Color Wars

By Ronnie T Khalil

What if color were ripped from this world? And the mere thought of individuality and creativity could lead to death? Color Wars is a coming-of-age story about a girl raised in a dystopian, black & white world. When she unknowingly flashes the ability to use color magic, the Empress takes her under her wing, unsure whether to save her or dest

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clownfish Productions
• Release date: Jan 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218164652

Ronnie T Khalil

Ronnie Khalil is former professional stand-up comedian who toured extensively in the Middle East, including several television comedy specials. He taught screenwriting at several universities, and is an award-winning producer, writer and director. He was also named one of the "100 Most Powerful Arabs Under 40."He has been featured on ABC News, BBC, CNN, The World, NPR, FOX, the European News Channel, Air America, and Al Jazeera, and has written articles for CNN.com and CollegeHumor.com. In addition to his film accomplishments, Ronnie was co-Founder of The Middle Eastern Comedy Festival in Los Angeles.Ronnie is a strong proponent of creative freedom around the world, and lives in South Florida spending his days staring at the ocean and wondering what crazy thing tourists will do next.

Book preview

Color Wars

Ronnie Khalil

Table of Contents

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part Two

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Part Three

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Part Four

The Four Muses and the Creation of All

In the beginning, there were Four Muses, celestial beings of energy that were as constant as time itself. One day, feeling the urge to create, they brought into being the heavens and the Earth. The first Muse, with her brush, painted all that could be seen; the second, with his lyre, plucked the sounds that echo throughout; the third, with her words, gave each creature a name and a purpose; and with a graceful twirl, the fourth spun the universe into beautiful motion and gave it a soul.

To ensure the permanence of their masterpiece, the Four Muses gave birth to humanity, each blessing their children with a gift: the Painter imbued them with Curiosity, so life would never cease to intrigue; the Musician gave them Intuition, so they would reach beyond the limits of their rational minds; the Poet gave them Language so no generation would be deprived of the knowledge and wonder of its ancestors; and the Dancer gave them Hope, because without it, nothing can survive.

— Annimus, Luminaire of the Highest Order

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Part One

Chapter One

Today would be a day like every other—a day exactly as it should be. The goal was to maintain an even Pleasantness and Calmness, the same goal as all the days before this one and all those after. The tolling of the bell meant everyone in the Realm was to immediately rise and commence productivity.

Idleness was not a virtue.

This day, however, Inara—the name her Mom used in secret, as names promoted vanity and individuality—struggled to wake up. She felt unCalm; there was a curious ache in her stomach, a swirling sensation accompanied by a constrained compression in her chest. If she could describe it properly, which she was both incapable and highly discouraged from doing, she would say, It feels like my insides are being twisted into knots by a tempest raging inside my small colon, while my heart is slowly crushed by the hands of a medium-sized, yet fairly robust ogre. But Inara, unfortunately, could not describe any of these things or explain her actual feelings, other than by the required Pleasantness and Calmness scale, ranging from unCalm and unPleasant to overCalm and overPleasant. Right now, she was feeling the lowest level of Calmness, which resulted in a less-than-ideal level of Pleasantness.

Sometimes Inara made up words to express these odd sensations; like, right now, the word she felt was glubby. Once, she’d mistakenly used it in her Father’s presence and was quickly chided and punished. Making up words, especially words that described things, or worse, feelings, was strictly against The Book of Ethos, The Empress’ wishes, and an affront to The Goddess of the Black Lake.

*

Ethos 1:1

The Book of Ethos is the final word of The Goddess, transcribed by The Empress, Her chosen conduit and rightful ruler of the Realm.

Nothing need be written after this text, for it is all-comprehensive and final, and all written before it should be considered null and void.

Inara’s Family waited for her at the simple wooden table—all the furniture was required to be comprised of straight lines, squares, and rectangles, although they could be any of the Five Shades of Neutral. Too much variation in design would be viewed as a sign of nonconformity and attract unneeded attention from The Empress’ Guard. So most everything in their Family Dwelling was the exact same shade of uninspiring Neutral 3.

Inara was not normally late to Morning Meal, but today she moved slower than usual, her eyes half-open, like a newborn experiencing the world for the first time.

Her Father glared as she entered; their Morning Meals were rushed enough. Her Mom clearly was not mad, though, offering a half-smile, but the twinkle in her eyes let Inara know it was meant to be a large, toothy grin. Inara felt her own Pleasantness level rising—her Mom had that effect on her—and now Inara already felt closer to what the Ethos deemed she should be.

Inara’s younger Brother sat upright, hands folded on his lap, staring straight ahead. The exemplary child. His skin was also the ideal Neutral 3, desired by all the Realm’s Citizenry. Inara’s was Neutral 4, no doubt a disappointment to her parents, though they’d never admit it, and she’d never ask. Her parents were specially paired for marriage: her Mom Neutral 2 and her Father Neutral 4. Their union was meant to produce children that moved society forward in peace through conformity. Instead, Inara had ended up with skin just like her Father.

She was a disappointment to him even at birth.

And although Inara liked her Brother, she wished he wasn’t so perfect so she didn’t seem so... not.

She knew it was difficult for her Father to maintain an ideal level of Pleasantness around her given all her shortcomings, and the fact that her Sister... well, they didn’t talk about the Past.

As the sacred Ethos reminded them:

*

The Past only brings misery and longing.

The entire Family held hands, the only time such contact was allowed—other than at Evening Meal and, on rare occasions, when the entire Realm held hands during Gatherings by the Black Lake. Her Father’s hands and nails were covered in dirt embedded so deep into the skin it couldn’t be scrubbed off, all from working in the Mines. His previous job, before their Family was placed on the caution list, was less physically taxing, but he’d never complained. Not verbally anyway. His face complained constantly.

All is as it should be, her Father began. He had no name, and even if her Mom had secretly chosen to give him one, as she did for Inara, her Father would have reprimanded her for it. Maybe worse.

Praise The Empress, said her Father.

Praise The Empress, they repeated. The words were genuine. Without The Empress, this world would fall apart and delve into chaos due to humanity’s pride and arrogance. Worst of all, it would be plagued by Color.

And praise The Goddess of the Black Lake, the bringer of balance and harmony.

They repeated it. The reverence was real. The Goddess of the Black Lake was the reason everything was as it should be. And would always be.

There was a time when people believed that Color made the world better. Inara knew it was a bald-faced lie. In fact, many, many lifetimes ago, Color had almost led to the destruction of humanity. Without Color, the world was safer. More organized. Unchanging. Its people were more loyal. Their objectives were more focused. A society operating without Color was a society in balance. A society in harmony.

In front of her was a bowl ready to be filled with her Morning Meal. If Inara knew what sarcasm was, she might have said something like, Oooh, I sure hope it’s black, lumpy gruel; that would be swell!

But sarcasm wasn’t understood in their household. Or any household. It would simply be met with her Father responding stoically, Yes, it is black, lumpy gruel. And please do not use the word ‘hope’ as The Goddess and The Empress provide us with all we need and all we will ever need.

So, instead, Inara said nothing.

She did manage a sideways glance at her Mom as the charcoal-colored mush plopped into her bowl. Her Mom managed a slight curl of her right lip, the side her Father couldn’t see, and expertly combined it with a half-drooped right eyelid. Inara’s Pleasantness nearly made a disastrous jump to overPleasant, but she did her best to hide it before her Brother noticed and snitched.

Chapter Two

The walk to work was slow, mechanical... automated. Inara noticed that most of the adults and children lining out of the building entrances had the same sleepy, glazed, and distant look in their eyes. They were like an army of ants, all dressed in matching uniforms that hung loosely on the body, but not so loose as to promote slovenliness and neglect. Inara never had much Pleasantness for the uniforms; they were Neutral 4, like her skin, giving her the appearance of an apparition with no discernible features, just a monochrome body in a dull sea. The men wore unadorned tunics and pants, while the women wore simple tunic dresses. Both outfits had a hood to protect from the bitter cold, a chill so biting it was meant to prevent the brain from becoming restless and wander off to useless musings—also known as mind loss.

Yet Inara still found her thoughts drifting, listening to the uneven sounds of feet on pavement; they were not in unison like The Empress’ Guard. There was something comforting in the non-rhythmic nature of the steps, when everyone moved at their own pace, a cacophony of shuffles that blended into a soothing hum.

Inara tried to isolate the sound of her own footsteps, considering what part she played in the larger whole. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn’t notice when the marching stopped. She slammed into a fellow Citizen who’d halted in front of her. The older man turned around, his eyes narrow, his brow furrowed.

Step when told. Stop when told. Follow instructions and don’t drag your feet, he said in an even tone bristled with harshness. His words were not his own, but the reiteration of instructions she’d heard countless times from countless people, including her Father.

Everyone sounded the same.

Despite the older man’s glare, Inara couldn’t stop staring at his forehead, a mixture of lines and creases that rippled upwards from his lifeless, foggy eyes. His nose, Inara thought, resembled the toe of an old foot, callused and weathered by time. Of course, the thought of a face with a toe for a nose made no sense to Inara, as feet were at the bottom of the body and faces at the top, so she dismissed the thought as nonsense and simply nodded at his instructions.

As it should be, she said by rote.

As it should be, he repeated, his jaw still clenched.

For the rest of her journey, Inara tried to focus only on the path ahead, but her mind continued to wander. She watched black billows escape from the Factory smokestacks, engulfing the sky in a layer of dark smog. She then noticed the puffs of smoke floating from the mouths of the Citizens, how they seemed to mimic those of the Factory stacks as the people trudged, zombie-eyed, in the frosty morning.

Her Mom had once told her a Tale, a fabricated story created by humans long ago before the nuclear fallout—a term her Mom couldn’t fully explain. The Tale spoke of dragons, unreal animals that had skin as hard as metal and wings like a raven. They also breathed out smoke. The warm exhales that emanated from people’s nostrils and lips reminded Inara of the dragons, and for a moment, Inara pictured herself as one, flexing her bird-like wings to fly high above the masses, blowing smoke as she pleased. Inara did her best not to smile at the thought for fear of being reprimanded once again by the older man with a toe for a nose.

She imagined swooping by the Moat at the base of the Castle located in the center of the Realm, circling around the winding river of dark sludge that led to the Black Lake atop the mountain and finally ascending to The Empress' Tower, which extended high beyond the midnight-colored clouds.

Inara even imagined flying beyond the Great Wall, into the neutral Mist but then immediately stopped, her heart pounding, because beyond the Wall was... something one should never think about.

Inara dismissed her thoughts of dragons; it was a waste of mental faculty—a human could not be a dragon, and a dragon was not a real thing. All of it was silly. More importantly, it was blasphemous.

Inara’s Mom had stopped telling her Tales after her Brother’s mind became infected with sleep terrors, and his disposition became troubled. When Inara’s Father discovered her Mom’s grave indiscretion, Inara feared he would report her to The Empress’ Guard. But having more than one Family member ripped away by the Guard was more than he could bear. Inara quickly brushed that memory out of her mind as well.

*

The Past only brings misery and longing.

Inara understood why thinking about the Past was forbidden: the memory of her Sister had somehow made the frigid air even more bitter, and the Neutral 5 skies appeared almost as dark as the Black Lake, though Inara knew the wind had not grown colder nor the skies any darker.

With periodic visits to the Black Lake and much recitation of the Book of Ethos, Inara’s Brother had gradually improved. His eyes eventually recovered the foggy glaze common to so many of the Citizenry. But Inara couldn’t get the Tales out of her head, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many of the Ethos she repeated silently or said out loud.

The We not the I, the We not the I, the We not the I.

That was what her Father had told her to recite, over and over again, whenever her mind allowed thoughts that were not condoned by the collective.

The We not the I, the We not the I, the We not the I.

Without realizing it, Inara had gone from thinking the words to whispering them. A woman next to her heard the familiar Ethos and began to repeat it as well. Then another. Then another.

Soon, the entire crowd recited them together. The phrase caught momentum like a steam train barreling down a mountain. There was something comforting about having this large group of people sharing one moment, one thought, one mind. But it was equally unnerving to Inara that they all recited the Ethos without knowing why they’d even started.

Inara turned to her Mom, who she thought would appreciate what Inara had accomplished, but her Mom’s lips tightened into a thin line. Inara couldn’t understand her reaction; maybe it was because Inara, involuntarily, had been a leader—someone who started something by individual action—and her Mom could see the vanity Inara felt because of it. Even when trying to be pious, Inara failed.

She stopped reciting the Ethos, but by this time, it had already spread like a virus. She heard the words echoing off the buildings as hundreds of people parroted her once tiny whisper. And now, the individual shuffling of feet was gone, and the entire crowd marched in perfect unison, just like The Empress’ Guard. All the while, they mindlessly repeated over and over again, The We not the I, the We not the I, the We not the I.

*

Ethos 2:1

There was a young boy who was part of a Family, and that Family was part of a Community, and that Community was part of a Realm. One day, the boy decided that he was special, that he should choose himself over all those around him.

He began to use the term I instead of We—he did things only for himself. He took what he wanted, did what he desired, and lived only for his own selfish whims, thus taking more than he needed.

Upon seeing this, all the other members of his Family realized that if they continued to think as We instead of I, then the young boy would take everything they had, leaving them with nothing. So they too began to refer to themselves as I and hoarded and took and stole, and the entire Family started to disintegrate, followed by the Community, followed by the Realm.

The I is the way the wicked Light pulls you toward it and destroys everything that is good and pure and as it should be.

The We not the I.

Chapter Three

Factory work was good work. Work as it should be. It gave an opportunity for all the Realm’s Citizens to stay active, regardless of age. Even young girls—younger than Inara, that is—were given the opportunity to clean and carry and perform many of the same rigorous tasks as adults. The young boys worked with their fathers in a separate Factory, or digging in the Mines, or performing any various tasks crucial to keeping the Realm functioning as it should. And thanks to this equality of opportunity, boys and girls could sleep calmly and pleasantly at night, reassured that they did not waste their youth on silly games or useless banter or, even worse, mind loss.

The conveyer belt looped back and forth around the massive Factory, like a giant metallic snake slithering through a brush of human weeds. A series of interlocking metal plates clanked and creaked as they wound around the Factory floor, surrounded by walls of brick, each one filthier than the next. Every worker stood at their station, packed elbow to elbow, with barely enough room to complete their tasks, let alone take a breath of not-so-fresh air. All the women, including Inara, shed the top layer of their robes because inside the Factory it was stifling, with waves of heat emanating from an enormous pipe in the center of the room. It was the only heat in the Realm, as candles and fires did not radiate warmth.

The metal cylinder extended high into the air and through the roof, spitting a dark and murky cloud into the heavens. The pipe was so old and decrepit, Inara swore it wailed with each exhale, begging to be put out of its misery.

When the Foreman yelled, Work hard, make your Empress proud! Inara noticed how many workers gave a collective sigh and slumped their shoulders in unison—right before their eyes darted around to make sure their movement didn’t elicit attention from the Foreman. Even her Mom, who worked a few rows down, momentarily closed her eyes to regroup. Inara always assumed everyone in the Realm was grateful for work—it was what they had always said—but sometimes, she said things to herself that she didn’t fully believe, hoping that one day, those affirmations would come true. Was it possible that others did that as well?

She chided herself for asking a question, even if it was only to herself.

*

Questions beget more questions beget more questions. If an answer is not in the Ethos, then your question is unworthy of asking and should never be asked.

Sometimes, Inara’s inner thoughts escaped her brain and snuck out of her mouth in the form of a question. The punishment for that was far more severe than for simply making up words. Especially outside her Family’s Dwelling.

Unlike Inara, no one else ever questioned work—or anything, really—so she knew that if they said they enjoyed work, then they enjoyed it. In the Realm, no one ever lied...except her Sister, lying to the Guards...and the Neighbor Boy, lying to her... but the Past was the Past and should never be dwelled upon.

So Inara straightened her back, held her head high enough to denote willful acceptance, but not too high to denote blasphemous pride, and waited for the conveyer belt to start its revolutions.

Work hard, make your Empress proud! repeated the Foreman. His job is significantly easier than ours, thought Inara.

Twelve men, the only ones allowed in the Factory other than the Foreman, took their place at the cranks, each one with their own Z-shaped lever. All the men were blindfolded so they could not gawk at the women and girls. Without the tops of their robes on, their bare necks and arms were exposed, which would surely distract the men and elicit impure thoughts.

The Foreman was spared from the inconvenience of the blindfold because, as Inara learned from whispers among the women, he was relieved of his masculine tendencies. A number of men voluntarily chose the same fate, as it helped them focus on their work and dedicate themselves to serving The Goddess. In addition, having a child out of wedlock meant death for the parents as well as the child.

The blindfolded men strained to turn the levers, but as their arms grew taut and their grunts grew louder, the metal snake slowly slithered. The men’s movements became more fluid, and the metal python slinked and creaked and churned at full speed, a viper racing through the brush.

Inara’s job consisted of fastening a washer and a nut to two bolts that were placed on by the woman before her, which held together two planks fastened by the girl before that one, which were put on the base provided by the woman before them. Inara’s responsibility was only those two washers and two nuts, nothing more, nothing less, over and over again. Grab a washer from the bin, insert it over the bolt, add the nut, and spin it far enough down so the girl standing next to her could tighten it when her turn came around. This was Inara’s job, crucial to the functioning of the Realm, though, to be honest, she wasn’t sure how. There were two shifts a day, both of seemingly equal length—though time and clocks were unknown in the Realm.

During her first shift, Inara and the others successfully assembled many hundreds of objects—she always lost count, no matter how hard she tried to focus. She didn’t know what these objects were used for but, ultimately, she knew it didn’t matter.

After the first shift was Middle Meal. Inara took the wooden cup that was placed by her station and reluctantly sipped the dark liquid—gruel, as always—thinned out so workers could drink at their stations to maximize productivity. The gruel was particularly lumpy today, hard to swallow without chewing, which somehow made the least appetizing thing to ever exist even less appetizing. Inara simply didn’t feel like making the effort.

The girl next to Inara had already downed her portion and now gazed longingly at Inara’s cup. The girl, Inara noticed, had almond-shaped eyes, bigger than Inara’s but slightly more closed. Her stomach was rounder than most of the other women, especially for someone so thin—perhaps, Inara surmised, this girl was with child. Inara was amazed how she’d never actually looked at this girl’s face before, someone she’d stood next to every day for...who knows how long.

Inara offered the girl her remaining Middle Meal, but the girl did not immediately take it; instead, her face contorted, her almond eyes narrowed, and her mouth puckered up in conflicted thought. The Girl with the Almond Eyes glanced around cautiously, unsure what the instructions were for taking someone else’s meal, even when offered. She seemed genuinely terrified at making her own decision, but as the hunger took over, she quickly grabbed Inara’s cup and replaced it with hers, so no one would know. She gulped the liquid greedily, glanced over at Inara slightly longer than needed, and provided the faintest of head nods, then looked away. Inara assumed that was her way of saying thank you—words reserved only for The Empress and Goddess.

The second part of the workday began shortly after. The twelve men were replaced by twelve new ones, though Inara had a hard time telling them apart anymore. They simply appeared as one large animal, made of both machine and flesh, oscillating in unison with twenty-four arms. It reminded Inara of a grotesque spider, which she harbored unPleasantness toward, but then she dismissed the wasteful thought because humans could not be spiders, and spiders could not be that large.

When Inara first began working, she thought it was unfair that the men had to only work half the day and women the full day. But when she saw the men scattered on the ground outside the Factory after a shift, covered in sweat, half-dead, she realized that maybe half a shift was enough.

When the conveyer belt rotated for the second shift, it ran in reverse. As it always did. While Inara tolerated the first part of the day, this shift was always far less satisfying.

The woman at the end of the Factory line during the first shift was now first in line for the second. Her job consisted of undoing the object she’d assembled during the earlier shift, removing a square cover that she’d originally mounted. Then the cover from the next. And the next.

As the first objects came to Inara, they were already a shell of their finished form, a skeleton picked clean of all its meat. Inara removed the nuts and washers that she had painstakingly added the whole first shift and placed them in the bin next to her—they would be reused tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. She was supposed to focus solely on her job, but today she couldn’t help watching the lady at the end of the line taking the two planks and putting them away until there was nothing left of what they had all achieved. It had never bothered Inara this much before—work was work, and it was good and as it should be. But today... today, something felt different.

It felt... glubby.

And that’s when she saw something, or someone, out of the corner of her eye whizz past the only open door in the Factory. It was brief. Fleeting. But the tingle she felt in her skin was unmistakable.

She looked around to see if anyone else had noticed it, but all the workers were focused on their tasks, and only their tasks, as they should be. As she should be.

But Inara was certain she’d seen it. And she couldn’t describe it. It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. Well, almost. It reminded her of the moment she and her Sister had shared before...

Before it all went wrong.

Except this sensation felt different. This blur didn’t bring her high amounts of Pleasantness. It made Inara feel like all the heat and steam from the large metal pipe in the center of the Factory was inside her, filling her entire body, radiating beneath her skin.

She tried to ignore it. To go back to her work. She should have simply thanked The Goddess for all She provided and continued on with her duty to the Realm.

But she had to know.

The Ethos warned about curiosity. Inara knew the punishment. But none of that mattered.

Chapter Four

Workers were allowed one bathroom break, and Inara had already requested hers. She silently chastised her bowels as if they knew the opportunity they had cost her. Asking for another break would certainly be denied. Inara knew that due to the sweltering heat inside the Factory, every so often someone fainted. This usually resulted in the belt stopping for them. It was a shameful indication of their unwillingness to work hard for The Goddess. The woman—or sometimes, young girl—was carried outside for some cold air, while an apprentice stepped in to avoid disrupting productivity. Once, when Inara had served as an apprentice, she’d witnessed this happen to a woman stationed next to her. The woman’s eyes had rolled back so only the two white orbs appeared in her sockets, and she swayed side to side until her knees buckled beneath her. Unfortunately, she fell headfirst into the conveyer belt and gashed her head along the metal railing. She never again returned to work. The Foreman indicated that she had given everything to the Realm, Empress, and Goddess and, for her exemplary dedication, was rewarded with a journey to the Great Beyond.

Everyone clapped.

If you lived, you were dishonored; if you died, you were applauded.

If Inara wished to go outside and see whatever it was that had made her body react the way it did, she would have to dishonor herself... and her Family. They had yet to recover from her Sister’s grave dishonor. She wasn’t sure they ever would. To make matters worse, Inara would have to lie.

No, lying was forbidden by the Ethos. She would have to pretend. Her Mom had taught her and her Sister how to pretend when they were younger.

Pretend you’re a cat, she’d say, and they would make cat noises, quietly, of course. If the neighbors heard them pretending, they would consider it lying—which it wasn’t, Inara convinced herself—and immediately report her Family to The Empress’ Guard.

Of course, as Inara grew up, she realized how silly pretending to be a cat was because cats were cats, and humans were humans, and one could never be the other. Her Father taught her that lesson. And many more just like it.

The Ethos tell us:

*

To liken one thing to another is to demean both entities. It is to say The Goddess' intentions were not clear and accurate, and things are not as they should be.

But to satisfy Inara’s accursed curiosity, to see what had appeared outside the Factory doors, she needed to summon the lessons her Mom had taught her early in life, back when her Mom experienced higher Pleasantness, spoke more, played pretend, and quietly disobeyed Inara’s Father. That was before that fateful night with her Sister, the Neighbor Boy, and the Flower Made of Color.

Inara’s mind was made up; she just hoped that no one could tell that she was pretending. She quickened her breath, faster and faster until everyone turned in her direction. Inara shuffled away from the belt—she didn’t want to make the mistake of splitting her head open and giving everything to the Realm just yet, especially not while pretending. She rolled her eyes upward; they strained so much Inara worried they might remain stuck in the back of her skull. Then she released all the tension in her legs and collapsed. Her shoulder smacked the hard Factory floor first, followed by the side of her head. Inara desperately wanted to scream in pain, but the woman she was imitating had never made a sound, even as her head cracked open like a melon, so Inara kept her eyes shut and absorbed the agony.

She heard the belt stop and an unCalm squeal that she instantly recognized as her Mom’s. Inara never considered how she would react in the moment, and, inexplicably, the pain in her shoulder and head multiplied tenfold.

Get back to your posts! yelled the Foreman.

The murmurs subsided, and Inara felt four hands grab her by the arms and feet, lift her up, and carry her to what she hoped was the entrance for some fresh air. Only seconds passed before she heard the creaking of the belt again. She knew no matter how much her Mom wanted to follow her, to check on her only remaining daughter, that she would be forced to dutifully stick to her task and maybe even be reprimanded for her uneven Pleasantness.

The two people tasked with carrying Inara unceremoniously discarded her onto the hard, cold ground and shuffled back into the Factory, ready to haul the next derelict out here, if and when needed.

The cold air was crisp and biting. Inara realized she didn’t have her robe on—if she spent too much time out here, she might freeze. She cautiously opened one eye to make sure no one was around—all clear. She stood up, rubbing her throbbing head and her aching shoulder, already regretting her stupid and selfish plan.

But what was done was done. The Past was the Past.

Determined to unlock the mystery of the strange blur, Inara crept around the Factory walls, staying near the exposed brick that emanated some heat from the inside. The warmth felt good on Inara’s skin; perhaps it would keep her from turning into a human icicle.

The streak caught her attention again. It raced toward the outer walls, hidden behind dried brush and stone ruins, a blur so fast Inara knew she would never catch it. Disappointed, she turned around to go back inside the Factory. As she did, she came face to face with something— or someone—she never could have imagined.

He was unlike anything she’d ever seen; his skin radiated something not from this Realm. Inara had no idea what the Color was called, but she knew his skin was tarnished by it. The sight made her heart gallop so fast she envisioned it exploding out of her chest and sprinting for cover. It wasn’t just his skin that was different, either: He was tall, his jaw square, and his arms—Inara caught her breath. She’d seen powerful arms on the men who rotated the conveyer belt, but he seemed to have been perfectly sculpted, a combination of thin and thick muscles woven together like taut, intertwined ropes, seamlessly connecting to create the ideal human physique.

If he was, indeed, even human.

Inara noticed that his left shoulder was covered in tiny bumps, but not like the chicken pox or