Don't Let the River Drown You

"Fuck you, Sallow!"

Spit hit Amara's face. She blinked, her yellow eyes unperturbed. Always reactive, she thought.

"Protocol 37 states octaves above 500 hertz require one month of civil service and a 5000 ring fine." She wrote out the ticket and handed it to the man. His hair flamed red with rage, and his eyes were full black. He licked his lips and tore the ticket into pieces in front of her.

Amara adjusted her helmet to relieve the discomfort of the metal on her smooth skin. This wasn't the first time a Colorbrat had tried to get a rise out of her. They always seemed to think actions like that would get a Logic to stoop to their overreacting level.

"Protocol 92 states intentional destruction of government property requires three years in state housing without visitation rights." Amara pressed the button on the side of her helmet, and the man was writhing on the ground the second the electric prods found his skin. His hair flashed between black, yellow, and green while his body thrashed around.

Amara stepped to the side as urine started to pool. "I need a pick up. Emotive citizen requiring housing."

Amara filled out the required paperwork in triplicate while waiting for the retrieval squad to appear. How illogical, she thought, screaming gibberish and destroying official documents, knowing they'll end up in housing or worse, erased. And he'd screamed at her for just walking her beat.

A white van with no windows or markings showed up. Out came three men, all wearing the standard grey uniform with the government seal on the back. Their yellow eyes followed where Amara pointed. The man on the ground no longer convulsed. He was whimpering. "Protocol 92 violation."

Without a word, they strapped the man in handcuffs and dragged him in the back of the van. They handed her the detention paperwork for processing and left.

"Report of Protocol 3 violation." Amara heard on her radio. "Location 3 Delta 4 Omega." Amara paused. That was her mother's house. How could something so devastating happen there?

Amara caught herself breathing faster than normal and took an inhale from the government-provided dispenser for allergy control. She walked unrushed to her car and drove the 10 miles to her mom's house. She passed by the park where her mother would take her as a kid, and saw a child being pushed on the swing. Her stomach felt a lurch like she was falling. She pulled up outside the house and took another dose from the inhaler.

It was clear the retrieval team had already been and gone. The place was quiet, and the door was left open. Amara walked into her mom's house. She was used to straight lines and open spaces, her mother always adhering to the government-sanctioned housing layout and cleaning procedures. But now, chaos. Paper, books, clothes, and trinkets were everywhere. It smelled wrong, missing the floral touch of her mother's perfume. Amara tensed in her shoulders, and her breath was shallow. She was overtaken by the stark contrast of clutter where she expected order.

She drifted through the hallway, peering into each room, all a disaster. She went into the bathroom feeling lightheaded. The mirror was splintered. She removed her helmet and rubbed a hand on her bald head. Amara splashed water on her face, the cool wetness a small relief, and looked at herself in the mirror.

Her eyes were blue.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Pulled out her inhaler and took three puffs. When she looked at herself again, yellow stared back. Must have been seeing things. The out-of-the-ordinary environment was affecting her. She'd need to see a physician after this. Her allergies were acting up again.

There was a thump. She turned around at the noise and dropped her inhaler. She heard small steps running down the hallway. Amara positioned the helmet on her head and followed the noise. She didn't call for backup, ignoring Protocol 12.

Amara resisted the urge to run and walked methodically toward the footsteps, her hand poised at her temple to deploy the electric prods if needed.

She came to her old room and pushed open the door, and her hand dropped. On her childhood bed sat a boy no more than 5 years old. His eyes burned defiantly purple, but he had no hair like Logics. He had a piece of paper in his hands, stretched out to her. The loops were recognizable as her mother's handwriting. Amara took the paper and read.

My dear daughter,

For too long, I've wrapped you in deceit to hide your face from the scorching truth. I've taken the doctrine and enforced it with a strong hand, attempting to suppress the truth that's now overflowed into our existence.

This little boy is your nephew. I had two children in this life, though I only got to be a mother to you. Your father did not die in the rebellion. He took your sister. It was clear from the beginning that the medical controls didn't work on her.

Her eyes always shone brighter.

I wish I could hold you in my arms one last time, my Amara. I don't have time to explain. My entry is being erased.

Take the boy, hide him. Don't let his rainbow fade.

Seek out the path to enlightenment at the base of the pineapple.

Forever with you,

Mama

Amara felt hot wetness on her face now. She looked at the boy, whose eyes turned pale blue. He walked up to her and tugged her arms until her face was at eye level with him.

He wiped the water from her cheek. "Don't let the river drown you," he said, his eyes soft and lavender.

Amara didn't understand. And before she could clarify what he meant, she heard the sounds of boots walking towards them.

His eyes turned red, and his body tensed. Without thinking, she pushed him into the closet. She wiped her face with the back of a sleeve. Repositioned the helmet on her bald head.

Her heart was beating fast. She reached for her inhaler, but her hand touched nothing. It was back in the bathroom. Her face felt hot. She took a deep breath and noticed the closet was ajar. She was about to shut it fully when she held herself still. A tall man walked in.

Amara had never seen hair growing on a man's face before, and this man had a white beard that reached his navel. He had a smile on his face. But his eyes were ice.

"Amara. My daughter." Behind him came three other men, all with long white hair and icy eyes, scanning the room. "Where's the boy?"

Amara stole a glance at the closet door. The boy's eyes were yellow and wide. He was shaking his head and shrinking into the corner, making himself small.

Amara had no idea what was happening. But she knew she would not trust this man, and she would protect the boy with her life. She remained still, determined not to look at the closet. "Who are you, Emotive?"

"Be the Logic that you are, dear Amara. I'm your father. Now, where's my dear grandson? I know he was sent to your mother. I heard the Protocol 3 violation. That rule-abiding Sallow would only be caught for one reason."

Sounds of sirens came through the window. His beard faded black. "Damn it." He looked at Amara and glanced at the closet. The three men grabbed Amara's father's arms and started dragging him out the door. "We have to go, sir, or the rebellion fails."

Amara waited only a second before going to the closet and putting her helmet on the boy's head and covering him in blankets. She placed a finger on her lips and made sure the door latched. She knew administrators would be here any minute.

She ran down the hallway and grabbed her inhaler from the bathroom. She paused with it at her lips. Her eyes a deep purple with a glint of resignation. She breathed in the dose. Saw them shift to yellow.

She walked to the front door to meet the Logics that were coming. Making plans for how to keep them from the closet. Making a list of all the exits and options. No matter what, she knew she needed to stay calm, stay logical, stay in control.

It was the only way she'd ever learn the truth.