Chapter Text
When the Torchbearer next saw him, Clancy was different. He walked into the cell, feet dragging slightly, head hung low. His long, matted brown hair was gone, instead cut short and dyed bright pink. He didn’t even acknowledge Torch as he walked over to his bed in the corner of the room.
“Clancy?” Torch sat beside him. “Your hair…”
“Like it? We’re going for a new look.” His voice was soft, monotone.
His clothes were different too, Torch realised. A warm sweatshirt and baggy pants, in soft colours. He reached out, brushing his fingers over the material. He briefly wondered what sort of injuries hid beneath the fabric, how many bandages wrapped his body under the loose clothing.
“Why the change?”
“The album’s almost finished. I’m going to be performing.” The Torchbearer sat in shock.
“Performing?” He whispered. “By yourself?” Clancy’s face remained expressionless, although he looked down.
“They’ve got a… some sort of projection, of you. I don’t know. They assure me you’ll be there, but I’m not sure. I’m not sure about most things these days. Sometimes I’m not even sure I’m real…”
“Clancy…” Torch had no clue what he could say that would possibly make this better. “I’ll be there. Maybe… maybe not when you think, but…”
“I don’t care, anyway. This is my life now, I just need to…get used to it. You’d be so much happier if you stopped fighting, too. You could be with me... all the time. We could both be real.”
The words sent shivers down Torch’s spine. Clancy had truly given up. His eyes were dull, lifeless. It almost made Torch wonder if…
No. No, they wouldn’t do that. He’s alive, he’s here.
“It’s nicer. They give me all I want. I don’t even have to think most of the time.”
Clancy’s eyes grew glassy, like he was about to cry. It was as if some piece of the old Clancy was still in there, fighting to get out.
God, they’ve been drugging him. He’s so high he’s not thinking clearly.
Clancy cleared his throat, scrubbing tears from his eyes. His voice remained monotone.
“I’m moving to a different room. I’m only here to gather my belongings. My songs. Things will be better now that I understand.”
“Understand what?” Torch dreaded the answer.
“That nobody’s coming for me.”
That evening, Torchbearer sat in the Bandito camp, watching a special broadcast on a stolen TV. They'd gathered around it, waiting expectantly.
Bright colours washed over the screen as the camera focused on a pink-haired figure standing alone with a microphone. He looked down at his feet as he sang, soft and slow. His voice hardly changed pitch at all, a stark contrast to his usual emotional voice.
“I know it’s over, I was born a choker.”
He was so devoid of life, his twitchy, relentless energy was gone, as he stood dead still. He looked straight into the camera, then, almost as if he could look through it and make eye contact with Torch, as he sat in the shadowed corner of the tent.
He prayed that none of the other Banditos saw the way he dropped his head into his hands and began to tremble as Clancy sang his final line of the night. Prayed that none of them heard his choked sobs. He knew that they did.
“Nobody’s coming for me.”