An Unbridled Wind

The sound of thunder rolled, barely audible over the whirring of gears and the clanking of metal. *SHRRRRRIP* Weiren taped another box shut before pushing it along to be sorted, stored, and eventually shipped. Another box came his way. *SHRRRRIP.* Yes it's true, Weiren was a professional box taper. Weiren smiled, pleased with his work.

Perhaps most people would find this work boring. In truth, so did Weiren, but boring was safe; or at least as safe as anything could be in Galen. And that was what Weiren wanted. He was smart, and if not exactly attractive, he certainly wasn't ugly. His parents had had enough money to put him through high school, where he excelled. Weiren could have pursued any path he had wanted. But he had seen too much of the city. To excel in anything was to put a target on your back. Writers had their work stolen, bosses were cheap with their workers, performers were exploited for their talents, scientists' research was fought over, sometimes to the death, and if you tried to do something about any of it, you could be sure you were next. Even his parents were... "No. Best not to think about that", Weiren thought. It was better to keep a low profile; blend in. Endure the poor wages, work quietly, make an honest living. There were no guarantees, but this was as close as you could get.

A bell rang out, cutting through the myriad of other sounds which crowded the factory. Time to go home.

Soft rain fell around Weiren as he made his way down crowded streets. Neon lights called out from shops, restaurants, bars, as well as some less savory places. Galen had a few streets like this, lively streets where the people came to unwind, have a drink, or ten, and mingle with other strangers for a time. If they were lucky maybe they met a true friend, but for most, distrust, loneliness, and fear lay behind their smiling faces. Who could you trust in this cutthroat city? Beneath a layer of partiers and revelers the streets were dotted with the homeless; beggars hoping vainly for a coin or leftover meal.

As Weiren pressed on through the crowd, a sudden burst of flame in front of him startled him. Before him lay an open space on the sidewalk surrounded by raucous onlookers excitedly pointing at the spectacle in the middle. A strong, handsome man and a graceful, smiling woman twirled and lept around each other in some sort of exotic dance. From their hands and mouths streamed ribbons of flame. It truly was a sight to see! Weiren had almost walked right into their performance.

"I guess I've got some time," Weiren thought to himself, and began to join in clapping with the audience, before he looked up and noticed the tall man standing a few people back from the front on the other side of the circle. His heart sank. The man's maroon beret, set above his steely eyes, marked him as an Enforcer. In theory they were supposed to enforce the law, though in reality many of them were no better than those they were meant to enforce. Embroidered on the beret was a symbol meant to represent the wind, silver lines waving and curling, little green leaves and dandelions carried along in the breeze. The symbol of Galen.

There were always Enforcers around, weaving through the crowds to keep order, but this one, Weiren knew, was here with a purpose. Namely to keep an eye on the dancers. The flames, after all, were no trick. They were produced by the elemental power of the dancers, who possessed a strong flame talent, it seemed.

Many people in the world possessed such talents, which came in different forms. Some could control water, some fire. Some could make plants grow or control the temperature in the air. Still others could bend light to hide themselves in invisibility, or split rocks with their bare hands. Galen itself had once been the home of a mighty tribe with the ability to direct the wind, or so it was said. Once, such abilities had been celebrated, even trained to grow stronger. Now? A talent was a curse. Anyone known to have a talent had to register it with the authorities and obtain a permit outlining the proper use of and tight restrictions on their power, sometimes resulting in a work mandate, if it was determined that their ability was of use to the city. Those who refused or failed to obtain such a permit were taken and rarely seen again.

A permit was difficult to obtain however. References or sponsors were needed, and money; a lot of money. No shortage of dark deals, Weiren knew, took place in shady alleyways and dingy bars; exploitation of powers in return for help getting a permit. Trafficking of those with useful abilities. Weiren no longer felt like watching the dance, not under the watchful eye of the Enforcer, who was no doubt their handler as well. Leaving a few coins in a wet hat on the ground, he pushed through the crowd and continued on his way.

Ducking into a narrow side street, Weiren left the din of voices behind him as the crowds thinned out. Finally alone again, he sighed and looked up at the sky. Dark clouds roiled and spun above, as they always did, angry purples, blues, and blackish grays, tinged yellow by the city lights, trapping below them the smoke of factories. Weiren knew a violent wind raged up there and all around the city, but hidden between the buildings, within the wind barrier that surrounded Galen, only a fraction made it down to the streets. Usually, that is. Every now and then, and this, per chance, was one such time, a gale or two got in.

Weiren approached an arched bridge which connected the two buildings on either side his narrow path when a low howl signaled disaster. As it began to rise in pitch, the rain began to tilt, and loose liter rolled across the road like tumbleweeds. Knowing full well what was about to happen, Weiren ran to the nearest building to take refuge in the doorway of a tall office building, closed for the night. He crouched low and huddled into the most protected corner. The howl rose to a shrill banshee scream and the buildings shook to their roots. Through squinting eyes, Weiren watched as an outdoor table with a shredded parasol tumbled end over end through the streets, white fabric waving as if to declare surrender.

Suddenly a loud crack sounded not far off, then stone grating on stone. Weiren's eyes shot open and he looked on helplessly as the parasol table lifted high to connect with the arch which he had yet to pass under. It shifted in the wind before beginning to crumble, having lost its ability to support itself. All at once it collapsed, dragging the sides of the building along with it.

At long last the wrath of the screaming wind was satisfied, for a time at least, and Weiren got up and peered into the now dark street. Walking forward he discovered, to his dismay, that his usual path home was filled high with rubble. He thought at first to climb over it, but the drizzle continued, making the stone and cement slick. Rebar and jagged edges poked out in some places as well, and the nearby lights had been destroyed, which would leave him to pick his way over in the dark.

"And I was so close to home," Weiren muttered in frustration.

He looked back the way he had come and saw an alleyway not far off. Weiren was sure it went through to where he needed to be. And yet he hesitated, for he also knew the back alleys in this area to be the hunting ground of notorious mugger Karlyle and his raggedy band of thieves. As dramatic as that sounds, that was what they called themselves, and they lived up to the name. Normally Weiren made a point of avoiding the alleys at this time of night. Now, however, he stepped timidly up to the edge. It was this or the treacherous climb, unless he were willing to go add an extra thirty minutes to his journey to backtrack and go another way.

Weiren shuffled quickly through the darkness, heart pounding. He was only five minutes from home; surely he could make it through without being seen.

"Stop!" A voice shouted nearby. Weiren froze, stomach churning with fear.

"Please, no, I, I don't have any money," another voice called out. Relief washed over Weiren like a flood.

"It's not me," he thought to himself.

Just ahead he could see another side road branching off from the one he was currently on. Creeping forward, Weiren chanced a sly glance around the corner. Sure enough a thin brown haired man stood trembling, back pressed to the wall, the dark hooded figure of Karlyle standing menacingly over him, pressing a knife to his neck.

Digging the knife in just enough to draw a single drop of blood, Karlyle asked, "Are you sure you don't want to rethink your answer?

The man cracked, "F-f-fine, j-j-just let me g-get it out."

Perhaps it was wrong, but Weiren couldn't help but to simply be glad it wasn't him. This was his chance, and he took it. He sprang past the turn and ran as fast as he could, followed by the surprised shouts of Karlyle and his men. Weiren didn't stop to look back until he burst from the darkness into the light of a main street. Panting and shaking he turned his head back the way he had come. It seemed nobody had followed him. Guilt danced at the edges of his conscience, but he tried to push it down.

"Sorry friend," he said into the darkness, "We've all got ourselves to look after out here."

His attempts to comfort himself couldn't fully remove the shame he felt. His brother, Puren, would have stepped him. He was always going on about justice and the importance of standing up for others. A trouble maker, always one step away from disaster, at least in Weiren's mind. Why couldn't he just lay low like everybody else? And yet, through his anger and disdain Weiren couldn't help but envy him, though he would never admit it. It wasn't that Weiren didn't want to help, didn't want justice, it just wasn't feasible.

"It's just good sense," he assured himself.

A few more streets and Weiren reached his home, situated in a bland-looking brick apartment building. An average one-bedroom near the edge of town, it blended in, affording Weiren his much coveted anonymity. At long last, he pushed through the door into his apartment dropped his work bag to the floor, locked the door behind him, and flopped into a soft blue armchair with a sigh. No more adventures, back to his quiet life. After reading some of his favorite book, The Legends of Old Galen: The King of Gales, Weiren went into the kitchen to put on a pot of fragrant Jasmine tea.

He thought of what he had been reading. It's said that once, in the not too distant past, perhaps a hundred or so years ago, Galen had been a very different place. Ruled by the King of Gales, it prospered in justice and peace. Greatest among those who could harness the wind, the King had valiantly tamed the great and wild gales which swept over the vast plains and calmed the storming tornados that frequently visited those who lived there. Whenever forces threatened the safety of the city, the King of Gales rose to meet them with bravery and valor, no matter what it cost him personally. Sometimes when he read this book he almost believed it could be true; that a place of justice could exist, and that a good man could put his life on the line for the good of others. One day in Galen was enough to bring Weiren back to reality, however. "It's a nice thought, but it's not the life for me. No heroics, just my quiet life, my quiet job, and maybe a wife and kids someday."

With a sigh Weiren began to make his way back into the living area with his tea, being careful not to burn his hands on the hot mug. When he looked up, he saw a bruised and bloodied figure slouched in his chair, peering out with desperate brown eyes beneath a mop of messy black hair. With a yell Weiren staggered back, splashing boiling hot water all over his hands before dropping the mug to the ground, to rest unbroken on the carpet.

"Puren!" Weiren shouted half in anger, half in worry and disbelief, "What are you doing here? What happened to you?"

"Weiren," he wheezed through labored breath, "I need your help."