Summary: How many ways can Albel find to distract himself from thinking about or admitting that deep down, he is capable of having normal, human emotions? He also needs distracted from who they're for in the first place. Cliff/Albel. Albel/Fayt

Rated M for shounen-ai / yaoi sexings, mild language, and violence.

Word Count: 3,700

Disclaimer: Rights to the characters and worlds borrowed for this fic belong to Square-Enix and Tri-Ace and not to this lowly authoress borrowing them.

Distractions
Tactic Two: Travel

Albel Nox, age 24. Captain of one of the three militaries of Airyglyph, the Black Brigade. Whenever the population would talk of the best swordsman in the land, his name would be the first spoken. During the Airyglyph-Aquaria War, his ruthlessness and cruelty earned him the title Albel the Wicked. He'd helped temporarily tame the Marquis of air dragons, Crossell. He'd taken a shot from a Vendeeni disrupter gun and lived. He'd traveled in ships going through space, something his people had never dreamed of. He'd aided in fending off the threat of the Executioners. He'd even gone to the fourth dimension and helped defeat the Creator, Luther.

And right now, he didn't think any of that would matter.

His crimson-eyed glare was fixed at the ruins of the tiny transporter ship, the Calnus, as the flames engulfed the metal. It had crash-landed at the outskirts of what looked like a rather large city. He looked around, unwilling to walk away from the ship and into the unknown.

The computer had told him before diving into orbit that the planet was called Tartaris. It had also given him a string of numbers, the system and sector it was in, but it was all unfamiliar to him so he had no care for it. He vaguely remembered it also saying that it was not part of some federation; he knew that was bad, at least.

The city itself reminded him of 4D Space a little. The burning ship, if it wasn't burning, could have belonged here, or have been built here. It was one of those advanced planets, like the ones Fayt and the others were from. The thought gave the Wicked One slight comfort, but was still wary about leaving. The shuttle was the only thing he was remotely familiar with, and had been a gift…

But the only way he had a chance of getting off this strange planet and back home, back to where he was known and his accomplishments mattered, he had to venture out into that city.

His slender legs carried him down a paved walkway, his usually scowling face successfully hiding his curiosity as he glanced about. His skirt swung about him, the bottom hem a whisper of a touch at the middle of his calves, touching the tight fabric that went up to mid-thigh. His metal arm was casually resting on the handle of his beloved katana, the Crimson Scourge, his sharply clawed fingers hanging off the end and safely out of the way. A slim violet shirt clung to his lithe torso, failing to hide trim muscles and revealed his thin stomach. A thick metal collar protected his neck, its short chain extending only to his collarbone. His hair was black, the tips blonde, the longest strands falling to his shoulders. It was unruly with no style, save for in the back where his hair came down to mid-thigh and was tightly bound into two tails.

He observed all. He noticed that every single person's gaze was on him as he walked. The street had grown quiet, the peasants now whispering to their neighbors behind their hands or into little objects they held. It became worse the farther he went; he wasn't sure whether to be proud or unnerved by it.

He instead took to ignoring it, pondering his dilemma. He was in town- now what? Who should he talk to- who could even help? Maybe ask someone who and where the one in charge was, but everyone looked scared and like they wouldn't talk. He knew his usual tactics of persuading people to talk were out of the question, since it would get him in trouble and maybe even killed. (And would be even worse when his friends at Quark caught wind of it.)

His attention came back to reality, legs stopping. The faint hum of whispering stopped with him. No one bothered to try and hide their stares. The Glyphian's temper steadily began to rise. They were looking at him as if he were a freak, something not human and belonged in a sideshow or circus. His jaw tightened, controlling himself.

It finally hit him that this couldn't be an ordinary city. They all looked the same, the people. All similar, right down to the colorless clothes they wore. They shouldn't look at him like they were, and shouldn't be so quiet…

It came into view. Ahead, coming toward him. A straight tidal wave of black, a perfect line covering the entire street's width. As they came into focus, he realized they had to be this planet's soldiers. Another wave of déjà vu swept over him, remembering the soldiers in 4D Space. Panic set in then, turning around to run back to the shuttle. He was fast, he could make it-

Or… maybe not.

Trapped between two lines. What could they possibly want? He'd just crashed his only transportation, he hadn't been there long enough to cause any trouble. He was innocent, for once.

He quickly gazed around again. Their stares were relentless, never once looking to the oncoming soldiers. They looked even more the same, and it killed him a small bit on the inside at just how blatantly ordinary these people were. They all looked as if they were all made from the same cookie-cutter factory; it was almost scary.

The black clad people came to a halt, making sure to keep a safe distance away. He now felt like an animal, running rampant out of its cage and about to be forcefully captured again. He glared at the line of men before him; black visors kept him from seeing their faces. His right hand slowly hovered over to the handle of his sword- he definitely wasn't one to go down without fighting.

"Who are you?" asked one of them.

He couldn't pinpoint who had said it. Nonetheless, he decided it would be better if he cooperated for the time being. Swallowing any sarcasm he had to offer, he dignified the strangers with an answer. "Albel Nox," he said levelly. "I'm-"

They cut him off. It was the same voice that had spoken before. "What is your business here?"

His temper flare for a brief second at the rudeness but was able to cover it. "My ship crashed just outside this city a while ago. I was hoping-"

"So you have no specific purpose on this planet?"

Albel glared; it was the one in the very middle, apparently the one in charge. He disliked being interrupted more than once. He was beginning to get a bad feeling, one he couldn't describe- gut feeling, if you will. This questioning wasn't going to end well. "No," he pressed.

There was a pause before speaking again. "Do you know any of the laws on this planet?"

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course not, maggot, I just said wasn't from here, he wanted to say. "No."

Another moment of silence. "Well… You seem to now have business here."

He wasn't able to comprehend what he'd meant quickly enough, couldn't react as his arms were jerked back behind him. His head whipped to the right, and over his shoulder he watched himself become handcuffed. Two soldiers were there. He immediately pulled at his restraints; they were thick. There wasn't any way he could get free. "Wh-What the hell?!"

The one he suspected was leading the operation stepped forward, coming closer. Albel practically glared daggers at him. "You have broken the Law of Uniformity. You are out of bounds with your… attire. Your entirety will give our people wrong ideas." There was a pause of silence. "I'll put it you bluntly, Albel," he said, sneering his name. His voice gave away that he was smiling. "It is against the law for a man to traverse around in female clothing. It's even worse that you're completely trying to-"

"This is an OUTRAGE!" Albel screamed. He struggled again against the handcuffs, wanting to at least free his claw and strike this man where he stood. How ridiculous was that law? "I am NOT trying to look like a woman of all things, and on my-!"

A fist connected hard with his jaw, instantly shutting him up. His head flew to the right, feeling both his jaw and the vertebrae in his neck crack sickeningly. He stayed in that position, wide-eyed and staring blindly at nothing.

No one ever treated him like some commoner, not Albel the Wicked. Seething hatred burning in his eyes as he slowly came back to look forward again.

"Welcome to Tartaris," he said smugly. Albel opened his mouth slightly, subtly moving his jaw to make sure it wasn't broken. The commander seemed to take pleasure from this, chuckling quietly at it. He then turned his attention to the two behind the Elicoorian. "Take him away. And be sure to get those ridiculous clothes off and cut his hair."

One of them shoved him forward to get him moving, but he dug his heels into the ground. He wasn't about to leave when he still had something to say. His gaze could rival the fiery pits of Hell at that point.

Of all the things he wanted to say, he went with the more simple. "It's rude to ask someone's name and not give your own," he growled, reigning in his anger and hatred.

The soldier mulled it over before speaking. He saw no harm in it. "Ragin Mathers."

A sadistic grin spread across Albel's face. "Well, Ragin," he said. "I'll see you in Hell." He walked past him without casting another glance at him. The line of soldiers split so he could pass, his escorts not far behind.

He barely caught Ragin say as he went past, "So I will."

He was smirking all the way, suddenly feeling better about the predicament he was in. He was pleased to see fear and uncertainty now in those ordinary stares-that was more like what he was used to. Even handcuffed and being hauled off to prison for something as silly as having long hair and wearing a skirt could he still strike that lovely look into people's eyes. He supposed he should have been cowering in fear in front of Ragin, crying like a little bitch and at his every mercy, he presumed from these new transformed stares. Surprise, surprise folks; it was probably the first time they'd ever seen anyone say something so daring and vulgar to his face, all the which making him feel even more better.

Ragin Mathers… He had humiliated one of Airyglyph's finest captains; it didn't matter if he was on Elicoor or not. Where he was from, Lord Ragin deserved no less than death by his hand. And death Lord Ragin would get, Albel vowed. At some point before he left to resume his original mission…

He was daydreaming all the ways he could torture and kill Ragin as he was hastily shoved into a transporter shuttle. It bugged him not in the least, this new low-flying mode of transportation, and paid no mind to the new world zooming past him. His mission had finally gotten interesting, something he hadn't counted on- now he had to break out of a foreign prison, find and kill Ragin Mathers, and then find a way off the planet, all without getting caught. Interesting indeed.

He was squished in-between his two escorts uncomfortably, so he was thankful the trip wasn't long. The amusing mental-video of Mathers being introduced to an enraged Crossell was cut short as he was shoved back out the shuttle. His annoyance spiked again, for being practically manhandled- maybe these two would also die at his hand later on- and having his perfect daydream interrupted.

But as the two goons got ready, he looked around his new surroundings. They were in a wide fenced-in area, and there was a rather large building little ways away. The walls were bare and beige-colored, save for the lone dome in the very center. The fences were chain-link and high, high as the building itself, and the barbed wire was a sitting mess at the very top. The small field they were in was also bare dirt, and no one was around but themselves. The Wicked One supposed this place was exclusively for those coming in, being dropped off here, since there were no means of escape.

They came to his sides again, pushing him forward to get his going. "Go on," the one to his right said menacingly. "Don't even think of trying to flee."

His eyebrow cocked; they were un-cuffing him, and they weren't snatching away his prized sword. Odd… He figured they'd at least take his weapon.

"Why aren't you disarming me?" he asked, his voice low.

Neither glanced at him. They were only a few feet away from the door now. It was the one on the left who spoke this time. "So you can defend yourself and have a chance of survival."

The answer made Albel smirk. The door was opened for him, allowing him inside. He pondered over that last response. Just taking from that, he already figured how this prison was. The rest of this planet, with its ridiculous people and laws, were merely a façade. Inside this expansive building was where the real people were. And having a taste of the so-called 'laws', he figured there were at least several hundred people inside. But being stuck within the same walls for an extended period of time would have its consequences; many would be reduced to behaving more like animals rather than human beings. He rested his claw again on the handle of his blade, glad that they allowed it to stay at his side.

He felt a small speck of respect now for these minions. Maybe they didn't need to die, after all; they had been just obediently following orders like any soldier, like those who worked under him back home. They were letting him keep his Crimson Scourge, letting him fight so he could live and escape. He mentally scratched them off his 'To Die' list and continued on.

He was led over to a small open window in the wall – all the walls were the same dull, creamy beige. The window itself came up to his height perfectly, and behind it was a woman at a computer. She was another one of the manufactured humans, insignificant in every way. She gave no expression upon seeing the three of them approach, sliding the glass to the right so she could be heard clearly.

"Name?"

Albel felt a sharp poke at his bare waist. "Albel Nox," he grunted.

"Planet?"

"Elicoor two."

"Someone violated the UP3… But that doesn't matter." She continued typing into her computer, never once looking up at him.

Albel stood there slightly puzzled. UP3…?

She finally looked over at him, eyes looking him completely over, as if taking in every detail. "No need to give his offense…" she said lamely.

His scowl deepened.

"Colonel Mathers already called this one in, so the accommodations are set." The typing stopped. She reached over and grabbed a pile of clothes, the fabrics colored black and crimson, and handed them through the window. Albel curled his nose at them. "He made a point to get you some respectable clothes and scissors, but I'm afraid the haircut will have to come later."

He begrudgingly took the pile, though he was sure to ditch them as soon as he had the chance. He chose to ignore the comment about his hair.

"He's waiting in the next room, so you two are dismissed." She looked to the Glyphian as the two soldier escorts walked away. "Through the double doors to your left. Mathers took it upon himself personally to show you around," she said with a false sweetness.

The entire situation was grating on his nerves, but he was able to contain them as he went without another word for the doors she indicated. And another meeting with Mathers? Joy.

As he approached, the doors automatically opened before him. His memory stirred at the simple action but quickly pushed it away so he wouldn't fully recall it.

And there stood Mathers, casually leaned against the right wall with his thick arms folded together. A smirk was wide across his lips, practically laughing at the Glyphian.

"I decided to show you around our esteemed prison myself," he gloated." It's not every day I do this, so you should consider yourself honored."

"You should consider yourself grateful you are still alive," Albel bit back.

The colonel laughed heartily. He pushed himself off the wall, opening the next set of doors for his guest. "Right this way, inmate."

Albel stepped past him, glaring until he walked into this new room. The ceiling was high, the room large, and the smell of sweat and blood filled his senses. Along every side of the room were 3 levels of walkways, and dotted along each walkway in the wall were doors upon doors of iron bars. The noise was atrocious, the men and women yelling – so much yelling… Guards in the same solid black armor as the ones he previously encountered were stationed every few feet away from each other, holding various guns at their waists, heavily armed and ready for anything.

He was shoved forward, taking in the room was over. "Keep moving, Nox. You're not home yet."

He was led across the concrete floor, the expanse seemingly endless. He so badly just wanted to stop and swing at the smug maggot leading the way, but held his wishes bitterly in check. Guards moved out of the way, slight nods of acknowledgment to their superior as they passed. They came to a door on the other side of the room, a large metal square that slid into the wall instantly as they got close. On the other side was identical to the room they were leaving – more cells, more smells, more screaming.

This room, he was veered to the left and up the stairs, up to the third floor and to the center of the room, when he was finally stopped. To his left was his very own cell, equipped with a measly cot, a rotting toilet, and a rusty sink.

"Your new place to call home, Nox." Mathers said loudly. "I'd suggest you change into your new outfit soon – Don't want to give the others any funny ideas.

"The rule here is that there aren't really any rules. Here in a few, the cell blocks will open, and inmates will run free of the place for a while. Anything goes here, which is why you are allowed your weapons. Only the strongest here are able to survive until the end of the day. We don't care who dies, we don't mind cleaning up the mess even. One less mouth to feed, we say!"

And with a ruthless, booming laugh, the colonel slammed the cell door shut, the lock automatically clicking into place. Albel's fantasies about giving the man a slow, torturous death renewed tenfold as he walked away out of sight.

Finally left alone, the Wicked One became aware of his new surroundings. Every detail of his cell was analyzed carefully, down to every hole in the stone brick walls. He came to the barred door of his cell to look down into the common area. There was a vast amount of guards, all wearing the same cold black armor, all fully armed with complex guns he did not wish to be on the receiving end of.

He did vaguely wonder how their armor came to be so shiny, and if he could give the same treatment for his Black Brigade at home…

A small trash can near the foot of his bed was where his new clothes were promptly thrown. He was in prison, what else could they possibly do? He glanced around his cell again, nose unconsciously curling in disgust at its condition. Though he couldn't really complain – the dungeons back home weren't much better. He supposed it was different this time, as now he was on the receiving end of the distasteful accommodations.

With a sigh, Albel sat himself on the edge of his cot. His predicament was finally sinking in – he was in prison, with no transportation off the planet. Meaning he wouldn't be able to search for the Diplo. Meaning he couldn't go home.

There had to be a way…

A loud, obnoxious alarm sounded throughout the compound, startling Albel from his melancholy. Cell doors were slid open, including his own. His body went into alert, immediately grabbing his katana. He kept himself seated, waiting for the worst. He watched from afar, as those who ventured out from their cells made their way downstairs to the main floor. The noise quieted as people left – Albel wondered about food and drink, but didn't dare move.

Time flitted by slowly. The brunette didn't once venture from his cell though the door was wide open. He took to listening, observing from afar the yelling, the screams, the laughter. Eventually the sounds began to come back in to fill the room once more. Albel had taken to pacing his room to just get up and move by the time his cage was sealed shut.

He got onto his sad excuse of a cot, not caring to take anything off his person. Sliding the Crimson Scourge still within its sheath from his belt, the cot sunk under his weight as he crawled over to the corner. There he sat against the walls, facing the front of his cell, cradling his beloved katana and ready to unsheathe it at any moment.

The prison had grown quiet. The screams and laughter, the business from earlier had calmed. It had been replaced with different levels of snoring and the muted whispers of those who dared behind the guards' backs. But the calm felt false – Albel was still on guard and aware, adrenaline running through his veins to keep him awake.

He had no intention on sleeping. The Wicked One had better things to do, namely to begin his plans to escape this hellhole.

VIABLE DISTRACTION TACTIC? Yes.