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America arrives from Midtown <MT>.
America has arrived.
The subway unites more parts of the city for a cheap fare than the bus or a taxi will ever do. Put up with the weirdos and the buskers, though. Vesper happens to be in a car where a fresh fellow has opted to throw his coat off on a chair and start a performance. He dances. It's not the kind of dancing familiar to people except in the hippest corners of Harlem, like the Apollo, or East Village. The Swim is some kind of crazy combination of the Hully Gully and a lot of exciting arm motions. He bends over and straightens, doing some kind of crawl with a lot of shaking motion. She is staring over her journal and stares with vague confusion. What is that?
Cassandra Wu-San isn't far away from this scene, and is generally just staring with a concerned look on her face. To the tiny teenager, this person looks like he's having a seizure. Except his face says something different. Cassie can't understand why else someone would be doing this. She just watches on from her seat on a bench, her hands in her hoodie's pockets.
Cassie's posture is stiff compared to most. Her shoulders are squared as she sits stock upright. Her feet are neatly flat before her, and one can tell that her hands ae likely folded within the pockets of her hoodie. Cassie's features are mildly obscured beneath the upraised hood, though its hard not to notice the big browns that peer forth.
And, the little brown girl that nobody is paying attention to near the exit is smiling. She's making little notes in what appear to be a notebook, watching the dancer move, as her purple silk scarf drifts in the limited and kind of dirty air. She knows that she's not the one anyone is looking at, and in New York that's usually safest. Still…
"If you learned belly dancing you'd open up a whole new concept, you know," Kamala says to the dancer, completely willing to chat even with someone as distracted as that. "My uncle Hafir could set you up with lessons, it's really fun if you don't mind the outfits." Muslim girl goes wild, you know it baby.
Carol Danvers and America Chavez. In 1964 America it is hard to imagine two people who would seem less likely to be seen together. Despite this the two of them are laughing and chatting as they step off of the train and emerge onto the subwya platform. America scans everything ahead of them as she is stepping out.
"…Woah. What dance is that? Looks pretty cool." America arches an eyebrow. The Latina in her eyecatchingly patriotic street garbe folds her arms over her chet for a second. "Want to take a closer look…?" She asks Carol, already starting toward the dancer… and the girl chatting him. Kamala gets a once over. Then a wave. Followed by America opening her mouth- and shutting it. Whatever was to be said remains unsaid.
Carol is dressed pretty casually right now, following along after America as she sees the street performer, "Seen a few people doing that in Harlem… just watching it makes me wonder how they can do that." She grins and follows America along, "And sure, let's watch."
Shaking left to right and right to left, the dancer appears to do the front crawl. From the waist down his knees are flexing and feet shaking in tight turns. If only he had a device to project music that he could carry on his hip. Tony Stark would make a fortune creating the Stark-Man. He swivels around to play to the rest of the passengers not seated in front of him. "Come on, dance! Good for your bones, good for your soul. Heck yeah, gal, I'll learn from your uncle if he got rhythm and a dancing soul." He's in a great mood. Even when the train lurches on the tracks or rumbles around. Dancing is all kinds of fun.
Vesper is not dancing. The slim Frenchwoman has work to do that involves review of complex functions and very long words compiled from Greek because German is still kind of taboo. Her thumb presses on the corner of a page.
Cassandra Wu-San just squints as the person does weird and purposeless motions, totally not getting it. The generally stock still girl just warily observes the eratic individual, content as long as he keeps his distance. She doesn't want the Boogie Fever. Nope.
Kamala Khan grins widely, an easy smile that just comes out without hesitation or fear. For a girl from Jersey, New York or the area, she's remarkably comfortable talking to strangers. "Sure!" she says to the dancer, actually scribbling down a phone number and then tearing it out and handing it to him. And wiggling a little in her seat, the guy's very enthusiastic and that's contagious.
Her hand shoots up as she's waved to, and Kamala assumes that she's met the lady before? Ladies? With an eyebrow raised, she motions to two empty seats nearby. Near the asian chick with the staring thing going on.
"Oh, hey." When Kamala waves back America looks quite a bit more confident. She still seems to be frowning, like something hasn't quite clicked in her mind. Maybe she just doesn't remember where she met this girl. If she's met this girl. Finally the young woman shrugs and then moves forward a little bit. She also starts to move, copying the movements of the dancer somewhat and then adding in her own. America knew how to groove, back in 2020. This doesn't dcome as eaisly to her.
"Carol, do you like to da-" Slowly, Kamal tuns her head to look back over her shoulder toward Cassandra. Wide eyes consider the sttaring girl for a moment. Now they both stare. Staring contest. Not that that prevents some simple dancing.
Carol grins, "I… don't really dance, though I don't mind watching." She chuckles at America, "Honestly, I really have two left feet, though…" She doesn't say anything else, not in public, but she does give America a bit of a look as she takes one of the offered seats by Kamala, giving the kid a grin, "Thanks for the seat."
"Y'all oughta try, now. See, she's getting into it!" The excited and rather happy dancer won't have long to show off his high-energy moves. The train is sliding into a station and the doors open with a rush of air. It smells terrible. Graffiti streaks the tiles. Pedestrians flow off and push in at the same time because New York is like that. He goes out with a wave, high-fiving a few random people who clearly have no idea. What the heck is with his good mood?
Looking over those very large sunglasses, Vesper is left mildly disconcerted. "So… happy." The tone would suggest this is not normal. Not bad, but not normal. The staring Asian she nods to, an understanding built there.
Cassandra Wu-San glances to America when she notes that she's being stared brow. The girl doesn't blink unless its for a reason, so this could go on for some time! She'll squint slightly as she notes the gyrating has indeed started to become contagious. The fear has become realized. Woe…
Kamala makes room for America and Carol by shuffling over a little. She gives the leaving guy a wave, just checking real quick to see if she's been pickpocketed (making her stand out as a longtime resident of the city to anyone who knows to look.) Then she hums a little tune, as Carol parks her kiester nearby. "I, am the very model of a modern major general. Not really, it felt right when my mouth opened though." Somehow the smile doesn't fade under embarrasment, but she offers Carol her hand. Then to America, "I don't know you two do I?"
America has totally been pickpocketed today. No, she hasn't actually noticed. The girl continues to twist her hips and dance and bob while keeping her eyes locked onto Cassandra like it's some kind of slowly building dance-off. Except it's a Stare-Off. The dancing is secondary. Despite this, she seems to be getting into all of this. "Okay. It's on. You should come over and dance!" America calls out to Cassandra. She also shrugs, not actually looking over at Kamala. "I don't- think so! But there's always time to change that. My name's America. America Chavez." She sounds like a television character and she's dressed in red, white, and blue… (And black shorts). Maybe she's a performer of some kind.
While America might have been pickpocketed, the nice thing is that she has a friend who's a trained spy that looks out for that sort of thing. So not only did Carol retrieve America's wallet, she snatched the pickpocket's wallet out of spite. For future reference, really.
Then she grins over at Kamala, "I don't think so. My name's Carol." She leaves off the last name, spy habit. That and she does still have a secret identity, though for how much longer is a matter of debate.
"I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral. I know the kings of England." Kamala's phrase is picked up because Vesper cannot help herself. Someone knows her Gilbert and Sullivan. She plucks at her coat and pulls it a bit closer as someone else slides by her seat. The check to the map brings her to her feet.
The little girl in grey is stoic as her diminutive frame remains stock still on her perch. Cassandra's browns continue to peer out from beneath her hood as she recognizes a challenge when she sees it. She doesn't know the point or nature of this challenge, but that doesn't change the fact that it is one. She doesn't blink, nor does her gaze shift as her wary gaze hides a hope that the infection remains in its own general vicinity. She has no idea what they are doing, but prefers it remain where its at.
Kamala Khan grins. She's surrounded by nerds, strange people and potential superheroes! This is totally what she'd be doing if she were a superhero and they're all attractive, smart and utterly without fear, so this has GOT to be a group of them! Logic! That one is Wonder Woman, the other one has to be Major Fury, and Squirrel Girl is the one quoting the play. This. Is. Awesome!!!
Thus proving that you can be utterly correct for all the right reasons and still come to the wrong conclusion.
"Kamala," she says as introduction, not talking to anyone in particular, but unwilling to resist the challenge. "I quote the facts historical, from Marathon to Waterloo in order categorical. Nerd power! Okay, that even made me embarrassed, why are you two trying to stare each other to death anyway?" Kamala's train of attention is as diverse as her train of thought, so who she's talking to may take some unraveling.
"She started it but I am not going to lose," America half-mutters in response to the words being spoken by Kamala. She continues to stare down Cassandra with intensity. The challenge has been accepted and the gauntlet thrown.
The only problem? Now America's nose is itching.
The Latina powerhouse twitches it slightly, something that translates to the way she is dancing almost frenetically along with the music. "Who sings that one anyway? Gilbert Gottfried?" That is of the song that is just now being finished between the two women nearby.
America can't stop to do more. She has to dance. Dance and stare.
Dance. And stare. And… Not… Sneeze.
Carol blinks, "Um, Gilber… who?" She looks nonplussed, then grins over at Kamala, "Well, you're one up on me. I didn't even catch the line at first." She does look over at America doing the staring contest with Cassandra, tilting her head as she then sighs a bit, "We might be here a while."
Vesper wraps her hand around the metal bar as the train moves along. The nerd label she might meekly protest. The rest are not hers. Gyrating figures and hoodie-staredowns are all terrible unfamiliar things. "Yes, the musicians wrote for the theatre," she says in that distinctly Gallic accent. Her English is perfectly fine but still foreign. "Does your friend need a tissue?"
Cassandra Wu-San is effortlessly on top of this engagement. When body language is your first language for most of your life, staring is normal. She doesn't flinch or glance away, not inclined to lose even now. The sickness is keeping its distance even. All is well in her world, and whatever this contest is she remains on top. She doesn't smile, though there does seem to be a twinkle in those browns suggestive of one.
Looking up to Carol and America, Kamala says, "Gilbert and Sullivan, Pirates of Penzance, 1879." She seems to sound just the tiniest bit disappointed, but only in having to explain the reference. Well, even heroes can be light on the arts. "Are you Wonder Woman?" she asks Carol, in a stage whisper. "It's okay, I won't tell anyone. It's true isn't it? I promise I won't write about you any more, that story wasn't published on a whim, I really thought that you and Captain Marvel would make a good couple. With his jaw and all, I mean…um…" She trails off eventually, not getting the reaction she was hoping for.
It seems that, alas, reinforcements come not in time for America. She finally hitches in midstep, sneezes, and does a magnificent twirl that has her spinning on a toe like some kind of high speed ballerina. The dance, at least, ends on a high note, even if she is wobbling- and scowling, having lost the staredown. Finally the Latina breathes a sigh and straightens slightly, turning toward Kamala. "Wonder Woman? Really?" There's a pause as Kamala considers this then shakes her head. "You can take this one, Carol." She shakes her head slowly and jams a hand in a pocket. Cassandra gets a glance. She lost. Fair and square.
Carol tries really hard not to laugh at that, she does. Though only a decade of spy experience allows her to keep the straight face. "Well, wait, isn't Captain Marvel a woman now? I could have sworn that she took the name over." She then grins a bit, "Out of respect, from what I understand, though I could be wrong." Not that she IS or anything, really. "She used to call herself Warbird, right? Though… well, Wonder Woman is very cool, and I wish I was her. Sadly…" She tugs lightly on her blonde hair, then grins at Kamala, "Not a wig."
Cassandra Wu-San sometimes wishes she could understand things better, then there are times she realizes she really doesn't want to know. Cassandra offers a half smirk at America before she glances at the odd exchange between Kamie and Carol. Why did she just pull her own hair? Oh dear. This train can't stop soon enough.
"She's right," says Vesper, nodding to Kamala. The wishes of Cassandra are guaranteed to be met, especially as the train closes in on the next station. That, it would happen, is the brunette's stop. The rest of the conversation is a bit of a lost cause on someone who doesn't discriminate upon superheroes and regular heroes. "Have a good night." That to the others. When the doors open, she's like to step out onto the platform.
Kamala raises a hand to Vesper/Squirrel Girl, lost mostly in her conversation with Carol now. "Seriously, I can't get stories about boy/girl pairings published under my own name even, how would I get one about HER done? It's like pulling teeth to even get something blatantly obvious, like Captain America meeting the president and shaking his hand after a battle. I mean, Captain Marvel, the female one? Which by the way is the best one, let's be honest."
"You can't even get publishing companies to touch her stories, not in that outfit. I think it's the boots myself, you see those boots and you just know that she's got buttkicking to do and girls aren't supposed to do that in modern literature. Am I wrong?" Totally off topic already, she's given up on the Wonder Woman thing at least.
"Girls are supposed to kick butt in any literature," comes America's reply, though she shakes her head in a flow of black treses as she does. The woman adjusts her red hoodie then, and the denim jacket with the white stars on the shoulders. "You'll be a hero too someday. Watch. Women can be anything." A beat follows as America adds, "And fuck yeah, those boots. Too good."
Carol shakes her head, "No, you're not wrong, Kamala. Women can kick just as much butt as men. Especially since we have to pick up their slack." She winks at Kamala, then chuckles, "And don't let anyone EVER tell you what you can or can't do, you got that? Captain Marvel wouldn't put up with that, and you shouldn't either." Carol sounds a bit fierce about that, but considering her background… yeah, it figures.
Cassandra Wu-San rises quietly to her feet to make her way behind Vesper. The sickness is real, and she has no intent of catching whatever it is. Flee! Away goes Cassandra to take the long way back to Mutant High.
Kamala Khan wonders who that one was. Probably nobody, she just seemed grumpy. Still, she wonders idly if America is Wonder Woman. There's a certain resemblance. Okay, wait, missed my stop! Again! "Captain Marvel would not be getting off at Seventh Street when she had someone waiting for her on Madison!" she says, getting to her feet in a flurry of self-recrimination.
She pauses, looking at the subway car of people, all of them heroes in her eyes, and says proudly, "Damn right I will be! You just watch! Ohdamn," and she ducks through the door JUST as it's closing, losing a sheet of her notebook in the process as she vanishes. Probably to call home for a ride.
The paper, torn, settles to the ground. It's a picture of Captain Marvel in pencil. Blasting through a wall, all heroic. And all about the boots. Girl likes dem boots.
Carol blinks at the picture, then quickly snatches it up before it gets stepped on or trampled. Secreting it away, she smiles a little bit towards America, "Alright, I see the point, the subway is more interesting than just walking on the streets."
"I told you. So much to see out here." America frwons faintly and then gives a shrug. "People are interesting if you give them a chance." Burying her hands America turns to look over toward Cassandra again. "Like her. I wonder what her story is." She watches as Kamala departs in relative silence.
Kamala Khan has left.
Cassandra Wu-San has left.