2012-11-09 Not Wasting Potential

Long, dark, and cold have the days stricken New York and its bundled denizens. Many, like Kwabena Odame, have avoided leaving the warmth of their homes unless absolutely necessary. For the Ghanaian, his trips away from the studio apartment in Williamsburg have been limited to the nearby bodega for groceries, booze, and cigarettes. However, where he he often used to stand outside on the street corner to smoke his cigarettes, he's now been taking to the rooftop patio. While it wasn't protected at all by the biting winds, it was quieter up there; few of the tenants desired to be exposed to such harsh, wintry winds.

Far more fascinating, however, is what's been taking place inside of Kwabena's apartment. One corner holds a large, reinforced cardboard shipping box, which has been broken down into manageable pieces that haven't yet been taken out for the refuse. What came in that box now hangs from the ceiling via a heavy chain near his bed - a full-sized, heavy punching bag. For days now, the apartment's neighbors have had to suffer hours of muted thud's, whap's and boom's, simply too loud to be completely killed by the walls separating each apartment, that come from Kwabena's repeated hours assaulting his new roommate.

It's late in the evening. The African's hands are wrapped in bandages stained with sweat, dirt, and blood. He's been dueling with the punching bag for hours, in naught but a pair of sweat pants and the haze of anger, guilt, and hubris; those ugly things that have manifested since he and his friends took down Michael Slean's organization. However, thoughts of those feelings have long since evaporated, as if every droplet of feeling was exsanguinated through the hours of brutalizing his new toy.

He stops for a glass of water, which goes down his gullet in one long gulp. Then, he stalks back over to the punching bag and gets right back to it without missing a beat. With every ferocious strike, his body involuntarily releases a noise. Sometimes it's a grunt, sometimes a huff, sometimes a prolonged yell; but the chorus of noises gradually intensifies, tracking in synchronicity the crescendo of faster, more ferocious strikes and the occasional bullet of spit or sweat spewn forth from his body. The very air in the room has grown thick with a palpable rage.

A wise mutant once said that true focus lies somewhere between rage and serenity.

Rage-stricken eyes have glazed, only to be softened by something that could only best be described /as/ serenity. Though his body throws itself at the punching bag, his mind seems to have found some piece of nirvana. In that space, his very will seems to be bent upon punishing its cloth opponent, so much so that his mutation begins to manifest as it did not so long ago. Skin, flesh and bone harden and compress, until those forceful punches become more like the battering of an industrial machine. The heavy bag, which barely moved with each of Kwabena's strikes before the shift, is now being battered back and forth, putting strain on the chain it's suspended from and causing cracks to form where it's mounted into the ceiling.

With one final and forceful throw, the punching bag is ripped right out of the ceiling. Trailed by a spray of shredded brick and drywall, the hefty piece goes flying across the room like a lumbering behemoth. It shatters the window comes to a rest diagonally, with its upper half sticking out into the cold air. Chest heaving and eyes wide, Kwabena strides across the room as if bent on maintaining his assault, but his eyes catch the fist-shaped dent left in the bag and he stops cold. Raising his arms, he stares at the oddly colored fists, which seem permanently locked into some form that gleams in the light like polished iron.

Odds of drawing the attention of one of New York City's premiere druglords: 1 in 983.

"You're not getting away from me, you albino bitch!"

Odds of bumping into three of Slee's cronies after dropping him down a few pegs on the underground ladder: 1 in 361.

One of the thugs draws a .22 pistol, hastily taking aim and pulling the trigger.

Odds of him being drugged half out of his mind and missing, then disabling one of his buddies instead of the intended target: 1 in 6 and 2 in 393, respectively. Tough break, kid.

The first of the three falls from an unlucky shot as a black and white fist launches out and catches the shooter in the sternum, followed by driving an elbow up into his jaw.

Odds of striking with enough force to break a few of those teeth: Incredibly likely.

The second thug hits the floor with a heavy thud, writhing in pain as blood drools out from between his lips. The last of the trio charges at the lone mercenary with a machete in his hand, screaming.

Odds of using his momentum against him and throwing him out of the apartment: Sucker bet.

--Across the hall and through the door of the apartment on the other side: 1 in 10.

--Into Kwabena Odame's apartment: 1 in 424,714.

--Directly into the side of the airborne punching bag that's sailing across the room from Kwabena power-striking it clear off of its chain? Astronomical, even for Domino.

Chances of rolling across the floor and catching the thug's dropped machete out of the air in time to see the thug get bitch-slapped by a bag full of sand: Don't ask.

Interception!

With a double-take, Kwabena gasps and darts his head toward the hole in his wall, only to see Domino rolling across the floor and into his apartment. Dumbly he stares at her, still too shocked by the hardening of his fists to fully recognize the /ludicrousity/ of what is taking place. There is a brief silence that is only broken by the groaning of the thug as he falls asleep, and the shifting of sand as the punching bag falls off him and onto the floor.

"What in the hell!?"

Stretching out his fingers causes the hardened flesh to make a distinctly sharp crackling sound, which follows his raising of a fist and the pointing of a finger. "You!" He points at the thug, then back to the wall. "My apartment!"

"Yeah, my bad," Domino sheepishly offers while standing there in a low crouch, machete in hand, as though she's about to tackle a feral tiger.

Wait. -Kwabena?!- She quickly glances back to the room number on the door. That's right, she's in -this- part of town, isn't she... Ahem.

Straightening, she flicks the machete around in her hand until she's holding it by part of the blade, offering the grip end out to you. "Brought you a gift." There's a quiet glance cast over to the ruined bag, leaking sand everywhere. "Thought it might be time for an upgrade." Because -damn,- if you did that with just your fists? You're done! "So..how ya holding up, Kwa?" Yep, she totally meant to drop in on you. Like this. With a broken thug sprawled out across your floor. Toe-nudge.

There's a bit more popping and crackling as Kwabena's fists soften back into their regular, fleshy form. He's angry, sure... not only to have been so rudely interrupted in his moment of self study, but to have his apartment become completely wrecked? His landlord is going to kill him.

Well, of course, if he could.

When offered the machete, there's a flash of something familiar in the African's eyes. He'd used one before, in the jungles of Ghana. Reaching out he snatches it out of her hand hastily, then twirls it about in the air to prove that yes, indeed, he does know his way around a machete. "Needs sharpened," he remarks offhand, before darting his eyes back to Domino. "How am I holding up?" he echoes. Eyes squint, and he takes a step toward her, projecting more complaint in his tone. "How am /I/ holding up?" He opens his mouth to tell her off.

Then there are noises, coming from the hall outside. Human noises. Voices and the creaking of doors.

Sticking up his finger, he goes silent, and glares at Domino before turning away. Hastily he grabs the blanket from his bed, then walks out of the hole in his wall and into the hallway, where people have begun to peek out. "Hey, folks, just a little accident! Nothing to see here, go back to your h..."

He's still holding the machete. That's right... in one hand he has a bloody machete, in the other, a blanket.

Scowling, he spins around and walks back into the apartment, tossing the machete aside in lieu of a chair from the dining table. He slams it down on the floor before the hole, then crosses right in front of Domino to grab his toolkit from a shelf. Up onto the chair he goes, draping the blanket over the hole before securing it with a hammer and nails. "Who the hell is that, bleeding on my floor?" he demands.

Hard to miss what's happening to your hands, there. Maaaybe she chose a poor time to drop in. Luck can be such a fickle thing like that. "Talk to him about it," she states while thumbing over to the third person now in your apartment. It used to be his blade, after all!

"Yeah..how are -you- holding up?" Dom has a blank look and a forced shrug to match, as though saying 'hello? You didn't hit your head back there, did you?'

Then there's people milling out into the hall. At first she assumes it's more thugs, one of her hands dropping out of sight beneath her trench to catch the familiar contours of a pistol grip lurking within the shadowy confines. Turns out it isn't needed, one motion leading into another as she crosses her arms beneath her chest. It's such a nonchalant move, one that she must have practiced thousands of times before.

Your reaction to holding a weapon in your hand when you address the neighbors leaves her chuckling, watching you with an amused glint as you go about covering up the wall. "One of Slee's. He didn't get the memo." There's another look over to where the guy's sprawled out. "Rather, he got the memo but didn't heed the underlined warning."

Another second of thought passes before Dom walks over to where the guy's lying, swiftly rooting through his pockets then fishing out his wallet, and what little money can be found inside of it. "Here's to your home improvement bills," she offers while tossing the wrinkled bills onto the nearest piece of furniture.

Once the, ahem, draperies are handled, Kwabena hops down from the chair on bare feet, and grabs a white t-shirt from the floor where it had been discarded hours ago. Stretching it over his head and arms, he draws it down to make himself a bit more presentable (or less presentable, all things considered... his skin is flawless, most likely because it's never been cut, so it's never been scarred).

"He'll get the memo when he wakes up," assures Kwabena. Finally, he acknowledges Domino, and does so while folding his arms. He looks you up and down, as if checking to see any injuries or scars from their last, ahem, encounter. There's a hesitation in his eyes should they meet - he never expected to see her again.

Moving, he walks past you and into the kitchen. "I am holding up just fine," he answers, and begins refilling his glass of water. "None of Slee's clowns have come for me. I think the NYPD is too busy /arresting/ them all." He looks over at you expectantly. Surely, you saw the news...?

Dom is indeed looking at you, and she did indeed watch the news. "It's kinda weird being considered a hero even through a stretch of the word, isn't it." Not that the news stories made them out to be -good- guys, but they did stop even worse people through their efforts. And, sure, Slee might have ratted everyone else out and gotten a lot more arrests underway. Yes, the same guy that she tried to encourage you to kill. Maybe Psylocke had been the catalyst for this string of good luck, it's impossible to say.

"You've changed, kiddo." She finds somewhere to sit and does so, showing little grace as she flops into position and literally makes herself right at home. "I might have expected this little ragefest of yours if you did pull the trigger, but you let the guy live. Why all the angst? You're free and clear of all of that nasty stuff that's been haunting you, sacrifice-free. Heck, you've managed to pull it all out of nowhere -without- getting me pissed off. Things don't get much better than that."

Of course, she's the one that made off with a lightly used sports car and about six grand worth of unregistered firearms. How could things be any better for you? Why, you could be in her shoes!

A hero. That remark slows Kwabena down. He silently considers the irony of it, then smirks a bit. "Hmpf," is all he offers in response to that, at least for now. He turns away and downs the glass of water, before turning back to watch you sit. There aren't too many options, after all. A trio of dining room chairs (one sitting, of course, by the blanket-covered hole in the wall), a very small couch, and his bed.

"I only have this angst because there is a hole in my wall and a piece of shit on my floor," Kwabena points out while unwrapping the bandages from his hands. "Before that, I was perfectly content. Working some things out. Practicing something. Happy to stay out of sight and out of mind."

Only it's not so simple, is it? He glances down, as if he'd been lying, then walks over toward the mess in the middle of his floor and looks down upon it, bag, thug and all, with a sigh. "Yeah, I've changed. I can't seem to..." He pauses, struggling to find a word to explain his mutant power. "... /shift/ ... without accessing some kind of complicated emotions." He shakes his head, and looks back at Domino with a rueful smirk. "It's annoying."

"Perfectly content," she repeats with a tiny sneer. Yeah, she -totally believes you,- there. She's on the tiny couch, arms spread out across the back, relaxed as can be. "I've been doing this for a long time, Kwa. You aren't 'perfectly content' when your knuckles are bleeding, and I had nothing to do with that." At least not from throwing a guy into your personal space. That came after the fact.

"So you're trying to learn how to shift and finding that you can't without having some other force to nudge you along," she remarks. "Welcome to the mutant race, kid. Emotions bring out the best and worst in all of us, you're not going to master your own quirks overnight. Not in a week, not in a year. So don't beat yourself up over it in the meantime."

Dom glances over to the hastily repaired spot in the wall for an instant before offering "If you want that extra push, I could help." Maybe the emotions won't be very complicated, but she's not half bad at getting under another's skin.

It's good advice, and Kwabena didn't actually expect it to come from you. His smirk fades, only to be replaced by something deep and thoughtful, as if he were taking a few moments to recount the times when his mutation acted up, and the emotions that were coming into play. Yes, whether instinctive or more purposeful, there /were/ extreme emotions at play. Every time.

"You know," he answers, "I could have /sworn/, back there, you could have walked away without having anything to do with Betsy or myself, ever again." He points his finger at you as he turns away, making for the kitchen again. Out come two small glasses, and out comes his bottle of bourbon. The sound of pouring liquid becomes the backdrop to his thickly accented voice. "Change of heart?" he asks, before walking back over toward the couch. One glass gets pushed into the air down near the couch's armrest nearest you, while the other remains tucked in his palm. "What's /your/ mutant ability?"

Domino enjoys being able to catch others off guard. It's an important skill to have, and no matter what the situation it always seems as though such a skill could come in handy sooner or later. She's had an interesting life, done a lot of crazy living in a short amount of time. Most people don't seem to get past the whole hired gun detail. If it means others underestimate her, so be it. She's not going to raise a fuss.

"I could have. I was ready to, in fact." When the glass is offered she takes it without question, quickly making some of its contents disappear. "You could say it's my ability that brought me back here, though I'm not worried about your mind reader friend. She can take care of herself. I'm more surprised that she didn't take you under her wing after that night. You're in an awkward transition here, being left to your own devices is rarely helpful."

A low groan from the side earns her attention, setting the glass aside long enough to get to her feet and move back to the third thug's side. "C'mon, kid. Party's over. Be sure to smack your pal for shooting his buddy, he's gotta work on his aim."

Dom sees him to the door, not so gentle in pushing him out into the hall. The door's shoved closed right after him, leaving it up to this action to carry along her unspoken threat. 'Don't try it again.'

"At last, some privacy." She says with a slight grin. It's not like there's a giant hole in the wall of your living room or anything.

Sip, sip.

Kwabena joins Domino in the sipping of bourbon, though for his part, he hasn't taken a seat yet. He waits until the thug is ejected, and by the time she's returned and makes that joke, an out right grin has formed again. "Have I mentioned I like your style?" he asks, gesturing with his glass of bourbon to add a touch of flair to the question.

Finally he grabs a chair, hooking it around with his bare foot, and drags it around to face the couch and Domino. "She has friends," he remarks. "Perhaps her friends don't like the idea of having such an unstable element around?" He pauses long enough to take another sip from his whiskey. "I spent two months stranded in the jungles of Ghana," he points out. "I've wrestled with tigers and eaten them for nourishment. Left to my own devices, I manage just fine." He leans forward a bit, resting his elbows on his knees while studying you thoroughly. "No, it's something else," he says, letting two fingers drift from where they hold his glass of whiskey to point at you in study. "You like /my/ style. That's what it is, isn't it?"

"You didn't seem so thrilled with it in the warehouse," she counters. Domino's seat, and her lax posture, are quickly resumed. Now one of those hands is holding her glass while stretched out across the back of the couch. Now she's looking right back at you, like an artist critically studying a peculiar painting.

"So you're left on your own with nothing more to do than assault large, suspended bags of sand." Sip. "There might be a small chance that I felt bad for what you had to go through and wanted to make sure that you were holding together okay. Living and survival aren't always the same thing. Throttling tigers onto the dinner table doesn't pluck at the emotional strings quite the same way, does it."

There is more to it, of course. There always is. Sitting across from her is someone that's not afraid of a bit of confrontation, can't be injured by gunfire, and has been working out to the point of trashing his apartment. On top of that, she sees someone that has nothing to do with his time. She's surprised that the mind-reader didn't try to lay claims to you, herself. Which means, you're turning into a living weapon and you're completely unconnected with anyone else. "You've proven yourself to be a useful sort. Not that I always agree with your methods, but that comes with the territory. How'd you like to live on this side of danger?"

"That was different," defends Kwabena, though he suspects that neither of them necessarily desire to get into a match of morality vs. actuality, so he lets it go.

"Put up against dick heads like Michael Slean," remarks Kwabena, "there is no danger in that. Not for me. Now, if you're talking about men with plasma weapons, force fields, or other fantastic things..." He shrugs. "I'm not sure I have much of an opinion. You see, what I am interested in right now, Domino, is to understand /me/." He jabs his thumb into his own chest three times. "What I am, what I can do. Not because I am self absorbed or anything, but..." He leans back into his chair with a sigh. "Let's just say I need to know that when I throw myself into a force field, it scatters my atoms... /before/ throwing myself into a force field. I hope you understand what I mean."

"Yeah, I know what you're getting at. Transitional period, and all that. You don't want to hear this, but the best way to learn what you're made of doesn't come from making angry faces at inanimate objects. It comes from real experience. Out in the field. I don't say this to try and encourage you to join my particular field," she tries to assure you, "it's just the nature of the beast."

It also jades people slightly. Considering what led up to having this conversation, the fighting, risking her own head, the hole in your wall... Now it's a friendly old chat on personal discovery and evolution around a strong drink. Nothing out of the ordinary at all!

"Look, regardless of what direction you throw yourself while trying to figure this thing out, do yourself a favor and get out of your apartment once in a while. Place smells worse than the gym I used to hang at in the Bronx." Though, until you're comfortable with your own path of self-discovery, there's only so much that she'll be able to do with you. Maybe you'll be ready for more one of these days, but she's not going to drag you into something you aren't ready for.

"Suppose I owe you a little something for the wall, too."

With a dismissive hand, Kwabena gestures off her concern over the wall. "The wall is inconsequential, really. I have enough money." He may have to grab what's important to him and up and leave once their conversation was over, but that was beside the point. The place was rented under a fake name... if he didn't want any trouble, that would be the best route to take. His duffle was large enough to fit his guns, his cash, some clothes and his new machete, which was all he really needed.

In fact...

The remark about how his place smells draws a good smirk from Kwabena. He abruptly finishes his bourbon and stands, walking across the room toward his collection of clothes. He picks out a pair of pants, a shirt, and a black leather jacket. The shirt he changes on the spot; the pants he throws over his shoulder, while moving to collect his guns and the machete, which he promptly throws into his duffle.

Crossing the room, he makes for the restroom. "So what side of danger are you suggesting we live on for the next chapter of this story?" he asks, while stepping into the privacy of his bathroom for a moment. The door closes.

When the question is asked, then followed by a door closing between the two, Dom gets up and walks over so she doesn't have to raise her voice to be heard. "Mercenaries," comes the straightforward reply. "You strike me as having what it takes to make it in the field, and finding allies isn't as easy as you might expect." Not that she's planning on firing up the ol' buddy system to work alongside you, but knowing someone else in the field could come in handy.

"If you ever find yourself in need of a job, it's not the worst option. You could always go the vigilante route, but the pay's not as good. Just something to consider. No sense in wasting good potential." As far as randomly dropping in without having a speech prepared, she's comfortable enough with how this conversation is turning out. But, as they say, quit while you're ahead. "That's all I've got. Sure you'll find your way sooner or later."

The door opens, and Kwabena is no longer clad in sweat pants, but that same pair of pants he'd brought in with him earlier. "Sounds well enough to me." It's a solid answer. Not that he hadn't considered the possibility after all; he had been spending quite a bit of time alone. "It's not easy for a guy like me to get a normal job," he adds, while crossing the room to finish packing some extra clothes into his duffle.

Seems he means to leave the apartment tonight.

"So, tell me," he asks, while pausing in the packing to turn back around and face you. "Do you know any people in the tech field?" he asks. "I'm talking high tech. Mil-tech, government contractors, you know, Tony Stark-kind of people."

High-tech..? "What, were those jungle tigers half-cybernetic or something?" Dom challenges, not at all understanding where that sort of inquiry had originated from. "Afraid not, but if you get to be buddy-buddy with one of them then give me a call, alright?"

Oh. -Wait.- No, Domino, that's a really, -really- bad idea, you shouldn't even be considering that as an option.

"What are you trying to find?"

May as well draw a gun and aim for your foot right now, girl.

Is this her dumb luck threatening to do something ludicrous again, or is this something completely different?

It's -crazy,- that's what it is. Close your mouth and walk away.

The truth is, Kwabena has not spent his time in solitude merely brooding. He'd done a lot of thinking... a lot of time perusing the internet on the tablet he'd brought with some of Slee's stolen funds, searching for answers to a question that had popped up.

His answer at first may be most peculiar.

"Because I don't think you want a mercenary partner who ends up naked every time he turns into a cloud of smoke."

Kwabena walks back over to his cabinet, pulling out two unopened bottles of bourbon. He's no alcoholic, but the stuff he'd paid for was top shelf, to say the least. No sense wasting something that good. He explains himself while walking back across the room, only to wrap the bottles up in articles of clothing he's packet into his duffle.

"There are a lot of masterminds out there. Genetic experts like this... Professor Charles Xavier?" He smirks wryly and adds in an offhand way, "Something tells me /he/ wouldn't be the best one to approach, of course. Anyway. There's got to be enough research into genetic mutations to provide me an answer to this problem. If I can't come up with it myself, perhaps one of these experts can." Finishing up with the duffle once and for all, he looks back up at you with his hands firmly planted against his waist. "It's a thorn in my side, Domino. If I don't have the tools to do something about it, perhaps someone else does, and can make a hefty profit after helping me."

"I don't care if you're dressed as a ballerina so long as you can get the job done," Domino counters once more. But, to each their own! And good alcohol should never be wasted, she silently agrees with their retrieval and storage.

As luck would have it, the sort of thing that you're searching for doesn't seem like it would mesh with what 'resource' she might have to offer. That one gets shot down before it ever gathers momentum, but it's probably for the best, right? "Hell, be careful with that stuff. There's way too many people out there that would try to take advantage of your situation. I've got nothing, but tread lightly if that's what you're looking for. If you run into trouble, you're probably going to be on your own unless you happen to develop telepathic skills like your friend."

Now then, it appears that you've rounded everything together. Dom motions to the door, asking "Want a lift? I've got a windshield now."

A humored grin draws across Kwabena's face. He hefts the satchel over his shoulder, then walks toward the door. "I /do/ owe you being /your/ decoy, at least once," he offers. Being dressed up as a ballerina would certainly accomplish that, in any situation.

"Leave behind my motorcycle?" he asks. "Not a chance." He pauses near the door, turning to inspect the place he's leaving behind. It was nice. Too bad it wasn't meant to last. With a slightly disappointed slackening of his shoulders, he turns his back on it for the last time. "What I could use is some direction. Where I should go." He pauses then, and turns to look towards you with a look that is at first speculative. He wasn't one to make friends easily... perhaps the only reason he's come to trust Psylocke so well was the intimate connection they had made when she helped him reform from a microscopic mess.

The speculative look softens. "Any suggestions?"