Code Geass: Rise of the Greens
Chapter 1: The Fall of a Thousand Thoughts
Imperial Calendar Year 2018
Gregorian Calendar Year 1963
Southeast Russia
"What have we got, private?"
"It looks like another dead Knightmare squad, warrant officer. One of ours."
"Chyort. More of them along the way as we go. I'm sure those Britannian mudaks are laughing it up when they see our men down and out. Check it out, maybe we can salvage some ammunition or spare parts."
The faint, seemingly static noises he could hear, somehow ringing in his ears even now as he tried to unsuccessfully block it out, seemed familiar to him for some reason. His brain urged him to ignore the strange sounds, to just go back to sleep, but some impossibly active part of him kept him awake, deepening his curiosity. Something moved in the small, confined space, and he tried to bring it into his blurred view. What was that, illuminated by the glowing red light? It twitched, rising and stretching some sort of attached appendages. These small limbs folded and slowly unfolded again, thin and pale in the low light.
And then his throbbing head kicked in with such force that it literally threw his head back.
"Aaah! Son of a bitch!" he snarled, blinking rapidly as he tried to discern his surroundings, his mental routines slowly coming back to him as his blood flow began to pick up again. The object that he had been so fixedly examining before turned out to be his hand, shaking now as he felt adrenaline being pumped into his veins. His head settled back again as his eyes slowly scanned his cramped surroundings, taking in what he could remember. Fire control panel, weapon selection sub-menu. But to what?
His head tilted again as he realized that he was on his side, the blood from his split temple leaking down into his eyes. His hand rose blindly to rub away the crimson liquid, wiping it off on his uniform before he squinted again, trying to discern exactly what he was in here with this low light. A single bulb glowed above his head, a cheery dark red that seemed to cast indiscernible fate wherever it touched.
'I should be dead,' he realized, as his hands automatically reached towards another control panel. 'I shouldn't be alive right now to be doing this. But why am I not?'
A question that would have to be answered later, he thought, shuffling the query to the back of his still rebooting brain to be replaced by the need to get out of here. He grasped the control yokes beneath him, twisting them back and forth first once, then twice, activating the systems beneath him. With a storm of static and a burst of abruptly bright light, the large screen in front of him lit up, blinding him momentarily.
"Sir! We've got some activity over here!"
"Then what the hell are you waiting for? Get clear!"
The sharp, musical sound of impacts sparking against the hull of this machine came to his ears, and he pulled against one of the yokes. The screen finally came into clearer definition, and he could vaguely make out the form of an arm blocking it. No, wait, it was more of a cannon, seeing as how it had no hands.
"Hey, hold your fire! I'm one of you! Friendly, friendly!"
It was an instinctual thing, a word process that hadn't gone through his mind. Someone was firing on him? These men, where were they anyway, were on his side? Which side were they on?
"Chyort! Stop shooting! Hold fire!"
There was that sound again. It sounded like a voice, muted and echoing against his skull. His hand lowered the yoke he had raised, and the cannon on screen lowered again, but it appeared that it was broken once more. A flurry of white greeted his eyes again, accosting his senses in this small space.
"Quick, get that cockpit open! He probably can't get out!"
He turned his head over to the wall, blinking as the sharp white from the screen fought against the red from the bulb, to find himself facing yet another panel.
'What is this machine?'
This panel appeared to be where the voices were coming from, and his arm reached up clumsily, hitting at least half a dozen other instruments to reach it before he finally pressed a button on the panel. A green light blinked on next to it, and he rasped "Who's out there?"
"Hang on, soldier. We'll get you outta there."
He heard thumps this time, not the sharp, short musical notes of bullet impacts. It was more like someone was hitting the machine with a fist. He even heard someone out there say "Chyort! Where's the switch? Nikolai, get over here and help me!"
Finally, whoever it was seemed to find whatever switch he was looking to discover. With a hiss of moving pistons, the entire rear of the space slid open, slicing into his flesh with such a blistering cold that his head wound roared with agony, sending his head snapping back once again into the headrest.
"Get him outta there!"
"Hang on, soldier, you'll be okay!"
Over the ferocious pain of his concussion, he could feel himself pulled from his seat and deposited out in the cold, feeling the snow lick at his face and hands.
"Someone get a coat over him! He'll freeze to death out here!"
Warmth smothered over him once again, and he let his head fall back as a pair of hands attended to his head wound. He cringed once or twice at the sting before he felt something compress against it.
"Report, private?"
"Sir. Looks like one of ours, alright. Knightmare pilot, head wound. Other than just being a little banged up, both the frame and the pilot appear to be okay."
"Good."
He blinked again, squinting as a face swam into his vision through the white of the cold snowstorm around them. The face was wrapped in a balaclava, further covered by snow goggles and a white hood that helped it blend into their surroundings.
"Sir! Looks like he's up."
The hooded face slipped out of his field of vision to be replaced by another, similarly covered. A gloved hand slid up and lowered the balaclava to reveal a grizzled jaw coated in stubble.
"How are you doing there, soldier?"
His cracked, now he realized it, lips split apart, a dry tongue licking out at them before he said, hoarsely, "Been…better."
The face above him smiled and a hand patted him on the shoulder.
"That's the spirit. You remember anything? Name, rank, unit?"
Wait. He knew those things. They were hovering there, at the forefront of his mind, trying to fight past the concussion. He opened his mouth, pausing as he tried to collect his thoughts again.
"Private Anatoly Vyaschelev. Fifth Armored Battalion, Thirty-First Shock Army."
"Good, that's something at least. Now we know who you are. Private, do you remember what happened here?"
What had happened? He could barely remember when he'd woken up.
"No sir."
The face grunted, the hand rubbing the stubble in absent thought. Another voice came from outside his field of vision.
"Must be the concussion, sir. He probably can't remember a thing."
"Can he at least pilot a Knightmare?"
"Who knows? Some of them have it ingrained in them further than just memory."
The face nodded, and the hand reached down, towards him. His own hand worked of a seemingly foreign accord, welcoming it and allowing himself to be pulled up.
"C'mon, soldier, let's get you up and back to your machine."
Suddenly on his feet, Anatoly felt a wave of dizziness hit him as all the blood rushed out of him. He staggered into the man who had helped him, and the officer steadied him, helping him out.
"You alright there, private?"
Anatoly swallowed down his nausea, licking his dry lips again to try and form words, tasting the blood leaking out from the cracks.
"Y-yessir. Just need to get my bearings."
What was this? His mouth said he was fine, but he felt like he was going to fall over! His eyes skipped over the ground, finding his black boots and the bottoms of his green fatigues. There was, at least, no more blood, and he brought his left arm up to touch his forehead, his bare hand coming back with crimsons across his now numbed fingers.
"Careful, soldier. We've bandaged up that head wound, but don't bang it up anymore. Still a long way to a field hospital."
He looked up again to the man supporting him, the same grizzled face, eyes still hidden behind those large, strange looking goggles. He nodded, standing up straight again and taking a few cautious steps back to his machine. Two other soldiers, dressed with white snow coats to help blend in, helped him climb back into his chair. He finally let his head fall back a little before catching it and bringing it forward as they pushed him in, shutting the cockpit behind him.
"Private Vyaschelev? Can you hear me? This is Warrant Officer Ryberskay. Listen, I need you to get your Knightmare's main power online. Alright?"
Right, okay. Then that panel above his head was the radio. He fumbled again before pressing the talk button, watching the green light come on before he responded "Yes. I hear you. Just gimme a second, I'm still trying to remember where everything is."
"Just don't take too much time. We've got a Britannian armored convoy breathing down our backs, and only a few minutes left before we have to leave. Out."
Britannians. Who were they? His mind was so jumbled right now, he could barely think. Right, the Britannians were the enemy, shoot them first, ask questions later. With that comforting realization made, he tucked it away, glad to remember anything at all, and resumed his search for the power switch. The dim red light was hindering his sight, and the screen wasn't helpful at all. The glare was blinding him, making it impossible to find anything. He would have simply felt around, but he felt that in a machine full of switches connected to who knew what kinds of weapons, that was a little bit of a bad idea.
Finally, his brain seemed to switch into 'pilot' mode once again, and his hand moved to his left, flipping up a plastic cover to depress the large button underneath. Usually, a large button under a plastic cover would not be something you would want to press, but this one would reboot the system, restoring primary functions and allowing him to finally stand his machine up. The seconds in the darkness crawled by, and Anatoly suddenly felt the proximity of the walls, a wave of claustrophobia sweeping over him.
Finally, however, with a whine of cooling fans spinning up, panels and consoles gradually began booting up, lights flashing and programs running their startup procedures. The regular lights came on overhead, and Anatoly let out a breath of relief. The large screen in front of him flickered to life, and although conditions outside hadn't changed, the other sensors that couldn't have been powered up before accompanied it on their various screens and submenus. Radar, heat-vision, heartbeat and ID tag maps, it was all there.
Anatoly breathed a sigh of relief as he went through a systems check like it was second nature. Obviously, his mind still remembered how to work with this, like it was a habit. Now, the only question was how to get it to stand back up again.
He keyed the radio panel, saying "Sir, this is Vyaschelev. I've restored main power and am now going to attempt to stand back up. Recommend you get clear."
Not waiting for the warrant officer's reply, Anatoly gripped the control yokes once again, letting out a breath before twisting them around again, depressing the acceleration pedals at the same time.
With a gigantic, heart-jumping lurch, the swing of the cannon arms downward to strike the ground, combined with the accelerators spinning up simultaneously, was enough force to throw the machine up out of the snow, staggering around briefly on legs not built for that specific task before finally steadying itself and standing proud and tall.
From outside, he could hear the cheers of the foot soldiers as they witnessed the reanimation of the Panzer-Hummel, its mighty guns ready to fight.
"You might have given us more advanced warning, Vyaschelev, but it's good to see another machine up and about!"
The radio panel, now on Anatoly's left side, was within easy reach, and he keyed it, responding "Yessir. Any orders for me?"
The radio fell silent, and using the heat seeking sensors, Anatoly was able to see the infantry all huddled up together, talking with what had to be Warrant Officer Ryberskay, as he pointed and moved his hands to indicate to the other soldiers his orders. Anatoly cocked his head as he watched through the monitor. Since EU electronics weren't as sophisticated as Britannian ones, he remembered that at least, radio networks for infantry, tanks and Knightmares were all on different loops, and had to be keyed on special frequencies set aside for communicating from one branch to the other. Only officers in the infantry had access to these, however, making a combined arms attack difficult for the EU.
The soldiers broke from the group, scattering to different locations. Most hid behind other wrecked Panzer-Hummels, while other scraped down into the snow, digging themselves shallow foxholes to lay down in and provide them with scant cover.
"Vyaschelev, we've had a change of plans. There's about twenty of us down here, and with your Knightmare, I think we can finally stop running and give these mudaks the fight they so richly deserve. Are you up for it?"
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Russian Dictionary
Chyort: a curse, usually meaning 'dammit'
Mudak: another curse, an insult that means 'asshole'