The City Cries Blue

Where I come from, everyone avoids the rain. I slip out from beneath an awning and around blue puddles from the last thunderstorm. Windows cry long streaks and buildings are left stained with dark smears. Nature's paint. At least nature couldn't get arrested.

After art became illegal, I watched cities lose their souls and the rain tried to paint it blue instead. 

With free speech and creative voices out of the picture, the government’s new focus is fixing the weather. Except they were the ones to blame when the rain started falling in pretty sapphire drops about a year ago. The catch? Water became absolutely deadly to drink.

I pass through a neighborhood drowned in silence. A couple leaves scrape against the emptiness. It's a reminder of the hundreds of deaths from the poorer districts, but no one to tell people about it. All journalism organizations were dismantled several years ago when the government realized that artists weren’t the only ones who could speak out.  

The rain often still falls blue. I’m almost certain that they’ve given up trying to undo it completely. After all, now they can make money off selling bottles to the desperate people who don’t have access to clean water.

My eyes fish in the dark pockets of alleyways and I hurry my pace. I catch a glimpse of my wavering shape in a window: dark jeans ripped at my knees, and an oversized hooded jacket.

I cradle my own metal water bottle in one of my arms, feeling its contents shift with my movements.

I never use it to carry water.  

I slip into an alleyway marked with a faint yellow smudge against one of the bricks. A quick search leads me to a handle camouflaged into its surroundings to blend almost completely into the grimy walls and dirty cement. I tug at the handle and despite its aged appearance, the door opens without any creaks. I’m quick to disappear into the gaping blackness for fear of unwanted guests finding the way in. 

Climbing down the ladder, I have to re-position the water bottle to make sure it doesn’t fall. The rungs vibrate with each step down until I jump the rest of the way. My boots hitting the cement sends an echo that’s immediately absorbed into the dark. 

The tunnel’s mouth widens and the underground brims with fluttering life. New art decorates the walls. Fellow artists return my smile as I pass them in the midst of their newest projects. I walk through the art market where little cubed areas are sectioned off for traveling or permanent vendors to sell goods. There's anything from handmade paintbrushes, custom paints and inks, partly recovered makeup palettes, fabrics, paper, and I even know a traveling notebook maker. As for the prices…those could usually be bargained down.

I touch my short wavy dark strands as I pass a vendor selling homemade hair dye. I really want to dye my hair, but technically I don't need to. I turn my gaze away from being tempted and keep walking. 

Lights continue to trace the walls of the tunnel. Just like artists, to make our own little stars that brighten the lives of those who went into hiding like I did.  

This is where the true city lives, not the empty shell that sleeps above our heads.

It takes a few turns through the maze of tunnels until I come upon the entryway I had been looking for. There’s a fluctuating stream of people coming in and going out. I go inside and end up in a space pumping with music and dancing bodies. The Underworld never disappoints. 

My guess is the room used to be water storage but since it had been drained, it now acted as the perfect underground club.

The lights are covered with a type of red transparent plastic, so the room glows to complement the bar’s name. The red cushioned sofas line the walls while tall standing tables are spaced sporadically in the space. Each has a small fake candle atop it. Then, the centerpiece of it all: the bar. 

I don’t know how they managed to install lit shelving to hold the alcohol, but I had decided a while ago not to question it. 

The bar sits at the far end of the large room. Its glasses of alcohol fill the shelves and while the decorated shelves go to the ceiling, the alcohol remains at a height where bartenders could easily reach without a ladder. A long counter runs in front of it but surprisingly it’s not too crowded. Most people order their drink and then hurry off to some other part of the room. At the bar, the music isn’t as blaring as it is where a live DJ is performing.

I find a seat on one of the black painted stools etched with white curls up the legs. Just as I’m debating a drink, I find that one has already been set in front of me. 

“You’re back early,” says the bartender who gave it to me.

“There weren’t any problems,” I shrug. I examine the drink in the faint light. Little bubbles rise in a liquid that’s either purple or blue. It was hard to tell because of the red glow around me. I take a sip. It’s good. 

She hands another drink to someone before coming back to me. Tonight, her jet-black hair is scrambled back into a messy bun with a notable silver hairpin slipped through it. Silver earrings wink red light from the many piercings she has. Then her winged eyeliner is traced with silver lines to match the sequins which turn crimson when she glances to the side.

“Sorry I couldn’t go with. Keeping an eye on some of the newbies. They just came out of recovery,” she says, tapping her ringed fingers on the bar.

I look over my shoulder to see where she is looking. The new artists look out of place near the wall but they appear to be at least talking with one other. When I glance back, she’s smiling at them like a mother to children.

“Did they find what their outlet is?” I hand her the water bottle. 

She opens it and pours out the contents: a few skinny bottles of glow in the dark ink, permanent glue, a flash drive, and some wire.

She lifts one of the ink bottles up to the overhead light. “One of them decided it's drawing. I think one might like poetry or short prose, but the other one isn't sure yet.”

I nod and gesture at the contents. “Sorry, it's not much, but the store was pretty destroyed when I got there. I think one of the other Houses beat us to it." She sweeps the water bottle’s contents into her own bag to put under the counter. “At the next House trade, we might be able to bargain for things though.” 

Another customer asks for a drink and she multi-tasks talking and mixing. 

“Vynia and I are working to send out more scouts. Are there still things we could use from that store?” she asks. 

 “We’ll definitely need more hands if we go back. It wasn’t really the type of arts I work in, so I wasn’t really sure what was ‘important’ enough to take.” I swirl the liquid in the glass cup. 

“I’m surprised you found a flash drive,” she hands the drink to a waiting hand. “Maybe one of our media artists can use it. I think we have a few in Domino.”  

Ever since I joined the House of Domino, Sera was the one who helped me with my recovery. Most House leaders were usually a part of that process. Mine had been a pretty bad recovery period, but I got through it. Somehow. 

“Seraaa,” a voice sings slightly off pitch. 

Sera’s girlfriend, Vynia dances towards us. The DJ’s violet lavender hair twirls around her and I can see that both of my friends have silver sequins under their eyes. 

“Wow, where was the memo on the sequins?” I gesture to the couple. 

Vynia walks behind the bar to kiss her girlfriend on the cheek before making herself a drink. “Sera said that you would be out for a while; besides, are you sticking around until we close?” 

Closing time is 3 a.m. and like hell would I stay out that late. I'm tired.

I don’t respond, so Vynia smirks at me. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be DJing right now?” I retort. 

Her violet hair shakes with her head. “I let one of the others take over. They need some time with music anyway.” 

Vynia became Sera’s co-leader to the House of Domino once they made their relationship official. It didn’t feel like Domino without both girls at the helm. Vynia was especially terrifyingly protective of our artists. If a Domino artist was ever harmed, Sera had to hold Vynia back from tearing apart another House. Not that Houses fought very often, but it happened usually after we hold the mid-year art galleries. It sounds tame but it’s really a competition for which House has the best talent. All of the House leaders get together to vote and you’re never allowed to vote for your own. 

Vynia jumps onto the stool next to me with her drink. Surprisingly, she doesn’t spill anything. 

“So? How are you doing, G?” 

Like a lot of recovering artists, I still was trying to remember my name. So far, all I got was a “G” in my head. Sera protects her real name under “Sera” which was inspired by seraph or seraphim, a type of powerful angel. Someone in Domino started a trend of calling her “Angel Sera” but she put an end to it because she said it felt weird.

“I’m just an artist,” Sera had said at the time. “What I create as an artist might be magic, but I’m sure as hell not a goddess of any kind.” 

Sera felt like a name related to an angel would protect her from being taken again, just as she could protect the artists in her House. 

“It was okay,” I shrug. “I didn’t see anyone on the surface today. Not even any other House artists running around like I normally would.” 

“It’s probably because of the rainstorm,” Vynia points out. “There were rumors that it now can poison by touch not just by drinking. Not surprising considering its frickin’ blue.”

I add a mental tally to my the-government-messed-up-again chart.

I down the rest of my drink and leave my friends to go back to our sector. As I leave, I see Vynia and Sera leaving the bar. They're engulfed by the crowd and then gone.

“Why didn’t you say something last night?!” I hurry after Vynia as she ties her hair into a ponytail.  

The day is going well. I went and did some food shopping at the market, made myself a sandwich, and was messing with a black market music software on Sera's computer. Then, Vynia appeared and said I was going with them on a rescue mission.

“Some things came up, okay? You—” she shoves a backpack in my hands. “—are a stand-in on short notice. I told Sera that you would be good for this.” 

I rub my hand over my face. Flashes of red and phantom pains rush at me when I close my eyes. I try to flick the anxiety from my fingertips but it just gathers again in jitters. “I’m not recovered enough for this.” 

“Trust me, you are,” Sera appears, backpack slung over her shoulder and dressed in the white uniform from the facility. 

I force myself into the white uniform and cross my arms. “And if I get taken again—”

“You won’t be,” Sera reassures me. “Here.”

She hands me the headphones that I had seen her rescue mission group using before. I turn it on and rest the headphones on my shoulders.

I was used to being on simple observation missions and your standard art thievery. This was not what I was used to.

Still, I realize too late that I should’ve just said no. 

Our driver drops us off a block away from the Playground, a massive facility dedicated to one thing: holding artists captive. When Creatives are captured, they're sent to the Playgrounds to work for the government. Some remember the details like a puppet being controlled, unable to do anything. Others barely remember anything. I’m in between the two. 

Sera leads our group of five. A usual mission saves one artist. A good mission saves two or more. A bad mission lost one of our own. Domino has experienced all three.

Before we left, one of Domino’s makeup artists marked our faces to be unrecognizable by the face scanners in the building. We would be practically invisible to the digital eye. 

“Our synced headphones play one song that starts when we get inside,” Sera had explained as they left the underground. “Once it starts, you have that much time to locate an artist. If you can’t get someone by the song’s bridge, meet at the exit. Do not be in the building without our music.” 

Hypnosis. Apparently, that’s what Playground workers play on the speakers throughout the building. Our headphones blend right in because all the workers also wear them. However, since we had all been under it before, it will hypothetically be a lot easier for us to fall under again. 

Sera leads us to the entry point, and we slip behind a back door. Everything is white and plain. White tile. White walls. I just want to splatter it with paint. 

Domino’s House leader nods before pressing play and a song erupts into my ears. We each disperse into the building, tugging the facility’s standard white masks over the lower half of our faces. Sera said that we each would be tugged to where we once worked in the building. It's a strange autopilot feeling where my legs carry me away from the others to a room on the second floor. 

As I’m heading down a hall, I see a Playground worker coming my way. I practically hold my breath, but they pass with barely a glance in my direction. 

Good.

Okay.

I reach a familiar room separated by a glass wall. There's one facility worker inside managing a group of people.

I’m surprised when my finger presses the button for the glass door to slide open. I present a fake holo badge which indicates I’m switching out this person for the new shift. They nod at me and disappear down the hall without a word. I’m only at the second verse of the song so I still have time. 

I scan the room of people in cubicles. I look over the shoulder of one person to see them making cartoons. Really basic and boring looking cartoons. There’s a list open in front of them of everything the characters are supposed to be and the plot. I frown at the large group in front of me. I wish I could get all of them out of here. 

Instead, I choose the closest person. 

“Hey?” I say, unsure of how loud I’m speaking because of the song. 

Their glassy eyes shift to me, slowly blinking. 

I slowly help the person up as they look at me confused. Was this what I was like? I wonder. 

“Come with me, we’re getting you out of here,” I say, gently nudging them forward. 

Something startles in their eyes when I manage to take them beyond the room. That’s when they completely collapse. 

Their widened mouth strains against their face in a scream I can't hear. I remember this pain. God, I remember this pain. 

I try to help them but they’re thrashing so much I can’t get a good hold. 

The song hits the bridge. 

“Please—” I half mutter to myself but more to the person.

In the corner of my eye, I see a fleet of white running toward me. I reach out one last time to the thrashing figure before giving up. I turn away muttering “I’m sorry.” 

I say it to Sera too when I meet up with everyone again in the safety of our getaway car. “I’m sorry.” 

Sitting beside Vynia is a young boy with his palms pressed flat to his ears. He’ll have to deal with pain for the next several blocks until he’s far enough away from the Playground’s reach. He’s the only one we could save today. 

Sera nods but doesn’t say anything.

I stare out the window, but I can still hear the boy’s whimpers above the car’s music. When I flinch it's not from the boy's cries, it's from the first blue raindrop against the glass.