Cloud Directive
After his brother vanishes during a never-ending rainstorm, a man uncovers a secret government weather program—and faces the chilling choice to control the skies himself.
The rain started the same day my brother disappeared.
Not a storm—just a steady, unnatural drizzle that hasn’t stopped in thirty-six days.
They said it was a freak atmospheric event. A slow-moving front. But I know better.
I remember what Kyle said before he vanished:
"If it rains for more than three days, go to the tower. And don’t trust anyone wearing the pin."
The pin—he meant the silver spiral emblem government agents started wearing after the drought protests two summers ago. I’d seen them stationed around the city lately, always silent, always dry under the drizzle.
Kyle was a climatologist, but not the kind on TV. He worked underground—literally—at the Tempest Complex, a facility he once joked could “tell clouds what to feel.” When he told me the weather was being steered, I thought it was another of his conspiracy dives. But now the air feels heavier. Like it's listening.
I still wear his old watch. It stopped ticking the day he vanished—3:47 p.m. I tried replacing the battery. Nothing. But I can’t take it off. It’s the only piece of him I have.
Yesterday, I caught a man photographing the clouds. Not with a phone—with a device that looked military. When I asked what he was doing, he smiled without his eyes. “Measuring resilience,” he said.
I backed away. “Do you work for them?”
His smile faded. “We all do, eventually.”
He pointed to my brother’s watch. “That’s not broken. It’s receiving.” Then he walked off and disappeared into the fog.
That night, I dreamt of static skies and silver towers rising from oceans. I woke to thunder, the first in weeks. My mind buzzed with phrases I’d never heard before: “Cloud Directive 7”, “Hydrofield Lockdown”, “Phase Drift Initiated.”
I opened Kyle’s drawer. Found the map he left hidden beneath the false bottom. Red lines traced from our apartment to the outskirts—past the power plant, toward an old weather station long thought decommissioned. A single word was scribbled over it: “Obelisk.”
I knew then where I had to go.
The walk was long, the rain constant. But when I reached the chain-link fence surrounding the site, I saw it. A massive, slate-gray tower with no markings, humming with energy. The sky above it was clear. Not blue—just silent.
I stepped forward, soaking wet. A man stood at the gate, clipboard in hand, spiral pin on his chest.
“You’re early,” he said.
I froze. “For what?”
“For your return.”
He raised a scanner. The watch on my wrist pulsed once. The gate unlocked.
Inside, the air was dry.
I asked, “What is this place?”
He looked at the tower. “The place where choices are made, and weather obeys.”
And then he handed me a coat. Same kind Kyle used to wear.
Now I sit in a white room. No windows. Just a console with a single blinking cursor and one line of text:
“Proceed with Climate Sync?”
My hand hovers over the key. I don’t know what’ll happen if I press it.
But the rain has stopped.
And somewhere in the silence, I swear I hear Kyle breathing.
Not a storm—just a steady, unnatural drizzle that hasn’t stopped in thirty-six days.
They said it was a freak atmospheric event. A slow-moving front. But I know better.
I remember what Kyle said before he vanished:
"If it rains for more than three days, go to the tower. And don’t trust anyone wearing the pin."
The pin—he meant the silver spiral emblem government agents started wearing after the drought protests two summers ago. I’d seen them stationed around the city lately, always silent, always dry under the drizzle.
Kyle was a climatologist, but not the kind on TV. He worked underground—literally—at the Tempest Complex, a facility he once joked could “tell clouds what to feel.” When he told me the weather was being steered, I thought it was another of his conspiracy dives. But now the air feels heavier. Like it's listening.
I still wear his old watch. It stopped ticking the day he vanished—3:47 p.m. I tried replacing the battery. Nothing. But I can’t take it off. It’s the only piece of him I have.
Yesterday, I caught a man photographing the clouds. Not with a phone—with a device that looked military. When I asked what he was doing, he smiled without his eyes. “Measuring resilience,” he said.
I backed away. “Do you work for them?”
His smile faded. “We all do, eventually.”
He pointed to my brother’s watch. “That’s not broken. It’s receiving.” Then he walked off and disappeared into the fog.
That night, I dreamt of static skies and silver towers rising from oceans. I woke to thunder, the first in weeks. My mind buzzed with phrases I’d never heard before: “Cloud Directive 7”, “Hydrofield Lockdown”, “Phase Drift Initiated.”
I opened Kyle’s drawer. Found the map he left hidden beneath the false bottom. Red lines traced from our apartment to the outskirts—past the power plant, toward an old weather station long thought decommissioned. A single word was scribbled over it: “Obelisk.”
I knew then where I had to go.
The walk was long, the rain constant. But when I reached the chain-link fence surrounding the site, I saw it. A massive, slate-gray tower with no markings, humming with energy. The sky above it was clear. Not blue—just silent.
I stepped forward, soaking wet. A man stood at the gate, clipboard in hand, spiral pin on his chest.
“You’re early,” he said.
I froze. “For what?”
“For your return.”
He raised a scanner. The watch on my wrist pulsed once. The gate unlocked.
Inside, the air was dry.
I asked, “What is this place?”
He looked at the tower. “The place where choices are made, and weather obeys.”
And then he handed me a coat. Same kind Kyle used to wear.
Now I sit in a white room. No windows. Just a console with a single blinking cursor and one line of text:
“Proceed with Climate Sync?”
My hand hovers over the key. I don’t know what’ll happen if I press it.
But the rain has stopped.
And somewhere in the silence, I swear I hear Kyle breathing.
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