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He made it. He actually made it.
Clancy can’t believe it. He’s fantasised about escaping for so long, but never did he actually think he’d do it. A fantastical daydream that he used to pass the hours in that cement city, and now suddenly it’s his real life.
He’s free. He successfully escaped the city.
For the first time, too. He’s not too sure where to go from here, but he’s heard rumours across the city; spoken like forbidden truths, kept in dark corners where they shouldn’t be heard. Whispers of torches, of yellow light. Fire, warm and alive. Hope.
Right now, though, there’s one in particular that stands out in his mind.
East is up.
With the early afternoon sun hitting his back, he trudges through the terrain with a certain fervour to his step. Determination. Excitement. Anticipation for the future, at what awaits him out here. He doesn’t have a plan, not really, but anywhere is better than that grey dome of death.
His backpack is stuffed with the essentials: journal, pens, basic clothes, pocketknife, water bottle. What else could he possibly need?
Anything he forgot is being left behind. He barely had enough time to slip away at the Assemblage, and even then he was drawing it close. Bishops barking furious orders as some bold dissenters made their thoughts clear, the perfect distraction to disappear unnoticed. At least, he hopes so.
Well… no one has come for him yet. And it’s better to look on the bright side.
Clancy wishes he could thank those other citizens for covering him as he made his getaway, no matter how unrelated their two incidents were. But, he knows they’ll probably never see the light of day again, let alone outside the walls. It makes his stomach spin a little, realising just what might happen to him, should he get caught. It only makes him walk faster.
The trees out here are beautiful. Thick with spruce leaves and pine needles, a gloriously earthy scent in the air. Other bouts of oak and sycamore, their branches a soft ochre. Gentle wind against his face. It’s all so… real. Alive, like the world of Trench has a heartbeat of its very own.
Trench. How long he’s waited to be free, and now he’s finally here.
Leaves crunch under his boots as he treks, the undergrowth lined with countless bushes and pieces of nature. Clancy is sure if he were to squat down and inspect any single point, he’d see a whole other world just there, existing. Breathing, teeming with life.
It’s breathtaking. It’s everything he’d dreamed about and more. It’s mindboggling to think a place so gorgeous exists just beyond the scope of that damned cement wall.
No matter. He has to keep going. Where to, exactly, he’s not super sure. He’ll just head east until he finds something.
Clancy has heard of the Banditos, the rebel group that makes Trench their home. The devout citizens almost never speak their name, and when they do it’s with terror, disgust. Clancy knows better than to listen, though; the quieter ones with that spark in their eyes tell him what he really needs to know.
If he finds these Banditos, they might just be able to help him. If they’ll let him in, that is.
He keeps trudging on, the ground growing more cluttered, buried under leaves and vibrant foliage. His shoes are practically invisible, the sight so completely foreign to him.
Right as he’s thinking about what there might be to eat out here, he spots some fruit hanging some way up on a nearby tree. It looks good enough, if only a little high, so he shrugs off his backpack and puts it down to get a better jump.
He’s maybe halfway to the tree when he takes a step, and is immediately ripped from his thoughts when a loud snap goes off right under him.
There’s a sharp pain in his lower right leg as something locks tight around him, digging into his skin and biting. He jumps, alarmed, pulling on his leg to find it won’t budge.
The pain gets worse, tightening, and Clancy forces himself to stay calm as he bends down to inspect the source of the pain. There, pinching around his leg like a snake squeezing prey, is a snare wire. Built for rabbits, probably, yet somehow he failed to notice it and walked right into its path.
The wire is lined with sharp thorns, tearing right through his pants and into his skin. It stings painfully, clamping down like a dog that won’t let go, biting harder and harder. Blood sluggishly drips from the wound around his leg, building up in thick rivulets.
Clancy grits his teeth, breathing heavily, but forces himself to relax. He’s fine, just a bit of a surprise. It’s not like he stepped in a bear trap and lost his whole leg. He’ll be fine. He just needs to cut himself free.
He limps a step towards his backpack on his free leg, ready to find the pocketknife and rid himself of this inconvenience, but the snare pulls taut before he even makes it a foot of the way there.
He falls, hissing in pain as the wire gets tighter, thorns digging into his skin and drawing fresh blood. It starts flowing down his leg, a fountain.
Trying to get his breathing under control, he squints open his eyes through the stabbing pain, searching for his bag. He spots it resting against a tree, and carefully tries to crawl towards it.
The wire stabs him again. Thorns twisting. Clancy cries out.
Struggling to breathe through the agony that’s slowly getting worse and worse, he tries to move again. His leg gets caught, and he just about screams. Again, he inches towards the bag. Not far enough.
There are tears welling in Clancy’s eyes, falling into the dirt. Stretching his body out, he strains to reach for it across the ground, but he just can’t get far enough. It’s beyond his reach.
Then, the realisation hits him, and the tears are no longer just from pain.
He’s stuck.
His foot is trapped in this stupid snare, and he can’t move. Can’t move more than thirty centimetres from where it’s firmly stuck in the ground.
Desperation drives him, then. Digging through the undergrowth with his hands and trying to burrow his fingers into the dirt, a pointless attempt at fishing the thing out.
It’s no use. The earth is rock-hard, the anchor buried in too deep to reach it with human hands.
He just gets more grit and dirt caught in his fingernails. He tries the actual snare next, seeing if he can loosen it or somehow pull it away from his skin. Each tug only seems to make it tighter, blood spilling over his hands. It’s too slippery, and he can’t get a grip with all the hot liquid everywhere. Even if he could, the thorns are too sharp to get a comfortable grasp on.
For a few terrifying moments, Clancy just sits there. Breaths quick as he realises just how much trouble he’s in. The exciting, joyously free afternoon has turned from peaceful to nightmarish in under a minute. He’d been so hyped over being free, just to get himself trapped in something even more ridiculous.
What kind of idiot walks into a rabbit trap? He should have watched where he was going.
Briefly he tries convincing himself that it wasn’t his fault, that the snare was meant to be hidden, that there was too much foliage to see it properly, that he was distracted by the fruit tree, but it’s all pointless. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s stuck in this stupid wire with no way of getting out.
He’d try throwing his body weight against it to snap the thing if he weren’t worried about losing his leg altogether. He’s not even moving, and his foot is already starting to go numb. The pressure is so tight around him, a million tiny sawblades stabbing him in a perfect circle as they twist and jab. Digging deeper.
Clancy doesn’t want to do anything to aggravate the pain further, so he just sits in the grass, muscles taut as he keeps trying to free himself. His whole frame is rigid, tense, and he’s getting nowhere. He can’t dig the dumb snare out with his hands, and he can’t cut the wire off without his knife. It’s pointless. He’s powerless.
This was all so avoidable. He just had to let himself get distracted.
The hours tick by so, so slowly, and he can only tell time is passing at all by the way the sun starts to dip lower and lower. He barely even notices, he’s so laser-focused on trying to relieve the agony. Even when he inevitably gets thirsty, he doesn't relent.
He takes the boot off at some point to try and relieve the pressure, and it just hurts. Every movement of his foot sends a jolting, painful shockwave up his whole leg, the nerves in his foot confused and jumpy from where they’re being cut off from the rest of him.
The sun blares against him, hot and drying him out.
The pins and needles are almost as bad as the actual wound; Clancy can definitely understand where the name of the feeling comes from. His foot is being picked and prodded with countless sharp spines, all over, every second. The whole lower half of his leg is growing cold, the blood flow growing sluggish and weak. What’s already escaped has dried out, coagulated and sticky all over his leg.
He leans back on his hands, trying to catch a break. His neck hurts from hunching over for so long, and the rest of him is just as sore from how hard he’s been tensing. Yet, that minor pain is next to nothing when put against the wildfire that’s taken over his lower leg.
The sun is setting now, and he hadn’t even noticed. Mind finally escaping the panicked bubble he’d fallen into, he realises just how thirsty he is. How hungry he is.
Clancy eyes the water bottle peeking out the side of his backpack. He knows he can’t reach it.
He knows, but his throat is so dry. His head pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he so badly wants a sip of something to drink.
The water bottle is mocking him, being so close but just too far to reach comfortably. Clancy tries anyway, joints groaning as he shifts across the dirt.
The noose pulls on his flesh, serrating his skin as he strains across the ground. He whimpers. It hurts so bad.
He leans further, desperate for a sip of water. The bag can’t be more than a metre from him. He just has to make it across that tiny distance…
The thorns seem to glide directly over his nerves, and he yells out. Body locking up as his face twists in anguish. He can’t do this. Nope, nope.
He leaves the water, instead just laying on his back in the dirt and staring directly up at the darkening sky. It’s so pretty out here, but he can barely focus on it when all his nerves are being peeled away one at a time.
He’s so thirsty, the cool air scraping against his dry throat with every breath. Yet, there’s nothing he can do. Clancy just stares up at the sky, quietly crying as he tries to focus on anything else except the flaring agony that’s slowly tearing his leg apart.
He’d been tempted to call for help before, but he doubts there’s anyone out here who would hear him. Someone had to have set this trap, of course, but he was yelling in pain earlier and no one came for him.
Maybe it’s an old trap, then. Maybe someone set it and forgot about it. Maybe he’s going to be stuck here forever. Maybe a Bishop is going to find him, exhausted and chained down, and he’ll be dragged right back to the city, leg ripped off if it’s too inconvenient for them to free him.
Clancy cries to the open sky, wasting tears he should be saving. Finally, the sun goes down, and with it, the heat.
He knew it would be cold out here. That’s why he brought his jacket. He knew it would be warmer during the day, and that’s why his jacket is in his bag. Out of his reach. Again.
With every second that passes, Clancy just hates himself more and more.
It’s so cold, the night breeze flooding in and stealing away what little warmth he had kept. His Dema-regulated shirt does practically nothing to protect him, just sapping him of heat further. He shivers, probably in part to the blood loss as the very life is drained from him. Leaking out onto the dirty, hardened soil beneath him.
The vegetation does little to cushion him. Ants crawl all over him as he lays, and his body is so, so cold. His leg is just as numb as the rest of him.
Exhaustion is worming its way in, eyes growing tired, but he’s not sure he can sleep like this. He doesn’t want to, either. It’s cold, he’s exposed, he’s in pain, he’s stuck. He still can’t get to his fucking bag.
Everything about his situation screams uncomfortable. His breaths are slow and raspy, uneven as he trembles. He doesn’t want to sleep while he’s out here, but his eyelids keep drooping. His entire being is ruined from the rush of escaping, then the hike through the woods, then all the stress of getting himself caught and stuck here.
He’s so thirsty.
The world keeps fading in and out, not quite falling asleep for long enough for time to feel like it’s passing. He’s suspended in that awful in-between, floating on the border of consciousness and the veiled sense of sleep.
He has no idea how long he stays asleep for before something keeps waking him, whether it be the stabbing pain, the unrelenting cold, his bodily needs, or just some owl that won’t shut up.
Mind hazy, he continues to drift back and forth. The night passes slowly, painfully. For a while, Clancy isn’t even sure if time is moving. His brain feels so disconnected from everything around him and he just wants this to end.
By the time light starts to peek over the horizon again, he barely even notices. He’s so numb, so cold, and he can’t feel anything. There’s a sharp pressure around his leg, a blinding pain that grounds him, keeping him tethered to reality. It hurts.
He hasn’t moved all night from that disorienting position on his back in the leaves, but he’s not sure he could get up if he tried. His head is spinning, mouth completely dry. His stomach begs for food, but Clancy doesn’t even register the feeling over the hundred other discomforts.
That overhead light grows brighter and brighter, and it hurts. Clancy closes his eyes, consciousness dipping down, down, down. He leans into it, feeling himself slip away.
-–—–-
It’s the sound of voices that wakes him.
They’re jumping around his brain, far away and drifting about, but he can hear them. Barely.
“-can’t believe you didn’t see the salmon she caught yesterday! It was huge-”
His world keeps fading in between the words, not there long enough to catch the full meaning.
“-hope I don’t get put on the night shift again, last time was awful-”
Where is that sound coming from? It feels like everywhere. His head hurts.
“-you two shut it? I think I see something up ahead, it looks like-”
The voices drop suddenly, and if Clancy was more awake he’d probably wonder why. Now, though, he’s thankful for the quiet. Already, he’s starting to shut down again, feel lousy sleep drag him back under…
“Holy shit!! Alicia, Vince, get your asses over here!” There’s a loud shout, far too close. The sounds just won’t let him sleep.
There’s the rummage of footsteps all around him, drawing in closer, and Clancy just wants to perish. His body hurts and he wants out.
Another stretch of blissful silence, and then there’s a gentle kick to his side. Clancy groans.
“Vince, cut it out! The hell is wrong with you?” The gruff voice from before returns.
“Sorry! I wasn’t sure if he was, uh…”
The one in charge huffs in dismissal. “The boy is alive. You have to use your eyes first, next time.” Then, Clancy senses something large leaning down over him. “Hey, kid, can you hear me?”
The younger voice pipes up again. “Wait, wait! He’s wearing Dema stuff, do you really think we should-”
A third person cuts in, a girl. “Are you serious? Look at him, he’s not going to hurt us. He probably just made it out.”
“Yeah, but what if the Bishops sent him? It could be a trap! Maybe we should-”
“He’s bleeding. We’re not just ignoring him. We need to help!”
That girl is feeling around his wrist, rubbing his arm, and it forces him back to the present. A pained noise escapes him, face pinching in distress.
“Hey, there you are. How ‘bout you open your eyes for me?” The leading voice is surprisingly gentle for how harsh it was twenty seconds ago, and it throws him off.
Nevertheless, he manages to squint through his eyelashes. The world is bright, overbearing. It hurts.
There are three figures looming over him, silhouetted by the sun that’s nearly directly overhead. One of them leans forward slightly to block it from his view. As his vision slowly calms down, he starts to make out the faces of the people above him.
The man to his left is surely who had been talking, a burly middle-aged man with the first flecks of white appearing on his jawline. The other two hovering a little further away are much younger, both looking equally as concerned. All three of them are wearing bright yellow tape over dark clothing. Yellow… it feels important.
“That’s it, that’s it,” the man coaxes him awake as the girl keeps stroking his arm, feeling his hand. Hers is so warm and his is so cold. “I’m Marlon, and this is Vince and Alicia. What’s your name, son?”
Everything feels heavy, lopsided. “Clancy,” he mumbles out.
“Clancy,” Marlon repeats. “How long have you been stuck here, Clancy?”
He can barely think through the cotton in his skull, soaking up his every thought. “Yesterday.”
The man’s voice turns alarmed. “You’ve been here since yesterday?”
“Mm,”
Marlon’s brow is furrowed. “You laid here all night? No food? No water?”
“Mm,”
He curses under his breath.
“Here! I found his backpack!” Vince shouts behind him, coming back towards them. All the noise is making Clancy’s headache worse.
“Water, the water bottle,” Alicia says simply, reaching for it.
Clancy doesn’t get a chance to say anything before Marlon is carefully slipping his large hands under Clancy’s shoulders, helping him upright in a half-sitting position. His whole body is limp.
Someone holds his head steady as the water bottle is pressed to his lips, and then he’s drinking. Taking tiny, measured sips as the water slowly reaches him. It’s all muscle memory.
The liquid has heated up a bit from where it’s been lying in the sun, but Clancy doesn’t care. The moisture hitting his throat feels so amazing that he’s sure he’d be okay drinking straight chlorine at this point. Anything to ease that dryness in his mouth.
As he sips, the girl mumbles quietly, “I knew the thorns were a bad idea.”
Vince huffs. “I don’t think anyone expected this to happen, so.”
The bottle is taken away, and Clancy grumbles, wanting more.
Alicia swirls the empty bottle in front of him. “We’ll get you some more soon, okay? Just let it settle for now,”
Marlon gently rests him back against the grass, turning his attention to Clancy’s leg. “It’s looking pretty nasty,” he says to the other two members of his group. “We should make this quick.”
Clancy tries to move it away in case they plan to make the pain worse, but all he gets is a weak twitch. Pressure tightening, aggravating.
Marlon’s hands move down, out of his view. He turns his head back to him. “Can you feel this? Hey, Clancy?”
He has no idea what the man is talking about.
“Not at all?” Then, there’s a sharp pinch of pain right around his wound, and Clancy cries out. “Okay, okay, still got pain sensation. That’s good.”
Marlon keeps talking to the two younger people, telling them what to do, but Clancy isn’t listening. The whole world is fuzzing, senses clogged with static as it takes all of his energy to not fall back under. The water helped, but now he just wants to sleep.
“Just stay awake a little longer, okay?” Alicia is right by his side, holding his hand and rubbing his shoulder as the other two fiddle with something out of his view. “Don’t focus on them. Just keep listening to me, alright? You’re gonna be fine.”
There’s something clicking, unlocking. Some more noise, and slowly, the pressure starts to recede.
The wire around his leg loosens, and it stings as the thorns are slowly pulled out one by one. Open air hits the exposed wounds, and it burns. Fresh blood starts running down his leg with nothing to clog it anymore.
He can’t feel anything except pure, unbridled pain.
“Should we tie it? It’s bleeding again,”
“No, no, he needs the blood flow. Adding a tourniquet is only gonna make things worse.”
Marlon helps him sit up again, saying something about helping the blood reach his foot. Clancy’s head spins.
“How’re you feeling? Clancy?”
He hums weakly, sinking into the man’s hold. He just wants the world to go away.
As the minutes pass, sensation slowly returns. Someone is feeling along his ankle and foot, and it hurts. The stabbing pins and needles are returning, nerves on fire as they slowly wake up, screaming. Remembering what they’re meant to be doing and bombarding him with the backlog of painful sensation all at once.
He whimpers, twisting to get away. It only makes everything hurt a hundred times worse, and he yells out in pain. Crying with tears he shouldn’t have.
“Stay still,” Marlon orders, holding his upper body steady. Someone else holds his leg in place as he becomes aware of his blood flowing in a way he never has before, and it’s so overstimulating. It hurts, it hurts.
“We should take him back to camp,” Alicia murmurs, barely audible over Clancy’s incoherent cries.
“What? No! Torch would kill us. He’s not a Bandito, anyway. We can’t take him there.” Vince snaps back, and a certain word gets his attention.
Bandito? These people are Banditos?
The irony is almost laughable. Clancy had wanted to find the Banditos, he just didn’t think it would be like this.
“Who cares? Torch will understand,” Alicia keeps arguing. “He got hurt in one of our traps. It’s our responsibility to help. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Not our fault he stepped in it, though.”
Marlon snaps, right next to his ear. “Vince! Shut your trap. He’s coming with us.”
Someone loosely wraps a cloth around his leg to catch the blood, and then Marlon is taking his coat off, saying something about Clancy being too cold. He wraps it around Clancy's freezing frame. He practically drowns in it, the jacket much too big for him, but it’s so warm on his horribly numb skin.
Then, they’re slowly pulling him to his feet.
“Don’t stand on it,” Marlon says in front of him as Clancy’s world spins, dizzy. “Just lean on me. Lean on-”
Black spots cloud his vision, and his body gives out, limp form catching in the Bandito’s steady grip. His vision swims as Marlon holds him, the only thing keeping him upright.
“-lancy. Clancy, come on,” someone is giving light taps to his cheek. There’s a sharp sigh next to him. “I don’t think he’s walking, guys. I think I’m gonna carry him. You guys got his things?”
“Bag, bottle, shoe. Are we coming back after to fix the trap?”
A rumble against him. “We’ll see.”
His head feels like it’s been poured out, empty. All the blood has drained down, running to his legs and escaping through the gaping ring just above his ankle. Everything is dancing around him and he feels so, so weak.
“Lean into me, good. I’ve got you,” Marlon hums as he adjusts his grip, picking Clancy up and holding him against his chest, bridal-style. “You’re alright, son. Just relax. You’re okay.”
Everything jostles again as they start walking, finally leaving behind that pocket of wood and the snare he was so sure he’d never escape. It feels strange to see something that isn’t those same trees, those same bushes. His blood, dried and splattered everywhere.
The rocking motion of Marlon’s steps is so much more comfortable than the dirty ground.
“That’s it, just rest now. It’s okay. You’re safe with us.”
Clancy is struggling to keep his eyes open. The coat is so nice and warm, a soft pressure from all sides. That heavy voice keeps placating, reassuring him, and slowly Clancy stops fighting.
The veil pulls him down, and he hears no more.
-–—–-
Coming back to himself, the first thing he notices is warmth.
It’s all around him, closing him in. Keeping him safe. How Clancy just wants to float in this bubble forever and never come out.
As with all things, though, the increase in awareness only doubles his problems. If the city has taught him anything, it's that there's nothing to be upset about if you aren’t aware of it.
Too soon can he feel the soft bed under him, feel the blankets he’s trapped under, the pillow pressed against his face. It’s nice. So nice, in fact, that it can’t be real.
He jolts awake, sitting upright way too fast for his brain to keep up with. The room does a somersault, turning his stomach inside out as he braces himself against the sensation. Slowly, he crumbles back down onto the cot, dizzy.
He lets the world calm down for a moment, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to see everything spinning. When he thinks the worst of it has passed, he peeks through his eyelashes to get a glimpse at the fantasy he’s found himself in.
He’s in… a tent?
There’s all sorts of medical equipment and various other supplies lying around, a couple other beds squished into the relatively small space. Clancy barely even notices them, though.
A stranger is sitting on a stool right across from him, watching him.
“Wha- huh-” he croaks out, voice utterly ruined. His throat is so dry.
He tries to back up, to move away, but his body still feels half asleep. Only now does the notice the needle in the back of his hand, the way his right foot is somewhat hanging off the bed, resting on another slightly lower surface. His leg, cushioned and bandaged.
“Chill out,” the stranger says, something aloof in his gaze. Unbothered. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Clancy keeps his eyes trained on the man, not daring to blink, but manages to get his breathing under control. Relaxes his muscles, just the slightest.
They have a sort of staring contest, then, and Clancy notes how strange this individual looks. He’s wearing an olive-green hoodie, but the front of it has been decorated with a huge criss-cross in bright, yellow tape. Another odd stripe over one of his knees.
The sight of the lively colour unlocks some half-lucid memory of him lying on the ground, strange figures bearing yellow tape hovering above him. Distorted voices moving in and out of his ears.
The rest of it comes back to him, then, and Clancy panics again, remembering the horrific hours he spent trapped in that snare, pain seeping out of him, crying all alone.
His leg has been bandaged, wrapped. He’s in a tent. How the hell did he get here??
“What-” his voice cracks, empty. “W-Where am I? Who are you?”
The man leans back, almost looking bored. There’s something so measured in the way he looks. “Welcome to the Bandito camp. I’m Torch. And you,” he gestures to the mess in front of him, “are Clancy.”
Something skips in his chest at the way the Bandito says his name.
“How do you know my name? How did I get here?” The realisation that he did it, that he found the Banditos, doesn’t hit him until a moment later. He tries to conceal his excitement; this guy kind of scares him.
Torch gives him a deadpan stare. “A hunting group found you. You stepped in one our snare traps.”
“Oh.”
“They asked for your name while they got you out,” Torch explains, narrowing his eyes. “You really need to watch your step out here; I can’t have idiots clogging up my traps. These people need to eat.”
“Right, sorry.” Clancy squeaks out. “Uh- this is the Banditos, right? I was hoping you guys could help me. Do you have like, a leader or someone I could speak to?”
The man barely reacts. “That would be me.”
Clancy’s stomach drops. “Oh.”
Torch is watching him so carefully, eyes dissecting him like a piece of meat, and it’s making him nervous. He hates the way the Bandito- the leader of the Banditos- is looking at him like he knows something Clancy doesn’t. Like he’s testing him.
Impatient, the man waves a hand telling Clancy to get it on with.
“Right, sorry,” he repeats himself. “I, uh- I just escaped, right, I’ve never been out here before- and I was wondering if I could, um…” He feels so pathetic in front of this stoic leader. “… join… you?”
Torch stays still for a moment. Then, he stands, grabbing something off a nearby counter and strolling over to Clancy.
“These,” he says, holding out a few pieces of paper in front of him. “Did you write these?”
Clancy blinks at the words before him. Familiar passages he’s seen a hundred times before.
“What? Yeah, these are my letters. Except-” he looks a little closer, brow creasing when he spots it. “This, this isn’t my journal. These are- these are copies. Where did you, where did you…”
The Bandito leader looks so impassive for how bright his eyes are. “You’re Clancy.”
It being repeated for the second time just makes him uncomfortable. “Yeah? You already know that??”
“No, you’re Clancy,” Torch stresses. “I didn’t believe Marlon when he told me he found someone called Clancy; I thought maybe he just picked up someone who happened to have the same name. But no, you’re him.” The rebel picks up his bag then, digging through it. “I found the actual journal and everything. You’re the one writing those letters.”
Clancy feels something akin to irritation at the notion that Torch went through his things. “Why is this such a surprise?”
The Bandito laughs, the most emotion Clancy has seen from him this whole time. “Are you serious? There’s no way that Clancy and some dumbass who walked right into a rabbit trap could be the same person. It just sounds like a bad joke.”
“Well, it’s true,” Clancy mumbles, feeling a little self-conscious. He’d been terrified when he hadn’t been able to free himself, and now the leader of the rebels is laughing at him.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Torch waves him off, smiling. It’s such a contrast from the stone wall he was talking to twenty seconds ago. “You can stay. I’ve been trying to find you for a good while now, author.”
“This is still about the letters?”
“Of course it is,” the leader says without any pretence. “You’re lucky I know who you are, Clancy. I was getting ready to tell Marlon and the others to throw you back out there before they told me your name.”
The bluntness quiets him down a little. “That’s so… mean.”
“No room for idiots out here, I’m afraid.” Torch puts simply. “But for you, I’ll make an exception. Just means you need to work on your spatial awareness skills. Cost us a whole trap, y’know.”
“That thing nearly cost me my leg,” Clancy counters, trying to wiggle his toes. It hurts. “Am I like, okay now? I still can’t really move.”
Torch shrugs dismissively. “Medic said it would get better. Circulation wasn’t cut off completely so you won’t lose your foot or anything; there was just a lot of pressure on your nerves. That probably isn’t great either, but a little difficulty for a while is better than nothing, I suppose.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "I'll get you some water. You sound like shit."
“Those thorns fucking hurt.”
Torch chuckles. “Yeah, my bad.”