2012-11-19 Well, Since We're Hiding Real Names...

It is a remarkable thing, for Kwabena Odame, of all people, to be drinking a martini at one of the Upper West Side's premiere ristorante/cafe's. Much more odd for him to be drinking with a member of the Juilliard Thesbian Society's staunchest supporters. However, there were reasons for such a thing, reasons that spread beyond rational guesswork and simple observation.
What many may not know is that Robert Bringham is not only a member of the Juilliard Thesbian Society... he is also one of the tri-state area's most prominent figures in narcotics trafficking.
Bringham was good at what he does. Damned good. After all, he'd managed thus far to stay out of the suspicious eyes of organizations ranging from the NYPD, to the DEA, even the FBI. It was the masterpiece of a double life lived by Bringham, with a web of financial deceit that ran deeper than the most twisted money trails of the country's strongest SuperPAC's.
However, Kwabena Odame also lived a double life. Oh, he's dressed to the nines for the occasion; a designer suit, cut just right to fit his developed body type, with a gray vest and the pop of a bright red tie that offsets his dark, African skin quite well. The two are currently seated at a private table, positioned where most of the establishment's patrons can see what's going on at the table. You see, Bringham prefers his popularity to shine. Be it hubris, or what ever one might call it, he's also purchased a bottle of the ristorante's oldest Dom Perignon, an incidental that Kwabena cannot help but be entertained by.
It's not something that normally can be heard in this part of the city. Certainly never near this august establishment. It sounded like gunfire... of a pew-pew variety best left for episodes of The Clone Wars. In fact, a blaster-bolt goes zinging down the street outside, looking rather pretty, like special effects from a movie or something. A second bolt goes flying after the first, but slams into a bystander. Or was that just a bystander who just went down like a sack of taters? A lovely redhead runs into view of the outside window and crouches, checking her handiwork, kicking an ugly looking weapon away from her quarry. "Don't worry," Rachel Summers says reassuringly to the people starting to gather, many taking cellphone pictures and video. "He's not going anywhere." In fact, she starts rifling the messenger bag the guy had efficiently. "This was from that old lady two blocks back... mm, that skinny Asian dude screaming about his latte across the street..." And then, absently, she looks into the restaurant, her eyes of course being drawn to that 'prominent table' by way of how the restaurant was designed. Sneaky.
The commotion is unavoidable. As patrons begin to gather near the doorway, Kwabena has to work hard to maintain his cool. He had a job to do here, and he wasn't going to let anything, not even... -that- ...get in his way.
Unfortunately, Robert Bringham wasn't here for the same reason as Kwabena. He stands abruptly and disappears into the crowd, leaving Kwabena alone at the table with a freshly uncorked and quite expensive bottle of Dom. The African just barely notices that the man has gone, when suddenly, there are two hands upon his shoulders. The thugs behind him, dressed in tuxedos of course, but still definitely -thugs-, go unnoticed by the patrons of the ristorante, who are about four or five seconds away from panic.
"Come with us," murmurs one of the thugs.
"Bad idea," answers Kwabena. The smirk that forms on his face is at first one of mirth, but it soon grows vicious. Gathering his anger, he spins about and plants a fist into the thug's midsection. Augmented by the mutated hardening of his arm, the thug goes skidding across the floor, much farther than a normal punch might send him, until he collides with the bar in a clatter of stemware and bottles.
Then, there are gunshots, and pandemonium strikes!
Many of the people around Rachel suddenly start reacting as if they're seeing her as some kind of official law enforcement person, especially after she puts her 'taser' away. "Don't worry, it's under control, folks, just a small-time crook thinking he could up his game." Her green eyes scan around her, noting the potential hysteria near her, also the impending arrival of the real police, and security and other folks who will Ask Questions she can't or won't answer. All around bad news.
And then stuff starts going down inside the restaurant!
"So much for this being the nice part of town," Rachel mutters as she drops into a crouch from years of training, a hand reaching out and shoving some nearby civilians out of the way of any potential stampede out of the nice restaurant and gunfire. Without touching them, no less. A blaster and now the Force? A rapt 9-year-old stares at the redhead, fully expecting her to whip out a lightsaber, until her frightened out of her wits mum scoops the little girl up and runs like hell.
Rachel, on the other hand, is sending tendrils of her psionic abilities into the restaurant, tagging hostiles with the ease of long practice, noting who's where, who's freaking, and who might need to be taken down. She slips into the restaurant, past fleeing diners, heading toward the center of the chaos. A bullet goes flying near her, but ricochets off something invisible near her.
Amidst the screaming and frantic pushing of patrons as they made to find an exit, Kwabena still has one of the other thugs to deal with. However, before he can respond, the thug has re-aimed his pistol and fired two shots at the African. This close, it would be nearly impossible to miss. Bullet holes appear in the jacket and vest, but Kwabena seems otherwise unphased. With a growl, he throws forth his hand, catching the second thug in the midsection, which sends him sprawling back against the bar alongside his friend.
They'll live. They'll most likely be apprehended by the police. But they are going to be in a world of pain.
Wasting no time, Kwabena spins about and joins the cacophony of patrons making to leave.
Uh huh. Some kind of ability going on there. Rachel caught the second punch, no way that's unaugmented somehow, although she doesn't know how yet. Cyber, mutie, fell in toxic chemical toilet, no idea. The redhead silently tags the psychic 'scent' of the mind of that African dude and shadows him as he makes his way toward the exit. She keeps her movements similar to the others around them, blending in as best she can, considering there haven't been many highly-dressed people in her time by the time she fell into the temporal soup.
Kwabena proves to be quite adept at not only blending in, but getting away. He matches the pace of those exiting the restaurant, but once he's on the street, he's casually departing around a corner and down a side road. His jacket comes off, as does the vest, the tie, even the button down shirt, all of which gets cast off into the grime of the alleyway in which he's chosen to slip away to. Coming up alongside a dumpster, he reaches around behind it and produces a well-hidden leather trench coat, which gets quickly thrown over his shoulders. He pauses there, looking to and fro, as if to see whether or not he's been followed.
Whoa, dude's doing a strip-tease in the street... okay, even along the alleyway. Rachel arches one brow, but her curiosity is piqued. Using the chaos to mask her own departure, she goes for a rooftop approach, tracking her quarry through a judicious use of telekinesis and observation from an unusual direction. Her movements are slow, stealthy, but quick enough to keep up. Ah ha, a prepared cache. More than meets the eye here. "Hey down there," she calls from the third-story ledge she's perched upon, the fire-escape better-tended than they'd be in the 'hood, but it's still a dingy fire-escape in a rotten alley.
Freezing, Kwabena slowly turns his eyes upward, squinting against the light cast by a stray alley lamp not far from the source of a female voice. Disappointed at his performance, he roughly straightens the hem of his trench before adopting a somewhat defensive stance, in case she proves to be hostile. "Yes?" he answers.
Rachel Summers doesn't seem to be in any sort of aggressive stance. In fact, she's leaning on the rail like a southern girl in the French Quarter chatting up someone from a balcony on Bourbon Street. With a casual hitch over the side of the rail, letting herself fall lightly on the one two stories down, then the one just overhead, so she doesn't have to yell to talk to the guy, she leans on the rail again, almost indolently. "Cop or PI or corporate weasel," she surmises aloud, a mild expression of curiosity about her. "Had a stash waiting and everything, so something's going down."
With a most curious eye the African studies how she descends to grow closer. Something of a skill there, to be sure. His mismatched eyes glare at her for a moment or two, for he was not one to easily trust anyone. He does relax his stance a bit, though he seems to be remaining vigilant regardless. "Wrong," he answers. "Wrong, and wrong." He motions toward the nearby dumpster and remarks, "Just prepared. Nothing more."
The more he speaks, the more apparent his thick, Ghanaian accent becomes. With a suspicious eye he studies Rachel in turn, frowning. "Why are you following me?" he asks, then raises a hand to point at her. "Cop? Pi?" A grin forms on his face. "DEA?"
Oh, he's toying with her, to be sure. Perhaps mentioning the DEA would draw something out of her. If she was tied in with those drug traffickers, it might answer his question whether she were friend, foe, or neither.
Rachel Summers mmhmms. The eyes. Different, unusual, but not impossible. The accent, it causes her to nod. And then the question fired back at her, and she chuckles. "I suppose outlaw more than anything else," she replies with an amused sort of cryptic nature. "I don't really exist, not around here anyway. But even I know that most folks in this city aren't prepared the way you are." She jerks a thumb over her shoulder in the vague direction of the restaurant. "Just happened to see some dork stealing stuff from people, and that's not cool. So I shot him!" she adds brightly, as if this is something to be proud of. Not a threat, but also not the casual flippant conversation piece either. She's waiting to see how he takes that.
A curious grin tugs on the edge of Kwabena's lips, and he takes two or three slow steps to close the distance. "Neither do I, so I suppose that is something -we- have in common." The grin falters slightly, and he motions toward her with a hand. "You -shot- him. Just... for stealing. With one of those... those 'Star Trek' looking things? I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me."
Suddenly the African grows quite serious. His tone of voice grows demanding, and he points at her with intonations that are not the least of which threatening. "If you have plasma weapons, you'd better hand them over. -Right now-."
Rachel Summers smirks, her eyes narrowing slightly. "It /has/ a stun setting, bucko," she replies with a wave of her hand. "He'll get better. However, I don't take orders from you, so I'm afraid the answer to your demand is... no." Her eyes narrow further. "Now, the next question to ask is, are you gonna do the smart thing and not do anything about that, or are ya gonna be stupid?"
Slowly, gradually, Kwabena lowers his arm. "Plasma weapons are very dangerous. There has been an influx of them ending up in the hands of terrible people. I would only seek to ask you where -yours- came from, for it might help us to stop others from ending up in the wrong hands."
There is something so sober in his accented voice now, something remarkably earnest. "Come down here, please. Speak with me." He takes another step forward, only this time, the hand he offers up toward Rachel is not threatening, nor demanding. It seems to be an offer of friendship.
Rachel Summers actually seems rather pleasantly surprised at the change in his mood, and the fact he didn't take the stupid option. "Huh." With a graceful move, she hops over the railing and alights neatly on her feet, straightening up to her full height. "I've only the one, and no one's hands get on it but mine." Rolling her shoulders within her leather jacket, she adds, "And I've been trained in its use, so it's not going to suddenly go off, like some idiot kid screwing around with their older brother's gun. So. Vigilante then? Keeping the streets safe for regular folks?"
"... Something like that."
There is that pause, as if Kwabena wasn't quite willing, or perhaps sure, to define himself as such, or less, or even more. He takes a hesitant step closer, then offers out a hand in greeting. "Shift," he introduces. "Give me enough time and you might get my real name. I -will- tell you that my, uh, goals, are, a little more focused than simply keep the streets safe for regular folks."
A slow smile forms, as he hazards a wild guess. "... which you and I are not?"
Rachel Summers steps forward and accepts the handshake in the spirit in which it was given. "Well, since we're hiding real names, y'might as well call me Marvel Girl." A sardonic arch of an eyebrow dares him to make something of it. "And you're right. I'm probably further away from normal than you are, but still, not baseline here. Mind if I ask what your goals actually /are/? Fighting crime in general is too, well, general. A particular interest in high-end hardware..."
It's a firm handshake, but nothing, ah, mutated. No, he has to be in a far different mental state for that to happen. "Marvel Girl. Now, did you give that one to -yourself-, or was it someone else's idea?"
He turns and leads her along in the alleyway, where they might continue to have some privacy for such a dangerous conversation. "I don't suppose the name 'Victor Von Doom' has any meaning to you?" He glances aside at Rachel with a half-cocked eyebrow.
Rachel Summers's smirk is intense. "My dad gave it to me, actually," she answers. "Back when I was two. I'll find my own name sometime to use as a cover, I suppose, but haven't found one that's 'me' yet." Then a name is tossed out there.
"It rings a bell... some world leader or something, I think," she adds with a frown, her brows furrowing thoughtfully. "Like trying to remember the czars of Russia or something for history class." Which for her it is.
"History class?" Kwabena eyes the girl somewhat curiously for a moment, before going on with his tale. "He's the ruler of Latveria. Apparently, many dangerous things lead back to Doom, not the least of which are a number of dangerous weapons that have been showing up in criminal hands around the country." He lifts a hand, gesturing toward Rachel as if to tell her there is more. "But that's not all. Many other troubling things have been traced back to Doom." He looks over toward the girl surreptitiously. "I intend to do something about it."
Rachel Summers listens to the tale silently, letting the man from Ghana tell her what he wills, mulling it over. "Sounds a bit like what the US government was doing in the 70s and 80s, shipping arms all over the world to help anti-Communist rebellions or whatever," she says with a bit of a shrug. "So, this Doom guy is a bad man. If he's shipping so-called dangerous stuff to other bad guys... you're gonna need more than just you to take him down." She sizes him up with one eyeballing gesture. "But I take it you're on your own?"
"Right," agrees Kwabena. "And look at where that got the US Government?" Well, that's a point for another conversation, but it's well made. "No, I am not exactly on my own. And we don't exactly intend to take him down." He glances toward Rachel with a curious eye. "But I've already told you enough, Marve. I don't just trust strangers. That must be earned, with time."
He looks back forward, then begins to grin. "So, what do -you- do? How do you fight the bad guys?"
"You don't want to know the answer to that question," Rachel answers with a disquieted look off into the distance, lost in her own thoughts for a moment. Bringing herself back to the present with a shake of her head, she notes the information about there being others, and a 'we' in existence, nodding once about the trust thing. "Right now? I don't do anything except enjoy the city as it is now." Now? "And if I see something going wrong, people being jerked around, well, I take care of the ones doing it. Life's too short to be a dick to other people, really. Or to watch other people doing it."
"Mmm," answers Kwabena. "Well, I agree with you there, but I suppose once you see someone being a big enough dick, you have to do something about it." Lo, they come around a corner toward the next street over, and there happens to be a motorcycle parked there. Kwabena swings his leg over it and fires it with a key from his pocket. "If you happen to think of it, use those tracking powers of yours to see what, exactly, I get my hands dirty with. Until next time, Marvel Girl."
Then, without further adieu, Kwabena and his motorcycle are tearing off through the streets into the night.
Rachel Summers nods and checks out the motorcycle with the eye of someone who has been on a few... and not as the passenger. "Nice ride," she says to her new acquaintance before he tears off into the night. And then, slipping back into the quiet and much darker alleyway, she takes off on her own method of transportation, telekinetics.
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