Characters: Storm, OTA Setting: New York City Bar Content: PG to PG-13, definite language issues. Summary: Storm attempts to drown her concerns in alcohol, with mixed results. (I'm attempting to bring the character back into focus, so I thought I'd bring us for a moment back to her twisted little AU life.)
This was the third night in a row that she'd woken up in a cold sweat. The Professor and others were supportive in their own way, but right now, she didn't want to think about egg-suited cyborgs, and she didn't want to think about green skinned men that nobody recognized. But the vision had been returning to her a lot lately, enough that it was driving her up the wall.
It was funny how a line about human growth hormone, an angry glare and the right kind of tip could make a man assume your fake id was really real. It was also handy. Besides, in the back of her mind Storm was starting to wonder if she was really underage, whatever her body looked like.
So as something that looked red and thick and smelled more of russian booze than it did of tomato juice or spices was put in front of her, she nodded and scowled at her drink before downing a gulp. "Fuck memories. What good does the past do anyone?"