Title: And in blood
AN: Suzaku wanks courtesy of his low self-esteem, Lelouch returns to the Black Knight Batcave . . . Same old, same old. Thanks again for reading. :D Also, one month time-skip. (You know, just in case the cliffhanger wasn't bad enough.) And for those curious, I will go over how Suzaku got out of that nasty predicament last chapter eventually, but it wasn't particularly suited to this narrative.
There was an empty feeling hung over his dorm room's stark white walls and sagging desktop; the haunting kind that came and went with slow recovery. As his muscles strung together their broken, trembling fibrils, he resigned to watching the cracks thread the ceiling at the request of others—the student council, admirers, Cecile. They hid their sad eyes behind a cheerful mask, and all knew of Euphemia; kept a careful mind about what fell out of their open mouths until he felt suffocated by their worries. He was exhausted with their claims he rest lest he "overwork" himself—but he had overworked himself since he was a child, and nothing in him took very well to a sedentary lifestyle that left him tired one half of the time and restless the other. "Too much activity will do nothing for his injury" and "is he really that bad off?" colored his world in shades of ink black and snowy white with gray teasing at the edges, but not enough to make them impartial.
The first few weeks were the worst because no one stopped asking—they prattled on like a twisted bagatelle mocking his pain, clamoring and swaggering. He spent hours in the infirmary, swarmed by a press searching for news of Zero, of the princess, of his supposed Shinjuku 2017 battle honour. Lelouch and Euphemia crept deep into the darker pits of his mind even though he tried desperately to force them out. He heard it as if it were white noise: the nurses discussed the causalities of the Black Rebellion; the socio-political reasoning behind a figurehead massacre princess; Lady Cornelia's injuries; the Empire's future plans. He would keep everything silent until their ghosts were gone, but their memories were burned into his heart. Suzaku returned to cheers and curiosity when he limped over Ashford's crisp threshold—to a welcoming party that spanned the entirety of the grounds and bloomed into a school festival. There were broken walls lining the southern wing and blood ran the sewers, but they celebrated until their throats were hoarse and they tempted a brilliant smile from him. Until the war was a thing of the past that no one wanted to imagine.
When the grounds fell back to silence and the teachers coaxed their students into the classroom, he threw away everything that belonged to or reminded him of Lelouch—wanted him out of his life completely, yet he crept just beyond his reach; lingered. Even after there was nothing of him to exist, he refused to loosen the stranglehold that seven years wrought. He called him his friend, and that branding twisted and contorted until it coiled around his neck to choke him. Suzaku trusted him with the truth of his father's death, and he shattered his faith—used his crooked, broken belief in himself to further his own ends, despite that he was afraid of being rejected, humiliated, and thought inhuman like he was by a friend he respected. It had made him less willing to trust anyone, and himself least of all—in the aftermath of deception, Suzaku was afraid of the double-faced ambitions of humanity. Did everyone subjugate others the way he had? Create cages for the people they promised to care for? He let his heart hang too freely on his sleeve, and Lelouch tore at it until the threads were bare and fraying.
It was Cecile who anxiously suggested he was suddenly too quiet, but he was also too angry. Far too angry. He obsessed, or he simply forgot, forgot until there was nothing rattling inside his skull. Too much happened, and he'd been too weak to stop it, unable to even die correctly.
At the end of their secret war, his bloody past was just another piece Lelouch believed he could win with; a thing on a chessboard that favored an eventual victory. He was sick for manipulating him, sick for killing and imposing blame on Euphemia—on Euphemia, damn it, his sister. The things she told Suzaku he was, that he could be, in a reality where he was nothing she should love. He gave his life in exchange for her's and she asked him to value himself; demanded he think of what he wanted, when he was a burden since the day he was born. On his friends who he couldn't save. On a Japan that he couldn't change. On her who he couldn't protect! And his father, oh, his father.
He was utterly worthless, and Euphemia was worth the world. It was cruel; he should have died in her place, but Lelouch kept him chained to life as though it was a right he believed he had. All his preaching—his childhood claims that he wanted to choose for himself, to escape the authority of his father—were lies just as much as anything else he'd said. He was the same as the man now.
Sometimes on days when he was alone, he was trapped by thoughts of blood easing down broken bodies and the skin swelling beneath a red sun laughing in the sky. They gave him solace originally—offered P.T.S.D. treatment for the sake of overcoming the sudden, violent death of over six-hundred innocents, but he was unnerved by doctors and medical attention. They were a strange sort of privilege his fellow Japanese were never given; they did not have priority over Britannian soldiers, and the psychological affects of battle were considered "a result of the breed unworthy of government action or funding." There were moments, brief spells of uncertainty, where he wished he had accepted simply to flee the red curling across the gravel of the SAZ and painting Euphemia's milky complexion in ugly blotches. He didn't want to believe, even to contemplate, that any part of her was amused by the idea of him gunned down in cold blood, but he couldn't forget it, and every so often he wondered if it had all been lies, and maybe the Geass didn't work like he wanted it to and Euphemia had—but no! She was the first person, the only he had ever known, to say they loved him despite that he was inherently flawed.
When Euphemia's memory chose to keep silent, he found himself reminded of Shirley's father—one among the many coffins Zero committed to still earth. The reason why she had no interest in Lelouch was enigmatic primarily because Suzaku didn't like thinking about it, and he wasted hours pretending it was in the past when his old friend shadowed him everywhere. There were days that he wished he would show up dead so he never had to torment himself over his lunacy again; there were others that he simply felt guilty.
Suzaku leaned against the bed frame, leg elevated, as a knock moved through the door frame.
"Ah," his voice was strong, "Come in."
"Hey, Suzaku!" Rivals and Shirley were a chorus, and he nestled deeper into the pillows as they tumbled inside—three of them, with an over-hanging optimism that whispered in the room's every gap and crevice.
"Now, now," Milly said silkily, wagging a delicate finger, "Let's not be so loud!"
"You're the worst out of all of us, you know!" Shirley scoffed, eying the tray balanced cautiously in her arms; it was decorated with pastries and desserts colored creamy white and yellow, cherries thrown across their tops and gleaming an easy carmine.
"I wish Milly would cook a meal for me. . ." He murmured brokenly, throwing an arm haphazardly around his shoulders, "You're lucky, man!" Rivalz slapped him heartily on the back, and he pitched forward before shakily catching himself on the bed frame.
"It's just desserts, Rivalz!" Milly gushed lovingly, easing them on a lonely desk near a towering closet door, "But thank you. I am a wonderful cook, after all!"
"Hey, all you made were desserts!" Shirley chided, arms pressed to her hips, "Is that really good for him? He's supposed to be on an alkaline diet because of his military training."
"Well, after eating Miss Cecile's food . . ." It was enough to forge an awkward silence, the others watching as he recalled new, different horrors.
Rivalz began with a lighthearted, "You know, that lady's a bit weird, isn't she? She must really love you, eh? Heheh."
"Oh my," it was melodious and treacherously suggestive, "If you say things like that, people will get the wrong impression of Suzaku."
"I don't mind," he added naively, managing a sympathetic grin, "I like Miss Cecil—"
"You don't get what they're saying at all, do you?" Shirley muttered, her voice dark, and shooed them away with a dry whisper of, "Idiots. . ."
"Oh, Shirley, we're only teasing! Ta-da!" She was bold as she handed him a cookie, sugar powder dusted across its face, "Now eat up."
Shirley arched an eyebrow, and hissed a skeptical, "Are you just trying to get dirt on him? He is hurt, you know."
"Oh, no, I'm just so kind!"
"Ha," Rivalz laughed, breaking into a knowing smirk, "Maybe she's just bored without Lelouch around to piss off. Seriously, where did he go, anyway?"
"Transfers are common after these kinds of things, and Ashford did get seized," Shirley's answer was unsure, and her wide eyes guileless, "Maybe Lulu was just worried about Nunally getting caught up in it all?"
"Yeah, well, I just wish he'd tell us before he up and disappears. Who am I supposed to gamble with no—"
Her sneer sent Arthur darting into the safety of a makeshift chasm between the bed and the wall,"I told you to stop doing that!"
"Hey, hey!—augh. . ."
Milly turned to him, and her voice ran like honey laced with poison, "Well, he's gone. I've simply got to move on to new targets."
"Oh," Shirley snarled bitterly, humorless as she reached for a tart,"How sad."
"Isn't it, Su-za-ku?" Milly sang as she slipped into the hall to drag punch inside and Rivalz spluttered that she let him help, writhing awkwardly while he barreled to meet her.
"Shirley, I," he hissed, numb fingers gripping at the sheets,"Haven't thought much about him since he left."
"Really?" There was a twinge of sorrow lying somewhere deep inside her, "But you two were such good friends. . . "
He watched light dance past the windowpane while the clouds played against a vivid skyline, and the quiet, shattered part of him breathed a, 'Isn't it ironic. . . for both you and me . . .'
- - -
Hands folded in a shadowy cave of a guest room, Lelouch eased his aching back into the swivel chair as screens sent blue light misting the walls. Letting his mind wander through possible scenarios, he felt the muscles in his face go taut at the thought of being confined to the ghetto; its already poor power supply was stripped to the bare minimum in favor of the Britannian grid due in part to the rebellion, and internet access was near nonexistent to keep information from the Numbers. Riots were breaking out between the Elevens and foot soldiers stationed outside the borderlines to avoid "jumping the fence"—attempts to flee the Empire in favor of transportation to Free China or the EU. His eastern brigade had been pushed backwards into the core of the Shinjuku ghetto, and thus isolated from the supplementary units in sections A and C. According to reports from the front line, enemy and ally retaliation ceased upon a massive break in the sewer line lingering near the outskirts of the prefecture. The computer glowed, a haze of weak white streaking across his pale face as a dry news reporter drudged on about the loss of a major labor distributor. Windows flying across its face, he watched as floodwater surged in the residential areas his men were hiding behind—with waterborne illness widespread in those who had fled the theatre and civilians, his reputation was taking a significant blow internally and externally.
To grind salt deep into fresh wounds, his Black Knights were wary and insubordinate as a result of his defeat; demoralized and murmuring that their miracle worker was losing his touch. Despite that betrayal was impossible because of his Geass orders, there were hushed talks of dethroning Zero given Lelouch's abrupt "timidity" following the revolt. His fingers slowed, hovering over the keyboard, as he felt for the familiar spin of red that exploded across his vision—nothing came, and his anger broiled, threatening to spill over into ranting. Being without an active Geass was a nuisance he had never weighed, and Lelouch festered when he heard the Order hiss that he was choosing to send veterans into the line of fire. On principle he did not induct new recruits into the Order without first guaranteeing their loyalty for the sake of avoiding spies or unneeded conflict. His critics were the Knights' cowards—Tamaki in particular, the impudent fool—who felt entitled to the safety of headquarters. Their complaints were hardly worth his ears, but they had been beautifully vocal in their campaigns against his leadership.
'Damn the hypocrites.' Lelouch scoffed, and thought of issues involving import and export search and seize by the Empire. His bastard of a father had delegated strict policies regarding what could enter and leave Britannia at large, and thus Japan was smothered in soldiers and anti-terrorist protocol; travel ceased as regular use planes were grounded and ships were forced to dock at the request of the monarchy. He could only haggle with officially recognized parties for arms and supplies. It was an unnecessary formality, given they sold to Britannia and his rival factions in Okinawa—condemned him to death as much as promised him life. Those who shoot wait to be shot was his mantra, but Lelouch preferred to keep the guns on his side. History's victors were often painfully economical during wartime, and he was downright cheap.
Shifting uncomfortably and unable to silence the over-hanging urgency teasing at his mind, he knew there was also Suzaku's hearing to consider—his public sympathy had bloomed into full-fledged hero worship, as he was personally accredited with Cornelia's rescue by Gilbert Guilford. Forced to witness the violence dwindle back to underhand tactics and temporary truces, Lelouch suffered through an outbreak of rebellion imitators and was attached to a plague of Honorary Britannian murders, and wherever the latter appeared Suzaku's name lingered close behind. The press was happy to adopt him as the spokesperson for the marginalized second class and a once tentative silence cracked and exploded into speculation in favor of the conservative or liberal argument. Sensing the political opportunity, Schneizel, the bastard, encouraged him that they retaliate against the constabulary who had falsely accused him of Clovis' death in the open and at the height of his popularity.
And, disgusting as it was, there were viable rumors that he'd been considered for the Knights of the Round, which was subject to inversion of core members after failing to force back his enemy lines. Tension reverberated in his tired hands as he tapped a finger in a broken rhythm, wood singing an ode to his frustration—the more hold the military had on him, the more vexing it would be to sway him to the Black Knights, and that pearl-white outfit was beginning to burn his eyes; on Suzaku, it was far too intense, far too vivid for him.
A dark, haunting ghost in his skull murmured that he should remember that he'd been happy to deny him before, and Lelouch's surface indifference twitched to quiet rage while his eyes swept over the profile only recently given to Euphemia's four month old Knight. Bitter, he abandoned it to research statistics regarding the movement of Sakuradite from Fuji to inner city Tokyo—it was his intention to hijack a transfer vehicle to not only expose Britannia's weak defenses in the east, but also reequip the Burais with a stable flow of fuel from the Empire.
Her wind chime voice sang in the gloom, "You certainly are vindictive, aren't you?"
"Be quiet," he growled, low and guttural.
"You haven't forgiven me for not warning you about V.V. "
He spat it like acid, rearing to meet her emotionless stare, "What do you know about the Geass, then?!"
C.C. said nothing save for a dry and distanced,"If I told you, it wouldn't be any fun."
Lelouch eased back to a trembling apathy, sifting through information on Suzaku's hearing before she muttered a faint, "Is he something interesting? Isn't this about that spoiled prince—what was his name . . ."
"If he succeeds in this," it oozed cruel hatred, "The court will be forced to recognize that the Japanese have a legitimate voice under Britannian law."
"Oh?" C.C. stretched her arms outward, Cheese-kun clutched to her chest, "Is it really that bad, given what your Knights are . . ."
"Schneizel has many political opponents with ties to the police force, both positive and negative—given the publicity of the hearing, it's nearly assured that they will be forced to resign due to pressure from the media. He will have eliminated a significance portion of the council to make room for his own backers."
Her reply was listless, "And?"
"That will be a blow to our resolve, since he has plans to establish wide-spread integration in the military. My knights have no interest in fighting Japanese to Japanese, and particularly if their wages outweigh the benefits offered by my Order—"
It cut through still, dead air, "Are you angry with him?"
"What?" Lelouch cringed at the uncertainty playing beneath his words.
"With that pilot," she finished prophetically, running a hand over the waves of cloth that were her sleeves.
"He's of no consequence to me," he was careful to keep his answer unreadable and his voice empty of life, "If he is so eager to run away and cheapen himself for something as odious as Britannia, then let him play the fool."
"Well, being as you've done nothing but browse articles he's in—"
Lelouch force-fed an impassive, "I'm gathering information, although I'm sure such pastimes are far beyond you."
Amusement tempted a crooked, sadistic half-grin,"Then why read the same articles?"
"Plans," it was unconvincing, and he felt the animosity wrought from weeks of skirting the shadows and sudden weakness bubble to the forefront of his mind.
"Ha!" She sneered, burying her face into the sea of fluff, "What an impertinent, needy child. You barely even know him."
Lelouch thundered to his feet, spinning on his heel as he barked a feral, menacing, "Damn it, do you understand the generosity I've shown simply by letting you—"
"Remember," C.C.'s words spoke danger and warnings, "That I have lived much longer and have seen men much greater than you. Do not dare to lecture me on the world; you live because I said it would be so."
Silence was his counter, ". . . You are a plaything I chose. So entertain me, Lelouch."
It was tense and cornered, ripped from his throat, "You truly are a damned witch."
"Of course," C.C. rumbled and eased into the love chair as he waited for honesty to trickle from behind her mask, but none came.
The quiet festered to something putrid, and he hissed a callous, "I need to speak to Diethard."
"Hm," she hesitated, dragging herself to meet his eyes, ". . . Bring pizza." With a flourish of his cloak, Lelouch donned Zero's mask, enigmatic and new as it gleaned below naked bulb light—no webs of jagged cracks ran the plastic, and he thought of its predecessor as it stank of ash in dancing flames.
The halls were buzzing with life while he marched deep into its heart—officers came to abrupt standstills, saluting him with their undivided attention when he passed them like a wisp of shadow. He gave them no answers, and worked to tear apart the veil tossed over C.C.'s cryptic world; why had V.V. removed his Geass? She implied it was not permanent, perhaps not gone at all, but his questions screeched in his brain until they were sirens tearing at a fraying mind.
'V.V.,' She'd said in tones much blacker than anything he'd heard before; in a voice old and ragged as time, 'is an interloping fool. Don't worry—our covenant is still valid. He can only pretend it's gone.' Very much aware that the chances of finding anything authentic were slim at best wherever C.C. was concerned, he had made an effort to launch an extensive investigation of Kamine's forgotten island, and he fought with impatience as he struggled down steps and into Diethard's company.
"Ah, Zero!" He said warmly, rising with a hand extended to take his own.
Lelouch ignored his niceties, "Your answer, Diethard?"
"Well," he was leisurely, "There was an interment camp. At one point records suggest it was under the jurisdiction of the old Japanese government, but . . ."
"And?"
Diethard crossed his arms and strung together a vague, "For revenge or whatever reason—perhaps Britannian political prisoners were sent there—the government seized it."
"I see—"
"Wait a minute. There were certain experiments—horrible, impressive and devaluing if the public found out—and practices in place at the time. Mutilation, things involving twins, and studies of premature death or outright murder of subjects."
He whirled towards the door, and snapped a stiff, "Your report should be sent to me immediately."
"Of course," it was smooth and evocative, "Really though . . . there wasn't much but general garbage. Nothing you can't assume, I'm sure."
"Irregardless, it interests me."
"Ah! By the way," his reply was curious, yet a chilling subtext lurked below his amiable grin, "How long do you intend to go without making a public appearance?"
Lelouch offered a dry, "I am not obligated to show my face."
"Hah! And it goes to say that you never do. But that's not going to make people very fond of us, will it?"
"It's unnecessary at this point," Diethard considered the implications, weighing him with a deceptively blank stare, "I simply give orders from a distance, and that should suffice for my subordinates."
"Yeah, but you've never been prudent before. The others are curious—I find it an entertaining change myself; similar to building tension before the climax."
Lelouch gave no answer and their talk was smothered by absolute silence before he dissolved into the dark.
- - -
Kallen was stationed with Ohgi outside of the broken corpse of Shinjuku as floodwater hissed in the gloom, spreading past paper houses crumbling beneath the weight. She had never thought of the consequences of her actions until she watched people on the news struggle up their streets in waste, abandoning their homes and their dogs on roofs as tears rippled down their cheeks. Japan's revolution failed, and they had further isolated their own without electricity and rescue crews; left them to fall to riots sparking in the city despite their pretense as crusaders of justice. No one made effort to come to their aid, and disease spread throughout the population until the old insisted the young leave them and save themselves. In the ghettos life was transient, but destruction and death were commonplace—strength was making the decision to move on.
'Fucking assholes!' She felt it buzz in her brain, and her fists shook at her sides as she stubbornly ripped a core from the rag doll that was an old Sutherland left to rot on the field. The police force were an all Britannian syndicate in a Japanese sect, which loosely translated to them only being interested in furthering their own agenda or massacring innocents. They dumped their bodies here like graveyards, and blamed the Japanese for murdering in cold blood! She saw a man, torn apart by bullets that bit holes into his mangled flesh, bloat as he was washed downstream and into the open—ugly, with the skin clothed in maggots and carrying the stench of long-since dead.
Wrenching another heart from a Knightmare, Kallen didn't think of Britannians as people, and she cursed Stadtfelt in a broken loop—again and again she wished she was Japanese alone, that her father had disowned her along with Naoto, and let her have her pride to keep. The soldiers got what they deserved; they were worthy of having the life dragged out of them by the resistance until they were limp with their eyes glossy behind their heads!
She thought of Shirley and her stomach turned as life cackled through the radio, "Q-1."
"Zero!" Ohgi said, standing alert, and she pressed cold plastic to her cheek.
"Sir?" It was tentative, betrayal still fresh in her mind as Lelouch's rasp stung her ear, low and harsh in the bowls of the speaker.
"We are taking a Sakuradite transport in three hours; report to the rendezvous point."
AN: Wow, a fight scene, huh . . . Also, I apologize that it isn't going to be until chapter four that I even get the Knightmare Frames out. D: (And this story desperately needs a Lelouch and Nunally scene before my muses start whining. l: So, I'd suggest that you expect one soon. )