Knights or Justice?

Chapter 7: "Kings' Corner"

by AstroCitizen

"The Brain Trust", location classified

United States of America

The Retaliation plus three days

"I am unaccustomed to being made to wait," the man growled imperiously as the entrance slid open, revealing the silhouettes of two people looking into the room at him.

It was a common enough waiting room, utilitarian with whitewashed walls and a faint odor of disinfectant mixed in with pine scent. The upholstered seats, end tables, and potted plants were obviously a last minute add-on to make the place look nicer than it was. All in all, it could not have been more different from the Grand Hall in Pendragon where he usually received visiting dignitaries and supplicants. Yet Charles zi Britannia carried himself no differently than if he sat in the royal throne room, surrounded by his loyal Knights of the Round with the complete assembly of the royal court at his feet.

His current state of appearance helped carry this attitude. His mane of hair was in pristine condition as ever, combed and rolled into rows like a judge's wig, with not a single strand out of place. And far from the prison-issued smock he was on visual record as wearing, instead he had on his standard ensemble – greatcoat, boots, cloak, aiguillette and epaulettes – cleaned and arrayed upon him crisp, polished, and neat enough that the most fastidious of men would drive themselves to distraction trying to find fault. All of this had been done by the prison's robotic servitors, and while they lacked the obsequious nature of his personal attendants back home, he couldn't help but think of getting a set for himself in the future.

It wasn't a question of "if" he returned to Earth-1, nor did he feel that it was a factor of "when". It was just that he wouldn't allow his mind to go in the direction of this world being his home from now on. Although with every moment he spent in this embarrassing predicament it became harder to do so.

On and off he'd composed his reproach to Prince Schneizel when they finally met again, but internally he remained honest with himself. I am to blame for this, he thought. I played the impatient tyrant when I should have watched, waited, and learned, and I was the silent, austere monarch when I should have demanded swift action.

Even as he'd ordered Schneizel to mount an expedition, the Emperor had already planned to send a raiding party as soon as a good, plump world – technologically a step behind but not Neolithically so – was found. He wanted a sequence of raids, in fact, to be held until such time that some poor fool was caught, leaving open the possibility that his Tarnhelm would be studied and replicated. After a pitiful counterattack by the Other-Earth's inhabitants using some tanks or perhaps even a bomber or two, he would then go public with the discovery of parallel worlds, one of which had attacked the Empire, thereby giving him the righteous leverage to open a whole new theater of war.

Charles had swiftly ordered the attack on the reality designated Earth-2, and just as swiftly ordered a moratorium on further operations when Bradley and his command failed to return. He'd done so with the intention of affording the other-worlders time and opportunity to make the next move. And sadly, they had as his current locale attested.

It had actually mattered little to him that the Other-Earth's history was born out of a successful rebellion by Washington, other than the incentive it gave his soldiers to stir up trouble. Without any manner of humanoid mechanical war machines in use or even in development, it would have served nicely in keeping the military and his more ambitious progeny occupied while he and his elder brother made preparations for the Ragnarok alignment.

He rolled the word fondly around in his mind. Ragnarok – the death of the Gods, the death of lies, and one way or another, the death of Mankind as it is in all its self-destructive ignominy. All with the help of an ancient science whose origins and founders are lost in the midst of times.

When that green-skinned humanoid first appeared before him, his first thoughts were that V.V.'s experiments had done something, and the last of the Thought Elevators' lost and forgotten builders had come calling. But then he had spoken…

"Another big man..." said the beetle-browed vision after giving him an analytical look, his voice deep and resonant yet patient-sounding. In contrast to these reflective features, the Emperor could see that this green man too was built like a linebacker beneath his cloak. "… who needs the world to be small."

… and with the arrival of his red-headed strumpet and that human gob of gum, he knew everything he'd worked and sacrificed for was endangered.

Now, that he could blame on someone else.

The Justice League… *feh*, he thought. How he hated them, perhaps even more so than the Gods themselves. Their sanctimonious name proclaimed them to be custodians of justice, yet their very appearance was a lie, with their code names and masks. How can justice exist side-by-side with lies? Only in pure, unvarnished truth, free of any sentiment, can there be justice. Hypocrites, the lot of them, he concluded, with no right to judge me.

Yet, they had judged him, hence his current dilemma. He was trapped on Earth-2, in a prison on the other side of the looking glass. A looking glass that laid within the looking glass of yet another looking glass as he remembered the chart one of Schneizel's scientists, a former Three, had concocted. And on the other side of the original mirror? His sons and daughters. Odysseus, Schneizel, Cornelia, Lelouch, Guinivere, Euphemia, Oscar, Castor and Pollux, and so many others. All of whom he'd made no secret they were his pawns in the game of global domination and the accumulation of power. All by now aware of his capture, and all by now having their own individual reactions.

Lelouch, more than likely, would simply use the opportunity to flee Pendragon forever. Filch his sister from wherever he'd stashed her away and disappear into the night, never to be seen again. And as for the rest…

How long before they declare me dead, and set about feeding on the carcass of my apparent legacy? How long before they grapple for the throne? Even with Schneizel's network of influence and Cornelia's control over the military heads, it will be a second Emblem of Blood.

But he wasn't dead, not yet anyway, although deploying Bradley had likely earned him whatever death penalty was in effect on this world. He could still feel the faint psychic connection he had to his brother even without the benefit of a Thought Elevator or other Providence artifact, and with that damnable inhibitor collar removed his Geass could be engaged again. And he did so, testing it and feeling the light, almost electrical spark behind his left eye, familiar and reassuring as the two people stepped through the doorway and…

God damn it to Hell, I cannot catch a break! he thought churlishly, gnashing his teeth at the sight of the ebon-tined goggles the man and woman wore as they stepped into the light.

The woman was another redhead, but certainly not the pubescent wench who'd flung his minions about like dolls in a wind tunnel. No, she was a full-grown woman, trim and shapely, which her chic business suit emphasized. While the goggles detracted from her face, she was surely beautiful enough to hold a place in his imperial harem easily.

The man could not have been any older than she, his body thin but not fragile as with Lelouch. In fact, aside from his strawberry-red locks, he reminded him of Schneizel for good or ill. He wore a suit but of a relaxed cut, perhaps in an attempt to present himself as upper class and yet a "man of the people" as was the popular term in Europe. The only outstanding article of clothing was his tie, deep blue with a series of yellow lines which zigzagged in sharp curves like the display of an EEG monitor.

"'Charles zi Britannia, emperor of the Holy Empire of Britannia,'" the man read from a folder he carried with him. "You've been a busy boy out there," he added, referring to the damage done outside, where reconstruction from his raids was still ongoing in some areas apparently.

"Allow us to introduce ourselves," he continued as he took the seat opposite the Emperor. "We are…"

"I did not give you leave to sit in my presence," Charles fairly growled as he reclined in his own seat, maintaining his position as a king among commoners. "Besides, your names are already known to me. Pemberton and Briggs, the overseers of this place I've been brought to."

Earlier when he'd first arrived, a tedious introductory film had been shown to him, evidently for the "benefit" of all newcomers to the facility. It had explained the automated systems that served in place of guards and other manned positions within this prison, an insurance against personnel falling prey to the inmates' innumerable mind-bending powers. This left only two living beings to administer, Hank Pemberton and Lia Briggs, who had their own psychic resources should the need for discipline arise.

The film had also shown a cross-section of the facility, revealing it to be of medium size, neither a tiny county jailhouse for ne'er-do-wells awaiting their time in court nor a massive penitentiary for housing masses of convicted criminals. It was also rather dome-shaped, much like the cranium of a human skull. It hadn't been remarked on, but he was certain the construction was essential for keeping the inmates' powers contained and from influencing anyone on the outside. A precaution he imagined could be reversed with a little work.

"'Supervisor' is more like it, Your Majesty." It was the woman, Briggs, who responded, leaning against the opposite wall without a hint of decorum. Her voice carried a hint of the English Isles he hadn't expected.

Before him, Pemberton had done nothing to correct his posture before the potentate. In fact, he was making a tsking sound through his teeth. "Now, now, your lordship. We're your hosts, after all. We understand – and appreciate – that you're royalty, but still… putting on airs like that, surrounded by all kinds of other mentalists…"

He held out his hand palm up before raising it into the air. In response, one of the end tables shook and then hovered two feet off the ground without any indication of support or suspension. It simply floated in midair while Pemberton first bent his fingers like claws then snapped his hand shut. Almost as swiftly, the end table collapsed in upon itself with a sudden, terrible sound of wood fibers tearing and snapping. As Pemberton continued to squeeze his hand, the broken pieces ground against one another, little puffs of sawdust shooting out here and there. Finally, Pemberton relaxed his hand and rested it back upon his armrest. In response, the destroyed piece of furniture crashed to the floor, a sorry pile of pulverized particleboard.

"It could prove hazardous to your health," the warden concluded with a thin smile.

Charles was not as put off by this as most would be. Children whose Geass resulted in variations of psychokinesis were a common result of his brother's experiments. Seeing them used destructively was nothing new to him, so in answer to this display of power, the Emperor merely continued to glare balefully at Pemberton, albeit without saying another word.

Pemberton seemed to find his attitude amusing, as he began to chuckle. "Made from sterner stuff, aren't you? I imagine you would have to be, based on what the Justice League had to share about your reality. Handling all that power and prestige, just to keep your own children and peers at bay while you tinkered with those ruins."

He suddenly leaned forward, speaking in a hushed tone. "Do you honestly think you could have made it work?"

Regally, Charles crossed his arms over his broad chest, as it was obvious what Pemberton was asking about. "I am not in the habit of making mistakes, nor do I tolerate those who do."

The warden returned to his reclining position, waving his hand in a careless manner. "I'm sure you would have done your best based on what you know, but that's no guarantee of success." As he said this, Pemberton kicked one leg over an armrest, sprawling indolently in a way that increasingly reminded the Emperor of the foppish Earl Asplund.

Again Pemberton stretched out his hand, causing Charles to steel himself for whatever happened next. This time it was nothing so spectacular as tiny blue flames which popped up in his hand. They resolved into a series of thumb-sized glowing human figures who proceeded to dance frantically upon his palm.

"You based everything on a science that you had to develop yourself without a full understanding of the relics you sought to utilize. Now, it's possible everything could have gone right, and you would have been at the epicenter of a quantum leap in evolution, the human race going overnight from a slapdash gaggle of individuals with a ten-percent brain power capacity they barely ever used, to one massive psychic gestalt, a uni-mind whose every atom of being a whirlwind of transient thought to make the visionaries of the Renaissance weep."

As he spoke, the tiny dancers had merged into one larger figure, visibly a girl in the dress of an Arabian belly-dancer, whose fluid movements were more distinct with a subtle grace the tiny troupe hadn't shown. After a moment, the dancing girl suddenly collapsed back into an inch-high bacchanal, whose movements were now jerky. Several of them fell off the ends of Pemberton's hand, having wandered too far or accidentally been pushed. Either way, they flickered out like fireflies as they drifted to the floor.

Just as his illusionary display had changed in tune, so had Pemberton's little discourse. "Or you could just as easily blown a fuse in the brain of every man, woman, and child alive, leaving them even more mindless than they were before." With this pronouncement, he then shook his hand as if he'd just washed it and was fanning the excess moisture off, the few remaining dancers fading away too as they sailed off into the air.

"A pity," Charles agreed, "but preferable to the endless cycle of deceit and self-destruction I have seen."

"Such single-mindedness… or does that sound too much like paronomasia?" Pemberton said with a chuckle.

"I'd say it applies," Briggs said with a hint of respect in her voice. "Unafraid of the consequences, setting your sights firmly on the benefit you could produce. You're braver than us, Your Majesty. Higher-minded, too. All Henry here and I want is money, power, and the respect they bring. For everything we have, we are simple beings with simple goals. Hardly altruistic aims, especially not of your caliber."

Charles narrowed his eyes suspiciously. The content of their conversation so far held indicators that they sought a bribe from him, yet they had to know he was in no position to readily award them anything. And what he did have on hand to provide did not fit with their waxing about wealth and power.

"What is it you want from me?"

"From you, m'lord? No, no, no. You should be asking what it is we can do for you."

Briggs smiled disarmingly as she sidled up to Pemberton, perching on an armrest as she plucked the goggles from her eyes. "What our employers can do for you, to be precise. They, like you, have a vivid interest in the continued evolution of mankind."

That actually caused the Emperor to smirk, as it showed their ignorance of his true mission in life. Pemberton saw that and smiled deferentially.

"You misunderstand us. We're not talking about the lip service you've given Social Darwinism." He shrugged his shoulders dismissively at that. "A bunch of stodgy socio-political nonsense you spoon-fed to the crusty upper crust of your realm. We understand your real goal was to achieve true evolution, the enhancement of all of mankind."

"By fair means or foul," continued Briggs. "For its own good, of course."

"Of course," Pemberton agreed, taking back up the topic. "Natural selection is a reality of evolution, but just one, and an ineffective one at that. All that nasty running around, screaming and bleeding and fighting. So exhausting. And for what? Some lucky handful of ersatz Adam-and-Eves live long enough to propagate, continuing random entanglements of their own DNA strands, as if that's any guarantee of improvement. Toss in modern science with weapons in one hand and medicine in the other so the weak and stupid have a level playing field, and the whole thing becomes even more problematic."

"Ragnarok would bypass all of that," the Emperor interjected, Pemberton's thoughts having matched his own conclusions when he'd bothered to give the rigmarole he'd habitually spewed any real consideration. "All would benefit, all would be made one. A whole far greater than the sum of its parts. Not even the dead would be exempt from the ascension of mankind."

"And that's what you really want, Charles," Briggs said appreciatively. "To raise up humanity, not to divide it. To make Man… see the light."

The Emperor almost imperceptibly relaxed at this, the safety of himself and his sibling becoming less of an issue with their every word. If they wished to utilize his and V.V.'s studies for some secret agenda of their own, perhaps even clear up holes in their own work that experimentation with Geass and their search for C.C. or other Code-bearers had demanded, then perhaps it was possible to bring things around to his advantage after all.

But who here would be curious about Ragnarok, and ignore the imminent threat his empire posed? Were they a renegade faction within the Washingtonian government? Traitors in the employ of a rival nation? Was their intention real or were they curious of making Ragnarok into a weapon, to utilize the possibility of erasing or dominating people's minds en masse? The answers lay within their "employers", and to understand who they may be, he first had to know…

"Who are you?"

Pemberton and Briggs exchanged a sly smile each. "As I said earlier, we are your hosts, Emperor Charles," Pemberton answered him as he gestured magnanimously to his co-supervisor. "Allow me to introduce ourselves. This is Angela Hawkins III…"

To his credit, Charles's expression didn't budge a bit as a glowing line suddenly scurried across her body from one side to another like a tiny flame eating up a thin piece of paper. As it moved, her wavy red tresses and business suit was erased, replaced with slick black hair and a green body suit, tight as a glove and of the same material. Less appealing was the change to her face, her peaches-and-cream complexion now a pale bluish pallor like a drowning victim. Additionally, her makeup had become black lipstick along with eyeliner and mascara forming the Eye of Horus around both of her own.

"… alias Phobia."

The former Ms. Briggs grabbed the sides of the olive-green cloak she now wore as she stood and gave a little bow. "And a possessor of noble blood myself, by the by," she said, giving him an appraising look as she straightened up.

"And I…"

The Emperor returned his attention to Pemberton, and felt his heartbeat skip at the phantasm now before him. Pemberton's face had gone slack with his jaw hanging slightly, as all expression was now conveyed by the translucent visage that now wavered around it. It was the head of man suffering an extreme case of macrocephaly from the looks of things, the circumference of his bald cranium almost twice what could possibly be normal. This caused the face to seem pinched and smaller than it should be, although that was probably preferable. Like the man's pate, it was completely hairless without eyebrows or even a hint of stubble, the eyes hidden behind a set of oversized mirror-like glasses perched on a hawkish stub of a nose.

While Pemberton's physical mouth remained agape, the lips of the spectral face now moved ever so slightly, whispering words that Charles did not so much as hear but rather felt them appear within his mind.

I am Henry King, Senior, a.k.a. Brain Wave, the ghostly visage concluded, its spectral lips splitting into a toothy grin. And I'm your new best friend.

Disclaimer: Code Geass: Lelouch of the Rebellion is the property of Sunrise and Bandai Entertainment. Young Justice is the property of DC Comics, Inc. and AOL-Time-Warner.