Summary:Priscilla invites Kamala to meet with her and they learn a bit more about each other - and discover they may be more alike. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Three days. That's how long it takes after their latest incident before a phone call comes in on Kamala's offered phone from the number she labelled: Voodoo. Rather mysteriously, the call is timed to just about four in the afternoon, guaranteeing that a high school student wouldn't be in class anymore.
"Hey." comes that oddly altered voice, the one from the woman in the full facemask with the prodigious curves stuffed into the skintight gold-accented purple bodysuit. "Uhm. Listen, this is probably stupid. But … I got the feeling you might like to … talk."
Darn empaths. So unfair!
"We could … meet? Like, hot cocoa or something? Or, I dunno. Maybe some dark alley or forgotten rooftop? Those are harder to find, though, without GPS coordinates."
Yeah. Voodoo sucks at socializing with her mask on. Go figure.
Three days. Mala figured the myestrious (and violent) young woman had just forgotten about her. But when her phone rings and she sees the label, the girl pauses. She's done with her college courses for the day and was on her way back to the dorms when the phone went off. It takes a couple of rings, before Kamala answers the phone, her voice forever upbeat. "You've reached the Ms. Marvel hotline, if you're looking for the fanclub, try the Captain Marvel fanclub, it's probably the one you want. If you're in peril scream…"
And then she speaks to her, and the young woman's cheeks darken. And she's not even /here/. So unfair. "Talk?" she asks, swallowing a little. "Okay, I would like that. It's not stupid! I'd.. like to." she admits.
Then Priscilla is talking about where to meet, and she realizes she means in costume. Oh. It's going to be work talk. Summoning up her dignity, she considers. "I'm good with coordinates? And I can bring the cocoa in a thermos or something. If you want to bring the cups?"
Voodoo pauses. Damnit, this is the problem with being an empath: she's so used to all of the cues and clues she picks up that she feels a bit crippled and out of her depth in a phone conversation when she can't get those. Argh! "Uhm … well. Yeah. If you want to meet at some place like that … yep. We can do that. I'll bring mugs." And straws. But she doesn't mention that part. "I'll … I'll text you coordinates in half an hour? Meet an hour after that?"
Hopefully she's leaving enough time to make this not too terribly inconvenient for the other woman. Voodoo has no idea. She hasn't learned Kamala's verbal cues well enough to be sure of her gueses, but she's doing the best she can.
As promised, twenty-five minutes later Voodoo texts a set of coordinates about four blocks away from that first warehouse where they met. She actually includes a third coordinate in the set: elevation.
An hour after that, Voodoo's flying motorcycle - not kidding - lands on the roof of said building, a currently closed multi-use commercial building with four stories. It'll probably get demolished in a month or two for some redevelopment plan. But for today, it's a conveniently abandonned building with a wide-open rooftop. Once she touches down, the purple-clad figure dismounts and opens up the saddlebags, pulling out insulated mugs with lids that have straw attachments. And a pastry box. It's all brand-new. Just for today.
After getting the directions, Kamala stopped by the dorms long enough to pick up her thermos and go get it filled. Not sure of what type of cocoa Priscilla would want, she paused at the store, indecisive about it all, and finally picked out something.
And that's when she heads towards the building. Pausing nearby to start to change.. she gives herself a moment. Then decides against it. She's going to do something about this /her/ way, and when she stretches to arrive on the rooftop, she tries to put on her best appearance.
Really, she probably should have gone home and gotten one of her dress outfits - and wowed Voodoo in her salwar kameez, but she gets the girl. The one in a black t-shirt, leather and wool jacket, blue jeans, and a pair of warm, if worn, boots.
And then she sees what Priscilla has set out and the motorcycle and she giggles. "So that's how you get around so fast.." she comments, her cheeks warm with a moment of embarassment. She thought Pris could fly, after all! And when she takes in the modelesque woman, Kamala feels that lump again. The one that lets her know she's completely out of her league, on the hero front, on the awesome front. All of it. "I know you wanted to meet in costume.. but I thought you wouldn't mind if I…" she trails off, unsure of her decision now as she reaches up and pushes her fingers into her dark hair.
"Hi. I'm Kamala." she finally offers, meekly.
Voodoo blinks. OK, that's not at all visible, but the hesitation it entails is visible. Hrm. Yep, the empath missed something. Problem with reads in combat situations and their immediate aftermaths. Oh well!
The woman in skintight purple and full-coverage mask, not an inch of her skin visible, and yet very few real details of her build not readily apparent, nods. "Hi, Kamala." Then Voodoo walks over and hands Kamala one of the two brand-new insulated mugs with their lid-and-straw attachments. "And here I planneed for how to drink this stuff through the mask, 'cause I wanted to be friendlier, but not pushy."
And there. That right there is the first words she has ever spoken around Kamala that are actually in an unaltered voice. Rich, sultry, a mezzo-soprano dripping with Southern charm and Creole touches. Voodoo shrugs. "Fair is fair." She reaches up and grabs an invisible seam, pulling the mask away from her neck and peeling up, up, around her head and down the back of her neck in a puddle of gold-acented purple fabric to reveal her dusky skintone, shaking out that incredible mane of full, vibrant raven-wing black hair.
And the eyes. Purple eyes. "Priscilla. Most just call me Pris."
And Voodoo offers a still-gloved-and-suited hand.
She's even more gorgeous in person and unmasked. Kamala watches the unmasking, and her cheeks darken, and it wouldn't take an empath for it to be known that she's taken for just a moment. The young woman swallows hard and steps up to take the hand. Her own voice is jersey - plain and simple. She's got no muddled accent, she has that slight Pakistani tone - but she's clearly never travelled much.
"You can call me Mala, if you want…" she manages as she finally releases the hand so that she can take the mug. She totally held that hand for too long. "Uh. Anyway. Cocoa?" she asks, holding up the thermos. "It's hot water. I didn't know what you'd like!" So she opens her messenger bag, and inside - she bought milk chocolate cocoa, dark chcoolate, and the one with the little masrhmallows.
Kamala steals another look at her, before looking around. "Do you want to find someplace to sit?" she asks. "And maybe.. you can tell me who that is that is looking for you, since every time I see you in that someone's hunting you, so I was kinda.. hopeful."
The empath catches the attraction; she can't miss it, now. But she just smiles, gentle and easy about it all. No pressure here, and definitely no condescension. "Wow. How thoughtful." Pris offers, looking over the alternatives. "You pick one, and I'll take one of the others. I promise, I'm not picky."
That said, Pris looks around the rooftop, and then walks back to her bike, opening another saddlebag. Out comes a tarp, which she spreads out beside the bike. That's about the best she can do, and she folds up lotus-style on it and gestures for Kamala to join her.
"Actually, to be entirely fair, I'm hunting them as much as they're hunting me. They're trying to entrap me, take me out." Pris offers, honestly. "As for who they are … that's going to take some explaining." She pauses, considering a bit before she finally asks, "Can I start by asking you: do you know … what you are? The origin of your powers?"
As Priscilla teakes out the tarp, Kamala smiles slightly. Not only is she beautiful, but she's prepared! There's a soft giggle. "Goodness, maybe I should have suggested a picnic in response." comes the light response, warm in tone before she moves to join Priscilla. Sitting down across from her, close, but unsure how cloe would be considered too close. She takes the packet with the marshmallows, offering the other two to the exotic woman before she adds. "I see.. well.. hear why they call you Voodoo now." That's said lightly, trying to find her way. But she's nervous.
But then she's starting to switch the subject. After filling her mug with water, she passes the thermos over to Priscilla and tears open the little packet to add it. After stirring, her hands wrap around the mug in seeking the warmth from it, before she digests Priscilla's question.
"I really don't know." she admits finally. "…I was in high school. And there was this party. And I wanted to fit it. I mean. Hard enough, with my beliefs, and religion.. and all.." comes the start of the explanation, eyes falling down to look into the muddied hot water that is slowly being flavored and stirred. "My parents so didn't want me to going to the party. So I snuck out. And something happened. There were these people. I thought they were my friends, and they gave me a cup. Said it was juice. It was alcohol, and they just wanted to get me drunk." She closes her eyes tightly, her face scrunching up. "…or you know, mock me. Anyway. I ran away from the party.. and as I was walking, there was this strange fog - and I passed out."
She sighs. "When I woke up.. I.. emerged from some weird pod thingie. Like in a sci-fi movie, pod people!" There's a small giggle at that. "…but it wasn't me. It was Captain Marvel. I mean, how she looked, before her current costume. I always wanted to be here.. and I was suddenly her."
Pris is keenly aware of the other woman's discomfort and nerves, and does all she can - in gentle, unobtrusive ways - to ease things along. There is no 'too close' for her, except whatever feels right to Kamala. She accepts the two packets, picks the dark chocolate, and does much the same as Kamala does, all while listening. She is rather intent about that; it gives off a feeling as if Kamala is the only other being in the world, the absolute focus of the other woman's attention. Because she is.
Pris ponders what Mala has said for a bit, and then nods, shrugging. She did her best to keep her fury off her face at the thought of Kamala being drugged by supposed friends; without the mask, it's a LOT easier to tell when she's enraged and would like to stab someone. But now she is introspective. Calm. Considering. Finally, she nods.
"You're going to think I'm nuts." Pris offers. She keeps stirring, but those purple eyes lock onto Kamala's dark orbs intently, as if willing her not to look away. But she is a surprisingly ethical telepath, and does not actually do that. "But I think I know what changed you. And … and if I'm right, it's the same thing that changed me. Different scenario, but same thing."
F*ck. How the Hells do you tell someone they're part alien? Her old team was way better at this!
Kamala is watching Priscilla while she's telling her story. After all, it's a pretty lame story, all told. There's no dark designs. No teenaged puberty triggering something. She was just a girl in the wrong place. Or at least, that's what she believes. And while she may not be an empath, she does see the subtle changes in Priscilla's features and eyes, and her hand stretches. Just enough to bridge the gap and take her free hand. Lightly settling there. It seems they're feeling each other out, seeing what the other thinks. Wants.
"I've heard some pretty crazy stories, Priscilla. I've probably written others." she admits with a little laugh, and sips from her mug. Until Priscilla says that they could be alike. "How so?" she asks curiously. "Were you at a party too?" Because that's the only way that Kamala could see their stories matching, as she gives Priscilla's hand just the gentlest of squeezes.
"The woman I admire most got her powers through an alien blood transfusion. I don't think you can top that?" he suggests bravely to Priscilla. "You can tell me. I won't laugh or anything."
Pris is not - at all - used to anyone trying to comfort her. Sarah tries, but it's all still so new to Pris that it startles the heck out of her when Kamala takes her hand like that. As an empath she is well aware of the other's intent, and doesn't push the hand away. No, she takes it. But that doesn't mean she's at all used to this.
"Well. OK." Pris shakes her head. "No. I wasn't at a party. But there was a gas, and a pod, and I came out changed." See? Similarities.
Pris gets a bit more serious, which is saying something; she hasn't exactly been casual up until now. But her level of intensity ramps up. "Thing is, that should never have happened to you so randomly, out there, alone. You should have been amongst friends. Those who understood. You should have been prepared. And it should only have happened with your consent." None of which really explains what the Hell is going on, but does make it pretty damned clear Pris knows.
"The cloud … I'm pretty sure it's what is called Terrigen. And it changed you because you have building-blocks of DNA in your system from … " Pris frowns, and sighs. "Sorry. This is not going to sound like me. But I don't really understand the science of this crap. So, I have to quote the people who taught me. Anyway, tbe building-blocks are from an ancient alien experiment on humans. A people called the Kree found humanity way back before history, and tried to make super-soldiers out of humantity for their wars. And after they were done, those they had changed rebelled, and they left. Those that had been changed are called Inhumans. And their genetics react with the terrigen to transform, gaining powers."
Sometimes. Most of the time, maybe? There's no explanation aloud for that frown.
"I don't have many friends. I mean. I had a few. But we've all gone our seperate ways." Kamala admits quietly as she shakes her head in thought. But then Priscilla starts to explain more, and the young woman listens, her brows furrowing in thought. "Were you asked?" she asks her. Because it sounds like for Priscilla there was a lab and all and she got everything that Kamala didn't.
Wait. Waiiiit.
The young woman's brows rise as she blinks several times. Kamala's head tilts, she looks confused. And then she asks in a really small voice. Confused. Scared. "You know. For the longest time. I thought I was just a late blooming mutants. I mean, I came to terms with that. I knew that I'd not be like and all, but…"
Her voice is a whisper of itself, and there's fear on her features. The thought doesn't even come to her about Priscilla, instead its. "…I'm an alien?"
Pris shakes her head. "No. You're … well. Maybe a little bit? I don't know the details of what genetics were used. But you're human, with a sprinke of Inhuman. And then you were activated." She sighs, and gives Kamala's hand a squeeze of reassurance. "But there are aliens. And the aliens tortured humans for decades, and meant to enslave us all." There's a hard edge to her voice, now. The edge that is often in that altered voice she uses with the mask on, when killing things.
Pris pulls back from that anger, and nods. "Yes. I was asked. Others came, and found me. Found me, and asked me to join them. They offered me something I'd never had. Friends. A family. A purpose. And I accepted." But that all sounds like it's in the past. Like … like they are gone, now. Which they are.
"The asshats I'm hunting? They're aliens. Shapeshifters, with the ability to possess others. And I can see them. The truth of them. And I'm hunting them, trying to stop them." Trying to kill them. But that explains the basics, at least, to Kamala. Just leaves out the part where Pris is not just Inhuman. She's also part dire wraith.
Kamala accepts the squeeze. She doesn't go any further than that. She probably knows by now that this is a little more than getting to know you. After the squeeze of reassurance and a return one of comfort, the younger woman withdraws her hand to wrap around the mug and takes a drink from it again as she closes her eyes in thought. "Okay. This is a whole lot to digest. I mean. Makes total sense. But still…" the girl is shaken. That much is clear.
And when she speaks of the past, Kamala frowns. "You'll find them again. And you'll make new friends. Like well.. me." There's a brave smile put with that. "You're totally out of my league in every way, and I'm probably just hoping that some of you rubs off on me, but at the same time - you need help. And I want to help."
Find them again? Pris blinks at this, refocusing on Kamala rather than her own memories. She didn't say she lost them, but apparently this young woman is insightful enough to realize that just from her tone of voice. That's telling. Whoops. Pris saw the attachment, the interest, the attraction building. She should have paid more attention to the now instead of her own feelings of the past.
"Bah." Pris offers, shaking her head. "Out of your league? Who has leagues?" She shrugs. "I'm just poor mixed-race mutt trash from the wrong side of the trash, no family, no prospects, no education, and no use." And the way Pris says it … it should be pretty clear. She's heard those words all her life. And believed them to be true. She may have friends now. A purpose. But her inner self-worth is still a work in progress. "Trust me. If there were one of us to be out of the league of the other one, that'd be me."
Pris gestures to Kamala with the hand not holding her mug. "Believe me, you don't want to take me home to meet your family and friends, Kamala. Good muslim girls don't bring poor, illiterate stripper assassins home." She sips her dark chocolate hot cocoa, and shrugs again. "I'm happy to try to be friends. Besides, you're the only other Inhuman I'm in contact with right now." There are others. A whole city of them. But that's a story for another time. "But I think you should set your sights a good bit higher than me. Maybe that Captain Marvel lady? I hear she's pretty bom diggity."
"Good Muslim girls don't bring other girls home as a romantic interest period." Kamala points out to Priscilla. "Though for what it's worth. You feel that way? I don't believe it. I heard the things you said- you are a resilient woman that is strong, beautiful, someone that has friends and family and is loyal to them, otherwise, you'd not had them in the first place. "You sought me out. Because I was like you." Not because she was interested. That's left unsaid.
"You give yourself far less credit than you allow yourself. And I don't know if that is because of what happened to you, or something that happened before. But you are far more than what you claim to be. You're amazing, witty, quick, and you have a fire and desire which I wish I could only have."
There's a giggle as Priscilla points out the other Marvel. "She's old enough to be my mother!" Sometimes she /acts/ like Kamala's mother. And then she realizes.. and her cheeks /flare a bright red/. "..you're an empath. You could tell that I…" she sighs, slumping, lowering her head. "I'm dumb." she admits. "And obvious. And I guess in some way, I see everyone else.. and I just, you know. Want to know what it feels like." She sighs. "Someday. Maybe."
"In the meantime, plenty to help, right?"
Priscilla reaches out a hand and lightly touches the younger woman's cheek. "Yes. I'm an empath. Doesn't mean I'm not flattered." And if there's one thing about Pris, it's that she doesn't lie. She might tell half-truths. She might keep secrets. But she never, ever lies. It's a weird thing. But it, like her words, is the truth. "And you're not any more obvious than anyone else to an empath. OK?"
Pris doesn't try to bring up the fact that she herself is older than she looks. That's just a tarball of confusion and unhelpful. It's not like she's some great scion of maturity or something. "I appreciate the kind words of respect. Believe me, I'm trying to learn to believe those things. But it's a long way up, and through, for me." And she gives Kamala's hand another light squeeze. "And if you ever decide to take a girl home to meet your family and friends, and you want backup, I'll be there with bells on. And, well, more modestly dresed. Or not, if you want me to shock them into accepting her more easily."
Because stripper. And honestly? Pris will not hesitate to use her own shamelessness to the advantage of those she has chosen to care about.
"My parents.. they're not so bad." Closing her eyes against Priscilla's touch, Kamala absorbs it like a sponge. It's the type the attention she craves and needs right now, and she's starved for it. After a few moments of thought, she blinks a few times, and then laughs. "It'll be a /long/ time before that happens, I imagine. I'm a Muslim girl that isn't the hottest looking girl in New York. Plus you know. That whole first step." she points out.
But back to where they were. "If you ever need my help.. I'll be there. I mean, if you're right? And we're sharing blood and genes and all that. We're family. Even if I may blush alot." There's amusement in her words, and she returns the squeeze of the hand. "But if you know any girls my age that might…?" It's teasing. A hopeful teasing.
Priscilla shakes her head. "I didn't say they were. I'm just promising to be there for moral support. Or, well, immoral support if that's what you need." After all, if Kamala doesn't think her parents are bad, Pris knows that, inherently, even without being told. "And if you ever need my help, Kamala, I hope you'll call. For anything. Pretty sure my fashion sense is anathema, but you can even have that if you want it." She grins at the younger woman's joke, but looking in those purple eyes it's not hard to guess she's already parsing through her mental rolodex to see whom she might know.
For now, though, Pris goes quiet, and sits sipping her watery dark chocolate hot cocoa. This is why they came, after all. The heavy stuff was not actually part of the plan. Just part of the reality.