A/N: To my current readers: if you're confused and wondering why they recieved a "New Story" update for one they thought they were already watching: the first few chapters of ReDux have gone under a major revamp. The story was moving far too slowly, and it was driving me insane. It was literally inhibiting my ability to continue it. Therefore, I've been going through the chapters and repairing various things so that the story flows better and the action picks up quicker. Sorry for the confusion.

To those of you that are new to this story: hello, and welcome! :D Thank you for stopping by my corner of to read this. I hope you enjoy it. :3

"Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
and loathsome canker lies in sweetest buds.
All men have faults."
~William Shakespeare

The mansion was well-hidden, secluded in a small corner of a dark and mountainous forest, and from the looks of it, long since forgotten. The hedges that formed a barricade around the premises had long since been attended to, their once preened and perfect hedges left overgrown and gnarled. What once was a proud, ornate, wrought-iron gate nestled directly in the middle of the hedges had now rusted over in several parts, and while it looked and could have been, for the most part, still operable, the plethora of vines that had extended from the hedges and enveloped the gate throughout and within its bars had all but frozen it in place.

Beyond the gate and hedges stretched a long cobblestone driveway, interrupted in numerous places by patches of grass and weeds, disappearing almost entirely in others. The driveway stretched far back into the premises, eventually pooling together at the front porch of the mansion, forming a circular courtyard surrounding what once was a proud, sandstone fountain. "Once" was the key word, as the fountain was now decrepit and falling apart. Where once beautiful, crisp clean water flowed now only a bed of dead leaves remained.

The mansion itself was no better worse for wear. In its prime, the building was a proud and beautiful tribute to all things western, yet another attempt by English settlers to bring their prim and proper ways to the Orientals. Now, this once beautiful mansion was just as old and forgotten as the rest of the property. The beautiful veranda had fallen into ruin, covered in brush and leaves, the paint on the walls peeling and falling off in various clumps. The windows were tinted and forever dusted over, and in some places, broken. And just as the front gate had been overtaken by the hedges, a thin coat of vines had extended from the mangled bushes near the front and intertwined over the ornate, wooden front door. It was truly a dark and dismal scene, especially on a stormy afternoon such as the one that very day. Dark storm clouds swelling with rainwater hovered ominously overhead, interrupted only by a flash of lighting that illuminated the estate, casting dreary and haunting shadows on the ground. Unless in a truly desperate situation to escape the eminent rain on the horizon, it was doubtful anyone would even think of entering the house.

Had anyone entered the house (once they worked their way through the curtain of vines), they would have found the interior of the house just the same as the exterior. The luminous entry hall was dark and gloomy, and a thick coat of dust had settled over the white marble floor. Both of the ornate marble staircases escalading up from the middle of the room to the second floor were just as worse for wear as the floor below it, with numerous cobwebs filling the gaps of the stairwells. What once were ornate, silk curtains were now frayed and tinted with age, the victims of many hungry moths, as the numerous holes would attest to. It would seem unlikely that anyone would want to go further than this dusty, decrepit room. Upon venturing further, they would've encountered the same dismal scene both on the lower and upper floors; dusty floors, darkened windows, aged curtains, dirty carpets.

However, had anyone born both the curiosity or the gall to continue, a further exploration into the house would have revealed something quite interesting indeed.

Gradually, the dirty, dusty marble floors gave way to pristine, sparkling floors of the same material, blanketed by an ornate and lush red carpet. The frayed curtains were replaced by silk and gossamer curtains, which if given the proper lighting could shimmer and sway brightly - and indeed they did, as shimmers of lightning from the oncoming storm illuminated the immaculately clean, ornate windows. Figuratively speaking, it was almost as if someone had taken a clean knife and sliced through the mansion, leaving two halves; one clean and beautiful, hidden behind its old and worn counterpart.

Two pristine marbled staircases emerged from the upper floors and descended to a glistening foyer, as fresh and new as the day it was created; an exact replica of the first foyer, aside from the fact that this one was obviously in use and well cared for. However, where the front door would have been placed in the first entrance hall, in this second one there stood a wall of glass windows and doors, filling the antechamber with light.

And beyond the windows was a sight more beautiful than that of the foyer.

Beyond the windows stood a courtyard, once again an exact replica of the front lawn, but in every aspect a thousand times better. The hedges were clean and trimmed, forming a neat border all around the yard. Not a sliver of glass nor a shred of weeds could be seen in the cobblestone driveway, and the sandstone fountain bubbled and shimmered with clean water that cascaded down from the spout.

And then there was the garden. Truly, if the courtyard was impressive, this garden was godly.

Or rather, perhaps it could have been called an ocean, for that was exactly what it was; an endless sea of red roses, stretching as far and wide as the eye could see, on past the hedges and towards the forboding mountains and forests that shielded the garden from the rest of the world. Not a single square inch was without a rose, and nowhere could be seen any other type of flower or plant; whoever had created the garden had seen to that, putting even the most experienced and visionary of a landscape artist to shame. Closer inspection of the roses would have yielded further perfection; not a single petal was out of place, not one flower blemished, nor were there any thorns waiting to prick some unsuspecting finger. Every single rose in every single way was perfect.

The perfect garden for the perfect being, mulled the sole person surveying the massive garden.

She pressed a small, delicate hand to the icy window as she surveyed her wonderful domain.

Had anyone seen this figure from afar, perhaps at the very edge of the garden, they probably would have mistaken her for a ghost in a darkened room. The white robes that covered her petite form billowed around and off of her, casting a shroud of silver that paled her skin and gave her appearance a ghostly aura. Her long black hair cascaded down around her shoulders and down to the floor, despite the fact the billowing waves had been tied back into a loose-fitting ponytail. And then there were her eyes: sharp, cool, but a dark and unsettling red, which surveying her domain - nay, her utopia - from behind a delicate veil of white.

In any other eyes, they would have seen simply a garden. In her eyes, however - her cold, calculating eyes - it was much more than that. It represented years of hard work and careful preparation, meticulous planning and calculating. And soon, all her years of waiting and planning would pay off with rewards far richer than anyone could even fathom.

A slow smile crept across her full lips as she gazed on. "Magnifique. Simplement magnifique," she murmured quietly in a voice heavily tinted with both a French affluence and eager anticipation. "A perfect start for a revolution." Her eyes left the garden to glance behind her for a brief moment. "Tell me, my children, what do you see?"

No sooner had she spoken, four dark figures emerge from the shadows of the darkened room. In perfect unison, they stooped to one knee in a graceful, flourishing bow. One, a male, responded his mistress' question in a smooth, eloquent voice. "I see a beautiful garden of roses, my lady."

"Very good," the woman nodded, returning her gaze to the roses. "Have you ever seen a garden quite like this?"

"Not in this lifetime, my lady," the same man replied.

"Exactly," the woman continued, her hand gently tracing figures in the window glass. "There are no such gardens like this anywhere on Earth. These are the gardens of Shangri-La, my sweet, sweet children." As she spoke, her voice began to swell with pride and perhaps even desire. Behind her, her consorts waited for her to continue with great anticipation. Hers was a speech they had heard countless times before, perhaps even memorized, and yet, every time she spoke it, she managed to add a new thrill, something completely unique and unexpected that made it all the more tantalizing and left them shivering with anticipation.

"In the gardens of Shangri-La, there are only roses. Beautiful, red, noble roses, roses free of blemish, free of thorns, free of taint Each and every one of them as pure and beautiful as all the others.

"And yet…" And then her voice dropped into an icy tone, swelling no longer with pride but pure spite. Her delicate hand clenched fiercely onto the edge of the curtains, her long fingernails digging into the silk threads as she spoke. "Even in gardens as beautiful as these, there always manages to sprout a weed. And where one weed grows, another lays down its seed. Soon, there are hundreds of filthy weeds, growing, multiplying, tainting the entire garden as they drown out the beautiful roses.

"It is the same with humankind, my children. If this world is Shangri-La, then each continent is a garden, each human being a rose. There are only a few perfect specimens, such as ourselves, free of sin and as pure as these roses. However, we are constantly surrounded and drowned out by the weeds - useless, imperfect, disgusting impurities that must be…removed in order for progress to be made." In a flourish, she released the curtain and quickly pulled the chord beside it, watching patiently as the drapes fell and covered the window, engulfing the room in completely darkness. Noiselessly, she whirled around to face the four figures behind her.

"As you can see, we have quite a job ahead of us." She snapped her fingers as she spoke, and suddenly a eerie blue light filled the room. All five figures turned to a large screen mounted upon the wall, where a large map of the globe was being projected. Numerous windows popped up onscreen, each bearing statistics.

"What will you have us do, my lady?" a second male figure spoke, his voice slightly more masculine and haughty than his counterpart.

The woman did not answer right away, but instead made her way to a small table, where a vase of roses, the same type as the ones outside sat. She plucked a rose from the vase and daintily lifted it to her nose, inhaling its soft sweet scent before continuing. Without turning back to her attendees, he waved her hand over the screen, causing it to zoom in on the continent of Asia.

"You will begin here," she spoke as she wove her hand once more, this time zooming in on the Japanese islands. "This garden is full of beautiful roses that need to be flushed out, as well as hundreds of weeds. As keepers of the garden, it is up to you to reclaim the perfect specimens and remove the impurities."

"There may be some weeds that resist, my lady," the first male spoke quietly.

"I'm well aware of that. But you have nothing to worry about, my children," she the woman replied, eyes glued to the screen, the rose in her hand still twirling quietly. "They should not be any trouble for you at all. And, if by chance they do, make an example of them for the rest of the impurities."

"What did you have in mind?" the man inquired, curious.

The rose stopped turning in the woman's hand. She whirled around to face her consorts, and quick as a wink, she crushed the bright red flower in her hands, making a soft yet satisfying squish. "Eradicate them," she nearly hissed as she let the dead rose drop silently to the floor.

"Understood, my lady" the man replied, his voice suddenly quiet and deadly as he rose and disappeared into the shadows. As he left, the woman strode past her remaining followers and reopened the curtains. A turn of the handle and the window swung open, as she strolled out onto a small balcony. The oncoming storm had quickly gathered speed and strength, the skies now rumbling with thunder. Chilling winds whipped through her hair as she surveyed her garden. Seconds later her eyes had suddenly seized what she'd been looking for; one patch of roses seemed to be wilting, perhaps from the weather or from old age. She stared for a moment, her face expressionless, before she made to reach into her robes.

"Understand, my children, not all will agree with out methods," she said as her three remaining consorts joined her on the balcony. "Many may deny us, others may hate us. But in time, they will come to understand that this is our duty as Crusaders." She paused momentarily to withrdraw a long match from her sleeve, striking it against the balcony. She seemed to consider her choice for a moment before narrowing her eyes. If one or a dozen roses were wilting, then the rest would shortly die after; where one imperfection resided rested the potention for more to be born.

And she would not have imperfections in her garden.

"This is the only way we can reform this world and transform it into our own paradise, our Shangri-La. No matter how dark the road may be, no matter how much blood must be spilt…Shangri-La must be opened!"

As she spoke those last few words, she let the match drop directly over the patch of wilted roses, and within moments, flames began to creep up, quickly seizing the flowers around it. Soon, with great speed despite the harsh winds billowing about, a small section of the garden now burned and crackled, casting an eerie light upon the woman and her followers. The stench of burning roses and charred grace filled the air as rain began to softly fall from the sky.

The woman watched the scene with a delighted smirk upon her face, the firelights dancing in her eyes. After all, this was only a taste of what was to come.

"Désirent ardemment la Shangri-La de phase. Désirent ardemment de phase les croisés de Saint Rose!"

Footnotes

1.) Désirent ardemment la Shangri-La de phase. Désirent ardemment de phase les croisés de Saint Rose!

In English: Long live Shangri-La. Long live the Saint Rose Crusaders!

- Well, since the leader is French, I thought it fit. :D

A/N: This chapter didn't really need a revamp, but I corrected some areas and fixed them up nice and spiffy-like. :3

Thank you for reading! Please, review and comment, and constructive critiques are encouraged!