（𝒯ℴ 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓅ℯℴ𝓅𝓁ℯ 𝓌𝒽ℴ 𝒶𝓇ℯ 𝓌𝓇ℴ𝓃𝑔𝓁𝓎 𝒹ℯ𝒻𝒾𝓃ℯ𝒹．）

I’m a blue rank.

I’ve been a blue rank my whole life.

The color ranks began in 2,225, when a man named Neo Arling made the zone.

The zone was a bordered area of land down by the East coast of America, a territory where the Regulators marched their prisoners down the beaches, and drowned them at the tip of what used to be Florida.

There, Neo Arling and his Regulators killed 200,000 people.

In one day.

He was estimated to execute the largest mass killing in mankind. Much larger than World War II, and even streching beyond the numbers of casualties in World War III.

But someone stopped him. A blue.

Stella Fielding, the first Blue to be on the opposing side of Arling.

His greed for land had driven him to harsh tactics and even harsher executions. His original motto was that killing was a horrible thing, and rather than killing citizens for population control, he would conquer land.

He lied in two ways.

He wouldn’t just capture new land, he would take every citizen of that territory prisoner, women and children included, and toss them to the waves of the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico.

Then, he decided that the land wasn’t enough. Even with our population more widespread, and the extra loss from killing the citizens whom opposed his ideas, he decided population control was necassary.

That was when the rankings originated.

Heroic acts. Honor. Millitary action. Government positions. Wealth. That made you a blue rank.

Common citizens. Less valued careers. The middle class. Those were green.

Poor, fugitives, homeless, disabled, elderly, physically or mentally ill, those were yellow.

I had never heard of a red.

Stella Fielding and her husband led a revolt against Arling and his acts, standing up for both the foreigners and the many yellow ranks chosen to die simply because they weren’t of use to Arling and took up space.

In 2,254 World War IV ended. The zone was demolished for rebuilding. The borders were remade. In 2,239 Fielding’s husband was elected leader of the land, and he found new solutions to population control.

But the ranks stayed. And so did the prejudice.

The yellows and greens weren’t the only ones judged. Us blues were too. There have been times where I wanted nothing more than to crawl to the shadows, where no one could see the number printed on my neck that determined what color rank I was.

392.

Anything above 299 is blue.

They look at you different when they know what kind you are. When they know you aren’t one of the many sleeping in a bed with ten other people, or sharing one bowl of noodles with your whole family for a meal.

When I was a kid, the girls across the street would break into the house when me and my family weren’t home. They would break my things, take my clothes, hide my valuables. They thought that because my life was defined by a color, especially one that proved I had a lot more than others, I should be treated like it was my fault.

I don’t wish I were starving. Or homeless. But I wish I didn’t have to lower my head and wear rags around Yellows so I wouldn’t get robbed. I wish the rankings didn’t exist.

No one really knows why they kept the ranking after Arling. Mom always said it was to make it easier on employers. To know your background and your lifestyle.

Dad always said it was so we didn’t have to go through such a big change after the war. After all, we had been living with the ranks for nearly 3 decades.

But I didn’t think those were good enough reasons to keep a system that labeled a person with a stereotype without ever knowing them.

I used to think I wanted them to forget to give me a number. Then no one would see my ranking.

But that was before I knew what having no number meant.

Every day, down the street from my house, at a food market overflowing with hungry customers, an old woman sat on the bench out side. My friends always pointed in her direction, always whispered theories about her presence to one another in curiosity.

She sat there in the same black coat, with a crimson red scarflette on her wrist. Her hair was twisted in a braid, curving around her neck and concealing the number beneath.

“I bet she’s a yellow,” My friend Emma whispered, pointing again to the old lady.

“I don’t know… her coat is really nice. And clean. And she doesn’t beg for food or money like the others…” Tia replies from my other side, making my face drop into a frown.

They both sound so conceited. Most Blues do.

I hate that sometimes, even I get lost in the rankings, and I sound that way too.

“It doesn’t matter what she is. She’s nice. I talked to her yesterday.“ I say, trying to end the conversation.

“You did?“ Tia asks.

“Yeah. I asked her if she was hot in her coat since its getting warmer out. She said yes, but she likes it because her sister gave it to her.”

“Really? That coat must be really old then. It looked new…” Emma adds.

“Maybe she is a blue and just likes being outside. Then it would make sense why it looks new, because she would have it cleaned.”

“Or maybe…”

“Guys. Stop it.” I order abruptly, stopping in my tracks, which causes someone from behind to bump into me as they hurry towards the market.

I glare at the rudeness of the boy, who offers no apology. I look to Tia and Emma, who both have their heads hung low.

“Sorry.” The mutter in unision. I nod. They know what I’m thinking. After all, they are blues too.

We continue forward, changing the topic to summer and the change it will bring, when a voice interrupts us.

“Hey, young lady, could you grab me that paper, across the street? I’m tired… my body doesn’t go like it used to.”

I look down to the bench, where the old lady with the coat and scarflette sits with a bag of coins.

I try not to draw attention to the fact that my friends are gaping at how wide this woman’s wallet is.

“Yes mam.” I respond, giving her a polite smile, one that’s not near as warm as the one she gives me.

She seems very kind.

“Here’s two coins…Actually, here’s forty.” She states, before counting coins in her hands and handing me a pile.

I stare at her in bewilderment, only fixing my expression when nudged by Tia. “You… you want to get 20 papers?”

“No, dear. Just one. You keep the rest for the trouble.” She responds, which clears the remaining confusion from my features.

“Oh… thank you. But I don’t need that.”

“Please take it, you and your friends are young. Still in school, yes? Go and buy you something nice before it starts back.”

“Thank you.” I say, pushing most of the coins into my pocket and keeping two in my palm.

I leave my friends with the old woman, venturing through the crowded street and to the paper box across. I drop in two coins in the top, and one paper slides out the slit on the side.

I walk back across the street, immediately noticing the bewilderment on my friend’s faces as they stare at the woman.

“You mean, you don’t have a color?” Emma inquires.

“No, everyone has a color. I only mean I don’t have a number.”

“I’m sorry mam. They shouldn’t have asked about your rank. We will go now.” I interrupt, eyeing both Tia and Emma with shame.

“No, no. They didn’t ask. But I saw the wonder on their faces. You and your friends look kind. So I told them.”

“If… you don’t mind me asking… how do you not have a number, but you have a rank?” Tia asks.

“I have a very rare rank. One so rare that they thought that giving me a number would make people target me.”

“What is your ranking?” I question next.

“I’m a red.”

“What does that mean?” I add.

“I’m not sure you could look at me the same if I told you.”

“That could be true. But I’m curious. And you’ve done me a kindness, so I’d like to hear your story regardless. If your okay with me hearing it.” I respond.

“My name is Maggie… Maggie Arling.”

“Your…”

“His daughter.”

“They labeled all his family and allies red. Even once the war was over, and I told them I never supported him, they tried to imprison me. Some even wanted to kill me and my siblings, just so his blood would be rid from the earth.”

She pauses and motions for the paper in my hand. I hand it over, haven forgotten I was holding it. She continued her story, leaving the paper in her lap for later.

“Eventually, they decided we were innocent. After they killed my father, and soon my mother, they sent us to live where they were rebuilding homes where the zone once was. Our neighbors saw us in the pool one day through the fence. They noticed we had no numbers. They broke into our home, forced us to tell them why. They killed my brothers and sisters for being a descendant of Neo, and they were about to kill me when help showed up.“

“That’s horrible.“ Emma says, shaking her head.

“It is. It’s horrible that where someone is from, how old they are, how rich they are, their health... their upbringing... it labels them. The rankings are horrible. They force the world to see us by things we should not be defined by.“

“Back to the story. George Fielding killed the reds who helped Arling, but he kept the rest of us under watch. He still wanted to be able to identify the reds in some way other than a number. Each one of us has something that we wear, so we can be identified by the local officials. I have a red scarflette. My cousin, Rhea, she had a red pair of gloves. Each of our items were unique, which helped keep us distinguishable. They each have our name printed on the inside.“ She explains, before showing us the cursive letters lining the inside of her red scarflette.

Maggie Arling looks to me, her smile brightening as if lands on my face. “I trusted you enough to tell you these things. Your father is a good friend of my husband. He heard the speech you gave on rankings last year at your school. He called you emotionally brilliant. I believe that to be true.“

“Thank you, miss Maggie. And I stsnd by what was said. I think the rankings are wrong. And I’m sorry about what happened to your family.” I say.

“It’s not your fault. Rankings and their stereotypes are a horrible thing. And if I ever told the world my best advice, I would tell them to not fall into that web. Once your in, you can’t leave.“

“Actually, I think you may be wrong about that. People change. And so do their ideas. I think you may have just changed me miss Maggie. Even I fall into the web sometimes. But after what you just told me, I don’t think I will again.” I state, and Tia and Emma nod in agreement.

“Good. Now go off so I can read my paper.” She shoos us away, before smiling in a way that shows us she is just teasing. We wave goodbye, and as I walk home Emma tells me about how wonderful miss Maggie was, as Tia nods along.

I think her story really changed them.

***

Tommorow the city would wake to find an old woman laid to rest on a bench. Dead by long life, not spilled blood like her family.

Her newspaper would lay at her side, along with a black pen.

She would have something written on the top of the paper, something she had written, unknown to her that the whole world would soon read it. Everyone in the world would know her name, her story.

And they would forget her rank.

“I am not a color. I am not a number. I am not an age. I am not an amount of money. I am not a disablity or lack of. I am not my health. I am not my bloodline. I am not my country. I am not the things I own.

I am a human being. I do right. I do wrong. And I live a life defined by words that have no meaning to who I am. So why do you label me with them?

After all, you are a human too.”

They world would mourn a soul they never knew. Merely because they tried to define her.