The ride back to the safe house is crowded with five of us in the car. There's nobody to punish Frederick for breaking the speed limit and the streets are empty of cars at this time of night, so he makes a furious pace on the way 'home'. Lissa accepted the front seat with all the grace and poise of a girl half her age, leaving me in the back with the drooling limp body of a rapist and his near-victim.

Lissa shared with me that we'd got there just in time, but even then it was too late. The victim was clearly traumatised just by the attempt, and I feel sick to my stomach that we have to put her in the same car as her attacker. She's shivering despite the heat from the car's engine behind us, pressed into the corner of her seat to get as far away from him as she could.

I want to reach out and comfort her, but after I pulled her up to her feet she'd flinched and broke away, and any attempts to help except for Lissa's were met with fear and anger. I settle for examining both of them, this incredibly mismatched pair of strangers drawn into the Pastukhs' net.

He's short, dark-haired and pale, green eyes rolled back in their sockets as he lolls there, looking barely older than my sister. His swollen jaw, cursorily reset with some help from Frederick, would hopefully be a painful reminder of his crime, and the missing teeth a fitting memento. He's grubbily dressed, dark and dirty clothes fairly typical to the streets of Ylisstol. We'll dump him at the police station and the cops will keep him for a few nights until somebody's palm is greased enough.

She, on the other hand, makes a very different impression on me, even sitting in a fetal position silently shuddering at her attacker. Her hair is long and white, though streaks of dirt ran through the whole mass; like blood stains on a cocktail dress. Her deep brown eyes are full of pain and little else, staring into space as she softly weeps. The soft white bandages my sister had wrapped around her wounds stand out against her black cloak. We're going to take her back to our base, give her somewhere to stay until we can find out who she is and where she's from, then get her back home as best we can.

Once again I repress the urge to embrace her and tell her she'd be alright, and I stare forward between the front seats at the road ahead. We had to lock the doors when we put her assailant inside the car, but when I sat between them she calmed down enough for us to drive without restraining her further. I still didn't dare touch her again, not like how I'd held her hands earlier.

"Chrom," I hear her whisper. Turning to face her, she flinches at my gaze, whimpering and mumbling "pleasedonthurtmepleasedonthurtme…" My heart breaks then and there, and I wish Emmeryn was here. She always knew what to do.

I hold my hands up, palms forward, the universal gesture of peace. "I'm not going to hurt you," I slowly whisper back, thankful she speaks at least a little Ylissean. "I need you to stay calm. Do you know who I am?" I ask, knowing she knew my name at least.

"N-no," she chokes out past her tears. "Just your name. Chrom."

I reach out and gently take her hand, and while her breath hitches, she doesn't refuse the gesture. "It'll be okay," I say consolingly. "You're safe now. We'll make sure you're okay, then we can take you home, alright?"

Her nails claw at the inside of my palm, and I wince a little at the sharp sensation. "N-no!" she hisses, anguish in her eyes. "I-I've forgotten everything! I have no home, I don't even have a name. All I remember is your name!"

I'm floored by the terror and shock in her fierce gaze, and my eyes widen in reciprocal surprise. Lissa turns back in her seat to face us, a sorrowful expression on her face. "I've heard of this," she says gloomily. "The trauma might have given her retrograde amnesia. Sometimes survivors intentionally destroy their sense of self; it lets them disassociate themselves from their experience."

She shudders, but shakes her head with the same determination she had just moments before. "N-no. I remember…I remember what he tried to do to me. But apart from that…it's just waking up with you two standing over me."

Frederick huffs, and I dread what's coming next. My second-in-command is blunt at best and abusive at worst; he's the last person a survivor needs to talk to. "A foreign woman with no identification just happens to lose all her memory after being attacked? Please. She's an illegal, sir; I say we give her to the police and wash our hands of this issue."

I don't dare hit him or even rebuke him too loudly while he's at the wheel, but I stare him down in the rear view mirror nonetheless. "The police are as liable to finish what this scumbag started," I say, gesturing to our still-unconscious passenger. "I don't care if she's the princess of Denmark or a Russian spy, she's coming with us."

Frederick sighs extremely briefly before replying, "Yes, sir."

She doesn't smile, but the tears stop and her expression brightens imperceptibly. "Thank you, Chrom," she whispers again, and slowly, hesitantly, she leans on me, head on my shoulder.

0o0o0

We give the attacker to the police; at the very least, it'll keep him off the streets for a while, even if he does bribe his way out eventually. The Pastukhs don't have the time or resources to handle him personally. Phila will probably chew me out over sending him back after she handed jurisdiction over to us, but there really isn't a good solution to the problem.

Frederick pulls the car into the garage of our safe house. It's a fairly large complex in one of the safer areas of the capital Ylisstol, but its best security is that it doesn't stand out. Every building here has high fences topped with razor wire, and security cameras are hardly a rarity either. Ours might be better maintained, thanks to my family's connections, but it's not unique for the Ylissean rich to live in a fortress.

Frederick takes his equipment out of the back, two suitcases full of weapons, tools and assorted useful things he brings everywhere. Lissa heads to the clinic she and her friend Maribelle operate for the Pastukhs, looking for the less-immediate medical supplies she needs for our injuries. I gently lead the woman to the lounge, where she finally lets go of my hand and lays down.

"The rest of my group will be here when you wake up. Just tell them Chrom brought you here, they'll understand," I say to her, giving her a pat on the shoulder as I leave to talk to Maribelle. She nods back, quiet again after her outburst on the way back. "I'm going to go see Lissa, my sister, but I won't be long. Try and get some rest."

"Thank you, Chrom," she says again, and I get a little bit warm and fuzzy from the sheer gratitude in her tone. She shifts a little on the couch, adjusting the cushions and generally squirming to fit on the inappropriate piece of furniture for the job, then closes her eyes and tries to sleep.

I can't contain my smile at how peaceful she looks now, after such a harrowing experience. Turning off the light, I quietly close the door and head to the clinic.

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

The linoleum floor under my shoes is a perpetual annoyance that I'm glad to bear. Back home, in the palatial residence my sister owns, the floors are antique hardwood from before the Revolution. Emmeryn protested in the strongest terms a woman as peaceful as she could over the tremendous resources put into making her comfortable while people froze and starved outside. The least I can do is be frugal with the Pastukhs' budget.

Maribelle is busy brushing down Lissa when I enter 'the OR', as some of the more sardonic Patukhs put it (Maribelle's actually a qualified surgeon, although it's a rare day where that's needed). The change from lightweight street clothes to medical scrubs doesn't change my sister's mood, though; she's still giggling at whatever idle gossip her friend has picked up lately, and gives a cheery wave as I enter.

"Chrom!" Maribelle calls out. "I must ask you refrain from hitting people so hard you hurt yourself! It's not good for you." Her wink lightens the already light-hearted jibe, and I chuckle in response.

"I can hardly refuse your orders, can I, Doctor Maribelle?" I drawl sarcastically in return, and she smirks as I hold out my bloodied knuckles for further inspection. She peels off the bandaids Lissa hurriedly put over the now-weeping sores, and I hiss through my teeth at the sight rather than the pain. It's not infected, luckily, but the wounds are pussy and the surrounding skin looks badly bruised.

"Pass me the anti-bac, would you dear?" Maribelle off-handedly asks, taking the gel my sister finds for her without even turning to look. Immediately attacking the minor injuries, she sterilises my hand thoroughly and rewraps my knuckles in cloth bandages. "That should be all. Assuming you didn't get any saliva or blood in your wounds, this should clear up within a day or two. If you start running a temperature or feel dizzy, come to me immediately."

"Thanks, Mary," I reply, a grin on my face. She hates that nickname.

"You're welcome, Blueblood," she shoots back. It's too easy, really, with my distinctive cobalt hair and borderline royalty status, but it's a good one. "Just be glad I'm not in it for the money." Her smirk reappears with a vengeance, and I thank my lucky stars she's not lying. She really is an incredible doctor, and she left behind the chance for a rich, easy life in the West to help us.

I turn to my sister, and I bring up the other reason I came down here beyond my own needs. "Lissa, you told the good doctor about our new guest, right?"

She rolls her eyes theatrically. "Duh, Chrom. We'll wait until morning before we bother her; she needs time to rest. Speaking of which, you should get some sleep too." She nudges me lightly with an elbow. "Come on! Off to bed!"

Returning her eye roll with compound interest, I make my way back out. "Good night, Maribelle. Good night sis."

"Farewell, Chrom!"

"G'night brother!"

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

I hear noises coming from the lounge as I pass it on my way to bed. Our mystery woman is talking - in her sleep, or to one of the Pastukhs? I decide to quickly check in on her. As the door swings open, I'm shocked by what I see.

Our guest is thrashing wildly in her sleep, clutching the tattoo on the back of her hand with the other, mumbling nonsense as she does so. "Not Nikita!" she suddenly screams, much louder than anything else she's said. "Don't take her! NOT MY CHILD!" While I wince at the volume and pitch of her dream-induced yelling, I decide she needs my help, now.

Rushing over to her, I grasp her shoulders and roughly shake her awake. The screams die in her throat as she starts back into consciousness, and she recoils, silently flailing out of my grip. She falls off the couch, rolls remarkably acrobatically, and balls up on the floor. Her eyes, glazed over until now, flicker back into awareness, and she slowly unfurls into a sitting position, turning to face me.

"Hey, are you okay?" I ask rhetorically, reaching out a hand. "I think you were having a nightmare."

She shakes her head, gently clasping her un-tattooed hand in mine as she meets my eyes. "I was remembering - it's still so little, but I was remembering. My mother." She halts there, gulping back the urge to sob. "Nikita. My name is Nikita."

0o0o0

A/N: Thanks for reading! Please, leave a review if you have anything to say at all.

I decided to rename the Avatar for this to fit the environment a little better. Nikita's even gender neutral, like Robin! This may not be the last person we see with a different name, either.

From here on out we're going to see a lot more divergence from the game's plot, pacing and even characterisation. I really hope you guys enjoy my take on the archest of archers, in particular.