1963-07-19 - Thunder strikes the ground
Summary: Thor arrives and takes to the streets.
Related: None, yet
Theme Song: None
clea thor amora sam jubilee 

Summer in the City. The weekend's passed and there aren't quite as many tourists in Times Square, but there's still a fair bit walking around. Or rather, they're in the restaurants and clubs, hiding away from the weather reports that are now claiming that there are severe thunderstorms on the way with potential tornado. So, the City is under Tornado Warning for the next couple of hours, which is believable in terms of the skies growing darker, and the feeling of the barometer dropping.

Sorry for all of those who are sensitive to such things, but the chances are good that migraines are on the way!

In Times Square, a large blonde isn't doing the 'tourist look around'. No… there's a distinct scowl on the man's face, and he's wandering with purpose. New in the City, he's not concerned with money, nor is he concerned that his clothes are not right (he's looking rather stylish for a 1960s man!). What Thor is concerned with is a -feeling- that he's got.


Amora had not bothered with Times Square, finding the busy wanderings of humans to be irksome and irritating. Especially since Loki had after her about 'blending in'; and walking down the street with a line of men trailing after her was not blending in. The message she had received however that morning had her out, gently glowing quartz in her hand that directed her steps between the crowds.

A human guise was a must on this venture, and she had considerably 'toned' down her appeal, allowing her to make her way mostly unimpeded through the crowds. While her hair was short, curled and swept into a look that oozed Hollywood starlet of some kind, and her manner of dress was conservative by her standards, her features remained much the same. The same green eyes swept the crowds, looking for a certain Asgardian prince, and narrowed in concentration as she glanced down at the stone in her palm for direction and found little.

Her lips pursed into a thin line, and with a click click of her high heeled shoes, she was stepping into the shade of a building and out of the main stream of mortals that gushed by.


Jubilee is shopping! Her plans are coming together, slowly but surely. Secret plans for something harmless but a lot of fun. Bag over her shoulder, she takes a deep breath, and ventures into Times Square, at least a little before getitng out of there for the storms. It's not the polished, modern place, but more of a real city, and she tries to keep alert. Which, naturally has her starting to pay attention to Thor. She stops, and watches with curiosity.


Clea, for her part, is sitting in a window with a cup of coffee. Not a literal window; she's inside an automat, where she's discovered the ability to purchase things for mere nickels, which she was easily able to fabricate.

Oops. Well, probably you won't get thrown in jail for producing ninety cents in replicated pieces of cheap metal.

"Dormammu's demons," she murmurs to herself, looking up at the rumbling sky through the concrete buildings. "Why do they permit it to be like this? Someone should do something about the noise."


Most people in the United States are familiar with some version of the story of Ben Franklin flying his kite in a thunderstorm to prove that lightning was an electrical effect. What most people aren't as familiar with is how exactly the kite felt about the whole affair.

Sam Wilson, SHIELD test pilot, can no longer claim to enjoy such ignorance. After more than a week of frustrating attempts, the other men of the test pilot corps still can't fly Howard Stark's experimental wing suit worth a damn, and they need to know how the thing performs in adverse conditions. That these adverse conditions are coming in the form of a potential tornado in Manhattan — and let's not even go into how absurd a scenario that is on its face — doesn't seem to matter.

Sam Wilson is the only pilot who can fly the wing suit. That means that he is the only pilot who can fly the wing suit into an apocalyptic storm. So here he is, on a cobbled-together metal wing framework given thrust by a rocket and power by a decaying isotope, streaking through the wind and rain about a hundred stories up from the pavement.

Sometimes being good at your job isn't all it's cracked up to be.


On the radio in the shops, there are the announcements echoing each other 'Severe Thunderstorm Watch; conditions are favorable fo the development of severe thunderstorms in and close to the watch area. A severe thunderstorm by definition is a thunderstorm that produces one inch hail or larger in diameter and/or winds equal or exceed 58 miles an hour…' complete with the request, 'Please be careful if you do have to venture out'.

Pff. This is the City. Weather be damned when there is an entire world in the area of Manhattan to be lived!

Thor stops in his path, blue eyes searching the immediate area, his expression a scowl still. In echo, the skies darken just a little more, and there are rumbles rolling in. Finally, he sees… someone. Someone he recognizes?

Oh yes… and he changes direction immediately, cross the street, causing cars to stop suddenly and horns to blare.

"Cease those horns. None will come to your call. There is no reason."


Amora didn't overly care for the wind that teased through her otherwise perfect hair, the rain nor the threats of torandos and hail. Yet all the same, she took the time to make sure she knew where a door to a cafe was so she might duck inside as a good mortal should. She leaned against the wall of the building she stood outside, her brow creased in irritation as she glanced down at the stone in her palm. The quartz still glowing a muted green that told her she was close to the one she sought.

The blaring of horns grabbed her attention and she closed her hand on the stone, her gaze narrowing on the figure that caused said traffic incident. Her lips parted and she perked up considerably, leaning away from the building and smoothing a hand over her wind-swept curls in a vain attempt to keep the weather from damaging them too badly. Her skirts teased around her calves as she took a step or two forward, along with a few other humans that curiously glanced in Thor's general direction.


Clea sips her coffee. Actually she drinks about half of it, pivoting in her seat to look at the man who has wandered right SQUARE into the path of traffic. She presses her free hand to the glass. ("Ma'am, please don't," says a nearby busboy. He is ignored.)

"That man… the cars will strike him if he doesn't leave the road soon!" Clea says, with some horror.


Jubilee wishes she had a camera. Tourists are weird but this is WEIRD. she comes closer to the spectacle, but unlike some, she'lls tay on the sidewalk, Creeping closer, wondering just what's going to happen here. She could intervene to try to disrupt the cars, but that's a dangerous and last-ditch option.


"Control, this is Falcon one — we've got lightning," Sam says into the radio built into his aptly-named crash helmet. His voice is icy through the pop and crackle of electrical discharges. "Repeat, we have lightning, and all I can do is hope to avoid it by steering clear of lightning rods." A deafening crash of nearby thunder blots out all communication for a few seconds, during which he mutters to himself, "Just go ahead and guess how safe that little precaution makes me feel."

When the thunder fades, it gives way to a clatter against his wings, and he adds for Control's benefit: "Oh, and now there's hail." The boys at the National Severe Storms Center don't kid around with their classification system. Sam cants his wings to the side, hoping the hailstones will at least hit at an angle and cause fewer dents. "This inclement enough for you, Control? I would really like to conclude the test and come in for a landing…"

Any drama down below is well outside Sam's range of interest for the time being.


Once out in the streets, the rain and hail become evident to the Prince of Thunder, but it doesn't look as if he particularly cares. Oh no.. he does see the object of that 'feeling', and he's not real happy. Sorry, Sam, but lightning flashes across the sky, followed immediately by a peal of thunder. He's walking -towards- the window for Clea to get that front row seat at the window, and is no doubt making a heck of an example on how to cross a street for Jubilee!

"Amora!" is bellowed. "Tell me all this is not of your doing!" 'All this'? Well, it's sort of his own fault he's on Midgard, but! Reasons! "Tell me now, and I'll not have you banished to Svartalfheim!" As if he actually has a say in the matter? Pff. No matter!

All this, mind, is yelled from the middle of the street; Thor's made it half-way before a yellow taxi decides that it's going to try and gun it past him before he steps into its path. An angry hand thumps against the hood of the vehicle, denting the vehicle's heavy body and causing it to stop in its tracks. The driver is yelling, from the inside and 'relative safety' of the vehicle. He is safe, however. Blue eyes are on Amora.


Amora for her part, at least, looks less than impressed or threatened by the God of Thunder's wrath. She does though, grimace faintly as eyes turn her way and rain and hail tumble down all the harder. She waves a hand, beckoning Thor closer with a twist of her wrist and a glance at the other mortals that have since paused to watch the unfolding drama. One man, a passerby, stops, offering her his umbrella and a concerned question or two. She waved him off, though she did take the umbrella. She looked as if she had all the time in the world to deal with the angry Asgardian prince.

"Thor, come here, be sensible. Please. Come out of the rain, we can talk." She cupped a manicured hand to her lipsticked lips, her expression pinching slightly with a furrow of her brows.


Clea has, in fact, a front row seat… for THOR! She sure isn't complaining, though her eyes narrow for a moment. "Amora?" she says to herself, turning her head to look where the Prince of Storms is looking.

Helen? she thinks to herself. It has to be!

She finishes off her coffee, even as the woman Clea knows as Helen is offered help by the public. Clea feels a vague sense that she should as well, but it is more muted, beyond some shifting as if to rise from her seat.


Jubilee isn't particularly up on nordic mythology. There are so many things in this world, you can't possibly know all of them. So she's not as knowledgable, but she does duck under an awning, and continues to stare. At least she doesn't have to mess with any cars, since the man seems capable of handling them himself.


Whether because of the car horn or Thor's bellowing, the ruckus below is finally audible to the flier above. "Would people please stop making all that noise when I'm trying not to die?" Wilson mutters just before he's backlit by a perilously close bolt of lightning and has to bank in the opposite direction. As soon as the crash of thunder ebbs: "No, Control, not you."

It's also possible that simple proximity is bringing the Asgardian tiff into earshot; Sam suddenly realizes he has lost a tremendous amount of altitude under the pummeling of the hail and the buffeting of the wind. He was supposed to maintain enough altitude not to be noticed by civilians, but that plan seems to be out the window now. Let's see Control do any better.

He cuts in his main rocket to try to get enough airspeed to gain some height. Unfortunately, the main thruster isn't exactly subtle: just as he heard the noise below, he's likely drawing some attention himself. Hopefully only from people who will be dismissed as crazies if they report anything. It's Times Square, so the odds aren't bad.


"I am not in a gaming mood, Amora. Do not trifle with me. I want the truth!" Thor makes a shove to the car, and it is pushed backwards, slamming its rear into the front of a car that slammed on its breaks nominally on time.


Nope, not worried. Not apologizing.

As he moves, the wind picks up and the rain comes down a little harder. Thor doesn't appear to mind it in the least, though he may be the only one who doesn't. "It is far too convenient. I was not aware of your presence here. Father neglected to mention that to me, though now," Blue eyes narrow and he changes his tack, "Give me reason to regain my 'sense'." The word is stressed to allow for those quotes.

Sam's consternation, now, is noticed, the buffeting of the winds causing the pilot at least a little distress in his eyes. He'll have to keep an eye on the foolish mortal. But wait.. didn't they have vehicles now that could cross the sky? Of course they did!


Amora's features finally crumbled into something vaguely looking like displeasure. Her lips pressing together into a thin line as she kept her grip on the umbrella firm in hand despite the winds. As Thor slammed the car back she winced, and people took off fleeing in the opposite direction—mostly with more than a few screams. She shook her head, biting her lower lip.

"Thor, please. I was here before you were. I've been here for weeks. Now calm yourself. Please." She held out her hand again, no spells or glow indicating that she was up to no good. Just a simple hand.

"We need to talk."


Clea's position keeps her from seeing the brave man who is fighting for his life against — was that a rocket? She looks upwards, but Thor is putting the hurt on a cab. At this point Clea does start walking towards the door.

Which she pushes open -

And her hair is driven back by the wind. Momentarily startled, Clea pushes against it, and leans outwards to call against the noise and rockets and everything, "Excuse me! Helen I am sorry to intrude but perhaps you'd like to talk outside of the rain! This place is very nice!" This is loud enough that it's probably going to be taken as an invitation by strangers as well as, well, the Asgardians nearby.


Jubilee has no idea about the Asgardians, but this seems like quite a soap opera developing. She finds a nice spot to lean, leans, and enjoys. Too bad she has no camera and nothing to drink. The list of needs is growing! Maybe she'll go home and get a newspaper tomorrow.


Cross the sky? Yes. Vehicles? Not so much, at the moment.

Sam is gaining altitude admirably when a particularly large hailstone slams into one of his forward ailerons and bends it, completely screwing up his lift coefficient. Cutting thrust and gliding, Wilson locks the wings and releases his arms from the control gauntlets, reaching back to frantically try to bash the control surfaces back into place. The angle is weird and the conditions are adverse, and he's already too close to the ground: after a few spiraling motions, he grunts, claps his arms back in for manual control, and flaps the unbelievable flying contraption to a (barely) controlled landing mere feet from Thor and Amora's standoff.

He attempts to fold the wings away, but either the dents or the out-of-place aileron are jamming the motion. Everyone at ground level will be treated to the view of a helmeted negro with cobbled-together, piston-driven wings, riding the wind and a roll of thunder down to the pavement. Wilson lands in a crouch, but then rises to a standing position, wings extended, backlit by a radioactive blue glow and wreathed in hissing steam.

He bares his teeth, eyes hidden by shielding lenses, and says, "So. How about this weather?"


Thor looks at Amora's outstretched hand, to her face and back to her hand before he shakes his head. He doesn't give his hand; instead he finishes stalking across the street. "Then talk, and I will decide if I believe you." It's a concession! Sadly, he doesn't quite notice the onlookers…

Clea's addition brings Thor's attention around, brows rising. 'Helen', he mouths and he looks back at Amora. He has no quarrel with this one, after all. "Your hospitality is kind."

Sam's two-point landing nearby does gain Thor's attention, and the Thunder God pauses in his step, his head quirking in curiosity. "That is new. Copying the birds now? How far you've all come."

Now, there's a hint of pride in his tones, and when he does look back to Clea finally, there is a question to be asked. "Is there drink within?" Thor's buying!


"It's simply beastly," Clea tells Sam, looking at him with wide but un-terrified eyes. She also waves at him to come inside, which is probably dangerous for SOMEBODY.

Clea holds the door, dynamically. "There is drink — and food as well. Behold, stranger — the wall of Horn and Hardart!"

The guy who makes nickel change looks up. He seems unimpressed.

"I do think they fill it from a kitchen in the back," Clea adds, "but it's nonetheless clever for that."


Jubilee does actually need to go as it turns out. Sure, the cause of the weather SEEMS clear enough now, but still. Gotta get back up to Westchester. So she heads on out once more. She's sure there's great drama here, but she's having a hard time following it.


As Thor stepped out of the street without further incident Amora sighed, her shoulders slumping as she adjusted her grip on the umbrella. Her gaze swung toward Clea as the woman stepped out of the nearby building and a look of relief crossed her features. "Yes, inside is best I think." She waved a hand to gesture toward Thor, her expression still not the confident mask she had worn previously.

"Thor," She pauses looking to Clea. "This is a friend, we met some time last week. Well before your arrival." She added dryly.

Her attention shifted to the landing by the mortal and she blinked, taking a step back. "Quite… the weather.." She glanced toward Thor and Clea and then back toward Sam. "I was that there was such a way to fly through the skys.." Her brows pinched and she looked up and back.


Not every civilian took Sam's appearance as mildly as the few gathered here, but New Yorkers haven't quite gotten to Asgard's level where tolerance for weird shit is concerned. (Give it a decade or two.) Anyone who hadn't already bolted inside to avoid the weather just bolts when Falcon makes his appearance. He looks sidelong at these preternaturally unflappable individuals with their odd diction, then shrugs. He's in no position to judge, and they are offering shelter in a storm.

"'Beastly' isn't the word I'd use, but I guess that covers it," Sam answers Clea dryly. Well, wetly, but he's working on it. "And I appreciate the compliment, big guy, but most birds have the sense to come in out of the rain. Shut up, Control." He bops something on the side of his helmet, perhaps inexplicably to the Asgardians, then starts undoing straps on his flight harness. In a few seconds, he has the pack off and has banged enough misshapen pieces of metal into place that the wings will fold away.

By the time he gets inside, he's practically soaked, and simply carrying his wing pack, heavy though it might be. "Someone said drinks, didn't they?" he asks. "Please tell me I heard that right."


"Food and drink within.. then we will partake." Apparently Thor does have a voice that can be considered 'booming', even up close. He looks back at the man in the winged suit and brows rise, "Join us, flyer." It's not a question, by any means. "You will tell me stories of your kind finding the skies in such a thing, and we will drink together." That, if nothing else, truly gets -stares-.

Thor looks back now as he is introduced, or rather Clea is introduced to him. "Well met," is given politely, almost courtly. "And may I inquire after your name?"

Apparently it doesn't matter, however, as the group enters the establishment. Even as he crosses the threshold, Thor calls out, "'Keep, bring meat, fruit and drink. And keep it coming until I bid you stop!" Once that request is given, he lowers his voice, "Now, Amora. This time you've passed here. Tell me why…"


"Oh," Clea says, when she's asked for her name - "It's not Control, it's Clea, but I'm pleased to meet all of you."

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