Disclaimer: We do not own Code Geass or any of the characters used in our story, with everything belonging to Sunrise other than characters, plots and lore that are of our own creation.
A/N: Hi everyone, after what has been an eternity, our prequel fic for Code Geass, Liar's Dice is finally here with its first chapter of what will be an exploration of the mid-90's in the CG universe.
With a mix of familiar and new characters that aims to explore the CG world by digging into many parts which myself, and my Writing Partner Makarov, had been wanting to do for a while now. We both hope you will enjoy our take, ideas and more on the series that means a lot to us.
I want to thank everyone who has been following me for all these years from back when I was working on my side fic for Code Geass: Colourless Memories written by NSBleach00 that got me into fanfic writing in the first place. Of which serves as an inspiration for some of the plots and characters in Liar's Dice.
To my aborted crossover fic Roanapur Connection, that Liar's Dice is a reboot of and includes the CG stuff I created for it.
Whether you have reviewed, commented, clicked on here or other sites. It means the world to me and has helped me to keep going with my writing projects, even when things felt like they were hopeless or I had doubted myself on whether I could do any of this.
Now here is my good friend Makarov, to share his input for the first time with you all.
Thanks very much everyone
Love Blackmambauk of the DeadlyViperQuill writing duo.
Hello everyone,
In a setting as character-driven and immense as Code Geass, there is always a certain risk of making too many characters when there are so many genuine ones to choose from.
However, if done right, a balancing of both can really take things far which interested me greatly when Mamba introduced me to his writing ideas when we first met in 2022 and laid out the story and characters that I was intrigued to help flesh out further and make a story for. That led us to do several one-shots last year, with two of them set in the Liar's Dice Universe.
Fan fiction is interesting to me and something i enjoy a lot. The pursuit of writing things for the sake of others to read them, embrace the characters, their perspectives - this is such a noble thing that the world cannot take away from creative people. Both the creators and readers as a whole and why i love working on fanfiction.
The words themselves belong to something much greater. A price cannot be put on what words can do to one's heart. And even in the hardest and darkest of hearts, there is always room for something.
These works are the new extension of myth, an evolution from verbal tradition. Code Geass is a great basis for this i feel, because it offers so much content, some of the best content of its genre if not entirely - but there is always room for more interpretation, more fantasies, and more stories. And most interestingly, mystery that really gets my writing brain kicking into gear.
Not everything unwritten goes unspoken. There are so many things to show you all, but for now, know that every canvas left open is merely soon to be painted. And of course, we look forward to how others will paint this world in their imagination and how they may hear the voices of these characters we have created or focused on.
Thank you very much
Makarov of the DeadlyViperQuill writing duo.
The first light of dawn had barely touched the hidden corners of the ancient Sumeragi temple, nestled within the thick embrace of the forest. It's architecture was a testament to the blending of the earthly with the ethereal, whispered tales of time immemorial through stones and shadows.
Amidst the tranquil sanctuary, the air was thick, charged with the faint aroma of incense that had burned for ages. The temple's innermost chamber, dimly lit by shafts of light piercing through small apertures, was a gallery of epochs past. Here, the armour of Kublai Khan stood as a centerpiece among the collection, its dark metal gleaming with an unworldly luster.
Thankfully lacking the wetness in which Khan was in when he had floated from the clouds into the waters which he belonged.
Surrounding it, a myriad of artifacts sprawled across the chamber—swords from knights and samurai, each with its saga of bloodshed and honour, and trinkets from civilizations long forgotten, each a memento of battles won and lost. These relics, more than mere possessions, were the milestones of humanity's tumultuous journey, chronicled by those who sought to steer its course.
In the shadowy embrace of this chamber, a woman cloaked in layers of robes, moved with a grace that belied her age as her glitter boot heels clanked the steps of the marble. Her gaze swept across the room, lingering on each artifact with a mixture of reverence and melancholy. Her touch on each piece, fleeting yet profound, bridged centuries, connecting the dots of human ambition and folly.
Her thoughts, initially as silent as the chamber she stood in, began to weave into spoken words that echoed off the ancient walls.
"Humanity," she mused, her voice a whisper among whispers.
"Has traversed through the sands of time, leaving footprints too numerous to count. Yet, in their quest for dominion, they have often lost sight of the essence of the gifts bestowed upon them."
Her reflection on the power of the gifts that were meant to uplift but were instead wielded as a sword—revealed her deep-seated disillusionment.
As she paced slowly, her attention captivated by the statue of the eight which she had once stood with. Among them, one that wore the Mask of Deception.
A feeling of melancholy crested her for a second, a second of emotions that she soon froze like the wintery ice that mak belonged in.
"In the pursuit of truth," she whispered.
"Humanity often dons their own masks of deception, obscuring the very essence of their existence. Finding themselves frozen and unable to do anything even when they could."
Yet, despite the centuries of disappointment, a spark of resolve ignited within her, to resolve the unfulfilled purpose that guided her immortal existence. With a renewed sense of duty, this woman stood at the threshold of decision, the weight of her ancient mission pressing upon her shoulders.
"This world," she continued, her voice now a firm declaration in the silent chamber.
"Still harbored the potential for the fulfillment of the dream I once cherished. The journey is far from over, and my role in fate remains unwoven."
As she gazed upon the artifacts surrounding her, her thoughts delved deeper, transcending beyond the mere contemplation of humanity's missteps with the gifts given to them.
Her mind meandered through the annals of time, touching upon the intricate tapestry woven with the Sumeragi and Kururugi clans. These ties transcended mere strategic alliances, morphing into profound connections that indelibly shaped their fates alongside hers. Speaking to herself, she recounted her enduring relationship with the Sumeragi clan, a bond stretching over a thousand years, reflecting her unwavering belief in their latent potential.
"I saw something in that man of the Sumeragi," she mused quietly.
"A wisdom and a vision that once kindled a flame of hope within my eternal essence."
Yet, as the centuries unraveled, the constancy of that flame was tested by the unpredictable gusts of human nature and decision. Within her soliloquy, a tinge of sorrow crept in as she pondered the Sumeragi's journey.
"Their brilliance, so sporadic, often found itself eclipsed by a failure to truly comprehend," she reflected with a hint of melancholy in her tone.
She continued, more to herself than to any listener, affirming her belief in the seeds of greatness she had planted among them.
"The potential I nurtured within the Sumeragi... remains steadfast, convinced that the seeds I have sown will, in time, burgeon into the realization of the vision I harbor, Yet to be fulfilled despite my guidance." she affirmed with quiet conviction.
Her thoughts gently drifted toward the Kururugi clan, a lineage as entwined with her saga as the very vines that clung to the temple's ancient walls.
"The Kururugi... our paths, intertwined yet divergent," she quietly contemplated, acknowledging the complex dance of alliance and discord that marked their shared history. There were moments of harmony, where their visions aligned, casting a light on the path forward.
Yet, shadows of discord were never far behind, culminating in the stark event on Kamine Island—Kururugi Akane's decisive act that sealed away her powers, a vivid reminder of the unpredictable nature of her bonds with humanity.
Alone in the temple, surrounded by the silent witnesses of her long vigil, she grappled with the weight of her journey—a tapestry of hope, betrayal, and unfulfilled desires.
Yet, underneath the layers of accumulated disappointment, her resolve stood unwavering, as solid and enduring as the temple's ancient foundations.
"These artifacts," she whispered to the silence.
"they stand testament to a will that will not yield, to a commitment that endures beyond the ebb and flow of human frailty."
Her internal reflections carved out a resolve as steadfast as the temple stones. Despite the sea of disappointments and the haunting mirage of her elusive dream, her spirit remained untethered, her purpose undimmed.
"This journey... it transcends the mere shaping of human destinies," she affirmed to herself, finding solace in a clarity that pierced through the veil of her contemplations.
Her mission, a beacon in the tumultuous storm of human endeavors, guided her steadfast through the darkness.
In a moment of profound introspection, she found a clarity that rekindled the embers of her purpose. Her solitude, far from being a shackle, emerged as the crucible within which her unwavering commitment was forged. Drawing a deep breath that seemed to gather the ages within its folds, she embraced her solitary path not as a sentence, but as a sacred charge—a commitment to a vision uniquely hers, awaiting her hand to bring it forth into reality.
– – –
In the midst of the throne room's splendor, Emperor Malcolm's presence was like a dark cloud over a sunlit garden, his demeanor a stark contrast to the paradise that surrounded him. There, before his subjects, he sat enthroned, a figure of regality and power, yet his eyes were wild with mistrust and his lips curled in disdain.
The tragic contrast of the mad-king and his throne room was immense, for it was like a breathtaking vista of regal splendour and fantastical opulence, seemingly torn from the pages of a storybook and brought to life under the soft glow of the evening sun. The chamber was bathed in hues of pink and gold, casting a dreamlike luminescence over its lavish decorations and luxurious furnishings.
At the heart of the room stood the throne, a work of art in itself, ornate and commanding. Emperor Malcolm himself was ensconced within the fantastical array of colors and light. His attire was as grandiose as his surroundings: a velvety violet cloak lined with the finest gold silk draped over his shoulders, each fold intricately embroidered with a tapestry of red roses so vivid they seemed to burst with life.
The courtiers watched, a mix of horror and fascination etched onto their faces, as the Aspirus family approached the throne. They were simple lowe noble folk, dressed in their humble best as landless as they were, carrying with them a plea for the recognition of their son, who had valiantly saved the emperor from an assassination attempt.
Watching on was Surt, standing alongside their liege Charles Zi Britannia, with their Black cladded armor, black visor covering their head and robes of the Royal Guard that accompanied the Prince they were sworn to, their body language surprisingly relaxed, a carefully managed mask of neutrality as they witnessed the disintegration of Emperor Malcolm's sanity.
The emperor, seated on the throne that seemed too grand for his diminishing presence, was lost in a frenzied dialogue with himself, his voice oscillating between whispers and explosive tirades directed at invisible foes.
Malcolm's hand swept through the air, dismissing a servant who cowered under his wild gaze, the poor soul's attempt to approach the throne cut short by a sudden outburst.
"No closer!" Malcolm shrieked, his eyes wide and unseeing.
"You dare to bring commoners before me!? I care not what they once were, only that i see trash before my eyes now!"
From Surt's perspective, the throne room was a theater of power and despair, and she a silent observer to its latest tragedy. She noted the subtle clench of Charles's jaw, an almost invisible reaction to the spectacle unfolding before them—a sign of his acute awareness of the political ramifications of this moment. In the cruel unraveling of Malcolm's judgment, they saw not just the emperor's failings but an opportunity, a moment that could sway the balance of power.
Surt stood still, her training keeping her outwardly serene amid the tumult of emotions swirling around her. She watched, her keen eyes missing nothing as Malcolm's facade of strength crumbled, revealing the depth of his paranoia.
This man, this emperor, was a figure of authority unraveled, his once formidable presence now a pitiful display of insecurity and madness.
"You dare to seek reward from me? What has brought you here to beg of me?!" Malcolm's voice, thick with disdain, reverberated against the grandeur of his surroundings, a stark contrast to the humility displayed by the Aspirus couple.
They aged yet carrying themselves with a quiet dignity, approached the throne with a respect that spoke of a life far removed from the intrigues and opulence of the court. To Surt, their presence highlighted the emperor's disconnect from his people, his inability to see the value in the loyalty and service of his subjects.
In her mind, Surt critiqued each moment, foreseeing the ripples this event would send through the corridors of power. The emperor's outburst was not just a failure of compassion but a strategic blunder, a moment that would be whispered about and remembered as a sign of his decline.
As the Aspirus couple stepped forward, their plea for recognition echoing in the cavernous hall, Surt felt a twinge of something unexpected—empathy. She watched, her expression unreadable, as they sought only a modicum of honor for their son's brave deed.
"Your Majesty," the parents' voices intertwined in a harmony of hope and trepidation,
"We come not for riches or accolades, but to see our son's courage acknowledged. He acted not for reward but out of loyalty to his nation, to his emperor against those that had threatened your life."
Malcolm's reaction, a seething cauldron of contempt and suspicion, unfolded before Surt like a tragic play.
"Honour?" he sneered, the word contorted with disdain, his gaze not seeing the devotion before him but perceiving an affront to his absolute authority.
Surt's analytical mind parsed every nuance of the scene, her soldier's discipline keeping her outwardly calm, though inwardly she recoiled at Malcolm's response. The mother's plea, laced with both pride and fear, resonated with a part of Surt that was usually cloaked in shadows of duty and strategy.
"He is but a humble servant," the mother asserted.
"It is a mother's wish to have his deeds recognized by his sovereign."
Yet, their heartfelt appeal was twisted into conspiracy in Malcolm's paranoid mind. To him, their request for acknowledgement was an insinuation of debt, a challenge to the hierarchy he ruled over with an iron, yet trembling hand.
"You wish for me to kneel and grovel to your son?" Malcolm erupted, his fury a palpable force.
"This is no request—it's an insinuation, a poison meant to undermine the sanctity of my reign!"
Surt, ever observant, noted the ripple of fear that passed through the courtiers, the shared moment of horror at the emperor's decree.
"No, you misunderstood us! Please allow us to explain again…!" The father's final plea, a desperate bid for reason, fell on deaf ears, meeting only Malcolm's escalating wrath.
"Silence!" the emperor commanded, his voice cutting through the thick tension like a blade.
"Your words seek to corrupt, but they will serve as a warning instead. The recognition you crave will be a different sort, a testament to the price of ambition."
Even from where Surt stood, the Emperor's eyes, alight with a maniacal gleam were all too clear to see, a cruel smile playing upon his lips.
"No, shame and denial is not enough," he said slowly, drawing out the moment with sadistic pleasure.
" The transgression of the Aspirus family shall be answered with blood. Round them up, every last one. Their heads shall decorate the battlements by dawn."
Surt stood amidst the opulent yet oppressive silence of the throne room, a chilling clarity took root in her heart. She felt the stirrings of a profound loathing, a deep-seated abhorrence for the man who wore the crown.
The court's silence spoke volumes to Surt. The nobles and attendants, once animated with whispered conversations and subtle machinations, now stood as statues, their expressions that of resignation. Even the Knights of The Round there looked forward and trying not to ruffle their Emperor.
They were witnesses to an atrocity, yet their inaction, their mute acceptance, struck Surt as the ultimate cowardice. She had always known the court to be a den of vipers, each noble for themselves, but this passive complicity in the face of outright evil was a new low, even for them.
Surt saw the terrible truth that could no longer be denied. The throne room had transformed into a playing theatre for Malcolm's tyranny.
"Might I suggest, Your Majesty," Came the booming voice of the Knight of One, Sir Arthur Hightower,
His voice carrying the weight of years of companionship shared with Malcolm, the thing that seemed to be the one thread that could reign the mad Emperor in these days.
"That sparing one among the Aspirus family, might not only serve as a stark reminder of your power, but also of the mercy that lies at the heart of true leadership?"
In a grim turn of events that followed Arthur Hightower's merciful plea, Emperor Malcolm issued a stark command.
"Sir Hugh Gottwald," He called out, his gaze turning to the looming figure of his other personal knight and executioner, a man whose very presence signified the impending reality of the Emperor's harsh justice.
"Take the Aspirus family," Malcolm ordered, his words cutting through the heavy air of the throne room like a cold wind.
"Carry out the sentence. Let their fate be a lesson to all who would dare defy me. But," he added, his eyes narrowing.
"Leave the youngest, as per Sir Hightower's request. Let the piglet spared one live with the memory of this day, a reminder of my mercy intertwined with his family's disgrace."
Sir Hugh Gottwald, silent and implacable, acknowledged the order with a nod, his black armor absorbing the dim light of the room, marking him as an agent of death. He moved with his huge hands to personally to seize the condemned with the guard he signaled for, his actions methodical and devoid of hesitation, embodying the inexorable arm of the emperor's will As he dragged the elder Aspirus's out.
"Leave me!" Malcolm barked, his voice cracking like a whip through the tense air of the throne room.
"I desire peace and quiet, away from the incessant prattle and the suffocating presence of you all!"
Surt and Charles exchanged a brief, concerned glance. Understanding the volatility of the emperor's mood, they cautiously approached the throne, attempting to counsel restraint.
"Your Majesty," Charles began, his voice measured and respectful.
"The court is here to serve and support you. In these trying times, isolation might not serve your best interests."
Surt nodded in agreement as Charles went on.
"Your council and your court exist to provide wisdom and solace. They stand ready to assist and advise, to share the burden of rule."
But their reasoned pleas only seemed to fan the flames of Malcolm's growing irritation. His eyes, alight with a feverish intensity, swept over them, and his voice rose to a petulant crescendo.
"I said leave!" He thundered, his demand brooking no argument.
"I am your emperor, not a child to be coddled and counseled at every turn especially by my brother's lustful son! I seek quiet, and quiet I shall have!"
The courtiers, nobles, and attendants, already on edge from the day's grim proceedings, hesitated for a mere moment before the emperor's unequivocal command spurred them into action. With bowed heads and quickened steps, they filed out of the throne room, their departure marked by a palpable relief at escaping the oppressive atmosphere, albeit tinged with apprehension for the future.
After her fruitless effort to sway Emperor Malcolm from his solitary demand, she and Charles withdrew from the throne room as well. The heavy doors shutting with a definitive thud.
The emperor left to the shadows of his raging mind.
Surt was initially wrapped in the shared silence of the corridor, until Charles's voice sliced through the stillness.
"We're navigating a minefield," he stated, the words heavy with the burden of their truth. His eyes, reflective and concerned, did not even meet Surt's shadow, underscoring the gravity of their situation.
His mention of Malcolm's escalating unpredictability resonated with Surt, affirming her own swirling thoughts as she simply nodded.
"We need to prepare," she acknowledged, recognizing the thin ice on which they all now tread.
As they paused by the window, the world outside seemed a realm apart from the cloistered volatility they had left behind. Surt's gaze took in the serene view, but her strategic mind was elsewhere, already plotting courses through the treacherous waters they found themselves in.
"Malcolm's whims are becoming more than just royal decrees; they're ripples that could turn into waves capable of capsizing our very foundations," She mused aloud, her voice a whisper meant only for Charles.
In the relative safety of the corridor's embrace, away from the maelstrom of paranoia and despotism that characterized Malcolm's court, Surt felt a momentary ease. It was here, in these less observed spaces, that true intentions could be whispered and strategies formed.
"We shall convene an important meeting, away from prying eyes and eager ears," she proposed, her voice a controlled whisper, betraying none of the urgency she felt.
Charles's nod, terse and understanding, confirmed his alignment with her plan.
"Agreed," he concurred, his usually composed features tight with the weight of their shared burdens.
"We must assess our position carefully and prepare for what is to come." His words, though softly spoken, carried the gravity of their dire situation, a recognition of the storm clouds gathering on their horizon.
From afar, down the palace's grand corridor, Surt observed a scene that softened the hard edges of court life, even if just momentarily.
There, the young Clovis la Britannia, a mere toddler of one and a half years, was in the arms of his mother Gabrielle, even with her struggling to hold him with the energetic he was inhabiting. The sight was endearing Surt felt, a stark contrast to the usual sternness and scheming that filled the halls.
Despite his tender age, Clovis's actions already hinted at a gentleness only kids had. His tiny hand reached out, not understanding the complexities around him, to pluck a rose from Gabrielle's attire—a simple, innocent gesture that, in its own way, offered a reprieve from the day's grimness.
Gabrielle, with a knowing smile, allowed her son this small exploration, his eyes meeting those of Bartley Aspirus, who stood nearby, momentarily distracted from his woes by the young prince's curiosity.
Surt paused, her gaze lingering on the scene. It was an unexpected display of empathy in a world where such emotions were often masked or entirely absent. Charles, following her gaze, observed the interaction with a blend of curiosity and skepticism.
"It seems Clovis can win broken hearts without trying," Surt remarked quietly, her voice tinged with a hint of respect.
"Even in these halls of power and ambition, there remains a space for honest purity."
Charles nodded,
"True, but it is hard for such purity to remain into adulthood. We shall see how pure Clovis remains once he walks these darkened halls of politics as a young man."
"Perhaps," she conceded.
"But in a court where cynicism and ambition run deep, a genuine moment, even if fleeting, is a rare card played."
But this tender scene was soon overshadowed by a reminder of the palace's colder reality.
Gabrielle, perhaps emboldened by her son's presence or seeking some semblance of connection, made her way toward Charles.
"Charles i-"
Charles, ever the emperor, offered no acknowledgement to his third consort, his attention clearly fixed on the pressing matters that awaited him.
Surt watched, her observations confirming what she already knew: Charles's affections, if they could be called such, were sparingly distributed, reserved for those who, in his eyes, mattered.
Only Victoria, mother of little Cornelia, stood out as the rare exception in Charles's distant world, and even only it seemed to whither quickly when she pressed Charles for more than just words.
As they moved beyond the scene, Surt felt the weight of the day's events pressing heavily upon her.
"I think it's time I seek some respite," Surt declared, her voice carrying a hint of fatigue.
"A few hands of cards and a glass of something strong might just wash away the taint of today's madness."
Charles looked at her, understanding the need for such reprieves in their relentless world.
"I wish you a peaceful evening then," he responded with a nod,
"May the cards be in your favor, and the drink smooth. We both could use a night away from the shadows of Malcolm's lunacy." The corners of his mouth turning up in a semblance of a smile.
"Indeed," Surt agreed, her spirits lifted slightly by the prospect of an evening detached from the burdens of court life.
"Let us both find some solace tonight. We'll reconvene tomorrow, refreshed and ready to face whatever storms may come."
With a final nod, they parted ways. Surt would make her way to her favored nook, but not before preparing for the evening at her estate.
