Chapter Text
“Peace is, of course, our main goal.” Damian said as he looked out to the crowd of Ostanians who surrounded his podium. Frustration, exasperation, encouragement, and agreeance was littered about the individuals who listened, but there was one shared emotion that was expressed: worry. They were a people, and the people were scared of war; what these changes meant for their children, for themselves, for the people they loved. That was why Damian was there—to calm their worries, to make them feel lighter of these burdens brought forward from the neighboring countries and the one they resided in.
“That is why we’re putting these funds toward our military.” Damian nodded once, serious, yet understanding. Congress was in agreement—their armies needed funding. But money was already strung tight as it was, and despite Damian’s protests, they had decided to take from school funding for this cause. “It may seem counterproductive, but through strengthening our soldiers, we’re proving that Ostania is strong—we will not fall to Westalis, and by enhancing our communications with them, we believe this may finally be the answer for true peace.”
Damian let out a small, tight breath. He gazed down at his notecards, ones of which he had been drafting for many weeks. He didn’t want to give this speech; he didn’t believe it was right. Education was the most important thing in life. Humans had a right to know what the world was and why things occurred; how to live properly, and knowledgably. One always had their mind, if nothing else; they deserved to nourish that mind. But this was the most reasonable option, and to show support towards his country, fellow congressmen, and Anya, who had told him how important it was that he support this decision publicly… he was here, doing just that. Even if this was not what he wanted, he would play his role and do as expected. Besides, all Desmonds so far have made speeches in regard to this, all in support. That was only further encouragement to explain his side—not one of carelessness, but one of necessity. Although in his opinion, they could’ve cut funding to immigration services and international aid—but what did Damian know? He was Pro Tempore, yes: congress respected him. But he was still young. His elder counterparts could only ignore that blazing fact for so long before the flame finally ordered them to act. Besides, the lot of them only truly considered private school as a legitimate source of education—those schools of which would not be affected. Although Damian himself graduated from Eden Academy, he failed to see how privilege given to someone by chance should determine how much access they have to basic necessities… but it was all irrelevant, anyway. He just needed to give his speech. These thoughts were useless at present.
“I don’t want a war.” Damian said bluntly, his face stern as he spoke to the audience. “No one sensible wants a war. It won’t help matters—it certainly will not stop this decades long feud. This decision was not made in preparation for an attack. It was made to prove our strength, our determination, and our willingness to do what must be done to protect our nation.”
Damian looked down, a small glance at his hands. Not at his carefully calculated lines, but just at himself. He made an act to collect himself—not as if he were on the verge of a breakdown, (he certainly would not have that again,) but that he was simply so full of passion, he had to reign himself in. All an act, of course. Just like at Gary Manuel’s tribute service. However, it was a necessary act—of course, he felt the emotions he portrayed, but the public required a bit more showmanship than what Damian would ordinarily express. It was just politics.
“I know how important education is.” Damian said, looking up once more. He scanned the audience, making a point to lock eyes with anyone in his view that still remained visibly distasteful with congress’s decision. “I still study daily. It’s the most crucial right any man has—to be knowledgeable. But we must consider the lives that could be at stake. We had to choose between your sons’ and daughters’ educations, and their lives.
“And although I am without any children of my own,” Damian continued, the topic alone stinging and painful—however, it was necessary. He could handle it. “I could not imagine a world without my wife, Anya. I could not imagine a world where she was not alive. I know that’s selfish, but it fueled my decision to vote yes on this movement. Please, imagine someone you love. This action will further protect them.”
Damian’s shoulders straightened, almost mechanically, but just gentle enough to disregard any thought of dishonesty. Truly, even mentioning Anya felt like too much, especially in this context. But that wasn’t important—why did his mind continue to disobey him and drift? He had to continue in his role. He had to be a Desmond.
“I will now give my time to questions.”
Suddenly, it seemed as if reporters appeared out of thin air. Large cameras covered faces, videotape recorders bumped into nearby listeners as the individuals wielding them hefted them upon their shoulders, and even a few portapaks were popping up amongst the crowd. Shouts of Desmond and Damian echoed off one another’s vocal waves; Damian had to point at random just to regain his senses—now, all he had to do was ignore the insistent clicks and flashes of cameras, capturing his essence in photograph for pages in their newspapers and stations.
“Desmond,” said the reporter, a professional looking young woman with blonde hair and a nice blouse. She held a long, skinny reporter’s notebook in her hand, along with a blue pen and a lit cigarette. Her lips were painted red; a prominent, drawn on mole donned her cheekbone. “Mary White with Le Devoir. What if Westalis sees this new funding as a threat? What if Prime Minister Richard Turner uses this as an excuse to bomb Ostania?”
The mention of airstrikes exhilarated the speed of which his atrium contracted, his blood rushing at the mere thought. He hastily answered, as to not let fear linger. “We are in communication with Westalis, and Prime Minister Fairclough has been very direct with Turner—bombs are not a threat we need to consider at this point in time.” He explained, a small, carefully crafted smile resting upon his lips—to comfort, and to calm. “Through this decision, we are simply pushing our stance. Following the funding, more communications will be held to decide how we shall move forward.”
The crowd roared again, all trying to gain the attention of their senator, who was finding the speedy stimulation rather dizzying. He quickly pointed to another reporter.
This one was a man, one rather dapper, by the look of it. He had black coiled hair, barely poking out from beneath his chestnut trilby. He was wearing suspenders which clipped onto a nice pair of corduroy slacks, and a white button down that stood out upon his deeply toned skin. He held a camera; a pencil was tucked atop his ear and a pocket-sized notebook rested in his front right pocket. “Ashon Johnson with Berlint’s Journal, Mr. Desmond,” he began, “You seem pretty adamant about education. Why not take funds from somewhere else? Why defund public schools?”
“We decided that our educational system was the most likely to survive a defund than our other options.” Damian said, careful to say ‘we.’ He did not agree, but the majority of congress did. Ridiculous, but truthful. At least, partially so. “I am working with my fellow senators to provide plans to protect our teachers and lecturers during these troubling times to maintain their livelihoods, and therefore our students’ livelihoods as well.”
When his name loudly invaded his eardrums from the individuals surrounding him, Damian chose another reporter yelling for his attention.
“Damian Desmond,” he spoke, a middle-aged man with sleek, auburn hair and a pudgy disposition. He had thick brows and a nice striped button down with a bold, yellow tie. He had on black dress pants and held a cigarette, one of which was heavily used. He had a young man standing next to him with a large video recorder, his outfit a bit too similar to the man next to him to be anything but a pair—not precisely the same, but both snappy and vibrant. Plus, the recorder had a pack of cigarettes hanging from his pocket, so it was obvious where his other half was gathering his from. “Lonnie Smith, Ottaniar Tribune.
“What’s your opinion on this ‘gay cancer’ spreading across the nation?”
“This series of questions is strictly in regard to congress’s decision to take funding from education and put it towards our military.” Damian said, his brows furrowed slightly. “I cannot comment on that in this moment of time. Keep your questions in relation to the problem at hand. Next.”
When the crowd responded to his request of another a question, they did not hesitate to answer it. Damian chose another reporter, by the looks of it. A woman in a low-cut checkered dress with a complicated hairdo, a camera of which covered her face in her hands. Even with the people in front of her, her bright red heels were clearly shown. “Suzy Holiday, Mr. Desmond.” She said, a southern accent adorning her words. “I’m with Channel 16 News. What if peace isn’t an option? What’re your plans if Westalis decides to attack regardless of these ‘communications’?”
“I understand your concern, but you should know that is highly unlikely.” Damian said, his brows furrowed. “Both sides want peace. Westalis will not attack, not now, and not after congress’s decision. However, in the improbable case where such an attack occurred, we would be forced to engage in combat.”
“Permission for a follow-up!” Holiday hollered, barely after he finished speaking. Damian gave a nod, although put off by her brashness. “Did you not say, ‘no one sensible wants a war’? Who are you callin’ unsensible? Prime Minister Fairclough, or Prime Minister Turner?”
Damian frowned, his brows narrowing. He took in the question for a moment, looking into that camera. It was as if she were a void of a person—just a walking piece of black, metallic lenses and carefully dolled up personas. All of them were—hungry wolves in pretty tailored suits. “Neither. Speculation like this is quite unnecessary—both leaders want what’s best for their countries. That’s peace. Peace is always the correct answer, and unless something occurs that would make such a conclusion impossible, we shall have peace.
“Next question.”
~~~
“Ridiculous…” Matthew muttered under his breath, taking a long draw from his cigar before releasing the smoke through his nose, filling the well-dressed living room with grey, cloudy tobacco. He was watching Senator Desmond’s speech on the air, his tiny, boxed television showing him a grainy reality of what was occurring. He didn’t seem to favor this politician—in fact, the entire speech, he had been degrading him all whilst wearing an old band t-shirt from his high school and a pair of white, skin-tight boxers.
Anya had been watching him for a while now: Matthew White from Wilson Street, Berlint. He was quite easy to find, thanks to Susan. He worked nights, and his wife working mornings—in fact, she was there working at this very moment, reporting on what Anya’s ‘ridiculous’ husband was saying. Anya found his words quite diplomatic, but what did she know?
“What’s so ridiculous about what he’s saying?” Anya asked, smiling as Matthew whipped his head around only to find a gun pointed directly at him—a Walther PPK dressed with a silencer. She always wanted one, when she was younger. Back then, she simply thought it would be cool. Now it was necessary. “Hello, Mr. White.”
He sat there, eyes wide as he looked at the woman threatening him. He noticed her immediately, she noted, based on how his mind repeated his confused ramblings on ‘Desmond’s wife’. She wasn’t too concerned by being identified—she had a disguise ready for when she would leave, and the blinds were drawn. He was completely alone, his only companion out interviewing the person she was doing all of this for. Usually, she would’ve worn the disguise then, during this encounter, this investigation. But she wanted to see his reaction—a bit self-indulgent, but it was no matter. He’d be dead soon, anyway.
“Hands in the air.” She said, stepping closer, her hand never faulting on her aim.
“Desmond,” he muttered, eyes still wide, still in shock. His mind simply would not stop, a dizzying cry of confusion and horror. Still, he did as she ordered. “W-why’re you here?”
“Firebirds,” she said, matter-a-factly. She approached him, keeping a distance as she stepped in front of him, her eyes locked with his. “I need to know about this terrorist group you’re a part of. That, or I’ll simply kill you and leave you for Mrs. Mary.”
“No!” He said, quickly and urgently. He looked pathetic, in his too-tight clothes, and his messy, greasy hair. Although arguably handsome, he lacked any sort of confidence. In his defense, he did have a gun pointed at his head, but even in a situation like that, Anya could be relatively calm; even Damian was calmer after the attempt all those weeks ago, and he was a mere politician. It seemed ironic for a terrorist to be afraid of the very thing he threatened—a bit hypocritical, no?
“…Don’t hurt her,” he said, his eyes drastic, panicked. “Please, anything but that.”
Anya’s eyes narrowed at him, confused by his continued plea. Was this an act? It didn’t seem like one, considering his mind was still panicking; besides, she doubted this man was intelligent enough nor paranoid enough to suspect she had telepathy. But that didn’t explain why he was being so dramatic. She hadn’t even mentioned anything of the sort, of hurting Mary White. Being panicked by a threat of death seemed far more rational than this reaction.
“Where do the Firebirds meet?” She asked, glancing up to his cigar, burning to charcoal in his shaking, trembling fingers. “And put that out.”
Matthew did as she instructed, putting it out on an ashtray, his hands visible the entire time: his movements slow, afraid. “…They change weekly.” He said, voice nervous. “How did you find out about our organization? …And we aren’t terrorists.”
“You tried to assassinate my husband.” Anya said, stoically, emotionlessly. It was a statement, nothing more. A bit funny, considering Matthew’s extravagant supplication. It wasn’t because she didn’t care about Damian, though—actually, it was quite the contrary. She cared about him exponentially more than Matthew cared for his spouse, Anya was certain. Otherwise, he would be acting, not obeying. If he truly loved her, he wouldn’t take such risks as to leave her alone following his death. Unless he was a genuine moron—maybe he thought he had a chance of surviving. She wouldn’t know, though. His mind was still insistent on ‘Desmond’s wife.’ Did he even know her name? That would be ridiculous, considering he planned on making her a widow. At least Anya knew his spouse’s name.
“Why is that,” Anya asked, rhetorical. “If not to employ a sense of fear and terror?”
Matthew raised his chin high, holding his breath as he looked at his captor. He was still incredibly frightened, but his mask was coming into place, the broken shards rearranging themselves after the sudden panic passed and reality found its way to his brain. “To bring back Ostania—the real Ostania. Not one that falls to threats or allows these unholy events to occur in our country.”
“Unholy events?” Anya asked, an eyebrow perked in question. War, she didn’t care for. Everyone knew about it, and everyone had an opinion on it. But what on earth could he be describing with such scandalous insinuations of sin?
Matthew nodded, his jaw straining as he continued. He was still trembling; it seemed the Firebirds had trained him for a situation like this—to be cocky and proud. Although, he certainly would not be replacing the likes of Marilyn Monroe anytime soon. He couldn’t fake confidence to save his life—the thought alone made Anya want to snicker. “…This disease spreading, with the homosexuals.” Matthew said, his brows furrowing. “These movements, with women and their useless marches. The kneeling to Westalis and their every whim.”
“You do know Zeus fell in love with Ganymede, don’t you?” Anya said, a scoff escaping her lips as she smirked. His hypocrisy continued, and it was absolutely hilarious, his absurdity. “And although his wife, Hera holds much power in Olympus.”
A bubble of laughter escaped Matthew as well, the sound similar to that of nails on a chalkboard. “Are you placing us mortals in the same shoes as the gods? We do not hold that authority.” He grinned, condescending. He looked past the gun, the black weapon threatening him of his most basic right in life—the right to live. He looked directly into Anya’s eyes, and he was supercilious. “We have rules for a reason—that’s why they grow ill, why women grow depressed. We’re neglecting our roles in life, and it’s ruining us. It’s ruining Ostania. And that bastard,” Matthew snarled, glaring at the screen, which still showed Damian’s perfect, charming personality.
“He’s leading this country’s downfall.”
“I’m sure.” Anya said, nudging the end of her gun up ever so slightly, reminding him of what exactly was happening here. He may have fantastical ideas of how humans needed to act and the rights they would never share with the ones they praise and worship, but she was the one with the pistol, with his life in her hands. No god or goddess would save him. Soon, that life would be hers. Not Hades’, but Anya’s. “Now, where are the Firebirds meeting? How do I know?”
“…I’m not sure,” Matthew said, his smile vanishing in an instant. His mind began to catch up again, berating him for his tangent. A meaningless argument—rant or no rant, his fate was sealed either away.
Anya sighed, rolling her eyes. She stuck her hip to the side as she glared at him, her mind taking apart his own, bit by bit. Nothing of use. “Who would know? Give me a name.”
Matthew swallowed, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. “We go by aliases, I wouldn’t—”
“What’s your alias?”
“…Ablaze, but—”
Anya cut him off with a swift shot to the forehead. Clean, direct, and merciful. He fell back, his head hitting the back of the couch, blood spilling through the wound. Anya just looked at him, the sudden silence always a bit shocking, but she managed. There was some sound, though—just not one from an individual’s conscious. It was from the television, from her husband.
“It is our upmost priority,” Damian spoke, a bit muffled through the busted speakers. “To maintain peace.”
Anya looked back to the screen, bemused as she watched him. So pleasant and agreeable, so groomed and handsome. He had everyone at that speech in his hand, assuming Firebird members were just as cowardly as Mr. White was, dissecting and complaining within the comforts of their own homes.
A sigh escaped Anya in that moment: short, passive. She had just killed someone. She killed someone while Damian spoke promises of peace.
“You have my word.” Damian finished, the crowd erupting into applause and cheers. Anya just watched, listening to her victim’s blood drip onto a pool of itself, the insistent sound of liquid clicking together as it joined filling her ears, like a faucet dripping.
Anya turned off the television.