The Fandom(9)

He’s right. I know every freckle and every line on those nine faces. The woman with bloodshot eyes who repetitively touches her ear as though the action brings her some kind of comfort. The man with bruises on his forearms who keeps his eyes closed for most of the proceedings. And a girl, who can’t be much older than sixteen, yet grits her teeth with such tenacity her jaw looks like it may fuse together. I can tell you about each Imp in detail – I’ve watched the film forty-six times.

I swallow, hard. ‘Nate. Focus. We need to find help.’

The giant screen behind the stage fills with the face of the Gem President: President Stoneback. He looks so unnatural, like a drum – skin drawn over perfect features and fastened with invisible pins. And this big, his eyes look like huge, glass orbs, completely hollow and incapable of holding any warmth or kindness. He addresses the crowd with his reedy tone, just like he did in the film.

‘Fellow Gems, we are gathered here today to witness the death of these Imps. Guilty of theft, rape and murder.’ The crowd cheers. ‘Because in order to keep our world perfect, we must eliminate these imperfect beings . . . these vermin.’

The drum roll begins to build. The hangman, a figure in black, moves towards the lever. I know it’s only for show, but this feeling of unease spreads through my abdomen . . . something isn’t quite right. I’m about to pull Nate from the steps when Katie runs towards us, swinging her hands above her head and mouthing the word, Julia.

We look up and see Julia Starling, stood high on the crest of the wall, hands on hips, dark hair flailing in the wind. Framed against the grey of the sky, she looks truly awesome. Terrifying. That feeling of unease begins to morph into panic, my heart throwing itself against my ribs like it’s some kind of trapped animal. Something definitely isn’t right. She’s escaped completely unharmed and has somehow managed to dress as Rose. Tunic, leggings, army boots. I watch as she touches her fist to her lips. She says something to herself, and then hoists her arm above her head, pummelling it down in a graceful arc.

I know what it is before I see it. A grenade. But not one which wreaks death and destruction. No. A thistle-bomb. Designed to release the rebels’ symbol of hope. And, of course, a handy distraction. It launches over the crowd, hovering for a moment like a black bird of prey before filling the Coliseum with a loud clack. Hundreds of white thistle seeds disperse into the air, floating upwards and outwards like scraps of down. I hear the odd gasp, the crowd pointing, tracking the seeds through the sky.

‘This is amazing,’ Nate shouts above the drums. ‘A thistle-bomb, just like in canon.’

‘A little too amazing,’ I reply. The smell, the actors, the sheer scale of the set. It’s all too real. I begin to feel woozy and the drum roll grows to fill every space in my head.

Suddenly, the drums stop. Peace. The crowd remains captivated, statue-like, their flawless chins lifted skywards. This is the moment in the film when the Imp rebels appeared, releasing their smoke bombs and storming the stage, liberating the condemned Imps from the gallows. And Rose slipped away unseen, just melted back into the grey of the Imp city, having proved her worth as an Imp rebel.

I hold my breath, awaiting the battle cry of the rebels.

But instead, I hear Katie, screaming at the top of her lungs. ‘Julia! Julia! Are you OK?’

The last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves.

‘Katie, no!’ I shout.

She runs towards the stands, waving her arms above her head. ‘Julia, be careful, you might fall.’

‘Katie, stop,’ I shout.

But it’s too late. The guards swivel in their podiums, alerted to Julia’s presence, guns cocked and aimed. Julia turns and a strange expression grips her face, a hybrid of acceptance and determination. The sound of gunfire ruptures my skull and a series of red dots spread across her tunic, merging into one large splotch. It forms a belt of blood, reminiscent of my own sash. She glances at her abdomen – a bemused smile gripping her rosebud mouth – and begins to topple. Her slender hands whirl before her, grasping for an invisible man, but she falls between the stalls like a doll, her hair a black cape streaming behind her. She smacks the paving, inhuman and lifeless. A sack of grit. I watch as the life leaks from her, two ruby butterfly wings unfolding across the concrete.

This can’t be real.

I’m about to jump from the steps, about to run to her, when another sound grabs my attention. The sound of nine trapdoors flying open. Nate grabs my hand with his, so hard it hurts. And I know what I’m about to see, I know I should just look away. But I can’t. I can’t. Nine bodies fall, nine pieces of rope snap straight and taut, and nine sets of legs kick and twirl. The man with the bruised forearms, the woman with the bloodshot eyes, the girl with the fused jaw – all of them – dancing their final dance.

Instinctively, I look to Katie. She stands, frozen, her knuckles bleached and ragged as she clutches her face. Next, I find Alice, her painted mouth ajar, her eyes loaded with tears. And I can still feel Nate, crushing my hand, tugging at the fabric of my tunic like he’s five.

And I know we share only one thought:

We’re not in cosplay any more.





A man pushes free of the crowd and runs towards Julia’s twisted body. He wears the regulation grey overalls of the Imp slaves – the Imps who work in the Pastures for the Gems. I can’t help but notice how uncomfortable they look in real life, the fabric coarse and poorly stitched. He drops to his knees as he enters her blood pool, and kind of scoops her into his great chest in one easy motion. Her hand flops away from her and begins to twitch, like she rests on the edge of a dream. The twitch becomes more pronounced, and I begin to wonder if she’s still alive, then I realize her small frame has been swallowed up by the movement of the Imp as he convulses with grief. I suddenly feel like I should look away, like I’m somehow intruding.