[b]Nebraska[/b] 

They were simpler times. Eight farmers stood in a circle, their families surrounding them, and talked amongst themselves about the drought that had ravaged their crops. Luckily the last few harvest had been kind to them and the farmers in the region had been able to prepare, but stock were beginning to run thin. They had banded together now resources were few and far between in order to keep their farms but it seemed they were losing the fight. If the drought didn’t break soon their farms would be repossessed and they’d be made destitute. The men would have to find new work, the women would have to learn to balance a household budget that was paper thin, and the children would have to go hungry.

“It’s no good,” one farmer muttered. “The land’s barren.”

From their number walked an elderly man with greying dirty blonde hair, his face dotted with freckles. He strode by the farmers and knelt in the field silently for a few moments. None amongst them recognised him but there was something about him that was calming, that soothed the fears despite his being a stranger in their presence. The men watched on as the man rubbed his hands on the Earth, grabbed whole handfuls of dirt between his fingers, and began to mutter to it as if it were a living, breathing person. None amongst them could make out what the man was saying but as he spoke all felt a brisk wind appear as if from nowhere that whistled as it past them. It was almost as if the Earth was talking back to the man.

Suddenly as if by the man’s command the Heavens opened and the rain began to fall on the crops beneath them. The farmers gasped in shock, some called it a miracle, but all knew who was responsible for their stroke of good fortune. It was him, the man they had heard whispers of and considered an urban legend.

He was James Handler.

[center][b]*****[/b][/center][b]Ferris Square[/b]

“James?”

Stood less than ten feet from James Bishop was Roger Camus, site manager for the apartment block that James had been tasked with building this week. He was a heavy man with a gut that sagged past his waistband but seemed a good-humoured sort from the little that James had spoken to him. He was one of the first site managers James had encountered since he’d started in the trade that wasn’t intimidated by his abilities. He appreciated that.

“James?”

Roger called out to him again and James stood, coffee in hand, staring into the distance thinking about what had happened the previous night. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since it had happened. He could have stopped that man dead in his tracks, flung the gun out of his hand, even redirected the bullet straight through his forehead. But he chose control over self-indulgence. That was right, wasn’t it? There was no need for anyone to lose their lives over a purse that could be replaced in an afternoon.

“Are you okay?”

Camus placed a hand on Bishop’s shoulder and it stirred him from his day-dreaming.

“Sorry,” James said with a sigh. “My head’s all over the place at the moment.”

That was only half of the story.

“I can tell,” Camus said with a nod. “What’s wrong?”

Where would he begin? With the fact that though he’d managed to suppress it, though reason had won out in the heat of the moment, he’d felt a simmering rage underneath him ever since that resented James for not killing the man? That he’d pictured it and how he would have done it endlessly since? It was these thoughts, the darkness at the back of his mind, that had made it so important he not give into it. The venom that veiled itself as righteous fury.

“Iris and I were attacked on our way back from my grandparent’s house last night. Nobody got hurt but I guess I’m a little more shaken up about it than I thought.”

Camus shook his head at the news.

“Take some time if you need it. Better you’re off site for a day and we have to get by how we used to get by before you came along than somebody gets hurt because you’re distracted.”

James didn’t need it. It would take them an entire day to do what James could do in five minutes with the help of his powers. It had never occurred to him growing up that his control over magnetism would make working in architecture such a natural choice for him. Most of his colleagues despised getting their hands dirty and working on the ground but it was the construction side of things that interested him most. He liked the feel the space, be there, take everything in he could. But one day away from it couldn’t help, especially when he was fighting back thoughts like this. He’d go home, regroup, and come back tomorrow more focused.

“Thanks.”

[center][b]*****[/b][/center][b]Knightdale Rows[/b]

James made his way towards his apartment slowly and stopped dead in his tracks as he noticed the door was slightly open. His thoughts went back to last night and the contents of Iris’ purse likely containing the keys to the apartment and some form of identification. It wasn’t outside of the realm of possibilities for the man that stole the purse to have found his way here in search of more worth stealing. James reached into his pocket for his cell phone as he stared at the open door and considered dialing VPD for a few moments, before sliding it back into his pocket.

Iris was out. That much he knew, they’d spoken only half an hour earlier, so it couldn’t have been her that left the door open. Whoever was inside was in for a nasty surprise, especially if it was the man from last night. The mercy that James had afforded him wouldn’t be so readily afforded to him now he’d broken into his home too.

“Speak to me,” James muttered under his breath. “What’s going on in there?”

He shut his eyes softly and twiddled his fingers as if navigating his way through his apartment, drifting from metal to metal, until it settled on a piece of steel that had no place being there. It was long, sharp, and pointed, a knife no doubt. Whoever was inside had broken in fully aware that they might be encountering company, or even worse expecting it.

So be it.

James threw the door open with a wave of his hand and charged in towards where he’d sensed the foreign metal lingering. There was a man facing away from him, his hands resting against a sculpture that James had made many years before, who spun instinctively to face James.

With another wave of his hand Bishop lifted the intruder clean from his feet by the belt buckle around his waist and let the man hang in the air for a few moments before he caught a glimpse of his face.

“Ellis?” James said with a sigh. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Ellis fell from the air and landed on the ground with a heavy thud. He groaned loudly as the impact had clearly knocked the wind out of him and then climbed to his feet, brushing himself down of the dust his fall had covered him in.

“Come on,” Ellis smiled. “Is that any way to talk to your brother?”