Chapter 6: The Tip of the Spear, the Horn of Victory, Cornelia Li Britannia
A hasty retreat had been made the moment Richilieu was able to move his own limbs again, his footfall silent enough to remain inaudible to the understandably bewildered Semore, who was just waking up from his possession. Hopefully the intimidation tactic he'd used would be enough to stave off a potential pursuit by the racially charged boy, though he highly suspected his curiosity and still radiant racial prejudice would continue to drive him in Richilieu's direction. It would have been far more strategically sound to have simply murdered him, and Richilieu was indeed having second thoughts about his merciful decision.
Regardless, it seemed he had thrown the boy off for now, his random weaving throughout corridors and streets likely allowing him some freedom from his pursuer for tonight. The remaining issue was with the inhabitants of the Eleven ghetto, the least of which would more than happily take advantage of a lone Britannian, lost and wandering the streets, that is, if the strangely copious amounts of Sutherlands didn't concern them. Gunfire filled the air as dusk began to fall, darkness applying both a veil and an amplifier to the effects given by the frightful screams heard by the Elevens being massacred.
Cornelia must be continuing Clovis' work. It's probably in open defiance of Zero, but still, you can't beat us Britannians for racism… Heh, or should I still be considered French? Who knows? Nationality's such a petty issue, decided by artificial borders that are in turn determined by warring men, who then go back to the borders to decide who they are.
An explosion in the distance and the scream of a Japanese man thrown against an adjacent wall, more than likely caused by a now advancing knightmare frame, interrupted his thoughts, the young boy crouching meekly behind a dumpster. He only periodically dared to slip his head out into the open in order to gauge the situation, from which he garnered a pure slaughter of the clearly outgunned rebel forces. He grimaced heavily, though kept his stomach under control.
"Perhaps not the time to wax philosophic…"
"I'd certainly say not."
He froze, his head turning ever slowly toward the source of the sound, meeting him a pair of blue eyes framed in strands of white hair. She smirked and waved a small hand, crouching down to meet him at eye level. "Hey."
"… Why are you here?"
"I followed you. That is why I'm with you, you know. Entertainment and all."
"I gathered. You watched while I had a knife in my back?"
"It was still pretty fun to watch, so I didn't interfere. You took care of it, anyway, so no problem, right?"
This bitch…
His eye twitched. Life truly was a game to this woman, the very essence of it lost on her.
"… Right..."
"Britannia's sudden attack might be more of an issue than Semore's own assault, however."
"Finally we're on the same page."
They waited a few more minutes in silence until the remaining knightmare frames passed, night falling to the point where the glowing brilliance of the newly advanced Tokyo Settlement provided the only light source.
"… By the way,"
Oh, dear Christ.
"I was confronted by Lelouch's contractor shortly after you left."
… Not as bad as anticipated.
"… Go on." He kept his voice down, much unlike the girl that spoke as loudly as she pleased, clearly unthreatened by any wandering soldiers or disgruntled Elevens that might have happened to wander by.
"She demanded that we assist in the rescue of Lelouch. Apparently, when he found out about the 'ethnic cleansing,' he ran off to oppose Cornelia."
Idealistic idiot.
"What does she expect out of us?"
"She" must be the green haired girl I saw in his dorm.
"She was vague. More or less she just wants us to keep him alive."
"She expects us to help?"
"Apparently. I told her you wouldn't go for it."
"Indeed."
The conversation seemed to end there. Honestly, why had she expected that they'd be on the same team? Simply because of their mutually assured destruction? Perhaps because of the presumed bond via Geass? Or maybe she'd thought he'd think himself obligated to assist.
Doesn't she realize that it'd be better for me if Lelouch were to be captured? I have no bond with him, and I certainly don't view him as an ally. Beside that, I'm more concerned with the Britannian armada that's gathered.
It appeared to Richilieu, after a few uninterrupted minutes of thought, that Britannia was attempting to flush out Zero by recreating the incident at Shinjuku, however, this time with a more militant minded commander, Cornelia, in lieu of the strategically inept artist Clovis.
If Lelouch is cocky, and he most certainly is, he'll fall right into it.
"C'est la vie. Je suppose c'est 'adieu,' Lelouch." He muttered quietly, peaking yet again around a corner so as to guarantee a lack of Britannian forces and Japanese resistance.
"… You speak French?"
… Had he said that aloud?
"… I'm bilingual. I try not to make much of it. Let's act while there's a lull in action. If we run, I think we can be at the ghetto's perimeter in five, no, make it ten minutes." He was very clearly attempting to change the subject. Semore's attack had brought to the forefront of his mind the rampant racism toward the French that was still very prevalent among Britannians. While it certainly didn't approach the level of hatred inexplicably held for the Japanese, they were still nonetheless bitter, understandably so. Despite his undeniably French name, Richilieu had to remember that to flaunt it was equivalent to putting a target on his back.
Granted, he doubted he could expose himself to much more danger than he was in right now. The realization that this particular area of the Tokyo Settlement was now a warzone finally began to seep in as he dashed out from behind his cover and across the nearest street, the silence now found between he and O.O., as well as the darkness detracting from any visual distractions, augmenting the gunfire and screams of fallen rebels from both near and far. He could place the nearest sounds of combat a mere two streets over; not ten yards from where he and Semore had faced off. Needless to say, he was not in a desirable position. The supposed cover that he had made his mad dash for turned out to be not more than an open clearing, what probably used to be a court yard for an apartment complex. Dust covered the once beautiful garden and filled the once saturated fountain. The entire area was simply barren, a depressing reminder to its Japanese owners of what had once been there.
But of more interest to our protagonist, the openings to the street were numerous, and the cover was scarce. The very opposite of what he had been seeking.
"Dammit…" He muttered, bracing himself against the nearest wall and keeping an eye on the exit to the street opposite of him, peering through the shattered gate to the silhouette of a combating knightmare a few blocks away.
"No… There's two. The terrorists have Sutherlands, just like at Shinjuku…"
"So I guess Lelouch is doing alright on his own." O.O. quipped, nonchalantly crouched against the very same wall. She had conceded to lowering her voice for the current affair, perhaps deeming it necessary to proceed with the game without having a necessary piece unnecessarily killed.
He responded with nothing more than a vague noise of affirmation, opting to keep his eyes trained on the opposing units. Shots were fired, windows blown out due to bullets and shrapnel, blows were traded, slash harkens embedding themselves into armor and concrete, until at last the units danced dangerously near the very apartment complex Richilieu hid at. By this point he and O.O. had relocated to a dark and, hopefully, unnoticed corner, however the advancing units, now plowing through entrances and into the darkened garden, would likely pay their safety no mind, regardless.
The knightmares appeared even larger than what he'd anticipated from his distant vantage point. Having never truly seen one in person, the truly massive, comparatively, four and a half meter machine dwarfed both he and O.O. as it delivered a fatal blow to its opponent. The Sutherland that had entered through what Richilieu could discern as the east gate was completely blindsided by its opponent's forceful impact from the north, the shoulder of the frame colliding with the other's distended cockpit. Steel meeting steel violated the ears of all present, and sparks clashed from the sharp collision of the two forces. The Knightmare didn't appear too heavily damaged, but it was almost immediately clear that the pilot was suffering, as the machine's advance slowed to a halt in the middle of the garden, fact sphere sensors opening up and perpetually beeping; an indicator of the pilot's defeat and his inability to shut them off.
Richilieu honestly couldn't care less about either of the pilots. Indeed, his only concern right now was whether or not the surviving pilot was a Britannian or an Eleven. He manually swallowed, forcibly silencing himself in order to ensure his own survival, beads of sweat running from his forehead into his eyes as the anticipation of their discovery gnawed on his psyche. Would he live? Would he die? He'd already cheated death once this evening; was the grim reaper so incompetent as to allow him to do it again?
O.O.'s concerns were far less practical. After silently clapping at the endeavors of the pilots, likely believing the entire spectacle to be solely for her own amusement, she grunted and stood, leaning against the corner with crossed arms and a lazy expression.
She's… Standing…
"O.O.! What the Hell are you doing?" He frantically breathed, urging her to sit back down by pulling on her pant leg. Her response was short.
"Oh, sorry." Her voice was slightly less concealed than before. It was almost as if she wanted to be found out. "Reflex. My legs were cramping."
Her… Her legs were… You're kidding…
At that moment, the remaining Sutherland's factspheres opened, flashing in the direction of O.O. and Richilieu. He froze, she meekly ducked. Both realized that they were in a terrible position. A few moments of silence passed before the speakers on the knightmare erupted in a cacophony of what Richilieu believed was Japanese. Evidently the winning party had been the terrorist in the conflict.
Dammit, I learned a little before coming here so I wouldn't be caught off guard…
Of course, he only recalled the basest of basic vocabulary. Swallowing and attempting to remain as passive as possible, his hands out to his side and open so as to convey no hostility, standing up in the process. He spoke.
"Ni…" A muttered curse. What was their word for it? "Nihongo… imasen." He finally stated, unsure of whether or not the point had been put across. As far as he was aware, he had just said "Japanese. No." Perhaps the pilot would understand it as that, regardless…
Instead, the Sutherland raised its assault rifle to the two of them, O.O. appearing slightly surprised at the way the situation was heading, and Richilieu's heart simply sinking in his chest, fear and a sense of forlorn hope painting the canvas of his face. This was it. He was to die here. Eleven extremists would go to any lengths to lower the ratio of Britannians to Elevens, and the fact that a language barrier existed made it impossible to convince him otherwise.
"'Not with a bang, but with a whimper.' Right?" His voice shook. There was no sense in keeping up a visage of confidence now.
"Maybe for you…" O.O. muttered in response, out of earshot. She sighed. Her toy hadn't lasted nearly as long as she'd wanted, and she knew that this would void the proverbial warranty.
"Feeruthy Buritanian." This one couldn't speak much of Richilieu's tongue either, it seemed. "Ohpress Japonees ees funno? Bureeng you joy? You die hiah. Nippon banzai!" The trigger pulled, the gun clicked. Nothing. A snap decision was made. Richilieu bolted. To Hell with O.O. To Hell with the Britannian pilot probably dying in his cockpit. To Hell with the idealistic Japanese. He would die here if an escape was not immediately made. And so he ran.
But not where his logic had dictated.
His footfall headed him irreversibly toward the Sutherland still dumbly stuck with its factspheres open. Toward combat. Toward death.
But why?
He couldn't question that now. The Eleven, now understanding that his weapon had run out of ammo at a time only Hollywood producers could dictate, instead levered down his landspinners and began a charge at the young boy advancing, wheels screeching and arms swinging down the now relatively useless assault rifle at his miniature form. Richilieu jumped to his side a moment before impact and heard the rush of air blow past him, tumbling on the ground before shortly righting himself. The Sutherland launched past, intending to hit an O.O. that it now found mysteriously missing. A Japanese curse was heard through the speakers, the pilot understandably unconcerned with such trivial concerns of being understood in a time of combat. It spun around quickly, landspinners allowing it a graceful one-eighty. Richilieu, in the meantime, had barely made it to the opposing Sutherland's feet, frantically searching for anything that could be construed as a way up. The Eleven charged again.
"Nippon!"
And failed.
"Banza-" He was immediately cut off by a hail of fire from the southern entrance; the very one that Richilieu's duo had found itself coming through before. The vast majority of the relatively tiny thirty-nine millimeter rounds made a laughable ping on the mech's resistant armor, but the save few that found their mark found it right on.
The factsphere sensor, the most significant part of the knightmare's visual system, had been crippled. The Sutherland veered off course and to the left, stopping short before causing any significant damage. Richilieu, largely ignorant of the surrounding area due to an adrenaline forced focus, at last determined the presence of a minor button hidden under the armor flaps of the Sutherland's left calf. A rope shortly after fell from the cockpit, and the abnormally brazen Frenchman dove for it. He was interrupted before he could grasp what he sought.
"I'm impressed, frog."
Holding an AK-47 and noticeably worn, far more so than when Richilieu had left him in the alley, Semore held a hand out to Richilieu's chest, keeping him from advancing. "I shot out his factsphere sensor. There's no need." He raised the gun to the Eleven's cockpit, simply waiting for it to open. "He can't see, so his next move will be to open the cockpit and eject the roof so that he can pilot it appropriately."
Richilieu merely collapsed, arms and legs shaking as his mind, no longer panicked, shut off the rush of adrenaline. By contrast, Semore was far calmer than he'd been in the alley, seeming to be completely at home in a war zone.
"You fought." He continued, keeping his barrel trained on the cockpit as the hydraulics operated and the back opened up. "I fully expected you to either flee or die trying, but you fought against an enemy that had you outgunned. I've no idea what you are, but you're not the typical Frenchman."
Semore adjusted something on his AK before readjusting his aim and firing as soon as the Eleven's head met open air. Richilieu couldn't be bothered to pay any more attention than that, but a few moments later he was being helped up by his, suddenly friendly, foe, still completely at ease and now unarmed, the gun laying at his side.
"Perhaps you've what it takes to be an honorary Britannian."
Well, the sentiment was nice, even if the implication was more insulting than genuine. Richilieu couldn't be bothered to care as he stood, rubbing at his eyes and half-heartedly glancing around for O.O. She was nowhere to be found, of course, more than likely observing the situation from a safely hidden nook.
"So where'd you come from?" He mindlessly asked, willing to do anything to silence the sounds of warfare in the distance, a dark reminder that their escape wasn't quite yet done, but most vexing, the continual beeping of the still activated factsphere sensor.
"Finding a way out, presumably the same as you, Slippy."
And back to the name calling. His grace was precious and scarce, it seemed.
"And the gun?"
"Courtesy of an Eleven I encountered on the way." His answer was tinted with a bit of irony. It was most likely that the Eleven's courtesy hadn't been voluntary. After a moment of thought, the implications of this set in.
Wait, he beat a terrorist? One with an AK, at that?
He refrained from asking any further questions, lest the realization that his escape from Semore might have been more miraculous than his survival of the Sutherland enter his mind.
"Nonetheless, we still need to get out." Richilieu appeared to be regaining his composure, knees beginning to stabilize and hands absentmindedly going over his coat to brush off any dust, imagined or not. Semore's cloak, again, in contrast, looked more than pristine for the occasion.
"Quick recovery for one so faint, Slippy. Nonetheless, you're right." The Britannian boy responded, his eyes going skyward and gazing at the mobile armor before them.
Richilieu, however, kept his eyes parallel, rubbing his temples and muttering reminders to himself, 'don't voluntarily die next time' being the most prominent among them.
"We'll never survive on foot." He finally concluded, saying it to no one in particular.
Semore smirked.
"Put the notion to rest. We're riding out like Britannians."
((So it's been a while. I'll start off by saying that I'm going to try to get in to some semblance of a schedule, probably one chapter every one to two months to keep things ridiculously easy on myself. Aside from that bit of good news, I'd really appreciate some critique on my actual writing style at this point, for anyone who feels they're capable of judging such things. In particular, as I've never really done anything too action-ey before, I'm worried that my choreography is too cut and dry. "The X did Y. He responded with Z." Stuff like that. Anything to make it a more interesting read, I'd go for. I'd really like to improve, and I'm really going to try to make an effort to do that in the coming months. I've finally got a good idea of where I want the story to head in the long term, so hopefully that, combined with some implemented critique on my style, will make everything go a lot faster and end up a lot better. Thanks, and stay classy, folks.))