3145/Where Once Raged Wild Fires

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Where Once Raged Wild Fires
Date of Scene: 14 November 2017
Location: Unknown
Synopsis: Summary needed
Cast of Characters: Superwoman, Miss America




Superwoman has posed:
    It had been all over the news the entire day- huge, unexpected wild-fires raging through the wilderness of California, along the mountains and through the valleys. Putting homes and people under extreme threat of burning to death- which, as it turns out, is not a pleasant way to die.

    Luckily, heroes of all stripes on the west-coast had done their part and for the majority of people that mean they'd been saved from dying in a fire. Still, though, the fire rages on in the most wild parts of California- few heroes were willing to brave those flames, it seems.

Miss America has posed:
    The fires continue to rage. Fed by so many different factors, those flames spread like gluttons through the wilds of California. And while many have done what they can -- and for the most part, have saved those lives under threat -- there's still very few that can wade into flames of that intensity unharmed to save anyone or anything that remains.

    America Chavez, however, is one of those very few.

    She lands in the midst of the veritable sea of broiling flames, the winds billowing out from her point of impact amidst the wilderness blowing tongues of fire back all around her. Slowly, she rises, a frown on her lips as she feels the heat on her skin without so much as flinching, dark eyes scanning the landscape around her. The others have done everything that they can. She's here for the rest. Because if there's still people to be saved... America is going to save them. This, after all, is the work.

Superwoman has posed:
    And America is not alone- another walks amidst those flames. Or rather, at this moment, flies above them. In the sky above she can be seen circling at great speed- pulling atmospheric pressure down towards the fires- a cold wind that brings with it frost and moisture and soon after, rain. It starts as a drizzle

    And slowly becomes a more serious torrent- sheets of rain falling from above as Superwoman cools the atmosphere above with blasts of frozen breath, a constant cycle of cooling breaths on the ash and dirt that's hit the atmosphere, drawing in moisture and rain.

Miss America has posed:
    The first few droplets evaporate in the intense heat before they can reach ground. Eventually, though, that first droplet manages to press past the relentless heat of the flame falls...

    ... and splatters, wetly, on America Chavez's cheek.

It merits a brief, subdued blink from the Utopian girl as she wades through the flames. She looks up, and sees above -- the distant sight of a flying figure circling high above the canopy. She squints, for a moment, against the blanketing wreathe of flames as a drizzle becomes a full on storm.

    And as the flames are buffeted by sheets of water from above, America allows herself a brief, mild smirk... and then suddenly -takes off- across the ground at speeds that far exceed any form of sound barrier, sonic boom chasing after her desperately as she drives a deep furrow into the earth and heads north -- rapidly encircling the flames at high speeds to create a localized vortex through the area, and deprive the wildfire of the precious oxygen it needs to keep itself going.

Superwoman has posed:
    Between the pair the worst of the wild-fires are soon left smoldering, but the storm falling on the burned-terrain would be enough to take care of any flare-ups. Above the storm, Superwoman floated in quiet, her legs crossed as she watched the land below- eyes following the speeding America as she flew through the terrain and starved the remaining flames of oxygen.

    In quiet repose, legs barely brushing the tops of the storm, Superwoman just waited in quiet- scanning and reading the land below to search for survivors, or those in need of further aide. Luckily, there isn't anyone there who's in need of saving.

Miss America has posed:
    It's a time that America herself takes to scan for survivors as well, on the ground; the girl from the very definition of 'elsewhere' races between scorched trees and burnt earth, becoming a smear of reds, whites and blues as she looks over the remaining regions for anything or anyone in need of any further assistance. No one, it seems -- it looks like those who came before did a good job of evacuating.

    And so, coming to a stop, America pushes a hand through that thick mane of curly, dark hair; a slow, easy sigh escapes her lips, lips that purse together into a frown as that acrid smell of smoke fills her nostrils. Assured the rest of the area has been more or less cleared out, though? The Utopian girl gets out of that smoldering wreckage that was once teeming with life, lifting up off the ground to shoot up into the skies as those droplets of rain pelt at her from above, eyes scanning the skyline for the one who helped her.

Superwoman has posed:
    It isn't difficult to find Superwoman above the storm. She's just sitting there- well, floating there- in quiet. She could be meditating, or listening for another crisis. Her eyes open, brilliant blue eyes, and she looks right at America. "Greetings." She offers the other flying woman, "Good work. Your assistance was valuable."

Miss America has posed:
    Brilliant blue eyes meet cool browns as America reaches eye level with Superwoman; her stare and expression are largely inscrutable as she sizes the seated (floating) Kryptonian up, before a single, dark brow quirks upward. "Yo," she offers in return, an almost casual tilt of her right hand offered before both find their place slipped into her jacket pockets.

    "No big deal, just what I do. Nice touch with that whole rain storm thing, though," continues the Utopian off-handedly, her eyes turning towards the clouds for a brief moment before returning to Faora. "I remember you. During the Apokolips crap." Her head tilts, almost considerately. "Looks like you got better, huh?" And here, the woman tips her head, in a brief nod -- and one infused with a rare mote of respect.

"Name's America."

Superwoman has posed:
    "Yes. There were many enemies from Apokolips. Parademon infestations and Intergang weapons continue to plague Metropolis." Superwoman begins, "And yes. I did get better. Thank you." She offers, then, pausing a moment. "Faora. Faora Hu-Ul... Superwoman. Take your pick, either works."

    Faora is just as inscrutable- brilliant blue eyes studying America as she approaches, and speaks. Faora's own tones have a certain quasi-European accent to them, unlike the other known Kryptonians, who all seem to speak without an accent. " It is a pleasure to meet you, America."

Miss America has posed:
    "Problem like that's not gonna go away just because it got smacked into space." The words come with a steady sense of certainty as America agrees with Faora's assessment -- the weight of experience behind her voice for someone who looks so young. One hand slipping out of her pockets, she scratches the back of her head, looking down at the ruins made from the flames. "Just gotta keep beating 'em down every time they show their ugly asses." That, too, she says with certainty.

    It's only when Faora introduces herself that America looks back, brows lifted just a bit. "Superwoman, huh," she utters, almost to herself, head cocked. "Yeah, that's a good look for you. Fits." And as she approaches, the Utopian offers out her right hand to the Kryptonian, in an offering of greeting as her lips quirk faintly. "Yeah. Pleasure, chica."

Superwoman has posed:
    "Problems like that have a way of compounding upon themselves." Faora replies with a quiet nod, her voice flat. She looks at America's hand when its offered. There's a pause, before she reaches out to quietly take America's and give it a shake- she barely uses any strength, there. She doesn't know what America can take, after all.

    "The name seemed appropriate, given that others of my species have chosen the 'Super' moniker for themselves. Anyways, as you said, it fits." She offers with the slightest of smiles- just a turn of the corner of her lip.

Miss America has posed:
    If Faora is uncertain of America's threshold, the Utopian, at least, helpfully provides a basis for her; the grip of her hand is firm, assured, and most of all, strong as her fingers squeeze, as if to indicate the Kryptonian hero doesn't have to worry about how fragile America may or may not be. Her head tilts, and the ghost of a calm smile mirrors Faora's own in return.

    "About as super as it gets, chica," she follows up approvingly in the aftermath as her hand slips away from Faora's, coming to lock with the other at the back of her head. "That's the kinda shit you gotta own." She looks back Faora's way a moment, a brow lifted. "So, do you follow the Big Man of Metropolis' lead, or do you do your own thing?"

Superwoman has posed:
    "I am my own woman." Faora replies, "But, I do follow an example. Mostly. When the example would not cause future strife. Kal-El is a man who sees the best in everyone, and in everything. He is a symbol of hope. I cam not." she explains, "Superwoman is a symbol of Justice. Justice is not always kind, as Hope is. I will do all I can to ensure proper Justice is fulfilled, according to the law of the land. However, I will also protect the innocent and the weak from those who would use their strength to harm those unable to defend themselves. They should be perfectly aware that someone of power isn't afraid to hurt them. Badly." she explains, as she returns the grip then- everybit one would expect of someone calling themselves 'Superwoman'.

    "In that, I wear my own crest." Superwoman says, as she waves to the shield on her chest- that of House Hu-Ul.

Miss America has posed:
    Considering Faora's words for a moment, America crosses her arms over her chest, winds above whipping her curly hair out behind her as her head tilts. "Yeah, okay," she decides, "I like you. Good answer. And good grip." Even if subtle, that approval is there, tinging her tone -- like the support of a like mind.

    Her eyes fall then as Faora's hand draws attention to that much different sigil that is emblazoned on her chest, head tilting curiously as she takes it in. "You do you. I get that," she decides, after a moment. "That's a Kryptonian thing, yeah?"

Superwoman has posed:
    "Yes. Superman's symbol is that of his House. It is simply a bit of providence that the Kryptonian symbol for the House of El resembles the letter 'S'. I am unsure if he picked the name for himself, or if it was chosen for him." Faora says, withdrawing her hand. Her hands come to rest on either thigh as she continues to float, cross legged over the storm that rages below them. Rain falling on the dry, parched land below.

    "My symbol is the same- the symbol for House Hu-Ul." She looks to America quietly, her voice going low. "Do you want to hear something funny- a quirk of fate, perhaps, that shows the Universe loves irony?"

Miss America has posed:
    "Guess it's just one of those chicken or the egg kind of things," America notes, that brown gaze looking lost in some thought or another as Faora explains the nature of those Kryptonian symbols. Whatever that thought might be, though, goes unvoiced as her gaze slides back over to Faora, sitting so comfortable above the tumultuous clouds. "Yeah, well. Whichever it was, it works."

    Still, when Faora's voice lowers a pitch or two, America's brows knit inward towards their center. The young woman floats closer as if to hear her over the sound of the storm beneath them, feet skirting just over the edges of those raging clouds as her lips purse. "Yeah? Sure. What is it?"

Superwoman has posed:
    "I am the only female of our species who survives who is *not* genetically related to Superman, in some manner." Faora begins, "And I'm *so* not into men." she chuckles softly, shaking her head. "Bitter irony, isn't it? Our people all but extinct, and the only women in Superman's life are either related to him or gay." She grins, and shakes her head. "At least, I find it entertaining."

Miss America has posed:
    The answer receives a snort, wry but amused, from America as the young woman shakes her head. "That's some kinda irony, alright," she utters, considering Faora for a moment before a sardonic kind of smile threatens itself briefly across her lips.

    "I'm sure a guy like that manages to get by still anyway," she notes wryly after a moment, stretching arms above her head with the brief crack of joints. "Sure you do too." Her brows lift, just a bit. "You just gotta do you, yeah?"

Superwoman has posed:
    "I'm sure he does well enough. Honestly, I don't pay attention. We rarely see each other, and that is the way I like it. He is, in my opinion, somewhat naive. I suppose that is for the best, for most people." Faora says, her own smile barely there- a hitch to the corner of a lip. "As for me, I spend my time as Superwoman. It is what I have, so it is what I do." she takes a very slow, quiet breath. "And there is always work to do as Superwoman."

    She bows her head to America. "There is work, even now, that requires my attention. It has been pleasure, America. And I hope to see you again." she offers, taking a moment to quietly consider her fellow powerhouse super-woman. "I'm sure we will meet again."