Prime, Give Me Strength
The heavens had finally opened. Rain poured down, soaking the fields, the barn, the roof—
And most importantly, making fieldwork impossible.
George, delighted, pressed his hands against the windowpane, watching the storm with the reverence of a man witnessing divine intervention. Sheets of rain crashed against the earth, drowning the fields in a merciful flood, the sky a swirling tempest of rolling clouds and flashing lightning. The scent of fresh rain seeped through the cracks in the wood, damp and clean, washing away the dryness that had plagued the land—and his own suffering. He could see the far stretches of the field, usually endless in their torment, now unreachable beneath the downpour. No work. No labor. No misery. Just the storm, glorious and untouchable.
Finally. Salvation.
A breath of relief left him, shoulders dropping as the tension bled out of his body. No backbreaking labor. No sunburn peeling at his skin. No dirt under his fingernails, no aching muscles, no Techno watching him struggle with quiet judgment.
For the first time in what felt like eternity, he was free.
He could charge his phone.
He could listen to music.
He could—
“Alright, let’s head over to Puffy’s.”
George’s soul left his body. His moment of triumph, his long-awaited respite, shattered before his very eyes. He turned slowly, horror dawning on his face as he stared at Phil like he had just suggested they march directly into the ocean.
No. No, this couldn’t be happening. Not after everything he had endured. Not after the torment, the labor, the aching muscles and sunburns. The storm was supposed to be his liberation, his reward for suffering. And now—
Now he was being sent back out into the world?
George swallowed thickly.
The betrayal stung.
George went down the ladder, every step feeling like a march toward his own execution. He landed on the ground with a deliberate slowness, staring at Phil with a level of betrayal so profound it could have shattered glass.
“I beg your pardon?” he said, voice thin with disbelief.
Phil, ever unbothered, adjusted his coat. “Puffy’s got a full barn. She’ll need the extra hands.”
George’s jaw tightened. He blinked once, then twice, as if trying to process the sheer injustice of it all. Rain pounded against the roof, the sky weeping on his behalf, and yet Phil stood there, unshaken, as if he had not just shattered George’s fragile sense of hope.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Finally, he managed, “Phil. It is raining.”
“Yup.”
“And you… want us to go outside?”
“Yup.”
George inhaled sharply, his entire body recoiling at the very idea. He had never willingly stepped into the rain in his life. Rain was something one avoided, something one shielded oneself from with coats, umbrellas, and the comforting safety of covered walkways. It was a nuisance, a sign to stay indoors, a mere background detail to life in the city where one traveled from car to lobby, never feeling more than a stray drop. And now, he was being told to walk directly into it? Voluntarily?
“Surely,” he said, reaching for logic, “if it is too rainy for fieldwork, it is too rainy to help with animals.”
Phil tilted his head.
“Animals don’t stop needing food when it rains, mate.”
George’s eye twitched.
Wilbur patted his shoulder. “He’s right, you know.”
George shrugged him off.
Techno pulled on his boots. “Horses still gotta eat.”
Tommy, already running out the door, skidded through a particularly deep puddle, splashing mud halfway up his legs. He didn’t even slow down. “And the goats! Tubbo and I get to feed ‘em!” he hollered, gleefully kicking up more filth as he bolted toward the road, utterly unconcerned with the rapidly accumulating grime.
George turned back to Phil.
“Send Tommy.”
Phil raised an eyebrow. “You want to leave this to tommy?”
George hesitated.
He exhaled.
Then, reluctantly, he pulled on his coat—only for Wilbur to shove him forward. With an embarrassing yelp, George stumbled directly into the rain, his carefully maintained bubble of dryness shattered in an instant.
The shock was immediate. Ice-cold droplets pelted his skin, soaking through his clothes in mere moments. His coat, meant to be a shield, was useless. The wind howled around him, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and farm life.
And then—
"GOGY!"
Tommy came barreling towards him at full speed, a human blur of mud and chaos. Before George could so much as brace himself, Tommy skidded through a puddle, sending a spray of rainwater, dirt, and what was definitely manure flying straight at him.
It hit him square in the chest.
George made a noise of pure despair.
Tommy cackled, running circles around him like an overexcited dog. "You’re in it now, city boy! No goin’ back!"
The barn was massive.
Bigger than Phil’s.
Bigger than anything George had seen since arriving here.
Its towering wooden beams stretched high above, the scent of hay thick in the air. Colorful curtains, mismatched but vibrant, were strung up along the rafters, swaying gently in the draft. Lanterns hung at various heights, casting a warm, golden glow despite the dreary weather outside. A few cats lounged atop hay bales, lazily observing the commotion below.
Puffy, standing at the entrance, grinned, her coat damp from the rain but her expression bright as ever.
“Ah, my favorite little helpers!”
Puffy pulled Wilbur and Techno into a hug, holding them tightly with the warmth of someone who had once saved them and would do so again in a heartbeat. Then, with an effortless strength, she scooped up Tommy, spinning him around until he was breathless with laughter, her own grin as bright as the lanterns swaying above them.
Then she turned to George.
“You,” she said cheerfully, “are new.”
George, cold, wet, and entirely uninterested in pleasantries, gave a stiff nod.
“George.”
She laughed. “Oh, I know. Phil wrote to me about you.”
George’s eye twitched.
Before he could demand an explanation, someone stepped into the doorway.
Dream.
George almost groaned aloud.
He was so close to a Dream-free day.
Dream, for his part, barely looked at him.
Instead, he stepped past him, swinging a sack of feed over one shoulder like it weighed nothing.
George hated him.
Then Dream did something unforgivable.
He rolled up his sleeves.
George almost blushed.
Almost.
But he was a well-mannered young man. He did not gawk, he did not falter, and he certainly did not blush at the mere sight of masculinity. That would be ridiculous.
So he composed himself, squared his shoulders, and turned away, feigning supreme disinterest. He would not give Dream the satisfaction of any reaction.
Because he was better than Dream.
...Probably.