DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Training; basking in capabilities, unfurling, reaching, reaching, reaching for ways to outmaneuver, outlast, and a likely place to error without control. Oliver admitted to an impulsivity in his drawn illusions and capabilities, in the way fire manifested from his mirages and fabrications, in the pretenses, in the notions of a friend’s terror. The beast’s eyes glanced off elsewhere, pondering the circumstances, and continuing to give no visible reaction. Except Deimos hadn’t encompassed such experiences in his life: precision and control, constant, unleashed warnings, and no feeling, no glimmer of sorrow, of anything other than acrimony when it had to be unleashed upon a foe. They’d had their chances. They’d had their opportunities. They’d had their moments to run and flee. But it sounded as if this was not a similar case or accord – merely foolishness, a juvenile precedence, a showing off, without the art of regret until it was too late. So instead of rampaging further down that road, as Oliver had already admitted to a rash, emboldened response, fanning away from clarity until far later – here and now, the piercing, puncturing depths of his eyes riveted solely on the youth again. “Are you ashamed of how you used your magic?” Because if so, then they could apply, alter, and change how it was utilized.
