The day the bio-chemical rain fell on the Western Protectorate was etched into Beshaar's memory like a deep scar. It was the day the world as he knew it crumbled, leaving behind a wasteland of death and despair. He often wondered how he survived that cursed rain while so many others perished. The memories were a haunting symphony of agony, fear, and sheer will to live.
The Day the Rain Began
Beshaar had been working in the cotton fields on the outskirts of his village. The morning was like any other—bright skies, a warm sun, and the faint hum of crickets in the distance. Farmers chatted as they toiled, and children ran through the fields, their laughter ringing out like bells.
The first sign of danger came with an unnatural silence. The birds that usually fluttered between the trees had vanished. The wind, always present to rustle the cotton plants, stilled. A strange metallic tang filled the air, sharp and unnatural, as though the very atmosphere had been poisoned.
Then the clouds rolled in. Dark and ominous, they appeared out of nowhere, swallowing the sun and casting the land in a sickly greenish hue. Beshaar, like everyone else, looked up in confusion. The clouds didn't look natural—they were too thick, too perfectly formed, and they moved against the wind.
When the first drops fell, they were cold and heavy, striking the ground with an eerie hiss. Beshaar's first instinct was curiosity. He held out his hand to catch a droplet, but as soon as it touched his skin, it burned—not like fire, but like acid, seeping into his pores with a relentless intensity. He recoiled in pain, rubbing at his hand, which was already turning red and raw. Around him, others began to scream.
The Chaos Unfolds
Panic erupted as people fled in all directions, seeking shelter from the rain. Beshaar sprinted towards a nearby barn, his heart pounding in his chest. He could hear the cries of the villagers as they succumbed to the rain. Children fell first, their small bodies unable to withstand the chemical onslaught. Women screamed for their loved ones, only to collapse mid-run, their skin blistering and their eyes glazing over.
The plants withered before his eyes, the once lush green cotton fields turning into ash-gray wastelands. The rain didn't just kill—it annihilated. It reduced everything it touched to lifeless, decaying remnants. Beshaar's mind raced with terror as he watched his world dissolve around him.
The Run for Shelter
Beshaar reached the barn, but it offered little protection. The roof was old, and the rain seeped through the cracks. He huddled in a corner, wrapping himself in a tattered canvas tarp he found. The tarp provided some barrier, but he could still feel the rain's effects—his skin tingled and burned where droplets had landed, and his breathing became labored as the chemical-laden air filled his lungs.
The barn was dark, save for the occasional flash of lightning that illuminated the horror outside. Through the gaps in the wooden walls, he saw bodies littering the ground, their forms twisted and contorted in death. Animals, too, lay motionless—the cows in the field, the birds that had tried to flee, even the rats that had scurried for cover. Nothing was spared.
The Lingering Night
The rain fell for hours, each drop a harbinger of death. Beshaar remained curled in his corner, shivering despite the heat of the chemical burns on his skin. He could hear the faint cries of survivors—some calling for help, others simply screaming in agony. Slowly, the voices faded, one by one, until there was nothing but the relentless patter of rain and the occasional groan of the barn's structure.
Beshaar felt as though he were suffocating. His chest burned with every breath, his lungs struggling to process the toxic air. He covered his mouth with a strip of cloth he tore from his shirt, hoping it would filter out some of the poison. It helped, but only slightly.
The Aftermath
When the rain finally stopped, it left behind an eerie silence. No birds chirped, no insects buzzed, and the usual rustling of leaves was absent. The world was still, as though death itself had laid claim to the land.
Beshaar emerged from the barn cautiously, his legs weak and trembling. The scene that greeted him was worse than any nightmare. The fields were unrecognizable, the once thriving cotton plants reduced to brittle, gray stalks. The air was thick with the stench of decay and chemicals, a nauseating mix that made him gag.
Bodies lay everywhere—men, women, children—all frozen in grotesque poses of pain and fear. Beshaar felt a lump rise in his throat as he recognized familiar faces among the dead. He stumbled through the village, calling out for survivors, but no one answered.
The Battle to Stay Alive
For the next few days, Beshaar lived in a haze of pain and despair. His skin itched and burned where the rain had touched it, the sores refusing to heal. He scavenged for food and water but found little that hadn't been contaminated. Every bite of stale bread or sip of murky water was a gamble, and he could feel his body weakening with each passing hour.
Yet, he refused to give up. Something deep inside him—a stubborn, unyielding will—kept him going. He found a small underground cellar that had been used to store grain. The grain was spoiled, but the cellar offered a safe place to hide and recover. He spent days in the dark, nursing his wounds and rationing the few edible scraps he could find.
The Survivor's Guilt
Surviving the rain came at a cost. Beshaar was haunted by the faces of those who hadn't made it—friends, neighbors, children he'd watched grow up. He blamed himself for living when so many had died. Why had he been spared? What made him different?
The nights were the worst. In the silence, his mind replayed the horrors he had witnessed. He heard the screams, saw the lifeless bodies, and smelled the acrid stench of death. Sleep was a rare and fleeting mercy, and even in his dreams, he found no peace.
The Turning Point
Despite the guilt and despair, Beshaar knew he couldn't let himself fade away. The West needed survivors—people who could remember what had been lost and fight for what could still be reclaimed. Slowly, he began to gather his strength. He explored the ruined villages, searching for others like him. He found a few—a handful of people who had hidden well enough to avoid the rain. Together, they shared stories, resources, and the fragile hope that someday, the West might rise again.
Beshaar's survival wasn't just a physical battle; it was a test of his spirit. The rain had taken everything from him—his home, his loved ones, his sense of safety. But it hadn't taken his will to fight. And as he stood amidst the ashes of his once-prosperous protectorate, he made a silent vow: the East would pay for what they had done.