2013.10.25 - An Odd Matter of Vengeance

"Welcome, Shift."

A synthetic, feminine voice introduces the swiveling of gears and the many clicks of a sophisticated locking mechanism. A circle emblazoned with the stylized 'X' rotates to the side, and the Danger Room's thick, metal doors slide open.

A lone figure walks in, dressed in a uniform of gunmetal gray. There he stands, observing the oddly shaped gravity lenses, hard-light laser emitters, stylized full-spectral audio speakers, and other constructs in place that make this room the most sophisticated piece of simulation tech on the planet.

So many thoughts and memories are crammed inside the African's mind. Each of them have been roughly compartmentalized, meditated upon, and effortlessly filed away in a roughshod system of doubts, hopes, goals, and emotions. It's the best he could do to avoid going on a rampage of vengeance. That would have been utterly foolish.

He's made too many foolish mistakes.

Reaching the main computer interface, he presses a gloved hand against the access panel. The device scans through the unstable molecules of his uniform, reading his unique genetic signature and producing a chirp of confirmation. The computer system comes alive, and the laser-emitters peppering the room begin to glow.

"Create new program. Set parametahs: focused combat training. Single pahticipant versus multiple synthetics."

The synthetic voice answers. "Set environment parameters."

"Complex environments. Indoor and outdoor. Globahl spectrum, multiple distractions and temperaments."

"Set virtual lifeform parameters."

"Access pahsonell file 1-A562, Wagner. Create multiple synthetics. Calibrate pseudo-gravity stasis fields to accommodate multiple directions, multiple vectors, multiple speeds, unlimited changes."

"Please specify difficulty level."

How many times had he used this very room to practice with his teammates? How many times had they suffered through long hours of grueling simulations in order to further master their abilities? How many times had they challenged each other, critiqued each other, and bet over a round of beers who might come out on top next time?

This was not one of those times. This time, he had to consider the opponent an enemy; an enemy who had to be hunted, subdued, and taken alive for his own sake. A friend turned enemy, who was quite unlikely to listen to reason. A man who needed to be stopped as much as he needed help.

"Please specify difficulty level," repeats the computer.

"Maximum difficulty."

"Warning: this difficulty level may result in personal injury. Please confirm."

He should have rested longer. He should give the potions their ample chance to heal him fully. He should have taken the time to recover his strength. But he cannot afford such luxuries, for the world is not so forgiving. In the world Kwabena Odame lives in, there have never been ideal circumstances, and there may never be.

"Confirmed."

As the synthetic world begins to form around him, Kwabena crouches downward. He slowly sways to and fro until he finds his center of gravity, and there he focuses every ounce of his being. Not on what he sees, not on the various hazards of brick and iron, but instead upon his own core. He ignores the swirling colors as the environment forms around him, instead focusing on the steadily knitting form of two synthetic bodies. His opponents. He'll not attack them, not this round. No, for this time, it's about adaptation. Learning to survive. Learning to survive the hell they can put him through.

The African cracks his neck to the side before muttering, with a daredevil's smirk, "Come and get me, mein freund."