A Young Girl's Guerilla War

by RagnartheSemiGreen

Tanya dies in an artillery barrage on the Rhine Front, contrary to both her and Being X's plans. Unwilling to let his chew toy escape so easily, Being X reincarnates Tanya back into Japan... Six years before Britannia conquers Area 11. (First posted on Space Battles)

22. Chapter 22: An Antagonistic Trio

Chapter 22

(I've been sitting on this damned thing for too long, and it's not improving with age. I'm not entirely sure it works, but... So it goes. A huge thank you to Siatru, WrandmWaffles, Thearpox, Sunny, Gremlin Jack, and MetalDragon for their help and feedback, as well as the others from the AYGGW Discord.)

APRIL 30, 2016 ATB

FORWARD OPERATING BASE EDMUND, ASAHI, TOYAMA PREFECTURE

When Corporal Kururugi Suzaku, along with the rest of his freshly replenished battalion, had been deployed to Toyama Prefecture three weeks earlier, the food had been a pleasant surprise. The typical pots of gray, unidentifiable meat swimming in watery broth had not accompanied the 3rd Regiment, and the boxes of dehydrated "crap rations" typically issued to formations in the field had been left behind in their home barracks in the Tokyo Settlement.

Instead, the newly minted corporal and the rest of his unit had eaten extravagantly (at least by Area 11 standards) since they had taken up their posts on the prefectural border with Niigata. Back before the Conquest, Toyama had been famous for its seafood, thanks to the seemingly endless bounty of Toyama Bay.

Indeed, in a past life, a young Suzaku had dined upon fresh yellowtail that arrived at the Kururugi Shrine on ice, straight from Toyama. Toyama Black Ramen, with its fatty pork and its deliciously salty broth, had been a special treat reserved for meals after kendo tournaments.

Now, he sat with the rest of his fire team in a dilapidated sports center that had been re-designated as 'Forward Operating Base Edmund', eating pickled squid straight out of brining jars and grilling trout with the rest of the company over a number of charcoal grills that the Prefect's liaison team had so helpfully provided.

Despite the surprisingly good food, morale was low among the men of His Imperial Majesty's 32nd Honorary Britannian Legion.

The lack of lunchtime conversation could be chalked up to the age-old military custom of eating while food is available – there was, after all, no guarantee that the food would still be there when your conversation finished. Corporal Kururugi was certain that many of the men squatting around the grills scattered about the old basketball court had nothing but the food in front of them on their minds, especially since they would be boarding the buses back to Tokyo after lunch. Nobody was stupid enough to think that quality seafood would still be freely available once they were back in the Settlement.

He was just as certain that the men who sat staring blankly into their soup bowls instead of eating were lost in their fresh new memories of Toyama. They had the mien of haunted men – Corporal Kururugi recognized those hollow eyes from the mirror. He was certain that they were full of the fervent hope that their new ghosts wouldn't follow them back to the Settlement. He'd long since ceased to hope that his own personal ghost would be so accommodating…

Corporal Kururugi realized his thoughts were drifting, and forced himself away from thoughts of the past with a wrench. He'd lately been having trouble staying focused on the present himself. Something about being out in Toyama, where the influence of Britannia was lighter and which still bore such a resemblance to the Ja- the Area 11 that Kururugi remembered from his youth, made it difficult to keep his focus where it belonged: on the future.

Many things would change once they returned to the Settlement, seafood being the least of them. Unless the climate in Tokyo had changed, the men would be confined to base once again upon arrival. Instead of the Prefect's generous approach towards outfitting soldiers with all the bits and bobs they needed, the men would have to get used to paying through the nose for their own kit once more.

More importantly, Corporal Kururugi very much doubted that the three battalions of Honorary Britannian soldiers would be permitted to keep the pistols they had been issued after arriving in Toyama City.

While it was typically the policy of Prince Clovis's Administration to not permit its Honorary Britannian units access to lethal weapons, the situation in neighboring Niigata Prefecture had all but forced the Britannians to properly equip its slave soldiers. Besides the pistols, Corporal Kururugi's battalion had been issued new boots, fresh uniforms, and bulletproof vests during their time in the Prefecture, amazingly without any "handling fees" charged to the soldiers.

'Hopefully the Britannians will at least let us keep the first two items,' Corporal Kururugi thought, 'don't think they'd want uniforms that "stink like Elevens" back, not to mention the boots.'

The Toyama deployment had been as grueling as it was brief.

Officially, the 3rd Regiment and its sister regiments of the 1st Brigade had been dispatched to the area where Toyama, Niigata, and Nagano Prefectures met as part of a larger "stabilization" effort, aimed at combating the banditry of stubborn Eleven rebels and ungrateful peasants. Unofficially, the Prefect of Toyama had allegedly begged the Area Administration for any available units that could be sent to his dominion, desperate to keep the burgeoning peasant rebellion from expanding south out of Niigata, towards his own fiefdom. The Prefect had even gone as far as promising to supply any deployed units from his own discretionary budget. The Administration, always eager to free up funding for whichever grand developments the Viceregal-Governor dreamed up, had jumped at the opportunity.

Which was how elements of the 32nd Honorary Britannian Legion, Corporal Kururugi included, had found themselves practically drowning in fresh seafood while occupying the northern region of Toyama Prefecture, practically within sight of the Niigata border.

Why the people of Niigata had risen with such incandescent fury was beyond Corporal Kururugi. Lots of rumors had swirled around the battalion, of course, but the scuttlebutt had yet to reach any consensus. The two top contenders had been that a particularly hated Britannian landlord had stolen an Eleven bride away from the altar to enjoy the honeymoon himself, or that one of the more professional rebel units had managed to briefly take over a radio station and had broadcast a call to arms before blowing up both the radio station and themselves.

Of the two, Corporal Kururugi was putting his money on the latter option. While the former was a better story, such events simply happened too often in Area 11 to cause this level of violence. Ultimately, it didn't matter which story was true, if either of them were. All over Niigata, Honorary Britannian policemen and officials had been murdered. Some, the lucky ones, were publicly lynched from trees and lampposts. The others burnt to death along with their families; all the while fruitlessly beating down on their doors and windows that had been nailed shut and barricaded from the outside.

At least, those had been among the many claims regarding ongoing events in Niigata made by the Britannian lieutenant who had briefed Corporal Kururugi's company, bristling with anger over the insult offered by the "impertinent Elevens!" If even a tenth of the officer's claims had been true, Corporal Kururugi could easily imagine the fury of the Britannian punitive reprisals in Niigata itself. After all, Kururugi felt just the same when he let himself contemplate the bitter irony that both his former countrymen and his adopted fellow citizens had no problem stringing men like himself up from lampposts and trees.

While at least some of Niigata's inhabitants had chosen to stand and fight a doomed defense of their homes, plenty more had fled the violence, running in any direction they could as long as it was away from the bloodshed. This initial rush of refugees had panicked the Prefect of Toyama – the refugees were stripping fields and depots bare of any supplies they could and were inhibiting the productivity of the Eleven serfs slaving away in the northern part of the prefecture.

Worse, the refugees were bringing word of the conflict to those local serfs, potentially inspiring yet more rebellious behavior. Worse still, the Prefect had apparently reasoned, it was all but certain that insurgents were hidden in the hopeless crowd, guaranteeing the spread of the uprising outside of Niigata's boundaries – after all, an ambush had been attempted on a Britannian convoy in Nagano, and even though it had been crushed, it was a potential sign of things to come.

Ultimately, that chain of events had led to the "stabilization mission" and the 1st Brigade's deployment. Order was to be maintained at any cost. And that order had been maintained by setting up armed checkpoints on every major road, installing strong fortifications along the prefecture's border, and of particular relevance to Corporal Kururugi, the sweeping missions.

Each day, Corporal Kururugi's platoon had been given the name of a village and a copy of the official census for that village. Individuals who had been marked out for whatever reason as subjects of special concern had been highlighted in red, while the names of all men of fighting age – twelve to sixty – and women between the ages of fourteen and thirty had been underlined in green. Papers in hand, the platoon would rendezvous with a squad of Britannian military police from the Toyama garrison and make their way to the targeted village, two or three empty trucks tagging along behind their convoy of four truckloads of soldiers and two police cars.

The trucks never returned empty, though. Corporal Kururugi had made a name for himself over the last four months since Christmas as a diligent soldier, always willing to go the extra mile for his Britannian commanders. He had done everything in his power to ensure that the targets his squad had been tasked with finding had ended up in those trucks, pushing the four men of the fire team under his command to scour the village for suspicious characters, even if they weren't marked in red on their list.

Suzaku hated it all, and hated himself for his complicity. It was all in service of what he had taken to thinking of as the "Plan," but that was cold comfort when Corporal Kururugi had to beat a mother half to death with a baton to stop her from interfering as his fire team loaded her thirteen year old son onto the waiting truck. The fact that Suzaku knew that he would almost certainly have to do far worse to guarantee the Plan's success only twisted the knife further.

After the scales had fallen from his eyes as he stared up at the charred thing that had once been a comrade, Suzaku had thought long and hard about his next moves. It was obvious in retrospect that the image he had been sold when enlisting of the Empire and his place within it as an Honorary Britannian was a lie. Less obvious was how he could turn that lie into some form of truth. It was easy to say that a new leader had to be appointed to reform the system, but how could that lofty goal be accomplished?

The first steps were small and incremental.

Carefully, quietly, Suzaku had taken the emotional temperature of his battalion, trying to figure out how his fellow Honorary Britannians were taking the events of what had already been dubbed the Christmas Incident. To his shock, Suzaku found that while most of the men were angry, few felt betrayed. This led to an uncomfortable moment of self-realization; Suzaku had believed in the Britannians and their marketing, and had assumed that all of his fellow soldiers felt likewise. In this belief, Suzaku had been wrong.

Unfortunately, this skepticism of Britannian claims had actually insulated the other soldiers against the horrors of Christmas – they had all seemingly expected little better from Britannians, and were merely angry and sad to be proven correct. Few shared the white-hot rage pulsing through him, and the ones who felt the same as he did had no idea how to conceal their anger. While Suzaku's childhood friend might have appreciated these angry men as pawns, Suzaku didn't have the luxury to think in anything but the long-term, and association with obvious malcontents would do him far more harm than good in the long run, and so Private Kururugi had carefully eschewed their company.

His conservatism quickly paid off; within the first two weeks of January, all of the men who had expressed verbal dissatisfaction or anger with Britannia after the Christmas Incident had vanished, and fresh Honorary recruits had been assigned to their squads. It sent a clear message to Suzaku that his current position was far too exposed to even consider networking yet. After all, if anybody remembered his frenzied anger from that fateful day and decided it hadn't been a moment of passion, he might be brought to the attention of the military police, dooming the Plan before it got off the ground.

So in the service of that Plan, Suzaku carefully tucked his anger away and stored it in a private corner of his heart, and had immersed himself ever more deeply in the identity of Private Kururugi.

The first step had been proving Private Kururugi the most diligent soldier in the battalion, a willing servant of Britannia and the ideal Honorary Britannian. He worked long hours without complaint, and spent his off hours washing floors, scrubbing toilets, and polishing his boots to a mirror's sheen.

It had taken time, but he had gradually struck up a rapport with his platoon's Britannian lieutenant, Chester Rockwell, the same lieutenant who had blanched at the screams of a man being slowly burnt alive. From careful observation, Suzaku knew that Lieutenant Rockwell still felt guilty about the Incident and, though he tried to hide it, resented the battalion's commanding officer Major Humphrey for his order to remain in the outpost's walls.

Private Kururugi had taken his time to cozy up to the young junior officer, carefully soothing his guilt and assuring him that the men under his command didn't resent Rockwell in the slightest. Rockwell had been eager to hear what Private Kururugi had to say, no matter how little resemblance it bore to any kind of truth; just as Suzaku had expected, the lieutenant had greatly appreciated being handed a reason to no longer feel guilty.

Lieutenant Rockwell had rapidly paid off that quiet favor. As new recruits filtered in to fill the holes left by the men who had departed at Christmas and those who had departed in the ensuing weeks, Kururugi was promoted to Corporal. Officially, he had been recommended for the promotion due to his hard work, but Suzaku could read between the lines of the official notice – he was, after all, a politician's son.

As a corporal, Kururugi had command over one of the two fire teams that made up his squad, and four privates reported directly to him. Suzaku was heavily tempted to start suborning the four men of his detail to his way of thinking, but restrained himself just like always. Instead, he drilled his men relentlessly, not only participating in the mandatory platoon and squad training sessions but more or less forcing his men to join him for supplemental training on their off hours. They resented him for it, but after he beat the only one stupid enough to openly defy him into the ground, they did as they were ordered.

By the start of February, the daily regimen of training and voluntary extra chores had become rote and the complaints had ceased. Every waking moment not spent training or working, Suzaku had drilled his small command on the rules and regulations stipulated by His Imperial Majesty's Military Code, doing his best to hammer a deep respect for the legal underpinnings of the system into his underlings' heads. This schedule had continued day in and day out for just over two months, when the news from Niigata trickled down the grapevine.

The Britannian battalion that shared the outpost with Corporal Kururugi's formation left first, dispatched on April 8th to Tokamachi in Niigata Prefecture. This development had been met with mild interest by the Honorary Britannians of the 3rd Regiment, but little had changed other than the increased availability of hot water in the showers. Two days later, the battalion had been woken up early and hurried onto buses bound for northern Toyama Prefecture.

All Suzaku's sleep-befuddled brain could manage at the time was despair. Undoubtedly, this deployment meant that the Britannian troops had been unable to contain the uprising, and that the anarchy and bloodshed were spreading far and wide. He had silently railed against the impatience of his people; if they rose up now, didn't they realize that they would all be wiped out piecemeal, and that the Britannians would simply be even more on guard in Area 11?

Any realistic change in the system required careful planning and coordination, not wild anger! Even if the people did rise up as one and force the Britannians out, did they truly think that the Chinese would let them enjoy their freedom? He had despaired of his people – how many would die in these pointless revolts was beyond him, but even one would have been too many.

Now, weeks later, Corporal Kururugi did his best to harden his heart as he nibbled on a pickled squid. There was no point in despairing over choices come and gone, he told himself. All would ultimately be justified. Indeed, all that he had seen and done in Toyama had already been partially justified. While his continued diligence and zeal in the field had undoubtedly improved his reputation with the Britannian officers commanding the unit, Corporal Kururugi's first field deployment had taught him a very important lesson: The Britannians were deeply afraid of the Elevens, both Number and Honorary Britannian.

For a long time, Suzaku had privately suspected that the Britannian hatred and contempt for Elevens was rooted equally in belief in Britannian superiority and in the fear of the oppressed common in all conquerors. The swaggering Britannian chauvinism was easy enough to see, but the fear was just as visible if you knew where to look.

Why would the Britannians raise and train Honorary Britannian units from former Elevens, but refuse to arm them? Why would the Prefect of Toyama panic and offer the balance of his treasury to ward off underfed and unarmed refugees? Why would a crowd of civilians led by Britannian soldiers and officers murder their nominal comrades?

They're afraid of us.

It was the only reasonable conclusion. It was also a bitterly ironic one, considering the dull placidity of Suzaku's fellow soldiers in the wake of the Christmas Incident.

Britannian fear had brought Corporal Kururugi's unit to Toyama. In an attempt to soothe that fear, truckload after truckload of luckless civilians had been taken from their villages for the flimsiest of reasons and sent to the filtration and concentration camps. Corporal Kururugi could understand the evil logic behind the plan - by concentrating all of the potential recruits in camps out of reach of the insurrectionists and by filtering out the individuals most likely to cause trouble, the Prefect had constructed a human firebreak that would keep the insurrection out of his territory. It was sickening, but the idea made a sort of short-term sense.

Privately, Suzaku wondered just how far into the future the Prefect of Toyama was thinking. He had crushed the immediate threat by incarcerating who knew just how many of his own people, but Suzaku doubted that the human firebreak was anything but a stopgap measure. What was the Prefect going to do? Keep all of his farmers and workers locked up? Impossible, his fields would go fallow. And what about the thousands of "troublemakers"?

Suzaku was profoundly thankful that he hadn't been personally involved in the "filtration process", but he knew men who had taken part, and their second-hand descriptions secretly sickened him. Someone would find those unfortunates sooner or later, all packed in layers in trenches a hundred meters long. What would happen once word of those long scars in the earth leaked out?

More Britannian fear. That was all Corporal Kururugi was certain of. More Britannian fear, which would prompt more Britannian crackdowns, which would continue the cycle. And the more scared the Britannians got, and the more desperate they became for reassurance and for answers…

Corporal Kururugi smiled and got to his feet as he pushed Suzaku back into the box deep inside his mind, his fireteam hastily cramming their last bites into their mouths before rising up around him. In twenty minutes, his platoon would be on a bus heading back to the Tokyo Settlement. There would be opportunities galore in the sweltering capital of the Area, especially since the fighting in Niigata showed no signs of slowing. The Britannian soldiers deployed to the troubled province would be far away from the Britannian Concession, which meant there would be plenty of assignments available for a diligent soldier with a plan.

It would all be justified. Victory would wash away all stains and justify all means, and Area 11 would be a prosperous and happy land. Kururugi Suzaku had a plan, and by pushing men, women, and children up onto those trucks with the full knowledge of where they were going, he had purchased an opportunity. Sooner or later, the trenches would be found, and the Elevens would lash out like clockwork.

The Britannians, guiltily aware that their chickens were coming home to roost, would once again be frightened and search for someone to help them. And when they looked for someone to clean up their mess… Someone who could get the job done while remaining nonthreatening to the powers that be, docile, obedient, and trustworthy, a model Honorary Britannian. And once they let him through the doors of power… once they depended on him keeping things clean…

Then and only then will it be time to make my move. Lashing out with rage is pointless; only action based in cool logic will produce a truly ordered society.

Lots of people would die before Suzaku got his chance. He owed it to all whose bones would form his road to the top, Britannian and Eleven, to not let it go to waste.

It will be worth it in the end. Suzaku thought to himself, resolve settling in his gut like a lead weight. It has to be.

MARCH 12, 2016 ATB

ASHFORD ACADEMY, BRITANNIAN CONCESSION, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1603

"-lia li Britannia has announced the capture of Damascus. After a bri-"

With a click of a remote, the television winked off, the talking head and the backdrop of Cornelia astride her Glouchester disappearing into the void. Quiet returned to the lavishly appointed conference room, the silence broken only by the distant sounds of chatter that the thick wooden doors almost muted. The room's lone occupant turned from the television to the neat stack of papers in front of him, all carefully completed and signed without a single pen stroke out of place.

"That should buy at least a hassle-free week from Milly," Lelouch Lamperouge, an utterly average young noble, mused to himself.

He did not expect any response, for there was nobody else in the Ashford Student Council Meeting Room at this time, but that did not matter. Just like in chess, every social role came with its own strengths and opportunities, and it was up to the skilled player to leverage those opportunities to the greatest effect, even on the limited board that was Ashford Academy. Fortunately, most of the would-be players don't realize that they are mere pawns.

Lelouch Lamperouge, Vice President of the Ashford Student Council and lazy but brilliant student, sighed good naturedly, sliding his paperwork into his briefcase and coming to his feet. He did not check whether his smile was sufficiently casual, cool, and disarming in the dim reflection in the darkened television screen; Lelouch Lamperouge was always cool, but endearingly casual with his friends, and thus had no need to check his work, much less his facial expressions. It was a comfortable role, one that the player hardly had to think about maintaining.

Besides, even if the role had been new or complex, the young man had worn figurative skin-masks ever since his mother had died. Perhaps if she had been a bit better at dissembling, she would not have died? It was impossible to tell, but her son had learned a lesson that day, and another the day after. Disaster could strike when you would least expect it, but showing a true reaction in the face of disaster only compounded the damage.

If I'd just kept myself under control… I would still have been within striking distance of That Man…

With a casual, smiling shake of his head, Lelouch Lamperouge tossed the thoughts away. It was far too late for any of them to matter, and they belonged to another man, certainly not to Lelouch Lamperouge. Soft smile firmly set upon his face, the Vice President opened the stained oak door and set forth to find the President, ready to be temporarily free of Milly Ashford's ebullient enthusiasm for at least a few days.

Milly Ashford was lounging out in the Academy's garden when he found her, draped artfully across a stone bench. The position, while admittedly intriguing, could in no way be comfortable, but he didn't think it was meant to be. While he hid behind a facade of bored indifference, Milly relied on her beauty and sensuality to escape from the burdens of her own life.

The Queen of Ashford played games using the Academy as her board – a small slice of the world where she was in complete control, where she could pretend to be the mistress of her destiny. Lamperouge did not begrudge her for her games; while it was irritating to be a pawn on another's chess-board, she was usually gentle with her toys. Besides, he owed the ever-smiling blonde a great deal.

After all, unlike the rest of the student body – a certain middle schooler excepted – Milly knew Lamperouge by another name. A name that, to the rest of the world, was six years' dead and buried. Considering how living in Britannian society under a fresh identity would have been all but impossible without her family's support, putting up with a few idiotic school events and some extra paperwork were the very least he could do.

Even beyond the debt he owed her, Lamperouge found Milly to be something of a kindred spirit. I doubt anybody in Area 11 wears as many masks as Milly Ashford, apart from myself, of course.

Of all of those many masks, the one that she was undoubtedly most fond of was the Flirt. Her current performance, while likely not targeted towards him, was an example of the sometimes subtle power wielded by the Queen of Ashford. Despite knowing the Ashford heiress's tendency to wield her sexual appeal as a bludgeon, the man who thought of himself as Lamperouge couldn't help but notice the way she angled her leg to "accidentally" reveal just two fingers' width of creamy thigh.

A light laugh told him that he had been caught staring, but he did not flinch. Lelouch Lamperouge did not care what other people thought, letting all opinions roll off a gloss of utter self-confidence. With a total lack of shame that didn't have to be manufactured, he raised his eyes and met Milly's dancing blue eyes.

"Careful there, Lulu!" She teased, rising to her feet in an almost leonine manner, a predatory cat prowling towards enthralled prey, "Shirley's looking for you again, and she's pretty mad." Milly leaned in, and the man could smell her floral shampoo. "Someone might have told her that you've been gambling again~ Wonder who that could be…?"

That matter was unimportant, as was the gambling, and indeed as was the need to evade Shirley. Lamperouge knew that Milly loved her little games, but was completely certain that she would protect his secrets that truly mattered. After all, harboring a fugitive of the Crown, officially designated as such or not, was an act of treason, and thus punishable by wheeling.

And if there's one thing that characterizes Milly Ashford, apart from shameless flirting, it's loyalty to her family. She'd have never agreed to an arranged marriage otherwise.

"Well, that's annoying," Lamperouge smiled, pulling the sheaf of carefully taped paperwork from his briefcase, "especially since I just completed the safety forms for the Equestrian Club's upcoming polo meet. I was planning on going for a nice stroll in the Concession now that my work is all finished, but if I have to find Shirley and soothe her concerns, I might not have time to properly submit it before I leave. After all, Madam President, I'd hate to stay indoors on a day like today."

Milly narrowed her eyes dramatically, the smile morphing into an equally theatrical pout. "You drive a hard bargain, Lulu! But…if you want me to go play with a pretty redhead to distract her as you sneak out the gate?"

The pout was already wearing thin as the habitual smile shone through like the sun behind a cloud, and Milly abandoned the mask of disappointment in favor of a broad grin and a lecherous giggle. "I'm game! After all, that kind of work pays for itself, especially since you already checked over the snack bar's expenditure report!"

"Right here." The man who had gone by his mother's maiden name for half a decade pulled a slim folder from his briefcase and handed both it and the forms over with a flourish. "Now, I think that it's about time for my walk, Madam President. If you'll excuse me, I really must go."

"A walk? Really, Lulu?"" Milly sighed theatrically as she briefly thumbed through the folder, before sliding the nonsense into her backpack. "Honestly, that's pathetic, it's like you didn't even try to come up with a cover story."

Milly looked up with a mocking expression of feigned curiosity, the innocently questioning air of the finger lightly brushing her lips undermined by the mocking twinkle of her eyes. "Is it poker again? If so, you better win something for me! I'll accept various forms of tribute, including candids and candy!"

Lamperouge smiled, not admitting to anything, and waved a lazy goodbye before making his way out of the garden. Manipulating Milly was refreshingly easy and straightforward; she knew what he was about, but so long as she was adequately paid in her chosen currencies, she was happy to be used.

Besides, I'm probably just as happy to be used by her; if she wants to run interference with Shirley in exchange for a little paperwork, I'll oblige her.

The man who had once been someone important drifted through the halls of Ashford, vaguely smiling at any of the swirling passersby who met his eye. The female recipients of such smiles often blushed, and once or twice the man who called himself Lelouch Lamperouge heard sudden, poorly-hushed exchanges between some lucky girl and her friends, but ultimately it was all inconsequential. His fellow students darted around him, heading to clubs, to part-time jobs, to social engagements, or to any number of other errands.

Ah, the flower of the Area's nobility! For all the talk of Britannian supremacy, they're just as antlike as the Numbers when left to their own devices.

True to form, the ants had filled his locker with garbage while he was away attending to business. As soon as he opened the door, letters tumbled free and piled at his feet, all festooned with hearts and elegantly curving handwriting. Lamperouge let his gentle smile sharpen into an amused smirk – it was privately amusing how many protestations of love his mask received, considering how shallow the disguise was.

At the same time, it's also a bit pathetic. I don't think I've spoken more than twice to any of the most persistent writers. Don't they have anything better to do with their time?

But in the end, the man currently known as Lelouch Lamperouge couldn't fault them; after all, it was only natural that they recognize that he was someone special. That they were drawn to him was only to be expected – that they did not know a thing about him was to be welcomed. If any hormonal pawn of a schoolgirl could glean information about what was under the mask based solely on his performance, then either the man truly was not the player he thought himself to be, or she would not be a pawn. It was the simple nature of the game, although Lamperouge supposed that even a pawn could be elevated to a queen, given the proper education and experience.

Retrieving his packed bag from the locker, Lamperouge turned and left the mound of confessions and adolescent fantasies heaped below the door. It was beneath the character to care about the mess – throwing the envelopes into the trash can would have demonstrated far more emotional investment than they deserved, and might have sent the wrong message. As long as Lelouch Lamperouge remained a potentially obtainable object in the eyes of Ashford's female population, as well as a slice of the male population, the man retained leverage. Taking his public persona off the dating market would be a misstep, unless, of course, a pawn worthy of promotion presented itself.

Besides, hauling garbage around is a waste of time better spent playing more interesting games than schoolyard romance.

Remembering Milly's warning about Shirley, the man called Lamperouge abandoned his usual route out the front gate of Ashford and instead exited the Academy via the Science Wing. The day truly was delightful, the pleasant spring warmth kept in check by breezes from Tokyo Bay. Better still, the small garden around the north end of the Science Wing was happily free of nosy Swim Club members.

The man let the mask slip for a moment and permitted himself a private smile; outwitting and out-maneuvering others, even the fools that thronged the halls of Ashford, was a source of private delight. As anticipated, a flash of copper near the door to the Academy's main lobby betrayed Shirley's position, well chosen to ambush Lelouch's typical route. Still smirking, the man calmly walked to the front gate of the Academy and exited the grounds, ears carefully peeled for the screeched "Lulu!" that would betray his detection.

When he was half a block away from the Academy, the man let go of Lelouch Lamperouge entirely with a broad smile. Looks like I didn't need Milly's help after all – which means she still owes me.

Shirley… Now that the man sometimes known as Lamperouge didn't have to worry about actually dealing with the girl, he could let himself think about her as he made his way to the nearby MagLev station. She's got her charms… Swimming's really done wonders for her. Long limbs and a body lean in all but the most choice of locations were accentuated with gloriously shiny hair and clear green eyes. Pity that the brain behind those eyes turns to mush whenever I'm around. She would be far more interesting if she wasn't so obvious.

That complete lack of guile was both a pro and a con in his point of view. Her inability to hide her feelings guaranteed that what you saw from Shirley is what you got, a refreshing change from the court ladies of his youth. On the other hand, that same lack of artifice guaranteed that she wouldn't be able to keep his secrets, should she ever learn them. Either way, the man who wore Lamperouge wasn't interested in a relationship at the moment, and found the experience of being hounded an irritation.

But being obsessed over by a pretty girl isn't too bad, I suppose…

The man continued to muse over the enthusiastic, if simple, swimmer as he swiped his card over the automated turnstile, but soon grew bored. Ultimately, while she was pleasant company, she wasn't really very useful, unlike his other friends. Although, calling them friends might be a bit much when they don't really know the real me… But, they're friends of "Lamperouge", at least, if not mine…

Rivalz Cardemonde was even less complicated than Shirley – a pile of thoroughly typical parental issues, who only ceased thinking about how best to rebel against his parents when he was otherwise engaged in drooling over scraps of attention from Milly. At least he brought his driving skills and access to a motorcycle to the table, edging out Shirley in terms of utility.

Sorry Shirley, but I can find eye candy anywhere. A talented driver at least demands payment. The man's lips curved up in a smirk as he boarded the train. Thankfully, Rivalz is easily paid off – a small cut of my winnings and sympathy when Milly casually swats him down, in exchange for an on-call chauffeur? Done and done.

Milly, at the very least, knew him for who he was, or at least, who he had been. There was also an element of maturity to Milly lacking Shirley and Rivalz; below the smirking, teasing, and at times infuriating veneer of confidence, Milly knew that she was an object with value and utility. Her family had been stripped of its noble status as the enemies of the man's murdered mother had descended like vultures upon her vulnerable allies, but a path back to that status for the House of Ashford led through her bedroom, a fact of which Milly was well aware.

The man knew that Reuban Ashford had taken him in after the Conquest in the name of the loyalty the Ashfords still bore for Marianne vi Britannia; unspoken was the understanding that favors must one day be repaid. His mother had, after all, been a commoner raised to the nobility as the concubine, then wife, then empress. Obviously, Reuben hoped that when he came into power, old friends would be remembered and all that had once been the Ashford's and more would be restored.

It's amazing how short-lived gratitude can be, but… we'll see. A deal's a deal, sometimes.

Rocking with the motion of the MagLev, the man gazed idly off through the window, still lost in his thoughts. While he had friends and compatriots, a grand total of three of them, they were only marginally useful for his long-term goal of revenge. Unfortunately, apart from the plump balance accumulated through his illicit gambling and the maid that he had been gifted by Milly, they represented the entirety of his powerbase. It was a dismal arrangement, to say the least.

Ashford was only ever a starting point, and a place to rest. It's past time I start finding useful people outside its walls.

Among the many shortages in Area 11 engineered by the man's darling big brother, useful idiots were in bountiful supply. Before Christmas, tensions had been rising as fools in power pillaged the compliant idiots below them, while rebellious blockheads raised pygmy rebellions. After Christmas, the whole province practically throbbed with inflamed passions. Idiocy dripped from the mouths of nobles – "nobody wants to do an honest day's work!", stupidity foamed from the working class – "the Honorary Britannians are taking our jobs!", and milquetoast indecision burbled from the middle class – "Somebody really must take the nobles in hand!". And that was before considering the running sore that was the official state church, who leached from parishioners in exchange for increasingly derivative sermons.

To a man with an ounce of sense and almost half a million pounds spread across a number of accounts in different names, the possibilities in Clovis la Britannia's Area 11 were boundless. Just looking out the window proved as much. The walled Shinjuku Ghetto was visible in the distance, but surrounding the walls were endless blocks of urban sprawl, underdeveloped and aging. A few minutes later, the devastated area south of the revitalized glitzy heart of the Ginza District swam into view, a monument to Britannia's uneven development and lack of attention invested in Area 11.

Prime urban real estate, left to rot as his darling brother the Viceregal Governor fooled around with his ClovisLand amusement park and other vanity projects! And though they were too small to see at the moment from the elevated MagLev track, all of those streets were full of Britannians and Numbers just looking for someone, anyone, to give them a reason to hope for a better tomorrow.

I really should send dear brother Clovis a thank you card for preparing such fertile grounds. Wouldn't he be surprised? Lelouch almost laughed at the absurd thought. Nobody ever thanks poor stupid Clovis for his idiotic gifts, but this time I might actually have sincere cause to appreciate him. Not that he'll ever know, of course. Not until it's too late.

The man now calling himself Alan Spicer dismounted from the MagLev at the Ginza station. Ducking into a restroom, Spicer quickly changed out of the Ashford Academy uniform and into nondescript business casual. Spicer decided that he was a low-level functionary for the Administration as he carefully sorted out his tie in the restroom mirror, loosening it once it was tied and undoing the top button of his cheap white button-up.

After all, I'm off the clock now, aren't I?

A few blocks south from the MagLev station, closer to the urban abscess around the Tokyo Tower and away from the bustling streets of the most fashionable shopping district in the Area, Alan Spicer found a soft… an unsuspecting target: A lower-middle and upper-working class neighborhood, local mom'n'pops nestled amongst chain convenience stores at street level and apartments on the floors above.

Despite there still being a half hour remaining in the standard work day, the sidewalks were densely populated. Knots of men sat on benches and the curbs outside of convenience stores, smoking cigarettes and passing brown paper bags. A few of the stores were dark, and two had boarded-up windows. This, Alan could easily tell, was a neighborhood fallen on hard times, a neighborhood where wages weren't keeping up with inflation and jobs were scarce.

Alan found a small deli, purchased a sandwich with a handful of coins and bills that had been won off Rivalz in a side bet a few days earlier, and had an early dinner at the establishment's grimy counter. As he munched, he listened to the grumbling old man at the counter and the other elderly men slouched over a cribbage board behind him. He listened to the chatter of the other diners coming in and to the anxious titters of the housewives coming by for a quart of potato salad. Alan very carefully did not smile in satisfaction as his assumptions about the neighborhood were proven correct.

"The papers said last month a new infrastructure package was allotted, but that damned culvert's still leaking," one of the cribbage players groused as he moved a peg forwards, "and the supervisor's office still hasn't fixed the pothole over on 10th!"

"It's that damned train," his partner grunted, "ever since His Highness fell in love with it, that's where all the money goes. After all, who needs roads when we call all ride the fucking train, yeah?"

"Sorry Missus Fisk," the proprietor was saying, "but I gotta make a profit somehow. You know a pound just doesn't buy what it used to."

"But this is the second time in a month!" The client, presumably Missus Fisk, ground out, before sighing. "I'm sorry George, I know we all gotta make a living somehow but…"

"But a pound just doesn't buy what it used to." George finished, nodding sympathetically, "Tell me about it. The transportation costs alone are really killing me – pity the Prince can't divert some of the Sakuradite here, instead of shipping it all back to the Homeland. Seems like a bit of a waste…"

"It wouldn't be so bad if some people weren't benefitting from it." This time, the bitterness in Missus Fisk's tone was undisguised. "My Lloyd's been working the same job for four years now, and hasn't had a raise in three! He's a good worker, but that bastard Soresi froze all raises, and now nobody's hiring!"

"Times are tough for everybody," George said with a weary sigh, an apprehensive note entering his voice as he peered around the deli's eating area, "but… I mean… we just gotta keep on going. Prince Clovis… he knows what he's doing, right? He'll help us out, things just get a bit more stable and all first."

Alan Spicer kept his head down as the conversation tapered off. By the time he had finished his sandwich, Missus Fisk had long since left with her purchases, as had a handful of other customers with similar complaints. After leaving the deli, Spicer wandered through a pharmacy, a convenience store, and a cheap chain coffee shop. The story was seemingly the same everywhere, barring minor and inconsequential variations. Nobody was happy, nobody was prosperous, and most people thought that something should be done and indeed would be done, if only Prince Clovis knew how bad things really were.

In the end, it all seemed to Alan to boil down to money. The wages weren't going up, yet prices skyrocketed. Taxes were paid, yet potholes remained. Policemen and government functionaries on the take had grown greedy, and the "administrative fees" that were once a part of doing business had grown unmanageable. All of the complaints could really just be summed down into concerns about the lack of money.

How pedestrian. Alan nearly rolled his eyes. The idea that something as simple as money was the root of all these problems made Clovis's attempts at his "rule" all the more laughable. An idiot trying and failing to rule over other idiots. Still, good to know that everybody's thinking about their wallets. All the little ants, so desperate to bring crumbs back to the nest…

To the man who would call himself Alan if anybody ever asked his name, the real delight was how the worried fools around him were so eager to find someone to blame for their nebulous economic woes.

"Obviously, the nobles are behind it all," a grizzled man sitting outside a shuttered bookstore claimed – "they're getting fatter every fuckin' day!"

"It's the damned Honoraries!" An off-duty soldier growled, spitting her chew into the dry soil of an empty planter. "Give 'em an inch, and they think they're real Britannians! It makes me sick, sharin' a barracks with 'em. They're fuckin' animals, filthy too."

Nobles or Honoraries or even the browbeaten Elevens, almost everybody that Alan eavesdropped on in the neighborhood had at least one grievance in common – broken promises. When the Empire had needed settlers to populate its newly won Area in the wake of the Conquest, families of good Britannian stock had been recruited from Pendragon, New Bristol, Charleston, and half a dozen other metropolises with extravagant promises.

To Alan, it sounded as if the recruiters had promised that every family that moved to the newly christened Area 11 would become de facto barons, ruling over a subservient Eleven population.

And yet, six years on, the pick of those servile Elevens had become their legal equals and now competed for the same low-skill jobs that many of the commoner Britannians had been imported to work. The remainder of the Elevens had not been parceled out as chattel to the average Britannian - the majority now worked as serfs on noble estates in the country, or "gotta sit around" in ghettos where state funds, "our taxes!" had to be expended to "keep 'em in their place."

The anger on this street was powerful, but not directed. Or rather, it's directed at too many targets; these pawns would happily attack anybody they were directed at. The nobles, the Administration, the Elevens, the Honoraries… Perhaps even that man for duping them into Area 11 to begin with…

The first step would have to be focusing that anger on the desired target. That much was obvious. The "how" of the matter was the trickier question by far.

As Alan continued to wander around the neighborhood, three broad approaches coalesced in his mind. If I subject myself to the Theater Club, I'm certain they could render me all but unrecognizable. Once I was suitably disguised, I could give a speech, lending the people a voice to channel their anger in a proper direction. Alternatively, instead of bothering with a disguise, I could find a local dupe willing to parrot my words, diverting any attention or backlash away from me. Finally, I could use other media in place of public speaking, further reducing my exposure.

All three options had their upsides. To the man behind Alan Spicer, the first approach held the most personal appeal. Holding a crowd spellbound, hanging on his every word… The concept spoke to him. In a way, I suppose it's in my blood.

Yet, the most appealing option was also the most risky of the three by far. At best, success meant kicking off a local riot, while failure to engage the public or to escape in the aftermath might lead to imprisonment. And once I'm behind bars as a political provocateur, there's very little Reuban could do for me. I doubt my cover would hold for long. As iti is, the risk is far too high for any potential gains.

Finding a useful idiot to serve as a cipher was the next best option. It had the same advantages as a personal speech – an immediate emotional connection with the crowd, mass appeal, and no logistical requirements except a soapbox – with the additional advantage that the audience would probably accept the message more easily if it came from a familiar face. Plus, an additional degree of separation from the effects of the speech, good or ill, could only benefit "Alan Spicer."

Unfortunately, finding someone both charismatic enough to give a good speech and sufficiently foolhardy to mouth off about the authorities would take time, especially if the recruit had to come from the local population to be truly effective. Identifying and recruiting such an individual would take time and effort, and would in all likelihood require "Alan's" presence in the target area for a substantial amount of time, which would make it hard to preserve an identity that was currently as shallow as the clothes he wore.

Besides, recruiting a local mouthpiece still represented a potential threat to his cover identity as "Lelouch Lamperouge". Someone who fit his target profile might be intelligent enough to wonder about his mysterious new friend, and might try to follow him back to Ashford. On the other side of the problem, if anybody noticed how often he came to a random working neighborhood, and especially if anybody who knew him as Lelouch saw him dressed up as Alan, he ran the very real risk of arrest long before he had any chance to strike a blow against Britannia.

Ultimately, public speeches by their very nature drew attention to the speaker, and the best shield the man had at his disposal was anonymity. While he was all but certain that his fight against that man would one day strip his identity of "Lamperouge" away, just as it had his first identity, the longer he could hold onto his current name the better. If attention-grabbing speeches were off the table, he would have to use less obvious means

During his tenure as the Student Council Vice President, the man's typical identity had spent quite a few hours in the Ashford Academy print shop. Mostly, those hours had been spent in preparing materials for some silly event or another; with Milly Ashford at the Council's helm, there was never any shortage of spontaneous events that just had to be advertised with custom signs, banners, and posters.

As a result, he had a solid working familiarity with the poster production process and the necessary credentials to access the room and use the machines while the Academy slept. While the man would never call himself an artist, he also had some familiarity with image editing software; it shouldn't be too difficult to draft a poster or two that would inflame the common rabble against their ineffectual and foolish masters. The initial brushfires might be slow and small, but through propaganda I shall ignite all of Britannia!

The only potential rough spot the man could see was the distribution. He would have to transport the posters from the Academy to the neighborhood himself and paste them to every available surface himself; recruiting help would be too risky.

Which means I'll have to post something like two hundred posters all by myself… Alan groaned aloud as he started to make his way back to the MagLev station. The prospect of so much manual labor was daunting, but he didn't see any other viable alternative. I need to recruit someone, anyone, to handle this business! Ugh, the things I do for my day of reckoning…

Three days later, the man who was sometimes Alan Spicer slouched in a chair outside a small coffee shop, tiredly blowing on his steaming cup, eager for the caffeine. It had been a long night, and he had a council meeting in two hours, all but guaranteeing a long day ahead.

But the sleepless night had been far from a waste. The entire street practically drowned in a sea of purples, oranges, and blacks, posters firmly attached to practically every vertical space available at street height. Doors, windows, walls and utility poles, all sported the luridly colored posters he had run off in the Ashford Academy print shop the last evening, severely denting the supply of colored ink.

In truth, it had been Lamperouge's second nocturnal trip to the print shop. After Alan had returned from his fact-finding trip, Lamperouge had easily assembled a poster design and run off two hundred copies. He had intended to go out and post them all the following night, but Shirley had successfully monopolized his evening, delaying his schedule.

This had proven to be something of a blessing, because the next day's issue of the Oriental Messenger, the biggest paper in Area 11, had broken the story of the new "Clovisland North" under construction in the Sendai Settlement. The easily overlooked fact that the money for the amusement park's development had been appropriated from the Area's development fund had been too good to pass up, leading to a new hastily thrown together poster design and a second trip to the print shop.

In the end, he had managed to accomplish his task in a single night. Dressed in workman's overalls swiped from a public laundry, Alan Spicer had wheeled a dolly laden with cans of paint-on adhesive, brushes, and the multiple white boxes full of posters down the street from Ashford Academy to the MagLev station. Soon enough, he had pushed his cart through the streets of the small neighborhood that was his target, quietly sleeping on a Thursday night in preparation of the workday soon to come. By five the next morning, as the first early risers started to stagger from their apartment blocks, the posters were up and the cart and overalls buried under multiple sacks of trash in a dumpster.

And now, I can enjoy the fruits of my labor… The man calling himself Alan smiled as he took a sip of his coffee, wincing at the burnt flavor of improperly roasted beans. I wonder how they'll all react to the knowledge that all the money set aside for fixing their roads and plumbing has gone to building another toy for my idiot brother?

As Alan set down his cup, he noticed a small knot of passersby congregating around the shuttered bookstore across the street from the cafe. He smiled to himself, and took another sip. The broad, empty windows had given him plenty of real estate for his posters, and even across the street he could clearly read the bold print of the posters.

"CLOVIS THE CLOWN LAUGHS AS HE ROBS YOU!" The first line splashed across the top of the poster proclaimed, over a jester that was clearly recognizable as the Viceregal Governor. The usual bells on the cap had been replaced with archaic pounds sterling, and more of the large silver coins spilled from the pockets of the jester's motley. Despite the free-flowing currency and the imperious smirk gracing his face, the clown held out a begging hand to the viewer, demanding ever more. The second line, smaller and below the clown but in an uncompromisingly firm stencil font, demanded that "IT'S PAST TIME FOR THE CIRCUS TO GO."

Quite a masterpiece, if I do say so myself! The man who went by Alan congratulated himself. Especially considering how high of an opinion Clovis has of himself. Why, if he saw one of those posters for himself, he might collapse from apoplexy and vastly improve the Area's government!

The internal congratulations felt a bit hollow as the intended audience failed to react as expected. There were one or two laughs, but most of the group just shook their collective head and walked away. Nobody seemed energized, nobody seemed engaged, and the only ones who seemed at all interested were the remaining cluster outside the bookstore, who seemed to be muttering angrily about something.

The man strained to hear what they were saying. This could be it! Perhaps they realize the point! Maybe they're reading the finer print connecting the new amusement park to the funds set aside for infrastructure! Maybe…

"–You think we should wait for the cops to show up, or should we start tearing 'em down already?" Wait, what?!

"There's plenty of the bastard things everywhere. The coppers'll have plenty to choose from. Let's just start getting rid of 'em. The sooner they're gone, the better."

The last speaker immediately put word to deed, hooking his fingers around a loose edge of the nearest poster and ripping it down, only the top right quarter remaining in place as the rest tore cleanly away. You idiots! No! You're wrong! That's not what you're supposed to be doing!

To the man who was both Lamperouge and Alan Spicer, it was all but impossible to hold his peace as the local philistines set to work destroying his hard work. Soon, the air was full of the sounds of tearing paper and jeering laughter, and the gutters were full of shredded and defaced posters. A teen in school uniform soon set to work gathering up the decimated posters and cramming the detritus in a garbage sack. To the man's growing horror and anger, the group's self-appointed task started taking on a bit of a holiday air, as two young men raced to tear down the most posters, to the laughter of bystanders.

I don't understand it! Why the hell aren't they angry with Clovis? Don't they understand how he's just using them for money?! Don't they care? The man raged impotently in the prison of his mind, helpless to do anything but sip from his bitter cup. Idiots! They're all idiots! I'm surrounded by fools!

"Pardon me, young man," Alan jolted back into the present as an old man tapped on his shoulder before gesturing at the other chair at the outdoor table, "but is that seat taken?"

Alan just shook his head, not willing to trust himself to speak at the moment. I can't believe it… Hours of work, all for nothing and vanishing in minutes… Well, at least I didn't opt for the speech… What a disaster.

As he stewed, the pensioner hobbled around the table before gingerly lowering himself down onto the iron seat of the chair with a sigh of relief. "Aaah, that's good… Take my advice, sonny, don't live long enough to get old… You won't be missing a damned thing." Despite having never met any of his grandparents, the old fogey seemed almost stereotypically grandfatherly to Alan, complete with the desperate need to inflict conversation on the youth.

"Thanks for the advice, sir." Alan's tongue felt leden in his mouth, but it didn't seem like the old geezer would be content with silence. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

"You do that, you do that…" The man took a long sip from his own steaming cup, seemingly heedless of the heat. "Ahh, that hits the spot. Say what you will about the Elevens, but they grow some damned fine tea."

"Do they?" Alan replied automatically, still trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong. "I'm more of a coffee man myself."

"Well, hopefully you live long enough to reconsider. Tea takes more time to get right, but it's a more civilized beverage…" The old man took another long sip. "Yer not from around here, are you sonny?"

"No sir." Abruptly, Alan realized what he'd just admitted in his distraction. "I mean, I only moved to this district fairly recently. Still trying to get used to the place, that's all."

"Oh?" The man took another sip, before setting his cup down on the table and closing his eyes. Alan turned back to his own cup, hoping that he'd recovered quickly enough to evade any suspicion. Another sip and I'll claim I need to go to work and leave. No need to look even more suspicious by leaving my coffee behind after flubbing a question.

Suddenly, the retiree's eyes popped open as he leaned in closer to Alan, gnarled fingers tight around the head of his cane. "You won't get any takers for your rabble rousing here, sonny," the man's harsh voice rasped out, quiet enough that only he and Alan could hear but lacking any hint of the earlier softness. "I suggest yeh haul yer mangy carcass out of this neighborhood toot sweet. The cops have been called, and if yer' still here in five minutes I wouldn't be surprised if you end up with a few broken bones resisting arrest."

Suddenly, the grandfatherly mien returned to the pensioner as he took another long sip from his cup, draining the last of the tea. I see that I'm not the only one wearing a mask here. Alan scowled, slamming back the rest of his coffee before getting to his feet. The old bastard was staring straight at him, a smile equal parts benevolent and mocking below eyes cool and unsympathetic.

Dammit! It's hard to tell if this old fool was telling the truth about the police, but if he was…

With a curse, the man who wouldn't be Alan Spicer as soon as he got out of sight from too-observant elder and the rest of the ungrateful cretins on the street jumped down from his table and shouldered his way through the rapidly swelling morning crowd, briskly walking away from what was an undeniable failure. Thankfully, nobody followed him, at least not that he could tell.

As soon as he turned a corner, the man broke into a run, pelting down the road away from potential pursuit, and jinking onto a side road as his limited stamina wore out. Almost immediately, he ducked into an alley and let himself collapse against the cool brick of the wall, completely winded.

Dammit… I really need to put more hours in on the treadmill… Shirley must never know…

The man breathed in, and breathed out as he hastily pulled away the cheap clothes he'd worn under the coveralls the night before. The brimmed cap he'd worn to cover his hair went first, before he pulled the cheap white button-up off, revealing a novelty print shirt, freshly purchased a day earlier from a souvenir shop in Clovisland itself. As the man wadded up the dress shirt, and threw it after the hat into the dumpster, he took another deep breath.

Lelouch slowly exhaled, letting the air flow out of him. The urge to lash out was almost irresistible, but Britannia's rejected son mastered himself. As cathartic as a temper tantrum would be, he needed to keep moving; if the old man had told the truth and the police really had been summoned, Lelouch couldn't afford to stick around.

I can't take care of Nunnally if I'm being held for inciting a riot, after all.

Nunnally…

Shaking his head angrily, the exiled prince left the alley, straightening his shirt and tightening his belt as he walked briskly away from the evidence he had left in the dumpster. He'd made a mistake somewhere… But, all of that could wait. He had to get back to the gated sanctuary of the Ashford grounds. Once he was safely ensconced in the Club House apartment, he could flagellate himself in private.

It was easy to blend into the thickening crowd near the MagLev station, with nobody paying attention to a surly teenager trudging through the gates and out onto the platform. Families enjoying weekend sojourns, couples out for day trips in the Settlement, and Honorary Britannians hawking snacks swirled around him as he slouched down onto an available bench. Dotted throughout the crowd, Eleven janitors pushed brooms, polished railings, and generally did their best to keep their heads down and avoid notice. Probably a wise move on their part.

Within minutes, a train glided out of the station, a near silent symbol of the prosperous tomorrow promised by the continued development of the Area. The state of the art carriages were sparsely populated; the route away from the trendy downtown districts was unpopular at this time of day, and Lelouch had little difficulty finding a seat away from the irritating, ungrateful, masses. Finally, all but alone, he let himself start to think about the morning's events, and where he had gone wrong.

In his short life, Lelouch had only gotten drunk a handful of times, usually at the instigation of Milly Ashford. He liked being in control, both of himself and of those around him, and alcohol made it all but impossible to remain in command of his faculties. Besides, with his thin physique, the hangovers were simply too miserable to justify whatever joys could be offered by the preceding bacchanalia. Now, aboard one of the most prominent symbols of his half-brother's reign, Lelouch felt like he was finally sobering up after a prolonged bender.

Who needs alcohol to get drunk when royal arrogance is available, after all?

His original plan had unquestionably been arrogant. A few hours' worth of eavesdropping had given him just enough of an understanding of the common crowd's problems to get their attention, but he hadn't understood how… complacent they were.

That complacency was itself something of a mystery. Based on the anger he'd overheard, Lelouch had thought the whole neighborhood was teetering on the edge of a riot before he'd even arrived, which was why he'd tried to give a speech to catalyze existing anger. It could be that the denizens of that particular neighborhood were simply comfortable enough to fear losing what they had more than they resented the loss of what could have been. Perhaps he had been overly cynical, and the people truly did believe it when they expressed their faith in Clovis's leadership, lackluster governance and rampant embezzlement be damned.

Either way, it was obvious to disinherited vi Britannia that he had, simply put, jumped the gun. A handful of posters wouldn't stir housewives and skilled workers to public expressions of discontent, much less rioting and rebellion. The poster design had been lacking too, laughable instead of inspiring or terrifying. Worst of all, by just showing up the same morning potential inflammatory posters appeared everywhere, Lelouch had looked incredibly suspicious. In academic terms, he had tried to show up for a test without having so much as opened a textbook in preparation.

No wonder all but a handful ignored the posters. No wonder the few that didn't just laughed. And no wonder that old bastard noticed me. I couldn't have been more obvious if I'd tried. Presumably the only reason he didn't hand me directly over to the police is because he thought I was so obvious that I was an agent provocateur sent by the government to test the neighborhood's loyalty.

With a derisive snort, Lelouch rose to his feet as the MagLev coasted into his station. It was amusing, in a sort of backhanded fashion; after all, Lelouch doubted that any organization led by Clovis la Britannia was competent enough to arrange an actual agent provocateur.

Well, look at the bright side – my idiocy might have reduced the locals' opinion of the Area's spooks and their competency today. What a wonderful achievement. Absolutely worth missing a night of sleep.

A pair of students waved to Lelouch from the platform as he exited the train, and he effortlessly slid back into character as Lelouch Lamperouge. A slight wave, a smirking smile, and a vague greeting were adequate to bring the two freshmen to the point of swooning, and the man who played the role of the Student Council Vice President slipped away and out onto the streets of the upmarket neighborhood surrounding the Academy.

Thankfully, Ashford's campus nearly emptied on the weekends, and the man was untroubled by the handful of students who lived in the on-campus dormitories as he crossed the verdant grounds to the Student Council Clubhouse. The day was fresh and bright, at odds with his mood, and he felt relief as the door to the Clubhouse foyer clicked shut behind him, leaving him alone in the cheerful and tastefully-appointed room. Above his head was the apartment he shared with his beloved little sister and their Eleven maid, but the man opted not to immediately activate the key-card protected elevator and return home.

Nunnally… His precious little sister, his only full-blooded sibling in a sea of half-brothers and half-sisters, was likely sitting at the dining room table in her wheelchair at this time of day, perhaps already finished with her usual light lunch. She would be smiling, the adorable quirk of her lips drawing attention away from her perpetually closed eyes. Nunnally…

Seven years ago, his old life as Lelouch vi Britannia had come to a shattering end over the course of a night and a day.

His mother, Marianne vi Britannia, had breathed her last in a pool of her own blood before Lelouch's horrified eyes. Her last act had been one of heroism, as could only be expected of "Marianne the Flash." She had shielded her younger child with her own body, even as the still-unknown assassins had riddled her with bullets. That sacrifice had preserved Nunnally's life, though not her mobility – a stray bullet had sheared across the small of her back, devastating the last three vertebrae of her lumbar spine and condemning her to the life of a parapeligic. Overwhelmed by horror, Nunnally's eyes – the same imperial purple as his own – had closed forever, blind despite remaining fully functional.

The very next day, a young Prince Lelouch had sought out an audience with his father, demanding before the assembled court in the Imperial Palace at Pendragon justice for his murdered mother and crippled sister. Again with the benefit of hindsight, Lelouch could see that he had been premature in doing so. Just like he had this very morning, Lelouch had jumped the gun; within the day, he and Nunnally had been on a plane bound for Japan, officially going overseas to the semi-hostile nation to "study abroad", a polite fiction to maintain the dignity of the Imperial Family. They had been exiles in truth, as well as de facto hostages; a prince and a princess were valuable pawns, even if the one was disinherited and the other crippled.

And now, seven years later, I'm making the same mistakes again. Lelouch lowered himself to a thickly cushioned bench and let his head tilt back and thump against the wall. I acted without thinking when I demanded that last audience back then, and Nunnally and I both paid for that mistake. And now…

Everything that he had done since coming to Japan had been for Nunnally. That man had been an ocean away, far out of reach, and vengeance had lost its urgency as the situation in Japan deteriorated. Britannia had come and reduced Japan to Area 11 in a month of horror that touched every life on the archipelago. Lelouch had walked through the broken land with Nunnally on his back, inventing fabulous details and describing dream palaces in a bid to distract his beautiful little sister from the heaps of corpses surrounding them, already putrefying in the hot sun of late summer.

In some ways, Lelouch felt like he had never left that death field. Sometimes, on nights when he couldn't sleep, he still felt Nunally's horribly slight weight upon his back. He and Suzaku had given her everything they could find that was edible and most of the water, but she'd already been so light when they had left Kururugi Shrine together… He cringed when he remembered how his first thought had been relief that he wouldn't have to ask for Suzaku's help carrying her. It had been a child's thought, ignorant of the implications. He still thanked the God he didn't believe in for sparing his sister during that horrible weeklong walk.

He had grown accustomed to that weight upon his back, the burden and blessing that was living his life for his sister. He had grown comfortable bearing that responsibility, and had indeed grown too comfortable. Why else would he have gone off on some harebrained plan to raise popular resistance to his brother? Why else would he have grown hungry once more for revenge against that man? If he had been arrested, who would have held Nunnally's hand as she fell asleep this evening? How long would it have taken for the goons of the Directorate of Imperial Security to find this apartment and tear his sister from the small measure of comfort she had found?

But I can't hide behind Milly's skirts forever. Staying hidden at the Academy was never supposed to be a long-term plan. How long until that man finds her here? I have to do something! But what can I do without endangering her…?

Lelouch's brooding was suddenly interrupted by the buzzing of his cell phone. Desperate for a distraction from his circling thoughts, and guiltily eager to find a reason to avoid the apartment for just a bit longer, he immediately opened the device to check for his message.

Eh… Rivalz? What the hell does he want?

[Heya Buddy!] The message began, [hope your weekend's going great and all. Did you get that assignment for World History done yet? Oh, and are you doing anything next Friday?]

Lelouch gritted his teeth in irritation with his alleged friend, pawn, occasional confidante, and sometimes chauffeur. Mask on, Lelouch. Just think of it as a reason to not think about fucking up and almost endangering Nunnally again… Ugh.

[I've had better weekends, honestly. And yes, I finished the Cromwell paper on Tuesday. And yes, you can copy it.] Just before he sent the hasty text back in reply, curiosity compelled the man to add another line. [What's happening on Friday?]

A moment later, his phone buzzed again. [Thanks buddy, knew I could count on ya! Remember that group I've been volunteering with? Well, the lady running it said I should bring a friend next time! She's a hottie too, so it's not a big deal for you, right? Oh, and guess what – you know Kallen, right? The Stadtfeld girl from 3rd Period? She's helping out there too! Just in case you needed another reason to go besides hanging out with your best buddy! LOL]

"Kallen… Stadtfeld…" The dots finally connected for Lelouch.

Wait, wasn't that who Rivalz said had taken him to the city back in December? The girl from the Newspaper Club?! The one who tried to sneak into my apartment?! A chill shot down the once-prince's spine. Involvement in either instance might have been pure happenstance, but taken together? First, she tried snooping around my home, and now she's trying to suborn an associate of mine… Is that her game? 'How long until the DIS's goons come?' What if they were here all along?

[You drive a hard bargain, Rivalz.] The phone was in his hand almost before he knew it. [Sure, I'd love to come and meet this cutie charity worker. And Stadtfeld will be there too? Score. I'll clear my plans for Friday night.]

If she really is up to something, I need to know. There's too many factors at Ashford, so I need to see her when she's alone… Besides, there's no way anybody my brother employs would be happy to serve soup to homeless Honoraries. If she's actually happy doing it, then I might just be paranoid…Lelouch allowed himself a snort of bitter amusement. Either way, I won't let my inattention bring danger to Nunnally. I've been complacent, but not anymore. If this Stadtfeld girl is an agent of my brother's, I need to know.

Springing to his feet full of renewed purpose, Lelouch pounded his passcode into the panel guarding the stairway up to the second level before taking the stairs two at a time, suddenly eager to see his darling sister once again. He had screwed up today, but he'd learnt his lesson. He'd destroy anybody who threatened his sister, but he would take his time in doing so to guarantee that she wasn't endangered by his actions.

Building a new world where Nunnally could live safely would take time and effort. Rome hadn't been built in a day, and Britannia wouldn't be destroyed in a weekend. Lelouch still thought that his original plan to turn Britannian society against itself was a good one, but he couldn't do it as a single isolated man; doing so would all but guarantee Nunnally's arrest. He would need catspaws and ciphers, disposable minions and useful idiots.

He would need a far better mask than "Alan Spicer".

Next time, he'd do a better job preparing for his task. Nunnally would be safe. Nunnally would always be safe. And the only way Nunnally could ever be truly safe would be if that man, their father, was six feet below the earth, along with every single person who would dare raise a finger to her. As Sayoko greeted him with a bow and a murmur of "Welcome home, Master Lelouch," the once and former prince smiled with relief. The plan would work. It had to work. The whole world could burn, but it would be worth it.

It has to be.

APRIL 20, 2016 ATB

VICEROY'S PALACE OF AREA 11, BRITANNIAN CONCESSION, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
2217

The conference room stank. After the meeting of the Viceregal Council and all of the various invited movers and shakers had stretched into the third hour, the cigars had come out, partially explaining the stench. Barely masked by the stench of tobacco, a rich bouquet of anger, panic, and desperation permeated the atmosphere. It was entirely at odds with the overstuffed chairs, mahogany table, and the rococo gilding that crept like fungus over every exposed surface.

Despite the generous size of the room, it felt strangely claustrophobic to the Agent, even from his position by the broad windows, far from the scrum around the hulking conference table. Every department of the Area Administration had sent at least one representative, many of whom had arrived with a horde of flunkies.

Not to be outdone, all military units over regimental size had sent an officer or two as well. The units affiliated with the Purist faction, despite being few in number, had sent enough nobly-born representatives to match the rest of the military contingent man for man. Every major industrial or commercial concern in the Area had someone to speak for them as well.

And that was before the Viceregal Governor's retinue was added to the fray. Aristocrats and artists, bodyguards and courtesans, all had tried to talk their way into the conference room claiming to be key decision makers. Fortunately, most of the parasites had been contained to the hallway outside the conference room itself, but more than enough had insinuated themselves into the council room to confuse the situation still further.

Taken together, the Agent was confident that nothing of consequence would be decided tonight, at least not in regards to the stated topic of discussion for the meeting. While it was plausible that some undertakings benefitted from committee leadership, the man in the unassuming gray suit doubted that counter-guerrilla operations were amongst that very select set. He was fairly convinced that winkling partisans out of the countryside required a measure of consistency in approach as well as clear and informed leadership.

Unfortunately, somebody on the Governor's staff had seen fit to convince the Prince that all hands were required for such a worrying issue, hence the summons to anybody "of the right sort" who felt they had a stake in the matter.

And of course, everybody's scared of guerrillas so everybody came. What a shocking development.

Next to the Agent, one of his comrades from the Directorate shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, probably working the kinks out of some cramping muscle. He could sympathize; they had been standing in their little corner of the conference room for almost five hours now, waiting for their nominal leader to call them forth to present what information and analysis their office had scraped together over the last few days. Making matters worse, Margrave Jeremiah Gottwald and a colonel that the Agent didn't immediately recognize were locked in a shouting match just a few yards away.

"-And I'm telling you that just hitting them harder isn't working!" The nameless colonel snarled, his nose almost touching the Margrave's, "the ones actually responsible for the attacks are long gone by the time our boys show up, and as soon as we leave they come back and keep killing police officers and mining roads! We can kill all the Elevens in the area and they don't give a shit!"

"That's simply a result of your 'boys' utter incompetency," the Margrave sneered down at the slightly shorter man, "If they moved at a pace worth of their oaths of service to His Majesty, perhaps they might arrive soon enough to actually do some damage. Besides, sooner or later the rebels will run out of peasants to hide and feed them, and it's not like there's any shortage of the ungrateful little pissants to replace them." A single elegant eyebrow quirked upwards. "What, are you squeamish about killing a few handfuls of peasants? I took you for a fool, Colonel Beasly, not a rebel sympathizer."

Beasly blanched momentarily, before his face reddened to an alarmingly beefy hue. "How dare you question my loyalty, Gottwald?! If we weren't both on duty, I'd demand a duel this very instant! As it is, I don't give a good goddamn about a bunch of Numbers squatting in rice paddies, but I was ordered to leave enough alive to sow the fields and bring in the harvest! Depopulating the countrysides of three provinces in response to a few thousand rebels would be an absurd waste of resources! Not to mention that the rebels would still be out there, setting fires and blowing up roads!"

"Yes, yes, things will get worse before they get better." Gottwald snorted, waving his hand contemptuously. "A missed harvest is a paltry price to crush a rebellion before it spirals completely out of hand. As long as any Number so much as thinks about raising a hand to his betters, I say Proclamation Nine should be upped to a thousand per head." The margrave smirked slightly. "Perhaps that might get a lesson through their thick skulls."

"And what happens when we run out of peasants, Gottwald?" Beasly ground out, civility barely present as his face darkened still further to puce. "Are you going to set your Purists to work harvesting the rice and rebuilding the Area's economy? Don't make me laugh, your men are barely even soldiers, much less competent workers. If we kill every Eleven in sight, then how exactly do you expect anything to get done? The entire damned place will grind to a halt!"

"I think that Lord Jeremiah might have a point." The Agent resisted the urge to groan as His Highness Clovis la Britannia, 3rd Prince of the Holy Britannian Empire and Viceregal-Governor of Area 11, meandered over from his place by the conference table to join the "conversation" between Colonel Beasly and Margrave Jeremiah, a small army of followers trailing after him. This damned meeting's getting longer by the minute, I can feel it.

He exchanged small commiserating glances with his fellow spooks. The meeting hadn't been a complete waste of time – the loose-lipped potentates had let slip a vast array of gossip as well as plenty of scraps of useful information. As soon as he returned to his office, he'd transcribe all of the mental notes, before finally indulging in a shot or three of the cheap whiskey he'd hidden in a desk drawer.

But until then… Focus on His Royal Pain in the Arse.

"After all," the Prince was saying, "any good gardener knows that weeds must be pulled promptly, lest they overrun the garden. If our good Elevens hear about how much difficulty a handful of farmers with pre-Conquest military surplus are causing us, who knows what might happen in the cities and settlements? Best the thistle were plucked before it spread throughout the rosebed."

So nothing we haven't been doing for the past six years. Excellent.

At a gesture from the Prince, a secretary scuttled over to the conversation with an obsequious "Yes, Your Highness?" "Memo," Clovis snapped, nodding to the Margrave, "let it be known that until the end of the current emergency, and though it pains my merciful heart, the penalties demanded by Proclamation Nine shall be increased tenfold. Make sure that's on the front page of the Oriental tomorrow."

As the clerk scuttled out of the conference room, the Viceroy made his way back towards the conference table, thankfully followed by the two officers, who had resumed glowering at one another as soon as the Prince had turned his back.

There's some real animosity there, far beyond the professional… Something to keep in mind for the future…

Near the head of the mahogany table, the rotund Deputy Minister of Justice was finally moving on from the inevitable brownnosing to something worthwhile. "...investigations revealed that Lord Grizzwald and Lord Kelso had each attempted to bribe members of the judiciary, Lord Kelso on no fewer than four individual occasions! Curiously enough, all in regards to matters related to real property with disputed ownership!"

Ah yes, trying to forcibly purchase the parcels owned by Honorary Britannians via the courts.

"Naturally," the Deputy Minister swelled up indignantly, "all of our honorable judges turned down such crass offers!"

The Agent resisted the temptation to snort in derision. "However, as members of the public happened to overhear these exchanges on at least three occasions and reported them via official channels, we are of course beholden to bring these attempted purveyors of corruption to Your Highness's attention!"

Someone overheard and complained, and now the Deputy Minister is trying to head off an external investigation at the pass. Since all of our judges are corrupt, he must be worried about something else… Very interesting.

"Indeed," the Deputy Minister blathered on, "in light of current mutterings about matters of official corruption, I would like to open formal and public proceedings against both men. I understand that this is a course rarely taken, especially against gentry of such fine breeding, but a display of Your Highness's evenhandedness despite social status could endear you to the common rabble."

One or both of the lords in question must have something on the Deputy himself, and now the worm's seeing a chance to get out from under their thumb. That's definitely worth opening an investigation of our own. The Agent appended that tidbit to his file of mental notes for the night, and imagined himself underlining it for good measure. If we can figure out what hook they've got him wriggling on, we can use it for ourselves.

"Hmm…" While the Agent had focused on the Deputy Minister, the Prince had found a chair to artfully drape himself across. "On one hand, it is a sad necessity for any gardener to distinguish plants that shall flower into beautiful blossoms from drab duds, but…"

A look of acute discomfort flashed across the Prince's face, there for an instant then gone without a trace, leaving the usual easy smile behind. "I am not entirely sure that targeting these two fine gentlemen is in the best interest of the Area. After all, what if they appeal to their family back in Pendragon? Who knows what turbulence they may bring to our beautiful Area 11?"

Coward. The Agent frowned minutely, before smoothing his expression back into calm neutrality. The nobles will never be called to account – not while the Prince is terrified of their families back in the Homeland. Royal or not, crossing the old houses is a risk, especially when the royal in question is as weak as Clovis is. On the other hand… If the Third Prince wasn't a known craven, I doubt the Emperor and the Chancellor would have put him in charge of Area 11, with all of its Sakuradite reserves. They needed a man of sufficient rank who would be too frightened of the Homeland to make a play… and they found Clovis.

"Your Highness, I implore you to reconsider!" The Deputy Minister had begun to visibly perspire despite the air conditioned coolness of the room, but to his credit his voice was still steady. "In light of the… ahem… Current situation, it is of vital importance that the people know of your evenhandedness and your devotion to just and good governance! If the citizens of your fair Area see you dealing with those who attempt to undercut the execution of justice, they will certainly have confidence in your ability to deal with the rebels!"

Despite himself, the Agent was impressed. Bold of the Deputy to push back against the Governor like that! And he actually managed a coherent argument too, well targeted Clovis's vanity. But… He subtly peered at the blonde prince from the corner of his eye, noting the vaguely anxious expression barely hidden by that rose the royal was incessantly sniffing, but I don't think it was quite enough.

Apparently, the Deputy Minister of Justice agreed with the Agent's impression. "Your Highness, the rebels present a potential threat to the Sakuradite extraction operations so integral to both Area 11 and our Holy Empire! Undermining the justice system puts the central pillars of our society at risk, ultimately endangering the Fuji mines!"

The Deputy Minister paused, took in Clovis's clearly unimpressed expression, and went for broke. "Ultimately, Your Highness, you are the prince here, set here by Your Majesty the Emperor to not only reign but rule! Your mercy has already been sorely abused by these dishonorable Numbers! Why must you, our beloved Viceregal-Governor, also endure the abuse and shame of being robbed by these thieves? No matter how blue their blood is, your blood is that of Britannia!"

For the first time in hours, silence – blessed silence – filled the conference room for a few seconds, before a wave of sussurating whispers emerged from the packed ranks of courtiers, bureaucrats, and officers.

Calling out Lords Grizzwold and Kelso as thieves stealing from the Prince himself? He's either definitively won, or his career and probably life are over. The Agent felt the corners of his mouth twitch up ever so slightly. Thieves calling out thieves… What a day.

Steadily, the Prince drew himself upright in his chair before rising to his feet, rose elegantly held between two white-gloved fingers and pointing out across the table towards the huddled knot of clerks and secretaries recording the minutes. "We've heard quite enough! Secretary, by the will of the Third Prince of Britannia, Clovis la Britannia, issue orders for the arrest of Lords Grizzwold and Kelso!"

Just as the secretary had finished scribbling out a note and was handing it to a waiting messenger, the Prince coughed and spoke up, relaxing from his dramatic position to a more natural posture. "Also, send word to my speechwriter. I – We need to get something ready to announce their arrest. Tell him to work the line 'exorcize the foul canker of untrustworthy servants' in there somewhere."

When the Governor was born a prince, the stage missed a great talent.

With obvious relief, the Deputy Minister returned to his chair, slumping down and wiping his brow even as his own clique of hangers-on clustered around him. To the Agent's great relief, the Minister for Internal Affairs was the first to stand and make his way to the place by the head of the table, immediately to the Prince's right. After a few moments of pleasantries, the Minister jerked his head towards the small knot of intelligence men.

Finally, I can give my report!

"Your Highness," The Agent bowed low, calibrating the exact angle of his groveling just as carefully as he calculated the bland tone of his voice. Too dull and he'll go to sleep, too emotional and I'll sound like a thespian.

"I regret to inform you that we have detected rumors regarding far more serious topics than a handful of corrupt nobles circulating through the population."

The Agent carefully rose, and moved to stand directly to the left and a half-pace behind his boss, a carefully choreographed play they'd worked out in advance to underline the importance of his words. After all, that's the best place to stand when knifing a man.

"I am afraid to report that the so-called 'Christmas Incident' remains quite divisive in common society, across all economic classes and throughout the rank-and-file of most units in the Area. While most of your adoring subjects fully support the obvious truth that the Incident was caused by Honorary Britannians murdering Britannian soldiers, and the bulk of the damage was the natural result of drunken and out of control soldiers taking their revenge, a significant portion of the population questions or outright denies that version of events. The picture of the soldier from the 32nd Honorary Legion in particular is stirring up discontent."

Halfway down the table, Margrave Jeremiah let out an audible snort. "And? The commoners are always muttering about something. If it wasn't a few dead Elevens, it would be something else. Besides," the Margrave shrugged dramatically, lip curled up in a sneer, "why does it matter if a few Honorary soldiers died anyway? They shouldn't have been wearing those uniforms to begin with. Their blood could have only helped wash out the stains of dishonor they left on those poor garments!"

A mix of sycophantic laughter and a worrying amount of muttered agreement rumbled through the conference room. The Agent was unmoved. Oh, don't worry, Jeremiah. We all know who Kewell answers to, and I've got four witness statements confirming that Kewell gave the marching orders on Christmas Eve. And I only had to fabricate one of them. Your day will come.

"I would like to remind the Margrave Jeremiah that my job is simply to report the facts as they have been collected by the local office, and to pass them on to His Highness without commentary. Unless…" The Agent turned fully to face the head of the Purist Faction in Area 11, "Do you have doubts about the abilities of the Imperial Directorate of State Security, Lord Jeremiah?"

The teal-headed soldier growled out something that the Agent couldn't catch across the length of the table, but waved his hand in a gesture that could just barely be interpreted as conciliatory. The Agent nodded, before turning back to the Prince. Who didn't make a move during that whole interruption. Who Jeremiah didn't even look at during his interruption. Does the Prince know how weak that makes him look? Would he do anything if he did?

"Beyond mere rumor, the economic disruption caused by the events of last December is now being exacerbated by the current troubles in Niigata and Nagano Prefectures. The damage to both the road network and the rail system by insurgent bombings, as well as the destruction of harvesting machinery, storehouses, and sake distilleries, have collectively slowed the economic growth of the Area." The Agent continued dutifully. "This has impacted many citizens' livelihoods in a negative manner. Together with the ongoing unemployment issues, many Settlements are starting to develop a large population of semi-permanently unemployed young people, who are rapidly becoming disaffected."

"Bah!" The Prince finally reacted, throwing himself back down into his chair and taking a prolonged sniff of the rose's petals. "We already have plans for handling that little issue. We have been advised that Britannian unemployment is caused in large part by the employment of Honorary Britannians. So, we are considering banning all Britannian owned businesses in the Area from employing any Honorary Britannians. That handles the unemployment problem!"

The Agent carefully kept his mask neutral as the Governor smiled, obviously pleased with cutting his very own Gordian Knot. "And to handle the economic discomfort issue, well… My people must know of how I, Clovis la Britannia, love them! My love shall be expressed to every household through a one-time gift of five hundred pounds!"

The rose swished through the air, and the secretary it alighted upon nodded, hastily scribbling on her pad of stationary.

"Hmm…" The Prince was still talking, the rose losing a petal as it twirled between his fingers like a baton. "Money is all well and good, but the people will need time to spend it to truly appreciate my love… A new public holiday will serve them well!"

Again, the increasingly bedraggled rose pinned a clerk to the spot. "Let it be known that May 4th shall henceforth be celebrated in Area 11 as 'vi Britannia Day', in honor of my dear lost siblings." Clovis threw a hand to his brow and mimed an expression of grief, "Oh, how I miss them so! Now we shall all have a day preserved in their sweet memory!"

From his peripheral vision, the Agent noticed how Margrave Gottwald jerked at the mention of the deceased royals. Oh yes, I know about that too, Jeremiah. I'm sure that your fellow Purists know you were a former Imperial Guard, but do they know that you failed to protect the Emperor's favorite wife? I doubt it.

"Brilliant, Your Highness, simply brilliant!" That insightful analysis had come, regrettably, from the Minister for Economic Development. Also known as the 'Fattest Man in Tokyo', Bishop Lazaro Pulst was also the head cleric of the Britannic Church in Area 11 and the Viceregal-Governor's spiritual advisor. And possibly the single greatest beneficiary of the Prince's administration. "Your mercy and charity are truly awe inspiring, my Prince! I am sure that the people will be moved by your grief for your innocent younger brother, taken so cruelly from this world at a tender age!"

The Agent, for his part, was considerably less sanguine.

The whole point of the Honorary Britannian program is to integrate the choice portion of the Number population, economically and culturally! If you take away their jobs and mandate that nobody hire them, that will send a clear message and destroy whatever progress was made in the last six years that the Purists haven't already demolished! The agent fumed internally, even while he maintained his neutral expression. Plus, do you think all of those businesses will like having to pay the legal minimum wage? And just dumping money isn't going to solve the problems presented by the bombed out roads and the torched fields!

Before he could resume his report, Margrave Jeremiah felt it necessary to express his support for Clovis's plan as well. "Good choice, Your Highness! Those jumped up Elevens were taking money out of honest Britannians' hands! I bet they were giving their paychecks right over to their brothers up in the mountains too, so cutting that money off means less bullets and bombs for the damned holdouts!"

Of course, the Purists want the Honorary program cut off entirely, not only in the army. This must be Christmas for Jeremiah. The Agent grimaced internally at his choice of holidays. No, not enough flaming corpses for Christmas.

Thankfully, the Minister for Internal Affairs cut in. "If I may, Your Highness, I believe that my man was not yet finished with his report."

The Governor waved indulgently and the Agent bowed again. "Thank you, Your Highness. Now…"

"It has come to the attention of the IDSS that the divide between the members of the Army affiliated with the Purist Faction and those unaffiliated has deepened precipitously over the last several months. We are concerned that this divide has crossed the threshold from a friendly rivalry into true animosity, and may degrade operational efficiency if left unaddressed. We are also concerned that a divide in our ranks might weaken the coherency of our garrison forces in Area 11, weakening us in the face of potential hostile action from the Chinese Federation."

"The rest of the Army should be apologizing to us!" Lord Kewell Soresi, eldest son of a long and distinguished line, apparently couldn't hold his anger in check any longer. Pathetic. Even Jeremiah's got better self-control than this clown. "Some damned thug of a marine murdered a Purist with a whiskey bottle and Numbers serving in other units knifed three more in the streets! They owe us a damned apology! Perhaps after we get one we'll let them off the hook!"

Almost before Kewell stopped speaking, virtually every non-Purist officer in the room stepped forward to angrily rebut the young noble's outburst, leaping to the defense of the service. Interestingly, the Agent noted that General Bartley Aspirus, the commander of the 4th Brigade, 2nd Division of the Special Weapons Corps and a known personal friend of the Third Prince, held his tongue. Almost alone in the sea of uniforms pressing forwards to the table, the General hung back in his corner, accompanied only by two lab-coated men.

If every other officer here feels the need to express their loyalty to the Army, why doesn't Aspirus feel likewise? Perhaps… he doesn't feel the same loyalty as his fellow staff officers?

After ten minutes of squabbling, the Viceregal-Governor finally put an end to it. "Friends, please, calm down! Fear not, we take no offense at Lord Kewell's outburst – he is young, and full of eagerness to serve, and he after all comes from one of the finest families in Britannia." The collected soldiers slunk back to their chairs with a variety of glowering expressions, leaving the scion of the Soresi family practically beaming with smugness.

To his credit, Jeremiah looked almost as irate as the rest of the soldiers. Ah yes, Gottwald actually served in the regiments before he was elevated to the Imperial Guard. Most of the Purists move straight into glorified parade units once they graduate from their cadet programs.

"And I am sure that we don't need to worry about the Chinese, of all people!" The prince indulged in a long, deep sniff at the rose, before idly tossing it over his shoulder. "After all, we're Britannians, by God! The Chinese are too incompetent to attack across water, the Europeans are too far away, and the Elevens are weak and stupid! Besides," for a brief moment, an element of firmness touched Clovis's admittedly handsome features, "we are all Britannians, and we expect all to pull together in the end, friendly rivals or not. All Hail Britannia!"

Every courtier and staffer shot to their feet with a deep-throated bellow of "ALL HAIL BRITANNIA!"

As the echoes died out, the Agent took the opportunity to finish his report. "And to conclude, Your Highness, there is one last point that has troubled the IDSS. Namely, numerous fringe religious and political movements have begun to make themselves known across the Area. We have found traces of subversive groups in commoner residential projects, numerous barracks, and even in a few neighborhoods housing the petty nobility."

The Prince leaned back in his chair, propping his head on his hand. "Oh? How awful." The words were flat and the Agent, feet away from Clovis, could see that his eyes were dull.

He's gotten bored of this meeting. Wonderful. Well, I'm duty-bound to deliver this report, not to make sure that the Governor cares about it.

"There seem to be a variety of groups operating in Area 11, Your Highness. Pamphlets from the 'True Anglican Church' have been found in the vestries and lobbies of several military chapels. A large number of charitable groups have been established in recent months with names like the 'Friends of the Elevens Society' and the 'Honor Society of Honorary Britannians'. There's even been a handful of lunatics arrested while publicly spouting off about the 'Prince Lelouch Truther' conspiracy theory, mostly because they were calling out for the 'True Prince' to come and overthrow your benevolent reign."

Another storm of whispers filled the conference room as Clovis suddenly jerked in his chair, eyes wide awake and flaring. Similarly, Jeremiah let out what sounded like a grunt of pain, hastily concealed behind a cough. The Agent smiled internally. Ah, he's awake now. Now, was it just the mention of your deceased brother's name that startled you, Your Highness? Or was it the prospect that your brother might not be quite as dead as previously assumed? Hmm…

"Your Highness," the Agent finally concluded, speaking over the rising tide of side conversations and halfway muted exclamations, "Your Lordships, gentlemen, the IDSS does not believe this sudden swelling of social and political organization is as spontaneous as it might seem. While it is possible that one or more operatives of the Wings of Talleyrand may be active in the Tokyo Settlement, we believe it is far more likely that we are seeing the early stages of Leveller activity."

And with that, chaos well and truly filled the conference room. The Minister for Internal Affairs turned and gestured, giving the Agent and his compatriots permission to leave. With a bow towards the Prince, who was already far too distracted in a hushed conversation with General Aspirus of all people to notice, the Agent slowly walked out of the conference room, doing his best to not look too delighted to leave.

The heavy oaken doors thudded close behind the trio, instantly muffling the uproar inside the jammed room. The Agent nodded, and his two juniors set off down the left hall, which would eventually lead to a side door and the freedom of the end of shift. The Agent took the right hall, but took his time descending into the sub-basement that appeared on no publicly available map of the seat of the Area Administration.

The tiny IDSS enclave, and particularly the area set aside for the Counter-Intelligence Unit, was his home away from home, but the Agent was uncharacteristically unenthusiastic to return. He already found himself missing the smoke-filled confines of the garish room behind him. Unpleasant or not, he would have very much appreciated the opportunity to hear the responses of the great and the good to the tail end of his report.

After all, as a high-ranking Leveller himself, who had spent years working his way up the ranks of the IDSS, he understood exactly how valuable having a man on the inside of a conversation full of loose lipped fools could be.