I woke up coughing, my throat full of dust. That's how it always was. Every morning, I had to fight against the fine, sharp dust that got into everything – my lungs, my food, my dreams.
I coughed, spitting out a mouthful of reddish-brown paste. Breakfast. Synthetic protein, recycled water, and hope that today wouldn't be as brutal as yesterday.
Outside, all that was left of the skyscrapers were their empty frames, reaching towards the washed-out sky. They stood as a stark reminder of the monuments to a past we could barely comprehend.
We lived in the husk of what they called a city. Now, the place was no longer recognizable.
All that remained were piles of broken metal, chunks of decaying concrete, and dust that seemed to be everywhere. The buildings themselves were warped, with bizarre, metallic structures growing into and around them – remnants of the NaniteWar, they said. Tiny machines gone rogue, consuming everything.
I adjusted the filter mask protecting my face and left my makeshift home. It was a metal box I'd built from old vehicle parts and scavenged solar panels. The air tasted rusty and harsh.
"Another beautiful day in paradise, huh, Iris?" grumbled Old Man Hemlock, leaning against a rusted-out hovercar.
He was busy trying to fix a makeshift water collector. It was a plastic barrel he had rigged up with some wires he'd found. Hemlock was the village's unofficial engineer and resident cynic. He was also the only one who remembered what real rain felt like.
"As beautiful as it gets," I replied, forcing a smile. "Any luck with the trap?"
He spat a wad of something brown and unpleasant onto the dusty ground. "Luck? Luck died with the last monsoon. This thing's drier than a politician's promise."
We both knew it was true. For years, the rain hadn't come. Our crops, genetically modified to survive the arid landscape, were dying. The underground reservoirs, once a lifeline, were almost gone.
The elders whispered tales of the CloudWranglers, the mythical engineers who controlled the weather before the Fall. Now, they were just a forgotten legend.
The morning inched forward, each minute like a struggle. Life was just about getting by. I spent what felt like forever fixing the community's water system. I used scraps of plastic I'd found, hoping they'd hold. Sweat and dust combined, making my face feel rough and dirty.
That afternoon, something shifted. I was hauling a bucket of recycled water when I noticed it. The sky. It was still the same oppressive blue-white, but the clouds – thin, wispy things – were moving… differently. Not randomly scattered by the wind, but gathering, densifying. A dark smudge appeared on the horizon.
"Hemlock!" I yelled, dropping the bucket. "Look at the sky!"
He walked with difficulty, his vision clearly impaired by his thick, broken glasses. He paused, staring at me. Then, his face changed. He looked hopeful, but also confused.
"It can't be…" he whispered. "It's… rain clouds."
Word spread like wildfire. People poured out of their hab-units, their faces upturned to the sky. Children pointed and shouted with delight. Even the hardened veterans of the DustWars wore expressions of disbelief.
The first drops came slowly, tentatively. Then, the heavens opened. It wasn't a normal rain. It felt… different. Heavier, almost viscous. But no one cared. We were too busy cheering, laughing, holding our faces to the sky, letting the water wash away the dust and grime of years.
I even saw Hemlock crack a smile.
The rain lasted for hours. The reservoirs filled. The crops perked up, their leaves a vibrant green against the reddish-brown earth. We danced in the streets, celebrating our salvation. We had been given a second chance.
But the celebration was short-lived.
The first to go were the children. They started coughing, their skin breaking out in a strange, iridescent rash. Then the adults followed, their bodies convulsing, their eyes turning milky white.
The rain… it wasn't water. It was a weapon.
Walking through the dying village was awful; the smell of rot was everywhere. Then, I found Hemlock. He was lying there, eyes wide with terror. He weakly pointed up at the sky, at the clouds spreading out and vanishing.
"They… controlled… the clouds…" he gasped, his voice a raspy whisper. "They… killed us…"
He was right. Someone, somewhere, was still alive. Someone had the power to control the weather, to bring life – and to deliver death. They had seen our struggle, our desperation, and they had used it against us.
I looked up at the fading clouds, a cold dread creeping into my heart. Who controlled the clouds? And why did they want us dead? Was it some twisted experiment? A way to cleanse the Earth? Or was it just a cruel joke, played by a power we couldn't even comprehend?
I'm still alive, for now. I wear my filter mask constantly, gathering what little clean water I can find. But I know it's only a matter of time. The rain poisoned the soil, the air, everything.
I sit here, in the ruins of my village, watching the sky. Waiting.
Maybe one day, I'll find out who controls the clouds. Maybe one day, I'll understand why.
But I doubt it. And even if I did, what could I do?
All I know is this: We prayed for rain. And our prayers were answered. But sometimes, the answers are worse than the silence.
The sun is going down, turning the sky brilliant shades of orange and deep red. The dust is slowly falling, covering the bodies of the dead like a quiet blanket. I breathe in deeply, trying to hold onto the last bit of fresh air.
The clouds are gathering again.