The Swarm

Nature is relentless in its endless dance of death. Two forces always entwine into something new until they consume each other completely. Nothing can exist as purely creative or purely destructive, gaining the only skill the world truly teaches—adaptation. Life is impossible without balance, even when that balance is forced. Poisonous mycelium—the staple food of the survivors—not only condemned them to short lives, but also offered salvation. Even insects became part of the system. They were turned into biotextile. Purified and evaporated chitin shells, mixed with organic matter, were laid over fungal colonies, producing a dense, felt-like base. It was then stitched with insect sinew and a bone needle. The inner soft layer maintained a tolerable temperature and allowed air to circulate, while the softened shell of the enemy ironically became armor, porous and breathing. All of it functioned as a new skin—the ability to step into the light that humanity had once lost by disrupting the ecosystem in its desire to become a new God. Merid’s hands moved carefully over every section of the protective suit, checking for dried patches and generously coating them with waxed oil. One condition mattered above all: the mycelium had to stay alive as long as possible. The remaining substance was applied to exposed areas of her scalp and hair. Pulling on a filter mask that covered her face up to the brows, she gave Yun a brief nod, signaling readiness. They changed quickly, by habit, standing back to back as sunlight forced its way through the hatch above like something predatory. The cage was draped with a piece of the same biotextile. Not enough to preserve health or strength—but enough to stay alive until the moment you were served for dinner. The technician began climbing the ladder, shifting the protective shutter at the top and pulling himself into the outer world. Tossing her red strands over her shoulder, Merid followed. Yun’s hand met hers, taking the cage and helping her out. Her gaze met a milky-yellow sky, greenish clouds, and a sun that looked twice as large as the one remembered by the people of the lost world. Consequences of atmospheric change. But the worst part was the silence. The air was thick and heavy. Every movement had to be deliberate and slow; breathing calm and controlled. Everything to slow oxidation before it destroyed both fabric and flesh. No talking. No panic. This silence—broken only by the faint scrape of protective material—was the new song of humanity: a brutal stillness after centuries of noise. Along the path stood gurnia trees. Their crowns were made of spines, a response to the aggressive light. Yun opened his bag and slowly collected the harvest: hard, shriveled fruits with a faint scent of rot. A mandatory offering for residential zone D16, which would receive them before the meeting with the King. The timer. A mechanical device reminded them to take a sip of salted water, bitter with minerals, every twenty minutes. A survival measure. Four signals remained before D16. The suit clung to her skin, slick and damp—the day turned out hotter than expected. A calculated trade-off: insects avoided the surface during daylight because of the scorching rays, reducing the risk of encountering the Swarm while it was hungry. The timer. Merid glanced at it, irritation sharpening behind her eyes. The sticking suit only made it worse. A sip. She didn’t forget the raccoon either, catching Yun’s look. Between them hung a suffocating tension—not only from the environment, but from something deeper. Suspicion. The path was exhausting. Her legs were already trembling. The small amount of water didn’t refresh her, providing only electrolytes. That was intentional: excess strain on the kidneys would accelerate sweating. A steel plate embedded in the ground came into view—the access point linking the surface to the underground section of D16. Three short knocks of a fist signaled their arrival. The timer sounded for the fourth time