Juan tried to squint the sun-rays from his eyes. The noon sky was red and blotchy, the sun half-dipped into the water beyond the dock while the day eternally broadcast its impending death.
He inhaled and winced.
The smell of brine was a constant, a tag placed in the Line's air. A tag he'd loathed for as long as he could remember--because as long as it followed him around, he wasn't home, not really. Home was where the sun never set, where clouds never gathered and the sky stayed blue. Home was where the act of breathing scalded, where men and women injected themselves with cooling shots in order to spend the day outside.
He missed it--home.
Within instants, cumuli congregated and burst. Green rain, slightly thick and very warm, clumped itself over his skin. Rain was extremely rare on the South Side, but he still knew what it ought to look like, if it weren't falling within a forcefield whose chemical composition weirded out the weather. Somewhere else, anywhere else, it would look like water: clear and cool. Fresh. It was true to at least a part of its nature, though--the puddles on the ground splashed in tandem with Juan's footfalls, making squishy plops every time his shoes touched the ground.
He was headed toward his commorancy. Like most other ressources in the Line, a living space was something of a luxury. A luxury he owed to Flynn, of course, along with his future escape...
Escape.
Today, he thought, feverishly. It's happening today.
His chest pinched then loosened, his lungs suddenly craving the salty air, his mind focusing on rather than ignoring the sticky substance rolling down his skin.
Who knew?
He might miss them, too.
YOU ARE READING
The Line
Science Fiction[FEATURED] Juan Solo comes from the South Side, a world of deserts and heat. Zachary Flynn was born on the North Side, where the sun never shines and the cold bites. Breaking the law on either Side carries the ultimate penalty: banishment to the L...
