Chapter Twenty-Three

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Authors Note:

Ha! I actually got this out today! Cool. Anyway. Sorry this took so long. If you find any plot holes, please ignore, I've filled as many as I could. :P Lemme know what you think. :)

*Warning of Violence and Light Gore*

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"Hey, wanna swap?" Violet turned to her boyfriend.

Killian couldn't stop the knowing smile that took over his face and laughed. "I told you you wouldn't like it."

Violet huffed, promptly annoyed by his tone. "Yeah, yeah, swap with me already you big know-it-all." She grumbled and held out the bowl of orange-peach ice cream that Killian was all too pleased to trade for with his plain vanilla.

"How's your ice cream?" Robert directed at Demetrius, once again trying to break his silence with inane, useless questions.

Demetrius poked at his sugary confection without looking up. "Fine." He sighed, refusing to meet the look of bordering-on-concern-but-not-quite-because-Demetrius-made-it-clear-he-didn't-like-that-so-I'll-smile-but-I'm-still-very-concerned-and-confused-and-I'm-really-bad-at-hiding-it.

Honestly.

When Demetrius told them, or rather growled at them, to "stop looking at me like that" at the cafeteria, it finally got them to stop jeopardizing his safety even further, but the concern never went away, possibly been made worse,—they were definitely curious what was going on—and were still bad at hiding it in other ways. Like their constant glances. The occasional question or attempt to pull him into conversation. Or the way one of them would sling an arm over his shoulders as if it could comfort him(or maybe it was for their own comfort. Or to keep him from running from them. Or maybe they had the misguided notion it would somehow protect him in any capacity) while Demetrius reminded himself he couldn't just rip the arm off that was touching him. He'd only get himself in trouble.

And now they waited.

Demetrius didn't like the waiting.

The eyes were still watching. The agents were still lurking. Still spying. Still ready to bring him home if he made one wrong move.

When Demetrius had left the school grounds, his jitters went with him and the buzzing sensation made his nerves edgy and his anxiety skyrocket. He expected—was just waiting—to be be found out. That he had an(admittedly simple) plan and would be dragged back home any minute.

Really, he was lucky for his group. How far off of campus grounds would he have gotten without them? His father most definitely would have demanded he come straight home if his "friends" didn't build on the public image that was supposed to be Demetrius Desmond. That everything was fine. That Demetrius was fine. That the Desmonds were fine. That everything was normal as it had always been and always would be.

Nothing strange going on here, no sir.

Demetrius finally let his spoon sit, sticking straight up in his melting strawberry ice cream—that he still had yet to take a bite of—and let his hands fall into his lap.

It was a nice day. Clear skies, sunny afternoon, small, warm breezes, and the temperature wasn't too cold, too hot, or too humid, just right.

It was irritating and only served to worsen his mood. Here he was, sweating bullets, staving off panic attack after panic attack, doing everything possibly imaginable to distract himself, and the weather had the nerve to be pleasant and accommodating.

Why couldn't it rain? Demetrius would really appreciate it if it could rain. He doesn't know why, but he thinks it would be better. Everything is better when it's raining.

He wrung his hands absently, staring at the dish of ice cream with little focus on it. It seemed so ridiculous to be sitting here at an ice cream shoppe with everything that was going on. With everything that was going to happen soon. Every second thought that he turned over in his head was him questioning again and again how he had let himself come to this conclusion. How stupid did he have to be to even consider this option? Really, what was he thinking? This was the worst idea he could have come up with.

Desperation really did make drastic decisions.

This was going to go so wrong. He probably wouldn't even get far before he was caught. His father would claim he was sick in the head, that something was wrong with him. He'd be locked up—

His hands were shaking again.

Don'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkabout it.

One breath. Another. One more.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

And then he was moving.

Someone mentioned the time and Demetrius hardly registered being tugged out of his chair by the elbow, the ice cream shoppe left behind. Their table sitting out front was cleared off and his friends were guiding him along.

His breath caught as a fresh jolt of muted panic swarmed him, doubt cascading over him. This was a terrible idea. He should turn back, go back to square one, but he didn't have the time for that. They were leaving. They were really, really going. Demetrius was actually going to have to—

No. Nonono. Demetrius changed his mind. This was much worse than waiting. Something else! A different plan! Anything else! What was he thinking!? This was a bad idea! Very, very bad!

Demetrius' hands clenched in his pockets as he forced the oxygen to stay in his lungs and his heart in his chest. His eyes fixed on his perfectly polished shoes and the hems of his perfectly ironed pants, the sidewalk seeming to glide backwards as he moved forwards. The world spun and the fringes of his vision blurred. He swallowed and he barely felt it move past the lump in his throat.

Could he actually go through with this? He couldn't even bring himself to lift his head, to tear his eyes away from his feet. How was he supposed to open his mouth and speak? To. . .function?

He was nauseous. The bitter taste of bile seeped up his throat and threatened to bring the rest of his stomach's contents up with it. He needed to lay down. He couldn't do this, this was an awful, awful idea that he was sure some evil, twisted demon had planted in his head that now prompted his cooperation.

"You ready, Demetrius?"

He unintentionally held his breath as he realized they had reached their destination, head whipping up at the building as his throat clamped tight together. It wasn't a particularly tall building, though it somehow loomed anyway, afternoon shadows painting the face of the building darker against the tinted sky. For a building of such mediocrity, it still managed to shoot spikes of anxiety down his body and he couldn't move. His gaze fixed on the building's sign, his need for a new strategy doubling while his ability to search for one bled into the background where he couldn't reach it, and grasped clouds of fog with nothing but empty hands to show for it.

Fallon didn't react to Demetrius' lack of a response as he hade made it clear earlier that this was to appear casual. That this wasn't for him.

Too long. He had been staring at the sign for too long. Stood frozen for too long. He forced his eyes away as someone nudged him through a door.

This was it. This was it and Demetrius was about to makes things moderately better or ten times worse.

It was decided then. Demetrius had gone insane. He had gone mad from stress and desperation and now he was crazy. He had to be. No sane person would do what he was about to do. Did he have a death wish?

He almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. How was it that he of all people was breaking the rules? They were there to protect him. They kept him safe. Drilled and beaten and embedded into him until the very thought of disobeying them set him on edge and made him balk. He knew the consequences. And they didn't all come from his father.

His stomach rolled and they were being led deeper and deeper and—

And they were in a large room with bright lights, cameras facing a woman sitting at a desk.

A breath. Ano—another. Breathe, breathe, breath, breathe.

There was more talking. Lights shifting. Cameras moving. Fingers signalling. And Demetrius was moving again, being pulled along by his arm when he didn't respond to Fallon and—

Oh no, oh no, oh no. Nononono. This was going to quickly. He wasn't prepared. He need more time—

"Good evening, Ostania!" The woman greeted into the camera as the show went live. "I'm Sally Vicker and this is Twenty-Three Minutes!" The woman continued to introduce the show as a whispered argument picked up between Fallon and someone else.

Demetrius and Fallon now stood to the side of the set as the rest of his classmates lingered at the other end of the room, staying out of the way of everything. They watched curiously, waiting to find out what they were doing here. Even Fallon didn't know and she'd set this up.

Demetrius fought the instinct to run as his blood pumped too fast for the simple action of standing in place. An aching pulse rammed into his skull over and over and he kept his shaking, fisted hands safely tucked into his pockets where he didn't have to acknowledge the trembling in them. But it didn't matter. He could still feel it in his tense shoulders and legs, sprung tight as they readied to flee. He could still feel it in his breath, from his constricted lungs—he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe. His lungs were bring crushed again. Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe.

"So folks, today we have a guest! Ch—" The woman was cut off as someone alerted her to the abrupt change in visitor, more whispering between the anchor and. . .someone else.

Demetrius exhaled. He ignored the sweat gathering at his hairline and coating the little hairs standing up at the base of his neck. The lights were too bright. Too many people. Only the stage was lit, with everything and everyone else in the background, cut dark and silent. When he glanced at Fallon, she tried for a reassuring smile. It was undercut by concern and overwhelming curiosity.

"Change in plans, it seems." The woman smiled at the cameras with a little laugh and all Demetrius could think about was that he was supposed to go over there. "We had hoped to have a conversation with Charles Banks, but he couldn't make it."

Demetrius was supposed to go over there. In front of the cameras.

"Instead, surprise, surprise, we have Demetrius Desmond with us today! The son of Donovan Desmond."

Oh, for the love of all that was holy.

Demetrius couldn't help the sharp intake of breath at his name. At his father's. The woman was looking at him! She was waiting for him!

He was gonna throw up.

"Go on." Fallon whispered an encouragement and gave him a nudge that was just strong enough to urge him on. His legs felt like noodles as they found their way closer. He was going too fast. He wanted to go slower! TURN BACK, YOU IDIOT!

Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. ****, ****, ****, ****!

Demetrius couldn't feel his tongue. It felt like an invasion in his mouth rather than sitting where it belonged. His chest hurt. Why did it hurt? It was too tight. He couldn't breathe. Breathe.

A breath. Another.

He was in view of the cameras now.

Was he moving? The woman watched patiently, posture welcoming and friendly, but he could hear the confusion of why he was here. The disbelief, actually. Demetrius didn't appear in the news very often, even less in the papers as his father limited any mention of him.

Right now would be a great time to suddenly contract a malignant brain tumour and die.

Stop freaking out! This was your decision! Demetrius reminded himself, but it didn't help for some reason.

He couldn't stall anymore. He was already there, at the chair half-facing the woman, and half-facing the cameras.

Breathe.

Demetrius' legs nearly gave out and he willed them not to as he sat.

"Well, hello, Demetrius, what a pleasant surprise to see you here." She smiled easily like the blissfully ignorant hostess that she was, and she wasn't lying or saying that just for the cameras. Other than his stellar academics, the public knew so very little of Demetrius and had so little gossip about him, and Sally was more than happy to have him here. The public were greedy little things things that gobbled up whatever they could about their country leaders and their families.

Which. . .fair. Mostly.

Demetrius wasn't sure he liked that.

Numbly, he gave a small nod, managing to keep his stomach down and ardently avoided looking anywhere near the cameras.

"So, Demetrius, we don't see you in the public's eye very often. That's quite the feat considering who your father is."

Demetrius denied the instinct to suck nervously on a tooth as he gave another nod. ". . .I suppose. . ." He said and was surprised by the clarity when his tongue felt so very, horribly thick.

BREATHE. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Demetrius consciously made his muscles loosen and relax his shoulders to at least appear casual.

"I can't say I'm not surprised to see you here." She continued with a curious glint in her eye. "What made you decide to come down here, today? It was quite unexpected."

It's illegal. He told himself.

Demetrius swallowed past the growing lump trying to choke him.

People don't like it when children are tortured. Society is usually protective of their young.

"Um . . ."

RIGHT?!

If that wasn't true, Demetrius was screwed.

Taking a deep breath, he laced his fingers tightly in his lap and rested an elbow on an arm of the chair. "I'm here to talk about my father."

Sally raised an interested eyebrow. "Oh? Well, I'm sure we'd all like to hear. Donovan's political stances and his work are rather well-known, so are you here to talk about his personal life? Not much is known about it."

Demetrius hummed thoughtfully over the sound of his thudding heartbeat. He wanted to bounce his heel so badly to burn some of his nervous energy, but kept it firmly on the ground. He hoped no one noticed how shakily he exhaled as he locked his eyes on Sally's. He had to say it. He needed to go through with this. He could do this, he could do this, he could do this, he might be able to do this, he shouldn't do this, why is he doing this, he has to do this, what is he going to do if he doesn't do this? JUST DO IT!

A breath. Another. Just do it, just do it.

Steeling his nerves yet again, he swallowed, thumbs fidgeting where they crested his laced fingers as he forced an evenness into his tone that he didn't feel. "Yeah. . .there's a reason for th—"

"Hold up!"

Like a hammer taken to a window, the illusion of calm and Demetrius' hopes of pretending no one else was listening, was shattered as a man's voice carried from somewhere behind the too-bright lights. From where it was supposed to stay dark and quiet. Where everyone else was also supposed to pretend no one else was listening. At least, that's the way it should've been.

As if the world wasn't cruel enough, Demetrius' hard-won courage was whisked away like a leaf on the wind and he lost sight of it completely when the man spoke again, filling Demetrius' veins with ice.

"We're off-air!"

As if on cue, overhead lights drenched the room and illuminated the ensuing organized chaos like the words were a match lighting a fire. The clack of hurried shoes rushed across floors and cameras were fiddled with while discussions and quick orders were given.

Demetrius was tense, eyes flicking amongst the crew in slight panic. It was too early, he had barely even started!

Sally half rose from behind the desk. "Bill? What happened?"

"Cameras cut out." A slightly muffled voice called back.

"What? How?"

"Dunno, we're working on it."

Prickly nerves popped along Demetrius skin like cold water dripped into a hot pan. He searched for anything—anyone—out of place, people and faces flitting back and forth, checking things, speaking to other workers, and he couldn't differentiate from who was supposed to be there, to those who might be working for his father. Casting a glance around the edges of the room, he spotted all of his classmates that had joined him here and were assured that they were safe. He might not like or care for them much, but it'd just be annoying if Donovan tried to use them against him. They had brought him this far and a hostage situation was no way to pay them back. Demetrius would leave them if he couldn't make it work in his favour, but he'd feel a little guilty about it, and he didn't need that right now.

Demetrius didn't think Donovan would use them anyway. They were all children of influential people who had excessive avenues of investigation to pursue if anything happened to their kids. Donovan wouldn't risk it if he didn't have to, no matter how good he was at hiding things and keeping his image clean.

The random people here? Demetrius was unsure if Donovan was still under the impression that his son would care about them. Either way, it didn't matter to Demetrius. So, he was fine there.

Which meant. . .

The power went out with a loud chank! as the lights shut off, plunging the building in complete darkness. The instant quiet was deafening, like ocean waves crashing to stillness. Demetrius' senses buzzed with alarm, alertness making his hands twitch as he carefully rose from his chair, voices reduced to questioning whispers. Everyone had stilled. Perhaps expecting the power to return in another moment.

Demetrius knew better.

He felt them before he heard them, like snakes creeping in on the edges, shivers pricking at his spine that made him shudder. Really, Demetrius should have noticed earlier, but this was different. The quiet, garbled buzzing he used to hear was gone, replaced with vague, cold tingles branching up his brainstem like tiny, numbing pins of electrical ice. But beyond that, Demetrius couldn't feel them.

That wasn't good.

The agents were close. Way closer than they should be without Demetrius noticing they were there. It must be the new blockers Anya had told him about and he had no idea how close they were. Just that they were in a certain range. They were more stealthy than he'd like and he had never felt so blind. His abilities had always been a huge advantage in the dark, pinpointing minds like beacons in his own, and without it, he was afraid of what was hiding. Adrenaline produced goosebumps and twitchy muscles, phantom sounds making him paranoid. Demetrius had been taught to fight blind, to sense shifts in the air, for clothes ruffling, and yet, he felt wholly unprepared when he couldn't feel his opponents. He was missing his most useful tool and he was lost without it. Even dulled, it would be better than this.

Though, somehow, he was still ready when one of them came up right behind him.

Demetrius was almost amazed how easily he saw it coming. There was a presence at his back, a gentle change in airflow as the agent breathed quietly and softly, the friction between cloth as an arm lifted, and if that wasn't enough, the smell of strong chemicals dousing a strange hand that came towards his face.

His reaction was instant.

Demetrius was quick to hold his breath, catching the wrist in one hand and the other on the agent's collar behind him. He had practiced this move countless times before, over and over and over, repeatedly told by his father and his many different instructors over the years, how crucial it was to know how to defend an attack from behind. How to stop it before it even began and how to react without a moment's hesitation.

Despite his training, and how perfectly he'd preformed it before, it had never been so easy. It was probably the adrenaline, the unnecessary amounts of impulsive force his brain demanded he use, and the calm panic that settled in his chest, buzzing in his heart and under his skin. Either way, a body was hauled over his shoulder and slammed into the floor.

Thud!

"What was that?!" Sally was the first to call out as a few startled gasps accompanied it.

The agent wheezed.

"What's going on?"

"Is someone hurt, what happened?"

"What was that?"

"Is everything okay?"

Demetrius ignored the crew members as best he could in favour of his current situation. He wished he knew how many, or which agents. He was a familiar with some of them and how they fought.

He felt something shift and his heart skipped a beat as he narrowly avoided a kick to the stomach. (Not his head. Never his head. Couldn't risk damaging it and what it held) He gave one in turn, or tried to, but only clipped their arm. He threw his elbow out next at the neck of an agent who had snuck up behind him and was rewarded with a cry that sounded painfully strangled.

The next attack from another agent did hit and Demetrius grunted at the blunt pain, grabbing hold of the ankle before the foot could retract from his abdomen. With no time to spare, before anyone else could also attack, he determined his assailant had used their right leg by the direction of their foot, and lifted his own in response. Demetrius kicked them in the face.

The agent didn't even get to yelp before they fell to the floor, presumably unconscious. Demetrius would have to pay close attention to that. He didn't get to think too much on it as an agent was on him in an instant, arms locked around Demetrius from behind. His shoulders seized up with another spike of panic and he reacted on instinct, suddenly thankful for the almost ridiculous degree of flexibility he maintained.

Ducking his head to the side a bit, Demetrius swung a leg straight up and kicked the agent in the mouth.

"Hhgh! Not quite a scream, but breathless keening air followed the man's head as it reared back, teeth broken in and bone crunching gratingly. His grip lessened for an instant, before it tightened again, resolved to hold on.

Demetrius was begrudgingly impressed.

The first agent that Demetrius had felled was getting back to their feet behind him and a little to his right. The one with the funny smelling cloth. That would probably put Demetrius to sleep.

Demetrius didn't, couldn't, give his captor a breath between the next, and kicked him again before he could process it. The agent lost his grip, reeling back once more, and an elbow strike to the side of the agent's head had him down for the count.

Downing the man, Demetrius was just in time to catch the wrist of the first agent, the idiot, who tried the same thing as last time. Demetrius might've growled lightly in annoyance as he once more took a tight hold and flipped him over his shoulder.

Thud!

The agent wheezed.

For good measure—still holding the man's wrist as he lay on his back—Demetrius kicked up into his elbow, bone snapping loudly with a satisfying crack!

"Aggghh!"

The screaming set off more gasps and cries of fear from the crew members.

Demetrius ignored them.

The agent he had elbowed in the neck wasn't hard to miss, breathing a little ragged and raw, obviously more cautious than before as they maintained a healthy distance. Demetrius kept his gaze trained in the their general direction as he delivered a swift kick to the first agent's head. The wrist in Demetrius' grasp went limp and he let it slip from his fingers.

Demetrius held a defensive position, waiting for him to attack, and trying to listen for anyone else over the agent's rough breathing. He was unprepared for a full body tackle.

Slam!

Demetrius huffed, the wind knocked out of him as aching pain rammed along his back. He just managed to keep his head from hitting the floor along with the rest of his body and tried to work through the burning emptiness of his lungs that refused to refill.

Oxygen or not, Demetrius couldn't let the agent get the upper hand—who had immediately reached for something in their pocket—and he took advantage of their split attention to elbow them in the head. The lack of air sapped his strength from the blow, but he used one of the hardest parts of his body for a reason.

The agent was jostled, but did not let go, aborting their mission of searching their pocket to dedicate both limbs to incapacitating Demetrius.

When he forced down a deep breath, he was better equipped to elbow the agent again before the man could succeed, and managed to knock the body off of him.

Demetrius was up quickly on unsteady feet, still regaining his breath. He wasn't given a second before the next attack came in the form of a sweeping kick. Demetrius managed to sloppily dodge and nearly failed in redirecting a kick away from his ribs.

There was stirring from one of the downed agents, though Demetrius had no idea which one. They were getting up.

"Oof!" Demetrius huffed as a kick caught him in the gut, his slower than usual reaction time letting a hand get too close before he caught it. Not about to lose this chance, Demetrius pulled it towards him—unbalancing the man—stepped out of his own way, twisted the arm so both the palm and elbow faced the ceiling, and brought his elbow down.

Crack!

"Aggghhh!"

Demetrius brought a knife hand down on the back of the man's head and he collapsed, unconscious. Breaking the agent's arm may not have been necessary, but Demetrius was maybe feeling a little vindictive.

He distantly wondered if Sally would continue their conversation after this. If the station would let it continue after this.

The air shifted, the sound of fabric shifting, as less than stealthy movement—the agent must be a little off-kilter—aimed for Demetrius. He was almost too late dodge the kick and ducked in the same motion to sweep out the agent's leg from under them. She fell with a short gasp as the wind left her. She was already leveraging herself up by her elbows, if the sounds were any indication, and Demetrius lunged forward. His hand met her head and he bashed it into the floor.

Whack!

She had the sense to grab onto his wrist and Demetrius held her other hand down when she tried to retaliate. He straddled her waist as his fingers dug into her skin, clutching at her pinned-back-hair for a better hold. He tugged her head upwards again.

Whack!

Her breaths seemed stilted, too stunned to take a proper breath. Demetrius had no trouble, strung high on stress and adrenaline as he was. It tore through his blood and made him jittery, all his senses and nerves on fire, lit like sparklers that fizzed and danced as if they were alive, jumping around like hyper-active children, a force of it's own. His grip was maybe too tight where he held her down, his force too strong on her head, but he didn't care as he pulled her head up again and—

Whack!

Her grip weakened on his arm, though still struggled and failed to throw him off, feet scrabbling for any sort of leverage. The skittery, squeaking sound of her shoes broke up the stillness between hits.

WHACK!

Her finger's last vestiges of strength loosed from Demetrius' skin and they slid away to fall limp on her chest with a dull fwump. The resistance of her opposite hand ceased and her legs stilled where they also fell quiet. She wasn't moving anymore and Demetrius was sure there was a bruise on her skin as he released her. With paranoia set deep in his bones, he waited for another moment, half-expecting her to do something. To wake. When she didn't, he got to his feet, listening. On edge.

Silence.

Of those who remained in the room, no one moved. The deathly quiet hugged Demetrius' ears, too absent of noise to be comfortable. There had to be something else. He wanted to believe he was done, that the threat had passed, but he couldn't believe it 'til he saw it.

He sucked in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He was not out of breath, but amidst raging nerves that fizzled uncontrollably, it helped ground him as he stood there. Waiting. Listening.

Another breath, clenching and unclenching his unsteady fists.

Despite not sensing any other agents, Demetrius strained to listen for them anyway. He wouldn't hear their minds, but he searched for their thoughts that indicated they worked for his father.

And then the lights came on.

Chank!

As Demetrius blinked and adjusted to the brightness, the first thing he noticed were initial sighs of relief and an assurance felt by many of the people.

Until they turned to startled screams.

The second thing Demetrius noticed were the unconscious agents—three men and a woman—most of them bleeding in some way, and a couple arms laying at weird, unnatural angles. They were all still alive.

. . .

Maybe.

The third was Sally crawling out from under her desk who took in the scene with horror, not unlike some others that had stuck around. For some reason. Seemed like a stupid thing to do, but whatever. These news people must be really dedicated.

Deeming the area clear of any more agents, Demetrius crouched down and found the agent's pager in one of her pockets. The green dull light filled the small screen and he typed in a message that should buy him some time.

004 secured.

He tiredly let it drop to the floor and trudged his way back to the chair that looked more comfortable than it had when he first got here.

Nervous shifting was heard all around and a few whispers were slowly growing in quantity as people hesitantly returned to the room. There was no point in asking them if they were okay. The agents had left them alone.

Demetrius straightened his uniform half-heartedly and sat, flopping his head against the chair's back.

"Someone call the police!" Sally called out and Demetrius couldn't decide if he was annoyed that she was making things difficult, or grateful that she had reminded him to tell everybody not to do that.

"No." Demetrius sat upright in his chair. "Not yet."

"Wh—Demetrius, you were just attacked!" She looked at him like he'd suggested children should be allowed to play with dynamite in a forest fire.

"I'm fine. I'm not gonna get another chance like this. Especially if you call the cops." He didn't quite growl, but it was a near thing.

Sally blinked, the room gone quiet to pay rapt attention. The hostess glanced to the bodies again, to Demetrius, to a couple particular people in the small crowd that were congregated behind the cameras—some unspoken rule seemed to have passed between them all to not approach the crime scene—and back to Demetrius. Another flick to the downed agents and the teenager, recalling the reason for his appearance on the show.

It wasn't hard to understand.

"Your. . .father?" Sally said hesitantly, eyebrows reaching for her hairline.

Demetrius only sighed heavily and sank back into the chair.

He waited patiently when she took a moment to absorb that. Instead of questioning him further, Sally seemed to have made a decision and cleared her throat, standing up straight and smoothing out her dress with prim professionalism. She caught someone's eye in the crowd and immovable stubbornness incarnate stared them down until they did what she wanted.

A loud, heavy sigh was very clearly heard, though the man's words held no reluctance. "Someone drag those people off set and find some duct-tape and a mop. Ready cameras one and two. Check the lights." He called out and people got busy.

As Sally returned to her seat behind her desk, Demetrius watched the ceiling, giving in to the urge to bounce his heel against the floor. He buzzed with a different energy than what had flooded him during the fight. That nauseated and lead-filled feeling had returned at full blast. At least fighting had felt somewhat familiar, however terrifying it was when there were actual consequences, and not this uncomfortable anxiety eating at him like a parasite.

He heard the heavy scraping of multiple people pulling away the agents and the audible skriiiit! Of duct-tape being unrolled. The wet slap of a mop made quicker work of the floor than he had ever witnessed.

Turns out, news people—that don't work for Donovan—don't like being shut down when a possibly corrupt politician and child abuser/kidnapper is about to be exposed on live television.

There was a reason Demetrius had chosen this company. Fallon's father, the owner, refuses to do business with Donovan and it doesn't hurt that it's out of spite.

"Ready?" Sally directed at him and he realized people were giving them cues to pay attention. The back area was dimmed once more so only those on set were illuminated.

Demetrius nodded and repositioned himself.

They were given a signal.

"Welcome back, Ostania." Sally greeted with a muted smile, hair perfectly resettled, clothes immaculate, and her disposition perfectly composed as if she hadn't just hidden under a desk while Demetrius had been breaking bones and people were screaming bloody murder just moments before. "We apologize for the disruption, there were some technical difficulties, but we're nothing if not persistent." The small barb at Donovan didn't go unnoticed by the room's occupants as she turned to Demetrius. "We're here again with Demetrius, and we were talking about your father, I believe." She spoke easily with practiced grace, but Demetrius was sure he wasn't imagining the spiteful persistence behind her words. Her tone was more subdued than earlier as well. Less cheery and more determined in a quiet, calculating sort of way.

He was glad she was letting him decide how this conversation went, instead of diving right into the deep end and divulging to everyone what had just occurred.

He nodded.

"We hear a lot about politics and world-views from Mr. Desmond, but really, there's so much we don't know about him." Oh, Sally was definitely picking a fight with Donovan while simultaneously—and seemingly innocently—asking Demetrius to spill everything. Resting her elbows on her desk and lacing her fingers into a bridge, she rested her chin on them. "So, Demetrius, are there any skeletons hidden in your father's closet?"

"No. Most of them are in the ground." Demetrius answered evenly.

Sally's chin jerked up from sitting on her fingers, to hovering just over them, and continued to stare at him. "I'm sorry. . .what?"

"Hm?"

"They're in the ground?"

"Yes?"

"You mean. . .family members that have passed?" Her tone conveyed she warily hoped it to be true.

"Oh. Them too, I guess."

"Uhh. . ." Sally adopted a strange face, something between confusion, skepticism, curiosity, and mildly disturbed that Demetrius wouldn't have been able to decipher if he couldn't read her mind. "What do you mean by that?"

"You asked about my father's skeletons."

"Yes, but—" Sally sent a quick glance to someone. "I meant figuratively."

"Right." Demetrius decided to keep his answer vague.

"So. . .you were speaking figuratively as well?"

"No."

". . .I see. . ." Sally said, though she very much did not see and she didn't like the bad feeling she was getting. "Is that what you came to speak about?"

Demetrius shook his head, swallowing down the nausea and the waver that would try to bleed into his voice. "No. . .um . . ." Now that he was here, he had no idea how to start! How did he do this?! He wove his fingers tightly together, one elbow set on the arm of the chair. He refused to show he was nervous on camera. "Or. . . well, sort of, I guess. My father has a lot of secrets and that's one of em', but I probably don't know the half of it. The ones I do know, he doesn't like me sharing." He gave a meaningful glance somewhere off-set where he last saw the agents being dragged off to.

Sally paused, noticing his line of sight. "Oh. . ." She breathed, eyebrows raising and keeping most of the disturbance off her face. She seemed conflicted on how to continue, internally debating if she should ask about the "skeletons" again. "And. . .what doesn't he want you to share?"

"Um. . ." Demetrius willed his tongue to work his lungs to breathe, and willed the tremble to stay out of his tone. He shouldn't be saying this. This was a stupid idea! Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it— "He's involved with illegal institutions that conduct. . .um. . .human experimentation. . ." His voice went softer than he'd like, but at least it didn't waver.

Her jaw went slack and Demetrius was suddenly flooded with disbelief and bewildered horror from most, if not all, in the room. It smothered him in it's disturbed skepticism.

He tried not shift nervously in his seat.

Sally's wide eyes slid to the side again, towards the agents, and back to Demetrius. A healthy cynicism still lingered, the part of her that wanted to believe that it was too outrageous to be true, but a bigger part of her guessed that it really wasn't. "And what makes you say that?" Sally's voice had gone quieter, though it remained strong. "Do you have proof of this? Have you. . .seen this?" She asked, waiting and hoping with little belief that the accusation would be disproved.

That question was the very reason that Demetrius was here, but he found himself pausing. Stalling. An innate part of him demanded he keep his mouth shut before he could speak and ruin everything. Fear and anxiety reminded him of the rules that kept him safe. This was the worst time to doubt himself, but there was a reason for all those rules, he should listen to them. There was a reason for all the lies and secrets and unending lectures that taught him to keep those rules. They protected him. They kept him safe. He shouldn't break them.

Donovan had given him a shield to hide behind. He had seamlessly woven Demetrius into society with threads of lies and bolts upon bolts of fabrics so he would blend in. So Anya would blend in. As long as they remained hidden and silent, as long as no one knew anything, they would be safe.

But they weren't and he had to remind himself it was why he was here. That might've been the case if they didn't have his father to contend with. If everyone who already knew of them, who wanted to harm them, who could exploit them, were dead. For as much as Donovan ingrained in him the importance of anonymity and the disaster that would follow if Demetrius was found out, the greatest risk came from the very people who created him.

Staying hidden and silent was a double-edged blade, it seemed.

And, really, what could anyone actually do—the police, the SSS, the public—that could possibly be worse than anything he's already experienced? He wouldn't give away his deepest of secrets, not directly. The SSS would be suspicious and W.I.S.E. would dig their claws into this as far as they could. After this, one misstep could have massive consequences, but—

With a breath that did nothing to steady him, he held Sally's gaze in his own, afraid he'd lose his nerve if he didn't stare his fears in the face.

"Yeah. . ."

'Safety is overrated'. He tried to calm himself, though by his still shaking hands and his queasy stomach, it didn't work.

"I saw it."