possibility of rain. Rory crossed the street and walked down the block to where his green and black motorcycle was parked. After slipping on his black helmet, he hopped onto the motorcycle, turned the key in the ignition, and sped off into the night.
As the city lights of Columbia, Missouri faded into the distance behind him, Rory was lost in a swirling maelstrom of emotions. He was the one who had asked Morgan to keep their relationship casual, but now that she was gone, he felt cast adrift on a raging ocean of personal and political unrest. His mind was flooded with a seemingly endless stream of memories related to climate change: volunteering with an ecological restoration project in New Orleans; doing a food drive for relief efforts in Joplin; researching his senior thesis; watching an endless stream of cable news pundits; protesting outside the IPC headquarters last year.
The eastern horizon was clear, but as Rory sped down the highway on his way to St. Louis, the storm sped ahead of him, enveloping the sky in a thick indigo blanket of churning clouds illuminated by occasional flashes of lightning. The rain started falling all around him, and with it came the tears—a mix of sorrow, joy, and some deeper emotion that he couldn't find a name for.
After two hours of driving, he found himself on the streets of St. Louis, quietly making his way to his destination. He'd only been there once before, but after a few frustrating wrong turns, he found his way. After parking a few blocks away, he set out on foot for the small yet ostentatious office building that the IPC called home.
Prometheus Plaza looked entirely out of place amidst the more traditional storefronts and restaurants of the neighborhood. The plaza spanned an entire city block and featured a smooth stone floor, winding rows of stone pillars that stood several stories tall, and a thirty foot tall stone statue of Prometheus holding a steel torch with a real blue fire that burned brightly even in the rain. The office building at the center of the plaza dominated the landscape, a steel and glass sculpture that was broad at the base and twirled into a tapered top like the tip of a flame.
Rory stood on the sidewalk at the edge of the plaza, glaring silently at the cold stone statue and shiny torch tower that stood before him. There were no visible cameras or guards, but the exterior of the building was brightly illuminated by a series of floodlights and blue flame sconces, ensuring that anyone who dared approach it at night would be highly visible.
As Rory glared at the tower, he felt a strange pressure building in the air all around him. The office building had even more glass than Rory had remembered. It occurred to him that a tornado like the one that had hit Joplin would tear this building to pieces.
Suddenly, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end. He felt a burst of adrenaline surging through his body. His nostrils flared, breathing in the electric scent of the rain and lightning and thunder that surrounded him. For a moment, the rain slowed almost to a stop, and a deep calm settled over the city of St. Louis.
But the calm was short-lived. Rory felt something inside of himself that he had never felt before—a tremendous pressure and an incredible charge of static electricity. The maelstrom of emotions churning inside of him hummed in harmony with the crackle of the clouds overhead. He knew that somehow, he could unleash the full power of the storm if he wanted to.
He clenched his fists at his sides and started raising his hands in the air slowly. He drew a deep breath—and for a moment, his thoughts wavered. Was this really a good idea? Was it even real?
But with each breath he drew, the energy of the storm churned more intensely inside of him. His emotions had opened the channel, but now the sheer power of the storm was rushing in and sweeping away his inhibitions, whipping him up into a wild-eyed frenzy unlike anything he had ever felt before. He raised his trembling fists high overhead, and suddenly his voice thundered across the plaza.
“Winds of change! Humble them with your power!”
As he screamed the words, he felt wave after wave of pressure and static electricity pouring out all around him. The calm of the storm was shattered by a sudden explosion of wind and rain. A high speed gust of wind surged forward all around him, shattering dozens of windows in the tower and blowing out the torch of Prometheus. A bolt of lightning crackled between earth and sky, melting the torch shut so that the natural gas could not reignite the flame. Bits of furniture and office supplies were blown out of the building, scattering debris on the plaza below. For a few moments, some of the debris swirled around in place in front of the building, breaking loose more shards of glass and tossing them across the plaza. Soon, the moment passed, and the storm calmed to a steady drizzle.
Rory stared in wonder at the aftermath of the microburst. He was panting slightly from the exertion of directing and releasing the energy of the storm. He was a little drained physically, but mostly he felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He took a few deep breaths, grinning with a glimmer in his eyes as he looked at the shattered glass and broken office furniture that littered the plaza between him and the building.
After a few moments, it occurred to him that someone may have been watching. A few quick glances around the plaza reassured him that no one had seen him. However, he decided that he'd better get out of there before someone realized what he had done.
Would they even realize it? Would anyone really accuse him of harnessing the power of the storm?
He had experienced it firsthand, but he hardly believed it himself. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry. He started walking away from the plaza at a brisk pace, glancing at neighboring buildings but not looking back the way he came. As he hopped onto his motorcycle, he heard a siren in the distance but still didn't look back. Instead, he started the engine and drove away.
As he drove through the city, he instinctively found himself heading west. He didn't know where to go from here, but he knew that Columbia would only be a pit stop along the way.
After driving for what seemed like an eternity, the city lights of St. Louis faded into the distance behind him. Soon, he found himself turning off onto an unfamiliar side road, intuitively drawn to spend some time out in the country to recharge and reflect on what had happened.
He still wasn't entirely sure what had happened. He felt like he'd tapped into an existing imbalance in the storm itself, but he wasn't sure how he'd been able to do that or why such a thing was even possible. As his mind was flooded with question after question, there was only one thing that he knew with absolute certainty.
He wanted to do it again.
The Test
Hugh Travis sat on a steel chair facing a steel table in an otherwise empty 10 foot cube room. The floor, walls, and ceiling of the room were glossy white surfaces broken only by a small steel door behind him and a bright fluorescent light fixture overhead. The only object on the table was a black tablet that was turned on but currently had a blank screen.
Hugh stared down at the tablet. He took a deep breath, listening to the sound of his own inhale and exhale. After several more breaths, a bright white “O” appeared on the screen of the tablet. As soon as he saw the “O”, Hugh put his palms on the table, closed his eyes, and waited.
He had never found a good word for it. Ever since he was a small child, random thoughts, feelings, and images would come to him seemingly out of nowhere. As he grew older, he grew more confident that these strange thoughts were in fact information he was receiving from the people around him. If he sat still and quieted his mind, he could receive this information more clearly. But since it was an awkward mix of images, sounds, thoughts, and feelings, he was never sure what to call it. He just did it.
As Hugh quieted his mind, he felt a presence just beyond the wall in front of him. It was a very willful, disciplined, intelligent consciousness. He thought he detected hints of femininity, but the mind was so sharp and focused that he couldn’t read much beyond a single intense surface-level thought. It was as clear in his mind’s eye as any image he had seen with his own eyes: four wavy blue lines on
a red background.
Hugh opened his eyes and tapped the circle on the tablet. With a few quick taps and swipes, he chose his response.
Visual. Symbol. Wavy Lines. Blue. Red.
Soon after he entered his response, the woman on the other side of the wall had another thought in mind. This time, it was a smell, an outdoorsy scent that reminded him of his long walks alone on the beach during his depressive years in high school.
After lingering on the scent for a moment, he opened his eyes and entered his response.
Olfactory. Location. Outdoors. Ocean.
The prompts and responses continued for several minutes. They touched on a variety of types of sensory information received from the traditionally defined five senses. The sound of a bell ringing, the sight of colorful words and symbols, the taste of delicious foods, pleasant and unpleasant smells, the touch of a feather against a cheek. Eventually, the white circle flashed three times, and the tablet turned itself off.
Hugh stared quietly at the blank tablet. After a few moments, the door behind him slid open. He turned to see a familiar face—a thin man in his mid-forties with pale skin, thinning black hair, a bright white lab coat, and a sleek black suit and tie.
“How’d I do?”
Dr. Pratt looked down at his large