The Storm Festival is Jejity's most vibrant and cherished tradition, celebrated once every five years to honor the life-giving rains that transform the harsh desert surrounding the city.
It commemorates the rare, powerful storms that sweep across the desert, replenishing the city's water reserves and breathing life into its arid surroundings.
The festival dates back centuries to the founding of Jejity, when the city's first settlers endured years of drought and hardship before a miraculous storm saved them. The rains filled their reservoirs, washed away their fears, and allowed them to establish a permanent settlement.
To honor the storm that spared them, they began the festival as a gesture of gratitude and hope for future rains.
Uniquely, despite this rain being radioactive, it was still safe to drink. The only problem was that it couldn't be stored for more than a day. Even if frozen, after a day passes, from the moment the rain falls, the radioactive water becomes one of the most dangerous to ingest, unfiltered.
Jeji Park sprawled across the heart of the city, a rare touch of green amidst the city's harsh industrial gray. The park was like a divider that separated the slums from the urban side of Jejity.
Just a few days ago, this park had seen better days; cracked pathways wounded through overgrown grass, and streetlamps flickered faintly. In the center stood a rundown fountain, its water long gone, replaced by graffiti proclaiming bold messages of rebellion and hope.
But tonight, the park seemed alive.
The grasses had been cut to make the place presentable. The water fountain had been repainted and fixed, and even water was running through the fountain, albeit, a dangerous one. The streetlamps had been fixed and their lights shone brightly.
Even the cracked pathways had been fixed.
A crowd was already forming, buzzing with curiosity.
Makeshift stalls lined the edges, selling food and trinkets, while street performers added chaotic energy to the gathering.
Above, the sky glowed faintly from the artificial lights of nearby buildings, casting long shadows across the park.
In an alley of one of the sky-reaching buildings situated near the park, Messimah leaned on the walls of a fairly dark alley, waiting for Trumm and Gola to meet him there.
Messimah's gaze swept over the vibrant chaos of the Storm Festival, his jaw tightening as the laughter and music grated against his nerves. Every flicker of simulated lightning, every cheer echoing in the night, felt like an insult to the very struggles they all endured.
"Every five years, the same thing," Messimah muttered under his breath, his voice laced with disdain.
"When will they choose to stand up for themselves? When will they demand better lives from those who keep them shackled?" He whispered.
The festival was a distraction, a pacifier handed down by the elite to keep the masses in line. It celebrated survival, and resilience—but to Messimah, it was a celebration of complacency.
Why are humans like this? Messimah thought bitterly.
How is this festival their solution?
The storms had once represented rebirth, a cleansing force that brought the promise of life to a barren desert. But now, the traditions were hollow, stripped of their original meaning. The people who had truly benefited from the storms—the builders of the aqueducts, the visionaries who transformed desolation into survival—were long dead.
"And yet, they cling to it," Messimah spat, his voice barely audible over the festival's roar.
A tradition that no longer represents them, that keeps them docile while their reality grows harsher every year.
He turned his gaze away from the crowd, unable to stomach their joy.
For Messimah, the Storm Festival wasn't a celebration. It was a chain, binding the people of Jejity to a life of submission under the guise of hope.
They deserved better—so much better.
And if no one else would demand it for them, perhaps he and his crew could force the change they needed.
Rebellion is one word that could cause the elites to unite and act in unison to eliminate the sprout of this rebellion.
If Messimah was heard by anyone or even the authorities in the city, he would be killed immediately, no questions asked.
Not many have the guts to publicize their rebellion, and even those that do, are way too powerless to start anything.
How many flames of such had been ignited in the past and were immediately snuffed out by the authorities in power?
Countless.
Many had tried and failed, and they all had something in common, they were stinky poor and lacked adequate manpower or resources to facilitate this rebellion.
To liberate oneself from the constraints of poverty is one of the first steps. Liberation of the mind, thoughts, and actions. Liberation from illiteracy…
"Messimah," Trumm called out, bringing Messimah out of his thoughts.
He hadn't even noticed when Trumm and Gola had arrived.
"You look unwell, what is it?" Trumm questioned as he observed Messimah facial features.
"Poverty, I'm sick of it," Messimah answered softly.
"Oh… that's valid, I guess." Trumm stuttered.
Unlike Messimah, his friends were dressed differently.
Gola had a sturdy, compact build that gave him the air of someone who could endure anything the world threw at him. His skin was a deep, sun-weathered brown, like that of most people in this city after facing years of Jejity's relentless desert sun.
His angular jawline and high cheekbones framed a face that carried a calm intensity, accentuated by his piercing dark eyes. His hair was close-cropped, practical, and no-nonsense, with a slight fade that tapered cleanly to his nape.
Gola wasn't flashy, but his steady presence always made an impression.
While Messimah opted for sleekness and subtlety in his thinner skeletal bionic suit, Gola and Trumm embodied a more imposing presence.
Both wore heavier models of the skeletal bionic suits, their reinforced frames bulkier yet designed for maximum protection and firepower. Matte black with faint blue accents along the joints, the suits exuded a sense of tactical readiness.
Trumm's suit featured additional plating on the chest and shoulders, hinting at its emphasis on defense. Across his back, a compact yet formidable energy rifle was magnetically mounted, its sleek barrel peeking just above his right shoulder.
Holstered at his hips were two modified pistols, each customized with desert-ready grips for quickdraws.
A short, serrated blade rested in a sheath strapped to his thigh—a last resort, but one Trumm was all too familiar with using.
Gola's suit was similarly heavy but carried more modular attachments, including a wrist-mounted micro-drone launcher and a combat knife integrated into the forearm. Unlike Trumm, Gola had a semi-automatic shotgun slung diagonally across his back, the weapon's matte finish blending seamlessly with his armor.
The two of them stood in stark contrast to Messimah's minimalistic attire.
Their heavier gear not only reflected their roles in this operation but also underscored the layered tension of the moment—they were prepared for a fight if it came to that.
"Where's mine?" Messimah asked with an arm stretched out.
Knowing what he was referring to, in one of the three compact bags that Gola had on him, he retrieved two pistols with a modified body to Messimah. After that, he handed him four more magazines carrying bullets.
Taking the guns from Gola, Messimah turned to face Trumm. Waiting for him was a gun holster. Removing his jacket to wear the holster and placed the guns in them, Messimah wore his jacket back, hiding the guns underneath.
"Let's hope we don't have to use them," Trumm uttered.
"Highly unlikely," Messimah said.
"Can we have a glimpse at the holy grail?" Trumm asked whilst looking at the bag Messimah had with him.
Understanding what his friend was feeling, Messimah brought the bag to his front, opened it up, and removed the Aqua Filtration Kit.
Its blue light shone in this alley, attracting both Trumm and Gola's eyes to its body. "That's one hell of a prototype, Simah…" Gola complimented, his mind going through the possible fortune that this device could them in the future.
Within his eyes, the flames of hope became even more intense.
Raising his head to look at Messimah, Gola couldn't help but recall the first day that he had met this person he called a friend.
With a chuckle, he calmed himself down.
It's not done until it's done. Until we have safely secured everything we need to prosper, I can't let my wishy-washy emotions take over my mind.
This is only the beginning.
We need to succeed… no, we must succeed!
Gola thought to himself before breaking the silence.
"All the bikes have the essentials hidden in their compartments. Weapons, energy snacks, and a little extra fuel in case we have to go the extra mile." Gola said as he began inspecting another set of pistols, checking to see if they were in good condition for battle.
That's why I had you bring me guns and not this foolish brother next to me. Messimah thought as he glanced at Trumm for a second. His gaze also landed on the weapon that was hanging on Trumm's back.
Well, he also has his uses.
For a few seconds, while they stood where they were, the tension in the air, for them, increased, making the three of them a bit nervous. A feeling that's valid in and of itself.
Who wouldn't be nervous moments before making a decision that could either make or break your life?
"What about you Trumm, anything here holding you back? Perhaps a girl, or even a kid? Now is the best time to let us know." Messimah asked, attempting to tension.
At the same time, he returned the Aqua Filtration Kit into his bag.
"Are you mad, Messimah?"
"Compared to someone who spent his night in the toilet of a club, hiding from his debtors, I think I'm quite sane."
With a snort, Trumm looked to the sky.
"Everything we hold dear is long gone. I haven't dared to hold anyone closer since that day. I don't even think I'm capable of doing such anymore, so… none of you bastards are allowed to die no matter what. Especially you, Messimah Domo, you suicidal bastard."
"That's for me to decide, retard." Messimah replied with a smirk on his face. "Nothing to be gained here anymore," With a deep breath, Messimah paused.
"It's time." He added.
With a nod and a brief glance at Messimah and Trumm, Gola hoisted his luggage and disappeared into the shadows of the alley, heading toward his station.
Trumm tapped the communication device in his ear, signaling his readiness.
"See you later, Simah," he said, extending his fist in the familiar gesture.
Messimah glanced at Trumm's outstretched fist before raising his own, bumping it lightly against Trumm's in silent acknowledgment.
With that, Trumm also disappeared into the shadows of the alley, heading towards his station.
Messimah remained where he was, knowing that it would take them around 10 minutes to each get to their stations.
If they don't want to save themselves, then what right do I have to save them? Is that selfless of me, or am I just being selfish?
While he was trying to figure out the answer to this, time went by in a flash and before he knew it, Gola's voice came from the wireless earpiece in his ear, saying;
"In position. Ready."
Right after that, Trumm's voice came.
"In Position, Also ready. On your mark Simah."
A debate for another time I guess.
With a soft sigh, Messimah responded; "It's showtime boys." With that, he stepped out of the alley and into the crowd before making his way into Jeji Park.