Hello one and all.  It is I, Anyanka, as if that name has any meaning to it.  I know that I've been horrible…not writing anything for practically a year, so any devoted readers that I kidded myself into believing I might of once had have abandoned me, and rightly so.  Anywho, I still present you with yet another Storm story because, hey, she IS the SHIZNIT!

Oh, and PLEASE REVIEW FOR THE LOVE OF THOR!!!!!!!!

DISCLAIMER:  I don't like the idea of ownership.  Must be my Shawnee blood.  Also, because the idea of ownership doesn't much like me.

This is an AU that features a bit of COARSE LANGUAGE.  For those who doubt, I found 17 uses of the word "fuck" (18 counting that one), and this was after I edited it due to gratuitous cursing.

CRAZY WILD DIE FOREVER

You want to know my story.  Why I'm here.  What drove me to this.  Har har, like one single thing could make me do this.  It all goes back a helluva lot deeper than what you think.  Maybe we should call Freud or something.  But seriously, what did drive me to do this?  What is the sole fact that made me do this?  The fact, my prozac wielding friend, is this; Life is full of shit.  I mean, really, that's all there is to it.  Shit.  Once you get that through your heads, you've got it all figured out.  Oh yeah, I can hear you now, thinking to yourself in a smug little way, "I feel ya, Ororo, and I know, life is shit, man!".  No.  You may think you can appreciate the fact that your life is full of shit, that my life is full of shit, that the whole fucking world is full of shit, but trust me, it takes an experience more earth shattering than reading the ramblings of a mental patient to come to that conclusions.  And for all those people reading this who think their lives aren't full of shit, well, then why the fuck are you wasting your time reading the ramblings of a mental patient?  Oh ho ho, this is a double-edged sword here, my friends, a fucking double edged sword. 

Now, fuck all this and let's get to the real story, to where this all began.  Or where I thought it began.  But I have to warn you all…you guys are gonna think that I made all this shit up.  I don't blame you, I would too.  I mean, how does someone who had it all loose everything so fast and end up as a ward of the state with severe depression and borderline stability?  What can make a person do that?

Heroine.

It all started innocently enough.  I mean, no one goes out looking to become a junkie, do they?  I know I didn't.  I had just arrived in the States, I was real green, as my friends would say.  I had scrounged and saved money for nearly two years, earning what I could and stealing what I could back in Cairo.  Truth be told, most of my money went towards purchasing my fake passport, because I saved hella money by taking the crappiest seats on the crappiest airliners I could find.  I wasn't too scared about a crash.  I mean, fuck, I can fly.  I'd be like, "screw you guys, you didn't give me extra peanuts" and I'd fly away as they made their way to the ground.  I think I'm a bit sadistic at times, but that's my problem, not yours.

Anyway, so here I am, little girl in the big city.  I spent my first half hour in  New York City just gawking at everything like I had been whacked in the head when I was younger or something.  I think I was probably taking so much damn time just looking around because I had no idea what the fuck I was going to do.   I had heard about this guy, Charles Xavier, who was supposed to be this big mutant guy who ran an institute or some shit like that for other mutants, so I guess I was kinda planning to check him out, see if I could stay with him for a while, get some free food off him…who knows, maybe learn to control my powers and become a fucking super hero.

Yeah, right.

It was kinda getting dusky…it was autumn and the sun was already beginning to set even though it was barely six, and I was getting a bit hungry.  Since I actually had some money I was like, cool, I get to be a consumer and actually play a part in this great nation's economy. Getting all thrilled about being part of the dreams of capitalistic pigs.  Did I mention I was strung out on a bit of hash I'd had while connecting at Heathrow?  Yeah, it was only a bit, to take the edge off my jet lag, you know how it goes. 

So I'm skipping off to McDonalds...I'm actually fucking skipping.  One foot in the air, other foot taking these queer little hops, and humming some random song I was making up as I went.  I was feeling pretty nice, so I started swing my back pack around as I went, whacking and thwacking people as I passed them.  It was great. 

"La la la" 

"Ouch, you mother fucker!" 

"La la la" 

"Crazy bitch" 

"La freaking la"

"Mommy, my eye!" 

And then I feel this tug.  At first, (now, this is the hash talking, not me) I thought that it was my mother playing a game with me, and I felt all gushy and happy.  But then I thought to myself…hmm…mommy's been dead for night twelve years, and the prospect of it being her corpse that was tugging on my bag scared the living shit outta me so I turned around and was about to scream when I noticed that, FUCK, my bag was gone, and this little punk was running away from me.  I started chasing after this little mofo. 

"Shit shit shits shit shit" I kept saying to myself as I tried to catch up with him.  This dude could run, but freaking joke was on him because, hey, so could I.  And I did have a little advantage over our little Jimmy Quickfingers; I could always strike him dead with lightening if I got sick of chasing him around. 

This guy was pretty serious about stealing my bag, he's pushing people past him and knocking people out of the way.  I can always tell when they're serious about knicking something of yours.  If their heart's not really into it, they usually give up after they run into their third fruit cart, but not or little Jimmy boy here.  He was twisting and turning me around all these corners…man, I wish I meant that in a sexual way, and finally, we get into this alley. 

I'm all tough girl and am like "give me back my purse you dirty son of a bitch, or I'll slit your fucking throat!"  Notice how I put an exclamation mark there.  That meant that I really shouted it. 

He turns around, maybe to say something to me, when I notice his eyes.  Man, his eyes were a trip in themselves.  All red and glowing, they kinda caught me off guard.  I guess he was used to it, because he let this little half smile play across his lips for a brief moment before he started to turn his head away. 

"Oh God, you're a mutant and you're stealing from me?  Where the fuck didja get that nerve, huh?" 

Now, I'll say it now and say it until the day that I'm dead; I have nothing against mutants.  I am a mutant.  How could I hate myself?  It'd be like if I joined the Klan and was like "Woo, let's go kick my ass!"  I can't hate what I am, like all you people tell us kids we should.  I love that I'm a mutant.  I love that my boyfriend whispered "Mmm, chocolate," against my skin as he tasted it.  I also love that there are other mutants out there, so when I said that to him, in no way was I trying to piss him off.  I just thought it was kinda funny, you know, a mutant stealing from another mutant.  Apparently, though, he thought my humor was lacking. 

He spins around, knocking over the steel trash can as he goes, looks me straight in the eyes with those queer ones he owns, and he whispers in this menacing voice…man, it was so cold I can still feel it working its way around my body, "Don't * pause * fuck * pause* with mutants, you Norm." 

There was a silence between us, the only thing that filled it besides our desperate attempts to catch our breathes was the clanging sounds the can made as it rolled to it's new resting place.  I wanted to tell him that I didn't mean to come off like that, that I recognized the flash of pain that occasionally made it's way through those demon eyes of his, eyes that were so clouded with arrogance, but then I'm like, fuck that, he's the cocksucker holding all of your earthly possessions…but still, there was a haunted look about him.  I wished I could tell him everything that I was thinking, including the cucksucker part, but all that managed to come out was perhaps the stupidest thing I've ever said. 

"Watch me." 

That set him off. Whatever connection I had felt with him, or his eyes, was shattered, and attacked.  And I mean attacked.  He rushed me, and I'm just kinda standing there, like "ummm, about what I said", and, get this, he fucking punches me.  In my face.  Even where I come from, that is not how you treat a lady.  So of course, I had to counter.  I tried to kick, scratch, and hit him at the same time, but the only thing I was successful in doing was biting him and scratching the hell out of my left forearm. 

I fell down hard, right on my ass, but I dragged him with me.  He landed smack on top of me, and he felt like he was freaking ox or something.  He hadn't looked like he had muscles, but I could sure as hell feel them as I thrashed around under him, trying to shove him off of me.  When I'd finally knocked him off, I stood up and took his disorientation to my advantage and kicked him a few times in his gut.  "You stupid" kick "Cunt".  I was so pissed off.  He managed to squirm away from me, and gets up.  I lunged at him, but as I'd already demonstrated earlier with my first attack, I'm not the world's but lunger. 

He shoved me away from him, and throws my bag at me.  At first, I thought that he was giving up, you know, taking the noble way out and giving me back all my stuff.  Then I noticed that my bag was extremely hot, and kind of glowing.  

"Oh shi-" BOOM.  I was kinda stunned.  Not kinda, I was fucking stunned. 

"You blew up my bag?"

 Then it hit me.  Bag.  Passport, clothes, money, tampons. 

"You blew up my bag!"

 I could feel my eyes whiting over as my hair flapped wildly behind me.  He is going to get it, I thought to myself as I let the wind slightly lift me off the ground, so my toes were a few inches off the dirty concrete.  I could tell this caught him off guard.  His face, which was plenty white to begin with, went a shade paler and he slowly backed up, his hands behind him, I guess he was feeling for something he could blow up at me. 

Needless to say, I was pissed.  Wouldn't you be?  Everything you had saved and scraped for, for the last two years, gone like that.  Blam.  Whoops, you say your passport was in there?   Aww, tough luck.  I was not going to take that shit from anyone, especially not some pale-faced street tramp. 

"Do you have any idea," I paused in my speech to send a small shock of lightening out and knock the, what is that, a playing card? out of his hand, "what was in that bag?  Huh?  My life, you jack ass.  EVERYTHING!"  Thunder rumbled in the distance.  Even I can't get over how cool that is.  I can see myself, years from now.  "Now, little Roro Junior, did you eat your vegetables?" "Fuck no, mama."  "Eat your vegetables, dammit" * Thunder Thunder *  You have to admit, that would be pretty cool.  Put the fear of god into my little brats, or your little brats for that matter. 

He was silent, his hands dropped to his sides and he stopped backing up, just kept looking at me.  "You're a mutant." 

"No shit Sherlock," I responded, still approaching him.  I was really getting mad, angrier by the second. 

"Lemme get dis straight.  I stole," he paused and gave me a onceover, "from a mutant?  Shit, where did I get that nerve?!"  And he starts laughing.  Not just chuckling, but he's holding his sides like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.  Hmm, I guess he did appreciate my humor more than I thought. 

He looked up at me between his chuckles, and they immediately died down when he saw that I wasn't joining him in his laughter.  "Listen," he said, in a tone that was not as relaxed as before, a tone that had a little trace of fear in it.  Good, I thought.  It's about time he realizes that just because we're both freaks I'm not going to let him just blow up my stuff and call it a day.  He resumed talking, but this time his voice had a suave air to it.   "I'm sorry 'bout your bag.  I didn't know you was one of our people.  If I had-" 

"What," I said, floating down to the ground, but keeping my eyes white so he couldn't try and read them.  I didn't like how his voice could switch from anger to soothing so fast.  I didn't trust him.  "If you had known, what would you of done?  Baked me a batch of cookies?  Given me a big hug and say 'Welcome Sister'?"

 "Well, fo' starters, I woulda taken you out to dinner, or maybe out to the park, or some gardens, or someplace pretty enough for someone with looks like your's."  

That caught me.  We regarded each other calmly, keeping our distances.  I stared into his eyes, and he stared back into my clouds.

 "Name's Remy." 

"Ororo." 

"Whatcha doin in New York?" 

"Don't know.  Haven't been here for more than a few hours." 

"So you wouldn't be busy tonight then, would you?"

I paused.  This guy, this arrogant little…turd had just destroyed everything I'd worked for, and yet…I took a moment to give him a onceover.  He was a little taller then me, maybe 5-9" or 5-10".  His auburn hair wasn't too short and it wasn't too long; it spiked up in areas and fell across his eyes, giving him a rakish look.  His clothes were torn and worn, but they appeared to be clean.  Grey t-shirt and torn blue jeans that were loose and baggy.  And in that moment, I think that I saw that he was pretty cute, in an arrogant jackass way. 

"No." 

"Good.  Let's go."