Tears from the Sky

She was new, the girl with the red hair. It was copper, the color of brand-new shiny pennies, and looking at it, Randall wanted to run his hands through it and feel how soft it was. He didn't do that, of course. Instead, he sat down at the long table in the mess hall across from her and said, simply, "Hello."

She looked up from her book, lips parted slightly in surprise.

"Just when I thought I'd met everyone here," she said, smiling, before her face paled and she blanched, frightened. "I mean, I didn't actually think I'd met everyone here. That would be ridiculous. It's an expression-" She turned around, eyes scanning for white coats.

Randall smiled; it felt weird on his face. "I know," he said. “You don’t have to worry so much. They're pretty forgiving with newcomers. You get a bit of a grace period.”

He wanted badly to ask which precinct she came from and what it had been like, but he knew there was no point; she'd have been forbidden to talk about it. "How are you finding it here?" he asked instead.

The girl put a hand under her chin, marking her book with a finger. He loved that, how she seemed to give all her attention to whatever- or whoever- she was pondering. Randall was as certain as he could be for a fifteen-year-old that he was in love. He didn't say that, of course, and he hoped she didn't ask him- he didn't want to scare her off.

"I like your library," she said. "I've just been. And the food is so good here, when I first came I couldn't stop eating."

Randall laughed; this too felt foreign to him. They discussed their favorite things to eat for a moment, in which he could see her visibly relax, getting into the conversation.

"Does it always rain here so much?" she asked, indicating the narrow street outside, lined with its quaint, orderly shops.

"Rain?" Randall asked, puzzled, before understanding. "Oh! You must mean the tears from the sky! Not all the time. But most of the time. If I were to guess, maybe seventy-five percent? The moderators seemed to like it that way, so it stuck."

"The carriages go so fast too," she said. "The way they drive themselves, it's a little creepy. I see them coming around the corners and I think there's going to be an awful wreck."

"Yes," Randall said knowledgeably. "That sometimes happens. The driving feature is still being worked on. Obviously." He said this in a funny voice and she laughed. Feeling like a smooth operator, he held out his hand.

"Name's Randall, by the way."

Looking amused by his formality, she gave him her own. "Molly."

At that moment, the door to the mess hall burst open and Tara burst in, accompanied by Leo and Megan. Randall groaned. The chattering group of teens spotted them almost immediately, and came to plonk into the seats (Leo and Megan) or stand with a kind of smirk on their faces (Tara.)

"Heyy Molly," Tara drawled. "I see you're getting acquainted with the local weirdo."

Randall stiffened; Megan tittered.

"What do you think of Randall, Molly?" Megan asked, leaning across the table conspiratorially.

"I like him," Molly said. Her tone was almost defiant; it was a tone that said she didn't know what was going on, quite, but she didn't like it. Randall felt his cheeks flush. There'd been no hesitation or fear in the copper-haired girl's voice.

"Can you guys leave?" Randall asked. He wanted to say something stronger- he normally would have started a scene, the kind that got him talked about to begin with- but suddenly he felt it wouldn't be right. What if Molly was upset and ran from him?

Leo snorted like he'd told some kind of funny joke and put a heavy hand on Randall's shoulder. He itched to smack it off, feeling the familiar rage, the impulsivity, coursing through him.

"Are we disrupting something, buddy?" Leo smirked, as if he knew full well the restraint Randall was exercising.

"Yes."

The word didn't come from Randall; Molly was staring around at the others with intense dislike.

Leo flicked his carefully styled hair back off his forehead. He was not used to being undesired by the female population. Randall grinned tightly.

"Guess you better get going, buddy," he said to Leo.

“Leo, get us drinks, why don’t you?” Tara asked, rolling her eyes. When he left in a huff, she slid into his vacated seat and leaned towards Molly with a sly smile on her bubblegum-pink lips.

"Fearless," she observed. "I like that. Looks like you're a natural here already. Not as natural as Randall here, though. You see, Randall has never had any trouble living here at all.”

Molly looked confused. “Well, that’s…good, isn’t it?”

Tara tutted as if she were a sad, naive lamb in need of guidance.

"Oh, sure, it's good if you don't think too hard about what it means. Don't you think most normal people would have some trouble with how...ruthless you might need to be to abide by the rules here?"

“Tara, you’re a fucking bitch,” Randall spat.

Tara grinned at him. "At least I'm not the one my own therapist thinks is a sociopath." He tensed, but she ignored him, leaning closer to Molly confidentially. "You see, new girl, Randall here can be very savage, very...un-remorseful. He doesn't even need to be asked to say any damn nasty thought he has. The moderators should like him, in theory. But I honestly think they're a little afraid of him. The white coats are probably just waiting to have a reason to get rid of him, that's what I think. Just one slip and- But he won't slip. He won't because he doesn't care, not like the rest of us do. Even me, I just can't compete with Randall the fucking psychopath. You flinch, but it’s true. He’s hurt people in the past.” She darkened the word, leaning on it with significance.

"Stop," Molly said, but she looked uncertain; her finger had slipped from the pages of her book long ago, and her hand trembled a little as she stuffed it in her bag.

Tara shrugged. "I'm only being honest," she said, putting emphasis on the word. "You might even thank me later. Sure, he's being all charming with you right now. But that's only because he's decided he likes you for some reason. Probably wants to fuck you. Isn't that right, Randy?"

Randall clenched his jaw. He wanted to smash her smug head in. "Which part?"

Tara tutted. "All of it. Everything I just said.”

There was a deep silence, in which Molly shifted, pulling her bag into her lap.

"Most of it," Randall finally said. "Not the crass part about...just wanting to fuck and all that.”

"Most hesitation I've ever seen from him," Tara mused. Megan giggled, and Tara turned her narrow eyes on her at the sound as though she was just remembering the other girl was there.

"Say, Molly, what do you think of Megan's hair? She's just had it done."

Megan, the dim bitch that she was, just smiled and turned her head from side to side. "I thought you didn't even notice, Tara!" she laughed.

Molly looked at it. It was a severe bob that didn't fit her round face at all; it looked almost like a lopsided bowl cut.

"I think it's objectively ugly," Randall said, cutting in. “Anyone with eyes can see that.”

"Hush, psycho," Tara said, as Leo came back carrying drinks for them all. She took her iced coffee and sipped from it slowly, languorously, her glossy lips curving into a little o.

Megan's face had fallen slightly. She looked between Tara and Randall, then over to Molly, clearly realizing she was being used as a pawn. Molly looked back at her, then down at the table.

"I think..." she said. "I think it's unique."

Tara grinned. "Hmm. Unique isn't the word you first thought, though, is it?"

"Shut up, Tara," Randall said. "You're just trying to punish her for not wanting to be your next little hanger-on."

"Punish? No. I'll even help her out. I believe the word you were looking for, Molly, was ugly. Or maybe unflattering, at the very least. Certainly it does her already plain face no favors. Is that more like it?"

Molly looked away from Megan's flushed, crestfallen face. "Yes," she said quietly. "I'm also thinking that I would like for you to leave now."

Tara shrugged, hopping up from the table. She grabbed Megan's shoulder. "Come on, let's go." When Megan hesitated, turning from her to Molly, she snapped, "Oh come on, you must have already known it wasn't a good look."

The three exited the way they'd come, the chimes ringing in a cheerful cacophony as the door thunked closed behind them.

Randall leaned forward and put a hand on hers. His impulsivity acting in his favor for once.

"I'm sorry about that,” he said.

Molly looked at him from under her russet curls. Her eyes were as blue and clear as he imagined the skies might be if they ever stopped crying.

"I should go home now. It's getting late."

"I can walk with you," he said. "That is, if you want."

Molly looked at him for a moment like she was sizing him up, cautious. "Yes," she said. "I think I would like that."

.

Outside on the street, the rain was coming down harder than usual. It was warm, though, unseasonably so, and steam rose from the cobbled streets, dissipating into the cooling night air and blurring the glow of the soft yellow street lamps. People talked and moved in clusters and pairs; the occasional carriage went whipping past, its wheel turning frantically, passengers glassy-eyed in the back, drunk on a night's wine.

"You don't seem like a sociopath to me," Molly said after a time of walking along the slick road in silence. "Why-" She caught herself on the edge of the question, biting her lip. She was learning fast. "I don't understand why the others hate you so much."

What could Randall say? She didn't know him, didn't see his cold words and his fist colliding with another's nose, the familiar delicious crunch of cartilage folding. She hadn't been around to see him move through the grades, the raps across his knuckles with the knife-edge of a ruler nearly leaving a scar. The stern faces of the adults, testing to see if the lesson held, sending out probes for regret and getting nothing in return. "Are you sorry?" "Are you sorry?" "Are you sorry?" No. No. No. She didn't know that Randall had never spoken to someone else the way he spoke to her; so much so that he'd feared he'd come off like a robot, stilted and phony. That he spent his days alone, satisfied like a cat who got the proverbial cream, watching others moving about in the day, looking for the light shining through the chinks in their armor before striking.

Randall wasn't interested in people really; never had been, which was why the strange magnetic attraction he felt to this newcomer walking beside him in a halo of light from the street lamps caught him entirely unaware, made him something else entirely. Vulnerable. He could understand why Tara had laughed; she had a right to. She'd always envied him because she’d had to work to get to a place he'd been from birth, and now she saw something was different; naturally, she was going to take advantage. Unfortunately, Molly had suffered for it.

Almost in apology, he pointed across the dreary street to the empty schoolyard park, the abandoned playground.

"Look at that," he said, and she did. The fireflies lit on and off like mini traffic signals, dotted throughout the lush grass and on the surrounding trees, the play equipment. She turned to him in wonder. "What are they?"

"We call them lightning bugs," Randall answered. Molly touched his hand; he was so startled by the sensation, he stared dumbly down at her fingers slotting themselves between his own. She smiled at him and took a step forward, towards the opposite side of the street.

It happened quick. Randall, so distracted by a human contact that didn't make him growl or instantly pull back, heard nothing until the carriage hit, pulling Molly's hand from his own and taking her down into the street. Someone nearby screamed, then someone else. The carriage itself continued off down the street, the soundless blades of its wheels tracking slick red in its wake.

A small crowd was gathering in the pouring night, hoods or umbrellas cocked over heads. Randall unfroze, waking from the moment that seemed to stretch forever, and threw himself between them and Molly's body, getting down on his knees beside her in the street.

She was shaking, convulsing; blood trickled from her mouth and her eyes rolled in her head. The impact on hitting the street had crushed the side of her head and the metallic scent of the wet coating her hair, staining it a darker shade of red, filled his nose. Someone stepped forward, put a hand on his shoulder, and Randall turned on them so viciously, teeth bared, that the entire crowd drew back, calling for help or dispersing into the night. He leaned over the girl with the copper hair, turning redder by the moment, and took her hand again, willing the last few seconds to rewind.

The sound of sirens started in the distance, but it was no use. She wasn’t going to make it; anyone could see that. Still, she attempted to speak, those blue eyes so terribly frightened and confused, locking with his own.

"Am I…dying?”

"Shh," he said. “No. No. You’re going to be all right.”

Her eyes held his and he repeated the words, again and again, until she subsided, eyes glazing over at last as the blood flowing from her slowed to a trickle.

In the silent void that followed, Randall could hear the rain falling on the cobblestones loud in his ears like the static on a blank channel. It was as if everyone on the street had disappeared. But he knew better. Extricating his hand from Molly's limp, cooling grip, he turned and saw them approaching through the fog. The white of their long lab coats was a bright scream, their faces behind the masks they always wore inscrutable. There were two of them, and as he watched, one drew a latex hand from its deep, deep pocket and pulled out a syringe.

Randall bared his teeth at them, a cynical smile like the sliver of the moon hanging above them in the sky, and watched them come.