ByChristina Tenisha Small, writer at
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Christina Tenisha Small

MP are running another cool comp, this time to write an origin story for a character, I'm pretty sure my entry's late but it's still a cool idea for an article, so here's my entry based on one of Marvel's most badass female characters, Storm.

As an introduction, I've based her origin story on an excerpt from her early years on her Wikia page. Which you can read HERE.

Storm - The Emerging of a Heroine.

By Christina-Tenisha Small (that's me!)

When I was five my parents were killed. Brutally. Tragically. A plane crash caused our house to collapse around us. Confining inside it, the mutilated corpses of my mother and father, and beneath them, my infantile body. When I think of them now, I have no fond memories of them, no interesting stories about our relationship, nor pictures of our time together. I know I loved them dearly as they did me. I know that the bond I shared with them is a bond I will never share with anyone else. I also know that they died protecting me. Their bodies lay over mine shielding me from the rubble, from the concrete of our house, the glass of our windows and the furniture within. Our house was destroyed, my family torn to pieces and yet here I was. As alive and healthy as a person could be, I had lived to tell the tale.

My mother had been a princess, I don’t remember the name of her tribe, but I remember how respected she was. I imagine it had come as a great surprise when she had chosen to marry an outsider. My father, a photojournalist from America, was as much of an outsider as you could get. Shortly after I was born, I’m not sure on the exact time, my family and I moved to Cairo, Egypt. My father continued his work, and we had lived comfortably. Until the crash had torn us apart.

Aged 5, there was nothing I could do. I look back on the moment that I had thought would be the end of my life. I didn’t understand much of it at the time, my innocent young mind was not immediately able to make sense of the situation, but looking back, things seem clearer. It is possible to forget memories, faces and people, even specific details of one’s own life, but a tragedy such as that, is not easy to forget. I remember how I felt in that moment. The confusion that had arisen at my parents insistence that we leave immediately. The curiosity as to the screams that invaded my hearing, and the fear that had consumed me upon seeing the giant plane responsible for my parents death, hurtling towards the ground. Towards my house.

It all happened very quickly. Too quickly for us to escape, so that eventually, my mother and father, both distressed and breathing heavily, set me down on the cold floor of our kitchen, and lay their bodies atop mine, as our house crumbled down around us. As the remnants of my personal belongings, my childhood, my life, set alight in an almighty blaze. A fire unlike any I had ever seen.

My mother covered my eyes, pressing her body into mine, as my father took the worst of the damage. Soon after he fell away from my mother and I, and though I felt my mothers body racked with sobs, though I felt her fresh, wet, tears on my shoulder, she never once loosened her hold on me. Never once stopped shielding me, until eventually, her sobbing ceased. Dying with the fire, the tears on her eyes dried up.

I lay there, underneath my mother and the remnants of our home and the plane that had destroyed it, for what felt like an eternity. Too scared to move, all I wanted to do, was curl up to her, and wait. Wait until she told me it was safe, but she never did. When the last of the fire died out, I realised that my mother was gone. Her cold lifeless body, now a dead weight, lay atop me like a shield.

Somehow my juvenile body managed to push away from my mother, and the rubble, and standing up, wearing the bright summers dress my father had bought me only days before, I stared at the scene before me. There was nothing left of my life. Nothing left of my home. I bent down and shook my mother vigorously, calling her name and willing her to wake up, but she never did. My eyes clouded with tears, as I ran to the unmoving body of my father and knelt down beside him. Like my mother, I shook him, calling his name again and again. I told him that we needed him, that mom was hurt, and he needed her help, but he never moved.

My breathing was heavy, and realising that I was all alone in the world, I sat in the remnants of my home and cried. I cried until I had no more tears left to cry. Cried until my stained and dusty dress, was fresh wet with my tears. Cried until, when the sun rose the next morning, I took my father’s jacket, and my mothers Ruby necklace, and left.

I walked endlessly around the place that I had grown up in. Distraught, traumatised and alone, I had nowhere to go. Nowhere to turn to. I would steal fruit from stalls when no-one was looking, and sleep on the streets, in the shadows. I did this for some time, until eventually I was found by those would later become my second family. They took me to their master, Achmed El Gibar, the master thief of Cairo, who took me under his wing and raised me. He taught me to open any lock, on any door. How to steal food, without being caught. Jewels, money, clothes - anything and everything that I needed to survive.

I stayed with El Gibar until I was nineteen. Upon my birthday, feeling as though I could finally take care of myself, I left. It was as I was travelling, that I noticed something unusual. I could hear grunting, and shuffling, yet could see no logical place for the noise to be coming from. The sound of fast footsteps invaded my senses, followed by four of five scuffling feet only moments later. I realised then that someone was being chased. I eagerly followed the sound, needing to find its source, and turned a corner on to a quiet street. My feet made almost no sound as I continued following the sound, pausing when it appeared to get louder.

Out of nowhere, a young man who appeared to be around my age, came hurtling from around the corner. Running quickly, as though for his life, he apparently did not see me, and smashed into me, almost taking me down with him. His breathing heavy, he looked exhausted and dropped to the floor beside me.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” I asked him, bending down instinctively to see.

He had dark skin that matched mine in complexion, and deep brown eyes that stared at me for what felt like an eternity. His gaze flicked to my white hair, before returning to my face.

“A little,” he replied, his voice breathy and deep.

He looked as though he were going to say more, before his gaze flicked to a point past my head, and his eyes widened. “You have to run!” he said, his voice dripping with fear. He stood up, pulling me with him, and made to run before I heard the same four or five footsteps as before. I felt my eyes narrowing, as I moved out of his hold, pushing him behind me. Five men, dressed in dark clothing, and carrying guns, ran straight towards us, shouting. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, they spoke a different language to any I had ever heard before, but when one of them took a shot at us, narrowly missing the young man that I was shielding, my body reacted instinctively.

“What are you doing?” the young man shouted, yanking on my arm.

I stared at the men as they got closer, my vision glazing over with a white mist, as the sand and dust from around us, began to swirl upwards. I didn’t know what was happening. I knew that I was responsible, could feel the power emanating from my body, as my feet gently left the floor beneath me. The young man, moved back in shock, as the clouds above us turned grey, transforming the day into almost night. The men, a few metres away from us, were not afraid of what was happening. Or if they were, they never showed it, one of them took another shot, directly at me this time. The bullet grazed my shoulder, knocking me back down to the ground, before I focused all my attention on that one man. The wind itself, as though it had life, swept the man from his feet, raising him high above his brethren, as an example. His gun fell to the floor with a thud, and I walked forward through the wind, my hand outstretched, keeping him there.

“What do you want with this man?” I shouted, above the noise of the wind.

Moments later the sky erupted with lightning, before thunder boomed loudly. Loudly enough that all men, including the young man, jumped.

“We don’t have to tell you a thing!”

One of the men shouted. In English I noted. He looked to his brethren, before nodding at them. As one they pointed their guns towards me, and fired several times. I heard the young man scream and saw him, out of the corner of my eye rush towards me, before my feet swiftly left the ground. A deep frown upon my face, I pushed both hands forwards with as much as strength as I could muster, sending their bullets soaring through the air just as fast back towards them. The bullets hit the ground around them, and before they could react, I descended back down to the ground. With a wave of my hand, the wind carried the man in the air through a nearby window, and walking forward I concentrated on each of the men, as lightning once again erupted. With the two loud booms of thunder, lightning struck the ground in front of each of the men. They jumped, falling to the ground, as I continued forward. Before I could do or say anything to the other three men, they ran off, dropping their guns and making a run for it. One remained.

“This is not your business, young girl,” he said to me, grabbing hold of his gun once more.

I raised my hand up, my hair blowing away from my face, unsure of what I was going to do, before I felt a hand touch mine, and bring it down. I turned to look into the face of the young man. He looked cautious.

“No more.” He said.

Looking into his deep brown eyes, I knew what he wanted. I looked around at the destruction my actions had caused. Stalls had been completely blown over, a window and part of a roof smashed in, and what was likely a severely injured man, lying in the house that that roof belonged to. I looked back to the young man and nodded, but upon seeing his attacker once more raise his gun, threw my hand up. The wind blew the end of the gun so that it hit the side of his head. Knocking him out.

My vision, returned to normal, the white mist fading, the wind, lightning and thunder going with it. I turned to the young man, embarrassed about the situation that had occurred, but glad that he was okay.

“What is your name?” he asked me tentatively.

I thought about his question for a moment before I answered. I had gone by many names working and living with El Gibar, but only one of them was my true name.

“Ororo,” I said quietly, “Ororo Munroe.”

His lips drew back into a smile,

“Ororo,” he took my hand in his. “My name is T’challa, Prince of Wakanda and I am forever indebted to you, for saving my life.”

The End.

Her Future,
Her Future,

p.s Is it ok for me to fangirl over my own story? Yes. Yes it is. *nods vigorously*


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