I Eat Rainbows

This one’s kinda weird. It’s not so much a story as a stew of different random ideas that bounced through my head, and on top of that it’s not very well written. Sorry!

No one knew how it started.

There’s this theory that ideas, cultural concepts as they are, evolve and spread by natural selection. They are said to mutate, vary, breed, and procreate similarly to actual life. Furthermore, there are analogies to pathogens, ideas that don’t benefit the host but are exceedingly good at replicating. If this theory of memes is taken as true, we can never know how It started, save for valiant and dedicated efforts of future poltivologists.

All we know is that on the twenty-fifth of December, two thousand, three hundred and forty seven, a majority of humanity woke up with the burning desire to have no more Victors in their lives.

No one left for work. Well, I suppose a few people would have, and wondered at the lack of rush hour traffic. But most left their homes, carrying anyone named Victor with them. Some had enough presence of mind to go through their morning routine first, and some were bleary-eyed and in their nightwear.

I am told that there was a sense that the Victors had “won” something. At least, this was true in the local strain of the mirus, though I believe with my rudimentary knowledge of the theory that it was one of the fundamental concepts at the source.

Anyway. They marched us into the Outside exits, and very simply, kicked us out into the wasteland. We were shellshocked and culture shocked and many of us didn’t survive outside our environment. Some went crazy and ran off. Others refuse to do anything but sit by the entrance and hope they’ll be let in. We had a killer, who took out his anger on the rest of us. He died in the struggle.

But, on the whole, it seems like Victors have a strong survivalist streak.

So we regrouped. We gathered — it took two days for a sort of local gravity to attract everyone to one spot on the circumference of the arcology, and we think there’s another settlement diametrically opposite. We renamed, and we organised. At the suggestion of a historian, we tried eating this weird red round things, and drinking from what looks like a blue sewer, and they seem to satisfy our hunger and thirst.

We still don’t know why they did it, or what they thought afterwards. Our communications are choppy, and our power is rapidly running out. Some genius invented a way to power our radios by cranking this handle, and others are working on reverse-engineering our batteries for storage. We’ve been using as little power as possible, which means using high-powered portable computers for a /chance/ at choppy research access is right out.

And as for the future… well, who can say? Some of us remember enough geography to say that the city of ardent (ha, I don’t need to capitalise it anymore!) is to the west, and we may as well travel there to meet up with its Victors. And after that… I suppose we will eke out a sort of living and society.

We are Victors, exiled. We have to make the most of it.

My name is Avanya Ofiaragwalt.

It is my stage name, whatever. My act is very different from the normal ones Usmiecha sie Klaunow do, with very many reasons. For one, it is at night – late night. For two, it is not advertised, and only those who know and those who those who know have told ever come. For three, it is not a happy act.

No, not for me.

They tell me I am – a very good actor. They tell me this because they see my act, — they see my act, knowing what they will see — and they see what I do, and they think, “Oh, this woman, she must be acting, yes?” They cannot think of the idea that it is not an act. And I am not permitted to tell them. I am not permitted to tell anyone.

It is not an act. But it is – entertainment. If they thought it was real, they would still be entertained, those who come. Horrified, perhaps. Shocked. But not unentertained.

I am dragged out. Sometimes this is on a leash, sometimes just by my clothes. I scream, here. I scream and shout and dig my nails (my nails, which they always paint and manicure, every single time) into the ground. It looks like it is an act.

They – well, it’s not a they, yet. There is only one person at this point. It is different, each time — I do not know who it is, until they come to my room and drag me out. He leers at me, sometimes. He will do worse, later.

They all will. They – abuse me. Every time, I get many many bruises. My hair rips, and my makeup runs, and I am forced through indignities and humiliations. When the Vladca comes out, I have broken a bone, one or two times.

And always they will think it is an act. When they shout at me and laugh, it is an act. When I scream, it is an act. When I cry out, it is an act. When I bleed, it is an act. When I curse them and promise to kill them and swear at them and then collapse, it is an act.

When I flick out my small knife, and stab and kill the Vladca, they stop. They do not stop thinking it is an act, no. But they do realise they have never seen this before, or never heard of this being done.

When the others rise from their stupor, and start yelling, they do not know. They are confused. Still, they think it is an act.

When I run, run as fast as I can through the small flap I have cut away before, and they yelling gets louder, it looks like an act again. They think it is an act.

Then, when they hear the dogs, they clap. They clap loud enough for me to hear, though I am far and running. I think the others said it was still an act, and they believed them. It would not be hard to fool them.

I do not know if any of them ever wondered why the Midnight Special was never performed again.