John stands in the field, staring at the others gathered to watch.
He sighs, smiling at them.
They stand quite a distance from him intrigued but afraid.
No one’s quite sure what he’s going to do.
Much less him, which is the scary part.
Honestly, if they already knew what John would be capable of, he’d be less unsure of what he was about to do.
He sighs again, and closes his eyes.
The breeze ruffles his hair, and he feels a twinge of annoyance. He’s trying to concentrate here! He can’t do that when all he can think about is the sensation of his hair brushing back and forth against his forehead!
The breeze ceases, thankfully.
The silence that follows echoes in his mind.
He’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing.
He knows the others are just staring at him as he does nothing, but the title Heir of Breath is vague. Who knows what the hell that does?
He assumes it has to do with the wind, but even that doesn’t help him.
He tries concentrating really hard on the weather.
Nothing happens, not even the quietest whisper of wind.
Where did the breeze go when he needed it?
He sighs in exasperation, opening his eyes to stare at the others.
“What am I even supposed to be doing?” He asks.
He doesn’t get a reply, just the others murmuring amongst themselves.
John huffs, turning away from them.
He takes more steps away from them, focusing on the grass beneath him, the sun beating down on his back.
Once he feels he’s far away enough from the others that they won’t interfere with his concentration, he closes his eyes again.
He stands there, at ease with the world.
He thinks about it, the peaceful, idyllic nature of where he’s standing.
An island rarely ravaged by storm, in a green field, surrounded by hills and ocean and mountains, the smell of flowers blooming at his feet, the unnaturally calm air.
The peace is interrupted by gunfire.
John’s eyes snap open and he turns around with a jolt.
The gunfire isn’t coming from his friends, but they’re the ones running for cover.
John turns back around to see one of the masked assassins, holding a gun. He’s pretty far off, but that gun has a long range.
Calliope had said that he was the ruthless killer out of the pair that they made, and John could see that now.
John really wanted to punch him in the face.
How dare that little punk try hurting his friends?
The breeze comes back, and John clenches his fists. He walks towards Uranos, the first steps on the ground, the next ones taking him into the air.
The breeze seems stronger than earlier, but John can’t bring himself to care. Who gives a damn about the weather? He’s got someone to beat the shit out of.
John doesn’t notice the dark grey storm clouds beginning to move in.
John’s not far from the assassin now, the wind turning into a full-on storm.
The assassin looks up, eyes wide, but there’s no fear in that expression, only awe.
Well, isn’t John going to be the one to change that.
John only has a couple hundred yards to go now, but he sprints the last distance.
He’s flying faster than he’s dared to before, fists ready to fly, anger welling up in his chest.
The punch hits the assassin’s face forcefully, and thunder crashes.
The assassin looks uneasy.
Then Uranos pulls out a gun and starts firing.
John flicks his hand - who gives a damn if the bullets hit him? He’s already died once - and the bullets go flying in the complete opposite direction.
John and Uranos both stare after the bullets, and it’s only then John fully realizes the full weight of the storm that now batters the island.
He’s the one causing that.
John would be in awe, but he’s still angry at the assassin.
He turns back to Uranos, but the little rat is gone.
John sighs, and the storm dies down.
It’s not a build-up, like the storm’s arrival. As quickly as John lets his anger go, the storm abates, revealing the sun again.
John turns around, flying back to where his friends were.
They slowly come out of hiding, staring up at him as he returns.
“Well, I guess we know what an Heir of Breath can do now,” Dave says, looking up at John.
John’s lips twitch into a smile briefly.
“WE ALSO KNOW THAT CALLIOPE’S BROTHER IS STILL TRYING TO MAKE HELL FOR US,” Karkat grumbles in return.
“Maybe,” John replies, lifting a shoulder, “but now we have something who can stop him.” John smiles after his statement. He knows it’s a little cocky, but he can afford to be confident.
After all, he has the power of storms at his hands.