An explosion of catastrophic range took over the northern port in the seventh region, but Moon Murthy's hair is pale as the snow that must be falling and covering the wreckage left behind there. I heard it killed over five hundred people. Almost as many people sit in the auditorium enchanted by the woman's presence. The difference between them from those who died is that they were in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and not least importantly, in the score system.
I could never be in the middle of those people on the screen, drooling over Moon Murphy's dress, the bracelet on my wrist wouldn't allow me access. Her designers must have spent hours sewing all those little stars made of sapphire attached to her dress. It should make one feel outrageous. Those gemstones are particularly expensive, and the average worker can't even dream of receiving enough to buy only one of those. Most of the people receive enough to live a pleasant life, but not to buy sapphires. But we all agree they look better on the Darlings.
As for me, I have to accept whatever is offered, even if it means to scrub the dirt off the side of cargo vessels. At least, I am scrubbing off marine reminiscent, such as oysters, crabs, riffs; not pieces of corpses like those who work up in the north probably are now. The warfare doesn't stop arriving though and the retaliation for the explosion is on the way. This won't be addressed on the broadcasts because people need to know bad things only happen overseas. I wipe the tingling sweat off my forehead and decide to join my colleagues for the break, which means watching the broadcasts.
I squeeze myself between the broad men who work with me. They glare at me with not very welcoming eyes but open up space. They are all enchanted by them. By their tasteful lies being sung to their ears like a lullaby.
"It's such a lovely day, isn't it?" The hostess, a woman of a perfect asymmetrical face, asks. I couldn't help but gasp at this specific commentary. Over five hundred lives lost, and she says the day is beautiful. Certainly, not for me, and not for them. But as long as the incident is stifled, it won't appear in any media, then will be as if it never happened.
"Yes, it's amazing. I've never seen such a blue sky here in the second region." Moon Murthy fixes the tiara wedged in a star form around her head. The second region embraces all the broadcast studios and the most wealthy people. "This reminds me of Catrina's wedding day. Oh, those flowery meadows were impeccable."
Catrina was the last character she played. A farmer girl who had the terrible mission of encountering the impostor among her small town, the one working for the enemy. Of course, she had the help of a handsome global army soldier, who saved her from this alien threat. Bullshit, I know. But this is what everybody talks about now, besides what she is doing, if she yawned, if she slept. All these important subjects.
"I heard they picked each one up personally to make that as perfect as possible. Bluebird never mistakes." The hostess adds before giving her a curious look. "Tell us the important stuff, Moon. Tell us if what the nation is thinking is indeed true. Are you planning on buying a Mansion on Venice Heal?"
The important stuff.
The actress covers her lips tinted blue, feigning certain shyness. "Oh, about that. No, of course, not. My very own mansion has more room that one could need, I think I should invite some from the audience to spend some time with me. Would you like that?" The white headed woman cranes her head towards the audience, who stand up screaming and reaching out their hands.
"Who on earth wouldn't like to spend some time with you?" The hostess snorts. "Count me in for that." She seems to have drifted off a few seconds, which she didn't. "Moon, in two days the Annual Celebration Party is taking place in the Bluebird's hill,"
The actress nods.
"Will the president attend with you?" The people beside me respond to the statement, making astonishment sounds. Even I do that. President Harrison is loved by Parsagadae, exactly because of the entertainment he offers and how he makes war seem easy.
"The President has his own matters to deal with. Such as finding a singer for the nation's 104th anniversary, a cater to prepare his upcoming birthday. I don't think there is time left for a friend," She shifts on the white couch.
The crowd on and off-screen cheers. The chubby man beside me grunts that she deserves all the attention in this world and not just crumbs. I agree. But all of them have failed to notice the President has a family. A woman and a daughter. It's weird of the hostess to infer what she did. It's not an expected behavior from Pasargadae' citizens It's the old saying. Do as I say, not as I do.
Here I am, surfaced into their storytelling, forgetting the problems of the world around me, my problems. That's what they do. They enter your mind, and you want them to be there.
"Have you decided your outfit for the day?" The hostess continues.
"Yes," The actress portrays a simpering smile. "I will wear a dress patched with the rags of those who descended today. I hope to be helping the President this way."
My forehead wrinkles instantly, and I tilt my head to hear better and check if I got it right. I probably didn't. They don't ever mention casualties in Pasargadae. Never.
All we see is our achievements against the Enemy Nations. How our technology has advanced. How our nation stands stronger every day, and happier, and better. Before moving here, I thought this place was a real fairy tale, and it is in many aspects. If I wasn't a foreigner I'd be able to live up to everything Pasargadae has to offer. Not that I am complaining, it's better than any place I know. But I come from a frayed nation, so I don't really have a say in this matter.
"You are such a caring celebrity, one of the best. Of course, the children who went to tour the old caverns of the north will be delighted with the special reminder," The hostess says and the screen freezes, emitting a deafening humming and zigzagging gray stripes.
The broad men stand up vocalizing many complaints and hurtle their hands through the reflection that wobbles. But I am static holding on to the steel bench under my body. She mentioned the attack, in a subtle yet provocative way, didn't she? No, probably not. As weird and unflattering as it can be, the tour mentioned exists in the north; and pretending to help the poor always look good. She wanted to look good, as always.
Someone's hands wrap around both my shoulders, and my thoughts slip further. I yank them away. I've already told Coral I hate these stupid pranks. When I turn, her eyes follow the disappointed men behind me, but the ghost of a playful smile still lingers on her lips.
"That record is late, Jorie. It's not live," She shrugs, and her golden eyes meet mine.
"How do you know that?"
"It passed before, in my break," We work in the same dock but our breaks nearly never meet. I reach out to wipe away a stain of grease on her forehead, which I already regret. "With an adendo saying she was found dead."
The words sink in harder than I thought they would. It can't be possible that I am taken aback by a Bluebird's Darling's death. But I am. I've seen her on screens since before I arrived in this nation. My old home is an ally nation, which means they broadcast their programs there too. And, she was so young.
"How did it happen?" I peek over the people behind me squirming in anger, arguing with the zigzagging image. I can't possibly imagine what's going to happen when they find out she is gone. I try to hide the lump in my throat, making up for my last question. "But who cares? I don't get why people are so invested in what they do out of their lives, and less so about their deaths."
"Suicide," Coral says swiftly. He genuinely doesn't care about the Darlings' lives.
She seemed happy in her last broadcast. Well, all of them always seem happy. Always grunting about their expensive clothes and houses, their special designers, their cold calculated diet without carbohydrate. I don't see any reason for her not to want to keep pursuing all that. She seemed to enjoy expensive things and attention.
Coral picks my nose and I smile, shoving her hand away. "I heard something that might interest you." I tilt my head and put my hands on my waist. Her grin grows wider, creating a dimple on her right cheek. "People are organizing a farewell tonight in Bluebird's Boulevard for the fallen star."
"And?" I ask, because one thing is I feel shaken by her death, she was a human being just like me. Hypocrite, maybe. Still, a human being. Now, going off to some farewell party to keep on distracting the population about how we are on the verge of losing the war. No, thank you.
"John and Clarke challenged us," She splays her arms. Coral and I have this similar pet peeve, we hate losing. If we are challenged, we go on until the end. John and Clarke found this out when they first challenged us, months ago, about who could stay more time on the ocean water. We lasted for over four hours there.
"Really?" I question, interested. Even though my fingers wrinkled like the ones of an old lady, the sweet feeling of victory was worth it.
"The farewell will be held on Bluebird Boulevard, full of mansions spitting money." She winks. "Whoever steals more chocolate of varied brands wins, and who loses will have to spare their breaks for a month."
I give it a thought, my brain processing the information swiftly.
"They want us to bluff, so they can finally win," The challenges started low, like serenading the person to your right or doing four cartwheels in a row, but Clarke got more creative with time, and things got harder, like letting the group give you a new hairstyle, and here I am with the hair above my shoulders, changing your boss' lunch for spoiled fish, and now... this. I look at the drone hovering towards me. The break is ending. "They know it's too dangerous,"
"This is the fun part," She chuckles seeing me focused on the flying device. Sometimes, surviving away from our families in a not very welcoming environment takes some parts of you that need to be filled with something else. We both learned adrenaline is a good filler. "Are you scared?"
"Of course, not," I cross my arms over my chest. "Let's get us some chocolates for dessert, I guess," I give the hovering drone another look. "I better go back, before they fire me,"
Our bosses don't stand the reek of spoiled fish mingled with the excruciating heat. Technology helped with that. Now the drones alert them when someone is not working, or if someone died. Dehydration is a problem. We had more cases of people dying than not working. This is why the docks are filled with foreigners.
"They won't. Gerald is doing everything but checking that camera, you know that," Coral says before I stride towards my place in the docks. I quickly get hold of a knife and start scrubbing harder in the beginning as the drone lenses read my movements, for it to leave me in peace. When it passes by, I go back to my slow pace, moving just enough not to attract him back.
As I struggle with a rather stubborn barnacle, I think if this challenge is really worth it. Maybe it's even disrespectful to play in somebody's farewell party. And worse to steal. We have never stolen anything, nor got near to commit any felony. We know that being arrested means being sent to war overseas. Neither of us wants that.
I heard rumors in the dark web of global army soldiers who exploded as soon as they reached the Enemy Nation lands because they built a field capable of detecting people's mind's activities and its intentions. I don't want to die blown up. But I also don't want to let Clarke bug me with her victory every day when I arrive home.
When the alarm sounds, I shudder. The opposite of what I usually do, that is cover my face with a bandana and run towards home as fast as I can. Working twenty hours a day doesn't leave much room to pursue something else but my bed. Unfortunately, today I have a challenge to overcome, not the kind that makes my stomach stir and my blood thrush to my head, but the one that makes me look in every direction to check if someone knows what I am about to do.
When we don't have anything to hold onto, then we hold onto stupid things. Crumbs of realization. Each one of us tries to feel alive in our own particular possible ways. The challenges are our way.
I cover my face with a bandana before I step out of the docks. There, everyone knows I am a foreigner, but on the outside, it has to remain a secret. The drones patrolling the city 24/7 doesn't make it easy for us.
"Have I ever told you, you look better when you are wearing masks?" Coral pokes me, and all she can see is the depreciating look my eyes convey.
"That's important observation, Coral." I give her a painfully wide smile she doesn't see. "Have I ever told you that you only won the last challenges because of me?"
The street is oddly empty while we wait for the train. I wonder if all of them went to the farewell. Well, the more people, the better. This way they won't pay attention to us, sneaking in and out a few mansions.
"You are too confident, Jorie." She gasps, staring at me with her beautiful golden eyes.
A breeze makes the hair in the back of my neck stand up. "You know this is illegal, right?" Her hair hustles and falls over her eyes. "What we are doing, it's wrong,"
"You know principles may be weighted and none are evergreen," She says as we get closer to the train that slowly stops. "For all the hard work we do, we deserved more than a couple of candies. So, it's not stealing, it's getting what we earn. After all, we weren't the ones who proposed the challenge. It's not our fault." She even mimics a spout.
"I like it better when we are the ones who make the challenges," A green light appears on my bracelet, signaling I had just purchased a train ticket. I search for a place to sit inside the wagon. The last time we challenged, it was to see who would be able to drink some milliliter of salt water. Nothing as dangerous as this."We had to be faster "
"Stop being cranky. I know you love adrenaline." I do. It's true but not the kind of adrenaline in which I have to face Global Soldiers.
"Look," I pat her knee. "We are going into one house, we get as many different chocolate brands as we can, and we are out. We don't need to do more than that to win."
"Alright, boss." She scowls.
"Look who are the losers of the night, ladies and gentlemen, Coral and Jorie!" Clarke hops on the wagon in our direction. She is a short petulant woman who was born to bother me with her high-pitched voice.
Coral feigns a laugh.
"Really? We have beaten you for over six weeks." I gasp, still looming over the fact that I am angry about her proposition.
"Every day is a new day," John squeezes in beside me.
He's right. Every day is a new day, with brand new problems. I tighten my hands around the steel holder and let my face feel the fresh breeze that comes with the speed. I see my messy hair in the reflection. Pulling down the frizz would seem like a nice touch. I also wipe away some grease above my brows. Let's have fun. I nod to my own image. Stop worrying.
The background starts to slowly change, the coast disappears, and I can already see the big structures scattered around regions one and two summits. While most of the nation is made up of warm, colorful colors, the structures in region one are made of sparkling white marble. Which contrasts with the gray of the coast. Of course, they tend to create good places to shoot when the central regions are not enough. Once they rebuilt an entire block of houses to make a short film on the coast of Pasargadae. That day, we did not watch the broadcasts because television was live and a few meters away.
Bluebird Boulevard starts to grow around us. Its beautiful palm trees and big houses enchants our eyes in fast motion until the train stops. We decide to hop off at the beginning of the avenue, where the biggest concentration of people would be gathered. Which means more people to distract everyone from our endeavors. Even why, there's a specific region up on this avenue, where our bracelets wouldn't allow us access.
With an old exchange of defiance looks, the four of us divide ourselves into two groups. Coral and I go for the middle house colored a light blue. We are aware this one belongs to an actor who is filming, therefore it's empty and easy. We swim through the cluster of whining people throwing all kinds of things towards a big poster of a smiling Moon Murthy. I saw a woman throw even food as if she were some kind of god.
We notice some global soldiers with their outstanding red uniforms to our right. Their eyes revolve around the sniveling people. Now, there's a little girl sat on the floor, trying to reach a fallen red rose with a pair of wary eyes. Some of the global soldier's eyes also glisten with undeniable sadness. I nod to Coral, this is time to break into the light blue house.
I tighten the bandana around my face and check if Coral does the same. I make sure the backpack is already open, ready to be filled with different tablets of chocolates. Coral's eyes ask me to follow her towards the backyard. All these houses have their power system deployed in the back, and it's easier to provoke a power break there too.
I watch anxiously as she works her way among a bunch of wires. Their many colors confuse my mind, and I am not able to keep up until everything goes black. I reach out to touch her arm, and she gives me a reassuring pat back. We are in. I fasten the flashlight, illuminating a kitchen counter. Thankfully, we broke in straight to the right place.
I open its drawers, scavenging for chocolate. I curse when there's nothing in the first one, neither in the second nor the third. "Jorie," Coral whispers, and I turn the flashlight to her face, revealing shimmering eyes, and a handful of chocolates. I am sure I reflect her hidden smile when I hurry to hold my backpack open. In a rush almost all the tablets find their way into the dim inside the backpack. I am about to kneel to catch those which didn't when a bright light blurs my sight.
It's the house owner. The actor of gray hair, Richard Messiah, who should be far away filming the movies to entertain us from our boring and mundane lives. But he's not. He's here with a gun pointed to us, and a grimace. My heart pounds so hard it hurts, and before I know Coral sprints in front of me.
"Please, don't shoot." Coral's voice is steady. "We are hungry. We were only going to get the food and leave. Actually, we are leaving, if that's alright with you."
"Chocolates?" He questions.
"That's what you had," I shrug.
"It's always about what I think, isn't it?" His tone of voice aggravates. "You can be lying too. Saying what you want me to believe."
"Sir, will you let us go?" Coral asks, and I tiptoe to look at the man. I'm pretty sure he's drunk.
"Will you stop disturbing me?" He asks, and we take careful steps back towards the door. "No, no. I can't. Let. you go." He shakes his head and bounces his gun back to us. "Stay!" My hand reaches the doorknob, but my fingers freeze. "Look, I will call the Global Army, and you can take a chance of outrunning them. Fair, isn't it?"
Sure. The word bounces in my mind, but I don't stay enough to vocalize it. We run as we had never had run in our lives, not even in the day we were newcomers to this nation, lost in the middle of a dangerous unknown. We run faster today because we know all the threats we can face, and we know by heart how bad the outcomes are.
I look down at the black bracelet wrapped around my wrist. Joanna Smith is surely not acting by the ethics and morals of this nation. She will lose some score and will be blocked from accessing some public services. She won't be able to attend the crowd of the Bluebird's Annual Celebration Party. But it doesn't matter because she is dead, and I don't go to such events.
As foreigners, we're only able to live here because we got the bracelets from dead people that weren't discharged from the system. Somehow they are still living within us, making their way through the streets and alleys of this great nation. I don't know why or exactly how the prior owner died, only that she died young. I will do anything not to repeat her mistake, or at least, I have done so far.
The farewell has become a mess of screeching people. A terrible ravaging red sea of Global Soldiers moves before me. There's nowhere to run but venturing its waters. My hands entwine with Coral's. No one or anything could tear us apart. But, then, before we step in the mess, we understand why it had come to that.
There are people holding boards blaming President Harrison for Moon Murthy's death. Even Bluebird Movies Company is under attack by the population. It looks like the nation's love for the Darlings has turned into an obsession. And is being as harshly repressed as the felonies we might find skimming through the criminal law.
"This is the first protest I've ever witnessed," I whisper, half amused.
"The repression will be beyond anything you ever saw too," Coral states. She's right, although we are able to express ourselves freely on the internet, or even on the streets, the disorder is not accepted. However, I only see people posting good shallow things. No one complains about anything or acknowledges the lives lost in the war. Mostly because all they care about is who is going to win the football championship, or who broke the last song record, which went over one billion streams.
We start to stumble in a mess of arms and legs, looking ahead to the shore at the end of the avenue where it seems to be calmer and less red. Even when so many people rub themselves against me, I keep my thoughts on Coral's hold on my hand. We will make it until firm ground together.
My backpack gets stuck into someone's cloth, and it bounces me back. I pull Coral along in the process, but it's too painful to keep the hold, and I let go. I rush to untangle myself from a woman of dark blonde hair and ugly small eyes. I think she is about to slap me, but all she does is push the backpack against my chest, her little eyes red as the Global Soldier's uniforms.
The chocolate tablets fall on the floor and I crouch to get some of them back. We can't have put our lives at stake for nothing. It has to have some value in my despair. I start collecting them, as people push me back and forth, scratching my exposed skin while they run.
"Let's go!" I feel someone pulls me up, and a familiar voice sounds. Coral prompts me ahead to the firm ground in a hurry, while I hold onto the remaining chocolates. "Let's go," She repeats under her breath. I think this is more for her than for me.
We keep on fighting through the herd of people, but I guess by the sweat in our hands, we both knew we had taken for granted our new lives, and the lives of our families, who depend on us and betted all their chances on our existence. We were aware of this nation's capacity for coercion. But, a protest has never happened in Pasargadae. Not ever. This was supposed to be a gathering of weeping people and ugly swollen faces.
My heart beats on my throat as I lose the air from my lungs. A Global Soldier halts me with a stick and throws me down on the floor, gasping for air. I see Coral's feet swagging loose kicks as they hold her. The sparkling asphalt floor seems to scowl at me as I support myself up against it, just to be taken by an other soldier. I fight back. I do. As much as a small short girl could. But they are too many, and I am only one. For a short moment, all I can do is curse Clarke and John's names, but then, a sick worry falls over me. Did they manage to run? Are they safe?
The Global Soldiers push me towards the others they have already arrested. At least, I don't recognize my friend's faces anywhere, but Coral's. They struggle in keeping her down. More than three soldiers are needed to hold her still. I stop watching over her when a soldier rips away the bandana from my face.
I swear I am able to hear the zoom of the camera on his helmet adjusting to my face. Recording and analyzing every curve and trace of my cheeks, forehead, mouth, and eyes. Taking in all the information in front of it, and turning into something useful. If I am not taken to the trenches because of attending to a prohibited movement, then, I will surely be taken for being a foreigner. Coral's face is exposed too and bleeds the colors of the bandana down on her neck.
They throw us in the back of a dark truck, my hands extend to keep my face from hitting the surface, and soon to find Coral. But my eyes can't see anything. I crawl on my knees aimlessly to find the car's corner and curl up, but I stumble on other people's limbs in the process, and they are never Coral's. This place is packed with people. The opening of the door every once in a while, throwing in more alleged hustlers makes that clear.
I don't know where Coral is and there's too much scream and cries for me to identify her voice in the middle of this mess of bodies. I know she's here somewhere, even though her hands don't hold mine anymore. If going down together is somewhat good for us, for both of our family's back in our homeland, this will be a nightmare. Maybe we are killing them with us. We should've thought of that.
Soon, I am crumpled up between many, many people. Breathing starts to become harder, enough to make me lift myself on my tiptoes. But the air is being burned up in too many lungs to be available at the top. I maintain myself in this position, gasping like a fish out of the water, feeling the bumps when the truck rides over cracks on the streets.
I knew there was a risk this could happen. I was trying to reach the unreachable. I knew I wasn't born to wear long expensive dresses, go to fancy parties, and neither scrub the dirt off the ships. I was lucky enough to do that. Lucky enough to have been able to breathe Pasargadae air. Now, I am meeting my destiny: dying young, before even living, just like the old owner of the bracelet I wear.
The doors open and the clarity hurts my eyes. People start to be yanked out by Global Soldiers until I am the last occupying the place. I don't even know the moment when Coral was taken out. We weren't even able to share our last words or confess hard truths to each other before we were taken apart. I prompt myself further inside the place, trying to avoid the men's hands snapping to reach my legs. Maybe obliging them to shoot me will be an easier way to go. Better than being exploded somewhere overseas.
The hands stop and the soldiers walk away, leaving the door open. I feel like a trapped fox, wishing to run and fearing to be shot down in the process. Maybe this is a test, maybe if I don't run they will put me in a better position, away from the bombs.
A pair of emerald eyes glint in front of me, causing me to scooch back one more time. The man portrays a slithering smile, that cuts his face like a sharp knife. He wears a gray tuxedo with a red tie, and his hair is pulled back by gel. He is definitely not a soldier.
"You have two options," He says, like a hangman. "Go and die in the middle of the trenches overseas, or work for me, in the next Bluebird Production."