually on the document.

He is, however, quite careful with the -way- he signs it.

Just before finishing the second signature, he peers over at Domino with a rueful smirk. "Forgery," he mock whispers. "Don't you -love- breaking the law?"

Clicking the pen closed and popping it back into Psylocke's briefcase, he folds his arms across his chest this time, then leans back against a nearby support pillar. He takes one final drag of his cigarette, then flicks it off into the warehouse proper. "Japan."

There's nothing interesting on the document, really - the usual jargon crammed together by a lawyer whose mercenary tendencies would give Domino a considerable run for her money. Perhaps the only notable thing is the 'Pathways' logo, preceded by the distinctive name 'Elizabeth Braddock'. She's yet to actually share her surname, and if Domino were paying due attention she might have due cause to realize just how stonkingly wealthy Psylocke is capable of being. This may or may not come up in a later issue, dear reader.

"Ah, Mr. Johnson. A wise choice."

Teasing Kwabena with a furtive sideglance, the Violet Butterfly reaches deftly for two things in her case; drawing out in short order another sheaf of papers bound by a simple bulldog clip, and a small glass vial labelled by some forensics lab or other. Containing blood. Drawing herself up, she lays one atop the other and clears her throat, placing a hand on top of the vial to keep it in place while she speaks her piece. No longer playful, but deadly serious.

"This sample was taken from our young friend from the storage container. She's showed no external signs of tampering-- no tubes or wires as the other... subjects exhibited, but I've asked for a series of tests to be carried out. And after a few days, we have ourselves a lead." There's a sigh as she states that, turning her hand over to lift the vial and display it to both Kwabena *and* Domino; whether the monochromatic merc is paying full attention or no. "This blood belongs to a girl named Rei Nanasawa, who began to exhibit odd tendencies approximately six months ago. A doctor outside of Tokyo took the most recent sample to this one, along with notes declaring her to be 'suffering' from a manifestation of the mutagene we all share."

Setting the vial back in the briefcase, she hefts the papers alone. Scrawled signatures and various ticked boxes of numbers lie on the top page; clearly, to a trained or even reasonably savvy eye, a medical record of some kind.

"This report was filed with a local hospital, and Miss Nanasawa has since been reported missing by her apparently loving parents. There's no further record of her that I've been able to find. However," clearing her throat, Psylocke flips a couple of pages, revealing newspaper cuttings sandwiched in amongst the first, and another medical report. "She's not the only one. In total, four missing people in the same area, all with similar blood samples taken in the past year. I've got addresses of families, and the details for the doctors involved. If we're going to stop this atrocity... we're going to have to pick up the trail in Japan."

With Kwa's comment about breaking the law, Domino simply holds the bottle up one more time. And has herself another drink from it. That's speaking her language, alright.

Of course, she does have her suspicions. 'Financing renovations won't be a problem.' 'Generous donation will be both appreciated and reciprocated.' 'Looks out for its own.' Yes, she doesn't follow the paperwork stuff and tends to want to set it on fire rather than actually read through it, but she's also observant, and far from ignorant. From where she's standing, appearing oblivious as all hell with booze in her grasp, it sounds like Betsy's legitimate business is making an agreement with Kwabena's fictional one, with the signature of one of the remaining drug lords. Or something thereof.

Either way, she has enough trust in these two to make things go in the proper direction. And, should it all blow up at any point, it's not her on the records.

She never gave anyone a name. Not even a fake one.

Suddenly, business changes. And there Domino stands, not even looking in the direction her hand with the bottle happens to be going. At this moment, it's going directly to Kwabena. "That's a bit of a hike. I'll scare up some contacts, see about securing us some gear on the other side."

Pause.

"When did we all become a 'thing,' anyway?"

Yes, folks, in addition to forgery, we can now add 'money laundering' to our list. 'Fraud' was a given.

Nonchalantly, Kwabena reaches out and accepts the bottle of vodka. He takes a long pull from its contents while Psylocke begins to speak, and throughout the development of his story, an expression of concern comes about him. "Suffering," he murmurs, with no lack of loathing in the way he speaks. He cants his eyes toward Domino and remarks, "I wouldn't call it 'suffering' when you cannot be phased by bullets."

Little does he realize that not every mutation is a pleasant, or beneficial one. The young woman he'd shared dinner with, for example, would most likely give anything to be free of her affliction. C'est la vie.

Another pull is taken from the bottle of vodka, before he passes it back to Domino. It's her bottle; it'll be her call whether she wants to share any with Psylocke.

"We all became a 'thing' when we started to 'trust' each other." There's such irony in the word 'trust', especially with the way the African speaks it. He wasn't quite the one to easily trust anyone, frankly... but it would seem that going through hell and back with people is a quick and easy way to begin trusting them.

Back to Psylocke go Kwabena's eyes, and he stands up a bit straighter. "Sounds like I had better freshen up on my Japanese," he murmurs.

There are a number of ways that Psylocke could respond to Domino.

When you agreed to work for free? When you immediately followed up on a call from a girl who couldn't afford to pay you if she wanted to? She could name a dozen other points in time, where the sassy merc gradually ceased to be just another hired gun and earned her trust. They're not yet at the point of sharing tearful hugs and confiding in one another; will they EVER be? But they're several steps in the right, tightrope-thin direction. Steps enough. Which doesn't entirely explain why the telepath glances away with a crooked smile, suppressing a laugh.

"We're not a 'thing', until we show others exactly what we can do. This was a start," her voice descends to a darkly amused murmur, as she waves a hand around the warehouse, then turns back to the case beside her. One stack of papers is thrust away, and she barely ceases motion before settling upon the next article. "But you'll be needing a smattering of German before you start learning Japanese. We've got problems to solve abroad, that's true, but--"

Suddenly she yanks free a piece of parchment, rather than modern paper, all crumpled and veiny-lined where the ink has thickened. Shaking it out in a gesture that any other would make look flamboyant - and the kunoichi simply makes look *easy* - she splays the resultant broad square of paper out onto the warm hood of Domino's sports car. It's a map. A rather archaic map.

"We have a problem at home, too. Kwabena, Domino; meet Laveria, home of the illustrious Doctor Victor Von Doom. Deflector of railgun blasts and disparager of grenades." There's a taut smile at that, before she slaps a single finger down near the centre of the map. "Doomstadt. His rather... egocentrically-titled personal playhouse, and dictatorial seat of Latveria. While our monologuing mastermind is sitting pretty in his flying castle above Gotham, I'm proposing to hit him right," she taps on the pictured crenellation of a mediaeval palace drawn atop the sprawl of the city. "In the crown jewels. He told us not to *follow* him, so we won't."

She pauses, drawing and releasing a breath as she looks between her two partners.

"Or I won't. If you're with me on this, if you'll take this risk, then we just might be a 'thing'."

That look is passed right back to Kwa when it's received. True, not all mutants are given beneficial manifestations, but Dom always gets a bit testy when someone chooses to say that someone -else- is suffering, as though it's their place to make such a determination.

When the bottle is returned she glances down at it then looks back to Psylocke, head lightly canted to one side. Hell, Violent Violet over there -did- give her a run for the money at the bar a few nights ago. She's next in line to be offered the bottle. Why the heck not.

"I'll have to brush up on my Japanese ordnance knowledge," she states with an amused smirk. Right, like it's so vastly different from any other firearm on the planet.

"Got us covered on the German," Dom almost automatically replies. Seems like she's got at least one other language within her particular skillset. Some of that confidence is clearly lost when the map is revealed and laid out, curiosity getting the better of her as she edges in closer for a better look. "..Crap on a kringle, you just went there."

One has to question her sanity, going into the den of the most vicious beast she's yet encountered. One that proved invulnerable to her greatest attack. One with vastly superior technology at his fingertips, surveillance which has been matched by none, and an entire -flying city- under his command. What good could she -possibly- be in an operation like that?

Hang on, let Dom work out the odds.

This wouldn't be the first time someone hired her onto a job just to put luck within one team's favor. Betsy doesn't know the extent of that luck, either. She's asking Domino to join in because of something else. Faith? Confidence in abilities? Because no one else would be crazy or stupid enough to say okay?

"Yeah... Sure."

With echoing bootsteps, Kwabena walks over to join the others at the hood of Domino's Audi. When he begins to realize what exactly Psylocke is suggesting, his lips part in a muted gasp of surprise, and he looks over at Domino surreptitiously. Hadn't they just discussed hitting Doom where it counts, on their drive back to New York? Hadn't they just discussed this very thing? Perhaps not with so much detail, but it surely was suggested.

"You're -sure- you're not a seer?" he inquires, eyes still drilled upon Domino for a moment.

Slowly he looks back toward the archaic map. Mismatched eyes begin to dance about erratically as he takes in its features, quickly memorizing every bit of detail he can muster from the aging ink and wrinkled parchment.

When the question is laid out before them, Kwabena takes a single step back and shakes his head from side to side. "Christ," he half hisses, half whispers. "I have no training, very little experience with this shit, -and- every time I shift bomb into a stormcloud, I lose half my clothes." He folds his arms once more, eyes nailed upon that parchment with doubt.

Either way, as if drawn to the magnet of a promise of purpose, his voice answers.

"Yeah... I'll go."

"I did."

Psylocke smoothly confirms the voiced assertion that she 'went there' as she reaches out to take the offered bottle in one hand. Slender, dextrous digits close about the stem and pull it up toward her lips, pausing a few inches away to watch Domino and Kwabena over the promising slosh and glug of disturbed liquid. Those violet eyes are all but on fire, regarding both career mercenary and ascended thug with the same alike, measuring gaze. A few weeks prior she'd never have considered voicing her leadership so strongly-- content to either work alone, or take point as a support member of her existing team. She's asking everything of these two, asking them to apparate behind perhaps the most dangerous enemy line even she's confronted.

At least with such numbers. Against such stated odds. In this action, they risk a city. But she'd purport to believe that the greater risk lies in doing *nothing*. All she needs trust in both of her fellow mutants... is that they feel the same way. That it's better to lay one's all upon the line and roll that dice, than wait for the worst to happen, blame unshouldered.

When both speak their assent, pledging all with the most casual of syllables...

Only then does Betsy tip back the bottle and take a deep, long swig of bitter alcohol. It sears the back of her throat, allowed to work that brutal magic before she pulls it away with a gasp, wiping her free hand back across her mouth and passing the bottle around the circle, to the Ghanaian. It's their own, decadent peace-pipe of sorts. A sealing of an agreement.

"Thank you. Both of you." Her gaze flicks to Domino, lips curling into a fierce grin. "And *that's* when we became a 'thing'. This operation needs to be fast, and tight; I trust you both, or I wouldn't have asked you to come with me." She's back to business quickly, turning back to the map as she reaches for something inside her pocket. A small, palm-sized device retrieved from the First National Bank. "I don't know Von Doom's motivations, I don't know what he *wants*, but there'll be some clue here. If nothing else, we serve a distraction by infiltrating his palace. We get in, we look for something - anything - and then we leave. Explosively."

Glancing up, she fingers the device, then tosses it to Domino. Since she's the one without a bottle.

"Simple enough, if we all survive. But take a look at that. I found it back where we first, ah... worked together. It was blocking all communications from the bank, wiping CCTV recordings and any other monitoring devices inside. It blocked just about everything; apart from one specific frequency. It's taken some digging, and a bit of money in the right direction, but hidden deep in that little gizmo's programming... is a signal. Released to the police at a certain time during the operation, much like the bank's own alarm. To alert them."

She lets that sink in for a moment, then pushes herself up away from the map with both hands.

"Doom's playing a dangerous game. He *wants* people to know what he's doing. I'm proposing we put on a show that ensures the whole world is watching, both in Gotham and in Doomstadt. So we record what we do. We get it broadcast. If he wants to retaliate, he's got absolutely nowhere to hide. One way or the other, the world knows about Victor Von Doom."

Domino's acknowledgement of Betsy's appreciation gets kept at arm's length for the time being. "Thank me when we come back in one piece." Pause. "I suppose it's nice to know when it became official." This time the comment is followed with a sly looking smirk. When that small item is tossed over she swipes it out of the air and takes a closer look, though a techie expert she really isn't. "You really want to risk kicking him in the balls by blowing up part of his palace? That's low."

The device gets flipped over so she can look at the other side. "I like it." The guy's more than asking for it, too.

"Makes sense. For us to go, I mean. Any 'official' group is going to get caught up in paperwork and legalities before they get one hand on the doorknob of their headquarters. Getting caught would blow everything clear out of the water, it would be a PR nightmare. For us--most of us--we're unaffiliated. We could hide behind a thousand and one different excuses and not start a war in the process."

Blue eyes seek out violet ones. "You're probably going to want to reinvent yourself. From what I've gathered, you've got a lot of friends that like to work at or with the law's level."

Back to the device in question, Dom mutters a "Sonuvabitch, I knew it," under her breath. The whole thing -had- been a staged performance. Mark one more for instinct. She holds the device out to Kwabena next, ready to swap out high tech for imported liquor.

"The game we're about to play is a helluva lot more dangerous, Veev."

It is with quite the sober gesture that Kwabena accepts the drink that would undoubtedly make him less sober, but it would also make his acceptance of this herculean task easier to digest. He wastes no time in taking a healthy pull of the liquid, letting out a little noise of protest as it goes down harshly.

The Ghanaian pays close attention to everything Psylocke says, doing his due diligence to file the information away in sorted order within his clever mind. "He -is- playing a dangerous game, but I think it is more like a play. A stage show." He glances momentarily toward Domino. "A grab for power, at the very least, with as much gusto as he can muster." Back to Psylocke he looks. "Unfortunately, his manner of 'gusto' involves blood. Lots of innocent blood. We can't stand for that."

He passes the bottle to Domino and accepts the device, turning it over and over in his hand while studying its visual intricacies. It's unlike anything he's ever seen, at least in person... what his friends don't yet know is that he's been studying. Oh, he's visited the library, taken out volumes upon volumes on modern genetic studies, while looking for answers. He's scoured the brightest and darkest places of the internet, searching for some path, some beacon that might guide him toward becoming what, exactly, was the real next phase of his evolution.

Not to become homo-superior from homo-sapien, but to become a man of brutal honor and efficiency from a pathetic street thug.

All the while, his thoughts seem to be leading back to one place. One beacon of... -something-... a thing which stands tall above the city in a display of hubris, but reaches into the farthest corners of the globe.

"We're going to need something better than molotov cocktails," he realizes aloud. "We're going to need -more- than our natural talents." He glances toward Domino meaningfully. "I think it's time we visited Stark Tower."

Dangerous? Beyond. Psylocke has been turning this over since the aborted violence of their confrontation with Latveria's armoured dictator; but really, it's been there since she first echoed Domino's opinion that he 'had it coming'. She knows enough about the man's benevolently-ruled nation to be confident at carrying out an insertion, and what she doesn't know about stealth and espionage would fill a far shorter book than what she *does*.

But Doom's been a step ahead of them all the way. She has no doubt this will be the same.

"There's a good chance we'll die," she admits coolly to Domino, reaching up to idly draw a hand back along the pulled strands of her hair, unnecessarily adjusting the band about her ponytail. It's a gesture of nervous energy, of the imprisoned need to act. "But it wouldn't be my first time, and it wouldn't be Kwabena's." Lowering her hand, she shrugs a shoulder loosely, regarding the mercenary without particular challenge. At this moment, they're beyond that behaviour. "Perhaps the only person here with something to fear is you. And I somehow doubt that."

That's even coupled with a faint smile, warmth gleaming in violet eyes before she quickly glances away to the Ghanaian. His summation of Doom, his profession of duty to the cause they appear to all share - even, so unexpectedly, the monochromatic merc herself - is apt. They covered that common ground already; it's what prepared her to ask. Hearing it echoed now just strengthens Betsy's own convictions, reckless as they might be. But the last...

"Stark," she says quietly, lips pursing and eyes narrowing. "If there's anybody who can stand up to the technology of Latveria..." Suddenly her eyes slam open, and she feels an overwhelming surge of something approaching *relief*, unaware of how tense she was. "Yes," she says, almost laughing, giving a wry shake of her head instead. "That could work. If we can pull this off," Back to Domino goes that gaze, a brow arching upward. "Well, we just might go out with a bang."

When it's mentioned that they'll need something bigger than molotov's, Domino glances sidelong back at Kwabena. "You think?" Molotovs work in a pinch, but it's easy for her to be snarky there. She can afford plastique, and knows where to acquire it. Claiming another draw from the bottle, she sharply inclines her head in his direction. "We'll get you some fancier toys. And some basic understanding of what to do with them."

Her expression sour slightly with what Betsy says to them both. "There's a good chance I'll die every time I take on a job, Veev. Yet here I am," she declares, arms held out to the sides for effect.

Stark... Yeah. Part of Dom is not looking forward to that run. Stark is a man that lives every minute of his life in the spotlight. These two, the merc and Kwabena, do not. Trying to have a meaningful and -off the records- meeting with the head of Stark Industries is not likely to be an easy task. Even so, she's willing to take a chance with those odds. "I believe you have a point, Shift. I promise nothing, but we'll make the attempt." Getting his attention won't be the hard part. It'll be doing so in a discreet manner, then -keeping- it.

"The way in will be through a woman named Virgina 'Pepper' Potts," answers Kwabena. "Senior Executive Assistant. Which probably means many things, but the general idea is that if you want to get to Stark, you get there through Potts." He raises a hand and points it back and forth between his partners in diabolical nature. "We make a strong enough impression upon her, and we have an ally. Like you said..." He looks over toward Domino. "It's worth a shot."

With a decided gesture, Kwabena stands up straight. "I'll gather everything I can about her. Find out where she likes to eat lunch, what train she takes home. With a little bit of borrowed luck, perhaps we'll be able to get a one on one with her."

He looks back at Psylocke then, settling his mismatched eyes upon her in a very strong manner. "I said it before. What we need is leadership. This is your show, Bets. I dare say we'll all have our turn, but if we want this thing to go off smoothly - and if we have -any- chance of getting out alive, we'll need it to go pretty damned smoothly - then we need a compass to follow." He reaches out a friendly hand to rest it on her shoulder. "I say that's you."

Lowering his arm, Kwabena turns. "The front door code is 3 8 2 5 3 6 6 3. Also known as 'Fuck Doom'."

"We've got work to do."