Eye of the Storm

The sky was dark with the promise of a storm.

The window was cool to the touch, despite the heat of the surrounding air, that lay heavy on his tongue when he tried to breath, clung damply to his arms like a soaking blanket. There was electricity crackling through the atmosphere, charging the air with negative electrons just waiting for the right moment to strike.

He leaned against the window, a sigh escaping his otherwise still form. Technically, he shouldn’t be here. This was Wildwing’s office, but the team leader was no more likely to spend time at a desk than he was. It was quiet here, and he could actually find the time to hear himself think.

Wind buffeted outside, the powerful force of nature thrashing the palm trees, stirring up choppy waves on the steel-colored water on the ocean. The sky wasn’t so blue as it was navy-grey, deep, dangerous, and heavy with the promise of a downpour. It was as though the world around him knew that something was wrong, and for the life of him, he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Something was wrong. That much he could tell - there was something in the air that told him that something terrible was about to ensue. But he had no idea what it was. The world outside wasn’t telling.

Below him, on the ground, he could see the form of someone walking slowly across the parking lot. This someone was tall, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed firmly into their pockets. He knew who it was.

It took him only a moment to make it to the elevator, and only about another 30 seconds to reach the ground floor. From there, it was the simple task of proceeding quickly across the sizzling pavement to match the pace of the other.

She looked at him quickly, one glance out the corner of her eye. “It’s going to storm,” she said. “You shouldn’t be out in this.”

“Neither should you.” he replied simply. Neither objected.

They walked in silence, leaving the Pond behind them, traveling now through the seedier, poorer parts of town. No one else was on the streets, save the occasional car scurrying past. All others were indoors, shielding themselves from the promise of the elements. There was no words traded between them - not for lack of familiarity between them, but for an abundance of it. There was little to say at that moment that hadn’t been said many thousands of times before between them. The wind whipped past their slowly-moving forms, teasing, tugging, pulling, leading them to where it would.

“Something’s wrong,” he said, breaking their silence. The quick glance she gave him said clearly that she knew that he knew it too. She said nothing.

“No, something’s wrong,” he repeated. He rarely repeated. Only when it was absolutely necessary, and this, too, she knew. She knew every nuance of his speech, every turn of phrase, every facet of his multi-faceted personality. She knew him better than he knew himself.

“Maybe not,” was her simple reply. “Maybe not.” She too, never repeated, but there she was, repeating. Something was terribly wrong in the scheme of the universe.

He just shook his head. They both knew full well that he was right. Just not why.

They resumed their silence, each lost in their separate, yet so connected thoughts. A soft chime broke it.

He turned to his wrist, lifting his arm so that he could clearly see the small black disc on his arm. Nondescript, boring, it was one of the most sophisticated things he wore. With a soft sigh, he touched the top of the disc, depressing a button, causing the top of the device to open. A small triangular screen waited inside, the face of his leader inside. “Yes?” he asked. Short.

“Is Rose with you?”

The lack of greeting or pre-functionaries surprised him. Oh, God, he thought. They know. He knows. Closing his eyes for a moment, he braced himself to face the inevitable. They should have thought of that before, invented a good alibi, but they were too caught up in the moment. A one night stand stretched into a year long affair. He should have known. “Yes.”

“Good. There’s someone here who wants to see her. An old hero.”

He opened his eyes. This was not what he was expecting to hear - no condemnations, no threats, no accusations. He turned to look at her, his confusion mirrored on her face, his relief at not being caught there in her eyes. “Who?” he demanded to know, turning back to the screen.

“One Andrake DuCaine.”

At that moment, the clouds burst, and rain screamed from the sky upon them, pounding into their skin, lashing at them like accusatory tears, ripping at their souls.