2013.08.03 - Never Trust a Silent Target

Genoshan Embassy, Sub-Level B2. This is where Shift has been spending most of his time since Magneto brought him here. One room in particular seems to have become his new home. It's sparse, made of reinforced metal panels on the walls, ceiling and floor that bear a close resemblance to armor. The room has a small handful of computer workstations, and the north end of the room is elongated, with a somewhat glossy back wall. The shape of that space almost reminds one of a firing range.

Shift is sitting at one of the workstations, with two computer terminals open and active. His mis-matched eyes are studying the monitor to his left, and he scrolls through parcels of data with his fingers upon the terminal's touchscreen. Elsewhere, a somewhat relaxing form of electronic music is playing, bearing the pops and crackles of an actual vinyl record. Sitting not far from him at his workstation is a unique rifle, black in color, with what appears to be an intake valve built into part of its shoulder butt.

This is not particularly a room Olena has any great need to spend much time in... though she'll concede the workstations are occasionally helpful. There's a better firing range, elsewhere, for her particularly brand of ballistic therapy.

Nevertheless, she makes her way down into the basement, on an errand to check one of the workstations. She prefers to work elsewhere, personally. She doesn't like the basement. It feels oppressive to her. But, most places where there are no windows do. So, it's something she's learned to ignore.

She pauses on the threshold as she notes the African within. There's a moment's debate, and she shrugs briefly to herself, moving quietly in so as not to interrupt him, and angling for one of the free, unused terminals.

At first, the only acknowledgement that Olena receives is the brief turning of his eyes away from the terminal workstation. For a few moments, he simply diverts his attention back to the work at hand. However, all the while, her presence has him contemplating something.

Eventually, Shift turns away from the workstation, kicking a boot into the floor in order to swivel about and face her. "It is safe to assume you are familiar with tactical combat situations?" he calls out.

No greeting. After all, she never offered one, and Kwabena is... well. Not exactly in the mood for being cordial at the moment.

Olena can be cordial when she needs to be. She's not sure, however, what to make of Shift. As he speaks to her, she turns her head to glance at him. His question brings a slight quirk to her brow. "Reasonably," she concedes. She turns in her seat, the chair on a swivel, to face him better. "Why do you ask?"

Indeed, she's spent time becoming as familiar with small unit tactics as she can be, thanks to Mystique's tutelage. That, and many other aspects of a good fight.

But, she's no General.

Half turning back toward his terminal, Shift punches a few keys, which routes his screen over to one of the unused ones on Olena's terminal. It brings up a number of details surrounding a rumored decommissioned Sentinel facility near Cincinnati, Ohio. GPS coordinates, public file reports on local law enforcement, rural demographics for the area, and information related to U.S. military forces in the area are also included.

"I have been asked to investigate dis facility," he answers. "Satellite reporting indicates dat dere has not been activity here for some few years." He turns back away from his terminal, studying Olena from across the way. "Howevah, I have learned nevah to trust a silent target. Especially one dat involves Bolivar Trask."

When Shift speaks the name of the Doctor who invented the mutant-hunting Sentinel technology, there is a particularly derisive note to the way each syllable has been spoken. Kwabena has a right to be angry over this technology, after all.

He witnessed the senseless death of countless mutant young ones at the hands of such technology at one time in a not so recent past.

Olena's not exactly a fan of Trask's work. Nor that of Trask Industries. She turns her attention to what's on the screen and considers it. "Da," the Ukrainian agrees. "I would no trust them, either." She magnifies a section or two on the map, looking closely at the primary approaches to the building. It's a shame, to her way of thinking, that the digital technology can't give her nearly the same level of feedback standing there in the midst of it could.

"How recent is picture?" she asks, glancing at him. "Unless is old, there must be some activity." She places her finger on a dark streak or two on the image. "Looks like mud from tire." Though she can't really be entirely sure.

Her lips purse. "Is Sentinel factory?" she queries, looking for confirmation. "Then will not be empty. Will be full of men and dogs with guns." A beat. "And Sentinels."

"Unknown," answers Shift, with no shortage of annoyance in his tone. "NSA has dis shit locked down tight. Probably has something to do with our IP address here." He taps the desk beneath his hand, as if to indicate the building--the Embassy itself. He refrains from commenting on how many international laws NSA is probably breaking.

Then again, the words 'National Security' in America were about as gospel as 'Rat' was to Hitler's Germany in reference to the Jewish people.

"Apparently," he answers her second query. "Decommissioned." Swiveling back around to face Olena, a smirk forms on his face. "Men, dogs, and guns ahre no problem. Sentinels however. Big problem."

Rising from his workstation, he crosses the way to stand a comfortable distance from Olena, but close enough to give her a good inspection. Shift is no longer an X-Man... his outfit is quite different from what he once wore beneath his street clothes. The outfit is similar in many ways--made of unstable molecules--but it bears padding in places that more or less resemble armor, is darker in color, and does not bear any sort of insignia.

"I am putting a team togedah. Reconnoissance, infiltration, and once we're in, gathah as much information as possible."

Beat.

"Den I mean to blow de place to hell."

Olena would be surprised if Magneto or Mystique didn't have agents in place that could get them more up-to-date information. She makes a mental note to ask them -- particularly Mystique, who generally has a much better grasp of the clandestine than the Imperator.

She nods to Shift's plan. "I believe I can help," she notes. "I have good understanding of how Sentinels work. How to control. And it is hard for others to hide from me."

That he no longer wears an X-Man uniform doesn't mean much to her. She's not familiar with all of them. The only ones she remembers are the handful that actually helped to free her from the concentration camp. And, of those, only some of them stand out -- Nightcrawler, Cyclops, Phoenix, Colossus. Most of the others? She might remember them. She might not.

Of course, it's been a whole year, since then. Almost to the day. A lot has happened in that time. And, all things considered, she is in a much better place than she was. But, she's still got an axe to grind.

Ironically, Shift has had the same feeling. He has a strong feeling that he is being... tested.

"I have run into dem before," he echoes. "And I have some few surprises up my sleeve dis time." Taking a deep breath, Shift nods his head firmly, as if satisfied to have the woman on board.

"Shift," he says by way of greeting. He offers her a hand, perhaps out of courtesy alone. "Kwabena, but... Shift is just fine."

He very likely is being tested. But, that's purely speculation on Olena's part. She knows he's an X-Man... supposedly a former X-Man, since he's here now, since he accepted Magneto's invitation. She does remember him from that initial meeting in the cafe with Nightcrawler. She hasn't been outright told as much.

But, she watches him closely, nonetheless, her hyperperceptive senses attuned to those little, micro-tells no one can truly hide.

He seems genuine enough. But, that doesn't mean he is.

"Strilka," she says by return introduction, slowly taking his hand. "Oksana when we are in public -- particularly in America, da? Olena, if you prefer, behind closed doors."

It's not like someone else wouldn't tell him her name, after all.

And it's not like Nightcrawler doesn't already have it, anyway -- meaning the X-Men probably do, too. Though, she can't know whether or not that's certain.

There is a clipped nod of Kwabena's head. "Well met." Dropping his gloved hand, the African takes a few steps around to claim another chair at Olena's workstation, upon which he half perches against the armrest.

He's a conflicted man, to be truthful. A part of him deeply misses his old home at the Xavier Institute. There is loss, a yearning to see old friends, but there is also a sense of purpose. He means not to have any contact with them, for he does not want to drag any of the X-Men into his own mess. Furthermore, he is a man who grew too used to having a home, a team to work with. There will always be a part of him that prefers working alone, but given the interest Magneto has shown in him, well. Dedication was never his weak suit. Loyalty, perhaps, and that weakness simply because he doesn't easily trust people.

"I am looking for a small team. People who can be silent. Discretionary. I would prefah to not rattah any cages until we ah ready to blow de roof. I need peopah who have at least a basic undahstanding of tech, if not more. Most of all, I need peopah who are not going to shy away from a potentially explosive combat situation." He shakes his head from side to side. "I think we can both agree, when dere are Sentinels involved, you cannot trust anything. Must be prepared for everything. Would you agree?"

"Da," Olena says again. She smiles sharply to him. "I know Sentinel tech," she assures him. "I memorize plans before they come destroy Mutant Action Center. Stow away in bulkhead to come to Fortress and free Magneto. And I help Mystique install remote control for Sentinels in base in Arctic." She also has a reputation for stealth, deadly accuracy, and the willingness to get her hands dirty, if that's what it takes to get the job done. Nor is she considered recklace. "As I say: I can help."

When the Arctic is mentioned, Kwabena can't help but narrow his eyes.

He was there. He'd nearly been blown in half.

Drawing in a deep breath through his nose, however, Kwabena reminds himself of why he's here. He's here to give Magneto a chance, even if it was against his better judgement, because Magneto gave him a chance.

Perhaps his judgement would prove wrong.

"Good," he says, and hops up from the chair. "I will submit as much information that I can gathah to you as it is collected, then. We will leave in a few days."

Olena senses Kwabena's discomfort with the Arctic, and a brow drifts upward slightly. But, the mission she went on with Mystique is not the same one where he was nearly blown in half. She went there with Omega Red, Mimic, and the blue metamorph quite recently, long after the rest of the base had gone cold.

Which didn't mean there weren't warm bodies there they needed to blow away.

"Da," she agrees. "I will look at it, make suggestions. And I will speak with my contacts. See if I can improve data." She looks again at what he has. "We will make this work."