Chapter Text
Tyler didn’t know a lot of things, but he knew he needed out of this God-forsaken city.
He had made up his mind months ago. He was going to leave forever. Join that rebel alliance the Bishops spoke of. The Bishops weren’t going to win him over; not now, not ever.
Dema was all he knew. He had grown up in the dull and desolate grey, growing accustomed to it over time. But unlike the others, his mind had always drifted towards the outside. What could possibly be outside the walls of Dema that the Bishops hid so well? Was there really reckless wilderness and endless color like this “Clancy” spoke of? He didn’t know, and that excited him more than it scared him. Whatever was out there had to be better than this.
He was done with the endless stench of death around him. He had had to look into the blank, glazed expression of those gone for far too long. He had even seen it in his own eyes while looking into the mirror, as if death was a slow current in his veins reaching up to his brain rather than a quick act. Death was never an event or act to him; death was the sight of endless bore and hurt all around him, and the taste of decomposition and foul and bitter garbage; the Bishops didn’t concern themselves with the cleanliness inside of the city, only appearing clean from the outside. Death was looming all around, looking to fulfill its final purpose in each person when the time came. Tyler wasn’t going to let it reach him.
He was done with the numbness that the nothingness of Dema brought him. The only way he felt he could feel was through sharp edges running across his skin and splitting him open. The ruby red that would leak down the jagged lines reminded him that he was human, not just a citizen of a corrupt city, not just a Vialist. It reminded him that he had control. The pain only brought an odd sense of ecstasy that you couldn’t find elsewhere in Dema.
He was done being chained to the system, nothing but a rat in the race, being spoonfed propaganda and deceit. He was smarter than the Bishops knew. Smarter than he was supposed to be. He was no pawn, but a whole other player in this rigged game.
So, he wrote his goodbyes and tucked them under his pillow, and made his way through the city, off to the nearest sewer manhole he could find.
Tyler did his research; the sewers led to the garbage disposal just outside of the city, leaking into the small cove/island Voldsoy and polluting the water. Through the mountains beside the island was the wild terrain of Trench. He was ready.
/̶|
Tyler scuffed at the watery sludge reaching his ankles as he waded his way through the sewers. The smell was dank and thick, and he could’ve sworn he saw clouds of brown and green swirling in the air at this point. The curved cement walls and rusty pipes only seemed to go on farther and longer as he made his way to the other side, and he was damn near turning back and going to bed. Trench better be worth it.
From a few feet away, he saw a glimmer reaching into the tunnel from above. It wasn’t cold and sharp like the illuminating gravestones back inside Dema. It was something else. Something entirely new. It looked warm like fire, but much more inviting. Fire wasn’t inviting at all—the complete opposite, if anything. Tyler didn’t think he would ever get the sight of the fiery corpses of the Glorious Gone piled on top of one another, beautiful life amounting to nothing but ash, out of his head; the Bishops didn’t know what to do with the leftover bodies when they had enough to take possession of. The thought made Tyler reel. He wanted to bend over and add more to the sludge surrounding his ankles.
But this fire wasn’t like that. It was warm and inviting. The golden hue it cast was unlike the fire back in Dema; in fact, it was lovely. He wanted to bathe in it forever. It looked like heaven.
He stood and admired it for some time before trudging through the sewer to get closer, closer to it, and soon enough, he had reached the end. Above him was a rusy storm basin looming just above his head. He ends up struggling to push up the drain and failing, due to it being rusted shut. With a rock, he pounded the edges just enough to loosen it, and the entire grate ended up falling onto him, knocking him down to the ground and soaking his everything with shit-water.
He groaned loudly, letting the sludge seep into his clothes helplessly before sitting up. His clothes were heavy and soggy, but at least he got the grate off. He sighed and gripped onto the edge of the now-removed drain, climbing out and flopping onto the patchy dirt on the surface.
This was entirely new.
A large glow was peeking behind the grassy hills and mountain tops, slowly residing behind them. Everything was a pleasant burn cast by this glow. The sky was a dance of color, colors which Tyler couldn’t name, swirling and mixing into one another. It was the color his cheeks grew when a cute girl was talking to him, and the color of flame yet again. He couldn’t wait to learn what their names were. Grass tickled his aching joints and hugged him kindly, and he squirmed under the sweet sensation.
A steady breeze whistled through the grass, through his wet hair, dashing past him with no afterthoughts, no quitting. Nothing was to stop the resilience of the wind. It was honorable, beautiful. It took his breath away and carried it along with it. Gone was the thought of the burning bodies, the gravestones, the past; there was only Trench, and the future it would bring. Hot tears ran down his cheeks and to his mouth and chin, bringing a salty taste to his lips that served as the only thing keeping him grounded. He wasn’t sure if he died in the sewers and this was heaven, or if this truly was Trench, the land that was kept away from him for so long. He felt more than he ever did before.
He soaked in the moment for much longer, letting himself absorb Trench—no, letting Trench absorb him. His smile nearly split his face in two, his lips and cheeks tired and nearly sore. The tears rippling down his face soaked into the dirt and grass beneath him, turning it into mud. Sobs began to rack his body, building up in his chest and rumbling in the back of his throat. He nearly had to force them out of him; if he kept them inside of his body any longer, he felt he’d implode. He was loud, obnoxious, but he didn’t care. Trench could take it. Trench was patient with him, letting him feel, and he took advantage of it. Trench loved him. Trench understood.
He let the land take his soul, his body vacant and asleep on the ground as the sky grew dark and the air grew thin and frigid. For once, he slept through the night.
⊬
When he woke, his surroundings were unfamiliar; not in the way Trench was unfamiliar for him, but in the way where this was absolutely not where he fell asleep. He palmed his swollen eyes to try and erase the blur, blinking and looking around. He was cold, and under him was something soft, like the blankets in his bed back home—no, back in Dema.
Wait—was he home?
He shot up, frantically looking around. Did the Bishops drag him back to Dema when he fell asleep? Oh, God, he hoped not. His breath grew ragged and short as he searched his surroundings, but the fog in his head didn’t help when trying to decipher what could possibly be going on.
A firm hand on his chest steadied him. It helped his breath return to semi-normal, and he blinked a few times before being able to make out who’s hand it belonged to.
The first thing he noticed was a stern gaze and brightly colored hair.
Tyler cleared his throat and looked into the man’s eyes. They were deep and rich, like the muddy earth he had fallen asleep under previously. Something about them called the storm in Tyler’s mind.
“Uh… hi,” he said awkwardly, feeling a little nervous under the intense stare. It felt like the man was assessing him. He probably was.
Tyler had the chance to look a little harder at this mysterious figure; his hair was as bright as the sun, radiant and nearly the same color, and his eyes were round and slightly slant. Every time Tyler looked into them something stirred up in his gut. His nose was hooked and a lot bigger than Tyler’s own, and a little silver ring went through his nostril—similar to the ring on his lower lip. They were like ear piercings, but everywhere but his ears—well, not exactly. The man did have ear piercings, but they were almost like huge holes rather than the usual little gemstones that the girls back in Dema had. Tyler was sure he could stick his entire pinky through his earlobe.
“Hi,” the man smiled, his eyes crinkling upwards. “Are you an escapee?”
“An… escapee?” Tyler tilted his head, his doe eyes wide in question.
The man chuckled and kneeled down to Tyler’s sleeping bag—oh. The softness under him was a sleeping bag. They were in a tent. “Did you escape from Dema?”
Tyler hesitated a little, eyes darting around the room. He sat up and tugged at his hair nervously. “Uh, yeah, I am.”
The man’s eyes widened just a little, but he remained calm. “About time we had another escapee,” he said, almost to himself. “I saw you just outside of one of the sewer drains, one of our entrances to the city. You were asleep. You looked sad.”
“Trench,” Tyler breathed out, the name itself stealing the air from his lungs yet again. “I… It’s different.”
“Good different, right?” Somehow, the man grinned even wider, and Tyler’s lips only followed suit.
“It’s wonderful here,” Tyler nodded. “I… I’m never going back.”
“You don’t have to.”
Tyler looked up to the ceiling of the tent, taking in the experiences of the day. “Where am I?” he asked.
“This is our new and improved Bandito camp hideout.”
Tyler sputtered for a moment, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “You’re a Bandito?” Suddenly, his heart rate picked up a little.
“Heck yeah!” the man exclaimed, showing off the colorful tape he sported across his torso, the shape of an X. “I’m the leader, actually.”
Tyler didn’t respond, only stared at the tape—what was this color, and why was it everywhere? The sun, the tape, this man’s hair… What was its relevance?
“You can call me the Torchbearer,” the man— the Torchbearer said with a firm nod.
“The Torchbearer, huh?” The name, or rather nickname—his real name most definitely wasn’t Torchbearer—rolled off of his tongue with ease. It was fitting; the man even sported a torch slung around his shoulder like a satchel. Did he really use the torch so often it needed its own compartment? The silliness of it all made him giggle.
“You’ve got a name, yeah?” The Torchbearer said, prodding for more information.
“Yeah, it’s Ty—“ he stopped and thought for a moment, really thought. He didn’t want to be Tyler anymore, and it felt like here, he didn’t need to be. Back in his letter in Dema he wrote as this Clancy title, and he was willing to commit to the title. “I’m Clancy,” he said in full confidence.
The Torchbearers gaze grew colder, and Ty—Clancy’s cheeks only grew warmer. Did he say something wrong?
“Clancy, huh?” The Torchbearer nodded, as if taking in the information and letting it absorb. “Clancy.”
Gone was Tyler. Clancy was born at this moment. He felt a blossom in his chest, a blossom of hope; hope to take this chance of rebirth to create a new him. He was overtaking his former self, taking this chance to become a better person. Someone he could love, could be proud of. Gone was that Dema citizen, and born was a citizen of Trench.
⊬