Worlds War One

ii [Autumn]

Autumn Loloma sat in a white room. Always white. This country loved to wash out color. If there was a national anthem and a national bird and an official language, then why not a national color? It would be white. The melting pot wasn't filled with Skittles but with blanched nuts devoid of differences.

The White men left her here. No one stayed behind to keep her company, yet neither did anyone remain to keep watch over her. Autumn understood. No one wanted to deal with too much truth. No one volunteered to sit and hear everything she had to say. People liked to be lied to. Autumn was never good at glossing over. She didn't dress up in pretty things—Autumn was content to let what lies underneath remain exposed.

Someone came in. Low level. Drone worker. His skin was gloriously dark, but he wore a white button-up shirt, a bland tan tie, slacks the color of blah, and hair cut like a politician. He reminded Autumn of those White boys who dressed up like rappers, only the reverse. It didn't matter the tone of his skin—this young man was as White as the rest. A Skittle whose color had washed away.

"Can I get you anything, Ms. Loloma? Water? Coffee?"

"Do I look like a Ms. to you?" Autumn snapped. She hated politically correct garbage like made-up titles. The drone fidgeted like he couldn't figure out if maybe Autumn was about to say she was a "Mr." instead. In the day and age of people picking their gender by spinning the Wheel of Pronouns, Autumn supposed it might be confusing indeed. "I'm not married. 'Miss' will do fine. And I'll have coffee. Black."

"Yes, ma'am," the drone replied, then winced, worried that "ma'am" might be offensive.

Autumn rolled her eyes and he skedaddled like a good little blanched nut.

Her sister had disappeared a week ago. Autumn had realized she was missing within twenty-four hours. Because Spring would have called. The day Spring disappeared was Autumn's thirtieth birthday, and Spring had never missed singing her that silly "One Year Older" song every year since Autumn turned one. Autumn had been immediately worried when midnight had struck to end her birthday and she still hadn't heard from her sister. Autumn had called Spring's cellphone—it had gone straight to voicemail. She'd searched online for the hotel's phone number where Spring was staying and called it. They'd transferred the call to her sister's room—no answer. Autumn had checked social media. The latest post had been from hours before—a selfie of Spring at a market in Senado Square. Nothing after that.

Autumn had reported her missing sister to the authorities. The Macau police had seemed strangely awkward. Like when everyone in the room knew a secret and none of them wanted to be the one to tell you. The local consulate had given Autumn a case number and an investigator in Macau had assured her that the situation was a high priority. Autumn felt like everyone had been reading from a script. Something felt wrong. Someone knew more than what they were saying.

She'd started to research herself. In the day and age of the internet, one didn't have to leave the comfort of home to investigate the nooks and crannies of an overseas city. Autumn had started by looking at other tourists' social media posts from Macau on the day of Spring's disappearance, anyone else who had been in Senado Square. Thousands of people visited the Square every day, and such experiences were not wholly authentic until one posted them for the world to see. And Autumn had seen.

Spring wasn't the only one missing.

Autumn had counted dozens and dozens of accounts where the last post was around the same time Spring had disappeared, the final entry from Senado Square over and over again. Nothing after. Hundreds of others missing. Autumn had called every government office she could think of. Message after message after message. Before the end of the day, men in black had been knocking on her door. At least they hadn't been wearing white.