2012-11-03 Making Plans For Michael

Incoming text message: [Hope you are still close to NYC. Find me at 14th and Berry, Brooklyn. Around 3pm.]

It's cold in New York, bitter cold. The skies are a bright blue in contrast to the biting wind that blows off the East River and into Williamsburg. There, at the corner of 14th and Berry, stands Kwabena Odame. He's become very good at blending in over the years, and has himself essentially done up like one of the many Brooklyn hipsters who live in the area; a pair of skinny blue jeans, PF Flyer high tops, and a black sweater over which he wears his long black leather trench. A black beanie adorns his head, and in each hand, he is armed with a styrofoam cup filled with steaming coffee, and a half-smoked cigarette. Behind him stretches an old apartment building, easily fifteen stories high; just another building in which the many denizens of New York call home. He is, for all intents and purposes, just another New Yorker trying to get by.

Never far away from those that need me. See you there.

The response is curtly phrased despite the sentiment therein, a businesslike message fired as Psylocke is already moving through the small apartment she's just recently rented, gathering up what little she needs to travel as a civilian. When she arrives in the bracing chill, her hands are steadfastly thrust into the pockets of a fur-lined, black corduroy jacket. A casual blouse worn underneath comes with an attached hood that's more suspect fashion than genuine function, nonetheless raised to cover the telepath's distinctive purple hair.

Bundled up like that, and with a low-key pair of scuffed denims covering her legs, she looks a lot smaller than she does in costume. And less severe than she was in the sharp attire she wore upon her return to the bank. An outside observer might actually call her 'cute', or a similarly harmless word unlikely to be taken entirely as a compliment. Her manner remains cool as always, her approach to Kwabena swift and habitually stealthy. She doesn't even need to try; a body so honed only abandons the habit when willed. She's not trying to blend in more than she has to.

The important part was simply getting here.

"Those things will kill you, you know."

Her tone seems over-loud in the dense cold, though it's softer than the norm, the familiar British accent marked with a gentle undercurrent of self-aware good humour. It's the sort of comment he's heard a thousand times, and she's clearly aware of it, drawing alongside with a crooked smile and a darting sidelong glance from behind the material of her hood.

"I came as quickly as I could. Not late, am I?"

The question mark falls neatly into place as the third hand on her wristwatch reaches '12'.

It does take a moment for Kwabena to recognize Betsy, done up as she is. He is at the disadvantage of being the one waiting, and there are many passersby in this part of Brooklyn. The bustling social and entertainment action of Williamsburg is the perfect place for him to hide out. In plain sight, as it were, where he's normally adopted himself to living in the worst of places, if even to have had a roof over his head at all.

There is one thing to be said about the African; he is resourceful, especially when it comes to survival. The concrete jungle was quite similar to the time he spent as an exile, living in the jungles of Ghana. Food and shelter were tantamount to survival, and the animals were vicious.

One might say the very same thing about life in the ghetto.

Which is precisely why his time spent renting a small studio apartment in Brooklyn has also been such a relief. Let's not address the how... how he got the money to rent the apartment. Another one of those 'the ends justify the means' things. Besides, the trust fund baby he'd robbed at gunpoint in Tribeca most likely had /plenty/ of money where that came from.

When he does at last recognize her, it is moments before she speaks. He looks down to his cigarette with a scowl, and casts it off into the street carelessly. "Yeah, I suppose I'm not wholly invincible," he quips in response, and meets the sidelong glance with a quizzical grin of his own. "You're right on time," he answers. "Come inside, let's get out of this horrible cold." He turns and leads her toward the entrance of the building, holding the outer door behind open for her before making for the keypad that keeps the inside door locked. "It /never/ gets this cold in Ghana," he complains while entering his code. The door unlatches with a buzz, and he pulls it open for her to enter first. "You're well?" he asks.

As Kwabena assures Psylocke of her promptness, she just smiles a tiny bit wider, a flash of violet eyes speaking for her; she knows. Woe betide her to actually say it, but the kunoichi isn't beyond understated triumph. What other people call 'showing off'.

"Thank you kindly," she murmurs with a chipper edge as she steps past the Ghanian to enter his building, drawing a cool breath through her nose as though to sniff out the interior; not something she thinks about, or is conscious of, and probably entirely the fault of spending too much time with Wolverine. "It was never this cold in England, either. Though sometimes Gotham feels just like home." So much rain. Endless quantities of rain. She has to suppress a shudder - after all, this body certainly isn't native to Great Britain - as she slips goosepimpled hands free from their pockets and flips back her hood. "I'm... well, I suppose."

A frown creases her brow, an inner voice nagging her that this isn't entirely true.

"As well as I can be," she more truthfully amends, with a playfully long-suffering roll of the eyes. "It's a little hard to judge wellness when you're brawling with plant monsters and renegade street gangs in between picking up... interplanar travellers." A furtive glance shoots down the hallway as she says that, a quick telepathic scan confirming they're alone enough to talk like crazy people. "Long story, my friend." Though not one she won't tell. "How are you?"

It's not so simple a question, that one. She knows how he is, at least in loose terms. What the telepath really ought to ask is: 'How can I help?' A query that comes through in a muted undertone, but more clearly in manner and in posture. Confident as she may be, she worries.

The building is far from dirty. In fact, it smells like one of those trendy old wrecks that, in recent years, has been completely renovated in order to capitalize off the booming Williamsburg neighborhood. The floors are clean, the decor of the lobby minimalist. There are two elevators toward which he leads her, and between them, the epitome of trendiness hangs in stark contrast to an otherwise space devoid of artwork:

KEEP CALM and CARRY ON.

They're all over the place these days, those posters, having been dug up from old British archives from the world war. The irony is not lost on Kwabena, though he doesn't address it. He, after all, wasn't the schmooze who chose to hang it there. After pressing the call button, he turns to look at her curiously. "Plant monsters?" he asks. "Inter-planar... what?" He shakes his head and leans close for a moment, whispering, "Better watch what you say, the kids here might think you're on LSD."

There will be time for the sharing of tales, after all.

With a *ding!* the elevator arrives, and the doors slide open. "I am getting by," he answers once they are inside. He presses the button for level eleven, then rips the hat free to reveal his intentionally bald head. "There is a small favor I have to ask of you, but I won't be upset if you're unable to take the offer. We will discuss everything in my apartment." He eyes the steaming carry out cup of coffee in his hand, which it is steadily warming, an offers it over to her with raised eyebrows. However, the gesture cannot completely conceal the subtle differences in Kwabena's mannerisms. There is confidence now, a confidence that was not there before, but there is something off about it... as if he were intentionally suppressing it from finding its way to the surface in full. The natural, instinctive reaction of someone suffering the first dangerous bouts of overconfidence.

That restored relic - indeed, unusually common these days - holds at least a twofold irony to Betsy, but she doesn't comment either beyond the raising of a brow. Initially a somewhat solemn gesture, partway through the accompanying thought she has to let out a breathless chuckle. They're staring war in the face, living in times where bigotry is leading once more to murderous turmoil and brain-aching political strife, and the only people who seem to be noticing are the despondent youth who - a couple of months back - were the next nearest target.

"It would probably be a lot simpler if I was," Psylocke whispers back to Kwabena's warning, that earlier twinkle turning into a full-fledged spark of mischief for just an instant as she fires another glance up the hallway. She'd be less eager to play if she saw any chance in being caught out, of course; in certain parts of town, revealing their nature would have far worse things than slurred, 'far-out' slang tossed in their general direction. Oh, for an easier life.

There's a burden on her shoulders that ensures this light-hearted spirit cannot last, however, and she's back to her more sober, tight-lipped self once they're in the elevator. She's examining Kwabena closely even before he extends the coffee cup, watching him with a vulpine wariness that transcends any 'normal' gaze. Though she's deliberately not invading his thoughts, there's no concealing that this isn't quite the same man she left in New York a few days prior.

Reaching for the proferred cup, she gently pulls the lid free - she can't abide drinking through a spout - and takes a sip, watching him still over the rim. Her eyes bat once, as she lowers the cup and recaps it, then she nods her head. Again, just once.

"Whatever you need. I'm here for you."

It's what friends do. She doesn't add 'within the bounds of reason'; she trusts him without qualification.

It's not as though she doesn't have her own secrets.

Unfortunately, the same seems true of Kwabena. She couldn't have known about the ten grams of heroin he'd flushed down the sink just days ago; the investment Slee had made in him. The act had two very distinct meanings for Kwabena. One, that he was not going to relapse again, and two, that he was finished with Slee.

Only to be finished with a drug lord, one must go down a very ugly path.

So it is that the burden comes to him as well, slipping through the veil of quirky remarks and suppressed confidence, for now, his thoughts begin to linger upon the heavy request he is about to make of her. He meets her eyes, but he doesn't respond verbally. He merely lets the weight sit there, as if warning her that the request he's about to make will not be an easy one to accept /or/ turn down.

The elevator slows, the chime rings, and the doors slide open. In silence, Kwabena leads her a few doors down, then unlatches the door to his apartment with two keys. He remains silent until he's stepped in, set the coffee down on his meager dining table, and slips the trench from his shoulders only to lay it ingloriously upon his small couch.

Turning back to face her, he offers his hand to take her jacket as well, before speaking. "Betsy, there is something I have to do. Here, in New York. Before leaving or going anywhere. It's... one of those loose ends I have to tie up."

Nothing is easy.

The X-Woman is never sure whether a life passed in ease would be a life not worth living... or the only type of life that might be. It's a gloomy thought on which she never rests for long; that one must continue to live and breathe is a fact of existence, so to remove the life from living is to render null the only chance at doing something right or just. But it's never simple. A spoiled child may any regular standard, Betsy still awoke every morning to some new tribulation, only finding the pressure worse once she sought a career. Pilot, fashion model, secret agent, or mutant freedom fighter... there are challenges, always. The only way to move forward is to keep on walking, one foot in front of the other. A basic truth.

Following Kwabena into the apartment, she follows exactly that pattern. Step, step, step. Whatever astonishment or horror she walks toward, there's no choice but to do exactly that; as a compatriot, as a friend, she wouldn't turn away if he told her he was the twisted avatar of Apocalypse, returned and reborn. A keen gaze pans through the interior whilst the Ghanian proceeds through his homecoming ritual, settling on him when he turns. Still feeling the chill inside, she responds to his polite offer with a shake of her head and a smile - quickly dimmed.

Quiet and solemn, she listens to what ensues, hands slipping back into her pockets.

"And you need my help," she appends seamlessly, bobbing her head as though this were a foregone conclusion. "Or want it, at least?" Her eyes widen a touch with that, not through hope but through respect and sympathy-- 'need' is a hard thing to admit. People shouldn't be forced to do so. "There's no shame in having a past, Kwabena. We've all had to escape from poor decisions; from the ghost of shame and regret." A sad smile touches her lips. "Some of us never get to stop running. If you have a chance to break away, then take it."

Her voice softens toward the end, becoming a near-whisper as she slips a hand free to drift toward faintly mussed purple hair. A few strands are coiled and pulled back behind her ear, a semi-conscious gesture, that violet gaze measuring the Ghanian.

"Please, carry on. You have my word I won't just walk away."

"You know something of that past," admits Kwabena. He moves a chair away from the table and sits down, slowly, palms spreading out against his knees in a moment of uncomfortable silence. "I... became involved with a regional narcotics trafficker. Michael Slean, or 'Slee'. He operates out of East Brooklyn and pushes to dealers in Queens and Harlem, specifically, but the narcotics he pushes end up permeating many other boroughs and, I suspect, even out into New York state."

He reaches for the cup of coffee, pausing long enough to take a long drink, before setting it back down. He'd intentionally avoided looking at Betsy while telling her about Slee, for there was a touch of shame in his soul. He'd made mistakes, he'd chosen poorly... and now, in an effort to move away from those decisions, he has no choice but to face them.

Finally, he looks over at her, his expression garish and mostly devoid of emotion or expression. "You probably know how these type of people are. Once they get you on the hook, you don't just walk away. They will follow you, they will find you, they will pull you back in. Save disappearing completely, even leaving the country, their eyes and ears go farther and wider than anyone would like to admit." He draws in a deep breath, and lets it out with a beleaguered sigh. For now, the confidence is gone, and all we have is a man admitting his predicament. "I am very good at disappearing, at walking away. I could just go... I would not mind keeping my eyes peeled for him, for the rest of my life. But, unfortunately, I have mixed someone else up in the matter." He looks back at Betsy, frowning. "The mercenary, with the black patch over her eye. Domino. Slee wants her dead, and he expects me to bring her to him."

Before any response can be made, however, Kwabena's expression changes. The emptiness goes away, and the confidence comes back, in small slivers that pierce his eyes and twist the corner of his mouth away from frowning. "Domino and I don't intend to let him hold our leashes any longer. I... /we/ do not need your help, Betsy, but..."

But it would be appreciated. It's left unspoken, but it is quite clear in the way his voice trails off, and the almost expectant look in his eyes.

Even with the most involved telepathic exploration of a man's brain, even dissecting his innermost secrets with a razor-keen scalpel of searing, mind-wracking energy, there is no replacement for hearing the honest truth from his own lips. The human body is a beautiful thing, within and without, and the soul yet moreso. To watch, hear, and feel the two in perfect synergy is something that no amount of mutant power can seek to replace. It's ultimately what Psylocke chooses to fight for-- the preservation of that beauty. A society in which it can blossom.

Men like this outlined 'Slee', they're the enemy of that; living for wealth and power, to the gross misfortune of any who opppose them. Yes, she knows something of Kwabena's past; perhaps more even than he realizes, in the sum total of transferred emotion, of shared experience. That instant of pure, unrestrained contact that passed between them... he could not comprehend it like she could, nor even hope to. There's a bitter loneliness in that fact, but right now it brings her closer to him. She doesn't just /listen/ - she knows, she understands. A parallel is easily drawn with the men who would hunt her even now, if they knew where she was.

There's every chance that they do, and are biding their time. Does she want to stand alone, should that time come? It's a comparison rendered moot when Kwabena suddenly drops a barely-familiar name with a jarringly familiar description. Twice she's crossed paths with the trigger-happy mercenary; once saved her life, though she somehow suspects her intervention was neither entirely appreciated or even genuinely required. The name is known on the underworld. A freelance agent of merry chaos, mysteriously remaining unattached despite her reputed skill.

Domino. Another piece falling into place.

Her only outward betrayal of that is a pursing of lips, a momentary slitting of the eyes as she makes a mental note. These aren't gestures she tries to conceal; there's no need to. When Kwabena tails off, she's already nodding her assent.

"But you'll have it. I've tried to show you there's... a future." Her gaze is suddenly downcast, something just shy of guilt creeping across her expression. The burden of responsibility. When she looks up, it's gone. "I can't give you that hope, and then force you to sustain it alone." That's softened with a smile, lingering a moment as she once more allows that perceptive gaze to linger, just gently, gently nudging forth with the telepathic sense she's been suppressing.

An effort which draws a frown, and a quick retraction. She just had to be sure.

"Don't get too confident. I've fought enough men like this to know they never surrender; when you deal in harnessed lives and the lingering promise of death, you do not flinch when it comes knocking. He can choose between the grave or... something worse. The former might not be his own, but if he fights one whit below his potential, uses any less than the full scope of his resources? A life behind bars will treat him far more cruelly than an instant of agony. There's nothing beyond the pale but that, Kwabena. Pain, into nothing. You die, and you're gone."

It begins, and ends, as a warning, before she draws herself upright. Violet eyes dart around the room, alighting on the wardrobe and the bed in short order before she flicks a gesture of the hand between each. Making an educated guess that comes perilously near the mark.

"If you've got weapons, bring them. Don't hold back, but remember..." All business - too business for her disarmingly casual, pleasant attire. "Dying is easy, but so is killing. I've /killed/ men like this, too; but if I'm coming with you, and if you're truly intent on being a new man, you pull the trigger only when you have to. Aim for legs, arms, fleshy areas they can afford to lose. There's a difference between 'holding back' and refusing to become a monster."

There's a couple of seconds for that to sink in, a sigh leaving her lips, before she presses on:

"You know where he's holed up? Show me a map, if you have one. And tell me numbers. Tell me everything."

When she agrees to help, Kwabena bobs his head in silent acknowledgement, with a look of thanks in his eyes and spread across his thinly pressed lips. However, he couldn't have expected the advice that she gives him. He should have... she was not like Erik Lehnsherr, nor was she like Domino. She was different. Conflicted, troubled, but... there was some influence about her, something that came from having /been/ influenced. He's no telepath, but he can tell.

His troubled heart has been wrestling with the idea of becoming a murderer, for that was Domino's plan. Take him out, leave none alive, and be done with it. A matter that was both chillingly, effectively defensive, but also, a matter that would have helped the community. Put Slee behind bars, and what? How long until his overpaid lawyer gets him out, or some well connected meth kingpin manages to bust him out of prison otherwise? A bullet between the eyes means that Slee is gone, for good.

However, Kwabena could not picture himself as an executioner, even though Domino expected it of him. These two women had more of an influence upon him than he would have easily admitted. The question, though, has yet to be answered. Which one will Kwabena become? The assassin, or the vigilante hero?

He withdraws the maps that he'd made, and shows her everything. Kwabena has put a lot of time and effort into this... he knows where Slee's warehouse lies, deep in the bad parts of East Brooklyn. He also has a map of the warehouse's interior, and he knows where and when Slee does his drops. Tuesday night in Queens, Sunday morning in Harlem.

"We will hit him Tuesday night, here, in Queens. Domino and I will take out his friends, then we will drive Slee back to his own warehouse. There, we intend to impress upon him the severity of trying to tangle us up in his affairs any longer. Now, between the two of us, we should be able to operate this plan well enough on our own. However, I was hoping that you would be able to help with your... abilities." He looks back at Betsy, curiously. "Domino wants to know how Slee is connected with those who are putting plasma weapons into the black market. I want access to Slee's safe. Are you capable of taking this information from him?"

He's all business now, too, cold and calculated. But there's something else he wishes to add. It's there in his eyes, but he doesn't speak of it, not yet.

Assassin or hero? Perhaps what Kwabena senses is the similar battle raging within the soul of Betsy Braddock. She speaks of not killing, but knows in her heart there are ways of murdering a man whilst not stealing his breath - or draining the blood from his veins. Ultimately, she feels as she expresses to the troubled Ghanian; that the essence of 'goodness' lies in not setting out to kill on judgement alone. In seeking to resolve the conflict however possible-- saving the blade, or the bullet, as a final recourse against those who leave no other option.

They may each learn something about themselves, when the time comes.

"Good," murmurs Psylocke, back to business as she surveys the map laid before her. She's impressed at the preparation that has gone into this - it's another sign that Kwabena Odame is the man she believes him to be. A mere killer does not plan so carefully. It's no assurance of a righteous soul, to be sure, but it's a positive quality. And a very, very useful one. A sideglance takes him in over the examined drawing as he relates the plan. Her eyes narrow, with thought more than suspicion or accusation, breath coming deep and slow as she considers.

"Domino's a volatile woman, Kwabena. Dangerous. Unpredictable." What she doesn't voice is the dark, dawning realization that the kunoichi... might well like her. They've worked toward a common goal twice already. And they share a certain deadly quality. "Use that. Create a distraction, draw Slee's men away, and I'll slip inside. I can be in and out of his mind in seconds; I can..." She hesitates, shaking her head at some doubtful thought. Questioning her own motivations as she continues, with some amendment, "I can get the information. If you can buy enough time, he won't even need to know I've been there."

Suddenly, all attention is off the map and the plan. Her gaze slips sidelong once more, and with renewed intensity she leans closer, placing one hand upon the table. The words that follow are hard and cold; not to be questioned.

"But that decision's yours to make. He can live, he can die, or I can make him wish you'd been more merciful. If I'm to help you, I can't make the hard choices on your behalf. You know this man; you know what he's capable of. What he *is*. You're the one who passes judgement."

"I agree," voices Kwabena, in agreement with Domino being volatile. Still, there was something he felt he could trust about her. She didn't exactly like Kwabena, but she didn't dislike him, either. However, he got Domino into this mess, and it served both of them to get out of it, together. "We've already planned on using Domino as bait, because Slee expects me to bring her to him. I want to keep you out of sight. Make them believe that it's /just/ the two of us, Domino and myself. We should be able to handle anything Slee throws at us, and you can help by warning us of any surprises."

His use of the word 'should', of course, insinuates that if things go to pot, she's welcome to come out of the shadows and kick some ass.

That part of the conversation, however, is short lived. He does, indeed, know who Slee is, and he hopes that if everything plays out right, they will be able to avoid killing him. They might even impress upon him, with their combined efforts, that he should leave behind his life of crime and do something better with himself.

He's also more than willing to pull the trigger. The challenge that Kwabena faces, is that he's never actually pulled the trigger. He doesn't know what it's like.

He shakes his head and looks away from Betsy, seeming weakened by the internal struggle. "I'm not ready for this," he whispers quietly. "Not ready." He stares at the papers for a moment, before looking up and meeting her eyes again. He can the intensity in her eyes, and he knows that she cannot provide his answers. Only he can.

Strength of will comes back to him and he says, "But by Tuesday night... I will be. I promise."