2012-10-27 Raiding Arizona

Getting shot, stabbed and blown up all over the world has made it hard for Logan to follow current events, but there's one story he's kept an eye on since it began:

Senator Castroneves' push for mandatory superhuman registration, augmented by cries from a scant few extremists for all out internment for superhumans. By far the loudest of those voices - Governor Sometimes of Arizona - is now undergoing a state-mandated mental health evaluation.

Which means that now is as good a time as any to make sure the X-Men know what they need to about the world that may be coming for them.

It's late, but there are still a few lights on at the Governor's offices; this late in the election season, with the Governor facing one hell of a PR storm, sleep simply isn't an option for some unfortunate aides. Joining them in their sleeplessness are a dozen or so guards spread out across the three floors, there to allay fears over the truckloads of threats the office has received since the Governor stepped up his anti-superhuman vitriol. A grossly bigoted politician can never be /too/ careful.

After a quick ride on the Blackbird - which engaged its autopilot and flew itself back to Westchester after delivering its passengers to the office's roof - Wolverine is standing a couple feet away from the door leading inside. "No blood," he murmurs to the purple-haired ninja - who better to accompany him on a job like this? - as he stretches his arms overhead. He is in costume tonight--albeit a black and gray version of it.

"Just doin' their jobs; ain't entirely their fault their boss happens t' be a piece of crap." He lowers his hands and turns his head towards his companion. "Ready?"

Who better indeed? The bodyswapped Ms. Braddock has been more than forthcoming regarding her feelings on this matter; and of her past in a similar internment camp in her native Britain. It's not something she shares with everybody - her reputation for mystery is well-earned and well-deserved - but there are those with whom she has come to value a rapport. There are those she trusts more than others, by point of fact, not to reevaluate her based on their own emotional responses. Some connections are just... best avoided. It's easier. This man, though, with whom her brainwashed inception saw her cross blades and minds alike?

It's best illustrated by her mien and manner on the journey across. By her earlier words:

"I could kill them, Logan."

The admission came from a Betsy uncommonly unguarded and contemplative by anyone's standard, her forehead touching cool glass and violet eyes turned outward at the passing darkness outside the Blackbird. Her words touched with the affliction of deep thought and deeper emotion, but with a condemned sadness rather than the more obvious anger of the sentiment expressed.

"I could cook the brain of every man who's ever thought that way, who's ever considered 'our kind' to be fit only for containment. As though we were nothing more than... vermin. Somehow too human to simply be culled, yet unworthy of the freedoms of other men. Unworthy of /life/."

That last came out in a hard whisper, bordering a hiss, her eyes lidded for a moment before a sidelong glance darted toward her stocky, brusque partner. Slowly she smiled, head shaking to and fro until a lock of dark purple brushed her cheek. A hand reached with subconscious ease to push it away, tucking it gently behind her ear as she reached the culmination of her confession. Fragile, despite her harsh words. The fragility she'll show precious few.

"But in some perverse fashion, that's what they want, isn't it? To prove we are as they say. Inhuman beasts. When this very feeling is what I most identify /as/ human, ascended animals that we are. How could my primal instinct, my need for survival on my own terms, be worse than their logicked and reasoned cry for the wilful mistreatment of millions..."

Breathing a sigh, she composed herself, and now she stands alongside Wolverine in her own, familiar business garb. Less the red sash; a concession made pre-emptively to his gruff murmur, responded to with the immediacy of a cool, curt nod. Despite her words, despite even recent actions, she remains one of the X-Men. Slaughtering her way through this political hotbed would be not only immoral but unwise and perilously selfish, were it what her more reasonable whole truly desired. Their goals are the same, as are their convictions this night.

"No blood," she echoes, breaking her cold air with a fleeting smile of reassurance and trust. That one's all Betsy, more than Psylocke. "I'm ready. And..." Pausing, she slowly blinks, gaze shifting to the doorway unnecessarily as she probes forth with her telepathy, placing the men inside and gaining a quick handle upon /their/ emotional state. "That makes us the only ones."

"Two inside," she continues, as if reading from a screen, "Left, by the door. Right, anteroom." Glancing to Wolverine, she brushes back that same strand of hair from earlier. "Keep your thoughts clear, and I'll relay as we go. We can do this quickly, and quietly."

Aboard the Blackbird, Logan kept his hands steady on the controls and his eyes fixed on the dark sky ahead while his teammate made her difficult confession; his mind, meanwhile, wandered to the Nevada desert, where, a few days ago, he hacked his way through a few dozen hopelessly brainwashed mutants while they fought to defend their human captors.

With the smell of blood and dust still lingering in his nostrils, he could hardly bring himself to dissuade Betsy's desire for vengeance. Given the adamantium lacing his bones and the scars criss-crossing his psyche, in fact, it took a measure of willpower not to encourage her outright.

"Guess we really /are/ all the same, deep down, huh?" was the best that he could offer, gruff sarcasm masking pensive thought. "Should tell 'em that; maybe the common ground'll help."

Now that it's go time, though, there's no place for dwelling on the past--or, indeed, thinking of anything at all beyond the one man by the door and the other in the anteroom. With a small nod, he taps a couple of fingers to his temple, briefly touches them to his lips, then walks up and gingerly nudges the door open just far enough to admit his wee, stocky body into the dim stairwell beyond.

A couple seconds and a soft *thnk* later, he sticks a black and gray gloved hand out of that crack to beckon Betsy inside, where he's waiting beside a sprawled out private security guard. Kevlar vest. Nightstick on one side of his belt, handgun and radio on the other.

If only it were so simple as talking - a matter she's just recently challenged another on, that the time for words is past and /action/ is required. Never one keen to sit idly by and hope for an easy or wholly diplomatic conclusion, even before her mind-affecting bodyswap, Betsy remains glad to have around her a dear few who both understand and are, indeed, capable of acting. Hanging back as Wolverine makes his way within, she'd be satisfied to hold her own activity this time even were she not tracking motion and intent throughout the top floor of the building.

Relaxed even as she reaches out with her mind, her motion to catch up is made - when the invitation comes - with a swift, languid and stealthy gait that gets her own, taller form through the door with an easy grace. Violet eyes roam the corridor beyond, before alighting on her partner and the downed man. And then on his equipment.

Briefly glancing at the radio, Psylocke eases her posture slightly downward and notes that it's at least not actively transmitting-- no telltale thump to signal the guard below. Less a matter of not trusting Logan's judgement and simply a precaution; she's been there herself, covering every base only to let a tiny detail escape her notice. She'll likely be there again.

Looking up to her partner, she nods and points first up one side of the hallway, then at her chest and to the other; withholding telepathic communication for the moment. They work well enough without it, and she's occupied sending signals to Logan that he might share her sensory advantage. The end result is almost like powerful infravision, the neural signatures of men creeping behind walls - on this floor and the one below, albeit dimmer in the latter case.

Notably, her own side contains that nearby anteroom, and it's to this she moves. Inside, she demonstrates her ability to ninja with the best of them, creeping in low steps - keeping them as few as possible - to close upon the poor mook pouring himself a coffee from a stainless steel unit to one side. He's just reaching for the cup when she coils an arm around his throat.


 * "Down."| Comes the simple alert as she lays the unconscious man down in a padded leather chair.

"Nngh--"

Wolverine squelches his disquited rumbling as swiftly as he can when his already miraculous senses are expanded even further. He lingers at the intersection for a few moments, just focusing on the visible psi-signatures around him; he even sniffs the air a couple of times while tracking a guard on the floor below, just to compare.

Would that he could bring Psylocke on /every/ mission; he could almost get used to this.

Once he's acclimated, he slips down his side of the hall, and soon enough, he's brought to a stop against the wall beside a lit up office. The woman within is stuffing envelopes and tapping her foot to the club music gently pumping away from her computer speakers.


 * "Good. Long as his pals don't come lookin' for 'em, we should be clear."|

The first several offices on Betsy's side are dark, but a couple doors past the anteroom, an exhausted aide is trying to proofread yet another morale-boosting inter-office memo under the dim light of his desk lamp.


 * "Need to get at the computers--'specially his. You got a disk, or something?"|

It's quite a feat, relaying a faint simulacrum of her own telepathic senses to Logan - and not something she'd attempt if she believed for a second she'd need to utilize anything else in a pinch. A small gamble she's willing to take given her quick scan of the building, and the details of the little intel they already had; they're not expected, defenses should be mundane, and she's ninety percent confident that she won't be requiring an upspike in speed or strength. She is, however, going to need something else...


 * "Not as such. But there's no computer yet constructed..."|

Slipping to the edge of the antechamber, she pauses alongside a small door of ornate, lacquered wood - say what you like about the occupants, these offices are very nicely appointed - and gently eases the handle, pushing oh-so-slowly until she's sure there is no chance of a creak. Fortune and caution favour her, and she moves through the next room at a swift, low step, the thick padding of plush carpet allowing her greater speed and flexibility of movement.


 * "To match a human brain. Find Sometimes' office, I'll find the password."|

Within a minute she's through to the next neural signature, mundane senses giving her the gloomily-lit picture as she slows herself to another slow creep, only stopping-- when the man drops the pen he's spinning in one upraised hand. Pushing his chair back in frustration, Betsy is forced to bend from the waist to ensure it doesn't touch her, holding her breath - and ready to drop her link to Logan in favour of scrambling his brain, if needed - while the object is retrieved, a deep sigh heaved, and the man finally reseats himself.

Requiring proximity to work best, the relieved X-Woman reaches out with both hands, stopping just short of the beleagured clerk's skull. As she dives forth, Wolverine may notice a sudden lurching of the telepathic picture he's receiving; like a television momentarily losing signal. It takes only a few seconds to find what she needs, and the man ends up leaning back with another expelled breath, massaging his temples as she withdraws.


 * "I can get into the network. Give me five minutes and I'll see what I can unearth."|

Retreating as slowly as she entered, Psyclocke lets herself out and retreats to a previous room, seating herself at a desk topped by an already glowing monitor. Keeping her touch light as butterfly's wings, she begins to type, her education at the Institute showing as she begins to manouvre not through the pathways of a human mind; but those, oddly similar, of a computer network.

Nine hundred seventy-seven. Nine hundred seventy-eight. Nine hundred seventy-nine. The woman with the avalanche of envelopes and fliers pauses for a moment to massage her aching joints. Maybe, she figures, nobody will care if they're short a few mailers; what's 21 fliers, really, in the grand scheme of things? Her boss is probably going to end up in jail, or, like, rehab, anyway; who really cares? Sighing, she starts to gather her things up, but just when she's about to shut the computer down, the song changes; within a few screeching synthesizer licks, she finds her second wind, heaves another sigh and settles back into her chair. Just a few more envelopes, and she'll be home free.

Mere feet away, a grimacing Wolverine slowly unclenches when the envelope-stuffer retakes her seat. Now is as good an opportunity as any to move on; keeping his short, broad frame as low as he can, he darts by to continue his sweep.

For a moment, the woman could swear she isn't alone, but the suspicion passes, her creased brow relaxes, and it's back to work. Nine hundred eighty-one. Nine hundred eighty-two...

Logan's hall ends in a sharp right turn, which leads down another, truncated hall; at the end of it, he finds a great, lacquered door adorned with a gold plate reading 'G. SOMETIMES'. |"Got it,"| he thinks as he slips inside. |"You gonna memor--"|

For a split-second, there's a gross disconnect between what his nose tells him and what Betsy's generously extended senses are showing him as those psychic signatures wobble and threaten to fade away entirely.


 * "--christ."| When the unpleasantness subsides, he moves behind the governor's great, wooden desk and hunches over the keyboard, ready to rifle through the Governor's business.

Meanwhile, above:

"This' Reese; first floor's clear, over." the downed guard's radio crackles. "Another borin' night. Second floor?"

The wonderful thing about the human brain, is how predictable the average person actually is. Even to someone as relatively straightforward with her powers as Psylocke, a weak-willed (which is to say, normal) individual thinks in a collection of lateral lines, neatly sorted by category. If you know where to look, you can check dates, times and names as well. It's almost precisely like hacking a computer; with the corresponding difficulty swiftly upscaling when a stronger mind is encountered, and the data is encrypted and secured behind the organic equivalent of firewalls. There are some minds she simply can't touch...

Whether Governor Sometimes has such a mind she may never find out, but in so many other ways he's just a cruel and petty-minded man. Who has links to loved ones and keeps a careful stock of important dates relevant to them. It's to this end that Betsy taps and clicks her way through the network from the administrator's account, quickly aborting any attempt at remotely accessing the full content of the Governor's own system - it IS well-secured from hacking - but looking instead for a /figurative/ way inside his head. It might be slowgoing.


 * "Damn."|

And as she somewhat-echoes Logan's own minor profanity, she's suddenly very aware that 'slow' just won't cut it. Even five minutes is too much when there's a sleep-deprived security guard about to stumble upon at least one unconscious body.


 * "Company incoming. Have you found it? We've got... two minutes, maybe less."|

Keeping her voice calm, inwardly she's facing the threat of being anything but. Her fingers quicken, less heedless of making noise in favour of getting the answers she needs, fast. It's thirty seconds later that a quick cycle through a folder of bitmap images gives her a sudden brainwave. Allowing herself a half-smile, she plunges into the administrator's e-mail account. Granted, the average man may not remember the anniversary of his wedding, but it's in his very nature to rarely forget one very particular date...


 * "Blondi. 2-9-1-0-0-5. Capital 'B', small 'l'..."|

The birthdate of their best friend. She's taking an educated guess - there are no keylogs that she's able to quickly access, lacking the keen hacking skills that would make this even easier. But a look at the man's desktop wallpaper - a beaming German shepherd - led her to a memo stored on the network administrator's e-mail account pertaining to the birthday of a certain 'person' by that name. After rattling off her best guess, she stands up.


 * "And if that works, we should probably leave a card and a squeaky toy. It's only polite."|

Despite the quip, she's already hustling back to their point of entry. Laying out too many guards is a bad idea - but only that first body remains directly visible in the main corridor. She just has to beat his co-worker there, and take the unconscious form outside...

In approximately twenty seconds. A flicker of panic makes its way, telepathically, to Logan.

While Betsy picks her way through the office's servers, Logan sticks with trying a few old standards. 'god'. 'password'. 'abcd1234'. Looking around the room and trying whatever random things he sees. His fingers fly across the keys; very little of his espionage work required him to do computer hacking, but all of the legit stuff required forms. Lots, and lots of forms.

Once the password is given, he smiles to himself as he enters it in. |"Perfect,"| he responds. There really /aren't/ many other X-Men he'd want to have along on a caper like this one, and Betsy keeps proving /why/. |"Let's see what this piece'a crap's got to hide before we worry about polite."|

With that, he opens a few files on the system: personal finance statements, folders of photos, e-books. Nothing interesting--yet; figuring out where the man hides his dirt may take some time, and with the guards closing in on the third floor, they may not have it.

Just as he's considering how to proceed from here, Betsy's panic hits him, and his decision-making process is expedited. |"Psylocke,"| he tersely sends out as he sets the system to shut down and hunches down beside the tower. |"Bets--I'm gettin' the data. Gimme an update, darlin'."| As soon as the fans go dead, a slim, silvery claw slides out from between his middle and ring fingers. A few careful cuts gives him a panel into the computer's insides; a sharp yank gives him its hard drive.


 * "They're gonna know someone was here,"| he ruefully adds, retaking his feet so that he can head out. As he goes, he looks around to see if he can find some sign of Psylocke - and whatever /found/ Psylocke - courtesy of the telepath's granted senses.

There's a prolonged moment of 'radio' silence from the telepath when the terse request comes, long enough to be worrying even were it not for her echoed emotions-- which at least abate to a mild nagging after the initial, poorly controlled spike. While Logan busies himself obtaining data the old-fashioned, claw-slinging way, she's equally occupied using her not inconsiderable - but hardly superhuman - strength to shift the unconscious man up and out of the building, doing her utmost to keep hinges from creaking and the door from slamming while she's depositing him in the cool air outside. Keeping tabs on the situation via her mental map, she's too distracted to reply until she's back inside. Meanwhile, their announced 'company' is close.

Dangerously close. Embarassingly close.


 * "They're going to know anyway. Just-- stay where you are..."|

Ruffled, but forcing cool as best she can, Betsy retraces her steps, finding the anteroom in the same, agonizing moment that the patrolling guard does. His eyes are already wide when her violet gaze finds his face, one hand in the process of lifting his walkie-talkie. He sees her too, and his already opened mouth makes the beginning of a loud, "HEY!" That could bring the place down.

Immediately and jarringly dropping her link to Wolverine - a shriek of mental static his reward - the Violet Butterfly hurls her consciousness forward like a slung blade. Wings of electric fire spread to either side of her countenance as she remotely enters the man's mind - a far less stealthy affair than she can manage at close quarters - and briefly scrambles his thoughts. Planting a suggestion that won't last long, but might just cover their tracks; that everything's fine, that he should relay as much to whoever's on the other end of the device.

And then she's gone, drawing breath as she reaches out to Logan once more.


 * "We have to go. Now. The way's clear; move fast!"|

Following her own advice, she's out of the door and waiting. It's going to take a few minutes for the guard's thoughts to reorganize, by which time he'll be able to take proper stock of the last few moments. It's not quite a clean break... but it's going to have to do.

"All--all clear here," the anteroom guard reports as Betsy disappears. His voice is raw; his throat, aching. He touches a couple fingers to the worst of the tenderness and quickly yanks them back with a wince. "Must'a..." He smooths a hand absently over his rumpled uniform and glances around. Everything's as it was, save for the mysterious neck pain. Must have slept funny--not that he really remembers settling in for a catnap.

"Fuck," he hisses as he retakes his feet. "These graveyard shifts are /killin'/ me..."

Just as Wolverine's rounding the corner from the Governor's office, the violet-tinged impressions that Betsy has overlaid atop everything fizzles again; this time, he simply shuts his eyes and waits for his opening, rather than worry about sorting out the confusion. Visually tracking the other guards through the floor would be wonderful, but he'll make do; amidst the office supplies and coffee, he can smell them as they patrol the floor.

Only when he's sure that they're moving away from his side of the hall does he slip down it so that he can dash towards, and eventually hurl himself through the stairwell door; with the drive in his arms, he's very careful to make sure he hits the hard concrete on the other side back first. After giving himself a moment to catch his breath from the awkward landing - and to make sure the guards aren't looking right at the door - he gently pulls it shut so that he can join Betsy on the roof.

"Sorry," he mutters when he arrives, drive already held out for Betsy's perusal. "Coulda been cleaner." Beat. "Coulda been a hell of a lot messier too, though," he quietly adds. It shouldn't be too hard to pick up on his relief, there.

Easing back into full telepathic coverage of the building gives Betsy fair warning of her partner's approach, and she's already facing him when he emerges, posture relaxed as her sleek purple hair billows faintly in the night-time breeze. His apology garners a shake of her head, violet eyes lidding a moment, immediately loose cool and distant when they open.

"/I'm/ sorry," she responds with a self-effacing wrinkle of the nose - a gesture that used to look much cuter and a lot more natural before she assumed Kwannon's form, though another sign - as if one were needed - that she ultimately remains the same old Betsy. "I've got my limits. I was seen, and he might remember... the only way to be sure was as good as killing." Messier. She doesn't need to echo that, giving another shake of her head as she glances down at the drive.

"Looks serviceable," she notes with a crooked smile that's half-impressed and half-gently teasing. Those claws are sharper than Ginsu knives. "Let's get back and see what we've managed to find. Hopefully more than a diary full of manicure appointments, and a numbered list of his least favourite minorities." Growing more serious, and tone quieter she adds, "I hope we can nail him, my friend... before anyone else needs to get hurt..."