The crisp clicks of the typewriters irritated him more with every minute that passed. He could barely focus on his task, and his fingers refused to respond to his mind. He knew he was falling behind his quota, and though he knew that would bring more unwanted attention, he couldn't help it. After all, transcribing the same histories over and over wasn't the most interesting thing on his mind.

And the Silence was driving him insane.

The door opened and he fought to keep his head down, but then a hand rested on his desk, leaving a slip of paper behind as the man moved on. Clancy picked it up, his hands trembling, and then his heart dropped to his stomach.

Bishop Keons wants to see you in his office immediately.

Clancy swallowed hard and stood up, gripping his pen tightly. Nothing good could come out of this, not when the Assemblage and their escape were so close.

One of Keons' advisors met him at the door and led him down the hall and out into the streets. Everything was fuzzier than usual, even with his glasses, and a headache surfaced behind his eyes the longer he walked. At last, they reached the small office in the church and Clancy swallowed hard. Before he even had a chance to compose himself, the advisor opened the door and gestured for him to enter.

Keons didn't look up from his desk, even when the advisor shut the door again. Clancy shifted his weight uncomfortably, fighting desperately to keep his hands at his sides. He wanted to believe that he hadn't done anything wrong, but that was entirely untrue.

"You are permitted to speak until I say otherwise."

Clancy just nodded. He had no other response, and he was afraid that speaking during the Week of Silence would get him in serious trouble, even though the Bishop had given him permission.

Finally, Keons raised his head and looked right at him, holding a piece of paper out for him to see. "What is this?" he demanded.

Clancy's breath hitched in his throat as he recognized the signature at the bottom. How had he found that? He had kept it hidden under his mattress in his apartment. Even though the Bishop watched him with anger in his shrouded eyes, he couldn't bring himself to answer. Nothing he could say would defend his actions.

"I will not ask again."

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I just didn't know how to process my thoughts."

"How often do you do this?"

A lump formed in his throat and he struggled to swallow. "I don't know."

"You are twenty years old, Clancy. You should know better than this."

Keons' voice was soaked with disappointment, and a sick guilt settled in his stomach. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, keeping his eyes glued to the ground. His entire body felt heavy.

"An apology is hardly sufficient. This is outright and deliberate blasphemy." Keons folded his hands in his robe, watching him with cold, hard eyes. "Do you understand what the punishment for this is?"

"No, sir," he whispered.

"A public smearing and imprisonment in the towers, Clancy. Are you prepared for that?"

Clancy's entire body trembled, and his stomach twisted until he was sure he was going to throw up. He couldn't bring himself to open his mouth.

"It's difficult to take in, isn't it?" Keons stood up and approached him slowly. Clancy tried not to lean away from him. "It is difficult for me, as well. You were doing so well, even with your episodes. Frankly, I'm quite disappointed. I know you think I can't see you during Worship, but I can. I know what you are doing. You are deliberately fighting divine help."

"But I -" he blurted, but Keons held up his hand and he instantly went quiet.

"I don't believe this punishment is necessary, however."

Clancy blinked in surprise. "You - you don't?"

"How could I? This is your first offence, and after all, something is wrong with your brain. You cannot help being a failure."

The Bishop's statement felt like a slap to the face. He certainly felt like a failure, but hearing it from his Bishop made it sound much worse. "Oh," he whispered, and then cleared his throat slightly. "Can - can we fix it?"

"Your brain? No. But we can train it to obey."

Like an animal.

"I don't understand."

"From now until the Assemblage, you are excused from your assignments. You will meet me here every morning instead." The Bishop turned his back to the room and sighed as he opened a drawer in his desk. Clancy didn't dare move, even as he pulled out a small knife. "You are right-handed, correct?"

Clancy swallowed hard and nodded.

Keons handed him the knife, resting it in his left hand. "Mark yourself, Clancy. Spill your dirty blood, and it will cleanse your consciousness."

Clancy's eyes widened as he stared at the knife in his hand. "I - I'm not sure -"

"An X across your palm will be sufficient, deep enough to bleed. Do you trust me?"

He didn't know the answer to that question. His mind spun in a hurricane of panic. "I want to," he said, and he wasn't sure if he was lying or not.

Keons gestured to the knife. "Then obey, and in time, you will learn."

What other options did he have? He was cornered with nowhere to run. He bit his lip and rested the knife point against the palm of his right hand, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. "Father, I can't -"

"Clancy," he said sternly, and Clancy squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the point into his skin.

Instantly, a sharp pain burst through his hand and he yelped, dropping the knife on the floor. He caught the Bishop's disapproving look and quickly retrieved it, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to obey. Tears welled up in his eyes as he dug the blade into his palm, slicing a line across his skin, and no matter how hard he fought, he couldn't ignore the pain.

"Good," Keons said. "You are halfway there. You are almost done."

The second line was jagged and uneven, and it set his whole hand on fire. He gasped in pain and bit his lip, going rigid as the two lines intersected in the middle. The warm sticky blood collected in the middle of his palm and trickled between his fingers, dripping onto the floor and gleaming bright against his pale skin. It screamed his sins to the Bishop; dirty sins he'd never spoken aloud. His blood told him just how long he had questioned Vialism.

"Very good." Keons nodded in approval and took the knife from him. "Let me see." He took Clancy's bleeding hand in his and gently pulled his fingers from his protective fist, studying the lines in his skin. "Perfect. Go wash up, Clancy. We will meet here again tomorrow morning, and soon, you will be as good as new."

Clancy nodded, quickly wiping a few stray tears from his face. His hand stung like a thousand paper cuts as the Bishop examined it, but he tried not to pull away.

Keons returned the knife to the drawer, and then turned slightly. "Oh, and one more thing." Clancy kept his eyes down, and the Bishop paused for a moment before he continued. "Look at me."

Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet his Bishop's piercing gaze and held his hand tightly against his chest.

"Give me the pen."

He blinked in surprise. "The - the pen?"

"In your pocket, Clancy. Give it to me."

Not his pen. That was the only thing that kept him grounded in his confusion. But even so, he was afraid of angering him, and he couldn't jeopardize their escape. Slowly, he took his beloved pen from his shirt pocket, running his fingers over the smooth plastic one last time, and handed it to the Bishop.

"You are not to write any more letters, do you understand?" Keons ordered, his charcoal black fist curling around his pen.

Clancy nodded and dropped his eyes back to the floor, his chest aching.

"Good. You are a good man, Clancy. I would hate to have these fantasies destroy your nature. You are dismissed."

...

He ran to his secret room as fast as he could, his bleeding hand pressed up against his chest. There was blood all over his shirt now, but he didn't care. He had to make sure everything was still there. The door was open a crack, and he paused to catch his breath before climbing up the dim stairs and into the familiar room.

Nothing was out of place, although the satchel with the camera was open, and his last letter was missing. Everything else was exactly how he had left it. He breathed a sigh of relief and ran his left hand through his hair. The Bishops hadn't found his room yet, though he knew it was only a matter of time before they did.

An idea struck him suddenly, and he immediately scrambled to pack everything up. If they found out that he had been here, the entire escape plan would be ruined. He folded the few remaining pieces of paper and put them in the satchel, along with the photograph and the petal he had left on the desk. He wanted to take the typewriter, but he doubted he'd be able to get it to his apartment unnoticed. The satchel would be hard enough. But when he started down the stairs, there was a deep ache in his chest, as if he had left a part of him behind, so he returned and picked it up.

Though it wasn't heavy, his arms began to ache as he crept down the stairs again, poking his head out into the hallway. There was no way he would make it back to his apartment without someone noticing. He looked down at the typewriter in his arms, and then an absurd idea came to mind. He put it down and untucked his shirt, and then stuffed the typewriter underneath it, covering it with the grey fabric as best he could. It left a massive awkward bump and it was cold against his bare skin, but he put his arms around it and slowly stepped into the hallway.

He walked as fast as he dared, feeling absolutely ridiculous, and though no one was out to see him, his face was bright red in embarrassment when he finally reached his apartment. He ran up the stairs and into his room, and then froze.

The entire room was torn apart.

He blinked over and over, hoping desperately that it was some bizarre dream, but nothing changed. His chair remained overturned, the scratchy sheets on his bed remained crumpled on the ground, and even the desk drawers remained open.

The studio apartments didn't have locks, but they had never needed them. Clancy had never heard of anyone doing something like this. Who had broken into his apartment, and what had they been looking for?

And then it hit him so suddenly that he staggered and nearly dropped the typewriter. Whoever had broken in had taken his letter and given it to his Bishop on purpose. But who would do that to him? He had never done anything to anger anyone.

He sighed and shuffled in to his flat, dropping the typewriter on his desk and slumping over on his bed. This was a disaster. He hadn't had a chance to talk to Bird again, and he was in desperate need of answers.

A sharp pain bit through his hand as he leaned back, and he hissed softly in pain. He didn't understand why Keons had made him mark himself, as he had put it, but it had made him realize something that he hadn't let himself think about in a long time. Since he had never met his biological parents, he had always thought of Keons as the odd sort of father figure in his life, but now, he had to stop and reconsider. Did his Bishop really have good intentions, or was this more than a simple chastisement? Of course punishments had to be in place, and he had known that he would eventually be reprimanded, but though his punishment was much milder compared to the official code, he couldn't help but feel that there was something behind Keons' actions.

He went into the bathroom and ran his hand under the faucet, cringing as the cold water stung the open wounds. Bishops didn't pay attention to individual citizens, and yet Keons had specifically sought him out on multiple occasions. He wanted to ask why he continued to pay attention to him, but he was afraid of the answer. He would just have to wait it out, and that was the last thing he wanted.

Each citizen was supplied with a very basic first aid kit with disinfectant and small bandages, but that wouldn't be enough to take care of his hand. Though the cuts weren't deep, they were long, and the adhesives wouldn't cover it completely, and they would bend and wrinkle if he used his hand. He knew he needed to go to the nurse's office, but he didn't want to try and explain what had happened, especially during the Week of Silence. Eventually, he decided that toilet paper was the only logical option he had, so he washed his hand with the disinfectant and wrapped it in a thick glove of paper. The blood soaked through almost instantly, and he spent a good part of the rest of the day replacing the makeshift bandage.

He didn't sleep that night, though that was no longer a surprise. When the sun rose and the bell tolled, he followed the other citizens to breakfast in silence, but he couldn't bring himself to eat. His stomach twisted with anxiety as he stared at his tray and anticipated the upcoming meeting with his Bishop. He had a feeling that their escape plan might not be as smooth as they had hoped.

When the bell rang, he found himself alone in the streets of Dema, walking slowly toward the church in the Third Sector. He stared up at the grey sky and watched a few vultures circle the city, seeming so small and carefree all the way up there. They were the only creature who could come and go as they pleased, and he longed to be like that. The Watchers were different. Though they were the same creature, they had a different energy. They stayed in Dema and picked the citizens apart with their beady eyes. The vultures were natural creatures. There was nothing natural about the Watchers.

An advisor was waiting for him when he arrived at Keons' office. He pushed the door open and gestured for Clancy to enter, and then closed it behind him without another thought. Slowly, Clancy forced himself to look up at his Bishop, only for his heart to sink in dismay as he saw the knife in his outstretched hand.

"Again," the Bishop said softly.