A Young Girl's Guerilla War

[Daemon Targaryen]

I cannot wait for when we will have Tanya rip Cornelia a new one.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 18: A Training Arc (Part 2)


(A big thank you to Siatru, and to Grig9700, Sunny, WrandmWaffles, and Daemon for beta reading this chapter.)


There was, as far as I could see, no way out. I had been caught red-handed and flatfooted, and I had no idea how to explain what Ohgi had just seen. I did not know how long he had stood by the cedars watching as I swooped and spun around the boulder, so focused on running my calculations and, to be honest, so lost in the sensation of nearly flying once more, that I had completely forgotten to pay attention to the outside world. I had grown complacent and had foolishly assumed that a hiding spot only four hundred and fifty meters from The School's entrance would be enough to keep my practice sessions secret.


Of course Ohgi would notice that I had slipped out and disappeared! Of course he would go out in search of me, as he was my self-appointed minder and co-leader of this training group! I must have been stupid to think otherwise, or really, to have not considered the possibility at all. And now I was paying for my idiotic behavior, standing on the stony bank of a frozen river, tongue-tied and shuffling my feet like the guilty child I suddenly felt like I was.


What do I say to him? My mind, usually so quick and agile, had unaccountably fallen into disorder and had screeched to a grinding halt. I couldn't think, couldn't plan. All the ideas and strategies and plans that constantly whirled through my mind had deserted me. I couldn't explain it; I had been in all kinds of situations that had far higher stakes, when my own life and death had been on the line, and I had never frozen up like this – never felt so stunned and panicky. The closest I had come had been when I thought Naoto would reject me, tell me to leave the group... Then, the fear of suddenly being alone again had been overwhelming, but I'd still had ideas of how to convince him to change his mind, to reconsider... Ideas that had ultimately proven unnecessary, but that had nonetheless come to me immediately. And now, I couldn't even figure out whether I should tell the truth or lie, much less come up with anything close to believable.


Should I run? The idea was nonsense, yet strangely appealing. Not having to explain one of the few secrets I still held close, the secret weapon that had seen me through thick and thin, that had kept my limbs moving when those around me collapsed, never to rise again... But then what? And where to? I couldn't do it. Panicked flight without a goal would burn my bridges and likely condemn me to a death by exposure or cold. For some reason, the first of those two probable outcomes felt like the worst of the pair.


I suddenly realized that while I had been working myself up into an uncharacteristically indecisive froth, Ohgi had slowly approached from the tree line, and was now only two arm lengths away. The initial shock still lingered, but an all too familiar concern was evident in the worried furrow of his brow and the set of his mouth. He paused in his approach as we made eye contact, and then slowly bent his knees, lowering himself down until he was nearly at eye level with me. "Tanya... Are you okay?"


Abruptly, I felt ashamed of my thoughts of flight or deception as I remembered a conversation around the battered old table back in Naoto's apartment. Back then, this same man had said, with all detectable sincerity, that I was needed, "not just because of your raw ability, we need you for you." I had believed him then – why was I suddenly so convinced that he would reject me now? I am afraid of being rejected, of being thought crazy? Well... I'm not a coward. Mustering up my courage, I opened my mouth and asked, "Ohgi... Do you believe in magic?"


Ohgi paused for a moment. "Magic...? I... can't say I've ever seriously thought about it, Tanya..." For some reason, he looked even more worried than he had a moment earlier. I could understand why – if one of my coworkers in my first life had suddenly started talking about magic, I would have been worried that they'd snapped too. That said, he'd just seen me hovering over the ground, so the skepticism seemed a bit rich at the moment.


I took a deep breath. "I've always known that there was something... different about myself. Something that made me stand out from the other children at my school, and then the other refugees in the Ghetto." I paused trying to figure out how to explain the next part. "When the Britannians invaded and my mother moved us to Shinjuku... When I had to start working... I was able to draw on that special thing as a source of energy and strength..."


"And that special thing was... magic?" Ohgi frowned slightly at that, before speaking again, this time slowly, haltingly, clearly choosing each word with care. "And... you can use this... magic... to strengthen yourself, and... to fly?"


I nodded, doing my best not to look too relieved. So far, he wasn't running for the hills or calling me crazy – although I suppose the second was harder to do if you'd seen "magic" with your own eyes. "I don't truly know how it works, or what it is, but I don't have a better way to describe it than magic. I can use it to enhance my strength, my endurance, my reflexes, and my mental acuity. I can't use it to fly – though I might be able to someday, but I can use it to redirect what direction I am moving in and how fast I am going. I only recently figured that out, and I was practicing it when you interrupted me."


Ohgi smiled faintly at the mild note of reproach in my voice, before reaching out and tousling my hair. I stood still and endured it in stoic silence, rather than attempt flight or resistance; a small personal token of thankfulness that he had believed me, that he hadn't rejected me... "So, you're a real life magical girl, huh?" His teasing tone belied the concern I still saw on his face, but that concern was steadily blending with awe and... pride, was it? "Do you have a special transformation sequence or anything? A small talking animal mascot, perhaps?"


I endured the affection for as long as I could stand it – roughly ten seconds – before applying my newly refined vector acceleration skills to scoot back a few feet, out of reach of any prospective head pats. I'm not running away from physical affection! I am strategically repositioning for a tactical advantage, dammit! "The only talking animal I see here is you, Ohgi!" I snapped, playing up the mock irritation while internally thankful that he'd managed to dispel the remaining awkwardness with humor. A valuable skill in a leader... I should try to learn it. "Anyway, call it magic or something else if you can't keep a straight face about it. The point is, it gives me some limited tactical advantages."


Ohgi nodded his understanding. "Magic is fine. Sorry, it... just took me by surprise to hear it." He sighed heavily and rubbed at his head, denting his already somewhat flattened pompadour. "I mean, I honestly don't know if I'd have believed it at all, if I hadn't seen you, uhh... practicing, for myself." He closed his eyes for a moment, before opening them with an air of renewed determination. "Alright, so... Magic. What do you need to be effective?"


I blinked, mildly surprised at how fast Ohgi had gone from confusion to acceptance. Ohgi clearly caught the momentary flicker of surprise, and smiled wryly. "You're already plenty special without magic, Tanya. I decided to try and stop being surprised when you pull out some fresh piece of insanity and just go along with it – it's better for my liver that way."


I snorted at that, remembering multiple nights I'd helped tuck a drunken Ohgi, or Naoto, or both, into bed, pulling their boots off and making sure that a glass of water was near at hand for whenever they woke up with a headache. I'd personally never been much of a fan of alcohol, especially not to the point of drunkenness, but I wasn't going to begrudge anybody the minor luxuries it took to get through the Shinjuku day.


"Good, it'd be a shame if your liver failed before you hit thirty five, old man! Don't you know that we don't offer healthcare for life-style issues?" Call me insane, would he? Hah!


Ohgi theatrically clutched his chest for a second, before laughing and letting his hand drop to his side. "Eh, I just hope I live long enough for death by cirrhosis to take me." The smile stilled for a moment, a pensive expression momentarily on his face, before Ohgi shook off the darkness. "Anyway, do you need anything for your magic to work? Any, uhh... mana crystals or anything?"


This time, I laughed. "What, like a video game? Where the hell would I be buying crystals out here?" I had a sudden image of a man who looked a lot like Captain Ugar from the old Logistical Corps, only dressed like a stereotypical wizard, and snorted with amusement. "No, all I need is food. Food, and more muscle."


Ohgi lit up at that. "Ah! So it's somehow tied to your body's reserves? And as your stamina improves, so does your m-magical capacity?"


I nodded and tried to avoid slipping into my instructor's voice. "Yes, exactly! Thanks to you, I've had more time to eat, so I've had more caloric intake, which has helped promote muscle development. In turn, this has increased my magical capacity, allowing me to investigate new applications!" I realized I had failed in my attempt – I was helpless to resist the cadence of the classroom, and only barely managed to force my mouth closed, halting the flow of detail.


Thankfully, Ohgi came to the rescue a moment later, filling the sudden silence as I resisted the impulse to vomit forth more detail about a topic near and dear to my heart after years of secret keeping. "New applications, eh? Well, sounds like it's a great idea to keep you fed! Which, come to think of it, is why I went looking for you anyway. The new arrivals are mostly done setting up, and Nagata was organizing dinner when I left – how about we get out of the cold and get some food before the guys eat it all?"


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MARCH 17, 2016 ATB
"THE SCHOOL" TRAINING FACILITY


Today was my birthday, a fact I hadn't bothered to share with anybody. The anniversary of my birth had even less emotional weight in this life than in my previous two, as my mother had been too poor, too distant, and too drunk to ever do much to celebrate it. It hadn't bothered me as a child, and while I now regret not trying harder to get to know the woman who kept me alive for all those years, who had done her best to support my educational aspirations... Not celebrating my birthday didn't bother me much now either. As such, I had expected today to be much like yesterday – busy, but comparatively uneventful.


Somehow, Ohgi had learned it was my birthday, and had conspired with Nagata to smuggle a hot rotisserie chicken and a small can of coffee with filters into our shared room. I had no idea how the two had managed this achievement, but when I returned to the dorm room there they were. The two fools had tried to refuse any of the chicken, but I had insisted; I didn't want them to think I was a food hoarder, after all. In the small but cramped confines of hungry Shinjuku, hoarding food from family and friends was taboo, as it represented a willingness to prioritize oneself over the collective good. After much effort, I managed to foist a breast and a wing off onto each man, saving my favorite parts for myself and carefully "forgetting" to offer either man any of my coffee – some sacrifices were too weighty to bear.


It was the best birthday of my third life to date. I hoped all three of us would live for at least another year, so I could celebrate with Naoto, Kallen, Inoue and Tamaki next time.


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APRIL 4, 2016 ATB
"THE SCHOOL" TRAINING FACILITY


The long awaited arrival of spring in Gunma Prefecture coincided almost perfectly with the graduation of the first class of trainees. It was amazing, after so long in urban environments, to see how dramatic the seasonal change was out in the hilly backcountry. All around the school skeletal deciduous trees suddenly erupted in green buds, and the deep snow diminished and retreated to the shadows of the evergreens. The fields turned to mud, the returning birds chirped, and Major Onoda continued to complain about how the recruits were being "coddled".


Thankfully, despite Onoda's grousing, he had managed to impart a number of valuable skills to the trainees over the last three months, offering badly needed insight and first hand experience into the arts of signal intelligence and infiltration. Onoda had also made an arguably even more valuable contribution to their training; He had managed to instill a sense of patience in even the most hot-headed of the recruits, who were now capable of lying prone in a puddle of mud for hours on end without movement or complaint. Combined with the hours each man and woman had spent on the range familiarizing themselves with the captured Britannian assault rifles and pistols as well as the thorough grounding all sixty had received in ambush tactics, the first cohort had emerged from their training as theoretically expert irregular fighters. Coupled with the lessons on how to repair and sabotage machines, how to drive, how to provide life-saving first aid, and on close quarters combat, the cohort would have looked extremely promising on paper, if anything that happened at The School was actually recorded in any form.


Despite the wide-range of skills, Major Onoda continued to insist on a graduation test. Worryingly, he had actually come to our latest meeting with an argument other than tradition.


"When push comes to shove, Miss Hajime, most people simply don't have the will to kill."


After I had demonstrated my proficiency with small arms and close quarters combat to his satisfaction, Major Onoda deigned to speak directly to me, although his tone when we met for our weekly one on one meeting remained insufferable.


"It is unfortunate, but many soldiers simply lack the warrior spirit." The sneer was quite incredible, especially compared to the JLF liaison's typically expressionless mien. "They shoot over the heads of the enemy, they don't close for combat, they offer mercy..."


Onoda shook his head, looking for all the world like a disappointed teacher who had grown used to the stupidity of his students. "These are not true soldiers. They are perhaps capable of support, maybe garrison duty, but are not capable of true soldiering. But..." Unconsciously, he leaned in slightly, and I could see the glint of an enthusiasm and interest that went far beyond the professional in his eyes. "But if you force them to kill, to do up close so they can feel the blood on their hands, their enemy's hot breath on their face, and if you make them do it in front of their buddies, well... Nobody likes to be the screw up in the squad. That's how you make sure your recruits will actually serve the Cause."


I nodded my agreement. Peer pressure was an excellent motivator, for better or worse, and I was certain that Onoda was at least partially correct in his assessment that forcing men to kill made it easier for them to kill again in the future.


That said, the way that Onoda persisted in bringing this topic up over and over again all but proved that this was a personal matter, something that Onoda considered a vitally important part of training. I wonder if the rest of the JLF agrees? "I understand your point, Major Onoda. Unfortunately, the logistical problems with the concept remain unchanged from the last time we discussed this topic." I paused for a moment. "Out of curiosity, Major, does the JLF still maintain this tradition? I haven't heard of many Britannians vanishing without a trace, certainly not in batches."


Onoda winced slightly, and sagged a little. "Unfortunately, General Katase, in his wisdom, has prohibited blooding training after the honored Colonel Tohdoh expressed reservations. Besides," his mouth twisted as if he'd bit into something rotten, his thin mustache twisting with his lips, "the Japanese Liberation Front has not pursued a vigorous recruitment policy over the last several years, which has rendered the matter moot, for now at least." He sighed and shook his head with dismay. "The wisdom of that choice I understand. We already have too many men sitting in bunkers, unwilling to take the fight to the enemy."


I blinked, taking care to conceal any other evidence of my surprise. This was by far the most talkative mood I had ever caught Onoda in, and it was the most he had ever said about the inner politics of the JLF in my hearing. "But you have been active. You said that you had been in Fukushima Prefecture, scouting the new MagLev rail branch – why weren't you sitting in a bunker too?"


Something about that made Onoda perk back up. "It's all thanks to Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe. Kami willing, he is the future of the Japanese Liberation Front! He is the only divisional commander willing to take an aggressive stance against the foreign invader!" Onoda paused, smiled, and continued on more calmly. "He is also my superior officer. Most of us still willing to take the fight to the Britannians are under his command."


That was a very interesting tidbit. It sounded like General Katase, who I'd learned from previous conversations was the overall commander of the JLF, had opted to cut down on his headaches by lumping all of his problem children together in one unit. Frankly, that only sounded like a good idea to me if his plan was to use said unit as an expendable division, one that would take the most casualties and be given only the most risky assignments. No point in saying as much to Onoda, though...


"That actually brings me to another question, Major, and feel free to not answer it if it breaks operational security," I began, carefully injecting a note of respectful deference, and lowering my head a carefully metered degree for a moment, "but what sort of operations does the JLF conduct to further the goal of liberating Japan? No need for specifics, but can you describe any examples?"


Onoda did not immediately respond, instead studying me silently. His typically expressionless mask had returned, as had the familiar flat eyes that betrayed nothing of the Major's inner thoughts. I kept quiet as the silence dragged uncomfortably onward. Eventually, some inner calculation must have been completed, as Onoda opened his mouth and began to speak. His tone was calm, his voice level, but I could almost feel the man's frustration.


"General Katase has decreed that in order for Japan to one day be liberated, we must preserve and build our strength, and mislead the Britannians into the false impression that we will never act, until the day to spring our accumulated might upon them and drive them from glorious Japan comes at last. As such, most of our official missions are towards that end – accumulating resources and intelligence, cultivating strength, and luring the Britannians into complacency."


Onoda fell silent, licking his lips for a moment, before resuming. "We now have bunkers and storerooms full of enough supplies to last our garrisons for years, more weapons than men to use them, listening posts near every radio tower in Japan and taps on practically every phone line... and yet, we do not attack. We barely even recruit. I worry that the Britannians have not been the only ones to be misled into the belief that the day of liberation will never come."


I nodded gravely. Onoda hadn't really answered my question, but he hadn't needed to – I could draw the obvious lines between the dots myself. The JLF's leadership had lost the will to fight, in Onoda's eyes, and had instead opted to continue kicking the can down the road. The only faction in the JLF that was still active in the world outside their bunkers was apparently Kusakabe's group. I had noticed the emphasis Onoda had put on specifying that he was only speaking about officially sanctioned missions; considering that Kusakabe's division was apparently where the most aggressive and willing to fight were sent, I could only wonder at the scope of his unofficial missions.


"It occurs to me," I began carefully, realizing that I was far out onto thin ice at this point, "that we might be able to help each other." I paused, but Onoda didn't respond in any visible manner so I continued. "I still owe two missions for your organization, to be conducted upon targets that you specify. If, perhaps, one of those missions involved damaging the Britannian communication network by, say, taking over a radio station, perhaps some messaging informing the Japanese public that the JLF is seeking new members and that the day of liberation is near at hand could somehow be broadcast before the station is destroyed?"


Onoda's breath hissed out, but he still looked as expressionless as ever. Then, a somewhat detached, thoughtful look came over him, and he pointedly turned slightly to the side, looking out through the window of the empty classroom. "It would be exceedingly... unfortunate, in General Katase's point of view, if an irregular group unconnected to the Japanese Liberation Front, in their enthusiasm, aired such a message." Onoda nodded at nothing in particular, and turned back to look at me. "There is an FM station in Niigata Prefecture, one I have been to before. I will be speaking about the basics of operating the transmission equipment I observed there in an hour. Please use your discretion about how you choose to share this information. In the meantime, I will be recording a short message for my own amusement. I frequently forget to remove the CD from the machine after I finish recording."


I nodded again, and stood up from the cushion I had been kneeling upon. Onoda couldn't have been clearer if he tried – if this mission was successful, I would have done his faction a favor and partially paid off my debt to the JLF in the process. If I failed, on the other hand, Onoda would claim that it had been a rogue operation. Guess Gekokujō is alive and well in the JLF. What a surprise.


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APRIL 7, 2016 ATB
MINAMIUONUMA, NIIGATA
1437


Minamiuonuma had been, before the Conquest, a prosperous medium-sized city of 50,000. Its inhabitants had relied upon the abundant and productive paddy fields that churned out the famous Koshihikari variety of rice for summer season income. In the winter, its deep snows and ski resorts had drawn tourists from all over Japan, and occasionally even from abroad. In essence, Minamiuonuma had been an up and coming provincial burg, a place where little that was newsworthy happened, a safe place for pensioners to settle or for young families to be raised in mixed agrarian-urban bliss.


Now, rolling into Minamiuonuma in the back of an illicitly acquired van, I could only mourn the sheer waste, the mismanagement that every meter of Minamiuonuma bore, the same scars that every village, town, or city I had traveled through so far had borne. Over the last day, my team and I had traveled through Naganohara, Nakanojo, Takayama, Numata, Minakami, and Yuzawa, plus half a dozen nameless villages. From a street-level view, it was impossible to miss the number of shuttered shops, the buildings gutted by fire and left to rot, and of course, the number of walls with lines of clearly visible bullet holes at chest height. It was clear that under the burden of Britannian occupation, rural Japan was dying. The vitality and produce were sucked away by distant landlords and governors, whose will on the ground was enforced both by civilian overseers and managers and by the small Britannian garrisons and Honorary Britannian police forces scattered across the interior.


Nobody was in much of a mood to talk; that was clear enough from the mood in the van. Nagata was stonefaced behind the wheel, dressed in the livery of the same delivery service that we had stolen the van from. The other eight men and two women-two squads of the newly graduated cohort-also sat in a silence heavy with tension. I could imagine what they were thinking about, but only just barely. It had been so long-literally a lifetime ago-since the first time I had gone into battle.


Idly, I wondered if I had actually gotten off lightly, in that regard at least; I had not expected to be fighting for my life when I'd gone up into the Norden sky, and that sudden plunge into battle had been a nearly complete surprise, sprung on me with only a minute's warning. By contrast, these two squads, the best of the first training cohort, had known for three days what was coming. Had it haunted them, the knowledge that their lives might be over in days hanging over every waking hour and dreaming minute? Impossible to know for sure, but I suspected that it had. While every man and women, and child, in Shinjuku had walked side by side with Death for the last half-decade, the terror of one's own mortality had never truly numbed, at least not for me. And I knew that there was at least the possibility of life after death, that there was something in the void, asinine though that something may be.


Well, I'm the leader. It's up to me to get them into the best shape, morale wise, instead of letting them stew in their anxieties! "Let's go over the plan once more," I said, deliberately breaking the silence. Immediately, every head except Nagata's in the van turned towards me. I smiled back at them, taking the time to look from person to person, making eye contact with each of my brand new baby comrades.


"First, I want you all to know that I am proud of you," Start with the praise – it gets the audience receptive. "You all have done a superb job on your training. Now, you will have the opportunity to put your new skills into practice." I reached into the rucksack at my feet, and pulled out a jewel box, containing an unlabeled CD, and held it up for their inspection. "Our job is to get in, get this message from the JLF broadcast, and get out, preferably destroying the CD and the radio station as we do so." I smiled at my captive audience again, drawing their eyes back to me from the CD. "Of course, it is not going to be so simple, nor so easy. I suspect the Britannians might take an unkind view to our choice of alternative programming."


After the pity chuckle died down, I turned my attention to the particulars. "As far as we are aware, there are two groups of opposing forces active in the region: The Minamiuonuma Municipal Police Department, which is primarily staffed with Honorary Britannians with minimal training and armed exclusively with clubs, has between three hundred and three hundred and fifty officers. On the other hand, the goon squad - excuse me, the 'private security force' - hired by the local landlord's Property Management Society consists of between fifty and eighty Britannian veterans equipped with small arms and in possession of two ex-military armored personnel carriers."


This was hardly a surprise, as they'd all heard the plan before, but the numbers were admittedly daunting. I didn't begrudge them the clenched jaws, the darting eyes, the overwhelming nervous tension. "This might sound like a lot, but a ton of garbage is still garbage, which is what they are. A bunch of practically untrained collaborators armed with sticks, whose job up until now has been terrorizing farmers into working, and some mercenaries only interested in their next paycheck are garbage." The beauty of it was that I barely had to spin the facts. The mercenary Britannians might be formidable, but I doubted any of them was eager to die for the local landlord. "They lack unity of command, and they have no idea that we're coming."


I turned to the leader of Squad 1, a fairly tall man in his early thirties named Yoshi, who was unfortunately experiencing early balding. "Squad 1 – what are your tasks?"


Yoshi coughed slightly, uncomfortable with suddenly being put on the spot, before responding. "You will drop us off near the Shiozawa Station, along with our gear. We'll plant the first package by the station, and then head through the underpass to the north and keep going for a mile. The mercenaries and their APCs are headquartered at the old ski resort in the hills there. We are to set the second package on Prefectural Route 124 where it turns. When the first APC comes through, we blow the bomb."


I nodded and gestured for him to continue. Heartened, Yoshi resumed his recitation. "If the APC is stopped, we fire the RPGs at it and the second one. If any men get out, we open fire and fall back across the rice paddies, through the farms. We keep drawin' them after us until you give us the word, then we find a car and get north to the meeting point in Shitoka, behind the recycling plant."


I nodded. "Remember – your job is to be a highly mobile annoyance, not to be heroes. If you can kill their armor, or render them immobile, you will have done an excellent job. If you cannot, though, let me know immediately and fall back." I cast my eyes around the crowded van, "that goes for all of you. I need- Japan needs living soldiers far more than dead heroes. That said..." I closed my eyes for a moment, and continued, "That said, if you think you are going to be taken prisoner, I strongly recommend you make your own way out. I think you've all seen the photos from Christmas, right?"


All nine men and two women, Nagata included, nodded at that. Good, they all know the stakes. Too late to back out now, anyway. Onoda would be furious. I turned to Tsubaki, the leader of Squad 2. She smiled manically as she met my eyes, nervous excitement practically rolling off her as she squirmed in her car seat. Before I could even prompt her, she began reciting Squad 2's planned role, the words pouring out in a vomiting froth.


"After you and Nagata park the van and get out, we're supposed to wait inside until the two of you go into the radio station, and then we're gonna hop outta the van all at once and book it west and south to the city hall and we're going to kill everybody we can in that building – hopefully getting the mayor and chief of police too! But we gotta be fast, because we need to be back at the van five minutes later so we can hop in when you and Nagata head outta the station unless we wanna stay behind when you guys go!" Tsubaki took a deep breath as she reached the end, having recited the entire plan without stopping for breath. I frowned, but nodded. She had recited everything correctly, and in training exercises she'd been calm and collected under pressure. Seems like turning into a chatterbox is how she deals with the pre-mission jitters.


I looked out the window as Nagata took a left, and saw a sign for Prefectural Route 365. So we'll be coming up on Shiozawa Station in a minute. "Excellent work, all of you. Remember to keep in contact, keep your heads on a swivel, and don't let them take you alive. For the Rising Sun!"


"FOR JAPAN!"


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APRIL 7, 2016 ATB
MINAMIUONUMA, NIIGATA
1449


Nagata smoothly pulled the van into a street-side parking space ten meters away from the radio station, neatly checking that he was within the painted lines before killing the engine. Adjusting the cap of his delivery man outfit, he clambered out of the driver's side door, an empty cardboard box in his hands. I slipped out after him, Ohgi's old, much abused black hoodie concealing the pistol and the knife that pressed firmly against my belly. I had been pleasantly surprised, earlier this morning, when I found that the hoodie that had once nearly swallowed me up was now only somewhat baggy. Of course, the better fit did have a downside as well. It's good to finally not be a stick anymore, but there's less room to hide weapons now...


As we approached the radio station, Nagata leading and me lurking in his shadow, I reached into my pocket and pressed the 'Transmit' button of the handheld radio I carried three times. I was relatively sure that Squad 1 would be able to receive the transmission at their planned location three and a half kilometers away, but I hadn't been able to test the effects of Minamiuonuma's buildings on the walkie talkies in advance. Too late to worry about that now. I was certain that Squad 2's radios had just clicked the signal, though, so in a few seconds they'd be boiling out of the van.


The station was only a few meters away, and I was happy to see that the staff had apparently chosen to draw the curtains today, presumably in an attempt to keep out the afternoon sun. Happily for us, that meant that, aside through the glass of the front door, no curious passersby would be able to look through the windows and see what was going on inside the station. That removes one source of potential complications; only a few hundred more to go.


Nagata fumbled slightly with his package as he opened the glass door to the station lobby, pretending that it contained something heavy to draw the attention of the woman seated behind the receptionist's desk. She half-stood, clearly trying to decide whether or not to get up and help him with the package, when I slipped out from behind Nagata, gun in hand. Before she had a chance to register what she was seeing, I fired once, twice, thankful that the coilgun pistol produced a tiny report compared to the deafening bellow of chemical propellant ignition.


Nagata threw the box aside and rushed in, drawing the combat knife whose sheathe had been tucked into the back of his belt as he headed left towards one of the two doors flanking the receptionist's desk.


I spun to the right, covering the lobby with the arc of my pistol, looking for any waiting visitors sitting in the collection of ancient folding chairs. Fortunately, there were none, and so I completed my revolution back to the door, which was just closing behind us. As I flicked the lock closed-a small measure, but one hopefully adequate to hold casual guests at bay – I saw Tsubaki emerging from the side door of the delivery van, assault rifle cradled in her arms. She's a bit early – I probably should've waited until we were at the door to twitch the radio. I hoped the remote detonated pipe bomb that ideally Squad 1 had already planted-a twin of the ones I had used in Shinjuku, and likewise sourced from Mister Asahara during the frantic two days of prep-was detonating successfully at just this moment. If not, we'll be drowning in municipal police in minutes.


The plan rested on two pillars: Speedy mobility, and the exploitation of the widely dispersed and poorly organized opposition forces. The police, armed only with batons, could still swarm my better armed insurgents under with their huge numbers, but they were already spread across the municipality in three stations. I hoped the explosion at the train station would draw the bulk of the officers from the southern station, as well as some from the station closer to the center of the city. The attack by Squad 2 on the City Hall was likewise geared to attract the attention of the police away from the radio station, our true target. I doubted that they would be able to react fast enough to get here in sufficient number – the true purpose of the Honorary Britannian municipal police was to terrorize the local farmers into productivity, not to take the lead on fighting hostile forces – but if they did, hopefully they would concentrate on the more numerous and better armed force that would soon be machine gunning the local bureaucrats and anybody unlucky enough to be visiting the permits office this afternoon.


My real concern was the "private security force" assembled by the Property Management Society. If they managed to get those APCs into town to respond to the attack on City Hall or to stop the broadcast of Major Onoda's message, never mind the bulk of their company-level strength, it would make extraction very difficult. Hopefully Squad 1's explosive ambush, complete with the use of another pipe bomb on the road most likely to be used if the mercenaries were dispatched to Minamiuonuma, would prevent their arrival entirely, or at least delay it until it was far too late.


A gurgling scream indicated that the receptionist was apparently still alive. Turning from the door, I began running the calculations for my enhancement suite, making sure to pace my energy expenditure. Easily vaulting over the desk, I landed foot-first on her face. The gurgle deepened as the fragments of her jaw were smashed down into her throat, but a second stomp on her neck soon muted even that sound. One down. Major Onoda's information had indicated a likely staff of four or five Honorary Britannians, overseen by a Britannian manager and accompanied by a Britannian newsreader. Five or six to go.


I burst through the door to the right of the reception area, and found myself in a short hallway. There were two doors that looked like they opened onto restrooms at the far end of the hall to my left, a door marked "Janitorial" to their right, a door marked "Office" next, and finally a thick door with two light panels hanging over it, one of which was glowing a bright red. Presumably, the studio.


Movement twitched in the left corner of my vision and I turned on my heel, bringing my pistol up to track the motion only to force my wrists back down towards the ground. Nagata emerged from the men's room, hands practically dripping with blood. "Guy was at the sink," he grunted, noticing my curious look, "thought I was coming in to use the urinal until I grabbed his hair." He rubbed at a spot on the left side of his abdomen, right below the ribs, and winced at the touch. "Fucker kept ramming his elbow into me the whole damned time. Only stopped when I was nearly to the spine."


I winced sympathetically. I knew from experience that the frenzied last burst of strength could be quite something, and the floating ribs bruised something awful. "Did you check the women's room?"


Nagata nodded. "Nobody was there, all the stalls were open." Well, unless they're in the Janitor's closet...


I turned and pointed my pistol at the door to the office. "Four or five to go. Let's get on with it – we're on the clock."


I walked over to the door and moved to the side, keeping my pistol trained on the door in case someone inside decided to take a leak. Without prompting, Nagata came up, grabbed the handle, and in one fluid motion heaved it wide open and flung himself to the side, keeping one hand on the handle. Glad to see the room-to-room training stuck.


Inside were three men, two obviously Honorary Britannian bent over soundboards and other esoteric equipment, moving dials and sliders. Standing over them was an equally obvious Britannian, nearly bald save for a few strands of brown hair combed over his pate and incredibly fat. He was the first to turn towards the sudden surprise interruption, mustache already bristling and face purpling with indignant rage. I could tell the exact instant that he realized that I wasn't some lost member of the general public as his eyes abruptly widened, locked on the pistol in my hand, a pistol already raised and pointed at his center of mass.


Three shots, and the fat manager was reeling backwards, squealing like a pig, blood pumping from the triangle of holes punctured through his chest. Missed the heart, probably got a lung, might've nicked his vena cava, judging by the lack of arterial spurt. As he stumbled backwards, I followed him deeper into the office.


As I followed the flailing Britannian, I passed the first Honorary Britannian technician, still at his desk. The unfortunate man had looked up from his control board at the shots, which were presumably muffled by the headphones he wore, and screaming had made a desperate attempt to stand and wrench the bulky pair of wired headphones off his ears. Sadly for him, the escape attempt was defeated by his chair, which had snagged on the ratty carpet as he'd tried to push it out and away from the desk. This cruel stroke of misfortune left him trapped for a crucial second under his desk, unable to stand more than halfway up out of his chair and entirely unable to flee.


The knife smashed through the Honorary Britannian's C-3 vertebra and sank deep into his neck, the six-inch blade severing his spinal cord and almost certainly impaling his trachea as it tracked downwards through the dense column of muscle, propelled nearly hilt-deep by my supernaturally enhanced strength. With a heave, I wrenched the instrument back out of his nape as I continued to advance into the office.


Ignoring Fatty the Britannian for a moment, I fired three times at the other Honorary Britannian technician, who had made a nonsensical and panicked attempt to burrow under his desk. He screamed as one of the small caliber bullets sliced across his lower back, but he had chosen his strategy well – the other two bullets impotently thudded into the desk's wall. I fired the last shot of the magazine into the manager where he sat, slumped against the polished pine of the far wall, just in case he was still alive.


I saw through the one way glass of the office that Nagata had managed to find the last of our expected targets in the recording studio. The Britannian news presenter was desperately trying to ward him off, and had apparently met with some brief success, judging by the defensive wounds on her hands. A particularly nasty injury indicated that she had tried to catch the knife at one point, and had only gotten a split finger web halfway to her wrist for her trouble. As I hauled the technician out from under his desk, Nagata grew impatient and simply kicked the table she had sat at onto her, before following her down to the floor and out of my sight.


The technician screamed as I flung him onto his desk, and I winced at the sounds of complicated destruction coming from the technology beneath him. Hopefully that wasn't anything important. "I would like to play a CD over the broadcast," I informed him, knife at his throat, "can you please tell me where I should insert it and how to set it to broadcast?" He only burbled incoherently, eyes wide and pleading, and fixed on my knife. Too scared to talk is useless, besides, he is an Honorary, not a Britannian... Honey's worth a try.


I moved the knife an inch further away from the technician's neck, and tried sweet reason. "What's your name?" He only screamed again, eyes still fixed on the admittedly gory instrument, so I slapped him as lightly as possible, just to get his attention. Thankfully, it worked, and his eyes goggled at me, full of horror. "What's your name, mister?" I asked again, trying to pitch my voice in a lighter tone to hopefully set him as much at ease as was possible under the circumstances.


For a second, I thought the Honorary Britannian wouldn't answer, but then, after swallowing, he managed to force out a mumbled "Ed-Edward... Ma'am."


That wouldn't work - I needed to form common ground with him, which required sincerity. "Not that name!" I paused, surprised by the snap in my voice, and carefully modulated my tone back towards conversational. I heard something thump against the glass behind me, but ignored it. "Not that name - your real name. What's your real name?"


"M-Masanobu... My name's Masanobu..."


I smiled down at him. Finally, progress! "Alright, Masanobu. It's a pleasure to meet you. Now, as I was saying," I holstered the empty gun, keeping the knife hovering an inch away from his neck, and pulled out the jewel case containing Onoda's CD, "I want to broadcast this for all the world to hear. I am fairly certain that I can figure out how to do so without your help, but I am pressed for time. Would you please show me how to play this?"


Masanobu was nodding even before I finished speaking. In a different setting, it might have looked comical. I carefully took a step to the side, giving him room to stand while keeping the knife near enough that he'd remember it. "Excellent. Please, lead the way."


With effort, Masanobu rose on trembling feet, turned towards the workstation the first tech was slumped over, and promptly let out another scream. I suppose between the body of his co-worker, the bloody smear down the other side of the one-way glass, and the sight of Nagata entering the office looking absolutely drenched in blood, it was an alarming sight, but unfortunately I was on the clock and had no time to be gentle.


I rammed a fist straight into the shallow bullet wound that crossed his lower back, marveling at how the bullet had just barely creased the skin over his spinal column as I did so. This guy's got some incredible luck! "You were going to show me how to play the CD over the airwaves, Mister Masanobu." I reminded him as he hunched forwards defensively. Nagata raised an eye at the tech's survival, but shrugged and started pulling off his drenched deliveryman uniform shirt.


Sobbing, the technician walked forward towards the work station, and after I heaved the corpse out of the way pointed out the CD slot where they inserted discs for music, explained how to start playing a disk, and what button I needed to press to transmit the audio out over the station's assigned FM band. I followed his instructions and Nagata pulled on the headphones abandoned by the first technician to check. Fortunately, he gave me a big thumb's up – Major Onoda's message was being broadcast to the world, or at least, to the listening audience of Niigata Prefecture.


"People of Japan," I could hear from the discarded headphones lying on top of the CD player as I drove the knife up through the base of Masanobu's skull, into his brain. A quick death as a thank you. He didn't even live to feel it. "The day of liberation will soon be upon us! We have endured a long and painful six years since the Conquest of our glorious republic, but take heart! The Japan Liberation Front yet stands! We have spent this time building our strength, biding our time! Soon, like a tsunami, we shall wash away the Britannians and all of their evil! Soon, the Land of the Gods shall be pure once more!"


I pulled the first of the two pipe bombs out of the rucksack and wedged it squarely against the CD player as Major Onoda continued to prophesy the coming of a new Japan via the headset. I wanted to make sure that the CD was destroyed and the station rendered at least temporarily unusable when we left, to prevent the authorities from immediately declaring it a hoax or whatnot. "If you will fight," the Major's voice continued as Nagata wedged the second device into a box of what looked like important wires, "join us! Join the JLF! Together we shall be a holy army, a force not seen since the kamikaze! And like the kamikazes that saved Japan from foreign invaders before, we shall save our beloved country once more! A new empire shall rise! Amaterasu's line shall again sit the Chrysanthemum Throne!"


"Time to go." I said to Nagata, and he nodded his assent. I clicked the portable radio's transmission dial once-pause-twice-pause-and then once more. Nagata was already at the door of the blood soaked office, and I followed him out the swinging door and into the little hallway. As we hit the reception area, I could hear the sounds of screams and automatic gunfire through the curtained windows, sounds that were steadily getting nearer. Squad 2's falling back. Suddenly remembering the locked front door, I dipped into my vector acceleration and zoomed right past Nagata before returning to a more natural flat-out sprint to the front door. I click the lock open just as Nagata bulled into the door, flinging it wide open and bouncing it off the rubber-tipped door stopper. I was less than a step behind, thankful that the inch of growth I had achieved since Kallen and I had fled the ruins of a collapsing train station had lengthened my pace slightly.


Nagata jumped into the driver's seat and twisted the key in the ignition as I threw open the side door of the van and tumbled inside. Leaving the door wide open, I frantically pulled out my pistol and fumbled for a fresh mag, slamming the reload home as Nagata pulled out into the street. Ahead, I could see Squad 2 leap-frogging down the street towards us, three members facing the way they came, laying down suppressing fire, two orienting towards us before one of the rear three fell back and the squad cycled. So good to see solid training in action! Skidding into the intersection, Nagata came screeching to a halt, which thankfully provided all the guidance Squad 2 needed. I squirmed my way up to the front passenger seat just in time to avoid a stampede of heavily armed gunmen, panting with exertion as the last man - or woman, actually, seeing how it was Tsubaki - in slammed the side door behind them.


"They're all in!" I yelled at Nagata, "get going already!" This was entirely unnecessary, as Nagata was already accelerating, fishtailing the van around a burning car halfway onto the sidewalk. Putting pedal to the metal, the van shot up Prefectural Route 17 heading north. As we skidded up the block and shot through the traffic light of the next intersection with reckless abandon, I pulled out the two burner phones that had accompanied Mister Asahara's handiwork and dialed the only numbers in the contact list before throwing both out the window of the van. Despite the pounding of the wind through the open window, the explosive whumpf! was unmistakable, especially coupled with the sounds of shattering windows. It seems that the curtains weren't sufficiently thick to be bombproof.


As Nagata turned onto a smaller outlet road and slowed to the speed limit, I let out a small sigh of relief. No sirens were audible, and surprisingly nobody seemed to even be looking askance at a van trundling its way down a feeder road towards Prefectural Route 253. If we can break contact, our side of the mission will have gone perfectly. Hopefully, Squad 1 can say the same.


---------


APRIL 7, 2016 ATB
SHITOKA, NIIGATA
1537


From my seat under the sheltering foliage of a cedar about two thirds up the hill behind the Shitoka recycling center and municipal incinerator, I was suddenly struck by the beauty of the broad Uono River valley spread out before me. A broad expanse of paddies, already green with the juvenile shoots of newly planted rice, broken only by the occasional farm or cluster of small buildings huddled around a crossroads, the simple pastoral scene seemed a world away from the claustrophobic streets of Shinjuku, to say nothing of my memories of mud and blood and thundering artillery. I stretched, my bare arms reaching out towards the rural scenery as my unshod feet pushed against the springy grass underfoot.


Behind me, my sweatshirt was hung out to dry on one of the cedar's branches, dripping with river water after an impromptu wash to try and scrub out the worst of the blood. My shoes likewise sat in a patch of sunlight, now mostly free of the receptionist's remains. It was a bit brisk, sitting out here in only a tank-top and trousers - winter still hadn't fully released its grasp on the mountains, and come night the temperature would drop below freezing once more – but after so long cooped up in the van, not to mention the exertions of the day, the cool air felt luxurious. I could hear splashing coming from the creek running down the hill from some hidden spring as Nagata did his best to salvage his garments and the members of Squad 2 did their best to likewise clean themselves off.


I sighed. Try as I might, it was impossible to shift the fact that, even now, three of my comrades were engaged in a desperate game of cat and mouse in the foothills to the southeast, from my mind for even a moment. No amount of pastoral scenery nor the crisp near-bliss sensitivity that came from surviving yet another conflict situation could distract me from the fact that my job was not done yet, that fighters under my command were still trying to break contact with the enemy.


No amount of cool air and warm grass could distract me from the fact that, for the first time in this life, people I had led into battle were dead. The brief report Yoshi had radioed in twenty minutes earlier had been straight and to the point; Squad 1 had successfully disrupted the attempt by the local Britannian magnate to deploy his mercenary force to the Minamiuonuma city center, but had not been able to successfully break contact with the Britannian opposition and escape via stolen car to the Shitoka meetup point to the north.


Instead, the three surviving members of the team had beaten a fighting retreat across the Kamakurasougo River and into the forested hills beyond, where they had dispersed into the trees. Fortunately, we had planned a secondary rendezvous point for just such an occasion, but it was impossible to tell if they would be able to escape from the Britannians and make their way individually on foot to the meeting point at Suwa Shrine.


Personally, I fully expected to see all three surviving members of Squad 1 at the shrine sooner or later. It might take them the better part of the day to travel the approximately four miles over hilly, forested terrain, especially if the Britannians were still actively trying to pursue them through the undergrowth, but I was confident that Major Onoda's lessons in scouting and stealth would see them safely to the shrine. What no amount of lessons could do was bring back the two comrades I had lost today.


Sumire... Manabu... I hadn't known either before I had hauled them and fifty-eight others out to The School. After months of training and instruction, I still couldn't claim to know either one in a personal capacity, not like how I knew Nagata and Ohgi, but I had made it my business to know a little about everybody in the Kozuki Organization.


Sumire had enjoyed singing, and frequently led her squad in song during runs. She had enjoyed painting and other forms of arts, and had displayed a talent for sketching caricatures on the pages of her notes and assignments, on the rare occasions that I collected written work. I wished I had thought to keep some of her caricatures, instead of burning them with all of the other completed assignments in accordance with the "no records" policy. She left behind a husband and a three year old son. She had been twenty eight.


Manabu had fancied himself an amateur wrestler, and had actually done a decent job backing up his claims of martial arts prowess during hand-to-hand training. Outside of training, he had been a fairly quiet guy, tending more towards being laid back instead of sullen. Apparently, he'd had a boyfriend he'd broken up with just before leaving for The School. He'd been nineteen.


I had never deluded myself into thinking that I was invincible, or that the men and women who followed me into battle were immortal. No plan survives contact with reality, to say nothing of the enemy, and I had been incredibly lucky that none of my comrades had died up until now, in any of my lives. That knowledge, that things always go wrong and that I had lucked out spectacularly already, should have made it easier to accept their deaths, but, somehow, it didn't.


It was a callous thought, but I found myself wishing that the first death under my command had happened back in my past life. I had deliberately kept my distance from the 203rd​, doing my best to drive them away through harsh training to sabotage the rapid reaction force concept I had so foolishly proposed to General Zettour. While I had found myself almost reluctantly bonding with the men over subsequent missions, there had always been a degree of distance between myself and my command, with one notable exception. I had cared for them and been proud of them, but I hadn't truly been one of them, thanks to the expectations and pressures of rank. They had been treasured subordinates and excellent students, but with one exception I don't think I could have called them my friends. That cold shell of formality would have offered at least some small barrier, if I had lost my first subordinate in action during my second life.


In this third life, I had no such barrier. I was one of the members of the Kozuki Organization, an officer perhaps, but an officer in a band held together by the personal charisma of the leader and a shared goal. It was completely different from the institutional bonds of an industrial army, and it was impossible to remain aloof and still be an effective leader of guerrillas. I had eaten the same food from the same common pot, sweated through the same training exercises, slept on a bedroll identical to the ones issued to every trainee at The School... and during down time, when I didn't have to be an instructor, I had spent hours drinking watery tea and chatting with my future comrades, getting to know them and letting them get to know me. They had to trust me to do what was right for them, if I wanted them to obey me in the field, and so I had answered every question they'd asked about my life in Shinjuku to the best of my ability. In the end, between my instruction, my efforts at bonding with them, and my shared participation in training events, I had won that trust and, I liked to think, some measure of respect.


And I had used the shared bond of that trust to bring Sumire, Manabu, and eight other men and women to Niigata Prefecture.


"It's all just such a waste," I murmured aloud to the distant paddies, "such a waste. Each of them had decades of life ahead of them; decades of productivity, of innovation, of growth, followed by a slow decline until retirement." And what had they bought with their sacrifice of all of those years?


From some distant corner of my memories, it was impossible to tell if it came from my faded recollections of my first life or the razor-edged snapshots of my second, a scrap of poetry came unbidden to my mind. "For by my glee might many men have laughed, and of my weeping something had been left, which must die now." The grass whispered back in the susurrating wind as the next line came dribbling out. "I mean the truth untold, the pity of war, the pity war distilled. Now men will go content with what we spoiled. Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled."


Where had that come from? It must have been from some English class long ago and far away. For a moment, I had a memory of a classroom, warm and drowsy, golden motes of dust hanging in a sunbeam. I had memorized that poem to fulfill a requirement, and had read it aloud per my teacher's demand, but I hadn't truly read it back then, not in any way that provoked understanding. Now, lived experience gave me an undesired insight into that poem. I was no pacifist: I was unwilling to step back and simply let the world take from me and mine. I would fight until I had a life where I could be comfortable, both materially and within my own skin. Still, though... what price was too high to pay for that life?


I had been content to conquer Dacia and burn Arrene in my past life, acting in my capacity as a soldier of the Kaiser. Then, the responsibility for losses on either side, for the destruction of homes and businesses and places of worship and art and education, had been diffused among the thousands of people who had made such losses possible, from the politicians and generals at the top to the stubborn partisans who risen up and brought the hammer down on their city. It had been easy to shrug off any feeling of guilt; I may have penned the treatise that provided the justification for the Army's actions, but the General Staff had been the ones ordering its implementation. I was simply a gear in a vast machine, a soldier in an identical if specially tailored uniform, fighting for my salary and a cushy post in the rear.


But now, in this third life, there was no rear echelon. Just being Japanese was enough to justify summary execution, and attempting to live a peaceful life was simply conceding to a slow death by starvation. The only path to a safe life I had seen required the installation of a new, more sympathetic government, one where my blood and name wouldn't automatically bar me from advancement. To that end, I had shed blood and made deals to build an army, whose strength I would use to justify my post-victory appointment to high office. While I truly wanted a better life for all of my people, for everybody in Shinjuku and Saitama and the other urban ghettos, for all the farmers trapped in de facto serfdom, for all the woman and girls and boys taken and broken for the corrupt pleasures of evil men... I had joined this war to save my own skin. To look out for number one, to make sure I had all the chocolate and coffee I wanted and the safety to enjoy it in peace...


It would be hard to keep that entirely understandable selfish desire in mind, though, when I visited Sumire's family. I had a duty to discharge, and that was part of it. Part of the deal of leadership, of trust exchanged and loyalty freely given. I would tell her son that his mother had died for a free Japan, and I would try not to choke on my lie. I would do my best to make sure that he was taken care of, at the very least, that he and his father and all other survivors of the Kozuki Organization were taken care of as best as the Rising Sun's assets would allow.


It still wouldn't be a fair trade for a mother, for a wife. For up to six decades of mornings, noons, and nights. I don't even know if Manabu had a family... I hope Inoue has his next of kin on file.


I sighed, and got to my feet. I could, would, mourn the dead later; I had to focus on saving the living now. One day, if I can... I will come back here, back to Niigata... Sumire, Manabu... I'll build a cairn somewhere for you. I hope you will appreciate it, if Being X was unkind enough to deny you oblivion for some reason.


Deliberately, I turned my back on the view of the Uono River valley, and pulled my still soaked sweatshirt and shoes back on. "Mount up!" I called to my comrades, drawing their attention to me. "Everybody better be in that van in three minutes or less, or I'm eating all the dinner rations myself!"


---------


APRIL 8, 2016 ATB
SARU, NIIGATA
0603


Suwa Shrine stood a world apart from the cities and towns of occupied Area 11, out on a meandering, crumbling road barely wide enough for a single vehicle. Although the cities that filled the valleys to the east and west of the mountain range had been carved up into the private fiefdoms of whichever Britannian lords Clovis had favored, this neglected shrine's grounds felt like a tiny fragment of old Japan.


While the outside world had clearly forgotten Suwa Shrine – the fact that it still stood, when the majority of shrines and temples had been burnt as "heathen nonsense" during the first years of Britannian administration, attested to that – the locals equally clearly had not.


The Komainu stone guard dogs were free of moss and twigs, and the inset brass plaques on their plinths were recently polished. A few wooden ema prayers clacked against each other and the tree from which they hung in the desultory breeze. The Torii gate's saffron paint was weathered and chipped, and on the windward side much of the timber was visible, but someone had taken the time to apply sealant to cracks in the wood. Most telling was that part of the Honden's wood shingle roof had looked suspiciously new and shiny before the sun had set beyond the mountains, indicating someone had patched the sanctuary up after a damaging storm.


It was heartening to see that some fragments of my people were making an active attempt to preserve this fragment of the culture we had once had. Even back in my first life, before I had the displeasure of meeting Being X, I had never been anything close to devout. I visited a local shrine at most twice a year, on New Year's and for the Spring Festival. My third life had been, if possible, even more estranged from the spiritual side of my native culture than my first; Being X's existence had increased the probability that something that could be called spiritual existed, and yet simultaneously demystified any such other world. After all, if spirits could be as petty and useless as Being X, why bother praying for good fortune at New Years?


It had surprised me, how badly it had hurt to stand before the smoldering remains of Naruko Tenjin Shrine the day after the Britannians had finally gotten around to setting it ablaze, almost three years ago now. The old priest had somehow been tied to one of the rebel groups of the time, the Britannians had claimed, and in order to "prevent the inspiration of future malcontents" the shrine had been burnt. I hadn't been at the street battle where the old man had died, but I doubted an eighty year old would have been involved in urban combat. In all likelihood, he had simply been caught in the crossfire. Either way, I had walked past the still smoking ashes of Naruko Tenjin on my way back from a job site the next day, and it had been disturbing in the extreme. Something about the shattered guard dogs, the broken remnants of the platform, the charred Torii... It had been monstrously wrong. That moment had made some unidentifiable part of myself ache deep inside.


Now, three years later, I shivered in a cramped delivery van tucked away behind another shrine, huddled up against Nagata and Tsubaki under a shared blanket. Spring might have officially come, but in the mountains of Niigata nights were still cold. Fortunately, we would not be here forever – Yoshi and his two squad mates had gotten back into radio contact two hours ago, when the handful of Britannian pursuers and their reluctant Honorary Britannian helpers had retreated back to the city with sundown. After checking in and reassuring us that they had successfully broken contact, all three had indicated that they were heading to the shrine with all haste. That sounds perfect if you want to break your leg, running through the woods in the middle of the night! I had instructed them to take their time, to remember their training, and to take breaks as necessary.


It had been an uncomfortable and sleepless night all around, despite everybody's best efforts. Every time someone needed to get out to take a leak, or to take their turn guarding, the rattling sliding door and the blast of cold night air had woken up anybody who had miraculously fallen asleep. The shared body heat could only do so much to heat up the van to begin with, and even my twelve-year old joints were stiff and sore as the first light of dawn broke over the mountains. At least I was out of the wind, unlike Squad 1.


Squad 1 had spoiled any sleep that hadn't already been ruined by physical discomfort. Try as I might, I couldn't stop my thoughts from endlessly circling back to the losses of the day before, and the three men who were still out of my sight, potentially in danger. I had, of course, known that I couldn't do anything for them at this point, that I should be trying to rest as much as possible, just in case the Britannians somehow managed to find us way out in the mountains, but I had simply been unable to relax. As long as my comrades were out in the cold night somewhere, some illogical part of my mind had refused to come off of duty. And so I had stared up at the roof of the van, trying my best to remain as still and as quiet as possible – after all, my own inability to rest was no excuse to deprive my comrades of their dearly earned sleep.


As the sun rose, my resolve to spend a second more in the van finally broke. I wriggled out from between my comrades, doing my best to move as gently and quietly as possible, and clambered up over the driver's seat and out the hopefully quieter driver's side door. My shoes, still somewhat damp from yesterday's wash, were immediately soaked once more by the dew pooling off the long grass. Quietly cursing as the accumulated moisture invaded my socks, I waved a polite good morning to the guard currently on duty. He bobbed his head back, his jaw working as he tried, and subsequently failed, to contain a yawn. I wished I could reassure him that there was coffee brewing, but I couldn't – breakfast would be ration bars choked down by, admittedly, fresh spring water, collected the day before at a mountainside seep.


I stepped away from the van and slowly walked my way around to the front of the shrine's grounds. The low stone stairs up to the Torii gate were also wet with early morning dew dripping from the surrounding weeds, but I managed to navigate my way up to the gate without issue. Unfortunately, the shrine's grounds were still empty of any of my wandering comrades. For some reason, the shrine felt tranquil under the dawn, not deserted, not abandoned. I found myself walking down the flagstones of the Sando, the pathway between the gate and the sanctuary hall. It was a short walk to the Honden, and seemingly before I knew it I was in front of the old cedar structure. Out of long forgotten habit, I looked around for a temizuya to wash my hands and face at, but none were present at this backwoods shrine. I turned again, facing forward, and took a pace to the left, so I would not be standing in the taboo spot directly in front of the Kami's entrance.


I licked my lips, dry tongue leaving only a trace of moisture behind, and felt like a fool as I bowed deeply, from the waist, and then again. I wondered why I was doing any of this as I clapped twice, but found myself... not praying, as praying was at best useless, but fervently hoping at the tiny sanctuary hall before me that my name was Hajime Tanya, and that I would be most thankful if my comrades arrived safe and sound, soon and without harm. Almost as soon as this hope crystallized in my mind, a treacherous train of thought butted in with the wish that the souls of Sumire and Manabu would find rest.


I shook my head and straightened back up, forcing my eyes open. When had I closed them? I was just fooling around here, when I should be starting to get breakfast organized. I almost turned away from the shrine, but a deep-seated impulse nailed me to the ground until, with an irritated sigh, I excused myself from the shrine with another deep bow.


Irritated with myself for my foolishness and exhausted from my sleepless night, I staggered back down the Sando to the Torii. Before I could set so much as a foot over the threshold separating the "sacred world" from the rest of mundanity, I froze. At the foot of the stone steps, streaked with mud, soaked with dew, stood Yoshi, unmistakable even with his bald head streaked with mud and sporting a long abrasion. Flanking him on either side were the two other surviving members of Squad 1, alive and unharmed.


Feeling like I was in a dream, I staggered down the stone steps. It felt like I'd had some kind of break with reality as I stared at the three apparitions standing before me. Did I fall asleep at the shrine...? Am I hallucinating...? To my sleep deprived and anxiety ridden mind, there seemed to be only one way to find out.


Moments later, I found myself with my arms wrapped around Yoshi's all too tangible belly, hugging him close. He was alive! They were alive! They were safe and alive! He staggered back a bit, swaying with fatigue and no doubt with surprise, and I suddenly realized what I had done. Dammit, Tanya! First you send two of them to their deaths, and then you can't even be a professional? Face burning with shame, I quickly let go of Yoshi and retreated three rapid steps back up the stairs, until I was roughly at a height where I could look the newly arrived trio in the eyes. Just seeing them here, after a night of worrying and internal recriminations... I couldn't help myself from smiling with relief.


I might have lost a full fifth of my command – a horrible loss, by any measure – but the remainder were safe and unharmed. I would do better, I would find out what had gone wrong and learn from my mistake, but here and now...


"Welcome back, Squad 1," I greeted them, and saluted, "You did all that I asked for and more."


Yoshi still looked poleaxed, and I found myself hoping that he hadn't been concussed by whatever had given him that scrape on his forehead, but one of his comrades, a young man with a mohawk and a red headband, raised his rifle over his head and let out a hoarse cheer. The second man had a grin spreading across his face that abruptly made him look a decade younger, the tension almost visibly flowing out of him.


"I'll want a report," I began to say, and the mood abruptly dipped until I hurried to say "later. In the meantime, there's ration bars for breakfast and all the spring water you can drink. Don't worry – we'll have a proper celebration once we get back to The School."


The triumphant warriors let out another weary cheer and staggered off in the direction of the parked van, Yoshi following the two younger men in an apparent daze. For my part, I turned and looked back through the Torii, back towards the Honden... It might have been foolish to think along those lines, since I had known that Squad 1 was due back at any moment, but... Gratitude is never foolish. I bowed towards the Honden in sincere thankfulness for the safe delivery of my comrades, in gratitude that none of them had gotten lost or injured during their long night-time trek. Thank you... Thank you... Japan will live again... I swear it.

 

[Jeffster64]

So going full terrorist route then. I like it.

 

[Daemon Targaryen]

Scopas you welcome pal, although since you know who I am here, you can notify me like you do the others.

as I had said on Discord, I love how Tanya is emotional while staying the capitalist weird deadly gremlin she is known to be.

 

[Scopas]

Scopas you welcome pal, although since you know who I am here, you can notify me like you do the others.

as I had said on Discord, I love how Tanya is emotional while staying the capitalist weird deadly gremlin she is known to be.

Click to shrink...

Sorry, I'll edit the hyperlink in here. I don't think links to QQ are welcome on SB though.

 

[Daemon Targaryen]

Sorry, I'll edit the hyperlink in here. I don't think links to QQ are welcome on SB though.

Click to shrink...

I never said that, I talked of links here.

oh, I understand the problem, I thought the names of the others were to their QQ profiles, not their SB ones.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 19: A Training Arc (Part 3)


(A big thank you to Siatru, and to Sunny, and to the two (or three) Anons from the Guerrilla Discord for beta reading this chapter.)


APRIL 9, 2016 ATB
"THE SCHOOL" TRAINING FACILITY
0928


The Kanayamazawa River, swollen with snowmelt, lapped at the base of my training boulder, beneath my dangling feet. Spring had well and truly come to Gunma Prefecture, and even the "Japanese Alps" of inland Honshu couldn't resist the growing warmth forever.


Ohgi stood next to the boulder, trying without success to skip stones across the fast moving stream. Even if the water's surface had been as still and flat as a mediation pond, I doubted he would have been particularly successful, considering the lack of any real finesse on display. I considered correcting his throwing motion, perhaps trying to demonstrate the correct way to flick the wrist and send a river-smoothed stone across the water, but decided against it. The quiet of the moment, broken only by the burbling of the shallow river over its rocky bed, was too precious to be squandered on a pointless lesson.


Besides, Ohgi looked like he was enjoying tossing stones into the river. Who was I to disturb his fun? It's not like we were on the clock, at least not for another few hours.


My team had finally returned to The School late yesterday afternoon, after taking a long and circuitous route out of Niigata Prefecture. By the time we had finally returned to our secret outpost in the backwoods of Nakanojo, the Sun had already set behind the mountains and the shadows had lengthened under the cedars.


Despite our late arrival, Ohgi, master of fostering intra-organizational cooperation, had a congratulatory feast waiting. He'd dipped into organizational funds to provide an extra nice meal, with pork cutlets and fresh rice instead of the usual boiled cabbage and porridge. He'd even gone far enough to buy a dozen bottles of cheap but potent liquor, presumably distilled in some backwoods shack by a furtive local.


Frankly, I had just been relieved that the party Ohgi had set up would delay any serious conversation until the next day. Seizing the opportunity with both hands, I had proclaimed that the next day's morning training would be canceled, and all of the recruits of both classes could do as they wished with their free time, to general acclaim.


As expected, come the morning, most of the recruits, and Nagata, were still in their barracks, nursing ferocious hangovers.


Notable in his absence was Major Onoda. Almost as soon as I had returned, he had vanished, delaying his departure only long enough to get a quick report on the operation. I could only assume that he had returned to the nearest JLF installation to convey the news of our successful mission to the mysterious leader of his faction, Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe. I wished Onoda all the best at milking the opportunity for every bit of glory that he could manage; the better he was rewarded, the more generous he would hopefully be when the next round of negotiations began.


It was Ohgi who brought the mid-morning peace to an end. He had woken up around the same time that I had, and had followed me to my private practice spot. I'd made it clear that I'd not been in much of a mood to talk, and he'd obligingly remained silent for the last twenty minutes.


Throwing the last of his collected semi-smooth stones into the river with a desultory plop, Ohgi brushed his hands off against his jeans and turned towards me. I kept my gaze fixed on the water splashing against a small cluster of rocks in the middle of the stream, and wondered how long it would take for one of the cluster to be pulled away from the rest and pulled under.


"I wanted to congratulate you personally, Tanya," Ohgi began, his tone calm and seemingly earnest, "I've spoken with both Yoshi and Tsubaki, and they were both very impressed with your overall leadership."


I could hear the unspoken "but..." just as clearly as I could hear the raven croaking in the trees somewhere across the river. I knew that Ohgi was too soft a touch, and for that matter too Japanese, to bring up my failings directly without dancing around them enough to soften the blow. Instead of letting him proceed, I decided to adopt a technique I hoped he would respect as a teacher.


"I learned two things from the mission, Ohgi," I began, turning away from the river and its endless war on the resisting stones and towards my comrade. "The first is that allowing the enemy any chance to fight back is foolish; the second is that we need better equipment to be effective."


Ohgi raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure you already knew that first lesson, Tanya – you didn't exactly give the Kokuryu-kai much of a warning." He smiled faintly at that, and I smiled back. The station, for all it had been a small slice of an all too familiar hell, had been brilliantly executed, and I felt justly proud of it. I should feel proud – I didn't lose anybody on that mission.


The smile went away.


"You're right," I sighed, trying to figure out how to pin down what I was trying to say, "but it seems like I required a refresher."


Ohgi didn't respond, but the polite silence somehow pried the words out of me. "I rushed this mission, Ohgi. While the basic objective was successfully completed, if I had taken an extra day or two to plan and improve on the groundwork, I could have greatly improved the mission's outcome."


I took a deep, cleansing breath, and let the emotion flow out with the exhale before continuing, sinking into the cadence familiar from so many post-mission debriefings before.


"Squad 2, after deploying from the van, rapidly advanced through downtown Minamiuonuma to the City Hall. Once there, they proceeded to their primary target, the Mayor's Office, only to find him absent. While they were able to liquidate his deputy and his secretary, missing the mayor was an unfortunate failure. They proceeded to the secondary target of the Municipal Archives, destroyed all the computers they could find and piled up and burnt all blueprints and records they could in the three minute window available. Then, they exited Town Hall and encountered between twenty and thirty Honorary Britannian police dispatched from the Minamiuonuma central police station. While Squad 2 was easily able to suppress the police with small arms fire, they were bogged down and were compelled to retreat back to the van for extraction."


"It sounds like they were very successful," Ohgi replied mildly, holding up a hand and ticking points off on his extended fingers, "They occupied the available police in the city center, keeping them away from the radio station, which was the primary goal. They managed to disrupt the municipal government, which was a secondary goal at best. They managed to retreat in good order without so much as a bruise."


"True," I acknowledged, "but it could have gone better, as could Squad 1's side of the operation."


I closed my eyes for a moment and took another deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, hold, exhale.


"Squad 1 successfully detonated the bombs at Shiozawa Station and at the ambush site on Prefectural Route 124. Unfortunately, the pipe bomb was insufficient to destroy the first APC, although it was able to sufficiently damage the wheels that the vehicle was immobilized, blocking the second APC as well. Similarly, the RPGs Squad 1 had on hand proved insufficient to penetrate the vehicles' armor, and the mercenaries were able to exit the vehicles, which they took cover behind. While Squad 1 was able to complete their objective by preventing the deployment of the mercenary unit to the city center, they were unable to smoothly withdraw, due to a flanking pincer attack by the mercenaries who took advantage of nearby farm buildings for cover, rapidly forcing Squad 1 back. During this time Squad 1 took forty percent casualties and were forced to retreat to the woods on foot, where they took evasive action."


I was proud that my voice had remained cool and collected all the way through, barring a slight hitch at the word "casualties". Ohgi had maintained eye contact as I had completed my summation, nodding at each point. I did my best to ignore the pained look at the closing sentence; Ohgi had probably done a better job getting to know Sumire and Manabu – he was always talking with the recruits, always taking the time to chat whenever he wasn't conducting a lesson.


"So," I continued, keeping my War College demeanor as I approached the next section of the debriefing process, "in regards to lessons learned, we can observe two main points: First, better preparations would likely have improved mission outcomes; Second, better equipment is necessary for future engagements with Britannian armored troops."


Ohgi frowned slightly, but nodded. "Both of those are valid lessons to take from this mission, Tanya. But, aren't you forgetting the old adage that 'perfect is the enemy of good enough'? You managed to complete your mission successfully – isn't that good enough?"


"No!" With a burst of motion, the ravens across the river startled into flight, irate caws resounding as they took wing. I could feel the heat spreading across my cheeks, but pushed on, forcing myself to continue at a more reasonable volume. "No, Ohgi, it wasn't good enough. This was only barely a success – a C-grade at best! - and only a single step on a long, long road! I lost twenty percent of my fighting strength against a pack of washouts with surplus gear – if that had been a real Royal Britannian Army formation, Squad 1 would all be dead! All of them, not just the two that I did lose because I didn't plan well enough!"


I realized I was shouting again. The fact that Ohgi just took it without even looking angry just made it worse. Damn you, puberty, for making me sound like a stupid, unprofessional child!


With a last shudder of anger at myself, at my inability to be good enough I finally managed to get my treacherous mouth back under control, and after a moment of struggle managed to regain a semblance of calm. "That said, the focus on mobility is clearly a winning strategy. Hit and run attacks are likely to be the meat of our operations going forwards. Still, there is plenty of room for improvement; better intelligence would act as a force multiplier, as would sabotage. If I could have disabled the APCs before the mercenaries even attempted to deploy, or found some way to render the mercenaries unable or unwilling to fight, that would have achieved the objective at a far lower price."


Oghi nodded at that. "You have a point there, Tanya; if possible, we should look into ways of sabotaging the enemy before they can even fight."


"We also need to improve our kit for when the time comes to fight." As much as I loved the idea of preventing the enemy from deploying at all, I knew it to be a hopeless fantasy at best, a potentially dangerous distraction at worst.


"In the future, it's almost guaranteed that we will have to handle Britannia's Knightmares – and our current gear couldn't even deal with retired APCs. We need dedicated anti-armor and anti-vehicle weapons if we want any chance of victory against Britannia in the long term."


Ohgi winced at that, and nodded with fervent enthusiasm. "Yoshi said something similar when I spoke with him last night." He noticed my questioning expression, and hastily explained, "He wasn't pleased with how ineffective the RPGs were. He'd hoped they'd be enough to take out at least one of the vehicles, but..." Ohgi shrugged helplessly, and I nodded my understanding.


I bet Yoshi was a hell of a lot more than "wasn't pleased" at the time...


"And..." Ohgi looked away for a moment, took a deep breath, and re-established eye contact, "And... How are you feeling, Tanya? Really, how are you feeling? I told you I spoke with Yoshi and Tsubaki last night, and they were very impressed with your leadership, but Yoshi said that he'd been very surprised at how... enthusiastically... you greeted him at the shrine, and Tsubaki told me how quiet you were all the way back from Minamiuonuma..."


Ohgi took another deep breath, and slowly reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. "And... this is the first time you've lost someone under your command, right, Tanya? How are you feeling?"


I bit down on my tongue, fighting back the immediate impulse to take the easy way out by claiming "I'm fine." Even if it was true, instantly replying to such a loaded question would have clearly shown a lack of consideration, which would indicate either that I was being deliberately rude, or that I was unwilling to think about the question, and thus was not, in fact, fine. Instead, I took a moment to think, and to try to get my thoughts in order. Ohgi quietly waited, seemingly as patient as the river flowing past us.


"I am... upset," I haltingly began, trying to disentangle the knot of painful emotions with the cool scalpel of logical analysis, "Because I lost two trained fighters immediately after they had completed their training. This loss represents a waste of the time, energy, and expense involved in training them, an investment with very little return..."


I swallowed hard, pushing down the lump in my throat. While the loss of two good students and promising comrades was a regrettable waste of resources, the thought lacked any emotional resonance. But... What can I say? I'm sorry that Sumire will never know her son? I wish Manabu had made up with his partner before he left? This is war. People die. If I can't handle it...


I didn't think Ohgi would reject me, or try to force me out or anything. That was absurd. But I could see him trying, with the best of intentions, to move me over more towards the Benevolent Association side of the organization, away from combat operations. While I would typically be overjoyed with an easy assignment to the rear like that, and much as I would like to never fight again, to never risk my life... It was too early for any such reassignment. I knew where I could best help the Kozuki Organization, and at the moment it was as a strategic planner and tactical asset.


But from what I knew of Ohgi and his relentless pursuit of what he felt was right... I doubted that he would see things the same way, especially if he felt like I couldn't handle the pressure.


"I wish that it hadn't turned out this way," I continued. That much is true, at least. "I know and understand that loss is part of combat leadership, but I feel like the objective Sumire and Manabu died to accomplish was not worth the cost we paid."


Looking back on it, just disabling the APCs would have been more than enough to hinder the deployment of the Britannian goon squad – I should have told Squad 1 to fall back at that point, instead of trading fire to keep the mercenaries pinned. "I feel like I could have done a better job planning out the operation and found a way to achieve the same goals without the loss. I am angry at myself for this failure." Again, entirely true, and that should be enough probable cause to get Ohgi to drop it.


"In regards to my unprofessional conduct yesterday morning," I moved on, taking the bull by the horns and confronting my failings when it came to Yoshi's dawn arrival. I figured this might actually be a point that Ohgi, as the nearest thing the Kozuki Organization had to an HR manager, was concerned about, and so I did my best to express contrition. "I regret intruding on Yoshi's personal space; there was no excuse for it, and I will apologize to him when next I see him."


Ohgi had unaccountably begun to frown as I apologized. Wincing internally, I tried to explain the circumstances without sounding like I was trying to excuse my bad behavior. "I was feeling very worn out and tired, due to the stress of the operation the day before and the sleepless night. I had woken up worried about the three members of Squad 1. When I saw that they had arrived safely and intact, I forgot my manners. It will not happen again. The stress and worry was also why I declined to interact with anybody on the way back – I was concerned that my anxiety would lead me to further incivility."


Ohgi sighed and looked away, rubbing at his forehead with the base of his palm. "Well, Tanya... I'm sure everything you've said was completely true..." With a groan, he turned back to me with a complicated expression that I only saw for a moment, before it melted away as he made eye contact once again. I couldn't mistake that sympathetic look for anything else. "I'm happy to see that you're dealing with the loss so well. I'm proud of you."


What? Why?! I squandered two lives on a proxy mission given by a bastard so untrustworthy that he's actively conspiring against his boss's boss! Why would you be proud of me? I fucked up!


Somehow, Ohgi seemed to have noticed my disbelief. "I'm very proud of you, Tanya," he repeated firmly, "you did an excellent job, and I know that Sumire and Manabu would agree. They trusted you, Tanya, just like Nagata does and the rest of your friends do. I don't think they would say you squandered them – they knew the risks when they signed up, just like all the rest of us."


I tried to take consolation from that, but I couldn't. Who can speak for the dead? The living have a vested interest in putting words in their mouths. I'll never know if Sumire or Manabu would have agreed to die in rice paddies on the fringe of an unimportant city, and neither does Ohgi.


"For what it's worth," Ohgi continued, a light smile breaking the tension of the moment slightly, "I don't think Yoshi's at all bothered about your surprise hug. Personally, I think he was just shocked, and maybe a touch embarrassed – you don't need to apologize to him about it."


I forced an answering smile, to let Oghi I'd gotten the message. I didn't know why Ohgi thought the breach of protocol wasn't worth worrying about, considering how touch sensitive Japanese culture was, but if the officer in charge of intra-organizational matters said I didn't need to feel guilty about the matter, I would take his word for it. One less thing to worry about, I suppose.


Ohgi apparently decided to end on a high note with that piece of good news, insignificant though it was. He turned and started picking his way over the shingles of the beach towards the treeline and the path back to The School.


I watched him go for a moment, just to make sure that he wouldn't trip over any of the stones, before turning back out to the river. I still had another two hours of free time before I had to attend a meeting with the eighteen trainee squad leaders to work out the next week's chore assignments, and I saw no need to return to The School so much as a minute early.


Behind me, the sounds of rocks crunching underfoot stopped far too early for Ohgi to have made more than a few meters away. "...Tanya?" I half-turned, just far enough to see Ohgi out of my peripheral vision. "I'm very proud of you, but I know you'll do better next time around. Nobody's perfect, and we're all constantly learning and improving. I have complete confidence that you'll improve too."


I turned to face Ohgi entirely, and hopped down off the boulder. Half a year ago, I'd have thought that was a veiled threat... I would have heard an unstated "or else" at the end of that last sentence... In retrospect, I really was being very unfair to Ohgi. I found that I didn't need to force a smile as I picked my way over the river-smoothed stones to my friend. I can't say I approve of his blithe certainty, but... I'll do my best to prove his foolish optimism correct.


"Thank you for your confidence, Oghi," I clapped him on the shoulder as I walked past, somewhat surprised to realize that it wasn't as much of a reach as it had once been, "let's go check in on our trainees and see if anybody's brave enough to 'volunteer' for an optional fun run to get the blood flowing!"


---------


APRIL 16, 2016 ATB
"THE SCHOOL" TRAINING FACILITY


Almost a week after his sudden departure, Major Onoda reappeared with equal abruptness. He swaggered out of the woods just before lunchtime, his uniform neatly pressed and his puttees spotless. I could only assume that whatever hidden entrance to the JLF's subterranean tunnel network he had emerged from was remarkably close to school grounds, for him to have escaped the omnipresent springtime mud.


Onoda's attitude of smug self-satisfaction remained entirely intact when I joined him in the former principal's office for our scheduled meeting. I very swiftly learned the reason for Onoda's barely contained joy; almost before the door had closed behind me, the JLF officer's typical formality cracked.


"Ah, Miss Hajime, such a pleasure to see you again," Before I could respond to Onoda's surprisingly pleasant greeting, he had already moved on; clearly, etiquette was not high on his list of concerns for the evening. "I'm sure you'll be happy to hear that the first wave of recruits from Niigata and Toyama Prefectures have already found their way to the Front. Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe swore in the largest single batch of recruits we've had in four years last night."


I tilted my head respectfully as I lowered myself down onto the waiting pillow. "That must be a very nice feather in his cap; please pass my congratulations on to the Colonel." Judging by how Onoda had phrased the news, it sounded like Kusakabe had managed to induct the lion's share of the first wave directly into his faction. General Katase must be really losing his grip if Kusakabe's getting this bold.


"He will be pleased to hear it, I am sure." Onoda smirked for a moment, before thankfully answering a question I had been somewhat afraid to ask. "In light of the recent swelling in our ranks, General Katase has opted to extend official recognition to your operation in Niigata. Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe has, of course, been awarded a formal commendation for the operation and subsequent recruitment boost."


I smiled politely as I winced internally at Katase's unforced blunder. True, the leader of the JLF had been put on the horns of a thorny dilemma – either punish the officer whose boldness had led to the influx of fresh blood, or reward that officer for his rank insubordination – but my sympathy was limited; Katase had given Kusakabe far too much freedom and hadn't bothered to keep an eye on his clearly ambitious subordinate. And now he's been forced to publicly applaud Kusakabe's actions just to try and save face, all but guaranteeing Kusakabe's going to do the same thing again. It's the Kwantung Army all over again. For my sake, I could only hope my alliance of convenience with the JLF had run its course before they decided to invade China in the name of a defensible frontier.


"Truly, you outdid yourself, Miss Hajime," Onoda continued, mustache wriggling across his unusually expressive face, emotionless facade abandoned in light of this moment of triumph I had handed to his faction. "I will admit, I had my doubts if you and your militia would be able to successfully complete your mission, but you exceeded my wildest hopes."


A vicious smile crossed the Major's face as he leaned in over the low table between us. "Niigata Prefecture is spiraling out of Britannian control, thanks to your handling of affairs in Minamiuonuma City! The farmers and townsfolk of the prefecture have realized how weak the local minions of Prince Clovis truly are, and have begun to take matters into their own hands – every night for the past week, at least one house belonging to the family of an Honorary Britannian policeman has gone up in flames, sometimes with the family still inside! Lone collaborators are disappearing and being found dangling from trees or crammed into trash cans! Finally..." Onoda leaned back on his haunches, a smile that edged on the precipice of glee on his face, "Finally, the true sons of Japan are rising up against the running dog scum of Britannia!"


"I assume that the reprisals have begun?" I was more or less certain I already knew the answer, but I was curious what Onoda's opinion was about the likely hundreds of "true sons of Japan" that were paying for these impromptu attacks. "I find it hard to believe that the Britannian Army garrison in Niigata City has just been sitting back and watching as the trees sprout fruit overnight."


Onoda laughed at that. "Oh yes, they certainly have tried to smash the defiance back out of Niigata's people in the usual way. The crematories have been kept tragically busy, and at least one village has been entirely emptied." He leaned back in towards me with an almost conspiratorial air. "But the locals have gotten better and better at escaping into the woods when a Britannian column approaches. Many of the younger local men have even ended up finding their way to JLF outposts, ready and willing to join up to avenge these fresh Britannian atrocities! And the hangings continue! The Britannians are flailing about, but they lose more lackeys every day, and the number of recruits who remember Japan and sign up with us just keeps growing!"


It was difficult to keep the polite smile on my face as I nodded appreciatively along with Onoda's words. It was a dirty truth of guerrilla war that one of the greatest beneficiaries of atrocities committed by occupying powers were the local insurgents; the hatred generated by poorly disciplined soldiers or short-sighted officers lashing out was the fuel that the engines of rebellion thirstily drank. I was a beneficiary of this same truth, as most of my recruits had signed up in the aftermath of the Christmas Incident. That said...


I'd never been gleeful about it. I'd never laughed about it. I lived it, Major Onoda. I could have been one of the hundred civilians put up against a wall to pay the debt for a single Britannian's blood. But you've spent the years since the Conquest in a bunker, safe from that fate... Haven't you, Major?


"My congratulations to Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe, Major Onoda," I choked out with difficulty, "I imagine this sort of popular resistance does a great deal to strengthen his position when it comes to arguing in favor of a more aggressive policy."


Onoda beamed, utterly failing to conceal his naked delight at the horrors Kusakabe would undoubtedly try to unleash from his new position of strength. "Indeed! General Katase soon will be compelled to admit that the Day of Liberation is nearly at hand! Even 'Tohdoh of Miracles' cannot dispute that the momentum is starting to turn in our favor at long last!"


"My group and I would love to assist Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe with bringing the Day of Liberation upon us all the sooner," I replied, taking the opportunity to pivot away from gloating about past success into laying the groundwork for future operations, "but the most recent mission, successful though it was, revealed a significant flaw in the current doctrine and equipment of my organization."


Onoda raised an eyebrow, joy receding slightly now that matters of business were at hand. "Oh? It seems to my superiors and I that your little band did a more than adequate job with your current equipment. What's this flaw you claim to have uncovered?"


"We lack specially equipped anti-armor units, Major," I replied, smoothly ignoring the implied insult in his response. Amazing how short-lived gratitude can be – from "outdoing ourselves" to "more than adequate" in minutes! "While we were able to complete the JLF's objective with the Niigata Mission, the anti-personnel and light anti-vehicle munitions we used were only marginally effective against outdated armored vehicles. As the Britannian Army heavily fields Knightmare Frames, as well as other armored units, an effective anti-armor weapon will be necessary to deal damage to regular Britannian units."


Onoda hummed his agreement, before tapping on the table. "That is a good point, Miss Hajime, and your organization's primary value to the JLF is as a deniable unit for use against the Britannians. Training and equipping your organization to the point where you're actually dangerous to the foreign invaders would be useful towards that end."


I nodded my careful agreement. Onoda was, unfortunately, accurate – the Kozuki Organization was best used as an enabler of his faction's ongoing campaign of gekokujo, which also implied that we were both deniable and disposable. Since we both already agreed on that point, that statement of fact clearly wasn't the other shoe dropping. Wait for it...


"On the other hand," Onoda continued, "you still owe me another mission for the past three month's worth of logistical support. If you want access to the JLF's stockpile of anti-armor weaponry, not to mention ongoing logistical support for your fresh cohort of recruits..." There it is.


"Of course, Major Onoda," I had been waiting and preparing for this resumption of negotiations for months, and it was almost a relief that it had finally come. While the JLF still held most of the cards for this round, I wasn't coming to the table quite as empty handed as I had the first time around.


During the first round of negotiations, I had been representing an organization that was coming to the JLF as a new hire – one that had a recommendation from a senior partner, but a new hire nonetheless. I had little to offer at that point, and Major Onoda had been blatant in his disrespect and distaste for my organization in general and myself in particular. Now, I was representing an established contractor of sorts, one that had proven it could complete complex and high stress projects and could use resources efficiently. Besides that, I was a known quantity to the Major; he still might not particularly like me, but at least he wasn't dismissing me out of hand on the basis of my hair color and gender.


"During the time that you have spent assisting with the instruction of my recruits, you have consistently expressed your interest in blooding the trainees as part of their instruction," Indeed, it had been the one point that Onoda Hiroo had brought up over and over again, insisting that the lack of killing only produced half-baked soldiers. If nothing else, that sort of singular focus indicated a potential lever.


"I am still dubious about the efficacy of blooding tomorrow's soldiers by killing bound civilian targets, as stabbing bound men and women has little in common with defeating armed opponents, but I agree that some seasoning would improve the training program."


"As such, in exchange for ongoing logistical support for The School, as liaison for the JLF, you would have the right to give each graduating cohort of trainees a mission with objectives set as you see fit, contingent on approval from myself or another officer." Much as I hated to admit it, for all of his faults Onoda was a highly capable soldier, an expert scout, a skilled intelligence operator, and a surprisingly effective trainer. Giving him what he wanted would probably end up as a net benefit for both my organization and the JLF. I just hate giving him the win... But such is the negotiation process.


Besides... there was no way I would give him carte blanche to send my comrades into danger, at least not without sign-off from Naoto, Ohgi, or myself. I had not spent months of my time training up a new cohort of soldiers just to watch them be squandered in the name of appeasing Onoda's blood lust.


Onoda sucked noncommittally through his teeth, but I could tell by the glint in his eye that he was interested. And now that I've given him what he wanted, let's see if he'll meet me halfway...


"And I suppose if I am blooding your trainees by sending them after objectives important to the JLF, it would be in our benefit to train and equip them with anti-armor weapons," Onoda mused aloud, nodding his head. "Yes, I suppose I could sell that point to my superiors... You do understand that this doesn't get you out of your obligation to personally complete a second mission, yes?"


I tilted my head at an appropriately deferential angle, and carefully made sure no hint of the internal sense of triumph touched my face. "Of course, Major. And I am ready to deploy on that mission at your convenience."


"Excellent," the smirk had returned to Onoda's face, "I happen to have a job at hand that I think would be perfect for you, and would give your recruits a chance to familiarize themselves with those anti-armor weapons you seem so taken by."


It was fortunate that my head was still tilted forward, since I don't think I could have concealed the spasm of anger that flashed across my face. Dammit! I knew that was way too easy! The bastard walked me into this! He'd been planning on giving me anti-tank weapons the whole time! Yet another reminder that it was a mistake to think of Onoda as a mere bloodthirsty monster – he unquestionably was a murderous piece of work, but he was also lethally intelligent. I had no idea he was playing me! He must be incredible at poker!


"I'm glad to hear that," I replied, hastily reassembling my polite smile and looking up to reestablish eye contact. "What's the objective this time?"


Onoda's smirk once again faded in favor of a more serious expression. He's a professional, even if he is a petty bastard. "The JLF has intercepted intelligence that, in response to the ongoing violence in Niigata, the Prefect of Nagano plans on establishing a number of bases along entry points into Nagano from Niigata to prevent any spillover into his territory. Apparently he's concerned about bands of rebels and bandits hanging his policemen and interfering with planting season."


I nodded. That seemed like a sensible enough approach – improving fortifications at choke points along the border and supplementing patrols of the interior would make it more difficult to operate openly. Whichever lord had been appointed as the Prefect of Nagano was clearly either competent or willing to listen to competent advisors.


"One of the smaller new garrisons will be located in the village of Sakae," Onoda continued, "at the border of Nagano and Niigata Prefectures. It also happens to sit on the main train line through the Hida Mountains, as well as on the intersection of Route 117 and Prefectural Routes 238 and 507. It's got a population of around two thousand Japanese, so the Prefect is sending a company of Knightmares – five squads of four – and a battalion of infantry, plus attached support units."


"It sounds like the Prefect chose his new base's location quite well," I replied. From what I dimly remembered of Nagano's geography, Sakae was in the extreme northeast of the prefecture, but based on Onoda's description it was a natural choke point. The valley it sat in was the only efficient way through the so-called "Japanese Alps", and the intersection of multiple prefectural routes would give the garrison the ability to lock down most traffic in the area with ease.


Onoda nodded. "He did indeed. That said, the base isn't fully established yet – the infantry have already set up in the location, but the Knightmare company hasn't been dispatched yet. We have received word that the first squad of that company will be escorting two trucks full of maintenance tools and spare parts for Knightmare Frames from Nagano City to Sakae in two days. Stealing those supplies would be of great value to the JLF, and would give us time to move units through the choke point from Niigata and Gunma into Nagano, before the Knightmares arrive and complicate the situation."


I nodded vaguely, turning the situation over in my mind. This was definitely a priority mission, since removing a dug-in military installation in a mountain valley without aerial support would be tricky at best, and almost impossible if a company of highly agile Knightmares were on scene to support the infantry units.


That said... I hadn't seen a Knightmare in person since the second year after the Conquest, when the Britannians had finished crushing the last resurgence of organized resistance in Shinjuku. They were figures that stalked my memories of the Conquest and the brutal times that had followed after, though, and I remembered endless stories of how effortlessly Britannian Knightmares had destroyed the Japanese Army. I wasn't eager to tangle with the mechanical monsters of Britannia myself.


But if not now, when? It's got to come sometime... And I can't exactly turn this mission down without burning my value in Onoda's eyes...


"Do you need the Knightmares or the trucks, or only the cargo?" I asked, trying to focus on the concrete details of the task at hand. "And do you know the intended route and timetable?"


As it turned out, Onoda's source had given him all the information I would need. A few minutes later, we agreed to meet again tomorrow afternoon after the last training session of the day so I could present my intended strategy. For better or worse, I was committed to my first mission with Knightmares attached to the opposition.


---------


APRIL 18, 2016 ATB
SAKAE, NAGANO
0527


Corporal Martin Lancaster, of the 4th​ Support Regiment, was not having a good day. As he stepped down from the cab of the truck, he was filled with the horrible certainty that it was about to get significantly worse.


Lancaster had found out late the night before that he had drawn the miserable duty of accompanying a delivery of spare parts out into the mountainous hinterlands, courtesy of the chief of the Knightmare Maintenance section. When Lancaster had asked why the Logistics boys had needed his company for a routine delivery, he'd been informed that the Powers That Be had decided that the Sakae outpost would have a Knightmare repair bay attached, and that part of the standard paperwork for such a facility was the sign-off of a rated technician.


Since Martin had been out on leave yesterday when that decision had been handed down from on high, he hadn't been in the room at the time, and some bastard had volunteered him for the duty. A duty, he'd been irritated to learn, scheduled to begin at four the next morning when the delivery convoy was scheduled to leave Nagano Barracks with an escort of Knightmares.


Needless to say, come the next morning, Corporal Lancaster hadn't been looking or feeling his best when he had reported in to the lieutenant commanding the escorting Knightmare squad. Despite the purpose of the convoy being an almost purely logistical matter, Lieutenant McPherson had wound up in command of the operation by dint of claiming that, as the trucks were transporting spare parts and maintenance tools for Knightmare Frames, the convoy should be under the authority of the local expert on Knightmares.


Personally, Martin suspected that the officer, as both a noble and a Knightmare pilot and so doubly arrogant, would rather lick his Frame clean than take orders from a common-born Logistics Corps oik. Neither of the truck drivers had felt the need to argue with the man, and so the little convoy had set out on the hour and a half drive to Sakae Village.


The drive had been quiet, and the roads nearly empty so early in the morning. Martin had been halfway to napping in the passenger seat of the lead truck when the radio had suddenly crackled to life only ten minutes out from their destination.


"Lance Lead to all units! Halt immediately! Suspected explosive device identified. Over"


Martin's drowsiness had vanished as the icy claws of shock sank into his shoulders and back. He'd fumbled for the radio, checking the channel and flipping the switch to transmit as the driver immediately began to slow to a halt. "C-copy that, Lance Lead," he had stuttered into the microphone, "Location of the device? Over."


"Look on the right side of the road by the tunnel and it should be obvious. Over." Internally cursing the noble prick, Martin did as he was bid, and had immediately understood the lieutenant's concern. A hundred yards ahead of the leading pair of Knightmares, a tunnel gaped, the darkness of the interior barely dented by the dim line of light fixtures, half of which were burnt out and in need of repair. Just barely outside the tunnel's entrance, an oil drum lay on its side, blue paint chipped away to reveal rusting sides. A few pieces of garbage were scattered around the drum, and maybe the wire protruding from one side of it was just another piece of such garbage.


Or perhaps not.


Martin had licked his suddenly dry lips. 'It's probably just garbage,' he had reminded himself, 'nothing to worry about.' But if it wasn't... He'd shaken his head, trying to force the thought from his mind. There were other ways to get to Sakae – less efficient, admittedly, but still there. That said, showing up late because of some roadside garbage wouldn't look good either...


As if to respond to his thought, the radio had crackled back to life, and said exactly what Martin had been afraid it would. "Lance Lead to Truck 1. Send the passenger out on foot to visually inspect the drum. Go see if that wire connects to anything. Over."


The driver had glanced sidelong over at Martin, who suddenly felt completely unable to move. The logistics man reached over, flicked the transmit switch, and replied. "Roger that, Lance Lead, he's on his way." Flicking the switch off, the driver had shrugged apologetically at Martin. "Guess you drew the short straw, eh? C'mon, get out before that prick starts pissin' over us all."


And now, Martin found himself slowly walking up the road, doing his best to conceal the nerve-wracking tension. The escorting Knightmares, and the asshole lieutenant commanding them, were already yards behind him. Ahead, the dark mouth of the tunnel loomed, the drum protruding like a broken tooth.


'Why the hell is the tunnel so dark?' Martin wondered, deliberately not thinking about how many pounds of high explosive and nails could conceivably be crammed into an oil drum. 'This is a priority road – DPW should've changed out those bulbs months ago!'


In all likelihood, if funds had ever been allocated for maintenance of the Route 117 Tunnel, Martin was all but certain they'd been immediately embezzled – the Directorate of Public Works was infamously corrupt. Which explained why the only infrastructure projects making any progress in the Area were the ones the Governor had taken a personal interest in, like the MagLev extensions. And, of course, the roads and rails feeding the Sakuradite mining complexes.


Suddenly, Martin found himself only ten feet or so from the drum. He looked back over his shoulder, and could almost feel the lieutenant glaring at him through the Sutherland's Factsphere, demanding him to "hurry up and get on with it!" Swallowing, he turned back to the drum, horribly aware that his body armor was only rated for small caliber rounds and shrapnel, not explosive devices meant to take out vehicles.


'Why the hell am I having to do this?' Martin raged as he tried to muster up the will to take another step forward, and then another. 'There's gotta be some Elevens around here – farmers, or loggers, or whatever! Why the hell didn't the lieutenant just give us the permission to grab one of them to play human minesweeper, huh? I'm a goddamned certified Knightmare tech – a rated maintenance professional! This kinda shit is Number work!"


The drum was at Martin's feet, and his heart was in his mouth. Praying to a God who suddenly felt all too close, Martin slowly, carefully, knelt down before the drum, and leaned to the side. The damp air wafting out of the tunnel felt clammy and cold, even colder than the mountain air, and Martin shivered uncontrollably as cold wet fingers ran across the nape of his exposed neck. He couldn't see anything in the dark interior of the barrel, just that wire, snaking away...


Martin suddenly remembered the small flashlight built into the side of his visor, and felt like an idiot. Flicking it on, Corporal Lancaster abruptly felt all the tension and dread flow out of him. The drum was full of smashed up concrete and bent rebar – clearly the results of some sort of demolition. With an experimental jerk, the wire came loose in his hands, revealing itself to just be a simple piece of overlooked scrap protruding from the garbage.


Flicking the light off, Martin got back to his knees, dusting his gloved hands off before activating the radio built into his helmet. "Corporal Lancaster to Lance Lead, the barrel's full of busted concrete. Someone's demolishing something, and a barrel probably fell off the truck they were using to haul away the debris, over."


A moment later, the lieutenant responded. "Lance Lead here. If that's the case, quit standing around like a fool and get back in the truck. This nonsense has put us behind schedule – and I hate being late. Over."


Martin acknowledged the junior officer and major pain in the ass's order and began walking back to the truck. Now that the stress of potential death via explosion had receded, it was quite a nice morning for a walk – the air was pleasantly crisp, the sound of the wind in the cedars a pleasant accompaniment to the early morning birdsong, and the perfume of the spring flowers hung heavily. 'Maybe today will be a good day after all.'


---------


APRIL 18, 2016 ATB
SAKAE, NAGANO
0530


Senior Lieutenant Kenneth McPherson drummed his fingers impatiently as that oaf Lancaster slowly made his way back to the truck, before taking his sweet time to climb back into the cab. Almost as soon as the door closed behind the insolent pissant, Kenneth's index finger was jabbing at the 'transmit' button on his Knightmare's instrument panel. "Lance Lead to Convoy – advance in formation, over."


Beneath him, the Yggdrasil Drive whirred to life, and Kenneth could practically see the Core Luminous spinning with increasing speed in his mind's eye as his majestic Sutherland cruised into the tunnel. From the corner of his eye, Kenneth noticed the engravings of flowers, mountains, and the old crest of Nagano Prefecture, and grimaced with disgust. 'An old Eleven tunnel, built before the Conquest... It's amazing the damned thing is still passable."


The mere thought of the original builders of the tunnel made Kenneth wince. Numbers were always inferior, but Numbers who came from Areas 2 through 9 were at times almost good enough to pass as Britannians. Yes, they were generally lazier, and generally lacked the keen martial value of true Britannians from Area 1, the Homeland, but they weren't necessarily a bad sort. After in some cases centuries under the Britannian yoke, virtually every trace of their original backwards cultures had been corrected away, and the true Imperial Anglican faith had spread to even the most isolated valleys and islands.


Numbers from Areas 10 through 15, on the other hand, were a different story. Taken together, the inhabitants of the Southeast Asian and the Pacific territories west of Area 7 were stupid, ungrateful, and intemperate brutes who couldn't figure out how to handle even the most simple tasks. The notable exception to this rule were, of course, the Elevens.


Kenneth's jaw clenched with barely controlled anger. He wouldn't even have to be out here wasting his time shepherding these damned trucks if it weren't for the Elevens forgetting their place! Ever since that pack of bandits and rebels up north in Niigata had gotten lucky, defiance had leapt from one Eleven to the next.


The Elevens had always been cut from a different cloth than the rest of the Numbers, that much was clear. It was equally clear to Kenneth McPherson that this was not a good thing. The Elevens, once the residents and citizens of a developed country, were cunning and sly where the Tens, the Twelves, and the Thirteens were stupid, but they devoted every iota of that malicious intelligence towards creative malingering, sabotage, and outright defiance. Too cowardly to stand up and fight, the Elevens preferred to conduct hit and run attacks whenever they emerged from their bunkers, as they had almost two weeks previous in Niigata.


McPherson hated Elevens. To his own discomfort, he found himself increasingly disliking the Viceroy Governor, Prince Clovis la Britannia, for his softhearted and gentle approach to the damnable natives.


'If only a real governor could somehow be appointed, this whole mess would be ship-shape in no time,' McPherson fantasized as he and his wingman exited the tunnel at the head of the convoy, 'Someone like Princess Cornelia or Princess Marrybell, or Princess Carine... If not a royal, perhaps Lord Stadtfeld or Lord Farshaw... Hell, even that maniac Sir Bradley would be able to put these upstart Numbers back in their place in days! Unlike Prince Clovis...'


Kenneth sighed. It had been such a disappointment, for himself and for his family, when he had been assigned to Area 11. Not only was the Area a colonial backwater far from the glamorous and glorious battles waged against the European degenerates in Africa and the Atlantic, the province was also nearly impoverished, making profitable opportunities few and far between. The only export worth anything was the Sakuradite, and that whole industry was locked far too tight for a small noble family like the McPhersons to get involved with. And on top of all of that...


Kenneth was a Knightmare devicer, a latter day knight atop a charger, the king of the modern battlefield! He'd ranked in the top thirtieth percentile back at the Academy and had placed twenty-third out of the hundred hopefuls during Knightmare training! He knew he wasn't Knight of the Rounds material, but he was still a highly trained pilot! A killing machine piloting another killing machine!


Instead of having the opportunity to prove that the training hadn't been wasted, not to mention any opportunity to prove that he would have earned his lieutenancy even if his father hadn't purchased his commission, Kenneth had been sent to Area 11. Far from any honorable combat where he could earn a true knighthood and perhaps even a fief to call his own, and in sleepy Nagano City, far from even the trivial rush of combat against Eleven rebels.


Kenneth was momentarily startled out of his increasingly dark ruminations as his Knightmare jolted over a slight bump. He blinked, momentarily surprised to find himself rolling onto a bridge. 'Weren't' we just in a tunnel?' Turning his Factsphere back over his shoulder, he saw the tunnel disappear behind the hill the provincial highway curved around. Fortunately, he also saw both trucks and the tailing pair of Knightmares bringing up the rear.


With a rueful sigh, Lieutenant McPherson turned back around, chastising himself for losing track of time and place. He'd been more or less steering his Frame by instinct, while his mind had wandered down the endless list of grudges and misfortunes he'd been forced to endure. 'Not that it really matters,' Kenneth chuckled to himself as he looked down to check the digital map. Seven minutes to go. 'There's no Eleven rebels out here. They're all up in Niigata... Pity that.'


'And... Honestly, having a chance to actually kill a few Number scum would have made this entire pain in the ass trip worth it.'


Kenneth had known that someone had to escort the trucks, considering the valuable cargo they carried, and had earned himself a few brownie points with the Captain by volunteering for the job, but it was a painfully dull task. He might have been in command of the convoy, as was right and natural, but it wasn't like he could do anything fun with his newly gained and temporary command. 'If only some idiots tried to rush my squad with swords... Ah, that would liven the day up, for a few minutes at least..."


The Sutherland jolted again as the landspinners crossed the bump at the end of the bridge, and Kenneth thought unkind thoughts about the DPW. Some corruption was, sadly, a fact of life – after all, the gears always needed a bit of oil to turn, but... 'Between the lights back in the tunnel and the surfacing on this bridge, this is completely unacceptable!' Sure the highway was rural, but with the construction of the new forward base at Sakae actual Britannians would have to use this road, not just Honorary Britannians and Numbers!


As Senior Lieutenant Kenneth McPherson made a mental note to submit a formal complaint with his superior about the shoddy road maintenance provided by the DPW, he vaguely noticed a heat source appear in the extreme peripheral vision of his Factsphere's monitor. Before he could turn his Knightmare's head towards the unexplained heat signature, Lieutenant McPherson suddenly found his wish for Eleven rebels granted as a series of explosions resounded from somewhere behind him. An instant later, two anti-armor shoulder-launched missiles slammed into the sides of his pilot pod, smashing the thin armor and killing him instantly.


---------


APRIL 18, 2016 ATB
SAKAE, NAGANO
0536


Youji shivered where he lay on his belly in the dew-soaked grass, as he had for the last half hour. Unlike the tremors of the last thirty minutes, his shivering had nothing to do with the wet cold soaking through his thin jacket from the sopping wet blanket draped over his shoulders and head. Now, Youji shivered with excitement as the pair of Knightmares leading the Britannian convoy rolled past the end of the bridge two hundred meters east of his position.


After six years, the first installment on Youji's long deferred vengeance was about to be paid.


A part of Youji, the part that burned with six years of grief and pain, desperately wanted to throw off the shroud dripping with river water, to rise to his feet and to open fire on the Britannians immediately. That part of him, which seemed to be down somewhere in his chest, next to the internal pocket sheltering the faded picture of his fiancee, folded and stained and kept safe from the water in plastic wrap, radiated throbbing heat throughout his core.


That part of Youji, wounded these six years, had impulsively lashed out again and again since he had lost her, seeking to hurt the uncaring world as he had been hurt. It was an old and familiar instinct, leaning in to unreasoning anger as an escape from the crushing grief that brought him to his knees whenever he let himself think, let himself remember.


That part of Youji snarled and raved, but was now held back by what he pictured as a steel collar and chain leash. He had forged that collar and that chain, blow by blow and link by link, over the last three and a half months of training. The trio of instructors, which had grown by one a week into the program, had helped him along the way, but ultimately it was his will that now contained his temper.


His four month journey to this prefectural roadside had started not in Shinjuku, and not at the side of his long-dead fiancee, but rather in the smoldering Honorary Britannian neighborhoods of the Tokyo Settlement.


Youji had been having a "good day" of sorts when the call had gone out for able-bodied men eager for work; thanks to the Rising Sun Association, he had a mostly full belly, and he had felt emotionally stable. At the very least, the black grief and the red anger weren't drowning out the world around him. So, Youji had trudged into the Settlement with thousands of other Elevens, signed up with a work crew, and had been trucked over to the work site.


It had been like taking a trip to the past, to the horrible days immediately following the Conquest. The architecture of the burnt out buildings was different, but the shattered windows and gutted rooms were all too familiar. Gulping back emotion and memory, Youji had joined the rest of his crew in hauling rubble to the waiting dump truck.


She had only been dead for a day, and it was December, so putrification hadn't had time to set in. Even if she had begun to rot, Youji probably wouldn't have smelled her, considering the reek of burnt plastic and linoleum that filled the remains of the charred apartment building. 'Bet it was the smoke that got her,' Youji had thought, as he'd helped two of his new co-workers lift a chunk of fallen roofing material off the table the woman had crawled under. Her clothes had been scorched in places, but judging by her cyanotic face it hadn't been the heat that had killed her.


The dead woman, whose body had been unceremoniously flung into the truck with the other burnable garbage, lingered with Youji as he continued to work, and followed him back to Shinjuku. Honorary Britannian collaborator or not, the way she had tried to curl up under the table...


An inquiry or two at the Rising Sun meeting hall had taken him to a back room, where Youji had been politely grilled by two women as to his motivations, history, and goals. The older woman he had seen a few times at the meeting hall, but as far as he had known, she was just another volunteer helping the Association distribute food to the starving people of Shinjuku. Hajime Tanya, on the other hand... He'd heard the rumors, of course, but it had been hard to believe that the scrawny hafu asking about his work experience had really taken three adults down in a minute using only her bare hands.


Four months later, those rumors no longer seemed the slightest bit absurd.


And now, Youji waited patiently for the signal from that same hafu, albeit a bit less scrawny, a bit more muscular, and slightly taller, to arm the weapon laying next to him in the grass. The shoulder-fired missile launcher had only been issued to him that morning, and he had only had a chance to practice with similar launchers for a few hours before leaving on the mission, but Youji wasn't concerned. The launcher had been designed to be easy to use, and the target would only be twenty to thirty meters away. 'And close is going to be more than good enough...'


A second later, the handheld radio clipped to his belt clicked twice as the second truck left the bridge. Moving carefully, Youji twisted the base of the stout weapon, causing the inner tube to telescope out and lock in place. Rolling onto his side, he picked up the launcher and tucked it over his right shoulder before flopping back onto his belly, taking care to shelter the trigger button on top of the assembly. 'Any second now...'


The flanking pair of Knightmares rolled off the bridge meters behind the second truck. Youji focused on taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. 'Any second now... Any second...' The leading pair of Knightmares were almost directly in front of him, the top of the pilot pod a meter or so below the edge of the hill cut he lay on top of. Youji gulped, trying to force the wad of thick mucus and saliva down his suddenly constricted throat as the unit insignia painted in gold on the front of the closest Knightmare glistened in the light of a rogue sunbeam. 'It's gotta be soon... Soon... Soon...'


Suddenly, the lead truck seemed to jolt once, and then twice, and began to wildly fishtail across the road as the driver lost control of the truck. Youji couldn't see it in the early morning light, but he was certain the truck had just rolled across the improvised spike strip he'd helped make, nails strung together with chicken-wire and painted grey. 'Which means...' The radio clipped to his belt let out a trio of blasts of static as the little hafu hit the transmit button once, twice, and thrice from wherever she was hiding.


'Finally!'


The overlapping explosions of four missile launches slammed into Youji's ears as the blanket cascaded down his back. He smoothly rose to one knee, blanket pooling over his trailing leg as he brought the rocket launcher down to bear on the Knightmare below and in front of him. To his left and right, the other four members of his squad likewise knelt, though only the two comrades to his left had their fingers on the trigger buttons; across the road, five other figures likewise pointed their launchers down into the roadbed below. From the corner of his eye, Youji could see one of the trailing Knightmares slam into the hillside, but ignored it – he had a job to do.


Smoothly, squeezing not jerking, Youji depressed the button on his launcher, supporting the tube as it bucked his hand. The backblast, joined by his two squadmates, was enough to shred the overgrown bushes behind him, but Youji's eyes were glued to the Knightmare immediately in front of him. The unguided missile had slammed into the broad side of the pilot pod, almost perpendicularly to the ground. Judging by the absolute devastation, at least one of the rockets fired by his comrades on the other ridge had gone a bit high and slammed into the other side of the same Knightmare's pilot pod – it looked like some pair of giant hands had clapped the frame, caving in both sides of the lightly armored compartment and obliterating whatever and whoever had been inside.


The stricken Knightmare's wingmate had also been hit, but only by one missile and only glancingly, if Youji was any judge. The back of the pilot pod looked like it had been smashed by some fiery mallet, and bulged inwards.


The second Knightmare outlived the first by only a few seconds. The operation's leader had planned for a target surviving the initial barrage, and an instant later, the four insurgents who had held fire during the first salvo pushed their own launcher's buttons. The second Knightmare ruptured; a fireball forcing itself from somewhere deep inside the monstrous device's guts as the Yggdrasil Drive destabilized.


The second truck, blocked from reversing by the burning ruins of the flanking Knightmares, tried to run. The driver slammed to the left, trying to get around the immobilized bulk of the first truck, and had nearly made it around his unlucky companion when a small form half-ran, half slid down the opposing slope.


The tiny figure, blonde ponytail streaming like a banner behind her, raised the pistol clenched in her right and fired two shots through the driver's side window without stopping or slowing, before jumping on the running board. A moment later, the truck came to a complete stop, and first the driver, then the passenger climbed down out of the truck, hands in the air, and knelt on the road before the feet of Hajime Tanya.


At the sight, Youji finally let his discipline slip. Throwing his spent launcher to the ground, he raised both hands to the sky, and howled at the day's victory. "Japan! Japan! Long live Japan! Death to all invaders! Death!" He could barely hear himself over the ringing in his ears, but he was certain his comrades were baying alongside him as the Knightmares, the symbols of Britannian domination over the might of Japan, burnt in the scorched roadbed below them.


---------


APRIL 18, 2016 ATB
SAKAE, NAGANO
0540


Rena sighed with exasperation as her squadmates hooted like a troop of macaques over their victory. She was tempted to chide them for the unprofessional display, for celebrating before the mission was well and truly completed, but... She couldn't deny the joy that had surged through her as the last Knightmare standing had been pummeled into the roadside loam.


Besides, the broad toothy grin Rena could feel spreading across her face would probably undermine any rebuke she tried to make.


'And there's nothing worse than being a hypocrite,' Rena thought with amusement as she picked up her discarded blanket and started hauling it and the spent launcher towards the lumber yard where the Furude brothers, the designated drivers, had parked the vans. 'Except maybe being a Britannian.'


Rena met the Furudes in the parking lot as they filed out of the lumber yard's office building, along with the four employees of the yard's early shift they'd been keeping an eye on. Per orders from on high, the temporarily detained employees had been kept under supervision in the break room and given breakfast, but hadn't been permitted to leave the Furudes' watchful gaze.


"Hey, Rena, what's the news?" Yuu, the elder of the Furude brothers, greeted her from the end of the little procession, releasing the handguard of his rifle as he waved. "We heard the signal over the radio – did it work?"


"You know it, Yuu!" It was hard to retain even the slightest bit of professionalism as Rena dumped her armload of blanket and spent launcher into the van's trunk, turning with a grin towards her not at all handsome and cool comrade. "They rolled right into it, and then BOOM!"


Rena couldn't help but make the explosion noise herself, just to really underline how amazing it had been to watch the two rear Knightmares explode as the four comrades laying in the drainage ditches along the bridge had stood up and fired their missiles straight into the back of the pilot pods. "As soon as the truck hit that spike strip, they were dead meat!"


Yuu laughed appreciatively, and Rena couldn't help but notice how fetchingly the white headband with the red rising sun ringed in yellow contrasted with his shoulder-length black hair. 'Plus...' She thought, noticing how his chest moved as he laughed, 'the training's been real good to him...'


"You know," Rena said, walking back towards the road, and just happened to take a route that went directly past Yuu and his charges, "I managed to hit one of the Brit bastards myself – it was a beautiful shot, Yuu, right in the side of the pod! Wish you'd been there to see it..." Suddenly, he was only an arm's length away, and somehow he looked really good holding that rifle...


The radios on Yuu's and Rena's belt suddenly crackled to life, making Rena jump with surprise. Flustered, she quickly looked away from Yuu as she fumbled for her radio. To her growing consternation, she realized that Yuu's little brother, Taka, and all four of the Japanese workers the brothers had been supervising were all staring at her and Yuu with open amusement.


"Yellow to Watcher 1, what's your status, and the status of the workers, over?" Rena stopped trying to grab her radio and instead took the opportunity to resume her... not her retreat, her return to the roadside. 'You've got a job to do! It's very important!' She reminded herself, doing her best to ignore how hot her ears felt as she heard the unmistakable sound of badly suppressed laughter behind her.


"Watcher 1 to Yellow," Rena heard Yuu begin to report as she turned the corner of the road and started picking her way down the road, stepping over and around scraps of the leading Knightmares. "Everything is good here. Watcher 2 is getting his van fired up, and our guests have behaved themselves. Over."


"Yellow to Watcher 1, thank your guests for cooperating and let them go. Warn them of probable retaliation, and ask them to spread word to their neighbors, then get ready to go. Over." Rena heard the tail end of the last transmission in stereo as she walked past 'Yellow', the tiny blonde's voice overlapping with the crackling output from the radio. Keeping her distance to prevent feedback, Rena circled around Commander Tanya and the line of men lying prone with their hands bound on the side of the road and clambered into the intact truck's cab through the passenger door.


The military truck was somewhat different from the old panel truck that Instructor Nagata had taught Rena how to drive as part of the classes, and she spent some time getting familiar with the layout of the dashboard. As she moved the seat forward and down, and adjusted the mirrors, a line of her comrades formed, hauling everything man-portable out of the immobilized truck and into any available space in the bed of her truck. The truck was still running, so she fortunately didn't have to worry about getting the engine warmed up.


Up ahead and a few hundred meters down the road, Rena could see one of the vans driven by the Furude brothers pulling up to the small construction hut located near the junction, and the trio of comrades hastily hauling the machine-gun, the tripod, and the ammunition boxes out from inside the hut. In the event that one of the trucks had made it past the spike strip and the other impediments, the machine-gun nest had been a backup, ready to rake the driver's compartment and engine block with hundreds of rounds per minute. Rena felt sorry for them. 'The poor guys didn't even get to fire off a shot – we were just too good.'


Finally, as the bucket line of comrades hauling cargo broke up and after Tanya dealt with the Britannian prisoners, Rena's radio crackled back to life. "Yellow to Red 2, head south from Hirataki. We'll be using drop point D-3. Confirm, over."


Rena unclipped the handheld radio from her belt and pulled the folded map out from her shirt, unfolding it on the passenger seat as she used her other hand to transmit. "Red 2 to Yellow, confirmed point D-3. Over."


"Yellow to Red 2. Good. Get going – Scope is already on his motorbike heading east on 408. He'll meet you when you cross the Chikuma, and the rest of us will be following right behind you, over." Rena nodded for a second, before remembering that she had been talking to Tanya over the radio and stopped. 'No time like the present, I guess,' She thought, and put the truck into first gear. The heavily loaded vehicle shuddered into motion, and Rena carefully maneuvered her way through the debris of the ambush, cursing the somewhat sticky clutch as she finagled around the sprawled leg of the lead Knightmare.


'Can't wait for this mission to be over...' Rena thought, yawning as the sleepiness from so much early morning activity hit her as the adrenaline of action faded away. 'Wonder if we'll get a fun after-party too, like after the last mission? We better. And we didn't even lose anybody this time, so the mood should be way better too!'


Buoyed by the thought, Rena hummed cheerfully as she turned right and headed south across the next bridge over the Chikuma River. True to Tanya's word, Scope – the lookout who had kept an eye from the bushes on the tunnel and had reported on the convoy's progress to Tanya – was waiting for her at the intersection with Prefectural Route 408, straddling his motorcycle. He waved to her, and she waved back through the shattered driver's side window, before he kicked his bike's motor back to life and swung out onto the road behind her.


Rena continued along her way, taking care to drive carefully on the winding mountain roads as she did so. 'It'd be really embarrassing if I crashed the truck on the way to the drop-off point,' She reasoned, as she kept a steady pace of 50 kilometers an hour as two white vans fell into the procession behind her and Scope. 'Besides,' a treacherous and highly unprofessional voice laughed in her mind, 'it'll be impossible to get Yuu's attention if you seize mission failure from the jaws of success!' Clenching her teeth, Rena focused on the road and tried her best to forget that Yuu was likely staring at the back of her truck from behind his own wheel.


Fortunately for Rena, the drop-off went perfectly. Tanya must have radioed ahead, because almost as soon as she had pulled off the highway onto the small Forest Service road, two men stepped out of the trees. Leaving the truck running, Rena hopped out and waved at one of the men, who, she noticed, was wearing a uniform very much like Major Onoda's, only less worn-looking and minus the mud stains. 'Delivery courtesy of the Rising Sun,' she chirped as she bowed slightly to the men, before making her way back towards Yuu's van, a spring in her step. 'Mission accomplished! We're definitely gonna have a a party after this!'


---------


APRIL 18, 2016 ATB
EAST OF MT TORIKABUTO, SAKAE, NAGANO
0703


I stretched back as best as I could in the van's passenger seat, trying to ignore the irritating sensation of damp cloth sticking and pulling on my skin. Major Onoda, who claimed to be somewhat familiar with the sensory equipment of Knightmare Frames, had suggested the wet blankets as a way to conceal the presence of my ambush party from the thermal vision of the Factspheres.


Onoda's suggestion had worked like a charm; dripping with river water from a quick immersion in the Chikuma, the squad of Sutherlands hadn't noticed anything until it was far too late. Likewise, Ohgi's thoughts that, in order for the ejector mechanisms to work, the armoring on the pilot pods had to be light was proven entirely correct.


My trainees had performed well in the aftermath of the ambush as well. The extraction process had been orderly and quick, and the handover of the Britannian truck crammed full of spare parts for Sutherlands and a variety of tools presumably related to Knightmare maintenance had gone off without a hitch.


mce-anchor Despite this generally positive performance on the part of my newly graduated trainees, there was still room for improvement. I would let the trainees enjoy their party, enjoy their victory, but… Squads 2 and 3 would be paying dearly for their impromptu victory celebration tomorrow. I didn't know if pushups would fully drive my displeasure at their lack of discipline in an active combat situation, but it would at least improve their upper arm and core strength.


I'd been concerned that the JLF receivers would ask after the other truck, but neither of them had asked any questions over radio or in person. Of course, that didn't mean that Front members higher up on the food chain wouldn't chastise me for the truck's loss at some later point. It was entirely possible that the JLF soldiers had left the pleasure of haranguing me over the unsatisfactory quality of work to Onoda, or perhaps even to the fabled upstart himself, Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe.


Truck or not, I was having a hard time seeing the mission as anything but a complete success. We had acquired key intelligence about the capabilities of the Sutherland's Factsphere, as well as the strength of the side and back faces of the pilot pod. The tactics that Ohgi and I had devised, with Onoda's input, had proven workable as well, if only with the advantages of surprise and deliberately chosen ground.


Not to mention that all twenty of the insurgents I had brought with me on this mission were returning alive and unharmed.


"Scope" the motorcycle-riding scout ranged ahead of our little procession heading north on Area Route 405, back up into Niigata. We were not, I had to remind myself, fully out of danger yet – it was still possible for us to be detected by Britannian helicopters patrolling for rebel activity, or for us to encounter a surprise checkpoint blocking the road. We're not safe until we're back home.


Back home...


It was a nebulous concept, 'Home'. I had lived at The School for just slightly longer than I had lived in Ohgi and Naoto's apartment. Almost six months, put together. Admittedly, either location felt more like 'home' than the one room in an apartment my mother had sublet, where we had lived together for years. Home...


The sun flickered in and out between the overgrown cedars, extended boughs casting wide shadows in the morning light of a bright spring day. It would be, it seemed, a cloudless day, even up here in the mountains. I could only imagine how hot and steamy it would be getting at The School; in this one area, Shinjuku probably had the rustic environs of rural Gunma beat – the breezes coming off Tokyo Bay helped break up the worst of the spring and summer heat, although they did nothing for the humidity.


I closed my eyes and leaned back in the passenger seat, tuning out the boisterous chatter from the trainees. They were chatting about the party they eagerly anticipated to celebrate their first mission, and their first victory. I smirked, enjoying the privacy of the front seat; I was certain that they would not be disappointed by the moonshine that Ohgi had stocked up on, nor by the two pigs that he, Nagata, and a squad had "liberated" from a Britannian farm in Nakanojo.


It had been almost four months since I had left Shinjuku. Four months of hard work training the recruits, organizing supplies for all present, hammering out agreements and concessions with Onoda... The adrenaline rush of combat had almost been a vacation from the daily humdrum work, much as I hated to admit it even in the confines of my own head.


Not much of a vacation for Sumire or Manabu...


The School was reaching a point where the trainees no longer required my hands-on presence, in my estimation. The training cadre was doing an admirable job straightening out the second cohort, and the plan had always been to hand over control of the school's program to the cadre after the completion of the first cohort's training. The fly in the ointment, as was often the case, was Major Onoda.


As a result of my agreement with the Major for his ongoing support, at least one ranking member of the Kozuki Organization needed to remain on-site, lest some "urgent mission" crop up. I was sure that Major Onoda would be properly apologetic for acting without authorization after the fact, but considering his superior's habitual disobedience towards his superiors, I wasn't inclined to trust the man or, for that matter, any member of the Kusakabe faction.


It was truly an unfortunate state of affairs. Onoda's knowledge of the capabilities of Glasgow series Factsphere sensors had been just as crucial to the success of our nearly completed mission as the shoulder-mounted anti-armor weapons he'd funneled to the Kozuki Organization. If I could just rely on the JLF to not stab me in the back, they would be a near perfect partner. Such a pity about their apparent gekokujo addiction.


At the same time, I couldn't stay tied down to The School indefinitely. The School was important, but so was Shinjuku, and I had always planned for my time away from the slum to be limited in scope. I trusted Naoto, Inoue, and Kallen, of course, but I had left Naoto and Inoue in something of a holding pattern. As for Kallen, I could only hope that she wasn't drowning under the combined weight of three distinct roles. I didn't have anyone else who could take her place in the aristocratic circles open to her by her blood and her name, nor her place as an up and coming journalist.


Beyond that, Shinjuku was in the Tokyo Settlement, in the very belly of the Britannian beast. As the summer heat truly set in, I could only imagine how the constant simmering tensions in the Settlement would boil over. I doubted anybody had forgotten the Christmas Incident, especially if the Prince had doubled down on supporting the Purists, as he had in the aftermath of the Shinjuku Subway Incident.


I opened my eyes again, and smiled at the beautiful spring day under the still-rising Sun. I would find someone to delegate keeping watch over The School to, someone who could check Onoda while still leading the mandatory missions. The Tokyo Settlement practically seethed with opportunities in my mind's eye. I had the makings of a small but well-trained and well-supplied army, and I had the makings of a plan to finally burn out the parasites who had burrowed deep into my people's guts.


It's time to go home to Shinjuku.

 

[Jeffster64]

Not sure how I feel about this emotional Tanya.

 

[averagejoe32]

Not sure how I feel about this emotional Tanya.

Click to shrink...

Tanya's always been emotional. She just tends approach emotions sideways, or even like a corkscrew. She also tends to be very self controlled, and rarely just lets her emotions out unless she feels it's safe to do so.

 

[Daemon Targaryen]

Tanya's always been emotional. She just tends approach emotions sideways, or even like a corkscrew. She also tends to be very self controlled, and rarely just lets her emotions out unless she feels it's safe to do so.

Click to shrink...

Furthermore, the less emotionnal Tanya was one relying on hierarchy.

Tanya Hajime is a colonial subject, bastard of Britannian-japanese blood, born of a prostitute, she have all the problems of both sides regarding how she is treated.

All of this stress and this unability to hide behind the system broke her illusions.

Furthermore, it also make than she doesn't have much strict underlings, she is more within a group of equals than a actual hierarchy, therefore she is and they are far more straight-forward and honest.

 

[averagejoe32]

Furthermore, the less emotionnal Tanya was one relying on hierarchy.

Click to shrink...

No what I meant is that she's always been emotional, hierarchy or no hierarchy. She just approaches said emotions differently then other people. Now being emotionally attached to the people around her is new, and is likely a consequence of not being able to use the distance of professional behavior expected in either the military or company to deaden such attachments.

 

[Daemon Targaryen]

No what I meant is that she's always been emotional, hierarchy or no hierarchy. She just approaches said emotions differently then other people. Now being emotionally attached to the people around her is new, and is likely a consequence of not being able to use the distance of professional behavior expected in either the military or company to deaden such attachments.

Click to shrink...

I said Furthermore, as in to reinforce.

And i said "less emotionnal", not "non *emotionnal"

What you said is precisely what i said

 

[averagejoe32]

I said Furthermore, as in to reinforce.

And i said "less emotionnal", not "non *emotionnal"

What you said is precisely what i said

Click to shrink...

Ah, sorry. I guess I misunderstood. My bad

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 20: A Shinjuku Reunion (Pt 1)


(A big thank you to Siatru, and to Sunny, WrandmWaffles, Thearpox, and 1iop from the Discord for their editing and suggestions.)


APRIL 18, 2016 ATB
SHICHIKASHUKU, MIYAGI
1232


Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe Josui, of the Japanese Liberation Front, sat comfortably in seiza, his knees protected from the traditional tatami of his formal office by an overstuffed pillow. Externally, he was stoic, properly joyless in accordance with the regulations inherited from the late and lamented Republican Japanese Army. Internally, a fierce tide of rising elation threatened to drown his firm demeanor in wild joy.


The only thing truly holding Josui back from such a celebration was the messenger, who droned on monotonously as he read his report aloud. Despite the fact that the report could have simply been printed off and delivered to Josui, or even emailed to him, the JLF just like the RJA ran on tradition, and thus the mandatory report reading.


It was a relic of times when a commander might not have been able to read, a relic of a time before standardized education and the radio. Thanks to that honorable tradition dating back who knew how many years, all reports sent to a staff officer were to be read aloud by the messenger to prevent any inadvertent public shaming. Like much of the JLF, it was practically useless in the face of modernity.


But today, nothing – not his dark thoughts, not even the yammering of the messenger – could dent Josui's enthusiasm. Not in the face of the report's astonishing contents.


Somehow, Onoda had managed to make good on his promise, and had proven once and for all that his previous successes weren't flukes. Not only had he managed to turn the pathetic group of Shinjuku rats that the Six Houses had dumped on them into a useful and expendable unit, Onoda had managed to deploy said rats effectively on the field of battle. In the process, the wily Major had significantly raised the profile of Kusakabe's 3rd​ Division within the JLF, to say nothing of the other benefits his shoestring operation had yielded.


For the meager price of some crates of cabbage and a few cheap anti-armor missiles, Onoda had purchased several hundred fresh recruits and an embarrassment of riches in the form of spare Knightmare parts, Energy Fillers, and specialized tools.


'Not a bad return on investment,' Josui chuckled to himself, as the sergeant continued with his reading. "-hundred and ten replacement seal kits for Slash Harken systems, five hundred meters of replacement Slash Harken cable, fifty replacement Slash Harken heads, two crates of bearings for the Slash Harken retraction motors, a box of heat shrink tubing for insulation repair..."


"Enough!" Despite his good mood, Josui's patience abruptly snapped. He had never been the most patient of men, and little wore through his meager supplies of tolerance quite like pointless formality or babbling subordinates. "I'll read the rest on my own. Get to the radio room and relay the report to Narita HQ over the general band, and attach a message with my compliments for Colonel Tohdoh's Chief of Staff. Make sure the phrase 'generous gift to the Knightmare Corps' appears in the message. Go!"


The sergeant promptly saluted, but Josui had already forgotten the man as he eagerly flipped through his copy of the report. The first section had been transmitted from the outpost in eastern Nagano where Onoda's pet militia had dropped off their hijacked truck, and was mostly concerned with detailing the cargo's contents. The second, more interesting section, had come from Onoda.


"Four Knightmares and no casualties, eh?" Josui mumbled aloud. It was, in a word, unbelievable, but Josui had known Onoda Hiroo for six years, and had never known him to inflate his own successes. Or at least, not to do it so blatantly.


So the report was probably accurate, which meant that Major Onoda had once again handed Josui and the rest of his faction more ammunition for the upcoming General Staff summer strategy meeting. 'And just in time too – that headache's only two weeks away now.'


General Katase would be there, the doddering old fool, as would Colonel Tohdoh, head of the Knightmare Corps and Katase's heir apparent. The rest of the divisional commanders would also attend, along with their seconds, and at least one emissary from the Six Houses to make sure that Kyoto's views were represented. And of course, Kusakabe Josui would be in attendance as well, and unlike everybody else, except for the man from Kyoto, he had something substantive to bring to the table.


There was, unfortunately, no way that Josui could justify holding onto the Knightmare spare parts. Much as he would have liked to break Tohdoh's monopoly over the JLF's scant Knightmare forces, that wasn't going to happen, thanks to Tohdoh's family history and his own personal reputation.


Tohdoh Kyoshiro had deep family connections to the military, going back through the Republican Japanese Army days through the Imperial Japanese Army, all the way back to the time of the Bafuku. Tohdoh's father had served with distinction during the First Pacific War and the younger Tohdoh had been the personal armsmaster to the Kururugi clan, including the Prime Minister and his family. More to the point, Tohdoh had the much touted "Miracle of Itsukushima", and the conventional wisdom was that the only man to beat Knightmares with conventional forces was the best leader the JLF Knightmare Corps could hope for.


Josui personally had his doubts on the matter. Despite – or perhaps because of – his impressive personal fighting skills, Tohdoh was a living fossil. The man represented a deep well of Japanese military tradition, and lived like the samurai of old. Unfortunately, that made him incredibly hidebound, wedded to old thoughts and traditional concepts of honor.


Honor, of course, had its place. That place was in a freed and refounded Republic of Japan. After the Day of Liberation had come and gone.


Josui was encumbered by no such outmoded concepts, and had thus realized that they represented a critical vulnerability in the other man. Not only did the idea of "honorable combat" sound like a joke when the Home Islands were under the degrading occupation of a foreign empire, the need to be seen as honorable was easily exploited.


Josui had, in fact, just exploited that sense of honor in the message he'd ordered attached to the report forwarded to the Narita Headquarters of the JLF. By making the Knightmare parts and tools into a freely given gift to Tohdoh's command before General Katase could make his views known, Josui had just put Tohdoh into his personal debt under the old honor codes, while simultaneously undercutting Katase's authority, the authority to which Tohdoh was heir.


Alone in his office, Josui permitted himself a grin of satisfaction. With this second victory under his faction's belt in less than a month, Katase would be all but forced to commend him in front of the entire General Staff. If he didn't, considering the lack of any other combat operations conducted recently, Katase would be all but admitting that he hadn't authorized the operations, which would undermine his authority even further. The one lever Katase could have used to cut Josui back down to size – redistributing his spoils – Josui had pulled himself before Katase had even known it existed, disarming and redirecting the threat before it could be made.


'I'm almost looking forward to that damned meeting, just to see the old windbag's face...'


Josui's satisfaction was all too short-lived. Thinking about the leverage that he held over Katase's head had inexorably brought his thoughts back around to the other headache, and the source of most of his ever-increasing gastric distress.


While his power was now secure from threats from above or from his peers, Josui was acutely aware that a growing menace was developing below him, in the ranks of his own faction. Gekokujo was a sword that could cut both ways, and no superior was truly safe from a sufficiently motivated subordinate clever enough to find a way to dress up their insubordination as a rightful defense of 'true authority'.


And unfortunately, the man who had done more than anybody else to advance Josui's own campaign of rightful insubordination was the one best placed to plunge a knife into Josui's back if he so wished. Major Onoda Hiroo.


'Onoda...' Just thinking about the man made Josui grimace with discomfort. More than Tohdoh, more than Katase, Josui blamed Onoda for the slow growth of his ulcers.


A graduate of the Nakano School of Military Intelligence, Onoda Hiroo had served in the Special Operations Group before the Conquest. Unlike most of the Republican Japanese Army, then-Lieutenant Onoda had seen combat before the Conquest, as a military attache at the Japanese Embassy in Hanoi. Taken together with his post-Conquest service as an infiltrator and scout, not to mention sometimes assassin, Major Onoda was an invaluable subordinate, despite his thoroughly common family background.


That plebeian origin, so different from Josui's own as a member of a minor noble clan, coupled with his apparently sincere loyalty, had made Onoda one of the most valuable officers in Josui's faction. It had been easy to mitigate the potential threat represented by Onoda to Josui's power base by assigning him to all the long-term, solitary missions Josui could find. Not only had this played to Onoda's skill set, it had kept him far away from headquarters, far away from any junior officers he could suborn with a carefully placed promise or threat.


But now, that plan seemed to have slightly backfired. Onoda had parlayed his intended assignment into exile into operational independence, and in the process had created a power base entirely independent of the JLF. While Josui doubted that he had to worry about the direct threat of an assassination courtesy of Onoda's pack of strays, a potential homecoming could prove equally disastrous. If Onoda could ride the success of his victories in the field into a return to headquarters, he might bring some or all of his private army back with him.


'But... he hasn't done anything yet...' Josui heaved himself to his feet and made his way out of his official office. 'But that doesn't mean anything. The man's sharp as a knife, and famous for his patience. He's smart enough to play the long game.'


While it was Josui's officially listed post as the Commander of the 3rd​ Division, the traditional room he had just left was more or less useless for anything but impressing underlings conveying messages. His actual office, sporting a thoroughly modern computer a mere eight years old and complete with a connection to the internet the Technical Service had assured him was secure, was where the actual work got done.


Unfortunately, sitting in his swiveling office chair behind said computer and staring at the Japanese flag hung behind the guest's chair did nothing to resolve Josui's dilemma.


Onoda was, above all else, loyal to the cause of liberation from the shame of foreign occupation. His dedication to that task was beyond reproach, and his record of successful missions spoke to his ability to leverage that zeal to produce concrete results. He had no obvious vices: He drank only in moderation and never blabbered his secrets when in his cups; he had no interest in men, not that such interest was quite as useful of a secret as it once was; likewise, while he was interested in women, his interest wasn't enough to overcome his rationality.


Indeed, Onoda's only true passion seemed to be for the Cause, and for shedding blood for the Cause.


Josui chuckled uneasily to himself, the collar of his uniform jacket wet with sweat, clammy in the room's stifling heat. 'How is it possible that an almost perfect subordinate is a bigger pain in my ass than the rest, huh?'


This was far from Josui's first time warding off threats from below. As the 3rd​ Division was General Katase's preferred assignment for any overly aggressive or ambitious soldiers or officers, Josui felt confident that he had likely warded off more coup attempts than any other staff officer in the JLF. More often than not though, he had been able to pick the would-be usurpers off before their plans got off the ground – suicidal missions for the incompetent, trumped up courts martial over various alleged crimes or dishonorable actions for the competent followed by unceremonious executions or disappearances.


By virtue of his incredible competence and sterling reputation, Major Onoda Hiroo had effectively knocked both of Josui's best swords from his hand, and by building his own power base Onoda had dodged Josui's attempt to drive him into irrelevance and exile.


Simply killing Onoda was far too risky. A bullet behind the ear would certainly solve this particular problem, but... If someone learned about it and handed the information that he had executed a successful and productive subordinate without cause to Katase or Tohdoh, the balance of power in the JLF would swing definitively against Josui.


It was unfortunate, but just like Tohdoh and the Knightmare supplies, Josui couldn't see any way around it; the fact of the matter was, he would have to wait until ironclad evidence of Onoda's schemes was found or manufactured.


'Well... if I can't punish him...' Josui thought, scowling as he logged onto his computer and dutifully followed the written instructions to fire up the secure network connection provided by the bespectacled private from the Technical Service, entering the username and password the technician had helpfully added to the end of the instructions when prompted. 'I suppose I'll have to reward the bastard... Dammit... I can't promote him and money's tight enough as is... A formal notice of recognition, perhaps...?'


Kusakabe Josui shook his head irritably. 'No, that's the last damn thing that man needs. More recognition among the rest of the Division and they'll start wondering why he's not in charge.'


An idea struck Josui, and, smiling, he began to draft an email to his chief of staff. 'Onoda likes being independent, does he? Fine by me! He'll get an extension of duty, then! Let him keep fucking about with Shinjuku rats and rural bumpkins – I'll even increase his discretionary budget! And while he's busy screwing around in the backwoods of Gunma, I'll find everyone in the Division with a positive word to say about the man and beat it out of them!'


Josui allowed himself a second satisfied grin as his fingers danced enthusiastically across the worn keyboard, content that his position was once again secure from enemies above and below. With the ammunition Onoda had provided, Josui would be able to take the fight to Katase and Tohdoh once more, until he finally had the power to force the JLF awake from its torpor.


'Onoda might even appreciate what I'm doing,' Josui thought with amusement, 'after all, I too am fighting for the Cause! Every day Old Man Katase is in command, the Day of Liberation is one day further away, and Tohdoh's almost as bad. If Japan is ever to be free again, we must have better leadership!'


Finally, content with the enthusiastic commendation that he had written to congratulate Major Onoda on his recent success and the attendant order to continue his mission until further notice, Josui hammered the Send button, committing the email to the surprisingly labyrinthine bureaucracy that had somehow survived the conversion of the RJA into the JLF. 'Damned cockroaches survived the Conquest, and they'll probably survive until the Day of Liberation itself... Not much longer after that, if I have my way...'


And on that topic, Josui turned to the battered and heavily annotated political and topographic map of Japan that hung on his office wall, just by the door and above the wastepaper basket.


The General Staff summer strategy meeting was of course supposedly concerned with lofty affairs of high strategy and the formulation of the next cunning stratagem to unleash against the hated foreigners, and it wouldn't do to show up without some form of proposal in hand. Although the proposed plans were ultimately more set dressing than substance, openly acknowledging the farce would fatally undermine his hard-fought position. And now that the matter of internal politics had momentarily been dealt with, it was high time for the Commander of the 3rd​ to figure out what his contribution to the sham meeting would be.


Unlike the last few dozen such meetings, though, Josui felt like this time he might actually have a chance to force the issue. 'If I can call in that favor with Tohdoh... Or even suggest that he take the field personally, the "Miracle Worker of Itsukushima"... Hmm...'



---------



APRIL 21, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1550


Six years ago, when my mother and I had been forced behind the freshly built walls encircling the Shinjuku Ghetto, I had dreamed of the day I would leave the massive prison our conquerors had built for us. Through the years of struggle, hunger, and sickness, I had dreamed of my past life, of soaring high above any wall built by human hands. I had dreamed of freedom, freedom from hunger, freedom from fear, freedom from the hollow-eyed gaze of men and women infected with the hopeless miasma of Shinjuku.


Now, I was entering Shinjuku once again. As it had six years before, my randoseru hung low on my back, crammed to capacity with clothes and other supplies. As before, I lowered my head as I passed through the checkpoint into Shinjuku, my distinctively bright hair hidden under a rag. And as before, the scent of Shinjuku – a stew of clogged gutters, rotting garbage, feces, and too many people living in too small of a space, all simmering in the heat of the afternoon sun – rose up to greet me.


The pistol butt pushing into my gut was, of course, a significant departure from that long ago August day. Likewise, while my mother no longer trudged before me, bent under her own load of meager possessions and grief, Ohgi now walked beside me, standing as tall as a Japanese man could in this land of Elevens. Most importantly, I was not entering Shinjuku as a refugee. The times had changed, after six long years.


While I still dreamed of freedom, I no longer dreamed of escape.


Besides Ohgi and myself, Nagata and twenty-eight of the freshly trained insurgent fighters returned to Shinjuku the same way we had left it – in ones and twos, for the most part, merging with the crowds of returning day laborers and Honorary Britannians coming to the Ghetto to indulge their vices. Tsubaki and the rest of Squad 2 were taking a slight detour on the way into Shinjuku, rendezvousing with one of Inoue's Rising Sun trucks to load the weapons and equipment we had brought from The School.


Despite the familiar stench, Shinjuku hadn't remained unchanged in my absence. The cheeks of passersby seemed a touch less hollow, and their hair and skin somewhat more lustrous. People's eyes seemed brighter and more alert than I remembered, and most of the crowd walked purposefully and quickly, instead of the trudging "Shinjuku Shuffle". Fresh asphalt glistened under the sun from freshly filled-in potholes, tar still soft and sticky, and fresh whitewash unblemished by gang tags shone on tenement walls.


And, while the cheap brothels and bars that clustered in the streets near the checkpoints were busy as always, even in the mid-afternoon, I noticed a lack of any obvious gangsters swaggering about the place. Even the pimps and the callers hustling for customers seemed more well behaved than I remembered from my mother's time.


Beside me, Ohgi let out an impressed grunt, and I nodded in agreement as we walked. This slice of Shinjuku, just under a kilometer from Naoto and Ohgi's shared apartment and a kilometer and a half from the Rising Sun's meeting house, while neither thriving nor prospering, looked significantly better off than it had mere months ago.


As we turned off the road leading to the checkpoint and left the view of any curious Britannian soldier, Ohgi turned to me and broke the silence, speaking with a slight smile. "Naoto and Inoue have been busy, I see!"


I hummed in agreement, somewhat distracted by my attempt to fish the handheld radio out of my randoseru. "They've made a good start, no doubt about that." Finally, I felt the hard plastic shell of the radio and pulled it from its nest of clothes. "And if we can keep up the momentum, perhaps the Haulers will only have half their usual workload come December."


Ohgi frowned at the reference to the often gang-affiliated body disposal contractors, but nodded in agreement. I felt a bit bad at dumping proverbial cold water on his good mood, but it was important to keep the stakes in mind when evaluating progress.


Shinjuku had taken a step in the correct direction, but that single step didn't make up for the long flight of stairs it had been shoved down. In all likelihood, the same old trucks would cruise the streets of the ghetto with their grisly cargo as winter increased the caloric requirements for survival and weakened already damaged immune systems. The weak and frail, the very young and the very old, the unfortunate and the foolish, would all die.


In a way, it was almost a fulfillment of the Britannian ideal. The strong would live and the unworthy would shiver their last hours away. Like all things Britannian, that 'ideal' was hypocritical in application and fundamentally corrupt. Fortunately, I now had the basic tools to carry out some artificial selection of my own.


I might not be able to prevent the usual winter death toll, but this year I'll damned well make sure the gangs don't profit from it.


"Backpack to Boxcar. Report, over." I resumed walking as I released the 'transmit' button. Ohgi fell into step beside me, taking care to shorten his usual stride so he wouldn't leave me behind. A few seconds later, the radio crackled to life. "Boxcar to Backpack. We're through the gate. The pass and the envelope full of cash worked. ETA five to eight minutes, over."


Far more interference than out in the boonies, but still understandable. Good, I was worried about that.


"Backpack to Boxcar. Keep up the good work. Remember to check the receiver, over." A moment later, a thought crossed my mind, and I turned and looked up at Ohgi. "Inoue probably has the evening meal well underway by now, right?"


"Hmm... Unless things have changed..." Ohgi mulled the question over for a second before shrugging, "probably so. Besides, I'm sure she'd be able to find something for Tsubaki and whoever's driving the truck, even if dinner's not quite ready yet."


Deliberately ignoring both the knowing smile on the man's face and the irritation heating my neck – when did he get so smug about predicting my motives? - I thumbed the channel back on. "Backpack to Boxcar. Take your time and get a meal while you're there." A momentary pause, and I continued. "And remember your table manners – you're still on the clock. Backpack out."


I crammed the radio back into the randoseru and strode forward, continuing the familiar trip to the apartment. Irritatingly, Ohgi easily kept up with me. Damn him and his long legs! Somehow, he picked up on that thought and laughed – laughed! - at me. When I tried to pick up speed - I was, after all, eager to see Naoto again and to report in after months away – the bastard laughed even harder!


I almost turned on my heel to lay into Ohgi, to wipe that laughing smile away by threatening him with remedial courses back at The School, but then I remembered that he would be heading back soon enough regardless of my threat. Someone with rank needed to keep an eye on Onoda, after all, and Ohgi was already familiar with the man and with The School.


I guess I'll let him laugh a bit longer before I shut him up...



---------



I had told Naoto to expect us at 1600, and I felt very gratified as I knocked on the door to his apartment at 1600 on the dot. Sometimes, it's the small pleasures that make the day worthwhile.


Almost immediately, the door swung open, revealing a barely recognizable, albeit beaming, Naoto. Despite his smile, his bloodshot eyes were momentarily wary, his free hand held behind his back, clearly gripping some kind of weapon. A second later, the wariness had vanished and Ohgi was being pulled into the apartment, and into Naoto's embrace.


"Ohgi, man, great to see you!" Naoto laughed with undisguised glee, slapping his second on the back enthusiastically. "You're looking tanned as hell – guess that mountain air did you good, huh?"


Ohgi was more restrained in joy to be back in his shared apartment, but eagerly returned Naoto's embrace, minus the back-slapping. "Guess it did – I could have done with a bit less snow, though."


I took the opportunity to follow the other two officers into the apartment, closing the door behind me as Naoto exclaimed "Oh yeah, I bet it gets real deep up in the mountains!" as he released Ohgi and turned to me. "And Tanya... Woah, when did you get so tall? I was about to make a joke about you getting buried in the snow, but I guess that's not an issue now!"


"I wouldn't go that far," I demurred, idly chatting as I looked around the studio apartment instead of focusing on Naoto. Idly, I noticed the pistol he'd been holding while answering the door wasn't the Britannian standard issue sidearm. Wonder where he got such a large caliber coilgun? And with a silencer, no less! "I only gained a few centimeters, and Ohgi was kind enough to act as my snowplow until the spring melt had begun." Remembering my manners, I held out my hand. "It's good to see you again, sir."


Naoto brushed my proffered hand aside and hugged me too. A moment later, I remembered to return the hug. It was difficult; While I had never been particularly physically expressive, this time I was more worried about somehow breaking Naoto if I touched him. He already looked so... fragile.


When I had left Shinjuku behind, Naoto had looked like a somewhat overworked and overstressed office worker in his mid to late twenties, ignoring his unprofessionally long red hair, of course. Despite the dark shadows under his eyes, he'd still been very energetic, throwing himself into whatever task was at hand with all his might and enthusiasm.


Naoto had aged a decade in the four months since I'd last seen him. His smile still had a shadow of the boyish energy I remembered from our first meeting, but his wide and glassy eyes, ringed with dark circles, goggled out from his sallow face. Deep lines of stress and fatigue were carved into his forehead, and his face was overrun with bristling stubble.


Not to mention the stink.


Over the last few months, I had forgotten how hard it was to stay clean in the ghetto. With only cold water available from the taps, and all soap either homemade or purchased at a premium from smugglers importing Britannian goods into Shinjuku, for years cleanliness had been out of the question for me. That had only turned around once I had met Ohgi and Naoto, and once the Rising Sun had made it far easier to import necessities through the Britannian checkpoints.


But Naoto had slipped, and slipped hard, on matters of hygiene. When I had met him, I had been somewhat astonished at how clean he had been, compared to the men I had labored beside on the work crews. Now, his shoulder-length red hair was matted and greasy, his fingers were yellow with cigarette residue and grime, and his breath reeked with halitosis.


"I think," Naoto said, leaning back from the embrace and smiling down at me, "that you can call me by name now. In fact, I insist – don't call me 'sir', Tanya." He smirked, and ruffled my hair. "After all, I've been following your plan while you've been away – maybe I should start calling you ma'am, eh?"


I scowled up at Naoto, but I didn't have the heart to chide him for teasing me. Humor is, after all, a perfectly valid coping mechanism, and he'd clearly had a hard time lately. And if he wants things to be a bit more familiar when we're in private, I suppose that's fine too. "No need for that, Naoto. I'm just following your orders."


I paused for a moment, trying to remember how Naoto had put it when he'd redefined my duties months ago, before parroting his own words back. "Think about the big picture stuff and the logistics, and work out with Nagata so you get some muscle?" I arched an eyebrow as I lifted my arm up for inspection, pushing the t-shirt up out of the way and flexing my bicep. "I believe I've made a good start on both of those tasks, yes?"


Naoto laughed at that, and jokingly squeezed my arm. "Looks like the country life was good for you – both of you!" He turned back to Ohgi, who had dropped his backpack off on his bed before rejoining us by the table. "You're looking pretty good too, Ohgi! The training must've really been intense, huh? Is Tanya really that much of a taskmaster?"


"Oh, you have no idea." Ohgi circled the table and clapped his hands on my shoulders, before dropping down heavily onto one of the mismatched chairs, which creaked under his weight. "This one was only half the problem – I'm going to have to go back to The School the day after tomorrow to keep an eye on the other half."


"Wait, The School? You're calling the training facility... The School?" As we'd been talking, the flat look in Naoto's eyes had diminished as he grew more involved and interested in the conversation. Despite this, he still seemed to somehow be looking through Ohgi and I, instead of looking at us. But as Ohgi nodded in confirmation, the flat look disappeared entirely for the first time since he'd opened the apartment door.


In its place, a look of flabbergasted wonder, mingled with amusement, spread across Naoto's face. He was still filthy, obviously stressed out, and deep into sleep debt, but in that moment, he no longer looked prematurely aged. "You can't call it The School!" Naoto collapsed into another chair, and theatrically rubbed at his brow. "Which one of you geniuses came up with that? Do you want the trainees to come up with their own name for the place? Was it Ohgi? I bet it was Ohgi."


I bristled slightly as Naoto sighed dramatically. Admittedly, I hadn't been able to come up with a clever name for the training facility, and it was true that I'd just started referring to the place as "The School" for lack of anything better, but marketing was not part of my core skill set, dammit! "There's something to be said for elegance in simplicity," I replied, perhaps a touch frostily, as I joined the other two at the table, "and I couldn't care less what the trainees call the place, as long as they learn enough to be worth my time."


Naoto nodded agreeably. "Yeah, wouldn't want to haul 'em all the way out to the boonies only for them to screw up and catch a bullet their first day out." Ohgi winced, and reached across the table and patted one of my suddenly clenched fists. I closed my eyes, tuning out Naoto's mortified expression as I took a deep breath, held it, and released it. I need to remember to visit Sumire's family to convey the news.


When I opened my eyes again, Naoto was staring off into the space beyond my shoulder, all trace of his earlier amusement gone. A moment later, he blinked and refocused on me. "I'm sorry, Tanya," His voice was gruff, and sounded somewhat choked, "That was a stupid thing to say. It's... It's been a while since I could talk to anyone without being on my game."


Naoto sighed, leaned forward, and cradled his forehead in his hands. "I've been so busy and so stressed... I can't even sleep a full night anymore..." He sat back up, rubbing at his head. "But that's no excuse to be a jackass. I'm sorry. I've... I've lost a few too. Mostly militia, but... One of Chihiro's girls bought it a month back. It was damned bad luck too – we bandaged the cut, but it got infected, and..." He shrugged helplessly, "She's still kinda broken up about it – Chihiro, I mean. She took it kinda... badly."


I nodded, trying to indicate that I accepted his apology. I wasn't quite sure how to respond to that piece of news – on one hand, it was, of course, unfortunate to lose comrades, but on the other, it didn't feel quite as raw personal as my own losses felt. I suppose I only knew Chihiro's team for a month, and then I left for the camp... That's probably it. Distance and time make separation easier.


I would need to pay Chihiro a visit, sooner rather than later. I hadn't really gotten to know either Chihiro or Souichiro outside of a professional capacity, and I suspect that might have had an adverse impact on our relationships. While Chihiro had been at best cool towards me, perhaps now that we had a shared misfortune to bond over, I could mend some bridges? Plus, it'd also be a good idea to see if everyone else who stayed behind in Shinjuku looks as exhausted as Naoto. If they are, that's an issue, and if they aren't... that's also an issue.


"That's... truly unfortunate, Naoto," I began, trying to express my sincere feelings of regret over the loss of a comrade without sounding like I was faking a personal grief that I wasn't sure I truly felt. She was his comrade and subordinate too – if you can't truly feel sad about her death, try to feel sad for him and for his loss. "Speaking from experience, I can say that it's hard to have people die under your command."


It all sounded wooden and pro forma, even in my own ears. I began to feel that irritating heat of embarrassment and shame crawling up the back of my neck. How the hell did Ohgi make talking about this look so easy? And how did he sound so honest? It was just another reminder, as if I needed one, of the importance of finding people who could support me and cover my weaknesses. In that case, best to delegate the task of sympathy to someone competent.


"I'm sure Ohgi can and will put this better, but I'm sorry for your loss. I will visit Chihiro later and console her as well." I forced my mouth closed, as the words began to tumble out, somehow emotional and stilted at the same time. The itchy heat crawled further up my spine, but I refused to submit to it, and plowed my way back to more familiar ground. Back to business.


"Now, before that, how about you give me a rundown of the last few months, here in Shinjuku? What's happened since Ohgi and I left?"



---------



Kozuki Naoto smiled at the true leader of the Rising Sun Benevolent Association, and tried not to show how exhausted he truly felt behind his politician's mask.


The not-as-tiny blonde really had grown significantly over her absence from Shinjuku – both physically and emotionally. Limbs that could once only be called scrawny were now toned, already sun-gold hair had been bleached by the sun to a near white towards the tips, and Tanya gave the overall impression of constrained energy, only barely holding herself in place. The chronic fatigue from the first months she had slept in a nest of blankets on the floor of his apartment was, as far as Naoto could tell, completely gone.


More importantly, Tanya clearly had opened up to Ohgi, at the very least. Naoto's own skills of personal observation, initially cultivated by his father and developed by his time caring for his sister and mother, had been strengthened over the intervening months by his dealings with the Public Safety Committees; now, the girl's previously enigmatic body language spoke volumes. She was looser and less controlled in her gestures, yet also increasingly confident in expressing emotion both physically and aloud.


And yet, at the core, Tanya was the same. The dark bags beneath her eyes were gone, but the fierce intelligence shining in those startlingly blue eyes was just as piercing as it had been when she'd made her recruitment pitch so long ago. She was seasoned by experience, and judging by how she'd accepted Ohgi touching her hand, she no longer flinched away from human contact; she had clearly gone from strength to strength.


'I wish I could say the same thing about myself,' Naoto thought, doing his best to package away the grief and lingering horror over Makoto's agonizing death, 'but even Ohgi looked shocked when he saw me. Guess it's even worse than that time we went on a five-day bender.'


"At first, it was business as usual." Naoto kept his focus on Tanya as he began, but angled his head so he could face Ohgi, including him in the conversation as well. "I focused on keeping up the pressure on the gangs with Tamaki and Chihiro's crews. We spent a fair amount of time conducting reconnaissance to sniff out their hideouts and stash houses and hauling a few choice gang members into basements for friendly chats. Souichiro was instrumental when it came to interrogations – he still remembers plenty from when he was a policeman, so that's not too much of a surprise, I guess. Thanks to the intel we had gathered, we were able to keep up the pressure and hit various gang facilities, including armories and supply dumps."


It was, Naoto thought, amazing how such a brief summary could reduce weeks of effort into a list of seemingly trivial affairs. Hours spent carefully shadowing gang members through the crowded streets of Shinjuku, long nights of staking out targeted apartments and safehouses, and moments of intense violence as he and his comrades burst into said safehouses in the early morning and hauled their targets away to basements and subway tunnels across Shinjuku, all reduced to a handful of sentences.


"We managed to spread out pretty far, and ended up claiming a lot of territory around the Rising Sun's meeting house. Turns out, establishing firm control over the area solved a few of Inoue's headaches – since the gangs weren't around anymore, and since we had control over all the territory between the meeting house and the Mejiro Avenue Checkpoint by mid-February, we were able to import a ton of food into Shinjuku, as well as make significant progress on fixing up some of the infrastructure. Clearing drains, fixing roads, that kinda stuff."


It had been amazing, watching Shinjuku come back to life as the food and construction supplies had poured in. For the first time since Naoto had left his family to come live with Ohgi in Shinjuku, the seemingly inexorable decay had been reversed. Potholes had been filled in and shattered asphalt had been melted down and rolled back into freshly repaved roads. Rebuilding the drains had been a momentous task, and Naoto wasn't fully confident in their amateurish work, but hopefully the pipes and streets full of standing water wouldn't make a reappearance come the monsoon season.


Money had been difficult, of course – the money gained from the raid on the subway station was long gone, and without reselling drugs seized in subsequent raids within the ghetto, the cash taken in those same raids could only go so far. Expanding the Rising Sun's operations was an expensive undertaking, and the costs had quickly mounted up. From the bribes paid to the checkpoint guards, to the cost of construction materials, food shipments, work permits, tools, and the rental fees for the trucks, the costs were never ending. To say nothing of the costs of Mister Asahara's specialist devices - even with his "discount for virtuous works and repeat customers," his work demanded a premium.


But in the end, they had managed to make ends meet, somehow. Kallen had managed to net some donations from the more paternalistic invaders in the Tokyo Settlement by publishing several articles that spoke eloquently about the plight of the Honorary Britannians and how much the Rising Sun had done to alleviate their suffering, while dancing around the reasons why the Honorary Britannians were in such dire straits in the first place.


Then, with the seed money provided by those donations, Inoue had come up with a scheme to buy work passes into the Settlement, where Elevens could find day labor or other low paying work. She distributed the passes to Shinjuku denizens who didn't have the means to pay the necessary "processing fees", on the understanding that a significant portion of their wages would be handed over to the Rising Sun Benevolent Association in the name of purchasing more such passes. Between the paternal Britannian donations, the trickle of money seized from gangsters, and the income from their workforce, Rising Sun had just barely kept their heads above water.


"So, yeah, things were going very smoothly for the first three weeks or so. We didn't tag all the places we hit, so some of the gangs thought they were under attack from the others. Honestly, I think lots of them were just surprised to be attacked at all! Guess they got arrogant, or maybe they actually believed that the Purists attacked Shinjuku-gyoemmae, who knows? Anyway, it took them a while to get a clue and stop messing around."


Naoto felt his smiling mask slip slightly as he remembered the end of the good times. Over the course of a week in mid-February, things had spiraled from bad to worse.


"They started getting smarter – posting more guards, setting up actual checkpoints near their bases, their officers starting to enforce some kind of discipline – and the really smart ones started buying better weapons. Most of the low-ranking guys had been using knives and blunt weapons and only the higher ups had pistols, but now lots of the lower ranking gangsters were carrying guns and the elites – the ones who like to dress up as Britannians - started getting military gear."


"It was pretty jarring to suddenly have something like parity, you know? No clue who was flooding the market with Britannian Army weapons that must've fallen off a truck somewhere, but suddenly every gang officer had an SMG to call their own. Thank the gods they never bothered to learn how to aim, much less actually maintain their new toys! Anyway, we were still able to pick off strays, but taking the war to the gangs got far too risky by the first week of March or so."


Naoto, Inoue, and Souichiro had spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out where the gangs were getting their new equipment without success. It was possible that the gangs were buying their weapons from corrupt Britannians with access to military supplies in the Settlement, but that didn't answer the question of how the guns were being trafficked into Shinjuku. A possibility was that the larger and more powerful gangs, the ones who directly catered to the Britannians, had decided for some reason to flood Shinjuku with military grade weaponry, perhaps at the behest of the Britannians or some third party. That didn't make sense though, since the big gangs didn't profit from it in any way that Naoto could discern.


For his part, Naoto suspected that the street gangs that he had fought over the last three months were probably getting their weapons from the same source that the now-defunct Kokuryu-kai had gotten the Knightmare Tanya had blown up in Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station months ago from. He had no hard evidence, but that Knightmare had been remarkably out of place in that weapons market back then, almost as out of place as the sudden flood of military grade weapons was now.


"The real problem was the numbers. Chihiro's group, Tamaki's group, Souichiro, and me – that's ten – weren't really able to both attack the newly equipped gangsters and protect the Rising Sun at the same time. So, we switched to the defensive. Mister Asahara knew a guy who knew a guy, and we bought some scoped rifles from him."


"Is there any chance," Tanya abruptly interrupted, leaning forward slightly with an air that reminded Naoto of a falcon zeroing in on a suddenly exposed target, "that the gangs were perhaps buying their weapons from Mister Asahara's acquaintance as well?"


Naoto blinked, feeling momentarily befuddled as he ran the idea through his mind. To his sudden and growing irritation, he realized that he had never considered the possibility, and that he really should have. 'Guess I still have a lot to learn,' he thought, 'thank the gods Tanya's on my side.' Aloud, he admitted: "It's a possibility, but not one I'd considered."


Ohgi nodded. "It's definitely worth a follow-up, at the very least. Arms dealers aren't known for their scruples, after all."


Naoto nodded, and then continued his report. "Chihiro and her team set up some apartments overlooking the major streets in and around Rising Sun territory as sniper's nests and started picking off anybody wearing gang scarfs that they could see. While they weeded out the brave and the foolish, Tamaki's crew and I took shifts watching over the construction crews and the meeting house in case any got through."


Split up into pairs, with the pacifist Kasumi acting as a spotter for Chihiro, Chihiro's team had shifted from sniper's nest to sniper's nest several times each day, with at least one pair active at all times. The gunfire from the rooftops had proven amazingly effective at disrupting the various gangs' amateurish incursion attempts – the scarf-clad thugs had no idea what to do in the face of the high-powered rifles. The heavy bullet effortlessly pierced the crude homemade body armor the gangs tried to put together, and the abundant practice on live targets meant Chihiro's girls were remarkably accurate with their weapons. A single paired team could effectively lock down entire roads, shredding attempted invasions with ease.


As always, the only problem had been that Chihiro and her girls could only cover a small slice of the urban jungle at any given time.


"Still, we were getting pressed pretty hard. Lots of our workers had gotten beaten up, and some were severely injured. We were pushing ourselves harder and harder to be everywhere, but all that did was tire everybody out even faster. It was only a matter of time until we were forced back. Thankfully, I remembered how you'd reached out to the locals and their committees. I told them that we were having trouble keeping the gangsters out and the food coming in, and that they needed to help us out if they wanted to keep eating. Problem was, they weren't organized – every block and street and tenement doing its own thing, you know? So, that was the first step, getting them all on the same page."


'And boy, was that a gigantic first step,' Naoto wryly reflected. It was astonishing how people, even with so little to lose and everything to gain, could have so many grudges. And those grudges were incredibly petty in scope! This block asserted that that block had been dumping their waste onto this block's street, so that they'd have to pay the hauler crews to deal with it! That tenement committee asserted that the tenement next door was using too much water, reducing the already low water pressure in the barely functional plumbing system and depriving the upper floors of their tenement of water all together!


Trying to get everyone to cooperate had been an endless headache, but thankfully Naoto had leverage over virtually everybody in the Rising Sun's zone. After all, nobody wanted to go back to eating watery soup once a day.


"Fortunately, they all needed the supplies we were bringing in, plus we'd built up some good credit by dealing with the gangsters for the last few months. So, they all agreed that the Rising Sun should be in charge, but dealing with their grievances with each other took some work. After I helped arbitrate a few of their disputes, we got representatives from the ten or so biggest groups in the Rising Sun territory to agree to work together, and to join a Central Committee that I'd be chairing."


Truth be told, Naoto had desperately tried to find someone – anyone – who could handle the Committee nonsense in his place. Unfortunately, the only other viable leader would be Inoue, who had flatly refused. "You're the charismatic one," She said when he had asked her directly, "not to mention the noble's son, and the one who they've all been talking to. You handle the politics, and I'll make sure you've got all the carrots you need to get them to cooperate." And so, Naoto had found himself once again thrust into a leadership role he felt unqualified for – but this time, he felt like he'd actually managed to do a good job.


"I told the Committee that we were having trouble, and needed help. We could give them weapons, but we needed bodies to use them. Some of the recruits who'd signed up after Christmas stepped up, which was a good start, but the leaders didn't want to just hand over their people to us. We managed to work out a compromise, where I'd consult the Committee before making any big moves, but I'd be allowed to manage their day to day as I saw fit."


It had been a difficult task to get the Committee to concede even that much. While few of the local leaders considered the Rising Sun Association a threat to their personal authority, thanks to Tanya's early policy of treating said leaders as stakeholders and partners instead of potential rivals, none were eager to concede even a fragment of their personal power bases. Naoto had been forced to lean on his role as the conduit of food, ammunition, and weapons into the territory to assert his ultimate authority over the newly formed "Sun Guards" militia.


"So, we got a militia set up. I armed them with gear we'd liberated from gang armories the month before and put them in charge of patrolling and guarding the territory. Their job was to hold things together until I could send Tamaki or Chihiro as reinforcements to deal with any troublemakers."


It had been far from an ideal solution – for one, the Sun Guards stuck out in the open as highly visible targets ran the risk of being overrun before reinforcements could arrive. Fortunately, most of the gangsters who swaggered into Rising Sun territory were there to try and gain respect from their crew and loot, not to die for a few meters of pavement. Once the nearby Sun Guards units started rallying to the pinned unit, or once Chihiro's snipers or Tamaki's now veteran streetfighters appeared, most gangs broke and ran rather than stay and fight.


Of course, that was only if the rank-and-file gangsters weren't accompanied by any of the competent gang officers. The presence of leaders or veteran fighters willing and able to hold their own increased the danger presented by the gang incursions significantly. Unsupervised, the rank-and-file members were content to fire a few potshots and hang back, but under the eyes of their bosses, they were far more willing to close with the enemy, more afraid of their leaders than they were of Naoto and his comrades.


"The gangs didn't like this very much, and made several attempts to take back control over their lost territory. They tried to mimic our hit and run attacks, but that mostly amounted to them just charging in and breaking everything they could, or ambushing an isolated militia patrol. They tried a few big attacks – once, a few local gangs rallied and showed up with a few hundred men. That was a bit of a dangerous moment."


"The fools didn't realize we'd known they were coming. Wouldn't you know it, hungry gangsters can be bribed with food too!" Naoto mimed an expression of theatrical shock; Tanya's cool gaze and lone arched eyebrow said that she wasn't impressed with his attempt to inject a moment of humor, but Naoto was rewarded by a slight upward twitch of her lips. He smirked for a moment, before exhaling, the humor slipping away as he returned to his report.


"That's not really a surprise - not like gangs are very good at building loyalty, or information security. Since we knew when they were coming and where they'd show up, we had time to buy some of Mister Asahara's best and set up a nice little ambush." Tanya's lips twitched upwards again, and Naoto saw a quick flash of teeth before she seemed to remember that she was 'on duty' and suppressed her visible amusement. 'She always loves her little ambushes,' Naoto thought fondly. Those early memories of Tanya, fresh from her truck hijacking and dripping with gore, were old enough to almost be nostalgic.


It had been, in Naoto's opinion, a plan worthy of Tanya - simple in execution, yet highly effective. A handful of nailbombs concealed by random garbage strewn around the planned line of advance and activated via tripwire had scythed at knee height through the approaching mob of gangsters. Immediately, the smart ones and those lucky enough to avoid debilitating injury turned and fled, abandoning their injured and crippled comrades to the Rising Sun's tender mercies.


Naoto had seen little reason to offer any of the gangsters any hint of mercy, and instead stood back and let the militia have their fun; the gangsters had chosen their side - they could reap the whirlwind. Years of fear of the swaggering bullies had boiled forth in an orgy of freely expressed rage, and justice had been meted out with bricks, bats, and knives. The mess had been awful, as had the noise, but Naoto hadn't been able to find it in himself to care.


Plus, he'd had no shortage of volunteers eager to clean up the mess in the aftermath. In the end, the inhabitants of the Rising Sun's slice of Shinjuku hadn't even needed to deal with the sanitation hazard of thirty-odd corpses smeared across the pavement, much less a return to gang subjugation.


"Eventually, we managed to kill enough of the bastards to get them to back off, once and for all. They've still been poking around the edges, hassling construction crews and trying to hijack trucks bringing supplies in, but we've been able to handle that. Turns out, having the dismembered bodies of your thugs dropped off in your territory sends a message. After things cooled down, I managed to get most of the militia guys back to working on fixing up the territory, since we didn't need as many guards."


One of those attempted hijackings had actually been how poor Makoto had ended up with a knife in her bicep. A gangster had jumped up on the running board of the truck she had been driving as she slowed around a corner and put the knife to her throat through the open window. She'd managed to shove his arm back and away, ultimately pushing him off the running board, but in the process had taken a nasty gash across the bicep. Despite attempts at disinfecting the wound with moonshine it had turned septic, and a week later Makoto had died as the fever ravaged her body.


It had been a painful and ultimately avoidable death, but Naoto was quietly thankful that Makoto had been the only one of "his people" who had died during the three months of near constant violence. Several of the Sun Guard militia had died, and he felt badly about them and had taken the time to visit widows and families, but they weren't "his" people the way Chihiro and Tamaki's teams were. Chihiro had been utterly inconsolable, and Naoto had ended up giving her a week off to spend with her sister. He still needed to find someone else, preferably female, to slot into the vacancy in her squad.


"Eventually, we managed to get enough hands available and enough resources built up that we could start some of those other projects you'd floated a while back, Tanya. Trying to improve the ghetto's resource base, and maybe get a little self-sufficiency, in case the Brits decide to squeeze us again. Plus, it gave everybody more work to do instead of just standing around or working on the drains, which is always a good thing."


Tamaki, surprisingly, had been the one to point out what a bad idea it was to leave armed and angry young people, mostly men, without anything to do. "I know I'd probably do something stupid," he'd admitted to Naoto after one of their team meetings in the old basement headquarters, "but if you keep 'em busy, they'll be too tired to do much damage." Thankfully, improving Shinjuku was a functionally endless task, and Naoto wasn't running out of projects in need of strong hands.


"Anyway, we started building planters for rooftop vegetable gardens, rain funnels into cisterns, and stuff like that. One of the militia guys actually had a good idea about how to purify water on the cheap using the sun's heat and a glass pane, in case the water mains get damaged or the Britannians decide to turn the water off. Getting the window glass for it into the ghetto and up to the roofs intact was difficult, but we managed. Of course, we had to build the distillers to a somewhat smaller scale than we wanted, since typhoon season's going to be starting in a few weeks and we'd need to haul them inside when the winds turn."


"We even managed to give Souichiro's poultry coops idea a stab! The test coop is actually up on the roof of this building, in a shack we rigged up. The first batch of chicks is still growing, so we haven't had any eggs yet, much less meat, but Souichiro's pretty happy about it so far."


Naoto subsided back into his chair, and took a sip from the glass of water Ohgi had slid across the table to him as he'd talked. He'd been speaking for the last ten minutes, and he felt like he could easily speak for hours more, if Tanya really wanted a blow by blow, or wanted the details of how he, Chihiro, and Souichiro had really acquired that intelligence from abducted gangsters.


It had been a turbulent few months, and Naoto couldn't say that he was proud of everything he had been party to, everything that he had ordered, over that time. On the other hand, despite Tanya's absence, things hadn't fallen apart – he had held the line, and indeed moved it forward, advancing the Rising Sun's control over Shinjuku while improving the quality of life for those under his control. While Tanya, inexplicable genius that she was, could probably have accomplished just as much as he had, Naoto doubted she could have done much more. Feeling somewhat lighter, now that he'd had a chance to express the events of the last three months to someone who understood the pressure of leadership, he gestured at Tanya, encouraging her to speak.


"So, it's been a pretty busy three months. How about you?"



---------



"A busy three months," he says? Honestly, Naoto was badly underselling himself and his achievements by concluding his report on such a blasé note. When I had left Shinjuku in January, I had expected them to hold the line, and to continue the Rising Sun's humanitarian efforts. I had expected the sudden loss of trained personnel and stockpiled resources and, if I was being honest, my direct oversight, to have arrested the growth of the Kozuki Organization's control over Shinjuku. How could I have been so arrogant? In believing that only I could make a difference, I had fallen for my own hype. A handful of minor successes, and I'm already turning into a megalomaniac! Unacceptable!


Contrary to my expectations, Naoto and Inoue had taken my half-baked plan for potential future improvements to Shinjuku and run with it, in the process achieving an almost unimaginable degree of success. Wait, maybe he wasn't teasing me by saying he was following my plan? But...


True, I had sketched out the 'plan', which was a generous term for the collection of speculations and dreams that it truly was, shortly after Naoto had given me permission to start the Rising Sun Benevolent Association. I had expanded on it after Ohgi had told me about the Six Houses of Kyoto, while trying to assemble a pitch for these potential investors, only to more or less drop the project as the man from Kyoto dashed my hopes of significant support. But I couldn't really call it my plan, especially not after Naoto had put so much hard work into expanding and realizing it.


It was humbling. In three months, I had built two platoons of effective and highly mobile fighters, training and equipping them for the long fight to come, and had led them to a pair of minor victories. In that same time, Naoto had significantly improved the infrastructure of our zone of control, enforced that zone of control against all comers despite being greatly outnumbered, constructed a far larger army than I had, and had formed a government in embryo.


I found myself looking at my profoundly tired leader with fresh eyes. Is this how the 203rd​ had looked at me? When I had first met him, I had seen a charismatic warlord on the rise, a young man determined to set fire to the world that had left him a disinherited bastard in his own land. Later, I had seen him as a well-intentioned if somewhat naive and decidedly inexperienced leader – a green officer who, while promising, needed to be carefully instructed and handled. Now, though, after I had taken a step back, after I had ceased to hover over his shoulder...


Familiarity may not always breed contempt, but it does make it easy to take people for granted, and in hindsight, I had taken Naoto and his dependency on my tactical acumen for granted. I had never stopped recognizing his institutional authority over me, and I had never doubted that his charisma gave him a great deal of sway over the members of the Kozuki Organization, but somewhere along the way I had stopped looking to him for orders. I had simply concocted plans, and expected him to follow them.


I had initially followed Kozuki Naoto out of fear, and out of a need for support. Once the fear had lapsed, I had followed him because he had the respect of those around him, and because he had respected me. But now, I felt like I could follow him out of legitimate respect. I would, of course, still create plans, determine objectives, set goals – that was what he had appointed me to do, after all – but I would be sure to get his input when I did so. When I had left Shinjuku, he had risen to the occasion, and truly proved himself worthy of my loyalty.


"Naoto," I began, trying to figure out how to put that sentiment into words without admitting my earlier potentially disloyal thoughts. The man himself paused mid-sip, and put his glass of water back on the table, focusing his attention back on me. His blue eyes had seemingly darkened with fatigue, and it seemed like he was staring straight through me, glaring at a point just behind my head. "You have made a commendable effort. Ohgi and I were both deeply impressed by the cleanliness and order we saw on our way here."


"The place hasn't looked this good in the last six years!" Ohgi interjected, backing me up. I nodded in acknowledgment to him, before turning back to Naoto.


"I still need to catch up on the details," Three months worth of broad strokes crammed into a ten minute summary was a good starting point, but I would need more information before I could begin planning prospective next moves. "And it sounds like I will need to visit Inoue as soon as possible, so she can get me up to speed with the Rising Sun's current operations," I saw Ohgi open his mouth, and I hurried to pre-empt him, "After I've visited Chihiro and offered my condolences, of course." Ohgi closed his mouth, but he was still frowning at me. There's just no pleasing some people.


"Hey, don't leave yet!" Naoto made a staying gesture, hand trembling slightly as he beckoned me to stay seated. "I still want to hear what you've been up to over the last few months. Plus," his thin lips twitched into a slight smirk, "someone's coming to see you. I told her you'd be arriving back in Shinjuku today, and she's very eager to see you again."


I blinked, momentarily confused by Naoto's ambiguous phrasing, before abruptly realizing who he hadn't mentioned yet. "Ah yes, how rude of me. How is the family, Naoto? I hope your mother and sister are well?" And on that topic... Have you heard from your father lately, Naoto? What's he planning, across the Pacific in the Homeland?


Naoto chuckled. "Last I heard, Mom's doing fine. I haven't gone to see her in months, to be honest – I've been busy, and the last thing I need is a scolding to take care of myself." He looked like he was about to say something else, looked at me, and visibly reconsidered. A second later he shook his head, and smiled. "I'll let Kallen speak for herself – she should be here in an hour or so." He leaned back slightly in his chair, and folded his hands behind his head, pulling his jacket up and revealing the empty shoulder holster concealed below. "Just long enough for you to tell me about your spring vacation to Gunma!"


I nodded, acknowledging the implicit order. "Well then..." I closed my eyes, and took a minute to quickly get my thoughts in order. A moment later, I was ready.


"While still a work in progress, I am generally satisfied with the quality of the initial test cohort of trainees." They were no 203rd​, but I had neither asked nor expected them to be. For a group of new recruits, many of them suffering from chronic malnutrition and vitamin deficiencies, the double-sized first cohort had done an admirable job in their training. "I have brought twenty-eight of the first cohort back to Shinjuku with me, leaving the other platoon in place to act as training cadre, as well as to deal with the logistics of keeping The School functional."


"The School curriculum, at present, provides general military training, supplemented with specific scouting and ambush training," I continued, moving on to discussing what the returning recruits could be expected to know and what tasks they could be expected to perform. "They are physically fit, capable of both distance marches at speed and sprinting while carrying up to thirty-five kilograms. They are all able to drive manual transmission vehicles, and can conduct basic vehicular maintenance, as well as sabotage. They are all confident marksmen, and are qualified with standard-issue Britannian sidearms and assault rifles, as well as shoulder-fired missile launchers. They are all trained in the correct and safe usage of radios and other communications devices, and have also been trained to install basic wiretaps and other surveillance and signal interception devices. All have been given a thorough education in basic strategy, ambush tactics, basic logistics, and the political and ideological basis of both the Britannian occupation and our own continued struggle."


I paused, realizing that I had dropped into a monotone as I listed point after point from the basic training package. This is a summary report, fool! Stop reciting the syllabus! "Of course, that's a good start, but I hope to expand The School towards more specialized programs over time, including a greater focus on human intelligence operations, demolitions and explosive device assembly, and, provided we can find training pods, Knightmare piloting and maintenance."


Naoto nodded in approval. "Having skilled bomb makers in our organization would make us less dependent on Mister Asahara, which seems like a really good idea if he really is somehow involved in arming our enemies here in Shinjuku."


I hummed my agreement. It hadn't escaped me that Mister Asahara was remarkably connected; when we had first sought out the Six Houses, he had put us into contact with Kyoto – and now, he had put Naoto in contact with whatever arms dealer had sold him those sniper rifles and ammunition. Not to mention how unconcerned he was when I threatened to shoot off his other leg back when we first met. The elderly engineer was an unknown, and I was increasingly certain that the less we depended on him, the better. Just like Onoda...


"Which," I said aloud, "in a roundabout way brings me to the reason Ohgi needs to return to The School as quickly as possible. You recall that the JLF was providing a liaison officer?" Naoto nodded slowly, with an air of slight confusion. "I suspect that he will attempt to suborn our trainees, left unattended."


"Wait, what?" The slight confusion had progressed into angry bewilderment. "He's trying to steal our recruits or take over your training school?"


"I... Well, I don't have any hard evidence that he's planning anything of the sort," I admitted, "but considering the man's personality, I'd almost be more surprised if he isn't trying something along those lines. He, Major Onoda Hiroo, is an intelligent man and a skilled soldier; he's also assisting his superior's bid to seize control over the JLF and has been remarkably open about his thoughts about my leadership, and for similar reasons may be suspect of yours as well."


"Tanya's very much underselling how unpleasant this guy is," Ohgi interrupted, leaning into the conversation with a frown. "When we arrived in Nakanojo for our first meeting with Onoda, he actually refused to speak to Tanya, much less acknowledge her leadership. He would only respond to what she said if I repeated it, and then he'd only speak to me, even though we were all in the same room!"


As Ohgi spoke, gradually accelerating into an angry rant, he began drumming his fingers on the table's scarred surface, giving some outlet to his seething energy. Naoto seemed equally annoyed - although likely for more personal reasons, considering the mixed heritage we shared and the reactions some Japanese as well as most Britannians had to it.


"He has, in that respect, gotten better," I put in, "although I frankly think that his early unwillingness to acknowledge me is the least of my concerns about him." Naoto turned to me, eyes full of clear disbelief, and I nodded in confirmation. "I am more worried about his reckless disregard for the lives of civilians – both Japanese and Honorary Britannian – and his eagerness to deliberately provoke tit for tat violence as a tool of boosting recruitment. He and his superior are also currently involved in an attempt to undermine the current leaders of the JLF, presumably to seize power for themselves."


Naoto's eyes continued to widen as I went into greater detail, describing my conversations with Major Onoda, including the points when he had practically outlined his faction's ongoing Gekokujō campaign. By the time I finished describing Onoda's unconcealed joy at the round-the-clock activity of Niigata Prefecture's crematories, which considering that Britannians tended to be buried instead of burnt spoke volumes, Naoto's expression had gone hard and flat.


"So, he's an asshole and clearly doesn't care about civilian casualties," Naoto summed up after I finished speaking. "Why are we working with this man?"


"Well, besides the fact that Kyoto House probably pushed the JLF to assign him to our facility deliberately," I began, "he's a very skilled soldier, scout, and infiltrator, and has done a satisfactory job conveying those skills to our trainees. More to the point, the faction that he represents is the only part of the JLF that is actively interested in taking the fight to the Britannians, instead of remaining in their bunkers. They're also the only faction in the JLF currently willing to arm and supply us."


I went over the first and second deals I had negotiated with Onoda, taking care to emphasize how much of a poisoned chalice the Six Houses had served us by pointedly not extending logistical support and by probably making sure Onoda – a known racist and bigot – was assigned to liase with a detachment headed by a female hafu. "...So, it was a case of making the best of a bad situation," I summed up, trying not to second-guess my decision making process in the face of Naoto's obvious disgruntlement. "Short of pulling back to Shinjuku and abandoning both the training camp idea and our credit with the Six Houses, I didn't see any other viable option."


Naoto grunted an acknowledgement, before shaking his head, and smiling reassuringly at me. "I'm not questioning your decisions, Tanya. It sounds like you did a good job in a bad situation." He started to frown again. "I'm just questioning whether or not seeking help from the Six Houses was a good idea in retrospect." He leaned back in his chair, and massaged his forehead. "I guess it doesn't matter, the deal's already been made. Did you say something about missions?"


Recognizing my cue, I briefly ran through the missions in Niigata and Nagano Prefectures, going over the objectives of each mission, the plans, the executions, and the outcomes. Ohgi jumped in periodically to add details that I had missed or neglected to include, but he was generally content to let me explain as the officer in the field what had happened on each mission. Naoto generally nodded along to each beat of my report, reserving his questions until I had finished running through each mission.


The only time Naoto reacted differently was when I mentioned Squad 1's losses during the Niigata mission. I had mentioned that detail only because it was an important "lessons learned" point for the mission, and had thus only discussed that small tragedy in a professional manner. Despite my attempt to stay impersonal, my treacherous voice had warbled annoyingly, and I'd had to clear my throat. I saw Naoto and Ohgi exchange a look, but I didn't know what it implied, nor did they explain. At the very least, Naoto did me the courtesy of not bringing up the minor but embarrassing burr in my presentation when he started to ask his questions.


Unsurprisingly, Naoto was far more interested in the ambush of the Knightmare convoy in Nagano than the radio station raid in Niigata. While he was attentive and interested in the details of the first mission I had conducted on Onoda's behalf, he was very clearly focused on the anti-Knightmare measures I'd used in the second mission. I couldn't blame him – not only was it a confrontation with a unit from the occupation army itself, if and when the Viceregal Governor ever attacked Shinjuku, his vanguard would likely be composed mostly of Knightmares. Knowing that they can be beaten by a non-peer force is a weapon in and of itself, I think.


Eventually, Naoto's seemingly inexhaustible supply of questions finally tapered off, to my faint relief. It was gratifying to have an interested and engaged boss, not to mention one who clearly had trust in my decision-making process. Despite Naoto's past displays of trust in my judgement, I still occasionally found myself wondering when he would interrupt and chide me for overstepping my authority. That moment never came - Naoto only asked for further details or clarifications about our operations over the last three months. After dealing with Onoda's frequent slips back into semi-open contempt of my heritage or gender, simply relaxing around my fellow leaders was a surprisingly relaxing experience.


"Well, it sounds like you guys have been pretty busy yourselves," Naoto commented, leaning back onto his chair's hind legs as I answered the last of his questions. "While I can't say I'm happy that we're more or less locked into dealing with this... Major Onoda," Naoto's mouth twisted, as if he'd bit into something rancid, "it seems like the deal's already paying off. So, we might as well make the most of it."


I nodded. "My thoughts exactly." I hadn't really expected Naoto to disagree with my decisions, but I was also happy that he seemed to understand why I had made those decisions and agreed with my reasoning. The similarities between my independent negotiations with Onoda's faction of the JLF and Kusakabe's efforts to undermine General Katase through unsanctioned missions were not lost on me. Unlike Onoda and Kusakabe, I had no interest in undermining or overthrowing my leader. He knows that, doesn't he? Of course he does...


I frowned, slightly uncomfortable with that line of thought, and wished that I had a cup of coffee at hand. It had been a long meeting, full of substantial dialogue and the exchange of important information, but no meeting really felt quite right without coffee. Besides, I've had to ration myself for months now! It's not fair! With a sigh, I pulled my mind back on track and I turned to Ohgi. "I think we've covered all the important developments, yes?" I was fairly certain everything worthy of discussion had already been handled, but I might have forgotten something.


"Well... No." No? I quickly racked my brain, going over the turning points and major decisions of the recent months, but I couldn't think of anything I'd missed. And why is he looking at me so expectantly? "Tanya, isn't there something you're forgetting about? Something important?" Ohgi was neither glowering nor glaring at me, but there was something in the single raised eyebrow and the kindly, yet firm, set of his face that told me that, whether or not I felt this mystery topic was important, he surely did. What am I forgetting? What important thing does Naoto not know about that is important...? ...Oh.


I had never really decided to share knowledge of my magic with anybody else, including Ohgi. That choice had been made for me, when Ohgi had followed me to that cobble-strewn riverbank and seen something inexplicable. At that point, the decision had been taken from my hands; lying to Ohgi almost certainly would have backfired, and simply refusing to answer hadn't really been a viable option. Necessity had forced my hand, and for the first time since I had begun my third life, I had told somebody about one of my two most closely kept secrets.


Unsurprisingly, I found myself resenting Ohgi for forcing the issue here and now. Magic was my one inheritance from my second life, not to mention the secret to my survival in this wretched third life in Area 11. I had only lived this long because the people around me saw only a malnourished and weak girl, one incapable of defending herself or surviving on her own; this perception had allowed me to get the drop on the unwary, most notably when I had taken advantage of my malnourished frame to fold myself up behind a truck chair, only to use my magically enhanced strength to stab two gang members to death.


On the other hand, I understood where Ohgi was coming from – my magic was a factor that our leader needed to know about, so he could best quantify my abilities and assign me a workload commensurate with those abilities. And, going beyond the sort of cold logic that came so easily to me... I trusted Naoto, and he trusted me. He and Ohgi had taken me in when they had very little, and I had nothing to contribute at all. He had seen my worth, and had promoted me in his organization, giving me both the authority and freedom to choose my own tasks and assignments. He had trusted me to keep Kallen safe during the subway raid, and had trusted me to handle negotiations with the Six Houses. He had trusted me. And, something that always left me feeling vaguely surprised when I consciously considered it, I trusted him as well, him and Ohgi and the other four core members of the cell.


I had trusted Naoto this far; I would trust him again.


That's all well and good, but how do I introduce magic to him without sounding crazy?


The same way I introduced it to Ohgi – a demonstration, clearly. This time, an intentional demonstration.


"Naoto..." I turned back towards the Kozuki Organization's leader, which meant so much more now than it had a mere six months ago. His chair's front legs thudded into the worn linoleum as he shifted forward, exhaustion once again pushed back behind a businesslike mask of an expression, eyes following me attentively as I returned to the table.


"There is something else I need to discuss with you, something that I've been keeping to myself for quite some time." I tried not to wince at my own awkwardness, and forced myself to continue speaking, fighting down my rising anxiety as I stretched out my arms, palms up over the table. "I honestly should have probably disclosed this information earlier, but I found the idea... uncomfortable."


Ohgi smiled encouragingly at me, but Naoto just looked quizzically at me. He looked like he was about to say something, but looked over at Ohgi and clearly reconsidered, gesturing for me to continue.


Over the last two and a half months, since Ohgi had discovered me in the middle of practice, I had continued to experiment with the formulas from my past life. The original spells I learned in the Empire have been optimized for use with computation orbs, complicated carefully engineered bundles of smaller subsidiary spells. I had to work hard to tease out their individual components, such as the strength enhancement or the acceleration formula.


Those small formulas had been low hanging fruit, as both were integral to the flight spell package, the bread and butter working of every aerial mage in Imperial service. Without the strength enhancement, a human flying at hundreds of kilometers an hour would be shredded; without enhanced reflexes, navigating around barriers was nigh impossible at high speeds. I had been intimately familiar with both in my previous life, and simplifying them down to an orbless level had been comparatively simple.


But the flight package hadn't been the only spell I had memorized. As an aerial mage and a training officer, I had committed as many spells as I could manage to memory. Among others, I had memorized the round enchantment formula, the passive shell and active barrier formulas, the guidance formula that also served as a primitive means of radio wave interference, and of course the ever-handy Mage Blade formula.


One of my least used spells had been the Napalm-Type Formula, an explosion spell that was frankly inferior to the far more versatile artillery enchantment formula. However, inefficiencies aside, the napalm spell didn't require any container for the power, like the artillery enchantment did, and included a component to generate the pilot flame from pure magical energy. After much time and effort, I had managed to isolate the ignition component and found a way to cast it without the aid of a computational gem.


Frankly, it was an unimpressive spell, more of a party trick than a tactical enhancement. It was an energy intensive working, and actually projecting the flame or spreading it required an even larger investment of mental effort and energy. A lighter did everything my spell could at a far lower cost.


But I could make a tongue of flame dance on the palm of my hand on command, and even a party trick could be useful in a demonstrative capacity.


Yellow and orange tongues of flame sprang into being in each of my hands, stretched halfway across the table towards Naoto. While only ten centimeters or so high, the flames were already greedily devouring my energy reserves. So inefficient! For a moment, I found myself feeling nostalgic for the Empire and its computational gems. I almost miss Schugel. Almost.


The flames reflected in Naoto's goggling eyes, wide with a blend of what looked like shock, delight, and an unsettling degree of awe. His mouth hung slack, and his frown had disappeared, expression wide open and completely unguarded.


It seemed like the demonstration had its intended effect. Mysterious flames are probably equally dramatic as a magically controlled fall; I'll have to remember that, for the unlikely event of any future demonstrations. Satisfied, I snuffed out the fire dancing on my left hand first, and then raised my right hand, palm aflame, to eye-height before slowly reducing the flow of energy down to nothing, the flame dwindling as the supply tapered off. Let nobody say I lack presentation skills - and every good presentation needs a touch of the theatrical to hook the audience's emotions.


I met Naoto's eyes across the table. "You can call it magic – it's as good of a descriptor as anything, and the term that I use." Almost before I finished the sentence, I knew more of an explanation would be necessary. Naoto was far from a fool, and I had no doubt that he'd believe his own eyes – but Naoto was also a tired man, one who had spent the last several months looking for any edge he could use against our enemies. He's a politician too now! He has constituents! I need to make sure he knows what I can do, and more importantly what I can't do, before he starts getting ideas!


"I've had this power all my life, as far as I can tell," I maintained eye contact as I spoke, half-expecting an angry outburst or a disbelieving laugh at any moment. The latter because my previously malnourished state made little sense for someone with such a power, the former because I had withheld knowledge about said power for the last year.


"I was able to muster extra energy, back when I was working to feed myself, energy that let me work the same hours and carry the same loads as some adults. Energy, strength, enhanced balance... but it wasn't a significant boost. I'm sure my old supervisors simply chalked it up to willpower, or perhaps desperation." Perhaps they simply didn't notice, or didn't care at all. Caring takes effort and energy, after all, and both of those were in short supply after the Conquest. "Either way, before I met you and Ohgi, my 'magic' was decidedly limited, hardly enough to keep me functional, and alive."


To my mild surprise, it was far easier to discuss my magic here than it had been back on that riverbank in Gunma. Perhaps it was the comfort of familiar surroundings, perhaps it was Naoto's famous charisma. More likely, it was the benefit of explaining things a second time – it was easier to sort the background out into a rational and ordered flow, instead of a half-panicked tumult. The fact that Ohgi didn't call me a witch also helped. Now that I think about it, he took it remarkably in stride.


"After I joined the Kozuki Organization, and more importantly after I started eating significantly more food with higher caloric yields, the energy reserves that I draw from for my 'magic' expanded, increasing both the strength and variety of effects I could manifest. Admittedly, just correlation, but that trend continued and expanded after Ohgi mandated specific shared meal times and increased portion sizes." That should explain why I didn't strike the various gangsters dead back in the day.


And now to explain why I'm not using my abilities to push the Britannians into the sea single-handedly. "Even now, it's still not particularly impressive. Those flames, for example, took a significant portion of my available energy." I shrugged, trying to defuse any disappointment via a commiserating 'What can you do about it?' expression. "It's frankly most useful the way I have been using it, as a way of boosting my own capabilities. It's got a few other minor tactical applications. Unfortunately, it's too weak to really make a difference in the greater scheme of things."


I jumped in my seat, startled despite myself at the loud impact. Naoto was standing, leaning forward across the table on the hand that he'd just slapped down onto the surface.


"Are you even listening to yourself!?" I leaned back, away from my suddenly crazed leader. A medley of expressions whirled across Naoto's face, too fast to pin down – anger, shock, hope, amusement, and just a hint of disappointment. Then, he blinked, seemed to notice my reaction, and coughed slightly with embarrassment at his outburst.


"Tanya," Naoto began, twisting away to scoop up his fallen chair, righting it, and sitting back down before leaning back across the table. He leaned forward, lowering his head so he was directly at my eye height, and took one of my hands in his. "Tanya, you are an incredibly intelligent, and incredibly capable person. I respect your accomplishments; your plans and ideas have done so much to help so many already, and I'm sure you're only getting started. But, here? About this? You're wrong."


It was my turn to blink with surprise and confusion, and I'm sure I would have leaned back in my seat if Naoto hadn't already captured my hand. The sudden whirlwind of compliments was flattering, but... What does he mean, I'm wrong? Without a focus, my magic is incredibly weak! I can't melt a Knightmare with a handful of fire! Even if I had a computational orb, a single aerial mage against the Britannian Army is suicide!


Before I could express my rebuttal, Naoto started talking. "Weak or not, Tanya, you can do magic. Magic! Nobody else can – nobody I've ever heard of, at least! It's a sign that you are important!" He laughed, "Not that we didn't already know that, of course!"


A moment later, Naoto sobered up and continued, his tired eyes lit from within with a fervor I already disliked. "It's like the old stories: An evil army of demons comes to a peaceful land, and conquers the people. The people cry out for a hero, and from their midst, an orphan emerges... and her bravery is recognized by Kami, who gives gifts marking that girl as a hero." He smiled, a wry twist to his lips. "I did say that you'd done Amaterasu's work when you smote the thugs in the station with fire and steel, didn't I? This looks like proof that I was more right than I ever could've suspected."


I have no idea what my face looked like, as I gaped at Naoto, but I could only assume horrorstricken would have been an apt description. His reaction was one I hadn't even imagined, yet was somehow far worse than any I could have expected. I should have seen this coming! All the signs were there! He references the Gods far more often than is healthy!


Whatever my reaction had been, it clearly hadn't been what Naoto expected either. His eyebrows rose in surprise, and he quickly started speaking again, this time taking a different tact. "Look, whether or not the Kami have blessed you isn't important – but the idea that you could have been is! I'm not trying to be cynical here; way back when we were first recruiting, you said that it's important to give people some reason to hope that tomorrow will be a better day, and that giving people something to fight for would make them more willing to fight over the long haul, right? We've already started that by giving them food and stuff, but they need a symbol, something to really rally behind!"


I clenched my teeth and endured the sting of having my own words thrown back in my face. Dealing with fanatics was annoying even at the best of times; even when I could safely ignore the ranting, simply encountering people who had chosen to forsake rationality for overwhelming dedication to their pet obsession reduced the quality of my day. Unfortunately, I couldn't ignore this situation in the hopes that cooler heads would prevail; Naoto was the leader of my organization, and now the political head of Shinjuku – there were no cooler heads who could force the genie back into the bottle. I can't believe I almost missed Shugel, even for a moment.


"Once the word starts getting out, the people of Shinjuku and the Japanese outside the Ghetto will rally to us!" Naoto continued his pitch, trying to convince me of the wisdom of his wild idea. "We have lots of recruits already, but they're all from Shinjuku too – if we can spread the word outside the walls, who knows what kind of opportunities we'll get? We might be able to finally get clear of the Six Houses, get clear of that treacherous piece of shit at The School! If the people truly believe that the gods are with us, they'll flock to our banner! We'll push Britannia back into the Pacific – hell, we'll push them all the way back to Area 7!"


"Naoto… Are you sure about that?" Naoto and I both jumped slightly in our seats with astonishment, and turned in unison towards Ohgi. I had been so overwhelmed by Naoto's lunatic reaction to my magic that I'd completely forgotten about the other man in the room, and judging by Naoto's reaction, he'd forgotten we weren't alone as well. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd love to see Britannia smashed like any man, but…" Ohgi smiled apologetically, and gestured at our surroundings, "but our people don't have that kind of power. Not right now. I've been out in the countryside, Naoto, outside of Shinjuku and Tokyo – things aren't that much better out there. In some ways, they're actually worse."


Thank you, Ohgi! Thank you! The man had injected a moment of logic into the stream of zealotry, and had bought me an opening. I pushed my advantage with every iota of ruthless efficiency I could summon. "Ohgi is correct, Naoto. The spirit of our people may be strong, but it is also bloody, starving, and sweating under heavy burdens. A general uprising might lead to some temporary victories against the Britannians, but make no mistake – they would indeed be temporary."


Naoto turned back towards me but I pushed on, refusing to brook any interruption. This idea had to be ended here and now, for my sake and for the sake of everything that we were fighting for. I can't live a comfortable future if the Britannian Empire decides that Elevens will have no future! "Currently, Japan is under occupation by the garrison under the command of the Viceregal Governor, Prince Clovis. This is not an active theater; the Britannians do not particularly care about Area 11," Both men winced at my use of the colonial label, as I'd intended. "They do not care, and so only inferior forces are assigned here, for the most part. Second rate garrison troops and embarrassments only, no elite units or Knights of the Rounds."


I paused to let that implicit dismissal sink in, before continuing. "However, the Britannians very much do care about the Sakuradite mines. The moment we threaten those, all bets are off." I saw the disbelief rising in Naoto's eyes, and quickly answered the implicit question before he could ask it himself. "I am not saying we should give up the fight, and I'm not saying we should resign ourselves to Britannian domination. I am saying that it would be a betrayal of our people and of Japan to strike before we have a chance of not only liberating Japan, but guaranteeing a future for our people that lasts longer than a year." And a year's remarkably generous; even if we did win control over the Home Islands, I'm sure the counter assault would land in weeks.


I could still see the passionate flames burning Naoto's eyes, but they had been somewhat dampened. Good – keep pressing! I took a breath, and exhaled the panicked anger that Naoto's rant had lit in my belly; getting angry at Naoto would only make him angry in return. I liked and respected Naoto, this temporary bout of insanity aside, and I wanted him to respect me as well; more to the point, I had to continue to work with him in the future. I couldn't simply browbeat him into submission, I had to convince him that I truly was correct by appealing to his sensibilities. And if there's one thing that's truly fundamental to Kozuki Naoto's sensibilities, it's his role as the big brother looking out for his little sister. At every turn, Naoto had been motivated by his relationship to Kallen – and so, at least for a minute, I had to become the little sister.


"Naoto, I want a good and happy life for our people," I began, speaking in softer tones, and squeezing down lightly on the hand holding mine. "I want a world where the next generation of children doesn't have to live like I did, and doesn't have to see the things I did. I want a Japan that is free, where I don't have to fight, and where I can do something productive instead." I let a degree of firmness re-enter my tone. "But I've seen this path before, and I've heard the cries – 'one glorious push, and we'll force them out! The gods favor us!' That's what the resistance groups always said, and it always ended the same way – a wall and a hundred dead Japanese for every dead Britannian. If the gods truly favored us, we would already be free."


I squeezed down again on Naoto's hand, still lightly but again with a hint of firmness, and this time he let me go. The flames had dwindled down to scattered sparks. "Besides, what happens if the word gets out, and the Britannians hear about it somehow before we're ready? Do you think that we're ready to hold Shinjuku against all comers? And, if the Britannians hear about my magic… What do you think they'd do to me, Naoto? The Britannians have always loved to talk about strong bloodlines – what do you think the nobles, to say nothing of the Imperial Family, would do for a magical bloodline?"


It was a dirty trick, but I didn't regret using it. I knew I had won, even before Naoto reluctantly nodded. "You've got a point Tanya," he sighed, before ruefully laughing and resting his forward on his hands. "Guess I really got ahead of myself there. I just… I thought your magic would be a shortcut, and we could just use it to skip to the end of this…" He sighed again, and halfway through it turned into a yawn. Over his head, Ohgi and I exchanged a look and nod of acknowledgement. He really did look exhausted; get sleep deprived enough, and you might as well be drunk.


"I don't think there are any shortcuts here, Naoto," Ohgi said, patting his friend and roommate's shoulder. "Just a long hard slog, but…" The former teacher looked back over at me, and then patted Naoto's shoulder again. "I think we're up to the task, no matter how long that slog is. We've got each other, we've got our other comrades, and we've got the organization we've begun to build." I wasn't quite as sanguine about our prospects as Ohgi seemed to be, but I nodded along anyway. No point in undermining a perfectly good pep talk, after all. Naoto collected himself a bit and sat back up in his chair, shooting Ohgi a worn smile as his chair squeaked against the linoleum.


"Although, since we're on the topic," Ohgi began, turning towards me with a curious expression, "I've been wondering about your magic for quite a while now, Tanya. Do you think you're the only one who has it? And, do you think you can teach it to others?" Naoto perked up at that, and likewise turned towards me, eyes alight with the same eager curiosity that had shown in Ohgi's.


I grimaced, but promptly replied. "I have no idea if I'm the only one who has magic; I have no idea how I would detect it in other people, or if that's even possible. As for teaching…" I paused for a moment, before shaking my head and continuing. "I think I could probably explain how I use my magic, but I don't know how I could teach someone to get magic."


It was disappointing to admit, and I could tell by my friends' matching crestfallen expressions that they had hoped for a different answer. Unfortunately, that was the answer I had for them; at the very least, I had the cold comfort of knowing that everything I had said was the truth, without even the slightest bit of prevarication. I didn't know if I was the only one in this world who had magic – even in the world of my second life, mages in general had been uncommon and A or B class mages had been rare. I didn't know how to detect other mages without the use of specialized equipment that I had never studied and couldn't come even close to replicating. And as for teaching, I could explain my spell formulae, but I couldn't give magic to someone who lacked it.


Before Naoto and Ohgi could spend too much time mulling over my answer, my radio crackled to life, breaking the contemplative silence. "Trainspotter to Backpack, come in. Over."


I looked to Naoto before I responded, both for courtesy's sake, and to show my continued respect for his leadership after resisting his ideas regarding my magic. As soon as he nodded, the handheld radio was at my mouth. "Backpack to Trainspotter, I hear you. Sitrep? Over." 'Trainspotter' was one of the two fighters I'd assigned to guard the apartment building once they successfully infiltrated Shinjuku. Unless something had gone wrong, he should be five stories below me at this very instant.


"Trainspotter to Backpack, someone's here to see you. I think she's the one you designated as 'Cherry'? Should I send her up? Over."


Naoto, who was clearly listening in to my radio conversation, raised an eyebrow, silently asking who "Cherry" was. "Kallen's arrived, it seems," I answered his silent question by passing on the report, as if he hadn't been sitting only a few feet away. For some reason, his inquisitive eyebrow remained high on his brow, and I felt compelled to explain the code name I'd selected for his sister. "She's got red hair, cherries are red. It seemed like a fitting code name. That's all."


"Oh yeah, no argument here!" Naoto replied, his inquisitive expression punctured as his mouth stretch wide with another barely suppressed yawn. "It's just an… interesting choice for Kallen. She's a bit too spicey to be a cherry, and far too spikey to be a blossom."


"I thought it was a fitting name…" I muttered, ignoring a knowing look from Ohgi and also the flushed heat spreading across my cheeks as I pressed the transmission button back down. "Backpack to Trainspotter. Send her on up, and keep me posted if anyone else drops by. Backpack out."

 

[islamy96]

light of the recent threadlock on SB

Click to shrink...

What? Why this block d there?

 

[Daemon Targaryen]

What? Why this block d there?

Click to shrink...

It was due to Scopas support to Ukraine and condemning Russia.

Since then it have stopped thankfully.

 

[Hai-Spectrum]

Just finished my binge. I'm really impressed with the direction of the fic and almost can't wait to see how Lulu and Suzaku react to the obviously horribly damaged and underage child soldier that Tanya is, much less Euphemia. If Lelouche makes the Nunally association he'll cock his shotgun and say Britania (and most definitely Charles) has got to go. If Suzaku realizes what Tanya is and how he directly contributed to her production he'll probably break, which I kinda want because he's honestly a hypocritical dumbass. The sad reaction would probably be Charles's, Marianne's and the immortalls' reaction since somone like her is pretty much business as usual.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 21: A Shinjuku Reunion (Pt 2)


(A major thank you to Siatru, Thearpox, Sunny, Gremlin Jack, Grig9700, and WrandomWaffles. All contributed to editing or beta reading this chapter at various points, and it has profited massively by their example. I am truly sorry for the long delay in getting this out to you, the audience. I hope I won't keep you waiting this long with the next chapter.)


APRIL 21, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1733


"…Think she's the one you designated as 'Cherry'? Should I send her up? Over." The handheld radio chirped in the insurgent's hand as he released the transmit button. The ensuing static buzz was just another small source of irritation for Kallen Stadtfeld in a day already brimming with petty annoyances. The way that 'Trainspotter' was smirking at her was another. Kallen could freely admit that he was a handsome man, and the sleeveless t-shirt he wore did an excellent job showcasing his powerful biceps, tanned almost to a nut brown from hours under the sun – if it were any other day, she might have enjoyed the mancandy.


But today, his smirking interest was just another annoyance, especially because Kallen apparently now needed his permission to go up the stairs to her brother's apartment. Ever since she'd gotten the text from Naoto letting her know that Tanya was back in town, seeing the younger girl again for the first time in months had been all Kallen could think about. She'd suffered through the bi-weekly meeting of the editorial staff of the Ashford Academy Gazette, doing her best to stay engaged with her fellow club members despite her eagerness to leave. As soon as the clock ticked over to half-past four, she'd made a beeline to the MagLev station… Only to learn that the usual route to Shinjuku was undergoing scheduled maintenance.


A circuitous train ride and an "entry fee" later, Kallen entered the Shinjuku Ghetto for the first time in months. She honestly hadn't expected much of a change from her last visit to the last enclave of the Japanese in the Tokyo metropolitan area, apart from the seasonal – sewage cooking and fermenting in gurgling almost-clogged drains, instead of freezing in the gutters.


Naoto, never the most communicative, had become downright taciturn over the last few months. Her brother had all but ordered her not to come to the Ghetto, though the texts expressing that order had couched that command in encouragement to focus on her studies and her budding career as a string reporter instead.


While Kallen had resented the command to stay in the Britannian Concession, she'd initially gone along with it. Naoto was, after all, her superior in the organization, as well as her big brother. Besides, she'd had plenty of work to do, even if it was very unsatisfying compared to the adrenaline rush of combat. Tanya and Naoto had both pointed out to Kallen that nobody else could do what she could; at first, Kallen had been happy for the reassurance - now, she only wished that she was a bit more replaceable.


When the texts from Naoto had slowly tapered down from once a week to once every few weeks, Kallen had begun to grow worried. To make matters worse, her mother was also getting increasingly worried for, and angry at, Naoto. His complete lack of communication was driving her up the wall, and so she had taken to asking Kallen about her brother whenever the two had a moment alone. It took much of Kallen's limited supply of patience not to vent her irritation on her mother - their rebuilt relationship was still new and somewhat fragile, and Kallen privately feared backsliding into the Britannian Tanya had called her out as.


Despite her resolve to be a better daughter, Kallen knew that her patience was far from endless. Before her willingness to wait snapped completely, she had approached the only person in the Britannian Concession that she knew Naoto couldn't avoid. Inoue, who was still running the Rising Sun communal dinners every Friday night at the refugee camp set up for the Honorary Britannians in Toshima.


Inoue had been surprised to see her, but Kallen had come prepared with a good reason to drop by - nobody else was reporting on the miniature refugee crisis happening right in the middle of the Tokyo Settlement, so Kallen was stepping in to fill the niche. Inoue, of course, hadn't been fooled by the earnest explanation, and had promised to smack Naoto when she got back to Shinjuku for her. Kallen was delighted by the promise, but not as much as she was at the news that her brother was alive, working hard, and making great progress with the tasks left in his care by Tanya.


Kallen hadn't pressed for further details. Even that short conversation in potentially hostile territory had been a risk, and Kallen knew that if Tanya had been there she would have chided her over the breach of information security.


So it had come as a great surprise when Kallen had entered Shinjuku and found the stench of sewage almost completely absent. While that was perhaps the most welcome change, it was less impressive than the amount of obviously fresh construction. Everywhere she looked, once cracked tenement walls sported fresh cement patches, and roads glistened under fresh layers of asphalt.


More importantly, the people of Shinjuku were just as changed as the district itself. Young people moved with straight backs and squared shoulders, even as they struggled with heavy loads. Exposed concrete and years of graffiti were being painted over by several teams of paint-can wielding elders and children. A young man missing one leg below the knee sat on the stoop of a building, mending a pile of torn clothes with a darting needle and thread, but his eyes were lively and bright as he worked, chatting with one of the elderly people spreading whitewash on a wall.


Compared to the slouching, aimless crowds Kallen had pushed her way through during her previous trips to visit Naoto, these people all moved with energy and purpose. Everybody seemed busy with something, but nobody had the keen edge of desperation or fear that had once seemed omnipresent in Shinjuku.


More surprising than the change in attitude was how armed Shinjuku had become. Despite the Britannian prohibition on the Japanese ownership of weapons, blades and cudgels were plentiful in the streets of Shinjuku. Everywhere Kallen looked she saw small groups of men and women, all wearing identical red headbands and sporting knives, batons, and at least two pistols per group.


Kallen would have thought the clusters of armed people simply another gang, except that she had seen those same headbands worn by some of the volunteers that accompanied Inoue to the communal dinners. On second glance, the pedestrians thronging the street didn't treat the headband-clad people with the wariness and fear typical to interactions with gangsters. They were treated with respect, yes, but it was the kind of respect that Kallen recognized from her relationships with most of her comrades in the Organization, a mutual respect built on shared goals, experiences, and bonds.


A mutual respect, indeed a camaraderie, that Kallen certainly wasn't feeling at the moment. Instead, she could almost feel the pressure of the gazes and sideways looks. Nobody troubled her, nobody even approached her, but the way the eyes of every headband-wearing tough followed her as she made her way down the once-familiar streets was grating. Not that it's a huge surprise, since I'm probably the only natural redhead in Shinjuku apart from Naoto.


It was annoying, seeing how much of a stranger she had become amongst "her" people. Kallen had spent months on the other side of the wall, living the life of the Britannian that she knew she wasn't. While she had been gone, the world inside the ringing walls of the Ghetto had moved on, and now she was left gawking like a tourist.


Much as she wanted to put all the blame for her newest degree of separation from the rest of the Japanese on Naoto, Kallen was guiltily certain that she could have pressed for updates harder if she had really cared. On the other hand, she shouldn't have had to tell Naoto to keep her in the loop in the first place; absent Tanya's presence, it was clear to Kallen that Naoto had fallen back on old habits. The moment he'd had the chance, her big brother had wrapped her up in cotton and put her away in Ashford, safe and sound, while he had apparently built an army, conquered at least part of Shinjuku, and started rebuilding the place. He'd grown canny: instead of directly denying her the chance to help, he had kept her focused on the tasks Tanya had left behind before haring off into the wilds of central Honshu.


Now, after delays caused by pointless meetings, overdue railway maintenance, and her own distracted fascination at Shinjuku's metamorphosis, Kallen was being kept from welcoming her best friend back home and from giving her beloved big brother a piece of her mind by this idiot with a radio! Even worse, she was a full hour late to her reunion with a person who adored organization and loved timeliness! 'That's not fair,' she thought to herself, fuming as the bastard's knowing smirk widened, 'he is just doing what Tanya told him to do – the radio and all these code names have her fingerprints all over it…'


"So, you're the Commander's cherry-girl, huh?" Kallen's eyes narrowed into slits as she glared at the fool in front of her. Irritatingly, the anger just seemed to confirm something for the ape, and his smile broadened. The temptation to punch him in the throat was nearly overwhelming, but Kallen kept her anger tightly leashed, as Tanya had taught her to do. They're on my side, after all, or at least Tanya's, Kallen reminded herself, keeping her hands open and relaxed at her sides, So let's keep it friendly...


Letting her face slide into the contours of her typical school mask, Kallen injected just a hint of Milly's infuriating smirk into her smile and channeled her step-mother's haughty arrogance as she angled her head just enough to look down on the taller man. "What? Are you jealous? Don't worry, I'm sure a gorilla like you will find a girlfriend eventually!"


The man grinned back with irritating ease. "Thanks Cherry, I appreciate the support. Sorry to get your hopes up, but I like 'em a bit older – come back in a few years and if Kaho hasn't kicked me to the curb yet, I'll give you a date or two."


The draconic anger that laired deep in her bones stirred slightly, but Kallen was mostly just amused. Now that the initial exchange was past, she recognized this as a dynamic she'd had in the past with Tamaki – playful taunting and teasing, without any real emotional stakes. "Well, if she doesn't kick you to the curb, I'd be happy to give it a try! You guys just got back from the training camp with 'Commander Backpack', right?"


'Trainspotter' narrowed his eyes slightly at her. Next to him, his silent partner's hand drifted towards the butt of his holstered pistol. "What if we were, huh? Who's asking?"


"Cherry!" Kallen replied with a grin that she didn't even have to force. Her previously overwhelming annoyance had surprisingly melted away – shooting the shit for a second with people whom she was confident were on her side had let her forget for a precious moment about how pissed she was at Naoto. It had been way too long since she could just relax and talk to someone without carefully watching her words. "You know, the person you were obviously told to look out for?" Kallen scoffed, before adopting a theatrically pompous tone "Don't you know who I am? I am the foremost student of the Tiny Terror of Shinjuku herself! The one you call… Backpack!"


The two men chuckled and relaxed, the brewing tension dissipating. Trainspotter's face returned to its easy grin and his partner's hand continued to drift right past the pistol and settled on his hip, where he made a show of scratching himself. "No shit, really?" Trainspotter laughed, "So you know what she's about, yeah? Hope you enjoyed the months off – she's probably gonna put you in a refresher course or some bullshit!"


Before Kallen could respond, Trainspotter's radio crackled back to life. "Backpack to Trainspotter. Send her on up, and keep me posted if anyone else drops by. Backpack out."


Trainspotter nodded towards the door to the stairwell. "You know the way up, right?" Kallen nodded back, and he grinned in reply. "Head right on up."


"Thanks," Kallen replied, heading up the stairs, "Once I finish up here, we should have a spar – I'd love to see how badly Tanya's standards have been slipping, without me and Big Bro keeping her on the straight and narrow."


The stairwell door swung shut on the jeering reply from Trainspotter and the laughter from his partner. As she made her way up the flight of stairs, Kallen let the smile subside, schooling her face back into a more businesslike expression.


Away from the impromptu distraction provided by the two guards, Kallen's anxiety began to make itself known again. Instead of worrying about Naoto's well-being, Kallen found herself focusing on how she'd describe the events of the last few months to Tanya. It felt like she had plenty to report, but little of real significance. She could only hope that her best friend and mentor wouldn't be too disappointed in her; Tanya was always very hard working, and pushed everybody around her to be equally diligent. Compared to what Tanya had likely accomplished in a season away, Kallen found it hard to be confident in her own meager achievements.


As Kallen approached the apartment door, she took a deep breath and tried to let the worry flow out from her. Whether or not Tanya would be disappointed in her, whether or not Tanya would be happy to see her again… It was too late to change anything. Before her resolution could desert her, Kallen reached out and knocked on the splintered surface of the door.


A moment later, a deadbolt slid home and the apartment door swung open.


"Hey there, Kallen! Good to see you again!" Her brother's best and oldest friend stood framed in the door, smiling at her from beneath his familiar pompadour. While Ohgi's smile and hair were just the way Kallen remembered, he now sported the same farmer's tan as Trainspotter did three floors below. Although his nose is still peeling… That's gotta itch…


"Ohgi!" Kallen hastily bobbed a perfunctory bow in greeting before stepping close and pulling the former teacher in for a hug, which he returned with a fond smile. "It's so good to see you again!" She squeezed him one more time, to which Ohgi reacted with a theatrical groan before she released him and stepped back. "How was your trip? Did you get back okay? Did you have any problems?"


"Hey, hey, slow down, slow down!" Ohgi held up his hands defensively, warding off the storm of questions, "Everything went fine – but what are you still doing out in the hallway? Come on in, Kallen." He stepped back into the room and to the side, and Kallen slipped in after him, closing the door as she passed… And froze in place as she took in the sight of the other two occupants.


Ohgi had changed over the last few months – beyond the tanned skin, Kallen had felt firm muscles under his unseasonal jacket, presumably hard won over the course of endless days of training that she was desperately curious to hear more about. However, In comparison to both her brother and her best friend, Ohgi had remained all but untouched by the passage of time.


Tanya was on her feet, facing Kallen, and for some reason slightly red-faced. Kallen could only hope that she hadn't been arguing with Naoto, who was still seated at the table.


The other girl looked just as eye-catching as always, although Kallen found herself somewhat of two minds about her own newly acquired tan. The longer hair was fetching, but more importantly the lean muscles clearly visible along Tanya's bare arms were a sign of significant improvement in Tanya's constitution as well as her strength. If her body was getting enough nutrients to grow at least three inches taller while having enough surplus to build muscle, it seemed like her days as a half-starved sack of bones were well and truly behind her. In Kallen's opinion, that development couldn't possibly have come soon enough.


Naoto, by contrast, looked awful. In three months he had aged a decade, and looked like a man on the brink of bidding his thirties a reluctant farewell. His face was crusted in stubble, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, and his hair, as red as hers, hung lank and greasy halfway to his shoulders. Most worryingly of all to Kallen, his eyes seemed to look through her for a moment, before suddenly snapping back into the present and onto her face. He hastily forced a smile onto his face and she followed suit, cursing herself internally as she did so.


Dammit! Dammit, dammit, dammit! I knew he was overworking himself, and who knows what else! He always does that, and then he forgets to look out for himself! I should've come down here months ago! Fuck, I should've brought Mom down here months ago to slap some sense back into him! Ugh, I'm such a horrible sister…


Ruthlessly forcing down the wave of anger at her stupid wannabe martyr of a big brother and her own spinelessness, Kallen stepped forward into the studio's small living area and scooped her friend up into a warm hug, skipping the customary bow and apparently taking Tanya by surprise, judging by the minute squeak. A moment later, a pair of slim arms snaked around Kallen's back as Tanya returned the hug.


"Happy birthday, Kallen." Tanya muttered. "I am sorry to report that I didn't think to get a gift for the occasion."


Smiling at the blonde's overly formal tone, Kallen responded in kind, affecting a nasal Pendragon-style noble accent not unlike her step-mother's. "And a happy birthday to you, Commander Tanya. You're twelve now, correct?" She chuckled, and squeezed another small squeak out of the other girl before releasing her and stepping back a pace. "Congratulations on another year. I've got a sack of ground beans straight from Area 6 back at the Manor with your name on it!"


Tanya's crystal blue eyes opened comically wide, and Kallen had to resist the urge to laugh at her enthusiasm. The poor girl's probably been coffee-less for months! "Th-thank you for your gift, Kallen. You did an excellent job picking it out." Tanya's brow abruptly furrowed as she scowled ferociously up at Kallen, but her eyes still glittered with pleasure and amusement. "Don't think you can bribe your way out of your report, though!" Same old Tanya - always trying to be professional! It kinda makes her look a bit silly sometimes… Silly and… kinda cute…


"Wouldn't dream of it!" Kallen replied, giving into her darkest impulses in front of such an adorable menace and tousling Tanya's sunny head. Tanya's scowl deepened, but she made no attempt to evade Kallen's hand, stoically enduring the headpats even as her blush darkened and deepened. Seeing her clear embarrassment, Kallen abruptly felt ashamed of herself and jerked her hand away from Tanya's surprisingly soft hair. What the hell, Kallen? You don't like it when Milly touches you, so why would Tanya like you touching her?


Aware of the sudden shameful heat spreading across her own cheeks, Kallen desperately tried to find a way to exit the suddenly awkward situation. A second later, her gaze landed on her brother, and she abruptly remembered that she was supposed to be angry at him. Oh, remembered that, did you? An inner voice jeered as Kallen's blood started to heat back up. You've been stewing on it for months, and it went right out the window! And isn't anger so much easier to deal with! You know how to be angry – after all, you've been angry for years… Since Daddy abandoned you and then came back years later like it was all okay!


"I'll start my report as soon as I've given my brother the friendly greeting he's definitely earned!" Kallen snarled, forcing that hateful nagging voice that sounded amazingly like her step mother back down. Ignoring Tanya's sudden look of confusion, Kallen stalked past the girl and over to the table, dropping down into the empty seat across from Naoto.


"Hey there, Sis," Naoto smiled as he greeted her. He sounded a bit raspy, but his voice was still strong. Surprisingly, something about it reminded Kallen of their father. And just like Dad, he's trying to push me away and leave me alone. Dammit, Naoto!


Kallen took a breath, but found the calming technique didn't reduce her anger in the slightest. It did, however, chill the molten rage she felt at Naoto running off to endanger his life yet again while insisting she remain safe and secure in the Manor that certainly wasn't home to the Stadtfeld family, to say nothing of the Kozukis.


"I bet you didn't think about Mom at all when you decided to work yourself to death, did you?" Kallen began, ignoring his greeting. "I'm sure there were always very important things to do instead of sleeping, and surely taking the time to shower and eat would have led to the final victory of Britannia."


Taking another breath, Kallen continued her tirade, venting three months of worried anger and loneliness. "You promised me, Naoto! You promised me you'd treat me like an adult and stop trying to leave me safe at home! You promised me I'd be a part of this! And then you just dropped off the map for almost three months! Inoue only ever gave me the big picture, but even then I still knew you were risking your life and overworking yourself, just like always!"


Abruptly as always, Kallen's anger burnt itself out, leaving her with the ashes of numbing grief and a sense of emotional exhaustion. I can't stay angry at him… He's worked himself to the bone for months for Japan, and for me and Mom, but…


"Why didn't you ask me for help?" Kallen asked, voice low and uncomfortably husky, "Why don't you ever ask me for help? What the hell is the point of winning our freedom if you're not there to enjoy it with me, Big Bro? I know I had my own work, but… I could've helped out, somehow. And Mom's worried sick, Naoto. First you didn't call when the Christmas thing went down, and then you didn't call her for the next four months… You haven't visited her since October, Naoto…"


After a moment, Naoto slowly reached out across the table and took one of Kallen's hands between his own. Kallen was tempted to jerk her hand away from her brother, to reject his touch, but the angry impulse faded away almost immediately. His hands were surprisingly cool against her own, considering how warm the apartment still was in the heat of the late afternoon.


"I'm…" Naoto swallowed slightly before continuing, his speech slow and slurred slightly with fatigue. "I'm sorry, Kallen. I'm sorry that I didn't keep you informed, and I'm sorry that I've been so crap at reaching out to communicate. And… I'm sorry that I've been leaving you and Mom alone for so long. I'll have to reach out to her, see what I can do…"


Almost convulsively, Naoto closed his eyes and swallowed hard, throat visibly working as he sought to master himself. Kallen felt an urge to comfort him, but held fast in her resistance. She was, she reminded herself, still angry with him. It was hard to remember that anger when she felt his hands squeeze hers for a moment before relaxing. Did… Did his hands always shake like that?


Just as the younger Kozuki was starting to get a bit worried about what was going on in her idiot brother's head, his eyes flickered open. The tiredness was still there, but below it was a familiar firmness, the same that she remembered from childhood arguments when she'd tried to follow her brother out into the streets at night. Her heart sank slightly; she had never managed to convince Naoto to let her follow him into danger back then either.


"But I am not sorry about leaving you out of my work in Shinjuku, Kallen. I should have kept talking to you - you're right, I screwed up. But you and I both had jobs to do, and both of them were important. The money your articles brought in was crucial." Naoto's voice was unyielding and unhurried as he presented his case. It was, Kallen realized, like hearing her father speak when he had made up his mind about something - a statement almost more of inevitabilities than possibilities.


Implacable tone or not, Kallen wasn't intimidated by Naoto's attempt to crib notes from their father's speech patterns and tried to interrupt, but Naoto rolled right over her attempt to voice an objection as he continued to speak. "You wanted to be treated like an adult, right? Well, this is what it looks like, Kallen! You don't like your job? Tough. There's nobody else who has the right background or connections, so you don't have much of a choice. I can find plenty of people who are just as good or better than you at fighting – I can't find anyone else who can listen to bratty nobles gossiping without suspicion, or who can put sympathetic stories out into the Britannian media environment!"


"Well, what about finding someone to take care of you, Naoto?!" Kallen shot back, yanking her hand free of her brother's grasp as she angrily came to her feet, hands planted on the table and leaning over her still seated brother. "Did you think about that, huh? Look at you, you're a fucking mess! Everybody I saw coming into Shinjuku looked like they'd gained weight since I was last here, but you look like you've lost ten kilos, and you didn't have much to lose to begin with!"


Any concerns Kallen might have had about making a scene in front of Tanya and Ohgi had been shattered by Naoto's seeming inability to understand just how fucking concerning it was to watch your beloved older brother work himself to death. "You fucking idiot, Big Bro! Don't you see you're risking your life here? How the fuck are you gonna help Japan if you're too weak to lift a gun!? What the fuck do you think I'd do if you died, you… You stupid idiot!"


"Anything for the Cause. Anything for a free Japan. Isn't that right, Kallen?" Naoto smiled wryly up at Kallen as he threw Tanya's words, the phrases that had served as her mantra through the endless annoyances of Ashford Academy, back in her face. "Every hour our people are enslaved is one hour too many – a few sleepless nights isn't so heavy a price to pay."


It was, in Kallen's opinion, a low blow to invoke the logic Tanya had used to convince her to stay in Ashford in their current fight. I just want you to take care of yourself and let me help you, you fool! Can't you see that? Before she could say, or more accurately scream, her thoughts right back into Naoto's face, both Kozuki siblings were distracted by the flat crack of an open hand slapping down on the table between them.


As one, both Kozukis turned and looked at the very unimpressed blonde standing next to them. "Now that I have your attention," Tanya began, looking from Naoto to Kallen and back, "please wrap up this touching family reunion and get to your report, Kallen."


Internally cursing her fair skin once again as she felt the radiant heat of embarrassment spread across her cheeks and neck, Kallen coughed and straightened up, looking away from both Tanya and Naoto. "Fine, I think I've made my point." She hesitated for a moment, but turned back to Naoto and muttered "It's good to see you again, Big Bro… Looks like you've accomplished a ton. Good work."


Naoto smiled at her, leaning back in his chair and slouching into a more relaxed position as the tension eased. "Thank you, Kallen. I know you've been really busy too, so how about you tell Tanya all about the progress you've made?"


Accepting the implicit peace offering, Kallen lowered herself back into her seat as Tanya joined them at the table. She had to focus. Now that all the pleasantries, including a chat with Big Bro, were done with - Kallen closed her eyes - I have a job to do.


Letting herself sink fully into her insurrectionist persona for the first time in months, she mentally peeled away all other aspects of her character; sister, daughter, diligent student and junior reporter. Trying to return to the purity of purpose she'd felt standing in that gruesome subway station, to the moment when Tanya had demanded the deaths of everybody who still drew breath. I am a professional, doing whatever I must for The Cause. Japan will live again.


The Revolutionary opened her eyes, and nodded towards her commander. "Over the last three months, I have made significant inroads into the student social scene of Ashford Academy, in large part due to association with the Ashford Gazette. I have further deepened my connection with Rivalz Cardemonde and worked to bring him deeper into the Rising Sun's fold. Unexpectedly, improving my relationship with him has also boosted my social status at the Academy."


Tanya's eyes sharpened with interest, and she unconsciously leaned slightly in towards Kallen. "I was under the impression that Mister Cardemonde was the ne'er-do-well son of minor nobility. But if associating with him is improving your public profile, there must be more to him than meets the eye."


"Just so," Kallen nodded, "in fact, it turns out that Cardemonde isn't even his real name; apparently, his parents despise each other, and he sided with his mother and took her maiden name. Despite this lack of family unity, he somehow got onto the Student Council as the secretary."


Kallen suddenly hesitated, realizing that Tanya probably didn't understand why that was important or surprising. She didn't even get to the sixth grade before the Conquest, so there's no way she'd know what an ordinary student council does, much less understand Ashford's true center of power! Though why does this logic sound so hollow here? Anyway…


"So," Kallen began, speaking slowly as she tried to explain why a group of students had so much power without sounding silly, "in most schools, the Student Council isn't very important. They mostly handle extracurricular matters, school events, and maybe some light administrative work. At Ashford Academy, Milly Ashford is the Council President, and since she's the Principal's granddaughter, she can more or less do as she pleases. Which means that the Council can open or shut clubs, dole out discretionary budgets, proclaim new events on a whim… Even disrupt classes if she pleases."


Kallen paused for a moment, then decided to hammer the point home. "Sitting on the Council is a big deal, which makes Rivalz being involved a surprise."


Honestly, that doesn't even begin to cover it. If push comes to shove, they've got more authority than the teachers themselves. The Principal indulges Milly way too much…


"So," Tanya began, frowning in concentration, "this Student Council has real power, despite being populated by students, and somehow a social nonentity like Mister Cardemonde ended up on the board. And because of his prestigious position, as well as his access to the budgets, you are benefitting from being publicly associated with him?"


"Partially," Kallen nodded, "He also has a generally friendly personality, and seems to know everybody to one degree or another. So everybody knows and generally likes him in return. Unfortunately, my association with him hasn't been a complete plus…" Kallen paused for a fortifying breath, and continued. "So, it somehow got out that I was with him when he got hurt. Worse, he must have told someone all about our trip on Christmas, because everybody knows that I was the one responsible for him being in the Honorary Britannian district on Boxing Day in the first place."


"…Judging by your lack of urgency, I assume that your cover is still intact despite this?" Tanya inquired, raising a dispassionate eyebrow. Despite her cool tone, Kallen could detect a faint note of concern. Whew! She's not angry!


"Yes. No need to worry about that." Kallen confidently replied, "No, the real problem with that information getting out was Milly, just like it always is with anything that happens in that damned Academy. It turns out that 'Miss President' didn't like having one of her private toys damaged." Kallen hesitated, torn between her dislike of the Ashford heiress and her duty to report what she had seen to her leader as accurately as possible. After a moment, her duty won out, and the student insurgent reluctantly admitted the truth. "Actually, that's… Not quite right. As much as I don't want to give her any credit, I think my original opinion of Milly might have been… wrong. Partially."


"She is definitely a spoiled brat who has no idea how good she has it. She's way too handsy, and she loves manipulating people – so she's definitely a Britannian noble – but…" Kallen sighed, irritated with herself as well as the absent noble. Dammit! I hate being wrong! "But she really does seem to care about the students at her family's school. At least," she hedged, "when she's not the one messing with them."


Shortly after the New Year, Kallen had dropped by the Student Council's clubhouse to drop off some forms regarding the school paper's budget. Almost the instant she had entered the Council's meeting room, Kallen had come face to face with Milly Ashford. The blonde's typical leering smile was nowhere to be seen, and before she knew what was happening, Kallen found herself maneuvered into a side room for a "quick chat" over tea.


The ensuing interrogation had been surprisingly competent and thorough. For the first time, Milly hadn't made a single joke or a pass at Kallen, and had kept her wandering hands by her sides. While the lack of casual sexual harassment had been a welcome surprise, Kallen found that she almost preferred it to the icy formality. I never realized that being called "Lady Stadtfeld" could feel less comfortable than "Hot Stuff". Ugh…


After serving tea without so much as bothering to ask how Kallen took it - "Two sugars, isn't it? No need to bother, I already know" - Milly had, in the politest terms possible and with the cold confidence of a queen on her throne, demanded an explanation.


"Did you have any idea what you were doing, Lady Stadtfeld?" Despite the blonde's perfect genteel poise - little finger primly extruded as she sipped from her cup, Kallen was somehow intimidated. "I suspect not - after all, what finely bred lady would knowingly hare off to a violence-racked common neighborhood with only a fellow student for company?"


The cup had clicked against the bone-white china saucer, and Kallen fought the anger that instinctually rose to counter her worry. 'Either you are not a true noble daughter of Britannia,' the insinuation hung in the air like the Sword of Damocles, 'or you acted in a singularly foolish manner. Which was it, Lady Stadtfeld?'


Kallen had answered truthfully and told Milly that she had known that some Honorary Britannians had been attacked, and that she had seen the smoke rising, but she hadn't known how intense the violence had been. She had been equally truthful in stating that she certainly hadn't intended to expose Rivalz to anything like the aftermath of a murder, leaving out the detail that the exposure had been a net positive for her and an unexpected bonus to bringing Rivalz along with her.


"So you truly were a fool." The rebuke had cut surprisingly deep. For a moment, it wasn't Milly chiding Kallen for her choices, but the faceless lady-in-waiting who had tutored her in noble etiquette and conduct on the orders of her father.


Thankfully, Milly had decided to believe her protestations that she hadn't expected anything along the lines of a public lynching. Instead, the student president had settled for explaining how unhappy she was with the risk to members of her student body, and with how concerned she was about Rivalz, who apparently was having trouble sleeping now. Kallen had made the appropriate noises of concern and sympathy, trying her best to indicate her submission and contrition until the Ashford heiress's harangue finally wound down.


Just as the tea had grown cold and Kallen had been certain that the conversation was over, Milly had managed to well and truly undermine Kallen's understanding of her character. While the head of the student council was just as cold and formal as she had been throughout their little tete-a-tete, she had rather directly asked Kallen if she was okay in the aftermath of her experience, and if she needed any legal or medical help.


"Fool or not, you're a student of Ashford as well, Lady Stadtfeld," Milly pointed out, "and as the elected head of the student body as well as the granddaughter of the Director, it is my job to make sure that you are happy, healthy, and ready to learn." Milly had reclined back into her chair, hands tented below her chin. "If you need help with anything, even the consequences of your own poorly thought out actions, I'm here for you. Besides…" A hint of Milly's usual smirk touched her face for an instant, "some mistakes can be pretty fun, just as long as you don't get caught."


Initially, Kallen thought that this was another veiled threat, one too subtle for her to pick up, but Milly's concern had bled out around the icy noble mask. Plus, the fact that she just slipped up and made yet another sex joke makes it unlikely that she's actually some sort of social chessmaster. Kallen could only conclude that she was, in fact, sincere, and that somewhere along the way she had misunderstood Milly Ashford. She was still a pain in the ass, overly talkative and likely a pervert, but she wasn't the cold-hearted manipulator Kallen had thought she was.


They had returned to the meeting room in silence. Kallen had quickly handed over the documents that had brought her to the clubhouse in the first place to Shirley Fenette, the Council's treasurer, before all but fleeing from the seat of Milly's power as quickly as she could without abandoning the pretense of ladylike behavior.


"…So, I managed to dodge any official punishment," Kallen summed up, "although Milly's been a bit distant since then. She was actually cold enough to me in public on a few occasions to get some idiots gossiping about what had happened between us, but after Rivalz started improving, she just got distant." Kallen shrugged, still not entirely sure how she felt about the development. On one hand, it meant Milly had stopped trying to grope her whenever they met; on the other, it was almost certain that Milly wouldn't be passing any information along, much less taking her into her confidences and giving her access to the Academy's files.


Pity, that. And just when Milly finally showed a trace of not being a complete bitch too.


"Fortunately, seeing something real for the first time in his life wasn't enough to scare Rivalz off. He approached me right before the first weekend in February and asked if the people from the neighborhood we'd visited still needed help, and if he could do anything."


Rivalz hadn't been subtle in his approach either. Just as Kallen had been making her way out of the Science Wing at the start of the lunch period, he had stepped out of the crowd of milling students and asked her whether or not the place they'd been at still looked like charred garbage.


The very public question had left Kallen momentarily shaken and unsure how to answer; and just like always, the younger Stadtfeld had immediately responded to uncertainty with anger. "He was really lucky we were in public, or I might've knifed him," she admitted, shaking her head ruefully. "I thought he was mocking me, or trying to make me look like a sympathizer in front of everybody. I mean, who asks something like that in front of an entire crowd of gossipy students, right?"


Kallen had thankfully managed to master her anger before she'd lashed out. She'd automatically uttered some vague platitude to publicly answer Rivalz's question, hopefully heading off any curiosity from the onlookers, before making a bid for privacy by asking if he wouldn't mind joining her for lunch. The susurration of not-so-quiet whispers from the ring of students very deliberately not looking their way at the invitation had nearly been enough to set her off again, but fortunately Rivalz's jerky nod of acceptance drew her attention back to the main priority, and to her mission.


The lunch conversation had been a tense situation for all involved. Rivalz had been twitchy and uncharacteristically irritable, and while Kallen was no longer as on-edge as she had been early on in her career as a spy, the fear of discovery remained a constant companion. Neither ate well, picking at their respective meals as Kallen tried to fill Rivalz in with as many details as she could without sounding suspiciously well-informed. To her pleased surprise, not only did Rivalz no longer look haunted by his month-old trauma, he seemed determined to truly join the organization he nominally headed in helping out the poor and destitute of Tokyo.


"I told him a bit about the Rising Sun," Kallen recounted, "but since he was the first Britannian noble to actually take an interest, I also told him a bit about how the rot went way beyond just the public beatings and the mob violence." The noble half-Britannian shrugged, somewhat bashful under Tanya's approving look, "It wasn't a hard sell – everybody knows how corrupt some of the nobles are, since they don't bother hiding it."


"Anyway," Kallen continued briskly, "while he definitely agreed that noble corruption was a problem, he didn't get how it related to what we'd seen. I explained that one of the Rising Sun's problems was getting enough money to pay the bribes we needed to get food and supplies to the Honorary Britannians. He understood that easily enough - handouts are universal, after all - but it took some effort to explain how the petty street level stuff isn't the real issue. I mean, I hadn't really expected him to know that only Britannians could file permits for public assembly and food distribution with the Tokyo Settlement Administration, like what I did while setting the Rising Sun up, but it was difficult to explain to him why this was a problem."


It had been a long conversation, one that extended beyond the lunch period and into a meeting in a café after school. Rivalz's unflagging interest had been flattering, in an odd way. The usual goofy behavior slipped out now and again, but for the most part he had remained laser focused on Kallen's descriptions of how the Area's system was set up to hamstring any effort to improve the lives of any but the powerful.


Teaching a Britannian noble to critically examine the society he had been raised in had been a novel experience for the half-Japanese girl as well. To her gratified surprise, while Rivalz occasionally displayed the casual racism inherent to Britannian culture, he didn't seem to mean any of it particularly personally. Each time he had said something about "the Elevens", Kallen had pointed out that the Honorary Britannians were of the same stock as the Numbers, but by Rivalz own admission were hard workers and worthy citizens of Britannia. Thankfully, Rivalz hadn't pushed back on these assertions, and had seemed preoccupied and thoughtful by the time Kallen had bid him goodbye.


"It was strange," Kallen admitted, "meeting a Britannian who really seemed to want to help out. I don't know if he really got everything – I caught him staring at my chest a few times, and sometimes I think he was just nodding along, but he really seemed to want to help out."


Naoto looked vaguely murderous, bloodshot eyes narrowing with irritation. "Did he do anything but look? Boy or not, noble or not, if he does, you tell me about it and…"


"And what, deny the Rising Sun the benefits of having another Britannian agent – this one full-blooded – with money and access?" Her professional persona slipped away for a moment as Kallen turned to her brother, unimpressed with his interruption. "Even if he had, you were too busy not answering my texts to do anything! Besides, Mom told me all about what you and Ohgi got up to in high school, so you've got no right to give me or Rivalz any crap!"


Making a vague warding gesture, Naoto leaned back in his chair, away from Kallen. "Alright, alright, geez. You know how to handle yourself, I got it. Just… Let me know if you need help or anything, okay?"


With a huff, Kallen turned back to Tanya and smiled apologetically. "Anyway, I figured that having someone else on board who could help me purchase supplies would be a good thing – besides, the fact that Rivalz already has a driver's license meant that he could rent trucks too, further increasing his value."


"Not to mention his value as a high value courier," Tanya mused, "between that motorcycle of his and his noble status, he would be highly mobile and likely above suspicion. Certainly not likely to be targeted for random harassment or searches, at least."


"That's a good idea," Kallen nodded, pleased that Tanya at least was focusing on important matters, "But my greatest concern was frightening him off by dumping too much responsibility on him at once, so I started slow. I told him about the communal dinner coming up the next Friday and invited him to attend. I told him he could just help serve and maybe talk to the people who came, listen to what they had to say."


That first meeting had set the hook. Rivalz had been somewhat stiff and standoffish at the beginning of the dinner, an attitude somewhat reflected back by the Honorary Britannians who were understandably wary of any strange Britannian appearing amongst them.


Fortunately, as he'd grown more comfortable with dishing out the chicken and vegetable soup, Rivalz had unbent, and by the end of the evening was eagerly helping out with the cleanup and chatting amiably with a number of Honorary Britannians. He'd even gone as far as helping out a small boy with his Britannian homework, correcting grammatical mistakes and complimenting the kid on his handwriting.


"After the third meeting, I approached him for a potential interview for the Ashford Gazette," Despite her certainty that it had been a good idea, Kallen found herself feeling slightly apprehensive; it had been a risky decision for a number of reasons, and it could still blow up in their faces even now, months in the past. "Considering his noble heritage, friendly personality, and social connections, I figured that Rivalz would be a good tool for recruiting other potentially sympathetic Britannians. Besides, I hoped that having a relatively clean-cut young Britannian noble speaking on the record about the Rising Sun would help bring in donations."


Realizing she'd begun to nervously accelerate, Kallen took a breath and forced herself to slow down. So far, Tanya hadn't shown any reaction to her decision, neither positive or negative. The almost feline inscrutability was getting under Kallen's skin, but she saw no other option but to plow on with her explanation. "He agreed to the interview, and I wrote a nice puff piece around a few quotes. I made sure to emphasize his noble heritage and paternalistic motivations. I couched it all on the idea that since Honorary Britannians are legally Britannian citizens, improving their lives will accelerate their integration into the Area's culture and economy."


Across the table, Tanya was still sphinx-like in her lack of expression. Kallen gulped slightly, and made her final push. "And… I took a picture of him patting one of the Honorary Britannian kids on the head while I had the boy hold up his Britannian workbook up to the camera, complete with the mother thanking Rivalz from the other side of the frame. Trying to emphasize the idea of the 'Noble Civilizing Britannian Gentleman', y'know… Surrounded by the people he's teaching to be good Britannians…"


To Kallen's great relief, Tanya finally nodded. Just once, but enough to lift a weight from Kallen's shoulders. Yes! She's on-board! Kallen hadn't been afraid of Tanya's wrath; the idea that her friend would actually get angry at her over a reasonable decision she'd made was laughable. The prospect of her best friend and mentor's disappointment had been, on the other hand, a real source of worry for Kallen since the day of the interview.


Before Kallen could fully release the anxiety that had haunted her for the past two months, Tanya spoke up. "You do realize," the leader of the Kozuki Organization pointed out conversationally, "that publicizing Mr. Cardemonde's connection to the Rising Sun Benevolent Association, a charity group catering to Japanese and Honorary Britannians, has likely demolished any future the boy might have had in any position of power, and may also have brought him to the attention of state security organizations?"


"Yes, I do," Kallen replied firmly. And I've been planning for that question for weeks now! "I also understand the danger that publicly connecting Rivalz to the Rising Sun poses to both the Rising Sun, and to me personally. But I thought the risk was worth it, in part because of some factors that I don't think you've considered, Tanya."


"Well, you are the Britannian specialist here," the other girl mused, "so you're probably correct about that. What factors am I missing, Kallen?"


"First, you don't fully understand Britannia." Kallen hoped that statement hadn't been too confrontational; it hadn't sounded quite that aggressive when she'd recited it in her head. Too late now. "I'm not trying to be insulting," she hedged, trying to walk back the extra assertiveness a bit, "but your Britannian parent wasn't around when you were little and your only real exposure to Britannian culture before we met was through the School for Elevens. So… You've really only seen Britannian culture from the outside and through propaganda."


Tanya stilled for a moment, before nodding. "I learned many things from the School for Elevens, but few of them have proven to be true." She smiled slightly, and almost looked… nostalgic? "I think it was the only time I've ever been happy to be a blonde."


Was… was that a joke? On the rare occasions Tanya wandered away down tangents, it was difficult to tell how seriously she meant anything that she said. While Kallen could usually pick up on the other half-Britannian's frequently dry humor, the sometimes-whimsical tone of her recollections made it tricky to tell the difference between sincerity and a subtle joke. Still beats the times she just stares off into space though.


"Anyway," Kallen bulled on through the awkward pause, determined to continue her explanation, "Britannian culture is nowhere near as monolithic and united as the government makes it out to be, and I'm not even just talking about class stuff either. The Empire covers something like a third of the world, and Pendragon can't have eyes everywhere. There's lots of regional differences across the Areas, some dating all the way back to before they were Areas. Especially in the other new Areas, like Area Ten."


"And that's not even factoring in all the noble politics," Naoto butted in, "The way Father talks about it, there's lots of competition in the nobility, some of it tied to stuff like backing different noble or imperial heirs, some of it tied to more philosophical divides. Lots of the families that talk about the "civilizing power of Empire" are just using ideology as a way of joining a court clique - gotta talk the talk in public to really prove your membership. They're doing it for the same cynical reasons they do everything else - access to power, signaling loyalty, all that bullshit."


"But," Naoto leaned forward, resting his arms against the table, "while every noble's a bullshit artist, not all of them are purely liars. At least, not all the time. There are lots of nobles who truly believe in the 'Britannian Burden' to civilize the world, both here in Japan and back in the Homeland, for one reason or another. Most nobles are cynical about that idea, but plenty are sincere enough to pony up cash to support charitable efforts."


"Plenty are sincere, but that doesn't mean that they don't have some sort of angle," Kallen muttered, snorting contemptuously. "It's the old carrot and stick thing, and the Purists have the stick all staked out. Plus, since the Purists are all about keeping Honorary Britannians out of the military, all of the other factions at court have a reason to keep up the Honorary program."


"So that's where your donations came from?" Tanya nodded, apparently answering her own question. "That's very interesting indeed… Playing different noble factions off one another and using philanthropy as an instrument of political power…" Tanya's voice tapered off, and for a moment she looked right through Kallen, before blinking and coming back. "Please continue, Kallen."


Emboldened, Kallen did just that. "Second, I think that making Rivalz's involvement public on our terms was beneficial for multiple reasons. If someone found the documents I'd filed with the Administration and started wondering why Rivalz wasn't bragging about sponsoring a charity for the social cachet, that could have been a problem. Also, if people thought he was trying to keep it quiet, they might have started wondering if it would be good blackmail material, which might have led to more people asking questions."


"Best way to deal with a trap is springing it on your own terms," Oghi opined, nodding approvingly at Kallen, "now people will just think he's just a young idiot trying to impress a girl through volunteer work, especially if he keeps being seen in public with our very own 'Lady Stadtfeld'."


"Exactly! Also, having a Britannian face for the Rising Sun will likely lower suspicion about it in general. If everybody's thinking of it as a noble's ego project, they won't notice that the rest of the organization's members are Japanese – Numbers, not even Honoraries!" Kallen beamed at Ohgi, happy enough that he'd seen where she was going to ignore his use of her official title. "Rivalz is also just a goofy enough guy that I think anybody looking into him will think that he's a fool – the fact that he actually is a fool will definitely help sell that impression. And then, they'll dismiss him and the Rising Sun as anything important."


Naoto laughed at the last point. "Harsh, little sister! There's no need to burn our illustrious chairman like that!"


Ignoring her brother, Kallen laid out the final, more personal reason she thought the danger was minimal. "Third… I don't think that anyone's going to investigate me on just suspicion alone. My – our – family," she gestured at Naoto, "are a bit more important than Rivalz's family. Dad's got lots of… friends, both here and back in the Homeland. Nobody's going to mess with me unless they've got something more solid than student journalism. Not on my own account, at least. Dad might have some enemies… I dunno…"


Kallen shivered under Tanya's suddenly cold stare, and practically wilted with relief when that alien glare moved on to her brother, before freezing back up as it swung around to her. "You know," Tanya mused contemplatively, "there are plenty of questions which I'd like to have answers for in regards to your father, but it occurred to me that powerful men rarely enjoy having their secrets spread without their permission."


Tanya's eyes, blue as the Pacific and equally cold, moved back to Kallen's brother. "I have held myself back, partially out of that concern, but also out of the trust I have in both of you. That said, this latest move goes beyond passive intelligence gathering in the Britannian sphere; it touches on politics. Naoto, I trust you and your sister, but I cannot operate blindly here. Is there anything that I should know, or need to know, about your father?"


Naoto shot a quick look at Kallen, though Kallen didn't know what for, before turning back to Tanya and shrugging. "He's ex-military, and apparently had a pretty good record before he retired. He hasn't told me much about his career, and I didn't ask before he left us the first time, or when he came back to bring Kallen into the fold. I know we've got some uncles and aunts back in the Homeland that I've never met. I just know that they were the ones who pressured him to marry the bitch, even though he's the head of House Stadtfeld." He shrugged again. "Apart from that… I dunno, he's pretty busy back in the Homeland. Lots of irons in the fire. Who knows what he's up to?"


Something seemed to click behind Tanya's eyes. The glacial chill disappeared, replaced by a calculating stare that vanished almost instantly, masked by her typical expression of interested neutrality. "I see… Very wise." What the hell did she just get from that? Kallen could only wonder what connection Tanya had come to from Naoto's comments. Hopefully she'll share whatever she just learned with me.


"Kallen, you were right." Kallen blinked at the blunt admission, and scrambled for an instant to figure out what Tanya was conceding. "You had good reason to involve Mr. Cardemonde in publicizing our group, and doing so forwarded our aims. I'll admit, you had a better grasp of the situation and its risks than I did. Please," she gestured, "continue your report."


Kallen took a moment, trying to remember where she'd been in her report before the tangent. Something about the interview… "Ah, that's right. So, there was a dangerous moment at the fourth meeting Rivalz showed up to. I thought he was busy helping out with the dishes, so I'd gone to check in with Inoue about how things were going in Shinjuku, because someone" Kallen glared at her brother for a moment, "wasn't telling me anything. Unfortunately, Rivalz finished cleaning up faster than I had expected, and he walked right in on our conversation. Our Japanese conversation."


It had been a heart stopping moment for Kallen, and probably also for Inoue. They had gone a block down from the park where the weekly communal meal was served and around a corner to talk, but some helpful fool had pointed Rivalz their way when he'd asked where Kallen had gone. It had been yet another of the many times Rivalz had unknowingly avoided death at Kallen's hand – when Rivalz had popped his head around the corner and asked what they were talking about, Kallen had frozen, trapped between the need to murder the interloping invader before he could blow her cover and the knowledge of the bloody revenge the murder of a friendly young noble would inspire.


Caught between two deeply unpalatable choices, Kallen had unintentionally given Rivalz the time he needed to unknowingly salvage the whole affair. Instead of accusing Kallen of rebel sympathies and vowing to go straight to Prince Clovis, Rivalz had immediately and enthusiastically expressed his interest and admiration of Kallen's linguistic abilities. As he'd gushed on and pestered Kallen for Japanese vocabulary, Inoue had faded into the background and slipped away back to Shinjuku with the rest of the Rising Sun volunteers.


"Looking back on it, I suspect showing interest in Japanese was part of his rebellion against his parents," Kallen hypothesized, "since he also said something about how they didn't think that a 'young Britannian gentleman' needed to learn any 'Number mumbo-jumbo.'" It wasn't an uncommon point of view, and in all honesty, it wasn't entirely wrong – the number of Japanese speakers back in the Homeland was probably very small. "At the time, though, I thought it was some kind of trick, especially when he said 'You must really love the Numbers, since you took the time to learn their lingo.'"


"It does have the hallmarks of an implicit threat," Tanya agreed, "the accusation of sympathy for the conquered implies divided loyalties or perhaps weakness. Especially if his parents taught him that learning the language of the conquered is unbecoming of the nobility."


"That's what I thought!" Kallen exclaimed, nodding in emphatic agreement. "I mean, he only told me about the language thing later, but yeah, that's why I thought it was a threat! But funnily enough, his resentment for his parents is how I got out of that whole mess - I told him I'd be in big trouble if my mother learned that I knew Japanese and was using it out in public." Kallen grinned, still pleased with her cleverness. "He was falling over himself to assure me that my secret was safe, and then started talking about his own relationship to his mother and all that. Ten minutes later, I think he'd forgotten about Japanese entirely! He hasn't mentioned it since then, and I haven't heard him say anything about it to anybody else."


"More importantly-" Blinking, Kallen twisted in her chair, looking away from Tanya and towards the other side of the table. For a moment, she'd forgotten that Naoto was still in the room, which was really a testament to how enthusiastic she had been about reporting her movements to Tanya. Now, her brother had straightened up from his exhausted slump and was bolt upright. And oh shit, he looks really pissed. "Why is this the first time I'm hearing about any of this? One of your fellow students and our pet dupe knows that you speak Japanese? And nobody thought this was worth reporting to me before Tanya came back?"


"That seems like a conversation you need to have with Inoue, and perhaps with your other lieutenants." Tanya was calmer, but she didn't look happy either. "Our organization is built on cooperation, mutual trust, and discipline. If Inoue is acting insubordinate and keeping information from you, find out why and act accordingly."


"If you don't mind my opinion," Ohgi jumped into the conversation, "and since Inoue isn't here to defend herself, I think she might have had a reason for not passing the information on to you. I'm not trying to disrespect you, Naoto, but you, uh… You look rough. You even admitted to Kallen that you haven't been sleeping very much. So, you were underslept, you had a ton of work already to handle, and what, Inoue tells you that someone might know something about your sister?" Ohgi shook his head, and patted his friend on the shoulder. "C'mon man, we both know you probably would have throttled the boy yourself, and then where would that leave us?"


Naoto sighed, and slumped back into his chair, rubbing his face. "You've got a point. Ugh… Fine, I'll be polite when I talk to Inoue. She probably had her reasons."


"Either way, we can discuss this further at a later date." Concluding the digression, Tanya turned back to Kallen. "Please, continue your report."


"Well…" Kallen hesitated, taking a moment to remember where she'd been before resuming. "Oh, right! The meeting. So…"


Inoue had, via Kallen, set up a more formal meeting with the figurehead leader of the Benevolent Association to, as Inoue had put it: "Now that he is involved, I'd best get a measure of the boy for myself." Since Inoue could only understand Britannian if it was spoken slowly and simply and Rivalz of course couldn't speak any Japanese, Kallen ended up as a third at the small meeting, acting as an interpreter.


The meeting had started off rather uncomfortably, Kallen explained to Tanya, partially due to the usual awkwardness of first introductions, partially because Inoue had spent years in a ghetto due to the Britannian Conquest and had lost friends, family, and all legal rights in the process. While Inoue was not as vocal in her enmity as Chihiro, Kallen would never mistake Inoue's calm for resignation. Fortunately, Rivalz had managed to find common ground by praising the Rising Sun's operations and asking for more details, effectively breaking the ice to the relief of everybody involved.


After the rocky start, Inoue and Rivalz had gotten along surprisingly well. Inoue was very interested in Rivalz's motorcycle, his pride and joy, and had asked after its maintenance routine through Kallen. Rivalz, for his part, had plenty of questions about the Rising Sun Association, which Inoue had answered via half-truths and stories riddled with careful omissions.


By the end of the meeting, Inoue had felt comfortable enough to ask Rivalz to bring friends with him next time he came to help with the Rising Sun.


"And at the next Friday night dinner, Rivalz brought a friend with him in the sidecar of his motorcycle," Kallen continued, "a friend who is also a member of the Student Council, so another valuable contact. But, well… he's…" Kallen floundered, trying to find the words to express just how creepy she found Lelouch Lamperouge.


"He's an oddball, that one." Even as she said it, Kallen winced. Oddball? Oddball?! That was the best you could come up with? Dammit, Kallen! "Very smart, but he just doesn't act right, you know? Like he's just going through the motions. All the girls at Ashford are head over heels for him, always talking about him, and I just don't get it. He always looks like he's… like he's acting, or something. At least to me."


It was humiliating for Kallen to admit that Lelouch made her skin crawl. Judging by how skinny the boy's wrists were, Kallen had no doubt that she could break him over her knee like a green stick, splintering and all. He hadn't shown any overt hostility to her at school or at the handful of Rising Sun meetings he had attended. He had in fact been scrupulously polite whenever they met, if distant and a bit formal. But still, something about him just made a voice in the back of her head scream "Predator!" whenever they met.


"Think carefully, Kallen," urged Tanya, leaning over the table like a stooping hawk. "When did you first feel uncomfortable around him? Was it tied to any inciting event? Is there any indication that he's gathering intelligence for a third party?"


"No, dammit, nothing like that. That would be easy to explain!" Kallen all but growled with exasperation, before taking a breath in a bid to calm herself back down. "It's… It's probably nothing, but something about him just gets under my skin."


"You should trust your instincts," Ohgi noted, chiming back into the conversation from where he was leaning against the wall. "Usually, there's a reason for why we feel the way we do, even if we can't quite consciously pin it down. If someone feels dangerous, probably best to treat them like they are until proven otherwise."


"Ohgi's right about following your gut," Naoto agreed, "can't tell you how many times acting instinctively has saved my ass. You think that the Britannian hanging around Rivalz is a potential threat? You treat him like a threat until he proves otherwise."


"I'll… keep that in mind." Kallen sighed, irritated at her own paranoid jumpiness as much as she was relieved that her concerns were being taken seriously. "And I'll keep an eye on the guy. It's probably just me, but if he does show any signs of being some kind of spy…"


"...For his sake and our own, let's hope that he isn't." Tanya leaned back in her chair, her frown shifting into an irritated grimace. "He's enrolled at a school for nobles, so he's presumably from a family with the means to pay Ashford tuition and the pull to get their son into the best school in the Area. So, it seems unlikely that he'd be a spy or a police informant, at least in any sort of official capacity. If he was, I doubt his handlers would risk his noble neck by sending him out all alone. That said, a young and ambitious noble might have his own reasons for gathering sensitive information, agent of the state or not. Keep me informed, and like Ohgi said, trust your instincts." Kallen nodded her agreement and Tanya waved at her to continue.


"That covers the basic details of my last few months at Ashford," Kallen concluded. "Thanks to Rivalz, I've made a few more connections, I've continued to solidify my reputation with the student paper, and Milly's backed off a bit. Which brings me to my work out of school with the local papers."


"So," Kallen began, "I had some success doing freelance work, submitting articles to several papers and magazines across the Area. Mostly, I was just writing down and compiling society gossip I picked up at Ashford, but I also sold some articles about local news from the Tokyo Settlement. And those local news articles actually got me a bit of a break in… late January, I think.


"The editor of a local paper offered me an ongoing contract for an article a week on local news, with the option to publish more if they liked anything I sent in." Kallen grimaced, the small victory somewhat bitter in her mouth. "I want to say that he really liked my work, but I think this was Diethard Reid's influence more than anything else."


"The reporter? Well, at least he pays his debts," Tanya muttered after Kallen nodded in confirmation. "It's still an achievement, quid pro quo or not. Congratulations on establishing a steady relationship with a publication, Kallen."


"It's not that impressive," Kallen demurred, flushing slightly at the praise, "It's just a piecework deal, honestly. But I did manage to get a few articles that touched on more serious topics published in February, mostly about the new zoning allowing for industrial construction in some of the former Honorary Britannian neighborhoods and the ongoing wage problem. I threw in some hand wringing about the sudden rash of Leveler graffiti all over the Tokyo Settlement too, just to mix things up a bit so I didn't look too anti-Administration."


Tanya raised an eyebrow. "Leveler?"


"A banned Britannian political movement," Naoto explained. "They've been outlawed for centuries, and probably don't exist anymore, but the nobility still hate and fear them. Not a huge surprise, since their whole platform is the redistribution of wealth and the abolition of social rank."


"Basically that," Kallen confirmed. "Probably just some idiots with a can of paint or two." She carefully didn't remark on the way Tanya's face seemed to twist inwards on itself for a moment before the typical expressionless mask slammed back into place. What was that all about?


"Probably," Tanya agreed, although her calm tone sounded oddly forced in Kallen's ears. "But idiots or not, it's interesting that the nobles would still be afraid of a long-dead band of political dissidents. That might indicate there's still something worth being concerned about, or it might mean that the fear of these 'Levelers' is serving some secondary purpose."


"Either way," Kallen continued with a noncommittal shrug, "the editor liked my articles enough to take a chance, so he published a three-part series I'd written about the after effects of the Christmas Incident. It helped that I didn't mention the Incident directly, since the viceregal decree banning public mention of it is still in effect. I didn't get credited for any of the three, but that might have been a blessing in disguise."


"I certainly think so," Tanya replied snappishly. "That seems a bit overt, Kallen. What did your articles say?"


"Nothing to do with us!" Kallen hastily reassured her leader, "but all the knock-on stuff, the waves that are hitting the Britannian bastards themselves."


Seeing that Tanya wasn't reassured, Kallen took a breath and tried to summarize her mini-series. "The first article was on the impact that so many small businesses going out of business all at once had on municipal taxes and property values.


"The second article was on the sudden unemployment of all the people who used to work at those businesses and the way they're not contributing to the local economy any more since they don't have any money. Also, how they're now competing for jobs that are available, driving wages down.


"The third article was on the public health impacts of all the derelict buildings. Only thirty percent had been rebuilt by late March, and all of the damaged buildings that haven't been demolished yet, are too dangerous to enter. Not to mention that some of them are full of rats and cockroaches, both of which are breeding like crazy. And, while I wasn't able to find any data about an uptick in hospital admissions, all that damaged plumbing has gotta be draining somewhere or it's just like how it was in Shinjuku, and there'll be a bunch of fetid pools as soon as the monsoon comes back."


By the time she was nearly breathless and thankfully done speaking, her audience of three looked gratifyingly impressed. "That sounds like it took a bunch of work to write, Kallen!" Ohgi praised, "Where did you get all of your information from?"


"Yes, I'm curious about how you sourced the data too," Tanya cut in. "Also, what was the readership's reaction to your series? It sounds significantly different from the typical contents of a local newspaper, especially in an Area governed by a dandy who can't stand criticism."


"Long story short, I had some help," Kallen admitted. "One of the girls from the student paper apparently helps her father with his business taxes, and knew where I should look for current tax assessment data, which led me to the plot purchase information. The unemployment figures are publicly available, if probably somewhat inaccurate. The actual analysis, though? Well, I met this girl named Nina who is apparently some kind of super genius when it comes to mathematics. I asked her for help, and she just took my data and came back a day later with everything done and neatly typed up."


The contrast between the very organized and detailed report and Nina's trembling hands as she held it up like an offering to Kallen had been very amusing. It had taken serious self-control on Kallen's part not to laugh at the shy girl when she'd handed over the thick folder holding her findings. Nina hadn't even made eye contact during the exchange - every time she had tried, she just flushed and looked away, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. "She was very helpful, and did it all for free. I even asked if she wanted a favor or something after she came back, but…" Kallen shrugged, baffled. "She just squeaked and ran away when I offered. No clue what her deal is."


"Unfortunately," Kallen continued, ignoring the juvenile chuckling coming from Naoto and Ohgi, "while the initial publication was approved, whatever part of the Administration manages the Area's media later changed its mind. That day's edition got retracted from the official archives and the paper was issued an official warning. We either got lucky or someone bribed one of the officials, so that's all that happened and I'm still welcome to submit articles to the paper. Just on different topics, since the editor made it clear that I'm on thin ice."


"Later retractions or not, it's interesting that the local media were willing to take the chance of official censure at all," Tanya mused, gazing off into the middle distance and rubbing her chin as she thought aloud. "From what I've seen of most Britannian media, they seem very solicitous for official approval. On the other hand, considering Mister Reid's eagerness to purchase your interview and photographs, there's clearly a demand for less sanitized content…"


Tanya's eyes snapped back to Kallen. "Regardless, congratulations. It sounds like you wrote a very substantive series, and I am impressed that it saw the light of day for even a brief moment. I would love to read your articles myself when I get the opportunity."


Before Kallen could stop blushing and stutter out her thanks, the tidal wave of praise rolled on. "Overall, it sounds like you have been very hard at work, Kallen. You have continued to perform exceedingly well as our eyes and ears in the Britannian world, both as a student and as a journalist. That you've managed to find the time to continue making purchases for Rising Sun, to say nothing of actually helping out at the communal dinners outside of Shinjuku, is truly impressive." Tanya paused, and to Kallen's delight, smiled with pride at her! "Well done, Kallen. Very well done."


"I-i… It's…" Kallen swallowed, eyes glued on Tanya's as she tried to suppress her fervent desire to leap from her chair and dance around in celebration at the praise. Professional! You are a professional! If you don't act professional, Tanya won't approve! "It was nothing. I am proud to have contributed to the Organization, and to the Cause."


A snort of laughter broke her concentration, and Kallen blushed anew as she realized that she had momentarily forgotten the two men in the room, both of whom were doing a poor job hiding laughter in sudden coughing fits.


"Well, you will have plenty of opportunities to contribute even more to the Cause in the near future," Tanya replied, pausing to shoot a disdainful look at Ohgi and Naoto, sobering the pair back up. "We all will."


"Why do you say that, Tanya?" Naoto asked, exhausted jocularity receding as his eyes suddenly came alert again. "Is something about to happen?"


"I believe so," Tanya replied, before grimacing again, "but I don't know anything for certain. It's just a feeling that things are likely to get worse in Area 11 before they get better. Especially if the unemployment situation is as bad as Kallen is making it sound – lots of idle men standing around, full to the brim with ethnic tensions? That's a recipe for civil unrest if I've ever heard one. Couple that with our friends in the JLF stirring the pot out in Niigata and Toyama?"


Kallen joined Naoto and Ohgi in nodding along as Tanya continued to pontificate. "If Clovis doesn't make a big move soon, he'll start to look ineffectual and powerless. He'll look weak, and no Britannian or politician can stand to look weak. If he doesn't look like he's able to hold the Area together, the Viceroy will have to start worrying about palace coups, or potentially being replaced by a sibling from the Homeland. After all, nothing can be allowed to endanger the flow of Sakuradite. Which means that Clovis has to make a move, and soon."


Tanya's words hung heavily in the silence of the studio apartment. Kallen swallowed hard, trying not to let the sudden anxiety spiking in her gut slip into her voice. "Sounds like we'll have a busy summer ahead of us, huh?"


Tanya smirked at that. "Oh yes, very busy indeed. Luckily for you, Kallen, I've already got plans for you. Tell me, does Ashford have a summer break? If so, when does it start?"


"Uhh…" Said Kallen eloquently, trying to remember the school calendar. "I think the end of May? Maybe the first week of June? And then it goes through the end of August."


"Good!" Tanya replied with a degree of enthusiasm Kallen found disquieting. "I would have hated for you to miss any school! Education is very important, which is why I will be sending you to The School."


Before Kallen could fully absorb that surprise, Tanya continued. "I would have liked to send you as part of one of the training cohorts, but you have amassed enough unique skills in the human intelligence field that I can't afford to give you the luxury of a standard training pace. You have three months of summer, and I want you to spend at least two of them teaching our comrades everything you can about the art of collecting gossip, sorting out useful intelligence, social interrogation, and other topics. Even information about Britannian fashion or noble culture could be useful, and should be added to the institutional knowledge of the Organization."


"But Tanya," Ohgi interrupted, "training at The School is supposed to last for three months, right? Kallen's not going to be able to get up to scratch in only a month, and you know Onoda's going to jump all over her and me if it looks like I'm showing a half-Britannian, and worse a half-Brit girl, any favoritism!"


"Lucky for her, she'll have an instructor ready to give her personal attention for the next month before she has to leave," Tanya reposited, smirking at Ohgi from her chair before turning back to Kallen. "I know that, despite your skills as an intelligence gatherer and now as a journalist, you feel you are a warrior at heart, Kallen. Well, far be it from me to push you down a career track you don't want to follow."


Tanya looked over at Naoto, before turning back to Kallen and continuing. "You have proven yourself to me in the past – I remember your sterling performance in Shinjuku-gyoemmae. That said, standards have evolved, and if you want to fight, you require further training. I know it's a significant ask, but-"


"I'm in." Kallen interrupted Tanya mid-sentence for the first time since they had sat on a dusty Shinjuku curb. Fuck no, you're not talking yourself or me out of the fight! "I'm part of this, and…" Kallen chuckled. "Well, I saw the two gorillas you've got downstairs guarding this place, and I bet I could take either of them! No way your fancy School is that tough – I remember our training, and I've had tougher P.E. coaches!"


The goading worked. Tanya's eyes narrowed, even as Oghi began to laugh and Naoto snorted something that sounded suspiciously like "Cherry! Hah!"


"Well then," Tanya began, voice silky with menace, "let me tell you a bit more about The School, and what we'll have to do to get you ready to graduate with flying colors in a month so you'll be ready to start your teaching career…"


---------


An hour later, Kallen waved goodbye to the gorillas on guard as she made her way through the lobby of the apartment building. One of the pair, the one known to her as Trainspotter, had started to grin and wave back before freezing in place as Tanya trotted down the stairs behind her.


It was almost irritating, the way Trainspotter's attention immediately shifted to the other girl, but Kallen was more interested in how different both men's bearings became the moment their commander walked into sight. Before Tanya had taken two steps into the lobby, both men had assumed some sort of military pose, heels together and rifles held across their chests. No hint of the casual sass Trainspotter had sent Kallen's way earlier was present; both men's faces were stern and expressionless, their eyes glued to Tanya as she veered away from Kallen and towards the pair's position against a wall still pockmarked with vandalized postal boxes.


More than the tans, the muscles, and the guns, the discipline on display was proof of everything Tanya had told Kallen about The School over the last hour. Kallen hadn't doubted anything her friend had told her, but when she had said that she was "building an army in embryo," Kallen had put the emphasis on "building". Judging by these two goons, I probably should've focused on the "army" part! She truly is making soldiers! Not that Kallen personally knew much of anything related to the army, but those stiff postures and attentive gazes looked plenty militaristic to her.


After a few exchanges of muttered dialogue Kallen couldn't quite hear, both men nodded and in unison lifted the first two fingertips of their right hands to the outside of their eyebrows, holding the strange gesture until Tanya returned it a moment later. The exchange must have been some form of salute, Kallen realized - another example of the military culture Tanya had worked to instill into her trainees. The same example she'll be instilling into me, in a month's time… Well, it can't be any worse than learning noble etiquette after Father came back.


Turning on her heel, Tanya left the pair and returned to Kallen, the military stiffness bleeding away slightly but not leaving entirely. Kallen wondered if that stiffness, that slightly mechanical edge to her motions, had been a product of The School as well, or if it had always been there and Kallen was only noticing it after the months of separation.


"What did you say to them?" Kallen asked as Tanya approached, curious what orders her friend the pint-sized general had issued.


"I told them that their replacements would be coming in half an hour," Tanya replied, "and that as soon as Yoshi and his partner showed up, they could head over to the Meeting House for a hot meal and a cot. Tsubaki reported in earlier and said she'd gotten temporary accommodations set up for the night."


Kallen nodded. "Makes sense, I guess." She turned and started walking towards the lobby entrance as she continued talking. "I don't know if Big Bro's got any other buildings that big available, but you might want to ask. Just to keep your guys out of the way of the food handouts and all."


"Ohgi should already be discussing that with Naoto," Tanya replied, easily catching up to Kallen and falling into step with her. "After all, it would be best if our exact numbers were kept under wraps for now."


As they exited the apartment building and made their way down the street, continuing to chat about less "work related" topics, Kallen noticed Tanya starting to redden under her new tan. Which in and of itself was a bit strange, since it wasn't really that hot now that afternoon had practically given way to evening. Perhaps she's just used to cool mountain air and all that? But… I thought Gunma was pretty hot in the summer too?


Kallen suddenly realized that if Tanya had intended to head towards the Association's Meeting House to rendezvous with the rest of her unit, she had missed her turn. The road they had turned onto at the last intersection terminated at the nearest gate into Shinjuku, the one Kallen most often used when visiting the ghetto. She has been gone for three months – she might have forgotten. I'd better remind her. "Weren't you going to meet up with Inoue to get some dinner? You probably should've taken the last left to get there."


There was no mistaking the way Tanya's earlier pinkness darkened to a ruddy flush. "I thought I'd accompany you to the checkpoint, just to be safe." Impressively, Tanya managed to deliver the line without a hint of whatever emotion she was clearly suppressing entering her voice.


Smiling, Kallen decided to let Tanya off the hook and accepted the younger girl's excuse. "Well, thanks. I'm pretty sure I'd be okay, and it looks like Naoto's got this area of Shinjuku on lockdown, but… Well, you can never be too safe out here. Never know what could happen when you're alone." The last sentence had been a bit too sincere, and touched a bit too closely on an afternoon Kallen would rather forget, so she forced a laugh to lighten the mood back up as she cast around for an alternative topic. "Oh, that reminds me! Have you seen the new Rising Sun symbol?"


"A new symbol?" Tanya enthusiastically leapt on the new topic, to Kallen's relief. "Did they move away from the 'light' kanji? I thought it was perfectly serviceable."


"Well… No," Kallen admitted. "But Inoue tells me that Aina got all pissed that people weren't drawing it right, so she started making stencils and handing them out to people to mark territory. Then, someone expanded on it, and now… Umm… Ah! There's one!" Kallen pointed at a nearby wall. "Two concentric circles and the light in the center!"


"It's certainly eye-catching…" Tanya mused, walking over and peering at the red and yellow sigil with a critical eye. "The concentric circles are a nice touch. They draw the viewer's gaze into the character."


Kallen shrugged. "If you say so. I was never much for art anyway, but yeah, that's probably the point." A few seconds later, Tanya seemed to lose interest in the symbol and rejoined Kallen as she continued on her way. "My step-mother was always very annoyed that I couldn't do anything ladylike, embroidery and the like…"


For some reason Kallen couldn't fathom, a look of pure sympathy shot across Tanya's face. Almost more startlingly, the usually subdued Tanya made no attempt to disguise her emotions, and instead further broke character by reaching out and patting Kallen on the arm.


Kallen nearly tripped over her own feet in surprise. Holy shit! I… I don't think I've ever seen Tanya initiate physical contact before! Someone's always gotta reach out to her, and she usually pretends to hate it! Kallen replayed the last few sentences in her mind, trying to figure out what her friend had so obviously resonated with. "I, uhh… Guess you're not very artistic either, eh?"


Tanya hummed noncommittally. "I wouldn't know – I haven't attempted anything I'd call 'art' in years. But… but, I have experience with people trying to force me into roles that didn't fit me." A slight, nostalgic, smile worked its way across Tanya's face. "Would you believe it, it wasn't too different from your own experience, in a peculiar way."


The reference, if that's what the cryptic comment had been, was lost on Kallen. Based on Tanya's own words and the information Ohgi and Naoto had shared with her, Tanya's mother had been a low-ranking prostitute catering to Britannian soldiers and sailors as well as Japanese laborers, before she'd been beaten to death. Tanya's education hadn't extended past elementary school, barring the month she'd spent enrolled in the Shinjuku School for Elevens. Try as she might, Kallen couldn't figure out when some fool would have attempted to force etiquette lessons onto Hajime Tanya.


I'm thinking too narrowly. "Forced into a role I didn't fit" doesn't just mean nobility. Maybe she means the School for Elevens? Or maybe… Kallen forced the disgusting thought from her mind with a shudder. No, Ohgi said she obviously mourned her mother. That's impossible. It's gotta be the half-assed indoctrination. "Guess we really don't play by the rules, do we, Tanya?" Kallen half-joked, giving Tanya an out from the potentially fraught conversation requests for further details might provoke.


The smile slipped away from Tanya's face, and a pensive frown took its place. For a long moment, the blonde didn't answer, only trudging along in silence. Kallen walked on by her side, hoping she hadn't said something wrong, though she couldn't see how her statement would offend her friend. We're both part of an insurgency – Tanya's the leader, for God's sake! We're well beyond playing by the rules!


"I suppose not…" Tanya's tone of voice sounded more like she was admitting to some deep transgression than agreeing with a simple statement of fact. It was clear to Kallen that they'd somehow moved away from the banal conversation she'd thought they were having. "It's strange, Kallen… I value order, I value rules, and I value organization, but…"


And suddenly, Tanya was facing Kallen, looking straight into her eyes. The nearly empty street, its small shops all closed for the day, vanished into irrelevance compared to the blonde's sudden fervor. "But this order," The word was spat out as if it were rotten, "isn't rule-abiding! If there is a social contract, it's that the strong devour the weak and are applauded for doing so! The law is simply the gilding on the blunt instrument of military power used to force submission! This… This is a perversion of order! It's order without rules, order as a tool for exploitation, all for the benefit of those at the top of the heap!"


Then, mercurial as she sometimes was during intense moments, Tanya's fiery passion suddenly banked. Even as it cooled, the intense heat seemed to somehow solidify in the spring air. Somehow, Kallen was sure that her fellow hafu, her best friend and the secret master of the Rising Sun, had reaffirmed her commitment to the Cause all over again. An impression that was strengthened by the muttered coda to the rant, spoken just loud enough for Kallen to hear, less than half a meter away. "It's wrong, Kallen. The inefficiency, the corruption, the sheer waste… It's wrong. It's all wrong."


Spellbound by that arresting gaze, full of passion and girded in a certainty of conviction, Kallen unconsciously slipped into reporter mode. "And what would you do to fix all this, Tanya? What's your first step?"


"Look around you!" Tanya gestured at the placid apartment buildings around them, all adorned with signs advertising the unofficial businesses operating on the ground floors. "We've already taken our first steps here in Shinjuku! Order where the stakeholders have direct access to the leadership and input on the decisions that affect us all! Tangible benefits for everybody who cooperates towards our goals! A place where the hungry can trade a day's labor for a full belly. Where orphans won't have to break their backs for starvation rations, sacrificing their futures a day at a time for an eternal present!" Tanya bared her teeth in a grin lacking in amusement. "Not a bad start, eh? But just a start."


Before Kallen could ask her next question, the crackle of a radio transmission burst from Tanya's backpack, surprising both Kallen and Tanya, judging by the latter's comedically wide eyes. In a motion lacking the blonde's usual finesse, Tanya swung the old backpack around and hastily riffled through the contents before retrieving a handheld radio that matched the one Kallen had seen in Trainspotter's hands earlier that afternoon.


"Backpack here. Say again. Over." The radio chirped as Tanya released the 'transmit' button, the sound oddly cheerful against the backdrop of the lengthening evening shadows. Despite her curiosity, Kallen kept quiet – Tanya probably had no idea what her people wanted either, and distracting her wouldn't make the reply come any sooner.


Fortunately, neither rebel had to wait long for a reply. "Boar to Backpack. There's a man heading straight towards you and Cherry. Mallet and I have eyes on him, but haven't approached him yet. Do you know about him? Over."


A pistol appeared in Tanya's free hand halfway through the transmission, and the knife sprang out from Kallen's compact only a second later. "Backpack to Boar, that's not one of ours. Switch to general chat. Do you copy?" As Tanya spoke, she gestured towards an alley, and with a nod Kallen darted inside and quickly checked for lurkers even as the crackling continued behind her.


Finding the alley empty except for the acrid tang of urine, Kallen waved to Tanya, who walked backwards into the alley and twisted a dial on her handset before continuing to speak. "Backpack to Ferret. Boar found a potential hostile inbound on Cherry and I. Have Boar and Mallet check to make sure he doesn't have any backup. If he does, get a count. Pass word to Trainspotter and Boxcar. Have them and their squads hustle over. If he's alone, have Boar and Mallet bag him and bring him to me. Do you copy?"


---------


Most of the lazy fools who called themselves journalists ambled through life, hoping to trip over a story worthy of publication. Diethard Reid scorned such journalists as the bottomfeeders they were. A truly great reporter, like a certain humble producer for Hi-TV, went out into the world to find the story, following leads wherever they may go, no matter the danger to life or limb.


The story was the only thing that really mattered, at least in the long view. Long after everybody had forgotten the bard's name, the song he had sung would live on.


To be the one to tell such a tale, one that will live forever, especially from first person experience… anything is worth that. Anything.


Years of stifling mediocrity had almost crushed that dream. Endless weeks and days producing tired old features with slight variations, all with the same characters and in the service of the same banal message, had almost stripped Diethard of his hopes for transitory immortality. His existence was comfortable – in Area 11, a Britannian pound went pretty far, and he had no shortage of money – but overwhelmingly and depressingly bland. An endless expanse of gray days, without a single story truly worthy of his talents as a storyteller and as a producer, had stretched out before him.


And then, Christmas had come, both for Diethard and for the Tokyo Settlement. Overnight, tensions that had been bubbling for years had mixed with alcohol and exploded into an orgy of violence. The night of arson and murder reignited a spark of interest in his empty existence. As fires raged out of control and iron rods and leather boots descended on pleading faces and pulped ribs, Diethard had scrambled for a camera crew and a van.


To his disgust, by the time he'd finally gotten the lazy bastards roused and the van on the road, all the major roads had been blocked off by soldiers. Worse yet, the Viceroy's office had been unexpectedly on top of events, banning all coverage of the events of the previous night except when permitted by viceregal decree. It had almost been enough to quash that small spark entirely.


But then by some stroke of fortune, just as he was contemplating throwing in the towel entirely, "Kallen Cardemonde" had walked right up to him in the parking lot of Nunnally Memorial and brazenly thrown tinder onto that guttering flame.


Truthfully, Diethard hadn't expected much when he began looking in on the young Lady Stadtfeld. His curiosity had been piqued by the student reporter who had seemingly effortlessly stolen an interview out from under the noses of a hospital full of soldiers, particularly since she had tried - badly - to hide her name. That said, he expected to find little of note -- just a student rebelling against her parents, a so-called "tea-house revolutionary".


In a strange way, his initial expectations had been right on the money. The girl was indeed rebelling against her father and his new wife, but that was ancillary to the real meat of the story.


Lady Kallen Stadtfeld, as the heiress of House Stadtfeld and all of its titles, properties, and holdings, was one of the most eligible bachelorettes in the Area. Despite this lofty status, little was known about the girl. She hadn't been seen at any prominent social events, and as far as Diethard could tell, had no suitors. Considering the presumed wealth of a family like the Stadtfelds, that was strange to say the least.


And so, Diethard had dug deeper into the mystery of Kallen Stadtfeld, and soon found the missing pieces of the puzzle. Kallen Stadtfeld might be the Stadtfeld heiress now, recognized by her father, but that hadn't always been the case. Bastardry wasn't unheard of, especially not when the father in question was getting on in years like the current Lord Stadtfeld, but miscegenating with a Number was another thing entirely. Admittedly, many noblemen -- and even some noble ladies – had illegitimate offspring with Numbers, but recognizing a half-Number as a legitimate heir was… intriguing.


Almost as intriguing as the other missing piece.


Nathaniel Stadtfeld, also known as Kozuki Naoto, had been born on the wrong side of the sheets, just like his sister. Unlike his sister, the man was obviously of mixed heritage, judging by the mugshot Diethard had found. The sealed police record - somehow misfiled as a juvenile file despite Kozuki's age, no doubt thanks to his sire's money - had been interesting reading. The assault charges, a few with a deadly weapon and two elevated to Grievous Bodily Harm, had been the highlights. It was obvious to Diethard why Nathaniel hadn't been legitimized, passed over in favor of his sister.


A sordid tale, but nothing spectacular; he'd seen similar stories time and again, and while it would no doubt be prime content for gossip-mongering rags, Diethard wasn't interested in such petty publications. At least, not while I'm off the clock. The interesting part was that the younger sister, chosen over her elder brother and elevated into pure Britannian respectability, was obviously obsessed with her secret Number heritage.


It was unthinkable, and thus absolutely titillating. Diethard absolutely had to know more, had to know everything. Every hard-won newsroom instinct was screaming at him to continue his private investigation, and so he did. Her articles, even published without a credit and with his behind the scenes assistance, had so much written between the lines that the actual content was almost obscured. Her slip-up at that peculiar charity's meeting, caught on the microphone of a hidden camera - one of many scattered about the city by the more clandestine yet still incompetent parts of the viceregal administration - had been telling. Which brought him to the charity itself…


The Rising Sun Benevolent Association had mysteriously appeared several months earlier, seemingly springing up from nowhere with plentiful funding and noble backing with the mission to "provide opportunities to the people of Area 11." It hadn't escaped Diethard's notice that the sponsoring noble was a Mister Rivalz Cardemonde, nor had it been difficult to identify the young lady who had submitted the forms with the young Cardemonde's signature affixed at the Division of Public Records and Licenses.


It was clear to Diethard that the Rising Sun was Kallen's tool. What she intended to do with said tool, though, was a bit of a puzzle. Attempting to uplift Elevens wasn't going to improve her situation, and might actually reduce her standing in noble society, potentially weakening House Stadtfeld. But, if the Association wasn't a charity, what were the industrious Elevens up to? The sheer number of Rising Sun trucks passing in and out of the Shinjuku Ghetto made Diethard think of smuggling, but he couldn't find any connections to any exterior networks, making it unlikely that the Rising Sun was trafficking drugs or weapons.


Understanding had come, as it so often did to the most skilled journalist in Area 11, like a bolt from the blue. Kallen Stadtfeld's actions made no sense when considered from the point of view of a Britannian lady trying to improve her position. On the other hand, those actions made plenty of sense when Kallen Stadtfeld was ignored in favor of "Kozuki Kallen". Clearly, Lord Statdfeld had underestimated the love a little sister could have for her big brother, a love so intense - and possibly perverse, depending on how Diethard chose to spin the story - that she chose to form a criminal organization with the sole intent of installing her brother in the position of power he had been denied by their father.


Diethard could see it all so clearly, but he knew that "reporter's intuition" wouldn't be quite enough to bring the majority of the audience along with him to the seemingly obvious conclusion. He needed something to seal the deal, some piece of evidence so flagrant that nobody could doubt his undeniable narrative. He had waited patiently for his moment. He knew it would come - it would have been unfair for the world to have given him all but the last piece of the story, after all - and it eventually had when Kallen Stadtfeld had suddenly run off into Shinjuku Ghetto herself.


As soon as Diethard could, he left work and made his way to the checkpoint outside of Shinjuku Ghetto. He strode through the gates alone, a small portable video camera and a microphone tucked away in his jacket, along with his personal portable drive, the one containing all of the unredacted copies of his articles as well as his private projects. Everything in life was, after all, up for sale, provided you had the right coin to pay the asking price - and while Diethard lacked weapons or cash, any rebel worthy of the name would understand the value of information.


Even if the rebel in question was an overly emotional schoolgirl.


Immediately after passing through the checkpoint, three roads branched out before Diethard - one heading left, another right, and the other straight into the heart of the ghetto. Without missing a beat, Diethard marched straight down the central boulevard, if such a term could be applied to any Shinjuku thoroughfare, humming a jaunty tune as he went. The throng of Elevens parted before him with barely a murmur; despite the crowd, Diethard walked in a tiny bubble of isolation. Even though he knew it was only the beaten Numbers' fear of their Britannian masters, Diethard found the experience pleasant. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be a royal?


Discarding the distracting thought, Diethard noticed a figure detach itself from one of the knots of young toughs loitering on a nearby corner before pelting off down the same way he was going. Notably, the headbands that the lean band of teens wore bore a striking resemblance to the symbol painted on the signs announcing the Rising Sun charity dinners in the Honorary Britannian refugee centers. Diethard smiled - he had barely taken a dozen steps into the Ghetto, and another lead had all but fallen into his hands. No doubt that fool's off to tell his boss all about me. I'll have to thank him for providing directions straight to the Kozukis.


Unhurriedly strolling after the runner, Diethard took the time to look around as he gave his prospective subject time to prepare for their upcoming appointment. This was far from the first time that Diethard had sought out dangerous and desperate people for interviews, and he'd learned that springing a surprise interview wasn't always the best idea.


While surprised subjects sometimes blurted out answers with less consideration than they'd typically have, it was far more likely that they would simply ignore any questions in favor of fleeing or fighting. Giving the subject enough warning to compose themselves but not enough to escape him entirely was the better tactic, in Diethard's experience.


As a result, he was entirely unsurprised when two burly Elevens stepped out of a side street and into the middle of the road a block ahead. Clearly, neither had any intention of giving way to his advance like the rest of the crowd; indeed, the pair were approaching him at a brisk pace.


Fortunately, being the best newsman in Area 11, Diethard had prepared for just such an eventuality. "Wah-tah-shee ooh ah-nah-tah noh wah-kah-ee rye-dah nee tsu-rhe-teh-it-tee koo-dah-sai" It had taken some work with an Eleven-to-Britannian dictionary a decade old, but hopefully he'd just told the welcoming party to take him to their young mistress. It was difficult, using a language he was manifestly unfamiliar with, but he hoped he'd managed to convey the proper mixture of stern demand and dutiful respect.


The thin man whose large nose bore the signs of multiple past breaks blinked and turned towards his companion, but the more portly of the two just continued forwards. Broken Nose shrugged, pulled a handset off his belt and muttered something before following his partner. That damned dictionary was worthless!


By this point in his career, Diethard was unfortunately quite familiar with how this particular interaction would play out. He didn't mind the handful of bruises and cuts he'd likely be sporting soon – suffering was the fuel for grand art, after all — but his suit was another matter entirely. The two-piece was cashmere, the cravat was silk, and his dress shirt was 160 thread count cotton. Sadly, the two Eleven thugs looked entirely ignorant of the finer things in life, especially haute couture. Judging by their grimey and worn rags and tags, the pair would likely rip the jacket off his back to get better access to his ribs.


Caught between a Scylla and a Charybdis, Diethard could only see one path forwards towards his goal.


By the time the two goons had closed the distance, his jacket and cravat were draped across his arm and the first two buttons of his dress shirt were undone. The jacket hung heavily, the camera and microphone still tucked away in the inner pockets; Diethard hadn't thought he could smuggle them past the guards, and any attempt to do so would be harshly punished. His personal drive, on the other hand, was squirreled away in the pocket of his trousers. Hopefully handing over the recording equipment will convince Fatso and Broken Nose that I'm playing along.


As Broken Nose, the slightly quicker of the two goons, reached for his arm, Diethard casually handed over his jacket. The man's hand instinctually closed on the bundle of fabric and his eyes widened slightly, presumably at the slight though unexpected weight. Diethard nodded affably at the man, as if he'd simply handed over his coat to a butler at some noble mansion, before spreading his arms wide with his palms open. If they see I'm not resisting, hopefully the beating will be over sooner.


To Diethard's surprise, the beating never came. The two Numbers were just as unwashed as he'd first thought, but they clearly were professionals of some stripe or another. Amusingly enough for Diethard, this latest detainment by 'savage' Elevens was actually one of the more civilized arrests he had endured, as well as one of the more professional. True, they were halfway carrying him down the street, but neither had administered a pre-emptive love-tap to the kidneys, like most of the bullyboys the various nobles kept on retainer. And that's not even getting into the thugs that bastard Kenway sent after I started asking about his wife's mistress!


A minute later, Diethard found himself kneeling on asphalt beside a remarkably clean gutter, staring up into the barrel of a gun. Although the trip downward had been surprisingly gentle – neither of the two men had "helped" him fall face-first into the pavement, after all – Diethard still winced at the thought of the tar and street grit marring his expensive suit trousers. These pants are ruined for sure… The things I do for an interview!


Anybody else, Diethard was sure, would be concerned about the gun a foot from his nose, but Diethard was more interested in the child wielding that gun. Not as much as he was about the delicate cashmere fibers of his suit pants, but it wasn't every day that he was menaced by a girl who couldn't even truly be called a teenager. Bet she'll be a real beauty once she grows up, assuming she doesn't scowl like that all the time.


Besides his confidence in his own destiny, Diethard had no difficulty keeping his cool for another reason, threatening little poppet or not. He had graduated from the Imperial University of Colchester, and knew every journalistic trick backwards and forwards. He'd used those skills to extract stories from the shifty, the recalcitrant, and the willfully-obstructive numerous times before; this would hardly be his first hostile interview. Journalism was no trade for the easily riled, and Diethard had long since mastered the art of dramatic nonchalance. Admittedly, this was the first time he had ever interviewed a subject at gunpoint, but that was easy to dismiss. While he had no doubt that the tween menacing his perfect face would pull the trigger if he so much as twitched, it didn't really matter.


He would get Kallen Stadtfeld's story and tell it one day. He couldn't die until he'd told that grand tale. It simply wasn't an option.


Though the longer Diethard looked into the young blonde's eyes, the more difficult it was to remain confident in his control of the situation. Even though he knew in his bones that it wasn't his time to die, not when he had yet to see his name added to the pantheon of great storytellers, those cold eyes promised nothing but a short trip to the grave.


Diethard had been the indifferent recipient of many hostile looks, and plenty of people had tried to intimidate him for one reason or another. Irate nobles had glared with imperious disdain down their noses at his questioning, armored in privilege. Angry producers had fumed across boardrooms and offices, spewing forth threats to have him fired in their frustration. Any number of thugs and criminals had tried to scare him with mean looks, enough that Diethard had grown bored. But now, I feel sweat rolling down my back… What the hell is up with this kid?


That was actually a good question. With some effort, Diethard forced himself to break eye contact with the pint-sized menace in front of him, and took a look at his would-be executioner. No hint of baby fat or roundness was present in her face, which seemed built out of sharp edges with only a handful of curves to soften the angles. Great cheekbones, though. She might've had potential as a model. The battered old child's backpack dangling off one of her shoulders underlined her youth, as did the messy flyaway hair. Still, she looks like she knows what she's doing with that gun…


Drawing on every day of his near decade of Fourth Estate experience, Diethard summoned up his second-best "Producer's Smile" and attempted to break the ice. "I was right, wasn't I? There's definitely a story here."


To Diethard's irritation, the young pistolero ignored him entirely, and instead turned her head slightly back and said something in Japanese. A moment later, a lighter voice replied in the same language, and Kallen Stadtfeld, heiress to the House of Stadtfeld, the Barony of New Leicester and much more excitingly, the founder of the Rising Sun Association, stepped out into the day's waning light.


Gun at his head or not, about to conduct undoubtedly the most crucial interview of his life, Diethard still couldn't help himself from needling his subject. "Doing some investigative reporting live from Shinjuku, Kallen Cardemonde? Or, should I say, Lady Kallen Stadtfeld? Oh, but you're playing the role of an Eleven freedom fighter, so it must be Kozuki Kallen at the moment, yes?"


To her credit, the redhead tried to conceal her shock, but Diethard was an old hand when it came to picking up tells. Her eyes had flared open with surprise for just over a second, and her stoic mask cracked for about the same length of time, but that momentary lapse spoke delicious volumes. Disappointingly, the errant noble reacted just as Diethard had expected she would when he finally showed his cards; anger flashed across her face, and the knife that Diethard hadn't even noticed in her hand was almost instantly an inch in front of his left eye.


"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now." The anger was still there, a powerful undercurrent in her voice, but her tone was calm and collected. So she can still control her anger, just like in December, eh? Good to see I haven't wasted my time.


"Besides the fact that you don't know how I found out about your alternate persona? You're surprisingly easy to track down, Lady Stadtfeld," Diethard replied airily. "You should probably work on that. After all, I doubt the DSS would be as interested as I am in seeing your story arc through to the end. Luckily for you, I have the skills to help you reach that happy conclusion and am willing to help."


"Thank you for your kind offer, Mister Reid." The undercurrent throbbed, but the calm exterior shell was still holding, if barely. "Glad to see you're still just as willing as always to help a young reporter out. You held up your end of our deal the last time, which was a huge surprise, but I don't think I want anything else to do with you. But, since you helped me out before, I'll make it quick. And probably painless. Probably."


As the young Stadtfeld continued to speak, the angry pulse faded before disappearing entirely, leaving only calm certainty behind. That worried Diethard a great deal – in his experience, if someone needed to talk themselves up to an angry froth, it was equally easy to talk them back down to a more reasonable frame of mind. Kallen's dispassion, on the other hand, had an immovable quality.


A large drop of sweat rolled down his spine, all the way from his shoulders to his waist. From less than an inch away, that knife looked quite sturdy and extremely sharp. Considering the slim but visible muscles on Kozuki Kallen's arm, Diethard had no doubt that the instrument would easily smash through his sphenoid and into his brain. This wasn't how it was supposed to go!


Before his lunatic main character could give him an amateur lobotomy, that steely eyed angel of a blonde interrupted. "Kallen, hold."


Diethard resisted the urge to blink in surprise at the accented Britannian; he'd probably have a nasty cut on his eyelid if he did. Can't jolly well be TV ready with half an eyelid… Not unless I grew out my bangs, perhaps… Oh, she's still talking. "Diethard Reid," his enigmatic savior was saying, "of Hi-TV, if I remember correctly. What are you doing in Shinjuku Ghetto? Why are you following us? And how did you know about my associate's names?"


Her accent's strange… Now that his life wasn't immediately in danger, Diethard took a second, longer look at the nameless blonde. On second look, the girl looked older than the twelve Diethard had initially pegged her as. Although he doubted she'd lived much longer than a decade, the hand not busy shoving a pistol in his face was thick with callouses, the fingernails gray with ingrained dirt, and her arms… Geez, I don't remember being that muscular as a kid.


From his knee-bound position, it was clear that her hair was blonde to the roots, and her eyes were wide, expressive, and only slightly almond in shape. Definitely not Japanese, despite her fluency, but that accent's not Britannian… Is Stadtfeld consorting with foreigners too? "Ah, a European? Or, a European-Eleven halfbreed? Either way, you're pretty far from home, aren't you? You seem to know me, but I don't believe we've met." With a slight flourish, Diethard donned his "charming but non-seductive" smile, a classic when impressing children and married women alike.


"I'm aware." The tone was just as stern and unimpressed as before. Knowing a losing proposition when he saw one, Diethard let the smile slip from his face in favor of a more businesslike mask. "I was enjoying a pleasant walk with my companion, and I have a busy itinerary this evening. Do not keep me waiting any longer."


All business, eh? Well, I can play that role too. "Well, I'm glad someone's actually asking the important questions. I was intrigued by the young miss's ability to get such an emotional and explosive interview on the events of the Christmas Riots from a protected source, as well as by her canny decision to secretly record the interview, making it difficult to dismiss as false. After she took my offer and started doing stringer work, writing on subjects uncomfortable for the Area's Administration no less, I decided to find out who she really was in my free time, as a personal project."


Diethard spoke quickly, doing his best to be as detailed as possible, conscious that he remained very literally under the gun. Despite, or perhaps because of the added pressure, he felt remarkably alive, and allowed himself a proud smile as he described his efforts. Even though it had been a simple investigation by his standards, he had apparently beaten Clovis's security services to the punch while working in his spare time. "It wasn't hard – there aren't that many schools in Area 11, and enrollment records are easily accessed for a small expense. Only two schools had a Cardemonde on the rolls, and neither had a Kallen Cardemonde. However, one of those schools did have a Kallen enrolled."


"So then what," Kallen interrupted, clearly offended. "did you just sit in a van outside Ashford all day, waiting to see if I'd show up?" Thankfully, she'd moved the knife away from his eye while Diethard had been speaking with the possible European, so he could allow himself a single smug chuckle.


"Absolutely not, Lady Stadtfeld! That's what the interns are for!" Diethard laughed, keeping an eye on the volatile noble as he continued. "No, I just accessed a little backdoor in the Tokyo Settlement's surveillance systems I happen to know about. Clovis really should vet his staff far more carefully." Diethard shrugged, an artfully careless gesture carefully refined to be both classy and aggravating. "I only had to watch an hour of sped-up recordings to find you, Lady Stadtfeld. Your hair makes you incredibly distinctive." Diethard felt his lips curving up into a smirk, but couldn't stop the impulse. It just felt so good to really show off without having to hold back in the slightest. "You might want to work on that as well."


"Save the commentary for later and answer my questions." The blonde gestured with the pistol, as if to remind Diethard that he was still a finger's pull away from death. Diethard nodded, duly chastised. Tell the story first, interpret it later. I'm doing educational programming right now.


"I kept an eye on her activities after that. On the surface, nothing looked too interesting – silly schoolgirl politics and charity work. The articles she was writing were much more though; subtly keeping the Imitation Britannians in the news, bringing up the meat and potato issues, including the lack of literal meat and potatoes…"


Slowly moving only his head, Diethard turned slightly away from the still-nameless girl and smiled up at Kallen, deliberately injecting just a hint of paternal pride into the expression. "And yes, I did read your series on the economic impacts of that little bit of unpleasantness – lots of 'just asking the questions' and dropping uncomfortable facts into the eyes of the readers, all without mentioning Clovis or the Incident by name. Very well done!"


"Thanks," the ungrateful brat replied with every drop of youthful sarcasm she could muster. "Your approval means the world to me. Are you going to get to the point any time soon?"


"You should be taking notes on this, Kallen." Diethard replied, unperturbed by the teenaged petulance. It was, after all, a welcome change from the deadly cool killer who had almost carved out his eye. "Give your audience a hook, give them a nice dramatic background, make them hungry for the big reveal and keep them dancing on the line until it's time to reel them in." He smirked again. I really need to work on improving control over my expressions. I've gotten complacent. "Don't worry, you're still a student, so some impatience is understandable."


A muscle twitched on Kallen's forehead, but to Diethard's fascination she just took a deep breath, held it for a second, and released it. "He's playing for time now, I think," she said to her friend, the cool certainty bleeding back into her voice as she spoke. "Let me just kill him now, and we can put the leftovers in the alley."


"Not yet," came the reply in accented Britannian. Central European, maybe? The accent's definitely not Mediterranean or French… "Mister Reid, you have one minute."


"Fine." Diethard very carefully didn't pout, though he dearly wanted to. Here he was trying to tell a story, and his audience kept rushing the narrative. "I've got enough evidence to say that Kallen Stadtfeld is definitely an Eleven sympathizer, but that's not very interesting. There's lots of dumb bleeding-heart noble kids around, but they mostly grow out of it. Do a little graffiti, one or two fundraisers, and then they move on. You, though, Kallen… I knew you were different."


Kallen was his main character, and also, Diethard felt, the audience he needed to win over here and now to see tomorrow. Taking a chance, Diethard focused solely on the noble teenager, ignoring the younger girl with the gun just as thoroughly as he was ignoring the two thugs behind him. "The fact that we're here in the Eleven Ghetto – "


"Japanese." The tone brooked no defiance. Diethard choked down his irritation at being interrupted and continued.


"-Japanese Ghetto and not the Concession proves just how different you are. What other noble Numbers-fan would come to the Ghetto? None of them. Admittedly, a few of them are probably on good terms with their bastard siblings too, but… Even still, I knew you were different. I knew you were special. And…" Diethard shrugged, trying to act nonchalant despite the dangerous level of sincerity in his words, "I was bored. I mean, I still needed evidence that you were truly up to something beyond the normal bullshit, but to be brutally honest, Kallen, I'm bored. I'm tired of producing endless propaganda puff pieces, tired of telling the same old stories of progress and profit, tired of the whole sham."


Diethard suddenly realized that he had lost control over his mouth. This must be inspiration! I've finally got a true story to tell, and this is the first crux! "I became a reporter to find stories, drag them out into the light, and tell them! That's my raison d'être, my entire purpose! I want to see history play out before my very eyes, and be the one to tell the world what happened! And you – you are making history! You have all the makings of a great character! A heiress with a secret heritage, torn between two peoples and siding with the weaker against the greater in a noble fight? All to restore the birthright of your beloved sibling? That's the kind of story that will capture hearts! Mothers will one day tell it to their children! Your name will be a byword for loyalty, and you'll be immortal in the pages of history!"


Panting, Diethard came to a shuddering halt. Kallen was looking down on him with an expression halfway between confusion and disbelief, while the blonde – "Twenty seconds left, Mister Reid" – was somehow looming over him despite being only slightly taller standing up than he was kneeling. At least she's smiling… She looks amused. Is that a good sign? It must be!


"I want to tell a grand story. Your story." Diethard realized that he was looking at the blonde, and shook himself. Not your main character, Reid, nor your audience! Turning back to Kallen, Diethard continued with his pitch. "If I wanted to hurt you, I would have already handed over my data to DSS. I didn't, nor did I tell anybody where I was going tonight. Someone will probably find my van parked outside the Ghetto sooner or later, but that's it."


Hopefully that reassures her that I'm not trying to extort her. And now, to buy my way in… "And I brought a gift – I've got a portable drive in my pocket filled with the unredacted, uncensored versions of every article I've written and story I've produced. It's also got all of the gossip I have on the local notables… Including Prince Clovis. Plus, all the information I've gathered on you, your organization, and your brother. Just…" Diethard hated the weak, wheedling note that had entered his voice, but this was it, the doorway into his lifelong dream, or at least a situation where that dream might come to pass. "Just, please… Let me be there. Let me see what happens. Put me to work! Use me! Just let me be the one to tell the story when everything's said and done!"


Suddenly, Diethard sagged, spent after his revelatory climax. After a moment, he looked up, hoping to gauge his audience's response; to his mild dismay, it was a decidedly mixed bag. Kallen looked slightly stunned, blinking as she tried to make sense with his passion. I can't blame her – most teenagers can't fathom acting with the eyes of history upon them! Less gratifyingly, the European girl was… frowning down at him with disdain?


"So that's it." Diethard's doubts evaporated like snow under the summer sun. Can't win them all, Reid. "A loudmouth so desperate for recognition and immortality that he seeks it out vicariously, and a fool willing to throw aside a respectable and well-compensated position on a whim after following a girl around for months without speaking to her once. It's always difficult to trust traitors, even if they do have a good reason for their betrayal – false once will be false again, after all – and you lack even a fig leaf of justification. I have no doubt you'd betray anybody to further your ambition."


It was a struggle, but Diethard kept a smile on his face as the still-unnamed blonde harangued him, waiting for a moment to get a word in edgewise. It turned out that he didn't need to. "That said, someone with access to the higher strata of Britannian society and to the resources an established member of a major TV station has at their fingertips would be a useful tool indeed…"


"Wait, Tanya, no way!" Suddenly, Diethard was struggling not to laugh as the half-breed noble blurted out her almost certainly European friend's name. So much for that air of professionalism. "You're really thinking of letting him live? You said it yourself, there's no way we can trust him!"


"On the contrary, I think we can trust him to act according to his nature. As I said, he'd betray anybody if it served his ambition. So long as his goals are at least parallel to ours, he's only a potential liability." The blonde – Tanya – riposted, before unbelievably holstering her gun! Diethard felt his pulse race at the prospect that he might escape this situation alive. I knew it! I knew it couldn't end here! "Everything's up for sale, Kallen. Not just with money – that's the most common currency, not the only one – but with all kinds of things. Friendship, a favor, a cause… Or the fulfillment of a personal ambition or a dream. Everybody has a price – you just need to figure out what currency must be tendered, and if you can afford to pay."


The cold, cold eyes were upon him once more, and Diethard felt like a mouse caught in the gaze of a cobra. Did… Did I fall for a decoy protagonist? "Mister Reid, I think that you and I can help each other out. I think you know what coin I expect from you, and I know exactly what you're looking for from me. What say we enter into a mutually beneficial contract, like civilized people do?" Suddenly, the gun was back in her hand. "If you'd prefer not to engage in trade and barter, well, there's always room in the alley."


Diethard only caught the wicked smile that briefly flashed across the girl's face because he was staring straight at her. It was gone in a second, like a bolt from the blue. "Call this an offer you can't refuse."

 

[firis]

I'm having so much fun thinking of gang leader Tanya making "an offer you can't refuse."

It perfectly fits her character, and looks completely ridiculous

 

[chetacide]

I guess to Reid, Tanya is a German spy. Or maybe it could be explained away as one of her mom's regulars speaking like that? How far before canon is this supposed to be btw?

 

[Scopas]

I guess to Reid, Tanya is a German spy. Or maybe it could be explained away as one of her mom's regulars speaking like that? How far before canon is this supposed to be btw?

Click to shrink...

We are currently a few months before the start of canon.

 

[Nathaniel Carrion]

"My father taught me many things here — he taught me in this room. He taught me — keep your friends close but your enemies closer."
— Michael Corleone, The Godfather Part II
Lol, if Tanya is like the young female version of Vito then really must make Lelouch the Brittanian version of Michael Corleone with the IQ of 200+ in their predestined dynamic in this fic. For we all know that those two will meet eventually. Together, they will probably become unstoppable. For example, remember in the original canon on a couple of occasions Lelouch had used the Keep Your Enemies Close tactic when:

• Villetta and Rolo are assigned to the OSI detail to watch over Lelouch in order to keep him from using his Geass or becoming Zero. Lelouch manages to flip the script on them both via blackmail of the former's relationship with Ohgi, and convincing the latter that he has no future with Britannia, respectively. (Unfortunately, he fails to keep an absolute leash on either.)
• Lelouch keeps Rolo around during the Geass raid and the second Tokyo battle before he intends to dispose him as payback for murdering Shirley and/or attempting to replace Nunnally (the former doesn't happen in the movie versions, but the latter still remains one reason). Unfortunately for the former, Rolo makes various other Black Knights suspiciousby telling them he trusts him the most. Should've reined him in a bit more.

 

[Will514e]

Seeing Kallen being fearful and submissive toward someone else feels wrong. Even more so when it's Tanya, SB's new favorite "hard women making hard decision".

Honestly, most Tanya fics I read somehow turn into "Tanya takes over the show and is the new protagonist now, screw everyone else". It's like reading Taylor fics all over again, and god knows it's one of the reason Worm fics are so hard for me to swallow nowadays.

 

[averagejoe32]

Seeing Kallen being fearful and submissive toward someone else feels wrong. Even more so when it's Tanya, SB's new favorite "hard women making hard decision".

Click to shrink...

Well Zero still hasn't appeared yet, so Tanya being in charge will probably change. As for Kallen, I could be wrong but didn't she kind of turn out to be Zero's most loyal follower. That Tanya managed to secure her loyalty first is bit of an upset applecart but it is in line with her personality.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 22


(I've been sitting on this damned thing for too long, and it's not improving with age. I'm not entirely sure it works, but... So it goes. A huge thank you to Siatru, WrandmWaffles, Thearpox, Sunny, Gremlin Jack, and MetalDragon for their help and feedback, as well as the others from the AYGGW Discord.)


APRIL 30, 2016 ATB
FORWARD OPERATING BASE EDMUND, ASAHI, TOYAMA PREFECTURE


When Corporal Kururugi Suzaku, along with the rest of his freshly replenished battalion, had been deployed to Toyama Prefecture three weeks earlier, the food had been a pleasant surprise. The typical pots of gray, unidentifiable meat swimming in watery broth had not accompanied the 3rd Regiment, and the boxes of dehydrated "crap rations" typically issued to formations in the field had been left behind in their home barracks in the Tokyo Settlement.


Instead, the newly minted corporal and the rest of his unit had eaten extravagantly (at least by Area 11 standards) since they had taken up their posts on the prefectural border with Niigata. Back before the Conquest, Toyama had been famous for its seafood, thanks to the seemingly endless bounty of Toyama Bay.


Indeed, in a past life, a young Suzaku had dined upon fresh yellowtail that arrived at the Kururugi Shrine on ice, straight from Toyama. Toyama Black Ramen, with its fatty pork and its deliciously salty broth, had been a special treat reserved for meals after kendo tournaments.


Now, he sat with the rest of his fire team in a dilapidated sports center that had been re-designated as 'Forward Operating Base Edmund', eating pickled squid straight out of brining jars and grilling trout with the rest of the company over a number of charcoal grills that the Prefect's liaison team had so helpfully provided.


Despite the surprisingly good food, morale was low among the men of His Imperial Majesty's 32nd Honorary Britannian Legion.


The lack of lunchtime conversation could be chalked up to the age-old military custom of eating while food is available – there was, after all, no guarantee that the food would still be there when your conversation finished. Corporal Kururugi was certain that many of the men squatting around the grills scattered about the old basketball court had nothing but the food in front of them on their minds, especially since they would be boarding the buses back to Tokyo after lunch. Nobody was stupid enough to think that quality seafood would still be freely available once they were back in the Settlement.


He was just as certain that the men who sat staring blankly into their soup bowls instead of eating were lost in their fresh new memories of Toyama. They had the mien of haunted men – Corporal Kururugi recognized those hollow eyes from the mirror. He was certain that they were full of the fervent hope that their new ghosts wouldn't follow them back to the Settlement. He'd long since ceased to hope that his own personal ghost would be so accommodating…


Corporal Kururugi realized his thoughts were drifting, and forced himself away from thoughts of the past with a wrench. He'd lately been having trouble staying focused on the present himself. Something about being out in Toyama, where the influence of Britannia was lighter and which still bore such a resemblance to the Ja- the Area 11 that Kururugi remembered from his youth, made it difficult to keep his focus where it belonged: on the future.


Many things would change once they returned to the Settlement, seafood being the least of them. Unless the climate in Tokyo had changed, the men would be confined to base once again upon arrival. Instead of the Prefect's generous approach towards outfitting soldiers with all the bits and bobs they needed, the men would have to get used to paying through the nose for their own kit once more.


More importantly, Corporal Kururugi very much doubted that the three battalions of Honorary Britannian soldiers would be permitted to keep the pistols they had been issued after arriving in Toyama City.


While it was typically the policy of Prince Clovis's Administration to not permit its Honorary Britannian units access to lethal weapons, the situation in neighboring Niigata Prefecture had all but forced the Britannians to properly equip its slave soldiers. Besides the pistols, Corporal Kururugi's battalion had been issued new boots, fresh uniforms, and bulletproof vests during their time in the Prefecture, amazingly without any "handling fees" charged to the soldiers.


'Hopefully the Britannians will at least let us keep the first two items,' Corporal Kururugi thought, 'don't think they'd want uniforms that "stink like Elevens" back, not to mention the boots.'


The Toyama deployment had been as grueling as it was brief.


Officially, the 3rd Regiment and its sister regiments of the 1st Brigade had been dispatched to the area where Toyama, Niigata, and Nagano Prefectures met as part of a larger "stabilization" effort, aimed at combating the banditry of stubborn Eleven rebels and ungrateful peasants. Unofficially, the Prefect of Toyama had allegedly begged the Area Administration for any available units that could be sent to his dominion, desperate to keep the burgeoning peasant rebellion from expanding south out of Niigata, towards his own fiefdom. The Prefect had even gone as far as promising to supply any deployed units from his own discretionary budget. The Administration, always eager to free up funding for whichever grand developments the Viceregal-Governor dreamed up, had jumped at the opportunity.


Which was how elements of the 32nd Honorary Britannian Legion, Corporal Kururugi included, had found themselves practically drowning in fresh seafood while occupying the northern region of Toyama Prefecture, practically within sight of the Niigata border.


Why the people of Niigata had risen with such incandescent fury was beyond Corporal Kururugi. Lots of rumors had swirled around the battalion, of course, but the scuttlebutt had yet to reach any consensus. The two top contenders had been that a particularly hated Britannian landlord had stolen an Eleven bride away from the altar to enjoy the honeymoon himself, or that one of the more professional rebel units had managed to briefly take over a radio station and had broadcast a call to arms before blowing up both the radio station and themselves.


Of the two, Corporal Kururugi was putting his money on the latter option. While the former was a better story, such events simply happened too often in Area 11 to cause this level of violence. Ultimately, it didn't matter which story was true, if either of them were. All over Niigata, Honorary Britannian policemen and officials had been murdered. Some, the lucky ones, were publicly lynched from trees and lampposts. The others burnt to death along with their families; all the while fruitlessly beating down on their doors and windows that had been nailed shut and barricaded from the outside.


At least, those had been among the many claims regarding ongoing events in Niigata made by the Britannian lieutenant who had briefed Corporal Kururugi's company, bristling with anger over the insult offered by the "impertinent Elevens!" If even a tenth of the officer's claims had been true, Corporal Kururugi could easily imagine the fury of the Britannian punitive reprisals in Niigata itself. After all, Kururugi felt just the same when he let himself contemplate the bitter irony that both his former countrymen and his adopted fellow citizens had no problem stringing men like himself up from lampposts and trees.


While at least some of Niigata's inhabitants had chosen to stand and fight a doomed defense of their homes, plenty more had fled the violence, running in any direction they could as long as it was away from the bloodshed. This initial rush of refugees had panicked the Prefect of Toyama – the refugees were stripping fields and depots bare of any supplies they could and were inhibiting the productivity of the Eleven serfs slaving away in the northern part of the prefecture.


Worse, the refugees were bringing word of the conflict to those local serfs, potentially inspiring yet more rebellious behavior. Worse still, the Prefect had apparently reasoned, it was all but certain that insurgents were hidden in the hopeless crowd, guaranteeing the spread of the uprising outside of Niigata's boundaries – after all, an ambush had been attempted on a Britannian convoy in Nagano, and even though it had been crushed, it was a potential sign of things to come.


Ultimately, that chain of events had led to the "stabilization mission" and the 1st Brigade's deployment. Order was to be maintained at any cost. And that order had been maintained by setting up armed checkpoints on every major road, installing strong fortifications along the prefecture's border, and of particular relevance to Corporal Kururugi, the sweeping missions.


Each day, Corporal Kururugi's platoon had been given the name of a village and a copy of the official census for that village. Individuals who had been marked out for whatever reason as subjects of special concern had been highlighted in red, while the names of all men of fighting age – twelve to sixty – and women between the ages of fourteen and thirty had been underlined in green. Papers in hand, the platoon would rendezvous with a squad of Britannian military police from the Toyama garrison and make their way to the targeted village, two or three empty trucks tagging along behind their convoy of four truckloads of soldiers and two police cars.


The trucks never returned empty, though. Corporal Kururugi had made a name for himself over the last four months since Christmas as a diligent soldier, always willing to go the extra mile for his Britannian commanders. He had done everything in his power to ensure that the targets his squad had been tasked with finding had ended up in those trucks, pushing the four men of the fire team under his command to scour the village for suspicious characters, even if they weren't marked in red on their list.


Suzaku hated it all, and hated himself for his complicity. It was all in service of what he had taken to thinking of as the "Plan," but that was cold comfort when Corporal Kururugi had to beat a mother half to death with a baton to stop her from interfering as his fire team loaded her thirteen year old son onto the waiting truck. The fact that Suzaku knew that he would almost certainly have to do far worse to guarantee the Plan's success only twisted the knife further.


After the scales had fallen from his eyes as he stared up at the charred thing that had once been a comrade, Suzaku had thought long and hard about his next moves. It was obvious in retrospect that the image he had been sold when enlisting of the Empire and his place within it as an Honorary Britannian was a lie. Less obvious was how he could turn that lie into some form of truth. It was easy to say that a new leader had to be appointed to reform the system, but how could that lofty goal be accomplished?


The first steps were small and incremental.


Carefully, quietly, Suzaku had taken the emotional temperature of his battalion, trying to figure out how his fellow Honorary Britannians were taking the events of what had already been dubbed the Christmas Incident. To his shock, Suzaku found that while most of the men were angry, few felt betrayed. This led to an uncomfortable moment of self-realization; Suzaku had believed in the Britannians and their marketing, and had assumed that all of his fellow soldiers felt likewise. In this belief, Suzaku had been wrong.


Unfortunately, this skepticism of Britannian claims had actually insulated the other soldiers against the horrors of Christmas – they had all seemingly expected little better from Britannians, and were merely angry and sad to be proven correct. Few shared the white-hot rage pulsing through him, and the ones who felt the same as he did had no idea how to conceal their anger. While Suzaku's childhood friend might have appreciated these angry men as pawns, Suzaku didn't have the luxury to think in anything but the long-term, and association with obvious malcontents would do him far more harm than good in the long run, and so Private Kururugi had carefully eschewed their company.


His conservatism quickly paid off; within the first two weeks of January, all of the men who had expressed verbal dissatisfaction or anger with Britannia after the Christmas Incident had vanished, and fresh Honorary recruits had been assigned to their squads. It sent a clear message to Suzaku that his current position was far too exposed to even consider networking yet. After all, if anybody remembered his frenzied anger from that fateful day and decided it hadn't been a moment of passion, he might be brought to the attention of the military police, dooming the Plan before it got off the ground.


So in the service of that Plan, Suzaku carefully tucked his anger away and stored it in a private corner of his heart, and had immersed himself ever more deeply in the identity of Private Kururugi.


The first step had been proving Private Kururugi the most diligent soldier in the battalion, a willing servant of Britannia and the ideal Honorary Britannian. He worked long hours without complaint, and spent his off hours washing floors, scrubbing toilets, and polishing his boots to a mirror's sheen.


It had taken time, but he had gradually struck up a rapport with his platoon's Britannian lieutenant, Chester Rockwell, the same lieutenant who had blanched at the screams of a man being slowly burnt alive. From careful observation, Suzaku knew that Lieutenant Rockwell still felt guilty about the Incident and, though he tried to hide it, resented the battalion's commanding officer Major Humphrey for his order to remain in the outpost's walls.


Private Kururugi had taken his time to cozy up to the young junior officer, carefully soothing his guilt and assuring him that the men under his command didn't resent Rockwell in the slightest. Rockwell had been eager to hear what Private Kururugi had to say, no matter how little resemblance it bore to any kind of truth; just as Suzaku had expected, the lieutenant had greatly appreciated being handed a reason to no longer feel guilty.


Lieutenant Rockwell had rapidly paid off that quiet favor. As new recruits filtered in to fill the holes left by the men who had departed at Christmas and those who had departed in the ensuing weeks, Kururugi was promoted to Corporal. Officially, he had been recommended for the promotion due to his hard work, but Suzaku could read between the lines of the official notice – he was, after all, a politician's son.


As a corporal, Kururugi had command over one of the two fire teams that made up his squad, and four privates reported directly to him. Suzaku was heavily tempted to start suborning the four men of his detail to his way of thinking, but restrained himself just like always. Instead, he drilled his men relentlessly, not only participating in the mandatory platoon and squad training sessions but more or less forcing his men to join him for supplemental training on their off hours. They resented him for it, but after he beat the only one stupid enough to openly defy him into the ground, they did as they were ordered.


By the start of February, the daily regimen of training and voluntary extra chores had become rote and the complaints had ceased. Every waking moment not spent training or working, Suzaku had drilled his small command on the rules and regulations stipulated by His Imperial Majesty's Military Code, doing his best to hammer a deep respect for the legal underpinnings of the system into his underlings' heads. This schedule had continued day in and day out for just over two months, when the news from Niigata trickled down the grapevine.


The Britannian battalion that shared the outpost with Corporal Kururugi's formation left first, dispatched on April 8th​ to Tokamachi in Niigata Prefecture. This development had been met with mild interest by the Honorary Britannians of the 3rd​ Regiment, but little had changed other than the increased availability of hot water in the showers. Two days later, the battalion had been woken up early and hurried onto buses bound for northern Toyama Prefecture.


All Suzaku's sleep-befuddled brain could manage at the time was despair. Undoubtedly, this deployment meant that the Britannian troops had been unable to contain the uprising, and that the anarchy and bloodshed were spreading far and wide. He had silently railed against the impatience of his people; if they rose up now, didn't they realize that they would all be wiped out piecemeal, and that the Britannians would simply be even more on guard in Area 11?


Any realistic change in the system required careful planning and coordination, not wild anger! Even if the people did rise up as one and force the Britannians out, did they truly think that the Chinese would let them enjoy their freedom? He had despaired of his people – how many would die in these pointless revolts was beyond him, but even one would have been too many.


Now, weeks later, Corporal Kururugi did his best to harden his heart as he nibbled on a pickled squid. There was no point in despairing over choices come and gone, he told himself. All would ultimately be justified. Indeed, all that he had seen and done in Toyama had already been partially justified. While his continued diligence and zeal in the field had undoubtedly improved his reputation with the Britannian officers commanding the unit, Corporal Kururugi's first field deployment had taught him a very important lesson: The Britannians were deeply afraid of the Elevens, both Number and Honorary Britannian.


For a long time, Suzaku had privately suspected that the Britannian hatred and contempt for Elevens was rooted equally in belief in Britannian superiority and in the fear of the oppressed common in all conquerors. The swaggering Britannian chauvinism was easy enough to see, but the fear was just as visible if you knew where to look.


Why would the Britannians raise and train Honorary Britannian units from former Elevens, but refuse to arm them? Why would the Prefect of Toyama panic and offer the balance of his treasury to ward off underfed and unarmed refugees? Why would a crowd of civilians led by Britannian soldiers and officers murder their nominal comrades?


They're afraid of us.


It was the only reasonable conclusion. It was also a bitterly ironic one, considering the dull placidity of Suzaku's fellow soldiers in the wake of the Christmas Incident.


Britannian fear had brought Corporal Kururugi's unit to Toyama. In an attempt to soothe that fear, truckload after truckload of luckless civilians had been taken from their villages for the flimsiest of reasons and sent to the filtration and concentration camps. Corporal Kururugi could understand the evil logic behind the plan - by concentrating all of the potential recruits in camps out of reach of the insurrectionists and by filtering out the individuals most likely to cause trouble, the Prefect had constructed a human firebreak that would keep the insurrection out of his territory. It was sickening, but the idea made a sort of short-term sense.


Privately, Suzaku wondered just how far into the future the Prefect of Toyama was thinking. He had crushed the immediate threat by incarcerating who knew just how many of his own people, but Suzaku doubted that the human firebreak was anything but a stopgap measure. What was the Prefect going to do? Keep all of his farmers and workers locked up? Impossible, his fields would go fallow. And what about the thousands of "troublemakers"?


Suzaku was profoundly thankful that he hadn't been personally involved in the "filtration process", but he knew men who had taken part, and their second-hand descriptions secretly sickened him. Someone would find those unfortunates sooner or later, all packed in layers in trenches a hundred meters long. What would happen once word of those long scars in the earth leaked out?


More Britannian fear. That was all Corporal Kururugi was certain of. More Britannian fear, which would prompt more Britannian crackdowns, which would continue the cycle. And the more scared the Britannians got, and the more desperate they became for reassurance and for answers…


Corporal Kururugi smiled and got to his feet as he pushed Suzaku back into the box deep inside his mind, his fireteam hastily cramming their last bites into their mouths before rising up around him. In twenty minutes, his platoon would be on a bus heading back to the Tokyo Settlement. There would be opportunities galore in the sweltering capital of the Area, especially since the fighting in Niigata showed no signs of slowing. The Britannian soldiers deployed to the troubled province would be far away from the Britannian Concession, which meant there would be plenty of assignments available for a diligent soldier with a plan.


It would all be justified. Victory would wash away all stains and justify all means, and Area 11 would be a prosperous and happy land. Kururugi Suzaku had a plan, and by pushing men, women, and children up onto those trucks with the full knowledge of where they were going, he had purchased an opportunity. Sooner or later, the trenches would be found, and the Elevens would lash out like clockwork.


The Britannians, guiltily aware that their chickens were coming home to roost, would once again be frightened and search for someone to help them. And when they looked for someone to clean up their mess… Someone who could get the job done while remaining nonthreatening to the powers that be, docile, obedient, and trustworthy, a model Honorary Britannian. And once they let him through the doors of power… once they depended on him keeping things clean…


Then and only then will it be time to make my move. Lashing out with rage is pointless; only action based in cool logic will produce a truly ordered society.


Lots of people would die before Suzaku got his chance. He owed it to all whose bones would form his road to the top, Britannian and Eleven, to not let it go to waste.


It will be worth it in the end. Suzaku thought to himself, resolve settling in his gut like a lead weight. It has to be.


---------


APRIL 19, 2016 ATB
ASHFORD ACADEMY, BRITANNIAN CONCESSION, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1603


"-lia li Britannia has announced the capture of Damascus. After a bri-"


The television winked off at the click of a remote, the talking head in front of a backdrop of Cornelia astride her Glouchester disappearing into the void. Silence returned to the lavishly appointed conference room, any whisper that slipped under the thick wooden doors softened into nothing against the deep plush of the antique carpet under the table.


The room's lone occupant turned from the television with a sigh to face the neat stack of papers piled up in front of him. The densely packed language described committee minutes and budget proposals, scholarship applications, and admissions interviews, all carefully read, notarized, and signed without a single pen stroke out of place. All told a representation of three hours of work, all of it nominally voluntary. A small sacrifice in the name of a larger game.


It would have gone faster with a bit of help, but… Eh, Probably for the best, he mused. If Milly was here, she absolutely would have gotten distracted by hour two and started getting 'creative' with the paperwork again.


Lelouch Lamperouge, Vice President of the Ashford Student Council, sighed good naturedly, sliding the fruit of his labors into his briefcase and coming to his feet. He did not check whether his smile was sufficiently casual, cool, and disarming in the dim reflection in the darkened television screen; Lelouch Lamperouge was always cool, but endearingly casual with his friends, and had no reason to carefully manage his air of effortless ease.


Indeed, at this point "Lelouch Lamperouge" was a comfortable role, one that he had worn so long that he no longer had to think about maintaining the facade. Only a handful of people across the planet had ever known him by a different name, and most of those had probably forgotten him entirely as anything but an obscure footnote.


And even fewer people remember my sister… Which might be to her benefit, even if it is still galling.


Besides, even if the role had been new or unfitting, Lelouch had worn masks of one sort or another for most of his young life. Haughty masks of imperious pride at social functions, armor against fawning courtiers. Stoic masks of resolve, when his mother had died and That Man had spurned him. Smiling masks, when he had lied to Nunnally, telling her that they were living in a mansion surrounded by fields of flowers. Always and everywhere, endless masks, for his own safety and for the safety of those he loved.


Of course, masks could only provide so much protection. His mother had never felt the need to wear a mask, but he doubted that any mask could have saved her from the assassin's bullet. Perhaps if she had been a bit better at dissembling, less skilled on the battlefield but better at the games of courtly intrigue, she would not have died. It was impossible to tell, but her son had learned a lesson that day, and another the day after.


Disaster struck when you least expected it, and showing your true reaction in the face of calamity only compounded the damage.


I am no Marianne the Flash, no ace amongst aces… What was I thinking? If I'd just kept myself under control… I would still have been within striking distance of That Man…


Eyes shut, Lelouch forced the thought of what could have been away. It was far too late for second-guessing now, and in all probability, nothing would have come of them even if he still was within reach of That Man. After a moment to re-establish his soft smile, the Vice President opened the stained oak door and set forth to find the President, ready to be temporarily free of Milly Ashford's ebullient enthusiasm for at least a few days.


Milly Ashford was lounging out in the Academy's garden when he found her, draped artfully across a stone bench. The position, while admittedly intriguing, could in no way be comfortable, but he didn't think it was meant to be. While he hid behind a facade of smiling indifference, Milly relied on her beauty and sensuality to escape from the burdens of her own life.


The Queen of Ashford played games using the Academy as her board – a small slice of the world where she was in complete control, where she could pretend to be the mistress of her destiny. Lelouch did not begrudge her for her games; while it was irritating to be a pawn on another's chess board, she was usually gentle with her toys. Besides, he owed the ever-smiling blonde a great deal.


After all, unlike the rest of the student body – a certain middle schooler excepted – Milly knew Lelouch Lamperouge by another name. A name that, to the rest of the world, was six years dead and buried. Considering how living in Britannian society under a fresh identity would have been all but impossible without her family's support, putting up with a few idiotic school events and some extra paperwork were the very least he could do.


And a new name and a roof over our head isn't even a tenth of what I owe the Ashfords for. He hadn't eaten in two days and he felt so weak, but Nunnally was depending on him, and… If it hadn't been for the Ashfords, hadn't been for Sayoko…


Lelouch stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. That was years ago, he reminded himself. You're safe now. Nunnally's safe now. They found you in time. Everything is okay.


Eager to escape the memories, Lelouch turned his thoughts back to his hostess of the last four years. Even beyond the debt he owed her, he had found in Milly something of a kindred spirit. After all, I doubt anybody in Area 11 wears as many masks as Milly Ashford. Apart from myself, of course.


Of all of those many masks, the one that Milly was undoubtedly most fond of was the Flirt. Her current performance, while likely not targeted towards him, was an example of the rarely subtle power wielded by the Queen of Ashford. Despite knowing the Ashford heiress's tendency to wield her sexual appeal as a bludgeon, Lelouch couldn't help but notice the way she angled her leg to "accidentally" reveal just two fingers' width of creamy thigh.


Puberty was kind to her, Lelouch thought, seized with a sudden burst of sympathy for his friend and sometimes chauffeur, Rivalz Cardemonde. The poor boy had been obviously besotted with "Madam President" for over two and a half years now, and still hadn't mustered up the courage to confess. Probably for the best; she's only putting on her show because she doesn't want to be tied down to anybody yet.


A light laugh told him that he had been caught staring, but he did not flinch. Lelouch's Lamperouge facade did not care what other people thought, letting all opinions roll off a gloss of utter self-confidence. Sometimes, it wasn't even a facade. With a total lack of shame that didn't have to be manufactured, he raised his eyes and met Milly's dancing blue eyes with a polite smile.


"Careful there, Lulu!" She teased, rising to her feet in an almost leonine manner, a predatory cat prowling towards enthralled prey, "Shirley's looking for you again, and she's pretty mad." Milly leaned in, and the man could smell her floral shampoo. "Someone might have told her that you've been gambling again~ Wonder who that could be…?"


That matter was unimportant, as was the gambling, and indeed as was the need to evade Shirley. Lamperouge knew that Milly loved her little games, but was completely certain that she would protect the secrets of his that truly mattered. After all, harboring a fugitive of the Crown, officially designated as such or not, was an act of treason, and thus punishable by wheeling.


And if there's one thing that characterizes Milly Ashford, apart from shameless flirting, it's loyalty to her family. She'd never listen to a word her useless parents say if it wasn't for that loyalty.


"Well, that's annoying," Lelouch smiled, pulling the sheaf of carefully taped paperwork from his briefcase, "especially since I just completed the safety forms for the Equestrian Club's upcoming polo meet. I was planning on going for a nice stroll in the Concession now that my work is all finished, but if I have to find Shirley and soothe her concerns, I might not have time to properly submit it before I leave. After all, Madam President, I'd hate to stay indoors on a day like today."


Milly narrowed her eyes dramatically, the smile morphing into an equally theatrical pout. "You drive a hard bargain, Lulu! But… if you want me to go play with a pretty redhead to distract her as you sneak out the gate…?"


The pout was already wearing thin as the habitual smile shone through like the sun behind a cloud, and Milly abandoned the mask of disappointment in favor of a broad grin and a lecherous giggle. "I'm game! After all, that kind of work pays for itself, especially since you already checked over the snack bar's expenditure report!"


"Right here." With a smile, Lelouch pulled a slim folder from his briefcase and handed both it and the forms over with a smirking flourish. "Now, I think that it's about time for my walk, Madam President. If you'll excuse me, I really must go."


"A walk? Really, Lulu?" Milly sighed theatrically as she briefly thumbed through the folder, before sliding the nonsense into her backpack. "Honestly, that's pathetic, it's like you didn't even try to come up with a cover story."


Looking up at the slightly taller Lelouch with a mocking expression of feigned curiosity, Milly let a finger lightly brush her lips, feigning an innocently questioning air that was only somewhat undermined by the mocking twinkle in her eyes. "Is it poker again? If so, you better win something for me! I'll accept various forms of tribute, including candids and candy!"


Completely aware that anything he told the inveterate gossip queen would inevitably make its way back to the perpetually blushing Shirley and his far too canny sister, Lelouch said nothing but waved a lazy goodbye as he made his way out of the garden. Manipulating Milly was refreshingly easy and straightforward; she knew what he was about, but so long as she was adequately paid in her chosen currencies, she was happy to be used.


Besides, I'm probably just as happy to be used by her; if she wants to run interference with Shirley in exchange for a little paperwork, I'll oblige her.


Half a block away from the Academy, he slowly relaxed his hold on the school persona of Lelouch Lamperouge. He allowed himself to stoop forwards slightly, shoulders rolled forwards into an almost defensive hunch as he carefully shortened his stride. Nothing like the cold haughtiness that was his sword and constant companion at Ashford. A small disguise, but as clothes made the man, affectations made the personality.


I hope Shirley is enjoying the 'distraction' Milly had in mind, he thought to himself as he made his way to the nearby MagLev station. Even if she isn't, well… I'm sure Milly's having her fun at least, and Shirley's a good sport about that kind of thing.


To her immense credit, Shirley Fenette was tolerant of a great deal of discomfort and setbacks. She was dedicated in all she did, unfortunately including her single-minded pursuit of him. Shirley was the captain of the swim team as well as the secretary of the Student Council, both of which were time-consuming positions, but she managed to balance both with a fulfilling social life and an impressive academic career. As the Vice President, Lelouch was privy to her grades and knew for a fact that she had not earned a grade under a ninety-five since the fourth grade.


Unfortunately, that dedication to her pursuits was paired with a painfully naive personality and a complete inability to take a hint. Lelouch had been dodging the girl and her ridiculously obvious crush for well over a year now, and she had yet to get the message. If it wasn't so clear that she really cared about him and didn't just want the social cachet of "catching him", Lelouch would have driven her off months ago.


As it was, well…


Lelouch continued to muse over the enthusiastic, if sometimes annoying, swimmer as he swiped his card over the automated turnstile, but soon grew bored. Ultimately, while she was pleasant company, she wasn't exactly useful. He doubted her naivety would pair well with the revelation that he was a fugitive from the state. But at the very least, to her credit, she isn't a bully. She's very kind to Nunnally…


Thinking about the swimmer led Lelouch into considering the other members of his tiny ring of friends. Rivalz Cardemonde was a cheerful soul, always helpful when asked. Lelouch, who had never been particularly mechanically minded, was always vaguely impressed by the level of care the other boy showed when he maintained and serviced his motorcycle.


Lelouch also found it admirable how little Rivalz's family drama had dented his chipper personality. His parents' messy divorce was rarely brought up, but Rivalz's desire to rebel against his parents wasn't lost on Lelouch. His obsessive chase after Milly was, Lelouch knew, part of that. He'd only mentioned it once, but Lelouch was under the impression that an arranged marriage was awaiting the Cardemonde heir back on the Gold Coast.


But until he goes back home, I've got a talented driver who works for free, Lelouch thought with a smile as he boarded the train. Well, not quite for free, but a small cut of my winnings and sympathy when Milly swats him down again, in exchange for an on-call chauffeur? Done and done.


For all of their ups and downs, Lelouch would have liked to consider Rivalz and Shirley to be his friends.


But how can I call them my friends when they have no idea who I truly am? I have been lying to them since the day we met, which are shaky grounds indeed for sincere connections.


No matter what, until they learned who he truly was, until they learned who he and his sister had been and what they had survived, there would always be a wall between him and them. Milly, on the other hand, at the very least knew that he had once been a prince. True, she didn't understand what that truly meant – nobody raised outside the snakepit called the Imperial Court truly did – but she had a glimmer of understanding that the other two lacked.


Besides, there was an element of cynical maturity to Milly that Shirley and Rivalz lacked. Below the smirking, teasing, and at times infuriating veneer of confidence, Milly knew that she was an object with value and utility, the key word being object. Her family had been stripped of its noble status when the enemies of Marianne the Flash had descended like vultures upon her vulnerable allies, but a path back to that status for the House of Ashford led through her bedroom, a fact of which Milly was well aware.


Of course, there was another path back to the nobility for the Ashfords, besides an advantageous match for Milly…


Ruben Ashford had taken Lelouch and Nunnally in after the Conquest in the name of the loyalty the Ashfords still bore for Marianne vi Britannia; unspoken was the understanding that favors must one day be repaid. His mother had, after all, been a commoner raised to the nobility as the concubine, then wife, then empress. It was obvious to Lelouch that Ruben hoped that, when he came into power, old friends would be remembered, and all that had once been the Ashfords' and more would be restored.


And if that's all that he wants, it would still be an excellent exchange. My life and Nunnally's, plus years of support and protection, in exchange for some piddling titles and a tract of land? An absolute steal. Of course, that begs the question of what Ruben might do if I don't try for the throne… Aristocrats, fallen or not, never forget to collect on a debt….


Rocking with the motion of the MagLev, Lelouch gazed idly off through the window, still lost in his thoughts. While he had friends and compatriots, a grand total of three of them, they were only marginally useful for his long-term goal of revenge and he was deep in the hole to the Ashfords. Unfortunately, apart from the comparatively plump balance accumulated through his illicit gambling and Sayoko, whose wages he had only just started paying himself over the last year, those three friends represented the entirety of his power base.


It was a dismal arrangement, to say the least.


Ashford was only ever a starting point and a place to rest. It's past time I start finding useful people outside its walls.


Among the many shortages in Area 11 engineered by the current governor, useful idiots were in bountiful supply. Before Christmas, tensions had been rising as fools in power pillaged the compliant idiots below them, while rebellious blockheads raised pygmy rebellions. After Christmas, the whole province practically throbbed with inflamed passions. Idiocy dripped from the mouths of nobles – "nobody wants to do an honest day's work!", stupidity foamed from the working class – "the Honorary Britannians are taking our jobs!", and milquetoast indecision burbled from the middle class – "Somebody really must take the nobles in hand!"


And that was before considering the running sore that was the official state church, who leached from parishioners in exchange for increasingly derivative sermons. While the Britannic Church had always been a cheerleader for the Imperial Court, any pretensions to the contrary had disappeared in Area 11, where the bishop had made himself a symbol by gorging to the point of resembling a bipedal swine draped in yards of cloth-of-gold.


To a man with an ounce of sense and almost half a million pounds spread across a number of accounts in different names, the possibilities in Clovis la Britannia's Area 11 were boundless. Just looking out the window proved as much. The walled Shinjuku Ghetto was visible in the distance, but surrounding those walls were endless blocks of urban sprawl, underdeveloped and aging. A few minutes later, the devastated area south of the revitalized glitzy heart of the Ginza District swam into view, a monument to Britannia's uneven development and the lack of attention invested in Area 11.


And that's not even getting into the districts where the truly unwanted of the Empire live, under the elevated Concession itself.


No trains ran anywhere near the perpetually dark arcologies that clustered fungus-like under the broad shining pavilions of the Britannian Concession. Harkening back to New Bristol, built at the mouth of the Mississippi River back in Area 2, the Concession had been built on massive stilts to gaze imperiously down at the Tokyo Settlement radiating out around it in the still-rotting corpse of the murdered megacity of the same name.


Whole districts of which, prime urban real estate all, had been left to rot as the Viceregal Governor fooled around with his ClovisLand amusement park and other vanity projects! Though they were too small to see at the moment from the elevated MagLev track, all of those streets were full of Britannians and Numbers just looking for someone, anyone, to give them a reason to hope for a better tomorrow.


I really should send Clovis a thank you card for preparing such fertile grounds. Wouldn't he be surprised? Lelouch almost laughed at the absurd thought. Nobody ever thanks poor stupid Clovis for his idiotic gifts, but this time I might actually have sincere cause to appreciate him. Not that he'll ever know, of course. Not until it's too late.


Alan Spicer dismounted from the MagLev at the Ginza station. Ducking into a restroom, Spicer quickly changed out of the Ashford Academy uniform and into nondescript business casual. Spicer decided that he was a low-level functionary for the Administration as he carefully sorted out his tie in the restroom mirror, loosening it once it was tied and undoing the top button of his cheap white button-up.


After all, I'm off the clock now, aren't I?


A few blocks south from the MagLev station, closer to the urban abscess around the Tokyo Tower and away from the bustling streets of the most fashionable shopping district in the Area, Alan Spicer found an unsuspecting target: A lower-middle and upper-working class neighborhood, local mom'n'pops nestled amongst chain convenience stores at street level and apartments on the floors above. The perfect place to take the pulse of the people.


Despite a half hour remaining in the typical work day, the sidewalks were densely populated. Knots of men sat on benches and the curbs outside of convenience stores, smoking cigarettes and passing brown paper bags from hand to hand. A few of the stores were dark, and two had boarded-up windows. This, Alan could tell, was a neighborhood fallen on hard times, a neighborhood where wages weren't keeping up with inflation and jobs were scarce.


Alan found a small deli, purchased a sandwich with a handful of coins and bills the proprietor instantly snatched off the counter, and had an early dinner at the establishment's grimy counter.


As he munched on his ham on rye, Alan carefully listened to the grumbling old man at the counter and the other elderly men slouched over a cribbage board behind him. He listened to the chatter of the other diners coming in and to the anxious titters of the housewives coming by for a quart of potato salad. Around his seat in the deli, life in the little slice of Britannia abroad continued on apace.


"The papers said last month a new infrastructure package was allotted, but that damned culvert's still leaking," one of the cribbage players groused as he moved a peg forwards, "and the supervisor's office still hasn't fixed the pothole over on 10th!"


"It's that damned train," his partner grunted, "ever since His Highness fell in love with it, that's where all the money goes. After all, who needs roads when we call all ride the fucking train, yeah?"


"Sorry Missus Fisk," the proprietor was saying, "but I gotta make a profit somehow. You know a pound just doesn't buy what it used to."


"But this is the second time in a month!" The client, presumably Missus Fisk, ground out, before sighing. "I'm sorry George, I know we all gotta make a living somehow but…"


"But a pound just doesn't buy what it used to." George finished, nodding sympathetically, "Tell me about it. The transportation costs alone are really killing me – pity the Prince can't divert some of the Sakuradite here, instead of shipping it all back to the Homeland. Seems like a bit of a waste…"


"It wouldn't be so bad if some people weren't benefitting from it." This time, the bitterness in Missus Fisk's tone was undisguised. "My Lloyd's been working the same job for four years now, and hasn't had a raise in three! He's a good worker, but that bastard Soresi froze all raises, and now nobody's hiring!"


"Times are tough for everybody," George said with a weary sigh, an apprehensive note entering his voice as he peered around the deli's eating area, "but… I mean… we just gotta keep on going. Prince Clovis… he knows what he's doing, right? He'll help us out; things just have to get a bit more stable and all first."


"From your mouth to God's ear, George," Missus Fisk sighed. "From your mouth to God's ear. I mean…" her eyes darted around the tiny eatery, "I'm not one to gossip, but those temporary taxes… This is the third year they've been renewed. That… That can't be what His Highness meant to do, right? It just can't…"


"It ain't right," George muttered from behind his counter, his rough grumble somehow sliding under the ambient noises of the business and into Lelouch's ears. "It ain't right that they squeeze us so. What do the nobs think we are, Numbers?"


Alan Spicer kept his head down as the conversation tapered off. By the time he had finished his sandwich, Missus Fisk had long since left with her purchases, as had a handful of other customers with similar complaints. After leaving the deli, Spicer wandered through a pharmacy, a convenience store, and a cheap chain coffee shop. The story was seemingly the same everywhere, with only minor variations on a consistent theme.


Nobody was happy, it seemed, and nobody was prospering. Most people thought that something should be done and indeed, would be done, if only Prince Clovis knew how bad things really were. The consensus was that blame should be placed on the corrupt nobles and crooked advisors taking advantage of Prince Clovis's good nature to put unreasonable demands on his people.


Everything Alan heard only confirmed his impressions of the Area's mismanagement and decline; the commoners were unhappy, and authority had proven unresponsive at best. Corruption was the order of the day, and nobody had the political will or desire necessary to change that.


In the end, it all seemed to boil down to money, as Alan supposed it always did. The wages weren't going up, yet prices skyrocketed. Taxes were paid, yet potholes remained. Policemen and government functionaries on the take had grown greedy, and the "administrative fees" that were once a part of doing business had grown unmanageable. The clerics of the Britannic Church grew ever more insistent in their demands for voluntary charity in the name of nebulous "good works" that never manifested.


To hear the common Britannian inhabitant of Area 11 tell it, the entire weight of the Empire had fallen on their shoulders and they were groaning under the load. A pound bought less each month, and somehow the Area Exchequer found a new "special tax" to impose on an equally monthly basis.


And none of them are willing to blame Clovis for it. Alan shook his head, wishing that came as more of a surprise. It's all That Man's fault. After the Emblem of Blood, people just wanted stability, and that was something he could provide. Stability, and a renewed pride in Britannia on the heels of fresh conquest. The commoners don't want to return to the chaos, and so they won't question That Man's issue, even when he's the clear root of all their ills.


For all that the common Britannian citizens refused to put the blame for their increasingly awful lives at the feet of the man responsible, those unheard and unaddressed complaints were still entirely valid. Alan knew exactly the kind of desperation that could take root as people watched their loved ones suffer, better than most Britannians, in his opinion. At a certain point, the unthinkable became necessary, and once that threshold was crossed…


Alan shook off the cobwebs of memory and continued to slouch around the neighborhood, listening as the hungry and the ignored proposed their favored scapegoats.


"Obviously, the nobles are behind it all," a grizzled man sitting outside a shuttered bookstore claimed – "they're getting fatter every fuckin' day!"


"It's the damned Honoraries!" An off-duty soldier growled, spitting her chew into the dry soil of an empty planter. "Give 'em an inch, and they think they're real Britannians! It makes me sick, sharin' a barracks with 'em. They're fuckin' animals, filthy too."


Nobles or Honoraries or even the browbeaten Elevens, almost everybody that Alan eavesdropped on in the neighborhood had at least one grievance in common – broken promises. When the Empire had needed settlers to populate its newly won Area in the wake of the Conquest, families of good Britannian stock had been recruited from Pendragon, New Bristol, Charleston, and half a dozen other metropolises with extravagant promises.


To Alan, it sounded as if the recruiters had promised that every family that moved to the newly christened Area 11 would become de facto barons, ruling over a subservient Eleven population.


And yet, six years on, the pick of those servile Elevens had become their legal equals and now competed for the same low-skill jobs that many of the commoner Britannians had been imported to work. The remainder of the Elevens had not been parceled out as chattel to the average Britannian - the majority now worked as serfs on noble estates in the country, or "gotta sit around" in ghettos where state funds, "our taxes!" had to be expended to "keep 'em in their place."


The anger on this street was powerful, but not directed. Or rather, it's directed at too many targets; these everyday tradesmen and workers would happily attack anybody they were directed at, if they thought it would improve their situation. The nobles, the Elevens, the Honoraries… Perhaps the Administration, even… Anybody except That Man the one who duped them into coming to Area 11 to begin with…


The first step would have to be focusing that anger on the desired target. That much was obvious. The "how" of the matter was the trickier question by far.


As Alan continued to wander around the neighborhood, three broad approaches coalesced in his mind. The most obvious course of action is to give a speech, lending the people a voice to channel their anger in a proper direction. I'm sure the Theater Club could render me unrecognizable, but if any of them see a recording of the speech… Alternatively, instead of bothering with a disguise, I could find a local collaborator willing to act as a mouthpiece. Finally, I could use other media in place of public speaking, further reducing my exposure.


All three options had their upsides. To the man behind Alan Spicer, the first approach held the most personal appeal. Holding a crowd spellbound, hanging on his every word… The concept spoke to him.


I suppose it's in my blood, he thought with a snort, in a manner of speaking.


Yet, that most appealing option was also the most risky of the three by far. At best, success meant kicking off a local riot, while failure to engage the public or to escape in the aftermath might lead to imprisonment.


And once I'm behind bars as a political provocateur, there's very little Reuban could do for me. I doubt my cover would hold for long. As it is, the risk is far too high for any potential gains.


Finding a useful idiot to serve as a cipher was the next best option. It had the same advantages as a personal speech – an immediate emotional connection with the crowd, mass appeal, and no logistical requirements except a soapbox – with the additional advantage that the audience would probably accept the message more easily if it came from a familiar face. Plus, an additional degree of separation from the effects of the speech, good or ill, could only benefit "Alan Spicer."


Unfortunately, finding someone both charismatic enough to give a good speech and sufficiently foolhardy to mouth off about the authorities would take time, especially if the recruit had to come from the local population to be truly effective. Identifying and recruiting such an individual would take time and effort, and would in all likelihood require "Alan's" presence in the target area for a substantial amount of time, which would make it hard to preserve an identity that was currently as shallow as the clothes he wore.


Besides, recruiting a local mouthpiece still represented a potential threat to his cover identity as "Lelouch Lamperouge". Someone who fit his target profile might be intelligent enough to wonder about his mysterious new friend, and might try to follow him back to Ashford. On the other side of the problem, if anybody noticed how often he came to a random working neighborhood, and especially if anybody who knew him as Lelouch saw him dressed up as Alan, he ran the very real risk of arrest long before he had any chance to strike a blow against Britannia.


Ultimately, public speeches by their very nature drew attention to the speaker, and the best shield the man had at his disposal was anonymity. While Lelouch was all but certain that his fight against That Man would one day strip his identity of "Lamperouge" away, just as it had his first identity, the longer he could hold onto his current name the better. If attention-grabbing speeches were off the table, he would have to use less obvious means.


During his tenure as the Student Council Vice President, he had spent quite a few long hours in the Ashford Academy print shop. Mostly, those hours had been spent in preparing materials for some silly event or another; with Milly Ashford at the Council's helm, there was never any shortage of spontaneous events that just had to be advertised with custom signs, banners, and posters.


As a result, he had a solid working familiarity with the poster production process and the necessary credentials to access the room and use the machines while the Academy slept. While Lelouch would never call himself an artist, he also had some familiarity with image editing software; it shouldn't be too difficult to draft a poster or two that would inflame the common rabble against their ineffectual and foolish masters.


The initial brushfires might be slow and small, but through propaganda I shall ignite all of Britannia!


The only potential rough spot would be distribution. He would have to transport the posters from the Academy to the neighborhood and paste them to every available surface all by himself; recruiting help would be too risky.


Which means I'll have to put up something like two hundred posters all by myself… Alan groaned aloud as he started to make his way back to the MagLev station. The prospect of so much manual labor was daunting, but he didn't see any other viable alternative. I wish there was someone I could trust to help me with this… Well, there's Nunnally, but she's out for obvious reasons, and Milly… I don't know if she'd approve…


I wonder if Suzaku's… No, he told himself with a firm shake, don't even think about it. Best not to ask. Even if he isn't…


With a mental shove, Lelouch pushed thoughts of old friends and the identity of Alan Spicer away as he boarded his train. He'd have a few sleepless nights in his future, but very soon he'd be taking his first step towards revenge against That Man and all he held dear.


Three days later, the man who was sometimes Alan Spicer slouched in a chair outside a small coffee shop, tiredly blowing on his steaming cup, eager for the caffeine. It had been a long night, and he had a council meeting in two hours, all but guaranteeing a long day ahead.


But the sleepless night had been far from a waste. The entire street practically drowned in a sea of purples, oranges, and blacks, posters firmly attached to practically every vertical space available at street height. Doors, windows, walls and utility poles, all sported the luridly colored posters he had run off in the Ashford Academy print shop the last evening, severely denting the supply of colored ink.


In truth, it had been Lelouch's second nocturnal trip to the print shop. After Alan had returned from his fact-finding trip, Lelouch had thrown together a poster design and run off two hundred copies. He had intended to go out and post them all the following night, but Shirley had successfully monopolized his evening, delaying his schedule.


This had proven to be something of a blessing, because the next day's issue of the Oriental Messenger, the biggest paper in Area 11, had broken the story of the new "Clovisland North" under construction in the Sendai Settlement.


Between the fawning lines proclaiming anticipation for the new rides and praising the Viceregal-Governor for his desire to provide all children with a place to play, Lelouch had spotted a few tantalizing details. For one, the project had apparently been "made possible with the help of a special voluntary tithe collected by the Diocese of Area 11." Generally, such voluntary tithes were collected on behalf of the starving on the grounds that the Britannic Church had some vague requirement to keep all Britannians capable of aiding the Emperor in his holy work.


Another easily overlooked fact contained in the puff piece was that much of the remainder of the money for the amusement park's development had been appropriated from the Area's development fund. That particular fund underwrote contracts for public improvements and the maintenance of civic infrastructure, including roads.


Taken together, those two juicy tidbits had been too good to pass up, leading to a new hastily thrown together poster design and a second trip to the print shop.


In the end, he had managed to accomplish his task in a single sleepless night.


Dressed in workman's overalls swiped from a public laundry, Alan Spicer had wheeled a dolly laden with cans of paint-on adhesive, brushes, and the multiple boxes full of posters down the street from Ashford Academy to the MagLev station, and from there onto the otherwise empty train that ran through the night. Soon enough, he had pushed his cart through the streets of the small neighborhood that was his target, quietly sleeping on a Thursday night in preparation of the workday soon to come.


By five the next morning, when the first early risers had staggered from their apartment blocks, they had been greeted by a sea of brightly colored posters. Now dressed in his office drone costume with entirely authentic bags hanging under his eyes, Lelouch had buried the cart and overalls in a dumpster and slouched into the queue of a local coffee shop. A pot of cheap "drain cleaner" in hand, he'd found a seat in the outdoor area, eager to see the reaction to his first foray into mass media.


And now, I can enjoy the fruits of my labor… The man calling himself Alan smiled as he took a sip of his cheap coffee, wincing at the burnt flavor of improperly roasted beans. I wonder how they'll all react to the knowledge that all the money set aside for fixing their roads and plumbing has gone to building another toy for my idiot brother? And that his elephantine bishop has guaranteed that there will be no special handouts come May Day?


Across the street from the cafe, a small knot of passersby had begun to congregate around a shuttered bookshop. Alan smiled to himself as the sounds of muttering drifted through the early morning air, taking another sip to hide his anticipation. The broad, empty windows had given him plenty of real estate for his posters, and even across the street he could clearly read the bold print of the posters.


"CLOVIS THE CLOWN LAUGHS AS HE ROBS YOU!"


The font of the first line, splashed across the top of the poster, could have come straight from any number of familiar circus announcements. The bottom line, stamped across the poster's foot, was in an uncompromising stencil.


"IT'S PAST TIME FOR THE CIRCUS TO GO."


Between the two lines of text, a clown with Clovis's unmistakeable pretty face reclined in a throne of stacked pound notes, his motley the purple, blue and red of the Imperial Arms. The bells of his coxcomb cap had been replaced with the large silver coins of the archaic pounds sterling; more of those same bullion coins rolled from his jacket's folds and pockets.


Of course, despite the horde he sat atop and the coins pouring out of his pockets, the Viceregal-Clown, as his large nametag helpfully identified him, held out a begging hand to the viewer, demanding ever more with an imperious smirk.


The clown was not alone. Behind his throne, a large table stretched; on the right side, the table creaked under the weight of abundant food, most of which was rapidly disappearing into the maw of a remarkably porcine man with a bishop's miter, while to the left a hungry looking man in workman's overalls glared impotently at his empty plate.


Quite a masterpiece, if I do say so myself! Alan congratulated himself. Especially considering how high of an opinion Clovis has of himself. Why, if he saw one of those posters for himself, he might collapse from apoplexy and vastly improve the Area's government! Although, considering his awful taste in clothes, he might actually find it flattering…


The internal congratulations felt a bit hollow as the intended audience failed to react as expected. There were one or two laughs, but most of the group just shook their collective heads and walked away. Nobody seemed energized, nobody seemed engaged, and the only ones who seemed at all interested were the remaining cluster outside the bookstore, who seemed to be muttering angrily about something.


Alan strained to hear what they were saying. This could be it! Perhaps they realize the point! Maybe they're reading the finer print connecting the new amusement park to the funds set aside for infrastructure! Maybe…


"–You think we should wait for the cops to show up, or should we start tearing 'em down already?" Wait, what?!


"There's plenty of the bastard things everywhere. The coppers'll have plenty to choose from. Let's just start getting rid of 'em. The sooner they're gone, the better. No need to bring any more heat down on our heads then the bastard who put these up already bought us."


The last speaker immediately put word to deed, hooking his fingers around a loose edge of the nearest poster and ripping it down, only the top right quarter remaining in place as the rest tore cleanly away. You idiots! No! You're wrong! That's not what you're supposed to be doing! Don't you realize that they're taking advantage of you? Why? Why won't you see?


To the man who was both Lelouch and Alan Spicer, it was all but impossible to hold his peace as the local philistines set to work destroying his hard work. Soon, the air was full of the sounds of tearing paper and jeering laughter, and the gutters were full of shredded and defaced posters. A teen in school uniform soon set to work gathering up the decimated posters and cramming the detritus in a garbage sack. To the man's growing horror and anger, the group's self-appointed task started taking on a bit of a holiday air, as two young men raced to tear down the most posters, to the laughter of bystanders.


I don't understand it! Why the hell aren't they angry with Clovis? Don't they understand how he's just using them for money?! Don't they care? The man raged impotently in the prison of his mind, helpless to do anything but sip from his bitter cup. Idiots! They're all idiots! I'm surrounded by fools!


"Pardon me, young man," Alan jolted back into the present as an old man tapped on his shoulder before gesturing at the other chair at the outdoor table, "but is that seat taken?"


Alan just shook his head, not willing to trust himself to speak at the moment. I can't believe it… Hours of work, all for nothing and vanishing in minutes… Well, at least I didn't opt for the speech… What a disaster.


As he stewed, the pensioner hobbled around the table before gingerly lowering himself down onto the iron seat of the chair with a sigh of relief. "Aaah, that's good… Take my advice, sonny, don't live long enough to get old… You won't be missing a damned thing." Despite having never met any of his grandparents, the old fogey seemed almost stereotypically grandfatherly to Alan, complete with the desperate need to inflict conversation on the youth.


"Thanks for the advice, sir." Alan's tongue felt leden in his mouth, but it didn't seem like the old geezer would be content with silence. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."


"You do that, you do that…" The man took a long sip from his own steaming cup, seemingly heedless of the heat. "Ahh, that hits the spot. Say what you will about the Elevens, but they grow some damned fine tea."


"Do they?" Alan replied automatically, still trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong. "I'm more of a coffee man myself."


"Well, hopefully you live long enough to reconsider. Tea takes more time to get right, but it's a more civilized beverage…" The old man took another long sip. "Yer not from around here, are you sonny?"


"No sir." Abruptly, Alan realized what he'd just admitted in his distraction. "I mean, I only moved to this district fairly recently. Still trying to get used to the place, that's all."


"Oh?" The man took another sip, before setting his cup down on the table and closing his eyes. Alan turned back to his own cup, hoping that he'd recovered quickly enough to evade any suspicion. Another sip and I'll claim I need to go to work and leave. No need to look even more suspicious by leaving my coffee behind after flubbing a question.


Suddenly, the retiree's eyes popped open as he leaned in closer to Alan, gnarled fingers tight around the head of his cane. "You won't get any takers for your rabble rousing here, sonny," the man's harsh voice rasped out, quiet enough that only he and Alan could hear but lacking any hint of the earlier softness. "I suggest yeh haul yer mangy carcass out of this neighborhood toot sweet. The cops have been called, and if yer' still here in five minutes I wouldn't be surprised if you end up with a few broken bones resisting arrest."


Suddenly, the grandfatherly mien returned to the pensioner as he took another long sip from his cup, draining the last of the tea. I see that I'm not the only one wearing a mask here. Alan scowled, slamming back the rest of his coffee before getting to his feet. The old bastard was staring straight at him, a smile equal parts benevolent and mocking below eyes cool and unsympathetic.


Dammit! It's hard to tell if this old fool was telling the truth about the police, but if he was…


With a curse, the man who wouldn't be Alan Spicer as soon as he got out of sight from too-observant elder and the rest of the ungrateful cretins on the street jumped down from his table and shouldered his way through the rapidly swelling morning crowd, briskly walking away from what was an undeniable failure. Thankfully, nobody followed him, at least not that he could tell.


As soon as he turned a corner, he broke into a run, pelting down the road away from potential pursuit, and jinking onto a side road as his limited stamina wore out. Almost immediately, he ducked into an alley and let himself collapse against the cool brick of the wall, completely winded.


Dammit… I really need to put more hours in on the treadmill… Shirley must never know…


The man breathed in, and breathed out as he hastily pulled away the cheap clothes he'd worn under the coveralls the night before. The brimmed cap he'd worn to cover his hair went first, before he pulled the cheap white button-up off, revealing a novelty print shirt, freshly purchased a day earlier from a souvenir shop in Clovisland itself. As the man wadded up the dress shirt, and threw it after the hat into the dumpster, he took another deep breath.


Lelouch slowly exhaled, letting the air flow out of him. The urge to lash out was almost irresistible, but Britannia's rejected son mastered himself. As cathartic as a temper tantrum would be, he needed to keep moving; if the old man had told the truth and the police really had been summoned, Lelouch couldn't afford to stick around.


I can't take care of Nunnally if I'm being held for inciting a riot, after all.


Nunnally… Shit, she's going to be so pissed…


Shaking his head angrily, the exiled prince left the alley, straightening his shirt and tightening his belt as he walked briskly away from the evidence he had left in the dumpster. He'd made a mistake somewhere… But, all of that could wait. He had to get back to the gated sanctuary of the Ashford grounds. Once he was safely ensconced in the Club House apartment, he could flagellate himself in private.


It was easy to blend into the thickening crowd near the MagLev station, with nobody paying attention to a surly teenager trudging through the gates and out onto the platform. Families enjoying weekend sojourns, couples out for day trips in the Settlement, and Honorary Britannians hawking snacks swirled around him as he slouched down onto an available bench. Dotted throughout the crowd, Eleven janitors pushed brooms, polished railings, and generally did their best to keep their heads down and avoid notice.


Probably a wise move on their part.


Within minutes, a train glided out of the station, a near silent symbol of the prosperous tomorrow promised by the continued development of the Area. The state of the art carriages were sparsely populated; the route away from the trendy downtown districts was unpopular at this time of day, and Lelouch had little difficulty finding a seat away from the irritating, ungrateful, masses. Finally, all but alone, he let himself start to think about the morning's events, and where he had gone wrong.


In his short life, Lelouch had only gotten drunk a handful of times, usually at the instigation of Milly Ashford. He liked being in control, both of himself and of those around him, and alcohol made it all but impossible to remain in command of his faculties. Besides, with the thin physique he'd inherited from his mother, the hangovers were simply too miserable to justify whatever joys could be offered by the preceding bacchanalia.


Now, aboard one of the most prominent symbols of his half-brother by blood only's reign, Lelouch felt like he was finally sobering up after a prolonged bender.


Who needs alcohol to get drunk when royal arrogance is available, after all? It was a bitter thought, especially after all he'd gone through since he'd left the Imperial Court. What the hell was I thinking…? I wasn't, clearly, dammit. Forget Nunnally, if Sayoko finds out, I'm dead.


His original plan had unquestionably been arrogant. A few hours' worth of eavesdropping had given him just enough of an understanding of the common crowd's problems to get their attention, but he hadn't understood how… complacent they were.


That complacency was itself something of a mystery. Based on the anger he'd overheard, Lelouch had thought the whole neighborhood was teetering on the edge of a riot before he'd even arrived, which was why he'd tried to give a speech to catalyze existing anger. It could be that the denizens of that particular neighborhood were simply comfortable enough to fear losing what they had more than they resented the loss of what could have been. Perhaps he had been overly cynical, and the people truly did believe it when they expressed their faith in Clovis's leadership, lackluster governance and rampant embezzlement be damned.


Or maybe they're scared? Lelouch clenched his eyes and cast his mind back to a blessedly short time when he hadn't known where he'd find his next meal, or more importantly, Nunnally's. Scared of tomorrow, scared that it would somehow be worse than today, scared of putting a foot wrong and losing everything… And always scared that someone was watching, waiting to pounce. I wonder if they were laughing at the posters, or laughing out of the fear that someone watching would think they agreed with what the posters said?


Either way, it was obvious to the disinherited vi Britannia that he had, simply put, jumped the gun. A handful of posters wouldn't stir housewives and skilled workers to public expressions of discontent, much less rioting and rebellion. The poster design had been lacking too, laughable instead of inspiring or terrifying.


Worst of all, by just showing up the same morning potential inflammatory posters appeared everywhere, Lelouch had looked incredibly suspicious. In academic terms, he had tried to show up for a test without having so much as opened a textbook in preparation.


No wonder all but a handful ignored the posters. No wonder the few that didn't just laughed. And no wonder that old bastard noticed me. I couldn't have been more obvious if I'd tried. Presumably the only reason he didn't hand me directly over to the police is because he thought I was so obvious that I was an agent provocateur sent by the government to test the neighborhood's loyalty.


With a derisive snort, Lelouch rose to his feet as the MagLev coasted into his station. It was amusing, in a sort of backhanded fashion; after all, Lelouch doubted that any organization led by Clovis la Britannia was competent enough to arrange an actual agent provocateur, at least not intentionally. The Christmas Incident had, in his opinion, undoubtedly been deliberately provoked, probably by the Purists themselves.


Well, look at the bright side – my idiocy might have reduced the locals' opinion of the Area's spooks and their competency today. What a wonderful achievement. Absolutely worth missing a night of sleep.


A pair of students waved to Lelouch from the platform as he exited the train, and he effortlessly slid back into character as Lelouch Lamperouge. A slight wave, a smirking smile, and a vague greeting were adequate to bring the two freshmen to the point of swooning, and the man who played the role of the Student Council Vice President slipped away and out onto the streets of the upmarket neighborhood surrounding the Academy.


Thankfully, Ashford's campus nearly emptied on the weekends, and the man was untroubled by the handful of students who lived in the on-campus dormitories as he crossed the verdant grounds to the Student Council Clubhouse. The day was fresh and bright, at odds with his mood, and he felt relief as the door to the Clubhouse foyer clicked shut behind him, leaving him alone in the cheerful and tastefully-appointed room. Above his head was the apartment he shared with his beloved little sister and Sayoko, but the man opted not to immediately activate the key-card protected elevator and return home.


Nunnally… His precious little sister, his only full-blooded sibling in a sea of half-brothers and half-sisters, was likely sitting at the dining room table in her wheelchair at this time of day, perhaps already finished with her usual light lunch. She would be smiling, the adorable quirk of her lips drawing attention away from her perpetually closed eyes. Nunnally…


Seven years ago, his old life as Lelouch vi Britannia had come to a shattering end over the course of a night and a day.


His mother, Marianne vi Britannia, had breathed her last in a pool of her own blood before Lelouch's horrified eyes. Her last act had been one of heroism, as could only be expected of "Marianne the Flash." She had shielded her younger child with her own body, even as the still-unknown assassins had riddled her with bullets. Said assassins had fled into the night, entirely unhindered by the mysteriously missing guard detail.


Their mother's sacrifice had saved Nunnally's life, though not her mobility – a stray bullet had sheared across the small of her back, devastating the last three vertebrae of her lumbar spine and condemning her to the life of a paraplegic. Overwhelmed by the horror and trauma, Nunnally's eyes – the same imperial purple as his own – had closed forever, blind despite remaining fully functional. She had survived, but her life would never be her own, especially not in Britannia.


The very next day, a young Prince Lelouch had sought out an audience with his father, and at the age of nine had demanded justice before the assembled court in the Imperial Palace at Pendragon for his murdered mother and crippled sister. He had demanded an investigation into his mother's death, demanded that his father care. And when That Man, never his father, hadn't, Lelouch had said the unthinkable, and declared the man who had ended the Emblem of Blood unworthy of his throne.


With the benefit of hindsight, Lelouch could see that he had been premature in doing so. Just like he had this very morning, Lelouch had jumped the gun. Within that very day, he and Nunnally had been on a plane bound for Japan, officially going overseas to the semi-hostile nation to "study abroad", a polite fiction to maintain the dignity of the Imperial Family. They had been exiles in truth, as well as de facto hostages; a prince and a princess were valuable pawns, even if the one was disinherited and the other crippled.


It had been in Japan that the true nightmare had begun.


And now, seven years later, I'm making the same mistakes again. Lelouch lowered himself to a thickly cushioned bench and let his head tilt back and thump against the wall. I acted without thinking when I demanded that last audience back then, and Nunnally and I both paid for that mistake. And now…


Everything that he had done since coming to Japan had been for Nunnally. That Man had been an ocean away, far out of reach, and vengeance had lost its urgency as the situation in Japan deteriorated. Britannia had come and reduced Japan to Area 11 in a month of horror that touched every life on the archipelago.


They should have died then, would have died to the righteously vengeful Japanese if Suzaku hadn't given them warning and helped them get away. For days, Lelouch had walked through the broken land with Nunnally on his back, inventing fabulous details and describing dream palaces in a bid to distract his beautiful little sister from the heaps of corpses surrounding them, already putrefying in the hot sun of late summer.


In some ways, Lelouch felt like he had never left that death field. Sometimes, on nights when he couldn't sleep, he still felt Nunally's horribly slight weight upon his back and the stink filling his nose and mouth.


He and Suzaku had given her everything they could find that was edible and most of the water, but she'd already been so light when they had left Kururugi Shrine together… He cringed when he remembered how his first thought had been relief that he wouldn't have to ask for Suzaku's help carrying her. It had been a child's thought, ignorant of the implications. Two days later, he had sent Suzaku away, back to his father.


Lelouch hadn't wanted to drag his first friend with him into the grave, not after his people, his empire had taken so much from the other boy.


It had been a noble impulse, but it had left him with nobody to help him care for Nunnally. She couldn't care for herself, not without her legs or eyes, and he'd been forced to search the bodies and homes of the dead for her meals, rarely finding enough to feed himself as well. Eventually, he had been forced to leave her behind as he scavenged, pickings growing slimmer as other survivors scrounged through the ruins.


Every time he had left, Lelouch had been scared, so scared, that she wouldn't be there when he came back. That angry Japanese survivors or cruel Britannian soldiers would have found her and kidnapped her or killed her. The only thing he had dreaded more was coming back and finding her frail body still where he had left her, but her beautiful heart forever stilled as her strained constitution had failed her.


He had been so, so scared…


It's okay, he told himself as his chest grew tight. It's okay. She's okay. You're okay. Sayoko helped us. We're all okay. She's still alive…


Lelouch had grown accustomed to that weight upon his back, the burden and blessing that was living his life for his sister. He had grown comfortable bearing that responsibility. Indeed, he had grown too comfortable.


Familiarity breeds contempt; when did you start holding Nunnally in contempt? They were his thoughts, but he could almost hear That Man's voice. Gallingly, he couldn't refute the words immediately.


After all, why else would he have gone off on some harebrained plan to inspire popular resistance? Why else would he have grown hungry once more for revenge against That Man, other than he had decided on some level that he was tired of caring for Nunnally? If he had been arrested, who would have held Nunnally's hand as she fell asleep this evening? How long would it have taken for the goons of the Directorate of Imperial Security to find this apartment and tear his sister from the small measure of comfort she had found?


But I can't hide behind Milly's skirts forever. Staying hidden at the Academy was never supposed to be a long-term plan. How long until That Man finds her here? I have to do something! But what can I do without endangering her…?


Lelouch's brooding was suddenly interrupted by the buzzing of his cell phone. Desperate for a distraction from his circling thoughts, and guiltily eager to find a reason to avoid the apartment for just a bit longer, he immediately opened the device to check for his message.


Eh… Rivalz? What the hell does he want?


[Heya Buddy!] The message began, [hope your weekend's going great and all. Did you get that assignment for World History done yet? Oh, and are you doing anything next Friday?]


Lelouch gritted his teeth in irritation with his friend, occasional confidante, and sometimes chauffeur. Mask on, Lelouch. Just think of it as a reason to not think about fucking up and almost endangering Nunnally again… Ugh.


[I've had better weekends, honestly. And yes, I finished the Cromwell paper on Tuesday. And yes, you can copy it.] Just before he sent the hasty text back in reply, curiosity compelled Lelouch to add another line. [What's happening on Friday?]


A moment later, his phone buzzed again. [Thanks buddy, knew I could count on ya! Remember that group I've been volunteering with? Well, the lady running it said I should bring a friend next time! She's a hottie too, so it's not a big deal for you, right? Oh, and guess what – you know Kallen, right? The Stadtfeld girl from 3rd Period? She's helping out there too! Just in case you needed another reason to go besides hanging out with your best buddy! LOL]


"Kallen… Stadtfeld…" The dots finally connected for Lelouch.


Wait, wasn't that who Rivalz said had taken him to the city back in December? The girl from the Newspaper Club?! The one who tried to sneak into my apartment?! A chill shot down the once-prince's spine. Involvement in either instance might have been pure happenstance, but taken together? First, she tried snooping around my home, and now she's trying to suborn an associate of mine… Is that her game? 'How long until the IDSS's goons come?' What if they were here all along?


[You drive a hard bargain, Rivalz.] The phone was in his hand almost before he knew it. [Sure, I'd love to come and meet this cutie charity worker. And Stadtfeld will be there too? Score. I'll clear my plans for Friday night.]


If she really is up to something, I need to know. There's too many factors at Ashford, so I need to see her when she's alone… Besides, there's no way anybody my brother employs would be happy to serve soup to homeless Honoraries. If she's actually happy doing it, then I might just be paranoid…Lelouch allowed himself a snort of bitter amusement. Either way, I won't let my inattention bring danger to Nunnally. I've been complacent, but not anymore. If this Stadtfeld girl is an agent of my brother's, I need to know.


Springing to his feet full of renewed purpose, Lelouch pounded his passcode into the panel guarding the stairway up to the second level before taking the stairs two at a time, suddenly eager to see his darling sister once again. He had screwed up today, but he'd learnt his lesson. He'd destroy anybody who threatened his sister, but he would take his time in doing so to guarantee that she wasn't endangered by his actions.


Building a new world where Nunnally could live safely would take time and effort. Rome hadn't been built in a day, and Britannia wouldn't be destroyed in a weekend. Lelouch still thought that his original plan to turn Britannian society against itself was a good one, but he couldn't do it as a single isolated man; doing so would all but guarantee Nunnally's arrest. He would need catspaws and ciphers, disposable minions and useful idiots.


He needed an identity with greater depth than a fake mustache and a shirt from a secondhand store.


Next time, he'd do a better job preparing for his task. His sister would be safe. His sister would always be safe. And the only way his sister could ever be truly safe would be if That Man, their father, was six feet below the earth, along with every single person who would dare raise a finger to her. As Sayoko greeted him with a bow and a murmur of "Welcome home, Master Lelouch," the once and former prince smiled with relief. The plan would work. It had to work. The whole world could burn, but it would be worth it.


It has to be.



---------


APRIL 20, 2016 ATB
VICEROY'S PALACE OF AREA 11, BRITANNIAN CONCESSION, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
2217


The conference room stank. After the meeting of the Viceregal Council and all of the various invited movers and shakers had stretched into the third hour, the cigars had come out, partially explaining the stench. Barely masked by the stench of tobacco, a rich bouquet of anger, panic, and desperation permeated the atmosphere. It was entirely at odds with the overstuffed chairs, mahogany table, and the rococo gilding that crept like fungus over every exposed surface.


Despite the generous size of the room, it felt strangely claustrophobic to the Agent, even from his position by the broad windows, far from the scrum around the hulking conference table. Every department of the Area Administration had sent at least one representative, many of whom had arrived with a horde of flunkies.


Not to be outdone, all military units over regimental size had sent an officer or two as well. The units affiliated with the Purist faction, despite being few in number, had sent enough nobly-born representatives to match the rest of the military contingent man for man. Every major industrial or commercial concern in the Area had someone to speak for them as well.


And that was before the Viceregal Governor's retinue was added to the fray. Aristocrats and artists, bodyguards and courtesans, all had tried to talk their way into the conference room claiming to be key decision makers. Fortunately, most of the parasites had been contained to the hallway outside the conference room itself, but more than enough had insinuated themselves into the council room to confuse the situation still further.


Taken together, the Agent was confident that nothing of consequence would be decided tonight, at least not in regards to the stated topic of discussion for the meeting. While it was plausible that some undertakings benefitted from committee leadership, the man in the unassuming gray suit doubted that counter-guerrilla operations were amongst that very select set. He was fairly convinced that winkling partisans out of the countryside required a measure of consistency in approach as well as clear and informed leadership.


Unfortunately, somebody on the Governor's staff had seen fit to convince the Prince that all hands were required for such a worrying issue, hence the summons to anybody "of the right sort" who felt they had a stake in the matter.


And of course, everybody's scared of guerrillas so everybody came. What a shocking development.


Next to the Agent, one of his comrades from the Directorate shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, probably working the kinks out of some cramping muscle. He could sympathize; they had been standing in their little corner of the conference room for almost five hours now, waiting for their nominal leader to call them forth to present what information and analysis their office had scraped together over the last few days. Making matters worse, Margrave Jeremiah Gottwald and a colonel that the Agent didn't immediately recognize were locked in a shouting match just a few yards away.


"-And I'm telling you that just hitting them harder isn't working!" The nameless colonel snarled, his nose almost touching the Margrave's, "the ones actually responsible for the attacks are long gone by the time our boys show up, and as soon as we leave they come back and keep killing police officers and mining roads! We can kill all the Elevens in the area and they don't give a shit!"


"That's simply a result of your 'boys' utter incompetency," the Margrave sneered down at the slightly shorter man, "If they moved at a pace worth of their oaths of service to His Majesty, perhaps they might arrive soon enough to actually do some damage. Besides, sooner or later the rebels will run out of peasants to hide and feed them, and it's not like there's any shortage of the ungrateful little pissants to replace them." A single elegant eyebrow quirked upwards. "What, are you squeamish about killing a few handfuls of peasants? I took you for a fool, Colonel Beasly, not a rebel sympathizer."


Beasly blanched momentarily, before his face reddened to an alarmingly beefy hue. "How dare you question my loyalty, Gottwald?! If we weren't both on duty, I'd demand a duel this very instant! As it is, I don't give a good goddamn about a bunch of Numbers squatting in rice paddies, but I was ordered to leave enough alive to sow the fields and bring in the harvest! Depopulating the countrysides of three provinces in response to a few thousand rebels would be an absurd waste of resources! Not to mention that the rebels would still be out there, setting fires and blowing up roads!"


"Yes, yes, things will get worse before they get better." Gottwald snorted, waving his hand contemptuously. "A missed harvest is a paltry price to crush a rebellion before it spirals completely out of hand. As long as any Number so much as thinks about raising a hand to his betters, I say Proclamation Nine should be upped to a thousand per head." The margrave smirked slightly. "Perhaps that might get a lesson through their thick skulls."


"And what happens when we run out of peasants, Gottwald?" Beasly ground out, civility barely present as his face darkened still further to puce. "Are you going to set your Purists to work harvesting the rice and rebuilding the Area's economy? Don't make me laugh, your men are barely even soldiers, much less competent workers. If we kill every Eleven in sight, then how exactly do you expect anything to get done? The entire damned place will grind to a halt!"


"I think that Lord Jeremiah might have a point." The Agent resisted the urge to groan as His Highness Clovis la Britannia, 3rd Prince of the Holy Britannian Empire and Viceregal-Governor of Area 11, meandered over from his place by the conference table to join the "conversation" between Colonel Beasly and Margrave Jeremiah, a small army of followers trailing after him. This damned meeting's getting longer by the minute, I can feel it.


He exchanged small commiserating glances with his fellow spooks. The meeting hadn't been a complete waste of time – the loose-lipped potentates had let slip a vast array of gossip as well as plenty of scraps of useful information. As soon as he returned to his office, he'd transcribe all of the mental notes, before finally indulging in a shot or three of the cheap whiskey he'd hidden in a desk drawer.


But until then… Focus on His Royal Pain in the Arse.


"After all," the Prince was saying, "any good gardener knows that weeds must be pulled promptly, lest they overrun the garden. If our good Elevens hear about how much difficulty a handful of farmers with pre-Conquest military surplus are causing us, who knows what might happen in the cities and settlements? Best the thistle were plucked before it spread throughout the rosebed."


So nothing we haven't been doing for the past six years. Excellent.


At a gesture from the Prince, a secretary scuttled over to the conversation with an obsequious "Yes, Your Highness?" "Memo," Clovis snapped, nodding to the Margrave, "let it be known that until the end of the current emergency, and though it pains my merciful heart, the penalties demanded by Proclamation Nine shall be increased tenfold. Make sure that's on the front page of the Oriental tomorrow."


As the clerk scuttled out of the conference room, the Viceroy made his way back towards the conference table, thankfully followed by the two officers, who had resumed glowering at one another as soon as the Prince had turned his back.


There's some real animosity there, far beyond the professional… Something to keep in mind for the future…


Near the head of the mahogany table, the rotund Deputy Minister of Justice was finally moving on from the inevitable brownnosing to something worthwhile. "...investigations revealed that Lord Grizzwald and Lord Kelso had each attempted to bribe members of the judiciary, Lord Kelso on no fewer than four individual occasions! Curiously enough, all in regards to matters related to real property with disputed ownership!"


Ah yes, trying to forcibly purchase the parcels owned by Honorary Britannians via the courts.


"Naturally," the Deputy Minister swelled up indignantly, "all of our honorable judges turned down such crass offers!"


The Agent resisted the temptation to snort in derision. "However, as members of the public happened to overhear these exchanges on at least three occasions and reported them via official channels, we are of course beholden to bring these attempted purveyors of corruption to Your Highness's attention!"


Someone overheard and complained, and now the Deputy Minister is trying to head off an external investigation at the pass. Since all of our judges are corrupt, he must be worried about something else… Very interesting.


"Indeed," the Deputy Minister blathered on, "in light of current mutterings about matters of official corruption, I would like to open formal and public proceedings against both men. I understand that this is a course rarely taken, especially against gentry of such fine breeding, but a display of Your Highness's evenhandedness despite social status could endear you to the common rabble."


One or both of the lords in question must have something on the Deputy himself, and now the worm's seeing a chance to get out from under their thumb. That's definitely worth opening an investigation of our own. The Agent appended that tidbit to his file of mental notes for the night, and imagined himself underlining it for good measure. If we can figure out what hook they've got him wriggling on, we can use it for ourselves.


"Hmm…" While the Agent had focused on the Deputy Minister, the Prince had found a chair to artfully drape himself across. "On one hand, it is a sad necessity for any gardener to distinguish plants that shall flower into beautiful blossoms from drab duds, but…"


A look of acute discomfort flashed across the Prince's face, there for an instant then gone without a trace, leaving the usual easy smile behind. "I am not entirely sure that targeting these two fine gentlemen is in the best interest of the Area. After all, what if they appeal to their family back in Pendragon? Who knows what turbulence they may bring to our beautiful Area 11?"


Coward. The Agent frowned minutely, before smoothing his expression back into calm neutrality. The nobles will never be called to account – not while the Prince is terrified of their families back in the Homeland. Royal or not, crossing the old houses is a risk, especially when the royal in question is as weak as Clovis is. On the other hand… If the Third Prince wasn't a known craven, I doubt the Emperor and the Chancellor would have put him in charge of Area 11, with all of its Sakuradite reserves. They needed a man of sufficient rank who would be too frightened of the Homeland to make a play… and they found Clovis.


"Your Highness, I implore you to reconsider!" The Deputy Minister had begun to visibly perspire despite the air conditioned coolness of the room, but to his credit his voice was still steady. "In light of the… ahem… Current situation, it is of vital importance that the people know of your evenhandedness and your devotion to just and good governance! If the citizens of your fair Area see you dealing with those who attempt to undercut the execution of justice, they will certainly have confidence in your ability to deal with the rebels!"


Despite himself, the Agent was impressed. Bold of the Deputy to push back against the Governor like that! And he actually managed a coherent argument too, well targeted Clovis's vanity. But… He subtly peered at the blonde prince from the corner of his eye, noting the vaguely anxious expression barely hidden by that rose the royal was incessantly sniffing, but I don't think it was quite enough.


Apparently, the Deputy Minister of Justice agreed with the Agent's impression. "Your Highness, the rebels present a potential threat to the Sakuradite extraction operations so integral to both Area 11 and our Holy Empire! Undermining the justice system puts the central pillars of our society at risk, ultimately endangering the Fuji mines!"


The Deputy Minister paused, took in Clovis's clearly unimpressed expression, and went for broke. "Ultimately, Your Highness, you are the prince here, set here by Your Majesty the Emperor to not only reign but rule! Your mercy has already been sorely abused by these dishonorable Numbers! Why must you, our beloved Viceregal-Governor, also endure the abuse and shame of being robbed by these thieves? No matter how blue their blood is, your blood is that of Britannia!"


For the first time in hours, silence – blessed silence – filled the conference room for a few seconds, before a wave of sussurating whispers emerged from the packed ranks of courtiers, bureaucrats, and officers.


Calling out Lords Grizzwold and Kelso as thieves stealing from the Prince himself? He's either definitively won, or his career and probably life are over. The Agent felt the corners of his mouth twitch up ever so slightly. Thieves calling out thieves… What a day.


Steadily, the Prince drew himself upright in his chair before rising to his feet, rose elegantly held between two white-gloved fingers and pointing out across the table towards the huddled knot of clerks and secretaries recording the minutes. "We've heard quite enough! Secretary, by the will of the Third Prince of Britannia, Clovis la Britannia, issue orders for the arrest of Lords Grizzwold and Kelso!"


Just as the secretary had finished scribbling out a note and was handing it to a waiting messenger, the Prince coughed and spoke up, relaxing from his dramatic position to a more natural posture. "Also, send word to my speechwriter. I – We need to get something ready to announce their arrest. Tell him to work the line 'exorcize the foul canker of untrustworthy servants' in there somewhere."


When the Governor was born a prince, the stage missed a great talent.


With obvious relief, the Deputy Minister returned to his chair, slumping down and wiping his brow even as his own clique of hangers-on clustered around him. To the Agent's great relief, the Minister for Internal Affairs was the first to stand and make his way to the place by the head of the table, immediately to the Prince's right. After a few moments of pleasantries, the Minister jerked his head towards the small knot of intelligence men.


Finally, I can give my report!


"Your Highness," The Agent bowed low, calibrating the exact angle of his groveling just as carefully as he calculated the bland tone of his voice. Too dull and he'll go to sleep, too emotional and I'll sound like a thespian.


"I regret to inform you that we have detected rumors regarding far more serious topics than a handful of corrupt nobles circulating through the population."


The Agent carefully rose, and moved to stand directly to the left and a half-pace behind his boss, a carefully choreographed play they'd worked out in advance to underline the importance of his words. After all, that's the best place to stand when knifing a man.


"I am afraid to report that the so-called 'Christmas Incident' remains quite divisive in common society, across all economic classes and throughout the rank-and-file of most units in the Area. While most of your adoring subjects fully support the obvious truth that the Incident was caused by Honorary Britannians murdering Britannian soldiers, and the bulk of the damage was the natural result of drunken and out of control soldiers taking their revenge, a significant portion of the population questions or outright denies that version of events. The picture of the soldier from the 32nd Honorary Legion in particular is stirring up discontent."


Halfway down the table, Margrave Jeremiah let out an audible snort. "And? The commoners are always muttering about something. If it wasn't a few dead Elevens, it would be something else. Besides," the Margrave shrugged dramatically, lip curled up in a sneer, "why does it matter if a few Honorary soldiers died anyway? They shouldn't have been wearing those uniforms to begin with. Their blood could have only helped wash out the stains of dishonor they left on those poor garments!"


A mix of sycophantic laughter and a worrying amount of muttered agreement rumbled through the conference room. The Agent was unmoved. Oh, don't worry, Jeremiah. We all know who Kewell answers to, and I've got four witness statements confirming that Kewell gave the marching orders on Christmas Eve. And I only had to fabricate one of them. Your day will come.


"I would like to remind the Margrave Jeremiah that my job is simply to report the facts as they have been collected by the local office, and to pass them on to His Highness without commentary. Unless…" The Agent turned fully to face the head of the Purist Faction in Area 11, "Do you have doubts about the abilities of the Imperial Directorate of State Security, Lord Jeremiah?"


The teal-headed soldier growled out something that the Agent couldn't catch across the length of the table, but waved his hand in a gesture that could just barely be interpreted as conciliatory. The Agent nodded, before turning back to the Prince. Who didn't make a move during that whole interruption. Who Jeremiah didn't even look at during his interruption. Does the Prince know how weak that makes him look? Would he do anything if he did?


"Beyond mere rumor, the economic disruption caused by the events of last December is now being exacerbated by the current troubles in Niigata and Nagano Prefectures. The damage to both the road network and the rail system by insurgent bombings, as well as the destruction of harvesting machinery, storehouses, and sake distilleries, have collectively slowed the economic growth of the Area." The Agent continued dutifully. "This has impacted many citizens' livelihoods in a negative manner. Together with the ongoing unemployment issues, many Settlements are starting to develop a large population of semi-permanently unemployed young people, who are rapidly becoming disaffected."


"Bah!" The Prince finally reacted, throwing himself back down into his chair and taking a prolonged sniff of the rose's petals. "We already have plans for handling that little issue. We have been advised that Britannian unemployment is caused in large part by the employment of Honorary Britannians. So, we are considering banning all Britannian owned businesses in the Area from employing any Honorary Britannians. That handles the unemployment problem!"


The Agent carefully kept his mask neutral as the Governor smiled, obviously pleased with cutting his very own Gordian Knot. "And to handle the economic discomfort issue, well… My people must know of how I, Clovis la Britannia, love them! My love shall be expressed to every household through a one-time gift of five hundred pounds!"


The rose swished through the air, and the secretary it alighted upon nodded, hastily scribbling on her pad of stationary.


"Hmm…" The Prince was still talking, the rose losing a petal as it twirled between his fingers like a baton. "Money is all well and good, but the people will need time to spend it to truly appreciate my love… A new public holiday will serve them well!"


Again, the increasingly bedraggled rose pinned a clerk to the spot. "Let it be known that May 4th shall henceforth be celebrated in Area 11 as 'vi Britannia Day', in honor of my dear lost siblings." Clovis threw a hand to his brow and mimed an expression of grief, "Oh, how I miss them so! Now we shall all have a day preserved in their sweet memory!"


From his peripheral vision, the Agent noticed how Margrave Gottwald jerked at the mention of the deceased royals. Oh yes, I know about that too, Jeremiah. I'm sure that your fellow Purists know you were a former Imperial Guard, but do they know that you failed to protect the Emperor's favorite wife? I doubt it.


"Brilliant, Your Highness, simply brilliant!" That insightful analysis had come, regrettably, from the Minister for Economic Development. Also known as the 'Fattest Man in Tokyo', Bishop Lazaro Pulst was also the head cleric of the Britannic Church in Area 11 and the Viceregal-Governor's spiritual advisor. And possibly the single greatest beneficiary of the Prince's administration. "Your mercy and charity are truly awe inspiring, my Prince! I am sure that the people will be moved by your grief for your innocent younger brother, taken so cruelly from this world at a tender age!"


The Agent, for his part, was considerably less sanguine.


The whole point of the Honorary Britannian program is to integrate the choice portion of the Number population, economically and culturally! If you take away their jobs and mandate that nobody hire them, that will send a clear message and destroy whatever progress was made in the last six years that the Purists haven't already demolished! The agent fumed internally, even while he maintained his neutral expression. Plus, do you think all of those businesses will like having to pay the legal minimum wage? And just dumping money isn't going to solve the problems presented by the bombed out roads and the torched fields!


Before he could resume his report, Margrave Jeremiah felt it necessary to express his support for Clovis's plan as well. "Good choice, Your Highness! Those jumped up Elevens were taking money out of honest Britannians' hands! I bet they were giving their paychecks right over to their brothers up in the mountains too, so cutting that money off means less bullets and bombs for the damned holdouts!"


Of course, the Purists want the Honorary program cut off entirely, not only in the army. This must be Christmas for Jeremiah. The Agent grimaced internally at his choice of holidays. No, not enough flaming corpses for Christmas.


Thankfully, the Minister for Internal Affairs cut in. "If I may, Your Highness, I believe that my man was not yet finished with his report."


The Governor waved indulgently and the Agent bowed again. "Thank you, Your Highness. Now…"


"It has come to the attention of the IDSS that the divide between the members of the Army affiliated with the Purist Faction and those unaffiliated has deepened precipitously over the last several months. We are concerned that this divide has crossed the threshold from a friendly rivalry into true animosity, and may degrade operational efficiency if left unaddressed. We are also concerned that a divide in our ranks might weaken the coherency of our garrison forces in Area 11, weakening us in the face of potential hostile action from the Chinese Federation."


"The rest of the Army should be apologizing to us!" Lord Kewell Soresi, eldest son of a long and distinguished line, apparently couldn't hold his anger in check any longer. Pathetic. Even Jeremiah's got better self-control than this clown. "Some damned thug of a marine murdered a Purist with a whiskey bottle and Numbers serving in other units knifed three more in the streets! They owe us a damned apology! Perhaps after we get one we'll let them off the hook!"


Almost before Kewell stopped speaking, virtually every non-Purist officer in the room stepped forward to angrily rebut the young noble's outburst, leaping to the defense of the service. Interestingly, the Agent noted that General Bartley Aspirus, the commander of the 4th Brigade, 2nd Division of the Special Weapons Corps and a known personal friend of the Third Prince, held his tongue. Almost alone in the sea of uniforms pressing forwards to the table, the General hung back in his corner, accompanied only by two lab-coated men.


If every other officer here feels the need to express their loyalty to the Army, why doesn't Aspirus feel likewise? Perhaps… he doesn't feel the same loyalty as his fellow staff officers?


After ten minutes of squabbling, the Viceregal-Governor finally put an end to it. "Friends, please, calm down! Fear not, we take no offense at Lord Kewell's outburst – he is young, and full of eagerness to serve, and he after all comes from one of the finest families in Britannia." The collected soldiers slunk back to their chairs with a variety of glowering expressions, leaving the scion of the Soresi family practically beaming with smugness.


To his credit, Jeremiah looked almost as irate as the rest of the soldiers. Ah yes, Gottwald actually served in the regiments before he was elevated to the Imperial Guard. Most of the Purists move straight into glorified parade units once they graduate from their cadet programs.


"And I am sure that we don't need to worry about the Chinese, of all people!" The prince indulged in a long, deep sniff at the rose, before idly tossing it over his shoulder. "After all, we're Britannians, by God! The Chinese are too incompetent to attack across water, the Europeans are too far away, and the Elevens are weak and stupid! Besides," for a brief moment, an element of firmness touched Clovis's admittedly handsome features, "we are all Britannians, and we expect all to pull together in the end, friendly rivals or not. All Hail Britannia!"


Every courtier and staffer shot to their feet with a deep-throated bellow of "ALL HAIL BRITANNIA!"


As the echoes died out, the Agent took the opportunity to finish his report. "And to conclude, Your Highness, there is one last point that has troubled the IDSS. Namely, numerous fringe religious and political movements have begun to make themselves known across the Area. We have found traces of subversive groups in commoner residential projects, numerous barracks, and even in a few neighborhoods housing the petty nobility."


The Prince leaned back in his chair, propping his head on his hand. "Oh? How awful." The words were flat and the Agent, feet away from Clovis, could see that his eyes were dull.


He's gotten bored of this meeting. Wonderful. Well, I'm duty-bound to deliver this report, not to make sure that the Governor cares about it.


"There seem to be a variety of groups operating in Area 11, Your Highness. Pamphlets from the 'True Anglican Church' have been found in the vestries and lobbies of several military chapels. A large number of charitable groups have been established in recent months with names like the 'Friends of the Elevens Society' and the 'Honor Society of Honorary Britannians'. There's even been a handful of lunatics arrested while publicly spouting off about the 'Prince Lelouch Truther' conspiracy theory, mostly because they were calling out for the 'True Prince' to come and overthrow your benevolent reign."


Another storm of whispers filled the conference room as Clovis suddenly jerked in his chair, eyes wide awake and flaring. Similarly, Jeremiah let out what sounded like a grunt of pain, hastily concealed behind a cough. The Agent smiled internally. Ah, he's awake now. Now, was it just the mention of your deceased brother's name that startled you, Your Highness? Or was it the prospect that your brother might not be quite as dead as previously assumed? Hmm…


"Your Highness," the Agent finally concluded, speaking over the rising tide of side conversations and halfway muted exclamations, "Your Lordships, gentlemen, the IDSS does not believe this sudden swelling of social and political organization is as spontaneous as it might seem. While it is possible that one or more operatives of the Wings of Talleyrand may be active in the Tokyo Settlement, we believe it is far more likely that we are seeing the early stages of Leveller activity."


And with that, chaos well and truly filled the conference room. The Minister for Internal Affairs turned and gestured, giving the Agent and his compatriots permission to leave. With a bow towards the Prince, who was already far too distracted in a hushed conversation with General Aspirus of all people to notice, the Agent slowly walked out of the conference room, doing his best to not look too delighted to leave.


The heavy oaken doors thudded close behind the trio, instantly muffling the uproar inside the jammed room. The Agent nodded, and his two juniors set off down the left hall, which would eventually lead to a side door and the freedom of the end of shift. The Agent took the right hall, but took his time descending into the sub-basement that appeared on no publicly available map of the seat of the Area Administration.


The tiny IDSS enclave, and particularly the area set aside for the Counter-Intelligence Unit, was his home away from home, but the Agent was uncharacteristically unenthusiastic to return. He already found himself missing the smoke-filled confines of the garish room behind him. Unpleasant or not, he would have very much appreciated the opportunity to hear the responses of the great and the good to the tail end of his report.


After all, as a high-ranking Leveller himself, who had spent years working his way up the ranks of the IDSS, he understood exactly how valuable having a man on the inside of a conversation full of loose lipped fools could be.

 

[Scopas]

(Thank you to MetalDragon, Sunny, Aminta Defender, Afforess, MitchH, WrandmWaffles, and Siatru for beta reading, editing, suggestions, and their encouragement, as well as the lovely members of my Discord. I appreciate it.)


Chapter 23


APRIL 21, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
2004


"Regrettably, Naoto won't be joining us for this meeting." Ohgi folded his hands on the table before him and blandly smiled at Diethard as he spoke in Japanese. "That man needs his sleep more than he needs yet another meeting."


"True enough." I nodded from the end of the small table, equidistant between Ohgi and the reporter, replying in the same language. "I didn't think that Kallen strictly needed to be in attendance for this meeting either, so I sent her back home. No need to take unnecessary risks with her other identity, after all." I turned to Diethard. "Anyway, despite the lack of Kozukis in attendance, consider this your introduction to the Kozuki Organization."


"Charmed, I'm sure," Diethard replied, smiling sardonically at Ohgi, who for his part, just gazed back with a bland passivity I distinctly remembered from endless meetings back in my first life.


"Ohgi, meet Mister Diethard Reid," I began the introductions, "a journalist and producer with Hi-TV. Mister Reid, meet Kaname Ohgi. Together with Naoto and I, Ohgi is in charge of the Kozuki Organization as well as the Rising Sun Benevolent Association."


"Oh?" Diethard blinked languidly, before visibly giving Ohgi a once-over, eyes tracing over my fellow officer's admittedly greasy pompador, long sideburns, and battered jacket, and deliberately turning away from the only pure Japanese leader in the Organization to look at me. "Are you sure I can't meet with Nathan? Usually, stories with a more… charismatic cast sell better."


I noticed the slight stiffness in Ohgi's shoulders, and internally commended him for refusing to rise to Diethard's obvious bait. No need to give the Brit any reason to fall back on the "savage Eleven" stereotype, after all.


Still, Diethard is my problem, so it's my responsibility to see that he stays in line.


"Mister Reid," I opened conversationally, "if you attempt any social engineering to adversely affect the Organization, its leaders, or its members – especially in such an overt manner – I will take it as a betrayal of the spirit of our agreement."


I let the comment hang in the air for a moment and stared at the infuriating man, trying to convey exactly how unimpressed I was with his antics before giving up and opting to convey my feelings as unambiguously as possible. "Just so there aren't any misunderstandings here, Diethard, let me be blunt." I spoke in slow, carefully enunciated tones while I maintained direct eye contact with the madman. "You will treat Ohgi with the same level of respect as you do me or Naoto. This is Shinjuku, and the heart of the Rising Sun. You are here at my discretion. Do not abuse it."


I paused and gave the words a moment to sink in. "Do I make myself clear?"


The man's infuriating smirk dimmed, and the deranged newsman gave me a nod that was almost respectful. "Crystal."


The itching in my fists died down, but I could still see the spark of madness twinkling in his eyes.


It truly is Schugel all over again, I grumbled to myself, I'll have to make sure he's kept on a tight leash. An insane genius like that is as useful as they are dangerous.


"So, Mister Kaname," Reid continued, turning back to Ohgi, "what is your role in this Organization of yours?"


"I am… I handle… internal management…" Ohgi replied, speaking slowly as he groped for the words.


While my fellow officer had familiarity with Britannian, dating back to his childhood friendship with Naoto, he wasn't exactly comfortable with the language. Worse still, he once confided to me that stressful situations made it harder for him to articulate his thoughts in the Emperor's tongue. I had wanted to help him refresh his familiarity, since knowledge of the enemy's language is frequently useful, but there was just never enough time when we were both free.


"If you have… problem or argument, or if you want to join… I handle that. I also help with training program."


"Fascinating." Diethard's dry reply, again skirting the very edges of rudeness, was blatantly insincere. "Well, as Miss Tanya already mentioned, I am a journalist and a producer, which means that I specialize in finding engaging stories, and presenting them to the general public." He paused, and smirked. "Let me know if I'm going too fast for you."


I suppressed a sigh. I really am going to need to figure out how to deal with this Brit shit stirrer.


"I understand," Ohgi replied, stoically ignoring the bait. "Keep going."


"Well, to put it simply, I can really help your organization out in two ways." Presumably finished with petty one-up-manship for the moment, Diethard finally got to the point of the meeting. "First, narrative management and dissemination. I can help shape your organization's story, and I can make sure that it gets into the public consciousness. Second, I am a fantastic investigative reporter; between my own skills and my multitude of contacts, I can provide all kinds of useful intelligence to your organization. I already gave Tanya a free sample!"


"A free sample?" I broke in sharply. "Mister Reid, you assured me that everything you possessed was on that drive. Do we need to go back to the alley to help shake loose whatever you were hoarding?"


I have not lied to you, not once," Diethard replied calmly. "After all, it is very important to establish trust between a subject and an interviewer. That drive contains the sum of my investigative work to date, but if there's one thing I have learned in my trade, it's that there is always another secret. I am sure there's plenty more dirt for me to dig up."


"Alright." Oddly enough, I did believe him. In a strange way, Diethard wasn't unlike Schugel – the lunatic scientist and engineer who had haunted the final years of my past life. Just like Schugel, Diethard was a fanatic, and like Schugel, a slave to his obsession. In large part, that was why I'd assured Kallen that I understood Diethard – I had dealt with his ilk before. "Propaganda and intelligence; both quite handy for an organization like ours."


"That they are." Diethard practically oozed smug satisfaction. "Honestly, you're quite lucky I decided to follow Lady Stadtfeld to you. The rest of the Fourth Estate here in Area Eleven, sorry, Japan, have no idea how to spin a story. They're all so used to appealing to an audience of one that they've forgotten how to appeal to anybody else."


"Fourth Estate?" Ohgi asked, turning to me for clarification. "What's that?"


"The press, the media, journalists. All of that," I explained in Japanese. "Anybody who isn't directly employed by the government and makes a career out of peddling information to the public."


"Ah, I see. Thank you." Ohgi turned back to Diethard. "Question: if news are all talking to Prince Clovis, what good is 'narrative management'. And, what about censors?"


I sat back, curious to see how Diethard would respond to those points.


"I didn't mean that all of the news stations and papers are solely addressing Clovis," Diethard said with a smile that was only slightly patronizing. "They make sure that he hears what he wants to hear and say what he wants them to say. The thing is, a good producer knows that any story can be told a multitude of different ways. If we're discreet and clever, the censors will wave any story we tell through with only minimal pro forma changes."


"You're quite sure of yourself, Mister Reid." I studied the newsman, attempting to determine how much of his confidence was warranted and how much was bluster. "Please give me an example of a story that you think could be aired that would advance the goals of our organization."


"The goals of the organization?" Diethard lifted an immaculately shaped eyebrow. "You haven't actually explained what your long-term goals are to me. Considering the soup campaign and the hearts and minds campaign you're running, I assume that this is more than a paltry gang, but beyond that I'm in the dark."


I paused, rewinding our negotiations in the alley, the brief conversation we had on the way to the apartment building and the course of the meeting thus far. Damn, he's right; I completely forgot to explain what the point of all this is. I rubbed my nose, suddenly aware of how long today had been and how tired I was. In my defense, it wasn't like his recruitment followed the standard pattern.


"My apologies, Mister Reid." Realizing that I was still holding the bridge of my nose, I folded my hands in front of me, aiming for a slightly more professional look. "That particular oversight was an error on my part. You have joined a group dedicated to the liberation of Japan from the Holy Britannian Empire, and the re-establishment of the Republic of Japan as a free and sovereign entity."


To my surprise, Diethard threw back his head, laughing, and finished with a round of enthusiastic claps. I blinked and looked at Ohgi, who shrugged at me, equally confused. "Excellent, excellent!" Diethard all but crowed, eyes wide and shining. "I knew you'd have a story worth telling! Lady Statdfeld was merely an appetizer, a starter! This is the story! My story!"


"You're free to tell it once we succeed," I replied sharply, trying to throw some figurative cold water on the excited reporter. "In the meantime, you still haven't answered my question."


"Yes, yes," Diethard waved off my concern, "don't worry, I know exactly where to start. Think about it – who has Clovis been cozying up to for the last six months or so?"


"The Purists?" Ohgi ventured, before turning and speaking to me in Japanese. "That's what they're called, right? 'The Purist Faction?' They're the same ones who took the credit for the Station and who you targeted for Kyoto?"


"Yes," I replied in Britannian for the benefit of both parties. "Viceroy Clovis has been providing political support and clearly preferential treatment to the Purist Faction. This has given the Purists license to aggressively pursue their own policies, such as the fratricidal attacks on Honorary Britannian units last winter."


"Exactly! That must have been an excellent Christmas present for you – your enemy fighting their native allies in the streets of the Area capital itself!" Diethard's smile ripened with manic enthusiasm and unhinged glee. "And since the Prince can't admit that he screwed up by backing the Purists, he made their narrative his own, doubling down on his error again!"


"It was an… unexpected outcome," I carefully replied. "One that exposed a surprisingly sharp division in the enemy's ranks."


"And there you have it!" Diethard smacked the table, emphasizing his point. "That's the story you tell! Clovis is chained to the Purists, who are dedicated to forcing all Honorary Britannians out of the military. If you want to run stories against the Britannian military, smear the Honorary Britannian units. The censors will hear 'Honorary Britannian' and wave you through and suddenly you have anti-military content on every news channel in Area 11!"


"Every channel?" I mulled the idea over. "Ah, because once one channel runs a story and gets a positive reception, the others will follow suit." Diethard nodded as I followed his idea to its conclusion. "And once every channel's running it, well, then it must be true in the minds of the consumers, yes?"


"See, you're getting it!" Diethard reached into his pocket, causing Ohgi to tense, but only pulled out a small notebook. After a moment of fumbling, he started jotting down notes as he continued to speak. "Once you've got that sort of consensus on your side, you can run almost anything, as long as you localize it to the specific issue. Rampant inflation? Well, it could be the Prince's new vanity project, or it could be the Honorary Britannians. Nobody's going to check."


"That's just basic scapegoating, though. Hardly anything revolutionary." Even as I pointed out the lack of sophistication, I realized what a foolish objection it was. Propaganda didn't need to be revolutionary, it just needed to work. "Besides, we have other priorities at present besides the Honorary Britannians." I paused, and then threw Diethard a bone. "Thank you for the example, though. That did indeed answer my question."


I turned over the example in my mind as I quickly caught Ohgi back up with the conversation. He'd started to look slightly lost as Diethard's speech had enthusiastically accelerated. I was still leery about openly targeting the Honorary Britannian population. Not only were the collaborators the only ones who had been educated over the last half decade, they were also a natural way to get saboteurs, or at least assets, into the Britannian war machine. Besides, targeting the Honorary Britannians would put the Kozuki Organization at odds with the Six Houses in their role as the 'Numbers Advisory Committee', the foremost Honorary Britannian authority in Area 11.


"I think that we will start with a more local concern," I decided, turning back to Diethard after a quick consultation with Ohgi in Japanese. "It's long past time for the Rising Sun Association, and through it the Kozuki Organization, to assert control over all of Shinjuku. The surviving gangs represent an unnecessary complication in our plans and are a drain on our resources and attention. Their continued operation also flies in the face of the mission of the Benevolent Association."


"Gangs?" Diethard looked slightly put out. "You're just focusing on… gangs? That's… rather pedestrian. Quite boring, in fact."


"Strong empires require steady foundations," I retorted, "and clearing the board here in Shinjuku will enhance our organizational footing. Besides, I think you might find this assignment interesting. After all, aren't you eager to shake up the comfortable, stagnant lives of the nobility?"


"Oh?" The fanatical glimmer returned to Diethard's eyes. "Guilty as charged, but I don't see how Eleven street gangs have much to do with the nobility. Where are you going with this?"


"I'm putting your investigative and production skills to the test with a tight deadline," I smiled humorlessly at the newsman, "think of this as a crunch session. In two days, I want to turn on HI-TV and see a report about how select members of the local aristocracy have been undermining Clovis's reign and concealing taxable income from his Administration via an alliance with local street gangs."


Diethard worried at his lip for a moment, then shook his head. "I can't fabricate something that big and expect it to run. It might get past the censors, if it even got that far. Tangling with nobles means Legal would get involved, which means Corporate would need to see my evidence and sign off before I could get my script anywhere near a teleprompter."


"Oh, no need to worry about fabricating anything." I replied dismissively, "What's that Britannian phrase again? 'The best lies have a grain of truth in them'? Well-" I smiled at the newsman, letting just a hint of teeth show under my lip, "in a few days, I will be providing you with all the evidence you could ever want when I handle them personally."


My smile dimmed and I gave him a pointed look. "However, if I simply cut down the weeds without pulling the root, they'll just come back. Which is where you'll come in."


"...Well, you're definitely not boring," Diethard conceded, although his tepid praise was undermined by the renewed gleam in his eyes. "Still, I'm not sure you're going to find a smoking gun sitting in some gang squat. I mean, I'm not doubting that some nobles are using local criminal groups as foot soldiers, but why would they write anything down?"


"Someone's got to take inventory," I pointed out, "and someone's got to be handling the money. More to the point, I'm not trying to take the noble backers to court; that's not the point of this operation. The point is that you make a big public stink about it, phrasing their alleged activities as an insult to the Viceregal-Governor's royal dignity. Clovis either publicly says that it isn't, making him look weak and foolish, or he acts. If he acts, he'll be isolating a slice of his backers, introducing further divisions into the Settlement."


I tried to ignore the expression of awe on Diethard's face; it was honestly disturbing, the way he was looking at me. He really is like another Schugel… And just like Schugel, he is utterly infatuated with his pet obsession. This is not a rational actor.


"Anyway," I continued briskly, "it's about time for you to return to the Settlement. Ohgi will escort you to one of the brothels near the checkpoints, where you can blend in with the crowd and exit the Ghetto. Please give him an email or a phone number where we can reach you; I assume you've handled confidential sources before, so use the same procedures. We'll be in touch to schedule a pick-up for any materials we capture in the raids."


"Y-yes! Absolutely" Diethard finally found his tongue, and all but bounced to his feet. "Yes, it is time to go! Two days? Two days?! I've got so much to do!" He turned to Ohgi, who was slowly standing from his chair. "Come on, hurry up! I don't have a minute to lose!"


I exchanged nods with Ohgi. "Hurry on back," I commanded him, switching back to our language, "and make sure you keep your radio on. Boar and Mallet should still be downstairs – I'll tell them to keep a discreet eye on you two." I chanced a quick look at Diethard, impatiently hovering near the door to the apartment we'd used as an improvised conference room. "Don't trust him."


"No need to tell me twice," Ohgi grumbled, ruffling my hair before he stumped his way across the room and out the door, closely followed by Diethard, who thankfully left without any pretense of a friendly goodbye.


Finally alone, I leaned back in my chair and yawned, closing my eyes for a quick moment. I'd have to get back up soon, since I planned on spending the night in my usual place in the apartment I shared with the other two leaders of the Kozuki Organization, but I let myself rest for a moment. It had been a long, long day, full of seemingly endless meetings. And tomorrow morning, I'll need to wake up early to see Ohgi off.


It would be strange, being away from the man after months at The School. It was good to be back, something I would never have thought about Shinjuku before enduring Major Onoda's company for an entire season. Hopefully Ohgi can keep our other ally of convenience in check. It was almost enough to make me miss the clean divisions of my previous life. At least then everybody on our side had worn the same uniform.

---------

APRIL 22, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
0550


The next day began early, as Naoto and I woke early to see Ohgi off as he began his journey back to Gunma. We ended up accompanying him halfway across Shinjuku before finally saying goodbye; any further and our presence might have drawn attention to the lone man slipping out of Shinjuku and disappearing into the dawn.


Then came a shared breakfast with Naoto, which started quite pleasantly but became quite fraught when I briefed him about Diethard. As I had anticipated, Naoto was very upset to hear that anybody had been stalking his beloved little sister for months, and decidedly disturbed that the newsman had managed to dig up so much information about her. Fortunately, he mastered his anger quickly enough and gave his retroactive blessing to my actions, agreeing that Diethard was a valuable enough tool to justify recruitment. Explaining why I was so certain that Diethard wouldn't betray us had taken some effort, but in the end Naoto accepted my logic.


"I still think you're playing with fire," the leader of the Kozuki Organization cautioned me, munching on a rice cake. "The man's clearly fucked in the head. Who's to say that he won't find some new 'next big story' to distract him, eh? And don't give me that mutually assured destruction crap," he waggled a finger at me from across the table for emphasis, "the man was willing to walk straight into Shinjuku in a cashmere suit. He has no self-preservation instinct."


"I don't deny that in the slightest, Naoto," I sighed, taking a sip of my orange juice. Bless his heart, Naoto had remembered – or perhaps been reminded by Ohgi – how much I had enjoyed the oranges. Fresh oranges were hard to come by, but my other roommate had stocked up on concentrate to make into juice. "I'm not trusting his self-preservation to keep him inline; he signed up with us, after all. I just think that he's a deeply obsessive man who cares for nothing but his so-called great work."


"I know, I know…" Naoto grumbled slightly, taking another bite of rice cake. "I'm not doubting you, nor your instincts. Kami knows, you've been right so far."


"It's perfectly understandable to dislike the man," I replied reasonably. "Speaking frankly, I dislike the man as well. I was… less than pleased to learn that he had been prying into Kallen's affairs, and I would have shot him in the alleyway for that offense alone if I hadn't thought that he was more useful still breathing. Plus, I didn't want to have to haul the body all the way back out of the Ghetto to obfuscate the circumstances of his passing."


Naoto laughed, and the mood finally lightened as the last vestiges of his sulk dissipated. "Yeah, for sure! How were you planning on pulling that off, Tanya? Were you gonna… magic… him through the checkpoint?" I could tell that the last question was only half-joking at most. I couldn't blame him for his curiosity.


"Nothing so fanciful," I demurred, waving my hand as if to dissipate the idea into the ether, "and nothing particularly complex either. There's no shortage of gang-infested subway tunnels around here, and at this time of year, there's got to be at least a few that aren't flooded. I'd just find my way through and leave the body somewhere on the other side of the wall.

"Which," I put down my cup, "actually brings me to my next point. I think it's time to finish cleaning house, Naoto. You'd know best, as the man on the ground for the last few months, but in my opinion, we aren't going to get a better opportunity any time soon. Not until the next cohort graduates from The School, at least."


"Oh?" The redhead leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.


It was amazing how much better he looked after a single good night of sleep, plus the two full meals Ohgi and I had supervised. While the dark shadows were still under his eyes, some of the exhaustion lines had faded, and some of the color had returned to his waxy skin. Before putting him to bed the previous night, Ohgi had forced his best friend into the icy shower, dealing with the worst of the stench as well as the rough stubble, now cleanly shaved away. Instead of "dead on his feet", Naoto just looked worn to the bone.


"Yes," I replied firmly, "I'm firmly convinced that now is the best time to strike at the surviving gangs. If we wait too long, information about the newly trained fighters will leak out, reducing their effectiveness."


I paused, realizing that I'd slipped up already. Hadn't I just reminded myself of how skilled Naoto was as a leader the night before? I had been so impressed by his achievements in Shinjuku that I'd recommitted myself to following his guidance while implementing my plans. All of that had gone by the wayside as I'd recruited Reid at my own initiative, without consulting the leader, the one who had guided Shinjuku's rebuilding project over the last three months.


I just got back and I'm already overstepping my authority! I got so used to a near independent command that I forgot my place in the chain of command entirely! Naoto's generally relaxed, but if he thinks I'm trying to usurp his hard-won authority? I needed to make things right, before Naoto could build up a head of steam and become truly upset. A show of renewed submission would do the trick.


"Naoto, I apologize." I stood up from my chair and bowed, lowering my head and humbling myself before my leader. "You're the one who's been fighting the gangs for the last several months, and you're the one who organized the local citizen militia. What are your plans? Please, let me help you refine and implement them!"


Naoto laughed. "Oh yes, my great and mighty plans! I've got 'em, masterpieces all of them!" He paused for a moment, looking at me expectantly. I kept my head lowered as my mind raced, trying to figure out what response he was looking for.


"…Oh, come on Tanya!" Naoto rolled his eyes, the amusement in his voice mingling with exasperation. "Lift your head and sit back down. My plan at the moment is to listen carefully to what you have to say. You say it's time to go after the gangs? I agree."


"Oh." With careful grace, I returned to my seat, folded my hands in my lap, and looked back up at my leader, my face carefully blank. Thankfully, Naoto was merciful, and he gave me a moment to repair my dignity before continuing.


"I think we should probably grab Inoue first, though. I've… uh… been pretty occupied, and I don't have a great grasp on how our supplies are looking at the moment… And…" Naoto had the grace to look away. "I owe her an apology, I think…"


"For almost working yourself to death?" I asked, a hint of frost touching my voice, "Yes, Naoto, you should apologize to Inoue for that. And you should also apologize to her for offloading talking to Kallen onto her shoulders. Kallen's your sister, Naoto. Trying to cut her out of your life is bad enough, especially because you know that doing that just makes her more determined to be involved."


"Yeah, yeah… Haa…" Naoto sighed, but with a fond smile. "Man, Inoue's really been doing a ton of good. I couldn't have done any of it without her, you know. She's the one who kept everybody fed, who found all the building supplies we needed, who got the work passes to get people into the Settlement… It's pretty incredible, Tanya…"


Huh? I blinked, and frowned at Naoto. It sounds like… But, I was so sure that he and Ohgi… I shook my head firmly. It doesn't matter. There is no reason to dig through a coworker's personal life, even less to intrude on a friend's.


"She is definitely a fine quartermaster," I replied, "and not a bad analyst either. In fact, she was the one who explained how the gangs in Shinjuku worked to me."


"Well," Naoto checked his watch and got to his feet. "No time like the present. She's probably already up at the Meeting Hall. Breakfast is supposed to start in half an hour, so…"


"Great, we can take the opportunity to feed you again." I followed Naoto out the door and down the stairs, continuing to expound on how work was no excuse to miss meals, absentmindedly gesturing to Tsubaki and Kino as we passed through the lobby. The squad leader and her subordinate peeled themselves off the wall and fell into step behind us as we made the short walk to the Rising Sun's Meeting Hall.


As expected, the Meeting Hall was already jammed full when we arrived. Less than an hour after dawn, and a queue already stretched out the door, full of surprisingly talkative people, all chatting with their neighbors or family members as they waited for their morning porridge. Inside, the central room was full of collapsible tables groaning under the weight of bowls, cups and elbows. People ate hurriedly, and as soon as a seat opened up the next person in the queue was waved in and a bowl of breakfast thrust into their hands. It took me a moment to find Inoue in the swirl of bodies, before I eventually noticed her leaning against the wall by her office door, at the rear of the building.


Almost at the same moment, Inoue noticed our arrival. "Tanya! You're back!" The logistical officer of the Kozuki Organization and the manager for the Benevolent Association's day to day operations bustled through the hall, clearing a path by force of personality alone. "It's been way too long! You were supposed to come by last night for dinner! Did you forget how to get to the Hall or something?"


As she fussed at me, Inoue wrapped her arms around my shoulders, pulling me close for a speedy, if warm, hug. After a second's delay, I returned the embrace before hastily letting go of her again. I had never particularly enjoyed shows of public affection, but… Well, I wasn't in the military, and it was very important to maintain personal bonds within our organization, and equally important to show solidarity in the face of the general public.


Besides… Being hugged isn't that much of an imposition…


"Look at you, girl!" Inoue gushed, enthusiastically ruffling my hair and easily evading my halfhearted attempts to swat her hand away. To my embarrassment, I saw some of the people in the line smiling and chuckling at Inoue's enthusiasm. "You're not a stick anymore, are you? You're finally putting on some muscle, huh? And you must've gained, what… Five centimeters? Six?"


"It's… Good to see you too, Inoue," I replied, somewhat lamely. "Naoto gave me the highlights, but it sounds like you have both been very busy. Ohgi and I were both astonished at how much Shinjuku has changed since we left. It's truly impressive."


"We've been keeping busy," Inoue smirked, before turning to Naoto. Sobering up, she gave him a long, thorough look. He smiled awkwardly back, and displayed his strategic acumen by holding his tongue and waiting for Inoue to have the first word. "Naoto. I see that Ohgi convinced you to actually sleep for a change."


"He also forced me to take a shower and clip my nails," Naoto rubbed his head, clearly anxious under Inoue's glare. "It kind of felt like I was twelve again." With a nervous chuckle, Naoto forced himself to straighten up and meet Inoue's eyes. "Look, I'm… I'm sorry, Inoue. I know I've been blowing you off lately…"


"Let's go to my office for this," Inoue cut in, seemingly remembering where we all were. "No need to make this a public ordeal, after all."


Moments later, all three of us were in Inoue's office, seated around a table hastily cleared of its stacks of folders. Somewhere along the way, Naoto and I had acquired bowls of porridge. I took an experimental bite – bland, but less than I'd expected.


Inoue noticed my inquisitive look. "Curious about my secret recipe? It's nothing too much; whatever cereal is cheapest, usually brown rice or millet, with onions and cheap meat finely chopped and stirred in to boil with the grain. Each bowl costs less than thirty pence to make, since we buy all the ingredients in bulk!"


"I really wish that you'd been in charge of the common pot back when I was on the labor gangs," I replied honestly. "If we'd had this instead of the watery stuff we got…" It was hard to put the depth of the emotion into words. So many people had wasted away, spending calories that their bodies couldn't spare, just in the hope of warding off starvation for another day. "Things might have been different."


"True enough," Inoue agreed easily. "But, that's our job now, right? To do the best we can to bring in a new day."


I nodded, and shut up to enjoy my porridge. Naoto, finally given the opportunity to speak, immediately took the plunge back into his interrupted apology.


"I'm sorry for blowing you off, and I'm sorry that I ended up pushing family stuff onto you," he began, "I didn't mean to, but I should have expected Kallen to be persistent. And… I'm sorry that I was acting like such a prick and not eating or sleeping. I was supposed to be a leader, and I offloaded a ton of responsibility onto you."


"Naoto…" Inoue sighed, "I'm not angry with you. I'm not even disappointed with you. I know that you throw yourself into whatever you do. You did that back in college, and you're still doing it now. I just wish that you'd… Ugh!" She untied the bandana from around her head, letting her shoulder-length dark blue hair pour down her shoulders. "I just wish that you wouldn't get so damned obsessed, dammit! And yes, stop ignoring Kallen. I'm tired of running messages between the two of you. That's not my job!"


"You're right, you're right," Naoto replied, doing his best to look as contrite as possible. "I should have handled that better. And… Look, I know that you didn't tell me about how Kallen and that Brit kid were talking. I'm sorry that I made myself unapproachable on the matter. That was stupid of me." He sighed heavily. "I know I get defensive about Kallen, and I know that it's stupid, but… Overreacting in the past to the point where you didn't tell me something that I really should have known was really stupid on my part."


"I was in the wrong too on that," Inoue admitted, resting her head on her hand. "I knew that I should have looped you in, but honestly, it looked like Kallen had it handled. I knew you were, uh… not at your best, and I figured that there was no point ruining a good thing, but… I didn't really have the authority to make that call. It could have been important."


"Well, tell me next time, alright?" Naoto smiled at Inoue, the awkwardness gone and something like his familiar boyish charm came back again. "I promise I'm not gonna bite your head off or throttle the kid!"


"I'll hold you to that," Inoue winked across the table, smirking at our fellow leader. "But y'know, some biting and choking could be okay, depending on how you play your cards, Kozuki."


I choked on my porridge.


"Gah!" Naoto jumped in his seat as I coughed up boiled grain, his face suddenly catching fire as he remembered that I was still here. . "You… uh… okay there, Tanya?"


My only response was a hacking cough. What do you think, moron?!


"Ah! L-Let me get you some water, Tanya!" Inoue panicked, face blushing just as brightly as Naoto's, presumably since she realized she'd been flirting in front of a twelve year old. "The, uh, porridge can definitely be kinda sticky going down. You should take smaller bites!"


Smaller bites?! I shrieked internally. You… You damned pent up idiots! I was just trying to enjoy my meal when you suddenly just… Just… Gaah!


I held in a ragged cough just long enough to shoot the two horny morons a smoldering glare that let them know exactly how amused I was about my brush with death via porridge. "


"Ah-ha… right… It's, uhh… good to be cautious." Naoto, at the very least, looked appropriately apologetic.


Inoue, the infernal minx, now had a damned smile on her face despite her blush. "You still want that water, Tanya?"


"I'll be fine," I rasped as I massaged my sore throat, doing my best to be professional if no one else wanted to be an adult in the room. "Moving on?"


Naoto still looked embarrassed as he nodded, looking away slightly. Inoue, on the other hand, had no shame. "So, how was your trip to the mountains, Tanya?" She smiled brightly, utterly unrepentant. "Did you make any new friends?"


"It was quite educational," I replied coolly, not rising to the bait. "And indeed, I think I have an idea in mind to demonstrate just how much I and the other returnees picked up over the spring. But, I will need your input, as well as Naoto's, to make it work."

---------

Almost three hours later, I said my goodbyes to Naoto in front of the Meeting Hall. Regrettably, we each had full schedules for the day, and I likely wouldn't get the chance to see him again until evening. It was all important work though, and the core of leadership is obligation. While Naoto went off to his scheduled weekly meeting with the assembly of local notables, I veered east. Off to meet two of my own obligations, one long overdue.


I found Tanaka Chihiro high above the streets of Shinjuku, holed up with her three surviving snipers as well as a company's worth of other armed women in a crumbling hotel off Naka Street. Coincidentally, the hotel she'd chosen to make her personal stronghold was located only two blocks away from the collapsed office building sealing the tomb once known as Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station.


Fortunately for me, the Shinjuku Ghetto community grapevine was just as strong and well-connected as I'd remembered; news of my appearance at the Meeting Hall had already spread to the handful of guards outside the former hotel's entrance. While they were only crudely armed with home-made spears and knives, all four of the visible guards looked very competent with their cruelly edged weapons, and it had been a relief when they just smiled at me and waved me inside.


Chihiro was less delighted to see me.


"So, you're back, huh?" The hotel room, peeling walls spattered with mildew, stank of unwashed bodies and the cheap but strong hooch commonly brewed in Shinjuku. "Took you long enough. We've been busy as hell here while you were fucking around in Gunma!"


I stopped a foot into the room. Chihiro was sprawled over the moldering queen-sized bed, drunk at nine in the morning though thankfully still dressed. Her face, pitted with a multitude of tiny burn scars, was even more blotchy than I remembered, and her typically short cropped hair had been shaved away entirely.


And not by a skilled barber either, judging by that cut over her ear.


"Good morning, Miss Tanaka," I replied, stepping over a discarded pair of pants and discreetly running my eyes over the room. Thankfully, the scoped rifle Naoto had once given her – a gift courtesy of some gang's armory – leaned in the corner by the door, far away from its intoxicated owner. "It's been quite some time. How is your sister doing?"


"Chika?" Chihiro's face twisted for a moment, before settling back into her disdainful sneer. "You've probably seen her more recently than I have. She spends all her time out at the Meeting Hall now, helping Kasumi and Inoue, which is… Fine."


"Would you rather she be here with you?" I asked, not trying to needle the mercurial woman but genuinely curious. I'd never really understood Chihiro; she was fanatical in her antipathy towards all things Britannian, she always leapt at the chance to inflict violence, and she had a strange love-hate relationship with men in general. On the other hand, before I'd left for three and a half months, she'd also been very close to her younger sister, her sole surviving family member.


"Obviously!" Chihiro swung her legs off the bed and rose until she was seated upright. "But she refuses to pick up a weapon, not even a knife! I tried so hard to get her to join me, since… You know, we've got an extra rifle and all. And the little idiot refused!"


"I see." I didn't, but Chihiro's family life was her own problem. As long as Chika wanted to help, I was confident Inoue would appreciate the extra hands. Still, it was time to get to the reason I'd climbed five sets of stairs to visit this squalid room. "I'm sorry to hear about Makoto. It's very hard, losing someone under your command. How are your other subordinates taking it?"


"How do you think?" Chihiro snorted incredulously. "Having a ball of a time with it, obviously. Fuck's sake, I thought you were supposed to be smart!"


And that's about enough of that. I had come to visit Chihiro in good faith, and all I had gotten in exchange was unwarranted abuse. The temptation to slap the smirk off of Chihiro's face was almost overwhelming.


I'm better than that. Besides, it's not my job to keep discipline in the ranks.


"Thank you very kindly for your hospitality, Miss Tanaka," my voice was flat, measured, and cold. "I will give your regards to your sister. Hopefully she will be happy to hear that you're still alive. I will also pass on your regards to Naoto and Tamaki for their consideration of disciplinary action."


I turned on my heel and stalked out of the room. "We have an operation planned for tomorrow," I called back over my shoulder as I left, "and if you show up drunk, I will feed you your own rifle."


While I left the crumbling hotel in something of a huff, I still took the time to stop and speak with the guards on duty, complimenting them on their diligence, promising them better gear and action more exciting than standing sentry soon, and generally getting to know the members of the small militia that had congregated around Chihiro and her squad.


Every woman had her own story of her own path to the Rising Sun. Some had stories very similar to my own – long hours spent in backbreaking labor, with the prospect of a better life a lure leading to nothing but another day with a hungry belly. Others, the former sex workers jumping at the chance to get some power back after years of helplessness, had stories that reminded me of someone else entirely. Plenty had signed up after the Christmas Incident, and some had been rescued from gang strongholds while I was away in Gunma.


All told, a hundred and thirty two stories, of which I only had the chance to hear a three to four sentence highlight before bowing and moving on. All hundred and thirty two were united under the banner of the Rising Sun, and were united in their unwillingness to ever consider relinquishing their weapons. A particularly angry girl, offended by my question, pointed out that she could be put up against a wall and shot any day, so there was no reason not to fight; she was very surprised when I clapped her on the shoulder and told her I'd used that same line myself, when I'd joined.


I spent two hours glad handing and talking to the militia women, as well as Misato, one of Chihiro's snipers. While I was their leader by dint of institution, I wasn't a leader they knew personally, or really had any reason to trust. For the most part, that would be fine, so long as the leader they were personally loyal to trusted me. With Chihiro's personal dislike for me just as intransigent as always, I needed to give these militia members a distinct reason to trust in me personally.


After I passed on my condolences about Makoto to Misato and asked her to convey my sympathies to Aina and Inori, I finally left the ruin on Naka Street. I had another home visit to make, another obligation to discharge.


The tiny room was just like any of the others in the tenement, clean and orderly. The people who lived here cared about their home, and wanted it to look nice. It showed an investment and an interest in the future. All together, it was a lovely contrast to Chihiro's wretched hotel room, but kneeling on a cushion in Sumire's apartment made me long for my reluctant comrade's abrasive company.


Instead, Sumire's husband knelt on his own pillow, across a low table from me. His remaining arm cradled his son, almost four and looking at me with big, curious eyes, in his lap. I couldn't say that I saw any of Sumire in her son. Babies and children had always looked more or less the same to me, across all of my lives, and I'd generally done my best to avoid them when possible.


No escape was possible from this child.


"So… That's it, then." The words fell from Mister Tokihaku's lips like paper, slowly wafting down to the ground and landing too softly to hear. Scarcely a whisper. "That's it, then… S-Sumire's gone…"


"I doubt it will help, but she died a hero," I replied absently, my eyes caught on the boy's. "She and another comrade covered their squad's retreat. Everybody else made it out alive, thanks to their sacrifice."


"I see." Silence filled the room as Mister Tokihaku contemplated my reply. I waited patiently for his response; while I had many other things to do today, this was important. "Was… Was it worth it, then? Whatever it was you people did… Was it worth my wife's life? My son's mother's life?"


The man just wants reassurance, something to cling to. Sometimes, an easy answer is better, even if its veracity might be debatable. I should give him what he seeks.


"…I can't answer that question, not in a way that will satisfy you," I replied instead of the vague platitude I'd lined up in advance for just such a question. "She was not my wife, not my mother… I can't tell you that the loss you and your son will bear will ever be worth it, no matter what we accomplished."


Dammit! I was just supposed to soothe him, not give an honest answer! I'd be a terrible politician.


"If you want the cold comfort of a more objective answer?" I continued, deciding that the only way out of the hole I'd dug myself into was to dig deeper, "then speaking as her commander, it was worth it. The operation was a success, and losses, while painful, were less than they could have been. Many Britannians died as a result of the operation, and Britannian interests in the operation area might very well be permanently impacted."


I paused. "Does that help?"


"No…" Mister Tokihaku replied, "No, it really doesn't… I'm… I'm happy that she was able to help others, but if you'll pardon me for saying it, Miss Hajime… I wish the rest of her squad, the ones who ran, had been the ones to die instead."


"You have the right to feel that way." His statement had been full of painful, quiet anger, held as tightly to him as his son; Far be it from me to deprive a freshly minted widower of the right to grieve. "I don't doubt that I would feel exactly the same, were I in your position."


My news delivered, I rose from the floor, came to attention, and bowed to the still kneeling Mister Tokihaku. "You and your son have the right to food, medical care, and financial and material assistance from the Kozuki Organization, and from the Rising Sun Benevolent Association. If you need anything, from repairs for your apartment to a babysitter to oranges, come to the Meeting Hall. Do not hold back; we owe your family a debt of gratitude."


The child gurgled, and the father bowed his head. I left the tiny, clean apartment, closing the door behind me. A good leader tends to their followers, and ensures that they are valued and cared for. Loyalty offered must be repaid, otherwise no one will ever be loyal to you.


I fervently wished that I'd never have to make another such house call, but I knew that I wouldn't be so lucky. I knew that fulfilling my goals would demand a high price. I also knew that I would use every scrap of my knowledge and ability to drive that price down as far as I could, to make my number of house calls as low as possible.


Loyalty and obligation. Duty and leadership. For the first time in weeks, I thought of my mother. Duty is a chain, and obligation is a burden. But in the end… It was a chain that you picked up willingly, didn't you, Mother? You had every reason and opportunity to throw me away, but you didn't. Was it worth it, in the end, for you?


Was I worth it?

---------

APRIL 23, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
0103


The sounds of drunken laughter and throbbing bass spilled out from the building below me as a knot of intoxicated partygoers staggered out the front door. The noise blended with the cacophony of similar sounds escaping from the lesser brothels and clubs surrounding the former Shinjuku Bunka Theater. As always on the weekends, the outlets retailing hospitality only blocks away from the Kawadacho Checkpoint were doing a brisk business.


My business with the brothel under my feet had begun much earlier in the night. Three hours earlier, I had mustered two of the five man squads I had brought back with me from The School; we had spent the intervening time slowly creeping into position, painstakingly picking our way through the many alleys and side streets of the Ghetto. While I typically preferred blending in with the crowd to skulking in shadows, my unit was packing entirely too much military hardware to resemble a gang of laborers coming home after a long shift.


Thankfully, the only tricky part had come when we'd arrived at the old theater building itself. Earlier reconnaissance by a pair of Naoto's Sun Guard militia had determined that two guards were posted on the roof. While the sentries were seemingly tasked with keeping watch over the street outside the gang's headquarters and thus more focused on looking out than guarding the roof itself, both had rifles and at least one had a radio. If they had noticed our ascent, it could have led to all kinds of complications.


So we climbed the brick exterior very, very slowly. The mortar was badly decayed after six years without maintenance, presenting abundant finger and toe-holds. By the time I had quietly pulled myself over the lip of the rear wall, at the head of the advancing unit, my shoulders and arms burnt despite my enhancements.


I'll have to thank Onoda, assuming he hasn't attempted to appropriate The School for the JLF, I mused, ducking behind the wall sheltering the entrance to the internal stairwell as the rest of my unit clambered over the top. If it wasn't for all of those exercises, I don't know if I could have made that climb.


Soon enough, all the members of A and B squads were hunkered down behind the stairwell's wall, which meant that it was time to wait. My unit was not the only group of Kozuki Organization members and auxiliaries out and about tonight, and in order for the plan to work, we all had to synchronize our efforts.


And on that note…


I slid my hand down to my pocket and pulled out the burner phone I'd picked up from Mister Asahara yesterday afternoon, along with a number of other useful tools. I sent a text to the one number saved in the contacts, before flipping the phone closed and returning it to my pocket. I wasn't expecting a response; if things were going according to plan, the next time the phone vibrated, it would be time for action.


After a short eternity of twelve minutes, I felt a buzz against my pocket. As I reached down again, I could almost feel the tension as ten sets of eyes tracked the motion. I quickly flipped the phone open, and grinned at the message. Inoue had been confused when I'd suggested "Tora, Tora, Tora" as our go-sign, but she'd indulged me.


Flipping the phone closed, I peered around the wall; the two sentries were leaning against the lip of the building, looking out onto the street below, and appeared to be smoking. I returned the phone to my pocket, and drew the knife hanging off my belt before gesturing to Tsubaki, although for tonight, she was B-1. I held up my empty right hand, and gestured at her, and she nodded – message received, just as we'd trained.


Carefully, I padded out from around the rooftop access, moving smoothly and deliberately. I wasn't too worried about the sounds of my boots on the gravel, considering the sheer volume of noise from down below, but I didn't want to make any sudden motion that might catch in one of the target's peripheral vision.


I angled towards the guard on the left, the further of the pair, as B-1 broke off towards his partner. We got closer and closer, the two men still utterly unaware of our presence. Both had propped their rifles next to them, and neither seemed to have any other weapon. My target had a walkie-talkie clipped to a belt loop; I would have to move fast. They were talking, but I couldn't hear about what. It didn't matter.


From the corner of my eye, I saw B-1 slowly raise her empty right hand as she approached her target, just the same as I had done. Then, I was focused only on the man in front of me, the way his stink – cigarettes, sweat, and body odor – filled my nose, and how he still hadn't noticed me and then-


Just as Onoda had instructed, I thrust my right hand forward, past the side of his neck, and grabbed his chin. I poured energy into my strength enhancement as I rose up, lunging forwards on my tiptoes, mashing his jaw shut and forcing his head up and back in a single smooth motion.


The knife in my left hand flashed forwards, the scarce illumination of the scattered and weak lights of this corner of Shinjuku glittering off the polished steel, before I rammed the blade into the side of my target's neck, slamming it in as hard as I possibly could, forcing the wedge through the muscle and into the vital bundle of tubes within. I heard a gurgling scream, but I didn't know whether it came from my target, or from B-1's. Gritting my teeth, I twisted down hard on my knife, forcing the wound wide open, and jerked the blade forwards. It tore free from his neck just above the shoulder, leaving an ugly gash of a wound behind.


My target was still thrashing limply, so I kept my right hand in place, holding his mouth shut and pulling him back over me. I took a half step back, dragging him with me to make sure he didn't topple forwards off the roof. Dropping my knife to the gravel surface below, I grabbed the radio off his belt, and with a bit of groping managed to clip it to the back of my own belt.


I'm probably getting blood all over this shirt. I couldn't help but laugh internally at the petulant thought. It was an utterly trivial concern, but the thrifty survival habits of earlier years were hard to shake. Speaking of survival...


The hand over his mouth felt no breath, and he'd stopped thrashing.. Below the heel of my right hand, I felt no pulse in his surviving carotid artery. Satisfied that the man was quite dead, I lowered the corpse to the ground and looked up to check on B-1's progress, and saw that she was rising back to her feet, just as blood soaked as I probably was.


Objective complete.


I gestured, and the remaining nine members of my team hustled over to join us. "Squad B," my voice was raspy and harsh after hours of minimal conversation, not to mention the hard climb, "you're up top. Squad A, you're with me on the cross and on point. Let's go."


Waiting just long enough to see ten acknowledging nods, I turned and opened the door to the internal stairwell. The knob turned easily; between the incompetent guards and the absence of any lock, the Eleven Lords, the gang based out of the old theater, clearly hadn't placed much of a premium on security, relying on intimidation in place of preparation. A good sign.


The stairwell was dark, without any functional light sources illuminating the narrow path through the accumulated detritus and trash. This wasn't part of the brothel headquarters where guests were allowed, and I doubted the gang's officers came here either. Fortunately, that meant we'd have the element of surprise for a bit longer.


I reached over my shoulder, and grabbed the barrel of my newly issued rifle, ducking under the strap as I unlimbered my weapon. It was a bit large for my frame, but I knew from experience at The School that I could easily compensate for that with my strength enhancement. I was fortunate that the coilguns of this world had such minimal recoil, compared to the chemical propellant weapons of my previous world, otherwise I would have been stuck bringing a pistol to this mission.


The knapsack that had hung just below the coilgun rattled as I hoisted my weapon, heavy with as much extra ammunition as I could carry, as well as the cylindrical devices I'd picked up from Mister Asahara last evening. Just like the rest of my soldiers, I had packed simply but not lightly for this mission; rifle, five thirty round magazines, three of the freshly acquired devices, and my phone. It would in all likelihood be more than enough.


Then, with a quick breath in and out, I gingerly took the first step down into the dark of the stairwell. The darkness was difficult, but not impossible to navigate, and thankfully, we were only going down a single floor's worth. Every jostle and every scuff rang like a heavy bell as my ten comrades followed me, but I knew that I could only hear those sounds because I was focused on them. We were professional, and our enemies were foolish and unaware.


After the five men of A Squad navigated the last few steps, I carefully cracked the door to the theater's interior open. This was the point where the mission started to get somewhat risky; we didn't have any contacts inside the Eleven Lords, so we didn't know what the interior of the theater looked exactly like now, other than the basic knowledge of where the main stage was.


Fortunately, as the door slowly opened, there wasn't that much to see. The mezzanine lobby had been divided up into some improvised rooms, with a hallway of sorts connecting the doorway I hid behind to the two sets of central stairs leading down to the main lobby. I could see a pair of men in ill-fitting suits standing by the nearest entrance to the amphitheater balcony, but apart from the two bored looking men, the only other presence stood just inside the closest "room".


A lone man, a Refrain addict judging by his wild and feverish declarations as well as the trackmarks on his arms, was shouting at a pair of tired looking women in soiled lingerie, while an older man in very ragged clothes tiredly pulled the sheets off a queen-sized bed. I waited, listening to the addict ramble for a moment, before leaning back inside the stairwell.


"Three present," I muttered to A Squad, as well as B Squad behind them. "One's tripping. Low priority. The two by the entrance are sober. Plan Three."


Not needing to wait for a reply, I stepped aside from the door, and let A-2 and A-3, both significantly bulkier than me, pass before slipping out myself, A-1 by my side and A-4 and A-5 behind me. The important thing here was to minimize noise for as long as possible: judging by the sounds, the lobby down below and the theater inside were packed full of people, and the longer they remained ignorant of our presence, the better.


A-2 and A-3 were picture-perfect in their takedowns of the two suited guards, the pair a credit to Major Onoda's expert tutelage. Before either of the targets realized it, my comrades were on top of them. The guard furthest away got out a quickly muffled squawk of surprise, but that was all.


Meanwhile, as the rest of A Squad and I jogged towards the nearest central set of stairs leading to the house lobby, I could hear the very brief sounds of struggle as two of B Squad sent the Refrainer to sleep. Thankfully, the apparent slaves didn't make a peep that I could hear.


I slowed down and crept up to the very top of the stairs, and looked down the other half of the mezzanine. The upper level only had a matching set of bored guards idly chatting by the other entrance – they'd be my first target. Then, I looked down into the lobby.


The Eleven Lords had climbed to the top of the Shinjuku flesh trade on the dual strengths of their connections and their skill at marketing their flagship establishment to the seedy yet upmarket crowd of decadent Britannians looking for something special. Their slick presentation and the wide range of debaucheries for sale got the crowds in through the door, and their alliance with the Crowned Heads, the gang with the largest laboratories in Shinjuku, meant that party favors were always available.


And so, it truly wasn't a surprise that the lobby was jam packed with a crowd that was almost half Britannian, clustered around a variety of what I could only call "side shows", for all that the term made light of what those shows consisted of. Gang members in tacky gilded jackets, dripping with frogging, hobnobbed and chatted with the crowd, presumably offering all kinds of wares, ranging from drugs to tickets for the main "floor show" inside the theater to a more private and specialized show.


I looked back, and saw that B Squad were clustered around the door to the Mezzanine. I didn't see any sign of the three slaves we'd passed, although if they had any sense they were hiding up on the roof, or at least in the stairwell. I caught B-1's eye, and lifted two fingers to my brow. She nodded, returned the salute, and slammed the door to the balcony open and disappeared inside, followed by the rest of her squad.


"Ready grenades," I hissed the command as I focused on pushing mana into my basic enhancement suite. Reality drew into sharp focus: the reactive enhancement overclocked my mind's processors, making the world seem to move slower as my perception sharpened, while my muscles itched with their sudden potential, waiting to unleash a wave of violence. "I'll suppress, all five of you throw as soon as we hear B go-"


Before I could get the word out, someone yelled from inside the balcony, followed immediately by three cracks as someone fired a burst from their coilgun. Dammit, Tsubaki must have run into resistance! Our cover's blown!


"Now! Now, now, now!"


Before the first of the devices cleared the stair railing, I was on my feet, the butt of my rifled firmly pressed into my shoulder, and the pair of suits in the iron sights. I caressed the trigger, softly squeezing it, and the fiberglass butt jerked back into my shoulder as three five millimeter bullets hyper accelerated down the magnetic rail in a fraction of a second. I didn't linger on my first target, immediately tracking the barrel onto the second target even as I squeezed down again.


As soon as I saw the suit jerk, I let go of my rifle, letting it swing from its strap as I spun on my heel. I dropped back down onto my knees below the stone railing of the old stairs and jammed my hands over my ears just in time. From below, the noises of consternation and growing confusion from the party guests and gangsters aware enough to notice the gunfire above their heads suddenly vanished, overwhelmed by a wall of pure sound.


Before the screeching tinny echo died away, I was back in my feet and my rifle was back in my hands. The rest of my squad weren't far behind me – by the time I'd lined up my sights on a gangster whose jacket bulged with a poorly hidden handgun, A-4 was already firing on another target.


The lobby erupted into pandemonium, as the deafened and blind crowd realized that it was under attack. Britannian and Japanese, client and criminal, slaver and enslaved, all exploded into a mad scramble for cover and safety. I fired a burst into the back of a man scrambling for the door, and the woman next to him screamed as his blood splashed across her face. As one, the crowd turned and rushed for the presumed safety of the theater itself, trampling the slow, the bound, and the unfortunate, spurred on by our unmerciful fire as we continued to rake the back of the crowd.


The theater proved no refuge. I saw a brief flash of white light from the double door, wide open and choked with bodies, and I heard the same roar as B Squad threw their first round of Asahara's stolen flashbangs down from the balcony, closely followed by their own hail of gunfire.


When I was a young man, literal lifetimes ago, I had once witnessed an exhibition of classic fishing techniques. One of those techniques suddenly came to mind, as I swapped my rifle's magazine and fired again into the panicking crowd, a technique where the school of fish was guided into increasingly smaller nets, until they were so tightly packed together that none could move. Then, the fishermen would lift the entire school out of the water, onto the boat, and beat all of the fish to death with oars.


In essence, my two squads were using that same technique. When the crowd fled from the punished hail of gunfire in the theater, they ran straight into A Squad's line of sight. When they were herded back into the theater, Squad B fired down at them from the balcony. And when they tried to huddle under the balcony and against the wall, where we couldn't get them?


"Next round, go!" Each soldier had left the Meeting Hall with three flashbangs, and there was really no need to be stingy. The eye-searing light lashed out again, the deafening sound drove the bloodied mass back out into the open, and the soldiers who had ducked behind the railing and covered their ears stung them once again with a fresh hail of gunfire.


Of course, the fact that we weren't trying to kill all of the "fish" trapped in our nets made things a bit more tricky. While I had no interest in taking any of the gangsters or their clients alive, I wanted as little innocent blood on my hands as possible. I'd ordered my men to shoot with care, reminding them that the enslaved Japanese weren't willingly servicing the twisted desires of Britannian and Eleven tyrants. Still, in the tangled throng of desperately rushing forms, only so much discretion was possible.


The crowd had begun to thin out by the time my squad was forced to reload, and the surviving targets grew increasingly canny in their attempts to escape their fate. I saw some try to hide among the bodies, only to cringe at the sudden detonation of a nearby flashbang, or to recoil when some other desperate figure tripped over them. A Britannian tried to hide behind a collared woman, and I winced as both were cut down.


Then, I saw a few of the luckier gangsters scramble through a door I was reasonably confident led to what had once been the theater's backstage offices. Those would have to be a priority; if the Eleven Lords had likewise been using those rooms, I couldn't let the escapees destroy or conceal any of the paperwork I was hoping to recover.


"A-4!" I elbowed the man next to me, and waited until he lowered his rifle and turned to me. "Go tell B-1 that A-1 and I are going into the office. Keep up the pressure, but let her know that she has command of the rest of A Squad too. She can start clean-up when she's ready."


"Yes ma'am!" A-4 slung his rifle over his shoulder and hastily trotted away as I turned and tapped on A-1's shoulder. "We need to get into the office," I shouted over the cacophony of -2, -3, and -5's rifles. "I saw a few of the rats scramble inside."


"Understood!" The squad leader stepped back from the line, and started yelling at the remaining three riflemen. "Listen up, you bastards! Backpack and I are heading into the office. We'll be able to handle ourselves, so there's no need for you to shoot the place up while we're inside. I'll be very, very angry if any of you shoot me, got it?"


A collection of "Aye's" later, A-1 and I descended down the stairs into the lobby. A knot of bodies covered the last few steps; it looked like at least some of the Eleven Lords had realized where we were shooting from after the first flashbang, and instead of panicking and running like the rest of the crowd had tried to climb the stairs and dislodge us. Unfortunately for them, one of my soldiers had dealt with their attempt, and I hadn't even noticed in the confusion and noise.


The lobby was an absolute slaughterhouse, the floor choked with the dead and the dying. Broken fingers scratched at my trousers as bloodied faces turned upwards, begging for help, for relief, for an end to the hammering from above. The carpeting was soaked with blood, and squelched unpleasantly as I picked my way carefully across the killing ground, rifle in my hands. Most of the blood and filth, fortunately, came from the heaped-up corpses of Britannians and their lackeys, but a few innocent eyes met mine, accusation in their cold glances.


I continued to approach the office, finger on my trigger, ready to put down any gangsters who might rise up from hiding places amongst the fallen. A-1 followed two paces behind me and one to my right, carefully checking for any stray gangsters hiding up against the wall of the staircase A Squad had turned into a shooting platform.


The deafening, rupturing crack of a flashbang echoed out from the theater, and few survivors broke and ran, sprinting from the shadows of the theater hall itself with wild-eyed desperation. They barely made it two meters into the open before the bullets slashed down from above. I watched as a girl only a few years older than me, a collar chafing her neck, pitched forward and slammed face first into the floor, a quarter of her head missing. There was no time to reflect on the terror I'd briefly glimpsed in the slave's eyes before she'd been cut down with dispassionate, if erroneous, efficiency.


Someone, presumably one of the lucky few who had scrambled to temporary safety within, had locked the door to the office. Perhaps they had been trying to keep me out, perhaps they simply wanted to keep the rest of the crowd out. Either way, while the lock was still shiny and fresh, the door itself was not. Old, weathered, and presumably poorly maintained, simultaneous kicks from A-1 and I easily tore it off its hinges, the lock's bolt tearing free of the frame as the door gave way.


As soon as the door thudded into the office, I hurled myself down in a forward roll, my rifle cradled against my chest as I followed my shoulder to the floor. I came up in a half kneel, finger on the trigger and rising up on my left foot as I quickly scanned the office. Behind me, A-1 dove through the door and skidded on his kneepads to the dubious safety of a battered filing cabinet.


Thanks to our dynamic entry, the welcoming salute from the rats hiding behind the overturned desk near the back of the room went high, the wild spray of bullets pulverizing the drywall and sending a storm of snowy flakes down onto our heads.


How kind of them to broadcast their positions.


I didn't bother trying for anything fancy; this wasn't a shooting gallery, and I wasn't here to show off. I simply returned fire, straight through the impromptu, yet insufficient, desktop sanctuary. The hyper accelerated rounds easily tore through the particle board and, judging by the screams and the lack of returning fire, through the men and women who had been sheltering behind the desk. In the interest of thoroughness, I held the trigger down and emptied my magazine into the desk, in case anybody had considered playing possum.


"Reloading," I grunted, slotting a new magazine into the receiver behind the trigger guard. I kept my eyes moving, scanning every corner and niche of what had been a surprisingly neat office, looking for any other stragglers. "Do you see anybody?"


"No," A-1 replied, "I think you might have got them all…" He swallowed heavily, and I could see his Adam's apple bob under the scarf wound around his face. "Good shooting?"


"Good," I replied briskly, "then you can keep watch on the door." A-1 kept a dutiful eye for any further hostiles, as the sounds of Tsubaki, B-1's, assault continued outside the office. As the sounds of the clean-up operation continued, I quickly searched the office.


Most would be surprised to learn how much paperwork a gang like the Eleven Kings had, but I had counted on it. Just like any other profit-making organization, a gang had to account for income streams, expenditures, and outlays. They had to track inventory and payroll, and compile reports for backers and higher-ups. Fortunately, it seemed like the gang's leadership had opted to do most of their business on paper, and I quickly found two ledgers, one of which looked like a "black book", a list of frequent customers often kept by brothels.


The Eleven Kings seemed to have shunned computers, perhaps reasoning that electronic records were a security risk. The entire office only contained a single laptop, a shiny aluminum-jacketed device that had unfortunately caught at least two bullets in the fracas. My eyes narrowed as I noticed that a cable was still attached to one of the computer's ports. It looked like it was supposed to connect to a device, but I couldn't see anything that looked like a digital storage unit anywhere near the workstation…


I spared a look down at the tangle of bodies slowly filling the office with the scent of mixed blood and shit as their bowels relaxed in death. One of them had dressed nicely, in a somber suit instead of the usual gangster tat. In fact, the suit looked far too subdued to be party wear, which made it unlikely that he was a guest either.


Perhaps he was one some sort of retainer for one of the customers? Or perhaps he's the accountant?


I heaved the body up from the pile, pouring more energy into my strength enhancement as I lifted it up onto the broken remnants of the perforated desk. He'd been a well-fed man in life, at least by Shinjuku standards, and I grunted with relief when I dropped his bulk down onto the surface. I quickly ran my hands over his pockets, and just as I'd hoped, found a matte-black cube in his jacket, featureless except for a port that matched the free end of the cable.


The cube and the cable joined the two ledgers in my knapsack, followed by the possible accountant's wallet. While the high denomination pound notes inside would be useful, I was more interested in his ID and cards; if he'd been managing the drive, he might have put a password on it. Having his basic information on hand could be very handy, in that situation.


After a moment's thought, I shoved the remnants of the laptop into the bag too. Perhaps the drive can be recovered?


I continued to scour the office, stuffing receipts, correspondence, and anything else that looked vaguely important into my bag, cramming the nylon sack full. While extinguishing a faction competing for control over Shinjuku was the primary justification for this raid, seizing the gang's records had been the true objective of the night's work. With Diethard's much vaunted production skills and plentiful connections, those records would be a hammerblow to either noble credibility or Clovis's reputation. A net win for the Japanese, no matter which party ended up burnt.


"Backpack?" I heard B-1's voice from the door, "Are you about done there? The rest of the building's been emptied."


"I think I've found everything worthwhile," I replied, slinging my pack onto my back and picking my rifle back up from where I'd leaned it against the desk. "Report. Any casualties or problems?"


"No ma'am! A totally clean sweep!" I followed A-1 out of the office, and joined B-1 and her combined squads in the lobby. The men were scattered around the room, and despite the presumed eradication of the opposition, I was proud to see that their guards were still up and their eyes still scanning for threats. A knot of women and girls huddled in the middle of the lobby, most of them in varying states of undress. "I don't think we had any runners either! I had A-4 and -5 stick around by the front door, just in case, and all of the side doors were chained up from the inside!"


"A very unsafe practice, but probably put in place to keep any of their victims from escaping," I mused, casting my eyes over the lobby and noticing how many of the sprawling bodies had collars around their necks, despite my earlier instructions. My stomach twisted uneasily; I'd known that it was all but inevitable that some of the slaves would get caught but… There's so many. "It's… It's ironic."


"Because it meant that the bastards had nowhere to run once we showed up?" B-1 fell into step behind me as I walked towards the theater itself. "I guess that is irony, isn't it?"


"It is," I acknowledged, "and yes, that was one of the reasons I find the situation ironic. One of two. By the way, can't you find them some blankets or something?" I gestured back towards the lobby where the newly freed women huddled. One of the men, who'd clearly been eavesdropping, startled and saluted, before heading up the stairs purposefully.


The theater was as tasteless as I'd anticipated, complete with an array of garish lights and a spotlight still moving on an automated track, playing over the three poles on the stage, as well as the front rows of the house. The middle area had been set up more like a dining area, with plenty of small tables and comfortable chairs, and the rear had been divided into a number of shadowy booths and semi-enclosed rooms. The décor, lurid at the best of times, had been turned nightmarish with the application of the gore of at least a hundred bodies.


"Oh?" B-1 primly stepped over a badly trampled arm, the bone protruding from the skin and the flesh black and pulpy, stamped into formlessness by hundreds of frantic feet. "What's the other reason?"


"Well, we ensured that a fair number of their victims will never escape their captivity, unless you count death," My tone was cool and detached; the sick heat in my gut was anything but. "I know that civilian casualties are sadly inevitable, especially when in situations as chaotic as that mob, but… It truly is a pity that we couldn't aim solely for the pimps and the clients."


"Not to sound callous…" Tsubaki's voice was tentative, trailing off into an implicit question, and I waved for her to continue. "Not to sound callous, but what else were you expecting with that plan, Ma'am? I'm not questioning it or anything – it worked great! – but I am kinda surprised that you're… upset about it."


"It was my plan," I acknowledged, "and we completed the objectives we set out to meet with it. Hopefully, our comrades are having similar levels of success. And yes, I knew that it was highly-likely that innocents would get caught in the crossfire. I had hoped to be proven wrong, and… I'd hoped it would only be one or two. Optimistic, I know, but..."


"…That's just what happens, Tanya." Tsubaki was blunt, but not cruel. Her warm hand on my shoulder was comforting. "I mean, I'm not telling you to not hope for the best, but..."


"But always plan for the worst, I know." I closed my eyes, and breathed in, then out. "I expect I'll countenance far worse before we're done, Tsubaki. I hate to acknowledge it, but… We are at war, and cannot afford the luxury of squeamishness. Civilians die in times of war just as much as soldiers, if not far more."


My words rang hollow, for all that I spoke with complete sincerity. I wondered who I was trying to convince. Any one of them could have been Mother. They could have been me, if things had gone differently.


I wondered if I could have planned the mission differently. Perhaps we could have struck when the girls, the slaves, had been off the floor. Maybe if we'd attacked before they opened for the night or after closing. But if we had, we would have missed the chance to catch the esteemed clientele. Just killing the pimps without touching the clients would have all but guaranteed the rise of a replacement organization elsewhere. To truly achieve a lasting effect, innocents had to be present, serving as bait in the center of our trap.


Did leaders of the rebel groups of my youth express similar sentiments? Every Britannian they had killed had brought death to a hundred Japanese, and I had witnessed several of the mass executions personally. How many Japanese had I condemned to death for tonight's work? I'd estimated half the crowd was Britannian, so… a hundred? A hundred and fifty? Multiplied a hundredfold…


Of course, that presupposes that the Britannians realize that the gunmen were Japanese.


The flashbangs I had purchased from Mister Asahara were, like all of the weapons sold by the Six Houses, Britannian Army issue, as were the rifles and ammunition used in the night's raid. When considered along with the opinions of Japanese intelligence and organizational ability held by the general Britannian population, it was entirely possible that the blame would be assigned to some other Britannian faction who had come to massacre some subhuman competition. The clients may have been people, but the gang were just Elevens, after all.


Of course, it's entirely possible that the Britannians will still just default to flailing around wildly and killing every Japanese person they can find, but frankly, that's a risk no matter what we do. We could all just sit on our hands, and they'd still kill us on a lark. I smiled bitterly to myself at the thought. It was still shocking at times just how badly managed the occupation of Japan truly was, and how the policies were so short-sighted that they'd driven a law-abiding person such as myself into armed rebellion.


"We're done here." I shoved my private introspection on what could have been away, down into the dark. Navel gazing was never productive, and I was still on the clock. "B-1, get the rest of the squad together. Force open one of the side doors – we'll exit out that way. Once we're out, your squad is tasked with getting the rescued prisoners to Chihiro. If she's drunk or pissy, take them to Inoue instead."


"Yes ma'am!" The warm hand left my shoulder, and B-1 trotted back to the lobby, already shouting for the men to form up. I took a moment to commit the theater to memory, and turned to follow her.


I walked out of the charnel pit with my shoulders back and my head up. I regretted the deaths of those slaves who had been unlucky enough to get caught in the crossfire, the people who I had wanted to help and protect, but I couldn't slow down and let myself think too much about it. I was at war, and I would prosecute it to the greatest of my ability. When the cost of defeat was the death or slavery of my entire people, any means was justifiable, so long as it represented a net benefit. That was key: their deaths had to be justifiable. I had no desire for wanton death among my people, but I could not afford to be squeamish, especially since my enemy had no such qualms.


Any means, even if it meant the death of daughters, sisters, fathers and sons. Or mothers. I didn't want to make any further house calls to the widows and orphans of my comrades, but in the end, it would be worth it.


There will be plenty of time for regret and self-castigation later. I will make sure that the loss of civilian life isn't forgotten, when this is all said and done, but I will do what I must until then.


All for the cause of a reborn Japan.


Nothing less was worthy of the millions of losses I could lay at Britannia's door. There would be no rapprochement; there could be no cohabitation on these islands. Victory or death.


---------

APRIL 23, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
0700


The Meeting Hall was packed with citizens of Shinjuku, crammed to the point that everybody was standing shoulder to shoulder and cheek to jowl. Unlike the typical breakfast rush, the crowd was almost completely silent and the atmosphere was tense with anxiety.


Standing on a chair in front of Inoue's office, the side of the room furthest from the street entrance, I could feel the weight of eager eyes in their hundreds pressing down. It was a familiar weight, entirely unintimidating, even if the nervous energy in my audience was almost palpable. Naoto stood on my left and Yoshi, one of the two squad leaders from the mission to Niigata Prefecture, stood on my right. Even with my prop, I was only barely taller than the two men, but every eye was fixed on me.


I had tried to get Naoto to take point, to be the one to make the announcement. He was, after all, the Kozuki for which the Kozuki Organization was named, as well as the one that had led this community for the last several months. He had demurred, insisting that the announcement would be much more meaningful if it came from me.


"You're the prodigal daughter, come back at last," Naoto had pointed out, "and also the one who first forged the Rising Sun Association. Believe it or not, Tanya, you're the one they're going to listen to most closely. Me? I'm the day-to-day guy. You, on the other hand, are a symbol."


I wasn't sure if I bought that excuse or not, but I'd acquiesced. Naoto was my leader, and to be frank, he still looked quite disheveled. Perhaps that had been one of the reasons he'd been so strenuous in his argument that I handle the public speaking?


"Brothers and sisters, my fellow citizens of Shinjuku, I wish you a very hearty good morning!" My voice carried easily over the room, and the dull mutters ceased almost immediately. "Of course, I'd greet any one of you with a hearty morning greeting any day we met, but today is a very good morning indeed!"


I paused and the crowd stirred, a low buzzing as people wondered aloud to neighbors about what I meant. I let the buzz continue for a few seconds, the anticipation building, before I resumed.


"Brothers and sisters, you know me, and I know you! I know how hard we've worked just to survive, how every bowl of soup and every grain of rice is dear, purchased with hours of straining labor in all weather and seasons! I've worked for my food too, always hungry and never satisfied! Nobody will ever say that living in Shinjuku is easy – there are no cushy lives to be found here!"


The appeal to shared misery and familiar working-class bonds worked. The voice of the crowd murmured of agreement as frowns settled into familiar creases, everybody remembering long shifts of thankless work in the steaming heat of summer or the biting cold of winter.


"Yes, life in Shinjuku is hard," I continued, picking up steam, "but there's no shortage of parasites determined to make it a hell of a lot harder than it has to be! You know them too – the bastard landlords charging an arm and a leg for a piece of floor, the foreign thieves whose gentry collect from those bastard landlords and whose commoners content themselves with grabbing anything of ours that they want, and most of all, the petty tyrants who have risen amongst us! The gangs!"


A rumble of anger echoed forth from deep in the crowd, and frowns of frustration sharpened into angry glowers. The buzzing intensified and heated as a thousand abuses and tiny miseries came to the minds of all present.


"No more!" I cried out, lifting a clenched fist above my head, thrusting it upwards in the universal sign of struggle. "No more thieving, no more raping, no more slave-taking or kidnapping! No more extortion, no more murdering, and no more holding all of our arms back and distracting us from our real enemy! A new sun has risen over Shinjuku, brothers and sisters!"


A sea of fists rose up in solidarity with mine, and the crowd bayed for blood with one voice. Beside me Naoto and Yoshi raised their fists too, knifelike smiles below their hard eyes.


"Last night, we killed every last member of the Eleven Lords, the Crowned Heads, and the King's Men!" The crowd almost exploded with howls of celebration, and I had to enhance my voice just a bit so I could shout over them. "Last night, they went the way of the Kokuryu-kai and every other gang in Shinjuku! They will never steal from us again, never take without giving back! Most of all, they will no longer act as middlemen, catering to the sick pleasures of our esteemed lords and masters!"


"Rejoice, brothers and sisters!" I cried out, pouring even more power into my voice. "Rejoice, and make ready! The Sun is Rising, and we all must rise to the occasion! Look to your block leaders and to the council of notables for daily assignments, for there is still much to do in Shinjuku, but keep your ears open – the call could come at any time! Train well and eat hearty! Work as hard as you can and become strong! The sun will rise on the rest of our native land once more, and we must be ready for that day!"


I paused, teetering on the edge for a moment, then grinned. "Long live Japan! Long live the Japanese people! May they rule for ten thousand years! Banzai!"


The crowd replied as one, as a people given fresh hope, as a man dying of thirst drinking deep from a crack in a stone leaking cold, pure water. "BANZAI! BANZAI! Long live Japan! Long live Japan! LONG LIVE JAPAN!"

 

[Aravis]

Thanks for the chapter! Nice to see the gangs finally get stomped on completely! Can't wait to see the fallout!

 

[CILinkz]

if Clovis closes all the jobs for the Elevens, does that include Soldiers like Kururugi and co.?

 

[Scopas]

if Clovis closes all the jobs for the Elevens, does that include Soldiers like Kururugi and co.?

Click to shrink...

Nope. More in regards to the Honorary Britannians who had either found work or managed to set up small businesses, as well as some of the day labor handled by Japanese from Shinjuku.

 

[Scopas]

Some freshly commissioned art by MinttSky came in!