Hiya, Hikou no Kokoro here! At first, I was thinking that I should post this later in the week, but then I thought, I made you guys wait for long enough, so here is Law 5! Some questions will be answered, and more will be made! But as a fair warning, the next chapter may take a while to come out as well, since it's a theory chapter, and those things are hell to write. But I'll make sure to make it in!

Special thanks to Crazy Green Earphones, The Hero15, firelight3, Fei, and ForestFireSong for their awesome reviews! I hope to continue to be up to your expectations!

So, I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers: Hetalia. It rightfully belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz. I merely own the AU plot.

To Create Perfection

"God, grant me
The serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference."
—Reinhold Niebuhr

"Law 5: Corruption"

Then Francis began, "Ludwig is a real genius."

The words jarred Arthur back into attention. He was absolutely confused. He had thought that Francis was going to talk about Gilbert and his strange adoration, or obsession, of Frederick Hohenzollern, not Gilbert's brother. But Francis didn't notice anything when Arthur looked at him strangely, with raised eyebrows and a growing scowl. Their eyes didn't meet. Francis' blue eyes were aimed ahead, somewhere above all the slabs of tombstones. And the older man continued.

"Out of all the partners I could have worked with, I was able to work with the smartest of them. Sure, people looked at him strangely since he seemed like some sort of street urchin and his school grades weren't exactly average either, but he has this undying and unadulterated potential; he can improve all he wants, but there's just something that tells you that he can do better. He can never reach his full potential, yet he can continue to improve. It's as if he's unstoppable."

Blue eyes sparked and Francis' expression brightened toward absolutely nothing. The compliments kept on rolling out of his mouth.

"I first met him when he was only sixteen. He had already been in BCWD for a little under a year—a year! He was there five years earlier than I could have ever hoped, and I took double programs to whittle myself into the BCWD program one year earlier than normal. It was utterly amazing to see how well he worked. He was in Medical Emergencies division, under Roderick's instruction, and since Sadık, my own mentor when I first started off, was in Roderick's jurisdiction, I got to get my training alongside him. He was a fast learner: by the end of a month, he knew four procedures by heart, and could even pick out my mistakes before Sadık could even notice anything. And only six months' time, I decided that he was the only fellow intern that I thought was worth working with."

Arthur nodded in acknowledgement. His lips were pressed together into a thin line, and rocks seemed to have fallen into the pit of his stomach and upon what felt like a writhing snake. He thought back to Ludwig, the stern man whom he looked upon with untainted admiration. But with Francis' words, a new, twisting feeling wormed its way beside Arthur's admiration, but Arthur couldn't quite identify this "intruder."

Francis' gaze turned back forward again and he sighed through his nose.

"But he told me that he would have never gotten this far without Frederick. Apparently, he and his brother ended up in prison, for some odd reason that I can't seem to imagine, and Frederick spotted them and decided that he was going to move them into BCWD under the jurisdictions of his choice. Ludwig was grateful for Frederick.

"But that was where Ludwig and Gil were different. I met Gil through Ludwig; we hit it off pretty well. But at first, you would think that they're completely different. Ludwig was practical, deliberate—dedicated. On the other hand, Gil seemed frivolous, impulsive, and entirely unorganised. He never quite kept his loyalties where they should be. I never saw him as often as I saw Ludwig, since he was all the way in a completely different division, so for years, I had been mistaken into thinking that Gil was just a man who spent more time lounging around and chasing after Elizaveta—remember her?"

Arthur did remember her, and how she was reading a book and eating a boxed lunch while on guard duty, and how she seemed to have been sitting on the side-lines of the hallway. She was an awfully pretty woman.

"Instead, he was—is—just like Ludwig. He has the same raw potential, and he has the same exact sense of duty and dedication. He just doesn't…" Francis sucked in a breath, pausing, and then continued, "He just doesn't know what to do with anything. Like, he would always chase after Elizaveta, but he didn't understand that he did it out of courtship, and not out of rivalry, and when he got jealous, he would get angry and take it out on somebody else. And that was what made Gil and Ludwig seem so completely different. Unlike Ludwig, Gil needed time to be able to stand on the same page as everybody else. And because of how he couldn't quite adapt, he only realised when things were too late, when everything was too forgone to be considered recoverable.

"Normally, I would tell you about how Gil didn't realise that he loved Elizaveta until she married, but I think you can already piece that together. Besides you're probably more interested in his relation with Frederick, and not his love life, am I right?"

Arthur didn't answer. Francis didn't need one anyway. There was only a short moment of silence, one that was not filled by Francis' movements but by the wind, and then he adjusted the rifle on his shoulder and started again.

"Gil has only known Frederick for nine years. But Frederick has been dead for three. So Gil only knew Frederick alive for a good six years.

"From where you stand, you see that the six years must have allowed Gil to develop a pure adoration for Frederick, and Gil must have developed a dependence on him as time went on. In a way, you'd be right. Gil likes him more now than all those nine years ago. But you don't realise that Gil had hated him. He absolutely hated Frederick. I have never seen such unadulterated loathing before. You may think that your 'hatred' for me or your brother—"

Arthur sucked in a sharp breath.

"—must be stronger, but that 'hatred' is a simple intolerance. Gil couldn't even stand being beside Frederick, much less work with him, and seemed to only strive to run away from the facility or to make his life miserable. I don't even know how many times the guards and people of the Humane Control department had to fight Gil away from Frederick, and I wouldn't be surprised if Frederick had to fend for himself. Gil once told me that he hated because Frederick ruined his life or was secretly trying to kill him or his brother—I don't know, but it had to be something extreme. After all, Gil is an extreme guy; there is no moderation for him.

"And that lasted for five years. It took Gil a total of five years to learn who Frederick truly was, and to finally figure out what gratitude was. And after that, Gil turned completely around: He absolutely loved Frederick and would do anything for him. During that time, I rarely ever see Gil leaving Frederick's side, and they got along so well together that I was almost afraid that they would get along better than my wife and I. So when Frederick died, Gil was crushed. He completely broke down. I had to call Elizaveta to help me to physically make Gil part from the body. He couldn't even say the eulogy during the funeral a week later either. And for about a month, he shrank away into isolation; not even Ludwig could get him to come out. In the end, we just had to wait for him. When Gil did finally own up to Frederick's death, he seemed fine, and he easily took back the swings of things, taking Frederick's role and rank, as dictated by the will and recommendations.

"Unfortunately, I know that Gil never quite got over it. He still gets depressed, and although he only comes around here on the anniversary of Frederick's death, he visits one too many times, and leaves gifts that are more suitable for the living than the dead." The grip on the rifle tightened, and a small click could be heard. "He tells me that he's just angry that Frederick died so early—that Frederick was stupid for not exploiting the phenomenal medical care or that God was being cruel in taking Frederick away.

"But really, I think it's because of regret. Gil knew Frederick for a total of six years. And he had spent five of them hating Frederick, and only one year actually appreciating the company. He had spent more time and effort being angry and spiteful and altogether making life miserable, when he could have been happy working with Frederick.

"It's a sad story. He's so desperate because it's too late. Nowadays, he's always acting like he's trying to prove himself."

Then Francis fell silent, staring downwards with that sombre expression. Arthur realised, throughout the whole story, Francis' tone was strangely flat, almost distant. It didn't seem to ride upon waves of enthusiasm like usual. Instead, there was a sense of omnipotence, although the content was hardly so, but it was as if Francis had stepped back and merely watched a reality not immediately his own. He may have been a friend of Gil and was a part of all the antics, but he seemed to be merely an observer.

Finally, Arthur spoke, "Why did you tell me all this?"

Francis shrugged and smiled at Arthur. "Some people believed that you should know all this. But Gil won't tell you; Frederick can't, so I have to."

"But why?" Arthur asked again. "What is the message I'm supposed to be benefitting from this?"

This made Francis pause. He looked over Frederick's grave again and thought, his mouth pushed into a strange pout. "Maybe it's to tell you to be grateful for whom you have as a mentor, and treat him well, because no matter how hard you try, you won't be changing mentors anytime soon." Francis turned and winked.

Arthur scowled. "You're only saying that to try to make me more agreeable."

"Of course I am!" Francis laughed.

"Then think again. There is no bloody way that I'm going to get along with you just because of some biography about Beilschmidt."

"All right, all right." Francis shook his head. Then he turned around, his heels scratching against the dirt so that spiralling marks remained, and began back down the path from where they came. "Now we're done here. Alistair has been waiting for us for a long time."

"Wait."

The BCWD staff member stopped and spun back around. "What?"

"I've been wondering, what about you? How were things with your own mentor, Adnan?"

"Pretty decently." Francis shrugged and pushed the strap further up his shoulder. "We got along."

Arthur faltered for a second. His tongue subconsciously ran across his teeth as he thought whether or not to ask his second question. After all, like all the other questions, this one had been bugging him for a while ever since Sadık had refused him only a day before. On the other hand, Francis would again play the "confidential" game again, and just withhold the answer, as if it were some sinister ball of light. But in the end, Arthur asked anyway. "Then why doesn't Adnan take any more interns?"

"Because he only needed to teach one person; at this point, he shouldn't even be in the assimilation officer lists, since I already filled that requisite," Francis answered. "But I ended up switching to Roderick's department in the last second, so I double as a member of Medical Emergencies as well, and that makes it void."

"Did you know that would happen?"

Francis nodded. "Yep. I had finished the training anyway, so Sadık isn't too worried, even though the requisite isn't 'completed.' He can always reject interns anyway."

"Then why did you switch? You said you were done so you could have left it at that."

Francis bit his lip and sighed. It was obvious that he was pondering whether or not to answer that truthfully, although the decision-making seemed to be going a little slower. Arthur wasn't surprised though; he knew that something like this would have happened some time later during the day. Francis never answered the important questions. It was always the "why" and "what" that seemed to scare any information away from Arthur.

"I knew I wouldn't be able to handle the job for long."

Arthur drooped down a little, rather disappointed. The answer had been vague, and held little to no gravity. It was no better than when Francis had simply replied with, "Confidential." Nevertheless, Arthur hoped to press far enough to at least get clues that he could use to piece things together. "Why?" he asked, expecting something along the lines of "Confidential," per usual, or a vague reply.

"Euthanasia. I had specialised in euthanasia."

Arthur jerked up. His green eyes nearly bugged out of his head and his jaw fell agape. Thoughts barely registered through his head, yet things started to make sense. A cold and hard sort of sense, ranging from why Francis would say nothing to what made Sadık's reputation. Stumbling a step closer, Arthur snapped, "What?"

A smile crossed over his face. "Don't worry. I'm not going to teach you anything about that. We already have enough people in the Humane Control department. We're working as an extension of the Medical Emergencies; that's why we report to Ludwig." Francis waved a hand up and down, beckoning Arthur over, or metaphorically patting Arthur's ducked head. "Now, let's go. I bet your brother is starting to get hungry, and that car can really heat up under this sun." Then he turned and walked down the path towards the gates of the cemetery.

Arthur hesitated. He stood alone beside the graves, watching Francis walk away with the rifle hanging off his back and its shining barrel sticking up in the air over his head. An image flitted through the back of his mind: Francis and Sadık as grotesque head hunters, their lab coats covered in the blood of the suffering and fingers holding onto syringes of poison and drugs designed as a brand of facilitated suicide. Quickly, Arthur shook his head. He may not be fond of Francis, but he couldn't quite see that image as being a truth of the past. If there was a crime the man would commit, it would be something completely different and maybe even worse than "facilitated suicide"; possibly it would be intangible—a damage against the psychology of the victims or a mere theory. Finally, Arthur walked after Francis, glancing back at Frederick's grave. The potato was gone; the ants must have been proficient enough to have taken the whole produce away underneath their noses.

The sun was starting to set by the time Arthur caught up to Francis by the gate. It was getting late, and they knew it. But Arthur was honestly baffled when he looked up at the sky and saw the colourful gradients streaking across the sky and turning the world from white to orange, orange to red, red to purple, and purple to dark blue, which showed the dotting stars at the zenith. He hadn't realised that the presumably "short" story somehow helped hours to pass by above their heads. In fact, he hadn't counted on the little talk beside the grave to have taken long at all, and he felt the pressure of a time constraint.

"Where do you want to go eat?" was the first thing Francis asked when Arthur slowed to his side and the two continued down the sidewalk. "There are some really nice old-fashioned cafes and restaurants in the SS; most of them are French and Italian, if you're into that sort of cuisine. I'm really partial to the one called 'Beau Rêve.' It's a really nice place, and the food is magnificent. I would be all over their dishes if they weren't all so pricey."

Arthur scowled. French food didn't appeal to him. It was too flashy and too rich, like everything else that came from that European country, and he wasn't in the mood to eat expensive food that would easily be wolfed down. Besides, he had other pressing matters.

"I think I'll pass," Arthur replied with a larger scowl. He couldn't believe that he was going to miss a free meal. "If the trip back is anywhere close to the trip to, I'm going to be really late for prior arrangements."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "What other arrangements? I thought I told you that you'll need the whole day off."

"I have another job, you bloody git. I can't just change up the schedule all willy-nilly!"

"Where? What do you do?"

"Waiter at the little Chinese restaurant called 'Zhong Guo De Fan' or something weird like that."

"That one…" Francis muttered, nodding slowly and slowly allowing the tips of his mouth to move towards. "What time do you need to get there?"

"Eight o'clock."

Francis glanced up at the sky as they rounded the corner. "So about an hour and a half?" He didn't notice the sharp inhale beside him. "All right, you'll make it. We would even have a nice gap of time to take a break and grab a snack along the way. So relax. The trip will only take an hour."

"An hour?" Arthur screeched, stopping dead in his tracks and swivelling around. "How can it be an hour when we came here in three?"

Francis smirked and winked. "I thought that you and your brother were enjoying the passing scenery, so I decided to take more than a few detours."

"For two bloody hours? Why?"

"The question is, 'Why not?'"

"You bloody—"

Arthur couldn't finish his insult, too angry to think of something offensive enough. Instead, he simply let out a frustrated groan and stomped back to the car, cursing the frivolous man underneath his breath. Francis either loved to waste time or made irritating Arthur a pastime. Both options seemed equally plausible. After all, by the time Arthur had made it to the car and turned around to wait for his mentor, Francis was laughing and taking his sweet time as he walked towards him like some sort of model on the catwalk. In a flash of a moment, Arthur was tempted to throw a large rock at Francis' head just to make him hurry up.

Fortunately, it didn't get that far and Francis made it to the car without projectiles flying past his ears. He passed his ID card over the hood of the car and once again the vehicle lit up and the doors slid up. Arthur slid behind the driver's seat without second glance.

"Seems like somebody is pretty engrossed in his book."

One of Arthur's large eyebrows rose up as he strapped himself in and leaned forward to see what Francis was talking about. There, in the passenger's seat, was his brother, reading a book. Alistair was slumped deep into his seat and his leg was propped on the dashboard and stump too short to lean against anything. And resting on his raised lap was a hardcover book. The redhead man seemed to be staring intently at the pages, chewing on his thumbnail. The sight was surprising, in an amusing way. Arthur couldn't help himself from saying, "So you're a little bit more sophisticated than I had presumed."

"Sod off…" Alistair snapped. He turned one page, scanned it, and then snapped the book shut. Beside him, Francis slipped into the driver's seat and closed the doors. "I got bored. There isn't anything else to stare at."

"We're not saying that reading is a bad thing," Francis said much like how a parent would talk to a child, his tone holding a sniggering condescension. The car began whirring and clicking as he pulled away from the side and started the vehicle down the road back towards Central. Quickly, the archaic building with the spires disappeared from view, and the little town of SS-24 was far behind them.

"We just didn't think that you actually know how to read," Arthur remarked.

Alistair pushed himself up, glaring at his brother in the rear-view mirror. The scowl deepened, and he suddenly turned and threw the book at Arthur's chest. The younger blond easily caught the book and allowed it to fall onto his lap, sneering at his brother. Then he held it in his hand and read the title. Theories and Hypotheses of 2199, it read. Finding the subject matter rather strange, he flipped through the pages to see if it wasn't some sort of dirty magazine with pornography scattered through the images. But instead, diagrams, ranging from physiology to geology to physics, and dense walls of text along with a few handwritten notes coated each and every page.

"Did you actually read this?" Arthur asked, arching an eyebrow and scanning a few paragraphs. Some of these facts were quite bewildering and he wondered whether or not he had seen this information in his learning.

"'Course I did," Alistair snapped. "What do you think I am? An idiot like you? I had to do something while you two were off doing whatever."

"I'm not an idiot! I just…"

Francis cut him off. "I'm actually pretty surprised that you chose that book. I thought you were going to choose one of those sensationalism ones, with the telepathy, space travel, and major discoveries. Theories and Hypotheses is a really top-notch series—really dry too." He glanced at Alistair for a brief moment before returning his eyes on the dirt and pebble road. "It's not something you read as leisure."

Alistair scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why the hell do you two act like this is some sort of big deal?" His hard, green eyes turned towards the window, watching the trees streak by. "It was the first thing I grabbed. Everything in there is trash, so it's not like I could really choose anything anyway."

Francis chuckled and shook his head.

But Alistair snapped at him, like how an irritated dog would nip at a nuisance, preventing any other flippant comments from being made. Francis tried again to say something else, but Alistair barked an incoherent sound. It went on for a few times before Francis finally gave up and said nothing. A few minutes later, Arthur tried to speak up, but Alistair cut him off as well. The redhead had killed any sort of conversation that could have been made. Once again, the car ride went by with silence, except Alistair was the one who had shot down every possible conversation starters, rather than vague grunts and responses.

It wasn't until skyscrapers came into view did Alistair say anything. "Where are we going to eat?"

"We're getting Chinese," Arthur replied.

Alistair scrunched his nose up. "Again? We just had take-out yesterday."

"We can always go somewhere else," Francis chimed in with a smile. "There's a gorgeous French café near my home. It doesn't sell anything fancy, but compared to the normal rations and take-out, the cuisine is exquisite."

Arthur scowled at the idea, but he didn't bother to fight against it. "Fine. Then just drop me off at my workplace and bring my brother home when you're done eating."

"What?" Alistair craned his back to glare at his brother through the space between the two front seats. "You have work again?"

"Of course I do!" Arthur shouted back. "I'm always going to work around this time! Unlike you."

"But you said you had a day off!"

"I do! From BCWD!"

"You said you were going back home in the evening!"

"When you were staying at home! I was going to go back just to check on you before I went off."

"Then why don't you just tell me these sort of things?"

Arthur leaned forward, arms crossed over his chest, and sneered. "Why do you care?"

"I don't, you little shit."

Then the argument ended there with Alistair turning back around and sitting in his seat properly. A scowl was still traced over his countenance, while a smug smirk was on Arthur's and the BCWD intern leant back against his seat. He could see his eldest brother glance up at the rear-view mirror and huffed.

Although the two Kirklands seemed "satisfied" with this sort of closure, Francis wasn't. The driver used one hand and ran his fingers through cropped, red hair. "Don't worry. I'll be with you. It'll be like a dinner date," he laughed.

"Go away!" Alistair swatted the hand away and jerked his head to the side, as if he were attempting to bite some fingers off. There was even the sound of teeth clacking and the toe of his shoe hitting the bottom of the dashboard.

Francis laughed again and returned his hand to the wheel and the car fell silent again, as it tended to do when either of the Kirklands seemed to be in the seats with Francis. But this time around, he didn't seem to mind so much, as the drive was short and he kept the radio on to switch to different channels when the commercials on one of them came up.

In about fifteen minutes, they entered Central with Francis speeding down the streets. The vehicle went through the BCWD campus at one point, and Arthur raised his bushy eyebrows as the Land Control facility came into view and slowly moved behind them. He was about to lecture Francis not to take anymore detours, but he peered around the seat and at the time hanging above the windshield. There was some time remaining. So Arthur simply said that Francis should hurry up and left it at that. Francis didn't reply. He merely continued driving until the BCWD buildings hid behind other white and silver architecture.

Finally, Arthur's workplace came into view. It was a brownish, old-looking place that held the foundation of a skyscraper above it. The owner had obviously tried to mimic the design of Industrial Revolution architecture of China with its clay brick covering and Chinese decorations, such as red lanterns, unused firecrackers, oriental window frames, and gilded Chinese words. The "shop" stuck out like a neon sign in the dark, but the owner probably had purposefully made it so.

"Was that quick enough for you?" Francis asked Arthur as he pulled the vehicle up near the sidewalk and parked.

Arthur glanced up at the clock. "Yes." Quickly, he pulled off his safety belt and began to carefully clamber out, careful of the incoming traffic.

In front of him, Francis did the same, surprising Arthur, and the two went around the car and walked onto the sidewalk. Oriental music clinked from a broadcast radio inside the little restaurant, and the two could already smell some of the fried dishes. Arthur moved to walk inside, but Francis stopped and turned around, calling Arthur to wait for a moment. His hand moved over the passenger seat door, and the window slid open, revealing Alistair glaring up at the two blonds and propping his one leg on the dashboard.

"Need help getting out?" Francis offered, ducking under the roof.

"No," Alistair replied. His green eyes glanced towards his brother, who was wondering why he was waiting for Francis and his brother when they could have been driving off to somewhere else. "If we're just going to stop here, then I'm staying."

"Why? It will be nice to stretch your leg for a bit. You've been sitting here all day."

The edges of Alistair's mouth turned downwards even more. "I don't care." A hand waved Francis away, demanding that Francis leave. "Now go finish whatever you need, and come back over. I'm starving."

With a sigh and the shake of his head, Francis complied and allowed the door to slide shut again. "He seems quite moody today."

"He's always like that," Arthur grumbled, waiting for Francis to walk beside him before turning around. "So what do you want? You're not bloody escorting me, are you?"

"Oh, no, no, no." Francis chortled. "I know the manager here. I'm just stopping by to say hello." Then, he winked and offered his left arm. "But if you want me to escort you, mon chéri, I can do that too."

Arthur slapped the arm away.

Then the two men entered the building, Arthur fuming and Francis continuing to laugh. The ambiance within the eatery was quite similar to the one made outside. Some of the same Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling and off of broken chandeliers. Walls were painted with pictures of traditional, Asian scenery, such as misty mountains, long and arching bridges, and tall stalks of bamboo plants. The air was filled with the scent of food and the sharp tang of spices. And accompanying the sounds of clanging pots and clinking chopsticks on bowls were conversations made in a large variety of East Asian languages ranging from Chinese and Korean to Vietnamese and Thai. Although almost everybody was wearing casual clothes, a number of people were wearing Tangzhuang, Yukata, and other traditional uniforms. Presumably, these individuals were all hosts and waiters, for they were the only ones with trays of food and were walking around handing out platters and cups.

A man carrying two Chinese bamboo steamers immediately spotted them. Like the décor, he too appeared stereotypically Chinese. His coat was gilded with various swirls and calligraphy, and his black pants were paired up with black Kung Fu shoes. But it wasn't just his uniform that gave him his Chinese look. He looked naturally Chinese, with his pitch black hair, which was tied into a low ponytail that reached to the middle of his shoulder blades, and high cheekbones. Even his dark brown eyes had the "slanted" look that many Asians have been made fun of for.

But maybe they looked like that because he was angry. After all, he was storming over to the two blonds with a large scowl traced upon his face.

"Arthur!" the Chinese man snapped. His accent was almost too apparent.

"What?" Arthur snapped back. "I swear that I'm not late!" He cast Francis a hateful glare, warning the man that if the car clock had been lying about the time, then he was going to start ripping limbs off a torso.

"You're not late, but why is he here?" The Chinese man gestured at Francis. His jet eyes were hardening.

"I'm just visiting a former colleague and saying hi," Francis defended himself. "It's been a while since we've talked, Yao."

"It's Mr. Wang to you, Bonnefoy," Yao snapped, slamming one foot against the floor. Then his eyes flickered back to Arthur. "How are you two associated? This trash can't be your superior, can he?"

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but Francis immediately replied for him, pushing him to the side a little. "Yes, I can. He is indeed my protégé."

The look of outrage fell into one of horror. Yao's narrowed eyes widened, and his lips became parted as his jaw went down. But the expression had been present for only a brief moment, and he gritted his teeth again. "Arthur, go do your job," he commanded, raising his chin a bit. "Yong-Soo isn't on this shift, so you'll have to take over his tables along with yours." When Arthur faltered and tried to make an objection, Yao again told him to leave, and finally the blond did, shooting the two a confused glance. After all, the youngest had been implicitly scolded at for something he didn't quite understand or say. Only when Arthur weaved away from them did Yao turn back to Francis.

"Don't you dare corrupt him too with your pretty words and 'assimilation' tactics," Yao spat.

The blond man tilted his head and stuck his hands into his pockets. "I haven't corrupted anybody." He sighed through his nose. "I don't get why you're so snappy about something I haven't done."

"Yes, you have." Yao's hands lowered, but kept the steamers well-balanced upon his fingers and palms. "Arthur's a natural dreamer, and I'm not going to let anybody change that about him."

"And his dream consists of BCWD, just like Kiku's. Why don't you understand that?"

"Don't bring Kiku's name into this! He's dead!"

Francis shook his head, taking a slow inhale from exasperation. "No, he isn't. He just got promoted, and now he's going to the border branches to do what he had always wanted as an assimilation officer. You should be proud of him; he has worked hard to get to where he is now. It hurts to watch an older brother treat his younger like this."

Yao sneered. "Those who throw away ethics for science are no better than metal and wires to me." Then he turned and walked away.

"That's disappointing…"

Then Francis too left. The sky was still darkening when he stepped out, and only a sliver of pink could be seen in the sky. His stomach felt strangely heavy, and he spent one moment simply staring up at the candy-like colour. When he was done, he went around the car again and slipped inside, checking to see if the power storage was enough to get him and Alistair to the café on the other side of Central. Alistair didn't say anything when Francis turned on the engine and all the redhead gave was an irritated glare, but Francis spoke anyway.

"I sort of regret going back."