Summary:Dinner at the Hellfire Club with the Frosts and Kwabena Odame. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Emma leads the way to her car, white, Rolls Royce with a driver (pretty young woman, moves with the grace of a mountain stream). "Miss Frost, Sir." She greets both her boss and her boss's guest and then gets the door for them. Emma goes in first and settles into her seat with hands resting on one knee, legs crossed one of the other as she settles in. "There's a bar if you'd like another drink."
Once they're settled, she smiles. "Marcie, the Hellfire Club, please." The driver smiles and nods. "Of course, Miss Frost."
Turning to Kwabena, Emma smiles. "So…I think you're in for a treat, Mister Odame, the Hellfire Club hires only Michelin star chefs and prides itself on being able to produce any food item desired." Even as she speaks, Emma reaches out mentally, seamlessly linking to both Pris and Cat. «Hello girls, I'm off work for the night, I thought you might like to join me and Agent Odame at the Hellfire Club for dinner?»
Catseye has an bit of a feline attitude, including a more than slight vicious streak. So when she finds out the chef has the night off, she pleads her sister, "Dinner at the club, yes? Catseye feels like dressing up. Come with, yes?" With the most innocent big kitty eyes she can manage. Catseye has been going to the Hellfire club since she was sixteen, the regulars know to keep their hands off her. Some haven't gotten the memo about Pris yet, which means she might get to break some billionaire's wrist or more if he doesn't understand 'no'.
Ok.. the 'innocent' part of the kitty eyes probably doesn't fool Pris… any more.
Priscilla chuckles softly and leans down to kiss Catseye on the cheek. "OK. But I have to change if we're going to the Club." Pris' wardrobe is expanding since being adopted as a Frost; she has never really owned truly nice 'couture' outfits before. Her costumes might have been high-end, but they're still quite visibly stripper costumes. And she has learned enough at the Hellfire Club to never show up dressing like a dancer; she can't really do anything about not looking like who she is, unless she's going to run around pretending to be someone she's not. But wearing a dancer's costume would just be waving the red flag of 'come and get it;' it's not worth the trouble.
Once properly gussied up, Pris calls out to Sharon, "You better call a driver. We're not riding my bike like this." Pris doesn't do 'car'. She does motorcycle. Or hoverbike. Regular ground-based passenger vehicles not so much.
"Is okay," Kwabena says, politely declining the offer of another drink. "But thanks." He does get drunk, but usually only for the wrong reasons, rarely for the right ones.
As for the car gets moving, talk of food reminds him just how hungry he really is. Of all the things he's experienced, coming out of slavery and into the "freedom" offered by SHIELD, the idea that he is allowed to be hungry, and to fix that hunger whenever he can and wishes… that has been the single strangest thing to adjust to.
Yes, Kwabena. You are hungry, and it is okay to be hungry and yes, you can fix that.
"Is dis?" he remarks to Emma, seemingly truly interested. "Any food item?" Something mischievous enters his silver eyes then, and he settles back into his seat. "I will test de theory. If de club is half as nice as dis car? I am in for this treat."
"It is a point of pride for them, to my knowledge they have not failed in the entire time I've been a member, Mister Odame, or since we're in more casual surroundings, may I presume to call you Kwabena? Naturally, I'm Emma." Emma seems quite at ease though Kwabena would probably recognize her sitting in a bit of a pose, truly, the woman's social graces are formidable - she's very practiced it would seem.
Eyes of sapphire are amused as she laughs. "Oh, the club is quite a bit nicer than the car. Now, words to the wise - the staff will be dressed most often in period costume and some of the outfits will be somewhat risque, also, anyone you meet is likely to be a mover, a shaker, or both and often very prickly about their status. As my guest you outrank most of them, be mindful of this."
After all, she IS the White Queen.
Catseye was about to protest that she could drive… then gets the path from Emma, and decides that yes, she will get her driver. Because if MotherMotherFrost finds out she was driving herself in the city instead of taking her driver/bodyguard she will give Sharon that 'I'm so disappointed' look that makes Sharon feels like a scruffed kitten. «We were planning on having dinner there. Will meet you shortly.»
So indeed, the driver has them arriving mere moments before Emma and her guest. Catseye waits, letting the driver hand her out of the car. Not because she needs the help, but because it's a mark of status and it's his job. She waits for Priscilla to be handed out of the car, preferring to enter the club side-by-side with Priscilla.
Sharon doesn't walk when she is at the club, she stalks. Her head is a little higher, her shoulders back a little, her smile colder. And if someone thinks her walk is 'sexy' that just proves that some idiots will think anything a healthy woman does is sexy, and are too stupid to recognize a predator when they see one. She nods at the doorman, then tells the major domo, "My mother's private dining room. She will be arriving shortly with a guest." See! She's being /nice/ and giving them a few minutes warning!
And by the standards of the club, that /is/ being nice. They are expected to have everything ready with -no- notice. Even a three minute lead time is a huge advantage.
Priscilla finds being handed out of the car odd, but she accepts rather than upset anyone. She does find Sharon's shift to stalking curious, but she doesn't argue. For herself, she just struts; it's who she is. But she also does not really say anything to anyone; she prefers to observe, to read everyone and stay keenly tuned into her surroundings.
« So, how was your day? » Pris inquires of Sharon.
« Any leads yet? » Pris inquires of Emma.
"Period… costume?" Kwabena leans forward, fixing Emma with a confused expression. "What is period costume? Dey dress in circles?" He seems to be genuinely confused by all of this, even though he'll certainly understand it when he sees it. "Yes, yes. Kwabena is fine. I actually prefer it to most other things, you know? Is the one thing that is mine."
Kwabena takes a moment to consider his own attire. He's about as culturally wise as a sack of bricks. Is he dressed well enough to be such an honored guest? Perhaps his entry will need a bit of flair.
When the car pulls up, it is a natural assumption that Kwabena will be the first to exit. He knows these things well enough, as a former terrorist and assassin. However, the manner in which he exits the car, well. That's sure to attract some attention.
When the door is opened for him, there is a sound of displaced air. Kwabena's clothing falls to the seat where he once sat, and a cloud of black rolls out of the car. It is very much alive as it looks, with tendrils of black that swirl around in the air, the very pieces that make it look so alive.
The cloud moves to the side and begins to form into the shape of a man; with another sound of displaced air, the tendrils of black solidify and become flesh, bone, and a skinsuit of gunmetal gray nanotech. The nanotech peels down from Kwabena's face, and even forms a slight vee at his beck, while similarly peeling away from his fingers to expose his hand.
The extended arm is offered to Emma.
Emma accepts a hand up and out, and then takes Kwabena's arm with a faint smile. "Thank you, Marcie." This to the driver, and then they start into the club. "Period Costume - they dress up in fashions from another era, in this case the Victorian, roughly the nineteenth century. So…frock coats, powdered wigs, lace, for the men…and the women are often dressed in somewhat more revealing attire, corsets and the like." Emma is actually quite comfortable in such attire, though not /here/. Not anymore.
Setting a fairly stately pace, after all, Emma /is/ a Queen here, she leads them into the building where the doormen do indeed get the doors and are in Victorian attire. "Miss Frost." One of them greets her, the other simply bows at the waist before they get the doors.
Inside is /posh/, and there are a great many servants about, the women in quite revealing attire, also period though much less modest than was actually worn in public. Emma exchanges polite looks with, faint inclinations of brow to many of the people along the way, and then they are brought to her private dining room.
"Kwabena will be joining us tonight, my dears."
«Four leads towards who might be doing the overseas financing of the attack.» This to both girls. «Two of the leads my own sources seem less likely, but we'll check on them.»
Catseye smiles warmly at Emma when she enters, and nods to Kwabena. "A pleasure." Mentally she replies, «More productive than Catseye's day. Studied for classes. Final projects are all ready to be handed in. BORED.» Oh dear. A bored kitty does tend to find trouble.
Pris returned late this morning from a day and a half spent with her girlfriend, so she is pretty happy, all things considered. But she has been very irked at not having leads to follow towards those who dared to threaten her new family. Such threads need to be erased from existence with extreme prejudice! Seeing Emma, Priscilla nods. "Good evening, Mother. Mr. Odame." « Sarah said to give her love to you both. Also, she spoke highly of Kwabena. »
Pris looks nothing like an alien-hunting ninja vigilante right now. Just goes to show how looks can be deceiving, yes?
Said arm is only given until Emma has risen from the car; truthfully, Kwabena doesn't hold any stock in chivalry, but every action is a precise and calculated one when in public. He did that for a reason. Soon enough he is walking behind and to the left, much as a guest is expected to do.
Silver eyes look around without shame as they enter, for not many people ever get to see the inside of this place. He's taking in the architecture, the design, the spaces; he's marking exits as much as he is appreciating beauty. He's noting people and what roles they may serve, beyond mere appearance; which ones are the ones in real power, while some carry power simply because they can offer something temporary. Their time is marked. Much like his own. There's resonance there, but where many of them fearfully cling to every moment, relishing in their fifteen minutes, Kwabena is well aware that he is, after all, temporary.
So… he can at least enjoy it. Poor them.
Once introduced, Kwabena's odd eyes fall upon each, recognizing them from both the gala and his first meeting with Emma. "Please, just Kwabena," he tells Priscilla.
Emma? Yeah, she's one of the ones with real power, indeed—the reactions from many of the people present are very eloquent, Emma is actually feared by many of these men and women, though /not/ most of the staff, curiously enough. Emma came up through their ranks, she's always - even at her worst, treated the staff here with decency. Firm standards, of course, but fair and even handed. Also - good tips.
The place is almost gaudy with the wealth it displays, the entire building and all those inside it are the equivalent of a Peacock fanning his his tail in full display and then some.
A moment to hug each of her daughters. "Good evening, Sharon. Good evening, Priscilla." A nod to the men at the doors, and they back out, closing it to leave them privacy save for staff waiting out of earshot in the eaves. The dining room? It would be suitable for a party of up to a hundred or so guests, with a modicum of crowding.
"First names tonight, all around." Emma says with a smile. "Now, I do believe Kwabena is hungry, and seems to have a challenge in mind for the chefs."
Sharon nods, with a more genuine smile than showed in the hallways. "Our guest should order then. If had my way, would be seafood most meals which would get boring for everyone else." She speaks carefully, but not quite naturally. Her accent is flawless, it's the word choice that is ever so slightly off, a slight pause for a word where a native speaker wouldn't hesitate that gives her away. Though it's impossible to spot what language is her native tongue… because there isn't one. She doesn't think in language, the verbal layer of her mind a gift from Emma. And while she's gotten better with words over time, it still strikes her a clunky, awkward approximation of how things actually -are-.
"As you wish." Priscilla offers to Emma, inclining her head just slightly in respect. She's not used to trusting anyone outside her very tight circle. But she's not going to argue with Emma; she trusts her mother too greatly for that. "In that case, I would agree: let Kwabena order. I will enjoy seeing the challenge laid down and answered." And maybe it will inspire her own choices. Otherwise, she's as likely to be 'one note' as Sharon, though not always in seafood selection.
"Not boring," Kwabena counters to Sharon, before turning his attention toward one of the men at the door. The man immediately comes over, ready to take his order.
"Thiebu Djeun on Jollof Rice. Fried Plantain, Afram Plains region, and attieke, for everyone."
That would be fish steamed over a very special eggplant and tomato sauce with cassava, served over Ghanaian Jollof Rice with plantains, of course. The side dish… a special surprise. Grated and prepared from casava root, it's fried counterpart is similar enough to couscous that it won't be entirely unfamiliar to the palette, but if the chef truly knows how to prepare it, then the ladies are in for a spicy treat.
Oh, and when we say fish, we mean fish. Eyes, head, bones and all, with only the unwanted guts removed by way of a surgical slice in the neck.
"Indeed he should and he shall." Emma agrees with Catseye. As Pris answers so formally, Emma's eyes fairly glow with her approval, indeed, both girls are doing a wonderful job each in their own way in respecting their mother, respecting their guest, and keeping up appearances.
Emma watches as Kwabena makes his order, and the young man taking it inclines his head. "Of course, sir. Would you care for Palm Nut Soup before the meal and of course some Banku?" Banku being a staple for almost all the tries of Ghana, served in a ball usually, made of fermented corn and cassava dough. The soup is a common starter made with palm kernels, water, fish (in this case) with tomatoes and spices cooked to make a thicker almost stew.
Good sign that the wait staff is up on Ghanan cuisine!
Emma smiles. "Palm wine as well, yes?" This to Kwabena. "Though of course I'll have tea, Jasmine I think."
Sharon smiles. "Sounds wonderful." And she will be delighted to have fish, the whole fish. She even likes spicy food, so this will be a treat. She lets Kwabena decide on wine or not, she metabolizes it fast enough that she never gets past the warm glow stage of being drunk, so she's fine either way. She looks over at Emma, "Some of professors at Columbia think should push myself more. Told them have full time school, consulting work at Horizon Academy, and society obligations. Felt was pushed enough. Professors not amused, but accepting for now." She shrugs, "One rude comment about accent. But have kept copies of all exams and assignments, as long as grade reflects what was earned, don't care about rude."
"Oh, yes. Very good," Kwabena agrees. As for the wine, well. He does nod. It wouldn't be the first time he's had drink simply for pleasure, rather than management.
He's no stranger to people looking at him oddly for the way he speaks. It's a strange bastardization of a mid-Ghanaian and Russian, of all things, and not always so well translated into English.
Taking a seat, he doesn't at all seem discomforted by his own attire. It's been a part of him, literally, for so long. "So, you study?" he asks of Sharon. "I do as well, but is not school. Is all… SHIELD things. So many reports, so many rules, protocol. Is exhausting."
Catseye nods. "Student at Columbia university. Dual major, computer science and electrical engineering. Enjoy the subjects, have done work with both to help friends but is not marketable, yes? Very niche. Very good at seeing things, building models in head. Need the formal training to put models in form others can use, build things to common standard not just one-off use. Would also benefit if needed to work with Frost Industries, but Mother is not pressing for that." She smiles warmly at Emma.
Emma once again declines to drink anything alcoholic, even something only mildly so, which Kwabena would no doubt know is not her established MO. In fact the woman was known to drink like a world champion, and yet - on several occasions now she has partaken of exactly /zero/ alcoholic beverages. Not in the party, not in the office, and not now either.
Sharon and Pris would know of course, but Emma was in detox not long ago, and is a recovered alcoholic - she cannot take any chances and will not take any chances, so…no alcohol. Period.
"No, I am not. You'll do what /you/ wish to, Sharon. It is YOUR life, not mine and my job is to help you girls realize your dreams."
"You would get along with some few people at SHIELD," Kwabena tells Catseye with an honest smile. "Is way over my head." The thought does cross his mind that Catseye would probably find his nanotech absolutely fascinating, but he's had one too many scientists poking at him; he'd rather never go through that again.
Still, he will, perhaps, offer a touch of entertainment. "I am told this is nanotech." He extends an arm, holds out his hand in view of Sharon, and let's it linger there. At first glance, the clothing that clings to his forearm has the appearance of very thick, ribbed spandex. That is, until it changes. It grows and extends, covering his hand like the so many little flecks of microscopic machines that it truly is.
"It adapts to genetic mutation," he explains. "Changes when I change. Was used to monitor, control me, until SHIELD scientists reprogrammed it."
Sharon tilts her head, watching, inhaling deeply. If human ears could pivot, hers would. Most people just look, Catseye is inclined to use all her senses. "If changes when Kwabena changes, if used to control… is tied very deeply, very tightly. Be careful who examines… might want to find way to jam scans from a distance." She frowns a little, "And if Shield ever tries to control with, and Kwabena escapes, come to Catseye… if can't help, have contacts who can. People should not be controlled." The idea of someone using tech so advanced to control someone disturbs her, that much is obvious.
"Sharon is brilliant." Priscilla offers almost off-handedly as her evaluation. Any who fail to grasp that earn no respect from Pris at all. But she isn't really discussing her own education - or lack thereof. As for control? She loathes that idea. There's a tightness to her eyes as Kwabena mentions it. But her Sight shows none trying to control him currently, so the tension slowly - very slowly - melts out of her form as she sits quietly. Ghanan is outside her purview, but she is actually how Emma 'knows' Russian. Pris is scary with the ability to pick up languages. She also happens to not care one whit or the other about the alcohol - it won't affect her anymore than it does Sharon - but she only chooses to drink it because not doing so might discomfit their guest. Otherwise she would join Emma in non-alcoholism and solidarity.
"Oh, very interesting, Kwabena." Emma states at the display of his nanotechnology. "If you'd like it analyzed I'm sure we could find someone able to help, but I suspect you have friends at work who are more than qualified." A pause. "However, if you have need of other sorts of analysis…" «Mental analysis.» This said directly to her daughters and Kwabena all at once.
How CONVENIENT telepathy can be, it allows them all to be private in public, anywhere, really.
A firm nod in support of Sharon's offer. "Oh yes, Kwabena. If you fear duplicity, do *please* come to us, we'll be glad to help."
In moments their palm nut soup arrives, along with the Banku, as well as salads for all save Catseye, they know her well, she gets some delicate salmon sashimi.
Emma smiles to Pris. "Oh yes, she is a genius, truly." To Kwabena. "I am incredibly proud of both of my daughters, they exceed my expectations and hopes every day."
"As they say, that is what they did," Kwabena tells Sharon, though his relatively hard-to-read eyes give way to a brief expression of surprise. He still finds it very hard to comprehend how so many people are so willing to help others. It's still an alien concept to him, in some ways. "But dis is my curse. I will have to live with it."
Following a momentary bit of reactive social anxiety, the man seems to relax some, his body language suggesting it. "Thank you," he says, earnestly, before cracking a slightly humored smile. "I am not educated person, so, I very much need…" He pauses here, considering the word. "… friends who are. I can learn, I can understand, but, I have to tell SHIELD scientists to stop once they get into de techno-babble."
Kwabena looks between the three for a moment, his smile remaining, just for now. However, thought of mental analysis has his body stiffening somewhat again. «I think this is how it works?» The thoughts are clearly of someone who is at least familiar with telepathy, but hasn't had much practice in channeling his thoughts appropriately. «Fuck. I can't… okay, sorry. Distracted. This is probably noisy. Mental analysis could be unsafe. For everyone. This is what the scientists told me, anyway. It worries me.»
Much more wordy with his attempts at allowing for telepathic reading than he is with his own physical words.
The arrival of food, however? That has him grinning again. His eyes seem to sparkle, indeed, reflecting a bit of light from within the pupils, as he inspects it both visually and by smell. "Dat… is… impressive."
Sharon shrugs gracefully, "Lack of education can be overcome. Can personally vouch for Mother Frost's skill as both telepath and teacher. Was sixteen when taught me -language-. Not just reading and writing, the -concept- of language. Had concept of math, but only in the most… concrete sense. Is often still quicker for me to just -see- the answer in my head, then translate into number words than to think in the linguistic form of mathematics. But would never have had accomplished any of what I did without Mother Frost."
Priscilla lets a solid trickle of calm and relaxation flow from her through Kwabena; he is safe, there is no need to fear. "Emma has taught me much, as well." she offers quietly, without many words aloud. Instead, she starts serving herself with her salad, nearly and primly, while her mind continues with words she would not speak aloud. « Without Mother, I had very little control telepathically. I was constantly shouting, causing others pain and distress. And she taught me how to make the squiggles on the page sit still, so that I could read them properly. » Yep. Pris is painfully dyslexic, and yet she is very multi-lingual. Go figure.
"At least they were as good as their word, that's something, Kwabena." Emma has never had the Ghanan foods present, so she will give them a try, watching how Kwabena prepares and takes his, in case there's some 'proper' way of eating the stuff. A faint smile. "That's the beauty of an education, it is something you can acquire at any time, if you put in the effort. Truly, if you were to enroll at the Academy we go out of our way to fit the scheduling needs of any student."
«Very good, Kwabena…that's something you've done before. Many cannot even learn to shape coherent thoughts at all, so you're doing very well already.» A pause, and then the sensation of a smile over their link. «Well, I am no common tepe, Kwabena. if anyone can do it safely it is I, especially with Pris to assist and Sharon to act as an anchor. You'd be surprised.»
Warm laughter. "Indeed, education is something one can acquire, /not/ learning when you have the chance, that is what would be a waste." A moment to send approval to Cat, and then she tsks. "You had the will to learn, I gave you the tools, the learning was all you, however, Sharon." And then to Pris. "And you, my dear, also just needed to be given the chance and the /right/ sort of teaching." «And a little encouragement.» "As I said, you've both exceeded my every expectation."
The telepathic effects are felt, and for a brief moment, there is resistance. Kwabena has lived a life of torment and distrust, but he's been learning in his own way. He looks from Emma to Priscilla, somehow recognizing where it is coming from, and after a moment, he gives in. The effect is surprising, and yet it somehow doesn't feel forced or unnatural. More like… allowing one part of his brain to win over the other.
With gratitude in his eyes, the African turns to Sharon then, clearly interested in her tale. He doesn't speak openly about either, instead passing his attention back to Emma for a moment before taking up a fork, and digging open the shell of that delicious fish.
«Once or twice,» comes the response, paired with a brief smirk. «The first time it happened? You should have heard the vulgarity. I was not pleased.» There is verbal silence as he eats, but the thoughts continue.
«I was taken from Ghana as a little boy, by Prevoshkhodstvo. A Russian, anti-mutant extremist group. There are others like me, slave to the nanotech. Fortunately, they've been silenced. For now. I fully expect them to return. They are very good at hiding. They may have been horrible people, but… they did teach me many valuable things.»
Looking between them three, Kwabena takes a break in eating and asks, verbally, "So you were, what is word… adopted?" He looks between Sharon and Priscilla. "Dis is why you call her mother?"
Sharon nods, "Birth-mother dumped in an alley only hours old, because was -different-. Would have died, but instead shifted. Feral cat took in strange purple kitten… grew up cat, part of feral cat colony. Emma adopted, yes. Far more of a mother than woman who gave birth." Sharon eats with good appetite, first her sashimi appetizer, then the whole roasted fish. Her tail moves lazily with pleasure at the meal, she even eats the parts of the meal that aren't fish!
"Learning to accept help is a skill. Trusting is a skill. Does not seem so to most, because live in society, used to … certain rules. Expected give and take, but also _limited_ give and take." Sharon tilts her head, a very feline motion. "Living outside society, makes it hard to learn. But once learned, will push past normal limits of 'acceptable' help both offered and given." She smiles, the expression more in the eyes than the mouth, she does not flash teeth when she smiles in joy or friendship. "Heard someone say 'A friend helps you move. A REAL friend helps you move a body.' Is meant to be joke, yes? But is also true in a way. And after the fight at the school, think that might be heading towards 'real friends', yes?"
Priscilla smiles and nods towards Kwabena. "Yes. Adopted. I … I do not remember my birth family. Near as I know, they died in a fire. I spent years in foster care and group homes, then struck out on my own." She is not ashamed of her dancing, but she does not bring it up. Not here, not with someone new whose culture she does not yet fully understand. "I met Emma about a year ago. We … bonded. Quickly."
"It seems like we all of us had 'parents of the year' as youths." Emma states aloud. Mentally, she speaks more candidly. «Were these people why you did what you did at the dam and powerplants then?» She doesnt't know that the cyberattack that followed was also part of it, or that it was mostly a feint.
She lets the girls answer for themselves about their status. "There is also an old Russian saying I've grown fond of - 'If man gives you problem, no man, no problem'. I think that also applies to these…vermin…who attacked Horizon."
Eyes of sapphire are fond with rememberence. "We met while shopping in a leather boutique, Sharon and I ran into Priscilla, and we struck up a fast friendship that grew to be so much more." She looks to Kwabena. "They are my adopted daughters now, my heirs." «We have made a family we can be proud of, one we are devoted to, and that is far stronger than any ties blood could ever have.»
Kwabena cannot even remember his birth parents. There is a sense of understanding given to Sharon's story, and he pays close attention for the moment, ignoring his food. "Do not remembah birth parents, either," he says, shifting attention to Priscilla for a moment. "My family was Prevoshkhodstvo. Not a good family."
He does not at all seem surprised or disturbed by Sharon's living as a feline. After all, he was raised with mutant family. Fellow slaves, yes, but family nonetheless. However, at the joke, he actually laughs. A real, honest laugh, for he can certainly appreciate the more off color forms of humor. "Yes, yes," he agrees, but the laughter softens. Not only of the turn of phrase, but that he very well may be forming real friendships here.
Turning back to his food, Kwabena silences his voice but not his mind, though there is a brief hesitation. «Yes. It wasn't even something to think of. We did what we were told, or we suffered. In ways…»
Kwabena is still a novice when it comes to telepathic communication. The memories suddenly flood out of him. The nanotech is as much a technological miracle as it is a curse; genetically bonded to his DNA, his former handlers were capable of making him suffer in ways that are scarcely imaginable. Fire, going deep into the bone marrow, impossible to escape, paired with the frozen pain of frostbite and the jarring frenetic nature of electrocution. The suffering was so severe, he had no choice but to comply. It couldn't kill him, and worse yet, he can't be killed.
«I did not understand freedom of thought until SHIELD disconnected the nanotech from the controllers. It is… still something I am adjusting to.»
Catseye frowns, "If old enemies show, please, give a call." NOW Sharon smiles, and it's definitely baring her teeth. Sharon is no telepath, Emma carries her mental voice for her. «Would be an honor to help Kwabena against them.» But the words are thin veneer over the raw emotion and images. Sharon would gladly rip the throats out of his former owners, and consider it an honor and a pleasure to do so. Slavery is evil, to enslave the thoughts as well as the body, immeasurably more so. Sharon doesn't really think in words, and that is part of why her speech patterns are so odd. She doesn't think in pronouns. Kwabena is Kwabena, not a generic 'he'. Though possessives, she understands. Cats have a firm grasp of MINE.
Priscilla's reply to Sharon's thoughts is equally fierce, but it is bright and hot and alive: she too would welcome the chance to punish Kwabena's enslavers, to flay their very souls from their bodies slowly. That kind of enslavement speaks of The Enemy, to her, and her instinct is to rain punishment mercilessly in response. « Yes. If they are spotted again, do let me - us - know. »
At Emma's words, Pris reaches across the table and takes the blonde's hand in her own, and the other reaches for Sharon's. Their bond is made manifest. Do they glow? It might be. « We will find those that attacked the school. » It is a promise. An oath. A prophesy.
The rest of the meal passes with lighter conversation and absolutely authentic, and very high quality, Ghanan cuisine. Even the deserts prove to be fried plantains in a sweet syrup over coconut-vanilla ice cream. Really decadent, and something Emma only has a tiny portion of. Unlike her girls, she has to worry about her caloric intake, as it is she'll have to run a few extra miles tomorrow.
Still, it was very much worth it.
Kwabena's pain, the horror of his upbringing strikes a real chord with Emma. As bad as her own childhood was, yeah, not a candle to that. "Kwabena, do please keep in touch, you'd be most welcome for dinner any time."