2012-12-10 Not Exactly a Teacher

It hasn't even been twenty four hours since Kwabena Odame was brought to the secret base. He'd managed to catch a few hours of sleep in the space Logan had provided for him, and following the morning sickness that came with his technological affliction, he'd spent the entire day undergoing tests, scans, and other such inspections inside the medical bay.
Left alone for a while, Kwabena had spent the better part of an hour watching the robotic arms as they conducted a variety of tests and experimentations on the blood and DNA samples that had been taken from him. Upon one of the many computer terminals in the medical lab, he'd watched as the DNA analysis began showing a graphical representation of the molecular changes that take place in his body, at the behest of his mutated X-Gene. The form of a human man, turning into gas, then solid once more, before turning into a liquid state.
However, it was the analysis of the nanites that shattered his mood. A full three quarters of an hour had passed before the computers were finally able to begin an analysis of the cell-sized devices that swam through his body, tormenting him at regular intervals. The display simply read: "1% complete. ETA: 326 hours."
He was running out of time.
Kwabena now stands outside of the secret base in the bitter cold, wrapped up in a black leather jacket and a red knit hat. A sparing glance is given toward the moon as it disappears beneath the clouds, before he takes another singular drag of the dwindling cigarette in his hand.
Ororo, on the other hand, doesn't seem to notice the cold at all. The cropped motorcycle-style leather jacket she has on over a sleeveless shirt and black jeans seems to be worn simply for the style, buckles and zippers left unfastened as she approaches her friend. "I suppose it would seem a bit obvious to say I wasn't entirely honest when I said I was simply a teacher," she says, not sure of what else to say in greeting, given the circumstance.
"How are you feeling, so far?" she asks, though even then, she's not sure if she should be asking. It's not like he can honestly say he's /fine/ or anything.
"Hah!" Startled, Kwabena whips about, only to blink owlishly when he sees, of all things, a familiar face. He peers at her for a moment, as if just to make sure. "O... Ororo?" he asks, before looking askance at his cigarette. Quickly whipping it behind his back, he stuffs it against his own hand, which of course does him no harm. The spot that would have been burned simply turns into a thick spot of black smoke that snuffs out the cigarette.
He, as well, seems to have adopted a slightly different style in black jeans and a maroon ribbed t-shirt beneath a more simple, less zipper-y leather jacket.
"I... I am not sure," speaks the accented Ghanaian. He looks past Ororo toward the hidden doorway from whence he'd left the base; he'd not been permitted to go anywhere else, certainly not upstairs. "It's a lot to take in."
"You've been through a lot in a very short time, I suppose I should have known better than to ask," she says. "Here, at least let me do what I can for the moment..." she says, and her eyes glow white as the air around him grows warmer, some of the snow even melting around his feet. "That jacket's not exactly fit for a night this cold," she says, forcing a bit of a smile. "I can at least make a tiny part of the night a little less cold."
Truth be told, Kwabena had been appreciating the cold. It was a stern reminder of the importance every decision he made had become. Regardless, the warmth is surprisingly comforting, and he lets loose a suppressed shiver. "It nevah gets dat cold in Africa," he echoes an earlier conversation, while casually slipping the extinguished cigarette up inside the sleeve of his jacket. "So dis is de place you had told me about?" he asks, as pieces of a long puzzle start to fall into place. "I think I undahstand now what you meant. A safe place, a secret place." He nods his head slowly, then tilts his head slightly to the side. "What did dey tell you?"
"Not much. That you had been in Latveria, that something had been done to you," she says. "I have to ask, but I'm a bit afraid to... did you have contact with any other prisoners, and if so... do you remember an Asian woman with purple hair? Was she... I mean..." she trails off, and frowns a bit, pressing her lips together.
The world seems to be drawing itself into a maze strangely interconnected by inexplicable connections, for the person described couldn't possibly be mistaken. Especially to Kwabena. His lips part with more surprise, but it is quickly replaced by a shadow upon the Ghanaian's face. "She... Betsy... was a paht of our team," he offers. He looks away to seek the moon once more, but it has disappeared behind thick clouds. "You knew her?" he asks, then glances toward Ororo with a tortured frown. "She... was a paht of all dis, wasn't she?" He motions about at the wilderness, the secrecy, the concealed mansion.
"I should say 'is'. I do not know if she has lived or died, but I have to believe she lives."
"That... gives me some hope," she says. "I know her, yes." Even if the woman had been acting a bit out of sorts, she's still an X-Man, which of course means Ororo is willing to risk her own safety... or, apparently, an international incident for. "I suppose now that you know about it, you're a part of it as well, in a way," she says. "The knowledge of this place is not something any of us who live here share easily."
"Logan did make dat clear," he answers, but there is a solemn nod of his head. "But I undahstand. Dere is... well, so much to tell you, but none of it is pretty." He steps out of the warmth just a bit, feeling the cold biting at his face while the warmth still radiates at his back. "Dey brought me here because of what was done to me," he offers. "Dis place may be de only place dat can help me now." Brow furrowing, he adopts a less casual stance, curling his arms about himself but not for the cold; rather, for the thought of the tiny monsters afflicting his every moment. The nanites that were slowly killing him.
Storm places a hand on his back. "We've been the last hope for many people now, and beat the odds many times," she assures him. "It's actually something of a specialty of ours," she adds, trying to sound amused. "Coming trough when no one else seemed to be able to."
A slow exhale spews fog in to the air, and Kwabena seems to relax somewhat when the hand is placed. There is a silence that lingers, for he had much to lose and so little time. "Dere is a plan in motion. To go back and rescue da ones left behind." He looks over toward Storm slowly, and the look in his eyes tells of how much he has changed in such short a time. There is pain, there is torment, but there is strength, much unlike the street thug she had met not so long ago. He's been through the fire and is starting to temper. "We cahn't leave dem in dat awful place."
Storm nods. "I'll be lending what help I can," she shares. Which sounds modest, but actually means... there's a freaking weather-goddess on their side. Handy when going up against a crazed dictator. "If anything, you'll get to see what I can do when I am able to... let loose." Ororo, obviously not on the Stealth Team.
Thankful for a momentary reprieve from such serious subjects, Kwabena turns a slight grin upon Ororo. "I've learned a few tings myself. If you're lucky, you may get to see dem." The frown returns, and he looks back toward the wilderness and the sight of a lake not far from where they stand. "If something can't be done for me, dough, I may be running out of time." He glances back toward her heavily. "I might be back on de rescue party."
"Something /can/ be done, I'm sure. Doom isn't nearly as smart as he thinks he is," Ororo assures him. And, to some degree, herself. "I'm looking forward to seeing how conductive that armour of his is, for one thing," she says, with a hint of a smirk. "Come, we should get you back inside. I'm sure there's another test Dr. McCoy is eager to perform."
The African's lips curl into a smirk, and he nods his head. "A part of me hopes I'm dere to see it, but I don't think I'm ready to see dat face again." He turns as she beckons him to go, and makes for the secret entrance back into the underground base.
Just as they reach the entrance, however, the nanites swimming inside of Kwabena's blood begin to unleash their poison. He falters for a moment, slipping a hand up against the doorway in an effort to steady himself. The drug works into his brain quickly, causing his focus to wane and his mutation to lose control. The arm holding him up briefly turns into smoke, and he finds himself falling against the edge only to catch himself with his other arm while the smoke reforms into flesh again, filling his jacket's sleeve with solid matter.
Kwabena turns and looks over at Storm, lips curled into a horrible frown. "Dis... might... be de best time," he breaths, then turns and staggers into the hallway beyond.
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