They conducted Jeremiah roughly into a hard small room and shackled him to a chair. The Gefjun Disturber was never far away. He slumped in the centre of the room for a long while, alone but for the two guards who stood silently in the shadows. After an uncertain period of time, the metallic door swung soundlessly open, and a man entered, alone.

The man sat across the table from Jeremiah, in a pool of cold fluorescent light. This light gleamed upon his oiled curling brown hair, and upon the immaculate creases of his Britannian military uniform. He placed upon the table a black folder, which he flipped open and perused. Then he cleared his throat, looked to Jeremiah, and raised a hand beckoning the guards forward. The approached with ringing footfalls to flank him.

The man spoke with a smooth voice. "Well." He shook his head slowly, intertwining his fingers, and briefly met Jeremiah's eyes. "Well, well--I have some questions for you, My Lord of Orange."

"I also have questions," Jeremiah's voice, despite not being used in some days (perhaps--the keeping of time had eluded him), came easily to him.

The man's smile was easy and placid. "I think that, perhaps, my questions will take precedence over yours." His eyes dropped momentarily to the files arrayed before him, as he shifted minutely in his seat, raising a fingernail to scratch at some slight discomfort upon his cheek. "It is at this point evident that you knew who Zero was." The man elevated his eyebrows until he was peering at Jeremiah, as though seeking his opinion. Jeremiah said nothing. The man sighed perplexedly: "Which is puzzling. You see, if you knew already who Zero was, then you must have always known. Even since his assassination of Emperor Lelouch, you see." The man's clean forehead wrinkled in a perturbed frown. He steepled his fingers and tapped them together. "Which raises interesting questions that have fascinating answers. For example: why would you know Zero's identity?"

He leaned against the back of his chair and afforded Jeremiah a chance to reply. Instead, Jeremiah chose to ask his own questions:

"Where is the real Zero?"

After a moment's thoughtful pause, the interrogator continued, casually, his elbow resting on the chair and his finger dangling in midair. "You knew because it was planned that way. Because you were in on the whole scheme. A collaborator."

"Where is he?" Jeremiah demanded.

"It explains certain things," the man mused. "For example, on that day, your order to your men--you ordered them to allow you alone to confront Zero."

"What have you done to the Empress?"

The man leaned forwards again with a conspiratorial smirk, eyebrows raised. "You allowed Zero to kill Lelouch. It was part of the plan."

Jeremiah's mouth twisted sourly. Sweat prickled on his forehead. "The machinery keeps her unconscious, I suppose."

"Another question--with another answer," the man said matter-of-factly. "Why would you allow Zero to kill Emperor Lelouch?" He smiled. "The answer is, of course, obvious."

Jeremiah was in stony silence, watching the other.

The man said, "You and Zero were working together, to overthrow Emperor Lelouch and take control yourselves. The perfect coup-d'etat, for--as we discovered recently--Prince Schniezel is bound to Zero, not Lelouch. A critical oversight on his part." The man grinned in satisfaction. "Assassinating an Emperor is an inestimably serious crime, My Lord. But it has been decided that we will suspend the death penalty in this special instance, because of Lelouch's undeniable tyranny."

Jeremiah ground his teeth, "Where is the real Zero?"

"Oh," said the man with a complacent shrug, "he's about. Perhaps in Lady Nunnally's chamber. Or at a press conference. Maybe in the shower in his suite at Aries," he laughed at his joke. "You saw him so recently, though--why ask?"

"The real Zero," Jeremiah growled. "What have you done with him?"

At once, all mirth faded from the interrogator's face, as he leaned back, withdrawing until shadows crept over his face. "I think maybe you don't really understand what Zero is, My Lord," he said blandly. "Zero is a mask and a voice. Your friend who was Zero wasn't the real Zero either. Only fools and sheep believe the party line--that Lelouch was never Zero. He was the original. And then your friend, Kururugi, was Zero. Now, someone else is Zero--the real Zero, as you so naively insist. Zero is and always was nothing more than a tool. A defender of freedom?" The man enjoyed a hearty scoff. "Those words are only for the masses, and they always were. Lelouch used Zero as a tool to gain an army and a throne. You and your friend used Zero to overthrow Lelouch and gain power. And now," the man raised his hands palm up, "we're using Zero to undo your mistakes and make our society better."

Jeremiah sat quietly for a long while. Then he said, offhandedly, "You're wrong. I never betrayed Emperor Lelouch."

"You did. You ordered your troops to ignore Zero. You allowed him to evade you and kill the Emperor."

Jeremiah tried to cross his arms, but was too effectively restrained to do so. "You have conclusive evidence of this?"

The man's head cocked confusedly to one side. "Evidence? What need is there for evidence?" He shrugged. "If you'd like, I can arrange for some to appear. I could sign a few forms, documents--to get witnesses, maybe some fingerprints, or a confession even. I don't see the use, really--waste of paperwork. Evidence won't make you more or less culpable than you are." He chuckled, pointed a finger at Jeremiah. "I've never understood this obsession with evidence, like it's some kind of sacred, infallible essence of fairness. Evidence is the most malleable thing in the world. Dependence on evidence will inevitably get one into trouble."

Jeremiah immediately recognized the mindset, with a mounting glumness. "You know," he told the interrogator, "you remind me of myself, back when I used to be a callous, self-serving, fraudulent excuse for a man."

The man clasped his hands together and laughed musically. "Very good, My Lord. That's very witty."

Jeremiah pulled at his shackles coolly, clinking them against the chair. He hunched forward, then raised his chin and met the man's eyes again. "Where is the real Zero? The former Zero?"

The interrogator leaned back with an infinitely amused expression. "Of all the questions to ask in this situation--why do you continue to ask one which is of no consequence? You are going to learn the answer soon anyway, and it won't help you at all." He sceptically arched an eyebrow and pursed his lips.

As he neatly rearranged the sheets in the folder and gently closed it, the two guards came towards Jeremiah at some unknown signal. The Gefjun disturber which one of them held was instantly glowing green again--a low charge, just enough to enervate him. They disentangled him from the chair and pulled him to his feet, he dangling helpless in their black-gloved embrace with his teeth buzzing on each other. The interrogator stood, receding out of the column of fluorescent light until his face disappeared. He went to the door and methodically placed his thumb on the reader, and Jeremiah heard the locks clank open.

The interrogator pushed the door open and stood on the threshold. He half-turned, eyes unseen in the gloom. He said almost sympathetically, "You'll be swept out of the public eye, of course. Don't worry. We'll take good care of the Britannia you so cleverly stole."

He stepped out of the room and was gone.

Jeremiah, in the company of his two silent guards, was ushered through the bowels of a pristine government complex that he had never heard of. They descended rickety metal staircases encased by shafts of grey concrete, and hunched through unlit sinister corridors. Finally, he was before a small door, which opened to admit him. There was a surge from the Gefjun Disturber which gripped his body with agony, and then they had shoved him inside the little room and the door had hissed shut behind him.

Jeremiah stumbled forwards and his chin hit the floor. For a long while, he lay on his chest in the position he had fallen, because he could not think of any reason to move. He recognized a startlingly potent spiral of despair which his mind had difficulty escaping. Despair was a truly terrifying thing in many ways, he mused while on his stomach in the darkness. Despair could corner the mind of even the most courageous person. The most insidious thing, of course, about despair, was its rationality. Despair was the most convincing, reasonable opponent in the world. It presented facts and probabilities, proved it's case like no lawyer could. It pretended to be one's companion, but was a poison.

The first thought of despair Jeremiah confronted was this: I will never get out of this place. And of course, with the disturbing certainty of despair, he knew it. Knew he was imprisoned for life. The second thought of despair was: They will keep Nunnally unconscious forever. His mind bent over in agony at this, kowtowed in awed horror to this thought of despair, that Nunnally would never awake, would never live again.

Slowly he recognized the despair for what it was. It thus identified, put in it's place, he revelled in it for a long moment, as he had revelled in his sorrow some unknowable period of time earlier. Just as a rainy evening was the perfect environment in which to experience sadness, a featureless prison cell cultivated despair. The profundity of his despair was more than any he had ever experienced, and soon enough he grew entirely content with it. He allowed tears to flow for a time, and then pressed his cheek to the cold ceramic floor and simply thought.

A very soft noise alerted him, suddenly, to the fact that he was not alone. His eyes had by now adjusted to the dimness; he glanced up and perceived a man slumped in the far corner of the little cell, dressed in the same brown prison fatigues that Jeremiah had found himself in. In astonishment, Jeremiah placed his hands on the floor and raised his upper body. He crawled forwards and positioned himself opposite his fellow prisoner, in the other corner. He sat with his back straight against the wall, legs crossed, and squinted.

"Is it you?" he asked the man, whose head was nodded forward onto his chest. The face was obscured by a shock of twisting dark hair. The limbs were lean and wiry where they hung listlessly out of the prison uniform. The man made no response.

Jeremiah said carefully, "Kururugi?"

Nothing. Jeremiah wondered briefly if the man had died here. But then he noted a very slight movement of breathing.

"Suzaku?" Jeremiah asked. "Suzaku Kururugi?"

Nothing.

Then Jeremiah pulled in a deep breath and said, "Zero?"

The mussed dark hair shifted, as the head lifted nearly upright. Jeremiah saw that it was him. Kururugi's eyes, set in dark sockets, stared blankly at him. "So this is where you were," Jeremiah said, nodding. One question was now answered, and he felt moderately better.

Still, Suzaku Kururugi remained silent. His formerly boyish cheeks had developed a very sparse new stubble, and wrinkles pinched the corners of his eyes. Jeremiah thought he remembered that the young man's eyes were a dark green, but in the gloom it was impossible to tell.

"Zero," Jeremiah said again. "Yes, of course. Suzaku doesn't exist anymore, I suppose."

Zero rested his head against the wall. He opened his mouth, and a choked sound came out. Then he coughed, licked his lips, and made a guttural wheeze. His throat convulsed as he swallowed, probably wetting his mouth so he could speak for the first time in… how long? Days? Weeks? Perhaps longer.

"Lord Jeremiah," he said finally, his voice weak.

"Zero," Jeremiah eagerly edged forwards, "What have they done? Who are they? What's been done to Empress Nunnally?"

Zero said nothing for a long time. In fact, he remained totally silent, watching motionlessly, for so long that Jeremiah felt an impatience in himself. But then it occurred to him that there was really no urgency, in this place. It cost Zero nothing to delay his answer, for they had time to spare. Perhaps all of their time, now, to spare.

Zero said eventually, "Drugged me, I think. I don't know who they are. Some faction in the nobility, probably. Nunnally--" his whole face contorted hideously. "I don't know. What happened to her?"

"She's in a coma. I'm certain it's not natural--they probably are inducing it in some way."

Zero turned to the wall and bumped his forehead against it. Nothing more was said for several hours. Eventually Jeremiah reclined back on the floor and drifted fitfully in and out of sleep. Whenever he managed to snatch a little bit of blank unconsciousness from the jaws of his dreams, he was overjoyed. And despair took him again, as he imagined the rest of his life spent this way, his happiest moments being those spent without awareness. The first day or two (or three?) Jeremiah spent almost exclusively waiting for sleep. His back and sides ached before long, from the floor. He and Zero said little to each other. From time to time a little band of light would appear at the base of the door, and disgusting food would appear. Jeremiah ate automatically, but Zero remained in the corner and refused whatever he was offered, mutely.

Over time, Zero grew progressively thinner and thinner. Before too long Jeremiah could see his ribs beneath his collarbone. Many times, Jeremiah pleaded with him to eat, yet he refused utterly, and when Jeremiah tried to force him to eat, he found himself fended off with surprising force. Jeremiah grew steadily more and more worried for Zero's health, as the hours monotonously passed themselves.

In that place, Jeremiah began to understand a new conception of time. His life, to this moment, had been measured in increments. He lived in seconds and milliseconds, on the battlefield. He lived in hours and days, in peace. But in the cell with Zero he lived without these increments. Time all became one. There was no change, but for the gradually progressing emaciation of his companion.

One time, when the band of light appeared and the metal tray of food was slid into the room, Jeremiah as usual offered some of it to Zero. The man was lying on his side, eyes open but fluttering. "Zero," said Jeremiah concernedly. "You must eat. You'll die."

Zero moaned, his eyes blearily focusing on Jeremiah. "No…" he whispered.

"Please, Zero," said Jeremiah.

"No," said Zero.

But his hand slid forwards over the floor, fingernails dirty and broken. And then he was up on his elbows. "No…" he whispered plaintively. He crawled towards Jeremiah, panting with every lurching movement. "No," he said, over and over. "No, no, no."

"No," he said hatefully as he leaned over the tray of food.

"No," he said in horror as he dug his fingers into the paste and began to shovel it into his mouth. Jeremiah stared in fascinated shock. By the time Zero had finished the entire dish of the stuff, Jeremiah realized that the man was shaking with rage. Tears dribbled down his cheeks to spatter on the tray. "No," he moaned, spitting on the floor, bringing up globs of food, heaving, trying to vomit it all forth.

But he could not.

After a long while Zero simply lay panting, and Jeremiah sat solemnly beside him. "Jeremiah…" Zero whispered.

"Yes."

"Jeremiah… use your Geass canceller on me. Please."

"No."

Zero lifted his chin from the floor and surged forwards, his fingers, which were encrusted with food, grabbing at Jeremiah's knee. "Please. I've tried so hard to fight it. Please cancel my Geass, so I can die."

"No."

Anger contorted his lips. "Why not!?" he shouted, raising himself from the floor. Zero leaned into Jeremiah and wrapped his fingers around his throat, forcing him back onto the floor. "Cancel my Geass!" he demanded again, pressing downwards, with his thumbs on Jeremiah's trachea.

"No," Jeremiah croaked. "No, I need your help."

The pressure was relieved, as Zero hesitantly removed his hands. But his knee still was driving into Jeremiah's stomach, holding him down. "Help with what?"

"Escaping, of course," said Jeremiah with a shrug. "And saving Nunnally."

Zero scoffed. But he lifted his knee and slumped aside, sprawling on the floor again, spread on his back. Jeremiah rubbed at his stomach and sat up.

"You know," said Jeremiah suddenly. "Looking at you, I don't see Zero anymore."

The other peered at him. "What do you see?"

"Suzaku Kururugi."

The other looked at him strangely for a long while. Then his head rested back against the floor. Quietly, he said, "That man is--"

But Jeremiah interrupted sharply, "If you say, 'That man is dead', I might lose my temper." He shook a finger at the man, Suzaku. "He's not dead. I'm looking at Suzaku Kururugi right now. You are a changed man, yes. But that doesn't make you anyone else. To think yourself dead is to lie to yourself. You were never not Kururugi, you know. You became Zero. But you were Zero and Suzaku Kururugi at the same time."

Suzaku said nothing. Jeremiah continued quietly. "The one person you should never deceive is yourself. You're no longer Zero and I won't call you that anymore. Someone's taken Zero from you. All you can be now is yourself. You can choose to live on as Suzaki Kururugi--not the man you were, but the man you are."

There was a long silence between them. Suzaku lay in perfect stillness. Jeremiah's new understanding of time made it impossible to tell how much of it passed until they spoke again. It could have been a matter of seconds, or hours. Such measurements had no meaning anymore. Since nothing happened in between their conversations, it was as if the pauses really made no difference. Sometimes they would be silent for an immense period of time, only to suddenly pick up their same conversation from before as if it had never ended.

At some point, Suzaku said to him, "I heard you have a field of orange trees at your estate. Why would you do that? Is it a form of defiance, proving you don't care that everyone calls you Orange?"

Jeremiah smiled invisibly. "No. Nothing like that." He laughed. "For a long time I wouldn't touch an orange, hated the sight of them. But, you know," he shook his head ruefully, "when I was just a boy, oranges were actually my favourite fruit. My mother knew this and made sure that the pantries were always stocked with them. I always had an orange with my lunch. I knew the different kinds at a glance: mandarins, Satsuma, from Japan, or Valencia, from Spain." Jeremiah frowned. "As I grew older my love of them faded to a kind of affection. I rarely sought them specifically, but I still liked them. And then Lelouch made his fateful comment, which was never more than a hoax.

"I instantly hated everything that had to do with oranges. I was desperately afraid that someone--perhaps one of my old family servants--would tell people of my childhood fondness for them. When people asked me about Zero's 'orange' accusation, I would laugh helplessly and say that I knew nothing about it. I would often joke: 'I don't even like oranges. I hate the taste.' For more than a year I forced myself to hate oranges.

"Eventually, I learned an important lesson. It took me a long, long time to learn it. I learned that what other people think can never, under any circumstances, affect me unless I allow it to. And I learned that to change oneself for other people is to cheapen who you are.

"I grow oranges," Jeremiah concluded with a grin, "because I like them."

Another long silence followed. Jeremiah found himself thinking about all that he had said. He ran through it all again, a certain satisfaction growing in him.

"So," said Jeremiah eventually. "Will you decide to be what they want you to be? Or will you be Suzaku Kururugi?"

The question went unanswered for a time. They languished in silence. They slept. They woke. They existed. But soon the slot was flicked open and their daily food joined them in the cell. As the outside light briefly shone into the room, it fell upon Kururugi's gaunt face and illuminated it, and Jeremiah saw, for a flashing instant, the green glint in his eyes.