Yellow! Aren't I good? It's only been two weeks between updates this time! Yeah, I'm back, with an unusual chapter today. This one isn't quite as long as I wanted it to be, but meh, I'm happy. I finally got over my writer's block for the next chapter as well! Finished it in one fell swoop, which is surprising, because it contains combat and fighting, which I am shit at writing (you'll see next time).

RECAP:
* Tori and the bounty hunters are on an Anchorage outside Galee. They have met Captain Arthur Kirkland, with whom Francis has a long-standing feud. Arthur has met Alfred. He and his crew are holding Elizabeta, a member of the Resistance, captive and plan on taking her to Yan.
* Lovino was harassed by a very drunk Sadik, and got saved by a mysterious man who lives across the hall. The man seems to have some sort of interest in him.
* Tino is still on Nyma, where the Resistance has picked up two young people who seem to be Iramese, though not everything adds up with them.

WARNINGS: Suicide attempt (not for the usual reasons though), descriptions of torture and past violence

Also, don't judge my poetry writing, okay guys? I am not Edgar Allen Poe, I am a sci-fi enthusiast with a love of anime, leave me be.

Also, some names (all are OCs but they're minor so don't be bitchy)
Arshad Teymouri - Ancient Persia/Persian Empire
Ayshe - Ottoman Empire (totally ignoring canon which states that Turkey was the Ottoman Empire btw)
Gonzorig - Mongol Empire

Beizaning,
Yan,
4503CC
(9 YEARS AGO)

The streets were alive this time of night, the festival still in full swing. Women dressed in flowing crimson silk danced across the street; great floats of paper maché and paper streamers formed the shapes of flat-backed snakes, lions, tigers, swans and dragons; the air was filled with the soft, high singing of reed flutes, and the smell of sweetmeats, unleavened bread, spiced wine and incense hung thick in the air. It was the most beautiful the city had ever been. Everyone was dressed in revellers robes, and laughter echoed around inside the clusters of friends situated on every street corner.

It was nearing three in the morning, yet the celebrations did not seem to be ending any time soon. He knew that by the time dawn began to break, he would be confined to a cell, or be hanging with a hemp bag around his face and a noose cinched tight around his neck. He'd already bid farewell to Arshad, though he had had failed to also reach Gonzorig. His heart felt heavy. He was a man of just 27 years, and yet thoughts of his own impending death rattled about his head. He breathed, in, out, in, out. He clenched his fists. Dying for something so futile. With every passing day, they grew further and further out of reach.

He knew of their movements, though, knew where the Union's most wanted resistance fighter would be in a week's time. Had he exchanged that information with the guards, they would have dropped the charges. He laughed. Arshad Teymouri's capture would make the Union very happy. He wasn't much of a loyalist, however.

He inhaled; the air was definitely thickening, carbon monoxide stealing through the room swiftly. His death would be painless, unlike those of so many others. He inhaled again.

A thought crossed his mind, from all those years ago, a picture published in the newspaper. A small child clutching his grandfather's leg. He could not clutch at his mother's; the focus of the article had been about how she was blown to pieces, and her husband along with her. He recalled the condolences given from others, how even people in his apartment block had murmured about how horrible a spectacle it had been. Even Wan-Zi had commented that he pitied the child. Though that was hardly a comfort. Wan-Zi had been the one to wake him the day of the Expansion, with a grin on his face, stating simply "They're annexing them."

He had been the only one, he recalled, to hear the rumours of the fates of the Free Court's royalty and citizens and widen his eyes in horror. Been the only one who had hoped no child had witnessed those events. Wonder if they were truly so horrific. Did they really behead the Daernic queen and impale her husband? Did they really bomb Syhvvanian orphanages? Did they really murder almost all members of Free Court royalty and nobility out of spite? Perhaps most horrifically, he wondered, did they really dig up the corpse of the Syhvvanian ruler's deceased daughter and nail it to the palace door? He shuddered at the thought. Even Wan-Zi had quieted upon hearing that, finally realising that a line had been crossed.

He inhaled. Dark spots twirled and bobbed about in his vision. The music was growing quieter as his senses began to dull. He laughed again. What joy this was. Would Wan-Zi find him, or Lin-Zia from next door? Perhaps Shu Yang who lived on the first floor.

He could hear footsteps now.

Resistance Headquarters,
Draak-Zafi Forra,
Nyma
Early in the morning, 12TH Fybwari

The girl's eyes were on him again. They were almost accusing, as though he had wronged her in some way. They stared deep, and he felt like any secret he had was being unburdened onto her, albeit unintentionally. He shifted, discomfort evident. She broke her gaze, looking at her lap again. Yao ran his hands through his hair, turning when he heard the tent flaps open. It was Tino, who, despite clearly being exhausted, had brought the would-be recruits food. He saw the attention of both the scrawny girl and the silent boy be caught by the scent of stew and bread. Tino managed a weak smile, handing plates to them. They accepted them graciously, the boy more so than his apparent sister. Yao watched them, rolling his shoulders before deciding to finally talk to them.

"Do you want to join the resistance?" he said simply. He was not educated in the Iramese language, but hopefully, they knew the Common Standard. Luckily for him, they did, as the boy raised his head and spoke.

"Yes, we do." He nudged his sister, who was eating rapidly beside him. She broke from her reverie and nodded enthusiastically. Yao leaned forward, placing his hands on the table that separated him and the siblings. He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Why?" he started, "We are, in the eyes of many, a criminal organisation which is supporting a singularly unpopular group of planets and people. Our members are sent out into war, chaos and extreme danger. They suffer painful injury, starvation and, if captured, are tortured for information and executed." He paused for a moment. He had both their attentions now. "If you were to join us, you would have to endure all of this and more, despite your young age." The last part he directed to the girl. "You will have to live with numerous other people from strange and distant planets, and wear clothes that are old or belonged to the long dead. You will be forced to learn very difficult things in a very short amount of time. Not only will you suffer yourselves, you will bring suffering to others. You will hurt, and steal, and kill, if we tell you to. There is little room for morals or ethics here. It is dangerous, and unpleasant, and this war that we are fighting will likely result in your own deaths one day." He continued, standing up straight and staring them down. "So, I ask you again, do you want to join the resistance?" the pair were silent, and they exchanged a look. The boy made eye contact with him once again, raising his chin.

"Yes, we do." Yao watched them.

"I see. You are yet to explain why, I see." The boy rubbed the back of his neck.

"Can we please bathe?" he asked. "I don't want to make such a bad first impression". Yao stared him down, and by the way that the girl shrunk back a little, he could tell he had intimidated her. After a long moment of silence, he nodded.

"Tino, see that these two are cleaned. Once they are finished, return them here."

Tino nodded, gesturing for the two teenagers to follow him. They rose and left the tent silently. Yao leaned forward and rubbed his forehead with his hand.

He inhaled.

What was that poem again? He knew the words and author, but not the name.

They stand, quiet
hair of moonlight, resting, quiet
eyes of blue, tearing, quiet,
skin of porcelain, cracking, quiet
girl of the northern skies, waiting, silent,
noose tightening, eyes widening,
and the girl of the northern skies, quiet

An apt description, he thought. The author had been arrested, as the words were interpreted to be pitying the subject of the poem. Apparently, the author, Hanna Mallür, had witnessed the execution of a young girl from Fynkn, and written it shortly afterwards. It was a brutal and beautiful piece, but the first three lines stood out to him.

Tino was shifting from foot to foot, observing them. The pair didn't say a word, though the girl was wringing her hands. Yao smiled, ever so slightly.

"Tino, you are in need of rest, surely." Tino looked up, startled.

"I," he began, before sighing, looking resigned, "Yes, sir." Yao nodded to dismiss him, and the sniper exited the tent. He turned back to them, and gestured to the seats behind them.

"Please, sit." They obeyed, looking grateful. Yao studied them, eyes sweeping across their faces. They were thin – their previous behaviour about the food completely understandable now – but clean. The boy was noticeably taller than his sister, but was also slender, a sign of lifelong malnutrition. The girl was rather petite as a whole, though he could see that she had muscles in her arms. Their eyes had not changed, though now that the thick layer of grime on their skin had been removed, he could see how fair their skin was. Their hair was typical of their ethnicity. The boy's was closer to white, however, and the girl's was nearer to silver. Fynknian, without a doubt. This wasn't what intrigued him, however. They received strays from the Free Courts all the time. But, save for the first year after the expansion, as he'd heard, they were all individuals. But these two came in a pair. The boy was about 18, and the girl was about 15 or 16. Yao didn't recall ever feeling so much like he was standing on the edge of a precipice. He watched them a moment longer.

"Well?" he said.

Onboard the ISS Arbiter
Orbiting the planet of Yan,
4503CC
(9 YEARS AGO)

Speed was an old evil, particularly when in the hands of your enemies. He cursed it with what few breaths he could take. He'd gone into respiratory arrest a minute after they'd taken him, and had they only been a few minutes later, he would have been dead before they'd even arrived. What a shame it was that he hadn't started up the motor earlier.

At first, it was just simple interrogation. Unfortunately, through attempting to end it all, he'd only proven that he had valuable information, so they pressed and pressed until the headaches and nausea plaguing him became too severe for him to function.

Then, it was the occasional beating. Pain was an excellent motivator, as everyone who had felt worse than a bruise or scrape knew. He could take them, and they left at the end of the day disappointed, as was normal.

They moved onto worse methods quickly, realising that he would not break. And it was like this, strapped to a table resembling one at a doctor's office, that he lay screaming. Screaming as they stripped the skin from his hands. They had pealed his fingernails off yesterday, having driven nails underneath them the day before last. He lay, wondering, when he had come to care so much. He had cared, cared about their cause, for Arshad's sake, and for Gonzorig. He had grown fond of the young Fynknian girl Kari, and had laughed at the antics of the small red-haired Romeo. And a part of him had thought about staying, staying forever, to help them.

He could feel his skin being removed at the second joint of his fingers. He thought of the kind old woman who had been teaching orphaned children to read. They stripped him to his knuckles. He recalled his conversation with an amputee, who'd lost his leg on the day of the expansion. He wasn't even from the Free Courts – having been born and bred on Jhobras – but he'd been there at the wrong time. Losing a limb would hurt more than getting flayed. If he tilted his head, he could see the white of his finger bones glaring out through the bloody mess that his hands had been reduced to. Think about how good it felt to see the rescue missions succeed. Over hours, they pulled the skin from his hands, to his wrists. His torturer smiled, and ripped it off, pulling more yet from around his wrists. The image of Arshad smiling, almost crying with happiness, when they finally retrieved Silje Krissen, the Fynknian queen's old handmaid, from her prison within the palace, filled his mind.

The man promised to start taking the skin from his other hand the next week as he wrapped the one he had just destroyed.

He was numb.

He watched the young Fynknian man in front of him. After a long moment, he exhaled, and extended his hand. It was accepted, by both of them. Yao could feel the tears coming, though he fought them back.

"I don't want to force yet another alias onto you, your majesty," he said, "but we must always be wary of spies, even here. I can choose for you, or you can select your own." The young prince nodded. Lukas Bondevik raised his head, and stared deep into Yao's soul.

"You have given more to this cause so far than I have, and I think I trust your judgement. You can choose." Yao thought for a moment.

"The smallest lies are the most effective. You can remain Fynknian, though I feel we should adjust your names. Christensen is a common surname, so I suggest you adopt it." He frowned, "As for your first names, Lukas is very common, so you should be fine. Emilia, less so." He considered it a moment, "How about Laila?"

The princess nodded "Laila Christensen, I like it." Yao nodded, smiling slightly.

"Good. I'll speak with you about this at length, but another time. You two look exhausted, and I will admit that I am myself." The siblings nodded. "I will tell only my closest and most trusted associates about your existence, that I promise." They looked relieved.

"You will have to tell me how you survived this whole time, of course, but for now, you need rest."

They beat him. They starved him. They took the skin from his other hand. But he never broke.

After a year, the Arbiter was raided by resistance personnel. Not for him, for another, of course. When they discovered him, he remembered it both as the first time he'd met the bold woman known as Ayshe, and the only time he would ever see her cry. His hands were bloodied, torn ruins. He had no toenails, and weighed only 31 kilograms, making him closely resemble a corpse. He was 28, and his black hair was streaked with white from the stress of being tortured. He doubted that the resistance members who pulled him from his cell had ever handled anyone as gently as him.

Apparently, he'd been spoken of. Arshad had been horrified to find that he'd been taken by the Union, especially considering that he did have valuable information. The other high-ranking officers in the Resistance had reprimanded Arshad harshly, saying that sharing such sensitive information with an outsider (and a Yanish outsider at that) was akin to treason. But when their ships hadn't been intercepted by the Union, they'd assumed he was dead.

The record for surviving the infamously brutal torture and imprisonment on the Arbiter was about 4 months. He'd been there for 13. So, if nothing else, he had set a record. They took him back to Nyma after they saved him. He had never even considered leaving the resistance since that day.

And when they'd been forced to elect a new leader after Arshad Teymouri was gunned down on Yan three years later, several hundred pairs of eyes had turned to face Yao Wang. And he hadn't been able to refuse.

He wore gloves at all times, for the skin had never regrown on his hands, and the sight of them turned many people's stomachs. Exposed muscles and bone that was just barely visible through his flesh. The outsides of them had toughened, of course, and no longer pained him. He had considered dying his hair. After all, he was only 36 years old, and his hair had already begun to make the transition to white. He decided against it. It made him look older than he was, true, but that only worked in his favour. The Union knew of him; an aging Yanish man led the resistance, they liked to say, assuming him to be weak.

They didn't know his name yet, and for that he was grateful. He often wondered what his neighbours would say. Lin-Xia was pleasant, as was Shu Yang. Wan-Xi was awful, but Yao would have liked to see the look on his face when he realised what his neighbour had become.

Yao, since his imprisonment, had wanted for little. One thing he did desire, however, was to meet his interrogator once more, so he could push a dagger through his throat. Perhaps, if that day came, he would flay him first. Sadistic thoughts, that he kept to himself.

His mind turned to the young prince and princess. He hoped even more strongly that Kari came home safe, now. He wanted to see the look on her face when she reunited with Lukas. He smiled to himself. People had, due to the fact that he looked older than he was, began calling him the "Father" of the resistance. At first he hadn't understood it. He had not created this movement, he had only taken over where Arshad had left off. It had taken some time, and eventually an explanation from Matthew, for him to understand.

"We don't call you 'father' because you created the resistance. We call you that because you treat each of us like your children."

Yes, he had a tendency to do that. And now the Fynknian heirs were among those 'children'. He would try his best to protect them, as he did everyone else.

Because, if there was one thing the Union did know about him for certain, it was that he gave them hell to pay for hurting his children.