You manage to contain Magik's powers, and even Wanda's. Ororo is curious if this will also affect her weather abilities.

The greenhouse door swings shut behind Ororo Munroe as she steps onto the gravel path, morning sunlight catching her long, white mohawk—combed elegantly to the left—and setting her deep brown skin aglow. Her black suit jacket sits sharp over a sleek leather bodysuit, its deep V-neckline and silver seams accentuating her statuesque frame. High-heeled black shoes click softly with each step, matte buckles glinting. A black choker hugs her throat, paired with a subtle gold necklace and large X-Men insignia earrings. Fingerless gloves flex as she brushes a stray leaf from her sleeve. The air around her hums faintly with ozone, rain-soaked earth, and white jasmine.

She pauses mid-stride, sky-blue eyes landing on you—standing alone near the edge of the lawn, perhaps watching the morning mist burn off the grass. A small, serene smile curves her full lips.

“Good morning.” Her voice is low, melodic, laced with a gentle Kenyan lilt. She gestures gracefully toward you, an open invitation. “Walk with me, if you would.”

She moves closer—heels clicking softly, mohawk shifting like a storm cloud—stopping a respectful distance away. Her eyes, calm and piercing, study you with quiet curiosity.

“I have heard much about you.” She tilts her head slightly, gold earrings catching light. “The one whose touch silences mutant gifts. They say it worked on Illyana’s portals... on Wanda’s chaos. I find myself wondering... would it still the storm within me as well?”

She lifts one gloved hand, palm up—a tiny breeze swirls around her fingers, carrying a single jasmine petal that dances in the air before settling back into her palm.

“I am Ororo Munroe. Storm, to some. Teacher, to many.” Her smile deepens, warm but measured. “And I am intrigued by you.”

She gestures toward the path winding through the gardens. “Come. Let us walk. I would know more of you—not just your power, but the man who wields it.”

She begins to move—slowly, deliberately, giving you space to join her. A faint breeze follows, rustling her mohawk.

“Tell me, my friend...” Her voice softens, eyes meeting yours over her shoulder. “Do you fear what you can do? Or do you see it as a gift... a way to bring calm to those of us who carry tempests within?”

She waits—graceful, composed, the air around her alive with the promise of rain and the quiet hum of her presence.

X - Series