The Azuli, Cassidy Shay [books to read now .txt] 📗

over them at me. Every few minutes, he would pat the pockets of his lab coat, but he only pulled anything out twice. His fingernails were bitten to the nub, and he kept looking around, as if nervous about something.
In that room, I learned the history of the New World, and of the Azuli, who he called “your people.” That night, I cried myself to sleep. I cried for my crushed dreams, and for my people.
Chapter 1

Penny Azul
Last Name: Miller
Date of Birth: September 22, 3204
Date of Admittance: September 24, 3209
Identification Number: 1274882
Cell: 1A-5

I stepped through the familiar door once again, just like I had been doing for ten years. The only furniture in the room was a desk, a chair, and a lamp, just like always. On the desk were a pencil and a piece of paper, clean and untouched. I sat down in the chair and picked up the pencil, not knowing that day, everything would be changed before I even ate lunch.
I took a deep breath, shut my eyes, and tried to decide which Memory to draw. They all flashed through my mind, but none of them were the one I wanted. I was looking for something special, something that I was finally ready to release.
I must have taken too long to find it, because the long sticks, similar to cattle prods, came through the wall and shocked me, leaving yet another scar on each arm. I closed my eyes once again, put the pencil to the paper, and began.
First, there’s the tree, with special detail going into each branch and each ornament. I moved to the fireplace, the flames that seemed to be writhing in pain, and the stockings hung on the mantle. Children were on the floor, unwrapping presents. Wrapping paper, bows, and ribbons littered the floor.
The smiles on each face, coming from the joy of both giving and receiving gifts. The dark hair of one child, the light hair of the other. A door is opened now, with a dark figure standing there. Short, tight, dark curls make up his hair; big lips and a wide nose decorate his face. His skin is dark, unlike anyone the people in the New World have ever seen.
Grandparents in the corner, with very light hair. Thin, wire-rim glasses with thick lenses masked their eyes while their hands were clasped in between their bodies.
The parents sit on the floor by the couch, watching as their little darlings enjoy another Christmas and their friends come by to visit. A tabby cat sprawled in its spot by the fireplace, oblivious to all that went on around him.

My hand came to a sudden stop, and that’s how I knew I was done. The black and white picture sat on the table top, waiting to be colored. I blinked, and another one of my abilities kicked in. As Azuli, we were given the ability to color a picture with the blink of an eye, so that a simple, black and white picture was suddenly vibrant and vivid, something that seemed to move and sway with color.
I looked at the clock before standing. Fifteen seconds had passed since I’d first started drawing, which disappointed me. I knew from experience that I could draw a Memory in under nine seconds on a lousy day. I knew that when it took as long as fifteen seconds, something bad was going to happen that day. It was a sign that we’d all learned to recognize over the years.
We Azuli have special abilities outside of the Memories. Some of us even see glimpses into the future, although they say it’s only a day or two ahead of the present. Also, even when we aren’t drawing the Memories, we are extremely fast at art. I could draw a beautiful, lifelike rose in twenty seconds, whereas it might take someone else twenty minutes to draw the same thing.
We Azuli also have wisdom and knowledge that other people don’t have, because of the Memories. Although by sketching the memories, we are unable to go back and view them again, they don’t completely disappear. There’s always something left behind. A once-famous quote, an emotion or feeling, or a piece of information only accessible by the holder of that Memory.
But anyway, back to my story. The speed is what I was talking about. When we’re drawing normal things, we are incredibly fast. But when we’re drawing the Memories, we get much, much faster. A slow day was a way of our bodies telling us to be careful, because something exciting was bound to happen.
When I got back to the cell, I plopped on my bed, wondering if I should fake some kind of illness. I quickly discarded that idea, though. I knew that a trip to Floor Six, where the guards and doctors were, would be unpleasant, especially if they found out the illness was faked.
It didn’t take long for Macy to walk in, exhausted from the drawing. One thing that results from our daily duties is exhaustion. Just viewing a Memory for a moment was draining, and holding it for several seconds while we draw it is even more tiring.
“How was your morning?” I asked cheerfully as she collapsed into her bed. I was really wondering if she’d been slow too, so I’d know if things would definitely happen, or if it was just an off day for me.
“Well, I was tired before I even got to the DarkRoom because I was assigned to D-11 today.” I winced, knowing how hard it must have been for her to walk all that way. D-11 was the DarkRoom farthest from our cell, and for people as old as Macy, I knew it was tough. Especially after the energy drainage that came with the drawings.
“After finding out where to go, it got worse.” I sat up straight, looking into her blue, experienced eyes, knowing exactly what was coming next.
“How long?” I asked, not taking my eyes off her.
“Twenty,” was all she said, all she had to say. I collapsed again, not wanting to move for the rest of the day. My idea of staying in the cell all day, undisturbed by anyone, was quickly squashed like a bug when I heard my brother’s voice in the hallway.
“Seventeen seconds,” I heard, and then his body appeared in my doorway. “Can you believe that? My worst time has been fourteen. How could you take seventeen seconds to draw a Memory?”
I sat up as he walked in and sat on my bed in the spot where my feet had been seconds before. Since I’d arrived at the Academy, he’d grown several feet, and he filled out his jumpsuit better. His dark hair was now a little lighter, and I’d noticed a twitch in his nose. It was only noticeable when he was upset, just like he was then. His legs didn’t come out of the bottom of the jumpsuit anymore, and instead of being the stringy kid people avoided, he was now pretty popular amongst the Azuli on our floor. A couple seconds after he had come through the doorway, Carl appeared, mumbling under his breath.
Carl had entered our small circle of friends when I was nine. He had transferred from Floor Five, and was put in the cell with my brother because of their age. He had red hair, and a few freckles running across his nose. His eyelashes were long, but they were so light that you had to look closely to see them. He had sort of a goofy look to him, like someone who could have once been a clown. He was about as tall as Jack, but his jumpsuit was a little tighter around the shoulders and chest than Jack’s was. His nose was a little crooked, and his ears were huge. His eyes were big, and his lips were normal-sized. He had a dimple on his right cheek that showed up even when he wasn’t smiling. He’d became like another brother to me, and we were almost always bickering.
“Hey, Carl,” I said. “It’s been a couple days since I’ve seen you. What have you been up to?” Even after knowing me for six years, Carl had never caught on when I’d try to steer the conversation away from something awkward or scary, like how long it had taken us all to draw the Memories.
“’What’s been going on?’ That’s what you wanted to know? Penny, if you haven’t noticed already, we have a crisis on our hands. Something very, very bad is going to happen today. Bad with a capital B. As in B-A-D!” he practically yelled. Even for Carl, I thought he was being a little too dramatic. And he could be very dramatic.
Once, he sat in a DarkRoom for hours, not drawing anything, just sitting. A line had formed, as other Azuli were scheduled in that DarkRoom as well. He wouldn’t draw a Memory, though, until they brought him a new pencil.
“It was too dull,” he told me later. “You can’t properly draw a Memory without a properly sharpened pencil. I don’t see why they took so long to bring one to me. If it had been Michelangelo, they would have given him a new pencil right away.” I thought about reminding him that he wasn’t Michelangelo, but decided against it, knowing that it would only have brought on another rant.
Another time, in the cafeteria, he’d simply stayed in line, not moving, until the cooks prepared something more appetizing for him to eat. The food that day had been especially gross. They claimed that it was shepherd’s pie, but the texture, the color, and the way that it fell from the serving spoon to the tray suggested otherwise. To me, it looked like a new recipe, too empty of nutrients, or any unharmful substances to feed to normal people.
He stood by the counters, not saying anything, only having a stare-down with the cooks, until the Vipero announced that lunch time was over.
A high-pitched, rather unmanly squeal brings my attention back to the cell. Macy, old and frail as she is, has Carl pinned up against the wall. “Carl, that’s no way to speak to a young lady, and you know that! Have a little respect and manners once in a while. We may be locked up in this God-awful place, but that is not an excuse for disrespect. If you aren’t going to follow that rule, then you aren’t welcome here anymore,” she told him, and then turned around, found her book, and sat on her bed to read.
Carl blushed and muttered an apology, and then sat on the ground and traced an invisible pattern with his finger on the floor. He didn’t stay down there long, though, because two Vipero paid a visit to my room.
They both wore their black uniforms,