“Merry Christmas, Damien.”

Mom delicately gifted him a cute black box a little bigger than the width of his palm. A finger traced over the simplified logo on the lid which had a reflective sheen so he could see his own face, his own eyes, and he could not recognize the emotion in them.

He shared a brief glance with his mother—his kind mother, a woman who’d see good in the Devil even—and saw the eyes that she would always have around him: pure maternal love. And a deep sadness.

The box opened to reveal a beautiful necklace: a chain that had more sparkles than the cleanest springs and a red, diamond-shaped gem as the beautiful main-piece.

More expensive than he would've liked, honestly, and he opened his mouth to joke about that but he met his mother’s eyes again. He was reminded of the weakly-concealed grief and took a moment to come up with something else. “It’s a pretty thing,” he decided.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said, smiling in melancholy.

She didn’t say anything else. Mom knew that he said what he said out of obligation, out of respect and courtesy expected between son and mother. And he knew that she knew. She knew all of that outside the parentheses. That was the fact of the matter of their poor relationship, caused by the innate biological barriers created since birth, what had happened in the past, what Dad wanted.

Damien was excellent at many things but intimacy wasn’t one of them. Close relationships. Knowing how to maintain them. Knowing how to mend wounds that cut deeply into the metaphysical heart.

Mom tenderly touched his shoulder and peeked at his younger siblings. Didn't keep a close relationship with either, spoken to them only a handful of times in the given year. He could take Mom's gentle touching as a subtle acceptance of where they stood, and doubly an urge for him to fix that. To prevent the same separation that had befell both of them. For Latham's and Phoebe's sake.

With a silent nod he shut the box with a firm clack and found the first of his younger siblings: the youngest of the Fayer three, Phoebe. Sixteen, wasn’t it, now? Junior year of high school, preparing to take the first steps for college. The System awakened and as expected, her Growth Potential estimated her as a high-ranker but he didn’t know the exact rank and number.

He stepped over to her with the same smile, one that Alexander considered to be irritating, holding his Christmas present in his sweater pocket.

Phoebe lounged on the comfy couch in the wide living room, unable to be torn away from her phone as her manicured fingernails rhythmed against the screen. Texting your friends, huh? Normal teenager things. I honestly wish I had that: nothing but high school drama of figuring out who to go to prom with. That sounds fun.

She hadn't changed since the last time he met her. Unlike Damien's hair, which was two-tone of black and red, she was all flames like Firebrand. Cut them short, and Mom lamented the fact because she thought long hair fit her daughter better—but like normal teenagers, rebellion was in season and 'tis the time to be fierce. But that was Phoebe normally: she had always been fierce, inherited that aggressiveness from Dad. Although her head was small and her nose was a dot, she naturally had an intense way of looking at things with those striking, slant eyes. You felt challenged from a glance, threatened from a glare.

Her personality reflected that, succinctly summarized in a single word: tomboy, she was a tomboy.

She could probably beat Damien in field hockey or lacrosse, and beat him horribly.

If Phoebe resembled Dad, then Latham, hilariously enough, resembled Mom with his baby-face.

But none of them were as much as their father’s son as Damien was.

Damien fiddled with the box and turned to the Christmas movie playing on the TV. He watched it at least a dozen times. “Do you think you can do that?”

“Do what?” Phoebe asked, her throat growling.

He gestured to the TV. “Turn your family home into a deathtrap.”

She shrugged excessively. She wanted him gone. “I dunno.”

“I could do it, probably.”

“Yeah, I know you could. Prolly enjoy it too.”

Ignoring the not-really-subtle jab, Damien thought to turn to another subject, “Are you thinking about college yet?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“Which one catches your eye? You could attend an Ivy League, maybe go into Fine Arts, or study abroad and study in Germany or Iraq or South Africa.” But not Ordo. You don’t want to be anywhere near me. “Or…” He smacked his lips. “...You could attend Haven College?”

Phoebe scoffed in utter disgust. Yup, Damien knew exactly how to provoke and get people's attention. But it wasn't enough to get his sister to look away from her phone. “I don’t wanna go anywhere near that place. If I wanna get sexually assaulted, I'd—” She paused, “—I’m not gonna finish that sentence.”

Damien laughed. She had a good sense of humor. “If it’s any consolation, no one has assaulted in me in Ordo.”

“Because you’re a man.”

“True, but I’m referring to more of uh…” Damien motioned to his face but Phoebe still wouldn’t look at him. “...physical assault.”

His sister opened her mouth to comment but bit her lip afterwards, eating those words.

That was not the reaction he wanted.

“My education is going well,” he switched again, knowing it’d be impossible for Phoebe to talk about herself. “I’m still planning to pursue a master’s in fundamental magicks. I haven't decided if I want to pursue a Ph.D but despite everything, Ordo’s treating me kindly. It’s a better city than I imagined.”

Phoebe wasn’t paying attention to him.

He was stumped. People were enigmas in themselves. Psychologists unanimously agreed on little regarding the human mind, trying to advocate for their own perspectives: psychoanalytical, cognitive, behavioral and humanist, citing Freud and Jung and Rogers. But most of all, little knew how to crack the psychological framework of teenage girls. Specifically teenage girls whose ancestors were demons.

Unsurprisingly there were no studies done regarding that demographic.

He’ll try again later, then, when the family was together and not existing in the same space.

Damien didn’t turn around and look for his mother—he’d rather not meet her gaze again—and went into the kitchen. Where he met the middle child leaning against the counter, a beer in one hand and a chip in the other, eating the cheese dip on the counter.

Despite the soft features he inherited from Mom, including the dark hair, Latham was a strong man. Most of his strength was cultivated by Dad. His gray eyes were laser-focused and attentive; he could look at a picture once and tell you ninety-percent of the details with perfect accuracy. His taut shirt was a second skin, revealing muscle and physique that most men wanted. But despite that, Alexander still had a bit more muscle than him. Weird, wasn't it? The power of genetics.

Latham studied his brother carefully and it felt like an insult.

Damien ignored it and fetched a beer for himself. “Last time I remembered, you’re not twenty-one,” he remarked.

Mildly annoyed, Latham sighed, grabbed the bottle opener and popped the cap off for his brother. “Last week, I was fighting this bear-thing that had tentacles. Since I risk my life on the regular, I think no one's going to care if I’m a year away from the legal drinking age.”

“You have a point.” They took a sip together as if acknowledging the tension in the room. “Does Phoebe hate me that much?”

“More than you imagine,” he answered factly.

A mumble escaped Damien’s lips and he had no clue what emotions he was feeling. So he took another swig to drown his current problems.

Like all the other times, awkwardness was a third-party and Damien had enough of awkward quiet moments so he asked, “What does Phoebe want from her life?”

Latham shrugged, glancing out the open doorway. Phoebe was on her phone still but Mom had joined her at the other end of the couch. “I don’t know. Work’s keeping me busy, and besides she won't tell anyone anything. Except for Mom, maybe. She’s basically a stranger to us.”

And I imagine she blames me for fracturing our family. “I hope she says safe and does well with her life, then. Even if I’m not involved in it.”

“Yeah.” Latham drank the rest of his beer and tossed it in the trash. He sniffled, rubbing his nose on a sleeve. “How’s OU? The Guards giving you any trouble?”

“No, not after the last time. The most trouble I’ve gotten is with high-rankers inside and outside campus. Like last month, I ran into a high-ranker from outside the city while I was getting lunch. She kept glaring at me like I murdered her dog or something, so I quickly got my order and ran out.”

“I’m guessing that’s not the end of the story.”

“Of course not. She followed me out and I had to survive an impromptu interrogation because she, reasonably, thought I was suspicious. I tried explaining to her that I’m Duskfire’s son but it took multiple forms of identification for her to believe me. What about you? Any troubles at work?”

“Other than the usual subjugations or dealing with shitty bureaucrats or contracts?” Latham shook his head, frowning. “Nothing. It’s business as usual. I’m still the TL to the Blazing Bullets. Dad says I still have a year or two left before I can take on a bigger leadership position if I want it. And by ‘bigger’, a platoon or something. Maybe a company.”

“Are you still planning on taking over his position?”

“Haven’t decided. And honestly it depends on what the Guards want." In the first place, it wasn't the Guards' choice to give the Chief Slayer position to our father. But he's too good of a resource to squander. If I were you, I'd keep my head up because they have personal plans for Dawnfire. "I’ve also been thinking of entering ESOC and see what happens there.”

“Please don’t say you want to join the Demons.”

“I genuinely thought about it.”

“I’m glad you’re willing to tell me unlike someone we know.” Damien glanced at his sister again. “What about Mom? How's she doing?”

Upon mentioning her name, Latham soured. “You’re smart enough to guess.”

It was obvious but Damien hoped for a better answer. Dad and Latham spent more time outside the house—outside the country, really—with their duties as Otherguards; meanwhile, Phoebe was distant and standoffish. Finally there was Damien himself who purposefully distanced himself from the rest of his family.

So Mom was here, alone, having nothing but her work. As her husband and middle child risk their lives everyday, her oldest son absent, and her only daughter emotionally disconnected.

A modern day tragedy. You couldn’t come up with a worse punishment to a wife and mother.

Damien felt for the box again. “You’re a better son than I am.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to give her a call once a month.”

But what can I say to her? I have nothing to talk about, and I don't know if I can survive how uncomfortable it'll be. “I know.” There's nothing I can share with her. Not after all this time.

“It doesn’t have to be anything deep or personal. She’ll be happy hearing how college is coming along, or you rambling about your friends in Econ—what were their names?”

“Alexander Shen and Leona Ahn.”

“Yeah, them.” Latham lowered his head. “Do they know?”

“No.”

“Good. Maybe you can get one of them to speak with Mom. She just needs people to talk to. Who knows, Phoebe might come out of her shell.”

“To your lips to God’s ears.”

***

“...Come in.”

Damien opened the door to his father’s study. A room lined with shelves, stuffed with textbooks and bulging binders, and somewhere in here had classified documents. At the back sat dusty filing cabinets, probably haven't been opened in weeks. The carpet was still scratchy against his feet, and his father’s desk was as unorganized as ever.

Yes, this was exactly as he remembered. This was the office belonging to the Chief Slayer of the American Alliance: Ignatius Fayer, Duskfire.

A man where little could endure his eyes. They produced a mountain of pressure as though you were standing on the bottom of the ocean floor. He had his arms to his side, frustrated, a phone in his left hand. Damien traced the scars that ran into his sleeve before meeting his father eye-to-eye, unfazed. He hadn’t groomed his beard in a long time, and there were gray hairs sprinkling into the charred scarlet color, illuminated by the overhead lights.

Their demon blood resonated with one another, like predators acknowledging fellow predators.

“Work follows you even on Christmas,” Damien said, deciding to peruse through the bookshelves for any interesting tomes.

“What do you want?” his father asked in a snapping tone. He had that tone with almost everyone with the exception of Phoebe and Mom: authoritative, serious. Comedy was non-existent in his eyes.

Mom had always told Damien that he inherited Dad’s sense of humor. But that disappeared once the Guards came along.

“I wanted to talk to you.” Damien found a book about the Second Golden Age of Islam and Africa, which took place after the Slayer Emergence. He plucked it out and skimmed it absently. “I don’t know what but I figured we should. It’s what sons and fathers do. We can start with Ordo. You can start with work. Complain as much as you want, I despise the Guards almost as much as you do.” We can say they’re the cause of all of our problems.

Dad frowned and threw his phone onto his desk, scrolling through the System afterwards, checking his messages and whatnot. “Have you spoken to your mother yet?”

“I have. We talked about a lot of things.” We couldn’t hold a conversation for one minute, and I’m sure you know that. “She gave me my present early.”

Damien dug out the box and tossed it.

His father caught it without looking, saw what was inside. Briefly his expression wavered to show just a sliver of humanity before it disappeared, destroyed by the demon named Duskfire. He tossed it right back. “Don’t lose it.”

“I won’t.” Damien tucked it back inside his sweater, returning the book back to its proper place. “Have the Guards acted up lately?”

“No more than the usual,” he responded, typing something on the floating blue keyboard. “Did you have any encounters with the eight-fourteens since last time?”

“Not a whisper. My life's peaceful thanks to you. Not to mention Ordo has always resisted the Guards, and that won’t change any time soon.” I have friends in high places. One word and I can also have Angels staring daggers into them.

“Good. They need to be reminded of their place.” Says the man who was put in chains until the day he’s no longer useful to his masters.

As the thought was made, Damien bit his lip and couldn’t look at his father anymore. It wasn’t fair to think that. You could attribute blame to everyone and every action that led to this sorry state of affairs but the ones who’d lit the fire were the Guards, and they had no intention to snuff the flames out.

For the Fayers and anyone else they could control.

That was one of the curses placed on this family and one of the reasons why a conversation was so difficult between him and the man known as Ignatius Fayer. The Guards had killed him and created a thorny rose called Duskfire.

It was a pity to see him exist in this state.

Like always during these occasions, the Fayers existed in the same quiet space that should be extravagantly animated with Christmas carols and the artificial sounds of a crackling fireplace, speaking fondly of the past, present, and future, wishing for another beautiful year in this gorgeous world.

The sounds of a ticking clock reminded Damien of reality.

They had nothing to say to each other.

That was how it was.

Nothing will change that. Phoebe will always resent her older brother. Latham cannot reverse what has been made permenent permanent. Mom will continue reminiscing of halcyon days. Duskfire will give his life to the world as it is contracted of him.

And Damien will live freely, as per his father’s wish and their family’s loss.

Damien left Manhattan, New York City, a couple days after New Years and returned to Ordo.

In the couple months approaching the Ordo Outbreak, Damien could never bring himself to call his mother as Latham advised him to do, and he kept her necklace contained within its box, untouched, collecting dust on his desk. On numerous days he saw articles and posts online about Duskfire and Dawnfire and carried along thinking nothing of it.

He focused on his own education. His own dreary, boring future.

Then on one fine afternoon…

“Fayer, this is the longest time you went without a word,” Problem said while they accompanied a transport to the designated location.

Damien didn’t look up to greet the child. He preferred staring woefully out the passenger window observing nothing in particular. “Why did you say anything if you wanted quiet for the first time?”

“Because we’re almost there,” he told him, putting on his hood and concealing his immature face. His voice changed immediately, like the first time Damien met him back in Black Paladin. “Be on your best behavior. Despite the exciting cast of characters this time around, you’ll be the star of the show.”

“Ha.” Since High Dominion’s attending, I should expect an exorcism as my welcoming gift. “Don’t worry, I’ll play nice with the high-rankers. There’s a reason why Monarch wanted us specifically. Or, and not to insult you, me, most of all.”

“I’m sure you’ll gloat once we find out.”

Today, the Problem Children would aid Royals Guild in a subjugation of an unknown monster deep within Darkrealm’s Hold. Monarch, Levin, and Mark Hugo (Fusil) would be present, alongside High Dominion, a high-ranking Slayer Team within Angels Guild specializing in faith-based magick.

It was going to be an exciting one.