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Clancy had been taken. He’d been taken before, but this time was different. It had been months, and the Banditos hadn’t been able to get close to the city. Whenever Clancy was taken, they were always quick to rescue him. This time, the city was more heavily guarded, and they couldn’t afford to lose more people in an uncertain rescue mission.
So they’d waited. Watched, studied, and mapped new ways through the tunnels. Torchbearer didn’t want to think of how much time they’d wasted, as he marched through the tunnels. Didn’t want to think about what was happening to Clancy while he plotted the way in. He marched on, torch held tight in his hand, knuckles white as he grasped it like a lifeline.
The Banditos made their way through the dimly lit streets, sneaking through alleys and side streets. They needed to make their presence known so that escapees could see them, while remaining safe from the Bishops. It was a delicate line to walk.
The Torchbearer was startled out of his thoughts by the sight of a thin figure, standing dead still in the middle of the street. As Torchbearer approached the figure, their features became clear. Shoulder-length dark hair obscured their face, and a grey Dema-issue uniform hung loosely over their gaunt frame, failing to disguise their slight sway.
Torchbearer broke into a run as he started to recognise the figure’s features. It couldn’t be…
“Clancy?” A gentle breeze blew the hair from his face. His eyes were tired, unfocused, his face littered with small cuts.
“Oh God, Clancy, are you okay?” He reached out, hands on Clancy’s shoulders. He didn’t miss the flinch at the contact. Clancy swayed on his feet, eyes drooping closed. Torch pulled him into a tight hug, cradling Clancy’s head against him as the other man leaned heavily forward.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, Clance, it’s okay. Gonna get you home.”
“Who…” Clancy mumbled, confused. That unfinished question sent shivers down Torch’s spine.
“It’s me, it’s Torch. Your Torchie.” He begged Clancy to remember. The man pulled away slightly.
His hair was long and matted, falling into his eyes. He almost looked like he was dissociating.
“Torch? W-why…” he murmured weakly. “Why didn’t you come for me? I called out for you…”
Torch stood, shocked. “We tried, I-I tried. They closed up the wall, how we normally get in. I swear I tried to get to you sooner.”
“I called out for you. You didn’t come.”
Torch shuddered at his haunting words, his head filling with unwanted visions of Clancy being tortured, screaming his name, or being drugged, and calling out for him one more time before he lost consciousness. Alone.
Clancy took a shaky step backwards, staring right through Torch. His beautiful dark eyes were unfocused and bloodshot, as he swayed back and forward. His hands, usually so energetic and twitchy, hung limply at his sides.
“Clancy…” Torch took careful steps forward, approaching slowly. “We need to go. It’s not safe here.”
“Notsafeanywhere…” Clancy slurred, pitching forward.
Torch jumped forward, catching Clancy as he fell. His eyes were open, but his body was completely limp, frail and lifeless.
“Clance? Hey, can you still hear me?”
He set Clancy down gently, waving a hand in front of his face. Clancy blinked slowly, eyes drooping closed. Torch checked him for injuries, rolling up his sleeves to find a multitude of scars and fresh cuts, some still dripping blood.
What concerned him was the bruising on Clancy’s arm, surrounding a small puncture wound. They were drugging him, Torch realised in horror.
Clancy’s pupils had been dilated, he’d slurred his words, and he’d been so spaced out he hadn’t recognised Torch. Some slow-acting sedative clearly meant to stop him from escaping.
Torch gathered him up, pulling his frail body close, cradling his head.
“I’ve got you, Clance.” He whispered, then turned to the Banditos. “Let’s move. You hear me? Move!”
They jumped into action, tenderly placing pieces of yellow tape across Clancy, almost reverent in their action. It reminded Torch that Clancy was so important, not just to him. Everyone believed in him. Another Bandito draped a blanket over Clancy’s shoulders. The man did not stir.
As they marched back through the tunnels, Torch realised that Clancy’s breathing had slowed noticeably. Anxiety started to grow in his chest. What if they overdosed him? What if he doesn’t wake up? We don’t have any antidote, we don’t even know what they gave him.
Torch took a deep breath, drawing Clancy closer to him. He felt the man's heartbeat, slow but steady. He could only pray that Clancy had been given the correct dosage and that he’d be able to sleep off the effects at camp.
If he makes it to camp. Torch shook the thoughts from his head, instead focusing on Clancy’s slow breaths.
He held Clancy tight as they traversed the mountainous land, sneaking through ravines and dense forests. When they finally reached the Bandito camp, Torch breathed a sigh of relief.
He shoved past concerned friends, taking Clancy back to their tent. He’d kept it exactly the way Clancy left it, his writing scattered all over the small desk, his ukulele sitting in the corner of the tent. He’d kept it clean, it never got dusty. It was a small signal of hope that Clancy would come back to him.
Torch set Clancy down softly on their cot, searching for any sign of life. He stirred slightly and mumbled something under his breath. Torch sighed. He had no idea how long it would take for the drugs to wear off, but he would not leave Clancy’s side until they did.
He gently pulled Clancy’s boots off, setting them beside the bed, and eased his own hoodie over his best friend’s head. It was a small comfort, but seeing Clancy back in their colours set his mind at ease. He turned his attention to the cuts on his arms, cleaning and bandaging them tenderly. Brushing the hair from Clancy’s face, he found small cuts and bruises, some old, some newer, but most shallow enough that they wouldn’t need medical attention. He didn’t want to think about why there were so many.
Torch crawled into bed beside him, pulling the blanket over them both. He stared at Clancy, the dark circles under his eyes and the way his eyelashes fluttered. He reached out, resting his hand lightly on Clancy’s cheek, concerned by how cold he was. Torch snuggled closer to him and ran his fingers through messy, dark hair, carefully untangling it.
“You’re beautiful, Clancy.” He whispered, brushing the hair away from his face.
“Torch…” came a murmured reply. Clancy seemed to be trying to open his eyes, lashes fluttering with every attempt. Torch watched fondly.
“Hey, I’m here, I’m right here.” He squeezed Clancy’s hand, smiling at the weak attempt at a response. “You don’t have to open your eyes yet. I can tell you’re still tired. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
“Promise?” Clancy asked in an impossibly small voice. He sounds so broken.
“Yeah.” Torch felt himself tear up. “I promise. C’mere.”
He pulled Clancy into his arms, holding him tight.
“It’s all gonna be okay.”