(open)

He's angry at himself.

That's the reason Joel's sitting alone on a park bench with his eyes half-closed, focusing on lessons from his mother he's long since tried to forget. The feelings he has about things to come have always bothered him, upset him more than anything, but they've also never amounted to much before. And now twice in recent days he's had feelings that have either been too vague or come too late for him to do anything about them and people have been injured as a result.

Had he been able to see the Hydra instead of having only a strange sense of foreboding, maybe he could have done something more. Had he known about the creature sent after Cosette long before he'd found himself running into the water, maybe she and Spencer wouldn't have been injured. For so long he's avoided honing the ability, but he's beginning to wonder if perhaps that hasn't been such a good idea.

So he sits in the park with a novel held loosely in one hand -- The Hobbit, which he's never actually read and has fastidiously ignored any part of his brain that suggests there's a reason he's finally picked it up now -- but he isn't reading. He's concentrating. Waiting for something to come. His parents had always taught him that the only way to hone his ability to see things before they arrive is to practice. To use it, to allow himself to see things instead of just ignoring them.

He's never wanted to. He still doesn't want to. But if it keeps someone from getting hurt, then he has a responsibility to do what he can.