Another week, another chapter :) My other project isn't going as well as I hoped, so I decided to scrap it until next week and put the finishing touches on this chapter. So !review! because it will make me happy, and i would love to be happy.

Chapter 8

Stormy Weather

Ororo smiled serenely as the sea air played gently with her long, silken hair. She had been pleasantly surprised when the coordinates that the Professor had given her had led directly to her favourite place in all of New York City: the South Street Seaport. Here, the crowds that plagued the city were fewer in number and more relaxed; the air was fresh with salt and rich with fish and spices; the sea was a welcome oasis from the artificially crafted bits of 'nature' that filled the city. Ororo wasn't a fan of Central Park—even without the drug dealers and muggers, it felt too desperate and confined. Not the way had intended, she was sure.

Though it should have been difficult for a woman of such striking beauty to blend into her surroundings, Ororo was an expert at it. And let's face it, she thought, amused. I have quite the diverse canvas to work with. It was true. Even with her pure white hair and dark skin, her simple attire of black slacks and a white top with a gray over-robe helped neutralize her appearance in a crowd full of tattoos, loud hair colours, and bright clothing from many cultures.

There had been no outward sign of mutant activity when she had arrived, not that she had expected any. More so that Charles, Ororo felt that this was a trap of some sort, though they had yet to learn the reason. Even so, something was going on, and they needed information. Her best course of action would be to stay incognito, to keep an eye on the area. It had been a few hours since Magneto's signature had been picked up; she'd give him an hour to make his move before going home.

Might as well make a good morning of it, she thought, purchasing a fresh-squeezed lemonade from a vendor on the pier. Though her eyes were ever alert and watchful, she put on a marvelous display of casuality, strolling along the wooden dock as she sipped her lemonade, sitting in the spot with her back to the wall she had carefully selected as if she had merely seen it in passing and felt like enjoying the panoramic view of the pier that it offered.

Forty five minutes later, her lemonade was nearly gone, as well as her apprehension that anything bad was going to happen during her stakeout. The smell of the waves was intoxicating, the sea both calming and exhilarating. Recognizing that her close proximity to the waters was lulling her into a false sense of security, Ororo mentally shook herself and stood up, determined to overcome her distractions. Facing away from the sea, she walked across the pier and aimed left, where she knew the financial district lay several blocks inland. She stepped off of the dock and chose a bench on the opposite side of the street, a hot dog vendor blocking her view of the port. The smell of the hot dogs and the dirty underside of the bridge overhead quickly banished her earlier feelings of serenity. Now she was focused, alert, ready for action. Just in time to notice the man who had sat down next to her as she was gathering her senses.

"You," she stated simply, blue eyes quickly narrowing. "Me," he agreed, raising an eyebrow at her fierce stare in an almost challenging manner. "I wondered if I would see you here this morning." Looking out toward the docks, his cold smile froze at the sight of the hot dog vendor. Sighing with theatrical annoyance, he raised his left hand palm up and drew it over in front of him, terrifying the thirty-something man inside the small truck as he levitated it and repositioned it nine feet to the right, clearing the space between the bench and the harbor.

Ororo hadn't taken her eyes off of him for a moment. "What do you want, Magneto?" she asked him, her voice perfectly controlled. He smiled sadly at her, as if he were disappointed that she didn't already know the answer. "What do I always want? For mutants to be free of persecution, to be able to prosper without fear of human agenda. Isn't that what you want?" Inwardly, Ororo cringed, remembering the meeting that Charles had called the previous evening. It was exactly what she wanted. But she knew that whatever Magneto had in mind, she wanted no part of it. And Magneto was toying with her.

"Let me get to the point," he said brusquely, perhaps reading her thoughts on the subject. "I need help from certain members of the X-men to achieve my goals; members, I am sure, who would be less than willing to assist me. Though I deeply admire your talents, and your spirit, I'm afraid that in this particular situation, you are more likely to pose a threat to my mission than you are to endorse it."

Ororo was about to reply when she felt a cloth-covered hand close over her mouth and nose. Struggling to breathe, she struck out at her assailant, who easily dodged her blows. "Thank you Pietro, you may go," Magneto told him, as Ororo's vision began to swim. Peeling the cloth that Quicksilver had used off of her face, Ororo realized belatedly that the thick, sickeningly chemical smell coming from it was chloroform. "Don't worry, my dear," Magneto told her, his voice as thick as fudge as her senses began to shut down, "there will be a place for you in my new empire. Right now, I am afraid you are too much of a liability."

Knowing that she had only seconds of consciousness left, Ororo chose not to reply. Gathering every resource she had, she channeled every last drop of power she possessed into her last move before the world around her grew black and silent.

Picking up her unconscious body, Magneto moved swiftly to the limousine that was waiting for him in the shadows of the bridge. "My wife," he explained to a pair of curious tourists who looked his way. "She's diabetic, I have her insulin in the car." Too simple, he thought as the couple nodded at him, the woman peering at Ororo sympathetically.

Back in Bayville, a freak burst of hail rang down upon the mansion, leaving the surrounding area pristine and untouched.

Six miles away, Jean Grey dropped all of the books she was carrying and gasped, cradling her head in her hands.