Weathering Heights

Zyran had a secret as to why he was the best weatherman in the City of Zenith. Many assumed he earned the title due to his looks and charismatic personality. He stood out compared to the average holographic presence: his features were darker, his smile brightened the screen, and his wavy hair accentuated his beauty. He looked like a man who had everything under control.

On top of his charm, Zyran had a knack for predicting the most accurate forecasts outside of his scripted lines: Perhaps Suburb A should wear a light coat, and Suburb B, hold on tight to your umbrellas this afternoon! His words rang true a few hours later. There had been another instance where he suggested all Zenithians should stay indoors tomorrow; you never know how icy it’s going to get. And it hailed throughout the city the very next day! His admirers started calling him ‘Zyran the Pzychic’, whilst the one Zyran admired once called him a hoax.

Samira was a renowned fact-checker and historian. She had her own office in the news department to analyse and confirm data, but Zyran’s unreasonable accuracies had been a tough situation for her to dissect. Eventually, he started meeting up with her, proving his innocence, and they gradually fell in love. She particularly enjoyed spending hours discussing historical myths and deities associated with the weather. Samira thought that their relationship would blossom into something more, but she found herself standing in front of him in the broadcast studio with folded arms.

Ah, my silver lining, he called her. Why are you looking so under the weather?

The only lining that stood out to him then was her thin and unimpressed lips. The hosting desk beside them was being cleaned by manufactured maids, and the media crew was preparing their news simulations for the next programme. The headlines on the screens read: BREAKING NEWS: RISING WARS BETWEEN EAST AND WEST! OTHERLAND TERRORISTS PROVOKE ZENITHIAN SOLDIERS!

Zyran had been invested in these narratives until her icy stare and leather skirt halted him. Samina inquired, Are you coming by later? You didn’t read my comms.

Zyran paused for a moment. He checked his comm notifications through his watch, the holostrap— more than a thousand unread messages. Samira rolled her eyes as he scrolled his finger in the air.

Oh, you asked yesterday if we’re meeting today, Zyran chuckled nervously. Listen, I know I said we’d meet again, but we almost got caught the last time…

They had been seen by a colleague at a drone festival; his agents had encouraged him to refrain from meet-ups. Zyran’s charm turned out to be popular amongst female audiences, who increased 10% in news-related viewership once his stardom became known. They would be disappointed to hear that he was not an available fantasy for fans anymore.

I get it. You’re ashamed to be seen with your fiancé.

He glanced at the silver-band ruby on her finger. There was a Greek myth that lovers threw apples at women as a marriage proposal, and that was the representation Zyran intended when asking for Samira’s hand a few weeks prior.

It’s not that, Samira. I must be cautious with my position, remember? We’re at our peak viewership!

As a weatherman, Zyran knew that if an opportunity soared in your favour, you should have the common sense to follow it. That motto followed him everywhere: his work, relationship, and even his migration plans— which he refused to tell anyone about.

The channel hosts entered from the hallway and waved to him, calling his name. After leaving him with advice, Samira took that chance to return to her office: You sure love your weather expressions. But have you ever heard of ‘throwing caution in the wind?’ I thought you’d be the man to risk doing that for us.

When she left him to speak to the hosts, Zyran could barely focus on the conversation, his enigmatic smile heavy on his face. The hosts were telling him something about how the main Zenithian meteorology station had recently been attacked by Eastern raiders. Out of all the things Otherlanders could target, it had to be our forecast systems, they joked. The gales of laughter blew right past him.

~~~~~~

I have to take this call. Zyran told them, feeling a vibration in his shirt pocket.

He jogged to a secluded spot without cameras and removed a rectangular touch-screen contraption from his pocket. Anyone would laugh at him using this ancient contraption to transmit messages. But this was the only way for them to remain a secret.

Samina guilt-tripped him about risks, but she did not know how many he was taking on his own. To keep the psychic facade, Zyran had an unauthorized contact in the East: a meteorologist named Naseem who worked on solar data sources and wind turbines in the Otherlands. Due to the war, the two sides were discouraged from communicating. What he was doing was most likely illegal. His very existence was treason— thank God for allowing him to foil the citizenship process and pretend to be a Western orphan all this time.

Despite Zyran immigrating from the East, he still had connections to Naseem, his childhood friend. They often spoke about their lives from different sides, and since the Otherlands' meteorology systems were more advanced with higher-altitude satellites, they received a clearer reading on neighbouring weather forecasts. They helped each other make a living, Zyran paying him for his services and Naseem keeping the weatherman relevant.

Zyran wondered why he was being phoned for a second time that day. He pressed the block on his ear. “You’ve already given me the forecast of the day. What’s up, Nas?”

“You need to get out of there.” Naseem’s voice quivered but was firm in its panic. “There’s a storm over your head!”

The weatherman froze, then, realising they used to play pranks as children, scoffed in disbelief. “You’re giving me chills, man. Don’t joke around like—”

“I’ve never seen anything like this. Sporadic hurricanes in the Northern Suburbs and tornadoes further south where you’re standing. It’ll hit your entire building any minute now, so you need to get out there, Zyran!” He could imagine Naseem fumbling with buttons on his artificial assistant, red lights blaring at Zenith’s undetected disasters. “Head further West to Suburb C now. Stay underground if you can. You should be safe there.”

Zyran almost dropped the device. The recent attack on Zenithian weather stations must have prevented this forecast from reaching the channel. He reminded himself to remain constant and stay in control. He tried to think reasonably, feeling the patter of his heart. “Thanks, Nas. I don’t know what I’d do without you… But I need to tell the people or present this live. We can prevent anybody from getting hurt.”

“How?” Naseem’s voice was sharp like a comet. “Those people trust you, Zyran. They will all listen to you if you tell them to leave. “There will be traffic in the streets, and the winds will take them on the hovercrafts. They will all die and blame you for creating panic and not telling them sooner. You’ll have to tell them the truth about me. They’ll investigate and find out about you being an Otherlander. It will be another excuse to continue the war. Say nothing. Brother, this is no time to play hero. You’re a weatherman, not fucking Superman. GET TO SAFETY!”

Naseem’s voice of reason settled on him; he nodded along to his predictions while running a hand through his hair, making it disheveled. He would have to abandon his job to save his skin, but then what would he have when all was lost? Zyran gripped the phone tightly. “Okay… Okay, but I’m bringing Samira with me.”

It should have been a breeze to find her. Her office was only a block away. Before Naseem could argue, Zyran was already tucking the phone in his pocket, dashing to the elevator, and swiping to her contact on his holostrap. Samira did not answer his call, so he just decided to run to her office as fast as his Eastern legs could carry him. When he got to the analysis quarters, he asked the information desk and as many human workers he could find: Have you seen Samira? Did Samira pass here? Do you know where Samira is?

The frantic searching was strange to the employees who had watched many of his weather reports, whispering amongst each other and wondering why on earth he was looking for one of them. Most of them wanted his autograph, and (for the sake of his reputation) he signed a quick squiggle and moved on to his scavenging.

Suddenly, they all felt a shaking in the building. Zyran rushed to the window and, to his horror, watched as the clouds gathered to form an emerging whirlpool, the momentum of gusts scraping the glass walls to become bigger and stronger. While workers watched from their offices, Zyran ran around the department. He should have visited Samira here more often because then he would have known where her office was. He read her name on a digital sign outside a glass sliding door, but she was not in the room.

<May I offer you my service?> A female hologram asked him from the white helpdesk, her face forming different identities each second.

Zyran caught his breath. Uhm. Yes, please. I’m looking for Samira Whilom.

<Just a moment.> The hologram flickered for a moment, generating answers. <We found footage of Samira Whilom entering the women’s bathroom at 18:03 today. Shall we announce that you are looking for her?>

It was concerning how easy it was for artificial intelligence to access private information, but nevertheless, Zyran sighed at the bot in relief. Yes, please.

Before he could register what it was doing, a camera shot was taken of his face. Wait…

The announcement screen on the information board shone brightly with a picture of his messy hair and wide eyes, like a convict who was responsible for a crime.

<SAMIRA WHILOM, THIS MAN IS LOOKING FOR YOU IN THE ANALYSIS DEPARTMENT 012. SAMIRA WHILOM, PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE ANALYSIS DEPARTMENT 012.>

He buried his face in his hands in shame. The other employees made their way to the location just to see the confrontation. Some asked whether it was going to be a fight or a romantic confession. At least she would no longer have to lecture him about ‘throwing caution in the wind’... But that wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t already hurtling at them 500 whirls per hour in various forms of spiralling disasters.

The light of his holostrap finally began to pulse. He paced among the attracted crowd as his agents were trying to contact him, which he blocked. He was only focused on Samira’s whereabouts. Suddenly, the joyful picture that he had taken of her at the Parthenon— the day he proposed to her— flashed above his wrist. He advanced toward the exit. His finger accepted with lightning speed; the smile was replaced abruptly by an irate scowl.

ZYRAN, ARE YOU INSANE! she screamed.

His pace sped up as people whipped their heads curiously at her outburst. Zyran found himself jogging down flights of stairs, followed by one or two employees who had also been curious about his announcement to hunt Samira down.

Don’t go to the Analysis Department, he told her, his eyes focused on the steps he was chasing downward, four at a time. Meet me at my hovercraft at the lower parking bay. Please just trust me on this.

Samira was a fact-checker, but she did not ask further questions. The only fact she needed to care about was the worry on his face. He staggered past the crystalline sliding doors on the ground floor of the parking bay. He rushed toward his vehicle and took out the driver’s card from his bag.

Since they were underground, they would be safer from the storm. The building shook again. This time, he could imagine the commotion from crewmen and media teams about the developed rumbling. Few had the common sense to run the second they saw the clouds forming outside, but most vehicles were stationed above ground. Zyran was fortunate enough to own two hovercrafts on opposing levels.

Zyran, did you know this hurricane was going to happen? He heard Samira’s voice from the comm.

Zyran did not have the energy to lie. He quickly tapped the card on his door. Yes, and that’s why I need you here with me in the ground parking bay. North and South are compromised. We need to get to Suburb C, preferably underground.

How do you even know this? And what about all these people?

What about them?

What about…?! Are you serious?

Zyran paused at the tone of her voice and the judgment in her face, as if she was ready to give him another lecture about taking risks. He did not want to tell her the predictions Naseem gave to him for fear of being exposed as the hoax she always accused him of.

Zyran replied, I am serious. I am throwing caution in the wind, remember? This is a risk I’m taking for us.

Risking the lives of thousands?! Samira was livid. Historically, in natural disasters, more lives could have been saved had warnings been given much sooner. So why didn’t you?

Zyran started getting irritated as well. The department did not give me that information, Samira. It would be suspicious if I just gave orders from external intel—

But you do that all the time for your predictions!

I use it as a joke! This isn’t a joking matter!

Even more of a reason to broadcast the information! How dare you allow your own kind to die like this?!

They had never had a full-blown argument like this before, but now that his gentlemanly facade was discarded, he was no longer a stranger to aggression. His ‘own kind’ were the Otherlanders, who were constantly being killed at the hand of Zenithian soldiers. He tried to control his breathing to not let this information slip his tongue.

Just because they’re Zenithian does not make them mine. My kind is you, Samira. We’re going to be married soon.

She hesitated before answering… Not anymore.

The hologram switched off, and his watch went dark. She hung up on him. Zyran hit the dashboard. After running around for her, being announced on information screens to find her, blocking his agents, jumping flights of stairs, and giving her instructions to meet him, he felt so defeated. He felt like Odysseus when opening the wind bag from Aeolus, like he was constantly being pushed away from his one true love. No matter how desperately he tried to reach home, she was always out of reach.

His hand hovered over the ‘control’ button. He had to leave now if he wanted to survive, but his heart was aching guiltily from her words and expressions. He lowered his head and sighed, realising that if Samira was gone, he would have nothing anyway. No job, no relevance, and no one to come back to. This was his last chance to take a risk.

He got out of the hovercraft and made his way back inside the building to find Samira. It seemed throwing caution in the wind also meant that he’d have to throw himself along with it because if she were to weather this storm, he would not let her do so alone.

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