Aerial Fortress Damocles
The door to a private room aboard the Damocles slid shut as Schneizel passed through it, casually waving a hand over a sensor to engage the lock. It was a relief to be away from the battle stations for a change, although his presence was necessary to reassure the soldiers and other staff who were stationed aboard the aerial fortress. They had maintained a strict policy of ambiguity since the facility had been launched and many people were getting restless.
It was understandable that they would feel some degree of fear, he supposed. When Odysseus had risen to the throne and the Order of the Black Knights had been crushed, the public expected the Damocles to be placed on standby and many third-party Britannian war experts predicted that it would drop to fifty percent capacity or less. Instead, it had continued to operate at full capacity, researching more powerful technologies within the labs and producing more powerful knightmare frames within the onboard factories.
Regardless of the apparent military frenzy, Schneizel was unconcerned about a possible challenge. Their only serious adversaries were the Black Knights, who they had defeated at the height of their power and stripped completely bare. He knew the dangers of military cutbacks, however – better than his father, even. Since knightmares became common enough to supply whole armies with them, an attack could come from any direction with little to no warning; they no longer had the luxury of time in which to put together a defending force.
The appearance of a new Zero had the public on the edge of their seats and tension was higher than it had been since well before the Black Knights' defeat: the thought of that battle had been enough to scare most people, but the Britannian army seemed invincible to its people. Again, Schneizel was unconcerned. Lelouch was dead and it made no difference who this new 'Zero' was: if he could not create an army, then he was of no real threat.
He crossed the room and seated himself in a rich, leather armchair. "Any word?"
His companion sat up and placed a half empty cup of coffee on the table next to him. "From who?"
"Odysseus."
"No, nothing," he replied, offering a cup to Schneizel. "It is unlikely that he would attempt to contact us. "He is in the dark just as much as everyone else."
Schneizel accepted it, nodding his thanks. "I know, but…Do you think Lelouch knew?"
"You considered that too, did you?"
"That's no secret. We've discussed this before," he commented dully. "That shouldn't surprise you."
"It did not. We share very similar thought processes; it is unlikely that neither of us would consider that possibility."
"I think he did," Schneizel stated, looking pointedly at the man seated across from him. "If he wasn't aware, then he would have killed me when he first captured the Damocles. He wouldn't have bothered with that Geass. There is no doubt that he had a plan; he was merely unfortunate that Suzaku finally betrayed him when he did."
"Then the question is–"
"–Did he tell anybody else?" Schneizel finished.
"It would seem that he hasn't. If the Black Knights knew, they wouldn't have put everything into an attack upon Damocles. If they had tracked me, they would have known that killing you and destroying this facility at the cost of their fleet would not have been a victory for them."
He nodded. "I agree. Have you heard anything about Kanon's whereabouts?"
"I have not." The other man stood and turned away from him, placing a palm against the wall. "I am a ghost. I rarely speak to anybody other than yourself and Odysseus, but even he does not know my identity. You are my link to the world; what do you have to report?"
"Nothing. It has been a few days, so he has either been killed or interrogated," Schneizel replied apathetically. "I took measures long ago to prevent him leaking information. We can write him off as a casualty."
"Of course. Is the phone ready?"
Schneizel nodded. "Yes. Do you want to make the call?"
"No. You know what to say," his companion replied, turning to face him. "It is your purpose to know what to say."
Elsewhere
A young man sat at his mahogany desk, penning the final words onto the end of his letter. A small desk lamp illuminated the page enough to write on, although it wasn't enough to be an annoyance to him. It had become dark outside, but that didn't worry him; he welcomed it, leaving the curtains open and the window ajar. He preferred the dark at night, in any case. He had changed a lot since his military days, but the strict sleeping habits were drilled into him far too deeply to easily negated, even if he had any interest in preventing them.
He read over the letter slowly and sighed: it would end up it in the drawer with the other five. He saw her every few days as it was, but there was something about letters that made them seem far more powerful than a phone call or an email. It wasn't as if he was scared of confessing to her, either. She already knew his feelings and, after growing closer to her, he believed he knew hers too. The letters would have to wait, however: juggling budding professional lives and relationships was nothing to be sneezed at.
He placed the letter in the drawer and turned the light off, letting out a sigh. 'Even if I had the chance, am I ready to tell her about me?'
The next few minutes drifted past as he sat in deep contemplation. He barely even noticed the phone ringing and his hand moving to answer it until a familiar voice spoke in his ear.
"It was difficult to track you down."
He froze immediately at the simple statement, paralysis giving way to desperation as he spun round and slammed the window shut. "Who is this?"
"I think you know already," the voice responded with an almost tangible smugness. "Don't you?"
"Odysseus?"
"Not quite."
"Schneizel, then," he spat, facial features hardening. "It was you all along."
Schneizel chuckled. "Of course. It doesn't take much to realise that. Fortunately for me, this world is as foolish as it has always been."
He slowly closed the curtains over and leant back in his chair. "Why now? You know I left the military."
"I want to know your allegiance, Laroque."
His breath caught in his throat. "Wha–What?"
"Will you fight?"
"Fight? Why would I…" he paused to fight down the shaking in his hand. "Why would you think that I would fight for you after the lengths I've gone to stay hidden?"
"Ahh…" Schneizel murmured, seeming far from surprised. "You're afraid."
Laroque stiffened.
"Your fighting instincts have dulled since you left the military. You're no better than a civilian, now."
"What if that's all I want to be?" he challenged. It was something he had thought about often in recent years.
"You're a killer, Laroque," Schneizel continued. "You've killed thousands with your frame. In one year, you single-handedly advanced the evolution of knightmares to the point where they could destroy thousands of people at once, not just hundreds.. You will never be like them."
"No…"
"You are a Britannian. It is time for you to return to us – to Britannia. Will you become that killer again?"
Laroque was silent for almost a minute, his face contorting from a pained expression to one of pure confidence and back again. He thought he had the answer, but could he really be who he wanted to be forever? His hands slid forward on the desk and caught the edge of the page sitting in the middle of his desk. Inwardly hissing in pain, he drew his hand back immediately and looked at the small cut on the tip of his index finger. A thin line of red was already trailing down its length and was collecting in one spot, waiting to fall. He smiled.
There were some things worth spilling blood for, after all.
"My answer is no, Schneizel," he finally declared, a soft smile on his face. "I won't become that person for you."
"I see." Schneizel lamented, although not with a strong undercurrent of anger. "You know what this means, then, right?"
"Yes."
"In gratitude for your services, I am bound by Britannian law to give you a reprieve of one year. On this day in a year's time, your execution squad will arrive. Do not try to run: they will find you no matter where you are."
Laroque nodded. "I understand."
"But one year is such a long time to give someone, especially a traitor like you," Schneizel added, his voice light and mocking. "It is a pity I can't have you killed now; perhaps I should impose another punishment…"
The smile fell from his face.
"That girl you are in love with…She will die too."
His body froze, heartbeat rising beyond the point where he could clearly feel it in his chest. "What?"
Schneizel was silent for a moment, allowing Laroque's rage to build. "One day before your execution she will also be executed and you will watch. This is punishment for defying me – for defying Britannia. Goodbye, Laroque."
"Wait!" he shouted into the phone frantically. "You can't! Wait!"
The line went dead.
For a few seconds there was nothing but darkness and silence in the room as his right hand gripped the phone and he allowed his rage to control him. Finally, he snapped.
"SCHNEIZEL!" he screamed, clenching his right hand into a fist. "You'll regret giving me a year! I'll bring you to your knees!"
Shavings of contorted metal fell between his fingers, the larger chunks hitting the ground audibly and the fine powder filtering through in silence. The final piece to hit the ground was the display – the words 'Private Number' slowly fading from sight.
It had been years since they had surfaced, but now they glowed brighter and more furiously than ever before.
The sigils of Geass.
The Next Morning
Area 11
Tokyo Settlement
He sat up and tilted his head from side to side, three loud cracks breaking the room's suffocating silence. It was still early and the room was encased in almost complete darkness, save for a portion of the far wall which was just barely illuminated through a gap in the curtains. The wall itself was covered in cheap, peeling wallpaper and was devoid of any furniture or permanent fixtures. A small alarm clock set on the floor and was plugged into a nearby electrical socket, showing that it was almost four in the morning. He couldn't be sure it was right – his clock was rarely exact – but it was generally safe to assume that it was within five or ten minutes of the real time.
The bed creaked as he stood up and carefully made his way across the room, testing the floor for anything dangerous before transferring his whole weight each step. From memory, the room had very little in the way of storage or furniture – nothing more than a bed on one side, kitchen cupboard on the other and the usual bathroom fixtures – so all of his belongings were haphazardly strewn along the ground; standing on a knife of some description would be less than pleasant.
Requiring very little sleep was both one of the great advantages and one of the great disadvantages of being a product of cybernetic experimentation, he mused, before walking into the bathroom door; he could have sworn he shut it before he went to sleep. It was convenient while on the run, allowing him to regain enough energy to keep running in brief naps, but when he was momentarily safe it served only to increase his boredom and drive him steadily insane: other than Suzaku, he hadn't spoken to someone he could consider an ally, let alone a friend, for over a year.
He turned the bathroom light on and entered the shower a few minutes later.
While the Black Knights were in power, they had made no effort to capture him and every effort to avoid him, despite his official allegiances to Lelouch Vi Britannia. It could only have been Suzaku behind their leniency and for that he was thankful: Britannian and Japanese civilians alike may have glared at him in disgust and more than once made pathetic attempts to assassinate him, but under Suzaku's watch in Japan he was safe. He still was unable to get a job, but, again, Suzaku would siphon a small amount of cash from the Black Knights' funds monthly to assist him, as per their agreement. For that time he was living relatively comfortably, both physically and mentally: he had enough money to rent a small apartment and live with a clear conscience, knowing Lelouch's plans had succeeded.
And then everything fell apart.
After a few months, Suzaku had contacted him out of the blue to inform him that Schneizel appeared to be gathering a large force in Eastern Europe. After almost fifteen minutes of heated arguing, Suzaku had finally put his foot down and told Jeremiah that he couldn't possibly join the Black Knights' to help fight: his experience and skill would be a huge boost, but it was impossible to recruit him without explaining Lelouch's deception. Jeremiah had expected Suzaku to erupt when he insisted that there was nothing left of that plan and that they couldn't afford to let it restrict them, but he went silent instead. He told him, in a quiet voice, that there had to be something more to Zero Requiem than either of them knew. That was all he said.
The money Suzaku was able to spare him slowed to a trickle within three weeks and had completely stopped by the end of the fourth. At first he had been able to live off what little he had been able to save, but that was never anything more than an extremely short-term option. He had abandoned his apartment at the first sign of a successful invasion by Schneizel, leaving the last two months' rent unpaid; after the Black Knights, he was almost certainly the next target.
From then on, he began to live in various hotel rooms, switching every week or so to make himself more difficult to track. It became more difficult when Schneizel gained full control over Japan, as hotels were quickly informed that he was not to be admitted entry under threat of serious charges. Still, he was able to find accommodation through bribery, although the charges were always at least five times higher and he was never allowed to stay for more than a few days. While the former criterion was a serious issue, the latter didn't inconvenience him: he knew he was being tracked, so he never stayed in one location for more than two or three days anyway, depending on the amount of danger he was in.
Money had always been an issue, but he nevertheless found ways around not having a reliable income. It had taken him a while, but he eventually realised that knocking out the Britannian soldiers sent after him and robbing them blind was an effective and guilt-free way to earn cash. Eventually, whoever was directly in charge of the operations to capture him began to realise what he was doing and the officers kept their distance, resorting to raiding his accommodations in groups to subdue him.
It couldn't be said that Jeremiah Gottwald lacked the capability to adapt to those, or indeed any, circumstances, however. With the large quantities of weaponry he had collected from his victims, it was an easy task to become a small-time player in what he knew to be the only major gang remaining in the Tokyo Settlement which dealt in illegal arms. It might have been tempting for him to actually sell his goods alongside them, but he had his eyes on a bigger prize: their collective treasury. On first contact, he slaughtered the entire group and bagged the contents of a safe worth more than enough to build a dozen knightmare frames.
It may have been cold, but Lelouch would have agreed with him: they needed to die.
The quality of his accommodation hadn't become better since that day, regardless of his sudden increase in wealth. Prices for him had jumped up to well over ten times the standard rate and the rooms he was offered were moved further and further away from the other rooms as managers became more paranoid. Still, he continued to pay and bore them no hard feelings: he was lucky to be offered anything at all.
His clock read almost ten past five when he finally stepped out of the shower, fumbling for the light switch for the main room. He dressed quickly, throwing on a loose pair of pants – his only pair of pants – and a shirt. He placed the few other things he owned into a small duffel bag on the ground in the centre of the room, before checking the clock; if their past operational patterns held true, he still had an hour or so before the Britannian troops arrived to arrest him.
There was a knock on the door.
Jeremiah froze, double-checking the clock out of the corner of his eye. It had only been fifteen minutes or so since he last checked, so it couldn't be them yet, surely.
'Could it?'
He bent down to lift a knife off the top of the bag and made his way over to the door. The scene which would greet him was far too easy to imagine: ten Britannian police officers armed with loaded rifles standing outside his room. It wasn't the first time he'd been in that situation, either; he may be close to invulnerable, but the new Britannian weaponry had proved capable of blowing holes in him with ease. Tightening his grip on the knife, he placed his left hand on the doorknob.
Another knock.
In one action he swung the door open and raised the knife to neck height.
"What the hell is that?" the man standing on his doorstep screamed. "I specifically told you that there were no weapons of any sort allowed in this building!"
Jeremiah sighed and lowered the knife, allowing the tension to seep away from his shoulders. He knew this man; it was the manager of the hotel. Not the owner, most likely, but one of the supervisors – one who was more than happy to let him fly under the radar for a heavy price.
Despite his brave words, the man was clearly just short of being petrified. A hand clutched at his chest, his breathing was forced and he had taken a step backwards to brace himself.
'He's got guts, I'll give him that.'
Jeremiah slipped his left hand into his pocket and leant against the doorjamb. "What is it?"
The man appeared to come to his senses and raised an arm up in a feeble attempt at a defensive pose. His movements were still shaky, but had become firmer than before as he fixed his gaze on the knife, flickering sideways every couple of seconds to send meaningful looks at Jeremiah.
Jeremiah remained silent for a moment, staring back at the man in challenge. A quick look back inside at the clock revealed he had been standing there for almost five minutes; the Britannians would be there soon. He sighed and dropped the knife to the floor, the corners of his lips tilting upwards at the satisfying sound of heavy steel hitting wooden floorboards.
"Is there something you need?"
Instead of responding, the man snapped his leg forward and kicked the knife out of reach. Breathing slightly easier, his eyes trailed along the floor beside Jeremiah and into the centre of the room, coming to rest on a small pile of weaponry which had been sitting on a hooded coat in the centre of the room.
"You need…" he began, staring at Jeremiah with as much composure as he could manage. "You need to get out."
"Is that all?"
The man nodded resolutely. "Yes, thank you."
Room 277
Tokyo Settlement International Hotel
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
"Yes. That will be fine."
Lelouch set down the phone, leaning back in his chair and smiling slightly to himself. That conversation had gone much easier than he had expected, although the conclusion which had eventually been reached was never in doubt to him. It was almost as if…
He ran a hand through his hair and stared out the window of his temporary base of operations. It was early – perhaps as early as five in the morning – but the streets were quite densely populated with people none the less. There was some frost on the window, so he leaned forward and wiped a hole to see through with his arm. Lelouch enjoyed nice views, but on the thirtieth storey it was hard to decide whether he would have preferred something a little closer to the ground.
Ants. The people below him were little more than ants. He'd looked down on them in that way for so long that it was almost instinctual to him. Not just them, but the entire world. It wasn't what he wanted for himself, nor was it what he wanted for the world, but there was nothing he could do about it. If he planned to wage war on the world, he'd have to be cold, uncaring and heartless. So that was exactly what he would remain.
Before the year was out, war would come to the world once again.
A hand on his shoulder shook him out of his thoughts. He knew who it was immediately; even without being able to see her reflection in the window, it was easy for him to discern her touch.
"Lulu…"
He closed his eyes and leaned backwards into her chest, an expression of mild surprise coming over his face as he felt the soft texture of a towel against his bare back, rather than cotton. "What is it, Shirley?"
She wrapped her arms around him, her hand coming to rest on his chest. "Did you call him?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"He has agreed to a meeting," Lelouch stated simply.
"That was what you were expecting, wasn't it?"
He grunted in response.
Shirley raised an eyebrow. "Was there something else?"
"I'm not sure," Lelouch muttered, more to himself than to her. "He seemed unusually…eager."
"To set up a meeting?"
"Yes."
"What do you mean by 'unusually'?" she questioned curiously. "Have you spoken to him recently?"
Lelouch was silent for a moment. "No, but I didn't expect him to make it so easy for me. I expected him to go into the meeting tonight with the upper hand and force me to earn his cooperation. It's almost as if–"
"–He wanted to earn yours." Shirley cut him off.
He stared at her reflection in the glass for a moment; it wasn't like her to be so serious. "Exactly. The conditions must have changed. A few weeks ago he would never have been involved in our war on either side."
"Don't worry, Lulu," she assured him with a smile, leaning forward over him to massage his shoulders. "He'll join us. I know he will."
Lelouch nodded and stood. He walked over to a cupboard and slid the door open. "I have a package for you to deliver to Suzaku in half an hour. The meeting point is behind a small café two blocks from here."
"Is that…?"
"Yes. I didn't have a chance to give this to him earlier," he replied, withdrawing a large parcel wrapped in brown paper and depositing it on the bed.
"Lulu…" she began hesitantly, taking a step towards him and tightening her towel. "Does that mean you don't want me to come tonight?"
He looked away. "You don't know Laroque, Shirley."
"But–"
"–No!" he shouted, cutting her off and losing his composure for a moment. "You can't become Knight of One without the will to cause deaths – hundreds of deaths!"
"But, Lulu–"
"–You don't know him, Shirley! You've never met Laroque!"
Her eyes softened. "He's important, isn't he?"
"We can't win without him," Lelouch replied with a nod, all of the intensity draining out of his voice.
She wrapped her arms back around him. "That's not what I meant, Lulu…"
His shoulder muscles tightened for a moment at the contact, but slowly relaxed as she continued her massage. He closed his eyes. "You still can't come."
"That's okay, Lulu," she replied with a small smile. "Do your best."
They were silent for a moment, his chin resting on the top of her head and her hands massaging his shoulders from behind. He leaned forward into her embrace and moved his arms up to wrap around her back. Her towel was slightly damp and drops of warm water fell from her hair onto his chest, but he closed his eyes anyway, allowing himself a few moments of solace before making preparations for the night.
"Lulu?"
"Mmm?" He mumbled, but didn't otherwise move. His eyes remained closed and he kept his chin resting on the top of her head.
"Where's C.C.?"
Tokyo Settlement
Jeremiah shivered as the early morning winds whipped against his face, forcing him to reflexively pull the coat tighter around his body. Not that he really had any other choice, wind or no wind: the Britannian Police could be anywhere. It had been a long time since they had stopped wearing uniform to attempt arrests on him, preferring now to stake out his alleged location and the surrounding area when they got a lead on his location.
Anybody could be out to get him. At times he felt like the paranoia was a sure sign that he was going insane, but it was a fact of life for him. Even in the early morning, there were hundreds of people in central Tokyo. He supposed he didn't have a lot of choice when it came to accommodation – he had to take what he could get – but it would have been nice to live in a place where there weren't as many people around. Even then, it would be nothing more than a trade-off of actual security for perceived security: there may have been less people in a smaller community, but they always seemed to have a keen eye for outsiders.
No, the safest place for him to be was in the Tokyo Settlement itself. There was rarely such thing as personal space amongst crowds, but the people seemed to have tunnel-vision and rarely paid attention to those around them. All it took was a hooded coat and nobody could even tell he was Britannian, let alone Jeremiah Gottwald.
Except the Britannian Police. They were actively searching for him, so he had to be careful for them wherever he went. Across the road there was a man selling newspapers and an older man standing next to him reading one. The older man had a thick vest and a beanie, but did not seem otherwise suspicious.
A young boy brushed past him and his hand instinctively moved to his pocket. He slipped a hand inside and checked the contents.
A single note was missing.
He spun around and his eyes were drawn to the boy, calmly walking away from him as if he hadn't just picked his pockets. He took a step forward but stopped, grinding his teeth in frustration. There was no way to prove that the money had ever been his, so the most he could do was forcefully take it back. There was no way he could get the police involved without revealing his identity either.
The boy turned down a back alley and Jeremiah's eyes lit up. Away from the street he could easily get it back without causing a fuss or harming him. He would just…
He took another step towards the alley but stopped himself. His fighting style and voice was far too unique to even consider engaging for even a moment with the shadow of the Police looming over him. For all he knew, the boy could have been working with them to draw him out. If they were suspicious of him, confronting him in an alley was far less volatile than in a fairly crowded street.
Clenching his hand into a fist inside his pocket, he turned back around and continued the way he had come. He had plenty of money, but that didn't stop him hating being stolen from. Still, it was a small price to pay for potentially avoiding a trap, even though, in all likelihood, the only thing that had happened was that the kid had just become significantly wealthier.
The man in the beanie folded his newspaper and moved a hand to his ear, mumbling something under his breath.
Jeremiah looked back over his shoulder; the kid had already disappeared around the corner. If it was a Police sting, he was already under surveillance, so he was only endangering himself by staying out in the open. There was an open market up ahead, if he could just get there, then…
He turned his head to the side and looked across the road. A few shops down from the man selling newspapers was another alley, almost identical to the one the boy had disappeared down, save for a small bench which seemed out of place. A figure sat on one end, wearing a black coat with the hood up. It may have been paranoia, but even though he couldn't see the man's eyes, Jeremiah somehow knew that he was staring directly at him.
His speed increased as much as he felt was safe under the circumstances and he ducked into the market a few seconds later. He almost breathed a sigh of relief, but caught himself in time: he'd been in this situation far too many times to allow himself to become complacent while the danger was still present.
There were surprisingly many people in the market at that time of the morning, although he supposed it should have been expected. While there were very few customers, stall owners were just beginning the long process of setting up their equipment, merchandise and signage. Very few paid him any attention at all, being much more interested in their own affairs, but one or two seemed to perk up as he walked in their direction. Whether that was because they were Britannian agents or they were just happy to see a potential customer, he had no idea.
He sped up slightly, still not wanting to cause a fuss but feeling distinctly uncomfortable in crowds now that he had potentially been sighted. Ducking under a banner which was on display, he spared a glance at a stall full of electronic gadgets. Amongst them were a few clocks of various descriptions, showing a range of times which averaged out at about five thirty. A groan slipped out of his throat; he'd forgotten his alarm clock in the hotel room. If he wasn't so sure there was somebody following him, then he'd have stopped to pick up a replacement.
Before the paranoia could eat him up any further, he stepped around a corner into the back section of the market and headed for the far exit, brushing against another man in a black coat – or was it the same one as before? Either way, it didn't matter; if those doors lead into an empty alley he'd be all right. He could fight there.
The double doors were made of thick steel and seemed to be stuck for a moment when he first pushed against them. For a moment he thought they were locked, but they quickly gave way under the force his modified body could exert. Just as he'd hoped, the alley was empty, save for a dumpster against the back wall and a car parked to the side. It was clearly a private loading bay, but fortunately nobody was around.
He began to walk forward, slowing down as he entered an environment he was more at home fighting in. Just in front of him, the lane split at a T-intersection and headed off in two directions; it was clear that this section wasn't part of the lane proper.
A look over his shoulder told him that nobody was follow him – or, at least, nobody had followed him through the door just yet – and he allowed himself to grin; there was nothing to worry about any longer.
That grin faded instantly as he turned left around the corner.
Directly in front of him were three Britannian Police officers, one touching his earpiece and whispering something while the other two toted bulky firearms. Firearms, he realised with a start, which had been specially developed for one purpose and one purpose only: to kill him.
Barely giving himself time to think, he spun around and made to run in the other direction: he couldn't dodge the bullets, but their accuracy wasn't necessarily perfect. A similar sight caused him to skid to a stop before he'd even left the T-intersection, although this group of three only had one who held a rifle capable of killing him. Much further behind them was a man in a black coat – the same one he had suspected of following him.
Without wasting a second, he pivoted and dived behind the car, listening intently as round after round was emptied into the other side of the vehicle. He instantly reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol, switching it into his left hand and allowing the spike to extend from his right wrist. He'd have to wait for them to stop and make a break for the door; if he waited any longer, they'd eventually make their way around. Staying and fighting wasn't an option either: he might have been able to outmanoeuvre two with special rifles and a regular one, but three of each was far too much, even for him. One shot would kill him and he could be sure they'd all shoot at the same time. Even that was saying nothing about the seventh person, who hadn't drawn a weapon yet.
That line of thought gave him an idea and had him reaching into his bag for a second time. This time he withdrew a pair of smoke grenades and whipped the pins out in a fluent motion. Lobbing both over the car, he waited for the gas to be released before making a break for the door. A few shots were heard, but the sound of gunfire slowed as he reached it, pulling forcefully on the handle.
It didn't budge.
He looked over his shoulder as he fought with the mechanism. Two smoke grenades weren't entirely necessary, but it was far better to be safe than sorry. The air was thick with smoke, to the point where he could no longer see the car, but it was rapidly receding due to a strong wind funnelling down the alleyway. He ground his teeth together as he realised what had happened: the door had been locked from the other side.
Cursing his inattention, he spun around in time to hear a resounding boom emanating from the car exploding; evidently, the sustained gunfire had left it in a critical state when he ran for the door. A few chunks of metal flew up and hit him, but were barely noticed as they bounced harmlessly off his body; he had more important things to worry about.
His cover had been destroyed and the dumpster provided little to no protection. He could run into the smoke, but he was likely no better at fighting blind than they were; with a handicap of six enemies, he wouldn't be able to even the odds. Besides, it was doubtful they were even in the smoke any longer. In all likelihood, they had retreated to where they could gun him down as he attempted to escape or go back in after him if he didn't.
It was unfortunate for him that the walls were so high and that they had been rendered: scaling them was not an option. Similarly, breaking through the door would just take the fight into the market and hamper him even more. The only thing he could do, he realised, was attack them head on and hope for the best.
As close to silently as he could, he made his way into the smoke. One foot was carefully placed in front of the other in turn and he consciously reduced the volume of his breathing. It was fortunate for him that the gas was only meant to impair vision and was unable to damage his body, although whether or not more dangerous gas could harm him after his upgrades was debatable.
It seemed that his guess was right; he thought he was already in the centre of the T-intersection and hadn't come across any of his enemies yet, nor heard gunfire. There was still a fair amount of smoke, so he took a few moments to plan his next move.
There were three to his right, but only two had weapons which could hurt him. There were four to his left: one had a special gun and another was the one in the coat. He carefully weighed his chances. He couldn't say for certain that their layouts hadn't changed, but the left route was most likely his best hope for escape.
He turned left in a split second and ran towards the edge of the now semi-transparent smoke, bending his arm to poise the spike for attack. His momentum was halted almost instantly as he charged out of the smoke and came face to face with all three of the officers with special rifles and one other: either they had predicted his moves or had become too lost in the smoke to return to their original positions. There was no sign of the man in the coat.
For almost a second nobody moved. The officers had a clear shot at him, but they were young and had almost certainly never killed before. Their fingers shook on the trigger, ready to shoot at a moment's notice if he moved, but unsure if they could kill him if he didn't.
'It's over. I can't outrun them,' Jeremiah thought, grinding his teeth together. A grin gradually grew on his face. 'But I can try.'
Faster than he had ever moved, he pivoted and made to dash back into what was left of the smoke. He got less than a step in before he heard the shot.
He clutched his chest and stared down at it.
They couldn't have missed from this distance.
He hadn't heard or seen the shot go past him.
So why wasn't he bleeding?
A cough sounding behind him drew his attention instantly, forcing him to spin back around in time to see the man in the coat slump unceremoniously to the ground, blood leaking out from underneath his hooded head.
Why had he done that? That man had stepped in front of the bullet. He'd sacrificed his life for him. He'd been killed by Britannia. Jeremiah didn't know who he was or why he had done what he had, but the sight in front of him was more than enough to steel his resolve.
He saw red.
Charging forward with reckless abandon, he dodged the first bullet instinctively, though barely. Throwing his spike up in front of him just in time to block two bullets out of nothing but sheer luck, he reached the first officer and separated his head from his shoulders without breaking stride. The fourth shot was wide and he took his chance, pouncing to deliver fatal strikes to the other two.
Three bodies lay at his feet, but in the opposite direction, another three lived. With a glance at the man who had taken his bullet, he dove back into the smoke with a snarl. He wouldn't leave any alive.
The three on the other side of the smoke cloud were older and seemed more intelligent than their counterparts, but Jeremiah wasn't in the frame of mind to be wondering why they weren't the ones with the modified rifles. Two opened fire immediately and the other wasn't far behind, barking an order before pulling the trigger on his own pistol.
Jeremiah's own pistol whipped around and a bullet wound up in the man's chest before he could even squeeze off a second round. The other two had automatic weapons, but it made little difference to him; he barely even noticed the bullets bounce harmlessly off him as he aimed his gun and carefully slotted one between each of their eyes in turn.
Had Jeremiah been thinking clearly, he would have realised that something was wrong with this situation. Britannia hated him for opposing them and Japan hated him for helping Lelouch conquer them. Suzaku was Lelouch's right hand man, but he could safely say that he was Lelouch's left hand. As far as he knew, he didn't have a single ally in the world; even those who afforded him accommodation were only thinking about their wallets. Still, someone had saved his life by sacrificing their own; it shouldn't have been possible.
The smoke had completely cleared by the time he turned around. The three bodies of his enemies and the body of his ally – that word felt somewhat awkward to him, considering his life – lay on the other side of where it had once been. People would have heard the gunshots, so he knew he had to leave quickly. But he couldn't leave that person's body on the street, despite the difficulty of removing it, and it was far too tempting to scavenge those weapons. They were relatively new and he'd never managed to take down somebody with one.
He dropped the pistol at his feet. There was no point keeping an empty gun; Britannia would know it was him and there were plenty of replacement weapons in the vicinity. The adrenaline had already mostly left him and his breathing was slightly laboured as he walked across to the other group, despite his robotic upgrades. Every few seconds he found himself throwing glances towards the one who had saved him, subconsciously hoping for some sort of miracle to restore them so he could ask one question: 'why?'
He squatted down and began to check the enemy corpse for anything which might be useful to him: weaponry, cash, identity cards, clearance cards and the like. It was fortunate that he had been paying attention as he filtered through the officer's pockets, or he likely would have missed it.
A finger twitched.
In less than a second he was at their side, kneeling in the pool of blood and gently rolling the person onto their back. They were lighter than he had expected, but he barely registered that fact before checking for a pulse. It was weak, but there definitely was one. Making sure not to startle the man, he pulled the hood back to get a better look at his face. He instantly recoiled in shock.
It couldn't have been her, could it? He'd thought it was a man who had saved him, but he couldn't have been more wrong. He'd thought this girl had died years ago, in the aftermath of Schneizel's conquest.
She shifted slightly below him, allowing her long, green hair to flow out of the coat and lie on her chest. Her complexion was slightly pale, but he thought she might have always been like that. Aside from the bullet hole in her temple and faint pulse – although that was quickly returning to normal – it would have been difficult to tell that anything was wrong with her.
A pair of yellow eyes stared up at him apathetically. He knew he should say something, but he had no idea what. Should he thank her? Should he ask what she was doing here? Why she had saved him? Where she had been? She was the one to break the silence.
From between her lips came three words that would change the course of his life forever.
"Lelouch needs you."