Lisette leaned against the cold, stone wall, looking out at the celestial starlight surrounding the Seelie Courts, their untainted sanctity bearing little burdens in the midst of their thoughts. Tiny lilies blew within the harsh winter wind, with most of their unborn buds left to die amidst the frostbite. Though the grass retained its somewhat pathetic warmth, and the trees barely managed to stave off the barren notion to which its seedlings fell, lying abandoned in the cold, hardened ice, there was still a deadness in the air, a void not even childish stories could fill, the callous, empty dreams lingering from beyond the veil. She knew of the mourners who stared from afar, knew of the helpless who were vigilantly attempting to take back what was rightfully theirs, though their futile efforts would result in little more than a crimson sea of tears and sneers. Soon even these gardens will be desecrated by royalty.

Soaring arches kept rising high above the once holy church, their meager humiliation a display of the ostentatious vanity of the aristocrats she so reluctantly protected. Empty glasses of wine were scattered around the podiums, the glass stained windows muddled with cracks and saliva, a testament to the forced intercourses which were about to take place inside. Puddles of alcohol and urine seamlessly flooded the once warm pews, and even from here, she could tell where the feces were happily settled, the stench itself proving more than unbearable. She heard a familiar crack from behind her, one of the windows shattered by a laughing hyena with a crying maiden in his arms, who was struggling quite bitterly. The sickly warmth entrenched her back, and time after time she felt the lords' perverted, beady eyes gaze lustfully at her frame. Prideful laughter seeped through the night, and in that one hour, she finally saw it, the processions underneath the dying moon.

Though their demonic silhouettes covered the beautiful chapel, perhaps the only thing that was spared was the Rosette window, draped off to the side of the building. The crystal, blue shades were evident through every surface, every petal that was shaped carefully in the domain of skylight, chained neither by blood nor alcohol nor sins, but rather by a dutiful that even the deaf would hear. A tiny flower held to the center, the lonely, lying light of the monstrous night giving into its holiness, with a colorful single, burning stroke of lavender and pink, and shades of dark blue captured the frightful sensation of some, isolated fairytale far off into the wood. Surrounding the center were more petals, all neatly lined around the bend of their smaller, more fragile counterparts, all carrying a depiction of the saints, housing the images lovingly within their colorful curtains. Small circles ended each petal, casting a golden, melancholic light around the seemingly self-sufficient flower, only to weaken it by a nostalgic time, in which the realms had yet been soiled by humans and fairies alike.

Still, the lesson remained untouched, and many of the lords wanted the thing gone, disgusted by how frivolous an insignificant it seemed. No one had gone to the church in decades, centuries even, and the only purpose it served, they argued, was to hide those stubborn vagabonds that somehow managed to avoid their amateur eyes. The rebellious priests who took them into, interestingly enough, their own homes were aiding them against the kingdom without as much as a hesitation. That blasphemy alone was enough to destroy the eyesore of a sanctuary. For some reason, however, his Majesty chose to ignore their pleas, and allowed the church to remain where it was, in the middle of a torturous, nightmarish island, a "tainted light in place for judgement," he described it.

She folded her arms over her chest and closed her eyes, white hair cascading down her hip, her elegant uniform clashing with her armor. The silver gleams a cruel, feigned design against the decaying morals lying before her, listening on to the war waging from the inside. She never did enjoy guarding the aristocracy, nor did she want to curry their favor, but she did't want to fight against them either. As vulnerable and pitiful as they were, they still had thousands of men at their side, men with nary a beating heart or simple kindness, men who would do anything to see the horrors of the battlefield once more. A particular example was Neit's army, who was constantly being equipped with the more advanced Knightmares. Though Lisette was a skilled pilot in her own right, she couldn't imagine taking on the entire pack, who would most likely devour her before she could even move. Besides, no one would ever dream of disobeying Arthur, no matter how merciless the king was.

She heard rustling from behind, lighthearted footsteps that contrasted to the perverted, overbearing ones taking place within the church. Then she heard a cry, one laden with sorrows and distress, vengeful and enraged, the sound trying to squirm its way out of a man's throat. Alarmed, her bright pupils search the darkness, before turning around and stepping into the church.

The nobles have all ceased their sins, surprise etched into their faces as they stared at the center of the aisle. They threw away their partners, and moved slowly away from him, their eyes wide with desperate feet shifted against the wastes, against the alcohol, as they endeavored to resume their regal positions, however impossible that was, while regarding the threat standing before them, the cruel light sparking within their emotionless pupils.

Lisette blinked, then looked to the threat. He was little more than a weakling in her eyes.

There was a man standing there, clutching a knife against his oversized rags. Dark, rusted hair hung from his skull, his dirt-ridden face emphasizing his impoverished state. He was thin, and from a distance even Lisette could see his ribs poking out from his skin. He was swaying unsteadily, though his murderous focus was still very clearly seen, directed toward the Viceroy of this area. How he managed to get past her was no surprise; there was an underground tunnel built within the church, the maze leading up to one of the offices residing on the second floor. Though it was a smart move, from the outside she could sense no one else accompanying the poor creature. He came here alone.

Yet he wasn't deterred by the lack of comrades, wasn't bothered by the fact that, already, Lisette was moving herself in front of the young, arrogant lord, who was smirking haughtily at the commoner. Rather, there was an eerie calm hidden beneath his features, a characteristic she neither hoped nor was able to understand. So she when she came directly toward the Viceroy, she remained where she was, looking down with that same, charismatic expression.

That all shattered when his personality contorted.

"Give her back," he muttered hatefully, the knife in his hand trembling with angered pain and loss.

The lord chuckled, brushing aside his clean shaven, blond hair, while sporting a double chin over his disturbing, large potbelly. He puffed out his chest and licked his lips. "And who-?"

"Give her back dammit," he repeated, taking a threatening step forward. "Where is she? Where's my wife?"

Her eyes widened. Wife?

The lord leaned against her. She could feel his sweat pouring against her back, as he arched her neck over. He strained, and could barely reach her ear. When he did, he whispered, "Take care of this."

Obediently, she straightened herself, and calmly stared the man down, arms to her side. The man, however, never noticed her, his eyes still focusing on the lord. "Where is she?!" he suddenly screamed. "What'd you do to her?!"

"I've no time for this," the lord said blatantly, returning to his exhausted victim, who by now was reaching out to Lisette. Tiny, incoherent whimpers escaped from the woman's lips, but Lisette carefully maneuvered her gaze away, already weary enough as is. She never took the woman's outstretched hand.

The man gritted his teeth. He started running. "Damn you!" he screeched. "Damn you! Damn you all to fucking hell!"

Lisette started to run toward the man as well, narrowly dodging his knife and taking hold of his wrist.

It seemed like it was the first time he ever saw the girl, but when his gaze began drifting away again, she took a deep breath, and dug her nails into his neck. She ripped out his throat, along with a few pieces of his vertebra, then watched when he crumpled to the floor, his heartbroken eyes still in place.

Even as his body lay there, she saw a tiny, ugly black thing entrenched to his chest, a branch of small veins sticking out from around it. She could see a hint of blood leaking from his chest, a tiny drop of saliva mixing in with the already pathetic pool. She dropped the throat and bones, careful not to get any on her dress.

It didn't matter. He didn't have much time left anyways.

Kallen smashed her way through the enemy pilots, swinging the slash harkens upwards, before letting the anchors collapse onto the Archangel, before lifting herself and unleashing the energy wings. She grunted then, as she thrusted the Knightmare toward the pilot before grabbing the head and tearing it off. Before the enemy could escape, she dug the claws through the abdomen, and slashed away whatever remnants were left of the computer. She stared at the wires for a split second, before destroying the system altogether, rendering the Knightmare useless and ineffective.

"That's enough Kallen," Rakshata said smoothly, a slight smirk embedded in her voice.

"My," Lloyd added, "what a very peculiar mess you've made down there."

Kallen looked down at the mechanic pilot, whom she shattered into a million pieces. "Where's Zero?"

"You're a very curious girl, aren't you?"

She sighed, as she opened the cockpit. Zero asked her to accompany him to India to test out the newest range of Knightmares both Lloyd and Rakshata built for the newbies. Though she was tasked with destroying every single model, Kallen couldn't help but wonder if this was just another way to pass the time, since Nunnally had yet to give any order for war. All the redhead knew was that negotiations with Alfheimr were going sour, and with TU to add to the current list of transgressions, it was only a matter of time before the Empress, along with the rest of the world, declared war on the terrorist organization. The media, however, wasn't getting much of anything from her or Zero, and even the politicians weren't saying much of anything.

She took the keys out and swung it around her neck, before turning toward the two scientists who were now coming toward her with their complicated, mad eyes. She stood, her pilot suit glistening along the excessive golden lights, to which she had to blink out the uncomfortable glare. She rubbed her eyes before regarding them again.

"The defenses need to be concentrated along the arms," Lloyd muttered. "I really do hate this system."

"Zero picked it up, remember?" Kallen called.

"Ooh, you're blaming this on him then?"

"Where's Ms. Cecile?" she asked politely, as she hopped down from the cockpit, avoiding the scientist's prying eyes.

"She's in Dallas right now," Rakshata answered, all the while examining her beloved, somewhat disfigured child. She knocked the leg with her tobacco pipe. "You're due for an upgrade."

Kallen blinked. "When will she be back?"

"Why?" Lloyd sneered, leaning toward her with that goofy looking expression, his light, cropped, lavender hair bouncing as it usually does. "We're not good enough? I'm a bit shocked, my little devicer. I didn't think you'd prefer her handiwork over mine."

"I was just curious," Kallen answered. She turned to the Indian woman then, strays of white strands sleeked over her otherwise perfect, blond hair. "Do you know when Zero's coming back?"

"No idea," she answered aimlessly. "If it's about that pilot you keep talking about-"

"It is."

Rakshata placed the tobacco pipe back on her lips, tiny puffs of smoke emerging from the golden rim. "I'm not finished with the analysis yet. But you don't need Zero's permission to see those tapes."

Kallen narrowed her eyes. "He was there, when the pilot attacked."

"The model was incredibly advanced," Lloyd interrupted. "With someone as skilled as that, it's no wonder you were beaten. The technology alone was enough to outweigh the Guren, even with all the tinkering we've done. Besides, the devicer inside might be just as skilled as Suzaku, if not more. After all," he swirled his happy gaze toward the pilot, "they did beat you to a pulp."

Kallen's shoulders tensed. If someone as good as that was on Alfheimr's side, things were already going from bad to worse. She took a deep breath. "What about the Guren's Druid system? Did you find anything abnormal there?"

Lloyd straightened then, his friendly expression replaced by a solemn frown. "I had Cecile look into that one. Neither Zero nor anyone else have access to it, and the only way you can do that kind of damage is if you mess with it personally. Even then, the codes are too hard to decipher for just one person alone."

"A part of the system is also embedded into the Guren's frame," Rakshata continued. "In essence, unless someone else is actually piloting the Guren, or if you simply ran out of energy, you wouldn't have lost control over the Knightmare frame." Her cool, turquoise eyes slid toward Kallen. "You just can't accept it, can you?"

Honestly, Kallen couldn't. That night, when she found Naoko, Zero simply commanded the Guren to stop working. Was it Geass, she wondered? Did Zero somehow make her believe that the Guren stopped working? If that was the case, then why? What could he possibly be hiding? It'd been bothering her for some time, but with Naoko nearby, she couldn't ignore that crucial aspect anymore. The thought of another leader betraying the world scared her, but she just couldn't rule out the possibility.

But in the end, Kallen nodded. "I see. Thanks."

"Would you rather we keep this from Zero?" the woman asked then.

"Please."

"That's not like you, you know, to start doubting your idol."

Kallen smiled. "I've got important things to worry about than an idol."

The two sat there on the floor for the longest time, the gossamer curtains surrounding their shades emptily. The dark skies up ahead never giving way to a single hint of joy he spent so much of his time investing in, but then again, he never noticed their envious gazes either. He was simply sitting there, in that same dreamscape, in the same clothes, in the same atmosphere, the same lullaby replaying itself over and over again. An age old gramophone continued with the melodies, the empty notes bouncing away from the walls, with little regard for the once majestic air from above.

He sat in front of her, her hand in his, as he relayed to her the realities which took place on the outside, realities he wished for her to be in. He talked about the events of the day, of the fun he had, the friends he's made, chatting aimlessly away at the silliness his companions indulged in, from a simple crush to an over enthusiastic, drunken girl with no idea how babies were made. He talked about winter, about laughter, about the futon Rivalz kept stashed away in the kitchen, in the event Milly or Kallen, or anyone else for that matter, came to visit. He talked about the restaurant he was apparently working at, the latest events Alfheimr made, the conferences the Britannian Empress and Zero attended together. He talked about Ms. Kozuki and Kallen, and how often they would call to make sure he was alright. He talked the changing attitudes around him, the outfights glares transforming to begrudging acceptances, a few more amiable faces popping out from the audience. He talked about the terrorist attack on TU, the Knightmares that eagerly danced within the mirrors of the battlefield as well as the woman named Lisette and the person she was looking for.

All of which she gave nothing.

She kept staring at him with those empty eyes of hers, the liveliness that once invoked their lovely musical gone. Her hands were neatly folded in her lap, but her body little more than a ragged doll, staring submissively at nothing in particular. She didn't smile, and never released her emotionless state; she never talked, never laughed at the foolishness he managed to get himself into, never teased him as she usually did so many nights before. Even when he tried urging her to play something, anything, his request fell cruelly between them.

Seconds pass by them effortlessly, playing into a subtle, quiet emptiness.

Though they lapsed into such a silence before, it wasn't at all as suffocating as this. But he bid his time, and waited for a little more. He leaned over, his head cocked a bit, as he tried to discern anything at all from her face, a sign that told him she was still there, still breathing, still alive and interested in the world around her. Yet there was none of that, and soon, in those happy, brilliant colors her own eyes gave off, he only saw his reflection, a dichromate gaze staring back at a monochromatic one.

Slowly, he lifted his hand, and stroked her cheek delicately, afraid she would break at one little touch. He stared at her for a little, a purple orb peking from behind his bangs. From behind, he heard the familiar cracks settling throughout the now chaotic night, the ballroom beginning to fold itself back into the darkness, as it had for forever.

The dream was already ending.