The Line

Nothing but Hell

The day was clear, and perfectly mild.

Flynn kept his eyes on the sparkling water and his hands on the wheel, correcting their course as Juan's analysis of the map saw fit. Sometimes he checked the time, but he was always reassured on that front: they wouldn't miss the forcefield's opening.

At this rate, they would even be early.

///

A tear followed the curve of Flynn's cheek. Suppressing a sniffle, he spared a hand and wiped it off.

He dropped the hand when he felt Juan's eyes burning into him.

"Just... windburn." Flynn stroked his arm.

"Why do you keep scratching your arm? Do you have a rash?"

"What? No. No. No. I'm fine."

"Look, if this is about Angelle..."

Flynn nearly jumped out of his skin. Luckily, his back was to Juan, keeping the fear on his face hidden. "Why'd you say that?"

"I thought maybe you miss her."

"Do you?"

"I miss her. I'll miss this. I'll miss everything. I always miss everything. But I also miss home--not so much the people, more the place--and I want to go back."

Flynn elected to say nothing; he didn't trust his voice.

He rubbed his cheeks again.

"You'll miss it, too, won't you?" Juan's words were soft, dreamy. Maybe he failed to notice most things, but he definitely hadn't failed to notice this.

Flynn nodded, clenching his fists, willing his eyes to stay dry.

Yes, he thought, I will.

Somehow they did.

///

He'd stopped rubbing his arms--friction only made the stinging worse, honestly--and had kept his sleeves down. Since he'd ceased asking for directions, Juan hadn't been paying attention, sitting cross-legged on the deck, looking up at the sky, or gazing deeply at the water.

Missing it. Missing the Line.

Even though they hadn't left it yet. Even though it was nothing but Hell. And Juan had made Flynn feel the same way.

But Flynn didn't want to feel the same way. It was wrong, like seeing a shadow within a ball of light. Or red blood in pink water...

"Flynn."

"Yeah?"

"Angelle told me something. About the court." Juan sounded embarrassed, or maybe a little scared.

"Yeah." Flynn had tensed up.

"She saw everything, or so she claims. The room was bright. She saw the aud--"

"There is no audience." Flynn spoke dryly.

"Flynn?" Outright refuting a development as juicy as this one was so unlike Flynn, Juan had to catch his breath. "You used to say that maybe--"

"Maybe!" Flynn exploded, sarcasm embedded into the word. Once it came out, he couldn't stop the rest. "I used to talk about it all the time, didn't I? I used to obsess about it! I used to think the day I finally left the Line would be the best in my life, but now it's turning out to be the worst!" Panting and red, he backed away, letting Juan steady the wheel he feebly gripped, nearly spitting into the dreadful pink water. "What do you think this place is, huh, Juan?" he snarled. "I'll tell you: it's purgatory. We're being punished for having lived by having our deaths drawn out until the court deems us--"

"Flynn." Juan voice was oddly small. He looked up at the sky with a frown. "Are you sure the Weather Man--"

But Flynn wasn't finished. "What do I get out of this place? I get you, and I get lies, and I get the cheapest brand of hope!" He screamed into empty, unnervingly-salty air, leaning over the side of the boat. He hated the gentle back-and-forth of the water--it was trying to lull him to sleep.

"Flynn!" Urgent, now.

"This place is death! People die and I meet new people and they're dead too! I can't--"

"Flynn!"

"But I can't help it, can I? I can't help it."

"Flynn, look up!" Juan had abandoned the wheel.

"I can't help it. I can't help it. I can't help it." It was a soft litany.

Flynn didn't look up. He stared at the water, rubbing his arm, leaning even farther out. He wanted to shatter the ocean's surface with his fists. He wanted to dive into it and pollute it with his presence. He wanted it gone.

He wanted to--

Juan lunged for his arm, halting his fall.

"Thanks," Flynn said, but he didn't sound grateful. He sounded tired, like all the air in him had chosen to be too heavy for his lungs, all at once.

"Clouds," Juan said, pointing up. He didn't let go of Flynn's elastic arm, forcing his friend to look skyward. "Black clouds. A storm's coming. A storm!"

Flynn's composure was terrifying. "I told you this was Hell." Then he winced.

"What--" Juan released the arm he held; Flynn tugged at his sleeves, but not fast enough. "What happened?"

Arms now covered, Flynn stubbornly deflected, "Why didn't you tell me you'd talked to Angelle before? I know you went after her during your 'walk.'"

It was Juan's turn to be angry. "Maybe because you terrify her? You're impossible to predict today. Why do you care?"

"Because you're the good person here, Juan! Because I need someone to look up to! You're not supposed to be the liar!"

"What are you talking about?"

Flynn took a deep breath, then the plunge. "Angelle--she's gone." This came out in a whisper. "I can't help it, sometimes, I can't..."

Juan was silent, staring at the ground. Then: "How?"

His voice was level--a promising sign.

"I don't--"

"And what happened to your arms?"

Flynn said nothing. His face said everything.

"Why?" Juan asked. "Why would you..."

"I don't know," was the reply.

When Juan looked up, Flynn shrunk back.

"Listen--"

Flynn was cut off by the air leaving his lungs in a sudden huff--Juan was pushing him by the chest, again and again, even as he teetered toward the edge of the boat. Even as he lost balance and slipped. 

There was a big splash, followed by a lot of smaller ones, as Flynn fell overboard.