Interlude: Transgressor Inquiry
January 30, 2017 a.t.b., 0212 hours
Mt. Enzou, Fuyuki City, Area 11
They were all sleeping.
All those who held the Code- and the Power of the King- were sleeping.
She was the only one who remained. So, again, she was alone.
Those they called Immortal- all of Akasha's chosen- slept here.
And because they slept- the World of C, the Counterforce, God- was drawing closer to this world.
As I watch from this white world-
Hm? Yes, I'm not usually this introspective.
If you're bored, watch my next death. I'm sure it will be entertaining.
Yes, I'm sure. After all, there won't be many more soon.
A dark cavern, of tremendous width, containing small lights and a strange green luminescence. The floor was knurled and jagged with broken stones, and the ground's appearance was akin to some scaly hide of a terrible beast.
There was a reverberation in this hollow- giving voice to a physical presence, a tremendous pressure- echoing throughout. It was, oddly, joyously mechanical.
An inquiry stirred the tainted depths, with flickers of dim, green luminescence waving through the slick moss. Rotten warmth seeped into the air.
There were two commotions of life within: the moss, creeping through the darkest corners, and the men, who had invaded this sacred chamber years ago- with their machines, and their protocols.
In this hellish portal, a repetition of repetitions was made.
"Iteration 3402? Damn it all … Alright, shift the threshold variable up by two standard deviations. I want her to feel this one."
"Roger that. Yggdrasil Drive output nominal, all power routing to simulation."
She awoke, to the faint voices echoing from the edge of the cavern.
Her body lurched forward- regrown muscles contracting, newly-myelinated neurons firing spastically. The dull ache was interrupted by a sharp current of pain-
-youthoughtyoucouldescape-
-as her sphere's pressure spiked in response. She winced.
It was odd, that she would have woken up now. Her refuge was impenetrable- one of the few perks of immortality. Madness had not touched her in four centuries, because she learned how to cope.
She didn't think she was senile either, but that was most certainly up for debate.
It hurt to laugh, so she didn't.
The stars in her vision were disorienting, though. Her eyes were trapped in total darkness, by the black liquid encasing her. She could hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing.
The days had melded together inside this sensory deprivation chamber. At first, it been mildly relaxing-
Until they killed her for the first time inside it.
The pistons had slammed inwards, compacting the black liquid into her lungs before crushing her skin, muscles, bones, and skull into a single mass.
She didn't feel it. It happened in an instant, and she didn't even realize that she died. Only when she had gasped, drawing in the saline solution through her collapsed esophagus, did she comprehend her resurrection.
And immediately, they killed her again.
Another gasp-
Another death.
She was already familiar with the ache from repeated resurrections- from the Inquisition, from a field of mustard gas, from the insides of an imploded U-boat.
But this- this sort of death was unbearable, because-
It was indistinguishable from living.
In death and in life, inside this chamber, she could hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing. She was denied the great beyond, and its gateway was the same as the entrance and the destination.
In those weeks, she was the closest to madness as she had ever been.
But as the weeks turned to months, she began to cope. She may have not been able to tell, but she didn't need to- not when she was able to escape her body, to take refuge in her personal world.
Even if it was a world of memories, it was still better than absentia.
… She didn't account for the visions. Maybe that was why her friend was laughing at her.
"What's her status?"
"Awake, sir."
"Good. Start the procedure."
General Bartley Asprius mopped his squarish forehead, nearly knocking his already-slipping monocle off. He just wanted this- all of this- to be over. Two years in this damned black cave under a damned Eleven temple in this dratted heat with the dank stone walls that smelled too much like meat and rot- damn it all!
Yes, he had made progress, and yes, he began to understand just what the absolutely massive platform in this monumental hole in the ground was for. But the months after that yielded nothing. Nothing at bloody all.
Prince Clovis was counting on him. And, St. Darwin willing, he would fulfill his duty. Even if his duty was in this strange cave, which seemed more fit for a horror film than a military investigation-
Indeed, the damned noise was getting louder, and he couldn't tell where it was coming from …
The glowing moss seemed to be humming now.
And there was more flickering.
The general mopped his forehead again and sighed. That previous review was less stressful than he expected. He had expected a reprimand, or even a dismissal from his position.
In all honesty, that was what he deserved. His team's progress had made no progress with Code R- on why Subject C possessed her immortality, on transferring her astounding regenerative capabilities, or on her reconstruction upon death.
And, even worse, he had failed to answer the Emperor's sole question:
How had she sealed the Gr-
"Hm-?"
The general wrinkled his nose. For some reason, he still wasn't accustomed to the continual stench of rot, and he had begun his work here two years ago.
"Blasted place-"
The cave was blindingly dark. His monocle blurred, strangely.
No, it was just his eyesight. He wiped his eyes with his hand.
… Was that blood, or sweat?
He honestly couldn't tell, but it didn't matter. St. Darwin willing, he would fulfill his duty.
The cavern was imperviously shadowed. He really couldn't see anything in this damned darkness. But-
-Snap, snap.
"Goddamn it, Bartley. No more mistakes."
He had pulled at the rubber in hopes that the pain would bring him back into focus, and it did.
The gloves fitted well over his solid hands. He had discarded the rest of his protective suit a year ago- he hated sweating, and his admittedly large frame didn't actually fit any of the standard sizes- but he still took precautions.
He had already lost too many good, talented men to that-
He fixed his eyes on the darkness ahead. He refused to be distracted.
She was dancing with a young, strong man, in a ballroom of grained woods, beige marbles, and dim candlelights.
"You look lovely tonight, milady."
"Why, thank you, kind sir." Contrarily, her smile was fleeting. They glided across the floor, but the only passion in the exercise came from her partner.
The other couples drifted away from their path- because, of course, she was the center of attention tonight.
Though, that wasn't to say her partner wasn't a shareholder in that focal point. Of tall and strong disposition, with an educated grace befitting nobility, he drew appreciative glances from the noblewomen as well- but he only had eyes for his dancing companion.
"I mean it, you know. Not like the rabble, all clamoring about your grass-green locks or your fair skin. Nay, your character holds your virtue, hidden in your golden eyes-"
"Oh, Edward, I would prefer to dance." Again, there was that fleeting charm, quickly revealing deep-seated boredom for the poor man.
"Of course, of course. Then we shall dance."
Of course, they barely made their way across half the floor before he began chatting again.
"You know what they say, milady?"
She pretended that the question didn't pique her curiosity. "Do tell."
"The ladies from all of London say that no man who ever entered your presence left disenchanted by your beauty and character- that if any had a tenth of your allure, they would have any man of their desiring. They say you are the Helen of Troy reborn, the enchantress of Merlyn, or Circe herself."
"Is that so?"
"Aha! I do declare, my flattery has pleased this flighty temptress!"
And indeed, there was a smile on her face. She laughed, like chimes on water. "It has, if only for a little while."
"But that is far further than any suitor has succeeded in, correct?"
"Yes, but I would not be so confident. You would have to do far better than mere compliments for my heart. After all, you would only expect so much from flighty flattery."
"And that is proof you are not a witch! Would such a foul creature place her virtue so highly?" The young lord matched her mirth with jest, as he spun her round and round.
"Oh, I wouldn't know anything about that- and you have lost my goodwill, because you named me a 'foul creature,' which I certainly won't be forgetting." Coyly, her eyes shone with mirth.
"Then may my actions speak louder than my words, milady." And with that, he stepped into the music, solidifying his grasp on his partner's hand and waist.
With each step, the music swelled and quickened. The pair danced with alacrity and grace, faster and faster, spinning and twirling and moving without ceasing-
Until it slowed, and they stepped aside, breathless.
"Oh my- that was quite exciting. Thank you."
But her complement went unheeded. His mind was fixated on a different statement of hers.
"… Would I earn your graces, milady, if I waged a war in your name?" His voice was filled with solemn consternation, as if he knew her thoughts before his ballroom gallantry.
"Oh? A war?"
"I will assemble my knights, like Arthur's of lore, and we will put down those unruly Scots- and my father would not object to a dedication of this campaign."
"Well, that would be a more impressive present than most. You could bring me their heads, and I'd make a stew."
"A- A stew?" The expression on his face would be best descried as 'confounded.' "I'm afraid I don't understand."
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, a stew. Then I'd feed it to you, and you'd possess the virility of Achilles, and then I'd be swept off my feet by your strength and your manhood."
"You would?"
"No, not at all. It's a nice gesture, but I'd like a different display of your worth. This 'foul creature' would not like some brazen display of violence and conquest." Sardonic though her words were, her expression was genuinely kind.
"My honor demands it, milady. I know of no other way. If I am to be the Prince of Britannia- nay, if I am to be King Arthur reincarnate, then I must do as my father expects of me." But he looked uncertain and reluctant. The thought didn't appear to particularly appeal to him.
"Then, Sir Arthur, go ahead with your war. I won't be impressed by it."
He scowled. "Piers warned me about this. Women don't understand the true valor in war. The ones that do are rare creatures indeed."
In response, a mild annoyance crossed her face, and she turned away. "Can you say that, when you don't understand it either?"
He froze. His mouth opened and closed, and his face flushed. The words he wanted to say were held back, though, and his anger simmered down. "… You've never had a champion, have you?"
And it was her turn to be surprised. He continued on, not letting her reply. "All your suitors- they never offered to stand for you, or offered any noble service in your name."
"… Edward, this isn't necessary."
"A remarkable lady requires remarkable deeds." His hand on her shoulder, Edward drew closer to the object of his affections.
A sigh of resignation escaped her lips, at which a small smile was tugging. She shook her head, and met his gaze. "You win, good sir. I'll be the judge of your valor. You'll have my trophy on your arm."
"Excellent. The good men of Britannia will be rid of these Scots in your name, milady."
She stepped into his arms, coquettishly. "If you truly wish to win my affections, then show me-"
"What more do I need to show? I love you, milady. I will smite your enemies down."
She raised a skeptical eyebrow, even as her arms wrapped around his waist. "… You love me?"
"I love you."
His voice had changed too quickly, his expression containing a strange vacancy-
"No-"
Forcefully, she pushed herself away. He stumbled back, but righted himself stiffly.
The young lady stared into her partner's eyes, and her expression faded from the passionate wit to the apathetic boredom from before. "… I see. Let us dance again."
They both walked onto the floor, swaying slowly to the music. They were like a pair of matched marionettes, executing every step in harmonious synchrony- as if both had performed this thousands of time before. In truth, one of them did.
Under the young lady's lethargy, there was something akin to aching disappointment. Every motion lacked feeling- or rather, possessed the ghost of a feeling. Still, she persisted in her dance.
The music stopped after an hour. The couples bowed and returned to their social duties, chatting animatedly about the performance. The young prince and his companion prepared their farewells.
"May we meet again, Edward of Caernarfon." Her curtsy- a sweep of red, with her green tresses falling over her shoulders- formally ended their time together.
"I love you, I do." He failed to bow, only staring at his partner.
She quieted. Her reply came as a small, fleeting whisper. "… Then you would remember my name."
With that, she turned away. Oddly enough, her lethargy had faded quickly. Another man quickly caught her eye, and she made her way to him.
"Good evening, Lord Lancaster."
The shadows seemed to be lively.
The air itself appeared to emanate from each crevice- a stream of black air, a stream of dark air.
"Damnit." The portly general scratched at the back of his neck, trying to overwhelm the incessant prickling. He was used to his mind conjuring little wraiths in the crevices, but that one felt too real.
-Shhh.
The small mental decontamination unit hissed, and Bartley blinked. He always found being scrubbed to be a bit disconcerting. It was a necessary precaution, though, just like the suits, just like the suits, just like the-
"Sir?"
"Don't interrupt me, Corporal." The general rubbed his eyes, and looked at his hands. He was spending too much time in this damned cave under a damned Eleven temple- his burnished brown skin was a good deal paler than when he first accepted this position from the Viceroy.
This was no time to complain, though. He would perform his duty again and again. Again, again, and again.
Bartley took the last step up to the stone platform, within the dark chamber.
His eyes had to adjust, but he knew what to expect- a young lady in a white straightjacket, her green tresses obscuring her face. Encased in a transparent sphere and submerged in dark fluid, she was the centerpiece of this strange display.
From the cavern's walls grew tendrils, as if the stone itself had been drawn to her figure- or so it appeared. The connections were of man's design- thousands of cables from innumerable devices mounted on the walls, tethered by metallic pads affixed to this girl through the sphere's wall. They were like leeches, natural offspring from this cave teeming with rotting life.
How ironic, then, that this captive was posed in her chamber like some eminent, fallen angel. If the wires were akin to some sort of flowing regalia, then a spherical helmet linked to whirring pumps and tubes was her halo.
Still, she was a defeated deity, bowed forward in her aquatic prison, bioelectric and psychometric pads tethered to every part of her body.
It was indubitably cruel, though undeniably necessary.
Bartley clenched his jaw. It was time to commence testing. "Control, report any changes outside nominal functions."
The disembodied voice came over the panel speaker. "Beta-wave spike during her REM cycle, and some irregular eye motion following a spike in signals to her optical nerves."
"Very well. Control, we will begin the procedure."
"Roger, General Bartley. On your mark."
… He always hated this part.
She was beautiful, even under the murky waters- verdant hair flowing hauntingly, eyes staring vacantly. The flourishes of youth complemented her countenance, from the smoothness of her skin to the delicacy of her features. She was as perfect as a doll-
And right now, her yellow eyes contained just as much expression. There was a wonderful dullness to them, exactly like a doll's glass orbs.
They had changed slowly throughout the year, and it was undeniable- they were exquisite now.
Damnit, it was a shame. Two of his officers had daughters her age- he had let them step down from their posts with a fair amount of understanding. One of Jeremiah's men had a sister-
Bartley shook his head.
Some little corner of his mind wondered if she would react at all- if she could even recognize her plight right now, or if a year of this treatment had stolen her sanity. Half of him hoped for the former. Half of him prayed for the latter.
Code R was constructed around achieving an understanding of these ancient beings, these timeless immortals, and their ties to what made them so- what manifested within their minds, their connection with the endless march of history. That was his goal, anyways.
His Emperor had charged him with a different task.
He knew it was hopeless- he bore the weight of months upon months of fruitless inquiry. He would perform his duty ceaselessly, but there were no results to be had. To get this girl to open it- if it were so easy to just ask. Her initial resistance faded quickly to an emotionless stoicism, which could not be cracked by any of Bartley's 'incentives'.
The psychologists said she demonstrated acute disassociation. If she continued to be imprisoned and coerced, she would be unreachable. Of course, he hadn't believed them, and by Washington's hippopotamus teeth, he wished he had.
She was simple flesh and bone- so this should have been easy. But it seemed like her immortality gave her inhuman tenacity. Subject C had fallen into her emotionless state with apparently practiced ease, and had never left it since.
He knew- yes, even after a year of futility, he understood this- that the only hope he had was to bring her out of her fortress. He still wished, in spite and in regret, that she was suffering under that regenerating shell.
It was far past the time for that sort of introspection. He had his duty to fulfill.
"Mark. Purge her."
"Mademoiselle, we must flee! Verdun will fall!"
She couldn't move. Her legs were locked, and her eyes were wide.
Five hundred meters away, the very picture of hell was painting itself. Swarms of dots- men in dim blues- clambered and ran over the trenches, screaming and moaning in a cacophonous morass of suffering noise.
And relentlessly behind them charged a line of greatcoat grey, with metal boxes booming out their retorts of black smoke and sparking flashes. Smog and haze cast a yellow-grey taint to the scene, demonizing the dying as fiends from the maw of hell. The evening light would hold witness to this for the next hour, and then the respite of night would approach, but-
In her entire life, she had never seen such suffering.
Then, a tug on her sleeve, and she was stirred out of her reverie. "Luc-?"
"Come on!"
He ran, dragging her into the trench and up out of it and into another- and stopped.
There were men running to the front, in their blue uniforms, carrying rifles and boxes. There were tanks rattling along, and a group of horsemen galloping forward. There was no way to get past these men rushing to assist their brothers-in-arms.
They ducked, hiding inside the deepest pocket of the unused earthwork. Though they were sullied with soil for their troubles, they went unnoticed by the advancing army.
"Sacre bleu." Luc grimaced, then coughed into his grey coat. His face, under his beard and his cap, was pale. "You have my apologies. I did not think I would ever introduce someone to Verdun in such a terrible state."
"That's … quite alright." She shook her head, trying to clear her eyes of the suffering engrained into her pupils. "Is there a way to get out of Verdun?"
"That is the direction where the soldiers-"
"Would they help us?"
"Non. You are too obviously Britannian. If they take your hat off and gaze upon your greenery, you would find yourself in the Bastille."
"That's not helping-" A keening sound, followed by a rumble, stopped her words briefly. "-us right now. You have friends here. I need to go to Prague."
"I would help you, if I could. There is not much transportation for you to go there." He sighed regretfully. "You have helped me, and I cannot return the favor."
"You can, for the moment. If you can get me to Paris, at least, I can get the catalysts to a safe place."
"… And if I can't?" The question was punctuated by another rumble, closer and stronger. Trench dirt showered them, and shouts echoed through the scarred fields.
"Then you'll be the delivery boy. I hate Constantinople, anyway." She shrugged, and held out a nondescript, brown box.
"Mon Dieu, you really did get it …" It rattled when he took it, like iron on wood. "I thought you were only able to find the mantle."
"The Knights of St. Michael had that piece of fabric. The spear head was in the hands of someone who didn't understand its worth."
"Ah …" Luc blinked twice, and then bowed his head. Reverently murmuring, he crossed himself. "Seigneur, faites de moi un instrument de votre paix. Là où il y a de la haine, que je mette l'amour. Là où il y a l'offense, que je mette le pardon. Là où il y a la discorde, que je mette l'union ..."
His friend had quieted as well. In the battlefield, under grimy earth and wood, this mustard seed of faith was inviolable. It was terribly out of place and poorly timed, but it helped Luc get her out of this hellhole, so much the better- and, truth be told, a little part of her envied him.
"I suppose, mademoiselle, that I will need to prove myself worthy, if I hold this relic." A grim, steely spark of determination lit his eyes, and Luc gripped the box tightly as he secreted it away inside his vest's lower pocket.
"If proving yourself involves both of us escaping, I'm all for it." She turned to the exit. The shouts and sounds of battle were still faint, but they had already spent enough time here. The consequences would be dire if a French or German soldier found them. "Shall we go?"
"Yes, we shall." His courage bolstered, Luc ducked out of the enclave and into the trench. His companion followed closely.
The trench was strangely empty. It appeared that the men inside had been called forward to reinforce the front lines, and indeed, faint orders could be heard from there. Staccato cracks of machine guns tattooed the darkening sky, but even those sounds were fading, as the two began leaving the barbed wire and sandbag bulwarks.
But it wasn't even a quarter-hour before a small trickle of men in dirty blue began passing them. Their expressions were in various states of fear and resignation, as if they were the last valiant breaths of a corpse. They shuddered with each shrieking wail and trembled with every roar of cratered earth, but onwards they marched into the maw in unending droves.
They went by, but the two were able to weave past them- for a little while, at least. It was purely misfortune that Luc was spotted, his coattails fluttering into view of one perceptive soldier.
"Vous- que faites-vous!?"
Luc raised his hands. "Aidez-nous-"
"Don't-!" She pulled him down, just in time.
Cracks rang out from the sentry's rifle, the rounds thudding into the soil. Shouting and alarm started to spread- the soldiers began scouring their positions frantically, their guns prodding at shadows and dust.
"Ciel- Qui-est?" Another soldier swung around the corner-
He received a shovel spade swung wide into his face for his trouble. He collapsed limply.
Luc goggled at her. "Let me talk to them-"
"Listen, damnit." Her body trembled with adrenaline and anxiety. She pushed Luc deeper into the soil, guaranteeing their safety for a few precious seconds. Their bodies were close, and in any other circumstance, a man would have considered his position fortunate. This, however, was no such circumstance.
A keening, whirring sound was followed by a rumble, then a tempest- and fifty meters away, gouts of soil and blood burst up from the forward trenches.
Screams of agony pierced the wet, bloodied air. The cacophony was punctuated by bursts of machinegun fire, which ripped over the ground ceaselessly. One man's nerve broke, and he dashed up and out of the trench, and the ringing cracks of rifles found him wanting. He fell back, onto his comrades, slack-jawed and limp.
"They're not going to talk, not like this. We have to go." With his hand in hers, she tugged him out of the ground- and out of his shock- through the trench, even as dirt and dust were cast into the air and soldiers ran past them to shore up the faltering defenses.
The trenches seemed never-ending. Rotten corpses and bloody pools of mud and tangled barbed wire- they laid in this because there were too many bullets and shells raining overhead-
"Wait." She surveyed her surroundings- she had noticed that something changed. There were too many dead here, and this was too far from the frontlines to be a battlefield. Chilling unease filled her.
She realized, in that moment. The soldiers- in grey, at the front- had come around and performed their duty for the fatherland here, too. And if they were here-
"What are we going to do?" It appeared her companion came to the same conclusion. "If they have-"
"We split up, then. You go to Verdun, I'll lead them away." Quiet and resolute, she handed Luc a boxy package from her bag. Her expression held steel and obsidian, composed despite the loose strands of green falling out from her beret.
His distraught was painfully etched upon his countenance. "No. I cannot, mademoiselle. I cannot leave you here, to these scoundrels. To do so would be-"
"You're too kind. Look, I'll meet you in Paris. We'll have a cup of coffee and laugh over crumpets." She gave him a light shove. "Just go. I can take care of myself."
"Not crumpets, croissants." But he smiled. Even if it was a little forced, even if this was a poor place for a smile- he still smiled. "Very well. I am guessing that the Directorate gave you something to help?"
"In a manner of speaking …" Her eyes swept over the trench again. "They probably went to attack the front lines, but-"
She froze. There were movements in the last lights of evening that shouldn't have been there. Silently, she cursed her stupidity and misfortune. There was little she could do, except save what she could.
Her voice came out softly. "Luc, run."
He hesitated-
"Now!"
His soles slapped the muddy ground, his arms wrapped around his companion's gift. Her gaze lingered long enough to satisfy her concerns for his escape- though he had turned his head around to assure himself of the same.
She would have to scold him for that, when she made it back.
Her figure blurred with the mounds of dirt and bodies as she crossed the next trench. The dank air grew colder by the minute, as the French winter had set in. But she had no choice. The crunch of blighted earth drew nearer, and she knew she wasn't alone.
Strangely, the footsteps stopped- or perhaps they had faded away. She kept running, and she bit her lip, squeezing out the acidic burning in her legs. She could make it-
A sea of flames surged forth before her, a column of flickering orange and yellow. The air blazed and shoved her back, scorching her skin and singeing her hair.
But she didn't scream, and she didn't close her eyes. She was watching another scene of fire.
She could feel the heat on her bones, the tongues of fire licking at her feet. She could barely hear the jeers of the crowd as they piled the branches around her. She writhed on the stake, a wordless cry on her lips, her dress blazing and her flesh throbbing. 'Witch,' they cried. 'Sorceress,' 'Magus.' Oh, how they cursed her as she lived, and how they despised her as she died-
"Your history is catching up to you, witch."
A cruel smile on his face, he stood out among the grey armor-coats and bucket-stahlhelms, in the red robes of a cardinal and a white cape. The only identifiers of his German allegiance were the jackboots and the officer's jacket, but that was enough to show who this man was truly affiliated with.
He was one of the knights of a chivalric order- or one which once was so. This man was a member of the Church's military arm- a crossbreed of the failing Teutonic Knights and the rising presence of exiled Britannian nobles with exiled Britannian money. They had cast off any semblance of Christian valor, and robed themselves in clothes of nationalistic fanaticism. 'Anglico-Britannia,' for the glory of St. Darwin, engulfed in the fire of Fervor Teutonicus.
These orders pursued the purest form of racism- that all genetic potential had to be washed in a baptism of fire, where the cream would rise and the chaff would be razed. Christ died for the worthy- and the Lord's just love would be dealt from their hand in flames and steel. Any specimen which proved worthy would be inducted into an eager order's ranks. Anything less would be purged. It was irony in its best state- non-discriminatory discrimination.
She blinked and truly looked at him- though she knew her face still held the trauma of the stirred memories. "Well, I never … The Order of St. Michael- the dogs of the Church."
She sighed, recomposing herself. "I'm surprised. I didn't think the Pope would have deemed it necessary to-"
A single shot rang out. A cry followed, and she fell, clutching her knee.
"You will bow when you speak to Sir Klaus Gottwald, Knight-Exemplar of the Archangel's Order." Her assailant brushed a careless strand of black hair back into his cap. His aristocratic features contorted into a sneer as his hand passed over his face. He enjoyed this, the state of pure power over a helpless creature-
"You know, you aren't- quite- as jolly as your namesake- Augh-!"
Another shot, another kneecap.
He stepped forward and spoke with a hiss between gritted teeth. All pretense of pretentiousness vanished. "The Lancehead, if you would."
"No- Ah!" Her hands desperately scrabbled at the hard leather covering the man's hand, while he dragged her head up by a fistful of hair. In that motion, the V sigil upon her forehead became visible.
He sneered. "I'm not going to ask again. The artifacts you stole do not belong to your Directorate. Return the Lancehead and the Mantle of Macedon, and we'll let you crawl back to Paris."
"No. You'll have to- to take them when you find them-" Labored breaths were interspersed with her defiance. She glared at the officer, despite the erosion of her grasp on the situation.
"Fine." The pistol appeared, cold barrel on her gut. "We'll do this the easy way."
Two cracks burst forth, and her blood spilled onto the black soil. She choked on her pain. Her body became limp, what little strength that remained in her muscles fleeing.
"Now, talk."
"… No."
Gottwald released his grip. She collapsed into the ground like a ragdoll.
He fired again and again, into her arm, her legs, a lung, an ear. The ringing in his ears kept reverberating- and with each shot, he saw a horror. A smoking skull, a pendulum, a tolling heart.
And then he heard laughter.
"Why are you laughing, witch?" He scowled, and jammed his pistol in his belt holster. Already, her expiration wasn't far off. There was nothing to fear from her.
"You're wasting your time, you know."
"I would say so. That's why I've been shooting you. And you still haven't answered my question."
"Well-" She laughed spitefully. It was a chilling sight, an almost-corpse spending her last moments shaking in odd humor. "-you haven't got anything, after all this effort. Creeping around in this dirt, and you still hold your nose up, like you're above all this …"
"I have you as my captive. This 'creeping' you so disparage is the reason you aren't free, and I think you know that." He raised his foot and stomped on the bullet-hole in her shoulder. The wince flashed briefly on her face, but it was just momentary.
"You're- ugh- right. But the problem, sir knight, of sneaking behind enemy lines-" A hacking cough shook her petit, fading frame, but she smiled mirthlessly, with just the right amount of cruelty. "-is that nobody really knows where you are. Whereas- I do."
"What the devil does that mean? I have no time-" His eyes flitted back and forth, searching. The sound of metal on rock clattered at his captive's feet- a silver cross, with two orthogonal timbers and one slanted.
"Good-bye, sir knight."
The world blended together, in clouds of soil and pulped bodies. The air stank of iron and rot. A strange scent crept in- sour, pungent, the putrefaction of shredded flesh.
It was with no small satisfaction that she knew her newfound companions were meeting a terrible end at the hands of one like herself.
And as the familiar darkness seeped into her eyes, she wished the abomination from the Directorate and the Orthodoxy the best of luck.
Or rather, blessings from Heaven- not Godspeed, she didn't need that, she was already too quick. She had all the divine portents of her namesake, anyway.
"Là où il y a l'erreur, que je mette la vérité. Là où il y a le doute, que je mette la foi. Là où il y a le désespoir, que je mette l'espérance..."
"What the hell was that, Control?"
A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. It was bizarre, to see her body tossed around in the chamber like that, before being crushed into a mass of blood and bone.
Except- she wasn't. She was still whole, with her white straightjacket and her green hair and her blank eyes-
"Some sort of spike in her EKG reading, sir. Increased blood flow to cranial centers, consistent with ego concentrations."
"It's one of those dreams, then …"
Dreams. A year ago, Bartley would have laughed at the notion that Code R would rely so heavily on those as a metric of success.
What they were doing to her- it wasn't truly science, or, at least, the science of the century he lived in. Loathe though he was to admit it, Britannia had no substantial history in investigations of the psyche. It was a natural consequence of placing Darwinism as a national virtue- eugenics and bioengineering were the norm for research fronts in the medical field. Compared to intelligence's reports on the EU's advances in parapsychology, on morphic resonances and ego networks, Britannia's progress was but a drop in the depths.
There was little choice in the matter, though. Subject C held the keys to the Elevator. They just needed to find where they were and how they worked in her head. And for that, the only path was her memories- if she wasn't willing, then her memories would have to be substitute enough.
The mind was most susceptible to influence in the beta patterns of deep REM. That was the best place to start, and the best indicator of results were her psychometric responses to their stimuli.
So they poked and probed her mind, to conjure up whatever memories as they would, as scientifically as they could. They knew where to look, out of the 17-odd million neurons, but they needed the tumbler combination, the key-teeth to open the gate. In the process of searching and calling forth those ephemeral shades of recollection, though, strange occurrences happened.
He was there the longest. He knew what was happening to him with each test- when they brought her memories to bear.
But he couldn't recuse himself. He could bear it, if he already did for so long-
The walls were moist.
They were moving, too.
And God, that smell-
"Run it again."
She was watching the swirling mass. Terrible and magnificent, it coated the cavern with red and black, like a lesion spilling its contents into the world.
There could be no hope in this hole. There was no room for it. In great strokes, the floor was being coated in desolation and despair- and their colors were ebony and crimson, freely flowing like water.
And in the center, an aberration. A grail made of flesh, a cup of skin and muscle-
-whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day-
-and the flesh was multiplying, bubbling forth like a turbulent brook in a swollen season. Cancerous tumors and diseased veins, which could not support the unceasing growth, were bursting under the weight- only to give birth to more bulbs and spheres of fleshy mass-
And in all of this, a little boy's screaming made its way out of the maze of meat.
"Charles, please-"
This could have been me.
The dispassionate thought flitted across her mind. Certainly, this couldn't have happened to anyone more deserving. All the same, though …
It needed to be stopped.
She shook her head. She was forgetting something-
It all blurred.
Then, she saw her friend standing next to her, in this terrible place.
Her companion- she had many of those over the years, each helping in her vague purposes in various capacities- drew a knife. The hand holding it was shaking, but the wielder's eyes were blazing, in both defiance and color. A spectral prism in twin spheres still shone brightly, even as the blood seeped from both the red jacket and the blue kimono.
An unsteady step forward, and the knifehand's body tensed. Worry flitted across her face, if only for a moment. "I've never been fond of goodbyes … Besides, I'm heading to where I'm supposed to be."
The carefree smile contrasted sharply with her blood-matted hair and the useless arm dangling at her side. She was no more than a speck in the presence of the hellish mockery of human wishes, and yet she carried herself with a boyish confidence- exuberance, even.
A pause- there seemed to be a moment to spare. A low chuckle came from the empty girl.
"It's funny. I don't think even that little knight could destroy this. And what's funnier- You'd be a better match for Mikiya than me- well, her."
Another step.
"I wonder what contract you'd make with him-"
The words stopped- her memories blurred.
Or- had they?
She had wrapped her arms around her companion. Even through the jacket, the blood stained her hands and her companion's body slackened- and it didn't matter. She couldn't see her face, but she knew what expression would be on it.
"Just kill the vessel. That's all that's left."
"… I know."
She let go. "I guess you can't-"
From the back, the corner of the knifehand's eye peered at her. "Yeah. Sorry I couldn't kill you. It would have been interesting."
She stepped forward, body taut, all weakness forgotten. The knife danced once, twice.
Her body took flight- leaping off the cursed earth like the last breath of a bird.
This was the final hunt of an apex predator, and with all the grace that entailed, she began cutting the lines.
Another blurring. She couldn't watch this.
… Wet slopping sounds, black fluids gushing out.
A blade's song, a body failing as another body died …
She didn't remember collapsing onto her knees. She just knew that her companion was done.
All that remained was to contain the remains. The World of C was incorrigible. It would be an appropriate prison for the vessel, to seal away the war and the dreams of heroes and the interpersonal hell of it all-
It was evident, what her responsibility was. She had to push this insane magic away from this domain and into the next. So, she blinked-
And she stood before the Sword on the pyramidal pedestal, the sunlight blazing eternally through that stone altar, the smooth marble steps leading to that site of antiquity. The clouds swirled below her, as if in anticipation of her duty.
-build it here, build it now, this is an appropriate place-
The urgency of her thoughts was surprising. Perhaps it was the horror of the mass that had spawned before her, or the strife which had so afflicted her throughout the war. Perhaps it was her Code's guidance, compelling her to repel the Counterforce for just another day. Perhaps it was the seven resurrections, which revolted whatever little shreds of humanity left within her.
Or, perhaps, it's the fact that she returned to the Throne.
She blinked again. It can't be that. Why would I- That's not-
A flash of pain from her sigil on her forehead, and it was done. The displaced Thought Elevator from Antarctica was reconstructed in the cavern, with little fanfare or ceremony- the Sword had cut a door open, and that was all. The only ornamentation was the etching of the V-sigil and the red-lit incision in the stone floor.
Staring at the newborn sanctuary, she- she didn't know what she was doing now. She had to-
Was it all worth it?
That's right- she wanted, after all these years- even if it was just one word, to answer that question-
-the Sword, the Throne, the Elevator, the Code, the Record-
-Akasha-
-and she just opened the door, with the red flickering and the shimmering moss in the cave, all she wanted to know, if it was-
… It doesn't matter.
She brushed the thoughts from her mind. She was already standing on the pedestal. If there were answers coming, they would have already arrived. Though, certainly, she didn't deserve them. She had fled her obligations after Charles ascended and Marianne died and Mao lost his mind-
And look how all of that turned out.
Was it grim regret? Or simple, meaningless discontent?
... That doesn't matter either.
She watched the sunrise shimmer over the clouds. There was an escape here, which would never be offered to her again. And just when she thought she found a different path through her companion- it was lost to her, all in the name of duty.
And all she had to show was a gold cup.
It was an odd artifact. To think, that it was embedded within all that flesh, a fountain of corrupting fluid, with the capability to grant any wish held upon the earth. And, unbelievably, impossibly, even beyond it.
So, she could end her existence on this miserable plane of being, escape from the eternity written for her on the Record.
In the face of that prospect, she could be forgiven for calling upon that power.
She gazed inside, and saw-
Simply a black reflection of herself. Barely expressionless, her masque was as close to breaking as it ever was. She was a shell of her former self, defined within this solitary moment by select moments of failure.
This was the toll of an eternity. The stretching of time tore apart the significance of joy and sorrow, like a dull knife upon a sea of black pitch, or the dispersion of oil on water. And as they diminished, her monotony was magnified- to the inevitable conclusion, an inexorable desire for the abyss.
Except-
For that instant, she wanted it to last- this feeling of liberation. This wasn't the deliverance she wanted, but it drew near to her recognition of the last peace she desired.
She knew it wasn't to be.
"… You know, this isn't how it went." She didn't bother to look up. She knew who would be standing behind her, with her kind eyes and her pale, delicate features complementing a gentle and flawless smile.
"Really? That's a surprise. You should tell me how it did, then."
"I can't do that. You know this, Marianne."
"Come now, C.C., you're not leaving any room for negotiation. If we can't talk this out, then …"
The witch stared off into the clouds. "… Then there's no hope of waking up from this?"
"Do you want to?" It was a sincere question, for all of the Empress's lightness of tone. "This is as close to death as we can bring you, if you can't cooperate with us. And since you obliged Charles and I …"
The hanging statement startled her. "I failed?"
"In a manner of speaking. Something like the Grail can't be hidden forever."
Her eyes closed. She had expected to be disappointed, but that sort of emotion had merged with the ache of time in the nineteenth century. Curiosity, though, was catlike- that feeling simply didn't die.
"That's quite an explanation. How did I fail?"
"I asked you a question first. Answer it, and then I'll tell you my story- and then I'll make that offer again, because I know what's going through your head right now."
Despite the pain and humiliation wrought through her manipulations, it was the first time the witch had felt like this- defeated and powerless.
It was refreshing to find herself caring about it.
Right now, though, her immediate decision was an easy one.
"I'll have to decline. It's not enough, because I know the difference between death and sleep."
Her friend laughed, her black, wavy hair bouncing merrily. "Fair enough! That's just like you, C.C.! You were never satisfied with anything less than what you wanted."
"That's right. I'm a regular Empress Elizabeth, aren't I?"
"Indeed." A Cheshire-cat's smile adorned this Empress's face. "Speaking of Elizabeth …"
She snapped his fingers abruptly, and-
-They threw the sticks and hay at her, fanning the flames as she writhed on the stake-
-She was standing over Lord Roosevelt. Did she pity him, for his crippled frame, or his delusion, that he could ever defy Britannia?-
-It was her turn to be on the chopping block. The whistle of wind passed as the air was split by the falling blade, while the cries of 'Liberté, égalité, fraternité' filled her ears-
-Washington was on the gallows, staring directly at her-
-Her year in peace, alone on a farm in Edinburgh before Elizabeth was expelled from her throne-
-Charles and Marianne, both laughing as she imitated the stuffy emissary from the Union-
… They were standing before a long pathway, with rows upon rows of windows. Within each were the repetitions of memories, those that were prominent in her history, such as her contract with Elizabeth- and later, Franklin- her actions in Nippon as a Jesuit missionary, and her crucifixion of Jean-
"That one's not right … I burned her alive, I remember that."
She turned to face Marianne. "I won't ask how, but I want to know why."
"But they're both intertwined-" She sighed. "We both know that the Thought Elevators are conduits to Akasha's Sword. If you hold a Code, you're a gatekeeper. That said-"
Genuine interest mixed with a sad smile. "What do you use for a key?"
Britannia's former witch stared for two paces down, at the nails driven into the hands of the Witch of Orleans. "When we open the doors, all we give are our presences. That's all, it's only the Code-"
"That can't be it. Alaya wouldn't be satisfied with simply handing you a key- and besides, you experience something more than the turning of a latch, right?"
She was right. C.C. remembered, at every time she stood at the slabs of stone, a procession of memories were called to mind. It was involuntary, but-
"How did you know?"
"Even if Charles didn't already tell me-"
That's right, Charles was already-
"-the only access we have to things unbidden are emotional callings. Your ties with the Gods are not some simple knots strung by a needle, right? That's too easy. All it takes is for you, as an immortal, to recall your humanity- as a pleasing offering to the Gods."
She made it sound obvious. Of course, she disagreed with her friend on that point. Akasha had little regard for humanity. There was a certain point where a human stopped being human, when the sum of all duress eclipsed the hope the lumps of flesh called 'humans' possessed. She was certain she had passed it a long time ago- when she made her contract with the Record. Or rather, had it signed unwillingly.
But still- yes, she knew that the Code wasn't enough to open the Elevator associated with it. All contracts made with one who held a Code were testaments to the plights of the human condition.
Naturally, those who held Codes had grown out of their plight and made it theirs to wield.
However, there was one simple, unfortunate conclusion.
"Then the Thought Elevator doesn't recognize whether my recollections are involuntary or not?"
"It's a false trigger." The sad smile was appropriate. "C.C., you weren't cooperative-"
"You blame me?"
"… Yes. You were the one who rejected Charles' offer."
That quieted her. It was true, she could have prevented this by surrendering. But because of her stubbornness-
"This is a bad time to make that offer again, Marianne."
"Indeed, it is. That's a keen statement."
Though her agreement was briefly cheerful, the laughter of the current Empress quickly faded, replaced by a more serious bearing. "In all fairness, you know that time is running out for you. Charles is growing impatient. It's only because of my insistence that there's an offer. Please …"
Now, there was no hesitation. She shrugged. "Do what you have do. This wasn't going to end in any other way, after all."
"Maybe so, but I'm worried for you. This is your last chance to have a say in the matter. I know that's what you want, and it's better to die a death that's yours. Personal experience. Don't do what I did."
C.C. laughed- she had to laugh at that. V.V. would be rolling in his grave- well, whatever remained of him that could roll.
But she knew her decision remained the same.
Perhaps it was childish to refuse. Perhaps, it was just what Marianne had said- that she so desired volition to the extent of foolishness. Her circumstances were just like that of a rebellious child's- being told that she had a choice which wasn't a choice, she would play Mary-Mary-quite-contrary, because that was the only choice she had control of.
Although- was that reason enough to deny herself eternal rest? Refusal was her choice, and yet …
She wasn't satisfied with its weight against her friend's proposition. That's why these thoughts persisted.
Her friend knew her well enough to distinguish her conflict.
"Please, C.C., be reasonable. I know what the extent of your duties are, and that you don't care for them anymore. You can just cast it all aside- that's what we're offering you, a chance to be human again-"
Those were exactly the wrong words to say. The witch started, surprised, as if those words had called her but from a dream.
She knew the path she had to take. It was-
Simple, really. It would hurt, but that would be the extent of it.
"Human?"
"Yes. Why do you-"
"I had lost my humanity when I received my Code. To be tied to the Akashic Record is to realize how much of a gift that is." A nonchalant smile appeared. "It's like the difference between false tears and false smiles."
The slight edge of panic. "No, C.C., that's not true-"
"False tears bring pain to others, while a false smile brings pain to one's self. I don't want to be capable of either- but I've felt both at your hands." She cocked her head inquisitively, her green tresses draping over her shoulder. "You can't deny that, can you? You, who would destroy both Akasha and Alaya?"
Marianne quieted, her dress whispering as she shifted uncomfortably.
A humorless laugh came from the witch, with a question. "Why aren't you answering?"
"C.C., I'm your friend-"
"And that's why it hurt. You chose Charles over our friendship. You chose this plan, this Ragnarok Connection, over the object of our desiring, what we both treasured."
The Empress swept her hand wide, with tremors of anguish and desperation. "Why are you denying your humanity, when you want the very thing that makes us human? All we want is a world without the pain you're describing!"
"And yet you've trampled over the very thing you're claiming to protect."
"I-"
And the Empress realized that there was nothing more to say. She found herself trembling, because she didn't want to do what she was about to do. As much as she sacrificed, and as much as she had killed within herself to be strong enough for Charles, she still cared for the girl who brought all their works to a standstill for nearly a decade. Mentor, conspirator, friend- all these and more embodied their relationship. For the Gods' sakes, she swore upon a contract with this girl, upon their very souls-
But the contract was broken by her, wasn't it?
… With a wave of her hand, the clouds engulfed the sun-
-giving way to grey, skulls consuming the fog, a pendulum turning. Laughter, with the chattering of bare teeth on jaw, the old ruins of a chapel and the tolling of a tell-tale bell.
The witch jerked back from the touch, fear and humanity crashing from the shade of emotionless pall over her eyes, shock widening her pupils-
She fell to the ground, clutching her head, as Marianne stepped back.
"Isn't this pain, too? What pain have I caused you that wasn't less than this?"
Inwards, Marianne shuddered.
She wasn't unaffected by the transformed world from many memories of the mind she was visiting, but she had expected it- part of the reason she was still robed. Her friend, on the other hand- she was pitiful, curled into a fetal position, trying her damnedest to escape the long-forgotten plague.
"But you're not some extension of a record. If you were truly inhuman, you wouldn't be affected by this, C.C.." Another wave, and the memory stopped mid-stream, a skull hanging with its jaw agape.
She turned to look at her friend- and the Empress had to step back.
The witch was standing purposefully, completely at odds with her former tormented posture. Her eyes lost whatever opacity that had shielded her soul from Marianne, and residing inside were the embers of defiance.
Her reply, though, was emotionless. "So you understand me. You've dissected my life, and you have what you need. You've acknowledged what you sacrificed to get to this point. Why do you need me? Why bother?"
Marianne blinked, trying to clear out the blazing sunlight from her eyes. In an instant, her little trip down memory lane was wiped away. "I- I still care for you."
"Right." Her skepticism was evident, if understated.
"That's why I made my- our offer. I can make this easy. Please, if only for the memory of our friendship-"
"You are a terrible negotiator."
"… At least I'm trying. I didn't give up on you when Charles became Emperor, and I won't give up now."
That much-
That much was true.
But it doesn't change anything.
C.C. sighed. "I think it's too late for the both of us. Thank you for trying, Marianne."
-behold, there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as a sackcloth of hair, and the moon became like blood, and the stars of heaven fell to the earth-
The Empress was drowning. She was choking on waters of black filth and the carcass of a rotting rabbit. The maggots crunched in her teeth and slithered down her throat with a grainy and glutinous sensation, and some entered her lungs, congealing about her airway until the black liquid was sealed in both.
Then, she was in every sense of the word, breathless. And then the maggots breathed, and expanded- and her lungs burst, permitting the black coagulation to seep into her blood-
Burning, burning. Her vessels were aflame, every heartbeat driving the fire into her limbs. There were creatures swimming and crawling in her flesh, burrowing into the muscles and eating them away.
Truly, this must have been every evil in the world.
She whispered a voiceless whisper. "Charles, help me."
The clarion call of brass-
The rays of sunlight striking the marble, quickly fading-
Two shimmering, silver worlds, barely crossing.
The girl stared at the place where her friend and tormentor had been.
Her heart felt hollow. She had never thought it would have ended like this.
"I guess that's all, then."
Companions in her history were fleeting, the inevitable consequence of immortality. Most of those she took up allegiances and acquaintances with were for convenience and entertainment. Some became her partners, some her admirers, and some- a select few, like Washington and Roosevelt- became her peers.
Nobody she had ever met was like Marianne. Her laughter, her lightness of heart, her wit and wisdom- those were unique to her character, unlike any other.
And her kindness- it echoed within the heart's chambers of long-forgotten humanity.
And for a few moments, C.C. had remembered what it was to be human.
She found herself falling to her knees, curling up into a fetal position.
I didn't want it to end like this.
It couldn't be helped. She was familiar with the feeling, anyway. Loneliness was her only company now, and again.
She looked up, at the black, swirling mass behind the temple- obscuring the sun, a cup of the world's evil swollen beyond all measure.
"This is what you wanted, right?"
Bartley stared at the sigil on the ground. It was pulsating, like a beating heart.
"It's done …"
He didn't know if he wanted to cry or laugh. After all these futile months, something happened. In this dank cave, something finally happened.
With this, he could guarantee his station. Brant would get off his case, Subject C would be disposed of, and he would return to his command of the Royal Guard. More importantly, Britannia- and his prince, Clovis la Britannia- would stand even taller with his research.
Of course, the white papers would never be published, but this would assure Britannia's dominance in egotistical boundary performance over the European Union. Then, he would finally be able to shrug off Asplund's inane, patronizing laughter- the derision for his education "anywhere but ol' Colchie," for his steadfast adherence to the military order and precision so apparently contrary to the research efficiency touted and tooted by his crowing, and for his concepts- for yes, damn it all yes, he had opened the gate for his Emperor. With the gate would come the Thought Elevator, and with the Elevator would come the Cup.
Surely, to this end, he would not regret the capture of this witch.
"It's done. Gentlemen, it's done." He couldn't believe it. Bartley's gaze flickered upwards, to the sphere containing their subject, and her gaze met his.
Of course, there was nothing behind those eyes. He would know, because he had studied her pupillary response during her REM cycles in the earlier weeks of his research. Her consciousness was entrapped within the confines of her mind. The coma they induced assured them of that, but there was always a niggling fear in the back of his bald cranium.
… That was, for a single moment, he'd see a moment of awareness in those unnatural orbs.
"Damn you." Bartley mopped his forehead. His confidence ebbed out of him like water from a sieve. The thoughts he just had right now, all his projects and dreams, simply vanished as he realized that she was still here.
And if she, the undying, was still here-
She would remember what they did to her.
He shivered.
-youthoughtyoucouldescape-
He blinked, and rubbed his forehead.
No more. I am done. She is trapped within that sphere. Her agents are no more. The Emperor has strength beyond hers. So I am free, and she cannot harm me.
She cannot harm me. I have completed my mission for the Fatherland, and all else damned.
It was as if a spell was cast over his great girth, like the relief of a man returning home from a great war. His shoulders relaxed, and he strode away from the platform. The soldiers at their stations saluted, and he returned it with some vigor.
His aide-de-camp approached hurriedly. "Sir, we have several readings which correspond with Kamine Island's gate. I take it we succeeded?"
"Yes. Save those results and send them to Prince Clovis. We have Brant's young protégé to meet, and we shouldn't keep her waiting."
As he emerged from the temple and into the peaceful night, among the rustling of the dense woods surrounding them, Bartley's countenance was adorned with a wan smile.
AN: I'm back. This kinda took too long, but ... Ehhh. Real life took hold of me for a few months. I got a job, had to move, etc. Much thank to AngrySanto and Mr. Sparkles for betaing, and Jouaint for keeping tabs on me while I struggled through this life transition.
So, notes on the chapter. This is pretty much a worldbuilding chapter, so it probably isn't what you're reading this fic for. I honestly intended for this to be much shorter, but I love building up this world that Sunrise created, and implementing little bits of Nasuverse here and there. That said, I fully recognize that some readers will be turned off by the lack of main characters besides C.C. here. I don't have much to say to address that, except ... well, bear with me. I promise that more good writing will come. The content may be slow-paced, but I'll do my best to update regularly, since life has stabilized.
On Edward of Caernafon: The man who was just one of the dominoes in the mess of the Hundred Years War. If you're interested, beware of bloodlines and their following messes. I think I left enough hints in the chapter to suggest CC's role in starting part of the domino-fall.
On Verdun, and Indiana-Jonesin: Fairly inspired by The Monuments Men, and some bits of politicking. Paris is the canonical capital of the European Union, so the rivalry between France and Germany has to be blunted by history in some regard. I decided that blood soaking Verdun in one of the most wasteful entanglements of trench warfare history had ever seen would temper Franco-Prussian aggression in the years that would create the Union. Verdun doesn't actually fall, incidentally. The Geass Directorate sees to some of that.
On the Grail being within the Sword of Akasha: Erm. Sorry, no spoilers.
Thank you for your patience. I really hope that if you made it to this point, you've decided to stick with this fic. Please leave some critique in a review, favorite content, postulations, whatever comes to mind! It really helps! Again, and as always, thank you!
