It was clear now that, once again, something nonhuman had been the one to attack him. The winter sun bounced off of metallic skin, half gold, half silver, and different parts of its body seemed to be a haze of the imagination. Black smoke wafted and drifted with the thing's movements, and it was hard to tell where it began and where it ended.

He couldn't see its face if it had one. He imagined a steely face of cold and evil, with beady golden eyes, or maybe just a face of smoke, since that's what it seemed to be. It changed from solid to gas in a hypnotizing flow of movement.

It was stealthily closing in on two girls with bird wings that scraped the ground. Though he couldn't be sure, one appeared to be his age. He marveled at her olive freckled skin and ever-changing hazel eyes. Her frizzy hair was tucked into a pink bandana, and she wore cropped jeans and sandals (in the winter?). Her wings were russet brown, and the feathers' tips were inky black. Gold reflected from her sleek wings.

She spoke to a younger girl next to her in more winter fitting attire. The older girl looked exasperated to say the least while she conversed with the little blonde, who's cobalt eyes twinkled with amusement. Her wings were white and speckled gray.

It reminded him of the horse he'd befriended at a riding camp when he was nine. It had been a beautiful appaloosa; that was when he'd stayed with his second set of foster parents, and though they'd been kind enough to pay for that camp, he couldn't remember their names.

Corban brought his attention back to the winged girls. He'd seen them before; the woman had been speaking with them before her fight with the other inhuman creature.

But they didn't see the other beast that crept behind them. His stomach fell as the smoky figure was a foot away, more than capable of doing them harm. They wouldn't see it coming. They watched their elder with intensity, like he'd done, but now he couldn't afford to look away.

Corban kept as close as he could to the building. He leaned against the cold bricks that he hoped would miraculously keep him out of sight. He had to do something, yell, scream, but getting flung into a wall had damaged his lungs for the time-being. He could barely muster a whisper.

Do something, you dumbass.

The familiar stirring of something warm churned in his core. His muscles tightened, pulling in tension. His fingers twitched, ready to let go. His brain pumped louder than when he had hit his head moments before.

He called it a Warming. It was how he always felt before he used his abilities. Not that he used them much. Though exhilarating, the feeling was draining, making him want to throw up and run a marathon at the same time, if that made any sense.

Each time he used his green thumb, it got better. He would still feel like passing out, but less extreme each time. Though Mrs. Doranher still grew suspicious when after each horticulture class he asked to be excused to the nurse.

The Warming lasted a few seconds but felt more like three lifetimes. This churning and blood pumping madness built up until he finally deemed it powerful enough to work under his will.

Summoning geraniums and tulips didn't take much power. Corban had never tried using as much power as he could simply because he never had a reason to. But this moment gave him more than enough reason to go full throttle.

He let the Warming grow as much as he felt it could without himself combusting. It may have been below freezing, but Corban's skin burned with fever, a factor that led to why he'd named the pre-power feeling the 'Warming.'

Let go.

Then all at once, the buildup leaked through his fingers, and he directed it downwards past the snow and cement, deep into the ground.

Corban's eyes widened at how much power he held. He always had imagined using his green thumb as holding onto a rope. Usually this rope was an inch thick at best. But the power he held now was one of those electrical cords found in major factories that were feet thick and weighed tons.

He dared to look up and was met with shocked expressions from the winged girls that cowered under the metallic creature. He quickly evaded his gaze, otherwise he would lose focus, and his power would fade away, and the whole lot of them would end up dead.

The thing faced him now. Its face flickered in gold and silver, changing in shape and color while black mist still weaved through its body. Corban focused on directing his power at the creature.

Something cracked below him. The cement began to split in more places than one as tiny cracks formed webs in the ground. It made a trail that led just beneath the thing.

Crack!

A branch as thick as him burst from the sidewalk and wrapped around the creature. At first Corban dismally thought it'd simply go through the smoky figure, but it wasn't as transparent as it looked.

Corban kept his hands outstretched, barely holding onto the reins of his abilities. The hypothetical rope strained against his control. It was too much.

He let the massive branch shoot into the air, ten meters, twenty meters, fifty, stories high above London's buildings. It took with it the creature, still being held within Corban's grip like an anaconda's prey.

Corban kept the branch high in the sky. He didn't know what else to do. He'd always gone by instinct when using his green thumb. And he had nowhere to go but up. Literally.

Like an alarm signaling trouble, Corban's head beat faster and louder, screaming at him to stop. It was taking a toll over his body. If he didn't cease his power, he'd end up dead. The adrenaline had blocked out his sense of pain, as the searing burn of his skin and leg made remind him he wasn't invincible.

He cut all power off from the branch. He let the rope go, and watched as his creation fell back to the ground, taking the thing with it.

The colossal branch landed with a thud, spurring up dust in the moment of its impact with the pavement. Corban couldn't help but smile.

He'd done it.

He'd saved the day. All by himself with his green thumb. He felt great. For a few moments. Then he puked in a bank of snow.

Once he was done...relieving himself, he came face to face with an angry teenager.

"What the hell?!?"

Hazel eyes bore into his emerald ones. The girl with the bandana glared at him, shaking her head. Her eyebrows furrowed menacingly at him.

"You should've killed the damn thing when you had the chance!"

All Corban could do was stare. He'd expected a 'thank you.' A hug. Maybe a kiss if he was lucky.

Deciding she was done with him, the winged girl stormed away. Like the black woman, she held a staff, but it glinted a rusty bronze. Near a cloud of black fog, the younger one wielded a bloodied axe as big as her. Or, at least, he thought it was blood. It was stained black.

She couldn't have been more than nine. She hovered above the dark cloud, swiping at something invisible.

His heart sank as something gold and silver flickered in the midst of the circle of fog. So maybe he hadn't killed the thing after all.

Now all three of the winged females swished in and out of the spreading shroud. It drew nearer to him, blocking out the sun and the rest of downtown London.

He put his arms up in front of him as a shield. The strange mist steadily approached before it reached him.

"Gah!"

Corban bounced back, tripping over a fallen stop sign. His back hit the icy pavement. It hurt, but nothing could compare to the burns that scathed his forearms.

Corban panted as his skin bubbled up with angry blisters. He'd experienced sun poison before, but this was beyond it. Whatever the cloud was, it made his skin feel as though it'd been burned to the bone. The pain was ten times worse than it sounded.

Still holding his arms up in pain, Corban backed away from the fog that rushed to burn his flesh from his bones. He could see nothing behind it but flashes of gold and silver and the wings of the serene beings.

In a panic, the boy stood up quickly and ran. There was nowhere to go. The cloud devoured everything in its path, buildings, the street. Nowhere was safe. He had to keep running until one of the girls killed the monster.

It was difficult to run, but he did. He sprinted for his life, ducking under fallen street signs and hurdling cars. His soaked feet slowed him down, but not enough to keep him from living.

Though he ran fast, Corban's adrenaline faded, leaving him to deal with his overexerted body in the moment he needed his strength the most. He'd used a lot of his strength for his green thumb and his lungs couldn't carry the burden of pumping oxygen through his veins.

Something sizzled, and he looked down for a split second to see the heels of his shoes had been nipped by the fog. The poisonous fumes had eaten down all the way to the heel of his sock.

Great, now I have uneven shoes.

The fog was biting at his ankles, closer each time, nearly getting him. It was going to catch him. He was going to die.

Just when he thought he was done for sure, a shadow descended down and he was scooped up by the dark skinned woman for the second time.

"You have a knack for getting into trouble," her deep voice tsked. "But I would never have taken you for a Matu."

She held him bridal style as they shot over the mist. It had engulfed more than half the city. He could see two specks that rushed below to stop it, weaving in and out of the fog. Corban frowned. How were they able to be immune to the gas?

From what he could tell, their attempts weren't doing much to stop the creature's dangerous weapon. He watched the little girl come sailing out of the cloud, flailing her limbs before the older girl caught her.

He looked to the woman that held him. Her face was etched with thought, and he could see worry flicker behind her eyes as her younger versions struggled. She looked torn.

"I'm gonna set you down over there," she nodded her head at an area far from where the cloud was.

Her wings beat furiously against the wind, the two of them clocking at speeds Corban couldn't imagine possible.

She set him down on the roof of an apartment building and hovered impatiently in the air. Her eyes widened when she took notice of the still throbbing burns on his forearms. They steamed from the contrastingly cold winter air.

"I'll treat that later," she promised. "Wait."

He didn't get a chance to say anything as she hurriedly flew to her comrades' aid. He watched helplessly as she disappeared into the fog.

"What now?" he asked himself aloud.

What now?

London was disappearing before him under the dark blanket. It wasn't stopping. It was moving faster. The more it destroyed, the bigger it became.

He paced, trying to disregard what a wreck his body was at the moment and that he was screwed. The entire city was screwed.

For all he knew, his friends with wings had been defeated. They could be dead, and he was patiently waiting here for his doom.

He couldn't just sit by and let London get demolished. Wasn't it his responsibility to use his abilities for good?

You're not a hero. You could barely use your powers for fifteen seconds. What good will it do now?

"Forget it," he said, and he pulled at his face before walking towards the edge of the building. Wind whipped around him as he stood maybe four stories above the snow dusted streets. Faraway, smoke rose, lights flashed, and leftover civilians panicked as the ominous cloud edged closer. Helicopters dared to fly within a half mile of the fog.

He meditated, trying to rein in the Warming. He never really used his powers more than two or three times a day, and at no extent to the amount he'd used minutes ago.

A spark burned in his chest. He coped it into growing, letting his blood pump dangerously fast and his head beat at the pace of his heart. The spark ignited until he held onto the spiritual rope, and let it grow between his hands, shrink a little, then swell bigger than before. It pulsed back and forth like that for half a minute.

Corban had been so focused on slowly growing his power he didn't pay mind to the jade and crimson leaves that began sprouting from his hair and the tufts of moss that grew on the backs of his burned hands.

When Corban closed his eyes, he no longer held a cord, but a vibrant green ball with runes of ancient languages that hovered above his head. His subconscious had him lift his arms above his head so the orb of green light flew higher above the building.

And when he opened his eyes, his hypothetical sphere was visible. It spun back and forth above him, changing direction, flashing brighter and brighter. Electric sparks flickered green, and it caused a whirlwind to gather around him.

The cloud had gotten close enough that he could feel the aura of power that resonated from within the mist. Corban eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the shadow within the center of the fog. Gold and silver streaks still flashed around the thing that controlled the deadly gas, giving Corban a target.

A wave of fear washed over Corban. What was he doing? How was he using his powers? He didn't know if this would work or not...whatever it was. Everything that had happened in a matter of half an hour was beyond him.

He'd never been so scared.

He was running on pure instinct, and in the face of death, he decided it would be best to follow his subconscious' lead.

Corban focused on sending the orb to the creature. He let the sphere of power and light hover down upon the fog, and the only sign of it was the stark green glow against black and flickers of gold and silver.

Don't lose control, he gritted his teeth as the pumping of adrenaline aided him in his fight to keep the orb from dissipating and leaving him with nothing.

When he closed his eyes, there was only black. He allowed his other senses to control the orb. Wind tore at his skin, and his arms still seethed with burns, the icy air doing little to numb it.

He could smell smoke from destroyed buildings and heard the hum of electricity and wails of sirens and the helicopters that searched for refugees. He could taste the cold and kicked up dust and snowflakes that drifted from the clouds. He could sense it all without seeing.

It was peaceful in a moment of chaos.

He held onto that peace and then let the buildup go like he had before many times. It rushed out with open arms to succumb the enemy.

Corban never opened his eyes even when he let himself fall downward six stories, down onto the London street of ice and debris.