The Line

Something, somewhere, somehow

Juan watched two young men argue over a still-flopping, yellow-green fish with four—four!—heads. One of the two, the taller one, the one anger turned all jerky, produced a trading slip. He made Juan think of a spastic tree: thin all over, with long jerky arms and very long, jerky legs.

"I have the trade value," he argued, waving the paper in the other's face.

"This fish is already reserved," the shorter man said. "If you want some so badly, go fish them yourself." He was calm, maybe too calm, and the yellow stubble on his chin heavily clashed with his dark skin.

South Side, Juan noted absently.

The first day had been a nightmare. He'd gone up to countless South Siders, expecting some kind of bond to come through. It hadn't. South Side, North Side... neither mattered. There were no sides in the Line. The court and the pluggers were common enemies, yes, but according to what he'd seen, that was as far as true bonding went between linespeople.

Red flashed into his vision; the sky drew his involuntary glance for a full minute. Three days total, and he wasn't any closer to getting used to it. Its eerie, dark red glow wasn't even offset by clouds. It was just there. Just everywhere. It seeped into every crack and curve and corner and hole and changed it, making it flush, making it glow.

"I don't know how to work the nets," the taller man said. His face was at a quiet boil. "Give me the fish!"

"I already told you--"

"I'm tired of this--"

The argument might have come to blows if the pluggers hadn't zoomed by. As their whoosh subsided, a prudent quiet fell over the two men, and after an interminable time, they parted ways.

///

Flynn. Finally.

A panting Flynn, no less: his hair seemed to be leaking onto his cheeks, his breaths were loud enough and shallow, and he moved as if he was broken somehow. The limp was only noticeable as he ran; when he slowed to a walking pace, his movements weren't unnatural at all.

Juan listened to the red-haired boy profusely thank the vendor--bubbling and rambling all the while, like always--for keeping the fish aside. Closer now, he watched them exchange a dark slip of paper in a quick flash of hands.

They would notice him soon.

For some reason, this thought made him shift uncomfortably. What if Flynn didn't remember him? Or their conversation in the factory? What if he didn't remember they'd agreed to meet here? Was Juan that forgettable?

Why was he questioning himself so much lately? What was it about the Line that made him so complacent and weak? Maybe the air? Juan needed to hold onto his pride. He was an important person, a much-admired person, whereas Flynn was dirty, stupid, and disjointed. He reminded himself that their association was solely being continued because Flynn seemed to be a good shot at surviving the Line until escape.

That was it.

///

"Flynn." Juan's voice should have carried, but the air in the Line was thicker and that muffled it.