Disclaimer: all characters here outside of the ones listed belong to Marvel. The baby belongs to its parents. The Dealer belongs to God. Africa belongs to the natives.
Author's note: I know very little about Storm's childhood. I read two different accounts of how she got her claustrophobia. I read two different accounts of how her parents died. However, the rest of the facts that agreed with each other remain much the same. Storm grew up in Cairo as a thief from a young age. What if she tried to get away earlier, and her escape plan was foiled?
Storm's Child
A young girl, looking four or five years old by her small stature, hid in an abandoned apartment building across the street from the scene of the disaster. Twenty four Caucasian cult members that had taken poison had been found dead in their beds. Twenty four cult members and ten children under twelve. The child didn't stay because she was concerned, or because she was sympathetic, or because she had known any of the people. She crouched low in the doorway because she was a thief, and dead people didn't need any of their belongings anymore.
It may sound callused, but the child had learned that the world was like that. So she crouched, seven years old going on forty, the tattered rags she called clothing hanging on her spare frame, her hair muddy and tangled, a sharp contrast to the brand new backpack on her back, waiting for the colored lights of the single police car to leave, so she could be first on the pickings.
Finally, the car went around the corner slowly, despite the driver's desire to show off he had to conserve gas so he didn't squeal the tires and leave deep marks in the dirt alley, and the lights turned off to conserve the car's battery. It was the only police car in the entire county.
The young girl waited a few more moments, but no-one else came and she crept over to the deserted apartment where the suicides had taken place. She picked the lock with a few nimble twists of her wrist, thankful for all the lessons she had been taught, and was inside. The bodies were still there, covered with blankets, but still lying on the beds and draped over the couch and floor where ever death had taken its victim.
The child felt spooked, but the need to live and the need for the tools to live by was greater than her fear. She mumbled a prayer to the Goddess, and began a fast once over, taking first some garments that were slightly too large on her and then some of the more common, smaller household items that she could carry. She bundled them into her backpack. The police had taken everything of value with them.
The child was on her knees looking under the only bed in the house, the one with the kids on it, for anything she might have missed when she found the baby. It was crying silently, and latched onto her arms, frightening her.
Had she been normal, our girl would have shrieked and run away, but two years on the streets of Cairo had taught her to be silent when surprised, and she merely jerked herself away as fast as she could and sprang straight up into a fleeing position.
The baby was dragged by the force of her retreat and its head bounced off the hard metal boxsprings and it began to wail in earnest. Outside there were loud cursing and the door banged open.
The girl's eyes were wide with fright as she looked at the dark bedroom doorway and back at the crying child. A baby would have no protection against those men, and might be killed or left to die... She scooped up the baby and ran like a jackrabbit out of the room towards the loud men's voices. She sped past them, her backpack jangling, the kid crying and heavy in her arms. The voices laughed drunkenly but nobody moved to take her treasures or her burden, one calling out as she ran by, "Let `er go boys, she ain't got nothin' we need. She's too young yet. Besides, she's got a baby! She needs whatever she's got." She thought wildly that he would never make a good thief, he had too much sympathy, then she was gone and they were behind her.
She ran down the alley and stopped at the end, looking behind for pursuit. Seeing none, she moved on at a more leisurely pace. The kid was quiet, but it still cried. She felt it dig its grubby face in her neck and winced, but at least it wasn't bawling anymore. However, when they reached the outskirts of the city and began to cross a big flat area, she put her foot down and tried to leave the baby with a crusty old dealer when she picked up water and a current map of the land she was going into.
"She's good stock," she protested.
"No," the dealer told her.
"What am I going to do with a baby in the Sahara?" she asked him.
"Take care of her," he suggested.
"I can't!"
He shrugged. "It's not my problem."
She took her purchases and stomped out, mad. Away from the dealer's shack she stopped, sitting the baby and her pack down. She ran a hand through her long white hair.
"I am just a kid!" she muttered to herself and the baby. "I am just a kid!" she said louder. "I don't know how to take care of a baby! I don't know how!" she shrieked to the sky, the suddenly cloudy, dark gray sky, the weeping sky, the sky that had seen all she had ever gone through. The child began to cry.
"I can't do this!" she howled, thunder and lightning flashing around her, flashing white hot in complex patterns, thunder making her deaf to the tot's wails. "I CAN'T DO THIS!" Her eyes opened to the destructive forces around her and she crouched, ashamed of herself. "I am just a kid." she mumbled, calming down slightly, her anger spent. It was bizarre how fast being angry drained her. "I don't know how." Tears rolled down her face. The lightning flickered a bit more, then disappeared. The clouds stayed, rain pelted her face, mingling with her tears. "I don't know how," she protested once more in a whisper and a bolt of lightning flashed. She found it odd that the elements seemed to act as her parents to some extent, but it had happened since she was young herself, and trapped.... NO! She wouldn't think on that.
The baby wrapped itself around her bare leg. It must have crawled over. She looked down at it, no her, resigned that she had to take care of her. The baby, she saw now that it was about one year old, looked up at her with big blue eyes, eyes that spoke volumes, and blonde hair plastered to her head.
"She's not even the same race as me," she muttered. The rain fell harder. "Okay!" she held her arms up in a gesture of defeat. The clouds returned to a steady drizzle.
Heaving a deep sigh, she lifted the kid, who weighed very little, onto her hip. "What am I going to do with you?" she asked. The kid babbled baby talk. "What type of partner are you going to be? You can't even talk to me." The sky rumbled threateningly.
"Come on, let's go back into town. I can't take you with me out there. I have to find you somewhere to stay."
She wandered around the city carrying the child, but she couldn't find anyone who wanted a baby. Eventually, and with much sighing, she ended up in front of her old "Master's home.
The reason she had left that morning was to escape this place. She hadn't told him that she was leaving and that would get her yelled at because he always knew where his thieves were so he could rescue them if they got caught. Hopefully he wouldn't penalize her if she gave him what little she had stolen from the cult house. In fact, the backpack was his. But she had no where else to turn to. She went in through the secret door and went straight to his office.
He sat behind his desk in a dark brown leather chair and she stood on the rich Persian rug in her dirty bare feet. She felt small, and the baby in her arms was heavy. His back was to her. He didn't raise his voice as he rebuked her, which made it all the worse. He expressed disappointment, but didn't voice any anger. She felt small and tiny. He hadn't looked at her since she had entered. He dismissed her, adding, "And Ororo, give the baby to Helda." She nodded and left.
Helda hated children. She abused the baby the first time she laid hands on her. Ororo was horrified. The baby had only wanted some food!
That night she lay in bed, the baby in Helda's room, thinking about her dream. She wanted so badly to go into the Sahara. Somehow she felt responsible for the kid she had found, and just seeing Helda with the baby angered her. Only one solution seemed to present itself. She'd just have to raise the baby herself. Then, when the kid was old enough to take care of herself, Ororo could leave. There was only one other problem, what to name the baby.... She fell asleep and dreamed of the wind and flying.
What do you think? Read and Review.
Author's note: I know very little about Storm's childhood. I read two different accounts of how she got her claustrophobia. I read two different accounts of how her parents died. However, the rest of the facts that agreed with each other remain much the same. Storm grew up in Cairo as a thief from a young age. What if she tried to get away earlier, and her escape plan was foiled?
Storm's Child
A young girl, looking four or five years old by her small stature, hid in an abandoned apartment building across the street from the scene of the disaster. Twenty four Caucasian cult members that had taken poison had been found dead in their beds. Twenty four cult members and ten children under twelve. The child didn't stay because she was concerned, or because she was sympathetic, or because she had known any of the people. She crouched low in the doorway because she was a thief, and dead people didn't need any of their belongings anymore.
It may sound callused, but the child had learned that the world was like that. So she crouched, seven years old going on forty, the tattered rags she called clothing hanging on her spare frame, her hair muddy and tangled, a sharp contrast to the brand new backpack on her back, waiting for the colored lights of the single police car to leave, so she could be first on the pickings.
Finally, the car went around the corner slowly, despite the driver's desire to show off he had to conserve gas so he didn't squeal the tires and leave deep marks in the dirt alley, and the lights turned off to conserve the car's battery. It was the only police car in the entire county.
The young girl waited a few more moments, but no-one else came and she crept over to the deserted apartment where the suicides had taken place. She picked the lock with a few nimble twists of her wrist, thankful for all the lessons she had been taught, and was inside. The bodies were still there, covered with blankets, but still lying on the beds and draped over the couch and floor where ever death had taken its victim.
The child felt spooked, but the need to live and the need for the tools to live by was greater than her fear. She mumbled a prayer to the Goddess, and began a fast once over, taking first some garments that were slightly too large on her and then some of the more common, smaller household items that she could carry. She bundled them into her backpack. The police had taken everything of value with them.
The child was on her knees looking under the only bed in the house, the one with the kids on it, for anything she might have missed when she found the baby. It was crying silently, and latched onto her arms, frightening her.
Had she been normal, our girl would have shrieked and run away, but two years on the streets of Cairo had taught her to be silent when surprised, and she merely jerked herself away as fast as she could and sprang straight up into a fleeing position.
The baby was dragged by the force of her retreat and its head bounced off the hard metal boxsprings and it began to wail in earnest. Outside there were loud cursing and the door banged open.
The girl's eyes were wide with fright as she looked at the dark bedroom doorway and back at the crying child. A baby would have no protection against those men, and might be killed or left to die... She scooped up the baby and ran like a jackrabbit out of the room towards the loud men's voices. She sped past them, her backpack jangling, the kid crying and heavy in her arms. The voices laughed drunkenly but nobody moved to take her treasures or her burden, one calling out as she ran by, "Let `er go boys, she ain't got nothin' we need. She's too young yet. Besides, she's got a baby! She needs whatever she's got." She thought wildly that he would never make a good thief, he had too much sympathy, then she was gone and they were behind her.
She ran down the alley and stopped at the end, looking behind for pursuit. Seeing none, she moved on at a more leisurely pace. The kid was quiet, but it still cried. She felt it dig its grubby face in her neck and winced, but at least it wasn't bawling anymore. However, when they reached the outskirts of the city and began to cross a big flat area, she put her foot down and tried to leave the baby with a crusty old dealer when she picked up water and a current map of the land she was going into.
"She's good stock," she protested.
"No," the dealer told her.
"What am I going to do with a baby in the Sahara?" she asked him.
"Take care of her," he suggested.
"I can't!"
He shrugged. "It's not my problem."
She took her purchases and stomped out, mad. Away from the dealer's shack she stopped, sitting the baby and her pack down. She ran a hand through her long white hair.
"I am just a kid!" she muttered to herself and the baby. "I am just a kid!" she said louder. "I don't know how to take care of a baby! I don't know how!" she shrieked to the sky, the suddenly cloudy, dark gray sky, the weeping sky, the sky that had seen all she had ever gone through. The child began to cry.
"I can't do this!" she howled, thunder and lightning flashing around her, flashing white hot in complex patterns, thunder making her deaf to the tot's wails. "I CAN'T DO THIS!" Her eyes opened to the destructive forces around her and she crouched, ashamed of herself. "I am just a kid." she mumbled, calming down slightly, her anger spent. It was bizarre how fast being angry drained her. "I don't know how." Tears rolled down her face. The lightning flickered a bit more, then disappeared. The clouds stayed, rain pelted her face, mingling with her tears. "I don't know how," she protested once more in a whisper and a bolt of lightning flashed. She found it odd that the elements seemed to act as her parents to some extent, but it had happened since she was young herself, and trapped.... NO! She wouldn't think on that.
The baby wrapped itself around her bare leg. It must have crawled over. She looked down at it, no her, resigned that she had to take care of her. The baby, she saw now that it was about one year old, looked up at her with big blue eyes, eyes that spoke volumes, and blonde hair plastered to her head.
"She's not even the same race as me," she muttered. The rain fell harder. "Okay!" she held her arms up in a gesture of defeat. The clouds returned to a steady drizzle.
Heaving a deep sigh, she lifted the kid, who weighed very little, onto her hip. "What am I going to do with you?" she asked. The kid babbled baby talk. "What type of partner are you going to be? You can't even talk to me." The sky rumbled threateningly.
"Come on, let's go back into town. I can't take you with me out there. I have to find you somewhere to stay."
She wandered around the city carrying the child, but she couldn't find anyone who wanted a baby. Eventually, and with much sighing, she ended up in front of her old "Master's home.
The reason she had left that morning was to escape this place. She hadn't told him that she was leaving and that would get her yelled at because he always knew where his thieves were so he could rescue them if they got caught. Hopefully he wouldn't penalize her if she gave him what little she had stolen from the cult house. In fact, the backpack was his. But she had no where else to turn to. She went in through the secret door and went straight to his office.
He sat behind his desk in a dark brown leather chair and she stood on the rich Persian rug in her dirty bare feet. She felt small, and the baby in her arms was heavy. His back was to her. He didn't raise his voice as he rebuked her, which made it all the worse. He expressed disappointment, but didn't voice any anger. She felt small and tiny. He hadn't looked at her since she had entered. He dismissed her, adding, "And Ororo, give the baby to Helda." She nodded and left.
Helda hated children. She abused the baby the first time she laid hands on her. Ororo was horrified. The baby had only wanted some food!
That night she lay in bed, the baby in Helda's room, thinking about her dream. She wanted so badly to go into the Sahara. Somehow she felt responsible for the kid she had found, and just seeing Helda with the baby angered her. Only one solution seemed to present itself. She'd just have to raise the baby herself. Then, when the kid was old enough to take care of herself, Ororo could leave. There was only one other problem, what to name the baby.... She fell asleep and dreamed of the wind and flying.
What do you think? Read and Review.