Grandmaster Flash:
Heavy clouds are moving in.
Thunder rumbles.
You didn't make that happen... It just happened.
Down below, just for 2 seconds, Tempest spots a guard entering the building.
But it's odd-- he was a guy, but with long, flowing white hair, even though he didn't move at all like an old man.
Sure, it's 1963 and these are modern times and all, but you wouldn't think that a security guard would get hired if he had long hair down past his shoulders, whatever the color.
But he's gone inside now...
Thunder. It rumbled.
Tempest felt it, deep inside her. She felt it call to her, to soar. It wasn't just the Red Wig that was fake, put on, to hide the real her from the world, to present the false, meek, front of Libby as if it were the
real her. It was everything about her. The material flesh, the banal thoughts and dreams, when what she really wanted was to
become the Thunder.
One corner of her strawberry-splashed lips twitched upward in what might have been the beginning of a smile, but it turned out was also its end.
But then her eyes settled on the man below. The thunder, was it trying to take her attention from the man, or draw her out of the pleasure of soaring and into the moment so she would notice him? Or maybe she was reading more into it than she thought.
The doubt, the questions, they got in the way of the natural flow of the Stormforce through her, and she felt herself dip, excitingly dropping. She let herself drop, as she cleared her mind. When she emptied it of worries, doubts, inhibitions, whether her skirt was too short, not short enough, what people would think. None of that mattered when she was
Tempest.
She landed on the roof, a last moment gust of wind slowing her fall so she alighted with the weight of a feather. She spread her fingers and drew back on the disguise. Not all the way. She left the costume on and the wig off. But she stuffed the Stormforce back deep. The part of her that was less Libby and more Goddess --
Tempest, she supposed in a brief moment of balance, the Superheroine. She was somewhere between the two.
That smile, aborted previously, danced across her lips. Her powers repressed again, she felt safe enough to go inside the Museum. She wouldn't wreck the place.
Skylight, check -- but she wasn't going to bust a skylight! What kind of art-and-history-hating-monster do you think she is?
Door -- there was always a door -- but was it open? Why would they leave it unlocked when they had to be expecting someone to rob the place. They just
had to right?
She checked the door. Because of course she did.