The night has claimed the city, and though the days have been warm, they have not been oppressively so, and as the shadows have lengthened and the air cooled, a pleasant … medium has settled around the park. It is relatively quiet, for some claim it isn't safe in Central Park at night, but in truth it is a place that whispers and speaks to those who do come to visit it.
Ororo is not a woman who can readily hide; she is tall, the long flowing hair of hers is pure white, and .. she's dressed in an odd outfit. It is all black, form fitted, and though it looks to be leather, it also looks thicker then her body itself is: armored? It covers everything but her neck up and wrists down. But she walks with a certain easy confidence through Central Park, her dark blue eyes seeming black in the shadows.
Above, there is a slow roll of thunder. It isn't quite a storm, though the clouds churn restlessly, as if the sky wished to give birth to a storm.
*
Another day feeds into another night. Another night means finding another place to sleep where one isn't hastled by men claiming to be on the right side of the law, only to change their tune onces they notice you're as dark as the shadows you hide with. Walking down one of the light paths was a young, short thing, a waif of a human with large, dark curls that floofs out around her head.
Her clothes were not her own, probably picked up here and there. None fit on her form, unlike the towering form with white hair down the way. She pauses in step, watching from a distance and hiding, badly, behind the metal pole of a lamp post. For now, she waits, studies, and glances up and away at that slow rumble in the sky.
*
Ororo continues to walk, her expression pensive, thoughtful, even a little bit tense. She lifts a hand and runs her dark fingers through the white of her long hair, sighing.
The sky quakes with a soft rolling thunder once again. That means nothing, surely.
But, Ororo is not a woman lacking in perception: she grew up a thief and is supremely aware of her surroundings, so it is not long that the pole fails to hide the other black woman. She turns and regards what she can see of her a moment, saying in a soft, clear but confident tone, "Hello." A slight brush of the wind runs through the park, happening to carry her words a little better then would normally be done.
*
Caution and curiousity clash withing the girl as she keeps watching, but her shoulders tense after the sky shakes, and the winds flutter the loose tails of her overshirt. Still, she gives a gentle wave of her finger tips before setting her palm on the pole once more. "Hello," she voices in return, her accent not local in the least. Swallowing, hard, she glances at the sky and then down again. "Y'doin' dat?" The Creole questions with just a small spike of hesitation. Then, she gives the woman the once over, her brow quirking.
*
Storm knows nothing of caution, save the caution of the thief in the night, but here, now, in this strange place, she is not a creature of guile or deception. Yet, she is also not entirely conscious of her influence over the weather, so it is with honesty that she furrows a brow. "Doing what?" She turns, walking towards the shorter woman, her stride that of a cat advancing. Not on prey, no, but on territory that is hers for sure.
There's a small smile on Ororo's face, "I am…" A pause, clear and pregnant, but it is broken after a moment, "Ororo." Her own accent is off, having clear signs of british influence, though something else all together as well. But unless one recognizes the cadence of Wakanda its likely just odd.
"The night is alive and full of promise, isn't it?" This is added as an afterthought, because it in no way makes her seem weird or anything like that. Not at all.
*
"De wind. De thunda." She comments then, idly. Another once over, she pushes off the pole and then takes a step closer; their a pair of scuffy, ratty boots with laces left loose. "Lyn," she offers in return, her fingers twitching, trying to figure out if she should give a hand shake. So, her limb lingers out, waiting. "Promise? Mmm, maybe. Don' t'ink so, dough."
*
There is a pause, and Ororo lifts a shoulder in a graceful shrug, and says with a simple and soft voice, "I am the storm." She spent two years believing herself a goddess for her tribe, the idea of concealing who she is? It doesn't really register, not yet. Not so soon come to this nation. Then again, she's a black woman, so its not like there's not enough reasons for her to get into trouble.
"Lyn." Ororo smiles, and she shakes her head, the white of her hair being caught by a light gust of wind and turned to curls, "Every night has promise. Potential. Even if you hunger, even if you fear, even if you hide, there is promise there: there is something to reach out and grasp."
She lifts one shoulder again softly, "But why listen to me? I grew up an orphan in Africa, eating only what I could find." Or steal. "The promise of a new day and what can happen in that new day… it is what keeps the nightmares away."
*
"Guess some of us got worse nightmares den othas, no?" Shake over, her arm rests down beside herself again, and soon, both hands stuff themselves into the pockets of her smoke stained jacket. Glancing away, then back once more, she keeps that hold of vision on the much taller of the pair. "Guess we're alike in dat way, too. De orphan stuff. Findin' food when y'can." Now it's her turn to shrug, the breeze kicking up and pushing against her own mass of kinks and curls.
*
"Can nightmares be compared?" Ororo shakes her head slowly, the long white of her hair catching the wind again as she does so, "What horror is worse then any child's fears, and can you compare one to another? Everyone bears the burden they bear. Who can say if one nightmare is worse then another? It is enough that we sleep beneath the Mooon and tremble. We can find kinship in that."
The woman who is a contrast between white hair, dark skin and black leather shakes her head slowly. "The world is not forgiving, and has few mercies for the lost child— here, especially the lost child of dark skin, I am finding. But I am not from here. I am and I am not. Is this city yours?"
*
Lynette remains quiet. She listens, her dark eyes up and watching over the other woman's expression. Apologetic, instantly, she looks down and reaches up, trying to brush away some stray locks, only to have them spring back into place. Then, she glances up at the sky, and around the park, she watches people move down the street and the glimmer of lights from the towering buildings. "Dis city? No…it ain't mine." Clearing her throat, she then waggles a finger to the white haired weather witch. "Dat outfit. Where it come from? Y'one a dem…heroes or somet'ing?"
*
"Hero?" Ororo tastes the word with her voice as if she hadn't considered it before, "No, I think not. Once I thought I served my people, yes. I gave them fair harvests and punished the imperials who oppressed them." She shakes her head again, "But this suit comes from earlier, from a time before I knew anything, from a time when I knew only fear and uncertainty and desperate hope."
She purses her lips a moment, "A man taught me to live beyond the street, and gave me this as a gift. I was… born here." Ororo gestures about slightly, gracefully, "But I grew up as an orphan in Cairo, but then I wandered, looking for my people. Still a child, I learned some things well, and some things poorly. I am only… recently, come to this America."
*
Another story, the girl leans back on the lamp post now, using it for support as her arms link casually under her petite chest. She doesn't speak, not for several moments, simply allowing Ororo to explain herself, and share whatever she wishes to. "Good t'hear somebody out dere lookin' out f'ya." She explains, genuinely. "I'd say welcome t' America, but it ain't 'xactly de best place t'be right now. Whole world goin' crazy, seems like." Lyn murmurs, that soft apologetic expression returning to her youthful features. "Y'got a place now, don' ya? Y'ain't still on de streets?"
*
Lynette has reconnected.
*
"I endure." Ororo says simply, a hint of gravity to her voice, "If by methods learned in my youth, so be it." She shakes her head then, "I do not think it is any worse here then any other: is it ideal? No. Especially not for those of our skin. But in Kenya, my people are fighting to throw off the British imperialists who abuse them as well. Where in the world is there goodness? Safety? Peace?"
She smiles a moment, and her eyes turn from the dark blue that is as black in night, to a white that glows with inner light, and the wind swirls about her, capturing her hair to give it life. "Have you a need, seek to the Sisters of Mercy soup kitchen in Queens, sister Lyn, and ask for Ororo." Eyes bright white and white hair alive in the wind, "We are both daughters of parents lost." And with that, she will hear any parting response, and then the wind will gust and claim her and lift her up into the sky.
Storm is not hiding her powers well yet.
*
Lynette doesn't have the words. Her eyes grow, rounding like saucers as she watches the pale haired, now pale eyed woman leave gravity behind. A step back, and then another, she swallows again and watches. There was still wonder in the world, it seems, and the girl's eyes glimmer with the impossible.