The New Colour
By Zsolti V
Attribution-Non Commercial License 2012
Smashwords Edition
Special Thanks
Magdolna
Cam Baker
Deb
Aaron Kirkland
The New Colour
By Zsolti V
What do I think? What do you think?
-Cloe
The range of issues is as immeasurable as the mass of protestors clamoring to be heard outside The Fifth Global Summit in Liberty Square. Adorned with an exclamation of signs, costumes, and puppets, they filter through, gushing into the streets, and rumple, blow by blow, into the repetition of police batons. Some proclaim, some cite, some profess, many bloodletting and led away somewhere; others lay listlessly, arms behind them, pepper sprayed squinting faces, held to the ground by blue knees and black boots.
From the news helicopter: the spectacle of swarms seem to flow as if under water in a fish bowl as huddles and ruffles of color spin into and against the copy and pasted molds of battle helmets. What are they protesting?
From the police helicopter: the spotlight highlights the various spacing and kettling techniques that contain the potential rioters. The finite walls of ordinary official blue paramilitary armor box the suspicious fiesta before their inevitable lawlessness. Ok, you've had your say now why don't you go home?
From the towers of wealth: media tycoons, banksters, and oligarchs, in giant robes of steel and glass look down upon their flock and means. Richard Spectre is one of them. He owns ATV News and at first, he ignores the protests, as do his 508 TV stations, newspapers, and magazines, but soon he finds the need to ridicule therabble and hordes, who, sweating with laziness, are angrily demanding what they were too dumb to procure from the system. While he has his pundits deride the protests with mockery, Richard Spectre still feels it necessary to send out a reporter to get some coverage. Maybe this will sell. He rubs his chin outward with his thumb, loudly, against the bristle.
Impervious to the mash, somehow safe in the frames of the camera, Cloe reports into the bellies of hungry televisions across the nation. She speaks with a moral authority that tells her viewers more than her words. “It started with just a few dozen students and has turned into a few hundred people. But what are they protesting? We came down here to find out. The protestors have not yet begun attacking police. So far I see a few aggressive arrests, but none of the violence the police have warned us about.” Suddenly one of her heels break, she begins her fall, but someone catches her. She returns the favor with an interview. “What are you protesting about?”
“We're here to stop the corporate coup d’état and restore the republic,” he says matter-of-factly.
Cloe has green eyes; she looks at his - blue. “The demands seem rather vague Mr.?”
“Gustave.” His cheeks bold, his beard brash and his eyes pierce. He's almost too pretty to be here.
“I'll be specific. Maybe you could actually report the news instead of editorializing for your sponsors, Miss?”
“Cloe”.
He smiles at her. It’s bright and white like a draped banner and very infectious.
She smiles back coyly.
***
Gustave’s heavily edited interview airing behind Cloe on the large video screen has The Make-up Artist periodically looking up and breaking her focus on applying the medium pink colored eye shadow.
Cloe refuses to budge from the color. It's what all the female anchors at ATV News wear.
“What do you think?”
The Make-up Artist looks at Cloe's eye, “You know what I think, it doesn’t suit you.”
“No, about Gustave. He's that political activist.”
“Oh.” The Make-up Artist continues applying the color.
Cloe looks through the Make-up Artist and into the distance. “Anyway, it's stupid. Could you imagine a news correspondent and an activist together?”
The Make-up Artist pulls her head back to study Cloe. She says nothing.
Bill, the station manager, approaches wearing a white baseball cap and glassless dark rimmed frames.
“Cloe, don’t freak out, but someone up there wants you to do Governor McNancy's interview.”
Cloe almost contains her excitement. “What?!”
Bill uses his 'giving-away-free tickets' voice. “I'm not promising anything, but this could lead to a spot as anchor.”
“Really?” Cloe's eyes are wide. “Oh my god!” Her mouth fills her face. “Thank you!” Her face closes a bit. “When’s the interview?”
“An hour,” Bill says.
“What?!” She tries to keep her expressions from ruining her makeup. The Make-up Artist holds her bobbing head steadily.
“Take it easy. Use last night’s questions if you have to.”
“Last night? I interviewed Mickey Mouse about the Disney disaster!”
“Perfect,” Bill says, “Don't forget you still have the science interview about that new comet. Remember to try and keep the questions simple, don't lose our audience.” He adjusts his baseball cap and his frames and walks away.
Cloe loses her composure and can't help gushing to The Make-up Artist. “Isn't this amazing? Oh my God,” she says wrinkling her nose, “I'll totally try to get you in.”
The Make-up Artist stops tweezing Cloe's face. “In?”
Cloe regains herself. “Yeah, as a correspondent. I'll have way more pull as an anchor.”
“That's OK Cloe,” The Make-up Artist says quietly and nicely.
Cloe raises, but tries hard not to roll her eyes. “Oh yeah, sorry, I forgot you just want to do makeup.”
The Make-up Artist takes a deep breath. Yeah, 'Just'.
As she ponders her luck, Cloe's eyes pitch and rest, as if playing on a musical staff in a song book. What is it in her personality that brought her into the running for anchor?The entire persona of a corporate news anchor is primped for 26 to 45 year olds, plucked for the 18 to 34's, brushed for the 'stay at home moms', waxed for the 'single and divorced'; and neutralized to the lowest common denominator for people who have no other purpose than to watch TV and buy things. What could it be in her that is pleasing 'someone up there'? To give Cloe the interview with Governor McNancy, an interview savagely sought after and saved for the most senior anchors was no easy decision. Does she have political geek appeal? Or is this a punishment for someone who has become less specifically generic and has fallen out of favour? All she knows right now is that she must figure out how to be herself. The one that is being nominated for this.
Richard Spectre has Bill his Station Manager at ATV News on hold, not because he is busy, but to make sure Bill knows his place. In this business, psychology is everything. He stands in front of his oak desk in his oak paneled office, waiting, sullen, sure in coined gestures which give him the look of a man with limited motions. He flips through channels on his large video screen comparing protest coverage on various news networks. The main rival station's famous reporter stands on the street, in front of a crowd, with his trademark hat. “The voices were unheard at first, but are now ringing around the world, as protests pop up in city after city thanks to social media.”
Spectre waits exactly one minute and picks up his landline phone. “ Bill. Yeah, the times are a-changing. These old-schoolers are just too sentimental. Did you offer one of the girls an anchor spot yet?” Spectre rubs the greying shadow of bristle on his chin as he listens. “Cloe? Ok,” he says, “give Ted the usual severence, unless he threatens to sue, then give him the good one. Ok! Bye.” Richard Spectre hangs up the phone, raises his chin to continue rubbing the roughness and turns up the TV. “There are numerous issues being pointed at by the activists, but the question remains: What are their demands?”
***
Cloe awakened in her bed, blurry eyed as usual. She did her routine mental check of how close she was to 'making it'. She had been checking in with that periodically throughout the day for years now and although she was remarkably close to her dream, this day felt just like any other. She was not so sure when she started wanting to be an anchor, but she knew she wanted it badly—at least she thought she did—some days it wasn’t so clear what she wanted. When this happened, Cloe would conjure up an image of herself reporting hard news, getting the facts out to the people and having her story spread across the world. Imagining herself as the mercurial spirit of information pleased her and rejuvenated the dream. Peripherally she also pictured the praise and respect she would receive from her peers as they said her name on TV, whispered it in private circles and included it in their autobiographies. She was ambivalent about this secret part of the desire; it seemed like such a silly schoolchild's dream, but it infected her. When this aspect crept into her central thoughts, she put it off as the social animal in everyone and pushed it back hard to the primitive part of her mind. Nevertheless, it would return mutated, deceitfully unrecognizable, and dangerously desirable. Pouring some coffee, she realized she was trying to make herself excited. She looked around trying to be present and feel some gratitude, but wait, something weird was going on. She turned on the TV. It was fine. It was muted, so her daughter would not awaken. There was no new disaster headline behind the talking heads so things must be OK. Was she dreaming? Clenching her fists, she discounted that. I'm awake. Cloe looked at one of her paintings. It was strange, but it always was. Wasn't it? It was the same, but different. I'm awake! Damnit! She turned back to the TV. It looked fine.
Suddenly and abruptly, reality stunned her. Am I dreaming? There is something distorted here. What is this? She turned up the sound of the TV. It was still news reruns cycling through from last night. She got up. Slowly, she turned on the lights, one by one. Each flick brought a new involuntary shiver, a cold sweat instantly hit her body, making it more conductive for the shocking fear that was mounting. Her mind zoomed at the new awareness. It was as if all the colors had been electrified! They were astonishing! Am I awake?! Panicking, she rushed to Isabella's door, listened, heard her breathing deep in slumber and slowly pushed open the door. Her 5 year old slept soundly. As she re-entered the brightened living room amazement, marvel, and shock stupefied her. There was something uncanny going on, but she could not explain it. The very fabric of reality had changed. She tried to describe it to calm herself. If a cartoon character went from cartoon to our reality, this is what it would be like for them. So if we go from our reality to the next step... What am I saying? Keep it together Cloe. What is this? Hyper-reality? Super-reality? Ultra-reality?She went through the thesaurus in her mind. It calm her slightly. She grasped for the words that would make sense of this. She was accustomed to hearing others describe things and slightly altering the descriptions, or using her 'own words' to repeat the original, that this was a difficult process for her. “What is this?” She yelled in frustration. It's as if everything has been painted with a tone. She jittered with trepidation. Everything has a new flavour. “Everything has a zing!” She rang like a bell with hysteria. She paced. Breathed in short bursts.. “Go see a doctor? No, the hospital.”
“Mommy.” Isabella stood at the living room doorway's arch. Cloe's rambling must have roused her. The little girl rubbed her eyes adjusting to the light.
Cloe put on a face, pulling herself together. I cannot let her see her mother losing it. Dammit! What is this? Drugs? Food poisoning?
“Mommy?”
“Yes Izzy?” What the hell is this?
“What colour is this?
“Colour! Oh my god! You're right!”
“It's a new colour!” she exclaimed.
The new colour was in everything; it had mixed with every other colour, every shade, every dab in every palette. A new colour making all the colours different, all the colours new. The world different. The world new.
Cloe wasted no time getting to the TV station; she had a friend watch Isabella. She left her with a “don't worry, everything is gonna be alright.” She didn't think her child actually needed to hear that as much as she did. She entered the studio and was quickly approached by Bill.
He nervously adjusted his baseball cap. “Not one single Info Corp. has mentioned this...whatever this is,” Bill said motioning at everything with his hands, but meant the new colour. “They don't know how to talk about this. We have to be the first, so just read what's on the prompter - our lawyers put it together.”
“Bill?” Cloe was promptly led to her make-up chair. She fell into it. “Bill,” she said.
The Make-up Artist was shaking her head trying to figure out how to apply Cloe’s make up.
Bill adjusted his hat nervously pacing back and forth in front of Cloe. “We have to keep from being sued for alarming the public, but we need to be . . .?”
“Bill!” Cloe was nearly yelling.
“Suspenseful! That's it!” Bill said aloud to himself.
“Bill!” Cloe motioned at everything, but was specifically asking about the new colour. “What is this?!”
He shook his head as if to knock off the effects of some spell or drug, but as his eyes focused, one could tell the shake did nothing. “We’ll talk after.” He walked off.
The Make-up Artist looked intently at Cloe's face and then down at her palette of colours “This won't work at all. The colours are completely contaminated!” She sat down in a chair, scrunched her eyebrows and stared at Cloe, stumped. Cloe looked around the room at the colour, experiencing it. Suddenly, The Make-up Artist stood, excited, as an idea animated her face. Rushing away, she spoke over her shoulder at Cloe, “I gotta see something, be right back!” Five minutes later, she returned with a cameraman and a large 52-inch monitor on a rolling stand. “Video doesn’t pick up the colour, so I'll compose you through the magic of television.”
The cameraman set up the camera on a tri-pod and pointed it at Cloe's face while The Make-up Artist navigated using the big screen TV. Her enlarged thumb and forefinger dashed the brush against Cloe's giant head on the video screen. She skillfully and virtually traced her old look without the new colour to interfere.
Cloe was not expecting an epiphany, or to make waves, or to get in anyone's face, but suddenly and involuntarily she blurted out “why don't you like me?” This was more a question for herself, but The Make-up Artist didn't miss a beat. Turning from Cloe's face on the monitor to her real 'new-coloured' face, with a bead in her eye, she let her have it. “You let others tell you what to be. You think people are below you if they aren't anchors; myself for one, and especially yourself.”
“I don't think people are below me. I'm just as insecure as everyone else.”
“The two go hand in hand. You don't think you’re as good as everyone else, so you aspire to be an anchor. That way you can be better than everyone else.”
Cloe looked down, bringing The Make-up Artists hands down with her face. “You really think so?”
The Make-up Artist gently raised Cloe's chin with her index finger, “It doesn't matter what I think Cloe. Seriously, look around you. See it for yourself. You, especially, have to use your own point of view, albeit objectively as possible. That's the job--Honesty.”
***
As soon as she sat down at the desk, Cloe was counted down and cued straight into reading the teleprompter: “Welcome to ATV News. As you have all noticed, things are very novel this morning, with a sort of glow that has startled everyone.” She looked over at Bill for confirmation to keep reading. He nodded, so she continued. “Many very concerned citizens have swamped government, police and emergency services with questions about the nature of this...” The teleprompter told Cloe to make quotation marks with her fingers, so she did. “...'glow'. We have also received countless calls, which we are doing our best to answer. As far as we have ascertained by talking to various officials, sources, and scientists, we do not know what this is. Although they are not ruling out the cause to be a terrorist attack, governments across the world have found no evidence supporting that conclusion. The accepted theory, at the moment, is that a degassing comet entering our solar system is interfering with our visual spectrum. Now we're going to Bob, our man on the street, who is asking you what you think this phenomenon is. Go ahead Bob.”
The television cut to what was supposed to be Bob the street reporter, but instead the camera lay on a bench staring sideways, randomly recording, and utterly purposeless.
“Ahh, Bob are you there?” Cloe motioned over at Bill asking what to do.
Bill looked at her from the monitor, pushed a button on a microphone and spoke into her ear-bud. “This is it Cloe, it's all you, talk until we can get to commercial.” Cloe was startled, but attempted to overcome the fear. “Well, it looks like we're having technical problems. I too am both surprised and overcome with curiosity that borers...uh...borders on fear.” Her voice trembled. She took a deep breath. “But, we cannot let a new colour scare us.” She emboldened herself and her delivery solidified. She looked adventurously into the camera's eye. “My daughter was quite grateful for this new colour.” She motioned with her hands at everything. “We should be thankful that we get to experience this. We are very lucky to be living in such a time and to let our fear ruin this experience would be criminal.” Bill raised his fists in victory and nodded. There was also an inaudible sigh, he was not one hundred percent sure Cloe could pull off the anchor position, but she had just saved the braodcast. Mr. Spectre would be watching and hopefully impressed with Bill's choice. He looked at the clock, which confirmed his mental time, and motioned for her to 'wrap it up'.
“We'll be back with a Dr. Rex Manning, right after the weather.”
Bill pulled his hat off and wagged it at Cloe as he approached.” New Colour? That was fantastic! You just named it! Wow! Ya! Where did you get that?”
Cloe was a little flustered. “My daughter said...”
Bill pointed at his marketing man. “The New Colour! Get on that. Suck every red cent out of that. Go!”
The marketing man jumped up and headed for his office.
He patted Cloe on the shoulder. “Brilliant.” His hands gestured in front of him and he was suddenly taken aback by the new phenomenon. “Wow! New color! That’s totally what this is.” He tried unsuccessfully to shake it off.
Charles, the head of Comparative Relations, the department that monitors other news channels, yelled over to Bill. “Bill You should see this.”
“What is it Charlie?”
The entire newsroom's eyes flipped from one to the other. What Charles said could affect all of their jobs. “CNN, BBC, and AL Jazeera are all calling it 'The New Colour'. They're replaying Cloe's monologue. She has become the news.”
The marketing man returned yelling ecstatically at Bill. “The New York Times wants an interview with Cloe.”
Bill raised his fists again. “If it's in the New York Times, it's in ever newspaper in the world!”
A few people started clapping.
“Wait!” The applause stopped. Charles was reading his computer, “10 million hits on YouTube. Folks, we have just gone viral.” Arms were raised, cheering had, and jobs kept.
Bill smiled proudly at Cloe. She breathed deeply and tried to contain herself.
“Alright Cloe, we'll have Dr. Manning ready in half an hour as soon as we get our sponsors ready for the science. All you have to do is read the prompter.”
An unprecedented amount of detergent, soap, and bleach commercials occupied the TV. Cloe was finally cued to begin reading the prompter. “Welcome Dr. Rex Manning. People woke up today and were not expecting a new colour! What happened? Does this mean Crayola will have a new crayon?”
Rex laughed uneasily. “We have not isolated the tone yet.”
Cloe painfully continued her job. “How about car makers, who will get to own the colour? Will it be a BMW coloured Porsche? Or a Porsche coloured BMW? OK! Enough!” Abandoning the teleprompter, Cloe faced Rex. “Does it have any consequences? Is it dangerous? What is causing it?”
“No. There are no adverse effects we have measured, so please keep calm. As you said earlier, we suspect it has something to do with the new comet that has entered our solar system.”
Cloe looked at Bill who pointed to the teleprompter. She went back to reading it, “and how long until LG can get the new color on their TV's?”
Cloe's fame was not short lived, but she found it was not what she had secretly desired. She felt less and less like a famous person, more, and more like a product. She was suddenly getting hate mail. She took it personally and wondered just how many people could hate her. She became more and more scared to go out in public. Every other advertiser selling everything from cars to bleach was using the term 'the new colour' that Cloe was credited with coining. Many in a misguided backlash were calling her a sellout, a corporate shill, and even uttering death threats. People were sick of the hype the media had pushed out about something they could not even show on their own technology. TV could not broadcast the colour, even though millions were poured into research on isolating the tint, but monitors could just not reproduce it. The only way to see it was through experiencing it firsthand. Ironically, Bill had Cloe replace “the new colour' with 'Don't talk about it, experience it!' to reflect the backlash. Cloe was to finish all her segments with the phrase. She grudgingly did it, still waiting for her spot as an anchor to fully materialize. She did the job of an anchor, but did not yet have the title. Bill was constantly trying new ways to exploit her for sponsorship dollars via ratings. Unfortunately, for the station, people were not buying in, and the ratings went in quite the opposite direction than the station had previously anticipated. The unbelievable phenomenon of the new colour, which at first seemed like an Info Corp's gift for gathering the attention of the populace, had become a curse. People no longer needed TV to represent their worlds. They were going straight to the source.
ATV News' record ratings increase was quickly followed by an equal record ratings decrease. Bill was under a lot of pressure, and had lost his normally cool and calm composure. “Get out there! Sensationalize the hell out of life!” He yelled at his reporters while staring at Cloe, “Mr. Specter wants all of you to know personally that all of your jobs are on the line.” He ripped his hat off his head and threw his middle fingers up as punctuation marks. “We need viewers watching life through us.” He took the time to point at everyone with his punctuations. “They need all of you. They can't cutyou out. You are the middleman between them and their fear, them and their desires! Without you, they have nothing.” He had wiped the sweat off his bald crown in a manner that suggested he had hair. Cloe remembered how she had wondered what else in her line of work was suggested, but nonexistent. She instantly thought of his fake glasses. He continued his fury. “Bring me death! Bring me salacious! Bring me fear and desire! Bring me the new colour of blood, evil and the horrors of living! I want you to bethe colour! Go to where people are experiencing it and take it from them! Go find out where they are.” That ruled out almost everywhere. No one was shopping, art galleries were empty, and even most work places were all but deserted because of ‘sick’ employees. The colour had been destructive to the old ways. People viewed the pre new colour art as dead. To them fashion looked tedious, photography seemed ubiquitous, film was as exciting as home videos, and most art was just a mash-up. The old art was being rejected, and for many, a new era had begun. Of course, people still paid attention to what was going on, but the old 5 hours of passive TV viewing was gone. People were digesting information at their own pace when they wanted and how they wanted it. They were making, creating, as well as experiencing their own news. People had become participants in their newly coloured world.
Cloe was reporting in the only place that she could find people, the Liberty Square protest site. While other places made the city seem like a ghost town, Liberty Square blossomed with creativity, discussions and engagement of all sorts. However, even the jubilant activity of the square did not raise Cloe's spirits, as she was too worried about how to bring these people back to watching TV, particularly watching her show. She began with a few ad-lib intros, “The protestors - if you can call them that mingle with the police. No one can tell the difference. The new colour has made police uniforms invisible. Without a careful eye, one cannot tell them apart from the demonstrators. It's an amazingly peaceful situation considering that just a week ago, forces beyond them, had pitted the two groups vehemently against each other. I had better mention that left is red and right is green on traffic lights. We have had more than a few fatal accidents because of the new color.” She lowered her arm holding the microphone. “There's nothing here to report. What the hell am I supposed to talk about?”
Cloe received a text that answered her question. It was brief, but it was the biggest news since the new colour. She raised the microphone to her face. “In related news, a company known as Undertone™ has wasted no time mass producing a pair of glasses that blocks out the new colour. The company hopes to release the first generation next week.” She thought about a world where one could choose to see the new colour or not. Would people watch her show?
Three days later Bill handed Cloe a pair of Undertones™. “You have to wear these or you can't be on.”
“No. Bill. I'm good.”
“Specter just signed a deal with them. Those are the expensive version so take care of them.” She looked at the ones he was wearing and down at the ones she held in her hands. She was not sure what bothered her more; that he now wore the Undertones™, or those fake glassless frames he wore for so long. The Undertones™ looked luxurious, but something in her fought against them. She tried to resist, but she knew she did not have a choice.
Bill watched her place the spectacles reluctantly on her face. “The ones given away for free will play commercials for 38 minutes of every hour; of course they play in the background so you can continue about your business.” Bill pulled up and down on the bill of his hat “And what's more is that that includes the news,” he raised his hands and pointed down at himself with each of his indicator fingers, “Our news!” He smiled, winked, clicked his mouth and flicked the brim of his hat. “Isn't that genius?”
Cloe tilted her head back to see him through the Undertone™ technology sans new colour. She had to admit it was nice to see the old world again.
That week Undertone™ stock skyrocketed and many large businesses found relief not only in profits returning, or their old business models working again, but also in the fact that all the old animosity between authorities and their detractors at the protest site was back to normal. After all, there needed to be a difference between the authorities and the people.
Liberty Square had once again become a standoff. The authorities who wore the new colour blocking glasses were trying to clear the park of people who had unintentionally become the enemy. Many of the 'protestors' were merely participants of what up until now was a free to use, open park, for engaging with each other, nature and the newly coloured world. Suddenly, the participants had become occupiers. Although their numbers were not as high as during the peak of the new colour experience (many had donned the new glasses and gone back to their old lives) the protesters far outnumbered those that abruptly 'took charge'.
The police had special TV glasses, fully equipped with customized police commercials; some selling better tactical gear, others public service announcements on how to arrest people—and how could the company resist?— news about the amount of money Undertone™ just paid to the Regional Police Association. There was also the PSA of the importance of keeping the public wearing Undertones™ —to encourage community.
Cloe pushed her glasses™ to her nose. Luckily, hers did not have any commercials. However, the ratings of the station showed up on the bottom part of her lenses every hour and it was enough to scare most of the reporters into adding as much spunk to their stories as possible. Their jobs after all, were tied to their ratings. Cloe set up behind the police. She looked back at the commotion. Finally, something is happening, She had her cameraman set up the camera in a bugs eye view, so that the audience looked up at her and the protestors, making her and them look more powerful. She began her 'Special Report', which was broadcast complete with sensational graphics of flames and explosions and dramatic sound effects. “We're here at Liberty Square and the protests are taking a turn for the worse. We'll be interviewing Police Chief Ryan Burns to find out just how he is dealing with the violence. Also, we have just confirmed that Undertone™ makers of Undertone™ glasses have been granted a patent on the new colour. This gives Undertone™ the right to sue anyone who views the new colour without a license. This is not the first time something natural has been patented. You may recall Monsanto has been trying to take over the world's food supply for quite some time with its patented seeds.
The news crawl under Cloe's talking head coincidently (or with the aid of a closet activist at ATV news) reported: Suicides by farmers in India top over 300 000 after crop failures due to Monsanto seeds.
“To complement the patent, a new law has been tabled making it mandatory to wear Undertone™ Glasses.” Law 55 is as controversial as it is sweeping, but governments all over the world argue that they need to protect the public from the dangers of the new colour and many are signing on to the treaty. Some of the stronger language of the bill could make it a crime to even speak about the new colour. If ratified, this may be the last you hear that term on TV.”
Cloe flipped her glasses up and down and watched, as protesters were roughly picked-up and taken away.
Gustave approached her slowly and deliberately. She watched him and tried to prepare herself.
“So you're wearing them?”
She shifted her glasses onto her head like a tiara. “Yeah I'm a public spokesperson, you know how it is.”
Gustave leaned back on his heels and smiled. “Yeah I guess.” He became serious, focusing his eyes in the direction of the protestors and then locking them onto Cloe. “Look Cloe, whether you wear those or not, you need to know there is a growing concern over the relationship between government and the Undertone™ corporation. There are some very powerful people's interests at stake right now, and it would be to their benefit to ignore a lot of the rules and regulations a free society needs to function.”
“I'll look into it.”
“Really?!” Gustave was taken aback. “You'd do that?”
“Yeah.” She was already regretting her answer. Look into it? Into what? She thought as she smiled at him.
He smiled back, also unsure of her answer.
“Why the hell did I say that? Whatever, I'll call a few sources and pass over whatever,” she said aloud talking to herself, “why did I say that? Cause he's a charming SOB.”
Cloe tried the typical news source avenues, but found nothing. There were rumors, but nothing substantiated. She mulled over how to find this information and decided to get some coffee. On her way, she remembered the investigative journalism department. What were they called?
***
“No, but we have and a newsstand.” The security guard-information attendant at the ATV news complex held out a map of the media mall trying to answer Cloe's query.
“No, I mean like an actual news department that investigates stuff. I can't remember the name. You know, like those people that go undercover for a news story.”
“Ooooh yeah.” The woman nodded blankly, she adjusted her purple 'cause' bracelet.
Cloe waited. She looked at her nametag. It said MAVIS.
The Security Guard-Information Attendant kept nodding and blinking loudly.
Cloe studied her. “Do you know what I mean?”
The Security Guard-Information Attendant stopped nodding. “No.”
“It's OK, I need to explain better. There are reporters that research corruption in government and companies and stuff like that. And then they write stories and then people are brought to justice and the bad guys go to jail.”
“Oh! Like WikiLeaks.”
Cloe was relieved. “Yes, like WikiLeaks.”
“Oh yeah, she said, “it was a department called Publicly Secret.”
“That's it! Publicly Secret. Ok. How do I find them?”
Sorry Honey, we stopped doing that a decade ago. A couple of reporters broke a story on one of our sponsors. They were fired and then slowly the whole department was shut down. The story didn't even get out. But I haven't drank milk since.”
Cloe deflated. “Oh no, but how do I find information like this?”
“I dunno, try WikiLeaks.”
“I can't, they've been shut down.”
“Well that's no good. Who shut 'em down?”
“We did. Or rather, our government and banks did.”
“Oh. You could try the University.”
Cloe brightened. “Your right there must be someone there who's looked into this. Thank you.” She motioned with her chin at the nametag. “-Mavis?”
“Oh no, that's not my name, I borrowed this.”
“Oh. Well thank...you.” Cloe turned to leave.
“Oh and Honey.”
Cloe turned back. “Yes?”
“Don't drink milk.”
***
Cloe had begun the line for the Political Science Department in The University's Administration Office. An hour later, she had passed through The Registrar's Office. That’s where she learnt the line was three kilometers long from the man in front of her named Stephen
“But, why?”
“To see S. one must wait or ask the right question.”
“Who's S.?”
Before he was able to answer, a man wearing a bow tie approached Stephen. “What is your question?” He asked fumbling with a stack of papers he cradled in his right arm.
Stephen's voice trembled as he answered, “how ought I live?”
The man in the bowtie flipped through the stack of papers, found what he was looking for, nodded and smiled at Stephen. “Very good. Remain here.”
“And your question?” He looked at Cloe.
“Sorry?”
“What is your question?”
“I need a little information.”
“Then you should take a college course.”
“They won't be able to answer my question.”
“What is your question? The only way to see is S. quickly is with the right question?”
“Ok. What should my question be then?”
“Very good.” The man didn’t even look at his papers. “Come with me.”
Stephen gasped. Cloe followed. Together they went past much of the lineup and then through small paths into the Political Philosophy Department. They approached a roped off elevator, being 'doored' by two large unfit men. This seemed to be the beginning of the line. The men lifted the rope and pressed the button to open the elevator. Cloe and the man with the bow tie entered and proceeded to the 10th floor.
On the 10th floor, another set of unfit men greeted them as the elevator doors opened. They walked down the hall until they arrived at a door. He knocked.
“Come in.” They heard from the other side of the door.
He opened the door. A small woman sat at a desk facing them. She smiled generously.
“Hello.”
The man with the bow tie spoke. “She asked what her question should be.”
“Oh, that's good. Come in.”
Cloe walked in, the man left, closing the door behind him.
“I'm not sure I'm in the right place.”
“No one is dear, it's why we're so frickn miserable.”
“Actually I am looking for information on Undertone™ and government corruption.”
“Corporations and government corruption, well that seems rare. Why are you looking for that?”
“I'm a news reporter.”
“Ahh.”
“But no, it's not for me, it's for a friend, an activist who is worried about...”
“...about government being bought?”
“Yes!”
S. nodded and took up more room with her arms that rested on the table. She interlocked her fingers. “Back in the day, the high leaders of The Mayans would ask for the heart of a young man from each village in return for fire. Now it's a licensing fee to an eye glass company.”
“Sorry?”
“You see, in a way, the new colour has made reality like free fire. The Mayans had to make fire worth something, so a sacrifice was demanded from each tribe. It is where the high leader's power stemmed from. In this case one will need a license to view the colour, or some other such scheme.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Could you imagine if people just made their own fires back in the Mayan days? What would happen to the high leader?”
“He would lose his power, I guess.”
“Yes, just as our government is worried they are losing power.”
“Yes, but people needed fire. A new colour is just a colour.”
“Is it? Look at the commotion it has stirred. You for one should see this. Everyone is tuning out. Television, the great commanding medium is now seen as it really is. A bunch of commercials for a bunch of commercials. The government and corporations are the high leaders of this world and their monopoly of fire is being threatened. But, that's not your real question.”
“It isn't?”
“No. These are pragmatic concerns that deal with the body. Your question comes from the soul. You're looking for the highest truths.”
“What does that mean?”
“If you are looking for the highest truths, and I say this as an atheist, you look for the truths God would want to know.”
Cloe was intrigue. “What would God want to know?”
S. shook her head. “If only there was a faster way, but there isn't.” She was speaking more to herself, as she sifted through some of the books beside her desk. She chose three. “Start with these. There is no crash course for the soul.” She handed Cloe the books. “I'll see you at this time next week.”
The subject matter was thick and Cloe found herself drinking a lot of coffee, but she kept at it as she found a part of herself thirsty for the knowledge. She had heard of the old books, but did not expect such thoughts so long ago. They had the same questions that we do.
Cloe visited S. every week and was given what could only be called homework. She did it begrudgingly, but found herself stunned by how many of her ideas had been unfinished, unchallenged, and filled in by default. “All history is a history of the mind,” S. had said.
Some very influential people started noticing Cloe's reports. She was speaking from a new perspective. A view, viewers could identify and feel deep within themselves. ATV News actually received a small ratings bump during the biggest glut in Network TV’s 60 year history. Cloe had become trusted, so it was not surprising that one day a whistle blowing video was entrusted to her. Its contents detailed the origins of Law 55 and its relation to Undertone™.
She studied the tape and decided to wait for the right moment. Out of all the things she was learning about history, she found timing was the most crucial.
Cloe did a lot of her studying in Liberty Square and watched with growing awareness that a paradigm shift had occurred, it was not the protesters verses the police; but rather people who no longer bought into what the system was selling, verses those in power whose jobs and power relied on believing in the metaphorical Mayan fire. This culture war had always been there, but the new colour had amplified the divide and increased the number who desired a better system. In the recent past, the old guard had violently protected its paradigms through law-fare, using tools like copyright, patents and corresponding international treaties. However, these tools had become ineffective since the new colour had appeared. People and even many businesses were no longer concerned solely with the market-orientated perspectives; and the markets, especially the speculative ones, were clutching for survival like insatiable old gods, not believed in anymore. Those with the most to lose lashed out against the protestors calling them crazy and over-idealistic. Unfortunately, for them, their message was either not being heard or not being believed. The old gatekeepers that chose what and who was important were being overthrown, as power ebbed back to the people into a more horizontal hierarchy. King and king-maker alike were being shoved aside, suddenly their'fire', not worth a damn. Consequently, the old guard regrouped, aiming to reverse the revolution using the draconian Law 55. The rabble needed leadership and we are the rightful leaders.
***
The demonstration grew in numbers beyond anything anyone predicted. There had been a fear amongst the protestors that Undertone™ had sent everyone back to their old passive lives, but even people who wore the glasses filled, not only this square, but squares and centers all over the world. The stakes were high and people began assuming it was their responsibility to stop Law 55. The protestors in the beginning having laid the ground work made it easier for the rest to find avenues of protest. Emails and phone calls inundated the governments like never before. Information spread as if by induction. Protestors were lodged and fed, logistics were very well organized. This was ‘the whole’, ‘the rabble’, and ‘the hordes’ self organizing without government, without leaders, without more than a few rules and as separate, equal, sovereign, citizens. Those who were experts were just that; experts that taught or performed a service for ‘the whole’. They may have stood in front of crowds, but those crowds made the decisions. Cloe stood up, in front of the police, in front of the crowds, and in front of the camera. She flipped her glasses up and down as she watched the rumblings of the struggle unfold. The incidents of police and protestors clashing in various areas seemed a natural part of the setting. Most people were peacefully led away, but some started fighting back increasing the tension.
She got the cameraman to point at Gustave who was barely audible as he spoke on a makeshift stage. Cloe caught a fragment as the crowd repeated him acting as a human microphone. “It is not a question of if we will change.”
The wind carried his physical voice, not just the participating audiences' echo. “It is a question of what we should change into.”
The crowd repeated louder. “It is a question of what we should change into.”
She could hear him loud and clear now.
“We want a horizontalism. We will no longer tolerate hierarchy propped up by the violence of the state.”
Suddenly a tear gas canister struck Gustave in the head. He fell. The listening crowd became a violent static. Like bees in an upset hive, at first randomly bouncing against objects and each other, and then the chaos momentarily organizing and snapping like a volt against the authorities. The police were stunned, and surrounded. They huddled together as the crowd pushed into, and slowly swallowed the uniformed men. There was a momentary peace, but it was short-lived as the rubber bullets, teargas, and pepper spray pushed the crowd back. In the commotion, Cloe was separated from her cameraman; she was left with the microphone cord which she began pulling. She played the line hand over hand, followed it determined, moshed trustingly through the angry crowds, ducked carefully under the police production, climbed upon light posts stepping over the spectacles. The cord's promise was misleading. It ended abruptly, broken and separated from its audience, short of the recording camera, in the hands of a police officer seemingly waiting for instruction. Cloe abandoned the cord and walked towards the stage. She strained to see if Gustave was all right. She located him just as the police were dragging him away. His head was bleeding. He was bound, he was limp, and he was unconscious. She struggled to get to him, but the crowd was too thick.
***
Cloe adjusted the papers on the desk as one of many Undertone™ commercials played in the background. “Numerous studies are showing the new color to cause reduced productivity. Don't get left behind. Undertone™ is now available for your employees in bulk and call now to enjoy this limited 24 month 0% financing offer.”
Cloe was cued: “Good Day I'm Cloe Fabulia. Violent Protests have broken out all over the country. Police have been reluctantly pushed to respond with force. There have been many deaths including some prominent business owners, scientists and artists. Among them: Aaron Swartz: internet builder and freedom fighter, Jean Buadri the French theorist, and...and Gustave...Gust..” Cloe broke up, got up, walked, her hand on her mouth, open, her gaze far, pupils small. She hadn't taken a breath, she took one, it was loud. Sad. Hoarse. Tragic. “What!” Her voice broke against the walls. The Make-up Artist grabbed her by the shoulders and walked her out.
Bill stood with the entire studio watching. He was aghast, “Cut to commercial! Dammit!”
Again an Undertone™ ad played, “If you want to see the good life, see it through our amazingly clear lenses…”
“Oh my god, whose writing the prompter. Who is stupid enough?”
The Make-up Artist turned to Bill from the door. “Your sponsors.”
***
“I'm not wearing them.” Cloe stood in front of Bill with her hands on her hips. It had been a week since Gustave’s death and the last time she was at the studio.
“It's the only way on. You won’t get anywhere near the protests without them.”
“Absolutely not. I am not going back to that old deluded way!”
“Cloe…”
“No.”
“They’re not real!”
Cloe looked at him surprised. Bill began wiping the glasses with a handkerchief, “What you think, I’d miss this,” he motioned with his hands at everything, but meant the colour, “for this,”he motioned at everything and meant the news.
Cloe looked at him with a soft respect that said more than her voice. She nodded. “Thank you!”
***
The murmur of Liberty Square played in the background. Cloe sat in a chair, in front of the news van, getting her makeup refreshed. She felt her awareness wash a new calm over her. She was experiencing history and felt extremely alive. She stared absorbedly at The Make-up Artist. “This may be the last show I do. You know, I have always called you 'The Make-up Artist’.”
The Make-up Artist carefully finished lining Cloe's eyes and looked down at her make-up palette. “I know.” Her eyes remained on her different shades as Cloe spoke.
“Thanks for everything...Miriam.”
Miriam collected some blush on her brush and started smiling as she dabbed Cloe cheeks, “Now yer a real boy.” She put down the tray and looked affectionately at Cloe. They hugged deeply. “Cloe. I can't believe...you know?”
“Yeah. I do. Thanks, that means a lot coming from you.”
Miriam let go. “So, now I’m asking you something I think you're ready for.”
“Ok?”
“You know they figured out a way to reproduce the colour on video right?”
“Really?” Cloe raised her eyebrows intrigued.
“Yes, but so far only on computers and the internet. TV still hasn't adapted to it. So, here's the thing: I would like to do your make-up using the new colour. But, it means you’ll look weird on regular TV. Only the internet viewers would see you with all the glory of the new colour. I've been experimenting and getting some really amazing results.”
Cloe nodded slowly and whole-heartedly, “Yes, please do.”
She wore her untinged glasses to get by the police lines. She began reporting, calmly, live, in the chaos. “Most of the protestors are refusing to wear the colour filtering glasses and this is enough for the police to arrest them. As you know, Law 55 has been ratified in this country, which may technically make it a crime to even talk about the new colour. There are quite a few countries still debating the treaty. The states, that have rejected it outright, have had a growing influx of people claiming refugee status.” Cloe watched a police baton stab a young girl in the stomach. She removed her glasses and held them in her palms. “I am here where countless people are being arrested for protesting Law 55 which is not only threatening our civil liberties, freedom of expression, and freedom of the press, but also our right to see things for ourselves; our freedom of perception. We now have video evidence of Governor McNancy and this TV station's owner Richard Specter; along with an Undertone™ rep, colluding to profit from censoring the new colour.” Cloe cued the cameraman. He hit a button that activated the in-camera drive; it began playing a video of Richard Spectre and Robert McNancy discussing how to sell the public on Law 55.
Bill watched the monitor smiling. His phone rang, he looked at it and let it continue ringing. He waited exactly one minute before answering it.
Cloe wasn't exactly sure what effect the scandalous video would have - maybe none at all. It was difficult to know how many people even saw it, as not many were watching TV anymore, and the internet's attention was never guaranteed. Hopefully, someone would be able to spread it. She was right in the assumption that Spectre was setting up his lawyers like toy soldiers to prosecute anyone who dare play it. Hopefully, that would inspire people to play it more.
***
A few months had passed and Cloe sat in front of a camera and a video screen where a woman's talking head waited to speak. The reporter was cued to begin. “Welcome to Liberty News. As you can see, we can now broadcast the new colour. However, please be advised that you can be fined for linking or blogging about it, if you live in a country that has signed the Law 55 treaty. Also, do not 'like' us, 'vote' for us, or blog about us, without the necessary encrypted precautions, as a few countries have tried to prosecute people extraterritorially. In the headlines: Protests are sweeping across the globe as people are demanding governments back down from the controversial Law 55 that makes viewing the new colour a crime. A wave of Anti-55 anger has triggered simultaneous and synchronized work stoppages in what is being called the first general world strike in history. It has grounded planes, closed schools, shut down transportation of goods and people, many hospitals are running on skeleton crews and some police unions have threatened to join. A few governments have already signaled they would not ratify the law that was introduced as a treaty at the last global summit.” In related news, Cloe Fabula has been charged In absentia for espionage, for her role in releasing footage of an Undertone™ Corporation employee bribing a government official. It is being considered a capital crime and she could face life imprison. The man who leaked the video was to be tried in a military tribunal for 'communicating with the enemy', but has since disappeared. Cloe Fabula, who is in hiding, is here for a rare interview. Cloe Fabula what is your take on this?”
Cloe spoke calmly. “These are our eyes. We own them as we own the view they present us. We are individuals and we need laws that protect not only our freedom of expression, but also our freedom of perception. Instead, laws are being passed that protect outdated models of the world. The old guard fears us having too much knowledge, too much education, and too much freedom. These window keepers subject us to images we no longer believe in. We are losing trust in our governments as they persecute those who look past the illusions and demand our information be freed. There are laws being ratified that are protecting corporations who want us to see only their products, banks that have us see only their money, governments who want us to see only their policies. We may as well sew photographs to our eyeballs. We need laws not that make us blind, but those that protect our right to see.”
After Cloe finished her interview, she used her laptop to click on some of her favorite internet news sites. Anonymity offered some protection, but anyone who published information took risks. There was heavy lobbying to build persistent internet identities online. Many governments were trying to implement internet ID cards to track the growing chorus of opposition. One of the news players started, “This is Freedom TV reporting from the uprisings in Tunisia.” It has just been uncovered that mainstream news organizations have been taking money to sell false reports of the protests here…” Cloe listened through the beginnings, and let them buffer, later she would go back and finish the reports. It took a while as the proxy tunnels that protected her anonymity slowed things.
“This is The Peoples Voice News broadcasting from Russia. If this is a roll call then the numbers are staggering, 1 billion estimated people protesting against Law 55 globally.” Suddenly the stream ended. THIS VIDEO IS NO LONGER AVAILABLE DUE TO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT appeared in the video player.
She clicked on a blog link.
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