I do not own Code Geass.
…...
The Gallows, Tokyo, United States of Japan, January 2018
The day of Tohdoh's execution was surprisingly cheerful for what would be a morbid occasion. The sun was a golden disk set against a cloudless blue sky. The day was warm, so warm in fact that Zero was lamenting wearing three layers of clothing. His armpits and back were already soaked with sweat. He was glad for the fact that his cape hid the sweat stains from view.
The other Black Knights weren't doing much better. Each of his ministers were bundled up against what had been an expected cold. Now their faces were wet with sweat. They took turns pulling on their collars to help with the heat.
They stood atop a raised platform, surrounded by the most loyal of his Black Knights. Drone mounted cameras buzzed overhead, Diethard Reid himself, Zero's chief propagandist, stood at the ready, camera in hand. A former reporter, Diethard had become obsessed with Zero as a unique individual whose story he was dedicated to documenting. In Zero's past life, Diethard had been driven insane by Zero's betrayal at the hands of the Black Knights, and had shifted his focus, and his life, to Schneizel's mad scheme for world domination. That decision had ultimately cost him his life.
Here, the ex-reporter's very evident media skills could be put to Zero's advantage. There weren't many people in the city, or the rest of the country for that matter, who would be able to watch the execution live on TV. For that reason, the execution was being broadcast on the net, which Japan had some access to. The edited recording would be presented in the city's remaining movie theaters, in much the same style as the 70's and 80's.
Diethard approached him, camera level on his shoulder.
Zero drew himself up. He had a part to play. "Bring forth the condemned!"
From offstage to Zero's rear, a column of six Black Knights appeared, formed into an even rectangle. At the center of this rectangle was Tohdoh.
He appeared no worse for wear. There were no bruises on his skin, no scars, no sign of physical abuse. He wore a simple brown kimono, finely made, but thin, designed more for style than comfort. The irony was that Tohdoh was probably more comfortable in his execution garb than Zero and all his officers were in their uniforms.
Not that Tohdoh knew where he was. He eyes were still glazed over under the red haze of geass.
It was the one point from which Zero would not budge, no matter how much the others disagreed. It was too dangerous to let Tohdoh speak his mind. There was no way of knowing just what he would say were he within his own faculties. The possibility was strong that Tohdoh would condemn Zero with his dying breath, inspiring his followers to continue resisting long after he was gone. There was already a sense of martyrdom to the proceedings. Zero had to do what he could to ensure Tohdoh was his martyr.
Tohdoh was brought to the center of the stage. There he knelt in the seiza position, his free hands resting on his knees.
Zero stepped before him so that he loomed over him, imperious and in control, utterly unafraid of what a free Tohdoh might do to him.
"Kyoshiro Tohdoh," Zero said in a loud voice, deliberately avoiding his military rank, "you have been tried in a military tribunal and been found guilty of treason, sedition, rebellion, and murder. You have been sentenced to death, a sentence that will be carried out today at this hour."
He began to pace around Tohdoh, his face never turning from him, but his voice casting out to the people in the crowd. "In Britannia, they would draw and quarter you, scatter your limbs to the four winds, and stake your head on the gates of Pendragon. In China, you would be hanged by the neck like a common criminal. In Europe, they would leave you to waste away in prison, till you were but a shadow of your former self, all honor and dignity stripped bare."
Despite himself, he found he rather liked the image. So caught up was he in it, that he let a few moments more than he meant to pass. He licked his lips.
We can always edit this part out.
"But I am a just man," Zero continued. "I am a merciful man. That is why I will give you this one opportunity. Will you admit before God and man the crimes which you have committed?"
Tohdoh opened his mouth. Zero's heart was in his throat.
"I am guilty of all the crimes of which I am accused," the geassed man agreed. "With General Tatewaki Katase and the former Interior Minister Atsuhi Sawisaki, I conspired to overthrow Zero and those of the High Command, subverting the cause of our liberty for my own ambition. I was jealous of Zero's successes, and sought to make the movement he had formed my own.
"The tragedies that occurred during the Seven Days were a direct result of our lust for power, for which Providence has punished both Katase and Sawisaki before me."
The crowd was beginning to grow restless. Shouts of "Murderer!" and "Traitor!" could be heard.
Zero raised his hand. "I am not an unforgiving man," he declared. "I can show love unto the enemies of Liberty as easily as I show hate. For that reason, I, in my beneficence, will let you restore your honor."
Zero gestured to Kallen. She came forward at his summons, presenting to him a wakizashi dagger, her head bowed. The guard was polished gold, while the hilt was wrapped in a black tabard with golden filigree. It had belonged to the Six Houses of Kyoto, a priceless heirloom of those financiers that Zero had crushed into dust.
Zero took it from her, bowing his head slightly, then offered the blade in turn to Tohoh. Tohdoh accepted it with a bow of his own head. As he ceremonially unsheathed it, his every movement smooth and precise, practiced to an art form, Zero unsheathed the broadsword at his hip. It was weighty, sharpened to a fine edge, and chosen precisely because it was not a katana.
Zero had Japanese swords in his ownership, of course; more fine ones than this broadsword, certainly. But he was a foreigner, a stranger in a strange land, and everyone knew it. He had not gilded himself in the armor of a samurai, but rather in the garb of a Britannian nobleman. To use a katana would have been blatant pandering. No one would have bought it.
However, to come before a foreign people, exotic though he was, and adhere to their customs, would bind them more surely to him than a noose around Tohdoh's neck or a katana in Zero's hands ever would.
Zero stood over him. "I would now hear your last words," he said.
Tohdoh looked up into the camera. "I have committed great crimes," he said. "I have committed murder, terrorism, and treason. I did these things in pursuit of a cause that was not just. Let all acrimony, hatred, and resentment die with me. To all my loyal followers, please: work with Zero to build a world better than how we found it."
Tohdoh placed the tip of the dagger against his belly. Zero readied his sword, raising it above his head.
He glanced briefly at Urabe, whose face was pale.
Mark you well, Urabe, Zero silently warned, or it'll be you up here next.
Tohdoh stabbed the dagger into his belly, then slit himself from hip to hip. His intestines spilled out, pink and stinking.
Zero held his pose for just a moment longer, anticipating.
A loud scream issued from Tohdoh's mouth, as the geass hold over him ended.
Zero let it last for two more seconds, then with a "KURO BANZAI!" decapitated him.
A wicked grin split his face.
He held in a surge of maniacal laughter as chants of "Hail Zero!" broke out around him.
Tohdoh,I hope, with every fiber of my being, that you drag that agony with you down to Hell.
...
EU High Court, Paris, Sovereign Republic of France
"The sheer degree of incompetence is astounding," the leader of Leila's tribunal said. He was in his mid-sixties, his face cracked and craggy, and he wore a long white wig that flowed over his black judge's dress.
Leila was garbed in her own dress blues. Underneath the long table at which she sat, her hand was clenched hard enough to draw blood.
"The damage that you and your little band of Elevens have done to Resistance operations in Spain is incalculable. How many brave freedom fighters had their lights extinguished because you couldn't keep a low profile?"
She had not been asked to take the witness stand, which was probably a good thing. She had a few choice things she might say to the judge. The trial was not open to the public, so the man got to say whatever he damn well pleased about her comrades.
"I would argue, strenuously, that this inepetitude, if not outright, borders on criminal. Were it up to me, you would already have been stripped of your rank and privileges and dishonorably discharged at the minimum. An example must be made."
Given the tenor of his harangue, that was not like to pass. Though, there was always that chance.
"I can only hope that the fellow members of this tribunal will agree with me: this comprehensive level of failure, near treasonous in its outcome if not its object, must be punished to the fullest extent of our power." The judge banged his gavel. "This court is adjourned for the day. We will resume tomorrow morning at nine-thirty. The defendant may be returned to her house arrest."
When Leila stood up, she suggested to her appointed attorney, a man named Clancy Duvall with a pale face and salt and pepper hair, "That could have gone better."
Duvall chuckled. "On the contrary, this was the best possible outcome." He snapped his valise shut. "Judge Javert doesn't go on these rants unless he knows he's in the minority. Happens every time. I would say you have a solid shot."
Leila wasn't convinced. "If you say so."
"I do. Now, hurry home Major. You have nothing to fear. I daresay you'll be back on duty again within the week."
An MP approached Leila and placed her in handcuffs. She shuddered shamefully as they clicked in place.
Who would have thought it would come to this?
Despite her attorney's words, she could not help but feel depressed.
Mamma, Papa, what would you think if you saw your daughter now?
A firm hand at her back nudged her out.
…
Fencing Hall, Madrid Presidential Palace, Madrid, Unincorporated Area 24
Jeremiah adjusted his gloves, his fencing foil under his arm. The gymnasium that housed the fencing school was pure white, with large blue mats that covered huge portions of the floor, light filtering in through high windows that sat just below the ceiling. The room had been cleared for today, the usual mixture of Britannian and European students engaged in competition to the south, in Seville. Fortune favored Jeremiah in this; the Princess had wished to host a dinner for the Chivalric Grandmasters, but Jeremiah had suspected they would be more inclined to martial pursuits. The worthy gentlemen had proven agreeable, save the methuselaic Saint-Gilles, who was meeting with the mayor of Rome to prepare for the joint conference scheduled for next week.
The metallic clang of steel on steel resounded through the air as Manfredi and du Villon dueled. Jeremiah studied them.
du Villon's sheer size cast him as an intimidating shadow. He was quick, ferocious, his assault relentless. Manfredi was more conservative, willingly conceding ground to the much larger man, ducking and weaving between blows, only blocking when he had no other choice.
"They are quite skilled," Jeremiah complimented to Farnese, who had tied his silver hair back. "Though, I think du Villon's size gives him the advantage."
The Raphael Grandmaster smiled. "du Villon was the fencing champion at Harvard for three years," he said proudly. "His streak was broken by the man dueling him."
"Then I am more impressed by Sir Manfredi," Jeremiah replied, paying even closer attention to the duel.
Manfredi dodged between a series of savage slashes, employing an economy of movement that left Jeremiah green with envy. du Villon's swings were becoming more frantic as he grew impatient, but they were also slowing down. After one more such swing, the large knight overextended, and Manfredi thrust home.
"Point!" Farnese called out, applauding.
"Why don't you just stand still?" du Villon, laughing, asked. He pulled off his helmet, revealing a red face, his sweaty hair matted to his head.
Manfredi chuckled. "Because you might hit me!" he replied. du Villon laughed, clapping the smaller man on his shoulder.
"I believe it is our turn, Lord Farnese," Jeremiah offered, donning his helmet.
"Indeed," Farnese agreed. "I have been looking forward to this."
They took their places while their compatriots took up their former positions, Manfredi in position to call. Jeremiah and Farnese bowed, then flourished their weapons.
Jeremiah made the first move, thrusting high towards Farnese's head. Farnese parried with ease, riposting beneath Jeremiah's guard. Jeremiah batted the thrust away, backing up a pace as he swung his foil leftward at Farnese's shoulder. Farnese shifted backwards, the tip swinging clear, thrusting at Jeremiah's hip. It jabbed home, and Jeremiah lowered his foil.
"Point!" Manfredi called out.
Jeremiah and Farnese resumed their starting positions, foils at the ready.
Farnese took the initiative, quick stepping into Jeremiah's guard, thrusting at his belly. Jeremiah turned his body on instinct, taking advantage of Farnese's over-extension, and stabbed him directly in the chest.
"Point!" Manfredi repeated. "One point to decide!"
Jeremiah's blood was up. Sweat stuck his padding to his body. Behind his face mask, he had a feral grin.
They resumed their positions for the final time, weapons at the ready. This time, both men held their positions, neither willing to make the first move.
Jeremiah's breathing was loud in his ears. His eyes bored into Farnese's mask. His foot slid forward slowly.
They swung at the same time, both aiming for each other's head. The blades snapped together with a bright spark, then Farnese's broke, the top half flying away as Jeremiah's smacked into his face.
"Point!" Manfredi shouted, clapping loudly.
"More than a point, Michel!" du Villon agreed, laughing. "A manful end!"
Farnese put his hand out to Jeremiah, which he graciously accepted.
"A well fought match, My Lord," the Grandmaster said, taking off his helmet.
"To you as well," Jeremiah returned.
"If we all fought as well as today," Manfredi said, approaching them with du Villon, "we shall see an end to this war shortly."
"And the restoration of all our ancestral lands," Jeremiah added.
Manfredi's lips tightened into a grim slash, while Farnese eyed his friend warily.
"I am certain His Majesty," Farnese said, "will accommodate us all."
"One can only hope," Manfredi allowed congenially. "But if past is prologue, I fear we may not yet receive the just rewards of service."
"They will come to us, in time," Farnese retorted. "We must only keep the faith."
"My faith is in God alone, Andrea," Manfredi said. "God, and my men."
"I am certain," Jeremiah stepped in, "that Lord Farnese has the right of it. Isn't that right, Lord du Villon?"
The large knight barked a laugh. "What care I for useless scraps of land?" he asked. "I am here for battle. I love it. I crave it. If the Emperor gives it to me, then he's my man. And if not, then to Hell with him!"
"I do believe finer words have never been spoken," Manfredi said, smiling wryly.
"Watch your language, du Villon," Farnese warned. "One never knows who might take offense."
"I am among friends, Andrea. What use have I to curb my tongue?"
What use, indeed. "Gentlemen," Jeremiah announced gracefully, "the hour grows late, and we all must rest for our duties tomorrow. Let us pack it in for today."
Farnese nodded his agreement eagerly. du Villon announced his own disappointment, but not his disagreement.
As they departed the gymnasium for the showers, Jeremiah said to Manfredi, "My Lord, perhaps you and I should share dinner in my apartment at a future date. There we may discuss certain political matters that would be awkward to speak of in public."
"I would be delighted," Manfredi accepted. "I shall bring my second, Shin. You know him?"
"Vaguely," Jeremiah admitted. "Not as well as I should like. It would make me very happy to remedy that."
"Excellent. Make the appropriate arrangements, and we would be honored to join you."
"I shall."
...
li Britannia Palace, Pendragon, Holy Empire of Britannia
The li Britannia Palace, much like the other palaces of the Imperial Wives, was a two-story mansion. Constructed in 1994 as a result of Cordelia li Britannia's marriage to the Emperor Charles, it rested on a lavish estate with a well-manicured lawn, a man-made lake, and a summer garden that was noticeably sparse as a result of the winter chill. When Euphemia was a child, she would have picnics with Cornelia and her mother at the white tables beneath one of the eight outdoor gazebos that dotted the property.
Euphemia stood at the top of the stairs that led to the great foyer. The staircase had two flat levels, the top of which split in opposite directions that climbed into the ring of offices and bedrooms that wrapped around the foyer in a square shape. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she wore a regal countenance as she prepared to receive her guest.
"Announcing Sir Ruben Ashford, Your Highness!" the herald proclaimed.
A main with a full head of gray hair bowed deeply to her, a fedora cupped against his chest. He wore a tan suit with a red bowtie, and affixed to his nose were a pair of gold wire-framed glasses that gave him the demeanor of a doting grandfather.
It was easy to forget that this man had designed and built some of the most innovative killing machines known to man.
"Sir Ruben," Euphemia called down. "We are honored by your presence."
"The honor is mine, Your Highness," the elderly knight replied. His deep, commanding voice put her at ease. She found herself smiling. "Allow me to express my gratitude upon being granted an audience on such short notice."
"It was my pleasure to make time for you, the developer of the Ganymede," Euphemia said.
She climbed down the stairway with composed bearing. When she reached the main floor, she held out her hand. Sir Ashford received it kindly, and kissed the back of it.
"What brings you to my humble home?" she asked after he had released her.
"Business, I'm afraid," he answer. "Business of a most grave nature."
Euphemia gestured to her left. "Would you care to retire to my study? We may discuss the matter in detail there."
He bowed. "Thank you, Your Highness."
Euphemia turned to her handmaiden, a pretty blonde in her midtwenties who stood just to the side. "May, please bring refreshments. Would tea be to your pleasure, Sir Ashford?"
"Most pleasing, Your Highness."
"Tea and scones, if you please, May."
The handmaiden bowed. "At once, Your Highness."
"If I may, Your Highness?" Sir Ashford held out his hand.
"Thank you," she said, taking it.
Hand-in-hand, they walked into her study, a room about the size of a small apartment. Victorian style chairs surrounded an oval table made of finished mahogany against the backdrop of light blue walls adorned with darker blue fleur-de-lis lined with imposing bookcases stacked exquisitely with leather bound volumes.
The kind old man held her hand while she sat down before sitting across from her, attentive and at the ready.
"I understand you live out of Flagstaff, Sir Ashford?" Euphemia began.
"Please, Your Highness," the dapper man said with a smile that relaxed her immensely, "refer to me as 'Sir Ruben,' or even just 'Ruben,' if you prefer."
She smiled. "Sir Ruben, then."
"Thank you." He bowed his head. "Yes, I have a manor in Flagstaff, situated on a bluff that overlooks the city proper. From the second story of my home, the snow covered treetops resemble no less than a sea of white."
"It sounds lovely," Euphemia remarked. "Your granddaughter, she is a reporter, is she not?"
"She is."
"I saw her report on those injured war veterans in Area Twenty-Four." She rubbed her hands together. "I have seen many a crisis ward such as that. I know how difficult it is."
"Milly is a strong woman," Sir Ruben reassured her. "And she has a good man by her side. Perhaps you would like to meet them one day?"
"I should like nothing better."
He smiled. "I will arrange it."
May entered the room, followed shortly by a pair of servants carrying silver trays of the refreshments Euphemia had ordered. In short order, the tea was set out in white cups on white saucers, and the scones were conveyed onto little plate with stainless steel tongs. Tiny bowls of French cream were placed onto doilies on the table before them.
Euphemia applied two cubes of sugar with a spoon, and a generous helping of milk. "Would you care for some sugar, Sir Ruben?"
"No, thank you, Your Highness," he replied. "I find a bitter drink acts as a splendid remedy to sweet treats."
"Very well." Euphemia took a sip of her tea, a warmth growing in her belly. "Now then, Sir Ruben, what is it you wished to speak with me about?"
Sir Ruben took a sip of his tea. "Your Highness," he said, "you are aware of the Mulberry Family, yes?"
"I believe so," she answered, confused. "Their family possesses a county here in Arizona as I understand it."
"Yes, Teresa County as a matter of fact," Sir Ruben confirmed. "The Mulberry's are an old landed gentry, dating back to the days of the Confederate War. Theirs was one of the few families on this side of Arizona not to raise the Stars and Bars and cast their lot with Virginia. Five of their sons served in the War from 1917 to 1923. Two were killed at the Battle of Peake's Landing, another at Vicksburg, and another lost his legs enforcing Saint Lincoln's Blockade off the coast of Bexar, in the Gulf.
"For their loyalty to the Crown and exemplary service, they were granted Teresa County in perpetuity, so long as there remained a male heir apparent."
Euphemia raised an eyebrow. "Their service to the Empire is to be commended," she said. "But what has that do with me?"
Sir Ruben took a bite of a scone, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin provided to him. "The modern Mulberry Family had two sons and three daughters," he said. "The eldest son, Robert Mulberry, was killed in a hunting accident five years ago. The eldest daughter, Denise Mulberry, was one the victims of that ghastly Seven Trees serial murder case three years ago. The other three children, Georgia Mulberry, Clinton Mulberry, and Annabelle Mulberry, were all officers in the Holy Britannian Marine Corps."
Euphemia swallowed. "Were?" she asked.
Sir Ruben nodded. "Georgia Mulberry was a Marine fighter pilot. She was shot down and killed one month ago in an air raid performed by the EU in Area Twenty-Four." He sipped his tea. "Annabelle Mulberry was killed attempting to arrest Resistance members out of Zaragosa. Clinton Mulberry, well," he sighed. "Clinton Mulberry was assigned to the Occupational Task Force in Area Eleven when the Dragon was raised. His family has not heard from him since."
Euphemia placed a hand to her mouth. "That's..." She swallowed. "That's awful, Sir Ruben!"
"Quite," he said. "A family who's loyalty stretches all the way back to Lee's Rebellion has been extinguished, Your Highness. And they aren't the only ones."
He brought up a finger. "The Starks of Esterhaven, four sons, two daughters. Alan and Paul Stark were both crew members on board the HMS Victoria when it sank with all hands in the Pacific during Hurricane Isaiah. Cletus Stark was a combat medic who was shot dead in the trenches outside of Berga. Willlem Stark was killed by Zero in a terrorist attack during his graduation from the Knight Police Academy. Maureen Stark is barren, and her sister Dana was killed by a car bomb in Rome."
He brought up a second finger. "The Carltons of Charlestown, one son, one daughter. Stuart Carlton was a yachting aficionado who was killed trying to escape the Battle of Tokyo. Their daughter, Elizabeth Chesterfield, was a reporter for Sakura TV who was killed on air by Black Knight terrorists."
He raised a third finger. "The Atluses, two sons, two daughters. Adam Atlus, a teenage boy, was killed by some mad Resistance fighter in Barcelona. His brother, Peter Atlus, a boy of eight, was killed the same week when Resistance fighters took him hostage." He took a sip of his tea. "We did not negotiate his release. His elder sister, Marla Atlus, was a runway model and fashionista running a beauty pageant in Tokyo when she was killed in the crossfire during the Black Rebellion. Her sister, Natalie Dryer, was a nurse alongside her husband, Harry Dryer, both of whom were killed conveying my granddaughter and her boyfriend to the harbor for evacuation."
Euphemia's eyes were wet. She had a hard time not throwing up.
"They aren't the only ones, of course," Sir Ruben said, his head bowed. "The Mapletrees, the Marlboros, the Chestertons, the Sanders, and on and on it goes. Dozens, if not hundreds, of noble lines have been snuffed out. Many in just the past six months." He looked up at her with sad eyes. "I do not mean to hurt you, Your Highness, but I must emphasize the gravity of the situation."
"I-" Euphemia held a hand to her mouth. "I have no words, Sir Rubin. I-"
Sir Rubin handed her a kerchief. She dabbed her eyes with it.
What could I possibly say in this moment? I'm sorry for your loss? They died for a noble cause?
"I can assure you," Euphemia said after she had recovered, "that the Empire is doing all it can to bring swift justice to her enemies."
Sir Rubin sighed. "Your Highness, my dear, that is precisely the problem."
Euphemia blinked. "I'm sorry?" she said.
Sir Rubin pulled from his interior coat pocket a white envelope. It was packed tightly, near overflowing in fact.
"Your Highness," he said, holding it up, "what I hold here is the hopes and wishes of five thousand families across the continent for an end to this war."
Euphemia's jaw dropped. "I don't understand," she said.
"There has been too much pain, Your Highness," he replied. "Too much grief. Too much death. Too many families who will never see their loved ones again. It is their deepest desire, their singular wish, that you would present their complaints before the Emperor and the House of Lords, and demand an end to this fighting, that no more sons and daughters shall be lost in this fruitless conflict."
Euphemia's heart skipped a beat. "I-" she swallowed heavily. "I cannot, Sir Rubin, I'm sorry."
Sir Rubin held out his hands entreatingly. "Please, Your Highness. We, the signatories to this petition, beg you."
Euphemia pulled back. "Are-Are you not building weapons of war for the Wesley's as we speak?" she asked accusingly.
"You will find their name in this letter, too," he said. "John Wesley is a young man who dreams of glory and adventure, but his parents have already lost a nephew and three cousins in Europe. They can see the writing on the wall, and they don't want their son anywhere near this war. I build him a capable Frame that he might survive the coming storm."
"You.." Euphemia put the palm of her hand to her mouth. "You ask too much, Sir Knight. I am disgraced. My sister is dead. My mother grieves in Utah rather than be reminded of the daughter she has lost. No one will listen to me. Not my father. Not the House of Lords. No one. You, you simply ask too much, Sir!"
Tears cascaded freely down her cheeks. She wept bitterly into her hands. Warm, loving arms wrapped her into a tight embrace.
"Your Highness," Sir Rubin whispered, "you were made for such a time as this. You were born for this." He bowed his head against hers. "If you reject us, we will find another, but God will hold you to account. There are none who are blameless in these dark days. Please, Your Highness. Accomplish what you were put on this earth to do!"
…
EU High Court, Paris, Sovereign Republic of France
Her attorney proved to be correct. By a measure of 2-1, Leila was cleared of all charges. She shook hands with him, thanked him, and headed out the door.
"Major!" a familiar voice called out.
Leila turned.
Captain Claus Warwick, a brown haired German and her aide-de-camp, was striding toward her with a happy smile on his face. His EU uniform was sloppy, as it always was, and the metal flask that housed his daily whiskey jangled against his hips as he approached her.
He shook her hand. "Glad to see you beat the system, Boss," he said.
Leila fought not to wrinkle her nose; the stench of liquor was strong. "Thank you, Claus," she said, smiling at him with real honesty. "I thought I saw Anna in the gallery. Did she already leave?"
Anna Clement was Leila's best friend from her Academy days, a bosomy woman with lavender hair and bright green eyes.
Claus laughed. "If by 'left' you mean 'haranguing Javert,' then yes, Major, our dear Anna has flown the coop."
Leila giggled at him.
"You weren't the only one that old windbag was judging," Claus continued. "Naruse was in his court as well, and she sat in for those, too."
Leila placed a hand over her mouth, trying her hardest not to laugh. "Oh, no," she said, the smile lifting to her eyes. "Oh, tell me he called Yuki an Eleven while she was watching."
Claus belly laughed, drawing the scorned looks of everyone around them. "She had to be escorted from the court room, she was shouting so much!"
Leila burst into laughter.
"Ah!" Claus said. "There she is now!" He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "And she's brought friends."
Leila turned around to see her friend approaching, cracking into laughter again at the sight. Two armed guards had lifted her bodily from the floor by the shoulders, their expressions consternated as she bellowed in their ears.
"YOU WILL UNHAND ME SIRS! I HAVE NOT YET BEGUN TO GIVE THAT CLOD A PIECE OF MY MIND!"
"Madam, if you would please lower your voice-"
"THIS IS INJUSTICE! A TRAVESTY! TO SNEAK YUKI AND THE OTHERS OUT THE BACK!"
"We don't even have any control over that, madam!"
"THEN FIND ME THE PERSON WHO DOES AND- oh, hello Leila dear-AND I WILL TEAR HIM THE ASSHOLE HE SO RICHLY DESERVES!"
"Please take this madwoman home with you," the older of the two guards pleaded Leila.
Unable to speak through her laughter, she nodded.
Anna was dumped unceremoniously on the tile floor, from which she continued to shout at them as they quickly left.
"Anna, Anna come on!" Leila said, still laughing. "You're causing a scene!"
"A scene needs to be caused!" Anna retorted. "The nerve of that fossil, calling Yuki an Eleven! Why, is he so ignorant that he doesn't know Japan is free?"
"I strongly doubt he cares," Claus said, ruffling her hair. He pulled out his whiskey. "Well, the W-0 Unit is free at last. I think this calls for a drink!"
"You think everything calls for a drink," Leila admonished him.
"And why not? We're alive, we're healthy, and we're free! What more can we ask for?"
...
Conference Room, Presidential Palace, Tokyo, United States of Japan
Diethard Reid thumbed the manila envelop he held in his hand. Nervous excitement flooded through him.
Finally! My chance, my big break!
Diethard had joined the Black Knights some months ago, hoping, as a reporter, to document Zero's rise to power, and his eventual eclipsing of the world. He had no doubt that was Zero's endgame. The man's ambitions could not be contained to some backwater island chain, it's singularly important natural resource aside.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Zero had not properly appreciated his commitment. Rather than allow Diethard to follow him daily, camera in hand, as was Diethard's desire, he had instead assigned him to the Black Knights' Propaganda Wing. In this capacity, Diethard had been reduced to making five to six minute long films designed to bolster recruitment numbers, and to emphasize the importance of Zero to the rebel movement. His promotion to Communications Director during the initial stages of the Green-Black War, as the now concluded civil war was referred to in Japan, merely conferred upon him the responsibility of coordinating between the various media outlets throughout the former Area so that they all stayed on one consistent message: Only Zero can save Japan.
Important work, certainly, but not what he craved most.
After Tohdoh's fall, he had finally gotten his chance: Zero himself had requested that Diethard perform an opinion poll on intervention in the Chinese Civil Wars.
He was beside himself with excitement.
Soon, soon I'll be right where I need to be, to perform the role I was destined for!
It may have seemed like an overreaction to others- Foolish bootlickers, the lot of them!- but in reality, this required a high degree of trust. Zero was entrusting a Britannian- Well, another Britannian, that Spacer kid not withstanding- with what was extremely dangerous information. If it was leaked that Zero was planning to intervene in the wars on the Continent, that could open a real firestorm.
The EU would arm the border to the teeth. No way they would allow Zero the Revolutionary anywhere near their angry populace.
Zero was the ultimate destabilizing force, a man with followers across the world. This was not a man to be trifled with.
And he trusted me, me, with this secret!
Diethard would prove to him that he had made the right choice.
Zero's secretary, a kind looking bespectacled Japanese girl named Ichijiku Hinata who wore the Black Knight jacket unbuttoned over a yellow sweater, looked up at him. "The Ministerial Cabinet is ready to receive you, Mister Reid," she said.
"Thank you," he replied with a winning smile, earning him a slight flush to her cheeks as he walked past.
His heart was pounding. I can do this. I can do this.
He came to a stop inside the conference room, a rectangular space with a long table that dominated the room. Aside from Second Consul Ohgi, who was still in recovery after the injuries he sustained, every member of the Cabinet was there. All of them were outfitted in the uniform of the Black Knights.
Except for the Sanitation Minister, Shinichiro Tamaki, who wore a five thousand pound tuxedo, and a stupid grin on his face.
The door was closed behind Diethard.
He came to stiff attention. "Diethard Reid, ready to make my report," he announced.
"Mister Reid," the metallic, cold voice of his master spoke, "I thank you for coming. Minase," he said, directing at a dark haired Japanese woman in a yellow-black vest using a typewriter to, Diethard guessed, take their minutes, "you may rest your fingers for a while."
The solemn faced young woman stood and bowed. "At once, My Lord." She strode past Diethard and out the door.
"Now then, Mister Reid," Zero said. Chills ran down Diethard's spine. "You may begin your report."
Diethard opened his envelop to the relevant data. "I won't bore you with the sample size or demographic split," he said, "as I'm sure you're aware that those among the elderly population will be less receptive to war, while the younger dream of glory?"
"I am."
"The question, to ensure absolute secrecy, was asked among a series of other questions related to domestic affairs," Diethard continued. "It was asked as: 'Would you support intervention into foreign conflicts?' and 'Would you support increased defense spending?' We tailored several other questions related to national defense, but the salient point is this data point."
Here, Diethard swelled with pride. "Of those polled, only sixteen percent support direct military intervention in foreign conflicts. Seventy-six percent support increasing defense expenditures, and ninety-two percent support preparing for a defensive war within the next six months."
"Dude," Minister Tamaki said, lazing about with his head in his hands, "what does that even mean?"
"It means we're screwed if we try to intervene in China," Minister Sugiyama answered. "If I understand this poll right, it means everybody's ready for a throwdown with the Empire, but no one wants to help the Tianzi."
"Only to be expected," Minister Inoue said. "It was Chinese troops that made up the main vanguard during their invasion a few months ago."
"This is a bit of a problem," Minister Yoshida added. "We need to get troops into China to support the Empress, but our own people will skin us alive if we do that."
"What if we get the Tianzi to sign a treaty for Sakuradite procurement?" Minister Minami asked. "Surely tying us together economically will increase support here at home?"
"Did the Tianzi build a Navy while I wasn't looking?" Minister Sugiyama asked. "The Indians are the ones in control of all the ships, and she's already made it clear that she won't negotiate with them." He snorted. "Or anyone else for that matter."
"Mister Reid," Zero said, cutting through the din, "I appreciate the study you have presented to us. You may leave. Send Minase back in on your way out."
Diethard bowed. "It shall be done, My Lord."
He departed the room, then directed the young woman in question towards the raised voices.
"Sounds like they're having a ball," Ichijuka said.
"I should think so," Diethard agreed.
"What did you tell them?"
He grinned. "State secrets," he said with a theatrical whisper. She giggled. "I gave them some bad news."
Ichijuka frowned. "So, why are you smiling?"
"Because," he said, "bad news delivered honestly is better than sweet lies delivered convincingly."
His position was secured. He knew it. Now, it was only a matter of time.
….
Euphemia li Britannia's Chambers, li Britannia Manor, Pendragon, Holy Empire of Britannia
Euphemia tossed and turned in her bed. Her nightgown was stifling, so she had dispensed with it, preferring to sleep in the nude. Her naked skin against the cool sheets had distracted her, at first, but soon Sir Ruben's words were ringing in her ears.
'You were made for such a time as this.'
'God will hold you to account.'
'Accomplish what you were put on this earth to do!'
"I can't," she whispered, broken. "I can't, I..."
She clenched her bedsheets.
"Sister...Sister..."
Her pillows were wet with tears.
"Sister, what do I..."
She was startled when her desktop computer pinged. She rose up out of her four poster bed. The screen on her computer just across the room was white.
"What?" she wondered aloud.
She climbed out of bed and walked over to the computer. She sat down, the fabric of the rolling chair soft against her naked bottom. She squinted.
A message from Marrybel? This late?
She opened it. The subject line read: 'For Your Eyes Only.' There was a document attached. She clicked on it.
They were briefing reports, hundreds of them, recounting sorties being performed across the skies of Area Twenty-Four.
L-1 Mobilized to intercept attack squadron. All targets eliminated.
L-1 Mobilized for raid on naval vessels off coast of Sicily. All targets eliminated.
L-1 Engaged in brief firefight with enemy fighters above Berga. All targets eliminated.
On and on the reports went, one after the other, each referring to this mysterious 'L-1.'
"Marrybel," Euphemia said aloud, "why?"
Schematics were pulled up. Dossiers. Personnel.
She stared at the personnel files.
L-1 stared back at her.
Tears welled up in her eyes.
"Why, brother?" Euphemia asked aloud. "Why?"
She placed shaking fingertips on the face of Suzaku Kururugi.