A/N : Reviews : I'd say moral bankruptcy and an unhealthy obsession with revenge against a whole nation-state are pretty serious flaws.
EDIT : Minor grammar edits and ending tweaked very slightly.
It was a scene of carnage. The office buildings nearby had escaped mostly untouched, but the main street was smoldering ruin. Half-melted Knightmares had crashed through a few of the relatively thin brick walls that composed a nearby print shop and a computer store. The symmetrical stone steps leading up to the Pacific War memorial were another matter altogether.
A police line had been set up, with yellow tape and stone-faced officers standing guard over the scene. Bloodstains still littered the ground, often corresponding with nearby tape outlines in the shapes of humans. Nineteen black synthetic leather bags were lined up in a neat little row over to the side of the street.
A man stood facing the camera and holding a microphone up to his face. He wore a dark gray suit over a mauve shirt and purple tie. He had a solemn expression plastered over his face even as his coverage of the incident began.
"This is Fred Jones with AENN, your only source for reliable, on the scene coverage of breaking news. As you can see-" He gestured to the crime scene behind him, earning glares from the MP units that had set up. Five purple and maroon Sutherlands stood guard over the site. Others were patrolling the side streets or performing a sweep of the main Boulevard. They would be coming and going out of the screen for the entirety of the broadcast, a constant reminder that the military was still in control. "-The grand opening of the Pacific War Memorial hosted by Prince Clovis will was brutally cut short earlier today when an unknown perpetrator attacked during the middle of the ceremony!" He shouted with emphasis and indignation that anyone would dare to attack a sacred service to Britannia's fallen soldiers.
"Approximately 20 members of our armed forces tragically lost their lives in what can only be described as an unprovoked and cowardly surprise attack by terrorists intending to disrupt the ceremony. As you can see, the scene speaks for itself…" He gestured again to the memorial steps, covered in blood and tape outlines as the screen panned in that direction and then back to him. "So far, reports on the terrorists behind this incident are disturbingly scarce. Preliminary statements taken from attendees of the grand opening this morning have only produced three resolutely common facts. One, the savage and immediate murder of the policemen providing security for the event. Two, the approach of a number of unidentified flying objects from the skies behind the building immediately preceding the attack. And three, the complete and utter annihilation of the Knightpolice and even military Knightmare Corps! Whatever faction has attacked Viceroy Prince Clovis' ceremony was well-equipped and organized, casting serious doubts on General Aleister's claims that Area 11 was among the most stable and safe of Britannia's conquered territory after the implementation of the controversial Proactive Internment Act. Prince Clovis, an ardent supporter of General Aleister's policies, was unavailable for comment-"
-Click
The screen turned black instantly as a gloved hand set down the remote.
"Here that, your highness, you're unavailable for comment." Lelouch taunted his brother in a mocking and sarcastic digitally amplified voice. He turned to face his prisoner as the they cowered and clung to their bonds as if they might protect him for the man in front of him.
Clovis was currently bound to an old and splintery wooden armchair with a four sets of handcuffs attached to his wrists and ankles around the chair's legs and armrests. "I suppose Aleister didn't feel like admitting that your whereabouts were still unknown. Understandable, given his obviously inaccurate statements as to the effectiveness of his little prison camp system." He continued. He was laying it on a little thick, but it was a necessary part of his plan. Much as he didn't want to admit it, Clovis was a crucial part of that plan. The success of his future operations depended on the assumption that the terrified prince would continue on as viceroy after this little stunt reached it's conclusion.
Oh, he hadn't forgiven Clovis for his sins, of course. Not at all. Clovis, while not the driving force behind the 'Proactive Internment Act', was more than involved enough to consider him complicit. More to the point, Clovis was through and through a Britannian prince. A propagator of Britannian oppression and a the ultimate symbol of Britannia's delusional superiority complex; a monarch with the power of life and death of countless subjects for no other reason than their birthright.
Still, it was unlikely that Clovis was the man behind the assassination of Empress Marianne. If Lelouch had thought that he'd had anything to do with that, Clovis would not be nearly so comfortable right now. Or alive, for that matter. Fortunately for the viceroy, there was simply no basis to place the blame on Clovis.
For one thing, Clovis and Lelouch had been…friends, as children. The thought disgusted him now, but back then Clovis had been one of the few siblings of similar age to himself. It made sense that they would befriend one another, sociologically. It seemed unlikely that Clovis would have the empress killed on such a petty matter as her social birthrank. Also, Clovis had clearly degraded into a sniveling, effeminate coward in the last five years. He couldn't picture the cretin before him organizing and planning out an assassination of the emperor's wife; such an action would require, at the very least, a shred of courage.
"You're probably wondering what it is I want with you, your highness." he turned to face him directly. he hadn't taken off his mask at any point when he transported Clovis to his hideout, and had taken the precaution of blindfolding Clovis. Not only did it protect the location of my hideout, but it also served as a reminder to him that he was at a disadvantage with him. Pyschology was one of the more useful subjects that he had devoted time to studying, so interrogation and persuasion weren't too far out of his league so long as he was careful.
"Y-you're some kind of t-terrorist…aren't you?" Clovis stammered. He had never been particularly brave as a child, and it would appear that emerging into adulthood in a lath of luxury had done little for his mettle.
Lelouch grinned unpleasantly, not that Clovis could see it. "Yes. I suppose I am, under the literal definition of the term, at least." Terror was merely a tool that an intelligent person, such as himself, used to benefit themselves. "And that brings us to our next order of business…" he continued.
In front of Clovis, he had set up one of the cameras from my workshop at home. It was slightly modified with my own electrical work to wire it up better with modern equipment. Lelouch was by no means an AV specialist, but he was far and away more adept at it than the typical cinematic arts student.
he looked into the camera and waited for the red 'record' dot and letters in the upper right to light up. Good. Everything was in proper working order. Now to prepare his co-star.
He reached up and removed the dark canvas blindfold from Clovis' eyes. "Ugh!" The man flinched in surprise and terror at suddenly having his sight restored to him, much to Lelouch's displeasure. He could think of someone else who would've been overjoyed at such a boon.
Clovis' eyes were wide with anxiety at his predicament. He looked around from left to right frantically, searching for anything that could be of aid to him. Searching for a way out. Lelouch smirked at his brother's vain struggle. His hideout wasn't hidden as well as it might be, due to lack of any liquid resources at his disposal. Still, it's location was ideal for avoiding any search parties that might have been dispatched to find Clovis or himself.
The Shinjuku Ruins.
Shinjuku was, basically, an empty wasteland where man and beast alike feared to tread. Bombed out and collapsing skyscrapers teetered on cracked foundations, and most of the roads had been destroyed due to either the rigors of war or lack of maintenance. Debris littered the ground and broken down structures collapsed in on themselves to the ground. The once pristine and technologically advanced monorail system had it's supporting columns destroyed in several places, by the looks of it by a Britannian Abrams MBT.
The result was the whole thing breaking down under it's own weight and plummeting to the earth, caving in already weakened buildings and littering the streets with concrete fragments.
Lelouch had chosen to make this place his base of operations for the time being. Ashford was too much of a security risk, as his control over the guest house was somewhat tenuous. Anyone could enter unannounced, and it would be…problematic, for one of the students to stumble upon some of the things that he kept at his hideout.
Now that Clovis was free to look around, he spotted one of his projects that he had recently been well-acquainted with.
The Drones. Flying weapons platforms he had spent the majority of this year finishing up the construction of and fine tuning.
The idea had actually come to him over the course of the first summer he had spent at the Ashfords. He had, of course, already begun the first steps on his path to vengeance against the Emperor and all of his subjects and lackeys and minions. The problem that presented itself at that point was, of course, that he had no followers of his own.
He had long since learned that people were often unreliable, self-serving creatures. There were predictable ones, of course, but they were often incompetent or unimaginative. A stray thought had crossed his mind at that moment.
Obviously, at this delicate stage in his plans, he could not afford to rely on uncontrolled factors such as the support of human beings. He had no safety nets, no fall back plans should some unforeseen factor derail any of his plans. He could not afford to make mistakes at this juncture. But he still needed subordinates; minions, to carry out his will without his own physical presence or to support him in the field, as his creations had done yesterday.
Robotics, that was the key. That was the thought he had embraced that summer, and he had worked tirelessly with it for the ensuing years. Unflinchingly loyal, physically imposing subordinates that would only ever obey his commands and do nothing else to jeopardize them. He could program them as he liked, instilling whatever actions he wanted into their computers. Gathering information from them would be as simple as installing recording devices into their synthetic eyes and audio receptors. Their bodies could be molded into whatever form he needed, and back again, limited only by his own abilities rather than theirs.
In short, perfection.
It had been a daunting task, of course. The field of robotics had not advanced significantly in over twenty years. Britannia, the leading superpower nation with all of the funding and prestige, had phased out UAVs and the like from their military program in favor of the Knightmare Frame, despite serving dissimilar purposes.
Indeed, the ridiculous humanoid machines had completely dominated Britannia's research and development budget for virtually their entire existence. It was always about the next big development in Knightmare Frames and the like. Britannia was so enamored with their overpriced walking tanks that they didn't stop to consider other, more innovative paths that military technology could take.
Lelouch did not suffer from any such delusion. His drones were proof of that.
The fruits of nearly two years of labor hung proudly before him, as each of his drones were currently suspended by chains from the ceiling, except for the largest one.
It was his personal 'command' drone, which had a platform mounted on the back of it where he could either stand or sit in a steel swiveling chair he had welded to the platform. It included a control console that he could use to manually pilot the drone, as well as issuing real-time orders to the fleet of smaller drones that accompanied it.
All of his drones were covered in an armored chassis fashioned into the shape of his mask. The reasoning was that, according to his studies, a singular, identifiable and distinctive threat was more intimidating than a mysterious, unknowable one. At least on the massive scale that he planned on operating on. Indeed, the nature of his weaponry left little room for subtlety in any case.
He had forged the chasses from steel he had salvaged from the destroyed cars and tanks left to rust in the Shinjuku ruins. He had found a (relatively) intact parking garage, and many of the cars were still in good condition. Tanks were much harder to find, and he had only managed to salvage the armor of one. Even that was in relatively poor condition- it was riddled with bullet holes and had a gaping crevice punched through it from where a Glasgow had grazed it with an Anti-Material Cannon. The reactive armor had saved it from being completely gutted, but it would never be operational again. Luckily, Lelouch was able to melt down some of the armor for it's metal. From that, it was simple enough to shape it into the chassis with a few specialized tools he had fashioned for the task.
The chassis was just the armored exterior. The insides of the drones were, essentially, a heavily modified Factsphere system and a custom built computer. He had been able to make the computers himself using components from the old desktops at Ashford, car radios, cell phones, and shoplifted parts from RadioShack.
The Factspheres had been much harder to come by. Oh, he could access the schematics easily enough. Reuben had been integral in the design of the system, after all, as the Ashford Foundation had been the group to engineer the first and second generation of Knightmare Frames. Unfortunately, Factspheres were only available as a package in conjunction with Knightmares- and those were commercial grade models with no targeting software built in. No, only military grade hardware would serve his purposes. The problem was that his allowance would simply not cover the cost of black-market Glasgows and the components needed to manufacture his own Factspheres were unavailable commercially. He could theoretically design his own system, but going down that route would be extremely time consuming. It would have set back his schedule by at least another year to finish designing and constructing a similar device, and that was just the prototype.
So, his only option had been to somehow get his hands on some severed Glasgow heads. A tall order, even for someone as resourceful as himself. Stealing them from the military was out of the question, as Knightmares were guarded even more jealously than Britannia's other vehicles. Each Knightmare was parked in a secure hangar when not in use, and each required a special 11-digit code to activate. Without it, it would take hours to hack through the top-of-the-line security software every Knightmare packed. It was far too huge of a gamble to assume that they would be left alone for that long.
In the end, he'd ended up having to scavenge through Shinjuku for the Factspheres. Japan had put up a hell of a fight before Britannia managed to overwhelm them with a constant naval blockade and numberless troops pouring in from all over the empire. The invasion had stalled when they met unexpected resistance, and General Bartley's forces had been bogged down for quite some time before the Britannians tired of his incompetence. From what Lelouch understood, the man had been put in front of a firing squad after having his noble titles revoked and was summarily replaced and forgotten about by General Vance Aleister. However, due to Bartley's mismanagement, many Glasgows were still unaccounted for by Britannian clean-up teams, particularly in the ghettos and ruins.
Finders keepers, as the saying went. In any case, Lelouch had managed to gather five Factspheres so far. On their own, they were worthless to his endeavors. However, with his modifications and supplementary inventions, they were quite useful.
Yesterday had been their unofficial field test. He had of course tested their hover engines before; working out the kinks out of that had nearly lost him one of his precious Factspheres… But they had worked liked a charm.
The Factspheres were in fact the main weapon of the Drones. The original device released a radar pulse from the frontal bulb after an armored shell lifted up. This gave the pilot of the Knightmare valuable supplementary information such as thermal imaging and updated IFF imaging overlay data. Lelouch's modifications changed the purpose of the Factsphere somewhat. Or, rather, it expanded upon it. The Factspheres hidden behind the polarized visor of the mask-shaped chasses still provided the supplementary visual data, but it now included an 'offensive mode', which required the bulb lens to be mechanically shifted for the weaponized version. This simply changed the type of wave that the Factsphere bulb produced; instead of a radar pulse, it now emitted microwaves. The polarizing lenses that could be seen as the faceplate on his mask actually functioned to magnify the microwaves, creating an even deadlier effect. Lelouch had needed to line the insides of the chasses with lead and obtain a significantly larger superconductor in order to get the pseudo-microwave emitter to produce a high enough yield to get the results he wanted, but it had been worth it. The superheated Knightmare cockpits had been impressive, to say the least.
Energy fillers, unlike Factspheres, were easier to come by in the commercial market. He still couldn't afford them on his budget, but theft had been significantly less risky. A nobleman's fancy sakuradite-powered car was a lot less likely to be stopped than a Glasgow at a checkpoint.
The hover system had been the easiest to come up with. He had more or less just miniaturized a VTOL system and put the engines on tracks at the back of the drone. They could then shift in whatever direction was necessary while constantly generating lift. The blades had to be made of specially treated titanium, coated in a chemical layer of his own creation to heighten the melting point of the rotating blades considerably. This allowed for them to be spun at an otherwise unthinkable rate, creating an extremely maneuverable and versatile hover drone.
He was quite proud of his work on the drones. Aside from the microwave emitters, each drone carried two simple missiles that he had made from interior lead-lined steel cylinders with cones on the end and some aerodynamic fins. The missiles were filled with whatever explosives Lelouch could put together and a pressure sensitive detonator at the end. It wouldn't activate until the missile had already been launched by the drone, as a safety feature. Each drone had two missiles each, launched from hidden chambers on the spiky side fins.
His command drone had a more comprehensive armament. In addition to a larger-scaled microwave emitter, it had ten improvised missiles and a light machinegun turret mounted in front of his swiveling command chair. It had two curved steel plates on either side of the turret that protected him from incoming frontal small arms fire, cannibalized from an actual static defense turret he had scavenged the components for from multiple wrecked tanks.
Altogether, his little fleet cut an intimidating sight, even in his modest, workshop-esque Shinjuku hideout. Clovis paled as he saw them up close for the second time, and was no doubt remembering the devastation they had wrought upon his security detail.
"A simple question." Lelouch continued and grabbed Clovis' attention once more. Another reason he had designed the drones' chasses in the shape of his mask; they were invariably and unassailably associated with himself, and thus any terror or awe felt towards his creations would transfer to him. His mask had already become a symbol of death and terror in the mind of the older prince, and he thus commanded the man's undivided attention. "Do you know the significance of this Tuesday?"
Clovis looked confused for a moment, even as he sweated in his finely tailored purple and white garment. "T-Tuesday…? Wh-what about it?"
Tsk tsk, thought Lelouch. His brother was normally smarter than this, but he supposed the anxiety of being held captive by a terrorist was not a novelty he was particularly familiar with in his life of power and control. "The fifth of November, your highness. Surely you know." Realization dawned on Clovis' face, and he grew pale as his blue eyes widened as far as ever before.
"Guy Fawkes Night…" He breathed. Of course, celebration of that particular holiday had been banned by royal decree in 1741. Something or other about dissidence and sedition. Guy Fawkes' actual religious motivations had very little to do with the current political climate, or even his own purposes, but Lelouch liked the imagery of rebellion that Fawkes inspired. Particularly, home-grown Britannian rebellion. If it was going to be obvious to everyone that he was not an Eleven, he may as well play up his own angle for all it was worth. "You can't be serious…" Clovis said disbelievingly. The man had probably believed him to be an Eleven, possibly funded by either the EU or China.
"Deadly." I deadpanned.
"Y-you're a Britannian? B-but But why?" Clovis, it seemed, was genuinely confused.
"…Why? Why? Really, Clovis? You don't know why? You can't think, with that infantile, foppish, inbred mind of yours why anyone in Britannia could possibly disagree with your government's administration? Allow me to pose a question of my own to you then, your highness. If there exists no possible reasons for dissent and rebellion among your own people, why all of the police state controls and media censorship? Why does the government watch every move the people make? Why have you illegalized trade unions? Why do you send men with guns to people's houses in the night if they express opinions on the television that deviate from accepted parameters in your little secret board meetings with the department of information? I could list off their crimes against the Britannian people by the century, but that's not really the point of this conversation. I'll answer my own question, not yours. My question was why you did all of those rather nasty things to your own people, let alone what you do to the rightful owners of lands that you steal from actually legitimate governments. The answer is because you are afraid, your highness. You and your whole little inbred family of sadistic man-children are mind-bogglingly terrified of anyone ever seriously asking themselves another question; What, exactly, makes the royalty better than any other bloke just like us? That is the question you're afraid of people asking seriously. Oh, sure, you have that whole cock and bull story of how you're supermen. Bred for fighting and born geniuses and all that. Do you know what I think about that?" Clovis shook his head slowly. The royal obviously didn't like where this conversation was headed. His gaping-mouthed horror had been replaced with a creeping, pale dread. Even so, his jaw was locked with taught lips, indicating his barely restrained anger. How dare this commoner upstart criticize my rule, he must be thinking. "Well…" Lelounch went on. He gripped Clovis' shoulder with a gloved hand in a vice grip, intentionally making him uncomfortable and invading his personal space.
"Your current situation should be rather indicative as to my opinion on that particular question, your highness." A not so subtle reminder of his captive's predicament, and a sarcastic jibe at his superiority complex to put the icing on the cake.
"What do you want from me?!" Clovis half snapped, half begged. Neither of which types of statements were really appropriate for the situation, but Lelouch decided against being a grammar-Britannian. His little speech had done little to move his plans along, but he had assigned a certain number of minutes to taunting Clovis and was loathe to waste them.
"Ah yes, the straight to the point. Quite unusual for a Britannian aristocrat. Usually you lot bandy words like a gang of teenaged girls gossiping about their favorite Knight of the Round. In any case, you'll be pleased to hear that your role in my plans is actually quite small." He saw a glimmer of hope begin to make its home in Clovis' eyes.
"W-what is it, then?" He asked, trying not to sound too eager. Clovis was always rather transparent to Lelouch, if not in general. He'd sell out his administration's goals in a heartbeat if he thought it would save his skin.
"It's simple. So long as General Aleister grants my very reasonable request, you'll be dropped off back at your home, unharmed. If not, well…" he dragged it out, and then his voice took on a slower, more deliberately ominous tone. "You will be required to participate in an altogether different sort of message to Britannia…" If that wasn't foreboding enough to crush that tiny twinge of hope Clovis had felt, Lelouch didn't know what was.
After delivering that unpleasant but ultimately meaningless warning, Lelouch departed from Clovis' immediate presence without replacing his blindfold. He instead returned shortly while bearing a camera tripod.
"Smile for the camera, your highness."
Monday, November the Fourth, 2015 a.t.b.
"General! General Aleister!" Called out Jonas Hartley, a mid-ranked adjutant. No relation to the now ousted and disgraced General Aspirus. He had just burst through the automatic doors and into the war room unannounced, so he would most likely be permanently demoted if this wasn't suitably important.
General Aleister massaged his temples at the sound of Hartley's voice. If there was one thing he had learned in the last two days as acting governor of Area 11, it was that Hartley's voice rarely bore good news. Indeed, the man would almost be better suited to a life as a black raven than a man, or so snide conversations in the officer's cafeteria would have you believe.
"What is it this time, Hartley? In case you hadn't noticed, we're in the middle of a very important meeting!" Sneered Colonel Remington. That, in Aleister's opinion, was a lie. This was the third such meeting they had organized, ostensibly to determine the best course of action over the 'Viceroy Situation'. Between all of the blame-gaming and infighting as to what course of action they should take, little had been accomplished.
"Enough. Let the boy say whatever it is he needs to tell us. Continue." He gestured towards Hartley.
Hartley displayed none of the gratefulness he would have normally shown when Aleister cut him a break, instead keeping a grim and alarmed visage. He bowed low as he approached Aleister at the head of the table, and held out what looked like a DVD. "Sir, the Viceroy's office received this in a parcel this morning. It's…urgent." Aleister raised an eyebrow and examined the disk. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary…and then he turned it over. His eyes widened and he barely restrained a surprised choke.
Taped to the back of the disk was a photograph of Prince Clovis! He was handcuffed to a chair and blindfolded, and he looked worse for wear. His once fine purple garment was torn and dirty, stained with sweat. Prince Clovis looked exceptionally pale, and his face was actually bruised! There would be hell to pay for whoever was behind this! "Explain." He said shortly, leveling his face into a glare.
Hartley, to his credit, answered concisely and with a calm demeanor that did nothing to detract from his obvious alarm. It was only thanks to his rigorous military training and personal discipline that he was keeping it cool. "At approximately O' nine hundred this morning, a courier delivered a sealed cardboard box with no return address to the front desk of the Tokyo Settlement City Hall, with a paper note taped on the top of the box saying that it was to be delivered to whomever was currently in charge of Area 11. The note was composed of magazine cutout letters, and the secretary manning the desk almost threw it away until a guard had the sense to stop her. Realizing that it might have something to do with the Viceroy's…disappearance…." Hartley had hesitated for a moment. Aleister would have chuckled at that any other time.
The Viceroy's abduction had been hushed up by the OSI, but preliminary reports of the incident had already been released by firsthand accounts. It had been impossible to force a retraction without stepping on the toes of half a dozen media moguls who had decided to get in on the action. Most of them had titles, too, so Aleister had wisely decided not to make too big a deal of it. It appeared that his judgement had been correct.
"So he sent it with Sir Loxley, one of the Knights assigned to guard the palace, to the G-1, sir. I was the man on call, so I received it personally. I thought it best to deliver it to you immediately, sir."
Aleister nodded grimly. "Good work, soldier. Head down to the barracks and put the men on secondary alert." Hartley saluted. "Something tells me they might see some action sooner than I'd anticipated…"
The soldiers currently garrisoned in Area 11 were, generally, not of the highest caliber. The initial invasion had gone essentially as anticipated, but the stiff and unexpected resistance by the Elevens had caught Aspirus off guard. Bartley Aspirus was hardly command material in the first place, in Aleister's opinion. The only reason he had been put in charge of the invasion in the first place was because Cornelia was still tied up in the Gulf Conflict and Aspirus had family connections.
It had always been presumed by the upper echelons at command that Britannia's superior numbers and the technological advantage given by Knigtmares as well as air superiority would win the war for them, no matter how incompetent the general in charge was.
Aleister shook his head at the naivete. He had always believed that leaving a fat buffoon like Aspirus in command of such an important operation was a huge blunder on their part, but his vindication rang hollow when they got the first reports of their casualty figures after the initial landing.
All told, over 90,000 Britannian military personnel had had lost their lives in order to safeguard Britannia's access to these godforsaken islands and their pink rocks. Over a million wounded, and billions of pounds lost in Glasgows, Tanks, Jets, and Helicopters. Thanks to the new focus on developing more powerful and numerous Knightmares, many of the conventional armor such as tanks or APCs lost in the invasion had yet to be replaced. Chief General Cornelia's predilection towards Knightmares did nothing to speed it along, so while the Area 11 Garrison had plenty of Glasgows, virtually their entire army was overspecialized with an anti-armor and air role. Aleister found that to be unacceptable, of course, for the simple reason that that war had already been won. All they had to worry about now were terrorists and guerilla fighters, potentially. Knightmares were simply overkill for that sort of warfare.
For one thing, while Knightmares were much lauded for their versatility, Aleister had his doubts. They served a variety of combat purposes, true, but it was his personal belief that they should not rely solely on any single machine to put an entire war effort on it's back. As the old saying went, you shouldn't put all of your eggs in one basket.
Tanks, for one thing, had no vulnerable leg joints to target. Knightmares were faster due to their shape and their landspinners despite being almost as heavy, but that also meant that they had significantly more weak points to target. Not only that, but they would be glaringly obvious, as they were shared with the human body. The head, joints, and of course the cockpit/chest cavity. This was normally compensated for by the Knightmare's speed, which made it difficult for tanks or missiles to target accurately unless they were remotely controlled.
This advantage was also voided by the current situation. A terrorist would hardly alert a patrol to his presence before firing at the leg joints with a bazooka or something, and a legless Glasgow was a pitiful opponent indeed, even for the inferior Eleven military. Fortunately, Aleister had nipped the terrorist problem in the bud when he pushed through the Proactive Internment Act. They were popularly referred to as "Number Control Laws", and some of the aristocrats made noises of implementing them in other areas. Unfortunately, that was not feasible, despite its possible necessity. The only reason he had gotten away with it past all of the liberals and media watchdogs was because of how brutal and bloody the invasion had been. It had shocked Britannia to the core, how hard it had been to take three tiny islands off the coast of China, especially after several high-ranking military officials had guaranteed a quick and decisive Britannian victory.
A year later, those same men had needed to save face somehow. That was when Aleister had made his move. He proposed the Proactive Internment Act, to imprison all male Elevens of military age or background, including the majority of government employees. Genbu Kururugi himself had been spared the noose to keep the Elevens docile. If he'd had the man killed as he so desired for costing so many Britannian lives with that spiteful total resistance declaration of his, he'd have been dealing with riots for months. Instead, he let the man live in a semi-comfortable cell in the most secure prison camp in Area 11, who some droll Knight or other dubbed Little Wallabout. Over fifty Glasgows were stationed there, all outfitted with their standard military loadout of Knightmare Rifles and Slash Harkens.
Slash Harkens did nothing that man-portable cable guns couldn't accomplish just as easily, or even mounted on tanks. VTOL aircraft were nowadays relegated to a support role, ferrying troops and equipment into combat. There was some talk of using them to start carrying Knightmares back in R&D, but that wouldn't really be addressing the problem. In addition to all of the above points, many of the anti-armor capabilities of the Glasgows were being removed as well. Carrying anti-armor linear cannons on the arms had become something of a hassle in the tight confines of the settlements, and ammunition was scarce due to the lack of necessity for anti-armor weaponry in Area 11. There were no tanks left to fight, and much of Britannia's industrial capacity was tied up in several other ongoing wars. It was truly fortunate that the situation with China was more or less stable after their show of force in Area 11, because the truth was that the Garrison was woefully unprepared for an invasion. Their only saving grace was that the navy had remained more or less untouched by the war due to their quick knock-out of the Elevens' naval forces with a combined sea and air surprise attack.
Unfortunately, Aleister was a realist, and accordingly realized that Knightmares wouldn't be phased out of use anytime soon despite their questionable applicability in guerilla-style warfare. The reasons for this were mostly sociopolitical.
Britannia had a relatively large sub-class of the sons of minor nobles and wealthy commoners, both of which felt entitled to better positions and benefits that the lesser footmen. The problem was that they couldn't simply give them all minor officer positions as was traditionally done; their military would quickly become ridiculously top-heavy, to the point that they would have almost half as many officers as foot soldiers. Having a sergeant-or-above for every two privates was simply not practical. As the wealth of the average Britannian increased to astronomical heights due to the prosperity brought on by their military conquests, so too did their expectations for preferential treatment in the military. They were too numerous and influential to simply deny them, so the solution was of course Knighthood.
A Knighthood was an unlanded and non-hereditary noble title given to the Devicers who manned a Knightmare. This provided plenty of capable pilots once they finished the training program at one of the many prestigious military academies attended by the second or third sons of noblemen and wealthy commoners who would otherwise not inherit any substantial amount from their families. This way, they were satisfied with an acceptably suitable role in the armed forces and many more future prospects should they distinguish themselves. It served that purpose as well as providing Cornelia with plenty of capable pilots for her new favorite toys, but of course Aleister would never make that opinion known out loud, as it would highly imprudent and doubtlessly stunt his prospects for advancement. He didn't reach the rank of General despite only being a Baron himself without being political.
All of this, though, had him worried more than it probably should have. They knew next to nothing about the perpetrator behind the Prince's abduction, and this had Aleister scared. If the Third Prince of Britannia died on his watch, he was finished, one way or the other. On one hand, he was the man who had let a Prince be kidnapped and murdered right under his nose. He could blame it on terrorists, sure, but his Proactive Internment Act would bite him in the ass on that one. He had promised the people of Britannia that Area 11 was thanks to his controversial policies and that the ends justified the means; they would crucify him for this if he failed to return the Prince unharmed. As it is now, he was just running damage control. The homeland had already been notified by him, of course, but because they botched the handling of the media, even the general public was quite aware that something was going down in Area 11. He would have to pin this on either the EU or an external terrorist threat if he wanted to spin this in his favor. Antagonizing China at this point would be a decidedly bad idea. No amount of giant robots would save them if they decided to pick a fight with both of the world's other superpowers while they were still engaged with smaller wars and barely hanging onto Area 6 by the skin of their teeth.
So with some trepidation he inserted the DVD into the disk reader underneath the LCD screen mounted on the wall to the side of the table furthest from the door. He stood back and joined his general staff as they waited and observed.
For a moment-nothing happened. Just a black screen. And then an image appeared.
It was Prince Clovis! Cuffed to the same chair in the picture! But…another image was superimposed over Clovis' face…It was a cartoonish rendition of a man with a wide smile and handlebar moustache with a thin beard and rosy cheeks. The eyebrows were in the typical 'angry' position, but the neutal black oval-shaped holes showed Clovis' blue orbs beneath them and the wide jovial smile confused the expression somewhat. The 'skin' of the face was a pale, light yellow.
"What the hell is that supposed to be?" Colonel Remington whispered. Colonels Franklin and Holloway echoed similar inquiries until Aleister shushed them, and the other dozen or so occupants of the table kept their peace in favor of simply watching the video. Aleister implored the chatty cathies to do so as well.
"Hello, and Salutations, most esteemed Generals and Command Staff of the Britannian Imperial Army. I believe that introductions are in order." The voice that emanated from the TV's speakers was not Clovis'. It had a harsh echo to it, like whoever was talking was wearing a pail over their head. But that voice! It was harsh, decisive, and cutting. It had a sharpness to it that Clovis lacked even at his orneriest. It thundered and boomed, rather than drawling out whimsically like Clovis tended to.
"My name is Zero. I am the one who kidnapped Third Prince Clovis last Sunday morning. Sufficient proof has been supplied to you of this fact in the photograph included with the DVD, and this video is proof that his highness may still count himself among the living." Aleister scrutinized the video thoroughly, and could indeed see deep rising and falling of Clovis' chest through his thin, robe-like shirt. The rest of the command staff watched and listened in morbid fascination, as did Aleister. If the kidnapper had intended to just kill Clovis and be done with it, and only disposed of Clovis' body to avoid the wrath of the Empire, he would be dead already. The only reason to kidnap a Prince and keep him alive was because you wanted something from the Empire. Aleister would play ball, for now. His career depended on it. He didn't let it show, but he was actually rather relieved.
This man, whoever he was, was clearly a Britannian. The echo may have partially disguised his voice, but his vocabulary and smooth aristocratic diction spoke of an educated, probably wealthy Britannian male, probably late twenties to early thirties. The advanced experimental weaponry they'd he'd reportedly used by some of the eyewitness civilians also supported that theory.
If Aleister played his cards right, he might be able to not only rescue Prince Clovis, but also marginalize the influence the business interests in Area 11 who'd been pressuring him for more cheap labor for the Sakuradite mines. He obviously wouldn't turn over such an important industry to potential Eleven terrorists or bitter old enemy soldiers, so the corporations had been forced to make due with women and child laborers, often malnourished and relatively few in number. Full-blooded Britannians refused to do such demeaning manual labor, so they had been forced to start scraping the bottom of the barrel for numbers. Aleister had flatly refused their pleas to make use of the untapped font of prison camp labor, but Aleister had flatly refused. Perhaps now they were playing hardball…
But this?! To kidnap the Third Prince of Britannia?! It boggled the mind to think that they would go so far for the promise of material wealth and fleeting profits, particularly when the OSI arrived. They were most likely already on board the first plane out of their headquarters in Pendragon and on their way to resolve this mess…
If he solved it before they got here, he could earn unparalleled prestige and honor. If not…there was always the possibility of them stealing all the credit. No way would he let that happen.
"That fact, however, is subject to change should my demands go unheeded." The "Zero" character went on calmly. Many of Aleister's cronies behind him and to the side growled at such impudence and blatant disrespect for the sanctity of the Royal Person, but Aleister kept a cool head. He had to play this right, and it looked like the kidnapper was about to make his demands. 'Zero' and his corporate backers or whoever else was behind this could be brought to heel once the Prince-and by extension and more importantly Aleister's own neck- was safe and sound on his way back to Pendragon to…recuperate from his terrifying ordeal, leaving his most trusted and competent savior and servant, General Vance Aleister in charge of Area 11 while he was away…
"The contents of this disk contain a secondary video, which you will air unedited-I cannot stress this point enough. You must not alter the content of the disk in any way or his highness's personal safety cannot be guaranteed-on the emergency broadcast channel, unannounced, on the evening November Fifth at precisely 8:30 P.M. The video will conclude in exactly six minutes and thirty-two seconds. At such a point that the video reaches it's conclusion, Clovis' location will be revealed." Aleister reached for the disk player to remove the DVD for analysis. Until he heard the next sentence.
"A warning…" Zero said quickly, but no less sharply than before. "This disk has been specially manufactured to play both of the videos exactly once. The video's will play only once, and burn out as they do so. If the second video does not play tomorrow night, indicating that you have accessed it, Clovis will die in a very spectacular and public manner. Please grant my reasonable and benevolent demands, and I give you my word of honor as a gentleman and a warrior that Prince Clovis will be returned to you unharmed and in mint condition. As a show of good faith, I will allow the Prince to speak with you for exactly twenty seconds, starting…now." The silly cartoon image of the mustached man's face blinked out to reveal a haggard looking Prince Clovis, who blinked once and then started to speak lowly, almost in a whisper. His raspy voice was amplified by whatever recording equipment Zero was using, and it occurred to Aleister that the Prince might not have had anything to eat or drink since the night before the grand opening of the Memorial Museum.
"Aleister…" The prince called out, desperately. He breathed heavily and was sweating profusely. "Aleister…listen to him! G-give him whatever he wants! Just do as he says, and get me out of here!" The Prince started shouting towards the end, and had to pant breaths between words. Aleister winced at the sight of Clovis' plight. There was no permanent damage, certainly, and the video could only play once apparently, but there were over a dozen men in the room with him. If it ever came to light that he saw this and did nothing, leading to the Prince's death…the quick death at the hands of an OSI assassin would be tender luxury he doubted he would receive.
The twenty seconds ran up as Clovis said his piece, and the video went out with a click. He had Hartley examine the disk, and the outer part of the rings were blacked and smoking a little as he removed it from the player. Aleister grimaced as Zero's threat proved not to be an idle one. His hands were tied.
"Well…what are your orders, General…?" Remington asked, all bravado vanished in the face of such a shocking display.
Aleister sneered in contempt at the feigned subservience. Remington had challenged his promotion to general on the basis of his relatively low birth, as Remington himself had been a lord of considerably higher social rank but with less martial prowess. Aleister only kept him around because his father would cause a whole lot of problems for him if he dismissed Remington out of hand. Now, of course, Remington probably counted his blessings that he wasn't the man in charge of this clusterfuck…
"We have no choice." Aleister emphasized the first word. If he was going down, they would be joining him at the gallows. Of that, at least, he would make certain. "We'll let him have his show…and then we'll hunt the smarmy bastard down and introduce him to how real Britannians deal with traitors…"
The conversation faded out as Aleister dismissed all of them with a stern warning not to breathe a word of this, to anyone.
Tuesday, November 5, 2015 a.t.b.
"Dad!" Shirley called out. Her father was over in dining room, working on his tablet. "Dad! Come see this!"
Joseph Fenette slowly walked into the living room to see what was up. "What is it, sweetie?" Rose was away on a business trip, so it was just him and Shirley right now. He wanted to spend more time with his daughter, but things had been pretty hectic at the office lately.
"It's the emergency channel!" She exclaimed. Joseph tensed up. The emergency channel was a system implemented all throughout the empire and every single Area in order to get out a message quickly if anything important happened. He took a seat next to his frightened daughter and put a comforting arm around her, even as his other hand turned up the volume.
It was…unconventional, to say the least. A man wearing some kind of spiky mask with an indigo polarized circular faceplate who was wearing a black cloak with a white ascot tucked into it. He was sitting at a cleared desk with gloved fingers steepled beneath his chin, with red curtains in the background.
"Good evening, Britannia!" The man said in a booming, echoing voice. Shirley and her father listened with rapt attention. They were doubtlessly not the only ones, as the emergency channel overrode every other station and monopolized the TV satellite's bandwidth. Everyone sitting in front of any active television screen in Britannia capable of receiving satellite signals was now watching this announcement. "Allow me first to apologize for this interruption. I do, like many of you, appreciate the comforts of the everyday routine, the security of the familiar, the tranquility of repetition. I enjoy them as much as any bloke. But in the spirit of commemoration - whereby those important events of the past, usually associated with someone's death or the end of some awful bloody struggle, are celebrated with a nice holiday - I thought we could mark this November the fifth, a day that is sadly no longer remembered, by taking some time out of our daily lives to sit down and have a little chat." The voice drawled towards the end, almost bemusedly. The masked man leaned a little closer to the camera.
"There are, of course, those who do not want us to speak. I suspect even now orders are being shouted into telephones men at computers are trying very desperately to take me off the air. Why? Because while the truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power." The man emphasized that statement by extending his arms and shaking his fists out in front of him, and then folding his hands back to their lackadaisical steepled position. "Words offer the means to meaning and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn't there?" It was at this point that Shirley raised a confused eyebrow, but Joseph broke out into a cold sweat. He was beginning to suspect that this was not an official announcement condoned by the Britannian Media Authority…
"Cruelty and injustice...intolerance and oppression. And where once you had the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of surveillance, coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission. How did this happen? Who's to blame? Well, certainly there are those who are more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable… But again, truth be told...if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror." His tone became accusatory, and rather matter of fact. His head cocked slightly forward, as if conceding a point in a debate. Shirley gasped, but Joseph remained still, listening intently. A broadcast like this…and on the national emergency system. This…this was history in the making.
"I know why you did it. I know you were afraid. Who wouldn't be? A family of all powerful geniuses, bred to be superior in every way to mere mortals such as yourselves, a rich history of corruption and political instability. The Emblem of Blood… There were a myriad of problems which conspired to corrupt your reason and rob you of your common sense. Fear got the best of you, and in your panic, you turned to the now Emperor Charles zi Britannia. A usurper, a fratricidal monster, and a tyrant besides. He promised you order. He promised you peace. And all he demanded in return was your silent, obedient consent. That you bend to his every whim and accept a system based on inequality, fear, and violent coercion." Shirley gasped in disbelief at what she was hearing, and Joseph narrowed his eyes. It was as he feared.
"Last Sunday, I sought to end that silence. Last night, I kidnapped the Third Prince of Britannia, Clovis la Britannia, to remind this country of what it has forgotten. More than three hundred years ago, a great citizen wished to embed the fifth of November forever in our memory. His hope was to remind the world that fairness, justice and freedom are more than words - they are perspectives. So if you've seen nothing, if the crimes of this government remain unknown to you, then I would suggest that you allow the fifth of November to pass unmarked. But if you see what I see, if you feel as I feel, and if you would seek as I seek...then I ask you to take a stand. To rise up, and show Charles zi Britannia and all of his minions and simpering toadies that they do not own us. The age of monarchies and reactionary feudal aristocracy is at an end; The E.U. has already abandoned such foolish pretentions, relegating them to the history books in which they belong. Now…Now, I propose that it is high time for Britannia to do the same." The masked man stood up from his seat at the desk, and began to talk as he paced from left to right in front of the screen. "I understand that some of you may be hesitant. Perhaps the familiar Britannian traditions of oppression and aristocratic nepotism have grown comforting to you. Perhaps you have grown…accustom to your cages. Normally, however, a reasonable person might be swayed to reach a new conclusion based on observed evidence. I realize that there are many of you out there that are not quite convinced that you should take what I am saying to you seriously… And to those of you for whom that is the case, well… These next few moments should prove to be very educational.
With that final treasonous statement, The camera began to rotate away from the man in the black mask. It turned instead to face another occupant of the room, off to the side and bound to a splintery wooden chair. His purple and white robes had obviously been of excellent quality at some point, but just then they were disheveled, dirty and wrinkly. And the man wearing them…It was the Viceroy! Prince Clovis!
Joseph had heard the reports, of course. The Viceroy had been missing since the incident at the grand opening of the Britannian war memorial that Sunday…but to think that he had fallen into the hands of such a violent and obviously crazed terrorist… In any case, the Prince was looking worse for wear. He glanced up at the camera, and his sky-blue eyes seemed to widen for a half instant as his face contorted in terror-
And then a single, bloody, small, circular hole opened up right between his eyes and a resounding bang boomed into the camera's microphone, almost blowing the Fenette's speakers. Shirley gasped and Joseph stared at the screen in horrified awe as that same voice thundered again as the screen began to fade to black.
"Witness the fate of those who choose to turn a blind eye to the injustices of Britannia. This country was once great, a prideful nation of ingenuity, liberty, and the very beginnings of a truly free society. Now, now it's just the personal empire of a tyrannical monster and his brood of jackals. It's a breeding ground for the thinning blood of ancient and parasitical families. I have no words for these creatures. They have no future in the new world order that I intend to bring about. As for the rest of Britannia, the commoners and the numbers; You have just entered a game of chess that you cannot afford to lose, people of Britannia. There remains only one question for you to answer. One question, one and only one choice that will determine your future-if any-In the world of tomorrow. White, or Black? It's time to choose for color." the man stepped onto the otherwise pitch black screen and lifted up a black chess piece in his right hand-a king- and toyed with it. With his left, he brought up a white king piece. This one, however, was different. It was missing it's head. A jagged, semi-circular scar was on the 'neck' of the piece, suggesting that it had been sawed off with a serrated knife. The man on the screen placed it on some kind of invisible table, almost carelessly, and underneath it was the illuminated image of the Emperor, Charles zi Britannia. The screen abruptly cut to black fully and went to the test pattern of the multiple and gradually darkening colored rectangles.
Joseph knew what he'd seen. It wasn't an announcement. It wasn't a statement. It wasn't claiming responsibility. It was a declaration of war.