Dread and Fear

-3-

27th July 2012

"Sir, Mr Osburn, Sir."

Deimos began to stir. His head was heavy and fuzzy like television static and carbonated water. Pain shot up his neck as he lifted himself from what he recognised as his own office desk. The strewn papers had left creases on the skin of his forearms and face. Something was buzzing viciously to the left of him, and a warmth was spreading across his right shoulder.

"Mr Osburn," the voice repeated. Deimos was only half registering it, and finally managed to sit himself upright in his chair. It was morning; honeyed sunlight poured down onto the space where Deimos had been sleeping fitfully just moments ago.

The person in front of him put a stop to the unpleasant ringing and buzzing. My alarm. Deimos was still having trouble understanding what was going on. It was not good, these slow wake ups. During the height of tensions Deimos had been able to fall asleep in seconds and wake up in seconds. It had taken months of practice but he had perfected it. Living in the corners of the safe house had pulled him into a false sense of security.

"I'm sorry to wake you, sir, but you asked me to meet with you this morning."

Deimos looked up at the voice. A man of small but firm build was standing across from him. His face was flipping between concern, caution, and relief as he looked at Deimos. The man's arm flung back to his side once Deimos looked him properly in the face, elastic.

"Silas?" Deimos pressed his palms into his eyes and blinked.

"Goodmorning," Silas chirped, then coughed. "I'm sorry, I can let you rest if you would like. I can come back if that's better for you."

"No, no, don't. Sit, sit." Deimos gestured to the chair. Silas obliged, sitting as politely as humanly possible. Deimos began to clear the papers from the desk swiftly, half of which had not even been read yet. He chose not to share this detail with his peer.

Silas watched Deimos as he went, with watchful grey eyes framed by chestnut curls. He was every bit like his sister, Despina, though without the biting humour.

Despina and Silas had been born to some estranged sister of Madame Streng. Through some circumstances that had never quite been explained to Deimos by Despina ('I just don't see how that detail is relevant. Put your chin up), the two had ended up at the commune. Despina had been six years old at the time, and Silas almost four. Deimos did not remember much of their child selves, for he had not really become a resident of the commune until he turned nine.

The commune was what Deimos had deemed a 'glorified children's home'. It was filled with the children of Novas, Stellars, politicians, and other sorts who deemed their social identities too important to be derailed with the troublesome task of raising children. Deimos' parents were no different, and no sooner did Deimos start asking questions and demanding attention than he was placed at Madame Strengs commune for 'The Enlightened Children."

There was nothing enlightening about it, Deimos thought. Just a bunch of abandoned children. Despina and Silas were no different in that sense, though they were not the children of personalities and politics.

Despina was assigned to 'mentor' Deimos when she herself turned fifteen, and Deimos was about to turn eleven. She took on the job with open arms, and had no qualms for dealing with an emotionally disrupted child such as Deimos. Though he supposed this was due to the fact that Madame Streng not so subtly suggested her and Silas find someplace else to live if they couldn't do the work.

Silas was a couple years older than him, but Deimos hardly noticed it. They had formed an unlikely friendship, mostly due to Silas quietly shadowing his sister, who was constantly working with Deimos. It felt peculiar now, to have had both siblings serving him like that. Silas insisted on taking no payment, which made Deimos' skin crawl with guilt. Silas often found himself doing the unspeakable for Deimos and his cause; at least Despina had been paid for it.