The Next Shade: Gray
The Narrative Continued by Claudia
"All right everyone, you know what to do."
I stepped down off the tailgate of the vehicle and lead the way to the house, a small cottage-like place with gray smoke rising from the pale chimney.
Knocking on the door brought an attractive young woman to the door, a small child suckling in her arms. She didn't look happy to see us. I was amused with the fact that our feelings were mutual.
"What do you want?" She asked, obviously sleep deprived.
I signaled the man next to me and he snatched the child.
"Nothing now, thank you."
"What are you doing!" She fought back for the child, screaming for help. The pathetic figure groped wildly for her son, her fingernails snagging and breaking on the uniforms of my Saints. All would break against them, for all were brittle as cartilage. They would heal eventually of course, though the same could not be said of their children.
"Next house!" I ordered, glancing back at the childless woman. I was glad I had never grown to look like her, a pitiful heap crying in the doorway. Life was so much better in Neverland.
The Narrative Continued by Robert (A Serving Saint)
I left the woman in the doorway, weeping for her child, clawing for it like an animal.
"Jason, give her a sedative; that'll calm her down." Jason nodded and pulled a rag from his pocket.
"Next House!" commanded the Savior.
I went next door to 124 Asher Street. Knocking brought no one into frame. I looked in the garage; a car sat in the parking space.
"Got a non-compliant. Move in."
My men broke through the side windows as I kicked in the door. Screams from the inside confirmed that someone was home. I went down a short hall and found the woman, a rotund thing sitting lazily on the couch, eyes wild with confusion.
I grabbed the child from the crib next to her, the light from the television reflecting gray images in his dull eyes.
The mother wailed, struggling to get up.
"I'm sorry ma'am, it appears as though he was born with syn."
"But he's just a baby!" Her vocal cords cracked and failed her. She pulled a pistol from beneath the cushion, training it at my head. Jason knocked it to the ground with a sharp kick, breaking the woman's wrist. She cried out with pain from both mind and body.
I clasped the child to my chest and ordered the men out of the house. Jason made the mother inhale a sedative as I exited with the crying child. Gray glass crunched beneath my feet. The house was a wreck. Lace curtains were torn during entry, tables overturned by uncaring Saints, glass and graywear left shattered. But the house of 124 Asher Street was not only wrecked cosmetically, the household itself had been destroyed. The future generation had been stolen; its nurturer left broken and dumb.
I would send a cleaning crew in the morning.
The Narrative Continued by Jason (A Serving Saint)
The engines roared in our gray vehicles. The first three units took off toward the station to change Jeeps and uniforms to match the next District on the list.
Clinton started the engine of our transportation and called for Robert and myself. It was unwise to stay for very long, others might get the true story in circulation before we could fabricate one of our own. Word of mouth was still a nuisance; one I don't think the City can ever take care of completely. People break the law of God to gossip, if eternal punishment isn't enough to persuaded them otherwise, I don't think a City law would either. They were smart to leave that issue along, smart to instruct us to be careful, rather then shut the people up. Oppressed people riot; deceived people see no reason to rise up. It's a proven fact. Though I have to wonder what the City doesn't tell me.
I made for the Jeep.
"Robert, we need to move!"
He was standing blankly, staring at some kid across the street. Just starring at him. Maybe he was worried the boy saw something?
"Do you want to take him too?"
He turned his head toward me, not taking his eyes off the kid, "No. He's too young. He won't be a problem." There was sadness in his voice, like he wanted to bring the kid with him, but wouldn't. I guess he missed his own kid. He was dead. Robert needed to move on.
Finally his eyes left the boy, clasping the wailing child tight. He positioned himself in the back seat. I climbed onto the back fender, holding on to the support bar and knocked the side of the vehicle with my boot. Clinton nodded. The motor revved and we moved on.
The Narrative Continued by Knox
The Serving Saint starred at me, holding the infant tightly against his chest with one hand, the other stood ready at his side. What were they doing with these kids?
I took note of his female gloves; one had a tear, making her older. He would replace them with a fresh gray pair; they weren't something I could track for more than a day. I looked for another defining feature but found nothing reliable. Clothing never is; people change it too often. So I studied his face.
Another saint got into their topless gray vehicle, an older male; something I could track. A third exited the house, he ran towards he Jeep then stopped, "Robert, we need to move!"
Robert didn't move. I wondered why he was so interested in me. The third Saint walked over to him, saying something. Robert tilted his head in his direction, not breaking his stare, and answered. I couldn't make out what they were saying from my distance. He held my gaze a moment longer than retreated with the child.
The old, male cab started up. The baby wailed with the engine.
There was much weeping in the Gray District, many clear tears running gray.
I raced to the apartment. Something was happening.
The Narrative Continued by Hector
Claudia entered the room. "Come now, Hector, it's time for your testing."
"I've passed every month. Why test again?"
"Because," she said matter-of-factly, "you are an excellent liar, and I don't believe you."
Both statements were true so I dared not argue. I would just undergo testing again, however unpleasant it was.
I stood up slowly and followed her out of the cramped room, careful not to collide with the sharp edges of the single gray table.
Down through the hall we went, passing the large window into the Gray Room; people filing in like pilgrims, forlorn and without hope, soon to be tested by myself. But only if I passed my test.
The window vanished from sight, dark gray concrete taking its place as we continued down the short hall into the testing room. The flat screen on the wall was the only source of light. There were no windows, no other doors, nothing to look at but the screen, a blank image of backlit gray.
Claudia locked the door tightly behind us. This was the room where rules were broken.
She set a silver microphone stand on the small table and motioned for me to sit with a curt nod. She adjusted the microphone's flexible neck and seated herself at the opposite side of the table; facing me, her back to the screen. She would not watch.
"Whenever you're ready," she said, pen and pad in hand.
I took an inaudible breath. "Ready."
She clicked a gray switch and the violet letter 'G' appeared on the screen, saturating my vision with color.
"Red," I spoke into the microphone as quickly as I safely could. I could hear the tape recording beneath the table.
The next letter appeared on the panel, the red letter 'A'.
"Purple," I said, lying with a degree of difficulty. I could not answer too quickly, for without giving myself time to process I might very well spew the synesthetic colors instead of the ones appearing on the screen.
"Green. Indigo."
But at the same time, if I responded too slowly Claudia would know that I was covering up. I had to be consistent with my other test times as well.
Blue. "Orange."
Yellow. "Violet."
My timing had to be perfect. My life depended on it.
Green. "White."
Black. "Brown."
It was becoming steadily harder to keep pace. The task was mentally exhausting. Colors flashing, Claudia glaring at my, owls' eyes watching for any hint of struggle or deception.
Red. "Black."
Gray. "Green."
A red letter 'A' appeared on the screen. I hesitated. "R-Red." Claudia scribbled down a note. I clinched a fist beneath the table.
Colors appeared. I named them falsely.
White. "Indigo."
Violet. "Black."
I could feel my body temperature rising. I could only pray I didn't start sweating. Claudia turned the page in her notebook. She had run out of writing room.
Blue. "Gray."
Red. "Yellow."
Finally the letters stopped and the screen returned to gray, underwhelming my eyes. Claudia finished scribbling down a note, the last words scratching onto the lined, gray paper. Safe, quiet gray.
I stood up.
"Sit down." She didn't look up from her paper, but continued writing.
I obeyed; confused, but striving to cloak my bewilderment.
She clicked her pen shut and set it down, then smiled, like a saleswoman or sadistic executrix. In a way, she was a little of both.
"There will be a new portion of the test this time. "A yellow square appeared on the screen. "Identify the colors as quickly as you can. All colors will appear as squares."
My God. These results would be paired with the others. There was no way my reaction times would be the same.
"Begin now."
She would know.
The Next Shade: Red
The Narrative Continued by Ryan
I walked through the gray streets and adjusted the charcoal frames of my glasses. I would have worn contacts, but my eyes were too muddled for that. They have yet to produce a high enough strength. I stopped for a moment and looked up at the sky, the sad, gray sky. At least I didn't need my glasses to see that; there was no detail to behold in its massive estate, just a single color. I took off my specs and closed my eyes, positioning my head towards the sun. My eyelids glowed gray from the inside. The warmth felt good. I turned away and opened my eyes. A gray mass was slowly headed for me. I returned the glasses to my face, manually focusing my eyes.
I cursed. It was a Serving Saint's vehicle.
I looked down at my clothes: all were shades of gray. I thought I had been careful this morning.
"Excuse me, sir," said a Saint, hopping down off the platform in the back of the cart. "You are in violation of this District." The vehicles came to a halt along side of me, the Saint who was driving, Darien, eyed me with sour recognition.
"This one's trouble, Alex," he said. "A colorblind."
"I prefer the term monochromatic," I replied. "Sounds classier. More illegal."
"You think it's classy to break the City's Ordinances?" asked the man I then knew as Alex. He was a Saint new in service, and at 6 ''3 I didn't want to get on his bad side; but I couldn't help but be sarcastic.
"Well that depends on which rules are broken."
He started to say something, but Darien beat him to it.
"Don't waste your time with the disabled, just take the scarf."
I cursed again, this time merely in my head. It was a shame to lose the scarf, a beautiful, finely knit piece in a true gray shade. But sadly it does not comply with the dress code of the Red District. I would have to wait at least a week before I could pick it up from the Savior's office.
Alex stripped me of the scarf. Cold air attacked my neck; I pulled my collar high.
He handed it to Darien, whose greedy fingers caressed the thick stitches.
"What a nice piece," he said, his voice blended with a sarcasm that rivaled my own. "I may have to keep this one." He dropped it into a bag they would call red and sealed the top.
"That's illegal," I stated.
"So are you."
"But there are laws that protect me. After all, I am disabled."
"Those laws should have been overthrown a long time ago. You colorblinds are nothing but a nuisance. Even those with dichromancy are a pain. They should all be driven out like Synners." His last words were meant to be cutting, but I found his knife to be dull. Through it seemed to spark Alex's attention. I noticed his look of enlightenment.
"You think I'm a Synner? No, I'm merely monochromatic. Not quite that gifted."
"And I'm suppose to take your word for it?"
"It's not like you can test me; so yes."
"There is a Synner's test; and I have half a mind to send you to the Gray Room to take it." He took a step closer to me. "I have a feeling you'd fail."
"You're test is color based, comparing reaction times for identifying colored letters. Of course I would fail."
"That wasn't the test I was referring to,"
"Alex," said Darien, warning him with his own name. I prodded. Perhaps this Saint knew something of interest.
"Oh, really? Which one, then?"
"The experimental one." This was interesting. "The one where xenon gas is injected through your blood stream and monitored as it travels into your brain's metabolism. It's not at all safe, but since you're a willing volunteer..."
I didn't like Alex. He was more of a brute than Darien.
"But if I'm a synesthete, wouldn't you want a more docile test? I mean, how could a dead man open a safe?"
That set him back.
"You know of the safe?"
I nearly laughed at his reaction, "Many know of the safe! It was in ever paper of every District. Don't think that all have forgotten."
The Serving Saint starred at me, searching for answers.
Darien broke his gaze, "Come on, Alex, he isn't worth another minute." He turned his speech to me, leaning out of the passenger's window, "As for you, I've got a close watch on you. A few more slips like these and I'll have a case for synesthesia. Understand?"
"Of course."
Alex got back on the platform. I called to him as they pulled away, "Be sure to tell me how that testing goes. You do know all Serving Saints have to undergo it, don't you?"
He sent me a look from Hell. I smiled and walked on, hoping never to see that gray face ever again.
The Next Shade: Yellow
The Narrative Continued by Marilynn
I crossed the line with many others, flipping my jacket and removing my stockings at the Crossing.
My feet ached, glowing with a dull saturated orange that seemed to stain the soles of my shoes. I was many blocks away from the Printing Press. I wished I had a vehicle of some kind. They were far too inconvenient though, for changing its color was highly unpractical and renting a bicycle was far too expensive. I sighed. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and just get things done. Taking a breath, I started to walk yet again. Twenty minutes later I found myself in front of the gigantic building. Inside, the sights and sounds of the large printing press overwhelmed all six of my senses. The machine was massive, and looked like a mass of tangled scaffolds and ramps. Yellow pipe-works crisscrossed like hollow bone; bolts larger than my head holding them together. It was a symbol of ingenuity, a signet that reminded all what man was capable of.
The center of the beast was a relatively small cube-like room, walled with aged yellow metal. That's were the Printer arranged the paper and told the machine how and what to print. Each District had it's own Printer and it's own Printing Press, and each press told different stories by different reporters. I had looked through much of the archives in the other Districts, but had been waiting a while to see the papers held here. Going to every Printing Press and viewing the archives of every colored page, one after another without a pause would be suspicious.
The cutting a slicing sound of the paper cutter engaged my synesthestic perception, swift arrangements of blue, dark on the bottom, light at the top, sweeping top to bottom in direct parallel to the guillotine-like knives. The slamming of the printed page made a jagged, disorganized black that was darker then ink from the Black District.
The Yellow District had the greatest mass of archives, and their reporters were known to be the best and most accurate. The people of this District cared more about the currant events and news than did most other Districts. I had high hopes for the archives and was quite anxious to see the golden pages and yellow, age darkened ink.
Despite a factory-like appearance, there was a front desk with a pleasant young man behind it to assist me. I informed him that I was researching the weather change over the past decade and wished to see all the papers from that time. The gentleman was, unfortunately, interested in my self-proclaimed study and in order to keep up appearances I prattled about the weather until we reached the archival room. He opened the regular sized door (seeming so small in comparison to the other doors for trucks and delivery equipment), soon to lock me behind it.
"Just let me know when you're ready to come out." He said with a smile. The door closed and I heard the heavy bolt fall into place, a resonating brown echoed in and out of existence, fading slowly in the quiet room, living longer than it should have. I didn't like being trapped in a room of any size, but was grateful that the archive room in the Yellow District was the largest of all archival rooms. The ceiling was high and darkened the room, giving it a hushed feeling that even the bright yellow filing cabinets couldn't speak against.
I headed for the section on the first Year of Red. While the papers only recorded happenings from their own Districts, the fiasco with the Synner and the safe was large enough to persuade the pens of all. With hope I would unearth a clue to the mystery that haunted both Synners and Saviors alike.
The Narrative Continued by Shane
We walked through the District for no reason other than Alison needed the fresh air, and I needed the fresh color.
I knew the only way Alison was going to apologize to her sister would be if I persuaded her to do so. It was something that she needed to do, and something that she knew she should do, but it was plain that she wouldn’t on her own. Even if we were broken, it would be better to stand together with all our chips and broken pieces than to leave each other to the dust.
“Alison.”
“Yes.” She knew what was coming.
“You need to apologize to Marilynn.”
“I will do nothing of the sort.” She tried to sound firm, but I knew her too well. There was always water beneath the hard ice, however cold it was.
“And why not?”
“Because she has no right to treat us the way she does, she has no right to act as our mother when she is only our equal. We are both sisters, regardless of her age or mine, and we ought to be on a level plane.”
“We could spend endless time talking about what should or shouldn’t be, how things should or shouldn’t have been, but that will get us nowhere. Living in the past is like living in the grave, once time has past it has died, it is still and will never move again.”
“If the past is pointless, then there is no need to express regret on its behalf.”
“The past is not pointless, don’t act any more foolish than you are, but in death nothing can change, there is no going back, there is no making up, but time itself is not dead, and through life things may still be mended. There is life in this minute, Alison, but only for sixty seconds. Heal this while you can.”
Her movement jerked a bit, like she wanted to stop but decided better of it. I knew my words had gotten to her. We walked in silence a moment longer and then,”
“Very well, I’ll apologize when she gets back tonight.”I knew there was water beneath the ice, but like I said, it was still cold.
The Narrative Continued by Claudia
"All right everyone, you know what to do."
I stepped down off the tailgate of the vehicle and lead the way to the house, a small cottage-like place with gray smoke rising from the pale chimney.
Knocking on the door brought an attractive young woman to the door, a small child suckling in her arms. She didn't look happy to see us. I was amused with the fact that our feelings were mutual.
"What do you want?" She asked, obviously sleep deprived.
I signaled the man next to me and he snatched the child.
"Nothing now, thank you."
"What are you doing!" She fought back for the child, screaming for help. The pathetic figure groped wildly for her son, her fingernails snagging and breaking on the uniforms of my Saints. All would break against them, for all were brittle as cartilage. They would heal eventually of course, though the same could not be said of their children.
"Next house!" I ordered, glancing back at the childless woman. I was glad I had never grown to look like her, a pitiful heap crying in the doorway. Life was so much better in Neverland.
The Narrative Continued by Robert (A Serving Saint)
I left the woman in the doorway, weeping for her child, clawing for it like an animal.
"Jason, give her a sedative; that'll calm her down." Jason nodded and pulled a rag from his pocket.
"Next House!" commanded the Savior.
I went next door to 124 Asher Street. Knocking brought no one into frame. I looked in the garage; a car sat in the parking space.
"Got a non-compliant. Move in."
My men broke through the side windows as I kicked in the door. Screams from the inside confirmed that someone was home. I went down a short hall and found the woman, a rotund thing sitting lazily on the couch, eyes wild with confusion.
I grabbed the child from the crib next to her, the light from the television reflecting gray images in his dull eyes.
The mother wailed, struggling to get up.
"I'm sorry ma'am, it appears as though he was born with syn."
"But he's just a baby!" Her vocal cords cracked and failed her. She pulled a pistol from beneath the cushion, training it at my head. Jason knocked it to the ground with a sharp kick, breaking the woman's wrist. She cried out with pain from both mind and body.
I clasped the child to my chest and ordered the men out of the house. Jason made the mother inhale a sedative as I exited with the crying child. Gray glass crunched beneath my feet. The house was a wreck. Lace curtains were torn during entry, tables overturned by uncaring Saints, glass and graywear left shattered. But the house of 124 Asher Street was not only wrecked cosmetically, the household itself had been destroyed. The future generation had been stolen; its nurturer left broken and dumb.
I would send a cleaning crew in the morning.
The Narrative Continued by Jason (A Serving Saint)
The engines roared in our gray vehicles. The first three units took off toward the station to change Jeeps and uniforms to match the next District on the list.
Clinton started the engine of our transportation and called for Robert and myself. It was unwise to stay for very long, others might get the true story in circulation before we could fabricate one of our own. Word of mouth was still a nuisance; one I don't think the City can ever take care of completely. People break the law of God to gossip, if eternal punishment isn't enough to persuaded them otherwise, I don't think a City law would either. They were smart to leave that issue along, smart to instruct us to be careful, rather then shut the people up. Oppressed people riot; deceived people see no reason to rise up. It's a proven fact. Though I have to wonder what the City doesn't tell me.
I made for the Jeep.
"Robert, we need to move!"
He was standing blankly, staring at some kid across the street. Just starring at him. Maybe he was worried the boy saw something?
"Do you want to take him too?"
He turned his head toward me, not taking his eyes off the kid, "No. He's too young. He won't be a problem." There was sadness in his voice, like he wanted to bring the kid with him, but wouldn't. I guess he missed his own kid. He was dead. Robert needed to move on.
Finally his eyes left the boy, clasping the wailing child tight. He positioned himself in the back seat. I climbed onto the back fender, holding on to the support bar and knocked the side of the vehicle with my boot. Clinton nodded. The motor revved and we moved on.
The Narrative Continued by Knox
The Serving Saint starred at me, holding the infant tightly against his chest with one hand, the other stood ready at his side. What were they doing with these kids?
I took note of his female gloves; one had a tear, making her older. He would replace them with a fresh gray pair; they weren't something I could track for more than a day. I looked for another defining feature but found nothing reliable. Clothing never is; people change it too often. So I studied his face.
Another saint got into their topless gray vehicle, an older male; something I could track. A third exited the house, he ran towards he Jeep then stopped, "Robert, we need to move!"
Robert didn't move. I wondered why he was so interested in me. The third Saint walked over to him, saying something. Robert tilted his head in his direction, not breaking his stare, and answered. I couldn't make out what they were saying from my distance. He held my gaze a moment longer than retreated with the child.
The old, male cab started up. The baby wailed with the engine.
There was much weeping in the Gray District, many clear tears running gray.
I raced to the apartment. Something was happening.
The Narrative Continued by Hector
Claudia entered the room. "Come now, Hector, it's time for your testing."
"I've passed every month. Why test again?"
"Because," she said matter-of-factly, "you are an excellent liar, and I don't believe you."
Both statements were true so I dared not argue. I would just undergo testing again, however unpleasant it was.
I stood up slowly and followed her out of the cramped room, careful not to collide with the sharp edges of the single gray table.
Down through the hall we went, passing the large window into the Gray Room; people filing in like pilgrims, forlorn and without hope, soon to be tested by myself. But only if I passed my test.
The window vanished from sight, dark gray concrete taking its place as we continued down the short hall into the testing room. The flat screen on the wall was the only source of light. There were no windows, no other doors, nothing to look at but the screen, a blank image of backlit gray.
Claudia locked the door tightly behind us. This was the room where rules were broken.
She set a silver microphone stand on the small table and motioned for me to sit with a curt nod. She adjusted the microphone's flexible neck and seated herself at the opposite side of the table; facing me, her back to the screen. She would not watch.
"Whenever you're ready," she said, pen and pad in hand.
I took an inaudible breath. "Ready."
She clicked a gray switch and the violet letter 'G' appeared on the screen, saturating my vision with color.
"Red," I spoke into the microphone as quickly as I safely could. I could hear the tape recording beneath the table.
The next letter appeared on the panel, the red letter 'A'.
"Purple," I said, lying with a degree of difficulty. I could not answer too quickly, for without giving myself time to process I might very well spew the synesthetic colors instead of the ones appearing on the screen.
"Green. Indigo."
But at the same time, if I responded too slowly Claudia would know that I was covering up. I had to be consistent with my other test times as well.
Blue. "Orange."
Yellow. "Violet."
My timing had to be perfect. My life depended on it.
Green. "White."
Black. "Brown."
It was becoming steadily harder to keep pace. The task was mentally exhausting. Colors flashing, Claudia glaring at my, owls' eyes watching for any hint of struggle or deception.
Red. "Black."
Gray. "Green."
A red letter 'A' appeared on the screen. I hesitated. "R-Red." Claudia scribbled down a note. I clinched a fist beneath the table.
Colors appeared. I named them falsely.
White. "Indigo."
Violet. "Black."
I could feel my body temperature rising. I could only pray I didn't start sweating. Claudia turned the page in her notebook. She had run out of writing room.
Blue. "Gray."
Red. "Yellow."
Finally the letters stopped and the screen returned to gray, underwhelming my eyes. Claudia finished scribbling down a note, the last words scratching onto the lined, gray paper. Safe, quiet gray.
I stood up.
"Sit down." She didn't look up from her paper, but continued writing.
I obeyed; confused, but striving to cloak my bewilderment.
She clicked her pen shut and set it down, then smiled, like a saleswoman or sadistic executrix. In a way, she was a little of both.
"There will be a new portion of the test this time. "A yellow square appeared on the screen. "Identify the colors as quickly as you can. All colors will appear as squares."
My God. These results would be paired with the others. There was no way my reaction times would be the same.
"Begin now."
She would know.
The Next Shade: Red
The Narrative Continued by Ryan
I walked through the gray streets and adjusted the charcoal frames of my glasses. I would have worn contacts, but my eyes were too muddled for that. They have yet to produce a high enough strength. I stopped for a moment and looked up at the sky, the sad, gray sky. At least I didn't need my glasses to see that; there was no detail to behold in its massive estate, just a single color. I took off my specs and closed my eyes, positioning my head towards the sun. My eyelids glowed gray from the inside. The warmth felt good. I turned away and opened my eyes. A gray mass was slowly headed for me. I returned the glasses to my face, manually focusing my eyes.
I cursed. It was a Serving Saint's vehicle.
I looked down at my clothes: all were shades of gray. I thought I had been careful this morning.
"Excuse me, sir," said a Saint, hopping down off the platform in the back of the cart. "You are in violation of this District." The vehicles came to a halt along side of me, the Saint who was driving, Darien, eyed me with sour recognition.
"This one's trouble, Alex," he said. "A colorblind."
"I prefer the term monochromatic," I replied. "Sounds classier. More illegal."
"You think it's classy to break the City's Ordinances?" asked the man I then knew as Alex. He was a Saint new in service, and at 6 ''3 I didn't want to get on his bad side; but I couldn't help but be sarcastic.
"Well that depends on which rules are broken."
He started to say something, but Darien beat him to it.
"Don't waste your time with the disabled, just take the scarf."
I cursed again, this time merely in my head. It was a shame to lose the scarf, a beautiful, finely knit piece in a true gray shade. But sadly it does not comply with the dress code of the Red District. I would have to wait at least a week before I could pick it up from the Savior's office.
Alex stripped me of the scarf. Cold air attacked my neck; I pulled my collar high.
He handed it to Darien, whose greedy fingers caressed the thick stitches.
"What a nice piece," he said, his voice blended with a sarcasm that rivaled my own. "I may have to keep this one." He dropped it into a bag they would call red and sealed the top.
"That's illegal," I stated.
"So are you."
"But there are laws that protect me. After all, I am disabled."
"Those laws should have been overthrown a long time ago. You colorblinds are nothing but a nuisance. Even those with dichromancy are a pain. They should all be driven out like Synners." His last words were meant to be cutting, but I found his knife to be dull. Through it seemed to spark Alex's attention. I noticed his look of enlightenment.
"You think I'm a Synner? No, I'm merely monochromatic. Not quite that gifted."
"And I'm suppose to take your word for it?"
"It's not like you can test me; so yes."
"There is a Synner's test; and I have half a mind to send you to the Gray Room to take it." He took a step closer to me. "I have a feeling you'd fail."
"You're test is color based, comparing reaction times for identifying colored letters. Of course I would fail."
"That wasn't the test I was referring to,"
"Alex," said Darien, warning him with his own name. I prodded. Perhaps this Saint knew something of interest.
"Oh, really? Which one, then?"
"The experimental one." This was interesting. "The one where xenon gas is injected through your blood stream and monitored as it travels into your brain's metabolism. It's not at all safe, but since you're a willing volunteer..."
I didn't like Alex. He was more of a brute than Darien.
"But if I'm a synesthete, wouldn't you want a more docile test? I mean, how could a dead man open a safe?"
That set him back.
"You know of the safe?"
I nearly laughed at his reaction, "Many know of the safe! It was in ever paper of every District. Don't think that all have forgotten."
The Serving Saint starred at me, searching for answers.
Darien broke his gaze, "Come on, Alex, he isn't worth another minute." He turned his speech to me, leaning out of the passenger's window, "As for you, I've got a close watch on you. A few more slips like these and I'll have a case for synesthesia. Understand?"
"Of course."
Alex got back on the platform. I called to him as they pulled away, "Be sure to tell me how that testing goes. You do know all Serving Saints have to undergo it, don't you?"
He sent me a look from Hell. I smiled and walked on, hoping never to see that gray face ever again.
The Next Shade: Yellow
The Narrative Continued by Marilynn
I crossed the line with many others, flipping my jacket and removing my stockings at the Crossing.
My feet ached, glowing with a dull saturated orange that seemed to stain the soles of my shoes. I was many blocks away from the Printing Press. I wished I had a vehicle of some kind. They were far too inconvenient though, for changing its color was highly unpractical and renting a bicycle was far too expensive. I sighed. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and just get things done. Taking a breath, I started to walk yet again. Twenty minutes later I found myself in front of the gigantic building. Inside, the sights and sounds of the large printing press overwhelmed all six of my senses. The machine was massive, and looked like a mass of tangled scaffolds and ramps. Yellow pipe-works crisscrossed like hollow bone; bolts larger than my head holding them together. It was a symbol of ingenuity, a signet that reminded all what man was capable of.
The center of the beast was a relatively small cube-like room, walled with aged yellow metal. That's were the Printer arranged the paper and told the machine how and what to print. Each District had it's own Printer and it's own Printing Press, and each press told different stories by different reporters. I had looked through much of the archives in the other Districts, but had been waiting a while to see the papers held here. Going to every Printing Press and viewing the archives of every colored page, one after another without a pause would be suspicious.
The cutting a slicing sound of the paper cutter engaged my synesthestic perception, swift arrangements of blue, dark on the bottom, light at the top, sweeping top to bottom in direct parallel to the guillotine-like knives. The slamming of the printed page made a jagged, disorganized black that was darker then ink from the Black District.
The Yellow District had the greatest mass of archives, and their reporters were known to be the best and most accurate. The people of this District cared more about the currant events and news than did most other Districts. I had high hopes for the archives and was quite anxious to see the golden pages and yellow, age darkened ink.
Despite a factory-like appearance, there was a front desk with a pleasant young man behind it to assist me. I informed him that I was researching the weather change over the past decade and wished to see all the papers from that time. The gentleman was, unfortunately, interested in my self-proclaimed study and in order to keep up appearances I prattled about the weather until we reached the archival room. He opened the regular sized door (seeming so small in comparison to the other doors for trucks and delivery equipment), soon to lock me behind it.
"Just let me know when you're ready to come out." He said with a smile. The door closed and I heard the heavy bolt fall into place, a resonating brown echoed in and out of existence, fading slowly in the quiet room, living longer than it should have. I didn't like being trapped in a room of any size, but was grateful that the archive room in the Yellow District was the largest of all archival rooms. The ceiling was high and darkened the room, giving it a hushed feeling that even the bright yellow filing cabinets couldn't speak against.
I headed for the section on the first Year of Red. While the papers only recorded happenings from their own Districts, the fiasco with the Synner and the safe was large enough to persuade the pens of all. With hope I would unearth a clue to the mystery that haunted both Synners and Saviors alike.
The Narrative Continued by Shane
We walked through the District for no reason other than Alison needed the fresh air, and I needed the fresh color.
I knew the only way Alison was going to apologize to her sister would be if I persuaded her to do so. It was something that she needed to do, and something that she knew she should do, but it was plain that she wouldn’t on her own. Even if we were broken, it would be better to stand together with all our chips and broken pieces than to leave each other to the dust.
“Alison.”
“Yes.” She knew what was coming.
“You need to apologize to Marilynn.”
“I will do nothing of the sort.” She tried to sound firm, but I knew her too well. There was always water beneath the hard ice, however cold it was.
“And why not?”
“Because she has no right to treat us the way she does, she has no right to act as our mother when she is only our equal. We are both sisters, regardless of her age or mine, and we ought to be on a level plane.”
“We could spend endless time talking about what should or shouldn’t be, how things should or shouldn’t have been, but that will get us nowhere. Living in the past is like living in the grave, once time has past it has died, it is still and will never move again.”
“If the past is pointless, then there is no need to express regret on its behalf.”
“The past is not pointless, don’t act any more foolish than you are, but in death nothing can change, there is no going back, there is no making up, but time itself is not dead, and through life things may still be mended. There is life in this minute, Alison, but only for sixty seconds. Heal this while you can.”
Her movement jerked a bit, like she wanted to stop but decided better of it. I knew my words had gotten to her. We walked in silence a moment longer and then,”
“Very well, I’ll apologize when she gets back tonight.”I knew there was water beneath the ice, but like I said, it was still cold.
