Chapter Text
xxx xxmoon xx
I was given this... article, I think they called it. I remember in Dema they called it a journal. But I'm no longer a citizen, and I don't think I have been in a very long time, so I will assimilate.
They tell me this will last the year, whatever a year out here is, and they will not give me a new one before then. Even if I lose it, which is fair.
I am to write in this. Whatever I deem important, or whatever I want. So I guess I will write the important things here.
My name is Torch. I am named after the constellation Torchlight. I used to be a citizen of Dema, a city of concrete walls and floors. I have not been there in a long time. I am an amnesiac. I am a bandito, and it is not what I thought it would be. There is something wrong out here.
I am twenty years old. I am missing twelve years of my memories. I try not to think too hard on it.
xxx xxmoon xx
Last night I dreamed I was walking rocky terrain that was slippery with mud. I think we were somewhere in Trench. There were three torchbearers in front of me. Which was strange enough, because as of right now there was only one that I knew of. There was another pair of footsteps behind me. There was stairs in front of me, slick with months old algae and water, so I turned around to help the person behind me but they weren't there. I felt like I lost something. I don't know
xxx xxmoon xx
I guess the bandito who got the pen before me died, because I get it two days earlier now. I don't know why this is the thing that bothers me the most. Its a normal enough pen, writes in black, smooth ink mostly, but sometimes dirt gets in the ink.
Having routines in the camps, let alone in Trench itself, is almost impossible; the rarity of watches and batteries, and the unpredictability of weather make it hard to count the days and nights. The pen in itself probably wasn't crazy important, but what it meant to us, to be able to put thoughts on paper is just invaluable.
Now, my internal clock will be off for two days, as will everyone elses, who gets this pen after me. It is strange to be more upset about this than a fallen comrade, even if I didn't know them.
xxx xxmoon xx
I saw someone get smeared for the first time today. But it was strange.
It was in the old fjords, where glaciers used to stand. There was a creek down at the very bottom, and in the middle of it, floating, was a person. They didn't seem to be hurt or dead.
They stood up, shook the water off, and kept walking with confident, if a bit weak, steps. I had never seen anything like it. Even the older banditos still watch their feet when walking in the fjords.
My ears aren't trained enough to hear it yet, but the older banditos are so they heard it first. They turned their heads to the east, where moments later I saw the white horse with a red robed figure on their back, and it was only after this that I started hearing the hoofbeats.
The person kept walking undeterred. It was fascinating. It was horrifying. Who were they? What are they doing here?
"What are they doing?" I had whispered to my friend beside me.
Her brow was furrowed. She shushed me, "We've seen this guy before. Watch."
Now even more confused, I turned my eyes back onto the ground. He had stopped walking. The figure was riding even closer. The hoofbeats sounded like thunder rumbling.
The figure stopped before him and left the horses saddle. It took its hands to his neck, and even from the top of the mountains I could see the smear start to take place.
Here's the strange thing: my whole life, even while I was in Dema, I was told that smearing was violent. that it ripped something from your body, and that you wouldn't even remember why your whole being aches with grief. But this was different.
It was almost... peaceful. And with the yawning mountains, the fast rapids of the creek, and the morning sun in the background, it was almost picturesque. The guy who had been walking seemed to droop with relief, and the figure had held him before walking to the horse.
I didn't know I was holding a breath until they started to leave. I turned back to my friend and she just looked sad.
I met her eyes. What was that about?
She shook her head. I'll tell you at camp, her eyes told me, it's still dangerous out here.
I hate waiting for answers.
xxx xxmoon xx
I never got an answer, by the way.
On the way back to camp there was a rockslide and she got caught in it. Her chest was crushed in, and we couldn't move the rock off her. A few of us sat there as she died, listening in silence while her chest and throat filled with blood. I can still hear the gurgling and choking even now. By the time we left, the vultures were already circling around us.
I just don't understand. The camp leaders all know that that pass is dangerous. When banditos use that pass there is always a rockslide, and always at least one death.
Once is a coincidence, twice is strange, but three is on purpose.
Listen to me. I'm talking like there's a fucking conspiracy. But it is a thought that sticks to my brain like tree sap.
It has been quiet recently, so I guess I have been on edge. More than usual at least. Realistically there's no reason I should be: we have enough food and drinkable water to last us for weeks and we do our chores with the same reliability as always, even if we do have to add extra chores because of banditos dying.
I wish we had, like, a memorial or something. These people matter, don't they? Even if they aren't high on the hierarchal ladder? We all work together, we're comrades (if not friends), we're all fighting for the same thing, right? At least, I hope we are.
I just think we could do more to honor the ones that have had to leave us.
The sky is blue, and I have never felt so alone.
xxx xxmoon xx
I have been temporarily confined to my tent. I am placed under constant supervision. I get told when to eat and piss and shit and do nothing else. "A time of reflection," I was told.
"A sack of shit," I replied. "I have nothing to reflect on."
Being stuck in this tent reminds me of my childhood, short lived as it was. I was six, and our region's Bishop had preached in the square. At this age, even if I had no clue what was happening, I had already known that this was to be a quiet time, where words could wait until you were back inside with your family.
"I don't think I want to die, mom," I had said. You would've thought I had attempted murder. (Which, of course, I very well could've. All forms of self-destruction are welcome, say the Bishops.)
She had yelled at me, and cursed my fullname. I was in shock, she had never raised her voice at me before. We were both crying.
"You will go to your room, for reflection," she told, no, she commanded me.
"Reflection for what?" I had asked. "I got nothing to reflect on."
And then she hit me. We didn't ever speak of it, but never again did I repeat what I had said that day.
I remember the clawing nausea coming up my throat. I had hated being stuck in my room. I hate being stuck in this tent. It makes me feel like a powerless kid again, and I bet the leaders know that.
A time of reflection, I scoffed. It's more like a time-out.
I don't remember why I'm in here anyways. Well, I remember bits and pieces, the before and the right after. I should explain.
The first thing: I have amnesia. I don't know what this word means, but I was told that it means there's a gap in my memories. I can remember a few things, like my name and age, and some stuff about my parents, but that's about it. Between the ages of eight and twenty, I don't really know where I was, or what I was doing. I try not to think about it.
The second thing: Collaborators. These are people who collaborate with the Bishops to find the missing. Oftentimes, these are people trying to leave Dema, effectively committing treason.
(Sometimes I wonder if the Bishops talk about Trench so often for this reason in particular. Committing treason could be considered self-destructive, couldn't it? Where does the line end? Do the goal posts keep moving forever? I digress.)
Either way, Collaborators pretty much work as a guard. They gather information to give to the Bishops for rewards, like extra food, or medical aid.
The issue at hand:
This guy, Eric, simply put, is an asshole. He likes to steal and hurts others for some sick satisfaction. I guess no one here understands justice.
He and I were on cleaning duty after breakfast.
He was cleaning dishes. "So," he says, "it's true you don't remember anything?"
I am already on edge. "Yes." I said. "I am missing twelve years of memories."
Now, I've heard a multitude of things about this. I have been told I am suspicious, untrustworthy. It slides off my back like water. This doesn't bother me, because it is a rational thing to feel. But this, to me, was the ultimate betrayal to what I stood for, to what I considered myself to be.
Eric scoffed. "I bet you got everyone here fooled, Torch, but don't think you can get by me that easily."
I remember smiling. Maybe I was baring my teeth. "Do you think it'd be hard?"
He slammed a plate on the ground, which sucked, precious as they are. But I didn't care. Because of what he said to me.
"I bet you're one of those Collaborators." He spat at my feet.
And after he said that, I don't remember much.
I remember the immediate after, standing over his bloodied face. His eyes were swollen and bruised, his cheekbone shattered, and his nose was done for.
A fractured collarbone, and his right arm is broken in three places, from what I could feel, the camp medic told me. You don't look like it, but you've got serious strength, man.
I guess he was trying to sound disapproving, but I could see the gleeful twinkle in his eye.
I have always considered myself to be terrifyingly loyal. There is so little that I know, so little that I remember, that I feel the need to cling to anything that aligns with my worldview. To be called... that word, shatters me completely.
A time of reflection.
Fucking ridiculous.
xxx xxmoon xx
There was another rockslide today, so we're packing up camp and moving on. I won't say it to their faces, but the camp leaders don't know jack shit.
Two of them argue they should stay low to the ground, use the mountains as cover. The other two argue we should move into the mountains, use the caves as cover.
I say all four of them are jackass-rabbits, running in circles with their heads cut off.
Then, a memory:
I was on a supply run when I was new to the banditos, but not new to Trench. It was me and two others in my group. Our packs were full.
Macayiah cursed. A rockslide had happened while we were away. Our usual path back to camp was blocked with rocks hundreds of feet tall.
She huffed. "I guess we can just... head back to the drop point?"
The other, Jordan, shook his head. "The longer we stay, the more likely we'll be found out."
A thing to understand about Trench, about the banditos: Trench are the banditos, and the banditos are Trench. Precarious and half-thought out plans, at best. I remember watching previous runners never coming back on time, or sometimes being lost forever on the continent.
Why has no one made a map yet? I asked.
Trench has a mind of its own, sometimes. It's alive.
I had shrugged the heavy pack off my back, and rolled out my shoulders. I turned to them, and said, "Don't freak out if I pass out or something."
And then I closed my eyes.
I don't necessarily like doing this, because it always makes my head pound something fierce after. I still don't really know what it is, or how I do it. It feels like I shove my soul out of my body, out of my skull, and then suddenly I see everything.
I can see my body on the ground, stumbling around, and I can see the other two trying to still get my attention.
I turn my eyes forward. Yes, there is no way back on this path anymore. We can't go back to the drop point, and we can't stay out here any longer than we already have. I need to find another path.
I move to the east, maybe five hundred klicks from the rockslide. There, there's an tunnel system old system, that connects to the other side of the rocks. If we go there and through, we should be able to get back on the original trail.
I'm about to get back into my body when I notice the tops of the mountains. I've never seen them before, but they're covered in trees and other vegetation. The tree canopy is so dense that I can't even see where the ground would be.
I float back into my body, and immediately there is a shooting pain in my head. I double over and vomit.
"There's a tunnel route five hundred klicks east," I say, spitting out bile. "We go through it and get back on the original trail."
"Yeah, but what the fuck, dude?" Macayiah exclaims.
I groan again. "Please shut up. We can talk about it at camp."
We did not talk about it at camp. They both collapsed and died from heat exhaustion in the tunnel. I was half delirious the entire walk back.
I clutch my head. That's a new one, I think to myself.
Jackass-rabbits with their heads cut off, indeed. They're all too busy trying to consolidate more power in the camp that they can't even work together.
"Maybe we can move to the tops of the mountains, where we would be safe from rockslides, use the tree canopy as cover, and use the caves to store other shit in," I say.
One of the leaders, Mark, turn to me. "How do you know about the tree canopy?"
And it's, like, whatever, alright? The suspicion is grating by now, I don't really understand why they don't trust me yet, but fucking whatever.
I turn sheepish. "I can, I don't know, see stuff from above? I'm not sure what it is myself."
The tent silences. And I get it. The few that make it out of Dema tell us what they know of whatever the Bishops do, even if it is old information. What I just said sounds highly reminiscent.
"It's not seizing," I say defensively. "It is definitely still my body, just not my physical body. It's why I'm so good at remembering trails."
I gave them a demonstration. I told them there was a lake that they never knew about, five miles south.
They still don't trust me. Which. Fine. I trust them the same amount, probably.
But they've taken my suggestion, and said yes. So I will consider it a win.
I still don't really know what's going on with the leaders. Any good leader would want to keep their people from harm. At least, I would think so. But then I remember the only kind of leadership they've ever had was the Bishops, and they're not what I would use as a baseline.
Maybe I can do more to help.
The sky is blue, the leaders are as weird as ever, and my head is hurting with phantom pains.