Aaaargh, what is with Fanfiction and the inability to retain italics? I always have to check and tweak them before submitting a new chapter. Lame. Let's improve the document system, admins.

So... tired... haven't slept in days -.- I must finish this story...! Two more chapters plus an epilogue! The one prior to the ep will be enormously long. Urgh.

As always, I appreciate your faves, follows, and reviews. Thank you all so much for your awesomeness :)

-Silent-Protagonist

()()()

Dawn could only sit still and wait.

Where was Cyrus? Jupiter? The guards? Anybody? She by herself in her room, the only other living soul in a close proximity being her Piplup, who was pecking at the lonely white bedspread that Dawn was perched upon. She'd not been called on all day long; Cyrus had informed her that he was inspecting prisoners today but that he would be done by late morning. It was already noon, and there was nothing. Jupiter had brought her breakfast that morning, but she'd ducked out of Dawn's room before the girl could even utter a word, appearing distraught and tormented. Everyone was acting so erratically, and Dawn wished she had an answer as to why.

Sighing, the young trainer clutched at the edges of her pink coat. The clothes from Cyrus were not yet back from the laundry. It had been several days. Were all the grunts doing their loads at the same time? She shook her head and glanced over at Piplup, who was whining in a tone that designated hunger, as it was lunchtime. Dawn didn't have an appetite. The lack of human contact was starving her of not food, but of friendship.

For some reason, she thought of yesterday, and she was consumed with a chill that was not present when she dreamed of Lucas. Cyrus's eyes had not been the dead, barren wasteland that they'd been so many times before—when he was inside her in the very beginning, thrusting against her, so emotionless and so cold that Dawn wished she'd die without that staid, detached face burning into her conscious. Instead, they were animated and pulsating with something that Dawn could not place. It hadn't been wild, unconditional love like she'd seen directed to her so much by Lucas, nor so crazy that Dawn did not think that Cyrus was going insane. He'd watched her the entire time as she'd played with her Piplup and spoke solemnly to him with a sense that made Dawn realize that he believed everything was falling apart—that he, of the world's abhorrent men, was out of control. That was what he desired all along from her, after all—the upper hand, dominance above a girl that he once regarded as a sexual object.

Yet that was changing—everything was changing. Cyrus was no longer the director of her fate, the final scene in her tragic production; it now seemed as if it was he who relied on her to reach out and touch the scarred, lost soul that was hidden beneath the ugly façade that he lived. There was something about the troubled mind of Cyrus that magnetized her, drew her toward him as if she were a thirsty beast to water. In the past, before they had connected on a deeper level, Dawn allowed him to drink from her without hesitation, scared that this was the only path out and that he would provide no leeway for anything else—and if he did, Dawn would stand and run without looking back and reunite with Lucas, like how things were supposed to be.

But now, Dawn could not leave the Galactic leader. The way he'd kissed her yesterday, so vital and imploring, frightened her to a point that she never thought could shake her. He was dependent on her. Cyrus needed her, and Dawn was oddly not bothered by that. She loved Lucas with everything she had and everything she didn't, but this man was not the rapist that he'd once been. Their relationship was not one of master and slave, as he'd intended. The roles were reversed—the kiss had said so, opening up to Dawn and placing the life of its owner in her hands.

And as much as she wished to reject it, she needed Cyrus just as much.

She reached back to touch the French braid in her hair. Jupiter did not do it as well as Cyrus.

The gentle hissing of the electronic door to her room filled the room with its subdued stealth, but was quickly overpowered by the blur of a rushing human form racing inside. Jumping from the unforeseen movement, Dawn grappled for her Piplup and stood up to see, with enormous surprise, Cyrus himself turning to close the door behind him. Dawn opened her stunned mouth, about to say something, when he whirled around and she was met with the most disheveled, beaten appearance of the man she'd ever seen. Blood trailed on his lips as he sneered, wincing in pain, baring his teeth and displaying an enormous gap where one of his teeth was missing. Red handprints were evident on his neck, stinging over his pale flesh.

Dawn was alarmed. "Cyrus!" She cried, rushing over to him. She put down her Piplup, the danger passed, and reached out to touch him softly on the face. "What happened to you? Who did this? Did—"

"Is it true?" He gasped, his voice wounded and raspy.

Blinking, Dawn frowned. "Is what true?" She asked, not understanding his broad question. Pulling the sleeve of her coat over her knuckles, she rubbed a smear of the cherry liquid from his mouth. Cyrus jerked his head back, his nostrils flaring from the searing pain. "Please don't do that," Dawn begged. "I'm just trying to clean you up."

"Are you with the boy?" Cyrus clarified. His cheeks were sunken, exposing his already prominent cheekbones further. "Answer me."

Dawn drew her hand away and gazed up at him with perplexity and a vague impression of terror. What was the right response? If she lied, would he become cross with her? Did he value truth? No, he couldn't. He'd been living a lie up until this point. But there was nothing left to hide anymore—Dawn knew that Cyrus was now emotionally powerless. Too long he had held back against his humanity, and it was beginning to rebel.

"Yes," she said finally, after a hesitation that was too long. She braced herself for a blow, a shout of reproach, or a punishment that she feared would be sexual in nature—but it never came, for Cyrus slumped back instead, appearing abandoned and downhearted at her confession. The panic in his countenance developed into misery, the guise of a man turned down. Dawn was beside herself. His cryptic gestures and corollaries made her as bitter as they did confused.

"Very well," Cyrus swallowed. "I should have known. Come. We must get out of here." He enfolded her hand in his and tugged as he pivoted to leave.

"Wait, wait," Dawn said, yanking away. "What is this all about? Why must we go? What's happening?"

Cyrus turned his head, his manner soft. "You are still a girl of questions," he muttered. "Curiosity is a great thing. So very great."

"Cyrus, what's the matter?" Dawn was growing more and more frustrated with his erratic behavior. "Who hurt you? I thought you were inspecting prisoners."

"I was," Cyrus said. "They rose up while I was… speaking to that friend of yours. Two of my grunts are dead, and the entirety of the men's wing has possibly stormed by now. They will overcome this base within a short hour. I do not have nearly enough manpower on my side to contain a riot that size. I must escape with my Commanders. I called them all on the way here to fetch you." He held out his palms and stared at them blankly, fascinated with their calloused lines and blistered fingers. "Your… he knocked out my teeth with a pipe. It was he who started this, and he will also be the one to end it."

"Cyrus, I can't go," Dawn said quickly. "You know that I can't leave. I have a family. If I ran away with you…"

A reflective pause. "Yes," Cyrus said, drawing out the word as if it were golden. "You're right. How did I not know that? Team Galactic is through. This… everything is over." He threw a look behind his shoulder at Dawn, and she was stricken how vacant he was. "I've lost, Dawn. I can't go back. Diagla, Palika, the shadowy Pokemon… a new world, my new world… is it all gone? Yes, it is. There's no more hope. Oh, I had hope with you, girl, so much hope. And now…" Cyrus's bottom lip began to quiver, his suppressed emotions threatening to burst his tight seams. "… I have failed. My plans mean nothing. They've meant nothing for all this time, and I did not notice."

Dawn started to remember that night when Cyrus took her to his office to stargaze with his jacket around her shoulders, marveling at the night sky like reminiscing lovers who had no business being up at that hour. He'd told her almost everything, his dreams of being a physicist as a boy and how if he did not succeed, space and time would vanish to him. Dawn had worried even back then, as they explored beyond an association that was not solely based on one of them, that he would regard himself as a failure. She chose Lucas over him for practical reasons—between a psychopathic, ill-advised madman who clung quietly to every shred of outward charity and a young man her exact age who loved her and wanted nothing but the best for her, the decision was obvious. Cyrus knew that as well, which was why he was not embittered.

But she wasn't sure if he could handle any more solitude.

The door opened again, and Cyrus took one step across the threshold. Dawn endeavored to search for something to say to make him stop, make him stay just long enough to say goodbye. She doubted that once he passed through that doorway completely that she would see him again. Right as he lifted his second foot to move forward, it hit her—and she blurted out without a vacillating thought.

"Never forget my face," she said in the words of Cyrus himself the day they'd truly met, "and I will never forget yours."

Cyrus pulled to a stop. Dawn heard him intake a breath deeper than the fathoms of Lake Verity, and he responded, sounding very far away. "Does that sound like a deal?" He echoed.

Dawn controlled the tears welling up behind her eyes. "Yes, it does," she whispered, a precarious smile spreading over her lips.

"I am in love with you," Cyrus said, surprisingly calm, his back to her still. "I wasn't back then, but I am now."

"I know," Dawn rasped. "Thank you."

Cyrus did not look back. He walked out—not just of the room, but also out of Dawn Hikari's life, a chapter brought to a swift and painless end. As if she were frozen solid and the summer sun thawed her, Dawn's body snapped into motion as she ran out behind him into the hallway of the grunt's quarters, ignoring the cries of her Pokemon. He was gone, disappeared into the yowling frenzy of half-naked, sweating men as they caterwauled and flashed by Dawn in a stampede so fierce that she could not fixate on a single one of their faces. She stood, observing the uprising of proletariats, so out of place in such a colorless, modern facility, not sure of what she was feeling.

Blank. She felt blank. A slate not drawn upon; unlike Cyrus's, which bore the faint sketch of an amateurish Piplup.

"Dawn!" She heard a faint but familiar voice cut through the hollering of the many men interspersed with a few equally untidy women, their area of the prison having been released as well. Dawn turned to the location of it—and saw the flare of the red beret she loved, perched upon the head of a blackened face, one functional diamond eye sparkling with happiness. The boy dropped the lead pipe he was holding, clattering on the ground with force as he broke into a dead sprint toward her.

When Lucas enclosed her in his arms, Dawn began to cry.

()()()

Faster, he told himself, faster! He had to run—he would be trampled otherwise, and no prisoner would care if he was the one beaten beneath the soles of their bare, dirtied feet. In fact, most might relish in such an action, and might even stop to crush his skull in with their heels. They all wanted Cyrus Akagi dead, for it was him who had imprisoned them all in the first place. His order—and their revenge, their wrath. Perchance they had most of the exits into the forest blocked. Cyrus did not want to risk his life taking a chance that he knew was certainly not in his favor. His Commanders—he prayed that they were still among the living. Hopefully, they were able to get away as he did. Until he was safely able to slip away when the disturbance died down, he could not know for sure.

Hide—he needed to hide. He turned a corner, distantly aware of the deafening screams of the usurpers not far behind him. A door with a traditional, gleaming knob that glistened with safety greeted Cyrus, not a few steps shy of his position. Making a frenetic dash, he gripped the handle and turned, concealing himself inside the dark, stuffy room. The sterile stench was robust, perhaps the odor of open bleach or paint thinner. Cyrus gagged and slapped a hand over his mouth, trying hard not to breathe. Of course, leave it to him to get stuck in a cleaning closet during a violent inmate revolt. The fumes were just as much of a danger to him as the men.

Cyrus leaned up against the back of the door, closing his eyes amid the black, exhaling unsteadily through his fingers. He was glad that the girl had not chosen to come with him—the prisoners, after all, under the boy's command, would know that she was one of them and not an outsider to be dismembered and raped. She was safer where she was. Away from him.

Far, far away from him.

There was no warning for what followed—inside Cyrus, something snapped audibly, and he disclosed personally that it was where he had bottled his emotions for two decades, stowed for what he'd intended to be forever. But he'd let one seep out—love, of all the blasted-and now, none of his chains could conceal them anymore. Cyrus exploded in a discharge of everything that he had never felt in what seemed to have been an eternity—sadness, rage, desperation, joy, hilarity, and ecstasy pounded him with the energy of a hundred fists in unison, causing him to crumple on the floor and burst into tears and inconsolable laughter. A hysterical grin broke his muscle's singular position as his body shook with teardrops that rained from his eyes, an endless stream of cackling hurting the circular bruise where the boy had rammed him in the stomach. Cyrus held his abdomen and curled up into a ball on the floor, sobbing and guffawing until he was so exhausted that he could no more.

Never forget my face, and I shall never forget yours.

Cyrus closed his eyes as he smiled, the tone of her voice lulling him into sleep, the image of her dark eyes and silky black hair, tied back in a French braid.

I could have done that better.