Chapter Text
Orange mixes with the red, becoming a blur of fire in front of him. It's hard to see clearly, and fatigue is to blame, preventing vision from focusing.
He has to lower his eyelids, rub his eyes and look again at the burning torch stuck in the ground, the only spot of color in the endless night.
Their campsite is located high on a mountain, so nothing prevents the space around them from merging with the sky into something uniform.
He tries to breathe steadily, saturating his blood with this new air, which he couldn’t really get used to.
It’s okay. They’re okay. They’re safe.
The city from which he managed to escape has long since swallowed up by the horizon. The possibility of being caught is getting further away; a new life is already here. Today was a hard day, for sure. He was absolutely sure that they would be returned to the concrete death chamber that their entire city called Dema was.
However, he felt almost no relief. Instead, there was a strange feeling of guilt. It laid heavy, pressing on his temples, making his head ache.
He stares at the fire until he sees the same picture before his eyes: bright, clear as a daytime. Filled with colors. And with every memory, every run through the neural connections, the picture turns into an engraving, cutting to the core, leaving deep scars.
You can't erase it. You can’t turn away.
There he stood, in the gap between the rocks, an exemplary citizen, a carrier of an idea.
His enemy.
Clancy.
Enough time has passed since the escape, enough to adapt, at least. They have learnt to survive, to help each other, to delegate responsibilities. They moved forward, choosing to move through a landscape that was safe for hiding. The rocky mountains, covered with an infinity of green moss, became their shelter. With each new stopover, his belief that everything was over grew.
Perhaps that is why he neglected the usual careful inspection of the surrounding area from the hill and decided to go down to the springs for water.
Was it a rash mistake, or was he in the right place at the right time? Who knows...
As he approached the edge of the slope, thinking about how to begin the descent, he noticed a figure below. Recognizing this person, he froze in place.
He wanted to close his eyes in resignation, feeling the inevitable collapse. Dema's spawn had caught up with them, and Clancy seemed only to be a sign of the upcoming hunt. Soon this would be over. The hunting dog has done its job. The appearance of the master is imminent.
Just now... just a little bit longer... One wave of the hand – and Clancy will point to him, smiling as always.
Fear turned his body to stone, everything became so clear, so slow...
And then... Clancy's gaze stopped on him. He was sure that he had been seen. It was as if he had always known this would happen. That it would be Clancy who would destroy all the plans he had made and implemented. And he stared back, looking into the eyes of his enemy, gritting his teeth. Until Clancy suddenly looked away.
Having lost eye contact, he noticed something that still confuses him. A detail that fear did not allow him to pay attention to at first.
The color yellow. A small piece of tape on top of his sleeve. A special mark of their group's resistance to city laws and customs. This ribbon looked out of place on Clancy. Weird. But that was not the only thing that surprised him.
The absence of the defying, impudent smile on his face that always, every time, accompanied their fights. Clancy was not smiling. Clancy looked tired and doomed. Clancy closed his eyes.
Trying to reach common sense felt painful. His clouded mind had no idea what to do. Run away? Then the others might notice, and then...
The whirlpool of loud thoughts turned into a layered noise accompanying the appearance of a rider on a white horse. One of the Bishops, one of The Nine. It was hard to tell them apart because they all wore red robes that covered their entire bodies and hid their faces. The horseman slowly approached his follower. But the boy did not open his eyes.
Something inside him tensed painfully as the red-clad figure touched the boy's exposed neck, meeting no resistance, to leave its black mark. He had smeared him, but why? Does an obedient dog need a collar?
The sight still sends chills down his spine. How horrible, how unnatural... He hears quiet footsteps behind him. Did someone decide to ask how he is?
How is he?
He continues to replay this scene in his head, though now he is just trying to organize everything, to understand what happened.
Something happened that should not have happened.
The rider calmly saddled his horse and started moving. As if nothing had happened. As if the fact that he was being obediently followed on foot was something right, undoubtedly justified. But was it?
The inner tension resulted in realization:
"This is not how it should be. You... should not go..."
But the guy kept walking. He didn't look down, only forward, following the one who majestically led this eerie procession.
"Stop... just..."
The sun disappeared behind the clouds, and everything around seemed to be covered in red smog. Distant memories of something blurred, clouded by fear, which turned into hatred, disgust, an impulse to act... He had felt this before, the moment when he wanted everything to freeze. To remain unchanged.
"Just stop... You shouldn’t go..."
Clancy didn't have to go. But he could not stop either. Because none of the citizens had the ability to resist smearing.
The sound of footsteps behind him faded. Without turning around, he asked:
“What?”
“The airwaves are clear, nothing unusual”, the serious tone of a female voice temporarily brought him back to reality.
Everything is clear on the air. Indeed, as if nothing had happened.
“Will the radio station have enough power for the night?”
“It seems so.”
“It seems so... But more specifically?”
“Three tick marks out of four.”
“Good.”
“Should we put out the fire?”, she asks uncertainly.
“We've moved away from that place enough. Although...”, he shrugged and reached for the torch, “You're probably right.”
That would be the right thing to do. To put out the fire to not give themselves away. Logical caution, if it wasn’t for what he saw with his own eyes. And what he never told the others about. About the yellow ribbon and what happened next. It's just... The others only know that he saw Clancy, who was taken away by one of The Nine.
So he extinguishes the torch on the moss-carpeted ground, but continues to sit there, torch in hand. They left him be, as if they felt he needed it now. Still, the farther they get from Dema, the more empathy everyone feels. More of something... alive.
Left alone, he plunges back into his memories: recent, fresh, almost tangible. And those that are deep, behind the walls of personal beliefs.
Looking at everything from above, he mentally asked to stop. Almost begged. Clancy stopped. And time stopped.
No one saw this. No one but him saw how a man, subdued by a terrible force, throws off the invisible leash of enslavement. Theoretically, it was in no way possible to do this. But Clancy did it.
Clancy, indeed, had always been annoyingly special.
No one saw Clancy run away as fast as he could. No one felt the time around him as if it began to flow differently, trying to pierce something eternal, unchanging.
No one saw Clancy fail. But he did. And he saw how Clancy resisted, too. Now these images fill his thoughts. His hidden, personal stuff, which still needs to be dealt with before he can tell others. Before he can find answers to his own questions.
Could he have helped him? Obviously not. Clancy was the last person anyone wanted to help. But... he believed in himself, in his ability to help everyone who wanted to leave the city. To help everyone who is afraid of a "voluntary" death. Yes, he still doubts that Clancy was an escapee.
But he feels guilty anyway.
Sitting in the silent darkness becomes unbearable. Thinking, remembering, analyzing... Not today, okay?
They escaped, they got out. Their rebel group is already far away, and every day they are getting only further. Today... they were not caught. Today they caught someone else. And the feeling that the city needs only one victim is pretty damn convincing. The stalker has found what he was looking for.
His legs are buzzing from fatigue. As soon as he stands stand up, the feeling intensifies, invisible needles biting into his tired muscles.
It's time to rest.