Chapter V
"What are you looking for?"
Lloyd Asplund glanced up absentmindedly before shuffling the mess of research papers and data around on the metallic worktable, shifting through the disarray with a tight frown on his lips.
"Lloyd, what are you looking for?" questioned Cecile. She set down the folder she had been clutching to her chest as if to tell him that she would help him if she would only tell her what he was so busily rooting around for. Pushing his wire-frame glasses up the bridge of his nose, he asked, "Have you seen where my pudding cup is? I set it down because I realized why the Lancelot was short-circuiting, and now I can't find it no matter how much I dig through these papers."
"Your pudding cup? It's in the wastebin."
"The wastebin?" Bewildered, the scientist blinked at his partner. "Why in heaven is my pudding up in the wastebin?"
"Because you finished eating it. I asked you if you were done with it, and you said that you had. There's more pudding in the fridge though. I just restocked it."
"Really? Hmmm… Then I suppose I'll have one more pudding before turning in for the evening…"
Cecile looked after him as he made his way to the kitchen. Her warning to be careful bounced off of his back as he ignored her advice that eating before bed wasn't good for digestion. When he rounded the corner, she sighed. He'd probably wake her up in the middle of the night, knocking on her door while clutching his stomach. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders more tightly, she decided to go off in search of the box of mint tea they kept in some obscure shelf. Where could they have put it? And maybe she should also look for the container of ginger tea instead? Or perhaps it would be better if she combined the both of them and give him a cup of mint-ginger tea when his indigestion kicked in. It wouldn't hurt to try, and it didn't sound like it would taste very ba—
The blue-haired woman started as a loud blaring echoed disturbed the quiet hallways of the underground research headquarters. Her eyes snapped towards the multi-screen monitor. What was causing the disturbance?
"What is that dreadful sound, Cecile?" Lloyd questioned through a mouth full of pudding. He poked his head into the room, full of curiosity; they rarely received visitors, whether they were welcome or not, whether they were expected or unexpected, and to greet people at their doorstep so late in the evening… Who could it be?
"Our northwestern boundaries have been crossed. Someone is coming in at high speeds."
"Friend or foe?" He came up besides her, squinting through his glasses as he swallowed the last spoonful of creamy pudding.
"I believe… I believe it's the Weiss Prinz."
"The Weiss Prinz!" The eccentric scientist grinned with giddiness. "My, my, it's been some time since our last visit from his Highness. Come back to see what new little toys we've invented for him, has he? Let him in, Cecile, let him in at once. We have a prince in our presence!"
. . .
When the sleek sports car pulled up by them, Lloyd took note of two things, the first being the ruined state of the vehicle with its shattered windows and its bullet-riddled shell and the second being the owner of said vehicle who was looking extremely washed-out as he stepped out of the car.
Placing his hands on his hips, he chuckled. "Welcome, welcome. I see you've been up to no good as always, Mr. Lamperouge. I… Who is this?" He heard Cecile gasp lightly as the Mafioso opened the door to reveal that they were with prestigious company. Lloyd smiled. So his suspicions had been correct.
"What an honor, to have the Weiss Königin here. Welcome to Camelot, your Majesty. Would you care for a cup of pudding? I'm afraid it's all we have here at the moment that's edible and won't kill you."
"Lloyd…" Cecile whispered, reproachfully nudging her colleague. His smile merely grew, as he continued on with his oblivious monologue.
"Or would you perhaps like a change of clothes instead? It seems your dress, as beautiful as it is, is soaked with…. Bodily fluids. Cecile, do you mind lending some clothes to our esteemed guest?"
"Oh, not at all. Please follow me, Madame."
The careworn emerald-haired woman was about to follow, when her guardian grabbed her arm. Everyone stared at him but he offered no explanation, his grip only tightening.
"She'll be safe here, Mr. Lamperouge. There's no need for you to be so wary."
He slowly released her but not before earning a look from his charge. When he let her go and the two women disappeared around the corner, Lloyd dropped his charade. Adopting an unwontedly somber expression, he asked, "It's begun, hasn't it?"
"We're going into hiding. I need money, ammunition, disguises. All of which I know you have."
"And that we're willing to supply you with," steadily replied the bespectacled man. "Don't forget, Mr. Lamperouge, that Cecile and I too are a part of the Weiss Ritter."
"… My apologies. It's been a long night. I didn't expect for the Hóng Hè to strike so soon and within our territory. The Weiss Königin is most likely shell-shocked from what happened."
"What happened?"
Lelouch gave him a tight smile in answer, allowing Lloyd to fill in the gaps as he pleased. With an understanding nod, he dropped the subject and gestured for his visitor to follow him from the underground garage to the main facilities. As they made their way through the well-lit tunnel, the more whimsical of the pair ceased his humming to say aloud, "I suppose you don't fancy some pudding at the moment either, eh?"
"Pudding is the last thing I need right now."
"What do you need, Mr. Lamperouge?"
"For the Weiss Königin to be safe and out of reach from the Hóng Hè," he replied humorlessly.
"And I presume that this is also what you desire?"
The raven-haired man made no answer. That kind of information was strictly a need-to-know basis, and Lloyd Asplund didn't need to know. No needed to know, save for him, where his heart lay. No one.
Not even her.
. . .
C.C., her hair damp, stepped out of the bathroom. A cloud of warm steam drifted out after her, brushing by her as she stood in the foreign and unfamiliar bedroom with her arms wrapped around herself. The peach cashmere sweater Ms. Croomy had lent her, with its cowl neck and long sleeves, was comfortable though a bit oversized. But it was warm, and it felt comforting and comfortable, which was all that she really wanted at the moment. Thus, she had no complaints as she left the bathroom, dressed in black stockings, white shorts, and a borrowed pink sweater.
"Oh, Madame Corabelle!" Ms. Croomy entered the room, surprised to see the young mistress out of the shower so early.
"Ms. Croomy. Thank you for lending me your clothes. I'll return them as soon as I can procure another change of clothes."
"Not at all. Are you feeling alright though? Or better at least? I made a cup of tea, if you'd like to drink it."
"Yes, I…"
The song playing quietly on the speakers changed, and with the change, C.C. froze. What… How…?
Ms. Croomy seemed to have noticed her confusion and shock, for she heard her self-consciously explain, "Oh, I hope… I hope you don't mind the music. I thought it would help, even if it's for a little."
"How did you… How did you know to play this…. This particular piece?"
"In all honesty, Mr. Lamperouge is the one who should be credited with the suggestion. He told me that you liked this particular piece… Was he wrong? Shall I put on a different composition?"
She merely stood rooted to her spot, completely mute, as she listened to the lilting notes. As she listened, she was taken back to a time years ago, when she had been younger and more afraid than she was now. She remembered how he had always played this piece for her, how his slender fingers drifted up and down the row of black and white keys, how his soft violet eyes would occasionally glance up at her, eyes so full of love it had been overwhelming, how he would sit her down besides him and teach her to play. How he would always play this piece for her whenever she was frightened, just as she was frightened now.
Her eyes stung with tears at the flood of memories and she dug her nails into her palm. She refused to cry. Not here, not now, not in front of Cecile Croomy, no matter how kind of a woman she was. Maybe later, when she was alone and could have a moment of privacy… But not now… Never now…
"Ms. Croomy, do you happen to know where Mr. Lamperouge is right now?"
"I believe he's in Sector 6 with Lloyd. Would you like to go to him?"
The emerald-haired woman nodded wordlessly and they made their way through the corridors of the secret base. With each step, C.C. tried her best to keep a blank expression, a passive face, but each delicate piano note seemed to attack her, pummeling her in a vicious and savage blitz. She bit her lower lip; Ms. Croomy would notice how her ward was lagging behind soon if she didn't focus, and the raven-haired man would most definitely become aware of her reaction to the music. She didn't know whether to curse him or to thank him, for she wasn't sure what he had intended with the music. In fact, whether this selection was intentional or not on his part, she didn't know, but she claimed to not particularly care; she had better things to do after all, far more important tasks to tend to, such as making sure she had her mask tied on securely by the time she faced him again.
Yes, far batter, far more important things than worrying over the schemes and ambitions of a man whom she had long since bid farewell to.
. . .
They were surprised when they entered the room. Not by the duffle bags that, in all likelihood, carried several types of arms and a large quantity of ammunition, or cold, hard, untraceable cash. Those were to be expected. What surprised them was Lloyd Asplund's face.
By nature, the scientist had an easy-going, light-hearted disposition, one prone to teasing people regardless of whether it was appropriate or not as Cecile could testify. But when they walked in, there was no sign of the silly little grin that was customarily found on his face; instead, he wore a rather troubled frown with his brows creased together over his spectacles. Though he wasn't the only one; Lelouch Lamperouge was none the better. He himself was scowling, his lips having been tightened into a thin line of anger and impatience as he slipped his dress shirt back onto his shoulders and buttoned it back up.
Apprehension knotted itself in the pit of C.C.'s stomach. What had happened?
She clearly wasn't the only one with the question on her mind as Ms. Croomy knocked on the doorway before asking, "What's wrong, Lloyd?"
There were three slow seconds of terse silence before a wise smile broke through the strained atmosphere. He waved a hand at her as if to express how featherbrained and unnecessary her concern was while cheerfully saying, "Nothing is wrong, darling, so don't frown like that. You're putting off my appetite for pudding."
"Please don't call me 'darling,' Lloyd. It's very unprofessional."
"I would hardly call our relationship professional, dear," he teased. "But anyhow… Cecile, would you please make sure that Madame Corabelle's face, as beautiful as she is, along with any telltale characteristics that could give away her identity, are concealed by means of a disguise?"
He was trying to get rid of them. Something was going on, something involving Lelouch, and the two conspirators were trying to get rid of them so they could continue whispering and plotting behind closed doors. The raven-haired man wouldn't even look at her, making sure to take as much time as possible in buttoning his shirt. It was a flimsy excuse, even for him, and it made her wonder: was the secret that terrible?
Ms. Croomy gestured to another hallway that probably led to the some depot holding camouflage paraphernalia somewhere in the base, and the emerald-haired woman obediently followed but not before she glanced over her shoulder one last time at him.
Their eyes met briefly through the reflection of a small mirror. She stopped in her tracks, completely startled by what she saw. For in those two seconds when he finally looked at her… In those two seconds when their eyes met, she saw something unexpected, something surprising.
In those two seconds, she saw fear.
Fear of whom? Or rather, of what? What did Lelouch Lamperouge, the capobastone of the Weiss Ritter, have to fear? Years ago, she might have been able to answer that question. But not anymore, not with everything that had happened since then. So, she wondered. As she walked away, the heels of her black high heel boots clicking down the hall after the blue-haired researcher, C.C. wondered. She wondered, ruminated, pondered, speculated, and puzzled over what could possibly be the cause of such unbarred, naked fear in the eyes of what should have been a powerful and intrepid man.
. . .
The moment the door hissed shut behind the women, Lloyd asked, "Would you like the good news or the bad news first?"
"There is no such thing as good or bad news; it's simply perspective," intoned the raven-haired man.
"Good news it is then." His patient (if that's what one could call him; he wasn't a legitimate doctor after all) narrowed his eyes suspiciously. The bespectacled man didn't blame him; he was completely aware of how unlike himself he was acting, absolutely nothing like his usually carefree demeanor. Perhaps he should finally pick up that book Cecile had left on his desk on social cues. Or not. There was a high chance that the book was useless; most do-it-yourself books were. He would know from past experience.
"The good news is that you're not going to die thanks to the dirty little trick the Hóng Hè pulled out of their sleeve. Well, not immediately, that is."
"And the other piece of news?"
Lloyd didn't hesitate in dropping the bomb.
"There's no cure."
"I see."
He was surprisingly calm for someone who had just been handed a death sentence. Lloyd admitted that he was somewhat impressed; here was a man unfazed even by death, a man who was calm and composed at all times, a man who was shaken by nothing. A man who had nothing to lose. Who saved nothing for the swim back. A type of man difficult to find, especially in recent times. Admirable.
"Do you know the symptoms? The behavior of the poison?"
As Mr. Lamperouge put on his grey blazer, he shifted his glasses up with a solitary finger. "Symptoms: dizziness, vomiting, high fevers are probable, loss of appetite, difficulty swallowing, and a possibility of losing consciousness at times. This particular type of poison is known to have undulating symptoms. It spreads, slowly, through your body, destroying your internal organs as it goes."
"… Estimation of remaining time."
Was that a slight tremor in his voice? "There is a 99.99% fatality rate. I would say that you have an approximate four to six months. You were fortunate, Mr. Lamperouge, in that the Hóng Hè agent couldn't give you the full dosage intended for you, or else you would have died right then and there."
"And what of an antidote? Can one not be developed?"
"Many have tried. All have failed."
"And you, Lloyd Asplund? Will you be one of those who've failed?"
"I will try my best, but you must understand that I can't promise you a cure. Cecile and I will do everything in our power and knowledge to synthesize an antidote. In the meanwhile, we can give you some medication that ought to help slow down the rate of the poison's spread. It should give you an extra month, maybe less, perhaps a little more if we're lucky."
As he set about measuring out brightly colored pills and assorting them in various bottles, he heard the Mafioso question, "Will my motor skills be affected in any way?"
"Barring the symptoms, no. And neither should the medication. Now, I have a question for you which I hope you will answer."
"What is it?"
"Will you be informing the Weiss Königin about this… Turn of events?"
"… No."
"No? Are you sure that's a wise decision?" Lloyd peered at him over the rim of his glasses before returning his attention to the capsules spread out before him on the cool metal counter.
"If I were you, Mr. Lamperouge," he said in a light voice, "I would be extremely careful in the presence of her Majesty. We wouldn't want any more of the Weiss Ritter's blood spilled than is necessary. Don't you agree?"
There was no reply. Not that he had expected one; the raven-haired man had had a long day and an even longer night, having been in the company of his ex-fiancé for the entire day before promptly having his life threatened, coupled with a death sentence. He probably wanted some time to himself, to meditate, think, whatever it was that those brutish Mafiosos did when faced with an inescapable grave. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the brooding violet eyes, the dull gaze of a man who was worn and weary; Lloyd corrected his earlier observations. Here was man who was unfazed even by death but no less felt the gravity of the sentence.
"Ah, here we are. Now, you're going to have to take quite a few capsules, but I'm sure a man of your determination and strength won't mind this?" Not waiting for a reply, Lloyd continued on. "Three of the blue pills aftereach meal, one white after you wake up in the morning, and one red right before you tuck yourself in for a good night's sleep. Which you could use, seeing how haggard you look right now."
"An extra month did you say?" he questioned warily.
"Granting you a grand total of four to eight months which will be more than enough time for the Hóng Hè to surrender. After all, the enemies of the Weiss Ritter never stand for long. Crippled, perhaps. But never standing."
"No… No, it's different this time. Coalitions are being formed; we're being enclosed. The noose is tightening around our necks with each alliance, and according to the reports, dozens and dozens of small gangs are grouping together. This may be the war where we will be the ones raising the white flag."
"Humans and their wars," the researcher tsked. "So volatile and unpredictable, with their emotions and whims. All the more reason why machines are more reliable, do you not agree, Mr. Lamperouge? After all, they can't lie to you or betray you as man can."
There was no answer. But as they walked through the corridor that would lead them back to Camelot's garage, Lelouch couldn't help but think: But you can't love a machine. You can't caress a machine in bed as you drink in the way the moonlight glints off of the machine's hair, can't kiss a machine, can't love it as you can love a human. Machines can't evoke such passion, such longing, from you… But man can, even with their mercurial behavior and betrayals… And even you can't deny that much, Lloyd.
No one could.
. . .
C.C. ran a hand through her hair; no trace of its trademark green could be found, for every single emerald strand had been inked into a dark, dark midnight black. Cerulean irises blinked back at her from the mirror, her gold having been secreted away for her safety. For her safety.
Was this really necessary? To have to wear a wig, to wear contact lenses, to hide her face beneath a mask?
Don't be ridiculous; of course it was. How many people had hair like hers? Who else had eyes the color of hers? She stuck out like a wolf in sheep's clothing, though, she thought grimly, she supposed she was the sheep in this case, and everyone else was a wolf.
She spotted him in the rearview mirror. When they had met again, him with his duffle bags and her with her new appearance, she had looked at him, scrutinized him, searching for some hint, some remnant of the fear she had seen in his eyes earlier. There was none to be found, not even the tiniest shadow of agitation. It was as if it had never even existed, had never happened, as if it had been her imagination. But she refused to believe that it had been some illusion induced by her fatigue, some trick of the light. She had seen it in him, and though it had just been for a fleeting moment, she had seen it as clearly as the full moon shining outside.
What had happened in that room with Lloyd?
She would ask him on the way to wherever it was that they were running away to, she decided. She wanted answers, and she was determined to get them; she had a right to know. His life wasn't the only one at stake here. C.C. watched him with a careful eye, trying to gauge his mood when she heard, "My, my, what's this? Madame, it appears your cellular device has slipped out of your pocket…"
Her cell-phone? No, it wasn't. It was safely tucked away in her pocket; she could feel the stiff body pressing against her leg, it—
With a smile, Lloyd handed her a small, oblong case through the open car window. Confused, she frowned; what was this? As if he could read her mind, he leaned in closer so that no one save for her would be able to hear, and murmured, "Should an unexpected emergency occur… Inject the needle into his outer thigh and help will immediately be sent to you."
"Emergency?"
"Ah, and a word of precaution; it may not be the best thing to mention this to our Weiss Prinz as he's somewhat… Petulant about this subject."
"Mr. Asplund, what—"
"I wish you the best of luck, Madame," he said in a louder voice. With a smile, he leaned back comfortably in his usual stance, with his hands in the pockets of his ankle-length lab coat. Ms. Croomy came to join him by his side as Lelouch climbed into the car they had switched out for. "Do visit again, Mr. Lamperouge. It was marvelous having guests over, even if it was only for an hour or two. We might also have the answer to the riddles that plague you, should you make the effort to come to us."
"I'll keep that in mind," he replied. "Ms. Croomy. Lloyd."
"Mr. Lamperouge. Madame."
The engine started with a quiet roar. As they pulled out of the lot, C.C. saw the bespectacled researcher making a gesture as if injecting a needle within someone, reminding her of the case and his vague warning. Should an unexpected emergency occur? She cast her companion a sidelong glance. Just what secret was he keeping from her?
"Lelou—"
"Has the Madame decided on a new identity yet?"
"A new identity?"
"The changes in physical appearance can't be the only defense mechanism you rely on. You'll need an entirely new persona so as to reduce the possibility of being recognized."
"I'm to reinvent myself within the next…"
"Three hours, yes."
C.C. would have laughed if it hadn't been for how dead serious Lelouch had been when he had confirmed her suspicions. Settling into her seat, she resigned herself to the task set before her.
"What do you suggest, Mr. Lamperouge, for my new name?"
There was a break in the stilted conversation. He had been thrown off-guard, had never counted on her looking to him for help. Familiar silence passed through them before he replied in a strained voice, "… What of taking your mother's maiden name? You always admired her maiden name, did you not?"
She choked back a gasp as she stared at him, completely shocked. He had… Had he just…
"As for the first name… There are a myriad that you could select from. I suggest borrowing the name of someone familiar to you, or significant, as it'll be easier for you to remem—"
"Marianne."
He tensed, the knuckles of his hand turning white around the steering wheel, as she repeated in a steady voice, "I choose Marianne."
"… And the surname?"
"Kingsley."
"Marianne Kingsley," he breathed. "Are you sure about this?"
"Quite." It was a petty move, using his mother's name. But it angered her that he would open up the past like that, especially when they had agreed not to, and so, though it was spiteful, she decided on Marianne.
"And what of your history, your background? Along with…"
"Along with our relationship," she finished. She turned towards the window. "This is what my story will be; I was born and raised in Pendragon and was admitted to Pendragon University where I earned a degree in the culinary arts. There, I met you, the man who would later become my husband. As for why we're traveling, we're on a spontaneous trip in an attempt to re-spark the romance in our broken marriage. You don't have any issues with this biography, do you, Mr. Lamperouge? After all, it's only fictitious."
"… We'll have to add in more detail later, but I believe it should suffice for now."
"Good."
There was a note of finality in her voice, effectively killing any and all potential conversation between them. Not that she particularly felt like talking at the moment; she had gone through so much and she felt so disoriented… And her new identity wasn't making the organization of her thoughts any easier.
As she watched the never-ending darkness whip by, C.C. decided that she would ask him why he and Lloyd had been so grave at Camelot tomorrow. They both needed sleep, some rest to clear their minds. Him probably more so than her as he had to care for her on top of himself. So she let him go for the time being. There would always be tomorrow after all, and they both knew that they would have more than enough time to discuss what had happened back there with the music and the frowns.
There would always be tomorrow.