Dark clouds against a black sky quivered with potential. The air was stiff, rumbling with the thunder of an angry night. No stars were visible, lost behind the black veil the storm provided. All trembled beneath the spring squall.
One rallied his pain as he roared over thunderous echoes. “I didn’t mean to!” the voice cried. “It’s not my fault!” it shouted.
It knew better.
A light, brilliant and awesome, split the sky as radically charged particles raced from ground to the clouds above. Few understood that lightning ran up. Spidering forks of lightning dances amidst the clouds, an eerie and ghostly radiance that did more to enhance the shadows than illuminate the night.
Blurry vision saw only a wash of light and it startled the screaming child. Through wet windows of azure, he gazed in the direction of the fallen (risen?) lightning. He quieted save for the heaving breaths escaping his lungs. His chest rose and fell quickly while rain pelted his flesh, slicking his gray shirt and matting the dark curls of his hair against his forehead.
The boy roared angrily, his rage manifest of his pain. As if in answer, the storm replied with another tremendous bolt and the deafening echo of its thunder. The cacophony filled the night, momentarily blocking out the poring rain. It boomed over and over again as each splitting peel of light shone on a scared little boy, lost in the hills of southern California.
His feet, bare now as he’d long discarded his socks, slopped in mud and slid on grass. He fell and squealed like an escaped pig when he felt the sting of a cut on his face. He was delirious, flailing in the night and screaming from the turmoil that warred within him. Outside, it was warring with the very earth.
Every stab of pain brought a thunderous roar. Each remembered scream of fear brought a flash of lightning. The rain was his tears and the winds, the winds whipped as he tried to dash away the memories. He saw students laughing at him. He heard sirens. Lights flared. Desks flew. His peers screamed and ran. What did he do? He shouted and walked with cool determination even when the tornado tore through the wall.
A tree cracked, lightning flaring flames to life only a hundred feet from him. He stared back at its mocking beckons, unable to seek out the warmth and light of its shelter. He didn’t need it, no, but he wanted it. He couldn’t accept it. No one loved him. He was a genetic monster. He was a killer.
With a frightful wail he ran and the rain raced over him. Overhead the clouds churned, whirling and shifting to form a chaotic whorl of grays and blacks. When he slid again, almost going down on his face, the wind picked him up and ahead he went, staring down at the decline of the hill he’d almost slid down. He shouted and the wind whipped him up again, a random path of jerking motions that made his sore legs tense and cramp.
His hands claws at the strange ledges he saw, but they weren’t solid. The currents could not be held, they could only be studied. He called for help and the winds flung rain water into his stinging eyes and open mouth. He gagged and coughed, riding the storm like a mad bronco at the rodeo.
The air popped and he went flying in a myriad directions. His body jerked and the pressure on his chest made him gasp. What was happening to him? Was he going to die? Had the tornado missed him just to come back for its kill later? The storm would be his final destination and in his delirious state, he didn’t care.
Arms flung wide, the teary murderer surrendered to the superior power. He jerked back and forth, riding one gust after another that lifted him higher and higher. He spun and whipped, his neck and shoulders cracking and craning against the terrible speed. He didn’t know how to hold back; he wasn’t holding back. He was going and his body responded with heavy bruising.
When he opened his eyes and took the sorrow from them, the departed tears revealed a bright city dwarfed by the entirety of the sky. The clouds hugged the skyline for miles, washing away filth and yesterday’s tragedy with a clean curtain of rain. The brilliance of the lightning gave inspiration to a midnight crowd of the recently awakened. They looked outside to find the magnificence of a natural nightmare. They were in awe.
Devon was too.
He moved an arm and struggled to right himself, the ledges supporting him as he hovered backwards. The currents could carry him; the winds listened. The temperature was cold but it was comfort against flushed skin. It wasn’t too cool; his body adjusted. The clouds thinned as he moved into them, showered by trapped moisture. Yet he wasn’t trapped, he sifted and sailed through them.
Above them, alone he felt the light of the moon and the stars. An eerie silence sat above the clouds save for the distant echo of thunder beneath his feet. He stared out over a sea of twinkling eyes and a bed of gray, a new world that was his to explore. He was free to see and to sail, navigating his own path on currents that were his alone to climb.
What had been a symphony of pain, fear and dismembered sorrow had to become a crescendo of invigorated onward cries. He called for the wind and it came, taking him down and propelling him through the air. When lightning was charged to its potential, about to snap with the crack of thunder, he dove sideways, spinning and hollering in excitement. The storm cried with him; he didn’t have need for tears now.
Devon took to flying like a child to crawling. He moved along with ease, the breeze supporting him. Hooking quick turns was next, an application of gusts to fling him and curb his speed while propelling him onward. Sudden stops and starts required little but the end or start of heading gusts.
Finesse required more focus, a series of current catches and gusts that brought him to a new path. Pushed to extremes he could catch amazing speeds upwards of two hundred miles per hour. He could direct them at first, but soon it was second nature. He flew around trees, through clouds and soon up the Golden Gate Bridge.
When he landed, the winds roared around him. He denied them and they understood. They could have him again soon, but for now he’d stand. He was a vigilant eye looking down upon a terrified world. With a flick of his wrist a gust of wind could surge down into the water and send a spray high above. A grin made the winds spin and the water funnel, surging upward in a tower that turned back and over upon itself.
He tried to flash his rage down in lightning, clap hungrily for thunder, but they were beyond him. Only the wind would answer, coming back and urging him to ride again. He did, never delaying the feeling he’d struggled to attain for years upon the ground. These weren’t games anymore.
Tomorrow it would rain again and he’d trail the fog. He knew it was true. He’d call for eighty mile per hour winds to bombard his body and knock him higher into the skies. They would, but even he learned that he could not withstand their fury for long. Red welts rose on his arms and legs. His right ear was bleeding. The scratch on his face stung.
The Tempest was dangerous. It was power, primal and tremendous. When he cried, it felt his pain. When he soared ever higher, it welcomed him. But it could not tolerate play. It was to be enjoyed and respected, and for once Devon truly understood the profound respect and fear given to nature spirits and pantheonic gods of old. He wasn’t a god; Devon knew he was a mutant. However, he knew more was possible if he had only the desire to try.
As the sorrow, rage and joy quieted with him, the storm quieted. A slow drizzle heralded a dawn that left Devon reclining upon a rotunda bench. He tucked his bag behind his head and looked out into the park of whatever small town he’d found. He inhaled and felt the world with him. When he exhaled, the swings swung and the trees bowed.
The Tempest smiled.
((OOC:
Above 1438 words.
Bipolar Disorder: Not this thread as it is a training thread reflecting on past events. However depression and manic states are reflected within.
No percentage chances necessary at this time.
))
Wed Jul 08, 2015 1:11 am by 
