2012-10-23: Putting the Fear of the Goddess In Them

The evening has worn on into the wee hours of the morning. New York, the city that never sleeps, has lived up to its name. While it's still half an hour until the bars officially close, many of its patrons have already spilled out into the streets, numbed by their irreverent imbibing of alcoholic beverages. However, there is one man who hasn't taken up the shield of alcohol in the conquest of the opposite (or same, in many cases) sex. That man is Kwabena Odame. He stands by himself, near the entrance to an alleyway next to a closed cellular phone store, puffing on a cigarette as if unbothered by those who pass by, on their way to their homes, or the homes of others. It would appear that he is waiting for something, though what that might be is anyone's guess.

Ororo Munroe does not drink, however, she does enjoy good food and live music, and so she is shuffling out of a small club known for featuring a mix of jazz and world music, with the occasional break for a spoken word performance. She is not dressed extravagently, but she is dressed... nicely. A colourfully printed dress of draping silk, cinched at the waist with a simple brown belt, a gold-and-silver statement necklace, and a thin scarf tied as a headband to hold back her silver-white hair, which is worn natural, tight spirals indicating no use of chemical straighteners, but a lot of time and care put into it. A camel-coloured wool coat is worn open, and she carries a pale brown purse tucked under one arm. After exiting the club, she starts down the street, towards the nearest subway station, seemingly not paying much attention to those around her.

Little could Ororo know, but Kwabena has also refrained from drinking this evening. No, he has been spending the hours working his contacts amongst the less than favorable denizens of New York's Lower East Side. The particular alleyway in which he lurks is home to a trio of cocaine dealers who often prey on those passing by, hoping to find the unlucky souls who might purchase their overpriced drugs in exchange for the promise of a good evening. Fortunately, he knows how those dealers operate. They are among the rare, those rash and tactless types who care so little for law enforcement that they might cause trouble, especially if sales are down for the evening. When Kwabena spots Ororo heading toward the train station, he overhears some chatter in the alleyway behind him. Frowning, he casually steps out into the street and marginally in line with Ororo. His voice casually speaks up amongst the din of the late evening streets, peppered with a thick Ghanaian accent. "Listen, I don't know where you're headed, but I am going to recommend you make your way to the J train, at Bowery. Grand isn't where you want to be headed right this moment." Ororo raises a pale eyebrow at this. "Oh, and why would that be?" she asks him, her own accent not as strong, but quite detectable. West African, for sure, but one that speaks of life spent in many locales. "I appreciate your concern, but I assure you I am quite capable of taking care of myself," she says, just as the wind seems to blow a little colder, which doesn't seem to bother her at all, even with her coat undone. She looks over her shoulder to see what he may be trying to warn her about.

As Kwabena walks with the woman, a trio of street thugs emerge from the alleyway behind them. Leering, they begin to whisper amongst themselves, before emerging to follow along at a relatively decent distance. When Ororo turns to look over her shoulder, Kwabena hisses quietly. "Don't look at them." He glances toward her, eyes narrowed. "You may think you can handle yourself, but believe me, these are not the type of people you want to provoke." He smiles thinly, as if he had the wherewithall to personally vouch for his advice. The cold doesn't seem to bother him either. Perhaps he considered it a typical Manhattan breeze, blowing in from the ocean, or perhaps there was something else at play. Regardless, he looks back toward her curiously. "They think you want to buy drugs from them," he points out. "If you disappoint them, it won't be pretty." He motions toward the next intersection, a well lit and major intersection that would lead her toward the J train at Bowery. "They have a get-away car posted nearby the subway station at Grand."

Ororo Munroe frowns. "In that case," says Ororo. "They are welcome to try. Perhaps I may do more than disappoint them," she says, with a bit of a mischievious smile, and a wink. "Though you may wish to move back a little if they do approach me." And so, she takes a few steps from her would-be protector (whose concern she really does appreciate). But she also cannot abide those who would prey on the weak, or the unsuspecting. "Would you be so kind as to hold my coat?" she asks him.

Something about the way the woman responds to him draws a change in Kwabena's demeanor. She couldn't have possibly known his purpose in waiting outside that alley, but when she so boldly offers to take them on, his eyes begin to glow with a sort of unkempt hunger for violence. He slips the coat from her shoulders, but rather than simply stand back and hold it as she requested, he gently drapes it over the lip of a handrail nearby the entrance to an old apartment building before turning to face the would be attackers as well. After giving the woman a sidelong glance, he takes a few steps toward the thugs who have chosen to follow them. "Brin! Gooseye!" he calls out to them. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?" The thugs close the distance until they can reply to Kwabena's call with quieter tones. "Stay off our turf, Odame," one of them warns, before pulling a switchblade from beneath his jacket. "Oh, you'll have to do better than that," retorts Kwabena, before lunging at the thug in question with a snarl. It may be dark, and the eye may sometimes play tricks on those who aren't vigilant, but as the thug swipes at Kwabena in defense, it mysteriously seems to pass right through his wrist, as if he were some sort of wraith. Finishing his approach, Kwabena thrusts his hand into the thug's neck, leaving him in a choking heap on the street.

Ororo takes a few steps towards the men. The wind becomes much, much stronger now, swirling about her. She hasn't done this act in a while, but.... damn if it isn't fun to break out every so often. "Your turf?" she asks, using the winds to direct her voice to their ears. "You have no claim to this place, or any other." Her eyes are glowing white now, and she begins to lift herself off the ground. "You defile this place with your filth and violence." Is she overdoing the drama? Maybe a little. "Do not raise your hands or weapons to me, or face the fury of a /goddess/ scorned." She holds out her hands, conjuring small bolts of electricity to dance between her fingers.

Kwabena is mid approach when the swirling wind catches him off guard. He takes a cautious step back, and turns his mismatched eyes upon Orora as she summons the elements to her own bidding. The whitened eyes are all he needs to recognize that she is like him. A mutant. Too close to the woman, Kwabena finds his right arm caught in the torrent that spins around her. Unexpected to him, or anyone else for that matter, his arm begins to melt into a plume of black smoke, which is caught up in the torrent. Eyes wide, he looks from his elbow, where his arm has disappeared, and off toward the thugs who stand shocked by what they witness, and with the simplest bending of his will, the plume of black smoke shoots forth from the swirling winds and actually re-forms into his own hand. It finds itself materializing around one of the thug's neck, where it grasps in a non-lethal stranglehold. Too flabbergasted to speak, Kwabena merely stares in a slowly growing fury as his own fingers, separated from himself, curl around the thug's neck until the thug falls to the ground. "You should listen to her," he warns. The other thug scampers backward on the ground, eyes wide with terror.

Ororo frowns at Kwabena. "Do not kill him, friend," she says, in a voice that makes it quite beleivable that she was once worshipped as a deity. She floats closer to the men. "You will stop this," she says, using the air to carry her voice in an almost unearthly way. As if when she speaks, it comes from all directions. "Find something better. That does not harm. Or the earth herself will take its vengeance on you," she brings a small lightning strike down just far enough away from each of their heads to be safe, but still /quite/ frightening. "You are now chosen. Improve, or suffer. Now. /Leave this place/."

"I'm not going to kill him," answers Kwabena, though for a moment he considers it. Regardless, he sets his mind upon controlling his hand, even though it is so obviously separated from his body, and the fingers holding the thug release his neck just as the lightning strikes between their foes. With a gasp, Kwabena watches as the cloud of smoke separates itself from the winds swirling around Orora and draws back unto himself, reforming into his own natural arm once more. The thugs, purely terrified, scamper to their feet and go running away, as fast as they can. Kwabena turns then to look at Orora, an unspoken question in his eyes that eventually he finds the strength to voice. "You're one of them." He quickly corrects himself. "One of us." He looks down at his arm, seemingly awestruck at what it did, but before long he's looking back at Orora with speculation in his mismatched eyes.

The winds die down almost immediately, and the temperature returns to normal. "I am, yes," she nods. "Although I was at one time thought to be a goddess," she admits. "So that wasn't entirely an act. Hopefully, those two bought it," she says, turning to reach for her coat. "My name is Ororo, by the way," she says, offering a hand after she folds the coat over the crook of her other arm.

Halfway through reaching for the woman's coat as well, Kwabena stops and lets her take it herself. He glances back over his shoulder, just to see that the thugs have disappeared back down the alleyway from which they came. "How poetic," he remarks, though he doesn't explain the sarcastic remark just yet. He takes her hand in greeting, and does something extremely odd... he uses his real name. The one upon which there are no false identifications, no records of any kind.

"Kwabena, Kwabena Odame." He motions for a cafe down the road, one of those all night types that serve coffee and pie to those too drunk, stoned, or operating on odd hours to be able to sleep, then begins to walk that way while beckoning for her to follow. "I can pick your accent," he notes. "Kenya, isn't it? I've heard of you." She nods, following his lead. "Kenya, by way of Egypt, though I was born here," she shares as they walk. "Have you? I was... never sure how far those rumours spread. I travelled when I could, to try to bring my assistance where I could," she shares. "Though..." she admits, sadly. "Many places were beyond what help I could give," she says, sadly, lids lowering over blue eyes at remembered atrocities witnessed.

Kwabena nods slowly. "They spoke of a goddess, one who could change the winds and cause the storms to unleash their fury. I never believed them, but I suppose it's because I had my own talents." He looks toward the woman again, smirking. "They never considered me a god. I was Kwabena, the freak." He reaches for the door to the cafe and opens it, standing there to let her enter first. "I was lucky in many ways. To have survived at all, then... to be treated well," she says, nodding in thanks as she walks in. She may no longer be worshipped, but she still carries herself with confidence, pride- though she also doesn't look down upon anyone else, even the drug addict in a corner booth, devouring the sugar packets at his table to curb the cravings caused by his withdrawal. She finds a seat, making sure it's at a window, where she won't feel closed in. "Sadly, my story seems to be the more... uncommon sort." She shakes her head, a bit sadly.

It is the drug addict who catches Kwabena's eye. Try as he might, he simply cannot hide himself from looking at the man with a sense of pity and disgust. He joins her near the window regardless, diverting his attention from the addict and finding his focus once more. "I can't say that the last few years have been easy," he admits. "Until recently, I only suspected that there were others like us. You read things in the news, you understand, but... it's different when you see it in person, and you aren't the only one." He looks across the table at Ororo for a moment, quietly wondering if there was any wisdom in speaking with her at all. He'd grown so accustomed to hiding, to living a shell of a life, but recent events had brought about a boldness in him that even he couldn't have expected lay there, buried beneath his mutant skin. As a server comes up, he merely nods to her and says, "Coffee, please," before motioning for Ororo to order what she would.

"Coffee as well, thank you" Ororo orders, before turning her attention back to Kwabena. She rests her elbows on the table, with her chin on her hand, keeping her blue-eyed gaze fixed on him. There's empathy in her expression, but nothing so condescending as pity. "There was a time in my life that was very difficult," she offers. "The streets of Cairo are not an easy place for a young girl to grow up," she shares. "I barely survived getting out. Everything after that was mere luck," she tells him. It's not something she normally talks to strangers about, but it seems obvious that this man has had some similar experiences.

With a shake of his head, Kwabena seems baffled at how she has come to life a normal life. "I cannot see how people like us can live and work amongst these..." He gestures about with his eyes, indicating the general normalcy of homo sapiens and their regular existence. "It simply has not been that way for me. I have been living off the streets for five years, Ororo. Going from city to city. Making mistakes. But, you see, nothing can kill me, so I've come to fear nothing. Nothing except for normal people." He pauses as the waitress comes back with their drinks. He smiles at her, but to the truly perceptive, it is a half smile, one that is placed rather than experienced.

"They are afraid, and I can understand why. When they let that fear drive them to hatred, though..." she frowns. "They scare me, too," she admits. "But I do my best not to give in to that fear. I try not to hate them. It doesn't always work, but... I don't want their hatred to make me less than I am. I feel as if they've won, when I want to strike out at them."

Leaving his coffee to cool, Kwabena listens to what she has to say, appreciating her candor. "I don't hate them," he admits, "no, I don't. I don't blame someone for the way they were born. But I don't know what a normal life is. What it is to have a job, a lease, a family." He shakes his head. "Those days, I'm afraid, have long since escaped me." He levels his attention upon her then, studying her while he seeks eye contact. "But that may change. Tell me, are you familiar with a man named Erik Lehnsherr?"

"My life... is not normal, either," she says. "I don't think I could live a life that society calls normal," she says, but stops and listens. Then frowns at the name. "I am aware of him, yes. I cannot say I agree with his... methods, or his philosophy. But I can understand what drove him to them," she says. "Has he mentioned anything to you about a Brotherhood?" she asks.

"No," answers Kwabena. "Not directly, at least. He speaks in loft ways, you know? About existence, about survival of the fittest. But he has told me that he can show me how to harness my power." He looks at his hands for a moment, then quietly scoffs at himself. "I don't know how it works. I can't just... just change myself into a cloud of gas. But if you put a knife to me, or a bullet to me, it happens. It just..." He raises his hands into the air and mimicks a little explosion. "Poof. Like that." Settling his eyes on her again, he frowns. "I don't know whether to trust him or not. He's rather charismatic, but... I don't know, there is something." Abruptly changing pace he asks, "What is this Brotherhood you speak of?"

"A word he often uses to describe his... followers," she says. "I don't trust him, myself. I believe he is a man with a cause, and one he feels justifies any action, even if it causes harm, or costs lives," she tells him, honestly. "For him, the ends always seem to justify the means. And the cause itself is even more important than those he convinces to fight for it," she says. "He may try to convince you to join his fight. Or he may simply try to manipulate you into it," she says. "It's not my place to tell you whether you should take any offers from him or not. But... I can advise you to be very careful," she says, finally.

A chill runs down Kwabena's spine, one he warms himself from by taking a long and slow sip from his mug of coffee. "The ends do not always justify the means," he echoes. "I can tell you that much, from experience." The weight of the conversation grows too heavy for his preference. Casting it aside, he offers a rarely seen smile. "So, tell me, Ororo, what does a girl who can summon the wind and lightning do in a city like New York?" he asks, before smirking at her. "Fight bad guys by night, design posters for chic bands by day?"

Ororo Munroe chuckles at that. "Actually, I teach," she admits. "Students with special needs." Which is... mostly true. "Some who come from bad situations, who have been held back by them," she tells him. "And at night, I fight the occasional bad guy to escape the constant teenage drama I'm surrounded by," she jokes. "It's very relaxing in comparisson."

Kwabena laughs out loud, not anything too boisterous of course, but there is something therapeutic in his laughter, as if it was a facet of himself that seems to have been long forgotten or underused. "A teacher!" he quietly exclaims. "What would your students think if they saw /that/?" He gestures out the door, toward the street where not far from here they defended themselves.

Ororo just grins. "I'd like to think they would think it was 'cool'- though of course I'd have to remind them that vigilantism is illegal," she says, and laughs. Still chuckling, she grabs a napkin, and writes her name, and a number on it. "It's been a pleasure, Kwabena, a shame it had to start from something so unpleasant. If you ever need to talk, or need help... or just someone to join you for dinner, feel free to give me a call," she says, sliding him the napkin. "Perhaps we can scare a few more drug dealers.”

When she reaches for a napkin and begins to write, Kwabena can't help but be surprised. It shows, in the way he sits back slightly into his seat and the way his eyebrows shoot up for a moment. Once that surprise passes, he looks back at the woman with a half-smug grin. "I have a few more drug dealers to scare, in point of fact," he remarks while reaching out to accept the napkin. "But I'd much rather go with the dinner route. It seems so much more civilized."

He tucks the napkin away inside his jacket pocket, and quietly reminds himself that it may finally be time to purchase one of those cell phones. "I'd tell you to be safe, but I think you'll manage." Grinning again, he bows his head to her. "Good night, Ororo."