"What is the most universally successful adaptation in the world? Why is it that of all species on Earth, humanity has emerged as the dominant one? The simple and commonly accepted explanation is our developed intelligence, but how did our ancestors survive and build on each other to lead us where we are today? It's not merely that they struggled and competed against each other to develop their talents! No, our ancestors had the wisdom to band together and pool their talents! Not blindly conforming with each other to erase whatever differences may lead to conflict, but playing their different strengths in concert with each other!"

"THE ULTIMATE PATH OF NATURAL EVOLUTION IS FOUNDED NOT ON DISCRIMINATION, BUT ON COMBINATION!"

"And if it's truly our basic human nature to lose ourselves in petty squabbles and fight against each other… then I hereby issue a challenge to all my fellow Britannians! TO EVOLVE BEYOND OUR NATURE AND CRUSH IT, JUST AS WE DO TO ANY OTHER OBSTACLE!"

With a soft click, the video on the monitor display paused, and booted footsteps began to echo across a marble floor.

"As you can see," a cheerfully sinister voice announced. "This is clearly high treason, My Lord. In accordance with our governing laws, I ask nothing more than a short leave in order to carry out the duties entrusted to me as the King's Executioner."

Seated at a round table were some of the most powerful and influential individuals in the Empire, all of whom had been observing events unfold with utmost solemnity as one among them had been making his case.

"...is it really treason, though?" A troubled young man asked, blonde hair swaying as he shook his head. "She based her reasoning on His Majesty's, and if you ask me it seems like what she's saying is a pretty natural evolution of our current policy."

A short girl with pink hair shot him a foul look, making him throw up his hands in surrender. "Hey, I wasn't trying to be funny that time!"

"Our little princess," the presenter scoffed, "displays brazen contempt for the inherent inequality of man on which our nation is founded! You ask how it's treason, Weinberg; I demand to know how it could be anything less!"

A few seats counterclockwise from the sputtering Knight of Three, Monica calmly flipped through a series of reports her subordinates had created for just this eventuality. "It isn't treason," she firmly explained, "because thorough inquiries have already been made into Princess Euphemia's agenda and this… Celestial Being, she's created. Though her stated policy directions are certainly unorthodox, we've seen no indication that the results should in any way decrease the flow of tax money and sakuradite into the greater Empire; rather, current projections over an eight-year trial period anticipate an overall increase in productivity once the initial infrastructure investments are dealt with."

Leaning on her elbows, the blue-eyed blonde interlaced her fingers and fixed her ideological opposite with a cool stare. "Unless you can provide us ironclad evidence of outright heresy, Sir Bradley, I see no credible reason that you should waste time on this instead of seeing to the campaign in Africa as has been requested of you."

Luciano Bradley, the Knight of Ten and Imperial Executioner, sneered as he pulled out and then dropped back into his personal seat. "Rest assured, O Captain of the Imperial Guard! I have every intention of branding my name on the dark continent… but I also see no reason that a spare princess with her head full of flowers should be permitted to carry on making a mockery of His Majesty's glorious ideals without reproach…"

As the Knights of Ten and Twelve uncompromisingly stared each other down, Gino nervously tugged at his uniform collar. "Hey now," he said in a transparent attempt to play an admittedly biased peacemaker, "I'm as much against heretics as the next proud and upstanding Knight – but we're talking about some pretty high stakes, here. Our grip on Area Eleven is what ultimately feeds our chain of logistics almost everywhere else, right? If it looks like the Viceroy can get more out of it with less force expenditure on the natives, then why shouldn't we go for it?"

"Because the gross old men will think it makes us look weak in front of the Chinese," the pink-haired girl boredly muttered, busying herself on her phone. "And if they get any ideas because of it, they won't hesitate in trying to bite off more than they can chew – which means we may need to reinforce its defenses anyway."

A gloved fist thumped on the table. "Lady Alstreim! Might I remind you that those gross old men are our superiors," growled the Knight of Four, "and therefore due your respect!"

The Knight of Six gave her would-be chastiser no more than a glance. "I don't recall implying anyone in particular, Dorothea Ernst. Who were you thinking about so uncharitably?"

"Gkh! You little–!"

"That's quite enough."

All eyes turned to the head of the table, immediately cowed by the steely voice that had finally made itself heard: that of Sir Bismarck Waldstein. Knight of One, the Emperor's right hand… feared and respected all over the world as the mightiest warrior alive.

"The Empire gains precious little from cutting down Viceroy Euphemia in her prime," he decided, his sole good eye closed in contemplation. "You are not to touch her until clear evidence can be produced that her administration is working to subvert His Majesty's rule outright."
Bradley frowned at the news, even as Monica released the faintest sigh of relief.

"...that said," Bismarck continued, "I am interested in a firsthand account as to what the reputed Seventh-Generation Knightmare Frame and its pilot are capable of."

Now it was Bradley's turn to grin openly, even as Monica's blood froze with the realization of what would doubtless happen next. Tragic accidents happen in live fire training all the time…

"Sir Bradley," the Knight of One intoned, "I hereby charge you with conducting a cursory investigation into the matter – nothing too serious of course, a quick and friendly spar should generate more than enough data for analysis. Once our curiosity is satisfied, you will briefly inspect our other Southeast Asian territories en route to Africa before assuming command of the overall front."

"It will be an honor and a pleasure," Bradley replied with a bow, licking his lips in thirst for the taste of blood.

Fists clenched under the table, Monica quickly considered her options.

Area Eleven, undisclosed location…

General Aspirius Bartley awoke in darkness; judging from the rumbling floor beneath him and the sound of traffic, he had clearly been carried off in some kind of truck or other transport – but how had such circumstances come about in the wake of his master's admonishment?
More importantly… "What's happened to His Highness?! WHERE IS THE PRINCE?!"

Despite what his corpulent form might have led some to believe, Bartley had taken steps throughout the whole of his life to maintain a particular standard of stamina and fitness.

In the name of Eden Vital, if those Camelot upstarts had any involvement in this…!

With dread for his master's safety coursing through his veins and turning into white-hot rage, the General rolled onto his front and rose to a knee, before heaving himself onto his feet.

"WHOSOEVER BE OPERATING THIS TRANSPORT, I DEMAND OF YOU: WHERE IS MY LORD CLOVIS?!"

Only the sound of his lightless prison barreling down the highway answered him.

Incensed, Bartley blindly felt his way to a wall of the box containing him… and then threw his entire weight into a punch that momentarily lifted the opposite wheels from the road. "IGNORE ME, WILL YOU?!"

The swerving and swaying that followed informed Bartley that he was most likely in a trailer of some kind… perhaps even the same type that had been carrying the Code-R specimen.

As the General evaluated whether he'd be better served tipping the entire thing on its side or by trying to feel for a release of some kind, a pale green light started to glow in the corner. When a bump in the road shook the source enough to fall over, Bartley realized it was a burner phone with an incoming call. Quickly lumbering to pick it up and accept the call, he heard a young man's voice on the other end.

"What the hell, are you trying to get somebody killed–?!"

Bartley had not only long since run out of patience, but now located a potential enemy to throw his weight against – metaphorically, at least. "Explain the situation at once! Where is the Viceroy?! And for what purpose have you dared to steal me from my place at his side?!"

"...Viceroy Euphemia is safe in Tokyo, overseeing some big event I haven't got the time or energy to watch."

Euphemia?! Yes, Bartley could recall now that she had been en route to the Area for instatement as his lord's Sub-Viceroy; but how could the Viceroyship be hers totality?! How long have I been unconscious?!

"But if you're asking about Clovis… is that your way of saying you don't remember?"

"Spare me your nonsense," the General roared as a vein throbbed in his forehead. "His Highness and I had been discussing matters of great import amidst the rebel action in Shinjuku–"

"You mean he took you to task over a massive security breach you couldn't explain."

All at once, Bartley's rage evaporated and left him with only shock.

Shock, as he attempted to explain how such private information could possibly be known by, if the voice was any indication, a boy too young to shave… and dread as his mind eventually began to deduce some possible explanations. "Are… are you with OSI? Or…?"

"My affiliation is among the least of your concerns right now," the young man said, although not unkindly. "You're likely aware that during the incident in Shinjuku Ghetto, the Stolen Classified Material was somehow described to lower troops as poison gas in the disguise of medical supplies. The misinformation spread so far as to reach scout divisions consisting of Honorary Britannians… and across the entire Pureblood chain of command involved, seemingly no one who heard it questioned the plausibility of their government doing such a horrid thing."

"The material was never chemical weapons!" Bartley protested in fear. "It was a live, non-contagious sample used in top-secret biomedical experiments–"

"We know exactly what the Stolen Classified Material really was, Bartley. …and soon, so too will the rest of the world."

"...what? How can that be?"

"Records of the experiments were transferred from a terminal in His Highness's G-1 base onto an offshore server we've yet to track down. And I don't just mean spreadsheets; we're talking about videos, Bartley. Somewhere out in the world, at this very moment someone's likely compiling the logs of what your people did to that woman into a glorified homemade snuff film – and when it drags the full scope of what Code-R entailed into the light of day, Prince Clovis will be remembered for all of history not as patron of the arts or as a mediocre politician, but as a depraved butcher who played too hard at being Doctor Frankenstein."

These revelations were so incredibly far beyond Bartley's worst nightmares that even his brilliant scientific mind struggled to pair one thought with another… but even so, his loyalty to his Prince quickly won out over all other considerations. "Even if I cannot protect His Highness's image, at the very least I will ensure his safety – against even the Emperor himself, if I must! Now I impore you once again: tell me where he is!"

"He's dead, Bartley. His Highness took a bullet right between the eyes just minutes after you abandoned your post at Shinjuku."

That Bartley hadn't abandoned his post, and was instead ordered away against his objections, was irrelevant. It absolved him of nothing. As a confidant, as a Knight, the shame and disgrace for such a tragedy would never fall from his shoulders. "Then… then I will avenge him! The traitor who sowed lies among the troops and released my Lord's experiments – if you have so much information, then you must also know his identity as well! Give it to me," he sobbed, "that I may wring the very life from that bastard's neck until he begs for a mercy that will never come!"

For a long moment, the voice on the other end – the truck's driver, as best Bartley could imagine – hesitated. When he eventually spoke again, the driver's voice had softened. Not merely that, but his tone could even, surprisingly, be called gentle. "Are you sure, Bartley? If I give you that information, I don't know that it can be taken back. If you think you're having a bad day now…"

"I care not who my enemy is! Nothing you can say will drive me further into despair than I already am!"

"...it was you, Bartley. It was you all along."

"Wha-?"

One after another, a stream of buried memories unlocked in Bartley's mind and forcibly played out before his eyes – of himself telling the Royal Guard and certain specific individuals in the chain of command that the terrorists had absconded with experimental poison gas, and of uploading the Code-R experiment logs to a video server while Clovis had been speaking with the Eleven pilot.

"No… this… this can't be… NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Whatever soul Aspirius Bartley could claim to possess after all that he'd done in almost twenty years of service of his liege… died at that moment.

The driver said nothing for a long while, permitting Bartley to howl out his grief and sorrow in peace until the sobbing faded into background noise.

"You understand now, right? You can't avenge your liege… because death is far too kind a punishment for what you've done. You're going to live with your master's blood on your hands for a long, long time… and the countless all-nighters you put in to try and make something positive with your cursed knowledge will never be enough to wipe clean your shame."

"You're right," Bartley wept. "You're absolutely right…"

As the wind noise outside shifted into that which indicated transit through a tunnel, the call ended. The driver, meanwhile, flipped his phone shut with a somber frown. "Mother of all omelettes, huh?"

A pair of brilliant Geass eyes gleamed from behind his stark white bangs. "Not much comfort to the eggs, is it?"