Chapter Text
Many citizens of Dema believed that Trench was nothing but a myth; a myth to keep them from escaping, that is. The Bishops spoke of Trench as if it were a second hell, filled with nothing but danger and misfortune.
“Trench was a place in between two places, the place you want to be, which is currently unknown, and the place you don't want to be.”
There was no information on what was past the river stretching across Trench’s mountain scapes and grasslands. No one knew what story that land held. The only knowledge Dema Citizens held of it was from old, banned maps which depicted a land far from Dema and just past Trench.
There were people who called Trench home; however, information on them was limited in Dema. The citizens are only taught about their existence to further their propaganda. Other than that, the Bishops tried to mask their existence. They called themselves Banditos. They sport tape of colors that Dema citizens never knew of, and they rebelled against Dema every chance they got. Dema citizens are meant to fear them. Trench was said to be unpredictable and wild; meanwhile, everything in Dema was safe and controlled.
The people found comfort in the control. Predictability was comfortable, after all, and everybody was afraid of finding out what would happen if they tried to change things. Life in Dema was, on paper, simple. Routines, patterns, cleanliness, and perfection were what it was. Everyone was the same. Everything was the same color, that is, if you think grey even counts as one. Every conversation was repetitive. Dema was dull. Not that anyone cared, let alone even thought to care.
The Bishops utilized the people’s fear of unpredictability. The Bishops utilized everything they could to maintain control. Every thought of doubt or uncertainty was warped to fit their agenda. To the Bishops, everything was a piece to their puzzle of perfection, their flawlessly crafted religion—it was advertised as a religion, at least. In the eyes of the people, it was a religion. Very few saw past that lie. It was a cult. A cult that nearly an entire city of people was trapped in.
Everyone followed Vialism for different reasons; the overarching reason being that they were forced into it. Any act of rebellion or retaliation against the damned religion would end in a prison sentence. The Bishops tolerated no questioning or opposition. All were manipulated into it, being taught since birth to follow and obey blindly. It was the standard. Everyone in Dema was a Vialist. Every Dema citizen followed Vialism. This was normal, and anyone who opposed was wrong, for the people were far from open-minded individuals.
The education was solely to promote the Bishop's agenda. It wasn’t for the people, it was for the higher-ups. It always was. The citizens were nothing but pons. Dema was nothing but a game to the Bishops. Everything was for the bigger picture: absolute power to the Bishops.
There was a wonderful structure to the city, simple yet exceptional. It was split up into nine districts, one for each Bishop to rule. Every Bishop was different in some way, though not noticeably unless you really look; they were just there to fulfill their purpose: to reign. They displayed no emotion, no sympathy. They were almost empty.
On the outskirts of the city were the Neon Gravestones.
The main purpose of Vialism was to die. The point of connections was to break them, to affect as many people through your death as you possibly can. Though hard to admit, it was genius; a never-ending cycle of grief and death. Perfectly articulated. It was disgustingly smart.
The Neon Gravestones were to honor the fallen, to honor those who lost themselves to Vialism. They illuminated the dull and grey city with a piercing opal hue, reminding the citizens of what their purpose was. Everything was always intentional with the Bishops; even the strong glow of the graves. Everything was always for a reason. Everything roped back into death.
Even the point of death was to serve the Bishops. They seized and possessed the dead, using their corpses to further their propaganda. It was a perfect cycle, a game in which the Bishops would win every time. The bodies they did not use were burned to ash, and those ashes were used to create black paint used for a ritual called “smearing”.
Smearing looped back to seizing—at least, in some sorts—if a bishop smeared your neck with black ash, they would have had control over your mind; it was up to them how they used your vessel. To manipulate your mind or to possess you entirely was up to them.
Dema was never to fall nor cease, for Dema was great. It was said to be thousands of years old, though a thousand years of deception and faux greatness was absurd. There was no way the people would let this cycle go on for millennia, right? Why has no citizen escaped to Trench and lived to tell the tale?
/̶|̶
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The following passage was found folded and hidden under a dirt patch beside a Neon Gravestone. Though it is unsigned, the grave belonged to somebody named Clancy. The name seems important, but I am unsure, and I have never heard of them. The paper was torn and weathered, most likely by age.
I believe they may persecute me for finding these writings—that is, if they find me. I believe they may persecute me for writing this by itself. It is written as if a reflection on the timeline of the city, and it brings nothing but fear for the reason that may be. Is this about a past Dema? Why are these things spoken of as if it has already happened? As if the story is already written, and we can do nothing but watch it happen?
Although that thought is improbable, the book in which I found this was probably about as old as N̶i̶c̶o̶ himself, so it is a possibility. Nonetheless, this is a perspective none of which I’ve ever seen. It excites me.
I fear for my life, but this is for the greater good. Escape the corruption. No longer am I the man you know. I will live for him, for Clancy. I will take on his name to honor him. I will wear it like a title. I am a proud man. I am Clancy.
– Clancy