Excalibur: The Witch in the Lake

by Aminta.defender

Lelouch bent his knee to his father to protect those he loved, but expectations continue to rise. Meanwhile, his sister, Nunnally flirts with radicalism and their secrets begin to unravel. Unknown to them, their parents' sins threaten to throw awry well laid plans. Book 2 of Excalibur

47. Epilogue

As the prayer call sounded, the loud protests floating through the barred windows of the French embassy quieted, and Manon stretched her arms before resuming the asylum argument she was desperately trying to articulate for a family of five. Somehow, she had to turn a widowed mother with one suckling babe and three more children into lawful and productive members of society that the EU would be a fool to reject.

And for every minute she wasted on this family, there were hundred more ideal candidates in the stack of thousand applications that would be denied their opportunity.

She toyed with her necklace in frustration, the feeling of her own impotence overpowering. Her father had assured her she was doing good work regardless, and that her late grandfather would be proud of her efforts.

Her eyes drifted to the window and at the jailed but deceptively calm sky. In a different time, such a day would have called for hopeful office chit-chat throughout the embassy regarding an early end to their shift; none could spare such thoughts under the weight of the ever-tightening Britannian noose around the port of Djibouti.

Nowadays, it merely heralded the rancorous smell of sweat climbing the embassy stairs and an oppressively humid afternoon as the air-conditioning very helpfully sputtered along.

The church bells rang, ending her shift under the threat of the Ambassador's tongue lashing. She logged out of her computer, shredded the more sensitive files—the remains of which would be incinerated in the evening to spare a poor spy from wasting his time—and took the back stairs to avoid the eternal crowd on their doorstep that was supposed to be a queue. The guards tried to keep them clear from the back door, to some success at least.

Today was lucky. She escaped unmolested.

The weather was nice, even if oppressively hot. Two years ago, such an afternoon would have prompted a solitary picnic in the Parc de la Légion d'Honneur, a brief walk from the Canal de Saint-Denis. The food stalls were always eager for her business, and she was rather fond of the falafel although occasionally the Japanese couple with their bright-eyed elementary schooler would entreat her with some ramen. Afterwards, she would find a spot to relax with her lecture notes and, if the local musician trying his hand at fame didn't interest her, put on a podcast.

Then the larger lecture would end and the park would turn into a sea of eager fools.

Today had fools a plenty, but not the accompanying laughter. Or concussion-inducing frisbees. The pickpockets were consistent, no matter which city one was in.

Sometimes, she begrudged the insolent and impetuous masses. Djibouti had once been a French port. Of course the people who had bit the hand that fed them were helpless lambs when the wolves came prowling. Now, they clamored for their lost favors as if the past ought to be forgotten.

In the past year, the population of the city had quadrupled as they sought protection under nominal MEF rule backed by French troops. Some angled to escape across the sea, much like her grandfather had done in his youth.

Most begged the embassy.

With each passing day, her fingers grew more tense as she typed up forms because she too knew it was inevitable that the Britannians would return to reap the spoils of their victory.

The fools were the ones who came here to make a new life. The MEF lease on Djibouti was only a temporary affair.

Who had ever heard of a Britannian sharing?

Naturally, this dour occasion had to be rung in with joyous wedding bells in a city of widows and fatherless daughters. Matchmakers lined the streets and brides were rushed through in hasty ceremonies. The fools, the romantics, and the utterly destitute remained single.

Across the crowded street, a familiar police officer conversed with a gaggle of ladies. Nimra turned and beamed upon noticing her. Disentangling herself from the group, she made her way over. Her hair was dutifully covered as per her customs and a baton swung from her hip next to a taser and a dusty radio. The rest of her equipment—the vest, rifle, and transmitter—were all provided for by the French military discount bin.

"The shadows under your eyes grow worse by day, yet your smile never falters," Nimra greeted in Somali. Her words were soft spoken as always yet betrayed a will of steel. Alcohol rapidly turned that steel into knives. "I take it is as unruly inside the embassy as outside."

Manon chuckled weakly. "It has been an endless shit storm." She paused, unsure how to explain what kept her going while her coworkers transformed from idealistic youth to depressed shells whose only hope lay in their departure. "Fill out the paperwork, please. I can at least expedite it and argue on your behalf."

Before she even finished speaking, Nimra was already shaking her head. "How can I call it my home if I abandon it so easily? Besides, the city is still free and someone has to help maintain order with thousands flooding in. The worst has yet to come, and I will not turn away from my trials." She sniffed. "You're the one that needs to leave. You're as conspicuous as a cheetah prowling the market."

"They'll kill you if you don't bend the knee."

"Better than being tortured to death for precious embassy secrets. I could hook you up with a guy. It's a tiny pill in the tooth. You'll be dead in under thirty seconds."

A shudder ran down her spine and her eyes traveled to the gulf with its countless ships. "I'll think—What is that?"

A whining roar shook itself free from the general background nose, adding to the growing unease. It grew progressively louder, far more deafening and persistent than any passing plane as people froze and looked at another in confusion and concern. And then they could feel the violent tremor in their bones and someone screamed. A terrible rumble shook the air and their bones. Terrified screams erupted in the streets. Nimra clutched her arm, pulling her against the cold stone walls as the rumble grew even louder, like a whale's mournful cry.

Windows shattered, car alarms wailed, and momentarily after, church bells joined the dreadful cacophony.

The bone chilling whine ceased, and above a Britannian fighter plane banked to the left. The moment of respite was not to last; the world blinked dimmed and a cumbersome Britannian bomber passed over.

Nimra was yelling in her ear, and Manon shoved past her, out into the open streets, fighting her way through the mob coalescing in panic.

"What the fuck are you thinking?" Nimra screamed, abruptly pulling her back as a bus bullied its way past and ten steps away, the aimless mob turned into a stampede.

"I need to see," Manon shouted. "I need to see the sea. I need—"

Nimra snarled and pushed her way into the neighboring house. An old woman clutched her chest, and old bags lay scattered around the room with assorted jewelry. Manon had scarcely the chance to whisper an apology before she was dragged up the stairs and finally granted a view of the gulf.

A black smudge rested off the distant shore. As hundreds of trading ships began to slowly turn, there could be no doubt that a contingent of the Britannian fleet was arriving.

Manon's fingers gouged into the windowsill, wishing she could wake from this far too plausible nightmare. "That poisoned tooth would sure be handy now."

Nimra grabbed her arm. "You need to get out."

"I can't—I have work. I need to get to the embassy."

"Don't be an idiot! That'll be their first target!"

"I—" Manon swallowed, the perilous panic receding. "There've been no explosions. We— It's fine. We still operate the port legally. Britannia won't break their treaty so flagrantly. It's a show of force... It's a show of force."

Nimra growled and pushed her back. "Britannia doesn't bluff. You—If worse comes to worse, I can pay a smuggler to carry me across the sea. If you try that, the MEF will gladly offer you up to the Britannians as a gift."

"I have a duty—"

"You're a civilian contractor! An interpreter! You don't have an obligation to walk into the firing line."

"That's why I have to stay. Do you know how terrible a panicked refugee's French is? I knew this could happen when I decided to be an interpreter. That's why my mother forbade me from majoring in a foreign language."

"Yet you picked linguistics and learned Somali anyway." Nimra closed her eyes in irritation before sighing and pulling out her phone. Her frown grew. "You're right. The Britannians are landing in Obock. Come on, you can put your skills to use in helping me calm the crowd. People always listen to a snotty French accent."

"Snotty?" Manon protested as they headed downstairs and apologized to the old woman whose house they invaded. "I was born in Austria!"

"You went to the Université Paris Huit, did you not?"

She scowled. "Parisians are so obnoxious. I do not speak like them."

She received a disbelieving snort for her efforts. Stepping outside onto the busy streets, Manon switched to French and barked authoritative orders. Nimra in her official uniform gave her words legal weight and soon enough, the panic abated enough for them to be swamped with relentless questions and demands.

"Return to your homes," Nimra bid the frantic citizens again and again. "You will be updated over the emergency broadcast channel. No, the Britannians are not invading. No, I do not know more at this time. Please—"

"Yes, I have their fucking general's phone number right here," Manon snapped. At their hopeful expression, she rolled her eyes. This was why she was best left to repeating others' words instead of her own. "Of course not! Go home and turn on the radio!"

Finally, as military trucks took to the streets, a begrudging order was restored and people began to slowly make their way through broken glass to return home. The once bustling streets were now quiet as Nimra led the way towards the embassy.

"Nimra, is that you?" a stout old police officer asked as he stopped his vehicle next to them. His face was weathered and wrinkled, either from age, labor, or despair.

"Sir," she acknowledged. "What is the situation, Iglan? I have been helping citizens return home to keep the peace, but they're restless."

He grimaced. "The Brit prince wants a good old tour of his domain."

"Of course he does," Manon grumbled.

His eyes narrowed at her. "Aren't you heading away from the ports? I'd think a Frenchie would be quick to flee as always when things become difficult. Or are you off duty?"

Nimra's smile was a tad too nervous. "She's a civilian contractor at the embassy working as an interpreter and has been helping me brush up on my French during our lunch breaks."

"Speak English?" he asked abruptly.

"I studied it in my university." Mostly to keep her mother off her back who wanted to ensure her daughter had employable skills if the worst would ever come to pass. Because of course her job would be the most pressing concern on her mind instead of the literal invasion.

Maybe she should've looked into learning how to shoot a gun instead of English.

His eyes lighted up before he abruptly shook his head. "Would be damn useful, but I cannot ask—"

"I'll come," Manon offered. This was her job, not cowering in the embassy with headless chickens.

"No!" Nimra protested. "If you don't return to the embassy—"

"They'll hardly miss a civilian contractor in this chaos," Iglan said. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. "I'm not going to lie. I would love for her to come along. My French is shit enough without even trying to understand English. But— If anyone else could've done the task, I wouldn't be here. Got my own family to look out for."

Manon stared inside the truck; he was alone. "No one else wanted to come along?"

His expression turned pained. "Half of them are probably swimming across the gulf right now. Not everyone has her family's guts to keep shooting after your family has been massacred. Everyone has lost someone to Cornelia's forces. They're tired and scared."

Nimra groaned. "Fine. But I'm coming along—"

"Absolutely not. Your grandmother terrifies me—"

"It's hardly that bad. If we die, then we're all dead and you have nothing to worry about. Besides, she's mellowed out."

He scoffed. "That's what you think. But when you joined, she dragged her rifle into town and decided to have a long conversation about the good old days."

Confused, Manon turned to Nimra, who was blushing furiously, and pointedly looked away. They had only known each other for a year, not long enough for all secrets to be laid bare.

"And that's why I'll come. We have to look out for another," Nimra said and yanked open the door. "I've lost too many friends already to stay behind."

"I'm tired," Iglan whispered as he drove forward. "It feels so hopeless. The refugees keep coming, and the Brits chase after them every step of the way. It doesn't matter how many they lose."

"It's Britannian psychological warfare," Manon answered as she stared out at the gulf and the two destroyers accompanying a passing cruiser. It was a small force, but it had thrown everything into disarray. "Even when Britannians know they could secure a clean victory, they make a show out of it. Throwing lives away is something they can do to make a point. General Cornelia always took on massive casualties, but she would win. The longer the resistance, the more brutal the resulting pillage."

"I know. My brother was on the front... and my sons." Iglan took the next turn too sharply, throwing them to the right side of the truck. "The Brits didn't even bother taking care of the dead. Disease doing the work for them is probably the point."

"And now their new guy deliberately scares the city into a panic," Nimra said. Her eyes resembled the black pits of Tartarus in their anger. "I guess we can soon see how creative he is in public executions."

A pious ruler would crush them beneath a plank and dine on their pleas for mercy. Or maybe he had more literal tastes and would slowly boil his victims. A more adventurous fellow would take the wheel and run them over again and again starting at one's toes.

Britannia would find something to extoll the height of their culture. Death was ever so entertaining.

Manon shook away such incredibly helpful and calming thoughts and instead chose to observe the city and its drab little buildings.

If the people hadn't insisted on their independence, accused the EU of ballot stuffing and unsavory tactics, then perhaps they could have defended themselves adequately. But as a loosely allied former colony, there wasn't much the EU could do when Britannia waltzed in. To fight here would only salt the land and ensure the people would have no home to return to.

Or that was her country's official stance. She had her doubts, but if there was another reason, it eluded her.

They stopped by the seaside, and Manon crossed her arms as the wind picked up. A small little ship had docked on the side. The Britannian officials were already on the pier, the light dancing off their crisp military uniforms and the golden threads. From a distance, nothing distinguished them from one another, suggesting a worrisome amount of common sense that tended to be absent from their upper brass.

The Britannian's monstrosity of fashion deserved to get sniped.

Opposite of them stood a contingent of EU troops and she recognized her ambassador's loud angry voice rising from below the sight line. Her country's soldiers looked nervous, ready to raise their weapons should the signal come. If they opened fire, it would undoubtedly lead to a full-out war. Perhaps, that would be for the best in stopping the Britannian encroachment.

Iglan huffed, his hand white around the steering wheel. His movements slow and deliberate, he removed the keys and dropped them into his pocket. He did not open the door, opting to stare out blankly at the sea.

"Do you know who it is?" Manon asked. Rumors had been swirling for the last half year as they hung in limbo. That situation had clearly changed recently.

"No." He looked at her in annoyance. "I am sure the EU knows, but they ain't telling a foreign constable like me."

Of course with most former officials having fled across the border when their president agreed to surrender, there was no one else to really step up.

"It has to be me. Can't be the young ones." He opened the door and repeated to himself, "It has to be me."

Manon climbed out the back of the car and wrapped her arms around herself. Her friend, Nimra, rested a hand on her shoulder.

"You two should stay here," Iglan suggested.

"I'm not letting you go alone," Nimra argued. "If some fucking Brit wants to destroy our home I at least want to stare him in the eyes—"

"It's not like ignorance will make us any safer," Manon added. And this was her job. Bridge the language gap and wrest some power away from idiotic upstarts and give it to those who needed it.

That was why Nimra had been so eager to brush up on her French and even some English.

He scowled, his gaze wandering down, and he stomped back to his truck. "Wear this," he ordered, throwing her a shawl. "And both of you keep your head down. No lip. No sass. The last thing you want is a Brit's personal attention."

Her jaw stiff, Manon nodded and wrapped the shawl around her brunette hair. If the Brit was the sadist sort, none of this would matter at all.

The Brit soldiers nodded as they approached and Iglan raised his arms as they relieved him of his baton and patted him down for any other weapons. They found only a worn down pocket knife whose color had bleached to a dull orange. Next it was her and Nimra's turn, and to her relief, it was strictly professional.

If only she could expect such courtesy from her countrymen.

Manon recognized the ambassador first, his fists clenched at his side as he argued vehemently in heavily accented English. But the Britannian standing slightly off to the side next to a woman with bloody red hair?

That was the face brandished by various papers. He was the lecherous demon who had seduced or corrupted one of their own. In more bawdy comic strips, he had begun to be characterized as the Devil's young protégé. A kiss from either would ensnare your mind.

Personally, Manon found it rather uninspired to blame a defection on a woman's lustful weakness. That was a tale as old as time.

Leila Malcal came from a Britannian family, a noble family. Some people simply would sacrifice everything that the EU had to offer to be the boot on someone's neck.

"Kneel," one of the soldiers demanded as the prince's attention focused on them.

As poor as Iglan's grasp on English was, he understood immediately and fell to the ground. Nimra immediately followed. Neither of their forms were correct: their legs folded beneath them as if on a prayer mat.

The soldier's gaze fixed upon her and any hope she had of blending into the background died. She could not kneel, not as an EU citizen.

She inclined her head slightly, wrestled down any unwarranted comment and, in carefully measured English, said, "We welcome you to Djibouti... Prince Lelouch."

Her gaze slipped from his chiseled face—a statue would've been more pleasing—and to the war ships in the gulf. Such a welcome indeed.

"I will not condone foreign spies on Britannian soil," he warned.

Her tongue froze as images of brutalized bodies flashed across her eyes. No one would bargain for her safe passage home; she was just a civilian contractor and thus utterly expendable. But her corpse would serve Britannian propaganda regardless.

Had she sounded too sarcastic?

"There are no spies," the ambassador interrupted. "We have a right to be here—"

"For security efforts; not to wander about. If she is on duty, she should be in uniform. If not, she should be in the barracks we so graciously provided. Although given how ineffective your forces appear to be at keeping the peace, such wanton disregard for appropriate discipline is perhaps to be expected."

"When people do not skim bombers over people's rooftops, you'll find the city is quite peaceful."

He shrugged exaggeratedly. "Maybe my men should detain her and conduct a proper investigation to verify your claims before we return her to you."

"Your Highness!" Nimra interrupted, her English awkward and stilted. "Please! She is friend. I ask her here. Your Highness."

Air rushed back into her lungs, and she seized his momentary distraction to defend herself. "Prince Lelouch, I work as part of the embassy's civilian personnel. I've been teaching my friend English when I'm off the clock, and they asked me to accompany them to assist as a translator. I swear I am not a spy."

"What was your field of study?" he asked, not a hint in his expression on whether he believed her. It didn't matter to him really; she was an ant to be crushed under his heel.

"Linguistics. I help people with their asylum applications."

The ambassador crossed his arms. "If it pleases you, we will ensure that none of our staff leaves the premises. It would be a favor on our part as the treaty you helped draft has exceptions—"

"It is good to see that I do not have to hire someone to read a translated copy to you. I had my doubts. As this is not the case, then you will not protest me invoking subsection five-two regarding foreign nationals."

The ambassador glowered. "If she is harmed—"

Prince Lelouch rolled his eyes and pointedly turned away as he pulled out his wallet and counted out a few coins before throwing them at her. They bounced off her and rolled to a stop on the hard concrete.

"You should pick those up. If you are a mere civilian, there is no problem in hiring you."

She ground her teeth together, all too aware that her life was hanging by a thread. Britannia's blatantly aggressive actions showed they no longer cared for the EU's posturing. War would come and Britannia was certain it could win.

Stooping, she picked up the coins with trembling fingers. It was maybe enough to buy a single piece of candy. It did not matter. Her back prickled as she stood up again and there was a smirk on the prince's lip. She had bowed her head.

As the prince bid Iglan and Nimra to rise, she drifted backwards and tried to force down her bile. Her friend retreated to her side, latching on her arm with a death grip.

"They're letting you go, right?" Nimra begged quietly in Somali. "They're not going to string you up, right?"

Another pleasant death, courtesy of those self-entitled bastards.

"No," Manon assured her without any conviction. Her hand drifted upwards, beneath her shawl, and gripped the small cross her mother had given before she left. She should've listened and never come here. To see the homeland her grandfather spoke so fondly of was folly.

The ambassador finally stepped back. An agreement of some sort had been reached despite the endless insults.

It did not set her at ease. She suddenly knew with bone deep certainty that she was going to die. She was just a toy in their game of international diplomacy and would be discarded once it finished.

"Girl," the ambassador said as the prince expectantly returned to his boat. Nimra and Iglan dutifully boarded. "What is your name?"

"Manon Eder." Her throat itched.

He scowled. "You will insist on returning home every night. Do not accept any boarding arrangement; advise your friends similarly. It is better to commute each day to satisfy his whims. Outside of the city, Britannian law is absolute." He eyed them seriously. "Do you understand? The prince might wish to fold the city into his government, but as long as we have a military presence here, his reach is weak.

"Yes, Monsieur." She pulled out the Britannian two pound coin and flipped it over to stare at their Emperor's visage. "What does this mean?"

"That'll he drop the accusation of espionage and in return you'll do whatever the fuck he wants."

"But—" How was she supposed to help the Britannians?

"As long as you return here each night, you're a security leak."

"I'm..." Manon fell silent at his glare. The word could never leave her lips, for it would most assuredly kill her, but starting today, she was a spy. She was absolutely jumping in joy. Could she get a discount on her tombstone if she ordered in advance?

What the fuck had she gotten herself into? Was it too late to cut out her treacherous tongue?

Her mother's "I told you so" echoed in her ears.

...

While Obock had originally hosted the French colonial administration, the town had long since declined after they relocated to Djibouti. There was a bitter irony in the Britannians claiming their old structures and using it in their own conquest. And when Djibouti fell back into Britannian hands, they'd all relocate across the gulf and the city would again succumb to disrepair.

"I should kill him," Nimra suggested in Somali as they landed and were ushered through winding construction. "A fool like him is an insult. And he threatened you."

"Nimra!" Manon hissed, glancing at the accompanying soldiers.

"Do not be an idiot," Iglan rebuked. "They'd claim a blood price. Just keep your head down, keep them happy, and everyone can live a bit longer. Best case, not much changes."

"Except being second class citizens in our own country to stroke their ego," Nimra grumbled. "We just got rid of the French! You saw how their ambassador looks at us. He thinks we're stupid, uneducated, and weak. They all do. I hate their pretentious asses." She stopped, turning to Manon. "Except you, your smile is too pretty to hate."

When did she smile?

Iglan sighed. "We got rid of them eventually. You know they only care about the port and moving their troops through to their next target. We'll pay our taxes like we always have."

"You're just going to give up?" Manon asked, horrified. It was Britannia. "Let them destroy everything as they sip their stupid tea?"

"They already have," he said bitterly. "I've lost both my sons in this damn war. I didn't even get a body to bury. I'd at least like my daughters to see another day." He turned to her. "What kind of man is he?"

She shrugged. "He was involved in a high profile European defection. His mother is the aptly named Butcher though."

"If he's anything like that..."

"We hope for a swift death and that our blood waters the seeds of rebellion," Nimra declared. "Britannia does not mind ruling over a wasteland."

The soldiers ignored her, abandoning them in a plain room.

If only the world had more people like Nimra, brimming with pride. Worn down souls such as Iglan lacked the conviction to lay down his life to protect their own.

Was that how countries kept falling? A lack of national pride?

One of the Britannians stepped inside, her red hair a beacon that drew everyone's gaze, including the Britannains who straightened as she passed. This was a woman with power.

Belatedly, Manon stood and awkwardly watched Nimra and Iglan bow. Her hand wandered to her pocket and she clutched her phone like a lifeline.

"No need," she said, her English precise and crisp. "Which one of you is here to translate?"

"That would be me," Manon answered before dutifully translating the words to Somali. Nimra and Iglan straightened, slightly relaxing at the reduction of formality.

"I'm Lady Kallen Stadtfeld," she introduced herself without a hint of emotion, briefly pausing for Manon to translate before continuing. "His Highness would like to ask for your cooperation."

Iglan nodded enthusiastically. "Of course. We are happy to help."

For a moment, the Britannian's woman's mask cracked as she gave him a look of utter revulsion before it settled into bland indifference. It was disconcerting having her own feelings reflected in a Britannian face. "You will report here every Friday on matters of security, administration, and implementation of policy. If you are found lacking, you will be replaced."

"I understand," he said, looking slightly put off.

"For now, His Highness would like to know what your immediate areas of concern are."

Nimra crossed her arms. "Am I to understand we are so below him that he cannot deign to ask us himself." And Manon hastily tried to soften the words into something more respectful.

Stadtfeld glared. "Watch your tone when speaking of royalty. I am sure he will insist on meeting with you two directly once he has the time."

For someone supposedly busy, he had certainly taken his time to heckle the ambassador.

"For now," Stadtfeld continued, "His Highness would prefer to observe how things are currently run. I understand you are in charge?"

"The government fled," Iglan answered bitterly. "I am in charge of the local police unit." He nodded to Nimra. "She's one of my subordinates. Most left to fight in the war."

"Are there any immediate concerns you have then?" she asked.

"Food," Iglan said bluntly with a slight undercurrent of hope. Manon wished he understood. Britannia never helped anyone. "Cornelia's forces"—she hurriedly added the proper title in her translation—"destroyed what little farm land we have. There's nothing to eat there and people have been flooding in, but if the French aid dries up, we'll be starving."

Stadtfeld nodded seriously, and her tone shifted to something almost caring which Manon didn't trust at all. "I will get you the food you need, I promise to do everything I can. I swear."

...

"She was interesting," Nimra said once they docked on the opposing side of the gulf and Iglan goodnight.

Manon huffed. "What do you mean?"

"Her eyes..." Nimra sighed. "I believe her."

"I can't believe this." Manon laughed. "Britannians are all duplicitous bastards. Of course she'll say one thing and do another. It's not her promise to make either. The prince rules the Area now and he's rubbing his hands in glee as he plots how to make this his fiefdom."

Nimra looked back over the water. "Him, I don't trust. He threatened you and his entire attitude... Insisting we cross to do our business but then not even bothering to meet with us. I don't understand what he's playing at."

"He's a prince," Manon answered. There was no need for another explanation. Britannian royalty were an eccentric lot with varied hobbies and quirks. "They're all vying for power. They'd slit a babe's throat if it got them on the throne."

"Maybe... Did you notice anything strange about the soldiers?"

"Beyond their constant hovering? No. They're taking their job seriously."

"I don't know. Something is off about them. They weren't rude enough."

Surprisingly, that statement was true. She had barely noticed their presence because it had felt so normal. In proper uniforms, they would be indistinguishable from the soldiers guarding the embassy.

"Stay safe, Manon, please," Nimra asked her before hugging her tightly. Her hand crept up, and she fixed the shawl over her hair. "It looks nice on you."

"Thanks," Manon said, feeling strangely self-conscious in foreign garb. "Is your family..."

"My grandma won't stop bemoaning that I dragged my feet on getting married, but they'll be fine. She's a fighter, you know. And a compulsive hoarder. We've got enough stuff to last us a while. Still, you should return home. This isn't your fight."

"Would you come with me?" Manon asked. The tantalizing fantasy flashed in front of her eyes. Returning to Austria. Going to various cultural festivals together. Introducing Nimra to her parents. Dragging her into the various political clubs. Rousing her countrymen to finally fight and end the Britannian blight.

Nimra shook her head, and Manon pulled back with a heavy heart.

With a final wave to her friend, she pulled out her phone and her headphones. The recording of Stadtfeld was clear enough although slightly muffled. She doubted any of the information was really useful although the ambassador would surely be relieved to know that the Britannians didn't immediately intend to massacre everyone.

The longer Britannia refrained from military action, the more people could escape. That was why she was supposed to be here.

...

The inside of the embassy was a mess of papers as employees rushed to and fro. The shredder was a constant buzz in the background, and one of the ambassador's aides immediately led her upstairs to the office.

"Manon Eder is here," he announced with a knock.

"Minute!"

The aid smiled painfully and slumped against the wall. "Today has been a shit storm."

"Tell me about it," she grumbled.

"Please, it's been calm here. Fresh Britannian troops landed in the south too with Empress Marianne who immediately wiped out that little insurgent group around Dar es Salaam. I have no clue how they even knew they were there. We didn't know they were there!" He threw up his hands and anxiously paced the hall. "Three thousand rebels dead, just like that. The factsphere is a terror, really. There's nowhere to hide with the newer models."

"Yet the Britannians are still stuck with bricks as phones." Shaking out her feet, she eagerly sat on the edge of one of the potted plants to give herself a reprise. She had been standing all day for the so-called negotiations—more like unilateral demands. "They're resisting?"

He shrugged. "People are tired. There's a rumor going about that the Britannians will let you go as long as you surrender. Give up your gun and you're free to go. It's a masterful work of propaganda. No Britannian would be stupid enough to do that. It's going to take a few days before anyone knows anything with any certainty. Not to mention all the idiotic religious rumors. The doomsday cults are in full swing."

The door opened before she could reply and the ambassador poked out his head. "You're alive, good. Get in here."

"Monsieur," she began, pulling out her phone, before noticing the collection of men standing next to his desk.

"Don't mind them. They're here to listen to what you know."

"I have a recording?"

They listened to it twice, their brows furrowed in deep concentration, then hollered for IT and passed off her phone with not very believable assurance that she would get it back soon.

"Kallen Stadtfeld," one of the men said. "She showed up in the hotel incident in Area Eleven. She's a pilot and rumor has it that she's an exceptionally good one."

"And she's promising food," another chimed in, startling laughs from them all. "I wonder how long they'll try to make that lie last. Raid the storehouses in the west and bring rations up here?"

The ambassador smiled painfully. "The majority were destroyed by Cornelia's efforts to eradicate rural rebellion. Agriculture will take years to recover."

"The people will survive; they always do. The real concern is why the prince is conducting a two pronged approach. With Cornelia entangled in Area Eleven, he seems to be the one tasked with Britannia's expansion. Pacifying the region may be his stated goal, but he's building the foundation of his next campaign. So what is he after?"

The man who had been openly ogling her coughed lightly. "Perhaps it is best to wait until we do not have intruding ears."

"I've been told it's rude to leave without being dismissed," Manon said dryly.

"Before you do—" the older man took off his glasses to polish them "—there are a few aspects of your change in status to discuss."

The ambassador cut in, "No. Before we do anything like that, Eder? You can leave. There is no reason for you to do this. We will find a way to bring you home."

Manon bit her lower lip. Home. Her parents would pull her into a desperate hug with tears in their eyes. There were plentiful jobs in translation, or she could brush upon her rusty programming skills and apply to the far more liberal private sector. She could be safe, without the prince's threats biting into her neck. Yet for everything she loved at home, it lacked something which she had found here. "I would like to stay, to fight Britannia if I can."

The ambassador gave her a pitying look and leaned backwards.

The old man nodded happily. "You will not be recorded as an informant on any official paperwork. Should the Britannians suspect a link between any intelligence agencies and yourself, they will not hesitate to string you up as an example. Furthermore... The prince may have a way with words, but his commitment is lacking. While it may be understandable to feel—"

"He threatened to kill me," she said slowly. At their lack of reaction, she pressed on, "Death threats are always the first thing I look for in a significant other."

"Really?" asked the man who had been ogling her.

She growled. "Are you sure you're not projecting your own desires?"

As the room burst into snickers at the man's expense, he crossed his arms angrily. "Pardon me for being concerned when she is not in a relationship."

"My personal life is not your business."

"It's just strange."

Anger surged through her intertwined with shame. She thought she could escape the burden of such expectations by leaving home. Her parent's nagging and endless interference in setting her up with one man or another. Everything would be easier if she settled down; maybe, she wouldn't have been passed over for a promotion. She had even tried, but once the first few dates passed, it felt far too much like a sham.

"Last time I fancied someone, he got himself blown up," she fibbed. "Now, if you'll excuse me?"

"Wait," the ambassador interrupted, looking rather harried. "I apologize. Intelligence sorts seem to leave their manners among the enemy." He glared at the various men. "Do not put yourself at risk. And— We have credible intelligence from General Smilas that the prince is fully fluent in French. There is a chance his subordinates are as well. Good luck, Eder."

...

In her own quarters, her roommate mindlessly watching some show, Manon stared at the ceiling. Every now and then, distant explosions echoed across the landscape. The city had never been at peace, embroiled in conflict simply due to the sheer number of people moving through, but it had never felt so sinister.

"Manon?" her roommate asked.

"Yes, Sophie?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Oh."

"It's not—" She groaned. "You should too. We should've all been gone already. This isn't our fight."

She rolled over. "Of course it is! Do you think the Britannians will just stop!"

"Do you think you can do anything?" Sophie laughed bitterly. "I want to like you, I really do, but you're always rushing into things and not watching your mouth. You're just too damn proud. Do you think your parents would agree? I bet you haven't even talked to them yet because you'd know what they'd say, and you don't want to hear it."

"I have friends here," Manon whispered. There was a happy life waiting for her at home. She could find a nice, stable office job and settle down with some soldier. She'd raise three or four kids and take care of the house. Her parents would be thrilled at her finally being a proper French woman although her father would mourn the demise of her grandfather's dream of a free Djibouti. Meanwhile, the people here would starve and suffer until they were ready to be exploited and submitted to an illegitimate authority. "We have a duty to help them."

"No, we don't. They told us fuck off. They'll be using pounds instead of euros within a month. Anyone who speaks French has already left. There's nothing left to defend."

"Except the people! My friends! Or are they already just Numbers to you?"

Her roommate scoffed. "Don't compare me to a Britannian, Manon. And what friends? Because this is right here why you've never had any! You can't accept help. You spit on the decent thing to do. Don't think I didn't notice you rolling your eyes when Rowan left to get married. You shun us and our traditions? If you want to act with wanton disregard for sensibility, you should become a Britannian."

"Don't—" Manon hissed. It wasn't her fault that every step at home felt stifling under all those expectations. They would rather have a compliant doll than a woman.

"I'm sorry," her roommate whispered. "Just... If you want to throw your life away, join one of those radical womens' clubs instead of pointlessly dying at Britannia's whims."

"Thank you...Night."

Manon rolled over and clutched her necklace as tears welled in her eyes. Why did she care?

An uneasy sleep claimed her, broken every hour as she sat upright with her heart thundering in her chest and expecting the Britannians to burst through the door.

...

With each day that passed by, the streets grew crowded once more as people left their homes and resumed work. As Iglan explained, rent was still due. Food needed to be put on the table. They all needed to live.

In the mornings, Manon would leave the embassy and stop at Nimra's small little apartment which she shared with three other women. There, she'd go over English letters and pronunciation. Afterwards, she'd return to the embassy for the duration of her shift to dig through the visa and asylum applications. Those doubled each night, the stack never ending. Afterwards, she would meet with Iglan and Nimra to assist them with translating any documents that came up throughout the day.

Sometimes, she was furious with Iglan because he had become an extension of Britannian authority in the city. People knew he reported to the prince and it gave him power. They were fearful when he passed by. Other times, her rage waned as she saw the hatred and vitriol directed his way. She couldn't understand why he was so calm and drafted a report for her to translate each night.

As for Nimra, she was looking for a fight, yet she diligently practiced her English and had begun to refuse speaking in French as per the Britannian decree. For now, Somali was still allowed.

"Stay tonight," Nimra said the evening before they had to report to the Britannians. Her hand caught hers and pulled her back from the door.

"I don't know if they need me for anything," Manon said.

"Tell them you were doing background." Nimra rolled her eyes. "There's no way they didn't ask you to spy on them."

"Well, I—" A look at her bright smile and the gentle crinkles around her eyes, and Manon caved. "Fine. But won't your roommates mind? It's crowded enough."

"Yeah we got a fifth actually, but we're going to Iglan tonight. He wants to head out early and it makes no sense to pick us all up individually."

His apartment was over a small pawn shop with various trinkets. He had three rooms, a luxury, although his two daughters occupied one of them, and Iglan indicated for them to be quiet as they entered. His wife meanwhile greeted them warmly with some fresh samosas and other snacks. The smell of sharp spices permeated their household.

"We're lucky he wasn't drafted because of his job," she said as she fussed over the table. "The others gave us a hard time for it, but it's a city of widows now."

Manon frowned and took a solemn seat. Their blood stained the land but it had accomplished nothing. Her country should've done more. Shouldn't such effort be rewarded?

Iglan grabbed his wife's hand in comfort. "It will be okay."

"If that prince kills you, I will never forgive you," his wife hissed with sudden vehemence and stormed out of the room.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning to the two of them. "Our sons—" He swallowed and shook his head. "It's all too recent."

Someone knocked on the door and he hastily excused himself.

Nimra smiled awkwardly. "Anything you learned at the embassy?"

"Not much. Things are tense in the wealthier regions, and the old farts are arguing about humanitarian relief. Crime is up in the city too; they're quite concerned about that," Manon answered. "And the perennial issue of who the prince is sleeping with."

"Marianne is a monster," Nimra spat.

"Empress Marianne. Britannians are a stickler on their titles"

"I will not respect someone who takes such glee in slaughter."

"Yeah, they've been talking about that too," Manon said tiredly. The gossip was inescapable. "There's a big argument over how much Prince Lelouch is behind putting down the uprisings. Like he is a general, but he's just eighteen."

"That's younger than us," Nimra mumbled.

"Tell me about it. But apparently General Smilas—"

"That insufferable prick? He's full of shit."

"Oh definitely, but he negotiated with the prince before and is utterly convinced that he's actually capable of handling military matters. It's absolutely ridiculous. Who the fuck puts a teenager in charge of anything?"

Nimra burst into giggles. "Britannians, of course. They're all crazy, bunch of backwards idiots who can't tell their arse from their ego. That's why they put a teenager in charge. He gets to prance about like a peacock and distract everyone."

Iglan's eyebrows rose as he opened the door and caught sight of them overcome by their own laughter. Next to him was a young boy and three middle aged women.

"Your wife is not joining us tonight?" one of them asked as she took a seat.

"I don't know. It might just be a bad night for her. We all have them."

They nodded seriously and the young boy eagerly stuffed his face with food.

"They're representing the districts," Iglan said in lieu of a proper introduction. "And this is our Lucky Feet. He's been running messages between the towns and helping us stay informed with Britannia clamping down on communication."

"Are the French helping us?" one of the women asked, her eyes landing on Manon. "They haven't been eager as of late. Not like the Chinese."

"Ah, no," Iglan said. "She knows English though and has been helping me. Nimra trusts her."

"Nimra?" A small smile blossomed over her face. "I never did thank you for writing such a beautiful obituary for my husband. I sadly wasn't myself. How's your grandmother? Have your parents managed to keep her home? I doubt she's taking the Britannian's presence lying down."

"Please don't," Nimra whined, burying her head in her hands. "She pulled out like a fifty year old grenade. I can't believe I ever slept in her house!"

There was a strange camaraderie at the table as they exchanged dark jokes and updated each other about their lives. The young boy laughed with them, eager to be of use and far too cheerful as he shared stories of horrific destruction in the countryside. He was only fourteen; his youth had saved him from the draft and thus his life. Instead of treasuring it, he regaled them of the risks he took to bring news of their countrymen. When the group wished to know of their neighboring countries, all joined together in this new Area, they turned to her.

It took her embarrassingly long to realize exactly what this was, and then she was struck by shame. This little meeting of seeming friends was a fledgling resistance. They were funneling money and supplies out of the city, reinforcing their brethren.

If Britannia discovered an inkling of their intentions, they would all be executed for treason.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Manon asked after the others had finally departed and Nimra was preparing the couch.

"What's there to tell? Our grandparents played this game before."

...

Buoyed by hope, her steps were light as they disembarked in Obock. The town had changed dramatically and the sound of construction drowned out all else. The staple super structures of Britannian architecture were beginning to take shape. While she had thought she comprehended them from the various images she had consumed through her youth, nothing prepared her for craning her neck and feeling so dwarfed. It was inefficient but an effective symbol of dominance.

"That's something else," Nimra said with grudging awe. "The French never did that."

Because massive architectural works for a minority elite were certainly the most effective use of funds.

The second surprise was the crowds. The streets were packed to the brim and on raised platforms sentries surveyed the crowd, making it feel like a deathtrap.

"I know Lucky Feet said..." Iglan shook his head. "I never imagined it to be so busy here."

"Now I don't have to feel lonely when I die." Manon eyed the passersby judgingly. Why would anyone run to the seat of Britannian power? It was a common trope that some poor soul would upset a noble and be dragged off for a public flogging.

"I don't—for the bank!" Nimra patted her pockets desperately and pulled out a handful of euro coins. "They're utterly worthless out here. Half the stalls back home are refusing to accept them."

"Yes, the bank," Iglan said darkly. "Can't pay taxes in euros after all."

Manon fell silent; there was an old anger in his voice which she couldn't place.

As they approached the old governor's mansion, the crowds began to thin, but people moved slower, their gazes becoming wary and distrustful. They were the locals of the area. The soldiers standing on the side of the streets were more alert as well, their posture rigid and their eyes evaluating anyone who passed by.

These soldiers knew they served the prince and it filled them with stupid Britannian pride. She paused briefly to observe a shift change. The fresh duo leaned in and they conversed quietly with another for a few moments before relieving the others. One of the soldiers caught her inquisitive gaze and returned it with a withering glare.

Swallowing, she ducked her head and hurried after her friend. Nimra had lost her proud posture, her shoulders stooped in preparation to bow to anyone who might pass.

"Is that—" Manon stumbled backwards as they turned the corner. Nimra's hand flew to her mouth. The wall had been drenched in red with clear human silhouettes. "When did that— I didn't— We didn't hear anything."

A passerby pushed roughly past them, his pace unfettered by the ghastly sight. No one was shocked, each moving past at a brusque somber pace.

How frequent were such deaths for everyone to mundanely pass by?

"We need to keep moving," Iglan ordered, hauling them forward by the arm. "You do not want the Brits thinking you're sympathizing."

"But when did they— It's just been a week." Her stomach lurched.

"It's happening all over. That's what happens when people refuse to submit," Iglan said. His voice was lifeless. "Let's go before it ends up with us three against the wall."

With a hanging, she could at least know who it was. Here, there were only unnamed ghosts of strangers. She knew nothing about them except their height when on their knees.

What had they done?

Why?

Their forms shrouded in dark sprays of red offered no answer. A bucket of soapy water sloshed over as a young boy set it down on the ground. He sank in a heavy rag and began to scrub the walls.

How many walls glowed in the dark under ultraviolet light?

"They're barbarians," Manon growled. Public dissent of any kind didn't exist in Britannia. To speak one's mind was a luxury only afforded to those in the EU. At home, people would craft illicit monuments that would shut down the streets in protests. The worst one would suffer was a fine.

Here, they weren't even allowed to stop and look. The impression of sympathy was enough to condemn them.

A hand slapped over her mouth, and Nimra glared at her. "Are you trying to get yourself killed? You have no idea who is listening. Can you play your part?"

Hesitantly, she nodded and her friend lowered her hand. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she hastily rubbed them away.

"Come on," she ordered.

And fear subsumed them, compliant subjects in despotism.

Unlike last time, they were brought into a makeshift throne room. The prince lounged ideally from his raised dias, his lips set in a mocking sneer. In this room, the masses were sentenced to death while the red haired guard behind him, Kallen Stadtfeld, stained the floor red.

Would that mask of superiority crumble when he fell beneath the blade? No, that was ridiculous. It implied a prince had the capacity for self-reflection.

With more grace than last time, Iglan and Nimra kneeled before their illegitimate liege. It still wasn't the correct form, but it was a noticeable improvement.

How much time had been wasted practicing tiresome Britannian showmanship?

The slightest glimmer of approval in his expression had her raising her chin in defiance.

"Your pride will only make things unpleasant for you in the long run," he drawled, and she shivered at his tone.

She inclined her head slightly. "It would most assuredly be my greatest honor to respect you properly as one of your subjects, but that time has yet to come."

Maybe NImra had been onto something in trying to figure out how to smuggle in explosives. That would be a proper display of respect.

He laughed. "You had no problem last time." A few coins skittered across the polished floor—as if that could mask the blood which was spilled here.

"Your payment." His lips curled. "Or should I ask where you are from and accelerate your assimilation?"

Gritting her teeth, she stooped once more to pick up the damn coins. She had half a mind to refuse but it would put her friends at risk. They didn't even have the nominal protection that the EU offered her. Boys like him, playing at being in charge, should be laughed out of the room. But boys normally lacked an army hanging onto their words.

With an angry scowl, she stepped aside and began her job as a translator.

The prince listened with a bored expression as Iglan recounted the state of affairs in the past week. Occasionally, he would accept a note from some courier and pen a reply. He was truly the perfect Britannian host, neglecting the very guests he forcibly invited.

"Your task is to bring the city in line with Britannian standards," Prince Lelouch interrupted.

"Your Majesty?" Iglan asked in English, and Manon stifled her own curse.

Prince Lelouch winced. "Highness. Only the Emperor is addressed as Majesty."

Iglan's face rapidly paled as she translated for him.

Prince Lelouch sighed like a disappointed schoolmaster. "Learn the proper courtesies before it costs your head. While your city has a special status, the use of French is forbidden elsewhere. For your own constituents' sake, you will enforce this ban. They will not have the luxury of a transition period when the city returns to Britannian hands."

Her translation nearly faltered at the blatant admission of his intentions. They knew Britannia wanted the city back, but it did not sound like the prince had any intention of waiting for the lease to expire.

Did he just straight up intend to declare war on the whole world?

"Furthermore, when that happens, taxes will be due in the pound. Any subject who wishes to exchange their currency is free to do so in the next month and the first fifty-thousand have been set to favorable terms. Afterwards, they will have to go through normal procedures."

Basically, it was impossible unless one was already ridiculously wealthy.

"More pressing, you will conduct a census before your next meeting. The names and addresses of all of the city's inhabitants."

Iglan gaped. "Your highness, the undertaking would—"

"Tell him I do not care for his complaints," Prince Lelouch ordered her. "If it must be redone every week, so be it. "

Without another word, he stood and offered to Iglan a roll of paper with his seal, then he left the room. It did not matter how impossible a task he ordered was; it had to be done. Failure would cost their lives.

"I'll help," Manon tried to assure him.

"We shouldn't do it," Nimra countered quietly. "If they know where we all live..."

"Not here," Iglan hissed.

...

Manon sat in her empty room and stared above her computer at the empty bed of her roommate. Everyone was leaving. The civilian workers had been ordered to go home to some cheers and a surprising amount of protests. An actual Britannian presence had renewed many's fighting spirit. She was only allowed to stay because of her potential as a spy.

If the ambassador had his way, she would have been kicked home. He was quite insistent while ignoring the increasingly more pointed suggestions to return the EU as well.

Why was she here?

As a spy, she was off to an admirable start: her information was worthless and only fueled insinuations that she had to be in love with the prince.

In a few more years, the exceptionally well payed secret agents would have enough data on rejected prostitutes to finally determine his type.

What they needed to know were his intentions, which beyond the general Britannian narrative of utter domination, were elusive. They couldn't even agree on whether he was pursuing the throne, plotting a coup, or a competent but unambitious son.

And as their attention became even more monopolized by the crises in the south, she became more despondent. She hadn't even heard a whisper regarding the siege outside of the embassy.

The city of Mogadishu, which had initially taken the occupation well, had gone into full revolt after Prince Lelouch demanded they hand over a handful of traitors. There were others reasons as well from what she understood, like the forcible closure of their schools and universities. Either way, the citizens had enough and attacked the soldiers with improvised and scavenged weapons. A few hundred of those incredibly fine and upstanding Britannian soldiers had been lost.

She kneeled on the side of her bed to mourn them every day. Honestly.

The departed souls had to be so lonely while all their friends were still rolling in the mud. It was a situation that the locals should rectify as soon as possible.

The biggest surprise was that the Butcher hadn't stormed down there in her knightmare and slaughtered the entire city immediately afterwards. It was a small mercy. There would be reparations and the guillotine now hung over all their heads.

She glanced out her window again, brows drawn together as she considered the other event that happened while they were out. A small terror group had targeted the embassy with angry accusations. The group ended up shot for their efforts, but she couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't some latent anti-French aggression but the prince's handiwork.

The ambassador took away her regular duties when she suggested it to him, citing that she had too much on her plate.

"Fucker," she growled and threw back her head. Her superiors were all stuck on his age, eighteen. They saw his mother as the threat, not him. She was famously direct in her attacks. She would've let traitor's bodies rot in the street after their execution as a warning to all.

The prince had left their shadows. Then, ordered the wall to be sponged down. Everyone knew someone had died. No one knew who.

He was the kind who liked to work around problems. The Devil's son indeed.

If the ambassador wouldn't take him seriously... Her stomach twisted. Maybe she should take Nimra up on her offer to replace a tooth. It seemed like the kind of precaution a spy should have.

Yet...

Irritated, she pulled up her email and finally wrote to her parents. Three minutes later, hardly enough time to have read the message, she received a frantic reply.

I'm busy, she wrote back and closed her laptop as her eyes began to burn. How was she supposed to tell them that their daughter would most likely die?

...

"I'm going by James now," Lucky Feet told her a few weeks later at their customary weekly dinner. "Nobody is ever suspicious of a James. I even tell 'em I run real fast. One of the soldiers told me that Britannia has games too where you race everyone."

"Can't be a Number for that," Nimra said darkly.

"An Honorary Britannian can," he said excitedly.

"Jayte..." she groaned.

"I could do so much more than running messages," he insisted excitedly, his eyes alight with fire. "We could hurt 'em where it hurts. I could destroy a knightmare. Imagine that! They'd never know what hit them. We'll destroy them from the inside."

"It's dangerous enough," Iglan barked. "Do you think the army is fun and games? Do you think they'll let you join without you proving yourself? No. Stick with what you're good at. This world doesn't need more soldiers."

Manon scowled at her food. If they had been given more soldiers, they wouldn't have lost.

"Who'd look out for us old women if you leave?" Iglan's wife chided. "Here's where the danger is. Out there are just false promises."

Her words resonated with the boy, and abashed, he resumed eating. The fire in his eyes still burned, but for at least a few more years, they would keep him safe. Manon wondered if it would be enough. Britannia was unnervingly good at convincing young boys to run off and play soldiers.

"Warn your friends off," Nimra ordered. "It's only a matter of time before the recruiting station here opens up. I hear they've already been doing that down south."

After a moment of hesitation, he nodded. "I will."

"What are you working on?" Manon asked Nimra as they cleaned the dishes after dinner. "You look tired."

"Just the usual. Petty theft, assault, rape. It's only getting worse. Half the city is convinced they're going to die and it's far too easy to hurt others when you're planning to be out of the country by tomorrow. Our jails are filled with frauds trying to sell safe passage. And I do not want to think of those offering it with a blackened heart. I've barely had time for my own projects or even to collect my thoughts."

How much of those troubles were by the prince's design? Britannia was responsible. Before the war, the city had been peaceful, or so Nimra would say.

"I'm sorry," Manon said and wrapped an arm around her. Nimra relaxed into her embrace. "Just focus on all of those who you can help. One person is enough, remember that."

"It doesn't feel like it in this climate. My grandmother doesn't see the point in this. If her back was any less shit, she'd be down at the road shooting Britannians."

"She sounds excitable," Manon said.

"Crazy, you mean." Nimra laughed darkly and dried the last bowl. Slowly, she disentangled herself from her grip.

"Then I'd be crazy too," Manon said, grabbing her wrist. "I feel like I'm burning up because I want to do something, meanwhile the fucker is paying me."

"You haven't lost enough to actually pull the trigger. I'm glad you haven't. I wouldn't wish this loss on anyone." She sat down on the couch. "My grandmother knows though. Her brothers, her sisters... she lost them all. They fought with her against the French for our independence. It's killing her to see our dream stolen when she's too old and feeble to do anything of worth anymore."

A terrorist. A month ago, she would've recoiled. Senseless violence didn't belong in that world. It didn't belong in the EU. That was a Britannian thing... a colony thing.

She stepped forward and rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Is that why you refused my offer to help you leave?"

"They'd never grant asylum to the granddaughter of a freedom fighter. I'd be a political agitator... I am a political agitator." Nimra's breathing grew strained, and she clutched her arm. "They tried to find her and her friends after the treaty was signed, but nobody ratted them out, and we didn't look too hard. But the prince? What am I going to do if he finds her? He's far too thorough."

"He is. I don't know why he needs a copy of every document in Somali and English," Manon grumbled, massaging her wrist. "He might be thorough, but he has the entire Area to handle. We're small fries to him, not worth a deep investigation." She grabbed her friend's hands and stared into her warm brown eyes. "You're going to be fine, I promise."

"Has anyone ever said you're real pretty?"

Face aflame, she dropped her hands and scrambled backwards, stuttering in apology over her racing heart. For a moment, Nimra looked almost hurt before she threw back her head and laughed.

As she drifted off to sleep that night, her fingers dug into the bedsheets in frustration. She had an escape; Nimra had none.

...

The city on the southern coast was still in open revolt although Britannian media painted it more as a foreign seditious activity than the actual citizens uprising. But the EU knew. Even with the army camped outside their borders, they had holed up tight and barricaded the streets. The area outside of it was a maze of traps and mines.

The biggest surprise was that the Britannian army had yet to flatten it for their insolence. Apparently there were some in their upper command who balked at slaughtering hundreds of thousands outright.

Miracles would never cease.

Manon wasn't holding her breath for Britannian mercy, though, and her group of co-conspirators was helping to find lodging for the hundreds who trickled out at night and fled past the Britannian line.

The illicit entry of refugees was unfortunately straining their supplies, and ice ran down her spine at the memory of the prince's far too pointed question regarding discrepancy in their population surveys.

Every time they visited, a boy sponged blood off a different wall.

Iglan was not taking the suspicion well, holing up in his house as he desperately begged for her assistance with the paperwork. Inexplicably, the prince wanted bilingual copies. They weren't the only one subject to such a burden; the Britannian administration was hiring translators by the hundreds and her morning English classes had swelled to three times their size with many eyeing the lucrative employment opportunity opening up for them.

Seven that she knew of hoped to strike against Britannia. Eleven were already acting as informants for the Brits.

"What's it this time?" Manon asked as Iglan slammed his first against the table and cradled his head. A loose sheet of paper flew from the stack of reports leaning against the walls.

"I can't do this. I can't—I can't." Pacing the room, he grabbed his beer and anxiously sipped on it. "What am I supposed to do? I thought— I already do his damn census and he's putting it together. And people are disappearing and not all of them said they wanted to leave. I can't do this anymore. It's too much."

"What did he ask for?" Manon asked gently.

He made to answer before shaking his head and storming out of the room.

She sighed, massaging her temples and set aside the supply report. At least the people were no longer at risk of starving. The prince had come through on that, and ever so kindly only allowed supplies to be purchased with the pound.

The hard months after Cornelia's devastation ravished the earth had left a scar in everyone's memory. Everyone knew they were dependent on Britannia and the imports from its lush farmland; smugglers from over the border could only bring so much. Independence was only possible if they could manage subsistence. If the worst were to come to pass, Britannia only needed to erect a naval blockade and let the population starve to death.

She had to hand it to the prince. He was a different kind of Britannian monster than those in the stories. He didn't leave bodies to rot on the streets. He didn't break criminals and traitors on the wheel. He didn't collect dissident tongues and brand their flesh.

Instead he opened back breaking employment opportunities. He fixed the price of essentials, undercutting every foreign smuggler and thus leaving foreign spies without a foothold. He regularly raided leather workers and shoemakers and those found helping insurgents were swiftly punished. The second time, they were put to death.

But those who aided, tipped off the local authorities, were handsomely rewarded, elevated to Honorary status, and given more money than they could expect to see from a year's work.

Nimra and Iglan's group spoke of bounties on the sons of shoemakers or their apprentices who had fled. It was hard to fight without shoes. It was hard to stay on the run without shoes.

Wasn't Britannia so kind in establishing an affordable monopoly and surveillance on all essentials?

The typical Britannian was greedy, breaking the common man to extract every ounce of labor and then afterwards processed his corpse for further exploitation.

The prince invested. He returned the old status quo for the most part, merely replacing the government. Land was returned to the subjects. Old army pensions were reinstated, reinvigorating many families with the stipulation that one member or future child upon turning fourteen had to enlist.

Many families made the cruel choice. They sacrificed one more son to the war; they would die as all Honorary soldiers did.

His slippery tendrils wormed their way into every aspect of people's lives until he was impossible to disentangle. He was the demon on people's shoulders, goading them to turn against family, friends, and neighbors.

All he demanded was complete and total submission.

...

"Sit," the ambassador ordered her as she entered his office.

"Monsieur?"

"Talk to your parents, you idiot." He spun his laptop around and left the room.

Her face flushed as she caught sight of her mother's stern expression tinged with exasperation.

"Sorry, Mama." She ducked her head. "I've been busy."

"Yes, that's what your single email said! I've been worried sick. I couldn't even be sure you were alive!"

Awkwardly, she rubbed the back of her head. "Well..."

"Don't you start, Little Madame Excuses. You got stuck in your own little head again thinking you can handle everything the world throws at you. Well, this time it's Britannia!"

"Maybe don't chase her off with your yelling," her father interrupted, stepping into the frame. He was still wearing his navy blues and his skin had darkened even further since the last time she saw him.

"Papa! When did you get back?"

"A few hours ago. I would've rather seen you here instead of having to calm down a hurricane."

"You must be a saint to achieve such a task." Manon chuckled awkwardly. "I am sorry. I know you disapprove, but I am helping people here."

Her mother groaned. "Why? There's nothing there to even save. You're wasting your time and energy.

Her father dropped his gaze, the geniality in his expression fading. "I'm proud of you, Manon."

"Of course you are, and she's going to die there! Why haven't you left yet? I heard all non-essential personnel were evacuated. You should be home."

"I have an essential assignment," she said.

"What could you possibly be doing that no one else is?"

"I'm a translator." She huffed, crossing her arms. "The Britannians don't allow people to speak French so someone has to translate between Somali and English."

"Manon," her mother growled. "There's something you're not saying."

And this was why she hadn't reached out because her mother always knew whenever she omitted any inconvenient truth. Their foreign intelligence should hire her. She would sniff out a Britannian's lie within minutes.

"Mother, please," she tried regardless.

"If it wasn't something to be concerned over, you'd have already said something. Are you hurt? Is that why you cannot come home?"

Her head dropped in her hands. "Prince Lelouch took notice of me and technically hired me... all for the wonderful wage of a bag of candy. It does mean I can cross into—"

"Manon!" Her mother slapped her father's arm. "Do something! That's your daughter, too. Get her out of there!"

"You're an intelligence asset now," he said tiredly. "Do you even understand the risks you're taking?"

"You're coming home," her mother demanded. "I don't care what some Britannian or stupid general thinks. You're twenty-four, far too young for such ridiculous notions. Why couldn't you have stayed here? Who was that nice boy you were dating before you left?"

"Philippe?" Manon answered. "I didn't like him, Mama. He wasn't the one."

"Well maybe you should be less concerned over whether he is the one! And don't you get any such ridiculous notion for that prince. The horror stories that are about—"

"We only want your safety," her father said diplomatically. "You're not trained for this role. Surely, they can give it to someone else."

In her defense, she had asked, but— "Prince Lelouch is a prickly and untrusting bastard and the last agent they tried to get close to him returned in parts."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" her mother shrieked.

"Well, it probably wasn't him personally—"

"Stop making excuses," she snapped. "What is he to you? Did he offer roses, chocolates, pastries? He's not to be trusted, a real Casanova!"

"Our daughter has always shown remarkably good judgment when it comes to men—"

"No, she doesn't! You only say that because you're happy to scare off every boy."

Her head hit the table as the discussion reduced to quibbling over her love life. They were always like that. Her mother, pushing. Her father, too distracted by his work. Both of them should've been more concerned with themselves instead of foisting all their anxieties on her.

"Well, Manon?" her father asked. "What has he done?"

"He throws coins at me," she said dryly. "Real romantic. I might just swoon and hit my head."

He smirked. "See. Of course no Brit would be good enough for her!"

Her mother sighed. "Don't encourage her. She does have to get married eventually. High standards won't do her any good if she's an old maid. Are you sure you cannot come home, dear?"

"I'm needed here," she answered. "I've made some friends too, and I've been teaching people English. They'll need it. Quite a few of them are hoping to make good money translating between Somali and English; there are a ton of documents the Britannians want in both languages."

"Is that normal?" Brow furrowed, her mother turned to her father. "I thought Britannia always insists on English? At least in an official capacity."

Her father shook his head. "The Honorary Britannians are forced to use English unless given an official exemption, but they have too many subjects who speak another language. We have to keep a Japanese interpreter on the payroll because so much of their shipping manifests still use that. And there's a lot of Portuguese too."

"My papa the pirate," Manon joked. She had been so fond of saying that as a child although her conception of his job had been quite different from actuality. No one used swords anymore, a real shame.

"A pirate would wish for our ships," he shot back. "Official language is generally up to the Viceroy from my understanding. It's a bit weird for it to find a place in governance admittedly, but Japan has been giving them a massive headache from my understanding even though a significant portion of their population already learned English in school. It's not like here. Japan never shunned Britannia."

They almost had a sort of economic alliance which had led to much outrage during her time in school. Her teachers had assigned essays on the topic, one which she had failed for stating that of course they would seek out alliances that would allow them to distance themselves from their conquerors.

What had changed to turn a seemingly blooming union into an occupation?

"It is a headache," Manon agreed. "People keep cursing out their language for being stupid. And English spelling is absurd ever since their idiotic de-frenchization campaign."

"You're not coming back," her mother said sadly. "Oh, Manon... Can you at least promise you'll try? I miss my daughter. I have no wish to remember you as a martyr."

Her eyes burned. "Of course. It's not like I'm learning anything special and the EU will be pissed if Britannia kills me after acknowledging me as a civilian."

"But—"

She forced a smile. "Things are pretty calm here, Mama. It's not like when Cornelia was rampaging about, and even then, we kept the embassy open."

"It's closed now though."

"For political reasons," she hastily reassured.

For once, her mother accepted the lie. It was far easier than the truth.

Her father, though normally painfully oblivious, gave her a sharp look. He knew the truth: she was utterly fucked.

Eyes burning and a slight tremor to her voice, she bid them goodbye. The screen turned black, reflecting her false face as it crumbled into despair.

The ambassador opened the door with an expression of pity. "Not knowing is a torture of its own. You would have regretted never saying goodbye."

An explosion rattled the windows and they froze, waiting for it to be followed, for it to signal the final end.

A series of sirens echoed from outside but not the alarm.

"That's his doing," she accused.

The ambassador sighed, collapsing in his office chair and absently spun around before busying himself with the alignment of his pens. "I'm not stupid. I know. But knowing is different than proving and that's the catch. If it were up to me, I'd accuse him outright and put an end to this farce, but it's General Smilas' call as Secretary of Defense, and he keeps insisting not yet. It'll be war if I do and my orders are to keep that from happening."

She winced, remembering her own accusations and unkind words in her meetings with Nimra.

"He's a wiley one, that's for sure. I've got dozens of rabble rousers disappearing each night. He's not in the city, but he's establishing his control well enough. I just wish he would stop being so damn polite about it all."

"Polite? He's called you illiterate half-a-dozen times. You're constantly at each other's throats."

He smirked. "Don't have much experience with Britannian royalty do you? I'm still alive. People are vanishing out of their beds but there's not been even one attempt on my life. And his insults? Pfft. Myself and my family have been slandered so many times that they're probably digging their way out of their graves right now in pursuit of revenge. That kid has been insulting my intelligence fifty ways to Sunday, but that's it. He's right too most of the time; it's infuriating. Meanwhile I have to make digs at his parents. He's enjoying them! Not to mention Mogadishu is still standing despite everything."

The prince's face was always so impassive. He never paid attention when they gave their reports. In his eyes, she was nothing more than an ant to be crushed. Strangely, for all that foreigners were supposed to have a higher social standing than a RNC—Résident Non Citoyen or, crudely put, Number—he actually passed Iglan and Nimra things instead of throwing them. Happiness was an alien expression on his face. He murdered people without a trial to incite fear.

"I don't understand."

He grabbed the rubik's cube off his desk and leaned back, throwing it up into the air. "You're thinking like half of our intelligence officers, hell, our politicians even. You're thinking like a European, trying to fit into your understanding of culture and governance. They're incompetent, idiots, racist, monsters. You're thinking of individuals and natural rights and liberty. That doesn't work because they're not some warning tale of republicanism turned sour. Britannia is alien to us. You should meet—well, should've met—some Britannian refugees or turncoats. They learn our language, yet they stick out because they're still Britannians even if they oppose the Emperor. Honestly, if a new Emperor rose more aligned to their interests, they'd be running back home.

"We deride the Britannians even when doing business with them because their actions are so often foolhardy, wasteful, or inefficient. They meanwhile think of us as backwards, hypocritical, and indecisive. You're judging that boy by our standards, but he's not playing for us. He's playing for an audience back in Pendragon, and it doesn't matter that his siege of Mogadishu is the least effective military siege seen in our lifetime; it matters that there's a big giant obvious line of soldiers standing around it looking impressive."

"Because Britannia conquered half the world to put on a show," she said, crossing her arms. "People are dying. For what? To satisfy some stupid dictator's ego."

"Dictator..." He groaned. "Tyrant, maybe. Make no mistake, the Emperor is a vile man, but— I don't think you understand what dire straits Britannia was in after their civil war. We thought ourselves safe for a long time because there was no conceivable way Britannia could recover. We thought they were lying about their recovery. People were starving. They had seemingly fractured into thousands of feuding noble kingdoms. The Emperor is their Napoleon. He yanked them from the brink of collapse and cobbled them back together in a matter of decades. For all his numerous and unforgivable flaws, the man is a competent statesman. Two bitter enemies who'd rather bite off their own nose than work together enter his throne room and they exit with a working relationship. Without him, Britannia wouldn't exist. Britannians revere him because he gave them a life worth living... at the expense of everyone who refuses to accept his vision."

She shuddered. It was a bastardization of everything good and proper. His vision was cruel and unrelenting and condemned everyone who wasn't Britannian. A hypocritical fusion of merit and noble blood justified their misappropriation of power and crushing all who had the misfortune to be born in the wrong family.

To accept his world meant to surrender one-self and one's agency. She couldn't live like that; she would never be able to accept being endlessly under someone's thumb.

If she could, she would be at home: married.

"Britannians don't think like us. They're results orientated for one. We learned from the Terror to never abandon due process. They learned from their humiliation that it was a sham. Of course you bring the wrong results, even through no fault of your own—" He swiped a finger over his throat with a cheerful grin. "Not even Prince Clovis was spared from that, although his fuck-up was rather monumental. Results are why I'm endlessly holed up in this stupid office arguing with advisors because none of them can figure out what that damn boy is after. It'll be a Britannian Area, sure, but why, despite all these familiar motions, is he treating it differently?"

"Is that what I should pay attention to?" she asked. Her brow furrowed. "No, not him, but how those around him act? If they know, they'll agree with his actions, but if they don't, then they'll be frustrated."

"That would be helpful." He absently set the solved Rubik's cube aside. "We already know that while he doesn't trust two of the generals beneath him; he's keeping them close by while their forces are far away. Meanwhile, the other... Well, a significant number of those soldiers appear to be staying near him, but it doesn't make sense because they appear to be RNCs."

"They didn't look like RNCs," she said. They were obvious professionals. Their bearing was excellent.

"You haven't heard them speak for a reason. Britannians don't distinguish each other based on looks but their mannerisms. If you're raised Britannian, then you're Britannian. It's almost as simple as that. A side effect from the humiliation and civil war. Most of their noble families would've died out a long time ago without creative solutions. While shameful to acknowledge, they adopt frequently. If a noble lady, barren or simply lacking the opportunity because her husband is off at war, sees a promising young child at the parish school, she'll take him and raise him as her own. And if your child is performing far too terribly, it's not too uncommon to throw them out on the street."

"The fuck?" she said eloquently.

"Britannians really don't like to talk about it but it's everywhere in their folk tales. There are very few lost heir stories, but many of misbehaving or prodigious children dragged onto a wondrous journey. To keep their newfound wealth and fortune they must always forget in some form their old life. There are also many stories of families trying to reach out to lost members. Those end in suffering."

"They're darwinists," she spat, trying to wrap her head around such idiocy.

"Emphasis on the "social" in social darwinists. Somewhere, someone clearly decided that a cat raised by dogs is the superior cat and should be called a dog. It's about the family's prestige, proving they can raise a superior child in terms of loyalty, devotion, and ability to expand the family's domain. To take after one's parents is the greatest compliment... Which is why it's so utterly confounding that the rumored heir apparent acts like a dog raised by cats!"

Nothing she had seen so far suggested anything of the sort.

The ambassador grumbled to himself as he massaged his temples. "Baiting Britannians is art, and it may demean us in their eyes but they're forced to act by their own rules. The stupid prince won't be baited; everything he does is because he wants to. I can't trick him into making a mistake at all." He scoffed angrily. "The shit eater is making me agree with the idiot Smilas! We never agree on anything! He's that much of a menace."

"Call if you need anything?" She slowly backed out of the room to leave the ambassador to his long overdue nervous breakdown. Was she due for one as well soon?

The embassy closed around her like a tomb of death.

...

"Where's Jayte been?" Manon asked as she accompanied Iglan and Nimra to their weekly meeting.

"Lucky Feet? Fast the boy may be, but punctuality has never been his strong suit," Nimra joked. "He's probably gorging on some widow's baked goods and trying to woo her heart."

Strangely, Iglan said nothing, merely looking at the port as if he was staring at the guillotine itself.

The first phase of construction was nearly done. It felt like a Britannian city. Their lowly status pushed them to the sidelines as obvious Britannians shoved their way through the crowd. Those who failed to get out of the way quickly enough earned a strike to the ears for their impudence.

Absolutely nothing was wrong with a Britannian beating a RNC to the brink of death. But God forbid a RNC jostled a Brit by accident.

"It'd be so easy," Nimra whispered.

Iglan shuddered. "Someone tried that already. Guy ended up surviving but they killed ten of us anyway and said we're lucky it hadn't been returned a hundred fold." His face darkened even further and he crossed his arms. "Let's go and get this over with."

"Iglan..." Nimra fell quiet.

Unlike previous times, they were bid to wait in a line as a series of other trios waited for their turn, each a delegate from their own administrative district. When they finally entered, the prince's expression was mired with unusual impatience and something silver spun over and through his fingers in a complicated dance. The room itself had grown more decadent as if to reflect the growing Britannian city around it. Even the prince seemed slightly taller.

"The list, Your Highness," Iglan offered and passed it to the red haired woman—Kallen Stadtfeld.

For a treacherous moment, Manon's gaze slipped to appreciate her strong curves and the well defined muscles that shone through when the fabric stretched taut. A woman like her had to have many suitors, even if such blatant athleticism was considered unsightly among women.

The prince didn't blink an eye as he snatched the paper from her grasp and scanned it with growing irritation. Stadtfeld leaned forward, whispering in his ear, and he pinched his nose.

Undoubtedly, she was one of his many partners to grace his bed at night. It was a waste for her potential to be wasted like that.

The pressing question at the embassy was if the missing prostitutes had slept with the prince or had been caught for treason. Why couldn't the stupid prince actually publicize his executions like a normal spectacle.

No, he had to be special, and only leave the echoes of death.

As the prince abruptly rose, she pushed away her intrusive thoughts. It had been a long time since she allowed her thoughts to drift down such dangerous paths.

"With me, now," he ordered and stormed past her. His two guards followed, boxing her from behind.

The others were barred from entry, and the guards had to push her inside. She stumbled, her heart beating like a jackhammer. As the door shut on the small, far more conservative anteroom, Iglan let out a hoarse shout of horror.

The prince shoved the list into her hand and stepped back, crossing his arms. It was the first time he had ever handed her anything. "Explain that."

She glanced down. It was a list of names. "They're names?"

"Notice anything unique about them?" he snarked.

His male guard turned away, too slow to hide the unbridled amusement on his face.

"They're all... women?" She stared at the list, thoughts slowly coalescing while suffering the prince's glare and the obnoxious tapping of his foot.

The door ripped open. Nimra stood there, her chest heaving and struggling fruitlessly against the guards dragging her back. "You can't take her!" Her English was heavily accented, but there was no mistaking the anger in her voice. As the prince turned, she begrudgingly added, "Your Highness."

"Take her for what?" There was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as if he had untangled a particularly gnarly case of syntax. Before Nimra had been beneath his notice, blending into Iglan's shadow. Now she had transformed from an ant into a delectable lamb, and unlike Manon, she was without a theoretical shepard.

Nimra's brow furrowed. "When two people... They do... The thing with sex?"

Manon recoiled. Marriage. No, not a marriage. What Britannians did was a sham, an affront to morality. They took concubines, ensnaring women in their twisted schemes.

The male guard's composure cracked with a snicker.

"It's not funny, Frederick!" Prince Lelouch hissed. His arms floundered helplessly, and for the first time, she felt as if she was seeing the real version, the one that the ambassador glimpsed and was so confused by.

"It really is," Frederick insisted, unable to contain his laughter.

"It really isn't," Statfeld countered with a look of utter disgust. She rubbed her arms absently, clearly not as brainwashed as the majority of Britannians.

Frederick shook his head. "They thought you were asking for a harem! Your girlfriend would kill them before they even had a chance."

"Not my girlfriend."

"Fiancee."

"Not my—" Prince Lelouch inhaled angrily and turned to her. "Please explain to your friend that I have no interest in marrying anyone or taking a bed partner or whatever other asinine idea is rotting in their brains. I asked for talented administrators. How the fuck—" His English slipped, and she blinked in surprise as he descended into cursing in numerous foreign languages.

The real Prince Lelouch was apparently far angrier and far more foul mouthed than anyone thought. Weren't princes supposed to be sickly creatures who fainted from shock at some crude remark?

Although they were also frequently hedonists, the current Britannian Emperor a prime example.

"It's hardly the first marriage proposal you've gotten in the last month," Frederick added, rolling his eyes. "Just make up with Kaguya already."

"How am I supposed to do that? Inviting her here would get her killed!" His hand ran down his face. "And how would it solve anything? The EU and the nobles sent fucking prostitutes. How is it that both of them managed to agree on something and yet be utterly wrong. Why are they utterly convinced that I'm—" He growled, lowering his clenched fist to his side.

"Maybe because your father has over a hundred wives," Stadtfeld added helpfully.

"It's not the same!"

"Because if you're with nobody, people assume you're with everybody." Frederick shook his head. "I don't get why this is so hard for you. Just pick some noble girl. Or boy. It would shut up your generals at least."

His tone saccharine, the prince asked, "Perhaps the Emperor should summon your boyfriend to impress upon him that your relationship cannot impose on your duty."

Frederick's face rapidly paled. "Lelouch..."

"Boyfriend?" she asked. Surely, she had misheard. To admit something like that was a sureway to find oneself without a job and the suspicion of homosexuality closed the door to promotions.

"Yes?" Frederick stared at her in confusion.

The prince rolled his eyes. "The EU's continued idiocy aside, I cannot drag someone in on a whim or even concoct a sham. Not to mention my mother—"

Idiocy? Of course the Britannians were hedonists, but how could it just be shrugged off?

"Please, Kaguya has been begging you for years."

To the side, Stadtfeld covered her face and let out a long suffering sigh.

Hesitantly, Manon turned from the caged pacing tiger to Nimra and explained the situation in her native language. Slowly, the anger dissipated in her frame, replaced with violent tremors.

"Forgive me," Nimra begged, sinking to the floor. "I did not understand."

The prince paused, running his hand through his hair and sighed. "Get up. Your defense of your friend is admirable." He groaned. "I don't have time— You!"

"Me?" Manon asked.

"Draft a new declaration to rectify whatever moron translated the last one."

Somewhere, a translator was about to lose their head. "Fine." Mumbling, she added, "No need to ask. Of course I will. It is not like you would claim my head or anything overly dramatic as that."

He stepped towards the door, his hand resting on the doorknob even though his guards should've been taking care of such trivial things for him, before turning on his heels. "No. You will do that now. Frederick, stop laughing, and acquire some paper and ink for her."

"Yes, Your Highness."

As he resumed his restless pacing, she wondered how he had ever tamed the raging tempest within him long enough to sit on the throne. He was someone who liked to move. Silver flashed through his fingers, and from this close, she finally could make it out as a knife.

"Your name?" he asked abruptly, stopping before Nimra. "Translate, FroggyFrenchie."

"As you wish, Rosbif." Manon glared but relayed his question. Nimra's English was good enough now that she undoubtedly understood, but either surprise or a conniving plan to keep her skills under wrap held her tongue.

"Nimra," she said finally.

He nodded and his gaze had sharpened again to a potent weapon that would reveal all secrets. "You worked as a police officer to keep order within the city? I assume you joined after the invasion began. Do you have experience interviewing suspects then?"

Nimra waited to hear her finish translating before replying, "Yes, Your Highness."

"You can write in Somali?"

Nimra bit her lip and nodded.

"Answer properly," he demanded.

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Do you have an aptitude for it?"

Her eyes darted to the side. "What is considered talent?"

"I am asking for answers, not obstinance. How would those around you characterize it?"

Grimacing, she studied the floor.

"I have an aptitude for it." Her translation finished and expectant silence curled around her throat as the prince said nothing, just patiently waited like a jaguar anticipating its meal. The guards were frozen in time as the seconds ticked by, until finally, Nimra broke, "I wrote for my school newspaper." The silence stretched. "And some independent press for some spare change. Before everything, I was working on a novel."

"Your friend should be able to provide me your incomplete manuscript, correct?"

Nimra closed her eyes. "Yes, Your Highness."

"Good. You will be accompanying two of my men then. Send word home that you will not be returning for the next few weeks."

Manon swallowed. She couldn't pass on this command, especially not knowing why he had pursued such a line of questioning or why Nimra was petrified in the aftermath. "Your Highness." The title was rancid on her tongue. She didn't owe it to him. She was not a Britannian subject, but— "Would you please reconsider? She is an important member of the local community and—"

"Your job is not to advise." His face was once again unreadable except for the cruel smirk. "If you ask politely, I may grant you the privilege of accompanying her."

"I would need to confirm with—"

"They will be leaving immediately after this meeting is concluded."

The ambassador had warned her to return each night. She didn't understand the intricacies of the treaty and if this was perhaps a trap. It didn't need to be a legal one. Once out of contact with her people, she would easily suffer an accident. She had seen something today she wasn't supposed to: the prince's lack of decorum.

"Translate the order," he said coldly.

Eyes downcast, she passed it on. There was no way for Nimra to refuse. He owned her in mind and body. Whatever he willed, she had to carry out or face her death. That was the Britannian way.

There were lines that people would rather die than cross. But not every simple request felt worth the cost of one's life. So at every request, one surrendered a little because this was not the line, and with each surrender, the line was eroded a little more.

Then one woke one day and wondered if there had ever been a line at all.

The guard returned with the paper, a pen, and the original English decree. Slowly, she began to translate, adding extra clauses to ensure there could be no misreading. Every moment was a struggle to maintain a calm hand and even pressure in her strokes.

Why did he even want capable administrators? In practice, there would be little difference between this order and the last. Those sent to the prince would die or rot away without any outside contact.

Rebels needed people who understood logistics and management. Who understood the lay of the land and what resources were vulnerable. The prince was removing them from the population.

It was not like Britannia would ever share governance in any form. But people would fall for his honeyed lie anyway and deliver themselves to their own execution.

But why had he chosen Nimra for a task? Right after she openly defied him by bursting into the antechamber? Right after pressing for details regarding her authorship—an aspect of her friend which Manon never knew of.

What value did he think he could extract from her or was this simply a setup for her tragic death because he suspected her as the author of some work that caught his ire?

Capping the pen, she reread her work and blinked away the forming tears in her eyes. If she refused to come along, would both of their deaths find them anyway? He sought complete dominion over this land.

Her gaze drifted to Nimra violently shivering. Could she leave her to face Britannia's cruelty alone? Without her, she'd land in a grave soon enough. Her English was too poor.

"I'll come," Manon said as she passed him the paper.

He smirked as he stamped it with his official seal. "That was not very polite."

Her teeth ground together. There was one thing he wanted her from the first day she had the misfortune to be in his presence.

Her knee hit the hard stone tiles, and she knelt in the proper style of Britannians. "Your Highness, may I accompany Nimra?"

His tone was gloating as he acceded.

...

In the back of the airship, Manon sat down with her legs crossed and rested her head against the cold metal. She shouldn't have agreed. This move would bring her far outside the supervision of the embassy. She had overheard too much in there as Prince Lelouch finally lost his temper.

There were thousands of tidbits to be extracted from that, about his personality—the discohesion insinuated between him and his generals, the issue of marriage—but her mind kept returning to his utter disregard for his subordinate's sexuality.

The EU's idiocy, he had called it.

Nimra sat down beside her and pulled out a snackbar she had bought from a passing stall. "Tried to send a message home, but I don't know if I succeeded. Do you know who we're being sent with?"

"Stadtfeld and someone called Jim." Manon leaned her head on her friend's shoulder. "It's not good that the prince is sending one of his own guards. That means it's important, which isn't good for us."

Nimra grabbed her hand, intertwining their fingers. "We'll make it work... together. You know, when I first saw you, you looked like every other out of place French tourist."

"Hey," Manon protested. "I wasn't that bad."

"Yes, you were, but it was right on the heels of our surrender, and I wondered what the hell you were doing going into the city instead of fleeing like everyone else. And you were being followed by a rather notorious pickpocket."

Manon pulled out the small cross around her neck with her free hand as shameful feelings reemerged. She should have listened to her parents. She should've never left home. She should've accepted her neighbor's marriage proposal instead of taking the last train in the day and running off to put her degree to proper use.

Why was she here?

"I almost left," she whispered. "People were so on edge and my parents were nagging me, demanding I come back. Nobody took me seriously there either. A young unmarried woman working abroad? It's almost proof that there has to be something wrong with me." She laughed weakly. "But I couldn't figure out how to tell you goodbye."

"I'm glad you didn't go. I would say it is because of the help you provide, the information, but it is more your presence and knowing that if people can come to our aid despite being safe, then our cause must be just." She bumped her playfully. "Also your tongue will keep me long before my pen does. You're my canary."

"Nah, you'd shoot a Brit before they'd ever get me."

Nimra laughed weakly. "Only to save your idiotic life."

"I forbid you to. A fortune teller told my Mama that I would suffer a terrible loss. So as long as you live, I shall as well." A smile tugged at the edge of her lips and she fought the treacherous little thing.

"You're smiling," Nimra whispered, her eyes wide in wonder.

The treacherous little thing vanished as Stadtfeld entered with a much older man, conversing quietly. There were more immediate dangers to focus on.

The cold metal of her cross burned in reminder. Her heart was racing because of the Britannians. They were the threat.

And so, she pointedly turned away from Nimra and studied the strange duo.

Stadtfeld's posture was perfect as always, there was a grace only gained from years of experience. Judging from the prince's outburst, they weren't sleeping together, yet Manon could scarcely believe it. As for the older man, he was undoubtedly of a noteworthy rank. If he wasn't, he would've been washed out ages ago. A colonel perhaps?

His expression pinched as he saw them. Was he aware of their scheduled execution?

"Some water?" Stadtfeld offered, passing over her bottle without a hint of disgust. She continued to be a strange one. Noble. A woman. A knight. Yet she showed grace to those she should believe were dirt beneath her boots.

"We should seduce her?" Nimra joked in Somali. "Who needs the prince? She can pilot and has good manners. He'd be utterly obnoxious though."

Manon forced a laugh, but— "The other guard with the prince is a homosexual."

"And?" Nimra asked.

"It's apparently not a big deal in Britannia. If my boss ever suggested anything like that—" She laughed nervously.

"I think your boss would be more concerned with the entire Britannian occupation," she trailed off. "The Brits are going to get their revenge for today, aren't they?"

Manon swallowed. "Yes."

Her eyes skimmed the cabin in search of anything that could be used as a makeshift, then her eyes landed on the two Brit's well toned muscles. Stadtfeld alone could easily handle them.

The old man stretched his shoulders as they rose, releasing a series of small pops. Huffing, he searched through his pockets and emerged victoriously with a cigarette pack. "Name's Jim. Want a smoke?"

Manon shook her head, and he shrugged and lit his cigarette. The tension in his shoulders relaxed as he took a long drag.

"Do you have to?" Stadtfeld complained, wafting the smoke away from her. "It's not like I can open a window here."

"Nobles... all so delicate with a little bit of smoke." He didn't oblige her, kicking up his legs and leaning against the window. "You're going to be able to handle things when we get down there? Lelouch's been keeping you away from the action for a reason."

"I'm not some delicate wallflower," she snapped. "He can trust me."

"Brits are always so testy. Keep acting like that and you're going to find yourself talking your way into a frontline position."

"Noted."

"You didn't listen to a word I said." Jim rolled his eyes and focused on them. "You two can relax, you know. It's a newer model. Much harder to shoot out of the air these days."

Great. Another thing to be worried about now, although such a death would at least deprive Britannia of a top pilot and a senior officer.

Stadtfeld scoffed. "They're rather shocked because they saw Lelouch lose his temper this morning."

"The kid hasn't been sleeping, has he?"

"Does he ever?" She leaned back and yawned. "I can challenge people to duels, right? It would be so easy to remove General Ewell and never have to deal with his obnoxious ass again. Then I could sleep."

"I don't think it works like that."

"It was in the etiquette book or something." She threw up her hands at his dubious expression. "I don't know! My father is a baron. We lose duels, not issue them. Empress Marianne would probably stop it anyway or insist I duel her or something."

"What are they saying?" Nimra asked, and Manon whispered into her ears a rough translation. Judging from her expression, it did not elucidate anything.

Jim shook his head. "You may want to figure that out. Gino is too stupid to be of use for these sorts of things, so you're the only one who can actually do anything. They're not going to listen to me."

"Why?" Manon asked.

"Found your tongue?" Jim raised an eyebrow. She didn't trust his relaxed demeanor for a moment. "I'm a commoner; she's a noble and a member of his highness's royal guard. If I start telling off some noble, I'm landing myself on the short expressway to a flogging."

"But you're old." She cringed at her misstep. What was she thinking?

"Lelouch asked me to stay on. I just want to retire. Buy a little plot of land and build yourself a house and live off my fat government pension. Only problem is it would be real hard to find a good job where I don't spend the rest of my life breaking my back again." He scowled. "That and I am not retiring. This year is supposed to be my year and what does he do? He lands himself on the frontier to stabilize shit. How am I supposed to leave now?"

"It's not like he's going to force you," Stadtfeld said.

"Of course not. What he will do is sit you down for a cup of coffee"—not tea?—"and then tell you how much he appreciates your service and the next thing you know, you've enthusiastically agreed to another five years of this drollery. How am I supposed to get married out here?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I think I could request a few years postponement, start a family, and then come back. No need to worry about convincing some miser to hire me for office work."

"I am sure Roy could set you up. Or Kaguya."

"Kaguya?" He laughed. "Don't get too familiar with his fiancee. It'll make it easier to transition when she ascends."

"They're not even talking to each other right now."

"She is playing a dangerous game ignoring him like that. She should apologize already and then he can quit moping."

"He was being an asshole," Stadtfeld refuted. "He should apologize to her properly."

"She's the one marrying into his family."

"She's— It doesn't matter. He can at least be kind. It shouldn't be about their family, but about what they want."

"I admit, I never took you for a romantic." He took another drag of his cigarette. "If your lifestyles are incompatible, then how can you make anything last? Love... How did that work out for your parents, shunning their families and looking out only for themselves?"

Stadtfeld reddened furiously, her lips twisting into a snarl. "You know nothing about—"

"Please. Where is your mother now? Of course your father was not going to keep her. He has his heir and a spare. She can't offer him anything else."

"What about yourself? You wouldn't be here if everyone stayed in their lane."

"Of course not," he agreed amicably. "My grandfather served his time and then found a poor Britannian woman. Then my father served his time and asked in honor that my mother be granted honorary status for her exemplary charitable and volunteer work. So he lifted one woman up and raised myself and my brothers right. So even if I met a proper Britannian woman and we fell for each other, it would be a dereliction of duty to shun the sacrifices of my parents. I need to find a good Honorary or Number woman. It's easier these days. There's more ways for women to achieve Honorary status. They can even serve these days."

A unit of Honorary Britannians. That was what she had been told but refused to believe. He was not a Britannian, yet he spoke like the rest of them. Namir froze as she relayed this revelation.

A staunch military man, one who took pride in his service. That was what waited at the end of the line for every RNC.

...

They landed in a corpse of a town. The small rural town had been cleaved in half by a putrid scythe of ash and upheaval. The small shacks in its path had been torn apart, spilling their innards over the dirt roads. The side of the street was lined with dead livestocks and someone had decapitated the goats and mounted them on the walls of the remaining adobes as well as marking the doors with a dark crusty red "X".

She trailed behind Nimra as they exited the airship. Stadtfeld wasn't doing well although Jim surveyed the destruction with a callous and indifferent eye. He pulled out a camera and set to work documenting the scene.

"Where are the bodies?" Nimra whispered as she peeked into an abandoned home. The signs of a struggle inside were obvious with the furniture in disarray and the occasional blood spatter on the ground.

"I don't know," Manon replied and rubbed her ear at the low buzzing in the background. This place gave her the creeps.

"Over here!" Jim hollered.

Stadtfeld ushered them over. The stench hit them first, driving Manon to her knees. Nimra pulled up her shawl to cover her nose and staggered forward through the swarm of flies to stand by the old soldier.

Legs trembling violently and her vision swimming, Manon forced herself to stand tall. The source of the smell was a pit and the hundreds of naked bodies haphazardly piled within. Most were old men and women, accompanied by young children who should've just been starting school. They lay there without dignity or grace, bloated and decomposing.

"It's too small," Jim said darkly.

Manon stumbled backwards, unable to handle the sight. There was only one group with the resources to pull it off: the Britannians. How many similar pits—she wouldn't dignify them as graves—were around the Area? This was the Britannian cruelty the EU media loved to harp on.

Nimra screamed incoherently and swung blindly at Jim. He caught her wrist and yanked her forward, causing her to tip precariously. A swift strike to her back sent her sprawling to the ground.

"Nimra!" Manon shouted, running forward.

And Stadtfeld was before her, spinning her around and trapping her in a painful arm lock. "Yield."

Manon inhaled sharply, pushing against it ineffectively and biting down her pain of scream as the pressure on her elbows increased even further. "Nimra?"

"Your friend is fine," Stadtfeld hissed and abruptly let go. "Control yourself."

Rubbing her elbow, she looked for Nimra and inhaled sharply as she spotted her friend slowly massaging her own bruises. The relief was temporary as their own helplessness crashed down upon her. They were unarmed, and Manon wouldn't know what to do with a weapon if she even got one. They were facing soldiers, people who had endlessly trained to fight, to kill. Even if she and Nimra managed to subdue their captors, the Britannain army would soon be nipping at their heels for revenge.

"Ewell," Jim spat as he ushered them back.

"I hate it when Lelouch is right," Stadtfeld murmured. "It would obviously be too much to ask the Emperor to ever make things easy on him."

"He will deny everything of course."

"There's a fucking mass grave!" Stadtfeld screamed suddenly. She rubbed her eyes tiredly, pushed her way past them into the airship, and refused to speak another word.

On one hand, it was gratifying to see a Britannian repulsed by her country's actions; on the other, she was the prince's personal guard. She had likely been accessory to similar atrocities and had undoubtedly seen him ordering the mass executions which plagued the city of Obock.

Maybe her distress was faked. Britannian nobles were well known to be phenomenal liars. She should be cackling in delight like a cliched movie villain. That she was not simply meant a schemer was rubbing his hands together in malevolent delight.

Why else would the prince have them accompany this mission if not for some sort of propaganda campaign?

Nimra sat down beside her, her hands wrapped around her knees as she stared out the window as if it could provide answers to her thoughts. Her shawl had become loose allowing curly strands of black hair to escape.

"Let me fix that," Manon whispered, her fingers tucking the loose strands back under the colorful cloth.

Nimra trembled beneath her touch and suddenly threw herself at her as she began to sob loudly.

Across from them, Stadtfeld awkwardly looked away, her lips pressed into a thin white line.

"Pull yourself together," Jim ordered her as he stepped inside. As the airship rose, he stared out the window and a sudden flash of pink illuminated his face.

A sakuradite bomb.

Only Britannians would waste so much of the precious mineral to detonate on a large scale. It was inefficient, but the resulting explosion left only the scorched earth behind and warped metal. There would be no bodies to bury. No last rights to administer.

"No," Nimra whispered, lunging for the window. "They need to be buried. The bodies—"

"Sit down," Jim ordered. "It's done."

"You—" She collapsed. "Isn't it enough… You defiled— How could you? A funeral—"

Manon hugged her tightly, quieting her protests and glared at the man for her. They were monsters, all of them. If anything, the EU had understated the depth of their atrocities and crimes.

…

As the sun began to set, they finally landed in a Britannian military camp. Temporary housing stretched far as the eye could see and small jeeps ferried personnel back and forth. In the distance was the city of Mogadishu under a plume of despondent smoke. Manon's arm was numb as Nimra dozed lightly with tears in her eyes. Emotional exhaustion had knocked her out.

The only thing keeping Manon upright and wary was that someone had to be. If she was to survive, if both of them were, they could not afford to let down their guards.

"You're up, Kallen," Jim said.

Stadtfeld shuddered and Manon watched in fascination as her face reassembled into the indifferent mask of a noble. With easy grace, she exited the vehicle.

"You two as well," Jim ordered.

Glaring, Manon shook her friend awake and helped her stand, still half asleep. Nimra clenched her arm in a deathgrip as they followed him outside into the heart of the Britannian war machine. A small platoon watched them warily disembark. Their uniform and grooming was immaculate, projecting an unsettling conformity. Their catcalls were right out of a war propaganda film.

Behind them, a man screamed in pain and a whip cracked through the air. Apparently, Britannians tortured their prisoners out in the open.

An obvious noble approached, the feather in his hat swaying to his steps. He leered at Stadtfeld. "And how may we help the esteemed prince's little messenger girl this time?"

"Brigadier," she sneered. "Perhaps there would be less messages if you could maintain discipline among your men."

He spread his arms wide in faux innocence. "The men are demoralized without their general, unfortunately. Monopolizing his time is a rather plebeian move for his highness."

"Allegations have been made against ten of your corporals."

He tutted. "Absolutely no manners. I guess it is to be expected from the lowly daughter of a baron."

"You will release them from their command for the duration—" Stadtfeld barrelled on.

"Isn't it rather uppity for the daughter of an Eleven whore to be making demands?"

Stadtfeld froze, her fingers curling into fists at her side.

"Struck a nerve, did I? A Britannian imposter. That is why you care so much for the weaklings. So what if a corporal hypothetically had some fun with the local women? He is still standing, completely unharmed. You can hardly call it rape when they didn't even try to defend themselves. What is their crime then? Having fun?"

"Pillaging," she snapped. "Prince Lelouch explicitly forbade—"

Manon swallowed her scoff at such a blatant lie. No Britannian would make such a decree, much less expect it to be followed.

"It is hardly pillaging when the men are simply claiming their spoils," the Brigadier interrupted. "Only a despot comes between a man's legal property."

Stadtfeld viciously dug into her pockets and thrust forward a crumpled paper. "You will surrender your subordinates so they may be interviewed and judged by Prince Lelouch."

"Will he do that while you're spreading your legs for him? It is the best a half-blood whore like yourself can aspire for."

"Enough," Jim interrupted sternly, a hand landing on Stadtfeld's shoulder and pulling her back. "You disparage His Highness with your words. Watch your mouth."

His voice carried a surprising amount of authority as he leveled a glare at the Brigadier. As Nimra shuffled closer to her, Manon wondered just how these two groups of soldiers could act so differently.

The Brigadier lifted his chin. "A Five—"

"I am a full legal Britannian," Jim interrupted calmly.

"You forget your damn place, Sergeant Major. Peasants—"

Her eyes snapped to the unassuming man. Yes, she had known that at his age he would've worked himself up the ranks, but Sergeant Major?

"Your refusal to comply has been noted. If you find our conduct unbecoming in executing Prince Lelouch's edict, you may direct your complaints to him. As is, I have an appointment with General Fadiman, Brigadier." He saluted sharply, then spun around and dragged Stadtfeld along, throwing a far too cheerful "Goodnight" behind him.

"I don't understand," Nimra whispered. "They're not listening to the prince, but Britannians are fanatical. How can he live after such slander?"

Manon bit her lower lip as they silently followed the duo under the predatory gaze of the army. "Britannians like to put on a show. You cannot trust everything you hear. Stadtfeld only says what the prince wants her to. Even if she believes it, there's no way to know if the prince lied. And that man... He has the highest rank possible for those not in the nobility. His hands have been stained in blood for his entire life."

"English," Jim snapped ahead of them. "You won't learn if you don't fumble your way through it."

Nimra's shoulders stiffened. "I did not understand why the man listen not."

"Because he's an entitled, chauvinistic, near-sighted, illiterate swine," Stadtfeld burst out, "who is part of the fucking Purist knockoff group that dived into the vat of prion infected blood purity and backwards restorationism because they're incapable of getting their dick wet otherwise!"

Nimra turned to Manon, her brow furrowed. A group of nearby soldiers meanwhile turned their heads as their shoulders shook in silent laughter.

Jim sighed as he ushered them into a jeep. "In plain English, his group hates Numbers and women, and we cannot move against him because General Ewell protects him and is a Margrave."

"Why Emperor give enemy to Prince Lelouch?" Nimra asked.

"Because he's a fucking asshole," Stadtfeld grumbled, earning a warning slap to the ear.

"I am not sure," Jim answered. "Either His Majesty hopes that this will curb Prince Lelouch's more radical ideology or he is hoping it will result in a fuckup that will end in his removal. He is one of General Sewell's old students and such an upset could be used to more firmly push for his retirement."

He said this all like it made perfect sense and was to be expected. As if the Britannian army should be a mess of infighting and insubordination. It explained nothing why here the army was an utter mess while back in the city it was a clearly disciplined and well oiled machine.

Or why the Britannian prince would even allow such a mess to occur.

Was it all a lie? Had the prince simply collected the best of the best around him to project an image of strength?.

Then there was Stadtfeld… She had insulted the Emperor. The world hadn't stopped. She wasn't even properly punished. There was no model of Britannia which would let that slide.

Manon narrowed her eyes and surveyed the camp. Maybe the lie was here instead? She was supposed to return to the embassy and tell them that his red haired guard was disloyal and that the army was made of disorganized rabble.

"Monsters," Nimra whispered under her breath.

Confused, Manon followed her gaze to various prisoners chained to a post. Their skin was bright red and peeling off. Two soldiers grabbed a man and dragged him up to a makeshift stage as soldiers clamored around to watch the entertainment unfold.

"This is just ridiculous," Stadtfeld noted with exasperation.

Jim nodded. "Relying on such outright brutality is the mark of a poor officer."

Nimra scoffed.

"You should tell your prince that," Manon said snidely. "He is the one terrorizing the region."

She was met with two confused looks.

Helpfully, Nimra pointed at the screaming man who the officer had begun to whip. "What he do? Steal? Or just Number?"

"Oh…" Jim shook his head. "Those aren't prisoners; they're soldiers."

"Britannia whips its own people?" Manon clarified in disbelief. Occasionally, she could understand, but the scale before her went beyond that.

For a brief moment, Jim's hand traveled up his own back. Then it was firmly set back on the steering wheel. "How an officer wishes to maintain discipline among his own unit is mostly for him to decide as long as he follows Britannian law. Insubordination is a common offense although most officers don't immediately jump to a gentle flogging these days. Latrine duty doesn't put soldiers out of commission. Unfortunately, the Brigadier is the sort who doesn't care."

"They don't allow that in the EU," Manon said pointedly.

He raised an eyebrow. "The EU is losing."

The ambassador had been right. Britannians thought differently. Flogging wasn't wrong because it was cruel torture but because it affected their operational readiness.

How could Britannians accept violence so easily? Under their rule, society would cannibalize itself.

There was no future under Britannian rule.

…

In the neighboring encampment, the jeep came to a stop. Here there were no distant cries of pain. The soldiers marched diligently with pride and determination. Discipline was clearly well maintained without pointless cruelty.

Two Britannians walked up to meet them. The first, middle aged and short, was in formal civilian dress and without a uniform. He walked with a strange casualness and his smile was friendly. The word that came to mind when looking at the other man was stiff.

"Sir," Stadtfeld greeted grudgingly. "Hello, Art," she added far more kindly.

"This is them?" the stiff man asked. He eyed them with obvious disdain. "Did he clarify at all?"

"Of course not," Jim answered. "Anyway, General Fadiman, meet our French interpreter and Nimra from the city."

"Fadiman?" Nimra interrupted. "The shampoo?"

Jim and Stadtfeld's expression broke into amusement as their general glared at them in irritation.

"Yes," Fadiman answered grudgingly, then grumbled incoherently under his breath.

If Manon was constantly mistaken for a cosmetic brand, she would probably be annoyed as well.

"I'll take them then," Art said cheerfully. "Come on. We can grab some food from the mess hall first and I'll show you where you are sleeping. Work begins tomorrow."

"What work?" Nimra asked darkly. "Murder?"

"Catching a murderer," he answered. "Stadtfeld will be accompanying you later to interview a few suspects; your background may mean you catch additional details. But for now, we'll be questioning the detainees and witnesses who stepped forward."

"Why me?" Nimra asked.

Art shrugged. "Prince Lelouch thought you would be useful for his purposes."

Manon glowered. "What purposes would those be?"

"Nobody here would be able to answer that." He turned around, extending his hand. "Please, call me, Art. I did not catch your name?"

Warily, she accepted his hand. "Manon."

"And Nimra," he added cheerfully, bowing slightly to her friend. If he worked with prisoners, was he affiliated with intelligence? "I do hope we can get along despite this unfortunate situation."

The occupation? Or the task at hand?

The strange thing she noted when they entered the mess hall was that the other soldiers most certainly did not like him. She would almost characterize it as complete revulsion. The food at least was surprisingly good.

Art didn't seem to mind when he was clipped accidentally by another elbow for the fifth time and idly chatted about his opinion on the Area's weather. He was apparently from Area Two where it was far colder and therefore suffering immensely.

If only his suffering was greater. Then he would not be needlessly invading other countries.

Her attention drifted to the neighboring tables, straining to hear anything of use. Weirdly, many weren't speaking in English despite frequently dropping in an English word. Was it Spanish?

If that was the case, then these men had to be RNCs. A proper Britannian would never lower themselves to speak a conquered language.

Yet weren't Honorary Britannians forbidden from using their native language?

"Stop lying," Nimra interrupted coldly. "We are not friends."

The corners of Art's mouth twitched. "I would never presume such. Your English though is better than you've been making out to be."

Nimra froze, the fork in her hands trembling.

"It isn't really my business," Art continued casually. "It is most certainly amusing what people say when they think others cannot understand you. I won't interfere, but you won't be respected if you continue the act."

"Why would I want to be respected by Brits?" Nimra growled darkly.

"Respect is a form of power." The smile slipped and his expression became solemn. "You lack money to make up for your circumstances. The only thing you can gain is respect because Brits, especially those around the prince, admire ingenuity, adaptability, and determination. If you want any control over your fate, you will need respect."

"Respect from those who ruin and burn bodies?" Nimra scoffed. "Brits will never respect us. We are not human in your eyes. You take from us a future. Independence—"

Manon drove her elbow into her side. Talk like that would get them both killed.

But it was already too late. Art's lips curled, having caught the sentiment.

"Did you perhaps yell at Prince Lelouch?" he asked curiously. She didn't trust it.

Nimra flinched. "There was a misunderstanding."

"Any other prince would've executed you," he noted. Then he winced. "You're lucky that he saw it as justified as well. He may be more lenient, but he is a prince. I'd advise keeping quiet about it. His mother has a tendency to take justice into her own hands."

Empress Marianne… Yes, the woman was enough of a demon to do such a thing. But—

"His guards weren't respectful," Manon said.

Art cast a discreet look around the room and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Numbers have no leeway. Stadtfeld… Well, she's a minor noble but more importantly, she's an ace pilot. She could hold a knife against His Highness's throat and she'd still be allowed to live. She's too valuable. Her punishment though would be inhumane; she'd be unrecognizable after."

Was an ace really that valuable? Well, if she had the potential to fight on the same level as the Butcher…

Seducing her was a brilliant idea even if infeasible.

"But the other—"

Art leaned forward conspiratorially. "Rumor has it they sleep in the same bed."

He couldn't possibly mean…

"Like Prince Schneizel?"

Of course she had dismissed the rumors that he and General Smilas were involved in some illicit affairs as being part of some smear campaign.

Art merely shrugged with a knowing smile.

Did that mean they were true? General Smilas was their Secretary of Defense. Was he compromised?

"What do you do here?" Nimra interrupted, her question drenched in suspicion. "Why do you have no uniform? Why are we with you?"

"Well..." He rubbed the back of his head. "I'm not a soldier. Don't have the temperament to stand in a line and fire. I'd go mad. I got roped into this mess a few years back, so I'm technically a hired civilian."

"What is your job?" Nimra pressed.

Was she trying to determine if he was an intelligence operative? It would make sense to surrender them into his custody then.

On the other hand, she hadn't missed the dirty looks shot at him by everyone who passed. He could hardly be an effective intelligence operative if everyone either knew or simply despised him.

Art winced. "Sorry. I didn't answer that right, did I? I'm part of Legal."

Nimra gave her a confused look.

"Right," Art continued, abashed. "Um, I basically remind all these jerks what they can and cannot do. It mostly ends up with me running a bunch of messages but what else can I do?"

Britannia cared about legality? Did Britannia even have proper rules and regulations beyond excessive punishment for disobedience? And even that was inconsistent as they saw with the floggings!

Art's eyes lit up as he spotted someone and with a quick, "Excuse me," he stood up. "Hey George!"

The man gave him an utterly withering glare.

"Do you have a copy of that manual Vegas put together?" Art grinned as the man grudgingly handed over a stack of papers. "Much obliged!" And with a cheery wave that didn't match anyone else's dour expressions, sat down again. "You two should read this. It's a good primer on dealing with nobility."

Britannian social customs were so obfuscated that they wrote guides on it…

…

They woke early the next morning to a loud trumpet. Manon slowly took the time to rebraid her hair close to her scalp as her friend prayed. The manual had been interesting as a unique insight into Britannia's unfathomable culture. In painstaking detail, it listed all the possible calamities that could befall you if you ran afoul a noble.

In contrast, the section on royalty was short and to the point: eagerly obey. There was a small section on proper etiquette which mostly amounted to bowing as low as humanly possible without making a fool of yourself. Apparently, tripping was insulting to royalty. Surprisingly, it didn't forbid breathing in royalty's presence, which was the exact sort of ridiculousness she was coming to expect from their arcane institution.

How could Britannians live on their knees?

"I want to leave," Nimra whispered. There were dark bags under her eyes. "I heard them outside yesterday. They're RNCs… like me, but they see nothing wrong with any of this. They think it's better if Britannia takes control. That it's our fault for resisting. They want Prince Lelouch to succeed. It's like they love him," she spat furiously. "If we stay here, we'll be helping Britannia. We already did. I already did. I'm going to become just like them."

"Hey," Manon whispered, catching her by her shoulders as tears ran down her face. "No, you're not. I know you. You saw what those monsters did and you'll never forget."

"But if we stay—"

Manon pulled her into a tight hug, feeling her heart race against her own. "The prince ordered you. You can't refuse. He'll kill you. I can't lose you."

"And you? He doesn't like you." Nimra trembled. "He's nicer to me than you. He never throws anything at Iglan and I."

"I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm a foreign commoner." Manon inhaled, the slight hint of cinnamon wafted from Nimra's hair and soothed her tumultuous mind. "If we survive, we can tell the others. We can learn more."

"Manon?" Nimra tilted her head up, dark eyes twinkling as they reflected the morning light. "Will you stay with me?"

"Of course," she agreed before reality slammed into her. There was no way she would be allowed to.

"I know you can't," Nimra said, cutting off any potential rejection. "It just matters that you want to."

Manon nodded before standing and offering a hand to help her up. There was something more she wanted to say. A strange feeling that she couldn't articulate. Instead, she said, "Let's figure out what the Britannians are hiding."

The morning air outside was cool and the land was cast in a soft orange glow. It carried the slight twang of smoke and sweat and destruction as soldiers rushed to and fro. Already, distant explosions echoed through the area.

In contrast to the hectic atmosphere, Art approached them slowly with a yawn and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Good, you're up."

"What are we doing?" Nimra demanded.

"Interviews. That is what Prince Lelouch said, isn't it?" He waved them forward with one hand and dodged a platoon as it jogged past. "Someone has been breaking the rules and His Highness wants proof."

Idly, he answered their questions on their half hour long walk to the edge of the camp. There, a small wooden building had been erected as well as a long series of fences. Soldiers idled outside, pointedly turning their backs as they approached.

"Fritz!" Art shouted happily. "Can you pass the two newbies a breakfast burrito?"

The man, his skin a patchwork of light and dark, shook his head and returned with two strange foiled rolls.

"What is this?" Manon asked as she picked at the wrapping. It was oddly soft.

"A burrito," Fritz answered and then slowly turned to Art. "Wait, are these the two EU visitors?"

Peeling back the foil, she eyed the soft dough covering warily. It didn't look like a crepe. "Is it Chinese?"

Fritz gaped. "What do you eat in the EU?"

"I'm not French," Nimra grumbled and took a bite. "Eggs?"

"Oh don't be so shocked," Art joked lightly. "My tongue nearly fell off coming from Area Two. And it's not like they're popular in Area Seven or Six either."

"You're just a crybaby over a little bit of spice," Fritz dismissed. "You two eat up. I'll make something better for lunch. A good proper meal with some beans, rice, and chili peppers."

Art looked rather ill. "I so regret that you're the only one I can trust to not poison my food."

"Crybaby."

"It's like you're trying to poison me," Art continued, and the two descended into light banter over food.

With a frown, Manon watched the duo carefully as she finished her breakfast. It certainly was filling, but it was implied to be a regional food. Britannia forced upon its subjects conformity. A man from Area Twelve could be expected to have the same smug superiority as one from Area Two.

Yet this simple fact was clearly wrong judging from the strange contraption in her hands.

Noticing they had finished, Art waved them inside the building and began to explain. "We have witnesses that came forward regarding certain illicit rural activity, various acts of disobedience. We also have a few filtered out from general prisoners who we suspect know something. Unfortunately, since we are investigating Britannian troops, many are hesitant to speak up."

Nimra crossed her arms. "So we are friendly face? Why should we help?"

"Besides it being a direct order and refusing it could be seen as treason?" Art asked. "Prince Lelouch forbade pillaging, executing prisoners without a trial, not accepting terms of surrender… and various things considered commonplace in the EU's doctrine."

Manon scoffed. "Please, like he cares."

Art considered her for a moment. "Does it matter? It was his public decree and therefore it is the law. The soldiers who are engaged in such matters are committing treason and I have a duty to apprehend them and charge their commanders. If Prince Lelouch disagrees, he can take back his proclamation or pardon them when they go to trial."

The EU certainly hadn't believed the prince's words, but this man did. Or at least, he intended to act on them. Why?

"I am not…" Nimra tapped her finger against her leg. "Hurt… harm… torture! I am not torturing."

"Fortunately, we're not part of Britannia's various intelligence services and only interviewing. His highness has also forbidden the practice to their dissatisfaction." Art said brightly. As he turned away, his smile fell and in broken French mumbled, "More like he doesn't want them sniffing around him."

The interviews were a dull affair despite various eyes lighting up as they spotted Nimra. Not all of them could speak Somali, but she fumbled her way through with the aid of other dialects and the use of French at Art's approving nod. Nimra would then summarize as best as she could in Somali and Manon would translate to English.

Art kept careful notes but when she glanced over at his paper, it was entirely focused on the task at hand. He included nothing on the various seditious activities that they hinted or blatantly stated. Sure, Nimra was clearly trying to hide such aspects, but Art apparently didn't care.

At lunch, when he took the opportunity to excuse himself to the restroom, she turned to Fritz as he handed them fried corn.

"Is it always like this?" Manon asked.

"Like what?"

"So… boring?"

Fritz chuckled. "I would hope so. I got sent here because I can't stand blood. I did spend a good deal of time in the kitchen as a result too, but we're backup for the infirmary and that did not go well."

"A Brit that does not like blood," Nimra said in disbelief as she munched on her taco happily.

"I'm a Five, not a Brit." He seemed proud of it too. "Sometimes I wish that I had the stomach for it. I could do a lot more good in the infirmary. Lieutenant Colonel Tamay is a genius. He's got more experience than most Brit surgeons."

"And Art?" Manon asked leadingly.

"Oh, he definitely has the stomach for it. You should see his scars from when the OSI got their hands on him. They completely shredded his back. His fingers don't work right either, nor do his knees. If it weren't for Lieutenant Colonel Tamay, he most likely would have lost all function in them."

Wait… what?

Fritz continued absently, "Rumor has it he never said a thing. Not sure I believe it though after how much he begged me for a glass of water."

"Telling lies about me?" Art interrupted.

"Huh?" Fritz craned his neck backwards. "You slander me. I speak only the truth."

"Of course you do," Art said fondly. "The truth is what led you to talk your way out of questioning three separate times."

"Slander! Do you hear that?" He sniffed. "I only speak the truth. It's not my fault nobles can't bear to hear it."

"I'm sure Lord Gibbons was not a rooster."

"It's not my fault my eyes are bad. His voice has that distinctive shrill. I have no idea what else he could be. He is much too plain for a peacock."

Manon coughed as a bean flew down the wrong pipe. Neither of them acted like what she expected of Britannians. They were too… casual. Despite their differing loyalties, she liked them and a small eager part of her wondered where their true loyalties lied.

As days blended into weeks, she was no closer to answering the question why two men burned by the OSI served in the division. Both of them were adept interviewers, asking meaningful and insightful questions but never pressing too far.

Those questioned were mostly what Art had described. Most seemed to be surprised by how well they were being treated and when Art offered to let them leave, many asked to stay or for provisions.

It was almost like being back at the embassy and inspecting people's backgrounds to determine their eligibility to seek refuge in the EU. The circumstances were cruel, but they approached it with as much kindness as possible. And sometimes, Art and Fritz acted beyond their role of investigator, like assisting families in reuniting.

Of course, she didn't forget that the Britannians were still their enemy, confusing loyalties aside. The occasional visits from Stadtfeld where she would drag them along to cross-examine some officers were a wonderful reminder.

They lied blatantly, contradicting the sobbing testimonies from locals. Those of high noble rank retaliated by slandering Stadtfeld and her honor. And when pressed, the officers' hateful eyes turned to Manon and Nimra, promising retaliation.

Manon was almost scared when the day would come to return to the embassy. Those men would not forget her impudence. And when Nimra was alone?

Britannia succeeded brilliantly in its promises of security. She had never felt more safe!

Nevertheless, each night, when she returned to their tent, she cataloged everything she remembered in a rudimentary cipher from snippets regarding the prince and General Fadiman to the various intelligence tidbits shared by the interviewees.

"Do you think they'll let us contact our family?" Nimra asked one evening as she slowly unbraided Manon's hair. English sounded so wrong from her mouth, but she insisted most nights. "I'm worried about how the others are doing. We barely hear anything here from Djibouti."

"Definitely not my family," Manon joked weakly. Did the embassy even know she was alive?

Nimra's fingers gently drifted over her scalp and nape with pleasurable tingles. "I think I should ask Art. He is weak to families in need. If I can, what should I tell them? What would be useful?"

"That Mogadishu is standing." Many residents were fleeing, judging by the number they were now interviewing. Their skin stretched unsightly over their bones, an obvious effect of the siege. She wasn't sure what would happen to them afterwards or even how many there were. Art and Frit's investigation focused solely on the conduct of Britannian troops. "You should warn them that the prince is dangerous. That they love him here."

Nimra parted her hair with a comb. "That they do. His public image is good."

"Propaganda," Manon grumbled. "He just tells everyone he is doing all these good things and hides the crimes."

"Propaganda," Nimra repeated. "Then I should share the truth."

"The truth..." The prince was certainly a master at obfuscating it to his convenience.

The next day Art happily offered to mail a letter for both of them.

...

It wasn't long after that they received their own letters—Manon, from the embassy, and Nimra from Iglan. The exchanges continued unabated without any censorship that Manon could detect. The ones they received at least indicated that the morsels of intelligence they were sending through—coded to the best of their abilities—were appreciated.

The initial relief soon faded as their work continued and the letters became more dire. Djibouti was in turmoil. The streets were no longer safe to walk at night. The prince's demands were becoming more onerous. The French troops were withdrawing for their own safety.

In the rambling letters Manon received from the ambassador was another order: return at once.

How? Manon did not know. Whether she wanted to… That was an entirely different question.

They were making progress here, building a solid case against certain officers although Art's mood was becoming more negative by the day. She wondered about him. Why he granted them so much freedom. How far his kindness would extend. Where his true allegiances lay.

Could he be their ally?

Prisoners, detainees, interviewees, refugees, or whatever Britannia wished to call them were escaping.

They were not just escaping from Mogadishu past the siege line. They were escaping the armies' facilities used to house them.

Art was most assuredly not a loyal Britannian. He spoke too caustically of Empress Marianne. Or even the Emperor in his strange grumbled dialect of French.

He was the most likely suspect facilitating the prisoner's escape. Those were most often entire families, hardly the ideal escape candidate.

"Where do they go afterwards?" Manon asked hesitanttnly.

He looked up from his paperwork with a questioning eyebrow.

She swallowed. "I mean, what happens to them after we interview them?"

"Depends on their threat assessment. If they're harmless, we let them go. There's no point in wasting resources on them. If not, they're broken up across various isolated settlements where they'll have difficulty stirring up trouble."

Settlements… A likely euphemism.

"A lot are from the city," Nimra noted with a false idleness. Her pen had stopped, hovering over the paper as she waited for his response. "I thought the city was… surrounded."

"Under siege," Art corrected. He smiled glibly. "A real mystery how they pop up in sector D-10. Doesn't really matter. Not the focus of this little examination."

Manon frowned. Was he trying to tell them something?

Her eyes wandered back to the formal building and then to the distant temporary housing set up behind the fence. Everything was so strange behind enemy lines. Something this big couldn't easily be manufactured. It was a truth but an incomplete one.

The soldiers here hated Art. They distrusted him. Besides Fritz, the others regarded Art with rampant hostility, even the younger recruits—who she had been horrified to learn included some who were freshly designated as Fifteens.

Imposing laws and regulations was surely not enough to garner such hostility.

"Come," Nimra bid late that night. "We need to check it out."

"Check what out?" Manon demanded as she hastily pulled on her boots.

Nimra checked her watch. "The guards change in two minutes. We should hurry. Come."

The night air was refreshingly cold and raised goosebumps along her arm. With light steps, they ducked out of the way as the patrols changed and hurried towards the edge of the camp.

"What are we doing?" Manon hissed. She would rather not die by some trigger happy Brits. "We'd never escape like this. They've got a clear line of sight and if the alarm is raised…"

"Shh." Nimra beckoned her forward. "I want to find the tunnel."

"The tunnel?"

"For the city. Art gave us clue." She grabbed her hand and pulled her forward.

They arrived in sector D-10 after far too many close calls for Manon's heart, but Nimra remained steadfast. Her eyes were narrow with angry displeasure as she surveyed her surroundings. Had she the opportunity to grab a weapon, she would've undoubtedly used the opportunity to end some poor Brit's life.

"They're starving them out," Nimra said darkly as they trudged through sandy loose dirt and low lying shrubs. "It doesn't matter if they fight when the army can just gorge itself and surround them."

"I'm surprised they're still holding on," Manon admitted.

"They should've fled to the countryside. They have the numbers, but they stayed, and now the Brits know exactly where they are."

A particularly disturbing account from one woman who had escaped was that the Brits would call a house before ordering an artillery strike. There was no time to actually flee. Fortunately, for the targets, unfortunately for the neighbors, precision was never Britannia's strong suit.

Nimra paused and bent down, inspecting a rock. "That's not right."

"You sure this isn't a trap?" Manon whispered, looking over her shoulder.

"Why would they bother? They've got enough men." She tapped the rock, her brow furrowing in the moonlight. She was beautiful.

Abruptly, Manon turned around and focused her attention on the glowing Britannian camp.

If Britannians had the overwhelming force to not bother with traps… Why had the prince ordered Nimra here. Surely, she wasn't the only one who could interpret for him. Her presence here was superficial at best.

"It's fake," Nimra declared with an excited yelp. She pushed the rock aside with surprising ease to reveal a dark hole.

A ladder beckoned.

If there were tunnels, there were likely others. The opportunity for freedom beckoned.

"We should head back," Manon warned. "We don't want to get caught"

"Do you know what this means?" Nimra's eyes glittered eagerly. "This is where they're escaping from."

"We don't know if the Brits know," Manon warned.

Her excitement dampened and she nodded resolutely. "We can wait for a little longer, see how the trials play out. Maybe they'll send us home normally."

That was hopelessly naive. They would never be allowed to return home normally, not when the prince had sent them here. There was a scheme afoot.

There had to be a scheme.

And somehow, that tunnel was part of it.

As they turned away, Manon could've sworn Nimra dropped a letter in the tunnel.

…

Art and Fritz had been called away today, leaving Manon and Nimra to head to mess hall for their breakfast. The division had an anxious atmosphere and hushed conversations fell silent as they passed by.

They might've been guests in the division but they were most assuredly still viewed as foreigners, interlopers, here.

The meal was satisfactory, the wide berth everyone gave them as they leaned forward to whisper in their friend's ears was not.

Her hand crept to her necklace, hoping this was not a sign of bad omens to come.

"What do you think?" Nimra asked, setting down her forks and eyeing the neigboring soldiers who were steadfastly not talking.

"I really wish I knew how to fire a gun," Manon grumbled.

Nimra laughed weakly. "I could teach you." Her arm crept around her shoulder, and she guided her hand upward. "A pistol is easier, but you have to watch out for the… recoil. Sometimes people do not listen. Then it hits them in the face."

Her breath stalled, and she swallowed nervously, the cold metal cross of her necklace searing her collarbone.

"I will show you one day," Nimra promised, pulling backwards. "We should head back. Hear if they have news."

"Of course," Manon stuttered, trying to calm her heart and erase the scandalous feeling that accompanied her touch. It was just the stress. Nothing more. A phase if anything.

Her hand crept up to her necklace and she curled her fist until the cross dug painfully into her skin.

It was wrong to consider otherwise.

She was no heathen Britannian.

So what if she had sinful desires? She was not acting on them. That was all that mattered.

"Oh, mail," Nimra said, picking up the letter next to Fritz snoring in his chair.

Since when had he and Art been out to be so tired? Or maybe he simply had a weak constitution as he always claimed.

"It is from Iglan," she said, walking to the side as she broke the seal. "Strange…"

"What?"

"He is thanking me? What for?"

Manon slowly relaxed her hand and forced herself to concentrate on her friend. Her troublesome thoughts could be dealt with at another time. For now, her friend took precedence. "Maybe he explains later?"

She turned over the first sheet and her face suddenly paled, the letter falling from her grasp.

"Nimra," Manon hissed as she picked it up. "What is it?"

"They came for my grandmother…"

"We'll handle this. I don't know. We can break into the General's office." She flipped over the paper, skimming through the top. "Nimra?"

"Yes?"

"She escaped."

Nimra snatched the paper out of her hands, greedily reading it through to the end and her panic abating. "She is on the run, and Iglan is hiding her. She is alive!"

"She's alive," Manon echoed happily, throwing her arms around her friend's shoulders to share in her jubilations. "We'll get out of here and help her."

A throat cleared.

Awkwardly, they sprang apart and Nimra balled the letter up behind her back as they turned to face the newcomer.

"Am I interrupting something?" Jim asked.

"Happy news from home," Nimra stammered. "My grandmother was sick but better now."

"I see…"

"Does the mighty Sergeant-Major need something from the fleas?" Manon asked before he could question their brilliant and impervious lie.

"I question how you've lived past the age of eighteen," Jim answered. "Not that it matters. You are officially the EU's problem again."

"What?" Manon asked.

"Pardon?" Nimra echoed. "We are not here—"

"The prince has decided that it would be best for Manon Eder to return home. Her presence is now longer needed."

Nimra shook her head, snatching her arm. "What of me?"

"You are to stay here until the investigation is complete. Unlike your European friend, you do not have anywhere safe to hide with the Brigadier out for revenge."

"Is he not guilty!" Nimra demanded.

Jim shrugged. "The lower ranked nobles have been charged successfully, but His Highness released the Brigadier and more notable nobles due to a lack of sufficient evidence."

Manon scoffed. "Should the Brigadier disembowel civilians before the prince's eyes? Or would that still be insufficient evidence."

Pushing her back, Nimra stalked forward and slammed a finger into his chest. "When evidence... around them is... Too much, then they should be punished. They have brought disorder, hatred to my people? Does the prince not care!"

Jim grabbed her wrist and slowly lowered her hand. "The prince knows as well as you and I that they are guilty, but he cannot afford to make enemies of them. You failed to find the proof he needed that would demand their actions be condemned by the court."

"How many pointless deaths would move the court?. Are hundreds enough? Or the children and pretty girls ripped away? When is it enough?"

"What do you think happens to those who are unaccounted for? How do you think General Ewell can support his lavish lifestyle when he is in debt to the crown and privately. He gambles audaciously and poorly every weekend. Who do you think is paying him?"

"You tricked us. There would never be justice. You do not seek justice."

She spun around, and he caught her by the shoulder.

"Nimra... Have patience, please. Lel—Prince Lelouch is not so easily defeated."

She slapped him and ripped herself free. Her scarf slipped free, revealing her beautiful hair, but she didn't notice, too caught up in her rage as she stalked past Manon.

Jim sighed. "Can you calm her? And bring her back? There are a few more things to discuss, and it feels wrong to escort you out while she is so distressed."

"I don't think it'll be easy." Her fingers crept up to her neck, up to the necklace, before she hastily shoved her hand in her pocket. She was going home. It did not appear like she would die. Why was it that her heart felt like it'd been ripped out of her chest? "She needs a few hours to at least calm down and—"

"Dinner then," he said. "It will give you the opportunity to say your farewells."

Her skin prickled uncomfortably at the unwelcome reminder, and she waited for her dismissal. It did not come. He stared at her, his face drawn together in uncertainty.

"What?" Manon snapped. "Will you just stare at me until the end of time? Or should I prepare a farewell ball? Maybe rouse the marching band. Procure some cake. Sprinkle some magic fairy dust?"

"She listens to you. It would be wise—" He shook his head in irritation. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't—"

She snorted, crossing her arms. "Shouldn't? Now a Brit soldier is considering shoulds and should nots? It's strange. If I ask my father if he would slaughter civilians or allow a mass murderer and human trafficker to walk free because of political convenience, he would say that he could not do such a thing. So don't mind me. Finish that thought. It's not like Brits have much humanity in them to begin with. All it takes is for the system to benefit you."

"We do disobey orders," he answered. "It's not something done lightly, but is far more frequent than we pretend. Usually it is something small, often insignificant to our superiors, but deeply important to us. How often do you disobey and stand against the rules of your society?"

"It's wrong," she hissed. "You're denying other people's liberty and trampling on their right of self-determination."

"That is your system, one I imagine you benefit far more from than I do from my own."

"Then fix it," she hissed. "You want to tell me that you feel ever so sorry while waving around the victory banner? Please."

"We are fixing things. You dream of republics and democratic institutions. We dream of a new emperor. We have two hundred years worth of propaganda poured into our ears on the dangers of democratic systems. I wish that my future children could grow up carefree as you without constantly guarding their tongue. I want them to be proud of who they are. I hope they will believe in change. Those are your luxuries."

Manon narrowed her eyes. "So the prince desires the throne."

He snorted. "Britannia wants change. They want more autonomy. A more unified legal system. Civil rights. Restrictions on noble abuse. Trade privileges. Class mobility. An Emperor aligned to their own interests. Prince Lelouch is the one who dreams of checks and balances, unsaleable rights, representation. But he has no desire for the throne because he is not yet able to imagine a world where he is not under the thumb of his father."

When the ambassador had said the prince was playing for an audience in Pendragon, she assumed that meant the cancerous nobility. Undoubtedly, he had thought so as well. But could it be that the prince only had an audience of one: the emperor?

More than ever, she needed to return to the embassy. They needed to consider such a ridiculous possibility.

And one other curious fact…

"You seem to know the prince well," she noted. He was not a noble but the son of a Honorary Britannian, and everyone knew Empress Marianne's feelings towards them. "You said he talked you out of retiring."

He answered with an innocent smile, not offering an answer.

"Why tell me this?" she demanded.

"It will make his life a whole easier when it comes to negotiating surrender terms."

"Because he's some sort of military genius who will have nations falling like dominoes," she said sarcastically.

He raised an eyebrow. "He is."

"He is eighteen."

He sighed. "I hope you will be able to pass on the message and that people will listen, but I do not know what Prince Lelouch's plans for you are. He does appear to like you."

"He throws shit at me everytime. I can just feel the love radiating off him."

Jim smirked. "From my understanding, the last time he was nice to a European girl, everyone assumed they were hopelessly in love. Should you return home successfully, no one can reasonably argue that you're a spy because of a forbidden romance."

Her protests died on her tongue. There were certainly idiotic news anchors who would push that story.

"You know the prince's plan." Her eyes narrowed. "What he wants from Nimra."

"Yes. Parts of it at least, not that I would tell you…" He groaned. "When you calm your friend, counsel her to be patient."

"Why?"

His eyes darkened. "Her impatience would be best for Lelouch. He thrives on ambitious gambles. For her sake, everything would be far easier if she did not do anything rash."

Rash?

"I will see you this evening, then when I collect you from your lodgings. Do me the favor of having your bag packed already. Nineteen hundred."

Finally she was dismissed.

...

"I packed your bags already," Nimra greeted her. The words in Somali were like music to the ears. "Do you want to go back with the Brits?"

Manon glanced around their room. None of their personal effects were left. Only two bags, ready to go.

"What are you doing?" Manon asked.

Nimra reached out before dropping her hand. "Just tell me. Yes or no."

"The prince has a plan for you," Manon stumbled to say. She couldn't leave her in his diabolical clutches. Who knew what that would entail! "Jim said to patient, but that could be a trick as well and—"

"Yes: You stay with me. We face everything together. Probably die." Nimra bit her lip. "Or no: You return to the embassy and are shipped back to your home a few hours after."

"Yes!"

Nimra's face broke into a smile.

"But how are we going to do that? They don't want me here anymore. "

"That"—Nimra threw the bag at her—"is why we are both leaving, together. I'm done with shitty Britannian hospitality anyway."

This was insanity. They couldn't just sneak out of the camp together like two eloping lovers. It wasn't like the guards would let them pass with a gentle tip of their hat and a "How do you do?" There would be questions.

Manon had a better chance of convincing Jim that instead of dropping her off at the embassy, they should let her walk home.

But this was Nimra. The prince had a plan for her. All of this was part of some twisted machinations of his.

Patience, Jim had advised.

Was he earnest? Was this not being patient? If a loyal Britannian like him felt obliged to speak, then either it was a carefully orchestrated trap or what lay ahead was particularly cruel, even by Britannian standards.

"You said the prince had a plan?" Nimra asked as they sneaked past the patrols and lounging soldiers. Those men were more concerned about someone sneaking in than out. "What sort of idea is in his head? He is making an example of me?"

"I don't know..."

She stopped, her brow furrowed. "We're too inconsequential for anything of note. It's not like people know us nor do I have any skills of note. The only thing I can imagine is that we are bait."

"For the Brigadier? And General Ewell?"

"Please, if the prince cared one bit, he would have already removed them. There are plenty of accidents in a newly established Area. Jim is full of shit."

They moved forward again.

Manon kept a nervous eye on their surroundings. "Everyone else of note doesn't give a shit about us. The Brigadier wants us dead for being little upstarts who dared to question the state of affairs... How are we getting out of here? Smuggle ourselves out in a truck?"

"The tunnel," she answered as they slipped past the fence.

Fortune smiled on them. They were not caught. Maybe it was that the division's attention was focused elsewhere. Maybe security was simply lax as it was so far inside their base. Maybe those who had spotted them were sympathetic.

Who was she kidding? This was Nimra's desperate, rash plan because she believed this was the only chance for both of them to survive.

There was no way they should've been able to escape.

With a small thud, Manon landed at the bottom of the tunnel. "This is a trap."

"That may be, but would we ever be able to forgive ourselves if we gave up? Besides, there are footprints here." From the ladder, Nimra pointedly illuminated the ground with her flashlight to prove her point. The beam of light stopped on her letter. "I guess it has been a while since anyone has come through here."

Manon picked up the letter. It was covered in dirt and a mud stained shoe-print. "No, but I think they were more focused on going the other way. What is this even?"

Quiet shallow breaths were her only answer as Nimra pulled the fake rock back to cover the hole and sealed them inside.

Weren't they beyond lies by now?

Irritated, she unfolded the paper and squinted to decipher the writing under the dim light. For a moment, she thought it was English, but no, while using the same alphabet, this was Somali.

"You shouldn't read that," Nimra said.

In conquest, our nations fell alone without aid from our brethren or those who first claimed our liberty under self-proclaimed paternalism. Britannia came with redrawn borders, uniting what were separate people into a new whole. Fifteens, they call us. It is a moniker to demean us and leave us impotent, but I challenge such an assertion. We fell because we were divided and bereft of allies. If we could but unite under a new identity, a new nation, one not beholden to its enslavers and crippled by foreign debt, we could rise again and cast aside the yolk of our new yet familiar oppressors. Our strength is evidence, or why else would Britannians come with poisoned promises and turn neighbors, even brothers and sister, against another?…

Nimra snatched the letter from her hand and carefully folded it. "If you want to read it later, you can. In private. When we're not in the same room. And you won't tell me that you did."

"This isn't the first thing you've written," Manon guessed. "Those weren't drafts of letters to Iglan you spent all your time on."

"The tunnel narrows ahead. I hope you're prepared to crawl."

As she pulled herself through the tunnels with her elbows, Manon added, "The prince knew of these writings, didn't he?"

The claustrophobic space pressed onto them, broken only by the sound of their shuffling and groans. The passageway was way too narrow.

"He must've known from the moment he learned who my family was. Like I said, my grandmother made a huge stink in fighting for our independence. When I was a child, my father somehow managed to secure himself a minor government role despite his history. I suspect he bribed someone. When I was eight, the President's little youth guard broke into our home and beat him to death. He was too vocal in opposing certain business encroachments."

"And here I finally thought I made a friend through my own merits. I guess that is too much to ask. You wanted intel."

Nimra didn't deny it, but— "Anyone should be honored to be called your friend. You were not what I was expecting. Maybe it did not start that way, but I care for you. Your rare smiles, how you did not need the right words to be understood, your hatred and passion. If it were not terribly selfish of me, I would beg that you would never leave… I fear I have already been too selfish in not pushing you away sooner."

"Like you could've made me." Taking a moment to catch her breath, Manon let her thoughts gather. The air grated on the back of her throat. It was too thin. If she focused on that, she would pass out. A familiar itch to clasp her hand around her necklace's cross and squeeze until the edges drew blood overtook her. "I would not say I have any talent in being understood. That's not why I learned other languages. The beauty was I could say what I wanted and no one would understand me."

Nimra laughed lightly. "You were probably the worst employee in the embassy."

"Fortunately, I did not have much competition."

"The people you helped… You did fine by them though. Whenever people asked me for advice in their applications, I always said to try and find you. More often than not, they thanked me afterwards."

In the dark, a smile finally bloomed. "It wasn't all for nothing then."

Idle talk focused their minds as the darkness continued endlessly. Tales of childhood smoothed their harrowed souls. Her necklace's siren song abated.

"I will need your help," Nimra said as they took another break. "I wrote in French a few times, some declarations that would have them bar their doors to me if discovered, but it is hard. I know the language but the words do not come easily, with English it is worse. The words dance out of reach; I use the wrong one. I feel so terribly stupid, but I have to use it. Britannia will not administer proper justice, so I will show everyone the truth. They will not be allowed to hide behind their patronizing lies anymore."

"I would be honored to help you draft a declaration."

The tunnel widened, finally allowing Manon to expand her diaphragm and breathe the sweet musty air. Then came the ladder, strong and sturdy and made of wood. It beckoned to them.

Nimra went up first.

"We made it," she said, pulling her up into the cellar. Empty crates stared at them. Fresh footprints tracked through the dust. "First, we need to find some locals who are in charge. One of my old editors lived in the city, if he is still alive…"

They were free…

Manon grinned. They were in a city under siege with daily artillery strikes. There was no food. No help would come, but—

They were free. And freedom was a most treasured luxury. Free to do as she wished. To say what she wanted. To be who she was.

And there was something she had always wanted to do.

Elation spurred her on, and she grabbed Nimra's hand and leaned forward.

Freedom came with its risks and consequences. But why should she accept demands placed on her autonomy. On her nature. On her own desires? Rules existed for a reason; they held society together, but they had to be questioned and challenged.

Order imposed with no allowance for dissent was no different from Britannia's subjugation.

"I love you," Manon whispered. Their clothes were a mess, their hair hopelessly knotted their skin obscured by a crusty layer of dirt and sweat. Nimra had never appeared more beautiful.

Nimra's eyes widened, and she leaned in.

...

The editor turned out to be alive. He had once been a portly man, now his skin sagged off his bones like a haphazardly thrown towel. His body was withered, but his mind remained sharp and through him, they were introduced into a large network of organized resistance.

Mogadishu was a port city; its resistance reflected that implied diversity with Chinese foreign agents backed by the state, European dock workers and merchants staying out of strong sentimentality, Indians who had fled the occupation of their homeland and sought refugee abroad, and the countless Britannian refugees who refused to be called a Number. They had their differences, but the enemy of their enemy was their friend, so for now, they stood united.

They were no toothless tiger, and Manon marveled at their weapon stash. The city had surrendered early in the war, evaded Cornelia's wrath, and thus survived intact. So while their country burned, they accepted the refugees and smuggled them out to sea where they would head to India or the MEF. In the endless traffic of people moving in and out, food disappeared into cellars and used weapons were scrounged from the field.

They even had knightmares whose security systems were easily cracked by their European allies who had stayed behind. Manon eyed those men and women warily and wondered what reports would land in the EU regarding her.

For Nimra, the far more exciting thing was the repaired radio tower, and she spent countless hours talking with the technicians and leaders of the resistance movement to leverage it to the best of their ability.

While Manon and Nimra had been insulated in the army camp and kept far from any modern communication devices, the airways had been inundated with news reports and rallying cries from Mogadishu. The problem was that their message was all in Somali. Those who could hear their message most likely already agreed with it.

"We air the Britannians' dirty laundry, " Nimra proposed. Her smile was savage. "If they refuse to prosecute their own for political games, then we will tell the world about their atrocities. They have thousands of soldiers. It only takes a few to start a rumor campaign. We need to reach their hearts if we wish to incite action."

"Our English is not very good," one man said. "They'll not listen to some foreign accent. We tried that already."

"And if we push too hard, they'll target the radio tower again," one of the woman said. "It took ages to repair last time, and we were lucky it was not a direct risk."

"Then we attack them swiftly before they have time to respond. We take whatever is valuable or difficult to prepare and hide it in the city. We will simply rebuild."

"And if they attack?" an older woman asked.

"Let the shitheads come," a young boy said eagerly. "We've been training for ages. We've got a whole fucking stockpile of anti-KMF rounds, our own pilots, and we've trapped the edges of the city." He picked at his teeth. "Better than starving. Then we can't fight at all. Actually, better than that, let's goad them to attack."

Manon bared her teeth. "Let me read the proclamation. I have words for that cockroach turned Brigadier. His ego won't be able to stand it."

"We should burn the Britannian flag. Have some volunteers do it where they are sure to see it," someone suggested.

Eager energy vibrated through the room. Death did not matter anymore. They each had their eyes on a higher cause. So what if the Butcher came? They would welcome the chance to end her bloody reign of terror on the battlefield.

They were not foolish though. The tunnel which Manon and Nimra had used to escape and sneak into the city was filled. It would be a disaster if Britannian troops circumvented their line. Based on their intelligence, a new team of diggers were dispatched to open bigger evacuation tunnels.

And then it was time. Tomorrow they would begin their verbal assault on Britannian honor. Their backwards and archaic conventions meant those prissy noble officers with feathers in their hat would be forced to respond.

Britannia could be so predictable. The ambassador back in Djibouti should've been allowed to advise the generals and lay out the lay of the land. Why did they listen to General Smilas and wait?

Sure, Britannia could unleash a devastating tide of warm bodies. Sure, their knightmares stubbornly held onto their technological advantage. But these people here had the skill and energy to retaliate.

If the EU finally declared war, their ranks would quickly swell with fresh recruits. Even Manon, despite her pitiful athletic ability, would be eager to enlist for a chance to actually score on the Britannians. Their technology didn't need to outpace knightmares if they could find another advantage.

The Britannians were still stuck with flip phones for fucking sake, while the EU was hurtling beyond touch screens into fancy holos.

"Tomorrow," Nimra whispered, joining her by the window that peered at the distant Britannian encampment. She pressed a slight kiss to her cheek. "Even if we die, we'll have proven something here."

"The mighty Britannian army bloodied by some rabble." Manon ran a hand through her loose hair with wonder. "It is a shame though that we have so little time."

"How forward," Nimra teased, a finger trailing down her cheek. "One more night. When we win, we will celebrate properly."

"I hate you." Manon's gaze drifted back to the window as Nimra pressed against her and rested her head on her shoulder. "What do you think the plan was?"

"Does it matter? We're here. Even if he marched his armies in here, he would still have to find us. I could bind my chest, pretend to be a man, and he would never know who we are. I know he is strange, but the worst he can do is ignore our provocation, not that he will. That would be political suicide."

The tension in her eased. This was their plan, not his. "Did you manage to smuggle out your latest papers?"

"It's not just one article." Nimra chuckled. "You wrote down everything you could for when you return to the EU, so did I. The printing press has been burning through the paper to circulate those interviews. They will get out there, even if they must be told as tales to bypass Brit checkpoints."

Manon kissed her, and they stumbled to her cot, the other forgotten, as they basked in each other's presence. At Nimra's grumbled protests that her hair would be ruined, Manon bid her to roll over and split her hair into five strands for a slightly more complicated braid.

They woke in the middle of the night, Nimra curled around her, to a series of explosions.

…

"I don't understand," Nimra shouted as they raced through the streets. A low fire burned, turning the sky a dark crimson. Manon pulled up her shawl over her nose as the wind turned and sent plumes of smoke towards them. Embers fell onto her hand, easily dying.

The local alarm screamed and the fire crew rushed past. They did not have the resources to stop the fire, not with so many essentials under attack. They would only keep the fire contained. That the city still managed to maintain their plumbing was a miracle.

"Why now?" Nimra asked and stared at the flattened block where they would regularly meet. "We have a spy."

"Who the fuck—" Manon snarled, her mind running down various candidates.

"If they love Britannia so much, they should face Britannian justice," Nimra added darkly.

The radio tower was thankfully still standing, even if the building was rather lopsided. The excessive concrete and metal had warded off a fire.

"We were betrayed," Nimra hissed as their members arrived.

"They could not know everything," the older woman said. Her brow furrowed. "They targeted our meeting hall primarily, not the tower which is pivotal to our efforts."

"Why the meeting hall?" Manon asked. "Did they expect us to hold midnight sleepovers?"

"It does not matter," the European woman said. She had pulled out her laptop. "The army is on the move."

Safely watching from behind traffic cameras, they watched a knightmare roll through the streets and past the overturned cars which had long been scavenged for parts. Behind, a small platoon of Brit soldiers hesitantly followed. The sirens outside wailed.

"Why haven't we fired? I thought we had patrols?" someone asked.

"We pulled them back before more idiots triggered their own traps."

The knightmare suddenly wobbled and a violent explosion knocked out the camera.

"What was that?" Nimra asked, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table.

The woman switched to a new camera from the next intersection. "A thin trip wire higher than most people's heads. There's a small sensor on the end which triggers the launch of an anti-kmf round in another building. The pilots only ever scan their close proximity for obvious dangers. Set this up in a relatively narrow space, and the KMF has no room to dodge."

The smoke cleared from the camera's view. The metal leg of a KMF lay on the ground. There was no sign of movement.

Another knightmare fell to similar tactics on another camera.

Nimra laughed. "The pilot can't even escape. Those are far harder to replace from my understanding, especially aces."

The woman nodded with a frown. "Aces are our problem. Our regular machines are on par with the average Britannian pilot, but their aces? We have no adequate counter. Our machines cannot support our best pilots, and that means we have to steal the energy inefficient monstrosities from the Britannians and those are inevitably inferior models which cannot counter their better equipped aces. No one can justify wasting so much sakuradite with so little gain. I hear though the Chinese have the opposite problem. Somehow, their machine is less than useless with any normal pilot. They have nobody good enough to take it to battle."

After the fifth knightmare met an explosive death, the Britannians finally altered their canons. This time the cannon fodder went first. The trip wires, higher than their heads, were still triggered.

"This is an excellent showing," Manon drawled. "I'm real impressed by the Brits. It takes a real genius to fail this miserably."

The early morning light rose; the Britannian onslaught continued. The city shook with the force of their strikes, but the ground troops had yet to even meet their first line of defense.

It almost appeared to be a lack of motivation on their part as the infantry slowly picked their way through the outskirts with the utmost care, treating literally every piece of garbage as a potential IED. The knightmares meanwhile had stopped their advance. The honor obsessed noble peacocks petrified now that their life was actually on the line.

Some effort would have led them to discovering their trick, but outside of their suicidal battle maniacs, none pressed forward.

"We should begin the broadcast," Nimra said. "At this rate, it will take them days before they are even a threat."

The Britannians seemed to realize this too as a new knightmare rushed to the front of their battle lines and raised his rifle. Knightmares lined up behind more, little toy figurines in the surveillance drone's vantage point.

Infantry and transport vehicles grouped at the KMF's sides.

"Did the idiot never open a book on tactics?" one of the men asked. "I know they cover this in their academy. What sort of formation is that supposed to be? The KMFs are completely useless!"

"Guess that answers who is behind this idiocy," someone said.

"Yeah that prince. Eighteen and a general? If you're going to rely on nepotism to gain stolen glory, at least find a competent underling."

"Well such an ignominious failure will teach him a well earned lesson. A shame that it costs many lives to get through a royal's egotism."

"Not like the boy's father will let him walk after this mess. No wonder he's been just sitting there, waiting. He's scared shitless."

"Nimra?" Manon interrupted. Jim was a first generation Britannian and had managed to survive long enough to gain the highest rank a commoner could. He was not an incompetent fool. "We should start the broadcast now. There is no reason to delay."

"I guess we can." A smirk crept onto her face. "We can even share this disaster."

"After," Manon quickly said. "And I'm not doing it. I'll sound like a fool explaining stuff I don't understand."

"The news does it all the time."

"Well, I have standards for my public image."

"I can do it," the Japanese man offered after the woman at his side whispered into his ears. He switched from French to English. "I spent years in their stupid negotiations. I even figured out their stupid noble accent."

A plan set, they headed to the broadcast room.

"Why the rush?" Nimra demanded, pulling her to the side.

Because Jim thought the prince was a military genius. How that worked with the obvious disaster out there, she did not know, but the feeling of a slowly closing trap returned.

That made her sound paranoid.

"We have a spy," Manon said instead, gathering her thoughts. "What if he wasn't some nobody? What if he knew we were doing that broadcast? When we planned to do it. With the meeting hall bombed, we would all be here."

"Manon, we have to warn them."

"They won't believe us! We're the most obvious spies. We're new. The broadcast is more important."

Nimra's face twisted before smoothing out in grudging acceptance. As they entered the broadcast room, she pulled aside a technician. "Once we begin, the station will be a possible target. I would advise the others to seek safer shelter."

No! Nimra was the one who needed to leave. The one who the prince had paid undue attention to.

Nothing was going to sway her friend—her girlfriend's mind. This was a task that had to be done, consequences be damned. Without it, her countrymen would never receive justice; their deaths, forgotten. The Brigadier behind countless murders and rapes and kidnapping would walk free and return to his comfortable life in the Britannina Homeland as he languished in the luxury payed by slaughter.

So, she picked up the paper, the words Nimra wrote in hope that the world would hear, and began the broadcast.

Three-quarters the way through, the technician ran in waving his arm. Nimra pulled out her gun and gestured for her to continue as she readied herself by the door.

They were not bombing them? Her voice faltered momentarily. There should be no threat inside the city.

"We will never kneel when we must fight for our own dignity," Manon finished and turned off the microphone.

"The fire alarm, now!" Nimra ordered.

Manon searched wildly, her head on a swivel. There! She dashed across the room, yanking down the lever and clapped her hands over her ears as the alarm wailed like a jackhammer to the ear.

"Come!" Nimra yanked her forward by the hand, out of the room.

A masked soldier in full body armor ducked behind the wall as the Nimra fired. On the opposite side of the hall, another soldier exited the stairwell.

"Fuck!" Nimra fired again and pulled her into the neighboring office room and slamming shut the door. Her gun in hand, she nibbled on her lower lips as her eyes darted about the room.

Feeling strangely calm, Manon pulled the office table in front of the door. The doorknob rattled ominously.

Nimra shoved the bookcase and hundreds of CDs scattered across the floor as it crashed against the wall.

There was a muffled curse on the other side, and they backed up carefully.

The butt of a rifle slammed through the wall next to the door.

"The window, the window," Nimra hissed.

There was a short balcony which looked over the absolutely stunning sight of a graffitied alley and overflowing garbage bins. Truly, prime real estate right here.

Nimra peered over the railing, the metal creaking beneath her weight. She unwrapped her shawl and tied it to the bannister. "Manon, you're first. There's a balcony below us, the second floor."

Her hands turned white as she held the scarf and then let her weight drop. She swayed precariously, her feet kicking out aimlessly, before she finally landed on the second floor balcony. A crash resounded above, barely discernible over the alarm.

Nimra cursed, her legs kicking over the ledge.

And then she fell, her legs smacking into the railing before she managed to pull herself up with trembling arms and collapse onto the balcony floor. She rolled over, her mouth set in a silent scream.

Manon rushed to her side, grabbing her beneath the arms and helping her stand upright. "Let's go. You have this?"

"Go," Nimra begged.

Manon scoffed and half dragged her inside the second floor office. If there were Britannian soldiers here, then the exits would be guarded.

Their only hope was that it was merely a small group that smuggled themselves in. That they lacked the resources to successfully surround the building.

Today was a day for defenestration.

"I can walk," Nimra grumbled.

"And I can fly."

The fire alarm cut off as Manon opened the door to one of the side stairs. Her breaths threatened to deafen her in the eerie remaining silence. Their footsteps were the thud of the guillotine blade.

On the ground floor, they ducked into the staffroom, and Manon exhaled in relief. The raised window beckoned to them with an enticing crack.

"We need to regroup with the others," she said as she shoved it fully open. She grabbed a chair to make things easier.

"Run," Nimra gasped.

"I am not leaving you!"

"No, I meant—" She huffed, pressing a hand to her ribs. "Go to the tunnels. Evacuate. Before you—The Brits attempted their suicidal charge; they were slaughtered. But after the stupid knightmare fell—probably the Brigadier—the Butcher saved them."

Manon's throat tightened. The Britannian noose pulled taut. "How? The traps—"

"I don't know. Two other knightmares joined her and easily bypassed the traps. There is no way any of our pilots have a chance. We have to—" She inhaled sharply. "Have to evacuate before she slaughters the entire city."

"If we don't fight—"

"No," Nimra hissed. "You fight by running. You fight by sitting. You fight by having hope in your heart and looking them in the damn eyes and not allowing them to defeat you. Living can be fighting."

Her hands shook, and she nodded before propping Nimra on her shoulders and pushing her out of the window. The Manon tumbled after.

The fleeing civilians paid no mind to two injured women staggering forward as fast as they could. They were too busy running. Or banging on doors and begging for mercy. Or demanding a gun so they could charge at the Brit bastards themselves.

Metal flashed across her vision and a slash-haren tore through concrete like butter and buried itself on the opposite side of the street. A deafening rumble shook the ground beneath them, and Manon took no further encouragement to join the panicked mob.

The tunnels might be in the opposite direction, but the red knightmare shaking itself free from the debris of the building it just downed was the devil incarnate.

The mob reeled, suddenly turning the other way. Manon froze, not understanding as person after person clipped her shoulders.

Britannian soldiers slammed into the crowd.

"Move!" Nimra screamed, yanking her to the side and into a smaller alley. She stumbled and cursed.

Manon shifted her weight further on her shoulder to compensate for her injuries. Behind them, a brief burst of gunfire elicited terrified screams. The alley opened to a feeder road, and at the end, the red knightmare stood.

Its rifle swung their way, having clearly noticed their arrival, before it turned away. Thanking her lucky stars that the red knightmare was more concerned with destroying buildings, they hobbled across the street.

A slash harken sliced through the air and gouged through the asphalt before them.

"It's herding us," Nimra whispered.

"We are not sheep," Manon growled and pushed forward, away from the soldiers scouring through the buildings.

The red knightmare fired again, but it did not stop them as they ducked into another alleway.

The sight a short walk later made it apparent why.

Blood trickled down the gutters like in the aftermath of a refreshing drizzle.

And on the opposite side, cleanly following the street, an entire neighborhood had been reduced to rubble. A lone civilian struggled in the rubble, desperately trying to move a steel beam.

He never saw the knightmare coming. It was an old Gloucester, marked with the city's flag. The leg swung into his side sending the limp body flying like a ragdoll.

The knightmare teetered, bringing up its arm in defense.

A burst of silver swiped past it. The Britannian frame, composed of elegant sleek lines, gracefully came to a stop without a hint of instability. Manon had never seen a unit move like that.

The old Gloucester's arm fell with a deafening crack.

The silver knightmare unfurled its hand and beckoned.

"Run?" Manon asked.

"Run," Nimra said. They turned away, back to the Red Demon turning a city into rubble, back to the soldiers rounding them up.

A slash-harken pierced the ground where they had been standing thirty-seconds prior.

They burst back out into the open streets, the screech of metal and death in their ears.

Nimra fell, her abused leg finally giving out.

A platoon of soldiers rounded the corner, backed by an armored jeep.

"Run!" Nimra ordered. "No, you fucking idiot, don't you dare turn around—"

"Shut up." Manon lifted her arm.

The soldiers neared.

Nimra accepted the gun pressed into her hand and raised it.

Their rifles rose. At least they would die together.

She pulled the trigger. It didn't fire.

"Turn off the safety," Nimra rasped.

She never had the chance. A flash of movement bounced off the ground, and struck her in the stomach. She knelt over in pain to the distant screams of "Manon!" and the gun fell out of her hand.

…

With a gasp, Manon woke to the sudden horrific realization that she was alive. The walls were familiar with dull brown panelings. The barred windows looked out a deceptively calm sky. An air conditioner helplessly sputtered along against the oppressive heat.

And beside her…

"Manon!" Nimra cried, her eyes filled with tears as she looked down at her.

She lifted her hand—or tried to. Her arms were tightly bound behind her. Her eyes wandered away from Nimra's face, down to her attire, and the white trappings of the straight-jacket that Britannians preferred for their prisoners.

"No…" Manon shook her head, trying to find the strength to sit up. Her abs burned from the effort, and a lance of pain proved it was a terrible idea.

Nimra leaned forward, her forehead pressing against hers and her hair fell freely over her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"How's your leg?"

"A medic took a look before they—" She swallowed, the vibrations running down her skull. "We're good. I don't know why they want the both of us though and I think they took us back to Obock—"

"We're in the embassy," Manon interrupted. "Why are we in the embassy?"

The door opened, and they froze as a head peered inside briefly.

"Fuck. Help me get up." Manon twisted to her side, finally wiggling to a position where she was sitting instead of lying prone. She would try to stand but without her arms, she'd most certainly topple at the slightest Britannian aggression, meaning she would have to start the humiliating process all over again.

"You really need to do more sit-ups," Nimra said as she easily sat upright. "We never did take you to someone for your teeth."

"You?"

Nimra peeled back her lips. "They forgot to check."

Britannians tortured their prisoners. Art and Fritz might've had a genial manner while conducting their interviews, but they were not gaolers. They had been in search of the truth.

Neither Manon nor Nimra knew anything of importance. They would be tortured to make a statement.

The Britannians were in the embassy. Djibouti had fallen. How long had it been? Wouldn't the people in Mogadishu have known? Or had they thought best to keep quiet to ensure their minds would be focused?

"Take your out," Manon pleaded.

"Not yet. I won't leave you alone, and—" Nimra kissed her slowly, filled with longing. "If I could spare you the pain, I would."

The door opened again, and Nimra withdrew, spiteful eyes focusing on the intruders.

Three guards accompanied the prince today, and Stadtfeld carefully averted her sunken and bloodshot eyes. Unlike the times prior, the prince was dressed in full military ensemble. In a way, their group had been right to think the prince was behind the assault, but they had not thought he would so plainly sacrifice thousands of his men to sell his farce.

While the prince grabbed his seat and crossed his legs, one last Britannian entered the room with an expression of confusion, Jim.

"You appear to be relatively unarmed," Prince Lelouch began. "I had worried you would run into my mother."

"Fuck you." Nimra spat at his feet. "If you think we going to do anything—"

The shortest guard stalked forward, his face twisted into fury. His hand raised, and—

"Henry."

The hand froze inches from her face.

"There is no need for wanton violence here," Prince Lelouch chided.

The hand lowered, and Manon hated him for it. A word. That was all it took for the prince to assert his control. A word would be all that was needed for their brutalized bodies to be thrown into the sea.

"Why don't you release their arms?" Prince Lelouch smiled, and it was almost charming if one could forget literally everything he had done in the past few months. That was undoubtedly the expression with which he celebrated his executions. "I think they would be more comfortable that way."

With a huff, Henry leaned forward and released the top bindings.

"Where is the ambassador?" Manon demanded.

"He is hanging around here somewhere, basking in the sun." He shrugged exaggeratedly. "Not that it matters. A terror attack overwhelmed your forces, and my troops had to be called in to regain control. As per the terms of our agreement, control has returned to Britannia."

"Because you attacked," Manon shouted.

"Terrorists attacked. Were you to ask anyone on the street, they would corroborate this tale."

"You are sham," Nimra spat. "You are liar. Manon did nothing. Let her go. We know nothing. We cannot help."

"But she did aid in you escaping." The prince smirked and switched to French. "Shall we converse like this? I would hate for a misunderstanding to arise. The consequences would be lasting."

His accent was strange, carrying the more sophisticated distinction in vowel sounds and different nasalization that had been lost over time, but there was a strange undercurrent to his consonants, in particular a swallowed "L" that reminded her of Art's unusual dialect. But for the most part, his French was one that would've been learned through formal textbooks and careful study, not through conversing with anyone in the EU.

Nimra pulled her hair backwards so it would be at least partially obscured. "I think you intend to take what you want, and all of this is just grandstanding to satisfy your ego. If you think I will give you anything, then you are the king of fools. So spit it out, so I can call you a proper pompe à chiasse."

His eyebrow rose as he tilted his head. "Henry?" He switched to English. "Check her teeth."

Her eyes widened, and Manon hoped she would take the opportunity to escape. Their eyes met.

The guard caught her jaw as Nimra lashed out wildly with her arms, and her face contorted with effort to close her mouth, to bite down, and end her life. A strike to her stomach broke her concentration and the guard successfully pried open her jaw.

His eyes glinted with malicious satisfaction as he withdrew a bloodied false tooth. "Your Highness."

The prince sighed. "Sergeant Major, I will leave it to you to find the miscreant who failed to follow procedure."

"Yes, Your Highness," Jim said, seemingly unfazed by the entire incident.

Nimra spat a bloody wad and massaged her cheeks. Her shoulders fell, making her seem pitifully small, and she made no effort to fix her hair.

"Fortunately," the prince switched to French again, "we resolved that little matter. Your death at this stage would be rather inconvenient. Now—"

"Really?" Manon interrupted. "The lights must be off upstairs if you think rolling in knightmares would be conducive to either of us being alive."

"There was an extraction team. Had you not fled, you would have never been in the vicinity of—" A scowl crossed his face. "I apologize," he ground out. "You took more initiative than I accounted for."

He had… conceded? "Did you hit your head?" No, this was another trap. He wanted them to think they actually cared. There was no way a Britannian would ever admit to a mistake. "Not that I believe we are even worth the effort. She's a Number, a Fifteen, isn't she? And I'm a dirty, spineless little foreigner. A prince would never care about that."

"Yet you are here," he countered calmly. "While I may avoid causing unnecessary deaths—"

She laughed. He looked so sincere when he said that she wanted to believe him despite all evidence to the contrary. "I am sure it warms the hearts of all those villages you slaughtered.'

His eyes narrowed. "I investigated the incidents—"

"But you knew who was responsible and let them walk free. Would punishing those officers caused unnecessary deaths? Is that how you justify it?" She sneered. "Not that you need to when we are all so beneath you. There is no such thing as human dignity in Britannian eyes, so why would you even bother investigating? It is not a crime when a man kills his horse."

He made to speak, but she pushed forward with reckless abandon, speaking over his protests. If she pissed him off enough, then maybe her death would be quick. "Did the officers send off the profits your way from their exploits? Let you sample the product? You have to be careful. I would hate for such an esteemed prince of the empire to get sick. You would have to be replaced by one of your hundred siblings. Maybe they should put a babe on the throne. They would probably be kinder. Or at least cuter when they throw coins at the dirty commoners.

"Maybe I would come to understand after all your father is fossilized shit, but you're a hypocrite. You do not even protect the people you claim to serve!" She took a deep breath, relishing the hints of rage in the narrowing of his eyes and stiffness of his jaws despite the fixed, genial smile. "I saw those soldiers, just running wave after wave into the city's traps. They had little choice when they're punished by having their skin peeled off their back for disobedience. You cared not one whit about their plight. You didn't even need to pay lip service to them because they're also not human. You needed a distraction, so you ordered them to die without even having a hope at success. The only life you care about is your own."

The prince leaned back, adopting the air of a disappointed school teacher. "You done?"

She flushed, trembling with rage. "No! Get your ass cooked first, literally!"

The corners of his lips inched upwards.

"Britannian coward," she spat. "Stop hiding and fight me. I'll kill you and ship your bloody head off to your father."

A slap whipped her face to the side.

"Henry," the prince chided. "If you cannot restrain yourself, stand over there."

She touched her bloody lip. "Can't stand the sight of blood before you, is that it? Coward."

The prince unfolded his legs and stood. She hated how she had to lean back, crane her neck, to keep him in sight as he approached. The prince was tall, taller than any of his guards, but it was his presence that filled the room.

However much she screamed and raged, he would always be in control, and he knew it.

With a soft, patronizing smile, he squatted across them, finally bringing them eye to eye. "You are here so I can thank you. I always reward my subordinates for a job well done. I sent you two off, and the objectives were accomplished in large parts due to your efforts despite the hiccups along the way."

A puppet string wrapped around her throat. "Objectives?"

"Well, Brigadier Marienburg, of the House of Hannover, now stands charged of treason for publicly defying my orders, and worse, enduring a humiliating defeat at the hands of some Numbers. Due to the scandal, General Ewell has tendered his resignation as well."

Hannover? Her fingers itched for her history books. If the Britannians hadn't touched the dorm rooms, they might still be there, sitting on the desk. Regardless, the way he said it made it clearly an internal political dispute.

"You capitalized on the moment," Manon argued. "You couldn't have planned this."

"I couldn't have? When do coincidences cease being chance and become design? You had motivation, were granted knowledge, and paraded about until the late Brigadier was gnashing his teeth at the impropriety. Even the tunnel's entrance was barely guarded, perfect for someone to make an escape. You two would have been separated, but Jim"—the man violently flinched—"was a little too sentimental."

If he spoke the truth, he was the demon the media made him out to be. Perhaps Leila Malcal had not been weak at heart or hungering for power, but simply ensnared in his web of puppet strings. Manon had been wary, but once the prince was out of sight, her guard had lowered.

Were Art and Fritz part of his scheme too? Art had mentioned where the tunnel was, but he had turned a blind eye to treason as well.

Nimra's hand caught her wrist as she finally looked up at the monster. "Who?"

"Yes?" he prompted.

"Who betrayed us?"

"Does it matter? There will always be someone who can be plied for the right price."

"Who?" she pressed.

"Why should I tell you?" he countered.

"You said we were to be congratulated and rewarded."

"As my subordinates, yes." He tilted his head. "Are you my subordinates?"

Manon pooled her spit in her mouth.

"Then why me?" Nimra asked.

Manon spat. The glob hit him on the cheek.

Remarkably unconcerned, the prince pulled out a handkerchief. "Do you know what the weapons of princes, of leaders, are?"

To equate a prince with a leader was typical Britannian foolery.

"An army grants weight to all decrees" Nimra answered coldly.

"An army is a wild beast that will turn and bite the hand that fed it, but the decrees…" His face softened. "Words are what secure you an army, they leverage your influence, they bind loyalties. You know violence as well. You kept the peace in this city. What was your weapon of choice?"

"Words…" She shook her head. "It wasn't to fight!"

"Your essays were not to fight? Should I be interviewing the translator instead, then? Because those were fighting words."

Nimra scowled. "Do you think I will work for you? Betray my people? I will never stop fighting you."

"I am inviting you to. I would be rather disappointed if you gave up now." His smile now at any other time would've been charming. It sent ice down her spine. "Those short pieces you attempted to smuggle to your friend were fascinating. I distributed them for you. Your name is well known across the Area now, even your valiant last stand in the former city of Mogadishu."

"The only thing you are making me is your martyr. I will not allow you to use my pen for your words. The people will know."

"You have not heard my offer yet. The problem with Britannian rule is that we do not know these lands, nor frankly does your average Britannian care about some distant Area. Some major companies enjoy the reduced restrictions on market and labor. A handful of nobles will also gain titles from which they will collect dues, but frankly most will never even set foot in Area Fifteen. So either I maintain Britannian policy and fill posts with endless incompetent sycophants who will keep the fires of rebellion well fed until the pot inevitably boils over, leaving me to clean up the mess, or…

"I invite the Numbers into the administration under Britannia's guiding policy. Within such a framework, the people will be left to rule themselves and handle the consequences thereof. Britannia reduces its presence because there is no need for our interference beyond military objectives."

Nimra stared at him for a moment, her expression wavering between revulsion and desire. "You would have us enslave ourselves and our people."

"If you wish to see it like that. So would you reject the opportunity to have a voice in your own fate? Representation, that is what the European conglomerate wants, isn't it? Or do you think you will manage to unite the discordant rabble looking for their next meals? You already failed to repel Britannia. To expel Britannia will be much harder."

"I find we have such a fundamental disagreement in values that this would be an exercise in futility." Nimra crossed her arms. "You assume Britannia will be indomitable. The propaganda at home must be stifling to accept such defeatism. Kill us. Torture us. I only ask that you end this farce."

"So you reject power and the opportunity to use it to build a stronger resistance that will strike when the time is right."

"Like I would have any power beyond weaving illusions. I will not be your shield."

He seemed pleased by that and stood. With a sigh, he reclaimed his seat, "Then I will simply have to convince you otherwise. Until then, you are free to write and rally as many as you can. I wonder how successful you will be."

Manon swallowed, her heart beating loudly in her chests. He did not act like a Brit prince, yet his implicit assumption of his own victory made him a quintessential Britannian.

Nimra shifted. "What will you do?"

"I have been granted the privilege of appointing the Viceroy. Unfortunately, it would be too presumptuous of me to select a Number. I have not yet proven such a system could work and I cannot make it work without a case study. So as a compromise, the Viceroy will take a Number as his wife."

"No, no, no." Nimra leaned back. "You won't make me. I refuse."

"You are a symbol. Their feelings really do not matter in the grand scheme of things." His smile was almost sympathetic, even though he was pushing forward such a horrific proposition. "And you will because you have so much to gain… and so much to lose."

"Lose?"

"Your friend is a French agent sent to spy on me. It would be terribly negligent of me to let her escape across the border and return home to spill her scandalous secrets… to let the world know of what transpired here."

"I don't—" Nimra met her eyes desperately as if she had a solution.

"Don't do this," Manon whispered.

"The marriage will go through." He glanced at her. "You did help me, so perhaps I should let you choose your form of execution although I regret we have nothing as clean as a guillotine for spies."

"Let her go, please," Nimra begged. "Just let her go."

"Then you agree?"

"How do I know…"

"That she will return home safely?" The prince leaned forward. "You'll be the Viceroy's wife. You can call whoever you want although do abstain from being too blatant in treason. You do have to earn our trust to do more."

Manon pushed herself upright. "No! You cannot do this. I refuse. I will not go peacefully. I will not—"

"Do you intend to betray the EU as well?"

She bit her tongue. Nimra rose and rested a calming hand on her shoulder.

"Do you enjoy being cruel?" Manon asked.

He considered her question for a minute with a slight frown. "I enjoy puzzles. Finding the right pieces until everything fits is satisfying."

"Shut up," Nimra hissed. Louder, she said, "I agree to your terms. Just... Make sure she comes home safe… Can we have one night before?"

"I am not needlessly cruel."

"Then… Who will be my husband?"

He smirked in satisfaction. He had won the round.

Slowly, he rose and turned to his guards plus one extra, and in English, he said, "I would like to congratulate you, Jim."

The man looked up in confusion. "Your Highness?"

"My father has allowed me to choose anyone I wish as the Viceroy of Area Fifteen. Would that be an adequate enough retirement for your years of diligent service?"

His eyes widened as if his prince had hung the moon. "Not Pablo?"

"He has his own path."

Jim dropped to his knee, his arm crossing over his chest: textbook perfect. "You are too kind, Your Highness. I, James Gill, will gladly accept this position. I swear I will serve you faithfully."

The prince had his puppet. There was no need for him to claim the position himself and deal with the tedious affairs of the state.

"As part of this," the prince continued, "Nimra has agreed to marry you. Do you accept?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

---

Things being properly fucked up in a way only an outside pov can manage, I can finally declare a proper finis to the book...

For those curious, the epilogue is 35k and the length is why book 3 has been delayed because the short story(hah) I wanted to tell kept requiring more words.

Thank you Nektry, Gabriel, Lily, Dark, and Jarod for all your hard work with this beast.

Now go enjoy book 3 :)

Chat with me on the discord: discord . gg / uSBegVj