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He knew the cycle was going to start again, every time. Like clockwork, he would see Clancy divert away from the Banditos, go into the city, and never return. Some of them went down fighting, screams of terror echoing throughout the concrete. Some went quietly, accepting their fate and succumbing to the pressure.
This one was different, none of them had ever fought back in the way this one did. And none of them ever tried to get him to join.
The fabric of Clancy’s mask was heavy in his bag, every fiber making it known that they had once again lost. He knew he had to go and speak to the Banditos, help the wounded make it back to camp, apologise to those close to the ones they lost. Looking up at the tower, seeing the light fall perfectly across it, he knew he was in there. They always called them Nova, for a while at least. It was only a matter of time before that morphed to Nico, and it all began again. He realised this Clancy would never see the sun fall in this way ever again. Would never be able to appreciate the stark and often weird beauty of the towers erupting out of the ground.
He decided that he could mourn this Clancy. He had got the furthest, after all. The mask was starting to slip, and the cycle was beginning to weaken. Not today, but soon. He began the hike out of the city, feeling each and every paving stone under his feet. A path he had treaded hundreds of times, and was ready to tread again one day.
The tunnel out of the city opens up into an overwhelming degree of colour, every shade of green erupting into the sky. The sky that was clear, shining blue, like the sea. Scattered on the grass below were yellow, his Banditos. He helped them up, as he had done time and time again. The movements familiar, whispers of “Put pressure on it, it’ll stop the bleeding,” and “Can you move your fingers?” amongst the group, ensuring no person was left behind.
The hike back always took longer than the walk there. Rough terrain coupled with the weight of silence weighing the group down, the weight of sorrow. Feeling his bag getting heavier and heavier as he retreated away from the city. It was for this Clancy’s good that he didn’t stay.
But what if he did? What would he have become? There’s nothing saying he couldn’t have been like Keons, and helped the next Clancy out. Without Keons the cycle would end after each Clancy was taken back to the city after the second escape, doomed to an eternity of torture and imprisonment. He knew how the cycle ends, and begins. Could he have changed the next cycle?
But who would help the next Clancy? He was always there to help each Clancy out. He would always be there to help each Clancy out. No. Without him, there would be no cycle, no Clancy would ever discover the magic of Trench, life outside of the system.
These thoughts appeared every cycle, and it was only a matter of time before he was due to start the next one.
By the time they reached the camp, those who were injured were usually whisked off and he would return to his tent, and count down the days until the cycle started again. It wasn’t long usually, just enough time to recover from injury. He pulled the mask out of his bag, the dead weight aching his palm, feeling each and every edition of the person who has worn it. Surprisingly it was still in good condition, no major repairs had to be done this time. He opened a trunk nearby, pulling out a needle and thread. No sooner than the first needle punctured the fabric, a Bandito walked in. He was one of the ones that went up in the tower, and walked out of Dema with him.
“Hey, uh, everyone wants to speak with you. I know you’re busy, but they want to hear.”
He sighed, putting the mask down carefully. “Okay.”
He followed the Bandito to the campfire, a small crowd forming. He took a deep breath.
“We lost this one.” A muted gasp erupted throughout the crowd. They knew this would happen.
“We got further though. This one fought back.”
“Fought back?” a voice erupted from the crowd.
“Yeah,” he scratched the back of his neck, a nervous habit he developed a few cycles ago. “We’re getting there.”
A murmur of confusion spread throughout the crowd, then the Banditos looked up at him. Eyes screaming out with wonder, of hope.
“Are we trying again?” The same question, asked every time.
“Always.”