Chapter Text
The city of Dema; the happiest (or, well, bleakest) place in all of the world. It stood in an otherwise green continent named Trench, and where it stood, it stood tall. Dema was all grey concrete and neat interior whereas Trench was all wild greens, untrimmed weeds and seemed far, far more homely than Dema ever felt like.
To James, anyway.
James only just about conformed with the beliefs and the runnings of Dema, only just about made it to the annual ceremonies on time and only just about found himself believing in the whole Vialism bullshit. It was the widespread belief, anyway, he had to believe it. The last guy who hadn’t…
It was best not to get into that. Reportedly, it hadn’t been pretty. He still remembered the wanted posters hung around Dema. They’d disappeared one day. He couldn’t figure out why.
James would describe Dema in one word, and that word was bleak. Not ugly, exactly, because ugly meant uneven, messy, maybe even a bit endearing if you looked at it the right way. Dema wasn’t that. It was concrete, and it was sameness, and it was so rehearsed it almost didn’t feel real. Nothing felt real in Dema, though, and he supposed that was so they could make the end goal of their ‘religion’ easier on people.
You wouldn’t want a paradise if the place you lived in was nice to be in, right? You wouldn’t kill yourself if Dema was a nice place.
It had been, only briefly. Only a small corner of it. James remembered, and his memory was as vivid and bright as Mulberry Street once had been. There had been a Dema escapee once, going by the name Clancy (although, confusingly, all of his posters said Tyler Joseph), and if you ever brought him up in public, you were likely to be either shunned or brought in for questioning. You weren’t allowed to associate with him, whether literally or belief-wise. Not in Dema.
He’d released an album, and James had distinctly thought that, Wow, this guy’s life outside must have been great to make songs this good. That was what had started his little streaks of nonconformity.
James had been under the district watch of Keons since he was born. His parents were watched by Keons, so ultimately, he was too. He couldn’t say he liked it, but couldn’t say it was the worst district he could reside in either. Every other bishop was so unnecessarily harsh, although Keons wasn’t the most harsh. He seemed at least a little forgiving, even after the whole bishop rotate rumour. James couldn’t say he didn’t believe it, he’d seen now Nico had changed.
Although, obviously, he was watched more often than not. He only got a little solace in his apartment, but even then, he feared being watched through windows, or maybe even secret cameras set up that could watch him walk around and talk and bathe and whatever else he did around the place.
It was unsettling, being watched all of the time. It did things to a guy, made him paranoid.
Despite this, James would intentionally act out just to see how in check the bishops were with their inferiors.
He’d attend services dressed slightly wrong (a button undone, a tie out of place, or he’d come dressed too casual for such a highly regarded ceremony), he’d murmur instead of speak their chants, their quotes, their readings, and he’d often refuse to agree with certain things said towards him about Keons himself. He’d always laugh it off as a joke, though, and they always laughed with him, albeit hesitantly.
The mornings were always the most boring of the day, which said a lot considering no part of the day ever really got any easier on him. It was always bleak, repetitive and too little for James’ own preferences (he wasn’t allowed preferences in Dema, so he kept these between himself and his journal).
He’d wake up in his apartment, completely colourless, looking like life had personally been taken from it by the bishops themselves. All he woke up to each morning was an old chair, a splintering desk and a gray bed with no sheets that felt more like a prison cell than a bedroom. He had one poster, a singular Scaled and Icy promotional poster that had been banned around Dema as of the last year or two. He only got to have it up in hours he was awake and in his apartment; he couldn’t risk anybody outside seeing it.
The radio clicked on before James had even dragged himself out of bed, as usual; he never had a say in it, it switched on routinely every morning, every morning when everybody in Dema would be awake. Nobody ever slept in, it was almost robotic, too routine and too polished to be natural.
On very special occasions, Keons himself would do the announcements, would drone on, emotionless, about the day’s events and sometimes times (although this was rare, every citizen knew the routines off by heart by now). Usually, it was just an approved broadcaster reading out the messages that the bishops wanted them to, which hadn’t changed that morning. James rolled over onto his back as he listened in on the radio.
“Blessings of Keons on this fine day,” the voice had said, flat as ever, and James rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
“Fine day, he says,” James muttered, groaning into his hands as if anybody except him could hear. “If by fine you mean identical to yesterday, and the day before, and every day since I’ve had the misfortune of living here.” His voice came out scratchy from sleep, but the sarcasm was sharp enough to make him smirk at his own joke. Small victories. He knew he’d be fucked if they did really have cameras around the place.
The announcer carried on, rattling through the daily programme. “Citizens are reminded that attendance is mandatory at this evening’s district assembly. Bishop Keons will be addressing us all on the values of Vialism and the continuing threat of rebellion from outside influences.”
“Can’t wait. Another lecture. Got enough of those in college.” He snickered again at his own joke.
God, he needed friends.
He dragged himself out of his bed, forcing himself to stand upright to be rid of the ache in his joints as he stretched his arms over his head. He heard a pop that only solidified the fact that he was, in fact, getting older, no matter how slow days seemed in Dema.
He cracked open his window to let some cold air in, his apartment feeling far too stifling. Despite the cold concrete tile of the wall, it always felt too warm in his room. As he did, he took a moment to peer down into the streets of Dema, eyeing several groups and lines of citizens that looked just as, if not more, boring as Dema felt. Colourless clothing, and they were all walking too straight and too practiced and it would have satisfied James… if he had OCD. Or if he were Keons.
He, half-arsed, mouthed the words to the morning chant, mocking the rhythm as he was forced to stick to the practiced words of, ‘Good Day Dema, Blessings of Keons.’ He could hardly remember the practiced talks of Vialism, he’d just say them and move on.
He jumped a little as he heard the radio crackle back to life, and he had never turned back around quicker. They never made another announcement, not until 12pm. They never forgot anything on the morning announcements, too, so he was surprised it was crackling back.
The sound of an unfamiliar voice filled the otherwise silent space of his apartment.
The voice that slipped through was not one of Dema’s, not one he’d heard before. It was rougher, heavier, almost amused. A sentence, half-formed, broke through before the white noise swallowed it back up.
“…they’re lying to you…”
James froze. The radio clicked cleanly back into its usual silence, static playing until James would ultimately be driven insane by it, as though nothing had happened.
He blinked once, twice, tilting his head at the speaker. “Alright,” he said slowly, voice just above a whisper. “That’s… new.”
For a moment, the thought of reporting it brushed across his mind, because that was what you were meant to do. He shoved it away almost immediately. Reporting it meant attention, and attention from Keons was the last thing he wanted. Besides, there was something about the voice. Something that made him pause, heart thudding in a way he couldn’t explain.
“Great,” James muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Either I’m losing it, or the radio’s started taking the piss too.”
It was likely the first, he’d realised, because he was standing in his apartment talking to himself all crazy-like over a faulty radio. Either way, he wasn’t going to mention it to anyone. Not yet.
The day went on, and he’d eventually slipped into the center hall of the district, squeezing in just about on time, bordering on late, which earned him a sideways glance from the citizen next to him as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, just as everybody else in the hall had been. It was too practiced and far, far too perfect to be comfortable.
The ceremony started, and Keons stood in all of his 6’2 glory in front of them all as if he were some shitty composer, and the stage made him appear taller than all Dema citizens (including James, who felt tiny compared to the man despite being inches taller). Everybody, in perfect unison, repeated back to him their usual phrase: Good day Dema, blessings of Keons.
James joined in and spoke a beat too late, quiet voice loud in the way it stood out of line with everybody else’s, and the man who stood next to him sent him a sideways glance that spoke the word ‘Concentrate.’ louder than anybody would dare speak outwardly during such an important ceremony.
They emphasised the importance of it, but really, it all felt like some shit BTEC presentation, the type that would grade you maybe a four or five as long as the content on it was good. James reckoned that this might grade a three.
He’d swallowed thickly and looked away, palms just a little sweaty.
James had tried again the next round, watching the crowd for when their mouths moved instead of listening to the words. He still ended up just a brief moment behind, his voice coming out louder than he meant, like his throat had decided to give up on him at the worst time it could have. Luckily, nobody had seemed to notice this time around. His mind wasn’t even half in the room. He could still hear the static of his radio in his head, still hear that voice, the voice that wasn’t supposed to even exist in Dema.
“…they’re lying to you…”
It had been half a sentence, half a thought, and yet it had carved itself into his brain like the old Scaled and Icy poster that lived in his drawer had, and kind of like the old yellow graffiti stained onto concrete. The bishop droned on about Vialism, about purity, about the corruption of Trench, but all James could think was how wrong his own thoughts were beginning to sound, how close they sat to the words he was likely going to be imprisoned for hearing. He hadn’t reported it. They couldn’t know, right?
“Truth lies in Vialism,” Keons said.
James’ mouth betrayed him. “They’re lying to you,” he’d whispered, so low he thought maybe it hadn’t even left his throat.
Until the guard turned.
A man in grey armour turned, polished too finely, too sharp, his eyes already cutting through the crowd and pinning James in place. James all but jumped out of his skin, coughing into his fist as if that had been the point all along, as if he’d just been unlucky enough to choke at the exact moment treason slipped out of his mouth.
He could feel his face heat, not with embarrassment but with the distinct prickle of fuck, fuck, fuck. He straightened his posture, too straight, too fast, which probably made him look even more suspicious. He cursed himself inwardly.
The guard’s gaze lingered, sharp and questioning, before finally sliding back to the stage. James didn’t breathe for another ten seconds, and even then, it came out shakier than he wanted it to.
“Brilliant,” he’d muttered internally, voice laced with venom at himself. “Genius move, James. Mumbling treason mid-service. Definitely not suspicious at all. Really blending in. Nailed it.”
The chants carried on, the sound of hundreds of voices echoing through the hall in perfect, robotic harmony, and James kept his lips moving, praying nobody noticed that his words weren’t quite right, that his timing wasn’t exact, that he didn’t really believe in the words he felt like he was forced to say. He felt every second drag against him like a blade, cutting through his mind and almost making him forget what he’d heard just earlier that day.
And then Keons paused.
Mid-sentence, mid-sermon, he let silence stretch across the hall, the citizens remaining and maintaining the quiet. His eyes had swept the crowd, cold and calculating, and for one terrifying second James swore they landed on him
The room didn’t breathe. James didn’t, either.
And then Keons continued, voice as flat and rehearsed as before, and the momentary panic-induced trance was broken.
James swallowed hard, forcing his gaze down, but the thought lodged itself in his chest like a stone: He’d been noticed. He doubted Keons had super-hearing, but he had a lot of things, so James wouldn’t doubt it if he did.
“Trench is corruption. There is no outside world. Those found believing in a life outside of Dema will be found and will be dealt with accordingly.”
And, at that, James found his eyes glued to his shoes; too scuffed to be professional, covered by jeans far too casual for the occasion. That was when he knew he was royally fucked.
Awfully jittery for the lack of caffeine he’d consumed that day, James made it back to his apartment that afternoon surprisingly in one piece. The rest of the ceremony had been a blur, the chants sliding past him in a monotone hum he mouthed out of sync, too aware of the sweat gathering at his temples. Every time he thought he’d found the rhythm, he slipped again. Too early, too quiet, too late. He half-expected a hand on his shoulder, a guard’s shadow cascading over him, Keons’ eyes burning right into his skull from the stage. But nothing came.
By the time it had ended, James all but bolted, muttering a quick excuse about a headache when someone asked if he was staying for discussion hour. He didn’t care if it made him look suspicious. Suspicious was better than cracking wide open in the middle of the hall. He’d shut the door the second he walked in, locking it and then bolting it on top of that out of sheer fear of that one guard who he realised could break into his apartment at any moment.
Great. Paranoia was just what he needed at this point in his life.
James had paced the length of his apartment about a million times, ran a hand through his hair, cracked his knuckles until they ached and then did it again for good measure. He couldn’t sit still. The silence was unbearable, so he clicked on the radio and started flicking through channels. Music, propaganda, rinse, repeat. Nothing remotely good. They’d pulled that Scaled and Icy bloke off the approved list months ago, and James still had no clue why. They never explained. They never had to. The guy had been known to be rogue from the get-go.
He lingered on one channel anyway, just for noise. Something to fill the silence. A track droned on, lifeless, then cut short. Silence pressed in, heavy and too loud. James grimaced and moved to switch again, but that was until the white noise made way for the same voice he’d heard earlier.
“Evenin’, Dema. Don’t mind me, just hijacking your precious broadcast. Lovely slogans you’ve got here... very convincing, if you’re a brick wall. Anyway, quick reminder: it’s all bollocks. Don’t let them convince you grey concrete’s better than grass.” A pause, static growing louder in James' ears before he hears the voice again. “Torchbearer out. Fire’s still burnin’, lads. Come find us over that wall, enough cracks in it for yous to see through anyway.”
James nearly toppled out of his chair. His elbow smacked the desk, rattling it against the wall, and he scrambled to get back upright, heart practically screaming against his ribs. His eyes snapped to the door, half expecting it to be kicked open right then and there.
“Brilliant,” he hissed, sarcasm sharp enough to bite through the panic. “Some random bloke’s out there mocking the bishops, and I’ll be the one arrested for hearing it. Love that for me.”
He crossed the room quickly, practically jogging, checking the bolt on the door again, then the window, then he shut the blinds. His reflection had stared back at him, face pale, wide-eyed, hair sticking up in like three different directions so it looked like he’d been electrocuted. He looked insane. Maybe he was.
But the words stuck. They replayed in his head with an irritating clarity: Don’t let them convince you grey concrete’s better than grass.
He laughed, a sharp, far too wrong sound considering the situation that startled even him, before slapping a hand over his mouth. God, it was so ridiculous. Revolutionary, really. Grass is better than concrete. Straight genius, that was. But it burrowed into his brain all the same.
James pressed his palms to his eyes, muttering into the dark behind his eyelids, the dark around him now with the lack of natural light. “Fantastic. Love that. Random Geordie bloke playing freedom fighter over my bloody radio. Totally normal evening.”
The broadcast clicked back to life, sliding seamlessly into its usual lifeless drone like nothing had happened. The room felt smaller. Colder.
James sank back into his chair and glared at the radio like it was mocking him, half tempted to throw it across the room so he didn't have to deal with this stuff anymore. Doing anything but reporting it.
“…Great,” he muttered. “Either the city’s losing it, or I am.”
And he couldn’t decide which one was worse.