1964-06-03 - Firestarter, Twisted Firestarter
Summary: Criminals learn two flying women are dangerous to face. And then there's Johnny Storm.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
firestar rogue johnny-storm 


Manhattan. Lovely place, once you get past the poverty. It has one of the most iconic skylines in the world, and is home to some of the greatest beings.

It's hardly surprising though that there is a lot of unrest. As the sun rises, sounds of raised voices join the birds. Motorcycles rev, disturbing the morning and people pull into their apartments for safety. As a group of unshaven and underfed men and women draw knives and clubs on each other, and a small street in the city becomes a war.

There are guns, but those are still few and less common…held back for emergencies. For now.

A streak across the sky would almost be expected. In this case, it's just a kind of a lazy loop-de-loop of a fiery orange, as someone tries out their wings. Not literally, but it does look like a girl in an orange jumper with hair literally on fire who's flitting above the city. New girl, apparently, since she hasn't already taken out half the combat.

Manhattan. Glorious place, once you leave the congested streets, double-parked taxis, and noisy clusters of activity behind. Beautiful for those who can afford penthouses in soaring towers and never concern themselves about the people crawling around the avenues like ants. Fantastic for anyone who is in the Baxter Building. Ignore those who are not.

Scarlett rarely approaches the dense core of New York aerially at anything less than thirty thousand feet. Not smart: too many cameras, windows, encroaching figures. It helps the clouds are swirling around in thick cumulus swirls fairly low, the ceiling sufficiently adjacent to buildings that a redhead pirouetting around on her toes isn't likely to garner too much attention.

It helps, too, the girl is a speed demon rarely known and she can tell the rev of a Victory from an Indian and just about every other mainline make of motorcycle, including the one she owns. She slips lower, softly lulled by the rocking currents of air, the peonies in her hair dashed a brilliant shade of magenta. It might help offset the fact she's a bohemienne floating in space. Something as evident as a flaming trail takes a few more moments to notice.

It might be more noticeable, when the girl-on-fire sees the fight below. She sees, she acts, and that flaming trail falls downward towards the people in need. Firestar pulls up right above the center mass of the problem at hand, spreading her hands wide, and yells "Stop!" Nice and loud, like she expects it to do something, but her action only gets a bottle thrown at her. The people fighting are too involved to pay attention to anyone, even if they're aflame.

"Okay….stop PLEASE?" She yells, opening her hands and sending out a wave of heat at everyone in the crowd, which mostly gets more stuff thrown at her, which she's forced to dodge in a rather acrobatic and kind of unplanned fashion. It looks like she's skywriting in the air in Mandarin.

Scarlett swivels on her axis, rotating with the ease of a prima ballerina in the Bolshoy Ballet Company. They would be jealous of her control and strength, though precision is something that comes naturally. Observing the contrail sparking in marigold and butter flame far too close to be viewed sedately is enough to spur her into motion, correcting her altitude and dropping.

It takes very little time to identify the source as someone other than Johnny Storm. Caution creeps in as she reels in her speed, arms crossed in front of her to break some of the frustrating intensity of wind blustering in her face. For this reason among many, her elaborate braids are an entirely sensible hairstyle. It also helps when someone else is shouting commands to cease hostilities and aim to end violence, preferably when enveloped in a flaming aura. See, as far as things so, she's not the most intimidating of people, and by /far/ less visible than that.

When someone hurls a pipe wrench airborne, because they would, she drops out of midair to catch the thing. Not simply because it might be valuable, but there lies a certain impression in a lithe romantic holding a great long wrench and alighting on the ground briefly. Rather like one's faerie godmother showing up to fix an engine.

The group of people, rather affixed on the idea of knocking each other's teeth in, pull back a bit when TWO supers show up. Then one of them starts to laugh, as he says, "It's a girl!" looking at Rogue with his knife drawn. "They're both girls! Go home and make me a baby, little girl." A couple in the background are tearing it up on the ground still, trying to do murder on each other, but mostly the two groups are now a bit distracted by the arrival of Flying Babes Two.

Which is when the girl aflame says, "Yeah, I'm a girl. Want to try it?" And she aims her right hand, forming a fist, and sends a shooting flame out of her hand that passes right between his legs. Dirty pool, but she was aiming to miss.

It does, however, cause a bit more fear in the group.

"Don't imagine you have the gear to do it with," Scarlett calls back dreamily to the unfortunate soul making the mistake of suggesting she go home, probably barefoot, and round out her stomach. "Unless you happen to have a bag of sugar about? I could draw a face on it for you, sweetness." Her glittering, sweet voice holds only the barest shades of New York's telltale dialect, dredging up smoother and cultivated, indicative of Kent or the Home Counties better than elsewhere. The southern belle, of another sort.

She spins around the wrench and deposits it in the nearest safe receptacle. Someone picking up the Bugle will no doubt be shocked to find a heavy metal paperweight on it. The roll of her shoulders into a charming shrug shows absolutely no threat whatsoever. And that's the point.

God plays chess with all queens, omniscience, and a stacked deck. Nothing like putting a horrific instrument of despair in so charming a little package. Flame erupting from Firestar is enough to get her sliding back to the sidewalk. "I could think of any number of awful quips about how you're a real firestarter. But do be sure the gasoline causes you no trouble, demoiselle!"

"I'll send you to school, you little bint," says one of the guys. He snaps his fingers, and one of his crew tears his eyes away from Firestar to Rogue, and then approaches her with a knife drawn. He seems uncertain, since Rogue isn't actually the one he's worried about, but slashes at her anyway.

While the southern belle is showing no threat, the flying flame-chucker most certainly does. It's actually hard to find something more visceral, more primal than flame for inciting the emotions. Having it thrown at you from a person you can't reach is terrifying, and one of the guys pulls a pistol and fires on Firestar in the air, the report of steel on steel audible for miles.

Then the flying lass, for all her inexperience, shows an aerial agility that's clearly from training; she moves before the guy even fires, getting out of the way of the gun so the shots are harmless and sends a wave of flame in the same motion that heats the steel in his hand to unbearable levels, and he drops the gun with a scream! That move took practice to perfect, but she's good at it.

Sticks and stones may break her bones… Scarlett isn't going to be hurt by such things, assuredly. She most certainly does not respond in kind with any harsh words, shaking her head slightly. The man posturing in his bravado to approach her with a knife drawn is met by those grave, dark eyes full of the spring's burning heart, and she does naught but shake her head at him. "I wish you would not. It will not help you."

His uncertainty meets with the absolute affirmation on her part that it's a bad idea. She backs up nonetheless, leaving him an out to run. For her, the sky's the limit.

There are other concerns to be worried about. Explosive compression caused by the gunshot in the narrow confines of the street are enough to deafen the audience to her, anyways, and the potential of a peaceful reconciliation falls on its proverbial face at the sheer noise. She clamps her hands over her ears, eyes narrowing considerably. When the unfortunate aggressor turned victim drops the gun, the bohemienne frowns.

The flying girl says, "What gasoline?" as if she really doesn't know motorcycles very well, though her accent doesn't say anywhere in particular. A girl who moved around all her life, she's the product of the entire country, and she circles the situation leaving a ring of fire above that draws the eye of the entire group. "I can't really shoot without hurting people, are you okay in there?" She seems actually pretty worried, since that one guy trying to take Rogue's head off bothers her more than the one who was shooting.

To be fair, a fair amount of the fighters weren't planning on dealing with supers today, and look willing to leave at this point themselves. And many do, taking that chance that's offered.

The guy with the knife, glancing at his crew, says, "F this, I'm done," and bolts. He leaves Rogue unmolested, and there's only a couple of idiots left too dumb to flee.

Firestar, coming in for a landing, ignites both of her hands in flame and starts walking towards them quietly. And that, that's enough. The whole group runs for the hills.

The first rule of fighting: always question attacking the old man who cleans things.

The second rule: be suspicious, highly so, of someone unperturbed in the least by your advance.

The third: don't get hit.

Scarlett is better at the previous two rather than the third, but when the chips are down, she will not refuse to engage as she must. It counts as a strange moment when someone sees the light and turns tail. The others, they make for a more difficult situation and she already assesses those few insistent on remaining to scrap or turn weapons on one another.

Bubbling heat warrants her attention, a turn to Firestar approaching. "That's rather effective. Well done for the removal of the mob in the making." Concern tingesher countenance. "Have you heard of this transpiring before, or are we merely fortunate enough to witness the unwelcome?"

|ROLL| Rogue +rolls 1d20=vesper for: #-1 INVALID ARGUMENT

Firestar lets her hands and hair extinguish themselves, though the coppery ringlets of her hair are still a match for any redhead in the world. She blushes, though, showing the lie of all that bravado as she lets the world cool about her again. Which is when it becomes evident that she's not really that impressive a person. She rushes up to Rogue, then stops a few paces away and bites her lower lip.

"Are you alright?" The first thing out of her lips, she's worried. The second, "I don't think I seriously hurt anybody, but are you all right? You didn't have to just stand there, people will hurt us if we're vulnerable. You scared the heck out of me, just standing there like that."

No introduction, but she's really scared for the girl, reaching out to try and check for injuries.

The shock of Scarlett's frosted hair is hidden very well indeed, and the coronet of peonies helps along with the braids to conceal any outward form of mutation or metahuman ability. Naturally being capable of floating — and definitely in midair — marks her as a little less than normal, if Firestar was paying attention.

Her hands poise before her, long fingers curled across one another near her navel. "Quite well. Your precision was excellent and timely, given they no longer think assailing citizens at random constitutes a good time. May it stay that way," she replies, the sunny blitheness of her nature asserting itself. She doesn't exactly move out of the way when Firestar closes in, holding her gaze with a touch of a smile. "I can concentrate their attention on me, allowing others to flee as necessary. Most thugs like that barely know what to do when someone holds their ground. It can be enough to encourage a reassessment of the situation."

Firestar hesitates when Rogue doesn't reach out her hands, and lowers her own almost automatically. Body language often tells stories that we don't understand fully ourselves, and she realizes that she's not welcome to touch the southern belle. Not so easily, even if she's worried, but she does give a gentle and shy smile as she glances at the retreating felons.

"I could learn from you, actually," she admits easily. "I think you had as much effect on them as I did. Certainly at least you didn't hurt anybody." She turns, blushing a little as she looks Rogue in the eyes, and says, "You could have, couldn't you?" Yeah, she was paying attention.

There's trouble! The Human Torch to the rescue! As another flying fireball streaks through the sky and heads to where Firestar and Rogue are, it seems his timing is on the fritz, but still. He came. Johnny looks between the flyin' ladies, and he shifts his composition so he's not a guy of pure fire but a man surrounded by fire. That way he can show his I am Charming grin, "What is it I missed, ladies?"

The redhead does not defend herself against touch, and neither is she at all unconscious about every person within two yards of herself. Arm's reach matters a great deal when she is the oubliette of souls, at times, and the entrapment of dreams and the psyche. "You are kind to say so. I could probably learn a thing or two about not attracting trouble or staying out of harm's way." Admission made, she touches her throat. Fingers curling in a wave, she takes a breath and extends her hand to Firestar. Build bridges, that's Charles' motto. Build bridges. Build bridges. Do not eat the mutants, do not eat the mutants. "I'm Scarlett. I do not think we have met, unless you are …"

That man in the air right there, flame on, stage left. However does one endure the unbearable fame and repute of being made of composite plasma?

Surprise is a dangerous, terrible thing.

Firestar says, "But," as she looks at Rogue, but turns to see the incoming…fire guy? Fireman? She looks openly surprised as she says, "Angelica," almost absently, the man aflame putting her act to shame. She squeezes Rogue's hand automatically, as Johnny comes in to land. And her mind opens up, as she stiffens under Rogue's touch.

Visions of a lifetime in effective prison, and almost a decade trying to keep anyone from being hurt. Absorbing radiation from everything around her, which so often turns into heat that melts things, hurts people, she's petrified of what she has. The power to make flame, but also to cause so much pain.

Of being taught to protect herself, as a mutant. Always in danger. Fear, but also…so worried, that these people shouldn't have to be afraid. She's so happy, right now, that the southern girl is alright, she's holding back tears. And, even now, afraid of melting the girl's hand.

Once he settles to the ground, Johnny's flame evaporates. He's in his Fantastic Four uniform, which is pretty form fitting. He crosses his arms over his chest, regarding the ladies with his smile still in place. "Sorry, am I interrupting?" There's something a little odd going on, he's sure of it: but what it is? He can't for the life of him tell what it is.

Copper fire meets sunset, the summer and the autumn colliding together. Greener than green eyes meet their likeness, and Scarlett's curse emanates between the atoms of her being, dancing through the pristine touch of skin and jolted awareness. Concentration slips for a second and the void pounces, no longer checked by spell or deed or skin of her fingernails — such a terrible metaphor, that. It strikes, and Angelica as its target gives a shock to the system. A few seconds at most before she pulls her fingers away, after that initial shake.

It doesn't hurt, that's the worst part. The pull of sensation is an indescribable one, trandescence in euphoria, and so terribly jarring for the instigator. Rage and pain and shame rail right along with the chorus of voices in her head singing hallelujah to another come into their midst. For a moment she is not herself, not anyone else but her external reflection. Perfect time for Johnny to fly by and flatten them all, the man who caught an assassinated Kree that just about damn well fell on her in Times Square as she rose to get it. Old times, New times.

"It will be all right…" An assurance to Firestar, as much as herself.

Firestar has sunk to her knees. No, Angelica has. Firestar doesn't even exist yet, she's that new as a hero. Her skin is even more pale than normal, but she's not hurt. Opening her mouth to speak, she finds it's hard to even find the words. Like she's barely there. But she looks at her hand confusedly, then gives a game little smile. And tries to get to her feet, and stumbles. "Erk." Little help here, Johnny.

Oookay. Johnny, bright, clever and observant as he is, has definately identified that Something Weird This Way Comes. That said, he still hasn't identified it. But his sights zoom in on Damsel In Distress and in his typical modern cowboy way he rushes forward to reach out and help Angelica up, "Hey, hey, what's going on?" He eyes Rogue a bit, but he isn't sure she's the cause of the trouble. But she's there and so, assumptions are being made, no matter what assuming makes of you and him.

Firestar gets to her feet. The experience left her pale, yet flushed, and she looks at both Johnny and Scarlett each. Not certain which one is most impressive, she smiles shyly and squeezes Johnny's hand, then says, "Well that was fun. What just happened to me? Aside from the obvious."

Scarlett gives a distinctly and properly awed smile. Maybe she might not be particularly awed, but would the other self whispering through her psyche not be thrilled to find someone else composed of flame, so similar, so tantalizing close?

The temperature bubbles up and sinks down a few degrees, even as her expression is mellow. "Some kind of criminals attacked below. They shot at her and I managed to convince a man it wasn't in his best interests to continue," she picks her words carefully, and the rising tide of self seizes upon the flickering collection of memories dancing across the mindscape. Capturing fire never comes easy, but then, at some degree, the girl calling herself Scarlett is nothing less than the aurorae in the high atmosphere, and collecting herself by undulating and twisting around the starry emissions crackling into her broken psychic landscape is familiar. Not Angelica, not Angelica, remember the garden needs to be watered. Starting with the artemisia, then the wild grasses if they're to thrive.

Six seconds become ten. Then she takes out a deep breath. "The stress can prove a little jarring. Give her a few moments, please. She means no harm, and I mean none."

Johnny is used to looks. He's famous. Or famously freakish, depending on who you ask. But he just smiles and nods to the ladies, squeezing Firestar's hand back and looking attentive, making sure she's stable and not going to collapse at all. He nods to Rogue's explanation slowly, "I only saw what happened from a difference, guess this time I was too slow to help." He flashes a grin then, "I'm Johnny." Of course he expects they already know that. But its a polite sound to make, pretending like you're just some regular joe. Talk of guns though has him looking Firestar over with some concern, "Are you hurt? Need a trip to the hospital? I'd fly you there but—" He flies while being on fire. Not useful as an ambulance service.

Given that Angelica for once in her life couldn't muster enough fire to light someone's smoke, she kind of sways a bit when released. Clearly no danger to anybody right now, she nods foggily at Scarlett's words. Then tips over and sits, rather unexpectedly, right on the ground.

"I understand," she says after Johnny speaks, in a way that suggests she's either touched, or she really really does. "No, I'm fine. I think I just saw my heart." Angelica. Angelica. She tries to reffirm that she is, in fact, herself. And is amused at how much there is to affirm.

"I should be alright, I can fly myself." Totally can't. Yet.

The overtipped young woman does raise Scarlett's eyebrows, and a pointed concern trails over her features. She drops down to a crouch when Firestar decides to settle closer to the pavement, her hands smoothing the hem of her skirt beneath her knees. No need to cause a stir in other ways. "Miss? I am sorry, I do not know what you prefer to call yourself." No one else is privy to the sonnets spun of ego in her thoughts, and blessed for it, because the crushing weight of silence buoys her against the sparkling copper tide tinged in shades of fear and self-doubt not her own, but borrowed from the confused mutant.

"Take a few minutes. There is no rush, and any of the men returning to cause you trouble are unlikely to do so given he is here." She nods to Johnny. "See? Fantastic Four. They'll think twice, given the uniform he wears. I suspect being on fire is particularly intimidating, too. I have not the faintest idea what triggered the situation."

Johnny continues to support Angelica, because why not? She's cute and supporting her means he gets to stand next to her. Its the sort of thing he just does. But he nods his assent to her affirming she's fine, then blinks, "Oh, fly? We should go flying sometime. It is the most amazing thing: soaring through the sky. Its better then racing cars." He nods his agreement to Rogue firmly, "Oh yeah, no one's going to mess with you while I'm here. Its the uniform. Put a uniform on a guy and everyone starts paying attention." He laughs quickly, easily. "She has a point. If you're liquid flame people just tend to think twice of causing trouble. Well. Unless you're a water monster. *That* conundrum is one I don't look forward to."

"I'm Angelica," the girl on her bottom says as Johnny and Scarlett both support her, albeit in different fashions. Wearing a spandex outfit, long before spandex became a thing, she takes in the ideas. Things she needs to know, given her own fears. Her worries about the fire. And smiles. "My outfit is the only fabric I own that doesn't burst into flames when I get hot…I go through so many sweaters and skirts."

She's trying to be amusing, as she starts to try to get her feet again. And can feel the background radiation recharging her, like the sun on her face. She ignites her hand, happy to see that it's returned. It's been with her so long, it felt wrong for the fire to be gone. And she looks at Scarlett, grinning. "Suppose I need a name for the uniform, don't I?"

Rogue goes home.

Rogue has left.

Tilting his head, Johnny regards Angelica curiously, "Burst into flame?" He's intrigued. Someone else related to fire? And then the ignition, and Johnny smiles. He reaches out to take that hand, the fire having absolutely no effect either on him or his uniform. "Is this Reed's?" he asks, expecting and assuming she has heard of Mr. Fantastic. "The uniform, I mean. Reed has developed something about 'unstable molecules' that he made my uniform and most of my default wardrobe out of. It doesn't react to fire so after I'm done getting my flame on, I'm not left naked." He laughs, grinning at the end of the laugh, "I'm not shy or anything, don't get me wrong, but some people get so awkward. Now, a name you say? Well. Show me what you can do. Show off. I'll think of something."

Firestar almost pulls back when he reaches to touch her hand. Her entire life, past eleven, afraid to hurt someone with that fire. But he takes it so easily, she's surprised. Pleasantly. And she can feel some more of her energy coming back. From him, even. Which is even more surprising; most people don't give her much. He has so much more.

"I don't know," she admits with a relieved smile. "My teachers gave it to me to train in, they didn't tell me what it was. If you'd like to get me out of it though, you'll need a better excuse than that." The grin gives lie to the statement, knowing what he means but willing to tease.

Then, nodding, she stands. Steadily enough, and her hair bursts into flame. "I'd tell you to stand back, but I don't think you'll need to." The air around her gets hot, then it gets REALLY hot, and she rises into the air. Fire trailing behind her, only her hair is aflame. She rises, straight up into the air, fully in control now. And she says, "This is the best I can do," still shy. Even now.

And the sky goes nova, even in brightest day, as a new star scorches the land, the earth, and Angelica gives it her all.

Too bad she's not fully charged, or she'd really make a show of it!

Even when he's not flaming, Johnny's body contains oh so much energy. Reed has theories, he's even named it: don't ask Johnny what that name is, he tuned it out. But he squeezes her hand reassuringly, and even laughs when she talks about getting out of her uniform, "Oh, I need to work my A-game, Angel? I'll keep that in mind.." His grin is dangerous. And he shares it so freely. He watches with interest as she rises: he doesn't absorb energy like she does but despite his immunities, he can feel its there. Johnny becomes the Human Torch: his entire body transforming into superheated plasma and he rises up to watch what she does from her perspective. He changes after the nova: not pure liquid flame, but a man covered in fire. His expressions translate better that way, and he's grinning. "It's like a star being born." he comments with a curious nod, "Firestar. 'Star' by itself is a bit too fuzzy, don't you think? Honey it's sorta nice to meet someone who might understand what it's like."

The Human Torch lifts is flaming arms and rises higher, the fire turning from red to orange as it itensifies as his speed increases. Does she follow?

She does. Gifted with the chance to fly with someone else, someone who could understand how dangerous even being near people can be, with what she can do, could she but follow. Oh, she does, and Firestar's flame twines around his, as the sun races across the sky.

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