Title: And in blood
AN: Haha, well, I did warn you. (I think the next two or so chapters might be dark/angsty as a result of the recent rebellion. It's difficult to write a happy scenario given the surrounding chaos and the revelations the characters faced—on both a domestic and global scale, the wounds are still fresh. D: So I hope you guys don't mind!
. . . That and I'm not particularly good at nor interested in cheerful, upbeat stories. . . And Suzaku is a depressing, suicidal person anyway, so he's exempt. Yeah.)
"So, Kallen . . ." The question was off-hand as it buzzed through webs of circuitry, "How's your mother been lately?"
"She's—"
It cleaved forward, rickety and wide as white streaks—Knightmares, lingering as it barreled along an abandoned strip of road— were its shadows, their steel skins gleaming under the bloody reds and bright yellows of early evening. The armored truck belonged to a Sakuradite shipping company established in old Kyoto that was mired in the details of its long history, and its cargo powered traditional lower-level vehicles and police combatants. Given her understanding of the nuances of energy conversion, it was nothing substantial or complete, but it implied a large amount of raw material that could be converted and cleaned by Chawla's team. Kallen was silent as her tracker writhed neon below her careful fingertips, and she kept low, hiding under the protection of an explosion of fresh green.
According to Zero's "dry" mission report (she was tolerant when he sneered she not question his orders, nor 'whine of uselessness.' Kallen knew confiding in that vapid C.C. was a horrid idea—following Nunally's kidnapping, his moods were black as Death himself, and his anger even darker), their target was headed to the heart of the Tokyo settlement at the behest of Britannia's Witch. Carrying the imperial seal to discourage traffic, she had been informed of an escort of two Knight Police stalking close to their charge—Kallen grudgingly gave props to Lelouch, hands tense above the haze of the Guren's dashboard. The victory would seem small in the short-term; temporal. Originally, she had been wary of his interest in an independent, armed shipment when they could savage from the gnarled heaps of Sutherlands, yet this was not only more practical, but also calculating. Capturing such a vessel would topple the Empire's plans for a public parade and later address regarding the political and domestic policies being put into play. Britannian citizens would be frustrated with their sudden disregard, as well as skeptical if answers were continuously withheld—and, even in the case that the Viceroy did choose to take from reserves in the prefecture, the Black Knights had destroyed major trade routes during and after their Rebellion. They would be pulling from the commonalty and effectively raising prices throughout their respective districts! That was sure to create civil unrest, regardless of whatever celebrations the bastards had in mind.
Burying the growl deep in her throat, Kallen's thoughts were cold, 'Fuck him and his C average.' She remembered being smug about her place as top girl, yet Lelouch—that lazy, condescending Lelouch who 'so deigned to come to class' was their Zero. It was loathsome; he graced them with his presence only when Nunally asked or Suzaku was having trouble with some subject or another. Figures someone like him would beg for help—the idiot was nothing except a slacker groveling to feed his own ambitions. 'Japanese' her ass! There was no pride for his name, fatherland, or culture!
Bitter, she hissed a ruthless, "Stupid moron!" It was comical for the son of Prime Minister Kururugi to be so weak-minded. 'Damn it! That I'm in debt to something like him—!' She wished to God that he would stop pretending to be noble and let her be the criminal of the Empire she was—wanted to be—instead of leaving her to fester in her own paranoia. Suzaku said he would not turn her over because "she was a friend," but she trusted no bastard belonging to Britannia.
'Ugh! Thinking about him will just piss me off! What, is he trying to give me pity!? Tch!' Kallen readjusted the strap until it was taut across her chest and watched her sync levels rise to eight-seven percent, the red line of a bar climbing as the creaking of metal howled like ghosts. Her thoughts wandered slowly back to the mission and she cooled her frustration in the face of danger. Flexing against the stiff leather biting into her back, she knew that it was decidedly difficult to maneuver due to volatile nature of Sakuradite—if sparked, that was simply the end. There would nothing; no second chances, no transmissions, and no sympathy for failure. Ohgi laughed when she was sent away, and murmured a goodhearted, "And that's why we need a Queen like our Kallen." Without a striking grasp of distance and range, as well as agility and raw power, the chance of death increased nearly thirty percent. She was a master of all, and the speed ricocheted through a maze of electronics as she thundered through a sea of evergreen, red streaking the forest.
The others spun to attention, wheels sparking wisps of fire as they whirled past corners. She barked her own orders over the scream of steel against gravel, and settled comfortably into the position of leader. Zero was a contemporary who expected credit regardless of his apathy—he had taken careful effort to explain that, as the seizure was a demonstration of force rather than strictly strategic, there was no reason to give specific instructions.
Having his trust once left her trapped in pride—narcissism, considering the face hiding below the mask!—yet anxiety played in a mad loop in her skull, and the Lelouch she knew used pretty words. Eyes glowing above the a haze of white, Kallen felt that familiar mutter of "I am the best pilot, so . . . !" before she clutched at the controls and surged into the dying sunlight. His power was eerie and her hero worship a support she had never needed; she found herself unable to trust his secret play of marionettes. Kallen Kouzuki was no man's toy, damn it, and like hell she was afraid of those oafs in Britannia! She did not need a man as two-faced as Lelouch! 'But . . .' Zero had been her lifeblood, and she had wanted, so desperately, to meet his expectations. What was right and what was real were lines beginning to blur.
Blasts rang from her Glasgows veiled in the shadows, and the Police were tops tittering on their axles while the Guren flowed down the hillside. She was a twist of color as they struggled to sloppily recover, and the claw gnawed into armor, its talons a silver cage. It writhed as radiation sent it bubbling before being torn apart, and her grip was firm when flame rushed to the engines before forcing power inside and condemning the pilot to death. Both to avoid being reported and as revenge for the refugees in Shinjuku. Bullets buried into its fellow and Kallen destroyed it—utterly and completely, until there was no life whispering in the cockpit. She dug steel nails deep into its heart and it boiled, again confirming it as an attack by Zero's Ace and thus by the Order.
Isolated from its guard, the truck was a slow-moving line in the distance and Kallen bolted to meet it, relieved that the driver was forced to be cautious for the sake of the Sakuradite tucked safely inside. His speed was regular, and she intimidated him—glided dangerously close to the side while he shuddered and he came to a slow stop with his hands behind his head.
Her voice was muffled and dissonant, "You will turn over your cargo to the Black Knights!" There was silence before he managed a sluggish, frightened nod, and she contemplated taking him hostage as a counter-measure. The man was stocky with beady eyes and a mop of black hair—Japanese, and accepting of Britannia's earmark as a servant. She followed as he gently edged backwards into the undergrowth while her cannons glared down on him, and decided there was no merit to paying for an extra mouth.
There, in the hold, she watched him tremble and beg for his life in an broken, pathetic bagatelle until she was disgusted. A fractured sentence rang deep inside her radio, and she abandoned Japan's most broken by Britannia—gladly forgot the antithesis of her world.
- - -
The base was a tired building casting shadows over crumbled, broken pavement as the sun hung low against the coastline. Slivers of blazing yellow rippled against the tide, splintering the sea into patches of black burning like the sunset while she hid behind a wall of dark curtains. Stretched like a cat, she remembered the years when no buildings were metal mountainsides brushing the horizon; when the world was empty, a blank canvas free and then chained to creation by the artist that was humanity. Yet she could not call it beautiful—she could not grasp how beauty felt, how the mind processed ideas and concepts that were sad results of perception. A Code, she knew, was superficial; infinite and forever, but inhuman. They existed as a tool, and a piece instrumental to progress—emotion was an unimportant aspect of an animal's consciousness. Something she was not created to have now that she was Geass' bearer.
In exchange for time, they would go on creating and recreating the world until it was a sickness buried deep inside their minds. She may have lived far beyond any mortal, but she could not feel—only came to know the transience of a lifetime and not the fear of death. Mao was a blurred face behind her closed eyes, and it was comforting to pretend she loved like people did; that she was not a thing made to guide children to their deaths. She hoped he could forgive her in the next life, and that she might meet him there when she finally broke from The C. and was left for dead—free. Mao, and all the others she contracted and led blindly. 'Perhaps that is simply me being selfish, just as it was I who drove them to that . . .'
"C.C.—C.C.!" His order was choked, and she was apathetic, having forgotten that was who he knew her as. Sometimes all her different names escaped her just as much as they did him. "You are to accompany me."
"Oh? Where."
Lelouch was harsh under his mask, "We are returning to Kaminejima."
"Ha!" She sneered dryly, and dug her fingers deeper into Cheese-kun, "And so he carries on and on."
"It is necessary that I gather information pertaining to the Order of Geass," there was a brief lapse of silence, "My plans are . . . compromised, as of the moment."
It meandered into boredom, "How do you know you'll find anything particularly useful . . ."
"Unpredictability is preferable to knowing nothing."
"Maybe so," she pitched forward, sitting upright as he sorted through his things—pulled away the cloak draped around his shoulders, "Are you taking a Knights ship?"
Lelouch hissed an acerbic, "The naval blockade is a nuisance—we will be masked as a small rescue vessel due to return to Shikinejima. There will be more trust shared between the soldiers and myself in the event we are seized given that it is, to outsiders, unarmed."
"I guess you doubt that will happen?"
"For the most part. Leaving Shinjuku is less suspect as they assume we already possess credentials, and are the property of the empire rather than allied with another nation," Lelouch let the gears in his mask move, peeling away the layers of clothing that were Zero's snakeskin, "As for our 'mirror,' I intend to have the Knights covertly capture and sink it prior to departure. We will then distribute its cargo to the Japanese stranded in the ghetto, as the lack of electric power should debilitate reaction time on the part of Britannia. At best, there will be little to no immediate response if Diethard is capable of directing media attention towards a distraction in the east."
She mused a simple and detached, "Oh, how kind of the legendary Zero."
"It is of the utmost importance that I reestablish myself as a face representing a free Japan. The Britannian response was decidedly slow—I will use that apathy to my advantage," he collapsed into the swivel chair and tensed under her steady, vacant stare before she turned away.
"And as for us?"
"I will stage its removal as an accident resulting from faulty Britannian engineering, and the Knights will meet us at the rendezvous point in forty-eight hours subsequent of our docking."
Her laugh was blithe and she curled her hands around Cheese-kun, "You're blowing that up as well? Very violent, aren't we—is that your 'distraction?'"
"For the time being," it was final as he shut himself off from the chaos of his world, and 'C.C.' listened to the voices crooning like lullabies in her brain.
- - -
Suzaku was exhausted as he crept the halls of the government building, eyes following officials as they charged from behind towering oak doors to the bowels of their golden brushed corridors. He heaved a sigh and propped an elbow on his crutch—he would actually be meeting Britannia's famed second prince, Schneizel el Britannia. He had little knowledge of the man save for what he offered over the phone, and could only piece a fragmented picture of a cautious strategist who enjoyed his home in the shadows. He was a regular on the war front, but tended to be restless with his conquests and moved often enough to preclude media attention. Cecile said he avoided attaching his name or beliefs to any particular agenda be it by hearsay or otherwise—that he did not tempt fate or political mudslinging.
There were photographs and articles plaguing the internet, videos of his address following the Black Rebellion, but that was it—as far as the world knew, Schneizel lived without a poster face to hide behind. Shifting weight from his aching leg, he hoped that the man would simply look him over and recommend a lawyer before returning breezily to his personal guard and cave of an airship. Remembering the buzz of the harsh, mechanical voice hissing from the radio, Suzaku felt a numbing embarrassment tingle up his skin—he had been insubordinate, and then pardoned when he had garnered a right to a trial. It would be publicly humiliating for a Grand Marshall to appeal to a soldier who had failed to follow orders when face-to-face with the enemy of the general public—damn that Zero. What would he say?
"Sir, clearly that terrorist was able to override my will. Fled from battle? Of course not." It was sardonic, and he eased against the wall. Considering the intricacies of Geass made him fear that he belonged in a mental institution instead of a military uniform on his better days. He had heard nothing of how it worked or what it came from—the blond boy had disappeared as quickly as he came, and left him with no answers or excuses. Feeling a throb deep in his skull, he forced himself to ignore those roaring thoughts and watched the second hand spin the face of the old clock hung on the wall.
"Well, reconstruction is necessary," he let his gaze fall on the pair and listened, irate as a result of his position, "Perhaps it would simply be better to completely rid ourselves of the Japs in the eastern ghetto and rebuild, thus expanding upon the Britannian sector? There's no need to worry about negation of the bill, now that the council's near completely Purist thanks to that bastard Zero—his reform forced all Cornelia's yes-men out, none of the populace wants 'em after that—"
"Excuse me," he added cynically, spinning on his heel, "but doing that would rob the entire population of their homes."
"And so?" The other said drily, weighing the importance of his regalia as a Knight of the Empire, "After that raid, who gives a damn. If they all died, we'd have a higher budget to make up for Clovis. Tell me, must all of Area Eleven's Viceroys be incompetent."
"But those people—!" Suzaku felt a hand glide across his shoulder, and was bathed in sudden shadow as they snapped to silence. He whipped to greet him—a tall man with blond crimping at a sharp jaw and eyes tinted an easy, royal violet. White rippled at his feet and up his torso, golden lace lining the seams before blossoming into ruffles of cloth at the neckline.
"Now, now, let us not be abrasive towards our own. The Black Knights are merely a portion of a larger milieu, not worthy of our praise nor our fear," it was smooth as silk, his cadence deep and charming, "As I have said before, we will offer reprieve to men capable of work who are thus far left jobless, as well as send mutual aid to the Japanese and Honorary Britannians. We must act to rid ourselves of refugee and rescue expenses, am I not correct? Given the . . . incidents that proceeded their revolt, it is pertinent that we assume responsibility to reconcile our fractured relationship lest we face further pointless resistance."
"Ah, Your Highness," it was languid, and they turned to disappear, "Always wonderful to see you well."
"Compromise is the prerequisite to our continued coexistence. You are excused, and the pleasure is entirely mine," he kept a cheerful mask, and Suzaku had no words as Schneizel swiveled to face him, "Suzaku Kururugi, I presume? I apologize for my actions in Shikinejima—naturally, it is difficult to sacrifice a life, and particularly a young one."
Having expected to apologize profusely for his mistakes, he spluttered a stupefied, "Ah—nevertheless, sir, it was my failure."
"If you insist," his hand hung there in midair and Suzaku's twitched at his side, but did not move, "No handshake? Are we shy."
Shocked into a response, he managed a jittery, "No, please pardon my rudeness, Your—" and grasped it firmly, keeping a blank face when they locked eyes.
"Haha," he let it drop casually, lips quirked into a smile, "Considering that we will be seeing quite a bit of each other, there is no need for such formality. Come now, our partner in crime is waiting, I expect."
Suzaku considered himself well-versed in Britannia's world of kings, but found he was surprisingly humbled while stiff footsteps bounded from behind, melting into still air.
"Schneizel!" It was an explosion of sound as Cornelia marched the corner, face drawn into a frown cold as steel, "Damn you, how dare you not contact me in regards to your return?! Of all the foolish things—"
"Ah, Cornelia," his answer was amiable, "I see you are healing well."
She snarled a dark, "You arrogant ass!"
"Yes, yes—although it can be ignored provided you choose not to take it personally. Don't pull, please, it isn't polite when we have company . . ."
Suzaku was silenced as she seethed and dragged him into an empty office, and Knight Guilford stood at attention, hands folded before he forced a brusque, "You seem to be recovering well."
It was distant while he worked to recover his composure, "Yes, thank you, sir. Um, but is it really all right for them to behave like that in front of the soldiers . . . ?"
"Well," Gilbert began carefully, amused beneath his icy facade, "Second prince Schneizel and her Highness are only on such good speaking terms. I imagine that is simply part of how they interact."
Silence was his company and Suzaku plucked at the brittle, clinging fabric of his uniform. It was stretched taut and far too new, the collar clawing at his throat until it burned from trapped heat. The military supplied him with a replica of his last, all fresh and pearly-colored after—and he stopped then as crimson, glossy and viscous, pooled in his mind's eye; too much of her blood seeping deep into him as they faded to rusty stains on that thing he wanted so desperately to forget.
The sick feeling that clung to him these days latched on again, and he swallowed hard while numbness threaded through his fingers. Now was not the time and this was not the place—too loud, and too many people to let himself fall to his depression, yet he remembered. No matter where he ran to, it was a shadow stalking close behind.
Suzaku was relieved as the door opened in a soft hiss, Cornelia striding to greet her entourage, "Guilford! We are leaving."
She hesitated as she let her gaze fall on him, and gave no acknowledgment before choking out a candid, "Soldier. Speak to me when you are addressed."
"Yes, Your Highness," Suzaku dropped into an awkward bow, still clutching to the support of his crutch.
It was slow and rehearsed, "I am cordially inviting you to visit late Princess Euphemia's grave."
"When—!" He crushed the urgency trickling into his words, "Ah, if you would be so humbled, Your Highness."
"Two days from now," Cornelia stated flatly, slipping away from him, "And I expect to collect you at eight in the morning. Sharp. Carry on as directed."
Schneizel was a ghost watching their exchange before he murmured an indifferent, "Very strange. She seems to like you well enough—but if we may?"
- - -
Lelouch carried all his frustration back to the Ashford's summer villa—it was an old thing caged between rows of Yoshino Cherry, with gardens teasing at a twist of an intricate iron fence. Bursts of warm red and white blossoms spilled into the gravel pathways as he dragged a steel case up the stairwell and onto the porch jutting from the eastern wall. The mansion was a strange, empty place Milly suggested after 'complaining to her grandfather of Nunally's weak health'—it carried an isolated air, regal on its perch as it overlooked a rolling Japanese countryside.
He had never given any thought to the fickle student council president; analyzing her motivations was searching for depth in a shallow pool. It came as a distant shock that Milly knew he was Zero—and, in hindsight, it was almost too disgustingly fitting. With Nunally tucked away in his arms, he made to take her back to the safety of Ashford and he found her standing on the threshold, paper-straight blonde hair falling free and loose at her shoulders. Her face was shadowy in the cover of evening, and her skin dyed a sickly milk white under the moonlight.
"Lelouch, I know you hate the Empire—really, after you protected the academy, I was positive. I . . . well, I'm sorry that I never believed all those things you used to say . . ."
". . ."
"My parents, grandfather . . . Ashford. You hate me, even. But you know, I wouldn't mind if Britannia fell."
"Milly. You do realize what you are doing is considered treason against the Empire."
"Haha, I know, I know. But what have they done for me, hmm? So, I can forget about Zero. Besides, all you need is a house to live in, and we've been giving you that for years. Grandfather says I'm his favorite—he'll listen if I lie a bit."
"I—"
"Don't get so arrogant and start rattling off thanks, though. There are conditions! No matter what I dress you up in, you have to accept, and whenever I want, too."
". . . That's unusually cruel."
"Of course! What else would I be? Besides, I couldn't leave poor Nunally without her obsessive, overprotective elder brother."
". . . Ha. Thank you, then."
To think that someone so capricious nursed a deep-rooted rage towards the Royal House—she was sly enough to wrap him in her game of cat and mouse until he was blind-sighted by her false grins. After abandoning the skeleton of Kururugi Shrine, Lelouch did not trust the sad, pity-filled glances of privileged adults who were never orphaned. No one understood Nunally when she could see only seas of black and was confined to that, that chair after watching their Mother bleed red stains across the tile. No one could imagine how it felt to leave Suzaku at the mercy of Britannia while soldiers massacred Japan until its nation was a land of corpses. To concede because he was a child—it was the same damn excuse, the same damn weakness again and again!
When he reacquainted himself with Ashford's daughter, he hated everything and everyone; wished to God his father would simply die on his throne, and take his bastard, racist heirs to hell with him. His life was an elegy to things he cared for that were stolen and tarnished by the Empire—he had only Nunally, who had nothing, and he kept her secret from the cold, repulsive reality they were thrown into. Days would pass in small defeats until he was forced into Ashford's mold, and he cursed himself and the pretentious smiles of their golden-glided prisons. He gave into them, begged to be a hostage in exchange for protection, and whenever morning seeped into the prefecture he woke to his anger and society's indifference. Victims were simply forgotten, and thus he was beaten into pessimism and tolerance of prejudice for the sake of silence.
Lelouch had no interest in wondering if there was some quiet, buried part of Milly that understood hopelessness, because it was not like his misery. He had no home to run to, no family whose open arms he trusted in. They were not kindred, he knew, but she was born into a same rage—drowned in the frustration that wrought Zero. She had expectations weighing on her shoulders, and she too fastened together a colorful mask to show the world. Milly Ashford was a woman of deceit, and she was loyal to her own—realized that they were accomplices relishing in the same sins. When that antechamber fell to thunderous false peace, he gave her an order: that she would steal the schematics of the Lancelot verbally, and to the best of her ability. Their manipulation would be mutual, after all, and Suzaku was never taciturn no matter how quiet he kept—enough 'nice' suggestion and she could easily weasel whatever information he needed to sell to Chawla.
He felt for the light switch, and his lips quirked at the idea of her allied with the Order. There was no hatred in him reserved for Milly; he had come to appreciate Ashford and its manicured stretches of lawn and thick white walls. Lelouch was not one to blame the young for the mistakes of their fathers, and she was being exceptionally kind considering she gave them a villa to themselves.
It was soft and low, easing into his heart as it weaved in from the drawing room, "Brother?"
"Ah, Nunally?"
She was seated at the table, papers scattered below her careful hands—origami, as expected, "Are you all right?"
"Why wouldn't I be," it was gentle as he took the chair to her right, brushing waves of curls from her cheeks, "I'm happy as long as you're happy."
The response came slow and broken, "You're okay with going to night classes? I miss you . . ."
He was wounded by the ache in her voice, "I'm sorry I can't stay with you—"
"Oh, it's not your fault, brother!" Nunally insisted, her words jumbled as she pieced them together, "I didn't mean for it to sound that way . . ."
"Nunally—"
Shifting against the leather, she brushed delicate fingers over his own, "I'm just worried . . . Everyone is still at school, and Suzaku . . . We didn't get to say goodbye because he was in the hospital, and we only found him again just a little while ago . . ."
"He's . . ." Lelouch choked on the anger threatening to spill into his voice, tightening his grip as their warmth melted into one another.
"Why did he lie about being on the front lines?" It was a weak whisper, "I'm nervous—he's never done anything like that before . . . I don't want anything to happen . . ."
". . ."
"And Euphie," her voice cracked between fresh sobs, "She wanted us all to be together . . . Suzaku, too . . . but all those poor people—"
He tugged her into his arms, wondering desperately how she knew—he had taken necessary measures to keep the events proceeding the SAZ hushed, as she needed rest after the kidnapping regardless of whatever she remembered. Moving had taken a toll on them both, but she had been ecstatic to return to her schooling—it seemed as though news of Euphemia had poisoned her there.
"Why? She would never do anything so cruel . . ."
"It wasn't her," Lelouch felt disgusted with himself—he had accepted that the time for tears was long since passed. Euphemia had died a twisted martyr and crying did nothing for her memory, "It was the Britannian Army, never Euphemia. The—that was a result of the government using her without concern for the people; that's simply how they are. Do you understand, Nunally?"
"You—you loved Euphie, didn't you? I'm sorry . . ."
She paled in contrast to Nunally, and he swept the tears from her face, "Don't fret on my account."
He listened uneasily as she forced a ragged, "But . . ."
"I should only have to do that for you," Lelouch finished tenderly and let Nunally's hair slip through his fingers, clutching her until her whimpers died in her throat.
". . ."
Quiet settled in like a veil thrown over the room while Sayoko drew the curtains, stars suffocated behind the heavy lines of cloth. His heart throbbed in his chest as she trembled, frail and shattered by her anxiety, and she shielded herself in his embrace before they separated.
He controlled the desperation in his voice, "I ca—"
"No, it's okay. I'll be fine—you've been working hard, right? I'm sure there are things you want to do, too . . ." Lelouch made a special effort to cling to her hand and insist before slipping into the hall, suddenly dyed in seas of gentle gray as he climbed for the second story. It was empty—a long stretch of white with bulbs sending webs of light darting across a full, blood-colored carpet—and he felt himself go weak as sneers played in his skull. Had he failed her?! Was he so worthless, unable to create a world she could be happy in?! 'Why, damn it!' The vase sparked an easy sky blue beneath the limelight, and he felt energy rush through numb fingers—there was a lull of treacherous silence before he sent it crashing into the floor, the porcelain exploding into shards waltzing across tile while he seethed, fists balled and shaking.
"Brother?!" Nunally called, and he spun back to attention, "Are you all right?"
Returning to an easy-going mask of apathy, he managed a convincing, "Damn—slipped. It's nothing for you to concern yourself with."
Standing there in a shadowy curve of a hall, he was denied his perfect world; he was denied his everything. Lelouch could barely keep himself from rampaging, he was far too repulsed, far too frustrated, and he detested the world and all its pretenses—traitorous Suzaku and his lies, Britannia and its abuse of power, apathy for the weak—while he was caught in a self-made absolute pin. The irony was painful enough to split his head in two, and he stole into his room to watch the windows flash across his computer screen.
AN: I'm getting ready to introduce some major plot points now. . . Also, I think Milly would have made an interesting terrorist. Now, I'm not sure if she actually carries any grudge against the imperial family, but, honestly, I don't care. :D; I'm also assuming her grandfather is the patriarch, and therefore free to send Lelouch and Nunally wherever he likes. (It's not as though they carry much political weight other than exposing the monarchy's choice to hide their deaths from the public, so I doubt he really cares where they go as long as they remain under the jurisdiction of an Ashford. Milly and her Aunt, in this case. )
. . . Anyway, review if you can. D: (I'm worried my Schneizel was off. . .)