Author's Note: Hey, world. It's been ages and ages since I tried my hand at a "chapter fic," and even then it was only four chapters long. This one is going to be longer. Much longer.
This is an AU fic about Organization XIII and a war. If you don't like AU, you shouldn't read it. If you don't like authors taking creative liberties with your favorite characters, you shouldn't read it. If you don't like fics about war, don't read it.
There will be yaoi. It's hard to avoid yaoi when twelve of the thirteen characters you're working with are male. If you don't like yaoi, don't read this fic. Chapters with blatant smut will be labeled as such. Expect Luxord/Demyx. I can't really guarantee what other pairings will crop up over time, but LuxDem is my favorite, so you might as well expect it, lol.
However... if you do like AU fics, if you do like yaoi, and if you do like Organization XIII in a different light than their canon selves, then by all means, read on, and enjoy, and if you feel up to it, leave me a review at the end to let me know what you think. I'm pretty excited about this project. :)

Disclaimer: Oh, they're not mine. They've never been mine. But I can play with them sometimes, can't I? :P
The title of the fic and the lyrics at the beginning of each chapter are from Greenday's "21 Guns."

Do you know what's worth fighting for,
When it's not worth dying for?
Does it take your breath away
And you feel yourself suffocating?

Chapter One - Welcome

The sun was setting. It had already sunken far enough so as to change the colors of the surrounding world from golds and reds to deep, rich blues and greens. The moment between twilight and nighttime was a particular favorite of Demyx's, and so he stood amidst the tall buildings of the city and breathed in deeply, relishing, for a moment, in the knowledge that his day's work was done.

It wasn't so much that he hated working, or even hated his job; on the contrary, ever since he had found himself homeless and abandoned two years prior, he'd been searching for steady employment. And he'd finally found it, with a small but growing group of war protesters known simply as "the Organization." The man who had first approached him about the group had introduced himself as Xemnas, then smiled wryly, assured him that this was only a code name, and asked him if he agreed that this war against the Light Country was pointless. At the time, Demyx had been running away from a line of soldiers he'd thrown stones at, and he was glad for the dark-skinned man's good timing. He escaped to the Organization's home base, and had been doing protest work ever since.

And he enjoyed his work, really, but he was tired. Xemnas had sent him out every day for two weeks with some new assignment, and he'd had no days off at all in that time. So, although he was due back at the headquarters in only an hour, he told himself he needed his "me time" and relaxed in the cooling night air. He hoisted himself onto a low wall and sat there silently for a few minutes, watching the navy blue shadows as they slowly darkened into blackness.

The city was quiet on the particular street along which Demyx had been accosting people all afternoon, trying to win over anyone and everyone to the cause of simply avoiding the war. He knew that only a few blocks over, the nightlife would just be beginning to heat up, and the bright lights would soon be illuminating all the hotels, restaurants, gambling halls and brothels that took up four full streets in the bustling place. Townsend was the biggest city in all of the nation of Shici, and at night, Demyx thought it was just magical.

It was such a shame that the Shician way of life was so threatened by this war.

Demyx had always lived in Shici, and in fact had never left it, but he'd often heard stories about the Light Country far in the north. The country was said to be a place where no nightfall ever came, and where the shadows never lengthened past twilight. Magic was supposedly very common there, and the ruling family were all well trained in the art of swordfighting. Three years ago (in fact, it had been on Demyx's sixteenth birthday, and he remembered it well), the Prince of Light had married his sweetheart and they had become the new rulers of the Light Country. They were only a year older than Demyx, but soon become the most celebrated couple throughout many nations.

And then, last year, the Princess of Light had been murdered. The Prince grew enraged after her death, and swore vengeance for her untimely death. A series of political endeavors gone horribly awry led the Prince to believe the nation of Shici was responsible for his lover's death, and so it was that, for the past six months, the war had been tearing the nation to pieces, and Demyx had been shunted around in the middle of it, trying to make his small, squeaky voice heard over the clash of weaponry.

Now he sat, watching the last of the gray light twist away toward the horizon, and listening for the distant sounds of people laughing and talking merrily as they pretended, in the glory of the big city, that there was no fighting taking place in their country, and no soldiers knocking on doors even now, dragging unsuspecting young men away from their homes and forcing them to fight. He hated those soldiers, and was happy evading them with his fellow protesters. Fighting, he understood. But he only fought for what he believed in, and he did not believe in a war full of wrong accusations and a lack of either side making any effort to just listen to each other.

As he sat on the wall, thinking idly about all that had transpired in the short time since the day he had first met Xemnas, he became increasingly aware of the sound of a scuffle not too far away. Heavy boots shuffled through the gravel, and male voices were raised accusingly, though Demyx could only catch snatches of what was said. Something about foreign currency? He hopped down from the wall, clutched his remaining few fliers to his chest, and inched slowly down the street toward the source of all the commotion.

The noise was coming from behind an archway that led into what was, most of the time, a peaceful little shrine, rarely touched by any other than the most devout (and most quiet) Shicians who lived nearby. The stone archway was the centerpiece of the shrine. Within its rickety old fences, there stood several columns carved of the same type of stone, some of which were breaking and chipping from existing since ancient times. Moss had reclaimed two of the fallen columns, and was beginning to grow up over the archway, as well. Demyx was fond of the place, and thought of it, on his more creative days, as a metaphor for what he hoped Shician life would become again someday... quiet, calm, pastoral and free. Unfortunately, as Demyx scooted closer to the archway, it seemed that even the shrine had lost its peaceful quality. A few muffled thuds and a cry that sounded as though it had been almost entirely forced down told Demyx that something quite troubling was in the air.

"Hey!" he shouted into the night. "What's going on, over there?"

A soldier, dressed all in the burgundy and dark green of his low rank in the military, stepped around from behind the archway, leaned heavily on the crossbow he carried as a weapon, and spat onto the ground. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with, pretty boy," he said.

Demyx folded his arms over his chest. "Thanks for the compliment," he retorted. "Sounds like somebody's getting beaten up over here."

A second soldier appeared, dragging a flailing man by his short hair. "Hey," he said, on spotting Demyx, "weren't you that kid out here recruiting for your stupid little protest gang earlier today?"

"No," said Demyx. He knotted his fingers tightly over the fliers hidden against his side, and thanked the nighttime silently for its shadows. "What'd that guy do wrong, anyway?"

"None of your business," said the first soldier.

"He's living here without permission. He's not Shician. For all we know, he could be from the Light Country," said the second soldier.

"Do I sound like I'm from the Light Country?"

Demyx quirked an eyebrow. The man's accent was surprisingly thick, but much classier than any voice that ever came out of the Light Country. "Not to me you don't, Friend."

"Thanks, mate."

"Shut up!" said the first soldier, and he flung the man away from him. The man made a strangled "oof" sound, but clambered shakily to his feet. Demyx noticed that he wavered slightly, so he crossed over nearer to the soldiers (taking a deep breath as he did so), and offered an arm for support.

"Stay out of this, civilian," the second soldier barked. He leaned an arm lazily on the hilt of the sword he carried, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Demyx or the man at his side.

"Down with violence!" Demyx shouted suddenly, surprising even himself. "Down with fighting! Peace! Peace! Peace for all!"

"Damn protester!" the first solder snarled, raising his crossbow. At the same moment, Demyx flung the stack of fliers he carried directly at the soldier, startling him just long enough for Demyx to firmly grip the upper arm of the man at his side and take off running at top speed away from the shrine and the soldiers there.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" the man asked wildly.

Demyx gasped for breath but did not stop running. "Saving your ass, Friend," he said. "You can thank me later."

The two men ran together, down narrow side streets and alleys which Demyx rushed into as if by second nature. His feet knew where he was going, and that was well enough. His head was too busy worrying that every sound of footfalls close behind came from the soldiers, hunting their prey. Despite the burning in his lungs and nostrils and the ragged wheezing of the man he was trying to help, he barreled onward, and did not stop until he cut into a slight crevice between two run-down old buildings. He scooted sidelong into the opening, tugging on the other man's sleeve to urge him to do the same.

"I won't fit," the man said, plain and more than a little pathetic. "You're much thinner than I am."

"I'm not," Demyx panted. "Believe me, you'll fit. A couple of our group members are like small giants, and they squeeze in here just fine."

The man shifted nervously from one foot to the other, then sighed and said, "Well, you're far easier on the eyes than those oily soldiers, so..." He inched between the buildings as well.

Demyx led him a short distance before he leaned on a series of rickety boards propped against one of the buildings, and it gave way to an entrance. Tugging the other man inside, he shut and bolted the door hurriedly behind him. "There," he said. "There. You're safe... finally."

But the man was not listening to Demyx at all. Instead, he stared, mouth hanging open as he tried desperately to catch his breath, eyes wide at the sight before him. The room was full of mismatched old furniture strewn haphazardly across the dusty floor. Maps, blueprints, and handwritten plans littered four low card tables stationed against each of the four walls, and shelves lined with books, strange mechanical items, and empty Erlenmeyer flasks teetered precariously near each table. And throughout the room, sitting on the tattered furniture or bent over paperwork, were eight people, who had all turned accusing glares toward Demyx and the intruding stranger.

"I can explain!" Demyx piped up, putting an arm around the man's shoulders.

"You better get started, then," growled a redheaded man who sprawled longways across a vomit-yellow armchair across the room.

Demyx rolled his eyes. "Listen. Some soldiers were beating this guy up just because he's not Shician. I had to do something, so... I brought him here. He can help us! Right, Friend?" He whipped his head around to look at the man, who nodded fervently in response.

"That bleeding heart of yours is going to get you into trouble one of these days," said a man with thick, heavy braids from where he was penciling in some kind of information to a chart hanging on the wall.

"We're war protesters, Xaldin." A man with long blue hair tied back into a loose ponytail chuckled lightly and nudged the one who was writing on the wall. "We're all bleeding hearts."

"Hush, Saix. All of you," said Xemnas, who had been standing nearby and scrutinizing Xaldin's work. "If Demyx saw fit to bring this man into our midst, then we must believe he's made the right decision. Where are you from, sir?"

The question had been addressed to the stranger, but he was not paying a great deal of attention, and in fact tugged on Demyx's sleeve at about that time and said, "Demyx? Is that your name?"

Demyx blinked. There was that accent again. It hung there, in the way the man said "Deh-mix" instead of "Dih-mix." Lovely, thought Demyx. Really lovely.

Aloud, he said, "Huh? Yeah, that's me. Well, that's my code name. And this is Xemnas... also a code name. And he just asked you a question, so maybe you should answer it?"

The man blushed almost imperceptibly and bowed his head low. "Apologies," he said. "What was the question?"

"Where are you from?"

"A nation far to the west of here. Hintberg. It's small; likely you've never heard of it. And I'd rather not explain how I ended up here, either, but let me assure you that I am not from the Light Country."

Xemnas idly tossed his hair back over his shoulder. "I can tell that much. Do you have a name you'd like to share?"

"Rould. Rould Wilkinson."

"Well," said Xemnas, "best not stay attached to that name. If you're staying with us, you've got to live like us, and that means a code name. Let me think... Rould, was it?" He drifted off into muttering to himself for a moment before he said, "Luxord it is, then."

"Luxord?" The man scowled.

Demyx poked him. "Xemnas thinks it's better if we make anagrams of our real names. It's easier to hide that way, and the soldiers and the law enforcement... well, they all hate us. We're not exactly peaceful protesters."

"There is no 'X' in Rould," said Luxord.

"There's no 'X' in Demy either," said Demyx.

"Your name is Demy? ...Bit uncreative, that, isn't it?"

Xemnas huffed. "He insisted on it. Anyhow, Luxord. We oppose the Shician war with the Light Country and we will stop at nothing to see that it is ended once and for all. We cause riots. We make messes. We don't kill, but we do destroy. Do you think you can handle that?"

"Of course," said Luxord, without even stopping to process the full gravity of the question.

"Wonderful," said Xemnas. "Welcome to the Organization, Luxord."