The Line

It should be true

Juan had been gone for much longer than ten minutes.

Flynn felt an odd, icy pang in his chest. What if something had--

No.

Pluggers. Crimes in the Line were quite rare because of pluggers. Juan was all right; he had just lost track of time.

Well, that didn't mean Flynn would be wasting any.

///

The Weather Man lived in the tents by the water, and rumour had it he knew how to disable a plugger. Rumour also had it getting plugged gave you such an incredible high your brain got fried. Rumour also had it that when your time was up and your Retrial was set, you didn't truly vanish--it was more like a hole appeared, under your feet, in the ground, and you fell in. All the way to the core of the planet.

So many rumours.

The walk to the colony of tents was a short one. It was late afternoon (not that the sky gave it away) and activity at the docks was beginning to wane down. Fishermen brought in some of their last hauls of the day while a ferry boarded for the Line's other, much smaller islands.

The Weather Man was surrounded by a crowd of open mouths and wavy arms, his grey hair haphazardly stirred by the calm but constant ocean breeze. No use trying to catch his eye all the way from here. So Flynn walked over, tensing up as he always did when he spotted the Man's grey suit, which was often enough--nobody asked for predictions as often as he did. Probably because no one was more afraid of the storms than him. Except maybe Juan.

Something about the geezer had always been unsettling. Like how the Man managed to predict the weather in the first place: he didn't use tools, machines, maps. Didn't even have to look at the sky. He just knew. And he'd never been wrong.

If that wasn't a sure sign the Man was some kind of plant for the court, what was? Everyone Flynn had managed to talk to during his stay in the Line, including the "veterans" just days from their Retrial, had claimed the Weather Man never changed. That he'd always been there. The same.

Everyone they'd known had confirmed this too.

In any case, Flynn was going to get this over with. He pushed his way through the crowd, parting bodies with brute force. Most people didn't fight back--but those who did were unceremoniously shoved.

Almost there.

"Weather Man!" Flynn shouted.

The Man slowly turned his head, freezing when he locked eyes with Flynn.

"Weather Man!"

"It'll be all clear today, Flynn," was the Man's reply.

It didn't matter that Flynn was still a few feet away. He still heard everything, every word clear and sharp. The Weather Man had a voice that could stop your heart, a voice that took over your thoughts and replaced them with a hollow ring akin to madness, for a moment too long.

It'll be all clear today, Flynn thought, and he believed it, because it should be true.

He stood transfixed for a moment too long; the linespeople he'd plowed through in order to get within the Weather Man's sight promptly surrounded and swallowed him.

The ones he'd shoved made sure to shove back.

///

The bag was loaded with everything he thought he would need upon his arrival in the South Side and during the journey: food, the map Weiss had given him, a sketch of him and Juan, and the key.

He realized he was shaking when he held the map. He realized he was sweating when he ran his hand on his forehead. But no one had seen him crouch down and pull the small black bag from the hole in the wall, and if they had, he would be long gone before they caught him. The factory was such a dark place, and so full of chaotic movement, if he hadn't known exactly what he was looking for and where to find it, he wouldn't have found it at all.

Not one glance was spared for the dead-eyed linespeople on the stools. If he looked at them, he might be tempted to mock them, maybe even boast about the fact that he was leaving. And that wasn't the best idea, was it?

Bag slung over his shoulder, he escaped the shadows, the suffocation, and the static-filled chatter as quickly as he could. Outside, brilliant red light overtook his vision.

Then it was two faces: Juan and Angelle's, eyes into each others' as they discussed something that could only be personal. They laughed next, and Flynn once again felt an icy pang, inside. This time it was anger. 

Some walk.