Newcomers

Akonia, New Anyi

COMPLETE CREDIT TO TWENTY ONE PILOTS (TYLER JOSEPH AND JOSH DUN) FOR THE LYRICS IN ITALICS.

"We don't deal with outsiders very well, they say newcomers have a certain smell."

Newcomers stand out in Akonia.

You can tell after just one glance if they don't belong. To outsiders they look like they would fit in perfectly, but they don't have the paranoia, the bruises on their wrists where people have gripped too tight out of fear. They don't double and triple check over their shoulders as they walk.

They don't have the fear that everyone else has, since they didn't live through the nightmare that was the rebellion. The nightmares of endless days locked up in cells, unimaginable pain and the dull thud of dead bodies hitting the floor don't twist through their mind when they sleep, memories sharp and painful like knives. They don't have the physical or mental scars.

Their eyes are bright, no dark purple rings making them look hollow. A smile graces their lips as they take in the beauty of the city of New Anyi, as they talk animatedly about the countryside of Akonia.

All traces of the disaster four years ago are gone, wiped from existence. It's as if the year never happened. And old, crumbling building sits just on the outskirts of the city, towards what used to be the original city of Anyi. The whole place is a wasteland of ash and dust, with the odd half destroyed building still standing. Every once in awhile the sound of falling stone rings out loud, echoing through the city. The hillside can be seen full of people as they watch their past crumble to the floor.

Sometimes tears are shed. Sometimes there is a rare smile. Whenever people gather there they hope the building that falls is the one that they suffered in. But it never is. It was built too well, made of strong materials to keep people inside.

"Please don't make any sudden moves, you don't know half of the abuse."

Newcomers are affectionate. It's only small things, hands on shoulders, quick hugs, arms touching. They move quick.

They have no idea what we went through, what their quick movements like the raise of a hand do to us. They don't understand why people panic when they push people walking slowly.

They act like they understand when we flinch away. They don't even know the half of it.

"I tried to warn you just to stay away."

The newcomers ask about the big building on the outskirts, the one that looks out of place. They are warned to stay away. We tell them stories of what we went through at the hands of the people who used to live there. We tell them of experiments, needles constantly being stabbed into our skin. We tell them about the bodies. Fourteen year olds can describe with sick accuracy what the sound of a dead body hitting the floor is like, how long it takes to bleed out from a slit throat. But they write them off a stories, myths even. They don't listen to our warnings.

"And now they're outside ready to bust, it looks like you might be one of us."

We find them months later. They stand outside the building, arms littered with needle marks. Their eyes are no longer bright. Something sparks in the air around them, something we will teach them to control. Once you exit that building, you're no longer a newcomer. You're one of us.