"The Persuaders - Chapter 2" by Laura de Lange

2. The Caregivers

Damien heard the bangs sound loudly through the air and he shrinked further into his hiding place. The air around him seemed to buzz as people moved around in a frenzy, but all he could see was a blur of legs moving in front of him.

A little while later, when the tide of legs had lessened to a mere trickle, a head made its way into his line of sight.

“Hey kid, what you doing down there?” the face asked. Damien looked at the man, and shrugged. He seemed okay, but you never knew.

“Come on out. The crisis is over … well mostly.”

He shrugged again, but started moving out from under the table. The man stood up from where he was kneeling and absentmindedly dusted off his knees. Looking at Damien, he started dusting him off too, until Damien shook of his hands.

“Okay, okay!” the man said, holding his hands up in the international sign for defeat, “I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

He started walking in the direction of the door, obviously expecting the boy he had ‘rescued’ to follow. Damien shook his head in disgust at the arrogance of adults, but hurried to catch up to the man anyway.

“So, you involved in this mess?” the rescuer asked as the boy fell into step beside him.

Damien shrugged once more. “Maybe.”

The man nodded, increasing the length of his stride to step over the rubble that had fallen into the road, probably from one of the blasts that had occurred earlier. Damien looked at him curiously. His clothes were not exactly expensive, but not rubbish either and he had an air of intelligence, and knowledge of that intelligence, about him that most slum people didn’t have. Yet, he looked totally at home in the mess that was Damien’s abode – the streets. He made a mental note of that, often the Caregivers had that look, and Damien didn’t want any trouble with the law. Or with the stupid Directory trying to ‘make his life easier’ while just trying to gain control over the people on the street.

But the wasn’t leading Damien to one of the safe houses which often took orphans that the Caregivers brought, but rather into Draygon territory. Damien stopped dead; earning him a glance from the man he was following. Seeing Damien’s countenance, he sighed and stopped too.

“What?” he asked.

“Why are you bringing me here, man? You wanna get me killed?” Damien asked.

“No, it’s my job to protect you. For Emancipation and Safety and all that. I’m taking you home,” was the reply.

So he was a Caregiver, working for the government, trying to brainwash people into thinking they actually care. And this was just another clever trick.

“No way. I actually like being alive,” Damien said, turning around.

“So you don’t live here? I just figured with your eyes and hair … well, you can’t really be a Furen, can you?”

He was right, Damien wasn’t a Furen, but he just wasn’t a Draygon really, either. He was both, an unfortunate mixture of his mother and father. But in this war you have to choose sides. So in Draygon territory Damien was a Draygon and in Furen he was Furen. Well, that was the theory. In reality, in Draygon he was treated as a Furen prisoner and in Furen he was a Draygon. Tonight he was just really sick of it and wanted to go back to the Directory head office and find a soft piece of ground. At least it was neutral-ish there.

“Okay, your choice,” the Caregiver said with a shrug in his voice, seeing the direction he was taking. Once they got to the big fountain that signalled the centre of the town, and the government buildings that surrounded it in a circle, the waved to Damien and made his way into the building to the right of the Courthouse. Ha, Damien had been right. The man was with Social Services. He made his way to the ocean of bodies around the fountain, planning to find a spot on the outer edge. Since it was summer, it was nice getting a little fresh air on the outskirts, but in the winter it was good being in the middle of sea for warmth. But when he got there, he didn’t find the subdued, organized hierarchy he was used to. There was a boy with light brown hair sitting on the edge of the fountain, talking animatedly and there was a mob listening to him.

“… and it’s not right. This war has nothing to do with the colour of your hair, we all know that we are all the same inside. This war is only about gaining political power, about lording it over the others. The Draygons want to be in control of the Furen and the Furen want to be in charge of the Draygon. I just want this war to stop.”

Damien watched him; fascinated at the way he talked. He was obviously not from the streets. But he didn’t seem self-conscious of that fact, there was passion burning in his golden eyes that Damien had never seen before. This boy had a purpose.

He went to talk to the boy, to see if he could have a purpose too. He blinked at Damien, looked at his darkish hair but light eyes, and gave him an address in the poor Furen side of town. He told Damien to be at the meeting by nightfall in two days time.

Damien had gone to the meeting. The people there were mostly well to do and they were talking about these fancy ideas and ideologies. It would never work. So he left.

Damien, gasping for air, leaned against the wall, watching the blood run down his knife. He was hoping that no one could see him in the shadows, and it seemed no one could. He watched the pair closest to him fight. Squinting through the dusk, he recognised Roberto, his mentor and friend, struggling with a Draygon officer. They were fighting dirty and he absently wondered where the officer had learnt to fight. His attention, however, was brought back to the real world when Roberto issued a throaty scream and launched himself at the officer. The officer was ready, though, and pulled from his leg another knife, which went straight through Roberto’s chest.

The officer, panting, looked around to see that all the men they had been fighting were dead or gone. One of his compatriots came up behind him, looking down at Roberto.

“Is he dead?” he asked the officer.

To which the officer replied: “Unless his heart is situated somewhere other than the left side of his chest, yes, I think he has stopped living.”

Damien fled from the building, not paying any heed to the tears mounting in his eyes. Roberto, his only protector, was dead. Now he was on the run and had nowhere to go.

I know sometimes it feels like you have no place to go and nowhere to run, but remember; you will always find sanctuary here.

The phrases sprang from his memory and he remembered the meeting of the Persuaders and the promise Nightshade had made.

But no, he had done terrible things. He had laughed at the Persuaders, scorned them for throwing themselves into the war, and then found himself with no choice but to start fighting, only two months later. He had joined the Furen guerrilla fighters at Roberto’s urging and had found the companionship and acceptance he had always wanted, but had rejected at that meeting only two months earlier. And what had he gained? A lot of skill in war, not life, and blood on his hands. No, he could not find sanctuary at the Resistance.

But his memory had not finished taunting him. It threw another phrase from that meeting into his thoughts.

Whoever you are and whatever you have done, we will be here for you.

‘Fine,’ he told his memory, ‘I’ll go to the house we had met. I’ll see if they’ll take me.’

The stars were shining brightly and Damien marvelled at the light they were providing. His feet moved silently, just as he had been taught, and in no time at all he was in the small courtyard of the headquarters of the Resistance. Looking up at the old building, taking in its shabby state, he wondered who owned the house. He took a deep breath, gathered all his courage and knocked at the door.

The reply was immediate.

“Who’s there?” A soft voice queried.

“Umm … Damien,” he said, and then, remembering the name they had given him at the meeting, added, “Mercury.”

There was a pause and then the door swung open.

The light coming from the entrance hall momentarily blinded Mercury, just as it had confused Rage and Chill before him. It was part of Driftwood’s defence strategy, anyone who had ill intentions could be stopped at that point. Blade, who was guarding the door, quickly ran experienced eyes and fingers over Mercury’s body, removing all three weapons he still had on him. Then he was dragged unceremoniously into the house. The door shut with an echoing slam.

“Okay, I think that’s all of it. Thanks, Silver; give that to Blade to do some reconnaissance and intelligence. He’ll know to do all the checks,” Driftwood said, looking wearily at Mercury who was sitting in front of him and the kitchen table. They were both nursing a cup of tea in their hands and Mercury showed signs of his recent battle and his even more recent visit to Autumn, who was in charge of Headquarters and the Medicals. Driftwood really wanted to believe that Mercury was sincere, but after the amount of close calls they had already experienced, he knew they had to double and triple check every one. This was a three-pronged approach; Blade and his Intelligence Sector would do an extensive background check, often lasting a few days of intensive work for three or four skilled members. Simultaneously Driftwood or Nightshade would constantly be questioning the possible member, sometimes doing it in a controlled situation, other times it was seemingly casual. The continuous questioning, especially when tired or weak, made it almost impossible to keep up lies the prospective Resistance fighter might have concocted. Lastly, Achilles, a violent but fiercely reliable member, would test their ‘pain threshold’ while asking them questions, to see if they would break under torture, and if they had managed to hide anything. Achilles’ methods often made Driftwood sick to his stomach, Nightshade coped with them well, but he had to admit their efficiency. After the three stages had been completed, no member would betray the Resistance.

But Mercury … he had gotten his name for his ability to change. Would that change be used for the good or the bad of the Resistance? Driftwood decided he’d let Blade get started and maybe even Achilles. He would talk to Nightshade and see what she had to say. But if she agreed, they might have another highly trained member.

“It’ll be okay, Mercury. We’ll work things out; we’ll care for you, my boy,” the words of comfort sounded hollow to Driftwood even as he said them, but Mercury grabbed onto them and refused to let go. It was to be his only comfort in the rough week to come.