2013.07.29 - Tenacity

Rental car to Louisville. Airline ticket to San Diego. UPS Delivery.

All three under different names. Shift was, indeed, hard to track.

North Park is a gentrified neighborhood separated from downtown San Diego by the famous Balboa Park. However, as with most gentrified neighborhoods, they often retain a shadow of their crime-ridden histories, and this neighborhood is no different.

No less than two blocks from one of North Park's main drags, there is a roadway that most people just don't go down. It is littered with lurkers and rehabilitating drug addicts during the day, and infested with dealers and prostitutes at night. Kwabena has hunkered down within a small hostel. Within his tiny room there is a laptop computer, a reinforced case filled with tools, ammunition, and the Sig 552 Commando given to him as a gift some time ago. Music plays from the laptop while he dutifully polishes the assault rifle. The brushes and tools sit upon a small table, visited by an empty bottle of beer and an ash tray filled with cigarette butts. The early morning sunlight casts thick rays through the slatted windows, flicking off dust particles that linger in the air.

Triple deadlocked and latched, the door simply undoes itself and pops open with a click. An elderly man, wearing rather business casual clothing, simply walks into Shift's room. And everything /stops/. The laptop freezes, the music quits. The clicking clock rolls over once and holds still.

"You have proven to be a difficult man to find, Kwabena," Magneto remarks a bit drolly. He takes a few steps into the room, wiping a finger along a rail and scrubbing the pads of his fingers together to rub the dust away. "And here I had been hoping that you and I had begun to develop a friendly bond in Genosha. It appears you have been busier than I had expected." Magneto's voice is precisely polite, without a single note of anger or disapproval- but there's an ice to his eyes that makes him look inches taller, and darkens the room with an implied fury that can literally move mountains when incentivized.

The unlatching of the locks doesn't come as a surprise. There were reasons he was expecting Magneto's arrival. In fact... he was looking forward to it, which is precisely why he'd not yet taken any jobs in the west coast.

Yet.

Looking upward, Kwabena meets Magneto's gaze with his own mis-matched eyes. The eyes of a mutant. The ceasing of the music and the final clicking of the clock are noted, and a similar coldness seems to enter his expression. However, that coldness does not seem to be aimed at his visitor.

"I had some few loose ends to tie up," he remarks, and bitterly at that. There must be more to that story that he has yet to divulge.

The African rises to his feet, if out of politeness alone. The assault rifle is set aside, placed upon its case and disregarded for the time being. "And Genosha is proving a difficult place to reach," he remarks with a frown. Indeed, given what has been spilled out of the news feeds, paired with word in the underworld, Kwabena's business has all been about reaching Genosha. And yet, even for a man of his connections and talents, finding "legal" passage there has been difficult. Oh, he could have done it, to be sure, but he wasn't one to put himself, or others, at risk... and so far, his attempts and connections just haven't withstood the many litmus tests he's put into place.

"Odd. The impression I'd received was that you were chasing someone. Or something," Magneto says, pursing his lips. "After your trip to Genosha, you fairly vanished. Rumor has you in the company of Xavier's disciples," he informs the Ghanan, clasping his hands loosely behind his back. "I am rather curious as to which it is." He pauses for a moment, considering the worn shag carpet, then looks up at Kwabena, his temper considerably mellowed. "Consider this a compliment, Kwabena. I am the ruler of one of the most powerful nations on Earth. I am a man that the international community would arrest on sight were it not for my considerable power. I am currently enmeshed in political intrigue that would drive most chess players mad, and I am taking the time to visit /you/." Magneto leans forward slightly. "So I would appreciate a small measure of consideration in return for this use of my time. /What/, precisely, have you been doing?"

The African listens fervently, though when he mentions vanishing after his visit to Genosha, his eyes look away. Ashamed.

As if to distract himself from that, he attends to a small refrigerator. Surprisingly, the inside is clean, and filled with bottles of water and a couple of unopened beers. He retrieves two bottles, and crosses the way to offer one to Magneto.

"It is a compliment," he answers. There is space there, where he gives his acknowledgement room to breathe. He seems guarded, but it doesn't last long.

Moving over toward the cot, he takes a seat and lets loose a heavy sigh. The bottle of water lingers upon his knee, held aloft between two fingers, while the other hand reaches to rub his temple. Then, it all just... comes out.

"Immediately upon leaving Genosha, I visited my home village, in Ghana. Nobody recognized me. I'm not de littah boy who was banished, not any more." He nearly elaborates on what, exactly happened there, but he does not. Instead, he moves along, looking back to meet Magneto's gaze.

"I have been with de Xavier Institute evah since Latveria," he answers. "Twice now dey have helped me to ovahcome the failures of my past. Dey gave me a home, a place where I didn't have to constantly be looking ovah my shoulder. A place where I could study myself, learn about what I can do. A place where I could... do something about what's going on out there."

There is a beat, and a shadow crosses his face. He had made friends there, but his friends... his 'friends' have let him down.

"But I do not belong dere." His tone is quiet, troubled, and with a simmering anger that is kept well enough in check. "We do not see things de same way. I have argued with them one time too many. Dere are simply too many threats to our way of life, to mutant kind, to go on operating with such low-brow secrecy." A venom has seeped into his words. "Dey have taught me discretion, and I do appreciate dat, but you and I both know dere are times when discretion is weakness."

He rises to his feet again, and move to close the distance between himself and Magneto. "You want me by your side. I know because you are here. Tell me..." He seeks Magneto's eyes, for in his, there is a very serious question. "To what end would you go to preserve our way of life? Because I see da strands of da world around us, and dey are unraveling to show a very distinct truth. We may nevah be trusted."

Magneto declines the offer of a drink by not making a gesture to reach for it, forcing Kwabena to either hurl it at him or set it aside. He listens quietly to Kwabena's explanation, his expression entirely unreadable. The Ghanian goes on and on, to the point of anger breaking, and Magneto listens.

When Kwabena puts the question to him, Magneto taps his cane once on the ground, hard enough to thump the carpet. He meets Kwabena's gaze measure for measure, with some to spare. None can say that Magneto's strength of character is any less powerful than his gifts as a mutant. "Hearken to me, Kwabena Odame," he says, pronouncing Kwa's name with the precise pronounciation of his name that always elicits immediate attention. "I have travelled the world for decades. I have seen the worst excesses of the human condition. I have seen mutants belegeaured and harassed and hanged for the crime of their genetic code. I have fled from tiny hamlets and returned to crush them into dust. I have laid siege to cities and left mountains a blasted heath, such that my enemies will never find succor, nor their bodies recovered. And I have yet to unleash my full power upon the world, such that the nations themselves might tremble at my name." His eyes burn with a cold heat, that legendary fury and drive that propels Magneto coming to the forefront as his voice cracks. The room itself reacts to his raw mutant power, as nails squeal in the woodwork and electronics flicker haltingly to life.

"I have made myself pariah, outcast, and criminal, and I would do it a thousand times again to ensure the survival of mutants all over the world. I would die myself, if my death would give more life to my cause. /That/ is what I am prepared to do," he says, standing as triumphantly as his bronze likeness in the Genoshan Embassy. This is the passion and the power that drives the Brotherhood- that creates believers out of the young and old, the cynical and the hopeful. Magneto /is/ the Brotherhood, and this intense, unstoppable fury is the burning soul of that organization, and the salvation of Genosha.

"Now," he says, taking a half step closer to Kwabena, weighing him with those eyes. "What are /you/ prepared to do to ensure the survival of your species?"

The bottle of water is simply discarded. Left behind on the second cot, alongside Kwabena's weaponry and satchel. A creaking sound of bent plastic comes from the one still in his hand, for Magneto's words have driven Kwabena's anger down into his belly and driven his fingers to clench. The dripping of water upon the dusty floor is joined by a cracking and popping of a different kind; the telltale sound of his flesh turning to a slightly harder form of matter.

He doesn't look away. Instead, the bottle of water is utterly crushed with almost little effort, spilling its contents onto the floor. It seeps through the cracks of the floorboards, straying not close enough to dampen either of the men's shoes.

"Anything."

"Gather your things, Kwabena," Magneto orders the man. "It is time you begin your new life. There is a world out there that requires men dedicated to terrible purpose. And there is a family waiting to embrace you with open arms- to show you that you are not, and never will be, alone." He rests both hands on the cane and gestures to the door. "When we leave this apartment, you will begin a new life, as a new man, with new purpose. All the world will stand before you, and you can make your mark on it as you were /meant/ to do."

He tilts his head towards the door- to the world, waiting outside. "Come along, Shift."

The weaponry is quickly collected, disassembled, and placed into its proper compartments. Within a few moments, Kwabena is ready to go, with the satchel over his shoulder and the gear case, which could easily be taken as audio equipment for a local band, hangs from his free arm.

At the doorway, he takes a moment to glance at the room behind him. He was never insulted at resorting to such measures, for they did make excellent hiding places, and Kwabena has proven that he is very good at hiding when necessary.

It is a skill he may use again, but the smirk that forms on his face is significant of what he's finally come to.

He knew it, when he'd first encountered Erik on Staten Island, over a year ago. Only now, he's finally accepted it.

He was a man bred for war.

"Let's go," he answers, and turns his back upon the dusty room, following the Imperator.