[ Michael gives Tate a small, reassuring smile, squeezing his hand and helping him up. He steps right to the edge of the platform they're standing on, not jumping down, but - guiding Tate to look out, to see the park. All its broken equipment, the dirty bark, the rocks and the sparse brown patches of dead grass. He nods upwards, towards the unyielding ceiling beneath the Up. The cage that keeps the Down so dull and humid and horrible.
Hawthorne hasn't really taught Michael anything new. It opened the floodgates, told him that everything he can do is possible - but that's all they did. Every spell, every impulse, every quiet thought made tangible and real, that all came from him; they just broke down the dam of ignorance and disbelief that stopped him from realizing his true potential.
They don't have a sky, but they have a big expanse above them and a ton of moisture in the air. That's all he needs.
He reaches one hand out, pointing towards where the sun should be. He closes his eyes, feels for listless, stagnating molecules with nowhere to go, and he changes them. Hawthorne hasn't taught him anything new, no, but it has honed what he can do, sharpened it. Michael doesn't lose himself the way he did the last time he tried this. He just - moves his hand, and...
He makes it snow. It's subtle, at first. Little white flakes that flow down like feather-light clumps of cocaine. He makes it snow more, and more, and more, and when he opens his eyes again with the tiniest drip of blood trailing from his nose down to his upper lip, there's a thin blanket of white slowly dropping to the ground, there's a cloud formed of nothing sticking to the ceiling of the Down. Michael grins a little, hopping off the platform, letting go of Tate's hand when he does.
He doesn't say anything. He just walks backwards into the gently falling snow, then holds his arms out with a smug little half-grin, all look at this, silently asking Tate if he's impressed. ]
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Hawthorne hasn't really taught Michael anything new. It opened the floodgates, told him that everything he can do is possible - but that's all they did. Every spell, every impulse, every quiet thought made tangible and real, that all came from him; they just broke down the dam of ignorance and disbelief that stopped him from realizing his true potential.
They don't have a sky, but they have a big expanse above them and a ton of moisture in the air. That's all he needs.
He reaches one hand out, pointing towards where the sun should be. He closes his eyes, feels for listless, stagnating molecules with nowhere to go, and he changes them. Hawthorne hasn't taught him anything new, no, but it has honed what he can do, sharpened it. Michael doesn't lose himself the way he did the last time he tried this. He just - moves his hand, and...
He makes it snow. It's subtle, at first. Little white flakes that flow down like feather-light clumps of cocaine. He makes it snow more, and more, and more, and when he opens his eyes again with the tiniest drip of blood trailing from his nose down to his upper lip, there's a thin blanket of white slowly dropping to the ground, there's a cloud formed of nothing sticking to the ceiling of the Down. Michael grins a little, hopping off the platform, letting go of Tate's hand when he does.
He doesn't say anything. He just walks backwards into the gently falling snow, then holds his arms out with a smug little half-grin, all look at this, silently asking Tate if he's impressed. ]