Chapter Three: The Breakup
The irony was that it should have been the pinnacle of Deitard Reid's career.
After years of careful journalism, I got the chance to attend Prince Clovis' parties. He'd spent years being politically correct, saying the right things. All while going close enough to the edge to make the story interesting. Sometimes, he'd even been able to put in a bit of truth in his journalism.
But then, objectivity was an illusion.
There were three sides to every story.
Your side.
Their side.
And the official narrative.
Truth was a lie. There were only ratings.
From ratings, the press gained prominence.
From prominence, the press were invited to cocktail parties.
From cocktail parties, the press could drink themselves into a stupor.
In a drunken stupor, you could think you could change the world.
Right before the shit in silken stockings making a speech behind a podium. Deitard was not one to use profanity, even in his internal monologue. But he'd given up an opportunity to cover a shootout with a swat team to get here. Apparently, some redhead in a belly shirt had robbed a chess game. Then they'd killed a SWAT team, taken a schoolboy hostage, and driven off.
It all sounded a lot more interesting than the pinnacle of Deitard's career.
He'd referenced Napoleon, so it should cancel out the crudity.
"You were magnificent, Your Highness," said a noblewoman in a red dress. "One never would have guessed you were attending a party while doing that."
Clovis removed his cloak while taking a wineglass. "It's all in the performance. Since they want a charismatic Prince, I give them one."
And that was about as far as Clovis' sense of sophistication went. Rock, of course, hadn't been in this business long enough to catch on. So he was actually looking at him with interest. Rock was the camera, an enterprising young eleven who had applied for a job with a news agency. He had a talent for not being seen and did his job well.
He was focusing on the camera and staying aware of his surroundings.
"Untrue," said a fat man who had been attending these parties longer. "Prince Clovis, our sole purpose in life is to assist your reign in any way we can."
Wasn't that fat guy Deitard's boss? For the life of him, he couldn't remember his name. It wasn't as if he existed for reasons that the man himself had made all too obvious.
Now, at this point, Clovis began to make small talk. They made flippant statements about the need to keep the public happy. Then, they spoke about how unfortunate living in this world of lies was. Then, they all felt sorry for themselves. Pretty, they were all but crowing about how they'd gotten one over on the peasants.
Pretty soon, Clovis started handing out favors or something.
Of course, Deitard couldn't see any of this. He wasn't close enough to hear. But he had been to enough of these parties to know where it was going. Another enterprising young reporter was trying to get close enough to Clovis. Deitard had been that guy a couple weeks ago.
"His reign is a pathetic sham," said Deitard after a moment.
Rock looked up. "Mr. Reid, is that really something you should say out loud?"
"Why shouldn't I?" asked Reid. "I'm as corrupt as any of them."
"We could get fired," noted Rock.
"Then I'll find a new job," said Deitard. "Working at fast food might be a relief.
"Do you really want to spend the rest of your life afraid of a boss you don't respect?"
At that moment, the real administrator of Area 11 hurried into the room. Bartley was the man who did all the paperwork. Bartley was the guy who ran the numbers. Often, you would see him working in an office while Clovis continued his endless parties. Bartley was, notably, not the man in charge of the military. That was Jeremiah Gottwald, and the two hated one another.
Mostly because Gottwald was a true believer in the Pureblood Ideology. And Bartley was black and didn't have an ounce of Britannian blood in him. As a result, Bartley was totally reliant on Clovis for his power. And since Jeremiah had some screwup in his personal history, Clovis was the best deal he was going to get.
Thus Clovis took all the credit for their efforts while playing them off one another.
This is the story that Deitard Reid would have gone with. If his non-existent boss hadn't nixed it because it looked unfavorable to Clovis. Deitard could see that young reporter in the crowd now. He was looking irritated as Clovis ignored him. Eventually, he turned and walked away. Deitard knew him.
He'd once been like him.
Only when Deitard had been here, there had been no Deitard Reid. He had not been here, standing next to the entrance in disgust. That enterprising young reporter that Deitard Reid was seeing? He was seeing Deitard, and he knew Deitard had been here a while. So, it only took a little bit of analysis to realize what was going on.
There was genuinely nothing interesting here to see.
What you saw was Prince Clovis reign.
The reporter walked past Deitard and out the door to freedom in absolute disgust. Several other people noticed that he had walked out. Then they saw Bartley talking to Clovis in silence.
"You fool!" said Clovis.
"We're in pursuit now," said Bartley.
"Deploy the Royal Guard! The Knightmares as well!" said Clovis.
Wait, so Clovis was unleashing Knightmare frames? Rock looked up, hopefully. Bartley hurried out. Deitard considered whether or not it would be worth humiliating himself. He could ask Clovis about what was going on here. He'd spent several weeks going to these parties, and he'd never gotten the time of day from any of these people.
Everything he'd learned had been by observation.
Bartley probably knew a thing or two about what was going on. But Bartley had just rushed out the door. So, why did Deitard need Clovis?
Everyone was looking at him now.
Clovis waited expectantly. You'd have thought he'd killed a boar in winter by his expression.
Deitard stood up, considered who best to ask, motioned to Rock, and walked out the door. A moment later, as he passed, he tapped Rock and pointed at the door. "Focus your camera on the front door for a bit.
"I have a theory."
Rock did so, licking one lip. A moment later, an exodus of other reporters hurriedly walked out the door. Among them was a particular non-existent fat man. Because they'd just realized the story wouldn't be found in Clovis' inner chambers. Of course, some were only sticking around for the favors and cocktails. But they didn't actually want to be of service to Clovis.
They wanted to get a treat like good little doggies.
And they would walk on him when it looked like Clovis was in political disfavor. Not because Clovis actually had suffered a political setback. But because everyone else was walking out, he must have suffered a political setback.
And Deitard Reid caught the whole walkout on camera.
"Well," said Deitard. "It should make decent blackmail material, at least. As long as we have this, it'll be harder to fire us."
"Shouldn't we make a story?" asked Rock.
"That's not the kind of story you make if you want to live long enough to retire," said Deitard sadly. "Come on, let's check the military situation."
"Doesn't this give the other reporters a head start on getting to Bartley?" asked Rock.
"We're not going to Bartley," said Deitard as he walked. "Everyone else will be covering every word he says. We'll have a dozen news stories about that.
"No, if you want to stand out, you must learn to go the less traveled road. We'll talk to someone else. A lower ranking officer, perhaps."
"What about an infantryman?" asked Rock. "They often use Honorary Britannians for this kind of thing? Since they know the ghettos a bit better. Wouldn't that be a good angle?"
"Of course, but politics is not favorable toward numbers," said Deitard. "If you want to say something good about them, it has to be indirect. Hail praises the heroic efforts of our military and then mentions some good works.
"To draw attention to a problem, find how it affects the military. It'll get your attention right away."
"Like what?" asked Rock.
"Well, for instance," said Deitard. "If I point out that at this moment, many numbers are going without clean water, no one cares. The nobles will scoff. The moderates will look sad.
"But nothing will be done, and the story will be quashed.
"On the other hand, if you say that our soldiers are without clean drinking water? That might get some attention. And if replacing the pipes happens to help the numbers nearby?"
"As long as you're digging the area up, you might as well do all the work," said Rock. "Save the expense of doing it later."
"Exactly," said Deitard. "Good propaganda is not the art of lying. Anyone can lie. And if you're caught in a lie, you will have a serious problem.
"Good propaganda is the art of telling the truth in a way that is favorable to your side."
"Well, what if you've been put in charge of propaganda for something you can't tell favorably?" asked Rock.
"Well," said Deitard. "That's a two-step process.
"The first step is figuring out if you actually have to defend it. It might be better if you switch sides and go on the attack instead. Tear open the wound and get an award. Going down with the ship might get you points for loyalty, but loyalty points only buy a little in these circles.
"Now, if you can't go on the attack...
"Try to associate it with a supermodel in a bikini."
Rock blinked. "You're joking."
"I'm quite serious," said Deitard. "Take Luciano Bradley. The man is a psychopathic complete monster who lives to kill other people. Even the most radical of the Purebloods have a problem with him. He gets sent to places where the wars have escalated to a point where no morality can exist.
"His name is a thing of horror and terror to anyone who hears it.
"He's called the 'Vampire of Britannia' for a reason."
"How is a supermodel going to help with that?" asked Rock.
"Well, Luciano Bradley is well-documented as nihilistic, sociopathic, and remorseless," said Deitard. "In a man, those traits are terrifying. If you tried to reason with Luciano Bradley, he'd murder you in a heartbeat.
"Give those traits to a supermodel, and everyone will think she's loveable. And when she threatens to murder you for appealing to her better nature, you'll find it tragic. Nobody is going to bother appealing to Luciano Bradley's better nature."
"Is that why the Valkyrie Squad exists?" asked Rock.
"Exactly, Rock," said Deitard. "In time, I think you will find that history has been shaped by the concept of moe. The coffee break is over.
"Let's get back to work."
Prince Clovis did not operate in the Viceroy Palace.
He operated in a G1. He'd had it retrofitted when he'd first arrived in Area 11. Mostly luxuries and the like, while the Viceroy Palace was constructed. Vast expenses had been poured into defenses. It was supposed to be the perfect center of government.
Many contracts had been handed out to Clovis' various friends at court. It made them all obscenely rich. The overengineered palace had been worked on and decorated for years and years. Clovis had even personally painted some of the pictures inside.
Only he'd never actually entered the Viceroy's Palace.
Clovis liked partying in his G1; it was of sentimental value. Those images of Prince Lelouch Vi Britannia and Nunnally inside were quite beautiful. Deitard had seen a few of them. But nobody ever looked at them, and Clovis had never returned to look at them. It was odd.
All of his other artwork was put on display.
But Clovis seemed to regard the picture almost as a guilty pleasure or old hobby. By all accounts, he'd been close with the Empress Marianne before her assassination. But he'd distanced himself from the family like everyone else had.
Rather like everyone was to Clovis now. Several military officers who had been hobnobbing had hurried out. That meant only the nobles would remain. They wouldn't like the prospect of getting their hands dirty. So the party was probably over.
"The party is over, isn't it?" asked Rock.
"There never was a party," said Deitard. "Everyone in that place wanted something. There wasn't an ounce of fun to be found in it.
"It's all about self-satisfaction. Objectivity is an illusion."
They exited the G1, and Deitard saw a helicopter loaded with troops. Moving forward, he saw the Captain of the Royal Guard, Milner. Deitard had always thought the man something of a psychopath. If he'd been born in a different place, he'd probably have ended up in organized crime as an enforcer.
But Milner was the bastard son of a noble. So he'd been given a position to do the same things except wearing a fancy uniform and having his finances paid for by the state. He seems to be yelling abuse at several Honorary Britannian soldiers. All of whom were clad in black to cover their features.
"Rock, I have a job for you," said Deitard.
"What is it?" asked Rock.
"I'm going to talk to Captain Milner and get his official story," said Deitard. "While I do that, I want you to see if you can get a statement from the Honorary Britannians. We might get one we can use.
"And pick the one which looks most handsome and heroic, if you can."
"What if he has nothing interesting to say?" asked Rock.
"Then we'll put his picture over the interview and not specify it's the person we're talking to," said Deitard. "Everyone will assume that is what the person you interviewed looked like. But if you look at the fine print, we didn't say he was.
"So it's okay."
"Is that ethical?" asked Rock.
"No," said Deitard. "But it'll sell a lot better than if you show someone physically unattractive or disabled.
"Well, unless they were a thirteen-year-old girl whose face is intact. If they had broken legs, they'd still be cute. So you could get a lot of mileage out of the crippled, ill-girl dynamic. But put a few scars on her face, and I'd toss her in a ditch."
"That is... the worst thing you have ever said, sir," said Rock.
"I meant the pictures of her, not the crippled girl, obviously," said Deitard. "Although I admit, the only asset she would have is being cute. Realistically, being bound to a wheelchair alone would ruin her chances.
"So relying on pity for advancement would be her only option. The pictures of her would be her entire existence. She would only matter insofar as her physical appearance got her victim points."
Dead silence.
"Yes, I'd throw a blind, crippled girl in a ditch if I thought the photographs would get me better ratings," said Deitard. "And I'm okay with that."
"...I'm going to go interview those soldiers being sent on a suicide mission now," said Rock.
"Oh yeah, good, have fun," said Deitard.
Rock walked off toward the Honorary Britannians with a rather haunted look. For his part, Deitard considered the possibility of interviewing Milner. Would Milner actually have anything to say that Rock couldn't get?
Or was Deitard's only role to be a glorious distraction while the true hero infiltrated from the side, just like Lord of the Rings.
Well, Deitard wouldn't be handed a free Kingdom and hot elven bride for storming this place. And that truck over there hadn't been there before. So Rock would have to take this one for the team and infiltrate Mordor without an army of free peoples.
Sure Frodo and Sam would probably die. In this hypothetical situation, Deitard only had to experience mild boredom. But it wasn't like the halflings were used after the ring went into the fire anyway.
Sorry, Frodo, you would just have to take one for the team. Your suffering was old business.
Let the halfling be destroyed by two abusive and vile powers fighting for dominance. It would make for great television later.
Thus, Deitard Reid walked out on Rock like he'd walked out on Prince Clovis. Deitard was very good at walking on people; it was why he'd never gotten married.
If he'd been a chemist, Deitard Reid would have tangled with his employer and gotten fired. At this point, he probably would have created a meth empire and started a bloodbath just to prove he could. If he'd been a soldier, he probably would have obeyed the rules of war and gotten court marshaled for it.
So he'd become a reporter.
Which was really the best choice.
He got to profit off other people, spiraling downward into oblivion.
Now, if only he'd lived in Tolkien's Legendarium. Morgoth would have made for great television.
Either way, it was time to check on the truck.
Said truck had Lloyd Asplund in front of it, and he was confronting Bartley, who had just gotten free of the reports. Deitard drew out his camera and started taking footage. Behind him, Rock had gotten caught taking an interview. He was being beaten up by sneering Britannians in uniform. "Aha," said Lloyd in an exaggerated, effeminate tone, leaning forward as if in accusation.
"What are you looking at?" asked Bartley.
"Looking at a man who blundered," said Lloyd. "You really screwed this one up. Terrorists came along and stole whatever you were working on. Now, everyone is asking for an interview, and attention is drawn to the fact that you can't quiet down.
"Bring the truck in immediately; you must answer many unfortunate questions. Let them get as far as the ghettos; you can sweep up all their compatriots. Then tidy things up with no witnesses." Then he ignored Bartley completely and turned to the blue-haired secretary-type woman. "Congratulations, your reasoning was spot on."
"Um, thank you," said the woman. "I just thought it was strange.
"Um, if you don't mind me asking, what have they stolen?"
"Chemical weapons," said Bartley, looking very serious. "In other words, poison gas."
Why was 'in other words' necessary to use in that sentence? Bartley was just trying to look more sophisticated than he actually was, wasn't he? That was the way of things. You substituted flowery language for actual content.
In a perfect world, flowery language would be reserved for special occasions. But those occasions actually happened outside of Clovis. So they were used for everything.
At this point, Rock limped back, sporting several new bruises, an intact camera, and a notepad. "I have the interview, sir.
"'I talked with the son of the late Prime Minister of Japan, Suzaku Kururugi. Apparently, the operation is meant to find chemical weapons. The resistance group in question is led by someone called uh...
"Naoto, I think.
"But apparently, he disappeared some time ago. Now, his second in command has taken over. Someone called Kaname Oghi. They have a Knightmare frame, a Glasgow they used to blast their way into the base. They took down the garrison before they could mobilize, stole the truck, and got out.
"It was a smash and grab."
"Oh, good work," said Deitard. "That confirms some of what I've read up on."
"Sir, having been beaten to a pulp by the Royal Guard for asking reasonable questions, can I take the day off?" asked Rock.
"You'd have to be living in a racist dystopia for me to refuse you that," said Deitard.
"Can I take the rest of the day off?" asked Rock.
"Go ahead," said Deitard.
Rock was still following Deitard, just now, with a thoughtful expression. Deitard found this a bit annoying as he approached the truck where Lloyd Asplund had walked into. Nearby, it was a huge, humanoid frame with a vast tarp over it.
"You're still here," noted Deitard.
"I don't have any friends or family to speak of," said Rock. "I was asking out of principle and banking on you saying no."
"Oh, I see," said Deitard. "Fine, same drill."
"The last time we did this, I got beaten to a pulp by the guards. While you got the same information I did by eavesdropping," said Rock.
"True, but we did confirm the information from multiple sources," said Deitard. "Which helps verify. Besides, this time will be completely different."
"How?" asked Rock.
"This time, you'll have to avoid being beaten up by Lloyd's assistant," said Deitard.
And he knocked.
A moment later, the door opened, and the secretary peered out. "Oh, um, are you with the press? Because we're not taking interviews."
"I'm with Prince Clovis' personal entourage," said Deitard. It was technically true. "And I'm here to learn a bit about this operation."
"Well, Lloyd doesn't usually take interviews," noted Cecile. "He's currently trying to find-"
"Who are you; what is this?" said a voice.
Lloyd Asplund barged out of the door. "Oh, I see. The press.
"No matter. I need a pilot, so this one should do."
"I'm sorry, what?" said Rock.
"I'm offering you the chance of a lifetime," said Lloyd. "We've been working on an experimental prototype knightmare frame. One that would change the entire course of the war and the world.
"The Lancelot.
"Unfortunately, its controls operate completely from that of a Sutherland. So, any new pilot we bring in must be completely retrained. And if I hand the position over to a noble, they'll start using it for political leverage.
"Meanwhile, if I hand it over to a commoner, everyone will be furious for jilting them.
"So I decided to hand it over to the first random person I found injured."
"How is that going to help the situation?" asked Rock.
"Well, by healing them from their injuries, I would engender their empathy," said Lloyd. "And since the choice would be completely out of my hands, no one could complain about it?"
"I would just like to point out we wanted Jeremiah Gottwald," said Cecile. "But he's in the field right now, leading from the front. When we can show the machine off, the operation will be over.
"This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Lloyd doesn't offer these chances often."
"No thanks," said Rock.
"Perfect," said Lloyd. "We'll get you-
"What?"
"I said no thanks," said Rock. "I don't think it would be a very good fit."
Dead silence.
"I'm offering you a chance to pilot an experimental giant robot that will turn the tide of the war," said Lloyd. "And you're saying no." He looked absolutely flummoxed; his eyes were wide.
"Actually," said Rock. "I'm telling you to go to hell.
"If I actually get into that machine, every pureblood and racist is going to have a fit. They'll immediately start combing my record for a crime. And if they don't find one, they'll make one up and execute me anyway.
"Are you going to pull strings for me when that happens?"
"Well, no," said Lloyd. "I mean, the political fallout would be disastrous.
"One couldn't afford to sacrifice it for one placeholder." Cecile put her face in her hands. "Well, it's true. I mean, it is intended to turn the entire war."
"No, for money," said Rock.
"What?" said Lloyd.
"They transfer money into specific Areas to buy favors from their governors," said Rock. "You realize that all of the components for your system developed are spread out worldwide, right?
"What possible sense does that make unless the purpose is to bring business to those areas.
"Britannia has total superiority in this war. It doesn't need a super Knightmare prototype. Schneizel ordered it to hand out favors to the lower-level bureaucrats to back his bid for the throne. He doesn't need the Lancelot in any way, shape, or form.
"As long as he can show it off on a parade, he's already gotten what he wants. Only an outright failure of the project could hurt his chances now."
Silence.
Behind them, the helicopter carrying the Honorary Britannian Squads had lifted off.
Cecile coughed nervously. "I, uh, may have vented about my paperwork with a nice young Honorary Britannian I met at a bar."
"You need to disappear into the South China Sea," said Lloyd, looking very annoyed.
"Fortunately, I have the perfect guy in mind for you," said Rock. "His name is Suzaku Kururugi.
"He's currently working as an Honorary Britannian and wants to change the system from within. He's the son of the late Prime Minister of Japan and would look very good in newspapers. If the Purebloods go after him, he'd have more protection, and you could probably sell him up the river for a favor.
"Or you can protect him and have him be totally reliant on you. That would likely ingratiate you to more moderate sections of our society."
"I'm proud of you," said Deitard.
"That does sound like it would make good television," noted Lloyd thoughtfully. "Is he injured?"
"Well, he's being sent out as cannon fodder," noted Rock. "And he's looking for top-secret research. So he's likely on a list right now.
"The troop carrier with him on it just left. It's got an ETA to Shinjuku in nine minutes.
"I don't think you'll have time to drive safely. He's a loose end, and they're probably going to kill him."
"Is that really something you should say out loud?" asked Cecile.
"Why shouldn't I?" asked Rock. "I'm as corrupt as any of them."
"I'm proud of you," said Deitard.
"You really need to disappear into the South China Sea," said Cecile.
"Eight minutes and forty-six seconds," said Rock.
"Come Cecile; let's see if this Suzaku Kururugi is worth it," said Lloyd. "It probably is better to have a military man in this anyway."
They hurried into the truck, which drove off at a fast pace. Deitard looked to Rock. "You're setting Kururugi up?"
"He'll probably die anyway if he outlives his usefulness," noted Rock. "And he might just be fired."
Deitard nodded. The reporters were flocking around some of Bartley's staff officers. They were really out of practice. Because Bartley was finishing up out here giving orders, he was trying to excuse himself and get to the G1. Where he would probably lock them out. "Why don't we check back at the G1. Clovis is probably used to having more attention, so he might be more receptive to us.
"We just have to get there before Bartley locks the place down for a military operation."
And they hurried back to the G1, entering through the narrow halls. They found themselves heading in the opposite direction to the nobles. Many were hurrying out, looking disappointed at the end of the party. Deitard and Rock made their way through, and luck was with them.
They got in before Clovis had the sense to shut the place down. Moving to one side, they checked while the last guests left. Clovis was on his throne, watching as a table was pulled out of the floor. A video screen was on, and many uniformed officers were on hand. None seemed to be doing much of anything, and Deitard wondered what their jobs were.
If he had a guess, Clovis had given them an officer's position to get a political favor. He probably needed a clear vision of what they should be doing. So, he likely left it to Gottwald and Bartley to choose who to appoint.
Of course, many of these men weren't after battle glory or an administrative position.
They were after royal access.
This was hilarious since Clovis didn't make any decisions for himself. So they would have genuinely been better off working for Gottwald. If any of these gray-clad officers had something to do, they'd do it. You only needed one or two people to run the computer system. Clovis and Bartley could do that themselves.
So, they only used these men to gain access to Clovis. But anyone with any ambition would work for Bartley or Jeremiah. Although they could make suggestions on behalf of their benefactors.
Still, the way things were going, Deitard expected all of their careers would be shot in the head. They just didn't know it yet.
"Congratulations, Rock, we've found the South China Sea of Throne Rooms," said Deitard.
"That is not funny," said Rock.
So, should Deitard say anything?
Bartley was rushing in and puffing and missed them entirely on the way in. No one was paying any attention. So, would Deitard get a better story from Clovis' mouth? Or by catching him on camera while staying beneath notice?
Definitely the latter.
People showed who they really were when they thought no one was looking.
Clovis looked superficial, out of touch, and rather pampered. Like he envisioned that Area 11 actually belonged to him. Instead of the people he delegated to and had no real control over. Granted, if Clovis decided to overrule Bartley right now, he could make some decisions.
But would he know what decisions had to be made?
Would he even understand the present situation?
"Why the hell do you think I only told you people about this!" Bartley was yelling over the radio.
"The plan has moved forward to the next level," said Clovis calmly. It almost passed for controlled and serene.
Bartley turned. "Prince Clovis..."
"If her knowledge gets out, I'll be disinherited," said Clovis. "As Clovis, Prince of the Empire, I command you destroy Shinjuku Ghetto! Leave no one alive!"
Oh shit.
Rock stiffened. Deitard had the feeling he was about to do something. Even now, he could see the kid tensing, looking around the room. Probably, looking for something he could do. Deitard put a hand on his shoulder quickly, and he stiffened. "Don't."
"We have to do something," said Rock in a whisper.
"Observe and analyze," said Deitard. "He's not interested in a rational argument. It's about his ego. And if you try to appeal to him directly, those officers will shut you down.
"Then you'll be a target.
"We have to do something," said Rock. "There are thousands of people in Shinjuku. How is this going to help the situation? It'll make the poison gas more likely to be released. If you back people into a corner and give them nothing to lose, why not unleash it?"
The planes all took off. The knightmares could be seen mobilizing by air.
Clovis was watching it with the expression of one watching a parade. Like some teenager watching a movie through a viewscreen. Which, in a way, he was. As the bombs began to drop, Shinjuku in the distance began to echo with screams. Then Deitard realized Clovis existed in a different universe.
A universe of parties and endless praise where saying the right things got results. And he knew he got results because people told him he was getting results. The mass slaughter in Shinjuku, the screams of the innocent, the flames...
It wasn't real.
It could be a Japanese Anime to Clovis. Some edgy chess-themed reality TV show.
But it was real.
A reality existed outside of this controlled ecosystem of luxury and vice. Deitard didn't begrudge the hypothetical alternate universe audience. It wasn't real to them either.
But Clovis existed in this universe, and his actions had consequences.
So, didn't that make him responsible for what happened on the screen?
Didn't that make Deitard responsible?
But what could he actually do other than observe?
"We're reporters, Rock," said Deitard. "We're going to tell a story.
"If this goes badly, we'll have a massive bloodletting. Riots were followed by clampdowns and a lot of bodies. Someone will have to spin this; we're the only people in the room.
"There aren't any heroes in politics. A journalist's job is to make them." Well, that meant the same thing as Deitard's fat boss said.
But it sounded a bit better, at least, and that was what propaganda was about.
"Just how is this the action of a hero?" asked Rock.
Good point.
Fortunately, Deitard didn't have to worry about the optics. Because the story of how Prince Clovis slaughtered an entire ghetto began to unravel. And the reason was something odd.
Something that Deitard knew was impossible, but it happened anyway.
Clovis started losing.
When it started to happen, only Deitard noticed. Jeremiah Gottwald's Sutherland was shot down with another. Bartley smirked to himself as this happened. "Lord Gottwald has been shot down pursuing the Glasgow.
"But the enemy poses no threat to our vastly superior army. I'm sending a squad to mop up."
Only that squad got separated in the masonry and wiped out by the Glasgow. Another squad was sent in, only to be blasted through the wall. Someone had intercepted their transmissions or gotten their maps.
"Somehow, they've gotten ahold of our transmission codes," said Bartley. "Change the code."
It wasn't the codes, Deitard thought. This resistance group had been getting crushed for five minutes. All of a sudden, they got organized. They'd taken about a million levels in skill, and it happened around the railroad tracks.
Maybe someone knew there was an inbound shipment. One that wasn't rerouted from the battlefield. Which meant someone had taken command. They'd either directed their subordinates to weaponry. Or they bought the resistance's loyalty with a gift. It was probably after shooting down Jeremiah Gottwald to decapitate the army.
So now Bartley was in command.
But Bartley was no tactical genius and was loathe to make big decisions with Clovis. Clovis was used to delegating his entire being to others and didn't seem to think anything was wrong. He thought that because the loss of one squad was a small defeat, it didn't matter.
But it did matter.
"A small defeat for us," noted Rock. "But a huge victory for the terrorists.
"This will help their morale, won't it?"
"And hurt ours," noted Deitard. "Bartley is not popular with the purebloods. His orders are not likely to be respected. There is also no glory in destroying Shinjuku. But a loss here would be catastrophic for Clovis' image."
It was not the only small victory the terrorists won.
Pretty soon, the body count began to pile up. Clovis' forces were in dismay. They had come in here expecting easy slaughter and victory. Now, they'd suddenly lost their commander and were fed in small groups against an unknown enemy. An enemy who knew their every move and had organized the resistance to take full advantage.
Was there something Deitard could do?
Logically, he had time to make a suggestion. But how to do it without getting shut down?
"A small group of resistance fighters are mounting a defense," said Bartley. "But they pose no threat to our vastly superior army."
"Prince Clovis," said Deitard. "Do you have any requests on the optics of this situation?"
Clovis looked up in surprise. "What does the public think, you mean?
"Demolition work is usually the standard story, is it not?"
"Yes Prince Clovis," said Deitard. "But that may be somewhat difficult to prove. The combat here seems more heated than anticipated.
"We may have to come up with something to explain the damages to Britannian troops."
"We'll say that the poison gas was released," said Bartley, looking up from the battle he was losing. "That should account for the high casualties. Then we cite the theft of the Sutherlands as the reason our armies were stalemated."
Deitard looked to Rock. "It may be wise to provide some humanitarian aid to the locals. If only for appearances. Perhaps equal treatment to all races equally. If anyone questions your benevolence or suggests this attack was done by us..."
"We can simply point to the ambulances," noted Clovis. "Very well.
"We'll arrange for relief after we crush the terrorists."
So Clovis had just completely changed his entire plan on a whim.
This was why Clovis was a bad leader.
Granted, the first plan had been awful, and the second one was better. So, switching plans on a whim was the right decision. But you know what would have been a better decision.
NOT SLAUGHTERING AN ENTIRE GHETTO TO COVER UP A MISTRESS!
"It might stabilize the situation a bit," said Deitard to Rock.
Deitard was never meant to come here.
He should have been long outside and locked out of the throne room. Bartley should have shut him out immediately. And you could tell by the look in Bartley's eye that he knew it. But Bartley had thought Deitard might be here by Clovis' will. And he couldn't publically shut out a member of Clovis' entourage.
No matter how qualified Bartley was, he was a diversity hire. He'd gotten the job because it gave Clovis' good publicity. And because Bartley was easy to control, owing to the racialist doctrines. Clovis, thus, maintained control.
The problem was that Clovis himself was unworthy of that control.
He had not even thought this through enough to order the room sealed. He hadn't even been considering slaughtering everyone in Shinjuku. It would have made more sense to order the place locked down and initiate a surgical strike. Or hell, if you want fireworks, just firebomb it to dust and save on witnesses and manpower.
Knightmares were not the best tool for this. Deitard had done enough military reporting to know that. And why was Jeremiah Gottwald, the paragon of loyalty, attached to this job? If Deitard were running this op, he'd probably assign it to someone with no reputation to ruin. A group of psychos who you could disavow easily.
Having Gottwald take the field was a bad idea, which put the massacre directly next to Clovis. If the story got out because, say, two reporters were able to waltz into his private war-
Deitard had lost track of how many ways Clovis was fucked; did he even know how to open a door!
"I need a drink," muttered Deitard.
"There is a wine bar over there," noted Rock. "It's probably all going to get thrown out."
"I wouldn't risk it; we're on thin ice as it is," muttered Deitard.
Disappearing into the South China Sea was pretty good right now. Who was running this army?
Although, on a brighter note, Clovis was losing. And badly. He was doing the same strategy repeatedly and getting the same result. Eventually, Bartley came up with the idea of sending several squads simultaneously. Only the enemy didn't just wait for him; they went on the attack and wiped them out.
Why couldn't Deitard be documenting that side?
Clovis was no hero. He was no strategist. And he was certainly not long-running villain material.
Oh.
Oh, that wasn't good.
At that moment, Lloyd Asplund appeared on screen.
"So, are we having a bad day?" asked Lloyd.
"We have no time for this right now," said Clovis.
"Oh, but things don't seem to be going well out there," said Lloyd. "I thought I might offer you the services of my new machine.
"Complete with a brand new pilot."
"Put him on hold," said Bartley.
If Clovis asked Lloyd for help, he would owe Schneizel a favor. And given the current setback, that favor would have to be cashed on damage control. Which basically meant Clovis was out of the running for Emperor.
That was probably about as far as Clovis' thought process got.
Because he then ordered his entire defending force, guarding him, to charge. And initiate a circular firing squad formation around the enemy's general location.
"The enemy's main force is that center dot," said Clovis.
The enemy's main force was roughly estimated to be around that center dot. And Clovis had no idea who that force was, what the ground was like, or what he was facing. He was daring to attack an enemy he knew nothing about. His entire vanguard had been wiped out in a glorified training exercise, and now he was sending in the rest.
At this point, the enemy collapsed the entire ghettos beneath them.
Yes, that was predictable. The ground usually fell beneath your feet when your hubris became too great. Whoever pulled this off obviously had some appreciation for karmic irony. Why couldn't Deitard be following that guy?
'Britannia suffers worst military defeat in years;
"The ground falls out beneath the feet of hubris."
The headlines would be amazing.
But Deitard was in the business of defending this idiot. Maybe he should try to take over the Empire and run it himself? A mental image of stabbing Emperor Charles through the throat with a jagged came to mind.
Not really a practical option.
This was reality, not an anime. It would be taken off the network in a week if this was an anime. The main character needed to be better to carry a show. And what kind of story started with the hero getting curb-stomped by the starter villain?
You were supposed to save that for arc 2 when the rival shows up.
"Who am I up against," said Clovis. "He's even better than Tohdoh."
"Oh shit," said Deitard.
"What is it?" asked Rock.
"Are we in Arc 1 or Arc 2?" asked Deitard.
"What?" said Rock.
"If you were watching your life on a television screen, is this the opening act of the present story? Or is it where the series starts getting good?" said Deitard.
"I don't know," said Rock. "It doesn't really matter."
"No, no, it does matter," said Deitard. "Because if this is Prince Clovis's story, then it has to be at least the second arc. The first arc consists of unbroken victories as the hero learns the ropes. Then they run into their first serious threat, who completely wrecks them.
"This is what drives them to improve and get new abilities. That's the standard formula."
"So?" asked Rock.
"So, do you think Prince Clovis' administration so far would warrant a second season?" asked Deitard, unable to keep his voice. "Maybe Prince Clovis isn't the hero of this narrative?
"Maybe he's the guy who gets killed off to show how ruthless the new main villain is. So he dies to raise the stakes."
"I suppose one could argue that Clovis is a supporting protagonist," noted Rock. "And that he can get bailed out by the hero. Then he becomes an asset to that hero, and everyone forgets about this."
"That's probably the best deal we're going to get," said Bartley sadly. "We'd best call in the experimental prototype, Your Highness."
Oh, they'd heard that?
Well, they were totally fired. They could go to the South China Sea. Do a documentary on pirates or something. Deitard didn't need cocktails to be a reporter; there were other networks.
But there weren't other Shinjukus. And Clovis just blew it up and then lost a battle to the desperate, brutalized masses.
"Lloyd," said Clovis. "Can you do it?
"Can your toy beat them?"
"Your Highness," said Lloyd. "Please have the grace to call it Lancelot."
And thus it was that the Lancelot was unleashed.
It rushed from beneath the tarp and was unveiled like some knight of legend, clad in white armor. Eyes of green were upon with golden trim. Though it bore no sword, it moved with speed and power like nothing Deitard had seen.
Now they came, the terrorists pushing forward in a line of power. The Lancelot went to meet them, a lone warrior unarmed save for his shield. The armor-piercing rounds of the terrorists were unleashed. Yet they were of no avail against the faithful shield as he fell on them.
He struck each one down ruthlessly and efficiently, which amazed Deitard.
Only he didn't kill them.
He went out of his way to avoid cutting into the cockpit block or blowing up the machine. Each one ejected quickly. So, it looked like Rock's gamble had paid off. And there was no average pilot would be able to pull this off. So Lloyd had gotten himself an ace.
"So does this make the pilot the hero?" asked Rock.
"Well," muttered Clovis. "Now, I'll owe my brother a favor.
"It's for the best, though."
Oh god, this guy would end up with a comfortable retirement, wouldn't he? Clovis had just opened up Britannia to its worst defeat in years. To a rag-tag group of disposable terrorists, no less. And his defeat had been made possible entirely by him.
And you just knew that Schneizel was going to spare him. Let him live off in some luxury resort after Schneizel took the throne.
It just didn't seem like a satisfying ending.
The terrorists would definitely want Clovis dead.
And after this screwup, so would the Britannians.
This was exactly why Clovis would depend on Big Brother Schneizel to patch things up. The glorious resistance found a new leader. They cleared the board of all enemies and then got eliminated by a deus ex machina.
The protagonists have achieved nothing, learned nothing, and will return to nothing.
This was not a climax. The status was maintained. It was boring. There was no payoff, no final confrontation between rivals. Nothing.
Pure nothing.
"Prince Clovis, can I use your wine bar?" asked Deitard.
"Go ahead, we're going to have to throw it all out anyway," muttered Clovis, looking oddly contemplative. He was probably thinking for the first time in his life.
There was so much he should have said.
So much he should have done.
And now it was all gone in a heartbeat.
His career was done.
"Bartley," said Clovis. "See about those medical teams and call off the slaughter."
Something occurred to Deitard.
"How many civilians are on this base?" asked Deitard.
"We sent them out," said Bartley. "Along with the military personnel and the nobles. You can't have a crowd in this kind of operation.
"We're going to have to confer about what you can release about these events to the public, you understand."
"Are you telling me we're alone on this G1?" asked Deitard.
And then there was a gunshot, distant and muffled. Everyone looked up toward the door as muffled footfalls could be heard throughout.
"We have a guard posted," said Bartley.
The door slid open then, and a red-haired woman stepped into the room. She was clad in short, blue pants that showed off long legs. Her toned midriff was bared, and her huge breasts were packed into a leather top. Wild red hair flew around her as she lowered an assault rifle.
"Hi," she said. "We're here to brutally slaughter a room of out-of-touch complete monsters to show what badass antiheroes we are."
Bartley went for his pistol while the staff officers fled. Bullets flew, and Bartley was shot full of holes in an instant. He fell back, hitting the ground hard. Meanwhile, the woman turned her attention to shooting the staff officers.
Virtually every shot hit. The bodies fell around them.
"Run, disposable filler villains, run!" laughed the woman. "Fucking morons!
"You never drop the hammer when a knife works just as well!"
Clovis began to get out of her throne right before she turned and shot him straight in the head. He died and fell back against the throne right before she pumped him full of several more shots. A moment later, a black-clad figure stepped into the room as the woman began to double-tap the corpses. He checked the bodies.
"Is that a wine bar?" she asked, halting.
"Yes," said Rock. "They were going to throw it out anyway."
"Well, I'm having some then," said the girl.
"Revy, you idiot!" said the dark-masked figure in a tone modulated by a gas mask. "Why did you shoot Clovis?! I wanted to interrogate him."
"Oh, come on, the guy delegated his brain to the entire fucking Area," said Revy, grabbing a bottle. "He probably didn't know anything anything."
"Well, you shot Bartley too," said the figure. "And why did you shoot them anyway? We could have just sent them out at gunpoint?"
"Fuck that," said Revy. "This motherfucker sicked the fucking royal guard on us. You remember your best buddy they shot in the back?"
"Just... stop... talking..." said the dark-clad figure. "He had information.
"Information that wouldn't be on public record." He walked up the steps and looked at the body, looking strangely contemplative. It was the look of someone looking for something and hadn't found it. Reaching forward, he touched Clovis's body and closed his wide-open eyes. His hand came back bloody, and he looked at it.
At that point, a green-haired girl walked past Deitard, clad in an unbound straight jacket.
"Do they have pizza here?" she asked Rock.
"Not really," said Rock. "It's sort of a high-class thing.
The green-haired girl looked sad. As if a terrible wound had just been inflicted on her, which pained her more than she could imagine. "No pizza.
"That is sad."
"Would you shut the fuck up about the pizza!" said Revy before raising a pistol.
"No, wait-" said the black-masked figure.
And then Revy shot the green-haired girl in the head.
"Revy, you idiot!" said the black-masked figure.
"What?" said Revy. "All she did was hang around and ask about pizza."
"She didn't even say anything until just now," said the black-masked.
"And the first thing she asked about was pizza," said Revy.
"She was the only other possible link I had," said the black-masked figure. "You could have consulted me before you blew the brains out of the only person who knew what was happening here?"
"I don't need a reason to shoot people," said Revy. "I don't need a reason to shoot anyone!"
"Okay, that's it, I'm out," said the black-masked figure. "I'm going home.
"This entire trip is now a complete wash. You have shot every single person who could possibly give me the information I need."
"It might be in the console," said Rock suddenly.
"What?" said the black-masked figure.
"Well, Clovis delegated virtually all his operations to Bartley and Gottwald," said Rock. "Gottwald isn't confirmed dead yet. And Bartley handled virtually everything.
"So he'd have to have some kind of record.
"You might be able to find something there."
"Thank you," said the black-masked figure. And he checked it. "No password.
"What an absolute disgrace."
The screen filtered through several images, and the figure settled on one. He froze in place, just for an instant, as he saw an image. It was an image of a painting of a violet-eyed boy and a blonde girl standing together. Their mother was standing over them, dark hair flowing.
The Empress Marianne.
His hand reached up and touched the image, and the blood fell over her smiling face. There were other images of a violet-haired girl with a similar-looking pinkette. For some reason, he was searching through them.
"That's from the Aries Villa," said Rock. "Prince Clovis had a habit of painting things when he was educated there. Apparently, he was close with the Empress Marianne."
"I know," said the black-masked figure. "I know."
The image halted on the last set.
The violet-eyed boy was at the end of a chess set, looking at the one doing the painting. The white pieces had been mostly cleared off the board. But the blacks had lost many, and it looked like whites were about to win the game.
But the player on the other side was dead. And now the blood that was on Empress Marianne's face was on the boy's face.
Revy had finished one bottle and was working on another.
"To hell with this," said the figure, transferring it onto a data chip. "I'm gone."
"So where are we going?" asked Revy, taking a break from swigs.
"We're not going anywhere," said the black-masked figure.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" asked Revy. "And why am I feeling I won't see you away?" But the man in black kept walking away in disgust, looking at one hand. "Hey, look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Rushing forward, she grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to turn around. Her gun was out and pointed at his chest, a look of pure rage on her face.
"We just committed regicide, Revy," said the man in black. "Do you think this happens every day? The entire Britannian military is going to be coming out here after us.
"We come from two completely different worlds. We can't exactly show up in the other without attracting attention. We have to arrange our escape routes and make no contact unless necessary.
"It's necessary. Do not try to find me. Just leave here, don't tell me your escape route or safehouse, and lie low."
"Oh," said Revy. She took her gun away. "That makes sense."
Revy suddenly looked very depressed and walked over to continue drinking. The man in black walked out. As he walked by Deitard, he grabbed Deitard's camera and smashed it on the floor. Then he grabbed Rock's and did the same before walking off, looking very bitter.
"This is going to be amazing television," said Deitard before picking up the pieces of his camera.
"Are you going to shoot us?" asked Rock.
"That depends," said Revy, looking at him. "Can you hold your liquor?"
Rock took the bottle and gave a very long swig. "Yes."
"Good," said Revy. "Go call the police.
"I'm gonna nap for a bit and then have my own fucking Okay Chorale. Get some knife practice in while I'm at it."
She looked sad, like a kicked, bloodstained puppy about to be electrocuted.
Deitard feelings of sympathy for this woman met the stench of blood and death. Then he looked to the blazing inferno outside where so many had been slaughtered.
It all left him feeling empty.
Like nothing.
Zero.
"Hey, Rock, could you help me hide these bodies. I'm most likely going to shoot you in the morning," said Revy, sounding tired.
The ratings for this would be INCREDIBLE!