Stormy Weather

After being adopted by aunt Stefania and Uncle Giancarlo, there was never a dull moment in my life. Cassandra was the first to greet me after we escaped the town. She was but fifteen years old and was already a ball of nervous energy, always looking out for me, checking up on me, and making sure that I was feeding right. A matronly woman, just like aunt Stefania, which was why imagine my surprise when she brought up her adoption. Jesus fuck, I sound like a misogynistic bastard. Who says 'matronly' anymore but poets and chauvinists. Though, in their defence, Cassandra was a pale-skinned girl; light brown, loosely coiled shouldered-length hair; and had a warm green eyes. Quite a contrast to aunt Stefania's olive-skin; bob-cut black hair; and piercing blue eyes. "You aren't that bright, are you?" Cassandra had teased me about it for quite a long time. Not that I don't mind. It was actually great to feel and see her be active around me, which I told her so. It was a mistake. Apparently, me agreeing to her teasing had somehow turned on her more... mischievous side.

Tack!

A warm mug of hot cocoa with little bits of marshmallows floating above it distracted me from my musings. I took ahold of the hot delicacy and breathed in the smoke coming out of it, its warm, delicious smell pervading my enhanced senses. I soon took a light sip of the hot beverage and felt all the burden I had loaded upon my back the moment I witnessed the horror brought upon by the storm found itself waylaid and dropped into the dark abyss of my cocoa. Freeing me of the burden.

"Thank you so much. It's... honestly refreshing." I spoke without dropping my gaze from the swirling marshmallows within the cocoa. The marshmallows soon turned into a throng of people swirling to their deaths as the cocoa turned into a ravaging whirlpool, devouring the souls of the humans aboard its nightmare tour.

A warm hand gently grabbed my shaking arms as I turned and saw a helpless smile on the old man's face. "My son always was empathic." He said, sitting across from me. "Always telling me to help people, even if you think they don't need it." He scoffed before his face gave into a little smile.

I swear I could have rolled my eyes to being called empathetic, but resolved not to seeing the old man was just grieving and maybe, just maybe, pointing out our similarities could help him. I lifted the mug to my mouth and took another sip. The sweet warmth spread unto my mouth, relieving me of the sore brought forth by the aftermath of my fall. "I-Is that how he-"

"Yeah. Hah." He chuckled grimly. "When the storm hit, I was at a pub. He came in and sat next to me. Told me, "Storm's rough, but I talked to Joe"-that was a friend of mine, a firefighter-"and he told me I could help him patrol since they don't have enough people on hand.". He was so... eager. Told him to stay put, but he said, "No, I need to help people. Like you did.". Fuck, if he hadn't said that, then I wouldn't have let him go."

"It inspired him." I consoled futilely.

"Bane of my existence. Served the Irish army for a few years. We saw a lot of combat then. Told him stories when he was young. Fat lot it did. Anyway, he goes off to the streets. Saved 12 people by the time it was dark."

"Wow."

"Yeah. I was bunkered down at the pub. He comes in wet and has some blood on him. Told him to stop since he had enough help for today. Told me it wasn't enough. Just one more, he said." The old man sniffed and stopped for a second, grabbing a tissue as he roughly wiped his eyes before continuing. "T-Told him I was already proud of him. He stopped. You know, he stopped. I could've grabbed onto him or-or just whacked him with a bottle. But no, Old Morgan had to cheer him on." He gripped the table with such ferocity that a small wood splintered off, blood slowly dripping from his fingers.

I was speechless as I saw the large old man break down in front of me, his tears freely flowing form unto his cheek. His eyes went still unblinking as I waited for him to continue. With one last sniff of his nose and a rough swipe of his eyes with the sleeve of his yellow overcoat, he continued.

"Then he went off again. Joe told me about how he saved a few dogs and that he was going to head home. All of them were. The storm was too much for any of them to go into. But he heard a cry, a woman and a child. They ran towards it. They were trapped between a fallen tree. Joe said to leave them because he saw an unstable electric post hanging a few dozen feet up. Might fall in them, he said. I mean, they were tired, wet, and just panicking. But my son, well, he ran as fast as he could to that mother and child. Saved them just in time for the electric post to fall down." Old Morgan took a deep breath, readying himself for the next part of his story. The hardest part of any story.

"H-He was leading them away, towards the others. But as he was walking, he stepped on a live wire," Old Morgan took another breath. "H-He was electrocuted. The others couldn't save him. It was raining hard, and they were wet. They'll just die. S-So they watched my boy die. Joe didn't say shit about the details. But I know what happens to the bodies. Fuck, I even saw some of them. He was burned alive. Joe told me he was screaming my name as he died. F-Fuck!" Old Morgan completely broke down as he finished his story. The tears rolled freely as I gave him a hug, which he received with gratitude.

I was unaccustomed to the love Old Morgan has for his son. After all, I had no father; a bastard through and through. But somehow, deep inside the recess of my brain, a part of me wishes for a father like Old Morgan, a father who'll do anything to get his son back, a father who was proud of his son, just... a father. I wanted to say something, to console him and to make him stop crying because I sure as hell that his son doesn't want his father crying like this. I'm sure his son wants him to be strong because Old Morgan needed to help other people, even if they don't the help. Because maybe that's what makes a father proud? I do not know.

"It's ok. It's ok. Thank you for telling me his story. He was a hero to the 14 people he saved; he was a hero to the firefighters that he helped; he was a hero to the dogs that got through the storm; and, because of your story, he was a hero to me." I broke our hug as I looked at him straight in the eye. "And, I'm sure as hell that to him, you're his hero."

He looked up at me with a glassy gaze, his reddened face gaining a radiant smile. "Yeah, yes he was."

"What's his name?" I asked.

"Seamus. Seamus MaCleod."

•••••••••••

The night sky had never been this brighter, for the once bustling City of New York, full of lights and smoke, had gone to sleep this night. Although tired and wet from the monstrous storm that ravaged their home, the glistening moon and its twinkling stars reminded them that this was still their home. Destroyed, it may be. It was still beautiful.

I gazed upon my landing pad from earlier, the blood and ichor still evident from the sands. Apparently, the islands I had seen were the New York harbor and the sand barges used to block the port in case of further storm surges. I had, fortunately, landed on Old Morgan's barge. He had volunteered after the storm, being not brave enough to handle his son's death. His son, Seamus, still laid cold down at the morgue along with a thousand others.

My crash had broken a few bones, but had extraordinarily healed over the next few hours. It was nothing short of a miracle. My powers may not just be Flight and Super senses. "Huh, that ought to be good."

I closed my eyes and focused on my ears. The constant ringing had stopped an hour ago, and I'd like to think that the hot cocoa and Old Morgan's story helped with it. I visited New York not long ago. My sister Cassandra had forced me to get off my lazy ass and get a job. So I chose somewhere far yet was vetoed by the women of the house and since Rian, my other sister, was going to intern at the United Nations Headquarters, courtesy of Uncle Giancarlo. They decided it would be best if I go with her as protection. A load of bullshit, of course. They just thought that my unfriendliness would stick after my highschool years and though I needed a family member whenever I get lonely.

"So, boy-o, where are you going now?" Old Morgan came up behind me, his hands holding on to a fresh shirt to replace my vomit/blood-infested one. I gladly took it and quickly replaced mine, the chilly air of the docks barely getting into me.

"Home, I suppose." I said after a while. My gaze still latched onto the silvery moon. "But, uh, I gotta do something first."

"Well, if you ever come by New York again, tell me and I'll cook you some Colcannon, huh!" He grinned.

"Sure! Thanks, by the way, for helping me."

He broke into a relaxed smile."Don't worry about it. Besides, I ought to help people, even if they don't need it."