Disclaimer: Code Geass – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I do this purely for my own entertainment, and (hopefully) that of my readers as well.
Opening lines of this chapter are taken from You'll Be Safe Here, a song by a group called Rivermaya. If you know who they are...odds are you now also know where I'm from (although my profile says 'Canada', I've actually been here for less than two years.)
Warnings for this chapter: As in the previous one, language and violence. Some small references to darker themes, which later chapters will have in spades, begin.
Enjoy!
.
Nobody knows just why we're here
Could it be fate or random circumstance?
At the right place, at the right time
Two roads intertwine
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Bird's-Eye View
Stage 02
. : No More Miracles : .
When L.L. raised his head so that his eyes just barely cleared the edge of the rubble, the very first thought that came to his mind was this: that no human should be capable of moving so fast.
The second thought was one that came completely out of nowhere, although it did follow rather quickly from the first. And yet he could think of no other way to describe what he was seeing; as the soldier dodged each bullet with swift, fluid motions, and with the staccato of the gunfire serving as a macabre kind of beat, he suddenly felt as though he were watching a dance.
But it all happened too quickly – a jab to the nape, a quick feint, a fist colliding with cheekbone and knocking off the pair of glasses there. He made a calm, perfectly-timed grab for the rifle before ramming it sideways into the loud man's gut, and just like that the gunfire stopped and the dance was over.
It was not until the soldier had dropped to his knees, busily binding the wrists of one of the now-unconscious terrorists behind his back, that L.L. finally regained his voice.
"You reckless idiot," he seethed. "That was so unbelievably stupid. You could have gotten yourself killed!"
"But I didn't, did I?"
"That's not the point," he insisted. Stepping out into the center of the tunnel, he caught sight of the many bullet holes that riddled the floor and traced out the path that had been the soldier's mad dash. "What if one of those had hit you? What then?"
He could almost swear he heard a smile in the reply: "Then I would have died."
The words were spoken so candidly, and with such nonchalance that L.L. thought to second-guess his desire to press the subject. Instead, he shook his head and asked, "What is your name?"
"Kururugi Suzaku."
Spoken as a true Eleven, he mused to himself then, with the slightest hint of a roll in the r's, and the last syllable spoken as though in an afterthought. But that wasn't what piqued his interest the most. "Are you related to the late Genbu, by any chance?"
The soldier's fingers fumbled with a knot at his query, and he had his answer. "You knew my father?"
"I knew of him," L.L. corrected. He supposed there were only a precious few people in this Area, Eleven or otherwise, who didn't know of Japan's former leader. He was a revered figure, then and even now; the country's initial, bitter resistance to foreign rule was reversed completely when his suicide led to Japan's immediate surrender. "What is the last Prime Minister's son doing in the Britannian military?"
It took awhile for him to reply. "When my father died, the war stopped. There was peace again." He pulled on the hook at one end of the finished knot, revealing more cable, and proceeded to drag the first man closer to his companions. "I'm just trying to preserve that peace."
L.L. snorted. "By serving your country's oppressors?" He moved closer to where the light in the tunnel was strongest, leaning against the wall and wearing a puzzled smirk. "I somehow doubt that was what your father wanted for you."
"That doesn't matter; it doesn't have to b- " Suzaku stopped talking altogether, killing his own train of thought as he shook his head with a smile. "I'm sorry, I...don't know you well enough to have this conversation with you." He lifted up his gaze, and when their eyes met his smile widened just a little bit. "Sir."
"What a flimsy excuse."
"Still, I don't think I've had the pleasure."
He sighed loudly, knowing there was no hope of steering the conversation back to where it was. It was a pity, though, as the soldier's logic seemed so painfully muddled that it actually intrigued him, but he supposed it was none of his business either way. "You may call me L.L."
"L.L.?" Suzaku repeated. "All I get are initials?"
"Take it or leave it." L.L. shrugged indifferently. "I suppose it's not my fault you're naive enough to give your full name to a complete stranger, and in such a hostile environment like this as well."
"You're probably right." He was a bit surprised that the soldier agreed with him so easily, but even more so when he chuckled and glanced up once more, his gaze now much softer than before. "You don't trust people easily, do you?"
L.L. kept silent – not out of petulance, but because he truly didn't know what to say to that.
It wasn't as though he disdained humanity as a whole, or anything that extreme. People were just generally predictable, something he learned from years upon years of quietly observing them as they went about their business, interacted with each other, lived their lives. From little things like a tone of voice, a shift in gaze, a certain posture, he could tell when one was sincere and when another was lying through his teeth, when one had nothing but good intentions and when another's 'friendship' was only worth how many favors he could obtain.
There were exceptions every now and then, he recalled as he watched the soldier draw out even more cable and finish up the job, so that the three men were soon sitting on the ground with their wrists yanked behind them and all tied together that way. He certainly hadn't predicted that Suzaku would jump out at the last second and take down all three terrorists unarmed.
"Why didn't you just kill them?" he finally quipped as soon as the last knot was tied, the cable tugged to test its strength, and the hook dropped completely. "It would have saved you a lot of trouble."
Suzaku removed the ammunition clips from the rifles, pocketing them and then making sure the guns themselves were well out of reach. "They have the right to a fair trial," was all he said, but his voice was far quieter now and had lost its previous cheeriness altogether.
"What fair trial? They're terrorists," L.L. told him flatly, as though this were a fact that still needed to be spelled out. "Britannia will just find them guilty without even trying, and then have them executed anyway. The Empire treats its Eleven subjects appallingly; what more these unapologetic terrorists?" Pausing, he tilted his head up to face the ceiling; less than a minute ago this tunnel had been filled with the sounds of footsteps, gunfire, and yelling, and now it was so quiet. "Killing them now yourself would probably be an act of mercy."
"Maybe that's true. But..." When Suzaku spoke again there was a newfound conviction in his voice, but L.L. couldn't tell for sure if it were genuine or otherwise. "Maybe there's another way. Maybe this Empire can be changed, for the better. From the inside."
"By whom? By you?" The look he was met with was nothing if not earnest, and he couldn't help but laugh.
"Well, why not?" the soldier protested. "Maybe I can't hope to change anything now, but if I – "
"But if you work hard enough and climb the ranks by your sweat and blood, you can win their favor?" L.L. pre-empted in a languid drawl. "Make them trust you, like you enough to make an actual difference?" He shook his head insistently. Perhaps this soldier wasn't completely unpredictable after all, but all things considered this was still quite ludicrous. "Your aspirations are noble, but painfully naive. Even if you do end up throwing away the next few decades of your life and somehow manage to claw your way to the top in the process, none of that is going to matter. Do you know why?" He did not even wait for a reply. "Because despite any rank you attain or any legendary feats you might accomplish, none of those will change what you are to them: an Eleven. A Number. Discrimination against people like you is part of Britannia's national policy. Do you understand now?"
The silence that followed weighed heavily in the tense, cold air. The soldier's previous determination gave way to surprise, followed by a sickening kind of despair as he let his gaze drop to the ground.
L.L. looked away, suddenly wondering if he had crossed a line. But surely this soldier couldn't have been that naive, could he?
Either way, he was bound to learn the harsh truth eventually. And while L.L. didn't particularly appreciate being the one who had to burst the proverbial bubble, perhaps he had done the boy a favor in the end.
Yes, it was better this way, he convinced himself – tried to, at least – as he turned away. "Aren't you going to say something?" he asked coldly.
"I..."
White light suddenly flooded the tunnel, putting an abrupt end to their conversation. He squinted and held a hand up to the side of his face by reflex, although he wasn't sure which startled him more – the light, or the way Suzaku leapt in front of him protectively, fists raised. "Who's there?"
When he finally adjusted to the brightness, L.L. was able to make out the faint silhouettes in the distance. There were eight...no, nine of them, the last one coming into view when its owner lowered the arm holding the offending flashlight. "Is that you, 404?" The voice, gruff and demanding, seemed to boom through the tunnel.
"Sir!" Suzaku dropped his fighting stance immediately. He jogged towards the source of the voice, stopping about a meter away with his heels clicked together and two fingertips at the corner of his eyebrow. "My apologies."
The man with the flashlight – a captain, L.L. guessed from the insignia on his hat – impassively shifted his gaze and the flashlight's beam around the small enclosure. "Those are the terrorists. Are they dead?" he asked, motioning towards the three bound and unconscious Elevens in the corner, before adding belatedly, "At ease."
Suzaku dropped his salute, breaking the rigid line of his torso as he let out a small breath. "No, sir."
The man focused the flashlight's beam directly onto the soldier's face, and L.L. wondered how in the world the latter was able to just stand there without flinching. "And why the hell is that so?" came the response, laced with a snarl and upped several decibels.
Really though, he should have seen this coming. Had he also been clueless enough to think that deliberately leaving several wanted terrorists alive would grant him a pat on the back? He sighed inwardly; if things proceeded the way they seemed to be headed, this was only destined to end in a tragic –
"Sir, we still haven't located the stolen gas canister. If they had any information to give us about its whereabouts, or what they're planning to do with it, I'd thought they would be more useful to us alive." The boy squinted a little, the harsh light finally taking its toll. "Sir."
Unseen, L.L. raised an eyebrow at that; nicely done, he wanted to say. Either this strange boy was adept at crafting bullshit on the spot – something he honestly doubted, given the first impression he'd received of Suzaku's acumen on such matters – or this was a well-practiced alibi, although he could not imagine this soldier willfully lying to his superiors. Which was it, then?
"Hmph." The captain mercifully lowered the flashlight until it was aimed at the ground, and this time he was able to see the squad quite clearly. The rest of the men formed a straight, unmoving line behind their captain, faces closed, guns at the ready. And when his mind finally placed their uniforms it did so with a bit of apprehension: what was the Royal Guard doing in this place?
"Then who the hell is this?"
L.L. turned pointedly away with a scowl when the captain moved his wrist and the light hit him square in the face.
Suzaku whirled around, and something that seemed too much like recognition flashed over his features then; what, had the boy forgotten about him? "Oh. He's a civilian, sir. He isn't with the terrorists."
"Why are you so sure of that? Because he said so?" The captain broke into a loud guffaw, and soon low chuckles from the rest of his men chimed in. "Don't be so gullible, 404!"
"He's not," L.L. countered, inclining his head towards the trio. "I have nothing to do with these men."
"You'll need a much better defense than that, little s- "
"I'm not an Eleven," he cut in icily. He hated having to play that card, but this was getting out of hand and he supposed this was the fastest, if not the only, way to end it.
Or perhaps he was wrong, as the officer's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "404," he began in a low voice, slowly drawing a pistol and offering it to the soldier in question. "I'm willing to overlook this stupidity on your part and pretend it never happened...if you shoot him."
"What!"
"Sir...?" Suzaku's voice sounded strangled.
"I can maybe even get some of the men from your platoon to keep their distance for a couple of nights, but I'm not promising anything." This was met with more laughter, but of a darker tone this time. "Kill him. Eleven or not, three terrorists to interrogate is more than enough."
Hot anger coursed through his veins. If only he still had his Geass, this wouldn't be a problem; he could try to use that, but they were too far away, and he hadn't exactly mastered it...clenching his fists, he shook his head and refused to panic. "I told you, I'm not – !"
"I can't."
The soft-spoken declaration seemed to carry with it a blanket of uncanny silence. Despite all his recent, frantic scheming, L.L. felt the gears in his mind grind to a halt.
"In case I wasn't clear, that was an order, Private."
"I mean no disrespect...sir. But I..." When Suzaku turned to him, there was a small smile tugging on the corner of his lips. But it was strange because his gaze was not soft, or warm, like he thought it should be; it was bitter, and he could not remember if he had ever seen anyone look so forlorn. "I can't shoot an innocent civilian. I won't."
And while they locked gazes in the tense, wordless moment that followed, L.L. didn't know whether to be grateful, or exasperated that this soldier's seemingly quixotic sense of morality was now bordering dangerously on foolishness. Surely that was all it was; there was no earthly reason he could think of for someone to jeopardize his position, and maybe even more, for the sake of a complete stranger he had only known for several minutes.
"Worthless Eleven," a low growl and the click of a gun dragged him back to reality, "let me show you how it's done."
L.L. did not feel any fear, or panic. Not because he didn't need to, but because there just wasn't enough time before the bullet buried itself into his heart.
Two seconds, maybe three at most – he never even felt himself hit the ground. But just before it all faded into nothingness, he could have sworn he heard another gunshot.
Outside, the Shinjuku ghetto was bathed in the glow of the afternoon sun; the latter shone over shanties, garbage, ruined buildings and a lone Glasgow making its way through the empty streets.
Its pilot was a young girl with short hair the color of wine. She had Britannian eyes – blue, like her father's – but during operations like these she would rather not acknowledge that part of her lineage at all. Not when she was fighting for Japan.
She had been leading this rather strange life for quite awhile now. Half of her days were spent in school, at a private academy where she could easily lose herself in a crowd of sleepy-eyed sons and daughters of the Britannian nobility. The rest of her days were like today – sitting in the cramped, sweltering cockpit of an old Knightmare frame with her world reduced to mere panels and the sky nowhere in sight.
A sharp burst of static made her jerk in surprise, and the machine veered slightly to the left in response. She swore, shifting the controller the other way to compensate.
"Kallen!" The voice from the radio was muffled, but the strain held there was clear as day. "Where's Nagata? Does he still have the truck?"
"I don't know," she answered, barely keeping her own anxiety in check. Her eyes were darting in every direction, and she just wanted a way to disappear. The Glasgow afforded her a tremendous boost in fighting power against tanks and helicopters, but it was just so damn conspicuous, and she knew it wouldn't be long before authorities found out and dispatched the proper units to deal with it. "We were separated hours ago. He still had the truck then, but I don't know about now."
"Well we need to regroup. Nagata's out of range, and I haven't heard from Tamaki or the others since they went to meet him at the tunnels." The transmission was peppered with the sound of gunfire. "Try to get to the closest entrance to the subway. We'll meet you there later, but for now you just need to get out of sight."
"I hear you, Ohgi. But I – " She cried out in surprise as bullets rammed into the side of the Glasgow. The cockpit shuddered from the assault and her knuckles turned white against the controllers as she forced the Knightmare to move.
Kallen grit her teeth as the image on the screen flickered. She recognized the telltale violet armor of the unit in front of her well enough, and in this situation it may as well have been a portent of doom.
A steady beeping noise timed with a flashing red light informed her she was being hailed. Mindlessly she pressed down on the button – anything to make the damned distraction stop – only to hear the formal order to surrender from the enemy pilot, a knight of Britannia.
She wondered what her brother would have to say if she did indeed surrender now, he who had given up his life for this war. And so with the chorus of the man's rich, cultured Britannian against Ohgi's frantic calls of 'Kallen!' and 'daijoubu ka?', she charged.
The enemy Sutherland blocked her offense effortlessly, as though its pilot had been expecting this all along.
They both knew which one of them had the mechanical advantage; Sutherlands, after all, were introduced after the Glasgows had been retired, and were developed specifically for anti-Knightmare combat. So as the alarms began and numerous red-lined warning boxes mushroomed on her side-panels, she knew it was just a matter of time.
A small part of her, though, still held out hope for a miracle. This was the part of her that clung stubbornly to the controls, fired off her harkens from dubious angles, took a hit to the Glasgow's arm to buy an opening for the rifle's barrage.
It was the frantic report of her depleted energy filler that shook her violently back to reality. Down by an arm, assault rifle low on bullets and with the enemy Sutherland still standing there with nary a scratch on its proud purple armor, she forced herself to accept that the heavens would not be sending her a miracle right now.
Kallen wasn't sure which hurt more – her heart or her hand when she slammed a fist down on the waiting 'eject' button, sending herself airborne.
Suzaku did not expect hell to be like this: an infinite expanse of formless structures in black and sepia, silent and so very cold. He also did not expect it to be empty, save for one other person who now shared the space with him.
Even with his back turned to him, he already knew who the man was. He still recognized, after all, the proud, stocky frame, the drab gray of the suits he favored, the way he parted his hair. The way he clasped his hands behind his back when he was deep in thought, large fingers locked just so. The way he carried himself, straight and proud with a slightly bowlegged stance and his head held high.
When the man turned to face him, he closed his eyes with a defeated sigh.
He was ready. He was ready to finally take his judgment, which had been postponed for seven long years:
"So are we having a bad daaaay?!"
Green eyes snapped open as their owner came to with a jerk.
"It's such a shame. You were so close to those Pearly Gates, Private Kururugi!"
Suzaku found himself struggling to get a sense of his bearings as the unfamiliar, flippant voice continued to chatter on. The air here now smelled of clean metal and too many computer fans, while more voices created a wordless din in the background. The lights were bright, an abruptly painful development from the darkness at the edge of his dream, and the dim shadows of the subway tunnels –
A searing flash of pain in his side forced a hiss through his lips as he sat up, and his brain was finally cleared of the haze enough to remember: the terrorists, that strange civilian, the Royal Guard; the cold barrel poking into his ribs ("Britannia has no use for pathetic soldiers who cannot follow simple orders!") and the bullet that ended it all.
"Where...?" was all he was able to say, and he stopped trying to finish the question when his voice cracked unpleasantly halfway through the word.
"Hm? Oh, we're in the A.S.E.E.C.'s trailer," came the reply. The man's voice was more tamed now, but it still held a whimsical note as he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. He had pale blue eyes that matched his hair (odd), and Suzaku was well-acquainted enough with the military's hierarchy to recognize the green band around the man's sleeve, a sign that he was a member of an irregular division in the army. "We had no reason to stay in the Shinjuku ghetto, so we thought it would be best to return to the A.S.E.E.C.'s headquarters back at the base."
A.S.E.E.C. – he racked his brains for what that acronym, one of the hundreds he had been forced to memorize, stood for, but his mind was not willing to cooperate beyond 'Advanced-Special-something.' He swung his legs over the edge of the metal table they had placed him on and only noticed now that the floor was indeed rumbling beneath them. He felt a shiver crawling up his spine and resisted the urge to hug himself; the bandages wrapped around his abdomen and slung over his shoulder did precious little to ward off the cold.
"This is what saved your life, Private Kururugi." He looked up at the soft, female voice that had interrupted his thoughts, and saw a dark-haired woman wearing an unfamiliar uniform and a smile in her eyes. In her hands she held something cushioned by a white handkerchief, and when she held it up to him for closer inspection he found himself staring at the broken glass of his father's pocketwatch.
"Ah yes, it barely stopped the bullet that punctured your body armor from killing you," the bespectacled man drawled.
There was something apologetic about the woman's smile, and it warmed him, but only a bit. "Is it something precious to you?"
Suzaku accepted the item gratefully. "Um," he nodded, his voice softened to a murmur. "Yes. Thanks."
"I've heard that you Elevens believe there are gods living in everyday objects. Some even say..."
The soldier found himself tuning out the man's voice and staring at the scuffs on the frame in his hand, the light bouncing off jagged edges of glass, and the frozen hands – 2:34. That would have been the time of death on his file, he thought ironically, had it not been for this, his father's memento.
He wondered why he had been allowed to survive today. He had been so sure he was done for when he felt the metal at his side and heard the second gunshot –
His eyes widened at the belated recollection.
"Wait! Was there a – ?"
The blue-haired man stopped talking immediately and fixed him with a close-mouthed grin. Suzaku flushed a little when he realized he had stopped the man in the middle of speaking, but the latter was waiting for him to continue as well. That was the problem though, he realized when he went over just what he was about to ask. Was there another person in the tunnel, tall, slim, with black hair and violet eyes and a bullet wound in his chest, possibly lying in a pool of blood?
He shook his head. "What happened?" he asked quietly instead.
"Hmmm, well, it appears a Britannian soldier who was off-duty sent a 10-2 to the ground forces deployed in Shinjuku using your radio. We weren't actually there, but my assistant was calibrating the system on our new communications unit and she picked up on the signal."
"Was there...was there no one else there?"
"Nope! I'm sure because we were the ones who personally collected you from that location. Which is good," the man clapped his hands together, "because when your savior identified you as an Eleven, that killed just about any hopes you had of seeing an ambulance before sundown!"
There was much sputtering when the said assistant stopped smiling altogether and elbowed her superior in the ribs, a meaningful "Lloyd!" hissed between her teeth.
As the two began to bicker, he felt his earlier suspicions that he was not in a typical military unit confirmed, and he mulled over the information he had just been given. He was sure L.L. had not been far away when he was shot. Did the Royal Guard move the body then? He frowned. They probably learned on their own that L.L. really wasn't with the terrorists, but by then it would have been too late. Perhaps hiding the evidence had been their only option.
He sighed. On paper, the right thing to do would be to report the incident, but he wondered how much water the testimony of an Eleven – a supposedly-dead Eleven – would hold against that of the Royal Guard. He wondered if they would kill him again for trying if he really did.
"Private Kururugi." Once more Lloyd's voice cut into his musings, and he looked up just in time to see the man adjusting his glasses again. "How much experience do you have piloting a Knightmare frame?"
"Eh?" Suzaku blinked, for a moment doubting he'd heard the question correctly. "Uh, none...sir," he added, just in case this man outranked him – not that it would take much, really. Besides, he was quite certain running simulations didn't serve as actual experience.
And, just as his colleagues were fond of reminding him: an Eleven couldn't possibly become a Knight.
"Oh?" He didn't realize he had voiced that last thought aloud until Lloyd pulled an odd-looking golden key from his pocket and looped the white strap around his finger, letting it dangle that way before the boy's face. "And what if he could?"
Suzaku stared at him. He wasn't sure if he couldn't comprehend the question – he understood the words well enough, he just didn't seem to get it – or if this man was joking and he just didn't realize it yet.
"Congratulations!!" Lloyd exclaimed at his silence, leaning in impossibly close and forcing him to draw back in surprise. "A first-rate, one-of-a-kind, seventh-generation Knightmare awaits you right at this very moment! If you'll take this..." And then there was that key again, its golden sheen catching the light as it danced in front of him.
"What he means to say," the woman cut in politely, "is that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Especially for you, considering the circumstances. This prototype uses Sakuradite in..."
An Eleven couldn't possibly become a Knight. The words blocked out her own and rang out clearly in his mind, words he had heard spoken so many times that they seemed to have formed a mantra that promised to taunt him until his death. But it was nothing if not true, which was why it really begged the question: why were they offering this now, to him of all people – ?
"...and your simulation scores were at the top of the class too!"
Ah. He allowed himself a small smile as the woman fished out a stack of files and read the results of his most recent tests aloud. It felt somewhat good to know that those almost-daily sessions with a virtual Knightmare hadn't been all for naught, as it turned out. But...
"Actually there was one other pilot who matched your simulation results." The indifferent drawl sounded like a drawn-out musing. "We approached him first, but he was only able to come up with a seventy-two per cent efficiency rating with the Lancelot, on average."
"Lancelot?" he parroted, to the best of his abilities. Even though he had more or less mastered Britannian after years of using the language, L's were still rather difficult to pronounce when it came to unfamiliar words.
Or names, a part of him thought, and at that his mind flashed back to that curious stranger in the tunnels, who went by L.L. as though inadvertently mocking him. Not that he hadn't thoroughly done so anyway, but...no, it wasn't good to think ill of the dead.
"That's the name of my creation!" It was easy to detect the swell of pride in the man's declaration, and then it all fell into place: the white lab coat, the decidedly informal environment, A.S.E.E.C. – one of those E's stood for 'Engineering,' he recalled belatedly, and this man was a scientist. "But seventy-two per cent isn't nearly enough to gather any useful battle data. And the pilot didn't seem too keen on working with an experimental frame to begin with. Well, I suppose I couldn't blame him, after all it could very easily fall into a critical malfunction or even spontaneously implode, and as to why, well wouldn't be the wiser – !"
"Lloyd!"
"Aha! Was that a bit too blunt?" Without even waiting for a reply the scientist twirled around, waving a hand dismissively in the air. "I believe we're almost at our destination. I will show you the Lancelot, of course, but I'm afraid you'll have to make do with field tests and such trivial things until we actually get an order to launch. And knowing how the current hierarchy is constructed, the chances of that happening are around one in..."
Lloyd was still speaking even as he turned his back to them and entered another compartment of the trailer, and so the rest of his statement was cut off by a hissing metal door, and then silence.
"Please don't get the wrong impression; even if he doesn't seem like it, he really does mean well. He just doesn't know it sometimes." The woman patted his arm gently. "My name is Cécile. May I call you Suzaku?"
"Of course," he replied. Despite everything that had just happened, there was something strangely comforting in her smile, her kind eyes. "Thank you for saving me today. I'm sorry to trouble you like this."
"No trouble at all. If you ask him, Lloyd will insist the only reason we saved you was so that he could have a chance to find a pilot skilled enough to clear at least eighty per cent in the Lancelot, but he doesn't mean that." The hand on his arm then squeezed ever so lightly, and her smile faded a little. "It's all right if you don't want to. It is after all an experimental frame, so the risks are much higher, as I'm sure you understand."
"Ah, it's...no. That's not it," he shook his head looked away. How odd it must have seemed to her, he realized, to see a lowly Eleven who was not rabid with excitement at the thought of being offered a chance to pilot a Knightmare frame, and a prototype at that. And indeed, half of him was thrilled at the chance, because this was an opportunity he had only ever dared to contemplate in his fantasies. Danger had nothing to do with it, although it probably never did anyway.
But to the other half of him, the half that in all its self-loathing could not quite forget the stranger in the tunnels and his effective parting words – that he would never make a difference, that he would never be good enough – this was all a twisted, cruelly-timed joke that held more irony than he was willing to acknowledge.
"Well you don't have to decide right away," Cécile said reassuringly. "I suppose it's a lot to take in. Take your time." With that she stood up, brushing off the creases in her orange skirt, and all of a sudden his arm was left wanting for warmth. "I have to get back to work, so please stay here and rest for as long as you need. Okay?"
As she disappeared through the same door Lloyd had previously waltzed into, his heart ached with gratitude; he had been so used to cruelty by now that he was no longer sure he knew how to respond to such simple kindness.
Whatever merriment the Third Prince had obtained from that hour-long party evaporated in seconds as he received the officer's report.
Not only had they still been unable to recover the stolen canister, but apparently now...
"All of them?" Clovis repeated in a tight voice, his hands trembling in clenched fists at his sides. "Are you sure?"
"We've confirmed it, your Highness." The man sounded despondent. As he damn well should be. "We're still trying to estimate what time the incident occurred. There were no witnesses, at least, none that we know of yet."
Clovis raked a hand through his hair and stared irritably off to the side. An army of maids was busy collecting the various dishes and silverware left over from the festivities, and other servants had begun setting up the decorations for tomorrow's events: brunch with the Women's Literature Society, after which they would have four hours to tear it all down and prepare for the birthday dinner of some nobleman's eldest son.
All of those were mere trifles compared to this.
It was no secret to Britannia that the situation in Area 11 had always been rather volatile. He knew some of the figures back home were skeptical of his post at first, but Clovis had surprised them (and, to a certain extent, himself) by performing rather competently: he had each act of terrorism dealt with individually, taking them as they came to him, and as a result the perpetrators of these foolishness either ended up behind bars or chased to the mountains and cut off from the Settlement. Of course Britannia's superiority – in numbers, in technology, in everything – helped immensely, and all things considered he had managed to even keep the Japanese Liberation Front, the biggest threat to the occupation, at a tense and careful distance.
But today things had suddenly changed, and failures were stacking up one after another.
It all began with that blasted poison gas canister, although if they had only managed to retrieve it quickly this might have turned out for the better, casting a positive light on the Knight-police. Hours later there was still no sign of the weapon, and they would have to answer for that. It was still not that big of a problem.
But then this happened, and Clovis knew that with the theft of the poison gas, the local government had just been dealt a one-two punch that suddenly placed his post as Viceroy in alarming jeopardy.
If there was no way to salvage the situation, the next best thing would be...
Gritting his teeth, the Prince was at least marginally pleased with the firm and steady timbre of his voice when he finally gave his order.
Kallen had to learn the hard way that her purse-knife was no match for the industrial-strength cable binding her three comrades together. This was the stuff slash harkens were made of, as well as the ropes on the reels welded to chopper floors whenever they were used to deploy ground troops. So despite Tamaki and his relentless badgering – she was glad enough that Sugiyama and Minami were trying to calm him down, and were being much more cooperative – this was a task doomed to failure from the start.
"I still can't believe you lost the Glasgow!" was currently echoing off the tunnel walls.
"I can't believe you were taken down by one soldier!" she snapped back, before turning an apologetic gaze towards the other two. "No offense, guys."
"None taken," Minami assured her good-naturedly. "He was really, really fast though – I don't think I even saw him all that well."
"So none of you were able to get a good look at him then?" she asked, surprised.
"No," Tamaki growled out, "but one day I'm going to find that fucking Buriki and kill him myself!"
"How are you going to do that if you don't know what he looks like, Tamaki-san?" Inoue's smiling, softspoken logic presented a stark contrast to the grenade launcher strapped across her torso.
The man in question paused for a moment, before snarling out something unintelligible with such passion that he strained wildly against the bindings. "Hold still," Kallen ground out, retracting the blade before she could nick any of them.
"You lost the damn Glasgow!!" was the comeback she got for her trouble.
With a sigh she returned to the fruitless task at hand, hoping to find a spot where the cable had frayed or maybe otherwise degraded so she could work from there. She realized too late that she had been facing in the direction of the subway entrance when the cockpit ejected, and so she was sent further out of way and ended up taking longer than necessary to get here. So she hadn't been surprised to find everyone else here when she arrived – the trio, Inoue, Yoshida who was currently kneeling on the dirty floor and loading ammunition clips into the empty rifles at his feet. And...
"She didn't have a choice," the leader of their little resistance cell, Ohgi, intoned in a placating manner. "If she hadn't gotten out of there, she might have been captured...or worse."
"If I'd been captured," she pointed out softly, "it wouldn't have been that much of a problem. I would have gotten off with a slap on the wrist."
"And otherwise?" Ohgi turned to her with a slightly disapproving look; there was just the barest hint of protectiveness there, and it somehow reminded her of – no, she would not think of him, not here, not now. "We can always try to steal another Knightmare. But a skilled pilot who's on our side, that's completely i- "
She would have wanted to hear the end of that, but the sudden explosion was much louder.
"What was that?" Ohgi whirled back around and cast an apprehensive glance into the rest of the tunnel. Inoue stopped her banter with the three, quickly running around them to watch the other side.
Kallen caught the rifle Yoshida tossed her way and held it with a practiced ease that she knew she shouldn't be proud of. "Are you sure nobody followed us?" she asked, taking her post beside the blue-haired woman.
"I double-checked. Nobody else is supposed to be here."
The gunfire began then, rapid bursts that had the four of them frantically trying to place the source. But the sounds seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, and realization dawned when they lowered their weapons and tilted their heads upward.
"From above?"
She could see her own confusion mirrored on her comrades' faces.
"I'll see what's going on," she volunteered, spinning on her heel and sprinting towards the nearest exit.
"Wait!" Ohgi called out. "It's too risky. We don't know what's happening yet – "
"How are we going to know if we don't find out?!" She had to shout in order to be heard over the seemingly steady stream of bullets; she'd counted barrages from at least five distinct assault rifles directly above them, but with the way the sounds grew louder and increasingly more erratic, she was no longer sure.
And there were other noises now too, ones that gave her pause and took longer to identify. Every now and then an explosion would block everything else out, sending tremors through the walls. The swoosh of parted air and the grinding of landspinners against concrete – were those Knightmares?
From there, it didn't take much longer for the screams to reach her ears.
"I'm going," Kallen declared then, but although her voice was made of steel and her grip was firm around the weapon in her hands, she could feel her heart hammering within.
She had barely made it halfway through when a truck came barreling round the corner in front of her. The screeching of its tires and the squeal of brakes were muted by the chaos above as it came to a stop, blocking her path.
It was a different trailer, and the driver sported a new disguise, and so she didn't recognize the man until he had jumped out. "Nagata!"
The rifles that had all been aimed at the newcomer were lowered in an instant, and he was quick to give his report. "Thank goodness you're all still here. I was able to hide the canister in that place like we planned, but with the way things are going I'm not sure we can keep it there for very long."
"What do you mean? What's going on out there?"
"The military just sent a whole battalion's worth of Sutherlands, they're everywhere!"
"Who sent them?" Ohgi asked as Nagata ran back to the truck and rummaged for something at the end of the trailer. "What are they here for?"
"I don't know who's behind this, our informants are still working on that." He surfaced with a large pair of bolt-cutters, and to these the cables binding the three now yielded immediately. His voice was grim when he continued: "The order was to destroy the Shinjuku ghetto."
Kallen wasn't able to hear much after that; it was hard to hear anything beyond the steady streams of bullets peppered every so often with blasts and screams. But strangely, even the voices of her comrades seemed muted to her now. It was as though a part of her simply refused to accept this information – that Britannia would go this far, that the military would actually push through with something as horrible as this. That they would blatantly commit mass murder in broad daylight as though...
"We have to stay here. If we're lucky, they might not think to check the abandoned subways. It's our best chance of surviving this."
She didn't know if there was any point in them surviving at all, a small resistance cell suddenly cut off and powerless as the people they fought for died in scores. But then she remembered Naoto, and that they didn't fight for Shinjuku; they fought for Japan, and she clung to this thought and whispered it to herself like a mantra as most of the group erupted into chaos.
Kallen suddenly felt sick to her stomach when a darker thought sprouted in her mind: what if this was their fault? Maybe they never should have stolen that poison gas. Maybe...
Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed again for a miracle. She didn't call out to anyone in particular, just wished with every fiber of her being that someone – something, anything – could put an end to this horror. For whatever reason. No matter what it took.
But her desperate entreaty would go unanswered. Perhaps it would have never even been heard.
When he finally stepped out of the bathwater, it was only half an hour before midnight.
L.L. sent the clock a slightly despairing look as he yanked on the golden cord, allowing the bath to drain. Hot water, bubbles, and the hotel's own bath salts scented of old spice all swirled around and around until they were gone...and they took with them the traces of smoke and blood and everything from the Shinjuku ghetto that had clung to him from this afternoon.
He forced himself to draw in a breath. Another. Another.
No, he had not purged himself of everything after all; there was still something there, and he didn't quite know what it was. But it was probably to blame for this restlessness, the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat.
L.L. crossed the bathroom in graceful, unhurried strides; the tiles beneath his feet were heated, after all, and there was no pressing need to be anywhere anytime soon. As always he found the stack of towels neatly folded atop black marble. He took one and dried himself with it thoroughly, as though he could rub away that trace of whatever through a mix of stubbornness and soft Egyptian cotton. He couldn't, and he ended up simply reaching for the bathrobe as he hung the towel on a rack near the shower.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the Geass sigil before drawing the bathrobe closed. He found himself pulling the belt into a double-knot and feeling at least some semblance of relief, but he could not explain why.
He unfolded another towel – even with this, there were three left over, and he could never quite figure out what the hotel's management expected him to do with so many – and began drying his hair. He didn't bother with a comb or any attempt to fix it; the heavens had blessed him with hair that many a woman had openly envied, straight and black as jet, a far cry from...
L.L. felt his hands slow to a halt when he realized where that thought was going, and he had to force himself to banish the slowly-building image of wild brown curls framing eyes that were so very green, so very innocent despite all the death they had surely witnessed. (Too late.)
He tossed the towel onto the counter and sighed. Was that what this was about, then? Was it really?
There was a TV in the bathroom; he had been watching the late-night news. He could no longer see it now, but he could hear what the reporters were discussing: how an initial gang war over local control of the illegal drug Refrain escalated into a bloodbath earlier today, with most of the residents in the Shinjuku ghetto having been caught in the crossfire. "The Knight-police have been unable to provide a body count, but recently declared the situation to be stable. Nevertheless, travel to and from the Shinjuku ghetto has been severely restricted, with public buses and trains servicing the area re-routed until further notice. In other news, preparations are already underway for the Annual Summit of the Sakuradite-Producing Countries, which will be held – "
L.L. scowled around his toothbrush, and all of a sudden the cool mint of the toothpaste seemed to give way to something unpleasant and bitter. A cover-story, he realized immediately, something to feed the media and pre-empt any investigation into the event that wasn't sanctioned by the Britannian authorities themselves. It wasn't half-bad. He might even have bought it for a moment, had he not been there precisely when the flock of helicopters arrived, and scores of airlifted Sutherlands began their descent.
There was no gang war; somebody had given the order to wipe out the Shinjuku ghetto, and all the witnesses who could back this up were either dead or held on a firm leash by the Britannian military. Sealing off the ghetto ensured no outside interference as they cleaned up the scene; declaring no cause for worry to placate the Britannians in the Settlement was also a nice touch. Well played, he thought grimly. All bases covered, as expected of the great Empire.
He spat into the sink, marring the smooth porcelain. The inside of his mouth felt like ice when he rinsed it, but he supposed it was only apt.
This was what he knew: there had been a massacre at Shinjuku. And if the order for it had come from the Viceroy, Prince Clovis, he suspected he himself may have unwittingly played a part in causing all those deaths today.
He awoke to the voices of the Royal Guard gradually drifting away. It took awhile before his hearing sharpened enough to make out what exactly they were saying, but before this he had slowly pulled himself to a sitting position and blinked, trying to clear his head of the pain and the darkness.
He caught the bullet as it fell, forced out of his chest; he could feel the wound closing and the telltale warmth of the metal seeping into his hand, and that was when his eyes finally focused and he saw the soldier's body lying face-down and motionless on the ground in front of him.
It didn't take long for him to put the pieces together – the second gunshot, the way those men were now laughing as they strolled through the tunnel with their backs to him, unaware of his survival. Rather, his revival.
He understood the raw anger he felt upon coming to his senses; those bastards had shot him, after all, shot him without a second thought, without even attempting to confirm his innocence. But he couldn't quite explain why this anger so suddenly gave way to a quiet, calculating malevolence when he saw that they had killed Suzaku as well.
(Part of him was trying to rationalize it already; perhaps it was the despicable way they murdered their own comrade, and were brazen enough to actually laugh about it. Perhaps it was because he was so young, and had lost his life in such a meaningless way. Perhaps it was because Suzaku had defended him, even after he...)
Whatever the reason, his hands were steady when he picked up the boy's assault rifle and walked slowly away.
He didn't bother going out of his way to silence his footsteps; the men in front of him were too busy making their own racket, talking and laughing amongst themselves so loudly that they didn't notice him following them, barely dozens of meters away.
"I've been wanting to do that since the son of a bitch enlisted."
"He had it coming."
"Yeah. Who the hell did he think he was?"
"It's just too bad though. He was one of the better ones; we could've had fun with him first."
"Then by all means, go back there. I'm pretty sure his corpse won't mind." And the collective, sinister laughter that ensued echoed off the closed tunnel walls, creating an eerie kind of echo.
Not one of those officers protested the thought, and the realization was sickening when it finally sank in; these were the men who fed the festering cancer of Britannian colonial rule. It was these men who murdered civilians without so much as a blink, who looked down on non-Britannians and spared them not even a shred of basic human decency. It was because of these kinds of men that people like Suzaku, who were idealistic to a fault, who sincerely believed they could right the world's wrongs with a wish and a noble pursuit, were hopelessly doomed to fail. Or to wind up being shot in the back, dreams deferred.
And it dawned on him then that perhaps his initial outlook – thinking that he could just escape this madness and detach himself from it if he tried hard enough not to care too much – was only a bit less naive than that of one soldier now lying dead in the heart of these forsaken tunnels.
He saw the glimmer of light seeping in from the approaching exit before he even realized that he had made up his mind.
And just when the men were about fifty paces from the end of the tunnel, he stopped walking and broke his silence."Question!"
The Royal Guard had been trained, first and foremost, to protect Clovis la Britannia, and so the men's reaction time was quite impressive when they whirled around and reached for their guns. However, he was quite certain they hadn't anticipated seeing a man the captain himself had just killed minutes prior, and as he leveled the assault rifle at them all he made full use of the several seconds he had bought with their shock. "Which do you think is more honorable? Shooting an ally in the back at point-blank range, or..." He clicked off the safety catch, and the sound rang ominously in the air. "Granting my murderers a few final moments to prepare for the inevitable?"
He sighed as he got each of the reactions he expected – some were frozen in terror, some threw up their hands, others opened their mouths and either screamed or tried to reason with him to put the rifle down. The captain made his way to the front and center of the group, and he apologized nervously for mistaking him for a terrorist (but security needed to be tight because Prince Clovis et cetera, et cetera.) How boring, he thought, as the man babbled on.
"And what of you killing a Britannian soldier?" he demanded then. "Was he a threat to the peace?"
"Ah, surely you recognized that he was only an Eleven? He would not have amounted to anything anyway."
By now the shock brought about by seeing him risen from the dead had begun to wear off; he saw the way some of the soldiers in the back had lowered their arms and were reaching discreetly for their firearms. But it was when the captain and a few of his men actually dared to chuckle that he felt his eyes narrow in contempt.
"The only ones who are allowed to kill," he said in a low voice, "are those who are prepared to be killed."
He opened fire, and the dance was over long before it even began.
It was almost midnight, and Clovis would have surely learned of those nine officers' deaths by now.
What bothered him was the possibility that this may have been a trigger for the order to the destroy the ghetto. Government-sanctioned retaliation, after all, was not unheard of as an alternative to traditional counter-terrorism operations, although it was relatively rare and never this extreme. And of course Clovis would immediately suspect terrorists to be the culprits behind the murders of his precious Royal Guard.
It was mostly the sheer timing, of everything, that unnerved him. He had killed nine people today, emptied an assault rifle into nine screaming Britannian soldiers until they were dead before their bodies hit the floor. Hours later somebody higher up in the hierarchy ordered a massacre of Elevens, and the possibility that the first event influenced – or perhaps even caused? – the second one was at the very least disquieting.
But that much was only speculation, he had to remind himself. Until he knew all the facts, there was no way to be sure about any of it.
...Well, perhaps there was one facet of this situation that was beyond denial.
L.L. watched his hands and the way the water flowed, running down his palms and trickling beneath his fingers, ignoring the icy prickle as the red knob on the faucet remained untouched.
He defied the age-old cliche, it seemed; his hands did not suddenly seem to him drenched in unwashable scarlet, and nor did the faces of dead soldiers flash in his head as he glanced up at the mirror.
It was a strange feeling, having taken revenge for his own murder.
And Suzaku's, in a way, he added silently in afterthought. But then his pensiveness gave way to a small smile; they had meant to kill Suzaku, that much was for sure, but they hadn't done a very good job. Because when he'd returned to the boy – until now he wasn't certain why he bothered, but perhaps a part of him had wanted to offer his final respects for such a strange human being – upon looking closely he'd observed (among other, more curious things he was definitely not going to dwell on right now) the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
It was something L.L. sorely wished he had noticed sooner.
He was by no means an expert on the military's communication protocols and codes, but he knew enough to be able to piece together a request for an ambulance using Suzaku's own radio. And then he had been forced to wait an unforgivably long while before a vehicle that was definitely not an ambulance crashed ungracefully through the tunnel wall, and a strange man with an unusual laugh mistook him for someone he was not as he promptly ordered his subordinates to place the boy on a stretcher. He knew he should have been more wary in practically handing the soldier over to such a curious character, but the man assured him he would fix the boy – 'fix' was the term he used, not 'treat' or even 'tend' – and that had been the end of that.
And he was surprised that he even cared.
L.L. scoffed as he wrenched the knob with more force than was absolutely necessary, killing the water flow in a heartbeat. He did not care. He had known the boy for less than half an hour. And...
And in that tiny frame of time that unassuming boy had defied almost all of his predictions, one after another. An Eleven earnestly serving in the Britannian military. Who could dodge gunfire. A soldier with such a seemingly childish outlook on the world, who naively believed he could matter by wanting it hard enough.
One who had defended him, vouched for his innocence, showed him kindness even after L.L. spat on his dreams, crushed them and dared him to put them back together.
He smiled wryly at the thought. Suzaku had refused Geass as well, and this was the first time he knew of anyone who immediately rejected such an offer. Of course, there had been skeptics before, doubters who asked a thousand and one questions but it didn't matter because at the end of the day, they would still take it. He himself had been the same, and he thought then that perhaps everyone held an innate desire for power, or at least for something that wasn't possible to achieve on his own.
(C.C.'s something had been love, genuine and unconditional love; his had been...)
L.L. clicked off the bathroom lights with a sigh that came out a bit more wistful than he would have liked.
That was all it was then, he thought to himself as he shuffled his feet into the waiting bedroom slippers and padded silently towards the ornate writing desk near the window. Suzaku was a strange, strange person in more ways than one, and he simply intrigued him. He would be lying if he said he didn't welcome it; after all, this was a refreshing change from observing people for decades and so very rarely having them actually surprise him. Geass or no, the realization that this boy did not fit into any of his structured patterns carefully crafted by logic and reason was a sobering, and yet fascinating one.
Suzaku had unwittingly pulled one last surprise on him today, L.L. thought as he opened his laptop's Internet browser and began to type. After the deaths of the Royal Guard, and the massive casualties from the massacre that followed...quite simply, the soldier was an anomaly to him every which way he looked, and would repay close study; it was remarkably convenient, then, that he survived.
When he heard the news, he knew he should have felt quite a number of things. But somehow, numbness was all that made it through.
Estimates of the death toll at Shinjuku were pouring in. But when he saw the numbers on the screen all he could really think of was how large they were. Abstract, simple numbers: the casualty count was so surprisingly large that it was meaningless, and he found that he could no longer fathom how many Elevens had died today.
He supposed he would look back on this day, if it ever came to that, and recall that this was his deal-breaker. Because there used to be a time when each of those deaths, empty and completely without purpose, would have been avoidable. Of course, now that was no longer true, but nobody ever said it had to be like this.
L.L. was either right or wrong. Odds were heavily in favor of the former, perhaps, but unless he put it to the test there was really no way of finding out.
So when he finally left the A.S.E.E.C.'s trailer, the sky was pitch-black and the air was frigid, and Kururugi Suzaku had the manual of the Z-01: Lancelot in his hands.
Notes for Chapter 2:
- As I mentioned last chapter, there are some events from the canon timeline that will still appear because they remain unaffected by Lelouch being yanked from his time and plopped in front of C.C. forty years prior. And then there are other events that will take place regardless of L.L.'s involvement anyway; these are the 'knots' in the tapestry, and I believe the massacre at Shinjuku (and, consequently, Ohgi's resistance cell surviving it) is one of them. In the anime, the cover-story for the massacre was that the 'poison gas' was released in the middle of Shinjuku, but I'm not too certain how much everyone bought it. At the very least, Lloyd and Cécile did.
- L.L. lives in opulence because I imagine playing chess for money is a lot more lucrative when you don't have to rush back to school after your lunch break. I'm basing the design of his hotel room off a real hotel; in Stage 06, when I describe it in more detail, I'll let you know which one it is.
- I'm deliberately not following the canon pacing, so Suzaku gets to play with the Lancelot next chapter, not this one. Which means more writing-about-robots-fighting, something I'm still trying to get the hang of. No time like the present to learn, I suppose.
Anyway, thanks so much to those who reviewed the first chapter!
kyouruhi24 – Trust me, it isn't only you; not only is 'L.L.' rather awkward to type, but whenever I start a paragraph with 'L.L.' OpenOffice seems to think I'm creating a bulleted Roman-numeral list and formats the next paragraph to start with 'L.L.I.' It was funny the first few times, but recently I've gotten to typing 'Lulu' and just hitting the replace-all feature at the very end. But I do miss calling him by name. I plan this story, the analog to Season 1, to run for 25 chapters (one per 'Stage'), and the eventual pairing is LuluSuzu: Lelouch/L.L. as the seme, and Suzaku as the uke.
fra – Suzaku won't be getting the Geass for quite some time, because even with L.L. dangling it like a carrot in front of his nose he would still be too stubborn to take it, lol. But it's in the cards...just not right away. And you're right, it's definitely not going to be the same as Lelouch's Geass, not by a long shot.
Tainted Ink And Paper – Wow, thank you so much. Your words flatter me, truly; I can only hope the succeeding chapters (including this one) can clear the bar I seem to have set with the opening. Ah, the joy of longfics.
Mystra-chan06 – New best friend! (happy dance) Yeah, I really hope the quality of everything I do from now on matches or exceeds that of chapter 1, but till then I'm glad you approve.
Zio Charmed – Thanks, hope you like it so far!
AstralSight – Thank you. Hope I'll see you around for quite some time?
Yamiro – Oh, Marianne and Nunnally are definitely going to be around. Marianne might take a looong while to show up, but Nunnally is...just four or five chapters away (big grin). It's been a long time since I last checked out the sound episodes, but if I recall correctly Clovis went to Area 11 being told two of his half-siblings 'died' there. I...really don't want to risk spoiling anything more at this point, so I'll just hint that 'one for two isn't so bad.' =)
Candelabra – Y halo thar anon! It really is an awesome prompt, and I do wonder if the OP who requested it is happy with the way I'm taking it so far. Nevertheless, I'm enjoying it a lot more than I'd thought I would. I love you too ~ !
MithLuin – The scenes in the anime where they worked together – 'rescuing' Arthur (although it was Suzaku who did most of the work; Lelouch flailed and fell like a damsel in distress), outsmarting Mao, taking down Sawasaki's group, and everything post R2-21 – were some of my favorites of the whole series. And I do agree completely with how you've interpreted the tapestry concept; the catch is just picking which events fall into which category, and hoping that my choices sound logically reasonable.
skepsis66 – Thank you! For all his issues (and angsting about said issues), I believe Suzaku is still a very strong person; he probably just doesn't realize it, what with all his self-loathing getting in the way all the time.
Koneko-Hiruka – Thanks, I appreciate it!
Spunkay Skunk – I've actually outlined the next five or so chapters in my head; it's just the chapters between then and the end, plus of course the execution of everything-everything-everything, that's left to be done. I love that you notice the little things, most of which have me scrambling for the Code-Geass-wiki every few keystrokes or so, haha. I find Suzaku to be such a fascinating character (I think I've told you this), which is probably why I enjoy writing him so much. L.L. doesn't come easily though, as you've noticed. It takes a lot more effort for me to sort-of 'get into his head', what with the way he analyzes everything and comes up with scenarios and deconstructs even the most trivial of details. I don't think like that at all, not like he does, so it's a bit of a challenge for me. But, I just hope I get better as the fic progresses!
Sam-Sam-Samedi – Oh, Lelouch isn't giving away his Code (yet). 58 is, as you said, a bit young for that, so the way I have him now is at the tail-end of his 'testing the waters' phase, like when he wasted who-knows-how-many uses of Geass in canon to get a sense of all its little intricacies. This is a similar motivation, and while it's definitely not the most responsible of actions, to be fair he doesn't really give out Geass like candy either. Yes, he's made just a few contracts since obtaining the Code, and they were mostly given to people who (in his mind) needed a game changer right-then-right-there – for example, how he thought Suzaku was a goner for sure once they hit that wall. Others (a tiny fraction) had deeper reasons behind them, but at this point I can't say any more without spoiling a major three- or four-chapter arc coming in the near future, so I'll just have to get back to you on that. (Off-topic: In the real world, Suzaku would look more Britannian / of-Western-descent than Lelouch. Lol. And he would've needed to be really lucky to get green eyes considering Genbu's are brown and his mom's are....wait, do we know anything about his mom?)
CGRD – Wow, thanks very much!
Meshik – Swapping-things-out (and then, subsequently going over the narrative in nail-biting obsession to make sure I didn't violate causality or some such thing) is admittedly one of the more challenging aspects of this fic, so I really appreciate that you mentioned it!
Whitefleur – The premise was really an intriguing one, and was a major reason for me taking on this project. I'm glad you like it so far.
And of course, a shout-out to the anons who left their feedback on the kinkmeme, which is where the prompt for this project was born =).
I had hoped to upload this chapter over the weekend, but then an unexpected amount of schoolwork and my own discontentment with the way a couple of scenes had been shaping up at the time put a damper on that. So here it is on a Wednesday afternoon (where I live) instead. I do apologize for the added wait, and on that note would like to inform everyone that update times for succeeding chapters will be variable. It all depends on the amount of real-life work I have to do at any given time, really, but do know that I am enthusiastic about this project and will be working on it whenever free time opens itself up to me.
Anyway, thanks for reading this chapter. I hope you all enjoyed it, and I really would appreciate hearing what you think. The 'Review' link – it beckons, no? =)