A group of older residents often told stories to the younger ones on the long Sunday nights after mandatory worship. Though Clancy wasn't usually considered part of the younger residents of Dema, he often found himself listening intently and losing himself in their words. They told of a fantastic place called home, full of warmth and happiness and ease. But when they were finished describing home, they told how this city was their home. Prior to finding that room and writing his thoughts, he had always accepted it, as it fit with the Bishops' claims that he belonged here. But now, Dema didn't feel anything like the storytellers' descriptions, and he longed to find a place like that.

He slipped into the room that Sunday and stayed in the back, hovering near the door as the younger inhabitants filtered in. The storytellers' audience had slowly decreased over the years, but he never failed to attend, and he hoped they'd never stop. Even though he didn't believe that Dema was his home, as they called it, he loved to learn about the idea. Perhaps if he learned enough, he would someday find that place for himself.

But today, he found his mind wandering, and he couldn't listen to a word they were saying. Their voices filtered in and out of his head before he could entirely process the words.

It had been three days since he'd written the first page of his journal, but he still couldn't keep his thoughts quiet. They invaded his every waking moment, and people were starting to notice. He wasn't supposed to be noticed. He wasn't allowed to be noticed. Only those who were Glorified deserved attention, and he wasn't ready - or worthy - for a privilege like that. Besides, no one from his sector had been Glorified in years.

There - he caught himself falling down another tangent. He shook his head slightly and tried desperately to focus on the story one man was telling, but it was near impossible. Now, he was thinking about the way his Bishop had looked at him during the Vialism lecture three days ago. His hidden expression was more than disappointed, but he couldn't quite remember it well enough to decide what it could have been. Perhaps it was just disappointment - maybe he had thought their sector had a chance to have a Glorified this year, and now that Clancy was more disruptive than ever, that chance had been ruined.

At least he had been kind. From what he had heard, the other Bishops could be ruthless. Out of the nine Bishops of Dema, Keons was kind and gentle, though he was firm and strict as well. It was a rather odd combination, and, as he'd written in his first journal entry, he had never met someone quite like him. He was grateful that he wasn't in another Bishop's sector. He'd heard stories of others like Lisden and Nills, who had a sort of anxious energy that entered the room with them, or Listo, who he'd heard often seemed as though he loved and cared for his inhabitants until someone acted out of line - and then he turned his back on them completely. Clancy wasn't sure he would be able to live in his sector. At least Keons had attempted to help him during the lecture.

And then there were Reisdro and Nico. He had heard from a second hand account that they were the most ruthless of them all. They hadn't given an explanation. They had only said that when anyone looked at either of the two, they froze in complete terror. Reisdro had a voice as loud as thunder that seemed to shake the buildings around him. Clancy had heard him speak at the last Assemblage. Nico, however, rarely spoke, but when he did, his voice was quiet, but cold and penetrating, and he shivered simply thinking about it.

Once again, he realized he was on another tangent, and once again, he attempted to draw his attention back to the storytellers. His thoughts whirled on without his consent, and he finally accepted that he would no longer be able to listen.

But then his ears heard a word that caught his attention. Banditos. He had heard the myths a few times before, and he wasn't sure why he'd suddenly latched on to this particular story, but somehow, he managed to focus on it without becoming distracted.

There is a viscous group of people out there called the 'Banditos.' They roam the world outside, violent and uncontrolled. It's said that they wear bandanas over their faces and distort their voices, and that it is impossible to distinguish one from another. Sometimes, they will sneak into the city in the darkness and snatch people right out of their beds. They only take the ones who challenge Vialism, the ones who act up, and it's said that they kidnap them because they believe they could be one of them. They drag them out of the city, and they're never heard from again. One moment they are there, and the next moment, they disappear without a trace.

This was how they began all Bandito myths. He remembered hearing the exact same paragraph recited by the first storytellers he'd listened to. It gave the background everyone knew already. The stories afterward, however, were always different. No, he corrected, they were all the same. The words were just slightly altered. The feeling was always the same. The moral of the story was the most repeated moral in the city.

Years ago, there was a young woman, perhaps sixteen years of age, who began to question this way of life. She believed there was another way to live, another way to survive. She no longer found happiness in her duties, and began to refuse the idea of Vialism.

Her Bishop tried with all his might to bring her back to the knowledge of the truth, but she refused his help. She refused to be saved. And one day, she refused to come out of her flat.

That night, the Banditos came.

They smashed through her window and broke down her bedroom door, muffling her screams with their tape. All she could do was stare in pure terror at their distorted faces, masked by their filthy bandanas, as they taped her ankles together and her hands behind her back, and then dragged her through the window and dropped her to the street. They silently carried her out of the city that night, and it was only recently, when one of the monsters was caught and tortured, that we found out why she had vanished so suddenly. They never found the breech.

Many of the older listeners rolled their eyes or groaned slightly, though most of the younger ones, the children, stared with wide, terrified eyes. If they believed the stories, they'd eagerly embrace Vialism. After all, that was what he had done. But then, they would grow up, and soon find that that was all they were - stories. Even so, they still found themselves unwilling to even question Vialism. So why did he?

And once more, his mind was entirely off topic.

He lingered in the room after the storytellers were finished, waiting for the dregs of the audience to filter out through the door, and then he hesitantly approached the one who had told the myth of the Banditos. He looked to be a few years older than he was, but as with everyone, it was hard to tell.

"Excuse me," he said very quietly.

The man turned slightly. "Yes?" He had soft brown eyes that eased some of the pressure in his chest.

He took a shaking breath and forced his hands to stay down by his sides. "Can you tell me more about the Banditos?"

A tense silence followed his question, as if the entire world held its breath. The man seemed confused and taken aback, as if he hadn't ever expected to hear such a question, and Clancy wished he had held his tongue and kept his thoughts to himself.

"There isn't much more to tell," the man said slowly, testing his words. "It's a children's story. A myth. The Banditos don't actually exist."

He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking and resisted the urge to grab his pen from his shirt pocket. "Oh. Of course not. I...I was simply curious. That's all. Thank you." Before the man even had a chance to take in his response, he turned and marched out of the room. His strides felt awkward and clumsy, and the more natural he attempted to act, the worse it became.

He had the sudden urge to curse at himself, and nearly did so, but he quickly bit his tongue hard enough to make himself wince, and the words stayed trapped inside his head where they belonged. The Bishops had forbidden cursing years ago, but he had never had the desire to curse before, and he was surprised he had remembered the words at all. In fact, he wasn't sure he would have known them at all if it hadn't been for the man a few years ago who had suddenly disappeared - the one he had thought about earlier that week who had become distracted and disruptive. In fact, he remembered very vividly that the man had suddenly stood up one day during a lecture and marched to the door, a vile string of curses flying out from between his lips like acid. That had been the last time Clancy had ever seen him.

It seemed only natural for him to connect the myth he'd heard only minutes before and the vanished man. What if, he thought with the same wonder he'd felt as a child, they really do exist?

Then I am going to end up just like the woman in the story, aren't I?

But he went dutifully to worship and lectures and assignments, and stayed precisely on schedule as often as he remembered. He never doubted Vialism - at least out loud. He hadn't done anything to earn him more than a scolding, but maybe that was enough to catch the Banditos' attention.

You're being silly, he scolded himself. Of course they're not real. Even if they were, they would never manage to breech the perimeter. The Watchers would catch them.

But again, didn't he long to be out there, just to see what it was like?

He decided it was time for another trip to the room with the lonely typewriter.