Title: And in blood
AN: I graduated from high school, dear lord. And early, with credits to spare. (I know no one cares, but I hated high school. . .) And, as a warning, this is a fairly short chapter. Ah well.
And, for those of you who don't realize, Kallen was still living in her household for around three weeks in order to get her things together.
The room was a pocket of blinding white with a loveseat straddling the edge of an aged Turkish Knot carpet, and Nina Einstein shuffled—her knuckles were pale as she sat, nervous under the psychologist's steady gaze.
"If I may," he was a man with severe brown eyes and a head of black who was rumored to have been born in a business suit, "Parasocial interaction—the following of the late Princess Euphemia through television and media—usually gives a sense of 'knowing' the figure. These kinds of delusions are typical of those suffering from intense social anxiety."
"That isn't true!" Nina insisted fervently, dipping forward, "I've spoken to her personally, and she saved me from—"
"You developed a strong attachment because of your significant psychological trauma—or, the severe emotions brought on by being a hostage," he pressed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, and managed a kinder, "She seemed to be able to influence the situation, but was powerless. Your own fear is manifest in your dependence on her."
"I have none of those—"
He was composed, and his hands were folded in his lap, "I understand you have a history of panic attacks and have changed schools often?"
"I . . ." she stuttered, voice dying in her throat, "Um, yes. That's true."
"These attacks have been reoccurring since childhood, correct?"
"Um, well . . ." her confidence broke, and she shied away from his critical eye while tugging at the threads of her blouse. She should have died that day; joined Euphemia in death after she tore through the Black Knights and their rebellion. Without her, what good was being alive? Life was meaningless—characterized by fear, isolation, uncontrolled variables, and desperation as terrorism took route in the ghettos. She could remember those feelings, but there was also that instantaneous euphoria, such an encompassing emotion!
There was Euphemia li Britannia, who would have been a sacrifice for her sake. Nothing was more supreme than a savior, and Nina let her gaze find the molding on the ceiling; thought of cherry locks and soft skin and bravery and—and the woman she believed in. No, Nina corrected herself, she was a girl. Their ages were nearly the same, yet Princess Euphemia was so much different. There was no word to give life to how or why, but that distinction separated her from whatever was so common about humanity. For eight months, she had followed her through media in hopes of satisfying an urge, but then she was given the privilege to speak with her. Euphemia, who was once unattainable, called her an equal, and even a friend! She had never felt such bliss.
Unlike the others, she knew the Princess as more than a name. If she—if they had been given a chance! There was more she would have said and done, but it was ripped from them in their prime. She would have to live at that school, and barricade herself in a filthy basement until she moved to the protection of a laboratory. Science would be the only thrill in her life, yet even that was stolen by her family and this clinic! Her parents had committed her to a mental facility in hopes of 'helping her', but Nina would never call herself insane.
"A bomb?! My daughter," her mother had lamented in tears, "Thinks thoughts like this—oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I should have done something differently, anything—" And she had torn through her room and ruined everything that reminded her of Euphemia. There were cruel insults thrown on the message boards, in blogs, and journals: "Freak!" "Homicidal maniac!" "She tried to kill us!" The voices seemed to follow her, and she withdrew into silence and disbelief. Back then, she had been furious, and that birthed a desire to enact her revenge on the world itself—the Black Knights, the students, and Zero. She would have set the flame for that; she would have died for that! What was the world worth if Euphemia was dead and he, the—the thing of the Elevens that murdered her was still alive. Daring to survive was his greatest evil!
Even now, she hated him so.
- - -
"Gottwald," it was whispered as she walked the halls of the military base, "Has returned from the dead."
'Jeremiah . . .' Villetta thought darkly, remembering that he had bolted into the city outskirts after ranting of his humiliation at Zero's hands. He had been stripped of his title, psychological damaged from the war front, and damn near insane—obsessed over bringing Zero to justice. His survival was another secret Britannia withheld from her, and she shuddered at the idea of them deeming her unfit for service. She had narrowly avoided suspicion in that she had leaked information to the Empire about the Black Knight's command center, but Kaname.
'I can't—' it was strained as she stood up, back straight, 'Damn it!' Her entire world would unravel if it was true; she would lose her position, her reputation, her dignity at the hands of damned trash! All her struggling to topple that middle class, pathetic joke of a life her parents had praised would be undone by a moment where she couldn't control herself. Villetta was devoted to achieving prestige and valued Britannia's social order, having long since accepted that they had a god-given right to quarantine and civilize Orientals, Negroes, Muslims. Any number was her enemy, and she had taken that mantra as a Knight—no, as a daughter of her country.
Yet she had fraternized with an Eleven, enjoyed the blankets as they tickled her skin and the breath when it crept past her bare neck—and she shuddered, swallowing hard as the memories flooded her skull. She noted, with disgust, that there was something alien about her heels and uniform—both were tight, and they squeezed the very breath out of her. She had been reassigned, presumed MIA, and then called a deserter for reappearing only as Zero's rebellion was grinded into the dirt. It was sick, that she—who had taken a bullet in the name of her country!—was branded a traitor by her own.
Apprehension teased her as the soldiers seemed to swarm, and she swiveled on her heel. The hall was deserted, a long stretch of navy blue and creamy whites, while she struggled to regain her composure. 'I am Britannian, damn it!' No fool could change that, even if they dared to call her a number lover.
"—?" She reached for a notebook, the pages laden with careful, precise handwriting, "Tch." Turning it in her hands, she searched the back cover for a name:
'Kururugi, Suzaku.'
Villetta felt a rush of hatred, and fought the urge to drop it again, 'Filthy Eleven.' Britannia had forgotten its lineage—that, she mused cynically, was the fault in leaving Schneizel or the late Euphemia to lead. She had been fond of Lady Cornelia and her strict policies regarding Numbers, yet even she had fallen into the same trap of pity and tolerance. 'Goddammit, that he's the same rank as me. . . '
Biting back her bitterness, she thumbed idly through the pages until footsteps rang against the tile.
- - -
The slap tore holes through the veil of their silence and Lelouch, red threading across his cheek, murmured a simple, "Kallen."
"Why is Milly registered with the new recruits?!" She spat dangerously, her auburn tumbling in messy waves—her stare was icy as her fists quaked at her hips, and he let the mask dangle from his fingers.
"That was her request," he added dryly, and Kallen's poised frown shattered into a scowl, "Or do you have the audacity to deny another their choice."
"This is dangerous!" It was biting before he turned sharply on his heel, "She's a civilian, damn it, and part of the council!"
The mask clattered on the wood, shadows skirting the plastic, and he shrugged the cape from his shoulders, "And what are you, Q-1."
"Choice?!" She bristled furiously and he tugged at his gloves—the leather was stretched taut, worn from steel guns and pockets of gravel when they had crouched in waiting, "This isn't something people like Milly can handle! How damn irresponsible can you be! Don't drag her into this—"
"Eventually," the statement was simple—detached while her stare burned into his back, "Britannia will rebel against her citizens, or, if possible, Japan will revolt when it becomes a promotional state."
Kallen snarled a dark, "That's—"
"Returning to the mainland is a viable alternative to terrorism," it bounded from walls, hollow while her nails dug into her skin, "However, the council has the protection of the Black Knights. I have discussed this at length with Milly herself."
"You always feed excuses like that!" Kallen growled, fierce as she threw an arm out in demonstration, "How—"
"Then you feel one is vindicated if living in fear? I see no issues with her involvement."
"Don't you use my own words against me, damn it—" A knock, loud as he bolted for the mask and let its gears turn. It weighed on his shoulders, teasingly warm as its teeth snapped together, plates whispering into place over the back of his neck. Kallen forced herself to a menacing calm, upright and alert as knuckles rapped against the frame—impatiently this time, and he slipped into a swivel chair with a wave of the hand.
Biting back a sneer, she groped for the doorknob before wrenching it ajar, "What? Zero's busy!" His lips quirked into a smirk as the man, a representative of Kirihara with his hair slicked against his skull and sporting the J.L.F's earthy browns, jolted to attention before shying from her anger.
"Sir!" Lelouch's eyeless gaze moved through him, and he pieced his composure, "A letter addressed in the name of Sumeragi Kaguya, fifth generation headmistress of Kyoto Industries."
"A letter, what if it's been intercepted or—" She glared daggers, barely retaining her self-control when she snatched it from his hands.
"Yes. Her lady thought this was," Lelouch took in the implications of his pregnant, near-anxious pause, "more, er, personal."
Tapping a thin finger to the armrest, he glided to his feet—graceful, he mused cynically as he balanced on the thick spikes of his heels, and Kallen shoved it into his palm before adopting her usual professionalism. He flipped it open nonchalantly with the back of his thumb, the paper fresh and stark white as he tugged it free; policy dictated that they handle personal documents with care, Kaguya's being a relatively recent addition to the Knights as a whole. Given that he had no option to Geass her faction into loyalty, Lelouch had instructed that memorandum be passed through Rakshata in the case of airborne poisons—tensions between himself and the J.F.L. were a trembling string stretched to the breaking point, and he practiced caution above all else. Sifting through a spiel of rose-colored phrases and innuendo, Lelouch felt a twitch of appreciation and handed it easily to Kallen.
"What," it was curious before she took it from him and spluttered a taken-aback, "This is—she's perverse! Ugh!"
"But effective," Lelouch muttered before stalking back into the bowels of his den, "Please give the Lady Kaguya my regards, and expect my response in a day."
"Zero!" The representative jerked to respond, but ended with his mouth hanging open as she left him to stare at a closed door.
"Kaguya," it was spoken to the silence and Kallen leaned against the frame, ". . . "
"—? " She raised an eyebrow, and he cursed the familiarity of their houses.
"Where would the industry be if they gave it away for free," he was dry, and left to wonder why he was subject to so many old faces in the past year.
She strung together a callous, "So, she's—"
"Coalesced a Britannian steel supplier into Kyoto that was passing Frames through the underground," he was frank as the lock clicked into its hold before ridding himself of the mask, "This was—"
"Other terrorist groups are frustrated with the media weight of the Black Knights," Kallen replied briskly, "And want to feed of the scare factor. That aside, just because Britannia doesn't agree with the terrorist groups doesn't mean they don't consider them customers."
It tempted a smirk, "At the base of things. The separate factions compete for the assistance of, for example, the J.L.F., and our rebellion has compromised their interests."
"And," she watched when he tugged the cloth from his mouth—it was a sharp contrast, and he forced down a breath of stale air, "some of them aren't exactly friendly to a Britannian resistance leader. They think your use of rhetoric is a slag against the Japanese."
"Precisely. Many backers have pulled their support because they benefit from the distribution of arms, and others have no desire to be associated with our campaign—"
"Like," she was sarcastic, eyes looking past him as a mountain of blankets stirred in the dark, "The Chinese Federation."
"The Black Rebellion originally had equipment carried over by Chinese who continued to agree with the ideology behind the Oriental Incident," his voice died, Lelouch at the mercy of her stare as she choked down the urge to remind him of Milly, "However, they see no advantage to raging war against Britannia or its policies."
The room was alive with heat and sparks in the quiet before she hissed a bitter, "Don't call it Oriental—"
The words were empty as he continued, leaning into the cushion and leather, "Nor do I have an interest in encouraging dependence on the Federation. I simply want them imagine they have some . . . significance to secure their alliance. Based on the census, the Chinese have the greatest population save for Britannia."
"No one wants them, though. They're the first to jump the boat whenever we're winning or losing ground."
"Thus," he strained to hear the rustling of cloth and ragged, tired breathing, "They are not of the greatest priority at the moment. C.C."
Green locks clung to her cheeks in loose, twisted strands as she pried her legs from Cheese-kun, and she stifled a yawn while shadows played behind her eyes, ". . . You both are loud . . . how impolite."
"You're sleeping while we do all the work!" Kallen accused crossly, sardonic as she ran a hand through her hair.
Her reply was stiff, "Is that so."
"I," it was exhausted, shoulders sagging before she slipped into the hallway, "want to check on the status of the Guren."
He let his eyes find her as she groped for the carcasses of old pizza boxes, before she graced him with a cynical, "They're gon—your habits are obsessive-compulsive."
"C.C.," he said flatly, C.C. sinking into the plush of her pillow with a slow arch of her back, "I have a question regarding Suzaku."
"Oh," she wrestled Cheese-kun into submission, ducking him below her thin dip of a chin.
"Why did you intervene?"
With a bored turn of the head, she managed a simple, "Hmm."
Their conversation in the mansion whispered to the forefront of his mind, and Lelouch forced an indifferent, "If you trust me . . ."
"Trust," she was his echo, low and murmured, ". . . I wanted to see what V.V. told him."
"V.V.," Lelouch parroted simply, tapping a finger against the armrest; despite a wounded ego, Lelouch had been careful to conduct his own research regarding the Geass rather than chase a lost cause. '. . . In time, he'll pay for daring to touch Nunally.' Given that C.C. was related to him both biologically and personally, he had no doubts that he would have another opportunity to capture him—there was no need to squander resources when he had no leads outside of definite ties to the royal family, "And your reasons for doing so?"
"I doubt you would have let me handle that pilot how I wanted to," he raised an eyebrow and wondered exactly what kind of 'treatment' C.C. deemed appropriate, "I felt it would be . . . less distracting for you."
". . ." He stirred uncomfortably while she dug her fingers into the stuffing—they were both technical immortals, but C.C. was a subject of the Empire's experiments. Presumably, V.V. was not under Clovis' jurisdiction nor were his primary contracts outside of the imperial house; so much movement would be pointless.
She mused an off-hand, "V.V. gave him false information. Something about will . . ."
"Then he's been manipulated," it spilled from him breezily, "If that—"
"No," she was final, cutting him short with the precision of a blade, "His hatred is real, Lelouch."
His nails bit into the fabric, and he turned away with a cold, "It's inconsequential. I have no interest in his two-faced loyalty."
C.C. pulled herself upright, her critical stare tearing into him, "Is that what you believe."
"I don't have the patience to fix his flawed logic," Lelouch's reply was cynical, "His naivety is worthless—Knighthood is pretentious, Britannian jargon. I can protect her myself."
". . ."
"That I should defend my own innocence," Lelouch sneered, keeping careful control over his voice, "When he hides behind fantasy. Tch—to rely on Britannia, where he was . . ."
"It must be offensive . . ."
Lelouch spat an acerbic, "What?"
"All this talk of need . . ." C.C. stated, words muffled in Cheese-kun's waves of stuff and mustard-colored cotton.
"Ha, 'need'. He was just a gift for Nunally," it was condescending as he propped his laptop on the tabletop, "I don't want his faith, or his acceptance."
"But," the words were distant, "Now, you've told him to become a murderer . . ."
Feeling a twitch of rage, he snarled a dangerous, "That was not the facet of Zero he should see!"
"I asked you if you could kill someone you loved," the implication left a heavy weight on his heart, "He, too, may choose that over 'negotiation'."
"Suzaku," he spun to meet her, struggling to subdue a surge of fresh rage, "The bastard, he believes I would kill Euphemia!"
"But," she noted tiredly, her gaze unflinching, "You did pull the trigger . . ."
It stung, and he pieced a tentative, ". . . It was necessary."
"I don't care about morality," C.C.'s disinterest sent the angry flame in him rising again, "And your choices don't matter to me—"
Lelouch snapped a dark and embittered, "Tch—"
"But, if I hold the 'weight' that you claim," she meandered to silence, before adding a straightforward, "I would say that you did the right thing, and that Euphemia would agree."
The name tugged at his heartstrings, ". . ."
She waited for an answer that never came and muttered a gentle, "Is it so important, when you know judgment is different for everyone."
"If it's for Nunally," she let her eyes drift to him, "Then I am not afraid to walk this world alone."
". . . And that order."
"We have the Gefjun Disturber," he said quietly, and C.C. swung her legs free—faced him with neither a mischievous grin nor a shell of a frown, "If he comes, I'll oblige him."
She offered a simple, even cutting, "You said you wouldn't be dragged down by attachment, sentiment . . ."
"And I'll uphold that," Lelouch choked down his insults, and reminded himself that it was unfair to attack her of all people—not when he owed her his own debts, "I have—"
"Those are only excuses," there was no malice playing beneath her words.
"But Euphemia—"
"Remember," C.C. began, solemn when she reached for a sweater jacket and threw it over her shoulders, "That you chose this path, and where it led. Perhaps . . . you should cut them off."
He breathed a harsh, "What?!"
"If you remove them, they can no longer be endangered by your actions. That should solve your problem."
If he did that, Nunally would be completely alone! He, he would be—! "That's extremism. There's no reason to assume that—"
". . . But what that Kallen said . . . some part of you agrees. 'It's irresponsible to involve my loved ones in my war. Such a selfish thing for me to do,'" C.C. trailed to a heavy silence, shifting weight, "Or are you ready to start making sacrifices? I thought you were the one who said they need to survive, or are they worthless now."
"I . . ." It was pained as it died to nothing and he thought of Euphemia, who was such a sick testament to sacrifice.
"This is the simplest answer. Do whatever you like, but that will still be true."
- - -
"Uh, Mr. Stadtfelt," it was a harsh buzz in the speaker as the ring tone ended and the sound of rustling murmured through the line.
"Who is this?" The voice was accusatory—unfamiliar, he thought uneasily, in that it had been nearly a decade since Johannes Stadtfelt had left with all his good intentions.
"Ohgi, Kaname," the answer was a hazy mutter of white noise.
"You," it came slowly, without the stiff professionalism he knew that man prided himself on, "You're a friend of . . ."
"Yeah," Ohgi abandoned it before he had the chance to say the name, "Uh, I'd like to speak to you in regards to your daughter."
". . ."
He strung an uncertain, "She's—well, she would like to stay with me, sir."
"You two aren't—"
He cut it off before it veered into that back road, "No, nothing like that."
"No, I believe you," Mr. Stadtfelt was solemn as he heaved a simple, "The relationship was never so cynical."
"Thank you, sir," it was an odd formality; he had never been 'permitted' to treat him as a peer, and he had long ago stopped caring about the man.
"Kallen," it was emotionless, "I imagine she hates me. Are you here to tell me that about my own daughter?"
"No."
There was nothing for a time, and then he mused a tired, "My son is dead."
Ohgi's words were cynical, "She knows that, sir."
"She may hate me, but if she," he dwindled to nothing, but managed to force, "I can't let her live in the ghettos . . . and she's run away, yes, that's it. I don't . . ."
". . ."
It was a sigh, barely above a whisper, "I haven't been a good father to her, or to Naoto. I know she doesn't listen to me, she's not my girl anymore . . ."
Ohgi leaned into the wall, listening halfheartedly to his self-pity, and found no sympathy for him. Kallen was fond of her straight face and hid away the darker parts of their history, but he knew that Mr. Stadtfelt was a coward who chose to sleep with other women in front of his daughter. He had disowned Naoto, fantasized that there was some meaning in giving him a grave, and returned to being a Britannian parasite; and, in all that, he had done nothing for her.
He continued with a bleak, "Does she want to?"
". . . Yeah, but it isn't a good idea."
"I," Ohgi ignored the hesitation in his voice, "Does she work in that same organization."
"No," it was a lie, and he felt a twitch of guilt.
"Good," Mr. Stadtfelt was complacent, but something in him wondered if he believed it or just wanted to, "I can't make her stay. She's an adult—"
"What?! Isn't that selfish," he sneered furiously, "You can't just let her—"
"She might need to see what . . . Britannia and the ghettos are really like. I think Kallen needs to see that."
". . ."
"I'll continue to pay for her schooling," his voice was suddenly strong and the epitome of a good businessman's, "But I want you to convince her to come see me. I agree that she can't live there without any assistance, and expect to hold her to that." Ohgi heard a faint click and then was rattled by a jarring hiss of 'beep.' Wearing a scowl, he left it on the hook—Mr. Stadtfelt lived on an entirely practical level, and manners weren't his forte.
He sighed, deep and melancholy while he pulled the drawer open with a fraying phone book in hand, and felt them smiling inside their photographs—himself, Naoto, and Kallen from a trip to the Kinosaki Onsen nearly three years ago. Shuffling through the stack, he felt a tug of pity when his fingertips brushed over the glossy face of their mother; her skin was smooth where wrinkles lined them now, and there was a brightness in her eyes that Refrain robbed her of.
'It might be a good idea,' he thought, lips curving into a frown, 'to go with Kallen to the . . .' He shuffled it to the bottom, and something in him throbbed. Numbness shattered his reverie as he remembered silver rippling down the small of her back, and skin colored an even brown. It had been unreal to watch the gun in her small hands, the bullet barreling into his side as the shot thundered in the silence; Chigusa, who had been abandoned in jagged crags, had calmly asked him to die for the sake of her name. Kallen snarled, demanded that he get rid of it—and a part of him felt compelled to let her go.
'. . .' even so, it would be nice to see the smile she wore at the festival.
AN: And just when you thought that it was safe, I give you filler. D: Oh, and Schneizel and Cornelia get to shine in the next, say, two chapters? (That seems reasonable enough.) And Shirley, too. :3
Vanarus: Ah, all right then! That can take some pressure off me, since the negative light I put them both in was a little disheartening . . . And, honestly, I don't think there's anything wrong with critiquing aspects of the piece regardless of authorial intent, or that you were too hasty in your review. (Knowing the plot is my job, after all!) I like hearing other people's opinions, whether they're positive or not—so, if anything bothers you (or anyone else), feel free to bring it to my attention. To be totally blunt, I think it's easier to get more ideas that way. :D;
Also, I'm glad Suzaku seemed in-character. It was difficult to manage a plausible scenario where he would let her off the hook. D:
Teno-hikari: I'm glad you liked it. XD (Actually, I thought it was by far my worst chapter. The writing was very off . . . but hey, this makes me feel less anxious about the content at least.) As for Nunally, I think you're right in that her losing Lelouch (and others) is a tragic aspect of her character. On that note, what you said gave me an idea, so thanks for that, too! :D
That aside! Cornelia, brainwashed . . . hmm. Well, I'm going to refrain from giving anything away.
And, to everyone else, thanks for reading thus far!