Chapter Text
"Storm," Mingi blurts out, suddenly standing at attention from where he'd been asleep on the mattress. He rubs his hands along his biceps in short, frantic movements to generate heat. The cold air from the outdoors seeps in through the gaps in the poorly insulated brick walls, the low light leaving a barely scarce image of his surroundings. He blindly fumbles for the shelf in the dark of night, fingers skimming over rough wood and scattered tools until they find the cool, familiar curve of bone. He grips it tight, heart pounding, already tasting the electricity on the air.
The wind outside is still, suffocating in its silence, but he knows better. Knows the way the pressure dies just before the sky splits open. Knows the way the earth tenses, like a held breath. He can feel the pattern replicating, repeating, like an incessant, relentless cycle, taunting him with the destruction they've preceded in the past.
He fights through his shaky breathing as he presses the skull whistle to his lips, exhaling deeply. The first note cuts through the night—high and sharp, like a bird’s dying cry. A warning. The second, longer and lower, is a call to shelter. The sound wails through the empty night, curling into doorways and echoing off crumbling walls.
Somewhere in the distance, a door slams. A shuffle of hurried footsteps. They hear him. They trust him. He's never been wrong before.
Mingi lowers the whistle, his shaky breathing returning. The storm isn’t here yet, but it will be. And when it comes, it won’t be gentle. He turns to Hongjoong, who's just been bullied awake by the sharp, eerie sound, and drags him off the straw bed.
"Go find Yeosang," he orders, and still half asleep, Hongjoong grumbles in protest.
"It looks fine out." The proud light of the stars scarcely illuminates the room through breaks in the hatch window, the sky clear and devoid of a single cloud. He inhales excitedly as he leans up onto his forearm. "You know, back in the old days? They could predict the weather even sooner than you can. They had these glowing black boxes called TVs–"
"I'm not in the mood," Mingi bites back sharply. He rolls his eyes with judgment and emotional fatigue as he collapses onto the straw bed. Not a day goes by in which he doesn't receive one of Hongjoong's bizarre monologues, never knowing whether they describe a lost past or just another ridiculous fantasy his parents told him as a child. The accuracy isn't of importance to him; survival is. If an exchange or behavior doesn't benefit his ability to stay alive in this struggling community, it's a waste of time.
"No, Mings, I'm being serious! Every house had one! You'd wake up in the morning, and poke this thing called a button, and then the TV would start talking to you and tell you if it's going to rain, and how bad the rain is going to be, and– Sometimes, people knew half a moon in advance if there was going to be a really bad storm."
To Hongjoong, living is more than just surviving. It's imagining what could have been, what was, and what could be. If this crazy technology existed once, even if it were magic, then it's possible to recreate now. Whether it truly did allow for more efficient behaviors, or was simply a way to pass the time after completing the day's work, it gives his life meaning to fantasize about. If only Mingi could see it the same way.
"There's a 'really bad storm' every half-moon," he grumbles. "We don't need a magic black box to tell us, and it's not going to save Yeosang's farm down there."
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, my dear friend." He grins. "There used to be a bunch of communities, not just us. And they all had different weather. Some of them were called temperates, where the weather was nice and they had storms once a summer ."
"TVs, buttons, temperates…" He rattles off all the odd words Hongjoong has already spouted in the span of a few minutes. "Don't you ever get tired of this? Dreaming about a world that doesn't exist? If it ever did, it's gone now, and it's not coming back. There is nothing outside those walls. Now get out there and see if you can convince Yeosang to come inside before he drowns in the rain."
"It's not even raining," Hongjoong mumbles in defeat as he pushes away from the window and heads out into town. But now that he's outside, Mingi's warning starts to gnaw at his skin, a gentle disturbance in the air pushing up beneath his clothing. He shudders, pulling his coat more securely around his frame as he continues on. Just ahead is Yeosang's farm, a scarce bit of vibrance in an otherwise colorless world. The green hues of the leaves, the sweet scent of the berries wafting on the air, and the hope instilled in him by the single peach tree growing from the center is enough to keep him going each day. He often finds himself drawn to the beautiful sight, coming back each morning despite the farmer's reserved attitude. It's not uncommon for him to brush him off and shove him out, like now. The moment Hongjoong raises his hand in greeting, he's met with a sharp look of displeasure.
"Mingi says a storm," Hongjoong calls. "Can you come home tonight? It would make him feel better."
"No," Yeosang responds bluntly, hardly looking up from the clay crates he's occupied with burying. One by one, he tucks the containers into a depression in the dirt, protecting the contents from the elements in the event that Mingi's warning is proven correct. Once finished, he kicks the dirt back over the pots, stomping down the earth, compacting the soil to sturdy the coverage. "I'm fine. Go home."
Hongjoong sighs in defeat and turns away. His eyes land on the tool rack plastered against a nearby house, its rows empty. "Are the hunters not back yet?"
He swivels around the side of the barn, looking forward into the forest in hopes of catching sight of them. Just a klick ahead, the patchy scattering of trees claws at the sky, their trunks twisted and frail. The ground between them is the same beige mixture of sand and soil as is beneath Hongjoong's feet, broken only by stubborn weeds and dry, cracking roots. Hongjoong first spots the returning hunters as silhouettes against the horizon, moving like ghosts through the thinning remains of the forest. Then, after a moment, the sound reaches him—distant but distinct. Boots crunching over brittle undergrowth. The occasional snap of a branch among the many that litter the ground. The sound carries through the empty world like an echo in a hollow space.
He stands, impatiently, waiting for them to draw near enough to speak. The group is led by Wooyoung, whom he recognizes immediately, and waves.
"Find anything?"
"No," Wooyoung pants, pulling his leather satchel to the front of his body to show the interior. It holds a single dead mouse and a handful of assorted bugs. "Nothing big, anyway. We might have to start relying on Yeosang for the time being. Wouldn't be smart to kill everything out there."
Before Hongjoong can react to the statement, the sky trembles—a momentary stillness, like the air itself is holding its breath. Then, the wind picks up with a violent lurch, the first sharp drop of rain slapping into the earth like the warning growl of an aggressive animal. The sky, though clear just a heartbeat ago, suddenly splits open with a blinding flash of lightning. It strikes the ground so close that Hongjoong flinches, his heart skipping as the air buzzes with electric energy. The sacred tree, no more than a few yards away, is struck hard, splitting down the middle with a sickening crack, and the shockwave throws them both back as if they’d been hit by the force themselves.
The wind howls instantly, a shrieking, violent gust that feels almost alive as it tears through the clearing, carrying debris with it. Something sharp and heavy—a broken branch—whips by them so fast it nearly hits Hongjoong in the face, and he stumbles back, eyes wide in alarm. The temperature continues to plummet as a gust of wind sends debris skittering across the ground and kicks up the dirt beneath their feet. Thunder continues to crack across the sky and send shockwaves through the earth below them. Hongjoong raises his arm to his forehead in a desperate attempt to shield his face from the elements as he turns sharply in search of Yeosang. The storm has come out of nowhere, Yeosang has disappeared, and panic surges in his veins.
“Shit,” Wooyoung curses under his breath, grabbing Hongjoong’s arm and yanking him toward the nearest shelter. The sky above is a deep, churning grey, as if the storm itself is feeding off something worse, more chaotic.
As Hongjoong spins around, still searching for the farmer, panic rises in his chest as he sees it: a dark mass in the distance. The next flash of lightning illuminates the night sky and reveals the terror in full. A massive, swirling wall of clouds, like the belly of a beast, stretches far across the horizon. The way the clouds churn is unnerving, the edges curling in tight spirals, casting an ominous glow in the momentary flash. It’s too symmetrical, too deliberate to be just a thunderstorm. This is something else, something... alive, bearing down on them.
He gasps, fear flooding his veins. He can see the storm now, the undeniable shape of it—a cyclone, but not the kind they’ve ever seen before. Not in the middle of the night like this, not with the air crackling so fiercely. The wind howls even louder, tearing at the trees, and the scent of ozone fills his nostrils as they flare against the rain, desperate for dry air. The storm is close now, closer than he realized, and it’s already too late to outrun it.
He should have listened to Mingi.
“Yeosang!” Hongjoong starts to shout again, but Wooyoung cuts him off, pulling him faster. “He’s already inside, you’re wasting time!”
They half-run, half-stumble toward the house, the wind cutting through them like knives. Another flash of lightning splits the sky, and Hongjoong can feel the hairs on his neck stand up, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The storm is no longer just a passing thundercloud. It's hungry, closing in to tear them apart.