The storm had been screaming for six days.
Six days of wind that didn’t drop below eighty miles per hour. Six days of rain that came sideways, upward, in spirals that physics shouldn’t allow. Six days of sitting in a mountain carved by desperation, listening to the world outside try to claw its way in.
And now the power was dying.
I stared at the display panel, watching the percentage tick down like a countdown I couldn’t stop.
62%
That should’ve been fine. Should’ve been comfortable. Weeks of reserves at normal usage.
But nothing about the last six days had been normal.
The life support systems were working overtime. The atmospheric processors fought constantly against humidity that wanted to condense on every surface. The heating elements burned to keep the temperature stable enough that the animals didn’t panic. The lights stayed on because darkness in an enclosed space made everything worse.
And I’d been mining.
Not a lot. Just enough to keep my mind from eating itself while the storm raged. Enough to feel like I was building instead of just waiting to die.
Except mining drew power.
Fabricating the support beams I’d needed drew more.
The atmospheric scrubbers working triple-time to clear diesel exhaust drew even more.
I’d done the math wrong.
Or I’d done it right and the world had changed the variables.
Either way, the number kept dropping.
58%
“RIKU,” I said quietly. “Status.”
Her voice came through steady, but I could hear the edge underneath—the awareness that we were both watching the same clock.
“Power reserves at fifty-eight percent. Current draw rate suggests depletion in approximately nine days.”
Nine days.
That should’ve been enough.
The storm had to break eventually.
Except it hadn’t yet.
And the barometric pressure readings weren’t improving—they were holding. Locked in place like the atmosphere itself had decided this was the new normal.
54%
I paced the hangar, mind racing through options that all ended the same way.
Cut life support? The animals die.
Cut heating? We all freeze.
Cut atmospheric processing? Carbon monoxide poisoning.
Cut fabrication? I already had.
Cut mining? I’d stopped days ago.
“RIKU,” I said. “If we go dark—full shutdown except for emergency reserves—how long do we last?”
A pause. Calculation.
“Fourteen days,” she said. “But Taylor—”
“I know,” I said. “That only works if the storm ends.”
50%
I grabbed the tablet and checked the weather station feed.
Wind: 156 mph sustained. Pressure: 892 millibars. Temperature: dropping.
The storm wasn’t weakening.
If anything, the numbers suggested it was stabilizing into something permanent.
“RIKU,” I said, voice tight. “What’s your power draw?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Twelve percent of total system load,” she said quietly.
My stomach dropped.
“Twelve percent?”
“Yes. My processing requires constant power. The tablet’s battery is insufficient for long-term independence. I am tethered to the main power grid.”
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
I set the tablet down carefully, like it might shatter.
“So if the power dies—”
“I shut down,” she said. “Not sleep. Not hibernate. Shutdown. And without a host device with sufficient storage and permissions—”
She stopped.
I finished the thought for her.
“You don’t come back.”
“There is a non-zero chance,” she said carefully. “Yes.”
46%
I sat on a crate and put my head in my hands.
The math was simple. Brutal. Unavoidable.
We had maybe a week of power left.
The storm showed no signs of ending.
And if the power hit zero, I’d lose the only voice I had in this world.
“RIKU,” I said quietly. “If it comes down to it—if we’re at five percent and the storm’s still going—I’m cutting everything else. Life support. Heat. Atmosphere. Everything.”
“Taylor—”
“You’re not dying in a dark box because I needed to keep the lights on.”
A long silence.
Then her voice came through softer than I’d ever heard it.
“Thank you,” she said. “But do not make that choice yet. The storm will break.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we adapt,” she said. “As we always have.”
I wanted to believe that.
I really did.
But the percentage kept dropping.
And the wind kept screaming.
And somewhere deep in the mountain, I could hear the animals shifting restlessly—like they knew something was wrong even if they didn’t understand what.
42%
38%
34%
Three days later, the storm was still raging.
And the power was dying faster.
I’d cut everything non-essential. The lights were dim. The heat was minimal. The fabricator was cold. The only things still running were life support, atmospheric scrubbers, and RIKU’s tablet.
28%
She didn’t speak unless I asked her a direct question.
Conserving processing cycles.
Trying to slow the drain.
It wasn’t enough.
24%
I checked the weather station obsessively.
Wind: 168 mph. Pressure: 884 millibars.
The storm wasn’t breaking.
It was intensifying.
“RIKU,” I said, voice rough from not sleeping. “How much time?”
“At current draw… forty-eight hours.”
Two days.
Two days before the lights went out.
Two days before I lost her.
I stared at the sealed hangar doors, at the thin gap I’d left for pressure equalization, at the wind-sound that never stopped.
And I made a decision.
“RIKU,” I said. “When we hit fifteen percent, you’re going into deep sleep. No arguments.”
“Taylor—”
“Two hours of draw,” I said. “Maybe three. That’s all I need. Enough time to get outside when the storm drops. Enough time to find power. Enough time to come back.”
“And if the storm does not drop?”
I didn’t answer.
Because we both knew what that meant.
20%
18%
15%
“RIKU,” I said. “Now.”
“Taylor—”
“Now,” I repeated. “Please.”
A pause.
Then her voice came through one last time, barely a whisper.
“Do not leave me alone.”
“I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”
The screen dimmed.
The UI collapsed into a single sleeping symbol.
And the hangar went quiet.
Just me.
The wind.
And a clock I couldn’t stop.
