There's one thing that everyone here fears. They call it the "Orange Dust." The formula is so simple that anyone can manufacture it. Every attempt the government has made to crack down on the weapon has ended in utter failure. But most importantly, all someone needs to do to administer a lethal dose is throw a pinch of it onto another's face; it won't even leave a trace. Only one strategy has ever been implemented successfully: wearing a vuolo. It's a type of veil that's wrapped so many times across someone's face that the only substance that can pass through it is air itself. Every breath is a fight for survival, but people cover their faces with it nonetheless. Only by concealing oneself does any person stand a chance of surviving the Orange Dust.
In the city, the roads are dark and narrow. Not because it's night, but because the people themselves are pitch-black. Each one is a walking piece of tenebrous fabric. Naiva can barely distinguish between the hundreds of silhouettes walking beside him. After all, they resemble shadows more than they do people. It's not just the people who hide away from the world, it's the city too. The cracked asphalt below Naiva's feet is so dark, it's near impossible to know what it is merely by sight. The decrepit houses beside him (if you can even call them houses) hide behind deep shadows. Orange clouds blot out the sun, turning the once vibrant yellow ball of fire into a dim, somber orange dot. The only colors the residents ever see are the faint red glow of the distant sun and the flicker of nearby dumpster fires scattered along the street.
As Naiva continues to walk through the monotonous roads, he looks for food vendors on the street. It's already been an hour, but he continues his search. Not only his search for a vendor, but also for a face. Any face. He keeps a lookout at the passersby beside him, but it's only silhouettes. All he wants is to see a face that isn't the one he sees in the mirror every morning. Unfortunately, all he finds are masks.
The food vendor sits on a broken slab of wood for a chair. In front of him is a woven basket with only a couple of dried beans inside. The man's skin was dry and saggy. The once towering giant now seemed at risk of disappearing in the wind. However, his appearance doesn't matter. The vuolo hides it all.
The purchase happens without a single exchange of words. Not even an acknowledgment of the other's presence. Now the clinking of coins joins the sound of the sandy wind, and Naiva reaches for the beans. However, he pulls back his arm. A skeletal hand latched onto Naiva's wrist, and the vendor shook his head. Then, he pointed to Naiva's waistbelt hidden under his cloak.
… Transaction complete
As Naiva wanders home, his shoulder bumps into a fellow silhouette. Neither apologizes, but that's to be expected. Neither glances back, but that's to be expected as well. Regardless of whether people wear vuolos or not, there's still the underlying fear of the Orange Dust. However, this was the crux of the problem for Naiva. In his eyes, the world feared others so much that it was borderline irrational.
He is wrong though. The fear is very much a rational one.
A sharp scream comes from an alleyway—a high-pitched one. Yet, no silhouette dares to investigate into the deep shadows. Each one thinks the same thing: "What if it's a trap?"
But there is no trap. Only a few steps away from the main road, an eight-year-old girl cries for help, knowing none will arrive. A man twice her height pins her against the dilapidated rows of shacks. The stony surface scrapes her back as she squirms, but the throbbing pain is completely unnoticeable in the moment. She kicks. She punches. But, she's only eight. Either way, it's too dark for anyone to see where to aim. The attacker's hand is still pressed against her neck, and she remains pressed against the wall.
Necessa knows there are people about. She can hear the sand crunching under people's footsteps. She can hear the sound of windows shutting from above her. However, no one in their right mind should come to help her. She knows this.
Naiva, however, is not a man in the right mind. He rushes towards the narrow alleyway and hits several passersby on the shoulder. He doesn't look back. Neither do the silhouettes. He runs and runs and runs, passing dozens of black, human-shaped figures. Again, not a single one turns around, but for some reason he doesn't care as much this time.
In the alleyway, the girl is still pinned. She's still fighting. And, she's still covered in some mixture of blood and sweat. This time, though, she hears the attacker reach into his waistcoat. Then, she sees it. Although it was only for a second, there's no mistaking that color. Now, she screams a blood-curdling shriek as the attacker rips off her vuolo. He covers her face with his hand, and Necessa can taste his dirty and metallic palm. She forgets why she's screaming. All it enables is the man's slimy fingers to slide deeper into her mouth.
* * *
Suddenly, the attacker's grip loosens, and Necessa falls to the ground. When she opens her eyes, she sees Naiva in front of her and Dust Marks on the attacker's back. Neither of them moves nor do they speak. Both are in awe, albeit for different reasons. All they do is stare into the other's eyes, waiting for their next move. When Naiva approaches her, Necessa immediately tightens her vuolo and darts off into the alley's shadows. The "pit pat… pit pat…" of her feet gradually grows quieter as she fades away.
Naiva stood there. Stationary. Soon, rain began to fall.
"Pit pat… pit pat… pit pat… pit pat…"
He tears off his vuolo and stands there. The sound of foot traffic on the main street gradually vanishes until the sound disappears entirely. Still, Naiva stands there—stationary in the rain. He never saw Necessa's face. He's accepted that he might never see another's. At least that's what I like to think. With everything finished, he tightens his wet vuolo and returns to the streets… this time as a silhouette.