The Line

Tiny droplets of red

The dock was spotted with tiny droplets of red.

Flynn's wide, uneasy eyes took in the sight. Absorbed the tight ring of gesticulating linespeople that surrounded the very tall man, turning the dock into a picture of fear and confusion. The spot at the back of the man's neck that had been pierced through the middle by a long, silver stinger. The stinger that must have once jutted from a now flown-away plugger.

The man jerked oddly as the toxin overtook him, like a fish just plucked out of water, his back and spine arching, his eyes huge and globulous. Black foam slowly streamed from his open mouth. His head was craned upward, bent up at the bleeding sky.

They missed it, Flynn thought, and he felt his body slightly relax. They missed the panicky escape attempt, the eventual cornering, the victim's horrendous screech as the pluggers did their business, stabbing the fleshy slab of skin behind the chosen one's head.

The droplets of blood in the air.

He swallowed loudly, silently begging Juan to stay far, far away. But Juan didn't, stepping closer, closer, threading his way through the crowd. Flynn had no choice but to follow, no choice but to pretend he wasn't shaken.

As they advanced, Flynn caught bribes of scattered chatter.

"Stole a fish from the market!"

"Thought he could get away!"

"The nerve he has, pulling a stunt right in a plugger's range!"

"He deserved it!"

"Pluggers are cruel," Flynn said in a booming voice.

The silence fell gradually, until it was almost crushing, like a blind he'd only noticed was being drawn until it was all the way down. Eyes beamed at him from every direction--some bored, some furious, a few expectant. Others had that funky, filmy look the Line could have been famous for: a look of I-give-up and come-what-may.

"Pluggers are cruel," Flynn went on. "The Line is cruel. The court is cruel. Retrials are cruel. This is wrong, don't you see that?"

The linespeople squinted at the strange boy and murmured amongst themselves. Even in the Line, he was strange, with his orange-red hair and glazy smile. And there was something else. Something. The vague sensation that they'd seen this boy before, that he held some kind of permanent role in their lives. 

"You picked me up, didn't you?" a voice hollered, and the crowd melted into louder murmurs and whispers. Yes, they remembered now. It was a foggy memory, everyone's first moments in the Line were. But they remembered. Flynn had picked them up.

"The court is cruel. The Line is cruel. Pluggers are cruel," Flynn chanted, louder. His fist was up, pumping at the air. "The court is cruel. The Line is cruel. Pluggers are cruel."

The court is cruel. The Line is cruel. Pluggers are cruel.

Flynn's face was red. He wouldn't miss this place. He wouldn't miss this moment.

No one kept the chant going.

It didn't matter.

He yelled louder, loud enough to dry up his throat, pumping hard enough to dislocate his shoulder, only to pump even harder.

"The court is cruel! The Line is cruel! Pluggers are cruel!"

///

Juan wasn't listening to Flynn. He was staring ahead, at the plugged man with a giant needle in his neck. The man who still gazed at a something in a nothing. The man whose lips moved without producing audible words.

Juan couldn't help wondering.

What is he looking at?

Nothing--even when prodded. Nothing but the same dumb trance, the same open mouth and wide eyes. Juan watched it all with a kind of irritated fascination.

All around him, the circle of linespeople seemed troubled, but he blocked the image out, along with a sound akin to chanting. The man was the only mystery. Linespeople were always agitated because of something.

The man was the only mystery.

Juan leaned in. The black stuff coming from the man's mouth--brain juice, it was dubbed--smelled like piss and raw, fleshy meat. Not a pleasant smell by any stretch, but not as bad as he'd imagined either.

He'd heard about pluggings. Though they were very rare, everyone was afraid of them for some reason or another. The few who'd seen one (and still had the will to talk about it) had a tendency to boast about the experience, claiming they'd bested the machines and gotten away. That was stupid. You couldn't beat a plugger--they were nearly indestructible. And even if you did, others would stick you.

Stupid.

Maybe--

He felt a flame shoot up his spine when he made out the word. It was just one word after all, mouthed in a tongue-heavy drawl, over and over. And over.

"Watching," mumbled the plugged man. "Watching... Watching... Watching..."

Bang!

Juan looked up. The sky was broken, and fiery light poured in from the cracks. The ringing came next, deep and heavy. It ground his bones into powder and turned his brain into liquid. He put his hands to his head and squeezed. If there were screams other than his own, he didn't hear them.

Flynn. Where was Flynn?

The plugged man moaned, "Coming... Coming... Coming..."

Juan was jerked aside by Flynn's strong hand.

"We need to do it," Juan mumbled. The light was receding to tolerable levels.

At least the ringing was muffled now.

"We need to do it," Juan repeated.

///

Why today? Flynn thought once more.

Not today. Not today. We were supposed to leave.

This can't be happening today!

Why did they have to do it today?

"No. No. No." He shook his head, sweating, spasming.

"We need to do it before we leave," Juan said. The circle had broken and split; the crowd was scattered every which way, heading for cover, but for some reason he was still calm. "One last time."

Flynn nodded finally, slowly, painfully. His mouth bent itself as he gnawed on his bottom lip, catching the pink flesh in-between his teeth. "One last time," he said. "One last pickup."

They headed to the boat.

---

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