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The place they had taken cover in could hardly be called a proper shelter. It was a half-collapsed concrete box, once part of a bridge or a warehouse. Rusted beams hung overhead, one wall was cracked, and the other side was an empty opening that revealed a slice of sky and a few scrawny trees on the slope. Silence all around. Suspicious silence. The kind that happens when the machines have pulled back but could return any minute. The mission had failed. Again. No. 21 sat by the entrance, staring into the gray haze of the sky. The SSU gave only static. Comms were down — maybe because of machine jammers, maybe the terrain, maybe both. All they could do was wait. And watch.
No. 22 had settled a little deeper, in the shadows, holding his rifle against his chest. The weapon was nearly useless — the ammo had run out while they were retreating. No. 21 had checked his magazine three times, just in case, out of a habit he couldn't shake even knowing it was empty. No. 22's rifle was no longer a weapon, just an expensive piece of metal. But the scope still worked. With it, he could spot the enemy before they were seen. At least try.
Silence. It was worse than gunfire. Gunfire you could count, trace, estimate distance. Silence gave no data.
"See anything?" No. 21 asked quietly, not turning around.
No. 22 pressed his eye to the scope, peering through a crack in the wall, sweeping left, then right. Nothing but bushes, rocks, trees swaying in the wind.
"Clear," No. 22 said softly, not moving from the scope. "But I don't get why they haven't found us yet. They should have."
"Signal's jammed. Can't make contact," No. 21 replied, still not looking at him. He leaned his back against the cold concrete, closing his eyes — not to rest, but to analyze. Trying to figure out what to do next. "Or they're waiting for us to come out."
They wouldn't come out. Not out of fear. Order. The Instructor had managed to transmit before the connection died: stay put, keep low, we'll reach you in two hours. Two hours had passed long ago. No signal. Nothing was clear. Maybe No. 9 and No. 3, left behind in the rear, were already on their way. Maybe not.
"I don't see anyone," No. 22 said, hoping to spot familiar figures in the distance. His voice was steady, but tension bled through. Not fear — anticipation. When you're out of ammo, every shadow looks like an enemy.
The first rumble came from far away. It sounded like the explosions they were used to. No. 22 didn't even twitch. No. 21 didn't react either, only noting to himself: that sound isn't mechanical. More like natural.
"An explosion?" No. 22 froze, listening but not pulling away from the crack in the wall. "Another wave? I don't see anything. No machines, no—"
He didn't finish. Something boomed again, closer this time. Deep, rolling, no longer resembling artillery — those were sharp, short, painfully loud. This sound grew, stretched, rolled across somewhere above. Normally explosions were preceded by a whistle or a tremor in the air. But this was just... a rumble. Low, dragging.
He set the rifle aside, glancing toward the doorway where his twin sat.
"I don't think so," No. 21 said, peering outside at the sky. The gray veil had darkened, almost leaden. The edges of the clouds were lit with something pale, not like sunlight.
"Weird..." No. 22 muttered, raising the rifle to his eye again, scanning the distance through the opening for any hint of the source.
"I don't see any flashes. Maybe it's beyond the hills?"
The next rumble was closer. Louder. Deeper. Machines don't make sounds like that. No. 22 looked up. The western sky was darkening. Clouds piled onto each other — gray, purple, heavy.
"Thunderstorm," No. 21 said. No concern in his voice. Just a statement of fact. He said it like he was stating something obvious.
No. 22 lowered the rifle, sitting back against the wall. Far off, above the horizon, something flashed — silent but bright. Lightning. A few seconds later, another rumble rolled in.
"Thunderstorm..." No. 22 repeated, drawing out the last syllable. "I've read about them. Never saw one in person."
"Far away," No. 21 murmured. "Still far."
The weather turned fast. Faster than they expected. Wind came suddenly, rustling through concrete dust, shaking the branches. Cold, damp air and ozone seeped through the crack — ionization, the precursor to a discharge. The sky went completely dark — not a single patch of light visible through the cracks anymore. No. 22 shivered. Not from cold — from the sense of something pressing down. The air thickened, grew dense, like before an impact.
The next rumble struck so unexpectedly and so close that the walls seemed to tremble. Thunder crashed directly overhead. The structure shuddered, dust sifting from the ceiling. No. 22 flinched — not badly, more like an unexpected touch. The rifle clinked against concrete, and he quickly grabbed it, pulling it back to his chest.
No. 21 was calm but watchful. He observed him from the corner of his eye, noticing things No. 22 probably didn't notice himself: spine too straight, hands locked too tightly around the barrel. He simply stood and sat down beside him. Now their shoulders almost touched. No. 22 was looking at the sky, and his expression was slowly changing. Not fear — more confusion. Then something like tension, the kind he didn't show even under fire.
"It's not the enemy," No. 21 said quietly, after another rumble sent more dust from the ceiling. "Just weather. It doesn't aim. Doesn't chase."
"I know," No. 22 replied, but his voice wavered. "Sorry," he whispered, though there was nothing to apologize for.
He was used to explosions. Sharp, short, predictable. The kind you could track, take cover from, shoot back at, run from. The thunderstorm was different. It rolled in slowly, relentlessly, and you couldn't fire a burst at it or sink a blade into it. The shelter grew dark — almost like night.
"What's wrong?" No. 21 asked directly. No condescension.
"I don't like this," No. 22 said with a crooked smile, trying to sound lighthearted but failing. "The thunder. It feels wrong. Explosions I understand. You know where they're coming from, where they'll land. But this… it's everywhere at once. You can't predict it."
He spoke, and the longer he spoke, the more he stumbled. Because the next strike hit almost on top of them. Lightning struck somewhere a hundred meters away, and the thunder rolled through with such force that No. 22's breath caught for a second. The flash lit up the whole space like an unbearably bright flashlight, and a second later the crash was so loud the ground trembled under their feet.
The rifle slipped from his hands, clattering dully against the floor. No. 22 didn't even notice this time. He sat with his head tucked into his shoulders, arms wrapped around himself, breathing too fast, too shallow. He wasn't crying, wasn't screaming, not making any sound at all.
No. 21 turned to him. Not sharply, not judgmentally. He looked and understood everything. Irrational fear. The thunderstorm wasn't an enemy. You couldn't shoot it, couldn't outmaneuver it. You could only endure it.
Then he did what he always did. What had been etched into his code, recorded at the level of basic protocols. The ones that don't erase even after a reformat.
"Come here." He leaned slightly toward him, arms opening.
No. 22 didn't argue. He moved closer. Not quite into an embrace — just close enough so that his shoulder pressed tightly against his twin's, his head touching No. 21's chin if he lean just a little lower.
Another rumble. Louder. Brighter. And No. 21, without a word, pulled him into an embrace. A familiar gesture — one hand on the back of his head, the other on his shoulder blade, pressing him close.
No. 22 wrapped his arms around his twin's torso. His fingers dug into the fabric of his uniform, bunching it at the back. Not painfully. Just holding on. He pressed his cheek to No. 21's shoulder. Closed his eyes.
Another rumble. No. 22 jolted in his arms — his whole body, as if struck by electricity.
"It's just thunder," No. 21 said evenly, almost monotonously, as if delivering a lecture on atmospheric phenomena. And somehow that made it easier. "It won't hurt. I've read about it. It's just sound. Not dangerous."
"I know," No. 22's voice was muffled against his twin's shoulder. "I know it's stupid."
"Not stupid. Irrational. Different things."
"I know."
"I'm here."
No. 22 flinched again, but didn't pull away. He pressed in deeper, as if trying to hide inside his twin.
The thunderstorm raged directly above them now. Lightning struck the ground somewhere beyond the concrete wall. The sound was so loud it deafened. Thunder crashed again and again. Sometimes closer, sometimes a little farther. Rain poured down in sheets, drumming on the concrete slabs above, seeping through cracks in the ceiling in cold trickles.
But No. 22 no longer flinched. Because his twin's body was right there. Warm, familiar down to every millimeter. Because No. 21's heart beat steadily, and that rhythm was louder than the thunder outside.
The storm raged for another half hour. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it began to fade. The rumbles retreated into the distance, the rain softened to a light drizzle, and the gray sky began to brighten at one edge.
No. 22 didn't notice when he stopped being afraid. Maybe it was when No. 21's fingers began automatically stroking his back, calming him like a child. Maybe he just got tired. But when the rain began to let up and the thunder moved away, No. 22 suddenly realized his eyes were closed. And he didn't want to open them. Didn't want to stand up. Didn't need to check the perimeter. The rifle was beside him, his twin was beside him, the storm was over. He could just… sit like this. One more minute. It was good here.
No. 21 didn't realize right away that No. 22 had fallen asleep. He just felt his body grow heavier, leaning more firmly against him.
"No. 22?" he called quietly.
No answer. Just slow, steady breathing.
He didn't wake him. Didn't try to move him. He just kept sitting there, back against the cold wall, a warm, living weight in his arms. He didn't move. Not even when water trickled down the wall and into his collar. Not even when his leg went numb from the awkward position. He sat, holding him close, watching the gray sky through the doorway.
Irrational fear. Irrational protection.
Maybe this was what they called family.
When the downpour finally stopped and the thunder had rolled away to the horizon, No. 22 was still sitting in the circle of his twin's arms. Eyes closed. Breathing steady. He woke when light began filtering through the cracks again, falling on his face. Sunlight. Warm. He blinked, trying to figure out where he was.
"…Did I fall asleep?"
"Yes."
"And the thunderstorm?"
"Already over."
No. 22 slowly pulled back. He looked around — gray, damp, everything as it had been before — and then at No. 21, who hadn't moved at all.
"You just sat there the whole time?"
No. 21 shrugged, saying nothing.
Finally, after a few minutes, silhouettes appeared in the doorway. No. 9 and No. 3. Their uniforms were soaked and muddy — they had clearly been moving through the downpour. No. 3 gave them a quick look, huffed, but said nothing. Just muttered something like "always hiding somewhere," not meanly, more as a formality.
No. 9 ran over to them, automatically looking for injuries out of habit. Seeing that both were unharmed, he exhaled — relieved, almost silently.
No. 22 tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't cooperate. No. 21, without a word, caught him by the elbow. Noticed the rifle still lying on the ground and picked it up himself.
No one asked why they had been sitting in each other's arms. There was no point. Everything was already clear.