2014.01.28 - But Why Kwabena

X-Men Base - Science Lab

This room is spacious and perfectly circular in shape. The floors are tiled in white marble, and the walls are completely covered in computer terminals, monitors, and many bookshelves worth of reference books. The technology here is all obviously of an advanced level, in keeping with the rest of the complex. In one corner of the room, a ring of computers and more monitors and panels surrounds a large clear tube, which appears to be an isolation chamber for studying different subjects under varying conditions.

There is also an advanced chemical laboratory, as well as areas for biology, metallurgy, geology, and just about every other science one can think of, along with a forensic crime lab tucked into one corner. Several fairly small adjoining rooms allow for analysis and experimentation, each of which can be separately sealed off if necessary.

The only exit from this room is the doorway to the east, which is a large disc of silver metal embossed with a giant "Circle X" symbol.

Technically, Monet St. Croix is not supposed to be here. She is not a formal part of the X-Men. Informally, who are we kidding. If you ask her, she could hack the security system, anyway.

Still, Theresa has to let them in. The machine and Kwabena-maybe-clone-likely float behind her and before M. Once they're clear, the body drifts to an examination table and the machine to a corner. The broken pieces neatly fold themselves up, because Monet cannot abide her work being messy.

"Sit down. I will need to take a sample. After that, you are free to hover over my shoulder and ask useless questions." The Algerian mutant makes a straight line for the equipment she needs. She saw them a few weeks ago and did not forget the correct drawer. "Are you taking any drugs I should know about?"

Terry mostly remembers the way into the lab, but she also is sure that nobody will mind. She can claim that Psylocke told them to do it, and who's going to know? Logan? Logan will only care if she got into the beer.

She has not gotten into the beer.

Yet.

Terry's lips purse at these warm and loving words from Monet, and she rolls up her fatigue sleeve with some effort as she sets downwards. "Aye, I've been injecting heroin in between my toes for the last month. No, just a bit of tylenol sometimes," she says, her attention resting on the maybe-a-clone with some concern. "God, he's so young. I mean we're not exactly old either, but I remember when I bumped into him when I was up here to get some cocoa mix..."

Amongst the technological frontier, a single display panel is feeding live information from the Blackbird. The incident that took place just north of Las Vegas is over by now, but the information is freely available should either choose to peruse it. Regardless of whether Psylocke or Dazzler have provided their reports, the Blackbird has captured ample sensor and video data, some of which might come in useful.

As for the man who so closely resembles Kwabena, he's still out cold, his vitals lingering somewhere between 'unconscious' and 'comtatose'.

M looks over her shoulder to deliver a reproachful look. Her hair frames her face against her shoulder. Maybe she practices in a mirror.

"Alcohol. You should mention alcohol, Ms. Cassidy, if you are going to drink as much as you do."

There is a needle assembly and two empty containers visible in her hands when she turns. "Don't bother arguing. I know you are not inebriated now. Superior senses include the ability to detect the people who systematically poisoned themselves last night."

Monet sets the containers down on a sterile tray and examines the needle, holding it up before her. Her eyes focus to look at Theresa beyond. "Not that I have anything against self-medicating. Medical professionals so rarely lack the vision to prescribe creatively. Arm out, now, then you will go and check the feed from the Blackbird. I can hear it coming in just this moment."

Terry looks momentarily surprised. The surprise turns into stunned surprise, then into contempt, as it continues forwards. "Aren't you a warm and caring bedside figure," she says, before she extends her arm. For a moment, she considers it - then decides that in the unlikely event of something going bad, she can just scream, and it will be Handled.

So that's good.

"Well I have to fill your mason jars here first, don't I?" she says, rhetorically. "So I suppose we can have a few exciting moments together. Anyway, they say a few drinks now and again are statistically proven to be good for you, so you can reconsider your 'systematic poisoning' a bit, perhaps." After a pause, she says, warily, "What are you talking about, self medicating?"

"You were not having 'a few drinks,'" Monet replies. She does not stress it aggressively. It is a neutral, confident statement of facts. She leans in and finds a vein. It does not hurt so badly.

The Monegasque woman smiles faintly. "The words mean exactly what they do."

Both containers filled, M turns away. "You're done. Forgive me if I do not have a bandage for you. They're unnecessary, with that gauge of needle, unless I have misjudged how hemophilic you are."

Evidently, the blood is not needed now, because she turns her attention to the Kwabena clone. She seems at ease with the diagnostic tools of the laboratory, though every now and then she will pause to stare at something.

Terry offers it up, wordlessly.

As she fills the containers, she says, "Next you're going to start quoting the dictionary at me, aren't you?" After this she rises up, stepping off to go and collect whatever information is coming in from the Blackbird telemetry, managing not to 'hmph' /too/ loudly as she goes. She also rolls her sleeve back down, which will, at least, push the little pinhole M punched in her shut.

The tools provided in this laboratory are among the most sophisticated available in the current time period. As such, gathering basic information is quite easy. The subject is aged at 29 years. Historical information gathered will reveal that up until approximately six months ago, he was in perfect health. Since then, evidence points to the application of heavy and sophisticated medicines, most of which were used to sedate and draw different reactions from his biological structure. Tests.

Two pieces of critical information are gathered. The DNA sample matches, almost perfect detail, that which is on record for Kwabena Odame, the X-Man they both know. Except, of course, for one critical difference. His X-Gene. A number of its base pairs have further transformed to modify the effects wrought by this particular gene. A more detailed analysis will take some time, a minute or so.

Meanwhile, Theresa's observation of incoming data will begin to reveal the full measure of what took place after they departed from Nevada. The opening of rips in the spacetime continuum. The arrival of armies from various time periods and locations. A nuclear weapon signature. The information keeps on scrolling, summarized at first, unless one should happen to dig deeper into the science of it all.

"Would you prefer I stunt my vocabulary to make you more comfortable? That would be condescending."

The computer works. Monet works too, even more silently. She takes the information without reaction, and then guides the computer on a closer examination of the X-gene. This will not be difficult, considering whose laboratory they are in.

"Have you found anything interesting, Ms. Cassidy?"

"God!" Terry says as she leaves the room.

Time passes.

She looks at the screens of telemetry with some slowly dawning recognition. Theresa Cassidy is not a slow student, but she is not a stunning intellect either. She finally, after a long period of silence, says to herself, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph. OI!"

The 'oi' is very clearly hearable despite her having put some distance between herself and M. "They had temporal /rifts/ and a bloody nuclear bomb! Here, look at this, I think this is a Roman thing, isn't it? What in the hell were they DOING there??"

"I suppose we made a good call to handle this," she muses further. Nobody's /actually/ dead yet, after all. Right?

A closer examination of the X-Gene will reveal a striking difference. It's pretty well known around the mansion that Kwabena can sublimate his body into smoke, or gas form. Rumor has it he can also harden his flesh, even turn it to liquid, and some of the X-Men might be privy to know of his most powerful (and dangerous) phase, that of living plasma.

However, this X-Gene sample exhibits but two characteristics. It is capable of nullifying the genetic structure of other X-Genes, essentially reversing their original mutation to a state of Homo Sapien. It also enables this man, this facsimile of Kwabena, to sense the presence of other X-Genes. Like the nose of a hound, trained to its hunt.

More information is presented to Theresa as the info dump continues. The presence of multiple known metahumans are registered, including Booster Gold, Superman, and Rokk Krinn. Registered metas. Iron Man is also registered, in addition to the X-Men who were in the field, Psylocke, Dazzler, and Nate Grey. Also registered is Nate's daring rescue of Shift (the actual Kwabena) and Rachel. And they're all on their way back to the mansion right now, aboard the Blackbird.

Nobody was killed, at least among those trying to save the day. However, a number of deaths are registered amongst the Roman, Russian, and German armies. Not an alarming number, but still, there were fatalities.

"Busy," M calls back, flatly.

This information is an interesting twist on her earlier postulation. Interesting in the same way that nuclear plant meltdowns are interesting. It definitely suggests a few motivations, none of which are especially pure.

"Coming."

Monet floats into the room after Theresa, stopping alongside her. She's roughly a head and a half taller, at her altitude. "Unsurprising, really. Angel had to escape somewhere. Temporal manipulation must be so tempting once broached."

Her eyes narrow as she scans over the names of Booster Gold and Rokk Krinn. "We will likely be handling this for quite some time. We would have received a call if they resolved the X-gene negation issue. This was, perhaps, merely a scuffle."

"Merely a scuffle? They had bloody SUPERMAN there, and they killed a bunch of Nazis and Russians and Romans!" Terry says with indignation. "What if this means time is going to change and Hitler will win? You won't be so relaxed then, I'll tell you that much."

Frowning, she says, "At least our folks all seem to be alive. So what did you find then? Evidently he's the clone, or so I'm reading here. The one we have, I mean."

Telemetry registers two figures soaring into the heavens. Superman, clutching a nuclear bomb and carrying it into space; Iron Man, blasting his way to the moon like a spear with a T-Rex at it's tip.

Yes, a T-Rex. One of those temporal rifts seems to have gone back quite a few millennia.

There are a number of other machines registered as fighting on the heroes side, though their true signatures are scrambled by some kind of interference. A severe magnetic distortion, the flattening of all metal objects to the Earth, and soon enough, the ripples in time begin to re-appear. It's unclear how, but the armies and dinosaurs are pushed back into the portals, the vast majority of them disappearing, leaving only a handful of stragglers behind (and, fortunately, no dinosaurs, save for one T-Rex buried a quarter mile into the moon's surface).

To Monet, the rifts in time will definitely appear symbolic. A simple (for her) assessment of garb, weaponry, the make and model of tank and airplane, will reveal that these rifts in time seem to center around major historical events. It's a likely guess that the dinosaurs were sent back in time merely to suffer the cataclysmic event that wiped them out and thrust the Earth into its most recent ice age.

Either way, the battle ended almost as abruptly as it started, with a ferocious burst of energy coming from a space station in the sky that served to seal up those time portals for good.

At the Hitler prediction, Monet turns her head to look down at Terry, eyes icy. "Would you be?"

The telemetry continues, and something catches M's interest from the the corner of her eye. She watches, silent, giving Theresa ample time to formulate any number of responses.

Not that Monet responds to them once she is finished watching. At that point: "It's a pattern. The Kwabena clone has been altered to seek and suppress the X-gene. These temporal rifts are centered around events that would be considered significant in modern, eurocentric, academic understanding."

She presses a finger to her lips, basking in the glow of the screen for a lingering moment. "But why Kwabena?" M alights upon the ground, monopolizing a keyboard to type away. Even if she is not supposed to find them, M is looking for the man's medical history.

When the medical file is requested, the computer blats at Monet. "Request Rejected."

"Hmf," Terry replies. This seems to be the best she can do.

She is able to formulate a reply after this information is parsed. "Well it could just be the government being a bunch of racists again," she guesses. "Maybe they want to hunt down mutants in the past or something, then. Or kill the ones who cause problems when they're young." She is clearly pulling these answers directly from her ass.

Monet's lip twitches. She stares straight ahead and speaks with a strained voice as she indicates the keyboard. "Would you be so kind? I would rather not give Mr. Ramsey reason to visit and speak about user access agreements."

"Oh, well then," Terry says, leaning over to start typing in her password. She gets as far as 'rubberb' when she glares at Monet momentarily, shifts around, and backstrokes the password away. (It is rubberband1t5.)

She hits enter, emphatically. "God knows if /I/ have access," she mutters. "Are you on academic probation for drugs or something, then?"

The computer grants Theresa access to the computer, and it brings up a file on Kwabena. Now, these computers are smart. They are self-learning types, and they have been monitoring Monet's progress. As such, they begin to make some calculations anticipating what she might want to learn.

Very smart computers.

First, a genetic comparison is created between the samples taken from the Kwabena here in the lab (Shift Beta), and the one on record - the same allegedly on his way back from Las Vegas (Shift Alpha). The DNA sequences, save that X-Gene, are confirmed. However, there are some striking differences.

Shift Alpha has a lot of medical data. There are traces of narcotic use in his medical history, nearly the whole gamut. Heroin, methamphetamine, cocaine, marijuana. Historical data suggests that it has been a long time since he's used any of these drugs - well over a year, save for a recent use of marijuana - though he is an active consumer of alcohol and nicotine. Shift Beta? Completely, utterly clean. No traces of narcotics, no traces of nicotine or alcohol.

Shift Alpha is 25 years of age. Shift Beta is aged 29.

It would seem impossible for a clone to be created four years before the original sample host was born.

"Strictly speaking, I do not know the X-Men exist." Monet pauses, considering this. "Additionally, there was an incident involving temporary manslaughter."

More silence when the computer is finished. M's reaction is a hint of a frown, that is, more of a frown than typical for her nonplussed-seeming resting face. "Look," she says, gesturing toward a bank of information. "This extra age can't be accounted for by temporal manipulation. There's no accompanying distortion. Nothing we are able to identify, at least."

She crosses her arms. If intense staring is a recognized input, the computer would have likely come up with something to placate her by now. "The signature may be different."

Monet clucks her tongue. "Dictionary. Right." She glances over to Theresa and then nods toward the other room. "He's maybe from another timeline."

THEN: DRUGS. Theresa is able to follow along the charts, at least; she just did a unit on medical terminology and its implications in a policing situation! HOORAY!

This also makes her realize, uncomfortably, that this is something of a violation of privacy. However, once people start throwing tyrannosaurs into the Moon, she reckons you can have a little wiggle room, and keeps scanning the screen. "Temporary manslaughter, that's a good one," she mutters.

She looks helpless at the age news. It seems, at least, beyond her pay grade for now. "I... could they've done it in the past? I don't know..."

The computer chugs through more data. A spare glance may indicate that Shift Alpha's most recent bout with heroin was a result of his captivity in Latveria, where opiate-inducing, self-replicating nanites were introduced to his bloodstream. The file indicates that it was a terribly difficult mechanism to shut down, and it was only accomplished when the lump sum of nanites were quite literally 'fried' by a severely fatal magnetic pulse. This is, but of course, merely a shadow of Kwabena's history, something he'd likely never have shared with either Theresa or Monet, but there it is.

Otherwise, the computer is drawing a blank.

The computer chugs through more data. It's listening to the dialogue, like a version of Siri on steroids. And then, a message flashes across the screen.

[Subject Beta -- Temporal Displacement Match to Subject Alpha -- 76% probability.]

[Recommend direct comparison with Subject Alpha to confirm temporal bio-fields.]

"Well, then." Monet laces her fingers together and tilts her chin up, regarding the computer's final recommendation. "It appears we have some time to kill. I know the passcode to the kitchen. Coming?"

Self-replicating opiate generating nanoids, Theresa thinks. She is pretty sure she knows all those words, at least.

"Uh? Oh. Aye, that sounds like a better plan than staring at this screen, doesn't it?" She pauses, then says, "Should we get him something, or..."

"It's not my place to consider the ethics. He'll remain stable while the X-Men are in transit. Mr. Odame is, in my professional opinion, his current next of kin."

With that, Monet exits.