Chapter Text
CLANCY knew that Dema was grey. A cold, relentless shade that neither differed nor changed from day to day. If he wasn’t paying attention, and the edges of his vision blurred, he wouldn’t be able to see the difference between the wall of his apartment building and the dull concrete pavement outside. The only thing that was different was the texture. Clancy’s regular Dema day-clothes were grey, and his night-clothes were grey too. His food was grey, and his water colourless, but because it reflected the colours around it, he found it was grey too. But that was okay. Dema was grey, but grey was nice. Routine and comforting, to Clancy. Dema was his home.
In Dema, most things were grey. Clancy knew that. He knew that nothing was brighter than the grey, and nothing was darker than the grey. Even the skies were grey. But to someone who’d grown up inside this circular city, inside these grey walls, deep in the heart of Nico’s District, all he knew was grey.
Clancy also knew that two things were red. True red. The cloaks of The Bishops, when seen during Worship, and when Clancy was summoned to the Towers. Pride sparked in his chest. No other Citizen was called to the Towers, as far as he was aware. At least not in his district, and that made him special. And Clancy liked that.
The other thing that was red, was blood. And blood was special too. Sacred, even. Only the Glorious Gone got to shed their blood, and drip, drip, drip onto the grey concrete, staining the grey a pretty red. Clancy liked that colour, and he couldn’t wait to join the Glorious Gone. He longed for it, even. Envious of those of his peers and coworkers who heard the summons of the vultures and were sent for, to be honoured above all else. He wanted nothing more than to join the Glorious Gone.
In Dema, two things were also black. Proper, black as night. The ashy charcoal staining his neck and hands wasn’t even as black as these two things. The first, was The Bishops chin and jawline. The purest, darkest shade of black he’d ever seen, a kind of paint unknown to him. Bishop Nico had told him one evening that it meant they had returned, from the Beyond, to act as guides and mentors to the future Glorious Gone. Clancy didn’t think the Beyond was grey.
The other that was black, were the vultures. Clancy didn’t like the vultures, disgusting, scavenging creatures with eyes like glowing embers of neon, and feathers absent of the iridescent sheen of other birds. Clancy knew that he should be grateful for the birds, the honoured ones, The Bishop’s birds, the ones that called for the Glorious Gone.
Clancy always felt a shiver run through him when he heard the vultures' cackling cries across the city. He also felt a shiver much like it when Bishop Nico smeared ash and charcoal across his neck and hands. That was a good day. One of Clancy’s favourites. His Bishop had told him he was special. And Clancy liked that. And, like a lamb being docilely led to the slaughter, Clancy had let him smear the dead embers across his throat, pure awe shining in his eyes, and from that moment, felt nothing, knew nothing, and was grey.