“Captain Westerly.”

Luke turns. “Y—”

“Captain Luke fucking Westerly.”

“Who—”

“What the hell were you doing? What the hell were you doing!?”

“It was just a storm, Commander, ah, Nelson.” Luke says, spreading his hands, a gesture of peace, but Nelson shakes his head, just shakes his head, disgusted.

“I don’t know who you are, I don’t know who you think you are,” Luke takes a half step back, hands coming up in front of his chest, protective, even if he doesn’t realize it. “You had no right dumping that storm here, do you, do you have any idea how fucking stupid and dage-dangerous that was. I don’t know how you weathers work, I know how high and mighty you think you are, but you don’t endanger people like that, and you don’t let loose a tornado on the Range! Fuck, what were you doing?!”

Luke clenches his jaw, works his back teeth, lip curling. “What are you, commander, fire? Am I right? Should I tell you how to handle an open flame now? Should I—”

“No,” Nelson says. “No, you don’t make me the bad guy. Not until I set a house on fire just because I can. This is my fucking base, and you threw a storm at us, my base. You could have killed someone, you could have destroyed the lighthouse, you could have killed us all; you don’t put a tornado on the Range.”

“Could have. Didn’t.”

“You—you child.” Nelson’s clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides and Luke is nervous, a bit nervous, because what’s going on, why’s he so angry, it was just a little storm. “I want you off my base; I want you gone, now, yesterday, now. Who’s your commander? Who’s your commander?”

“Lawrence.” Luke snarls, and he looks plain mean, and the air is crackling, because you don’t get a weather angry or fearful, not when the winds and waves look after them, watch over them, like a precious child. “George Lawrence, Flight 7. It’s just a fucking storm, you—”

“You arrogant—” Nelson shifts forward and Luke’s hands come up again, and the wind is howling.

“Don’t you dare touch me. Don’t you—”

The wind rises, tearing at Nelson’s overcoat, and the temperature falls, and Luke is frantic, frantic and wide eyed, and mad. He reaches for something, anything, and flips charges, faster and faster, chains building and flowing for him, and static builds, builds, and the air crackles angrily, angry its darling has been frightened.

Nelson senses something isn’t right here, something’s strange, and pauses. “What’re, what—?”

“Go away, get away from me, don’t touch me.” The words spill from Luke’s mouth, tripping and stumbling over each other on their way out. His hands are clutched together at his chest, knuckles white and shaking. “Leave me alone. Leave me alone.”

Nelson backs away, slowly, cautiously, hands up and spread. Something’s changed here, the captain before him switched so fast from angry and venomous to terrified and terrified, and he doesn’t understand. He’s cold, very cold, and the wind is tearing through his clothes, against his skin, and it’s unsettling, disturbing, and he backs away, and runs.

Luke shivers, down to the bone shivers, crumbles, and sobs.

Previous: Scene 3-VI

Scene 3-VII

Next: Scene 3-VIII