“Doesn’t anyone know anything about him?”

 

“I, we, the Re-Organization…”

 

“Well do something.”

 

“Umm,”

 

“Someone go get Captain Reefer.”

 

Luke is sobbing and the rain is falling, the sky matching him tear for tear, soaking deep into a shuddering and gasping earth. They’ve tried to reach him, tried to draw him out, but have only had their fingers and hands and faces bitten by a cold and vicious wind. Atlas stands, helpless, drenched, and he doesn’t understand. An hour ago the captain berated him for calling Herbert an annoying lump of smelly fruit, and now, now, he has drawn himself into a corner, knees up, head down, and the wind, the wind, won’t let them near, and he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know this boy, this strange boy, and he doesn’t know what to do.

 

Feet, half running, half walking, turn him slightly, and Reefer’s here, and that should make things better, but it doesn’t, because Reefer looks as confused as he feels. “The hell?” Reefer asks, edging in behind him, and Atlas isn’t sure what to say. “What’s going on lieutenant?” He demands, accuses, and what does he think he did? Kicked him? Stole his puppy? So Atlas shrugs, just shrugs, and Reefer snarls. “Someone get me Jase Charter on the line. Now.”

 

Atlas thinks someone might have run to obey, but, well, he really isn’t paying much attention. Reefer is talking, asking questions, and when an elbow nudges him, he thinks probably Reefer was asking him questions. “What, sorry?”

 

“How longs he been like this?” The captain has to repeat himself at a yell as the wind rises, whipping and weaving around obstacles, sending dust and dead leaves flying.

 

“I— I don’t know, five minutes? Ten minutes? Maybe?”

 

“Sir, Lieutenant Charter is in the hospital!”

 

“So? He’s a doctor.”

 

“No, in the hospital. As a patient.”

 

“So have them transfer you to his room, it’s not that difficult corporal.”

 

“He’s unconscious sir, has been for six days.”

 

“What!? Fuck. Then get Captain Whim, he’ll be there too.”

 

“Sir, the West Guard reports two partial touchdowns and one full tornado!”

 

“Captain Whim’s on line with a Commander… Lawrence? He won’t be available for at least an hour.”

 

“Alright, alright! Someone needs to explain to Commander Nelson about the storm, and you get a hold of Captain Polly.” Reefer shouts, thunder rolling to counterpoint his every word. He’s sweating, or it might just be the rain, but either way he’s a bit green around the gills as swirl of dark clouds begins to form not a hundred meters away, lit against the angry sky by a flash of lightning.

 

Atlas doesn’t know who Charter or Whim are, but everyone, everyone knows Samuel Polly.Polly, and those who came before him, is the nightmare mothers whisper to their children, the threat, the warning. While the majority of Summarians probably couldn’t tell you who the nine Flight Commanders are, every single one, from the oldest, frailest grandmother, to the youngest, sweetest little girl, knows and fears Polly and his like. Every sailor knows, one step in the wrong direction, and Polly will come a-calling. It is he who comes to those whose potential is not met, and strips it from them, reclaims it for the Islands, for the Fleet. A littler known fact is not everyone survives it, this splitting; the greater your potential, the more broken you will be when it is gone, to the point that seventy-five percent of Polly’s victims pay for their transgression the ultimate price. Atlas knew a woman, once, who upon the succumbing of her youngest child to the Fairy Tales, burnt half her village to the ground, and fled; Polly and the Crow followed, dogged her until they had her in their grasp, and cut the fire from her. She died, not minutes after, screaming.

 

Does Reefer mean to have Luke neutralized, before his storm really digs its teeth in? Watching a funnel descend from the raging storm, Atlas knows Luke would never survive.

 

“Captain, Polly’s on!” A headset it passed to Reefer, and he jams it over his mop of hair.

 

“This is Reefer, Sam. Talk to me.”

 

“Gimme your co-ordinates first, sounds like you’ve got quite the storm on your hands.”

 

“God, I don’t know; couldn’t you have asked right off? Get me co-ordinates people!”

 

“Co-ordinates, sir.”

 

“You hear that Polly?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, shut up a second. Right, uh, unfortunately, looks like anything I touch is likely to bounce back meaner, so we’re going to have to go for the source. Why the fuck isn’t Jase doing this? I’m sure Fosher would let him on board, even if he’d probably spaz after.”

 

“Jase’s unconscious.”

 

“Again?!”

 

“What’re you talking about? He never woke up.”

 

“…I’m going to need to have a word with dear old Captain Whim. Alright, how’s Luke?”

 

“Off in his own little world. Can’t get near ‘im without getting attacked.”

 

“Okay, well, that’s probably not even his doing. The Islands are bit protective of Luke; if he’s upset, they’re upset. Do you have any idea what happened?”

 

“None. Lane, his lute, sent a runner for me.”

 

“Fuck, okay, hang a sec, I’m gonna grab Logan in here.”

 

“Reef? You there?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay; Logan, toss on that spare headset will you? Okay, Logan’s gonna see if he can’t calm Luke down a bit. You can do that, right?”

 

“Yeah, not sure how effective it’ll be though, most likely he’ll be able to just counteract it all.”

 

“…Any ever tell you you’re a bit of a pessimist?”

 

“Right, I’m just going to start now; keep an eye on him, Reef, and Sam’ll watch the storm. Are we ready?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Yeah…”

 

Reefer half turns, so he’s full facing Luke, fingers twitching and grabbing at empty air at his sides. The air goes colder still, and he thinks it’s Polly, reaching in to put a dampener on the storm.

 

And then Luke screams, and then Logan cries out, and then Sam has dropped his headset, and is scrambling, scrambling and shouting, and Reefer just stares, watches dark clouds pour from the sky, the storm feeding, sucking the winds down to earth, and a chill goes up his back.

 

He turns, warily, shakily, and the ground is moving underneath him, or maybe that’s the air, because bearing down on him, on them, because Atlas is still there, silent, yes, but there, is an angry, screeching black funnel, bridging the gap between earth and sky, and hungry.

 

There is shouting in his ear, but he can scarce hear it over the din of the tornado, tearing its way toward him, and he wishes Polly would do his goddamn job and kill this fucking thing before it kills them, because god knows all the water in the world will just make this sucker bigger, meaner.

 

“What the fuck are you two doing over there?! Could use some help!”

 

“Luke fucking bit back, that’s what. What the hell did you do to him!?”

 

“…to Logan?”

 

“To Luke, you bastard; to Luke. Kid doesn’t go fucking postal for nothing!”

 

“How the hell should I know? Last I saw him was a meeting two damn hours ago!”

 

“Well where’s he been since then?!”

 

“I’ll tell you after you get this fucking tornado off my back!”

 

Polly swears, and the funnel wavers, wavers and dies, maybe a three hundred meters off, dust and leaves and grass and wood falling to the ground heavy. Another sprouts in its stead, but miles off, out on open Range, and Reefer really can’t bring himself to worry about that just now.

 

“Thank you. He sprung a storm out on the Range, by the lighthouse, but other than that? I have no idea.”

 

“Damnit, something must have happened between then and now. Was the storm authorized?”

 

“I don’t think so… Nothing was announced anyway.”

 

“Maybe one of the higher-ups took him to town over it? No way that’d set him off like this. We know he doesn’t know Jase is out for the count, so that can’t be it…”

 

“Is Logan willing to try again?”

 

“N— Ow! What the hell was that for?!”

 

“He’d love to.”

 

“Fine.” Logan says sullenly. “Fine. If one of you’d care to distract him, maybe I can just knock him out. Chances are I’ll be fried again, but hell, why not?”

 

“Oh shut up, you big baby. It’s just a little electricity; it won’t kill you.”

 

“Says the freak who dances on hilltops during thunderstorms. Ow! Stop hitting me!”

 

“I could flood the run. It won’t hurt him at all, but it’ll keep him busy a second.”

 

“That’s probably safer than letting Mr. Metal Pants do it.”

 

“That was one time! One time!”

 

“One time too many, considering I was the one who had to treat all those burns.”

 

“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD COULD WE GET ON WITH IT?!”

 

“…No need to yell, Reef.”

 

“You’re not the one staring down a dozen tornados, two lightning strikes a minute, and a torrential downpour.”

 

“Aren’t you water?”

 

“That is entirely beside the point.”

 

“Alright, alright, keep your pants on.”

 

“You can go now Reefer.”

 

“Thank fucking god.”

 

A minute too late, Reefer remembers he’s not the only one still here. Atlas squeaks, already knee deep in water, and Reefer swears. Wading over, he grabs the lieutenant’s hand, and triples the water flow, squeezing it out of the earth below them and the sky above, and he’s concentrating so hard he doesn’t hear the shout of success from the Crow until Atlas shakes him, roughly, and he snaps out of it. The water rushes away so fast his head spins, and he leans on Atlas to stay on his feet as the buoyant support of the imitation lake drains away.

 

Its only when the lieutenant tugs away that he remembers Luke, slumped to the ground in a sodden heap, and he watches Atlas lift him, carefully, carefully, barely stumbling as he rises, and adjust his weight in his arms, muddy water flowing freely down his legs. Reefer sees Luke as Atlas must see him, small and pale and beleaguered and drowning in thick jacket and a hat that has some how stayed with him this entire time, and he thinks, he thinks, someone needs to pay for this.

 

 

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Scene 3-VIII

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