[center][h3]The Winner of RPGC# 17: Singing in the Rain[/h3][/center]
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[center][i]Silver Linings[/i] by [@Mattchstick][/center]

"Huh, so it begins again," a certain man said aloud to no one as he stood on the sidewalk and glanced up at the sky. The gentle blue was being rapidly hidden by grey and black clouds, signalling the start of yet another rain storm. For you see, it was always raining here. The Sunless City, some called it. Statistically, it was very much like any other modern city; dense buildings, costly housing, and terrible traffic at certain hours of the day. It would have been a decent enough place to live if not for the weather. Some liked the rain. Some did not. Almost none liked it for at least three hundred days every year. Take into account the lightning strikes and occasionally power outages, it was not a very happy place to live, and more than a few struggled with retaining happiness.

The man on the sidewalk was not one such person. He saw past the clouds to the cheery sun that was still glowing overhead, and anyone within earshot would invariable hear a "silver lining" to whatever situations and storms had come on that particular day. Not a single thing had happened in his life that he had not found a way to look over or around to it eventually dissipating.

He was not a particularly fortunate man at that. He was merely a blue-collar worker with a simple job, one that he had retained for going on forty years. He lived alone in a small house with just enough income to pay the rent and feed himself, yet he managed to stay positive. This was a trait that had followed him from the womb, since his name was, of all things, Bartholomew Goodheart.

Anyway, dear Bartholomew had been on a morning stroll to enjoy a rare sunny day. There were still puddles and dripping eaves, but at least the glinting rays gave the water a lovely golden shimmer. He had glanced up at the bright blue expanse with a twinkle in his eye and had given it a proper smile.

"Huh, a good bit of sun in the city. Pleasant change, it is," he said in his strange form of speak. As usual, a passerby gave him a strange look for a moment before continuing on their way, phone pressed to ear as they engaged in a bitter conversation. Bartholomew watched them pass, then shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah well, there's a silver lining. At least the man is being productive. More so than myself, I should say."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the clouds began to return to their place. The man audibly grumbled as he attempted to open an umbrella without hanging up his phone.

"Ah well, at least ye have an umbrella," Bartholomew called to him, showing the man his empty hands. All he had was a brown leather jacket and ragged pants, as he had left his own umbrella at home. The other fellow rolled his in a most rude manner and scurried away. The first of many raindrops splattered the shoulder of his jacket as he began to walk back across town. He had traveled some distance, you see, and was not within running distance of his place of residence, and so he did not bother. He hummed a tune that was almost impossible to hear, now that the rain was in full force.

"Ah well, at least there's no lightning," he said.

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a brilliant bolt of electricity flashed across the sky, soon accompanied by a deep roar of thunder.

"Ah well, at least it's air-lightning," he said.

A moment later, a similar bolt flickered through the sky, drawn to a rod on a nearby building. It crackled loudly, causing him to wince ever so slightly.

"Ah well, at least we have the lightning-poles to keep it away from the ground," he said, increasing his pace.

To his surprise, a third bolt of lightning tore its way through the air and hit a nearby street lamp, causing the bulb to for a fraction of a second glow brightly before bursting into a shower of glass fragments.

"Ah well," Bartholomew said after a long pause, making a turn and heading into the last straight towards his residence. "At least I'm within eye-shot of home and heat."

He jumped as a car zoomed by him, swerving across the road and, to no one's surprise but his own, crashed directly into his house. A large portion of the car was now occupying his living room. The engine came to an abrupt halt and, with a grunt, the driver shoved the door open and climbed out, apparently unharmed. Bartholomew nodded at him in approval.

"Ah well, at least the driver's not hurt."

The driver looked down at his stomach, turned very pale, and collapsed dead on the pavement. Bartholomew stood still for a moment, then shrugged.

"Ah well, at least the car can be towed. Shan't be an easy repair but it's only a building after all."

A quiet crackle came from the vehicle as a loose wire in Bartholomew's home sparked, making contact with the gaseous fumes that had been spilling into his house from the now empty tank beneath the car. With a brilliant glow that would make the sun ever so slightly jealous, the house erupted in flames.

At this point, one would likely stop pressing their fate and perhaps seek shelter elsewhere. Bartholomew Goodheart was no such man. Absolutely refusing to turn aside his stance from five or six consecutive coincidences, he spoke again:

"Ah well, at least I've got a little money in me pocket."

"Oh?" a harsh voice said beside him. He turned and found himself facing a man in a hoodie who had just emerged from a nearby alleyway. He had covered half his face with a scarf and was wielding a rather large pistol that was aimed in the direction of Mr. Goodsoul's head.

"Hand it over. Now."

Bartholomew raised his hands in surrender, then slowly removed his wallet and tossed it to the man, who scooped it up and shoved it into a pocket. He turned to retreat into the alley as a voice called to him.

"Ah well, at least I've got good health."

The robber turned back around in surprise, still waving the gun haphazardly. He was a rather inexperienced sort of robber and, as a result, did not have the safety engaged. He shot Bartholomew in the leg, causing him to collapse to the ground in a poorly-placed puddle. Wincing in pain and grabbing the injured limb, Bartholomew searched his mind for a good thing to find about this situation. He admitted that he was running short on them by now. The robber was still standing nearby in shock, seemingly unsure of whether he should run or call for help before his victim bled to death. Bartholomew caught sight of him and forced a smile.

"Ah well," he said weakly. "At least I've only been shot once."

The robber shot him again for, at this point, no real reason. Somewhere deep inside Bartholomew, an organ exploded.

Aware that he likely only had minutes to live, the poor man uttered one final positive observation. One that absolutely could not be altered. One that was so conclusive that it was at this point in history no more than a joke.

"Ah well...at least...Hitler is dead."

The robber paused, then lowered his gun and removed his hood and scarf. Bartholomew's eyes widened in shock as he saw a familiar cut of hair and mustache, one that had not been seen for many years. The man grinned an evil grin, staring him down with dark, sinister eyes. He said the last word Bartholomew Goodheart would ever hear:

"NEIN!"