Disclaimer: Characters herein are property of Marvel Comics and Fox. Nobody is making any money out of this story.
I. Wind
The wind follows the girl down the street, and she is followed in turn. She's not surprised; she's wearing tight black pants that cling to her legs and a tank top that bares her shoulders. So her collarbones are too sharp, and when she strips off her shirt to wash at night her ribs show; he'll have a hard time finding better.
She stops and leans against a wall, casually. She's strayed beyond the streets she knows perfectly into the one's she's just learning. By the time she's thirteen she'll know Cairo like she knows the bones in her hands that stand out more each day.
There's an alley beside her, but she's smart enough not to go in when she doesn't know where it comes out. There could be a fence, or dogs, or his friends. Better to run into the shops across the street if she has to run; they may throw her out, but they'll call the police if they do. She can do a night in jail.
She lifts her chin, knowing that the glow from the streetlight is shining off her white hair.
"I see you," she says.
"I know," the man says, in English with an American accent. He stops, close enough to talk without shouting but not close enough that she can't run. She waits to see the color of his money and hear the deal. She's hungry. He must know.
He's light-eyed and fair, American looks. He doesn't glance around, doesn't watch the alley beside her or the street behind him; he's perfectly at ease on the street. He doesn't expect anyone to hurt him, when he's in a bad neighborhood after dark wearing a good American suit and expensive shoes. He's too confident.
She could just run. She can probably run faster than some middle-aged American.
Probably middle-aged. He's bald, but his shoulders are strong and lines are just starting around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. It would be better if he were old, old enough to think of her as a grandchild.
"What do you want?" she asks.
"Just to talk to you," the man says.
She tosses her head.
"I don't think so."
"I'm not here to hurt you, Ororo."
"How do you know my name?" She can feel hope threatening to force its way through to the surface, blowing through the cracks in the wall that separates her from before. "Did you know--"
"Your parents? I'm afraid not. But I can help you."
The wind dies, with a suddenness that makes her unsteady on her feet. Just another American who wants to taste Egypt by tasting her.
"I'm not a whore," she says, turning away from him. "And I wouldn't need your help if I were."
"I know that too," he says.
"What do you want?" Her voice isn't hard enough. She isn't hard enough. Hope has left cracks in her, bad little cracks that make her stay here and listen when she should turn and run.
"You worked for a man who sold drugs," he says. His voice is a little distant, like he's listening to something. She can't hear anything but the noise of the cars. "I know you hated selling drugs to children younger than you. I know you steal when you can and beg when you get too hungry."
"You know nothing," she says, and turns her back on him even though that could get her killed. She knows better. It's just the emptiness, the sound of stones rattling inside her.
"I know you can call the winds," he says.
"I am not a witch," she says.
"No," he says. "But you have a special gift. Your mother . . . your mother thought it came from the gods of her people."
"You didn't know my mother," she says.
"But I knew that," he says. "It's not only wind, is it? It's weather."
"I can't call the rain," she says.
"You could, once," he says, and there's a shift in the rhythm of his voice, as if he knows how she talks to herself in the darkness. "Rain to tap on your windows, to drum on the roof of your house like boys were throwing pebbles in the street. Rain to run red down the street."
"When I cried," she says. "I haven't cried in a long time."
"Come to America," he says. "You can see it rain. You might remember how, then."
She wonders later if he made her trust him. She wonders later if he made her throw herself at him like a child and then cling to his shirt, made her let him smooth her hair with his hand like no one had done in so long. All she wonders then is why she's being so stupid. She could end up raped and beaten and thrown out in the gutter with his trash, and she'd have had no one to blame but herself.
She tells herself that with her cheek against the wool of his jacket. He doesn't smell a bit like her father did.
He shrugs off the jacket and hands it to her, and it's almost like his hands are putting it over her shoulders when she shrugs it on. He's got strong warm hands. Her feet don't drag as she follows him, and even when he opens a car door for her she's not afraid.
It's not her hope that pushes her into the car that smells strongly of leather and faintly of something green, she tells herself; it's the wind.
II. Lightning
She's sitting on the bench in the jail cell, knees pulled up to her chest, and she closes her eyes, because if she does there's the chance that this time it'll work and the last month won't have happened. She'll wake up in her room and get dressed for school. There will be dry leaves crunching under her feet instead of the snow that's slowly melting off the soles of her shoes and dripping off the bench onto the floor.
She opens her eyes finally, because it's all she can do. The cell smells of sickness and sweat.
"She's in there," a bored voice says, and then there are footsteps. She stands up. If it's her father, she wants to meet him on her feet. There are things she wants to say to him, now. Is this what you wanted? Is this what you meant to happen?
It's not her father. It's a white man in a crisp grey suit. He's bald, well-dressed, respectable-looking. He has hands like he works behind a desk.
"Ororo Munroe?" he says.
"So what?" she says. "Are you my lawyer?"
"I don't think you're going to need a lawyer," the man says. "You were only defending yourself."
"I hurt that man badly," she says. It's not what an American girl would say, but the accent she still hasn't lost through junior high school in America is the least of her problems right now. "Will he die?"
"I don't know," the man says. "I hope not."
"I don't really care," she admits. The man nods, like he knew she was going to say that. His eyes are kind.
"The policemen who brought you in were frightened," he says. "They're not used to the kinds of things people like us can do."
"People like . . ." She shakes her head. "You can't call the lightning."
He smiles.
"No. I have other abilities, different ones. But if they knew what I could do, they'd be just as afraid of me as they are of you."
That should scare her, but it doesn't. She's run out of fear and all she has left is anger. It fills her up, keeping her on her feet. It rises up in her like the crackle of electricity in the snow.
"What can you do?" she says, a challenge.
This he says, and his voice is inside her head.
"Why did you tell me?" she says when she can speak. It's a little girl's voice, but she's speaking. She won't look away from him, like he's a snake.
"I wanted to be honest with you from the start," he says. "I'm a mutant, like you."
"A mutant?"
"It's a word for people who are born different."
"Freaks," Ororo says.
"Your father told you that," the man says. "But he was wrong."
"When he comes," Ororo says. "I want him to know what happened to me."
"The social worker on duty called your father," the man says. "When he refused to come and get you, she contacted me."
"You're a social worker?" She's seen social workers at school sometimes. They've never worn such good shoes.
"My name is Charles Xavier. I run a school for children like you."
"For kids who get into trouble," she says.
"Well, often that happens, I'm afraid. But what I meant was for children with special abilities like your own."
"Witch school," she says, and laughs a little wildly. "You're a rich white teacher who can talk in my head, and you want to take me to witch school."
He seems to be considering that.
"If you want to think about it that way," he says. "I prefer to call it a school for the gifted."
"My mother said it was a gift," Ororo said. "When she was sick, I could make the sun shine for her. She liked to watch it from her window. Then she died, and the rain--" She doesn't want to remember, broken glass, broken dishes, wet leaves everywhere and still the driving, pounding rain whipping all around her, sliding over her hands and arms like her mother's touch.
"A rare gift," the man says. "One that shouldn't be wasted."
"A gift," she says, and comes a little closer to the bars, although she stays out of his reach.
"Come with me to Westchester," he says. "You're safe now."
She stays out of his reach as they go down the steps of the police station, and shrinks away from him as he opens the door of the car, getting in without letting him touch her. The car is warm and smells of leather and pine. She stays awake during the long drive through the countryside. The sound of thunder grows fainter and fainter, and the flashes lighting the sky grow farther between.
III. Rain
She shouldn't have let him buy her a drink, but she spent her last three dollars on dinner and she had to have something to blur the edges of the room. Now it's blurred all right, and spinning into the bargain. She leans heavily on the man's shoulder--Deon? David? She can't even remember his name.
She shoves him away at the thought, and falls, hard, on the dance floor. It hurts. There's a warmth on her knee. She thinks it's bleeding.
"Stupid bitch," he says, and grabs her arm to pull her up. It's like she's floating. Something's funny with the gravity.
"Is this gentleman bothering you?" a man's voice says, cultured and calm.
"She's with me," he says.
"Yes," she says, because it's all gone bad and it can't get worse. "I don't feel good."
"Fuck off," he says. He tugs at her and she sees the man, graying dark hair and a dark gray shirt. He may have been drinking, but his eyes are sharp.
"I don't think the lady wants to go home with you," he says, and hits De-whatever squarely in the face. He sprawls, knocking people out of the way. There's a murmur she can hear even over the pounding music. There's a hand gripping her arm hard.
"Come on," her rescuer says. "When he gets up, this could get unpleasant."
Outside it's raining. She takes a breath of the cool air and grips the iron railing of the loading dock. They're out the back door.
"Were you afraid to fight him?" she says. It's the wrong thing to say, but she can't think straight.
"No, but it wouldn't have been pretty," he says.
She laughs.
"You're a tough guy?"
"You have no idea," he says, and smiles. "Come on, now. Down the steps. My car's not far."
"I want to go home," she says.
"An excellent idea," he says. He sounds sad.
He opens the car door for her with what's almost a bow, and she laughs against her hand. She gets in, very carefully on her high-heeled shoes, and lets him shut the door. The car smells of cigarette smoke.
"Where do you live?"
She tries to think. Olivia might let her sleep on her couch. She tries to remember her address. She knew it before she had that drink.
"You aren't planning to go home," the man says.
"I want to go home," she says in a small voice, and bites her fingernails. They're already ragged. They drive in silence for a while. The heater makes a noise like wind blowing. It seems so natural when it all goes dark, like a cloud sliding across the moon.
No moon, she thinks when she wakes up. It's raining and then she knows she's not in the car anymore.
"What else was I supposed to do with her?" her rescuer is saying. He doesn't sound happy.
"Of course I'll look after her, Erik," a second man says. "And I suppose that's the only reason you're here."
"What reason would you prefer?"
Ororo sits up without saying anything. She's on a bed in what looks like a doctor's office. The man who got her out of the club is standing across the room looking at some papers on a table, or pretending to. Behind him is a bald man in a wheelchair.
"I don't need a hospital," she says. "I'm fine."
The bald man looks over his shoulder at her, and then turns his chair to face her.
"This isn't a hospital," he says. "I'm Charles Xavier. You're in my school for the gifted."
He doesn't look like a teacher. His clothes are too good. There's way too much medical equipment here for this to be a school.
"I don't do drugs," she says. "You can't put me in rehab. Anyway, you've got to go to court for that."
"It's not like that," he says. She looks up at the man who brought her here, now watching her intently. He looks older. She realizes now that one reason she hadn't been scared leaving the club was that she'd thought he was gay. Now she isn't sure.
"Charles won't hurt you," he says. "He never hurts the innocent."
"Well, that leaves me out," she says, with a bitter laugh. She looks away so she won't have to see either of their eyes.
"This really is a school, you know," Xavier says gently. "Why don't you come upstairs and see?"
She gets down off the table, leaning on the edge of it. Someone's too close, and she flinches away reflexively. Her rescuer takes a step back. He doesn't look offended, but offers her his arm again, a slow deliberate motion.
"If Charles is going to give you the grand tour, you might want the help," he says when she hesitates. "It's wearing under the best of circumstances."
"I'm just going to show her the classrooms, Erik," Xavier says. His voice is wrong when he says it, flat. She remembers crying all night once, sitting under the window at three in the morning, her tears drying on her cheeks and the rain outside stopping, nothing left. He hasn't got any reason to sound like that.
There's an elevator, for the wheelchair, she supposes. They come out of the elevator into a hall that looks like a museum. Wood paneling and pictures on the walls and pairs of giant vases flanking the stairs. If this is a school, it's a rich kids' school.
"I haven't got any money," she says. "And my parents are dead."
"You won't need any here," her rescuer says. He strides away from her and Xavier to the broad double doors in the middle of the hallway. There's a wool coat draped over a chair back, a dark wool hat on the chair. He puts them on and straightens the lapels. "Good night, Charles," he says.
"You're just going to leave me here?" she says angrily. There's a distant crack of thunder.
"Believe me, it's the safest place I know," he says. "Even now." He tips his hat like someone out of an old movie and leaves. Rain speckles the floor after he's shut the door.
She turns to watch Xavier, hoping he's not thinking about getting her out of her clothes. For a moment, he doesn't look like he's thinking about her at all. He's looking at the rain running down the windows outside.
IV. Snow
She's sitting on the steps of the apartment building, her knees tucked to her chest. It's snowing outside, and she's too cold to make it stop. That would be funny, if anything still were. Her warmth has melted the snow to dampness on her shoulders and the knees of her jeans.
There's a rattle below. Someone's coming in the door. She'll say she's waiting for someone, if they notice her. Probably they won't notice her at all.
Feet thump up the stairs and stop. It's a girl, with blond hair brushing her neck and a pale denim jacket that doesn't seem warm enough for the weather.
"I'm just waiting," Ororo says. Her voice sounds faint in her own ears.
The girl looks her up and down.
"Of course you are," she says. "Aren't you cold?"
"Yes," Ororo says. She's shivering. That should be a clue. Outside the snow swirls faster. It's piling up outside the door, drifting in every time it opens and lets another breath of frigid air in. "Yes, I'm cold."
"You can come in," the girl says. "I'll make you some tea, and you can use the phone, if you've got anyone to call."
She doesn't, but at least she can get warm while she calls wrong numbers and pretends she's waiting for someone to pick up. She follows the girl up a flight of stairs, holding tight to the railing because she's clumsy on her cold feet. The apartment is cluttered with books and what looks like laundry; there's a pizza box on the table and beer bottles lined up against the wall. A student.
"There's a phone in my room," the girl says, and Ororo follows her inside. She'd be scared if it were a man, but she thinks she could win a fight with this girl. There are freckles on the back of her neck where her hair curls. There's snow melting in her hair.
She takes the phone and holds onto it for a while, as if holding the black plastic will help her.
"I haven't got anyone I want to call," she says finally. "Thank you."
"That's all right," the girl says, and drapes a white afgan around her shoulders. "I'll make the tea."
She sits and gets warm. There's a quilt on the bed, a riot of yellows and reds. There are books stacked in the corner, a bit more neatly than outside. There are clothes in the open closet, but not many. A lot of shoes, though.
The girl comes back with a chipped mug of tea. Ororo sips at it.
"Is there anything to eat?" she says after a while.
Later, dreamlike, she's curled up at the foot of the girl's bed, leaning against the wall, wrapped in quilts. The girl has the blankets pulled up nearly to her chin. A bit of one shoulder's showing, pale cream against a black cotton T-shirt. She can feel the girl's leg under her ankles, a distant warmth through layers of fabric.
"How come you're letting me stay?" she says.
"I'm always interested in interesting people," the girl says. Ororo laughs.
"Interesting how?"
The girl looks up at her, and her smile's the same, but her eyes are bright, inhuman yellow. Ororo freezes, absolutely still. She can feel the temperature in the room dropping.
"Don't be afraid," the girl says, and reaches to pet the inside of Ororo's wrist.
"I'm not afraid," she says.
And then the girl slows, like she's moving through water. She stops with her fingers just brushing Ororo's skin and freezes, a yellow-eyed statue. Ororo's pretty sure she's dreaming. Drifted off in the warm quiet, and now she's wandering around her own head. She climbs out of bed, the floor cold on her bare feet. It's just part of the dream.
In the dream, she knows there's someone in a car outside, and he wants her to come down. In the dream, she knows she'll be safe if she does.
"Thank you for the tea," Ororo says to the girl. She's still a statue, looking at where Ororo was sitting, her mouth still curved in a faint smile. Ororo leans down to kiss her on the lips, very lightly, and then walks out through the apartment and into the hall. No need to shiver on the steps again. He'll take care of her now.
She pushes the door open. The air is cold and still. The car is idling at the curb. She runs to it, throwing open the door and sliding inside.
"I'm sorry to have to handle things this way," the driver says. "But you were about to fall in with a very bad crowd."
She doesn't know what he's apologizing for, and then she feels the pressure on her mind melt away, trust running away like water. She's in a car with a strange man, driving out into the countryside. She tries the door, but the lock won't move.
"Won't you at least hear me out?" the man asks. "Besides, I don't think you'll get far like that."
She follows his glance, and realizes she'd run to the car barefoot in the snow. Her feet sting in the warm blast of the heater.
"Who are you?"
"Charles Xavier," he says. "And I'm the best friend you have, although you may not know it yet."
"Why?" she says. Her fingers work on the lock.
"I'm interested in interesting people too," he says.
"Interesting how?"
Xavier raises an eyebrow, and she thinks she should stop playing with the door lock. She folds her hands back in her lap and keeps them there. It's a few minutes before she realizes she never wanted to.
"You want me to be scared?"
"You probably should be," he says. They're turning onto a winding country road. She's probably going to end up raped and beaten and thrown from the car into the snow. All her fault for taking the tea.
"I'm not a freak like her," Ororo said. "Whatever she did to you, it's not my fault."
"I'm not going to hurt you," Xavier says. "You've done nothing to deserve it."
"Just let me unlock the door," Ororo says. "I can't stand being locked up."
He frowns a little, and then thumbs a switch on his armrest. The door still won't open, but at least now the window moves. She slides it down a few inches. The air smells of snow and pine trees.
"You're not my prisoner," he says, but she knows it isn't true. She rolls up the window before he makes her, and then can't be sure he didn't. She tries to feel the snow gathering in the air and finds herself thinking about clear night skies.
"I don't like driving in bad weather," Xavier says, and though she's getting warm she can't stop shivering.
The End