If you are a personnel of great knowledge, you will understand why many people make it a priority to cower away from storms.
Within the harsh, sodden walls of a storm, lies every childhood nightmare, every fearful memory, every towering demon. Some find safe haven enveloped inside a loved one's arms, or curled underneath a dining table. For others. it is impossible to escape such horrors. And for a rare few, this terror no longer exists.
If you are a personnel of great empathy, this knowledge will stretch far enough to understand how it is possible for some to adore such things as the shriek of wind or a sudden flash of electricity across a grey sky.
But if -overall- you are a personnel of great kindness, all knowledge shall be thrown aside, and you will understand to never leave a living creature outside in such circumstances.
Yet the world is a selfish place. The man who now slouched in a defeated heap knew this well enough, his tired yet strangely petrifying eyes stabbing into the distance. This was it. This would be the end of his life. He would be found -if he ever was- as a weak, starved, breathless mystery.
"Ay. AY! What the bloody hell- Oh god! Francis, stop the car!"
A voice, a harmony of rushed footsteps, warm breath radiating to his emotionless, icy face. All seemed so secluded despite the proximity, and his head ached dully as he raised it to inspect his savior- who came in the form of an englishman that harbored remarkably large eyebrows and issues with understanding the concept of personal space.
"Are you okay? Can you speak? English? Are you hurt in anyway? Are you ill? What is your name?"
The sudden spur of questions completely broke down his hazy mind. Was he okay? Was he in pain? He gave himself a mental check over before realizing something else, something rather important. His name. Did he have a name? Wait, of course he had a name, everybody has a name. So why couldn't he remember?
"Hey. Chap?" The brit's large eyebrows knotted together in concentration. "Your name? What-""Unknown." He could manage barely a whisper, but it was obviously clear enough, as he slipped away from reality, a lullaby of protests left behind.