It’s raining, it’s hailing, it’s storming, and it’s beautiful.

Sam’s on the roof of the complex his apartment’s in, the same one that Luke and Jase live in, and he’s got a view of the Lattice Harbor that couldn’t really get much better. The ocean is a deep, dark, angry blue, swirling and smashing against the rocks and shores, white spray spilling into the air with every breathe the water takes.

Most would assume this is just a continuation of the strange, unseasonable weather that’s been affecting all of the Islands, but Samuel Polly knows better; this is the weather welcoming its children home. The wind is howling, washing the world with the fine mist of the ocean, layered with ice and slush and rain.

Sam remembers the last time he, Luke, and Fiona had been in the same place; remembers it because it was wonderful and horrible at the same time. Luke had been the last to land, far up north, and all hell had broken loose. Tornados had sprung out of nowhere, picking up vicious chunks of ice and rock, wind sheers had torn what was left from the ground, stripping trees of their bark and dying leaves, lightning had lit the heavy sky with frantic pulses, and waves pounded the cliffs, wearing away at rock and snow. It had taken everything in him not to feed it even further, and Fiona had had the same internal struggle, but Luke, Luke had reveled in it, drawing the lightning to them, creating pockets of warm air to pull the storm clouds down to earth, spawning twister after twister, and the wind, the wind had gone mad, spiraling and looping, acting as no current should be able to, wreaking havoc on the already massive storm surges, and uprooting trees left, right, and center.

He thinks the death toll had reached sixty-eight by the time they were able to bring Luke under control.

He’s glad Fiona’s miles away, because at this point, he doesn’t think Luke has it in him to resist.

A heady roll of thunder leaves his blood singing, and it’s hard, so hard, not to respond to its call.

The sting of hail tries to bring him back to earth, and he obeys, reluctantly. He breathes, the air wet in his lungs, and looks on longingly as a lightning bolt streaks toward the ground; chances are, if he called one to him, he wouldn’t be able to stop there, and he knows how Logan hates dealing with burns.

Sam rests his hands lightly on the cold metal of the railing, and considers the storm cloud overhead. It’s a fairly small one, yet, and that could change in an instant if he wanted it to, and he does, but probably the people of Banse would not be very understanding. Well, that and Logan’s umbrella would most likely just give up and die, and then he’d have to listen to his bitching about wet clothes.

It’s a damn good thing he’s got Logan to ground him, he thinks, because so badly he wants to just let go. He sighs, and turns around; he’s hungry a bit, hasn’t eaten since they landed early, so food sounds like a good plan, if he can convince Logan that no, he doesn’t want to go home and change into dry clothes and be warm and such things.

“Are we done now?” The lieutenant says hopefully, from underneath his oversized umbrella.

Sam rolls his eyes and nods. “You’re gonna have to close that thing to get inside.”

Sam pulls the heavy roof door open, and edges through. Logan, faced with either having to try and yank the door all the way open or close his massive umbrella, scowls, and wedges a foot in the doorway before shaking and closing the umbrella, and following Sam inside.

The door slams closed behind them, and Sam has to wonder how the hell Luke, puny, scrawny, little Luke manages to get up here pretty much everyday when he’s home.

“Dinner?” Sam asks.

Logan looks down at himself, watching water run off his clothes in rivulets, a nice puddle seeping across the carpet at his feet, then looks up at Sam, who manages to conjure up the most pitiful look he can in such a short period of time. He sighs. “Yeah.”

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Scene 6-VI

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