Chapter 4 - Crime and Punishment - 9/25/01
In Two Parts: "the Storm, Revisited" and "the King of Thieves"
Ok, yes, I'm guilty! I couldn't take the pressure anymore, the feeling of Ororo's body
and mind over-lapping mind, I had to take just one more (or maybe a few more, no more like three
to four times a week...) peak into her mind, which was, from what I'd seen on my first glimpse,
like a swirling tempest. But, I won't bore you, or embarrass myself, by relating the details of
all those times I just sat quietly in her psyche and looked down at myself, the virtually
perfect, African-American body, blending just the right hues of her black mother and white
father, or her body, which was truly a gift from the gods which she once believed herself to
be, or the clothes that she wore, as if she was trying to get me to spray my pants every time
I thought of her ...Far more interesting ... Well, not to me, but probably to you, is the things
glimpsed in her memories, her intricate personality, her fears her loves, the time she lost her
virginity ... Ok, that's the last one, I promise!
Now, this isn't going to come from just one instance of me snooping around her mind, but
kind of a compilation of them all. But they all started with that increasingly familiar feeling
that I was being lifted from myself and sinking into myself, where I was Ororo Munroe.
I was Ororo Munroe, the most human Goddess floating around the not-so-glamorous super-
heroine world. It wasn't all flying around, saving the day, with villains black and heroes white.
My world existed in millions of shades of gray, where great sacrifice was a needed thing and an
everyday occurrence. There was always consuming regret whenever I killed the bad-guy, because,
even villains have feelings, even villains feel it when a bolt of lightning ten times hotter
than the surface of the sun rips through their nervous system. There was always that lingering
doubt, that maybe Xavier's team wasn't the team I should be fighting for, that maybe that humans
would repay us, at the end of our years, with just more hate and violence ... And, there was
always the vivid recollection, whenever I entered a crowded room or a small space, of the day
when my home in Cairo was bombed by terrorists, incinerating my parents instantly and raining
down on me with tons of brick and mortar.
That day and on into the days following I was entombed in the pile of rubble for so long
of a time that everything became a painful blur. That feeling of hopelessness, that gnawing
hunger that ate away at your knowing that you would be rescued, it was all consuming, I couldn't
even cry, I couldn't scream for help, I couldn't breathe except for dust-laden air filtering in
through miniscule crevices in the coffin of stone and plaster and memories, memories of the
house and my parents, all thrust upon me like an avalanche.
Sure, there was a happy ending. I was rescued, I became a thief, enslaved by a psychic
entity, the thoughts of which make me shudder even today, and finally I took a trip to Kenya and
never returned, for I was Ororo, Goddess Incarnate of the people living there, where my mother
had once lived as Queen. I was Life. Without me, there would be no rains for their crops,
no cool breezes to relieve them of fatigue under the blistering African sun. Goddess, without
me there was no sun, no moon, no stars, no atmosphere, no gravity, no life, no nothing.
Without me was void, or so I thought ... Until Charles Xavier appeared. He was my savior,
my life-preserver, the only thing keeping me afloat in the crashing waves of delusion and
self-centeredness. Though once again I was bringing life to the needy, be it the X-Men trapped
on Krakoa, enslaved for their mutant energies, or the countless mutants in the world being born
every day. But, for once, I had a purpose, I was not a Goddess, an immortal being, with no
reason to put my power into play but for the adoration and amusement of my peoples. I was Storm,
a human, a mutant, a hero.
Phew! Ororo Munroe's psyche was as consuming as the fears and doubts and feelings
churning within her, every time I visited I had to pull myself away for five-ten minute
intervals, for her mind was magnetic, drawing me from myself and into myself, err, I mean Her.
But, the lessons I learned from her in just life in general were well worth the headaches.
I had grown up with parents who, though loving, caring, somewhat liberal and who I knew
would accept me, eventually, despite my mutantcy, were very strict in their principals and also
very stuck in their ways. In their eyes, everything was black and white, just as Ororo knew it
not to be. God was the eternal white, if you accepted Jesus into your heart you would make it
into Heaven, no exceptions, if not, you were damned to Hell and Satan, the eternal black, for
all eternity. I'm not stupid, I know that their opinions are not as old-fashioned and
unchangeable as they made them out to be, and I knew that not everything I said was exactly
what they believed, but what they believed would make me turn out alright in the end, but
still ... It's hard not to act unbelievable naïve after growing up in a family with parents
like that, and even harder to accept the fact that, they weren't always right about the things
they said they were, but Ororo softened that blow for me.
((DEFINITELY NOT A FINISHED PRODUCT HERE!!! I'M GETTING MAJOR CARPUL TUNNELS, THOUGH, SO I'M JUST
PUTTING THIS UP AS A KIND OF TEASER, BECAUSE I DON'T LIKE TO BE SILENT FOR TOO LONG!!!
--MONOL))
In Two Parts: "the Storm, Revisited" and "the King of Thieves"
Ok, yes, I'm guilty! I couldn't take the pressure anymore, the feeling of Ororo's body
and mind over-lapping mind, I had to take just one more (or maybe a few more, no more like three
to four times a week...) peak into her mind, which was, from what I'd seen on my first glimpse,
like a swirling tempest. But, I won't bore you, or embarrass myself, by relating the details of
all those times I just sat quietly in her psyche and looked down at myself, the virtually
perfect, African-American body, blending just the right hues of her black mother and white
father, or her body, which was truly a gift from the gods which she once believed herself to
be, or the clothes that she wore, as if she was trying to get me to spray my pants every time
I thought of her ...Far more interesting ... Well, not to me, but probably to you, is the things
glimpsed in her memories, her intricate personality, her fears her loves, the time she lost her
virginity ... Ok, that's the last one, I promise!
Now, this isn't going to come from just one instance of me snooping around her mind, but
kind of a compilation of them all. But they all started with that increasingly familiar feeling
that I was being lifted from myself and sinking into myself, where I was Ororo Munroe.
I was Ororo Munroe, the most human Goddess floating around the not-so-glamorous super-
heroine world. It wasn't all flying around, saving the day, with villains black and heroes white.
My world existed in millions of shades of gray, where great sacrifice was a needed thing and an
everyday occurrence. There was always consuming regret whenever I killed the bad-guy, because,
even villains have feelings, even villains feel it when a bolt of lightning ten times hotter
than the surface of the sun rips through their nervous system. There was always that lingering
doubt, that maybe Xavier's team wasn't the team I should be fighting for, that maybe that humans
would repay us, at the end of our years, with just more hate and violence ... And, there was
always the vivid recollection, whenever I entered a crowded room or a small space, of the day
when my home in Cairo was bombed by terrorists, incinerating my parents instantly and raining
down on me with tons of brick and mortar.
That day and on into the days following I was entombed in the pile of rubble for so long
of a time that everything became a painful blur. That feeling of hopelessness, that gnawing
hunger that ate away at your knowing that you would be rescued, it was all consuming, I couldn't
even cry, I couldn't scream for help, I couldn't breathe except for dust-laden air filtering in
through miniscule crevices in the coffin of stone and plaster and memories, memories of the
house and my parents, all thrust upon me like an avalanche.
Sure, there was a happy ending. I was rescued, I became a thief, enslaved by a psychic
entity, the thoughts of which make me shudder even today, and finally I took a trip to Kenya and
never returned, for I was Ororo, Goddess Incarnate of the people living there, where my mother
had once lived as Queen. I was Life. Without me, there would be no rains for their crops,
no cool breezes to relieve them of fatigue under the blistering African sun. Goddess, without
me there was no sun, no moon, no stars, no atmosphere, no gravity, no life, no nothing.
Without me was void, or so I thought ... Until Charles Xavier appeared. He was my savior,
my life-preserver, the only thing keeping me afloat in the crashing waves of delusion and
self-centeredness. Though once again I was bringing life to the needy, be it the X-Men trapped
on Krakoa, enslaved for their mutant energies, or the countless mutants in the world being born
every day. But, for once, I had a purpose, I was not a Goddess, an immortal being, with no
reason to put my power into play but for the adoration and amusement of my peoples. I was Storm,
a human, a mutant, a hero.
Phew! Ororo Munroe's psyche was as consuming as the fears and doubts and feelings
churning within her, every time I visited I had to pull myself away for five-ten minute
intervals, for her mind was magnetic, drawing me from myself and into myself, err, I mean Her.
But, the lessons I learned from her in just life in general were well worth the headaches.
I had grown up with parents who, though loving, caring, somewhat liberal and who I knew
would accept me, eventually, despite my mutantcy, were very strict in their principals and also
very stuck in their ways. In their eyes, everything was black and white, just as Ororo knew it
not to be. God was the eternal white, if you accepted Jesus into your heart you would make it
into Heaven, no exceptions, if not, you were damned to Hell and Satan, the eternal black, for
all eternity. I'm not stupid, I know that their opinions are not as old-fashioned and
unchangeable as they made them out to be, and I knew that not everything I said was exactly
what they believed, but what they believed would make me turn out alright in the end, but
still ... It's hard not to act unbelievable naïve after growing up in a family with parents
like that, and even harder to accept the fact that, they weren't always right about the things
they said they were, but Ororo softened that blow for me.
((DEFINITELY NOT A FINISHED PRODUCT HERE!!! I'M GETTING MAJOR CARPUL TUNNELS, THOUGH, SO I'M JUST
PUTTING THIS UP AS A KIND OF TEASER, BECAUSE I DON'T LIKE TO BE SILENT FOR TOO LONG!!!
--MONOL))